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#andrew garfield
droo216 · 2 days
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disney reimagined → dev patel as roger radcliffe and andrew garfield as anita radcliffe
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liz-allyn · 2 days
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sugar and vice, pt 16 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]
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summary: your own worst enemy is yourself
words: 8.1 k
chapter warning: negative self-talk. or4l *f receiving* creepy font. mean dom honey.
series warnings: mob-typical violence, bang bang shoot shoot, whump. hurt/comfort. s*xu*l situations. spousal ab^se. family trauma. dr*g use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.
This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.
These two are f*cked up™️
18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you've come this far you should know what you're getting yourself into.
Back to Part 15.
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Part 16
Hey.
Hey, asshole. Can you hear me?
—wake up—
Are you still crazy? Snap out of it!
—W̶A̶K̶E̸— ̵U̵P̶—
Peter’s eyes snapped open as he flinched awake. He would have fallen flat on his face if he hadn’t caught himself on the doorframe. Blinking rapidly, he peered around at his surroundings.
He was sitting on the floor of the hallway in the condo. He found himself leaning up against the guest bedroom door. Honey’s bedroom, he needed to remind himself. It was pitch dark. His ears were still ringing from the explosion hours before.
Wiping the drool from his face, he pushed himself up to a dazed stand, his sleep-deprived mind struggling to come back online. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep—just rest his eyes for a moment. 
He could no longer remember the last time he slept, but it was with Honey next to him. That was days ago. The math was fuzzy—when had it ever been difficult for him?—”although both the EEG and behavior indicate wakefulness, local populations of neurons in the cortex may be falling asleep”—but the hours reached the triple digits. 
How could he sleep at a time like this?
They’d almost been killed. The woman he loved had almost died. Again.
As shock began to take hold of her on the rooftop, he wrapped her tightly in his jacket and swung home. He told her to close her eyes, and she did. He’d have to deal with her questions later. Might have even passed out. 
From the moment he landed on the terrace of his building, he was in a state of frenzied hypervigilance. As he entered the condo, he clutched her in his arms like a baby, and she curled her body around his like a koala. The only thing that kept him from losing his mind into blind panic was her steady exhales of oxygen on his neck. He counted every one of her breaths, the sensation being the only thing between him and hysteria.
Felicia was there, war-face on, having gathered a search-party of his guards as soon as she had gotten word of the explosion outside of the arcade and that the couple was missing. Despite her good intentions, Peter was outside of himself—even more so than he’d been recently. 
He didn’t want their help. He didn’t want their presence. He didn’t want them nearby, not within arm’s reach, not touching him. And he certainly didn’t want any of them touching his girl. 
He knew he was being unreasonable. He knew it was unproductive and hurtful to see everyone else as a threat. Particularly for Felicia, his most trusted ally.
He didn’t give a shit.
Psh, sounds like you.
Peter’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. There was no one besides him and Honey in the Penthouse, he was certain of it. No other heartbeats detected. But where did that voice come from?
Down here, genius.
Peter’s eyes darted down the hallway, his hair standing on end. His senses were in overdrive, alerting him that the voice was coming from his office. Fists clenched, he stalked towards the room with cat-like steps. Trailing along the wall, he quieted his breathing, trying and failing to detect the other heartbeat in the room.
He set aside his fear, letting his rage give him courage. He stepped into the doorway, eyes alert, ready to face the intruder.
But no one was there.
Ooh. Here it is. He’s finally figuring it out. Took you long enough.
The voice was there again. He glanced around his darkened office in confusion, unable to see the source. Cold sweat beaded at his brow, his hands having gone numb with a clammy chill. 
Jaw slightly agape, he wandered further into the room, eyes roving the area. His pulse increased with every step, dread filling his belly like an anvil. Was his home suddenly haunted by ghosts? Was he finally going crazy?
I’d say the latter is more likely, wouldn’t you?
From where he was standing near the lounge area, he glanced over at the source of the voice, coming from behind his desk.
It was him.
He blinked.
Blinked again.
And again.
He stared in utter confusion, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. 
Himself. Sitting behind his desk, dressed up like it was Easter Sunday, wearing a bright white suit and white collared dress shirt, the top buttons loosely unbuttoned. It was one of the expensive suits, by some fancy designer that he didn’t care to remember. Only he didn’t remember the suit at all. He’d remember wearing an all-white fancy getup like that, looking like Lucifer on his wedding day.
By contrast, his eyes—or, the eyes of the him seated behind the desk—were as dark as a winter night and three times as cold. The jaw of his doppelgänger firmly set with a look of disapproval. 
“Fuck, I’m losin’ my mind.”
Well, you lost your soul a long time ago, his other self answered him, lips moving. His whole body went rigid with terror. So what’s a pesky mind worth? Never had any common sense to begin with.
Peter stepped back, eyes wide. He sealed them closed for a moment, willing the vision away. Praying to whatever god—
Oh, don’t bullshit me. We both know you got nothin’ to say to God.
“What the fuck is happening?” Peter murmured, barely louder than a whisper.
What do you think, Parker? 
Peter stared at the ivory-clad doppelgänger silently, heart hammering in his chest. His tongue felt dead in his mouth.
His twin rolled his eyes, agitated. Here, let me spell it out for you. Hi, Peter. It’s me—your conscience. We haven’t spoken for a while.
Peter shook his head. “This... this isn’t happening, I.... I’m dreaming. I hit my head. I’m-I’m—”
A crazy asshole? The Phantasm version of himself replied, eyes narrowed with disgust. A pathetic nutjob? A fuckin’ drug addict? A big baby in desperate need of a nap? Take your pick. They’re all true.
He tilted his head, confusion contorting his features. 
Thanks to all that crap in your veins, you’ve been awake for 104 hours. I did the math for you. You were a paranoid, fascist dictator; now you’re a sleepy, paranoid, fascist dictator.
Peter’s eyes darted, bewildered at the revelation. 
His other self glared at him through narrow slits. At a certain point, didn’t you think there were gonna be consequences? 
He looked up at the Phantasm, face blank.
His doppelgänger rolled his eyes. No, of course not. You never think, do you?
Peter brought both hands to his eyes, dragging them across his face, before burying them in his hair. The throbbing sensation that usually lived behind his eyes was back, this time with the force of a hurricane barreling down on a small house. 
That headache you have? It’s not a migraine. It’s that Thing inside you, telling you that you’re going through withdrawal. 
Withdrawal—that would explain why Peter thought he was going to throw up. 
His other half sneered, Christ, get ahold of yourself. You haven’t tweaked out like this since you got bit.
“I... gotta—” Peter swallowed hard, his mouth feeling drier than a desert. “I—Eddie, I need Eddie.”
Yeah, you do. The Phantasm spat. Too bad you treated him like shit, too. When are you ever gonna stop hurting the people around you?
Peter shot him an angrily glance. “I didn’t—” The sentence died in his mouth. “I’m trying to protect the people around me.”
Oh, like you protected Honey?
His heart lurched at her nickname.
Yeah. Bang up job you’re doin’ there. The Phantasm shot up to a stand behind the desk, pacing with silent, livid footfalls. Fuckin’ valet, really? How stupid could you be? You told her to get in the car! Another half second and she’d be nothing but a splatter on the pavement! The entity narrowed eyes on him, cruelly adding, ‘Course, that’s how you like ‘em, yeah? 
“Shut up.”
Or what, prick? You gotta throw me in the trunk of your car? Whack me right here in the street? His doppelgänger chuckled darkly as he echoed the words which speared him earlier that night. She got your number, alright.
“I didn’t ever want her to get hurt, that—” His throat tightened at the sting of tears in his eyes. “That wasn’t my intention.”
Well, congratulations. Road trip’s over. Thanks to you, we’re in hell.
“I’m doing what needs to be done,” Peter declared firmly. “It’s not nice and it’s not pretty, but without me, she’s in danger. She coulda been dead already, and I wasn’t gonna let that happen. Fisk is comin’ after all of us—”
Wouldya look at that? Too scared to say his name ‘cept when you’re passin’ off blame. 
Peter fell silent.
Don’t you see it, moron? He already won! He turned you inside out—made you give up everything that made you different. Your friends. Your philosophies. Your moral obligations. Whatever was left of that beat-up soul of yours—it’s all gone. And it’s your fault. You didn’t beat Kingpin, you became him.
Peter turned his face away, scowling at the shadows.
You know what Fisk didn’t do? His temper didn’t get Miguel thrown in jail so he could be eaten alive by the wolves. His shitty choice in guards didn’t get Hobie killed. That was all you. Goddamn it, even the kid that loves everybody can’t even stand the sight of you anymore.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like his skin was crawling off his skeleton. He paced with a locked jaw, eyes downcast.
And Fisk didn’t make that poor girl his prisoner. Not like you did.
Peter’s eyes snapped over at the accusation. “I never hurt her!”
Are you stupid or are you so used to the sound of your voice lying that you can’t tell the difference?! 
His Phantasm wheeled on him, stalking towards him with rage building. ‘Your Honey,’ eh? You’re a piece of shit for that, y’know. You stole that poor girl and you force her to sleep with you at night ‘cos you’re afraid of the dark. You’re afraid of your nightmares? Bullshit! You are the nightmare. 
Peter flinched as if the words were stab wounds. His face twisted with disgust turned inwards.
Every time you touch her you’re insulting everything you claim you stand for. Everything your family—your parents, Uncle Ben—everything they believed they saw in you! What May taught you about respecting women! Christ, what would she say if she saw what you did with that goddamn camera?
Peter grimaced, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Tears pushed through his eyelids. His stomach roiled with nausea. “I didn’t... I didn’t mean to—”
You thought you could get her to break, huh? Thought you could get her to tell you the truth? That you’re a fucking monster and she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot you like a rabid dog if she had the chance? Is that what you wanted to hear?! Fucking answer the question, goddamn it!
“Yes!” Peter roared over the sound of his heart snapping in half. He whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I knew she hated me.” His voice was tiny and thin, his lower lip wobbling as he forced out his confession. “I just wanted her to say it.”
Hates you, The Phantasm corrected. Present tense. ‘Specially after what you said to her in the street. 
His brows furrowed, tears dripping from his chin.
And you had the audacity to be embarrassed? Worried about how those people looked at you like you’re an asshole? Got news for you, bub. You’re definitely the asshole!
Peter felt like his legs were turning to rubber. A wave of exhaustion came over him, powered by his adrenaline, anger, fear, and despair. He leaned over the edge of the pinhead sofa, hands gripping the frame still cracked from his earlier outburst. 
His lip trembled, and he bit it in place. “I’m sorry...”
Don’t apologize to me! his doppelgänger huffed. You shoulda said that to her! ‘I’m sorry. Don’t go.’ That’s all you had to say. ‘I’ll hunt you down?’ Really? What kind of Lifetime Movie-of-the-Week creep are you tryin’ to sound like?
Peter shuddered with anguish, haunted by the cruelty of his own words.
The voice was softer now, but not from kindness. How about ‘I need you. I’ll follow you anywhere, wherever you want to go. Not like some pathetic stalker. I’ll follow you just to make sure you get where you wanna be, and get there safely.’ The mocking voice of his twin went hollow. ‘Even if it’s not with me.’
The Phantasm added, sighing with frustration. ‘I’ll follow you because I have nowhere else to go.’ That’s what you should have said. You should have told her the truth.
With reddened eyes, Peter gazed up at the vision hopelessly. “What... what is this? Wha’do you—whaddya want from me?”
I want you to be a man and take responsibility for what you did. Responsibility, Peter! Take responsibility for what you did to Honey. For what you did to Gwen.
Peter shook his head in confusion. “What—what does that mean? What do you want me to do?”
—̵he wants you to D̷̫͆̊IĘ̶͖͎̝̰̹̫̋͒̃̍—
Peter’s stomach clenched at the foreign voice. Terror crawled up his throat. 
It was an awful, twisted voice, full of anguish and rage. Pulled taut and flayed. 
Peter watched his mirror reflection go still, its complexion paling like the color of his suit. The Phantasm looked beyond Peter’s shoulder, eyes widened as his gaze flicked back to the source of that voice.
Peter had heard it before. He’d heard it all along. He just never faced it.
Well, I guess now’s your chance, The Phantasm said grimly. Peter watched his mirror image’s eyes go cold, swallowing down trepidation. 
Not J̸̳̽U̴̢̦̍S̴̬̽͐T̷̥̐͂ ̶y̶o̵u̶— The tortured voice added. He wants U̴̡͍̗͍̣̟̻̹͂̾̒̈́̿̾̏̂Ş̸̙͓̟̪̳̩̜͋͐̊ to d̶i̶e̸!
Slowly, Peter turned his gaze around, pivoting towards the opposite side of the room. The shadows that shrouded the lounge area also hid something else in its darkness. Something moving. A humanoid figure with limbs and fingers stretched to a grotesque state, too long to be human. A figure that wasn’t just hidden in the darkness, it was darkness. 
Peter gulped down the urge to scream in terror at the entity. It looked like the lovechild between an H.R. Giger sculpture and one of Guillermo del Toro’s nightmares. He was terrified of it, despite knowing its origin. He understood the beast intimately, despite not having a word for it. Peter questioned whether or not something could be considered The Unknown, especially if he knew exactly where to find it.
Well there ya go, his doppelgänger supplied. Speak of the Devil.
At the end of the sentence, the shadow came alive. 
Two triangular eyes—giant, almost as large as the head of the creature—opened wide, blinking at Peter. They were milky white prisms that flexed and bent the way that eyes would. 
Peter was rooted in place, unable to move and unable to escape its gaze. At first glance, Peter wondered if it was actually smiling at him. He sealed his own lids shut, chest heaving, hoping that this was all a nightmare and that he would wake up.
No such luck, he heard in the darkness. 
Trembling, Peter opened his eyes and was only more shaken by the sight. It was smiling at him. In fact, the human-sized skull was nothing more than eyes and teeth, half of its face cradling rows of quill-like spikes, enough to rival a shark’s mouth. 
It was smiling alright, mouth oozing with thick goo. A sleek serpent slithered out of the mouth with viper scales, twisting and bending in the slime that dripped from the jaws of the creature. A few more blinks and Peter realized, as bile threatened to surge upwards, it wasn’t a snake after all; it was a tongue. 
The creature didn’t move so much as it flowed. Inky black liquid made into a living nightmare. 
N̸igh̸t̶m̷a̶r̴e̴?̶ A raspy hiss slid into Peter’s ear like a centipede, the sound sinking into his brain. Every hair on his body stood on end. It was almost as if he could feel a hundred tiny legs scampering and burrowing into his gray matter. W̸e̴ are here to keep y̶o̶u̵r̸ ̴n̷i̵g̵h̴tma̸r̷e̵s̸ from becoming ̷r̴e̵a̴l̴i̸t̶y̸.̴
It wasn’t just one voice coming from the mouth of the beast, but several. A Legion of voices—all of them intertwining into a dissonant squall. It created an unharmonious chorus of demon-speak, nails on a chalkboard, and what could be mistaken for Peter’s own voice—if he were being mutilated and flayed alive. The resulting sound sliced into Peter’s eardrum and made his skin crawl, like the feeling of accidentally grinding his own teeth together, or a fork scraping a plate.
W̵e̷ ̴Are the Ó̵͔͍̾N̵͕̂L̶Y̶̧̽͠ ̷̡͖̕O̴͈̿N̶͎̈͝E̷̬̠̎̉̄S̶̹̥̏͠ ̴standing b̶e̵t̴w̵e̴e̵n̶ ̵y̵o̷u̴ ̶and your own ̵̵̝̎̀f̴͜͠ǎ̵ḯ̴l̴̓u̵͊r̷̟͚̅e̶̟̪͊. W̷i̷t̵h̸o̵u̵t̷ ̴U̸̵̸̧̧̺̲͙̲̻̍̎͆̓͝S̵̷̴͚̞͖̻̘͖̲͔͊̃̈́, you would have ṇ̸̊ǫ̷̦t̵̝͗h̵̝̚î̴̜̖̈́ng̷̗͆!
Guy has an ego, doesn’t he? Wonder who he gets it from. The Phantasm said from behind. 
Part of Peter wanted to argue. But denying his involvement—denying his likeness in the beast—was useless.
W̴e̸’̸r̷e̵ M̶̤̃Ã̷̫̏D̴̦̰̃E̶̡̘͠ ̴f̵o̵r̶ ̴e̸a̸c̷h̴ ̵o̶t̸h̸e̵r̵, d̸̆̍́o̸n̷̓'̴̄̆ť̷ ̵̼̃ͅẙ̶̬̬o̴ǔ̶̘̖̆ ̵̱̫̄s̵̢͍͌s̸͉͙̺͗͝së̵̮́ee? Y̶o̸u̶r̸ R̵A̶G̶E̶ ̷a̵n̶d̷ V̶̧̺̻̽͒̚E̸͔̔̕N̶̻̬͓͐̂Ġ̷͈͚̇ͅĘ̷͓̞͂F̷͉͠U̵̻͍̫͌L̶̟̞̾N̷̡̠̤͝E̶̤̦͆̕S̸̮̿̆Ş̵̩̺̈́ ̵m̶a̵d̴e̴ u̸s̶̵ a̶ ̵P̶E̸R̷F̶E̷C̷T̴ ̸b̵r̵e̶e̸di̷n̸g̴ ̴g̷r̸o̵u̵n̷d. W̸E̵ ̴A̶R̵E̴ n̴o̷w̷ ̴a̴ p̸a̴rt̸ ̵o̸f̵ a̵ lif̴e̶ f̴o̵r̵c̸e ̴t̴h̶a̴t̷ ̷h̵a̵s̴ ̷e̵x̵iste̷d̷ s̷i̴n̶c̶e̵ ̷th̵e̴ D̴A̸WN̶ ̸O̴F ̴T̵IM̷E̵.̴ ̵No̸ more̸ ̵H̴̦͊̐Ḯ̶̤̘̖͝D̴͙̝͎̀͘I̴̗̐̅͗N̸͔̗̥̊̀̚G̴̡̰̽̀.̷̜̙̟͑ N̶̹̝͛̿̈o̴ ̴͋m̴͙̅̈́͋õ̴r̶̙̾̕e̵ M̶̙̬̌͘A̴̽S̶̅͂K̵̻̫͉̾. Y̶o̵u̵ ̷w̵i̵l̸l̴ ̴s̵e̶e̸ ̶Ŭ̷̡̧̢̢͚̬͔̥̜̪̭̖̖̂̄͋̌̔͘͝S̷̨̨̭̗̺̣̳̏͐͒͑̈́͘͘ ev̴e̷r̸y̴w̴h̸e̵r̴e̶ y̸o̷u̷ ̴l̷oo̶k̸. E̵̴̵s̶p̴e̴c̵i̵a̷l̷l̶y̵ ̵in̴ ̷y̶o̷ur̴ N̵̖̖͇͚̱̤͓̹̞I̶̡͔͇̣̦̯̍͂̽̋͋̐̎͆͝Ḡ̶̇͑͊̒Ḧ̵͑͌̑͘͘T̷̪̳͈̭̉́̿̍̎M̸̢̓́̿͐̉͒͠A̸͓̱͙̺͋̿̈́R̸̨̀̐̏̉͒̀͜͝Ȩ̴͈͎̘̬̩̹̀̎̍͊S̶̛̥͐̈́̐͛͋͛͋.
Peter stood in the middle distance between the two entities, literally caught between darkness and light. The only difference was that there was nothing vague about the two forces quarreling around him. Peter knew exactly what he was dealing with: the inner dialogue of self-loathing he had grown up with, and the new and improved model, spawned from the compound he had been dosing himself with for months.
Monsters of his own making.
D̴o̷ ̶you wish t̶o̶ ̷w̴a̷l̵l̵o̴w̵ in self-pity ̴a̵l̸l̵ ̵n̷i̶g̴h̸t̶?̷ ̸ The Darkness said. Or will W̵e̶ S̷̡͉̖͊́T̵̨̼̰͈̈́͑́̚R̵͕̪̳̈́̓͐Ȋ̴̞̝̫͊Ǩ̵͉̖̈́̕É̸̙̲̰̤̄͛ ̶̭͙͒͒̚̚B̶̩͉̰̱͛A̵̲̠͉͉͐̚C̵̪̲̥̓͆K̶̜̿̋͌ at those that wish to ̶H̸͕͓̖̣̗̮̹̫̺̮̹̲͖͕̠͒̉͒̎̄̎̒̓̓Ả̸͇̠̙̠́̈̎̀͛R̵̖͔͇͋͐̾̅̀̂M̸̼̘̮͎̖͉̹̉̐  U̸S? T̸h̵̶̴o̶̵s̷̷̷e̷ t̵ha̵t̴ t̴r̵i̵e̵d t̷o̸ T̷̤̤̉A̷͙͠K̵̹̩̑͊E̸̢͌͝  ̷́A̷̳͊Ẉ̴͔͒͑A̸̺͚͂̄Ỳ̴͇̗͠ w̵h̶a̷t̶ ̶i̴s̷ O̵̖̿Ù̶͔R̶̜̈́S̴̨̒?̴̝̈́?
“Fisk,” Peter said, lip curled up the way a dog growls.
What makes you so sure it was Fisk? The Phantasm countered. How did he know where you were goin’ tonight? Nobody knew. Tonight was supposed to be special. Something you planned just for her without anyone’s help. Not because you’re a controlling asshole, for once—but because you wanted to prove to yourself that you weren’t a total fuck-up. 
A cruel scoff echoed in Peter’s mind, and he bristled with shame. So much for that plan, huh?
Peter stared down at the floor, too afraid to look at either version of himself. “It had to be Fisk. Who else has the power to do somethin’ like that. You think Danny’s people—?”
The Phantasm let out an exasperated sigh. God, it’s a wonder you ever made it this far. How the fuck did you become a boss, by the way? Couldn’t think your way out of a paper bag with a pair of scissors in your hand.
F̴̣̥͊Ö̴̡̟̟̣̱̪̭́̋̍̿̂͗Ọ̸͂̆̈́̀̑͠͝L̷̰̟̦̮̖̺̆̓͜.̴ You r̸e̵f̶us̴e̵ ̵t̷o̷ ̴s̴e̵e̸ ̶w̴h̴a̴t̴ is̵ ̴r̷i̴g̶ht̴ i̶n̵ ̶fro̵nt̷ o̴f̵ y̵o̶u̴. T̶h̵e̸r̷e̶ ̸i̷s̴ ̸a̸ ̴S̷̢͓͖̿N̴̸̶̴̶̶̵̶̢̡̨̼̹̪̫̮̰̼͎̔̃̃̿̎̍͗͝Ä̸̞̰̣͚Ḳ̵͇͖̜̓̎́̇Ę̶̭̝̿̑̋̋ in O̵̻͐u̴̟̓r̴̫̃ house. It mus̶̝͖̊̀̊͑̈́̒t be ex̷̟́traċ̴̞t̶e̸d̴͐.̸.̷̀.. I̵t m̶u̶s̵t be̴ ̷m̸a̴d̴e̶ ̶a̸n e̶x̵͆̔͆́a̴̞̔̌͋̄̅m̴̴̴̛̠̘̭͉̯̾̈́́̎̐ͅp̵l̶e̶ f̷o̶r̷ o̴t̶h̶e̸r̸s̵.̴
Peter’s eyes fell closed, expression twisted with anguish. A pit formed deep in his stomach. 
Ỷ̸̥o̴͔̾u̶̓ ̷hă̷v̵ë̵̴͉́͌ kn̵ó̸w̴n ̶̧̕ä̵͕́ll ̵̱̂alo̴̩͋n̶̤̆g̴.̸ Ŵ̷͜E̷͓͗ ̷h̵av̶e̵ Ą̶̛̼̩̮͎͆̂̑̈́̌͝Ļ̸̖̖̗̇̎́̑̕W̴̩̗̺̫̱̩̘̃̽̕͝Ạ̵̫͑̓͐̽Y̷͖̔̉Ṡ̷ k̶͖͗n̸ò̶ẁ̴n.
‘Please stay. I’m sorry.’ The Phantasm added onto the barrage of voices. Peter could feel the anger radiating off of his twin as he hissed inhis ear. That’s all you had to say. ‘You were right about me. You’re right about everything. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I broke your rib. Sorry I broke your spirit. I break things. That’s all I know how to do. I’m sorry I almost got you killed.’
A̶L̵M̴O̵S̵T̷ ̴i̵s̸ ̵Ṇ̸͍͈̫̓́̈ͅO̸̼͓̿͜T̷̠͌̽͊̚ ̶a̴c̷c̸ep̷t̷a̵b̷l̷e̸. On his other shoulder, on the dark side of his soul, Peter heard the other voice tempting him. W̸e̷ ̸n̴e̸ed̴e̷d̴ ̶t̷o̶ ̵b̶e̴ fa̷s̵t̷e̴r̶—S̵T̴̲͍̙̫̞͚̀̍̂̆̓͑͘̚R̵O̶N̵G̶̛͇̮͔̪̱͑̍͌͋̀͂̎̄͠E̸R̸.̴ W̷e̶ ̴Ṇ̴̛́̈́̍̒̒̂̎̒̕É̸̜̩̳̬̺̭̮E̸̻̠̥̹̞̻̫͍͔͕͛D̸͇̩͕̫̖͆͐̉̏̿̾ ̴t̴o̴ ̵e̴v̸̢͎̫͇͙̜̓ol̶̩̳̙̓̈̍̋̇͝͠ve̷.̵ ̶W̷e̸ ̵n̴e̵e̴d̸ ̶t̷o̶ ̸b̴ec̸om̷e̵ L̴̓̐̔͛̐̓͘͝E̷̍̐͠T̵̞̞̥̤̗͋̑̄͐̏̂͋́̄͜͜͝H̴̡͓͚͕̅̑̂̓̄̈́́Ạ̴̯̟̖̮̖͓́̀̽͜L̵͈͍̱͓͕̟͆̂̅
“Peter?”
With a gasp, he spun on his heel, wet eyes glaring at the doorway. His whole stance was defensive— fists balled, chin tight, face reddened. He was ready to attack.
By contrast, the tiny feminine form that barely took up a quarter of the door space made herself even smaller. Honey gazed at him with concern. “Who are you talking to?”
Chest still heaving, Peter’s jaw fell open. He realized that he was standing alone in a room talking to himself. Having an open conversation with his inner demons. 
Swallowing back his embarrassment, he looked her over more intently. She was dressed in a gray terry cloth robe, her hair soaked wet from her bath. Even in the dark, the cuts and bruises on her face from the explosion were visible. She leaned to one side gingerly, no doubt favoring the cracked rib from Peter’s tight grip. The sight brought more tears to his eyes, along with more self-loathing. And another sort of rage, one that he couldn’t immediately define.
“You’re hurt,” she murmured, stealing the words from his mouth. 
He connected with her gaze and followed its path to a blood stain on his shoulder. He leaned over to get a better look at it, hissing suddenly at the sting across his back. He was injured, alright. The explosion had sent burning shrapnel and bits of glass in all directions, including his back. He thought he had gotten it all, but a blood-streaked oozing laceration left his shirt sliced open.
She stepped closer to him, and inexplicably, it made him flinch. Honey paused, having noticed the cagey reaction. He looked disheveled, and not just from the dried blood and soot marking his skin. His eyes darted, unable to meet hers. 
“How... How’re you doin’?” he timidly asked, focusing his attention on hers.
Honey observed him quietly, and felt a pang in her heart. He looked lost. Afraid. Only slightly better than the sheer panic he experienced immediately after the explosion. He looked like he needed a hug and her arms ached to give it to him. 
And she loathed herself for that.
“I can help you,” Honey replied, ignoring his question. She nodded an indication of his wounds.
He shook his head. “‘S’fine.”
“I think you have a piece of metal sticking out of your back,” she replied.
Peter turned and glanced behind his shoulder to see that she was correct. A small three-inch piece protruded from a bloody gash on his left lats. His eyes grew wide, cheeks flushing pink at the sight. 
“Oh,” he said. “That would explain why it kinda hurts to breathe.”
He said it with a humorless laugh, and she stared back with a humorless expression. “Follow me,” she declared, turning her back to him and padding from the doorway. 
He contemplated the tone in her voice, lips buttoned up. She was the one giving him an order. She was the one leading him along now. 
With feet rooted to the floor, he was having trouble finding the courage to follow her.
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Peter sat on a stool in the center of his bathroom, his shirt off and his bloody back exposed. The piece of metal was out. Peter had insisted that he remove it himself.
Honey sat behind him on an ottoman with a tray of bandages and disinfectant next to her. The pair spoke very little. 
He kept quiet with his head down, glancing periodically to the bathroom mirror. Every stolen glance was wary, as he struggled to read her stone-faced expression. Just as intently, he watched the pair of scissors on the tray within her reach.
“This looked worse than it is,” she announced, the most conversational they had been in hours. “Except for your lower back, the other wounds aren’t that deep. Probably don’t need stitches.” 
The contents of a trauma kit were laid out neatly in front of her. It only surprised her for a moment, before she considered how routine emergency room visits from gunshot wounds might be cause for suspicion. 
She reached for a surgical needle with dexterous fingers and a flat tone. “You’re lucky.”
He let out a small scoff in the pit of his throat. Muscles tensed at the pain, and also— for some reason he couldn’t ascertain— half-expecting her to slit his throat. Bitterly, he mumbled beneath his breath, “Good ol’ Parker Luck.” 
Keeping an intense focus, she snipped a length of stitching, threading it through a curved needle. 
Peter continuously bounced his heel on the foot of the stool, anxiously waiting for the needle’s bite. He hadn’t planned to suture the wound at all, relying instead on his accelerated healing abilities. Unfortunately, she saw the wound before he could hide it, and insisted she knew what she was doing and that he needed to allow her to help. He reluctantly agreed, with a suspicion that her insistence was less about providing aid and more about the opportunity to use him as a pin cushion. 
She stabbed the needle into his flesh, because of course she did. He jolted and hissed, his theory confirmed. “Sorry,” she said, in a tone that wasn’t very remorseful. “Slipped.”
He bit down hard, breathing through the pain, saying nothing. Better to let her stab him with a needle than with the scissors. 
He glanced over to the mirror to see her deftly drawing the needle upwards with a needle driver in one hand and forceps in the other. Instead of attempting to pinch his flesh together like a novice, she pressed the tip of the forceps beneath his gash, using them to steady his flesh while she drew the needle. She stitched a perfect centimeter on either side at the center of the wound, with a line as straight as an arrow.
She was good at this, he deduced. She had done this before.
He bit his bottom lip as she tied off the suture. Two surgeon’s knots and two square knots that would’ve made any nurse proud. “Where did you learn to do that?” he quietly asked.
With her mouth in a tight line, she pierced another hole into his flesh, this time slightly less vindictively. “Girl Scouts.” 
He pouted, letting his shoulders sag. He didn’t need to listen to her heartbeat this time. He shifted uncomfortably, irked by her callousness. “Huh. They teach field trauma response in between cookie seasons?”
“If you wanna talk about something,” she replied, her vocal chords pulled taut, “why don’t you answer my question from earlier?”
He rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Which question—”
“You know exactly which one,” she said with a cold glower. Her tone was icy with frostbitten contempt. He wondered if she intentionally chose the phrase he’d said to her in his office the previous night. 
He swallowed hard. Of course she did. 
“Bella,” he answered.
“Bingo.”
“What’s the sudden urge to know where she’s at?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What? Do you not believe me when I tell you that she’s safe—?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Jesus,” Peter scoffed, offended. “Why are you—You really think I’d ever put a kid in danger?”
She jabbed him with the needle. “I don’t know what to think.”
He twisted around, leaping off of the stool and out of her reach. With a sharp line between his eyebrows, he towered over her and glared down indignantly. “How many times do I hafta say it, huh?” he demanded. “I don’t hurt children, and I don’t hurt women!”
“Who’s Gwen?”
It felt like a lightning strike. A jolt shot down his spine, eyes widening in shock. She stared up at him with her jaw locked tight, his surprise spiking her resentment. He blinked several times, mouth falling open. “Where did you—?”
“She’s the girl in your box,” she replied, cutting off his question at the knees. Defiant and fearless, she stood in front of him, not retreating an inch. “I found a photo of you and her together. Right next to a pile of dirty pictures of her.” Peter snapped his mouth closed, eyes screaming. She glowered at him like filth beneath her feet. “It’s sorta sweet—in a sadistic way. You keep those around to jerk off?”
His eyes glimmered with rage, shoulders tense. “I don’t know what you think you know,” Peter softly replied, swallowing back fury. “But watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” she seethed. “Am I gonna end up in a box too?” His brows furrowed, wounded by her words. “Is that what you do to us, Peter?” she questioned bitterly, skewering him with her glare. “You shove us in a box and bury us in a pile of your secrets?”
He swallowed hard.
“How dare you lecture me about lying,” she whispered. “You could fill a swimming pool with all your secrets and lies. A giant, fucking mass grave.”
The last word in her sentence dripped with acid. He flinched at it. She noticed. 
“Here,” she sneered, letting the surgical tools clamor down on the tray. “Lick your own wounds.” She rounded around him, stomping off.
He reached out, grabbing her forearm. “Wait a minu—”
As soon as he touched her, she wheeled on him faster than she’d ever moved in her life. Spinning on her heel, she flattened her hand across his cheek. The force of the slap was hard enough to set her palm on fire while knocking his gaze to the side. 
Time stopped. 
She stared at the red handprint on his cheek with wide eyes, her chest heaving. She could hear her blood pumping. Her heart thumping wildly. Her limbs shook with each giant breath through her nose. She felt enraptured by terror and rage, and the sickening thrill of causing him pain.
Slowly, he straightened his head, dark eyes meeting hers. 
She mirrored his hard expression, sharp breaths and blown out eyes. He looked like a statue carved from marble—all sleek, lean muscles, broad shoulders, and raw power. She pictured cracks of antiquity breaking him into pieces. She pictured a sledgehammer in her hands and what she would do with it.
He reminded her of a mountain of steadily-rising pressure and heat, like a volcano moments from eruption. Yesterday, she would’ve shrunk to her knees in his presence, as if praying to a fire god for mercy. Instead, she burned on the inside, her body already filled with molten lava. 
There was no more room for prayers. No faith in mercy. Her anger reached a fever pitch, driving her towards blind madness, twisting her view of the world around her. 
She was weak. 
Had always been weak. 
Had always begged for mercy. 
Had always been on her knees, in one way or another. For her family. For God. For John. For Peter.
The latter in the list took a step towards her, steel-eyed and jaw tense. She held her ground, glaring up at him boldly. 
She hated Peter. 
She hated John. 
She hated all men. 
If God was a man, she hated him too. 
And her mother. She loathed her mother. 
She hated being a pawn, being a tool. 
She hated being talked down to. 
She hated being used. 
She hated being an object. To be won or stolen away.
Fuck it. Fuck them all.
“Get on your knees.”
Peter blinked at her, untrusting of his ears, or his brain’s ability to comprehend the words that just came out of her mouth. She kept her eyes narrowed on him, unflinching. His hard glare faltered as confusion set in, his thick brow raised upwards.
“Did I stutter?” she said in an icy tone. “Get. On. Your. Knees.”
Wide-eyed, he took a step backwards, breath caught in his throat. He stared at her like a puzzle. A complex equation. One he’d run so many times, which always had a reliable outcome, and now, suddenly—the conclusion had changed. Not even math was reliable anymore.
She narrowed her eyes, piercing him with a vicious gaze. Her voice dipped down in her throat. “That means kneel.”
Electricity crackled off her tongue. It sent a jolt down his spine. Down and downwards further, electrifying the part of him that longed for her touch. He gulped, feeling his blood rushing in opposite directions. 
His brain urged caution and calculation. He considered the distance between her reach and the scissors on the tray, or the razor on the countertop, or any number of objects she could use to cut his throat. 
Simultaneously, his arousal urged him to respond without delay to that tone, which he’d never heard from that sweet voice. It begged him to kneel, to strip naked, to bend over, to save her the trouble and throw himself on the nearest blade. To do anything she fucking asked.
Another feeling tugged deep in the back of his mind, hoping that whatever she asked for next would involve a little bit of all of the above.
Never breaking eye contact with her, Peter moved like a cautious fawn and slowly sank to his knees. Now beneath her, his chin lifted high as she stared down at him. He was on the opposite side of the height advantage, but not by that much. 
By the look on her face, he had nothing over her. She towered over him in every possible way. She wasn’t just feisty, she was formidable. She was tantalizing and terrifying. Dauntless and dominating. 
She lifted her chin higher, peering down at him like a sacrificial lamb. Taking in the way he trembled before her with shameful, heavy breaths. She lifted her knee, hooking her foot over one of the stool’s rungs. The robe she wore parted scandalously, pulling back a curtain to reveal a hidden oasis in her scorching heat. 
“Make me come in your mouth,” she demanded. 
She kept a straight face as he stared up at her, stupefied. Brain rebooting and crashing. Gazed at her motionlessly, mind spinning off its axis, contemplating whether or not all of this had been the strangest dream he—
She slapped him again. Hard. 
He glanced back up at her, stunned. Anger crawled up in his chest—a spasm, really—only to be pushed down by filthy, Pavlovian desire pulsing from his cock. The result was a blazing concoction of passion that made him hard in a matter of moments. 
Slowly, he breathed in and out, and with it, he caught the scent of her arousal. All rational thought ceased, reduced to basic animal instincts. He swallowed painfully, eyes darting down to the source, mouth watering.
His gaze darkened with lust. His next outward breath dragged in his throat, like the pant of a dog responding to a female in heat. 
He looked up at her, his eyes unsure, questioning—challenging, even. Her face was unquestionable. Challenge accepted. 
He placed one of his hands on her raised thigh, pulling it up further over his shoulder. The force of it almost knocked her off balance; she had to grip the countertop to steady herself. She hissed at the sting at her rib, but didn’t stop him. It was a cracked rib. She’d been fucked through worse.
His other hand clamped around her opposite thigh, steadying her stance as he dove in. She sucked in a gasp as she felt the heat of his lungs on her flesh. His tongue darted out and licked a stripe from deep at the entrance of her core all the way up to her front. The slick force of his muscle sent goosebumps across her body. She whimpered with pleasure.
His abs clenched at the sound, twisting his insides like spaghetti on a fork. He felt like his stomach was being tossed into a pit. He dragged his tongue slowly, gathering her essence as it exploded across his taste buds.
Honey. 
She tasted just like honey.
He groaned at the realization, burying his tongue into her folds. 
She quivered in his grip, staring down at the lewd sight of him on his knees beneath her. Her eyes watched him through the valley of her heaving breasts. Modestly, her free hand reached up to clench the sides of her robe together, keeping her chest tightly concealed. 
He paid it no mind, as he dragged the muscle back through her heat, sucking her into his mouth. His grip tightened on her thigh, drawing another sharp gasp from her lungs. He ran his tongue greedily over her, the light stubble of his cheeks scraping her sensitive flesh. 
She hissed at the burn, and ached for more, imagining what it would have felt like had he not shaved his beard. She found herself longing for it. An breathless gasp and mewl broke out of her throat.
This was better than a dream.
Peter moaned into her folds, the vibration drawing another whimper from her lips. His eyes shot open, glancing up at her with a devilish smile. Not allowing himself to dwell on his pride, he retracted his lips, instead teasing her sensitive bud with kitten licks from the end of his tongue.  
Her eyes rolled back in her skull at the sensation, another mewl squeaking out. His hips involuntarily jerked at the tiny sound. He wrapped his lips around her sensitive bud, sucking gently, using his tongue to split her open further. 
Her sugary tanginess dizzied him. The sweet glucose of her thighs rewired his brain chemistry, and he was immediately addicted to the taste. With his neck craned uncomfortably, he lapped at her folds, drinking her in like a water fountain in a desert. His eyes would look up often, both to ensure she was satisfied and to reassure himself that this wasn’t a fever dream.
She squealed and flinched, bringing her hand up to stabilize her side. He remembered her injury, and even though she was distracted, he wanted to relieve her pain. He wrapped his hands around her waist like a belt, his lips never leaving her flesh. Lifting her by the hips, he hoisted her in the air suddenly, twirling her until she felt the cool marble of the vanity beneath her.
He didn’t slow down. With one arm bracing her lower back, he cradled her hips and held her still, while the other hand pushed her folds open. The new position allowed him to breach her further, his tongue dipping and teasing the inside of her opening. 
She was pooling nectar, spilling out between her legs and into his mouth. Desperately, he chased her juices, sucking at her flesh and groaning as he felt his cock twitch. 
She cried out in ecstasy — fuckfuckyes fuck me with your tongue, take every drop— spreading her legs wider. Simultaneously, her fingers dug into his thick tuft of hair, using him for leverage as he ground his tongue into her clit. Every time she tugged on his scalp, he had to steady his mind at the sensation. He steeled himself, filling his brain with vile images, afraid that he’d climax from the sting of her nails. He palmed his aching cock, whimpering into her pussy.
She yanked hard enough to tear at his scalp, and he looked up blearily to meet her disapproving stare. She gazed down at him, fire in her eyes. “Did I say you could do that?” she demanded. 
He flushed with a tidal wave of emotions. Her bratty tone matched with her dominating, lustful glare threatened to drown him. He released his crotch immediately, licking his lips, already longing for her cunt.
It was as if he tasted her once, and whatever power he had was ripped away. His skill and stamina, developed over a decade of casual one-night-stands, was suddenly worthless. He’d mastered the art of drawing pleasure, even after Gwen. He’d pour his frustration and aggression into the occasional fuck, mostly to satiate his own sado-masochistic desires. But on his knees before her, his confidence was negated. Before he was a feared leader. Now he was nothing more than a slut for her praise. Begging to be used. Anxiously waiting for her moans of approval.
She shoved him forward by the scruff of his head, and he eagerly returned to his station. There, he wrote a love letter. A letter of apology— of hopeless affection, of helpless devotion— drawing out each line with his tongue. His masterful calligraphy focused on her clit, with fingers timidly reaching up to tease her opening. He watched her intently as he slid his middle finger up through her velvet. 
She glanced down to catch his pleading gaze. He pulled back his mouth, borrowing his own tongue momentarily to pant desperate words at her cunt—Tell Daddy what you want, babygirl. All he wants is to make you feel good.
He pressed gentle kisses to her clit as a shudder rolled through her, his filthy words burrowing into her brain. Her eyes were blown black with desire as he tickled his fingertips at the plush spot in her pussy. His tongue returned to her clit hungrily with wet, open-mouthed kisses, spurring her pleasure faster with the added stimulation on her G-spot. 
She moaned, scaling towards the summit of not only her climax, but a twin peak of elation that was hard to describe. It was the kind of emotion that cartoon villains have as they bellow with laughter about their nefarious plans. An rageful joy. A violent thrill. 
She hatefucked his face and buried her nails into his scalp, hard enough that she hoped she could draw blood. And like the whore he was, he whimpered helplessly in her grip.
Her voice used to make those sounds, as she gargled and choked on John’s cock. 
She once made those needy, pleading noises on Peter’s desk, splayed out like a open diary. She revealed to him her secrets and desires and fantasies, watching him milk his cock as he read each line with a greedy smile.
John was always greedy when they had sex. It made her feel good to please him. On her wedding night, sex with John was different than it had been before. He fucked every hole like he was angry with her. She spent the rest of the night worried that she’d done something to offend him. Weeping in the bathroom quietly as she wiped blood stains from her pubic bone.
Her heart was going to burst through her chest, she was certain. Peter was good at this. He seemed to genuinely enjoy eating her out, she thought. He whines like a whore, she also thought. 
Peter probably fucked that silver whore until she was covered in blood.
Now, Peter was all over her cunt, with his tongue and his fingers and filthy begging. He held her hips steady with his grip. His arm pinned her to the bathroom partition wall like a steel beam across her chest.
It was hard to breathe; her lungs were going to explode. Hard to hear his pathetic mewling over the sounds of her moans. She was loud, relentless. She wanted the neighbors to hear it. Wanted the faceless ghosts haunting the hallways to hear it. Wanted all of New York to hear it. Wanted Johnny Storm and Danny Rand and even Felicia to hear it.
She was there, but she wasn’t. She was at the arcade. With Peter in the bathroom. His hand clenching around her throat. Greedy, bloody hands—his grip penetrating her, violating her, humiliating her—
“Fuck you’re clenching around my fingers,” Peter groaned breathlessly. “Fuck!—yes, use my hand—let Daddy help you—”
Lightning shot through her. Blinding white heat surged through her body, inside and out. She trembled and shuddered as a roman candle sparked in her belly, the explosion scorching her. Her body convulsed as her orgasm crashed through quivering thighs.
Electric screams echoed in her ears, rolling off of her tongue. They dwarfed Peter’s drunken voice—that’s it, good fuckin’ girl, god, y’taste so good—and she had almost forgotten everything about who they were. 
Until she felt his fingerprints tightening on her slippery thighs. She looked back down at him to find him helplessly moaning into her split, where he devoutly chased every drop of her with his tongue.
The sight of him on his knees—face wet, lips dripping with her cream, hips twitching with a raging hard-on—was so vulgar. So erotic, it almost made her come twice. She locked eyes with him, drinking in the charred whiskey barrel hue of his irises, and seeing his desperation to communicate. He telegraphed emotions so loudly, it was as if she could hear his thoughts. He thanked her graciously, plead for her mercy, vowed his love to her—
She picked up her leg and jabbed her heel into his throat as hard as she could. The kick stunned him, flattening him. From her perch, she watched him heave and cough on the bathroom floor, rolling onto his side defensively. He choked and gagged, palming his throat.
When he looked up at her, he looked like a kicked puppy. Too shocked to be angry. Too scared of her wrath to question it. She leered at him from above, fixing him with a vindictive glare. He laid beneath her, propped up on one elbow, while the other hand rubbed at his neck.
Her look reminded him of a cruel child chasing an ant with a magnifying glass on a sunny day. She looked to burn him alive. He fought the urge to crawl away. Her eyes flashed at him like a death ray. Lip curled upwards in disgust. He followed her gaze downward to his lap, and saw what she was seeing. The front of his pants were soaked through with his own cum. 
Cheeks blushing, he flinched, panicked. Moving his arm in a feeble attempt to hide his shame. Whatever drop in confidence he had plummeted straight through the center of the Earth. He was a child. A stupid boy awakening from a wet dream. He could barely meet her eyes.
“You have one final chance, Peter.” Every word came out like the ominous tolling of a bell. “One more chance to tell me the truth. Because I know what it sounds like when you lie.” 
Her voice sounded detached from her throat, untethered from her soul, echoing from a hollow cave where her heart had once been. The coldness of her tone was unnerving. He blinked up at her, lip quivering. Hating himself for what she had become.
Straight-faced and dark eyed, she asked, “Who is Gwen?” 
Peter swallowed hard, tears welling up in his eyes. It had been so long since he heard that name on anyone else’s lips. The sound of it still hurt to hear. Not just heart-shattering. It was like his entire being was made of glass. And the vicious look of contempt of her face was a stone being hurled towards him.
He studied her, half in despair, half in horrified awe. Full of regret.
He sniffled as he drew breath. “Gwen—” His voice cracked and he loathed the puny sound. He wanted to take the medical scissors off the tray and cut it out of his own throat. 
He rasped out his reply, “Gwen was my... my wife.” His tears felt like they were boiling against the coldness of his cheeks. “She was my everything.” He clenched his jaw to steady it. 
When he looked back up at her, her face remained unchanged. She rendered him with an unengaged stare, just shy of apathetic. 
“I lost her,” he added weakly. A shadow crossed his features, darkening his face and his spirit. “She died.” A lump formed in his throat, and each following breath was a painful, slow drag. The ache had nothing to do with his injuries.
A crease formed between her brows, tension in her jaw. They stayed silent forever, both fearing what the other one was going to say.
She broke the silence first.
“Peter,” she said with a wary tone. Her eyes grew colder as they began to rim with tears. “Are you responsible for her death?”
He sank further into misery, his face contorted with shame. He peeled his gaze away from hers. 
Responsibility, Peter.
His cheeks glistened with anguish. 
He nodded.
Observing the gesture felt like death. She felt like a corpse. She and Gwen were no different. Dead bodies trapped in boxes.
Her lips pulled in a tight line. “Thank you. For telling me the truth.” Despite the heartbreak and rage streaming through her, she was no louder than a whisper. She waited until he looked her in the eye.
“Now. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
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To be continued...
A/N. Going through a hard time right now, thank you for being nice.
91 notes · View notes
blooming-violets · 2 days
Note
😤
KATIE JEALOUS PETER PLS ILYSM
Peter Parker Jealousy Headcanon
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OKAY
I'm looking to my crystal ball of headcanons and there's about three million jealousy ones spinning around in there. I'm going to close my eyes and grab one out at random...
You and Peter are friends. College. Senior Year. You run the photography club and convinced him to join sophomore year after you found an old camera in his dorm room. You've been besties ever since. And, by besties, I mean Peter follows you around everywhere and you let him.
Peter doesn't talk to anyone else unless he's forced to.
I'm picturing depressed and disheveled Peter. After Gwen's death. He took a year or two off from college. When he finally attended, he kept to himself most of the time even though he was a part of the club. He only joined because you asked him to. Plus, taking pictures is a fairly solitary thing anyway. He'd do anything you asked him to.
None of your friends really like him. They think he's kind of mean and they're not wrong. He likes to sit and sulk and glare at people.
But, for some reason, he hates everyone except for you.
He always looks like he's two days past his shaving due date but never actually commits to the full beard. Permanent scruff. Constant messy bed head in need of a cut. Sad boy eyes. Same pair of jeans he's worn for the past two weeks. Wrinkled shirt. You get the idea.
The first year you two became friends, you thought the friendship would turn into something more. You kept hoping he would ask you out on a date. When he never did, you worked up the courage to ask him yourself. His response was awkward and it didn't seem like he was super interested so you quickly let it drop. You figured that he only wanted to be friends. You tried to let that be fine. You tried to push away your feelings for the beautiful emo trash human.
OOPS THIS GOT LONG READ MORE TIME
By senior year you'd all but squashed those feelings into the earth. (or so you liked to pretend)
You invited Peter to a party some friends are having at their new apartment off campus. He says he'll "show up if he has time" and you wonder what else this man could possibly be doing because you're his only friend. But you agree with it and decide to head off to the party alone. If Peter shows up, he shows up. If he doesn't, well, you're not going to waste your time begging him.
He does show up. Conveniently right as you do. Almost as if he planned it that way. You two enter and immediately can tell that the party is already getting out of hand. There's a lot of people you don't know in this apartment. People you don't think your friend invited. They probably heard about it from someone and decided to crash. Whatever. It's not your house. Let's get drinks.
Peter and you find the drink table and get busy. Shots shots shots! You're starting to feel good. Happy. Bubbly. You want to dance with the crowd of people middle of the room. You try to pull Peter over there. He refuses.
He gives you a scowl and shakes his head.
"I don't dance!" He shouts over the music.
"You suck," You shout back.
You leave him there to pout on his own and squeeze your way into the mass of sweaty people to dance. You start to lose yourself in the beat of the music. The drinks are spinning around in your head to amp up your happiness. It feels good.
Now some guy is dancing with you. He's grinding up behind you. You turn to look at him. You've never seen him before in your life but he's cute enough. At least the drinks are telling you he's cute and you don't really care. It's been a long time since you've gotten with anyone. Your last boyfriend broke up with you three years ago. You'd been pining over Peter for a while. It was time to have your needs met.
You start dancing back with the stranger. His hands are all over you. You like the feel of being appreciated by someone else. He's making you feel sexy. Beautiful. You turn around in his arms and start to kiss. Right there in middle of everyone. You don't care anymore.
You secretly hope Peter is watching.
And he is.
But he's not just watching. He's glaring. His fist tightens around red plastic cup in his hand so tightly that the contents spill out over the top and the plastic cracks and crumbles. He tosses the crunched up cup off to the side. His jaw is tight. He can't pull his eyes away from you. He wants to look away but he can't. They're glued on to you. Blazing into the back of your head. Even over all the music and noise he can hear the tiny moan of approval in the back of your throat.
The sound sets off all the raging alarms in his head. Fire burns behind his eyes. His shoulders are squared off and tense. And then he sees it.
The stranger, with his greedy arms wrapped around you, slides his hands down your waist. He flips up the bottom of your skirt, right there in the middle of everyone, to expose your underwear to whoever might be looking. A thong. The string is lost between your perfectly plump cheeks. Your ass is on full display should anyone decide to look down. He lets his hands grab fist full of your cheeks, his fingers digging into your flesh, before the skirt flops back down over his wrists to hide the rest from view.
And you're moaning. Kissing him harder. Shoving your tongue down his throat. You like it. You like that he takes control. You like that doesn't care who could see. He's not ashamed of you. He's not afraid. Your heart is spiking. Your skin is getting hotter. You're horny. You're sick of having no one but your vibrator for the past three years. So you whisper into the strangers ear to bring you to the bedroom.
Peter can hear it. He can hear and feel everything you're doing because he's zeroed in on you. You are his target. His senses are set on you and only you. The rest of the room and the people in it have faded away. All he sees is you.
He's watching as you take the strangers hand and lead him through the crowds. You're headed to the bedroom. Peter can't let you reach it. His heart is pounding. His breath is tight in his throat. He can't let you get to that bedroom.
In mere seconds he is across the room. His hand has grabbed a fistful of the stranger's collared shirt. He's throwing him backwards. Hard. Away from you.
Your hand breaks contract with the enemy. There's a brief sense of relief for Peter until he sees the confused shock in your eyes. You're glancing wildly between himself and somewhere off behind him.
The room has gone silent besides the steady beat of the music.
Peter blinks, his other senses starting to come back into focus. There's no longer only you. He can hear the music again. The hushed whispers. He can see the other people. They're all staring at him. No one is dancing anymore.
He turns to look. The stranger has been flung across the entire room and crashed into a kitchen cabinet. Its fallen off the hinges as he holds the back of his head in shock. When he pulls his hand away, there's blood on his palm.
Peter couldn't remember throwing him that far. He only meant to grab him away from you. He didn't mean to lose control of his strength like that. He turned to look back you, expecting to see the same horror as everyone else at the party. Instead he saw something else.
The corners of your lips turned into a smirk. There was a spark behind your eyes. The same one he saw threes years ago on the day you asked him on a date. An expectant hopefulness. He already let you down once. He wasn't going to do it again.
Before anyone could react, he'd taken your hand and fled from the scene. The night air was cool. It refreshed his lungs and helped steady his breath. He pulled you along behind him. Picking a direction and just going with it. Anywhere was better than back there.
You stayed quiet. Afraid that if you spoke, it would break whatever revelation he was having.
Finally, four blocks from the scene. He stopped to turn and face you.
"I-" he hesitated. He didn't know what he wanted to say. He didn't know how to tell you that you were his best friend. He didn't know how to tell you that you were the only person in his life who he wanted to keep. He didn't know how to say that he was terrified of losing you to. He didn't know how to open himself up and let you in without bringing along the pain of his past. He didn't know if he could treat you the way you deserved. He didn't know how to tell you that he brought along heartbreak and devastation where ever he went. He didn't know how to tell you that if you were with him, he would end up breaking you, too.
He didn't know how to tell you that, despite all that, he loved you.
You watched the words of all the things he couldn't say flash across his face. He didn't need to say them. Not to you. Not yet.
"If you can't say it, Peter," you whispered to him. "Then show me."
KISS
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THE END
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sincericida · 2 days
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Andrew Garfield on set for "The Amazing Spider-Man 2" (2013)
How can it be so beautiful?
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kenobion · 2 days
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Andrew Garfield for SAG-AFTRA Conversations at Home
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bucksangel · 3 days
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there are wrong answers
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soeurdelune · 2 days
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avatars (400 x 640): andrew garfield, signés soeurdelune
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lanadelreyscokewhor3 · 17 hours
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lets settle this debate
top or bottom?
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cats-and-cacti · 2 days
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handonmystupidheart · 3 months
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andrew garfield for gq, 2022
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buckley-robin · 1 year
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BTS of Spiderman: no way home
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kenstaroyco · 5 months
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Andrew Garfield on The Stephen Colbert Show discussing his problem with certainty of faith. [x]
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blooming-violets · 2 days
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🍺 [Peter Parker]
A Drunk Headcanon
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Peter is going to be a million times better at holding his alcohol than you. We can blame his regenerative abilities for that. He can still get drunk but no where near as quickly as you do. He's also a bit more responsible when it comes to letting loose and tries to keep somewhat of a clear head. Because of this, you know that no matter how wasted you get, Peter will always be there to take care of you and make sure you're safe.
On this particular night, you and Peter have been enjoying the reception party at a friend's wedding. It was a beautiful ceremony in upstate New York. You and Peter opted to get a hotel room at the venue so you didn't have to worry about getting back to the city after. An open bar and lots of dancing and music = you getting trashed.
Peter played the part of the wallflower most of the night. He'd pull you out for a dance when the music slowed down but, otherwise, he opted to say out of the chaos. You knew his senses became overwhelmed in situations like this so you let him do his thing while you danced with your friends.
As the night dies down, you find him outside, beer in hand and staring up at the stars. Alone and in the quiet. You stumble over to him, giggling, and jump onto his back. In your mind, you're as stealthy as a lioness stalking her prey. In reality, you're a stumbling drunk woman in a long dress with heels giggling as she falls into her boyfriend's back.
Peter helps steady you, finding amusement in your inebriated state, and eventually throws you over his shoulder to carry you back inside. He manages to usher you into the elevator where you immediately feel the need to jump on him once more, this time with the intent to undress him right there.
He does his best to ward off your attacks but, he's tipsy, and you make him horny so he doesn't put up much of a fight.
Sloppy drunk elevator make out occurs and Peter keeps hitting all the buttons because neither of you remember what floor your room is on so you decided to just make out and wing it and occasionally stick your head out the open door to see if this floor looks familiar but they all the look the same to you and you're distracted by Peter so you just end up staying in the elevator, going up and down, for much longer than necessary.
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sincericida · 1 day
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Andrew Garfield for "Modern Luxury Magazine" - dir. Brian Higbee | December 2018
God, he's so delightful, I need to %¶€&@¥#¢ with him so much...
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zachbiller · 1 year
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