#fast times

[naked80sbabes]

Fast Times pool scene

[takemeapartputmebacktogether]

Like sugar on my tongue.

[delaneycore]

Fast Times ― Peter Parker

part two | playlist | edit

Pairing: Street Racer!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Peter have been inseparable for years. When his life takes a turn down darker paths, scrambling to keep up in the dangerous scene of street racing and illicit, underground crime, you pledge to remain by his side. However, when Peter found a possible way out for the both of you, he could have never expected all the chaos and peril that ensued after.

Warnings/Tags: street racer! peter parker, criminal! peter parker, boyfriend! peter parker, angst, violence, weapon use, vulgar language, crime, mentions of murder, eventual smut, creampie. read responsibly! mdni, 18+

Word Count: 11.6k

Author's Note: This was so inanely fun to write. I love to put Peter Parker in crazy ass situations, so I hope you enjoy it as well!

Inspiration: The Fast and the Furious films and “03’ Bonnie & Clyde” by JAY-Z and Beyonce. "All I need in this life of sin is me and my girlfriend."

The rain was pelting down as you dug your hands deeper into the pocket of the sweatshirt that didn’t belong to you, keeping your head down while making quick strides down the Queens city streets that were uneven and littered with puddles. 

It was like the ending of a movie, when all the action and drama was over, leaving the main character to reel in the stark, eerily quiet absence of what they had gone through. 

“You good?” Peter asked, matching your hurried pace on the sidewalk next to you.

You flinched instinctively, blinking up at him. His bleached curls that were growing out brunette at the root were drenched from the late-August storm and there heavy raindrops falling down the leather of his racing jacket. When your gaze flashed up to meet him, reeling over the way his cheekbone was bruised with a small gash and his bottom lip was swollen and scabbing, you quickly looked away.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you peered back over your shoulder to ensure there wasn’t anyone following. “I’m fine,” you told him, glaring back ahead.

Peter’s hands dug further in the front pockets of his damp jeans, sending a stinging sensation up his forearm when his bloodied and bruised knuckles scraped the material. Guilt stabbed at his conscience and pain ricocheted through his tattered body, but all he could think about was how grateful he was that the wounds were on him and not you.

“What do we do now?” you heard yourself ask.

He swallowed hard, feeling the pain in his bruised jaw when he did so. “We’ve gotta get out of the city.”

Glancing up at him, your shoulders tensed. “What if they find us?”

“They won’t,” he said in a bizarrely calm and even tone before looking over at you, knowing there was a good chance his rib was fractured based on the agonizing pain that thrummed in his side. “I won’t let them catch us.”

♯┆48   HOURS   EARLIER  .ᐟ 

This part of Queens always looked different after midnight. It felt dirtier, louder. There was an electric hum in the air from flickering streetlamps that the city never bothered to repair and the industrial stretch beneath the Kosciuszko Bridge was transformed by darkness into something that belonged only to the people who knew where to find it. 

Abandoned warehouses that lined the stretch of broken pavement were black and hulking on either side of the street. The few that were still open and operating had their loading bays chained shut for the weekend, graffiti crawling across corrugated metal and concrete barriers. 

Beyond the rooftops in the distance, the Manhattan skyline glittered, but nobody was really looking at all that. 

Everyone was too distracted by the cars that lined both sides of the road in uneven rows, parked halfway onto sidewalks and beneath “no parking” signs that nobody bothered pretending to respect. 

There were Hondas dropped so low that their bumpers nearly scraped pavement, and the few gleaming Toyota Supras and Nissan Skylines were a jarring sight next to battered old Mustangs with more money beneath their hoods than their bodies were worth. Somewhere in the commotion, a girl in a denim mini-skirt leaned over the hood of a candy-red Mazda RX-7, wiping the custom-built motor with a pink microfiber cloth, surrounded by a crowd three people deep. 

Hoods stood propped open beneath portable work lights and bass rattled through open windows. Someone had dragged speakers into the bed of a modded pickup truck, and the blaring rhythm of DJ Shadow and Mos Def’s “Six Days” was loud enough that you felt it deep in your ribs before you could make out the song. 

Cigarette smoke tangled with exhaust fumes in the humid, August air. A few girls sat on hoods in flattering streetwear paired with platform heels while guys shouted over engines and money passed from hand to hand. 

Every few seconds another car screamed down the makeshift strip, disappearing beneath the bridge before returning slowly through the crowd like some victorious fighter entering an arena, accompanied by the nauseating smell of burnt rubber.

Peter Parker belonged here in a way nobody who met him during daylight hours would've believed. Leaning against the driver's side of his black Nissan Skyline GT-R with his arms folded over his chest, he had one ankle crossed over the other, listening to one of his friends argue about twenty dollars like it was twenty thousand. 

His Skyline itself wasn't flashy by the standards of the cars surrounding it. Peter hated flashy things. The body was clean and almost entirely black save for the chrome wheels and the faint red lettering he'd painted onto one brake caliper because you'd complained that the car needed something interesting about it. 

There were no ridiculous decals—no neon glowing beneath the chassis, nothing advertising what Peter had built beneath the hood. That was the whole point, really. Your boyfriend liked watching people underestimate him. He liked it even more when they put money on it. 

His gray West Coast Choppers T-shirt clung to his skin slightly between his shoulder blades in the heat. His bleached mess of curls was growing out, returning to their natural shade of brunette at the root, and falling messily across his forehead every time he ducked his head. Your gaze, however, hung on the clasp of his thin, silver chain that disappeared beneath his collar.

Whenever somebody called his name from across the street, Peter lifted two fingers without bothering to look. Everything about his exterior read comfortable, cocky, and completely at home with his surroundings. But you knew Peter better than anyone. Therefore, you knew the cracks taking place within his tough interior. 

"You've checked your phone, like, six times," you said, peering down at him slipping his cellphone back into his pocket.

Peter looked down at you, his brows furrowed. "Have not."

You pointed at his hand that was working to hide his phone. "Seven."

"I was checking the time," he argued, returning to his nonchalant stance, but you saw the way the muscle in his jaw ticked.

"There's a clock in your car."

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "It's not accurate."

"You fixed it yesterday," you countered, scoffing.

Peter's mouth twitched. "Why are you keeping track of how many times I'm checking my phone?"

"Because,” you sighed, “you're being weird."

"I'm always weird," he combatted, turning his head to give you his full attention.

You frowned up at him, dismissing the way your insides felt all mushy when he looked at you like that. "This is a different weird."

That earned you the smile that you'd been fishing for. All crooked, smug, and infuriatingly effective. Peter caught you by the hips when you stepped between his knees, pulling you closer until the denim of your shorts brushed his jeans. "I like it when you’re worried about me."

"Well, I don’t," you told him. Still, your lips curled, hands instinctively draping over his shoulders. “Stop making me have to worry about you.”

He just shrugged, eyes fixed on the shape of your glossed lips and the mesh top you had on beneath one of his old leather jackets that showed the black color of your bra. "How long do I have?"

You glanced toward the starting line, where two cars were backing away after their run while a small army of people spilled into the street again. "Five minutes. Maybe ten."

"Plenty of time," he breathed, bowing his head down into the crook of your neck.

A shiver ran down your spine, feeling the warmth of his breath on the sensitive skin beneath your ear. "For what?"

Peter's hands slid up around your waist, pulling your frame flush against his. "I can think of something."

"You're disgusting." You laughed when his tongue slipped through his lips, running a stripe up the side of your neck. 

"Didn't hear you complaining last night," he replied confidently, squeezing your curves and forcing the impression of his hardened length growing in his jeans against your stomach

It was easy to get caught up in moments like this with him, when it felt as though every outside factor had vanished and the two of you were the only people on Earth. "Peter," you huffed, but you couldn’t help the way it came out more like a moan.

"What, baby?" He straightened his spine, returning back to his stance with his back pressed against his car. 

Your gaze anxiously wandered to the swarm of people around the two of you. "Your friends are right there."

"They know we fuck," he shrugged.

You reached up and slapped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything worse, causing Peter to laugh against your palm, his eyes creasing at the corners. "God,” you hissed, heat rushing to your face, “you're annoying."

He kissed the center of your palm and something about it made you hesitate, pulling your hand away from him.

It was too soft for him tonight. Not that Peter wasn't affectionate. The version of Peter that you had could be embarrassingly affectionate when he wanted to be. But there was something lingering in the way he looked at you afterward. His hands stayed at your waist and his thumb moved slowly beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing the bare strip of skin above your low-rise denim skirt. 

The noise and commotion ceased around you when you caught that look on his face. "What?" you asked.

"Nothing."

Your features hardened. "There it is again."

He cocked a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," you responded, mimicking the deep tone of his voice.

Peter sighed through his nose. "I'm fine."

"Something’s bothering you, Peter," you urged to say, desperate to know what was going on in that head of his. “I can tell. Why can’t you just talk to me?”

"You’re right," Peter said and for the briefest moment, you thought he was about to be open and honest. But then he pressed his bulge deeper into your stomach. “That’s bothering me.”

Your eyes rolled. "You’re fucking insufferable," you groaned. But you didn’t move away from the grip he had on you. That, you probably would have stayed in forever if he’d let you.

He laughed again, but his gaze immediately flashed behind you.

Unwittingly, you followed it. Your gaze hung on a dark SUV that was parked half a block away beneath a dead streetlight. There wasn’t anything remarkable about it. There were dozens of cars you didn't recognize tonight, but that one had caught his attention, so that immediately made it your business.

When you looked back, Peter was watching you. "What?"

"Nothing," he told you for the nth time.

You narrowed your gaze on him. "Peter."

He rolled his eyes a bit, leaning his head back. "Stop saying my name like that."

“Like what?”

A smirk returned to his lips, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Like you’re trying to scold me, or some stupid shit.”

Peter leaned forward and kissed you before you could respond. You made a startled sound against his mouth, more irritated by the obvious distraction tactic than the kiss itself, but Peter's hand slipped behind your neck and your annoyance lasted a mere three seconds. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of the cherry Coke he'd stolen from you on the drive over. You curled your fingers into his shirt. 

Somebody nearby wolf-whistled. Peter lifted his other hand without breaking the kiss and gave whoever it was the finger, making you laugh into his mouth.

"Classy," you murmured.

He flicked his gaze down at you when he pulled away. "Always."

The sudden shriek of a car horn blared twice behind you, forcing Peter’s attention to drift. 

"Parker!" someone bellowed.

He glanced over your shoulder again, greeting whoever it was that his gaze fell on with a toothy grin.

Mikey—who was your boyfriend’s loyal-to-a-fault best friend that had a penchant for stealing catalytic converters from broken down cars on the side of the street and ad-libbing rap songs in the back seat whenever he rode around with the two of you—stood in the middle of the street waving him forward. "You racing tonight or trying to get laid?"

Peter shouted back, "Why can't I do both?"

A chorus of laughter erupted around the cars, all too familiar with the cocky smugness that was Peter Parker. 

You pushed yourself away from him, unable to conceal the smile on your face despite the commotion. "Go," you whispered to him.

Peter caught your hand before you were able to get too far, causing you to snap your head back in his direction. For a second, he simply held it, eyeing every single one of your features. Then, he pulled you in again and kissed your forehead.

"See you at the finish line," he whispered.

Your eyebrows pulled together. "Where else would I be?"

Peter smiled, but that strange look was back. Before you could pry any further, like you so desperately wanted to, he opened the driver's door and climbed inside.

His Skyline came alive with a low, violent growl that immediately swallowed all the chatter around it. You stepped back automatically as Peter tapped the accelerator, the engine snapping upward before settling into an uneven purr. 

Whatever unease you had initially felt disappeared beneath the familiar thrill of hearing that car run. You'd spent enough nights lying underneath it beside Peter to know exactly what lived beneath that hood. You had watched him rebuild half the engine on the floor of his garage, watched him spend money he didn't have on parts he absolutely did not need, watched him tune and retune and retune again because apparently almost perfect was a personal insult. 

Most people here thought Peter was lucky. But you knew better. Peter was fucking terrifying behind a wheel.

He eased the Skyline into the street, people moving aside to let him through. The other car rolled forward beside him—a cobalt-blue Supra belonging to Dante Ruiz, who'd spent the better part of the evening telling anybody willing to listen that tonight was the night he would finally put Parker in his place. 

Dante leaned across his passenger seat and shouted something through the open window, enticing Peter to glance over.

Even from where you stood, you saw the shit-eating grin. That was where Peter belonged. That was where the real Peter—your Peter—felt the most alive.

You followed the crowd toward the start, slipping between shoulders until you reached the front. Some idiot dull enough to talk to you shoved a wad of bills toward you.

"Your boy?" his thick New York accent drawled. 

Your brows snapped together, peering down in the man’s dirty palm.

"Two hundred on Parker," he told you.

You snorted. "That's it?"

The guy grinned and pulled another hundred from his pocket.

"Better."

You handed the money to the girl taking bets and moved toward the finish line instead. You didn't need to stand at the start. You'd seen Peter launch a hundred times. You much preferred watching him arrive back to you in one piece.

The crowd gradually pulled away from the asphalt. Music was lowered slowly and conversations became shouting before shifting into scattered whistles as the starter walked between the two cars. She was tall and curvaceous with long, beautiful boho braids, sporting the shortest mini-skirt you’d ever seen. Your eyes hung on her as she raised her hands in the air, toting some red fabric in each hand.

Peter revved once, his knuckles whitening around his custom steering wheel. Dante answered, leading Peter to rev again, higher this time, the sound bouncing violently between warehouses.

You folded your arms over your chest, standing amongst the hordes of people who only wanted to see chaos. 

As soon as the starter dropped her hands, it felt as though the street exploded.

Tires screamed against the pavement, smoke billowed behind both cars. The Supra jumped ahead by half a hood, but Peter caught it before second gear, the Skyline surging forward with that brutal acceleration you'd felt enough times from the passenger seat to know exactly how hard it shoved you backward. 

The crowd erupted around you. Peter shifted into third. The Supra hung beside him as he shifted again into fourth gear, causing Peter to pull ahead.

You smiled to yourself. Of course he did, you thought.

The cars tore toward you beneath the yellow wash of streetlights, engines climbing into a mechanical scream. Dante was good—better than most of the guys Peter raced. But Peter knew this road. He knew his car. And more importantly, Peter knew exactly how much he could ask from it before physics started asking questions back. 

Fifty yards from the line, he had nearly half a car on Dante and people were already shouting his name, itching to receive their payment when he ran again.

You cupped your hands around your mouth in reluctant anticipation.

Peter's headlights flashed across you and for one impossibly slow second, you could've sworn he looked directly at you.

You blinked hard just before his Skyline abruptly slowed. Nobody unfamiliar with the car would have noticed the change, but you did. You noticed. You noticed the way he shifted too early, which caused the engine note to drop and the Supra to gain several feet.

It felt as though your heart had plummeted into your stomach. "What the fuck?"

Peter had the room. He had the speed. You knew his boost hadn't dropped because you could hear it. You knew he hadn't missed the gear because Peter Parker hadn't missed that shift since he'd installed the transmission himself six months ago.

Dante pulled even and despite everything, Peter didn’t correct.

Your stomach tightened. "No." The Supra nosed ahead, nearing the finish line with such ease. Peter stayed behind him. "No, no, no—"

The blue car crossed first, Peter followed less than a second later.

The crowd erupted into a mind-numbing pitch.

Dante's people screamed like he'd just won the Monaco Grand Prix. Money flew between hands and someone beside you cursed loudly and kicked an empty beer bottle across the sidewalk. Dante shot past before braking farther down the road, drifting into a circle as rubber squealed, horn blaring triumphantly.

Unlike everyone else, you weren't watching him. You were watching Peter as his Skyline slowed.

Peter turned around at the end of the strip and drove back toward the crowd. Nobody else could understand, assuming he’d screwed up, or that Dante had finally forced him to meet his match.

They hadn't spent hundreds of hours in Peter's passenger seat. They hadn't listened to him explain gear ratios until they threatened to walk into traffic. They hadn't watched him drive that exact stretch of asphalt at speeds that made the hairs on your arm stand up.

Your boyfriend hadn't lost. He had let Dante win.

Peter’s Nissan Skyline rolled to a stop and you immediately started towards him with your hands clenched into fists at your side.

He kicked open the door, climbing out slowly.

Dante was already running toward him, laughing and shouting something about Peter owing him five grand. Peter barely acknowledged him, though.

His eyes instantly found yours, cementing his gaze on your features.

The crowd forcefully moved between the two of you, making it nearly impossible to make it over to him. But neither of you looked away.

You stopped, feeling the familiar sensation of your nails digging into the fragile skin of your palm. Finding a name for the way you were feeling felt unattainable. You weren’t angry, but you weren’t content. All you did know was that you were spiraling and something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. 

Peter's expression changed, something akin to guilt washing over him as he watched you lose sight of him in the chaotic flow of the crowd. He felt something splinter inside of him, but there was nothing he could do.

A cold feeling slid down your spine as you pushed past a few drunk guys barking insults at each other over a lost bet. "Peter?" you called out.

But everything—the world, your thoughts—shifted drastically when red and blue light exploded from down the make-shift strip.

For half a heartbeat, nobody moved. 

Unmarked SUVs lurched away from curbs. Doors flew open as men and women in tactical vests poured into the street from both directions, badges flashing beneath the streetlights.

The entire race detonated into chaos. 

People ran, all sprinting to their cars or hurdling themselves into others’. Someone dropped a stack of cash, bills scattered beneath pounding feet. A car mounted the curb trying to turn around while another slammed backward into a parked Civic. 

Music continued pounding stupidly from the pickup as people shoved past one another, engines roaring to life all at once. You stumbled when someone crashed into your shoulder.

"Move!"

You ignored them, though. You weren’t running away. There was no where for you to fucking go without him.

When your eyes finally found him again, he was still standing next to his Skyline. His head was working on a swivel, chaotically searching the pure mania for your face.

You knew that he wouldn’t run—he wouldn’t flee. Not without you. But he wasn’t even trying. He hadn’t even moved to look for you. He was just standing, moving in frantic circles

“Peter!” you screamed, forcing your way through a mess of people all running against you.

Mikey disappeared between two cars. Dante dove back into the Supra before tearing off and a girl in silver heels abandoned them entirely and sprinted barefoot toward the warehouses.

Peter didn't move.

Your hands flew to your mouth, a panicked gasp becoming caught in your windpipe when an officer approached him with his weapon drawn.

No, no, no, no, no.

"Hands where I can see them!" the officer roared, gripping the back of his collar and slamming his body down on the hood of his car.

Peter didn’t fight back. He didn’t even fucking squirm. He let the officer drive his upper body into the steel of his car’s hood, raising his hands above his head.

You stared, tears swelling in your eyes. "No."

"Hands behind your back!" The officer grabbed his wrist, fumbling for the cuffs on his belt. And Peter still wasn’t fighting.

Something inside you dropped as the realization dawned on you like the weight of the world itself crashing down on your shoulders. The phone, the SUV, the way he’d been looking over his shoulder all night, the kiss. “See you at the finish line.” He threw the race. He knew.

You pushed through the crowd. "Peter!"

His head snapped toward you just as the officer yanked Peter's arm behind his back.

Stopping dead in your tracks, your body trembled when Peter’s face changed when he registered you standing only a few feet away from him in the center of all the commotion.

Your voice barely made it through the noise. "You knew."

Peter shook his head. But he wasn’t denying it, he was trying to warn you. That was what they had told him—if he complied, no harm would be done to you. That was the only reason he had agreed to it. 

"You fucking knew," your lip trembled, watching him be forcefully jerked around against the hood of his car by the cop with a badge and too much authority for one man.

"Baby—"

A handcuff snapped around his wrist and you took a reluctant step backwards, your vision tunneling and thoughts reeling. The one person who always vowed to be truthful—the one person who swore to protect you—had lied to your face and done the unthinkable.

Peter saw it happen. He caught the realization settling across your face. He saw you understand exactly what everybody else was about to understand too.

His voice broke through the chaos. "Run!" You stared at him. "Baby, go!"

The first gunshot echoed. It cracked through the street loudly enough to silence everything for one surreal fraction of a second.

Peter's expression changed and another shot rang through the air. The sound ricocheted off the vacant buildings making it impossible to find the source. Glass shattered somewhere behind you and the sound of someone screaming forced you to drop to the ground, not knowing if the next bullet was going to go through you.

Three black SUVs came roaring around the corner at the far end of the street, one smashing directly through a police barricade. Officers spun toward them with their weapons raised. 

Some voice shouted, “Everyone get the fuck down!”

Peter's eyes weren't on the SUVs, or too worried about the officer manhandling him. They were fixed somewhere behind you as you fell to the ground, flinching every time a shot rippled through the air. 

His face went white with fear as he saw the familiar face pushing through the fleeing crowd, coming straight for you with nothing but ill-intent littered on his expression.

The cruel recognition hit you before the fear did. It was Nico Velez. You had known Nico long enough to know he wasn't somebody Rivas, the man who called the shots in your world, sent to ask questions. 

He was big without being bulky, built like somebody who had learned a long time ago that intimidation worked better when you didn't have to advertise it, dressed in black jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. 

You'd eaten pizza with him in the back room of Rivas's shop after watching him put a gun to someone’s temple. He'd once driven forty minutes out of his way to bring Peter a transmission he'd needed before a race. Three months ago, he'd sat across from the two of you at a diner at four in the morning and stolen half the fries off your plate while telling you about the time he set a car on fire in the Vegas desert. 

Right now, though, he was pushing against the stream of people running in the opposite direction, his eyes locked directly onto you. There was no confusion on his face, no panic over the police flooding the street. He knew exactly where he was going.

You swallowed hard. "Fuck,” you panted before staggering up onto your feet and running into the opposite direction. 

Another gunshot cracked somewhere behind you, followed by three more in rapid succession. You ducked instinctively, hands coming over your head as somebody slammed into your shoulder hard enough to send you stumbling sideways into the hood of a parked Honda. Its alarm started shrieking. You shoved yourself upright and kept moving, sneakers skidding across loose gravel as you tried to disappear into the mass of bodies pouring toward the warehouses. Police were shouting commands nobody was listening to and a helicopter had appeared overhead, its searchlight sweeping across rooftops and washing the street in brief flashes of white. 

One of the black SUVs had stopped sideways across the intersection, doors hanging open with two masked men crouched behind it while officers took cover behind cruisers. The race had ceased to exist. There was only noise now—sirens, engines, gunfire, screaming, shattering glass, tires squealing—and somewhere beneath all of it, Peter shouting your name.

Peter jerked his cuffed wrist forward so violently that the officer holding him nearly lost his footing. "That's my girlfriend!"

The officer was adamant, kicking his foot into the back of Peter’s knew. "On the ground!"

The hit caused Peter’s knees to crash with the pavement. Pain ricocheted up his spine, but he couldn’t even think about it. "He's going after her," he told the officer.

"Get on the fucking ground!"

"Nico!" Peter shouted, already knowing how badly he had fucked up.

You heard him. Your head snapped in his direction, barely able to make out his position on the ground. Unfortunately, so did Nico.

His head snapped toward Peter for half a second, and that was all the confirmation Peter needed.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Peter shouted, spit flying from his mouth as he tried and failed to climb up to his own two feet. 

The officer grabbed the back of Peter's shirt and tried to force him downward. Peter twisted. "Listen to me, that guy… He’s the one you’re looking—"

"I said down!" the officer roared, sending a swift kick into his ribs.

Peter hit the pavement hard, unable to brace himself due to the grip the officer had on his wrists.

You made the mistake of looking back once more, realizing Nico was closer. Peter noticed it, too. 

Later, you wouldn't remember exactly how Peter got free. You'd only be able to remember small pieces of it. The officer reached for his other wrist, so he could handcuff them both together, Peter suddenly twisting beneath his arm, somebody shouting, Peter driving his shoulder backward, the officer staggering into the Skyline. You'd remember the metallic flash of the handcuff still hanging from Peter's left wrist as he vaulted over the hood of another car. 

He, however, would remember thinking, distantly and absurdly, that Detective Torres—the woman who had put him in this position—was probably going to fucking kill him.

Mostly, though, you would remember Peter running toward you.

"Nico!" Your boyfriend’s voice carried over the chaos.

Nico naively turned, allowing Peter to hit him at full speed.

Both men crashed into the side of a parked Challenger hard enough to dent the passenger door. Nico recovered first, driving an elbow into Peter's ribs. Peter doubled slightly and Nico caught the front of his shirt, slamming him backward against the car.

"Fucking rat," Nico seethed.

Maybe he was, Peter thought to himself. Perhaps he was a dirty, no-good rat. But if Nico loved someone the way Peter loved you, he would have also clutched onto the possibility of having a freedom just as hard as Peter had. Because that was all Peter wanted out of this. He wanted the two of you to be able to start over somewhere safe, where you were no longer in harm’s way.

That was all he could think about when he was sitting in the interrogation room at the 105th Precinct last week, being threatened with some serious prison time after being pulled over in a routine traffic stop. 

He wondered for a moment if going away, being caged, would be what was best for you. Maybe, without him, you would be able to move on and finally find a life away from crime where you could be safe. Perhaps you would find someone who could protect you from the mundane things in life, like your fear of spiders and the everyday pickpocket, instead of the way he had to hold your head down in his passenger seat when bullets flew through the car window. 

But Detective Elena Torres had a way with her words and, in the grand scheme of her case, Peter was the least of her concerns. The only person she wanted to pin was Victor Rivas, who you and Peter had only started working for a few months earlier. Becoming more of his pawns, the life that the two of you shared had shifted dangerously from your relatively small-time car thieving and contraband trafficking into guns, drugs, and violent highway robberies. 

It was nothing that you and Peter couldn’t handle. It was just the understanding of knowing that the only way it would ever end was in pure destruction and peril that kept him up at night. He didn’t know what he would do with himself if something ever happened to you. 

Detective Torres had laid it out to Peter plainly: cooperate with an investigation into Rivas and receive immunity, or face serious charges and the risk of spending the rest of his life behind bars.

“If I do this,” Peter had responded, eyeing the two-page rapsheet of all the charges he would be put away for if he didn’t, “I want immunity for her, too.”

The second Torres negotiated a deal with him to wipe not only his record, but your record, too, and provide enough funding to get the two of you somewhere far away, he took the deal without hesitation. 

He knew the risk. There was an unfathomable price to pay in his world when you worked with the Feds. If he did what she wanted, there would be no way he could ever return. The only way to reclaim his dignity and get by unscathed would be to completely reinvent himself far away from the people who would undoubtedly want to get him back for all of it. 

And he was fine with that. He wanted that for you.

Peter drove his forehead into Nico's nose, knowing no one would understand what he did.

Nico reeled, lulling his head back and clutching the bridge as bright-red blood oozed down his mustache and into his mouth.

Peter’s fist reared back, crashing forward into his jaw. He did it once, then again, and again. The third punch sent Nico stumbling into the Mustang's side mirror, snapping it backward. Peter rushed over the curb and grabbed your wrist, his chest heaving up and down with frantic breathing.

"Move," he told you through gritted teeth as blood trickled down the side of his face from the gash above his eyebrow.

You ripped yourself away. "Don't touch me."

Peter stared at you like you'd slapped him. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Completely," you snarled.

A bullet struck the Mustang and Peter’s hand shot to your head, forcing you down to kneel on the ground next to him. He tucked your upper body beneath his. 

Peter looked at the spiderweb of fractured glass above his head, then back at you. "Can you hate me somewhere else?"

You shoved him off you. "I can hate you right here." Another shot punched through the rear window, like it was taunting you. "Shit,” you screeched, instinctively clutching onto him.

Peter took your wrist in his grasp again and, this time, you let him. Still crouched, he scrambled up to his feet and started sprinting down the sidewalk with you right on his trail.

There wasn't time to decide where to go. Peter pulled you between two parked cars as officers rushed toward the gunfight at the intersection, then through a gap in a chain-link fence somebody had cut open earlier in the night. You stumbled into an alley running behind the warehouses, Peter immediately changing direction when headlights appeared at the far end. 

His hand stayed locked around yours. The loose half of the handcuff slapped against his wrist with every stride.

Racing down the alleyway, your heart was beating loud enough to hear and you jerked away your hand. "Peter!"

"I know," was all he said, not bothering to slow his pace.

"You knew."

You saw the way his shoulders tensed. "I know," he repeated.

"You set—” your voice cracked, forced to stare at the back of his head. “You set everyone up"

He shook his head. "No."

"Cops show up thirty seconds after you throw a race,” you scoffed, “and that's your answer?"

You heard his rugged sigh. "It's complicated."

"I swear to God—"

He gripped your hand, silently urging you to hurry and match his pace. "Can we do this when people aren't trying to kill us?"

"They’re only trying to kill us because of you!" you roared, trying to pry your hand away from him once more, but you nearly collided with him when he stopped suddenly.

A steel gate blocked the alley. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," Peter groaned before looking right and then left. He peered up and your heart sunk.

"Peter." He let go of your hand, ignoring you, and gripped onto the gate, hoisting himself up. His biceps flexed, a dim, distant light reflecting off his sweat-slicked skin. "Peter, what are you doing?"

"Helping," he grunted, planting one of sneakers against the brick wall and hauled himself upward, catching the top of the gate. "Come on."

"You cannot seriously—"

His neck craned to look back at you. "Baby."

"Don't baby me," you snarled.

"Fine.” He huffed, reaching his hand out towards you. “My girlfriend who currently hates me, climb."

You would've laughed if you weren't considering murder. “Crazy of you to think I’d still want to be your girlfriend after this.”

Peter got himself over first, dropping onto the other side and pretending like that threat of yours didn’t make him want to run in the middle of all the crossfire on purpose. You found footholds in the metal and hauled yourself upward. Peter reached up and caught you around the waist when you reached the top.

"I've got you."

You swatted his hands away "I don't need—"

"I know," he cut in, glaring up at you. “Just shut up, okay?”

You did, only long enough for Peter to lower you down. You landed against him, his arms tightening automatically around you. For a moment neither of you moved.

When shouting echoed from the alley, he released you.  "Come on."

You emerged onto another street two blocks from the race. The chaos was slightly muffled here, though red and blue lights still pulsed against windows and the helicopter remained circling overhead. People who had escaped the raid were scattering in every direction and cars tore through intersections without stopping. Somewhere nearby, somebody had crashed into a fire hydrant and water geysered twenty feet into the air.

"We need a car," Peter said, trying to keep his head down as the two of you made hurried steps down a new sidewalk.

"My car's a block away at the garage," you told him.

He shook his head once, peering over his shoulder. "Not anymore."

"What the hell does that mean?" you asked, furrowing your brows at him.

"It means—” he exhaled heavily “—the cops know your plates."

You stopped in your tracks, feeling another sting in your chest. Peter took only two more steps before realizing you weren't beside him.

He turned, slowly, features softening.

"You gave them my plates?"

His face did something deeply unhelpful for his case.

Your jaw went slack with disgust. "Oh my God."

"Technically—"

You took a step backwards. "Peter, who even are you?"

"They already had your plates," he explained, closing the space.

"Oh, well,” you coughed out a laugh, “that's so much better." But nothing—not a single fucking thing about this—was funny.

His shoulders tensed. "They had a whole lot more than your plates."

You stared at him, which made Peter immediately regret speaking in the first place.

"What does that mean?" you pried, glaring up at him with nothing but rage coursing through your veins.

"Not now," he countered, dragging a hand down his face, looking at it with a puzzled expression when he realized the handcuff was still clasped around his hand.

"No, we’re not doing this shit, Peter," you barked. “What does that mean?”

Before you could register the engine roaring around the corner, Peter grabbed you and pulled you behind a parked van as a black Charger shot through the intersection. You recognized it immediately. It was Victor Rivas.

Peter swore under his breath, clutching you harder when the Charger slowed. You could feel his heartbeat against you and the way every muscle in his body was shaking with something much more than fear.

He took in a sharp breath before pushing you up. "Run."

You both took off again, not daring to look back when the Charger reversed.

It was just pure luck that the driver's door of a silver Acura parked along the curb was unlocked, which you only discovered by yanking it open.

Peter stared at you.

"What?"

He squinted up at you. "That's not our car."

You tilted your head to the side. "And?"

Without giving him the time to argue with you further, you ducked inside and reached beneath the steering column. Peter climbed into the passenger seat. "You're stealing a car."

You ripped the plastic panel loose. "Would you prefer to call an Uber?"

"I don't think our passenger rating could survive this one, baby."

"Peter," you deadpanned.

"Right. Sorry. It’s just…" he watched you with precision, waiting for you to make a mistake, but you never did, “that’s kind of my thing.”

Your fingers worked quickly through the wiring. “I had a good teacher.”

Peter glanced through the rear window, smirking at your comment. He instantly found the Charger again, realizing it was turning around. His heartbeat quickened when he turned back to you. "Any chance you could go a little faster?"

"You've got a lot of opinions for a fucking snitch," you bit.

Peter went quiet, not knowing how to escape the validity of that one.

Tugging at another cord, you heard the engine spark to life. “Yes,” you hissed, a smug grin spread across your face. "Got it."

You scrambled up into the driver’s seat and slammed the Acura’s shifter into drive. The Charger was thirty yards behind you when you floored it.

The Acura lurched forward hard enough to throw Peter backward. You shot through the intersection, narrowly missing a taxi coming from the opposite direction. Its horn blared behind you.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Peter shouted, reaching up to the grab handle, clutching onto it for dear life.

You peered over at him, coughing out a laugh. "You scared?"

"A bit," he managed to say, peering over his shoulder. 

An ironically ill-timed chuckle spilled out of you. “I can drive, Peter.”

“I know that.” He nodded stiffly, fixing his gaze back out the windshield. “I was the one who taught you.”

Your mind betrayed you, forcing you to look over at your boyfriend just as the Charger slammed into your rear bumper.

The Acura jerked sideways and every muscle in your body tensed. "Fuck!"

You corrected hard, tires squealing as you fought the steering wheel. Peter twisted around in his seat. "They're coming again."

"I can see that," you replied through gritted teeth.

He pointed at the rearview mirror. "Mirror."

"I know what a fucking mirror is, Peter," you barked.

The Charger accelerated, plenty ready to smash into your rear again. Peter grabbed the dashboard as you tightened your muscles, bracing yourself for the impending impact.

The second hit was harder. Metal crunched behind you and the Acura fishtailed across two lanes. An oncoming truck blasted its horn and the headlights blinded you as you yanked the wheel right, missing it by inches.

Peter's hand shot across your body instinctively despite the seat belt being already locked against your chest. "Are you okay?"

You nudged your elbow, forcing his hand away. "I'm fine."

"You're sure?" he pressed, raking you over with his gaze.

Exhaling frantically, you roared, "Stop asking me if I'm okay!"

"I care about you!" your boyfriend quickly countered.

"You—” you turned to him for a brief moment “—got me raided!"

His brows scrunched. "I did not get you raided!"

"No, worse,” you said, flattening your lips. “You got everybody raided!"

"Technically,” Peter sighed, gripping the grab handle again, “the NYPD got everybody raided."

You whipped your head toward him, scowling.

"Bad time," Peter admitted.

The Charger appeared beside you and the minute Peter saw the passenger window lowering, he shouted, "Down!" before reaching over and grabbing the back of your neck.

You complied, ducking and not being able to control the fearful shriek that escaped you when gunshots exploded beside the car, causing the passenger window shattered.

Glass sprayed across Peter's lap and you inhaled in a sharp breath, swerving violently as the Acura clipped the Charger and sent both cars grinding together. Sparks erupted between them and Peter shoved himself upright, trying to not get caught in the crossfire.

"Drive!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

"What the fuck do you think I'm doing?" you countered, matching his tone as the man in the Charger raised the gun again.

Peter reached over and grabbed the steering wheel.

"What are you—"

He tore your hands off it. "Trust me."

You laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "Not exactly your strongest pitch right now!"

He twisted the wheel to the right, completely dismissing you.

Pushing your back as far as it could go in the driver’s seat, you gasped and told him, "There's no road!"

He was biting down on his busted bottom lip. "Exactly!"

You saw the opening in the loading entrance and helped him by jerking the wheel, sensing his struggle from the other side of the car. The Acura shot across the sidewalk and through the entrance of an abandoned distribution yard. 

Peter braced one hand against the dashboard as the car bounced violently over cracked concrete. He immediately clocked in your rearview mirror that the Charger had followed. "Shit," he hissed.

"You sound surprised," you quipped, keeping deep focus on the terrain before you.

He shrugged despite the impending disaster. "I was hoping they valued their suspension."

"Apparently not.”

Shipping containers formed narrow corridors ahead of you, stacked two and three high beneath skeletal loading cranes. You threaded between them, headlights bouncing across rusted steel.

Peter barked out orders, instructing where to turn and which direction to turn in. “Left!” he screamed, followed by another sharp, “Right!” a few minutes later. He continued that for a while before you glanced at him in the passenger seat.

"Peter, do you know where you're going?"

He nodded quickly. "Absolutely."

Peter had no fucking idea where he was going. He just knew that there had to be an opening somewhere in this godforsaken place and he was just hoping he’d be able to help you find it.

"Left!" he shouted again, forcing you to swing the car in a sharp left turn.

You immediately slammed on the brakes when you realized it was a dead end. Both of you stared at the concrete barrier ahead, before you slowly turned to look at your boyfriend.

He winced. “Okay. So…”

Your jaw went tight. "I'm going to fucking kill you."

"That’s understandable," he mumbled, jerking around in his seat when headlights appeared behind you once again. 

You exhaled through your nose, throwing the car into reverse. “Later."

The Charger accelerated toward you and Peter’s foot instinctively jerked downwards in the floorboard of the passenger seat. But there was no brake pedal there and he was not the one driving. "Baby," he warned.

"I see it," you told him.

He gasped, watching the Challenger rolling towards the two of you at a horrifying speed. "Baby!"

"I fucking see it!" you repeated, flooring the Acura backward despite the way the Charger kept coming.

At the last second you wrenched the wheel. The Acura spun nearly one hundred eighty degrees, tires screaming across the concrete as you slid back in between two shipping containers. The Charger's driver tried to brake when they realized, but it was too late.

The Charger slammed headfirst into the barrier, airbags immediately exploded inside. You didn’t waste a second before peeling out.

For several blocks neither of you spoke.

Queens streaked past outside the windows. You kept to side streets, avoiding the distant pulse of police lights. Your breathing slowly stopped feeling like it was trying to tear through your chest. Peter checked the rearview mirror every few seconds.

In the newfound, eerie silence, the sound of JAY-Z and Beyonce’s “03’ Bonnie & Clyde” hummed at a low volume from the stolen car’s stereo. With your jaw tight enough to splinter, you reached to the dial and turned it all the way down.

When you finally spoke up, your voice was hoarse. "How long?" Peter didn't answer at first, so your grip tightened around the steering wheel. "How long have you been talking to them?"

He exhaled through his nose, sinking further into the passenger seat. "Three weeks."

Your head snapped toward him. "Three weeks?"

His hand instinctively flew to the steering wheel when you swerved. "Watch the road."

"Don't tell me where to fucking look,” you argued, slapping his hand away.

"I'm not trying to piss you off." Peter rubbed his face.

You thought for a moment, glaring out at the dimly lit backroad. "So every time you said you were staying late at the garage—"

"Not every time," he cut in, peering over at you.

Glaring over at him, you deadpanned, "Peter."

He huffed. "Most times."

You laughed, but there wasn't anything funny in it. "You lied to me."

"I had to."

“You didn’t have to do anything!” you yelled at him, feeling your heart crack in places you didn’t know possible. “You could have told me.”

He shook his head. "I couldn't tell you." He ran a hand through his bleached hair. "If I'd told you, you would've been involved."

A scoff came out of you. "I am involved."

"Not legally, you’re not," he quickly countered.

You stared at him, eyes twitching from unending stress, fear, and utter disbelief that someone you have loved your entire life could do something like this. Peter just looked out the window.

"What did you do?" you asked, voice bizarrely quiet and calm. He refused to respond again, so you increased your pitch. "What did you do, Peter?" He clenched his fists in his lap and screwed his eyes shut. Your stomach dropped. "Peter."

"They had evidence," he finally broke by saying.

"On you?"

“No,” he exhaled a ragged breath. "On both of us."

The road suddenly seemed very quiet. "What kind of evidence?"

"Enough," he explained vaguely.

"That's not an answer," you argued.

He held up his hand, counting on his fingers. "Grand theft. Conspiracy. The warehouse job in Jersey. They had photographs from the docks. They had your phone connecting to two towers near the—"

"Jesus Christ," you breathed, cutting him off.

"I know.”

You glanced at him once more. "And you knew?"

Solemnly, he nodded. "I found out three weeks ago."

"When they arrested you," you filled in thoughtfully.

Peter looked at you.

You remembered that night. Peter arrived home after sunrise with a bruise along his jaw, telling you he'd gotten into a fight outside of a bar. You had put ice against his face while sitting on the bathroom counter. He had kissed your knee and complained that you were pressing too hard.

Your throat tightened. "You weren't in a fight." A dull ache reappeared in your gut. "You were arrested."

"Yeah." He had to look away.

"And you came home and you—you lied to my fucking face."

Peter's jaw flexed. "I came home."

You turned to him again, analyzing the weight in his words and the way the streetlights illuminated the bruises and scrapes that tattered his entire face. "That supposed to make it better?"

He shrugged helplessly. "No."

"Then why say it?" you spat.

"Because,” he exclaimed, a sudden rush of tension in his demeanor, “for about six hours I didn't know if I was going to." The anger in your chest shifted, just slightly, while Peter kept staring through the windshield. 

"They had me, okay?” he admitted, chest heaving. “They had enough to put me away. Torres showed me everything. Pictures. Transactions. Cars. Names. They knew about Rivas. They knew about the shipments. They knew about you."

Your voice went achingly quiet. "So you made a deal."

Peter nodded.

"For yourself," you scoffed, the deepest, sharpest pain shooting right up to the heart that he had betrayed.

"No," he quickly countered, flashing his gaze over to you. "For you."

Something cold settled beneath your ribs. "What?"

"They wanted Rivas,” he explained, “I told Torres I'd give ‘em Rivas."

Your eyes slanted at him. "In exchange for what?"

"Immunity." The Acura drifted slightly before you corrected it when he turned to look out the windshield again. “Freedom and safety for the both of us.”

Your foot pressed down hard on the brake. “Get out.”

His face contorted. "What?"

You reached across his body, pushing the passenger door open wide with force. “Get the fuck out, Peter.”

"Come on," he sighed, pressing his head back against the leather headrest.

"You made a fucking deal with the police about my life without telling me?" you yelled at him, pointing to your chest and ignoring the tears threatening to stream out of your eyes when you peered up at him.

"They were going to arrest you—they were going to take you down with them!"

You shook your head once. "So?"

"I wasn't going to let that fucking happen!" he roared, sitting up straighter in his seat.

Silence crept its way between to the of you as his chest rose and fell at a frantic pace, ragged pants exiting both of you. You just stared at him, eyes dancing between his two dark ones, unable to come to terms with all that he’d done.

Peter looked away first. "I wasn't going to sit there while Torres showed me pictures of you and talked about eight years like she was discussing the fucking weather,” he continued, dragging two hands down his face. “I wasn't going to let Rivas keep dragging us deeper until one of us ended up dead or locked away. So, yeah, I made the fucking deal."

"Without me."

He sighed. "Without you."

"You didn't trust me."

"No." Peter turned toward you again. "I didn't trust you to choose yourself."

It pained you to admit that that hurt. You swallowed hard, watching Peter immediately soften in your peripheral vision. "That's not—"

"Fuck you," you croaked, eyes fixed on your lap. 

"Baby—"

"Don't," you sneered. “Just fucking don’t, Peter.”

He reached across to touch you—to hold you, to do fucking something. He was so desperate to make this right, he didn’t know what to do with himself. "I'm sorry.”

Your pain was vibrating through you. "You thought I'd stay." Peter didn't respond, which was all the answer you needed. "You thought if you told me Rivas was going down, I'd warn everybody."

"I thought you'd try to save people," he clarified.

You shook your head. "Our friends."

"Those people stopped being our friends a long time ago," he told you.

You knew he was right. You had sat back and watched how many times they had thrown the two of you under the bus, having no qualms about the hell you both had to endure as long as they got by scott-free. "That's easy for you to say," you said anyway.

"No, it isn't." His hand fell on your arm and his voice cracked just enough to make you glance at him.

He looked something more than exhausted. There was blood dried beneath his nose from the fight with Nico and a scabbing cut crossed his cheek accompanied by dozens of other minor contusions. His shirt was torn at the collar and the handcuff around his wrist looked almost absurd now.

"I love those people, too," he said quietly. "But I love you more."

You looked back at the road, unable to give him the reply he needed right now. The Acura's engine whined as you accelerated onto another empty stretch. "She's not going to give me much more," you said, eyeing the check engine light that was lit-up on the dash.

Peter noticed it, too, and despite the visceral sting in his chest when you didn’t tell him you loved him back, he still said, "Take the next right."

"Why?"

He pointed ahead at the street. "Garage."

You knew what he meant, so you just drove. At the last intersection before reaching his uncle’s old autobody garage, you found yourself flicking your turn signal. Despite everything, you laughed at yourself. The car that you had hotwired was missing a bumper, littered with gunshot holes, the glass was shattered, and the two of you were no longer just criminals, but criminals on the run. And you still signalled your turn.

The minute the neon-lit sign jutting out from the side shop, reading “Parker Auto & Body,” your muscles relaxed. That old ass sign above the bay door had never looked so beautiful.

You swung into the alley beside it.

Peter pulled a key from his pocket. "Back."

Not bothering to ask him to clarify, you just followed the alley to the backside of the shop.

Peter hit the button on his remote keychain and the garage door began crawling upward.

The Acura rolled over the threshold and you forced it into a slow stop inside the dark garage. He hit the button again and the door descended. Quietness came back between the two of you, but it was entirely silent. Your ears rang and the both of you were breathing too hard.

“They’ll find us here,” you told him, watching as glass fell and scattered all around him as he pushed the passenger door open and climbed out.

Peter stood outside of the car, swiping shards of glass off his jeans and plucking the fabric of his shirt, not caring about the hundreds of tiny little pieces embedding themselves in his palm. “I know.”

You followed his actions, climbing out of the car. You were barely able to stand on your own, though. Your knees were shaking so violently and there was a stinging sensation in your back from the earlier impacts and how hard you had been tensed. 

“What’s the plan?” you asked him.

The overhead fluorescents flickered weakly above the garage, illuminating familiar workbenches, tool cabinets, hydraulic lifts and half-finished cars. Home, or as close to one as the two of you had. There was a small apartment on the second floor that didn’t have working AC, but had a damn good window unit that did a good enough job. The best part was the garage itself, though. 

You'd spent countless nights here with him—eating takeout on overturned buckets, sleeping on the ancient couch in his office while Peter worked until sunrise, and having your way with each other against that exact workbench when he was supposed to be changing somebody's brake pads.

Tonight it felt different, though.

Peter walked over to a toolbox, rummaging through the drawer for a flathead screwdriver and began working to get those damn handcuffs off his wrist. The sound of metal clashing with metal filled the quiet space until the cuffs clattered on the ground.

He took two steps away from the work station, rubbing the skin around his wrist, before his knees nearly buckled. 

You raced around to catch him. "Whoa."

"I've got it," he told you, gripping onto the dented hood of the Acura.

Your eyes peered down at the blood seeping through his shirt from the gash he’d taken at some point through the night. "You clearly don't."

"Little dizzy," he admitted, blinking slowly.

"No shit." You wrapped his arm around your shoulders and Peter leaned against you despite himself. "Workbench."

"I'm ruining your shirt," he mumbled.

You helped him onto the edge of the workbench. “I don’t give a shit right now.”

Peter sat and, for the first time all night, he wasn't thinking the worst things about himself. He was just here, with you, in the stark silence.

“Baby,” he breathed, leaning back against the cool, cinderblock wall behind the bench. You weren’t looking at him, you were too busy working to find the source of all the blood. “Look at me.”

You stood between his knees, staring at the blood spreading slowly across his shirt before finally glancing up at him. Your anger was still there, he knew that. Hell, he could feel that. But there was also fear radiating from you.

His features softened. “I did it for you.”

Your shoulders sagged when you lifted his shirt, spotting the cut just to the right of his naval, right between the two ridges of his abdominal muscles. It wouldn’t require stitches, but it—on top of everything else he’d endured—was enough to need a good pain killer.

“I know,” you admitted.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you,” he continued. His lips were quivering as he breathed raggedly through the excruciating pain that was only now hitting him now that the two of you were temporarily safe. “I never wanted to lie to you, baby. I just wanted—I just wanted—”

“For us to be safe,” you filled in thoughtfully, smiling softly up at him. “I know, Peter.”

“I…” his entire body shuddered as he reached out and grabbed your hand, forcing you to drop the fabric of his shirt. He pulled you slowly. “Come here,” he urged, spreading his legs further with all the strength he had left.

Despite the amalgamation of contradicting emotions pumping in and out of your twisted mind, you slowly stepped further between his legs until your body knees hit the workbench. His hands shot out, touching your thighs and slowly working up to your hips as he slowly sat up, keeping his eyes focused on yours.

“I love you,” he said, voice so quiet it felt like a miniscule shard of glass falling on the ground, but it shattered you all the same. “I did this for you—for us.”

Your hands gripped his, inhaling slowly. “I know.”

“Please say it back,” he croaked. “I can’t live with myself if you don’t say it back.”

Blinking hard in an attempt to stifle the tears, you nodded slowly. “You know that I love you, Peter.”

His chest heaved with relief. “Yeah?” 

You glanced down at him. “Always.”

“Then come here,” he coaxed, pulling slightly from the grip he had on your hips. 

You shook your head. “I don’t wanna hurt—”

He pulled harder, forcing you down to straddle his lap. “You’re not gonna hurt me, baby.” His cut-up hand reached to cup your jaw, forcing your head down to his. When his lips crashed back against yours, it felt like the only right thing in the world. 

Everything about your life was thrown into the flames, it felt like. There was nothing you had to crawl back to. You didn’t have any family and your friends weren’t ever really your friends to begin with. The vast majority of the people you knew were probably plotting your downfall because of him. But him—but Peter—you would always be able to crawl back to. He would always be there.

Your lips worked in sync. When your tongue slipped out of your mouth, desperate to tangle itself with his, you felt the scabbing slash along his bottom lip and thought about pulling away, not wanting to inflict any more pain on him. But you needed this. He needed it, too.

His hands moved to the curve of your ass, pulling you tighter against him and helping you grind against the way his dick was growing taut in his jeans. It was slightly comforting, you thought to yourself, that even after everything, he was still hard for you.

Pulling away for only a second, his head burrowed into the curve of your neck, planting a string of soft kisses on your skin as one of his hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, working to pull it off.

You broke from the kiss, tearing your shirt off in one swift motion before immediately crashing your lips back to his, working in much more ferocious, insatiably hungry movements.

“I need you so bad right now,” he muttered into the kiss, gripping your ass and rocking your hips against his once more. You kept kissing him, though. “Please.”

“What do you need, Peter?” you asked him, moving your head slowly down the nape of his neck, pressing rough kisses on his warm skin. 

He lulled his head back, a deep-voiced moan spilling out of him. “You, baby,” he whispered, tangling his hand in the back of your hair. “I need you.”

Your hand tugged at the fabric of his shirt. “Take it off,” you told him, climbing off his lap and standing before him.

Tearing off the shirt, he stood, too. 

With both of your shirts deserted on the garage floor, you watched him work with the button on his jeans, unzipping and pushing them off in one swift motion.

“You’re rushing,” you commented, stifling a smug smirk. 

He nodded confidently, stepping out of his jeans before reaching out and pulling you flush against him with a tug at your wrist. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

His lips found there was back to yours as he undid your jean skirt, pulling it down and bringing your panties with it. 

It wasn’t your first time being naked in the garage with him. However, a part of you splintered at the realization that it would probably be the last.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, picking you up in one swift motion without breaking the kiss. Turning around, he walked back to the bench and slowly lowered you down on it, wasting no time to crawl on top of you.

Instinctively, your hips bucked up against him, desperately needing the friction on your needy center.

“I know, baby,” he moaned against your lips.

He kept himself up on top of you with one hand while the other snaked down to his waist, pulling his boxers down just as far as they needed to be.

Usually, Peter liked to take things slow with you. He thoroughly enjoyed the build up, making you squirm and pant and beg for him to hurry up and be inside of you. And even though it was only a matter of time before the NYPD and Detective Torres came banging on the garage door, he still wanted to give that to you.

His fingers trailed your folds, sending a pleasurable shudder up your spine. But, just as his thumb began working your swollen clit and his fingers threatened to slip into your drenched entrance, you shook your head.

“Just fuck me,” you slurred, peering up at him, immediately met with his bleary-eyed gaze.

He kept his hand between the two of you, gripping his dick and aligning it where you needed him most. “Are you sure?” he asked.

You nodded quickly, draping your arms over his shoulders and pulling his head closer to yours. “I just need to feel you,” you told him. 

When the sensitive skin on his tip slowly worked itself inside you, his jaw went slack at the feeling of your walls squeezing around him, suctioning him in deeper.

Your head tilted back against the workbench as a sloppy moan spilled out of you. 

Peter’s head fell in the crook of your neck as he slid in you as far as he could. “God, you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his heavy breath causing your toes to curl.

“Faster,” you hissed, followed by a mindless moan that sent your eyes rolling to the back of your head when he picked up his pace inside you. “F—Fuck, Peter,” you moaned, nails digging into the rigidly muscular skin of his back. 

He picked his head up, screwing his eyes shut as he felt you clench around him. Your legs tightened around his waist and he moved one of his hands to your thigh, forcing them to spread further. “Uh-uh,” he grunted, digging his fingers into the plump skin. “Keep ‘em open, baby.”

“It—It feels…” your body shook beneath him. “It feels so good.”

“I know,” he moaned, reeling in the way your arousal saturated his length and the wet sounds that echoed off the walls of the garage. “So… fucking good.”

You could feel your release coming, but you didn’t want any of this to end. “Peter,” you whispered, working your hands up to his head, tangling one finger in his hair while the other hooked around the silver chain swinging in your face each time he pounded into you. “Peter,” you repeated when he didn’t respond.

“What is it, baby?” he grunted through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself.

“Are we—Are we gonna be okay?” you reluctantly asked him, knowing this wasn’t necessarily the time, nor the place.

His eyes fluttered open, peering down at you with such softness that it physically pained you. “Of course,” he assured you. “Nothing else… is okay,” he trailed, his cock twitching deep inside you. “But we are.”

“I love you,” you told him again, bucking your hips without thinking as your high washed over you.

His head fell into your neck once more. “I know, baby,” he grunted, feeling your body tighten in his hold. “I love you, too.”

“Oh, God,” you moaned, your entire body convulsing beneath him. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

Peter didn’t have the strength to tell you that he was, too. Instead, he gently bit down on the skin near your collarbone, grunting and panting against your skin as your orgasm crashed through your body, accompanied by his cum pooling inside you. 

Neither of you made any move to stop, though. He kept a slow pace inside you as you trembled uncontrollably beneath him and he reeled in his own thoughts. 

Deep down, the fear and doomed understanding that this could be the last time he was inside you for a while rotted in Peter’s conscience. He knew that whatever came after this wasn’t going to be good and it definitely wasn’t going to be fucking easy. 

He knew that he had not only betrayed the people he worked for and his friends, but he also double-crossed Detective Torres and the entire NYPD that were counting on him to put the right people behind bars for once.

In hindsight, though, they should have known not to trust someone like Peter Parker. 

Still, his out—his freedom from the dangerous life he lived and forced you to stay in—was right there. But he knew he would never be truly free if you weren’t, too. If he had to go back to the moment he sprinted after you, evading the faux detainment, he would do it again. He would jeopardize everything for you.

hope you enjoyed it! pls leave a comment/like/reblog. if you have a one shot request, you can send it through my “ask me.” ୨ৎ─ delaney!

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[splhcbsol-blog]

Phoebe Cates

[sabrinacarpenterkorea]

Barbie "Fast Times" Sabrina Carpenter🩷

[horny-shakespeare]

[catchmeonyourceiling]

these are the fast times and fast nights 𓂃⋆.˚