#spidermafia

[sincericida]

YEAHHHHH I was so happy with this notification! As always, you are simply magical and engaging in your writing. I had the various kinds of feelings available. But I must say that I gave belly laughs with the subject "Carol" - the jealousy crisis is one of my favorite parts. Yes, Honey needs to take control of her own life, and Peter needs to understand and accept that.

Buuuut... It must be really hard to resist Peter, when he comes like this at his door:

I want to unwrap it as if it was a gift

bittersweet: sugar + vice vol. 2 (pt 2) [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: "okay. about last night..." [mob!peter parker x oc!MJ] continued immediately from part 1 "Love on the Brain").

words: 5.6 k

tags: fluff and angst, my favs. food. stupid wealthy person antics, jealousy, boundaries, some world-building, PG-13 references to spicy memories from Pt. 1.

Part 2 - Bittersweet

The doorbell chiming yanked Honey unceremoniously out of her morning grogginess as she exited the bathroom. The bell tolled through her throbbing headache, causing her to squeeze her still-gummy eyes tight. She could only think of one word.

Peter.

Honey felt slightly guilty for throwing him out of his house last night. Even if it was an extravagant house. Even if it was at the top of an unconscionably expensive, 5-star hotel, where he could easily afford another place to stay. 

Very slightly.

Even if she threw him out immediately after the most outstanding sex of her life.

Worrying her lip, she debated her next move. She let out a long sigh, tugging on the lapels of the spare bathrobe she'd found. She forced her legs to move, retracing the steps buried in the lust-filled haze of her memory. 

Impatient, the door chimed again.

Her gait was more of a ginger waddle, and every muscle beneath her neck felt like it was made of jelly. Her body beneath the waist hummed. She could describe it as falling between a tender tingle after a deep tissue massage and the aching burn she'd imagined would follow a CrossFit session at the top of Everest. 

Images from last night flooded Honey's brain. How Peter had pleasured and defiled her. He bent her body deliciously, fitting her to and around all of his aching needs while elevating her toward a new stratosphere of ecstasy. 

She stowed those thoughts away. There would be a time for them later. Probably later that night. Maybe even in a week, after her body finally recovered.

For her own dignity's sake, she would not let the morning after Peter Parker walked back into her life be that time. 

She stepped towards the entrance and saw the tattered remains of the clothes she wore last night scattered in the dining area. Shredded like a wild animal had gotten to them. 

She averted her eyes, grinding her teeth as the door chimed again.

"Alright!" she hissed. "Hold your horses––!"

She gripped the doorknob and swung open the door, clipping her tone immediately.

A wide grin beneath a thin mustache and furrowed, silver, bushy eyebrows greeted her.

"Good morning, madam," the older gentleman stated.

He wore a crisp, fitted white uniform and a pleasant smile. She blushed immediately, gathering her bathrobe tighter at her chest, and gawked at the seven uniformed hotel staff in the hallway. 

The man who greeted her had a warm, olive complexion with bronze freckles. Sunspots dotted his face, blended together the tiny wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. "Pardon our intrusion."

Honey jumped out of the way without much time to react as the gentleman dutifully led the staff into the penthouse. Wide-eyed and tongue-twisted, she stared with wide eyes as the man motioned for his staff to follow. 

The scent of coffee filled the entryway as a young man rolled in a cart. It was stacked with an impressive display of cream, sweeteners, and tea bags circling two gooseneck, stainless-steel coffee pots. Her eyes followed the kid as he passed, her stomach growling at the familiar aroma of fresh Colombian coffee beans.

Honey opened her mouth to speak but hushed again as a middle-aged woman in a double-breasted white uniform pushed in another cart stacked with silver serving platters with cloche dome tops.

She could feel the steam wafting off the cart and had just enough time to move as she saw two more women, each with their own cart of linens and sizzling serveware, following behind. 

Honey's stomach growled while her gaze followed. She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut short again. Two more uniformed women walked in wearing matching steel-gray housekeeping dresses. The sleek dark fabric was contrasted with white cotton trim on the short sleeves and the high, Peter Pan collar of the dress.

They moved like a rising surf—fluid, swift, and unstoppable—as they crested and split in opposite directions. They were gone again in a flash. 

Honey barely had enough time to see them disappear before the heat of the subsequent presence was at her back. Her head snapped to the open doorway, and immediately, her face fell flat.

Peter.

His lithe form leaned against the doorframe, and she was sure he would've occupied the entire space had it not been an oversized 8-foot door.

Peter's presence came with a lightness Honey was unused to. Specifically, the light beige Ralph Lauren suit over a lilac button-up.

"Mornin,' sunshine," he drawled through a lopsided smirk. 

The sunshine seemed like it was radiating from him. Sun rays reflected off the linen of his suit. A quick coy smile revealed a flash of his white teeth. His eyes glowed warm amber hues, highlighting the roasted chestnut of his hair. Despite it being freshly cut and combed and his waves being tamed with hair product, a stubborn curl peeked over his forehead, like a flower leaning towards sunlight.

Like the flowers in his hand. He held a thick bouquet of mostly yellow daisies and ivory roses. In between the perfectly crafted arrangement, stalks of delicate, purple flowers protruded from the thicket. They brought out the lilac in his shirt.

She reexamined it again.

Not lilac. 

Lavender. 

"M'surprised you're up this early," Peter dreamily murmured, observing her with starry eyes.

Honey looked down at the flowers pressed against his chest, then back at the gold in his gaze. She observed the gentle curve of his smile.

Honey's face was the polar opposite, with icicles to prove it. "I'm surprised it wasn't the cops at the door." 

It was like popping a metaphorical bubble. Or one of his lungs.

Peter's eyebrows dipped as he pulled his lips into a frown. She turned her back to him smoothly, letting the door swayed open behind her. The door creak followed the sounds of her retreating steps.

Peter shot a quick glance toward the sky. He dragged in a breath and let his shoulders sag. Somewhere in his mind, the phrase 'Well, what did you expect?' echoed. He let the air out of his lungs, and turned on the unflinching charisma.

He followed her— because, of course, he did— meandering in with something of a swagger.

"Y'know, that's a good point," he said matter-of-factly, "now tha'cha mention it." He studied her from behind, watching her pad through his home, searching for the rest of her clothes. 

Peter continued, slyly. "I'm surprised they didn't show up last night. All that screamin' you did when you were ridin' me..."  He couldn't see the embarrassment on her face, but he noticed the way her back stiffened. "Surprised they didn't think a wild animal was on the loose," he added, lips curling with satisfaction.

"Congratulations!" she replied, her tone bright with feigned enthusiasm. "You went thirty whole seconds without bringing up your dick! What. An. Achievement." She pointed expectantly towards the dining area. "Are you hosting a party to celebrate your success?" 

She observed the kitchen staff curiously. They were in prime form, quickly and quietly retrieving plates, serve dishes, cutlery, and linens from the cart. They flowed through their movements, like synchronized swimming. Her gaze drifted towards the housekeepers spraying and wiping down the table surface with cleaner. 

Heat spread across her skin as she recalled how they had desecrated that spot just hours ago.

Blinking the memory away, she watched the servers step in place of the housekeeping staff. They tossed a linen tablecloth flat over the surface, setting the table for a fancy breakfast.

"Brunch for the Royal Family?" she commented.

Peter peeked over to see the flush on her cheeks, the way her skin heated up as she looked away from the dining table. Setting the bouquet down, he smirked. He knew exactly what was on her mind.

"A queen, actually," he shrugged, suppressing the faint curl of his lips. He wasn't here to gloat. "More of a date, really." He watched her next move intently.

"Well, that's my cue," Honey muttered. "I outta get going. Especially if you plan on eating anyone else out at the table." Her chin held high, she turned her back to him once again.

A strangely familiar sound— like a sharp, slick whipcrack— echoed from behind. She felt a tug on her midsection, then went flying backward. The force yanked Honey off her feet—just as it had the night before. She landed in Peter's arms with a shocked squeak.

"What the fuck?" she shrilled, grasping at the foreign substance on her back. It suddenly occurred to Peter that they hadn't discussed what Peter was using to reel her in, like many aspects of his complicated life.

He turned her towards him like manipulating a doll. Smugness and affection layered on his expression, like the cat that ate the canary.

"What is that?" Honey gawked. As she pulled her hand away, she inspected it closely this time. Shimmery, silver twine made from gossamer threads tangled around her fingers. "Jesus— is that... coming out of you?"

"No," Peter chuckled, amused by her horror.

She observed him, confused by his immunity to the web's stickiness as he casually tossed the string aside. While she was distracted, he gathered her close to his chest. At any other point, she would've fought him—because, of course she would. Her curiosity drove her attention.

Her eyes were on the black leather cuff around Peter's wrist. He'd worn it many times before. Honey just assumed it was an odd piece of jewelry. Maybe he didn't like the feeling of $30,000 designer watches on his skin. 

Now, the glint of a tiny metal device hidden beneath the leather caught her eye. Her eyes darted to his other wrist, spotting another device as his fingers enveloped her shoulders. 

She blinked curiously between the balled-up silk, to the leather cuffs, and to the hotel employees. They didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. They were likely instructed not to see anything.

Eyes still wide, she blurted, "Seriously, what the fu—?"

A fierce kiss silenced her. Peter smashed his lips to hers, capitalizing on the slight part of her mouth, and slipped his tongue inside. If he could've inhaled her into his lungs, he would have. He noticed faint pressure from Honey's palms against his chest, stubbornly resisting, as usual. The tension drained slowly as she succumbed to his grip. 

Maybe she quit wanting to escape him. 

Maybe she realized he was inescapable.

Peter was the one who couldn't escape Honey. Nor did he want to.

Seconds turned hazy. Peter was dragged deeper into a maelstrom. The longer he tasted her tongue, the more his blood surged like the swell of the tempestuous ocean against a sea wall.

Lust filled his lungs and his brain with gale-force winds. 

Peter remembered last night, too. God, he was already half-hard just thinking about it.

Before he melted from the memory, he pried his lips away from hers. The act took all of his power-of-will. The most he could manage to sacrifice was a couple of inches of distance apart. Peter was already a mess, chest heaving. Honey looked just as wrecked—swaying unwittingly with shaky breaths.

Peter whispered to her, his voice dark, "You're outta your mind if you think I'm lettin'ya walk away." 

A pulse-pounding shudder racked through her body. Peter swore he could feel her pelvic muscles flutter in response. It triggered a sick feeling of validation of the sinful desire polluting his mind. For a moment, he felt free to wallow in its toxicity.

That voice always managed to subdue her. Peter locked this information away for later. 

He was also aware that he needed to touch her. He craned his neck a little further until his nose kissed hers. The action grounded them both. A flicker of levity broke through the lust, and his familiar smirk returned. "And you're batshit crazy if ya think I'm here for anyone else but you."

Honey gazed up at him owlishly, still locked in a haze. She only vaguely registered the breeze as the staff rushed past them. Her cloudy eyes found their way over to the dining table, now fit for a queen. Or a Good Housekeeping magazine cover. 

The door slam pulled her back to the present.

"I thought I made myself clear last night." Peter bit his lip as he said it, holding the sides of her face as he oozed with charm. His sultry eyes fawned over her. "M'not lettin' you go. Not again."

"Let me go, Peter." Honey's voice was firm with a stone expression.

Immediately, Peter's shoulders dropped a full inch, and his voice pitched into a whine. "Will'ya stop being so stubborn—?"

"Let me go, Peter."

"Fine. You're mad at me—Y'made'ya point. Now, can we just talk about this? Like adults? Just sit down—"

"Let. Me. Go. Peter."

Honey's voice seemed to echo as she said it, charged with an electrical current threatening to fry him alive. It was more than a sneer; it was an ominous rattle before a bite. 

Instantly, the teasing nature of their banter evaporated.

Peter blinked several times, like he'd been sucker punched. He was unsure of how to respond. A tick formed in his jaw as he observed her, watching intently, gears turning. Lips pursed together into a thin line.  

Seconds stretched out uncomfortably as she just stared back.

Honey's spine as she stood in front of him—stood up to him—was steel. The little line between her brows popped out like a switchblade, her eyes skewering him just as deeply.

If she was afraid of Peter's unreadable expression, she didn't show it.

Seconds ticked on in their stalemate, during which dozens of scenarios played out in Peter's mind. At least a dozen of those scenarios were inappropriate ways of... making her do it. 

Didn't matter what it was. 'It' could easily be anything Peter wanted. 

He had the power—not just metaphorically.

Peter had enough strength in the upper half of his pinky to simply bend her to his will.

Peter's throat felt so tight it began to ache. A dry swallow rippled through his neck. Then, he made his choice.

His hands opened, releasing her with a forlorn expression. The moment he did, Honey took a giant step back—a recoil. He could've sworn he heard a faint gasp fill the gap they formed, like she'd been holding her breath.

In terror, he realized with disappointment.

Honey curled her arms around herself. His eyes dropped to the floor. 

That look cut him deeper than any blade could. 

"Honey," he said softly, emotions lodged in his throat. Burning mist clouded his vision. He wasn't here to cry, either. But his heart felt heavy all the same. "I just wanna talk."

"I thought you wanted to have breakfast with me."

"I do—!"

"Then ask me!" she snapped, frustration heating up her words. "Ask me! Instead of dragging me around like you're some…some caveman!"

Peter glanced up. The way she spat out the last word gave him pause. 

He studied the pout on Honey's lips. The angry scrunch in her nose. Arms crossed, jaw firm. She glared up at his tall stature, looking courageous and formidable. At the same time, her eyes betrayed her vulnerability. She was desperate to be heard.

Honey had demolished every obstacle placed before her. Even if the obstacle was him, she made it look (and him feel) three inches tall.

The ferocity of her gaze could intimidate a tiger.

Simultaneously, the butterfly wings of her lashes could charm a viper. 

The bow of her lips could force a king to his knees.

How can she not know this? Peter mused with wonder. How on earth was she unaware of how much power she possessed?

Significantly more than he could ever have.

Honey could make Peter do anything.

"If I had five minutes left on this planet," he began, eyes brimmed with an ocean of unspoken words, "I would want them to be with you."

A pause filled the room, consuming all of its oxygen. Peter held his breath in anticipation.

A surge of terror tightened in his chest, but it was tangled with something deeper—an overwhelming sense of adoration. To the outside world, they were two halves of the same sunset, golden rays that kissed a dark, cold earth. 

Honey gazed at him intently. "I would like that," she said.

And he finally could breathe again.

"—But I can't."

Honey stated it matter-of-factly. As if she didn't just reverse the planet's rotation. Peter's gaze dropped to the floor as his heart shattered. He was close to falling apart entirely.

"I can't… I-I…" her words trickled out, trying to support her stance with a lack of conviction. Or direction. Or sense. "I have things to do." 

That sassy tone of hers was back. Peter lifted his eyes to hers, "Oh?"

She shrugged, "Important things."

"Oh," he nodded along, furrowed brows in a serious expression.

"Yeah." She mumbled, almost too quiet to hear. She fidgeted with her fingers, threading them together, until finally, she grasped her arms into a comforting hug. "Like normal people."

The last part was meant to be a jab. "Normal?" Peter replied with decorum.

"Like… taxpayers."

"Hmm."

"—and moms…" she gulped dryly, "on TV." 

Peter nodded conspicuously as if he were fully supportive of her bullshit. His patronizing politeness only frustrated her further.

"Okay, like most people have things to do," she argued harshly, "like bills to pay, people to see—

"Bills."

"And chores! Tasks. Responsibilities."

Peter snorted with feigned enthusiasm, "Wouldn't know anything about that."

"Well, I have a job to get to," she blurted, solidifying her position. "I need to go home and shower and empty my dishwasher, bring my clothes to the laundromat—"

"Uh-huh."

Frustration carved out her tone. "And you know what else? You don't get to hijack my whole day just because you found a couple of hours in your schedule, Peter!" 

He had nothing to say to that.

"And before you ask," Honey pointed a polished fingernail at him, "don't get hung up on last night! You're still in the dog house." She turned to leave but stopped to add, "Or… people house!" 

A moment passed, but she still wasn't done.

"If I had a dog, you would be it!" she growled. "Outside, in the winter, in a tiny wooden shack of shame!" 

Then…

"–Not that I would ever do that to a dog, but maybe a-a cold-blooded— if you were a turtle, or…wait, that doesn't work— A fish! You'd be on your ass! Or fin— is that Portuguese linguiça sausage?" 

Her demeanor had flipped like a switch, from cold to curious, as soon as the smell of food hit her. It was as if the entire conversation had never happened until that point.

Peter couldn't help but smile. "From that place you like," he confirmed, his tone enticing. 

She paused, silent.

Mused.

Deliberated.

"Alright. First—sausage," Honey blurted out, 

decision made. The irritation in her tone seemed directed at herself.

"Then," she warned, "you're in the turtle-fish house!"

She spun on her heel and sauntered towards the buffet as if she'd dropped a mic.

"Okay, so hit me," Peter said.

Honey glanced up at him. The look she gave suggested she was willing to do exactly that.

They sat at opposite ends, so far apart at the dining table that it was almost comical. Only a few minutes had passed since they agreed to sit and eat together. It might as well have been years. Every moment was packed with awkward silence.

Straight-faced, he lifted his arms, extending them in a welcoming gesture. "Let's hear it. I know you got questions. I got answers. Let's go."

"Oh?" she lifted her eyebrow as she pinned him with a mocking glare. 

"Yep," Peter shrugged, maybe a bit too aggressively. "Let's hear 'em. Fire away."

A tension-filled moment of silence settled between them. The whole time, Honey skewered him with her glare. Then—

"Where should I start?" she spat hotly like lava erupting from a volcano. "Should we start from the top? Gimme three hundred words on how you spent your summer vacation." Each word sizzled off her tongue. "Or should we rewind a bit and talk about the ropes of glue shooting out of your body?!" 

An amused laugh burst from his lips, his teeth flashing wolfishly. "I mean… yeah—" he smirked. "When ya put it like that, I'd be willin' t'give you a demonstration—"

"Grow up, Peter!" Honey snapped, her fork clattering on the china.

The accused straightened his shoulders and mouth into a line. 

Contempt filled her incredulous glare. "Y'know what? Let's talk," she sneered, her anger releasing. "Let's talk about you since you're the center of everyone's universe. You, right now. Peter Parker, the Boss." She was flippant, each word intended to pierce his prideful armor. 

"What's been goin'on in your world, huh?" she questioned, pleasant in her tone. "How's crime?" She said it like referring to a common relative.

Peter shot her a brief glare, only encouraging her patronizing. 

"Must be good," she remarked. "What's the mortgage on a ten-thousand-square-foot condo in Manhattan nowadays?"

"Wouldn't know," he shrugged, picking his fork back up to take another bite. He pondered quietly as he chewed. "I bought the whole building."

The crassness of his declaration gave her pause. Honey hated how cocky arrogance looked as good on him as one of his Ralph Lauren suits.

"You bought— a hotel?" she asked in confusion.

Peter's eyes slid over to hers, looking like the devil as he brought a coffee mug to his lips. His eyes were twin flames, burning into her like he was trying to ignite a fire in her belly. Sipping a hot beverage seemed like a lewd act. 

Depraved thoughts filled his skull as he laved his tongue across his scorched lips. He pulled the mug away, and his mouth glistened. He watched Honey's reaction expectantly. 

"Yup," was all he said.

She stared at him, face unreadable. Not the kind of way she stared at his hands or his mouth.

"I suppose…" she crooned in a silky voice that edged on seduction and trepidation. For a moment, Peter's belly flipped with the excitement of a fisherman sensing the first slight tug on a lure. "The fact that Wilson Fisk used to own it had nothing to do with that decision?"

A bucket of ice water had been dropped on him. Coldness stabbed his heart and splintered his bones. 

That name.

The name that paralyzed him. Made his hair stand up on end, even after all these years. She exposed a nerve with just a couple of words.

"Oh," she said knowingly, reading him like a book. "Are we still afraid to say his name?" 

Peter's own words echoed back at him.

"...We don't say his name..."

Peter traveled to the day he rescued Honey from Fisk's men. He remembered inexplicably snapping at her, his hackles raised at the thought of what Mayor Wilson Fisk could do—what he had already done—to Peter's family. What depraved violation he would have done to this unassuming, bright-eyed girl. 

Unassuming, only because she had no idea at that point that she was his. 

The memory blurred and morphed into a twisted reflection of the current moment. 

Innocent. But smart.

Trying to ignore the sudden pulse behind his eye socket, he lifted a shoulder and dropped it. Peter's practiced indifference returned to his face. He returned to his plate, calm and collected. "I'm layin' down plans—"

"With Carol?" Honey finished, eyes narrowed into slits.

Peter's eyes shot to hers, and he looked truly confused momentarily. His expression only seemed to anger her further.

"Is that who you're 'layin' down plans' with?" she asked lividly. There was no concealing it. Honey's eyes were sharp enough to cut his throat.

"What?" Peter blurted out. "Carol??"

God, he hoped he didn't look as stupid as he sounded.

"Yeah!" Honey hissed back, hopping to her feet. The chair creaked loudly across the marble floor as she shoved it away. “Carol. Fucking. Danvers.”  Honey spat each word out like they were sour. "I believe that's her full name, no?"

Peter's brow arched, bewildered. Confused.

"'America's Sweetheart'!" she added through gritted teeth, pushing her fists into the table. The plate clattered at the impact. "Captain America?" she said as if to aid his memory. "You know?"

He blinked. 

She bordered on shrill. "The one with America's Ass?"

Of course, she referred to the former Air Force pilot who became a TikTok sensation, a pop star, a fashion model, and a feminist icon. Everyone's favorite.

Typically, Honey wouldn't resort to bashing another woman, avoiding the "cycle of patriarchal misogyny which pits women against each other," to quote her sister. But deep within her fiery eyes, jealous voices conspired against her rationality.

Meanwhile, Peter's eyebrows squished together, as if he couldn't quite grasp what language they were speaking. "Wha-What're we talkin' abo—?"

Her glare was razor sharp. "What's Carol laying down, huh? What's she like?"

Peter stared back with eyes like saucers and an empty thought bubble next to his head. "She's… Fine?" 

It took less than one second for him to deeply regret his answer. 

"Oh, I'll bet she is!"

Something wild sparked in Honey's eyes like a crackling bonfire. She rounded the table marching towards him. "Y'think I'm stupid? I follow Deuxmoi, asshole!"

Peter let out a long groan, practically dragging his fingernails down his face. "Honey—"

"Don't 'Honey' me!" she sneered, adding a mocking dramatization of his voice. She threw her hands up in front of her face as if waving them at an invisible breaking news chyron. "'Carol Danvers spotted at 1Oak last night with alleged Syndicate crime boss Peter Parker... Is Captain America About to Break Bad?'"

Frustration filled his tone, "That's—! That was noth—"

"Oh, don't gaslight me, Peter!"

"I'm not!" 

"Don't gaslight me about gaslighting me!"

"That was all TMZ bullshit, and you know it!" Peter shot back, now on his feet as well. She pursed her lips together, shaking her head in disbelief. Peter took a steadying breath. "Yes," he admitted, more composed, "I met her at a club, yeah. Because that's where she wanted to meet! I had a business proposition–"

"Business?" she bitterly laughed, crossing her arms. "You two goin' in on a new restaurant? Hipster gastropub called Peter's Cockpit?"

"Jesus Christ, Honey, I didn't fuck her!" he exclaimed in a near whine, waving his arms like a windmill. "It was—" he fumbled over his tongue. "Nothing else happened! No one is in anyone's… cockpit…" 

He winced at his own words. Raw memories from last night flared up in his chest. "Where d'ya get off accusin' me, huh?" he interrupted, suddently. "What about you and Pedro, eh?"

Honey's eyes bulged out of her head in shock.

Peter was referring to, of course, the sexy, hazel-eyed waiter that flirted at the restaurant the night before. Clearly, Honey didn't see the correlation. 

"Pedro!?" she bellowed in disbelief.

"Pedro!" Both of their voices echoed off the stone of the lavish suite.

Honey groaned so loudly, it was a roar. "Pedro's gay, you dunce!" 

Peter's brows furrowed as he considered this. "Come again?" 

"I've known him since junior high! He helped Becca get her first job when she was 15. At that very restaurant!" 

Silence.

Peter blinked, a trench forming between his eyes. 

More silence.

"So. You're... not... ...into him?"

Honey scoffed at the question with a rueful chuckle. He sensed she would've laughed if she hadn't been so furious. "Seriously? I've seen rainbows that were straighter!"

He felt his skin fluster. The thumping percussion inside of his chest leveled out to a dull thud. His heart ached all the same.

Peter's eyes rested on her. She stayed rigid, arms wrapped tightly around herself in a way that reminded him of a tree fighting to remain upright in the wind. A cherry blossom braving an early-spring cold snap.

Her eyes were cast to the side, and filtered sunlight gave her an ethereal glow. Anxiety reflected across the color of her irises.

"Did it hurt?" Honey asked, barely above a whisper.

He tilted his head at her question, glancing briefly at the shimmer resting on her lower lashes. Her voice was meek but raw with unspoken emotion, like a wave of tears being held back. "Thinking I wanted him?" He recognized her attempts to look anywhere else but at him.

Peter's chocolate eyes softened. "Did you want it to?" he questioned gently. Not an ounce of judgment thrown her way. "Hurt me?"

His beautiful girl swallowed dryly, blinking the shimmer away. Her eyes wandered to the floor. "Maybe," she replied thoughtfully, discovering it herself. 

Peter hadn't expected her honesty but wasn't surprised. If anything, he found it disappointingly refreshing. 

He watched her fidget with her hands. "Regardless," she said, clearing her throat. "I guess now you know how it feels." 

Shame brimmed her gaze as it bounced off the walls and floor. Peter considered her expression, silently reading all the emotions she could not conceal.

"Carol isn't what you think she is," Peter said, matter-of-fact. His ferocity had calmed, and his arrogance had dissipated like a storm cloud. Tiredly, he ran his hand back through his hair. "Matt heard that she might be making the leap into politics. People are saying she could make a play for Congress. Maybe even the governorship." 

Honey stared at him in silence. Waiting.

"I was hopin' I could convince her to stick a little closer to home," Peter sighed with a half-shrug and a dim spark of hope in his smile. "Somewhere... maybe like City Hall."

Honey arched a brow, processing. "Mayor," she said, contemplative. "You want her to run against Fisk." 

He looked sheepish now, pocketing his hands. "Lotsa people think she could win."

Honey's eyelids narrowed. "Do you even vote?" 

"She'd have mine," Peter replied without hesitation, then his eyes snapped to hers. "And no," he added, muted but coy. "Before you say anything, that wasn't a euphemism. Or an objectification of any of her..." The words dwindled as he struggled to form the right word. "...Assets."

Peter cringed after saying it, and he could've sworn that her eye twitched.

"I wasn't lying, Honey," he added. His heart was in his throat. "Last night. When I said, 'There wasn't anyone else for me.' I meant it."

She was silent momentarily, but a million words bubbled up behind her glassy eyes. "There has to be something else for me," she whimpered, vocal cords tight. 

Her vulnerability was in plain sight. No further posturing. The heartbreak in her voice felt like a knife jammed between his ribs.

"I can't—I-I just can't..." Honey struggled, losing her composure. 

"I don't…" Peter muttered half-consciously. Terrified at the realization. "What-what are you saying, you-you don't wanna be with me?" 

The tears bubbled up again on her lower lash line. Her plea ground out miserably, voice breaking, "There has to be more to me, to my life, than just being… yours."

He blinked at her, confused.

"I can't belong to you, Peter," she replied. Tears glided down her cheeks, now flooded with raw emotion. "I can't belong to anyone else." 

His Honey shivered before him, choking back sobs. She barely looked strong enough to stand.

And that's when it hit him.

The sharp contrast between the woman who stared him down and the shivering girl before him became apparent. It was day and night, fire and fear.

Fear.

"Mari."

The word snapped her out of her downward spiral. Wide-eyed and caught off guard, Honey's gaze flicked up to his.

Peter gazed at her with a worried line between his brows. He focused on her eyes, made impossibly brighter from tears. The sight broke his heart.

Peter took a careful step forward, the way one would approach a wild horse. The slightest twig snap might send her running.

"I'm not trying to put you in a cage," he offered gently. Saying those words were painful, in a nauseating way. "Not again."

The gentle relief he spotted in Honey's gaze tore through his sternum. Peter couldn't decide whether he would rather bleed out or trap her away beneath his ribs.

Peter's hands itched, desperately wanting to close the gap between them, wipe away her tears with his thumbprints, and blanket her with his hold. Vigilantly, he kept his heels glued to the floor. He'd like to think he did so out of respect for her wishes and not with fear that she'd run away from him.

"I'm— I'm not," he babbled, dread filling him. Everything felt suddenly upside down. Reversed. He was a stranger again, with a frightened girl trembling in his bathtub. The thought terrified him. "If-if-if that's what you think—"

"I love you so much," Honey declared, clear as a bell. His heart was in his throat again. He swallowed it down, afraid he would empty his stomach in front of her. "I really do."

The opposite emotions tugging at his psyche felt like an ax swinging downwards, severing thick brush with a satisfying whistle. They culminated in a wet chopping sound—the split of his heart in two pieces.

"It's the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thing I think about at night." She dabbed at her chin with the back of her hand, taking a measured breath. "Sometimes I think that it's all I have left."

His heart sank. "But it can't be, though. " 

The knowingness of his voice pierced her further. "It can't," Honey replied gently. Sorrow weighed down the corners of her mouth, though he could tell she was still trying to smile. "I need to love myself." The last word had her lip wobbling.

Peter tightened his jaw, trying to channel the energy of his agony into something other than tears.

"For now," Honey added. The soft reassurance flickered like candlelight, providing the only warmth he could hold onto.

Peter locked his jaw and nodded slowly, understandingly. The more he thought about the equation, the more sense it made to him. 

It wasn't about him.

He declared, resolved. "You're the boss."

A/N: Go ahead. Let's hear it. If you loved this, reblog. If you thought it could be better, give it a like. If you hated it, do nothing. Thanks to my muses, now and forever. 🦌 Back to S&V Masterlist • Back to Main

Thank you for supporting fanfic authors by reblogging and keeping the community healthy. ♥️

[marionnette-art]

Just an other day in the spider mafia 🕷❤

Doctor Mantenbitch Mantenstein belongs to @thatnicedeerdemon (or Breezy)

Maddox to @edgealiedoodles

The spider mafia goes to @sophia-draws8

And I own Lauren!

[sorathekitsunewitch]

Macabre is just walking around until she stop to rest for a moment in her thoughts until someone comes in 

Macabre(Hazbin Hotel oc) and art style- SoratheShadowLight/Aurora Wings(me)

Akihiro(Hazbin Hotel oc) belongs to @sophia-draws8 

[marionnette-art]

It's been a while since I've drawn Lauren, so here!

I'm still getting used to digital stuff. Not the best, but hey! I tried!

[marionnette-art]

Open Rp

Break time for Lauren, wonder whats going to happen now....

[marionnette-art]

Name: Lauren

Age: 22 (1932-1954)

Height: 6'8 ft

Gender: Female

Sexual orientation: Lesbian

Mafia: Spider's mafia

Job: Kira

Abilities: She is very quick, she can hide in shadows, she can smell fear, she has retractable arms (like Angel Dust) and can make her six other eyes apear at her own will. Lauren has very sharp teeths. Don't let her bite you because, she very venomous. She's very good a throwing knives and use them.

Personality: Lauren is a sarcastic and violent bitch. She's selfish, unstable, very loud and emotional. But she can sometimes be genuinely kind and gentle to people she knows and trust. She can be very insecure about what other people think of her, though. Lauren will mock other demons to boost her ego up.

Likes: Modern stuff (cellphones, clothes), violence, scary movies, killing, swearing, memes, knives.

Dislikes: long conversations, kids, crying, getting touched, her horns, her freckles.

Other: Her eyes change with her feelings, the more extreme her emotions are, the more her eyes are bright.

~~~~~~

I'm sorry I'm not that good at drawing... but I hope you like it!

Spider's mafia and the initial idea belongs to @sophia-draws8 ♡

[marionnette-art]

Got bored so her are some little drawings of my 3 babies!

~~~

Lauren watching 666 news and Aster and Shasta baking cookies

~~~

@sophia-draws8

[marionnette-art]

Some smol doodles of my gal, Lauren

Sorry for my bad art, but I hope you like it ♡

@sophia-draws8

[marionnette-art]

Top 10 pictures taken before disaster

-Made with insomnia

~~~

I always wondered how Lauren would react to meet Thomas and honestly she would probably really hate him. Lauren would hate just the fact that they work together and would have to try not to kill him everyday.

Made this late at night so sorry for the bad quality...

Creator of Thomas: @cal-leandros-fan001

Creator of the Spider Mafia: @sophia-draws8

[marionnette-art]

Since it's almost Halloween, I just had to draw Lauren in a Halloween costume

~~~

I really thing that Halloween would be Lauren's favorite holiday

~~~

This is messy, but I hope you still like it!

~~~

The mafia belongs to the amazing @sophia-draws8 💕

[marionnette-art]

Something feelt wrong in Lauren's old desing and bio so I changed a couple of things...

~~~

Name: Lauren

Age: 19 (1938- 1957)

Height: 6'2 ft

Sexual orientation: Lesbian

Mafia: Spider

Job: Kira

Cause of death: She killed herself.

Abilities: Lauren is very quick, she can literally smell fear, she has retractable arms (to give me mercy when I draw her), don't let her bite you because she is very venomous, Lauren is very good at munipulating knives.

Personnality: Lauren I a sarcastic and violent person. She's selfish, unstable, loud and emotional. She tends to be a bit of a spycopath on the job. To people she trusts, she lets her guard down. She become a gentel, kind, childish and cute friend. Lauren is very insecure about herself. She will mock other demons to get her ego up.

Likes: Modern stuff (cellphones, clothes...), scary movies, memes, fun, swearing, knives, killing.

Dislikes: Long conversations, kids, getting touched or grabbed, her horns and other things about her body, spiders (the irony).

Other: Lauren's eyes chamge with her emotions, the more extreme her emotions are, the brighter her eyes are.She fears her boss and she finds her job very fun. She slightly inspired by the Cyriopagopus lividus (A blue spider).

~~~

That's all folks!

@sophia-draws8 I hope yiu likes the cnages I brought to Lauren ♡

[sorathekitsunewitch]

Name: Arachne  

Age: 25

Height: 5”7

Gender: Female

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual  

Cause of Death: Car accident  

Mafia: Spider, tattoo on the upper back

Job: Knight

Abilities: she can bring out strings of thin ice to control people and creates ice mannequins that moves under her will

Personality: kind, carrying, scary(when she’s mad), sweet-coldhearted(when someone cross her), loyal, trustworthy, a bit of a tsundere, wise, knows how to get out of trouble, gets the work done, gets to the point, and beautiful inside and out      

Likes: sweets, spicy foods, classic/soul/rock/country music, reading books, painting, cats, dogs, men, women, peaches, strawberries, and hanging out with her friends  

Dislikes: idiots who can’t do their jobs right, spoiled brats, disobedient people, traitors, people being late, being scared very badly, back stabbers, traitors,  people who don’t get the point, people who can’t be straight forward, assholes, rudeness, and drunks

 Other data of interest: When she brings out ice mannequins, she can get the to look like the person she’s fighting that is a doppelganger with their abilities and powers. With her ice strings, she uses them for attacking, defending, and cuts through like a blade. With her quils on her back same as her ice strings.  

Arachne(Hazbin Hotel oc) and art style- SoratheShadowLight/Aurora Wings(me)

Spider Mafia belongs to @sophia-draws8

[sincericida]

Whoa! What a roller coaster of emotions! I started very warm and happy, but suddenly I was crying… And now I’m panicking about what’s gonna happen!

sugar and vice, pt. 22 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!oc]

summary: no amount of money ever bought a second of time.

words: 6.9k

chapter warning: soft smut, characters pretending to be mean and therefore breaking your heart

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 weren't alive when Tobey Maguire was Spider-Man, maybe you should wait.

Part 22

A wise woman once told Peter that time was the key to the universe. She was so incredibly right.

Even so, Peter had a complicated relationship with time. He was always on the wrong side.

He had too much, or too little. He’d lose it. It would get away from him. It’d be just out of his reach, mocking him from the ivory tower of a future he would never have. 

The phrase ‘what if’ ticked away in his mind, like seconds on a clock. Like the broken hands of a clock face not too far from Roosevelt Island.

If he’d gone to bed an hour later, maybe he would’ve been awake enough to be able to save Ben and May from the gunfire.

If he’d gone into that convenience store a minute earlier or later, he would’ve never had the opportunity to try to be a hero.

If he had more time with Gwen…

If he had given her more of his time…

Time was the key to everything.

For someone who could crawl up walls and bend steel in his bare hands, he was rather powerless. What’s super about any of those party tricks compared to the power to control time? His estrangement with time left him weak and weary—no more than a street magician with cards up his sleeve.

But the night his Honey gave herself to him—for the first time in a long time—Peter felt superhuman.

He took his time with her. Washing the grime from her hair. Relishing her touch as she reached up to wash his back, and again as she ran gentle fingertips over his mending ribs. Long after their skin pruned, he held her beneath the roar of the shower, right next to his heart. 

Peter would’ve let the oceans run dry if it gave them more time to just be.

When they emerged, the sun was setting.

He counted heartbeats and freckles and dimples and breaths as they searched one another for injury. Patiently, they tended to each other’s wounds, but he didn’t waste too much time with his temporary discomfort. 

He’d live. In fact, he’d had worse. His natural healing abilities would take over eventually.

Until then, he could take his mind off his pain. And he was determined to do the same for her.

Peter focused his energy on stretching out each moment into an eternity, although that was hardly enough time to worship her how he wanted. He knew her so well already—or at least he thought he did— up until he noticed how her lower lip would twitch and fall agape as she reached orgasm. 

This discovery intrigued him. More research was needed. 

There were things about her body that only experimentation and practice could teach him, and the thought of unlocking more of her mysteries drove him wild. 

He wanted to study her. To become an expert in what made her gasp and quiver. A master of her body and heart, even as he became a willing slave to both. 

He wanted all of her, just as he’d said. 

To know her, wholly. 

Pleasure and pain. Joy and sorrow.

With a tender touch, Peter studied the scars of her past, stamped on her flesh like letters inked by a typewriter. He read each line, over and over, now committing to memory what he’d managed to miss because before he’d been in a hurry. Such a fool.

He followed the path of every bead of her sweat that served to punctuate the ecstasy of the present. Her soft sighs soothed him—crisp-sounding, like turning of pages in a book.

He should’ve taken his time to read her before, to really see her.

He wouldn’t repeat the mistake.

And so, ever the good student, he took his time. 

He wanted to know her by heart. He’d turned his bed into a seminary, where soon he’d be able to recite her like passages from a Bible.

Devotion like that takes time.

‘All a man has is time,’ Uncle Ben would say, ‘and what he chooses to do with it.’

Peter wasn’t going to waste a moment of it.

A thin sheen of cooled sweat coated his nude form as he stood at the foot of his bed. In reverent silence, he regarded the delicate woman softly dozing in his sheets. His gaze was content as he took in the peacefulness on her face. Her lashes hung heavy on her round cheeks, and her chest rose and fell in a steady pattern. 

She was curled up, snuggled with her face in the pillow as she clutched the bedsheet around her like a teddy bear. The eerie glow of dusk illuminated the curves not concealed by the sheet. Hidden paths up her thighs lured his gaze, barely obscured by the Egyptian cotton threads of the bedding. Her tiny fingers cuddled the edges of the fabric. It had turned into a chaste vestal robe which concealed places his mouth had explored an hour ago.

Even in her sleep, she was saintly and seductive. It was endearing as much as it was enticing.

His soft gaze continued down the path of her body. The rest of him hardened. 

“I can feel you, you know,” she murmured against the pillow. “Creeping on me.”

The tips of his ears went red, eyes widening like a cartoon robber frozen in a giant spotlight clutching a money bag in his hand. She snorted with amusement as she peeked at him over the covers. 

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Peter chuckled in response, blushing.

“I’m not sleepy,” she lied. “Just resting my eyes.”

Both were exhausted. 

If they went at it again, it would count as Round 3 for him, and Round 5 for her. Maybe even 6. His regenerative abilities blessed him with seemingly endless stamina, but it was no match for the kind of day they’d had. 

The onslaught of damage, both physical and emotional, wore them down. Their activities wouldn’t have been possible if not for a mind-numbing wave of adrenaline-fueled lust that seized them. They were driven by the desperate need for compassion and comfort.

And yet, there he was: a caveman leering down at her with a boner. 

She twisted around, studying him with sparkling eyes. She reached out her hands in his direction, making grabby claws with her fingers. “M’not even tired. Lemme show you.” He snickered, watching her fight off a yawn that suggested the opposite.

Carefully, he crawled up from the foot of his bed to her side, pulling the sheets back to position himself behind her. He pulled her close until her back was up against his chest, skin-to-skin.

“Noooo,” she whined softly. “Gimme you.”

Peter couldn’t hold back his grin, although he shook his head. “You have me. What you need is some rest.”

“You’re the one who's ogling me in my sleep with a hard-on. Like a weirdo.”

His smile glowed in the darkness. “Can’t help it, Honey.” He leaned down over her shoulder, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Everything you do makes me hard.” He followed the statement with the evidence lined up against her lower back. His hands roved over her hips, greedily gripping the flesh at the top of her thighs. 

She hummed in satisfaction, making a noise that wasn’t helping either of them. He felt her body press even closer to his, rolling her hips. Peter couldn’t let out the erotic hiss gathering in his chest at the sensation of his shaft sliding between her cheeks.

He was losing control again. He propped himself up on one elbow with his hand keeping her hip still. “We... we should... sleep—you should sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep—”

“I don’t wanna.” Her head was turned upwards, glancing back at his winded expression. 

“But-but you... need to—”

She bent her neck and captured his lips with her own. She pulled away with a seductive pout. “I thought you knew what I needed.” 

Again, her mouth sweetly teased his, delicately coy, until she charged forward and conquered his kiss. For a few seconds (or... maybe a few minutes), he was the submissive one, as he succumbed to her desire. He remained helplessly complacent as her tongue toyed with his. It was only when he realized he’d lost track of the time that he pressed his fingertips to her chin and pulled away. 

It was one of the hardest challenges of his entire life.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he pleaded, voice deep in his chest. His forehead kissed hers as he held his eyes closed.

She blinked up at him curiously as he nuzzled her nose. “Do you need a moment?” she said shyly, biting her lower lip.

His lashes fluttered open as he stared down at the Milky Way in her eyes. 

Strangely, he thought of the great sea explorers of the past. He pictured himself in Magellan’s place, standing at the helm of a carrack in the eerie darkness of the Pacific. He was adrift in a vast ocean of uncharted waters with no land in sight, nothing but the stars overhead to guide him. He clung to them desperately, fearful of the darkness outside of their hold, but awestruck by their wonder. It was like gazing at the gate of heaven. Being alone in the Universe, locked in an intimate moment with God herself.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmured curiously. The question wasn’t worried or rushed.

Peter observed her intently, memorizing the pattern of her freckles. “I need so much more than a moment,” he breathlessly replied. His eyes shimmered in the dim light. “I need to stop time.”

She blinked several times, pondering his response with an uncertainty that might have gutted him if she had let it go on too long. 

Thankfully, she answered with another passionate kiss, tilting her chin behind her shoulder. The air was swept from their lungs when she pulled away from his lips. “What about a lifetime?” she whispered. “What could you do with that?”

Affection warmed his eyes while passion ignited his stare. He didn’t hesitate further. The width of his hand cupped her jaw firmly, and he crashed his lips into hers. He breathed her into his lungs as he leaned over her, his cock resting heavily in the space behind her back.

She let her fingers card through his thick, brunette waves, playing with the damp ends that had curled up after the shower. Synchronizing her movements, she dragged her backside across his shaft and her nails through his scalp. He purred, twitching against her spine. 

His hand travelled down again, memorizing the feeling of each pore from her jaw to chest...to her stomach... across her pubic bone... and finally slipping into her dripping folds. A satisfied hmmm rumbled from his chest as he licked a spot beneath her ear. The warmth of his tongue, matched with the roughness of his fingers, made her quiver in his grasp.

She pulled her hand away from his scalp, urgently searching for his waist to pull his lower back into hers. As the gentle tease of his fingers formed into a languid massage, she bucked her hips impatiently, using the arm under her pillow to balance herself.

“So needy,” he muttered, tone sizzling. 

She mewled, her hand frantically searching for a place to land. It fluttered at his wrist, his bicep, his nape, then over to her chest, her breasts, and back to his hand again.

“Told you I’d take care of ya,” he whispered, bringing his other hand on the underside of her hip bone, replacing the outside one. “Just relax.” His other hand gripped her uncertain fingers, guiding them down to her breasts. He slowly squeezed each one of her mounds with his hand over hers, allowing his fingers to spin a wheel at her tender bud.

Intently, he watched as her eyes disappeared, rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it, baby, I gotcha.” His voice was dripping with dark chocolate. “Keep goin’ just like that.” 

It was an order, somehow delicate and firm.

It drifted into her ear like smoke from a wildfire and only added kerosine to the blaze in her belly. He reached down and lifted her outer thigh, forming a V with her legs. Opening up her core allowed his hand better access to her clit, while the other hand groped his cock and positioned it at her entrance.

“You need me to slow down?” he questioned, his mouth going dry from the panting. “Jus’say the word, and we can stop at any—”

“Don’t stop, Peter,” she cut him off impatiently, her voice lilting in desperation. There was no room for shame. “I need to feel you inside me.”

With a breathless gasp, he obliged her hunger and his own. He pushed the eager, leaking tip of his cock through her wet folds, perhaps a little more forcefully than he otherwise would have. He drank in her expression—the wince on her face, the flutter of her eyelashes, the pathetic whimper quickly melting into an erotic moan.

“S’okay, pretty girl,” he soothed. “M’gonna make it better.”

The grip of his fingers pushed dents into the meat of her thigh as he pried her open and rolled his hips into her heat.

“Doin’ so good for me,” he praised, his need overwhelming his senses. He pulled his hips back and drove them forward, slow enough for him to imbibe in her tremors. Her core fluttered over every inch. 

“Am I still a good girl?” she gasped with wide, wet eyes. Her head was thrown back against his shoulder and cradled against his bicep.

“Yeah, you are, princess,” he practically growled. She could feel the reverberation of his voice in her heart. “You’re my good girl.”

He sealed his lips around her open-mouthed moan, greedily licking it up for himself.

Each second stretched to a millennium. That’s what he would wish for if the Devil himself offered him a trade. However, it wouldn’t take long for the Dark One to realize that he had been cheated. Peter’s soul belonged to someone else already. 

Until mountains erode into sand. That’s how long he wanted each kiss to last. 

“God, you feel so good, baby...”

When sequoias that pierce the sky tumble and decay into the soil, from which a new giant is born and completes its life cycle. That’s how long he wanted each of her sighs to last.

“M’gonna be good t’you, always...”

Until every tectonic plate wades to a new home atop a pool of lava, and the face of the Earth is unrecognizable.

“You’re so good to me, Pete... s-so good—”

Until all the glaciers have melted. At the end of the next Ice Age. 

—“...radio waves from Galaxy 0402+379, whose coordinates appear in the constellation Perseus,  featuring binary supermassive black holes with the least separation of any directly observed binaries, at a distance of approximately 23.88 Light-Years. Now, who can tell me what happens when these two objects reach singularity? Anyone? — Yes, Mr. Parker...”—

“Don’ever wanna lose you, Honey... Never, never...”

Until the end of the Milky Way’s last dance, as the curtain falls while it takes its sister Andromeda by the hand.

“Shhh, you won’t, baby. You won’t lose me. Just—ahh—stay with me...”

Each moment stretched out into eternity. Slow like molasses. Dripping like honey.

She was right. Time was the key to the whole universe.

And as Peter pushed her toward another summit, clutching her close as they tumbled over the peak together, they shared a sweat-coated sigh of relief. Both of them were finally sated, at least for now. At this moment, they were content drifting off to sleep in the cradle of each other’s embrace. 

He kept her body wrapped around his, her face buried into the crook of his neck. His hand weighed heavily across her back. Eyes closed, he listened intently to her familiar purr.

He knew it well. It was the one that would confirm she was asleep—the signal he would wait for to open his eyes and observe her beauty freely, without hinderance or shame.

“I love you,” he said. 

Always.

A vow. 

A hope.

A plea.

She woke up to the sound of rain pattering on the window panels. 

Grey light pushed on her eyelids, prying them apart, while cool air scratched at her back. She responded by folding herself tighter and burrowing her nose into a warm chest. She was still dreaming, she thought. The scent of cedar and cinnamon filled her airways as calloused hands tickled her back.

She was dreaming. And it was a beautiful dream. She refused to acknowledge the light, fighting off the waking world.

When she felt a gentle brush of fingers clearing a lock of her hair from her face, she found the courage to open her eyelids. Gazing fondly at her were a pair of doe eyes. The light of day reflected off their hue, but the facets were illuminated from within. 

Like candlelight. Like fire. Roasted chestnuts, caramel, chocolate, hazelnut, whiskey, brown sugar, and molasses. Warm amber, deep garnet, charred topaz, smokey quartz, bronze, brass, and gold. Earth and fire and water and the air that escaped her lungs.

And honey. Delectable, delicious honey. 

She found it all in his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmured, his throat thick from hibernation. A beaming smile burst through his lips, burning through clouds outside.

Her heart stuttered as she basked in its glow. “Morning.”

He glowed. Her friend. Her protector. Her lover.

They lay in silence, regarding one another with warm gazes and warmer hearts.

“How long’ve you been awake?” she said with a tired smile, leaning back into her pillow to get a better look at his face.

“Not sure,” he whispered, threading his fingers through her hand and placing it near his heart. The short distance between them at the present was as far away from her as he could stand. “I was jus' thinkin' about how long I've been asleep. Too long.”

She blinked at the awe in his expression, blushing as she realized he wasn’t referring to last night’s rest. Her eyes sparkled back at him, feeling a slight ache at the corners. They held several seconds of blessed silence, taking in each other in peace, until Peter rubbed the haze from his eyes.

“We outta get up,” he sighed. “Need to pack.”

“Pack?” she repeated. Her smile dimmed a bit, as the dark memories of the past couple of days crept back into her consciousness. “Where are we going?”

“You let me worry about that,” he said, though not unkind. He kissed the back of her hand tenderly. “All you need to know is that we’ll be safe. And Bella and your sisters will be waiting for us.”

Her eyes fluttered wide. “Really?”

He smiled. “Really.” Gazing at her fondly, Peter watched the relief wash over her until it brimmed at her lashes. “I’m jus’ goin’ over the details in my head,” he added thoughtfully. “Does your ma ever play the lottery?”

She smirked. “No.”

“Well,” he pondered, “she’ll be so surprised when she finds out she’s won a million dollars and another vacation getaway.”

A snort broke through her foolish grin. “Practically astonished. Won’t even bother to question it.” 

“She can come along as long as she doesn’t ask any questions,” Peter said delicately before giving it some thought. He added on a condition. “And she keeps her mouth shut.” More thinking. “And stays alone, in her own place, away from us and the girls.” His brow furrowed as he continued to ponder. “Maybe even on a different continent. I’m still fine-tuning the kinks in my plan.”

“Hmmmmm,” she grinned, leaning into another soft kiss. “Kinks.” 

Playfully, she brushed her tongue against his, stirring a deep groan from his chest. When he pulled back, he fixed her with a sultry gaze. “Careful...” he warned. “You might start somethin’ you’ll have to finish. Again. And again. And again—”

She giggled and leaned in for another kiss until they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. The couple jumped, with Honey clutching the sheet to her chest.

“Pete!” they heard Felicia’s voice through the wall. “Open up! Or... close—whatever it is you’re in the middle of.”

Honey snapped her eyes to Peter, embarrassment flooding her expression. He grinned wide, amused by her flustered state. 

“Just a minute,” he called back as Honey pulled the sheets off the bed and dragged them with her. Alarmed, she scurried across the room with a shocked look. “C’mon,” he muttered at her with a jeering chuckle. “You didn’t think we were that quiet last night, did you?”

Scowling, she flipped him off and disappeared into his closet. Coming to a stand, he paused with one foot over the edge of the bed, his smile fading.

There were two heartbeats at his bedroom door.

“Hurry up, Peter,” Felicia repeated, a lack of levity in her tone. “We’ve got company.” 

In a blink, he had on a pair of sweatpants and was reaching for his phone. He pulled up a camera feed outside of his bedroom. 

Felicia stood with her arms crossed impatiently, tapping her fingers along her biceps. A familiar face waited beside her, wearing crimson-tinted sunglasses and clutching a white cane. 

Something sharp pulled at his chest, the brightness of his smile dimming. He glanced back at the closet doorway. 

“C’mon, Pete. We don’t have time!”

Peter frowned.

Of course they didn't. It was always out of his reach.

He wiped the self-pity off his face as he pulled open the door. He hadn't bothered with a shirt, facing them with a bare chest still striped with bruises. 

“Matt,” he stated, reading the grim look on the other man’s face. Peter didn’t need many words to confirm what he could already hear in his friends’ heartbeats.

“Sorry to wake you,” Matt stated tensely, “but we’ve got a problem.”

It took a minute for Honey to be brave enough to poke her head out of the closet. She was fully clothed, wearing a silk robe tied snugly around her waist, but her flushed cheeks telegraphed her embarrassment.

She expected smug and teasing expressions, if not from Matt, then definitely from Felicia. What she saw was the opposite.

“How much time?” Peter asked, brows furrowed and arms crossed tightly.

“Maybe a minute,” Matt answered. "Maybe less."

“Building’s surrounded,” Felicia added anxiously. “Cleaning crew just left. We haven’t had time to check the work.”

“They’re good at what they do,” Peter assured her. “It’ll be fine. We just need to put on our game faces, stay calm, and we’ll get through this—”

“They’re bringing an army down here, Pete,” Matt implored. “You need to be sure.”

“If I weren’t, I wouldn't be standing here,” he replied.

“You oughta be running,” Felicia said sharply, "preferably to LaGuardia."

“Leaving is a bad look,” Matt argued. “I cannot stress that enough.”

Felicia glared at him. “But you would recommend a trip to Ryker’s? I thought you were supposed to be a good lawyer?”

“Cat. We need to deflect attention right now. Stay calm.”

“Where are we going?” Honey questioned, her voice cutting through the tension like a hot blade into butter. 

The conversation came to a screeching halt.

Eyes snapped in her direction, but she noted how Felicia immediately looked away. Even Matt turned his head; his nose pointed at the floor.

Peter was the only one who looked her in the eye. And when he did, it made her stomach twist. Despair filled his gaze.

He didn't need to say a word. She already felt faint. “Pe-Peter...?”

He dashed across the room, taking her face in his hands. As quick as the motion was, everything felt like it was moving too fast—need more time—and Honey couldn’t keep up. Like concrete weighed down her feet—what happened, what just happened, what’s happening—and the lights of an oncoming train blinded her. 

“Pe-Pe—But—-wh-wha—? What is he talking about whatdoesthatmean who’scominghere wha-what-whatdoesshemean—”

“Easy, easy,” he cooed. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, yeah? I’ve got it under control.”

Her voice shattered beneath a whisper, “Don’t lie to me, Peter!” 

He fell silent. Sorrow twisted his closed lips. Then, hesitantly, he explained, “The cops are here. They know about Walker.”

Honey gasped. And then she felt herself go numb.

“They were expecting him to check in this morning. And when he didn’t, somebody knew to come here.”

Tears flooded her vision with wretched memories riding them like a tidal wave. A python tangled itself around her lungs, constricting her breath. 

“Now, they’re gonna come in and make a big show,” Peter continued to explain, “but it’s very important that you stay calm, Honey. Don’t say a word. Don’t answer any questions. Just follow my lead.”

She was crying. Her mind was traveling through wormholes in time. She was hurdling untethered into a cosmos of what-ifs and should-have-dones. Doubt and terror filled her expression as her heart broke into pieces.

“Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen to you, sweetheart. On my life, I swear it,” Peter softly declared. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

Honey blinked wet lashes up at him, still existing outside reality. “I... I’m... I’m not afraid.”

Peter went still, lips parting.

She stared at him with resolve, her voice turning to steel. “I don’t regret what I did. Even if I have to go to jail—”

“You’re not going to jail,” he promised, shutting down the idea.

“I’m not sorry that I killed him. I’d do it all over again, if I had to. He was a monster... and-and he needed to die. I’ll tell them—”

“Honey, you’re not going to jail,” Peter firmly repeated. “I am.”

She froze, her stomach and heart plunging. Her wet eyes went wide. “What?” Terror gripped her. “What!? What do you mean—”

Peter noted how she physically pulled back, like a cobra ready to fight to the death.

“Listen to me, listen, listen," he pleaded. "We don’t have a lot of time, so I need you to listen to me carefully, yeah?” Peter murmured, the sight of her tears twisting a knife in his chest. “It’s gonna be fine. They’ll take me in, but we can fight it. Nobody has to know what really happened, alright? All you gotta do is follow my lead—”

Now her mind was traveling elsewhere, plummeting down into hell.

She pictured Peter in handcuffs. In an orange jumpsuit. At his trial. For murder. Of a goddamn shitbag. A federal agent. Sentenced. To death.

She rapidly blinked as if doing so could clear the horrifying image from her vision. Instead, she kept shaking her head as the nightmare unfolded.

Her tongue wouldn't work right. “But-But—”

“You’re my brave girl,” he said with soft desperation. “Jus’ need ya to stay brave a little longer, alright?”

“You... you didn’t do—no, no, you can’t—”

“I’ll make sure you’re safe,” he pleaded. “You, Bella, your sisters—you’re all gonna be okay. Just like I promised, alright? You just gotta go along with what I say. Whatever you hear, you gotta stay quiet, okay?”

“But...”

“No buts, you gotta trust me—”

“But... M’not—”

“I’m serious, Honey. I’m not playin’ around. Don’t fight with me on this—”

“I’m not letting them take you away from me!” she snapped, her voice breaking.

He went quiet as her fingers gripped him by the arms, nails digging into his flesh. She shook her head vehemently. In fact, her whole body was trembling like the facade of an avalanche. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared desperately up at Peter.

“You belong to me, too!" she said through sobs. "Okay? You’re mine, and I’m not letting you go. I’m not running away. There is nothing on this Earth that I love more, and I’m not leaving you!” 

Time stopped. 

Peter blinked at her, unsure if he actually heard what she just said. 

When he listened to her heart, it beat steadily. Drumming its truth. Each beat the tolling of a bell, ringing clear.

One moment stretched out into eternity.

Peter's eyes shimmered as he gazed down at her. His heart swelled beyond his chest, outside of the room, dwarfing the skyscrapers, eclipsing the sky.

Craning his neck, he touched his forehead to hers. He swore he could feel her devotion through her skin. He was empowered by it. Weakened by it.

Swallowing hard, he breathed her into his lungs.

Suddenly, they were alone in the room. In the city. On the planet. A shudder racked through her, a silent sob escaping her lips. “I... love you, Peter. I love you so much—”

“I know you do,” he nodded with a reassuring tone. Tears budded at his eyelids. “I know.” He hooked his fingers beneath her jaw and pointed her gaze up at his. 

There she is, he thought. His light in the darkness. His hope. His Honey.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered. 

She felt her pulse in her own throat as she gazed up at him with red eyes. He waited for a response. She sniffed and nodded, swallowing her panic back down. 

He smiled warmly. “Then I need you to remember that I love you,” he said. “And don’t ever forget it. No matter what you hear, okay? I love you forever. No matter what.”

Heavy footsteps echoed from down the hall. Her stomach twisted helplessly at the sound. Peter pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. When they parted, he turned away from her. She watched his retreating form until she felt Felicia's fingers take her by the shoulders. Gently, the woman led her back away from bedroom entrance.

Honey watched him longingly as her arms ached to hold him. He kept his back to her, eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Police!” a shout boomed from the hallway. “Coming in!” Honey felt a scream bubbling in her throat, desperate to break free.

The door opened with a bang. 

Peter kept himself steady, casting his eyes downward as a herd of boots stampeded around him. In a blink, at least a dozen of NYPD’s finest filled the space, with pistols and rifles pointed at Peter. They barked orders, shouting over one another. 

He was motionless.

Honey’s eyes darted around to see the ridiculous show of force, more befitting of Michael Myers or Hannibal Lector.

Half of them wore traditional police uniforms and bulletproof vests, while the other half wore full body-armor and carried SWAT-style equipment. Her eyes narrowed in on the SHIELD patch on the arms of one of the officers, her stomach twisting into knots.

“Hands up!”

“Put your hands above your head!”

“This is absurd—you’re in my client’s private residence!”

“Hands where I can see them!” 

When Peter looked up at them, he was a different man. He looked surprised. His eyes glittered with amusement, and his mouth was crooked with a brash grin. Relaxed, he leaned back on his hands as casually as any visit, observing the intruders with a pompous smirk

“Mornin’, boys,” he said boldly. “Please tell me one of you brought donuts.”

“On your feet!” one of the SHIELD agents hissed. The man sporting dark stubble over his jawline and a military crew cut stepped forward and gripped Peter by the shoulder. With a yank, he hauled the half-naked man to his feet—or rather, Peter allowed himself to be manhandled into a standing position. 

“Hey, watch it!” Matt snapped. “You lay a finger on my client, and I’ll have your badge faster than you can say your overly complicated acronym.”

“Tell ya what, Murdock,” the dark-haired SHIELD agent glowered at him with a cruel smile. “If you see something, say something.”

“You hear that, Matty?” Peter snorted. “Small Dick Energy over here’s brought his big guns and blind jokes today... What’s ya name anyway, pal?” 

“Rumlow,” the SHIELD agent spat. “What’s it to you?”

“No big deal,” Peter shrugged. “I’m gonna wanna know which funeral home to send the flowers to, is’all.” 

Rumlow’s face turned red with rage, giving him a look that shot terror down Honey’s spine. Peter smirked haughtily as a different police officer turned him around and wrenched his wrists behind his back. 

“Ooh!” Peter hissed playfully, with a lascivious wiggle of his brows. “Easy, tiger. Gimme some time to recharge 'ere. I had a rough tumble last night—”

“It’s about to get rougher,” a husky voice called from the entrance. 

Honey turned to see George Stacy’s ominous form blocking the doorway. His eyes were even baggier than the last time she saw him. His stringy, graying red hair looked unwashed, and he wore a wrinkled white dress shirt under his Kevlar vest. Marching into the room, the man glared at Peter with narrow eyes that could melt steel.

“Georgie!” Peter called out with glee. “I thought I smelled bacon. Good to see ya, buddy!”

“Captain Stacy to you, asshole,” Rumlow bitterly remarked. 

“Oh, no, Georgie and I go waayy back—wait a sec....did you say ‘Captain?’” Peter questioned before turning to George in shock. “Really? Still? Ya mean they haven’t given you a promotion yet? That’s some bullshit right there—”

“Peter Parker,” George declared sharply, popping each ‘P,’ leering at him like a shark hunting a sea lion. “It’s with the utmost pleasure that I inform you that you’re under arrest.”

“I’m happy for you, Georgie,” Peter smirked. “Really am. You look like you could use some pleasure.”

“Captain Stacy,” Matt snarled, inserting himself between the two men, “I had a conversation with the Commissioner this morning. We agreed that Mr. Reilly was coming in of his own accord—”

“‘Ben Reilly’ can come on down whenever he wants,” George sneered disdainfully, pointing at Peter. “I’m here for him.” He flicked his eyes back to Matt, “If you wanna take something up with the Commissioner, go ahead. He’s downstairs.”

“That’s perfect—maybe we can all do a round of 20 Questions!” Peter grinned wide. “Anybody up for a game? Here. I’ll start:” He glanced over at George, lifting his chin proudly. “Never Have I Ever... been suspended from active duty for showin’ up to work three-sheets-to-the-wind and smellin’ like I bathed in a vat of Irish Whiskey.”

George chuckled mirthlessly, loathing in his eyes. “That’s funny. Always so clever.” His smile faded. “Make jokes all you want, Parker. They’re still gonna take it outta your ass at Ryker’s. If you even make it that far.”

The humor dimmed in Peter’s eyes, but his grin was infallible. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

“I know exactly how to tempt you,” George said through gritted teeth. He glanced across the room to the small woman hugging herself in a silk robe. “You.”

Honey’s glossy eyes went wide, stunned motionless as all eyes turned to her. “Me?” Her voice trembled pathetically, tongue fumbling. She was incapacitated by her fear as much as she was by her growing anger.

“You," Stacy grinned with a set of shark teeth. "You’re comin’ too. Cuff her.”

She flinched as a blue-shirted officer stepped towards her. 

“Wait. Who?” the cuffed man piped up.

They halted at the sound of Peter’s confusion. With a crooked brow, Peter leaned forward, bending at the waist. When Honey made eye contact with him, she was shocked to see him practically looking through her. His face went blank, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he said, as if he’d found a stray cat on his front stoop, or a slightly-interesting ad in his mailbox. “Hi, there.” Awkwardly, he smiled at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Uh...” He blew out an exaggerated exhale, utter shock on his face. “You!”

A crease formed between her eyes as she stared back. The crowd of officers glanced between them with growing confusion. 

Peter eyed her with a blush, embarrassed. Sheepishly, he blurted out, “Eh. I gotta level with you. I didn’t know you were still here.” 

A hitch formed in her throat as she blinked at him, her face looking as if he’d slapped her. By contrast, besides the slight discomfort of being caught off guard, he appeared apathetic. Like she was a total stranger.

“Um, look,” he said, scrunching his face like he was about to rip off a bandaid. “I... uh, usually this isn’t my style, but... M’kinda in the middle’a somethin’. So... if you could grab a cab home, that’d be great.” 

Her stomach twisted.

Peter fixed her with an apologetic grin that was half-cringe, as if he was still attempting some level of charm without any kind of real remorse. 

“Just hit me up on Venmo,” he added, as if their relationship was some transaction. Like selling an old couch on Craigslist. He suddenly looked alarmed, glancing at the officers around him, then added, “For the cab fare! Not the... y’know, anything we did last night.”

Mortification hit her like a truck. He simply wrinkled his nose and shrugged, then glanced away. He didn’t look back.

Honey wanted to vomit. She lacked the air in her lungs to respond in words. Instead, she responded with a brokenhearted, glazed-over expression of shock and horror.

“Bullshit,” Captain Stacy said, eyes narrowed between Peter and his mistress. “Don’t play games with me, Parker. I know who she is.”

Peter blinked at his estranged father-in-law, completely daft. “Really?” He glanced back in her direction, avoiding her eyes, then to George again. “Wait. She’s not your daughter, is she?!”

“No!” the man replied, his face turning red.

Peter sighed. “Thank God. That woulda been so weird.”  

“Don’t bullshit me, Parker!” the police captain growled. “This woman is just as culpable as you are!”

“Really, Captain Stacy,” Matt added, skeptically. Doubt was slowly overtaking the room. “You can’t honestly believe that this, uh... um—” The lawyer cleared his throat, “—Mr. Reilly’s guest—is somehow useful to your case?” He scoffed with a laugh. “Or that she’s of any kind of consequence to my client at all?”

George pointed at the woman, who looked humiliated and near tears. “This woman is a witness, at the very least!” he barked. “She’s his girlfriend! His ‘Honey.’”

The way Peter raised one of his brows was almost comical, if it wasn’t so cruel. Incredulously, he glanced over at the devastated woman and snorted.

He looked back at George incredulously. “Seriously?” he scoffed. “Do you have any idea how many ‘Honeys’ I go through each month?”

The wince that followed could be felt throughout the whole room. Even strangers averted their eyes. 

The mob boss laughed cruelly. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great lay with a cute face. But that’s it.” 

A vein popped out of George’s forehead. The surrounding officers avoided eye contact, the situation becoming uncomfortable for everyone in the room. “This woman is practically an accomplice!” he bellowed, raising his voice loud enough to echo into the hall.

Peter gazed at him like he had two heads. “Accomplice?” He raised a brow. “You’re losin’ it, pops. I don’t even know her name.”

The pain was so sharp, she flinched. Like a stab to the back, or punch to the gut. A slap in the face. Her stomach lurched. Eyes blurred. She wanted to scream and vomit and die.

And still, she wanted Peter to look at her. To give her some kind of indication that this was all just a ruse.

Instead, he kept George fixed in his gaze, watching the sweat bead on the police captain's forehead as his outrage flared.

“‘Sides,” Peter taunted, licking his lips like a dog. “You know my type.”

The man’s eyes shot back to Peter, flashing red.

“That reminds me,” the mob boss grinned, a lewd twinkle in his eye. “How’s Helen?”

At the mention of his wife, George’s face dropped. His eyes went wide, the color vanishing instantly. The grown man lunged across the room with a growl. His hands were wrapped around Peter’s neck in the blink of an eye, practically tackling the cuffed criminal to the ground.

A ruckus of shouting, grabbing, and grunting broke out as George’s colleagues physically restrained him from continuing to choke Peter. 

The melee suddenly came to a halt when an authoritative male voice shouted out from the doorway, “What the hell’s going on here?”

The humorless tone snapped the whole group into order. The doorway was shadowed by the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man with dusty blonde hair wearing a tailored suit. He was older, possibly in his 70s, and judging by the way the officers tensed up as he strode into the room, he outranked them. 

“Anybody want to tell me what the problem is?” the man ordered, keeping his tone soft.

“Well, I’m missing a shirt, for one,” Peter complained. “And if you plan on takin’ my picture, I gotta tell ya, I don’t go topless. Least not for free.”

Matt spun towards the authoritative presence, infuriated. “Commissioner Pierce,” he greeted him firmly, with a faint tone of relief. “Your officer just attacked my client while he was restrained in handcuffs. Respectfully, I request that he be removed immediately from the premises.”

The Commissioner’s eyes roved from Murdock to George Stacy, who was still panting wildly, hair disheveled, and shirt askew.

“Captain Stacy, you’re dismissed,” the man declared. Just like that, it was over. Not even the SHIELD agents attempted to argue. George opened his mouth to protest, but Pierce silenced his rebuttal. “That is all,” he said calmly.

George snapped his mouth closed, stunned at the turn of events. He gulped down rage, and jerked himself free of his fellow officers’ grip. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the room. 

Now Pierce was in charge.

He gazed over at Peter, staring at the lanky man past the end of his nose. Pierce looked as if he was sizing him up. His eyes were cold and impersonal, like judging a cut of meat. Defiantly, Peter glared right back.

Matt stepped in, more sensitive to the man’s authority than Peter. “Commissioner Pierce, I appreciate you sharing my concern for a conflict-free investigation—”

“No need for posturing, Mr. Murdock,” he answered. There was a sophisticated nature to Alexander Pierce that the others were incapable of. “We can make this quick and easy. Your client’s coming with us. Gentleman, please, kindly escort Mr. Reilly from the room.”

“So... no shirt then?” Peter remarked, before being 'pulled' along by the beat cops at his sides. The other officers moved with him, filing out behind him. “Forget my lawyer!” the mob boss called back from the hallway. “You’re gonna hear from my agent!”

Pierce scanned the room like a shark through water, landing on the small, mortified woman in the back. Honey looked up to see Pierce’s eyes narrowed in on her. Matt remained close, and deep down, she knew it wasn't for her support. The tall man approached her, studying her intently. 

“So that just leaves you, then,” Pierce said. “Mr. Murdock, do you represent this young lady, too?”

Eyes glistening, she swallowed hard, focused on keeping the bile from crawling up her throat. 

“No, sir,” Matt stated, mouth twisted with a smirk. “In fact, I don't have a clue who she is. I’m pretty sure you could question every person in this house—you’d get the same answer.”

With a firm jaw, Pierce said to her, “Who are you?”

Fawn-like, she stared up at him, blinking wet lashes. “I... I’m....” Her mouth fumbled before forming the correct words. 

“I just make coffee.”

Continue to Part 23 - Coming 4/30

[sorathekitsunewitch]

Joshua and Alistair are spending time together 

Joshua(Hazbin Hotel oc) and art style- SoratheShadowLight/Aurora Wings(me)

Alistair(Hazbin Hotel oc) belongs to @thebonemummy

Butterfly and Spider Mafia belongs to @sophia-draws8

[sorathekitsunewitch]

Both Alistair and Joshua had the same mission to take out a guy who take a lot from them in the past and back stabbed his comrades in the back. Before Alistair could give the final stick, Joshua took him out and this exchange happen.

I hope you like it Bayonette 

By the way, this is from The Incredibles movie 

Joshua(Hazbin Hotel oc) and art style- SoratheShadowLight/Aurora Wings(me)

Alistair(Hazbin Hotel oc) belongs to @thebonemummy

Butterfly and Spider mafia belongs to @sophia-draws8

[sincericida]

OMFG, Frank <3 He and Peter simply in a perfect and so emotional sequence! Does Honey know how to live a life after Peter Parker? Is there really a "happy ending" for them? I’ll wait for the answer quietly…

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