#tasm peter parker x oc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

birdsinmywalls · 2 years ago

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I Love that he was excited to go hiking because it willl be fun. This man just needs some joy in his life.

An 8in knife hiding in her pants? Girl I appreciate the hussel but if you are going on a hike that would hurt you for sure lol

“Many awkward years as a teen and even more awkward conversations with women proved that he was anything but cool. He’d always been a nervous wreck.” Lol love this

So cute that he’s babbling on about the picnic food like she babbles when she’s trying to talk to him sometimes lol

She hit him with a rock! What the fuck! I thought it was going to be a sweet moment! I’m shook right now. She is putting up a serious fight this installment and he is pissed!!! Girl meet him a quarter of the way at least!

sugar and vice, pt 4 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: Honey wakes up to a new life.

words: 5.8 k

warning: mob-typical violence. whump. hurt/comfort. drugging. threats of violence. coersion. kidnapping. traumatic flashbacks. violence. blood. shameless forced proximity trope. imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions.

you're responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if your parents aren't harboring a several hundred dollars-worth stash of beanie babies that are worth maybe $1 today, then this is not your jam.

Back to Part 3

Part 4

When her eyes cracked open, she was staring at a chandelier made from antlers. She blinked several times, noticing that the ceiling was different from any of Peter’s other rooms. She was gazing up at a vaulted A-frame ceiling with exposed redwood beams. The peak of the frame opened to a glass wall where sunkissed blue-green needles of giant Eastern white pine trees billowed.

She groggily sat upright, realizing she was nowhere near the familiar Boroughs of the city. Her limbs felt heavy. Once again, she was alone and buried in another heavenly-soft bed. She was in a bedroom, but it featured no personal touches. It could’ve been a hotel room, or a vacation rental.

She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and her bare feet touched the floor. She shuddered at how warm it was. Heated floors. A very, very expensive vacation rental.

Rubbing her dry eyes, she made her way to a closed door. It opened to a loft balcony, which overlooked the living room of a massive, two-story modern cabin. She gawked at the floor-to-ceiling windows, her breath catching in her throat at the splash of greens, yellows, and oranges from the trees lining the house. Beyond the thick treeline, she could see the smoky blue haze of a mountain range in the distance.

She stood dumbstruck, like Dorothy emerging from her tornado-tossed house.

Not in Queens anymore, was all she could think.

“You’re awake,” his voice echoed from the lower level.

She glanced down at Peter, hands in his jean pockets, wearing a thick cable-knit sweater. He looked up at her with a twinkle in his eye, one that made her fret over the state of her bedhead. She felt ridiculous up on the balcony, like someone would start the monologue from Romeo and Juliet.

She bit her lip, pulling her eyes away. No good could come from seeing him as a Romeo. Even if he easily looked the part.

“So...” she began awkwardly, her cheeks flushed by his gaze. “Are we at Disney World or something? Did we check into the Wilderness Lodge?” She studied the rustic-meets-mid-century modern furnishings, idly rubbing the lace sleeves of her blouse. Her leather jacket had been removed and she honestly didn’t know how she felt about that.

“Sorry, Honey,” he said with a soft laugh that made her stomach weak. “No Mouse here. No gators either.”

Her cheeks pinched into a smile, before she remembered how she got there. The previous day’s events— Had it only been a day? How long was she out?— hit her like a truck. Her grin faded as she recalled her kidnapping. Her abduction. Her shameful, subservient soak in a stranger’s bathtub, followed by a dreary, restless slumber in his sheets. She’d been fed and given a good wash, like a stray dog. Dressed in clothes she could never afford. And had been drugged and taken to—

“Where are we?” she sharply questioned, anxiety chilling her tone.

Whatever smile Peter wore faded. “Not in Orlando,” he bit off.

He turned his back to her and crossed the enormous but cozy living room. Returning to his previous task, he crouched down in front of a soapstone, wood-burning stove in the corner of the room. He pulled the logs loose from a small bundle of firewood, and began loading it into the stove’s iron frame.

Frustrated, she huffed, glaring at the back of his head. Wondering what she was supposed to do.

“What are we doing here?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Wherever here is?”

“Well, I’m building a fire,” he gave a haughty reply. “I’ve already tested the fuses, turned everything on, unpacked, changed clothes, and made coffee in the kitchen.”

“So you do know how to make it,” she muttered under her breath, sarcasm dripping from her mouth. It was quiet enough that there was no way he could’ve heard it.

“Lemme know if you want a taste,” he coyly replied, and it made her question whether or not he had.

He hadn’t looked at her when he said it, and she was grateful because the innuendo was making her stomach flip. “I’m good.” She cursed the fact that her voice sounded more like a squeak.

“Well, since you’re wide awake,” he countered, in a teasing way that sounded too much like flirting. “Lemme show you ‘round the house.” He came to a stand, brushing the dirt and wood fibers from his hands. She found herself staring at the way his large palms glided across one another.

It triggered the memory of those hands on her waist as he helped her into the bathtub. As he dressed her wounds. As he cradled her in his arms as he carried her away from her captors. As he cupped her face, wiping away tears, shielding her from the sight of a bloodied man who likely was dead because of her.

A chill went down her spine, her arms hugging herself tighter. “Maybe later,” she frowned, tucking her chin to her chest.

Silence settled for several seconds before she peeked at him from beneath her downturned brows.

He considered her with pursed lips, silently observing. He shoved his hands back in his pockets. She bit her lip, and for a moment, she expected to hear another thinly-veiled insistence.

“Okay,” was his calm reply. It surprised her. “But do me a favor instead. Go put on some hiking boots.”

“Hiking boots? I don’t have any—”

“They’re in the closet of the room you were in,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Grab a coat too. Meet me in the kitchen in five.”

Without waiting for a reply, he strolled away. Once again, she had no room to protest.

When she opened the closet door in the room she assumed was ‘hers,’ she found a decent, walk-in space with rows of clothes hung up. She found a pair of leather hiking boots that looked brand new, in a cubby space next to 18 pairs of other shoes for a variety of occasions and seasons.

Curiously, she checked the size. She was surprised to find that whoever she was borrowing these from had similarly small feet. Looking up, she spotted a lightweight puff jacket— Patagonia, of course— hanging up among the other articles of clothing. With a sigh, she pulled down the coat and checked the size. Another lucky match. She felt odd putting on someone else’s clothes. An uncomfortable thought crossed her mind— how many women had Peter brought to this cabin?

It was a thought she didn’t like.

When she traveled downstairs, fully dressed, she found the kitchen. She could tell he had a particular style, not too far removed from the one in the penthouse she’d observed earlier. A Scandinavian take on rustic. Immaculately organized open shelving. Spotless stainless steel.

Curiously, she opened the fridge. There were a few groceries. Eggs, milk, sliced cheese, lunchmeat, orange and apple juice. It was a lot of empty space save for a few basic condiments in the door. Mustard that had exceeded its “best by” date by several months.

The more she studied the kitchen and its contents, the more information she gathered about the man currently occupying it.

An extravagant house in the mountains with breathtaking views. A kitchen worthy of Thanksgiving Dinner and every holiday celebration of the year.

Barren. Untouched. Lonely.

A few minutes later, Peter approached with the handle of a small cooler in his grip. A backpack thrown over his shoulder. She curled a brow at him.

“Sure you don’t want any coffee before we go?” he asked. “I’ve got a tumbler if you wanna take it to go.”

“Where are we going?” she asked suspiciously.

He shrugged his shoulders, a half-smile on his face. To her astonishment, he seemed...excited? Like a teenager going on a camping trip.

“Hiking,” he shrugged, like he was keeping a surprise.

She stared at him like he had grown an extra arm.

“You’ll get a chance to break those in,” Peter added, pointing at her shoes. “‘Sides, it’ll be fun.” He reached into his backpack, inspecting the contents, mentally going through a silent checklist. She hadn’t moved a muscle when he looked back up at her.

“We outta get goin,’” he explained, disagreeing with her lack of hustle. “Sun’ll set in a few hours.”

She stared. Unnerved. Swallowed hard. She picked up her boot slowly, as if it was lined with concrete.

He started shuffling towards the door, before pausing and turning back to her. “Oh, one more thing,” he added. He locked eyes with her, smile never fading. “Lose the knife.”

She blinked. Her heart skipped. He watched her, eyes piercing like a hawk.

“Y’know,” he nodded nonchalantly, “the one you took from the butcher’s block?”

Her pulse started racing as she gazed blankly at him, rendered motionless. He jerked his head towards the butcher’s block on the counter, acknowledging that he noticed one of the knives was missing.

With wide guilty eyes, she glanced at the block, then back at him.

“Go on. Put it back.”

She felt like he was staring at her forever. Every second that passed, his eyes got darker. More challenging. More dangerous.

Eyes on the ground, she crept slowly back to the block on the counter. Pulling up her shirt, she retrieved the 8-inch steel butcher’s knife tucked in the waist of her jeans. She slid it back in its proper place, then turned towards him. Trepidatiously, she lifted her eyes off the ground. Peeking up at him, afraid of his wrath.

What she found was his eyes locked on her, a satisfied little smirk on his lips. He gazed at her with an expression that was either affectionate or amused. Either way, he made it clear that she was practically powerless in this situation. She posed no threat.

“Good girl,” he appraised, before turning and heading out of the kitchen door. “Follow me.”

The hike through the woods was quiet, but not tense. At least not on his part. Peter led her on a path through a thick grove of trees. She was still shaken by being confronted about the knife. It was obviously a shock to her, but not to him. She couldn’t know that his observation skills were sharpened by years of people trying to stab him in the back, and not just metaphorically.

The trail was solid with only a few patches of mud. Luckily, the weather had been ideal for his plans. It wasn’t wet, or too terribly cold, especially with the sun positioned where it was. The increased blood circulation from the gradual upward climb helped. There was snow in the forecast but it wouldn’t start until tomorrow morning. They were lucky enough to enjoy one of the last days of fall before the winter would sink its teeth in.

Luck was not something he was used to, but he always seemed to find it with her.

Peter felt his own heart begin to beat faster, but not due to physical exertion. He dragged his hand through his hair. His palms were sweaty. They were getting close.

“Almost there,” he announced, trying to maintain his cool. Or whatever it was he was pretending to be. Many awkward years as a teen and even more awkward conversations with women proved that he was anything but cool. He’d always been a nervous wreck. It was pure luck that he’d undergone the changes in life to be able to talk to a girl, let alone have the confidence to ask them on a date.

And here he was again, feeling like he did in high school. He didn’t really know what he was saying, probably didn’t make any sense, and had no idea how to ask such a pretty girl whatever it was he was asking.

His lack of practice was showing. It had been a long time since he felt this way about anyone.

Not since—

“Are you taking me out to the woods to kill me?” his Honey blurted out.

He stopped in his tracks, turning to her with an incredulous stare.

She stood several feet from him, ramrod straight, shoulders tense.

“Really?” he breathed. More confused than offended. “That’s what you got outta this?”

She shrugged her shoulders, with that adorable anxious look on her face—the one she’d make when the wheels in her brain were spinning, and her mouth was moving a mile a minute, and all he could do was be hypnotized by the way her lips moved. “I mean... you’re you,” she softly replied, in her defense. “What else am I supposed to think?”

He pursed his lips. The sting of her words seized his throat.

'You’re you.' He considered her meaning, heart sinking. A monster, she intended to say. He couldn’t keep the sorrow from filling his eyes and her expression changed. She looked apologetic.

It made him feel even worse. She was apologizing to him. He swallowed hard.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said sincerely. He held his chin a bit higher, and she considered his truthfulness. He turned back towards the path. “C’mon.”

Quietly, she followed.

A couple of minutes later, they arrived at a clearing next to a huge flat rock. It was from an elevated vantage point that offered a beautiful view of the valley through the trees. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the vista. With ease, he scaled the rock, setting down his backpack and the cooler.

She watched him curiously as he pulled a blanket from the backpack and began laying it out on the solid surface. Once it was flat, he began pulling items out of the cooler. She heard the rustling of plastic, staring up at him curiously. He came to a stand and leapt down to her level with surprising agility. He extended his hand to her.

“C’mon,” he beckoned. “I’ll help you up.”

His Honey hesitated, as she always did, looking up at the rock, then back at him. His smile began to falter, worrying that she would refuse. She had no reason to trust him, after all. But slowly, she took his hand. He smiled, feeling his heart soar.

He clenched her body to his, wrapping one arm around her waist. He used the hand to quickly scale up the rock again, in a move so quick and effortless it made her think he was a professional rock climber. Or a mountain goat.

He held onto her tightly when they were at the top of the rock. Like the night before in his bathroom, he found himself not wanting to let go. He stared down at her bright, beautiful eyes—soft, gentle, timid— and breathed in her air. The scent of his body wash on her skin. Mingling together in an aroma that made his heart flutter.

Sheepishly, she glanced away, not able to withstand the heat of his gaze. As if remembering what planet he was on, Peter released his grip and let her stand on her own. She looked down curiously, her eyes widening to the sight at her feet.

Peter had laid out a picnic blanket and a delicious-looking spread complete with sandwiches, fresh fruit, cookies, charcuterie, and empty champagne flutes. The small gasp she let out as she observed the meal made his stomach flip. He was excited and terrified—not sure himself how she would react to his attempted olive branch.

She blinked up at him, astonished.

He felt his tongue go dry as he stammered anxiously. “I, uh... thought we could have a late lunch?” She stared, stunned and silent. “Um,” Peter felt his fingers begin to twitch. He glanced around the space, swallowing hard. “Um, p-please... Sit.” He lowered himself onto the picnic blanket, crossing his legs like a kid. Slowly and hesitantly, she followed, mirroring his position.

He beamed at the gesture. He turned his attention back to the spread. “So, yeah—um, we got sandwiches. Uh, I did turkey, cheese, with tomato, I... I-I sorta forgot the lettuce. We can still get some though. Tomorrow, not now. Because... yeah.”

She gazed at him, her expression softening as he stumbled his way through the menu.

“Some other stuff here—crackers, salami, this sliced cheese I got at a Middle Eastern grocery. I don’t think there’s anything regionally specific about the cheese, though. I think it’s just cheddar and gouda...”

He worked to hide his flustered blush. She looked up at him with a soft gaze. He hoped she found it endearing, maybe even charming—and not like he was a dork. Which is how he felt.

He rubbed his palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Um, cookies—The good kind with the chocolate chip chunks that are really big. There’s also some raisin cookies because I accidentally grabbed them from a place thinkin’ they were chocolate chip, and then I got the chocolate chip cookies, but I had these oatmeal raisin ones, and nobody likes those when you think you’re getting chocolate chip, but maybe if... you had them... in addition to chocolate—”

He cleared his throat. Pictured the way his last serious girlfriend would grin at him when he was babbling. He relished the memory, and glanced up. She looked different. Not just in the obvious way, but not in a bad way. Her expression wasn’t judgmental, or annoyed, and she didn’t make him feel like a dork. She stared at him in silent astonishment, almost like she was marveling at him. Almost like he was worthy of her.

It made his heart flutter. “Anyway... uh... you can have whatever you want, um... I...” He swallowed hard. “Um, there’re also grapes. And, uh—” He glanced down into the cooler, his smile falling. “Shit,” he quietly muttered. “Damn it.”

“What is it?”

“The champagne,” he huffed in defeat, frustrated with himself. “I forgot the goddamn champagne.”

“Oh,” Honey said, gently. “It’s okay.”

He ran his palms down his face. “Nah, s’not okay—”

“No, really, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not fine,” he groaned. “I didn’t bring anything else to drink. I-I didn’t think—”

“This is—this is great,” she emphatically replied, trying to ease the pain of his embarrassment. It was another one of her kindnesses toward him.

“No, no, no, it’s—look, I got it.” He hopped to his feet and it made her nervously stretch her arms, as if she could somehow catch him if he slipped off the rock. “Don’t worry, I-I-I got it. It’s... it’s right back at the house, I can run back real quick—”

“Seriously?” she replied. “It’s... it’s way back there? I mean, you don’t have to! I promise, I'm not even thirsty. Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“No, no, no, I already laid everything out. The food’s out. It’ll just take me 2 minutes. You should dig in.”

“Wha-what? Are you sure? I can wait for you.”

“Have a cookie,” he pleaded, filled with a nervous energy that had him scurrying down the rockface. “Don’t worry, just 2 minutes. Less than! I’m gone. Already gone. Be right back!”

He took off in a frenetic jog, disappearing from her sight. She watched him, curious and confused at how he’d be able to cut down a 10-minute hike into just two.

Honey glanced back down at the appetizing spread and the thought and care that went into each detail. When did he even have time to do this? She picked at a sandwich that was cut into an elegant triangle and wrapped with cellophane. Examined it.

Then, it hit her. She glanced back at the trail, eyes wide. Peter was nowhere in sight.

He was surprised at how fast he could move through the woods, almost as quickly as he could navigate through skyscrapers. His mind was still churning over the picnic, scolding himself for forgetting something so pivotal. He grumbled about his forgetfulness, and about the awkward dissertation he decided to give about the cookies. He also neglected to bring anything else to drink. He should’ve remembered the moment she turned down coffee back at the kitchen—

He froze, dropping to the ground from the canopy. Both feet hit the dirt with a soft thud. His stomach plummeted even further.

He glanced back at the trail behind him. Where he had left his Honey.

Where minutes ago she’d questioned whether he was plotting to murder her, a thought so obscene it made him sick to his stomach.

And just a few hours before that, he’d drugged her and brought her to a location so secluded she wouldn’t even know what state she was in, not having seen a license plate.

He’d left her. Alone.

“Mother Hubbard!” he growled.

What a fucking idiot. A lovesick, bumbling dork.

At once his senses shifted into overdrive. Panic rising within him. An urgency overtook him, like a scream crawling up his throat. He was hurtling back through the air, cursing himself as he broke his body on every branch along the way.

By the time he approached the rock, he landed hard enough to crack the surface. His fears were confirmed. The picnic blanket was abandoned. The young woman was nowhere in sight.

“No, no, no, no, no…” he babbled to himself, pulling at his hair as he scanned the clearing desperately. “Honey!” His voice boomed, a crack of thunder wrapped in frustration and fury.

No reply. Not that he should expect one.

He shouldn’t expect anything.

He shouldn't expect to see her ever again—not alive, anyway.

His stomach lurched. The next time he would see her face, she’d be beaten beyond recognition. Her skull and body broken on the fists of Wilson Fisk, her blood staining the cuffs of one of his dress shirts.

“Honey!”

His second shout came out with more desperation. Breaths exploding in short bursts. The trees were spinning. His heart threatened to break out of his chest. It felt like it already had.

He dashed down the trail, eyes scouring the landscape. Senses were hyper-aware of every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig. It was too much information to take in at once.

She was gone, and he wouldn’t find her again until it was too late. Why would he think she’d stay put? Why would he think she’d stay with him a moment longer than she had to? He had her, and he lost her.

She was gone.

—stay with me, Gwen, please—

“Honey!” he screamed with a flayed voice—shrill, broken, terrified.

She had been terrified. Shaking like a leaf when he’d found her on the freezing concrete of the auto body shop. Scared of what had happened and what could happen. Scared of what Fisk’s men would do to her. Scared of what Peter would do to her.

Peter Parker, the monster.

He was trembling. He was about to cry—when had he started to cry what a fuckin’ loser— as he stared at the soft dirt and crushed leaves of the path he was on— Gwen’s broken body, spine smashed to pieces, blood spilling from her nose and eye sockets, about to be interred in the soil—searching desperately for footprints...

Katzenberg had been terrified, sputtering petty excuses through bloody lips. Half-dead, incoherent pleas. Desperate in a futile attempt to save his own life.

“It was nothin’ personal, I swear it.. I-I... It was all Kingpin’s idea—takin’ pictures... I-I-I’m not even into that sick stuff... It’s disgusting, what he wan’ed... Can’t even watch it on the internet, I gotta kid sista, y’know...”

Peter dug his nails into his palms.

Honey had been terrified.

Gwen had been terrified.

Ben had been terrified.

May had been terrified.

He was terrified. He knew Wilson Fisk and what he was capable of. Peter had seen with his own eyes the victims of Kingpin’s wrath. The gender made no difference. He left bodies destroyed.

He was going to be sick. In a fit of panic, terror and rage, he started stalking down the path, roaring out her given name.

“Your hands, Nicky,” Peter sneered as he approached his terrified captive. He was sobbing over his gag, fat tears, snot and blood streaking his face. “You put hands on a woman for the last time...”

Peter gripped the hammer tight, brought it down onto Katzenberg’s knuckles. Then he did it again. And again. And again. One for each knuckle. One for the gash on his Honey’s forehead. Eventually, he quit counting.

Peter was cupping his face, nearly dropping to his knees in the dirt. The sun would set soon. It would be dark, how would he find her in the dark? He could barely breathe. Deep breaths.

“People are so lame sometimes,” Honey gave Peter this weird little face, like she was saying ‘bleh’ and gagging simultaneously. It was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

They had been in one of those rare, magical moments where it was an odd hour of day and the shop was empty save for the two of them. It felt selfish, having her all to himself. Indulgent. It was an indulgence that made his mouth water.

Bright-eyed, body poised like a ballerina, she craftfully poured foam into his cup. He fell under her spell. The aroma of coffee and lavender flowed through his senses, and he felt himself relaxing as he sank deeper. Taken by the current. Longing to dive into her magic.

“Ugh, it’s the worst,” she said. Even her complaints were done with a smile. “Things get a little crazy in here—like that one time during the marathon when the street was closed down so the crowd could watch so we were just friggin’ blitzed, like DEFCON 1, and it was the Rock’n’Roll one, and y’know we’ve got that drag queen revue across the street, too—super fun by the way if you haven’t gone yet—but they constructed a stage on the street with like 100 giant speakers so that one of the queens could perform as the runners went by, and they turned the volume way up and everyone kept piling in here wanting coffee. Meanwhile I can’t hear any orders because Cher is belting it out.”

She giggled and the sound alone could break his heart. “S’anyway, that’s not the point—When it gets all crazy train in here, I just hafta close my eyes and think to myself ‘deep breaths.’ In and out.”

He took a deep breath, pulling his hands from his face. Inhaled the chilly air. Breathed in the scent of wet leaves and pine and the memory of coffee and lavender.

In and out.

In his mind, she was staring at him. Giving him that look that hurt to look at. Like staring at the sun. Burned his eyes and his soul.

He’d take that image home with him, wired from the excessive amount of caffeine, and think about it when things were too overwhelming. Whenever he felt his anger building. Or when he was showering off his sins for the day and he’d let his hand wander to the part of him that burned the most for her.

In and out. Breathe. Listen.

He felt the tingle crawl up his spine. Then he heard it: a twig snap.

Before he could see it with his eyes, the picture was in his head. He bolted in its direction just as a crack rang out overhead.

Honey was falling. She let out a squeaky shriek that Peter never wanted to hear. She was plummeting, her eyes staring up at the tree canopy. She was falling to earth from her hiding place in the tree above their picnic spot.

The solid rock beneath her rushed up.

Impact. And another.

Peter gripped her body close to his chest, his arms wrapped around her like serpents. He’d snatched her from her free fall, catching her in midair and landing with a heavy thud. Chest heaving, his eyes shot to her face, searching for blood.

Her eyes fluttered wildly, disoriented from her near-fatal fight with gravity. She sucked in breath, heaving in a gasp. Gently, he lowered her to the ground, dropping to his knees. It’s like his brain lagged behind his eyesight. The fierce sound of her pounding heart released him from his terror-striken state.

When she made eye contact with him, his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, tears welling with relief. They stayed like that for a moment—he kneeled while he cradled her, fingers trembling against her skin. He searched her eyes—you stay with me—listening to the song of her pulse.

Her hand lay limply in the dirt beneath her. Fingers brushed the sharp rough face of a softball-sized sandstone. She gazed up at him, blind instinct taking over, and slammed the rock into the side of his head.

He tumbled to the side, releasing his grip immediately. She hesitated, glancing back at her devastating hit—both shocked and horrified at her own actions. Then the panic set in. She flipped around and scrambled to her feet. She pumped her legs, running as fast as she could down the dirt trail away from her captor.

Suddenly, her feet were pulled out from underneath her. She came flying down, chest slamming into the dirt. She coughed as the air expelled from her lungs, tears filling her eyes from the shock. Reflexively, her legs were still moving, almost like a cartoon character.

No! No! No, please, no! She was unsure if her screams were in her head or if she actually recognized the sound of her own disembodied voice. Kicking her legs, confused and frustrated as it seemed they were bound in some sort of stringy—what the heck is this stuff?—material that wrapped around her legs like snakes. She kicked wildly to no avail, like her legs were tangled in blankets made of glue. She reached down, trying to free herself, snatching her hand back when she felt how sticky her binds were.

A shadow fell over her. Peter’s silhouette stood tall, back against the setting sun, as he glared down. Blood trickled from the temple near his ear. Eyes blackened with rage.

The sound she made was barely human, a pathetic yelp, as he snatched up her body and yanked her into his grip. Her legs were useless, so she used fingers, fists, palms, nails—anything to get him to release her. His hold was iron around her waist, throwing her over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

He marched down the path with her writhing desperately on his shoulder. A mix of blubbering sobs—please, nonono, please, somebody help me, please help!— and savage scratching. When she was able to angle her arm and drive her elbow in the back of his head, he whipped her body around to his front. The ease at which he tossed her made her feel infantile in comparison. A muzzled, declawed feral kitten, whom he could easily toss off a bridge into a river.

He was going to kill her. She knew it. She had screwed up badly, and now he was going to kill her. Her fight wore down, the overwhelming exhausting sorrow bearing down on her, and soon she was a weeping mess of desperate pleas. He said nothing, paused for nothing, and gave her no inclination of what was next. The way he gripped her prevented her from being able to see how infuriated he was, but she felt it in his muscles. Like osmosis his fury seemed into her and it made her shudder.

There would be pain, she thought. She was certain. Her mind flashed back to his victim in the chair and her imagination pictured what he must look like right now. She imagined a torso floating in the East River, picked apart by fish. Head and arms buried somewhere nearby in concrete.

She screamed, terrified. Begging desperately that someone could hear her. Praying for salvation.

Sooner than she thought, he had kicked open the kitchen door and was carrying her through the living room.

She could barely breathe through her sobs. “Please, please, don’t—I’m sorry, I’m sorry s-so sorry, please, don’t do this��”

He marched up the staircase and turned down the balcony to the bedroom she had woken up in. As he passed the threshold her fight came roaring back.

“No, stop! Please, please stop! No don’—I won’t run away, I promise—!”

He threw her, and her body was flying backwards. Landing hard against the mattress. The force of it silenced her for a moment as she struggled to catch her breath. Like a lion, he was on her. On top of her. His hands caught hers as she came up defensively to hit him. Wordless and possessed, he dragged her up to the headboard, his weight smothering her.

She wailed incoherently—Please don’t do this, I'm sorry, please— and was silenced by a sharp thwip. Her wrists flew to either side of her head, covered in the sticky gunk that restrained her legs. The sensation stunned her. Her body went rigid as he straddled her hips, pinning her hips down with his weight while her hands were unmovable at the sides of her head.

His eyes were the color of ink. The darkness in them threatened to swallow her. She went still, save for the uncontrollable heaving of her chest, as she peered up at his nightmare-stare with horror.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he glowered and hissed through his teeth. Her fear beckoned her to look away, but he gripped her jaw tight. Forcing her gaze into his. Pupils blown, blood trailing down his cheek like motor oil, he glared at her. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

It was more than a threat. It was a promise. She knew it. Her heart seized in her throat. She cowered beneath him, trembling and pliant. Silent as a mouse.

“And I swear to god—on my mother’s soul,” he breathed through his mouth, speaking so quietly it was nearly a whisper. “If you ever pull that shit again... I will.”

It was a horrible look he gave her after that. Chilling, to say the least. Something so intimately livid. It bordered on obscene. She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience, watching his body leer over hers threateningly. It wouldn’t surprise her if he reached up and snapped her neck. She was expecting it.

But he released her chin, withdrawing himself. His footsteps pounded like a hammer as he marched across the hardwood floor. The heavy door slammed, shaking the top story of the house.

With a trembling chin, she gazed up through wet eyes at the ceiling. At dust-covered antlers suspended by chains, swaying in the gentle draft.

The sound she heard outside of her room was almost inhuman. A bellowing roar. It frightened her—of every fuckin’ little thing, always so frightened, scared of your own shadow, when would she going to be done being so scared all the time?—and she squeezed her eyes shut.

She wept as quietly as she could until sleep overtook her.

Continue to Part 5

Reblog to be tagged!

Thank you so much for all the feedback so far! What did you think of this chapter? Let me know in a reblog, reply or ask! If you weren't tagged it's possible that I couldn't tag you, so check your preference settings on being tagged.

#mob au #mob!peter parker #tasm peter parker #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #tasm peter parker x oc #tasm peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader

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goest-and-fuckest-thyself · 3 months ago

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I can’t help thinking about TASM!Peter Parker trying to be super gentle with human!reader when he fucks them. His superhuman strength makes it hard to gauge how much force he’s using while he’s thrusting. I love the idea of Peter being all soft and caring like,

“Are you sure I’m not hurting you?”

Reader rolls their eyes and kisses him, “We have a safe word for a reason, Petey.”

#peter parker x reader #tasm peter parker #peter parker x oc #peter parker #spider man #no way home #tasm!peter x reader #the amazing spider man

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mjmikaelson · 5 months ago

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POLIN MODERN AU — SPIDERMAN🕷️

— Colin Parker and Penelope Watson

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lady-nuggetz · 1 month ago

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If you thought Ghastlyclaws was the peak of my marvel obsession, watch as my self insert just continuously yaps about taking Spider Man on a date to Sanrio Puroland! <3

Also reminder to those unaware, yes this is my deadpool Sona, Pinkypool! It's just a fun alt AU I made cause Amazing Spider-Man is everything to me....

I love you Whitney my silly Sona....

#I am cringe but I am free I am cringe but I am free #I AM A YUMESHIPPER HEAR ME ROAR #Spideypink my fuckinng beloved #oh shit Deadpool cameo #the amazing spiderman #amazing spiderman #spiderman #peter parker #tasm spiderman #tasm peter parker #andrew garfield spiderman #deadpool sona #marvel #self ship #yume ship #selfship #yumeship #self insert #oc x canon

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akairawrites · 3 months ago

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THE AMAZING SPIDER MAN READER INSERT| pt3

Taglist

@luvvvjada @urmomsbananabread @cascadingbliss @mysticalhills @420sprite @jackierose902109 @skyesayshibitchez @roxanne-loves-luffy @scribegrl @Bunnyqueen25 @deimks @rukia-uchiha-98 @strawberryereamb @deliciousfatblaekeat @luvelyxp @crystals-faith @godknows-shetried @mess-in-side @lumineliax @instabull @lilupie @stvrfir3 @breadbrobin @bbiaa420 @harleycao @that-levi-kenma-kinnie @dotteeesstuff @just-reading-dany @lzzygrnt @blodmichii2 @solaris-lovegood @4araneia @ballerina-mina @notsaelty @sexyashbish @timmy-27 @xoxolexiiiiii @Amoyanani27 @tigerf-cker @punkinshambles @evilcado @huening-ly @partnersintime1

As you entered the house, you called out, "Mom! I'm home!" you closed the door using your foot and set your bag down on the floor. Walking into the kitchen, you filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove, patiently waiting for it to come to a boil. Once the water was ready, you carefully poured it into a cup and gently placed a tea bag inside. Balancing the cup, you carried it into the bedroom where your mother was resting. Placing the steaming cup on the bedside table, you switched on the lamp to bring a warm glow to the room.

"Hey, Mom," you said softly, leaning over the bed to gently wake the woman in front of you. Her eyelids fluttered open, and a small smile graced her face as her eyes met yours. You carefully helped her sit up in bed and handed her the steaming cup of tea. "Be careful, it's hot," you cautioned, picking up the TV remote and switching on her favorite channel.

You sat at the edge of the bed and observed her every move as she gingerly lifted the teacup to her lips, taking small, hesitant sips. The smile that had graced your face vanished as you noticed the pain and exhaustion etched on her features. You shifted your gaze downward, absently fidgeting with the textured fabric of the bedsheets, feeling a pang of concern for her well-being.

You observed her discreetly positioning the cup in her lap as she sat down before addressing you. "So, how was school?" Her voice was gentle, yet fragile. You lifted your gaze at the sound of her question. "Everything's fine," you replied with a nonchalant shrug, not feeling particularly compelled to share. "And your internship?" she inquired further.

“Uh everything's great, I like working with Dr.Conners more than I thought I would, actually.”

There was a moment of silence that hung heavily in the air., filled with unspoken words and shared understanding. Your mother glanced at you, her eyes searching for something beyond your words. "I'm glad to hear that, sweetie," she said softly, reaching out to squeeze your hand.

You squeezed back, feeling the frailty in her grip, not wanting to let go. "How are you feeling today?" you asked, your concern evident in your voice.

She smiled weakly. "Better, now that you're here. You always bring such light into the room." Her words were tender, and you felt a lump form in your throat.

"Mom, you know I'm always here for you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just wish I could do more."

"You are doing more than enough' she reassured you. "just being here, being you, is more than I could ever ask for."

You sat there for a while, holding her hand, letting the warmth of your presence speak volumes. The TV played softly in the background, but neither of you paid much attention to it. the bond between you and your mother transcended for each other no matter what.

After a while, you stood up, gently placing her hand back on the bed. "I should let you rest," you said, smoothing the covers around her. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

She nodded, her eyes already growing heavy with sleep. "I will. Thank you, sweetheart."

As you left the room, you felt a mixture of relief and sadness. Relief that she seemed a bit better, and sadness at the fragility of her condition. You returned to the kitchen to grab your bag and headed straight for your room. You pulled your homework from your backpack and opened your bedroom window. The cool night air hit you in your face, and the sounds of honking horns and people yelling filled the New York night. The air wasn't blowing too hard, so it was a perfect roof night you grabbed your homework and placed it down on the metal railing of the fire escape.

You placed your hands flat on the wall and let the tip of your toes stick to the wall as well. Slowly, you began scaling the wall just like a spider. Not long after, you reached the roof, where you sat down on the shingles and looked down to see your paperwork. Quickly, you flicked your wrist and spider-like weds shot from your arm and gripped onto the paper swiftly catching it as it came to you.

With your homework secured, you spread the papers out in front of you and began working; the rooftop offering a surprisingly serene environment. The occasional gust of wind ruffled the pages, but you used your webs to anchor them down.

As you worked, your mind drifted to Peter Parker and the uneasy feeling in your gut. You knew exactly what it meant; you just didn't want to believe it. Four months ago, you discovered your newfound abilities but hadn't told anyone, not even Dr. Conners. The thought that someone like Peter could have abilities like yours scared you.

No offense.

The next day at school, you spotted Peter in the hallway at his locker. Your heart rate quickened as you approached, a strange mix of curiosity and anxiety bubbling up inside you. You tried not to make eye contact, determined to keep your head down and walk past without acknowledging him, but that same unsettling feeling you had at the Oscorp lab tugged at you, urging you to look his way.

Despite your efforts to avoid him, Peter suddenly turned, his eyes locking onto yours as if he could sense your presence. For a moment, time seemed to slow, and the noise of the bustling hallway faded into the background. The air between you was thick with unspoken tension.

Neither of you spoke, but the intensity of the moment spoke volumes. In his eyes, you saw the same confusion and uncertainty that had plagued you for months. It was as if he knew what you were hiding, and somehow, you knew he was hiding something too. The silence between you was heavy, filled with the weight of secrets.

You walked away, your heart pounding in your chest. As you walked away one thing was clear: whatever was happening to you, Peter was somehow a part of it.

Later on that same day, word about what happened with Peter and Flash spread around quickly. You thought it was about time to confront him about what you knew. Luckily enough for you, you didn't have to search the whole school. He was standing at the end of the hall with an older gentleman.

He seemed to notice you first, saying something to Peter before nodding in your direction, causing Peter to turn and look at you. You offered them both a tight-lipped smile. Peter’s uncle said something to him again before walking away, leaving Peter to slowly turn back toward you with a breathless laugh.

"Uh, that was my uncle... he told me to tell you how pretty you are."

"Really?" you replied, caught off guard and unsure of how to respond.

"Yeah..." he said quietly, his eyes dropping to the floor.

You nodded, eager to shift the conversation. "So, did you get expelled?" you asked, referencing the basketball incident.

“No, not expelled,” he said, shaking his head with a faint smile. “But I did get a few hours of community service.”

For a moment, an awkward silence hung between you, both but you cleared your heart pounded in your chest, from the weight of what you were about to say. You knew you couldn’t keep dancing around it any longer.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to just rip off the band-aid. “Peter,” you began, your voice slightly shaky, “I know about the spider.”

Peter’s eyes shot up, wide with surprise and a hint of fear. “What… what are you talking about?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear.

You glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned in slightly closer. “The spider from Oscorp. The one that bit you,” you said softly, watching his face closely for any sign of denial.

Peter’s face paled, and he instinctively took a step back, his mind clearly racing. “How do you—?”

You interrupted gently, trying to keep your voice steady. “It happened to me too.”

For a moment, Peter just stared at you, his expression hard to read. It was as if the weight of his secret was suddenly shared, and he didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” he finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shrugged, trying to hide your own nervousness. “I didn’t know how. I mean, this isn’t exactly something you bring up in casual conversation, right? But I’ve noticed things, Peter. It's like something told me. And when I heard what had happened in the gym…I just knew.”

Peter didn’t say anything else; he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. You furrowed your brows, wondering what was going through his head, but he remained silent.

"Look," you finally said, breaking the silence, "I’m going to be at Oscorp later. If you want to talk more about this, meet me there." You turned on your heels, not waiting for a response, and started making your way down the hall.

"I gotta go," you added over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner, leaving Peter standing there, watching you until you were out of sight.

Add your self to my taglist here

↳ Reblogging also helps!

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meganslife · 10 months ago

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Pen pals - p. parker (part two)

read part one here !!

pairing; TASM! Peter Parker x Fem!reader

summary: after peter and you exchange phone numbers, he finds himself yearning for you. it only gets worse after a long night of you partying. but drunk words are sober thoughts, right?

warnings: none!:3

a/n: i love love love writing this series so the second part has come very quickly. anyway, make sure to read the first part if you haven’t already!! happy reading!!<3

Peter doesn’t know when or how, but he became addicted to listening to you talk. You had so many things to say- so many beautiful words coming out of your equally beautiful mouth. He couldn’t believe you had such a soothing voice, not that he expected anything less.

God, he was down horrendously.

You both were on Facetime. Peter listens to you talk about your friends as you get ready for a long night of partying. He never thought you’d like parties, but he doesn’t care that he was wrong. He likes that calling you every day gives him more to know about you. He figures that you get outside more once it gets warmer. Spring was blooming. You and Peter had been talking every day on the phone for three months.

“Yeah, and like, Anna is great and all, but she’s so mean!” You rant, finishing up your makeup. Peter nods, watching in awe. Do you even know how pretty you are? “Peter, are you listening?”

“What?” Peter snaps out of his thoughts, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can let you go. It’s like, 11 pm over there,” You pick up your phone, almost saying goodbye before Peter interjects.

“No, don’t hang up,” He says quickly, “I like watching you get ready. It makes me feel closer to you.”

Peter can see your cheeks turn pink. You’re embarrassed, and he could cry in your lap with how much his heart is fluttering.

“Okay,” You smile, positioning your phone so Peter could see your outfit. “What do you think?”

Peter wants to fly to Seattle and worship the ground you walk on like right now.

“You look lovely,” He grins from ear to ear. “Is that a new top? It’s fun.”

It was a basic tube top. Nothing special to you, but very special to Peter. He knew that you got insecure, so the fact that you were willing to wear this while going out made his heart feel full.

“Yeah,” You nod, giddy. “Maria got it for me.”

Peter and you talk for a little while longer. He wants it to last forever. But, eventually, you say you have to go.

“Text me when you get home?” Peter asks.

“Sure, but you’ll be sleeping,” You tease.

He scoffs, “And you’ll be drunk. I’m staying up for you.”

“Whatever,” You laugh. “Bye, Pete!”

“Bye, Y/N.”

Peter holds his phone to his chest once you hang up.

One day, he’ll tell you.

Peter wakes up at three in the morning to his phone blowing up. He groans, putting on his glasses and squinting at his phone in a poor attempt to adjust to the brightness.

He sees that you’ve been texting him and calling him. To this, he smiles. He forgot to stay up for you. Oops.

Your texts are furious and poorly written. You’ve definitely been drinking.

‘PETER BENJAMIN PARKER’

‘PETEY’

‘Oh my god pleas ansswr.’

*3 missed calls*

‘Pls pete i’m drunk and desperate’

‘Go to bed and drink some water, babe.’

‘Hehehe babe. You’re so cute.’

‘Call me? Ppleas? I miss uou.’

Peter sighs, face red and burning hot.

When he calls, you answer not even one ring after he calls.

“Did you get home safe?” Peter immediately asks.

“Jeez. Not even a hello?”

“I have priorities.”

“I got home fine, cutie,” You giggle.

Peter thinks you’ll be the death of him.

“How much did you drink, bug?” He sighs, “You should go to bed. Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

You groan over the line, and Peter laughs. He wishes he was with you in person to see this.

“You’re so boring, Pete! I have priorities too, you know.” You insist. Peter is imagining your dramatic pout.

“Oh yeah? What are they?”

“Go to Queens and hug you.”

Peter wants to cry. He knows you’re very drunk, but he read somewhere that drunk words are sober thoughts. He really hopes that you’re being genuine. Maybe you think about him as much as he thinks about you.

“We… We can talk about this another time,” Peter suggests. “Sometime when you’re sober.”

“Okay,” You say, accepting defeat. “My head hurts. I’m gonna go.”

“Alright,” Peter manages a smile, even though you can’t see it. “Goodnight, honey. Sleep well.”

“Bye! See you soon!”

See you soon.

In his dreams.

— read about me and find my masterlist here <3

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bunbunbl0gs · 8 months ago

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harry osborn

masterlist

other masterlist

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imagines--galore · 7 months ago

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Hi hi ^^

For the writers questions, here are my numbers :

7, 15 & 31

If you're not comfortable answering, feel free to not do it 🙏

I wish you a wonderful day sweetie 🌸

Thank you so much for the questions!

Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Oh gosh! I have so many pieces which I ADORE and am so proud of! I'm gonna list a couple of them here! They are all placed at random and I dunno, I'm just really proud of what I wrote in them :D The Thread of Fate - Avatar The Last Airbender - Zuko x OC Theatrics - Avatar The Last Airbender - Zuko x Reader I Will Always Choose You - Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood - Roy x Reader Convince Me & I'm Convinced - Justice League - Superman aka Clark Kent x Reader Empowering - Marvel - Captain America aka Steve Rogers x Reader Bleeding Love - Marvel - Dr. Strange x Reader My Heart Calls Your Name - Pirates of the Caribbean - Will Turner x Reader The Consulting Detective and The Serial Killer - Sherlock - Sherlock x Reader Chasing Away The Darkness - Star Trek - Spock x Reader A Nonverbal Confession - Amazing Spiderman - Peter x Reader My Prayer, My Light, My Fëa - The Lord of the Rings - Legolas x Reader Written In The Stars - The Lord of the Rings - Legolas x Reader

If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

Definitely The Thread of Fate! All because I would LOVE to see Orora, my oc, in action and see the lore I've created for the thread of fate merge with the ATLA Universe. Also because I would love to have some art of Orora! I can't draw AT ALL. So having a visual for her would be amazing!

Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?

Well......I do take some liberties, I mean it IS FANFICTION. But I do tend to stick to the canon events especially when those events might be important to any of the canon characters. I mean I want my OC or Reader Inserts to be fun but I also don't want then to steal another character's thunder! So yeah!

#ask and answered #captain steve rogers x reader #zuko x oc #clark kent x reader #spock x reader #will turner x reader #legolas x reader #tasm! peter parker x reader #dr strange x reader

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naok-iyuu · 17 days ago

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Spotify playlist!🎵

Here's some spotify playlist created by myself to honor a character ! It makes me think of them and also helps me create a universe or an ambiance for some fanfiction ! (My masterlist if someone's interested...)

Zed Necrodopolis playlist Based on a fanfiction I am working on, it's a self insert x zed (hihi) !! So it's a original story, not a random fanfic prompt idea. Since it's a self insert, it will be described as a OCxzed. I am STILL lazy but the story is going to be at least 20 chapter long I think.... (I've done only 3 so far... HELP) SO YEAH.

Benny Weir Song that makes me think of him, or song I think he could listen to or that could have appeared on the serie

Peter Parker TASM Again, a playlist based on a fanfiction I am working on. This one still a self insert, so a original story with a version of myself and how I would have liked to be in this universe. (Honestly, the Marvel universe is sooooo big that I have a lots of original ideas)

Jeremiah Fisher (The summer I turned pretty) I spoiled myself about the third book and I am sure a lot of plot is going to be in the serie. AND I AM DEVASTATED about how much my baby is going to be mistreated by the show writers... Anyway, I am still and will always be team Jeremiah. I always have a thing for the second love interest in everything I watch or read...

Coming Soon : Cole Walter playlist ! The playlist is finished, just on my personal account and private. Still thinking about a description because it is AGAIN, a special fanfiction with a special plot that's going to last a few chapters. 10 would be great but I don't have all of the plot for all of the chapters...

ENJOY !!!!<3

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reidslovely · 1 year ago

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In a Corner I Haunt: Everybody Moved On (Chapter Two)

ch. 1 (currently being edited)

I did not intend on this little angst piece becoming a bigger idea, but here we are. Currently there is no graphic content, bur this series will eventually contain smut so I’m asking for solely an 18+ audience.

Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!OC

Word Count: 3k

Series Warnings: Cheating, Thoughts of cheating, Smut, Angst with semi happy ending, Divorce, Discussion of parental depth, Mentions of past domestic abuse, Neglecting spouse, Cursing, Peter on the verge of a nervous breakdown. More to add.

Chapter Warnings: Description of love interest, Love interest is given nickname, Implied thoughts of cheating, chapter is pretty diff Peter heavy.

please reblog and/or comment

There was a girl who sat in the west courtyard of ESU on Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday, Thursday and occasionally Friday his sophomore year. She sat under the same tree since the start of the spring semester, the old cherry blossom tree that was right off the path Peter skated everyday towards Dr. Octavius’ lab. On the weekdays she had her laptop snug in her lap with whatever it seemed she could get from the campus cafe, her favorite seemed to be a Matcha Latte with some type of croissant sandwich. On weekends she sat there enjoying the warmer days with a book, or sitting in a cardigan working on her laptop.

On some days Peter found himself walking past, and walking slower to really capture her and her beauty. On occasion he thought about stopping and talking to her. Asking her about what book she was reading this time, or what it was she was typing away on. However, according to his friends that would be stalkerish, giving away that he had been watching her quite a bit over the last few weeks. That girls liked to be met organically, without being watched beforehand. So here he was camera in hand, swallowing his words in his throat as he approached her.

“Photo for the ESU Daily?” He whispered nervously, his words slewing out in one big word.

“Do we take random photos for the Daily now?”

“Oh well, it’s this piece I’m working on about students who take their..their work outside.” The lie seemed perfect to him, no flaws, the best and most calm lie he’s ever told.

“I’ve never seen you in the writing room.”

What.

“Mhm, what?”

“I’m a writer at the daily.”

“Oh..” Peter’s eyes shifted around uncomfortably, clearing his throat and opening his mouth to defend himself.

“But I have seen you in the darkroom. You’re Parker.”

“Peter..Parker. Peter Parker.” He thrusted his hand into her face smiling. She smiled, choking on a laugh, taking his hand and shaking it.

She looked up at him, giving him her name with a sweet smile. Her eyes setting a part of his soul on fire, he was sure of it. There was a softness that grew in the pit of his stomach as he looked down at her.

“Not to make this awkward but do you stare at all the people you’re interested in from a distance or just a select few.”

“Oh you noticed that.” He laughed, his hand coming up to tuck his hair back and scratch his neck out of embarrassment. “Select few. You should feel really flattered.”

“Good, I do.” Her laugh echoed in his ears, settling into a part of his brain and making a home in his memory already. “Do you want to..I don’t know have a seat.”

Peter physically restricted himself from sitting next to the girl, he knew he’d be so late and Otto would maybe actually kill him this time.

“I would really love to, but I’m about to be late and if we are gonna have a..seat together I’d like to be alive for it.” Quickly, Peter scribbled his phone number down onto a gum wrapper he found in his pocket. Handing it to her. “Here is my number, you can call me and we can like, meet tonight or whenever at that uh- italian place up the block.”

“Leo’s?”

“Yeah that one is perfect.” He smiled as he ran backwards away from her. His cheeks burning red, he wondered if his smile was still noticeable to her. Peter turned around taking off towards Otto’s lab, jumping up out of excitement. His other commitments would have to wait till after this date.

Tears hung in Peter's eyes today, his stomach had crawled its way up his throat. He looked at that same tree today, hands dug deep in his pockets. He had decided to take a small detour on his way to pick up his daughter from the English department. He approached the tree that still stood in the west courtyard; tall and barren from the cold season. It felt like a laugh in his face. An evil metaphor crawling out of the shadows at him, showing him what he had thrown away. He reached out letting his finger draw over the initials carved poorly into the tree. It was a silly thing he did for her on their two month anniversary, forever commemorating their meeting spot, thinking that one day he’d bring her back here and purpose. Coward.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzz..

Peter dug his hands around in his pockets grasping at his phone, finally getting it in his palm. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Alice, sorry I’m on my way now I just got stuck on the subway. Camilia excited?” He asked as he cut through the west courtyard heading towards the Lee English Hall.

“Well she’d be a little bit more excited if her daddy were on time.”

“I know I just ran into a old friend, and then I got caught-”

“I do not care Pete,” Her brief scoff was heard on the other side. He knew it was not directed at him. She was really stressed with her first year teaching. “I just need you to get here so I can teach my one o’clock lecture baby, please.”

“Gotcha, headin’ your way now.” Peter hummed slowly, pushing through students on the sidewalk mouthing apologies. “I love..” the dial tone rang loudly in his ear. “You.” He sighed, pocketing his phone and continuing his walk.

Had this been a couple years ago he would be skateboarding through these people not worried about what they thought of him, he missed being young and non caring. Peter looked at the couples eating outside on the benches and suddenly he remembers being that boyfriend bringing his girlfriend lunch between classes. Rushing kisses, and rushing through lunch, skipping out on the last bit of Otto’s lecture and lab work to get to the journalism building as fast as possible. He remembers her surprising him during lab hours with dinner, they would sit and enjoy one another's company till early morning hours. Then they’d pick whose place to go back to, then she’d fall asleep on her shoulder the subway ride back.

He has a beautiful life now, but now he can’t even begin to think about what his life with her could have been like. He could have had Camilia with his girl, they could have gotten engaged that night had he just not gotten cold feet. Peter shook his head pulling himself out of his selfish and insane thoughts, and suddenly he was in front of Lee Hall where the English department was. He sighed walking around the back entrance where the offices were located, and muscle memory carried him the rest of the way down the hall.

“Daddy!”

The voice piped up as Peter pushed open the office door, Alice smiled at her daughter and it slowly disappeared off her face as she looked at Peter. He took his daughter into his arms as she climbed up his side.

“Got everything ready?” Peter asks, kissing his little girl's head. “We gotta go see grandma May. Then we are gonna go get ice cream, and then we are..off to the science museum” Peter spoke in a theatrical voice, making his daughter smile. He grabbed her, lifting her up, moving her around like a rocket shooting off. Alice stares at the two, a smile on her face directed only at their daughter.

“Peter, can you take that outside please. I’d like for my office to not be destroyed. You two get too rowdy, and it always ends up with something broken.” She sighed, blowing her daughter a kiss goodbye.

“Momma ‘s not our fault.” Camilia says, her annunciation falling short due to her missing teeth.

“No baby it’s not. It's daddy’s for passing on all those awesome spider powers to you.”

Though she says it like a compliment, Peter can hear the passive aggressiveness lacing his wife's voice. It would be a lie to say it isn’t pushing a knife deeper into his stomach, his sweet girl would never have referred to him this way. So dismissive, inciting that he was a problem to her life. He shook his head and put on a smile, kissing his daughter's head. “Bye Allie, say bye momma.”

“Bye momma.” Cami waved as Peter carried her out of the office, her spider-man backpack thrown over his left shoulder.

“Okay daddy?” Camilia asked, looking up at him, her big doe eyes reflecting himself in them. Peter smiled down at his daughter, the metaphorical knife leaving his gut.

“I am perfect, Cami. How about you, are you good- wanna walk?”

“No, wanna stay here.”

She says watching the people pass by them, Peter smiles as he approaches the subway station heading down the steps. He looks down at his daughter and back ahead of the hoards of people ahead of them. He thinks that he could do this on his own, he thinks about the life he and his daughter would have had he just held out for a bit longer, and he thinks about her again. Then the doors of the subway open, and he steps on bringing himself back down to reality as his daughter talks to him about all the animals she saw on her way to ESU this morning and for the next couple hours he’s content living in this bubble. Once his daughter dozes off on his shoulder he thinks about his sweet girl once more, wondering if her number is still the same. He contemplates calling her, begging her for one last touch. Begging to have her one more time, begging her to be the mother to his child. Promising to change, to not pull back at the last second this time. Then the cart jolts, and he catches his daughter in his arms remembering the man he is.

…

May’s house is just the same as it has been for decades, except now for the first time in about 20 years there are toys scattered on the floor once again and he walks into the house surrounded by the scent of cookies.

“Nana!” Camilia yells running to the kitchen as soon as Peter put her down. Peter heard May’s gasp followed by a groan as she reached down to pick the little girl up.

“Hi May!” Peter smiled walking to the kitchen putting his keys and Camilia’s bag down on the counter.

“Hi babies.” May says kissing Camilia’s head and reaching up to kiss Peter’s cheek. Peter smiled letting his hand rest on her back. “Oh Cami let those cool.” Peter says, reaching his hand out to catch his daughter before she could grab the hot cookies.

“Okay..” She sighs, wiggling out of May’s arms, landing on her feet as she hits the ground.

“Oh she stresses me out when she does that. She gets that from you.” May laughs, wagging a finger at Peter, watching Camilia grab her bag running to the living room.

“I know I apparently gave her all her negative traits.”

“Oh who says that?” May questions, pulling the cookies off the sheet and putting them on the plate.

“Alice.”

“Well..” May points the spatula at him like she’s about to say something profound. “Oh well, maybe I shouldn’t say that.”

“No, no, let's hear it.” Peter laughs his hand on his cheek.

“Alice has more negative traits coming out her tuchus than you have in your whole body. Which one of you started fighting crime at eighteen years old, and which one of you got your daddy to pay your way through college mhm?”

May was never a fan of Alice. May was a very big fan of his sweet girl, she adored her and he knows the two still frequently talk during holidays and other times just when they feel like it. May was more devastated about their break up than he was at the time. Which couldn’t prepare him for what her reaction was about to be.

“I saw her today.”

May’s jaw dropped, as did the spatula landing on the linoleum floor. “Oh my gosh how was it, how was she? How do you feel?”

“She looked..beautiful as ever, the same as the day I left her. Older now obviously but, it was like looking at a ghost.” Peter laughed. “I got so overwhelmed..now I can’t get her out of my head, May. I just, I’m so wrapped up in what could have been. I made a mistake. I think I made a big mistake.”

“I told you that five years ago..you’re just like your uncle. Goes in one ear and right out the other until you’re ready. I swear..” May shook her head laughing, putting a cookie in Peter’s hand and several on a plate for Camilia. Peter’s lips pushed into a bittersweet smile and he nodded, his aunt was right.

“Cami, come get your snack.” Peter says. Camilia runs in and leaves so fast it’s like she never even entered the room. Peter watched her sit on the couch TV blaring to where she couldn't hear.

“You calling that little girl a mistake?”

“No, just my marriage.” It was a loaded statement. Peter had asked Alice to marry him after only six months and impulsive night after attending a friend's wedding. There was no ring, just this intense pressure to settle down and do it soon. “Camilia made it better, for a while. We both love her, we just..haven’t loved each other in quite a while.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I know.” May says. “I tried to warn you several times leading up to the wedding. Even on your wedding day. This is not love Peter. This is infatuation, infatuation wears off.”

“I thought you were just saying that because you wanted me to marry your girl.”

“My girl” was what May used to call her. Peter thought it was cute, May always wanted a daughter and she became that by extension of Peter. But he always called her angel. He couldn’t place why or how that nickname came around. Maybe because she was, to him, some type of divine entity that came to him to pull him out of that dark place. Whenever speaking to her or about her it was always angel this, angel that.

“Well..it was partially that too but I never liked Alice. She never liked me. She wouldn’t let me give you a way at your wedding because I wasn’t your biological mother and that only women are given away. Oh that made me so mad I coulda hit her, but I reframed, I kept my mouth shut.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen t’ya May.”

Peter says, reaching his hand across, holding her hand. “You are my mother. Biological or not you raised me, you know this. I wish you had told me before today, I don’t think I would have gone through with the wedding.”

“Sweet to say but you would have.”

Peter tilted his head holding his aunt's hand reassuringly. “Are you gonna see her again?” May asks.

“I’m not sure. I’d like to. I dunno if she…would want to see me again.”

“Well you didn’t hear this from me, but I don’t think she’d be too disappointed in hearing from you again.”

“Thanks May. You always know what to say.”

Peter smiled hugging his aunt kissing her head. His heart settling into his chest again felt right, and knew what to do but his brain was still screaming at him. “Come on, living room. Let’s see what Paw Patrol is up to today.”

Peter grabbed their drinks and the plate following into the living room, both of them sitting on either side of Camilia. Angel still lingering in the back of his mind.

…

May almost kept them the whole day, if Peter hadn’t caught his watch when he did he would have missed general admissions to the museum. Peter practically had to drag Camilia away from May, her begging to stay the night. Peter promised that he would message Alice about it to make sure it was okay after they got out of the museum.

“Are we gonna see the big t-rex?”

“Of course we will Cami, I’d be a terrible daddy to not let you see the dino.”

“You really would be.”

Peter laughed and rubbed his daughter's head ruffling her brown curls as they walked the steps to the science museum. “Up!” She demands whispering a please at the end, Peter caved lifting her up carrying her on his shoulders.

Showing the woman at the door their tickets, Peter smiled gratefully at her. As they walked in Camilia’s gasp could be heard, Peter smiled his eye catching what she was looking at. In the center of the room stood a banner for the new dinosaur exhibit and a small skeleton of a velociraptor next to a statue of one.

“He was about as big as you are honey.” Peter laughs.

“Cool.” Camilia smiles, her hands drumming on top of her fathers head in excitement. Peter laughed, reaching a hand up to stop her patting her small hands reassuringly. A voice rang out behind him that made him stop in his tracks.

“Picture for the Bugle?” His angel's voice rang out behind him, Peter turned around hugging his daughter's leg.

“Peter.” She smiles, she was dressed differently than what she had been earlier at the restaurant. Her brown hair clipped back out of her face, eyes looking up at him like they never lost him.

“Angel.” He whispers.

Her head tilted to the side like a dog hearing its owner's voice. She laughed, dropping her shoulders. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. I was starting to think you forgot about that name.”

“Never.”

She looked at the little girl on his shoulders. “This must be the sweet Camilia you were telling me about earlier.”

“This is yes. Camilia this is-”

“Angel.” Camilia states.

“Sure yeah, we were old friends in college.”

She was almost your mother.

He refrains from speaking.

Angel smiles lifting her camera snapping a photo of the pair, Peter smiles looking past the camera and to her.

“Perfect, that's gonna go on the front page.” She hums, Peter looks confused. “Jameson put me in charge of the opening of the dinosaur exhibit and I’m writing a piece about it.”

“Since when did Jameson stop caring about hard hitting news?”

‘Since I begged him to let me make the dinosaur exhibit front page this week, and the museum is paying him to do it.”

“Now that sounds like him.”

It’s silent for a moment and Peter feels all his emotions building up like vomit in his throat, no way to stop it.

“Do you like dinos, Angel?”

Camilia asks looking down at the lady, Peter smiles, pulling his daughter off shoulders holding her to be eye level.

“I do.”

Before Peter could stop himself, the words fell out of his mouth. “You should walk it with us. Cami could easily be our tour guide.”

“You know what I’d love too.”

“Great.”

Peter nodded at her, as soon as the words left him Camilia’s feet hit the ground. her hand grabbing Peter and Angel’s, smiling up at them as she begins to drag them into the start. Angel’s smile lit his insides on fire just like at the restaurant, just like all those years under the tree on the west courtyard at ESU.

This could only end in one big glass shattering way, as it did all those years ago.

Taglist- Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!!

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#tasm fanfiction #tasm peter parker x reader #tasm peter smut #tasm peter x reader #tasm!peter imagine #tasm fic #peter parker fanfiction #andrew garfield peter parker #tasm! peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x fem #peter parker #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #andrew garfield x reader #tasm peter parker x oc

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birdsinmywalls · 2 years ago

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Eggs and coffee! Omg we are giving him a chance I’m so excited!! I love his inner monologue being so full of thoughts for why he likes her and all these sweet things and what comes out is none of the things that run through his head lol

I’m dying over these two idiots trying to have a conversation over breakfast omg it’s things like this that make life worth living. This movie conversation was gold! An awesome way to break the ice for them both. It’s so incredibly well written.

LOL Miles with this late test is amazing and I’m so glad her and Felicia are getting along. I can’t believe Peter didn’t tell her that the clothes in the closet were hers like what was she supposed to think lol it’s so good

Omg! All hell broke loose! I can’t believe how much damage the Kingpin has done in such a short amount of time. As awful that it is that Honey is acting so drastically to the news (and rightfully so) it’s interesting to see here character lash out and breakdown like this. I can’t wait to see how all this starts to pan out!

sugar and vice, pt. 6 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: Honey finds out who Peter Parker really is.

words: 9.6 k

warning: mob-typical violence. whump. hurt/comfort. descriptions of violence. coersion. kidnapping. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

this is a darker, messier version of TASM Peter.

18+. you’re responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if you can't remember how people watched videos online before youtube, you probably shouldn't continue.

Back to Part 5.

Part 6

When Peter approached Honey’s bedroom, he paused for a moment outside. Staring at the closed door, he tried to listen intently, but could not hear her heartbeat coming from the other side. An immediate uneasiness rattled his nerves. It climbed up his throat from his chest, and he swallowed reflexively.

She was gone. Again.

...you stupid fucking fool of course she left, why would she ever stay with you?...

He felt his heartbeat rising. His breaths got shorter with every draw

...alone again that’s all you’ll ever be until you die can’t come fast enough...

Deep breaths. In and out. The moment his nostrils flared, a warm, crisp, vibrant fragrance found him. Caramel and sugar browned by heat.

Coffee.

His other senses came online as he heard the patter of her feet on the floor below. And her heartbeat, clear as a bell. The sound soothed him, as it always did. A rhythm so unique to her it was like a signature. A kiss.

There she is, the kinder voice in his head reassured him. He closed his eyes, centering himself. Kicked his negative thoughts away, angrily cursing himself for having them. Another deep breath softened his features.

When he reached the first floor of his mountain retreat, he looked across the great room to see Honey in a familiar form. Nothing like the frightened shell she had been the past couple of days. She swiftly danced around his kitchen, graceful like a ballerina. She deftly dodged splatters from a pan of bacon, as if she could miraculously move between them, while she stirred a sizzling skillet of buttery eggs.

He curled a brow as his nostrils read him the menu. Omelettes, he deduced. Something of the Southwestern variety, the aromas of diced peppers, onions, and jack cheese weaved together like music.

He allowed himself to be still and just watch. She was still wearing the wrinkled clothes from yesterday—

Why hadn’t she changed? Did she know about the other clothes? What if she didn’t like anything—

He watched, like he was the only member in the audience—How was she so good at that—making it seem like he was the only man left in the world. She’s just... so... so good...

“Oh!” she yelped as she turned and laid eyes on him for the first time. He blinked stiffly, bashful and regretful at having intruded on her privacy. “Geez, you scared me!” she exclaimed.

He winced at that.

A nervous chuckle rolled off her tongue, regaining her composure. The sound of her laughter relieved him. He saw her shake her head good-naturedly, somehow amused. It was as confusing as much as it lifted a weight off of his chest.

“I didn’t hear you come in here,” she blushed. “You’re like a cat, you’re so quiet. You’re way too tall to be that quiet. You need to stomp more. Or wear tap shoes. Or a bell.”

Nervously, she laughed again, turning the heat off on the gas stove. She looked back up at him with a eager face, presenting the skillet of impressive omelets.

“Uhm... I made eggs. I didn’t know what you usually eat, ‘cos you never ordered any food when you’d come in, so I wasn’t sure, but then I remembered yesterday you made eggs and bacon and even ate a little, so I figured, um, omelettes and bacon...”

She was nervous, but not scared. It was that high-energy manner of speaking, where she’d tell him a story, except this time she was in his home and was craftfully moving an omelette onto one of his plates with a spatula.

His heart ached at the sight.

“Can’t go wrong with that...” she rambled on, “unless you’ve got a pepper allergy? That would be dumb, though. Who has a pepper allergy?” Then, she added, nervously, “Not that you’re dumb! Food allergies aren’t dumb. They’re no joke. Very, very serious—”

“Shouldn’a done that,” Peter muttered under his breath, as he shook his head. He dropped his eyes to the floor, visibly agitated. He heard her heart skip. When he glanced back up, she looked pallid, her brilliant smile sinking like a torpedoed ship.

“I-I-I’m sorry...” she delicately whimpered. Her body language shifted drastically. She nearly curled up on herself, although she was unsure why. “Were you... saving these eggs?”

Peter’s eyes widened, horrified at the appearance that he was somehow rejecting her kindness. He groaned, slapping his palms down his face and across his beard. Paced, anxious like a lion trapped in a cage.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” he babbled, distressed. In a blink he was across the kitchen, rounding the island, rushing up to her with hands extended.

This time when she flinched, it was unquestionably from fear.

He stopped cold, dunked in a tub full of ice. It snapped his heart in half. He snatched his hands back, a painful expression on his face. For a brief moment, he squeezed his palms tight enough to hurt, then let his arms fall gently to his sides. He fixed his saddened gaze on the tiles at his feet.

She stayed frozen in place, her heart thrumming away, as he cursed his inability to speak. He struggled to find words, as if they spoke separate languages.

Christ, have you truly forgotten how to talk to anyone?

Peter cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. “I, uh, what I meant was... uhm... you didn’t hafta do all this,” he sheepishly explained. “You... I, uh, I-I—”

He choked on his words, feeling like his throat was tightening up. He placed a hand on his chest, and he felt the drum pounding beneath his ribs.

He was visibly struggling, flailing as he drowned in an ocean of fear. Glancing up at her timidly at every other word. “I—I’m...”

I’m sorry. I’m a lunatic. I’m so sorry. I’m so insecure. I’m desperate. I’m afraid of losing you. I’m so, so sorry. I’m an asshole. I’m a coward. I’m so scared that you’ll get hurt. I can’t let you get hurt. I would never hurt you. I’d rather die than hurt you. I’m so sorry I scared you. I’m broken. I’m a monster. I’m so, so sorry.

“It’s more than I deserve.” His voice broke on the last word. The puny sound made him wince, and he ripped his gaze from her. He studied the floor, desperately willing his eyes to stop burning.

She was silent.

And in his mind he shuddered to think about the million horrible things—loser, pathetic, stupid, disgusting little freak—she could think of him.

“Want some coffee?” she asked, derailing the train off the tracks. “I made some.”

His eyes found hers. Her expression was warm. Generous. He was stunned, in a familiar way. She never stopped surprising him. She turned back towards the espresso machine on the counter and carefully passed him a steaming latte. A heart expertly painted with foam on the surface.

His eyes burned again as he considered the shape and how there was so much more than his heart in her hands. Peter took the mug.

“Thank you,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

They sat across from each other at the kitchen bar, eating mostly in silence. He tried not spend the majority of the time staring at her like a weirdo, but was mostly unsuccessful. She was hungry, ravenous even. He berated himself for not considering how hungry she must have been. He should’ve cooked for her.

He needed to do better. He would do better.

The omelet was delicious, even if the edges were browned a bit. Every bite was a savory morsel. He made a good show of trying to eat, despite the lack of appetite.

It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t hungry. He was always hungry, especially after nights like the previous one. He just couldn’t stomach anything. He was grateful that at least the coffee staved off the pain of his hunger. For now.

She glanced over and caught him staring at her with a glazed over expression. He locked up instantly, the tips of his ears turning pink. Blushing, they both looked away, and he panicked—fuckfuckfucksaysomethingsaysomething—

“Smells good,” he muttered, before forcing a giant forkful into his mouth.

...idiot...

Her lip curved upwards, amused. “Yeah? Does it taste as good as it smells?”

“Yes,” he nodded his head too forcefully, nearly choking on the eggs. He could feel something in his stomach threatening to push the food back up. With effort, he tried to reassure her his awkwardness wasn’t because he didn’t appreciate her cooking. It was because he was a dork.

“No, yes. Yes, yes. It’s— it tastes good. Great. It’s… um…”

Delicious. Delectable. Tasty. Scrumptious. Mouthwatering. Finger-licking good.

“And, I mean, you—you’re, um—”

Lovely. Beautiful. Benevolent. An Angel. A goddess. Worthy of worship. Worth dying for.

“It’s good,” he said, wincing. Snapped his mouth closed.

She nodded, his discomfort only adding to hers. Cleared her throat awkwardly. “Thanks.”

She paused for just a moment, then words came spilling out, “Did you know that brown eggs aren’t any healthier than white eggs? They’re just brown. There’s no added nutritional value, and of course, they charge you more for them because they look more…granola…”

The energy ran out of her sentence, confidence fading rapidly. “Everyone knows that, I guess. That’s not new… or remotely interesting.” She tucked the rest of her thoughts deep under her breath. She was dangling now in the world’s most awkward conversation.

“It’s my fault, what happened yesterday,” Peter announced, launching into a confessional. “I’m-I’m ashamed of myself.”

She froze. Blinking like a deer in the headlights.

He exhaled, his heart heavy. “I panicked,” he said, disappointedly. “I got angry. I blew up. And… those aren’t excuses. I’m not tryin’—” Peter pulled his gaze away, trying to steel himself while burning his retinas on the sunlight reflecting off of the windows in the kitchen. “There’s no excuse,” he affirmed. “I was wrong to treat you like that. I’m sorry.”

Her expression softened as she read his. The remorse weighed heavily on his face, pinching his brow. The lack of confidence melted years off of his face. Even with the scruffy beard, lightly salted by a handful of gray hairs, he looked like a boy with wrinkles at the corners of his puppy dog eyes.

It was unfair of him to look that soft. It’s part of why she was in this situation in the first place.

“It’s just…” Peter added, delicately, subconsciously leaning in her direction, “you gotta understand... that you’re in danger. I don’t want you to get hurt. I can’t have you get hurt. I can protect you, and I will. With every breath in me, I will, but you gotta trust me—”

“You say that like I know what you’re talking about,” she responded with a withering tone. Her frustration reared its head again as she pleaded desperately. “Like I know what you’re involved in or what’s going on. All I know is these weirdos pulled me off the subway and then I woke up to guns firing like it’s D-Day, and… I’m scared, alright? And I don’t even know who I should be scared of. I’m... in the dark!”

He sighed, “I’m trying to protect you.”

“You say that, but you expect me to just trust you? At what? Your word?” She fixed him with a hard gaze that pierced him. Peter had survived bullets and beatings and it was her mere disappointment that disarmed him. “What is your word supposed to mean to me? I didn’t even know your real name until two days ago—”

“I told you, it’s Ben—”

“I don’t care what you tell yourself. I don’t know you.”

“Alright,” he huffed, dropping his arms off the table and holding them open. “Then ask me. Ask me about me. Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Who is Peter Parker?”

He paused, biting down hard on his jaw. A look came across his face akin to stepping on a nail. With a crease in his brow, he glanced away. Ruefully, Peter replied, “Please don’t ask me about what I do.” He glanced down at his nearly-full plate with a stomach full of regret. “You can ask me about anything else. But the less you know, the better.”

“Because,” she pushed, considering him like trying to solve an equation, “you’re like... in a gang?”

“What? No.”

“Yes, you are. You’re a gang member. You’re... a gang leader. You’re the leader of a gang.”

“It’s not a gang.”

“It’s gang-like. Gang-adjacent. What would you call it? The mafia? The mob? Is that even a thing that still exists outside of Reality TV?” Peter exhaled, his head falling back. “You’re at war with a rival gang. Who is it?” She paused, struggling to remember a word through the fog of her brain. “You said a name the other night,” she pondered aloud. “What was it? Something like... Fis—”

“Don’t,” Peter snapped like a whip.

She glanced up at him to see his demeanor completely change. Eyes gone cold as ice.

His voice trembled, with fear or anger, she wasn’t sure. “We don’t say his name.”

The gravity of his tone gave her pause. It was as if she’d invoked the name of Satan himself. Or...

“Why can’t I say his name?” she shot back, irritated. “What is he, Voldemort?”

He chuckled humorlessly. “Worse.”

She paused, considering this information. There was a quiet rage interred within his tone. Something haunted. Cursed. Perhaps it was the Devil.

“He goes by Kingpin,” Peter explained, the word souring his stomach further.

“What is it with you and nicknames?” she deflected with a bratty tone. “Like ‘Honey.’ Why do you call me that?”

Peter’s eyes found hers again, warmer now. There was a flicker in them as his lip curled in a half smirk. “You don’t like it?” he questioned, pinning her with a devilish half-smile. “Funny, I kinda thought you did.”

She looked away, shuffling uncomfortably in her seat. “You thought I liked that you don’t know my real name?” she accused challengingly, avoiding his gaze.

“Of course I know your name,” he stated sincerely, an unquestionable devotion thickening his voice. It was almost as if he was offended that she would assume otherwise. Peter raised one brow, teasingly, “And you didn’t answer my question.”

Her heart began to race. “You didn’t answer mine.”

He considered her silently, studying her stubbornly-drawn line in the sand. His smile dropped into a pit of melancholy, eyes clouding. He sipped on the espresso drink. There was bitterness on his tongue, but not from the latte. “Real names are tricky in my line of work,” he admitted. “Dangerous if the wrong person hears them.”

She weighed the logic in his response, realizing that there wasn’t room to argue. But she carved out a space, regardless. “What if I don’t like ‘Honey’?”

His lips pulled back to reveal a devastatingly lethal smile. “Okay,” he played along, feeling like they were back in the coffee shop. They had shifted so effortlessly into the playful banter that had been the crowned jewel of so many mornings with her. “What do you want me to call you then?”

A long pause fell between them. She crossed her arms. Kept her face solid as rock. “Ma’am,” she shot back. “Or miss.”

He blinked at her.

Every following word tumbled from her mouth with the grace of a newborn calf. “Madam... Jane… Bond.” Her mouth kept moving, despite the lack of a plan. “Agent Jane Bond. From the... MI... B. The MIB.”

He stared at her incredulously. She matched his staring contest with an awkwardly overconfident glare that suggested she was clearly ‘winging it.’ The silence weighed heavily in the room.

“That’s fake,” he blurted dismissively, shaking his head.

“Says you.”

He chuckled, “That’s awful.”

“No, it’s not...awful. It's an alias.”

“It sounds fake.”

“Ben Reilly sounds fake,” she sneered, slightly offended. His smile dimmed a bit, but not at her childish antics. “It’s dumb. It’s a dumb, made-up name—”

“Benjamin is my middle name,” he softly revealed. “It was my Uncle’s name. Reilly was my Aunt’s maiden name.” His voice deepened, a little more grit to his words. “Your name is Honey, because I say it is.”

The heated resolve of his voice reverberated in the air. It simmered on the heat of his mounting frustration.

This time, she kept her mouth shut, breaking eye contact and focusing on her nearly-empty plate. He observed the distress on her face and frowned. As if he needed another reason to hold more contempt for himself.

After a few moments, he let out a long sigh. “I am more than just a name,” Peter declared, gently this time. “I’m more than my job.”

She met his eyes again to find him gazing at her with an earnest expression. “I’m no more a... gangster,” he stumbled over the ridiculousness of the word, “than you are a ‘coffee girl.’”

She stayed silent, considering his position.

“You can live off of assumptions all you want. But if you want to know what kinda man I am, just ask,” he said, closing his argument.

She stared. Reading every inch of his face. The warm whiskey hue of his eyes. It was as if she had x-ray vision and could see beneath his skin. It took all of his will power not to squirm.

Studying him with a microscopic gaze, she asked, “What’s your favorite movie?”

He furrowed his brow. Wondered if he heard her right. “What?”

“What’s your favorite movie?” she repeated, her tone steel.

Peter blinked, blindsided. “Are you… are you trollin’ me or somethin’—?“

“You’re asking me to make an important character judgment with practically nothing to go on,” she spoke quietly and evenly, glaring daggers at him. He squirmed beneath her skewering gaze. “Now, it’s not a hard question. And the longer you avoid it, the more suspicious I become of your psyche. Now answer the question. What. Is. Your. Favorite. Movie?”

His shoulders went up to his ears, flabbergasted. “Do I even get a genre, or—?”

“Favorite movie! First thing that comes to mind.”

“Uh… um—”

“Don’t think! Just answer!”

“The Sandlot!”

Her brows practically touched her hairline. “The Sandlot?!” she repeated, almost in disbelief. “That’s your favorite movie?”

“Yeah!” he yelped, defensively. “It... It was! I mean, it is… a favorite. One of them.”

It was almost comical how he leaned back in his chair, shrinking away from the scrutiny of her gaze.

He babbled nervously, “I-I watched it so many times as a kid, I wore out the tape and it got stuck in Uncle Ben’s VCR.”

She quirked a brow, and he was puzzled as to why he felt the need to share that bit of information. But then, he just kept going.

“It’s-it’s a great film,” he declared, more confidently. “A great, coming-of-age film. With the-the one kid who doesn’t know anything about baseball, but he ends up becoming friends with the popular kid who’s really good at baseball. And he loses the ball signed by Babe Ruth… And the scary, giant dog that drools all over that’s actually a nice dog, and the old guy that owns him is also nice—”

“—award-winning actor James Earl Jones,” she admonished. “Darth Vader. Or Mufasa, if you prefer.“

“I-I genuinely did not remember that,” he replied, “but-but now that I do, I-I have even more respect for the movie, thank you—“

It was a hilarious sight, Peter thought. If only the criminal underworld could witness the most fearsome gangster in New York... shrinking under the accusatory glare of the woman across the table. Timidly defending his blustering thesis on a kids movie from the 90s.

Her eyes burned him. Glared at him, hard. He felt like an insect being trapped in the deathray of a magnifying glass. And then she burst into a fit of giggles. He pulled his head back, trying and failing to read her reaction.

“Your favorite movie is The Sandlot,” she heaved with laughter, tears budding in the corners of her eyes.

His brow shot up. “What’s wrong with that?” he said, flustered. “You told me to name the first movie I could think of so I named the first—there’s nothing wrong with liking The Sandlot!”

“No, no, of course not,” she sighed, breathlessly. “No, Sandlot’s really good! I just thought you were gonna go with something basic... like The Godfather.”

He cocked his head. Now he was offended. Slightly. “The Godfather is one of the greatest—”

“Greatest movies of all time,” she finished his sentence, rolling her eyes teasingly. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard. It’s great. But is it really anyone’s favorite?” She punctuated her question with a high-pitched tone of skepticism. “Like, really?” Her eyes glittered, smile beaming.

His lips curved up at the sight. A reflex. “It’s... a favorite—”

“No, it’s not,” she shook her head, good-naturedly. “It’s no one’s favorite. Everyone just says that it is.”

“Okay, Miss Movie Expert,” he snickered with a teasing tone. “What’s your favorite movie, then?”

“Oh,” she answered, without hesitation, “Goonies. Of course.”

“The Goonies?” Now he was on the offense.

“Duh.”

“The Goonies is basically The Sandlot in the woods.”

“It’s not even close. They’re nothing alike.”

“They’re similar,” he argued objectively. “That’s your favorite movie?”

“Well, only recently.” Her sweet voice melted over him like caramel. “When I was a kid it was Space Jam.”

Peter was taken aback. “What?!” He erupted into laughter. “Space Jam? How old were you when your favorite movie was Space Jam?”

She didn’t even blink. “Twenty-five.”

He snorted as a grin spread across her lips. Had he been sipping coffee at that moment, it would’ve embarrassingly shot out of his nostrils.

“What?” she jested, still grinning. “I went through a very serious basketball phase!”

He unsuccessfully attempted to conceal his laughter, chuckling into his palms. “But you’re... so... tiny...” he giggled affectionately.

“Really?” she scoffed, with mock offense. “Short jokes? What—did you play basketball?”

He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. Shrugged shyly, charm dripping from a coy smirk. “Eh... a little.”

“Were you on a team?”

“Nah, not coordinated enough. Really the only thing I could do well was skate.”

“Figure skate?” Her eyes lit up, comically wide.

“No! What?” Wrinkles bloomed from the corners of his eyes. “A skateboard!”

She narrowed her eyes, impressed, and it ignited a fire beneath his face. “You were a skater boy? Or were you a sk8er boi? Like with the number eight?”

“I skated, yes—”

“You wore Vans slip-ons?”

“I own Vans slip-ons,” he affirmed, nodding his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Somewhere. From back then.”

Her laughter bloomed in his chest. He could’ve died a happy man to hear it.

A couple of hours later, they were walking side-by-side. She was freshly showered, wearing a simple cotton zip-up and jeans she’d retrieved from the duffle bag from Peter’s other place. Peter looked clean and crisp in a polo, hands shoved into the pockets of sharply-tailored khaki trousers.

They took a leisurely stroll around the property via a flagstone-paved pathway. It rounded through towering pine, maple, and oak trees, just feet away from the cabin. It twisted alongside moss-covered fallen trees and granite boulders worn down from mountains a million years ago. Her questions flowed now, trickling out like the nearby river. Like with every step, her mind was inspired to travel somewhere new.

Can you play any instruments?

What’s your Zodiac sign and do you agree with it?

What’s the last TV show you binged?

It was exhilarating to listen to. Exhausting, but only in an adventurous way.

“What’s your favorite color?” She’d hit him with that just as he approached an old log railing leftover from the property’s original owners. They had come to a natural stop, and he half-sat on the rail, arms crossed.

She hopped up and perched on the opposite railing in a way that made him nervous, but only slightly. He was in arm’s reach of her. He would catch her before she could fall. Always.

“Red,” he answered without much thought. She hummed with an understanding nod. “Yours?” he asked behind a shy smile.

“Space.”

He curled a brow. “So... black?”

“No, silly,” she admonished warmly. “Not the absence of light. I’m talking about the full-color spectrum of creation.” She waxed on, like Plato describing Utopia. “It’s pure. Primordial. Something so beyond human capability that it can barely be named, much less understood and appreciated.”

He admired her, even as he countered studiously, “Well, they can. Be named. A mixture of raw elements broken down into 90-percent hydrogen, 9-ish-percent helium and any combination of smaller heavy metals—”

“Eww,” she grinned, staring through slitted eyes. “Nerd.”

“If you could take any animal and shrink it to the size of a housecat and keep it as a pet, what would you choose?”

By the late afternoon, they were back inside, both lounging across from each other on opposite ends of a contemporary, neutral sectional in the great room.

He stared into the distance with narrowed eyes, deep in contemplation. “Do I have to shrink it?” he asked. “Can I make it bigger?”

She tilted her head, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Chikunia bilde.”

“A whatiya building?”

He slyly smirked, the action itself a sin. “It’s a type of spider,” Peter explained. “They’re only in Indonesia. It’s the world’s friendliest spider.”

Her eyes bugged out of her skull. “You want to make a spider the size of a housecat and keep it in your house? As a pet? What is wrong with you?”

“Hey! Spiders get a bad rap,” he defended. He sounded sensitive about it in a curious way that pulled a smile from her lips.

“They’re so hairy!” she winced.

“Not this one. It looks like a Hershey’s kiss walking around on stilts with giant googley eyes.”

She tried to draw the picture in her mind. “Well... that sounds... cute... weirdly.”

She gave it more thought, then sprang back to life. “I would pick a giraffe.” He grinned over at her, listening for her explanation. “Did you know that giraffes can’t lift their feet more than a foot off the ground because they’re afraid of falling? I feel that. Hashtag giraffacts.”

“You sympathize with a giraffe?”

“Every time I wear heels,” she said, grimly. A crease formed between her brows, and he wanted to plant his lips there. He gazed at her in quiet admiration.

After hours of talking about a million trivial things, he’d learned so much. He’d taken a bite from the Tree of Knowledge. He had seen the light. He knew the truth.

He was smitten. Badly so. Every time he looked at her, he felt like he was on fire, and every time she looked at him, he wanted to melt. Third-degree burns.

“Wait a minute,” she shot him a glare. “Was that another backhanded short joke?”

Blazing. Brighter than the Sun.

“Course not,” he feigned innocence. “And even if it was, it went right over your head.”

She chucked a pillow at him. “You’re a menace.”

“S’what my friends say,” Peter shrugged coolly.

She looked over at him, capturing the toasted caramel of his eyes. Licked her lips subconsciously. The sight of it made his abs clench, like going over the peak of a rollercoaster.

“What else do they say?” she questioned. Her heart was beating faster.

Peter glanced at the clock for a moment, smirk never fading. “You’re gonna get a chance to ask them yourself. Soon.”

She quirked her brow in response. “Are you throwing a party?”

“Not exactly,” he muttered with an amused chuckle. A flush of pink tinged his cheeks. “If I tried to throw a party with these guys, things would go south real quick. Regrets all around.”

To anyone listening, their rapport had evolved in just a few hours. It sounded like they were old friends, shooting the shit on a lazy afternoon. Their conversation flowed like a river, bending and shifting with the landscape, instead of against it.

It was disarming to her. They sat across the giant living room, which by all accounts, could’ve easily housed several smaller living rooms. But they were so much closer than they had been when the day started.

Perhaps it was the playful way he’d answer her questions, like he was trying to match wits and make her laugh. And the sound of his laughter was just as mesmerizing.

It felt like playing. Maybe it was foolish of her, but she liked playing with him. She wondered how many other people got to see this part of him.

“Regrets or Re-grats?” she snorted softly. Held her nose, trying unsuccessfully to extinguish the embarrassing sound.

Judging by his glowing grin, it seemed like he enjoyed it. “Both. Definitely both.”

“Ooh—okay, there’s a good question,” she crooned as fuzziness clouded her senses up, building in her breast. She had to peel her eyes away from his. The amber hue of his irises made her feel like a schoolgirl, especially whenever he smiled like that. “What’s your biggest regret?”

She waited, trying to hold her face steady, but her cheeks were starting to hurt from grinning like a fool. And she waited. And waited. No response. She looked over at him, and her smile dropped.

Peter was still sitting in the same spot, but he was also somewhere else. Somewhere hostile. Brow furrowed, face firm as stone, mouth twisted as if he’d swallowed something bitter. He wasn’t looking at her anymore. Whoever he was looking at was getting his full ire. The gold of his eyes had gone cold, replaced with blackened storm clouds.

Her stomach turned as she realized what had happened: her stupid question hit a nerve. Of course it would. Who even asks something so personal like that—would you shut up for 5 minutes, always with the questions, you never stop!—and now that she had—stupid, nosy little brat, you’ve ruined everything—it was too late.

Peter came to an abrupt stand, his spine straightening rigidly. Reflexively, she sat up at attention, looking up at him from the couch. She felt so small compared to him.

Her ‘friend’ was gone again. Her captor was back.

“Go back to your room,” he suggested, with an order hiding underneath. She dipped her chin for some reason, anxiously searching for sympathy on his face from beneath her brows. He refused to look at her. Tugged on the edge of his shirt. Cleared his throat. “We’ll have company soon. You can come out when they get here, if ya want. Maybe put on somethin’ nice.”

She glanced down at her casual attire—the hoodie and jeans—and suddenly, she felt so homely. Unruly and unkempt—would it kill you to brush your hair, you look like some wild Indian girl. Is that who I raised you to be?

She thumbed her palm, wanting to apologize. Wanting to say anything, but he didn’t give her the chance. After his flippant remark, he strode off, marching up the stairs to attend to something more important.

A few hours later, she emerged from her room hearing voices other than Peter’s. She gripped the banister tightly as she carefully descended the stairs wearing wedge-heeled, suede boots that rested just below her knee. She tugged down the hem of the form-fitting, cashmere turtleneck dress. It took all of her will not to continually tug on the neck, which felt like a collar choking her. She didn’t look like herself at all. A vampy black-on-black look. She felt ridiculous. And itchy.

She loathed turtlenecks, but of the options she’d arrived with, her only other nice blouse was the shirt dirtied by yesterday’s tree-climbing adventure. For some reason beyond her understanding, the idea of embarrassing Peter by looking like that dirty kid from the Peanuts cartoon was mortifying.

It was ridiculous, really. Infuriatingly so.

She was a kidnapping victim, for Christsakes. Why did it matter what she looked like? Why did she care what he thought?

Why did she spend an hour doing her makeup, then debating whether she should wear jeans and a camisole, and how much boob is too much boob? and maybe she could do laundry—there’s gotta be a laundry room—and fuck it, I’m wearing sweatpants—before finally settling on dress she wore. As if it wasn’t one of three options.

She wore a timid look at the bottom of the steps. It was the winter formal all over again, and she was without a date. Except around her was a small group of mobsters. About fifteen of them, in total.

The group of mostly men clamoured on, chatting with occasionally raucous peaks. People were milling about the living room and dining area. Some faces she recognized. A couple of them leaned over a pool table, cue in hand, lining up their shots—wait, she hadn’t even noticed the pool table?

Everyone had a drink in hand. But Peter had been right—this didn’t feel like a celebration.

Instead, there was an air of tension hanging over the group. Everyone on edge. Every entrance blocked by men who weren’t socializing like the others. Guards, she assumed. Probably with guns. The thought of sneaking out the door while everyone was distracted vanished. She took another step forward, approaching the crowd from the staircase.

A dip in conversation caught her attention. Some faces looked her in her direction with blaring silence, eyeing her in a way that made her want to scamper back up the stairs. She didn’t belong here. Perhaps they were thinking the same thing. She kept her eyes down, until she spotted Peter entering the room.

He looked absolutely lethal. Devastatingly handsome. Wearing a designer straight-fit jacket with a notched collar and wide, fluid trousers, both in midnight-black and moonlight-silver pinstriped wool. His collared, matte-black silk shirt had the top buttons unfastened, revealing a contrast of pale skin past his collarbone. His lambskin black leather boots were glossed to a high shine, the pointed toe peaking out beneath the width of the pants leg.

As she took him in, one question rang in her mind: where the fuck was he going dressed like that? The next question was why was her mouth watering, and could anyone notice?

Before she thought too hard about it, his eyes were on her. Whiskey-gold, entranced, and hungry. She felt heat creep up her back.

Blushing, she looked away as he breezed up to her, stopping just barely out of arm’s reach. She felt dizzy, the skin beneath the turtleneck prickling with sweat.

“You, uh...” Peter began, his tone shy, “you look... amazing.”

Butterflies fluttered in her belly, and she wanted nothing more than to crush them beneath her foot. “Thanks,” she swallowed hard. She tried to avoid eye contact, because him looking at her made her weaker, and she couldn’t afford to forget what he was.

Who was he again?

“I thought you said you weren’t having a party.” Her tone was calm, coquettish.

“Uh, yeah, um,” Peter glanced around, as if remembering the room was full of people. “These, uh... these people work with me.”

She lifted a brow. “You have co-workers in your gang?”

“It’s not a—” he bit off, flinching. “It’s... complicated.”

“The gang or the co-workers?”

“They work for me,” Peter clarified. “I trust them with my life.” He swallowed hard, glancing down at his feet, then back up at her. There was that boyish look that contrasted so much with who he was trying to be. “You said you wanted to know about Peter Parker,” he added. “These are the right people to ask.”

She watched him, intrigued. Fascinacion meeting confusion. He was hot and cold. Darkness and light. Wide open and closed shut. Right now, he was trying to open up. He looked nervous, despite the confidence he exuded when he walked into the room.

A chilly draft breezed in, as they both turned towards the source. Breathlessly, Miles strolled in with a giant backpack slung over his shoulder. Her tension lifted as she recognized the teen’s friendly face. He walked up to them, gripping the bulging bag tight.

“Miles,” Peter said curiously, sounding surprised to see him.

“Hi, sorry I’m late I got caught up inna thing is the food here?” All of the words came flooding out at once, in between winded breaths.

“You’re supposed to be back home,” Peter admonished. He sounded... parental, almost.

“Yeah, I just... need some help with somethin’. Real quick.” Miles began with sheepish eyes, lifting the backpack over his shoulder. Peter tilted his head, letting his shoulders slump. He looked disappointed. Honey glanced back between the two men curiously.

“When’s the test?” Peter sighed.

Miles said with a wince, “Um... now?”

“Now?” Peter exclaimed.

Miles glanced at his watch, “I mean, now until... 11:59pm.”

“Miles!” he groaned. “Again?”

“Okay, I know what you’re gonna say,” the teenager replied, “and I really wanna hear you out because it is all valid, but... we’ve only got like 57 minutes to talk this out before time is up.”

“Talk what out?” Peter sighed, planting his hands on his hips.

Miles dug his hand into his backpack, pulling out his laptop in one fluid yank. He popped open the lid, opening the screen up to a jumble of letters and numbers in a web browser. Peter huffed as he glanced at the screen and the timer steadily counting down. Full ‘disappointed dad’ face.

Miles took a deep breath, and began, “Okay, so obtaining equilibrium in the decomposition of ammonia...”

That was the first thing Honey learned about Peter Parker: He was smart. Really smart.

“Kind of a bookworm type, ya know? He’s got a big brain.”

That summary came from a tall, loud-mouthed, blonde with a million-dollar smile, who was way too handsome to be in crime. Unless being handsome was the crime.

The only unattractive thing about him was that he obviously knew he was attractive. Dripping with a flirtatious charm that bordered on cocky, he leaned back on the edge of the pool table. His biceps bulged from a t-shirt that was two sizes too small.

He’d been fast-talking Honey’s ear off since he saw her standing alone, people-watching from the sidelines. She would’ve been flattered if he didn’t remind her of every frat guy morphed together at once. Like a Frat-kenstien.

She heard Miguel refer to him as “Torchy.” She had asked for his name, and when he told her it was Johnny Storm she scoffed to herself, rolling her eyes. As far as aliases go, his was the fakest-sounding name of all.

“I mean, not the biggest in the room,” he snickered. “I’ve seen bigger.” Honey blinked a few times, wondering is this guy seriously making a dick joke right now.

“You sure you don’t want one?” he asked. He reached over and offered a shot glass filled with a double-pour of amber liquid. She glanced down at the glass with a frown, the spicy cinnamon scent stinging her nostrils.

“No, thanks,” Honey replied, polite. “It’s a little early for Fireball.”

“Early? It’s past 11, party girl,” he laughed. He put the glass to his lips and downed it in a gulp like a seasoned pro. She winced as she watched, amazed that the burn didn’t phase him. “You like to stay up late, huh?” he questioned, his breath coming out hot like fire.

“So what did you mean when you said it ‘ran in Peter’s family’?” she asked, much to his disappointment. “How long have you known Peter? Are you best friends? Do you know his family?”

“Uh, no... Haven’t known him that long. Only a couple years,” he answered. His body seemed to relax, as if he was sucking in the whole time and he let himself deflate. “And no, I didn’t meet ‘em. Read about ‘em though. His dad was some crazy smart scientist. And uh, yeah... I guess genius runs in the family.”

“As for the other thing,” Johnny added, thoughtfully, “I don’t think Peter has any best friends.”

It wasn’t unkind, the way he said it. But the answer was painful to process. It fit in with the portrait she was beginning to paint. Then, she considered his earlier response. “Was?” Honey asked. “His dad was a genius?”

That was the next thing she learned: Peter was an orphan.

“It’s a dark tale,” another man with a solemn face explained. Honey had noticed him sitting by himself, hunched over the bar. He seemed older than the others, with long facial features and a sharp hooked nose poking out from the brim of a black fedora. He hadn’t bothered to remove the black duster jacket the whole time.

She’d asked for his name too, but she got another stupid codename: Noir.

“What happened?” Honey asked, morbidly intrigued.

“I’d tell you,” he said, grimly, “but I’d have to kill you.” She stared at him, face twisted in confusion. Without looking in her direction, Noir stood from the bar, taking his glass of whiskey, and breezed off.

Getting answers about Peter Parker was proving more difficult than asking Peter for details directly. She sighed, knowing she needed to pivot. So she continued the line of questioning that yielded the most success.

“If Peter was a tree—?”

“Yes,” Honey replied, repeating her earlier question. “What kind of tree would he be?” She stood with two other men—Miguel O’Hara, and a dark-skinned, lanky man with an East London accent sporting a mohawk fade.

The Brit with the distressed denim vest adorned in pins and patches glanced at Miguel, who silently pondered the question. “What kinda bonkers question is‘at?” he said, although with his accent it sounded more garbled.

Miguel kept his arms crossed in front of his chest, debating quietly. A smirk settled on his face. He gave her his answer. “A weeping willow.”

“Maple tree,” the one called Eddie answered, his mouth stuffed full of chocolate cupcake. Honey stood with him in the corner of the kitchen next to the refrigerator. He’d been alone since he arrived, keeping to himself and pretending not to notice the dirty looks the others gave him. Honey noticed.

She also noticed that no cupcakes were served. Didn’t recall seeing any in the refrigerator, either.

“Hmm...” She pondered his response and also—did this guy just bring a cupcake for himself, who does that, is he diabetic? “Interesting,” she replied, straight-faced.

“Maple, because he’s gotta sweet tooth,” Eddie explained, licking buttercream frosting from his fingers. “I’ve seen it.”

“Apple tree.” Felicia sounded confident in her answer.

Standing near a temperature-controlled wine case, which of course encompassed the entire wall, Honey watched her pop the cork on a bottle of Dom Perignon. She helped herself, plucking the rose gold foil-wrapped bottle from the top rack. Honey caught a glimpse at the vintage year on the label. The bottle was older than she was.

“Want some?” Without waiting for a reply, Felicia poured the champagne into a crystal flute and handed it over, before pouring one for herself.

“Oh, uh…” Honey considered protesting, but it was too late. She watched Felicia down her glass. “Apple, huh? What makes you say that?”

Felicia gave her a sly look. “Have you seen his ass?”

Honey choked on the bubbles of her drink, her face flushing with embarrassment.

Felicia grinned salaciously, “I mean, doesn’t it just, y’know... kinda make you wanna take a bite out of it?” She hopped up on the counter, crossed her thighs while she poured herself another glass.

“Um, I, uh—” Honey timidly stuttered.

She was used to Nasrin’s crude wisecracks making her blush, but this was turning her red. She glanced across the room to see Peter still tucked away in a corner with Miles as he explained advanced chemistry in under seven minutes. She couldn’t help but recall the prurient memory of Peter, dripping wet in the shower that morning.

‘Apple’ really was a good description. Honey attempted to brush the guilty look off her face, but Felicia saw it and ran with it.

“Yeah, I see you,” she teased with a smirk. “See, it’s the pants.” Honey glanced over at her curiously, before the silver-haired woman explained. “Tailoring is a must. If only you coulda seen him when I met him. All baggy, wrinkled t-shirts and skinny jeans with holes. Not an ounce of style. He thought Saint Laurent was an actual saint! If I hadn’t intervened, he’d still look like some sort of homeless hipster. I practically saved his life.”

Both women were staring now, sizing him up from across the room. Honey found their blatant objectification disgusting. Sorta.

“He’s certainly learned a few things, but most of his wardrobe inspiration came from me,” Felicia added, an air of pride in her voice. She took a sip, savoring it this time. “We did a whole Pretty Woman montage and everything. ‘Cept, he was the hooker and I was the one with the black card.”

“Oh,” she replied, the thought hitting her like a truck. “Then are you… and Peter…um... Are you—?” She let the words taper off, feigning mild curiosity. In reality, she went rigid at the thought of Peter being with another woman. A gorgeous woman. A tall, gorgeous woman. What was that? Jealousy?

“What?” Felicia didn’t mince words. “Are we fucking?” She barked out a laugh. “Oh, god no,” Honey cracked an amused smile, trying to hide her relief. Why was she so relieved? “I mean… he’s cute,” she went on, “but... sorta in an annoying little brother way?”

Honey sneaked another glance over at Peter, imagining what his younger self must have looked like. Was he as shy and awkward as she was in high school?

“Well, his idea of Casual Friday has certainly elevated,” Honey bitterly grumbled, recalling his snarky comment about her outfit.

“Ugh, he’s a man. A Leo man. If I had to guess, it’s probably more of a pride thing,” Felicia shrugged thoughtfully. “It’s called power dressing for a reason.”

Honey watched Felicia’s eyes drift down her dress, sizing her up. She blushed at the attention. “It’s important to acknowledge our assets,” the silver-haired vixen clinked her glass against hers. It was a strange sort of camaraderie. “They can be handy tools when you need ‘em. Believe me, sweetie, an ass like yours in that dress, I’m sure Petey will fall right in line.”

Honey flushed with embarrassment. “I, uh... I wasn’t trying... to— It’s not like.... I don’t even like turtlenecks.”

“So why dontcha wear something else? It’s not like you don’t have options.”

“What are you talking about? What options?”

When she looked back at Felicia, the woman was staring at her incredulously. She snorted and burst into laughter, forced to hold her nose.

Honey watched her struggle to regain her composure. “What’s so funny?”

Felicia pulled herself together, shaking her head apologetically. “Did Peter not even tell you about the clothes? All that stuff in the closet?”

She shuddered uncomfortably, recalling that she borrowed a pair of hiking boots the day before. “I don’t know who that stuff belongs to,” she explained. “I can’t just… wear someone else’s underwear...”

The woman’s expertly microbladed brows shifted high. “Oh, Honey,” Felicia shook her head, using the same term of endearment that Peter used. “You think those clothes belong to someone else? He bought them for you.”

Honey blinked at her, her brain struggling to catch up. The giant walk-in closet in the guest room. The shelves of shoes in every style. In her size.

“I don’t know what idea you had about Petey,” Felicia smirked, “but that underwear is yours, sweetie.”

Whatever came next in the conversation, Honey couldn’t keep up. Her mind kept drifting back to the same place. He’d bought her a wardrobe. He’d bought her those shoes.

That’s the next thing she learned about Peter: he had no intention of letting her go.

At some point, the conversation died down. The small crowd began to shuffle out of the common space. Honey placed her emptied champagne glass on the kitchen bar. As she turned to follow the crowd, Peter appeared, blocking her path.

She tensed, coming face-to-face with him. He noticed .

“I, uh... have some business to attend to,” Peter explained. He sounded apologetic. She looked over his shoulder to see the room nearly empty. “I want you to hang out here with Miles.”

She looked over to see the teenager posted up at the dining table, tapping away on his keyboard. It wasn’t like he needed help, or a babysitter— His true intention struck her. She was the one being watched. Bitterly, her eyes flicked back to Peter. She crossed her arms, visibly annoyed, but didn’t bother to argue. It was useless anyway.

A smile formed on his lips. “Good girl.”

A chill crawled down her spine. She was powerless against it. He shouldn’t make her react that way. She shouldn’t react that way.

Peter hesitated a moment more, eyeing her quietly. She had the uncomfortable feeling she was being read. He then stepped away. She watched him disappear into a different wing of the house.

Again, it was just her and Miles. With a huff, she retrieved her champagne flute again, and gave herself a generous pour of the expensive champagne.

She brought the glass to her lips, rueing her situation and every choice in her life leading up to that point. The tapping ceased as Miles jumped to his feet excitedly.

“Done!” he cheered, with a celebratory fist pump in the air. “Woooo. Take that, AP Chemistry!” He shuffled his feet, wiggling out a happy dance, then abruptly stopped.

“Gotta pee,” Miles announced, eyes suddenly panicked. Urgently, he rushed off towards the nearest bathroom. Honey couldn’t help but chuckle at the interaction, hearing the door slam. She shook her head, amused, glancing around at the empty room.

Her eyes settled on Miles’ laptop. Left open. Unattended.

Honey glanced out of the windows into the darkness outside. Wherever the guards had gone, they were out of sight. She struggled indecisively, anxiously glancing around. Heart pounding, she set her glass down and darted over to the open laptop.

To her delight, it was unlocked. She glanced warily at the still-closed bathroom door. She pulled up a new tab in the web browser.

What was she even doing? This was wrong. She was betraying Peter’s trust.

She had to get out of there. Needed to communicate with someone, and fast. Was 911 an option online?

Pulled up a search bar, typing “New York City police” with the keyboard and hitting the search button. The first results came up. Her eyes froze, fixed on two photos on the screen. Women that she recognized as her co-workers.

She was confused. Her mind was spinning. She clicked on the images, bringing up the full-page news article. Words swam in front of her and her skin felt clammy. She felt nauseous. She read the headline over and over.

Confused. Mistaken.

She read the headline again. The one directly over the photos. The photos of the kind faces she saw just a couple of days ago. The women she knew.

POLICE ASK FOR PUBLIC’S HELP: NO SUSPECTS IN BRUTAL MIDTOWN SLAYINGS - Mayor: No rest until ‘savage’ killers are captured

She scrolled down. Looked at their faces. Looked at the headline. Her eyes were ahead, but her mind was far behind.

Eighteen months in the past, as she’s shaking Nasrin’s hand, and spends the rest of the afternoon learning that she’s a pre-med student, and she has two little brothers that annoy her, and her mother worries too much about her.

Four weeks ago, she’s looking up at Leyla as she calmly helps her mop up a gallon of knocked over milk, joking that there’s no use crying over it. Except that Honey actually wants to cry because this motherlike woman is so kind and positive about it, and Honey isn’t used to anyone reacting that way when she made mistake.

Her eyes are reading words that don’t correlate. Words like ‘murder’ and ‘arson’ and ‘stabbing.’ There’s a photo of the coffee shop that looks just like the one she works at, except it’s barely recognizable. It’s a charred, burned-out skeleton of a frame.

There’s a picture forming in Honey’s head as she puts the pieces together. Two innocent women were murdered, viciously. Cruelly. Without mercy. Stabbed to death, and their bodies further desecrated and then burned beyond recognition. Ensuring that no one would see their faces again.

There were shocked reactions from the community. Funerals planned. Flowers and a candlelight vigil.

And all of it had happened because of her.

Hands were gripping her forearms. Her face was cold. Wet with tears. She was freezing cold.

Honey was shrieking at the top of her lungs, unable to recall when she had begun. Shaking uncontrollably.

She howled and bawled, muttering incoherently nonononononono through heaving sobs.

There was a woman holding her up. It was Felicia. The entire room was full again. Men on high alert, stirred into action at the sound of her panicked screams. Miles stood nearby, looking blindsided. Panicked. Regretful.

He was saying something—just left her for a minute, I didn’t know—and he sounded desperate. There’s a voice barking back at him. It’s Peter’s.

“Everybody out!” Peter snapped, his voice booming like thunder.

Miguel answered, tension and impatience thinning his tone, “Parker, we still have unfinished business to sort out—”

“I said everybody out!” he roared, eyes flashing, black as coal. The whole room fell silent. “Now!”

Without further hesitation, Peter’s men shifted and filed out of the exits. Soon, only Miles and Felicia remained.

Miles was at the end of Peter’s razor-sharp gaze. “Go home.” His voice was a bit calmer, but no less cold. The teenager looked like a kicked puppy. He gathered his laptop and his backpack and slinked out of sight.

Peter then turned to Felicia, who was still gripping Honey by the shoulders. She sat with her on the couch, trying to keep the hysterical woman upright.

“That means you, too,” he firmly ordered.

Felicia shook her head, the young woman’s cries having cut her deep. Maybe it was a memory that struck too close to home. “Just give the girl a minute, will ya, Pete?” she snapped with frustration.

Peter’s voice dropped lower, as did the temperature of the room. “Out, Felicia. Now.”

The timbre of his voice was piercing. A silent scream. Felicia glanced up at him, stunned. Unnerved. He glared right back, blood pumping with rage. The darkness tinting his eyes made him unrecognizable. Even to her.

Reluctantly—bitterly—she released her hold on Honey’s arms. She stared at her boss with a flicker of defiance, a subtle warning. Then she stormed off, her heels clicking like a shrill drum.

They were alone. Peter took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose. His eyes softened as they rested on her. She looked at him, feeling tiny in his towering gaze. He looked like a god looming over her. And she hated him for it.

“I’m sorry,” Peter began gently. “Tried to keep you from the news. Didn’t want you to find out this—”

“Fuck you!” Honey roared, cutting him off. She jumped to her feet, her voice shattering like glass. For a moment, he thought she’d attack him. A lionness on the defense. He pictured her leaping onto his head and digging claws and fangs into his flesh.

Hot tears spilled tracks of mascara down her cheeks. She vibrated with rage. She was a trembling, trashed, snotty mess and all she wanted was to inflict pain. “You killed them!”

“I didn’t,” Peter quickly replied, keeping his voice calm. Slowly approached. He held his hands away from his body, inching closer towards her. “I didn’t, I swear—“

“I don’t believe you!”

“It was Kingpin,” Peter explained, placating in soothing tones. “I thought once I rescued you, he’d regroup. He didn’t. He sent his men to your shop the next morning. By the time we got there, it was too late—”

“Shut up!” she growled, tugging at her hair as she tried to cover her ears. “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t care! You killed them! They didn’t do anything— they’re not a part of—you-you fucking did this! This is all your fault!”

“I know,” he whispered. His voice was thick with heartbreak. “I know.”

“You know?” she cried lividly. Her tone was sharp enough to amputate limbs. “You know?!”

Her eyes were glowing with fury. He knew that look. The desperate, consuming sort of rage where all you want is hell on earth.

“I know exactly who you are, Peter Parker!” She spat out each syllable like rotten fruit. Like poison. “You’re a goddamn curse!”

His lashes fluttered in the heat waves coming off of her. His jaw clenched.

“You’re a cancer! A fucking plague! You’ve destroyed my entire fucking life! Fucking monster! You’ve ruined everything!”

He stood still. Gazing down at her. Eyes soft. Mournful. Holy. She wanted to rip them from his skull. To gauge them out with her thumbs.

“What the fuck did I do to deserve you?” she hissed, frustrated by her inability to exact the violence she craved. Upset by the injustice she could not avenge. “Tell me—what did I do? Fucking asshole! You ruin everything you touch!”

Peter bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, keeping his face solemn and pliant. It wasn't lack of remorse. He simply refused to fight back. And it infuriated her further.

“You should be the one that they killed! Not them!”

The faintest twitch ghosted across his face. He swallowed it up, pushing it down. She relished in the sight of his pain.

It wasn’t enough.

“I wish you were dead! You hear me? I wish you’d fucking burn! I hate you! I fucking hate you!”

It still wasn’t enough.

She brought her hand up and struck him across the cheek. It made the inside of her palm sting. The burn flowed through her fingers and left a red mark, like rattlesnake venom poisoning his face. Her heart thrummed at the thought.

She pulled her hand back. Took another shot. She felt confounding relief and agony at the sensation of her fingers slamming into his cheek. She tightened her palm into a fist. Did it again. And again, each blow landing heavier, taking more out of her.

She felt her fingernails slice through his skin, leaving a bloody red gash within his beard. Peter left his eyelids closed this time, as if lost in a dream somewhere. A nightmare. Absorbing the pain. Letting it sink into his bones.

The sight of his blood just made her imagine the mutilated bodies of her friends. Innocent women. Now he bled, like them.

It wasn’t enough.

She brought her fist down again, but this time on his shoulder. She repeated with the other fist, hammering it down on his chest. Her lungs were burning, sweat beading at her brow. She beat on him like she was attempting to break down a door. Each swing drawing out her energy. Draining out her soul.

“It’s your fault, it’s your fault your fault your fault,” she repeated like a prayer until it was no more than a broken whimper.

Fists sore, she could feel them already starting to bruise. Her biceps were on fire. Acid tears streaming down her cheeks.

Peter stood there. His face scratched up. Hair disheveled. His eyes glimmering with unshed tears. It was ridiculous of him, looking like some sort of innocent fawn. Watching her without judgment. Silently participating in the beating. It was offensive.

She was so furious she could barely breathe. Could barely stand. Until finally, she wasn’t. Her knees buckled beneath her. Threw her weight down through her arms, bringing both fists down in a final, exhausted blow.

Peter caught her before she fell. She collapsed in his arms and he slowly sank with her down to the floor. He held her like that. No more words were spoken between them. They both let each other just be.

A crude mirror-image of one another.

Continue to part 7

a/n - thank you so much to each of you that commented, sent me an ask, and big thank you to those of you that reblogged!

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