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liz-allyn · 1 year

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sugar and vice, pt. 10 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: Everything you need to know about Peter Parker.

words: 10.6 k

warning: graphic descriptions of violence and gore, including murder. *implied animal cruelty/killing*, dubcon situations, voyeurism, masturbation, references to domestic violence

series warnings: mob-typical violence, bang bang shoot shoot, whump. hurt/comfort. sensual/sexual situations. spousal abuse. family trauma. drug use. coersion. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

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

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you don't remember drinking yoohoo in a school cafeteria, keep it moving.

a/n this chapter starts with a time jump, and does a lot of skipping around.

Back to Part 9.

Part 10

EIGHT WEEKS LATER

If there was one thing she could tell you about Peter Parker, it was that he was always more than one thing. He had two sides to him. Two identities. Two names. He was hot and cold. Up and down. Ebb and flow. Darkness and light. Love and rage.

It made her head spin. It drove her crazy. Paralyzed her with paranoia. Made her question everything going on inside and outside her head, dreading that she had read this chapter before. This was just another page out of the same book.

John was that way too. For a while. Until she could eventually see him for what he singularly was: a sociopath. A family man in the sense that he would be a family annihilator one day. A horrible mistake, and a misjudgment of character. A false messiah. He was the Devil She Knew, in every sense of the phrase.

Not everyone had been taken by John’s charms. Rita seemed to know. Rita Nimitz was the 74-year-old woman who lived across the street from the Walkers in Loudoun County. A Westie breeder. Widowed. Former LDS, or “reformed,” as she liked to say.

She knew. She probably saw Mrs. Walker limping to take out the garbage, and she knew. She must have heard shouts coming from inside their home while walking her dogs one day, and she knew. When Rita came to her door, asking for some baking soda (which was probably just a ruse) and saw the poorly-plastered concealer on her face in a futile attempt to cover bruises, she knew.

She knew, and she tried to do the right thing. She called the police. She didn’t know it would be John’s friends who responded to the call.

A week later, Mrs. Nimitz was found dead in her home. Her dogs too. No foul play suspected. And Honey knew in her heart it was because of her.

There’s a saying about everyone having two wolves inside of them. The one that survives is the one that you choose to feed. That’s bullshit. No one should have two wolves. No one should have one wolf.

Why does everyone have to have two sides to them, some sort of ulterior motive, or alter ego? She wasn’t like that. What you see is what you get. Why couldn’t things be simple? Be nice to everyone. Smile. Tell them to have a good day. Remember their names.

Miguel Ferrer O’Hara. Son of Conchata and…actually, who really knows. Probably some daddy issues involved there, she was pretty sure. Had a cushy job at Alchemax before he supposedly got canned for “substance abuse” and lost everything.

He was quick to anger. Cocky, but never callous. He’d take a bullet for his crew. Loyal. Practical. Fair.

“Peter Parker saved my life,” he quietly explained to Honey as he sipped on a beer. “Helped me get clean. I owe ’em.”

She’d learned this during an aside one night, before one of Peter’s meetings at the penthouse. It wasn’t often that Honey got any one-on-one time with Peter’s crew, especially after the Peanut Butter Cookie Incident. (She also noticed that every form of peanut and tree nut had been removed from the kitchen).

But she’d use the opportunity to ask people about themselves and about Peter. To satiate her curiosity. Harmless questions, FYIs. Just for her knowledge. And for John’s.

Despite his loyalty, she’d witness Miguel and Peter butt heads constantly. The two of them always seemed to argue about strategy. About the right path for “the business” to take. About the endgame. Peter always won.

“Whatever you say, Boss,” Miguel would concede with tight lips.

“He helped my sister get out of a tough spot,” Johnny Storm told her. “Helped her disappear.”

Apparently, Johnny Storm was his real name, much to her disbelief. Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm, from a little town called Glenview on Long Island. Mother died in a car accident. Father died in prison. He inherited the looks and charm from his dad, as well as a passion for mechanical engineering. When not working for Peter, he owned his own shop fixing up cars. It was a passion of his, and also a convenient way to smuggle drugs across the border.

Johnny was the only one allowed to touch any of Peter’s cars. She wasn’t sure if Peter made that decision out of admiration for his skill, loyalty, or pure paranoia that he’d end up with a bomb under the hood.

“I’d do anything for the guy,” Johnny stated emphatically, while Honey watched him install a radar jammer into his boss’ Gentian Blue Porsche 911. She hung out in the garage along with Miles and three of the guards. “Love ‘em like a brother, y’know?”

This conversation occurred three weeks after an incident near a shuffleboard table in Peter’s game room. After securing another victory, and this time beating Honey, Johnny reached over and warmly patted her on the shoulder, giving it a little consolatory, slightly-flirtatious pinch. Suddenly, he ripped his hand away, face turning white like he’d stuck a fork in a socket. Honey looked over to spot Peter glaring daggers at Johnny.

Johnny quickly excused himself with a great game, champ, catch ya later!, and hadn’t shown his face without a direct invitation from Peter since then.

In Felicia’s words, Johnny was “the biggest slut in the tri-state area” and had a problem getting into trouble with the women in his life. Particularly their boyfriends. And husbands. Peter wasn’t either of those things to Honey, but the point was made. And Johnny wasn’t stupid.

“Pete gets his knickers in a twist every now and then, but he’s a softie, deep down,” Felicia explained to her. “He’s smart, 90 percent of the time. The other 10, he’s just a sad sack of boring. And a giant dork, 100 percent of the time.”

Felicia Sara Hardy, daughter of Lydia and Walter. Her father was a thief and she followed in his footsteps. It started with small schemes — credit card fraud, petty theft — and progressed into multimillion-dollar artifacts and jewels being stolen and sold on the black market. Honey learned that drug running was just a small portion of Peter’s business. It was her work in stolen goods that was pivotal to the enterprise.

She was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, with or without weapons. In her spare time, she liked to skydive. And rock-climb. And street race. She was a trained gymnast too; almost went for the Olympic circuit. She didn’t take shit from anybody, not even Peter. Unlike the rest of the crew, she wasn’t afraid of her boss. Or of anyone, for that matter.

Honey deeply admired that. Felicia also terrified her. Made her heart flutter whenever directly talking to her.

Felicia acted as Peter’s equal. Peter treated her as such. Honey felt embarrassed that her first impression was that she and Peter were a romantic couple, as it seemed to imply that’s the only way Felicia rose to her station.

Such a distasteful, ignorant assumption. Sex wasn’t the only currency a woman had to offer. Despite her past choices. Despite the things she had to do to escape them.

However, occasionally, Honey still wondered if there had ever been something romantic there. Maybe they kissed once. Maybe they fucked.

Why would she even care? Why would she think too hard about it? It’s not like she was jealous.

No. There was some other reason that Felicia pledged her loyalty, she suspected. Something painful that was kept hidden.

“I have a debt to repay,” is all she’d ever say. Honey respected that.

Peter Parker was protective of the people he cared about. Ferociously so. He’d told her as much. And more than a little possessive.

Honey witnessed it the night Johnny stepped out of line.

In a tone that was more of an order than a request, he gruffly told her ‘time for bed,’ having sought her out wearing nothing but a delicate chain holding two modest wedding rings, and a tight pair of trunks. She ignored the heat rushing to her face as she attempted to avoid looking at his endowment. The prominent outline in the dark cotton of his underwear made her heart race embarrassingly.

She argued that it was too early for bed, she had had too much coffee, she was getting to a good part in her book, and how she didn’t appreciate being commanded like a dog.

“You’re not a dog,” Peter plainly answered back, not relenting an inch. “I don’t own you. You’re not my pet. There’s no collar around your neck.” He fixed her with a patient stare, unfazed by her brattiness. “During the day, your time is yours. Do whatever you want, as long as you’re safe.”

Then, his eyes grew darker. He leveled a stern gaze at her. “But you’re kidding yourself to act like you’re just a guest. And at night, when you go to bed, it’s next to me.”

He set a dominant stare on her that made her stomach weak. “That’s the deal. Understand?”

She didn’t argue further.

Not that night, or the ones after it.

Every night, like clockwork he’d come looking for her in the dark. It was a wordless exchange. She didn’t need to be told. She’d take the hint and follow him obediently into his bed.

On nights where he wasn’t home until late, she’d section herself off on ‘her side’ of the bed and wait for his arrival. Staring at the ceiling. Patiently. Thinking about how he didn’t ask her to wait for him, she just did. A subservient role she slipped into, as good as any collar around her neck.

She thought about how much she regretted kissing him. Kissing him was a mistake. It made things complicated. Particularly for her.

She lay awake and tried not to think about it. The images searing her brain. The taste of him lingering on her tongue.

Possessive. Protective. Especially when it came to her.

A few days after returning from her trip to the hospital, she got into a spat with one of Peter’s faceless guards. She’d entered the penthouse, trailing behind Peter, with her hands buried in her pockets.

One of them stopped them, stepping in between them. “I’m sorry, sir,” he explained to his boss. “We’ve detected an unknown signal. We need to search you both.”

She looked panicked. The guard took a step towards her and she practically shrieked, “No! Don’t you touch me! I don’t want you touching me!” He wrapped a beefy hand around her forearm. “Let go of me!”

“Sorry, miss, it’s for security—”

The guard suddenly went flying. Peter stood in between her and his men, nostrils flaring, fists balled, eyes blackened with anger. The wolf in a defensive stance, defending his territory. “What the fuck is the matter with you,” he snarled, glaring down at the guard at his feet.

Although it wasn’t directed at her, his sudden anger made her quake behind him.

“Didn’t you hear what she said?” his voice bellowed. “She asked you not to touch her.” He looked up at the rest of his flustered guards, a warning flashing in his eyes. “Next one of you that lays a hand on her is gonna lose it, got that?”

They avoided looking directly in his eyes, looking anywhere else.

Peter glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze gentle and placating. “You good?”

It took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She nodded rapidly, trying to calm her nerves. Trying not to think about how close he was.

Or her proximity to death.

Fire and ice. Always two sides to him. The bad man and the blustering boy. Fists that could damage. Fingers that ached for gentle connection.

Peter Parker was a man of many skills.

On a rare quiet evening at the penthouse, Honey’s exploration led her to the parlor. She was seated on the bench of an eight-foot Steingraeber baby grand with an ebony glaze so polished that she could see her own reflection in the dim light. Shyly, with the silent reverence she once took into cathedrals, she gently pressed on one of the white keys. The note came out as a gentle whisper as she tested the weight of the Japanese spruce and Ivorite bar.

“You play?” His voice startled her. Her head popped up to see Peter leaning with one arm propped up the edge of the sofa. He looked cozy wearing a wool crewneck patterned with a bold black-and-white exploded houndstooth. Watching her quietly, with a half-smile on his lips, he looked uncharacteristically soft in the dim lamplight.

“Jesus,” she hissed beneath her breath, heart skipping. “You need a bell.” His grin widened as he casually approached the piano. Her heart rate struggled to return to its previous rhythm. “Um, no...” she answered his previous question, sheepishly. Almost embarrassed. “We could never afford piano lessons.”

He hummed with acknowledgement, leaning playfully over the rim of the piano at the lid prop. “I got lucky, the lady who lived a couple’a houses down the block taught outta her living room.” He gazed down at the luxurious instrument, running a gentle hand across the finish. “Well, lucky now. Hindsight. At the time, I was pissed about it. Told Aunt May it was cruel to make me waste my whole summer.”

A gentle laugh warmed his chest, but the further it traveled away from him, the more his smile faded. Like using a tiny flickering taper candle to heat up a castle. Nostalgia played in the depths of his honey-hued eyes, as he watched ghosts in the distance.

He sharply inhaled, snapping himself out of his lament. Pushed a smile back on his lips. “Ah.. it was nothin’ this fancy, though,” Peter remarked, gently tapping his knuckles on the cabinetry. “Can’t even remember why I bought this thing...”

The sentence faded away into contemplation. Peter Parker was contemplative. Honey could see it, an entire lifetime of choices whirling behind his eyes. A pathway that led him to who he is today. Whoever that’s supposed to be.

“Do you still remember how to play?” she asked, hoping the question would bring him back out of the dark.

He met her eyes with a boyish smirk, nodding. “A little.”

She scooted off of the bench, her eyes bright with curiosity. Gestured hopefully at the keys. He tried to hide the blush in his cheeks. “Okay, okay,” he groaned, his voice trembling with nerves.

They shuffled around and switched spots, with her now looking down at his trembling hands as they mapped the keys. He refamiliarized himself with the instrument, a delightful tinkling sound filling the space. Honey noticed the way her cheeks stretched into a dopey grin. Her face was beginning to hurt from it.

His wide hands and lengthy fingers organized themselves into chords. First the bright G major. Then adding an F#, deliciously melting it into Gmaj7. Swooping down to a discordant G7. Upswinging to C major, and conversely dropping back to Cmaj6. Up to G major again. The pitch swung playfully back and forth, a pendulum between two extremes.

“You’re just too good to be true,” his normally deep voice was lifted up into a higher register. Her breath hitched, simultaneously recognizing the song and stunned that he was singing to her. She’d never been sung to before.

“Can’t take my eyes off of you.”

She flushed with heat building beneath her face. The bourbon of his eyes poured over her.

“You’d be like Heaven to touch... I wanna hold you so much...”

The slyest of all smirks played upon his lips.

“At long last, love has arrived... And I thank God I’m alive...”

The longer she held his gaze, the more she felt something breaking open in her heart. His sweet croons pierced her, leaving behind a helpless, delicious agony.

“You’re just too good to be true... Can’t take my eyes off of you.”

She was fucked.

Peter Parker could be cold and calculating, but could also be a Casanova. Charming when he needed to be.

Not just with her, either.

She saw it with her own eyes during a particularly tense visit with an associate of his. Oddly enough, it was broad daylight. Next to a parking lot in the FiDi, specifically in front of a taco truck parked on the curb called Tacos El Guero.

This associate would frequent this truck, apparently. She and Peter got in line at the end of the lunch rush. They made it all the way to the front before she realized that the person they were meeting actually owned the taco truck.

Wearing a grease-stained apron and some kind of red-and-black, full-body, zentai suit with a hood over his face, she watched in awe as he diced up Guajillo peppers while simultaneously stirring a stock pot of birria. She admired the sombrero sitting atop his masked head, embroidered with the cheeky phrase ‘My pork tastes better in your taco.’

This—??? —was the infamously-deadly hitman that Peter’s crew nicknamed “the Merc with a Mouth.” “A nut job,” some would say. “The Crispy-Fried Freak,” (which was a little insensitive once Honey learned that supposedly he had burns beneath the mask). And sometimes they’d call him by his chosen name, “Deadpool.”

Peter had his own terms of endearment.

“C’mon, Wade, it’s just one job,” he pleaded, looking up at him with doe eyes as he accepted his order of carnitas street tacos. Honey was midway through her cochinita pibil taco. It did not disappoint.

The truck line had cleared out, and most of the the stragglers were guys taking a break from a nearby construction site, distracted by their own conversations.

“Just one job?” the masked man scoffed, offended. He hung out of the window of the taco truck, like a colonial-era judge looking down at them with disdain. “Webs, you’re sending me into battle to take out Hammerdick—”

“—head—”

“Jesus, Pete, getta hold of yourself. There are ladies present.”

Multitasking as he spoke, he shoved the diced peppers off his cutting mat into the stew. “You’re asking me to take out Hammerhead and his whole crew,” he whined, “without even the courtesy of a reach around!”

Peter rolled his eyes but didn’t lose his good natured grin.

“What about my needs, huh?” the assassin grumbled. Despite the mask, Honey swore she saw the outline of a pout. “You promised me I’d get to be your mafia princess and you’d sail me on a yacht to your safe house-slash-Mediterranean villa in Ischia! When will it be my turn, huh?”

“I don’t have a villa,” Peter coyly shrugged, kindly apologetic. “Or a yacht.” Their rapport was unique, to say the least. It was like she was watching Peter interact with a horny old woman who lived upstairs with a bunch of cats.

“Well, isn’t that just typical!” he spat bitterly. “When you said you’d take me for a ride, I didn’t realize it was a euphemism.” He crossed his arms across his chest and sulked.

The mob boss sighed softly, running a hand through his soft waves, “You’d be doin’ me a real solid here.”

“Nuh-uh! Dirty talk won’t work on me this time.”

Peter gazed back up at him wearing his own brand of pouting. He pinched the cherry flesh of his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Neither will any of your other ruthless ploys, Bambi,” Wade, er— Deadpool— bitterly countered.

Peter tilted his head, wounded, but the amused grin never falling from his face. The masked man’s resolve remained solid. “Next time, put a ring on it, Parker.”

“Wade,” Peter purred, his voice dropping to a lower octave. “I don’t forget favors. Or the people that do them for me.” His heated whiskey eyes glowed — Jesus H. Christ, was he actually flirting with him? omigod he’s really flirting right now? whats happening here do i need to leave— with an almost seductive flame. “You know that.”

Honey nearly choked on her taco. Stunned and uncomfortable, she blinked several times, watching the rising tension between the two men.

Wade let his shoulders drop, slouching in defeat. “I bet you say that to all the YNs,” he grumbled, barely audible. She watched the masked man shoot her a dissatisfied glare from his window perch, whisper-shouting at her. “Usurper.”

Later that night, as Honey stared up at the ceiling, feeling the heat radiating from Peter’s half-naked body, a million questions filled her mind.

Did Peter have that kind of tension with everybody? Was it just in his nature, or was it a tool he used to influence people? Was he trying to make her jealous? Did it work? Did that make her the possessive one?

If he was so confident, then why did it seem like he was flustered around her sometimes?

Did he swing both ways? Was he a top or bottom? Is that really something she should be thinking of while laying next to him in his bed?

She was wrong to have kissed him. It was wrong to lead him on. It was wrong to catch feelings for him. What was wrong with her?

Choose to feed the one you want to live. She only had one wolf. Right?

She built a wall of pillows in between them, fortifying their separation and the ‘no touching’ rule.

Peter Parker was a criminal, after all. A criminal that followed the rules. Mostly.

Honey startled awake on a different night, hearing the panicked sounds of heavy breathing beside her. Peter was raging in his sleep. Again.

This time it seemed worse.

A sheen of sweat coated him. She watched as he twitched and pleaded incoherently, mumbling pathetic sobs into the darkness. She sat up, quietly observing his distress with a worried expression.

Breathless nothing-words spilled from his mouth. She could see his pulse in his neck, the cords of his throat pulled tight. Wherever he was, he was fighting for his life. He was losing.

Timidly, she lifted her hand, gently bringing it closer to him. She settled it down on his chest, feeling the rapid hummingbird beat beneath her palm.

With a gasp, he shot awake, wet eyes full of terror. He roared, teeth bared. He seized her wrist with bullet-like speed and aim. Clutching it in a crushing hold.

She cried out, flinching in pain. “Peter, it’s me!”

The hold loosened immediately. His lashes fluttered with confusion as he blinked away the remnants of his nightmare.

He looked up at her, stunned. Terrified. Eyes full of remorse. Tears building. She heard a choked sob escape his lips, his voice shattering. “Gwen…?”

He dropped her wrist in horror, like it was a serpent. Turned his head towards the pillow, racked with grief, and let out an agonized cry. She sat there holding her wrist to her chest, the first signs of bruises beginning to form on her forearm. Perplexed by whatever it was that had just occurred.

Gwen.

Who was Gwen? She’d never heard that name uttered once.

Gwen. The girl of his dreams.

A jealousy crept up inside of her that she didn’t understand. She sat quietly, listening to him attempting to control his shuddering sobs. He cupped his palm over his mouth, trembling into an almost-fetal position.

She had no idea where that jealousy came from. Nor could she source her urgent need to comfort him.

She broke the ‘no touching rule.’ Cooed gentle words into his ear. Let her fingers card soothingly through his hair. The touch seemed to pacify him. And only then did she feel the slightest bit of relief. When he settled, he finally faced her, laying on his side. Tear tracks stained his face. His lip trembled.

“I-I didn’t mean—” he began with a shaky voice. “I-I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

She shushed him, also leaning on her side. She reached across the gap between him, taking his hand. Squeezing it tight. Threading her fingers through his. Their first real ‘touch’ since the kiss, as chaste as it was. Drifting off to sleep. Together. Hand-in-hand in the safety of his den.

Getting information was the hardest out of Eddie, simply because he made himself sparse. She felt horrible about this. It wasn’t Eddie’s fault that she tricked him in order to escape. It wasn’t his fault that she’d almost died.

She wasn’t sure what Peter said directly to Eddie following the escape attempt, but he didn’t come around for several weeks. It was good news to some of the group, particularly Miles, who had an uncharacteristic contempt for him.

“You know how some people are nothin’ but trouble?” Miles explained to her. Honey knew intimately. “He’s nothin’ but a disaster. I don’t even wanna get into it.”

The next time Honey was present during a meeting, she prepared a batch of cupcakes for the whole group. But really, they were made for just one person.

“No nuts in these,” Honey nervously blurted, with an apologetic half-smile tilting her face. She handed Eddie a chocolate cupcake with a Hershey’s kiss center, homemade buttercream frosting adorning the top. It was presented to him on a napkin, on which she’d written ‘I’m sorry. :-( ‘

Eddie wasn’t impressed. Rejected, she placed the dessert and napkin on the bar next to him and left it alone.

Maybe it was a burned bridge with no hope of repair. Maybe the cupcake was in poor taste. There wasn’t really an appropriate consolation gift for ‘sorry, I almost got you fired.’ Or ‘sorry, I almost got you whacked by your boss.’”

By the end of the night, she was pleased to see that he took the cupcake and napkin with him on his way out the door, licking the icing from his fingertips as he left.

Regardless of how the others felt about him, Peter kept Eddie on the team. He’d argue that Eddie always had everyone’s back. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. And sometimes, in a war, that’s the kind of person you need.

The way Eddie told it, it was the other way around.

“I owe Pete a lot,” Eddie told her one afternoon on the rooftop patio of the penthouse. He leaned back in a redwood armchair, smoking a joint, enjoying another batch of cupcakes. Lemon cake this time. “He’s a good guy.”

Edward Charles Allan Brock, originally from San Francisco. Used to be an investigative journalist of some kind, according to Felicia. Covered the crime beat. Ended up leaving town in disgrace.

“I was in a rough spot,” Eddie said cryptically, taking another drag. “He helped me control my demons.”

Everyone on the crew had a testimonial like that. Each one of his friends had a story. They were all indebted to him, in some way.

“He saved my uncle’s life,” Miles explained passionately. “He saved my family.”

Honey sat with him in the game room after finishing a round of Mario Kart. She listened as he spoke with reverence.

“He’s a hero,” he declared. “But he’d never say it about himself.”

Indeed, the term made her raise her brow.

Miles Gonzalo Morales, son of Jeff and Rio. Smart kid. Wants to be an artist one day. Maybe. Or a game designer. Or something. He’s weeks away from finishing his GED early. Wants badly to go to ESU, but Peter is lobbying for him to choose Stanford.

His father was a former cop, his mother a former nurse. His Uncle Aaron was a career criminal who got mixed up with the Kingpin. Aaron’s mistake was believing he could get involved and just walk away. Foolishly, Aaron tried to escape, but that led Kingpin to his next course of action: punishing Aaron’s brother and his family.

Kingpin sent his goons to kill Jeff and his wife at their home. Jeff killed the intruders, but not before Rio took a bullet to her spine. Not before those goons kidnapped Miles, then only a 13-year-old boy.

Kingpin attempted to use Miles as a hostage to draw Aaron out. It was Jeff who made the connection between the attack on his home in Brooklyn, and a similar attack that happened in Queens years ago.

It was Jeff who sought out Peter’s help.

Peter Parker saved the day. He helped Aaron fake his own death. He helped cover the cost of Rio’s lengthy rehabilitation, although money was little to compensate for never walking again. He made the family a new identity, provided protection, and secured them a home with nursing services far outside of the city.

He also rescued Miles from his captors. And then he beat the men that kidnapped a 13-year-old boy to death with his bare hands.

The act of savagery would’ve terrified anyone else, especially a child. But Miles didn’t see it that way.

As kind as Miles was, as pure of heart as he was, there was a reservation about the way the teenager recanted his story. A quiet part that suggested that a brutal death was, in this rare case, justified.

Peter was Miles’ hero.

There’s also a saying about never meeting your heroes, because they’ll eventually disappoint you.

“I said stop lyin’!”

She heard Miles’ voice raised in anger one night. It cracked like thunder, sharp and bright with blinding heat. Honey sneaked down the stairs to see Peter and Miles heatedly standing toe-to-toe in the foyer. The teenager’s chest was puffed up, standing off against his mentor, his dark eyes brimming with hot tears. “You think I’m stupid?”

“No, Miles,” Peter stated calmly. He remained passive, refusing to react with the same rage being tossed at him. “I’m not lying—”

“I know you, man!” Miles sneered with a betrayed tone, throwing hands in the air. His body crackled like a lightning bolt. “You can fool everybody else in here, but I see you! No jodas! You’re on that shit again, aren’t you?”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Este hijo de puta, I told you he was trouble!

“Enough!”

The older man’s voice echoed. The tension reached a boiling point. The two of them glared at each other, unblinking, with a stillness that made her sick to her stomach.

“Nah, whatever—I don’t need this,” the teenager hissed, breaking the standoff. “I’m outta here, man.” He stormed past Peter towards the exit, slamming the door as he exited. Peter was left standing alone in his foyer. Stoic. Still. Steady.

Then he put his fist through his brick wall.

Black and white. Ebony and ivory. No patience for gray. No mercy for it.

“I have to say, this is a little unorthodox.”

Peter and Honey sat at a small table across from a silver-haired man with a graying beard and his lovely wife. Both were probably in their 60s or 70s, but Janet van Dyne looked as if she was maybe 50.

Honey couldn’t take her eyes off this woman’s nearly-immaculate face. The only sign of age on her plump skin were a few faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Long, icy blonde locks flowed in wispy waves down her shoulders. Her neck, ears, and hands were dripping with multiple-carat diamonds. She was the definition of eye candy, and the jewel in the crown of her husband, Dr. Hank Pym.

Dr. Pym was well-known as a brilliant scientist, but an even more lucrative businessman. Having chosen fields in both neurobiology and pharmacology, he was also President, CEO, and controlling stakeholder of Pym Pharma, the most profitable drug manufacturer in North America.

Honey recognized the name from the news. Allegations that his company was pushing their opioid products on patients made them come under recent congressional scrutiny. It was no surprise that Pym’s private lawyers contacted Peter discreetly.

When she asked why they would reach out, Peter explained to her that Pym wasn’t worried about an investigation. There was a pinch of bitterness as he said it. Gravel in his voice. Pym could easily pay the politicians off.

What Hank really needed from Peter was a new distributor.

“I wish you’d have come by the lab first,” Hank said sheepishly. “I could’ve given you the grand tour.”

Peter and Honey were also elegantly dressed for the night out. He wore another black-on-black ensemble, a Saint Laurent suit with wide satin lapels. She wore an Oscar de la Renta dark-floral-print, tea-length gown, with a fit-and-flare cut and 3/4 sleeves. Her favorite feature, however, was that the dress had pockets.

They practically had ambushed Hank and his wife at their private dinner. It was at one of Manhattan’s most exclusive, 5-star restaurants. A favorite of Janet’s, particularly. It was the Pyms’ 40th anniversary, and after several months of planning, Hank had bought out the entire restaurant just for their dinner.

He was obviously surprised to see Peter there. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, though. It was Peter’s restaurant.

“I’ve been to your lab, Dr. Pym,” Peter smoothly explained, as a waiter he knew by name refilled the wine glasses at the table. A 1990 vintage Giuseppe Quintarelli.

Honey figured she was supposed to be Peter’s ‘eye candy’ counterpart for the evening. But she couldn’t keep her eyes away from him. She was hypnotized.

Somehow the candlelight made him look even more suave, more dangerous. Adding an enchanting, sunset glow to the intoxicating bourbon of his eyes. The shadows played enticingly on the sharp lines of his suit as well as the lines of his jaw. “But when I’m considering entering a partnership with anyone, I’m more interested in getting to know who they are. No frills attached.”

Hank chuckled warmly, fondness in his eyes. “I have it on good authority that you know your way around a lab, Peter.” Apparently they were on a first-name basis now, she noted. “One of your early mentors was an apprentice of mine—Curt Connors.” Peter’s jaw locked at the mention of the name. “He’s still a close friend even to this day,” he added with admiration in his voice. “He told me you’re brilliant.”

Honey glanced over to catch the light dimming from Peter’s eyes, melancholy peeking through. “That was a long time ago,” he replied.

Honey turned to address Hank and Janet. “Did you get t-boned?”

The detour in conversation caught them all off guard. The couple stared at her in confusion.

“Like, were you crossing an intersection and, like, someone hit you from the side?”

The couple flicked their eyes towards one another. Buttoning up an amused smile, Hank gazed down at Peter’s companion. “Nothing that dramatic, no,” he answered gently, with a tone reminiscent of telling a child there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. “Thankfully. The car’s a loss, but it could’ve been worse. Right, dear?”

Janet agreed with a simple hum of acknowledgement. She sipped on her wine, lifting the glass with her non-dominant hand. Although concealed by the bell sleeves of her evening gown, Janet’s other forearm was swollen and wrapped in a fresh, bulky cast. A fractured radius. A nuisance, more than anything, Hank told them.

Honey gazed at Dr. Pym, blinking at him with confusion. “What kind of car was it that hit you? Were they speeding? Was it a drunk driver?”

Hank’s next response sounded more like an uncomfortable chuckle. He gave Peter a look, but Peter said nothing. Instead, he passively observed the line of questioning.

“A pick-up,” Hank replied, clearing his throat, “I believe.”

“What color was it?” she asked, fully invested in the story. “Were you in the driver's seat—?”

“You know, it’s funny,” Hank answered swiftly, his agitation bubbling up in his chest. “Sometimes after a traumatic experience, like a car accident, the details get fuzzy. It’s called dissociation. It’s a common occurrence.”

Honey pulled her chin back, frowning. She was vaguely familiar with the term.

Dr. Pym spoke slowly, and chose short words purposefully, as to not confuse her further. “All of these details are being handled by the appropriate authorities, I assure you,” Hank said with a plastic pleasantry. “But we appreciate your concern.”

He looked back at his wife, who shed a tiny smile behind blood red lips. Hank brushed aside the conversation and turned his attention back to the other man at the table. “Now. Peter—”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m just... I don’t understand,” the younger woman cut in again, more persistent this time. Hank fixed her with an impatient glare.

“Sorry, I know it sounds like a dumb question.” She pressed urgently, undeterred by his frustration. “If you both were in the same car accident, then why is she the only one with bruises?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Janet went still, like she had become a mannequin. Hank looked like a deer in the headlights, his heart rate increasing steadily. Blood pressure rising. Honey watched a twitch form on his top lip as he forced himself into a smile.

A wine glass slammed on the table so hard it was a wonder that it didn’t break. Janet came to an abrupt stand. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, flashing her teeth. “I’m going to freshen up.”

The smile she wore as she hastily left the table looked painful. It likely was. Her split lip had opened back up.

Uncomfortable silence passed between them, with Hank attempting to recover while avoiding shooting a dirty glare at Peter’s nosy little whore.

“I need to go too,” Honey announced, jumping at the chance to exit. She laughed nervously as she stood. “Broke the seal.”

When Honey entered the washroom, she saw Janet anxiously dabbing powder at the shadowy ridge beneath her right eye. The light did her no favors, harshly revealing cracks in the facade of her almost-pristine face. The illusion vanished. The tungsten light revealed caked canals of far-too-much concealer that clogged her pores. Like heavy plaster attempting to cover up the stains of purple, yellow, and green.

Honey knew those stains. She knew those canals like the lines of her own hand. It’s not enough to cover them. You need to correct them, applying complementary colors to cancel them out. Yellow for purple. Orange for blue. Green for red.

She knew.

Janet’s gorgeous blue eyes found hers in the mirror, burning a hole through her reflection. Honey frowned at the familiar sight, her heart swelling with sympathy.

“Listen,” she began gently, “I can help you—”

“No,” Janet spun on her red-bottom stiletto, glaring down at the younger woman. Acid spewed through her lips. “You listen. Who the fuck do you think you are,” she hissed with an icy tone, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve got some nerve, embarrassing me like that.”

Her mouth fell open in shock, struggling to find the right words. She wouldn’t have had the chance to use them. Janet was right back at her with another devastating blow.

“You think you know something about my life?” she challenged lividly. “About my marriage? About me?” She glowered down at the younger woman, the way an exterminator observes a cockroach. “I’m not some goddamn damsel in distress, you stupid slut.”

Honey felt the first inkling of a sting in the corner of her eye.

Janet lowered her tone with seething disdain, injecting venom into every word. “You don’t know shit. You’re just a perky pair of tits and a wet pussy for him to shove a couple of babies into. If he even lets you keep them.”

Honey swallowed dryly.

“Regardless,” Janet continued, skewering her with sharp words, “once you’ve served your purpose, he’ll be on to the next one. Step out of line, and he’ll take you out with the garbage. Because at the end of the day, you’re just common.” Eyes narrowed, her voice softened like a feather, as she added, “And we’re nothing alike.”

The younger woman trembled in her shadow. The dressing down shook her to the core. Ripped out her insides. She felt like she was going to cry. And she loathed herself for it.

“Stay out of my business,” Janet muttered, almost sweetly.

Honey’s vision went blurry as she disappeared from view. She heard the clacking of her heels growing more distant, until the sound disappeared beneath the door of the washroom. She bit her lip in an attempt to stop her tears.

Anger burned inside of her. Rage. A hurricane in her heart she wasn’t used to.

Fury that made her feel crazy. Bitter contempt. Like she wanted to run after Janet van Dyne and slap her. Shake her by the shoulders. Let her know she’s so stupid for staying in an abusive marriage. Choke her.

Honey was crying again. Rageful. Goddamn it.

She pictured herself, a foot taller, screaming at the rich lady’s bruised face. Are you insane? He’s going to kill you one day! You know that, right? How could you let him manipulate you after all this time? You fucking pathetic moron, you’re going to get yourself killed and no one’s gonna save you—

“Honey?”

The soft voice jolted her out of her downward spiral. She realized that she was standing alone in the women’s washroom, her whole body trembling. Tear drops that she was numb to streamed down her cheeks. She felt hot, and cold, and clammy, and nauseous all at once.

It was Peter who had come to find her.

The second he saw her face, his brows stitched together with concern. “What happened?” he questioned, a mixture of worry and outrage carving out his voice. His hands instinctively flew to her cheeks as he studied her, thumbs wiping away tears. He looked immediately on edge, hackles up, ready to punch a hole through whatever force caused her pain. He asked again, more akin to a demand, “Who did this to you?”

It was unclear to either of them whatever this was. She felt floaty again, in that terrifying, untethered sense. A stray kite that would come crashing down at any moment. Her stomach dropped out from the Earth’s gravitational pull.

“I...” Honey stuttered, dazed. “I... don’t...”

“Honey,” Peter implored. His voice was gentle. And firm. “Tell me what happened. Please don’t lie. Are you hurt?”

She swallowed hard. Shook her head ‘no.’

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he urged, placatingly. She felt warmth from his lungs on her face. Whether it was from the heat of his passion or his fury, she didn’t know. Her eyes shut, bringing her fingers up to his wrists. Gently, she pulled away from his hold, putting those very important inches between them.

When she opened them again, he looked pained by her action. His lips were in a straight line. He gazed down at her, rejected. Took a long breath, swallowing whatever pain he was feeling. “Tell me what happened,” he repeated, calmer now. “Did somebody put hands on you—?”

“You can’t help him, Peter,” she blurted out. Her mind was also reeling, struggling to get back on course. “He’s... he’s n-not good.”

Peter raised a brow. “Pym?”

“You can’t trust him,” she swallowed, hard. Tried to stabilize the tremor of her voice. “He’s bad. Please. You have to believe me. I know.”

He fixed her with a suspicious gaze, apprehension growing. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s a monster!” she cried out in a pathetic whimper. She bit down on her lip to stop it from quivering, tasting self-hatred on her tongue. “His w-wife, she... He—”

“He beats his wife,” Peter finished her sentence, stoic and solemn.

She blinked up at him with wet lashes. He stared at her with an empathetic frown, matching the sympathy of the one she wore when she confronted Janet. He sullenly scowled, “I know a right hook when I see one.”

Her brows pinched together, confused.

“The second I saw her face tonight, I knew. I’m just sorry you had to see it,” he explained, regretfully. Affection warmed his gaze. “I’m proud’a you, though. For calling ‘em out. Always knew you were a brave girl. Bastard looked like he was gonna shit his pants.”

She gulped dryly, stunned by his reaction. He was... proud of her? And... he knew? And... what was he going to do with that information?

“Peter,” she licked her chapped lips, trying to find her voice. “You can’t be on his side. I-I know I don’t know anything about your business, or-or any of that stuff, but-but y-you can’t help him—”

“You don't need to say it, Honey, I know,” he reassured softly. She was frozen, wondering what else he knew. “I don’t deal in stuff that destroys lives. And I damn sure don’t work with assholes that beat on women,” he stated with resolve, echoing a promise he made the night she first met Peter Parker. “The deal was dead before we even sat down.”

There she went again. Another out of body experience. She looked up at him, swelling with disbelief and a strange sort of pride.

He handed her a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

He put her mind at ease that it didn’t matter to him how many billions Hank Pym was worth. Peter had principles that weren’t for sale.

Peter Parker was a man of integrity. And of debauched perversion.

Peter and Honey spent their time split in multiple places, although the majority of it was in the Queens penthouse. One weekend, however, they traveled back to the cabin in the Catskills. She was surprisingly excited to return there. The property and house was beautiful, and it was still her favorite thing about her new life.

She learned later that Peter had chosen the location because it was near the site of an old campground. The remains of which were on land that was now his. It had been a popular summer destination decades ago, and the place where May Reilly and Ben Parker first met.

Romantic. And a realist.

Small changes had been made to the cabin since she had last been there. Housekeepers had cleaned up the mess left behind from the peanut butter cookie incident. There was now an epipen in every room, and a trusted doctor who had been relocated to a separate house on the property, no more than a half-mile away.

The house was once again spotless, but had also been fortified. Electronic steel locks on the windows and doors. Areas of the home that you needed a key card to access. Cameras visible in every room. Almost every room, she noted, except for the bathrooms and the closets.

It was invasive, she thought. Paranoid. Borderline voyeuristic.

She was bothered by it. Distressed at the idea of Peter watching her through camera lenses. Or so she thought.

Later one evening after dinner, she wandered back into the expansive closet. Her intention was to take another closer look at the wardrobe and choose pieces to take with her back to the city. But as usual, she got distracted. Stuck at the lingerie chest.

It was worth looking over, now that some time had passed and her extreme modesty had eased a bit. She was even wearing shorts to bed instead of sweatpants.

She was never really a fancy lingerie girl. It was an unnecessary expense, as she’d found that the few people she’d slept with were more than willing to fuck her in an oversized t-shirt.

These items didn’t really belong to her, anyway. She recalled feeling like they were someone else’s. Accessories for dolls manufactured for the male gaze. Costumes, like little sweaters on cats or dresses on dogs, transforming her into whatever her master desired.

There was one dress, though.

If she had to choose one that she’d ever think of buying. It would be that one. The one that felt most like her. Or, a version of her that lived in some sort of alternate universe.

It was the lavender silk babydoll dress, the one with the plunging V-neckline and soft pink French Chantilly lace floral accents. Each lace flower created a cut-out effect in the dress. It felt like a cloud in her fingertips. She examined the stitching carefully. It was likely handmade.

Holding it up in her view, her first thought was that there wasn’t very much of it. It was enough fabric to still be called a dress, but the backless, halter cut reduced the weight. The item shifted and flowed with the breeze. Cloudlike.

When she tried it on, curiously she found it felt light and airy on her body too.

Standing in the closet in front of a full-length cheval mirror, she turned every which way, studying the way the dress moved. The V-neckline was kept modestly intact with three dainty ties, preventing any accidental ‘nip-slips.’ The dress was belted into an empire waist with a similar stringed tie, with dainty bows gathering the fabric on either sides of her torso.

From the belt, the fabric cascaded down her hips, rolling down her curves like fog on a mountain crest. It was a waterfall of silk and lace that flowed down front and center, tastefully crashing just above her knees. The skirt was split at the sides, two high slits rising just below the crest of her hips. It was enough to tease just a peek of the matching lace string bikini beneath.

It was beautiful. Soft and feminine. Tastefully enticing. And comfortable. She felt comfortable wearing it, much to her shock. Gazing at her reflection, she didn’t feel like she was looking at someone else. And yet, it looked like it was made for a fairy princess.

It suited her. She liked the way it looked. She liked the way it looked on her. It was, much to her disbelief and astonishment, in a word—

“Beautiful...”

A deep murmur startled her. With a gasp, she turned to see Peter’s lithe form leaning against the doorway of the closet. His head was tilted to the side, with hungry, heavy-lidded eyes trained on her.

In an instant, she was a fawn. A frightened rabbit. Stunned still. Rendered motionless. Trapped in a hunter’s gaze.

His darkened eyes dragged across her body shamelessly. Drinking her in, intimately, in a way that was unapologetically obscene. Irises blown black with lust. The molasses hue was gone, crystalized. Seared off by the fire of his gaze.

His soft lips were parted into a thirsty pout, ravaged red from being licked dry. Desire pulsed through his veins. Want filled his airways. His chest heaved raggedly in slow, shallow pants. He looked feral. Starved for her touch, her taste.

And impossibly hard. She blinked, eyes trailing low. Past the exposed, carved muscles of his torso, down to the bulge at his trunks. She had wondered about his size before. Peter in his underwear was no big surprise.

But now, seeing the way the fabric stretched tightly over his erection, a straining outline of a neglected piece of him that was painfully awakened by her, it felt lewd. It made her squirm. Shiver. Triggering an uncontrollable drip down into her panties.

Had she stopped breathing? She felt dizzy all of a sudden. Why was he looking at her like that? When had her breathing gone shallow?

Suddenly, she flinched, reaching for the fabric covering her chest. She’d been overcome with the irrational fear that maybe she had been exposed after all. Some kind of curse, like in The Emperor’s New Clothes, where the dress had been an illusion.

Or maybe it was some kind of new experimental fabric that turned invisible when it reached a certain temperature.

That was the only explanation, she surmised, for the current look on his face. Like he could see through her clothes. Like she was presenting her naked body to him. Thread by thread, layers being cut away and unraveled with just a look. Slowly taking her apart in his mind. Penetrating her with his gaze.

She gulped, feeling a bolt of heat shoot down her center. The room was suddenly cold. And hot. Sweat beaded at the nape of her neck. Her nipples prickled beneath the fabric, behind her trembling arms. Gooseflesh breaking out across her skin.

She was faintly aware that she had begun babbling at some point. “Pe-Peter, I... you... wha—you can’t—”

“Can’t what?” His eyes trailed up to hers, radiating with challenge.

She was so fucking dizzy. “You... you... You can’t—”

He lifted his weight off the doorframe, stepping through the threshold. “What can’t I do?”

Closing the tiny space between them. She felt her abs tighten. Pelvic muscles flutter. He stalked towards her, eyeing her the way a tiger stares down its prey.

Why was she panting? Why was she so hot? “Please—”

“Shhh... It’s alright,” he whispered, his chest rumbling so deep she could feel the reverberation under her skin. His pacifying voice only fueled the lightning down her spine. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Peter stopped, just an arm’s length away from her. She felt tiny beneath his gaze. The weight of his lust was pushing down on her chest, restricting her ability to breathe. To think straight.

She wanted to faint. Fall right into his arms. Wrap herself around him.

A thousand lewd images flashed through her mind with a blur. Puzzle pieces scattered out, distressing her with their mismatched, disorganized state. She was almost afraid to put those pieces together. To see firsthand the erotic image they would create. Afraid. But curious.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, himself lost in a wet dream. How did he always seem to know what she was thinking? Was she stripped that bare? “It’s okay. I’m just... looking.” She had to peel her gaze away from his pecs, away from the ridges of his torso, away from the pornographic vision of her tongue trailing down his front until she was on her knees in front of him.

“Nothin’ wrong with wanting to watch,” he breathed. She could feel the heat of his breath. There was a glimmer in his eye, a hidden smirk. He took another step towards her. She had to bend her neck to look up at him.

Mesmerized, she was too enchanted to look away, but too terrified to look directly at him.

His voice dived deeper beneath the waves of his lust. “I knew you were there that day. Watching me in the shower,” he crooned with a dangerous whisper. She felt her heart skip a beat, eyes going wide. “Nothin’ wrong with looking. Especially if you like what you see.” He half smiled. “Did you?”

Her voice had left her as swiftly as the air from her lungs. She stood in front of him, dumbfounded, and shaken, and dripping with her desire. He licked his lips, like a cartoon wolf. They stood quietly like that, as he continued to rove over her. He was mocking the ‘no touching’ rule with only his gaze. Eventually, he met her eyes again. He took a step backwards. Then another.

“Just came to tell you,” he said innocently. “Time for bed.” He backed himself up towards the door, letting him have one last deliciously-sinful look. He then turned and strolled out of her room, like he was going for a walk in the park.

She trembled in his wake. Both arms reflexively concealing her nudity. There were two wolves inside of her, after all. Both of them were howling. Both wanted to fuck him.

She shouldn’t have kissed him. It was a dumb thing to do.

It was dangerous, toying with him like that. It was dangerous, imagining herself being ravaged by his hands. Split open by his tongue. Letting her fingers do the work of soothing her growing frustration, secretly giving into the ache he left her with, while breathlessly panting his name in the shower.

Peter Parker was dangerous. There was no alternative.

She heard heated voices coming from the parlor. Then a crash. Shatter. A shout. A roar. It made her hair stand on-end. Rushing towards the source of the sound, she tiptoed up to witness a witch hunt in progress.

The room smelled of sweat and stress. Familiar faces pulled taut, as Peter’s friends stood around anxiously. The pack was huddled together. Heads down, bodies folded up. Giving each other silent glances of concern.

Peter Parker didn’t have any friends. Just people that were indebted to him. Allies in fluctuating phases of fear. Soldiers forced into servitude. Houseguests under the illusion that they weren’t actually prisoners.

Fear settled thickly over the room as Peter raged through it, rabidly pacing, eyes wild with anger.

“There’s a rat in my house and I’m gonna kill it!” he roared, in a state she’d never seen before. The fury in his voice made her want to run and hide under the bed. By the looks of it, she wouldn’t be the only one.

From the side, Felicia fixed her with a warning glare. The slightest shake of her head. So subtle that Honey barely saw it. Before she could think to respond, the whole room jolted.

Peter picked up his foot and shoved the side of the baby grand. It traveled across the room and crashed into the opposite wall, with the ease of a soccer ball landing in the net. The elegant instrument shattered, wood flying and strings popping.

Now she was frozen, like everyone else.

Miguel muttered urgently, his voice barely louder than his racing heart, “Pete, let’s talk about this—”

“What is there to talk about?” Peter shouted, wheeling on him with a glare that could impale. “Hobie is dead!”

Her breath caught in her throat at this information, remembering the friendly Brit with the punk-rock style. Suddenly, she connected the source of his untethered rage.

“He’s dead! Not coming back! Ever!” Peter rampaged on, spitting poison and bitter contempt. “I say let’s honor the old ways, yeah? And eye for an eye. A life for a life.” He barked an order without looking at whoever would receive it. “Get ‘em in here!”

Honey jolted as the doors swung open. Two of Peter’s faceless guards were dragging in the one face she did recognize. It was the man who attempted to frisk her weeks ago. He was bloody. His suit torn. His face beaten, rearranged like a Picasso. Stumbling as he was dragged in front of the court.

“On his knees,” Peter coldly ordered. His guards didn’t need to do much. The man dropped to all fours in the center of the room. He was shaking. Terrified. Tail between his legs.

“We should do this in private,” Miguel protested.

“Let ‘em see!” Peter roared back. “Let ‘em be scared! No one ever got anywhere by bein’ friendly. Let ‘em know! You know what happens to friendly people? They get cut down with bullets! Just like Hobie!” The room went deadly silent.

Peter stepped up to the broken man in front of him, like he was stepping up to the batter's plate. She remembered The Sandlot. Tried to remember that version. Not this ruthless animal in front of them.

He narrowed his eyes, glaring down. “You were the only one who wasn’t telling the truth about where you were. You know how I feel about liars.” There was a horrifying calm in his voice, but his obsidian eyes were anything but. He seethed. “Tell me. How did the Feds know where they were?”

Honey felt like she was going to throw up.

The guard trembled. “Si-sir, I-I don’t—I don’t know—”

Peter reached behind him, pulling a gun from his waistband. Honey covered her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. The disgraced guard gazed at the barrel helplessly. He looked up at Peter like he was a god. He was on his knees, praying for salvation.

“I-I-I swear it! I-I swear on my life!” he begged.

“Poor choice of words,” Peter said, words clipped and bitter.

“No, no, please—I, I can tell you... I can tell you...everything... I... I-I...please—” The man broke down, sobs racking through his body. Piss staining his pants.

“How did the Feds know where they were?” Each word was sharp. A stab between each for punctuation. “How’d they get to you, eh? What’d they promise you? Who’s hands have Hobie’s blood on ‘em?”

“I-I-I don’t know what happened,” he blubbered. “I don’t know, it— No one was supposed to get hurt!”

He cracked an unamused smile. “Good intentions, right? See you in hell.”

Both of Peter’s hands came up to the guard's face. With a ferocious crack, the man’s head went sideways. A full 180 degrees. The sound of every bone in his spine twisting, ribs snapping off all at once, like buttons popping off of a shirt.

Horrified gasps erupted from the crowd. It didn’t hide the awful sound the man’s body made as it hit the ground. It wasn’t a sound that a human body should make. It was a tumble. A collapse into a pile of limbs. His spine reduced to a wet noodle.

Faces unable to conceal their sickened expressions turned away from the shockingly violent sight. Johnny brought the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing back bile. Miguel flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, turning his back in disgust.

Only Felicia remained still. Her eyes were wide. Forced open. Tears brimming. She’d witnessed an execution and the death of a dear friend in the same moment. The convergence and end of two lives.

Peter Parker did pest control. Honey thought back to that joke. The ‘rat’ was dead.

If there were two animals inside of her, at least one of them was a rat.

She sat quietly on the floor of the bathroom, leaning back against the freestanding tub. The lights were on and the faucet was flowing. Anything less and it would’ve been suspicious. Anything less, and she wouldn’t have been able to conceal her pitiful sobs.

She bit down into her arm, trying to silence them. Trying to push them down. Trying to drown whatever creatures lived within her.

Everyone had two sides to them. Everyone was an animal. She was no different.

She killed that guard, just as much as Peter did.

She killed Hobie, just as much as those bullets did.

Blood was on her hands. On her sharp teeth. On her mange-ridden fur. You can't trust an animal. Animals will do anything they need to survive.

The phone in her pocket buzzed again, startling her. She looked around out of habit, making sure that no one could see her in her hiding spot. Nausea pushed up her throat as she gazed at the 202 number on the screen.

The phone unlocked for her, and she read the message:

> that’s not what i asked, peach.

> do you love him?

Her heart fluttered, but her face didn’t flush red this time. She was getting better at lying.

<<< don’t be ridiculous

His question was wildly inappropriate. Intruding on the strictly business nature of their arrangement. Crossing boundaries that she needed.

She was kidding if she thought she had any control of the situation at all.

> its a yes or no question

... > [IMG_0320.jpg]

She expanded it, always terrified of what she would find. But this photo was from a set she’d seen before: A candid of Bella, having the time of her life with Ariel, with shimmery scales on her cheeks. Mickey Mouse ears on her head.

She bit her tongue. Swallowed back bile. Tapped out a reply.

<<< of course not

<;<< how could i ever love a monster like that

One animal is a rat.

The other is a snake. Slithering in, belly to the ground. Lying through a forked tongue. Destined to consume her soul’s animal counterpart, and everything else, until it chokes on its own tail and dies.

The key was holding onto a fraction of truth in order to sell the lie.

How could she ever love Peter Parker?

She couldn’t even love herself.

Continue to Part 11

[back to masterlist]

a/n - i'm excited about the next arc of this story. and i'm also excited to tell you that no one has predicted where this is going. yayyyyyyy. we're gonna get violence. we're gonna get more walker (he's really bad in this yall). we're gonna get more naughty. hang in there!

also, have you listened to THIS amazing playlist from @raindropstearsandtea??? it's partially inspired by sugar and vice and i can't believe that anyone would ever make art from my art and a;lkjsdfjl;kfdlk;jalkjdf

there's also my 'official' playlist on Spotify, which is just too fun.

thank you so much to everyone who gave me feedback! i can't tell you how honored i am that you're enjoying my nerdy attempt at hack exploitation of shameless tropes!

Reblog to be tagged in the next part!

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