#mob spiderman

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice - epilogue

[continued from Part 23]

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Ice clinked against the stainless steel of her coffee tumbler like hollow wind chimes. She brought the pastel pink container to her lips, taking a careful sip. She’d already spilled some of it in her lap, and now brown spots dotted the yellow of her dress. Carefully, she set the tumbler down beside her, taking a moment to glance up at the scenery around her.

It was a golden-yellow summer day with a cloudless sky, save for the smog hanging over the city. Despite last week’s heat wave, the temperature was more moderate today, giving New York a much-needed break. From a bench in Central Park, she sat beneath the canopy of towering oak trees. A breeze rolled through that chilled her skin delightfully, aided by the icy beverage in her cup.

Nearby, a flock of pigeons scavenged for crumbs. On this particular Saturday, construction sounds were minor, reduced to distant echoes. The bright sounds of a street musician’s violin floated on the wind from nearby in the park. She heard a whistle from a group of children in the distance as they practiced soccer kicks. 

Soccer would be good for Bella, she thought. The seven-year-old girl had tons of energy and legs that were longer than she knew what to do with. Ever since the Olympics and watching Space Jam: A New Legacy, Bella had been obsessed with becoming the next WNBA champion. She described LeBron’s performance as a masterpiece. 

Her aunt knew better than to let her personal opinion spoil the girl’s fun.

That had been a good day. Today was a good day. She mused to herself as she took a breath. She was aware of the fact that the day wasn’t technically over. And perhaps there wasn’t anything particularly different from yesterday. But as her muscles relaxed beneath warm rays of sun on her shoulders, she found peace.

“Mind if I sit here?” a kind voice said from behind her. The muscles in her neck pulled taut. Her heart seized up and tripped over itself.

She glanced over her shoulder to find a pair of doe eyes fixed on her. Cherry lips twisted into a lopsided smile. 

Impossibly, Peter Parker looked younger than the last time she saw him. The only sign of age in his creamy smooth skin were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, and a faint pink scar blending with the wrinkles above his brow.

Without the beard, he looked criminally soft. Big, bright amber eyes were fixated on her in a way that made her heart want to burst. She felt like she was floating in space and plummeting through the atmosphere. 

At the same time, the primal part of her brain screamed out shrill sirens. Just the sight of him and his soulful eyes felt like she was tearing off a broken limb. Watching as his teeth pinched his pouty lip gave her the sensation of ripping apart nerve endings. Her stomach soured as her heart ached. 

Beneath the heart, lava boiled in her belly. Her eyes were open wide, they could even be mistaken for shock. It wasn’t shock, however, but sheer rage burned in her eyes. 

Peter Parker, the persistent paradox. 

The only man that could stir every emotion in her, like the sun conjures every color of the rainbow out of drops of rain. He painted her world in vivid colors, and yet she was colorblind to everything but the golden hue of his eyes.

Peter Parker, who could make her feel stronger and weaker all at once.

She burned for him, in every sense of the phrase.

And at the present, he was holding his breath, waiting for her reply. She gazed up at him as emotions warred within her. He waited patiently, ready to accept whatever fate she thought he deserved.

She pursed both her lips tight, eyes narrowing. “I’ll allow it,” she said. 

His lungs came to life once again, as if he’d been spared the guillotine. Gently, Peter rounded the park bench and sat down in the spot to her right. She kept her nose forward, eyes focused on anything but him.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked gently, gazing down at the pamphlet in her lap.

She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment. “A brochure.”

He observed the glossy tri-fold sheet with a nod. “I see that.” Instantly, he recognized the pictures and logo on the pamphlet, recalling how he once read the same words. “ESU, huh?” he noted with a half smirk, observing the ivory towers of the campus nestled in Midtown Manhattan. “Thinkin’ about classes?” He bit his lip anxiously. “What d’you wanna study?”

She held still, remaining silent as she stared down at the brochure. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and it felt like razors being shoved into his eye sockets. 

“Dunno,” she answered with a gentle shrug. “Interior Design, maybe.” She cleared her throat and spoke with a little more volume. “Thinkin’ about applying for a grant for this fall.”

A smile warmed his eyes, though melancholy weighed down the corners of his lips. “What’s in the cup?” he asked, pointing his nose towards her coffee tumbler.

Lashes fluttered, she followed the end of his fingertip down to her beverage, almost having forgotten that it was there. “Oh,” she said meekly. “It’s a Mauna Kea.”

Peter quirked up a brow. “A what-ya-saya?”

She pinched her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from curving. “Mauna Kea,” she repeated slowly, enunciating the syllables. “Means ‘White Mountain’ in Hawaiian.” She hesitated for a moment, licking her dry lips. “It’s the name of the tallest mountain on Earth,” she declared, mustering confidence, “from peak to summit.”

A crease formed in Peter’s brow. “I thought Everest was the tallest mountain?”

“Tallest by altitude,” she divulged with pride. “Mauna Kea is bigger.” She flicked her eyes over to his and was immediately captured by his soulful gaze.

“No joke?” he replied with a thousand-watt smile and rosy cheeks. 

“Yup,” he answered, as butterflies filled her belly.

He gazed at her as if he were witnessing the sunrise for the first time. “So, you’re drinkin’ a ‘White Mountain?’”

Her heart skipped a beat. “It’s a cold brew. Blended with honey, macadamia milk and ice, topped with coconut milk foam.” She intended to look down at her cup. Or at the pedestrians. Or the trees. Or the sun. She intended to look anywhere but at him. She really tried. “I made it myself,” she said, feeling heat crawl up her neck.

His eyes glowed, further enamored by her mere existence. “Wow. All this time, all I’ve been drinking is black coffee.” A smile glinted in his expression while his blush gave him away. “Just black coffee. Bitter. With extra sadness.”

She fought the smile her lips formed. “That’s a shame.”

“It is. People tell me I should take more risks, though. Go out on a limb.” His eyes wandered across the park before shifting back over to her. “I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and in his eyes she could spot his trepidation. If he looked young to her before, now he looked like a blushing boy asking his crush to prom. He gazed at her with the same terror, his heart in his throat and on his sleeve. “What’s your name?”

A fire burned bittersweetly in her heart as tears burned behind her eyes. She gazed at him, feeling her emotions swell. “Mari,” she answered, truthfully. She studied the bourbon and topaz facets of his irises and the lovely curve of his cupid’s bow. “But all my friends call me ‘Honey.’” 

Peter’s lip trembled at that, eyes glistening despite his attempt to control it. “Honey,” he repeated with a murmur, as if chanting a prayer, or a protection spell. As if it was the answer to everything in the universe. In his universe, at least. “It suits you.”

A bittersweet smile warmed his features as he gazed at her, lost in the universe and freefalling towards her singularity. Her eyes went glossy as she mapped the pores, freckles, and scars on his face like the constellations in the sky.

“I missed you,” he said, endearingly.

Her heart throbbed at the pain in his voice. “I know.” She licked her lips, sadness filling her expression. “You hurt me,” she said somberly.

With misty, red eyes, he whispered back, “I know.” He swallowed hard, tears swimming in his gaze. “I’m sorry for that. M’sorry for a lot of things. But I don’t regret a single moment.” 

Eyes glistening, a warm smile overtook her features, lighting up her gaze. She nodded in silent reply.

The sight of it made him want to die of joy. “If it doesn’t sound too forward,” he began gently, speaking with measured formality, “I was gonna ask you to come home with me.”

Home, he said. The significance of the word wasn’t lost on her. A tear rolled down her cheek, sliding along the curve of her grin. “Already?” she breathed out a laugh. “Geez. That was fast.”

His smile faded; he melted into enraptured awe. “No,” he whispered, eyes glowing with admiration. He leaned forward, breaking the invisible barriers between them. Her eyes fluttered shut as his calloused fingers brushed over her jaw, triggering a shiver down her spine. “I’ve waited years for you, remember?” he quietly rumbled. “I’ll keep waiting. For the rest of my life, if I have to.”

The sweetness of it all made her dizzy. It made her feel like her heart had spilled open and she would bleed out on the grass. “I’ll take it,” she sniffed, as Peter thumbed the tears from her cheeks.

“Take what?”

“The rest of your life.” 

He melted in her gaze, staring down at her lips. “Sweet girl. You are my life.”

Without hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. The sensation made her heart flutter, her mind soar, and her brain sizzle. It made her wounds heal and her soul sing. It made life worth living. It made hope real.

When they parted from the kiss, they were breathless and dizzy, hearts thrumming together in sync.

The honey hues of his chestnut eyes were fixed on hers. “So,” he said, thoughtfully. “Mauna Kea. Ever see it up close?”

She smirked. “Nope. Never been to Hawai’i.”

“Me neither,” Peter shrugged, his eyes alight with life. “Wanna change that?” 

End of Volume 1

A Note From Your Storyteller:

Whew. That was long.

I can't believe this has come to an end. Before I began writing, I was skeptical about this story, but honestly I could've never anticipated or expected the overwhelming support and love that I've gotten. People have made art from my art. They have showered me with gifts for my gift. If you'd say any gift is an expression of love, then gifted art is the ultimate expression of devotion. I love that you care about my characters, and about me!

What's next?

Good question. I've been at odds with this answer, and now it feels like I really need to commit to a path. My imagination is full of many more places that Honey and Peter can go. I could probably write 2-3 novels about these two with all of the effort I put into making these characters come to life. Realistically, I'm a mom with a baby, and I'm about to be a one-person band for the next few months. I'm excited to share these stories, but I'm not sure when or how, or even what that will look like.

The best thing you can do to interact with me is to keep your eyes on my updates from my Ko-fi page! I'm hoping to allow that to become a place where the S&V 'fandom' (wtf that sounds so weird what happened what is this life I am not worthy) can gather and where I can share updates.

In addition to S&V-related news, I'm going to post writing tips, best storytelling practices, AMAs, my favorite fics of the week, answer questions, and maybe even offer commissions. Keep in mind, none of this will be gatekeeped (gate-kept?) or behind a paywall. Even if you're not a regular... er, um, patron?... (barista?) on Ko-fi, you can still hopefully find some interesting stuff to check out.

But even if you don't do any of that, because... who cares, right? I do want you to do one thing for me. One tiny thing that will make the world better. One small thing that could end up changing someone's life.

The next fanfic you read, if you feel any emotions about it at all, please hit "reblog."

You don't have to write a long review, or leave a comment, or add any tags to it. You don't have to do anything more than click the reblog button. But please reblog. When you reblog, you get to share the gift fanfic writers make with someone else, regardless of whether you know them. And subconsciously, you tell the writer 'yes, I see you, and I think other people should, too,' and that small thing can save someone's life one day.

Forget engagement, forget likes vs comments vs reblogs vs community labels vs filtering settings—

Stories are gifts. They are expressions of love put to words. They are emotions lived, repackaged, wrapped in a bow, and then shared with others, along with a kind little note that says 'here's this moment of my heart, I hope it moves you the way it moved me.'

Reblog. And fill the world with a little more love.

[backtothefanfiction]

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

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

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

Word Count: 1.3k

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

EPILOGUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m pregnant.”

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

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

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

“Pete?” She said his name tentatively.

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

“Peter.”

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

“Peter!”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t care. Not until you say it.”

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

“Oh you’re gonna say it.”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

@scmdsblog @angiexsv @thef1nalgirl @did-someone-change-my-name @sincericida @tarzinnia @liz-allyn @blacksoul09 @humxncrxvings @sunnycolors @suicide-sweetheart636 @ahryi @ms-wild-card-56

[noiraph]

spidermob

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

this is their first date

[reidslovely]

Love of Mine

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

Pairing: Mob!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

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

Kind of a sequel but not really to this

Pretty please read and reblog!! thanks friend

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

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

“Yes baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“October 19th..wh- Oh, oh baby.” 

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

 He forgot their anniversary. 

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

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you too.”

[vigilant-insomniac]

What fandoms/franchises are you into?

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

[charkyzombicorn]

Found family that is this specifically

[daybreaklynx]

something something you're the protagonist of your life, the world is yours, do not let anyone decide for you also your name starts with an M??? they're best friends💛💙❤️

reference pic

I was almost done with shading/highlighting when I realized that mitsumi fit the criteria but it was late... so I doodled her taking the group pic🫡 my daughters... my sons... my kids... they're siblings

[fsheryy]

MOP

[monster-cock69]

mob boss tony who knows the chef at his restaurant does not fuck with substitutions finding out that there's a sweet kid who even the chef can't tell to fuck off

but yes i'm imagining it as something like "we don't have mac and cheese" ",,,please" "lemme ask the chef" and bam peter gets his mac and cheese

[liz-allyn]

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

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

words: 5.1k

chapter warning: gratuitously deep philosophical nonsense.

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

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

Don't date a mob boss.™️

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

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

Part 23

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

Peter thought of the elements. 

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

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

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

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

His dad used to talk for hours about this stuff.

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

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

Tick... Tick... Tick

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

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

In his class, he was Number 2.

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

370,000 years of hot, blinding nothingness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—he’s in’a world’a trouble...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honey wasn’t Gwen. 

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

Honey wasn’t Gwen.

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

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

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

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

Honey wasn’t Gwen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you done?” he replied witheringly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank turned silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gwen included.

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until he broke his silence. “Every night.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter bit his tongue, contemplating the idea.

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

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

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

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

Maybe even his own soul.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For how long?” she scoffed.

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

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

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

She waited.

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

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

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

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Continue to Epilogue

[backtothefanfiction]

The Angel In The Garden of Evil | Chapter Six: He's Got A Soul As Sweet As Blood Red Jam

Summary: Peter may seem like a big tough gangster to the rest of the world but he's still that soft boy from Queens underneath it all.

Warnings: 18+ Only, eventual smut (like real soon), slight fluff and jokes, this is mostly plot, character and world building

Word Count: 4.4K

A/N: This is basically just world building and further character development but still does a lot to bridge the gap between our lovers with their one to one dinner date. Expect some more name dropping and greater universe references and a lot of links back to our initial prologue and Peter's origins of friendly neighbourhood super hero to mob boss. Also title comes from the second verse of Lana Del Rey's Off To The Races, wanted to use both lines but it would have been too long. Anyway enjoy!

SIX

Peter had organised Miguel to drop the two of them off at F.E.A.S.T an hour later. The acronym stood for food, emergency, aid, shelter, training. It was a community outreach hub for the homeless or those in need. They had set multiple buildings up across the city under the banner when Peter first switched from being the friendly neighbourhood crime fighting vigilante to being a criminal in his own right. He still wasn’t like all those other guys though. Guys like her Father, Dr Octavious or even Quentin Beck. Whereas all those guys were solely out for themselves, Peter had never forgotten his roots or his mission to help his community. No, he was more like a Robin Hood figure. At least 50% of his annual profit always went back to the people.

And she had been there with him to set the whole thing up. After that first conversation they’d had all those years ago in the darkness of her college dorm room, they went back and forth for hours about what the people really need. Thus F.E.A.S.T was born.

They climbed out of the car and Miles quickly went round to open the trunk, to a mass of pink cake boxes. They quickly began to unload them from the car. Miles held out his arms and Angel stacked one box on top of the other until they were up to his eyeline. She took the final box out of the trunk before closing the boot. She shot a quick look of thanks Miguel’s way before her and Mile’s made their way to the door.

Her fingers quickly rooted around in her blazer pocket for the set of keys Peter had given her, her fingers holding a fob up to the side door of the building. There was a low buzz as the door unlocked and they shuffled their way inside with the boxes.

“Hey Karen.” Angel said, greeting a strawberry blonde woman as she made her way towards the same door her and Mile’s had just come through.

“Hey!” Karen beamed upon seeing her, an arm quickly raising to wrap around Angel’s shoulder. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It’s complicated.” Angel briefly responded. “How’s Matt?” 

“Oh, you know how he is, always takes on too many clients and never leaves himself enough time.”

“We’ll have to catch up properly soon.” Angel beamed.

“Yes. We definitely will. Look I’ve gotta run, I’ve gotta get some paperwork over to city hall before they close, but it was great seeing you.” Karen spoke joyfully as she wrapped Angel into her arms once more.

“Yeah, and you.” Angel concluded their conversation as Karen began to make her way to the door, buzzing herself out.

“Okay… so where are we putting these?” Miles asked, motioning to the boxes he was beginning to get frustrated with holding, after all, pink was not his colour.

She rolled her eyes before saying, “This way.” as she began to walk through the familiar halls. 

Not much had changed since the last time she had been there. Maybe some of the faces, but she was still surprised to see so many familiar ones. Particular Nurses who saw patients with doctors in special designated consultation rooms, all paid for by the Benjamin Parker foundation, little kids who enjoy coming and hanging out in the rec rooms recognising her, smiling and waving as she passed them.

“Hi, Angel.”

“Hi.” she’d say back.

“Hi, Angel.”

“Hi!” It was like that all the way down to the food hall. A large canteen that served regular hot meals for anyone in need, whether you were living on the streets, struggling for money or simply had no idea how to cook. It was a bustling hub of life and community. Mothers talking over cups of coffee as their kids bonded and played together. Newly divorced men looking for someone to talk to and sharing a table with those who called the streets their home as they swapped life stories. It was her favourite place in the world and her proudest achievement in life.

They set the boxes down on a free table along the back wall, opening them up to display the fresh goods. There was a sudden thud to her side as a small girl collided with her thigh, her small arms reaching to wrap around her waist. 

“Angel!” the girl beamed, “You came back.”

Angel recognised the young girl immediately. She had grown a fair bit since she had last seen her at the shelter. “Of course I did.” Angel beamed as her arms instinctively wrapped around her. “Look how much you’ve grown.” Angel commented.

“Look, I’ve got a loose tooth.” The girl said proudly as she used her fingers to pull down her lower lip and show it off.

“Oh wow. You make sure you take good care of it and that it gets to the tooth fairy okay, yeah?”

“I will.” she beamed before she ran off back towards her mother who politely smiled and waved in her direction from her seat at one of the tables.

“Wow, you really know everyone here.” Miles interjected as she continued to watch the young girl as she joined another little girl at a smaller coloring table.

“Believe it or not Miles, this used to be my livelihood. I used to come down and spend so many of my days here helping out. Veronica was actually born here.” She said motioning to the little girl who kept looking back and smiling at her.

“You don’t say.” Miles said with a smile as he finally began to relax.

“It’s my favourite place in the world.” she said fondly. “Come on, I’ll give you the proper tour.”

They walked around the halls together as she gave him the grand tour of all three floors. As well as the already mentioned doctor’s rooms, cafeteria, common rooms and childrens playrooms, there were counselling suites and consultation rooms for legal advice. The second floor had a community hall with regular classes from toddler groups to self defence lessons. The whole top floor was dedicated to the homeless project that provided emergency beds for those rough sleeping whether on site there at the hub or being relocated to one of the apartment buildings they had bought out as temporary accommodation until they could get their feet back on the ground.

They sat and talked to people in the communities, helped out staff where they could and overall tried to inject some light into people's lives amongst the darkness.

“Hey.” a familiar voice said behind her as Veronica, who had just come and given her a picture she had drawn for her, ran back to the coloring table.

“Heeyy!” she beamed softly as she turned around to find her husband.

His hand tenderly braced itself against her lower back and she couldn’t help but melt into his warm touch. She had become so wrapped up in what she was doing, she had almost completely forgotten everything else that had come to pass. The way that everyone had opened their arms to her made her feel like the last three years had never happened, let alone the last 4 hours she had spent there.

“I went back to May’s apartment but you weren’t there.”

“No.” she smiled fondly.

The whole moment felt so domestic, reminding him of days gone by where he would pick her up on Friday afternoons, a moment for him to show his own face and see all of the hard work that was continuing to be carried out with his money. He turned his head around the room looking for Miles, only to find him sitting on a tiny chair next to a little boy on a purple bean bag, playing with the new playstation that had recently been acquired.

“I’m assuming all of the baked goods are gone?” he asked, attempting to keep civil conversation and find good ground between them.

“Actually I think there might be a cupcake or two still in there if you want one.”

They smiled fondly at one another. He had to admit, despite all of the shit he ended up being involved with on a day to day basis, whenever he came back here, seeing families and communities thrive, it made it all worth it,

“You ready to get out of here and go for that dinner?” He asked softly.

She silently nodded as she found herself suddenly drowning in his honey brown eyes. Those soft eyes. The ones he used to look at her with back when they first met. Back when he would sneak into her dorm room. His gaze would soften like molten honey, a sickly sweet sensation always pulling her in as he told her how beautiful she was, his Angel. “Yes.” she finally said slowly, finding her voice. It was barely audible above the noise of the room, but she knew he heard it.

“Yo, Miles!” Peter hollered across the room to him, causing the younger gentleman’s ears to prick up, his head turning slightly, but his eyes never left the screen. “You’re free, man, go home.”

“Yeah, okay, just a minute!” he called back, “I just gotta win this race.”

“Nu uh.” the young boy next to him replied before Miles playfully bumped the kids shoulder with his own.

Angel couldn’t help but let out a small giggle at the exchange as she grabbed her blazer off the back of a chair as they left.

-

When they got out onto the street Angel had expected to find Miguel outside waiting for them, but instead her eyes came to rest on a black Maserati she recognised from her quick glance across the garage in their rush the night before. “Where’s Miguel?” she asked as Peter began to make his way towards the car, opening the passenger door for her. 

“I’ve got him out running an errand with Harry.” he replied as she stepped past him to slide herself into the passenger seat. “Plus, I want tonight to be just about us.” He said, his head bending down to look at her through the door frame.

“Okay, duly noted.” she replied with a curt smile before he closed the door on her. “So does that mean we’re gonna get through a whole evening without interruptions?” She asked when he climbed into the driver's seat on the other side.

He shuffled slightly in his seat before reaching into the inside pocket of his blazer for his phone making a show of putting it on aeroplane mode before handing it to her for safe keeping. She pursed her lips, attempting to keep a straight face as she looked down at the phone now turning around in her fingertips, trying not to let on how big of a deal that was for the two of them.

“So where are we going?” she asked as he clicked his seatbelt into place before starting the car up with a loud rev of the engine for good measure. She had no doubt he was showboating, trying to impress.

“Oh, now that would ruin the surprise.” he said as he quickly revved the car and sped away.

*****

They arrived 10 minutes later outside a restaurant on the upper east side called the Lemon Grove. The whole front of the building was lit with fairy lights and vines filled with fake lemons. They got out of the car and Peter tossed his keys to a waiting valet before his now free hand rested comfortably at the small of her back as he guided her to the restaurant door.

“Hi, good evening, welcome to the Lemon Grove, do you have a booking with us this evening?” a gentleman, who looked to be nearing his forties asked.

“Yes, there should be a table for two under Parker.” Peter said.

The maître d' scanned his list before saying “ahh yes, here it is. If you’d like to follow me this way.” he encouraged them as he held out a hand for them to follow him.

He led them through the bustling restaurant and over to a table tucked away to the back. He moved to pull out a chair for Angel but Peter quickly cut him off, “It’s okay, I’ve got it.” he said, wanting to make a show of putting in the effort with her after their fight earlier on he was still trying to make up for.

“Okay.” the maître d' said as he took a step back.

When Peter had stepped back around to the other side of the table and began taking his seat the maître d' stepped forward again to place the menus on either side of the table in front of them.

“Thank you.” Angel smiled, as Peter tucked his chair in.

“Can I get either of you a drink? Or would you like to take a moment to look at the wine list?” The maître d' asked, motioning to the smaller menu already on the table.

Before she had had a chance to say anything Peter hastily grabbed the wine list, scanning it over, before ordering them a bottle of an Italian Cabernet from Tuscany. 

“Coming right up, sir.” The maître d' said before walking away and leaving them to their table.

“You still love Italian food right?” Peter asked her as they both reached for their menus to start gazing over the cuisine. 

“Would you hate me if I actually said I’d gone off it.” she deadpanned from behind her menu, causing him to freeze. “I mean, living in Italy for just over two years…” she continued, seeing how far she could push him and make him squirm. She watched over the top of her menu as he swallowed uneasily. “I’m kidding Pete.” she quickly said as he met her eyes, a smile creeping across her face.

“Don’t do that.” he quickly shook his head at her, but he couldn’t hide from her the small quirk in the corner of his lip at realising he’d been had. “No.” he continued, trying to brush it off. 

“What? Spider boy can’t take a joke anymore?” she teased as she fought with the grin that wanted to take over her whole face.

“Oh no, I can take a joke.” he quickly interjects, looking to cover himself.

“Yes, of course.” she mockingly nods as he continues to get a hold of himself.

“It’s just, not often that I am the victim to them.”

“Okay.” she smirked as she continued to nod, her eyes turning back to the menu in front of her as she scanned the list of foods.

It was at that point she realised she hadn’t really eaten since their breakfast meeting this morning.

“What is it?” he quickly asked, noticing the sudden furrow to her brow, an air of concern taking over his whole body.

“Nothing, it’s nothing.” She hastily responded, not wanting him to stress or feel like matters were worse than they were, as if either of them still weren’t somewhat on alert after the events of the past 24 hours, an unconscious paranoia just waiting to take over. “I just realised I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Oh.” he interjected quietly as he began to settle again.

They sat in silence for a moment as they continued to scan the menu, that unspoken paranoia sitting heavily in the middle of the table between them after his reaction that neither was sure how to shift.

“So do you know what you want?” he asked, clearing his throat slightly and breaking up the silence between them.

He watched for a moment as she flicked back and forth between pages. “Yes… no… maybe?” He can’t help but be warmed by the small questioning look on her face, one eyebrow twitching higher than the other, her head tipping slightly as she muddled over the different options in her head. It was the same look she used to get when he would watch her study for a test or when she was struggling to work something out for her thesis, back when she was still at college.

A waiter came over with their drinks and it made Peter smile when she didn’t even look up from the menu, but still reached for the glass the moment it had been sat down, swiftly bringing it to her lips and taking a sip. 

“Do we know what we’d like to order this evening?” The waiter asked as he stood patiently next to the table. 

Peter was about to ask for him to give them another moment when she closed the menu and sat it down in front of her. There was a pause as if to check she really was ready, when she said. “Off you go.” tipping her head to encourage Peter to place his order, as she once again brought her wine glass coily to her lips.

“Are we doing starters?” Peter quickly questioned her, an old habit suddenly popping into his head.

“Peter, just order.” she replied, but he could see the quirk of her lip and recognised the sudden dark gaze to her eye and knew she was up to something.

“Okay…” he hesitantly said, his head turning towards the waiter. “We’ll take the calamari and a portion of arancini to share for starters.” he began, his eyes quickly glancing back to his date for confirmation she was okay with this. She merely raised her eyebrows as she sank back in her seat, wine glass still poised in her hand, the tiniest tilt to her head encouraging him on. “Then for mains, I’ll take the sea bass…” he paused, flashing her another glance and her eyebrows rose higher still, encouraging him to surprise her and order for her. He quickly scanned back over the menu before him, re-familiarising himself with it. He smiled to himself. “She’ll have the parmigiana di melanzane, a portion of bruschetta and a small caprese salad on the side.” He said with perfect pronunciation as he ordered her a selection of their starters for her to pick and choose from like an Italian version of tapas. Once she had laid down the gauntlet he had felt her tense slightly, worrying whether or not he’d order the right thing, but upon making the order, he could feel her energy begin to relax, a smile forming on her lips again.

“Is that everything, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, I think it is.” Peter said with a smile dismissing the waiter who quickly took their menus from them before heading to the kitchen with their order.

There was a pause between them as Peter took a sip of his wine and they tried to work out what to talk about. 

“How’s your shoulder?” Peter asked her as she folded her hands into her lap.

“It’s okay. A little tender but, it’s fine.” Her fingers automatically reached for the shoulder in question but quickly lowered her hand back into her lap.

“How bad was the house?” she asked. Peter noticed there was a slight hesitancy to her question, as if it pained her to think about.

“It’s gonna take a bit of work but-”

“Do you think we’ll be able to go back there, or will we need to sell it?”

Her question seemed to answer her previous hesitancy. It had been their house, their home. The place they had picked out together, decorated together. Lived in together. They’d always seen it as their forever home. The place to raise kids one day. Maybe get a dog. Hold large family events in the backyard. They’d tried so hard to keep it separate from everything else and now that privacy had been violated.

He was silent for a moment as he considered his response. “I won’t lie… it might have to be a possibility.” He watched her closely as she exhaled the breath she had been holding, the usual twinkle in her eye fading as the reality of their situation took over once more. “But until-”

“I know.” she said, not needing him to finish his sentence, her own mind already completing it for her. ‘Until the Vulture had been taken care of, they wouldn’t even be able to consider the house safe enough to go home.’

“So what do we do?” she asked. “I mean we can’t very well keep staying at May’s.” she noted.

Peter was silent for a moment as he looked down at the table in front of him. He had that face on him, she noted, the one where he had something planned but didn’t want to let on that he in fact had a plan.

He was saved by the arrival of their starters, the food being placed down in the middle of the table for them both to pick at.

“Thank you.” Angel said politely to the waiter as he quickly made his retreat, leaving them alone once more.

“Oh my god.” she sighed as she took a bite out of one of the arancini balls with a groan of satisfaction. “That’s amazing.”

Peter’s face changed to one of pleasant surprise as he placed one into his mouth and confirmed his wife's reaction by having a similar one, his own humm of satisfaction vibrating his lips as he chewed.

“So is it as good as the stuff in the actual country or…?” he asked as they moved on to the calamari.

“Not bad.” she confirmed as she finished her mouthful. “I made friends with this lovely old woman who lived down the road from the house and she used to make the best meatballs I have ever tasted. She had just that right ratio of tomato and garlic and she’d slow cook them so they just melted in your mouth.” Angel gushed.

“Now I’m glad I didn’t order the meatballs.” Peter smiled. “With a description like that I don’t think they could have compared and I would have spent the whole meal feeling disappointed with my food, dreaming about these mouthwatering, slow cooked-”

She giggled, a blush forming on her cheeks as she took another sip of wine as he jokingly continued to use as many adjectives as he knew to describe a plate of meatballs he would never ultimately have.

“Oh no, I’m serious.” he continued with a smirk, “I’m gonna call Miguel right now, get him to tell them to get a jet ready so we can fly to Italy to this mysterious magical Nona who cooks the best meatballs and we will do nothing else until-”

“How are you gonna do that, when I have your phone?” she teased back.

“Fine then, you call Miguel.”

“Peter.” she giggled and chastised. He loved it when he could make her blush. Make her forget about everything else. Take them back to their youth. Quiet rainy afternoons, wrapped up in each other's arms on that small single bed.

“Okay, okay.” he conceded with a smile.

“What do you wanna do about your Father’s house?” he asked her as their main courses arrived, her three smaller plates being laid out strategically in front of her by the waiter. Peter watched as she quietly thanked him before switching the order of the plates once the waiter's back was turned. It made Peter’s stomach turn, a sickly sweet feeling that sent tingles to the joins of his jaw that made him quickly turn his head to his own plate before him, inner conflict returning as his brain remembered the question he’d just asked and all of their recent history began to drive a wedge between them once more.

“Sell it.” 

“You sure?” he questioned. It had been the home she had grown up in.

“There’s nothing left for me there.” she said as she lifted a fork full of salad into her mouth.

“Did you wanna go back and sort through anything?”

“No.” she adamantly shook her head.

“Okay.” he silently nodded and agreed. “We can put all the money back into the foundation if you want. Maybe set up another hub in the city?” he asked, trying to chip away at the wall she seemed to just put up at the mention of her Father.

She paused as she lowered her cutlery. “Peter, can I ask you something?” Peter’s own hands froze either side of his plate as he gave her his full attention. “Do you ever wonder if you made the right choice?”

“What do you-”

“I mean all this.” she gestured with her hand between them. “If you hadn’t given up the suit and the mask… do you think things would have been different?”

“I think…” he paused as he tried to comprehend her question. To think of the life they would have had if he had continued to be the Spider-Man, not whatever he was today, “I think we wouldn’t have much money. I think we’d have ended up living in a shoe box apartment somewhere in Queens, still sneaking around behind your father’s back.” She quietly sipped on her wine as she listened to his thoughts. “I think a lot of people's lives would be harder because they wouldn’t have the hubs to go to when they are in need.”

“That’s not what I mean.” she quietly said as her arms came to rest on the table, her fingers reaching out to him.

“You mean, do you think he would have let you stay?”

There was silence between them. Peter watched as she slowly removed her hand from where it had reached out across the table towards him. Reached out for him, to bridge that gap that had grown between them. But he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t be reminded what it felt like to feel her soft skin against his.

The two of them remained silent, unable to finish their food. The weight of everything that had been or even could have been already enough for their brains to process, let alone the last of their food in front of them.

When the waiter asked if they’d like to look at the dessert menu, Peter waved him off. He instead quickly settled the bill with a generous tip and they both left.

They waited quietly side by side at the edge of the street for the car to be brought around.

“I’m sorry.” she finally blurted out as her arms closed tightly around her with the evening chill. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” she added more quietly as the car revved to a stop in front of them.

The driver quickly got out, handing Peter the keys before stepping towards the passenger door to open it.

“Get in the car.” Peter instructed softer than she expected. “There’s something I want to show you.”

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

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[maple-the-awesome]

Prettiest One In The Room || Part 2/2

Pairing: Mob! (any) Peter Parker x Reader

Words: 4,488

Overview: After being the victim of cruel remarks and snide laughter from others, you decide to take your husband's generous offer in proving just how much he loves his new wife. Warning: Smut, +18, oral (fem. receiving), gentle dom!Peter, sub!Reader, virgin!Reader, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, hint of overstimulation, breeding kink if you squint, husband kink (because Peter loves being married to you😉), some dirty talk (but mostly praise because Peter worships you😍).

Marvel Masterlist 🖤 Fandom Masterlist 🖤 Requests

PART ONE

You would shiver at the feeling of the cold marble counter brushing against your exposed thigh, however you're a little too distracted by Peter attacking your neck to complain. Addicted to the soft touch of your skin against his lips, he presses a trail of kisses as far north as your jaw and as far south as your collarbone, each as messy and wet as the last. Sometimes he hits the same place twice before finally deciding to give into temptation and nip you there; never enough to draw blood nor hurt, but plenty to make you whimper in anticipation. This is only the beginning after all.

You can feel Peter's calloused hands dust over your curves as they slide back downwards to your legs. After spreading them apart, he shamelessly positions himself in between which allows him better access directly to you. Personal space is further reduced by guiding your legs around his waist while his arms snake around your torso, pulling you chest-to-chest where he can successfully tower over you. This forces you to keep your head cranked backwards especially when his lips finally meet yours.

You're not sure what's more surprising: his clear desire for his wife that he's amazingly kept hidden until now or the fact that he's somehow deaf to the rapid pounding of her heart. It's almost nauseating paired alongside your wavering nerves and wild thoughts that all seem so out of place. You planned for this. You want this especially after finally laying to rest your worries of being a shame to your husband...So why do you feel so anxious right now?

"...Princess?" Peter only barely pulls away, his breath still warm against yours.

You give a hum for it's all you can muster.

"Do you not want this? I've told you time and time again: I won't be mad if you don't, but I'm not a mind reader, love. You have to be honest with me-" Crap, he isn't deaf after all.

"-I don't know what to do with my hands," you blurt pathetically, cheeks feeling as hot as the sun while you refuse to meet his eyes.

It's true. Your trembling hands have been clenching the edge of the counter in an iron grip, too busy debating their possible options to actually commit to one. Should you be hugging him back? Running your fingers through his slicked back hair? Maybe move them lower down his body until-

-A deep chuckle rumbles in Peter's chest, muffling itself against another quick kiss," this isn't a test, sweetheart, and don't you dare worry about me. Just do whatever makes you feel right."

Giving it some more thought paired with his encouraging words, you finally move your arms around him, wrapping them delicately over his shoulders where your fingertips can be tickled against the longer hair at the back of his head. Your bashful smile melts against his when he resumes work, this time biting your lower lip until you open your mouth only a crack. You soon open much wider however, when his tongue forces its way inside.

Dizzy from this deep kiss, your attention is only stolen away by the feeling of your dress being rolled up. All night you've been tugging at its ends trying to keep it from riding up too far yet here you are now, eagerly shifting your weight to help Peter swiftly move it upwards until exposing your full lower half.

You're taken aback by the animalistic growl he gives once looking you over, a sound that affects you in an almost embarrassing way that goes directly to your core. He has no guilt in staring, in fact he even goes as far as to lick his lips while plucking at the band of your new black lingerie," have you been hiding these pretty things the whole night, princess? 'makes me think someone was planning this, hmm?"

He must've truly been joking again, because you notice a very brief flash of surprise in his eyes when you look away shyly. Of course, it's gone by the time he blinks and replaced by a mischievous glimmer instead as he twiddles the ribbon against his finger, leaning towards you closer with a whispered voice that tickles your ear," usually I don't appreciate anyone being one step ahead of me, but for you, my sweet princess...I'm willing to make an exception."

Both of Peter's hands grasp your hips, giving them a squeeze as he pecks your lips before promptly moving along your jawline towards more important places," tell me, did you pick these out specifically for me?"

You hum your reply, each featherlight kiss leading down to the very crook of your neck.

"I bet you spent hours trying to find the perfect match. Which hug your figure best..."

You whimper when his large hands cup your ass as a perfect fit. His wedding ring is cold to the touch and judging on his grip, you wouldn't doubt a temporary imprint or two of it against your soft skin.

"...Which would make me hard for you..."

You bite your lip as you feel one of his hands move too slowly to reach your inner thigh, tracing a line from just above your knee up to the very place you can't wait to have him at.

"...Which would feel like utter heaven to wear while I shower you in all my love..."

You finally give a moan as Peter suddenly sucks the most sensitive skin of your neck harshly.

"Which you'll never be able to so much as look at again without remembering the time I tore into you, my beloved wife; the prettiest woman to ever live."

"P-Peter, you're going to leave marks," you warn, your concern overshadowed by pleasure as your husband continues to ignore your statement, deciding to fulfill it instead by giving you another suck slightly higher.

"That's the plan. 'have to set it straight with everyone else out there: you're mine and I have no shame in worshiping you."

It'll be impossible to hide all the marks Peter decorates you in right now, but maybe that's not a bad thing. While your cheeks burn with heat, there's a candle of excitement within your chest at the thought of leaving this bathroom arm-in-arm with your husband, covered in his lovely hickeys while wearing a smug smile upon your smeared lips. No one will be able to deny it then: you're his and he'd never have it any other way.

Peter's hands move again, only barely grazing over your upper thighs where they hesitate so that his fingers may pluck gently at the band of your lingerie.

"May I?"

It feels like a dream to have Peter push you further back onto the counter after you nod, removing your legs from his waist and placing them in a bent position over his shoulders once he kneels down. You must've been holding your breath for it, watching intensely as he carefully pulls off your panties to leave your bottom half completely exposed to him and only him. It's not until his thumb- roughly compared to his previous touch- brushes against your wet clit that your breath is released in a shaky gasp.

"So wet already, princess...and I've barely even touched you. How are you possibly going to make it through the night?" He doesn't remove his thumb from your clit, rather he continues rubbing circles against it which have your toes curling inside your heels.

"That feels good, doesn't it? Do you like when I touch you there, princess?"

You hum, tossing your head back.

"Words, princess."

"Y-Yes...It feels heavenly!" You fail to suppress the moan by chewing on your inner cheek. That task is impossible as Peter's finger dips into your soaking folds where it then dances over your opening.

Pleased by your previous answer, he smirks," you're the only person in the world I'll ever get down on my knees for, you know that?"

You dare to look down, curiosity getting the best of you when you feel his warm breath against your pussy, however you can only get a brief glance at the sight before your head is thrown back again, an unrestrained cry filling the air as Peter's lips attach themselves to your clit. Before you can even fully process the feeling of his tongue against your nerves, he uses it as a distraction to push his long finger into you.

Both actions are foreign in feeling. Sure, you've experimented with yourself a little as a horny teenager and you'd be lying to say you haven't secretly touched yourself even after marrying Peter. Once growing comfortable around your new husband, the next natural step was to fuck your own fingers while imagining the touch to belong to him as a fruitless attempt in reaching a proper orgasm much to your own frustration. Luckily, you don't think that's going to be a problem after tonight.

Peter's finger disappears to his knuckle as he pumps into your pussy, his tongue swirling over your sensitive bulb in the meantime. He doesn't bother being dignified about it nor is he afraid of the echo of his own slurping as he practically eats you alive like a starved man.

One finger then two, stretching you out in a way that's only a taste of what's to come. They burn at first, yet the more he moves inside your tight pussy, scissoring and curling against your wet walls, the more that pain transforms into a pleasure that has your mouth hung open, droll barely kept from dripping in the corners.

Never have you been able to make yourself feel this way. Where you'd normally lose strength just as your legs began to shake, Peter shows resistance, merely smirking while keeping at it. As your moans increase in volume with his name being torn from your throat in the form of a prayer, he only temporarily moves away from your pussy, his voice unforgivably deep.

"Are you gonna cum, princess? Go ahead then...Show your husband that he's doing his job well. 'show him how much you love it when he eats you out."

You're certain your grip on the counter is white at this point, any words you try to speak broken against your own moans until the feeling is overwhelming. You weren't sure how much longer you could last, however the answer is quickly provided when Peter gives another powerful suck while curling his fingers inside.

Crying out his name, you feel yourself finally come undone over his fingers and face. Your body shakes and you can't help lifting your hips into him in weak thrusts. He doesn't stop right away, instead catching your hips in his hands and pulling you into his face where he can easily kitten lick his share of your juices even if it leaves you whimpering.

It isn't until Peter stands to his feet that you can see what you've done, his jaw shining in the lights hanging above you both. Smirking, he shamelessly sticks his fingers into his mouth one at a time, sucking them off before kissing you again which allows you to taste yourself on his lips, too.

"Mmm, you taste wonderful, princess," he hums, pecking your forehead," but I'm ready for the main course, how about you? You took my fingers so well. 'think you can do that to my cock, too?"

"Please."

Peter chuckles before undoing his belt, letting his pants fall and pool at his ankles. His erection is clear in his boxers, a bit of precum visibly leaking onto the fabric. When he pulls this last remaining barrier of clothing down, his cock finally springs free and slaps his stomach.

You gulp, both out of desperation and slight worry. It's one thing to imagine what he looks like down there as you pump yourself with a measly two fingers, but it's a very different effect to see him in person like this. He's long and lean yet far bigger than just two fingers. A part of you wants to worry over this size, fearing the pain that will come from it regardless of what he's already done to make you slick. Of course, that's the quieter side of your head. Regardless of such silent worries, you lick your lips, dying for a taste.

With his cock in hand, Peter gives it a few pumps to prepare while caging you against the counter with his free hand. Despite the current situation including all the dirty things that have been said and done leading up to now, his voice is soft as he whispers in your ear," do you still want this, princess? We can keep it down to just you if you want."

"And leave you like that?" You whisper back, shivering at the sound of his cock sliding in his hand at a steady pace, and that's just it being coated in his own precum! What sinful sounds is it going to make pushed deep inside your slick?

"I could always finish myself off if-"

"-But I want you," you complain, placing a hand on the back of his head. Your fingers tangle in his hair, not applying any pressure but assuring he doesn't get any ideas of moving away," I want you inside me now. I want you to officially make me yours; all of me."

Peter moans lowly and you can feel his smooth tip barely poke against your folds," all of you, hmm? You want me to fuck your little pussy then?"

The tip pushes through only enough to run up and down through your folds, coating itself in leftover juices which makes you shiver again,"...break you open and pump you full of my big cock? Would you like that, princess?"

"Yes, I would, Peter. Please just fuck your wife already!" All he has to do is lean a little forward and he'll be in. Why must he tease like this?

"Atta girl."

You both moan when Peter finally pushes forward, his cock slipping into your pussy at a leisurely pace. Just as you expect, it burns a lot despite his fingers having already loosened you up. Such a feeling fills your eyes with tears which Peter brushes away with his thumbs kindly.

Whispering sweet words of encouragement along the way, he takes his time slowly sinking in until his balls reach your entrance, forbidding him from going any further," don't rush yourself, darling...Take your time and relax for me."

You whimper, your breath increasing as your pussy tries to adjust to his size, although it takes longer to get comfortable than you would like. Nevertheless, you listen to Peter's urges, waiting not so patiently for most of the stinging to subside before moving forward with the part you desire most.

Your husband groans when you weakly try to roll your hips against him, taking it as a sign to begin moving himself. Pulling out, he leaves just his tip in before slamming back into you again causing you to cry out in pleasure. With this, he begins the task of pumping into you as promised, starting out slow just to get you accustomed to the process.

With practice, your whines of discomfort become moans of pleasure ripped from the very depths of your lungs. Both of your arms wrap around him, digging into the back of Peter's suit which will more than likely need a special trip to the dry cleaners to get ironed out after the way you've been gripping onto the fabric (not that he minds one bit). Meanwhile, he keeps his own arms tightly around you to prevent you from being pushed too far back onto the counter by the force of his strong thrusts, instead keeping you trapped securely right where he can please you best on the edge.

"You're so damn tight, princess...So tight for me and only me. Does it feel good having your husband finally claim your pussy?

"Just." Thrust...

"Like." Thrust.

"You." Thrust!

"Planned!" THRUST!

Your nails scratch his skin with the same amount of pressure that your teeth bite into your lower lip with, trying to suppress the shameful smile his dirty words give," oh yes!"

Suddenly Peter stops and, for a split second, you fear that's a sign he came already, however before you can feel too disappointed over that, you realize the true reason for his pause.

"We're fucking busy!" He shouts angrily as the bathroom door only just begins to creak open.

 This makes your heart leap both due to his livid tone and the fact that someone almost caught the two of you, although you're sure the woman probably feels worse given how quickly she slams the door with a horrified gasp. Surely she put two and two together hearing moans then a man's voice coming from inside the women's bathroom...Oh well.

You might've let the interruption ruin this otherwise perfect moment if not for Peter lifting you off the counter and, in one swift movement, bending you over it with your bare ass in the air towards him.

"Hands on the counter, princess," Peter orders and you happy oblige," now unless you have any objections, I'd like to continue where we left off from here."

While you eagerly slap your palms against the smooth surface, keeping yourself upright with your back purposefully arched in a beautiful way, your prepared posture falters immediately when Peter pushes into you roughly from behind.

No longer facing him, you must watch from the mirror in front of you to see just what your husband's up to back there (not that this is a bad sight). His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, sweat beading on his forehead as he holds your hips into place with a powerful grip. A mix of swears and praises fall from his satisfied smirk, his lustful eyes drifting from the sight of his cock disappearing into your deep pussy then to the mirror where he can check on your own expression.

Honestly you're a complete mess; absolutely breathtaking. You can barely keep your eyes open let alone keep yourself upright on the counter, falling over nearly every time Peter thrusts into you. It isn't probably not all that ladylike to have so much drool dripping from your mouth which hangs open and sings admirations for the man doing this to you, but he's touched to hear such songs.

"Peter-!" You go to shout, shutting your mouth quickly to muffle the sound in fear of someone else hearing. Even assuming that woman didn't go spread the news about Peter Parker currently fucking the soul out of his wife in the bathroom, others are bound to know the difference between an angry wife and a very happy one when they hear it themselves. 

Despite your thoughtfulness towards keeping this show private, Peter seems to have a different idea, reaching forward to pull your hair. It might've been his idea of being dominant, however it feels more like he's running his hand through your hair instead of actually pulling it. Damn him and his caring nature right now!

"Don't be shy. Tell them exactly who's fucking you, princess. 'make them regret ever doubting you."

You whimper.

"You about to cum again already, sweetheart? Damn, do you love your husband's thick cock that much that you can barely last?" Peter mocks, his thrusts getting harder," come on, princess. You deserve this. Cum for your husband and let everyone hear you do it!"

"PETER, MMM!" You don't need to be told twice. By the time Peter finishes his sentence, you're already letting loose over his cock. You both moan, you for the feeling of being so full and loved while Peter moans for the feeling of your tight pussy hugging around him so delicately; a perfectly fit just as he imagined you'd be for him.

Crossing your arms against the counter, you use them as a pillow to rest your head on as you sigh pleasantly. Once catching your breath, you glance over your shoulder with a tired smile in preparation to praise Peter, however that apparently has to wait.

Before you can process it, he's sneaking one of his hands around your front, his fingers searching blindly for something which he knows he's found by the way you raise your head against with a loud gasp.

"Peter, what are-?"

"-One more time, princess. I want you to cum one more time for me, please," his leans completely over your arched back, pressing against you until his teeth are able to nibble your ear lobe.

"I-I don't know if I can-can," you mewl, unable to help the movement of your legs as they prance in place. You're still so sensative from your last two orgasms yet Peter wants a third?

Thinking about it now, you're certain those first two orgasms were your strongest ever. Hell, maybe you've never actually orgasmed before if it's supposed to feel like that. Never have you felt anything near those powerful waves of pleasure when playing with yourself, so if Peter's feeling anything like you right now, you can understand why he's suddenly addicted, but can you really survive a third?

"You can do this, sweetheart. It'll be quick. Just one more so that I can cum with you this time. Don't you want to learn what it's like to have a man's stuff himself inside you?"

So dirty. 

"...But if you're really that tired, you can rest. I can finish myself like I said earlier. Just tell me what you prefer."

Hmm, so many options? Try for another orgasm, let him finish himself off and possibly cum elsewhere on your body. Hell, you're not against the idea of blowing him either.

"I'm waiting for the green light, princess."

You moan at his breath in your ear," go-go ahead...b-but I can't guarantee I'll be able to walk out of here."

"I'll carry you then," Peter smirks before mercilessly playing with your swollen ball of nerves, swirling around it with his thumb while slowly starting his thrusts up again.

You can't bother to keep your head up this time, resting it on your arms while allowing Peter to do as he pleases. He deserves it anyways with how good he's been making you feel for your first time.

He uses his free arm to wrap around your stomach, pulling you into him until there's no space left. Your back is completely pressed to his, his pelvis smacking against your ass as his cock buries itself into your slick folds at a rapid rate that has you screaming his name in no time.

You're so sensitive, your pussy feeling stretched to its limit while your clit's overwhelmed, but you don't want it to end. If you could, you'd stay like this the entire night, however realistically, you won't be able to last too much longer from now. Peter won't either. Soon, his own moans are matching the volume of yours, his grip tightening over you yet his naughty hand losing its persistent rate rubbing your blub.

Letting his head fall forward, Peter bites then kisses your shoulder sobbly," you-you feel that, princess? My cock...twitching inside you? I'm getting close...Mmm...'can't last much longer..."

Oh, you feel it alright. Even if you didn't, you could tell just by the way his face is screwed in the mirror. Peter's unraveling, reaching his own breaking point just as you are.

"I-I'ma...too," using whatever strength you have left, you push your ass against him, giving weak thrusts to help him along as you feel yourself beginning to cum once more. This time you have tears in your eyes, enough to roll down your cheeks as you shout into the air without any regard as to who might hear it," PETER! F-FUCK!"

The deep groan behind you is the only warning you have a split second before you shiver at the feeling of something foregin filling your insides. It's warm and thick, coating your walls beautiful if only you could see it.

Peter's thrusts shutter, both of his hands hurrying to steady himself by grabbing hold of your hips. He holds you to his leaking cock, giving it a few good thrusts to make sure he fills you completely, pushing his seed deep inside. You feel cold and empty when he finally pulls out with a sigh, although there's some satisfaction in his hand covering your entrance immediately afterwards.

"Such a good girl...So full of my cum," Peter whispers happily, using his fingers to push back in any of his thick liquids that seep out of your aching folds. If it weren't for your birth control, something tells you you'd definitely be pregnant after this, but if the process is this nice, maybe that's not a terrible idea someday.

You refuse to let go of the counter, using it as support to turn around and face your husband while still catching your breath. The first thing you do is look down, confirming for yourself that beads of white cum cover your pussy's entrance even around his hand. As for his cock, it's already starting to rise again despite being slick in your juices and his own cum along the sides.

"How...-" You inhale tiredly with a teasing smile,"-are you still hard after all that?"

"That's what happens when you have such a gorgeous wife. I could go all night if she asked," Peter leans forward, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a needy kiss to your lips. Judging on how desperatly he claims your mouth, one would think he hasn't kissed you in ages and defintely didn't just get done fucking the life out of you.

His cock presses against your inner thigh, something that would've made you wet again if not for your three orgasms having turned your legs into jelly. There's no way you can go for more when you can barely stand straight on your own.

"Lift me onto the counter?" You ask into the kiss, Peter happily obliging.

You can't tell if it feels better to be sitting down with how much your pussy and lower back burn, however at least you're steady enough as you wrap your arms around Peter's shoulders, pulling him into another kiss.

He's the one to eventually pull away, his hands covering your cheeks as he carefully looks your face over with a hint of worry in his eyes," I didn't get too rough, did I?"

"Not at all. I loved it," you confirm, pecking his lips," I love you."

Peter smiles at this, letting his hands fall back around you," I love you, too, princess...and I hope you know that now without a doubt. Never let anyone make you think differently."

"And what if I want another lesson to prove it?"

"Sweetheart, you can have this without the 'lesson' part anytime you desire."

"...Then how about more tonight? I need some rest, but I'm not against the idea of taking care of you in the car ride back- if you want that is," you offer against his ear, running a hand down Peter's chest while giving his necktie a suggestive tug in the process.

Needing no other options, Peter makes quick work in lifting you up bridal style and demanding the first guard he crosses outside of the bathroom to start the car. It might not be exactly as you planned earlier, but you're certain tonight is going to be even better than what you dreamed.

[withahappyrefrain]

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.

[jasontoddssuper]

Do i even need to say anything

[emichevy]

Quick experimental Noir doodle as a warm up while I work on bigger things. :3