who is the lamb and who is the knife
Summary: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." aka a Mob AU where Harry Osborn finally gets what's coming to him. Part I of my entry for Kink or Treat!
Pairing: Mob!Peter Parker x Female Reader
Word count: 8.9k
Rating: 18+, no minors
Story tropes/warnings: mob au, size difference, praise kink, sex, violence, PTSD
Part I
Maybe this hadn’t been her best idea. It hadn’t been her worst, but it was certainly close.
The worst idea she’d ever had was stealing Harry Osborn’s credit card information after settling his tab one night with full knowledge of who he was and what he was capable of. That had landed her with two broken ribs, a busted lip, and ultimately, as his errand girl. Essentially kidnapped. Her life and friends sucked away, all for a stupid lapse in judgment.
Allowing a bag to be thrown over her head and to then be unceremoniously shoved into a car by Peter Parker’s men was also incredibly stupid, but she had a plan this time, not just flee town with a rich man’s banking information and start over again. She’d learned a lot in the year she’d been employed by Harry. Well, not employed. He paid her by not killing her. How sweet.
But plan or not, she was currently bound, sightless, and petrified.
She tried to focus on the senses she still had available to her. The air was stale, with an undercurrent of chemicals. Cleansers, maybe. Bleach? Her stomach roiled at the thought. Bleach was bad, bleach meant blood, bleach meant violence. There was a dull humming sound, something electrical. A steady drip, maybe a leaky pipe? Somewhere above her was a light, bits of it seeping under the cloth bag that was tickling her face. Her wrists ached, bound tight at the small of her back, her shoulders screaming from the unnatural position she’d been forced into. She didn’t even know how long she’d been like that. Maybe twenty minutes, maybe two hours.
They’d been trailing her for days— leaving the bar, a few seats over on the subway, on the way home to her little bugged apartment where Harry could keep tabs on her. He’d kept her like a museum display: cordoned off from everyone with cameras everywhere. Untouchable in every way. Gone was any social or personal life she’d once had. Gone were any aspirations or dreams. Wake up, work, do what Harry said, go home and try to forget it all. There was no her any longer; just a shell of a girl. Drop this bag off for me, doll. Deliver this message. Step out of line and I’ll cut that pretty throat just like your—
A new set of footsteps entered the room, somewhere to her left. She tensed, trying not to anxiously bounce her legs to offset her nerves, but a chill swept over her when the footsteps stopped. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, her own personal Doomsday Clock nearing midnight. What if this didn’t work, what if—
“Did she scream?” a low voice asked.
Peter Parker. Something in her bones just knew it was him, the man she wanted to talk to.
“She didn’t make a sound,” another man replied, bewilderment creeping through his heavy Long Island accent. “It was fucking weird.”
There was a soft click of a blade and her nerves flared, adrenaline rushing through her. Someone grabbed her wrists gently and she shifted with nowhere to go. “Don’t,” she whispered, with absolutely no conviction.
“You don’t want me to cut you loose?” It was the same low voice from before, practically in her ear now. He was freeing her.
She didn’t answer, and he sliced the zip ties. Her arms dangled uselessly at her sides and she wasn’t sure what to do next. Maybe this was just a mind game. Let her think it would all be okay. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to let me see your face?”
Cautiously, she pulled the bag off her head and squinted in the ugly yellow light, trying to take in everything at once as she rotated her aching wrists. A warehouse, how cliché. Totally empty, except for her and some huge guys and Peter Parker, who was standing in front of her with his hands in his pockets, looking deceptively unassuming. He was taller than she thought he’d be, and she felt ridiculous sitting in front of him. She couldn’t imagine how much his beautifully tailored gray suit cost. His crisp ivory shirt was just a shade too tight across his broad shoulders and she blinked, letting her gaze travel up to his face. An absurdly handsome face that made her stomach flip. Warm brown eyes, a meticulously trimmed beard, and stupidly sharp cheekbones. But there was a curious look on his face, one she’d seen a million times in her life: how can someone so small cause so much trouble?
He turned to his men. “Her wrists? What was she gonna do to you?”
She bristled, because God she hated being judged by her appearance. “I’m meaner than I look.” Shut up, who tried to square up with someone like Peter Parker?
“If you say so.” He sounded amused, and it deflated her instantly. At least he hadn’t taken her up on her challenge. “So you’re Harry’s little toy,” he murmured, his eyes darting over her like he was appraising her. That made her feel even smaller.
“I’m not… that,” she clarified haltingly. She knew Harry ran his mouth but it was still awful to hear that that was what anyone thought of her. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it isn’t like that.”
One of Mr. Parker’s men snorted, and he was silenced with a sharp look from his boss. “What’s it like, sweetheart?” he asked, hands still shoved deep in his trouser pockets, the absolute portrait of unconcerned. His voice was silky soft, and that unnerved her. It would be easier if he was loud and mean. She was used to loud and mean. Sweetheart was foreign. “Are you telling me I’m wrong?”
Was he backing her into a trap? What was she supposed to do, tell him his intel was bad, even if it was? “Just an errand girl.”
Mr. Parker nodded. “Not according to his stories.”
“He fucking wishes,” she mumbled before she could stop herself. To her utter mortification, Mr. Parker laughed at that and her mouth went bone dry, the rest of her words evaporating before she could get them out. So she tried again. “Can I speak with you alone?”
He nodded, and his men disappeared immediately. It was eerie, seeing a bunch of huge guys obey like well-trained dogs. She wondered if they killed for him too, or if he did it all himself.
“How’d we end up here? You don’t seem overly concerned that you got grabbed off the street.”
“A few weeks ago, Harry told us that you were looking for weaknesses in his organization. Cracks. I know when someone is following me. I wanted you to find me. I want…” she trailed off, glancing around the seemingly empty warehouse. If working for Harry Osborn for a year had given her anything, it was heightened paranoia.
“What do you want?” Mr. Parker asked, taking a sudden step forward, and she pressed back against the chair instinctively, because nothing ever good happened when anyone got close. “What could a little thing like you—”
“I want you to get me out,” she interrupted firmly.
He stared at her coolly. “Get you out?”
“I heard what he did to you,” she said. It was the worst-kept secret in town: Harry Osborn had killed Peter Parker’s girlfriend years ago. She’d always wondered why he’d never taken him out after that. “He’s killed so many people. Good people. He killed my friend Lucy to teach me a lesson. Um, show me what he’d do to me if I ever betrayed him.” She swallowed hard, realizing that was in her future if this didn't work. She could still see her, the light draining from her big blue eyes, blood bubbling out of her mouth as she shuddered. The knife stuck between her ribs, the silvery tears running down her face. The please help me look that she’d died with. Guilt rushed up her esophagus at the memory, even though she knew she couldn’t have stopped it.
A muscle twitched in Mr. Parker’s jaw. It was the briefest thing, but it was unmissable. “And you’re not scared I’d drag you right back to him?”
She laughed bitterly. “I can’t keep waking up to the unknown of working for him. You know The Princess Bride? ‘Good night, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning?’ That’s my life. I know I did it to myself, but I can’t keep doing this. He’s cruel.”
“How do you know I’m not cruel?”
“I don’t.”
He was quiet, pacing in front of her in measured steps. She half-expected his expensive shoes to be splattered with blood, but they were immaculate, shining under the hideous fluorescents. God, she must look like a wreck: messy hair, streaky mascara, her whole body now shaking uncontrollably with adrenaline. Still, there seemed to be something much less psychotic about this man than the one she was running from.
“What did you do to yourself?” he asked finally, pausing in front of her.
She had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. “What?”
“You said you did it to yourself.”
“I tried to steal his credit card,” she mumbled in embarrassment. “At the bar I work at.”
He frowned. “So you think you deserve what he’s turned your life into? For a stupid mistake?”
It never stopped being humiliating, the reminder of how fucking reckless she’d been. But she’d always been like that: asking for forgiveness instead of permission. Sweet girl but too impulsive was the sentiment that her teachers and foster families had seemed to agree on her whole life. Sweet was weak and she tried not to show it. Not that anyone had deserved that from her in ages. “I don’t know what I deserve anymore, Mr. Parker. But I think we have a common interest and I wondered if you might want to work together.” If not, she’d just signed her own death warrant. God, she hoped she hadn’t fucked up her life again.
His eyes went dark and it made her breath catch. “The common interest being Harry Osborn dead?”
She hesitated, fear flaring up her spine. Paranoid scenarios raced through her head: what if Mr. Parker and Mr. Osborn had some kind of secret alliance, what if the rumor of Gwen Stacy was an elaborate lie, what if—
“This isn’t a trap,” he said gently, pulling out his phone and tapping out a message before tucking it back in his pocket. “Are you telling me you want to help me kill Harry Osborn?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He flashed her a wolfish grin. “Well, aren’t you a dream?”
He needed to stop speaking to her like that. It was twisting low in her belly, mixing with the adrenaline and replacing fear with something else, some dangerous feeling that didn’t belong to her.
“You know what they say… the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” she deflected, staring down at her chafed wrists. Her knee began to bounce almost comically fast, and she willed it to stop. “This isn’t— um, this isn’t some kind of set up and I know saying that sounds really suspicious and now I wish… fuck, I shouldn’t have said that…” she trailed off, watching his eyes light up with amusement at her runaway train babbling. “I mean, you have to know who I am because you had your guys trailing me all week and if you’re looking for someone who wants to fuck Harry Osborn over, I promise it’s me. I just want my boring little life back in my boring little apartment without someone pulling my strings. I want to belong to myself again.” Christ, sound more suspicious. She needed to close her mouth and just breathe.
“You want to go back to boring?”
“It’s better than what I have now. I can't see anyone, I can’t do anything I want because he bugged my place. I feel like I’m going insane. He’s been killing me for a year.”
Footsteps scraped across the concrete and she jumped. A hulking man slunk out of the shadows with a bottle of water and handed it to Mr. Parker before melting back into the dark.
“And your solution is to end him?” Mr. Parker asked, twisting the cap off and handing it to her. “Do you really think you can do something like that?”
“He deserves it,” she whispered, taking a sip, and then another. God, she didn’t remember the last time she’d had something to drink. Maybe around lunch rush? She’d grabbed an unclaimed wedge salad from the back and—
“Do you think you can live with knowing you did something like that?”
She shrugged. She’d been through plenty of traumatizing things in her life, what was one more? “Like I said, I’m meaner than I look.”
Her tongue was thick all of a sudden, and she unsuccessfully tried to swallow as the room spun nauseatingly. Her mouth was freakishly dry, and she blinked in confusion, looking up at Mr. Parker as he took a step toward her, strangely slow this time. Blurry like a painting from an Impressionist. “I can’t—”
“I’m sorry about this,” he said, his big hand settling on her back, unnaturally heavy and warm.
Words were playing tricks across her tongue, tumbling and spinning just out of her brain’s reach. “For what?” she mumbled, dropping the bottle. The crunching plastic sounded miles away. She swayed forward dizzily as the room spun again, and the last thing she felt was Mr. Parker’s fingers tightening against her shoulder to stop her from sliding off the chair.
-
It felt like someone had scooped her brain out, shaken it, and dumped it back in. Her eyes ached, her mouth was cottony, and she felt floaty.
The ceiling was not her ceiling. No water stains, no cracks from previous upstairs tenants doing who the hell knew what, no discoloration. Just pure white. And not a popcorn texture either, smooth and lovely and expensive.
Expensive.
The previous night rushed back too quickly and her empty stomach dropped sickeningly. Oh, what the fuck had she gotten herself into now? Why was she so utterly incapable of learning a lesson? Why was she so stupidly impulsive?
Panicked, she threw the covers off to discover she was still in her jeans and tank top from the bar. It made her feel slightly better, but now she didn’t know where her shoes were or… was that a meow?
Cautiously, she crept out of bed and poked her head out to find a stunning kitchen just outside her door. She wasn’t sure where she was, but it was definitely nicer than anywhere she’d ever rented. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under the lights. Cabinets taller than her stretched along the top of the room. Nothing was cracked or stained or broken like it was at her place.
“How’re you feeling?”
She jumped, elbowing a vase that Mr. Parker caught easily. “Where am I?” she asked, taking a step back toward the bedroom.
“You’re safe,” he assured her, setting the vase back in its spot.
“How did I get here? I don’t remember, um… arriving?” she asked slowly, still trying to put the previous night back together. Pieces were missing, and she only remembered speaking with him in a warehouse before… before…
“I’m sorry about that. It was for your safety,” Mr. Parker said. “It was just something to help you sleep. You can’t know where you are right now.”
She didn’t have time to process being drugged. “I don’t remember… did I walk?”
“I carried you. It wasn’t hard.”
The thought of a powerful man like him carrying her around like they were on their honeymoon almost made her snort. She wondered if he’d gone bridal or fireman carry.
“My shoes…” she trailed off, glancing around. Like that was the most important thing, her thrifted Docs that were two seasons out of style.
“I took them off. They’re next to your window.”
She didn’t like the idea of him unlacing her boots. It was too intimate. Peter Parker, wasting his time with some silly little bartender.
“Oh,” was all she could think to say. She wondered how messy her hair was. Whether any mascara was left on her lashes. She felt disgusting and wanted nothing more than to stand in a hot shower for at least three hours.
“What is that?” he asked suddenly, reaching for her arm so he could see the tattoo on her bicep. Her pretty spider, surrounded by an ornate web.
“Arachne,” she mumbled, wishing he wouldn’t touch her so gently. He ran an empire and here he was, carrying her around and putting her to bed and now, his calloused thumb was tracing the longest of Arachne’s legs with a tenderness that confused her. He was not at all what she’d expected. Or maybe it was all an act to gain her trust for this ridiculous idea of hers. Maybe he was planning on sending her back to Harry and this was all some psychotic rich man game he was playing. Human chess. She still wasn’t sure she trusted him, even though he’d done nothing to hurt her. Even the drugging was nothing compared to things Harry had done. “It’s a reminder not to be overconfident.”
“Did you get this before or after your run-in with Harry?”
She was saved from answering when a black cat jumped up on the counter with a jingle from its red collar, butting its head against her captor’s arm. Captor was wrong. Savior seemed too pious. Ally, maybe. She hoped.
“Felicia,” he chided gently, scooping her up and setting her back on the ground.
“You don’t seem like a cat person,” she blurted out. Maybe he liked cats and Sudoku and Navajo art, who the hell was she to think she knew anything about him?
“Surprise,” he said dryly.
“Mr. Parker…” she trailed off, gazing around because how were they talking about cats after what had happened last night? Sleep tugged at her, and it was difficult to take it all in. His place— maybe not his place, maybe it was a safe house?— looked like something she’d only seen in home decor shows. Tasteful, but obviously lavish. She wasn’t sure what the hell a smart toaster did, but there one was, gleaming on the counter. “What’s the plan?”
“You can call me Peter.”
It felt wrong to say his name, like they’d be equals. They clearly weren’t. Maybe she’d just call him nothing.
She cleared her throat. “Okay.”
“The plan,” he began, opening the refrigerator and pulling out an apple, “is for you to recover here for a while. Let him panic. He’ll try to figure out where you disappeared to.”
“Oh,” she said again, something insidious prickling at her. Was she going from one prison to another? How could she let herself be traded like she was nothing more than cargo?
She must have looked stricken, because he frowned as he took a bite of the apple. “I’m not going to hurt you. I wouldn’t do that.”
She dug her nails against her palm to distract herself from her racing thoughts and his promises. “Recover from what?” she asked as her stomach growled embarrassingly loudly.
“Being his property.”
“I wasn’t— don’t say that,” she mumbled. Humiliation tore at her. His property. Cargo indeed.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” he said gently. “But it sounds like you haven’t had a very good year. I know a counselor, her name is—”
“I can’t pay you back for housing me,” she interrupted before he could dig too deeply into whatever was broken inside her. All her ugly little faults and traumas and triggers and shattered bits that had never healed properly and turned her into who she was, a Frankensteined mess of a person held together by sheer will and spite. “So I’m not sure what else I can offer you.” Her stomach lurched at the thought of owing another powerful man something. Oh, she hadn’t thought this out at all.
He was quiet for a moment. Studying her. Making her feel small again. Harry did it intentionally whenever he had the chance, but Peter hadn’t done it on purpose. Somehow, that was more crushing. “Not everyone wants something from you. Some people just want to help.”
She scoffed, unable to help herself. “Then you and I have led very different lives, Mr. Parker.”
“Peter,” he reminded her, setting the apple down on the counter. “I have some work to do, but feel free to use the iPad next to your bed to buy what you need.”
“You can’t give me allowance, that’s—”
“Allowance is something you earn. You don’t have to earn anything. Not with me.”
Her face went hot, and she looked down at the marble counters, tracing a smoky gray vein. “You’re not what I expected,” she said quietly.
“What did you expect?” He opened the refrigerator again and took out two bottles of water and another apple.
She hesitated. “People talk. And people in positions of power become… I don’t know, these terrifying amalgamations. Faceless awful things.”
“Well, I’m not faceless.” He held out a bottle and the apple. “You hungry?”
She stared at it. Fruit had been problematic since the Garden of Eden. Even Snow White had gotten fucked over by an apple. But she took it anyway, her fingers brushing his accidentally. How much more tangled could her life possibly get? If it all went up in flames, it wouldn’t be because of a Honeycrisp.
“You can’t go back to your place to get clothes. You can’t use your cards. Go buy whatever you need. Otherwise, I’m gonna be guessing your size.”
That seemed invasive. She took a bite of the apple, and hunger hit her like a train, a gaping void opening in the pit of her belly. Everything hit her like a train, and she wanted to be alone so she could figure out what she’d walked into. Maybe a den of vipers, maybe a golden opportunity. She’d find out soon enough.
“I’m gonna get cleaned up,” she muttered. “Um, thank you. For everything.”
He nodded. “Of course. Make yourself at home. If you need anything, let me know.”
He disappeared down the hall, leaving her alone and uncertain.
-
The shower in her bathroom was ridiculous and she stayed under the hot spray until her fingers turned pruney. It had taken her thirty minutes to actually take her clothes off, because she’d been busy checking everywhere she could think of for cameras: the corners, the lamps, under the toilet seat, the bookshelf, the plants, every last bit of furniture. Her normal girl in a huge city caution had skyrocketed since her work for Harry had begun, and it wasn’t something she could just shake. As much as she wanted to believe that Peter wanted to help her, she had too many walls in place to fully trust someone immediately. So she’d searched and searched with a stomach full of barbed wire, dreading finding something.
But she found nothing. So he was either on the up and up or sneakier than Harry. She desperately wanted to believe he was being level with her, that he wanted Harry gone from this world just as much as she did. Still, she locked the bedroom and the bathroom doors, ignoring the fact that it would be stupid for him not to have keys. Sometimes it was better just to bury her head in the sand. It made her life more palatable.
As she dried her hair and waited for the mirror to unfog, she wondered who else had used this room. Poking around, she found expensive toiletries in the medicine cabinet and drawers, and a plush black robe hanging on the back of the door. Maybe it was just a guest room. Maybe other people had stayed the night before her. He was certainly attractive enough, and—
She shook her head as she pulled the robe on. That wasn’t her business, and she’d do well to stop wondering.
The room was big— a bay window with the curtains drawn and knotted for safety, a full bookshelf, an elegant mirror on the wall. A television wider than she was tall hung opposite the huge bed she’d been snuggled in, and there was a closet that could fit more clothes than she currently owned. Modern art hung on the walls, all black lines and curves housed in silver frames. If she pretended she was in a luxury hotel, she could accept it all a bit more easily.
With a sigh, she sat down on the bed, picked up the iPad, and got to work.
-
“Who else will be looking for you?” he asked as he came into the kitchen. The coffeemaker had more settings than the one at Blue Bottle and she’d panicked and selected basic black before choice paralysis could overwhelm her.
“Looking for me?” she echoed, turning to face him. It was a laughable question. Daily, her boss made it clear that she was replaceable. She had no family. Anyone she’d been friends with had fallen away due to the isolation Harry had forced her into. “No one.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”
She snorted while trying not to wonder why he’d think that. “I’m not being humble. I am non-existent and inconsequential.” The words didn’t sting to say; they were factual. “There won’t be missing posters for me, I promise. The only person looking for me will be Harry Osborn.”
“How much…” he paused, seemingly sorting through the words in his head. “Do you know things that he’d kill you over? Things that would bring him down?”
She traced the rim of her mug quietly. “He’d kill me for getting his breakfast order wrong if he was in a bad enough mood.” She did know things. Who he’d killed, who he was blackmailing, who worked for him. “He’s had me deliver stuff that he’s assured me would land me in federal prison if I got caught. You know, an extra nail in my coffin.” She tried to keep her tone wry, as if the last year of her life hadn’t been blown apart. “So yes, he’d love to watch me bleed out. And I’d love to answer any questions you have about him and his business practices.”
“I’ll take you up on that. What about debt collectors?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Got myself a shiny little scholarship.” And nothing but stress and stupid choices to show for it. “Business administration.”
“So what’s—”
“A smart girl like me doing in a blah blah blah like this?” she finished, tightening the belt of her robe so she didn’t have to look at him, wishing she was wearing more clothes so she didn’t feel so vulnerable. “I’m clearly putting my higher education to great use.”
There it was: that unsure look she’d gotten from people her whole adult life. The is she serious eyebrow raise that always made her feel so out of place even though she was always the one to start it with a defensive little comment.
It made her want to wilt.
-
“What’s the actual plan?” she asked as he set a box down next to her door later that evening. “When the time comes, I mean. What, um… what can I do to help you?” Peter straightened up to his full height, hesitating before entering the room. She was sitting on the bed, surrounded by a few things that had already been delivered— pajamas and jeans and tank tops and underwear and socks— and she’d been trying to figure out for hours what the plan would actually look like. Some kind of Bonnie and Clyde scenario? An ambush? A trade in a public place? Surely it wouldn’t be like the movies, but she really didn’t know. “I mean, I'm already bait just because he doesn’t know where I am, right? Would that work?” It wasn’t bait in the traditional sense, the way he’d sometimes use her to lure in those who’d wronged him. Being a lure wasn’t something she was new to, and she hated it. But if it would lead to his downfall, she’d be more than willing to offer herself up.
He was looking at her with something like faint admiration, and it flustered her enough that she looked back down at the tank top she was cutting a tag off of. She wasn’t in the habit of making anyone proud of her. “That would work beautifully.”
“Good. Because I want to do whatever will be most humiliating for him.”
“I think when he finds out his errand girl ditched him and asked for my help… that’ll about do it.”
The idea of making him that furious scared her for a moment. When Harry was mad, he hurt people. Sometimes worse. She had a scar on her upper arm from when he’d thrown a glass at her for fucking up a delivery. But if Peter could keep her safe, she was willing to do anything.
“I’ve been running it in my head,” Peter explained. “When he finally figures out that you’re with me, he’ll want to make a trade. That’s what he does. Really, all you have to do is show up. I’ll be the one to kill him.”
He spoke as though murder was something trivial. Easy. Maybe it was. She didn’t really know Peter’s track record because he tended to be quieter about his business, whereas Harry was loud about everything, pleased when his chaos and terror made it into the paper and onto the news.
“So we’ll just… show up and you’ll kill him? Easy as that?”
Peter grinned, and it was so charming that she forgot to breathe for a second. Like the situation was some kind of adorable thing, a trip to the farmer’s market or a walk in Central Park. “Complicated creates complications.”
“And I’ll just, um, stay… wherever here is? I mean, is there anything I can do?”
Peter shook his head. “Sleep. Watch reality TV. I promise, you don’t need to do anything other than relax.”
She nodded. The idea of doing nothing was appealing, but the idea of being taken care of for once in her life nearly made her cry. Still, she wasn’t sure. Embarrassingly, she felt like a shelter dog, unsure if this hand would pet or strike.
Either she was on her way out or on her way to a much bigger problem.
-
Days passed. He was kind to her, and she wished she could accept it without suspicion. Unfortunately, she was fucked up from the last twelve months. Nothing in life was free, and for the first few days, she kept waiting for an expectation to be thrown at her. Something sinister. She didn’t expect shit from people, even someone she had a murder alliance with.
But nothing came.
When she’d told Peter how Harry had hurt her when he’d discovered what she’d done with his credit card, his eyes had gone deadly, and for some reason that she couldn't quite figure out, it had made her knees wobbly. When she mentioned how he’d shove a loaded gun into her spine if she wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t nice enough, didn’t smile big enough, she thought he might dig his blunt nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. She wasn’t attempting to elicit sympathy, she was just being honest. And the truth was fucking ugly.
-
The days blurred into weeks, but she didn’t keep track. It was obscenely indulgent to be in a nebulous nothing, eating good food and watching old movies and reading and waking up with Felicia tucked into a purring ball next to her. No job, no looking over her shoulder at every turn, no getting dressed in her tiny bathroom because it was the only place she hadn’t found a camera. And it was nice sharing space with someone, even though he wasn't around much during the day. She’d squashed her loneliness down so thoroughly that it was magnified now that she was in someone else’s home.
It had been miserable.
She’d left the lights off a lot so Harry couldn’t see her face. No one had been over since she’d been yanked into his circle. No cute guys from the bar that scribbled numbers on napkins, not that girl from college she’d gotten a few late night do you remember when texts from. She didn’t dare take anyone up on anything because what if those people became targets? A hook-up wasn’t worth someone’s life.
But now she felt like she had a belly full of live wires. She could walk around her room naked if she so desired (she didn’t, but she could), she could sleep with her face not buried in a pillow. She’d worn so many hoodies and joggers just because Harry had said multiple times how nice she’d look if she just fucking tried, so she’d doubled down on looking as unappealing as possible. Not that it took much effort. Being monitored was draining. The bags under her eyes had been horrid, and she’d felt dull. Snuffed out. Gone
This— whatever this situation was— felt like a second chance. Maybe a dangerous one, but a second chance nonetheless.
-
She’d started cooking because Peter had a gorgeous kitchen and she figured she might as well learn something. It had been something she’d enjoyed when she was allowed in her foster homes, even things as simple as an egg cracked into instant ramen or making grits on the stove instead of a microwave. Was she Food Network tier? No, but she wasn’t terrible. Cooking meant comfort, and it was really the only thing she could give Peter. He was nice to her, and she tried to return it to him, hoping she wasn’t coming off desperate or ridiculous.
She’d scrolled endless mommy blogs trying to find recipes while ignoring stories of why precious badly named children (Kennedeigh and Bryxtynn haunted her) loved their versions of unseasoned chicken noodle soup before buying herself some cookbooks to work through that wouldn’t make her question her sanity and literacy. Peter had told her to buy what she wanted, and it wasn’t like she was blowing money at Sephora or Bloomingdale’s. This was something he’d enjoy too. Hopefully.
Tonight was japchae and she was pretty pleased with herself. She’d certainly eaten enough of it from the Korean place next to her building and she hoped she’d done Mrs. Park proud. It was nice, having control over herself again. It made her feel invincible. Maybe after this was all over, she’d get more tattoos. Pierce her nose. Pierce whatever she wanted, simply because she could. She was starting to feel like she belonged to herself again, and she wished she could thank Peter, but it would sound pathetic, right? A ridiculous after school special of a conversation, all soft glances and gentle words and—
“You made dinner again? That was sweet of you,” Peter said from behind her, and she jumped, nearly dropping the serving bowl she’d pulled from the cabinet. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne, something warm and clean and him that curled invitingly in her stomach as she tried to ignore his words. Sweet. A weak thing she thought she’d squashed away long ago. Nice wasn’t sweet, it was cordial and polite and respectful. Sweet was cloying and sugary and simpering. Cotton candy and caramel and pumpkin spice.
“Warn a girl. Wear a bell,” she muttered, pressing her palm to her racing heart. “If it’s good enough for Felicia, it’s good enough for you.”
“Bells aren’t great in my line of work,” he said dryly, lounging against the counter, eyes following her hands as she crushed some garlic cloves. Sometimes she managed to push away the fact that he was dangerous and pretend he was just a rich friend she was staying with. Other times, he’d make comments like that or come in with a bloody shirt and it was like a punch in the gut.
Don’t get stupid about him, she reminded herself sternly. This was just an arrangement. A convenience. A means to Harry’s end. Peter being attractive was just a fact.
An unavoidable one.
Carefully, she reached around him to grab a knife so she could dice a green onion.
-
She must have fallen asleep on the couch. Her cheek was shoved against someone’s strong thigh and a hand was in her hair, gently stroking it. Playing with the strands until a pleasant shiver whispered up her spine. An overwhelming feeling of safety flooded her and for a moment, she wanted to curl up closer. Safety wasn’t something she’d felt in… God, she didn’t even know how long. So long it was almost foreign. She inhaled deeply before turning onto her back to gaze up at Peter. She liked the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and for a moment, she wanted to reach up and—
“Sorry,” she mumbled, sitting up quickly and rubbing her face as she leaned back into the couch. “I didn’t mean to—”
But he cut her off with a kiss, his big palm warm against her cheek as he pulled her easily into his lap, and she was helpless to stop him, even if she wanted to. How could someone dangerous make her feel like nothing could ever get to her again? Briefly, she’d wondered if her fluttery little feelings were just Stockholm Syndrome, but considering she’d been the one to let his men snatch her up and she’d been the one to propose murder, she didn’t think it qualified as that.
“Don’t say sorry,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. He tasted like the whiskey he drank late at night, and she sighed as his hand slipped into her hair, long fingers tugging slightly. “You looked so fucking sweet.”
“Oh, we shouldn’t…” she trailed off as his other hand floated up her hip, hot through her thin shirt, pulling her close, close, close. Her eyes fluttered shut when he left a kiss against the side of her throat, his beard scraping a mark that she couldn’t wait to feel later. “We shouldn’t…”
“Shouldn’t what, doll?”
He’d never called her that. The nickname made her skin crawl, and when she opened her eyes, Peter was gone. The hand on her waist had slipped under her shirt, freezing against her, and his other hand was tightening around her neck.
“I’m gonna kill you when I get you back, you know that? And no one’s gonna miss you—”
She shoved Harry’s chest as hard as she could and fell backwards off his lap, his awful laugh echoing in her head as she hit the ground—
-
She might have yelled. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she was tangled in her sheets on the ground, her heart racing so fast she wondered if she was having some kind of cardiac episode.
Burying her face in her pillow, she screamed and then whipped it across the room. Hot tears gathered in her eyes and she wiped them away angrily. How dare he have this power over her when he wasn’t even there.
“Fucker,” she sniffled, embarrassed by her reaction even though no one could see her. After a moment, she pushed herself up because she wasn’t going to wallow in self-pity over someone like him. Maybe she should be unpacking the part where she’d been making out with Peter. That seemed significant.
Quietly, she opened her door and padded out to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, she shoved bottles to the side, searching for water. She pulled out a beer she’d never heard of, which was pretty embarrassing for a bartender. Westvleteren XII? Belgian was all she could guess. The closest she’d ever come to visiting Belgium was the waffle truck that came around her neighborhood every couple of weeks.
Peter Parker and his exotic beers and his ivory tower. She assumed it was a tower of some sort; she didn’t dare peek out the windows and he came up in an elevator when he got home from wherever he went off to. What did he do all day that he continued working on in his office late into the night? Sometimes the light would be on when she woke up late and wandered out for a drink, an out of place strip of yellow glowing amongst the red backlights of the kitchen. What did being a mob boss entail? Lists of people who’d wronged him and the creative ways they’d be taken care of? Payroll? Inventory? Was being a crime lord just a ton of paperwork? What a letdown.
Peter’s door creaked open and her heart skipped a beat. She probably looked like some kind of snack goblin, illuminated by his giant fridge. How attractive.
“It’s three in the morning.” He flipped on the light, and a twist of arousal lit her up before it was extinguished by the memory of Harry Osborn and his cold hands.
“I was thirsty,” she said stupidly, still gripping the beer.
“There’s thirsty and there’s alcoholism.” His voice was sleep-rough. Deep. Gently, he took the beer from her and replaced it with a glass water bottle. “You look upset.” His attempt at not telling her she looked terrible almost made her snort.
“Just a weird dream. I’m fine,” she said curtly, not wanting to discuss a single iota of it. I dreamed we were making out on your couch and then you turned into the guy we’re gonna kill together. Do you wanna make out in real life? It was really nice—
“If you say so.”
She took a sip of water, watching as he opened one for himself. “You’re not supposed to wear… pajamas,” she said lamely. Peter Parker in gray sweats and a white tee was maybe the weirdest— and most attractive— thing she’d ever seen. She could see what his suits tried to cover: built shoulders, toned biceps, beautiful— was that a strange way to describe them?— forearms. She didn’t dare look down at his sweatpants.
He looked like a normal person. Like they were roommates and not… whatever the hell their arrangement was.
He raised an eyebrow. “What would you like me to wear?” he asked, a tinge of suggestiveness dripping from his question.
Her face went hot and she wished he hadn’t turned the lights on. “No, I mean… doesn’t Armani make pajamas for rich people?”
“I’m so sorry to disappoint you with my lack of rich people pajamas,” he said dryly, and for a moment, she forgot all about the dream.
“Are your sheets from Target?” she teased back without thinking. Super cool of her to bring up his bed. What the fuck was wrong with her? “How many IKEA products do you own?” Good save.
He held up his hands in mock offense. “The Swedish mind maze is underrated.”
She laughed. The idea of him with a golf pencil and a giant blue plastic bag was absurd.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again after a moment. His tone was gentle, and it still surprised her to hear that from him. “I don’t mean to pry and you don’t owe me anything, but I heard you scream.”
She turned away. There was no way out of this conversation. “I dreamed that you turned into him,” she admitted quietly, staring down at her feet, trying to focus on the shiny red polish on her toes. “Um, we were talking on the couch and you called me doll and then you were him. Said you’d— he’d—” she corrected hastily, “kill me.”
Peter looked stricken by what she’d said, and he set his bottle down on the counter.
“I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve heard that from him. It’s just been, um, a while I guess. I don’t even know how many days it’s been since I’ve seen him, it’s sort of nice not to know,” she rambled, crossing and uncrossing her arms while he just gazed at her like he had no clue what to say and she hated it. She didn't want pity, she was too tough for that. “Don’t look at me like that.”
A traitorous tear slipped down her cheek, and he carefully wiped it away before she could move. His thumb was hot against her too-flushed skin, and she froze at his unexpected touch, unsure what she should say. Unsure if she should lean in and—
“Go back to bed, sweetheart.”
It was like a pipe to her kneecaps, and she nodded, glad she hadn’t moved closer and humiliated herself. “Okay.”
She fought the urge to look back at him as she trudged back to her room. Nothing good ever came from looking back— Lot and his wife, Orpheus and Eurydice. It all ended in disappointment.
-
“Who did this to you?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the splash of blood down the front of his shirt as she dug through the freezer.
He gave her an awful grin, teeth blinding white against his bloodstained lips. Someone had landed a punch straight into his gorgeous nose. Not that she had opinions on anyone’s nose so she needed to stop that nonsense right now. “My good friend Harry Osborn is very frustrated that his favorite girl has gone missing and was upset that I was deliberately unhelpful when he asked for help.”
Favorite girl. Her skin crawled with billions of invisible ants. “How so?”
“Asked if he’d checked where he’d last left you— ow, fuck,” he hissed when she pressed a bag of peas against his face. “You know, like car keys.”
“Did he ask if you’ve seen me?”
Peter took the vegetables from her, covering her hand with his for a split second before she pulled back, sparks trailing across her skin. “He stormed off after I punched him back.”
She wished she could have seen that, and maybe that was a little fucked up, to want to see Peter Parker beat ass on her behalf, but there were worse things to be into. Clowns. Piss. There wasn’t anything wrong with wanting someone to stick up for her.
Peter left to finish cleaning up, leaving her alone in the kitchen where she’d been halfway through plating spinach tortellini. A tremble raced through her, because she’d managed to push away the severity of her situation for a few days. But seeing him like that drove it all back home, that this wasn’t a little game, it was literally life or death for her.
She shoved down the icy feeling that was rising in her belly and finished arranging the pasta so it looked nice, and then she put her hands on her hips, willing them to stay still.
But halfway through dinner, she was still thinking of Harry and her appetite was gone. The food she’d worked so hard on looked revolting, awful green and yellow all mixed together under cheese that looked like sand. It made her skin itch.
“You’re quiet,” Peter observed, because he picked up on everything and it always threw her off, because no one ever gave a damn about her and what the hell was she supposed to do with his attention? Read into it and wonder if he had feelings for her like whatever she was juggling in her own mixed-up brain about him when she knew it was all just a situational crush?
“Was it some kind of, I don’t know, monthly crime meeting?” she blurted out tactlessly, immediately wishing the floor would swallow her up. She couldn’t figure out why they’d be together, and that nasty paranoia scratched at her brain. What if—
“You know how it is,” he said, seemingly unbothered by her question. “Sometimes you have to play nice for the long con.”
“How could you…” she trailed off, not sure if she ought to continue that sentence.
He paused, swallowing hard. Sadness flitted across his face for a brief moment and she felt like a jerk. “It wasn’t him. Not directly. But he gave the order. She was… she was trying to help me and got mixed up in something she shouldn’t have gone near. His right hand man found her and…”
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Harry made a big show out of taking care of him,” he said hollowly, and for a moment, he was looking through her, like he could see the ghost of the woman he’d loved standing behind her. “But that guy wouldn’t breathe unless Harry gave him permission. And you know how Harry likes to run his mouth.”
She knew she’d hit a nerve. She could see it in his eyes, that same hurt that she’d buried deep in herself, that ugly pain that never quite left. And she knew she should stop, but she had to know. “But why didn’t you kill Harry?” she ventured. She'd been wondering that even before they’d met: why hadn’t Peter ever retaliated for his loss? It didn’t seem like the nature of their lifestyles to let something like that go. Maybe because Harry hadn’t done it directly? Maybe enough time had passed? It had been over ten years since the murder. Or maybe Peter had finally found peace and she’d wrecked it with her ridiculous idea the night they’d met. That was a dreadful thought, undoing someone’s recovery.
“Because that’s not what she would have wanted,” he replied harshly, his fork dropping to his plate like a gunshot. It was the first time he’d taken a tone like that with her, and it sent ice water rushing through her veins. She’d ruined everything by being nosy.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, wishing the napkin in her lap was paper instead of cloth so she could shred it. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she didn’t know what to expect next. “I’m so sorry—”
Peter sighed and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry.”
She raised her eyebrows. Apologies didn’t often come her way, especially from people more powerful than her. They certainly never came from drunk tourists tossing drinks over the counter at her or Harry throwing a punch her way and laughing when she flinched back. People who actually owed them to her. Peter apologizing to her when she’d been completely wrong to question him made her feel even worse.
“I wanted to,” he admitted after a moment, and it broke her heart to see his broken too. It wasn’t a sweet bonding moment, to see someone else’s loss. She wondered what would happen if she reached across the table and touched his hand, laced her fingers through his and squeezed. “But he escalated. I have no clue how many people he’s killed since. And that makes me feel like I should have stopped him when I had the chance, despite what she would have wanted.”
“He killed Lucy.” The only person who’d ever seen through her carefully constructed front to the pain she worked to keep hidden behind jokes and impulses. She traced the L on the outside of her wrist and wondered if her own initial was lost in the dirt along with her friend. Worm food, and then back to stardust. “It’s like a sport for him,” she whispered, pushing a bit of cheese across her plate. “It all is. How far he can push people, what he can get away with. The thrill of destroying boundaries. It’s just not fair to be caught in it.”
“How did he push you?” Peter asked after a moment. Totally calm, as though she hadn’t just questioned him inappropriately.
“Threats,” she said hesitantly, figuring she owed him for the Pandora’s box she’d just forced him to open. “Vague threats.” Enough to let her imagination run wild with worst case scenarios. “I got an IUD because I didn’t know what he’d do to me,” she said, circling the rim of her wine glass with her finger. “The guys he uses, um, they aren’t good either.” Another bit of impulsivity, sharing something that intimate. What was her goal? To gain his sympathy? To give him something to think about?
To his credit, he only nodded. “That was smart. I’m sorry that a nice girl like you got tangled up with someone like him.”
“I’m not a nice girl,” she replied with a frown, pushing a piece of pasta across her plate. Nice girls didn’t bring up murdered—
“You are for me,” he commented quietly.
A coil twisted in her belly and she refused to look up at him. She didn’t want to see how he was looking at her, all dark-eyed and dangerous. Maybe that was just how he looked at everyone, but it invited thoughts she shouldn’t have. Not for someone like him. Even if he was keeping her safe and helping her. When had her life become so utterly out of control? She was just some nobody girl who’d made an idiotic decision one day and a year later, she was in a rich man’s apartment plotting murder with him.
But if that was the case, perhaps she wasn’t such a nobody.
~
Title comes from Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up) by Florence + the Machine, which I saw her perform live last month and I’m still not recovered from it.
I've never tried a mob AU before soooooooooo this is the first half and there's no going back now. Part II drops next week!
Taglist: @abibliophobiaa @withahappyrefrain @letmeplaytheliontoo @wicked-remarks @liz-allyn @cordiformity @rae-gar-targaryen @mortwig @silkspiderstuff @summertimestyles @enaraism @quobber @secretaccountlol @chaosseraphx @eevylynn @b3autyfuldisast3r @squiddtheekidd
Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist (which I would love to do if your age is in your bio!) Any feedback is greatly appreciated 💚
So stoked for this! Amazing, as usual. You have such a way of crafting these characters, I always want more!
