#mob spiderman

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The Angel In The Garden of Evil | Chapter 3: There's No Place Like Home

Summary: Unsure where else to go, Peter takes Angel back to the only other home he's ever known.

Warnings: 18+ Only, mature content, eventual smut, plenty of feels and patching up wounds

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: SURPRISE! Okay so I have been writing up a storm and realised if I only release these once a week it’ll be months between me finishing the story and you guys getting to read it, so I am gonna do drops on Wednesdays as well as the originally planned Fridays. (Also I’m an Aries who likes to be praised and whenever you guys give me good feedback it’s like a drug and I want more). For those asking at the end of part 2 where was Miguel, Miguel had already gone home, theres about half hour to 40 min time difference to Peter telling him to go home and shoot up happening. Anyway that being said, there’s nothing like going home to lick your wounds. Enjoy…

THREE

When they pulled up outside a high rise in the city 30 minutes later, the adrenaline that had been coursing through her body was finally wearing off. The dull pain in her shoulder was coming back full force; and as she sat waiting in the passenger seat, her hand bracing the injured shoulder protectively, she closed her eyes and counted her breaths and tried to work out where it had all gone wrong.

Her husband, still sitting in the driver's seat also taking his time to process the events that had just happened, lowered his head to the steering wheel. She could feel his anger brewing, that scary calm energy he was known for rolling off of him in waves. He suddenly sat back, his head slamming back against the headrest as his hand gripped the steering wheel forcefully, forcing her to open her eyes and look at him. His hands quickly flew into his hair, he was coming apart at the seams. She wondered if for a moment he had forgotten she was there.

She was about to say something when he was suddenly getting out of the car, slamming the door closed behind him. She watched out the front window as his hand tugged at his hair again before he ran it down the length of his face in an attempt to compose himself as he began to make his way to the passenger door.

The door opened with a low click as he held it open for her. She quickly unbuckled herself before sliding out of the car. She watched carefully as he stood like a sentry beside her, the only thing indicating to him being a living human, the heavy rise and fall of his breaths, the air chuffing powerfully from his nose as he attempted to calm himself down. She raised her hand again to her shoulder as she stepped forward onto the sidewalk as he closed the door behind them.

She watched over her shoulder silently as he ushered her forward with his hand splayed protectively across her back, keys clutched in his fingers as he guided her to the front door.

Neither of them said anything until they got to the elevator, the large metal doors sliding closed, encasing only the two of them safely inside. 

“Does it hurt?” he finally said, his body turning towards her as his hands reached out to manoeuvre her gently, turning her to face him.

She wanted to respond with something sarcastic, but looking up into his eyes, she couldn’t seem to find her voice. His thumb suddenly added a little bit of pressure below the wound as he checked it over and she sneered, recoiling from him protectively.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” he quickly said, holding his hands up in surrender. He watched her closely, waiting for her breathing to steady again, her body leaning back towards him, trusting him. “It might need a couple stitches.” he said as he moved the damaged fabric of her top to look at it better. She grunted again as the pressure of his fingers made the wound smart once more, but she didn’t pull away.

They felt the elevator begin to slow beneath their feet, coming to a stop and pausing before the bell went off, signalling its arrival.

He gently ushered her down the hall but she already knew where they were and which door to go to. She paused outside the door as she watched him reach behind the frame of one of the pictures on the wall. She shuffled herself to the side as she let him squeeze past her to put the key he had retrieved into the lock, turning and pushing the door open, ushering her in first with an outstretched hand as he moved to put the key back in its hiding place. 

“Peter?” a voice called out through the apartment. 

“Yeah, May.” he called out as they both stepped through the door.

Peter’s Aunt May tentatively came into view at the end of the hallway at the sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floor before they hit the hallway runner. She froze in silence as she took in the image of not just Peter, but Angel. The sudden change in May’s demeanour from warm and friendly to cold and protective made the younger woman still in the middle of the hall.

“Don’t May.” Peter warned her as he gently stepped around his frozen estranged wife, moving forward down the hall, a protective arm being placed around his Aunt’s shoulder as he turned her away and towards the living room, trying to explain everything before she made any assumptions.

Angel slowly began to follow them, coming to a stop in the doorway, her hand still raised to cover her shoulder. She stood awkwardly against the doorframe, careful not to bleed on anything as she watched Peter sit May down on the sofa, the tall brunette taking a perch on the edge of the coffee table in front of her, his hands gently resting on her knees.

“It’s a really long and complicated story-”

“But for how long, Peter?” May tried to argue in a hushed voice.

“I know, I know.” he quickly cut her off. “Look I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but we can’t go back to the house and I didn’t know where else to go.” He attempted to explain as Angel began glancing around the apartment. Her eyes fell on picture frames, throw pillows, the layout of the kitchen to her right, nothing had changed in this place at all. She slowly found herself stepping forward to a bookcase, observing the pictures that sat on the edges of some of the shelves. Okay, maybe some things had changed, she noted as she noticed the frame that used to hold her and Peter’s wedding photo had been removed, replaced with an old picture of Peter with his Uncle Ben from when he was a child. As she began to look behind it, she noticed another frame laying face down on top of the books. Her fingers reached for it. She carefully pulled it out, looking at the memory fondly. They hadn’t had a big wedding, after all she was trying to hide their union from her Dad. She gazed longingly at the picture of her and Peter outside the courthouse. They’d asked a passerby to quickly take the picture on an old digital camera May had brought with her. You could just see the corner of her shoulder in the foreground as she threw confetti at the happy couple.

Her eyes stung as tears prickled the corners of her lashes and she quickly put the photo back.

“I’m gonna go find a first aid kit.” She suddenly announced across the room to Peter, still mid conversation with May.

“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.” He turned his head to say to her before she removed herself from the room, heading down the hallway to where she knew the bathroom was.

She closed the door behind her, looking at herself in the harsh fluorescent lighting. She wiped away at the lingering tear at the corner of her eye hastily before her gaze dropped down to her shoulder in her mirrored reflection. She winced as she examined it in the mirror, turning her body towards the light. She sighed, her hands bracing themselves upon the basin as she closed her eyes and attempted to compose herself.

She kept one hand against the cold porcelain as her other hand reached to slip off her heels, her height dipping in the mirror as she dropped one foot and then the other onto the worn bath mat. She ran her hands over her face, pushing her hair back as she took one more tired look in the mirror before bending down to root in the under sink cupboard for the first aid box she knew was kept there.

She balanced it on the side of the sink, her fingers opening the zip and flipping the lid open. She sighed, rooting around in the kit, searching for the bits she would need and placing them on the top for easy access. She winced in pain as she slowly pried off her shirt, carefully slipping it off of her injured arm, the blood already beginning to dry sticking to her skin and she cringed and sneered as the fabric tore itself from her flesh. She reached into a drawer for a fresh washcloth, turning on the tap and running it under the faucet.  She was just bringing it to her skin, wiping away at the drying blood when the door opened, Peter letting himself in.

He froze at the sight of her standing in the middle of the bathroom in her high waisted trousers and black lace bra. When she just stood staring at his reflection in the mirror he quickly checked himself, clearing his throat and trying to ignore the blood that was beginning to rush between his legs.

“Here let me do that.” He said, stepping forward and taking the damp washcloth from her. 

She sat herself on the side of the bathtub as he rinsed the blood that was already on the cloth off, ringing it out.

“I don’t think May likes me much anymore.” she spoke timidly as Peter turned towards her and began dabbing at her skin. She hissed as he shifted his hand and dabbed higher, closer to the wound and he quickly took his hand away, fingers frozen in midair.

“Sorry,” he murmured. She quickly settled again and he moved the wash cloth over her skin even gentler. “She’s just protective of me, that’s all. Still sees me as that little boy scraping his knees and elbows everytime I fell off my skateboard. Cutting the crusts off my sandwiches…” his voice trailed off softly.

“MMM” she groaned again between closed lips as his fingers began to dab at the broken skin, her head turning away from him, eyes closing to suppress the tears that threatened them.

“I know, I know.” He tried to soothe her. “Yeah, it’s definitely gonna need some stitches.” He says assessing the wound closer. 

He stood up from where he had been crouching beside her, hands dexterously retrieving the bits he would need from the kit and placing them on the side of the sink closest to them. He then washed his hands, carefully drying them on the towel beside him. They were both silent as his fingers opened the suture packet, pulling out the fresh needle and threading it. She watched his hands attentively, willing herself to stay calm despite the impending pain she knew she’d have to endure.

“You’re not gonna like this.” He said as he crouched down beside her, tearing open a packet of alcohol wipes. He swiped a wipe carefully over her shoulder. She instantly screwed up her face sneering at the sting, her head turning away from him again as she forcefully gripped the edge of the bathtub, knuckles turning white.

“Fuck. Peter.” she hissed between her teeth.

“I know, you’re doing so well baby.” The pet name falls from his lips so naturally to try and soothe the sting they both feel. His chest aches to see her in pain, he wishes he could just kiss it and make it better, but he knew he was doing the next best thing.

“Ow, OUCH!” she called out, her voice echoing off the bathroom tiles as she flinched away from him. He released her arm from his grasp, allowing her a respite before the next step. His hands rested on her thighs, palms rubbing back and forth soothingly as she began to settle again.

“Uhh, does it really need stitches.” her voice was a broken whine as her head turned to look at him again.

“I’m sorry.” he said as he gave her a look that told her it was unavoidable.

Her head tilted up to the ceiling as she shook her head, psyching herself up. She took a deep breath before looking back at him. “Okay.” she nodded as she closed her eyes again, continuing to psych herself up. “Just do it.” she huffed. 

He paused a moment, his hands still on her thighs as he allowed her another moment to make sure she was ready. He slowly took his hands away from her, reaching for the suture, sat waiting ready. He watched her closely as she kept her eyes closed, not wanting to look, knowing she’d lose her resolve. 

“I’m gonna try to be as quick as I can, I promise.”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed and agreed as she braced herself, his hand wrapping around her arm again.

The little noises she made as he used the curved needle to pierce her skin were unavoidable. “We’re almost there. You’re doing so good.” he cooed as she tried not to squirm under his touch. “Okay, one more, just one more baby.” he said as he passed the needle through her skin one last time, the fingers on his other hand reaching for the small pair of scissors to cut the surgical thread.

He took his hands away from her but she still didn’t open her eyes for another minute, allowing her breathing to steady as he began to clear things away. She finally opened her eyes as she felt his shadow loom over her. She looked to his hands to find him ripping open a large square shaped band aid. He carefully peeled off the backing before leaning over her and covering the area of her shoulder he’d just stitched up.

“Thank you.” she said quietly as he smoothed down the edges, his fingers brushing gently across her skin, leaving behind a tingling sensation in their wake.

They were so close. If she turned her head just a little they would kiss. For a moment he hesitated and she thought they would, but then he quickly stepped back and away from her.

“I’ll see if I can find you something to change into.” he said as he quickly turned his back on her and left the room.

She threw back her head to stare at the ceiling again as a new wave of tears threatened to spill over her bottom lashes. Her hands flew up to her face, hiding her eyes as she breathed deeply, willing her emotions away. She knew the day she’d eventually be able to go back to him would be hard, but she had never expected this. Everytime she looked at his face, she couldn’t see past the hurt in his eyes. She figured she’d be grateful he hadn’t moved on and found someone new to replace her with. Hadn’t walked back into that house and seen him lying in bed with another woman, but she knew that wasn’t her Peter. Then again, the pain her leaving had caused him, was he still her Peter. A lot can change in three years. Heck she’d changed in those three years.

She slowly stood up, wiping away her tears. Her hands reached to turn on the tap, allowing the cool water to soothe her skin, she splashed her face, wiping away the sweat and the grime and the few flecks of dried blood. She stared at herself in the mirror trying to recognise the woman she saw there as the same woman who had stood here all those years ago, but she couldn’t.

She turned off the tap, dabbing at her face with the towel as she heard three taps on the door. Peter slowly opened the door, his hand reaching out in front of him towards her, a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a white t-shirt folded neatly on top of his hand. She recognised the sweats as an old pair of his he had left here since he was a teen, the same pair she used to borrow when she stayed over. The t-shirt she was surprised to see was an old one of her own. An old Rolling Stones t-shirt she thought was long lost.

“Thank you.” she said as she gently took them from him.

“Umm, I’m gonna sleep on the sofa, you can take my old bedroom,” he said. His eyes struggled to meet her. It all felt so familiar, yet also so foreign. She wanted to say something but she didn’t know what. She just stared at him and he gave a quiet nod of his head before he closed the door again.

She crept into the spare room, her hands immediately dumping her clothes onto the empty chair just inside the door, before she closed it. He’d left the bedside lamp on for her, the faint glow adding warmth to the room. She couldn’t help but creep across the floor, her eyes searching the old familiar walls full of photos, old drawings, newspaper clippings. Her fingertips dragged across one of the old wooden shelves, taking in old school trophies, physics books, a picture of Peter and May at his graduation. The room was like a time capsule. She came to a stop in front of the end of the bed, staring at the sheets, undisturbed, lonely. It didn’t feel right, sleeping in this bed without him.

Before she could stop herself her hand was already on the door handle, ready to throw it open and creep down the hall, begging him to come to bed. But she froze. All that time, that space between them, as she stood there and felt it, it began to consume her. Instead she let her fingers drop to her sides, her feet begrudgingly walking around the side of the bed. She slowly climbed in under the covers. She stared at the door, one last time, willing him to come to her instead, but he didn’t. Tentatively she reached over, her fingers turning off the light, plunging her into darkness.

————————————————

As stated at the top new chapters will drop on Wednesdays and Fridays! If you want to be added to the tag list please put that in writing for me. Oh and if you are enjoying what you’re reading tip me like you would your waiter at a restaurant and reblog and leave me comments and feedback, it honestly fuels me up to keep writing and sharing.

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[sincericida]

FINALLYYYAAAAAAHHH!

Guuuurl.... "Christened with the blood of her tormenter", "that made him hers. Her fate was hers. Her life was hers". This was so absolutely powerful! I know you avoided descriptions, but I finally got my cast for Honey:

Me, in all the reading:

sugar and vice, pt. 21 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!oc]

summary: still don't know my name.

words: 5 k

chapter warning: blood and smut. a lot of it. in detail.

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, hurt/comfort. Spicy situations. spousal abuse. family trauma. PTSD, psychotic breaks/episodes, drug use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. possessive!peter, protective!peter. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you

don't know the connection between cartoons and Saturday mornings

don't remember a time when phones didn't have touchscreens

never had to listen to the CRINK CRINK CRINK of winding up a camera to take a picture

= if one or more of these elements apply to you, you may be entitled to compensation, which you should come back for when you're 18.

Back to Part 20.

A/N Might be a good time to throw on the official Sugar and Vice Spotify playlist...

Part 21

“You still with me?” Peter asked so softly it could be a croon. 

The sound startled her. Her body went rigid from where she sat on the bathroom floor. She pushed her back against the ebony-stained vanity, her legs tucked under the blanket of her arms. The whole moment felt eerie, overwhelmed with a sense of deja vu in the sanctuary of Peter’s bathroom. Exquisite black marble, gold fixtures, and ivory subway tile surrounded her; by contrast, her blood-splattered appearance was ghastly.

At least she wasn’t the only one. 

She didn’t know how much time had passed since she murdered John. All she knew was that his blood had gone cold and tacky on her skin. Peter had called for Felicia to back them up immediately, warning her “if I see anyone else’s face but yours, I’m puttin’ a bullet in it.” 

Ironically, he said this with the phone pressed against one shoulder while he ripped a sleeve from his suit jacket to use as a bandage around his bullet wound. Despite his injuries, he carried her in his arms from the carnage, instructing her to keep her cloudy eyes on his face until they were secure.

As soon as they crossed the threshold of his bedroom, Peter reached for a hidden panel on the wall near the frame. She heard the whirring of an electronic device and the pressurized hiss of something moving within the wall. Seconds later, the doorway was sealed with a steel door, locked down tighter than a bank vault.

He brought her to the bathroom, gingerly placing her down before ripping open a drawer, vigilantly loading another weapon hidden inside. He kept it close, peeking briefly beneath the makeshift bandage on his arm. His white dress shirt was torn, splattered with merlot hues. 

She kept her eyes forward, breathing steadily through her nose. 

The next few minutes were filled with pacing, fidgeting, and clenched fists. He muttered useless words, mostly reassurances that she knew he couldn’t promise and apologies he didn’t need to make. After confirmation from Felicia via an intercom system that the Penthouse was secure, Peter finally began to relax.

Honey still wondered if anything was real. Maybe her entire existence was a crazy, fever-dream. A dark fairytale filled with heroes and monsters. Kings. And Demons. And Robots. And Prince Charming. 

“It’s okay,” Peter gently reminded her as he kneeled before her. Hearing his voice pulled her back to the present. Slowly, he brought his hands up to the sides of her face. Her eyes fluttered closed when she felt the rough pads of his thumbs brushing away her tears. 

That dizzy feeling hit her again, and she tried to swallow it down. When her eyes opened, she saw her friend staring back at her, the shadow of a smile adorning his face. Tears budded in the corners of his whiskey eyes. Chocolate, oranges, and the golden hue of an Old Fashioned.

She leaned her cheek into his palm, nuzzling it as she gazed up at him anxiously. 

“Need ya to trust me, okay?” he cooed as if their minds were synced. “Is it okay if I help you get cleaned up?” Innocently, his eyes traveled down her neck to her shoulders and the carnage beneath them. He took in the sight of her, chewing his bottom lip. “Just... just wanna take care of you, alright? Nothin’ else.”

He waited. She nodded.

“Okay, jus’-just take my hands, and I’m gonna help you stand up, okay?” He turned over his palms and waited for her to them. She did.

He came to a gentle stand, pulling her up with him. “Are you hurt anywhere? Are you in pain?”

She paused. Shook her head. 

“Good, good, good,” he breathed in relief. He placed a hand on her lower back, keeping her other hand tight within his, and took a step forward with her. Gently, he guided her across the bathroom up to the glass of the enormous, obsidian walk-in shower that took up half of the room. 

He stepped inside and twisted the golden knobs on the wall. A wide column of rain showered from the ceiling, clouds of steam forming around it.

She stood with arms wrapped around her soiled camisole top, which clung uncomfortably to her skin. Quietly, she observed him as he fussed with the shower handles, dipping his hand in the stream, before diligently adjusting the temperature until it was perfect. 

His movements were somewhat frantic, as if he were completing a checklist. The next move was to unbutton his destroyed shirt and tenderly peel it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His belt was next as he undid the trousers and stepped out of them. 

“Peter.”

Her voice was silent as falling snow, but he snapped his head in her direction, eyes wide at attention. “Yeah? What’s wrong? Do... d’you not... I... I can-I can turn around, or-or leave, if-if you want... I-I-I’ll do whatever you want.”

She fixed him with eyes that were almost surreal. They glistened something meek and melancholic in their depths. At the same time, there was a sense of uneasy awe, her fascination fueling a frightening notion. Whatever her mind was thinking of, she was both timid of it as much as she was tempted by it.

And it terrified him. “Jus’... jus’ tell me what you need. Whatever you want.” He gazed at her worriedly, afraid that she was drifting into the darkness away from him. He took her hand firmly in his own, worried she might be lost in the galaxy.

It took centuries to find her voice. “I... I want... I want to know...” she fumbled clumsily, her lips parted as she gazed at his. “I want you to tell me that I’m good.”

Peter’s breath hitched as something sharp twisted in his chest. He pursed his lips together, eyes filled with sadness. “Oh, Honey...” he breathed out. Unshed tears gathered at his lower lashes as he gazed upon her with a tragic heart. Carefully, he inched closer to her.

She watched him struggle to find his words, and when he did there was a tremor in his voice. “Honey,” he slowly repeated, bringing his hands up to embrace her cheeks. “What happened back there...” He winced as his throat bobbed. “Wh-what you just did... was… it was necessary.”

He bit down on his lower lip to keep it still. It occurred to her that he was having flashbacks. He was remembering a pair of green eyes that fixed him with a similar brokenhearted gaze.

“You saved our lives,” he breathed with resolve. “You saved my life.” Peter caressed her cheek, staring down at her like a goddess. Each touch was a gospel of gratitude. “You were strong and smart, and so... so incredibly brave.” He lamented with an aching heart, “Don’t ever forget that. You did the right thing.”

“Peter—” 

“Of course, Honey. Of course, you’re good—”

“Peter, stop.”

He held his breath, blinking curiously. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she softly replied. He watched the way her eyes trailed from his, back down to his mouth. She inched closer to him, breathing through parted lips, stopping only when she could feel the heat radiating off of his chest. Peter barely registered the labored breathing clawing from both their chests.

Her eyes were dark. And they were ablaze. Darkness and light. Fire roared inside them. Curiously, Peter observed how she burned and fixed him with a look that could incinerate him where he stood.

He suddenly gasped at the most gentle of sensations, shuddering like his whole body had been electrified. Her delicate fingers brushed over the cotton of his trunks, cupping his bulge. Mouth agape, he turned to putty. Clay for her to mold however she saw fit.

Entranced, she watched his reaction, hunger written on her features. “You said I can have anything I want,” she said in a devious tone. “I wanna ride you, Peter.”

His breath hitched as he felt her tiny hands pull back the elastic of his trunks and sneak inside. He gaped at the feeling of her warm fingers stroking the delicate skin of his shaft. 

She chanted dangerously, her desire drawing the sounds from her belly, “I want to feel you... all of you...”

Peter trembled as her hand tightened, glancing down for a brief second. If he lingered on the sight of her hand jutting out of his briefs for too long, he was afraid he’d pass out and die.

“I want your cock...” she cooed with a filthy tone, sliding down her hand from base to head. Her fingertips brushed across the tip, smearing the silky wetness leaking out. His erection had come to life in record time, straining against his trunks. “I want it buried in me so deep,” she breathed, “that I can feel you in my belly.”

Peter groaned as she rubbed her palm over his head, lubricating his shaft with his precum as she drove it back down the sides. His lashes fluttered shut, face twisted in torture.

“I wanna feel you inside days after,” she declared, her voice heavy and erotic. She slid her hand up and brought it back down again, with a slow twist of her wrist as she approached the head. He grunted at the sensation, hunger building up as his abs tightened and twitched.

“I want you to fill me. Everywhere.”

He flicked his eyes open, gazing down at her through heavy lids and a slightly lifted chin. He dragged each exhale out from his core, the heat of his lungs rivaling the steam of the shower.

“With your body. With your cum.”

The filth of her words shocked his cock to attention, mesmerized by her sudden dominance. He brought his hand to rest on her lower back, pulling her closer. Part of the reasoning was self-interest, allowing her a better angle to pump his dick, her languid pace increasing with each jerk. The other reason was to steady himself, keeping his knees from buckling and reassuring himself that he wasn’t dreaming.

“I want you to make me take it all,” she groaned lustfully, sending another jolt down his shaft. She tightened her grip as she pumped up and down. The intensity of her words increased with her speed. “All night... Every night... For the rest of my life.”

Peter gasped at the thought, choking back a moan. His forehead briefly dipped to rest on hers before he straightened himself and poured his lustful gaze into her wanton eyes.

“No shame. No guilt. I want you to fuck me like I can’t get enough,” she breathed hotly. A mix of fluids lubricated his cock. She melted as noticed his hips meeting her palm with tiny uncontrollable thrusts.

“‘Til I’m weak... ‘Til I beg you to stop because I couldn’t possibly come anymore.”

Dizzy with desire, he glanced down at the lewd sight, mouth falling agape at the depravity. Blood from their bodies had crept down her wrist, coating her hand. His thick erection was tinted with blood, both from the inside and coating the outside. 

His voice strained and shattered beneath an irrepressable moan. Even if she stopped speaking at that moment, he was sure he’d explode from the debauched sight alone.

“After that, I want you to hold me close,” she muttered, heartwrenching need infiltrating the throaty sound of her chants. “And I want you to tell me I’m a good girl.” 

Longingly, he found her eyes and was trapped there, a loyal subject strapped down and helpless to her ministrations. Clenching his canines, he fixed her with a hungry expression that promised all she asked and more. Her whole body shuddered at that look. She dripped with desire, achingly wet, as she felt his fingertips dig trails behind her back. 

“And then I want you to hold me down and fuck me all over again.”

Peter snapped, letting out a deep groan that reverberated in his chest, snatching her lips up in his. She moaned at the burn of his beard on her lips, shuddering as his tongue glided over hers. His grip crushed her chest to his. He pulled back a moment, panting. Her lips tasted like tears and blood and all he wanted was to eat her alive.

“Fuck,” he muttered breathlessly, gazing at her with eyes that begged his body to let them fuck her first. “C’mere—”

He scooped her into his grasp, pulling her into the shower stream. His hands were tantric, everywhere at once. She released his erection, instead wrapping her arms around the back of his neck. 

His tongue pried her lips open. Once inside, it dominated hers, pushing back her head until a whimper stirred in her throat. She trembled and gasped as his free hand reached up beneath the camisole’s front, sliding beneath the sticky fabric to knead her breast.

Her mouth fell open, a helpless sigh breezing over the roar of the shower. Hot water poured over them, but it felt cold on their bodies and did little to put out the flame within. She mewled at the feeling of his rough fingertips teasing her nipple and his tongue forcing her mouth open further. Peter tipped her back into an arc, his slippery arms somehow locking her in place as his lips set fire to her neck.

He kissed away the stains of the past while she desperately tried to rid herself of her joggers, all while simultaneously grinding her core on his thigh. As soon as he sensed what she wanted, he pulled back to remove the camisole. It tore apart like tissue paper in his grip, exposing her cranberry-stained chest to him.

He peeled it off her arms, then hooked his fingers in her waistband, shoving it down to her ankles. She returned the action with hungry eyes and greedy hands, yanking his trunks down to land the pooling crimson on the shower floor. Her mouth fell open at the sight of his erection bobbing free.

The drain ran red, as did their lust. In moments they were both bare skinned, with nothing but red rivers and rain droplets between them. Hurriedly, she reached for his cock again, returning to the pace she’d set earlier. 

After a couple of quick pumps, Peter snatched up her hands, denying her control. He pushed her back against the tiled wall, pinning her wrists above her head. 

“Gah—yea-yes!” she heaved desperately with a moan. His hands shackled her wrists to the wall, while his lips attacked the junction of her shoulder and neck. He sucked tiny, raspberry-colored welts alongside the rusty art pieces that hung on her skin, using his tongue to redecorate her body.

“So fuckin’ good,” he muttered like a man possessed, bending his neck to get a better angle. “So fuckin’ sexy...”

Honey squeaked as his mouth surrounded her nipple, his teeth and beard scraping gently. She gazed down at the lewd image of him suckling on her breast with bloody lips. She winced, her cunt shamefully clenching at the sight. He playfully nipped at the flesh beneath her nipple before returning his lips to her jawline. 

“Aah, aghh, Peter, please!” she gasped.

“Please, what, baby? You wan’me to stop?”

“No, don’stop don’stop—”

“Gotta use your words, baby girl—”

“I need you inside me!” she cried out. “Please...!” 

“Please?”

“Please, Peter, fuck me! I need—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” he tutted in a tone that was almost cruel. “I know what you need.”

He then lowered one of his hands, dragging it slowly down her cheek, then her throat, applying extra pressure over her voice box, and further down her breast to the round of her belly. Driving further, he pivoted his wrist, caressing her folds with the delectable calluses on his fingers. 

“Gotta get you ready for me…” 

Her breath hitched as he wasted no time sliding his middle finger into her core. She preened beneath him, perched on her toes with her arms pinned above her head, panting with every swirl of his digit. 

“Fuuuck, you’re so wet.” 

He intently observed each micro-movement of her enraptured expression. It was a mouth-watering display, his cherry lips falling open at the sight. Thunder rumbled deep in his chest.

“Ya like that?” His hot breath tickled the shell of her ear.

She mewled, desperately nodding her head. 

“Ya want more?”

“pleasepleasepleaseyes—”

His ring finger joined the first, languidly—teasingly penetrating her core. “Oooh, there ya go…that’s it… spread your legs...”

She brought up one thigh, planting her heel against the wall. Her pelvic bone bucked as she opened up her hips obediently, allowing his palm more access to smooth over her clit. Her desire turned feral as she ground her pussy into his hand. Licking his lips, he gawked lasciviously as his fingertips touched places in her she didn’t know existed.

“Such a good girl,” he cooed insatiably over her obscene cries.

He tightened the tendons in his arm, speeding up the pace at which he rubbed her clit. Her heart hammered in her chest and in his ears like a drum. Her lashes fluttered, gazing longingly into his desire.

“That’s it, ’s’okay, princess. Use me. Grind that pretty pussy against my hand. Gonna feel so good.”

She looked so pure in her ecstasy, and so depraved in the impurity of it all. It made him weak. Obsessed, he followed the current of hot water and blood cresting over her curves, joining the juices on his fingers. 

“God, you make me so hard… ya don’even—ugh— C’mon, almost there, baby. Doin’ so good...”

With a choked mewl, she gushed around his fingers. He groaned as he felt her core twitch and flutter. He touched her through her high, as long as he possibly could wait, impatiently releasing her wrists and lowering to his knees as she came down. He dragged his mouth across her body, pressing open-mouth kisses to her skin. 

It was only when she neared the twilight of her climax that she noticed him kneeling in front of her thighs. She mewled warily, and he fixed her with a devilish smile.

“Now…lemme taste you, baby,” he whispered with a selfish, needy lilt in his voice.

Prying her thighs apart, he hooked one of them over his shoulder. She gasped, bracing herself carefully against the wall, squirming in his hold. With his tongue, he spread her open, greedily teasing as he licked into her entrance. 

“Y’taste so good...” 

Peter’s breathy voice pitched into a near whine as he ravished her with his tongue. It was an obscene sound that could coax an orgasm from her without ever touching her. Voraciously, he dragged his tongue from her entrance to her clit, kissing the bud tenderly. He teased it with kitten licks, making her tremble above him.

“I gotcha,” he whispered, noting her distress. “Don’t worry, I’ll give ya what’chu want, princess. Gonna spoil you.”

She whimpered as he devoured her. Her eyes swam looking down through the clouds of steam to his crown of soppy brown curls. She watched his eyes flutter shut, locked on her cunt like it was a prayer. He worshiped her honeysuckle lips, weak for the taste. She wondered if he was prone to addiction from the way he indulged himself. 

The intense memory of the first time he ate her out washed over her. The vision excited her and tightened the coil in her belly, drawing a needy groan from her mouth. His eyes shot open at the sound, peering up at her through the crimson-streaked valley between her breasts. 

When their eyes met, she felt more than an orgasm coming. A white-hot surge of energy was bursting from her core. It was a comforting sensation and an equally dangerous one. 

It was more than safety. It was power.

Not just the metaphorical ‘power’ in her relationship, or even ‘power’ over her own sexuality. She wielded both of those and more. It was a different kind of power, having been baptized in the fire roaring beneath Roosevelt Avenue, and now christened with the blood of her tormenter.

It was barbarically satisfying. She wondered if this is what Peter felt when she saw him at his most savage. In the train station. Inside the VIP lounge of Web. Bloody and gloriously brutal. Conquering his enemies. Defending what was his. 

She was his.

If he was Ruler of the Underworld, she was his Spring. 

She saved his life. 

That made him hers.

Her fate was hers. Her life was hers. 

And she knew exactly who she wanted to spend it with. 

“Peter…”

How she wanted to spend her time in this world.

If Heaven was the moment you want to live in for all eternity, and that moment was now within her grasp, did that make her a god?

“God, Peter, oh... yes—”

“Give it all to me, love. Be a good girl—”

Back arching off the wall, the blood in her body crashed towards her center in a tide of pleasure. He growled as she came in his mouth, his lips eagerly moaning around her folds. This time he didn’t stop, despite how painfully hard he was. Devotedly, he milked her pleasure, drawing it out in waves. 

“Gahhh—pleaseplease— s’too much—”

“You can take it, Honey. I know you can. You’re doin’ so well— so good for me. My sweet, good little girl...”

Possessed by a new fervor, she rode his lips again to another orgasm. He rewarded her, again and again with his mouth, until vertigo began to set in.

Through the haze, she heard him whisper, “We don’t have to keep going.” 

Peter’s voice was as gentle as a feather, a vast contrast from the gravelly, desperate tone he’d had while on his knees. 

Towering over her, he leaned his forearm against the wall above them while the other forearm wrapped around her pulsating torso. He clung her to his heart, drawing circles on her shoulder blade. Patiently, he waited for Honey to float back down to the Earth. Meanwhile, he relished in the warmth of her labored breaths across his skin.

“We can stop right now,” he muttered in secret.

Slowly, she leaned back to peer up at him beneath her wet lashes. “Do you wanna stop?”

He drowned himself in the depths of her eyes while he choked down his needs. “You don’t owe me anything. I don't wanna take what you’re not ready to give.”’

The longer she gazed at him, the dizzier she became. She felt intoxicated as if his eyes were indeed made of bourbon. “I’m ready,” she said. “M’ready to give you the world.”

His gaze softened. The sentiment sparkled in their amber hues, and his stomach took flight on the backs of butterflies. “You’re my world.”

She swayed in the wind of their colorful wings. “Lucky for you, then.”

Her smile lit up his life. Had he not been desperate to kiss her, it would’ve killed him to cover it up. He embraced the darkness, making sure it was worth it. Peter felt his heart bursting as he kissed her deeply, the intensity of which made them both lightheaded. 

They parted lips, and he gazed down at her with half-lidded eyes. “You sure?”

She touched her nose to his. “Yes, Peter. Please.”

A tremor racked through him, despite his eagerness. He pressed another kiss to her lips as he lined himself up to her core. Trembling, he was so hard that even the slightest brush made him ache. Desire dripping from his shaft, he pressed the head of his cock up against her entrance.

“You tell me,” he breathed, his eyes fixed on hers, “If you wanna stop. Just say the word... if it’s too much.”

Her fingers scaled the nape of his neck, brushing idly over an old scar. As she carded them into his hair, she scraped her nails through his scalp, drawing a hiss and triggering a jolt she could feel against her cunt.

“You, too,” she murmured, pushing her tongue past his ravaged lips. 

He breathed deep and slow, steadily applying pressure. The burn of their union was so intense, they both thought they’d melt. Peter groaned as Honey slid tightly over his head, his hands gripping the backs of her thighs to control her descent.

Gasping through an open mouth, she cried out as she neared the base. He stilled immediately, kissing away her budding tears. “So good, baby... So, so good...” The squeeze of her hips on his cock was a drug in itself. “So tight for me.”

He lapped up her pornographic moan, lowering her further down his shaft. A soft mewl echoed from his chest, as he muttered her pet name in exasperation. A moment later, he was fully seated inside of her, with her back pressed against the wall and her thighs in his grip. 

Slowly, he moved his hips.

Heaven. He was in Heaven. It was the only explanation that made sense. Peter gazed at the ecstasy unfolding in her enraptured face. His hungry eyes glanced down to steal a sinful glimpse where he impaled her. He thrust his hips adding a dizzying jolt of electricity. 

He was obsessed with the view, watching his cock slip in and out of her folds. 

This was a dream. 

It was better than a dream. 

They spoke an ancient language, made up of carnal sounds and heartwrenching sighs. With every roll of their hips, they wrote another line of their declaration together. Another verse of the vow they made to each other.

“God, you’re so perfect,” he breathed as his pace picked up. “Such an angel...”

“I’m-m’ not,” she muttered through gasps of air. It was hard to form a response when she could feel his reach all the way up in her brain. “I’m not innocent—”

“You’re mine,” Peter growled defiantly. “That’s all that matters. I know what I said. I don’t care if it’s wrong to say. Don’t care if it makes me sound possessive, or whatever... M’done pretending I don’t wan’it to be true. You’re mine, ya hear me? All of you. Your innocence. Your sweetness. Your sins.” 

With a gutteral groan he jerked his hips up, pulling a desperate, wet sigh from her mouth. 

“I want it all,” he said in a throaty whisper. “Wanna give you everything y’want. Anything.” 

His voice got weaker as his hips pivoted upwards to strike even deeper. He was completely in control of her hips, hooking his elbows beneath her knees and opening a new gateway to her soul.

“s s-s-so deep...”

“Ya like that?”

“Uh-huh...”

“You wan’me t’keep goin’?”

“Ye-yeah...”

“Wan’me to take you? Keep ya next to me forever? You’ll never want for anything again. Never be afraid again. Swear to god, no one else’ll touch you ever again—”

“Ugh, god... Peter... You’re so fucking hot—”

“M’gonna make love to you every night. Gonna make you scream for me.”

Her cries got louder, moans twisting up into a higher octave. Her pussy clenched around him with each of his words, drawing a hiss from him. She gripped his shoulders for balance as he fucked up into her, pinning her hips against the wall and bestowing her with pleasure.

“M’gonna fill you up,” he babbled, voice trembling. “Ga-gonna breed you, princess. Fill you with my cum, my babies... n’anything else you want. Just say it, an’it’s yours, Honey. Gonna make you a mommy, and you’re gonna make me a daddy.”

Her cunt quivered at the word, triggering a flood of sin washing over her body. “Fuck!”

“That’s it... my naughty girl. S’okay, good girls can be naughty sometimes—”

“Fuck, Peter, you’re gonna make me come.”

“God, if you clench around me right now, I’m gonna lose it. Gonna blow my load and pass the fuck out—”

“I wan’it.. Wan’it s-so bad.”

“S’at right?”

“Please, ah—egnh—god, please! Wanna be good for you. So good for you, daddy—”

Their words collapsed into meaningless cries and shattered sentences— godyesyesyes— comeonmycockbaby— as they worked each other towards a divine release. 

Honey pulled him deeper into her center, tightening around him as she felt a whip crack in her gut. Relishing in the flutter and spasming inside her core, his hips sputtered. He groaned as he released inside of her, filling her with his seed and his very soul.

Peter held her steady with wobbly legs, barely able to use his strength as the blinding lights cleared from his vision. He opened his eyes to look upon her blissed-out face, wondering how on Earth can someone make him stronger and weaker in the same moment.

Even as he conquered his darkness, she commanded the light in his heart. She was always his Queen, and he was a slave to the fruit of her hive.

“I want you to ask me, Peter,” she mumbled weakly. He was still seated inside of her.

“Ask you what?” He breathed heavily in her hold.

“I want you to ask me again. For my hand.”

He went still. Heart stopped. Breath turning to frost in his chest. 

Coyly, his honey-hued eyes saught hers with the timidness of a fawn. He was afraid to move. Afraid that a twig snap could chase this moment away. Unsure of what he’d heard and what day it was and what year it was and what he ever thought he was going to do with his life had he never walked in to that shop—

“But I don’t want you to ask me yet.” Her eyes shimmered and the sight made his heart swell. He curled a brow upwards as he considered her remark. 

“I want you to wait... just for a little while... until I know I’ve become the person you’d want to ask.” 

Heaven. Peter was certain of it now. No other explanation made sense. A smile curled his lips as he gazed at her longingly. His affection soared above the clouds.

“Could you do that for me?” she asked shyly.

He beamed. “Could I wait?” He couldn’t hold back the soft chuckle that spilled out. “Oh, Honey. I’ve been waiting forever for you. I’ll wait until the end of time.” He smirked, “Or... ‘til I’m back in diapers again, if ya want.”

She snorted gently, unable to contain her smile. He giggled at the sound, touching his forehead to hers, and falling in love with her all over again.

And finally, they were both made clean.

To be continued...

A/N thank you for the outpouring of love after the last chapter. a note on our 'Honey':

Her birth name was mentioned, but her name is Honey. In my head, she is an AFAB character with a Hispanic surname, but I've tried hard to avoid descriptions of hair color, skin color, eye color, body shape, or otherwise. In many ways, she's an OC, but she's written like a reader-insert character. I will continue to try to be as inclusive as possible with my writing, while acknowledging that I am limited (and inherently biased) by my narrow, personal experiences, and they don't reflect everyone else's experiences.

Do you feel like you resonate with Honey? Good! Continue to do so. You are Honey. And I love you.

And thanks for reading. 💜

please don't send me hate or discount this whole story over 2 words.

[tiger-grace]

any time I am asked to talk about any of my interests like a normal person it turns into a hostage situation

[hiro-doodlez]

Guys I made one of those interest board things:3c

IF U LIKE A TON OF THESE I THINK YOU SHOULD BE MY MOOT

[bluumey]

✨️Get them here

Got some new prints up in my Inprnt shop for the holiday! And brought back the Spiderman print since so many people liked it. They'll be up until about February.

I'm honestly really happy with my output this year of filler pieces. I wish I had time to get to the others I had planned, but I had to make room for Siphoned. Looking forward to creating more next year, though 🫶🏾

[noiraph]

spidermob

[thethirdmaulertwin]

My three favorite men (Donald, doc Ock, Naruto). In a car. The nerds are traumadumping, Naruto is hungry. That's. That's basically the show

Done with the man the myth the legend @cyrusking100 let's fucking GO

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

this is their first date

[monster-cock69]

Au where for whatever reason omega Peter gets bit but has no interest in being spider man but is still like “might as well do good” and beats a robber’s ass one day

Alpha Tony sees him and gets all the info out of him and offers him a nanny position for his kid whose mom was killed. He sends him through self defense and badassery training and everything.

One day they’re attacked and Peter either a) kills them all because bad ass or b) gets kidnapped but the baby doesn’t because badass

[reidslovely]

Love of Mine

Heeeey @hollandweather remember that request you sent me forever ago?? ii went with the mob!peter version ii hope you're good with that :)

Pairing: Mob!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: Lots of fighting and yelling, happyish ending, angsty. Let me know if I missed anything cause I'm sure I did.

Kind of a sequel but not really to this

Pretty please read and reblog!! thanks friend

Freshly painted black nails contrasted against the soft cream color of the armchair cushion as she dug her nails into the fabric. Standing in the dimly lit office waiting for him to notice her, she stood like a haunting figure in front of him, simply waiting for an acknowledgment. 

“Peter.” Her words came out soft, yet stern. Swallowing the angry lump in her throat as his eyebrows raised, and his chest fell.

“Yes baby?”

He spoke simply, not even lifting his head to acknowledge her. He was engrossed in whatever he was looking at some paper with a mugshot attached. Ever since the shootout that killed him Peter had been different. He came back different. Angerier, more cruel. Never to her, just others. She hadn’t been sure what happened, maybe it had given him time to reflect. Time to be angry at the cards he was dealt in life. 

“Do you not..?” She fumbled over her words in her upset. 

“It feels like you don’t care about..us anymore Peter.” There was a sad honesty in her voice. She wished she had been making it up, that it was all in her head. Peter threw himself into his work the moment he got better. He’d leave several times for days on end; not a single call to let her know he was okay or when he’d be home. It was unlike him. 

He furrowed his brows, looking at her finally. “Of course I care, baby.”

 Again, there's the distance in his voice. It feels rehearsed, almost like he’d been practicing this delivery for the months he’s been back. There were times where he didn’t seem himself, he was quick to anger and quick to jump. He and Harry having nearly had several physical altercations since being back. Felicia having gone ghost on them after she and Peter had it out over an action plan. His wife was feeling his anger, and it was nesting in her. She could try to nurse him back to his mentality before, she could settle his arguments with friends and colleagues. However, she could only handle him neglecting her for so long. 

“Do you know what today is?” She began to wander around the office. Their wedding picture is sitting snugly on the bookcase in a gold frame. Both are much younger in the photo having gotten married straight out of high school. 

“October 19th..wh- Oh, oh baby.” 

For a moment her Peter was there, the realization washed over the room. She knew he felt like an idiot rethinking the day. She’d made his favorite breakfast, they showered together, and she’d even gone shopping and excitedly showed him everything she had gotten. She was now dressed in a purple slip dress she’d bought today. 

 He forgot their anniversary. 

 Peter stood up from his desk rushing to her. She felt exposed under his touch, pulling her face away as he grabbed her jaw in his calloused hand. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry baby.” 

“It’s whatever Peter.” She backed away, tears pooling in her eyes. “I just wanted to know that you still cared and…well, I got my answer.” Angrily she stormed out of his office, slamming the door shut behind her. A photo of them falling off his decor table in the show of aggression, the frame bursting into dozens tiny pieces. 

Peter followed behind her, his feet slamming against the hardwood of the stairs. “I don’t care! Is that what you’re saying right now?” 

“That's what I said.” She yells back trying to slam their bedroom door in his face. Peter grabbed it, pushing it open. He stared at her in shock, standing there with his arms at his side. His wife glaring back at him, tears spilling down her cheeks. 

“You don’t care about me or us anymore. All you care about is killing those people who hurt you. All you care about is work, what’s being moved in and what's being taken out.” She started pointing a finger at him. “This is the last fucking straw Peter. I’m fucking tired. I can’t keep fixing the things you fuck up because you are so blinded by rage. You are so fucking selfish. You forgot my birthday, and our wedding anniversary. Harry doesn’t even want to see you any fucking more because you are not yourself. I want Peter back not whatever fucking stranger crawled into your body while you were dying. I want my husband because you are not him, he was a good husband.” 

Both her and Peter stared at one another. She knew she shouldn’t have said it.  

Her anger echoed in the room, she expected him to fight back. She wanted him to fight back, yell, scream, let her know that he in some way cared. Instead he turned and looked at himself in the mirror and then down at his socked feet. 

“So me proving I care about you, about Harry. About anything other than myself would mean I’d stop taking down the people who hurt me. I’d stop going after Li or Fisk’s guys who got together and planned to kill not only me but everything I cared about including you?”

 He stared at her like she had five heads. Not knowing how to respond she rubbed her hands down her face. He was putting words in her mouth. 

“Cool, cool  yeah. I’ll stop, fuck I’ll step down from being the head of this organization.  We can totally live a normal life not constantly looking over our shoulders.`` 

“You’re being mean, you’re putting words in my fucking mouth.” She warns. Peter takes a deep breath shaking his head as he looks down, something he did to keep himself from crying. 

“I went to that warehouse to protect all of you. Do you understand that? Because if I didn’t go to them, they were gonna come to us. Now, I am cleaning up a mess I made that has put you all at risk. I’m..” Peter’s hands shook at his side, before coming up to rub his face aggressively. He dropped down to the floor sitting his back against the wall. 

“I’m sorry I’m a bad husband, I haven’t been a good husband since that night and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I left you here, I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry that I put you in any danger by coming back. But as a good husband and as a good friend or boss I have to kill them.” He whispered to her, as she joined him on the floor. 

“You have every right to be mad at me. I’m mad at myself. And this isn’t me guilt tripping you, this is me telling you that you’re right I haven’t been a good husband and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I forgot your birthday and our anniversary and that I’ve been a total piece of shit.”

“I didn’t mean it. I just, I knew it would hurt your feelings and I wanted you to hurt like I did.” 

Peter kissed her head, his hand cradling her cheek bringing her to his chest. She let out a soft sigh burying her head in his neck. “I just got caught up in keeping everyone safe that I forgot what I was protecting. I am so sorry for hurting you and doing anything that made you feel like I didn’t love you” He whispered in her hair, rubbing small circles on her back. 

“I know. And I know I’ll forgive you for it, but can we start by at least having an anniversary night? It’s all I want, just you and me, no work or anything.”

“I’ll give you an anniversary week, how's that?” Peter bargains. “Make up for the missed birthday. We can go anywhere you want.” 

“Anywhere?” She smiles up at her husband, who gives her a loving look before kissing her cheek. 

“Anywhere.” He confirms holding her closer. “I love you.” He assures her, pulling her legs over his thigh rocking her. 

“I love you too.”

[charkyzombicorn]

Found family that is this specifically

[backtothefanfiction]

The Angel In The Garden of Evil | Epilogue: Not Another Envelope

Summary: We say goodbye to our favourite couple in a similar manner we said hello to them, with an envelope on the dining room table, a secret hidden inside.

Warnings: 18+ Only, genre typical content, references to the demise of characters in previous chapter, fluff, a surprise, implied smut, daddy/mommy kink (if that doesn't give away the surprise I don't know what will)

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: The final authors note *begins weeping*. This is it, the end. I have had the most wonderful time writing this series and sharing it with you all. A big thanks to @sincericida and @tarzinnia for your continued support and reblogging and leaving your thoughts all over this series, they honestly kept me going and helped so much. Another big thanks to @liz-allyn if it wasn't for your Sugar + Vice series inspiring me, Angel would never have happened. I hope this Epilogue ties up this series in a nice bow for everyone and we can all go away with a fuzzy feeling in our tummies with hope for the future. I will be having a Q & A session to wrap up any final questions and talk further about all our favourite bits in the series, so be sure to fill up my inbox with your Q's and best bits. And before anyone asks as we haven't come back to him in a bit, Miles is doing good. His leg healed and Angel moved him to work more on F.E.A.S.T operations full time. He is very happy and healthy. Anyway, let's say goodbye shall we.

EPILOGUE

She hadn’t felt this nervous since she had first walked back into this house 10 months ago. Her stomach turned as she tried to breathe deeply and keep calm. ‘I can do this,’ she thought to herself, as she crouched down to check the food in the oven for the 5th time in the last 10 minutes.

“Come on Pete, where are you?” she muttered as she tapped her foot absentmindedly on the harlequin tiled kitchen floor.

After everything had happened there had been quite a few changes. They had left Hobie in charge of cleaning up as they went on a well needed second honeymoon. Peter had hired a yacht for them to sail around the coast of Italy for two weeks; of course stopping off in the little town she had lived in for the near three years they were separated, so that Angel could introduce her husband to Maria and her magic meatballs.

When they came back Peter signed the entire business over to Angel. There was a small amount of teething room, Peter playing mediator between allies as he announced the change in management; but given her family history, most of them were satisfied with the change.

With Angel now in charge of the business, Peter started going back out in the suit. He’d occasionally help out with paperwork or running certain errands, especially when it came to the Huntsman and F.E.A.S.T, but mostly spent his days patrolling the city and helping keep it crime free (well apart from his wife’s business that was).

They had sold her Father’s old house and everything inside it for a hefty amount, which they donated to the city to help with the clean up after the explosion down in Chinatown. They also gave payouts to the local businesses that had been affected as both a thank you for helping during the blast; but also apologise for the inconvenience of it all. The new centre had been reopened two months ago, with a special ribbon cutting from the city’s one and only Spider-Man, and had been thriving again ever since.

Peter had been worried about donning the suit again. Worried what everyone would think after all this time. But if the gang fighting had provided one thing, it was the city’s need for a hero. A need to hope once more. And nothing said hope apparently like a guy in red and blue spandex swinging through the city- much to George Stacy’s dismay.

They had started going to couples counselling once a week so they could talk through all their lingering issues. The Felicia thing. Their issues with her Dad. The forced three year separation. There was still a long way to go, but talking about it with a mediator helped.

Harry’s body was found in a freezer inside a storage container that was offloaded in Belfast Ireland three months after the night at the warehouse. Toomes’ body, which had been dumped in the river, was never found.

She checked the oven again as she chewed on her lip. She wasn’t even sure she was gonna be able to stomach this, despite having spent the last hour and a half cooking it. There came a thud from upstairs. He was home. She closed her eyes, taking one last deep breath in, before she began to take the chicken out of the oven.

“Mmmm, smells good Mrs Parker.” his voice rang out as he ran downstairs. 

“You better not have just left your suit dumped on the floor up there.” she chastised as she began plating up the food.

“Of course not.” he said with a sheepish grin as he came and wrapped his arms around her from behind, placing a kiss on her cheek. She knew him too well.

“Can you put the cutlery on the table?” she asked as she turned her head to give him a kiss on the lips, her stomach doing butterflies, she thought she might vomit.

“Yeah of course, no problem.” he said, patting her hip before he moved to slide open the cutlery drawer, humming to himself as he went.

She braced herself against the edge of the counter as she heard him make his way over to the table. There was the sound of metal hitting the wooden table as he began to place the cutlery down, still humming away, until he wasn’t. There was a pause before he spoke.

“Baby, what’s this?” he said, lifting an envelope off of the table. Peter grew nervous, the moment feeling all too familiar.

“Sit down.” she said, as she finally turned to face him, the food now sitting forgotten on the counter.

Peter didn’t move. “Baby, what is this?” he pressed her. He saw the frozen look of terror on her face and his stomach lurched as he raced to open it, fearing the worst. He pulled out the paperwork inside, scanning over it confused. “Angel, what is-”

“I’m pregnant.”

Peter stared at her. The longer the statement hung in the air, the more confident she grew as she slowly stepped across the room towards him. “You’re?” Peter couldn’t even say the word. He tried but it didn’t feel real on his tongue. She just nodded as she reached a hand out to his hip, the other pointing at a particular box on the page that said ‘positive’.

“I’ve known for a few weeks now.” she tried to explain. “I didn’t want to say anything until I’d had it confirmed by the doctor. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

“That really bad food poisoning you had. I thought it was from the Thai food we had, but I ate the same thing and I was fine and-” he rambled as he tried to put all the signs together he knew he should have gotten.

“Pete?” She said his name tentatively.

“And then last Sunday when you fell asleep on May’s sofa in the middle of the afternoon. I thought you were just tired from work-”

“Peter.”

“Oh and when we went out for breakfast the other week, you had mushrooms on your breakfast. You hate mushrooms-”

“Peter!”

“What?”

“Does this mean you’re okay with it?” she asked sceptically.

“Okay with it? Okay with it. Why wouldn’t I be okay with it!” He beamed as he suddenly wrapped her in his arms. “We’re having a baby!” He said excitedly. “I’m gonna be a Daddy- oh!” he said as a realisation hit him. “This means I get to start calling you Mommy.”

“No. Nope!” she squealed and giggled as he held her tightly, turning his head to gently gnaw at her skin like he was trying to eat her.

“Fine, fine.” he said as she finally broke free of his arms. “But I know you’ve been itching to call me Daddy for years.”

“Noooo.” she giggled, but she knew he had her pegged.

“Yeeesss.” he dragged out the word with an exaggerated smile.

“I’m not gonna say it.” she giggled as he began to chase her round the lower section of the house.

“Oh yes, you are.” he joked, stalking her as she moved around the kitchen island.

“Pete, the dinner.” she tried to reason.

“I don’t care. Not until you say it.”

“Noo!” she squealed as she made a run for it, narrowly slipping past him and running into the living room.

“Oh you’re gonna say it.”

“No.”

“Say it!” he called out as he lunged for her, wrapping his arms around her and wrestling her gently to the floor, pinning her with his body. She laughed. “Say it.” he said again as he looked down at her.

“Fine.” she huffed in defeat. “Can we go eat dinner now Daddy?” she cooed in her most sultry voice.

He moved his head from side to side as if he were thinking about it, before saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about Mommy, my dinner’s right here.” He gave her a devilish smile before shimmying his body down so his face was the same height as her crotch.

“Noo! Peter!” she squealed in delight, pretending to push him away as his fingers reached for the waistband of her trousers, her giggles ringing out throughout the house.

-----------------------------------------

Thank you so much for reading The Angel In The Garden of Evil. If you have enjoyed the story don’t forget to tip me like you would your waiter by reblogging and leaving feedback and letting me know what you think! By reblogging you also help to keep this story alive for just a little bit longer allowing new people to keep finding it for days, months, weeks and years to come. Whenever this story find you, I hope it brings you joy.

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[dark-velvetrose]

This conversation between Peter and Frank was so emotional, deep, and just raw. I truly enjoyed the detailed descriptions because it really helped me visualize the conversation. I can't believe Peter was responsible for saving Frank's family! Also, it's rich that Frank is a whole DA talking about "not taking the law in your hands" when in his alternative life that is all he does lol.

I am now really curious to see where this leaves Honey and Peter now that she has been essentially removed from his live. I hope they are able to reconnect and that Peter makes the right choice for himself now that he is free.

sugar and vice, pt. 23 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!oc]

summary: in the beginning, there was darkness...

words: 5.1k

chapter warning: gratuitously deep philosophical nonsense.

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, hurt/comfort. smut. Spicy situations. spousal / domestic abuse. family trauma. verbal abuse. PTSD, psychotic breaks/episodes, drug use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. possessive!peter, protective!peter. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self-talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships. having happiness ripped away from you.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you think that this symbol

is the logo of some off-shoot programming block on Nickelodeon, then you're wrong. But are you? Regardless, live a little and come back later.

Part 23

Tick... Tick... Tick... Tick...

Peter thought of the elements. 

Tick... Tick... Tick... Tick...

The Greats. Earth. Wind. Water. Fire. Space. Born out of Hinduism’s sacred literature. Also, Captain Planet’s sidekicks.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

The Chemical Elements. Only 118 of them have even been discovered. Only 95 of those are primordial, whereas the rest are man-made. 

His dad used to talk for hours about this stuff.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

The interrogation room he was in was dark, despite the flickering fluorescent bulbs. The buzz of the lights sounded like a buzzsaw. The air was cold, too. The thin NYPD-branded, crew neck tee that Peter had been given to wear didn’t help much. 

Tick... Tick... Tick

The lights flickered again, this time with a greenish hue. 

Argon. Symbol: Ar. Number 18. A noble gas. Mercury. Hg, number 80. Also known as quicksilver. Highly toxic. Phosphorous. Number 15.

In his class, he was Number 2.

Atoms aren’t even as old as people assume. After the Big Bang, the universe was still nothingness—white, hot light that scorched everything out of existence. The heat was uninhabitable. Hydrogen didn’t make its appearance until roughly 370,000 years later. 

370,000 years of hot, blinding nothingness.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

Hour after hour, they came at him like waves of radioactive light.

First, there were two detectives—both a bit too junior to be assigned to such a high-profile case, but Peter figured that they didn’t know that. A reserved Eagle Scout named Sousa and a snarky blonde female named Carter. 

Or just ‘Sharon,’ as her boss Alexander Pierce referred to her, to her thinly-veiled ire. 

The Commissioner waltzed into the room mid-interrogation and essentially asked his naive detectives to go back to coloring while the adults talked. Both detectives walked out of the interrogation room with a scowl on their faces.

They probably didn’t know it, but Pierce wasn’t concerned about their abilities as detectives, or the integrity of the case. All he needed was to get Peter behind bars, where crooked guards and violent inmates could take over. Where he could give Peter the same welcome that Miguel had.

They probably didn’t know it, but Peter could tell by the scent of Pierce’s cologne: a $1,200 bottle of Bond 9 Dubai that not even New York’s police commissioner could afford. 

Peter recognized the scent. It was Wilson Fisk’s favorite gift to give his friends.

They probably didn’t know it, but Peter did. 

Pierce had no intention of letting him make it to trial.

Peter was disconnected. Drained. Eventually, even Matt’s voice became static which blended into the tone of the room, and droned beneath the ticking of the clock and the god-awful buzz of the lights.

“—he’s in’a world’a trouble...”

“... absolutely no evidence —not even formal charges have been presented...”

It might not have been productive, but Peter allowed himself to tune out. Matt was a good lawyer.

“—lucky we’re not pressing charges against the department after Captain Stacy’s unwarranted attack on my client, whom he’s been stalking for years—”

Oh man, that’ll piss George off when it gets back to him. A very good lawyer.

Despite his earlier act, he still felt a great amount of sorrow for George Stacy. Not exactly sympathy... and not quite guilt. Just sorrow. 

Looking into his eyes was like looking down into a sinkhole. Or passing a destroyed car on the highway. Unidentifiable. Cold. Hollow. Empty. Somehow the emptiness in Gwen’s father always triggered an empty feeling in him. It was a secret weapon that George had over Peter that his estranged father-in-law didn’t even know he had.

On the outside, Peter could wear a mask that projected cockiness and make lewd comments about the man’s wife. On the inside, George could eviscerate Peter with a look.

370,000 years of nothingness. Nothing but white, hot rage.

Peter tuned back in for a moment when Pierce said the name Walker. He hadn’t even heard the question fully and already his blood was boiling. He wished that he was guilty of that bastard’s murder. He wished that he had killed him. He tried to focus on something that Felicia said months back which resonated with him: about how Honey needed a chance to stand up for herself.

Maybe Felicia was right. Maybe it was just a terrible thing that needed to be done, and Honey was the one that needed to do it. 

Honey wasn’t Gwen. 

The history she shared with that dead asshole was a far cry from the tragic turn of events that led Gwen to shove a man off the ledge of a clock tower. 

Honey wasn’t Gwen.

The look of heartbreak in her eyes. He’d never forget it. 

George looked at Peter that way once, too—after a closed-casket funeral when he laid his daughter in the dirt.

They looked the way Peter felt all the time. Devastation. Ruin.

How could Peter possibly be capable of such cruelty? The world was full of monsters. Sometimes Peter was one of them.

Honey wasn’t Gwen.

In the beginning, there was darkness. Then, there was an explosion. Then there was an inferno that burned so hot, even the basic building blocks of the universe could not begin to form.

Honey wasn’t Gwen; she was Peter’s universe. The stars in his sky. She was a vast, endless expanse that surrounded him. That held him in an ever-growing, outwardly-expanding gravitational orbit. She was everything, and outside of that, there was nothing.

And every second in that room he felt himself getting further away from her.

Peter’s bones hurt. His back was in so much pain it was difficult to sit still. On top of that, he was weary. He was traumatized. He was grieving the loss of his security, his home. Grieving Eddie.

Despite that, Peter could toss the table like a Coke can. He could punch a hole in the wall and stroll out if he wanted to. Or crawl across the ceiling, to Pierce’s astonishment and horror.

Pierce was staring at him again. This time, there was a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Even if Peter did escape, he had too much to lose. Peter knew it. Pierce did, too.

In all the ways that mattered, he was trapped in his own web.

After several more minutes (or hours, maybe) of grandstanding on both sides, the door to the interrogation room swung open. A stocky figure silhouetted the doorway. Intense features, sharp lines in his jaw, brow, and aquiline nose, as much shadow spilling over him as there was light. 

The temperature of the room shifted. Matt and Pierce stopped talking. Peter froze, lifting his chin as he met the dark glare of Manhattan’s district attorney. 

“Frank,” Pierce said with a tinge of discomfort. “I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us so soon.”

Matt’s voice warmed but maintained a snarky edge. “Ah, is that the Honorable Francis Castiglione?” he bitingly beamed. 

Despite the smile on Murdock’s face, Peter could hear the pace of his lawyer’s heart pick up. Which... wasn’t a great sign. Even Pierce started to sweat. 

“Mr. Murdock,” New York’s toughest DA replied without batting an eye. Unswayed. Uncompromising. Undefeated. He held a stone, straight-laced expression. Even beneath a conservative black suit and tie, he was one of the most intimidating men Peter had ever laid eyes on. He was at least a solid 170 pounds, Peter supposed, of solid muscle and righteous fervor.  

“Just having a little fun, Mr. Castle,” Matt charmed with obnoxious flair. “How could I forget your name with all of the posters still hanging around? ‘Stand Your Ground.’ Great campaign slogan, by the way. Especially for a pacifist who managed to ban every firearm in the five boroughs. Although, I’m certain you won’t be getting any gift baskets from the gun lobby—”

“I wanna speak with your client alone.” Frank’s deep voice rolled through the room like the first tremors of an impending avalanche. The other men stared back, blinking silently.

Matt’s sunny disposition dimmed as his jaw tightened. Pierce’s hackles were raised, although he tried to suppress it. Wordlessly, they blinked and flinched and tried to wrap their heads around the request.

A humorless laugh left Matt’s lips. “Yeah. That’s not gonna happen—”

“That’s fine,” Peter answered. He and his lawyer spoke simultaneously, their voices crossing each other in converse directions. 

Matt turned his head towards Peter’s side of the room, his whole body going stiff. The flesh behind his light stubble turned pale. “Um,” Matt subtly cleared his throat while his heartbeat hurled alarmed profanities at Peter. “Uh, that is... not advisable.”

“S’okay, Matt,” Peter calmly replied, keeping his eyes locked on Frank. He could hear the sounds of his lawyer’s brain overheating while trying to reboot. Pierce pinched his lips in an anxious pout, avoiding looking directly at the district attorney.

Matt gripped the head of his cane tight enough to nearly break it. “Uh... Um. Oh-okay.” Awkwardly, Matt pushed his chair back as he came to a stand, shuffling to his feet. 

Leaning back into the chair rest, Pierce visibly relaxed until Frank sternly added, “You too, Commissioner.”

The irritation in Pierce’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Shoulders tensed, teeth gritted, the man stood from his chair. He mirrored Matt as he sidestepped from the table and towards the exit.

Matt lingered for a moment at Peter’s side while his nails anxiously scored the cane. Peter noted the pinched expression behind Matt’s ruby-colored glasses.

“It’s okay,” Peter murmured under his breath, repeating an earlier sentiment that Murdock was skeptical to believe. And with that, Matt was powerless. Hesitantly, he gave them a parting nod, and followed Pierce out of the room.

The metal door echoed as it slammed shut, leaving the two of them alone in the cell. 

Peter threaded his fingers together, the metal in his chains clinking, and leaned back as far as his restraints would let him. Thighs spread and chin tilted off axis, he fixed Frank with an unimpressed glare as a smirk played on his lips.

The prosecutor shifted like a monolith unearthing itself. Frank measured the cocky, sharp-tongued mafia ringleader with eyes colder than steel as he strode to the table. He pulled out a chair across from the prisoner and lowered himself down into it.

The two of them sat quietly for a moment on opposite sides of the room. But it was their positions on opposite sides of the law that created friction. 

Frank was at least a decade older than Peter, but Peter seemed even more juvenile by comparison. The mob boss looked and acted like a young prince, leaned back in his seat with a smug face. Alternatively, Frank glowered down at him with the authoritative scrutiny of judge, jury, and executioner.

“Hot daaamn,” Peter said, mouth curved into a smile. “You put on some weight since I last saw ya, bub.” Waggling his eyebrows, his eyes flicked over the other man’s form. “You been workin’ out? Crossfit, maybe?” He let out a mirthless laugh. “Forget bein’ the scourge of New York’s underworld— Bro, you must be killin’ it in the gym.”

Unfazed, Frank disregarded the remarks without a single blink. His dark eyes bored into Peter, and he remained more than comfortable with the uncomfortable silence that followed.

Peter glared at him with darkening eyes, balling his fists against the table. “Is it safe to assume the cameras are off at this point?” Animosity sharpened his voice to a razor’s edge. “I mean, that’s the only way you’d ever allow yourself to be seen fraternizing with a criminal like me, right?”

The temperature of the room pitched downwards even further. Icy waves surged off of Peter. Frank was a stone wall, letting each wave crash over him and fall back into the surf.

“I’m not the one who put you in those cuffs, Peter,” Frank answered, nonconfrontational. “I’m not the bad guy here. And I never wanted to be your enemy.” He kept his voice soft and respectful, wisdom shining from his eyes. “You and I—we’re not so different. We’re not monsters; we’re men. We’re bound by the law. Both of us, judged by the law.”

The smile faded from Peter’s lips. “Well," he glowered, bitter frost in his bite, "aren’t you a modern-day Moses on the Mountain.” His words were punctuated with ire as he scrutinized him with disdain. “Y’know, they told me ya caught religion, but I didn’t realize what a holy roller you were. When we’re done here, I’ll give ya Matt’s number. Give ya tons to talk about. Bet'chu two would be a hoot at parties.”

Peter sneered at him a moment longer, then let out a bored, depreciating sigh. “M’not much of a Bible thumper, myself,” he half-shrugged. “Only verses I know by heart are Ezekiel 25:17... and, uh... whatever that bullshit was in Shawshank.”

Frank glanced down, deep in thought. “‘His Judgment Cometh and That Right Soon’,’' he said, recalling the prop he referenced. It was a tapestry embroidered with the Bible verse hanging in the corrupt Warden’s office—a MacGuffin in the film’s plot. 

“That's not a real verse,” Castle noted, matter-of-factly. “You’re probably thinkin’ of Psalm 98:9—’Let them sing Before the Lord; for he cometh to judge the earth: With righteousness shall he judge the world and all of its people equally.’” 

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Well.” The word tasted bitter on his tongue as resentment spread through his chest like a tumor. “I’m Jewish. And even then, I never drank the Kool-Aid. S’not really my thing.”

He waited, expecting Frank to take offense. To Peter’s dismay, he remained as peaceful as a lake on a windless day. 

“I get that,” the older man mused somberly. Contemplative, he looked up at Peter with sympathy coloring his face. “If what happened to you, happened to me,” he said, “I don’t know if I’d like who I’d become either.”

As he said it, his gentle eyes settled in on Peter with a knowing expression. Pity. It made Peter's teeth grind and his temper burn. It took all of his self-restraint not to break out of his chains and (re)break the prosecutor’s nose. Indignation writhed inside of his chest, souring his face and his stomach.

“Heard you were gunnin’ f’me real hard, too,” Peter muttered bitterly, tossing words like daggers. “Really put the heat on me— M'actually flattered.” Salaciously, he flashed his canines with a wink. “But ya didn’t hafta go to all that trouble, Frank. If y'wanted to get me alone in a dark room, y'coulda just hit me up on Grindr.”

“Are you done?” he replied witheringly.

“Oh, c’mon,” Peter taunted, equal parts threatening and scandalous. “I mean—they don’t call ya ‘The Punisher’ for nothin’, right? Well, go on. Punish me, Daddy. Why doncha just bend me over your knee?”

Frank’s eyes flicked to the black, mirrored glass window, shaking his head in frustration. “Always a comedian,” Castle huffed, annoyed. “Between you and Wade Wilson, it’s like watchin’ a hundred-car pile-up of clown cars. Can’t even be just a little real, not even for a second—” 

“That’s not true,” he pouted. “My tits are real...”

Fed up, Castle shook his head and grumbled, “Y’think everything's is a joke! Can you at least pretend like you give a shit about any of this—?” 

Peter’s temper flared suddenly, hitting a flashpoint that boiled the humor out of their rapport. “Y’know what I think?” he snapped back, eyes dark with rage. “I think you’re a God-damn hypocrite! That’s what I think! You and this whole corrupt, bullshit organization. That’s the joke.”

Frank shook his head, grinding his teeth. “There you go. Always a martyr.”

“Again, with the religious talk?” Peter rolled his eyes into the back of his head while letting out a dramatic sigh. “Look, ‘m’not interested in joining your little MLM cult-club, alright?”

“‘Mob Boss,’ my ass,” Frank scoffed. “Ya act like a fuckin’ child! Always whining about being the victim! Like you’re the only one in this city who's ever lost somethin’! Arrogant prick, I did three tours in Iraq while you were doodling in your diary! I was washing the blood of my brothers off my uniform while you were crying into your pillow at night! People die! Thousands of ‘em, every day! All tragedies, all the time, yet— somehow—yours is special!”

Frank’s voice boomed off the concrete walls, patience shattered. “You wanna talk about hypocrisy?” Castle said sharply. “Punishment?! How about three weeks ago in Forest Hills? Right in your backyard. Cops got a call about a domestic dispute. When they got there, the perp somehow ended up with a bullet hole in the back of his head, even though no one in the house owned a gun. You know anything about that?”

Peter straightened his lips into a thin line, lifting his chin. “Sounds like the dispute was resolved.”

“How about that hedge fund manager that committed suicide last spring?” Frank said, skewering him with his gaze. “The one that decided to swallow a container full of gasoline and light up a cigarette before jumpin’ off a roof on Park Avenue?”

“Tragic,” Peter replied, deadpan. “I read about it in the news. Guess the shame of stealing $8 million dollars of pension money from a firefighters union must’ve really burned him up inside.”

Agitated, Frank scowled with his eyes narrowed into slits. “How ‘bout in Brooklyn last fall? How do three seasoned drug pushers end up OD’ing on half their own supply of Fentanyl?”

Peter remained expressionless. “Dunno, Frank. Guess the Lord works in mysterious ways." The attorney huffed with nostrils flaring. By contrast, Peter idly see-sawed his head. "Rather poetic," he said, "as far as justice goes.” 

“That’s what I call ‘punishment,’ Parker. Not justice! Vengeance! Plain. Simple. And cold-blooded.”

Peter sat up, leaning forward as his colorless eyes flashed with rage. “Before you accuse me of anything else you can’t prove—especially the messes that New York’s Finest shoulda handled—how ‘bout you explain to me how two innocent women were butchered and burned to death in Midtown and not a single arrest has been made?”

Frank turned silent.

“How ‘bout the dozens of immigrant families who’re bein’ forced against their will to launder the Mayor’s drug money so he can spend it on campaign ads?”

The other man’s jaw clenched while Peter continued his attack. “Let’s keep goin’ shall we?” he hissed. “Tell me how a Russian oligarch and his buddies park a yacht in the harbor—filled with stolen girls—children, practically—and somehow just... get away?” Veins protruded from his neck as anger rippled through his chest. 

“Got any answers for me, Counselor?” Peter spat harshly, jabbing his index finger at Castle as far as he could while in handcuffs. “Wanna phone a friend? How ‘bout you call your boss, yeah? Why don’t you ask Wilson Fisk? Ask yourself! If you’re such a holy man, then how can you work for the Devil?! How can you even sleep at night, huh?I”

Outwardly, Frank was stoic with nothing but a crease between his brows to telegraph his thoughts. Inwardly, Peter could hear the attorney’s heart rate drumming up as Peter relentlessly dressed him down. Castle’s jaw was locked tight, holding his breath.

“And tell me one more thing,” Peter added, eyes flashing with rage. “How many times do you think about what woulda happened if I hadn’t been in the Park that night?” He blurted out the statement with a livid snarl and a dry throat. “What if I hadn’t intervened in the Blacksmith deal? What woulda happened if I hadn’t gotten your wife and kids outta there before the guns started goin’ off? You ever think about that!?”

Peter’s voice buckled on the last word. Memories of the violent night in Central Park five years ago flooded them both, bringing a tidal wave of conflicting emotion that swallowed him up. 

It was Peter that covertly led the FBI to a plan to eliminate several gangs (and Peter’s enemies) at once. Practically a gift from the gods, it seemed, to take out all of Peter’s competition in one swoop. 

Once it was clear to the young mob boss that the FBI cared more about making headlines than making sure the park was clear of innocent people, Peter chose to intervene. In the end, it was a disaster anyway.

When the other gangs realized they were being set up, a shootout erupted. Lives were lost. Peter saved as many people as he could, including Frank Castle and his family. For everyone else, it was still a tragedy. 

Gwen included.

It was the first and last time the two men had met. And subsequently, a night that neither of them ever talked about. 

Until now.

Peter’s eyes glazed over, tortured by the consequences of his choices. A tidal wave of conflicting emotions swallowed him up as his mind flooded with horrible thoughts. Betrayal, and resentment, and bitter, evil, disgusting jealousy that Peter could save Frank’s family but not his own.

Peter looked contemplative, then. Haunted. He fixed his weary eyes on Frank, continuing to unravel.

“And I’m gonna level with ya, pal,” Peter said in an unnervingly soft tone of voice. “Fuck. You. If you think that you and I are the same. You and I are not the same. Never will be.” Heartache pierced his throat, compressing his voice. He jerked his thumb toward himself. “Because somebody saved you.”

Tears glistened as Peter breathed hotly through flared nostrils. “Fuck your judgment!” he growled. “Because if what happened to my family happened to your family—ya wouldn't last a goddamn day! You’d be a nut job! You'd be beggin' for a bullet in ya head, rather than see what I’ve seen!” 

Fury vibrated through the younger man’s being, indignation piercing each sentence. “I don’t give a shit what nickname they call you,” Peter seethed, “in the media... in the Marines... not even in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade! When it’s your family filled with bullet holes—believe me— that shit hits different.”

Peter’s eyes were wild—black with anger, wet with tears. “‘You wouldn't like who you'd become either?’” he repeated, muttering spitefully. “Fuck you!" Peter’s voice echoed, bouncing off the walls and reverberating in Frank’s chest. 

He took a measured breath. His throat bobbed, cords pulled tight. "I may not be a religious man," Peter added as his chest heaved, "but I pray you never have to find out.” His volume abruptly dropped, adding a foreboding sentiment to the words. Like whispering a dark secret. A warning.

Blinding, white hot rage obliterating everything in its path. Scouring any sign of life before its existence.

Castle sat stoically with his arms crossed. Breathless from his outburst, Peter slowly retracted himself back into his seat. Frank studied him with a contemplative gaze and a tight-lipped mouth. 

Until he broke his silence. “Every night.” 

It was barely a whisper. Peter blinked at him with a crooked brow while the other man held Peter in his gaze.

“Every single night,” Frank answered, a little louder, “I think about what would’ve happened to my family if you hadn’t been there.”

Peter pressed his lips together, jaw flexing stiffly. Mist gathered on his lashes. He drew a shaky breath, lip trembling. To keep his eyes from betraying him further, he hardened his brow.

“You’re a hero, Peter,” Castle said simply. It was just a fact. “And a good man.”

Peter averted his gaze, casting it down while he swallowed a thick lump in his throat. 

“You have the power to do good,” he said. “So much more than you realize.” Frank’s eyes swelled with something like reverence and admiration for his antithetical counterpart. “And yeah,” he noted matter-of-factly, “I do pray." He watched him placidly and empathetic. "And when I do, I pray that one day, other people will see you for the man you really are. And maybe... just maybe—you'll see it, too.” 

Shooting pain in his fingers alerted Peter to the fact that his knuckles were clenched white. He kept his head lowered, eyes hidden and fixed on the shackles around his wrists. 

“I pray that you find faith in yourself,” Castle said, then. His soft voice sliced through Peter’s toughened heart. The older man’s lip tightened into a line, his deep voice thick with sorrow. “And salvation... from yourself.”

Peter looked upward. The attorney gazed back at him in earnest. The silence which followed felt like the end of an era.

“You and I want the same thing,” Frank then said, returning to a sense of formality. “You want to expose Wilson Fisk as the Kingpin. So do I.” 

Peter studied Frank’s heart—and his own. Steady. True.

“The only difference,” Castle added, “is I want to do it right: by the law. Justice. Not revenge.” Peter couldn't help but roll his eyes. “Because if we can’t do this right, then it’s not worth doing at all.”

“The only difference is,” Peter countered, “when I take Fisk down, he’s gonna stay down.”

Frank gazed at him incredulously. “That’s nice. Good stuff. You want me to write that down and read it at your funeral?” Peter glared bitterly but had nothing to say. 

“Cards on the table,” Frank explained. “I don’t have enough evidence to charge you. Not today. Now you can walk outta here, go back to your old ways. End up in a casket, or in a jail cell sooner or later. Take my word, there are plenty of people in this building that want you dead. You won’t last a night at Ryker’s without someone tryin’ to stab a broken toothbrush through that giraffe neck of yours.”

“Sounds like it’s gonna be painful,” Peter muttered in a low voice. “For them.”

Frank fixed him with a stern glare. “Alright, smartass. Then what? These people are comin’ for blood. And they’re not going to stop with just yours.” He paused, then added, “You should know that, more than anybody.”

Peter had nothing to say to that. The thought alone stole his breath.

“You wanna fight the system?” Frank said. “You wanna take down Fisk? Then you bring me proof to put ‘em away. All of ‘em. Fisk, Pierce, his little ‘Shield’ SS hit squad. Every last one of them.”

Peter bit his tongue, contemplating the idea.

“And most importantly, you keep your hands clean,” Frank declared sternly. “No more dead car thieves in the river. No more pimps gettin’ scraped off the subway tracks.” His tone was cold, eyes sharp as he skewered Peter threateningly. “There’s enough killing in this city as it is. You cross that line, and I will come for you, you understand? Deal or no deal, our history be damned—you are not allowed to take the law into your own hands. You got that?”

Peter raised his chin, peering at him through the fringe of his slitted eyes. 

The clock ticked on. Primordial elements as old as time surrounded them. And for reasons that Peter could not fully understand, he walked into a coffee shop one day and walked out with hope. A dangerous seed. 

A force that could save the whole city. The world.

Maybe even his own soul.

The district attorney came to a stand, holding the mob boss in his stare. “You’re a free man, Peter,” Frank said. “What happens next is up to you.”

After another moment, he headed for the door. As soon as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he glanced back at the man who he owed his life. With a stone expression, Castle made one final plea.

“Whatever you do... Don’t let me catch you.”

It was half past noon when Honey walked into her modest apartment in the Theater District off 45th Street. 

Flipping on the lights, she peered hesitantly inside. Stepping through the threshold felt like tumbling down a wormhole through time.

More or less, the studio apartment looked exactly the same as it did nearly a half-year ago, when she left for work at the coffee shop. 

It was a bit tidier than how she’d left it—her cheetah print throw blanket neatly folded on the edge of her thrifted loveseat. The smell confirmed that all the perishable food had been discarded. An empty vase sat alone on a scuffed, white, gateleg table that was crammed into a corner of her kitchen. The daisies that it once held had wilted and been tossed long ago.

The world was alien to her. It was like walking through a dream, or onto a theater set piece constructed for a play about her life. These were the possessions of a person she didn’t know anymore.

“We had someone come by earlier with groceries,” a voice said from behind her. She turned as Karen Page strolled into the apartment wearing camel wide-leg wool trousers and a matching double-breasted blazer from The Row paired with Salvatore Ferragamo Vara-bow pumps. “A maid came in once a week to tidy up, but other than that everything should be as you left it.”

Honey blinked with wide eyes as she watched the strawberry-blonde haired woman breeze through her home—former home. She pulled a rolling carry-on case behind her filled with a small portion of Honey’s wardrobe. Karen came to a stop in the center of the apartment. With neatly manicured nails, she produced a keyring from her blazer pocket.

“New keys,” she explained, handing it over to Honey. “Any pertinent mail has been left for you on the counter. The new wifi password is on the sticky note next to it, along with your new cell phone number.”

She had almost forgotten. Honey reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the latest model of iPhone. She stared down at the foreign object queasily. This one had no spider decal, she noted. 

“There’s also a debit card, too,” Karen explained methodically, as if reciting a monotonous dialogue. “New bank account information is in the folder. We’ve made a small deposit to compensate you for your troubles, at least until you find a new job. But you shouldn’t have any more problems from here on out.”

A few seconds of silence passed as Karen eyed the peeling paint on the walls. “Well. I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said, straightforward. 

Honey’s eyes darted over to Karen as the woman turned to leave mouth “Wait!” she called out, her forehead creased and mouth hung agape. Karen stopped in front of the doorway. “Wait... is that it?” she said, dismayed. 

Karen blinked her radiant blue eyes. “Was there something else you needed?”

Her nose crinkled at that. “What about Peter?” Honey said, almost in a demanding tone. “What happens to him?”

Karen cast her eyes to the floor, sighing uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that.”

Honey glared at her crossly. “Well, can I at least talk to him—?”

“It would be best to limit contact at this time.” The pleasant formality of her voice made Honey want to punch her.

“For how long?” she scoffed.

Karen gazed at her for several moments of silence. Which continued on, until Honey realized that an answer wasn’t coming.

“We’ll be in touch,” Karen added gently.

As the woman stepped out into the tenement corridor, Honey nearly jolted after her. “Wait... M-Ms. Page?”

She waited.

“What do I do now?” she asked meekly. Her voice sounded timid to her own ears.

Karen stared back at her then lifted up one of her shoulders. “Whatever you want.” 

And with that, Honey was left alone for the day.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Continue to Epilogue

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

Parings → Mob! Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings → teasing, fluff

Summary → Tom, London's most feared mob boss, finally confesses his love to his best friend.

The quiet hum of the night settled over London, the streets dimly lit by flickering street lamps as the city slept. Inside an expansive, high-end club owned by Holland Empire, the real business was happening. Mob deals, alliances, and threats exchanged in hushed tones, away from prying eyes. At the center of it all was Tom Holland, London’s most feared mob boss. Yet, sitting across from him, wearing a devilish smirk, was the only person who could rattle him – you.

"You're late," you teased, leaning back in the leather chair across from Tom, your legs crossed casually. You twirled a small glass of whiskey in your hand, watching the amber liquid swirl before taking a slow sip.

Tom’s intense brown eyes narrowed, but a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "You know, you’re the only person who can get away with calling me out like that."

"Perks of being your best friend," you shrugged, leaning forward, your voice softening, "And maybe something more, hmm?"

Tom's expression shifted, his protectiveness flaring. "Y/n, you know it’s dangerous being involved in all this. I’ve told you before—”

You cut him off, setting your glass down with a soft clink. "I’m not going anywhere, Tom. I’ve got your back, always." Your gaze softened as you locked eyes with him. "Besides, someone needs to keep you in line."

Tom exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. No one could get through to him like you. Not Harrison, not his brothers Sam or Harry—only you. You had been there since childhood, and now, you were the one person who truly understood him. His love for you ran deep, but he never dared speak it aloud. Not yet.

Just then, the door swung open, and Harrison strolled in, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. "Interrupting something, am I?" He teased, eyeing the way Tom was sitting a bit too close to you.

You leaned back, giving Harrison a playful smile. "You always do, Haz."

Harrison chuckled, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. "I swear, if Tom looks at you any harder, he’s going to set you on fire." He winked.

Tom shot him a glare, though his ears turned slightly pink. "Shut up, Haz."

Before Harrison could fire back, the twins, Sam and Harry, barged in, both grinning like idiots.

"Oi, what’s this? A family meeting without us?" Harry quipped, his eyes immediately darting to you. "You keeping our dear brother in check, Y/n/n?"

Sam chimed in, "Or is he finally confessing his undying love for you?"

Tom groaned, running a hand through his messy curls, clearly flustered. "Seriously, all of you need to leave."

Harry laughed, nudging Sam. "What do you think, Sam? Should we leave him to confess?"

"Definitely," Sam nodded. "But it’s not like he’ll actually say it. He’s scared of her."

Tom shot them a warning glance, his jaw tightening. "I’m not scared."

"Of course you’re not," you interrupted, your tone laced with amusement. You reached over and placed a hand on his arm. "Because if you were, you’d have reason to be. Right, boss?"

Tom’s eyes flickered to yours, the tension between you both undeniable. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your touch, the closeness. But he didn’t dare move, afraid he might break the moment. Afraid that his feelings, buried for so long, might spill over.

"Yeah," he finally murmured, his voice low. "Right."

Harrison, sensing the charged atmosphere, clapped his hands. "Alright, alright, we’ll leave you two alone. But don’t take too long, Tom. You’ve got a meeting with the DiCarlo family in an hour."

The twins snickered as they followed Harrison out, leaving you and Tom alone in the dimly lit room.

You raised an eyebrow, watching Tom carefully. "The DiCarlo family? That sounds serious."

"It is," Tom said, his tone shifting back to business. "They’ve been causing trouble on our side of the city. I need to show them who’s in control."

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "And you will. But you don’t have to face everything alone, Tom. I’m here. I always have been."

Tom’s heart raced as your words sank in. He had always been the one protecting you, shielding you from the darkness of his world. But tonight, sitting here with you, he realized just how much you had always been protecting him too. Keeping him grounded. Keeping him from losing himself.

Without thinking, Tom reached out, his hand covering yours. His grip was firm, but his touch was gentle. "Y/n... there’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden change in his demeanor. "Tom—"

Before you could respond, the door burst open again, and Harry poked his head in, grinning. "Time’s up, lovebirds! Tom, DiCarlo’s here."

Tom let out a frustrated sigh, pulling his hand away reluctantly. "Of course."

You chuckled, standing up and straightening your jacket. "Guess we’ll have to continue this later."

"Yeah," Tom said, his voice a bit strained. He stood up, towering over you as usual, his eyes softening. "Later."

As you both headed toward the exit, Tom glanced down at you, his mind racing. One day, he promised himself. One day he’d tell you everything.

But for now, business called.

And Tom Holland, the most feared mob boss in London, had a city to control—with you by his side.

The dimly lit club buzzed with tension, but none of that bothered Tom. The DiCarlo family was waiting, but all he could think about was you-your hand on his arm, your words lingering in the air.

As you both walked down the sleek hallway, Tom's mind was racing. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, noticing how easily you moved through this dangerous world-his world. You were more than his best friend, more than his partner-in-crime. You were the only one who could get through to him, the only one who had his heart in the palm of your hand, even if you didn't realize it yet.

Or maybe you did.

Suddenly, Tom stopped walking, grabbing your wrist gently to pull you to a halt. You turned, raising an eyebrow at him, the soft music and murmurs from the club fading into the background.

"Tom?" You asked, confusion lacing your voice.

He took a deep breath, his lips curling into that signature, cocky smirk of his. "I'm not going in there until I say this."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his demeanor. "Say what?"

Tom stepped closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over you. His brown eyes, usually hard and unreadable when it came to business, softened as they locked with yours.

"You've always had my back, Y/n. Since the beginning. You know me better than anyone else-better than even Haz, my brothers, my mum. You're the one person I'm actually scared of, because you make me feel... something I've never felt before." His smirk grew wider, more confident as he leaned in just a little, his voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper. "And I don't think you realize just how hard I've fallen for you."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Tom-"

"Shh," he interrupted, pressing a finger lightly to your lips. "Let me finish." He took your hand in his, his thumb tracing soft circles on your skin. "I've been in love with you for a long time. I didn't say anything because I was trying to protect you, to keep you out of this mess. But the truth is, I don't want to protect you from me anymore. I want you by my side-for real."

You blinked up at him, your heart racing as his words sank in. You had always known there was something between you two, the way he looked at you, how he'd protect you with his life. But hearing him admit it like this? It felt surreal.

"Tom, are you... serious?" You asked, your voice barely a whisper.

His smirk only deepened as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. "Darling, when am I ever not serious?" His tone was playful, but the heat in his gaze told you he wasn't messing around.

You felt your heart skip a beat, and despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you, you couldn't help the grin that spread across your face. "You're such a cocky bastard."

Tom chuckled, pulling you closer, his arm snaking around your waist, bringing your body flush against his. "Only for you love."

You rolled your eyes, but your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch. "You've always been a flirt," you murmured, your voice teasing.

"Maybe," he said, his nose brushing against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "But I'm not just flirting now. I mean it, Y/n. I want you. And I'm not letting anyone else have you."

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his words, his possessive tone sending a thrill through you. "That sounds like a threat, Holland."

Tom grinned, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. "It is. You're mine, and I'm yours. Whether you like it or not."

Before you could respond, Tom closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that was every bit as confident as he was. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, holding you close as his lips moved against yours with a mix of passion and control. You melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his suit as you kissed him back.

For a moment, the world around you disappeared. The club, the business, the danger-it all faded away as you lost yourself in the feel of Tom's lips, the taste of him intoxicating. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his body pressed against yours as if he couldn't stand the idea of any space between you.

When he finally pulled back, both of you slightly breathless, Tom's forehead rested against yours, a satisfied smirk still playing on his lips. "See?" He murmured. "Told you I wasn't just flirting."

You shook your head, biting back a grin. "You're impossible."

"And yet, you love me," he shot back, his voice dripping with that signature cockiness you had grown to adore.

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. "Yeah, yeah. Maybe I do."

Tom's grin widened as he straightened up, keeping one arm wrapped around your waist as if you might disappear if he let go. "Good. Because I'm not letting you get away now."

"Who said I was trying to leave?" You teased, raising an eyebrow at him.

Before he could respond, the door to the hallway burst open, and Harrison appeared again, an exasperated look on his face. "Oi, Tom! DiCarlo's starting to get impatient. What the hell are you doing?"

Tom turned to face Harrison, still holding you close, his confidence not wavering for a second. "I'm busy, Haz. Tell DiCarlo to wait."

Harrison's eyes flicked between the two of you, and he raised an eyebrow, noticing the intimate way Tom's arm was wrapped around you. "Oh, I see. Took you long enough, mate."

Tom smirked, glancing down at you before meeting Harrison's gaze. "Yeah, well, good things take time."

Harrison rolled his eyes but couldn't help the grin that tugged at his lips. "Whatever you say, boss. Just don't keep DiCarlo waiting too long."

As Harrison turned and left, Tom looked back at you, his cocky grin still firmly in place. "Looks like I've got a meeting to run. But don't think this conversation is over, love."

You tilted your head, smirking right back at him. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."

Tom's eyes darkened with amusement, and he leaned down, pressing one last kiss to your lips, slow and lingering. "Good. Because now that I've got you, I'm not letting go."

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ° .•

[wspider-man]

New found friends and mutuals who I am very happy about, what shows do you recommend I watch? I can’t keep rewatching Mob psycho 100 and all the Spider-Man movies(who am I kidding yes I can😘) and I need a new show to binge! any genre is fine! PLEASE GUYS THANK YOU!

Oooohh or also any books or fanfics would be good too! I’m just super bored and need something to occupy my brain😼

[vigilant-insomniac]

What fandoms/franchises are you into?

Those above are the ones I seek out fandom works for! Top three are probs DP, DC and OP!