#tasm peter parker x oc
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sugar and vice, pt 5 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]
summary: what is the appropriate amount of time to forgive your kidnapper?
words: 3.9 k
warning: mob-typical violence. whump. hurt/comfort. allusions to violence. coersion. kidnapping. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. 'only ten one bed oops' trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. nudity. extremely toxic relationships.
a/n - as many of you pointed out in the last chapter, this version of Peter is darker and messier than TASM canon. expect him to make a lot of mistakes before he becomes a changed man. if he changes.
18+. you're responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if you don't remember watching an episode of pop up [music] video on a television network, then keep it movin'.
Back to Part 4
Part 5
She awoke to darkness. Her whole body felt sore. Head throbbing from the onslaught of tears. She felt like a ceramic pot that had been roasting in a kiln for hours.
Stirring from her dreamless sleep, she glanced left and right. Her hands were free of the bindings. Brow curled, she looked over at the closed door, pondering if her captor had snuck into the room while she was out.
Honey sat up with a start, blinking the remnants of sleep from her eyes. She reached for her wrists, finding nothing but an oily residue left behind. Still puffy from the duct tape rash, her skin was sensitive to her touch, but otherwise unharmed.
She glanced up at the closed door. Her stomach churned. She fought the instinct to curl up and hide beneath the bed. The memory of Peter’s fierce gaze lingered, a raw burn in her mind.
Despite her logic telling her that she was the victim, she still felt conflicted.
She had been kidnapped, sure— and she needed to do whatever was necessary to survive. Strangely, she still felt guilty for taking a swing at him like she did. As soon as her fingers touched the rock, she slammed it into the side of his head, without much thought.
“What are you, stupid? It’s a wonder you even make it home alive each night!”
She couldn’t quite name what came over her. She dealt a blow to his temple that could’ve killed him. Surprised that it didn’t. And then what would that be like? Could she really find it in herself to kill another human being? Not to mention, she’d be alone in the woods with a dead body, with no clue where she was.
The thought made her queasy, twisting her stomach into a pretzel. She could’ve just run away, but when it came time to do so, she froze. Typical.
While she was hiding, she watched and listened quietly to his rampage below. Rage was one thing she expected, but not the misery she witnessed. The look she found in his eyes was something else entirely. Heartbreak and relief, like he would burst into tears at any moment.
It made her heart ache to witness it.
And then she hit him with a rock. Like some kind of cavewoman.
Brilliant idea, she thought disdainfully.
“You need to slow down!” More bitter thoughts flooded her, this time with the voice of her mother. “Always talking too fast! Always moving too fast! You do without thinking. No wonder you mess everything up.”
Her eyes grew heavy with melancholy and exhaustion. Despite the darkness wrapped around her, she felt like sleep was out of the question.
A strange melody crept up through the closed door to her room. Voices. Percussion. Music. Upbeat and entrancing.
There wasn’t a clock in her room but she had figured it was the middle of the night. Why would Peter be jamming out in the middle of the night?
Her stomach twisted again. The thought of coming face-to-face with him gave her chills. She rubbed her wrists idly. She could feel bruises there. She was afraid to leave the room. But she was also starving, and lamented not having at least one sandwich before her daring and ill-conceived escape. She was also miserably dehydrated, as every bit of moisture had leaked through her swollen eyelids.
And she had to pee. And that was now all she could think about. Her room thankfully had its own bathroom. Swinging her still-booted feet over the edge of the bed onto the floor, she tiptoed to the bathroom and relieved herself.
She thought she heard singing. Bad, out-of-tune singing. Creeping to the door, she placed her ear against the cool surface, trying to identify thes source. Out of curiosity or courage, she twisted the handle and peeked her head around the frame.
By the time she reached the bottom step of the staircase into the living room, she had a full view of the area and Peter was nowhere in sight. The one person who was in the room (and the source of music) was Miles, as he sat at the kitchen bar and dangled a pizza slice larger than his head above his mouth.
The music was echoing across the room from a tiny portable speaker on top of the kitchen bar. In his own world, the teenager’s head bobbed as he blew steam from his pizza, then took a giant bite.
She watched curiously as she approached from behind. The giant decorative clock built into the great room wall confirmed that it was incredibly late. Or early. One wouldn’t know it from Miles’ energy, or the volume of his jam session. She looked left and right, expecting to find more people, but saw no one else.
The flow of the music was broken when she accidentally walked into a low-height side table, her knee knocking to the corner. The lamp on top of the table jolted and Miles spun around in the barstool, letting out a piercing screech that could best be described as falsetto.
Honey responded in kind, letting out a shrieking Ahhhhhh of her own. Miles curled himself up on the stool, pulling his palms and one leg up defensively. “Sorry!” she blurted, as he clutched his own chest. “Sorry! So sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“You scared the crap outta me!” Miles said, his panic ebbing.
“I didn’t mean to—wait, is that how you really scream?”
“What about it?!” Miles exclaimed indignantly. “Not the point! You’re the one who’s creepin’ up on people like we’re in a horror movie... Crazy... La Llorona stuff!” The pitch of his voice normalized as he took a deep breath, frustration subsiding. “I dead-ass almost punched you in the face—I don’t mess around!”
“Sorry, sorry...” Honey babbled, her face twisted in a grimace. “I, uh, didn’t mean... to, uh... Llorona...”
“It’s fine!” Miles sighed, his heart rate slowing. It didn’t sound fine. “It’s over—maybe let’s just not ever mention this again, okay? To anyone? Especially not to people I know.”
Honey nodded her head in agreement, motioning that her lips were zipped and she was ‘throwing away the key.’
A few awkward moments of silence passed between them as he reached over and turned down the music on the speaker. He straightened out his zip-up hoodie uncomfortably. A small smile crept up on her face. She found his reaction endearing, and not at all what she expected from—whatever it was they were involved with.
“Um,” she cleared her throat. “Hi.”
Miles gave her a sheepish look. “Hi.”
There was a mountain of awkwardness between them. She looked around, then pointed at the massive box of pizza. “So... post-midnight snack?”
“Oh,” the teenager responded, looking back at the pizza. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re probably hungry.” He reached for the box, opening the lid. “Here, have some. It’s Lucia’s. There’s plenty.”
“Lucia’s?” she exclaimed, pondering the distance between wherever they were to downtown Flushing. She moved to the box, peering inside. “I like Dani’s.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect. This pie heats up better,” Miles remarked, taking another bite of his slice.
“Yeah?” Her eyes slid over to Miles. “How fresh is it?”
“Boss said to bring Lucia’s. So I did.” He shrugged his shoulders idly, placing his attention back on his slice of pizza. She slumped with a huff, having been dismissed.
“Boss,” she repeated, a chill going down her spine. “You mean Ben. Or...Peter, I guess,” She glanced around the mostly empty kitchen and living area, almost as if saying his name would summon him like Bloody Mary. “Is he here?”
Miles smacked his lips, wiping his mouth. “Nope, just me.”
There was a pleasant calmness in his demeanor. It seemed to her that he was the only normal person that she’d met since being pulled off the train. The only person that treated her like a real person. Not that Peter hadn’t tried to show her kindness... or at least, what his mind perceived as kindness.
She rocked forward on her toes, suddenly interested in the fibers of the cardboard box. “Is he... Is he okay?”
Miles avoided looking at her, and she wondered how much Peter had told him about her escape attempt. She wondered why she felt suddenly embarrassed by her actions. Ashamed even. What did that say about her?
“Didn’t say much,” he replied. “Said he needed to take care of some stuff. Told me to hang out in case you needed anything.”
Something burned in her chest, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. “That was nice,” she stated in earnest. “I guess.”
“He’s pretty cool,” Miles nodded, matter-of-factly. “Nice guy.”
She bitterly scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest, “I wouldn’t go that far.”
He didn’t respond. He was skilled at avoiding her provocation despite how badly she wanted to start a fight. Passively, he devoured his pizza in record time, then reached over the box to grab a paper plate. It looked sorely out of place compared to the grandeur of the kitchen.
“Wan’some?” he asked. “I also brought soda and stuff. Boss said no TV, but we can watch a movie on Netflix or something. Or we got a Switch. You ever play Smash Bros?”
It took her a moment for the implications to sink in. “‘No TV?’” she repeated with a growl, letting out a frustrated sigh. “What are we, children?”
She snatched the paper plate from his hand and reached into the box, grabbing herself a slice of pizza. Without further protest, she bit into the pie, savoring the taste. Lucia’s was superior, she recognized.
“He said to get you whatever you needed,” he answered, paying her complaints no mind. “The whole house is free range except for the office. But everything else is cool. You can use the gym. There’s a library. The sauna. A pool, if you wanna check that out, too.”
She blinked at him, nearly choking on her pizza. “This place has a pool?”
“Heated,” he wiggled his eyebrows enticingly.
She glanced down, conniving. “What about a computer?”
Miles shook his head. “Don’t know about that.”
“Could I borrow your phone?”
“No can.”
“C’mon,” she pleaded, her voice gentle. “I’m not gonna call the cops. Just wanna check in with my mom.”
“Can’t bring phones out here,” he shrugged apologetically. “It’s a rule. Phones can be hacked and traced. All you need is a sus text like ‘Hey, I’m here,’ or ‘We issued you a refund for $600,’ and you click on the link and boom. They got you.”
Honey peered at him suspiciously, “Who’s they?”
“No clue.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your ‘boss’ sounds pretty paranoid if you ask me.”
“That actually wasn’t his rule,” Miles explained conversationally. He leaned back in the barstool in a way that made her anxious. “That was Peni. She’s our tech nerd.”
“Peni?” she repeated.
“Yeah, she’s like—a genius.”
Her pizza suddenly became too chewy. “So I’m just a prisoner?” she huffed.
Miles looked over at her for a few moments, considering her. He let out a quiet sigh. “I know it’s a lot,” he said kindly, then added with consolation. “Pete’s a lot. Sometimes.” Stone-faced, she stared back skeptically. “But he’s a really good dude. Just... he worries. He wouldn’t do all this if he didn’t care.”
She glared at him through lidded eyes. “Do you hear yourself right now?” she spat. “You sound like a Lifetime movie. Do I need to call Child Protective Services?”
“Hey, not cool. M’not a child,” he bristled, offended. “I’m sixteen.” She stared at him with a raised brow, watching as he stuffed another slice of pie into his mouth. “Wan’some Mountain Dew?”
She blinked. Several times. Then resigned herself. “Sure.”
The eerie indigo and orange glow of civil dawn peeked through the bay windows of the great room. It was silent except for soft snores. With weary eyes and a suit jacket which had been wrinkled by physical exertion, Peter wandered into his house even more of an alien than when he’d left it.
The sort of activities in which he’d participated in earlier that night did that to him. It made him a stranger in his own home. Even more in his own skin.
He paused briefly and took a moment to gaze upon the lanky teenager sprawled out on one of the leather couches. Jordans crossed. sticking up over the sofa arm. A Nintendo controller rested on his chest as he dozed deeply, film forming in the corner of his open mouth. The sight made Peter crack a bittersweet smile. Nostalgia accompanied by an ache of longing. Somewhere beneath Miles’ oversized clothes, there was a good kid who wasn’t all that different from Peter.
Who he used to be.
His eyes roved across the room to the opposite sofa. Honey was curled up like a cat, still in the blouse and jeans that she arrived in. Her hiking boots were placed neatly next to the couch. The snuggly sight of her made his heart leap into his throat. Her upper body expanded and deflated in a steady rhythm like ocean waves, and the action both entranced and haunted him. The bittersweet feeling in his chest soured and blackened, until it became a guilt-ridden tumor wrapping tendrils around his heart.
He had been so cruel earlier. He erupted into a fit of blind rage. A brute. The kind of anger that made people want to turn their heads. Anger that if Gwen were still alive, she wouldn’t be able to look at without being sickened. He was the sort of person that Aunt May and Uncle Ben would cross the street to avoid.
He thought he’d lost her too. And he was terrified.
No wonder she was scared. It was his fault, to think that she could somehow see him as something other than a monster. Now, there wasn’t much hope in changing her mind.
Peter felt his eyes burn as he peeled them from her lithe form. He glanced down at his hands, observing the deep crimson stains in his skin. Rusty-brown spots soiled the wrinkled cuffs of his dress shirt.
He’d have to throw it out, he mused. There’d be no getting those stains out. No matter how much time he put into scrubbing. No matter if he flayed his own skin off his bones, the blood would always be there.
His heart rate quickened. He felt bile rising in his throat. With alarm, he disappeared down a hallway, tucking himself swiftly in a washroom.
When he returned, he was shirtless. His forearms were bright red, stinging with how hard he’d scrubbed. Head down, he crept quietly towards the staircase leading up to the bedrooms on the upper level.
He paused at the sofa, glancing down longingly at the woman he would never deserve.
The woman that would never forgive him for how he acted.
Never forgive him for what he was. The thought made his lower lip tremble.
He didn’t deserve her. This was an undeniable fact.
But regardless, she was still his responsibility. His to protect. His to keep safe.
His to keep.
His shadow fell over her as he reached down and gently lifted her from the sofa. Effortlessly, he carried her weight like a towel over his arm, or a down-pillow in his hands. Ascending the staircase with her tucked against his chest, he didn’t miss the way she huddled closer to his warmth. She sighed against the skin over his heart in a way that made gooseflesh rise.
Gently, he ferried her, like a small boat on a glass lake. He strode past the door to the room that she had occupied and continued down the hallway, headed to the southern-facing end of the house. He approached the heavy oak door to his bedroom and used his toe to push it open. The action barely disturbed her at all. Like floating on a cloud.
Moving through the bedroom darkened by blackout curtains, he drifted across his room and rested her body on the silk surface of the California-king bedspread. Delicately, he placed her head on a 1000-thread count pillow void of any scents other than his own. He hoped that it would smell like her shampoo by the time she woke up.
He stepped back from the bed, listening the pulsation of her heart. Studied the pace of her breathing. Fixated on her soft features as she floated in her slumber. A familiar pang reached his chest as he watched her, hesitating for only a moment more before he padded to the other side of the bed.
She sighed in her sleep, nuzzling the softest pillow she’d ever laid on, and shuddered comfortably as two arms wrapped around her waist. She felt herself pulled back and was cradled by a firm form shaping her own. It was warm. She was warm. The breath on the back of her neck was warm.
Her eyes shot open, a small gasp catching in her throat. Rapidly, she blinked through the murky twilight of the foreign bedroom, her heart spiking.
“Don’t,” she heard a deep, raspy voice whisper in her ear. She went rigid, recognizing the owner of the voice and the body pressed up against hers. Alarm flooded her.
“Please don’t,” he said softly, with a tone that sounded shockingly broken. She was frozen. Stunned. By fear or surprise, or both.
Another murmur, “Stay with me.”
It was a whimper shaped like a demand. With it, she swore she could feel a tremble in his grip. He buried his face in her hair, his bearded chin tucking into her shoulder. His arms locked her into an impenetrable grip.
Instinct was screaming at her to break the hold. Told her she needed to fight. Or run, as far and fast as she could manage.
It wouldn’t be very far. The previous afternoon he proved that he was more than capable of bringing her back.
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The way the air from his lungs ghosted over her nape made her eyes flutter shut.
His arms were heavy. Firm, but not painful. Solid, not tight. She imagined the hearty limbs of the oak in the backyard of her childhood home. Three seasons out of the year, she’d scale into its arbor, hiding from her troubles. She once wanted to build a home there.
She should fight. She should run.
There was a monster in her bed. She was in a monster’s bed.
And yet, sleep took her soon after. The most peaceful rest she’d had in ages.
When she emerged from her rest, she was alone again. Harsh daylight flooded into the bedroom she hadn’t had the chance to see. After a moment of confusion, she turned around to see the other side of the bed unoccupied. The blankets undisturbed. She glanced down at her own clothes. Though wrinkled and dirtied from her tree climbing adventure and attempted escape, they were intact.
She was surprised, but even more surprised at the strange mix of... anxiety?
When is the appropriate amount of time when you’re forced into your kidnapper’s bed for him to... you know... make a move? Was it her? Was she awful, or even worse—did she smell bad?
The line of self-conscious questioning and odd disappointment frustrated her further. She sighed, silenting cursing her own stupidity, shaking the thought from her mind.
Someone once told her that if life was a horror film, she’d be the first to die. It would’ve offended her more if she wasn’t wrapped up in the notion that if life could be a horror film, how would any of us know we were in one?
Her mother answered— ”Stupid, stupid girl.”
Attention now turned to the surroundings, she came face-to-face with another real-life magazine spread. A dream bedroom. The coziest jewel of this particular dream home.
Although it was a modest size, it didn’t feel that way. The primary bedroom was decorated with a soothing blend of alabaster stone, exposed beams of reclaimed wood, and snuggly linen tones. Vaulted ceilings lined with ash. A winding, black iron chandelier dangled over the four-post bed she laid in. A stone fireplace stood opposite from the bed, accompanied by an overstuffed linen chair. Just as in the other rooms, a double-height window accented with floor-to-ceiling drapes towered over the room and revealed the breathtaking mountain landscape.
She sat up and gathered her jaw up off of the bedspread. Wiped drool from her lip. The room was charming and warm, like fuzzy socks and sherpa blankets. Marshmallows melting on hot cocoa. It wrapped around her, like a hug.
Like her visitor last night.
She yanked her eyes off of the rustic-contemporary decor, searching for Peter, as if he would’ve somehow camouflaged himself into the space. Placing her socked feet down on the blessedly toasty hardwood, she peered around curiously. The gentle roar of water running caught her attention as she wandered to the other side of ithe room. An open doorway led into another massive space, one side lined with wardrobe cabinetry and the other half of the room obscured by a wall.
Idly, she followed the path through what she recognized as a closet larger than her apartment, rounding the corner of the freestanding wall. Clouds billowed around her, as she gazed open-mouthed at the primary bathroom. Sunlight poured in, lighting up the space, bouncing off of white marble and black obsidian glass tile—
And Peter Parker.
Steam wafting off of his nude form, hot water pouring down his backside. She paused midstep, eyes like saucers. Felt the blood rush to her face. Panic swallowed her. She imagined this is exactly what deers must feel right before getting plowed by an F-150, blinded by headlights.
Except that she was blinded by his wet pale skin, the way the steam rose from it, like he was the source of heat. The smattering of freckles spread faintly across his shoulders. His palms were flat against the backsplash as he bowed his head into the stream of water. His dark locks slicked back by a cleansing cascade.
She followed the current down the curve of his shoulders and the peaks of his spine, down to the dimpled valleys of his lower back, and that breathtaking canyon ridge that dips down in a V at his hips— whatever that’s called— and never in her life would she see herself as an ‘ass enthusiast,’ but her mouth was watering now, maybe from the lack of hair on his body (his skin was so buttery smooth, what was his skincare secret?) or the subtle curvature of his shapely cheeks—
Aimlessly, she collided with a freestanding towel drying rack, sending it clamoring to the tile floor. To her ears it sounded like the whole Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade falling down a staircase into a pile of cookware. She didn’t bother to see if Peter could hear the racket.
Like Icarus into the Sun, she hurled her own body back into the closet before she could be seen. Landed hard on the carpeted floor with a thud. She scattered, scrambling like a crab, on her hands and knees until she could get to her feet and bolt from the room.
In a frenzy, she rushed to ‘her’ bedroom, the one nearest to the stairs. She didn’t breathe again until the door was slammed shut and she rested her weight against it. A fire raged beneath her skin, her face aflame with embarrassment. She dragged her palms down her cheeks, groaning with mortification, sinking to the floor.
At what point is it acceptable to creep on your kidnapper in the shower?
Continue to Part 6
a/n - I've gotten such overwhelmingly amazing feedback on this. thank you so much to each of you that commented, sent me an ask, and big thank you to those of you that reblogged!
don't forget, to be tagged you must reblog so I can keep track of you!
thank you so much, angels!
#Lizzy writes.#Lizzy writes! sugar and vice#peter parker x reader#peter parker x you#peter parker au#mob peter parker#mafia au#mob au#peter parker x oc#tasm peter parker#tasm peter parker x reader#tasm peter parker x you#tasm peter parker x oc#andrew garfield au#andrew garfield peter parker x reader#andrew garfield spiderman#andrew garfield x reader#peter parker andrew garfield#andrew garfield#the amazing spider man#the amazing spiderman#tasm au#tasm smut#tasm spiderman#tasm peter x reader#tasm peter smut#andrew garfield smut#slow burn
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In a Corner I Haunt: Everybody Moved On (Chapter Two)
ch. 1 (currently being edited)
I did not intend on this little angst piece becoming a bigger idea, but here we are. Currently there is no graphic content, bur this series will eventually contain smut so I’m asking for solely an 18+ audience.
Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!OC
Word Count: 3k
Series Warnings: Cheating, Thoughts of cheating, Smut, Angst with semi happy ending, Divorce, Discussion of parental depth, Mentions of past domestic abuse, Neglecting spouse, Cursing, Peter on the verge of a nervous breakdown. More to add.
Chapter Warnings: Description of love interest, Love interest is given nickname, Implied thoughts of cheating, chapter is pretty diff Peter heavy.
please reblog and/or comment
There was a girl who sat in the west courtyard of ESU on Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, Thursday and occasionally Friday his sophomore year. She sat under the same tree since the start of the spring semester, the old cherry blossom tree that was right off the path Peter skated everyday towards Dr. Octavius’ lab. On the weekdays she had her laptop snug in her lap with whatever it seemed she could get from the campus cafe, her favorite seemed to be a Matcha Latte with some type of croissant sandwich. On weekends she sat there enjoying the warmer days with a book, or sitting in a cardigan working on her laptop.
On some days Peter found himself walking past, and walking slower to really capture her and her beauty. On occasion he thought about stopping and talking to her. Asking her about what book she was reading this time, or what it was she was typing away on. However, according to his friends that would be stalkerish, giving away that he had been watching her quite a bit over the last few weeks. That girls liked to be met organically, without being watched beforehand. So here he was camera in hand, swallowing his words in his throat as he approached her.
“Photo for the ESU Daily?” He whispered nervously, his words slewing out in one big word.
“Do we take random photos for the Daily now?”
“Oh well, it’s this piece I’m working on about students who take their..their work outside.” The lie seemed perfect to him, no flaws, the best and most calm lie he’s ever told.
“I’ve never seen you in the writing room.”
What.
“Mhm, what?”
“I’m a writer at the daily.”
“Oh..” Peter’s eyes shifted around uncomfortably, clearing his throat and opening his mouth to defend himself.
“But I have seen you in the darkroom. You’re Parker.”
“Peter..Parker. Peter Parker.” He thrusted his hand into her face smiling. She smiled, choking on a laugh, taking his hand and shaking it.
She looked up at him, giving him her name with a sweet smile. Her eyes setting a part of his soul on fire, he was sure of it. There was a softness that grew in the pit of his stomach as he looked down at her.
“Not to make this awkward but do you stare at all the people you’re interested in from a distance or just a select few.”
“Oh you noticed that.” He laughed, his hand coming up to tuck his hair back and scratch his neck out of embarrassment. “Select few. You should feel really flattered.”
“Good, I do.” Her laugh echoed in his ears, settling into a part of his brain and making a home in his memory already. “Do you want to..I don’t know have a seat.”
Peter physically restricted himself from sitting next to the girl, he knew he’d be so late and Otto would maybe actually kill him this time.
“I would really love to, but I’m about to be late and if we are gonna have a..seat together I’d like to be alive for it.” Quickly, Peter scribbled his phone number down onto a gum wrapper he found in his pocket. Handing it to her. “Here is my number, you can call me and we can like, meet tonight or whenever at that uh- italian place up the block.”
“Leo’s?”
“Yeah that one is perfect.” He smiled as he ran backwards away from her. His cheeks burning red, he wondered if his smile was still noticeable to her. Peter turned around taking off towards Otto’s lab, jumping up out of excitement. His other commitments would have to wait till after this date.
Tears hung in Peter's eyes today, his stomach had crawled its way up his throat. He looked at that same tree today, hands dug deep in his pockets. He had decided to take a small detour on his way to pick up his daughter from the English department. He approached the tree that still stood in the west courtyard; tall and barren from the cold season. It felt like a laugh in his face. An evil metaphor crawling out of the shadows at him, showing him what he had thrown away. He reached out letting his finger draw over the initials carved poorly into the tree. It was a silly thing he did for her on their two month anniversary, forever commemorating their meeting spot, thinking that one day he’d bring her back here and purpose. Coward.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzz..
Peter dug his hands around in his pockets grasping at his phone, finally getting it in his palm. He cleared his throat before speaking.
“Alice, sorry I’m on my way now I just got stuck on the subway. Camilia excited?” He asked as he cut through the west courtyard heading towards the Lee English Hall.
“Well she’d be a little bit more excited if her daddy were on time.”
“I know I just ran into a old friend, and then I got caught-”
“I do not care Pete,” Her brief scoff was heard on the other side. He knew it was not directed at him. She was really stressed with her first year teaching. “I just need you to get here so I can teach my one o’clock lecture baby, please.”
“Gotcha, headin’ your way now.” Peter hummed slowly, pushing through students on the sidewalk mouthing apologies. “I love..” the dial tone rang loudly in his ear. “You.” He sighed, pocketing his phone and continuing his walk.
Had this been a couple years ago he would be skateboarding through these people not worried about what they thought of him, he missed being young and non caring. Peter looked at the couples eating outside on the benches and suddenly he remembers being that boyfriend bringing his girlfriend lunch between classes. Rushing kisses, and rushing through lunch, skipping out on the last bit of Otto’s lecture and lab work to get to the journalism building as fast as possible. He remembers her surprising him during lab hours with dinner, they would sit and enjoy one another's company till early morning hours. Then they’d pick whose place to go back to, then she’d fall asleep on her shoulder the subway ride back.
He has a beautiful life now, but now he can’t even begin to think about what his life with her could have been like. He could have had Camilia with his girl, they could have gotten engaged that night had he just not gotten cold feet. Peter shook his head pulling himself out of his selfish and insane thoughts, and suddenly he was in front of Lee Hall where the English department was. He sighed walking around the back entrance where the offices were located, and muscle memory carried him the rest of the way down the hall.
“Daddy!”
The voice piped up as Peter pushed open the office door, Alice smiled at her daughter and it slowly disappeared off her face as she looked at Peter. He took his daughter into his arms as she climbed up his side.
“Got everything ready?” Peter asks, kissing his little girl's head. “We gotta go see grandma May. Then we are gonna go get ice cream, and then we are..off to the science museum” Peter spoke in a theatrical voice, making his daughter smile. He grabbed her, lifting her up, moving her around like a rocket shooting off. Alice stares at the two, a smile on her face directed only at their daughter.
“Peter, can you take that outside please. I’d like for my office to not be destroyed. You two get too rowdy, and it always ends up with something broken.” She sighed, blowing her daughter a kiss goodbye.
“Momma ‘s not our fault.” Camilia says, her annunciation falling short due to her missing teeth.
“No baby it’s not. It's daddy’s for passing on all those awesome spider powers to you.”
Though she says it like a compliment, Peter can hear the passive aggressiveness lacing his wife's voice. It would be a lie to say it isn’t pushing a knife deeper into his stomach, his sweet girl would never have referred to him this way. So dismissive, inciting that he was a problem to her life. He shook his head and put on a smile, kissing his daughter's head. “Bye Allie, say bye momma.”
“Bye momma.” Cami waved as Peter carried her out of the office, her spider-man backpack thrown over his left shoulder.
“Okay daddy?” Camilia asked, looking up at him, her big doe eyes reflecting himself in them. Peter smiled down at his daughter, the metaphorical knife leaving his gut.
“I am perfect, Cami. How about you, are you good- wanna walk?”
“No, wanna stay here.”
She says watching the people pass by them, Peter smiles as he approaches the subway station heading down the steps. He looks down at his daughter and back ahead of the hoards of people ahead of them. He thinks that he could do this on his own, he thinks about the life he and his daughter would have had he just held out for a bit longer, and he thinks about her again. Then the doors of the subway open, and he steps on bringing himself back down to reality as his daughter talks to him about all the animals she saw on her way to ESU this morning and for the next couple hours he’s content living in this bubble. Once his daughter dozes off on his shoulder he thinks about his sweet girl once more, wondering if her number is still the same. He contemplates calling her, begging her for one last touch. Begging to have her one more time, begging her to be the mother to his child. Promising to change, to not pull back at the last second this time. Then the cart jolts, and he catches his daughter in his arms remembering the man he is.
…
May’s house is just the same as it has been for decades, except now for the first time in about 20 years there are toys scattered on the floor once again and he walks into the house surrounded by the scent of cookies.
“Nana!” Camilia yells running to the kitchen as soon as Peter put her down. Peter heard May’s gasp followed by a groan as she reached down to pick the little girl up.
“Hi May!” Peter smiled walking to the kitchen putting his keys and Camilia’s bag down on the counter.
“Hi babies.” May says kissing Camilia’s head and reaching up to kiss Peter’s cheek. Peter smiled letting his hand rest on her back. “Oh Cami let those cool.” Peter says, reaching his hand out to catch his daughter before she could grab the hot cookies.
“Okay..” She sighs, wiggling out of May’s arms, landing on her feet as she hits the ground.
“Oh she stresses me out when she does that. She gets that from you.” May laughs, wagging a finger at Peter, watching Camilia grab her bag running to the living room.
“I know I apparently gave her all her negative traits.”
“Oh who says that?” May questions, pulling the cookies off the sheet and putting them on the plate.
“Alice.”
“Well..” May points the spatula at him like she’s about to say something profound. “Oh well, maybe I shouldn’t say that.”
“No, no, let's hear it.” Peter laughs his hand on his cheek.
“Alice has more negative traits coming out her tuchus than you have in your whole body. Which one of you started fighting crime at eighteen years old, and which one of you got your daddy to pay your way through college mhm?”
May was never a fan of Alice. May was a very big fan of his sweet girl, she adored her and he knows the two still frequently talk during holidays and other times just when they feel like it. May was more devastated about their break up than he was at the time. Which couldn’t prepare him for what her reaction was about to be.
“I saw her today.”
May’s jaw dropped, as did the spatula landing on the linoleum floor. “Oh my gosh how was it, how was she? How do you feel?”
“She looked..beautiful as ever, the same as the day I left her. Older now obviously but, it was like looking at a ghost.” Peter laughed. “I got so overwhelmed..now I can’t get her out of my head, May. I just, I’m so wrapped up in what could have been. I made a mistake. I think I made a big mistake.”
“I told you that five years ago..you’re just like your uncle. Goes in one ear and right out the other until you’re ready. I swear..” May shook her head laughing, putting a cookie in Peter’s hand and several on a plate for Camilia. Peter’s lips pushed into a bittersweet smile and he nodded, his aunt was right.
“Cami, come get your snack.” Peter says. Camilia runs in and leaves so fast it’s like she never even entered the room. Peter watched her sit on the couch TV blaring to where she couldn't hear.
“You calling that little girl a mistake?”
“No, just my marriage.” It was a loaded statement. Peter had asked Alice to marry him after only six months and impulsive night after attending a friend's wedding. There was no ring, just this intense pressure to settle down and do it soon. “Camilia made it better, for a while. We both love her, we just..haven’t loved each other in quite a while.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I know.” May says. “I tried to warn you several times leading up to the wedding. Even on your wedding day. This is not love Peter. This is infatuation, infatuation wears off.”
“I thought you were just saying that because you wanted me to marry your girl.”
“My girl” was what May used to call her. Peter thought it was cute, May always wanted a daughter and she became that by extension of Peter. But he always called her angel. He couldn’t place why or how that nickname came around. Maybe because she was, to him, some type of divine entity that came to him to pull him out of that dark place. Whenever speaking to her or about her it was always angel this, angel that.
“Well..it was partially that too but I never liked Alice. She never liked me. She wouldn’t let me give you a way at your wedding because I wasn’t your biological mother and that only women are given away. Oh that made me so mad I coulda hit her, but I reframed, I kept my mouth shut.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen t’ya May.”
Peter says, reaching his hand across, holding her hand. “You are my mother. Biological or not you raised me, you know this. I wish you had told me before today, I don’t think I would have gone through with the wedding.”
“Sweet to say but you would have.”
Peter tilted his head holding his aunt's hand reassuringly. “Are you gonna see her again?” May asks.
“I’m not sure. I’d like to. I dunno if she…would want to see me again.”
“Well you didn’t hear this from me, but I don’t think she’d be too disappointed in hearing from you again.”
“Thanks May. You always know what to say.”
Peter smiled hugging his aunt kissing her head. His heart settling into his chest again felt right, and knew what to do but his brain was still screaming at him. “Come on, living room. Let’s see what Paw Patrol is up to today.”
Peter grabbed their drinks and the plate following into the living room, both of them sitting on either side of Camilia. Angel still lingering in the back of his mind.
…
May almost kept them the whole day, if Peter hadn’t caught his watch when he did he would have missed general admissions to the museum. Peter practically had to drag Camilia away from May, her begging to stay the night. Peter promised that he would message Alice about it to make sure it was okay after they got out of the museum.
“Are we gonna see the big t-rex?”
“Of course we will Cami, I’d be a terrible daddy to not let you see the dino.”
“You really would be.”
Peter laughed and rubbed his daughter's head ruffling her brown curls as they walked the steps to the science museum. “Up!” She demands whispering a please at the end, Peter caved lifting her up carrying her on his shoulders.
Showing the woman at the door their tickets, Peter smiled gratefully at her. As they walked in Camilia’s gasp could be heard, Peter smiled his eye catching what she was looking at. In the center of the room stood a banner for the new dinosaur exhibit and a small skeleton of a velociraptor next to a statue of one.
“He was about as big as you are honey.” Peter laughs.
“Cool.” Camilia smiles, her hands drumming on top of her fathers head in excitement. Peter laughed, reaching a hand up to stop her patting her small hands reassuringly. A voice rang out behind him that made him stop in his tracks.
“Picture for the Bugle?” His angel's voice rang out behind him, Peter turned around hugging his daughter's leg.
“Peter.” She smiles, she was dressed differently than what she had been earlier at the restaurant. Her brown hair clipped back out of her face, eyes looking up at him like they never lost him.
“Angel.” He whispers.
Her head tilted to the side like a dog hearing its owner's voice. She laughed, dropping her shoulders. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. I was starting to think you forgot about that name.”
“Never.”
She looked at the little girl on his shoulders. “This must be the sweet Camilia you were telling me about earlier.”
“This is yes. Camilia this is-”
“Angel.” Camilia states.
“Sure yeah, we were old friends in college.”
She was almost your mother.
He refrains from speaking.
Angel smiles lifting her camera snapping a photo of the pair, Peter smiles looking past the camera and to her.
“Perfect, that's gonna go on the front page.” She hums, Peter looks confused. “Jameson put me in charge of the opening of the dinosaur exhibit and I’m writing a piece about it.”
“Since when did Jameson stop caring about hard hitting news?”
‘Since I begged him to let me make the dinosaur exhibit front page this week, and the museum is paying him to do it.”
“Now that sounds like him.”
It’s silent for a moment and Peter feels all his emotions building up like vomit in his throat, no way to stop it.
“Do you like dinos, Angel?”
Camilia asks looking down at the lady, Peter smiles, pulling his daughter off shoulders holding her to be eye level.
“I do.”
Before Peter could stop himself, the words fell out of his mouth. “You should walk it with us. Cami could easily be our tour guide.”
“You know what I’d love too.”
“Great.”
Peter nodded at her, as soon as the words left him Camilia’s feet hit the ground. her hand grabbing Peter and Angel’s, smiling up at them as she begins to drag them into the start. Angel’s smile lit his insides on fire just like at the restaurant, just like all those years under the tree on the west courtyard at ESU.
This could only end in one big glass shattering way, as it did all those years ago.
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The Poet And The Beat~ TASM!GUITARIST!Peter Parker
Plot: Peter meets Evie, a poet looking to make a name in a new town. He’s a guitarist looking for a new start. They won’t fall in love.....or willll they?
Tropes: friends to lovers, guitarist!au, poet!au
Evie Cast knew too much about writing to be called a beginner. After all, she’d been writing since the age of seven. She’d published a book of poems when she turned twelve.
Unfortunately, the world didn’t treat her like her friends did. Her rounded face made her look too young for most publishers. Evie was young for publishing standards, having just turned eighteen six months ago. Not that she really cared what people thought of her. She’d publish on Amazon if she had too.
Little detailed snowflakes slipped into her hair and blanketed the ground as she walked along the streets of New York.
Evie had moved here from a small town in upper New York. She’d dreamed of living in the big city her whole life and she jumped at the chance to work at a newspaper firm as an editor.
As Evie moved along, carefully watching her step, her thoughts wandered to a new book she’d been editing for the last few weeks. Nature being one of her favorite subjects, she believed it was high time she published a book about it.
As so often happened when her brain wandered to thoughts of poetry, Evie lost track of her surroundings. She’d stopped paying attention to where she stepped and didn’t notice the large mark of ice until it was too late.
Up went her legs into the air as her arms twirled, trying hard to catch herself. Evie winced as she braced herself for impact with the cold surface but got quite the shock when she felt a pair of strong arms embracing her instead.
“Hey, you gotta be careful on these streets. Are you alright, cookie?”
Any other day, Evie would’ve been pissed at a guy calling her a nickname like that, but she allowed herself to be wrapped up in the warmth of the voice saying it and dared to look at him.
A pair of hazel brown eyes that looked like a nice cup of hot chocolate were locked on hers, a concerned frown tugging at his lips. She observed brown waves of hair sticking out under a royal blue beanie and the gold flash of a chain around his neckline.
“Oh, um, yes, thanks to you,” Evie breathed, steadying herself against him as he placed her back on his feet. His muscles heaved under her fingers and she had a quick flash of how those arms would feel wrapped around her in another way.
“I’m Peter,” the boy offered, flashing Evie a sweet smile that could’ve melted her into a puddle on the spot if she hadn’t been shaken up.
Evie licked her lips in an attempt to swallow her shock and gave Peter a smile in return.
“Evie. Evie Cast.”
She noticed a flash of something....maybe familiarity....spark across Peter’s haunting hazel eyes and noticed his hands reaching for the straps of his backpack.
“Weren’t you the girl that published a poetry book when you were 12?”
Evie stared and nearly choked in complete shock. How had he even come across her book? She didn’t even think it had made its way to the “Big Apple!” Wait....had he read her book? If he’d read her book, she’d pass out right here on the sidewalk.
“Um, yeah, I was.”
Peter suddenly took her by the elbow and steered her in the direction of a nearby coffee shop. Evie went along with it, mostly because her brain had short-circuited too much to ask any questions.
That her book might have actually been read by people living in the biggest city in the country was made than she could handle. And the cute boy next to her might have read it! How was she going to get through the rest of the day?
The blast of warmth from the coffee shop tore Evie from her reverie and she gasped in a huge breath of air, thankful to be out of the cold.
Her eyes wandered around the room as Peter steered her towards the counter. At the table right next to the counter was a man not much older than herself. His pen tapped along the rings of his notebook as he whispered to himself. He must’ve been talking himself through his next writing, Evie thought.
In the far corner of the shop stood a black bookshelf with tons and tons of books. Evie hoped there might be an Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman novel waiting for her to open.
“Hey, cookie? Do you know what you want to drink?”
This time, it was Peter’s voice that withdrew Evie from her daydream and forced her attention upward towards the menu hanging on the ceiling.
“Just a hot chocolate for me, thank you,” she told the worker as she dug into her purse for her wallet.
She had just placed her golden yellow wallet up onto the counter and made a movement to withdraw her card when the clucking of a tongue caught her attention.
“Tsk, Tsk, cookie. The man always pays on the first date.”
Evie opened her mouth to protest but one quick glance into those hazel eyes and all arguments flew out the window. This was so unfair. She wasn’t supposed to be tongue tied. After all, she’d been using words all over the place her entire life. But this devil named Peter Parker somehow snatched away her ability to say a word.
She swallowed hard and shook her head to clear it as Peter handed her the drink.
“You’re not normally this tongue-tied, are you, cookie?”
Evie managed to find her words and regain control of herself as she and Peter took seats near a wide window near the front of the cafe.
“No, Peter, I’m not. Can I ask why you pulled me into the cafe?”
She eyed Peter with an arched eyebrow and smiled around her cup when his face painted cherry red.
“Well,” he began, fumbling with his cup in an attempt to avoid Evie’s eyes, “I’ve always wanted to meet you. You just have a way with words that could really fit in with my music.”
A thoughtful hum exited her mouth and she lowered her cup, steam swirling from the open lid.
“You’re a guitarist, then?”
Peter looked down at the table and slowly nodded.
“And you would like to have me as a song writer.”
Peter’s eyes widened to an almost bizarre amount as he finally gathered the courage to lock eyes with her. Could this girl actually read his mind?
“Yeah.”
A smirk played at the edge’s of Evie’s lips as she tossed the purple straight hair away from her eyes. Song writing was not so different than poetry writing. She’d done both but found that, basically, they were one in the same. Except lyrics had music behind it.
“When do you want me to start?”
*******************************************************************************************
Fate felt very determined to pull Peter and Evie together. They’d run into each other more times than could be counted in that next week. They’d spent most of that week discussing the song over text and phone calls. Most of those phone calls were interrupted by shouts from Peter’s Aunt May about one thing or another, but Evie couldn’t really say she minded all that much.
“Have you given a lot of thought to the melody yet, Pete,” she asked on a snowy Saturday afternoon at the same coffee shop. Their table bore two different notebooks: one was Peter’s and the other was Evie’s.
Peter’s red guitar case leaned against the window still. He’d been fingering with the zipper, lost in thought until Evie’s question brought him back to reality.
“I kinda have something but it’s not exactly finalized, ya know?”
Evie hummed and glanced down at the words she had written down. Peter wasn’t expecting perfection, she knew that, but she’d started caring enough for Peter over that last week that she wanted his song to be a marvel.
She eyed Peter’s guitar case and, with great finality, slammed her notebook shut.
“Let me see your guitar, Pete.”
If Peter in anyway felt confused or concerned at the sudden eagerness in Evie’s voice, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he simply did as she asked and took the guitar it’s case.
The once clean guitar held dents and scars from years of being played. A particularly nasty dent lay right near the bottom guitar string (the “E” string), but in their eyes, a guitar sounded much much better as an older, imperfect instrument.
“What do you have in mind there, cookie,” he asked, sitting up much straighter in his chair than he had been.
Evie paid no mind to his question and swayed in her seat as she delicately plucked each string. Her slender fingers danced over the strings as her booted foot tapped lightly against the floor. She hadn’t told Peter that she had once played the guitar before she gave it up due to writing taking her main focus.
She stared down at her closed notebook and shivered. The thought of picking up guitar again moved something inside her. Like her heart screamed at her to go back to the days of playing the guitar and writing little songs.
“I’m thinking we should do an acoustic song, Pete. Something beautiful that will draw people in,” she decided, tilting her head at Peter as her fingers played with the strings.
Peter’s lips quirked dangerously to the side at the sight of Evie staring at him with those big green eyes. Those eyes that held so much light and joy. If he held the melody, she held the very words into his soul.
Was he falling too fast? Yes, but that wasn’t for him to decide. His heart needed to have her.
*******************************************************************************************
It had been about two months since Peter and Evie met but the sparks between them grew stronger every day. For them, meeting up wasn’t just about the songs anymore. No, the meetings were for them.
On this particularly warm winter day, Peter walked the two blocks from his apartments to Evie’s work to take her on a surprise date. He’d decided to dress up a little by wearing a purple collared shirt, khakis, and a new pair of winter boots. Evie would be coming out of work any moment.
“Oh! Peter, I thought you had to go into the studio today,” Evie exclaimed as she stepped around the corner of the door. Not that she wasn’t pleased to see Peter, he always managed to make her smile.
She smiled even wider and her heart beat a little faster as Peter took her hand in his. His huge fingers engulfed hers but she welcomed the size-difference. Peter had called her “shorty” so many times the last week, it became an inside joke for them.
“Well, cookie, it just wouldn’t be a good day without seeing your pretty face,” Peter sang out, causing Evie to laugh in spite of the blush on her cheeks.
“Not too loud, Petey! Don’t want all of New York to hear,” she giggled.
A tight squeeze on her hand made her look up into Peter’s gorgeous hazel eyes.
“I forgot you’re more of the quiet type. Sorry, cookie!”
Another laugh echoed from Evie’s throat and she rolled her eyes good-naturally at him.
“Where are you taking me, Petey? A secret hideout?”
“No, cookie. I’m taking you to the studio.”
Evie gasped and looked at him in complete shock. He was finally taking her to the studio? She’d dreamed of visiting there for two months!
“My manager’s been asking about you,” he explained as they stomped up the steps, “she wants to meet my little muse.”
First cookie and now muse? Was Peter intentionally trying to hold Evie’s heart in his hands? Did he ever understand how unfair she was actually being?
The smirk on Peter’s face as he pushed open the studio door told Evie he did, in fact, know exactly what he was doing.
Now she just needed to decide if she wanted to kick him or kiss him.
*******************************************************************************************
Evie hadn’t wanted to commit murder in a long time. Normally she was super cool with handling sexist or rude remarks from men, but this time, her emotions bubbled to the top of the surface.
She’d been working on the sports section of the newspaper when the ink slipped right out of her hand and smashed onto the floor. A moment that Evie no longer found truly embarrassing. She’d done it and seen it way too many times.
Her manager had been working with another employee at the time but when he heard the crash, he spun away and caught Evie’s eye.
“That’s alright, Evie. Just clean it up and try again.”
Evie gave her manager a thumbs up and trotted away to grab some paper towel. Her manager was the nicest guy in the world. She’d found out that he, too, had read the poetry book she’d published at twelve. He’d complimented her on her writing skills at such a young age.
“Not every one can write like that so young, Evie,” he’d told her.
As Evie cleaned up the spill, she overheard a coworker--James-- who’d always had an issue with her speak to the manager.
“How many times has she spilled ink, boss? That ain’t a good look for her.”
The manager shot James a look and warned him to get back to his job.
“She’s one of the hardest workers here, James. Everyone messes up once in a while.”
James rolled his eyes as Evie walked away to toss the paper towel into the trash.
“She doesn’t even belong here, boss. She should be in the kitchen making us some food. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Evie’s body trembled as tears stung at her eyes. She’d known James was a jerk but to say a comment like that? He was far more sexist than she’d believed.
“How about you shut your fucking mouth, James? If I made you a sandwich, I’d sure as hell make sure there were ink stains on it!”
Then, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the building. The manager never even stopped her. He was too busy ripping James a new one.
Evie kept on walking, ignoring the cold, ignoring the snow, ignoring the fact that in her hurry, she’d forgotten her coat. Anger traveled through every inch of her veins and her blood ran between hot and cold. Her teeth clattered from the harsh wind but Evie barely noticed.
She just kept walking until she reached a familiar front door. She banged three hard knocks on it and took in huge gasps of air to control her breath. Her eyes were so full of tears she couldn’t see.
“Cookie?”
Warm arms wrapped around Evie and lead her inside. A thick blanket was placed around her shoulders and someone pulled her into their lap.
“Hey, cookie, what happened?”
Evie looked up at Peter as her lower lip trembled again.
“My coworker! He’s awful! Just so sexist! H-he made a comment at me and n-normally I’m okay b-but this one just really got to me.”
The entire story tumbled out of Evie like waves upon waves of a dam finally breaking. She clung tighter to Peter with every single word she spoke and by the time she was finished speaking, her head was buried into his shoulder to try and muffle her sobs.
Careful hands stroked through the waves of her thick hair and kind lips pressed against the top of her head. Evie had never felt this exhausted from her emotions her entire life.
“He’ll get what’s coming to him, believe me, cookie.”
Evie pulled her head off her shoulder to stare into his eyes. She must’ve looked like an awful mess but the light in Peter’s eyes and the lines softening the corners of his mouth told a different story.
She reached up her hands, wrapped around the oversized sweater she’d been given sometime during her breakdown, and shakily cupped Peter’s cheeks. This boy was more than just a guitarist: he was an artist in every sense of the word. Although the songs had no words, his melodies hit Evie in the soul right where a piece of her was missing.
If he had been missing the words of a true poet, than she’d been missing the plucking of the strings of an old guitar with dents and scratches carved into the wood. The dents and scratches telling a story that would outlast even the oldest of songs.
“You finish that melody yet, Pete,” she murmured, lowering her head to touch Peter’s forehead with her own.
Peter gasped quietly as her skin touched his. His guitar-worn hands carefully slid along her back before coming to rest on her hips. In front of him sat the most marvelous, beautiful, and exquisite masterpiece he’d ever seen or heard.
Her little poems, those words flowing endlessly through pen or her own divine lips, were the lyrics his heart had been missing.
“No, cookie,” he whispered back, his lips almost touching hers.
Evie brushed her nose against his and giggled at the nose scrunch that followed.
“The Poet and The Beat,” she whispered before her lips connected with his.
Peter didn’t need any further information to understand what her words meant. They, together, poet and guitarist, created one word where sound and lyrics collided. That was to be their moniker, their brand, their way of life. The Poet and The Guitarist together as one.
#tasm peter parker#tasm!peter fluff#tasm peter parker x oc#evie cast#spiderman#peter parker#andrew garfield#fluff#guitarist#poet#peter parker x poet#peter parker imagines#peter parker fanfiction#peter parker fanfics#peter parker stories#peter parker fandom#the amazing spiderman#the amazing spiderman fandom#tasm fanfiction#tasm-fanfiction#love#the poet and the beat
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Lost The Game
SUMMARY: The explanation your mind settled for was that whoever lived under that mask, also lived somewhere close by. It explained the first time you found him limping and bleeding on an alley, and it explains how you evolved into his personal caretaker for the wounds and afflictions of Spider-Man’s after battle consequences.
The only thing it doesn’t explain, however, is why through the thick and convoluted webs of your strange situationship, a certain tension has built between you two. Palpable. Physical. As electric as some of his tales, and as dangerous as he is.
The tension between you and Spidey grows, and it grows, and it grows. One day, it snaps.
⚠️ Minors DNI. Smut. Explicit depictions of sex. | 🏷️ 8.3K , fluff, established relationship, part three of three, reposting this ‘cause some people missed this one and asked for it.
• PART TWO •
In his world, there was no Avengers.
The bad thing about his inter-dimensional trip he had was this—Peter got an idea of what other worlds looked like and parts of him wished for a supernatural helping hand, sometimes, or maybe just someone who understood him. He had allies, but very few friends on this side of his life. This is why when Peter is almost killed by Kingpin, a decision that he's been dreading for months becomes easy in the snap of a finger.
Do I drop the last vail or do I not?
All of his excuses as to why not fly out of the window when Peter's bleeding to death and realizes that none of it matters. All of life is dangerous, on this or any other planet, and if he's always putting his own damn life — personal or not — at risk for the sake of saving a city, he might as well do that and let the woman he loves kiss him with the lights on while he's at it.
He swallows the metallic and thick taste of red in his mouth, reaches his trembling hand up, and knocks.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap.
"Peter?"
The fright in your voice is what startles his eyes open.
"Peter!"
God, he loves your voice so much.
A lot less when it drips in worry like this, but the love is there nonetheless.
"Peter, open your eyes. What—oh my god," you choke on your words, and he feels you pulling his body inside your room.
Guiding himself by memory, Peter helps the way he can, letting his body slide down your bed.
"Gonna get your sheets dirty," he mumbles.
"Oh, for the love of god." There's the feeling of his suit being unzipped at the back, and even through the fogginess, Peter notices how your hands are cold. Shaking. "Peter, what happened?" It's a breathless whisper, and it makes his chest ache more than the bruises did because it sounds so small, and nothing about you is diminutive.
"Kin—ow—Kingpin." The ruthless man's minions might still be stuck in webs hung meters above the ground, but Wilson, Kingpin, that man needs no henchmen to do any damage. It was the point he had to prove today—more to Matt than to Peter, but because Peter had decided to help, he got mingled in the mess.
After a heartbeat, he hears. "Who's Matt?" you ask.
Wait—was Peter talking out loud?
"Oh, god," this time, it's a choked-up sob. "Peter, I think you have a concussion."
Y/n is going to be a doctor, so the probabilities of her being right are very high. He probably does have something on his head—Kingpin grabbed Peter's head in his hand, that enormous, gigantic hand that engulfed all of Peter's skull and smashed it against the nearest thing, which happened to be iron polls.
He's still unsure of what the tension and underlying secret were between that man and Matt, but there was so much anger in there tonight.
"Peter..."
He feels weak, but he still has some strength left and Peter had made up his mind before he arrived at the staircases of your apartment.
If he went to the hospital, Aunt May would have a heart attack.
If he came to you, Peter would have to let you see him.
With the taste of blood polluting every inch of his mouth, it was a surprisingly easy decision to make.
He ignores the strain and the pull on the sides of his body as he reaches up for the mask, and he hears you gasp when he pulls it off in a clean sweep.
"Peter."
"Hey. That's me." He can't laugh right now — or open his right eye that much — but he can smile at you. A weak, bloody thing. At least it's an honest one. "Hi. I think I might blackout."
"Peter," are you crying? Good gods, Peter would clock himself on the face if someone else hadn't beaten him to the punch. "I don't—I don't know if I can take care of all of this."
"It's just—the one on the back. I think I'm losin' lots of blood 'cause of it..."
"What's on your back?"
"Open gunshot wound closed with webs?"
"Peter!"
"I didn't sh... shoot it, baby." He knew she'd be mad the second he threw the webs at himself. "The rest will... it'll fade. Soon."
There's a moment of silence where Peter hears rapid, short breaths. He opens his left eye as much as he can as sees you breathing in through your nose and out of your mouth quickly, then feels the bed dipping when you leave it with purpose. He knows you're going for the first-aid kit, so he already does the job of turning around.
When he hears your footsteps coming back, the last thing he hears is what makes him smile against your duvet.
"I'll take care of you. It's okay. It's gonna be fine, Peter."
While he's aware you're hyping yourself up to believe it more than talking to him, the words are like anesthetic all over his body.
Peter inhales the scent that is acutely yours, and blacks out.
If he were anyone else, Peter would remember close to nothing of his hours alternating between consciousness and not.
Lucky for him, he's part spider.
At first, all he feels, sees, and hears, are small tidbits of you moving things in and around him.
There's the distinct — and nasty — feeling of a needle threading with nylon through his lower upper back.
During that moment, nothing else passes through.
He's distantly aware of your mumbling and whispering, the soft and comforting words not reaching his ears, but the sense they bring drape over his skin almost like a blanket.
Then, when he has a silver of consciousness again, he recognizes through the stinging pain and the dull, throbbing aches all over his body, that the heat he registers is not of his own blood anymore, but of your warm hands along with a warm towel washing him.
That's when he allows sleep to come for the first time.
He wakes up somewhere in the middle of the day judging by the light streaming through your window, and he's happy to access that his body's doing most of the healing by now.
The feeling of a gaping hole is gone, and so is the smell of blood.
Peter wants to look around a bit, but while the throbbing has passed, it's left a dull, sore ache in its place.
You're not there, either.
He knows that because Peter's spidey senses have almost a direct link to you, and you're not in the room.
It takes him a couple of minutes with the taste of sand at the back of his throat and that pounding on the back of his head for him to realize he can open his eyes.
There's a glass of water right next to him, and he smiles.
Of course you'd do that.
Even after he's ruined your nice duvets — after promising he'd never spill blood on your blankets again, shit — Peter still gets the kindest side of you.
And then he remembers—you saw his face.
The lights were on, he was a mess, and fuck—you saw him.
You saw him and saved his life, one more time.
How many times would you have to do it?
Why was his life so dangerous?
Peter's stomach starts to resemble something alive, something with tentacles and it's reaching up, so he swallows it back down.
After gulping the glass of water, he hears it.
Distant sounds of conversation.
Felicity's voice is what registers first. It's not as familiar to him as yours is right now, but it is the reason it brought him to you in the first place, even if Peter hates thinking about that. He ignores your roommate and the things he keeps hidden from you like most people would ignore a spider in the upper corner of their bathroom.
It hurts to try to hear the conversation.
The gun blasted too close to his ear, and Peter's not the biggest at eavesdropping, so he just lets his upper body lay down again and allows the darkness on the corners of his mind to take over the rest.
Next, there are the hours in-between.
As the sun goes down, Peter drifts between the land of dreams and this one, enjoying both of them very much.
In here, there's you with a warm, wet cloth cleaning his wounds that need tending, and in his dreams, there's you sitting next to a blond girl, smiling at him.
At some point, Peter opens his eyes and sees you sitting on your chair in front of your computer desk.
Your eyes widen and you slide the chair closer, looking at every inch of his face with furrowed eyebrows.
"Peter," it's the softest you've ever said his name. "Is there anyone you'd like me to text? About your whereabouts?"
Aunt May.
"You can go back to sleep right after, but you came without your backpack, and it's been almost a day—do you want some pain medicine? I can get it for you."
He nods.
You nod back, then get up and exit the room. Peter takes the opportunity to grab the notepad you have on your nightstand, write down Aunt May's phone number and name and a message underneath it.
I'm at Y/n's. Be back soon, aunt May. Love you <3
It's an ugly scribble, but your handwriting is far worse than anything he could dream of producing, so he sits back against your headboard and waits for you and the pills.
When you come back with them, Peter almost swallows it down without the water, but he's still so damn thirsty that another glass goes in a gulp.
He feels your eyes on him the whole time, and while he wants to talk, he prefers to wait for his body to finish using all his strength in stitching his insides up before he tries any conversation.
You grab the glass from his hand, place it on the nightstand and sit on the bed right next to him.
"Are you cold?" You ask, pressing your palm and the back of your hand to his forehead, neck, cheeks.
He's shirtless. Well—it's not anything you haven't seen before.
He shakes his head and clears his throat. The desert has left the back of his mouth, but the aftertaste of rust is still there.
"I'm sorry." He can say that, at least. "I am really sorry, Y/n. For coming to you like th—"
A hand tapes his mouth shut—your hand, and looking at your face in the bedroom light knowing you're looking back at his is not as terrifying as he made it out to be in the countless scenarios where he thought about this before.
"What's the alternative?" You ask him with a shrug. "You bleed out on the street because some drug lord had some beef with a Matt dude and you tried to help your friend?" He misses the heat of your hand as soon as it's gone. "I prefer you bleed on my death start duvets than on the streets, buddy. These ones I can wash."
Buddy.
'Don't call me buddy—I'm not your buddy. Fuck, I swear you say these things just to get a rise out of me. Do your buddies do this, huh? Touch you like this? Make you this wet? You get so wet for me, baby—'
'Peter.'
'Yeah, exactly. I taught you my name for a reason. Don't forget that.'
After a heartbeat, Peter licks his dry lips and looks away from yours. Those memories make his blood rate rise, and he's sure that's not good in the state he's still in. "I'm still not your buddy," he says. His voice comes out raspy, and he watches your gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips.
Peter's in love.
The way you look at him.
The way you look at his tall and graceless body already drove him insane, but the way you look at his face?
Parted lips and that distance gaze of someone who's getting lost in memories and the present?
Peter loves it. He's been in love with you, but seeing the softness and adoration mixing with desire on your face has put the cherry on the cake.
"Good to know that," you whisper back.
I'm happy to know this doesn't change things, he hears.
He scoffs. "I would suck at being your buddy."
"Yeah? Why's that?" You're smiling now, and as a reflex, so is he.
Peter frowns. Isn't it obvious? "I've bled on your bed more times than I can count, you've put your fingers inside me in more ways than you can count, and I'm pretty sure that if I tried to stay away from you, your lips, or that pretty brain of yours for longer than two weeks, I'd have withdrawal symptoms." He's sure of it, actually. He tried staying away from you, and it sucked. "I can't be your buddy, baby." He chuckles. "We're not meant to be buddies. I already explained that to you."
Your lips quiver, moving upwards in a smile, slowly.
"Right." The way you bite on the bottom lower one tells Peter all you need to know about where your mind went.
His body leans forward as if there's a magnetic poll right on the center of you pulling you towards him.
Unfortunately for him, he's still healing from a very big pound.
He makes it only a few centimeters away from the headboard before the muscles inside him sting like a sharp hook and he stops—"Ah."
"Don't move." You're on in an instant. A comforting — and silently demanding — hand on his bicep, scooching closer to him in the bed. "You still need... I don't know how much longer you need, actually." A chuckle. "I still haven't got a clue how your healing works, Spidey. Just... lay down. Stand still until you're not moving won't rip apart the stitches I so beautifully made, 'kay?"
That brings Peter's hand and eyes to the work at hand.
He inspects the stitch-up work and—you're right. It's beautiful, neat, and professional work.
He can almost hear the praises of your teachers during class, as well as the envious looks of your colleagues who have three times less practice than you in the matter.
(Truth be told, Peter's aware you'd have gotten to this point with or without him as a guinea pig because while you may feel or say like everything around you is collapsing, studying is a ball you've yet to let it drop. You do it and do it well. 'If I'm gonna do this, I might as well do it well, huh? you had told him. Peter believed a lot of it was innate talent, but he might be biased to speak of you.)
"Grade A work, Y/l/n."
"Thanks, Spidey."
When he looks up, Peter takes a punch to the chest.
There you are, looking at him again.
Damn.
He's frozen.
Have you lied to him all this time? He's pretty sure this is the effect of actual superpowers and not just the way your eyes glint under the light of the day.
It must have something to do with the frizz in your hair that gives you almost an angelic aura—there's gold, orange, a touch of pink and lilac touching your cheeks and the soft, dopey smile you have on your face, and Peter stands there with his hand hanging halfway to his lap, as frozen in the air as he is looking at you looking at him.
You can see him, and Peter has never felt more comfortable feeling this exposed.
This vulnerable.
"Hi," he whispers.
Instead of answering, your blinks seem to slow down in time.
One of your hands reaches up to his cheek, and Peter finds himself leaning towards the hand.
Magnets.
When the soft, velvety touch of your palm meets his dry skin, Peter takes in a deep breath.
Closes his eyes.
Your hand cups his cheek, and caresses his face, as slowly as you are breathing.
Then, Peter's spidey senses feel the vibrations and electricity on your skin inching closer, and he thinks the slow-motion of your delicate, almost afraid, and calculated moves are making the energy and waves that travel between your body and his twice as real.
He might get shocked.
Peter feels when your lips are mere inches away from his. He wants to dive in, but he lets you dip your fingers in the water and go as you want.
He can feel how much you're feeling right now.
Seeing him is not only affecting him, and that's perhaps why his body is rendered at your mercy.
When your lips press against his, they're as plump and tender as always.
He exhales, at last, enjoying the sensation of warmth that spreads through his body when yours connects to his in any intimate way. Usually, it takes a little bit more for the tingle to travel from head to toe like this, but something about the kiss and the way you're keeping still and yet he knows you feel it, just as he does, it makes it even better that he's all buzzing.
Peter's underwater, and it's almost a reflex when he exhales and presses harder.
Closer.
With abandon, Peter lets his body relax on yours, not wanting to push it any further than it can go, but wanting to melt against the welcoming and familiar heat of your body.
His right hand goes up to your hair, and he gets a few more soft, tender presses of your lips on his, as well as the sensual and slow drags of your mouth against his in between them before you move your head back a few inches, still keeping your hand on his face.
Peter swallows the knot in his throat.
"I... should get you food," you whisper.
He's too busy staring at how pink your lips are for a few seconds.
Eventually, he hums. "That'd be nice."
"I got soup." You lick your lips. There's a color on your cheeks, and Peter is definitely in trouble. He hasn't gotten the instinct to draw in a long time, yet here he is, trying to figure out what's the correct shade of your cheeks. "From the deli shop you like."
"Oh." He loves that place. "I love that place!" He whispers excitedly.
Your smile widens. "I know." With a quick, delicious peck of goodbye, you get up from the bed in one quick motion. "I'll be back. I'm gonna text," you pick up the paper from the nightstand and read it. "Aunt May. Wait—you want me to text her this? Will she know who I am? Aunt May knows me?"
Peter laughs. "Of course Aunt May knows you."
In your few blinks Peter sees the surprise. "Right." You turn around sharply, cheeks pulled up from the smiling. "Text. Soup. Then sleep. I gotta go run a few errands, so I'll shut the windows for you." More seriously, you add. "You should really get some rest. You look a bit... pale."
"It's the caucasian in me."
You snort. "God, it's horrible when you try to be funny."
"Yet, you're smiling."
"At you." You get up and regardless of what you say, the nose scrunch proves that Peter amused you, to say the least. "I'm gonna get your food. Stay put, Spidey boy."
"Man, Spider-Man."
He's arguing now more for the sake of your smile than because your 'boy' has gotten a rise out of him.
It used to.
The first time you said it, Peter recalled the tingling on his body and that desire to correct—not a boy, I'm a man, you'll see, I'll show you.
Did he feel silly two seconds afterward correcting you when he saw in your face that you'd be pulling his metaphorical pigtails? Maybe. Luckily for him, the mask hid it back then.
Now, it's just a skit between you two.
The teasing back and forth is almost like the sea tide.
You come back with the soup and sit back down on your desktop chair, returning to your books and papers while he eats. Peter recalls the day when he asked why you never eat when he's there and, on the occasion when you gave him food, why didn't you stay close to him while he ate.
'You're distracting when you're eating.' You had said.
'What? I'm distracting? How?'
'You make all these little noises when you're enjoying it. And your lips get super pink 'cause you keep licking them. It's distracting.'
'From what? You're not even doing anything.'
'I don't need to be doing something. It just... is.'
Later, he realized it was distracting because it made you want to kiss him. To take away the plate in his hands and replace it with your body instead.
He's content to share looks with you over the bowl of warm food and watch your profile as you read and type. The concentrated crease in your brows and your lips set in a firm line are distracting too, he thinks, but he enjoys it.
Peter finishes the food and the result of some protein, carbs and nutrients making their way inside him is instant—his eyes get heavier, and blinking is a bit harder, and all he wanted was to cuddle you. Slide under the blanket, say goodbye to the world.
It's when he lowers the bottom half of his body that Peter feels he's still wearing his suit.
"How come you haven't kicked me out of your bed yet? I'm gross," he says.
Even though his voice is softer and lower than before, you turn to him.
Smiling, you shrug. "I've been gross before. You're forgiven because of circumstances." Then, something happens—you blush. You were looking at his body before but when you look up, Peter recognizes the flash of 'oh, it's him' that passes fast as lightning in your eyes. "Also, you're pretty," you add in a whisper. Your peachy cheeks darken, looking good enough to eat. "Pretty privileges."
Peter feels it—the heat on his face. He laughs, ducking his head down. He's not used to people complimenting him like that, but coming from you it makes it three times worse. "So it is a real thing."
"Oh, it definitely is."
"Good to know." He hates to know he's making your small piece of safe haven dirty, but he'll make up for it. "As much as I'd love to stay awake and watch you study and be gorgeous for the next couple of hours, I think my brain's about to shut down in the next few minutes."
"Sleep, Spidey." If there's such thing as magic through the voice or words, Peter believes you have it. The gentle softness with which you say those two words are better than any of your blankets. "I'll be there soon."
That's even better. God, I love sleeping with you.
He hears a giggle.
"It's mutual, Peter."
He loves the sound of that, too.
If Peter believed in something, he'd have beautiful religious metaphors to use about the way you look in the mornings.
He'd maybe talk about how waking up with you next to him is the only sanctuary he needs, and for a Jewish boy who's missed so much of what one looks or sounds like, he's sure it felt something like this.
If Peter believed, he'd have more words to say about the way your tenderness makes him feel like he's holy.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better."
"Good. I'm glad... d'you wanna take a shower? I can separate some clothes for you."
"Are you coming with me?"
Peter would have words for what it feels like to sit in your loft's bathroom in his bloodied, mended superhero suit, his feet touching the freezing cold floor and his body still running as hot as ever because he can hear you walking around the place in your fuzzy socks while you wait for the water to warm.
How can he be so at peace like this?
He's beaten himself up for much less, but the seriousness in your tone when you told him to stay put while you changed the sheets only made him warm.
It made him feel cared for and nothing more.
Peter removes the rest of his suit. It comes off with difficulty—the sweat's stuck the material to his skin, and it still hurts to move, but he manages.
He feels the fresh tissues inside of him.
His heightened senses tell him the main wound is still healing, but everything else is almost okay. Peter needs maybe a good meal and a couple more days to be brand new, which is more than he'd expected when he left the bay area with webs sticking his skin together.
When you come back and see him already naked, Peter's happy that his eyes' swelling has done down.
He'd hate to miss the lust in your gaze.
To miss the obvious way your eyes travel up and down his body.
"You could've gone inside already," you whisper.
It's barely nine in the morning, there are only you two in the place and Peter has no idea why you'd think he wants to go anywhere without you.
"Was waiting for you." He's more at ease sitting naked on your toilet than he's been in three, maybe four years. That means something, right?
You start taking off your pajamas, and Peter gets up to help.
Not that you need it. He just loves removing clothes from your body.
The steam takes over the bathroom and by the time you two are immersed underneath the water, wet as rain, Peter already feels new.
Not even the best prayers could do that.
He loves the showerhead here because the water pressure is great and it's big enough to almost give space to the two of you. Almost.
That's why he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to his body.
He wants your warmth much more than the water's.
That's when he feels it—the shaky, interrupted way you breathe. Your arms come up around his middle so fast that he almost has to take a step back to keep himself in place, but he's rooted there.
And you're crying.
"Y/n?" Peter looks down.
You shake your head in three quick motions. Not yet.
Peter's not an idiot, and while he may be a little slow to the mysteries of his own heart, the loud and physical thumping of your heart against his ribcage is right there and doesn't lie.
He can feel every beat of it, and maybe there was something in that container that Kingpin had dropped on his head and all that mysterious blue sand inside of it, but Peter's sure he can see the black clouds exiting your head.
He sees the darkness of worry and fear leaving you.
Peter clings on tighter, letting you cry silent tears into his chest. He hopes the kisses he presses on your temple and your face make any worries left to be gone easier. Quicker.
He kisses the parts he can reach of you, and refuses to let go.
Eventually, you pull back against the hold of his arms and when you look up with those swollen, red eyes, Peter realizes what it all means.
What being so comfortable around you, laughing so easily, coming to you many more times even though he knew he shouldn't, watching you sleep, and all those minors or big things that made him stop and go—it means something, right?
It means Aunt May was right.
She was right when she said the world goes on regardless of how much we want it to stop sometimes, and right now, Peter's world is you.
When your lips, trembling just like your chin is, open and say, "I was terrified," in a whispered confession, Peter knows.
He'd give up anything for you. He'd conquer anything for you, as well, which he imagines lives on the other side of that coin.
"I am so sorry, baby," he tells you, blinking through the sting in his own eyes.
You shake your head and his heart almost falls to the ground before you pick it up. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Pete. I know—" you swallow a visible knot, sniffle, and then try again. "You have a responsibility. With your power, and... with what you believe."
With great power, comes great responsibility.
He nods.
"And please don't take this wrongly—don't shut down, or stop coming. God—if you stop coming I swear I'll die of worry—"
"Y/n." He interrupts because he knows when you're about to spiral as much as you know when he's about to go on a ramble. "I'd never. I—you're allowed to be scared. I'm not gonna go into martyr mode and make that decision for you. If you want me gone, I'll be gone. I know I'm a lot. I know my life, and how scary it is to be around it, but I think I also know you and if I take away your choice of being around me and all my mess—" he shakes his head. "I don't fancy that ass-whooping."
You laugh.
It untangles all the messy knots and webs inside his chest that formed when he saw your eyes puffy, and Peter breathes in what feels like clean, fresh air.
"I'm happy you're smart," you say.
He shrugs his shoulders. "It's what my teachers say."
"Is it?"
With your head tilt, he notices—he's nearing territory he used to avoid before.
Peter breathes in again, reaches behind him in the shower, and grabs your shampoo.
"Can I do your hair?" he asks.
Your face remains the same as you nod, but he sees you breathing out. Accepting his silence. The change in subjects, as it usually is.
When he's got enough bubbles forming, he massages your scalp and starts. "I got a scholarship for Biophysics, so I guess I am pretty smart, but it wasn't 'till one of my teachers at ESU told me my paper was 'informative even through the minors detours it took, which funnily enough, were informative as well' that I knew I had a good head for more than just web-developing and stuff like that."
Should he tell you about the time when he traveled between Universes and met the other versions of him?
He'd love for you to know how clever Peter 1 is.
Peter knows if it weren't for that experience, exactly four years after what happened at the clock, he'd be in a much worse place now.
I wouldn't have met you, he thinks.
"What d'you wanna do with the degree?" you ask him.
"Mmm. I don't know yet. Working with genetic mutation is not too on the nose, is it?" he chuckles.
You turn around, smiling wider than ever before.
"Are you for real?" you laugh.
"I am!" He laughs too.
"Gimme that," you take the shampoo from his hand, pour some on your hand, and look up expectantly at him. Peter ducks his head in silent permission, and you start doing the same to him. "I think that while it's a bit on the nose, it also makes a lot of sense, and given your personal experience, you could make breakthroughs no one else would. Your circumstances give you a lot of room."
"My dad was a Biochemist." The information slips out, and Peter opens his eyes. When had I closed them? He gives you a sheepish smile, and closes his eyes again. "I lot of what I know came from his research."
"Did it have anything to do with spiders?" you ask with a giggle, thinking you're being funny.
Here's to hoping. "It did," he answers.
Your movements halt for a second, then start again. "Oh." You stay silent for a moment. "Big brain runs in the family, so I imagine you'll make breakthroughs he's only dreamt of. Just... make sure you pick an area 'cause it's what you want to make yourself happy, you know?"
Peter wonders how many people have the luxury of having someone care for them this way.
"I will." He smiles when you pull him under the water stream. When the shampoo is rinsed, he opens his eyes. "And you? D'you have an area you wanna work at?"
Hearing you talk about your hopes for the future while showering makes Peter notice it's the first he's been thinking about the future and what paths he could take for it.
You two laugh a lot in there, and the only moment when somberness takes over the steamy bathroom is when your fingertips graze over the black nylon that still peaks out of his lower stomach.
Peter ignores the tingle your touch brings, and kisses you instead.
He distracts you by asking you more about residency, school, tests, and anything that comes to mind.
Your voice is one of his favorite things.
In your bedroom, Peter gets dressed in the sweats that now are basically his—one of his designated clothes from when he's around.
Now though, he can wear the sweater and shake his wet hair all over you.
He can pull you to his lap on the bed and kiss you filthy with the sun shining on both of you.
Lights on, face out in the open, nothing to hide because there never was.
When he starts grinding his hips upwards, seeking the friction of your heat—and god, you're already burning on his lap, and he doesn't need to touch your panties to know that you barely put them on and he's already ruined them—but you stop him with a hand around his neck.
"You're gonna bust your stitches," you say, mouth still close to his.
He groans. "Baby, c'mon..."
You shake your head, laughing under your breath. "As much as I want to, you'll have to wait a day more, buddy. I'm not gonna hurt you."
"You're hurting me right now," he whines, grinding on you. He hisses, not because of how hard he is from just a few minutes of making out with you and having his mind spin with how good you smell, how dizzying it makes him have you like this, no barriers whatsoever, but because he feels his insides protesting with the sharper thrust.
You give him a look that says I know what you're hiding. "Peter." While you ask him to stop, Peter's yet to feel you stop enjoying the ministrations of his hips. "Hey," you lean in closer and whisper in his ear. "You can enjoy fucking me like you've never fucked me before now... and you're gonna waste that first time of ours by not being able to do all that you wanna do?"
You are evil.
Peter moans. Hides his face in the space between your boobs, and kisses them since he's there already.
"So what you're telling me is that I should take you for a coffee and some breakfast and a few days and then we can come back here?" he asks.
"Yeah," you smile.
"And then I can take my time with you?" he confirms, his kisses going up. He loves the column of your throat. Loves the way you bear your neck for him, breathless and surrendered every time.
"Yeah..." this one comes out breathier, and Peter smiles before sucking on the skin of the space that's really sensitive.
"I can make you cum in all the ways I like?" Peter knows it's just torture at this point, but he keeps doing it. Keeps moving his hips in small little circles, and groans when he feels you meeting his movements. "On my tongue first... then on my fingers..."
"Only if you let me suck you off 'till you cum in my mouth."
Sneaky. "No." Peter hears your brain gears halting at it.
"Peter!"
"No!" He laughs. "Listen, I don't know what my—"
"—if you call your cum something weird again I'm leaving your lap right now."
"...my semen."
"Ugh. That's somehow worse," you laugh.
"I don't know what's in it! It's mutated, okay? What if you get pregnant from it? I am very fast. My sperm can be too."
Holding yourself with your arms around his neck, you stare at him with the blankest look.
The smile obviously hidden in the corners of your lips is where the truth lies, though.
"You know I'm right," he shrugs his shoulders.
You sigh. Heavily. "Ugh. I hate that I'm paranoid enough to buy your bullshit," you push him backward hard, and he falls into the bed in surprise, laughing. Leaning forward, you cage your arms around his head. "I wanna do so much to you," you whisper.
Just like that, the temperature's closer to the Sun again.
You have powers.
The power to make him religious. To make a conversation shift between the Sun and the Moon, just by laughing or speaking in a different tone.
Peter feels the tip of his cock dripping in his boxer, and he closes his eyes, exhaling from his nose. He grabs you by the neck and pulls you to a kiss, which turns messy and needy the second you moan in that pretty way he loves. Like a kitty, or like someone's squeezing you hard, just the way you like it.
He's grabbing you by the neck, squeezing and letting go, trying to gather his damn thoughts into coherent sentences and not the mess of I want you so bad I love you so much, so all that he can do is rub his forehead on yours.
Bring your body as close to his as possible.
That's what happened.
All these months culminated in this—Peter being unable to stay away, to him smiling in the corridors of his college, to the unfathomable infatuation with your legs, or the way you snort when you laugh really hard.
Into him loving you.
He's suddenly overwhelmed by the truth of it:
Peter is in love with you. He loves you.
Loves you for your brain, your skilled hands, the way you hate the Giants and love music he's never heard of. Loves you for all the ways you're you and the ways you remind him of his very first love too, but more than anything, because he knows he'd love you even if nothing was similar.
He swallows the knot in his throat and pulls you to a kiss.
You feel the difference in it—he knows you do because you hold his face with gentle hands, but answer the kiss with the same devotion.
You let him take over the kiss, let him taste his tongue on yours until he's got no oxygen left in his lungs and has to pull back.
He sees it in your face that something's taken over you, too.
"You can do anything you want. Anytime," he says. He feels your legs clenching around his waist as a response, and thinks to the hell with it. "What if you did all the work, hm? I promise I'll stay still. I'll web my own wrists to the bed if you want, just—please?" he begs.
"Peter..."
"I wanna feel you, baby." It's not even about the sex, or about cumming. It's about being as close to you as possible. He needs to be as close to you as possible. "I just wanna feel you. Wanna be inside you." Peter grabs your face again, smashing his lips on yours. "D'you have any idea how fucked I'd be without you? It just—" he's barely breathing, and he knows you feel why. "I realized just how much I adore every goddamn inch of you and I wanna feel you." He kisses you again, and again. "I owe you my life, baby."
You shake your head at his words and Peter moves his hand down to your chin, holding it still.
"Yes, I do. And I love that," he smiles. "I fell in the best hands of this city... and your hands are just one of the reasons why I'm in love with you."
"Peter." This time, it's you who smashes your mouth on his.
The first time he heard his name coming out from your lips, he thought he'd cum on the spot. He remembers feeling his dick twitching inside of you just at the mention of it—his name, and you.
He loved it.
He lets you kiss him to your desire and when you pull back with those puffy lips, he smiles.
You're looking at him like one looks at something they barely believe it's true. He's seen looks like this a few weeks ago when he went to the museum with May and he saw people staring at what he assumes is their favorite art pieces—nothing but attention to detail and a shine in their eyes.
He feels naked, even though he's not.
"I've been in love with you since the day you told me you had glass shrapnel all over your body because Mrs. Levinson was gonna take the fall for Castle's collateral damage, Y/n, I couldn't have that." You shrug like it's easy, like you haven't just given him the present of a lifetime and stolen every last bit of anxiety and sadness he had hidden in the corners of his mind, then kisses him.
Softly press your lips on his, once, then twice.
When he feels your hands sliding down his body, Peter warms up.
Powerful. From Moon to Sun, there he goes again.
There his body goes.
Peter knows standing still will be a bit of torture, and everything will be heightened from how little he can move, but he's okay with that.
Whining under the ministrations of your hands might be one of his top three activities ever. Peter watches you get off from on top of him so you can take off your sweatpants, and he groans under his breath when you slide your leg over his waist again with the panties still on.
"Just slide it to the side—fuck. Yeah, like that, baby. I love it like this."
Your attention to detail is unmatched.
When you learn something he likes, you never let it go. As soon as Peter feels your hand slipping inside his boxer and getting his cock out there, he's already moaning.
"Stand still," you tell him.
He nods, eagerly. Peter watches you pull your panties to the side, guide the head of his dick to your entrance and when the tip slides in, he feels you coming back, caging him between your arms.
You slide down painfully slow, taking your time with it.
To have something to hold on to, he grabs your ass with one hand and your face with the other. Having his hands on you is a must if he's gonna be good for you.
He might've said he could web his hands to the bed, but if he did that, he'd have to web his hips as well.
"Ahhh." Peter feels the walls of your pussy clenching around him, and he closes his eyes at the feeling.
You move back up, then down again until you're fully seated on his lap and he's fully buried inside of you.
"Use me, baby," he tells you. He might be out of his mind already—has it always been this hot to be inside you? "Fuck—you're always so wet for me. How are you this wet—oh."
You slam your hips down, pulling a grunt from him.
"You make me this way and you know it," you whine to him.
Peter admires you for keeping up with a gym routine, but he admires more the benefits it reaps: the way your legs can hold the weight of bouncing up and down as slow or as fast as you like.
He pulls your head closer until he can kiss you.
"You're gonna use me, hm?" Peter asks between kisses, grunting at how tight you are. "Use those thunder thighs to drive me insane?"
"Peter you feel so fucking good," you breathe out.
The praise warms him up even further. Peter's eyes close in response, and he whines at how hard it is to keep his hips on the bed and not pistoning up to meet your delicious thrusts. "You feel better," he mutters, a bit drunk on the wetness pouring out of you. It's so damn hot in and all around him. "So tight for me, baby."
"Oh, god."
"Hhnh—fuck. Fuck, do that again," he whines.
You do it—you move all the way up until he almost slips out, then slams those hips down again. And again, and again, and again, until the room is nothing but the sound of your skins slapping on one another and your mouths breathing on each other, grunting and moaning.
Peter loves swallowing your moans almost as much as he loves swallowing the slick from your pussy.
"Fuck, if I had a little bit more strength in me I'd ask you to sit on my face after this," he says.
You moan even louder now.
Peter smiles.
He loves it when you two are alone. Loves when you let go, especially if it's to use him to your pleasure.
Peter holds your hip instead of your ass now and tries to help you. While you don't need it, the strength of even just one of his arms is appreciated, and he watches as you let go of all pretenses and just fuck yourself on his cock.
It's when you grab him by the chin and look him in the eye that Peter feels you're fucking him too.
You clench around him. Purposely.
Peter moans as loud as you, and plants his feet on the bed.
The change in angle makes you scream, and as a response, you smash your lips on his again.
He knows you're close by the way you start whining into the kiss.
Peter lets go, too. He kisses you back, all tongue, teeth, bites and moans of your name. Uncoherent sentences and babbles about your pussy and how fucking good you make him feel, and he feels the tension building up in his groins before he'd imagine.
He hates coming before you. Peter makes it a habit to make you cum before he does, but he's in heaven, he's in you, and you're staring at him.
It's that which does it.
"Baby I can't hold it—oh fuck, Y/n, don't do that," if you keep clenching around him just to get a rise of him you'll get more than just that, and he whines because of it. "I'm close. I'm so so close, you feel too good."
He moves his hand from your head in direction of your clit, but you grab him by the wrist and pin his arm above his head, holding tight onto his wrist. While he could break free easier than breathing, feeling how tightly you're gripping him makes his head spin.
He's at your mercy, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
"Y/n, please." Please stop bouncing so fast, please slow down, baby, please don't clench again.
Your hips slow down just a fraction, and you move until your lips are almost touching his.
Then you ask. "Who has your heart, baby?"
Peter blinks, opening his eyes. His mouth hangs open, jaw wide for a second before he answers. "You."
You move your hips in the way a dancer would, circling like you're trying to spell his damn name or something, and then slam all the way down. "You're mine, baby?"
Peter's head is somewhere too far for him to reach, but he still manages to nod. "All yours."
"I love you so fucking much," you cry on his lips, and then you start again—the merciless speed of your hips against his while your hand holds his arm up and your other is on his neck.
"I love you more," Peter cries back, reaching for a kiss that you give with all the desire in the world. He kind of wants his hand free to hold your face, and kind of wants to see how much you'd fight him to stand still, but neither one happens because you start to speed up and Peter's moans grow louder and louder.
Being as attracted as you are by his sounds, your legs start shaking and squeezing around him.
"Cum for me, Y/n, please, please, please," before I lose it and cum inside you, please.
"Cum inside me first."
"What?"
"Cum in me." You sound as out of it as he is, and Peter's only human at the end of the day. "Please. Do it. Do it, Peter. I wanna feel you. Please, Spidey, c'mon."
Peter cums with a yell, and his hips can't take it, bucking up to meet your thrusts in the last seconds, and it must be the strength with which he fucks into you, the angle, the way he's crying out your name or just everything together, but you cum right with him.
Both of your bodies shake and tremble together, in a peculiar and hard-to-achieve glorious moment.
He'll need many minutes to recover, and you'll need even more to gather the strength and will to let him come out from inside of you, but none of that matters for the time being.
Peter's content to stay inside you for now, just as you are to lay on his chest.
He lets the sound of your hearts beating like hummingbirds bring him back to Earth.
There's a smile on his face, and with minimum inspection, he feels there's a smile resting on his shoulder, too. Your lips press kisses on the exposed skin there, and he feels your grin when the kisses stop.
Peter's not a very religious man, but he might have just found his heaven on Earth.
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Can you make a story where dark Peter uses a vibrator on the fem!reader till she squirts and shakes and fucks her till she's cock dumb
yaaa ya ya
THE TEASE- P.B PARKER
Pairing: Darkish! Peter x Fem! Reader
Word Count: 750
Warnings: SMUT, squirting, over stimulation, use of vibrator on reader, biting, degradation kink, darkish stalker content, choking, pet names, peter finishing inside causes he has a breeding kink
“This is your fault.” he whispered, hand tightening around your neck the vibrator buzzed against your swollen bud.
A gasp torn between a moan escaped your lips as his hot breath tickled the shell of your ear, before he gave it a little bite.
“You just had to be such a little tease, with that slutty little skirt of yours.” he growled gaze slipping down to where he held the toy, watching as your ankles dug into the sheets as you attempted to get away from the overwhelming sensations.
It was getting harder and harder to think, and you could barely focus on his words as he coaxed them in your ear.
“I was watching you today, you know. But you didn't see me- did you? No, no too focused on that little lecture hm?” he pressed, rubbing the vibrator in little circular sensations against your clit as you moaned and panted.
It was a mix between pleasure and pain- what he was giving you, and the lines seemed to be blurring over one another the longer you felt your body uncontrollably shake.
“Peter I’m sorry-” you gasped, clawing at his hand down by your cunt, but it wouldn't budge. Peter had you pinned down and spread open- just the way he wanted you.
Vulnerable and alone, for him. He deserved you. You just weren't focused enough on him to notice that.
“You are eh? Cute.”
“I am!” you protested, the whiney tone in your voice rewarded with his hand tightening around your airway. He knew just how to choke you properly, just squeezing the sides of your neck gently.
He had done his research after all, he didn’t want you passing out on him yet. He had so much to tell you.
Still, whether it was from the pressure of the stimulation, your vision began to go fuzzy around the edges. He tsked, shaking his head mockingly as he heard your breaths quicken, knowing you were getting close.
“Listen to how wet you are angel. Your cunnie gettin all messy sweets?” Peter asked gently, making your squeeze your eyes shut, as if you were bracing yourself for what was coming.
His smile turned evil, mocking, and you hated him for it. You hated how well he knew your body and how to tease you, making the rubber band in your core snap past its breaking point.
Every single time he pushed you, and every single time you broke harder than before.
“No, no please.” you begged, yet your words were useless. With a little twist of his wrist, the toy hit just the right spot, the eye contact he gave you the final push to send you over the edge.
You screamed, begging him as the orgasm washed over you. “Shh, shh just let it happen, princess. You need to stop fighting it.” he cooed, hand releasing from your neck to stroke your cheek, a stray tear lingering on the heated skin.
Wetness squirted from you, spraying over the sheets and Peter's hand as you mindlessly babbled to him, your words slurring together as your legs shook harder.
“Atta girl. Attaa girl.” he smiled, removing the toy from its place, setting it down before he pressed a hand down on your lower abdomen to steady you.
“Peter I can't– anymore-” you panted, words coming out between gasps as you attempted to catch your breath.
“You don't have to, but m’gonna use you for a bit okay? Just rest, let me use your princess parts.” he whispered, positioning himself despite your sleepy protests, hands coming up to claw around his biceps.
“Sensitive.” you moaned, body jerking as he wasting no time slipping inside of you, stretching you out around him as he threw his head back and moaned in pleasure- ignoring you.
“You're getting what you deserve. You're supposed to be used angel. But only from me.” he smiled sweetly, grip tightening on your thighs as he spread your legs further apart, watching as your own hands slipped down to palm your tits.
“You like this, don’t you, angel? Just a lil dumb baby, can't think for herself eh?” You nodded, moaning as he sank deeper, brushing up against your g-spot.
“Just not- not inside mkay?” you requested softly, head falling slack against the sheets as sleep spread through your bones. “Whatever you say angel.” he smirked smugly, knowing your request go un funfilled.
Oh well, he thought, beginning to piston into you for his own pleasure. Oh well.
#peter parker fic#peter parker fanfic#peter parker spiderman#peter parker smut#peter parker#peter parker x y/n#peter parker x fem#peter parker x you#peter parker x reader#peter parker x oc#peter parker fandom#peter parker fluff#peter parker fanfiction#andrew!peter fanfiction#andrew!peter parker#tasm andrew garfield#andrew spiderman#andrew garfield#andrew!peter x reader#andrew!peter fluff#andrew!peter smut#tasm fic#tasm smut#tasm fanfiction#tasm!spiderman x reader#tasm!spiderman x you#the amazing spiderman#tasm!peter x reader#the amazing spiderman 2#tasm
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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
#peter parker smut#tasm peter parker#peter parker x reader#peter parker#mcu peter parker#mcu peter x reader#spiderman atsv#spiderverse oc#spiderman#writing#ao3#art#poetry#fanfiction writer#fanfiction#literature#writers on tumblr#poem#writers and poets#love poem#creative writing#tasm peter#spider man: across the spider verse
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Golden hour
Pairing: Tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader
Summary: Peter is so in love with you, that he has to ask you that one question
Warnings: like one swear word, so so much fluff
Words: 0.7k Masterlist
A/N: English is not my first language, so please excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes
You and Peter were sprawled on the sofa. He was snuggling you close, a movie playing on the tv. You had your favorite novel in your hand, your entire focus on the book.
Peter loved moments like this. He loved, that you enjoyed each others presence even if you didn't talk. He wouldn't change this quiet, peaceful time with you for anything.
His attention was on the movie, sometimes stealing a glance at you, until the streaks of the sunlight peeked through the window. It started bothering him as it was making his eyes burn.
He was about to walk to the window and close the curtains, but his attention shifted to you.
The sun shined bright on your face, making you look like an angel. He couldn't help but to stare. You were clearly enjoying the warm on your skin, not at all bothered by it.
His head was tilted as he admired your pretty features. Honestly, Peter thought you were always beautiful, the most beautiful. But right now, you looked like from a whole other world.
He didn't know if it was the sun kissing your face or of it was the expressions, you were making, while reading the book, that pulled at the strings on his heart. He didn't want for this moment to ever end.
He tenderly brushed the hair, that was falling to your eyes, behind your ear and that made you look up at him.
He had the most love-sick look on his face and you confusedly frowned at him.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you questioned his dissociated expression.
"Pete?" you called out his name.
"Marry me."
"What?"
"Marry me..." he breathed out.
"Peter, are you feeling okay?" you ignored the fast beat of your heart from his surprising question.
"Perfect. I'm perfect" he oh so softly smiled at you. You were getting concerned, he was looking at you like some puppy and you didn't know what to make of it.
"But i could be better if you would marry me" he curled a strand of your hair around his finger.
"Baby, did you hit your head last night during the patrol?"
"No, why would you think that?"
"Well, you did just ask me to marry you" you sheepishly admited.
"And will you?"
"Will i what?" your heart was really going like a thousand miles an hour.
"Marry me?" he affectionally brushed your cheek.
"Pete, are you being serious?"
"Of course, i am" he responded, " i have my best girl in my arms, looking ridiculously pretty may i add. How could i not be asking that? Jesus, sweetheart, you don't even know how much i love you. It's driving me crazy, i feel like my heart is gonna burst out of my chest whenever i see you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So what do you say, will you marry me? Please?"
You sniffled and giggled when he added the please. You weren't expecting Peter to ask you to marry him this afternoon.
But you weren't complaining, you loved Peter with every fiber of your body. You've been together for a while now and you loved everything about him and your relationship. It was always felt so real with him, so you didn't hesitate about the answer.
You threw yourself on him with glossy eyes," Yes, yes, yes."
You locked your hands behind his head, squeeling in happiness. Peter squeezed your body so tight, that you almost couldn't breath.
"I love you so so so much " he whispered against your neck, warm breath tickling your skin and his eyes were full of tears, aswell.
"I love you more."
"Not possible" he argued and you had to giggle.
"Can't believe, that i'm gonna marry you" he slightly pulled back to look at your damp face and brushed the fallen tears away.
"Me too" you rubbed your nose against his in fondness.
"You know, as your fiancée now, i think you should kiss me" you grinned at him.
"You're right, i definitely should kiss the love of my life" and he did.
He kissed you like he had for the first time. So soft and slow, like he wanted to imprint it to his mind, so he could remember it forever. It was a kiss, full of raw emotions.
"Fuck, i can't wait to marry you" Peter sighed against your lips.
He fidgeted with your fingers and said, "i don't have the ring yet, but i'll go and buy you the most perfect one for you tomorrow."
"I'm sure, i'll love it" you shyly beamed and Peter kissed you again.
...
...
...
Hey guys, thank you for reading. I had to post this for the second time, it wouldn't show up in the tags....
Let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated.
Have a great day and stay safe everybody. Peace out ☀️
#tasm!peter x oc#tasm!peter fic#tasm!peter x y/n#tasm!peter parker x you#tasm!peter parker x reader#tasm!peter parker imagine#Tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader#tasm!peter parker#peter parker imagine#peter parker x fem!reader#peter parker x reader#tasm! peter parker fluff#andrew garfield#mcu fanfiction
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peter parker & sloane bernstein. 🕸
except on midnights like this . . .
JAWBREAKER ━━ an older!peter parker au.
READ HERE: ao3 | wattpad
#karma and glitch are def more sloane/peter songs but midnight rain fit more for this idea i had for a gifset#hope u guys like it!! i'm slowly getting better at these lol#my fics#fic: jawbreaker#peter parker x oc#andrew!peter parker#andrew!spiderman#andrew garfield#agarfieldedit#the amazing spider man#tasm#tasmedit#tasm peter x reader#peter parker fanfiction#peter parker fanfic#peter parker#peter parker smut#andrew!peter x reader#marveledit#fanfic#marvel#marvel fanfic#ao3#ao3 fanfic#wattpad#wattpad fanfic#ocappreciation#fyeahsuperverseocs#fyeahspiderman#andrew!peter fanfiction
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sugar and vice, pt. 8 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]
summary: This is quite possibly the worst idea she's ever had.
words: 3.9 k
warning: mob-typical violence, bang bang shoot shoot, whump. hurt/comfort. descriptions of medical emergencies, hospitals. drug use. coersion. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.
this is a darker, messier version of TASM Peter.
18+. you’re responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if you don't know anyone who ever stayed out past midnight for a Harry Potter release party, then maybe you should wait to read this.
Back to Part 7.
Part 8
Honey had been lost in thought all morning. Her stomach felt like it was twisted into a pretzel. Anxiety gripped her. And she hadn’t even been in Peter’s presence for the last two hours.
Instead, she carefully loaded the dishwasher, playing Tetris to try to fit the items in just right. She hated when things were packed unevenly. She almost lost a job as a grocery bagger because of it. Everything had a place, and it felt so relieving to find where they fit.
This had been her third attempt at loading the dishwasher. She should start it soon. Then she could get to work on taking apart and cleaning the espresso machine. Although she was fairly certain that she’d been the only one that had ever used it.
She felt her muscles lock up as Peter entered the kitchen from the side door. This time, he wasn’t alone. Eddie Brock, or one-way cupcake guy as she referred to him, followed him in. The men looked tense.
Peter looked like he was sweating, which was odd given the chilly temperature outside. His hair had lost it’s form and was more of a wild mess, having been ravaged by fretting fingers. He tugged at the knot of his tie, shifting around like his shirt was too itchy. Honey instinctively attempted to avoid his gaze, but it was unnecessary. It was as if he refused to look at her.
“Somethin’ came up,” he announced to the whole kitchen. She glanced around just to make sure his only audience was her and the kitchen appliances.
He slapped his long fingers across his mouth, scratching his beard. “I, uh, I-I gotta go into the city for a bit,” he explained, only making eye contact briefly. “Take care of some stuff.”
She dug a thumb into her palm, nodding wordlessly.
Her heart raced faster at the thought of what he’d take care of, and whether or not it involved assassinating an elected official. She also considered how strange it was to receive information about his schedule. He was checking in with her, telling her he’d be gone. How oddly domestic.
“Um, look, Eddie’s gonna stick around, make sure you’re okay,” he explained. The other man’s head snapped up, shooting a stunned glance at Peter. Clearly, it was news to Eddie.
“You serious?” Eddie groaned. “I’m a babysitter now?”
Peter glared at him, and the other man dropped the attitude. “I’ll send Miles’ along tonight,” the boss countered. “I’m sure you can hold out ‘til then, yeah?”
He gulped hard. Peter’s eyes were burning through him. “Right.”
Honey stood quietly, watching the interaction between the two men. She thought about speaking up, arguing that she didn’t need a babysitter. But after everything, she just wanted to be as far away from Peter and his ‘business’ as possible.
As if he could hear her thinking too loudly, Peter turned to her next. He leveled his gaze towards her, eyes dark as night. “You good?” he asked. She nodded quickly, squirming under his sight. He stared right into her soul. “Good,” he said softly, after a pause. He hesitated, focused on her with a tense, suspicious look.
“Be good,” he added.
His voice was soft, but the comment was dangerous. It was a warning. It loomed over them with a threatening presence, like a swirling, funnel poking out of a midsummer wall cloud. She bit her lower lip as he turned on his heel and rushed out, his commandment cast down like a god.
Then he was gone. Out of sight. But both of them felt a chill in his wake, as if his gaze was truly omniscient.
Hours passed. If there was one thing Honey was not great with, it was too much time. Too much time allowed her to think. It allowed her to stew. Obsess over the same thoughts, dragging them through her brain until the edges were sharp enough to slice.
She rested on her back on the couch, staring up at a book in her hands. Good Bones by Maggie Smith. She had read it before. Most of it. Almost made it through to the end. Typical.
She was forced to delegate herself to short stories and poems. Long novels were too difficult to follow. She’d get too caught up in the details and end up reading the same page over and over. It made English class her least favorite subject, which confounded her mother since supposedly she spoke English.
She thought about Maggie Smith and how Professor McGonagall really was the unsung hero of the Harry Potter books, which she hadn’t read. Not that this Maggie Smith was the same. She knew that. Or she thought so. Probably.
And that was it. She’d lost her place again. Sighing heavily, she slapped the book closed.
Sitting up, she peered over from her position on the sofa to see Eddie rummaging through the refrigerator.
“Whatcha lookin’ for?” she called.
“Somethin’ to eat,” he grumbled. “Guy’s probably a millionaire, doesn’t he have anything besides Lunchables in his fridge?”
“There’s some stuff for a salad—”
“I don’t need a salad,” Eddie grumbled to himself. “I need food. Meat. Wings. Like... 49 wings. Or churros, maybe.” She raised a brow at this. Eddie pulled open the freezer door, no doubt spotting the pint of ice cream. “Victory!” he cheered beneath his breath, withholding an elated fist-pump. He pulled open the carton, grabbed a spoon, and dug in like a man starved. Skipped the bowl and ate straight out of the tub.
Curious and bored, she wandered over to the kitchen and sat across from him at the bar. The sounds he made while he ate reverberated in the kitchen. It was disgusting, to be honest.
He could feel her eyes on him. Judging. “You wan’some?” he stared back at her, annoyed, ice cream dripping from his mouth.
“No,” Honey replied, wiping the offending look off her face. “I’m... I’m good.” It also bothered her that he was eating directly from the carton. It bothered her that he expected her to want to share. That would be like licking the same spoon. He was already halfway finished with the carton, however, so it was likely there wouldn’t be anything left to argue over.
“So...” Her voice trailed off, pleasantly trying to fill the silence. “How long have you been in crime?”
He stopped mid-bite. “You’re, uh... new here, aren’cha?”
She blushed. Always an outsider. It shouldn’t have bothered her that she didn’t fit in, but it did. “Is it that obvious?” she responded, somewhat offended. “How d’you know? I could be a mobster. A mob-lady.”
“Okay, first of all, nobody says that,” he scoffed with a smirk, good-natured about his teasing. He dropped the spoon in the empty carton, leaving it on the counter. She eyed it. Expectantly. And also, conversely impressed.
“Don’t you get brain-freeze?”
“Gotta big appetite,” he answered idly. Belched. “Pardon.”
She watched the beefy man wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. She studied him curiously, just as she did at the party. He was the hardest to figure out. He’d kept to himself mostly. Talked to himself, too, she noted.
Eddie stepped up to the counter, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a tiny glass vial filled with some kind of oregano, opening the jar and sniffing it. He reached into the other pocket, retrieving a small packet of beige paper squares.
It occurred to her suddenly that what was in the jar was probably not oregano.
Curiously, she watched him pack the delicate cannabis flower into a round metal tin. He twisted the lid, causing it to spill out into a fine, green powder. Meticulously, he tapped the pulverized plant into one of the wrapping papers, lining it up perfectly.
He’d peek up at her every once in a while, biting back mild irritation that she was watching him hawkishly, like they were at a Hibachi restaurant. Once he was finished wrapping and sealing the joint, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a lighter. Lit up. Inhaled deeply. Blew out a pillar of smoke, body and mind relaxing.
She ogled, eyes wide. That would explain his insatiable appetite, she thought.
“You want a hit?” Eddie offered, taking the joint from his lips and reaching it out to her.
“Oh,” she blinked owlishly, staring at the burning bud. “No. No, I don’t do drugs. I-I mean, I haven’t done drugs.”
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Well, good job just sayin’ no, Nancy Reagan.” She blushed, biting her lip. Eddie course-corrected, softer, “What I meant is ‘do you want to try it now?’”
Eyes like saucers, she stared at the joint like it was a giant, twisting roller coaster she was about to board. “I shouldn’t,” she answered shyly.
Eddie shrugged, putting the joint back in between his lips. “Okay.”
Stuttering, she added, “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer! It’s just… sometimes, I get—like my brain is moving really fast and I think—if I… y’know— what if I wig out, like I start seeing things, and start ranting and raving about being abducted by aliens?”
“Were you abducted by aliens?” He said it seriously, with a full measure of concern.
She blinked. “Not that I am aware...?”
“You’d know.” He took a long drag. “So you’re sayin’ you get anxious? Worried about it makin’ you more anxious, or paranoid. That all depends on the strain. In my experience, it has the opposite effect. Helps me relax.”
“How does that work?”
“My anxiety, or the strain?”
“Both…?”
“Different strains produce different effects. Depends on the strain and your brain chemistry.”
“I didn’t know there were different strains. Like different types—is it like an organic versus not organic thing? With pesticides and stuff? Is that bad? Do you use pesticides, or are you all-natural? I mean, not you, but your weed… um, farmer. Is that more expensive if it’s organic? Like… farm-to-table?”
Eddie let out a long billow of smoke. Red eyes taking stock of her. Reading. Pondering. “I’m also a nervous eater,” he answered.
She nodded, mouth forming an O in response.
They gazed at one another for several seconds, before she added, asking “What’s your take on those Danish butter cookies they sell in those round metal tins?”
He took another puff. “The ones that look like rings taste the best.”
Her eyes lit up, filled with renewed fervor. “Right?! I know! Everyone says I’m crazy and says they all taste the same.”
“Bullshit.”
“Exactly! Thank you!” she heaved a huge sigh of relief, which was utterly inappropriate for the situation to anyone outside of her own head.
“The rings are my fourth favorite cookie type. Maybe my third.”
Her head tilted. “What’s your favorite?”
He blew out another pillar of smoke. “Peanut butter.”
Her eyes darted over to the pantry door across the kitchen. She’d taken full stock of the contents the morning she made breakfast. The tiny smile on her face faltered for a just moment, her wheels spinning.
There it was. Her way out.
Her eyes drifted back to Eddie, as he enjoyed another drag. She licked her lips, and tried to steady her voice.
“I can make some?” she replied, with a glimmer of hope in her voice.
Eddie froze. His eyes wide.
Peter was out of control. He couldn’t even remember how he got there. It was like teleportation. He blinked and was somewhere else.
Chest heaving, sweat beading at his brow, he only had a vague idea of where he was. A warehouse near the East River. He could smell it. He had less of an understanding of what he was doing there.
It wasn’t until he saw the looks on the faces of Miguel, Noir, and Hobie did he begin to suspect that something very bad had transpired.
“Christ, Pete…” he heard Miguel mutter beneath his breath.
Peter followed his line of sight to see a broken, barely-breathing body at his feet. Broken in the sense that it was no longer shaped like a human. Instead it was a crimson-coated mass, a wheezing, sloppily-folded lump of bloody clothes.
Blood was everywhere. Soaked the concrete. Coated the inside of Peter’s nostrils. Splattered across his black leather shoes. His breath hitched at the sight. Gaze trailing to his sticky hands, clutching a twisted tire iron. Warm viscera dripped from the end.
He shuddered, finding it hard to breathe. Like he was drowning. Like blood coated his throat and lungs. Tiny droplets ran down his face like raindrops on a window pane.
An inhuman groan left the pile of broken man at his feet. Not inhuman in the sense that he’d been born an animal, but in the sense that anything resembling a human had been beaten out of him. He was no longer person-shaped. His being alive was a cruelty at this point. Every ragged breath was a curse.
Peter stepped back away from the destroyed body, tearing onyx eyes from the sight. Seeing the way his men stared back at him— horrified— monster— psycho— parasite— maniac— infection— was equally sickening. He pried each of his fingers away from the bent iron, uncurling the twisted metal from his grip.
“Put ‘em out of his misery,” Peter ordered coldly, swallowing back bile as he stepped away from the body.
Dazed, he drifted towards the entrance of the shipping terminal as if awakening from a dream. His legs were made of concrete. His head throbbed. Needles pierced his eyes. His stomach twisted and gurgled, and similarly drowned by nausea.
A single gunshot rang out from behind him and echoed off the metal siding of the surrounding containers. The noise made him wince, the sound causing physical pain that was like taking a cheese grater to his brain. He hissed in agony, and at the same time he relished in it. Wanted more of it. Needed it.
“Boss,” a breathless voice called out to him, stirring him from his haze. He looked over to see Felicia standing next to him, a pensive look on her face. How did he get outside? When did it get dark?
“Just get off the phone with Miles,” she said.
He tilted his head curiously. Whatever dread in her eyes wasn’t directed at him or his actions, and that surprised him as much as it terrified him.
“It’s your girl,” she grimly informed him. “She’s in an ambulance.”
Just like that.
Cut to black.
This was not a good plan. Not the worst plan Honey had ever come up with (there was that time she tried cutting her own bangs right before the Eighth Grade Graduation Dance), but it was certainly near the bottom. Impulsive, haphazard, and not well-thought out in the least, it was also fairly on brand.
Those were the things she thought as she was being wheeled into the emergency room of Indian Head Mountain Medical Center. Through red, bleary eyes, she caught a glimpse of a sign with the hospital logo and letters spelling ‘Woodstock, NY’ underneath it. That answered one question. Sort of, since she was unaware of how much time had passed in the ambulance.
It had taken about 30 minutes to locate and assemble the ingredients into plump, doughy, peanut buttery balls. She enlisted Eddie’s help to roll the dough, and showed him how to use a fork to make hash marks. He was both delighted and mesmerized by the action. Soothed, even.
His eyes were bulging with excitement as she explained that they were ready to go into the oven. (In reality, she would’ve let them chill in the refrigerator for about 2 hours and it secretly burned her up inside to rush the process and do a halfass job.) Any more waiting, however, and she was afraid she’d lose her nerve.
When Eddie took the first bite of one of her delicious peanut butter cookies, his eyes rolled up in his head with delight. Soon a big, dopey grin widened his face. He savored and swallowed each bite, drifting into a little slice of heaven. Seeing reactions to her treats had always been a rare highlight of working in the service industry. She loved it.
They were good cookies, she noted, her only complaint being she wished she’d had added more nutmeg.
About 4 minutes after taking the first bite, her lips began to tingle.
Within 20 minutes she was a heaving, coughing, snot-covered, teary-eyed mess on the floor, slipping into anaphylactic shock.
Eddie handled it well—
whattheshit are you shittin me are you playin stopplayinrightnow sweartogod is this a joke did fuckinjohnnystorm put you up to this fuuccck i am way too high toofuckinhigh for this shit ohmygoddontyoudieonme don’t you fuckin die he’llfuckinkillme are you playing tellmenow holyshitfuck
—as far as she could tell. Up until she started losing consciousness.
Once the epinephrine kicked in, she quickly lamented an unforeseen flaw in her plan. She hadn’t anticipated the amount of time it would take the swelling in her face to wear down.
“You’re almost there, honey, just stay with us,” a nurse reassured her, glancing down over the edge of the gurney railing to look her in her bloodshot eyes.
What’s with the nicknames? she wanted to ask.
Instead, she informed the nurse of her real name, and her current address, and her health insurance provider, who her emergency contact was, her blood type, and the small detail about being kidnapped by a mob boss.
She divulged all of that information, despite her tongue being the size of a soda can.
As such, it sounded more like, “adf meklp mef nii viin kehhaaaf nigh euh maa yahah gung an aire gaa hilla maaahuhh—”
“Just relax,” the nurse replied sweetly, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Try to save your breath, okay?”
Okay.
This wasn’t working. She was running out of time.
It took roughly 25 minutes for the additional antihistamine booster to kick in. Her vision had cleared and her breathing had returned to normal. Within the first 30 seconds of being left alone, she rose from the hospital bed, quietly switched off her machines, unhooked her IVs, and slipped away.
Four minutes later, in a different wing outside of the emergency room, she spotted a group of nurses exiting what appeared to be a break room. The rows of lockers inside confirmed her suspicion. She pulled open each unlocked locker door. On the tenth try, she found a gym bag.
Seven minutes later, she jogged through a back door of the hospital, wearing a pair of men’s joggers that were 10 inches too long for her legs, and an equally oversized NYU hoodie. The real treasures were the cell phone and wallet she was now in possession of.
She was bursting with energy, and it wasn’t just from steroids.
The act of escaping a safe house, then escaping an emergency room, then stealing a stranger’s possessions, made her feel not as bad as she would’ve imagined. If she was being honest with herself, she felt pretty good. Better than good. Somewhat invincible. There was a humming buzz beneath her skin, blood rushing and pumping through her body. A flush in her cheeks that hadn’t ever been there before. Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird.
It probably wasn’t the epinephrine either.
“911, what is your emergency?” a female dispatcher said through the line. Twenty minutes and a mile and a half later, she was at a payphone near a bus station.
What’s the emergency? she thought. What is the emergency?
What a loaded question.
A cute boy she had been flirting with at work turned out to be a murderous, mafia ringleader, and had kidnapped her, held her prisoner in his luxury mountain retreat in the Catskills, and had recently divulged to her his plot to kill the Mayor of New York City.
Yes, she needed help, alright. She needed UNICEF. The Red Cross. The Salvation Army. The U.S. Army. Every army, all of them, right now. Send everyone.
“Ma’am, I need you to slow down. Just tell me where you are,” the voice on the other end replied.
Oh, shit. She said all that aloud?
She shuddered, finding it hard to breathe. Like she was drowning. She had only a vague understanding of where she was. Her brain and mouth were moving out of sync.
Eyes darting around, frenzied, expecting to find Peter standing behind her.
Not Peter, perhaps, but some roughneck caricature of a goon wearing a long overcoat and a fedora. Or a caricature of Peter wearing a long overcoat and a fedora. Would it be the monster, or her friend? Would he be Prince Charming or Scarface?
More terrifying, what if he was actually someone worse?
She paused, considering with worry. “No, listen to me! You need to get to 1630 Revello Drive, Apartment 2B, in-in Long Island City. Please!”
“Can you tell me your name?” the voice asked. She stopped her lips before any more words could come out.
The ghosts of Peter’s story haunted her mind, sending shivers down her spine. Without another word, she hung up the phone, staring at it like it had cursed her.
Peter was... troubled. Without a doubt. Emotionally dysfunctional, possibly. Batshit crazy, for sure. But was he wrong to be paranoid?
More terrifying, what if he was actually right?
A disheartening dread settled into her bones. Her limbs felt heavy, like they were made of concrete.
She needed to get home. Fast.
Four hours and 45 minutes later, after two buses, three trains, and the setting of the winter sun, she was standing across the street from the apartment building at 1630 Revello. She shivered in the freezing air, but not from the temperature. The quiet outside was nothing in comparison to the cacophony inside her mind.
She hated coming to this street.
The windows on the southern corner of the second story had its blinds closed tight. Warm light illuminated them from behind. She chewed her lip anxiously, trying to simultaneously talk herself into moving forward and running in the opposite direction.
The thought of the horrible fate suffered by Nasrin and Leyla compelled her to move forward. She inhaled sharply, trying to calm her racing pulse, and exhaled slowly. Took a step forward into the street. And another, and another, and another. Each one building confidence that she didn’t have before. Each one a reminder of where she had been and how far she had come.
Forward. Always forward.
Forward.
Until the tires of a black Chevy Tahoe screeched to a stop an arm’s length in front of her, nearly hitting her. Stunned by almost having been run over by an SUV—pay attention to what you’re doing, stupid girl — her feet rooted to the ground. Indignation quickly took over, as she glowered at the vehicle furiously.
“Watch where you’re goin’!” she barked with a tone she wasn’t used to hearing coming from herself. Her chest puffed up, and she felt like she’d grown half a foot in stature.
The driver of the vehicle, a dark-skinned man in his 30s, with his curly hair styled neatly into a short fro, simply glared at her through the window. She shot daggers at him with her stare. The newfound boldness she possessed suggested she should drag him out of the vehicle and give him a piece of her mind.
Until the rear door opened.
The man that emerged rendered her motionless. Rendered her useless. Helpless. Heart pounding. Muscles locking in place. Throat seizing up. Anaphylaxis all over again.
She couldn’t run. She couldn’t scream. The monster she fought so hard to escape had found her.
“Heya, sweetheart,” her husband sneered, tone dripping with malice. “Long time, no see.”
Continue to Part 9
a/n this one is a shortie, but a goodie. or is it? you tell me. what do you think? just a heads up, the next few chapters are going to deal with some heavy stuff. make sure you read the warnings! love you all, and thank you thank you thank you for your amazing notes!
reblog to be tagged! (since there are over 100 of you its hard to keep track). if i missed you, let me know!
#Lizzy writes.#Lizzy writes! sugar and vice#peter parker x reader#peter parker x you#peter parker au#peter parker angst#Peter parker smut#dark peter parker#mob peter parker#peter parker x oc#mafia au#mob au#tasm peter parker#tasm peter parker x reader#tasm peter parker x you#tasm peter parker x oc#andrew garfield au#andrew garfield peter parker x reader#andrew garfield spiderman#andrew garfield x reader#peter parker andrew garfield#andrew garfield smut#andrew garfield#the amazing spider man#the amazing spiderman#spider man au#spider man smut#tasm au#tasm smut#tasm spiderman
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CREATURE LIKE ME || CHAPTER SIX: KRAVEN THE HUNTER
[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]
Story Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.
Chapter Six Warnings (spoilers but important to read anyway for this chapter!!): childhood grooming, abuse of power with sexual intent, nonconsensual touching, major age gap, talk of forced pregnancy through grooming behaviors, being forced by circumstances to act in a sexual that they otherwise would not chose to do, descriptions of heavy dissociation, mild descriptions of torture wounds from chapter 5, heavy descriptions of branding with a hot iron, death talk/murder of father and brother, this chapter is full of dark creepy sexual predator undertones meant to make you feel uncomfortable - this is your warning
[link to chapter index]
“Give ‘em hell.”
The wolf girl’s words rang in her ears as the gears to the bookcase alerted them to Calypso’s impending return.
She watched the girl sink back to the bottom of her cage and curl into a ball to not draw any further attention to herself. Talking as much as she had clearly worn her out. Whether or not Aylin took her life, she probably wouldn’t make it until morning in her condition.
Give them hell.
Aylin couldn’t move. She couldn’t hold her own head up. If there weren’t chains attached to her wrists, she’d be laid out flat on the floor. She was too weak. Too broken. Too tired. There was no hell to give when she couldn’t ignite the fire in her chest. It had burned out to nothing but simmering coals. She couldn’t even stop the silent tears openly flowing down her cheeks.
She didn’t want to kill the wolf girl.
She didn’t want to kill anyone.
That’s all everyone ever wanted from her. Her life was spent training to be the best. The fastest, the stealthiest, the deadliest. Train, fight, kill. Three things she was supposed to do better than anyone else. She’d never once stopped to question if there were any other options for her until she stole Peter from his captors. Going against everything she was ever taught, her every instinct, allowed her to grab a tiny morsel of what free will tasted like.
Now that she had it, she didn’t want to let it go.
Aylin closed her eyes, listening to Calypso’s slow descent down the creaking wooden stairs, and imagined that she was standing at the edge of the forest pond. She tried to imagine the sound of croaking bullfrogs as the morning mist was pushed across the still waters by the rising sun. The light breeze rustled through her hair and tickled her nose. She felt no pain here. Her body was healed and she was happy. Peter was behind her, splayed out on the old hammock, rocking lazily back and forth as he tried to befriend a curious chipmunk with a scraps of bread. Mourning doves cooed in the trees above them. Peace. True peace. She let the warmth of the daydream envelop her.
When she had first found Peter, he had been tortured for months. He had been beaten, broken, and abused. He had endured so much and there he was, tucked into her memories, beside her at the pond. It wasn’t a fantasy or a far-fetched dream. It had been real. It had happened. Peter survived through his torment to make it to the pond with her. He’d survived long enough to find a new moment of serenity. He made it out of his chains and got to taste freedom once more.
Aylin focused on the warm coals in her chest. They weren’t completely doused cold. Not yet. She could still grow this fire. If Peter could break free after all that time then she could survive a few hours. His strength could give her strength. She would find her way back to him.
Give them hell.
A tiny spark of hope ignited.
She opened her eyes with a new found sense of determination. There would be no more tears. She would feel no more pity. She would do what she had to get herself out of this basement. She was the daughter of Samuel and Nesrin. She was the sister of Emir. She was a fierce warrior with the soul of a raging sun.
She was Aylin the Hunter and she would not be broken by her people.
She would not let her own guild take her down.
“Give ‘em hell,” she whispered under her breath.
“What was that, dear?” Calypso quipped as she stepped into the light with a tote bag draped over her shoulder. She had finally tied her robe back together to cover herself. Not that Aylin cared anymore what the woman looked like. She stunk of evil regardless of what she was wearing.
Aylin stared her down, putting her emotionless mask onto her face, ready to play along with the sick games. She would say and do anything she had to make them trust her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the wolf girl smirk before she quickly hid her face in the crook of her arm. She knew her words had hit home with Aylin.
“Nothing,” Aylin gave her a tight, closed lip smile.
Calypso crooked her brow but shook it off, “Sergei will be down soon. He has some words to have with you. Let’s get you cleaned up before he arrives.” She dropped her bag to the ground and, with one sweeping motion, pushed the scattering of tools off the table onto the floor. A bone saw slid towards Aylin’s feet and she was thankful it was one tool that hadn’t been used on her.
“I’m going to let you down and lay you on your stomach on top of the table to tend to your back first,” Calypso said. “I’ll stop the bleeding and wrap you up.”
She pulled a little brass key from her robe pocket and stepped over the saw to reach up towards the chain cuffs. With a quiet click, Aylin’s wrists were sprung free. Her legs immediately gave out and she tumbled backwards. Calypso caught her in her strong grasp, slinging Aylin’s arm over her shoulder, and dragged her towards the table.
Everything hurt.
Her head was dizzy from the fog of the pain. Pins and needles spread throughout her arms as the blood rushed down to her fingers after being denied it for so long. The torn up skin on her back cried in agony with every flex of her muscles. She forced herself to think about her and Peter’s pond. She desperately tried to remember the sound of the doves in the trees and the smell of the crisp morning breeze after a night of rain. She willed her brain to focus on the memory of Peter in the hammock instead of on the torment of her body. His shaggy, wet hair from laying under dripping leaves…the white scars across his pale, sun deprived chest…the way he nuzzled his cheek against the strong swell of his shoulder muscle as his long lashes fluttered closed…
She couldn’t recall the exact moment Peter had grown into her source of comfort down here but he was becoming all she could think about. Maybe it was her lack of sleep and waning sanity? Maybe it was because being with him at the pond was her last brief moment of happiness before she ended up in this basement? Maybe it was the fact that she actually was starting to appreciate everything he had given her in that short amount of time since knowing him? Her entire world view shifted the moment they met. Her path switched its course. Her life changed. Was it worse? Better? She didn’t know. All she knew was that the longer she was away from him, the greater her heart began to ache to have him back.
Her body felt like a floating feather as Calypso hoisted her with ease onto the table.
The wood was warm under her shivering skin. The burning fire against the back wall had done well to heat the surface. She let her eyes close and allowed the warmth to absorb straight into her aching bones. Between the memories of the pond and finally being horizontal, she was certain she could fall asleep within seconds. She could already feel herself drifting.
A glass cup being placed against her lips jarred her from the clutches of her inevitable sleep. Aylin’s eyes shot open and she instinctively jerked away from it, sending shooting pain down her back, as she shoved it away. The last time something was unexpectedly pressed against her mouth, she had lost a tooth. Her body was on high alert, ready to fight with whatever little it had left to give.
The smell of fresh herbs filled her nostrils. The amber liquid was hot and steaming. Despite the enticing smell, she had fallen for this trap before. Drinks from this woman could not be trusted.
Calypso grabbed the back of Aylin’s head and shoved the cup towards her again, “Don’t be so dramatic. I only drugged you to get you down here and, since you’re already here, I have no more use for that tea. This is a different concoction. It will take the edge off the pain. Not a lot but enough so that you won’t keep passing out whenever you move. Sergei needs you awake and able to stand.”
She tipped the contents down Aylin’s throat to little resistance. Whatever fight she thought she had moments ago, disappeared faster than it arrived. She was too tired. It had been a few hours since she last had anything to drink. Her throat was dry and her tongue felt like rough sandpaper. She gave in and greedily gulped down the entire cup. It felt instantly numbing as it slid over her sore gums. She welcomed the feeling.
“Good, good. I’m glad to see you’re finally starting to cooperate,” Calypso remarked as she gathered up Aylin’s sticky, blood soaked hair off her back and draped it off to the side. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”
A mason jar with filled honey colored salve was placed next to her head. The jar popped open and Calypso dug some out onto her long, slim fingers. She gently smeared it across Aylin’s back with precise, soft strokes. She had been expecting it to sting or cause pain like everything else Calypso did, instead, she felt a cooling sensation spread throughout the wounds. Her pain was beginning to fade the more salve covered. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the brief moment of peace. She imagined herself back in the hammock with Peter as their gentle rocking lulled her into a state of bliss.
A Silver Colt and a Lycan, squished together in a single hammock. What a strange pair they made.
The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Calypso stated. The sound of her grating voice put a damper on Aylin’s daydreams. “I use this on Sergei whenever he returns from a nasty fight. It clots the blood and soothes out the pain for a bit. Now, if you had just behaved in the first place, we wouldn’t need to be using this. You could be home with your mother, enjoying the benefits of being a proper hunter. Instead, you’re covered in blood, and in need of repair. You made a real mess of yourself down here, kid. I’ve seen men torn apart by wolves look better than you.”
Like Aylin had a choice in what happened to her. At least she hadn’t given up Peter. He was still safe. That’s what mattered.
If he was even still at their camp. He could have been long gone by now for all she knew. If he had any wits about him, he would have fled the moment she left him alone. That’s what she would have done if the roles were reversed.
Except that wasn’t true.
She was lying to herself.
She would have stayed. She would have waited for him in the hopes that he returned. Because, despite their heated arguments, she would want to see him again. To make sure that he was okay. To look him in the eyes and know that he was safe.
She prayed he was doing just that. She wanted to see him again. She needed to. She needed this torture to be worth something.
He had to be the light at the end of her tunnel for any of this to make sense.
Calypso wiped her hands off and reached back into her bag for some clean dressing just as heavy footsteps descended down the stairs. Aylin turned her head to watch Kraven’s hulking form emerge from the shadows. Every time she saw him, he looked bigger.
Or maybe it was her confidence shrinking.
Calypso sighed, “She's not ready yet. I’ve barely started.”
Kraven’s eyes widened as he stepped closer, taking in the sight of his captive, “What in the Helios have you done to her, Cal? I told you to shake her up and scare her. Not mutilate her. She’s a Colt, not a wolf.”
Calypso gave a satisfied smile, admiring her work, “She was a tough one to break. Strong willed. It needed to be done. I think she got the message, though.”
He placed a hand over the top of Aylin’s head, patting her hair like his favorite dog, as he looked around the room, “I’ll hose down the blood while you get her wrapped up. And reset her broken fingers. They’ve turned blue.”
Aylin’s shredded bra had been discarded but the bandages tending to her back had been wrapped around her chest to keep her somewhat decent. Kraven had insisted to his wife that she give Aylin back some of her dignity by covering her breasts with the wrap. As if she wasn’t still laid out on a table in nothing but her blood soaked underwear. She knew it was another play to present himself as a kind hearted gentleman. The good cop, bad cop routine was blatantly obvious.
When Calypso had finished caring for Aylin’s back, she set her broken bones and bound them together in a tight splint. Kraven had placed a heavy hand over Aylin’s mouth, as his wife snapped the bones back into place, to stifle her shriek of pain. His murmurs of attempted comfort in her ear did little to soften the blow.
She was now resting with her cheek pressed against the table, eyes closed, and dozing in and out of consciousness while the other two spoke softly in the corner. Their low voices were lulling her into a trance and beckoning her towards sleep. With the worst of the pain being dulled by the medicine, Aylin decided to let herself drift off until they called on her. Her body was exhausted.
She allowed the sleep to take her.
“Have a nice rest?”
Kraven’s voice jared through her hazy dreams. She struggled to open her eyes and saw him lounging in a wooden chair at her side. Calypso was no longer in the room. Alyin felt a breath of relief to be rid of her dominating presence. Kraven scared her but she still felt more familiar with him than his wife. He was more predictable and easier for her to get a read on. He was less likely to strike without baring his teeth first. She tried to push herself up, feeling stiff and achy. Some of the drugs must be starting to wear off because there was pain radiating across her wounded back whenever she moved.
He quickly stood up, putting a hand under her armpit, to hoist her into a sitting position, “There you go. Nice and slow. Cal really did a number on you. I had a talk with her about it. I didn’t realize she would go that hard.”
A statement. Not an apology. She kept her face placid with a hint of affection towards him. She needed to play this game to perfection. He was the weaker of the two when it came to her. If she was going to win anyone over with her feigned charm, it would be him. He was going to become her well loved, revered leader once again. She would worship at his feet if it got him to trust her. All she had to do was play along enough to get out of here.
Whatever it takes.
Kraven grabbed a jug of ice cold water by his feet and lifted it to her lips, “Drink. Get hydrated. You’ve been asleep for a couple hours. It’s about two in the morning now. I’d let you sleep through the night but I don’t think the bitch will make it that long.” He jerked his head back to the wolf girl who’s shallow breaths were slow and few between. Her time on this Earth was almost complete. “How are you feeling?”
She shrugged, flinching at the pain following that movement, “Been better.”
He nodded as if he truly understood the depravity she’d been through. His dark eyes studied her face. She could feel dried blood caked to her cheeks and she shivered a bit under his watchful gaze, wishing she had a blanket wrapped around her to shrink into. She wondered where they were keeping her clothes and if they’d ever return them back to her.
“Are you cold?” He asked. “Would you like to sit closer to the fire?”
Without waiting for her answer, Kraven stood up and helped her to her feet. He kept her steady with one arm and grabbed the chair with the other. He walked them closer to the open, wood burning stove. The orange glow danced over her bare skin and encircled her legs with warmth. It felt nice. Not as nice as being clothed would feel but it was better than nothing. Kraven placed the chair on the ground and sunk into it. He wrapped a restraining arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Aylin stifled a yelp of shock and quickly forced her widening eyes to relax. Her thumping heart did nothing to help her growing panic. She had not expected that move.
She felt his chest rumbling with amusement as he chuckled to himself under her.
“Something the matter?” He asked with an air of innocence. He was purposely pushing her past her comfort zone. He knew exactly what he was doing.
But so did she.
Whatever it takes.
Aylin shook her head, “No. It’s warm over here. Thank you.”
“Good.” He relaxed into the back of the chair and draped both her legs over his so her side was cradled against his chest. “Is that comfortable? I don’t want to disturb your back too much. She really ripped you up back there.”
She swallowed, willing her heart to steady, “Yes. It’s fine.”
It was not fine.
Kraven’s hands wandered over her muscular thighs, his nails picking at the dried blood crusting there, “You could use a long shower. Cal might have dealt with your injuries but she sure as shit didn’t do much to clean you. You’re a dirty, little mess.”
Showers and Kraven in the same sentence made her body want to physically revolt. Her jaw tightened at the thought. She tried to force herself to relax. She wasn’t a physically affectionate person before she was brutally tortured and she definitely never wanted to be sitting on this man’s lap while practically nude.
But, if this was what he wanted, then it was what she would give him. She only begged that it go no further than this.
At least the fire felt nice. She tried to imagine what it would be like to sit in Peter’s lap, instead. She replaced Kraven’s face with her Lycan. She’d been dissociating for hours. This would be no different.
She just simply…wasn’t here.
The real Aylin was gone. Lost inside the winding labyrinth of her mind. Snuggled in a warm hammock with her friend. Her body could do the acting for her. Her true self was locked up somewhere safe.
Far away.
Someplace where freedom and fear of the unknown walked hand in hand. Someplace kind and soft.
She wasn’t here. Everything would be okay as long as she wasn’t here.
Whatever it takes.
Aylin placed a soft smile on her face and leaned into him like he was her long time lover, “I’m hoping this can all be over soon. I’d like to get back to how things used to be as soon as possible.”
Kraven patted her leg, “I don’t think we can go back to before. I don’t want to. I’d like things to be different. They need to keep moving forwards. To keep evolving. I had plans for you, you know? Important plans. Plans that involve the delicate future of this guild with you at that center. You see, Aylin, you're more important than you even know. I chose you. The moment you were born, I chose you. I knew you would be the one to save us from extinction.”
She had no idea what he was talking about but she played along by softly nodding as he spoke.
He paused, lifting his hand to gently grasp her chin between his fingers, and brushed his thumb across her cheek, “Would you like to know why?”
It was too soft of a gesture. Too loving. Everything felt wrong.
Her stomach ached and she felt nauseous.
Aylin put a soft, confused look over her features to make herself look more innocent and forgivable than she felt, “Of course, Sergei. You know I’d do anything to help our people.”
He gave her a warm smile and leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her father used to kiss her like that when she was a child.
The grief filled memory crashed through the fragile walls of her labyrinth. She had forgotten that memory. Once it was lost to time but now it was back with vengeance, ready to plague through her delicately crafted daydreams. It flooded her vulnerable mind like a broken dam unable to hold back the building pressure.
She had to fight back the lump in her throat in an attempt to survive as the memory came crashing down around her until it was all she could feel. She was no longer exposed, broken, and forced to be affectionate with a man she despised. Instead, she was small and tucked away safely into the warmth of her childhood bed.
She was five years old again. Her father was climbing the steep stairs up to her bedroom loft. He had to hunch over to stop from hitting his head on the slanted, wooden ceiling. The smell of sweat, cigars, and the fresh, night air clinging to his thick flannel appeared before he did. He had missed bedtime but he never went to sleep without kissing his children goodnight.
Kraven was speaking behind the wall of memory. He was stroking her blood hardened hair. His arm was wrapped tightly around her waist and the calloused pad of his thumb was rubbing circles into her thigh. He was too close. Too touchy. His hands roamed freely over her body like he owned every inch of her flesh.
Maybe he did.
Maybe she was nothing but his property down in this basement. She had no right to her own body.
His words sounded far away like he was speaking through the opposite end of a long tunnel, “I knew before I married Calypso that she could not bear children. We both knew it but I married her anyway because I loved her. She was my soulmate. The woman of my dreams. The only trait she lacked was the one thing that would keep the Kravinoff line going. Despite my elderly father’s warnings, I didn’t care at the time, because I was young and reckless. I didn’t realize the weight of what it meant to be a leader. This guild has been passed down for generations to the eldest son or daughter. We are raised to take charge. We have much pride in becoming the leader the Silver Colt’s deserve. It is our destiny from being born a Kravinoff but I didn’t realize exactly what that meant until years later.”
Could not bear children.
Bear.
Bears. She was reading about bears.
She wasn’t listening. She wasn’t here.
She was still awake, hidden under her covers with a flashlight, and flipping through her Zoobooks magazine about bears. When she heard her father coming, she quickly tossed the magazine out from under the covers and shoved the flashlight under her pillow, plopping down on top of it and fake snoring.
Samuel had chuckled as he peeled back the covers to expose her face. She remembered trying so hard not to smile but the reign of tickles that he attacked her with caused her sleeping facade to drop in a fit of giggles.
“There came a time when I started to realize that I truly would not have an heir. I began to panic. I knew I had not made a mistake in marrying Calypso. She was everything I could have ever wanted and more. But there would always be one thing missing from my destiny. Something that was integral to the guild’s survival. I needed a child of my own. It was Cal’s idea for what I had to do next. I needed to find someone who would give themselves over to us and let us create the future together.”
Kraven’s sour words blended in behind the smooth words of her dead father.
“You’re supposed to be asleep, Linny. Your mother is not going to be happy with you,” he whispered with a teasing smile. “Don’t worry. Your secret's safe with me.”
Safe with me.
She wasn’t safe. Not here.
“We searched through the women of the guild. Most were married off already. No one satisfied the needs we had when choosing a mother to bear the future leader. She had to be of good stock. Someone strong. Someone capable. Someone who could pass on their strength to our child. When we couldn’t find that woman, Cal suggested we wait. We train up someone from scratch. We could make someone perfect.”
Perfect like her father.
He perched on the edge of her bed and glanced down at the crumpled magazine on the floor, “What were you reading?”
Alyin rolled onto her back and smiled up at Sam, “It’s about bears. Emir was reading it to me earlier. He said he’s a better reader than me and that I take too slow and only know a couple of words and that I keep making up all the rest.”
Samuel rolled onto his side beside her, propping his head in his hand as he scratched at the stubble dotting his chin, “I don’t think Em is wrong. You only know how to read about ten words so far.”
She gasped in indignant shock, “That’s lies! I know thirteen words! I counted them.”
He chuckled, “My deepest apologies. How could I ever have been so far from the truth?” He cupped his daughter’s chubby cheek in his large, warm palm and leaned down to plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Do you forgive me?”
Far from the truth.
Through the pull of her memories, she tried to piece together what Kraven was implying. Everything was jumbled. His words and the words of her father blended together into one weaving web of confusion. She was struggling to separate the two scenes playing simultaneously. There was a dull ringing in her ears. Her vision couldn’t focus.
Her heart was crying but her eyes remained dry.
“I looked for the strongest, most dedicated member of our guild. I knew exactly who it would be. My oldest and dearest friend. At the time he only had a son. I remember him telling me once that he only wanted one child. But I took him out hunting. I talked to him all about his love for Emir. That man raved about this little toddler like the sun shown straight out of his ass. It didn’t take much convincing on my part. All it took was a little nudge to push him in the right direction. ‘Have another kid, Sammy. Look how happy you are with the one. Add one more to the mix. Grow that happiness to one more.’” Kraven huffed with amusement. “It was easy. He had no idea what I was after. Cal and I both waited, hoping that he would give us a daughter. And, sure enough, there you were. A perfect little ball of feisty energy. Cal and I worked it out. I would train you to become the best of the best. You would grow to outrank your father in skill. You would be the best hunter the guild had to offer. And, when you turned 21, I would claim you as my protégé and lay down my offer for you to take. In return for my years of hard work making you who you are today, you would repay the debt by bearing my children for the guild. I would require, at the very least, two. It’s always best to have backup options should one heir not make it to adulthood. Although, if you’re enjoying yourself too much, we could have as many as you’d like. I could give you an entire brood if you wished. Cal and I would treat you like royalty during that time. You would never want for anything again. After two children, the deal would be up, if you’d desire it. You could be free to marry whoever you please and continue on with your life. The deal would be complete. You would have completed your duty to the Silver Colt’s and to the Kravinoff lineage.”
The fire in her soul flared with a burning heat of anger. She willed her mind to focus on what he was saying. She needed to take it in. She had to understand to unravel the mess of lies that was her entire existence. How could she have ever been so far from the truth?
He wanted her to…to…
But with every heightened jolt of emotion, she was tugged straight back into her childhood bedroom with her beloved father, like a knight swooping in to protect the vulnerable princess.
Aylin gave in, grinning at her father with a gap toothed smile,“Yes, I do forgive you, but only for right now. Tomorrow I might not because tomorrow I might know fifteen hundred words and then you’ll look silly for thinking I only knew ten.”
“That’s a lot of words,” he nodded in admiration at her willful determination. “If you suddenly know how to read fifteen hundred words by tomorrow then I will buy you an entire library full of books about bears. Promise.”
She held out a tiny pinky finger to lock with his, “Deal.”
Deal. Deal. Deal.
That word meant nothing to her anymore.
Her mind was reeling. It couldn’t stay focused. It was drifting. She was both lost in her labyrinth and stuck in the present. One foot clinging to the miserable reality of her life and the other in the grave beside her dismembered father.
Nothing was real.
Her body was betraying her with the sting of tears pressing at her eyes. She had to lean her head against Kraven’s chest, the fur of his Lycan pelt shall obscuring her from view, as she willed the tears not to fall. They weren’t tears of sadness but of unadulterated rage.
He could claim her? He made her who she was? Repaying her debt?
Her eyes landed on the fire poker sticking out the flames of the open oven. A potential weapon. She needed to locate all the weapons close at hand. He would stop her before she was able to lunge forward to reach it but, if she could somehow break free from his hold, it could be a viable option. Kraven always had his signature curved dagger holstered to his thigh, too. That one was much closer but she would need to distract him before she could snake it out of its sheath without him noticing.
She could be that distraction. She just had to shed herself of the fear clutching at her throat. He scared her. He was stronger than she was. She was so weak compared to him. The realization of what she would have to do to distract him was becoming clearer and she hated her options.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever it fucking takes.
Get out of this basement, no matter the cost. That was the goal. She’d sell her soul if it meant getting to taste her freedom once more. She could lose one part of herself in order to gain another.
She knew exactly what she had to do.
Samuel gave her another quick kiss on the forehead and pushed himself off the bed, “Alright. I have to get to sleep myself. No more reading for tonight, little lady. I don’t want you being a cranky kid for your mom tomorrow.” He ducked back out towards the stairs.
“Baba,” Aylin whispered back to him before his head could disappear down the steps. “Did you know that black bears are omy-whores? That means they can eat everything. Even trash.”
Samuel gave a booming belly laugh that filled the quiet house with his joy, “Omnivores, Linny. Omnivores. And that’s why we have to be really careful where we keep our trash. We don’t want any bears wandering into camp.”
She didn’t know what was so funny but she always liked the feeling of making her father laugh. She beamed at him, pleased with herself, “Sergei will kill them if they get too close. He’ll keep us safe.”
Samuel winked, “Not if I get to them first. Don’t forget, I beat him in every contest we’ve ever been in. Don’t doubt your old pops. You and I, baby girl, we’re stronger than anyone can ever imagine. Don’t count us out.”
“Then why is he in charge instead of you?” She questioned, too young to grasp the weight of his response.
“Because,” Samuel stated with simplicity. “His father was the leader and his father before that and so on and so forth. Sometimes a leader is born instead of earned. Being named a leader doesn’t make you worthy. He’s no better than you or I. He’s just a man.”
He’s just a man.
Sergei Kravinoff was just a man.
And men can be manipulated.
A wicked smile grew across Aylin’s lips. Her fire had consumed her. She was nothing but blinding light and passion ready to burn down anything in her path.
Don’t count her out.
She would not dissociate anymore. She would not let herself disappear. She was getting out. She was getting back to Peter.
Aylin softened her brows to appear with a mild curiosity as she sat up straighter and angled her body to face Kraven the Hunter head on. She would not fear him.
Whatever it takes.
“Did you really choose me for that kind of honor? I would have thought you’d want someone more inviting like your wife. I’m nowhere near as attractive as her,” her voice remained soft and sweet like a young girl vying for her teacher's approval.
A smile tugged at Kraven’s lips, “You’re more alike than you think. And I told you. You were born for this role, Aylin.”
No.
She was born to be his downfall. She was born to destroy his dynasty. She was born to be the last face he ever saw before his life was cut short. This was her story. Not his. She was no one’s puppet. Not anymore. Her strings were cut free and there was no one that could stop her now.
Her fire would never be snuffed out again. She may stumble but she refused to fall.
“And my father never knew?” She quipped. “You never told him? I would think he’d be thrilled to allow me to have such a high ranking place in our guild.”
Bullshit.
He would have murdered Kraven without hesitation if he knew. He would have never allowed this to happen. Anyone who dared to prey on Samuel’s children would be slaughtered. He was stronger than his friend. He would have won the fight had he found out what Kraven was planning. He never would have stood for such an ominous scheme involving anyone in the guild, nevermind, his own daughter. There was no way he could have ever known.
If Sam knew, he would have attacked Kraven. He would have won the fight.
Unless…
Kraven’s silence was damning.
Aylin faltered, “Wait…did my father find out?”
Kraven shrugged as if it was nothing but a mild annoyance. He was watching her expression carefully. She wouldn’t let her mask slip no matter what he told her. She had to be strong.
This was not the story she was told.
Samuel and Emir were killed by Lycan not by Kraven.
They were killed by wolves. They were ripped apart so badly that her and her mother weren’t allowed to see the bodies. It was Lycan. It was always Lycan that caused their death.
“He may have found out, yes, but he wasn’t, as you put it, thrilled. It doesn’t matter, though. It wasn’t up to him. He had no power over my ruling.”
Samuel knew.
He had found out what Kraven was planning to do to her.
And then he was dead.
He had gone on hundreds of hunts and came back without so much as a scratch. Yet, the one hunt he goes on with no one else but her brother and Kraven, they both end up slaughtered with Kraven as the only survivor.
Something wasn’t adding up.
Kraven’s hand wandered up and down her side, hesitating just under the swell of her breast, before traveling back towards her ass. He was becoming more bold with his movements. He was testing the limits to see how far she would let him willingly go.
She couldn’t even feel what he was doing to her body anymore as the puzzle pieces began to fall together. She didn’t give a shit where his hands went. They could claw up inside of her and she wouldn’t budge. Her mind was too busy reeling with all this new, damning information.
“Why would he be upset? I’m shocked. Why wouldn’t he want such a bright future for me?” The words felt acidic in her mouth as she forced herself to say them. She teased her unbroken hand up to tangle into Kraven’s beard and trace a sly finger along his jaw. She had to gain control or else she’d spiral into the oppressive fear crouching just below the surface of her mind. She needed that dagger at his hip. “I would think he would feel nothing but pride by getting to see his child be given over to such a strong and affluent man.”
Aylin leaned in closer, flashing her best attempt at bedroom eyes at him. He raised his scruffy brows with an enticing curiosity in her pursuit to seduce him. She carefully pulled her leg back to stand up, wrapping it around his thighs instead, to straddle his lap and face him. Her arms snaked around his neck to pull him closer.
Distract and steal. That was the new goal. She had to push her family's death to the back of her mind so she could focus on what was currently important. Her father and brother would still be dead. She couldn’t allow herself to follow them, yet.
Get out of the basement.
Whatever it takes.
“I wish you had told me about your plans for me sooner,” she purred in his ear. “I wish we had skipped over this bullshit and gotten straight to the truth. I kept no secrets about this Peter Parker wolf from you, Sergei. Calypso saw to that. I had nothing but the truth to feed her. I’d never heard of him before you mentioned his name. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you there in that regard. It is true that I lied about why I ran from my ceremony, though.” Her lips grazed over his hairy cheek and hovered over his parted mouth. “I was scared to kill the girl because I had never seen a wolf presented like that before. It startled me. I panicked and I ran when I should have stuck to my training. I should have trusted you and the Colts. I had a lapse of judgment where I saw her as a young girl instead of a mutt. I know that she wouldn’t hesitate to slaughter everyone in our camp if she had the chance and I hesitated in ending her. It’s my biggest regret. I was embarrassed and so afraid to tell you because I knew I had let you down. I failed you and I’m so sorry. I never meant for that to happen. Let me make it up to you. You’re the most important man in my life.” She brushed her lips softly against his, cutting off a part of her soul in the hopes that something new could grow from the bleeding wound. She would give up little parts of herself until she could shed herself free. She would burst from this basement half the woman she once was but she would live. Remove the infected limb to stop the infection from spreading. Do what she had to in order to stay alive. “I worship you as my leader, Sergei. Let me prove it to you.”
A low growl rumbled in the back of Kraven’s throat to let her know that her plan was on the right track. His eyes slipped closed at her erotic touch. She could feel a thick tightness twitch in his pants below her and she subtly ground her hips against it to keep it growing.
It was working.
She was gaining the upper hand. Horny men were weak men.
Her eyes dared to glance down at the curved dagger sheathed against his right hip. It was held snugly in place by a brown, leather strap wrapped around the hilt. She’d have to be stealthy and precise with her every move to not alert him to her deceit.
She trailed her fingertips down his chest, inching closer to her prize. His eyes opened with heavy lids to gaze down at her and she halted her descent. He needed more.
Aylin released a soft whimper to imitate someone who was in need of being ravished, “Please, Sergei. Let me serve my guild. Let me serve you. I accept your deal.”
A devilish smile spread across his lips. He grabbed at her hips to roll her against his bulge.
“Do you feel that?” He murmured. “That’s what a real man feels like. I can do things to your body that you never even thought possible.”
She forced back a gag of disgust.
Whatever it takes.
“If you accept my offer,” he continued, “then you have to be a full member of the Silver Colts. Your ritual isn’t complete just yet.”
Aylin’s eyes flashed over to the wolf girl. She was half expecting to find her staring back but the girl was practically gone. Kraven followed her line of sight then tilted her head back to face him, not wanting to share her looks with anyone else.
“Yes, she’ll need to be dealt with, but there is one more matter to settle first.” The moment he finished speaking, he crashed his lips on top of hers, hungrily grasping at her hips to push her tighter against his cock.
Her entire body physically revolted. Vomit burned up her throat. She could feel her nerves desperately attempting to claw away from his grasp. Her brain was screaming at her to fight back. It went against every nature in her being but Aylin leaned into the kiss with a ferocity. She pried her tongue into his mouth despite the repugnant taste. She tangled her broken hand into his hair. She angled her body to perfectly grind against his bulge to give him exactly what he wanted.
All so her left hand could sneak down to his hip unnoticed.
With a blind silence, she slipped open the leather strap. Her fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger. She felt the cool weight of it in her palm.
Whip it out. Lunge back. Slice it across his neck.
Three simple steps was all it would take.
Her heart was racing. Her mind was nothing but static. Her body was playing the part she had casted for it to perfection. He was distracted. He was vulnerable. All she had to do was follow through.
One…two…thr-
Kraven’s eyes snapped open before she could even attempt to move. They burned into her with a predatory lust. She genuinely couldn’t tell if he wanted to fuck her or murder her. The sight frightened her, making her feel like a tiny rabbit backed into a corner by a hungry wolf. Her hand instinctively slipped from the dagger as he suddenly stood without warning.
Aylin tumbled off his lap. She was being slammed back down onto the wooden seat. Her back howled in pain as the slats of the chair rubbed against her bandages. Her breath was knocked from her lungs as confusion clouded her thoughts.
Had he felt what she was doing?
Kraven gave a nasty smirk. He sank down in front of her and forced her knees wide apart, grinning as he gained a shocked gasp from his captive. His imposing body pushed between her thighs to keep her spread open.
No. He hadn’t felt her stealing his possession, he was just switching to new positions before she had a chance to remove the dagger.
The panic flooding her body was becoming too much. Her arms felt numb as tingles of lightheadedness spread across her skin. She wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Her brain was suffocating itself. She didn’t have the upper hand from this position. She wasn’t in control. The dagger was too far away.
She was too late. He was going further than she was comfortable with. Her shifting reality was becoming undeniable. She didn’t want this.
“Wait,” she breathed through shaky gasps.
“Hush, little one. Don’t fret.” His breath trailed over her inner thighs as his beard tickled her skin, leaving trails of kisses down her leg. “This isn’t what you think. Not yet, at least. We’ll have time to discover each other later. We don’t want to rush things. Don’t worry. No, no. You have something else in store for you.”
Aylin watched his every move with a careful intensity, doing her best to keep her rapid breathing steady, as he leaned back towards the fire. Her brows knitted together in confusion when he grabbed the long metal poker sticking out from the depths of the flames.
For a brief moment she felt an overwhelming relief at being spared the horror of having him eat her out. She could handle kissing and grinding as long as she felt like she commanded the situation. As long as she was able to focus her mind on her ulterior motives then she was able to keep calm. The second he flipped the script, her resolve failed her. She would have had zero control in the position he had placed her in. She would have had to endure his desecration of her body without anything to show for it. The thought was enough to break her. It had become too real. She was flying too close to the sun and her wings were bound to get singed.
But she would not break down. Not yet. Not here.
Aylin forced that ‘what ifs’ from her mind and instead geared her attention to what he was holding.
What she originally assumed was fire poker was something else. The end that had been sitting in the flames all this time was formed into a shape she couldn't quite make out at this angle. Though she didn’t need to make out the shape to understand the implications of what Kraven was planning on doing with it.
He was holding a branding iron.
She vaguely remembered seeing a scarred sun against Kraven’s forearm once but she never thought much of how he acquired it.
Kraven looked towards the iron with admiration, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He turned the front towards her so she could get a full picture of the design.
Through the bright yellow halo and sizzling white smoke, a semi circle stared back at her. Along the circular arch were about ten straight lines sticking outwards to signify the rays of the sun. The ends of the rays were already starting to turn into a deep, glowing orange. The entire design was roughly four inches wide and modeled after the Silver Colt’s sun emblem. She could feel the intense heat radiating off the iron and melting her forehead into beads of sweat.
Kraven tugged up his shirt sleeve with his teeth and showed her his forearm where a fully healed, white, scarred sun was etched into his skin, “Got this when I turned 18. Every one of the Kravinoff’s get branded to prove our loyalty to this family. The night we got married, I branded Calypso before we made love. She claims it was the most erotic and sensual experience of her life. She has hers right about here.” He held the iron away from Aylin’s face as he leaned forward, still pushed between her thighs, and slipped a finger into the top hem of her underwear next to the dip in her pelvis. “She wanted it tucked away where only my eyes could find it.”
He smiled and flicked his finger back out, letting the elastic waist snap against her skin, “If you’re serious about our offer like you claim to be then you need to prove it. You join our familia ranks and then finish out your ceremony by cutting the heart of the wolf and tossing it into the fire. Two easy steps to prove to me that you can be reformed. This is your test of loyalty. Cal warmed you up but these are the end steps. By branding you with this sun, you are becoming a part of the Kravinoff family. You will give me children. You will become a full fledged hunter. You will be one of us. Forever. So, I ask you now…do you fully accept?”
Aylin swallowed. Whatever relief she had felt about not being sexually assaulted had only been replaced by a heavy feeling of dread. This was going to have to happen. In order for her to keep playing along, she would have to say yes. More pain would only push her closer to her end goal of escaping. She would do it.
She just had to know one thing first.
“Did you kill my father?” Aylin asked, her voice unwavering, as she held perfect eye contact.
A lopsided, proud smile tugged at the corner of his lips, “Not…directly.”
She could feel the blood draining from her face, “But it was your fault? He found out about your plan and then what? How did they really die?”
“I told you the day it happened,” he stated. “A wolf ripped him and Emir apart limb by limb.”
Aylin shook her head in disbelief. A single Lycan wouldn’t have been able to overtake both her brother and father without there being more to the story.
“The whole story, Sergei,” she demanded. “I want the whole story. Tell me and then I will say yes. I will take your deal. I will let you brand my flesh. I will kill the girl. I will give you children. Whatever you want. But not until I know the truth.”
Kraven sighed, rolling his eyes. He scooted out from between her legs and tossed the sun end of the iron back into the flames to reheat as he stood.
“Like I said before, you and Cal are more similar than you think. Both stubborn as they come and refuse to do what I ask of them before I give you something in return,” he chuckled quietly to himself. “I clearly have a type for admiring strong willed women. You’re not going to like what I tell you, Aylin. You cared for your family. Their deaths are not as noble as you were led to believe.”
“I don’t care,” she replied, telling him everything she knew he wanted to hear. “I want the truth. No matter what you tell me, I’ll still comply with whatever you want. I’m still a Silver Colt. This guild is my home. It’s in my blood. You’re my family. I belong here. Now tell me what happened to my father and brother.”
She held her breath in anticipation for the truth.
“Emir must have overheard me speaking to Cal about you. It was around the time I saw you with Leah Rivera. Every part of our plan was going perfectly until that moment. While you could still give me children if you were gay, it wouldn’t be the same. I wanted you to enjoy the process, not be forced into it. You were meant to be a willing participant. We had to make some fast changes to get you back on the right track.”
Aylin bit down on the inside of her cheek to refrain from showing any emotion. Had he killed Leah, too? Is that what really happened to people who “left” the guild? Did everyone’s death fall back on her shoulders?
She didn’t want to be herself anymore. She wanted to be anyone else but Aylin.
“Emir had stopped by to pick up extra crossbow bolts and must have overheard the conversation. I’m sure he ran straight back to daddy to tell him all about his newly found gossip. Anyway, that night we had a small, planned hunt. A few months prior, we had wiped out a pack.” Kraven stopped to give a scowl in her direction. “Peter Parker’s pack. He was the only one who managed to escape and I needed him dead. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I had let one get away. I had received some intel that Parker had been spotted with a woman and young boy about thirty miles out. They were not a part of his original pack. We didn't know if they were already wolves he joined up with or if he was turning new people to grow his ranks. Either way, they were compromised and would be taken care of, as well. Women and children don’t matter when it comes to werewolves. A wolf is a wolf and they all need to be wiped out.
“I had previously planned to take just Sam and Emir to eliminate the wolves. We wouldn’t need any more than three hunters to deal with them. Too many of us would have been too obvious. Sam had said nothing to me the night we left but I could tell Emir had already told him what he heard. They were both simmering with a silent hatred the entire ride out. Everything had changed so quickly between us. I knew it wouldn’t just be a fight between Parker and I that night.”
Aylin watched as he leaned back against the stone wall and crossed his arms, waiting for the ball to drop, and the truth to be revealed.
“We tracked them to a small cabin in the woods. The woman and her kid tried to flee. I remember seeing Emir chase after them but they weren’t my target. I knew exactly who I was there for. I managed to single out Peter. Our fight was long and difficult. At one point, I lost my balance and tumbled down a hill with him bounding after me,” Kraven gave a long, low sigh. “Then he was on top of me. He was stronger than I anticipated. I don’t like admitting that. He was the strongest wolf I’d ever encountered, the first time we met, and now he was driven with his need for revenge. Apparently, me slaughtering his minions was his driving force behind killing me. I may have started to lose my upper hand. Parker was winning the fight. I was pinned under him. I was going to lose my life. And then I saw him. Samuel was standing at the crest of the hill looking down at us. He could see that I was losing and he wasn’t doing a damn thing to stop it. He was directly betraying his leader and his oldest friend all because of something his stupid kid overheard. I let the rage consume me. In one last attempt to get out from under Parker, I grabbed at the dagger by my side. I stabbed it into his neck. As I laid under him, his wolf blood poured from the wound. It got in my mouth. I could taste him on my tongue. And then…”
Kraven paused to relish in the memory, “And then I felt amazing. I felt a power like I had never felt before. It was new. Beautiful. Addicting. Parker’s blood coursed through mine and suddenly I could wield a strength I never knew possible. I was a God with that kind of power. Parker was wounded. I was able to kick him off me. I was able to walk away from a fight that was meant to claim my life thanks to this glorious new drug coursing through my veins.
“I walked straight towards Sam. That bastard had left me to die. I shoved passed him as Emir stood by his father’s side. They looked between Parker bleeding out and myself. I had waited so long to kill the mutt but something changed when his blood entered me. I couldn’t finish the job. Like having his blood in my system was a mental block. Like it wouldn’t allow me to hurt him any further. So, I walked away.
“But Sam wasn’t done. He didn’t care about Parker. He cared about me. He shouted after me. He asked if it was true. I could see that hatred in his eyes. Nothing I could have said would have mattered. He’d already made up his mind. He was ready to fight to the death for your honor. He started after me. He managed to get me to the ground but I was too strong with my newly found power and easily got a hold of him. I could feel his neck starting to snap under my grip. I was so fucking strong. When Emir tried to step in to help, I shot him in the stomach with my colt. That was all it took for Samuel to cease the fight to run to his side. I could hear everything in that moment. I could hear the quick heartbeat of a wolf rapidly approaching us. I may have stabbed Parker in the neck but never underestimate a wolf. What would kill a human, would only slow a mutt down. I’m sure he was clawing his way over to extract revenge but, by then, I was already on my way back to the truck. I could hear Samuel sobbing over Emir as he gargled on his own blood. I could hear both their final screams as the wolf reached them. I don’t even think Sam fought back.
“And I never once looked behind me to check. Not once. I got in my truck and drove to the nearest gas station. I waited until morning before driving back to collect their bodies. I was very careful about who I let see them. Those who did, never dared to question the obvious bullet hole in your brother’s stomach. The silver bullet hiding there mysteriously disappeared.” He gave a quick wink in her direction. “Their bodies were so mutilated by Parker that it was easy to have them covered when it was time to burn them. I wouldn’t want your poor, grieving mother to have to witness such horrors.” He took a long, drawn out breath to finish his tale. “So, to answer your question, no, I did not kill your father. The bullet wound would have killed your brother eventually but, I think, Parker finished them both off before that played out.”
Aylin stared at him in silence. Her eyes were dry and cold. Her limbs were numb. The ringing in her ears was getting louder.
The truth was finally out.
But it didn’t match with what Peter had told her in the camper.
I killed your brother and father just as much as you killed the people I love. Don’t blame me for your family’s death when I had nothing to do with it.
He told her he never touched her family. Not that he knew what they looked like or who they were but he still made it sound like was innocent. According to Kraven, Peter was the one who stole their lives. They were two conflicting statements of the supposed truth.
Her trust in Peter was stronger than that of Kraven. There had to be more to this story.
He may have taken the final bite but Kraven had been the one to pull the trigger.
Kraven the Hunter was the one to blame.
“Brand me,” she stated through her impassive tone.
Aylin held her legs apart to give him easy access to her inner thigh where he was clearly aiming to mark her.
Kraven raised his brows, impressed with her response, and silently reached for the iron. He knelt down at her knees and aimed the glowing sun towards her inner thigh. She didn’t stop to think about how unsanitary the entire process was going to be or how much it was going to hurt. She didn’t care what the outcome would be. She only wanted to welcome the pain with open arms to push away the growing numbness threatening to steal what was left of her severed soul.
Aylin closed her eyes as the metal touched her skin. The faces of her father and brother flashed across her vision. They were followed by the haunting face of Peter. For a blinding moment, the metal almost felt frozen against her until her brain registered it as heat. Lava seared into her flesh. Kraven clamped down on her leg to keep her from instinctively jerking it away from the source of pain. A scream got caught in the back of her tightening throat but she choked it down. She would not scream for this man. She would not scream for the one who murdered her family. He didn’t deserve the honor of hearing her cries.
The horrid stench of burned flesh filled her nose and made her gag. It was a putrid, sickly sweet and sour, nauseating smell. Leather tanning over an open flame mixed with a burning metallic and corrugating blood. She could see through her half open lids that Kraven had already removed the iron but the fire still felt like it was engulfing her leg. Her nails dug into the palms of her hand deep enough to draw crescents of blood. She felt faint. Dizzy. She tried to gasp for air. She could taste the smell of burned flesh in her mouth. It was all consuming.
Kraven was pouring the jug of cold water she drank out of earlier over her burned skin. A tiny waterfall of coolness helped soothe the angry mark. She bit down on her bottom lip and leaned her head back against the chair as she focused on her breathing. Her entire left leg was trembling uncontrollably from the pain.
At least her numbness was being replaced with the familiar feeling of blinding hatred.
“You did good,” he said. The sound of his voice pushed away the pain and fueled her fiery rage even more. “I’ll put some of the special salve Cal brought down on it. I probably should have properly cleaned the area first. I just got a bit turned on with how you demanded it. You sounded just like Cal.”
She wasn’t listening to his words. Her jaw was clenched together in determination.
Step one of what he wanted was done.
Step two…kill the wolf girl.
The taste of her inevitable freedom was nearly as sweet as the sickly smell of her burning flesh.
[CHAPTER SEVEN]
Tag List Requirements: 🌒A reblog of this chapter will automatically put you onto the next chapter tag list. If you no longer wish to be put on the next list, simply don’t reblog this chapter.🌔
TagList: @theorgansarerotting @ssecret @sincericida @moonyslove78 @lazyxsquirrel @liz-allyn
A/N: Please remember that writers love to listen to every tiny, little thought you’ve had about their work. If you liked a certain line or enjoyed a particular part, let us know! We’re desperate attention whores who crave your feedback. It’s what keep us writing. It makes us happy and feel appreciated for sharing our work.
#andrew garfield#andrew garfield fic#the amazing spiderman#the amazing spiderman fic#tasm#tasm peter parker#tasm peter#tasm fic#tasm x oc#tasm peter x oc#tasm peter parker x oc#peter parker fanfiction#andrew garfield fanfiction#peter 3#blooming violets#blooming violets fic#creature like me#creature like me chapter six
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In a Corner I Haunt Masterlist
Chapter One: Right Where You Left Me
Chapter Two: Everybody Moved On
Chapter Three: Rumors Fly
TBD
#tasm fanfiction#tasm peter parker x reader#tasm peter parker#tasm peter parker x oc#tasm peter parker imagine#tasm peter parker x reader smut#tasm peter parker masterlist
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The Poet In The Photo (She’s Mine)~ TASM Peter Parker *pt 1*
TW: none
Tropes Used: best-friends-to-lovers
Pairing: TASM Peter Parker x OC
Arya sat at the picnic table under the huge Oak Tree near the front of the school. Her legs tucked underneath her body as she drummed her flowered pen against the notebook she’d opened. School didn’t start for another half hour and she wanted to get some poetry in before the bell.
Her head swayed back and forth to the song playing her headphones. She had to brush the occasional pink curl away from her eyes, mumbling under her breath about needing to get it cut.
Arya had no idea she was being watched by a tall boy near the gate of the school. He wore jeans with a hole in the knee and an oversized blue sweatshirt.
His name was Peter and he knew exactly who Arya was. After all, he’d been crushing on her since the fourth grade. They’d talked a couple of times in the school hallways, but he learned more about her by overhearing whispers or observing her.
He longed to actually have some kind of conversation with her. To get to know who she was. The person behind the pen as he liked to say.
He sucked in his breath and took a couple steps towards her. She caught his eye but didn’t at all look startled. In fact, she shot him an inviting smile and scooted over to make room for him.
“You’re writing,” he stated, fumbling with the straps of his backpack as he sat down. He wasn’t looking her in the eyes, he couldn’t. She was too pretty to be talking to someone like him.
Arya’s lips twitched as she swung a booted leg over the seat and neatly placed her pen back into it’s holder.
“Yeah, I try and write every day before school starts. This is when it’s the most peaceful. By the way,” she made a vague gesture towards him, “you didn’t bring your camera today.”
She almost laughed at the way his eyes widened and the jolt of shock he tried to make subtle. Did he think he was only person that was this observant? You had to be observant to be a poet.
“Oh, uhhhhh.......I um......I forgot to bring it with me today,” Peter gasped out, his words failing him by the signals in his brain all freezing up. Arya had really noticed that he almost always had his camera with him?
Arya placed her notebook back into her backpack and pulled it down so it rested between her legs.
“You’re not the only one who’s that observant, Peter,” she quietly reminded him.
She stood up from the bench and swung the backpack over her shoulders. A small smile slowly gracing her rounded face as she looked down at Peter. His mouth still hanging open like a fish, his eyes widened to their fullest. She giggled and leaned down to his level.
“Got ten minutes until class, Peter. You don’t want to be late.”
Her hand brushed across Peter’s shoulder, sending shock waves all down his body. Was Arya flirting with him or was this just her way of being nice?
He really needed to figure her out.
#tasm!peter fluff#the amazing spider man#peter parker#tasm peter parker#tasm peter parker x oc#fluff#poet! au#the poet in the photo (she's mine)#part 1
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Lost The Game
SUMMARY:The explanation your mind settled for was that whoever lived under that mask, also lived somewhere close by. It explained the first time you found him limping and bleeding on an alley, and it explains how you evolved into his personal caretaker for the wounds and afflictions of Spider-Man’s after battle consequences.
The only thing it doesn’t explain, however, is why through the thick and convoluted webs of your strange situationship, a certain tension has built between you two. Palpable. Physical. As electric as some of his tales, and as dangerous as he is.
The tension between you and Spidey grows, and it grows, and it grows. One day, it snaps.
⚠️ Minors DNI. Smut. | 🏷️ 3.2K , fluff, part two of three, reposting this ‘cause some people missed this one and asked for it.
• PART ONE •
“I really want you,” you confess.
Spider lets out a shaky breath. “Good.” He nods. The hand on your waist holds on tighter, and he pulls you closer. “I haven’t wanted anything this bad in a long, long time.”
When he kisses you again, you can feel that.
The words, the feelings behind them, the truth in it.
His lips start softly pressing against yours, and you're thankful for the late-night hour, the blanket of darkness washing over your room. Spidey kisses you like he wants you back just as much as you want him.
It's been so long since you've just kissed someone for the sake of kissing, and the realization dawns on you as his tongue meets yours in a delicious, filthy drag.
Spidey pulls your waist to him and slides both your bodies down so you're lying flat against the bed; through the fog that his kisses create on your mind, you realize how easily he moves you.
As if you weigh nothing. Then, it dawns on you—to him, you don't.
That pulls a groan from the pits of your gut.
Spidey's mouth on your swallows it down, and your fingers start grasping and holding on to whatever bits of hair it can reach underneath his mask.
Slowly, his body descents on yours and he lets you feel some of his on weight too. His tall, slender figure covers yours in the best way possible, and you lose yourself to the feeling of kissing him.
How long had it been since you wanted someone so bad to the point of just kissing, and feeling?
He seems to be in the same predicament if your judgment is not too cloudy. Spidey pulls back for air eventually and you whine, chasing the feeling of his lips.
His smile makes your heart do stupid, crazy things inside your chest.
"I've wanted to do this for a while," he breathes close to your mouth. Then, he kisses your jaw. "Didn't know if I could—if I deserved it," he mutters, trailing his mouth from your jawline to your neck. "You always smell so fucking good—why the hell d'you have to smell good?"
That makes you giggle. When pull back to answer him, though, the wide, white bug eyes make your words falter for a moment.
He senses it—Spidey's sense is something out of this world, and with you this close to him, you're sure there's nothing he would miss. "It's weird, right? Is it weird? We can stop—I don't want to, kissing you is the best thing that's happened to me in a while, but we—"
"Spidey," you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and adjusts himself on top of you with either one of his elbows resting on each side of your face. "Do you trust me?"
Without hesitation, he nods. "Yeah."
"Okay," you nod. With determination, you push his body away and he gets the hint, getting off from you. You crawl across the bed towards your double windows and thank the skies that you're the kind of person who's a night owl.
The black-out curtains were one of the first purchases you made when renting this loft and now, you feel blessed by them for more reasons than allowing you to sleep after long shifts and studying all night long.
When the two of them are closed, your room is blanketed with the darkness of the night-sky, and your vision goes blind.
It's crazy how much your other senses come forward when one of them is deprived.
You can hear perfectly your own breathing and the soft ruffling of your sheets. "Spidey?" You whisper.
"I'm here," he says on the opposite end of your bed.
"Can you see anything?" you ask, crawling back towards the direction of his voice, slowly.
"A little more than you, probably," there's soft laughter very close to you, then you feel a hand wrapping around your wrist. He pulls you to him and now Spidey's sitting with his back to the headboard of your bed, fitted between your pillows.
You crawl on top of him, straddling his lap, feeling your heart beating on your throat.
Your hands feel all the way up to his neck.
When they're there, you cup his neck in your hands and caress the soft skin it finds there. "Hi," you mutter.
All you can feel is the heat of his body underneath you. "Hi," he whispers back. His head leans forward and your foreheads touch. "How the hell did I fall on your hands of all the hands in this hell-hole of a city?"
It comes out as a breathless whisper, but it makes your insides curl.
He speaks it in such a reverent way that it's impossible for you to not feel it. "I'm glad you did." You lean forward, giving him enough time to back away and when he doesn't, you press a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. "Can we—can we kiss more? The curtains—I just closed so you'd feel more comfortable," you confess. "You don't have to take the mask off, but I can't see you now."
"I know. I know," Spidey nods, and you feel another kiss pressed on your lips. "It's just—," he swallows thickly, and his hands on your waist pull you flushed against his chest. "Gimme a second."
You sit there, waiting.
Every movement of his body is now felt by you—every inch of his body is pressed against yours, and because you can, you wrap your legs around his waist, locking your heels together.
That's when you feel it—you're adjusting yourself on his lap when Spidey's left arm comes up to the back of his neck, and he grips the back of his mask.
The sound of the material being pulled off makes your heart beat faster.
He trusts me. Oh, god, he really, actually trusts me.
"This is better, right?" His voice sounds lower.
Raspier—more serious. His arm around your waist and underneath your ass secures its grip, and you nod. "I... thank you. For trusting me, Spidey-boy," you chuckle, feigning nonchalance to try and mask how much your heart is trying to beat out of your chest.
He laughs too, the same nervous undertone as yours in his mirth, and then kisses you. "I wish I could do this in the light of the day," his voice carries so much that you wonder if this is what you were both chasing when the hug turned into a kiss. Spidey almost sounds on the verge of tears underneath you, and you can tell these are words he's been holding back for a while now. "I wish—D'you get why I don't? I'm—It terrifies me. If I'm me and I meet you, and then someone who's Spider's enemy discovers my identity—it's you they'll go after, Y/n. I've been there before. They can't go after you. D'you get that?"
"I do," you kiss him quiet, and you both lose yourselves in it.
He worries. All those times thinking he didn't want to spend time with me—he just worries.
The thought multiples, and grows like a tree in your mind. It spills over in the kiss.
He wants you, and thought about it, too. He's been protecting you, guarding you against the fact that his double life comes with consequences.
When he pulls back again, you whine in protest. "No—get back here," now that you can, you grab a fistful of his hair.
Spidey groans against your lips, laughing. "Hold on."
"No," you protest, and smash your smiling lips on his again.
Spidey lets you, and the kiss is nothing but two smiles pressed together for the first moment. It takes a couple of pecks and the sweet drag of his bottom lip over your mouth to open you up.
The way he kisses is intoxicating.
It makes you feel like someone new—it sparks something inside of you. It takes so much to make you comfortable and willing, needy and receptive, but his touches all land in the right places.
The kiss builds up. More than touching, it senses like a delivery. All of his wounds are forgotten, and all of your worries dissipate. Nothing but the drag of his tongue against yours and his hands gripping your body tight resonate on your mind, and Spidey uses his hands to guide your arms up—he holds you by the elbow and guides your hands until they reach up, touching his face.
You gasp in his mouth.
"It's ok," he whispers. You feel his smile, and swallow the knot on your throat.
"You sure?"
"Uhum."
Tentatively, you let your hands explore over his face.
It's so real and terrifying to trace the outline of his jawline, the shape of his lips, and his full eyebrows that everything else becomes silent. Spidey lets you do it, allows your hands to draw his features in your mind, caresses over his closed eyelids.
The thought slips out of you in a breathless whisper,
"You're so pretty."
He chuckles, and his legs slide up higher, trapping you inside his hold. "Ah—thanks."
You bite your lip, feeling your mind go hazy.
Underneath you, he's not exactly soft anymore. Both of you must be highly aware of that fact, or at least, you are. It makes you burn, and the core between your legs feels twice hotter since the moment you sat down.
You don't know how far he wants to take this, but stopping kissing him is out of the question. "Hey, Spidey—"
"Peter."
It's a whisper.
It catches you, like a trap in the woods.
Peter.
"I imagine there are enough around there for me to let you have at least this," he whispers, and when his lips are on yours again, they tremble.
Peter.
You kiss him, and melt in his arms in the process. When he pulls apart for air again, you whisper. "Hey, Peter."
"Yeah?"
"Please, don't stop."
Peter takes a deep breath underneath you.
"You don't want me to stop?" He asks, his arms squeezing around you.
Not to stop what, you're unsure. Whatever it is, you're sure of the answer. Shaking your head, you whisper. "No."
Don't stop kissing me.
Don't stop touching me.
Don't leave. Don't go anywhere. Don't leave. Please, don't leave.
Whatever part of your thoughts he hears, he takes it to heart, and pushes all the answers from his lips to yours.
His name is Peter.
That's the first thing you catalog now, and they start webbing one into the other.
Number one, Peter's an excellent kisser.
He knows when to grab you by the hair and guide you where he wants you to be, and knows when to let you take control. He allows you to play with his hair, to grab his face, scratch his nape—all that you have to offer, he's willing to take. Peter lets you bite and nibble on his bottom lip, and in return, he sucks your tongue inside his mouth. It's like a push and pull, a game of wits that one of you is winning, and so is the other one.
Number two, Peter's got a mouth on him.
You discover it the first time he pulls back for much needed air and takes his breaths hiding in the cusp of your neck, with his hands getting bolder and learning the outlines of other parts of your body now—like your stomach, your ribs and your breats. He holds the new parts he finds, and grips the one he likes the most. It pulls mewls and whines out of you, and that's when he first chuckles against your skin, all malice and desire.
"You're sensitive here?" He asks, grabbing your sides. "Or here?" His hands run up to your boobs, cupping them in his hands. "Fuck. D'you know how many times I had to think about the vilest things I've ever seen to distract myself from these right on my face? My line of sight? Fuck, Y/n, they're so soft."
His mouth goes from its trail on your shoulders to your collarbones, pulling on your sleeping shirt to get more access to the space between your tits.
"Wanna kiss them so bad—can I kiss them, pretty?"
"Peter."
"God—teaching you my name's the best idea I've ever fucking had," Peter laughs, with more genuinity and happiness than you've ever heard. "Was that a yes? Can I? Say 'yeah, Peter'."
"Peter."
"Alright, I can take a hint." Peter's hands were quick.
That was Number Three: Peter was quick.
It was an easy fact to forget or overlook, but impossible to let it go once you felt it. Peter had agile fingers and a lot more dexterity in his pinky than most men would ever dream to accomplish with their whole bodies, their entire goddamn lives.
"Peter."
It's your winning word of the night, and the one that rings in your ears when the realization of how hard he already is underneath you hits.
Number four: Peter's not little anywhere.
It's the last fact you're able to register before your notion to count, think, or do anything other than whine and beg come to play.
"Y/n," his hands get a grip on your waist.
The waist that's grinding on him, chasing the outline of his cock and how good it feels fitted between your folds. There's only your your baby doll between you and his sweatpants, and the state his kisses left you is already leaving a spot of wetness on his clothes.
"It's too hot," you whine, and Peter nods on your neck.
"Can I take it off? Our clothes?"
"Yeah."
Your mind swims as he relocates you to his side to undress you. The darkness and Peter start to mingle as one, and this all might as well be a dream.
It feels like one, and tastes like one, too.
He takes off your clothes slowly, and you lay with your back on the bed as your ears pick up him removing his own clothes. Yours, technically, but with his smell. Images of you with the sweater he's wearing tonight over the course of the week flash on your mind—sniffing the material to get a sense of him when he's away. Pathetic, and yet true.
When he lays his body over yours this time, it's only your skin against his.
You swallow thickly, embracing the heat. Your lower back's starting to sweat, as is your temple, but you gladly take it, because the heat Peter brings warms you from the inside out.
He kisses you again, and your legs come up to wrap around his thighs. "Peter."
"Yeah, pretty?"
"Want more."
"You want more?" His waist grinds down. Peter's tall enough to cover your body with his, and his pelvis fits right on yours. The outline of his cock brushing with your folds makes you ever wetter, even needier. "D'you have condoms? I can't carry diseases, but I think you don't want the mess."
OH, god. Your mind blanks, resets, then restarts.
"Get inside me. Right. Now."
Your assertiveness is met with laughter, but is dies on his throat when he lines himself up with you.
The thrust is mutual, and with only a few movements of his waist, there he is.
It's more than just fucking.
There's no rush. No despair.
Peter's vocal with how good you feel—so tight, so good around me, so good, pretty. He's patient, and too damn attentive to every twitch of your body on his.
Peter's strong, and the difference between any previous hook-ups to him is made obvious when he stays there, holding himself with his forearms over you, his hips thrusting inside with no struggle. He eventually moves you on top of him again to let you take control, and holds your whole weight when it gets too much.
He wants you to feel good, and wants you to know that he's feeling good, too.
It may be the continuous, rhythmic movement of your bodies together, grinding on one another and holding tight on your arms and whatever part your hands can reach, or the way he alternates between kissing you and whispering the filthiest compliments to you and how good it feels, your pussy feels so fucking good, pretty.
It may be all that or the fact that it's intimate, it's needed.
Peter builds your orgasm up from the inside—knits the whole thing with his hands and his patience, because all he wants is to feel you all around him.
When it comes, it's a waves washing over a shore.
"Peter—feels too good, too good." Reasoning and stringing sentences together was an ability lost when he sat you on his lap and bounced you up and down for the first time, hitting every single spot inside of you.
He understands you just fine. His sweaty locks between your fingers feel almost as good as his grunts and whines pressed right on the middle of your chest. "I know, baby, I know." God, his whines are fucking music. "Oh my god, you're a sap," he laughs.
And oh—, "I said it?"
"You did," he groans. "You're gonna make me cum like this, pretty." Peter grabs your nape and crashes your mouths together, changing the angle of his legs.
With his feet planted on the bed and the headboard as leverage, he can thrust upwards and hit right on your G spot. By your scream, he figures that out pretty quickly.
"Oh my god."
"Oh, you're clenching on me—you gonna cum, pretty?" Peter smacks your ass, and his hand on your nape glides down through the sweat, lower and lower. It wraps on your neck lightly, as if testing the waters, and when you bend your neck backward, Peter's thrusts become erratic.
His hand grips your neck just right.
"Do it. Lemme see, c'mon. Cum on me, baby. Can I cum in you? You want that?" Peter's words are met with incoherent babbles, and you're officially cock drunk now—the bouncing gets louder, the sounds filling up the walls of your room and the heat emanating from your bodies could power up the whole block, probably.
"Please."
"Please what?" He growls.
"Please cum in me," you cry, feeling your legs starting to weaken.
It's okay because he's got you—Peter holds your waist and pounds into you. "Who d'you want to cum in you, pretty? Say it. Say my name, please—"
"PETER, please! Please cum in me. Please, please—"
"Oh my fucking god," Peter cries, and his thumb comes up to rub on your clit at the same time as you feel the heat and the twitching inside of you.
When Peter cums, a part of you blacks out.
Your orgasm is pulled from you in a crashing wave, and he rides it with his mouth on your ear, whispering words that flow in the background.
"You did so good. ... Oh, god. So perfect—you're fucking perfect, baby."
It takes you a while to come back from it.
Everything is still, and his breathing underneath yours connects your chests.
"Peter?"
He shifts his head, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Hm? You okay?"
"... You'll stay, right?"
Peter takes one heartbeat, and then presses a kiss on the juncture of your neck and your shoulder. "'Course." He kisses your cheek. "I've got morning lectures, but—I'll stay. You want me to stay, right?"
"Yes. Please."
"Then I'll stay."
Peter keeps his promise, and you wonder how something you've dreamt of before is the reality that you fall asleep in.
You wonder which will be the reality you wake up to.
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• PART THREE •
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peter parker x female reader
summary : peter knocks on your window hurt and bleeding. the only responsible thing to do is comfort him.
warning : injuries, mentions of blood, small amounts of sexual desire which isn’t acted upon.
a/n : this is kinda a recreation of tasm with gwen helping peter but you can imagine this scenario with tom hollands spider-man too if you prefer.
The light from your laptop illuminated the shadows of your face as you turned up the brightness, eyes squinting ever so slightly as you begun to adjust to your darkening room. The inked words which were on the screen merged together, hazy lines lined in dark bold font taunting your tired brain as you tried to write the biology paper which was due in for tomorrow. Typical.
Your hair was tied up haphazardly in a loose bun, stray strands of fine hair framing your face with delicacy. Your favourite pyjamas clung to your body as you adjusted yourself further into your chair distracting you from the pending dots on your computer.
You leant back in your seat, eyes following the cracks in the walls and ceiling, a frown pulling at your face as a groan escaped your lips. A faint noise disturbed your peaceful evening, the knocking of a window causing you to swivel around in your chair.
Peter Parker, your boyfriend of two years, was knelt against the glass of your window, his breaths coming out in short quick pants - the window fogging up with condensation.
You scrambled over to the window, hands nervously fumbling with the lock - eyes scanning over your boyfriends pale complexion. His hands grabbed onto yours as you began to lift up the window, a smile dawning his face as he watched you struggle.
Lifting it with ease, Peter stumbled inside, his hands landing on your waist as his balance gave way. "Hi," he mumbled softly, a wince displayed on his face - a permanent reminder of his pain.
"What the fuck did you do? Are you okay?" You said, hands guiding him to sit on the chair you were sat on moments before, "Oh Pete, you're bleeding."
Peter suddenly inhaled a sharp breath as your hands began to unzip his Spider-Man costume.
"What are you doing?" he asked nervously, a hand running down his face.
"I'm helping you," you replied, hands running over the jagged skin across his chest. Blood was caked in between the crevices of his chest, the wound deep enough to scar. On his face, lay a cut along his eyebrow, and a lump on his forehead, which would most likely bruise by tomorrow morning.
Grabbing a wet cloth, you gently dabbed at his wound, ignoring the way Peters heart rapidly sped up. "Will this heal okay?" you asked skeptically, your hands smoothing out the skin of his face.
"I hope so," he replied, hands resting over yours, stilling your movement. His eyes flicked up to meet yours and you smiled at him adoringly.
His neck craned forward as he caught your lips in his own, one hand cupping your face with care. You dropped the bloodied cloth, placing a hand on the uninjured part of Peters chest. A sigh left your mouth as you pulled away, "You're hurt Pete, and I have an assignment due tomorrow."
Your boyfriend only hummed, his mouth moving down towards your neck. Your hands ran through his sandy hair, a gasp escaping your throat as Peter gently sucked on a sensitive area of your neck before soothing the sting with his tongue.
You gently banged his shoulder against your own, pulling away from the kiss before things became too heated. "No Peter," you laughed, as you watched his eyes plead with yours, "I'm tired and you need rest, change into your other clothes in the bathroom and then join me to sleep."
Peter nodded as he laughed, hands spinning you around and landing on your ass.
"To just sleep you idiot!!" you called from the bedroom.
-
When Peter joined you in bed, your head found itself on top of his chest, his arms wrapped around you in pure bliss and contentment. His chest moved in a rhythmic pattern, his breathing consistent and in control.
You snuggled closer to him and closed your eyes, making the most out of the moment. A sigh left your lips as your eyes closed as you drifted off to sleep, feeling safe and loved in Peters arms.
#spiderman#peter parker#peter parker x oc#peter parker x fem!reader#peter parker x reader#tasm!peter fluff#tasm!peter x y/n#tasm!spiderman x you#mcu imagine#tom holland#andrew garfield#cute romance#romance#imagines#send requests#thank you
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if you’re too shy (let me know) (pp)
inspired by this euphoria scene. peter helps his longtime crush take nudes that are meant for someone else. angst, tension, thirdwheel!peter. [0.9k]
from fighting back against his long term bully, eugene ‘flash’ thompson, to taking down giant lizards, this was probably the most life threatening, hazardous situation peter has ever gotten himself into. he should honestly be dead by now considering how long he’s been holding his breath in for.
if you’re too shy (let me know) by the 1975 plays in the background while he makes this assumption, soothingly and absently, as if it’s mocking peter. he almost forgets his current position. almost. peter’s on his knees in front of your bed, watching, eyes glazed over, as you reposition yourself above him.
“i feel like that’s good.” you mumble, wrapping your hand around his own that was currently holding your phone at an upward angle. “does it look real? does it look like i’m taking it?” you smiled, eyes wide and still directed at the phone camera.
peter smiles back for a moment before realising that your smile, tight, with your pearly whites exposed, wasn’t for him. no, these were for someone peter didn’t even know the name of, he tries to remember if he even bothered asking.
“maybe try to loosen up a bit, but straighten up your posture, still.” peter tries to smirk, right corner of his lip forcibly pulled up into a desperate attempt at hiding what he truly felt. what he didn’t even know he felt.
there’s something about your stare that makes peter nervous and makes him say things that he doesn’t mean. like just now— you looked perfect and the mystery man on your phone would be lucky enough to even receive one of these photos in the first place.
peter tenses at the thought, god i sound like a simp. serves you right for agreeing to do this, he thinks.
“are you okay? your hand is like— really warm.” your eyes meet his. “no- yeah, yeah, yeah. that’s good. um, maybe tilt your head down a bit.” peter suggested, his other hand that wasn’t under yours motioning at his own chin.
you hummed, muttering a “good call, that angle probably wasn’t doing it for me.” while leaning your head down a bit, eyes meeting the phone lense once again.
peter wanted to say something along the lines of ‘no angle could possibly do that.’ or ‘every angle does it for you.’ but decided against it, considering the fact that you were probably already uncomfortable.
“make me look good.” you mumbled, biting your lips subtlety for the camera. “always.” peter scoffs jokingly, desperately trying to loosen up in his awkward position.
you were in your nicest bra, a baby pink victoria secret one that you contemplated buying for a while. the dainty undergarment had a small heart shaped golden charm tied into it that produced a soft and dreamy glare in front of the camera.
meeting your own eyes in your vanity mirror, the unease finally caught up to you. “this is a really bad angle for me.” “no it isn’t, shut up.” peter murmurs back but his eyes betray his unbothered façade, quickly lifting up to yours, ready to stop the second you get uncomfortable. “how do i turn on grids on this?” peter jokes, hoping to get to see your pretty smile again.
he gets what he wants because a second later you bark out a laugh. “grids? peter this isn’t vogue.” you grin, and the nerdy joke, peter decides, was 100% worth it when he looks up and realises that your gaze is on him.
it takes a moment for him to snakily retort back.
“okay, excuse me for not making this another one of your blurry, horizontal snapchats where you can barley see anything. i’m an artist, you know. i have to hold myself up to a standard. even if they are your nudes.” peter hopes that the lighthearted joke will throw you off on how rigid he was being, and if you hadn’t been throwing your head back laughing at his sarcasm, you would’ve noticed the deep flush in his cheeks.
“you’re such a dork.” you jabbed, lifting the corners of your lips while doing so. “the baby my neighbour paid me to shoot was a better model than you.” he retorts back. and for a while, it’s intimate, the situation. it’s almost something romantic, and peter thinks it’s worth being the third wheel to you and the mystery man on your phone if it means you’re going to smile and laugh at every one of his jokes and looks.
“do you want a couple with portrait mode on?” he jokes, for what he presumes is the forth time. god, parker, give it a rest, he thinks. finally lowering your phone and exiting the camera app. his repetition doesn’t stop you from giggling. “fuck off.”
he hands your phone to you and you move to lay on your stomach, while you scroll through the photos. “wait this one actually looks like i took it.” you look up at peter, grinning. “right?” he’s still on the floor, gaze dreamy, when he replies; “yeah.”
“these are amazing. thanks, pete.” you pick out your favourite one and send it to the mystery man before getting up to put your shirt back on, feeling peter’s eyes on you the whole time.
“are you checking me out?” you laugh, pulling your shirt over your head. the tension between you two materialising as heat in your cheeks.
peter scoffs, “you wish.” thanking god that your shirt was over your head to miss the fact that his eyes were momentarily bulging out of his head.
peter could get used to this, to you, and the sense of intimacy that was involved in being around you.
ding!
“peter, he replied!”
#peter parker x reader#tasm!peter fluff#tasm!spiderman x reader#tasm andrew garfield#tasm!spiderman x you#tasm!peter parker x reader#peter parker x you#spiderman x you#spiderman x oc#mcu!peter parker#mcu!peter x reader#mcu!peter parker x reader#andrew garfield#andrew garfield x reader#andrew garfield x you#spiderman#peter parker oneshot#peter parker imagine#peter parker fanfiction#peter parker blurb#tom holland x reader#tom holland x you#tobey maguire x you#tobey maguire x reader#peter parker
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Can i walk with you?
Pairing: Tasm!Peter Parker x fem!Reader
Summary: You get dared to ask Peter out, but that doesn't work out. Maybe meeting him at a cafe will bring you more luck
Warnings: language, mentions of drinking, game of truth or dare, mentions of tea
Words: 1.5k Masterlist
A/N: English is not my first language, so please excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes
Taking a dare seemed like a good idea. I mean playing truth or dare with your roommates was fun, so you thought why the hell not.
Well that was, until you remembered, that your friends were crazy and that you were all drinking.
"I dare you to finally ask Peter out" one of your friends said.
You froze at the spot and your mouth was wide open.
There was just no way, you would go and ask the insanely hot boy out, only to be rejected, no way. You were ready to chicken out.
You've had the biggest crush on Peter Parker, ever since he'd stumbled into your chemistry class 20 minutes late, apologising shyly to the profesor.
He sat down a few seats down from you, hair all ruffled, glasses almost falling from his nose, but relieved to make it there.
Ever since then you've been falling for him. But you didn't try to make a move and you wouldn't do that now either.
Your friend saw your mortified face and tried to convince you, "c'mon y/n, it's for fun and besides we all know he is gonna say yes."
"Yeah, he likes you!"
"It's not funny and he does not. Just give me something else" you begged her.
"Nope, you chose dare, there's no backing out now. Sorry, babe" she nudged you with her elbow.
"But.. It's too late, i'm sure he is asleep by now" you proteste, even tho it was only something past 10 p.m. .
"On friday night?" one of your other friends raised her eyebrows.
"Quit with the excuses and get up. We are going with you" you reluctantly got up and scowled at them.
"I'm not moving, sorry not sorry" you crossed the arms on your chest.
They all exchanged looks and smirked at you. They started dragging you from the room, despite your loud protests.
They dragged you in front of Peter's dorm and before you could protest some more, they knocked on the door and ran away with giggles.
You were too stunned to leave, before the door had opened.
"Hey?" a boy, who you only knew as Peter's roommate opened the door.
You glanced at your friends, that were hiding behind the corner and grinning at you like some idiots.
"Uhh.. Is-is Peter here?" you uttered.
"No sorry, he's not here now. Would you like for me to mention you were here...." you knew, he was asking for your name, but you just shook your head.
"No, it's okay. Thanks, bye" you quickly left, practically running to your dorm.
The girls were expecting you to say something, so you did "he wasn't there."
"Ughh, that sucks. Maybe next time" they expressed their dissapointment.
You didn't know what to feel. You were glad, that he wasn't there and kind of sad, too?
Maybe just maybe, you hoped you would ask him out and he would say yes and then you would go on a date. Yeah, it was stupid.
You stopped yourself from thinking about it any more and tried to have fun again.
-
It was a few weeks, since you'd tried to ask Peter out. You haven't really seen him ever since, you weren't sure if it was because his roommate had told him about it or if it was that you somehow unconsciously avoided him.
It wasn't until you walked in the small coffee shop near the university, that you saw him.
He was sitting alone at the back of the cafe, his head burried behind his notebook and the books.
He looked like he had, when you had first seen him. Hair everywhere, glasses at the tip of his nose and confused expression on.
And it wasn't until you'd ordered your tea and a biscuit, that you noticed, that the only seat left was in front of him.
You thought about your options. You could go to your dorm and be stuck with your obnoxiously loud friends. Or you could ask him if you could sit at his table and study in the quiet of the coffee shop.
After a lot of thinking, you decided for the latter.
"Umm hi, could i sit here? Every other seat is already occupied..."
Your sudden sweet voice startled Peter. He looked up at you and his glasses fell on the table. He looked so cute, you thought.
He knew who you were. Of course he knew. You were one of the smartest people in the class and definitely the most beautiful one.
He most ceirtainly had a crush on you. Like how could he not, when you've always looked so pretty and gave him the most lovely, shy smiles from across the room.
"S-sorry?" he blurted, completely forgetting what you'd asked.
"Could i sit here, everything else is full" you repeated, embarrassed.
"Of-of course" he nodded, "let me just move this away, sorry for the mess" he clumsily moved away the books and notepads from the table. A few of them fell from his hands and you helped him pick them up.
"Thank you, Y/N" he sheepishly smiled and you smiled back, taking the seat.
"Wait, you know my name?" you questioned.
"We have chemistry together?"
"Yeah you're right, we do. You're Peter, right?"
"I am Peter" he agreed bashfully and you stayed quiet after that.
You studied in silence, glancing at Peter more than you thought was appropriate. But honestly, Peter was the same, he couldn't keep his eyes off of you. Only looking away, when you picked up your gaze, eyes almost catching his.
You were done with your tea and with your studying. It was time to leave, altough you felt yourself not wanting to. But you had no other choice, it was already getting late and if you sat there any longer, you would have to walk in a complete dark.
You packed all your stuff and got up from the chair, "thank you for letting me sit with you, goodbye Peter."
And again you gave him the shy but pretty smile and it had him weak in his knees.
"N-no problem, bye " he stuttured and you saw he wanted to say more, but stayed quiet, so you left.
You didn't notice the pen falling from your notes as you hurried away from the coffee shop.
"Wait, please! You lost your pen" a voice called after you. You turned around and saw Peter running to you. His bag was half closed, his things almost spilling from it.
He extended his hand out and handed you the pen, "you lost your pen."
"You ran after me, because of a pen?"
"Um yeah" his ears grew red. You didn't mean for the question to come across as mocking.
"Thank you, really. I appreciate it, it is my favorite pen" you lied to make him feel better and gave him a soft smile.
"Glad, i could help..."
"Would you-"
"Yeah?" he wanted to ask you out, but he got cold feet and stopped.
"Nothing, sorry" your beam went down and you were about to leave, but changed your mind. If he weren't gonna ask you out, you would.
"Would you like to go out with me sometimes?" you rambled.
"Yes! Yeah, i'd like that" he admited.
"Really?" you beamed and Peter couldn't help but to smile, too.
"Yeah really, i've wanted to ask you out for a long time" he said.
"Why haven't you?" you had no idea where the sudden confidence came from, maybe from him saying yes, but you went with it.
"Thought, that maybe you already had someone" he scratched the back of his neck .
"And how do you know, that I do not?" you teased him.
"Do you?"
"No" you chuckled.
"I'm glad" he chuckled aswell.
"Are you going to the campus?" he questioned.
"Yup, that's the plan. The walk from here is not long" you confirmed.
"You are going to walk there?" his eyes widened. You were slightly confused by his reaction.
"Yes?"
He looked even more alarmed then before, " you are gonna walk there. Alone. In the dark?"
Oh. That's why he looked so worried.
"It's just a few minutes long walk" you stated, you've walked from the coffee shop many many times.
"That doesn't matter, what if something happens to you?"
"It's fin-"
"No it's not" he frowned at you, "Can i walk with you?"
"S-sure" you softly responded. You guys weren't even dating yet and he was already worried about you. It made you want to melt at the spot.
"Great, let's go."
"You really shouldn't walk alone, when's dark..." he started as you walked side by side.
You had a big smile on your face as he listed all of the reasons of why you shouldn't do it and even alternatives how to get home safer.
One of the alternatives, that he'd proposed was that he would walk with you. That made you smile even more, the affection for the boy was already sky high and you feared it would only get worse after the date.
...
...
...
Hey guys, thank you for reading. Posted this for the second time, it wasn't showing up in the tags...
Let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated.
Have a great day and stay safe everybody. Peace out ☀️
#tasm!spider man#tasm!peter parker#tasm!peter x y/n#tasm!peter x oc#tasm!peter fic#tasm!peter fluff#tasm!peter x reader#tasm!peter fanfiction#tasm!peter parker imagine#tasm! peter parker x reader#tasm! peter parker fluff#tasm!peter parker x reader#tasm!peter x you#tasm!peter parker x you#peter parker#spider man#peter parker imagine#peter parker x reader#peter parker x fem!reader#peter parker angst#peter parker fluff
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