tags: 18+ graphic smut, rough sex, dirty talk, religious themes, partie, nsfw brainrot, blond peter parker, unprotected sex, mentions of smoking and alcohol consumption, swearing, sexualized halloween costumes, daddy kink, some roleplay, fingering, oral sex, slapping and pain kink, mentions of anal, just pure filth with 9k words
summary: ever since the bathroom incident, you’re the first person that peter parker looks for in every party. halloween is sinful, but so is the way you look at him from across the room.
note: ridiculous easily became a favorite of mine and many, and since it was so requested, i decided to make a follow-up! this can be a standalone fic but i recommend reading the first part here :) not my gif!!!
missing out? ➤ my masterlist
- inspo for reader’s costume! - my blonde ag/peter playlist
It’s ridiculous how many times you’ve run into Peter Parker at a party. The artificial blond himself had gained an affinity for perfect attendance ever since the filthy, filthy bathroom incident that occurred not too long ago. What was supposed to be a moment to get away from the noise of hyper college students turned into a moment that generated even more noise (or from what Peter keenly remembers: joyous sounds of pleasure) between two spiteful, horny and marijuana-driven third years.
It’s even more ridiculous that you haven’t fucked since said incident. Every time you’ve seen him, nothing but a longing look and a courteous raising of a red solo cup is shared between you. Almost like you were acknowledging each other, instilling a challenge as to who would break first.
How could this be a competition when the two of you had already lost beforehand?
It’s not that you were chasing after him. God forbid you did. Dick is disposable, you know. But something about Peter and the way he absolutely devoured you that night, showed you what kind of gentleman he was, how he set this excessive standard for the next fuck and the fuck after that, made you want more. So much more. Maybe it was the blond, or maybe it was just the weed. Yet, nothing about what happened felt like a bad trip. It felt real, and you could still feel the high of having Peter’s lips on your body and his smoke residing in your lungs.
Honestly, he couldn’t look at a blunt the same way ever again after what you did to him. Blowing into his mouth like you wanted him. Wanted him more than a youthful one-night stand. Wanted him more than a simple bathroom fuck and tangled limbs inside a clawfoot tub in a house that wasn’t even yours.
Peter isn’t one to harbor feelings that last more than a few months, but he can’t stop replaying and rewinding the events of that night. Of you, more than anything — your moans, the hickies he was shamefully excited to wake up to the following day and subtly show off to his friends, how you dared to look him in the eye for the remainder of the party, even innocently smiling his direction as if he hadn’t just bent you over cold porcelain and fucked you till you couldn’t form words.
You’re the first person he looks for at every gathering.
Even now, in the chaos of this so-called “Flash’s Halloween Bash,” Peter scans the living room and foyer meticulously, squinting through the dim lights and tuning out the harmonious cheers at the beer pong table beside him. The infamous red solo cup in his hand has barely been touched. He’s been easing up on drinking lately — can’t have too many vices, recalling his roommate’s advice.
He’s come dressed as a priest, black button-down with the white collar and everything. The person wearing it is far from holy, but Halloween means he could be anything he wanted and no one could tell the truth from his method of pretending. Peter can’t exactly pinpoint where the inspiration for his costume came from, but he remembers watching a specific episode of Fleabag that he just couldn’t shake out of his head.
Peter turns his ‘trying to look for someone while trying to be subtle’ situation into a game, naming every character and every costume he’s seen in the previous years before due to a drought of originality amongst his peers. His friends have come as basic Halloween staples: sexy nurse, sexy lumberjack, his friend and his friend’s boyfriend as Chippendale strippers, and even a sexy rainbow Spider-Man — he’s used to it by now, in fact, it’s good for his ego. Good for suit design ideas, too. Especially now with the blond hair, the red and blue seemed a little overkill. He’s been meaning to don a black one.
There’s one costume in particular he hasn’t seen before.
Hello, sexy nun.
It sounds gross. He knows.
Then said sexy nun turns around and he’s met with an all too familiar face, a face that is practically ingrained into his list of hookups and knocks every other name out of the ballpark. He should’ve known, how could he have not when the outline of your body was basically embedded into his hippocampus?
In the blue-light hue of the room, you spot him the same moment as he spots you.
Peter feels like he’s in that bathtub all over again when smoke effortlessly escapes your bloody red lips and clouds into the stuffy air.
He wants to feel your breath against his mouth again. Hard and noisy, strained and needy. But again, it’s like you’re testing him and his self-control. He’s good about sex. He’s not addicted, but he may as well be when you shoot him a shit-eating grin and casually turn back to your group of girlfriends like you hadn’t just eye-fucked each other from across the room.
He can smell your shampoo from here.
It’s like that for a good portion of the night: second glances and teasing glints in your expressions. It isn’t till a little less than halfway through the party that Peter is able to actually see you up close — hair semi-tucked into the black and white veil that drapes over your shoulders, the skirt of your fake habitat exposing enough thigh and leg to get you banned from a real life convent, black shadow purposefully smeared across your eyes with hand-drawn Petrine crosses just below your lower lashes in a blasphemous spite.
Your group of friends suddenly mesh with his own, sparking conversations amongst themselves as Peter tries his best not to drool over you. He doesn’t know you’re thinking the same. In fact, the calm and collected manner you’ve decided to front is extremely convincing.
Similarly, Peter is eye candy himself. His hair has grown out, especially the brown roots that seem to intermix with the blond dye in his locks. He still looks like a walking temptation. You want nothing but to bite down on the clerical collar around his neck and stain it with your lipstick, make him force whimpers out of you as he hikes your skirt up your ass and take you on an altar of pillows.
Sure, it was just a Halloween costume. But if you really wanted to sell the vision, you’d surely play the part, wouldn’t you?
“Father Pete.” You playfully smirk, leaning into the wooden door frame to announce your entrance. Peter has his back pressed against the wall beside it, a hand tucked inside the pocket of his dark pants.
You take a sip out of your drink with raised brows in anticipation of his reaction. He feigns a bit of surprise, despite knowing that you’d been lingering near him for quite some time already.
“Oh, Sister Y/N.” You don’t make eye contact with him. But Peter makes sure to take in the details of your face, staring intently at your bold choice of lipstick and the darkness around your eyes. He smiles. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
But he did. He had been looking forward to this conversation the whole time.
Your black nails tap slowly against your solo cup. “Didn’t expect you to come dressed as a priest.” Your lips tug into a toothy grin when he fully turns his body to you, standing straighter than before. “Was the Devil already taken?”
“You know, I thought about showing up as an angel but it just seemed out of character.” Peter shrugs, glancing over at you as he pulls out a pre-wrapped joint and lighter. “Not really my brand, to be honest.” He cups a hand by the flame, humming in disapproval when he fails to light the blunt.
You nod, fishing out your own lighter when you notice his embarrassing struggle. You don’t respond right away, leaning into him as you flick the button and ignite the generous blunt between his pretty lips.
Your eyes linger on each other, the flame illuminating the lower half of his face. He teasingly fiddles with the material of your veil before you can pull away, looking down at you with a jutted chin and a pointed nose.
It’s painfully slow and almost agonizing how he avoids touching your bare skin. Refusing to be swayed by his actions, you break the silence.
“Were you expecting me to dress as something slutty?”
Peter laughs hard at that. “Oh, is this not — this isn’t slutty? If I’m honest, nothing’s sluttier than a nun in a tiny dress, Sister Y/N. The church should be appalled.”
He quickly offers you the blunt.
“Been trying to cut back.” You reject it with a bashful look.
“But you’re drinking?
“Well, it’s just punch.” You roll your eyes at the blond, studying how his jaw flexes while he inhales deeply. He nearly falls into you when a crowd of first-years brush past the both of you, his hand hovering just above the small of your back.
Your mind is sent back to when he kissed you in the bathroom.
Peter huffs outward, pupils dilating when you awkwardly pick at the lint on his shoulder. He tries not to think about how your fingertips feel like fire — a good fire, warm and comfortable. Even through his button-down, he feels as if you’re leaving your prints all over his body again. You steal his place against the wall when he shifts to stand in front of you.
“What’s next? Practicing chastity?” His voice is low, his lively Queens accent seeping through his slow phrases as he stares you down with his arm propped just above your head. You bat your eyelashes at him, surveying how he bites his tongue in anguish. “Have you realized you’ve been ignoring me ever since I touched you that night?” He whispers, head dipping down so that his lips meet the conch of your ear. “Did you not enjoy, Y/N?”
“Quite the opposite. ‘Touched me’ seems like such an understatement, by the way.” You admit, matching his breathy tone as you avoid his gaze. “Frankly, I think I enjoyed myself too much around you.”
“Oh, really? You sure you came dressed in the right costume? Not very pure… of you… to confess you liked something that you weren’t supposed to be doing.”
“You…” You stifle a moan when his nose nudges the top of your head. Peter inhales deeply to smell you, making you pause in order to regain your broken composure. You blink back your nervousness. “… you have been eye-fucking me this entire party. As if — as if I wouldn’t notice. That doesn’t make you so nice and innocent either. Does it, Peter?” He chuckles in amusement when you crane your neck at him. “For a made-up priest, you sure do love indulging in sinful things.”
“There’s a reason I’m not a real one, Y/N.” He takes the cup of punch from your hands and raises it to his lips, blunt dangling between his slender fingers as he gazes at you over the lipstick-stained rim. “And there’s a reason why you aren’t a real nun.”
“I guess sex is just too good to let go.” You run your nails across his belt, skimming over the silver buckle. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” A stray bead of red punch drips from his bottom lip, and you’re quick to catch it with your thumb before he can. The liquid stains your skin, and leaves a red trail on Peter’s chin as you swipe it away. “I’m sure you can agree, right?”
He sighs audibly; his crotch presses against your thigh as he steps closer to you. Your voices are quiet beneath the booming bass, possibly mistaken with the beating of your own heart, yet it’s ironic how the first couple notes of Tainted Love play when Peter pushes the cloth of your veil to one shoulder. His eyes wander over your throat, recalling how beautiful the once-untouched skin looked in the wake of his kisses. He smells you again, like he’s addicted to that scent — the combination of your perfume accompanied by the bitterness of sweat.
“When was the last time you fucked someone?” He asks bluntly, looking at you through wispy lashes.
Your breath is warm against his jaw. “Is this your way of asking if I’m clean?”
“No, Y/N. It’s my way of asking if you’ve had sex with anyone else.”
“Other than you?”
“Other than me.”
The word leaves you in a sudden, nervous croak. He hasn’t wanted anyone this much in ages. “September.”
“Wasn’t that the month you and I fucked the bathroom? When I…” His lips hover over yours with a wolfish grin. “Fingered you behind that curtain?” You let out a shuddering breath, remembering how he shamelessly cupped his palm over your mouth and rendered you near speechless. “Just me then, huh?”
“Peter, your friends are looking.”
He steadies himself against the wall, briefly glancing over his shoulder before you look up at him expectantly. “Let them.”
“God, you fuckin’ asshole.” You bite your lip, pushing down a gasp when his hand ghosts up your knee. “What kind of priest seduces a nun?”
Peter grins sinfully, “You call this seducing? I’ll show you what seducing is. I’ll take you upstairs.” His fingers find the black lacy garter around your thigh, similar to the ones that brides would wear beneath their wedding dress. Certainly not something a nun would sport. His gaze flickers up to you, chest stiff from holding your breath. A blondish curl flops in front of his forehead, the little strand bouncing as Peter plays with the delicate band beneath your little dress. He’s trying to differentiate lust from his desire for you, but with the way you stare at him all yearning and doe-eyed, the terms have honestly become one in the same. Peter lets himself break. Just for you. A little bit to spur that nervous demeanor he loved seeing on you. “Tell me, Y/N. Do you want me as much as I want you right now?”
Your nostrils flare at him, because for one: he’s making a show out of this, he’s practically getting off on it — having you in a corner with nowhere to go, almost damaging your reputation of giving in to an asshole’s advances for some dick. You’re not desperate. Yet with him, you want nothing but his towering shadow to swallow you whole and relentlessly, even if it meant his friends and your friends would talk about it behind your backs.
Who cares, right?
But was it always about sex? In the time that you spent only thinking about Peter, not even touching him yet reminiscing over how his smoke filled your lungs and shoveled a carnal path to your heart, did you develop something more than a fickle sexual appetite for the blond?
Another bad decision couldn’t hurt. You speak before you can even register what you’re insinuating.
“Take me upstairs then and maybe you’ll have an answer.”
With that, Peter basically shoves his way up the staircase, dragging you along behind him. Insincere excuse me’s are thrown about as you push past the lingering partygoers on the steps. Neither of you can think about being polite right now, especially when your hand is tightly enveloped in Peter’s. His palm is searing with heat, digits curling around your knuckles as he pulls you into an unfamiliar hallway and what you believe is some stranger’s bedroom.
Immediately, he has you pinned against the locked door. Peter’s hands are heavy on your face as he holds you on either cheek, mashing his lips against yours hungrily. Nothing about it is sweet, nor shy, far from how he kissed you last time. It’s like he wants to jump inside you, make a home out of your mouth and melt as his tongue slips past your teeth and remembers the taste of your saliva. Normally, you would’ve cringed at how hard you were breathing on each other — but that sound of desperation, of obsessive pining, it did more than turn you on.
“Don’t cum in your pants now.” You giggle against his lips, his teeth pulling at your skin as he marks your neck. Your hands swiftly work through the buttons on his shirt, pushing the article of clothing down his long arms before you’re grasping at his exposed chest.
He sighs breathily, a mixture of laughter and embarrassment.
“Of course you’d never let that go.”
“It was hot.” He quickly tugs your veil off of your head, tossing the black material to the side before he runs his fingers through your locks. You still when he taps your chin, urging you to look up at him. “Really fucking hot.”
“You know what would be even hotter?” He smirks cockily.
His bare chest touches your clothed one, making your nipples harden through your dress as he presses against you.
“What?”
Peter cups a hand on the nape of your neck, holding you there as he lowers you onto the floor. You have no choice but to sink to your knees and hold eye contact with the dirty blond, sitting back on your calves.
If he was a preacher, he just made you his devoted follower.
“You shutting up and sucking my cock.”
“You have such a way with words, you know that?” You tease, rubbing circles on the tops of your thighs as Peter deftly unbuckles his belt. “One minute it’s, ‘I want you’ and the next it’s, ‘Suck my dick.’”
You help him shimmy his pants off of his legs and away from his feet, watching it join the rest of his clothes and shoes in the unruly pile by the corner.
“They basically mean the same thing.” Peter retorts, avoiding how he mindlessly confessed to ‘wanting you.’
Whatever that meant.
Your eyes widen when you take him in, fully and intently.
“This is new.”
An elegant spider, specifically a black widow, decorates the alabaster skin of his hip bone. The tattoo is smaller than your hand, the inked legs stark thin and outstretched across faded scars. You wonder how he got them, but you know it’s rude to ask. So you move on, continue to become accustomed to the new tattoo on his lower torso, red lips worshipping the drawing as you kiss up and down his abs with tenderness.
Peter sighs, his ego blossoming when you eagerly pull him closer by the waist and free his aching cock from his boxers. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you, entranced by the reflection of the ceiling light in your pupils and the glittery Petrine crosses on your face.
“Is it just me or are you getting deja vu?” He quips playfully, stomach twitching when you put pressure on the leaking slit of his head with your thumb. “God, because I am… one-hundred percent getting deja vu right now.” His hand splays over the six-paneled door when you replace your finger with your tongue, getting his thick length nice and wet with your spit.
“You talk too much, Parker.” You’ve barely done any damage to him, but his groans roll out wounded and clipped when you wrap your lips around the base of his cock, suckling the skin there. Saliva bubbles from your mouth as you run it across the side of his length, puckered lips staining his fair skin with a sinful red. “Maybe I should shut you up.”
“Keep talking back and your little cunt won’t be the only thing getting fucked tonight.”
Peter watches your irises darken with something deeper than playful lust, something he hadn’t seen when he had you like this in the past.
“And if I do?” You start with a challenging edge to your breathless voice, fist squeezing around the head of his cock. “What happens if I wanna run my mouth…” You swirl your tongue around him to collect the small drop of pre-cum on his tip, your words coming out as a moaning mewl when you swallow the salty bead. “… all fucking night?”
You’re driving him mental. He’s losing it, his urge to just throw you against the bed and fuck you until the headboard makes an indent in the wall has grown exponentially — in fact, that’s the only thing he wants to do right now, until you innocently nuzzle your cheek against him and gently kiss his pelvis. The notion itself sparks something in Peter.
“You really wanna know, princess?” He courses a hand through your hair, your head tilting back with the movement. His cock throbs the more he stares at your face, specifically your eyes, because they’re telling him all the things you can’t say out loud.
“I do.”
“Pretty sluts who talk when they’re not supposed to get their throats fucked.” You gulp heavily at his words. His control is shattering and Peter can just feel his desperation quickly seep through his dominant tone. “Do you want that, Y/N? Your throat fucked raw like a whore?” His brows cinch together, lines deepening on his forehead. “My big cock shoved all the way down, so hard and rough, you can’t talk? Till I leave that cute fuckin’ mouth all sore?”
You whine at that, breaking his glare with timidity at the thought. It makes you damp between the thighs, and Peter takes pleasure in how your skirt has ridden up to give him a perverted view at your black panties.
You stroke his length needily through ever-growing pants. “Maybe I’m into that sort of thing.” You rest your hands around the back of his thighs. He steps closer. “Maybe I want you to ruin me.”
A switch flips in his brain.
“You’ve gotten so bold since the last time I saw you. Do you really want that?”
“Please.” You nod rapidly and sincerely.
He continues combing through your hair, purring at you. “You tell me if it’s too much and I’ll stop, alright?” He bends down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. It’s sweet, but the moment is fleeting when Peter tucks a hand beneath your chin and the other behind your head to prevent you from hitting the door as he guides his cock between your lips. “Open. Wide. Wider, baby.” He can feel you exhale through your nose when his length fills your mouth. He’s heavy against your tongue, the spider tattoo on his hip bone just within your peripherals as you hollow out your cheeks for him. “Oh, Sister Y/N…” He chuckles mischievously. “Not so much of a saint when you have dick in your mouth.”
Your words come out muffled. “Maybe you need to bless me, Father.”
The blond catches you off guard, thrusting harshly into you. Your eyes screw shut as you gag noisily, and you can’t help but slap a hand over Peter’s upper thigh as leverage for something to hold onto. “You ask, and you — You. Shall. Fucking. Receive.” He snaps his hips into your mouth fast and unforgiving; your nose brushes against his sparse pubic hair before he pulls away, then thrusts back in without giving you a second of relief.
It’s almost embarrassing how much saliva is dripping from your chin, but with how his thick cock is straining your jaw, you’ll take anything to help the pain.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Peter cooes through a laugh. “Taking me like an absolute angel… fucking Christ, Y/N. Wonder if anyone’s fucked your mouth like this before.”
He’s careful not to use too much force, aware of how his differing strength may hurt you in the process.
But Peter is starting to realize that maybe you enjoy the pain.
He guides you by the back of your head, lightly pushing it down his length until you’re blubbering and salivating around his cock. Your grip on his thigh is unwavering, and Peter feels you squeeze the longer he continues.
You try not to count the seconds he keeps you like that, but five becomes ten, then ten becomes fifteen, and your temples are throbbing as the room spins and oh, god — he pulls out, a devilish chuckle leaving him while a loud cough rips right through your throat.
You abruptly sit back against the door, back hitting the wooden surface as you wipe away the spit on the lower half of your face. With red-rimmed eyes and damp cheeks, you gasp for air. Peter continues towering over you, cock in hand, before he gently caresses your jaw in an apologetic manner.
“Did I do okay?” You whisper, voice tight and gaze woozy as you peer up at him. He can’t hide the tugging smirk on his features when he notices how fucked-out you already look.
Nodding, Peter runs a thumb across your bottom lip. “Did better than okay, baby. You wanna sit on the bed for me?” He slips the digit into your mouth, pressing it against your warm tongue. “Let me show you how much of a good fucking girl you were to me.”
You whimper at that. The sound goes straight to his dick as he helps you stand. Peter takes your face into his hands, brushing back flyaways as he pulls you into another kiss. Your hands take to his chest, wandering across his ribs, his thin waist, the broadness of his shoulders. The wings of his back flutter beneath your touch, rippling under your nails when you scratch down his spine. He latches onto your jaw and makes an identical purplish mark to that of the one on his breast.
His fingers find the zipper of your dress, deftly dragging it till it stops just at the concave of your lower back. He helps you tug your arms out from the long black sleeves. Peter’s lips follow the wake of the newly exposed skin, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as he pulls the dress down your soft hips and the expanse of your thighs. He’s on his fucking knees, taking in the sight of your lingerie-clad body.
“Peter…” You sigh at the view of him stroking himself to you. His lips kiss over your knees then the waistband of your thong. His teeth find the lacy garter on your leg, canines tugging the pathetic material off of you. “I want you.”
“I know, princess.” He murmurs, sucking gently on your outer thigh. “Want you too, but you don’t get to rush this.” You yelp when a ripping sound fills the tense air, looking down to find your black panties in two pieces. You’re about to argue with him, but Peter quickly hooks your right leg over his shoulder and impatiently buries his face in your core.
A pornographic moan instantly slips out of you, mouth parting open as Peter flicks his tongue over your throbbing clit. He uses a hand to spread your folds apart, revealing the sticky mess of your cunt when he laps at your entrance.
“You know, I thought about you…” You pipe up breathlessly, holding onto a fistful of Peter’s blonde curls as his mouth works on you. “… after that night, after everything you did to me, I touched myself to you.” Peter groans at that. You take it as a sign to keep going. “Thought about your big fingers filling me up, your tongue on me. Tried — tried using a vibrator and it just couldn’t satisfy me the way you did.” The words fall from your lips without a second thought.
Your filter had practically vanished the instant that Peter put his hands on you.
Peter wonders what else you thought about, what other situations that you pictured him in, if your imagination was fueled by lust or…. maybe something more.
He suckles roughly on your clit, filthy noises escaping the both of you before he abruptly forces himself to pull away from you and pause because too much of you will make him grow absolutely mad. He moves to sit on the bed, chin glistening with your juices.
Your eyebrows draw together, worry and frustration mixing across your face. “Why’d you stop?” He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He does the same thing once more before he shifts awkwardly to shake his head, a shy expression dancing over his appearance. “What? Is something wrong?”
You bend down, slowly kneeling between his thighs to catch his far-off gaze. “It’s stupid.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.” You smile warmly at him.
“No, no, I think it is. Feels self-indulgent.”
“Well, whatever you wanna tell me, I’m listening.”
Peter realizes you’ve wrapped your hand around his — fingers intertwined and everything. It’s comforting, but even then, all it does is make the conversation harder for him to get past. He lets out an embarrassed groan, hair falling against his forehead as he looks anywhere but you.
“Can I… can I ask what else you thought about? With me?”
Your eyes widen, because certainly, it wasn’t the question you were expecting. The cocky blond anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip. Unsure and lacking self-confidence for once, it makes you huff in amusement and you use the situation to your advantage.
“Okay, well…” You clear your throat. “There were a lot of things. Where do you wanna start?”
“From the beginning.”
You nod as you move to stand, “I thought about… what would’ve happened if we got caught. The taste of your lips, how I could smell you all over me even after I showered.” You rake your fingers through his hair, similar to how he did to you earlier. “Thought about you stuffing my mouth… with your fingers, with my panties, with anything really… just to shut me up. To keep me quiet. I thought about you…” You swallow, the thought itself makes you wet, but saying it aloud makes you ache. “… fucking me in the ass. Just imagined how your cock — that big, fucking cock — would stretch me out, make me cry and cream all over you.” Peter finds himself looking up at you like you’re God herself, quiet moans leaving him as you wrap a fist around his length and pump him. His middle and ring finger find your cunt, slowly teasing your entrance.
“More.”
“Thought about you spanking me, slapping my face, pulling my hair.” You moan loudly when a hand comes down onto your ass cheek, a pleasurable sting rippling through your flesh. “I wanted you to punish me, to edge me, to fucking call me names… to take me rougher.”
His nose nudges against your belly. His breaths become ragged, noisier and more desperate with each word that leaves you. “You dirty fucking girl.”
“I thought about riding your thigh. Maybe even riding your face, wondering how it would feel to have you at my mercy. I… I just wanna hear you beg.” A strangled growl erupts from Peter. He pushes his fingers into you, your juices squelch around the long digits. “Peter… I — fuck, I wanted you to tie me up… to make me yours…”
“Are — are you not?” He grunts when you squeeze the head of his cock. “Fuck, Y/N… your h-hand…”
“Do you understand what you do to me?” You whine out, cupping his cheek with knitted brows. “I’ve — God, I have one more thing to tell you.”
His hips rut upwards. “You’re gonna kill me, princess.”
“I’ve always…” You chuckle, the sound cut off by Peter’s fingers filling you to the hilt. “… fuck — fuck, I’ve always wondered how does Peter Parker respond to being called daddy?” His hand comes to a halt as his jaw clenches visibly. You hum lowly in approval, massaging his scalp. “You like it don’t you, Peter? Or should I say… daddy?”
He hisses sharply. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s not holy to use God's name in vain.”
“And it’s not very holy of you to call me daddy, but here you are. Tell me again. What’s my name, Y/N?”
His fingers curl into you.
“Daddy.”
“Can’t hear you. Gotta be louder for me.” Peter’s hand picks up the pace, the heel of his palm snapping against your clit as you try your best to stay balanced on your feet.
“Oh, fucking — daddy. Daddy. Please.”
“Look at you. All fucking smug and shit, thinking you got me wrapped around your pretty finger.” He stands up. And there, you remember how much taller he is. You let out a cry when he grabs you roughly by the chin, thumbs digging into the puffiness of your cheeks as he squishes your lips together harshly. His dominant exterior has returned, fingering you faster than before. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Do you get off on teasing me? Get off on being called daddy’s good fucking girl?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” You squeeze your thighs together, but the hand that was clasped on your chin suddenly flies across your cheek and it takes you by pleasurable surprise. Peter just slapped you — and you fucking liked it. His breath fans over your pained features, nose nudging gently against your eyebrow as he presses a kiss to your temple. “Don’t close your legs on me. Don’t do that. You know better, Y/N.”
“I’m sorry, daddy.”
He smiles in satisfaction.
This is sinful. Absolutely sinful.
“Get on the bed for me.” Peter pulls his hand from you, leaving you aching and throbbing for more when he licks at his damp fingers. “Let’s see if that cunt remembers how to take me.”
You easily comply, still reeling yourself back into reality from the hard slap he drove across your face. You lay back, hands laid out over your head as Peter unhooks the clasp in front of your bra. It’s convenient, he thinks, but it would’ve been better if he could rip it off of you like he had done to your panties from earlier. He kisses along the swell of your breasts, suckles a faint mark right on the side, before he’s taking a nipple into his mouth and tugging lightly.
“You’re still on the pill, yeah?” He asks, eyes glancing up at you as he gives attention to your other breast. You nod rapidly, biting your tongue as he licks a slow stripe down your abdomen. “Good, because I’ve been dreaming of cumming inside you again.”
“Holy shit.” You gasp out, his words going straight to your sopping cunt.
“All fours. Then I’m fucking you missionary later, baby. Love seeing your face when you cum.” Nothing but moans fall from your mouth as Peter flips you over and pulls you onto your knees, your face falling against the unfamiliar pillows and blankets. His lips trail down your back, past the curve of your hips, then his presence is gone. “Hold on. Thought of something we could use.”
You glance over your shoulder as he quickly pads to the corner of the room, picking something off of the floor.
No.
No, he wasn’t going to do that. Was he?
Peter emerges with the white clerical collar from his priest costume. He plays with it, twirling the stiff material between his fingers. The bed dips when he joins you. His face comes down by your ear.
“Earlier… you said you wanted your mouth stuffed, right?” You nod meekly in agreement. “You said you wondered. Well, now, you won’t really need to wonder anymore.”
He slips the collar between your parted lips, grabbing onto either end to pull you up to his chest. You bite down on the plastic, teeth gritting against it as the head of Peter’s cock prods at your folds.
If there’s a God, you’re sure that Heaven is the last place he’d want you to be. But here, with Peter’s arms wrapped around you, your back to his chest, you suppose Hell and every ring within Dante’s Inferno would suffice.
You just want him. After all the teasing and the filthy conversations exchanged, you just want everything he has to offer you. No matter how painful.
You whisper shyly, “I want all of it.”
Peter stills, admiring your side profile. “Are you sure, baby?”
He nibbles on your earlobe. You can feel his eyelashes against your cheekbone, the smell of his musk filling your senses.
“Please, daddy. Need it. Need it so bad.”
You ache for more of him, his thick head spreading you apart as he penetrates you.
“You’re getting so good at begging.” He takes your hands in his, running them down your breasts and waist so that you can feel yourself. “If it hurts, I need to know. Okay?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“No, no, no. Say it for real.” You’re confused as to what he means by that, but his swollen lips and the weight of his words against your mouth helps you. His brown eyes are kind and sincere, filled with warmth and desire as he looks past your naked body. Briefly, he takes the collar out from between your lips so you can speak clearly. “Say my name so I know you understand, Y/N.”
“Yes, Peter. I understand.”
With that, the blond thrusts into you with one fast motion. The fullness of his cock inside your cunt makes you gasp out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. He kisses you again, tongue delving past your teeth to drown in you and take your mind away from the stinging stretch of your walls. His hand feels light on your face, his features contorted into utter yearning when you return the gesture and touch him gingerly.
“Can I move?” He sighs, his breath once again bringing life to your lungs. “You’re — fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so hard. You gotta stop that.”
You giggle mischievously. “Why? Are you gonna cum prematurely again?”
The jab causes Peter’s eyes to darken. He hums at that, then thrusts harshly into you with flaring nostrils. You cry out in surprise when he stuffs the collar back between your teeth, gagging you. “Wow, who fucking said you could talk like that? You know, Y/N, baby, I could end this right here and right now…” You’re clenching tightly around him, your wetness smearing the back of your thighs and his heavy balls. “… make you walk out of this room all by yourself… your pussy dripping, just aching, because I didn’t let you cum.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I won’t do it again.”
He pushes you down by the head, fucking you deeply into the mattress. His bottom lip is tucked between his teeth as his hips meet your ass, skin slapping against skin as he spreads you apart with his large hands. “Daddy. You call me daddy. Nothing else, nothing more.” He grabs a handful of your hair, fisting into the tangled strands as he pounds into you. “Taking me so well. Such a fucking bad girl now, yet your cunt is just… fucking hell — shit, you’re made just for me. Aren’t you?”
“I’m all yours. Yours to ruin.”
“That’s right, princess.” He spits into his hand, spreading the saliva across the pads of his fingers before he’s circling your clit with his middle digit. “You’re mine. Don’t even know the first thing about you and yet this belongs to me.”
The comment leaves a weird taste in your mouth, but he isn’t wrong.
He doesn’t know the first thing about you.
But it doesn’t deter you from wanting him any less.
“You’re giving it to me so — so fucking good, daddy.” You pant out, sweat building on your forehead as his cock continues prodding your g-spot. “Love the way you fuck me. Fuck me like I’m nothing but… but a little slut.”
“My little slut.”
You sob in pleasure. “Your little slut.”
“Aw, Y/N…” He chuckles darkly, hand splayed over your tailbone as his thrusting slows. Your inner thighs feel unusually wetter, then you realize what’s happened. “I just made you squirt all over my dick.”
“Fuck, this is so embarrassing.” You spit the collar out, laughing nervously in hopes that you hadn’t ruined the moment.
His lips twitch at that, nostalgic to when he accidentally came from eating you out in the bathtub back in September.
“Personally, I think it’s really hot. Maybe I can make you do it again.” He smiles innocently, leaning over your body to kiss your cheek. His raspy voice is laced with sin, filth dripping from his words. “This isn’t even our bed and yet you’ve made a mess of it, Y/N.”
Our bed.
No, no. Can’t think like that when his cock is still hard inside you. But it’s warranted — warranted when he captures your mouth into another tender kiss that feels too romantic for the situation, too real and too gentle for a quick hookup. He pulls away and rests his forehead against yours, his soft blond curls sticking to your slick skin as you both catch your breaths.
You don’t say anything after, just let Peter pull you from your awkwardly-bent position and comfortably roll you onto your back. He keeps a hand behind your neck, lips wandering over the marks he left from earlier.
“Y/N…” You bring his face up to yours when your name is uttered, thumb drawing circles on his chiseled jaw to show him he has your full attention before he continues. “I…”
“Yeah?” You raise a brow.
He does that thing he did before — mouth opens, closes, the cogs in his brain turn visibly. “I… fuck. Sorry, I forgot.”
You don’t believe him one bit, face softening when you see a flicker of sadness glaze over his pupils. But you don’t egg him on, instead, you caress his cheek with a weak nod. “Okay.”
Peter smiles sheepishly to recover his fumbling. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
The compliment makes your lips twitch with giddiness, and you poke his sternum with your finger. “Thanks, you.” You kiss his eyelid, brushing back his hair away from his vision. “You still wanna keep going?”
“Yeah, I’m — sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the moment. I definitely want to.” He shifts, bringing your knees up to your chest as he nips at the backs of your thighs. “I wanna make you cum, Y/N.”
You shiver when he kisses the swollen nub of your clit. The light gesture makes your legs tremble, your hole clenching at the almost-innocent notion. “Then do it.”
He scoffs with a casual shrug. “You’re supposed to ask me nicely.”
“Can you please make me cum?” You teasingly grin at Peter, biting the nail of your thumb as he repeats the pleasurable action, kissing your mound. “Please, daddy? I’ve been so, so good tonight.”
“Not entirely, but I’ll let it slide, princess.” He spreads your legs apart, letting your calves rest on the top of his firm shoulders as he strokes his cock into his fist, using his spit as lube. “Maybe next time, I’ll remember to punish you.”
“Oh, fuck.” His throbbing tip slips in first, the reddened head of his cock is enough to make you whine for more. “God. Oh, my god.”
Then the rest of him follows, his pelvic bone flush against your body as he buries his length inside you. He’s cursing uncontrollably under his breath, filthily watching how his cock disappears into your wet cunt and swallows his prick wholly. He studies the way your eyes roll to the back of your head when he shifts slightly, hiking your legs higher for more access.
“I could stay here forever.” He licks his lips, gauging your reaction as he lazily plays with your clit. “Make your cunt nothing but a nice little place to rest my cock. So warm, so tight for me, I wouldn’t even have to fuck you and I’d be content.”
“I need you so bad. Please.”
He slaps you again. It isn’t as harsh, but the sting is enough to make you behave for the time being. “You know what that’s called? When I keep my cock inside you, but don’t fuck you?”
“No, daddy.”
“It’s called cockwarming.” He spares you the anticipation, slowly drilling his length into you until a string of moans escape your quivering frame. “And that’s what I do to sluts who don’t know how to act right. Maybe it’ll teach you a thing or two.”
“I’ll be a good girl.”
“You better, or else I won’t make you cum.” He keeps a hand on your hip, the other wraps softly around your calf. “I was being nice when I fucked you in the bathroom. Here, now, you’re gettin’ a bit too comfortable with my kindness.” He pulls his hands away from your body, resting each palm on either side of your head as he hovers over you. “Earn it. Earn your fucking reward.”
At this point, neither of you care how loud your moans have been. Peter’s practically a moaning mess when you start to fuck yourself on his cock. Your breasts bounce with each desperate motion. You’re not sure how much longer you can take, but you want every minute with Peter to last.
“Can you feel me?” You breathe out, cupping the blond’s face as you gaze up into his starry eyes. “Can you feel my pussy milking you?”
“Fuck, baby — yeah, I can. Not gonna be so tight when we’re finished, aren’t you?” He says through a whimper, meeting your cunt with his hard strokes. “Maybe I’ll need to fuck something tighter…”
“Oh, my god.” Your face heats up at the thought.
“Like your ass.”
“Fucking hell, Peter.”
“Mhm, you want that. I know you do. Makin’ a real mess here, Y/N.” He gestures to the sticky mess on his lower stomach as your juices continue to coat his cock. “Just by me saying I wanna fuck your ass? Can’t help but wonder what else could happen if I actually did.”
The ache in your cunt grows stronger as Peter quickens his thrusts. Your skin is red with irritation from the action of his skin slapping against yours. Peter’s fingers make indents in your stomach as he guides your body to meet his.
“Whore.” You whisper, recalling the nicknames you used on each other from before.
He can’t help but smile. “Slut.”
“Show me next time…” You fist the bedsheets, nose scrunching up as you snarl desperately at him. “Next time you fuck me, we can try all the things I said I wanted you to do to me.”
Next time, he thinks. Your words echo through his mind.
Peter’s movements grow sloppier. He buries his face by the crook of your neck, mouth falling open in wanton satisfaction.
“Fuck, Y/N. Oh, fuck. You — you feel so goddamn good. Baby, I can’t… can’t get enough of you…” You can feel him falling apart. Peter’s soft voice is an instant giveaway, based on how his deep groans suddenly turn into needy whimpers. “I don’t wanna do this with anyone but you. You don’t understand how fucking good you are to me — how this cunt just milks me and milks me… could fill you up for days if you’d let me.”
I don’t wanna do this with anyone but you.
If you’d let me.
His words find your heart more than the space between your legs.
“Peter, I’m so close… fuck, I’m — right there, please. Yes, right there!” You cry out, shaking your head through a blubbering sob as his finger circles your clit. The combined pressure and the harsh pounding of his cock sends you into a frenzy, incoherent sentences leaving your mouth as Peter moans shamelessly above you.
“There we go, look at you. Look at you, princess. Feels n-nice, doesn’t it? I bet you’re so close.” His words are shaky, his own release approaching as your cunt flutters periodically around him.
Your mouth hovers over his lips, mouths searching for each other in the dim light as he tries to kiss you. “Tell me if I’ve been a good girl.”
“The best girl. You’re my best girl, princess. Taking my cock like a champ, taking it like you’re made for it.” His eager praises push you closer to the edge. “Oh, baby. You’re shaking. You wanna cum so bad, that your body is practically beggin’ daddy to give you an out. I think you’ve been an angel tonight. A little rebellious…” He chuckles, before inhaling deeply. “But I think you’ve shown me how well you can behave. That’s all daddy wants from you, Y/N.” He kisses your temple, then your cheek, your jaw, until he’s tugging at your bottom lip with yearning. “Oh, fuck. Cum all you want for me. You’ve earned it, sweetheart.”
“I’m — I’m… please, Peter!”
“Shit, you’re so tight. Jesus, Y/N, I’m gonna…”
“I’m cumming!” You sob loudly, forehead resting against Peter’s as you crudely moan together in tandem.
His cock is pulsating inside you, his spill painting the walls of your cunt with a milky white as you unforgivingly squeeze the cum right out of him. Peter whines your name with closed eyes. The intensity of your orgasms leave you spent, nothing but an exchange of pants and satisfied groans fill the sex-scented air as you clutch Peter’s shoulder. He leaves a path of kisses across your collarbone, his nose bumping against yours before he explores your mouth yet again.
“Shit…” He whispers, wincing at your reaction when he tries pulling out. “Sorry, sorry.”
“S’alright.” You sit up on your forearms, eyes dancing over Peter’s face as he watches his cum seep out of you. “God, you weren’t kidding when you said the bed is a mess.” You laugh with an embarrassed look, rubbing your neck as Peter moves to lay beside you.
He sighs loudly and rests his hands over his stomach. “Yeah, I feel really bad for whoever’s sleeping here tonight.”
“You’re an asshole for that.”
“Oi, don’t get me started on you, freak.” He teases, flicking your side as you tuck your head between his chest and his arm. The laugh that runs through your body is innocent and sincere. Peter can feel the warm rumble of your giggle in his chest, and his heart grows fonder at the sight of you exhausted and sleepy.
“Hey, I…”
“Y/N…”
You chuckle awkwardly at each other, tearing your gazes away from one another’s faces as you recollect your thoughts.
“Sorry, you first.” You offer, gesturing at him with an open hand.
“No, you. Please.” His thumb begins to trace the visible veins on your wrist. Peter finds pleasure in how your small hand fits in his, fingers twitching against his knuckles as you swallow with uncertainty.
“Earlier…” The word already makes Peter anxious. “You said my name, like you wanted to tell me something.”
“Yeah?”
You continue despite knowing it sounds stupid aloud, especially when the blond’s eyes intently lock onto your face.
“But then, you told me that you forgot.” He nods in acknowledgment. “Did you — did you remember what it was?”
You can feel his body tense beneath you. He shifts, running a hand through his hair as he stares up at the ceiling nervously.
“I never forgot, I just… dunno. Don’t think it’s something I can say to you.”
“Oh, okay. Is it, uh, like a thing? Like a frat thing? Or…”
Peter huffs at that, counting the seconds that pass by as he tries to think of something in response. “No, it’s more of a…” He sighs again, and you look up at him. “It’s about a girl.”
“Oh.” Your face falls. You have no right to feel bad, but every bone in your body goes limp with complete disappointment.
“And, I’m not entirely sure how she feels about me.”
“Uhuh.” You try to tune him out, realizing that your awful decisions have finally caught up to you as he continues onward.
At this point, you don’t want to listen. You know it’ll only make you angry, but Peter doesn’t take the hint, not even when you sit up and defensively pull your knees to your chest. In fact, he mirrors you, using a blanket to cover his indecency despite the established intimacy between the two of you.
Maybe it wasn’t intimacy.
There’s a fine line between that and… fucking, you suppose.
“I don’t think she really likes me as a person, and I… I don’t really know much about her, because she’s — she’s cool, and she keeps to herself most of the time. And I don’t see her often. But when I do…” He looks over at you, admiring how your gaze softens as he speaks almost cautiously. “When I do see her, I think of what it would be like to get to know her.”
“I’m not sure if I’m the right person to talk to about this kind of stuff.” You shrug with an irritated scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you narrow your eyes at him.
He’s upset you. But Peter continues, knowing that you’re smart enough to recognize the underlying meaning of his dumb words. “I haven’t taken her on a date. I don’t even know her — her last name or her major, or what kind of food she likes.”
“Well, that’s the whole point of going on a date. Peter, is this really what you wanted to tell me?” You break eye contact, putting up another wall as you get up to collect your clothing.
“Y/N. Stop what you’re doing and look at me.”
You turn to him with a clenched jaw and wide eyes. “I don’t understand you.”
“I don’t know the first thing about her. But I want to, if she’d let me.”
If you’d let me.
The familiar phrase from earlier sinks in. Oh.
“Are you…” You laugh, more out of fear rather than actual humor. “Are you talking about me?“
“Yes, you dumbass.” Peter drags a heavy hand across his face, cupping it over his eyes as he avoids your shocked glare.
He can’t be serious. You know how cruel fratboys can be, so you choose not to believe him. “Peter, I-I don’t even know you.”
“I know, and I…” He groans in frustration. “I know I’ve probably ruined everything by hooking up with you, and — and I don’t normally find myself crushing on the people I have sex with… but I… I don’t know, Y/N. I’m a dick, and I’m sorry. So if you wanna forget about what I said, that’s fine. I just wanted to — to tell you. For closure.”
“You’re genuine?”
“Why would I be lying?”
“Because…” You scowl stubbornly, covering your breasts with the cloth of your dress. “Because you’re blond and an asshole.”
He laughs.
You do, too.
“Listen, I know what we have is unconventional. Like the most unconventional thing to base a relationship off of. And I’m not saying we even need to have a relationship, I just… I think I like you. And I wanna know everything about you.”
“Okay.” You slip your dress on, flexible fingers pulling the zipper up before you pick up your shoes and veil.
“Okay.”
You smile playfully. “That’s it?”
“What — what do you mean ‘that’s it?’ I said everything I wanted to say.” You slowly nod at that, grinning as you unlock the bedroom door. Peter watches anxiously as you linger by the doorway, your body wedged between the open crack.
The corners of your lips tug upwards.
“I don’t want you to become a stranger.”
The confession makes Peter feel weak in the knees. “I don’t want that, either.”
“Then you can start by asking for my number, Parker.”
A humorous huff escapes him. His shoulders deflate, a relieved chuckle whistling through his teeth.
“Can I get your number?”
You share a look of fondness in the midst of your distance.
Although the drumming music from downstairs feels loud and the chatter of people grows livelier with each long minute, it isn’t enough to drown the romantic tension between you and the bright-eyed blond. You step back into the room with him, shutting the door behind you. Peter doesn’t move an inch from where he stands, eyes trained on you as you take a pen from the desk by the closet and retrieve the clerical collar of his costume off the ground.
You scribble messily onto the white material, ink staining your fingers before you quietly hand the collar back to him.
“Think I’d like to know a little more about you, too.”
Peter smiles vibrantly. “You just ruined my Halloween costume.”
“Yeah, and you ruined my makeup. What else is new?” You nudge him, stepping closer towards him. “You should really get dressed before someone finds us here.”
He peers down at you, adoringly. “Oh, really?”
You get lost in the way he looks at you. “Yeah, never a good thing to get caught.”
“Mmm, I’m sure you know.” Simultaneously, your eyes linger on each other’s lips. Peter lifts a hand to caress your cheek. His thumb travels down your jawline, cradling your chin in his palm as he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead.
“Don’t be a stranger, Peter. Call me.”
His words are gentle, coming out as sheepish yet playful against your skin. “From a scale of one to ten, how much do you like me?”
“Negative.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“Well, last time was different.” His face nears yours, lips hovering over one another yet again with giddy smiles. “But you’re still the same blond asshole I met in the bathroom.”
Hi Mae!!! Im SOO HAPPY that i've finally built up the courage to ask you for a post!! I love ur writing soo much. Could I get like a tasm!Peter Parker x reader where she somehow convinces peter to let her try on his suit and when it properly fits her she kinda looks super hot in it and Peter is all over her?? Feel free to ignore this if u want! I LOVE UR WRITING BTW. Byyyeee
Love you!! Thanks for requesting <3
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 456 words
Your laughter echoes ominously from inside the bathroom.
"What?" Peter asks.
"Nothing," you say back. "I just don't know if I could fight crime in this thing. The cameltoe is insane."
He snorts. "Yeah, I don't really have that problem with it."
"I guess," you admit, as you open the bathroom door and step out, "we're not really the same size…"
Peter has no witty comebacks to that. He has no words, period.
When you asked to try on his suit, he didn't expect it to fit you. And it doesn't really, some excess fabric puddling around your ankles and hanging off your shoulders, but the places where it is fitted are distracting enough to leave Peter tongue-tied like a twerpy pre-teen.
"Wow," he manages to get out. One syllable, two distinct sounds. A feat.
You're not wearing the mask (a lucky thing, otherwise this might have proven a pretty sexually confusing experiment) so Peter sees every ounce of mischief in your eyes when you tilt your head and smile. "Can I try the web shooters, too?"
"Totally." Peter flicks his wrists, latching onto your hips on either side. When he pulls tight, you have no choice but to stumble towards him, laughing as you fall into his lap. "Another time."
"Why not now?"
"Too much power."
You grin at him, positively impish as your legs shift to straddle him more fully. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Sorry, you've got to go through orientation first."
You set yourself down in his lap. Peter's hands travel from your hips down your legs, meandering, but your bravado slips when you hear a ripping sound.
"Oh, no." You twist your neck to see your backside. You arch toward him a bit in the process, which Peter is not mad about. "I'm sorry—"
"It's fine," he says. "I'll fix it."
You still look guilty. "I didn't think it would tear."
"I tear it all the time. Trust me, this is not the worst tear this thing has seen." Peter touches your jaw, angling you for a kiss. "Anyway, it looks good on you. Worth it."
You soften. "You think?"
You let Peter kiss you a while longer. Your fingers cup his face and curl in the hair at the back of his head. He knew the material of his suit was slippery, obviously, but he never really considered how that might feel for you until he experiences the sensation of you moving smoothly over the material of his jeans. He can feel your body heat through the spandex.
"Are you super sure I can't try the web shooters?" you murmur near his ear after a while.
warnings: 18+ to be safe - minors dni. there are mentions of torture. period typical violence. smut ahoy (only mildly explicit). virgin!reader. peter maybe has a breeding kink? only slightly.
a/n: seriously the love on this is overwhelming. you are all amazing; i wish i could hug everyone who interacted on the last chapter. i hope you all love this one even half as much. thank you to squid and kayla for helping me workout the war origin plot, and basically everyone on my discord for being the best ever. and chapter is loosely edited because my eyes were going to fall out. tag-list is still open for chapter three! one more to go, all. cross-posted on my ao3.
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*
“and i can’t sleep because thoughts devour,
thoughts of you consume.”
war of hearts - ruelle.
*
The world around you descended into chaos. The war cries of Ayelandian men and women alike, shouting as the battle waged. You clambered into the cutout tree as instructed, holding Poison close to your chest. Trembling in pure terror. You felt utterly helpless. Defeated as the sound of a cart being toppled over and the resounding thud sent you jumping upward.
You clung to Peter’s words. He was lucky and he was true; he would return to you. You would go back to Ayelandia as husband and wife on a united front as he had promised you. You would live to see another sunrise. You repeated them over and over in your head, hands coming up to rest over your ears and blocking out the sounds of men groaning in pain.
You prayed they weren’t any of your own. That they weren’t Peter. Tried to not imagine his face, gray and pale. His eyes unfocused and unseeing as he slipped from the earth to join Gwen. No, you would not become a widow this night. You were determined to make it so—if you had any say in the matter.
The sound of a branch snapping greeted your ears then. Your breath hitched. Another snap followed as the footsteps grew closer and closer. A metal grating sound met your ears. Like that of a blade being drawn against a hard surface.
The trees you were currently hiding in.
Gasping, you clapped a hand over your mouth, forcing your body backward further into the hole. Pleading they wouldn’t notice you were there. Pleading they were an ally, and not someone intent on murdering you and your husband this night.
“I can smell your fear.” A man crooned in the night. “Come out from where you are hiding so I can see you.”
His sword dragged along another tree, his laughter sending cold dread down your spine. Poison trembled in your palm, your other hand pressing further to your mouth to muffle your ragged breathing.
“Such a pretty little thing; I have seen your portrait many times now. It is a shame what we have been ordered to do to you…that is after we make you watch what we do to your husband first.”
You hated feeling like this. Small and weak and frightened. Like a little bird trapped in a nest.
“I cannot wait to see the look on your face as the light drains out of his.”
You caught the sight of his booted feet then. Too close to your hiding spot. You needed to move—and fast. Resigning yourself to the fact, your palm rooted around within the tree's mouth in search of anything you might be able to throw to distract him. You managed upon a decently sized rock and glanced about the forest clearing. There was a tree near enough you’d be able to hit and draw their attention away. But you only had one chance.
Dagger in hand, you drew your arm back and tossed the rock as hard as possible, watching as the man stilled and began moving in the direction you sent it hurtling.
Seizing the moment, you pushed out from within the tree and raced toward the campsite as swiftly as your legs would carry you, but your attacker was faster. A hand clutched the back of your shift, an arm coming to wrap right around your throat.
Hands clutched at a bare forearm, your legs kicking out wildly only to meet the air. Gasping, you dragged your nails across his skin. Scored deep marks into flesh and whipped your blade backward wherever you might find purchase. Pushed away when he howled in pain.
“You bi—”
His words died in the air as a sword slashed in a giant arc, severing the head from his shoulders. Blood splashed against your skin as you stumbled forward, coming to wrap your arms around Lord Bartrand’s waist as he tugged you to him.
You sobbed freely against his armor, great heaving sobs which rocked your form. Propriety be damned; you cared not for the fact you stood before your husband’s men in no more than your bedclothes. You had witnessed death and survived this night. The blood staining your clothes and skin was proof of that.
“Peter told me to…but that man…where is my husband…how many are hurt…”
“Your Grace. You are going to faint if you do not breathe. The battle is not yet over,” he said, his words hushed to not draw attention to your location. “You are to remain close to me. If someone advances toward you and I am previously engaged, you run. You do not engage yourself.”
You did as told, following closely behind Lord Bartrand as you trekked through the carnage. Body after body littered the campgrounds. Some Ayelandian people, you shuddered to think. Killed mercilessly and shamelessly in their sleep.
Your bare feet stepped over overturned furniture, foliage, and bodies. Fingers reaching down to close the eyes of those who had died with them opened and wished them peace wherever their souls might find themselves in death.
Winced whenever an enemy soldier raced toward you in an attempt to carry out the plot for your life and met the skilled blade of Lord Bartrand. All of this bloodshed…all of it worth the weight of your and your husband’s heads on spikes. You wanted to scream at the reality of it. At the heaviness of the new title you bore.
You had seen death in the healing houses before but never like this. Never for people who had lost their lives defending yours. What measure did one regard a life, when all were meaningful? It seemed unfair, that merely because you were born titled, your life seemingly was worth more.
The precious son or daughter whose eyes you closed as you walked meant the world to someone else. Where was the fairness in that? The justice?
Your eyes roamed around for your husband. The sounds of battle grew quieter with each passing step. Whoever these men were, they had come outnumbered. It did not mean your people were not hurting.
Men groaned from where they sprawled on the grass. Bleeding from wounds scattered about their bodies. You made a mental note of what you would need to care for each as you passed, calling upon Bronwynne as she tended to a soldier, a bandage wrapped firmly around her own bloodied forearm.
“Your Grace!” Lord Bartrand shouted as you sprinted away from him.
With a broken sob, Bronwynne tumbled into your arms, pushing your dirtied hair from your face. You cared not she was not nobility—she was your friend and you could have lost her tonight. Shaking, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around her neck, tugging her close. Your hand came up to clutch against the back of her head, adrenaline pumping wildly in your veins.
“You are well,” you breathed, leaning back to brush the blood from a cut on her cheek.
“You are unharmed?” She asked, searching your silhouette for any cuts or scrapes.
You nodded, glancing about the clearing. “Have you seen the king?”
“He was that way when I saw him last. Fighting off two soldiers with one of his men,” she gasped out, wincing at the pain she was certainly experiencing. “You must not do anything reckless, Your Grace. Your husband has already lost onewife.”
“Bronwynne, I am Ayelandian. I will defend my people,” you said, standing on shaky limbs. “I will join you in a moment and help you tend to the soldiers. Please be safe.”
You began walking in the direction Bronwynne had suggested Peter had been in, gripping a pot near the fire which had long been stamped out and clutching it in your hand. You did not know how to kill someone yet with a dagger, so you supposed rendering someone unconscious might be easier if necessary.
It was there you found your husband at the bottom of a hill, struggling against a man with his hands wrapped around his throat. Venom had been kicked aside, your husband’s hands clawing at the earth and coming up short.
His eyes managed to catch yours briefly, though did nothing to give your location away to his attacker as you approached and slammed the pot against the back of his head. The man loosened his grip and reeled on you. Cursing you with his hands waving blindly in the air. Mind still spinning from you hitting him over the head.
Peter rose and shoved the man to the ground, landing a blow to his side before you brought the pan down again.
One, two, three times until his eyes rolled back into his skull, and fell unconscious.
“Your Grace, I told her to stay put!” Lord Bartrand shouted, running down the hill with other guards trailing slowly behind him.
Peter gestured with his sword to the slumbering soldier. “We must bring him in for interrogation. And then he will be executed as an example of what happens when you killmy people, threaten my own life, and attempt my wife’s. To warn any defectors in the crowd that an uprising such as this will not be tolerated by Ayelandia’s king.”
Lord Bartrand jerked his head to the nearest soldier and two men rushed forward to bind the man required for questioning. A moment later you stumbled to your knees and found yourself tugged against your husband, his form sitting up on his knees as well, bloodied hands coming to rest against your cheeks. His eyes searched yours, trailing your form.
Seeking.
“I am unharmed, Peter. I am unharmed.”
He whispered what sounded like a prayer against your forehead and kissed you there a dozen times, muttering something else incomprehensible against your skin.
You were too weary to ask what he had meant. Only instead leaned further into his embrace, finding the strength of remaining upright becoming more difficult with every passing breath.
“I want what happened here today written down. I want everyone to know. I want them to also know their Queen has saved my life on this day. Were it not for her bravery, I might not have my life,” he said, looking over your shoulder to his men.
He then returned his focus to you. His voice was quiet as he told you, “I have said it before and I will say it once more, dove. You are a gift. A wild, lethal and beautiful gift.”
—x—
Truly taking in the destruction from the attack shifted something in your heart. Before that night, these were still your people…yes. Yet it was the first time you realized the love you felt for them was reciprocated tenfold.
It just didn’t feel fair.
You and Bronwynne got to work immediately as you trudged back up the hill. Your husband’s guards crossed their palms over your chest as you approached. Each bowing to you as you passed. Muttering your title. Some calling you something else. All looking to you in reverence and high esteem.
Most of those still living did not suffer from life-threatening injuries. Luckily, most simply needed bandages. Some required stitches. You had even needed Bronwynne at one point to assist you with popping a soldier’s shoulder back into the socket. Slicing another shred from your tattered shift to create a sling.
You helped mark off the names of those lost. That part grieved your soul. So many lost; all of which innocent. One of which, in particular, your lady-in-waiting. You glanced down at her and dropped onto your knees. Pressed your fingers to your lips and placed them in the center of her cooling forehead.
A lady.
Your lady.
Only nearing the nineteenth year of life. She had been very beautiful. Curly blonde hair which always hung in tight ringlets. Eyes so green you always pictured the blades of grass in the fields as you beheld them. Those very eyes were now emptied of life. Rounded in her terror from a blade that pierced her abdomen. Rendering her silent and still forever.
You remembered her laughter within the walls of Ayelandia. How you would never hear them again. A daughter, a friend, an intended bride. She had been set to marry a young lord and trilled about it every day. A match prepared by your husband that she had been overjoyed by. Remembered the day she met him; how she swore they would be married, have a beautiful home on the countryside…raise dozens of babes.
You climbed back to your feet, turning to the soldier nearest to you. “Her parents will need a letter. They reside in my home country. And…I would ask a letter also be sent to Lord Weston. They were intended to marry. He loved her and she loved him; he would want to know.”
The soldier nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
You moved to the next body. And then the next. The utter agony in your chest grew heavier and heavier with each addition to the tally. After some time, your guard reached to grab you as you swooned, stumbling on weak legs into a nearby tree. Your stomach heaved and you felt little over the fact your guard witnessed you empty the contents of your stomach into the bush beside it.
All manner of decorum was gone. Your hair a messy mop on your head. Twigs and other foliage sticking out from it. Your shift and face streaked with blood. The bottom hem of it was torn off to use as linen for injuries. And now, the shakiness in all of your limbs for becoming sick.
You knew it was the adrenaline from the day wearing off. It sustained you all these hours, but one was never meant to see this much destruction—this much death.
Death, you noticed, was a chilling and terrifying thing. Lives cut short before their time. Snatched up in the night without warning. You glanced over to your husband, sitting beside Lord Bartrand near what remained of the fire spit. You thought back to Bronwynne’s plea. To not do anything reckless—that your husband had already lost one wife.
Your heart clenched at the terror he must have felt. You had felt it with every thump of your heart. Wondering if your husband lived or lay dead somewhere. So quickly you realized you would be truly alone in Ayelandia was he taken from her people.
The way he had muttered against your forehead. Soft words you still pondered over. It was as if he had seen an image of a ghost as he took you in. Transported himself back to the moment he lost his first wife.
You hated to think of it.
There was air in your lungs. You were shaken, yet you survived. Your people would live another day, and those back in Ayelandia would see brighter days to come even still. Their King—your husband—and their Queen leading their people steadfastly.
Victorious this day.
“They respect you deeply,” Peter whispered sometime later as you tended to him in what remained of your tent. “Some have taken up calling you Lion Heart because of your bravery.”
It seemed almost futile now, sitting there on a stool in front of him. The back of the tent had been shredded from where he sliced it, and the fronts completely ripped off. Your attackers had intended to capture you both while sleeping, it seemed. They must have been watchingfrom the distance. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
“This is a mere flesh wound. You should be resting; you have been on your feet for hours.”
“Yes, tending to our people who needed help. Help I could provide them,” you hissed back, tugging his palm onto your lap. “Quit moving. You are behaving like a child.”
He hissed as you poured a liquid into his wound to clean out any residual dirt. It was a flesh wound on his right palm. You were thankful for it, though you hated seeing your husband in pain.
You had not wanted his left palm to be marred—to erase the symbolic scars you both shared. You knew it was selfish, but every time you looked down at it you felt a little less alone. Hated to think of something ruining it.
“You saved my life…I do not think you understand the gravity of that. I am in your debt,” he said, wincing as you reached forward and plucked a stone embedded in his palm with a pointed tweezer.
“Husband, if you stop your fidgeting this will hurt you less.” You ran your fingers along the inside of his wrist, attempting to calm him. “I was only doing what anyone would. You are my flesh and blood and you were in danger. We are a family.”
“That we are,” he muttered softly, grunting as you rubbed an ointment against the wound. “Though I hope you realize I am very angry at you.”
You pushed down on his hand just enough that he drew it back against his chest in a yelped-out cry. “What was that for?”
“I cannot even begin to fathom why you would be angry with me!” You shrieked back, drawing the attention of onlookers.
Men chuckled at the sight. Their king clutched his palm to his chest. His doting wife was seated across from him, brandishing a fresh bandage as though it were a sword. They raised their tankards of ale and dipped their heads, and you returned your attention to the matter at hand.
“You ran headlong into danger. I told you to stay put,” he said.
You extended your hand and waved his palm back over onto your lap. Began wrapping the bandage around and around his palm. Your gaze lifted to his eyes, noting they were brimming with fear and…affection?
“Did you expect me to stay there when a man approached my hiding spot? He told me he could not wait to watch me gaze upon your face as the life drained out of your eyes. They intended to kill you, Peter. To kill us.”
“They did not. They tried, but they did not.” He leaned forward to kiss your forehead again, holding his bandaged hand to his chest once you finished tying it off at the end.
“The women of Ayelandia can be soldiers, can they not?” You asked, recalling those you had seen guarding the gates when you had left the castle for Carstell.
He nodded, not understanding. “Well, yes. If that is what they choose as a path, they can. Why do you ask?”
“I never wish to be in the position I was in that hollowed-out tree. I felt so helpless and weakand I want to be brave and true. Your people call me Lion Heart, and yet I felt like no more than a caged mouse at that moment.” You exhaled, feeling Peter reach across the space between you to grab your hand. “You gave me Poison, but I do not even know how to use a dagger.”
“Do—”
“And before you protest, as I know you will, I want to remind you that you said I am the blood of your blood and bone of your bone. You are a warrior. I wish to train as well. At the very least to defend myself.” You exhaled, meeting his gaze. “I am Ayelandian now. I am my own. I want this for myself.”
“Then you will. I agree. Your title should not change the fact you faced real danger today; you should know how to defend yourself. I…cannot lose you too.”
You knew the intent of his words. Saw it clear on his face. Instead of speaking, you leaned forward on your stool and wrapped your arms around your husband’s neck, holding him tight against you. Soaking up the warmth you so desperately craved. Moments passed between the two of you like this, the sounds of your people gathering things around the campgrounds. Preparing to head back to Ayelandia.
You craved to be within those walls once more. Prayed to curl up in your bed and sink into actual cushions. That, and take a bath. Remembering your state, you leaned back and rubbed at the flaked blood on your cheek, grimacing.
“When do you suppose we will return home?” You asked, tugging at the neckline of your shift.
“The soldiers are packing whatever remains salvageable. A page boy was sent ahead to alert the castle guards we need assistance for the…dead. We will ride once the sun comes up.”
“You did promise we would see the sunrise.”
He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “That we will, dove.”
But, you asked yourself, at what cost.
—x—
Additional soldiers arrived as the sun rose to its highest point in the sky. Your remaining lady-in-waiting brought along for the wedding festivities in Carstell worked swiftly, helping you into your gown. A subdued blue dress with a slimmer silhouette and billowing sleeves. The simple silhouette gave way to scrolling whorls and vines near the neckline in golden stitching. And matched your twining gold crown nestled safely on the top of your head.
Lord Bartrand advised you and Peter were to look unaffected by the attack. All of Ayelandia had been apprised of what happened. Word carried fast in the kingdom, after all. You were to ride withyour husband for appearance's sake to make sure the people knew the danger had been quelled and there was no need to fear the coming days. You both were safe, Lord Bartrand had reminded you, and the kingdom was grateful for it.
The party looked worse for wear, all in varying stages of injury. But that did not stop the crowds from growing closer to your traveling party as the gates to Ayelandia drew upward and the horses and carriages poured in. You marveled at the sight. It seemed like all of the citizens lined the streets. Children cheering with vibrant flower crowns donning their heads. Women called for their soldiers returning from battle. Men jeered and greeted their comrades in arms.
They were shouting. Waving their red and gold flags in the air. Streamers of every color twisting and curling in the wind. The words thundered in your ears. A chanted Lion Heart. Lion Heart. Lion heart. Your husband’s left hand pressed firmly against your stomach, drew you nearer to him. Warm breath seeped against the hollow of your head, head shifting toward him.
“They are celebrating you.”
He pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek and urged his horse onward. Flower petals rained down onto you from the ramparts. Others danced at the horse's hooves as children tossed them gleefully in the air. Colorful and beautiful and overwhelming—because you felt you didn’t deserve any of it. You held your hand aloft and caught a handful, tossing them at the group of boys and girls calling your name, waving hello as you passed.
A soldier stepped forward then. Silver armor gleamed as she crossed an arm over her chest and lowered her head to her King and Queen.
“A gift, Your Grace, from the Guard.”
Peter nodded behind you and the soldier stepped forward, reaching up to press a miniature golden ring into your palm. You held it up against the sun, testing its weight of it.
“It is meant to be worn as a symbol of bravery,” he told you, lifting a strand of your hair in his fingers.
He gripped the golden circle and looped it through the strand, and then added a second piece and then a third. Began braiding the loop into your hair.
“Ayelandian soldiers earn a ring for every battle won. The Guard believes this was your first.” He thanked the soldier as his horse began moving again. A laugh bubbled from his lips. “You asked to assist the Guard. It seems they have already approved.”
Your lips curled upward.
And you pressed onward—the true Queen of Ayelandia.
—x—
You woke with the desire to feel you were truly Lion Heart. Told your lady as much as she braided your crown into your hair. A gold piece with sharp, pointed tips. Similar to that of tiny daggers, settled next to one another. You glanced at your reflection in the looking glass. At the jet black gown billowing about your form. You were a mistress of death today. A grieving Queen, intent on justice for your people murdered in cold blood.
With a low exhale, you turned and headed toward the dungeon. Greeted Lord Bartrand at the entrance to the room where the man was chained to a metal post in the corner of the cell. Peter stood inside with the jailer, his hand slamming loudly against a wooden table.
Though you weren’t permitted entrance, your eyes strained to see through the cutout in the door. Silver bars obscured what manner they were torturing the man with to confess. You knew, as the first scream ripped from his lips, it was not something you cared to witness.
“Your Grace, it is not customary…or properfor a lady to be here for such matters as torture,” Lord Bartrand uttered, skin glowing a sickly green.
“I want to hear his confession. I need to hear it.”
It continued for hours. The sound of ripping was followed by a guttural moan which thundered throughout the holding cell. Prisoners in surrounding rooms shouted in reply as if they knew. As if they understood the depth of pain inflicted like this. You shuddered to think of it, beginning to pace in the hall when another yell sliced through the air.
“I will speak! I…will…speak!” He gasped, cutting off with a sob.
You raced over to the doorway, hand pressed against the wood, leaning up onto your toes to peer inside. Peter shoved a chair forward and settled down in front of the man. His tunic and leather overcoat pushed up to his elbows. Broad forearms rippled as they settled on the rests.
The man continued to sob. Hands curled to his chest as he writhed on the floor. Chain clanging about his ankle. Your stomach turned violently at the sight of his hands when he lifted them into the air.
Those mangled hands.
Five fingernails had been ripped from their beds.
He had lasted five fingernails before breaking.
“King Norman of Hollowhall takes your aligning with your foreign bitch as an act of war.”
Another sobbed moan.
“He wanted her for his son, you know? Prince Harry. But you bedded her first—”
He broke off into a wheeze as Peter’s foot connected with his stomach.
You pressed your head against the wood, growing faint.
“He has never agreed to the alliance between Glendhaven and Ayelandia. He wanted Glendhaven for himself. He will punish Ayelandia for it—it should be Hollowhall flourishing. Not your country!”
You stepped away. The sounds of the interrogation growing mumbled as the ringing in your ears blocked out everything else around you. Lord Bartrand reached out toward you, your form swaying slightly as you moved. Settling down on a wooden stool he guided you onto.
Sleep had not come that night. King Norman and Prince Harry of Hollowhall were nice…enough, you supposed. You hadn’t known what to think of their latest appearance. It seemed strange. You knew Hollowhall to be a wealthy land, in charge of the making of many of the most advanced weaponry and armor. Suppliers from around the world attested to the quality of craftsmanship. Boasted of their armies, forged in some of the most grueling training.
Their lands, situated in the desert, created the deadliest swordsmen. Trained to survive in brutal conditions. Trained to kill to be one with their environment. Forged by fire and tested in the sand. You had learned in your textbooks part of the training required the men to be left in the middle of the desert during storm season and make their way back to the training grounds. A journey that took two days and took the lives of many recruits.
Those who survived could truly say they were Fire Born.
King Norman wanted you to marry his son. His dark-haired boy with eyes that made your skin crawl. Always searing. Always watching your comings and goings throughout their stay.
You knew he frequented the taverns in Glendhaven and returned each night with a new lady; had heard their giggling as they returned at night before slipping into his bed-chamber with him. Decided a man like that was not a man you should pursue a dalliance with. That he was the same kind of man who likely had lovers back home in Hollowhall as well.
You craved a marriage founded on a shared love. Not a man who would stray from your bed. In reality, a lofty wish for a woman of your station, but one you held dearly.
That night, however, you found yourself pausing near your father’s study. The sounds of conversation drew your attention. You blew out the candlestick in your hand, sinking into the door to listen in.
“Think of it. Your daughter can marry my son. Glendhaven will become one with Hollowhall. The two greatest armies being bound together by a marriage? We could rule above all. We would be a force to be reckoned with.”
Rule above all?
Force to be reckoned with?
Your father stuttered on the other side of the door. Words choked on his lips. You leaned in further, opening the door just a sliver to see your father seated on the opposite side of his desk, across from Norman and Harry. He looked aged far beyond his years, realization dawning of what Norman’s words alluded to.
“It is unthinkable! Inconceivable! Glendhaven could not…it is unwise, Norman. Think of the consequences. Glendhaven was never meant to be a war country. We are a people of peace.”
“If that is so…I would ask you to think of what might happen should you refuse this union. Be wise in this, my friend.”
He wanted to become a totalitarian ruler. A kingdom to rule above all other kingdoms. Combining the two greatest armies the world had seen and creating one that would overcome all. You shuddered to think of it. Watched as Harry twirled a dagger around in his palm, casually sprawled out on the chaise lounge near the fire. Your potential husband.
The next morning, King Norman and Prince Harry set out for Hollowhall. Prince Harry bowed before you before he left, reaching out to grip your hand and press a wet kiss to it. Gaze moving slowly across your form, as if you sear the memory of you within his mind.
“It is possible when I see you next it will be on our wedding day. I bid you well, Princess.”
Your marriage contract to Prince Harry had been ripped up later that evening. The one to King Peter was drafted in its stead.
Your father had assured you Hollowhall and Glendhaven would never become one. That the consequences of King Norman’s desire for power to conquer the nations would only come to ruin—ruin you and your people would play no part in.
The sobbing drifted back into your ears. Lord Bartrand’s pale face hovered in front of yours as your eyes returned to focus. A pained gasp left your lips, fingers brushing against the bridge of your nose as you righted yourself once more.
“Your Grace…”
“I am well, Lord Bartrand.”
You moved toward the door, watching as the jailer kicked at the man again. Earning a pained growl, teeth drawn back over lips. Utterly feraland filled with hatred. The man glanced upward, locking with your eyes through the cutout. A low, keening laugh spilled from him. He had nothing to lose, after all.
“Her father refused Hollowhall. Refused war. It will be coming to Ayelandia instead. Let your people suffer for the sins of the father.” He cackled. Head drew back as he writhed along the cobblestones. “Prepare for a brutal winter, King Peter. Hollowhall will be at your doorstep. They will kill every last woman, man, and child. And then they will gut your wife. Just as your enemies did to the one who came before her. I wonder what your current Queen’s screams will sound like as her life spills from her.”
Peter kicked the chair out of the way. A roar rattled the walls as he punched the man square in the jaw.
Over and over and over again until his laughter died down and everything grew silent.
—x—
Dearest Father,
I thank you for my upbringing. For the ways I have been equipped for my role as Queen and wife to the King of Ayelandia. We have little love between us, but I have a heart that is full for his country. For his people. There are lessons one is never trained for; I was never prepared for the realization that many might come to hate me for simply being a threat by living.
An attempt has been made for my life. At the hands of King Norman. He has all but made himself an enemy to Ayelandia and thus Glendhaven. War has been declared. Hollowhall is in the midst of their storm season in the desert and cannot pass into our country now, but we are asking that you would send us your finest soldiers when the weather cools and winter is nigh. I ask that you would come and ride ahead of your army.
As a gleaming banner of unity between Glendhaven and Ayelandia.
I fear that many lives will be lost in this war. That if I had married Prince Harry, bloodshed would be nonexistent. I have already known so much loss in my six months here. We do not need anymore. We must put an end to this.
Please send aid, Father.
With love, your Dearest Daughter.
Your husband watched as you folded the parchment in your hand and dripped hot wax onto the seal. Pressed the Ayelandian crest into the center and blew on it until it cooled. The courier accepted your correspondence and disappeared as soon as your husband bid them farewell.
You had donned another black gown today. Another death yet to take place. It had been mere days since the attack, but the realization of what your life had amounted to haunted you every day. You hadn’t found sleep easy. Longed for the nights shared within the walls of Carstell beside Peter. Where the two of you sought out each other’s warms and comfort.
“Are you ready to set out?” He asked.
“Yes.” You said.
But you knew you weren’t. How would anyone prepare for an execution? Today, life would be taken. The man in question had betrayed your people. Served a malicious King intent on taking your throne and destroying your country. Yet, any bloodshed made your heart grow heavy in your chest. You had known so much of it in these last days.
Lessons with your tutor in Glendhaven never prepared you for what it truly meant to rule a country. The sacrifices and choices needed to be made. Still, you took his arm and allowed him to walk you toward the tower where the prisoners were held. Stood on the upper level in the courtyard as the jailer dragged the accused onto the block.
The man held his head low. Eyes trained on the ground as the crowd jeered at him. Some even tossed tomatoes and sand onto the execution floor, jesting at the fact he would be dead in a few moments. It seemed so crude. To be standing here watching as people applauded the massacre of life.
“You must stand at my side. We want to appear as one. A strong front. Hollowhall has made no advances on our country. We are thriving,” Peter said, drawing you to his side.
You dipped your head. Watching as the other lords and ladies filled your quarters. Ready to behold the beheading.
Lord Bartrand stood on the execution stage. A scroll dangling in hand as he shouted above the procession. “Edgar Hilland. You have hereby been sentenced to death for treason, an attempt at regicide, and conspiring against the crown. Do you have any last words before you part from this world?”
You held your breath. Leaned into Peter as the man on the block glanced backward at the executioner. A man in a shroud of black, a long, harrowing blade in hand. Meant to slice through flesh and bring a swift death. You shuddered bodily.
The man glanced up then. Bloodied hand wrapped in a bandage. His eyes were wild and manic as he locked his gaze with yours. You clutched Peter’s hand in your own, every nerve ending feeling like wildfire as he glanced up to the sky and grinned to himself. As if he had made peace with death—welcomed it.
And then he spoke.
The words were meant for you and you alone.
Chilling and clear above the crowd.
“Burn in hell with the rest of us, foreign bitch Queen!”
He spat on the ground. The crowd leaped to life. Calling for his death. Shouting for blood. Pleading with King Peter to put an end to all of this.
You stood, rooted on the spot, head spinning as blood whirled in your ears. Peter gripped you right as your steps faltered. Form tumbling against the wooden railing on the rampart.
“They are but final words of a man who knows his time is up. They hold no meaning.”
You dipped your head. Controlled your features. Steeled them like the impenetrable wall your father had fought you from a young age. Inky, black iron slammed down behind your eyes. With thorns poking out every which way. Imagined your enemies falling upon it, tangled in the briars, shouting for help. Pleading for mercy. Inhaling, you lifted your chin. Squared your shoulders and hardened your jaw. As if this was beneath you; as if the reality of death meant nothing to you. Steel and strength. Queen of Ayelandia. Unaffected by the brutality you experienced.
The executioner stepped forward on the dais. His flowing black cloak billowed in the summer breeze. His mask moved as he spoke, requesting Edgar lower his head onto the block. You watched as they prepared. Running a whetstone along the blade. A cruel, jagged thing meant to cleave a head from a pair of shoulders.
“If you begin to feel faint, squeeze my hand. As hard as you need to, I do not care. If you feel sick, wait until we are back in our private chambers. You must not show any bit of emotion.” Peter whispered the words near your ear.
You nodded your head, heart pounding as the executioner raised his blade in the air.
Your eyes shifted toward the man on the block. Watched as the sword made a final arc in the air and severed the head from the body. It rolled onto the floor with a dull thud. The crowd grew still as blood seeped from an opened wound. You jolted next to Peter but remained a stony tower. A force to be reckoned with.
Blood pooled onto the wooden dais. Grew and swelled, like a flower in bloom.
The crowd dispersed as the executioner gripped the head in his hand and placed it in a basket. As though it were a bushel of flowers. Your stomach lurched at the notion—the casual nature in which death was handled this day. A crow cawed above as your wobbly legs carried you in the direction of your bed-chamber. Your husband walking closely at your heels.
It was then in the privacy of your room, and only then, that you allowed yourself to be sick. Gasping into a basin and sobbing as Peter clutched your hair in his hand.
—x—
“Again!”
Commander Ayla’s voice shouted across the training ring. A word you were certain you were beginning to hate. That and your title were being shouted at you over and over again until your head was spinning. Though that might have been because of the agility drills you had been working on for what felt like hours now.
Every inch of you screamed for reprieve. The first week of training, Commander Ayla had warned, would be a true testament to your abilities for the Guard. Many soldiers did not make it even that long. But you were determined. Face slick with sweat in the summer sun, golden ring shining proudly in your hair. Braided there again this morning.
“That is enough for today, Your Grace. I will record your progress and we will begin again tomorrow. You will start sparring practice and we may yet dabble in archery.”
“Archery,” Lord Bartrand shouted from the sideline, appearing with a glowing King Peter at his side.
Your mind briefly emptied at the sight of your husband in his leather jerkin. Golden doublet peeking out from beneath, billowing sleeves ruffling in the wind. That line of unshaven stubble along his jaw soaking up the sun just as his ruffled hair did on his head as his left hand came up to run through it, your eyes catching on the glint of a wedding ring.
Lord Bartrand cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to Commander Ayla. You bent at the waist, bringing a fist over your heart as the rest of the Guard did when they approached for duty. Then bounded over to your husband’s side, earning a playful shove from him as the three of you walked back to the castle.
“My wife, the Queen, in a pair of breeches and a tunic?”
You shoved him back, arms groaning in protest from the endless push up’s you had done earlier as the sun rose. “It is not fair I have to stuff my lungs into a tight corset just to sit on a throne and look pretty while you men get to have all the fun. These breeches? It is a beautiful feeling to feel the wind ruffling them. I can breathe.”
“Your Grace, but you are pretty all the time. Beautiful, even.”
Peter chuckled, gripping Lord Bartrand’s shoulder. “My dear wife already loves you, you need not vie for her attention furthermore.”
“If you two will stop acting like children for one moment, I would like to say there is nothing more I would like than a warm bath when we return to the castle.”
And you did just that. A maid filled the bath with steaming hot water and various soaps to freshen up with. You refused dinner in the hall and requested it be brought to your chambers, sinking beneath the water and letting it ease all your pants and aches.
Sometime later, a knock sounded on your chamber door, stirring you within the tub. Eyes bleary from the slumber you fell into as another form filled the entryway. You twisted to look at them better over your shoulder, dunking yourself lower beneath the edge of the tub to hide your nakedness. Realized immediately how ridiculous it was to do so, as he was your husband.
“I came to check on you. It had been some time and…well, you always meet me in our shared chambers before you sleep at night.” His eyes shifted toward the wall, not daring to venture anywhere near you.
You smiled. “Is my husband, the king, in need of affection.”
He smirked. “Can I not enjoy being wished good night by you?”
You reached for the nearest linen. Draping it around your silhouette and tying it off at the end. Your husband’s gaze did travel as you rose from the water, your fingers combing through your wet hair.
“What are you—”
Your arms came to rest around his waist, uncaring of the clothing he wore. It would be cleaned this week, anyway, and he had more finery than he ever would find need of. Sighing, his arms came up and circled your waist. Hardened form yielding beneath your softer one.
“Good night,” you whispered after some time, leading your husband through your bed-chamber.
His hand lingered on the door. Eyes settling on you, and then the bed. Curious, you thought. He ran his fingers through his hair again. Strands of dark hair sticking out every which way. Your young king, in still so many ways.
“Good night, dove.”
He reached forward and kissed your cheek before slipping from the room.
Curious indeed.
The following days held a similar pattern. Sparring lessons with the other recruits in the training ring. Then target practice in the field. Fingers screaming from calluses forming from hours spent fighting with the bowstring. It seemed, in your mind at least, you held no innate skill with a bow and arrow. Commander Ayla advised to otherwise, shouting for you to try again, and again. You mentally cursed her favorite word.
“Your Grace,” Commander Ayla greeted in the distance. Dropping into a bow. “Are you here to oversee the recruits?”
“Yes. I would like a tour at once, but would I be able to have a moment with my wife first?”
“W-why yes, Your Grace. I will give you some privacy and meet you at the garrison when you are ready.” She bowed once more, hand crossed over her chest, rings in her hair glinting as she parted.
“You need to relax,” Peter said, walking toward you.
“I shall do no such thing! And you will not tell me otherwise.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “Lower your bow. I mean no harm. I do not wish to have an arrow lodged in my backside today by your own doing.”
You sneered at him playfully. “Would be a shame; it is a fine backside.”
His cheeks flamed. Throat clearing into his fist, head turning to glance at the target positioned in the distance. “Right, well, would you lower the bow please?”
You dropped it as requested, the arrow pointed toward the ground. Mirth pooled in your belly at the state your husband presently found himself in. Flustered in your presence.
You wondered briefly if he found the sense of friendship between you growing into something more as of late. Did he experience the same reactions you did? The racing heart. The constant fluttering in your stomach. The lack of air constricted your brain—consumed your thoughts.
“I meant your form not your demeanor, Lion Heart.”
“You tease me!”
He raised his thumb and pointer and drew them near to one another, head tilted to the side, smirk in place. “A little.” He walked around you in a slow circle, stopping as his form settled behind yours. “Get into position.”
You did as told, lifting the bow and drawing the arrow back sharply. Peter’s breath fanned your ear, fingers coming up to brush along your shoulder. Applied a little pressure on your arm, edging it down slightly. You couldn’t hide the sharp inhale as his other hand came up to meet yours presently planted on the bow.
“The elbow was just a little too high. And I want you to relax the pressure on your other hand.” Your eyes locked on your left hands, joined over one another. Rings cool against your skin. “You are trembling. Am I making you uncomfortable?”
Quite the opposite, truly. “No, not at all. What is next?”
His chest moved closer, brushing against your form. Awareness prickling across your skin, stirring gooseflesh to life. “Exhale slowly and then release.”
The arrow released with a twang, hitting home in the center of the target. A slow smile spread across Peter’s lips, jolted immediately out of place as you dropped your bow to the ground and launched yourself against his chest, arms locking around his neck.
Your laughter echoed in the field as he picked you up and twirled you about in a grand circle, the melodious sound of his etching a permanent memory of this moment in your mind.
The next weeks passed in a blur, month one of your training ending in a sparring tournament with all of the newer Guard prospects. Though you did not win, your husband had cheered you on in the distance. Proud beyond words. You sensed it in the way he tugged you near to him after, clasping your hand with his own and pressing each of your fingers to his lips in a gentle kiss as you trailed ahead of Lord Bartrand and Commander Ayla.
“Come, I will have a bath drawn for you,” Peter said, tugging you behind him, increasing his pace.
“Peter, be careful with my heart. I might think this an attempt at seduction,” you teased, shoving him lightly.
It felt as much as you later sunk beneath the bubbles, pushing your hair over the edge and stretching your limbs beneath you. Peter remained in the distance, settled down on a small stool with a book in hand. He had gaped like a fish when you asked that he linger in your bathing chamber.
Now, you couldn’t help but stare at him. His burgundy overcoat opened to reveal the pale shirt beneath. Laces untied, a sliver of golden, sun-kissed skin beneath. One leg bent and crossed over his knee, yellowed pages of his book near to his face.
“I feel you staring,” Peter said, turning a page of his book. “What is it? Do you need something?”
“I cannot admire my husband?” You asked innocently, pushing at the bubbles.
The minty scent had eased your mind, loosening your inhibitions—the healing properties within soothing those aching muscles from endless hours of training these weeks.
“I suppose you can,” he mused, setting the book aside. “Though fair is fair, and now it is my turn.”
His eyes locked with your own. The ring around his pupils shrunk, darkness overcoming them in the candlelight as he soaked in your form. So little brown left in them.
Your lip quirked upward.
“What are you thinking?” He asked.
Your fingers trailed the surface of the water. Humming softly to yourself. “I am only happy. Ayelandia is thriving, even with preparations for the war already taking place, and…I feel we are as well. In our marriage.”
He nodded in his agreement. “You are a dearest friend to me, dove.”
You glanced down, steeling your expression. A dearest friend. Not someone he ached and burned for. How wrong had you been all these weeks? The moment in your bed-chamber, and then once more as he helped you with your archery. This night, as his eyes darkened upon seeing your bare, bathing form in pale candlelight.
“Where did you go just now…in your mind?”
You shook your head, shifting within the tub. “It is fine. I would like to get out now…you can go to your chambers. Good night, husband.”
You thanked him for his silence.
—x—
“Your Grace, hold still!” Lady Cecilia giggled, braiding yet another white flower into your hair.
The flower festival in Ayelandia brought along with its endless streams of florals imported from all around the world. Kingdoms sending them in boats, each sharing the bounties of their blooms.
Children shrieked in the streets with crowns adorning their heads, pretending to be soldiers, princes, and princesses. Their wooden swords clanging, parents shouting at them to scatter.
Men and women sold arrangements from their stands at port markets. Workers line the streets with streaming, potted plants. Couples very much in love walked together arm in arm. Others bent near one another and gossiped in the streets, colorful fans swaying near necklines of gowns.
You had never seen so much color and vibrancy. The world around you was illuminated.
A true celebration of life and health and prosperity.
Your husband and Lord Bartrand stood off in the distance with Beonca and Calia each on one of their laps. Edwyn swinging a sword around near to them, practicing maneuvers you learned from your training.
Lady Cecilia and the children had just arrived in court as you’d asked of Lord Bartrand months ago now. Their arrival brought with it a distraction from the fact Peter had closed himself off to you once more.
She was everything beautiful and free in the world. A voice that sounded like honey and hair the same color. Gold spun and flowed to her waist, eyes like the color of the sea. Skin glowing. Kissed by sun. Lord Bartrand had always spoken fondly of her, and you understood it now.
How one wouldn’t feel welcomed in her presence was unknown to you. From the moment you met her and she dropped into a curtsy, those two stunning babes holding each of her hands. Edwyn wearing his best finery complimented you for your hospitality.
You naturally had fallen in love with the family.
“Lady Cecilia, did you know Queen Gwen very well?” You asked, feeling her fingers thread another blossom.
She stiffened behind you, exhaling softly. “I know she was kind and determined. She was very beautiful. A true Queen of the people. She had a heart for charity…for children, though she never had any of her own.
“King Peter loved her so. I had seen them in court before they married. Always blushing. Always flirting in corridors when they thought no one was looking. He was young, then. And he still is, Your Grace. He was just…carefree. It is so hard to see him sometimes this way, knowing what it was like before.”
She cleared her throat, glancing toward your King. He stood and tossed the babe upward into the air, grinning wildly as she burst into giggles against his chest.
“Their courtship was very brief. Her father was a high-ranking soldier, so it was a bit of a scandal in court when the King announced at a banquet they were to be wed. Some thought it unseemly, but they married despite it. A smaller ceremony, because some were questioning the arrangement. But they soon warmed up to her,” Lady Cecilia said.
“Ayelandia was joyful for the two years they had been married. I had never seen him smile so much. They threw many parties. Celebrated their love. The Kingdom was flourishing with them. And then there was that final feast. At the end of summer. I…was there. Everyone who was there heard her scream. But by the time the healers came, she had already passed on. They never found the man who killed her.”
You glanced toward your husband. His laughter greeted your ears. Stomach twisted at the thought of him being much different from the man you knew now. The man now haunted by the ghost of a wife slain in cold blood.
A wife he wished he was still married to now.
A wife you had replaced.
“It must pain him then. To look at me every day, knowing that I was not the woman whom he intended to marry. He asked Queen Gwen for her hand, hopeful they had a lifetime together. I am a betrayal of her memory in his eyes,” you said, locking eyes with Peter’s, pinching your shut to keep the tears at bay.
“You know, I only met him mere hours before our wedding. Before that, I had seen his portrait and he had seen mine. There were no emotions behind our vows. No love. We were strangers—still are in so many ways.”
Lady Cecilia dropped to her knees before you, palms coming to circle your own. “Do not grieve, Your Grace. Love can bloom, just like these flowers have; one just needs to give it time.”
She pressed one into your palm, your fingers trailing the soft petals.
The evening was spent walking through the markets and greeting the citizens of Ayelandia. Peter holding your hand in his own as you stopped at the various booths to collect the pretty blooms. To make crowns for Beonca and Calia when you later returned to the castle for supper. You caught him staring, eyes lingering on your profile as you held a flower to your nose.
“What is it?” You asked, shielding your gaze from the harsh sun.
“You are…you are beautiful.”
Grinning, you reached up and tucked the flower behind his ear. “There. Now you are as well.”
He glowed. And you did, too.
Drinks were poured. Rosy, bubbly wines that made your stomach burn and your thoughts carefree. The lyrics of a romantic tune flowing from a man playing a string instrument. You held one of the babes on your lap, the sun beginning to set over the private supper. Curled your fingers through her wispy blonde strands.
“Did you enjoy your day?” Peter asked, settling down beside you with Calia in his arm.
“Very much so. It made me think…we should host a gathering. Seeing the citizens so full of life today made me think what if we held a masque. For a night, there are no class differences. We are merely Ayelandians.” Beonca twisted, waving a fist at Peter. He adored them; could see it in the joy-rimmed gaze. “We bleed the same blood. We are one. Without them, you and I have no purpose in any of this. Our throne stands because of these people.”
He glanced away for a moment. The minstrels joined into song with wind instruments. Soft melodies make the warmth from your wine seep deeper into your bones. You could nod off like this.
“The Harvest Festival. We can do it then,” he said, thoughtfully. “You are right. We need to keep up the morale. Many of these people may face a needless death in the winter months to come, and they are willing to risk their lives to defend what they believe in. They are one with us.”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming…” You teased.
“I want multiple guards posted around you at all vantage points. And you are to wear your dagger,” he said, running his fingers through those wavy brown locks.
“That would imply I ever take it off,” you said, smirking. You ruffled your skirts for emphasis, drawing your husband’s gaze. “Now if you do not mind, I will be asking Lady Cecilia for the next dance.”
You placed Beonca down on his emptied thigh, earning a chuckle out of him as you extended a hand to the lady and urged her to join you. Lady Cecilia bowed gleefully, the both of you taking another gulp of your wine before spinning round and round in the gardens, hands clasped together, flowers bouncing about your heads.
The upbeat melody grew. Bounced off of your ears. Matched the rhythm of your heart as you twirled around with your new friend, giggling happily as the fading sun warmed your skin. Moments like these, where you realized how much your life had changed in mere months, stole your breath. Your head tilting upward to the sky, arms extended on either side of you.
You were grateful. Happy. Free like you dreamed to be.
“Your Grace, do not look now, but that husband of yours is very much looking at you like he desires you.”
You swallowed thickly, turning your gaze toward her bright eyes. “I believe you are mistaken.”
Lady Cecilia’s lip drew into a smirk. “No, I know that look. It is the same look my husband gave me before we had created those two little ones sitting on your husband’s lap as we speak.”
Her lips lowered toward your ear then, a whispered burning hot against your flesh, “He looks like he wishes everyone else would leave so he could utterly ravish you.”
“Lady Cecilia!” You gasped in mock horror, clasping her hand and leading her back into a joyful dance.
Maybe love did need a chance to bloom.
—x—
“I was sad to see Lady Cecilia and the children leave today,” you muttered, settling down on a wooden chair across from Peter. “I enjoyed their days here. It was a nice distraction.”
Your husband tossed his crown onto the lounge behind him, chair screeching as he pulled it up to your side. Ten days. It had been ten days since Peter called you his dearest friend. More than enough time to mull over those words than you would have liked to admit.
Though Lady Cecilia’s words remained in your heart. The reminder love needed time to bloom. The fact your husband had looked at you like he wanted nothing more than to slink away into the shadows and have his way with you. Heat curled deliciously in your belly at the thought.
“What shall we play tonight?”
It had been a new tradition. Once a week the young King and Queen shuttered themselves away in their quarters for supper. The two of you merely wanted to spend time with one another without the pressures of ruling. Not seated beside one another on your thrones as you heard the pleas of your people during court meetings. Nor during the war planning. Just time to learn from one another—about one another.
Whispers echoed around the court—that maybe the two of you were actively working at producing an heir for Ayelandia. Here-say, given the true state of affairs. Though Lord Bartrand suggested it boded well to keep up appearances as such.
Hope was all Ayelandia needed at this time.
Every week brought with it a reminder war was coming when the trees grew barren and the world froze.
“Gallows Noose?” Peter asked.
A barbaric game. Yet you nodded.
He proceeded to draw a crude attempt of the gallows. Letters of the alphabet were written out on the bottom, meant to be crossed off as you guessed.
“Three words?” You asked, taking a sip of your wine.
He pushed a hair behind your ear, running a thumb along your cheek. You leaned into his touch, inhaling softly with your eyes closed.
“Yes,” he said, hand dropping back to the parchment.
“Should we raise the stakes? For every wrong guess, we answer a question,” you suggested, moving closer so your arm brushed his.
He dipped his head. “Okay, then. First guess.”
“Hmm…L.”
He crossed a line through the letter, beaming. “You have been an Ayelandian for near on seven months. What are you finding you love most here?”
“Glendhaven is very…traditional. Women are limited there. I could study and further my education, but I was to always act a certain way. Eventually, even if not married to you, I would have been expected to be a penitent and humble wife. Even worse, little better than a broodmare.
“Here. Here I am…unlimited. You have provided me with a home where I can make my own choices in my life. I know you worry about me, but I love that you have given me that gift. In Glendhaven I felt little more than a bird in a cage. Here, I am free; dancing in the fields with Lady Cecilia as I had the other evening? Citizens of Glendhaven would have thought me unfit. They already did when I began assisting in our own healing houses.”
Peter smiled warmly. Leaning over to clasp your hand in his. “You will always have that here. The choice to see your life as you deem fit.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, pointing to the letter I.
Deft fingers struck the letter there on the first line.
“S?” You guessed, grunting as he crossed out another letter.
“Tell me a secret.”
“I hated the pillow forts we constructed at Carstell. I have been sleeping alone for so long, it was a strange thing to have you beside me. I miss those nights, though.” You admitted, feeling heat rise to your cheeks at the admission.
Peter grinned. “We woke tangled in one another. We bickered often before that, but it seemed we still sought companionship with one another even then. Lord Bartrand acted so scandalized when he entered our tent that morning.”
“We still bicker. Only now, I think you enjoy it.” You smirked.
“I have always enjoyed it. Next letter?”
You continued to guess. Forming most of the letters now. You knew there were three words, and love had been struck out the first guess. But you knew it to be a declaration of affection the closer you grew to solving it.
And then it clicked, eyes burning as you looked up at him. “You adore me?”
Sighing, you crawled over to him, shift parting slightly at the neckline. Falling over your shoulder. His fingers drifted there, trailing a slow circle along the flesh. He looked beautiful in the candlelight. Eyes heavy from wine, lips parted as they trailed your mouth. Flickered back to your face.
“My turn,” you whispered, shifting on his lap to flip the parchment over.
Drew the same setup as Peter had. A noose in the center, dashes beneath. Two full words with an extra dash for a punctuation mark. A question you had been meaning to ask, words bubbling on your lips for weeks now. Tonight might put an end to all your guessing.
“I think I know what it is,” he said, hands curling around your waist. Drawing you closer to him from within the cradle of his lap.
“Appease me?” You pleaded, tapping the parchment for emphasis.
“K.”
You shoved an elbow into his rib, earning a soft grunt. “That is not fair!”
“Okay, okay. Q.”
“What has been your favorite part of these last seven months?” You asked, shifting so you might look at his face.
He rubbed at his stubbly cheek, thumb pressing against his chin. “Truly? I think seeing you with Beonca and Calia—not for the reasons you are thinking. I just…know your heart is warm and welcoming to everyone. It is why I hated how much you resented me when we first married.
“And then there is the question of when I might have realized what I feel for you is more than a friendly affection,” he said, pausing.
You exhaled heavily. “I did not ask that.”
His cheek ticked. “I do not need to answer then—”
“Please do.”
His palm smoothed over the side of your face. Fingers curling around the nape of your neck. Those dark eyes searched your face, fathomless and yielding before you. A warm heat brewing behind them.
“I told myself it was watching you with Lady Cecilia. Smelling the flowers and making your ridiculous crowns. Dancing like children,” he began, curling a hair at the back of your neck around his finger. “But I think it truly might have been when I saw you standing on that hill with a frying pan in hand.”
Your chest constricted. Rising and falling with each strangled breath. The awareness of your body shifting on his lap growing. Your thighs hooked on either side of his hips on the chair, those warm hands coming to rest on them. Drew you down and over him, eliciting a gasp from you.
“Next guess.” You stuttered out.
“I-s-s.”
“One letter. You…only get one.”
He reached through the loop of your arm with his own, you still positioned on his lap, to write out the remainder of the first word.
“Ask me another question if you are so intent on finishing this game,” he asked.
“Tell me a secret.”
“I hated those pillow forts just as much as you.” He admitted, continuing, “And yes…yes, I will kiss you.”
It’s a frantic, wonderful thing. He reached forward and cupped both sides of your face in his hands, brushing his lips against yours. You reciprocated in turn. Soft presses of skin against skin, testing the waters at first.
You had kissed a stable boy in Glendhaven. A red-headed boy with curly locks and freckles all over. He had been kind and awkward, your mouths uncertain of which way to move. How much pressure to apply. What to do. But this was different; kissing your husband felt different.
Peter was demanding. Confident. Mouth probing yours apart. Branding you over and over again as his breath mingled with yours. Fingers reached upward to tangle in his unruly hair, long overdue for a cut by now. Your heart raced as his hand slid down, rolling over the tops of your breast, then lower still to test the weight of it in his palm. Right over the organ currently fighting to rip free from the cage your ribs held it within.
And then the dam ripped open, your body moving on your own accord. Began moving over him, undulating slowly. Like the rocking of that boat to Carstell. A methodical rhythm…fueled only by millions of years of human instinct, despite your inexperience. Clutching his tunic in your fists, you continued rolling down over the part of him you were most unfamiliar with. Earned a strangled cry as he stilled you on his lap, pulling back to look at you.
“This will end sooner than it started if you keep doing that,” he grunted out, pushing the sleeve of your shift downward to press a scalding kiss to your shoulder.
“Do you not like it?” You whispered, head tilting back as teeth scraped against your skin.
“It is not that I dislike it. It is that when I have you, which I do intend to once you are ready, I want to drag it out as long as possible. I intend to memorize every inch of you. To know what it is you like and what you do not,” he whispered.
He shifted your mouth back to his. Swallowing your groan with his kiss as he lowered your hips back down upon his. Felt him there where your body ached the most. Ached for him, you realized.
“I intend to know what makes your toes curl and gets you to make those pretty little sighs. I intend to make you forget every man who has ever so much as looked your way with affection. To make sure that you know what it is to be with your husband.”
You sighed a deep exhale as he lifted you in his capable arms, drifting in a direction toward a door you had never entered. Flicked it open whilst connected to you, pressing your form against the bed once on the other side.
It dawned on you that you had never been in here. Yet it was just as large as yours. With a grandiose four-poster bed settled in the middle. Golden fabrics are tied back around wooden beams. A fireplace stood on the opposite end, with the family crest settled above it. Beneath lay his sword, sheathed on a wall mount whenever he did not need it.
Your eyes trailed back to your husband. To his messy hair and unkempt clothing. Then lower still, where you realized how he desired you. Nervousness pooled as realization dawned. The uncertainty of the if it might fit and how’s does one do that part of a marriage.
He noticed your gaze, settling down beside you on the bed. Laced his fingers within your own as he spoke, “We have our whole lives ahead of us. Let us not rush on this night. I want to speak with you and drink wine with you until we grow tired. And I want to sleep beside my wife.”
“You want me to stay tonight?” You whispered, still breathless.
His hand smoothed down the planes of your face. Trailing over the top of your breast peeking out from your shift. “Every night, if you would have it.”
You answered him with a kiss.
—x—
“Do you ever think about the war?” Bronwynne asked, bent over a poultice she was presently mixing.
You groaned, washing your hands in a water basin. The man Agatha and you had tried to save today hadn’t made it. An accident involving his horse, wherein he had bled from the inside out. Had sat with his wife as she held his hand and said goodbye, trying to not think about what you might have done were it Peter you were grieving.
Not when you had spent the morning curled against his form. It was like the many since you first remained in his bed-chamber some weeks ago now.
His fingers traced slow circles along your hips, hiking your shift up further and further as you had turned over to kiss him soundly on the lips. Trying to stir something from him again. He had been understanding of your inexperience; a little too understanding, if you were honest. You wanted nothing more than to finally lay with him, but it seemed whenever you grew close enough he paused.
As if waiting for something.
Had groaned your defeat and gone your separate ways. He to multiple meetings with his advisors, and you to the healing houses to assist Healer Agatha and the others.
With your mind remaining far away, the words didn’t register at first. The back of your hand pressed to your forehead. Inhaling, you turned to face her.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I would be turning one and twenty next spring. I wonder if I will make it till then,” she said, words trailing off at the end. Somber and dreamy, like sand spilling through fingers.
You dropped to your knees before her, curling a hand around her forearm. “Why would you ever speak such a thing? You are my dearest friend in Ayelandia. You will be tending to the sick in the healing houses. I will be beside you. We will live to see another cake day.”
“Your Grace, I truly am trying to believe that.”
“We will see another spring.”
“Ayelandia will. Of that I am certain. But how many must we lose to see it?”
You tugged her face against your chest. Cradled her as the tears began and her muffled sobs echoed in the room. You couldn’t promise her anything. Many would die. It was the cost of war. Of freedom.
Yet you wept with her. Rocked her as a mother would a child, knowing, in the farthest part of your mind, another spring for either of you was not truly guaranteed.
“I do not know, Wynne. I do not know.”
After bidding the healers a good evening, you found yourself bouncing on your toes as you made your way back to the castle. Lord Bartrand smirking at you along the way. You paid him no mind, however, as the thought of spending time once more with your husband excited you.
“Your Grace, you seem to be glowing.”
“It is still summer, Lord Bartrand. It is merely a flush from the sun.” You could not hide your smirk, however.
The leaves would begin to fall soon, though. Only a few months now until the winter, you reminded yourself.
But it would not put a damper on your mood. Peter had assured you this morning you would dine in this evening, spending supper within your bedroom as opposed to the great hall with the rest of court. You rather liked missing meals under the guise of ‘furthering the bloodline.’
Most of the time Peter and you ended up in heaps on the bed, laughing together over something either one of you had overheard from the other nobles. Or a limerick your husband would open to in one of the many books lining his wall—always read out loud in the most expressive manner. Odd accents from other countries. Even wild hand gestures.
He had begun to bloom these weeks. Lady Cecilia had not been wrong. Your husband needed time and to begin watching him open up was akin to watching the caterpillars eventually grow into butterflies in spring.
You were falling in love with him. Admitted it to yourself days ago, after he had kissed you breathless. His fingers swirled around your collar bone. He leaned over then and kissed your forehead, muttering you were the most beautiful being he had ever laid eyes on.
Called you his beloved.
So it shocked you when you entered your bed-chamber to find it empty. Decided it was strange he wasn’t there and entered the shared chamber instead. It was there you saw him, a tankard of ale hanging from his hand, head tilted to the side as he stared up at the portrait of him and Queen Gwen.
“I thought we were to dine in…”
“You know, I told myself I would not do this. I would not feel the things I have been feeling for you.” He looked down at his booted feet and laughed. A hollow sound that slid down your spine and left chills in its wake. “I loved her.”
“I know you did, Peter.”
“Do you?” He placed the drink on the table. Knocked the chess set to the ground. “I have betrayed her. I look at you and I see my heart and I know, in that, I have already betrayed her.”
You staggered backward. Whimpered at the way he stumbled over his own feet.
“I told myself I could not love you. Would not love you.” He wiped a hand down his face. Choked out a sob. “I have failed her. Can you see it?”
You reached out to touch him. Sobbed as he ripped his hand away. “Peter…”
He shook his head. Swaying on his feet like a sailer. You did not reach out to adjust him this time. Stood fixed in place as he lifted the tankard and swallowed the remaining contents in one large gulp.
“I am meeting with some of the men. I need time away from the castle.”
“Away from the castle…or me?” You regretted the words as soon as you said them.
Peter blinked once. Twice. You reminded yourself he was drunk. His words meant nothing—yet you remembered an age-old adage. That drunkenness revealed the heart's true contents.
“Is it not all the same?”
The door slammed down in your mind. You resigned yourself to your fate. Of a marriage grown cold. Loveless, as if there had ever been a chance it would amount to anything else. In your naïveté you had managed to forget that piece; he had been contracted to you.
“I bid you good night, husband.”
He had not even wished you a goodbye. Only walked out of the room and slammed the chamber door behind him. You remained behind, eventually forcing yourself into the dining hall in hopes of finding something to eat.
You watched from the dais alone as people danced together. Flashing jewelry illuminated in candlelight. End of summer fabrics and fashions on display. New couples who had married this season were presented for the first time by a herald, their new lover’s glow stirring anguish in your chest.
A season meant for growth, led only to decay.
“I saw His Grace leave.” Lord Bartrand settled down beside you, watching as you stabbed a grape with your fork. “I take it you had a falling out.”
“His Grace was acting like a court jester who had too much drink. Why did you not stop him?”
“He does this on this day every year. It has been this way for three years now.”
“Oh no,” you whispered, dropping your fork with a loud clang.
Onlookers turned to watch their Queen. “Return to your merriment!” You enthused, jolting your head back to your husband’s advisor. “I did not know.”
“He likely did not want to burden you. Look—I am not privy to all the details of your relationship. But I do know that whatever he said, he deeply regrets every word.”
You laughed to yourself. “It does not matter. It hurt all the same, and the damage has been done.”
“Your Grace, he is grieving still. I ask that you would give him a little grace.”
“I understand, Lord Bartrand. I will speak with him when he returns tonight.”
He did not return that night. Instead, as the sun began to rise, you felt a pair of arms as they twined around your waist. Tugging you into firm, hot flesh. You grunted against the contact, shoving blindly in the bed at your husband.
“It is morning and you smell like a tavern still.”
“Dove—”
“Did you have something this morning as well? Your eyes are unfocused.” You narrowed your eyes.
The answer never came, as your husband released a loud sigh and pressed his face into a pillow. Dozing off before you could ask him any further questions. Groaning, you gathered your things for your lessons with Lady Ayla and strapped your dagger to your thigh, ready for the morning.
“Your form is getting better, Your Grace. You might be a warrior yet,” she laughed, wiping sweat from her brow as you finished another match with your swords.
You chuckled, dipping your hand into a water bucket and running some along the base of your neck. A breeze chilled your skin there, the beginnings of fall starting to make its presence known.
“His Grace approaches.”
Indeed he did. Standing there in a new pair of breeches and one of his older shirts. Strings danced in the wind as he walked. Even after a night out suffering from the effects of alcohol, he made your stomach churn. You hated he had that power over you when you wanted no more than to be angry with him.
“Commander Ayla, a moment with my wife if you will?”
There was no hesitation as she made herself scarce. As if sending the tension rolling off your form. You crossed your arms, glowering up at him.
“What if I do not want a moment with you?”
“You are still angry with me?” He asked, taking a step closer.
You jerked back. “I understand you were grieving. But you did not have to be so cruel.”
“That is precisely why I am here. The words were said and I know I cannot take them back…but it was a moment of weakness and I am sorry.” He sighed, rubbing his jaw. You yearned to reach out and cover his hand with your own, thinking better of it. “I meant what I said. That I look at you and I see my heart. You must believe that.”
“I believe you. But I am still angry with you.”
Peter groaned, stalking away momentarily before turning the heel to look at you. “Then fight with me. Tell me what you are feeling. Use me. I do not care, I just need to know there is forgiveness to be found in your heart.”
“Spar with me then.”
He stumbled a bit over your words. Stuttering out, “W-what?”
“Spar…with me.” You grinned pleasantly. “You said to fight with you. To use you. So spar with me.”
“You cannot possibly mean that.”
“Then it seems we are at an impasse.”
Groaning, he reached over and grabbed two training blades. Tossed you one and twirled the other in the air once before dropping into position. You danced around your husband. Smirking as he managed to miss you twice.
“Can we talk about it?” He pleaded, dodging one of your blows.
Clang. Clang. Clang. You twisted away from another swing, slashing your sword in a downward arc. Gritted your teeth as he blocked it at the last moment, before knocking you back onto your rear.
Commander Ayala and Lord Bartrand turned to watch the commotion. Laughed at the sight of the two royals working through a marital spat.
You rolled out of the way as Peter’s sword came down, kicking him in the back of the leg to knock him onto the ground. Grunted as you jumped on top of him. Wanted to throttle him for the things he had said to you.
You kicked his sword away. Shrieking as he gripped you by both wrists and flipped you onto your back, breathing heavy and hot against your lips. His eyes traveled south, darkening before your eyes. You writhed beneath him, growling like a bobcat captured in a cage.
“You will not kiss me!”
“I should like to, but I am afraid it would only anger you more.”
“I am so angry at you,” you shouted at him, jerking a hand free.
“Interesting. I could not tell. What with your shrieking and heavy-hitting blows like you intended to lop my head off with a training sword—”
“It would be a waste of a perfectly handsome face!”
He smirked, earning another growl from you as you wiggled beneath him. “I am grateful to hear it, my wife.”
“Do not flatter yourself. You are incorrigible. Smug. And you need a bath—you reek of ale.”
“You can take one with me when we return to the castle.”
You kicked upward toward his favorite appendage. Or at least the one which liked you the most, as you had woken up every morning as of late with it stabbing you in your slumber.
“That will not help either of us, beloved.”
“You infuriate me.”
He softened then. Eyes lowering to yours. “I know.”
“You hurt me.”
He dropped his forehead onto yours. Sighed against your mouth. “I know.”
“But I cannot remain angry with you.”
His gaze softened. An opening, you noted, shoving him and pinning him down on his back. Your fingers curled around Poison, tugging it free from your thigh and pointing the tip toward your husband’s heart.
“Death.”
He furrowed his brows. “I suppose you have always been my weakness,” he whispered. “Throw that to the side.”
“Do you concede?” You asked.
He nodded his head and you chucked the dagger to your right. You had not even a moment to think, as Peter rose to pull you forward in a kiss. Lips swallowing the gasp that spilled from your parted lips as his hands slid along your lower back, drawing you closer still. You pushed him back, glancing over his head at the onlookers.
“We have company,” you hissed, climbing off of him and sliding your dagger back into its sheath.
“Will you walk with me?” He asked, reaching out a hand.
He held out his arm to you, allowing you to hook your elbow through his. Settling a palm on his forearm. There was no forgetting the words he had spoken toward you last night, fueled by grief and drink. Yet, even in the most stubborn of hearts, you knew you bore him a love that surpassed all of that. Prided yourself in showing the grace you felt he truly deserved. Though you might make him grovel for it.
“You have that far-off look in your eye,” Peter said, glancing your way. “Tell me what is on your mind.”
You exhaled. Noted Lord Bartrand and another soldier trailing behind you as you glanced briefly over your shoulder.
“I am sorry I did not know that yesterday was…that day.”
He halted in his steps, sliding a hand up your jaw. “It is no excuse for my behavior. I was hurting and I lashed out at you for it. You are my wife.”
“Yes, I am your wife. But I have never forgotten I was not your chosen bride.” You clasped your hand over his, leaning forward as he dropped his forehead against yours. “You married Queen Gwen out of love. When you pictured every day of your life until the day you had died, it was her by your side, not me.”
His breath stuttered against your face. “When anyone marries, it is with the thought that person will be the person you spend the rest of your days with.
“Beloved, that day…was one of the hardest days of my life. I had woken up like any other. A man prepared to go to a summer ball with his wife. I had left her side for only a few moments to get us a drink. But a few moments was all it took.” He sniffled, and you drew your hands up to either side of his face, passing the pads of your thumbs back and forth over his skin. “I heard her scream, then. The goblets of wine had tumbled to the ground. I did not think, I just ran to her. There was…so much blood. I remember calling for a guard, but the attacker was unnaturally fast. He slipped out a window and I…was watching her life spill out of her.
“I knew there was no hope; the wound a mortal one. She choked there on her blood and I could do nothing for her. I was her husband; I was meant to protect her. To comfort her. I begged her to stay with me. I think that was the only thing I managed to say. Long after she was gone, I asked that of her. To stay with me—even as the healers came to take her from me.
“I do not remember much after that. Only fleeting images of the days that followed. Endless questions of how I wished to preserve her body. How to lay her to rest. Questions no husband wishes to answer of the woman he loved. I am not proud of the nights spent at taverns. Of those same nights I succumbed to drink if only to forget a little while.”
You swallowed his sob with your lips. Urging him to continue. “It is okay, Peter.”
“I blamed myself for her death. She had no way to protect herself. I told you I regretted that the day I have you Poison. It is why I post so many guards around you. It is why, even though it rings terror in my gut to think of it, I am happy you are training with the Guard and have been these months.
“If only she had been able to do the same…” You rubbed his tears away from his tanned cheeks. “It does not take away from the hurt I have caused you. Words that were thrown so carelessly at you.”
“You have known a deep hurt. I do not know how one can experience something like that and not bare a scar in your heart from it. I am sorry for the pain you were caused. For the loss of something so special to you. I only wish I could take some of that pain from you,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his chest. Listened to the comforting beat of his heart beneath your ear. “I have forgiven you. From the moment you left last night, I accepted that there was nothing you could do that I would not forgive you for. That I had not already forgiven you for even in the days to come.”
He tilted your chin upward. Those dark eyes swirling with tears. “I do not deserve it. Your forgiveness. Your love. I am so sorry, my beloved.”
You pressed a slow kiss to his lips. Palms sliding over the front of his chest, feeling the heat of him there. Slid upward over his collar bones, curling around his neck. He pressed a palm low against your spine, drawing you flush against him. The kind of kiss that made your head spin.
You drew back then, running your nose along his gently.
“You said hardest days. What was the other?” You asked quietly.
He chuckled, though no happiness filled its tone. “Yesterday. When I realized if I lost your love, it would only have been because I truly deserved it.”
You shook your head, laughing at him fondly. His eyes met yours, those brows knitting high on his forehead. “You say that as if I have not already given you my heart. I was angry with you…and hurt, yes. But what I feel for you goes beyond that. Peter, against all my better judgment I have fallen in love with you. I love you.”
“You do?”
“I do, and I do not need you to say it back if you do not—”
“I love you, too.”
Well, there it was. Against all odds, he had gone and done the unthinkable. Your heart soared. Leaping into the skies and taking flight. Those hummingbird wings fluttered in your belly as he took you into his arms and spun you round and round in the field. Chuckling as you tilted your head back toward the sky, utterly and endlessly elated.
“There is a clearing just down that hill with a lake. Care to take a dip with me, my love?” Peter asked, settling your feet on the ground.
You did not even hesitate. Simply grabbed your hand in his own and sprinted down the hill. Peter called over his shoulder for his guards to stay behind.
Your gaze slid over to his, then. Heart pounding with exhilaration. For hours the two of you swam in the lake. Laughing at one another as you kicked and played like children. Laughter soon bled into the sounds of languid kisses and soft sighs of exploration as he laid you down on the soft blades of grass in the clearing. Whimpered moans spilled from kiss swollen lips, as his fingers tested the part of you which had ached for him most these weeks.
You were suddenly grateful for the lack of guards as something within you drew back like the string of a bow. A tension growing and growing, before reaching a precipice. The building came to an abrupt release which sent you careening over the edge, and rocking blindly against your husband. His name was a whispered plea against his lips after he swallowed your scream.
Your relationship had changed much over these seven months. From a start as strangers. Those months of heated spars between enemies. Soft beginnings whispered in tents as friends. The first moment he called you dove with a tenderness that broke your heart. Beloved, for when he began to accept what he had grown to feel for you.
And now my love, for the fullness of it within his heart.
You were certain that would forever be your favorite.
—x—
The Harvest Festival brought with it the soldiers from Glendhaven, your father, and his other sons with him. Your half brothers, each of them drinking before the enormous fire with their silver masks covering their faces. It was easy to determine those of Glendhaven as it seemed they’d coordinated. That and each of your brothers had immediately decided upon finding an Ayelandian woman to entertain with their many stories for the night.
The remainder of the guests did not. Milling about in different shapes, sizes, and colorings of them. Some animals, others more abstract. You’d picked a white number. Plumes of feathers in the same color in an arc above one eye. Silver embellishments outline the edges.
Tonight you were Peter’s dove. Not a Queen. Not a Royal. But a woman in love, celebrating the growth of a country for the past ten months.
Trade was booming. Crops were bountiful. The people were happy—as happy as those preparing for war might be. But happy still.
Carstell soldiers had yet to arrive on Ayelandian lands, though your husband seemed not at all worried. Their colder months brought with them dangerous sailing conditions. The opportune moments for travel needing to be carefully determined and planned.
The thought of knowingly being outnumbered by Hollowhall without them was not lost on you. But you had nodded your understanding all the same, taking him at his word.
A herald sounded his horn then. Your steps faltered as you walked the exterior of the party. Hands drifted to either side of your hips, molding you into the warm chest at your back. A low, sultry voice followed, eliciting a shudder.
“Let us celebrate our success this evening, my love.” His lips brushed your ear before he took your left hand and raised his voice above the crowd.
“Today, we are joined as one. We are one blood with our Glendhaven allies as they share the same blood as my wife. The same blood that flows through every Ayelandian heart here today. We know winter is approaching, but we look further still to spring. To our bright future ahead. Hollowhall may be on our doorstep, but they know nothing about the hearts of Ayelandia and their Glendhaven brothers in arms. Tonight, my Queen and I celebrate your lives. We know they will be long yet!”
The night continued in a celebratory manner. Autumnal bouquets streamed from stone pillars. A colorful tent was erected in the event of fickle, rainy weather. The fire bounced off of the masks, making everyone equal tonight. No royals, no titles at all, only those of Ayelandia and Glendhaven. One people. Just as it should be.
You danced with your husband all night. Joined your father and half-brothers to catch up on time lost between family members. Had even danced with Bronwynne near the fire. Shared stories with the children of what it was like growing up a Princess after they had begged you to tell them.
Lord Bartrand appeared in your line of vision mid mock sword fight with a little boy, excusing yourself quietly to join him. His arm extended toward yours, your hand coming to rest in the crook of his elbow.
“It is a joy to see you so happy, Your Grace. You look at home here,” he said, walking along the outer edge of the square with you beside him.
“I am. I suppose I have been for some time now,” you whispered, glancing down at your feet as you walked. “It is Harvest Festival, so I must thank you.”
He perked up at this. “Thank me for?”
You exhaled slowly. “I was raised by a man who I know loved me in his way. But my mother passed when I was very young, leaving only me behind. My father later went on to have sons, and I think it left him uncertain as to what to do with a daughter. I spent most of my childhood with tutors. My time with him…mostly dinner parties and social gatherings.
“When I was old enough to wed, he began speaking with me more frequently but only on matters such as potential alliances. Prospective marriages, and the like. I loved the attention I got then. It was what I had longed for. To simply be seen.
“When I came here…your kindness from the beginning is a kindness I could never repay. It is a love I have never truly felt before. I can never thank you enough for all you have done for me these many months. For my husband as well, Lord Bartrand,” you said, inhaling sharply, in an attempt to keep the tears blooming on your bottom lashes from falling.
Lord Bartrand paused in his footsteps. Leveled you with a soft gaze as he turned to face you. “Permission to speak freely, Your Grace?”
You laughed. “You always have permission to speak freely with me.”
“From the moment you arrived, I felt a fondness for you. You were this quiet Princess from Glendhaven then. A fearful thing at your wedding. With that crown you could never quite keep on your head.” His words were teasing as he patted your hand looped through his arm.
“Those first few weeks…just watching you accept your new life…I had never felt so sorry for someone so full of kindness. I know I have said King Peter has been a son to me, but I have come to look at you and love you as a daughter as well.” He turned to face you. Clasped both his hands with yours.
“I have only wanted for your happiness all this time. To see you and your husband now ruling together. Growing the kingdom in this way. Watching the people love and respect the two of you. Your accomplishments as a warrior—”
“Hardly,” you murmured, smiling all the same.
“Also a skilled healer,” he pointed out. “I know that you have been the greatest blessing to your husband, Your Grace. But to us as well—to me. It has been a joy knowing you this past year.”
“Lord Bartrand, it sounds like you are saying goodbye. You have years to be rid of me yet. And one day, you will be there for mine and Peter’s children, just as you have been for us.”
He smiled, reaching up to pinch the base of your jaw. Shaking your head back and forth fondly. Like a father would his child. Your eyes watered once more, inhaling shakily.
“It would be my honor,” he said. “Speaking of…how are you this evening, Your Grace?”
“I am well, Lord Bartrand. The food and wine will be flowing for hours yet. Enjoy the time with your wife and children, my friend.” He turned to you then, the lips beneath his Lion mask tilting upward at the corner. “I was feeling ready to tire. The endless meetings this week have been taking a toll.”
Lord Bartrand tilted his head back and guffawed. “Your Grace, if you would like some time away from court, I can manage the meetings with the other advisors for a bit.”
Peter slid up to your side, curling your palm within his own. “It would be greatly appreciated.”
Lord Bartrand smiled at the two of you. Something devious hidden in there, though you wondered why. Deciding to think no more on it, you pressed further against Peter’s shoulder, allowing him to begin leading you back toward the castle.
“Thank you again, Lord Bartrand. For everything.”
He crossed his palm over his chest. “It has been my honor, Your Grace.”
Once out of earshot, you glanced upward at your husband out the corner of your eye. “What was that…just back there?”
Peter beamed. “I wanted a moment away with you. Away from prying eyes. Away from all our responsibilities. Just the two of us. We never had a moment of peace after our wedding. Nor a honeymoon. I thought…with the war creeping upon us—”
You cut his words off with a kiss, “Can we recommit ourselves to one another. Tonight, if possible?”
He brushed his finger along your left hand. Across that band of gold. The scar on the opposite side. Those brown eyes of his scanned your face, wondering.
“You want us to marry again?”
You nodded, your heart pounding frantically in your chest. “Yes. Do you think it can be done?”
“I will ask Lord Bartrand to find someone to marry us. We can do it in front of all of our guests if you wish? A final, public declaration of our commitment to one another; the alliances further bonded through our recommitment to one another.” He brushed your hair away from your face, thumb trailing along your ear.
“I will gather my ladies. They will gather flowers…oh, and I suppose I can wear this gown? It is not the traditional wedding garb, but I—”
“It is perfect. So long as I am marrying you again today, it will be perfect.”
You pressed a final kiss to his lips, before racing off to gather some help. Glanced over your shoulder to see your husband standing there waving at your back. His lips formed those three words you would never take for granted from him ever again. Over and over again.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
The gathering swarmed and swelled upon news the King and Queen intended to recommit themselves in marriage. A herald announcing it was to be a public declaration of the love you bore one another, for all to see this time.
Your ladies flitted about you in preparation. Twining beads and flowers into your hair. Colorful reds, oranges, and golds in a wreath around your head. Bronwynne had even put together a floral bouquet, handing it to you as you prepared to walk down the aisle and join your husband upon the makeshift dais.
“Now you are perfect,” she mused, adjusting the sleeve on your gown. “To think the two of you are the same people who bickered like a pair of wild cats just months ago.”
“And now we are in love. If our lives are to be cut short, I want to celebrate the time we have had. This time, in the manner I dreamed of as a little girl. Married to a man with love in his eyes only for me.” You leaned down to inhale the flowers. “Thank you for this kindness, Wynne. To all of you ladies.”
The women around you bowed, and you turned to face the crowd. Finding your feet as you walked toward Peter, heart pounding at the sight he made. Red tinged jacket, those pale breeches you liked which clung to his muscular thighs. Crown settled on his newly styled head of hair. The stubble you had grown to love on his jaw trimmed a bit since you had last seen him. Breathtakingly perfect—and yours.
He extended his hand toward you as you approached. Fingers twining with his own as you settled on the dais. The crowd stilled and silenced as the officiant made his opening statements. Introducing the two of you once more to the congregation. As two people, so deeply in love, they agreed to reaffirm that love through a renewal of vows and hearts.
No soldier stepped forward this time to slice your palms. Yet Lord Bartrand still took your bouquet and gestured for the two of you to lay your left hands upon the others. With slow, practiced movements, he twined you together at the wrists. Knotting it off at the end before stepping backward.
Peter’s palm squeezed yours as he asked Peter to repeat the familiar vows. His words were calm and confident. Gaze settled on your face as he spoke, as if there weren’t hundreds watching him do so. And then it was your turn, teeth pinching your lip between them for a moment as the officiant asked you to repeat the words after him.
“I take thee, Peter…” His thumb brushed your palm, urging you onward. “…to have and to hold, from this day forward…” You found the world shrinking. Leaving only you there with the man standing before you with love burning in his tearing eyes. “Till death do us part.”
The finality of the words was followed by the roar of the people of Glendhaven and Ayelandia alike. Their excitement was contagious as they clanged their goblets and tankards. Children tossing flower petals in the air. Others waving their flags and streamers from their prospective countries.
Yet there was only Peter, as he stared down at you. Waiting as the officiant said a few more ceremonial words before exclaiming to the crowd the King was now to kiss his wife. Grinning, you leaned forward as he had and pressed your lips to his. Wanted nothing more than to remove the wrap from around your wrist, to slide your arms around his neck and kiss him until everything melted away at the edges and it was only your love left in the midst.
After the party melted away and the people settled into their homes, you found yourself sprawled out on your bed. Clad in a shift, furs drawn over your frame as Peter unlaced the ties of his tunic and tugged it free from his form. Then, moved to undo the laces on his breeches as well. Kicking his boots to the side so he could slide them over his thighs.
Your face warmed at the notion he stood there in nothing at all before you. Naked as the day he was born. Quelled only as he slid between the furs and tugged your soft form against his solid one. Pressed a slow kiss against your lips. Drawing a sigh from you as his form moved to hover over yours. One elbow propped himself above you, the other sliding up to run along your side, cupping your cheek within his palm.
“I love you, dove.”
“As I love you, Peter.”
And then you knew nothing. Only the feel of love wrapped around you. Sequestered away from the world for the next week as Peter pressed kiss after kiss to your skin. Over your cheeks at first. Moving toward your neck. Eliciting familiar gasps and sighs beneath him, before that wandering mouth drew downward. Over the curved flesh of your breasts, and even further still. Scraping over hipbone as fingers wandered to the highest point between your thighs.
Reached out to grasp his forearm slung over your hip as that tension grew. Bubbling and burning. Breathing coming faster and faster as he lured you toward that lurching peak. Your body shattered as your eyes pinched shut. Form shuddering against his own.
He was there, in an instant, mouth sealing over yours. Murmured whispers of his love as he asked if you would have him. Finally, after all these months. Your answer was gasped yes, as his fingers were replaced with an unfamiliar feeling. Of a fullness that made your head spin and body burn. A painful heat stirred at your innermost point as he sank inch by inch within you. White bursting behind your eyes.
“I love you. I am sorry. I love you.”
He murmured those words over and over again as he moved once more. His body coming to a point where yours allowed him no further. You gasped, nodding for him to keep going, as he forced forward and through the barrier separating him from you. Smiled through your tears as he swooped down to press feather-light kisses against your lashes. Cheeks. The tip of your nose.
He remained still there for some time. Allowing you to adjust to the fullness of him. And then you shifted your hips. Curiosity and human nature sparked to life. The burning sting settled into a dull ache as he moved only slightly within you. Gripping one of your hands and pressing it into the pillow above your head.
You grew aware of the coiling in your belly building again as he drew back an inch and then shifted forward. Begged for him to move. His hips rolling into yours. Over and over again as you edged closer to that cliff in your mind. Chasing that indescribable pleasure curling within you. Honey and ether. Two souls coming together in one body, as the sounds of his breathing, grew loud in your ears.
You whispered your love to him in the night. Gasped and writhed beneath him as the ending shattered you. Split you into two, and sent you hurtling. Shuddered when he finally parted from you and that delicious fullness of him ebbed into a sore ache.
Loved so fully by the man who held your heart inside himself.
He curled you against him, then. Kissing your forehead and reminding you of his love for you. That when he looked at you, he saw his heart.
The week passed very much the same. In slow mornings filled with languid kisses. Of pleasurable moans and soft exhales filling the bed-chamber as you explored one another fully. Waking in the early hours to find your husband yearning for you—only to climb over him and watch his eyes widening in the night as you descended upon him.
Chased pleasure as the war drew nearer. Trying to solidify an eternity in a few days.
He reminded you constantly how he loved you so. And you reminded him even in death he would be yours. Whatever made up your souls, his had been picked solely for yours.
And for some time, it was all you knew. Meetings during the day time with soldiers from Ayelandia and Glendhaven alike. Only to race through the corridors beside your husband, retreating behind closed doors where he loved you in the light.
Those weeks leading up to Yule were your favorite. His endless affection. The longing gazes during war strategy meetings. How you found his hands never left your body. Adored his attentiveness. The way he desired your pleasure above his own.
Some weeks later you sat in your shared chambers before a fire. Your head tilted to the side as you took in the new portrait hanging in front of your husband’s desk you presently seated yourself upon. A painter had delivered it days ago, the picture of Queen Gwen moved to the hall where Peter’s Uncle, the late King Ben, and his parents were also displayed.
You took in your features and his. The way your eyes looked kind and full of emotion. Love reflected there even on canvas. It warmed your heart to see they had even captured the way you felt for the man working behind you. Buried these past few weeks in planning, strategies, and ledgers. Ensuring everything needed was prepared and ready for Hollowhall’s arrival.
Any day now they would be on your doorstep.
“Does it capture my likeness?” You asked after some time, kicking your feet in front of you.
“Yes, dove. Though I do not know why I would ever care for a painting of you when I have you here to look at all day.”
“All day, is that so? You have been so busy I thought you might have forgotten what it was like to be with your wife.”
Peter shoved his chair to the side, coming round the desk to stand before you. A palm came up and smoothed along the bodice of your gown. Running up and along your ribcage, over your shoulder. To your neck. His lips swallowed whatever words remained on yours, breath mingling.
“I have been a neglectful husband, it seems. Let me remind you then of how much I love you, wife.”
His hands fisted in your skirts. Shoving them up around your hips. You reached for the hem of his breeches. Frantically tugging his shirt from within them. Reached toward what you wanted from him most. Craved friction. Fumbled wildly with the laces at his hips.
His hand stopped yours.
“Peter…”
Your husband dropped down onto his knees before you.
Tugged you to the edge of the desk.
“Let me.”
He whispered the words and they fanned across the inside of your thigh.
A hot kiss lavished against sensitive skin.
“What are you—oh. Oh.”
Hours later, you lay sprawled out beside your husband, soaking in the heat of the glowing fire. He’d tucked you against him, fingers tracing absent patterns along your shoulders. Your breasts. Stomach. Anywhere he could reach.
“Do you think you might be with child after that?”
“Well, the first two things we did cannot produce an heir. I know thatmuch.” You mused, pressing a kiss to his lips.
“But the third and fourth we know for certain can.” He kissed you again, moving over you. Form shadowing your own. “I hate I have to leave you again. I want no more than to keep you here tucked away in this room.”
“You could stay,” you groaned, sitting up in bed.
“Lord Bartrand already held court for the two weeks we spent locked away here on our very overdue honeymoon after the Harvest Festival. I cannot do that to him again.”
“Does he know we are working on continuing the bloodline? Suppose you cannot remind him of the importance of me giving you a son.”
“Do not tempt me any further. You are insatiable, wife.” He pecked you on the lips, climbing off the bed to slip on some clothing. “I will make it up to you tonight.”
Hours later after the soldiers had finished their training for the evening, your husband had a fire built and drinks were passed around the field as you celebrated Yule. Normally, a grand feast was hosted at the castle, Peter had explained. But preparations required sacrifices, you reminded him, and promised that next year the two of you would be more intentional to celebrate.
After sipping your ale, your husband gripped your hand and whispered in your ear to follow him.
“Where are we going?” You asked, chasing after your husband as he dragged you into the stables.
“When I was but I child I hid from Lord Bartrand in this little alcove. I had always hated my studies.”
“You intend to make love to me in an alcove?” You whispered, giggling as he shoved you up a set of stairs. Smirking as you sprawled out beneath him on the furs he’d laid down in preparation.
“Yes, if only to fulfill a fantasy of a younger prince.” He lowered his mouth against yours, kissing you soundly.
Until your hips shifted against his, craving that now-familiar fullness of him. Gasped as you guided him to where you wanted him most, meeting him with every painstakingly slow movement of him against you. That delicious heat coiled in your belly as he drew pleasure from you like chords on a string instrument.
“I love you,” he gasped, rolling onto his side when it was all over.
You shuddered beside him, turning over to cup his cheek with your palm. “You are my heart now. I do not remember a time when there was no you.”
He kissed you soundly. “You will never have to think of such a time again. I am yours. Until my dying day.”
“And even then, my love.”
The both of you, satiated and full from drink, slipped into an easy slumber. Tiredness clinging to your forms as the night hours bled on. Until the sun had fully gone away and the moon had come up to replace it. As the wolves began their nightly song, the sound of horns blaring stirred you from sleep. Grunting as your husband shot up beside you.
Heart pounding, you gripped his hand as he led you back down the alcove stairs. Then forced you along behind him. Up the walls of the garrison. Peeking overtop the giant, stone exterior.
There, in the fields of Ambrosen, were the endless men on horseback. Torches glowing in the midnight sky. Illuminating the world in an eerie glow. Their staffs knocked against the ground. In a steady beat—like that of the heart pounding in your chest. A chanted song spilled from their lips, in a tune unfamiliar to your ears. Sounding of the death they intended to cause.
Your husband’s eyes flicked upward to Commander Ayla, standing atop the tallest rampart. A horn extended in her hand.
“Sound the horns. Light the towers. Hollowhall is here!” He shouted.
He turned to you then. Your mouth opened. Eyes widened as they took in his face. Trying to memorize every feature you had grown to love during the past year of your marriage.
“I am scared,” you admitted.
“Do you remember what I said to you? All those months ago—after Carstell?” He asked, pressing his forehead to yours.
You nodded. Tears threatened to spill as he cupped your face in his palms. “You told me you were lucky and sure. You said…we will see the sunrise. You promised.”
He kissed you soundly. His tears mingling with yours. Holding you close to him as your head pressed against his chest. “We will see the sunrise again, dove.”
warnings: historical inaccuracies abound. views mimic those of the time to the best of my ability. those being the need for an heir. but medieval king!peter is a feminist. i swear by it.
cross posted on ao3.
NEXT CHAPTER
*
“i wanna take you somewhere so you know i care,
but it’s so cold and i don’t know where.”
- another love; tom odell.
*
You didn’t know how you got here, and yet a part of you had prepared for it all your life. As you stared out at the crowd in the beautiful hall, your wrist tied to King Peter’s, you fully realized the immensity of your situation. A Queen to a country not your own—married to a man who barely looked at you during the vow exchange. The priest standing beside you on the dais spoke so many words, but none of them reached your ears. You could only focus on the way your hand bleeding hand presently tied to King Peter’s throbbed like a beating heart, echoing the way your mind screamed at you to be anywhere but there.
Bound to a man who barely acknowledged your presence as he swore fealty to you. Promised to love and cherish you as your husband. To never venture from your bed chamber—to provide the kingdom with an heir. Created with love, or at least the people of the court hoped for that.
You knew this was only an arrangement. A marriage bartered like mere goods at a market. Your country intended to supply Ayelandia with goods to sustain them through another brutal winter after a time of war. Mere politics, disguised by a charade of a wedding for the people to fawn over.
The Spider and the Sunflower (tasm!Peter x Reader)
Summary: The questions continue, long past twenty-one. The more you find out about Peter, the more you want to know—he tells you that if he found a hundred dollars on the street he’d donate it to a food bank and that the TL;DR version of his life is “Art, panic, loss, and student loans.” When he asks you if you have any tattoos, you wink coyly before laughing and telling him you don’t. Then, when you ask the person he’d love to tattoo more than anyone else in the world, he returns your teasing smile and replies that it’s you. -> or, tattooartist!peter meets florist!reader
Words: 9.8 k (i'm sorry!)
A/N: inspired by the incredible @pardonmydubstep whose idea this is entirely based on. her own AU will be dropping in April but y'all i've read it and it's brilliant.
18+ only fem!reader; cursing; mentions of: food, tattooing, cheating, debt, grief, drugs; implied masturbation; shitty boyfriends (not peter); arguing; peter and reader are both pining idiots; sexual innuendo; smut (fingering, oral, shower sex) inexperienced!peter; there's a whole ass plot in this; not proofread. please validate me.
wisteria for welcoming
The sign goes up on a Saturday afternoon, just as you’re returning from delivering bridal bouquets to three different addresses. Ink Trails. The lettering is unassuming; the logo, simple—a black spider with extended legs that give off the impression of dripping ink. Perhaps you’d been expecting something more…gothic or biker-esque, so you’re pleasantly surprised by the artistry of it, the delicate lines and soft curves of its insectoid body.
You stifle a yawn, air conditioning barely keeping your eyes from drooping, watching from the driver’s seat of your car as an older woman carries navy blue and grey throw cushions as well as large canvases filled with photography of various New York landmarks into the shop next door. Surely, she can’t be your new neighbour. She looks far too delicate, too quintessentially motherly to—you stop yourself from the pending judgement; you know it’s unfair and decide that you’ll have to introduce yourself.
“Hello?” You step delicately into the shop, hoping you’re not intruding, immediately noting the absence of a bell or chime to announce your arrival. Briefly, you cast your eyes around the interior of what had, up until last month, been a dry cleaner’s—it’s much more aesthetically pleasing now.
To your left is a small waiting area with mismatched wingback chairs and a small table strewn with a collection of coffee table photography books. A few titles stick out to you: Dogs!, Sneakers x Culture, and Hubble. It’s an eclectic collection, to say the least, but it stirs your interest. Behind the front desk, where you stand now, is an open area with two black tattoo beds, each beside a workstation with its own metallic cabinet topped with various tools and implements you don’t know the name of.
“Can I help you, dear?”
You glance over in time to see the older woman from outside come out of a private room at the back of the shop, her hair falling from the loose bun that’s tied at the nape of her neck.
“Hi,” you greet her with a small wave, using your free arm to balance the arrangement you’d popped into your own shop to grab before heading over here. “I own the shop next door—The Greenhouse—and I just wanted to stop in and say welcome.” You hold out the arrangement in her direction as she walks over smiling so warmly it reminds you of summer afternoons spent with your grandmother.
“That’s very kind, dear, thank you.” She takes the flowers from you and sets the vase on top of the front counter, right by a list of rules that begins with Tattoos are by appointment only. “Peter is lucky to have such a friendly neighbour.”
“Peter?”
“My nephew,” she explains, “This is his place, of course, I’m just here to help him tidy and get everything set up.”
As if on cue, a young man, about your age, stumbles through the door carrying a large box labelled Random Crap and sets it down on the counter next to your arrangement. He notices it and tilts his head to the side, an amused expression tugging up at the corner of his mouth.
“Flowers, May?”
He’s talking to the older woman, his aunt, and she purses her lips at him, eyes flickering toward you in something of a warning. Peter turns to look at you and seems to notice your presence for the first time. His gaze makes you run your suddenly clammy palms over the skirt of your sundress under the pretence of smoothing non-existent wrinkles from the bright yellow fabric. His honey-amber eyes dance with something like mischief as he notices your own eyes sizing him up. He’s tall, almost unfairly so, and lean, with broad shoulders and muscled arms that are on full display given the ribbed white tank top he’s wearing. Your eyes are instantly drawn to the characters that adorn his right bicep—recognizing them as Hebrew, but unsure what they mean.
“So, you’re the flower girl?”
His aunt—May—makes an exasperated noise in her throat and you’re certain she’s about to tell him to be nice when he holds out his hand. You notice the spiderwebs that are inked onto his knuckles, stemming up his hands and culminating on his wrists where they swirl into a stunning pastiche of photorealistic images and carefully lettered text.
You take his offered hand and can’t help but to notice the way the rough edges of his fingers slip into smooth palms. His handshake is gentle but firm, his larger hand nearly swallowing yours. You focus instead on the way his messy brown hair sticks up at odd angles as if he rolled out of bed looking that good.
“I’m Peter,” he grins, his index finger playfully tapping at your delicate wrist, “Nice to meet you, Sunflower.”
carnations for fascination
Peter doesn’t mean to watch you, but in the week since Ink Trails opened, he catches himself staring every time you’re out front of your shop, fixing up the planters you keep by the entrance. There’s something about you—something that makes him feel as though you’ve enchanted him; like you put some magic spell to ensnare him in the flowers that still sit, slightly wilted, next to his register.
It’s the swing of your hips and the way you smile kindly at him every time you cross paths. The way the sunlight catches in the silver rings you wear has him fixating on your fingers, on your hands. He remembers how tiny they were in his own on that first day and the memory sends his mind into a gutter full of shame and self-reproach. It’s not helped by the sundresses you wear, seemingly designed to test the limits of his sanity with their floral prints and their curve-hugging bodices and the way the breeze ruffles them around your thighs.
Yeah, he’s under your spell.
It’s been years since he felt like this—sure, he’s found people attractive, but he’s never been attracted to them—and he blames the way you carefully tend to your plants, gently pruning them and cutting away every bit that’s no longer growing, every bit that’s stagnated into something ugly that leeches off of all the good parts. He finds himself wishing you’d do that for him—take him into your arms and tend to all the things he wants to be, rid him of all the haunted thoughts that snake around him like suffocating tendrils every time he starts to feel happy again. He blames the splash of colour, like the petals of your flowers, that you are in a world that’s otherwise been black and white for nearly a decade.
Peter almost feels guilty. Because he shouldn’t be thinking of you in that way, shouldn’t be thinking of anyone in that way, not since he chose loneliness to be his most trusted companion. If you avoid falling in love you avoid the risk of getting hurt. Of having your entire life ripped out from under you like a rug. Loneliness is safe. So he watches from a distance, ever more fascinated each time you pop open the door to his shop to tell him good morning, a cup of coffee proffered, and to wish him a good night at the end of the day.
It’s the night nine days after he’s opened that Peter lies in bed, his phone buzzing with an Instagram notification. He checks it, sees that it’s from you—a request to follow his personal account. From your personal account. He accepts, too quickly perhaps, and returns the request and no more than ten minutes later he’s scrolling through your photos.
The two of you instantly followed one another’s business accounts, that was a given. But these photos are so very different than the ones of you posed with beautiful arrangements, floral walls, blushing brides and grinning grooms. Instantly, he regrets scrolling through them. It feels invasive to see you like this—laughing and smiling in the woods, on the beach, at Coney Island; living a life outside the confines of where his days intersect with yours.
Frustrated and confused by the needy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Peter tosses his phone aside, ignoring as it clatters to the floor. He tries to sleep, truly he does. But as his hands creep below the sheets, slide under the waistband of his boxers, he can’t get your smile out of his head.
lilies for disdain
Peter’s client tells him, in a quivering voice, that they feel lightheaded. Their partner, looking quesy, meets Peter’s eye as if to say do something. Sighing, Peter pauses in his work and goes to the back of the shop, emerging moments later with an oversized tub of sour keys.
“Have one,” he offers his client—and their partner, for good measure, “The sugar helps. And it’s good that you told me. We’ll take a few minutes and then try again, yeah?”
The pair nod and Peter smiles until something outside the window catches his eye. He sees you pacing the same four sidewalk panels with enough force to erode cement. Your ear is pressed to your phone and from this vantage point he can see the way you’re wringing your hands in the sleeves of your cardigan.
“I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” Peter says, “Just outside if you need anything.” He stands, slipping into the back room once more, quickly, to grab a bottle of orange juice for his client, before he takes the sour keys and heads outside, stepping into your path. It makes you stop in your pacing, but the conversation you’re having with whoever is on the other side of that call continues and Peter can hear the frustration laced in your voice.
“What do you mean? No. No, I specifically ordered the calla lilies. Eight dozen. For Friday. Are you not hearing me?”
Your hand has travelled up to the back of your neck and Peter can see the way your fingers are trembling. Smiling softly, he holds out the sour keys to you as an offering. You glance down at them and, without reacting, turn away from him to continue your pacing.
“Listen,” you’re saying into the receiver, Peter thinking he’s never heard you sound so firm before, “If I don’t have those calla lilies I will never order flowers from you again, do you understand?” There’s a pause in the conversation and Peter watches as your brows knit together, creasing your forehead. He finds himself wanting to pull you close and smooth away your worries with his thumb. “Yeah,” you mutter finally, “3 p.m.? Perfect. See you then.”
The call ends and you slip your phone into the pocket of your cardigan, noticing that Peter is still there, a large jar of candy held out in your direction. You feel heat rise in your body, embarrassment bubbling in your veins that someone witnessed you losing your cool, even if only slightly.
“Everything okay?”
Peter asks the question with such calm earnestness that your stomach lurches and you suddenly feel annoyed at him standing there, being so…goddamn chill and holding out candy like it’s supposed to make you feel better. You ignore the fact that all you need to do is reach out and grab a sour key, roll your eyes and laugh about shitty suppliers. Instead, you’re fixated on the way Peter is looking at you, like you’re some sort of frightened animal he needs to placate. It makes you feel silly, makes humiliation rise in your throat like bile, coating the words you spit out at him.
“Don’t worry about it,” you mutter darkly, fingertips pinching at the bridge of your nose to smother what is surely an oncoming headache.
“I know candy isn’t much,” Peter chuckles, “But in my line of work, sugar helps and—”
“It’s fine,” you snap, holding your free hand up to stop him from saying anything else. There’s ice creeping into your tone, a defence mechanism you’re trying desperately to melt. “And honestly, Peter, it’s really none of your business.”
He blinks at you, surprised, then licks his lips, holding his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. “Okay,” Peter frowns, “Sorry I asked.”
You don’t reply, turning on your heel to head back inside, too shame-faced to look at him. Peter, never one to not have the last word, calls out to you with that damn nickname he always uses—the one that sends curls of delight coursing through your body, though you’d be loath to admit it. “Let me know if you do need anything though,” Peter says, eyes narrowed, “Like help getting that stick out of your ass.”
“Bite me, Parker.” You throw up your middle finger at his retreating figure, slinking back into your shop with tears in your eyes.
geraniums for folly
It’s a couple days before you see Peter again and you notice that the tattoo shop stays dark. Part of you is still annoyed at yourself for your behaviour earlier in the week, but you find yourself also worrying that he’s sick and wondering if you could get his number from the landlord so you could check in on him.
As it turns out, there’s no need.
You’re running late Thursday morning and are entirely frazzled, realizing only as you’re getting out of the car to open the shop that your jean jacket is mysteriously missing two buttons and the client who you’re rushing to meet had sent you an email cancelling while you were weaving in and out of traffic. Fucking hell. Sweat trickles down your spine, partly from the urgency you’d been feeling and partly from sheer frustration. You reach the door of your shop and remember that your keys are buried at the bottom of your purse.
“Hey Sunflower.”
You glance over at the entrance to the shop next door to yours, pausing in your fumbling for your keys. It takes all of you not to roll your eyes at the man standing lazily against the wall, a coffee in his tattooed hands. His easy stance, his soft voice—it’s like he’s entirely forgotten the last time you’d spoken to him.
“Hi Peter,” you mutter, going back to rummaging in your bag, trying to ignore his gaze, which you feel burning into the back of your neck.
“Need a hand?” His question is light, teasing.
“Not from you,” you retort, perhaps more harshly than you mean to. In an effort to soften the blow, you look pointedly at his fingers as they tap a frenetic beat on the paper coffee cup and try your best to sound cheeky. “With all the coffee you drink, I don’t know how you even manage to tattoo anyone.”
“That’s not very nice, Sunflower,” Peter mocks, a grin playing on his lips. His perpetual grinning drove you crazy—in more ways than you’d care to admit. “My hands are always steady…when it matters.”
His comment sends a shiver down your spine, makes you want to douse yourself in cold water. Thankfully, at that moment, your index finger loops around your keyring and you pull it unceremoniously from your purse.
hyacinth for jealousy
Peter isn’t thrilled when he finds out you’re seeing someone, a picture of you and a dark-haired man showing up on his Instagram feed and making his jaw clench. He wonders, with a stab of embarrassment, how long you’ve been with this guy and how much of a fool he’s made of himself by trying—and failing—to get your attention.
He’s even less thrilled when he meets the man in question, distaste instantly coursing through his veins as though he’s got a sixth sense to detect assholes.
It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon when a man in a well-tailored suit enters his shop. Peter glances up from where he’s working on a large dragon piece for a regular. He instantly recognizes the cold eyes and sharp angles of your boyfriend’s face, but he pretends not to, pausing in his work to greet this would-be-stranger.
“Hey man,” Peter gives a short, cordial wave, “Can I help you?” He notes, with some satisfaction, how the suit looks uncomfortable in his tiny shop with its buzzing needles and cheap furniture. Good.
“I’m waiting for the girl next door,” he says with an arrogant grin, “You’re Peter?”
Peter nods, rotating his stool back toward his client. “That’s me. You know Y/N?”
“Harry,” the suit introduces himself, “Y/N’s told me about you.”
Peter has to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying Funny, she’s never mentioned you because that would be petty. Satisfying, sure, but petty.
“You’re her boyfriend?” Peter asks casually, the hum of his tattoo gun hiding some of the bitterness that’s woven into the question.
“Recently back together,” Harry replies, hands in his jacket pockets, “I called, she answered kind of thing, you know?”
Peter nods, silent and tense because, no actually he does not ‘know’. He returns to his client, tongue poking out of his lips in concentration as he begins to shade the dragon he’s inking onto the man’s back.
“I have to ask, how’s the money in this business?”
Peter exchanges a swift glance with the man in his chair, who looks over his shoulder in disbelief, a knowing grin peeking out from under a bushy grey beard.
“Enough to pay the bills,” Peter answers vaguely. Sometimes, he tacks on as an afterthought, as if he hasn’t been sleeping in the back of the shop and showering at May’s. No designer suits for him.
daffodils for uncertainty
“Did you take these yourself?”
You’re on one of the wingback chairs in Peter’s shop, a blue pillow resting atop your thighs to cover your lap, the length of your skirt making you a little self-conscious.
Peter’s latest client has just left—a chatty young woman, clearly enamoured with the lithe man inking her ribs. You’d been sitting there long enough to see that even though she was stunningly pretty, Peter did not return her advances, either uninterested or entirely inept and picking up flirty social clues. The woman had shot you a withering look on her way out as if you were to blame for Peter’s aloofness. Whatever. You’d tried not to be bothered, but it was that icy glare that had sent you reaching for a pillow to hold over your legs.
Peter glances up from tidying his work station, following your pointed finger to a large canvas of the Brooklyn Bridge. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, something like pride making his eyes crinkle with delight.
“Yeah,” he replies, a little sheepishness creeping into his voice, “I was super into photography for a while. They’re all mine.” Vaguely, he gestures around the shop and you let your eyes linger briefly on each of the canvases.
“They’re really good,” you smile, “You’ve got a good eye. Ever thought about doing wedding photography?”
Peter snorts at the suggestion and you cross your arms over your chest, somewhat miffed at his dismissal. If he notices, he doesn’t let on, instead standing from his stool and stretching. You try not to look at the stripe of skin that’s revealed as his arms go up over his head, his Henley riding up to exposing jeans slung low on his hips and a small, scruffy patch of hair below his belly button. You decide to change the subject, distract yourself.
“She was flirting with you, by the way,” you smirk, jerking a thumb out the window even though the woman was long gone. Peter shrugs, coming over to the front of the shop and taking the seat across from you. “What?” you continue, tone light, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice!”
“I did,” he replies, nonchalant.
You narrow your eyes at him, then nod with understanding, a teasing smirk on your lips. “You already have a girlfriend.”
“No. I don’t.” The sharp tone of Peter’s words takes you aback and you mumble an apology, suddenly feeling a stab of guilt in your chest.
delphiniums for fun
The lights flicker once before going out entirely, shrouding your workspace in darkness and making you prick your thumb on a boutonnière pin in your surprise. Hissing, you stick the injured digit in your mouth for a moment, the taste of blood metallic on your tongue. It’s not worth complaining about, so you sigh and head to the retail area of the shop where sunlight from the street streams in through the windows. There’s already a line of cars on the road, the traffic light outage clearly causing problems.
You’re about to grab your phone to see what’s going on, but then you remember that it’s dead and you’d been meaning to charge it, but every little distracting task had led you to this moment.
Resigned to an unproductive afternoon break, you lock up shop and decide to check in on Peter, hoping his tools didn’t die in the middle of a sitting. Thankfully, you find him alone, scrolling through his obviously not-dead phone and it makes you smirk that Peter was more responsible than you.
You wave as you walk into the shop, taking a seat on the chair that you’ve unofficially claimed as your own. “The power’s out.”
“Really?” Peter scoffs playfully, “I couldn’t tell.” He looks up from his phone with an amused expression and quickly flashes the screen at you, something that looks like a headline briefly entering your line of sight before Peter is pocketing the device. “I think it’s gone two or three blocks out,” he continues, “So who knows how much time will pass.”
“Maybe it’s the apocalypse,” you joke, “And we’re the last two people on Earth.”
“If you expect me to make a let’s repopulate joke, I refuse to be so crass.”
“Such a gentleman,” you tease, heart skipping a beat when you notice the flush in Peter’s cheeks. You purse your lips, suddenly feeling guilty because you have a boyfriend and here you are flirting with your neighbour. Your handsome, kind, looks like his hands could wrap around your neck, neighbour.
“Let’s play a game. 21 questions?” Peter’s suggestion pushes through your thoughts and you let out a short huff of laughter, crossing your arms over your chest. You realize, all of a sudden, that you left your sweater on the chair in your workshop and it’s cold in Peter’s shop, prickly goosebumps forming on your skin.
“Absolutely not.” You giggle, running your hands over your arms. Peter notices and slips his Henley over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it in your direction. He’s left in an old Bowie t-shirt that clings to him in all the right ways. You catch the offered shirt and wrap it around your shoulders, too timid to wear it properly because that would be intimate, right? This is just a friendly gesture. One that smells of cinnamon and fresh baked bread with a whisper of disinfectant.
“I promise I’ll keep it PG,” Peter grins, leaning back in the chair opposite you. “I’m a gentleman, remember?”
“Okay, fine.”
He looks delighted at your agreement and feigns a thinking pose, elbow on this knee, chin propped up on his fist. You try not to stare at the vein you can see running down his bicep but your traitorous eyes will not allow themselves to be pulled away.
“What’s your favourite animal?” Peter’s first question is gentle and you can only hope he’ll keep his promise to not get too personal.
You think for a moment, flashes of adorable creatures running through your mind in a way that makes it impossible to choose just one. “Polar bears. No, tigers. Or maybe horses…”
Peter chuckles, clearly amused by your indecision and you playfully flip him off. “Shut up. What’s yours?”
“Spiders.” He answers without missing a beat.
“Spiders aren’t technically animals.” You pull Peter’s Henley more tightly around your shoulders, still basking in the warmth that it’s retained from his skin.
“And you’re not technically any fun to play this game with,” he retorts.
“Ask another,” you can’t help but to laugh, the sound of it contagious so that Peter is laughing too as he lines up his next question.
“Best place to get sloshed in Queens?”
“Easy,” you crow, “The Jar.”
Peter looks taken aback for a moment, until you realize he’s smirking and there’s something cheeky about to roll off his tongue. “There’s no way you’re cool enough to go to The Jar,” Peter teases and you feign affront, putting a hand over your heart.
“That’s very ungentlemanly, Mr. Tattoo Artist.”
Peter has the sense to dramatically sweep his hand across his forehead, jesting at penitence. “I’m terribly sorry, Madame Sunflower.”
“I’ll forgive you,” you mutter, tapping a finger on your cheek as you think of your next question. It pops into your head from a now-distant memory of the first day you met Peter. “What does the text on your arm mean? The Hebrew script?”
Peter smiles a little ruefully, his hand coming up to brush over the characters you’re referring to. “It says Ben,” he tells you, “After my Uncle. He and May raised me and when he died, it was…it hurt. But I know he’s with me all the time. I’ve got his middle name. Peter B. Parker.”
“I’m sorry,” you frown, sticking the tip of your index finger in your mouth, wishing you could take back the question, “I didn’t mean to ask something so personal.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Peter assures you, smiling wide, “It was a long time ago.”
The questions continue, long past twenty-one. You learn that Peter’s favourite colour is tied between blue and red, that his favourite food is his Aunt May’s latkes, and that he imagines himself to be very useful during a zombie apocalypse. The more you find out about Peter, the more you want to know—he tells you that if he found a hundred dollars on the street he’d donate it to a food bank and that the TL;DR version of his life is “Art, panic, loss, and student loans.”
When he asks you if you have any tattoos, you wink coyly before laughing and telling him you don’t. Then, when you ask the person he’d love to tattoo more than anyone else in the world, he returns your teasing smile and replies that it’s you.
And then the lights come back on and you’re thankful because the air between you and Peter had been starting to get warm and thick with something that didn’t fit well between just acquaintances.
“One more question?” Peter asks as you get up to return to your shop. You decide to humour him and nod, opening your arms as though inviting him to interrogate you. Peter bites his lip, surveying you for a long moment, eyes lingering on your exposed neck. “What do you see in Harry?”
The question surprises you, makes a cool sweat bead at the nape of your neck. You swallow heavily, chewing the inside of your bottom lip. “Peter…” you begin, though you’re not quite certain what words you want to say.
“I mean it, Y/N,” Peter sighs in earnest, “The dude is like every stereotype of a rich kid ever rolled into a suit and hair gel.”
He’s right. You know he’s right. Yet something inside you steels, armour coating your heart to keep it from beating too loudly. “It’s complicated,” you resign yourself to delivering an unsatisfactory answer. How can you possibly explain that you’ve been lonely and you want somebody—anybody—to make you feel less like you’re floating around in the world, untethered as you take the dreams and expressions of other peoples’ love and stitch it together with flowers and greenery. You want that love, want to be like a kite that has someone holding it down to earth, a safe place to return to after every flight.
And Harry has his flaws, you know that far too well—it’s ingrained in your memory with images of text messages and photos shared with other women and seemingly sincere apologies and a grand romantic gesture to ask for another chance. Those flaws nag at you while you try to sleep next to him at night, but you know if you try hard enough you can overlook them. Not forget them, but learn to live with them.
Or so you believed. But Peter B. Parker walked casually into your life with a shabby box of Random Crap and sent you spinning, dropping, scattering into the unknown.
Peter B. Parker, who shakes his head at you now, forehead creased. “It shouldn’t be complicated,” he whispers.
“I should go,” you sigh, “Thanks for the company, Pete.” You turn tail, almost afraid of looking at him for a moment longer, and exit the tattoo parlour.
It’s only when you’re back in your own shop, brewing a tea in the back room, that you realize you’ve still got Peter’s Henley draped carefully over your shoulders.
daisies for friendship
Your shop is closed on Mondays so you can recover from your busy weekends, but that doesn’t stop you from going by Peter’s place with takeout Pad Thai around noon, knowing he’s got a full day of sittings and that he likely won’t think to put anything other than coffee in his system. Because over the last four weeks since the power outage you’ve become Peter’s friend. And friends know these things about each other and take care of one another in ways that are perfectly fit for friendship.
Peter’s face lights up with gratitude at the smell of the takeout and he gives his client a break to come over to greet you, messing his fingers around at the top of your head.
“You’re amazing, Bug,” he grins, ravenously tearing open the paper bag and pulling out the container labelled Chicken, Extra Egg. Extra Peanuts.
“I prefer Sunflower,” you scowl, reaching into Peter’s lunch to snatch a slice of carrot. “Besides, you’re the bug, Spider-Man.”
Peter glances up at you, something sharp and pained darting across his eyes. You tilt your head to the side, concerned, the carrot you’ve been chewing going down sideways. “You okay?”
Peter nods, teeth favouring his bottom lip. “Just, uh, someone I know used to call me that, as a joke.”
“Ben?” You offer the name with a smile, knowing that Peter loves to tell stories about his late Uncle. You’d gone over to Aunt May’s for supper a week earlier and the two of them had reminisced until even you were in tears at the loving way they recounted humorous moments from the past.
But Peter shakes his head once, tersely. “Thanks for lunch, Sunflower,” he whispers. “I should get back to work.”
You nod, watching him walk back to his stool and put on a fresh pair of gloves. You slip out of the shop, and back in not ten minutes later while Peter’s back is to you, a small potted plant in your hands. You set it down gently next to the lunch Peter still hasn’t touched.
Two hours later, when you’ve gone home for the day and Peter’s finished with his sitting, he returns to his cold Pad Thai and shovels it into his mouth. Then, he notices the card attached to the spiny plant you left for him earlier in the day. Curiously, he opens and reads the tiny note scrawled in your hand: Aloe. For healing. The plant receives a special place of honour in the windowsill.
holly for defence
There’s shouting outside the shop and Peter abandons the dusting he’s been trying to get through all afternoon, the distraction not entirely unwelcome—until he sees what it is.
You’re standing in the doorway to your shop, the door propped open against your shoulder. A foot in front of you, Harry stands, rapidly losing his cool. Frowning, Peter steps out onto the sidewalk just in time to hear him berating you.
“—Ridiculous, Y/N, just calm down.”
“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, tears in your eyes, “I am not imagining things.”
“Y/N,” Harry’s voice is terse, angry, and Peter feels the same emotions welling up in his chest, his fingers digging into his palms as he forms loose fists. “You’re making a scene. Let’s talk about this later.”
Peter expects you to argue, to spit venom from your lips as he knows you’re perfectly capable of doing. So when your shoulders slump and your face falls, he feels his heart shatter because watching you close in on yourself like that is worse than anything he could have imagined.
“C’mon,” Harry urges, beginning to usher you into the shop. Peter worries that if he gets you in there and closes the door he may never see you again—not in the same way that he’s seen you up until now. He takes a few steps forward, squaring his shoulders.
“You alright, Y/N?”
Your eyes flit up, meeting his, and Peter notices your bottom lip quiver, the way your lashes become lined with more tears at the sight of him.
“She’s fine,” Harry snaps, “This doesn’t concern you.”
“See,” Peter responds cooly, running a hand through his hair, the other slipping into his pocket, to stop them from shaking, “When you’re making her cry like that, it does concern me.”
Harry rolls his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath before turning back to you. You cast a quick look at Peter and he gives you an earnest look. You’ve never seen him so avid, but you can’t do this—whatever this is. Not here. Not now. You look away, staring hard at the ground.
“Don’t worry about it, Peter,” you mumble, allowing yourself to be led back into your shop, “I’m fine.”
peonies for shame
The next day, Peter is outside his shop when you walk up. You offer him a small smile, a wave, but he turns away, heading inside his door without so much as acknowledging you. It stings, because you’re ashamed. Because Peter saw the worst and weakest parts of you and decided that you weren’t worth even a fake smile between friends. You allow yourself to cry your eyes dry in the flower fridge, emerging ten minutes later shivering and lost.
petunias for anger
“You didn’t sign for the delivery?”
You storm into Peter’s shop, not even caring if he’s with a client. Thankfully he’s not, instead sitting at the front desk, drawing something. He looks up at you as you enter, eyebrows knit together in a nonchalant way that makes you want to poke him in the eye.
“I was busy.” His voice is clipped, more professional than you’ve ever heard it before. That only makes you angrier and you cross your arms over your chest defensively, glaring at him.
“I’m going to need to drive an hour to pick up those urns! We made a deal!” Your voice is growing more hysterical with every word, rage rippling on your tongue. It was a little agreement between neighbours, made a week after Peter moved in—keep an eye on things when the other had to step out. True, it was more often than not Peter watching out for your storefront while you were out on deliveries, but a deal was a deal.
“Like I said,” Peter sits back in his chair, meeting your gaze with cool indifference, “I was busy. Maybe you should ask your boyfriend to help you.”
“Oh my god,” you hiss, “You absolute asshole!”
“I’m an asshole?” Peter lets out a forced bark of laughter, that insufferable grin on his lips though you find nothing about this funny. “Guess you need to fall in love with me, since asshole seems to be your type.”
You gape at him, astounded, mouth opening and closing once, and then again, before you let out a huff, exhaling loudly. “I don’t have time for this!” You turn to leave, anger coursing through you, but Peter’s not finished.
“You’re being so stupid, Y/N!”
You whip around again as his words make you blink in surprise, their harshness at odds with Peter’s soft face, his arrogant smirk gone and replaced with something you can’t quite name.
“Stupid?” you repeat, “Stupid?”
“Yeah, fucking stupid. You deserve better than him! Why can’t you see that?”
“Oh,” you laugh sardonically, eyes narrowing, “And what? You’re better?” Your brain is screaming at you to shut up because you know this is going to end badly and your friendship with Peter has been strained as it is, whittled down to nothing but genial greetings every so often.
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“You’re insufferable,” you continued, words falling from your lips because you’re so angry that Peter’s ruined your day but more than that you’re angry that he doesn’t love you and that if he’d just ask you to be his you would. “You’re actually a true nightmare, Peter! You don’t like Harry, I get it, but you fucked up my entire day because of it. Do you know how childish that is? How absolutely ridiculous! And then you have the fucking nerve to call me stupid? I must be, for ever trusting you. For thinking you were anything more than—”
“Shut up.” Peter has barged out from behind the counter and has you backed against the door, his face inches from yours, anger suddenly extinguished, replaced by something softer. Longing? Need? Whatever it is, you know it’s the same expression that washes over your face as he puts a strong hand to your cheek, thumb running across the soft skin under your eye.
And then, without a word, he’s kissing you, his lips warm and rough on yours as if he’s trying to communicate with you in a language neither of you quite understands.
He’s kissing you. And it feels like you’re drowning but you don’t ever want to come up for air because you’re so light that you could float away but Peter’s hands, one grasping the back of your neck, the other coming to rest on your waist, are there. Tethering you.
And you’re kissing him back, your lips molten where they melt against his, tongues rid of all their sharp edges as they find one another, give and take and give again.
Finally, as your chest begins to burn, Peter pulls away, his breath still warm on your face, familiar now.
“You taste so good, Sunflower.” His voice is little more than a whisper. You make a noise in your throat, something quiet and desperate. Peter breathes out heavily, his hands still holding you, keeping you grounded. “Let’s go get those urns,” he lets a small smile tug at his lips. “I’ll drive.”
hyssop for sacrifice
Your storefront is dark when you pull up just after midnight, tears still stinging at your eyes but shoulders feeling unburdened for the first time in weeks. On the passenger’s seat beside you is a backpack haphazardly stuffed with items that had collected at Harry’s condo over the last two months—a toothbrush, shampoo, a sweater, a few books, and a bag of decorative stones you’d forgot you bought for a personal arrangement you’d been meaning to work on.
It had been a week since you kissed Peter; since he had kissed you. For the most part, nothing had changed between the two of you. His gazes lingered a little longer on you, a little more hopefully, but he never pushed, not after that day. For six nights, you’d tossed and turned, avoiding Harry’s place as much as you could in favour of your own. For six nights, Peter’s words had echoed in your head, bouncing between your ears as you restlessly chased sleep.
When did this become your life?
Parking your car, you grab your backpack and unlock the shop door, only switching on the small pink lamp you keep in the entryway. You probably should have just gone home, but you knew sleep would be elusive and your brain had been so sluggish this past week you were behind on paperwork. Now was as good a time as ever to catch up, right?
Before you have time to even settle in, there’s a knock on the glass front of the shop that makes you jump, but when you look up, you see Peter standing and waving at you with confusion etched on his face. You return to the door, flipping the latch and opening it a crack.
“What are you doing here?” Peter asks.
“Wedding,” you reply, the lie slipping easily from your lips, though you’re not quite sure the calm demeanour with which you speak reaches your eyes.
“Tomorrow’s Wednesday, Sunflower.”
“Right.”
“Why are you really here?”
“I, uh, I left,” you confess. “For good.” If Peter wants to smile or lay down an “I told you so”, he doesn’t let on, instead nodding gently as if he understands. “Why are you?” you ask, “Still here I mean?”
“I was sketching,” Peter shrugs, “Got lost in a design I dreamt up last night.” He pauses, taking stock of your red-rimmed eyes, the dark circles that stretch out under them, and your slumped shoulders. Tentatively, he takes your hand in his, his mind instantly flying backwards several months to when you first shook his hand. It almost makes him laugh to remember how cute you’d looked when he first called you Sunflower—all playfully annoyed, nose scrunched up. But it doesn’t feel like the time for laughter, not tonight. Instead, Peter squeezes your hand softly. “Hey, I’ve got a cot in the back of the shop. You can use it if you need the night. And if you need more than the night, I’m pretty used to falling asleep on my couch.”
You thank Peter and follow him back to his shop, looking around at the cluttered back room and realizing, for the first time, that Peter seems to live here. As though he reads your mind, he shrugs. “Rent’s expensive. And May keeps my bedroom the way it was when I was a teenager, for days when I need it.”
You nod and take a seat on the makeshift bed, the sheets cool and stiff beneath your palms. Peter stands nearby, watching you, not dragging his eyes away when you look up and meet his gaze—not this time.
“Do you have any weed?”
Peter snorts, surprised by the question, and cocks an eyebrow at you.“What, because I have tattoos, I must have weed too?”
You look slightly reproached and begin to mutter an apology. “That’s not what—”
“I know,” Peter teases, turning toward the small cabinet where you know he keeps his candy stash. “I’ve got CBD oil—helps me sleep.” You glance at him, uncertain. “Anxiety,” he adds.
“Mind sharing?”
Peter smirks and grabs a small bottle and a stopper from the cupboard before joining you on the cot, the thin mattress groaning under the extra weight. “I’d be honoured, Sunflower.”
camellia for longing
“Hold your thumb just there.”
Peter obeys, sticking his thumb at the centre of a bow you’re tying, watching as you focus on measuring the ribbon’s edges just right. He has to swallow the impulse to lean over the arrangement he’s helping you finish and kiss you like his life depends on it.
The two of you have been at this nearly all night and Peter has long since figured out where to put his thumb, but every so often he enjoys having you remind him, guiding his hand to just the right spot. His mind wanders, thinking of all the other things he wants you to show him, all the other places he wants your hands to guide his.
“Peter?” Your voice calls him back to the present moment and, realizing you’ve finished with the bow, he smiles sheepishly at having been caught in his lewd thoughts.
“I want to take your picture,” he says without thinking, eyes going wide as the words tumble from his lips. You smile and Peter feels his heart skip a beat in his chest, his lips turning up at the corners.
“Maybe you can get some new ones of me for next wedding season?” You grin, sticking your tongue out as you strike a ridiculous pose that makes Peter roll his eyes before he shakes his head, suddenly serious again, quiet and composed.
“No,” he mutters, a red hue tinging his cheeks, “I mean I really want to take your picture.” He chances a glance up at you from under his lashes, shy smile still in place. “Get you all posed for me.”
There’s a hint of something suggestive in his words, at odds with the sweet and modest way that Peter’s hand goes to the back of his neck. You catch a glimpse of his eyes as they meet yours, their dazzling honey oozing with something dark and lustful. It makes you squeeze your thighs together under the table.
“And,” Peter continues, plucking an unused daisy from the pile of flowers you’ve been working through, “With you wearing nothing but this.” Gently, he fixes the flower in place behind your ear, his fingers brushing down your jaw as they return to his pockets.
“Peter—” you breathe, voice shaky. He looks at you, hope and hunger in his stare. In an instant, his lips are on yours, his fingers tangled in the hairs at the nape of your neck, tugging at them softly to tilt your head back so he can kiss down your neck, over your collarbone, each time his lips flit across your skin something in you coming undone.
With some effort you sweep aside the clutter from the table, leaving a free spot for you to prop yourself up on, Peter giving you some assistance. Then you’re pulling him close, legs wrapping around his waist, your skirt riding up to your hips. Peter’s hands wander down toward your thighs but hesitate to slip beneath your clothing, instead toying with the hem. You tug at his shirt and he obliges, pulling it off and exposing his chest, which is surprisingly bare of tattoos, save for one over his heart—a circle of delicate ivied vines, done in white ink. You reach to run your fingers over it, but Peter tenses, so you pause, looking up at him for a cue as to what happens next.
“Sorry,” he whispers, ghosting over your waist, “It’s—it’s for someone I lost.”
“It’s beautiful,” you reply softly. Peter visibly relaxes, his fingers wrapping around your wrist and placing your hand over his heart. You feel the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath his skin and you swallow hard, words failing you. Peter kisses the top of your head and for a long moment you both remain still, his chin resting in your hair, your forehead pressed to his abdomen.
“Peter,” you whisper, placing a gentle kiss on his sternum, “Come home with me?”
poppies for pleasure
There’s a trail of discarded clothes from the door of your apartment to the bathroom. You know Peter’s nervous, he admitted as much in the car ride back to your place, his fingers tapping anxiously on your steering wheel while you stared at his hands, imagining what they could do to you, squeezing your thighs together at the feeling of wetness dampening your cotton panties.
Truthfully, you’re nervous too. Peter is somehow beyond your understanding—so marked by loss and grief, yet so giving and kind. He’s sheltered his heart, allowed it to grow weedy and windswept, and now he’s allowing you in, asking you to turn the soil and sow something new.
This excited anticipation is what makes you suggest a shower, warm water excellent for soothing nerves, the small space intimate and dim.
Pressed up against the cold glass door of the shower, you finally take a moment to drink in the sight of Peter’s entire body, desire bubbling in the pit of your stomach at the sight of him, lean and muscled and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the universe. His cock is larger than you’d imagined it, pressed between you as he leans down to kiss you, nipping at the place where your jaw trails into your neck. It’s enough to make you gasp, fingers curling around his biceps, nails digging into the inked skin and leaving tiny crescent moons in their wake.
“C’mon,” you whisper, unwillingly letting go of him for a moment to open the shower door and turn on the water, adjusting the temperature. Peter takes the opportunity of having you turned away from him to run a hand over the curve of your ass, up to your hip where he squeezes, making you giggle.
But under the water, your bodies intertwined, the laughter you’ve shared up the elevator and across the floor of your apartment, turns into a series of groans, a mess of hands and lips exploring skin, eyes roving over unfamiliar landscapes of dips and curves and lines and scars.
Peter has you pressed flush against the wall and he’s kissing you hungrily, as if you’re his last meal—a sacrificial feast to be devoured with zeal. But his hands remain tentative, slipping gently over your boobs, fingers pinching your nipples with care, drawing lines down toward your navel over the curve of your stomach, dancing over your waist and your hips.
“Peter,” you whisper, voice hoarse, “Touch me.” He groans in your ear and you seize his wrist, guiding it to the achingly empty space between your legs. “It’s okay,” you continue, kissing his neck. Your free hand tangles in his hair and you relish the way his eyes flutter closed at the sensation. “Let me take the lead.”
He nods, watching intently as you place his middle finger at your entrance, moving his wrist back and forth a few times so he’s grazing your folds. “Feel how wet you’ve got me?” you sigh in pleasure, the feeling of his calloused fingertip sending a shiver of delight up your spine. “Now, go slow. Listen to what my body tells you, okay?”
“Yeah,” Peter replies, short of breath. He continues to run his finger gently along your core, then uses his index and ring fingers to spread your folds, making your breath hitch in your throat. The sound spurs him on and his middle finger slips part way inside you, swirling gently and making you bite your lip.
“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles low in his throat, finger slipping the rest of the way inside you. Peter feels your cunt clench around him and groans at the sensation, imagining how incredible it’ll feel around his cock. It takes Peter a moment to find his rhythm, to find the right angle at which to hook his fingers to elicit that perfectly tight squeeze again, but once he locates it, once he makes your squirm, he’s relentless.
“Your thumb,” you whimper, “Peter…”
He swallows at the sound of his name falling from your lips with breathless pleasure and presses his thumb into you, rubbing gently. “There?” he asks, gazing up at you with hooded eyes. Your legs shake as you spread them a little wider, glad for the way Peter’s free arm supports you.
“Just a little—a little higher,” you whimper. Peter’s hand is careful and steady—though you suppose that’s part of his job—as he probes around until he hears the telltale gasp that tells him he’s found what he’s looking for. He sets a pace that has you keening, panting, crying out because you’re so close, but you can barely stand any longer so you grab at his wrist and make him stop. You want to cum for him, with him.
Peter looks at you with eyes blown wide with lust, lips swollen with your kisses.
“You’re so fucking pretty, Peter,” you whisper, enjoying the way he flushes in response, though that might just be the warm water that’s rolling off his body, making his hair stick flat to his head.
“I want you, Sunflower,” he moans softly, “Please.”
“I’m yours,” you smirk, slipping out of Peter’s grasp and gently prodding him toward the wall, his back against the cool tiles, yours now under the shower stream. You take your time sinking to your knees, kissing down his chest, letting his cock rub between your boobs and over your chin as you settle between his legs. With one doe-eyed look up at him and a quick wink, you take his entire length in your mouth.
“Fuck!”
You smile around Peter’s dick, perhaps a little wickedly, as you begin to bob back and forth, feeling the weight of him on your tongue. He’s too large to fit entirely in your mouth, his tip already hitting the back of your throat, making it clench, so you use two fingers to stroke the parts of him your lips can’t reach.
Within minutes, Peter is mumbling nonsense, his knees shaking. You pull your lips off him with a lewd pop and look up at him with wide eyes, a string of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock.
“You’re so fucking yummy, Peter,” you grin, “I’m just gonna swallow you up.”
“Fuck, Y/N,” he pants out, groaning loud as you run your tongue over the sensitive slit at the head of his cock. Then he’s sliding down the wall, unable to stand any longer, the feeling of pleasure that’s rocking through him too much. Once he’s eye level with you, you press your forehead to his and he kisses the tip of your nose.
“I want to fuck you,” he whispers, breathless.
“I know,” you coo, kissing him again, this time between his eyes, “Gonna let me be a good girl for you and ride your cock?”
Peter glances at you with darkened pupils, but there’s a spark there that tells you he acknowledges the importance of what you just said. He smiles, helping you shift so that you’re straddling him, hot water rolling down your back.
“You’re a goddess,” Peter breathes, rolling your nipples between his fingers, “So pretty and all for me.”
You run your tongue along his jaw, nipping gently at the shell of his ear before you whisper to him. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”
“Be a good girl and let me inside you, yeah?”
It’s your turn to whimper as Peter helps you sink onto his cock, its length stretching you out as your body shapes around him, already clenching at the pleasure of the intrusion. Peter throws his head back against the shower wall as you grip his shoulders, balancing on the balls of your feet as you begin to bounce up and down on his cock.
Peter’s a quick learner because his hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit again, drawing sloppy circles around the little nub as you raise yourself almost entirely off of him before sinking back down. After a few thrusts, Peter is fully sheathed inside you and your legs, tired and weakening, need a break. Peter whispers your name, his free hand coming around to cup your ass, helping you writhe back and forth on him. Your chests are pressed together and the closeness makes Peter’s patterns on your clit tighter and faster. You can feel his cock twitching, feel your cunt clenching around him and you know you’re close.
“Gonna cum for me, Sunflower?” Peter whispers and that’s all it takes for you to cry out in delight, your head in the crook of his neck as Peter reaches his own high, spilling himself inside you with your name on his lips.
roses for love
Peter is perched on your countertop, eating out of the peanut butter jar while you’re snacking on crackers straight from the box, making a mental note that you really need to go grocery shopping.
“Remember that sketch I told you I was working on? The one from that night?” Peter asks, licking the spoon clean before shoving it back into the jar. You nod, tossing a cracker at him, which he catches deftly, smearing it with peanut butter before sending it back in your direction. “Do you want to see it?”
“Fuck yeah,” you exclaim, “I’d absolutely love to.”
Excitedly, Peter jumps off the counter and goes to retrieve the sketchbook in his bag by the door. It’s been a few weeks since you’ve officially considered him your boyfriend, but this is the first time he’s showing you a piece that he’s created himself—one that hasn’t been commissioned by a client.
You wait eagerly as Peter flips through the pages of his book before stopping, running his fingers over the paper, that frenetic tapping ever present. Then, he holds the book out to you and your jaw drops, as does the cracker you’re holding in your hand, falling to the floor.
On the page, there’s an incredibly life-like sunflower, its petals large and swirling, its face detailed with speckled seeds. Wrapped around its proud stem are gossamer strands, a spider dangling from their ends.
“Peter,” you breathe out, “It’s stunning.”
“It’s for you,” he replies quietly, “If you ever trust me enough to let me ink you.”
You roll your eyes, picking your cracker up off the tiles and throwing it at Peter’s head.
sunflowers for adoration
Peter flips the sign on his shop door to Closed. He doesn’t want any interruptions for this. The blinds are closed and it’s just the two of you under the fluorescent lights. You’re in Peter’s chair, in your underwear, a freshly shaved spot on your upper thigh rubbed with numbing gel and stencilled with Peter’s beautiful sunflower design.
“Remember,” he tells you, kissing each of your knees in turn, “Tell me if you need a break.”
“It’s been a year,” you snark, “I haven’t needed a break from you yet.”
Peter scowls playfully at you, returning to your knees, this time to scrape his teeth over their surface, making you giggle. His lips flit up your inner thighs and to your clothed core, kissing you there once, ever so softly.
Then he’s straightening his back and he’s all business once again. “Ready?” Peter asks, grabbing his tattoo pen.
You nod, smiling as you look at your boyfriend in his element. He’s already marked himself into your heart permanently—it only makes sense to have him etched into your skin as well. “Ready.”
Always reblog, because it is simply one of the most beautiful and touching works that I have had the privilege to find in these 13 years that I have been walking the little corners of Tumblr.
Summary: For @liz-allyn's 900th celebration! "What are we going to do about this?" You're caught red-handed and Peter's next move could destroy your life. Unless...you can convince him otherwise."
He grumbled as he took the plate of food from you. Something about it taking too long.
Normally you'd roll your eyes.
Instead you smiled and began counting in your head.
101, 102, 103, 104
"How much garlic did you roast the other day?" Your father asked.
"Just three heads for dinner."
He sneered, "You added too much. The whole house stinks of it."
He had been complaining of the smell for the past week. You claimed it was good for the heart.
It also fooled him into thinking that the odor was coming from another source, not himself.
206, 207, 208.
You handed him another glass of water- the third one in a row. You watched as he chugged the water- colorless and odorless.
The almond taste was a myth. Lucky you, as your father didn't have a huge sweet tooth.
He continued to demand water, claiming you added too much salt to his food. You simply apologized. You didn't mind.
It would be the last time you would have to apologize to that piece of shit.
362, 363, 364.
"Why don't you try going to the bathroom?" You suggested as he doubled over, bemoaning about his stomach pain.
"It was that food of yours. Don't know why you insist on cooking when you always fuck it up."
You walked him to the bathroom, shutting the door. He was in such pain, he didn't even noticed that the doorknob to the bathroom was different.
It now locked from the outside.
520, 521, 522, 523.
The dumbass finally figured out that the door was locked. He was calling out your name.
But you couldn't hear. Unfortunately, you had on your headphones as you cleaned up the kitchen. It had to be clean, otherwise he'd be angry at you.
Such a shame.
616, 617. 618.
You pulled an earbud out. Daddy dearest was still yelling, but not about the door being locked.
Something about being in pain.
It was hard to hear with the music.
766, 767, 768.
With your earbuds still on, you grabbed your water bottle. Peering out of the window, you saw your neighbor, Ms. Boocock-Lee, step outside her door.
Not thinking much of it (according to Dad, you never thought), you stepped outside, stopping after a few steps to look for your keys.
A loud voice was heard over the music. You ripped a headphone out, looking up to find your neighbor, smiling from her lawn.
You waved and gave a cheery hello.
"Where are you headed to honey?" She asked with that sweet saccharin smile that made you want to gag.
"Oh, just heading off to the pharmacy and bank. Gotta make a few deposits and pick up some medication for my dad!"
"Have they figured out the cause of that constant sore throat?" She asked.
The corner of your mouth turned downward as you shook your head, "Not yet. Hope these new meds will do something!"
After more idle chit chat, you two went your own separate ways.
You made a mental note to thank her later, for when she volunteers to be your alibi.
Once you go to the pharmacy, you aren't as good as counting consistently. Had to stay focused on fulfilling your role as the loving daughter.
Such a shame your father left his phone in the kitchen. Had he actually had it, maybe he could have called you to come home or call 911.
Not that you would have answered.
It's once you get to the bank that you begin counting.
756, 757, 758.
"Usually deposit?" The Teller asked. You nodded your head, bringing up a hand to rub something out of your eye, the plastic pharmacy bag now visible.
These deposits were nothing unusual. You had been doing them for your father for years. He'd move money around, you'd picked it up, he'd give it to pay somebody off.
It was just such a shame his memory had gone downhill over the past year. He'd forget if he had sent you to the bank or not that week.
He'd always insist on you going. And lately, he started sending you to drop off the money.
The nicest thing he's ever done for you was making this so easy.
875, 876, 877, 879.
When you got back to your father's house, you were greeted with silence.
He did say he had a meeting later that night. And keeping his car parked in the garage made it impossible to tell whether he was home or not.
So you dropped off his prescriptions on the kitchen counter. His keys were still there, signaling he hadn't left yet.
Curious. Quite curious.
Carefully turning the lock, you heard a click. It was now unlocked.
888, 889, 890.
You called out your father's name, which was met with silence.
Two knocks on the door. The second one was more forceful, opening the door ever so slightly.
The smell was horrendous, making you gag. After pulling your shirt over your nose, gasping in the fresh air desperately, you opened the door all the way.
895, 896, 897.
Finally gathering the strength, you fully opened the door.
898, 899.
The sight was horrific. No amount of research could have prepared you for it.
900.
Though you still got pleasure from seeing your father's dead body.
The next two hours were a blur. You could hear the sounds of an ambulance, Mrs. Boocock Lee wrapping a blanket around you as she asked your questions.
You were in shock.
He was finally gone.
After giving a statement to the police (not that they were really looking for the cause of death, moreso connections to your father's business), you went home to your little apartment.
It was all you could afford, with your father's refusal to give his only child any money, along with the odd jobs and hours you had to work since you were his unofficial caretaker.
But you wouldn't be there for much longer.
Now that you would get the inheritance your father hadn't blown away on shitty business deals and gambling.
While it wasn't much compared to what he started with, it was enough for you.
You switched the lights on, illuminating your apartment.
Which was why you jumped upon seeing a man on your couch. A choked gasp escaped your lips, your feet beginning to step backwards as a hand of yours extended behind you, reaching for the-
"Got the news Scheifele" Peter Parker's voice was smooth and rich. There was an air of amusement laced through his words as looked at you with a twinkle in those whiskey eyes.
You ignored his nickname for you, the one he bestowed the first time he met you. He was amused with how you looked the opposite of your father's towering, greasy demeanor.
"She's like a little lamb. A beautiful sheifale."
"If you're here to send your condolences Mr. Parker, I'm afraid this is not the best time." You gripped your car keys as you took a step into the kitchen, a step closer to the living room.
Peter Parker was elusive. He kept his heart hidden behind those tailor made suits. Those honey dripping smiles he'd give you were an act, you could see right through him.
"I'm not here for condolences. I'm here to congratulate you," He said, his mouth forming into a smirk.
"Mr. Parker, I don't know what you're talking about but please-"
"After knowing me for over a year, you still can't call me Peter?" His lips formed into a pout.
He made it sound like you two had something beyond a professional relationship.
Your dad had done business with him for years. Once his health started going downhill, you had begun dropping off checks (or dead bodies) at Parker's.
"Well, Peter, like I said now is not a good time-"
This time he stood up, hands still in the pockets of his well tailored pants. You couldn't help but grip the keys in your hand as he walked over to you.
"Drop the act Scheifele." His words made your blood run cold.
"I-I don't know what-"
Your eyes widened as Peter pulled out an empty bottle.
"Word from the wise: throw the trash out before you kill somebody."
He was too fast. One of the many skills he had that made him stand out as a hitman. Your back was now pressed against the wall as he had one hand pinning your waist to the wall, another wrapped around your wrists, which were now over your head.
Your feet dangled off the floor.
You always wondered how he was so strong. He wasn't built like a brick shithouse, and yet he could toss you with great ease.
Another skill that helped him rise up quickly in the ranks, made him sought after by your father and countless others.
Peter simply chuckled at your attempts to push back. You cursed at him as he laughed.
It was baffling. You knew he hated working with your dad, he would tell you all the time. Granted, it usually followed with a comment about how you were much prettier than your father.
"How long?" He asked, studying you like you were some kind of bug under a microscope.
"For a year now. I've been putting it in his food and the water for a year now," you admitted. You were trapped, no use in denying it.
"Must have made some pretty good connections to get a hold of fucking arsenic." The scent of cinnamon was filling your nostrils.
He always smelled good.
The hand he had on your waist moved up to cup your jaw. As if he could sense that you were about to lurch forward, he pressed his body against yours, pinning you to the wall.
You couldn't remember the last time you were this close to someone. It almost left you breathless.
Almost.
"You're the one who keeps saying I'm much better to work with," You spat.
"You did this for a whole year?"
You nodded, "Gave him a steady decline. Created a paper trail for doctor visits."
"That's why you always carry that big water bottle around, isn't it? So you never had to drink the water in the house." Peter always paid attention to the details.
It's how he knew you weren't as oblivious as you let on.
You nodded, "They'll send in some water samples. It'll show as being contaminated."
"Which will give you the perfect case against the company. The death of your father is sure to give you a nice payout," Peter cocked his head to the side, "Granted, if they found out about what you did, that's a pretty big case for them."
The possibility always dangled in the back of your mind. It's why you began planning this almost two years ago, working out every detail, making sure things happened when they were supposed to, ensuring your tracks were covered.
And there was Peter Parker, holding that bottle. The one that had your fingerprints all over it.
Once they found the bottle, your plan would unravel. Why did you have to be impatient? Why increase the dosage, when you could have waited for it take over naturally?
"What are we going to do about this?" Peter hummed, his nose grazing your cheek.
The fate of your life was in Peter Parker's hands. He had the ability to keep this a secret or send you to jail.
"What do you want?" You whispered.
He moved a hand down to your waist, gently guiding your feet back on the ground as he let go of your wrists. His broad shoulders were still against yours, keeping you in place.
A ringed hand trailed down to your face, his thumb running across your bottom lip.
It was almost sweet.
Almost.
"Name it Parker and I'll give it to you. You want the name of the guy I got it from? A percentage of my settlement money? You wanna fuc-"
Two fingers entered your mouth, cutting you off. The cool metal of the rings rested against your lips. As he leaned in, his thigh that he had slotted between your legs hitched up, brushing against your clothed core.
You never wore a dress around Peter for this very reason. You hoped he hadn't heard the way your breath hitched, how you almost gasped around his fingers.
But somehow he had such good hearing. The smirk on his face said it all.
"I want a partner," His lips were against your neck. The bastard knew that made you weak, the way his beard would brush against your skin.
Why did you ever tell him he looked good with facial hair? Maybe your father did have a point about you not knowing when to shut up.
"The kind that's made known by a pair of gold rings?" You asked, desperate to give off the image that his actions left you unbothered.
Peter chuckled, "That's a little soon, Scheifale. Let's have dinner first."
His body was off of yours, only briefly. Only long enough for you to step away from the wall. Only long enough for you to think you had a chance of running away, for him to dash that hope by wrapping an arm around your waist.
"You've had a long day and we have a lot to discuss. We need to get back to my place."
He led you out of your apartment, where you were greeted by his right hand man and woman.
Felicia and Miles just smiled at you.
Assholes.
—-------------------
You had been to Peter Parker's house before. You were familiar with the grand staircase that greeted you when you walked through the door. The marble floors in the bathroom.
The dining room table, where you two would go over payments and plans as you drank wine. As of recently, the conversation would stray from business and focused on other things.
Childhood. Interests. Funny stories.
How he could help you get away from your father. That you would be safe with him, he'd make sure of that.
Everytime it was brought up, you would just shake your head. He didn't need to get involved. You could hold your own.
Was that why he was doing this? You had actually succeeded without his help. Without his knowledge. Did that make him angry? Feel betrayed?
"Are you angry at me?" You asked as he drove.
Peter's brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes stayed focused on the road ahead, "Why would I be angry?"
"Because I got rid of him without your help."
Peter rolled his eyes, "I never said you couldn't do it without me. I just offered assistance in case you needed it."
You almost felt bad at your accusation.
Almost.
"So then why are you doing this?"
"Because as smart as you are, you still have a lot to learn," He pressed a button, opening the gates to his house, "As much as everyone hated your father, he was still a prominent figure in all this. When you get rid of someone, you gotta make sure you have some alliances first to protect your ass."
You huffed, "Why would I need protection, no one is gonna think I-"
"In this business, you treat every death with suspicion. No matter how many alibis, witnesses, and reports."
Peter now had a hand on your thigh, his fingers gently gripping the soft flesh. After parking, he leaned in, the smell of cinnamon greeting you once again.
"And maybe I am a little sad you didn't contact me after he died." You hated that smirk. Hated how charming it was. Hated how it made your thighs clench the first time you saw it.
"Peter Parker gets sad? This is good information for me to know as your new partner," You leaned in, his face now inches away from yours.
"Oh Scheifele, you're gonna learn a lot about me." His thumb came up and ran along your bottom lip.
You wished he'd stopped doing that. You could say so and Peter would listen.
Yet, the words didn't come out.
Which is how you found yourself in Peter's office, planning out the details of your father's funeral.
You were honestly surprised. As soon as you walked into his house, you expected him to shove you against a wall, take you right then and there.
Instead, he was actually helping.
It was a lot more work than you realized. Knowing who to invite, where to seat them, who to keep away from who.
"Why the fuck are you inviting the Osborne's?" Peter asked, running a hand through his hair. He was sitting in his leather chair while you lounged on the couch.
"The family used to work with my dad, they were on friendly terms," you explained.
"They're trouble and you know it."
"The son is always sweet to me."
Peter's brows furrowed as he chewed the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say something, it was clear as day.
So, you being curious, kept pushing it, "He texted me when he got the news that my dad kicked the bucket. Said if I needed anything, to let him know."
His jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring.
"Y'know, you could have sent a text-"
He lunged forward, his hands pinning yours against the soft leather pillows on the couch.
Now he looked angry.
"Harry Osborne is a piece of shit, just like your father. Is that what you want? To repeat the awful, shitty cycle that led you to fucking poison a man?"
You shrugged, secretly gleaming that you had the upper hand, "I got rid of one shitty man, I can do it again."
"Or you can be with someone who doesn't make you want to commit murder," Peter spat. His whiskey eyes were hardened and narrowed in on you. For a moment, the only sound in the room was yours and Peter's heaving breathing.
"Or specifically, I could be with the person who fucking blackmailed me to be their partner. Is that what you want?" Your tone was nearly mocking as you threw his words back in his face.
"You wouldn't have come with me otherwise, which would have meant you would be home alone when Craven came to your apartment, looking for you."
"Bullshit-"
"Miles and Felicia are there right now, taking care of him. Did you know your father owed him money? No, you didn't. I'm trying to help you," He gritted through his teeth.
The idea of receiving help always made your stomach lurch. Thanks to Daddy dearest, you were raised on the concept of looking out for yourself.
Which, looking back, is probably what made it so easy to kill the man. No one else was keeping tabs or track of him.
So Peter had a point. So what?
"Right, and you get absolutely no satisfaction that I can't leave you. That now you can have me whenever you want, to-"
"You know I wouldn't do that." His voice was firm, but not angry. In fact, he looked hurt by your accusation.
"Oh please, all that flirting-"
"It takes two to tango. I wouldn't have kept flirting if you hadn't flirted back."
He was right, but you couldn't let him see that. Peter Parker couldn't know.
"You're just angry that I won't let you be my savior," your voice was but a whisper, though that didn't stop the venom dripping all over your words.
"I'm angry because that piece of shit you called a father got into your brain and made you believe you're not worthy of someone who likes you, who actually cares about you."
His voice was soft. The grip he had on your wrists was gone, his hands now intertwining with yours.
"And you think you're worthy of me?" Your voice was gentle, barely above a whisper.
It wasn't meant to mock Peter, it wasn't meant to hurt him.
It was a genuine question.
His forehead brushed against yours, his soft hair tickling your skin, "I'd like to try."
Peter Parker was vulnerable, underneath the rings and designer suits and devilish smirks. That's what drew you to him, what made you stay with him, long after your meetings had ended.
"Show me then," you demanded.
Peter's lips were soft against yours, despite how he was kissing you with such fervor. His hands cupped your neck, his long fingers reaching to the back of your head. Despite literally trapping you, you felt safe. Something you hadn't felt since god knows when.
His body shifted towards you, deepening the kiss. His tongue ran along your bottom lip, as if it was asking for entrance. You parted your lips, granting him access. He followed your lead, your tongue slipping against his as your fingers weaved into that soft, thick hair of his.
It was intoxicating-his smell, his touch, his lips. You couldn't help but arch into him, trying to mold your body against yours.
He broke away first, which surprised you. His lips trailed up to your ear, pressing small kisses into your face along the way.
"You've had a long day. Should go shower and change." His breath was hot on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.
"I don't….I don't have any c-clothes," you could feel the heat in your face as the sensation spread through your body.
"Felicia is picking up some of your clothes after she takes care of Craven. But until then…..I got something for you," you didn't need to see his mouth to know that smirk was there.
“You got me clothes? For this meeting?” You leaned back so he could see the glare you were giving him.
“If you must know, I got them after your last visit with me,” He admitted, his voice soft.
Ah yes. The last visit. The one where he said you didn’t have to go back to your father, that you could stay with him.
And in an attempt to get out of there, to avoid what he really meant, what he was saying through those big whiskey eyes, you mentioned something about not having any clothes and ran out the door.
“Trying to make it difficult for me to escape?” Your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Also thought you deserved something nice, “ Peter’s voice was sweet, like honey. It was such a contrast to his hands that were now kneading the soft flesh of your thighs.
"Look, you can just give me an old Tshirt and-"
"Listen, Scheifale. You're going to take a shower, put on what I give you, and I'm going to show you how good I can make you feel. Got it?"
The order sent heat directly to your core. All you could do was nod as Peter helped you off the couch.
—--------------------------
"That bastard," you muttered as you stared at the 'clothes' laid out for you.
You knew they wouldn’t really be clothes. Like Peter Parker would pass up a chance to see more of you.
Your fingers traced over the lacey, sheer fabric of the ‘romper’ that was hanging on the hook of the bathroom door. Could you call it a romper when it would barely conceal your tits and ass?
The color was nice. Soft pink.
Your favorite.
While showering, a maid had taken your other clothes, leaving you no choice. As you put on the sheer, flimsy fabric, you couldn’t help but look at yourself in the mirror.
It was nice. Something you didn’t buy for yourself, usually because you either didn’t have enough money or just didn’t think you deserved it.
Pulling on the robe, you couldn't help but press the soft material to your nose.
It smelled like Peter.
Taking a deep sigh, you opened the door. The walk from the bedroom to the office felt long, daunting.
You found Peter sitting in his chair, looking over some papers.
"So what made you decide on lingerie? Usually I just sleep in an old Tshirt and shorts," you commented.
"I wanted to get you something nice." He walked over to you, his hands in his pockets.
"Do you not like it?" He asked, motioning to the robe.
You rolled your eyes, "I didn't think your staff wanted to see my half naked with zero warning."
"I sent them home," Peter's lips were now pressed against your forehead, his fingers trailing down to the tie that was holding the rope together.
You stepped back, "Why am I the only one in less clothing? This doesn't seem like a very fair partnership."
All he did was grin as he took off his jacket and began loosening his tie.
"More," you demanded.
"And you say I'm the horndog," Peter muttered, taking off his shirt to reveal a white undershirt beneath it.
"Why do you wear so many layers? Don't you get hot?"
He ignored your question, walking over to the couch. He sat down, kicking off his shoes before he slowly pulled the white Tshirt over his head.
Peter Parker was attractive. You knew that. Everyone knew that. And yet there was something about seeing him like this, shirtless, long legs spread out.
"I….I didn't know you had tattoos."
"You can look at them if you want, Scheifele." He curled a finger, motioning for you to come to him.
Wanting to maintain the upper hand (or some semblance of it), you walked over slowly, untying the knot.
You stood there, in between his legs as the robe fell to the floor. Peter's eyes widened briefly, then relaxed as he took you in.
"Look at you," He cooed as a hand traced over the lace on your hips. His other hand trailed up your stomach, resting right below one of your breasts.
"Spin around." Your eyes widened at the demand.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Peter was unphased, "You heard me. Wanna see how it looks from the back. If it's good, I can get you more in different colors."
You were ready to tell him to fuck off, until you remembered he had that little bottle of yours. The one that would destroy your life if someone else's hands ever got ahold of it.
So you slowly spinner, allowing his eyes to burn into your skin.
"You don't need to be shy. You look pretty. You can look too, if you want." It was difficult to hold onto your anger when his voice was so soothing.
You straddled his waist, taking in the sight of his bare chest and shoulders. Your fingers traced along the sections of inked skin.
On the top of his left shoulder was an intricate spider web, cascading down to his back and the very top of his bicep. You leaned over, trying to ignore his lips that were now pressed in the valley between your breasts, instead focusing on the small spider that dangled from the web, going down part of his back.
"Were you one of those kids obsessed with spiders?" Peter let out a low chuckle against your chest, sending vibrations that made your stomach flutter.
"It's several things. My parents were scientists and studied animal and other species' DNA to see if they could find missing links for medical treatments. Mainly they studied spiders. Did that until the day they died."
Your fingers traced over his skin as the story played in your mind, your brain memorizing the details he had given you. You had learned details of Peter here and there. He always wanted to focus on you, to listen to what you had to say.
It was nice to hear him talk about himself.
Your eyes noticed another section of ink, your fingers tracing over the symbols inscribed on his right bicep.
"Is that Hebrew?" You asked. He nodded his head.
"Gam Ze Ya'avor," Peter told you. You looked at him, your confused expression alerting him that you had no idea what it meant.
"This too shall pass. Got it after my Uncle Ben died. Figured it would be a good reminder," He explained, his voice soft.
"It is a good reminder. What about this one?" You picked up his hand, motioning to his forearm. A band of old film was wrapped around it.
"I did photography in high school. Still do it from time to time," He shrugged, "My Aunt May says I could have worked for The Daily Bugle."
"You ever thought of getting them filled in with something?"
Peter shrugged, the tips of his ears turning red, "Yeah…..thought it would be neat to fill them with important dates."
"Such as……" your voice trailed off.
Peter looked up at you, a sheepish smile taking over his face, "Wedding dates….birth dates of my children."
"Is that what you want?" So often you met men in this field who did those things to prove something, like that they could have anyone they wanted. Or to continue their name, to have a successor so their legacy could leave on.
Selfish reasons. Your father was one of those men.
But when Peter looked at you with those soft amber eyes, it didn't feel selfish.
"Yeah, I do. What about you?"
Your fingers traced the inked skin on his arm before guiding your fingers back to his shoulder, back to the spider web. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against it.
"Yeah, I want that too," You whispered into his skin, "Partly why I got rid of my old man. Couldn't have that with him around."
Peter nodded, bringing your fingers up to his lips. It was a stark difference compared to when he found you in your apartment earlier today.
Perhaps that's why you liked him. He could have killed you, could have ratted you out.
Instead, he just brought you home, even when you didn't realize that's what you wanted, what you needed.
"If I remember correctly, you said you were going to show me how good you can make me feel," Your voice was light, a smirk slowly spreading to your face.
"I still intend to, just didn't plan on telling you my life story," He teased.
"Sorry, I like to get to know my potential partners before I work with them," You teased back.
"Potential? I still have that bottle of yours," his voice had become more gruff, his fingers cupping the lower half of your face, forcing you to look at him.
There was that smirk.
"And I still know how to poison people and make it look like an accident," you responded, grinding your hips down onto his. You grinned at the sight of him wincing as he felt your core brush against his emerging erection.
"Does that make you hard Peter? That I know how to kill someone?"
"What makes me hard is you're smart as hell, extremely stubborn, and look like an angel," He hissed as you rocked your hips forward again.
"Show me. Show me how much you like that." You wanted control, wanted to know this was real and not some stupid ploy to make you weak.
Because despite everything he had done, part of you still didn't trust it, didn't believe it.
Thanks Dad.
Peter's lips were all over your body, his hands pinning your waist to his bed. You were still processing the fact he was able to pick you up and carry you with great ease, like you weighed nothing.
He was hiding something.
But it was hard to sleuth when his lips were pressed against the thin, flimsy fabric that barely covered your core.
"You know, if you move the fabric to the side, you could actually lick my cunt," you huffed.
A gasp fell from your lips as you felt him slap your thigh, the sting making you throb in pleasure rather than pain.
"That smartass mouth of yours doesn't stop, does it?" He asked before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh.
"If you lied down, I can show you what else this smartass mouth can do." He groaned at your words and you noticed his hips grinding down into the mattress..
"Don't you know it's bad practice to switch up demands on someone?" He said, moving his body up as his hands reached for the straps holding your garment up.
"Isn't that what you're here for? To teach me?" Peter pulled the straps down, tugging the slip off your body as he grinned at your words.
"I'm here for a lot of things, Scheifele. Like to show you how good I can make you feel." God you hated that nickname and how it made you flustered.
"You're doing an awful lot of talking, not so much showing," you tssked.
"My apologies. Let me make it up to you."
His mouth was hot on your cunt, his tongue wasting no time to find your clit.
He wasn't your first, far from it. But you couldn't remember the last time you got to lie down and just feel. Feel pleasure, feel wanted, feel needed.
"Taste fucking amazing," you heard Peter groan, "you're so good."
You whined at the praise, your hands clawing at the tops of his shoulders. His tongue continued to circle around your bundle of nerves, his fingers running along your entrance to gather slick.
The coil in your lower stomach was building. Your hips thrusted upwards in a desperate attempt to meet his mouth.
His name fell from your lips, like a prayer. Not that there was anything holy about what his mouth was doing to you.
He just felt so good.
Which is why you whined when he broke away. Your cunt clenched around nothing, instantly missing the feel of his large fingers curling up against your walls.
"I know, you were close," He cooed in your ear, "But I want the first time I make you
come to be on my cock."
"Isn't that something you should decided with your partner beforehand?" You gritted through your teeth.
Peter chuckled as his teeth grazed your chest, "Sorry, it's been a while since I had one."
His admission surprised you. Granted, you could recall how he never seemed to have any other women around the house (who didn't work for him) or at parties.
"So I have to teach you shit too? Doesn't sound like a fair partnership," you crossed your arms over your chest.
"So sorry Scheifale. Let me make it up to you," He whispered into your ear as he pressed his cock into your entrance.
A curse fell from your lips as he bottomed out, your walls stretching to accommodate him.
Fuck, he felt amazing.
Your back arched as he began thrusting in and out of you, building up a steady pace.
In the back of your mind, you couldn't help but think about where you would be right now if things hadn't changed. Either alone in your old, dingy apartment or getting yelled at by your father.
Idk if someone has requested this already for your bingo prompts but jumping onto the bandwagon and requesting arranged marriage for reader and mob boss peter (can I also request a slight age difference and reader being terrified of what her husband does)
I like to think I added a nice twist to the whole "arranged marriage" trope.
Warnings: reader has a crappy family, some violence, mention of abuse
You stared ahead as your mother applied blush on your face. The itchy fabric of the dress she insisted on you wearing was digging into your skin. You desperately wished to yank out the bobby pins digging into your scalp.
Instead, you stayed still as she made you 'presentable'.
"Remember, don't say a word unless he asks you. Last thing we need is that mouth of yours ruining our one chance."
How do you pay a hitman to take care of your debts when you have no money?
You offer him a wife as payment.
In a way, you were glad Peter Parker wanted to see you before agreeing to marry you. Though it didn't make you feel less like some animal on display.
Your mother's hand on your arm yanked you out of your thoughts.
"Did you hear me? You better listen when he talks, men hate a woman who doesn't listen."
Of course, they just want a doll, not a wife. You fought back the snide comment. Your family had been tense about this meeting for the past few days. Snarky comments wouldn't help.
It was a double win for them. They'd get rid of their debt and of you.
"It's the best I can do," your mother sighed, "Tell him she's ready."
Your eyes fixated on the gaudy artwork your father insisted on hanging in his office. In a way, you were thankful that they told you this news the night before.
It gave you the chance to cry into your pillow until you fell asleep. Now a numb, empty feeling resided within you.
Was it such a shock that they would hand you over to a man so easily capable of being cruel and violent?
It shouldn't, given their annoyance towards your whole existence.
"You'll finally be useful. He's needed a new wife anyways, it's been three years since his first one died."
The door opened, yet your eyes still remained on the stupid artwork. They remained on it even when a long, lean torso clad in well tailored dress pants and a button up stood in front of you.
Long, ring-adorned fingers hooked themselves around your chin, forcing your head to tilt upwards until you made eye contact with your potential husband.
Peter Parker was handsome, you'll give him that. But his amber eyes were hardened and looked devoid of emotion. Not that you expected much from someone who made themselves known for being able to quickly and efficiently commit violent acts.
He tilted your head to the side, his lips tightly drawn together as he inspected you.
You tried to keep your face neutral, to not show any emotion. Partly so if this deal went sour, your parents couldn't cast (as much) blame onto you. Partly because you didn't want him to think you were scared.
You hoped he couldn't see that your hands were shaking.
"Stand." His voice was deep, laced with a Queens accent.
Hesitation filled you, until your eyes made contact with the death glare your mother was sending you.
And so you stood, albeit slowly. You already knew he was older than you, but the fact you didn't even come up to his chin made you feel like a child.
Perhaps that would deter him.
Instead, he chuckled, "You're so little."
You couldn't help but look down, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your dress.
This time you felt all of Peter's hands as they cupped your jawline, his fingers reaching the back of your neck. Your gaze was brought back to his face, his brow knitted in concentration as he studied yours.
"Pretty eyes," he muttered, "You talk?"
"When I want to," you whispered without thinking. Great, you blew it. He'd reject the offer and your family would actually have a valid reason to hate you and-
"And a sense of humor! I'll take her," He told your parents, as if you were some cut of meat and they were the butcher's at the local deli.
His hands dropped from your face as he turned to your parents, "Gotta get the place ready. I can take her Wednesday."
Pretty eyes and a sense of humor. That was all Peter Parker needed to determine you would make a suitable wife.
He didn't even attempt to have a conversation with you. That was what sealed the deal. He just wanted a warm body to fuck and birth his children. And while he found delight in your sense of humor now, that certainly wouldn't be the case later.
Sure, life with your family wasn't great. But what was the point of trading one hell for another?
So you ran. Or tried to.
You barely made it to the gate of your family's house when you heard yelling. You attempted to begin to climb up the gate when a large hand grabbed your ankle, pulling you down.
A curse fell from the lips of one of your father’s henchmen as you kicked, freeing you briefly. For a moment, you thought you had a chance. That perhaps a higher power did exist and took pity on you.
How stupid of you.
Another pair of arms grabbed your waist. You used all your strength to try to free yourself. Just when you thought you had a chance, you felt a rag cover your mouth.
Despite the sweet smell that flooded your nostrils, your body surged with panic. It became difficult to fight back, having to use all your strength just to jerk back your wrist.
And still, it wasn't enough. The rough material of rope dug into your skin.
You don't know when you closed your eyes, but the last thing you recalled hearing was "Let's give Parker an early wedding gift."
Despite years of no one listening to you, you still managed to mumble a weak "No.
Not that it mattered. It never did.
—----------------------
Rough hands grabbed your arms, pulling you up from the car seat. Your body was slow to react, though that didn't stop you from trying to resist.
The rag placed in your mouth made it next to impossible to scream, though it didn't prevent you from making such an attempt.
An elbow jabbed you in the ribs, causing you to bend over in pain.
"No wonder your folks want to get rid of you."
The men dragged you into a huge house that had nearly all of the lights turned off.
You tried to fight back, tried to wrangle yourself out of their grip. But they held on tight, practically dragging you through the house into you came into a study.
Hands shoved you hard, pushing you onto the floor, the marble bruising your knees.
You looked up to find Peter Parker sitting on the couch.
What a pathetic site you were. You could feel the mascara that had stained your cheeks, your body bruised and beaten from your attempts of escaping.
"What the fuck is going on?" He asked, sounding angry. That didn't shock you, he did say that he would be ready to take you in two days.
Now he was getting you early.
"Boss saw her trying to escape. Said to get her and bring her over to you," one of your father's men explained.
He nodded his head as he stood up, walking over to you. You stared at the floor, too ashamed of yourself to look at him.
"Her family says she's all yours." The other man mentioned.
It shouldn't have shocked you that your family would be willing to give you away to a violent man without any regards to your well-being. But it still stung.
This time you couldn't even wipe away your tears.
"They wanna know when you'll hold up your end of the deal," one of the men said to Peter.
Peter didn't respond. Instead, he kneeled down, his hands reaching to cup your face. The cool metal of his rings felt soothing against your hot, tear-stained face.
His eyes examined you. First your face, then the rest of your body. His amber eyes hardened upon seeing the bruises and marks on you, a scowl forming on his face.
"Hello? Parker, you got an answer or not?"
"Wednesday. Like I said I would," He replied without looking at them, his eyes still on you.
"Enjoy your new wife. Good luck with this one," they scoffed.
"Take the back way, Miles will show you," Peter leaned in, his lips hovering over your ear.
"You're safe now."
No you weren't. Your parents just handed you over to a man who had killed with his bare hands. Not only that, but they showed him exactly what they thought of you, letting him know the level of treatment they expected from him towards you was low.
Peter's hands moved towards the rope that bounded your arms and hands together, making quick work of removing them.
"They're not gonna fucking touch you after that," he muttered.
You stared at him in confusion.
Suddenly a gunshot rang out, clearly coming from inside the house. Then another.
From a distance, you could hear the voices of your father's men, yelling out in agony.
Two more shots quickly silenced them.
Peter's hands moved up to your face, removing the rag your mouth had been gagged with.
You stared at him. You should run. You could run now, thanks to him removing the ropes. Why would he do that?
Wouldn't he want his wife tied up, nice and pliant? Or did he get some sick, twisted pleasure from the idea of you putting up a fight against him? A fight he would win in an instant.
"W-why did you do that?" Was all you could ask.
"So that way when your family finds their bodies on their doorstep, they know not to bother me about why I haven't offed Craven to take care of their debt," He explained, as if it was clear as day.
He held his hand out for you. All you could do was stare in horror at the man in front of you.
"I need to check the burn marks you got from the rope. There's better lighting in the library." As if that should be enough to convince you.
He kneeled down, his hands reaching towards you. You tried to move away, a shriek beginning to fall from your lips.
One of Peter's ringed hands quickly clamped over your mouth, his body pinning yours to the ground.
This was it. He'd seen you disobey him and now he would put you in your place.
"Look, I know it's hard to believe, but you're safer with me. I just made sure those lowlifes you call 'family' don't ever bother you again. Running away is probably the dumbest choice you could make right now." Peter's voice was firm and gruff, sending shudders throughout your body.
You could only stare back at him, the events of today finally catching up to your mental state.
That was when his eyes softened. He removed his hand from your mouth, his long fingers gently stroking the sides of your face.
"You're safe here. Let me help you," He whispered.
His eyes looked gentle, never leaving you as he pushed himself off of your body, extending out a hand.
Shaking, you raised yours, taking it.
You didn't trust him.
But Peter Parker was right. As for now, he was your only option.
Which is how you found yourself in his library. A first aid kit adorned the marble coffee table as Peter was on his knees, inspecting your injuries.
"It's minor," you said softly, watching him apply an antibiotic cream to a burn on your arm.
"This isn't minor," He responded, shaking his head.
"I've had worse," you said, shrugging.
It wasn't until he looked up at you with a frown on his face and those soft eyes that you realized the weight behind your words.
You didn't need his pity. You had done just fine without it.
"Why did you pick me? As your wife?" You then asked, wanting to distract him and yourself from your previous words.
A small smile crept on his face, like he had heard an inside joke, "You're smart, pretty clever, and nice. Not to mention beautiful."
You crossed your arms, "You got all of that from a five minute meeting?"
Peter shook his head as he put away the first aid kit, "I knew that before we met. I know a lot more than you think, lamb."
How dare he make assumptions and act like he was your savior in all of this? He was just as much as responsible for you being in this situation as your parents. And to practically admit he had seen you before? Was that supposed to make you feel better?
You were about to question him when you were interrupted.
"Daddy?" A small voice called out.
You looked up to the doorway. Standing there, was a small child who couldn't have been older than three. She had curly dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that were still full of sleep. Clad in a long nightgown while holding onto a stuffed elephant, she looked out of place in the elegant library.
Peter gave you a knowing look before getting up to walk over to the small child.
"What'cha doing up lovebug? Was it too loud?" He asked softly, kneeling down.
She nodded her head, still rubbing her eyes with one hand while the other clutched her stuffed animal.
"I'm sorry bug. Those men who were being loud are gone now and they won't come back," He said as he picked her up, a large hand rubbing her back.
It wasn't the fact that Peter Parker had a child that was shocking.
"Sophie?" Her eyes looked up at the sound of her name, meeting yours.
It was the fact that you knew her.
The little girl who you had been made to watch when you and your mother visited Betty Brandt. Betty wanted the little girl out of her hair, your mom wanted you out of sight.
So you two spent time together, reading stories and exploring the gardens. The small child had taken to you.
The last words she said to you from several days ago rang in your head.
"Daddy says I'm going to get a new mommy soon!" Sophie explained.
You smiled at her news. Her father was involved in the business, though no one ever seem to know his name.
"That's wonderful Sophie! I bet she's so excited to be your new Mommy!" Secretly, you were praying that would be the case. The last thing this sweet girl needed was someone who wouldn't even try to love her.
"I saw a star last night and made a wish on who I want to be my new Mommy! But I can't tell ya 'cause it won't come true if I do!"
You had just laughed at her words and went back to tending to the garden.
The call of your name pulled you out of the haze surrounding your thoughts. Somehow, Sophie had gotten out of Peter's arms and was crawling up the couch, into your lap.
"My wish came true! You're my new Mama!"
Your stomach lurched, your hands shaking. And yet, when you looked down to see that big smile on her face and saw how the corners of her eyes crinkled, you couldn't find it in your heart to show any disdain.
So instead, you gave her a small smile as you pushed a curl out of her face, "Your wish came true."
"Sophie, you wanna show Mama your bedroom? We can read you a story," Peter suggested. You looked up, your eyes meeting his.
A small smile adorned his face. He had caught you. Was this his plan all along? To trap you?
It was easy to assume the worst in Peter Parker, given all the stories you heard.
But you also heard the stories Sophie told you about her 'Daddy'. The one who read her a story every night, who played cowboys and tea parties with her. Who made the best spaghetti "in the whole wide world!"
The way he kneeled down to soothe Sophie when she first walked in matched up with those stories.
Could you be safe here?
"C'mon Mama!" Sophie tugged on your hand. You smiled, standing up and letting her show you the way.
A large hand placed itself on the small of your back. You turned your head to find that Peter was now walking beside you.
"After she shows you her bedroom, I can show you yours," He said softly.
"Mine?" Your brows knitted in confusion. Surely he meant his bedroom.
He nodded his head, "Figured you'd want your own."
You stopped, only able to stare at him. Peter offered a gentle smile in return as the hand on your back applied a slight amount of pressure, reminding you to keep walking.
All your life you felt like you were on edge, always ready for the worse to happen.
That feeling hadn't gone away, but for right now, it was dull.
You were still determined to figure out Peter Parker. The man was going to be your husband after all.
And despite his methods, despite all the stories you heard, it was possible that he did care about you.
warnings | 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI — thigh riding, smut, taunting, fluff, gamer!peter, dom!peter, mention of being high in the past (weed).
riv’s daily blurb challenge.
he knew what you were doing as soon as you scooted in next to him, curling in under his arm as his fingers tapped the buttons on the controller rapidly. he was totally enthralled in the video game in front of him, muttering soft curses when he ran into obstacles.
he knew because you’d told him a million times over how absolutely delicious he looks when he’s playing.
“hi, my love,” you hum softly, head resting against his rib cage.
“hi, pretty girl,” he returns in the same tone, his smile wide despite his knowledge of your scheme.
well, that, and because not even five minutes after you curled into his side, your fingers started tracing soft lines up his sweats.
“sweetheart,” he grumbles softly, his brows set in a deep line that’s nothing short of adorable.
“yeah, petey?” you whisper innocently, looking up at him with soft round eyes that are just begging for trouble.
peter just shakes his head as his lips twitch into a smirk. if you wanna play, he’ll play.
another twenty-ish minutes pass and your panties are soaked, one of your legs thrown over his as he continues his game. your hands have trailed up under his t-shirt, your nails dragging along his abs in the way you know drives him fucking insane.
his jaw’s clenched so tight that you’re sure that can’t be healthy for his teeth, but you could really care less about that right now. and judging by the growing bulge in his thin sweats, you’re sure he’s in the same boat.
you huff when you realize that he’s not giving in anytime soon, grumbling as you get out from under his arm and trek into the small bathroom down the hall.
peter pauses the game for a moment to make sure that you aren’t genuinely upset in the bathroom, and once his enhanced hearing detects no sniffles, he presses resume.
once you hear the loud gunshots and bombs begin again, you give yourself a lengthy once-over in the mirror.
you’re wearing one of his favorite t-shirts, one that’s far too big on you, the hem of it reaching the middle of your thighs. you’ve got a pair of panties under it, with — surprise surprise — no bra.
you gnaw at the inside of your cheek for a moment before shrugging, “oh, fuck it.” your fingers slip under the elastic band and in one small pull, they’re pooled around your ankles like the skirt under a christmas tree.
fuck it, fuck it, time to get fuck-ed, you giggle softly as you remember the little rhyme your boyfriend made one night when the two of you were high off your asses.
once you return into your shared bedroom, you ignore the quick glance he sends your way. head held high as you check the notifications on your phone before leaving once more to grab the small laundry basket of clean clothes that his aunt may had so very kindly dropped off that morning.
you sit on the bed, the large t-shirt long enough to be pulled under your bare ass as you sort out the different items from the basket in front of you into piles that correspond with sections of the room.
once that’s finished, you rise from the comfortable mattress and head to the dresser on the opposite side of the room, starting from the top drawers and working your way down.
once you reach the bottom row, you grin mischievously and bend over instead of squatting down like you usually do, slowly placing the folded shirts down into their rightful places.
when you hear the sharp hiss and then an aggressive push of a button, then silence from the t.v. next to your head, you’re nearly certain that you’re in for it.
“what are you doing, pretty girl?” his voice is level — calm. oh you’re really screwed now.
“puttin’ clothes away,” you huff incredulously, “what’s it look like?”
peter smiles at you, his pupils blown so wide that you can’t even see the pretty browns of his irises anymore. “c’mere.”
you don’t. “can’t,” you give him a sympathetic smile, “got s’more clothes to put up, still.”
“come sit over here, just for a sec,” he assures, his smile unfaltering as he looks at you in the way that he always does before you’re sore for weeks.
“nah, i don’t think i will.” it’s obvious to him what you’re doing, and he’s not having it at the moment.
“come. sit. now,” peter urges, a brow raised at you.
and finally, you give in. you round the bed, heart damn near stopping when he shakes his head, patting his thigh softly.
ah, shit.
“i’m not gonna bite, sweets,” he laughs as if you’ve just cracked the funniest joke he’s heard all week.
you move onto the bed and position yourself over his thigh without resting your bare core down onto it. you’re not giving up this easily, but it’s futile because once his hands grip your hips softly and coax you down without a single word, you’ve already forgotten what you’re fighting for.
peter’s really good at the silent game, in fact, it’s one of his favorite games to play — especially when he knows you’re completely at his mercy.
“petey,” you whisper, your throat dry with anticipation.
“what’s up?” he asks, an almost genuine look of concern on his face.
“do something,” you huff.
“do what?” peter smirks.
“something,” you look at him with an expression that screams desperation, and you could just about cry when he picks the controller up and presses play.
“say please,” he commands sweetly, as if he would be correcting a child for having bad manners, while he never once takes his eyes off of the screen.
“please,” you mumble.
“sorry, i couldn’t really hear you,” peter mocks, “what was that?”
“please,” you half-whimper and you’re absolutely sure that if you were to move off of his thigh, there’d be a wet spot just from him taunting you.
“fuck, please, please, i’ll do whatever you want, okay? you win. i’m fucking sorry,” you finally snaps when all he can do his give you a faux look of pity.
“there it is,” peter hums contently and glances over at you with his own devious look, “go ahead, sweetheart.”
your brows furrow, “what?” n
“go on,” he nods his head toward his thigh, “get yourself off. you seem like you need it more than i do.”
“you’re joking, right?” you gape at him. sure, he’s had you sit on his lap and you’ve dry humped him once or twice when you first got together, but this is something totally different than that.
he does nothing but send you a look that says if you don’t want to, you absolutely don’t have to and just picturing you fuck yourself on my thigh is enough to make me bust in the same clean swoop.
you bite your lip nervously and place a hand on his shoulder awkwardly. he can hear the way your heart races in your chest and he can never get over how shy you get when you try new things with him.
peter pretends like he’s still playing, but truthfully he couldn’t give a shit less about the game. his eyes focused on the little wet stripe your pussy leaves on his favorite pair of sweats as you rock yourself forwards and backwards slowly, your breaths deepening as you find the rhythm/pressure combo that hits you in your belly.
“fuck,” you whisper as you drop your head in pleasure.
“you’re doing so good, sweetheart,” peter praises as his hands grip your hips, guiding you a little faster until you’re taking in tiny gasps of air. “so beautiful like this, my pretty girl.”
my girl.
“peter,” you whimper, eyes shut tightly as you feel the coil tightening, “m’gonna cum.”
“yeah?” his voice has dropped a couple octaves, just as breathy and lust-filled as your own, “go ‘head, baby, let go for me.”
and you do, cumming with a silent cry of his name, one hand gripping the headboard behind him while the other digs into his shoulder blade.
your breathing finally slows, and while he stops rocking your hips he doesn’t remove his hands.
“that was fucking hot,” peter hums, “you okay?”
“better’n okay,” you smile as you lean down, your lips fitting against his perfectly — like the missing piece to a puzzle.
“i love you,” he mumbles against your lips as he flips the two of you over to where he’s slotted between your bare thighs.
“i,” you kiss him softly, “love,” another kiss, “you,” one last one for good luck.
pairing: tasm! peter x reader | a/n at the bottom!
tw : smut | MDNI 18+
you gasp into the crook of peter's neck, leaning against his large frame as he thrusts into you hard. you don’t want to look at peter. you’re feeling too flustered. it was silly, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care that much about how silly you felt at the moment.
delicately grabbing your chin, peter moves your face to look up at him properly, he smiles down at you lazily. “why are you hiding from me, baby?” not trusting yourself to talk, you shrug lazily, he makes a tsking noise with his mouth, showing his disapproval of your answer but doesn’t press on it. peter never pressed you.
“we’ve been together for a long time and you still get flustered?” peter teases as his free hand travels between you two slowly making its way to your clit. his thumb nudges it gently, sending a jolt through your body. “i want to see your pretty face while i fuck you.”
“no more hiding, yeah?” his thumb rubs in fast circles as he keeps thrusting into your wet cunt a bit roughly now. “are you going to say anything?”
“i guess not.” peter mumbles slipping out of you, he quickly flips you on your stomach and lifts your hips up for you, putting you into his preferred position. making sure you’re comfortable peter grabs your hips roughly, slipping back in. he continues his fast and rough pace.
a/n: this is my first time posting smut! i fear it’s a bit obvious that its unfinished, but i hope you enjoy it. <3
hello! I saw that requests were still open for the kiss prompts list - would you be willing to write prompt 31 with human Alastor?? if that prompt is taken, then 25? thank you!
smoke break | human!alastor x fem!reader
prompt #31: lips brushing against each other’s briefly, unsure of whether or not to kiss, before someone finally connects in a deep kiss
kissing prompts list and rules | requests open!
masterlist.
pairing: human!alastor x fem!reader
divider credit: @steviebbboi
content: alastor x fem!reader, mc is a lady of the night, disposing of a body, partners in crime, smoking, flirting, spicy, non-sex repulsed alastor
summary: distraction was going to be his undoing.
and the lady of the night he’d befriended years ago that was trudging back to his car, all muddied, breathless and stunningly cast in a silvery glow of moonlight was going to be the death of him.
wc: 2k
Distraction was going to be his undoing.
And the lady of the night he’d befriended years ago that was trudging back to his car, all muddied, breathless, and stunningly cast in a silvery glow of moonlight, was going to be the death of him.
She emerged from a thicket of trees, shadows, and swampland, shovel in hand and cheeks aglow with the evidential gathering of heat prompted by her lonesome excursion. She dragged her knuckles against her cheekbones, smudging a smear of blood that didn’t belong to her into a faded stain.
It made Alastor’s fingers twitch within his pants pockets, made him long to rid her enticingly stormy expression of the blemish and run the edge of his thumb along the warm curve of her face.
Alastor felt the corners of his grin curl around his cigarette, a clouding plume of grey billowing from the side of his mouth as she stomped towards him with a heavy glower settling over her sweat-soaked brows.
He arched a faux bemused brow at her, tilting his head just a little as he leaned back against the dented side of his car, watching as she balanced the handle of the shovel against the passenger door.
She didn’t meet his amused eyes, pointedly refusing to acknowledge him in any way other than a bitter; “You’re really no help at all, you know that?”
Then, she nudged him out of the way with a rough bump of her hip against his own, hauling the back door to the car open and rummaging around for the spare clothes she’d stuffed under the passenger seat.
Alastor huffed a short laugh through his nose, relieving his lips of the shortening stick of tobacco by framing it with his middle and pointer fingers. His shoes twisted in the wet muck beneath him as he spun on his heel to lean in over her, elbows braced on the top of the car as his shadow fell over her back.
“I found my contributions to be rather generous, actually,” he commented, ever-present smirk sharpening at the surprised jolt her body gave at the newly close proximity of his voice. Then, her shoulders slumped with a despondent sigh and what he could grasp as an exasperated shake of her head. “Besides, if I do everything for you, you’ll only get complacent.”
His thumb flicked the filter of his cigarette, letting the flakes of ash that fluttered down from the inviting glow of its burning end catch in the wind and vanish into the night. But his eyes didn’t twitch to watch the flurry of grey skitter across the roof. Instead, his gaze remained steadfast and locked onto the woman who was only going to be the end of him if he wasn’t careful as he reacquainted his lips with the filter of his cigarette.
She settled on her knees on the backseat of his car, turned towards him with her unblemished garments in her lap, wide eyes peering up at him from below mascara and glittering eyeshadow. Manicured brows tilted down to glare up at him. Rubied lips meant to entice and swindle twisted around a response, one that was interrupted by the radio host’s incessant need to occupy the quiet with his voice.
“And complacency gets you caught,” he added, wagging his finger at her and stealing his hand away from her reach when she moved to swat at him.
“You know what else gets you caught?” She snarked with an exaggerated tilt of her head and a girlish pout. The same alluring moue he knew her to put on whenever their plans involved disarming an unsuspecting man of his self-preserving enforcements. Like the gentleman he’d left her to bury alone in the marsh while he stood watching from the barren roadside. “Passing out from exhaustion next to the guy you helped kill.”
He liked to pretend that he was far more resistant to her charms than most, that her beguiling wit and sardonic drawl didn’t enchant him the way they did so many other, less fortunate men. And yet, he found himself mimicking her nearing expression and leaning in just a little with a mirroring tilt of his lips. Like an unwitting magnet to a precious chain of sterling silver.
“Have you always been so dramatic?”
He supposed he shouldn't be so surprised anymore. That she didn’t fear the creeping silhouette arching across her figure. That she didn’t cower from the glinting sharpness of his grin. That she didn’t quiver and shake the way so many much larger men did when they realized they were alone with a killer.
Still, he couldn’t help but be stupefied and transfixed, attention stolen and lost to a woman who met his violent whimsy with a teasing grin and offer of accompaniment.
Especially when she crossed her arms over her midsection and dragged the tight fabric of her nightly occupation’s dress up and over her head, leaving her in only her undergarments in the back of his car.
Alastor’s jaw slackened around his cigarette, and he felt it tilt against his upper row of teeth, felt the sudden rush of heat that invaded his cheekbones before he scrambled to put distance between him and the lady cackling at him from within the shadowed shelter of his vehicle.
It really shouldn’t have surprised him in such a consequential way that it sent thorny excitement in rhythmic tremors through his veins. She’d always been a little shameless around him. Not in the way that her job demanded, but in a quieter comfortability she’d told him she’d only been awarded around him.
“I’m the bait. I can be as ‘dramatic’ as I want,” she asserted, peeking her head out the doorframe and squinting her eyes at her accomplice. She jabbed a thumb into her chest, still only concealed by a lacy brassiere. “Because I’m the one who’s in any actual danger if things go south.”
Alastor’s eyes darted to her face. Then down to the exposed flesh of her sternum and stomach, pebbled by subtle goosebumps. They made him long to run the backs of his knuckles along her skin, to vanquish the evidence of the cool autumn breeze with his own body heat. He sucked in a sharp breath as the reality that she was still almost bare before him forced his gaze to drag back up to her preemptively smirking expression.
Her readied grin broadened at the fallen expression Alastor met her with, delight filtering across her perfected visage as she ran her tongue along the whites of her teeth. “So the least you can do is pick up a shovel and get your scrawny ass diggin’.”
Alastor hummed, forcing his shoulders down from where they’d bunched by his jawline, giving his head a slight shake in a vain attempt to dislodge the tempting notion of reaching out to her from his mindscape.
And, after a moment of shared quiet and a long drag of his cigarette, he returned to her proximity, bashful reluctance to close the space between them banished as he crouched down before her.
He stared up at her over the golden rim of his glasses, ensuring that his dark eyes stayed fastened to her lidded expression. And with a certain, earnest, and unusual gentleness bleeding into his tonality, he murmured into the space between them; “I wouldn’t let them harm you.”
Her smirk softened a bit, the upward quirk of her mouth dipping slightly as she crawled just a little closer to the edge of the seats so that she could brace one of her hands on the opened door’s handle.
“I know, Al,” she murmured back, just as certain, earnest, and unusually gentle.
She held his gaze for a moment, like it was something precious and fragile. Like she couldn’t bear to be the one to break it, so instead she settled for sitting back on her heels and reaching out to fix his glasses.
“Doesn’t mean you get to be a lazy bum though,” she mused, voice light and teasing as she readjusted her accomplice’s spectacles with a scrutinizing squint of her eyes. “Next time, you’re diggin’ the hole.”
Her hands stilled momentarily.
And her bottom lip jutted into a contemplative pout before she added; “Alone.”
Alastor hummed, deigning to ignore the fact that his glasses didn’t need to be fixed. Or that he was entirely okay with her unnecessary fiddling. “Of course, dear.”
She seemed to catch herself, lids lifting just a fraction, eyes widening enough for the man before her to notice. She pulled her hand away, as if the metal frames of his glasses had been stoked by fires and singed her skin.
“Also, gimme some of that.”
She said it quickly, blurting the words out and extending her open hand with a childish grabbing motion.
Alastor felt his grin twitch around the object of her attention, plucking the cigarette from between his lips so that he could chastise her attempt to divert her embarrassment; “So demanding.”
“Someone has to tell you what to do,” she purred, instantly falling back into her usual air of coquettish nonchalance, reaching out the car door to wrap her fingers around the silky fabric of his tie. “‘Else you’ll get ‘complacent’.”
She punctuated the playful recitation of his own words by tugging firmly on his tie.
And maybe she’d underestimated her own strength, or perhaps she’d forgotten that he was balanced only on the balls of his feet on an uneven, muddy terrain. But the sudden pull hauled him into her space, made his balance vanish alongside the cigarette that flew from his fingers as his hands grappled for anything to grab onto.
They found respite on the edge of her seat, arms bracketing her folded legs as his own knees sank into the soaked earth beneath him.
It was a few thoughtless seconds of breaths catching and eyes blinking before belated realization settled over their bones. Like a stony weight sinking between their joints and hardening across their nerves, keeping their limbs locked in position with only a hitch of breath and a short sound of astonishment breaching the veil of quiet.
It took another dragging moment of prolonged stupification. Of a gentle tickle sparking across each of their lips at the barely-there contact of their mouths, of buried longing and a battle-worn need to close the distance between them before realization bled into brisk departure from the intimately unfamiliar proximity.
She tilted her head down, chin dipping as her forehead inadvertently bumped against his own. Her breath hitched as she stuttered over an apology; “S-Sorry, I-”
Alastor silenced every apologetic explanation she could have proffered, large hands cupping her jawline, fingers threading through her wind-swept hair before he swallowed her little gasp by fitting his mouth over her own.
It was instinctual and instant, the reciprocal shift of her own glossy lips against his, smudging the rubied paint framing her mouth as her widened eyes fluttered shut and she pressed a little closer. Her hand tightened around his tie, tugging him into her and letting her other hand smooth over the crisp fabric of his freshly changed shirt, curling into the material as a content sigh left her.
Heads tilted to accommodate for a deepened press of rough lips to softer ones, noses nudging against one another as a low groan passed from one open mouth to another.
It was only when air became limited and lungs burned with something other than flustered need, did their lips part from one another. Eyes opened slowly, foreheads touching as breaths mingled and hands caressed before a simultaneous, nervous huff of disbelieving laughter emanated between them.
Her lips twitched around a girlish smile, a teasing remark lacing her tongue; “Distraction will get you caught too.”
Alastor hummed, and the small sound vibrated behind his teeth. It echoed in the limited space between their lips, and he let his eyes depart from her own only when he noticed her canines catching in the enticing flesh of her bottom lip in the edge of his vision.
His thumbs swept careful paths over each of her cheeks, relishing in the heat that radiated from her face as he vanquished what remained of the smudged blood from her otherwise flawless visage.
“Not if we get distracted elsewhere.”
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I might write a part two to this, if the people yearn for it lol
warnings: SMUT 18+, p in v, voyeurism (male), orgasm denial, bondage (webs), daddy! kink, fingering, praise, dacryphilia
summary: pure porn. went off with the dialogue i think. Peter ties you up and leaves you to watch while he takes care of himself.
word count: 2.1k
“Please, Peter.”
Peter had you webbed to the bed like a starfish. Your ankles were bound to the posts at the foot of the bed and your wrists to the headboard. You had a few pillows behind you so you were able to watch as Peter continued to move his fingers against your clit.
“Are you about to come?” Peter asked. You moaned incoherently. Peter slapped your thigh. “I said, are you about to come?”
“Yes! Please, Peter! Please, please, please, please,” you repeated desperately. He had already stolen your orgasm from you twice. You would have said anything to keep his hands on you. Peter didn’t care. He pulled his hands away. You wailed in agony, back arching away from the mattress as you tried to chase after Peter’s touch. “No, no! Please, no,” you whined.
“Patience, baby.” Peter stepped back and looked down at you from the foot of the bed. You cried out in disapproval and stared up at him longingly.
“Peter,” you whimpered. Your body convulsed, in shock from the denial.
“Get comfortable, kitten. I think I’m going to take care of myself for a little bit,” Peter said. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. Your pussy was clenching wildly around nothing.
“Peter, please, I need to come!” You cried.
“You’re going to wait, sweetheart.” Peter’s voice was steady and warm. Peter took his boxers off. He grabbed the chair at your vanity and pulled it to the foot of your bed. He sat down on the chair with his legs spread open lazily. His eyes were raking up and down your body.
“Peter,” you whimpered. “What are you doing?” You asked. Peter took his cock in his hand. You watched as he spread the precum leaking out around the red tip of his cock.
“I’m taking care of myself,” Peter said.
“Peter, I need you!” You shouted, tears falling from your eyes. Your body was still convulsing, feeling the aftershocks of all the edging. Peter began slowly stroking up and down his long, thick cock.
“Need me? You’ve had me, baby. For almost an hour.” His voice was sweet. He was trying to seem innocent despite the cruelty he was showing you.
“But I need to come, Peter,” You whined. Your eyes were puffy from your tears. You had a pout decorating your lips as you continued to cry. Your body was burning with need. You were pulling at the webs around your wrists, wanting to touch yourself if Peter wouldn’t.
“Even if I touch you I’m not going to let you come yet, sweetheart,” he said. He pulled his hand off his cock and spit on it. He made a few more strokes, but stopped.
“Peter, it hurts!” You cried.
“Where’s the lube?” Peter asked, standing and going through his bedside drawer. You let out a childish whine when Peter ignored your complaints. Peter went over to your drawer, searching it for the lube as well.
“Please touch me,” you whimpered desperately. Peter walked over to the dresser and looked around. “I need you so bad, Pete.”
“I can’t find it,” Peter said, continuing to ignore your pleas.
“Peter,” you sniffled helplessly. “Please.” Peter looked over at you and smirked. He walked back towards you. You tried to straighten yourself up, hoping that he was going to touch you again. He leaned over the foot of the bed and reached towards your cunt. He ran his fingers through your opening, collecting your wetness on his hand. You moaned wildly.
“Thank you,” you gushed. Peter let out a dry laugh. He leaned away and started to sit back down on the chair. “Peter, what are you doing?” You asked in a panic. Peter rubbed your cum from his hand onto his cock.
“Couldn’t find the lube,” he said. He started stroking himself again. You whined in protest.
“Please,” you cried. “Please, I need more.” Your eyes were locked on Peter. He was a beautiful sight. His hair was fluffy in a way that made him cute. You would’ve been tempted to call it adorable but as your eyes kept moving down to see his naked body ‘adorable’ didn’t seem like the right word anymore. He looked like he was cut from marble, his toned abs tensing as he stroked himself. His cock was hard in his hand and it made your mouth water.
“You need more? You’ve had so much, and I’ve just been waiting, baby. Does that seem fair?” Peter asked as he continued to stroke himself. You shook your head.
“No,” you whimpered. “But you could fuck me,” you said. Peter chuckled.
“We’ll get to that, baby,” he said.
“Please,” you begged again. “I need you so bad.”
“I can see that pretty little pussy throbbing from here, kitten,” Peter called to you. You let out a little whimper. You knew he was right. You could feel your pulse between your legs.
“She needs you, Peter,” you said.
“Of course she does, she’s mine,” he said. Peter started stroking himself faster. He moaned quietly and threw his head back in pleasure.
“You don’t want to leave your pussy waiting anymore then do you, Petey?” You asked sweetly. Peter tilted his head in thought as he continued to stroke himself.
“Tell me what she wants,” he demanded.
“She wants you to make her come,” you told him.
“And how does she want me to do that?” He asked.
“With your cock, Peter. She wants you to fuck her,” you said. Peter smirked as he saw your cunt throbbing faster. You were writhing against the bed. He moved his hand to the tip of his cock, squeezing at the head as he stroked.
“How does she want me to fuck her?” He asked.
“Deep, Peter. She wants you to fill her all the way up, over and over again,” you told him. You continued pulling at the webs restraining you. Peter groaned as his hand slid around his thick cock. “She wants your cum,” you said. You felt like a whore, telling Peter about your pussy so graphically, but somehow you loved it.
“She does, huh?” Peter asked with a smirk. You nodded.
“Uh-huh,” you hummed at him. “She needs it so bad. She needs you to mark her up. Claim her as yours.” Peter stood at once and kicked the chair away.
“You’re filthy,” Peter spat. He climbed onto the bed and settled between your legs. He planted a hand beside your head to steady himself. He took his cock in his other hand and lined it up with your slit.
“Please,” you whimpered quietly, burning with anticipation. Peter slid into you in one stroke. You were wetter than you’d ever been before and your cunt made the most lewd squelching sound you had ever heard.
“Fuuck, baby,” Peter groaned as he felt your warmth envelop him. You moaned loudly, ecstatic that you were being given attention again.
“Thank you, Peter,” you gushed.
“This is where you belong, kitten. Wrapped around my cock,” Peter cooed down at you.
“Yeah, Pete. I was made to be yours,” you moaned. Peter started deep and slow at first, the same way he always did. That’s not what you wanted though. You started to thrust your hips up against Peter to try and get a faster rhythm. Peter grabbed your hip with one hand and pushed you down against the mattress, pinning you down firmly. He kept himself buried in you, but stilled his hips.
“What are you doing, sweetheart?” He asked. His voice was soft and sweet, but you felt embarrassed to answer.
“Trying to go faster,” you admitted shyly.
“Why didn’t you ask me, baby?” He nudged his nose against yours so you had to meet his eye.
“I thought you would say ‘no,’ daddy,” you told him. Peter chuckled darkly. He knew what you were doing. He loved when you called him daddy, and you knew it. You used it as your weapon against him when he was teasing you.
“Well, why don’t you ask me?” He pushed. You smiled hopefully.
“Will you please fuck me faster, daddy?” You begged.
“Not yet, kitten. Not yet.” He kept his hand on your hips but started to slowly move his hips again, rolling them as he moved. The tip of his cock rubbed against the special spot inside you that only Peter had ever been able to find.
“Ooooooh, Peterrr!” You screamed. You thrust your hips upwards, but Peter was plenty strong enough to keep you in place.
“Right there? Is that the spot?” Peter taunted.
“Yes, Peter! Please! Harder! Faster! Anything!” You pleaded helplessly. Tears were streaming down your face as you cried out for him. Peter seemed to sense that you were nearing the end of your rope. He moved his hand from your hip to your cheek, pushing the sweaty hairs away from your face and cupping your cheek in his hand.
“Shh. Shh,” Peter hushed you. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he cooed. Your chest was heaving.
“Please,” you whimpered quietly.
“I heard you, baby,” Peter cooed. “I’ll give you whatever you want now. I’ve had my fun.” You hummed happily.
“Kiss?” You requested sweetly. Peter smirked.
“You’re precious, y’know that?” He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. You mewled as he kissed you, basking in the soft affection he was giving you. You sighed in satisfaction as he leaned away.
“What do you want next, baby?” He asked.
“To come,” you whimpered. Peter smiled. He ran his finger down your cheek.
“Do you care how, sweetheart?” You shook your head.
“Uh-uh. Just want you to make me come,” you pleaded. Peter nodded. He started moving his hips again, finding the spot that made you fall apart with ease. Peter sped up his movements, pushing you further towards your orgasm. You were clenching uncontrollably around Peter’s cock. He let out a broken gasp when you tightened down on him during a particularly deep thrust.
“Fuck, y/n,” Peter groaned. You whined at the sound of your name on his lips. He reached down between your bodies to push his thumb over your clit. He started rubbing it back and forth furiously while hammering into you. He was losing his composure, on the brink of his own orgasm when you screamed out in pleasure.
“Oh my god, Peter!” You wailed. As soon as Peter knew you were coming he let himself go as well.
“Unngh, shit, kitten,” Peter groaned as he emptied himself into you. His cum filled you up. You felt the warmth filling your womb and you moaned blissfully. He grunted as he caught his breath.
“Thank you, Peter,” you whispered. Peter laughed softly.
“You’re so sweet.” He leaned down and kissed you. He gently pulled out of you, pulling a tiny whimper from you at the emptiness. He carefully climbed off the bed, going to remove the webs from your wrists and ankles. He disposed of them quickly and then scooped you up, cradling you in his arms on your bed. You rubbed your cheek against his chest like a kitten seeking attention–the habit that had earned you your nickname.
“You alright, love?” Peter whispered against your hair. He kissed the crown of your head. Peter’s hand was gently rubbing up and down your thigh, your legs thrown across his lap.
“I’m okay,” you said.
“Not too much, kitten?” He asked.
“No, Pete. It was good,” you said.
“You did really good for me, baby. You’re always such a good girl,” he told you. You smiled.
“I like being good for you, Peter,” you gushed. “Always want to be your good girl.”
“You are, sweetheart. Always good,” Peter said. You cuddled into his chest, your arms snaking around his neck. You yawned and closed your eyes. Peter had tired you out. He laid down, pulling you against his body.
“I love you, Peter,” you whispered as you drifted off to sleep. Peter smiled to himself. He kissed your forehead.
“I love you too, baby,” he whispered. Peter stayed awake, reveling in the feeling of you against his body. He adored you in every way. He would take any moment he had with you to focus solely on you. Even when you weren’t with him his mind was on you. You were unavoidable for him. Whether in his mind or in his arms, he always wanted you there. When he did finally drift off to sleep you were in his dreams too.
I can’t stop thinking about the mind blowing sex Alastor would treat you to after one of the many rituals he had performed finally succeeds. I’m talking about the mattress creaking, the bed frame smacking against the wall, the neighbor banging on the door and complaining about the noise kind of sex. He doesn’t even try to stifle his own pleasure, either, shamelessly gasping and groaning into your ear as his hips relentlessly collide with yours, transatlantic accent slipping and being replaced with a southern drawl.
Summary: You discover Peter’s secret identity after inviting him upstairs to tour your new apartment.
Content Warnings: Kissing, grinding/dry humping, mentions of a suit kink(?), use of "good girl," and implied sex.
Author's Note: Inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's song by the same name! Please let me know if you liked this and would like to see more! Comments, reblogs, or even asks are always appreciated. Hope you all enjoy <3
TASM!Peter Parker Masterlist
“Thank you for dinner, baby. I had a really great time.”
The corner of Peter’s mouth curves up into a smile, fully registering your words and gently squeezing your hand. “I’m glad. I know it was last minute, but after they closed the lab for cleaning, I figured I could seize the opportunity to see my girl.”
“Your girl?” You could see his smile widen in your periphery as you questioned his choice of words.
“My girl.” He repeats, dropping your hand and pulling you in by the waist until you are tucked into his side. “Definitely my girl.”
You lean into his side, “For a man who’s only taken me on four dates, you’re really staking your claim.”
“Well, you didn’t seem to mind being my girl after our last date,” he teases, craning his head down just enough to whisper in your ear, “My good girl, if I recall correctly.”
“Peter!” You scold, smacking his chest as the heat of memory creeps up your neck.
“It’s true!” He muses, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Plus, you call me baby. I think calling you my girl is fair game.”
A rebuttal rests on the tip of your tongue. If this were any other date with any other guy, you would’ve shot down the playful possessiveness. But this wasn’t any other date with any other guy; this was a date with Peter: your friend and the guy you’ve had a crush on since Betty introduced you to him at the Daily Bugle’s holiday party two years ago. Being his girl was a title you wanted, and if he was willingly bestowing it upon you, you saw no reason to argue against it. “I suppose it is.”
He hums in response, clearly satisfied with your answer. “I forgot to ask, have you been to the restaurant before?”
You shake your head as the two turn the corner onto your street, “I have not. I’ve been wanting to since I moved into the neighborhood, but hadn't had the chance until you suggested I choose the spot when you called.”
Peter nods and gives your waist a soft squeeze. “I’m glad we got to try it together. I also had a really great time.”
“Did you, now?”
“I’m with you, how could I not have a good time?”
“Sweet talker,” you playfully accuse, stepping forward once the red hand of the walking sign changes to the person walking.
“Sweet enough to come upstairs and see your new apartment?”
You raise your eyebrows at him, pleasantly surprised by his ask. “You helped me move in, Pete. You’ve seen my place.”
“But I haven’t seen the place since you furnished it,” he counters.
“I see…so you want the house tour?” You tease as you reach the entrance to your apartment building.
“I want whatever you’ll let me have, sweetheart.”
You brace against the brick wall, turning to face him, taking the time to admire the way he looks under the golden glow of the street lights. There was something so romantic about the way he looked standing in front of you in a half-zipped puffer jacket that exposed the white button up and tie he had on underneath, cheeks and nose a little red from the cold air nipping at his face, with his fluffy hair left unstyled in the perfectly messy way it always was. “And if all I want is for you to come inside?”
Peter grins at your question, stepping closer and resting his hands on your hips. “What are we waiting for then? Lead the way.”
—
“Take your shoes off, baby. House rules.” You tell him as you unlock the door to your apartment, step inside, and turn on the lights
Peter shuts the door behind him, kicking his shoes and neatly placing them in front of your shoe rack. He glances around the apartment, taking in the open layout of the space and shrugging off his coat. Your cozy little kitchen was the first thing you saw when you walked in. The dark brown cabinets and wooden countertops complemented the many magnets and photographs on your fridge nicely.
He hangs his coat next to yours and steps further into the apartment, eyes roaming over the pictures before landing on a photo strip of the two of you from when he was your plus one to a friend’s wedding a few months back. He glances over his shoulder at you, watching you unzip your boots, “You know, May took this from my apartment when I told her I finally asked you out to show her book club?”
“I know and I’m honored,” you half joke, putting your boots aside and joining him in the kitchen.
“You know?”
“May and I gossip, baby. She told me all about nabbing the picture and you refusing to tell her about our dates. And I gotta say she made a shaky but damning case about how she and her friends had been waiting too long for us to get together for you to hold out on them now.”
He raised his eyebrows, “Since when do you gossip with my aunt?”
“Since I called her a few months ago to ask if she wanted to come to the dinner party I threw to celebrate my promotion. It was supposed to be a quick call, but then we started talking about our days, and you and it just spiraled from there. Now we chit chat every other week.”
“So that’s why she stopped asking me about our dates,” he thinks aloud.
You shake your head and reach for his hand, tugging him out of the kitchen, past the small dining table, and into the living room. “Partly. She knows she won’t get anything out of me aside from telling her that the date went well and that you were the gentleman she and your uncle raised you to be.”
“And that’s all you say?” He asks, glancing around at the way you decorated your living room. Everything was so…you. From the sofa to the throw blanket hanging over the arm, to the pillows, to the books scattered across the coffee table, to the framed pieces of artwork mixed in with pictures. Your apartment felt so lived in, considering you moved in only a few weeks prior.
“I don’t kiss and tell, Parker."
“I know. I know you don’t,” he responds, taking a seat on the sofa. “I love what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”
“Do you?” The question rolls off your tongue with ease and affection.
He looks up at you, the smile on his face widening into a grin as you stand between his legs. “I do,” he affirms, stretching his palms out until they were firmly planted on your hips. “I really really do…definitely a view I can get used to seeing,” he continues, eyeing you up before tugging you into his lap.
Your hands press flat on his chest, pushing him back against the couch just enough for you to readjust your position and comfortably straddle him with your knees on either side of his hips. You lean back on his thighs and admire the dopey smile he was sporting. “If you’re lucky, I might even let you admire the view in the morning too.”
“Yeah?” He questions, tugging you closer and stifling a groan when your hip rolls over his. “And how lucky do I have to be to admire you in the afternoon?”
“My nights, my mornings, and now my afternoons? I’m beginning to think you have a thing for me, Parker.”
A familiar smirk graces his face at your teasing comment. “Am I that transparent?” He asks, sliding his hands down to the curve of your ass and kneading your flesh over the skirt of your dress that was riding up.
“Mhm,” you hum, craning your head down to kiss him.
The kiss, like all your kisses had been, started off slow with his lips moving gently against, letting you set the pace but allowing himself to be a little selfish in the way his hands roamed your body. He caresses your thighs, squeezing them as you start to rock against him.
Peter groans against your mouth, his hands jumping back to your hips to guide your movement, and taking the chance to try and deepen the kiss by running his tongue over your bottom lip.
“So eager,” you mumble, rocking harder against his growing bulge, grinning when he lets out a moan.
“Can you blame me?” He breathes out, hiking up the fabric of your dress a little further until it bunches at your hips. “Look extra pretty tonight.”
“So beautiful,” he whispers, kissing along the length of your neck and reveling in the low whimpers you were letting out as you grind against him. “Can’t believe I get you all to myself.”
His quiet praises never failed to make you flustered, and tonight was no exception. “Such a sweet mouth.”
“I can get a lot sweeter,” he jokes, nipping at your pulse point.
Your hands move off his chest and towards his neck, loosening his tie and then traveling back down to toy with the buttons of his shirt. “Can I take this off?”
“Who’s eager now?”
“Still you,” you quip, rolling your hips over the tent in his pants to prove your point as you start to unbutton his dress shirt.
His head rolls back with a shaky moan, “Sweetheart, cmon—“
“What the fuck!”
Peter’s head snaps up to look at you, a panicked look on his face as he tries to figure out what prompted the wide-eyed expression on your face. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
You stammer over your words as you hesitantly touch his chest, “Y-your…are you…Is this real?”
He glances down at your hand tracing over the webbing of his spider suit and freezes. “Is this real? Are you Spider-Man?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but the words get caught in his throat. He knew he'd have to tell you at some point, especially if the budding romance between the two continued to bloom, and he was ready to do so at a later point when things were more official.
“Oh my god, please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who dress as him and hustle tourists for money. Wait, is this a sex thing?”
“What?” He laughs, the question immediately making the anxiety weighing in his chest disperse.
You smack his chest, “Don’t laugh! I’m serious! I don’t mind a bit of roleplay, but a heads up would have been nice.”
“Not a sex thing,” he tries to assure, through stifled laughter. “It’s not, I promise. And I’m not one of those guys that walk around taking pictures with tourists in Times Square either.”
“So you’re the real deal? You’re actually Spider-Man?”
“I am.”
“Prove it.”
“Is the suit not enough?”
“You know how many guys probably have a spidey suit tucked away in their closet?”
He raises his eyebrow, “Do you know guys with a Spider-Man costume on hand?”
“Three excluding you.”
“Three?”
“Is it that surprising? Spider-Man has a ton of fans.”
“Yeah, but it’s mainly little kids that dress up as me. I’ve seen a few adults on Halloween and the ones in Times Square, but that’s it.”
“You still haven’t proved that you’re him. You could just be some guy in spandex.”
“I’m your guy in spandex,” he counters.
“But is my guy the real Spider-Man or just another fanboy?” You question, your fingertips gliding over the spider logo on the suit.
“So skeptical,” he teases as he unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve and reveals a wristband with a red device attached to it. “These are my webshooters. They have an optical sensor and when I move my fingers, it recognizes the gesture and shoots out the web.”
He aims his hand at your dining table, curling his middle and ring finger towards his palm until a loud thwip! echoes through your apartment, and a web shoots out and covers the wood.
“Woah!”
“They dissolve in about two hours.”
“Wow. I want to touch it,” you blurt out, starting to move off his lap, only for him to catch your waist and hold you in place.
“Don’t. It’s really sticky, and I don’t think either of us are interested in waiting two hours for you to get unstuck.”
You nod and sit back against his thighs. “I’m guessing this isn’t how you were planning on telling me.”
“Not at all. I completely forgot I had the suit under my clothes. Admittedly, I didn’t think the night would end like this. I thought I’d walk you home, maybe get a couple kisses before you send me on my way, but then we started flirting, and I made the comment about coming up, and then you said I could, having the suit on didn’t really cross my mind.”
He squeezes your waist and pinches the fabric of your dress between his fingers. “It’s really really hard to think about all of that when you’re on my lap and kissing me and grinding on me.”
“Too horny to think,” you conclude with a light laugh.
“Yeah,” he huffs out. “Is this a deal breaker for you?”
“Definitely not. I’m a little worried about your health and well being, but this doesn’t change how I feel about you. Or well it does, but not in a negative way.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your big brain and even bigger heart are two of the many reasons why I’m crazy about you, Pete. You being Spider-Man is just an enhancement of what I already knew; you’re a good man.”
He breathes out and drops his head to your shoulder, “Good. That’s good. This is good. I know you probably have a lot of other questions, and I’ll answer them.”
You hum in agreement and thread your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “I do have a lot of questions, but I’d much rather finish the house tour before we get to that.”
“Finish?”
“Haven’t even seen the bedroom yet, baby. What kind of tour guide do you take me for?”
You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against your shoulder before he picks his head up to look at you. “I see. Wouldn’t want to leave things incomplete now, would we?”
“No, we would not.” You whisper, leaning in to give him a fleeting kiss and sliding off his lap. “If you’d follow me this way, I’d love to take you there. It’s my favorite room.”
He stands up and reaches for your hand, letting you lead him down the hallway. “Any reason why?”
“There’s a theory that it's a place where your dreams come true. You’re a man of science, do you want to test that theory?”
“What kind of scientist would I be if I said no?”
He derived immense pleasure from tormenting you, a soft, continuous squelching filling his room.
You were completely and utterly bare on his bed.
Alastor, on the other hand, stood at the very edge, fully clothed in his usual attire.
Smoky tendrils held your legs wide open and your hands above your head, eyes screwed shut and wrists anxiously flexing, the pads of his fingers caressing your walls.
The bastard only had the very tips inside of you, knuckles dragging against your slick folds.
He was nowhere near that special spot.
His pace was also slow and lazy, your swollen clit throbbing longingly above your entrance.
Your back arched off the mattress in a sinuous curve, and the muscles in your belly flexed, desperate whines tumbling from your lips.
It hurt, being teased in such a way.
“Please, Al. Pl-Please,” You begged through a pathetic whimper, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I need more. Please. I can’t take it. This… this is torture!”
You wondered how he could spend his leisure time teasing and tormenting you, especially with his cock straining against his slacks, and painfully so.
Alastor evidently desired you just as much as you desired him, but he staunchly refused to grant you what your bodies both yearned for.
“I don’t know,” Alastor started, leaning in, his fingers teasingly feeling inside of your cunt. “You claim you need it — whatever ‘it’ means — but it doesn’t sound as if so. Not to me.”
You pried your eyes open, watching him loom over your trembling frame, a wicked grin filling your tear-stained vision.
He hadn’t even been edging you for long. However, you were at your wits end, slick oozing through the gaps between his fingers, staining his sheets.
“Al, please! I can’t take it anymore. It hurts. It hurts so, so fucking bad. Please, I need you inside of me.”
“Be. Specific.”
“Your cock! I need your cock inside of me, inside of my… pussy. It’s been, what? 10 minutes? I don’t know. I just know I can’t take another second.”
Alastor listened to you.
He actually listened to you, his hand pulling back and leaving your walls clenching around nothing, anticipation swirling in your belly.
The sound of him unfastening his slacks resonated throughout his room.
A hopeful sigh seeped past your lips, especially as his cock bumped your clit.
“Thank you, oh, thank you —”
However, the moment he angled his slender hips to pierce your entrance, he squashed your hope as quickly as he had inspired it.
Only his cockhead pushed into your walls.
Each and every inch of his length remained outside of your cunt, your body wriggling and squirming, fighting against the shadow binds in frustration.
“Did I not tell you to be specific?”
Clawed-hands reached out to caress your body, palms reverently skimming up your sides, thumbs bumping the supple flesh beneath your breasts.
“You’re s-so mean!” You helplessly whined, voice loud enough to be heard in the hallway by any passerbys. “Why can’t you ever just fuck me without torturing me like this?”
His cock throbbed inside of you, length jolting as precum oozed from his tip, a testament of the sick enjoyment he derived from the entire affair.
You could continue to beg and whine, you knew that.
But you also knew that Alastor would still take long to cave in. He had been in Hell for far longer than you had. His patience was astounding.
“This isn’t the first time we’ve gone over this, sha,” Alastor hummed, a clawed-hand cupping your breast, thumbs flicking a hardened peak. “I’m starting to believe you like it.”
That was a lie. You didn’t.
It was just so easy to forget how infuriating Alastor could be when he finally decided to indulge you.
Keyword, finally, because he rarely did so.
“I don’t. I hate it,” You shook your head, skin flaring up in frustration. “My memory is just awful.”
His libido was considerably lower than yours. There also wasn’t much that got him going — save for what he was doing now, of course.
“Well, perhaps I should destroy that phone of yours,” Alastor suggested, subtly canting his hips, pushing a little bit more of himself into you. “Maybe then you’ll remember, no?”
“Maybe you should fuck me more often.”
He narrowed his eyes in displeasure.
His other clawed-hand traveled down south, though, falling over your mound, the pad of his thumb locating your swollen clit.
He pressed, making your breath audibly hitch.
“And what? Risk making this less special?”
Alastor moved his hips, but only enough to keep the very tip of himself rubbing your insides, leaving you feeling rather empty, hollow.
With one hand flicking your nipple and the other rolling your clit around in leisure circles, however, you were less inclined to complain.
You relaxed in his binds, head falling back against the mattress and brows scrunching together, pleasure rippling through your body.
“N-No but… it’s so unnecessarily mean,” You stammered out. “You enjoy yourself from start to finish while I’m left to suffer until the end. It’s unfair and cruel. You’re unfair and cruel.”
A sharp cry pierced the air.
Alastor suddenly canted his hips forward, completely sheathing himself inside of you, the sudden intrusion making your walls clench tightly around his length.
Your eyes palpitated, especially as he joined you on the bed, smoky tendrils pushing your legs to your sides in a mating press to grant him space.
Red pools locked with yours.
“Sweetheart, I’m a demon in Hell,” Alastor reminded you, wicked grin stretching impossibly wider. “It’s kind of my thing, you know?”
“Fuck,” You mewled, eyes shutting once more.
Still, he bullied his cock into you in short, languid strokes before your walls could adjust to the sudden intrusion of his girthy length, toes curling at the searing pleasure.
The only thing making it easier for you was the combined efforts of his clawed-hands stimulating the most sensitive parts of you.
Meanwhile, Alastor stared down at you, jaw clenched shut to stop himself from bleating at the look of pleasure etched onto your features.
A familiar pressure already coiled in his gut.
You weren’t that far behind, but as he slowly picked up the pace of his thrusts, bedframe smacking against the wall, you knew what would happen.
Alastor would finish inside of you more times than you would finish around his length.
He simply derived too much pleasure from tormenting you, hips and fingers sporadically slowing down before you could reach a sweet release, making you beg and whine all over again.
pairing: frat!TASM!Peter Parker x college!fem!reader
warnings: lots of marking, fuck buddies but w mutual pining?, jealousy, so much jealousy, possessiveness
kinktober 2025 masterlist
"what the fuck are those?" Peter's eyes narrowed to slits, glaring at the skin on your exposed collarbone, where bluish-purple marks could be seen from your last hookup. you didn't remember the guy nor care for his overactive mouth but it seemed like Parker sure did.
"c'mon, you're acting like we're exclusive," your nonchalant facade was to hide your intrigue at his reaction. his clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, and flaring nostrils. could he actually like you back...?
no. you were not gonna do this tonight.
so you played the game like you always did.
"nobody gets to leave marks on you," he growled. "nobody except me."
"don't be ridiculous," you huffed out a laugh.
"I'm gonna mark you up so much that nobody will even think of coming near you."
"Parker what the f-" your words turned into a squeal when his face dipped down between your shoulder and neck, teeth grazing around the marks. they sank in your skin, a tinge of pain registering in your brain.
he started sucking on the skin soon afterwards, leaving a much bigger mark than before. somehow, you didn't care that this one would be visible in your everyday clothes.
you liked showcasing his marks.
lucky for you, he didn't stop. instead, he pulled off your t-shirt and settled between your thighs, his blonde locks falling on his forehead. his mouth was all over your breasts and stomach, biting and sucking in the places he specifically got breather means out of you.
you were panting and squirming by the time he had covered your body in red-purple marks.
like a canvas and its artist.
when he leaned back to admire his work, you wrapped your legs around his hips.
"Peter," you whined, low in your chest. "are you gonna fuck me tonight or not?"
"gonna make you scream till the entire house knows you're mine, baby."
