#mob!Peter parker | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

liz-allyn · 1 year

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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

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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.

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withahappyrefrain · 2 years

Note

Idk if someone has requested this already for your bingo prompts but jumping onto the bandwagon and requesting arranged marriage for reader and mob boss peter (can I also request a slight age difference and reader being terrified of what her husband does)

I like to think I added a nice twist to the whole "arranged marriage" trope.

Warnings: reader has a crappy family, some violence, mention of abuse

You stared ahead as your mother applied blush on your face. The itchy fabric of the dress she insisted on you wearing was digging into your skin. You desperately wished to yank out the bobby pins digging into your scalp.

Instead, you stayed still as she made you 'presentable'.

"Remember, don't say a word unless he asks you. Last thing we need is that mouth of yours ruining our one chance."

How do you pay a hitman to take care of your debts when you have no money?

You offer him a wife as payment.

In a way, you were glad Peter Parker wanted to see you before agreeing to marry you. Though it didn't make you feel less like some animal on display.

Your mother's hand on your arm yanked you out of your thoughts.

"Did you hear me? You better listen when he talks, men hate a woman who doesn't listen."

Of course, they just want a doll, not a wife. You fought back the snide comment. Your family had been tense about this meeting for the past few days. Snarky comments wouldn't help.

It was a double win for them. They'd get rid of their debt and of you.

"It's the best I can do," your mother sighed, "Tell him she's ready."

Your eyes fixated on the gaudy artwork your father insisted on hanging in his office. In a way, you were thankful that they told you this news the night before.

It gave you the chance to cry into your pillow until you fell asleep. Now a numb, empty feeling resided within you.

Was it such a shock that they would hand you over to a man so easily capable of being cruel and violent?

It shouldn't, given their annoyance towards your whole existence.

"You'll finally be useful. He's needed a new wife anyways, it's been three years since his first one died."

The door opened, yet your eyes still remained on the stupid artwork. They remained on it even when a long, lean torso clad in well tailored dress pants and a button up stood in front of you.

Long, ring-adorned fingers hooked themselves around your chin, forcing your head to tilt upwards until you made eye contact with your potential husband.

Peter Parker was handsome, you'll give him that. But his amber eyes were hardened and looked devoid of emotion. Not that you expected much from someone who made themselves known for being able to quickly and efficiently commit violent acts.

He tilted your head to the side, his lips tightly drawn together as he inspected you.

You tried to keep your face neutral, to not show any emotion. Partly so if this deal went sour, your parents couldn't cast (as much) blame onto you. Partly because you didn't want him to think you were scared.

You hoped he couldn't see that your hands were shaking.

"Stand." His voice was deep, laced with a Queens accent.

Hesitation filled you, until your eyes made contact with the death glare your mother was sending you.

And so you stood, albeit slowly. You already knew he was older than you, but the fact you didn't even come up to his chin made you feel like a child.

Perhaps that would deter him.

Instead, he chuckled, "You're so little."

You couldn't help but look down, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

This time you felt all of Peter's hands as they cupped your jawline, his fingers reaching the back of your neck. Your gaze was brought back to his face, his brow knitted in concentration as he studied yours.

"Pretty eyes," he muttered, "You talk?"

"When I want to," you whispered without thinking. Great, you blew it. He'd reject the offer and your family would actually have a valid reason to hate you and-

"And a sense of humor! I'll take her," He told your parents, as if you were some cut of meat and they were the butcher's at the local deli.

His hands dropped from your face as he turned to your parents, "Gotta get the place ready. I can take her Wednesday."

Pretty eyes and a sense of humor. That was all Peter Parker needed to determine you would make a suitable wife.

He didn't even attempt to have a conversation with you. That was what sealed the deal. He just wanted a warm body to fuck and birth his children. And while he found delight in your sense of humor now, that certainly wouldn't be the case later.

Sure, life with your family wasn't great. But what was the point of trading one hell for another?

So you ran. Or tried to.

You barely made it to the gate of your family's house when you heard yelling. You attempted to begin to climb up the gate when a large hand grabbed your ankle, pulling you down.

A curse fell from the lips of one of your father’s henchmen as you kicked, freeing you briefly. For a moment, you thought you had a chance. That perhaps a higher power did exist and took pity on you.

How stupid of you.

Another pair of arms grabbed your waist. You used all your strength to try to free yourself. Just when you thought you had a chance, you felt a rag cover your mouth.

Despite the sweet smell that flooded your nostrils, your body surged with panic. It became difficult to fight back, having to use all your strength just to jerk back your wrist.

And still, it wasn't enough. The rough material of rope dug into your skin.

You don't know when you closed your eyes, but the last thing you recalled hearing was "Let's give Parker an early wedding gift."

Despite years of no one listening to you, you still managed to mumble a weak "No.

Not that it mattered. It never did.

—----------------------

Rough hands grabbed your arms, pulling you up from the car seat. Your body was slow to react, though that didn't stop you from trying to resist.

The rag placed in your mouth made it next to impossible to scream, though it didn't prevent you from making such an attempt.

An elbow jabbed you in the ribs, causing you to bend over in pain.

"No wonder your folks want to get rid of you."

The men dragged you into a huge house that had nearly all of the lights turned off.

You tried to fight back, tried to wrangle yourself out of their grip. But they held on tight, practically dragging you through the house into you came into a study.

Hands shoved you hard, pushing you onto the floor, the marble bruising your knees.

You looked up to find Peter Parker sitting on the couch.

What a pathetic site you were. You could feel the mascara that had stained your cheeks, your body bruised and beaten from your attempts of escaping.

"What the fuck is going on?" He asked, sounding angry. That didn't shock you, he did say that he would be ready to take you in two days.

Now he was getting you early.

"Boss saw her trying to escape. Said to get her and bring her over to you," one of your father's men explained.

He nodded his head as he stood up, walking over to you. You stared at the floor, too ashamed of yourself to look at him.

"Her family says she's all yours." The other man mentioned.

It shouldn't have shocked you that your family would be willing to give you away to a violent man without any regards to your well-being. But it still stung.

This time you couldn't even wipe away your tears.

"They wanna know when you'll hold up your end of the deal," one of the men said to Peter.

Peter didn't respond. Instead, he kneeled down, his hands reaching to cup your face. The cool metal of his rings felt soothing against your hot, tear-stained face.

His eyes examined you. First your face, then the rest of your body. His amber eyes hardened upon seeing the bruises and marks on you, a scowl forming on his face.

"Hello? Parker, you got an answer or not?"

"Wednesday. Like I said I would," He replied without looking at them, his eyes still on you.

"Enjoy your new wife. Good luck with this one," they scoffed.

"Take the back way, Miles will show you," Peter leaned in, his lips hovering over your ear.

"You're safe now."

No you weren't. Your parents just handed you over to a man who had killed with his bare hands. Not only that, but they showed him exactly what they thought of you, letting him know the level of treatment they expected from him towards you was low.

Peter's hands moved towards the rope that bounded your arms and hands together, making quick work of removing them.

"They're not gonna fucking touch you after that," he muttered.

You stared at him in confusion.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, clearly coming from inside the house. Then another.

From a distance, you could hear the voices of your father's men, yelling out in agony.

Two more shots quickly silenced them.

Peter's hands moved up to your face, removing the rag your mouth had been gagged with.

You stared at him. You should run. You could run now, thanks to him removing the ropes. Why would he do that?

Wouldn't he want his wife tied up, nice and pliant? Or did he get some sick, twisted pleasure from the idea of you putting up a fight against him? A fight he would win in an instant.

"W-why did you do that?" Was all you could ask.

"So that way when your family finds their bodies on their doorstep, they know not to bother me about why I haven't offed Craven to take care of their debt," He explained, as if it was clear as day.

He held his hand out for you. All you could do was stare in horror at the man in front of you.

"I need to check the burn marks you got from the rope. There's better lighting in the library." As if that should be enough to convince you.

He kneeled down, his hands reaching towards you. You tried to move away, a shriek beginning to fall from your lips.

One of Peter's ringed hands quickly clamped over your mouth, his body pinning yours to the ground.

This was it. He'd seen you disobey him and now he would put you in your place.

"Look, I know it's hard to believe, but you're safer with me. I just made sure those lowlifes you call 'family' don't ever bother you again. Running away is probably the dumbest choice you could make right now." Peter's voice was firm and gruff, sending shudders throughout your body.

You could only stare back at him, the events of today finally catching up to your mental state.

That was when his eyes softened. He removed his hand from your mouth, his long fingers gently stroking the sides of your face.

"You're safe here. Let me help you," He whispered.

His eyes looked gentle, never leaving you as he pushed himself off of your body, extending out a hand.

Shaking, you raised yours, taking it.

You didn't trust him.

But Peter Parker was right. As for now, he was your only option.

Which is how you found yourself in his library. A first aid kit adorned the marble coffee table as Peter was on his knees, inspecting your injuries.

"It's minor," you said softly, watching him apply an antibiotic cream to a burn on your arm.

"This isn't minor," He responded, shaking his head.

"I've had worse," you said, shrugging.

It wasn't until he looked up at you with a frown on his face and those soft eyes that you realized the weight behind your words.

You didn't need his pity. You had done just fine without it.

"Why did you pick me? As your wife?" You then asked, wanting to distract him and yourself from your previous words.

A small smile crept on his face, like he had heard an inside joke, "You're smart, pretty clever, and nice. Not to mention beautiful."

You crossed your arms, "You got all of that from a five minute meeting?"

Peter shook his head as he put away the first aid kit, "I knew that before we met. I know a lot more than you think, lamb."

How dare he make assumptions and act like he was your savior in all of this? He was just as much as responsible for you being in this situation as your parents. And to practically admit he had seen you before? Was that supposed to make you feel better?

You were about to question him when you were interrupted.

"Daddy?" A small voice called out.

You looked up to the doorway. Standing there, was a small child who couldn't have been older than three. She had curly dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that were still full of sleep. Clad in a long nightgown while holding onto a stuffed elephant, she looked out of place in the elegant library.

Peter gave you a knowing look before getting up to walk over to the small child.

"What'cha doing up lovebug? Was it too loud?" He asked softly, kneeling down.

She nodded her head, still rubbing her eyes with one hand while the other clutched her stuffed animal.

"I'm sorry bug. Those men who were being loud are gone now and they won't come back," He said as he picked her up, a large hand rubbing her back.

It wasn't the fact that Peter Parker had a child that was shocking.

"Sophie?" Her eyes looked up at the sound of her name, meeting yours.

It was the fact that you knew her.

The little girl who you had been made to watch when you and your mother visited Betty Brandt. Betty wanted the little girl out of her hair, your mom wanted you out of sight.

So you two spent time together, reading stories and exploring the gardens. The small child had taken to you.

The last words she said to you from several days ago rang in your head.

"Daddy says I'm going to get a new mommy soon!" Sophie explained.

You smiled at her news. Her father was involved in the business, though no one ever seem to know his name.

"That's wonderful Sophie! I bet she's so excited to be your new Mommy!" Secretly, you were praying that would be the case. The last thing this sweet girl needed was someone who wouldn't even try to love her.

"I saw a star last night and made a wish on who I want to be my new Mommy! But I can't tell ya 'cause it won't come true if I do!"

You had just laughed at her words and went back to tending to the garden.

The call of your name pulled you out of the haze surrounding your thoughts. Somehow, Sophie had gotten out of Peter's arms and was crawling up the couch, into your lap.

"My wish came true! You're my new Mama!"

Your stomach lurched, your hands shaking. And yet, when you looked down to see that big smile on her face and saw how the corners of her eyes crinkled, you couldn't find it in your heart to show any disdain.

So instead, you gave her a small smile as you pushed a curl out of her face, "Your wish came true."

"Sophie, you wanna show Mama your bedroom? We can read you a story," Peter suggested. You looked up, your eyes meeting his.

A small smile adorned his face. He had caught you. Was this his plan all along? To trap you?

It was easy to assume the worst in Peter Parker, given all the stories you heard.

But you also heard the stories Sophie told you about her 'Daddy'. The one who read her a story every night, who played cowboys and tea parties with her. Who made the best spaghetti "in the whole wide world!"

The way he kneeled down to soothe Sophie when she first walked in matched up with those stories.

Could you be safe here?

"C'mon Mama!" Sophie tugged on your hand. You smiled, standing up and letting her show you the way.

A large hand placed itself on the small of your back. You turned your head to find that Peter was now walking beside you.

"After she shows you her bedroom, I can show you yours," He said softly.

"Mine?" Your brows knitted in confusion. Surely he meant his bedroom.

He nodded his head, "Figured you'd want your own."

You stopped, only able to stare at him. Peter offered a gentle smile in return as the hand on your back applied a slight amount of pressure, reminding you to keep walking.

All your life you felt like you were on edge, always ready for the worse to happen.

That feeling hadn't gone away, but for right now, it was dull.

You were still determined to figure out Peter Parker. The man was going to be your husband after all.

And despite his methods, despite all the stories you heard, it was possible that he did care about you.

#my writing #Abby's 3K celebration #Peter Parker AU #Peter Parker imagine #mob!peter parker #tasm fanfiction #spiderman Au #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker imagine #tasm peter x you #tasm peter x reader #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader

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backtothefanfiction · 7 months

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The Angel In The Garden of Evil

A Mob!Au Andrew!Peter Parker Story

Peter Parker’s wife left him 3 years ago. Suddenly she’s back and she’s brought some news that is about to change everything, unfortunately that news comes with it’s own set of complications and he’s out for blood.

PROLOGUE: YOU EITHER DIE A HERO, OR LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE YOURSELF BECOME THE VILLAIN

ONE: THE CALL OF A NIGHTBIRD

TWO: MR & MRS PARKER

THREE: THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

FOUR: SOME SHADOWS LOOM LARGE

FIVE: YOU DON'T OWN ME

SIX: HE'S GOT A SOUL AS SWEET AS BLOOD RED JAM

*SEVEN: IN THE LAND OF GOD'S AND MONSTERS I WAS AN ANGEL, LOOKING TO GET F*CKED HARD

EIGHT: THERE'S NO REMEDY FOR MEMORY

NINE: AN EXPLOSION IN CHINATOWN

TEN: MILLION DOLLAR MAN

ELEVEN: PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER AGAIN

TWELVE: THE GOOD NURSE

THIRTEEN: WHEN YOU’RE EIGHT LIVES DOWN

FOURTEEN: FAMILY FEUD AT THE FUNERAL

FIFTEEN: ME AND THE DEVIL

SIXTEEN: FROM FRIENDS TO ENEMIES

SEVENTEEN: A FRIEND IN THE SHADOWS

EIGHTEEN: ONE LAST GAME

*NINETEEN: WASH IT AWAY

EPILOGUE: NOT ANOTHER ENVELOPE

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tarzinnia · 6 months

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Positivity Night Shout Out

This is for @withahappyrefrain 's Positivity Night. What a great idea! I hope I did this correctly Abby.

I follow a number of creators and some of them even follow me back! It's been a great experience and so here is some appreciation and good vibes...thanks Abby for doing this!

In no particular order and some with a lil blurb lagniappe as I've gotten to know them. This is long but ya know, I'm not at the Oscars on a time limit so read it or keep scrolling past. Your choice.

@blooming-violets aka @eatbrainsfordinner gave me some great advice when I first joined on how not to get blocked due to blog appearance and has an amazing library of fics that sent me down a rabbit hole. Plus in possession of a side-holding you will fall out of your chair sense of humor. Laughter can give us hope and I know that some of her comment/replies just put me in a better frame of mind.

@liz-allyn whose mob!peter fic Sugar and Vice (all of her work really) just blows me away. If you haven't got Honey, life just isn't sweet at all at all. All her content just radiates emotion. Depth. It's all there.

@webslingingslasher such a talent and so very very kind to everyone. Am enthralled with nerd!peter/frat!peter. I have no clue where the late night sleepover energy comes from though. I am in awe.

@sincericida no one tops her blog for Andrew Garfield content. No one. I check it more frequently than I do the daily news. Could get lost for days with the top tier content. A real sweetheart, too. Always answers asks.

@luvablehand a winsome writer with great imagination. Absolutely love that there is an updated list of WIPs on the blog so I know what is coming.

@periprose Nice blogger and her Peter Parker is adorable. Completed chapter fic Florence is great.

@theradioactivespidergwen aka @she-likesorchids great writer across multiple fandoms and great wit. We share a love of various sandwiches, know that dressing is superior to stuffing, and think sweater weather is amazing. It's glorious.

@reidslovely haunting haunting writing that stays with me. Love our interactions when I have questions about a story/plot/character. Has been writing more mob!peter and I am a member of the mob!peter fan club for life.

@loveroftoomanyfandoms I came for the Peter Parker fics and somehow acquired a Matt Murdock on the hot guy keyfob. Personality shines through on her blog and is such a joy. ((HUGS)) Always love interacting and living vicariously through the 'where is Charlie this week' adventures. (Couple more months and he's going to be eating some mighty fine food in NOLA) Our food chats have been awesome and when food found it's way as the theme in a story, well I cannot say enough about how enjoyable that's been.

@p3mybeloved another great Spider-man fandom creator. Read on here and AO3.

@ficthots writes for the fandom that is number one in my heart (TASM) and LIghtning Bugs makes me cry but it's that good kind of tears.

@delicate-dorothea sweet sweet writing that is addictive to read. Really looking forward to continuing to read and follow.

@backtothefanfiction someone I just started following but wow, am currently enthralled with a multi chapter mob!peter fic (The Angel In The Garden Of Evil) that has blown me away. Been a lot of fun to follow the character arcs and the twists and turns. Love writing essays for this creator when I reblog because the back and forth has been wonderful and enriching. I know the longer series can be so hard to write and maintain but they are a feast when you can find them. I've had a front row seat and am looking forward to more works in the future.

@helloheyhihowdyheya Love her works. Reading Rose Thorn Blues right now, and if asked to pick a fave out of the masterlist of Spider-man fics I'm not sure I could because they're all my babies.

@thursdaygxrls so much imagination in her writing, love it and love all the fics. Am currently following two: Thin Ice and Infrunami.

@withahappyrefrain Abby, whose Peter Parker won me over from the get go and then wrote TGM fics that added more hot male characters to the keyfob. Perfect sense of humor, never afraid to call out haters, and you just glow with sunshine and flowers right when I need it most. Big hugs and a shout out.

Other bloggers reblogging content is how I ran across many of you listed above so readers and content creators: reblog whatever you enjoy because it's really what keeps Tumblr active and engaging. When I'm not writing, I'm enjoying what others create and the inspiration and encouragement and words you share is wonderful and thank you for the effort you put into what you do!

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basicjetsetter · 2 years

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The Trial of Deus; How Peter and the Reader Meet

“Seek not greatness, but seek truth and you will find both.” - Horace Mann

⚖ Pairing: Mob!Peter Parker x BlackFemale!Reader

⚖ Setting: Mid-summer in Manhattan, NYC, New York

⚖ Warnings: Language, Adult Themes, Violence, Mentions of Murder

☆ A/N: Would you guys believe me if I told you I’ve been slow-roasting this idea for over a year? Yep, ever since I finished The Fall and Rise of Deus back in February 2021, my mind stayed fixated on where, how, and why the Reader and Peter met. It’s safe to say my writing process wishes it could match a sloth’s pace. But I made it, at long last! I love it, and I hope you all love it too.

♬ Song Inspo: Sinner & Saint by Beacon Light + Moiba Mustapha (produced by Tommee Profitt)

Preface:

All eyes in the state of New York are glued to any and all screens broadcasting the mid-morning news. Every single person, regardless of age, class, ethnicity, and gender, watches with bated breath as the wearied news anchor takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, heaves a sigh, then puts his glasses back on.

No one reads the bright red headline at the bottom of the screen. They won’t believe what they see, anyway. Not until they hear it.

The news anchor gathers up a second lungful of air and then exhales it in a crestfallen gust before lifting his solemn eyes to address the audience.

“I don’t know what to say, folks. Truly, I don’t. This is me going off the script here, because none of those words on the teleprompter will capture the magnitude... the gravity... the just, jarring sense of sorrow we are all feeling right now. Yes. Of that, I am utterly certain.”

Breaths choke up. Heads shake in disbelief. Sweaty palms chafe, pierced with fingernails. Mouths screw up, teeth clench, throats constrict, chins wobble. Unblinking eyes burn with the reddening brim of unshed tears.

“I regret to confirm, with the heaviest of hearts, that Manhattan’s most beloved humanitarian, Adrian Toomes, has been shot and killed in his home at around midnight last night. The uhm... suspect... is in custody.”

A dark look clouds over the news anchor’s face but he shakes his head, clears his throat and trundles on. “We’ve lost a hallmark in our community. One of the biggest advocates for workers’ rights. The biggest charity donor to our impoverished neighbors. Right before his untimely death, he even set up a 20 million dollar grant funding orphanages across the entire state of New York. What kind of monster would want to—”

He halts the accusatory words in their tracks, holds them back grudgingly. Collects himself and clears his throat once more. “Look, we don’t have all the facts yet but we don’t need them. We know Adrian Toomes, and we know he did not deserve to be the victim of such a despicable crime. He was a caring man, a doting husband to his wife Doris, and a loving father to his daughter Liz. Our thoughts and prayers go out to them during this terrible time.

Just like his family, we all will be feeling this loss for a very, very, very long time.”

The hearts of all New Yorkers flush with outrage, anger, grief. Clogged with the burgeoning, bludgeoning, blistering desire for one thing and one thing only.

Justice.

♡ The Trial: Part I → TBA

♡ The Trial: Part II → TBA

♡ The Trial: Part III → TBA

✖ please do not copy, repost, or plagiarize my work ✖

#peter parker x black!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker au #peter parker mob!au #mob!au #mob!peter parker #black!reader #tom holland #slow burn #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fic #peter parker x black reader #the fall and rise of deus #the trial of deus #black lawyer reader

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lanadelreyscokewhor3 · 2 years

Note

YES, like he fucks you roughly but also checks to make sure you're okay with it and after sex, he carries you into the bathroom and draws you a bath.

I feel like he'd get super soft when you're cleaning him up after a rough fight? But then when asked if there's anything else you can do to make him feel better, he just all but rips off your clothes and fucks you right there in the kitchen????

I also love mob!Peter and it's why I'm working on a mob AU

YES YES YES!! EEK IM KICKING MY FEET LIKE A TEENAGE GIRL

he provides the SWEETEST aftercare, i just know it. always spoiling you with the finest things, top quality bubbles for your bath, lotions, face masks, face washes, etc!! i feel like he also braids your hair back after a rougher session<3

and you looking after him is so sweet. kissing his bloody knuckles after you clean em up!!! ur the sunshine to his violent life

i love mob!peter. GAH i love him sososo much<3333

so excited to read it when you finish lovie!!

#claire asks #mob!peter #mob!peter parker

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jakobsdump · 1 year

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https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRVhnv3s/

PLS MOB!PETER OMG

#mob!peter parker

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mangysah · 10 months

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Starting to see a pattern here

#mp100 #spiderverse #mob psycho 100 #across the spiderverse #reigen arataka #peter b. parker #miles morales #shigeo kageyama #spiderverse fanart #mp100 fanart #birb does draw #pathetic babygirl-coded men and the 15 yr olds that inspired them to keep going

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reidslovely · 2 years

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That’s the Price (Mob! Peter Parker x Reader) (Chapter One)

Request: Yes/No

Summary: Leaving an abusive household in your early 20′s should be liberating. Instead, (Y/N) was forced into an arranged marriage with a stranger who only ever watched her from a far. Now Peter, the soft but rigid man, will do anything in his ability to make her feel safe.

Content Warnings: Mentions of abuse (physical and emotional) on the part of readers father, talks of murder, passing mentions of outbursts of anger on the part of reader, reader has a trauma response nothing too intense but still be warned. I think that is all please let me know of anything I missed.

Disclaimer: This is my first time since like 2017 writing any type of mob au! All my inspiration comes from the different interpretations of Mob! Peter I’ve seen on here. My skills may be a bit rusty, but the more y’all request him the more I will write of him.

series masterlist link

playlist link

Please, please reblog! It helps writers more than you know. Enjoy!

Young girls always idolize the love story of Belle and the Beast; the idea of a strong, misunderstood man whisking the unhappy girl away from her unhappy life sounded so beautiful as a kid. All those wishes (Y/N) made as a child, to be whisked away from her miserable day to day, had crawled up and bit her in the ass.

“Mrs. Parker?”

Her nose twitched as she admired the flowers sitting on the vanity, ignoring the faint voice of Mr. Morales who, no doubt, had come to tell her Peter was requesting her presence at breakfast. A beautiful array of green, and baby blue hydrangeas sat in front of the open window of their bedroom, a form of apology from her new husband attached.

‘Neshama sheli,

Green for renewal and rebirth, blue for my apologies.

I hope to see you today, it has been a rough couple of days but we can’t ignore each other forever. We can do anything you want, my time is yours.

-Peter.”

It was his handwriting alright, capital letters where lowercase should be and slanted slightly to the right. She clenched the note in her hand, tears building in her eyes as she remembered the first letter she had received from him. Her father forced it into her hand as he explained the situation as she sat sobbing on the floor, her cheek throbbing from the punishment after she had said she wouldn’t be married off.

“It’ll be good for both families, clear any bad blood. It is your duty to marry this man, it has been a long time in the making.” Tony explained, kneeling in front of his daughter. He grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. “So stop your fucking crying. We have a fiance to meet. Put something on that.” His finger prodded at the red, throbbing mark under her eyes.

Silence fell over the room as she wiped her eyes at the memory, it was a terrible memory that made her feel sick. There were not many memories of her father she thought too fondly on, they all sent her into a state of sickness. The door of the bathroom pushed open, (Y/N) jumped up from the vanity as she caught the tall figure in the mirror.

“I’m sorry..I was going to come down. I was on my way down. I- I wanted to look presentable for you.” Her apologies rolled off her tongue, as Peter's figure stalked towards her. His hands dropped into his pockets, in what he believed to be a non threatening position- but he had a lot to learn.

“I’m not angry, dove.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, placing them on his hips. “I was worried, Miles said you didn’t answer. We didn’t want a wedding day repeat, d’ya love.”

His steps towards her continued, each more careful than the last. His hands lowered, settling her back into the chair of the vanity. (Y/N)’s glossy eyes stared at him, shocked by his kindness; her cheek nuzzled into his palm. Her breaths evened out, and her eyes flooded with displaced tears.

“It’s alright, Dove. I’m here.”

“You scared me..”

Peter pressed his lips together, working her through the moment. He knew what she had gone through, Aunt May had warned him of her delicate state but the vase of flowers to the wall on the wedding day sealed the door.

Tony, (Y/N)’s father, was a deeply distrusting and unkind man. Peter had watched his future in-laws at a distance for years, even when the business between the two families was at a low. He hadn't trusted Tony since the day he laid eyes on him, he remembers the first interaction very clearly. It was at Ben’s funeral that (Y/N)’s father told Peter, to his face, that he was a kid and that he could never run this business. That after Ben had died, it should have been Tony who took over, not the unofficial son of Ben Parker. However, Peter had abilities that Tony was never capable of. Ben knew Peter, though he was just freshly eighteen, would improve the empire they had built.

That day was also the day he had been told what he and (Y/N) would be one day. May had informed him that was the girl he was going to marry one day.

(Y/N) was gorgeous, she was anything a man could want in a wife. He watched her interact with his men’s children; the way she happily played games with them. Peter thought of (Y/N) interacting with their future kids, he smiled at her when she caught his stare. She smiled back, sweet and shy. That’s when he noticed the other parts of her. There was a big bruise, poorly covered on her collarbone; the mark showing from the neck of her dress. He wondered how it had got there, when her fathers had squeezed down on her shoulder followed by a daring glare. That's when he realized how. Peter wanted to prove it, to run to May and tell her what he saw, ask what Ben would do. But, there was no actual proof- it was one bruise and visible anger he saw it wouldn’t prove liable. He saw her on and off after that, never alone enough to ask what her father did to her. Not at least up till the weeks before their wedding, he saw it with his own eyes. It was time to make any sort of case that he could against Tony.

Their wedding day changed everything. (Y/N)’s only request to May was that her father was not invited- and that their flowers be red hydrangeas. Check, and check. (Y/N) had her red flowers, and her father escorted from the building. Peter had got to cradle his bride as she broke down in his arms after their vows, he felt her pain, almost as if they were connected. It didn’t last more than a few minutes, because (Y/N) hadn’t seen the innocent touch way he had, she saw herself as being restricted physically and metaphorically. Tony always told her she was something to keep the Parker’s happy, and off his back. Her coldness returned, before the vase of red hydrangeas sitting on the table went barreling past his head and to the wall. It was misdirected anger, he couldn’t blame her. She was a fragile, and shaken animal and right now she saw him as a predator.

In this moment though, the green and blue hydrangeas sat firmly in the windowsill not moving and not coming towards his head.

“Better?” He asks his thumb stroking her cheek, his eyes roaming her face. (Y/N)’s eyes found him, she nuzzled her face into his palm as she nodded. She has taken a liking to him in the weeks after.

“Okay..come eat breakfast. You’ll feel better.”

Peter stood, reaching his hand out to her, (Y/N) placed hers in his letting him lead her down the stairs to the kitchen. The rest of the morning went perfectly, they talked and laughed. It was the first time since they met that they felt like real people towards one another. (Y/N) even started to allow him to kiss her, briefly, before he had to disappear into his office.

His feet were propped on his desk, as he stared out the window. Lost in thought as Miles explained an ongoing business deal with the Reid’s Hauling company; but all he could think about was the woman downstairs waiting for him.

“P- Peter..”

Her voice carried in the small room, over Miles even. Peter snapped his head towards her in a smile. “Hi, Dove.” His feet carried him over to her quickly, his hands settling on her side as he kissed her forehead. “Did you need something?”

“No I just..I finished my shower and wanted to see you.” (Y/N)’s hands held the opening of his suit jacket, looking up at him. “But if you’re busy I can..”

“No, no. This is your business too- everything I plan I tell you. This is a partnership, Dove.”

(Y/N) looked at him with soft eyes, his hand on her waist leading them back to the desk. (Y/N) nestled on his lap listening to the young men talk, (Y/N) twisted Peter’s wedding ring around his finger as they plotted out a line of attack. Peter treaded carefully around his words, not wanting to trigger anything in (Y/N); but when he looked at her she was far away.

“Miles, a second.” Peter nodded towards the door, the protege left, closing the door behind him. Peter fixed her on his lap, causing her to look at him. Her eyes glistening with salty tears, guilt building up in them

“I know you hurt, and that’s okay my love. But you need to tell me when you’re not in a good mindset. I am going to say things that might..”

“I just feel so guilty Pete, for hearing this stuff. For being here..” He couldn’t finish his sentence before she had fully started to cry. His tone was maybe too rough in scolding her, all of this was still so fresh for both of them. He held her against his chest, his hands rubbing her back as she cried, his lips resting on her forehead.

“Don’t feel guilty. What did I tell you? You’re allowed to have a voice in your life, in our life Dove.”

“But my dad, he never let me hear this stuff. Said that I need to-”

“Be in the kitchen and make the men you’re serving happy. I know, but I don’t want that from you. He was a mean man, and those are things we don’t stand for anymore. Times have changed, this is our family, and our business okay baby.” Peter held her face in his hands. “Tony was a mean, disgusting man who did incredibly wrong things to you. And even through it all, you became better than he could ever want to be.”

His thumbs wiped away the tears off her cheek, her forehead dropped against his.

“You’re sweet, kind, and so understanding. You don’t understand how badly, and how long I have wanted to make him pay for what he’s done to you.”

“Then do it..”

The words shocked both of them, Peter stared at her looking for any sign of truth in her eyes. It was all he saw, she was pleading with him. He tucked her hair behind her ear, as he reached for the phone on his desk. As he dialed the number he stared her down, waiting for any cue to stop while he was ahead of himself. He kissed the apples of her cheeks, as the other end picked up.

“Tony, it’s Peter. Yeah, yeah..listen man, why don't you meet me for a late lunch. We have some things to work out man.”

As he spoke his hand tightened around his girl, holding her close assuring her it was all going to be okay.

-----

tags

@bxcketbarnes @sincericida @helloheyhihowdyheya @marrymetheonott @toomanyfictionalboyfriends @theonlymaddie @lateridk @andrews-lovr @adhdhufflepuff @thatsassyhufflepuff @megmehz

#mob!peter parker #peter parker x fem #tasm peter parker x self insert #peter parker x you #peter parker oneshot #peter parker #tasm peter parker x reader #peter parker x self insert #tasm peter parker #tasm peter parker x you #tasm peter parker imagine #peter parker imagine #andrew!peter fanfiction #andrew!spiderman

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liz-allyn · 1 year

Text

sugar and vice, pt. 20 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader-oc]

summary: no more running. no more cages.

words: 10.7 k

chapter warning: heavy chapter warnings for S&V John Walker (it's a warning), SA, death, violence, gore

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, hurt/comfort. Spicy smutty situations. spousal abuse. family trauma. Drug use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. 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 version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you don't know these TWs by now, then don't go here.

Back to Part 19.

Note: your comments and notes keep me alive, but please be careful to use section breaks and spoiler tags!

Part 20

Once when she was a little girl, she cut her baby sister’s nails. She had to. It was something that their mother would have done—should have done—but she hadn’t been home in several days. Her older sister had the most experience, but she was stuck working a double shift. Rebecca had been sick with a cold for days, and Selena was just a toddler.

After all, it was her job to look after her younger siblings.

So that left Honey in charge.

Poor Gabriella. The infant couldn’t stop scratching her face. Red lines marked up her round cheeks like tiger stripes. Honey knew if any of the children had too many marks, people would start to notice. Then something bad would happen, her mother assured her. People would come and take Gabriella away.

She tried everything to prevent the baby from digging her tiny claws into her own skin. She tried rolled socks as makeshift mittens. She tried using a bath towel as a swaddle, but that turned out to be an awful idea once the infant realized she was stuck and didn’t like being restrained.

By contrast, being tied up wasn’t something that ever bothered Honey.

The obvious solution was to trim her nails. She had to. It had to be done. They didn’t own a pair of nail clippers, Honey knew that. But it was on her to fix things. She was in charge. So she took a pair of kitchen scissors and tried her best.

After that, she was never okay with the sight of blood.

It used to bother her tremendously. She’d become agitated for a few days out of every month. Her other sisters would joke about it. ‘She must be on her period.’ They were right.

As a teenager, the smallest knick from shaving her legs in the shower would send her into a dizzy spiral. Over time, it got better. John changed that.

Mrs. Walker became an expert at cleaning up blood. She learned to ignore the smell or at least put a dab of Vicks beneath her nose to block the stench.

The only helpful thing she learned in high school chemistry was how blood cells expanded when coming in contact with warm water. Thus, her teacher told her, cold water was best for removing blood stains.

“You know. In case you ever have to hide a dead body.”

It was a joke. Until it wasn’t.

John changed that.

She sat on the tiled floor of her bathroom, shoulders slumped and expression blank. Now, it was impossible to get rid of the blood on her hands. She could strip off her clothes and burn them, but she felt it on her skin. She could shove an entire eucalyptus tree up her nose, but the scent would linger.

She was stained in rust colors, starkly contrasting the pristine ivory of her bathroom. Silently, she gazed at how the blood crusted on her skin, following the ridges of her pores like brush strokes in oil paint. The cotton hoodie and joggers she’d been wearing were soaked through. There had been so much carnage and death she didn’t even know whose blood she was wearing.

Helen’s. Johnny’s. Her own, probably. Blood from ‘that’ guy, whose scalp was torn off.

Eddie’s blood.

All that was left of his life stained her skin. She should be nauseous by now. She should be at least a little woozy. But, instead, the thought of just washing him away made her want to die inside.

She would wear it, then. Needed to wear it—she had to. On her arms and face. On her neck. On her chest, like a scarlet letter. Irreversably stained.

Is this what it means to be desensitized to gore?

Indeed, she felt nothing at all.

What happened, happened. The Bunker was in shambles. It would take months to repair. Would have if Peter hadn’t instructed them to burn everything left.

Every piece of incriminating evidence, every tool at their disposal, and every chapter of their history was on fire underground. Nothing would be left, no matter when the fire department showed up. Johnny had re-routed the gas lines years ago. With the flip of a switch, everything would go up in flames. Nothing could be salvaged. It would be an empty cave filled with useless, charred artifacts from an irrelevant time.

On second thought—she considered—that’s what she felt.

It was as good of a description as any.

After that morning’s attack, she was dropped off at the Penthouse. Peter would follow soon after, they told her. She shouldn’t wait up.

She had limped into her bathroom to clean off the remnants of the massacre. There she remained, for over an hour. Couldn’t get up off the floor. Couldn’t force herself to get in the shower.

At this rate, she may never be clean again.

Her eyes wandered to the smartphone beside her, tucked near her thigh.

John’s phone.

This was the weapon that killed Eddie Brock.

The second she had entered her room, she pulled the cursed object out from the box spring. She wanted to hand it over quickly so that Peni could analyze it. Could... study it, or whatever it is that tech nerds do. Honey would do anything to fix things.

But nobody cared about the phone. It was as good as a gun without bullets. A time bomb, two seconds too late. It was of no consequence.

She picked up the smartphone, glaring down at it with contempt. Sticky red fingerprints covered the cracked screen. Her blood. Their blood.

Eventually, she came to a stand. Then, bitterly, she dropped the phone into the toilet bowl, submerging it in water.

Peter was finally home. But it didn’t feel like home.

His home was on fire, riddled with bullet holes. Just like the home he grew up in.

He stood before the full-length mirror in his wardrobe and wiped the blood stains away with a damp, pink-tinged towel. His flesh was now rubbed raw. The cotton fabric felt like sandpaper against his tender skin.

The obvious solution was to take a proper shower. But he didn’t have time. He only needed to get enough blood off to pass in broad daylight without someone calling the cops if they saw him. He wouldn’t get very far if he looked like an ax murderer.

With all the rage he held inside, an ax was unnecessary. Overkill. And yet, not enough ‘kill.’

He had redressed in clean clothes, wearing a pair of midnight-navy trousers with creased edges that were sharp enough to cut. He paused midway through buttoning a crisp, white dress shirt, momentarily taking in the gruesome sight of himself.

His torso was a canvas splashed with deep purples and reds, stretched over a frame of broken ribs and pinched nerves. His eyes rested on the delicate box chain around his neck, which held two gold wedding bands near his heart.

Ben and May’s wedding rings. Tarnished. Stained with blood.

He quickly reached for the towel.

Minutes later, he carefully shrugged on a matching double-breasted blazer, wincing as he pulled it over his shoulders. Every part of him felt broken, in every possible way. But physical pain hadn’t stopped him yet, not when something more important was driving him.

He regarded his reflection with tight lips. He didn’t wear this jacket too often. It was a tuxedo cut and hung looser than he was accustomed to, making his frame appear boxy. A little too retro, maybe.

Perfect for concealing weapons. After all, he was dressing for a funeral.

His skin prickled. He was familiar with the sensation. He recognized it instantly, like an earthy scent before a rain shower. Honey’s reflection came into view as she approached the doorway behind him.

The sight of her covered in blood made his stomach clench. He reminded himself that it wasn’t all her blood, and only then did the tension in his chest release. But not entirely.

“Thought you were getting some sleep.” Peter’s tone was flat. His eyes flicked back to his reflection as he tugged on the lapels of his blazer.

He didn’t say it as a question; rather, he stated it as an expectation.

She stared back, unfazed, wearing a stone expression. “What are you going to do?”

Similarly, it wasn’t a question. More like a demand.

He briefly glanced at her before returning to the mirror. His jaw set firmly. “You don’t wanna know.”

She marched into the room. “You’re going after John. I want to help.”

“Help me?” he repeated with a scoff. “I don’t think so.”

Her forehead creased, offended. “Look, I can help—”

“Just what do you think is about to happen right now?” he snapped. He squinted his eyes, turning on his heel to face her. “Ya think we’re just gonna pull up on ‘em and that’s it? Ya think he’s just sittin’ around at home watching TV?”

“No,” she said. Her tone was unwaveringly resolved. “I think he’s expecting you to come after him.”

“No shit,” Peter sighed with frustration. “I’m expecting to be expected.” He fixed a stern gaze on her, tension pulling at his vocal cords. “Only difference is I don’t care if he knows I’m comin’, or how many cops are in my way. There’s only one way this ends, and it ends bloody. And you don’t want any part of it.”

He brushed past her and stomped towards his bureau. Her eyes followed each movement, crackling with lightning bolts. “Fuck you, telling me what I want!” she hissed. “This is my mess, too!”

He pivoted toward her. “And what, ya think killing him is gonna fix it?” His face went grim, sorrow etched into his features. Remorse welled in the bottom of his eyes. “Think it gets easier after that? Ya think it’ll make you somehow feel better—?”

“I don’t care about feeling better!” she barked back. He neatly flinched at the sharpness of her tone. Fury bubbled beneath her skin. “The only thing I care about is that he suffers.”

Peter contemplated her for a quiet moment. “Well,” he said, voice soft. His melancholy briefly overshadowed his rage. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

He didn’t meet her eye. Instead, he studied the grain of the wood beneath his feet, letting his shoulders deflate. He looked beyond tired, deep lines creasing his features and flecks of gray in his beard. Yet, when he lifted his chin, his eyes were resolute. He arched his path to avoid her.

Unsatisfied, she trailed him with fire in her eyes. “How will you know where to find him?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Who’s going with you?”

“Stop asking questions, Honey.”

She grasped him by the shoulder and yanked him around to face her. “Jesus Christ! The phone is gone, you unbelievable asshole! Do you really think I’d tell anyone—?”

“You’re not getting involved,” he stated firmly.

“Not involved? Are you fucking serious?!”

“Too many people have already gotten hurt.”

“Holy shit,” she blanched, freezing in place. Her eyes widened in horror. “You’re not telling the others, are you?”

He paused, for eons, she thought. Peter tried to keep his face neutral, but it was useless under her scrutiny. His eyes were ablaze with stubborn resolve, lips in a line. He turned his back and continued down the staircase.

Blinking rapidly, she watched him walk away. She felt dizzy, but not from weakness. Instead, rage pulsed through her veins, each blood cell embedded with fear. She rushed after him, hot on his heels.

“You’re going in alone?” she growled, her nose crinkled. “That’s your fucking genius plan? Go in, guns blazing, and hope you don’t get yourself killed?!”

“I have no intention of getting killed,” Peter said. “Not unless I’m taking him with me.”

His reaction enraged her further as they approached the base of the stairs. “Who does that work out for, huh?” she spat.

Ignoring her, he marched on. Peter spotted one of the guards standing watch outside his office door. “Rollins!” he ordered, voice booming. “Bring the car ‘round.”

“Yes, sir—”

“Rollins, don’t you dare bring the car around!” she commanded, blocking Peter’s path and skewering him with a defiant glare. It was as if she dared him to move her. His dark eyes flashed angrily as he clenched his jaw. He looked as if he was considering it.

Rollins stared at the two of them, back and forth. Frozen with indecision.

Enraged by his sudden hesitancy, Peter’s nostrils flared. He shot a dangerous glare at the guard before glancing down at the young woman with ire.

He lifted his gaze back to his man, narrowing his eyes. “Rollins...” Through gritted teeth, his guard’s name sounded more like a declaration of war.

Rollins sprang into action. “On it, sir.”

As his guard disappeared, she kept her feet rooted to the floor like a mythical beast guarding a castle. She breathed flames from her mouth and conjured curses and plagues with her gaze.

“You asshole—you’re in such a hurry to kill yourself!” she said viciously. “Who for, huh?! You think this is about the others? For Miles? You’re not doing this for us, Peter! And you’re not doing it for Eddie, either!”

“You’re damn right, I’m not!” he snapped indignantly, jabbing his finger into his bruised sternum. “I’m not doing this for anybody but myself!”

Heat radiated from him in waves, like steam from a hot spring. He bent his neck, leering over her. Volume dropped low, his voice thickened into a threatening rumble. “If I were doing this for Eddie,” he said, “I’d make ‘em watch me kill everything he ever loved, ya feel me? ‘Course, I highly doubt you were ever on that list, so you’ve got nothin’ to worry about.”

She barked a bitter laugh. “So this is, what, payback? Your stupid, dick-measuring way of defending my honor?”

“This isn’t about you, Honey,” he said, dark as night. He leaned down until his lips were inches from her forehead, eyes as cold and sharp as a jagged iceberg. “If it was—knowing what I know now,” he added breathily, “I promise you—it wouldn’t be anything like this.”

A misleading smirk formed on his lips, betraying the brutality staining his thoughts. She felt the heat of his rage in each whispered word.

“No,” he said, deathly grave. “For what he did to you—I would keep him alive for as long as I possibly could.”

The unabashed, murderous smile on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. Her discomfort didn’t faze him this time. He didn’t care how scared she was of him. If anything, the more afraid she was, the better.

“He’s a disease,” Peter ranted, directing his frustration back towards himself, “that I’ve allowed to spread. He’s a threat to everything I give a damn about! And I will not let him hurt somebody else I lo—”

Blinking, he cut the sentence short, just millimeters from a leap he wasn’t willing to take. She stared intently up at him, unaware that she was holding her breath.

He pursed his lips, eyes heavy with regret. He looked away, avoiding her gaze while he composed himself. Finally, he took in a slow, tense breath. “I need to do this, Honey,” he whispered ruefully. He had calmed slightly, swallowing back his rage.

The only thing left behind was a tiny, heartbroken remark. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.” The corners of his mouth turned down sharply.

She didn’t hesitate. “Even if that were true, you don’t need to do it alone.”

He shook his head in frustration. “Why are you so desperate to know what it’s like to kill somebody?”

A vicious yell burst out of her mouth. “I already have killed somebody!” she shouted, as if it were obvious. Her voice echoed off the walls while anguish pooled in her eyes. “It’s my fault Eddie is dead! I know it is—”

He shook his head again. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine—”

“Of course, it’s your fault!” she roared. “It’s both of our faults!”

The comment stunned him, only slightly less than the bitterness of her tone. He snapped his mouth closed, taken aback.

Despair twisted her face, and anger lit up her eyes. “Don’t you get it?” She was green with sickness, spitting out words like they were poison. “This is what he does! He turns people against each other!”

Peter stayed quiet as he observed her intensity. Her feet were rooted while her whole body raged, “He turns you against yourself! He twists you up until you can’t even trust your own instincts! Until you hate yourself enough to feel like you had it coming!”

A dam had broken, and a river of acid spilled through her lips. Resentment from years of abuse writhed in her chest like a tsunami, threatening to flood every street in New York. Her fingers itched to wrap around the collective necks of the city and drown it in her devastation.

She pointed at Peter, eyes flashing furiously. “You’re willing to get yourself killed because you feel responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened!” She jabbed her thumb back at herself. “I’m willing to suffer in silence because I feel responsible for every bad thing that’s happened!”

“Meanwhile,” she added, with a livid hiss, “John Mother Fucking Walker—who is actually responsible for all of this—feels Nothing. At. All! Because he is a fucking psychopath!”

Peter blinked, contemplating her in silence. Her firm eyes narrowed on him. “That’s how he beats us, Peter!” she exclaimed. “Fear! Guilt! That’s how he wins!”

The frustration in her voice reverberated off of the walls, sending a tremor that penetrated the bedrock. Peter observed her, stoic save for the sorrow in his gaze.

Her chest heaved as unshed tears dampened her lashes. Exhausted, she sighed heavily. “I am tired of letting him win,” she said in exasperation. She was more composed but no less grave. “And if you think you’re gonna do what I think you’re gonna do—which is go after him alone—then that’s exactly what will happen.”

Peter’s eyes glistened, red-rimmed and raw. His silence stretched on forever until she was nearly inclined to choke him for a response. Eventually, he simply bowed his head, casting his eyes down.

“What if fear and guilt are the only things I have left?” It was a meek, feeble reply from someone so powerful. She blinked up at him, watching as he chewed on his lower lip. “Wish it wasn’t that way. I wish I had—”

He stopped, leaving the thought unfinished.

“Doesn’t matter what I wish, does it?” he said. “Doesn’t matter what coulda been.”

A crease formed between her brows. Her face softened. “Peter—”

“Just let me say this, please,” he blurted out with urgency as if the words would claw their way from his chest. “I need to.” She regarded his desperate gaze, and eventually, she bobbed her head gently.

He gazed down at her. His lower lip twitched for a moment. “I had my suspicions about your past,” Peter explained mournfully. “Knew something bad happened, but... bad shit happens to everyone, though. First, I thought it was your mother. Then after Pym, I... I figured it was some old boyfriend, some jerk who treated you like trash.”

Her face flushed red. When she looked back at him, his glazed eyes were fixed on her. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. With shards of glass on his tongue, he murmured, “I-I didn’t know... wh-what he—”

“I don’t blame you, Peter, if that’s what you think—”

“I didn’t wanna know,” he firmly replied, silencing her. Guilt weighed down his features. “Didn’t wanna ask, if I’m bein’ honest.” He gulped, nearly choking on his words like a razor blade stuck in his throat. “I was afraid of what I would do if I knew the truth.”

She felt warmth sting her eyes, tears budding at the corner of her lids.

“I thought, I guess—” Peter’s voice tremored before he pressed on. “I-I thought I could save you. From what, I didn’t even know. Maybe that was my mistake all along.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, eyes heavy with shame. “I was so stupid. I’m the one that let him in. I let this act—this dance between us—I let it go on.” He sniffed with a bleary gaze. “He played me against me,” he declared with finality. “My fear. My doubt, self-hatred—whatever you wanna call it. Whatever voice in my head that tells me... th-that you... You could never love somebody like me.”

She flinched at that. Her resolve to remain stoic buckled under her feet.

His eyes dropped to his feet. “I told myself this was just business, and that if the Feds could use you, so could I.” Vulnerability poured from his eyes as they met hers. “I pretended it didn’t kill me every time you looked me in the face and lied.”

Despite his apology, her stomach twisted with shame.

“And each time it happened,” he explained, “I couldn’t figure out what they had on you. Something awful, I figured. Something that scared the shit out of you.”

Peter looked at her somberly, lower lip wobbling and eyes dark with regret. “I thought it was me.”

Her face crumpled at his admission, grief seizing her at last. She bit down on her lip to keep a sob from escaping.

“It’s like he already won,” he said, with a broken soul. “I thought I was the one he wanted.” He sniffed, peeking down at her through wet lashes. Deep, raw heartache thickened his voice. “Turns out, it was you all along. And I led him straight to you.”

Her vision flooded with tears at his admission. It sounded like a confession from a dying man. After a few gut-wrenching moments, Peter lifted his chin and met her eyes, resolved. “That’s why I’m doing this without you, Honey. This is my mistake to fix.”

Overwhelmed with grief, she stared up at him in a daze. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she gently shook her head to protest.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said. It sounded like a eulogy.

His eyes glistened as he nodded, love and loss in their depths. “Me too.”

He gazed at her, the coffee color of his irises shining bittersweet. She stared up at him in adoration and agony. She debated whether she should wrap her arms around him and cry or kiss him dizzy.

He paused, letting his eyes linger, then turned away and trodded down the hall. “I’m gonna fix this, Honey,” he said. “I promise. You’re free.”

Perplexed, she darted after him. “Wh-what—?”

“No more running, no more cages,” he resolutely replied. She followed closely as he approached the oak doors to his office. “Won’t hafta be afraid of anyone comin’ after you. Not Fisk. Not me. And not some asshole ex. ‘Cos win or lose...I’m ending this. Tonight.”

She fluttered her lashes with concern, following him blindly into the room.

“Why wait?”

Honey stopped short in her tracks like her feet had been fused to the floor. Peter froze. Swayed dizzily. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck didn’t just prickle, as they had been since the beginning of their conversation. It inverted, the sensation feeling like his skin had peeled off and been turned inside out.

John Walker coolly watched them come to a sudden stop. He lounged back casually in the executive desk chair with a devil-may-care expression and his leather oxfords up on the tabletop. Stunned, they stared at the lithe man with growing alarm. The icy blue of his eyes twinkled with delight at their fear, fixing them with a Cheshire smile.

“Why don’t we do this right now?” he shrugged nonchalantly.

Each bruised muscle in Peter’s body went rigid. In a matter of moments, he was hit with a surge of emotion that he barely managed to contain beneath his skin. Pupils dilated, fingers shaking, heart pounding—fury washed over him, and all Walker had to do was smile.

Over the sound of blood rushing, Peter registered the fluttering palpation of her heart.

His Heart.

His Honey.

She was terrified.

It reminded him of the moment she walked in on the meeting between him and “Steve,” only this time it was worse.

An arctic chill surrounded her from the ice running through her veins. She paused mid-breath, rendered motionless, eyes wide with horror. For a moment Peter worried if she would ever start breathing again.

His palms began to tingle. He kept his attention straight ahead, while he fought between the urge to comfort her and the visceral need to tear John’s face from his skull.

Before he could do either, another warning sensation—sharp and jagged, like his name being carved into a chalkboard with a steak knife—sliced through his brain.

After having been suppressed, ignored, and nearly incapacitated by the Symbiote, his senses were in overdrive. Every cell in his body alerted him to impending danger, which came in the form of footsteps.

He turned quickly, dragging Honey behind his back, as he laid eyes on the new threat. Three of his guards, Malick, Ward, and Rollins—fucking Rollins—stepped into the room. Ward and Malick were vigilant with their weapons drawn, but Rollins sauntered at a leisurely pace. He glanced over at his boss, unworried, and a malicious grin widened his lips.

Peter’s shoulders slumped as he realized that their bullets were meant for him. He frowned sourly, betrayed. “Jack,” Peter coldly muttered, hiding his disappointment beneath the threat in his tone. “Wha’cha up to?”

Rollins simply shrugged. “Sorry, Boss,” he smirked. “‘S’just business.”

Peter’s eyes darkened as he observed Gideon Malick aim his pistol at Honey, while Grant Ward slammed the office door closed, locking them in. With Rollins drawing his sidearm, three guns were now trained on him and the shaking woman behind him.

Peter couldn’t see her face but didn’t need to. He could feel her fear radiating through his fingertips. Her body became both lighter and heavier as if her bones had turned to water. He sensed her increasing dissociation, barely tethered to the Earth and dangling at the end of his reach. Only terror cemented her feet in place. She was sluggish as he pushed her closer into his back as if he could somehow hide her there.

“I have to say, Pete,” John called to him matter-of-factly. Peter split his attention between his backstabbing guards and the monster seated behind his desk. “At first, I was impressed with your organization. But it seems like you have a few serious issues with staff retention to sort out.” John spoke with a self-satisfied smirk, kicking his feet off of the desk and coming to a relaxed stance. “You should think about setting up a meeting with H.R.”

“Believe me,” Peter glowered at John, briefly glancing at Rollins with clenched teeth. “It’s a priority.”

John took an unrushed stroll to the front of the desk before leaning back on the corner’s edge. He moved through the office as if it was his home. It was unnerving for Peter to consider how many times he might have been there without his knowledge, with his treacherous guards granting him access to anything he wanted.

“‘Course, I always thought you shoulda gone into human trafficking,” John said, with a mockingly sincere tone. A crease split Peter’s brow, his face twisting with revulsion. “You would’ve made a very lucrative pimp.”

Peter glared at him, disgusted, as he chuckled softly at his own joke. The laugh faded, as did the humor in John’s ice-blue eyes. They narrowed with contempt, looking beyond Peter to the trembling girl behind him.

“Lord knows you got the world’s biggest whore right behind you,” he sneered maliciously. “With a mouth like hers, you’ll get anything you want. If you throw in an extra five-thousand dollars, of course.”

Peter felt her bristle at the jab, and he reached back further to steady her.

“Don’t look at her,” he ordered coldly, never breaking eye contact. “You don’t get to look at her. Ever.”

The blonde snickered, licking his lips scandalously. “Oh, I’ve done a whole lot more than just look.”

Peter’s jaw tensed at that.

John’s humorless gaze turned into a cold glare. “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” he added vindictively, “but that’s my wife you have behind you.”

Despite his own outrage, Peter kept a straight face. He listened intently, studying how Walker’s nostrils flared and how his pulse sped up at the sight of the couple embracing.

Good, he thought. He needed every second of time he could get.

Peter took a step backward with her, slowly approaching the wall.

His eyes lightened, and a callous smirk formed on his lips. “You mean that’s ‘your wife’ I’ve had beneath me,” Peter sneered lewdly.

The remark splintered beneath John’s skin. Peter watched with satisfaction at how the blonde’s brow twitched. He could smell the agitation leaking out through his pores.

“Yeeaah,” Peter chuckled mockingly, fueling John’s anger. “She told me all about you. Short story. If ya catch my drift.”

Peter took another step backward, bumping her along, teeth flashing with amusement. “In fact,” he parried, matching John’s sardonic tone, “maybe you should talk to a doctor about your little problem. You know, instead of torturing women.”

John glowered with his lower lip curled. “Well. Since we’re sharing.” He tilted his head with a predatory grin, while his eyes shot daggers at them. “I wouldn’t trust everything she says. The girl’s a freak. She tell ya about all of her filthy rape fantasies, too?”

Her breath hitched. A tiny shiver racked through her body. It was barely noticeable to the other men, but to Peter, it felt like a tectonic movement. He could hear the way her stomach shifted, her nausea roaring in like a rising tide.

“She likes it rough,” John snarked. “It’s practically the only thing that gets her off. Pretty fucked up, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.” Inwardly, Peter seethed, resentment darkening his gaze.

“‘Course not. Why take my word for it?” John laughed, having momentarily taken the upper hand. He glanced around at the other traitors mirthlessly before turning back to Peter. “Why don’t we just find out for ourselves?”

Peter’s anger spiked at the insinuation, rage stuttering his heartbeat. He watched as John glanced at Rollins and the other men with a menacing grin. Cruel laughter trickled from the traitors that made his blood boil further.

He took a measured breath. “I know you boys don’t know me that well,” Peter remarked calmly. “But lemme be very clear.” He slid his eyes over and leveled a threatening glare at the men behind Rollins. “Anyone touches her, and I’ll send ya back home to your families in garbage bags.”

Peter’s men dropped their smiles suddenly. He heard a stutter in the heartbeats coming from that direction as they attempted to suppress their reaction. “Don’t take my word for it,” he said directly to Rollins with a murderous gaze. “You know what I’m capable of, Jackie.”

“Is that what you did to Gwen?”

Peter’s anger spread through him like epinephrine as John carelessly spat out his deceased wife’s name. His shoulders tensed, and the cords in his neck pulled tautly.

“You send her back to her daddy in a body bag?” John snickered. “Sure—Call me a shitty husband. But at least my wife never took a swan dive off of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

The fresh swell of rage in Peter’s belly twisted him into knots. A gentle press from a tiny palm on the middle of his back was the only thing that anchored him.

“Oof. Hit a nerve, did I?” John grinned with satisfaction at how the color drained from Peter’s eyes and complexion. “What else did you two lovebirds talk about?” he said. “She tell ya about our little talks late at night?” He grinned salaciously. “Lotsa juicy stuff.”

Peter swallowed hard, unflinching.

“She told me everything,” Walker continued. “Her plan to seduce you. To pretend she cared about you. How much she despised you.” John tilted his head, musing. “How’d you put it, Peach? You could ‘never love a monster like him’?”

He heard a soft gasp from behind him. As strong as their resolve was, the remark punctured its armor. Honey clenched the fabric of his jacket, her touch pleading for forgiveness. Steadfast, Peter took another careful step backward, keeping her close.

“‘Course, that’s no big surprise,” John continued ruthlessly. He could see through Peter’s indifference, knowing each word cut into him like a jigsaw. “‘Everyone that ever loved you is dead.’ Ain’t that right?”

Honey gripped Peter’s shoulder tighter, a swell of nausea creeping up her esophagus. Her vocal cords were paralyzed, with nothing but a whimper escaping her lips. “No...” she muttered breathlessly, stunned and enraged by the twisting of her words.

“Poor, pitiful Peter Parker,” John said in a sing-song voice. “Sad, psychotic little orphan boy. No mommy. No daddy. His aunt and uncle both turned into swiss cheese.” He punctuated each word with viciousness, spitting them out like curdled milk. “Clinging desperately onto the memory of his dead whore.”

Nostrils flaring, Peter glowered at John, dipping his chin. Another step backward nearly had the woman behind him up against the wall, backing her carefully up to a marble-top bar. “Gloat all you want, asshole,” Peter mumbled with disdain. “She still dumped you.”

John’s eyes flashed red with a serpentine hiss sliding off his forked tongue. “And yet, I’m the one that finger-fucked your girl while you were on your little date! Greedy slut was wetter than a swamp when I touched her—”

“Liar!” she screamed, voice cracking like shattered glass.

She lunged forward but Peter blocked her. He practically shoved her back, her spine hitting the edge of the bar. A chorus of chuckles erupted, with Rollins, Ward, and Malick joining in on John’s amusement. She stumbled backward, using her hands to steady herself until she came in contact with a metal object on the bar top.

A camera.

Peter’s old camera. On top of the box disguised as a book.

Both items were out of place.

Presented out in the open, where they shouldn’t have been.

Honey’s eyes darted back up to the front.

“S’okay, Honey,” Peter muttered, his glare still trained on Walker. He held his arms behind his back as if to hide her from view. It formed a ‘cage,’ concealing her movements as she stealthily shifted the camera, keeping her eyes forward. “The longer this clown talks, the more desperate he sounds.”

John’s eyes flashed with malice. “Oh, you wanna hear what desperate sounds like? How ‘bout I push your little bitch off the roof, huh? Have your men make you watch me turn another woman you love into Humpty Dumpty. She’ll be runny eggs on the sidewalk in a matter of seconds—”

“Why are you all still smiling?” Peter sharply cut him off. He shifted his glare from John to his snickering accomplices. “Is it ‘cos you're scared? Or are ya just that stupid?” The laughing ceased immediately as Peter fixed John with a cold gaze. “Either way, you’re about to be a dead man.”

With her hands behind her back, she blindly fumbled to lift the lid of the box. Her fingers scavenged across the bottom, expecting to find a weapon of some kind, or a knife, or perhaps even—

“Lookin’ for this?” John said. The bang of a gunshot deafened her.

A splatter of wet, hot liquid covered her cheek and she flinched at the sound of an agonized cry. She screamed. At the gunshot. At the blood. And at the sight of Peter dropping forward to his knees in excruciating pain.

“No! No! No!”

She could hear her own shrieking in the distance as she grasped at him. Groaning, he writhed in agony. His hand, once again bloody, clutched a bullet hole piercing his upper right shoulder. She threw her already-stained palms over his, adding his blood to the fresco decorating her flesh.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Lip wobbling, she glanced up with wide eyes as John pointed Peter’s pistol at them menacingly.

“Did ya really think I wasn’t gonna search this place for weapons?” he scoffed in offense, glaring at them through slitted eyes.

Nostrils flaring and teeth clenched tight, Peter breathed through the pain. He scowled up at John feeling like a flaming sword had severed his arm at the shoulder. His heart hammered as he watched John raise the pistol again, this time aiming between his brows.

“Please, don’t!” Honey sobbed. “John, please! I’m begging you!” She wrapped her arms around Peter as if she could shield him.

The smile faded from John’s lips. Contempt radiated from his blue eyes, turning them into blackened sapphires. “C’mon, Peach. We both know you can beg better than that.”

Peter shoved her away from him, jumping to his feet. He charged and knocked John’s aim off target. Another shot rang out and pierced the wall next to her.

Shrieking, she dropped to the floor and cowered down.

With one bloody hand on John’s wrist, Peter smashed him in the abs with his injured arm. He put his back muscles into the punch, snarling as the bruised flesh burned like his body was on fire.

His rage partially numbed the pain as Peter advanced forward. He shoved John back into the desk. The injuries made each move sluggish, but Peter managed to land another hit, this time to John’s face. With his other hand clenching the gun, he slammed it into the tabletop, loosening John’s grip. With another vicious whack, the weapon fell from his hand and clattered out of reach.

Amped with adrenaline, Peter reared his uninjured arm back. Balling his fist into a cannonball, he drove it down hard enough to break through concrete.

Right into John’s palm.

He blinked, stunned. Looked up at John. His face twisted with confusion, as the supposedly weaker man grinned smugly up at Peter.

“Oh, yeah,” John smiled with red teeth, slowly crushing Peter’s hand like an empty aluminum can. “And then there’s that.”

With a flick of John’s wrist, he inverted Peter’s arm and tossed his body like a garbage bag. Peter collided with the wall and toppled to the ground, sending plaster and drywall raining down.

John straightened up, taking labored breaths as he adjusted his light blue collar, now dotted with tiny spots of crimson. He fixed Peter with a wry smile. “I know about your little science experiments, too,” he smirked. “Your buddy Eddie stole the outdated model. Say ‘hello’ to Anti-Venom.”

John rolled his shoulders, tipping his head to crack his neck. As his joints popped, he rolled his eyes back into his skull—literally. Honey gaped with horror as she watched her ex-husband grin at them with a demonic stare, pure white engulfing his eyeballs. The milky, opaque clouds in his eyes seemed to part in the middle, like a crocodile opening an inner set of eyelids, revealing the dilated pupils of his sadistic stare.

Peter struggled to get on his hands and knees as John stalked towards him, feet heavy with malice. Honey screamed with almost no breath, “Peter, look out—”

In a flash, John was on him, jabbing his elbow into his back. Peter gasped at the stab to his spine, feeling another rib snap. The force slammed him chest-first back to the floor. With dazed eyes, he glanced blearily at the secret box, now tossed to the ground a few feet away. Photos of May and Ben were scattered about, among the shards of broken glass, chunks of wood, and twisted metal.

Weakened from the fall, the gunfight, and now the beating, Peter strained to reach for the box but was stopped short. Walker’s steel fingers clamped on his shoulder, yanking him to his feet. He jabbed a boulder-like fist into Peter’s sternum, violently ejecting the air from his lungs.

Honey sprang to her feet, grabbing a chunk of wood and charging toward them. Rollins and Ward were there instantly, scooping her up and restraining her.

She writhed desperately, screeching as they twisted her arms back. The sound of her attack vexed Peter, as he straightened his back, landing an upward thrust of his fist into John’s chin.

“Get off of her!” he hissed at Rollins and Ward, but John intercepted him.

Like thrashing wild animals, they pummeled each other until sweat and blood coated the floor. Yet, with every hit, John seemed unfazed. Whatever was running through his body was just as formidable as the Symbiote that had once possessed Peter. Both men tossed each other about, but Peter was at a disadvantage.

“Stop!” Honey cried out painfully in a shrill voice, which wrenched Peter’s heart. “John, don’t do this! Stop it!”

Peter swayed with cloudy eyes as he felt John hook his fist into his jaw. It felt like being hit in the face with a brick. Right after, John landed another jab with the opposite hand. And then a third. And a fourth.

“No, John! Please stop! Just stop! Please!”

His vision blurring, Peter jabbed left, only to have his wrist caught in John’s grip. With a twirl, John wrenched Peter’s arm out of its socket. He doubled over and howled in agony, his dislocated arm hanging limply at his side.

“John, stop it, stop it, please, stop!”

“When I’m done with you,” John whispered in Peter’s ear, “Fisk will have to scoop up what’s left of you with a shovel.”

Fighting to stay conscious, Peter met the man’s vindictive glare. John’s piercing blue eyes locked onto his. “Yeah. Wilson Fisk. I said his name. Wilson. Fisk. Meanwhile, you’re running around, afraid to say it like he’s Bloody Fucking Mary.”

Peter was on the floor again, launched into a glass console table. Unable to break his fall, the glass and metal crunched under the momentum of his body, shattering in all directions. He rolled, coughing up blood, his face covered in bruises and cuts. His vision swam, gaze darting across the room until he spotted the secret box.

With one arm limp, he dragged himself forward with the shoulder that had been shot, inching closer to the overturned box. He flicked the container away, his eyes landing on a delicate watch-like device. He reached for it.

John’s foot came down hard, stomping on his web shooter and crushing it beneath his foot. Peter choked back a frustrated scream, having another weapon fall short of his grasp.

“John, please! I’ll do anything you want! Just please don’t do this!”

John lifted his foot and slowly brought the sole down onto Peter’s wrist. He cried out, grimacing at the crushing pressure of the grown man standing on his forearm.

“You know what else I call ‘em?” John said, ogling Peter as if to gloat. It was a victorious stance. He was like a giant about to crush an insect. A bloody half-smile hung on his chiseled face as he waited for Peter to make eye contact. When he finally did, John provided an answer.

“Sir.”

A crease formed between Peter’s brows as he gazed up at John, panting with shallow breaths. His face paled with realization.

“Yeah,” the blonde crooned with an evil smile. “That’s right.” A horrifying picture emerged from Walker’s self-satisfied expression. "Arrogant little prick. Did you think that you could beat the Kingpin?”

John crouched down low, leering over Peter like a vulture about to peck on its prey while it was still living.

“Did you think changing your name and hiding underground would stop him from wiping you off the face of the Earth if he really wanted to?” Walker sneered in disgust. “You’re only still alive because he allows it!”

Honey sobbed with tears streaming down her face as John revealed his hand to them. Beside her, Rollins chuckled darkly, relishing in his boss’ despair.

“You have the audacity to run your mouth all over town,” John hissed, pouring putrid waste into Peter’s ear, “like you’re gonna walk him right up to the Pearly Gates! Like you’re judge, jury, and executioner! The monster at the end of his book!”

Peter pressed his lips into a thin line, rage boiling beneath his battered flesh. John reached down, gripping him by his thick tuft of hair and wrenching it back. The action forced Peter to gaze up at him; his neck bent backward and vulnerable. The way Walker glared at him, he half-expected the man to grow fangs and bury them in his throat.

“Well, I got news for ya, Peter Parker,” John spat out each word mockingly as he narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Fisk doesn’t give a shit what you call yourself.” He fixed Peter with a beaming grin made up of pure, sadistic evil. “He doesn’t even know who you are.”

He let the words hang in the air as if they were going to carve themselves into Peter’s headstone. For his part, despite his physical agony, Peter held himself steady. Kept his eyes fixed on John’s. Kept his jaw set firm. Anger pooled beneath his chest, cleansing him as it spread through his body.

“Guess you’ll have to explain it to ‘em next time you see ‘em,” Peter muttered, his lip curled into a snarl. “Might be curious to know who it was that killed him.”

The smile dropped from John’s eyes as a fresh wave of fury overtook him. He glared down at Peter, who fixed him with an insolent smirk.

“And for the record,” the beaten man glowered in defiance, his gaze glittering with spite, “I’m not walkin’ him to the Pearly Gates—I’m takin’ him straight to hell. So you be sure to save him a seat... you pathetic... wife-beating sack of shit!”

John growled and pulled his arm back. Drawing on the power of the entity inside him, he envisioned putting his fist through Peter’s skull and not stopping until he hit the concrete beneath their feet.

“I won’t fight you.”

The men froze at the tiny whimper, the voice carrying it shattered and frail.

John glanced over to see his ex-wife hanging limply in the hold of the two guards. Her eyes were empty, her face colorless and ashen. The woman swayed like a bedsheet in the wind.

“You can do whatever you want with me,” she spoke meekly, her spirit detached from her body. “I won’t fight back. I won’t run away.”

Hopelessness marked her features as nausea threatened to choke her. She wished that it would. Drowning in her own bile was a better fate than witnessing the grin form on John’s face.

“Please,” she mewled desperately, eyes red and glossy. “You’ve already won. He doesn’t matter anymore. Let Fisk finish him off.” Her voice trembled, quivering in her throat. “You can have me. However you want me.”

The silence that followed was deafening. John leered, foaming at the corners of his mouth. Lecherous eyes appraised her from head to toe. His chest heaved with short pants, like a rabid animal in heat.

“Atta girl,” he murmured with satisfaction before tossing Peter aside like a rag doll.

Peter coughed raggedly, choking on his red-tinged saliva, and rolled to one side. Gripping his wrist and using his foot for leverage, he wrenched his shoulder back in place with a sickening pop. An agonized whimper squeaked out, despite his best efforts.

John crossed the room in a few strides and gripped the woman by the throat. “No,” Peter gasped through bloody lips, exhausted and breathless from fear. “No...nono...please—”

“Where the fuck are you goin’, Boss?” Malick barked as Peter struggled to stand. The guard stalked forward, gun trained on him.

Ward joined him, grabbing Peter by his wounded shoulder and kicking his shin out from under him. Their boss was on his knees again, held steady at gunpoint, with Ward pushing the barrel of his weapon into Peter’s temple.

When Peter looked up, John was dragging Honey by the back of her neck, scruffed at the nape like an animal. She stumbled as he forced her behind Peter’s desk, kicking the chair away. He shoved her forward. The veneer stung her cheek when she collided with it, and she let out a whimper.

“Let her go!” Peter writhed desperately. Ward whacked him over the back of the head, driving him forward. He put his foot on Peter’s spine while Malick twisted his wounded arm behind his back. With his chin scraping the floor, he peered up through the fringe of his lashes. “Don’t fuckin’ touch her! You hear me?”

“Get ‘em up,” John ordered coldly. “He’s gonna wanna see this.”

With a hand on his hair and his arms locked in place, Peter’s men yanked him to his feet. He pulled himself forward, only to have Ward dig his fingers into the bullet hole, tearing at his flesh. They pulled him back down on his knees, driving a foot into his calf. Helplessly, Peter writhed, thrashing against their hold a few mere yards away from the terrified girl.

John sauntered up behind Honey, a smug grin plastered on his face. The woman lay motionless like a possum, bent over the edge of the desk. She stared at the mess of objects on Peter’s desk, shards of the battle. They shifted in and out of focus as her glossy eyes welled with tears. She let her mind take flight, drifting off to a cabin in the mountains.

“No!” Peter felt his voice crack and a scream lodge in his throat. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, Walker! Ya, hear me? Look at me, you sonuvabitch! I’ll rip ya apart, sweartogod—”

John glanced at Rollins who kept careful watch over his boss. “If he makes a move, put a bullet in his back. That way he can still watch me snap her neck like a toothpick.”

Panic surged through Peter at the order, his amber eyes bright with terror. “I’m the one you want, yeah?” he pleaded, chest heaving. “Fight me like a man, you fuckin’ coward!”

John ignored him. He pressed his hips up against the seat of Honey’s joggers. He gripped the collar of her zip-up hoodie, tearing it down her shoulders.

She was elsewhere. Watching Peter’s fingers dance across the ivory keys of a piano. She liked being wherever she was. It was always easier for her to go there. Always easier for her to run away.

John ran his greedy hands down her spine and back up again beneath the filthy camisole she wore. His touch felt like a centipede crawling across her skin. A shudder racked through her as vomit climbed up her throat.

“Somebody’s excited,” John chuckled sadistically.

She breathed out a silent sob. She climbed the limbs of the maple tree in her backyard. Picturing the home she would make there one day.

John leaned down, pressing a rough kiss to the back of her shoulder. “Just like old times. Ain't that right, Peach?”

It was like being shocked by electricity. Letting her fingertips brush against the metal of a wall plug while still in the outlet. Every muscle in her body tensed. Her eyes darkened. Pupils blown wide.

“I don’t like that.”

John paused as his hands reached the waistband of her sweats. He glanced up at her, still amused, eyeing the back of her head. “What’d you say?”

She blinked. Her vision sharpened. “That’s not my name.”

His brow furrowed, his agitation spiking. “You’re gonna have to speak up.”

“I said ‘that’s not my name.’” Her volume grew louder, every syllable coming out sharper and more jagged. Her teeth ground together as she fixed her gaze forward, focusing on the grain of the wood.

“My name isn’t Peach,” she hissed. Molten-hot fury filled her while her tone hardened like rapidly cooling lava. “I’m not your Peach. I’m not your Kitten.”

Each word punctuated with a twitch in her eye and a tremor in her voice.

“I’m not your Doll Face. Or your Whore. Or your Pawn.”

Acid rolled off her tongue as she trembled with anger. Her rage was so thick she nearly choked on it, barely able to form words. Slowly, she pushed herself up off the desk, her spine turning to steel even as he towered over her.

“And I’m not your fucking wife,” she gritted her teeth, eyes black with hatred. “Not anymore.”

She turned her head to glance back at John, leveling him with a vengeful look.

“My name is Maricella Jimenez,” she hissed, sounding out each syllable carefully. “And you will remember it.”

The hand positioned on the desk sprang forward at his face so fast that John could barely see it. His head whipped back and all he could register was white-hot, piercing pain shooting through his skull.

John roared, reaching up with one hand to cover his face while the other hand dragged her off the desk to the ground. The guards jumped with shock, mouths agape, trying to discern what just occurred.

“Aggghhh!” John cried out with an agonized scream. Enraged, he clawed at his face, growling like a mildly-wounded grizzly bear. His thirst for blood compounded.

“Fucking bitch!” he roared, the creature inside of him twisting his vocal cords. When he straightened, half his face was covered in blood. His fingers shook as he struggled to see the damage she had done.

His men gazed at him with dumbfounded stares. Which he could only half see.

With a four-inch shard of broken glass from the console table lodged in his left eye socket, he’d never see anything out of that eye again.

“You fucking bitch!” he sneered, practically drooling with outrage. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you fuckin’ bitch!”

The sight of John’s face was nausea-inducing. Not only had the glass pierced his eye, but it sliced clean through, with half of his eyeball dangling from the nerve ending on his cheek.

“Holy shit!” Ward gasped at the ghastly sight.

Rollins hissed at other men, their jaws still gaping wide. “Don’t just stand there! Do something, goddamnit!”

“You screwed up now, you slut!” John raged with ragged breath. “You know what you did? You assaulted a Federal Agent!” He wheeled around to spot her cowering on the floor behind the desk. He stomped toward her, murder in each footfall. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea who I am???”

John grabbed her by the forearm, wrenching her up. She faced him with fire in her eyes. In her free hand, her finger curled around the trigger of Peter’s gun.

“Who gives a fuck?” she sneered.

Looking John in the eyes, she pulled the trigger, watching as his forehead imploded. The bullet ripped through his brain, tearing it apart and exploding out the back of his skull. From there, his brain matter splattered like a microwaved tomato, spraying across the room.

“Oh shit!” The guards cried out in horror, swallowing back sickness as fragments of John’s skull rained down on them.

Rollins lunged forward, his weapon still drawn. He took three steps to the edge of the desk.

“No!” Peter howled.

Another shot rang out. Honey held the gun firmly in her grip, shooting at the first human form that approached her. Rollins grunted, eyes wide with panic, as the bullet tore through his throat. He clutched his neck as hot liquid spilled out of his severed carotid artery. His look of agony was only matched by his look of astonishment.

Peter knocked Ward’s gun away from his temple, grabbing his wrist and directing the barrel at Malick. With Ward still clutching the gun, Peter pulled the trigger and shot Malick in the side.

Malick doubled over, releasing his hold on Peter’s wounded shoulder. Ward strained to regain control of his weapon. They struggled briefly before Peter reached behind Ward’s suit jacket and yanked a combat knife out of its sheath. He buried the blade into Ward’s ribs, before ripping it out and plunging it in again and again. With a few quick jabs, the traitor’s torso was carved up into wet spaghetti.

Malick stumbled, struggling to recover from the bullet wound. Peter’s brain buzzed as Malick attempted to shoot him. He pivoted out of the way, using Ward’s body to block the shot.

Honey fired the gun in her hand again, the bullet hitting the ceiling, but it was enough to distract Malick away from his target.

In a few blinks, Peter was on his feet and gripping Malick by the arm. Before the treacherous guard could fire his weapon, Peter skewered him with the hunting knife, driving it into the soft flesh behind the man’s chin.

Malick’s eyes went wide as the blade impaled his mouth, piercing his tongue. Peter snatched the back of the man’s head with a steel grip, even as his hands trembled with rage. He glared into Gideon’s eyes with bloodlust, pushing the knife up further—slowly—watching Malick squirm until the blade was buried to the hilt.

The man went limp in his hold. Once Peter watched the light fade from his eyes, he released him, finally sated.

The sirens in his head quit blaring as soon as the threat was eliminated. The intense pressure dissipated as if a boulder had been lifted off Peter’s skull.

He let out a long, ragged breath, his body broken and yet still pulsating with adrenaline. His eyes darted to the desk. He spotted the traumatized woman that held his heart standing behind it. His face softened. Took a step towards her.

She pivoted, still clutching the gun. Aimed it at him.

Peter went still. Fawn-hued eyes went wide. He glanced down the barrel, then back up at her.

She was astral. Her soul was only tethered to her body by a thin wire. She was a kite, tossed about the atmosphere, observing the scene outside the plane of time.

She stared at him. Barely able to breathe. Her hand shook from the weight of the gun.

“Whoa...” he whispered, his voice soft. He lifted his hands outward in a placating gesture.

Her eyes were glazed over. Staring right through him.

He watched, heart pounding, as she turned her gaze downwards to the river of blood that leaked from Rollins’ corpse. Heart going cold, all that was left of his life leaked out of him like a broken faucet. No more damaging than a spilled glass of wine.

Lips sealed tight, her eyes darted over to the body closest to her.

John’s body.

Her monster lay slain at her feet. His jaw hung open in a disturbing grimace, a permanent final expression. The top of his head was now a concave shell. The image of him imprinted on her, burrowing in her memories.

She had never seen so much blood in her life. It was everywhere. Beneath her fingernails. In the tiny valleys of her skin. Dripping from her hair. It stained everything.

“Honey...” She looked only vaguely aware of Peter as he cooed gently at her, growing more apprehensive the longer her silence stretched on. “...Honey...?” he repeated slowly, his tongue going dry.

This time, she brought her attention back to the front, her eyes finally finding his. Peter looked sick with worry, terrified of the irony that this was the exact same position they were in less than 48 hours before.

Honey held her arm outstretched, fingers tremoring around the handle of the pistol, as she fixed Peter with an unreadable expression. He felt his heart thumping up into his throat. His growing alarm threatened to strangle him.

Her legs were rigid even as she trembled like a tightrope walker stranded between skyscrapers. She gazed at him with a look of dread, shock seizing her body.

Peter mumbled her name desperately, chanting it like a prayer. “Honey, Honey, Honey, look at me. Look at me. Okay? Look—”

He took a step forward and she responded with a step backward, positioning him at the end of the barrel. He blinked, going still once again. His eyes misted over as he gazed at her with empathy.

“S’okay,” he softly said, closer to a plea. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re safe—”

“Stop telling me that.” She was firm, her eyes cold.

Peter felt silent, eyes darting back and forth between her and the gun. Her breaths were short, nostrils flaring. His shoulders curved into a slump. Carefully, he lowered his hands. “I meant what I said before,” he delicately replied. “No more cages.” Her eyebrows furrowed sharply. “I made you a promise. You’re free.”

She blinked wide eyes, motionless in every other way. Warily, he glanced down at the gun. “You don’t hafta do anything—”

“Shut up!” she hissed, voice shaking. He shut his mouth immediately. Her gaze wandered, her mind spiraling out of control. She flicked her sights on the four corpses stretched out around them. Her tongue tasted like metal. The gunshot was still ringing in her ears.

“Get on your knees,” she commanded. Unlike the last time she said it, there was no sense of control in her tone. No sense of pleasure to be gained. Instead, she sounded desperate.

Peter closed his eyes, heart sinking in his chest. “Okay.” Reluctantly, he slowly sank down until both knees were on the ground.

Her eyes flashed wildly as she glared, holding the pistol tighter in her hand.

“S’okay,” Peter whispered out a lament. “S’okay, Honey. You’re gonna be okay.” With every repeated phrase, he relinquished more of his hope. Her eyes may have been unreadable, but her position was not.

They were on opposite sides of the room. A continent apart. He was exiled to the unfortunate end of the barrel, along with the other men who used her as a means to an end. This was where he belonged.

A lump formed in his throat as he gazed up at her with wet eyes. “Everything is going to be okay now,” he said with a bittersweet curve of his mouth. “You have all the power, remember? Always did.” His eyes landed on the gun, then back up to hers. “No one’s gonna hurt you again.”

He watched as a tear rolled down her cheek. Fear weighed heavily on her, dragging her down into its depth. Her eyes shined like glass. The glisten in his gaze was a mirror reflection of her sorrow and regret.

“Whatever you gotta do,” Peter assured her. But it was more than reassurance. It was a gentle promise made to a frightened girl that the monsters were all gone now. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

He hesitated to speak the true meaning of his implication. Instead, his eyes shined brightly on her like rays of moonlight, as if he could illuminate her path through the dark. A sincere apology sparkled at the bottom of their bourbon glow, but also, he offered forgiveness. He fixed her with a look of compassion before closing his eyes.

He let go.

Let go of his rage. Of his vendetta. Of his grief. Of his fantasies.

He let go of the idea of Honey.

From the depths of his bitter heart, he gave her his unconditional love.

“What I want...”

He stirred at the closeness of her voice, his eyes snapping open to find her standing inches over him. The gun rested at her side until she let it fall from her grasp. She stared into his eyes, her tears cresting over the ridges of her heart-aching smile.

She surged forward in the blink of an eye, crashing her lips into his. Her arms crossed behind his shoulders as she collapsed into his embrace. Her tongue breached his mouth, and with it, he felt like his heart would leap out of his chest. She breathed him in, relishing in the taste of his devotion, responding to it with love letters written on her lips. It was like her whole body was on fire, and only he could control the flame.

His hands wrapped around her lower back as he worshiped each twist of her tongue. Her kiss was better than morphine, numbing his body and heart to every injury he’d ever suffered.

Only when they were both dizzy and out of breath did she break the kiss. She gazed down at him with eyes that could scorch.

“What I want... is for you to touch me.”

Continue to Part 21

[back to masterlist]

A/N: I want to say thank you for the incredible support you all have shown me in this last break. Part 21 is already finished and will be released this week. Real compassion exists even on the internet and I just can't even deal...

Part 23 will be the end.

174 notes · View notes

withahappyrefrain · 2 years

Text

Every Rose Has Its Thorn

Pairing: Mob!Peter and Mob!Reader

Summary: For @liz-allyn's 900th celebration! "What are we going to do about this?" You're caught red-handed and Peter's next move could destroy your life. Unless...you can convince him otherwise."

Warnings: Literal murder, swearing, oral (f receiving), smut,

Words: 5.8K because I can't help myself

He grumbled as he took the plate of food from you. Something about it taking too long.

Normally you'd roll your eyes.

Instead you smiled and began counting in your head.

101, 102, 103, 104

"How much garlic did you roast the other day?" Your father asked.

"Just three heads for dinner."

He sneered, "You added too much. The whole house stinks of it."

He had been complaining of the smell for the past week. You claimed it was good for the heart.

It also fooled him into thinking that the odor was coming from another source, not himself.

206, 207, 208.

You handed him another glass of water- the third one in a row. You watched as he chugged the water- colorless and odorless.

The almond taste was a myth. Lucky you, as your father didn't have a huge sweet tooth.

He continued to demand water, claiming you added too much salt to his food. You simply apologized. You didn't mind.

It would be the last time you would have to apologize to that piece of shit.

362, 363, 364.

"Why don't you try going to the bathroom?" You suggested as he doubled over, bemoaning about his stomach pain.

"It was that food of yours. Don't know why you insist on cooking when you always fuck it up."

You walked him to the bathroom, shutting the door. He was in such pain, he didn't even noticed that the doorknob to the bathroom was different.

It now locked from the outside.

520, 521, 522, 523.

The dumbass finally figured out that the door was locked. He was calling out your name.

But you couldn't hear. Unfortunately, you had on your headphones as you cleaned up the kitchen. It had to be clean, otherwise he'd be angry at you.

Such a shame.

616, 617. 618.

You pulled an earbud out. Daddy dearest was still yelling, but not about the door being locked.

Something about being in pain.

It was hard to hear with the music.

766, 767, 768.

With your earbuds still on, you grabbed your water bottle. Peering out of the window, you saw your neighbor, Ms. Boocock-Lee, step outside her door.

Not thinking much of it (according to Dad, you never thought), you stepped outside, stopping after a few steps to look for your keys.

A loud voice was heard over the music. You ripped a headphone out, looking up to find your neighbor, smiling from her lawn.

You waved and gave a cheery hello.

"Where are you headed to honey?" She asked with that sweet saccharin smile that made you want to gag.

"Oh, just heading off to the pharmacy and bank. Gotta make a few deposits and pick up some medication for my dad!"

"Have they figured out the cause of that constant sore throat?" She asked.

The corner of your mouth turned downward as you shook your head, "Not yet. Hope these new meds will do something!"

After more idle chit chat, you two went your own separate ways.

You made a mental note to thank her later, for when she volunteers to be your alibi.

Once you go to the pharmacy, you aren't as good as counting consistently. Had to stay focused on fulfilling your role as the loving daughter.

Such a shame your father left his phone in the kitchen. Had he actually had it, maybe he could have called you to come home or call 911.

Not that you would have answered.

It's once you get to the bank that you begin counting.

756, 757, 758.

"Usually deposit?" The Teller asked. You nodded your head, bringing up a hand to rub something out of your eye, the plastic pharmacy bag now visible.

These deposits were nothing unusual. You had been doing them for your father for years. He'd move money around, you'd picked it up, he'd give it to pay somebody off.

It was just such a shame his memory had gone downhill over the past year. He'd forget if he had sent you to the bank or not that week.

He'd always insist on you going. And lately, he started sending you to drop off the money.

The nicest thing he's ever done for you was making this so easy.

875, 876, 877, 879.

When you got back to your father's house, you were greeted with silence.

He did say he had a meeting later that night. And keeping his car parked in the garage made it impossible to tell whether he was home or not.

So you dropped off his prescriptions on the kitchen counter. His keys were still there, signaling he hadn't left yet.

Curious. Quite curious.

Carefully turning the lock, you heard a click. It was now unlocked.

888, 889, 890.

You called out your father's name, which was met with silence.

Two knocks on the door. The second one was more forceful, opening the door ever so slightly.

The smell was horrendous, making you gag. After pulling your shirt over your nose, gasping in the fresh air desperately, you opened the door all the way.

895, 896, 897.

Finally gathering the strength, you fully opened the door.

898, 899.

The sight was horrific. No amount of research could have prepared you for it.

900.

Though you still got pleasure from seeing your father's dead body.

The next two hours were a blur. You could hear the sounds of an ambulance, Mrs. Boocock Lee wrapping a blanket around you as she asked your questions.

You were in shock.

He was finally gone.

After giving a statement to the police (not that they were really looking for the cause of death, moreso connections to your father's business), you went home to your little apartment.

It was all you could afford, with your father's refusal to give his only child any money, along with the odd jobs and hours you had to work since you were his unofficial caretaker.

But you wouldn't be there for much longer.

Now that you would get the inheritance your father hadn't blown away on shitty business deals and gambling.

While it wasn't much compared to what he started with, it was enough for you.

You switched the lights on, illuminating your apartment.

Which was why you jumped upon seeing a man on your couch. A choked gasp escaped your lips, your feet beginning to step backwards as a hand of yours extended behind you, reaching for the-

"Got the news Scheifele" Peter Parker's voice was smooth and rich. There was an air of amusement laced through his words as looked at you with a twinkle in those whiskey eyes.

You ignored his nickname for you, the one he bestowed the first time he met you. He was amused with how you looked the opposite of your father's towering, greasy demeanor.

"She's like a little lamb. A beautiful sheifale."

"If you're here to send your condolences Mr. Parker, I'm afraid this is not the best time." You gripped your car keys as you took a step into the kitchen, a step closer to the living room.

Peter Parker was elusive. He kept his heart hidden behind those tailor made suits. Those honey dripping smiles he'd give you were an act, you could see right through him.

"I'm not here for condolences. I'm here to congratulate you," He said, his mouth forming into a smirk.

"Mr. Parker, I don't know what you're talking about but please-"

"After knowing me for over a year, you still can't call me Peter?" His lips formed into a pout.

He made it sound like you two had something beyond a professional relationship.

Your dad had done business with him for years. Once his health started going downhill, you had begun dropping off checks (or dead bodies) at Parker's.

"Well, Peter, like I said now is not a good time-"

This time he stood up, hands still in the pockets of his well tailored pants. You couldn't help but grip the keys in your hand as he walked over to you.

"Drop the act Scheifele." His words made your blood run cold.

"I-I don't know what-"

Your eyes widened as Peter pulled out an empty bottle.

"Word from the wise: throw the trash out before you kill somebody."

He was too fast. One of the many skills he had that made him stand out as a hitman. Your back was now pressed against the wall as he had one hand pinning your waist to the wall, another wrapped around your wrists, which were now over your head.

Your feet dangled off the floor.

You always wondered how he was so strong. He wasn't built like a brick shithouse, and yet he could toss you with great ease.

Another skill that helped him rise up quickly in the ranks, made him sought after by your father and countless others.

Peter simply chuckled at your attempts to push back. You cursed at him as he laughed.

It was baffling. You knew he hated working with your dad, he would tell you all the time. Granted, it usually followed with a comment about how you were much prettier than your father.

"How long?" He asked, studying you like you were some kind of bug under a microscope.

"For a year now. I've been putting it in his food and the water for a year now," you admitted. You were trapped, no use in denying it.

"Must have made some pretty good connections to get a hold of fucking arsenic." The scent of cinnamon was filling your nostrils.

He always smelled good.

The hand he had on your waist moved up to cup your jaw. As if he could sense that you were about to lurch forward, he pressed his body against yours, pinning you to the wall.

You couldn't remember the last time you were this close to someone. It almost left you breathless.

Almost.

"You're the one who keeps saying I'm much better to work with," You spat.

"You did this for a whole year?"

You nodded, "Gave him a steady decline. Created a paper trail for doctor visits."

"That's why you always carry that big water bottle around, isn't it? So you never had to drink the water in the house." Peter always paid attention to the details.

It's how he knew you weren't as oblivious as you let on.

You nodded, "They'll send in some water samples. It'll show as being contaminated."

"Which will give you the perfect case against the company. The death of your father is sure to give you a nice payout," Peter cocked his head to the side, "Granted, if they found out about what you did, that's a pretty big case for them."

The possibility always dangled in the back of your mind. It's why you began planning this almost two years ago, working out every detail, making sure things happened when they were supposed to, ensuring your tracks were covered.

And there was Peter Parker, holding that bottle. The one that had your fingerprints all over it.

Once they found the bottle, your plan would unravel. Why did you have to be impatient? Why increase the dosage, when you could have waited for it take over naturally?

"What are we going to do about this?" Peter hummed, his nose grazing your cheek.

The fate of your life was in Peter Parker's hands. He had the ability to keep this a secret or send you to jail.

"What do you want?" You whispered.

He moved a hand down to your waist, gently guiding your feet back on the ground as he let go of your wrists. His broad shoulders were still against yours, keeping you in place.

A ringed hand trailed down to your face, his thumb running across your bottom lip.

It was almost sweet.

Almost.

"Name it Parker and I'll give it to you. You want the name of the guy I got it from? A percentage of my settlement money? You wanna fuc-"

Two fingers entered your mouth, cutting you off. The cool metal of the rings rested against your lips. As he leaned in, his thigh that he had slotted between your legs hitched up, brushing against your clothed core.

You never wore a dress around Peter for this very reason. You hoped he hadn't heard the way your breath hitched, how you almost gasped around his fingers.

But somehow he had such good hearing. The smirk on his face said it all.

"I want a partner," His lips were against your neck. The bastard knew that made you weak, the way his beard would brush against your skin.

Why did you ever tell him he looked good with facial hair? Maybe your father did have a point about you not knowing when to shut up.

"The kind that's made known by a pair of gold rings?" You asked, desperate to give off the image that his actions left you unbothered.

Peter chuckled, "That's a little soon, Scheifale. Let's have dinner first."

His body was off of yours, only briefly. Only long enough for you to step away from the wall. Only long enough for you to think you had a chance of running away, for him to dash that hope by wrapping an arm around your waist.

"You've had a long day and we have a lot to discuss. We need to get back to my place."

He led you out of your apartment, where you were greeted by his right hand man and woman.

Felicia and Miles just smiled at you.

Assholes.

—-------------------

You had been to Peter Parker's house before. You were familiar with the grand staircase that greeted you when you walked through the door. The marble floors in the bathroom.

The dining room table, where you two would go over payments and plans as you drank wine. As of recently, the conversation would stray from business and focused on other things.

Childhood. Interests. Funny stories.

How he could help you get away from your father. That you would be safe with him, he'd make sure of that.

Everytime it was brought up, you would just shake your head. He didn't need to get involved. You could hold your own.

Was that why he was doing this? You had actually succeeded without his help. Without his knowledge. Did that make him angry? Feel betrayed?

"Are you angry at me?" You asked as he drove.

Peter's brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes stayed focused on the road ahead, "Why would I be angry?"

"Because I got rid of him without your help."

Peter rolled his eyes, "I never said you couldn't do it without me. I just offered assistance in case you needed it."

You almost felt bad at your accusation.

Almost.

"So then why are you doing this?"

"Because as smart as you are, you still have a lot to learn," He pressed a button, opening the gates to his house, "As much as everyone hated your father, he was still a prominent figure in all this. When you get rid of someone, you gotta make sure you have some alliances first to protect your ass."

You huffed, "Why would I need protection, no one is gonna think I-"

"In this business, you treat every death with suspicion. No matter how many alibis, witnesses, and reports."

Peter now had a hand on your thigh, his fingers gently gripping the soft flesh. After parking, he leaned in, the smell of cinnamon greeting you once again.

"And maybe I am a little sad you didn't contact me after he died." You hated that smirk. Hated how charming it was. Hated how it made your thighs clench the first time you saw it.

"Peter Parker gets sad? This is good information for me to know as your new partner," You leaned in, his face now inches away from yours.

"Oh Scheifele, you're gonna learn a lot about me." His thumb came up and ran along your bottom lip.

You wished he'd stopped doing that. You could say so and Peter would listen.

Yet, the words didn't come out.

Which is how you found yourself in Peter's office, planning out the details of your father's funeral.

You were honestly surprised. As soon as you walked into his house, you expected him to shove you against a wall, take you right then and there.

Instead, he was actually helping.

It was a lot more work than you realized. Knowing who to invite, where to seat them, who to keep away from who.

"Why the fuck are you inviting the Osborne's?" Peter asked, running a hand through his hair. He was sitting in his leather chair while you lounged on the couch.

"The family used to work with my dad, they were on friendly terms," you explained.

"They're trouble and you know it."

"The son is always sweet to me."

Peter's brows furrowed as he chewed the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say something, it was clear as day.

So, you being curious, kept pushing it, "He texted me when he got the news that my dad kicked the bucket. Said if I needed anything, to let him know."

His jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring.

"Y'know, you could have sent a text-"

He lunged forward, his hands pinning yours against the soft leather pillows on the couch.

Now he looked angry.

"Harry Osborne is a piece of shit, just like your father. Is that what you want? To repeat the awful, shitty cycle that led you to fucking poison a man?"

You shrugged, secretly gleaming that you had the upper hand, "I got rid of one shitty man, I can do it again."

"Or you can be with someone who doesn't make you want to commit murder," Peter spat. His whiskey eyes were hardened and narrowed in on you. For a moment, the only sound in the room was yours and Peter's heaving breathing.

"Or specifically, I could be with the person who fucking blackmailed me to be their partner. Is that what you want?" Your tone was nearly mocking as you threw his words back in his face.

"You wouldn't have come with me otherwise, which would have meant you would be home alone when Craven came to your apartment, looking for you."

"Bullshit-"

"Miles and Felicia are there right now, taking care of him. Did you know your father owed him money? No, you didn't. I'm trying to help you," He gritted through his teeth.

The idea of receiving help always made your stomach lurch. Thanks to Daddy dearest, you were raised on the concept of looking out for yourself.

Which, looking back, is probably what made it so easy to kill the man. No one else was keeping tabs or track of him.

So Peter had a point. So what?

"Right, and you get absolutely no satisfaction that I can't leave you. That now you can have me whenever you want, to-"

"You know I wouldn't do that." His voice was firm, but not angry. In fact, he looked hurt by your accusation.

"Oh please, all that flirting-"

"It takes two to tango. I wouldn't have kept flirting if you hadn't flirted back."

He was right, but you couldn't let him see that. Peter Parker couldn't know.

"You're just angry that I won't let you be my savior," your voice was but a whisper, though that didn't stop the venom dripping all over your words.

"I'm angry because that piece of shit you called a father got into your brain and made you believe you're not worthy of someone who likes you, who actually cares about you."

His voice was soft. The grip he had on your wrists was gone, his hands now intertwining with yours.

"And you think you're worthy of me?" Your voice was gentle, barely above a whisper.

It wasn't meant to mock Peter, it wasn't meant to hurt him.

It was a genuine question.

His forehead brushed against yours, his soft hair tickling your skin, "I'd like to try."

Peter Parker was vulnerable, underneath the rings and designer suits and devilish smirks. That's what drew you to him, what made you stay with him, long after your meetings had ended.

"Show me then," you demanded.

Peter's lips were soft against yours, despite how he was kissing you with such fervor. His hands cupped your neck, his long fingers reaching to the back of your head. Despite literally trapping you, you felt safe. Something you hadn't felt since god knows when.

His body shifted towards you, deepening the kiss. His tongue ran along your bottom lip, as if it was asking for entrance. You parted your lips, granting him access. He followed your lead, your tongue slipping against his as your fingers weaved into that soft, thick hair of his.

It was intoxicating-his smell, his touch, his lips. You couldn't help but arch into him, trying to mold your body against yours.

He broke away first, which surprised you. His lips trailed up to your ear, pressing small kisses into your face along the way.

"You've had a long day. Should go shower and change." His breath was hot on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"I don't….I don't have any c-clothes," you could feel the heat in your face as the sensation spread through your body.

"Felicia is picking up some of your clothes after she takes care of Craven. But until then…..I got something for you," you didn't need to see his mouth to know that smirk was there.

“You got me clothes? For this meeting?” You leaned back so he could see the glare you were giving him.

“If you must know, I got them after your last visit with me,” He admitted, his voice soft.

Ah yes. The last visit. The one where he said you didn’t have to go back to your father, that you could stay with him.

And in an attempt to get out of there, to avoid what he really meant, what he was saying through those big whiskey eyes, you mentioned something about not having any clothes and ran out the door.

“Trying to make it difficult for me to escape?” Your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Also thought you deserved something nice, “ Peter’s voice was sweet, like honey. It was such a contrast to his hands that were now kneading the soft flesh of your thighs.

"Look, you can just give me an old Tshirt and-"

"Listen, Scheifale. You're going to take a shower, put on what I give you, and I'm going to show you how good I can make you feel. Got it?"

The order sent heat directly to your core. All you could do was nod as Peter helped you off the couch.

—--------------------------

"That bastard," you muttered as you stared at the 'clothes' laid out for you.

You knew they wouldn’t really be clothes. Like Peter Parker would pass up a chance to see more of you.

Your fingers traced over the lacey, sheer fabric of the ‘romper’ that was hanging on the hook of the bathroom door. Could you call it a romper when it would barely conceal your tits and ass?

The color was nice. Soft pink.

Your favorite.

While showering, a maid had taken your other clothes, leaving you no choice. As you put on the sheer, flimsy fabric, you couldn’t help but look at yourself in the mirror.

It was nice. Something you didn’t buy for yourself, usually because you either didn’t have enough money or just didn’t think you deserved it.

Pulling on the robe, you couldn't help but press the soft material to your nose.

It smelled like Peter.

Taking a deep sigh, you opened the door. The walk from the bedroom to the office felt long, daunting.

You found Peter sitting in his chair, looking over some papers.

"So what made you decide on lingerie? Usually I just sleep in an old Tshirt and shorts," you commented.

"I wanted to get you something nice." He walked over to you, his hands in his pockets.

"Do you not like it?" He asked, motioning to the robe.

You rolled your eyes, "I didn't think your staff wanted to see my half naked with zero warning."

"I sent them home," Peter's lips were now pressed against your forehead, his fingers trailing down to the tie that was holding the rope together.

You stepped back, "Why am I the only one in less clothing? This doesn't seem like a very fair partnership."

All he did was grin as he took off his jacket and began loosening his tie.

"More," you demanded.

"And you say I'm the horndog," Peter muttered, taking off his shirt to reveal a white undershirt beneath it.

"Why do you wear so many layers? Don't you get hot?"

He ignored your question, walking over to the couch. He sat down, kicking off his shoes before he slowly pulled the white Tshirt over his head.

Peter Parker was attractive. You knew that. Everyone knew that. And yet there was something about seeing him like this, shirtless, long legs spread out.

"I….I didn't know you had tattoos."

"You can look at them if you want, Scheifele." He curled a finger, motioning for you to come to him.

Wanting to maintain the upper hand (or some semblance of it), you walked over slowly, untying the knot.

You stood there, in between his legs as the robe fell to the floor. Peter's eyes widened briefly, then relaxed as he took you in.

"Look at you," He cooed as a hand traced over the lace on your hips. His other hand trailed up your stomach, resting right below one of your breasts.

"Spin around." Your eyes widened at the demand.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Peter was unphased, "You heard me. Wanna see how it looks from the back. If it's good, I can get you more in different colors."

You were ready to tell him to fuck off, until you remembered he had that little bottle of yours. The one that would destroy your life if someone else's hands ever got ahold of it.

So you slowly spinner, allowing his eyes to burn into your skin.

"You don't need to be shy. You look pretty. You can look too, if you want." It was difficult to hold onto your anger when his voice was so soothing.

You straddled his waist, taking in the sight of his bare chest and shoulders. Your fingers traced along the sections of inked skin.

On the top of his left shoulder was an intricate spider web, cascading down to his back and the very top of his bicep. You leaned over, trying to ignore his lips that were now pressed in the valley between your breasts, instead focusing on the small spider that dangled from the web, going down part of his back.

"Were you one of those kids obsessed with spiders?" Peter let out a low chuckle against your chest, sending vibrations that made your stomach flutter.

"It's several things. My parents were scientists and studied animal and other species' DNA to see if they could find missing links for medical treatments. Mainly they studied spiders. Did that until the day they died."

Your fingers traced over his skin as the story played in your mind, your brain memorizing the details he had given you. You had learned details of Peter here and there. He always wanted to focus on you, to listen to what you had to say.

It was nice to hear him talk about himself.

Your eyes noticed another section of ink, your fingers tracing over the symbols inscribed on his right bicep.

"Is that Hebrew?" You asked. He nodded his head.

"Gam Ze Ya'avor," Peter told you. You looked at him, your confused expression alerting him that you had no idea what it meant.

"This too shall pass. Got it after my Uncle Ben died. Figured it would be a good reminder," He explained, his voice soft.

"It is a good reminder. What about this one?" You picked up his hand, motioning to his forearm. A band of old film was wrapped around it.

"I did photography in high school. Still do it from time to time," He shrugged, "My Aunt May says I could have worked for The Daily Bugle."

"You ever thought of getting them filled in with something?"

Peter shrugged, the tips of his ears turning red, "Yeah…..thought it would be neat to fill them with important dates."

"Such as……" your voice trailed off.

Peter looked up at you, a sheepish smile taking over his face, "Wedding dates….birth dates of my children."

"Is that what you want?" So often you met men in this field who did those things to prove something, like that they could have anyone they wanted. Or to continue their name, to have a successor so their legacy could leave on.

Selfish reasons. Your father was one of those men.

But when Peter looked at you with those soft amber eyes, it didn't feel selfish.

"Yeah, I do. What about you?"

Your fingers traced the inked skin on his arm before guiding your fingers back to his shoulder, back to the spider web. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against it.

"Yeah, I want that too," You whispered into his skin, "Partly why I got rid of my old man. Couldn't have that with him around."

Peter nodded, bringing your fingers up to his lips. It was a stark difference compared to when he found you in your apartment earlier today.

Perhaps that's why you liked him. He could have killed you, could have ratted you out.

Instead, he just brought you home, even when you didn't realize that's what you wanted, what you needed.

"If I remember correctly, you said you were going to show me how good you can make me feel," Your voice was light, a smirk slowly spreading to your face.

"I still intend to, just didn't plan on telling you my life story," He teased.

"Sorry, I like to get to know my potential partners before I work with them," You teased back.

"Potential? I still have that bottle of yours," his voice had become more gruff, his fingers cupping the lower half of your face, forcing you to look at him.

There was that smirk.

"And I still know how to poison people and make it look like an accident," you responded, grinding your hips down onto his. You grinned at the sight of him wincing as he felt your core brush against his emerging erection.

"Does that make you hard Peter? That I know how to kill someone?"

"What makes me hard is you're smart as hell, extremely stubborn, and look like an angel," He hissed as you rocked your hips forward again.

"Show me. Show me how much you like that." You wanted control, wanted to know this was real and not some stupid ploy to make you weak.

Because despite everything he had done, part of you still didn't trust it, didn't believe it.

Thanks Dad.

Peter's lips were all over your body, his hands pinning your waist to his bed. You were still processing the fact he was able to pick you up and carry you with great ease, like you weighed nothing.

He was hiding something.

But it was hard to sleuth when his lips were pressed against the thin, flimsy fabric that barely covered your core.

"You know, if you move the fabric to the side, you could actually lick my cunt," you huffed.

A gasp fell from your lips as you felt him slap your thigh, the sting making you throb in pleasure rather than pain.

"That smartass mouth of yours doesn't stop, does it?" He asked before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh.

"If you lied down, I can show you what else this smartass mouth can do." He groaned at your words and you noticed his hips grinding down into the mattress..

"Don't you know it's bad practice to switch up demands on someone?" He said, moving his body up as his hands reached for the straps holding your garment up.

"Isn't that what you're here for? To teach me?" Peter pulled the straps down, tugging the slip off your body as he grinned at your words.

"I'm here for a lot of things, Scheifele. Like to show you how good I can make you feel." God you hated that nickname and how it made you flustered.

"You're doing an awful lot of talking, not so much showing," you tssked.

"My apologies. Let me make it up to you."

His mouth was hot on your cunt, his tongue wasting no time to find your clit.

He wasn't your first, far from it. But you couldn't remember the last time you got to lie down and just feel. Feel pleasure, feel wanted, feel needed.

"Taste fucking amazing," you heard Peter groan, "you're so good."

You whined at the praise, your hands clawing at the tops of his shoulders. His tongue continued to circle around your bundle of nerves, his fingers running along your entrance to gather slick.

The coil in your lower stomach was building. Your hips thrusted upwards in a desperate attempt to meet his mouth.

His name fell from your lips, like a prayer. Not that there was anything holy about what his mouth was doing to you.

He just felt so good.

Which is why you whined when he broke away. Your cunt clenched around nothing, instantly missing the feel of his large fingers curling up against your walls.

"I know, you were close," He cooed in your ear, "But I want the first time I make you

come to be on my cock."

"Isn't that something you should decided with your partner beforehand?" You gritted through your teeth.

Peter chuckled as his teeth grazed your chest, "Sorry, it's been a while since I had one."

His admission surprised you. Granted, you could recall how he never seemed to have any other women around the house (who didn't work for him) or at parties.

"So I have to teach you shit too? Doesn't sound like a fair partnership," you crossed your arms over your chest.

"So sorry Scheifale. Let me make it up to you," He whispered into your ear as he pressed his cock into your entrance.

A curse fell from your lips as he bottomed out, your walls stretching to accommodate him.

Fuck, he felt amazing.

Your back arched as he began thrusting in and out of you, building up a steady pace.

In the back of your mind, you couldn't help but think about where you would be right now if things hadn't changed. Either alone in your old, dingy apartment or getting yelled at by your father.

Thank God for arsenic.

#my writing #lizzy's fic prompts #lizzy's 900 #Peter Parker AU #mob!peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #tasm peter x you #tasm peter x reader #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter imagine #tasm!spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #Spiderman AU #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter parker x reader

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backtothefanfiction · 8 months

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You Either Die The Hero, Or Live Long Enough To See Yourself Become The Villain. | Prologue: The Angel In The Garden of Evil

Summary: All it took was one night, one conversation for Peter Parker to change the course of his life. Being the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man didn't seem to be getting him anywhere, clearly it was time he took matters into his own hands and began playing his foes at their own game.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: fluff, little smut and a little bit of teasing for what's to come! 18+ ONLY!

A/N: So as teased the other day, I have become a little bit obsessed with Mob!AU Peter Parker stories, especially after reading the absolutely delicious story that was Sugar and Vice by the wonderful @liz-allyn (if you haven't read it, I highly recommend), anyway, it got me thinking about how I would construct my own Mob!Peter story and when I was day dreaming at work the other week, while listening to Liz's Sugar + Vice playlist (thank you by the way Liz, that playlist is a god send) it all started to come to me. So here is the Prologue, the tease, the moment that turned Peter Parker from the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man to a life of organised crime and the woman who was by his side through it all... until she wasn't.

PROLOGUE 8 YEARS AGO

Knock, knock, knock.

Her head turned to the window at the sharp tapping sound. It was late, really late, she shouldn’t have even still been up, late. But midterms were in a week and she didn’t feel anywhere near prepared, so unfortunately she was burning the midnight oil. She smiled to herself, that giddy feeling taking over whenever he decided to show up at her window. His gloved fingers pointed at the latch and she rushed across the room to let him in, sliding the window up before stepping back so he could swing his legs into the room.

“What are you still doing up, missy.” he chastised jokingly with one hand on his hip, the other held out in front of her wagging back and forth.

“Would you believe me if I said I was waiting for you?” she asked with a tilt to her head and a butter wouldn’t melt expression on her face.

“Not a chance.” he replied as he reached up and ripped his mask off his face. Her lips pursed together as she tried to fight her smile and he quickly moved past her to her desk before he got too wrapped up in how that face made him feel. He was Spider-Man after all and he’d already learnt the hard way that emotional attachments were a weakness. No this was purely a relationship of convenience he tried to remind himself.

“What are you working on anyway?” he said, sitting himself down at the small dorm desk and reading through the essay that was currently on the screen. “You know I can’t understand a word of this.” he joked, pointing at the screen.

“Now you know how I feel when you start talking physics to me.” she said, crossing the room and sitting herself down on his lap. “How’s patrolling the big bad city?” she asked as she began to type away again.

“You know, same old, same old.” he replied nuzzling into the back of her neck as his arms wrapped around her.

“If there’s anything about my Dad, I do not wanna-”

“Know.” he said at the same time as her. “I know, I know.”

“I mean it Peter, I’m not getting tangled up between you two. Not to mention, the less I know about my Dad’s work, the safer I’ll be, you know what happened to my Mom.”

“Yes, I know, I know.” he repeated as he tore himself away from her neck. “You still don’t wanna talk about it?” he asked after a pause.

“Nope.”

“Okay.” he conceded quietly. It was a hotly debated issue between them, both of them always trying to get the other to open up further about their emotions, yet still neither one of them was ready to trust that with the other.

“Uhh, come here.” he groaned as he grew bored, his feet rolling the chair backwards away from the desk, forcing her to give her attention to him. She sighed, her head falling back slightly as she surrendered to him. She quickly turned herself around so she was now facing him, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he tilted his head back to look at her.

“You’re so beautiful.” he cooed quietly into the dim room.

“What even like this.” she joked pulling at her college hoodie and old sweats.

“Especially like this.” he said, lifting her up and making her squeal as he carried her the short way to the bed, before dropping her down on it.

She beamed up at him as he came to settle between her legs, his lips finding hers.

Her hands reached into the hair at the nape of his neck and neither of them could help their growing moans of arousal as their makeout session deepened.

“Uh, uh, one sec.” she said, breaking her lips away from him.

“What?” his teeth grinned against her mouth.

“Before we go any further, are there any injuries I need to know about and be careful of?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” he said, playfully shaking his head.

“Oh really? Because I seem to remember the last time you climbed through my window you’d pulled a hamstring which you tried to hide, that ultimately ended our night very abruptly I might add.”

“No. no. I am the picture of health.” he continued to gest as his head lowered and his lips tickled her skin.

“Sure you are Parker.”

“Really? Okay.” he said as he started to get off of her.

“No, NO!” she protested with a large smile on her face and a rasped giggle on her breath. “Come on Pete, I was only joking.”

“Yeah?” he said as he stood before her. “Well I’m not.”

With one quick sweep he rolled her over, bringing her up onto all fours. She couldn’t help the small shriek and giggle that escaped her lips, but Peter knew right then, there would never be another sound in this world that would sound as sweet.

He was suddenly tender as he pulled down her sweats, tossing them across the room, before he leant over her, encouraging her to turn her head and give him a kiss, his tongue slipping tenderly past her lips. She moaned into his mouth as he continued to deepen the kiss and she quickly rose back onto her knees so she could hold his face in both of her hands.

“Take this off.” Peter muttered into her mouth before he reluctantly broke away, his own hands reaching for the zipper for his suit, quickly stripping himself of it and kicking it across the floor.

When his eyes focused back on her naked body he couldn’t help what fell from his mouth. “Fuck.” he sighed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” he said, climbing across the bed to her.

She smiled, reaching her hands to his face to pull him in for a kiss again. He obliged for a moment, but quickly flipped her back onto all fours, his fingers reaching for her sex.

He ran his fingers down the length of her seam. “Damn, always so fucking wet and ready for me.”

“Stop teasing Spider boy.”

“As you wish.”

In one swift move he lined himself up, thrusting deeply into her pussy. She gasped and he stilled, allowing her a brief moment to adjust to him before he slowly started to rock inside her.

20 minutes later they were both panting, laying back on the bed naked. Peter spread out his arms and she quickly nuzzled into his side, her head resting on his shoulder, as they found their space on the small single bed. She gazed lovingly up at him as she watched his face intensely, observing every brow furrow, every lip and eye twitch as he stared up at the ceiling, one hand behind his head, the other absentmindedly stroking at her bare back.

“Everything okay there, Spider boy?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s just-” he paused as if he was trying to think of how to word the thoughts running through his head.

She had noticed he’d stopped by a lot more lately, regularly needing to blow off some steam, looking desperately for constructive human interaction, not always just battling and fighting and jesting with people.

“You’re starting to wonder if it’s all worth it.” she filled in for him quietly.

Peter was always surprised when she came out with things like that. It was like she could see inside his head, but not just see into his head, articulate how he felt better than he ever could.

“Mmmm.” he hummed in agreement as he rolled her closer to his body, holding her tight as his head turned to place a kiss on her forehead.

“You know you can talk to me about it.” she said tentatively into his bare chest, her voice ghosting warmly across his skin.

He lifted his head to look down at her. “But you said you didn’t want me to talk about your Dad.”

“I know, but,” she replied, staring up at him with those eyes, those eyes that felt so old, so wise, so sweet and innocent, but oh so sad, “it’s not just about my Dad though is it.” she continued, rolling to prop herself up on one elbow. He remained quiet as he waited for her to continue. “The whole city’s fucked Pete and no amount of vigilante, neighbourhood spider power is gonna change that. Most of the guys who turn to work for my Dad only do it because they have no other choice. They don’t have qualifications to get good jobs. They can barely afford food for their families, let alone health care. Regardless of what my Dad does or any of the others, no matter what you do to try and take them down, someone else will always just come and take their place because the system itself is fucked.”

He sighed, his head falling back into the pillow as he looked back up at the ceiling, the weight of her statement, the fact that she was right, it was like a punch to his gut, yet also, somehow, brought him so much peace. Confirming all of the thoughts he’d had racing around his head and validating them, solidifying the ideas he had been having into his head.

“What are you thinking?”

“Just that… you’re right.” He paused and she blinked patiently at him in the dark as she waited for him to continue. Then he said the words she never thought she’d hear come out of his mouth. “I think if I’m gonna get anywhere, I’m gonna have to start playing them at their own game.”

__________________________________

*******

Chapters 1 + 2 will have a double drop on Friday with a weekly 1 chapter drop every Friday from then on.

If you want to be added to the tag list put it in writing. Also if you enjoy, don't just like, be sure to re-blog, just like tipping a waiter at a restaurant, every little bit helps.

@scmdsblog @angiexsv @thef1nalgirl @did-someone-change-my-name

(Initial tags are due to like on the original teaser post, if you want to be taken off, please let me know. If you liked the original post and are finding and your name isn't on the list, it's because it wouldn't let me tag you.)

#peter parker x reader #mob!peter parker #mob!Peter Parker x reader #mob!au #marvel #spiderman #Peter parker #Peter Parker imagine #mob Peter Parker imagine #the angel in the garden of evil #new series #prologue #andrew!peter x reader #andrew!peter imagine #andrew garfield spiderman #female reader insert

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tarzinnia · 7 months

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This Friday Fic Rec is one for those of you who like to....linger...over a story kinda like the lingering looks those big brown doe eyes above are giving you. A multi chapter story featuring mob!peter parker and an OC with a twist. Love and loss and learning how to communicate are not easy things, but with a longer story, there's time for everyone to figure it out...and the best part is the story still continues. Read @backtothefanfiction 's The Angel In The Garden Of Evil as it joins some of the other fantastic mob!peter fics currently in the fanfic library.

The Angel In The Garden Of Evil (fic contains mature content)

Remember to reblog fics and works you enjoy! Reblogging (it's the little arrows next to the heart) is how Tumblr works to spread content to other users. Please reblog what you enjoy so others can enjoy it too!

#Little promo for a great fic #peter parker #tasm #tasm fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction #mob!peter #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter parker #amazing spider-man #spider-man #mob!peter parker #tasm!peter #tasm!fanfiction #amazing spider-man fanfiction

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macadoodlewrites · 2 years

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The Devil Doesn't Bargain - Part Four (Peter Parker Mob AU)

Summary: Peter Parker is well on his way to taking over his adoptive father’s business – but with new threats emerging, Peter and Tony Stark decide that a deal between rivals needs to be brokered. A marriage proposal between enemies brings Hallie straight into the arms of Peter, and it won’t take her long to realise that escape will not be easy.

Warnings: kidnapping, drugging, dub-con behaviour, torture, smut, swearing

Ships: Peter Parker x OC

Main Masterlist

The Devil Doesn't Bargain Masterlist

Word Count: 5.6k

Tony is going to make him an offer that he can't refuse.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? If Tony and my father had been in a rivalry for many years and never before had they come to a cease-fire, what could Tony possibly offer that would ever end their competition. And why, over all of these years, had my father never entertained a meeting with Tony Stark?

I wanted to believe that it was because my father would never associate with him. I did still believe that. Which led me to further questions, such as, what could Tony want with Dominic Whittingham? I did not believe the lies that Peter and Tony had spouted about my father, not for a second. Sure, I wasn't as involved in the family business as my brother, Aiden, was but I still knew what we did and what we sold. Buildings, cars, land. My father and brother were not criminals.

Peter could take his lies and his files and choke on them for all that I cared.

We were walking back towards his office, but thankfully this time he was not dragging me or holding me. I was a step behind him, my sock-covered feet silent. I could have turned and ran, but I had a feeling that Peter would have known if I had done so without even looking at me.

And his warnings were still at the forefront of my mind, the way he had held me down, threatened me. The delight I saw in his brown eyes as he had stared at his hand at my throat. I didn't want to upset him again - at least not until I knew that I could escape.

He opened his office door, holding it for me, and I walked through the doorway, making sure that not a single part of our bodies touched. He must have noticed because the sound of his scoff filled the empty room. I approached his desk and resisted the urge to take my file into my hands, looking down at it. It felt wrong for him to have something like this, something so personal about me, but I did not want to show him how affected I was by it. At least the file mostly contained surface information - family, friends, boyfriends, events I had attended, schools and the grades I had achieved. It would have been infinitely more frightening if I had seen more personal information such as my likes and dislikes, childhood pets and adolescent nicknames. Personal information was not something that you could find in a magazine, and I would have been even more terrified about how he had gotten it.

I did, however, open the other remaining files and look at the pictures at the front of all of them. There was my mother, Eloise, sporting the blonde hair that Aiden and I had inherited. He had also inherited her hazel eyes; mine were a light green, from my father. My father's picture was a business shot of him, in one of his usual dark grey suits. His hair, once a mousy brown, was grey now, and he was not smiling. Then again, when it came to business, he hardly ever smiled. Those were reserved for me and my brother, as they had once been reserved for my mother.

Aiden's picture was taken from a magazine article that had named him one of 'thirty under thirties to watch.' He was smiling at the camera, and I felt an ache in my chest. I had not seen him this morning at the breakfast table - both he and my father had already left the manor before I had woken up. But I was reminded of the phone call I had made back in the café to him, trying to find any way to get Eric and I to safety. I prayed that Aiden had made it in time to find Eric and get him to a hospital.

Then there was Eric's file. It was as large as Aiden's, and there was a picture of him and I at the front of it. It was one from my twenty-first birthday party at the manor, and he had looked his most handsome. I had chosen the expensive suit that he was wearing, and his mint green tie had matched my long green cape swing dress. The ache in my heart cracked at his smile. He was possibly dead now.

I traced a finger down his face, and then moved to pick up his file, but before I could, there was a hand at my wrist. I looked up and was met with depthless chocolate brown eyes staring at me.

"I said that you had to find out about your boyfriend the hard way. No spoilers," he said, and his other hand slid Eric's file away from me and snapped it closed.

"I wouldn't have believed anything written about him, anyway," I snapped, tugging away from him. Surprisingly, he let me, and I backed away to place the desk between us. "Neither do I believe a single thing that you have said about my father."

"We have been over this, Halston. Why would your file be entirely correct, but Dominic's be full of lies?"

"You tell me. You're the manipulative one here. You said it yourself; you knew that I would read them. Maybe it is some twisted way to get me to think that all of them were true."

"And why would I care about what you do or don't think of your father?" he asked, derision in his tone. "I, frankly, do not care what you believe."

Fine, I thought. This is the game that he wants to play. "That's a lie, and we both know it. You left the files on the desk for me to find. You told me that my father is a crook and tried to explain why. Someone who did not care for what I thought would have done none of those things."

Placing Eric's file back on the large, wooden desk, he continued to watch me. I did not want to be near him, so I stepped backwards by a few paces, putting myself back near the sofa that I had woken up on. With a strange and frightened thought inside of my mind, I realised that my clothes were nearly the same colour as the sofa set. Peter liked dove grey.

He took a seat behind his desk, sitting tall. "Clever girl. The magazine's do not give you enough credit."

Not wanting to give him even an inch of higher ground, I remained standing. "Excuse me?"

"The magazines," he replied. "Most call you America's sweetheart, the Whittingham daughter so loved by the country. You and your brother are like a little prince and princess of your kingdom. Your father has put on a good front, I'll admit."

"It's not a front-"

He didn't stop speaking. "But there are some articles that have said you are nothing more than a pretty face. A brainless, little heiress with nothing to contribute to society. A dim-witted socialite. But I knew that you were smart."

"Because you have a stupid file on me? You know nothing about me just because you know what schools I attended. Some grades mean nothing. I could have paid someone to achieve them for me."

"You didn't though, did you?" Peter remarked, his eyes flashing. "You would never do something like that."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"Because, darling, despite who raised you, you are a good person."

I wanted to stomp my feet, huff like a small child at the satisfied expression on his handsome face. But I remained still, only crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes darted down to the movement.

"Stop acting like you know anything about me. You don't. I have friends, family, and a life that does not involve you, and as soon as my father has rejected Tony, I will be back to it and never have to see you again."

"I know plenty, besides what is in this file," he shrugged, his hands coming up and opening the file with my name on it. I shivered as he looked down at the picture of me. "And your father will not reject mine. Trust me."

"Never going to happen."

"And you're not getting rid of me that easily. Once the deal has been struck, you'd better get used to having me around."

He sounded so confident, like he knew something that I did not - which was probably true. I was in the dark, had no idea what Tony wanted with my father, and wanted nothing more than to go home. I wanted to lay in my own bed, listen to my brother's terrible singing voice coming from his bedroom down the hall. I wanted Eric.

Before I knew what was happening, any remnants of energy that had been in my body was gone and I was sinking down to sit on the grey sofa, tears falling from my eyes. I refused to look at Peter as they dripped onto my lap, soaking into the knitted joggers. Ones that he had chosen for me. It sickened me. I continued to stare at my feet, even as I heard him getting up from his chair and walk towards me. Why should he get to see me cry? He was the source of my tears.

He crouched down in front of me, balancing on the balls of his feet and before I could move backwards in my seat, Peter's fingers were under my chin. His grip was gentler than it had been before when he had grabbed me, and he tilted my head up so that I would look at him. I had originally thought that he had smelled of smoke perhaps from a bonfire, but I had since narrowed it down to cigars - a smoky, sweet aroma with accents of leather. I watched his eyes take in the tears on my face and his other hand came up and wiped them away, his finger then trailing down my cheek. It took everything in me to not jerk away from the gesture, and I knew that he could tell that I had tensed up from the way that he sighed.

"Do you want me to show you the greenhouses?"

"You have plants here?" I implored incredulously. "What do you do, use flowers as target practise?"

He laughed and it sounded like the first real laugh that had fallen from his lips. "No. We are currently in the office building, and we do hold meetings here with prominent members of the community. We have to make the place look good and legit." At my continued dubious staring, he stood back up. "Come on, darling. I know that you like flowers."

Once again, it disturbed me to no end that he knew something so simple about me - yes, I did love flowers. My mother had passed on her love of gardening to me. But that was not in my file. Peter must have read it in an interview I had participated in at some point. I hoped.

Petulantly, I mumbled, "I don't have any shoes."

I shouldn't have said anything. Peter walked back to his desk, opened a cupboard underneath and pulled out a pair of fossil-grey timberland boots. He then walked back to me slowly as I eyed up the shoes. Once again, they matched my outfit, and it did not take more than a second glance to know that they were my size.

If this was not proving to me that I needed to leave, that their plans had been well-thought out and that Peter knew too many things about me, then nothing else would. But being cooped up in this office was not going to help me. So, swallowing my revulsion, I took the shoes and put them on, then stood up. He shot me a very realistic smile, but I didn't return it.

Following him out of his office, we took the same route that I had already taken twice today towards the stairs. At the bottom, where I had originally turned right, and the second time, Peter had led me straight on, we now went left. I cursed myself inwardly. It had been a one in three chance for me to choose the way that would take me outdoors, and I had chosen wrong.

Peter's hand found my waist and rested on the small of my back, guiding me along until we came to a set of doors that had a small pad next to them. Peter stepped ahead of me, blocking my view as I watched him remove a thin piece of plastic from his blazer pocket. He must have placed it against the pad because the doors opened with a loud beep.

Eric and I's coffee date had been interrupted mid-morning, but now the sun was starting to set in the winter sky, casting a pale, cold light over the earth. I shuddered at the sudden chill in the air as we stepped outside, and Peter noticed. Pocketing his access pass in his trouser pocket, he shrugged off his blazer and held it out for me. No matter how much I despised him, I was not going to turn away something that would keep me warm, so I took it. He then started walking, his black shoes crunching over the frozen grass, as I followed. He led us past the building and further through the grounds. I took in every inch of my surroundings as we went, noting the high walls around the complex, the men and women that were stood guarding certain buildings. The office behind us was by far the largest one and its glass walls shone in the dimming sun.

We came to a driveway with multiple cars parked on it, still within the property, and further along was a gate. Large black gates, three times my height, a solid wall of metal. From my distance, I could just make out a small pad, the same as the door we had exited.

The tiniest flair of hope rose in my stomach. I needed an access pass. And then I could leave. Who knew what was on the outside of those gates, but it had to be better than what was inside.

Not letting my gaze stray for too long as I felt Peter's eyes on me, I continued to look ahead as we approached another glass building. I stepped in through the open doors, and instantly felt the temperature change.

For the briefest of moments, I forgot about my predicament as I took in the rows and rows of flowers. Here were cherry red and snowy white geraniums, then there were candy floss pink petunias, followed by lavender pansies. My mouth fell open at the sight of the flowers, a full rainbow against an overwise dreary day. I gently touched the soft petals, held the leaves between my fingers.

From my side, Peter spoke but it was quieter than usual. "Do you like it?"

I turned to him, the surprising happiness still on my face and he took it in. A pure smile graced his lips. "I do," I whispered and looked back at the flowers. Peonies were my favourite, and I could see a collection of them in the corner of the greenhouse, their delicate pink petals the softest colour in the room. I walked straight towards them, and before I could help myself, I asked, "do you tend them?"

He snorted lightly and I turned to him once again. He had followed me across the greenhouse and was stood behind me, looking at the peonies and then back at me. "No, we have gardeners." His expression was slightly off, his eyes flickering all over my face, a question in his eyes.

"What?"

"That's the first time that you have smiled. At me."

And just like that, it was all back. This was not a boy showing me a handful of pretty flowers. This was a manipulator, someone who knew the things that I liked because he had researched me and wanted to use me. The smile fell from my face, and his faded slowly as well.

"Well-"

Before I could retort, we were interrupted by a man in a black uniform bursting through the door, clearly out of breath. He straightened up at the sight of Peter and me.

"Sir," he said. "Mr Stark needs to talk to you. He mentioned something about preparations for moving certain packages."

The guards' eyes flickered over to me, and Peter coughed, drawing his attention away. "That'll be all. Tell Tony that I will find him shortly, that I am currently with Miss Whittingham."

It looked like it pained the guard to speak further. He couldn't have been more than a year or two younger than me, but the infinite difference in his and Peter's rankings was evident. "Sir, I apologise, but he insisted it had to be now."

Once again feeling Peter's eyes on me like small daggers, roaming me and checking me over, I continued to look at the guard. On his chest, clipped to the outer pocket of his padded waistcoat, was what looked like an access pass.

Sighing at my side, I felt Peter brush my side with his hand as he moved to face me. I looked up at him, trying to paste an expressionless stare onto my features.

"Would you like to stay here whilst I deal with this business?" He was trusting me to stay alone? As if reading my thoughts, the corner of his mouth quirked up. "With Jared, of course."

"Right," I mumbled, doing everything in my power to keep the excitement out of my voice. "I would like to stay here. Please."

It must have been the right thing to say because Peter's hand rose up and cupped my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. I did not flinch. I felt like I was barely breathing. "You can stay," he said, his chocolate eyes wandering from my eyes to my lips and back up. His touch was soft, and I must have been selling the part of docile prisoner well for him to consider leaving me. "Don't cause any trouble, darling." He leaned forwards, lips grazing my ear. "Let's not have to make me the bad guy."

And then he was gone, his hand sliding away from my cheeks, fingers lingering for only a second, as he then walked towards the open door. He muttered something to Jared, and then was gone with only one final glance back at me.

I watched him through the glass walls of the greenhouses all the way back to the office.

As soon as he had stepped back inside of the building, I knew that I had to act quickly. I started to walk between the aisles, gently brushing against the hanging flowers and their beautiful petals and waited to see what Jared would do. Whatever Peter had muttered to him must have been serious, because he followed along behind me, hardly further than three steps away at all times. I knew that he was guarding me, the eye he was keeping on me was purely one of duty, very different from Peter's. When Peter had been walking behind me, he had been gauging my reactions, taking in my movements.

Which was why this was going to be so easy. Peter would have been expecting me to do something, would have seen how nervous my breathing had become, how my hands were suddenly clammy. But not Jared.

I gingerly looked over to him, pasting a coy, girlish smile on my face. "Aren't they lovely?"

Clearly shocked at being addressed, he nodded with a bewildered expression. "They are, Miss Whittingham."

"Do you know much about flowers?" I continued.

"I cannot say that I do," he replied. "My girlfriend prefers chocolates as presents. She has allergies."

"Well, can I show you something?"

He hesitated but took a small step forward. Up this close, I could see the boyish roundness to his cheeks, and a small splattering of teenage acne. I had been wrong. He couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, which made what I was about to do all that much harder. But I had to leave.

"Here," I gestured at the fuchsia rhododendrons in front of me. "Look at these petals."

Jared stepped again towards me and leaned down to look up close at the petal that I was holding between two fingers. As he did so, his eyes left me, and I took my chance.

Releasing the petal, I grabbed a large, ceramic pot and picked it up. Lifting it over my head, and realising just how heavy it was, I smashed it over the back of Jared's head.

He fell to the ground, unconscious before he could get a chance to yell out. Flowers, compost and shards of brown, ceramic clay coated the back of his head, his hair and his uniform, and I stopped only briefly to check that he was still breathing before snatching his access pass from his pocket.

Sprinting out of the greenhouse doors and towards the same gates that I had seen on my walk over, they seemed much further away than they had before. The air was even colder than I remembered and the sweat at the back of my neck was frigid, but my footsteps were steady, as was my grip on the pass.

And then I was at the gate, checking over my shoulder for any sign of Peter, or even Harry or Ned, but no one was there. No one had seen me run.

Through a small crack in the side of the gate I could see what looked to be one long road, and along each side was trees. There was no sign of any other humans, buildings, or cars. But I did not care. Once I was out, I would then focus on finding help.

I slapped the pass against the pad next to the gate, waiting for them to creak open, but that was not what happened. Instead, the pad flashed at me, bright red letters.

ACCESS DENIED.

My heart plummeted to my stomach, but I tapped it again.

The same thing happened.

I had put too much of my faith into this plan, such a desperate, mindless last-ditch attempt at freedom. But it had failed. I screamed, banging my fist against the metal gate and barely registering the pain that broke out through my knuckle. I did the same thing again, rage coursing through each and every part of my body. Rage at the unfairness of my situation, rage at my idiotic attempt at escape, and rage at Peter Parker for putting me into this predicament.

Blood cracked along each of my knuckles as I raised my fist again, but something stopped me. Something warm and brutally tight. It yanked me backwards at a bruisingly fast pace, turning me and slamming my already bleeding hand against the gate.

Eyes full of unadulterated rage glared at me, the colour I believed I would always associate with anger forevermore. One loose lock of walnut brown hair had fallen onto his forehead, reaching his eyebrows, which were furrowed downwards.

"Peter," I breathed before I could stop myself. My heart felt like it was going to fly out of my chest at any moment, it was beating so fast, and there was a lump in my throat that was practically stopping any air from entering my body.

The bones in my wrist were close to snapping from the pressure he was exerting to keep it pressed against the metal gate. "You asked to stay in the greenhouse," Peter ruminated lowly, his other hand clenched at his side. "You asked, so I kindly let you. And this is how you repay my kindness, Halston? By disobeying me? By attacking one of my men in training?"

"You kidnapped me-"

His eyes flashed, and every word I could have said left my body. "I am speaking. Do not ever interrupt me." The hand at his side came up to my chest, his rings glinting in the winter sun. "I knew that you were putting on that compliant little act for my benefit. Did you really think that it would work? Do you think me that stupid?"

The hand at my chest had been slowly creeping upwards, fingers lazily tracing the material of the shirt that he had chosen, but at the word stupid, his long fingers clenched around my throat. Eyes wide, I could do nothing but grip his wrist with my free hand, staring at him and all of his anger.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"You aren't sorry, so do not lie to me. I was being generous to you before, letting you believe that I would like your co-operation. But I have never really needed it, darling." The hand at my throat tightened immensely, and I tried to pull it away from my neck, tried to regain some of the air I needed so desperately to live. My nails dug into his skin, but he hardly looked as if he noticed. "You will do what I want, do as I say, and eventually, you will stop fighting. I will break this rebellious spirit of yours as easily as I had your boyfriend killed."

It was a cruel and cold thing to say. So far, I had not known if Eric was dead or alive, if my brother had found him in time.

Tears welled in my eyes, and they spilled over as I tried to take a gasp of air. Pushing against his hand that held my near-broken wrist to the gate was as impossible as moving a car with my bare hands. The hand at his wrist had given up, now trying to push against his immovable chest. There was such little distance between us that I struggled to even do this. "Please-"

I could barely get the word out. Peter leaned down towards me, a savage sneer on his face, lips viciously curled in anger. His grip tightened further, and I started to sag against the gate as an endless blackness entered the corners of my vision.

"Your boyfriend is gone. Your father will agree to our negotiations. And the only way that you are leaving me is over my dead body. Your fighting is pathetic and a waste of my time."

Was he going to kill me? It certainly felt like it as finally my body started to give up, the darkness a living thing, crawling over my eyes as they fluttered shut. Just as I thought that it was over, he was going to let me die despite telling me that he could not kill me, his hand disappeared at my throat, and instantly moved down, a tight band around my waist as I started to fall. He pulled me against his body as I took in painful breaths of cold air, my lungs both frozen and on fire at the same time.

My forehead was against his shoulder, every limb numb, but I felt his lips against my hair. "The only way to reward disobedience is with punishment."

And then his hand was in my hair, yanking my head backwards so that it made contact with the thick, metal gate. A blinding pain hit the back of my head, taking over everything as I still struggled to breathe properly.

But he wasn't done. I was finally seeing the real side of Peter Parker, not the boy that he had been presenting himself as to me. Continuing to hold my hair, I was being bent over backwards, only his iron grip around my waist stopping me from dropping to the ground. My scalp was on fire.

He stared down at me with eyes full of flames of anger and a violence that threatened to take my life.

"I won't run again. I promise," I choked out, every syllable hurting my aching throat.

"Forgive me if I have trouble believing a single word that comes out of your pretty mouth." I watched as his eyes trailed down from my face to my heaving chest. "All of the things that I could do to you. So many options."

I increased my struggling again at his words, tried to pull his hand away but all that I succeeded in doing was getting him to yank again, my long blonde strands wrapped tightly around his clenched fist.

And then he turned, letting my waist go abruptly, but keeping his hand in my hair. As he marched, I was pulled by his grip, bent backwards awkwardly.

"Stop! Let me go!" I screamed. "Peter, stop!"

The words fell on deaf ears, and if anything, his grip only tightened so that there was no physical way for me to untangle his hand. All I could so was try to keep up with him, to create any kind of leeway possible to relieve me from the pain in my scalp and where he had slammed me against the gate.

This man was a monster.

Here I was crying, defenceless, and in an infinite amount of pain all caused by him, and he did not care. If anyone could see us right now, I prayed that they would intervene, but I doubted it. Everyone was frightened of Peter. I was learning that I should have been more scared.

We were back at the driveway when he finally let go of me. He viciously tore his hand free from my hair, giving me no time to reclaim my balance, and I toppled straight to the concrete floor, my shoulders, back and head thudding painfully against the hard surface.

I stared up as he stood over me, his figure tall and imposing. His hands were at his sides as he looked down. Every part of me was shaking, my head on fire. Every hair felt like it had been torn away - hair that I had grown so long over the years, treated to a trip to my hairdressers nearly every week. This was just another thing that Peter was taking from me. My life. My right to choose my clothing. My freedom. And now something I cherished as simple as my hair. I sobbed, raising a shaking hand to cover my mouth.

The edge of his boots were touching my hips. "You’re lucky that I’m so nice. Imagine if you were with someone who did not have as much patience as me. They might have done something horrible, by now." I sobbed again; a choked cry muffled by my own hand as a sinister smile graced his handsome face. "But disobey me one more time, Halston, and you'll find that I will actually do something about it."

I nodded up at him. He then put one of his hands out, slim fingers pointed down towards me.

Without even a second hesitation as I could see the anger in his face despite his smile, I reached up and took it. He pulled me to my feet easily, and the throbbing in my head intensified. Further tears fell down my cheeks at the pain and at how close I was to Peter.

"Now what do you say?" he said, his hand stroking a finger down my tear-soaked cheek. I closed my eyes.

"I'm sorry for trying to leave."

"And?"

I swallowed heavily, my throat sore. Surely there would be bruises later. "It won't happen again."

"Good girl," he whispered, the fingers almost tenderly caressing my jawline. "I really hope that you don't go back on your word, darling. I really do hate liars."

Nodding, I slowly opened my eyes and nearly jumped back. His face was right in front of mine. "What-?"

"Get in the car," he said, gesturing to an expensive-looking, blacked-out range rover.

"Where are we going?"' I did not move.

He clicked his tongue at me with a sigh. "I'm afraid that you have lost any right to ask me questions. Now, get in the car."

I did not want to anger him further, but the terror I felt at the idea of getting into a vehicle and going anywhere with him was causing my chest to constrict. My breaths were coming out painfully, small, gasping sounds.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t control myself.

"Halston, you need to breathe and do as I say."

"I can't," I whispered, a light-headedness starting to take over.

Thankfully he did not take my words in the wrong sense and feel that I was trying to disobey him. Instead, he reached down into his pocket, and pulled something out. I was too focused on trying to keep my breaths even that I did not look down and see what it was.

"I assure you, that this really is for your own good," he whispered, and as I struggled to breathe, I caught a whiff of that pleasant cigar smell of his.

"What-“

And then there was the smallest prick in the side of my neck, so familiar, but this time I accepted the way that my body started to shut down and my limbs started to give up. I let his arm wrap around my waist and leaned into him, my breaths slowing down, my head against his chest. I felt him lower slightly, and then I was in his arms, his grip under my back and knees keeping me afloat in a world that was otherwise fading away. My head fell backwards and I looked up to the pale, white sky before Peter filled my vision. His expression was softer now.

"You're smarter than this, Halston. Trying to escape is futile, and besides, what makes you think that I'd let you leave? I would find you, no matter what it takes."

My mouth was empty of words, no retorts coming to my blank mind, and as the world went black, I welcomed the darkness.

PREVIOUS PART //

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@tomsirishgirlx @steveharringtonswifey09 @slut4bradbradshaw @annellie @roxanne-ragnvindr @peachescream1723 @sydneybehlman

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #dark peter parker #dark!peter peter #spiderman imagine #dark!spiderman imagine #mob au #mob!peter parker #mob peter parker #mafia peter parker #mafia!peter parker #mob tony stark #peter parker x oc #peter parker x reader #dark imagine #marvel imagine

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themorningsunshine · 1 year

Text

Muffins

Pie - eyed over you - Chapter 3

Mafia - Baker AU

Masterlist Series Masterlist

Previous Part

Pairing - Mafia!Bucky x Baker!Reader

Summary - When a new baker in town refuses to abide by his rules, Bucky has no option but to go and take care of it himself. But nothing could prepare him for what stood on the other side. Nothing could prepare him for you.

Warnings - Mentions of murder, lots of fluff (gotta give the fluff before the angst for it to hurt more, yup I am evil), Steve and Sam being a menace

Word count - around 6k

a/n - So, after two delays, hell a lot of editing, and straight up changing the whole structure of this chapter and then combining it with another (hence the length), it’s finally here. Thank you so much to all of you for putting up with me. Please let me know what you guys think about this. Your kind words keep me going.

You placed the muffins in a tray for display before making a note in your diary to buy more chocolate chips when you go to the market on the weekend.

Running a bakery all on your own is a difficult job but you wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world. Even though you were not a morning person, the prospect of coming here and baking made it getting up from the bed every morning a tad bit easier.

As you heard knocks on the door, you frowned before looking up, there was still some time left before it was time to open up the bakery.

But when your eyes landed on the figure standing outside the door, looking like a complete misfit in his dark clothes and sunglasses and surprisingly, a baseball cap covering his forehead, a pathetic attempt at being discreet, you can't help the way your lips turn upward and your heart flutters.

He was here just yesterday and yet it felt like you were seeing him after too long.

Get yourself together.

It's just a crush, it'll go away.

You wiped your palms on your apron before walking towards the door to open it.

You gave him a teasing smile before saying, "You're at the wrong place. Baseball convention is another mile from here."

He rolled his eyes before stepping inside the bakery, bending a little, the door a little too short for him. "Hello to you too, sweets."

You chuckled before walking towards the counter as he took his usual seat. Everything felt like a routine. Engraved in your soul as if it had always been there.

"Gracing this bakery with your presence two days in a row. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Maybe I just missed my sweets." He shrugged as if it was obvious.

"Continue this and you are going to get diabetic." You remarked with a smirk.

"Not the sweets I was talking about, but okay."

The smirk immediately left your lips as you could practically feel your heart beat out of your chest. He didn't mean it. He's just teasing.

But no matter what you think, you can't help the way the red color crept up to your neck at his words.

Okay, this crush is getting out of hand.

"So, how's work?" You say in an attempt to change the topic.

He tenses at your words. You had asked him what he did, and he had replied that he was a mechanic. It was becoming more difficult for him to lie to you.

But maybe, he won't have to much longer.

He was pretty sure Walker was on his way to screw things up.

That son of a -

"Earth to James!!" Your voice moving and your palm waving in front of his face brought him out of his thoughts.

"I asked how was work." You said with a frown. James always got weirdly uncomfortable when you asked about work. Maybe he didn't want to talk about it, but you were no one to ask.

"Oh, it's been fine. You know, the usual."

"Yeah, yeah. Steve is a dorky idiot and Sam is an annoying prick. I know." You said imitating the words he had said to you not a long time ago.

Bucky chuckles. Telling you about Steve and Sam was easier. Maybe sharing something about him which wasn't a lie, made him feel less guilty.

He knew this was wrong.

He was creating a web of lies that you will find out one day.

But Bucky Barnes wasn't a good man and he would take whatever time he has got before the inevitable happened.

Which wasn't going to be today.

He wasn't going to let Walker ruin this.

He will just sit there, hiding half of his face with the baseball cap. It would be easy. It wasn't like Walker would expect to see him here anyways.

He was just here to make sure that he didn't hurt you.

The both of you striked a conversation just like usual and you immediately felt better. You knew it was going to be a great day. Had started off on the best possible note, atleast.

The clock striked eight before you knew it and you got up from your chair to flip the sign at the bakery.

"Why don't you hire someone to help you?" James asks, sipping his coffee.

"Why, you're looking for a job?" You teased him with raised eyebrows. "Job at the garage doesn't pay enough for your baseball conventions?"

He rolled his eyes. "When are you gonna let this one go?"

"I think… never."

He chuckled before asking again, "But, seriously, sweets, why not get a helping hand?"

" 'Cause I am selfish." When he narrowed his eyes, you continued. "I know this sounds weird, but I don't like it when anybody else cooks the food. It's just never good enough."

"So, why not hire someone to deal with the customers?"

"That's literally the best part of the job." You half exclaimed. "People telling you whether they liked the sweets or not is the best part, James. Almost as good as getting to eat all the leftovers."

James chuckled before setting his coffee mug down. "There is no pleasing you."

You shrugged before walking behind the counter to get everything ready for the morning rush you were sure was about to walk through the door any moment now.

When a few people came in, some regular customers and some students hoping to get in some caffeine to start the day, you saw as James involuntarily tensed.

Bucky watched the front door with focused eyes as minutes ticked by. He knew Walker will be here any minute now.

And he was proven right as he saw John Walker opening the door of the bakery and walking in with a smug look on his face, shoving away whoever came in his path.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to pull him out of here, away from you and this warm place but he couldn't do that. There would be consequences, which he normally wouldn't give a second thought to, but the real nuisance would bring questions.

He watched as you greet him with the same grin on your face that you used for all your customers, saying in a soft voice, "Hey, what can I get you?" And Bucky can swear Walker doesn't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.

"Why not start by paying off?" Walker said with a tone harsh and loud enough that a few customers turned to see what was happening.

You frowned your eyes in confusion, "I am sorry." You were still speaking in a calm, soft voice, trying your best to get whoever this man was to calm down. You didn't want a commotion so early in the day.

"Walker." He said as if it was enough of an introduction before continuing, "And I think you have an idea of where I am coming from. You owe us."

James watched as realization dawned on your face and you stood straighter, your smile turning into a forwn. "I don't owe anyone anything."

He leaned towards you, keeping his arms crossed on the counter, speaking with a smirk, "Don't try to act smart, baby doll. Pay up and no one gets hurt."

He watches as you cringe at the nickname and almost take a small step back, discomfort clear on your face.

Bucky almost gets up from his chair, his first instinct to slit off Walker's throat with the knife he had tucked in his jacket. He would make it less messy too, but painful.

Control, he isn't going to hurt her.

"I am not going to pay you a single cent, Walker. So, why don't you take your ass out of my bakery and leave me alone?" As you speak, your hand inches towards the knife that you keep below the counter for situations like these. Even though you hoped you'd never have to use it, it was better to be prepared than sorry.

John clenches his fist as his eyes bore into your skull, "Don't make this difficult. You don't know who you are trying to mess up with. The people I work with wouldn't blink an eye before dumping your body in a dumpster. Just pay every month and we leave you alone."

"I have said it before and I'll say it again, I am not going to pay you to let me live." It's as if something switches inside you. The slight fear or discomfort that could be seen in your features is completely gone now.

Bucky watches as Walker growls in impatience before reaching for his jacket pocket.

Nope, not happening

"Listen to me, you little bitch - "

Walker is cut off immediately when a larger figure stands between him and the counter.

James shields you from him, obstructing his view.

"Leave her alone." The sound is almost a growl. And if Walker hadn't been too preoccupied he would have noticed how familiar that sounded.

"And who the hell are you?" He spat.

Bucky looks down at him and watches as all the color is drained out of his face when he recognises him.

"S - si "

"Leave her alone and if you show up around here ever again, it will be you in the dumpster, cut into more pieces than you can count."

Fear is obvious on Walker's face, as he completely forgets the weapon he was reaching for, trying to get his senses to work, confusion evident on his face.

Before he can ask any questions, Bucky takes a step towards him, with sheer coldness in his eyes as if he could slit Walker's throat right now and wouldn't blink.

You watch as the man - who had introduced himself as Walker- saunters out of the bakery with quick steps.

You frowned your eyes at whatever had happened here.

You weren't going to pay the mob any money, you knew that. But you also knew that you couldn't have overpowered that man, especially if he had a weapon hidden under there somewhere.

"You didn't have to do that, James." You said softly, in an attempt to get his attention away from the door he was boring holes in.

He turned back and you watched as his expression turned into the soft one you were so familiar with.

You walked from behind the counter towards where he was standing before explaining, "He works for the mob. Trust me, you don't want to get involved with them."

Bucky's breath hitches at that. How could he explain to you that he wasn't just involved with the mob?

"It's okay, sweets. They won't hurt me." That was some truth. They were never going to hurt him, and before Walker could utter a single word to anyone about the events of the day, he would be fired. Bucky would make sure of that.

"I know." You sighed, looking down at the floor as if contemplating something. It was silent for a moment before you looked up, "Thank you, James. It does mean a lot to me." You said with a soft, grateful smile on your face and your hand reached out to his.

"Anytime, sweets."

A moment passed before anyone of you dared to move. Your hand was now brushing his arm in slight touches.

You broke the silence, "Come on, have some muffins. They are on me." You said before turning back and walking towards the counter.

Bucky had to stand there for a moment because his skin had suddenly started to feel cold and empty. Like it wasn't enough without your touch, before walking back towards the counter and standing right in front of where you were taking out some muffins on a plate.

"So, Ms Feisty, something against the mob?" He said, trying desperately for his voice to sound joking.

You shrugged while passing the muffins to him and turning to pour some coffee for yourself. "I am not going to pay them money just because everybody else does. Why the hell do I pay taxes?"

"But the way you were standing, you don't just want to rebel, sweets. You hate them." He said, an emotion in his voice you couldn't really place. He prayed that that wasn't the case, that he had read the situation wrong and maybe you didn't really hate the mob.

"Hate is a strong word, James. I - despise them." You reply before looking up at him to meet his eyes, but he looks away, almost as if looking at you right now would physically hurt him.

"I mean, they aren't really that bad, right? It's not like I know a lot about them but I have heard they protect the city." He tries.

"Uh-huh. They are not good people. You remember that day when we met? When it was raining and I had lost my way, and you were there - "

"I remember the day we met, sweets." He interrupts. Every part of that day was engraved in his mind.

"Yeah, yeah right. So, that day I was coming back from a friend's house. She has a daughter, Ellie, about 5 years old."

He hums, nodding his head, not sure where you were going with this.

"Both of them were switching houses. Leaving their home, that they had built, to live in a one bedroom apartment in the not so respected area of the town. You know why?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"Because her dad was killed." You took a deep breath, trying to keep the rage from bubbling up to the surface. "A 5 year old lost her father, James. And why? Because of some stupid mob feud."

"What was her dad's name?" He asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"Jake"

Bucky's moments halted as images came back to his mind's forefront. He had killed that man himself. Shot three bullets straight into his chest. He had felt no remorse then. That man was a traitor. Had joined hands with the enemy, knowing very well what the consequences could be.

He had felt no remorse then because he hadn't given a moment of thought to the people he might be leaving behind. It made his work easier. Pretending that there were no consequences to whatever they did.

But now he could see the consequences. In the form of rage in your eyes at the tale and the hurt he felt in his chest, thinking about the girl. He knew how that felt. Being alone, and helpless.

"She didn't deserve that. None of them did. Nobody deserves to lose somebody they love, James. But it hits the worst when it's unforeseeable. When the people who did it are out there in the world, as if their hands aren't tainted with blood, living their life and you can do nothing about it." You say, swallowing the lump in your throat. Thinking about your friend and Elliot always brought you to tears. You tried to help them as much as you could, but there was only so much you could do.

Bucky looks into your eyes and sees tears in the corner of your eyes. He wants to hold your hand, to comfort you, to tell you that they are going to be fine. But how could he, when his were the hands that were tainted with blood, that had taken the life of that man without a second thought.

So, he just sits there, listening to you talk about the lady and her kid, even though each of your words is like a sword stabbed through his chest.

When he knows you are fine, he takes his leave, bidding you goodbye before walking out and calling Steve.

"Steve, I need you to do something."

"What's up, Buck? Everything okay?" Steve replied in a concerned voice. Even after everything, his concern for his best friend never faded.

"I am sending you some details of a lady and her kid. Send me the contacts of the person who bought their house."

"Give me half an hour. But who are these people?"

"They are going to be our responsibility, Steve."

He cuts the call and sends a quick text with all the details he might need.

He can't help but turn back towards the bakery to have one last look. He has made up his mind. He was going to tell you the truth.

he didn't care if it meant you would hate him. There were many people in the town who despised him, what's one more?

But when he turns back and his eyes land up on you, handing a cup of coffee to a middle aged lady, talking to her with a softness unique to you.

As if you can feel his eyes on you, you turn towards the window and as your eyes meet, your smile grows wider. A smile that's only reserved for him, he realizes.

And he would have hated himself for how quickly his resolve fades away.

But Bucky Barnes was not a good man.

And maybe many people in this world did hate him, but he would be damned if you were one of them.

He wanted this. The weekly bakery visits, the warmth, the sheer simplicity of it all, even if it was all this was ever going to be.

And it was about damn time he got what he wanted.

Why should he apologize for the monster he has become when no one ever apologized for making him this way?

Maybe, one day you'll find out the truth and hate him more for lying to you, but it wasn't going to be anytime soon. He will make sure of that.

So, he straightens his coat and walks away from the bakery, choosing to not pay any mind to the inevitable doom that could leave the both of you shattered.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*

"James Buchanan Barnes"

He turns back from what he is doing to find you, cross armed, shooting daggers at him.

"How could you, James? It's like you're not even trying."

He can't help the smile that finds its way to his lips at the way you look. Your christmas sweater that you had deemed "perfect" for the occasion and a scarf draped loosely on your neck, trying to look intimidating, just makes you look even cuter.

You walk towards him and take the candy decoration from his hand, to place it exactly just an inch away from where he was going to, because it looked in your exact words, "more festive"

Bucky just smiles at you as he watches you ramble more about Christmas decorations.

When a week ago, he had heard you reminding Pietro that he had to come over to help you decorate, he had stepped in and offered his help. He was free that day anyways, he had told you. There was an international shipment that he had to sign off that day, but that could wait.

When Pietro had shaken his hand and thanked him for 'saving him', he didn't understand, but now he did. You were extremely particular about how each and everything had to look for christmas and was not shy to tell the other person what a terrible job they were doing if it wasn't exactly the way you had wanted.

But if the cute pout on your face and the warmth that it caused in his chest was any indication, it was worth it. The cookies whose smell reached him even in the living room was just an added bonus.

Right now, standing in the middle of your apartment, surrounded by incomplete decorations that signaled the arrival of a festival he wouldn't have cared the slightest about a year ago, being scolded by you for not hanging the canes correctly, he regretted nothing.

3 hours and a lot of debates later, all of which you won, the house was finally decorated enough for the festival.

"Here you go." You said, handing him a warm cup of coffee and placing a plate full of cookies on the table in front of him. It was your way of saying thank you.

Bucky looks around your apartment. It's just above the bakery and much smaller than the mansion he lived in. But it felt different in a way he couldn't point out.

A shelf filled to the brim with books standing in the corner, pictures adorning the walls, each telling a different story. Some soft music playing on the speaker, it was like a blanket of warmth stood over your house. A little messy, but beautiful nonetheless.

His eyes then land on you, sitting across from him on the sofa, sipping your coffee with a warm, content look on your face, your scarf now lying on the table.

As if you could feel his gaze, you turn back to look at him and your breath hitches in the throat at the way he is looking at you.

It's as if the world could crumble around him and he wouldn't blink an eye.

You can't get yourself to look away. So, you just raise your eyebrows, because you have suddenly forgotten how to breathe and if he didn't look away right now, you are not sure you will be able to survive longer.

He just shrugs and turns towards his coffee, as if it was a natural occurrence. As if your whole world hadn't stopped spinning for a moment there.

Bucky looks at you through the corner of his eyes and watches as red color creeps up to your neck and you try your hardest to not smile.

He now recognises the feeling.

Your apartment feels like home.

And the next realization brings with itself questions and doubts he wasn't ready to answer.

He wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩

He clenches his fist as he drags his feet towards the bakery.

It was pretty late. He knew that.

But he just had to be there.

He liked his work more often than not. The impending guilt and the danger aside, the reason that had initially brought him to this world still stood.

It made him feel something. The adrenaline of each task, the satisfaction of seeing everything that belonged to his enemies burning down till there was nothing but smoke.

The mafia world had welcomed the darkness that he had inside of him and made him one of their own, for which he will be eternally grateful.

But for some time now, it hasn't been enough.

The darkness that had surrounded and consumed him for so many years now was suddenly not enough.

Something inside him changed.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had thought twice before shooting that man today. The whispers inside him that asked him every time 'if there was any other way' had become louder now and even the noise of the bullets couldn't silence it.

He knew what was happening.

He was seeking the light.

And every single part of him knew that this could only end in disaster. In a fire that threatened to burn every single thing to the last piece.

But that didn't stop him from taking the next step. Or the one after that.

He was still walking to the one place that could silence away his thoughts and make it all go away. Like a moth attracted to a flame.

Maybe this was selfish of him. Maybe he was tainting you with his darkness.

He will think about that some other day.

When the bakery comes into view, he realizes just how late it is.

You would be about to close now.

Maybe he could catch a glimpse before you retired for the night. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. But it had to do.

As he reaches the bakery, he watches as the door slowly opens and a young boy steps out.

He frowns before walking ahead, and his eyes almost widen with who he sees.

"Peter, what are you doing here?"

Peter looks up from the book he is currently holding and his eyes widen with fear at the figure who stands before him.

"S - sir, I - I was just - "

A voice from inside the bakery calls out to him. A voice Bucky recognizes all too well.

"Peter, you forgot this."

You step out of the bakery with a textbook in your hands as you hand it over to Peter.

Peter opens his mouth to speak but then closes it. Too afraid about what was going to happen.

You turn around and when your eyes land on James, your lips turn into a grin before you know it.

"James, hi"

Peter's eyebrows shoot up as he looks between the both of you. You have a glint in your eyes as if you couldn't be happier by anything else and the man he had feared with everything he had for the last couple of years, had a softness to his features that made Peter wonder if he was somehow swallowed into an alternate dimension.

"Hey, sweets." Bucky says almost on instinct, before turning towards the boy who is still looking at the both of them as if he just saw a dolphin flying in the air.

You probably notice it too, because you then point towards Peter before saying, "James, this is Peter, and Peter, this is James Barnes."

"James?" Peter says almost on instinct, confusion evident in his voice.

"Wait, you know him?" You ask, looking between the both of them now.

Peter looks at Bucky and almost crumbles with fear by the warning glare he is shooting towards him. But there is something else there too. Something, he can swear he has never seen in the mob boss' eyes.

There is fear in them. A tiny flicker of it. He fears the answer he is going to tell you. Whatever it was, it was too important for him.

"No, no. I don't think we have met before."

"Oh, okay." You say, confused as to what had just happened here. "All the best for the test and tell MJ I said hi," You give him an easy exit from a situation he was clearly uncomfortable in.

You watch as a small blush spreads across his cheeks before he bids you goodbye and glancing at James once, takes his leave.

"He is a nice kid." You break the silence after Peter walks away, out of earshot. "Pretty smart. I was helping him with his test tomorrow."

Bucky looks back at you and shrugs in response. "Good for him."

"By the way, it's closing time, James." You say with a teasing voice and he is relieved that you don't ask any further questions.

"Come on, sweets. You could make an exception for your favorite customer."

You roll your eyes before replying. "What about this? You help me clean up, and I get you something special I made today."

"Help you clean up?"

"Aww. The prince doesn't like to get his hands all dirty?" You smirk.

"This special treat should better be worth it, sweets." He huffs before walking inside the bakery.

You walk in behind him while giggling.

"And that's it."

You look at him with a smile and silently clap your hands together with an impressed look.

If any of his men would see him right now, wearing an apron with a bunny on it, hands covered in flour, working in a bakery with soft music playing in the background, their eyes would pop out of their heads. But he couldn't care less.

"Great job for a first timer, Barnes. You have earned yourself a serving of something special."

Bucky smirked before replying, "Something special, you say?" He leans in and sends a wink your way.

You roll your eyes before turning towards the kitchen, hoping that it wasn't evident how flustered you were.

You take out something from a box and place it on a plate in front of him.

Bucky looked at it closely with a frown. It was clearly made of chocolate and was shaped like a dome. He could swear he had never seen it in your bakery before.

"Come on, give it a try. If I wanted to poison you, I would have done it ages ago."

He picks up one and after a moment of close inspection, takes a bite.

As the taste of chocolate invades his senses, he moans and puts the whole into his mouth.

You watch as his head falls back in delight.

Once he is done, which is faster than he would have wanted, he says, "Sweets, that was the best damn thing I have ever had."

You chuckle, "You say that every single time, James."

"And I mean it every single time."

You just smile at him before putting another on the plate.

As he devours that one quickly too, he inquires, "What is it called?"

You smirk before replying, "James."

"Yeah?"

"James. That's what it is called."

His eyes widen and he takes a moment to reply, "You named a sweet after me?"

"Well, technically, you were the inspiration for this."

He frowns. "How so?"

"Well, It's full of chocolate and exceptionally sweet. It's exterior is hard but its insides are so soft, they practically melt in your mouth."

Bucky looks at you, baffled and you look away, unable to meet his eyes.

He opens his mouth to say something, but is suddenly shushed by you.

"That's my favorite song." You whisper, as if not wanting to obstruct the soft melody.

Bucky listens to the sound coming from your phone.

Wise men say

"Only fools rush in"

But I can't help

Falling in love with you

He looks back at you and at the way you have a soft smile on your face, your features highlighted by the soft glow of the kitchen light.

You look at him and with a teasing smile puts your hand forward, indicating to him to take it.

He looks between your outstretched hand and your face with a frown.

"Dance with me." Your voice is so soft, he just can't get himself to say no. But, who is kidding? He will set the whole world on fire and watch it burn with a smile on his face if you asked him to.

He slowly places his hand in yours as the music continues.

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can't help

Falling in love with you

The both of you stand in the middle of the kitchen, the moonlight sweeping its way through the windows.

Everything is brightened in a warm glow but you know nothing will ever shine brighter than the way his ocean blue eyes do right now.

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help

Falling in love with you

One of his arms finds its way around your waist while the other holds yours.

You place your free hand on his shoulder and he gently pulls you closer.

The both of you stay like that for the rest of the song, swaying slowly to the music.

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

You don't know who leans first but before you know it, the distance between the both of you starts decreasing.

You hold your breath and your gaze move from his eyes to his lips.

You would be lying if you said you had never thought of this before, of how his lips would feel against yours, how he would taste like.

This man had occupied your thoughts since the day you had met all those months ago and you were pretty sure he had no idea of the effect he had on you.

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help

Falling in love with you

For I can't help

Falling in love with you

Just as the song is about to end and there's nothing but an inch of distance between the both of you, the door to the bakery was suddenly pushed open with a force and the sound of the bells invaded the comfortable silence that had covered the room in a blanket.

The both of you took a sudden step away, and you needed a moment to calm your heart which felt like it was about to beat its way out of your chest, before looking up to see who it. was.

You squinted as two men, one blonde and the other dark haired, stood at the door, looking comically too big, having no idea of what transcribed in the bakery before they had not-so-smoothly barged in.

The blonde one speaks, breaking the silence, "I knew we'd find you here."

You watch as he steps towards James, who looks at him with sheer annoyance. "What the hell are you doing here, punk?"

The other man looks at you and forms a smirk before stepping towards you. "So, this is where you always sneak off to? I guess I understand why."

James huffs in annoyance and with a sten face stops him, "Shut up, Wilson."

You look between the men who looked like they were in a staring contest when realization hit you. "Steve and Sam?"

All the men look at you at the same time and you feel like a deer caught in headlights before you stand up straighter reminding yourself that no matter how intimidating the situation was, this was your bakery.

"And you must be y/n l/n. It's great to finally meet you, Ms l/n" Steve says, smiling.

"Please, just call me y/n."

"Or we could call you beautiful." Sam replies before stepping forwards, stretching his hand to take yours for a shake.

You let out a chuckle before shaking his hand. "Y/n is fine."

"What are the both of you doing here?" Bucky speaks up, shooting daggers at Sam, his fists clenched.

"There's an emergency. We need to go." Steve replies, a serious expression adorning his face.

Sam interjects them "What's the hurry? I have heard so much about this bakery. We could eat something before leaving."

Bucky spats at him, "This bakery has closed, Wilson. Time's up. Get your butt moving."

Sam pouts and you chuckle at the antics of these grown men, "Why don't you come here some other day, Sam, I have something that I think you'll like."

Sam looks at you, a childlike smile replacing his pout, "I like her already."

Bucky steps forward towards Sam, pulling him away. "Don't listen to him, sweets."

Steve and Sam turn their head towards him so fast. you are sure they will get a sprain later. Sam raises his brows with a smirk on his face, while Steve looks at him with a smile on his.

James then quickly bids you goodbye before pulling the both of them outside the bakery.

Once they reach the car Steve and Sam had driven in, they both look at him with amused grins.

"Back off, the both of you. What's the emergency?"

Steve's expression turns serious as he replies, "Our shipment from Iran has been stopped at Morocco and they are refusing to comply."

Bucky narrows his eyes at the information. Who would dare to stop their shipment and risk getting on his bad books? "Who is it, Steve?"

"It's Alexander Pierce."

Bucky lets out a breath before looking in the direction of the bakery once more and then turning towards Steve and Sam.

"Get in the car. We need to leave right now. This is going to be a long assignment."

Next part

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