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lilasianninja92 · 1 year

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Hi!! New reader here 😊 tag me please

sugar and vice, pt. 7 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: For better or worse, they're talking it out.

words: 8.4 k

warning: mob-typical violence. graphic depiction of gun violence, whump. hurt/comfort. descriptions of violence. references to drug use. 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, something, something, something, dark side... should mean something to you.

Go back to Part 6.

Part 7

What’s your biggest regret?

Where to begin?

Peter felt weak. The weight of Honey’s body in his arms was too much to bear. She sat with her back to him on the floor, legs akimbo, hunched over herself. Violent sobs racked through her body as she bawled, and screamed, and begged. Neither of them were even sure what she was begging for.

“Jus’wanna disappear,” she mumbled through hiccups and wails. “Please jus’wanna go’way...dontwannabehere...idont wanit... i don’t wannit”

Sitting on the floor behind her, he tightened his grip. His forearms harnessed her in, crossing them loosely across her chest. Every once in a while, she’d dig her nails into his skin, either knowingly or unknowingly. It didn’t matter. He let her. He’d let her flay him alive if it would end her suffering. Except that he knew that it wouldn’t. Personal experience.

She won’t forgive you. She won’t look at you. She was right about you.

weak... pathetic puny... useless

She was right. In many ways, this was his fault.

It’s a strange exercise to think of the million different decisions one makes in a day that binds them to their inevitable fate. In Honey’s case, all she had to do was smile at him. All Peter had to do was keep coming back to visit her. In the case of the two unfortunate victims of Fisk’s rage, all they had to do was show up for work.

And Honey didn’t know what Peter knew. Didn’t know the gory details the police left out of the press coverage. He wondered if he should ever tell her.

...you failed to protect them, you will always fail, you can’t protect the people you love, you can’t protect anyone, you are useless... alone... a drain on the world...

He listened to the voices in his mind as he listened to her agonized weeping. Soon the sounds were the same. A contrite sinner, standing trial for his crimes against the world. Ready to take whatever judgment handed down to him.

Just let her go... monster... Just get her as far away from here as possible. Somewhere warm, sunny beach somewhere... pariah... Just get as far away from her as possible... no good can come from this...disgusting pest... Don’t let her see what you really are.

Her cries began to fade, her body drained of its energy. He helped her stand, her legs wobbly, and moved her slowly to the couch. There, she buried her face in the cushions and cried even harder.

It was like a broken limb, even the slightest touch sent searing pain through ravaged nerve endings. The pain of a broken heart. The kind of pain that makes you want to detach from reality.

Peter knew it all too well.

His heart ached at the sound of her sobs. All he wanted to do was help the pain go away. Outside of jumping in front of a train, he only had one thing to offer her.

Hesitantly, he made the suggestion—the same dose of medicine she swallowed the day she arrived at the cabin. The only kindness he could offer was the reprieve from him. A break from the world that he’d trapped her in.

Without a second thought, she agreed. Hollow. Apathetic. Reckless.

With a frown, he crushed a pill and dropped the pulverized powder in a glass of juice.

He gently declined her request to give her back the bottle of champagne to wash it down. Watched her sorrowfully, as she downed the juice without a moment’s hesitation.

He knew it well. The kind of pain that makes you want to detach your soul from your body.

Without another word, she laid down on the sofa, squeezing her eyes shut and waited for unconsciousness to overtake her. Only when her eyes closed did he allow tears to squeak through his lids.

He had fought them off for as long as he could, rubbing his eyes furiously. Dragging his calloused fingers down his weathered face, muffling quiet sobs with his palms.

He listened carefully, focusing on her steady breaths. She was asleep at last. Peter was alone again, just him and his failure. He observed her body as she sunk into the sofa cushions, drifting further into a dreamless rest. He hoped that wherever her mind was, it was at peace.

He considered the awkward angle of her spine, the way her chin jutted in a way that was surely going to strain her neck. It looked uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable. He wanted her to be comfortable. His instinct was to pick her up and carry her to bed.

He stopped his hands from moving on their own accord. His heart sank as he thought about where his mind was leading.

Not her bed, but his. Their bed, if only she wanted it to be. It all felt so futile. A silly dream. For a young, foolish boy with nonsensical, fairy-tale thoughts, an old skateboard, and holes in his jeans.

He lifted her body from the couch and once again ascended the staircase. This time, he stopped at her door. The gate to her cell.

He laid her on the bed, carefully removed her shoes from her feet, and buried her in blankets. Brushing the hair from her face, he frowned at the tear trails on her cheeks.

He went to her bathroom and warmed up a washcloth. When he returned, he gently dabbed at her makeup, removing it to the best of his ability. Her skin was already so ravaged from salty tears, rubbing was only making it worse—you’re hurting her—no peace, only pain— and cursed himself again. He went back and located the makeup remover once it had proven to be difficult.

Returned to the bathroom. He used another washcloth, soaking it in cooler water, wringing it out, and using it as a compress against her flushed forehead and swollen eyes.

He sat in the armchair in the corner of her room, listening to the steadiness of her heart. The calmness of her breath. When the cloth had warmed up and dried out, he replaced it with a fresh one.

Again and again.

Over and over.

For hours.

He caught sight of himself in her mirror and could barely recognize the person staring back. Peter looked—he felt—so old. When did he get so old? Tired. Worn out from more sleepless nights than the current one. Dark-rimmed bags under his eyes. Stray silver hairs and dried blood dotted his dark beard. The lacerations made by her fingernails healed almost instantly. But he could still feel them.

They say that beards make you look older. He looked geriatric. Still, he didn’t look as old on the outside as he felt inside. Inside he was ancient. A relic. He’d only been on the earth for just under thirty-five years, but every breath felt like a chilly gust of wind through a decrepit, old tomb. His heart was a fossil.

You should’ve stopped Kingpin a long time ago, the quarreling voices reminded him. You could’ve saved those women. They’re dead because of you.

it should’ve been you... you are the weakness, the disease... you are the parasite... they are dead because of you...

Light was not her friend.

It fact, it was skull-fucking her.

Honey groaned as she wiped a semi-dry film of saliva from her cheek. Gross.

She felt gross. All over. Her head was throbbing, sinuses sore. Like the world’s worst hangover with a dash of the flu. Her mouth was desert dry. With bleary eyes, she glanced around to find herself back in her ‘guest’ room. Her prison cell, made of down-feathers and sherpa blankets.

Daylight chased away every shadow and lobotomized her aching skull. But it illuminated another fact: she was alone.

It was unclear whether that was a good thing, given that she felt like death. She glanced over and her eyes narrowed on a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. She practically licked her dry lips at the sight. She didn’t remember bringing the water to her room. Nor did she remember going to bed. Or drinking so heavily that she blacked out. Or—

Darkness shadowed over her like storm clouds on the horizon. She felt her heart sink into her chest as she suddenly remembered.

The party. The laptop. The news article.

Peter Fucking Parker.

Whatever sickness she felt multiplied ten-fold. It was like being sucked under the current of a black sea. She was drowning in agony once again, and all she could do was bite her wobbly lip. She had no more tears to shed. She’d cried them all out last night.

The details of the previous night were still unclear, like remnants of a dream slipping away. Only a vague recollection remained—her blubbering nonsensically to be knocked out.

He must have obliged her. Nothing after that registered.

She glanced around at her bed. It looked like she had been the only occupant. Looking to the beside, she noticed the wingback armchair had moved overnight. It drifted several feet from the corner, and had crawled suspiciously near the edge of the bed.

She glanced back at the water. It was from Peter. A kind gesture. An olive branch, perhaps. Something to ease pain that he knew she would feel in the morning.

She buried her face in her pillow, swallowing back her dry tongue.

Fuck his olives.

Hours passed.

She repeated the action of waking up to her nightmare, and then diving back under the waves, hoping to drown her misery in sleep. The cycle repeated, at least 5-6 times.

The sun shifted.

Her throat was raw.

The water had probably long-since warmed to room temperature. Maybe even more from being cast in the sun. She didn’t want it. Didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to care.

At some point, between the 8th and 9th cycle, she heard a light knock at the door. Two quick beats, then a third.

“Honey?” a voice called from the other side.

It could only be one person.

She rolled her eyes, the action reminding her just how dry they were. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“You awake?”

She stayed silent. Hoped to fall asleep again. Hoped he’d go away and leave her alone. Leave her in that room, to wilt and die like a neglected plant.

“It’s gettin’ pretty late in the day,” he explained kindly. How dare he provide her with that information. “Wonderin’ if you were hungry.”

Was she hungry? Yes. Did she want to move? Never. She should say so. She should tell him she’s not hungry. She should tell him to jump off a building. She should give him a piece of her mind. Scream. Scratch him again, but this time aim for his eyes. Bite.

She just didn’t want to move. The thought of getting out of bed, opening the door to see his likely apologetic face, and then spitting in it seemed so stressful, she’d rather not do anything at all.

Hate was exhausting. She’d never hated anyone before.

“I, uh, made you some food, uhm...”

She flicked her apathetic gaze back to the wall. Scoffed lightly. Pulled the blankets back over her head.

Seconds passed. She expected more of his charmingly-shy kind offers to spill out from behind the door, but instead there was silence. She wondered if he could somehow hear her indignation, as impossible as it seemed.

“Well, it’s ready. If you are.”

He sounded sad. Not just sad, but defeated. Resigned. She heard the scuff of his leather heel, then footsteps retreating, reverberating off of the hardwood floor.

Then it was quiet again.

She was alone. Again.

Another knocking rhythm. This time, when she opened her eyes, it was significantly darker. Late afternoon. Her stomach growling could confirm that.

“Honey, you decent?”

She rolled her eyes. How grandpa of him.

“I’m comin’ in,” he followed up, and suddenly she wanted to shout in protest. But the handle twisted and the door popped open, and from her periphery she could see Peter’s tall silhouette in the doorway.

She adjusted her head to remove him from her view. It was the most she’d moved in hours.

“How’re you feelin’, huh?”

She tucked her chin down, pulling her head further under the covers.

“Yeah, figured as much.” His somber tone held the weight of being the sole participant in the conversation. Much to her disappointment, Peter didn’t leave. Instead, she could hear him enter the room, the sound of his footsteps mingling with a gentle rattling noise.

She threw her eyes over at him for a moment. He carefully steadied a wooden tray in his arms. A several plates of different comfort foods were spread out, the aroma of which was enough to make her dizzy with starvation. She tried to ignore the gurgling of her stomach as he padded closer to her.

“Brought you some dinner,” he said as he approached the bedside, a pitiful glimmer of hope in his voice. She pierced him with a silent glare. “I know you gotta be hungry by now. I can hear your stomach growlin’ from downstairs.”

He said it with a light chuckle. She said nothing.

He sat the tray down on the foot of the bed, getting a good look at her broken state.

Good, she thought. Let him. Let him look upon his work, and despair.

Peter glanced over at the glass of water on the nightstand, still untouched. He frowned at the sight. Looked back down at her, chocolate eyes full of pity.

“A little water’ll make ya feel better,” he gently offered.

She stared into nothingness, avoiding eye contact. Imagined that she was a dead body. He was talking to a corpse.

Her silence made him fret. He kept trying. “How ‘bout a hot bath, then?”

“Why, were you planning on waterboarding me, too?” Her voice came out sharp and raspy, like the hiss of a rattlesnake. Her words packed the same amount of venom, too. She looked over at him selfishly, just to see the tissue damage her toxins inflicted.

A glimmer of disappointment crossed his face, his lips turning downward. It made her feel bad.

Damn it to hell.

He gazed at her quietly, reeling from the bite. Pursed his lips. Set his jaw firmly in place. “You gotta eat,” he declared with a carefully controlled tone. It was an edict.

She glowered defiantly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped back, nearly before she even finished her sentence. His volume remained muted, but his eyes were not. “You gotta take care of yourself. S’not a suggestion.”

“And what if I don’t?” Her voice had dropped an octave. She challenged him through slitted eyes. “What then, huh? You’re so busy with trying to protect me, what if we just cut to the finish? Take one thing off your to-do list.”

Peter’s jaw tensed. Nostrils flared. The sight of his anger was intimidating, despite her bratty resolve. Briefly, her nerve started to falter, but then he took a slow breath. “You’re angry,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I get that.” She was thrown off by the calmness of his response, despite every word coming out clipped. “You’re angry at me. I get that, too. You wanna take a shot at me? That’s okay. You wanna hit me, hit me. What you did yesterday? It felt good, din’it? Made you feel better. Stronger. By all means, don’t stop.”

As much as she fought against it, she felt a tinge of guilt at that. He railed on.

“Do whatever you want,” he added, raising his voice in challenge. “Scratch me. Beat me. Hit me with a rock. If you wanna hurt somebody, hurt me.” His eyes hardened as he fixed his gaze on her, timbre dropping deep. “But you are not allowed to hurt yourself. Got that?” His eyes pierced her as he said it, as if he could shoot lightning from his fingers and write his commandment in stone.

She gulped unintentionally, the courage she had moments ago evaporating in the heat of his stare. She locked her jaw to keep her lip from trembling. Her own weakness enraged her.

“Now sit up if you understand,” he reprimanded, through gritted teeth. As if she were a child. She felt like one—little in his gaze. Peter fixed a hard look on her, waiting impatiently for her to comply.

With rageful eyes, she sat up, yanking back the covers. Her spine cracked from the lack of movement. She threw her socked feet over the edge. Came to a firm stand, straightening herself in front of him. She took a bold step forward, holding his gaze. Bitterly and slowly, she reached for the tray of food.

Then she shoved it off the bed onto the bedroom floor. The china shattered with a crack, food and liquid splattering on his shoes, pieces of glass splintering out in every direction.

Neither of them ever broke their steel gazes.

She glared up at him and he leered down at her, both silently fuming. Hearts pounding. Chests aching.

“I think I’ll have that shower now,” she nonchalantly replied. The arrogance in her voice was sharp. Stunning, especially to herself. They remained in their stalemate before she took the first step, brushing past him into her bathroom and slamming the door.

In retrospect, it was a dumb idea. She stayed in the shower longer than necessary. Part of it was to maintain the facade of her new-found, devil-may-care attitude. The other utility was that she could hide.

After her bold protest, it took her all of about 5 seconds before she jumped back across the bathroom to lock the door. She prayed silently that he wouldn’t kick it down and respond—fucking brat, little bitch, I’ll show you—to her actions.

Frozen, she stood still and listened to the shower running. Listened for his inevitable footsteps. When they didn’t come, her shoulders relaxed. She took deep breaths until she had enough confidence to rid herself of her clothing and step inside the shower.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she cracked the door slightly. Peered inside. She opened the door a bit wider and glanced around. Peter was gone. So was the mess. She sighed with relief. And a bit of guilt—Always cleaning up your messes! When will you learn?—that she pushed to the back of her mind.

Wrapped in a bath sheet, she padded bare feet across the room towards her duffle bag on the dresser. She paused before reaching it. Felicia’s revelation from the night before echoed in her mind.

She turned to the double doors of the closet in her room, gazing at them nervously. Stepped up to it, as if she was approaching a gateway to Narnia. Threw open the doors to look—but this time, she really looked.

It was a gateway to Narnia. Or to a Neiman Marcus.

For all intents and purposes, it was a room within itself. A beautiful collection of steel-gray wooden cabinetry and opaque frosted glass. The room was brightly illuminated by recessed fixtures, and each shelving unit was individually lit. In the center of the walk-in closet—or, more aptly, the portal to a fashion blogger’s wet dream—there was a freestanding island for accessories next to a tufted ottoman.

Fascinated, she stepped over to one of the wardrobe doors and opened it. Lights flickered on to reveal a section of blouses hanging on a rod from velvet hangers. Each item of clothing was organized by color, starting with black, travelling with the natural flow of the spectrum, and ending on white.

The pattern repeated over again, this time sorted by type. Long sleeves. Short sleeves. No sleeves. Another cabinet revealed a drawer dedicated to dress trousers and jeans. Divided by fit and style, and then again by wash and color.

Whatever space there was reserved for pants, seven times that amount was dedicated solely to dresses.

So. Many. Dresses.

Bodycons. Shifts. Sheaths. Empire-waist. Cinched-waist. Drop-waist. A-line. V-line. Peasant, peplum and princess. Midi. Mini. Maxi (in case she grew a foot). Every color of the rainbow. In every pattern imaginable. For every imaginable occasion—weddings, funerals, runways, and run-ins with the law. Covering cocktail parties and Casual Fridays.

Additionally, each label was an alphabetical roll call of every reputable designer name, from the bold cuts of Alexander McQueen to exotic, flowing gowns from Zuhair Murad. Or so she guessed, since she hadn’t heard of most of these designers. They had yet to make their way to her local TJ Maxx.

She’d watched The Devil Wears Prada before. Certainly, Meryl Streep would’ve died of a heart attack at the sight of this room.

Jaw still agape, she turned her attention to the island. Approaching the side with drawers, she slid open the chest and her eyes went wide.

Lingerie. Sexy, sweet, and sensual. Row after row of lace, silk, satin, and mesh stacked neatly with coordinating pieces in rich colors. Fabrics that felt silky on her fingertips. Fabrics as soft and intimate as the inside of her body. She picked up and examined piece after piece, imagining the woman who would wear each one.

A black mesh and polyurethane open-cup playsuit with matching diamond garters and a jeweled leather collar. Perfect fit for a Femme Fatale.

For the Servant, a pink satin and lace brief paired with a Shibari-inspired body harness made from twisted, plaited, silk rope.

A silky-smooth navy blue corset embellished with cut Swarovski crystals on the bust for the Enchantress.

A lavender silk babydoll dress with a plunging V-neckline and French Chantilly lace floral accents for the Maiden.

So many women. All the archetypes represented. A multitude of girls to choose from.

She felt ill. Dizzy. Felt so hot under the recessed lighting, the back of her neck was sweating. Lightheaded. Clammy skin. She backed away from the island, fingers gripping the doorframe.

She remembered thinking, foolishly, that all of this must have belonged to other women. A girlfriend, or ex-girlfriends. Or just... girls. As if Peter had a harem, or a rotating troupe of interchangeable parts. Each of them serving their own utility. Each of them replaceable.

She was wrong.

Peter wasn’t a player. He was particular. A planner. And every item in that closet had been planned for her. Meticulously, he had chosen each piece. For her. Not for a multitude of different women. But for her to be any woman. Every woman. Whoever he wanted her to be.

His doll. Accessories included.

Two distinct forces clashed in her belly, like storm fronts converging. Pressure shifting. A cyclone forming.

One fomented horror—outrage, even—at this obsession with her. All of it looked like her size, too. How did he know her measurements so intimately? Clearly, he’d been looking at her—really looking. Fixated. That half of her brain felt disrespected by his objectification. Violated. Dirty at the thought of him picturing her in such intimate and provocative ways.

The other half felt heat building in her core. Tension pulled taut at her insides. Wetness between her thighs.

Each thought made her shiver.

The last remnants of the sun had vanished when Honey opened the door to her bedroom. She had changed into a conservative loungewear outfit: a pair of silky soft joggers and an oversized cotton t-shirt. She was extremely relieved to have found it.

Hesitantly, she poked her head out around the door, glancing down the hallway for any sign of Peter. Nothing. She looked down to her feet. On the floor next to her door was a covered plate. She picked it up. Inspected it.

A plate of turkey and cheese sandwiches. Cut into triangles, just like the picnic platter. She felt a pang in her chest at the sight.

Frowning, she soured at the memory of throwing her food on the floor. Such a waste. She would've never gotten away with that as a kid. Or even as a baby. It was so rude—ungrateful brat—why? Why was she always so rude?

With a sigh, she brought the plate inside her room and quietly cherished the meal. When she was finished, she had the urge to be a polite houseguest. She carried her emptied plate and empty water glass down the stairs to the kitchen. The least she could do was wash her own dishes.

She stopped suddenly as she rounded a corner, seeing Peter leaning over the kitchen bar. On the table surface, he had two books open in front of him, one of them a ruled composition book. He popped his head up a second after she arrived, mirroring her surprised expression.

She noted the dark-framed glasses on his face. He took a moment to push them back up the bridge of his nose. They made him look boyish. Cute, even. It was another bizarre subversion of expectation versus reality. Peter Parker, fearsome mob boss: hunched over his kitchen bar, scribbling notes like he’s studying for a Spanish quiz.

The moment he locked eyes with her, he was already looking away. Helplessly flustered by her appearance. He cleared his throat. “Um, hi.”

She shifted her weight between her feet, outwardly gripping the plate and glass in an awkward stance. “Hi.”

A long silence followed, for an indeterminate amount of time. Days, probably. “I... have this plate. And a cup.”

It was a promising beginning.

“Oh,” Peter replied quietly and uncomfortably, as if he were part of some odd British comedy. “You can just leave them by the sink. I’ll get to ‘em later.”

“I can wash them.” Her stomach was twisting in knots.

“No, no need for you to do that.” Kindly, he waved her off.

“I...I-I can put them in the dishwasher, if you’re gonna run it?”

“Oh, uh... I, um, don’t think we have enough for a full load.”

“Right. Conserving water. Important.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll wash ‘em before I go to bed.”

“But... I can wash them now.”

“No, really—”

“Peter,” her voice came out clipped. “I want to wash my dishes.” It was an edict. He pursed his lips, looking away sheepishly. She finally moved from her spot, carrying on to do what she came downstairs to do. She stopped at the kitchen sink, glancing around the counter. “Where do you keep your soap?”

“Oh, uh—under, under the-the sink.”

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s there. It’s... uh... blue.”

Her head was in the cabinet below when she exclaimed, “Jesus Christ, is this Ajax? You cheap bastard.” She pulled her head up over the edge of the counter, throwing him a scandalized look. “Where did you get this? The clearance section of a Dollar Store?”

Her abhorrance triggered a smile, flitted across his face as he shrugged. “Hey. It works.”

She wiggled her head, staring at him in disbelief. “It works, like... like the atomic bomb worked!” Her passion was evident. “You’re irradiating your hands every time you use this stuff.”

A light chuckle left his lips. “I’ve had worse.” His tongue stuck out idly as he licked them, a peculiar quirk. Her eyes were glued to the action. She remembered to close her mouth, then composed herself quickly. She could see and hear the vibration of his knee bouncing anxiously. Or it could’ve been the sound of her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. She exhaled sharply, eyes dropping to the floor. Full of guilt. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I never should’ve done that.”

Fidgeting, he tapped the pencil in his hands, but kept his tone calm. “It’s-It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she countered immediately. The shame in her voice was palpable. “That’s... never okay. I’m sorry.” Her eyes wandered around the kitchen until she finally had the strength to meet his gaze. When she looked up at him, his eyes were heavy with a similar burden.

He exhaled gently, closing his notebook. “Look, it’s late.” He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb, shifting his glasses briefly. “We both should get some rest.”

She mellowed as she observed the vulnerable gesture and decided that the glasses suited him. They were adorable.

Wearily, Peter pushed himself up to a stand, limbs heavy from exhaustion. He stepped out from behind the bar, stopping an arm’s length away from her. Politely, he extended his hand to her.

She looked down at his outstretched, calloused palm, then back up at him. Confused. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“To bed,” he said. As if it were obvious. The most natural thing in the world.

Her heart fluttered dizzyingly. It irritated her endlessly that she could not determine whether it was from excitement or fear. Her body tensed regardless, hair standing on end. A look of worry darkened her features. “I...uh...” She gulped. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He tilted his head, disappointed. “It’s sleep. Just sleep.”

“That’s...” She struggled to form words, “No, I don’t know—”

“We can make a wall of pillows if it makes you feel more comfortable,” he teased flippantly.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to sleep with each other,” she declared with resolve. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling exposed. He read her face, recognizing her discomfort. “Next,” she urgently clarified. “Sleep next to each other. On the same mattress. Especially after...” She let the sentence drop. “Everything.”

Peter sighed gently, “That’s exactly why we should.” She tilted her head, curious and confused. She waited for an explanation. “Look, my Uncle Ben had a rule. When he and my aunt would go at it about something—it wasn’t a lot—but when it happened, he always made sure that they didn’t go to bed angry. No matter how bad it got.”

Honey gazed at him in disbelief. “That’s... what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what this is, Honey,” he replied. “And I don’t think I can figure that out tonight. So let’s sleep on it.”

She shook her head in timid protest. “Peter—”

“Please,” he replied, cutting her off. The vulnerable sincerity shone through his tone. “All I’m asking is for you to sleep next to—” He cut the sentence short, as if he could hear how it sounded and was frustrated. She watched him push his fingers back through his hair, tugging nervously. Brought his hand to his calloused lips, rubbed tiredly. His face told the story of an anxious, needy, touch-starved boy afraid to ask his crush to the prom.

“I need... I just need...” he struggled to say the right words as his eyes darted in every direction but towards her. Each time he’d open his mouth to speak, he’d slam his jaw shut, losing the nerve. He sighed in defeat, gazing up at her with warm, bourbon eyes. “I don’t think I can sleep,” he said, “without knowing you’re beside me. That-that when I wake up, you’ll still be there.”

There was something tragic in the soft way he spoke that threatened to rip her heart out of her chest. One look at his Bambi eyes and she felt weak. For a woman who’d always doubted that she possessed any maternal instincts, the urge to comfort this man reigned supreme. Forget the fact that he had a beard and was older than her. His vulnerability made her want to let him crawl into her lap like a kitten.

She sighed, and hated being a cat person.

Honey stood on the side of the bed that Peter had delegated to her two nights prior. There wasn’t any communication that affirmed that side of the bed was hers. It just happened. She pulled back his percale cotton covers and slipped her body inside.

It took some adjusting to get used to. She wasn’t used to wearing pants to bed, even if they were technically pajamas. But given the circumstances, Honey didn’t even want to remove her socks, like a Puritan zealot trying to pray the devil away.

And speak of the Devil. She glanced over in his direction right he approached.

The expanse of Peter’s milky-smooth skin yanked her from her thoughts and made all other brain function falter. Uncontrollably, she ogled him as he distractedly strolled into the bedroom, nonchalant and shirtless. Time slowed enough for her to take a good look. And she was embarrassed by how hungry for the sight she must have seemed.

What she couldn’t see from the back in the shower was on full display. He was ravishing. In sweatpants, no less. Deliciously carved pectorals, abdominals, biceps, and triceps, and suddenly she was an anatomy scholar—all the names for the muscle groups that she failed to remember in biology sprang to mind.

He had the same light freckling across his chest that she’d spotted on his neck and back. A few hairs on his chest, but the majority of it was located south of his navel, blazing a delectable dark trail beyond where his waistband hung low on his hips.

A closer inspection revealed discoloration around his ribs—the skin appearing as different shades of pink and white in contrast to his primary tone. Her eyes widened sinfully at the V of his torso. It was like a giant neon sign, and had always been her favorite part of the male physique to stare at.

Even at that moment, she was gawking. Imagining his torso as a slip-and-slide. His Adonis belt as the ridges of a soft-serve ice cream cone. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth.

“Thirsty?”

She snapped out of it, her face blushing red. Back as straight as a board. “What?”

“Sometimes I bring a glass of water to bed,” he explained, conspicuously innocent. “In case my throat gets dry.”

“Nope. No. I’m good.” She was nodding too much. “No dryness here…” The sentence crashed in her throat as she focused on the pattern of the silk duvet.

She could feel the heated smirk emanating from him, like a solar flare on her blushing cheek. “Good,” he muttered in a tone so low it bordered on obscene.

He pulled back his side of the sheets and crawled inside. As his body slid home, she sat up urgently, putting more space in the gap between them.

“Look, I don’t know what you think is going to happen tonight,” she blurted out shakily, “but-but I’m not that kind of girl.”

He raised a brow. “And what kind of girl is that?”

“The... I… I don’t—” Her brain shot forward faster than her mouth could articulate. “’m not … I don’t just—I don’t just sleep with strangers.”

The humor died down his face, sinking behind the horizon of his regret. “Is’at what I am?” he mused in the shadows. There was a matter-of-factness to the statement, punctuated by lament.

Goddamn Bambi eyes.

She felt a rush of panic. Sympathy. Guilt. More panic. Self-loathing. Panic again. Then, inspiration. “Look, I’m deeply religious and I don’t believe in sex before marriage.”

Flailing, she clung to the lie like a buoy in the South Pacific. Wincing, she peeked to see his reaction.

Both of his brows raised now. “Is that a proposal?” he grinned. Mischief returning.

“Yes,” she quickly replied. More panic. “I mean no! Not—“ She huffed in frustration, mouth moving uselessly like a goldfish out of water. “I-I-I just... I don’t want you to touch me.”

Face flushed red, she looked like she’d just ripped off a bandaid. But it once it was done, her voice steadied. “I don’t want to be touched,” she declared, more confidently. Eyes bore into him. “Tell me you understand that. You want me to trust you, then swear to keep your word.”

He hesitated for a moment, sobering as he observed her veracity. His eyes softened. Nodded.

“Promise me, Peter,” she said. “I need you to say it.”

A shadow fell across his face. A memory, perhaps. Something bittersweet.

“I promise,” he replied. “No touching.” He gazed at her, watching her shoulders relax. There was a twinkle in his amber eyes—a Cheshire smile that didn’t quite reach his lips. “Until you ask me to,” he added.

She fixed him with an incredulous look. His cockyness was breathtaking.

Not that she was focused on his cocki—

“Deal?” he nudged her, recapturing her attention.

She held her gaze for several seconds, measuring the sincerity of his response. With a sigh, she nodded. “Deal.”

A few moments later, Peter turned out the bedside lamp. In the dark, she stared up at the canopy of the four-post bed, trying to steady her pulse. Trying to get what was happening out of her mind. Whatever it was that was happening.

The next morning, she woke up alone again. The room was quiet, and this time, she listened for the shower. Nothing. She used the opportunity to slip away.

Wandering down the hallway and tip-toeing back to her room, she paused at the top of the stairs. The TV was on, voices echoing from the great room below. Curiously, she followed the sound down the stairs until she saw her sorta roommate.

He was hunched over, sitting on the sofa, resting his weight on his elbows. There was a grim look souring his face, and at the same time, his eyes were distant. Like he was somewhere else again. His ankle moved anxiously, causing a bouncing tremor in his knee. He cupped his hands against his mouth, absentmindedly brooding in the glow of the TV screen.

He was fully dressed, wearing pressed dark trousers and a crisp black dress shirt. A slim silver neck tie hung loosely around his neck. Not a lock of hair out of place, as it swooped up into a dark, thick, gelled wave in the front. A tiny curl escaped the crowd. How someone could look so dapper and so... disheveled, was beyond her understanding. It was confusing as much as it was unsettling.

Honey waited at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether or not she should interrupt his—whatever this was.

“I stopped an armed robbery once,” Peter said to her.

The morose statement jarred her. She paused, eyes wide and blinking away confusion. She hesitated long enough to question whether he was addressing her. Wearily, he looked up at her, confirming his intent.

When she found his eyes, they were darkened with tragedy. Bleary. Red-rimmed. It was a contrast from the confident, flirty man she saw the night before. Gently, he patted the seat beside him, beckoning her to sit.

Nervously, she urged herself forward. Sitting next to him, she had the strange sensation of joining an awkwardly-tense family discussion, in front of TV dinners over an episode of Jeopardy!

Instead of a game show, Peter had been watching New York’s local morning newscast on mute. She was grateful, because having a TV on in the background had always been troublesome for her. She frequently found herself distracted, disoriented, and unable to distinguish each voice from one another. It made those awkward evening discussions much more tense—what are you, deaf? I asked you what you did in school today!

Idly, she glanced at the screen to see reporters mouthing silent words about a Nor'easter approaching. Powerball numbers scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Up next, footage of an early morning fire in the Bronx, and coverage of a press conference the Mayor gave last night.

“I know it’s probably hard to believe,” Peter began ruefully, pulling her back to the present, “‘specially seein’ me now. Like this.”

He gestured to himself and around the room at the fancy house, as if they were the same thing. The spite in his voice piqued her focus.

“You probably look at me and think I’m some rich asshole, but it wasn’t always like this,” he explained softly. Honey thought of disagreeing, but he wasn’t waiting on a reply. “My parents died when I was little. And no one ever plans to die young, y’know? So when they left my aunt and uncle were it. The only family I had.” A crease formed in her brow. She was confused as to why he was telling her this, but she listened attentively.

“We got along fine most of the time,” he continued. He sounded like he was recounting a fairy tale with a sad ending. “My aunt got sick when I was in junior high. Breast cancer. She fought it off, though. Into remission. She was always a fighter.” A bittersweet smile melted his lips. “Downright scary when she wanted to be.” The smile faded, as did the visage of whatever it was he was remembering. “Anyway, medical bills are a bitch. So this—now... Is, uh...more than I ever had growin’ up. But they tried. So hard. To make sure I had what I needed.”

He pursed his lips, lost in thought. She was unsure of what to say next, or whether or not she should say anything. Should she congratulate him on his financial success? Something like ‘I’m sure they’d be proud of you if they could see you now’ seemed in poor taste.

“I could be a real prick sometimes,” Peter recounted, dejected and regretful. She saw the faintest tremor reach his lip. He bit down to steady it. “When I was 17, I got into this big fight with my Uncle Ben. I was, um... goin’ through some stuff. Changes, I guess. I was supposed to be somewhere and I wasn’t. He got pissed. I got pissed. I end up stormin’ off. Even broke the front door on my way out.” He sighed, relieving the memory with each word. “I had to get outta there. Needed to blow off some steam, I guess. Didn’t even know where I was goin’. I stopped into a bodega, to get somethin’ to drink. And then this guy walks into the store and pulls a gun.”

His voice quivered, describing the odd twist of fate. “I see ‘em put the gun in this guy’s face, demand the money in the register. It’s like everything was moving slow. I couldn’t move. I just stood there.” Peter swallowed hard, and Honey followed the lump in his throat. “He takes off,” he continued delicately, “and then it hits me. I can’t let him get away.” Another deep breath. “So I go after him, chase him down this alley. He’s trying to get to a car waiting outside. But I catch up with him, bring him down first. The car speeds off. I look up, just a moment. I see the driver. His partner. He locks eyes with me. And he knows. I got ‘em.”

He described it carefully, with a sweet sense of victory attached. Seeing his eyes light up caused Honey’s heart to swell. It materialized as a smile on her face.

“By the time the cops get there, their job is pretty much done, right?” he laughed softly. “Bad guy’s tied up with an old clothesline. I got the money back. Handed it over. I tell ‘em everything I saw, figured that they’d handle it because it was their job.” He stopped suddenly, his voice growing thin. He swallowed hard. The pain in his eyes made it seem like he was swallowing glass.

“When Uncle Ben found out what I did— I… I’ll never forget that look on his face. He tells me I did a good thing. Calls me a hero.” Honey spotted the first signs of overwhelming emotion threatening to break him down. A light glimmered from the rim of his eyes. “That was the last conversation I had with him,” he declared, gravely.

Her brow dipped down, not expecting the sudden turn. “Went home,” he recounted. “Went to bed early.” He drew a shaky breath. “Next thing I know, bullets start flyin’. Guns goin’ off all over. Hundreds. Rapid fire. AKs.”

Eyes wide and entranced, she listened.

“I took a bullet to the thigh,” he explained, “but I don’t even remember it. All I could think about was my aunt and uncle. Gettin’ to them—”

The sentence cut off with a strangled noise. A weak, final breath before the darkness settled in. Peter looked decades older. Eyes staring blindly, haunted by horrible memories. “I found them on the floor in the kitchen. Arms wrapped around each other. Blood all over. So many bullets hit my uncle, I… I couldn’t recognize his face. He didn’t have one anymore. He’d tried to protect May, he was covering her body, but… didn’t matter. You never forget what a gun like that does to a human body.”

Honey was holding her breath unintentionally. Her skin crawled as she imagined what younger Peter must have gone through.

Taking a shaky breath, he continued. “Cops show up not long after. Didn’t even have to call ‘em.” The pools in his eyes grew deeper. “I told them what happened. They didn’t believe me. Said I couldn’t have heard that many shots fired at once. They kept trying to change my story around. That’s when I realized those bullets weren’t meant for my aunt and uncle. They were meant for me.”

He practically spat out the phrase, a bitter taste left behind. The corners of his mouth pointed downward, ire in his words. “You see, the guy I caught was a little fish. He worked for someone bigger. And the cops were in on it. They told me I didn’t hear that many shots because those could only come from an automatic weapon. Police-issued.”

A breath caught in her throat as she understood his meaning. He pressed on, self-loathing in every word, “The second I ratted out their guy, my family was as good as dead.” He swallowed hard, almost unable to finish the sentence. “That’s when I realized that everything I knew was a lie.”

She tilted her head in confusion and he looked directly at her. “The good guys versus bad guys story is all a sham,” he explained, spitefully, “because no one is ever truly good. There’re monsters everywhere. All over.” She noticed the nausea overtaking his expression, like he was describing a roach infestation, and not the state of the world. “They’re in the streets. In the law. In the banks. They even hold office. Right all the way to the very top.” She grew more unsettled as she listened to his bitter summarization of humanity. “Corruption is the game. All the players are evil. Everyone else is just collateral damage.”

The coldness of his voice stunned her, chilling her. She pulled back her gaze, confused as to where this was all coming from. It’s like he could read her mind.

“I know you think I ruined your life,” he explained. “That I destroyed everything. But bad shit happens to everyone, regardless of whether they deserve it.” He paused for a moment, and she noticed the glimmer in his eye return. He bit down on his jaw hard, in an effort to hold back. “Everyone that ever loved me is dead. Did they deserve that? Did I?” His words went over her like a dagger to the heart. She pitied him, even if she couldn’t understand where this was coming from.

“You asked me what my biggest regret was,” he explained. She recalled their earlier conversation and the question that was left unanswered. “It’s the night I tried to do the right thing, and I lost everything for it.”

Her heart twisted as he said it. She was in awe of the bitter, broken man beside her. He’d lost so many things and isolated himself so completely, it’s a wonder that he was still alive.

“That’s how I ended up on the other side of the law,” he preached from an invisible pulpit. “From this side, I have a clear view. People show me who they really are.” Reflexively, she shook her head, but stopped immediately. She didn’t have any evidence to support her argument.

“I can see now that the only way to fight fire is with fire,” he added, his voice growing stronger. More resolved. “So i'm all in with everything I got. Soon I’m gonna rain down hellfire like it’s the Fourth of July And when the smoke clears, the man who hurt your friends will be dead.” His voice echoed as he said it, as if she could hear bells in accordance, proclaiming his glory. “That's my promise to you, Honey. Whatever it takes, I’m gonna burn it all down.”

Peter’s eyes left her face and focused on the television. “I’m gonna make him pay,” he said darkly. He took the remote and turned up the volume.

The sound of the Mayor’s voice cut in, stretching the limit of her focus. She struggled to ignore it, trying to process what Peter had just said, but the volume was turned up too high. It was footage from an earlier press conference.

She watched as the stocky man stood behind a podium at City Hall with a dozen microphones fixed at his mouth. He towered against the backdrop of the American flag, his deep voice bellowing, “The crime element that poisons this beautiful city is out of control. Abhorrent acts of violence, like those perpetrated against those women in Midtown this week, will not go unpunished.”

Her eyes lit up, recognizing who he was talking about.

“I’m committing to working closely with local law enforcement, and will not stop until the animals responsible for these horrible crimes are brought to justice,” he proclaimed. “Whatever that looks like.”

Against a valiant array of uniformed police officers and banners of patriotism, it seem like more of a joke than it actually was. Another politician’s promise to be forgotten after a few weeks.

Except that it didn’t feel funny. There was nothing remotely humorous about the tone.

Perhaps it was the tension in the room sitting with Peter that gave her pause. She felt something ominous building. Something threatening. Like crawling through brush and hearing the slithering rattle of a snake.

“Whatever it takes,” the man on TV declared. “I will restore law and order to this city.”

She heard a slow exhale release from the man beside her. She glanced over at Peter to see his eyes narrowed into slits. Intense. Focused. Possessed.

Honey blinked at him, and looked back at the Mayor of New York, dread filling her.

He wasn’t…? Wait, was he talking about—

“Are you talking about him?” she asked, trepidation filing her voice. Her eyes went wide. “Are you talking about Mayor Fisk?”

Peter’s jaw twitched. He kept his eyes glued to the screen. “We don’t say that name,” he muttered with a look of pure loathing.

A chill came over her as the pieces connected. The name he had spoken the night of her kidnapping. Wilson Fisk.

“To me, he’s the Kingpin.” Peter looked her dead in the eye, aflame with righteous fervor. “And I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

To be continued...

a/n hee heee heeeeeee

i'm excited for what's next. are you??? thank you for reblogging! if you want to be tagged in future chapters, you must reblog. (it's the only way I can keep up)

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lilasianninja92 · 1 year

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😈😇

Chapter 1: There Lived This Girl

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Warnings: murder, blood, bullying, sexual references, mature references, readers under 18 are encouraged to not interact with this series. Angst.

“There was this girl, the most beautiful in the world

She had all the boys in town wrapped ‘round her finger, oh

She would walk the halls and everyone would whisper and talk

‘Cause all the girls in town wanted to be her.”

[1.9k words]

Y/n Munson always believed that beauty was a social construct. Since the age of 3, her twin brother would always call his sister ‘The prettiest girl ever’. She could vaguely remember her mother also fitting that category, hearing stories about how the great Lizzie Munson was the biggest catch of her time. And so it was only natural that young little Y/n Munson saw nothing wrong with the peculiar way she dressed, or how her hair was practically untameable. She had no concept of the difference between the beauty within and out. That was until primary school came around.

Things were already tough; Mother gone, father gone, and she had to share a room with a brother who refused to bathe. Uncle Wayne tried his best, but the little girl was a total mystery to him. She wore his old clothes and within months of living with him, no one could tell Y/n and Eddie apart. People assumed Wayne Munson was looking after his two nephews, who were both wild with heads full of fantasy stories.

That’s when the suffering began. Kids were mean and cruel. More often than not, she’d come home with gum in her hair and clothes destroyed. Leading her to look more and more like her brother every time.

After the…..event, things took a turn for the worst. The only ones who noticed she was gone were the two males in her life that she shared the small trailer with. For six months she was MIA, recovering in private with distant relatives.

Upon her return, Eddie could hardly believe she was the same sister as before she left. She radiated a confidence that far exceeded his, and a new sinister look filled her eyes. Her clothes were different, far less boyish and more fitting with the rest of the female population. He hated it. He hated the change, he wanted his sister back. But, he loved her nonetheless…. He didn’t know what she went through all those months ago but he was happy that she was alive and functioning.

He could push past the clothes, the change of music and even the ungodly amount of time she now spent in the bathroom getting ready. He was just glad to have her back.

It didn’t take long for whispers about her appearance to spread across the hallways of Hawkins High. Within days people would gawk and stare, all the boys practically salivated as they watched her walk past. The only issue was, under the large outer appearance change, people failed to realize she was THE SAME Y/n Munson they spent years tormenting.

She planned it out carefully. She understood that her tormentors were shallow people, only caring about how she looked or dressed or did her hair…. It angered her. And especially after that happened, she couldn’t very much stand on the sidelines anymore.

Within weeks the boys were wrapped around her finger, begging for any kind of attention from her. Soon enough all the girls became jealous, cheerleaders snickering about her… secretly wanting to be her. But she would never wish this life upon anyone; and so if she had to sacrifice herself to make sure their torments stopped with her…. Then so be it.

“Hey baby,” Justin said, leaning against her locker as if he radiated sex appeal.

It took so much effort to keep the poker face she adopted in this new persona she created. Justin was a lower ranking basketball player, vaguely known by most.

“Hi Handsome,” she flirted back, only giving him the smallest curve of her lips. “We still on for tonight?”

She made sure to slow the way she spoke, keeping the seductive undertones on the edge of her tongue.

The boy blushed, nervously nodding his head. “Y—yeah, absolutely.”

“Perfect… I wouldn’t want to wait anymore.” She whispered closer to him.

His pupils dilated and the flush crept up from his neck. “I—I’ll be there, you’re bringing the stuff?”

She nodded, placing a kiss on his cheek so softly that she was sure her lips didn’t even touch. She thought it was ironic, her name hadn’t changed… and yet people still forgot all about the Y/n Munson they used to lock in the bathroom stalls.

Better yet, she would bring over her brother’s secret stash and none of them made the connection to her supply of the drugs to the only other dealer in Hawkins High.

Daft and superficial. The lot of them.

Her emerald eyes may now be covered in eyeshadow compared to her usual look; but she didn’t forget where she came. Much like how her brother was undeniably gifted at coming up with campaigns, she had her own plan ready to unfold. Acting as a secret devil in disguise, she was ready to exert her revenge.

Sneaking out of the trailer that night was easy. Wayne was at work and Eddie’s single bed across the room was still empty; perks about D&D nights meant there was no one she had to sneak past.

Her backpack was full of all her supplies. One bottle of rum, a few grams of weed already rolled, and her personal favourite… the rope and santoku knife hidden along the very bottom of the bag.

She wasn’t surprised to see Justin already there and waiting in the darkness of the abandoned house. The floor creeped under every step she took.

“Boo!” She screamed, making the boy jump out of fright.

His hand clutched his chest as he gasped, “Jesus Christ, don’t fucking do that. This place is already creepy enough. Why did you want to meet here?”

She sighed, placing down the bag and taking out the bottle of alcohol.

“Aw… What's the matter, big boy? Scared of an old house?” She laughed, knowing that it was too soon to blow her composure. “I thought that it could be nice and private here…”

Taking a swing of the rum to her mouth, she faked swallowing the burning liquid. She didn’t want her work to be sloppy, and so alcohol was strictly forbidden on game nights.

The boy in front of her smiled, imagining all of the wild fun he was about to have. She handed the rum to him, acting a fool.

“Here, have some.” And sure enough he did.

Devouring the alcohol, his eyes never left her. Especially when she traced her hand across his chest, inflating his ego where possible. The liquid spilled down the side of his chin, she leaned up to lick it clean. All the while thinking, ‘You gross pig’.

Heaving for air and slightly in shock by her actions. He gave a flirtatious smile nonetheless.

“Let’s play a game.” She whispered into his ear, pressing her body up close to his. “Close your eyes and wait here.”

Intrigued by where things might lead, he followed instructions like a lamb being led to slaughter. Unaware but entirely willing.

She moved slowly and effortlessly, a mastermind in her element. The rope in one hand and the knife concealed in the back waistband of her skirt, she tried to think of the best use for the rope.

‘Tie up his hands and legs so he can’t run?’

‘Tighten it around his neck and in his mouth so he can’t scream?’

She made a mental note that for the next victim, she might have to bring more materials.

“So how’s this gonna work?” He spoke and it displeased her.

“Don’t you worry,” she replied, slowly grabbing his hands to bind them behind his back. “This is all about the other senses, we’ll get to the fun stuff soon.”

Surprisingly, Justin kept his eyes shut. Sacrificing his body to let her do as she pleased. Eyeing around the room, she saw a dirty cloth covered in spider webs.

“Open your mouth for me, Sweets.” She purred, letting him imagine whatever he wanted the material to be. Luring him into the trap, she kissed him. A task needed for the duty.

He accepted the kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth all too eagerly. There was no tenderness or passion, all he wanted was to get off. She could tell. His moaned in frustration by not being able to touch her, his hands firmly behind his back still.

“Keep your eyes still closed for me baby.” She hissed, “I just need to get something.”

He nodded, ever so obedient.

The dirty rag covered in cobwebs got stuffed into his mouth. His eyes bulged out and opened, his screams muffle red into the material. Unable to take it out himself, tears started to brim his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” She teased, “it’s not a nice feeling huh? I should know, I didn’t quite like it either when you stood there and let them do the same to me…. Unfortunately for you, I didn’t have spiders nesting on the ones shoved in my mouth.”

His muffled cries were more aggressive. Reaching to her back, knife in hand…. It only made him thrash out more.

“Now now—be a good boy and sit still.” She cooed. Forcibly grabbing his shoulders and thrusting him down to his knees. Thankfully his legs were already tangled and tied by her trusty rope.

She started small, carving waves into his shoulder blades. The sound of the skin breaking under the sharp knife was diluted under the sound of the blood splattered onto the floor.

This wasn’t supposed to be a bloody affair, she wanted it to be simple and efficient. Pouring the alcohol to cover the wounds, she was surprised that he was still kneeling upright.

Once he was fully drenched in the liquid, she took a step back to admire him. Vulnerable, crying, shaking… exactly like how she was when IT happened. Only difference is, she’d made sure she finished the job.

“You know, I could go for a smoke.” She said, carefully lighting the rolled joint. Inhaling deeply, she blew the smoke into his face. “What? Not a fan? Shame… this is my brother’s best batch.”

Justin was a mess beneath her hand.

“It’s a shame I had to start with you… but you didn’t help me, I looked directly at you and you just fucking stood there and watched. Now it’s my turn to watch and do nothing.” She spat out, moving the lighter in her hand to become ablaze directly in front of now drenched cloth in his mouth.

He tried shaking his head, tears flowing down and mixing with the alcoholic liquid on his skin. But she ignored he cries and connected the flame to the material, thereby ignitionating the fire. His whole body erupted in flames within seconds. Moving back to stand near the doorway, she merely stood and watched.

Finally allowing herself to indulge in what was left of the alcohol in the bottle, she said her final curses at him. She only left once his body appeared lifeless on the floor. The smell of burning flesh was masked under the remnants of weed.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————

Hi all and welcome to my new passion project! This is my first time writing a Steve Harrington fanfic (I’ve only done Eddie Munson works). If you want to get the vibes of what this new series will be like, please check out the playlists on the series Masterlist!

Series Taglist

@loving-and-dreaming @sweetsweetjellybean @azaleaforsure @musicmoviestv @cutiecusp @lipglossanon @sheisjoeschateau @tinydonkeysforlife @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @gothvamp1973 @taeddybearkim

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lilasianninja92 · 1 year

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O M G!!! 😱 Y/N on a mission. I love this already, bring the carnage! 😈