Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

In her dreams, she was chasing a pig that had stolen her keys to a car that didn’t exist. It was important for her to find the pig, and fast. Today was graduation day, and she had accidentally forgotten to go to class for a whole semester. On top of that, there was a talent show to perform at. Tod would be there and he wasn’t going to go easy on her.

The reality she awoke to was far more bizarre. 

Her eyelids opened as her stress dreams circled the drain, leaving behind a sticky, anxious residue. After a few dry-eyed blinks, taking in the daylight, she registered that she wasn’t at home. 

It was a weird feeling. Like waking up hungover in a hotel room. The first moments of disorientation followed up with pieces of the night before.

She was buried beneath a heavy down comforter, in a bed so comfortable she had to unearth herself from it. She glanced back and forth. She was alone in the king-sized bed, and that brought her relief.

She pushed herself up out of the covers, and immediately regretted it. Her shoulders burned and her body creaked from the nightmare that was yesterday. Her stomach twisted as upsetting images filled her mind. 

As soon as Miles had escorted her back to the main bedroom, he’d told her that she’d be safe, that there was a lock on the door, and that she should get rest. She wasn’t in any state to argue. When the door closed, she found the pile of neatly folded clothes on top of a dresser nearby.

She was in a zombie-like state. Weeping, she peeled the terry robe from her body and hastily pulled on the clothes left behind: a super-soft poly blend T-shirt and thick joggers. There was even a pair of socks, made for feet twice the size of her own. Judging by the size of the items, they were most likely Peter’s. As soon as she put them on, she recognized that they smelled like Peter.

Her mind very well could’ve dwelled on the dichotomy of her reaction to wearing his scent. But the exhaustion she felt was unlike any other. She shuffled her feet to the bed and her body dropped. She was fast asleep within seconds.

Now, both rested and exhausted, she had a chance to worry over all of the things that could have taken place. The door was locked, but obviously Peter would’ve had a key. Was it locked from the inside, or out? The rest of the bed looked undisturbed. It wouldn’t appear that she had any visitors, and she didn’t remember one coming in. But she was so disoriented and exhausted, she felt like she couldn’t trust her own perception.

Peter had promised he “wouldn’t try anything.” Those words swam around her head and her heart and her stomach. She had the urge to throw up.

She stepped into the bathroom and glanced at her own reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy from a night full of crying. Her head ached on the inside and out, particularly around the purpling cut on her forehead that had been stitched together. 

The skin on her wrists looked horrible. Stripes of red welts dotted with scabs lined her forearms. The skin around her lips and mouth was better off, only a little inflammation. Peter had been right about the tape burns, and she should’ve let him help her. A fact that made her angry to admit.

Her stomach rumbled and her mouth was desert-dry. She needed food. Basic needs. Function.

In the daylight, she finally had a chance to look at the T-shirt she’d hastily thrown on in the dark. It was a dark heather gray crewneck featuring a screen-printed art design of a classic point-and-shoot camera. 

Beneath it were the words ‘I SHOOT PEOPLE.’

She went slackjawed at the ridiculousness of the shirt. And of the entire situation.

The moment she stepped onto the staircase leading to the main level, she was engulfed in the delicious aroma of a breakfast feast. Like a cartoon character, she floated down the stairs, following the scent and sound of sizzling meat.

At the bottom, she slowed to a halt, eyes wide at the bizarre image before her.

With a dish towel thrown over his shoulder and wielding a spatula like a sword, Peter stood focused at the gas stove, tending to a rack of thick-cut bacon. Beside him was a steaming, copper-core frying pan of sunny-side-up eggs. He wore a pair of black slacks with a thin white undershirt, both from the day before. His dark brown hair was messy in a somehow put-together way, taking years off of him.

If the bathroom made it to a pin on the Pinterest board of her dreams, she would’ve needed a whole section dedicated to the kitchen. Like the bathroom, the kitchen was likely bigger than half of her apartment. There was a similar aesthetic to the other rooms—a color palate of moody hues of grey, navy, and ebony, highlighted with golden fixtures. Oak cabinets stained in a night grey. A backspace of deep navy ceramic tile organized into a stack bond pattern. These darker elements were illuminated by natural light streaming through the bay windows and skylight.

She would’ve thought she was in a chef’s kitchen by the look and expense of the features and appliances themselves. A twelve-grate gas range, dual convection ovens with isolated temperature control, a dark granite farmhouse apron-front sink touting two faucets with retractable spring hoses. Her eyes drifted, jaw agape, and landing on a sight that blew her mind the most.

Buried within the black oak cabinetry, next to a built-in wine fridge, was a 24-inch, industrial-grade automatic coffee system. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered, catching Peter’s attention. He turned towards the stairs, taking in the sight of her dressed in his clothes. He did a double-take at the shirt she was wearing. His shirt. He rolled his eyes a bit, cursing Felicia’s sense of humor in gifting him that shirt.

But Honey’s eyes were elsewhere. Peter followed her befuddled gaze to his ridiculously expensive coffee machine. One of those Jetsons-level contraptions where you press a button and it makes anything you want. 

She balked at the sight and the brand name, her head spinning. She tried to do the math in her head, then after about 5 seconds, she cursed her inability to do math. 

It was worth thousands of shitty coffees.

“Is that what I think it is?” she blurted. She rushed from the stairs to the wall where the coffee maker was, gawking at it like it was a flying car. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how it works,” she said accusingly. “You don’t know how to use this thing, do you?”

He gazed at her with a suspiciously cool stare. “I know how it works.” He pinned her with dark eyes and the shadow of a half-smirk, before turning back to the stove. “Glad you’re up,” he said, changing the subject. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

She was still contemplating the idea that a man who owned and could operate an espresso machine that cost five grand would still make the journey to her coffee shop every day. 

“Have a seat, I’ll bring it to ya,” he called over his shoulder, turning off the burners.

She pouted at him, brow curled, “What if I’m not sure if I’m hungry?”

He shot an incredulous glance at her. “Yeah, right.”

Her pouting was interrupted by the sound of her stomach growling. Kicking her foot in frustration, she stalked over to a kitchenette table and plopped down in a chair.

“You good with apple juice?” Peter asked, grabbing a jug from the built-in refrigerator. “‘S’all I got.”

“You’re a grown man and you drink apple juice?” she said flatly.

“No. I drink coffee. I keep apple juice around for the tooth fairy and bratty houseguests. You want some or not?” 

She raised an eyebrow at him, challenging. “Sure,” she groaned. Her eyes traveled to the center of the kitchen table. Noticed a tiny vase with a handful of gerbera daisies. They hadn’t been there the night before.

Peter brought two plates over to the table, setting one down in front of her, and one down to the place to her immediate left. She didn’t know if it was a conscious decision that Peter had chosen a spot between her and what she perceived as the front door. He came back with a glass of apple juice, and two mugs of steaming black coffee. She continued to watch him meticulously lay out a spread of condiments on the table, including cream, raw sugar, and clover honey. He even had appropriate little containers for each one.

The smell of the food immediately intoxicated her. Without hesitation, she grabbed the fork off the placemat beside her and got to work. Each morsel of her meal melted in her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste.

“There’s plenty,” he remarked, trying to conceal a smile at her pleased reaction. 

Childishly, she chewed bites that were almost too big. Her poor table manners would’ve gotten her a swat from her mother 15 years ago, but she shelved that away. She was ravenous. And even if she wasn’t, the food was really good.

She smacked her lips, grabbing a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. “You know,” she mused, her eyes drifting, “some bright pops of color would really liven this place up. Like some yellows. Or peach. Make it feel not so much like a My Chemical Romance album cover or something. Less dark, y’know?

He took a sip of coffee from his stoneware mug. “I like it dark.”

She rolled her eyes. “‘Course you do,” she muttered beneath her breath.

He had difficulty keeping his lips in a straight line. “Is that what you really wanted to talk about?” he teased.

She leveled her gaze at him from across the table, slowing down enough to allow herself time to chew her food properly, and to think. Focus.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He grabbed his fork, leaning over his plate, now focused on his eggs. “Ben Reilly.”

Her face fell flat. “Really? You’re not going to tell me the truth after everything?”

“It’s not a lie,” he remarked defensively. Looked her in the eye. “It’s my name. Legally. That’s the name on the mortgage. Driver’s license. Car titles. Credit cards. There’s a stack of bills on the bar all with that name.” He pointed in the direction of the pile of envelopes on the bar, as if offering proof.

She glared back. “Then who is Peter Parker?”

His gaze dropped to his plate again. Stabbed his eggs and scooped a bite into his mouth, gnawing bitterly. “He’s who I used to be,” he responded grimly. “But he’s gone.”

He left it at that. She waited a few seconds, watching him while he avoided eye contact. She narrowed her eyes, curiously, “What do you do?”

“Broad question.”

“Vague answers,” she said, countering. “Why do you have more than one name? What pays for all of this?” She twirled her finger, circling it to gesture to the luxurious abode.

He nodded, considering her angle fairly. “My business is managing imports and exports,” he parried. “That’s all you need to know.”

“So what, you’re a drug runner or something?”

His shoulders twitched, like he was shaking off an uncomfortable feeling, “It’s best if you don’t know the details—”

“Oh, my god!” she blurted, face twisted in disgust. “You’re not into creepy stuff— Like in Taken?”

His eyes shot up, puzzled. “What—?”

”Oh, my god—are you a pimp?” she exclaimed accusingly, eyes as wide as saucers. “Do you traffic humans?”

“What—No!” he barked back, offended. “Hell no.” His hackles were raised, agitated. He reaffirmed, more definitively. “Absolutely not—Really? That’s where you went? Why would you say somethin’ like that? Where did you even get that—?”

She threw her arms up, with a dramatic shrug, “Well, what am I supposed to think?!” 

“Look, every city has a black market,” he cut her off before she could continue straying off course. “Illegal goods coming in and out. Money changing hands. Some of those goods are more dangerous than others.” He sighed, careful with his words. “I help control what comes in, and I… manage the responsibility of it.” He stared at her, emphatic in his words. “I don’t sell to people who are looking to hurt themselves or someone else. I don’t sell stuff that destroys lives.”

She studied him, a shadow of suspicion in her stare.

“At the very most,” Peter supplied, “I’ll sell the bad stuff to some other clown in Miami, or Chicago, or wherever. As long as it’s off my streets, far away from me and mine.”

“So you’re saying you sell drugs,” she reiterated carefully, with a skeptical glare, “but only to good people? For a noble cause?”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “It’s a dirty business,” Peter defended, annoyed by her oversimplification and judgment. “But it’s all a part of an ecosystem. You take out the wrong animal and another predator thrives. They multiply, they get invasive, and then you have a whole infestation on your hands.”

She blinked at him, crossed her arms. “So… you also do pest control?”

He scoffed, “Somethin’ like that.”

“Okay, so you’re a steward of the community,” her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Why don’t you just get rid of the illegal stuff in the first place? Go after the drug dealers? And the…” She struggled with the term, “I don’t know…Warlords?”

“Little guys,” he replied, with an amused smirk. His eyes were distant, like there was some sort of inside joke she didn’t understand. “Little fish,” he added. His mind sank deep as he stared at his plate. She got the feeling he was elsewhere in his mind. “I used to be a ‘little fish’ kinda guy.”

“And then what?” 

He locked eyes with her, his tone humorless, “I met a shark.”

The ominous nature in which he said it gave her pause. She bit her lower lip, glancing down at her plate, unsure of how much more she could eat.

“Who’s the shark in this analogy?” she questioned, less cold. “That guy from the train…Kads? Kat—?’

“Katzenberg,” he supplied, spitting the word out like a rotten seed. He scoffed with a dark chuckle and a rueful shake of his head, “No. He’s not even close.” Peter ripped apart a piece of bacon with his teeth. 

She stared back at him, confused, “Well… what’s he gonna tell his boss, then? About last night? What happens when his boss finds out he didn’t do what he was ordered to do?” The words were unsettling, and even speaking them made her uncomfortable. But it was nothing in comparison to how she felt when she looked back at him.

She met Peter’s eyes, and they were dark. Black. A terrifying void. Like staring down into a well. Into a tunnel with no light at the end. A dark cave once you hear a sound and realize you’re not alone. 

He fixed that gaze on her, peering out beneath his lashes. Gnawing in silence. Too quiet. The chilling look made her feel faint, the snarkiness and jest of their conversation vanishing instantly. 

She realized then that ‘Katz’ wasn’t going to say anything. Ever.

She averted her eyes.

“When can I get a ride home?” She asked, changing the subject with some urgency.

More silence. “Not yet.” He stabbed his eggs with a fork. 

Seconds passed, her stomach twisting into a knot, her appetite had vanished almost completely. “What—I… I can’t…” Her voice got tiny, “I gotta get ready. I have to go to work.”

He stared at her with that look again.

She closed her mouth. Opened it again. “At least let me call my manager, and tell her—Wait, where’s my phone?”

“Gone,” Peter replied laconically. “You don’t need it.”

He spoke in short, clipped sentences. It was clear that she was treading into forbidden territory. She just couldn’t imagine why.

“But… I need to get in touch with people,” she gently protested. “I need to call my mom. If she calls me, I need to tell her that I’m okay—”

“Believe me,” Peter interrupted, “anyone else you contact at this point is only gonna get in the way. You’ll be putting them in danger.”

She stared at him, her eyes widening. “This is ridiculous,” she breathed, in denial. “I don’t understand why this is happening.”

The sound of his fork clanging on the plate halted her train of thought immediately. She blinked up at him, observing his darkened gaze. She had upset him, and it made her fearful of what he would do next.

He leaned back in the chair, gazing out the bay window. Fog settled over the city, making the recognizable shapes of Midtown Manhattan across the river blurry. He dropped his napkin on his plate, breakfast being discarded with the action, then he gave her a hard look.

“Because sometimes bad things happen to good people,” he replied flatly. He wasn’t unkind in his tone, but cold—like he was telling her a painful truth. He held her in his gaze as he said it, an expression of frustration, disappointment, and regret in his expression plastered on his face. 

He came to an abrupt stand at the table, grabbing his plate. “Eat up,” he said, as if a switch had been flipped and he was talking to one of his men. “There’s a guest bathroom upstairs. When you’re done, get washed up. There’s a bag already up there with a change of clothes, toiletries. Anything else you need, let me know. I’ll have Cat bring it ‘round. We leave here in an hour.”

She blinked up at him, confused. “I can just shower when I get back to my place—”

“We’re not going back to your place.”

“What?” she shook her head. “Wait—where are we going?”

“Shower now,” he said curtly. “One hour.”

Dropping the plate in the sink, he disappeared from her view.

She didn’t have much of an appetite after that.

When she found the guest bathroom upstairs, she halted in the doorway as soon as she spotted the size of the room. Once again, the bathroom was big enough to park several cars in. The shower could fit a Mini Cooper at least. This room lacked the darkness of the other parts of the house, instead colored in soft grays and whites. A double-sink vanity was positioned on one side of the room, and on the opposite side was a makeup vanity with cosmetic lighting. 

The other stunning sight was on top of a tufted bench partially pulled out in front of the makeup site. Four giant shopping bags waited for her, two labeled Bloomingdale’s and one each from Neiman Marcus and Sephora.

She couldn’t help the skip in her heart at the sight. Rushing towards the bags, like a kid at Christmas, she peeked inside. Immediately, she withdrew her hands, her stomach twisting with shame at her materialism showing its ugly face.

Curiosity soon got the best of her. The first item she pulled from the bag was a jet-black, high-collar lace blouse that cost more than she’d make in a day. Her eyes bulged out of her head as she retrieved a black cashmere sweater that cost more than what she made in a week.

On any other day, receiving these items would excite her, tapping into a materialistic, guilty pleasure. But as she gazed at the expensive items, counting the zeros at the end of the price tags, she felt dizzy.

A heavy feeling settled down in the depth of her belly. She didn’t know the real cost of these gifts. Anxiously, she worried she would soon find out.

As instructed, she went back to the living room, fully showered, dressed, and dusted with a light coating of makeup. It was an expensive brand she’d never tried before, and a complexion tone that was a bit warmer than she would have tried. Or maybe that was just Felicia’s opinion of what her preference would be.

After a few seconds, Peter came gliding down the stairs with two leather Eddie Bauer duffle bags.

She curled a brow at him. “Are you taking a trip or something?”

“Or something,” Peter replied, not sparing her a glance. He busied himself with retrieving two coats from the foyer closet, then shuffled his way to the refrigerator. 

“Oookay,” she shrugged, awkwardly. Unsure of what to do with herself, she let her eyes wander, pressing her thumbnail into the center of her palm. Her gaze drifted across the living room and landed on a glass terrarium against the wall. Curiously, she breezed up to the tank. Her eyes lit up at the sight of a tiny reptile sunning himself on a log beneath a heat lamp.

She gasped, “Oh my god, you have a bearded dragon?!” Her eyes widened like saucers, her voice thinning into baby talk. “Look at his cute lil’ beard! Ooh, such a little handsome dino buddy, eh? What’s your name?”

“Rex,” she heard Peter reply from behind her. Gasping, she spun around and came face-to-face with him. He held a glass of apple juice out to her. 

She blinked, glancing down at the glass, then back at him. “No, thank you,” she replied, puzzled.

“Drink it.” He spoke softly, with but without room for debate.

She stared at him in confusion. “But I’m not thirst—”

“It’s drugged,” he declared, as simply as stating the weather. She met his eyes, alarmed. “Nothin’ heavy. Just something to help you sleep. We’re goin’ far.”

She took a step back, suspiciously frowning at the amber liquid. “I don’t want it.”

When she met his eyes again, that bleak, fiery darkness was staring back at her. He glared, with the slightest tilt of his head. For a brief moment, from a certain angle, it could be mistaken for pity. As quickly as it appeared, it transformed into something more malicious.

“I insist,” he said ominously, eyes narrowing.

It was as if his eyes were an arrow and she had a target on her forehead. She didn’t miss the slight curl of his lips—the shadow of a devious smirk, equally amused and daring her to defy him.

She was pretty sure if anyone else wore that look—in that particular lighting— it could’ve been mistaken for simple arrogance. But this was far more sinister. Possessive. Dominating. His earth-toned eyes threatened to bury her alive.

Every part of her better judgment was screaming at her to run. Fight. Knock the glass from his fingers. But instead, she froze. Like she always did.

She reached forward and took the glass, fingers shaking. He was flaying her with his look, staring intently at her mouth. Her insides burned in the fire of his gaze.

Never breaking eye contact, she downed the glass in several painful gulps. When it was empty, she watched a half-smile stretch across his lips.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

He handed her a leather jacket while pulling on a coat of his own. She looked at the garment in her grip, then followed suit. She didn’t have to be told. 

She remembered finding it surprising how well the jacket fit. She thought it was strange and unsettling that he would know her exact measurements. 

She remembered nothing else after that.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

Not in Queens anymore, was all she could think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hiking boots? I don’t have any—”

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

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

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

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

It was a thought she didn’t like.

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

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

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

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

Barren. Untouched. Lonely.

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

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

“Where are we going?” she asked suspiciously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on. Put it back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not since—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quietly, she followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked up at him, astonished. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

“No, really, it’s fine—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d left her. Alone. 

“Mother Hubbard!” he growled.

What a fucking idiot. A lovesick, bumbling dork.

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

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

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

No reply. Not that he should expect one.

He shouldn’t expect anything.

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

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

“Honey!” 

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

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

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

She was gone.

—stay with me, Gwen, please—

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

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

Peter Parker, the monster.

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

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

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

Peter dug his nails into his palms. 

Honey had been terrified. 

Gwen had been terrified. 

Ben had been terrified. 

May had been terrified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In and out.

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

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

In and out. Breathe. Listen.

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

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

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

The solid rock beneath her rushed up. 

Impact. And another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

She awoke to darkness. Her whole body felt sore. Head throbbing from the onslaught of tears. She felt like a ceramic pot that had been roasting in a kiln for hours.

Stirring from her dreamless sleep, she glanced left and right. Her hands were free of the bindings. Brow curled, she looked over at the closed door, pondering if her captor had snuck into the room while she was out.

Honey sat up with a start, blinking the remnants of sleep from her eyes. She reached for her wrists, finding nothing but an oily residue left behind. Still puffy from the duct tape rash, her skin was sensitive to her touch, but otherwise unharmed.

She glanced up at the closed door. Her stomach churned. She fought the instinct to curl up and hide beneath the bed. The memory of Peter’s fierce gaze lingered, a raw burn in her mind. 

Despite her logic telling her that she was the victim, she still felt conflicted. 

She had been kidnapped, sure— and she needed to do whatever was necessary to survive. Strangely, she still felt guilty for taking a swing at him like she did. As soon as her fingers touched the rock, she slammed it into the side of his head, without much thought.

“What are you, stupid? It’s a wonder you even make it home alive each night!”

She couldn’t quite name what came over her. She dealt a blow to his temple that could’ve killed him. Surprised that it didn’t. And then what would that be like? Could she really find it in herself to kill another human being? Not to mention, she’d be alone in the woods with a dead body, with no clue where she was. 

The thought made her queasy, twisting her stomach into a pretzel. She could’ve just run away, but when it came time to do so, she froze. Typical.

While she was hiding, she watched and listened quietly to his rampage below. Rage was one thing she expected, but not the misery she witnessed. The look she found in his eyes was something else entirely. Heartbreak and relief, like he would burst into tears at any moment.

It made her heart ache to witness it.

And then she hit him with a rock. Like some kind of cavewoman. 

Brilliant idea, she thought disdainfully.

“You need to slow down!” More bitter thoughts flooded her, this time with the voice of her mother. “Always talking too fast! Always moving too fast! You do without thinking. No wonder you mess everything up.”

Her eyes grew heavy with melancholy and exhaustion. Despite the darkness wrapped around her, she felt like sleep was out of the question.

A strange melody crept up through the closed door to her room. Voices. Percussion. Music. Upbeat and entrancing. 

There wasn’t a clock in her room but she had figured it was the middle of the night. Why would Peter be jamming out in the middle of the night?

Her stomach twisted again. The thought of coming face-to-face with him gave her chills. She rubbed her wrists idly. She could feel bruises there. She was afraid to leave the room. But she was also starving, and lamented not having at least one sandwich before her daring and ill-conceived escape. She was also miserably dehydrated, as every bit of moisture had leaked through her swollen eyelids.

And she had to pee. And that was now all she could think about. Her room, thankfully, had its own bathroom. Swinging her still-booted feet over the edge of the bed onto the floor, she tiptoed to the bathroom and relieved herself.

She thought she heard singing. Bad, out-of-tune singing. Creeping to the door, she placed her ear against the cool surface, trying to identify thes source. Out of curiosity or courage, she twisted the handle and peeked her head around the frame.

By the time she reached the bottom step of the staircase into the living room, she had a full view of the area and Peter was nowhere in sight. The one person who was in the room (and the source of music) was Miles, as he sat at the kitchen bar and dangled a pizza slice larger than his head above his mouth. 

The music was echoing across the room from a tiny portable speaker on top of the kitchen bar. In his own world, the teenager’s head bobbed as he blew steam from his pizza, then took a giant bite. 

She watched curiously as she approached from behind. The giant decorative clock built into the great room wall confirmed that it was incredibly late. Or early. One wouldn’t know it from Miles’ energy, or the volume of his jam session. She looked left and right, expecting to find more people, but saw no one else.

The flow of the music was broken when she accidentally walked into a low-height side table, her knee knocking to the corner. The lamp on top of the table jolted and Miles spun around in the barstool, letting out a piercing screech that could best be described as falsetto.

Honey responded in kind, letting out a shrieking Ahhhhhh of her own. Miles curled himself up on the stool, pulling his palms and one leg up defensively. “Sorry!” she blurted, as he clutched his own chest. “Sorry! So sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“You scared the crap outta me!” Miles said, his panic ebbing.

“I didn’t mean to—wait, is that how you really scream?”

“What about it?!” Miles exclaimed indignantly. “Not the point! You’re the one who’s creepin’ up on people like we’re in a horror movie… Crazy… La Llorona stuff!” The pitch of his voice normalized as he took a deep breath, frustration subsiding. “I dead-ass almost punched you in the face—I don’t mess around!”  

“Sorry, sorry…” Honey babbled, her face twisted in a grimace. “I, uh, didn’t mean… to, uh… Llorona…”

“It’s fine!” Miles sighed, his heart rate slowing. It didn’t sound fine. “It’s over—maybe let’s just not ever mention this again, okay? To anyone? Especially not to people I know.”

Honey nodded her head in agreement, motioning that her lips were zipped and she was ‘throwing away the key.’ 

A few awkward moments of silence passed between them as he reached over and turned down the music on the speaker. He straightened out his zip-up hoodie uncomfortably. A small smile crept up on her face. She found his reaction endearing, and not at all what she expected from—whatever it was they were involved with.

“Um,” she cleared her throat. “Hi.”

Miles gave her a sheepish look. “Hi.”

There was a mountain of awkwardness between them. She looked around, then pointed at the massive box of pizza. “So… post-midnight snack?”

“Oh,” the teenager responded, looking back at the pizza. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re probably hungry.” He reached for the box, opening the lid. “Here, have some. It’s Lucia’s. There’s plenty.”

“Lucia’s?” she exclaimed, pondering the distance between wherever they were to downtown Flushing. She moved to the box, peering inside. “I like Dani’s.” 

“Well, nobody’s perfect. This pie heats up better,” Miles remarked, taking another bite of his slice. 

“Yeah?” Her eyes slid over to Miles. “How fresh is it?”

“Boss said to bring Lucia’s. So I did.” He shrugged his shoulders idly, placing his attention back on his slice of pizza. She slumped with a huff, having been dismissed.

“Boss,” she repeated, a chill going down her spine. “You mean Ben. Or…Peter, I guess,” She glanced around the mostly empty kitchen and living area, almost as if saying his name would summon him like Bloody Mary. “Is he here?”

Miles smacked his lips, wiping his mouth. “Nope, just me.” 

There was a pleasant calmness in his demeanor. It seemed to her that he was the only normal person that she’d met since being pulled off the train. The only person that treated her like a real person. Not that Peter hadn’t tried to show her kindness… or at least, what his mind perceived as kindness.

She rocked forward on her toes, suddenly interested in the fibers of the cardboard box. “Is he… Is he okay?”

Miles avoided looking at her, and she wondered how much Peter had told him about her escape attempt. She wondered why she felt suddenly embarrassed by her actions. Ashamed even. What did that say about her?

“Didn’t say much,” he replied. “Said he needed to take care of some stuff. Told me to hang out in case you needed anything.” 

Something burned in her chest, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. “That was nice,” she stated in earnest. “I guess.” 

“He’s pretty cool,” Miles nodded, matter-of-factly. “Nice guy.”

She bitterly scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He didn’t respond. He was skilled at avoiding her provocation despite how badly she wanted to start a fight. Passively, he devoured his pizza in record time, then reached over the box to grab a paper plate. It looked sorely out of place compared to the grandeur of the kitchen. 

“Wan’some?” he asked. “I also brought soda and stuff. Boss said no TV, but we can watch a movie on Netflix or something. Or we got a Switch. You ever play Smash Bros?”

It took her a moment for the implications to sink in. “‘No TV?’” she repeated with a growl, letting out a frustrated sigh. “What are we, children?” 

She snatched the paper plate from his hand and reached into the box, grabbing herself a slice of pizza. Without further protest, she bit into the pie, savoring the taste. Lucia’s was superior, she recognized. 

“He said to get you whatever you needed,” he answered, paying her complaints no mind. “The whole house is free range except for the office. But everything else is cool. You can use the gym. There’s a library. The sauna. A pool, if you wanna check that out, too.”

She blinked at him, nearly choking on her pizza. “This place has a pool?” 

“Heated,” he wiggled his eyebrows enticingly. 

She glanced down, conniving. “What about a computer?”

Miles shook his head. “Don’t know about that.”  

“Could I borrow your phone?”

“No can.”

“C’mon,” she pleaded, her voice gentle. “I’m not gonna call the cops. Just wanna check in with my mom.” 

“Can’t bring phones out here,” he shrugged apologetically. “It’s a rule. Phones can be hacked and traced. All you need is a sus text like ‘Hey, I’m here,’ or ‘We issued you a refund for $600,’ and you click on the link and boom. They got you.”

Honey peered at him suspiciously, “Who’s they?”

“No clue.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your ‘boss’ sounds pretty paranoid if you ask me.”

“That actually wasn’t his rule,” Miles explained conversationally. He leaned back in the barstool in a way that made her anxious. “That was Peni. She’s our tech nerd.”

“Peni?” she repeated.

“Yeah, she’s like—a genius.”

Her pizza suddenly became too chewy. “So I’m just a prisoner?” she huffed.

Miles looked over at her for a few moments, considering her. He let out a quiet sigh. “I know it’s a lot,” he said kindly, then added with consolation. “Pete’s a lot. Sometimes.”  Stone-faced, she stared back skeptically. “But he’s a really good dude. Just… he worries. He wouldn’t do all this if he didn’t care.”

She glared at him through lidded eyes. “Do you hear yourself right now?” she spat. “You sound like a Lifetime movie. Do I need to call Child Protective Services?”

“Hey, not cool. M’not a child,” he bristled, offended. “I’m sixteen.” She stared at him with a raised brow, watching as he stuffed another slice of pie into his mouth. “Wan’some Mountain Dew?”

She blinked. Several times. Then resigned herself. “Sure.”

The eerie indigo and orange glow of civil dawn peeked through the bay windows of the great room. It was silent except for soft snores. With weary eyes and a suit jacket which had been wrinkled by physical exertion, Peter wandered into his house even more of an alien than when he’d left it. 

The sort of activities in which he’d participated in earlier that night did that to him. It made him a stranger in his own home. Even more in his own skin.

He paused briefly and took a moment to gaze upon the lanky teenager sprawled out on one of the leather couches. Jordans crossed. sticking up over the sofa arm. A Nintendo controller rested on his chest as he dozed deeply, film forming in the corner of his open mouth. The sight made Peter crack a bittersweet smile. Nostalgia accompanied by an ache of longing. Somewhere beneath Miles’ oversized clothes, there was a good kid who wasn’t all that different from Peter.

Who he used to be. 

His eyes roved across the room to the opposite sofa. Honey was curled up like a cat, still in the blouse and jeans that she arrived in. Her hiking boots were placed neatly next to the couch. The snuggly sight of her made his heart leap into his throat. Her upper body expanded and deflated in a steady rhythm like ocean waves, and the action both entranced and haunted him. The bittersweet feeling in his chest soured and blackened, until it became a guilt-ridden tumor wrapping tendrils around his heart.

He had been so cruel earlier. He erupted into a fit of blind rage. A brute. The kind of anger that made people want to turn their heads. Anger that if Gwen were still alive, she wouldn’t be able to look at without being sickened. He was the sort of person that Aunt May and Uncle Ben would cross the street to avoid.

He thought he’d lost her too. And he was terrified.

No wonder she was scared. It was his fault, to think that she could somehow see him as something other than a monster. Now, there wasn’t much hope in changing her mind.

Peter felt his eyes burn as he peeled them from her lithe form. He glanced down at his hands, observing the deep crimson stains in his skin. Rusty-brown spots soiled the wrinkled cuffs of his dress shirt. 

He’d have to throw it out, he mused. There’d be no getting those stains out. No matter how much time he put into scrubbing. No matter if he flayed his own skin off his bones, the blood would always be there.

His heart rate quickened. He felt bile rising in his throat. With alarm, he disappeared down a hallway, tucking himself swiftly in a washroom. 

When he returned, he was shirtless. His forearms were bright red, stinging with how hard he’d scrubbed. Head down, he crept quietly towards the staircase leading up to the bedrooms on the upper level. 

He paused at the sofa, glancing down longingly at the woman he would never deserve. 

The woman that would never forgive him for how he acted. 

Never forgive him for what he was. The thought made his lower lip tremble.

He didn’t deserve her. This was an undeniable fact. 

But regardless, she was still his responsibility. His to protect. His to keep safe. 

His to keep.

His shadow fell over her as he reached down and gently lifted her from the sofa. Effortlessly, he carried her weight like a towel over his arm, or a down-pillow in his hands. Ascending the staircase with her tucked against his chest, he didn’t miss the way she huddled closer to his warmth. She sighed against the skin over his heart in a way that made gooseflesh rise. 

Gently, he ferried her, like a small boat on a glass lake. He strode past the door to the room that she had occupied and continued down the hallway, headed to the southern-facing end of the house. He approached the heavy oak door to his bedroom and used his toe to push it open. The action barely disturbed her at all. Like floating on a cloud.

Moving through the bedroom darkened by blackout curtains, he drifted across his room and rested her body on the silk surface of the California-king bedspread. Delicately, he placed her head on a 1000-thread count pillow void of any scents other than his own. He hoped that it would smell like her shampoo by the time she woke up. 

He stepped back from the bed, listening the pulsation of her heart. Studied the pace of her breathing. Fixated on her soft features as she floated in her slumber. A familiar pang reached his chest as he watched her, hesitating for only a moment more before he padded to the other side of the bed. 

She sighed in her sleep, nuzzling the softest pillow she’d ever laid on, and shuddered comfortably as two arms wrapped around her waist. She felt herself pulled back and was cradled by a firm form shaping her own. It was warm. She was warm. The breath on the back of her neck was warm.

Her eyes shot open, a small gasp catching in her throat. Rapidly, she blinked through the murky twilight of the foreign bedroom, her heart spiking. 

“Don’t,” she heard a deep, raspy voice whisper in her ear. She went rigid, recognizing the owner of the voice and the body pressed up against hers. Alarm flooded her.

“Please don’t,” he said softly, with a tone that sounded shockingly broken. She was frozen. Stunned. By fear or surprise, or both. 

Another murmur, “Stay with me.”

It was a whimper shaped like a demand. With it, she swore she could feel a tremble in his grip. He buried his face in her hair, his bearded chin tucking into her shoulder. His arms locked her into an impenetrable grip. 

Instinct was screaming at her to break the hold. Told her she needed to fight. Or run, as far and fast as she could manage. 

It wouldn’t be very far. The previous afternoon he proved that he was more than capable of bringing her back. 

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The way the air from his lungs ghosted over her nape made her eyes flutter shut. 

His arms were heavy. Firm, but not painful. Solid, not tight. She imagined the hearty limbs of the oak in the backyard of her childhood home. Three seasons out of the year, she’d scale into its arbor, hiding from her troubles. She once wanted to build a home there.

She should fight. She should run.

There was a monster in her bed. She was in a monster’s bed. 

And yet, sleep took her soon after. The most peaceful rest she’d had in ages.

When she emerged from her rest, she was alone again. Harsh daylight flooded into the bedroom she hadn’t had the chance to see. After a moment of confusion, she turned around to see the other side of the bed unoccupied. The blankets undisturbed. She glanced down at her own clothes. Though wrinkled and dirtied from her tree climbing adventure and attempted escape, they were intact. 

She was surprised, but even more surprised at the strange mix of… anxiety? 

When is the appropriate amount of time when you’re forced into your kidnapper’s bed for him to… you know… make a move? Was it her? Was she awful, or even worse—did she smell bad? 

The line of self-conscious questioning and odd disappointment frustrated her further. She sighed, silenting cursing her own stupidity, shaking the thought from her mind. 

Someone once told her that if life was a horror film, she’d be the first to die. It would’ve offended her more if she wasn’t wrapped up in the notion that if life could be a horror film, how would any of us know we were in one?

Her mother answered— ”Stupid, stupid girl.”

Attention now turned to the surroundings, she came face-to-face with another real-life magazine spread. A dream bedroom. The coziest jewel of this particular dream home. 

Although it was a modest size, it didn’t feel that way. The primary bedroom was decorated with a soothing blend of alabaster stone, exposed beams of reclaimed wood, and snuggly linen tones. Vaulted ceilings lined with ash. A winding, black iron chandelier dangled over the four-post bed she laid in. A stone fireplace stood opposite from the bed, accompanied by an overstuffed linen chair. Just as in the other rooms, a double-height window accented with floor-to-ceiling drapes towered over the room and revealed the breathtaking mountain landscape.

She sat up and gathered her jaw up off of the bedspread. Wiped drool from her lip. The room was charming and warm, like fuzzy socks and sherpa blankets. Marshmallows melting on hot cocoa. It wrapped around her, like a hug.

Like her visitor last night.

She yanked her eyes off of the rustic-contemporary decor, searching for Peter, as if he would’ve somehow camouflaged himself into the space. Placing her socked feet down on the blessedly toasty hardwood, she peered around curiously. The gentle roar of water running caught her attention as she wandered to the other side of ithe room. An open doorway led into another massive space, one side lined with wardrobe cabinetry and the other half of the room obscured by a wall. 

Idly, she followed the path through what she recognized as a closet larger than her apartment, rounding the corner of the freestanding wall. Clouds billowed around her, as she gazed open-mouthed at the primary bathroom. Sunlight poured in, lighting up the space, bouncing off of white marble and black obsidian glass tile—

And Peter Parker. 

Steam wafting off of his nude form, hot water pouring down his backside. She paused midstep, eyes like saucers. Felt the blood rush to her face. Panic swallowed her. She imagined this is exactly what deers must feel right before getting plowed by an F-150, blinded by headlights. 

Except that she was blinded by his wet pale skin, the way the steam rose from it, like he was the source of heat. The smattering of freckles spread faintly across his shoulders. His palms were flat against the backsplash as he bowed his head into the stream of water. His dark locks slicked back by a cleansing cascade. 

She followed the current down the curve of his shoulders and the peaks of his spine, down to the dimpled valleys of his lower back, and that breathtaking canyon ridge that dips down in a V at his hips— whatever that’s called— and never in her life would she see herself as an ‘ass enthusiast,’ but her mouth was watering now, maybe from the lack of hair on his body (his skin was so buttery smooth, what was his skincare secret?) or the subtle curvature of his shapely cheeks— 

Aimlessly, she collided with a freestanding towel drying rack, sending it clamoring to the tile floor. To her ears it sounded like the whole Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade falling down a staircase into a pile of cookware. She didn’t bother to see if Peter could hear the racket.

Like Icarus into the Sun, she hurled her own body back into the closet before she could be seen. Landed hard on the carpeted floor with a thud. She scattered, scrambling like a crab, on her hands and knees until she could get to her feet and bolt from the room.

In a frenzy, she rushed to ‘her’ bedroom, the one nearest to the stairs. She didn’t breathe again until the door was slammed shut and she rested her weight against it. A fire raged beneath her skin, her face aflame with embarrassment. She dragged her palms down her cheeks, groaning with mortification, sinking to the floor.

At what point is it acceptable to creep on your kidnapper in the shower?

Chapter Text

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

She was gone. Again.

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

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

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

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

Coffee. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He winced at that. 

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

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

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

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

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

His heart ached at the sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed to do better. He would do better.

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

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

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

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

…idiot…

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

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

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

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

“And, I mean, you—you’re, um—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She froze. Blinking like a deer in the headlights. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you, it’s Ben—”

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

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

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Who is Peter Parker?”

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

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

“What? No.”

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

“It’s not a gang.”

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

“Don’t,” Peter snapped like a whip. 

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

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

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

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

He chuckled humorlessly. “Worse.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked at her. 

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

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

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

“Says you.”

He chuckled, “That’s awful.” 

“No, it’s not…awful. It’s an alias.”

“It sounds fake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stayed silent, considering his position. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh… um—”

“Don’t think! Just answer!”

“The Sandlot!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duh.”

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t even blink. “Twenty-five.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Were you on a team?”

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

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

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

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

“I skated, yes—”

“You wore Vans slip-ons?”

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

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

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

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

Can you play any instruments?

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

What’s the last TV show you binged?

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

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

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

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

“Space.”

He curled a brow. “So… black?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chikunia bilde.”

“A whatiya building?”

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

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

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

“They’re so hairy!” she winced.

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

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

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

“You sympathize with a giraffe?”

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

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

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

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

Blazing. Brighter than the Sun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was ridiculous, really. Infuriatingly so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who was he again?

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

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

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

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

“The gang or the co-workers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When’s the test?” Peter sighed. 

Miles said with a wince, “Um… now?”

“Now?” Peter exclaimed.

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

“Miles!” he groaned. “Again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” Honey asked, morbidly intrigued.

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

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

“If Peter was a tree—?”

“Yes,” Honey replied, repeating her earlier question. “What kind of tree would he be?” She stood with two other men—Miguel O’Hara, and a dark-skinned, lanky man with an East London accent sporting a mohawk fade named Hobie Brown. The others referred to him as "the Punk."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, I, uh—” Honey timidly stuttered. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about? What options?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confused. Mistaken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And all of it had happened because of her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t believe you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t enough. 

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

It still wasn’t enough. 

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A crude mirror-image of one another.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

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 before. 

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 ¾ 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.

> it's 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.

Chapter Text

What does it mean to be pulled apart?

Peter knew. He was experiencing it first-hand.

It was glorious.

Heaven was the only thing he could think of, and he wasn’t even sure he believed such a place existed. But if it did, it would be here—in between the thighs of the woman he’d die for. 

She looked so delicate beneath him. So tiny against the black ocean of silk sheets in his bed. Her arms were outstretched, a black-leather cuff binding each wrist. Her legs were also spread wide. The sight was breathtakingly lewd—body trembling, goosefleshed, inner thighs dripping wet. He loved the way her hips squirmed beneath his hands. It made it even more fun to hold her down. 

It was almost vulgar, a shameless, pornographic display. But she was an angel, after all. How could anything be vulgar about an angel? How could anything be shameful in Heaven? How could something so sweet be a sin?

Honey. He remembered how his mind used to wander into dark territory. It was somewhat embarrassing, how often it would happen. He’d be standing in line at the coffee shop watching her work or watching her whip up a batch of cake batter in his kitchen. Suddenly, the thought would attack his mind: like being struck by lightning. He would wonder if she tasted as sweet as she was while silently observing her with a crooked half-smile on his face, cock half-hard in his pants.

She tasted better than he ever could’ve imagined. Uniquely sweet and still somehow floral, like honey and lavender. Honeysuckle. No wonder birds and bees couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Hummingbird wings beat beneath his chest as his tongue lapped at her petals, devouring the nectar he’d find. 

He was addicted to it. Whimpering for it. Jesus, he was a goner.

He’d never stop. He wanted to stay in Heaven forever. Just him desperately consuming her with mewling pathetic noises as he ground his crotch helplessly against the bedsheets. He wanted to stay there and weave his tongue through her folds—fuck, he was gonna come just from eating her out, blow his load in his pants like a fuckin’ teenager—until she begged him to stop. Until he’d pulled every last beautiful noise from her.

She was crying from pleasure. Screaming from it. He knew it. He was splitting her in half, as much she tore him apart. He was in pieces. Fragments. His love, and pain, and soul all spilling out for her. 

Only for her.

The water was warm. The steam filled his lungs. Heat settled in his chest and burned like fire. His hands were buried in her sopping-wet hair. She was wrapped around his fingers. Wrapped around his cock. Her face was pressed against the shower wall as he gazed hungrily down at the place where he was impaling her. Every thrust of his hips was a dizzying jolt of electricity. 

He was obsessed with the view, watching his cock slip in and out of her folds. Fuck she’s so tight. It hurt. There’s nothing wrong with a little pain, though. Nothing wrong with a little blood.

Her mouth felt so tight. Watching his cock slip in and out of her lips. Her throat closed around his length. He gazed down at those hypnotic, sparkling, watery eyes. Fuck he could see his head going down her throat. She was so good to him. So good. 

Perfect angel. So good on her knees for him. Sucking him so well, the Berber carpet of her closet rubbing burns there, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Such a tough girl. 

Such a pretty girl. Wearing that beautiful little lavender dress he had bought for her. He knew she’d like it. He knew it’d look perfect on her—goddamn potato sack’d look sexy on her—the second he saw it in the store, he knew. Babydoll. It suits her so well. Like it was made for her. 

Like her mouth was made for him. He gripped her chin tighter. Her pussy was made for him. He began to thrust into her throat, couldn’t help himself. Her whole body was made for him. 

Lace and silk flowing down it. His cum would be flowing soon enough. Dripping all over, coating her face and tits and tongue. Looking up at him with those beautiful eyes as she held her mouth open for him like a good girl, tongue stuck out greedily, savoring every last drop. Nothing wrong with being greedy sometimes. His good girl. 

His cum streaming down her face. 

Her tears streaming down her face. 

His tears streaming down her face.

He snapped his hips faster, fucking her into his creaky, old twin mattress. The lumpy one he slept on every night since he was 5. He’d proactively shoved old t-shirts in the cracks between the bed and the wall to muffle any potential pounding. 

He was pretty sure that May and Ben might have suspected he was foolin’ around and stuff, but ever since the Sex Talk Debacle of 2008, he would prefer a wrap it up, stop means stop, and never to have that conversation again.

“Peter… oh god, feelss s’good…” he heard a breathless whisper that shot straight to his cock. 

He looked down to see the most gorgeous green eyes in the entire world staring up at him. Blissed out. Euphoric. Corn silk hair spread out on his pillow like a halo around her head. Fair skin, apple-cheeks, kissable freckles, and peony-pink lips. An angel.

Heaven. He was in Heaven. The sight of her made him want to fall down and worship. Made him want to cry. Bury his head against her belly and sob and scream and have her pet him and run her fingers through his hair and rock him and cradle him and promise that she’d never leave him again.

It had been so long. “Gwen…” he panted, a groan bubbling up in his chest. “God, Gwen, I’ve missed you… s-so fuckin’ much—”

“I love you,” she gasped a hushed reply, nearing her climax. Like whispering a secret. So quiet, so the other angels couldn’t hear. “I-I love you, Peter—I love you always…”

He was being torn apart. He wanted to die, the way she tightened around him.

“Fuck, fuck, Peter, don’t stop!”

He opened his eyes. Honey was beneath him again, in his childhood bedroom. There was blood everywhere in the sheets. Streaming down her face. Coating her breasts. Covering her arms. Covering his hands. 

“Peter, please, don’t stop,” she whined, and who was he to deny her. She was a goddess and this was her kingdom. 

Perfect girl. Such a good girl. 

“I’ve been so good for you, been so, so good—”

don’t stop.

Stop, just stop—

—don’t fucking stop—

—Peter, snap out of it, stop!

“Pete, wake up!” 

His eyes popped open just as he felt himself falling over the edge. The sensation was terrifying. Like plummeting in a dream. Disorienting. 

Light pierced his eyes like flaming swords. The hum of neon rang in his ears like a jet engine. He tasted bile on his tongue, but his mouth was drier than a desert. Throat was sore. Great, is this the flu? How long has it been since he was sick? Gross taste in his mouth. Awful metallic scent in his nose.

His muscles locked in place. Brain short-circuiting. 

Blood. He smelled blood.

“Pete, can you hear me? Are you still crazy?” Eddie’s voice punctured his eardrums, and Peter reached up to cover his ears protectively. Lashes fluttered, dark eyes roving around. The picture came into focus.

He was in a room. A dark room. No windows. With ugly carpets and ugly modern furniture that reeked of cigars, cigarettes, and old vodka. 

It was a small lounge of some kind. Through the walls, he could hear bells and laughter and shrill screams of excitement. 

Broken glass littered the patterned floor, multiple recognizable fragments that were once full bottles of Belluga, Russo-Baltique, Chopin, and good old-fashioned Belvedere. 

He was on his back. Looking up at Eddie Brock, who looked even worse-for-wear than he normally did. “Talk to me, buddy,” he anxiously muttered, leaning over his boss. 

Also, this was not the person he expected to see after… whatever that was.

His throat was too sore to respond in words. Instead he groaned, rolling over on his side. Hissing in pain that radiated in his chest and ribs and hands. His hands were bloody.

He swallowed hard. Heart pounding. “Honey…” he whispered, worry and confusion taking over.

“She’s safe,” Eddie replied, and it only sort of gave him some relief. 

He twisted around, assessing the room. The furniture had been turned over. It looked like a tornado shredded the space. Attempting to get up was difficult, especially as Peter tried to conceal the rapidly weakening hard-on in his trousers. 

“What about you, how’re you feelin’?” Eddie’s voice chimed in again, voice softer. “What do you see? What do you remember?”

He didn’t want to talk about what he remembered, worried that the bulge in his pants had already given him away. Peter squeezed his eyes closed, the orbs feeling like sandstones lodged into his skull. He groaned, “Uhhh… shit… I… uh…”

He remembered… 

His time in Heaven. The closet. The bedsheets. Honey. Gwen.

No, none of that’s real. None of that happened.

— you’ll never see them again—

Focus, Parker.

—youre a monster and monsters never get to heaven no such thing—

“Pete,” Eddie repeated, this time more firmly. “You with me?” 

Peter looked up at the other man, reading his 5 o’clock shadow. Gazed at the concern in his hazel-gray eyes, the old scar cutting over his left brow, and the dark, puffy bags beneath. He really hadn’t slept in days. What the hell happened?

White hair. Long white hair. Smelled like bergamot, and cedar, and tobacco.

Silver. On her eye lids. Around her neck. Chrome-like. Two tiny patches of shiny silver fabric just barely covering massive, fake tits.

Peter swallowed hard, heart pounding. “I…” 

Silver thong, garter belt and thigh harnesses to match. She looked like a disco ball. Turning, twirling… gliding around a silver pole. Silver eyes, or maybe that’s just the way they looked when she looked at him. Gazing at him seductively. All over him.

Silver tongue. 

He tasted bile coming up his throat. “I… don’t…” Brought the back of his hand up to his mouth to keep it down.

What had he done? What the fuck—?

He looked down at himself in confusion. His black shirt was torn open. Dark pants ripped, shredded in some places. There was a giant black hole in the middle of his memory. 

He was home. In his home, in a meeting, in the parlor— He broke the piano—

“That was almost 3 days ago, man,” Eddie chimed in. Peter stared up at him, gobsmacked. Stunned. Confused. Worry set in Eddie’s eyes, the corners of his mouth downturned. “You’re in Vegas.”

Horror. Filling his eyes, his chest. Shock. Heaving. His throat was tightening up because of it. “Wha…?” Peter murmured in disbelief. “Wh-what…?” 

Like a spooked cat, he clamored to his feet, the whole world tilting as he came to an abrupt stand. 

Blinking rapidly, trying to see into the dark spot in his mind. Black holes consume everything. All light swallowed up. His belt was unbuckled. The fly still fastened tight. His shirt was torn and bloody. Blood all over.

“I…” Peter thought he was going to be sick. He thought he’d scream. “What did I—?” His gaze traveled over the room as he stumbled backward. That’s when he caught a glimpse of it. 

Red hair.

He was trembling. Creeping towards a toppled-over chaise lounge, staring unblinkingly down at the horrible pattern of the carpet. The stains on it. Blood.

Long, white waves of hair, spread out like a halo, stained red with blood. Not his blood. 

Hers. The silver woman who was flirting with him. Bugging him. Teasing him. Shamelessly trying to seduce him. Sat in his lap and poured vodka down his throat and filthy promises in his ear, before dragging him ‘somewhere private.’

“Oh, god,” Peter gagged. Her broken body was spread out in front of them, her blood painting the floor and walls. 

The silver woman’s body was torn apart. Ripped open. Separated. Two halves.

Peter’s legs gave out, dropping to a knee, tears streaming down his cheeks. “God, what did I do?” he breathlessly gasped. There was so much blood. Her skin wasn’t even visible. 

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t lose it!” Eddie babbled, jumping into view. His form obscured the body as he took Peter by the face. His skin was ice cold. “It’s not what it looks like, alright? Don’t— don’t you fuckin’ throw up! Don’t throw up; that’s your DNA!”

As if he cared about going to jail at this point. Peter was already dead inside. Maybe he needed jail. Supermax. Maybe he needed the electric chair. 

“Eddie…” he shivered, voice trembling, “what-what’d… I-I don’t remem—” 

“She was an assassin,” Eddie explained, gripping him by his shoulders. Peter’s glazed-over expression swam with confusion. Drowned in it. 

Eddie rolled his eyes, annoyed by the awkwardness of the situation. “C’mon, man,” he grimaced. “You really thought ‘Silver Sable’ was her name?” 

Peter blinked, eyes bugged out. Eddie let out a straight-faced groan, shocked by his boss’ naivety. “Silvija Sablinova was her real name,” he added. “A finalist on the Kremlin’s Got Talent, and guess what her talent was? Cuttin’ throats, man. She’s the leader of the baddest hit squad money can buy. And you were on her list.”

Peter’s skin was stone cold. Shaking his head in disbelief, his brows pinched together in shock. 

Eddie rolled his eyes, “I saw the whole thing go down on the security camera footage. Sorry, buddy, she wasn’t that into you.” 

Peter’s face flushed red, and he looked away. 

“Looks like Kingpin wanted to send you a message.” Eddie looked over at the body, grimness returning to his tone. “Message received, I guess.”

Peter shoved him back angrily, breaking his grip. The dryness in his eyes was only now being counteracted by tears threatening to spill. They burned like acid. “You think that matters to me? I killed her! I did… that.”

“In self-defense,” Eddie argued, then pointed at Peter’s chest. “Not before she got a few good licks in.”

He followed the end of his finger to his chest. Looking down beneath his shirt, he could see bloody gashes oozing beneath the fabric.

Eddie chuckled at the sight in disbelief, “Dude. She stabbed you with a sword—”

“You think this is fuckin’ funny?” Peter snapped, eyes burning hot. “Do you have any idea….?”  The air left his lungs before he could finish the sentence. He felt hollow. Numb.

Eddie wasn’t smiling anymore. He glared right back. “Yeah, Pete,” he said with clipped words. “I do.”

They were deadlocked in heated silence. Finally, Peter stepped backward. Body weary, as it always was after a blitz like that. But this time, it was different. It was worse. 

Squeezed his eyes shut, holding back tears. He gripped his hair, letting out a frustrated cry that sounded more like a growl. The agonized groan of a dying animal.

“I got rid of the camera footage, but we gotta get out of here,” Eddie mentioned, anxiously eying the door. “Get back home before anyone else sees you.”

“I-I don’t…” Peter wiped his mouth, unable to keep that smell at bay. Now he could taste the metal on his tongue. 

“Look, this was not random, okay?” Eddie countered. “How did Kingpin know where you were? None of the rest of us did! We’ve been lookin’ all over the East Coast for you. This isn’t circumstance, this is strategy. He went after you for a reason.”

Peter’s eyes were fixed on the floor, tears blurring his vision. “The woman, I-I didn’t…” he sniffed, his voice trembling. He gnawed on his lip to prevent the wobble. “I didn’t want to… I would never do—” 

He was unable to speak further. Unable to breathe. 

Assassin or no, the images from whatever ‘hallucination’ Peter had been having, juxtaposed with the violent scene he ‘awakened’ to, made him sick with self-loathing. It was like throwing a bucket of ice water on him. A bucket of flaming napalm. 

Guilt churned in his stomach. He was ashamed. Mortified at himself. When he squeezed his eyelids closed, all he could see behind them were Honey’s eyes. The look of betrayal on her face. He didn’t even remember how he got there. He didn’t remember anything.

A blackout. 

“You weren’t you,” Eddie said, his tone endearing. “Not really.”

When Peter looked back up, tears running down the bridge of his nose and cheeks, he realized he was looking at a friend. Maybe his only friend. The only one that saw him for what he truly was, and didn’t run away in terror.

Maybe he should, though. Peter certainly scared the shit out of himself.

This was an awful idea, Honey thought, standing outside of the ajar door to Peter’s office. She was half convinced that it would never work— it was impossible, given the enhanced security. She told him. Begged him.

Her puppet master didn’t care. Assured her, via text, that when she got to the door, it would be open. The cameras wouldn’t see her, they’d see a loop instead. 

She had no idea how John was able to pull that off, but he was capable of anything.

He reminded her of that with a series of photos. This time, they were screenshots of an Instagram chat. The tiny profile pic was undeniably Gabriella. The conversation was intimate. Flirty. Then a little inappropriate. Then straight-up graphic. 

She’d sent pictures—christ, what are you doing, Gabby, you never send pictures!—the kind that would make a young girl want to die of embarrassment. 

Or just die. 

And John fucking Walker had them.

It infuriated her. Honey cried for three hours out of sheer rage. It was so wrong—so fucking wrong, that motherfucker, how did he get into her phone? how was he even allowed to have pictures like that? they’re illegal! 

And the more she read over the screenshots, the more she paid attention to spelling and punctuation. The more she began to suspect that John had always been the only recipient of those photos. A catfish caught.

Over her dead fucking body, she thought. She’d die before she’d let him touch her.

And standing in Peter’s office, snooping quietly through his files, that was likely going to be the outcome.

If the threat of harming her sister wasn’t enough, there was a separate gnawing fear inside of her. It had been three days since she’d seen Peter.

After that night, he took off without a word to her or anyone else. She waited for him. After what she saw him do to his guard, she was scared out of her mind, but she waited anyway. He didn’t come home that night. Or the following day. 

And when she asked questions, nobody would give her a straight answer. And the following day, everyone vanished. She was practically alone in the penthouse, except for the 12 other faceless guards who didn’t dare speak to her. Apparently, it was a death warrant.

Now it was Day 3, and she felt like giant bats were flailing in her belly. Where could he have gone? And why did he not at least call her and tell her where he was, or if he was alright? She still didn’t have her own phone (officially) but there could’ve been some form of communication. 

Was she being naive to think that they had that kind of relationship? She wasn’t allowed to do anything without him knowing about it, but he could disappear for days and not tell her anything? How was that fair?

What if he was with someone? Someone else?

She stowed that sharp pang away, not wanting to dwell on it. She was not jealous. She was safer with him gone. He was a monster. She was not jealous.

She was stupid. This was dumb. She had no idea what John was even looking for, but his desk and the drawers showed nothing to indicate where Peter had gone. She sighed, anxiety filling her chest, worried that she wouldn’t have anything to offer him that would satiate his hunger for cruelty.

She stopped at one of the shelves in the built-in bookcase. There, on top of a book, was an item that she’d never noticed before: a metal rangefinder camera, silver with a bumpy black grip and amber-coated lens. 

She didn’t know anything about cameras, but this one felt heavy in her hands. She thought it was probably heavier than cameras should be. It looked old. She tested the weight, carefully turning the device over in her hands, inspecting details. 

On the front of the camera, in the top right corner, there was a little badge with an embossed atom symbol. The front also had letters ‘GSN’ and the word ‘GYashica.’ She’d never heard of that brand before—wait, was that GYashica or just the letter G and the word Yashica? Maybe it wasn’t a G. It wasn’t a G. Probably.

The top of the camera had words that were easier to read: Electro 35. A Yashica Electro 35. Old. Vintage. Kinda beat-up. The inside of the camera had a label on it too, from an embossed office label printer: PROPERTY OF PETER PARKER.

It made her smile. Her eyes glanced up at the book the camera had been sitting on, and that’s when she noticed it wasn’t a book at all. It was a box that looked like a book, like the kind that her mom used to use to hide all of their money.

Curiously, she set the camera down on a lower shelf and reached up to retrieve the box. 

Inside: Photos. Real, physical, color photos printed on old photo paper, not like the kind that some people can print off with a printer at home. She remembered having one of those wind-up film cameras once, but those pictures never looked as good as these.

Candids, all of them. Taken with a skilled eye.

A woman, middle-aged, with a wide smile. In mid-conversation, it would seem, with bright eyes despite how sullen they looked. She was sitting up in a chair, an infusion pump beside her. A yellow, daisy floral bandana was wrapped around her head. Her hair was not visible.

The back of the photo had a date. May 2006. Her brows went up as she flipped the photo back around, taking a closer look at the woman. Not May 2006.

May. 2006.

Her lips parted, not realizing she was going to come face-to-face with the May Reilly. May Parker. Peter’s Aunt May. The woman that became his surrogate mother. The ‘fighter’ that defeated cancer. The only mother he really knew, lost in a rain of gunfire. 

Next photo.

An older man, white hair matted down, his upper half drenched. He was sitting in a tight space on a kitchen floor, in front of a sink cabinet that was wide open. In his hand was a pipe. In the other was a rag he was using to dab at his face. Also visible: May, looking a bit older than in the last photo, doubled over, tears in her eyes. Both of them laughing their asses off.

The back of the photo read ‘You should’ve just called a plumber, Ben. 2011’

A chuckle escaped her lips as she put the scene together. She could imagine May’s voice repeating the phrase, and somehow could imagine the man pictured in the photo stubbornly holding out. A warm smile stretched her lips. 

They were so happy. Once upon a time.

Next photo. She gasped.

The woman’s eyes were so green. The brightest green eyes she’d ever seen. She was beautiful. Cornsilk hair framed the apples of her cheeks. It was a closeup, somewhere outdoors. Somewhere cold. A thick-knit beanie was pulled over her ears, and the tip of her nose was bright red. 

Gwen. That was the only word on the back of the photo. 

Honey turned the photo back around, now with her jaw agape. Her brows were furrowed. Gwen. The girl of Peter’s dreams. Beneath that photo, there was a strip of photos in sequence, like the kind taken in a photo booth.

Gwen and Peter. Smiling. Silly. Kissing. Sweet. 

How could something so sweet make her heart ache? He was happy. Once upon a time. 

She pursed her lips together. 

This was stupid. She was stupid. Why was she being stupid?

She turned the strip over to find another handwritten phrase: Do I have to lose you too????

The pang in her chest remained, but this time it was for Peter. And for herself.

With a heavy sigh, she put the photos back in the box. When her fingertips touched the bottom, it moved. She blinked, confused. The bottom of the box was fake.

Tilting her head to the side, she worked her fingernails under the edge of the bottom insert. She pried it up, revealing more photos hidden underneath.

Her eyes went wide, her breath stuck in her throat. Horror.

Gwen again. But these… were different. She was naked. Different poses. Limbs laid out in scandalous ways. 

Honey blushed, pulling her eyes away. Her face warmed and her heart began to race. 

This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. She shouldn’t be looking at this. 

She glanced back at the provocative photos. By the look on Gwen’s face, she was a willing subject. Each picture was taken with a singular intention. Each one, a small taste. Hands gripping her breasts. Another with her ass raised in the air. Looking directly at the lens with a finger hooked between her lips, the other hand slipped between her spread legs. Another closeup of her exposed nipples and her sultry smile, semen covering both. Provocative. Passionate. Pornographic. 

This was wrong. 

She imagined Peter taking these photos. Imagined him directing her, manipulating her body in whatever way he wanted. A doll for him to play with. 

Sweat beaded on her neck. Why was it so hot in that room? Why did her face feel so hot?

Hands shaking, she shoved the photos back into the box. Snapped the lid shut, returning it to its position on the bookshelf. 

Her whole body was trembling. She was aching. 

What was wrong with her? Why did she have the disgusting urge to shove her hand in her pants and just—

“Can I help you find something?” Peter said from behind her. She gasped, spinning suddenly, her hand knocking into the camera. The heavy metal object slid off the shelf and plummeted to the floor. She watched the device falling with horror.

Until it was caught. Peter was suddenly there. Like he’d teleported in the blink of an eye. His wide fingers closed around the camera. He’d saved it, just inches off the ground, before it was destroyed.

She was instantly relieved, then immediately doused in an ice bath. Her whole body went stiff, like she’d electrocuted herself. She was stunned, motionless. His dark eyes landed on hers. Peering up at her, inquisitively from his leaned-over position. Slowly, he straightened out, full control over every muscle. He loomed over her, looking down at her horrified gaze.

“I—” she gasped, babbling. Struggling. “I-I…”

“That was close, wasn’t it?” Peter murmured, studying her too intently. 

She looked down at the camera in his hand, and looked back up at him. A subconscious step backward reminded her that her back was flat against the bookcase. She felt trapped again. Cornered. Her eyes were saucers, staring down the barrel of his gaze. 

“Thank god, you caught it!” she laughed nervously. Her heart was pounding. She swallowed hard, grinning wide. “Nice reflexes.”

Peter watched her carefully, scrutiny playing in his eyes. The bat in her stomach had grown to a full-sized pterodactyl. 

Honey cleared her throat. “Sorry, I… I shouldn’t have been playing with the camera. I was just, um, curious, I guess. I-I don’t even know how to use one.” She wrung her hands idly, digging her thumbnail into her palm. “It looks old.” She said it with a lilt at the end. Turning the statement into a question. 

He glanced back down at the camera. “Uh… yeah… It is.” He looked back up at her, the tension falling from his face. “It’s, um… Yeah, I got it at a garage sale a while ago.” He pursed his lips, somewhat shy. “Good little camera.”

She rocked on her toes, the smile beginning to hurt. “Does it still work?”

He met her eyes, molasses flowing once again. “Yeah. It-it does.”

Honey nodded, trying to cover up the awkwardness, like smoothing out wrinkles in a bedsheet. “You shoot people, huh?”

He raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Your shirt,” she answered, thinking back to the first night she spent in the penthouse. “The one I borrowed that first night?” His face softened as soon as he recalled what she was talking about. “‘I shoot people.’ I get it now.” She giggled. “It’s funny.” 

He watched her smile, and listened to her laugh, and looked away. Unable to hide the reddening of his ears. The flush in his cheeks.

“Um,” Honey carefully began, observing his reaction carefully. “Maybe… maybe one day you can show me how it works? Teach me a little bit about photography?” His eyes darted up to meet hers, flustered and wide. 

Lips pursed, he stared at her in a daze, taking forever to respond. He nodded. Silently. Then, “Y-Yeah, I, uh… maybe.”

He reached over her head and put the camera back on the shelf, on top of the closed ‘book’ where it had been sitting. She bit her lip, avoiding his gaze, stepping out from underneath him. She fought the urge to run out the door. 

“What are you doing in here?” Peter asked, turning towards her. 

She turned around to face him, taking the sight of him in. He looked tired. His hair was messier than she was used to. Floofy. Like he didn’t use any hair product, which for him, was strange. 

He wasn’t dressed like he normally was—just a black, short-sleeve collared shirt with a couple of buttons loose at the top. Skinny black jeans. She wasn’t used to seeing him without at least four articles of clothing. It was odd. Unnerving.

“I was looking for you,” she answered, her brows knit together. It was technically the truth. “Are you okay? You-you look…awful.”

He raised a brow. “Thanks—?”

“No, no, no,” she shook her head. “I just meant…that…” 

Her eyes darted to the corners of his face anxiously. She spotted a small knick on his forehead. An almost-healed wound that looked old, but one she had never noticed before. Her brow curled at the sight. Her hand came up of its own accord, and before she knew it, her fingers were gently brushing the healing skin near the wound. 

Her gaze was warm. Sincere. Genuine concern.

When her fingers touched his flesh, he froze. Jaw clamped tight. Lashes fluttered closed. 

Against his judgment, against everything he believed about what he deserved, he leaned into her touch. Heat built up behind his eyelids, his eyes beginning to sting from the mounting wave. A shiver traveled down his spine. 

Just one gentle touch, and the entire world went away. He felt her hand go still. Or maybe time had stopped. He was afraid to open his eyes back up. Afraid that he was stuck in another dream. Her heart was pounding. So was his. 

When he finally peeled his eyes open, she was staring at him with a look of confusion. Worried, but not in a bad way. Stunned, but not scared. She narrowed her gaze, studying his eyes, and it made him want to hide. Like she could see through him. See into his soul. 

She swallowed dryly, pulling her hand back slowly. His heart clenched, and ached, and wailed, and longed for the warmth of her skin as soon as it was gone.

She fixed her gaze on him, chewing her bottom lip. “We were worried about you,” she said. “I was worried about you.” Seeing through him. Those eyes. 

—youre a monster and monsters never get to heaven—

Peter gulped down whatever tears were threatening to fall, stopping them. Hardened his gaze. Inhaled sharply. Winced at the feeling of broken shards of glass near his heart. “I’m, uh… sorry about that,” he nodded, avoiding her gaze. “I… I just needed some space.”

She recoiled slightly. “From me?”

His eyes grew wide with alarm, “No. No, no… no, not from you. That’s not what I— No, never, I just—” 

The words dropped off. He closed his mouth, flexed his jaw. “Um…” That sting came back to his eyes, betraying him. “Sorry.” His gaze dropped to the floor as he said it. 

The stench of blood lingered. Couldn’t get it out of his airways.

She shifted her weight between her toes, scratching the back of her neck. “It’s… um… it’s okay. I’m just… glad you’re home.” 

Home. 

He lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes once again. She wasn’t lying when she said it.

Home. He took a slow breath. Anywhere she was, that was his home.

“I know we don’t owe each other anything,” Honey said, coy. “And I know you really like rules, so… could we add one? If… if one of us isn’t home, could you at least—I don’t know— tell me you’re okay? At night, if-if you feel like you need to be away again.” The timidness of her voice broke his heart. “So I don’t worry?”

He looked at her like he’d just discovered a planet. How long had it been since anyone worried if he didn’t come home? How long has it been since he was home?

Eyes glistening, he couldn’t find the words. He just nodded. His mind was spinning with guilt, grief, loneliness and longing. Over a decade’s worth. Shyly, his eyes darted around. He hadn’t thought about the fact that she’d been in the room when he killed the Rat—Dexter Bennett, that two-faced asshole, always knew he was dirty—and therefore, witnessed the brutality of his rage. 

She saw him at his worst. Sometimes, Peter felt like his worst was all he had to offer. The fact that she was worried instead of horrified was unbelievable.

“Do you want to get dinner sometime?” she blurted. 

His head snapped over, eyes widened. “Wh… what?”

Her voice was thick with anxiety. “I-I’ve been thinking about it, and… and I mean, we have dinner together all the time, but-but it’s different, because we’re at the house—and there’s nothing wrong with that! It’s just—um, it’s not really anything special. Not that I want something special—like, I’m not asking for a Michelin star or anything—also, why are the people who make tires in charge of judging what we eat? That’s so weird. But anyway, I was thinking, since—y’know, everything has been happening so fast, and… we… sometimes, I feel like we-we barely know each other, y’know?. Or, y’know, in a… deeper way, a-a more.. A closer way. And, y’know… that’s why I thought that we should… should—”

“You wanna have dinner? With me?” he sounded stunned beyond belief.

“Yes!” Honey responded with a relieved sigh. Then, she back-tracked. “I mean… not like… a date, or anything—” 

He grimaced subtly, trying to hide it. 

“Unless… Unless you want it to be?”

His breath caught in his throat. Looked up at her, like he was caught in a dream. Held that gaze for as long as he could, then looked away. Bit his lower lip. Pocketed his hands in his jeans. “That depends,” he said, shifting his molasses eyes to her, sparkling with charm. “You got any plans this Saturday night?”

There he was. Her friend. Honey failed to hide her teeth, feeling a blush travel up her neck. “Um… not particularly.” She smiled, tension lifting. At the sight of her friend, the bats in her stomach became butterflies again and threatened to lift her off the ground. “Why?” 

At the sight of her smile, he returned a thousand-watt grin. She couldn’t contain the giggle that escaped her lips. They were teenagers again. Like schoolchildren, nervously swallowing stupid smiles, both of them trying to regain their composure.

“Because,” he said, his voice like honey, “I wanna take you to dinner.” She blushed, and he fixed her with a warm gaze, only cooling a bit. “And I wanna prove myself, that I-I… that I’m more,” he swallowed hard, the sincerity returning to his words. “More than just—”

The words fell away from his lips, his heart plunging into sorrow. She saw the drop, her smile fading at the sight. Goddamn doe eyes. She felt suddenly guilty. Alarmed. “You don’t have to—”

“No, no, no, I gotta say this, just let me say this,” he puffed, refocusing his intent. “I haven’t always been good to you. I know that. And I want you to know that I can be better. I wanna prove to you that I know how to treat a woman right, and… That I can treat you the way you deserve to be treated.” He swallowed hard, voice evening out, “You make me feel things that I didn’t even know I was still capable of feeling.”

Her eyes grew wide at this admission. He meant it. 

Dozens of feelings he thought were extinct. Joy. Mercy. Nerves. Excitement. Affection. Love.

“Hope.” He muttered, speaking the word like it was the name of a long-lost friend. “And for that, I know dinner is meaningless. But… it’s a start.”  He gazed at her endearingly, and it made her heart swell. 

“Yes,” she said, her smile equally bittersweet. “I’d love that.”

This wasn’t a date. Not the date. Peter assured her as much. 

Their date was Saturday, and it was Friday. And this wasn’t it.

She felt ridiculous. Stumbling around in an ivory-and-gold-sequined Versace mini dress she honestly mistook for a long-sleeved shirt. 

Hours before, Felicia raided her closet, tossing items at her with a fired-up ‘surprise, bitch, you and me are goin’ out!’ 

Felicia picked the shirt, laughing when Honey asked for the pants. She chose a carefully-curated item from the shoe collection—lace-up your boots, soldier— and chucked them at her. Disappointingly, they were not combat boots. Instead, it was a pair of black, pointed-toe Jimmy Choo stiletto pumps with crystal ankle straps. 

Honey brought up her concerns—how am I supposed to walk in those and not show my ass in this tiny shirt?— which Felicia also laughed off.

Because it wasn’t a shirt. It was an actual dress. And now, Honey felt like she was gripping the hem like the edge of a cliff, with wobbly legs like a baby giraffe on stilts.

“This… this isn’t the date,” Peter swore, sensing her discomfort as they pulled up. He opted for another Saint Laurent pairing—a burgundy velvet blazer, black silky shirt and black gabardine pants, along with Louboutin leather oxfords.

There was a row of freezing club-goers shivering on the sidewalk outside in a line wrapped around the block. Peter helped Honey out of the SUV, and guided her straight past the line. Keeping a respectful few inches of distance, he held his palm near her lower back as they walked through the entrance of the trendy, luxurious nightclub simply known as ‘Web.’ 

Which was a stupid name, she told Peter. 

Turns out it was his club.

And this wasn’t the date. It was business. 

Peter and his associates needed to visit a friend, he explained. This ‘night out’ was really a show of force, Honey realized. He was bringing his top lieutenants, Felicia, Miguel, and Eddie, to the party, as well as at least a dozen other faceless guards, who were told laughably to ‘blend in’ to the crowd.

The inside of the place was overwhelming. Instantly, her senses were overloaded. It was enormous, which made the exclusivity confusing. Sounds and sights and sensation hit her from all sides, a mixture of sirens, lasers, colored spotlights, confetti and fog cannons shooting off. At this stage, they were protected from the sweaty, bustling crowd below, observing the raging party from a balcony. Occasionally, she was blinded by the bright flashing of a 100-foot LED wall, which served as a backdrop for the DJ and could also light-up Times Square if they were close enough. 

Instinctively, she clutched Peter’s arm, worrying her rouge lip with her teeth. The feeling of her warmth set fire to his body. “This won’t take long,” he assured her, apologetically.

“Okay, Dad,” Felicia chirped, skipping up to them and hooking Honey’s free arm in hers. “If it’s okay with you, we’re gonna go out and play, byeeee!” She whisked her away, dragging her towards a staircase. Honey gave Peter a dizzied look as she was lead away.

His muscles pulled taut as his Honey disappeared from view. An ominous lump weighed down his stomach. He would’ve never brought her here at all, if it wasn’t his name on the lease. Felicia insisted that she needed a little freedom. A chance to blow off steam. And an opportunity for Peter to not come off like “a creepy, stalkerish, Nirvana’s-First-Album psychopath who collects her hair to make dolls.”

He grimaced at her comparison. I’m not that bad, am I?

After he tore someone’s head off in front of his whole crew, he figured his reputation could use a little improvement. And Peter wasn’t keen to leave her alone at home again, especially after Vegas.

“You doin’ okay?” Eddie asked quietly. Peter glanced over at him, yanking his downcast eyes from the floor. 

“Um,” he said, clearing his throat. Barely loud enough for the other man to hear. “Yeah, I’m just…uh, I… ” 

—monster… betrayer… parasite—

“That devil on your shoulder again?” Eddie asked with a sympathetic frown. 

Taking a deep breath, Peter nodded his head, rubbing his face tiredly. Eddie quietly observed him, then glanced around to make sure no one else was in ear shot. “Look, uh… I don’t wanna go into the details but… just so you know… nothin’ happened.”

Peter looked over at him, confused. Eddie stared back with an awkward, unsynchronized, conspiratorial wink. The other man knitted his brow incredulously. “What?”

“Y’know,” Eddie said, leaning in closer. “In Vegas.”

Peter’s face flushed red, brows raised. 

“Remember I said I scrubbed the security footage,” Eddie whisper-shouted, more conspicuously than he intended. “I scrubbed it. Saw everything.”

Peter’s eyes bugged out. “Wait, what?”

“Not everything!” Eddie whisper-exclaimed urgently. “I mean, nothing came out. Like, your junk didn’t come out. I didn’t see it.”

Peter felt his soul leave his body. He stared at Eddie him in horror, mouth agape, desperately shaking his head ‘no.’ 

“Like she was all over you,” Eddie whisper-explained, “in your fugue state, but it was nothin’ R rated. Didn’t make it past second base. No penetration, y’know? Except for the sword, when she—”

Peter threw up a hand, grimacing, “Okay, I don’t really want—”

“Your virtue is still intact, is what I’m tryin’ t’say,” Eddie whisper-blurted, like ripping off a bandaid. “Y’know. Your honor hasn’t been… uh… fucked away, I guess.”

Tight-lipped, Peter nodded rapidly, side-eyeing him. “Yeah, no, no, I appreciate that.”

“I’m just lookin’ out f’you, is all. I jus’thought you should know—”

“No, I get that. Got it. Thank you. Thank you—”

“In case you were broken up about it, y’know?“

“Yeah, yeah, thank you. Let’s…” Peter cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. Swallowing his mortified embarrassment, he added, cordially, “Let’s… uh… let’s not talk about this ever again, yeah?”

“For sure,” Eddie whisper-agreed.

Peter took a deep, steadying breath, glancing around at his group, hearing them grow impatient.

Miguel glared at them from a distance, dissatisfied. “Are we gonna do this, or are you two gonna keep flirting? At least somebody buy the other a drink.”

Perturbed, Peter leveled a stern gaze at Miguel, silencing him. He then turned back to Eddie. “Keep an eye on them, will ya?” he asked, with a head nod towards the dance floor. Worry in his eyes.

“Sure,” the other man nodded. Eddie left to look for Felicia and Honey, feeling the burn of judgmental gazes from the rest of Peter’s crew on his back. 

Rowdy shouts echoed from a separate lounge area perched above the crowd, the sounds lost and buried by the thrumming base of a Masked Wolf mix. Peter and Miguel glanced over at the sound of the commotion.

Scantily clad models presented at least a half-dozen, ice-filled chillers of expensive bottles to a table like sacrificial offerings. They approached the altar with lit Roman Candles, the sparks from the fireworks raining down like the Fourth of July. A dozen other women—at least one of whom was an actual supermodel— gave praise with flutes and glasses raised.

With a skeptical glare, Peter narrowed his eyes on the center of everyone’s attention—the god they were all there to worship. His old friend. Professional boxer and future heavyweight champion of the world, Danny ‘Iron Fist’ Rand.

“You’d think he’d be taking it easy, especially right before a big fight.” Peter turned towards the voice of another one of his associates—the manager of the club, Jessica Drew. 

The gorgeous woman strode towards the group flaunting a cardinal red, wide-leg jumpsuit with citrine-jeweled embellishments on the halter neckline. Her fluffy, blown-out coils were pulled up high in a wide, red, ruched-fabric headband. A matching golden jewel glittered at the crown of the wrap.

“Jessica,” Peter greeted her with a warm gaze. 

She glanced over to the Rand party with a withering look, rolling her eyes. “Boys never know when to give it a rest, huh?”

Peter softly smiled, nodding in reply. “No rest for the wicked,” he replied. “Let’s get this done, yeah?”

Chapter Text

Honey didn’t know this song, and she was nowhere near as coordinated as Felicia. Something something something about a monster and someone rapping really fast—fuck, this dress is so short!

Felicia had sectioned herself and Honey away from the crowd, up on an elevated platform two feet off the ground. It was a tiny island in the vast ocean of sweaty, pulsating bodies. She felt somewhat relieved up there, not worrying about strangers breathing down her neck or wandering hands feeling up her backside. Simultaneously, she felt exposed. 

“Relax,” Felicia hollered over the sound of the music. The taller woman wrapped her lithe but toned arms around her neck, gazing down at her with a million-dollar smile. “No one’s looking at us, honey. And if they are, it’s eating them up inside.”

 Honey spun around to see a pink-haired woman with a long bob cut standing behind the bar pop her head up at the name. The two women locked eyes. Felicia said nothing, just smiled, pointed her index finger in her direction, then added another finger to form the number two. Inexplicably, Annabelle must have known exactly what the gesture meant because she nodded and went to work mixing cocktails. 

“Come on, babe, let’s have a drink,” Felicia said, pushing back her platinum locks, slightly damped with perspiration. Honey followed her order, and carefully tread down the small staircase off the platform to floor level. Felicia cut across off the platform, marching her stilettos through the center of someone’s VIP table, then onto the seat of an open chair, then onto the floor. 

She took Honey’s hand and led her to the bar. The sea of people parted in front of her as if she was Moses. Honey looked over at her in awe, as if she was a divine figure.

Danny Rand was in prime form tonight. Silk shirt half unbuttoned, skin flushed from alcohol, he poured a bottle of Cristal directly into the mouth of a fangirl on her knees front of him. 

Rolling his eyes at the scene, Miguel’s voice rang out as he approached, “Well, look who it is!” 

Eyes turned towards the uninvited guest as he sauntered up to the VIP table. Danny looked up from his game with a sour face, chest puffing up, nostrils flaring. He sighed heavily as he recognized the figure strolling towards him, curling his lip. Miguel held his arms outstretched and said with a boisterous tone, “If it isn’t the Boy with the Magic Fist!”

Danny tossed a dirty look at him. “It’s Iron Fist, bitch,” he growled, snatching his glass from the hands of one of his friends. The sudden shift in tone rippled outwards among his guests, the festive energy deflating like a balloon.

Miguel held his hands up in surrender. “How you spend your Saturday nights is your business. I’m here because the boss wants to see you.”

The young fighter downed his flute, emptying it. He glowered as he lowered the glass, breathing venom over its rim. “Your boss,” he sneered, pointing daggers. “Not mine.” He sat back on the sofa, wrapping an arm around his supermodel Barbie doll. He crossed his leg and leaned back smugly, glaring up at Miguel. “I’m no one’s lapdog.” 

“Oh yeah?” he flashed a supercillious smile. “Why don’t you tell him that yourself?” Miguel leveled a hard gaze at him. “He’s here.” 

The second he finished his sentence, the crowd shifted as an icy chill blew through the area. Danny sobered instantly, his smile fading. His guests read his reaction, awkwardly averting their eyes, minding their drinks quietly.

“Hear that? Your whistle’s blowing,” Miguel added with a showy flourish of his arm. “After you, bitch.”

A little later, Honey, Felicia, and Eddie had taken over an unoccupied couch at a floor-level VIP table. It was unoccupied because Felicia had kindly asked the previous occupants to fuck off, here’s $2,000, go buy yourself a good time, handing them a wad of cash. 

Honey didn’t know this song either, but she bounced her knee, pretending that it was to the beat of the music and not the beginning of a panic attack. Anxiously, she tugged at the her dress, pressing tightly against her thighs. “Does anyone know where Peter is?” she called out. “He’s been gone for an hour, right?”

Felicia chuckled, dancing in her seat as she sucked back the rest of her cocktail, “It’s been twenty minutes. Relax, Queen Bee.”

“Does anyone know what he’s doing?” she asked. “What’s taking so long?”

Eddie shrugged. He was leaning back on the couch nursing a beer, eyes redder than roses. He looked serene amidst the chaos, and Honey envied it.

Felicia met her with devilish eyes and a sultry smile, “Daddy’s workin’, hon.” 

Honey gulped at the phrase, feeling her entire upper half flush red. She averted her eyes, anxiously tucking her hair behind her ear. 

“Aww, so cute,” Felicia remarked smugly. “Why don’t you finish your drink so we can go dance?”

Honey looked down at the bright turquoise liquid, only a quarter-way drained from the highball glass. Something called an ‘Adios Motherfucker.’ She picked up the glass and sucked on the straw. The alcohol burned fire in her chest but did little to quell her nerves. An air horn erupted nearby. She jolted in her seat at the noise.

This was too much. This was all too much. This was stupid. She was stupid. She was down here drinking in the world’s shortest dress when if anything she should be with Peter, betraying him by digging up his dirt and feeding it to her shitbag of an ex-husband that threatened to murder her whole family—

“I can’t!” Honey overanxiously exclaimed. She brought her hands to her face, trying to seal off the stimulation, bordering on panic. “I-I can’t do this! I need—” She sighed, turning to Eddie, who looked like he was somewhere else. Maybe the moon. “Eddie!” 

He didn’t respond, just stared at the spotlights, gently tapping his fingers on his thigh. 

“Eddie!” Honey called again, louder this time. No response. 

She carefully stood up and walked the short distance to stand directly in his field of view. “Hey!” she said, more forcefully. He snapped out of it, blinking bloodshot eyes up at her. She loomed over him with a straight face, her arms crossed. “Eddie? Hi. It’s me. I would like some drugs. Please.”

He blinked, stunned. Eyes wide. “Uhm, okay?” He stared up at her suspiciously. “That’s… not like you…?”

Her brows furrowed, offended. “How do you know?” she challenged defensively. “I can do drugs! I’m ready to do them. Give them to me. Give me drugs!”

Her voice echoed. He sat up, alarmed by the volume of her voice. “Shhhhhh! Okay, okay—first of all?” he said, whisper-shouting again. “Some discretion in public would be nice!” Apologetically, she tucked her neck into her shoulders, glancing around conspicuously. Thankfully, no one in the vicinity seemed to notice.

Eddie looked up at her, addressing her seriously, “What are we talkin’ here? Some Amps? Maybe some Bars? Some Vitamin-K?” Honey blinked at him, eyes wide. “Skittles? Slush-os, Squid Inks, Screamers?”

“The last one!” she answered. Her face crossed almost immediately. “Wait—I don’t know what any of those words mean.”

“No, shit,” Eddie scoffed wryly. “Most of ‘em I made up just now.” 

She sighed in frustration, folding her arms even tighter. Eddie inspected the area, with its loud noises and overstimulating lights. It wasn’t his scene either. 

“Look,” he declared sincerely, “I just don’t think this is the time or the place.”

“What is wrong with you people?” Honey scoffed. She looked back at Felicia and Eddie, her frustration boiling over. “Why does everyone always treat me like a kid—like I’m stupid or something? I can make my own choices!” Eddie and Felicia glanced at each other uncomfortably. “I know what I want,” she demanded with resolve. “And I want to just… survive this goddamn night!” 

Felicia looked away, a solemn look on her face. 

She held Eddie’s gaze firmly, pleading with a steel expression. “Please.”

It was the desperation in her voice that skewered him. Eddie stared, turning her words over and over again until eventually his shoulders dropped. “Alright,” he groaned in admission, rubbing his hand down his face. “Okay, okay, I might have something.”

Relieved, she clapped her hands like she was 6 and had just been presented with the exciting prospect of getting a Happy Meal after school. 

Grumbling to himself, Eddie dug through his pockets, eventually retrieving a long, thin tube. Discreetly, he passed it to her. She took it in her hands, examining the object curiously. 

A honey stick. She looked up at him curiously. 

He put a finger to his lips in a shush. “That one’s special,” he explained. “You’re gonna wanna ease into it, okay? Only half? Or maybe half of a half. Just to see how you react—” 

She quit listening after that, ripping the end off the tube and pouring the contents down her throat. 

Honey didn’t know this song, but loved this song. The beat buried itself beneath her ribs, the melody hypnotic. She swayed and rocked to the music, gripping Felicia’s hand—her hand is so soft, what is this song, what kind of lotion does she use, it’s been forever since I’ve gone rollerskating, do they still have rinks—?

Something magical was happening. She was ascending. Beyond the dance floor, beyond the city, beyond the earth. She had received the knowledge of the gods—Fruit by the Foot, what a novel concept—and had become like them. 

She was a god. God was a woman. And it was her. Probably.

Fuck, this stuff is really, really great.

Her mind was buzzing—no, vibrating, like it was strapped on a rocket ship headed for the sun. She was sure if she’d had an MRI done—ooh, missed opportunity—her brain would be lit up like a summer thunderstorm. 

Time was moving so slow. And then fast. And then too fast. Then slow again. Time was everything. It was the key to the whole universe. Time stretched out on an endless plane. Every moment an eternity. She was immortal. She was like the gods, with her newfound ability to slow down time.

She knew two other things for sure.

Number One. She had a new understanding of what terms like Death and Heaven meant. Death was the cessation of time. Heaven was the moment you want to live in for all eternity. For her, Heaven is the maple tree in her mom’s boyfriend’s backyard, the one she would climb and fantasize about her future. Fantasize about her Heaven. Heaven was also a log cabin in the mountains surrounded by white pine with a flowing river, just a mile away from an old campground. Somewhere there’s an oak tree with initials carved into it: M + B, with a heart enclosing them both.

Number One. Section A. Or Section B. Peter Parker is also there. She’s in love with Peter Parker. She doesn’t know who Ben Reilly is, but she knows Peter Parker—add to number one, appendix C, this song makes me feel alive—and Peter’s a good man who loves The Sandlot and wanted to build his home where his aunt first fell in love with his uncle. 

Section B/C. Peter Parker is such a sap. He’s a romantic. He’s broken. He’s filled with love and darkness and passion and rage. He’s terrifying. He terrifies her. It’s terrifying, the things he makes her feel. It’s terrifying, how safe she feels with him. How fucked up is that? Surely, of either of them, she was the most broken of all.

Two.

…

…

…

?

…

…

…

…

…

…

She forgot two.

Fuck. She might be high.

“I’d say so. Why don’t you just drink some water and not worry too much about it?” Felicia said.

Honey glanced over at her companions. Her friends. Eddie and Felicia, staring at her patiently, charitable with their attention. 

Oh shit. I said all that out loud?

“Yeah, you did,” Eddie nodded with a worried frown.

Honey gazed at him, blinking. Then broke into a giggle. “I’m-I’m sorry,” she laughed, as the giggle turned into a full-body hysterical laughing fit. Eddie and Felicia gave each other a look. “I’m sorry! You can read my mind, Eddie! We can mind-meld! God, it must be so noisy in there!”

He sighed, “I’m used to it.”  Honey continued to laugh herself out of oxygen, tears streaming down her face.

“What the hell did you give her, Eddie?” Felicia snapped.

His shoulders touched his ear lobes, his face whiter than a ghost. “It’s weed! Just weed!” he defended. “Not even that strong! Like… the stuff that would make your grandma call you a pussy. An insanely tame amount!”

Honey grabbed Felicia’s hand, tugging gently. Unable to stop laughing, she chuckled out the broken sentence. “I.. I don’t wan’t… I don’t want… you to think…. I’m weird… I really don’t… I just… want to tell you… that I want to kiss you right now…”

Felicia shot Eddie a dirty look. Turning back to Honey, she smiled kindly. “Oh, you’re so sweet,” she said and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Sadly, I have to decline, honey bunny.”

“Do-Dou- d’you not.. wanna kiss me?” Honey suddenly blanched. “Is.. is it me? Is it… d’you hate me? Am I annoying? Am I being annoying? I’m being annoying, right? I’m sorry—”

“Shh, shh… Not at all, sugar,” Felicia crooned softly, wrapping a gentle arm around the girl’s shoulder. Honey felt her anxiety ease almost immediately. Felicia rubbed her shoulder gently, a warm smile on her face. “It’s ‘cos I don’t shit where I eat.”

Honey stared at her inquisitively, tilting her head. With a sharp snort that would put a hog to shame, she burst into another fit of laughter.

Felicia stared daggers at Eddie. “You’d better sober her up real quick. Pete’s not gonna like this—”

“Peter?” Honey parroted, her heart racing. “Where’s Peter? Is Peter here? Where is he?”

“Relax, relax,” Felicia replied with a soothing voice. “He’s upstairs working, remember?”

“He’s working?” Honey repeated her chest tightening.

“He’s in a meeting, hon.”

“A meeting?” Honey exclaimed with a shrill voice, filled with alarm. “An important meeting? What about? I have to know! With who? I have to be there!”

Felicia shook her head, shushing her again, but it was like trying to tame a wild horse. “It’s okay—”

“No, no, it’s not okay! Nothing about this is okay!” she protested, her voice nearly breaking. “This is not okay! I have to be in that room. I have to be in that meeting! It’s very important that I’m there!”

Eddie and Felicia shook their heads, trying to take her by the hands and lead her toward the exit. “C’mon, hon, let’s go wait in the car—”

“No, no, I need to be in there,” she pleaded. “He needs me to take notes! Very detailed notes!”

“It’s okay,” Eddie coaxed her. “It’s okay. Someone else’s gonna take notes, I promise. You don’t need to be there—”

“No! It has to be me!” she shouted, tears brimming. Like a spooked cat, she took off, barreling up the stairs. Panicked, Felicia and Eddie ran after her.

“So they tell me you’re the underdog, despite all those wins,” Peter remarked, not unkindly. “The odds are uniquely stacked against you.” 

He sat across from Danny in a secluded, private lounge. It was part of a third-floor club that had been cleared out for Peter to use. The tone of this room was vastly different from the party outside. Miguel sat on a sofa adjacent to the two men, arms crossed with a terse expression. Beside him, Jessica lounged with her legs crossed, a martini in her hand, looking more relaxed than Miguel. The rest of Peter’s men lined the walls, along with a couple of Danny’s bodyguards that could’ve been former football linebackers. 

Peter wasn’t concerned. Whatever Danny needed to feel safe. Remaining calm, he kept the tone light. “75-to-1, I hear.”

Danny’s temper was starting to unravel. The remark wasn’t stated with cruel intentions, but Danny glowered at it anyway. “Do I look scared?” he boastfully replied, surrounded by his three bodyguards. Peter subtly smiled. Danny muttered, “I’m in control of my own destiny.”

“I have no doubt,” Peter nodded in agreement. It was a somewhat patronizing tone, but it was the truth. “I have faith in you.” A shadow darkened his expression, “So does our old friend.”

The word slithered like a viper. Hearing it sent an uncomfortable shockwave through the room. Like they’d heard the ghostly moan of an apparition, everyone tensed, wary eyes being flicked towards one another. Danny froze in his seat, now aware of the context of this impromptu meeting. He frowned bitterly, crossing his arms. “What can I say. The fat bastard knows how to pick a good horse.”

Peter pursed his lips, dropped his gaze to the floor. “That he does,” he uttered, rueful and contemplative. He brushed his bitterness aside, meeting Danny’s eyes again. “In fact—he’s willing to bet the whole farm on it.” 

The boxer lifted a brow curiously. Peter explained, “He put a hefty chunk of change up, betting you’d win the fight tomorrow. Take Crusher out before the fourth round. Millions of dollars, too. That’s not for nothin’.” Peter leaned back, sighing disdainfully. “‘Course, it’s all illegal campaign contributions and even a couple of sacked pension funds. But if you win, he’ll make a killing. And all that blood money gets washed clean.”

“Blood money,” Danny bitterly replied. “That’s rich comin’ from you.” Peter narrowed his eyes at the remark. “And it’s not a matter of if I win,” he added, as if it was written in stone. “It’s when.” 

Peter flicked his eyes over to his closest colleagues. Miguel shared his same resentment, as did Jessica. Rolling her eyes subtly, she came to a stand. Stepped over to the bar to make herself another drink.

“You wanna jump on the bandwagon too?” Danny smirked at Peter. “Make a bet? Books are still open. Y’know, in case you’ve got any spare change you want cleaned.” The last sentence was thrown at him like a spear, followed by a wry chuckle.

Peter frowned solemnly. “Not this time, Danny,” he said tenderly. Apologetic. Almost. “In fact— need you to go down.” 

The other man dropped his smile. His eyes went cold.

“In the third round,” Peter added. As if it was written in stone..

Danny stared. Silent. Confused. The room was quieter as a tomb, with nothing but the bass booming beneath the floor. Then, he broke into laughter. “Whaat?” He glanced around at his buddies, snickering. He turned back to Peter. “You’re kidding, right?” 

Peter’s face remained unchanged. Solemn. Remorseful. Even without words, Danny could read the response on his face. A fury ignited instantaneously, like the fuse on a stick of dynamite. 

“Are you fucking with me right now?” he demanded, glaring. Danny glanced around anxiously at Peter’s crew, his rage rising steadily. He turned back to Peter, eyes flashing with vehement betrayal. “You’re serious?! You want me to throw the match?!”

“I’m asking, Danny,” Peter calmly replied, empathy weighing his words. “However you wanna do it.”

The humor evaporated in his hot gaze. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” Peter turned his eyes downcast as Danny protested ferociously. “This isn’t some bullshit undercard match! I’m goin’ for the Belt!”

“I understand that.”

“It’s the biggest fight of my whole life!” he hissed, raising his voice. “And you just want me to walk away? To lose? In front of everybody?”

Miguel and Jessica gave each other a tense look. Pressure rising like the room was inside of a tea kettle.

Peter retained his composure, sympathetic to his associate’s dilemma. “I know it’s asking a lot,” he reasoned, “and I respect that. You worked hard to get here—”

“Eleven million, Parker!” Danny barked back. “That’s just one endorsement deal on the table.”

“With Roxxon,” Peter nodded, a small bite added to his voice. “I know. There will be temporary consequences, I’m sure. But I’ll make sure you’re compensated fairly.”

“I don’t want your money, asshole!” he sneered. “I want my goddamn championship title!”

Peter huffed with frustration, attempting to reason with him. “You have my full confidence that you can take it in the rematch next year,” he suggested. He lowered his voice, pleading with him, “I just need you to take a knee on this one, Danny. It’s all I’m askin.’”

Nostrils flaring, he replied with poison packed in each word, “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Jessica’s breath caught in her throat. Miguel went still. Ominous, ghostly chains rattled, as Peter Parker’s patience evaporated like a rainstorm in Hell. 

Peter’s eyes darkened, his gaze cold. “Because I’m asking you.” 

It was both a statement and a warning. Danny bit his tongue, glaring. 

“Because you hate Kingpin as much as I do,” Peter added, more composed. The next breath between the two men was calmer, composed by the clarity of having the same enemy. 

“And not to mention,” Peter said matter-of-factly, “you owe me.” Peter had trapped him in his gaze. For once, Danny Rand had nothing to say, but Peter wasn’t listening for words. He followed the slowing beat of the athletic muscle, and instead listened to story his heart was telling him. 

If the next words to come out of Danny’s mouth were lies, he’d know—

“No, I have to be in there, it’s an emergency!” Honey’s slightly slurred words pierced the bubble as the door swung wide open. All eyes turned towards the door as she walked through, barefoot and hold her heels, one in each hand. Desperately, one of Peter’s guards tried to wall her in with his body (keeping his arms stretched wide, hands clearly visible). It was a hopeless attempt to hold her at bay, a flimsy seawall against a hurricane. She rounded him, still babbling incoherently.

Peter raised his brows with alarm, jumping to his feet. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

“I hafta talk to him!” she barked at the guard, then turned to Peter. “I hafta talk to you!” 

Miguel buried his face in his hands with a groan.

“What is this?” Danny uttered in confusion. 

“It’s s’so important!” she said, almost desperately. Peter pinched his brows together as she waddled towards him, holding the hem of her dress down

“What happened?” Peter scanned her face urgently, hovering his hands above her cheekbones, observing how blown-out her eyes were.

“I-I-I’m here. I’m here!” she announced, as if that was some kind of relief. “Okay, um… I’m… here to tell you—” She hiccuped. “I have something very important to tell you! And… It’s-It’s a s-secret! An important secret!” He gazed at her pecularly as she looked up at him with bleary eyes. “I need to tell you—ugh, oof, I’m riding a surfboard, time is moving slow—Okay, you know how time is the key to the entire universe, right—?”

“Hon, come back here!” Felicia called after her, as she and Eddie rushed through the doorway. Peter turned over at them, tensing.

“What is this?” Peter demanded. “What happened to her!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,” Eddie anxiously mumbled. Both he and Felicia were suddenly at her sides, each taking one of her hands gently. “We’re just gonna go find some peppercorn—”

“Uh, we don’t have a kitchen here,” Jessica supplied warily, side-eyeing the dazed woman. “Maybe we have some behind the bar—?”

“This is just great,” Miguel sardonically hissed, glowering at Eddie.

“Answers,” Peter glowered at Felicia and Eddie. “Now.” 

“Take it easy, will ya?” Felicia shot him a dirty look. “Don’t get your panties in a twist—she just got a little too faded.” Felicia said to Honey, “Which is totally okay, and why we’re gonna go home, right?”

Eddie rushed over to Peter, pulling him away. Felicia took Honey by the arm, now taking over the one-sided, stream-of-consciousness conversation. 

“Okay,” Eddie explained, apologetic, “so she’s fine. She’s gonna be fine. It’s just a little edible—”

Peter’s gaze could skewer through stone. “Eddie. What the fuck, man?” He hissed through gritted teeth, bringing his fingertips to his aching temple. “Why is it every time there’s trouble your goddamn name is attached to it?” Eddie reeled back as Peter jabbed his finger into his shoulder, chastizing in hushed tones. “I can’t believe you’re that fuckin’ stupid! Drugging her up, here? Now?”

“First of all, I didn’t drug her up,” he declared defensively. “She asked!”

“You should know better!”

“Hey, asshole,” Eddie sneered through his teeth, his eyes flashing angrily, “she’s a grown-up. A goddamn, full-grown, life-sized adult. Did you know that?”

“Everyone’s talking so fast,” Honey breathlessly stated, turning to Felicia with wide, nearly-tearful eyes. “Everything’s so fast. Did I make everyone mad? Did I ruin everything?”

Danny snorted, amused by the exchanged, “This is fuckin’ great. You’re doin’ great.”

Honey glanced over at him, “Oh, hello. Do you do crime to? I just did drugs!”

Danny chuckled, nodding along, “Oh, is that right?”

“Hey, wait, I know you!” she said, recognition lighting up her eyes. “You’re famous. You’re on TV!”

“Right, you are, dollface,” Danny snickered, letting his eyes travel up her body. He grinned devilishly, “And what’s your name?”

“Fuck off, limp fist,” Felicia brushed him off with a glower, turning her attention back towards the two men bickering on the other side of the room.

Eddie and Peter were at each other’s throats. “She can make her own decisions, man!” Eddie argued. “What the fuck’s with you being so controlling all the time?”

Peter’s eyes went black. “What did you just say to me?”

“I’m just saying, she’s a grown woman!” Eddie whined defensively. “You don’t need to baby her all the—”

“Jesus, will you two knock it off?” Felicia groaned.

“I’m not talking to you!” Peter barked at her, pointing his finger in her direction, then turned his wrath back to Eddie. “And what the fuck do you know about it, Brock?” Peter snapped. “You never took care of anything in your life!” The other man grimaced at the insult, a stab in the back. “All you’ve ever cared about is yourself. You’re nothin’ but a fuck-up!” Peter’s voice cracked like thunder. “You’re just a fuckin’ drug dealer!”

The other man blinked wounded eyes at him, taken aback, as he simmered with disgust. Pursed his lips. Quietly seethed. Swallowed hard. And then Eddie walked out on him. Peter was left standing in his cold wake, panting like a maniac. His gazed dropped to the floor. 

“Nice job, Pete,” Felicia muttered, arms and expression both cross.

“Don’t be sad, dollface…” Danny simpered as he leaned out of his chair with one hand on Honey’s wrist. They were still locked in their own private conversation while everything fell apart behind them. “Why don’t you come sit with me and let me cheer you up, yeah?” 

His hand gripped her thigh at the hem of her skirt, fingers brushing up between her legs. She jolted—practically jumped out of her skin, like someone dropped a snake in her bed. 

“Hey!” she cried at the slight, brows furrowed. “No touching! We have rules!”

Danny didn’t reply. Instead, his head went sideways, his whole body ejected from the armchair. She gasped as his body hit the floor with a thud, and felt an iron grip pull her away by her upper arm. 

Suddenly, Peter was in front of her, eyes filled with fire, standing defensively between her and the sorrysonofabitch that groped her. The champion boxer groaned on the floor, dazed by the ringing in his skull. 

“Get her outta here,” Peter muttered as he stood over the assailant, but Felicia was already at Honey’s side, whisking her away. Everyone else remained statuesque. Danny lifted off the ground and Peter met him immediately with another wrecking ball punch.

In the back of Peter’s mind, he heard shouting. Threats. Guns drawn.  

But Peter didn’t care. Because that was only the first hit, and he had more to give. 

Danny was flattened after the first blow. 

The second loosened his jaw. 

The third knocked out teeth. 

The fourth and fifth cracked bone. 

The sixth wasn’t for Danny, it was for one of his bodyguards who tried to tackle Peter from behind. In response, Peter lodged the man’s body into the concrete wall. 

Gunshots rang out. He didn’t know from where. He didn’t know from who. Didn’t matter.

The seventh punch was the last thing Danny would ever see out of his right eye. As it left his body, so did the ability to fight back.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

“Pete! Stop!”

—don’t stop—

Miguel was there. Somewhere.

—teach him a lesson—

Eleven.

—savagry will be met savagely—

Twelve. 

—no one goes unpunished—

Thirteen.

Honey had a point. Time really was the key to the whole universe. 

Time was everything. 

Uncle Ben used to say that all anyone has is time and what they choose to do with it. Ben Parker was a good man. Ahead of his time, in many ways, and also a relic of a time gone by. 

Peter used to be obsessed with time, astounded by the significance of a single moment of his life. One little choice. He imagine what his life would be like if he hadn’t intervened in the convenience store. What if he’d just let it go? He should’ve zipped up his hoodie, tucked in his chin, took off down the sidewalk, and left well-enough alone. 

Maybe things would be different. Maybe Ben and May would still be alive. Maybe Peter’s whole life would be different. Maybe he’d be more than just a monster.

It was just a moment. A split-second choice.

In less than 18 hours, Danny Rand was set to become the next heavyweight champion of the world, broadcasting and streaming all over TV and Pay-Per-View. 

Now, he was going to spend the rest of his life eating through a tube. That’s what Felicia was telling him, right in this moment. She was pissed. She is pissed. Pissed at him. 

what did she ever see in you anyway? —  monster  — can’t even stand the sight of you —  parasite —you’re fuckin’ pathetic. a psycho-stalker creep—

“He’ll live,” Peter said emotionlessly, still lost in a cloud of darkness. He was standing in his foyer at the penthouse—how the fuck did I get here—and Felicia stopped talking.

Peter blinked again, and she was gone. He looked at the clock, brows furrowed with confusion. It was still night, but too much time had passed. How long had Felicia been gone? How long has he been standing here? 

How long has it been since he was anything other than alone?

The sound of soft giggles filled the air, and his feet were moving towards them. He was outside of himself. Watching himself. Split in two. Torn apart.

And then he saw her.

Honey was dancing, twirling around the living room wrapped in a terrycloth bathrobe, her hair wet from a recent shower. The lamps were off, but the room was lit up by her presence. Behind her, outside of his 30 foot windows, the glittering backdrop of a sleepless city sparkled like fireflies in the night. She fluttered like a butterfly, her wings beating to a melody that only she could hear. 

She was elated. Beaming. At the sight of her, he felt the darkness pull back and the shadows lift. He was hypnotized. The fog melted off of his brain, and everything came into focus. Time moved on, steadily, second by second. He watched her, a smile playing on his lips that he wasn’t even aware of. Relishing every moment.

“Ooh!” She stopped suddenly, slackjawed at his presence. Embarrassed, he brought a hand up behind his neck. He really needed to stop staring at her like that, he thought. It was pretty creepy. 

Honey ran towards him with stars in her eyes. She threw her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. Her tight embrace took his breath away, but not from the force. His body tensed, trembling hands lifted away. Slowly, he brought his arms down around her, folding her into his arms.

If only he had the power to stop time.

“Yay! You’re home!” she crooned with childlike joy. “Did you bring muffins? I love muffins. We should get some muffins. I can make some muffins.” She lifted her gaze, looking up at him as she rested her chin on his chest. “Also, I think I’m high.”

He let out a soft chuckle, cracking a smile. “Yeah, you’re high,” he laughed. 

“Like really high?”

“Really high.”

“Like astronautical?”

“Astronomical,” he replied. “And yes. Like Hubble telescope high.” She giggled, blessing him with an endearingly pure grin that drew his soul from his body. His eyes flitted around her face, inspecting her eyes slightly pink from dryness, her skin naturally glowing from her face wash, her dopey smile topping it off. He allowed himself to just admire her, relishing in the warmth of her embrace. 

But soon, his smile faded. The memories of that evening trickled back in.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked, eyes filled with concern. He pried his own hands from her body, allowing her to stand freely on her own. It was important that he respect the rule that he had nearly beaten a man to death to defend.

“Me?” She pointed at her own chest, as if she was unsure who he was talking to.

He laughed, “Yes, you. Are you okay? How you feelin’? D’you need some water? Need anything?”

“I drank water,” she nodded dutifully. “I love water. Your water tastes so good. Everything tastes so good. Have you tried muffins? They’re so good.”

“That they are,” Peter nodded. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

She sprang to life, eyes lit up like fireworks. “But I’m not even tired! I want to stay up… Stay up all night!” There was a teasing mischief in her eyes that made him dizzy every time he looked straight at it. 

“It’s late,” he remarked with a sober tone, letting his eyes fall to the floor. “You should get some sleep. You’ll feel better.” A familiar pang thrummed in his skull, piercing behind his eyes. His fingers kneaded at the ache.

“But I feel great!” she chirped, bouncing over to the couch and plopping down on it. “Let’s watch a movie! Let’s watch—ooh, we should order pizza.”

He pushed a smile on his face, although exhaustion weighed down his limbs. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think you outta be going to bed.”

“Is that what you want? To take me to bed… Daddy?”

Time stopped. His stomach clenched painfully, like he’d been kicked in the ribs and tossed down a flight of M.C. Escher stairs. Timidly, he looked back at her. 

Everything had changed. He had the urge to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

She was leaned back, propping herself up with her palms. Her body was draped scandalously across his sofa. The white robe she was wearing was dampened by her wet locks. The cowl hung dangerously low on her shoulders, revealing taut skin stretched over her clavicle that softly curved towards her cleavage. The belt was tied loosely around her waist allowing a peek at the inside of one of her thighs.

If her body was a sin, the look on her face was the devil. 

The sweetness was gone. Seared off. Caramelized by a flame burning in her eyes that threatened to melt him. Her lip curled into a sultry smile, spicy heat dusted on her lips. The thought of tasting the fire there made him sweat. 

This… wasn’t a dream. Was it?

He was gawking, he was pretty sure. Staring at her with an almost virginal awe. She bent one of her knees, sliding it higher up. Spreading her thighs a little wider. He swallowed hard, eyes trained on the pathway of soft flesh leading to her core.

“You like that, huh?” she cooed, her voice an intoxicating blend of coquettish mischief and innocent curiosity. He took a step backwards. Unwilling to trust his eyes. Or his body. “You have your little nicknames and I have mine,” she grinned. “You can call me Honey if I get to call you Daddy.”

The tips of his ears were burning red. The sound of his blood pumping was like an incoming tsunami. Rushing to the areas of him that had come alive with just a few words. He swallowed hard.

“Come over here,” she said, rolling her head to the side. “I wanna tell you a secret.” 

His eyes were hyper-focused on the way her teeth pinched her bottom lip. His stomach was twisted into a pretzel. He considered the distance between them, a few feet of ceramic tile, and doubted it was enough space. Not with her looking at him like that. Like she was the predator. He felt unsafe in her gaze. 

“I, uh…” his voice tremored, “I don’t think… that’s a good—“

“I have a theory,” she sang. “Wanna hear?”

He slammed his eyes shut, sealing them off from her seduction. “Is it about time?”

“No. It’s about power,” she said with a Cheshire grin. Curiosity pried his eyes back open. She was giddy, shimmying her shoulders, with a sing-song voice. “I never noticed this before but… I have all of it. And you have none at all.” 

He stilled. Eying her, turning over what she’d said in his mind

“I can prove it too,” she teased, glowing. “Watch.” 

She brought her arm up, curling her finger in a come-hither motion. He stared at the end of her finger like it was the barrel of a gun. He looked up at her face, seeing a hunger there for more than just food.

“Sit.”

The single word made his cock twitch. He swallowed a groan, holding back a grimace. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her body. Fists clenching and unclenching. Once he met her eyes again, the look there was pure lust, implanting sinful images into his brain.

Maybe she was right. If she was all-powerful, she’d just discovered that power and was flaunting it like a kid who had just found their dad’s gun. 

He was trembling. Folding like a house of cards. He was so fucked. Slowly, he treaded to the sofa, stopping at the far end opposite her, and sat down. She watched him sit back with the distance of a whole continent between them. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t deter her.

She crouched onto her hands and knees and began a slow crawl towards him. He averted his eyes from the parting of her robe at her chest, staring forward again. His headache was getting worse. Everything was getting worse. 

“Now, do you wanna hear my secret?” she whispered, stalking towards him like a lionness. 

His jaw clenched. His fist clenched. “I thought you already told me your secret.”

She was suddenly at his side, pulling his gaze towards her by his chin. He felt pliable. Moldable. “I have lots of secrets,” she whispered dangerously. 

Unsafe, was all he could think about, gazing in her lustful eyes. He felt like taffy in her grip, melting into the sofa as she climbed on top of his lap, straddling his thighs. 

His breath hitched, feeling her heat everywhere—his chest, his belly, down to the hardness beneath his belt. She was electrifying him, burning him from the inside out. He didn’t need to touch her. In fact, his fingers were buried into the sofa cushions, tearing holes in the upholstery. Just feeling her up against him made him want to rip his own skin off.

Then she rolled her hips against his. His lashes fluttered shut. Brain exploding. Muscles straining. It was like she’d dug her fingers in through his chest and ripped out his insides. He was being torn apart. It hurt. Pure, blissful agony. It dragged an involuntary groan up from his lungs and out through his teeth.

His eyes opened, softly panting, knuckles white. The person staring back at him was more than a devil.

She was temptation incarnate, wrapped up in a bow. 

“My secret,” she cooed tauntingly, “is that I’m not a good girl.” His eyes followed hers, neither of them blinking, like two serpents in showdown. Each one threatening to swallow the other whole. “I never was.” 

She crushed her heat against his, letting her fingers trail up the buttons of his chest. The sensation made every hair of his stand on end.

“I’m not sweet.” She didn’t say the words, rather she moaned them. He felt the rumble of her chest against his, her lashes fluttering closed. He was hyper aware of the friction between them. The two of them were like magnets pushing towards one another. Every fiber of fabric that separated them felt like sandpaper. 

Her hands traveled up his chest, fingers fanning out over the soft spot at the base of his neck. Like he was made of rubber, he dropped his head against the back of the couch. He breathed deep and slow, cock twitching at the feeling of the pressure she placed on his trachea. She was riding him, rutting against him at a tantilizing, torturous pace.

Staring up at her beneath heavy lids, jaw clenched tight, he struggled to not picture what they must look like. The image of her rubbing against him would brand itself into his brain forever. A picture like that would drive him mad, or even worse, he might rip apart her robe or the couch, or both. Instead, he drove his fingers into the sofa, as if attempting to push his fingers in between the threads.

“I’m not an angel,” she breathed, her voice trembling, “or a doll, or a peach, or a baby.” 

From his neck, her fingers grazed down to his concrete shoulders. He was so tight. Biceps locked up, abs were steel, every other part of him was rock hard. He was hypnotized with lust, intoxicated with want. With her hands on his shoulders, she had better control—or at least the illusion of it. A particularly heavy grind pulled a whimper from her lips, and he was terrified that if he heard it again he’d come on the spot.

“I hate being called those things almost as much as I hate being bossed around,” she breathed hotly, her mouth falling agape. He licked his lips at the sight. “I can’t st-stand being controlled by… by anyone.” 

She dragged her hips up and down. A breath caught in his throat as he realized he could feel her wetness seeping through his pants. He breathed deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring. His own voice was screaming in his head—don’t look down, don’t look at her body, whatever you do, don’t look at her—while another darker voice encouraged a primal response. 

“I h-hate all of those things,” she groaned, her hips grinding steadily now against one of his thighs. He wasn’t sure if she could feel the outline of his cock through his slacks, but he could certainly feel her. Her heartbeat thrummed faster. With her mouth lewdly agape, she leaned her weight over his torso, tickling the shell of his ear with her breath. 

“Except when you do them,” she gasped sinfully. His heart nearly stopped at her words. This wasn’t a dream. This was the gates of hell. 

“Because when you do it, it feels good. I like the way it feels.”

Every word crawling through his brain like an earworm. A parasite burrowing deeper in his skull. 

“Stop…” he breathed, his voice barely strong enough to carry the word.

—don’t stop—

“Everything you do feels good.” 

—this isn’t real—

“When you tell me to come to bed…” 

—desperate whore, wants it bad—

“When you dress me up in pretty things and show me off.”

—this isn’t right, she’s not right—

“Even when you hurt people to protect me.”

—filthy slut—

“When you look at me like you wanna fuck me in front of all of your friends.”

—this isn’t what she wants—

—she wants to hurt you. wants the pain—

“All my life everyone’s always made me feel like I was less than. Like I was worthless. But when you look at me, I feel special. I’m your favorite toy.”

—stop her—

—silver tongue—

“It’s sick,” she breathed, her voice edging on ecstasy. She dug her fingernails so hard into his skin it hurt. Every part of his body hurt. 

—she’s close—

—none of this is real she doesn’t fucking love you and you know it—

—you’re unworthy—

“I’m s-so sick,” she moaned. “So-so br-broken.” 

—stop this—

—don’t stop, you worthless fool—

An unhinged laugh bubbled up behind her words. “I fucking l-l-love it…” Her eyes rolled up in her head. Peter bit down so hard he could taste blood. “I… God, Peter, fucking break me apart—”

His hands were on her like a crack of thunder. Gripping her by the shoulders, he lifted her body up, twisting around and slamming her flat on the sofa. The force punched the air from her lungs. The whole world flipped, her head spinning from the dizzying speed. The drugs in her system were only stepping on the gas pedal.

Her wrists were pinned together above her head in a move so swift she barely registered it had happened. He loomed over her, eyes blown black, chest heaving. She felt her stomach flip, dropping down into the pit of a rollercoaster. Her muscles tensed, pelvic floor twitching—fuck me that feels so good fuck me fuck me Peter punish me—

His hand clapped down over her mouth, ice shooting from his lips. “Shut up.”

She gasped at the change in tone. Eyes wide open and frighteningly alert, she gazed up at his swirling visage. 

“Stop means stop,” he breathed darkly, his voice trembling with a rage that she couldn’t fathom. His hands were frigid steel exposed to winter. Colder than a corpse. For a moment, everything was blindingly clear in her mind. Washed out with bright lights that burned her eyes. 

Something was wrong.

This wasn’t safe. She wasn’t safe.

Soon her own thoughts were drowned out by the slamming of her heart in her chest. In a horrified daze, she stared up at him, too afraid to blink. She read the anger on his face. The lust. The sharp line drawn between his brows. Eyes black as onyx.

Solid black. 

Everything was wrong.

Her chest jolted in short gasps. She struggled to take in air through the giant palm stretched across her mouth. Her chest was tight. Whole body pulled tight. Her hands felt glued together. Even if it were possible, she was too terrified to move. Her nostrils flared frantically. She was paralyzed. Bound by darkness. By the black of his eyes.

She couldn’t breathe. The world was going darker.

Fading to black.

When her eyes cracked open, it felt like they were covered in gum and her eyelids were made of sandpaper. Harsh daylight flooded in through the windows. Immediately, she felt throbbing at the base of her skull. She ached from dehydration. 

Her body was a desert. A barren wasteland. A potato chip.

She groaned weakly, dragging her hands down her face. When her vision came into focus, her brow furrowed with confusion. 

She wasn’t the bedroom. Not hers. Not Peter’s. She was in the living room, spread out on the couch wearing a bathrobe that was in danger of falling open and revealing her chest. Blushing, she yanked on the sides of the robe, covering herself modestly.

Her mind was covered by a fog. A thick haze made her memories feel like fleeting shadows. Glancing around the living room, she was even more baffled by the fact that she was alone. Not a soul in sight.

Drop by drop, her recollection of the night before revealed itself, like droplets of water streaking through condensation on a window. She had tiny slivers to peek through, and in those cracks she could see the club. The music. Her awful dancing. Felicia. Eddie. Alcohol.

Already, this was a bad combination.

Peter. His face full of concern. He was worried. He was protecting her…

He was killing a man. Beating him to death. The blonde sleazeball in the tiny shirt. The one who touched her.

Her stomach lurched and buckled. Nausea choked her. Fighting off her dizziness, she cupped her mouth and stumbled out of the living room. 

What had happened after that? Why did everything feel off? Unsafe? Why was that part of her mind just… empty? 

Her feet carried her as quickly as they could down the hallway, anxiety twisting her stomach into knots. 

There was a hole in her memory. A giant gap. She hated it. She hated not being able to remember.

She stopped in her tracks in the hall. Stilled her breath. Listened intently, wondering if she’d heard what she thought she’d heard. A voice that she didn’t recognize. And a moan. A breathless whimper.

Peter.

The recognition had a whiplash effect. Her heart skipped a beat and sank at the same time. Something was wrong. 

Through the stillness, she heard it again. This time as a grunt. Grinding out in pain.

Why couldn’t she remember? What was it—it was right in front of her mind, and yet… it was too dark to see. The shadow of an eclipse. A dark spot.

A black hole.

She crept towards the sound warily, her feet like falling snow. At the end of the hallway, the door to Peter’s office was cracked open. A light spilling into the dark.

Another moan.

Something is wrong. Everything is wrong. She shouldn’t be here. This is stupid. She should run. Whatever is happening is wrong and she didn’t want to know about it. Didn’t want to see who could be in there with him. Making him make that sound. 

She heard that voice again. Dark. Could only make out a single word.

“parasite” 

And then another groan. It was unmistakably Peter. Unmistakable agony.

Against her better judgment, her toes propelled her forward. Easing slowly towards the gap in the doorway. Staring through the blinding light.

A lithe body laid back against the side of his desk, long legs spread out across the floor. It was Peter, wearing the same clothes he did at the club the night before. But everything else about him was unrecognizable. 

His skin was pale, corpse-like. Baggy circles beneath his eyes. His body shivered like he was fighting an icy fever. Dress shirt was shredded, torn open, with bloody claw marks on his chest that look like he’d been mauled by a lion. In his lap, he cradled one arm. The other hand trembled as he held the plunger of a hypodermic needle.

She watched in horror as he injected a substance into his twitching forearm. An ebony, oil-like liquid flowed from the syringe into his flesh, blackening a vein as it traveled up his arm. His eyes rolled back, head thumping against the desk. 

The black stain spread like ink through water. Cutting through his body faster than blood could travel, branching out like black bine stems across his skin. Black oil oozed from the chest wounds, and after a few blinks, the lacerations vanished. Faded as if they were never there.

Jagged lines covered his body, as if someone had taken roads on a map and tattooed them on his skin. Soon the etched lines followed the path of his lymph nodes, up his neck, and across the sharp curves of his face. His eyelids opened to reveal onyx orbs beneath, glassy black and void of life. Void of light. Inhuman. 

Monstrous. 

She blinked rapidly, doubting her own vision. Questioning her sanity. Debating her own logic, even her wakefulness, as she watched the stain spread until it had consumed his body. 

Not a stain. Not a tattoo either. 

Whatever it was, it was moving. And it was alive.

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