#top tier fantastic fic ⭐️ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

liz-allyn · 2 years ago

Text

Wow. That was outstanding. How is this powerful and so delicate at the same time???

Oof - this hurt, the anger here is so visceral

And then

Fuckkkk me. This is so hot. The only thing I love more than protective peter is possessive peter. Ugh, this was such a great story.

Right Now You're Mine

pairing: tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

words: 5.7K

warnings: 18+ content, cursing, drunk guys refusing to take "no" for an answer (not Peter), college/post-college aged reader & Peter

a/n: so i was listening to "Skin to Skin" by Movements and couldn't get the idea of tumultuous on and off relationship with Peter out of my head, this is the outcome of that. i recommend listening to it before or after reading! thanks as always to my forever beta @acrossthesestars for editing this into something legible. i am nothing without you 🖤

masterlist | taglist

(divider by @silkholland)

The driving bass rippled through the shitty apartment, nearly drowned out by the voices of all the people crammed inside. You’d found a relatively empty corner to stand in, preferring to be there rather than brushing shoulders with total strangers. You always felt so out of place at these big parties, even when you came with friends.

Your fingers picked nervously at the label of the warm Bud Platinum in your hand. Your friend Mike grabbed a case of them for you after class. You’d assumed he would grab them from the refrigerated section but you had been terribly wrong. It’s not like you even enjoyed the taste, but they were relatively cheap and brought on a comfortable buzz much quicker than the Busch Ice that the boys usually kept in the fridge.

The song changed and you brought the bottle to your lips, singing along to the opening lines of “All Night Longer” almost out of instinct before tipping it back and allowing the bitter liquid to take the edge off your anxiety. You were staring blankly into the throng of people in front of you, observing the way their bodies pressed close together, gyrating awkwardly to the beat. Out of nowhere, a voice, surprisingly close, snapped you out of your reverie.

“You a big Sammy Adams fan?” The boy to your right asked, turning to face you. You snorted derisively into your beer and shook your head.

“It’s impossible not to sing along when the boys play the damn song any chance they get.”

He laughed then, a bright sound that caught your full attention, and you turned to face him fully. Boyishly good looking, he had tousled brown hair and a smile that made his dark eyes twinkle. He was wearing a plain black shirt, thumbs tucked through holes in the sleeves, under a green cargo jacket, and dark jeans; he seemed out of place in the sea of pastel and white worn by the frat bros throwing the party. You recognized him, you thought, as the quiet boy that had sat behind you in your European History class freshman year.

“Hey, I know you!” You had to shout to be heard over the music, leaning into his space and placing a stabilizing hand on his shoulder. “You had Dr. G freshman year, right?”

“That’s right,” he smiled at you, a hint of surprise lighting up his eyes. He angled the neck of his bottle toward you, the gesture mirroring that of a handshake as he introduced himself. “Peter.”

You clinked your bottle to his, half-shouting your name as you turned back to the party. Turns out he already knew your name; sitting in the front row had made you an easy target for a professor who made it his life’s ambition to rag on students every chance he got.

“Nice to officially meet you,” you said, taking another swig of your beer with a grimace.

“I take it you come to these parties a lot?” That was an understatement. Your roommate was dating the chapter President and you inevitably found yourself tagging along with her to impromptu parties at least three nights per week. But you’d never bumped into Peter at one before.

“Mmm,” you hummed against the lip of your bottle and pointed to your roommate and her boyfriend in the opposite corner. “You see that blonde over there with Fletcher? That’s my roommate, Cate. She drags me here every other night.”

“I see,” He pointed towards them as well. “Fletcher invited me tonight. He asked me to take pictures of the party for their upcoming recruitment video. Offered to pay me in beer.”

“I hope you left your camera at home,” you scoffed. He grimaced, twisting so you could see his backpack. “Fletcher can be such a dick sometimes.”

“Hey, I don’t mind,” he said. He shoved his free hand into the pocket of his jeans and rocked back on his heels, a sheepish smile on his soft mouth. “I’m enjoying the company.”

Four years passed from the night you first met Peter. Four years of study dates that turned into coffee dates, late night texts, and sending each other silly Instagram videos on bad days. You had never become an “official” couple, preferring to fall into each other when the moment was convenient, or when you’d had a little too much to drink. On nights that Peter was out doing god knows what, you’d sometimes fill your bed with another warm body. More frequently, you would spend the evening alone, polishing off a bottle of wine to drown out the lingering loneliness.

It’s not that you didn’t care for each other. In fact, you probably cared a little too much. Life just had a habit of getting in the way and you both had your own respective walls up. Relationships never seemed to work out well for you, so it was easier to avoid them. You avoided getting too close to anyone, so you threw yourself into your work, making up excuses about how you were too busy for anything serious. Peter had his secrets too, a clandestine job that had him working nights and odd hours. You pretended not to notice the black eyes or the swollen lips, the way he insisted on keeping the lights off so you couldn’t see the scars that marked his body.

He never told you what it was he was doing, but he would frequently find his way to your door in the early hours of the morning. He’d be propped against the door frame, a sheepish smile firmly in place, asking to come in and talk for a while. Most of the time, there was very little talking involved. Instead, your studio would be filled with the sounds of your pleasure, fading into a comfortable quiet just as the first light of dawn began to filter through the fogged windows.

You’d lie there with tangled limbs, your bare skin pressed firmly against his as you traced delicate circles over the planes of his chest. You’d tell him about your shitty day, your weekend plans, and about how you secretly hoped to one day leave the city and make a name for yourself. Peter never once shared details about the ghosts that haunted him, the ones you could see dancing in the shadows of his eyes, but you had learned early on not to push. "I like hearing about your day," he would say. "I don’t want to bore you with the details of mine."

It was all so intimate, the traveling hands, forehead kisses, and intertwined fingers. Sometimes, you’d let yourself imagine that it was real, that he was yours, and you didn’t have to give him up with the sunrise. Eventually, the dawn would become too bright to ignore and he’d extract himself from you, despite your protests, leaving you all alone in your big bed with little more than a parting kiss and a whispered promise of calling you later.

You’d toss and turn, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before peeling yourself out of bed and catching the train to work, but it was usually hopeless. You were never able to calm your racing thoughts long enough to get anything resembling rest. Instead, you’d throw on a pot of coffee and sink into a chair by the window to watch the last of the darkness slowly fade into daylight.

Deciding you were through with your self-pity, you agreed to go out with Cate and Fletcher while they were in town, knowing that you’d be in bed by 11 pm at the latest. You’d agreed purely out of a desire to get out of your own head for a bit, thinking that some face time with your best friend might do you some good. Slipping into a tight dress, you swiped on some concealer in an attempt to look more alive than you felt and headed out the door.

The club was packed - long weekends always brought plenty of tourists into the city. The feeling of the pulsing bass, paired with the vibrant flashing lights and the familiar burn of a vodka soda felt like a balm to your soul. Or at least a distraction from your problems. It had been so long since you’d let yourself go out and enjoy letting loose. Something like guilt had begun gnawing at you about a year ago, when you realized how deep your feelings for Peter ran. You hadn’t brought another man home since.

As the music and the alcohol began to loosen your limbs, you let Cate drag you onto the dance floor. Your hips moved in time with the seductive rhythm as you brandished your drink in the air, singing along to lyrics of a song you’d nearly forgotten. It wasn’t long before a pair of unfamiliar hands circled your waist, and pulled you against a firm body, encouraging you to keep dancing. As the scent of his overpowering cologne attacked your senses, you turned just enough to see the strangers face, and complied. He was handsome enough, with deep olive skin, a shock of nearly-black hair, and hazel eyes that seemed to stare right through you. When you turned back to face Cate, she was giving you a thumbs up in approval, a devilish grin on her face. You made sure to stay in the middle of the dance floor, under the brightest lights so that anyone could see if the stranger tried anything that crossed a line. It’s not like you’d never danced with a stranger before, but something told you to be careful with this one.

One song turned into two, turned into five and you found yourself in need of another drink and a break to catch your breath. The stranger’s hands hadn’t left your hips and you were suddenly feeling touched out. You looked toward the bar to check on the lines and your heart leapt into your throat. There, leaning his back up against the polished counter and staring directly at you was Peter. There was no anger in his eyes, but you knew him. Well enough to know that there was hurt masked behind the cool indifference of his expression. He casually sipped his drink then turned back to signal to the bartender, leaving you frozen in place.

When you had finally convinced your limbs to move again, you turned to your dance partner and mumbled some excuse about needing to freshen up and get a new drink. He offered to come with you, his hands tightening possessively as you tried to walk away. You wriggled free, adamant that you go alone, despite the brief flash of anger that flared in his eyes. Looking around for Cate or Fletcher, you noticed they were nowhere to be found. They had a habit of sneaking off to a corner somewhere to paw at each other and you cursed them for leaving you alone with that creep.

When you finally made it through the sea of sweaty bodies to the bar top, you were shocked to find that Peter was nowhere to be found. Had you imagined him? Was this your guilt manifesting itself in the form of hallucinations? It’s not like you had been sleeping well and Peter had been running through your mind all night, that familiar gnawing guilt trying to claw its way back to the front of your mind. You waved the bartender over, ordering a shot of Jameson and grimacing as the dark liquid burned in your throat. A wave of heat washed over you as it hit your belly, suddenly making the crowded club feel entirely too warm.

You moved toward the exit, hoping that the fresh air would offer some relief. Breathing deep as you stepped outside, you allowed the cool, damp air to fill your lungs and closed your eyes. You had been a fool to think that coming here would make you forget about Peter, to think that anything could erase the mark that he’d burned into you years ago. Exhaling, you dug your phone from your bag, fingers flexing around it as you scrolled through your contacts and hovered over the call button. Calling Peter right now could be a big mistake, especially if you hadn’t imagined him and he’d seen you grinding on someone else. You didn’t have the energy to argue with him and you didn’t want to make it seem like you were only calling him to assuage your guilt. With a groan you locked the screen, tucking the phone back in your bag and turning back toward the entrance.

“Well just where do you think you’re going, pretty girl?” The voice was male, incredibly deep, and unfamiliar. You looked up into the eyes of the creep from inside the bar. Had he followed you?

“I needed some fresh air,” you said plainly, trying your best to sound casual. “I’m headed back inside to get my friends. A cab will be here to get us soon.”

You were lying, but he didn’t know that. There was no one else outside with you and the thought suddenly made you feel unsafe and on edge. You would risk returning to the sensory overload that awaited you inside, if only to get away from him. You brushed past his shoulder and his hand tightened around your wrist, pulling you back against his chest. He held you there with one strong arm around your shoulders, refusing to let go as you shoved against him, trying to get free.

“I think you should stay out here with me,” he growled against your ear. His free hand slid up the back of your thigh, pushing underneath your dress to cup the curve of your bare ass. The sickening sweetness of his cologne overtook you once more, making your stomach churn as you choked on it.

You jerked against his hold again, trying your best to remain calm and not let your fear get the best of you. There was no one around to hear you scream and no one inside the club would notice you over the loud music, so you kept as still as you could, waiting for the right moment to fight back.

“I was hoping we’d get a little privacy,” he said. “You put on quite a little show for me.”

He loosened his grip ever so slightly, intending to turn you around to face him, and you used it to your advantage. Lifting your heeled food, you brought it down hard onto the top of his. He howled in pain, but his grip remained firm as you fought against it. You did it again, this time swinging your arm down with force, connecting with his groin. He stumbled and you lurched forward out of his arms, putting a safer distance between the two of you as you reached for your phone to call for help.

“You bitch,” he said.

He stood up to his full height, taking a stumbling step toward you. You were about to grab for your mace when a blur of red and blue whizzed past you, colliding with the man and sending him flying back onto his ass.

“Ok, now I know I’m seeing things,” you mumbled to yourself, swaying on your feet.

You couldn’t believe your eyes. Standing over the crumpled man was Spider-Man. You’d seen articles about him in the paper and the smear campaign that they ran on the local news stations, but you never thought much about it. Truthfully, you were a little skeptical that he was actually real. It would be hard to deny after this.

The masked man crouched, hovering over your assailant and muttering something that you couldn’t make out. Taking a tentative step forward, you stopped when he suddenly stood, gesturing for you to stay back. You froze, unsure of whether to run like hell or stay and watch him beat the shit out of the guy who just manhandled you.

Without warning, the man climbed to his feet and charged at Spider-Man. Dipping his shoulder, he aimed it squarely at his ribs, and slammed the masked man into the wall with a sickening crunch. Spider-Man crumpled to the ground, unmoving, and your attacker turned to you once more.

“Now,” he said, huffing a breath and taking a step toward you. “Where were we?”

Before he could take another step, his legs were yanked out from underneath him by a web, shot from the heap where Spider-Man still lay. He climbed to his feet, doubled over from the pain of having the wind knocked out of him, and probably a couple of broken ribs. He limped forward, pinning the man in place with strategically placed webs on his hands and feet. Facing you, he spoke. His voice was hoarse, but familiar in a way you couldn’t quite place.

“Go,” he croaked. “Get out of here. I’ve got this.”

You did as you were told, afraid of the consequences if you didn’t. Thankfully, your apartment was only a couple of blocks from the club. You frantically scrolled through your phone, looking for Peter’s name, and pressed the call button. The phone rang and rang and rang, and you were forced to leave a desperate, sniffling voicemail when he didn’t pick up.

The tears were flowing freely by the time you circled the corner and took the stairs to your apartment two at a time. Your eyes were blurry, causing you to fumble with the keys and drop them to the ground with a curse. On your second try, you managed to scoot inside, closing the lobby door safely behind you with a thud.

You sobbed through the elevator ride to your floor, thinking only of how Spider-Man had stepped in to help you from a stranger, someone who clearly couldn’t take no for an answer. You were usually so smart, careful not to take risks and leave yourself vulnerable, but you’d been lost in your own head and not paying close enough attention. Now someone else was going to pay the price.

As you walked in, you threw your bag and phone onto the couch and kicked off your shoes, sending them flying across the small expanse of your living room to be lost in the dark. Tossing yourself onto your bed, you didn't bother to change out of your dress before crawling under the duvet. You’d wash the sheets later. As you lie there, you couldn’t help but think about how badly you wished Peter were with you. The gentle security of his arms was the only thing you craved in that moment.

You wanted him to hold you to his chest, tuck your head in the space below his chin, and stroke your hair until all of the tension left your body. You wanted to feel the rumble of his voice as you pressed yourself into his chest. In short, you wanted him. The empty space in your bed reminded you that he wasn’t there and that he wouldn’t answer your calls.

As the tears slowed and your breathing began to even out, you felt the weight of your exhaustion lying heavy on you like a blanket. The first tease of sleep began to creep into your limbs and you breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of your fabric softener and the spicy remnants of Peter’s cologne. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you heard a knock - one long, two short, one long, the coded knock that Peter had begun using over a year ago.

Convinced you were dreaming, partially due to the fact that you’d been crying yourself to sleep with him fresh on your mind, you snuggled deeper into the blanket and ignored it. It sounded again, this time much louder and accompanied by Peter’s voice on the other side of the door. You leapt from the bed, legs tangling in the sheets and crashed face down onto the floor. With a groan, you scrambled to your feet and opened the front door.

Leaning against the frame was Peter, a look of concern on his face and a thick sheen of sweat on his brow. Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed himself inside, grabbing you by the wrist and turning you to face him. His eyes scanned you from head to toe, his hands ghosting behind as he scanned for injuries.

“Are you ok?” He asked, his hands cupping your cheeks and forcing you to face him.

“Yeah. Yeah I’m fine,” you said. “I just fell out of bed Peter, it’s ok.”

“That’s not what I mean, I-” His voice was uncharacteristically sharp, something he must have noticed because he softened his tone when he spoke again. “You called me like 10 times and then you didn’t pick up when I called you back. I was worried.”

You choked out a sob, falling into his arms as he led you to the bed, sitting you gingerly on the edge. He crouched in front of you, his thumbs tracing soothing circles on the backs of your hands.

“What happened?” His voice was thick with emotion and it made something inside of you crack. You told him all about the guy from the club, how violated you had felt with his hands on you, and how grateful you were that Spider-Man had been there to save you.

“Otherwise…” you trailed off. You didn’t want to verbalize what would have come next. He shushed you, pulling you into his chest and gingerly rubbing your back. You wrapped your arms around his waist, squeezing tightly to convince yourself he was really there. It couldn’t have been too tight, but Peter tensed, a barely perceptible wince escaping his lips.

You pulled back, allowing yourself to really look at him and realized that he had a giant bruise forming along his cheekbone. Upon closer inspection, you could see a small cut in the center of the swollen knot. He swallowed hard, gritting his teeth as he stared off into the corner.

“Peter, what happened?” You gingerly ran your fingers along his side, taking note of how his body grew impossibly more tense from the effort of holding back. Carefully, you lifted up his shirt to reveal a large, reddish purple bruise stretching across his ribs.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just work stuff.”

You replayed the events of your attack over in your mind, loosely fitting the puzzle pieces together in your mind as you came up with an answer that seemed too impossible to believe. Your heart raced as you searched for the courage to ask him one question, knowing that the answer might just be your missing puzzle piece.

“Where were you tonight?”

He turned to face you, his eyes not meeting yours as he fidgeted nervously with the strap on your dress.

“You look so pretty,” he dodged your question, letting his knuckles drag over the bare skin of your shoulder.

“Peter,” you tried again, breathing in sharply through your nose before continuing. “Did I see you at the club tonight or not?”

“I might have stopped in for a drink or two,” he looked into your eyes then, his own red rimmed and brimming with emotion. You closed your eyes, slowly breathing out as you willed your racing heart to slow down. You felt dizzy, like the solid weight of the bed would dissolve and swallow you whole.

“And where did you go after that?” Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, sticking to the roof as it fumbled over your words. “I tried to find you at the bar, but you disappeared.”

“It was hot in there,” he leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and nuzzling your nose. “I went around the corner for a coffee.”

“Peter…” Your voice was nothing but a whisper as the past four years all started to make sense. All of the secrecy, the scars, the odd hours. It hit you like a ton of bricks and you felt foolish for not figuring it out before. “It was you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His lips were mere inches from yours, brushing languidly against the side of your mouth.

“Oh give it up, Parker!” You pulled away, jumping to your feet and whirling on him. His shocked face stared back at you for a moment. Then he looked away, clenched jaw ticking as a tear streaked down his bruised cheek. You softened, taking a tentative step towards him and crouching so that you were eye level. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“No,” he stood to leave, furiously shaking his head. “No no no no no no no, I can’t do this. I said I wouldn’t do this.”

“Do what?!” You were shouting at him now as tears fell freely down your face. “Let me in?”

“Don’t,” he growled, jabbing a finger in your direction before letting his hand fall weakly by his side. “Don’t you dare talk about not letting someone in.”

You were stunned into silence, staring at him with confusion twisting your brows. You couldn’t do anything but stammer weakly.

“Oh don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve been trying to break down your walls for the better part of four years now, hoping that one day… but I can’t get close to you.”

“How did you expect me to let you in when you constantly keep me at arms length? I mean, god, Peter I don’t even know where you go at night or where all of your bruises come from. You don’t tell me anything.”

“I… I can’t,” he stubbed the toe of his converse against your wood floors with a squeak. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Do you really think anyone is going to mess with me when I’m with fucking Spider-Man? How much safer could it get?!”

“That’s exactly why they would mess with you. To get to me. I’ve lost too many people I loved and I couldn’t do anything to save them. I tried and I… I just couldn’t.” Peter sat back on the edge of your bed dropping his head into his hands and heaving a sob. “I can’t lose you too.”

You sat beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and placing your hand gently on his knee.

“Hey, I’m right here,” you whispered. “I understand the risks and I’m staying right here. Don’t mourn me before I’m gone.”

“But what if I can’t protect you?”

“You’ve already shown me that you’re more than capable of protecting me. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up tonight?”

Peter shook his head as if trying to clear the thought from his mind, eyes still glued to the floor. You gave his thigh a squeeze, nuzzling even closer into his neck and his hand came up to rest on your shoulder.

“There was no doubt in my mind tonight that you were the only person I wanted to be with me after all of that. I called you because something in me needed you and I couldn’t explain why. Turns out you were there the whole time.”

He shifted toward you a bit, lips brushing gently over the tip of your nose as he pulled you tight to him.

“I was so angry,” he said. “I saw that creep’s hands all over you and I blacked out. I knew that it was risky, but I didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.”

“You did good, Peter. You spoke to me and your voice… I wanted it to be you, but it felt impossible.”

He kissed you then, slow and lazy, his tongue laving over yours in a way that sent flames licking up your spine. His hand was on your jaw, the other on your neck as he guided you back against the pillows. He settled between your thighs, guiding you to wrap your legs around his waist as he caged you in with his arms.

He began to kiss along the edge of your jaw, blazing a trail down the column of your neck to your collarbone. Sucking a mark into the delicate skin there, he reveled in the noises you made as he moved his hips against you. A primal groan escaped his throat as he looked down upon his handiwork, branding you as his.

“I’ll never let another person touch you,” he mumbled against your skin. “I promise.”

“Peter,” His name was pathetic and breathy on your lips and you tangled your fingers into his thick hair, pulling him up to crash his lips against yours.

He furiously tugged at the straps of your dress, sliding them down over your shoulders and exposing you to the cool breeze of the fan that spun overhead. Your flesh erupted in goosebumps at the sensation and you began to tug at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion.

Every movement was desperate as the two of you traded breathy moans laced with tension.

Peter hiked the skirt up over your hips, sliding a finger along your slit and groaning at the way your panties were soaked with desire. He began to nibble along the column of your neck as his fingers circled your clit through the thin fabric, causing you to writhe beneath him.

“All these years and you still get so wet for me.” His breath was hot against your neck as he spoke filth into your ear, dragging a broken mewl from your lips.

Your fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, unzipping and sliding them gracelessly down his thighs as he settled back between your legs. He thrust against you and you could feel how badly he wanted you from the impossible hardness of his bulge, his boxers and your lacy scrap of underwear serving as the only barrier.

He leaned down and began mouthing at the swell of your breast, gently brushing your nipple with the pad of his thumb. Your back arched off of the bed, offering yourself up to him fully, and he devoured you greedily. His hands gripped tightly at your waist, pulling you impossibly tighter against him and dragging against your core.

Your moans turned pitchy and you began to shove at the band of his boxers, lowering them over his hips just far enough to free him, the feel of him warm and heavy in your hand. He hissed at the contact and thrust his hips forward, kissing his way up your neck toward your jaw. In a flash, your underwear were pulled to the side as he lined himself up at your entrance.

Peter’s lips found yours as he pushed in, tortuously slow, swallowing every moan as he stretched you open. He pulled out slowly, then snapped forward with more force, repeating the motion over and over again. Each thrust seemed to be laced with feeling, a message passed between you in the darkness as he gazed down at you, lids heavy with desire.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Your fingers gripped tightly into the flesh of his ass, pulling him into you, and tilting your hips to meet him thrust for thrust. Tossing your head back into the pillow, you bit back a cry as he brushed up against the spot that sent sparks dancing across the surface of your skin. You could feel the pleasure building inside of you, the coil wound tight and ready to snap.

“Don’t you dare hold back on me,” he whispered against the shell of your ear.

He hitched your knee over his hip to press impossibly deeper, laying his other hand flat against your stomach, pressing down slightly. Your release wracked your body, nails digging into Peter’s skin, desperately clinging to him and capturing his mouth in a messy kiss.

"Oh fuck," he breathed, nipping at your bottom lip. His pace had become erratic, sloppy, in response to the way you clenched around him. You fell back against the pillow and brought one hand to your breast, twisting and pebbling your nipple between your fingers as you gazed up at him from under your lashes.

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth falling open in pleasure. The sounds he made were obscene as he firmly gripped your hips, holding you in place as he spilled inside of you.

You moaned at the loss of him as he pulled out, collapsing onto the bed beside you and lacing his fingers with yours. He slowly brought your hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. The two of you lay like that for a moment, struggling to catch your breath and make sense of everything that had transpired between you.

You groaned and pulled yourself from the bed, stumbling to the bathroom to clean up. When you returned, you found that Peter had climbed under the blankets after filling a glass of water for the both of you. You grabbed Peter’s t shirt from the floor, slipping it over your head and smiling shyly down at him. It all felt so… domestic, and a small part of you was afraid it would scare him off.

You grabbed the water from the bedside table, perching gently on the side of your bed as you took a long sip. Peter’s hands slipped around your waist, tugging slightly. With a chuckle, you placed the water back on the table and crawled under the blankets to face him.

He turned onto his back and pulled you into his side, his fingers strumming lazy patterns over the skin of your shoulder. You tangled your legs with his, nuzzling tightly under his chin, reminding yourself not to get too used to the feeling. But your mind began to run away from you and you found yourself imagining, once again, what if?

The coarse hair dusting his chest tickled as you danced your fingers through it absentmindedly.

“Peter?”

“Hmmm?”

“I think I can do it,” you said, your voice far less confident than you felt.

“Do what, sweetheart?” He tilted his chin to look down at you.

“Be Spider-Man’s,” you stumbled over the words. “His girlfriend, that is.”

“You’re not Spider-Man’s girlfriend.” There was a tone of finality to his voice that made your stomach sour with disappointment. He must have felt the way your face fell, your body tense where it was pressed against his. He hooked a finger under your chin and tilted you up to face him.

“You’re mine.”

#lizzy recs.#tasm!peter parker #peter parker x reader smut #Peter Parker x reader #Peter Parker x y/n #Peter Parker x you #tasm smut #tasm angst #tasm peter parker x you #tasm!peter x reader #andrew garfield peter parker #top tier fantastic fic ⭐️#peter parker x you #peter parker fanfiction

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liz-allyn · 3 years ago

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This is too much of a masterpiece to simply reblog— I need to say all the things I love about this when there’s not a sleeping prince baby prince in my arms. A proper reblog to follow!

Another Love - tasm!peter parker x f!reader (3/3)

a/n: well, here we are. almost 50k words later and we are at the final part of this crazy brain-child i had one day after i knew i would be doing an april au event over on @spidervee’s page. i’ve loved every minute of it. also, definitely the first time i’ve written this much in a long time. or ever, for that matter.

warnings: 18+ to be safe - minors dni. blood. gore. typical time period violence. i’ve also mentioned pregnancy multiple times in previous chapters, so just want to throw out that it is mentioned. briefly. and peter and reader are parents by the end. also mentioned only briefly, as i know not everyone is into that. but it is a royal!au and heirs are a thing.

cross-posted on my ao3.

| PART ONE | PART TWO | MASTER LIST |

“holy water cannot help you now,

see i’ve come to burn your kingdom down.”

seven devils - florence + the machine

Time was a fickle thing. One moment, you were careless and free. Troubles all a faraway memory. Thoughts pushed far from your mind, focused instead on the present.

Of running through fields. Dancing beneath firelight. Whispering poetry against wine drunk ears. Playing chess in no more than a fur cloak to cover your form. Hot eyes trailing along bare flesh. Of plush pillows and heated hands. Of pleasure so deep, it made your head swirl. Dragged beneath the depths of it. A breathless surrender.

Even then, you knew it to have been limited. Merely shards of sand falling through an hourglass. Counting down until this very moment.

You had two months. Two months of wedded bliss at last. Selfishly, it wasn’t enough.

You kept repeating those words in your mind as Peter dragged you back to the garrison. Lifting your armor he had fitted for you when you began training. Helped you into it as you stared off into the distance.

Not enough time.

I am out of time…

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liz-allyn · 3 years ago

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GREATEST OF ALL TIME

Symbiote: Mini Series

Part One Part Two Finale

Summary: You host your best friends, Miles and Peter over to your home for your weekly Wednesday night board games and dinner. Peter’s late, and something is very wrong. Can you and Miles save Peter Parker from himself?

Warnings: 18+, noncon (dubcon) touch, scary Peter, curse words, mentions of fighting and blood, consensual sex, dark themes

Want to be on the tag list? Let me know!

Symbiote Playlist

NAVIGATION

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liz-allyn · 2 years ago

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Yooooo I’m really into this story! This is such a clever idea and the fact that you’re just… spit-balling? I don’t think I’ve ever read a body swap fic before but I feel like I’ve stumbled upon a masterpiece. If you do continue this will you share it with me pleaseeeee?

like me, like you (Part 2)

Summary: Swapping bodies with your best friend has more reason to be terrifying than you thought. And it's all your fault.

Pairing: tasm!Peter x Reader (she/her)

Spoilers/Warnings: The Reader/MC is a cis woman. Also, lots of negative self-talk/self-hatred.

Words: 1.2K Part 1 here

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

Well.

The witch was gone.

“Are you sure this was where she—”

“How many times are you going to ask me that?” she snapped, immediately cringing at herself. This was all her fault. If anyone needed to be yelled at, it was her. Maybe folded into a pretzel and made to disappear. Ta-da.

They’d been hanging out at the witch’s lair — former lair — for close to a half hour, ruefully investigating the abandoned basement for any potential clues. Zilch so far.

“Oh, my bad. I seem to be exaggerating this clearly harmless situation. What’s the worst that could happen? We spend the rest of our lives in each other’s bodies?”

Peter’s voice dripped with his usual cruelty, a puppy dog baring its teeth before nibbling gently. Coming out of her mouth, though, it sounded actually cruel. She was horrible. Had no redeeming qualities. It was becoming apparent with every passing hour.

The basement was void of possessions or decorations, save for abandoned furniture that she didn’t recall having been there when she visited the psychic shop slash pit of hell. The layout was the same. The location had not changed. The witch simply disappeared overnight.

She and Peter scoured the few cabinets and dressers multiple times, but nothing surfaced. Well, nothing helpful. The rat that burst out from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and traversed the length of Peter’s arm — her arm — before scurrying out the door could not truly be classified as helpful. It did, however, prove one thing: Peter’s spidey-sense was in working order, because her body moved of its own accord to try and prevent the occurrence. She failed, but at least she tried. Stumbling mid-step with her arm stuck out to try and catch the little rodent, she instead managed to swat it away from Peter’s shoulder. Ball, meet tennis racket. She hit that thing so hard she feared for its life expectancy, wondering how it even still walked. She could hear its pattering feet all the way to the building’s first floor. It squealed indignantly as it went.

“I just murdered Remy,” she whispered in horror.

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Émile? It was a little bit fat,” she acquiesced.

Peter fixed her with an incredulous stare.

“Great. We’re stuck in a nightmare and you’re thinking about Ratatouille. That’s just perfect. Hey — do me a favor, yeah? Fo-cus,” Peter sassed.

“Pocus,” she whispered. And waited.

He did not laugh. Did not even crack a smile. Her own died down pretty quickly.

“I’m sorry—”

“You should be! This isn’t funny. Do you realize that if we don’t figure this out, we’re probably stuck like this forever? Do you have any idea what that means?”

“We’re not going to be stuck like this forever,” she said quietly, shying away from her own piercing glare. She was right; she did look mean.

“You don’t know that! How are we gonna find her? You haven’t told me anything useful! Are you even trying to help?” he bellowed angrily. It made her flinch.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Peter scowled, hand tearing at his jeans' pockets in frustration.

“What did you ask the witch for, sweetheart?”

His inflection left no doubt as to what he actually wanted to call her, but Peter was much too kind to do anything of the sort. Not a problem. If he wouldn’t say it, her mind would complete the insult for him.

“I didn’t ask her for anything,” she defended, knowing it was true. She’d gone inside for information, not… whatever this was.

Peter was unconvinced.

“Really?”

Her stomach turned at not being believed.

“I… I didn’t ask her to do anything. We had that stupid bet going on. I wanted to know if I would win,” was her admission, though she sensed it wouldn’t placate him.

It didn’t. It made him madder.

“You did all this because you wanted to know, for sure, that you have it worse than me? Have what worse than me, precisely?” he incised, eyes narrowed. When she said nothing, more venom dripped out. “A job you don’t hate? A nice apartment you don’t have to share?”

Tears were not far away. She could feel them spring forth, wetting the corners of her eyes and melting through courage she did not have.

“Parents to support you?”

Her lips parted with the need to sob and release the pressure accumulating in her chest, but nothing would escape. She couldn’t breathe very well. The scratchy knot of wool burrowed further, hollowing out more space for itself.

“My parents hate me, Peter,” she tried quietly, not looking him in the eye anymore.

“Come on, be serious. They pay for everything. You have nothing to worry about, except when delivery’s gonna get there.”

Maybe she was wrong about Peter and his cruelty. Maybe he had it in him after all. Maybe she brought it out in him. Of course she would — what other feelings was she supposed to invoke in people?

Her parents paid for everything. They paid for her degree and they set her up with an 85K-job right out of college through their acquaintances. They paid her rent. They paid her car insurance.

They paid for her tattoo removal. They paid for them to move town when she asked to bring her girlfriend to meet them. They paid for Dani to go to boarding school abroad when she took her side in front of their parents. She hadn’t seen her sister in almost two years.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbled, voice failing her.

They could pay to make sure she never got a job anywhere.

“No?” Peter volleyed back.

They could guarantee she remained exactly as she was. Their good little girl.

“No.” Her lips trembled around the word. They always had.

Peter scoffed. The empty basement magnified the sound. Her ears flooded with it.

“Let’s agree to disagree, then.”

Her heart tripped on wire and was hauled upwards. Up, up, into a tall, tall tree. The fall would hurt. She’d clip all the branches on the way down. The familiar words echoed from above. A small laugh accompanied them the way infection accompanied untreated wounds. She rubbed the scar that remained of the symbol she’d etched into her thigh with ink. It wasn’t there.

It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere on her.

A lightning-snap flashed the realization into her mind, and her pulse galloped like an animal’s that had just been released back into the wild.

She dared a glance at herself. Dry-cleaned, luxurious cashmere hugged her upper arms and breasts where she'd gained weight the month before. A scowl she never dared display now contorted features meant to be arranged in no expression besides pleased acceptance. Her eyes looked no different than usual, swallowing the light that entered through the tiny basement window and snuffing it out between pupils like dark wells. She reflected nothing but dullness. Small and stupid, yet perfectly put together. Not a hair out of place. A bitter fury swelled, spilling out of her downturned mouth.

“Fuck you.”

She reached forward and pushed, swatting away at the specter of herself. Her palm stung with the memory of the rat. She put more force into it than earlier.

Watched as the specter tumbled to the ground. Ears picked up a sound like a crackle. Lips curled upwards. Tears were bitten back.

She left the basement in a whirlwind of exhilaration.

-to be continued?-

A/N: I really don't know if this will be continued. Read at your own risk.

#Lizzy recs.#top tier fantastic fic ⭐️#peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #tasm peter Parker #tasm peter parker imagines #andrew garfield peter parker #andrew garfield spiderman #Spider-Man x you #spider man x reader

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liz-allyn · 2 years ago

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Holy fucking shit. This was incredible. I spent an HOUR detailing how much I liked this story, only for the tumblr app to crash on me. That is a tragedy, because you deserve all the praise for this.

I gotta say, this is an amazing and tragic and uplifting take on dark Peter Parker. And I am OBSESSED with the expert way that you "show, not tell". Like right off the bat, you say so much that it paints such a vivid image.

The way you describe Peter's depression is everything. He's a drug addict (progressed enough to be familiar at a pharmacy and to have his perception of time all jacked up, but also immature enough that he's inexperienced with snorting a crushed pill), he eats for sustenance - not for enjoyment, he's socially and physically isolated, he "goes raging" in a literal sense and blacks out on rooftops, he waits until the last possible second to catch his fall with (failing) web-shooters, his body is just a worn-out tool at this point, his age and fragility just an annoyance. I particularly loved the bit about May's ringtone triggering guilt in him, and he sticks his head underwater to drown out the noise.

I also love the symbolism that the web-shooters and police radio represent. Fixing the web-shooters are self preservation. It's his only self care. Replacing the battery in the radio is a return to his earlier sense of responsibility. It's a form of penance. Later, when he finally builds his tracker devices, it's almost... hope? I love it.

By the way - who the FUCK gave you permission to be such an awesome writer? Like, your OC is a blogger, but apparently she/you is also pulitzer level? When Peter actually gets to read her post, it reminds me of Karen Page's article that is narrated/monologued during Daredevil S2's finale. But this is... wow, so much better. It's also a perfect summation of Spider-Man and his relationship with NY

For example:

For the past five years, we've all confounded our journey with his. New York believes in shared failures and triumphs, so the atmosphere turns dour when it senses powerlessness.

We believe whatever touched him, has the potential to wreck us all. Whatever changed him, means a force that won't spare us.

Is it pain, or age, or illness?

Is it bitterness, or hopelessness?

Is it grief?

And do we dare judge?

Like JFC. And:

So tomorrow, when the sun rises over a tired Spider-Man, I urge you to remember this:

If he falters, it is because he's doing the job we all ought to be doing, and he's done it for too long already without our participation. We need to help him in a way that matters, and maybe we can start by making the darkness a little easier to bear.

Peter: (screams after reading this)

Me: SAME, PETER. SAME.

Okay, and your doctor character?

YOUR DOCTOR CHARACTER?!! The way I can hear the anger in her voice, in a way that isn't cliche, or 2-dimensional. It's personal for her, and she's angry, and just done.

Maybe it's something only mothers are able to induce, this peculiar dread. Of the multitudes roaming the earth, it seems only the best ones hold this power. There is immeasurable love in their eyes at all times, and when it flickers, so does the heart. Nobody wants to look, only to see disappointment - least of all, confidence lost.

There is a mother standing in front of Peter Parker, laying out all his faults with no cruelty. She doesn't look like herself anymore, but like his own mother, of brown hair and the kindest eyes he's ever known.

The pain. Is real.

Yet a laptop is lying in pieces, underneath the crushed coffee table. Little fragments of it are tinged dark red among the shards of glass, and the images his mind conjures are expelled before they can seize too much emotion.

No thief would use valuables to inflict harm, least of all in the name of perceived symbolism, but Wilson Fisk is not a thief. He envisions himself a poetic emperor, delivering justice with awe-inspiring significance. At his disposal are considerable resources, many of them material, but a non-negligible part made of flesh and bone.

You don't go into explicit detail by listing out her injuries, nor do you go through a play-by-play of the attack while it happens. We experience it the way Peter does, in these little pieces that are more telling about the victim and perpetrator. Like this piece above does more to describe Wilson Fisk than recent Marvel media.

And of course:

Just as feeling comes back into his hands, he wishes it hadn't, because he can't do anything to release the pain of bones breaking. He can't even scream.

"That's how it feels. That's what she felt."

His right hand follows, and for a moment it feels like his heart has stopped, but it doesn't last. It keeps going, and so does the agony.

"She couldn't scream either. They crushed her throat."

There are other noises he can't make out, and his eyes aren't focusing. There's color, but no shape. He doesn't know how much time passes, but for once, when he hears the spider talk again, he isn't certain of his future.

"You can't write. You can't talk. You can't see. I know you can't see, so you can't even point them out. But I'll ask again: the men - who are they?"

Um....

This is so much. This is Peter Parker at his most savage, and it makes all the more sense because he is thinking about what she suffered. Eye for an eye. And Vincent's next line about him accepting that Spider-Man isn't really expecting an answer: He just needs an excuse to do what he wanted to do anyway.

"You don't need to threaten me. If that happens, you won't ever see me again.", he replies calmly.

Perhaps he was too nonchalant about this situation, but there was no other way to speak the truth. If the worst does come to pass, she won't see him again. Nobody will.

I can't even. This says so much.

"I'm… I'm Peter."

It's what he imagines the voice of someone who's never hurt anyone would sound like, but it came from him. It's with hands that have done so much that he's now reaching out to her, and the knowledge of it all doesn't spoil reciprocation. Somehow, she goes into him like he's someone from whom comfort is worth receiving.

"Hi, Peter.", she mumbles into his neck, arms tightening around his middle. The gesture elicits an involuntary whimper that he muffles into her hair, and when his own arms have caged her in, something within him finally ruptures.

"Hi, Peter. I'm dead. I'm fuckin dead."

And of course the epilogue BRINGS ME BACK TO LIFE.

Ugh.

I can't tell you how much I enjoyed this. You mentioned that you were really proud of this piece, and you should be. It's excellent, and it's what reading great fanfiction is supposed to be.

I LOVED IT.

The Golden Age of New York City

Summary: “I lost Gwen. I couldn’t save her. I’m never going to be able to forgive myself for that. But I carried on, tried to um, tried to keep going. Tried to keep being the - that friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, ‘cause I know that’s what she would’ve wanted but… at some point, I just… I stopped pulling my punches. I got rageful. I got bitter.”

The story of a rageful Spider-Man, and the one who brings him back from the ledge.

Warnings/Spoilers: violence, crime, assault, addiction - generally adult themes. Please read only if you are at least 17.

Characters: tasm!Peter Parker, unnamed original character (she/her), May Parker, miscellaneous characters and perspectives.

Words: 18.1K. Honestly? My best work thus far.

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Peter doesn’t listen to the chatter anymore.

Whereas most people have a beginning and an ending to their day, time is blurred together in the young man’s mind. As he walks to work, the battered watch on his wrist announces the sunrise, but he wouldn’t know it for the bruises around his eyes. In and around crowds he maneuvers, unwilling to look up as he lets his senses lead the way. When the coffee cup burns his palm, his grip tightens, and for a moment he sees color.

He goes through the motions, asleep to the world around him.

The construction site is quiet when he gets there, his supervisor the only person on the premises. He’s often caught Peter working before his shift even began, and for this Mr. Daniels sometimes regards him with the fatherly concern of a good man. Though he tries, Peter can’t find it in himself to appreciate that.

He does, however, appreciate the opportunity to begin his day in peace and skip the talk with the other guys. After months of keeping strictly to himself, the conversation around him has long shifted from good will to acrimony. Despite the looks they exchange and the whispers carried by the echo of empty walls, he doesn’t react, and his supervisor never berates him. He remains the only employee whose work isn’t under scrutiny at the end of each week, and even when he sees Peter lift more than he should reasonably be able to, Mr. Daniels looks the other way.

The day is long and the work is intense, but it’s the only thing he can do anymore. He prefers it, in fact - pushing his body and keeping his mind running minimally. He does plenty of thinking between the hours of 3 and 6 a.m., when he waits for sleep to crash over him.

Clocking out takes longer than usual, because it’s payday and everyone is already lined up before him. He’d go back to fiddle with some equipment, but he knows he’ll get distracted and he doesn’t want to keep Mr. Daniels there for longer than he has to be. The man is nearing his sixties, and from what he gathers, a new grandfather twice over. At least someone should get to go home to their family.

As he waits in line outside the small trailer office, his consciousness invades again, as it usually does in the absence of physical stimulation. The chatter he makes a habit of ignoring reaches his ears involuntarily. Two guys from crew B are talking too loudly at the front of the line.

“Yeah, she bugs me about that too. Shoves her phone in my face before I even make it through the door.”

“What’s so special about that one? Every two-bit reporter in this town wrote about the guy, everyone tryna make money off him.”

“Well guess what, I looked this morning - not like I had a choice. She showed me again before she went to school. And you know what, it ain’t half bad. Kinda makes you feel sorry for him.”

“Yeah? What’s it say?”

“I’m not doin’ a book report for ya. You wanna read it, ask your daughter. Just make sure you tell ‘er not to go looking for him like that crazy woman did, crawling over skyscrapers and shit.”

The more he hears, the deeper the frown carves its way into his skin.

“You know girls these days, man. You tell 'em not to do something now, they’ll do it when they’re old enough just to spite you. I think imma let Salma handle this one.”

“Salma? Wasn’t she in love with Spider-Man? You think she’s gonna tell your daughter not to go looking for him? She’d go herself if she could!”

“Fuck you, Jimmy!”

They laugh and shove each other like they’re twenty years lighter, but Peter doesn’t hear the rest. He doesn’t want to, because it’s nothing new.

It’s true that every reporter in town has written a piece on Spider-Man, as if it were some rite of passage of journalism. He hasn’t read an article in more than two years, and he certainly hasn’t been tempted to lately.

Keep reading

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liz-allyn · 2 years ago

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Ok part 3 whoooop whooop here we gooooooo (this chapter is dope) and I love your fic art, you’re so good at curating the right mix of pictures

- once again, fuck Richard Parker. The way you describe the whirlwind of this poor puritan girl discovering she’s pregnant and then being “poked and prodded at” by a group of men is so tragic it breaks my heart and I love it. Also I like how you state that Peter is more aware that there would be consequences of messing around with Charlotte. It's love, and it's pure, but also I can see how Peter blames himself for initiating action that will lead to Charlotte's demise.

- here we go fam. The Salem slaughter (it actually sounds like a great band name). vampire peter went apeshit understandably. He even eats the little kids.

- omg the burning at the stake. This is such a vivid description, and the way you explain the magic protection side is so cool. It's powerful but not too gory. Poor Peter, ugh... They had created something beautiful in a world that despised beauty. *chefs kiss* “Please, please, come back to me. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t make me wait. Come back. Find me. Find me…

I'm really digging how you integrated Charlotte's reincarnation with Charlie's tragic backstory. OMG Peter was her "imaginary friend" ughh why is that also tragically romantic???

oh damn here it is. time to go, you pervy abusive murderer dirty old bastard. I'm actually really glad that you had the exposition there because her dad did not need any redeeming qualities right before he inevitably dies and by the time he does die I'm ready for it.

OMG throwback to Charlotte giving Charlie the strength to fight for her life!!!

And YESSSS here it is. Vampire Peter here to save Charlie from her shitty dad. I LOVEEEE IT. Again, with the visceral description. I LOVE IT. He asks her for permission?? I wonder if that's how his power works?

Okay, damn, I am sooooooo into this story and so excited for what you have planned! I remember you joked about having vampire peter keep reader locked up as a blood snack and I am voting for that. Ugh, i'm weak in the knees thinking about what you're going to do with this amazing idea... 12/10 - would read this chapter again! i too am hungry for this content

Forever Isn’t Long Enough || Part Three

[tasm!peter!vampire au x fem!oc]

Summary: [Part of the @liz-allyn dark/angst prompt “In the Box”]

TWs: mentions of blood/blood drinking/blood licking/biting because vampires obvi, death by fire, mention of suicide/depression, abuse of sleeping pills, physical and emotional child abuse, domestic abuse seen from the perspective of a child

A/N: Here’s the second bit to Part Two that I cut in half.

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

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liz-allyn · 3 years ago

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It has come to my attention that I'm no longer reading fanfic. I'm reading a novel which will be adapted into an upcoming mini series starring AG in which he plays a twisted, sinister, psychopath whose name happens to be Peter. This is... high art, at this point. The level of detail and skill puts this up with the best crime novels, the best serial killer stories, the best monsters. That's what I feel like this is - It's Patrick Bateman in American Psycho, or Dexter Morgan, or Frankenstein's monster, or Hannibal Lecter. (And I believe it should be approached as such.) Peter is not the protagonist in any way, and you've gone through great pains to communicate that. Mia is our protagonist but she is an imperfect, flawed character. This chapter nailed that home for me.

Mia's madness - the switch between reason and insanity - sooo well done.

Her friends were dead and she had killed them.

This is A TRAGEDY. Like, the pain I felt reading this, it's so visceral.

Even though her thought process is irrational, it's plausible based on what we know of her character. Same with Peter, between his flashbacks and the justification he uses to torment Mia, and that is a stunning feat. Again, it's not rational, but it's plausible of a narcissistic psychopath, and so many of the thought narrations you've crafted have been careful to make that distinction. It's really put us in the mind of both of these flawed characters. Bravo, queen!

“Be good, Peter. Be good,” she whispered. “Promise me.”

Her last words.

The IRONY of this line omg.

The time manipulation - when I read how much time actually had passed I was shocked. You confused both Mia and the reader, OMG that's A plus work right there.

The blood on her arm.

“Oh, fuck, Mia,” he moaned. “Did you make this just for me, pretty girl? Red is my favorite color.”

Motherfucker doesn’t even Recognize this as a sign of suffering. His first reaction is “why would you leave me?” And his second reaction is “take me to hornytown.” And his third reaction…

“I thought, hey, Mia likes the way a blade feels against her skin, doesn’t she?”

Ahhhhhhhhhh! Let me repeat

The way I gasped and literally felt terror for Mia during this scene was amazing. That switch blindsided me. This isn’t misguided obsession, it’s rage. He is going to punish her for his imagined slights and not in a sexy way (arguably).

Speaking of the switch:

Peter shopping for tampons

Oh my ffffffffff god. This could’ve been a throwaway scene but this interaction with Ruth was so telling about his narcissistic nature. He literally pretends to be normal, with a smile.

When asked if he knows whether or not she’d need regular or extra large pads:

He smiled as he thought of Mia, “She’s extremely tiny. Very short and petite. The kind of girl who looks like they’d blow away if the wind blew too hard.”

I could see the smugness on his face. “Yeah she’s tiny, that’s what I love about her and why I kidnapped her and have her chained in my basement. What about it???”

When Ruth says to get her flowers and chocolate because “she’d love you forever.” And he’s like “can’t say no to that!” Pure Patrick Bateman vibes—particularly when he uses a figure of speech that’s literally (ie: his victim asking innocently if he wants her to leave and he says “I think that if you stay, something bad will happen.”)

And like why can I see AG so clearly nailing this scene?? In an award winning role and also in my fantasies????

And then this little nugget during the torture scene:

“She was precious. Too precious. The thought of her lying in blood, her body frozen, on the shower floor flashed before his eyes and he snarled as his mood flipped. He snatched up the knife and held the blade to her neck.”

Hollllly hell this is what I mean. The tendency to fly off the handle like that. I take it back, he’s not a psychopath, he’s a sociopath because he does have “human” emotions but under circumstances relevant to him. It’s a challenge to have the audience follow you through such head spinning changes, but you’re creating a clear path.

Ugh, then the scene with Uncle Ben. I love that you have included scenes like this, you could’ve cut them out for time sake, Or for fear of “going there” at the risk of showing sympathy to a villain character. I appreciate the death and angles to this story. It reminds me of the quote from Loki where he says “no one bad is ever truly bad.” Well this Peter is bad, but he wasn’t born that way, and it makes the character and story more complex. It doesn’t justify his actions (see: “he’s killed 80 people in two days.” “Well, he’s adopted.”)

All in all this is another incredible chapter in an amazing story. I can’t wait to see the next chapter. I know you were concerned about finishing this up in a timely fashion but I think quality over rules convenience. I wanna see what happens whether it’s one more chapter for 10 more chapters. You are brilliant!

Smitten || TASM AU || Part 4

AU: Serial Killer!Peter/ Yandere!Peter x fem!oc

HEAVY WARNINGS: mention of leeches/being bit by one, lots of blood is mentioned throughout, licking blood, touching blood, fascination with blood, suicide attempt, self harm in the form of cutting and forcing one’s self to stay under freezing water, period talk, sudden mood swings, non-con/reluctance sex/touching, stockholm syndrome, heavy smut, bdsm smut (face fucking, blindfold, nipple clamps, restraints/bondage, sensory deprivation, hot wax, hard biting, and knife play), cutting someone else’s skin, mentions of a suicide of a loved one, death of a loved one, general childhood trauma and awfulness

Summary: Peter is filled with flashbacks to painful memories after finding Mia near death.

A/N: Remember how I said Part 4 would be the end? Well, I lied. Part five with be the finale. For sure this time…promise…

“I’m going to play outside, Aunt May!”

“Alright, honey. Don’t go too far. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Peter barreled out the back door and launched himself off the top step. He landed with a roll onto the dirt and bounced right back up. His new house was smaller than the one he lived in with his parents but it was in a much cooler place. His Aunt and Uncle lived near the woods on the edge of a big pond. He’d only been here a few weeks but he was already well versed in his exploration of the woods. His Uncle Ben said that he was becoming a real nature man. Peter liked that. He liked being referred to as a man despite only being a child. It made him feel more mature than he really was.

Peter grabbed a stick and swung it around like a sword, fighting with trees, while he walked towards the pond. This weekend Aunt May was going away on a trip. She said she had some affairs left back in the city that had to do with his parents. He didn’t understand what that meant. They were dead. How could they still have unfinished business that she needed to deal with? But it didn’t matter. It would just be him and his uncle. He promised Peter they could take the canoe out and try to catch frogs. That’s all Peter was looking forward to.

Keep reading

#lizzy recs.#tasm!peter parker x reader #dark!peter x reader #dark peter parker #deer to my heart 🦌#top tier fantastic fic ⭐️

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