I was scrolling on Instagram and looked at this. Do you think you can do this with peter? ( If you can't, that's okay.) 🫡❗️🤍
Thank you for the request, my dear! Hope you enjoy! 🩷🩷
Tasm!Peter x fiancee!reader
Word count: ~950
Flufffff 🩷
The Kissing Test
Every time you moved your left hand, the sparkle caught your eye. It still took your breath away, even though it had been weeks since the proposal. You were going to be a wife! Peter’s wife! When you would notice your ring while doing the most ordinary things (like rifling through your makeup bag), it still felt totally surreal.
You tiptoed down the hall to your bedroom and found Peter at your desk attempting to fix something with a web shooter.
“Oh no, you’re going out tonight?”
“Well, I was thinking about it. You never know who could use Spider-Man’s help out there. Why?” He glanced up for the first time and gave you a look. “And why are you wearing red lipstick at 10 PM?”
You smiled coyly. “Well, our engagement party is coming up, and I guess I’m maybe gonna have to kiss you at some point….”
“‘Maybe gonna have to,’” he mimicked, snickering.
“Buuuut I also don’t want to get lipstick all over you—or me. So I need your help.”
“With putting on lipstick?”
“No,” you giggled. “With making sure it stays on!” You stared at him, but he still wasn’t getting it. “Wow, even genius superheroes can be dense sometimes, okay. I need you to kiss me!”
“Oh!”
And so the great Lipstick Experiment began.
Cherry Bomb was a fail. Coral Crush, just meh. Peachy Pizazz, Gazpacho (“What even is Gazpacho anyway?”), Fuchsia Flame, no, no, no. All of them rubbed off on Peter while you were kissing.
As you stood at the bathroom sink, wiping off what had to be at least the tenth color, you yelled out, “I’m sorry these have all been terrible and this is taking forever—oh!”
You had turned around to find Peter standing right behind you in the bathroom doorway. His lips were puffy and popsicle-stained from all the “test” kisses, and he was peering around you at the lipsticks strewn across the vanity. You cringed. “I know, there’s a lot. But hopefully one will work sooner than later and we can stop.”
“Hey, I’m not objecting. What else you got?”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m sorry, are you enjoying this?”
He looked at you like you were nuts. “Uh, yeah? Why wouldn’t I be? I mean, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, so surprise, I like kissing you!”
You couldn’t stop smiling as you applied your next shade. “Okay, then, get ready for Pink Passion!” You turned away from the mirror and Peter slid his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. Slowly, he leaned in and kissed you—but really kissed you, like you hadn’t already kissed 25 times in the past hour. Your eyes fluttered closed and your hands ventured into his hair as you kissed the love of your life. This was the real deal; no more muted “test” kisses.
When you were younger, kissing wasn’t all that exciting. Your first few kisses had been meh, and you thought that’s just how it was. The talk of “fireworks” had been a gross exaggeration; you couldn’t even get a dying sparkler or someone in the distance lighting a match!
And now, here you were, kissing your fiancé on a random night in your pjs, bumping into the bathroom sink, your heart galloping in your chest. Peter’s lips moved gently yet hungrily in sync with yours as his hands landed on the bare skin of your hips just above your shorts and made you shiver….
When you’d lamented to your mom about your lame first kiss, she’d attributed it (like all moms, probably) to “The Wrong Person.” Simple as that. These early guys, each of them was just The Wrong Person as far as she was concerned. But you weren’t convinced—especially when no guy afterwards seemed to be any more right for you. Certainly not “fireworks” right.
Oh, but then Peter came along and transformed kissing into the giddy, heart-pounding stuff of cheesy ‘80s love songs. We could build this dream together! And kissing was just the beginning!
Turns out, The Right Person had made everything in your life so much better.
“Peter,” you said breathlessly as his lips trailed down your neck. “Peter!”
“Hmm?” His voice was muffled against your neck.
You gently pushed him back, and he looked at you, practically cross-eyed. You started giggling. “Hi. Hello.”
“Hi. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I am more than okay, but I think we’re forgetting something. The lipstick test, remember? We’re not supposed to be making out!”
“Oh, right.”
You shook your head, though you couldn’t hide a smile. “Don’t get any ideas, because we can’t make out like this at our engagement party!”
He chuckled. “Who says? You think I can’t sneak us into a closet, at the very least?”
“Ha!” But you were blushing just thinking about it. “Well, then, it’s more important than ever to find a lipstick that won’t rub off and give us away!”
“Take a look,” he said, turning you around so you could see yourself in the mirror. “Pink Passion held up pretty well, I think.”
For the first time all night, you were impressed. Your lips were still pink, still glistening, but the color hadn’t transferred anywhere else—including your neck or Peter’s lips. “Yeah, and we certainly put it to the test!”
Peter grinned at your reflection in the mirror and wrapped his arms around you from behind. “Happy to help. A science nerd can’t resist a good experiment, after all.”
You leaned back against him and covered his hands with your left hand so you could both admire the most precious piece of jewelry you’d ever owned.
Also, if you have a prompt idea/something specific you’d like to see, let me know! I want my fics to be a source of comfort/fun/etc. in this hellscape that is Life In 2025 🩷🩷
Premise: You have a difficult time coping after the 2024 US election; you're not sure how to perfectly react. Peter reminds you that you don't have to.
Warnings: US 2024 election, mentions of racism, mentions of bigotry, doomerism
Word count: approx. 2,400
A/N: You're never alone. Stay healthy, stay sane, stay joyful. This blog is here for you.
You lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The glow of the television and the hazy golden light from the dying lamp on the side table are the only lights in the room. Still, you can barely see through the dark.
You turn onto your side, your nose centimeters from the back cushions of your couch. Like a little kid, you tuck the crochet blanket you bought Peter under your chin. If they could see you right now, they’d say you’re pathetic.
Liberal tears. Weak. You deserve this.
The thoughts choke you like an anaconda squeezing your neck. If they could see you now, they would mock you. If they could see you now, they would rip you to shreds.
The bigots masquerading as mere Twitter trolls and haters won today. The people who post hate so vile it nauseates you are popping bottles of champagne. The rub is, part of you believes them. Maybe this victory is a sign. Maybe your bloodline comes from nothing more than the dirt they say it does. You’ve seen the racial abuse, the statements that people who look like you deserve to be slaves. “Your body my choice” posts by male white supremacists etched themselves into your brain. You were letting them win, and the mental battle of persevering versus taking a break from the pain threatened to send you into a mental breakdown.
Is this what we support? Is this who we are?
“Are you still awake?”
You poke your head above the couch. Peter’s kitchen is bathed in a pale blue light from the television. Peter's watching you from the kitchen area, shrouded in shadow.
“Peter?” You whisper. How did you not hear his slippers?
He steps into the light. “You need to turn this off.”
You don’t say anything as he comes around the couch, grabs the remote from the dining room table, and clicks the TV off. You were so weak. People were hurting, communities could be staring down the barrel of unrecoverable damage, and you couldn’t bear to watch the coverage of the carnage as it transpired. Why were you born so weak? You hate this. You hate yourself.
Peter clicks on a functioning lamp. The living area is bathed in cool light. With care, he picks your legs up by the calves and maneuvers around your feet. He squeezes onto the end of the couch. Gingerly, he rests your feet down in his lap.
“I know…” He takes a deep breath. “I know it’s easier for me to say, and I know I don’t know in the same way you do, but…this isn’t healthy for you.”
You stare with dead eyes at his clavicle. “I can’t go to sleep.”
He smooths your hair by your ear. “You can’t or you don’t want to?”
“I’m too anxious.”
He hums. “There are some things we could do to help. I could make you some tea, we could watch a movie–”
“Who cares about movies?” You ask morosely. You twist so you’re laying on your back.
“I think it could help.” Peter says this so honey sweetly it makes you want to cry. Or gag. He strokes your calf, and you shiver.
“I don’t want to be helped.” It’s one of those thoughts that finds your tongue before your
His hand halts. “What do you mean?”
You take a deep breath. Hot tears choke your throat. You can’t cry again. You should feel free to cry again. This was devastating. You’re the stereotype of all the hate you see. You’re the whiny person they say you are. You’re mourning for a vision of America you thought could be possible. You’re mourning for your community. You're mourning for the climate of the world that the US will harm immeasurably. You can’t cry. You have to cry. You’re stronger than they know. You’re the weakling they’ve branded you to be.
You swallow bile. “Who cares if it’s healthy for me?”
“What do you mean?” He repeats, gentler, like you're a doe he could startle.
“Who cares? It doesn’t matter. The world doesn’t care.” This was happening. You had to stay glued.
“You’re informed. You’re smart. You care. Taking a break doesn't mean you're turning your back on anyone or anything.”
“I can’t. I have to know what’s being said. I can’t be the person who turns their back. I can’t.”
He strokes your hair. “Is it turning your back to take care of yourself?”
You jerk away from him. “Isn’t that how we got here? People only care about themselves!”
You know there’s no shame in voting for your best interest. But that’s the kicker: whose best interest was this for? It wasn’t for the working class. The richest people in the world just accrued $64 billion worth of wealth. But there are people who don’t think that despite all the evidence. You could go on about media bubbles and resistance to cognitive dissonance, but really who cares? Truly?
The thing that burns you inside, the thing that hurts the most is that bigotry won unequivocally. It doesn’t matter if she’s more qualified, a better speaker, has more than a mere vision but fully constructed plans for policies. It doesn’t matter if they call her the anti-Christ, insult people, or have an entire 900-page document of how they will make America worse.
And they know it doesn’t matter. That’s how they win. But your heart is broken. Because tens of millions of people have either drinken the misinformation Kool-Aid or simply don't care; they do not care. It doesn’t help that so many left-leaning people stayed home; they were willing to turn their back on the economy, democracy, education, and minority rights.
But who cares about minorities unless you are one? Maybe that’s the key take away. No one cares and everything is miserable. So you have to care. What other choice do you have? You’re the only one who cares about your suffering.
People were hurting. Your community was hurting. And if you wanted to talk about that- how real people were harmed and how people harmed themselves it would be considered talking down to people. It would just open you up to racial abuse. What was the point? What was the point of any of this if you couldn’t have a child with Peter one day without fearing for your life and the child’s? Why did any of this matter if people’s economic opinions weren’t based on data but correlations which did not equal causation?
It didn’t matter. So all you could do was watch. Just watch and observe. And sink into the despair which you know will drown you. But you feel unending guilt if you look away– if you allow yourself to take a breath, just be happy, like you did at your friends’ house tonight.
You sat around. Watched a movie with Peter and his friends. There was some commiseration but primarily just watching A Bug’s Life and laughing. Were you a loser? Were you wrong for not paying attention? Were you wrong for relaxing? Were you wrong for not relaxing enough?
Maybe that’s what building a deep community looks like…having fun and being present when things are hard for you and your friends and family.
And there’s the rub. How can you be present and free in the moment while also scrolling non-stop on the worst things that are being said and done in this world?
“You’re not responsible for saving the world,” Peter says.
You go still. “Easy for you to say. You’re out there saving the world.”
“I save people.”
“Peter, you have a hero complex and you know it.” You take your feet from his lap and curl them towards your body in criss-cross applesauce.
“And you’re there to remind me I can’t save everyone. That there are things out of my control. That I need rest,” Peter says.
“But I didn’t get bitten by a radioactive spider. All I have is my voice and my mind and if my voice is getting smothered, this is all I have left. Doomscrolling. Like the feeble loser the people sending anonymous messages to Black women that they will be enslaved say I am.”
“You aren’t a loser. You aren’t defined by what people say you are.”
“How am I not?” Tears filled your eyes. “I live in a society where even if am over qualified, hard working, intelligent, just based upon how I look people will ride me off. Just based upon how I look people will toss out my pain. Just based upon how I look people will say I’m not worth anything and treat me like I’m not worth anything. They can be insulting, racist, and it doesn’t matter. Those same people can have the highest positions of power in our society. You endorse policies that kill women and still have the highest position of power in our society. What can I do other than scroll?”
“But all that leads to is your despair and poor mental health. That doesn’t help anyone. If anything, it helps the people who want to harm your communities.”
You grunt in frustration. “And I know that!” You pull at your hair. “I’m aware of that but it doesn’t matter. I feel like if I look away I’m failing and if I don’t look I’m failing. I feel like if I feel sadness I’m giving into a narrative and if I soldier on and pretend I’m fine they’re also winning. There’s no way for me to win.”
“Maybe the way to win is by choosing yourself.”
“I don’t want to be selfish, Peter.”
“Listen to me.” He says. He cups your face in his calloused hands. “You did your civic duty. There’s nothing you can do about the result. What you can do is take care of yourself and build community. And I know you know that.” He strokes your cheek. “But you need to give yourself permission to do it.”
“I know,” You say. “I’m just scared. I’m scared for my safety. And I’m worried if I look away I’ll be hurt or I’ll somehow be hurting other people.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Why?”
“I’ll be hurting them because I’ll be ignoring their pain.”
“But it’s not anyone’s job to feel the pain of the whole world alone; you can’t possibly know the pain of the whole world.”
“Something I think about sometimes is how there are women in the world who are literally enslaved, people who have lost everything in bombings, people who have lost their whole family in a drunk driving car accident, and I’m just going about my day. And I feel tremendous guilt. For not seeing their pain.” It’s something you talk about in therapy. It’s something you know too well. But it still grips you.
“You can’t live like that.” Peter reminds you.
“I know. The problem is, I need to choose differently. I need to shut my phone off. I need to go for walks, take a shower, walk with my friends…but my fear of becoming someone who is misinformed, of becoming someone who stumbles into bad situations because I’m not up to date, becoming someone who is ignoring the pain of other people, overrides it. I couldn’t bear it if I became…” You take a deep breath that feels like your first drop of water after walking in the desert for two months. “...a selfish idiot.”
“First of all, sometimes we all can be selfish idiots.” For the first time this whole conversation, you meet his eyes. They’re softer and kinder than you can remember, and you feel relief but also guilt for the relief. And you’re angry about that. The internal friction is still near unbearable.
“But I’m not allowed to be. I have to be. I have to be informed. I have to care or who else will?” You ask.
“But that’s exactly it, (Y/N). You have to care for yourself or who else will?” He grabs your hand. “Remember those nights where you found me glued to my phone, doom scrolling through headlines the Daily Bugle wrote slandering me? Remember what you said to me?”
You swallow. “You know who you are and you know what to do. And you know what impact your actions have on people.”
He grabs your other hand. “You know who you are. And you know what to do. You know you need to care for yourself. You know deep down you deserve to care for yourself. No one defines your worth. No one gets to decide who defines you but you. Certainly not anyone who would call you dumb as a rock because of your skin color. Not someone who would write you off because you look different than how their pea-sized mind thinks someone smart and worthy looks. You are worthy of life, you are worthy of living. And you are worthy of living in freedom.”
He doesn’t need to say anything explicitly. You know living freely starts with how you feel about yourself; you both know that, actually. You’ve said to him so many times that living freely is the only way to live.
Your ancestors died so you could live freely. You have to live freely. You don’t have a choice. A sad smile tugs at the corner of your lip. You would be damned if some pundit or person who didn’t know you gets to tell you who you are based on no action of yours and misinformation.
“There she is.” Peter whispers.
Your eyes are watery. “Thank you. I love you.”
“I love you to the moon and back. So many other lucky people do.”
He raises your hand to his lips. You know soon he’ll be pressed against you, kissing your forehead. You’ll get a loving cuddle. He’ll get you some juice or water to make sure you’re hydrated and fed. It was the love you deserved. He would always be there to give it to you and stand in your corner.
You would be damned if even with the guilt and the shame, you didn’t put in all your effort into living freely.
And so, you will.
***
A/N: In all honesty, this is the most scared I've ever been to post something. I'm worried this will end up on the wrong side of the internet. I'm worried I could open myself up to a world of harassment I'm not ready for. There have been so many internet mobs over the past decade, but I also know I can't continue to write and grow and use this platform I love if I'm not truthful about the hurt and experience of so many people in the US and the world from this moment and many other tragic victories over the past few years.
Part of me wants to preemptively apologize, put some sort of disclaimer to shield me from the comments I'm afraid of receiving. But in all honesty, I have nothing to apologize for. I'm more than just a writer, I'm a person. And my experiences as a person fuel me to write. I wrote this when the election results were still fresh, but as news rolls in, I still contend with bubbles of those emotions today.
To anyone who's struggled, you're not alone-- there are so many with you. To those close to those who are struggling, PLEASE tell them they're not alone. All the social media posts in the world won't substitute a human being you know reaching out to you.
Stay sane, stay healthy, stay hopeful, stay safe.
I will be back with non-election content, for those of you looking for more of an escape. (Goodness knows I need one!)
summary : you create a memory that peter will remember forever.
word count : 0,5k
contains : tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, reader and peter go stargazing.
a/n : inspired by my number #1 favorite movie ever which is 'eternal sunshine of the spotless mind' !!! i love this scene with all my heart and i thought it'd be cute to make a blurb inspired by it 💕
the snow fell harsh.
peter never liked the cold. his sweaters were always too thin, or too thick, maybe too itchy and a little silly. he either loses one of his mittens or finds them ruined and dirty. and he never wore his beanie because he never wants to ruin his best quality— his hair.
you've always liked the cold. your sweaters were warm and hand knitted by one of your family members, your mittens fit perfectly in pairs, and you have an entire collection of beanies for every day of the week, decorated with pins and colorful clips.
there is also a reason why you liked the cold.
the hidden lake you've been going to since you were little freezes up. it's thick enough for you to walk on but slippery enough for you to fall.
you've gone ice skating there, made snowmen there, lost your boots there, and fell in there once, maybe twice. but you've never hated it. falling in cold ice gets you hot cocoa at the end! and a big headache.. and a sneezy nose..
but other than that you've loved it.
and you are so excited to share all of that with peter. even the headaches and sneezy noses.
"come on!"
you smile, peter holds your hand tightly as he steps on the ice for the first time. "it's very solid this time of year, don't worry."
"i'm not so sure about that." he's clinging to your arm, "come on, come on." you gesture.
"oh wow. i could see the city lights from here." peter grins, "pretty right?" you ask.
"very."
you don't notice peter's loving doe-eyes looking smiling at you and instead, you run into the middle of the lake before slipping.
"ow!"
"jeez, are you okay?" peter runs to you.
"you okay?" — "yeah i'm okay." you brush of the snow from your coat. "come on, now!" you gesture getting closer to the middle.
"i use to skate here sometimes. oh, we should do that sometimes!"
"i think i might cause the ice to crumble. and end up in 50 or so bruises." peter giggles, "i can teach you."
you give peter a smile before laying down on the ice, patting on the space beside you, gesturing for peter to follow along.
peter hesitates for a moment before following, "i think i heard a crack," he shook his head.
"it's not gonna break! or crack- it's so thick."
the stars shine above you. twinkling and glowing.
"show me which constellations you know."
"oh, i don't know any.." peter shrugs shyly, "yes you do! you took astronomy once!"
peter smiles, he pauses for a moment. "that's osidius," he points.
"where?" — "right there, see?" his cheek touched your cheek as he inched closer. "it's sort of a swoop and a cross. osidius the emphatic."
you smile and laugh.
"ooh look, that's us." peter points, "where?" you squint. peter takes your hand and slowly points in the direction of two stars.
"me, and you. you're the brighter one." peter says. "i'm the brighter one?" — "mhm, my bright, pretty, star."
all i can think abt is tasm!peter in his room listening to music and stitching up his suit 😞
in my head he’s a smiths and mcr fan
this is soooo real!!! slow days with peter where he just plays music in the background as he stitches up his suit & you're on his bed reading his messy journal entries, it's quiet, the weather is perfect, the sun isn't too bright, and you're enjoying each others presence.
small blurb ahead, not proofread.
new york is always busy and loud. no matter what time it was or how the weather is, the city never sleeps.
though this particular afternoon was quiet. maybe it was because the music peter was playing, the old cd player still works to your surprise, or maybe it was because you were so focused on peter's old journal he let you read.
"oh this ones funny. april 19th, a year ago." you giggled. peter hummed, "what did i say?" — "dear diary, today i was in a rush to class. instead of grabbing my pencil, i stupidly grabbed the banana on the counter beside it. i think i was half-asleep because i didn't question the texture difference until i stepped foot in the class holding a half opened banana."
"that wasn't me," peter shook his head. "i would never write 'dear diary' at the start of my entry."
"but you would bring a half opened banana?"
peter nodded his head.
you lay back down at the bed. flipping through the pages of the journal. peter had his glasses on, which you think is adorable, he doesn't wear it that often though. he thinks it's nerdy but thankfully you like nerds. obviously.
"ooh i like this song." you commented.
"everyone likes the smiths," peter stated. "no one likes it as much as me though." he smiled at you, rather threatening-ly.
"okay.. do they help you focus?" you raided your brow. peter was still looking at you, "yeah.."
"really? the hole you're trying to stitch is getting bigger, peter."
summary : you hated peter, but you still wrote him an 'apology' letter anyway.
word count : 0,7k
warnings : fluff, angst ish, established relationship, an arguement, i think that's it tee hee.
a/n : inspired by the poem from '10 things i hate about you' !! my requests for peter are open so feel free to send in your thoughts 🙃
it was storming.
the pouring rain and the clouds of thunder outside your apartment matched the situation that was building inside.
you rarely argued with peter. and when you do, it was always as a joke, it was never serious, ever.
the last time you argued was over coffee. when peter wanted to buy you a drink before he got home from taking photos for 'the daily bugle'. a job you begged for peter to quit, knowing that there are other newspapers willing to pay him more.
that was another silly argument you had that just ended up with jameson's head printed near your bedroom window the next day by peter.
"no, bub. espresso is much better." peter stated. you remember you replied with a snarky comment, which made peter defend his statement even more.
"absolutely not. you're crazy."
"says the person who can't even drink espresso!" you heard peter's laugh from the other side of the phone. "i add milk! it's not that different!" you reply, "that's called a latte, sweetheart." peter says — you hung up immediately after.
but this time there was no joke to laugh about. no stupid topic to debate about, no unserious competitions. only frustration ran through your body.
"okay! fine then!" you snap.
peter was almost taken aback, you've been quiet the entire time. "get out of my apartment, parker."
peter froze, as if he just finally realized everything he has said to you over the past 25 minutes.
in your defense, it wasn't your fault. but it wasn't entirely peter's fault either. you were both in a bad mood, and one small remark turned into this. neither of you knew it was going to become a huge argument.
"get out. parker." you yelled, you didn't care it was raining outside. he'll figure it out.
you could see peter's face before he slammed the door shut. he seemed regretful, but it was too late anyways.
fuck. you need coffee, no milk.
a few hours went by, then one day, and then it turned into 5 days.
all you've seen in the past 5 days are empty cups of coffee, the laundry basket piling up, the non-stop rain, and those soggy flowers that keep appearing by the fire escape.
you knew it was from peter.
it was one of peter's ways of showing love to you. he did it loads of times before. on the mornings of your birthdays, some days of your anniversary, and just days where peter knows you're having a hard time.
and being spider-man has its perks, one of them being he can trash your fire escape whenever. with those flowers getting mushy from overwatering by the rain, and those crumpled up pieces of paper with ink smudging.
letters from peter.
you realized it was his handwriting pretty quickly, but you were petty. so you chose to ignore it for a while.
until today.
you couldn't stand being mad over your boyfriend for too long. especially with those flowers slowly piling up in your fire escape along with those letters. and your phone wallpaper being peter smiling so widely wasn't helping either.
you miss him.
and after looking at those letters from peter getting ruined by the rain on your fire escape. you decide to write him one.
a letter, one where you're sorry.
for peter,
i hate it when we fight, and the way you always apologize first.
i hate how much i miss you, and how i couldn't show it.
i hate how i miss your stupid hair, and your stupid smile. i hate how i miss your touch and how you make my heart run a mile.
i hate how i even miss the moments where you'd come into my apartment like a wounded puppy, i've always hated how you make me worry. and i hate how you never fail to make me smile even if you're all bloody.
i hate the way you caress my cheek and the way my face burns from your touch.
i hate how i can feel your eyes on me when i look away. and i hate how much i'm in love with you, and the way i miss your nerdy jokes.
i hate how much love you give me, so much it makes me sick.
i hate it when you're not around, especially because you didn't call.
but mostly i hate the way i don't hate you,
not even close,
not even a little bit,
not even at all.
p.s i kept the flowers, and the ruined letters. and call me. i miss your voice. 💋
Peter led you back home, now on high alert. He didn't let you get up to get anything without him unless you needed to use the bathroom.
Any other time, he had you laying down in bed. It bugged you a bit, but it was sweet of him to be so worried.
Does he taste sweet, though?
You paused. What the fuck. Taste??? Why would you want to taste him?
Sensing your sudden discomfort and silence made him glance over to you. "You okay?", he asked for the umpteenth time.
You force a smile on your face, giving him a nod. "Mhm." His eyes narrowed a bit but he didn't press you.
Hungry.
The voice made you flinch a bit which made Peter stand. "What's wrong?"
You shook your head. "Just feeling hungry right now.", you rushed. He nodded. "What're you feeling up to? Take out? Pizza?"
You nod. "Pizza sounds nice. Just something to get in my system."
Peter nodded, grabbing his phone to call for delivery. He would've gone out to get you some other foods, but didn't trust himself to leave you alone again.
After he finished, he hung up and sighed softly, glancing at you again. "You sure you're okay?"
You couldn't give him much of an answer, considering there wasn't much he could do. "I don't even know, P. One minute I've got a booming headache, the next I'm hearing the same voice and the pain goes away once it's satisfied. I'm trying as much as I can to make sure it stays satisfied so it can shut up."
Once you say that, a warning growl echoes in your head.
He looked at you, worried and dejected. "I don't like feeling helpless.", he says, sitting on the bed next to you. You nodded. "I know. That's what sucks."
"I don't wanna say whatever this thing is might be corrupting you or infecting you…", he shrugs and shakes his head. "I don't know what to call it. The only word I can think of is parasite, since it's living off of you."
Parasite!?
The loud voice booms in your ears, making you flinch and cover them. "I think you just said a very bad word.", you whispered. Peter looks at you in confusion and worry. "What, Para—" You quickly covered his mouth. "Yes, that word. Don't say it again."
Nodding, he shuts his lips and you remove your hand. The voice quiets down and you sigh in relief. "I've never been so glad for silence.", you say, giving Peter a weak smile.
"It's that loud, huh?", he joked.
"Very.", you replied. Snuggling up to him, you laid your head on his chest, receiving an arm around you in return.
The soft beats against your ear makes you want to shut your eyes and hide away from the world.
"Comfy?" Peter interrupts your thoughts.
You nod, smiling. "Your heart's beating really fast." He huffed out a chuckle. "Could've mistaken that for yours. Yours is going a mile a minute."
The peace doesn't last long once the doorbell starts ringing obnoxiously, which causes you to flinch away from Peter, and cover your ears in pain.
"What!? What's-", his heart dropped in realization. Loud noises. The thing can't stand loud noises. He stored that information in the back of his mind.
Thrashing around made Peter panic between trying to calm you down and going for the door instead.
He opened the front door, quickly taking the pizza and slamming the door in the deliverer's face before setting the pizza box on the table and coming to your aid.
Like before, darkened veins appeared on your skin as they enlarged. To Peter, he'd already stopped the doorbell from ringing more, but to you and the intruder in you, the ringing echoed until it stopped.
Trembling from the sudden quiet, you drop your arms and glance at him. He made his way over to you, scooping you in his arms. "It's over. I got you.", he reassures. You curled up, letting out a sigh.
"I don't think you can even listen to music anymore.", he tried to joke. You shook your head. "Silence sounds so good right now."
"And pizza?", he asked. You nodded, giving him a weak smile. He slipped away, sitting you up on your bed frame before leaving to get the pizza box.
He couldn't imagine how painful it was. To see that something like loud noises could trigger the thing made him paranoid. His hearing was very good, but not that sensitive.
What if it was something louder? If not a doorbell, what else would he have to protect you from? Car horns? Sirens? Was yelling too loud? Did your own screams hurt you back at the hospital?
His thoughts constantly jumbled together and you could see it on his face. "Your thoughts are loud.", you say, snapping him out.
His eyes widened. "You can read my mind too?" You snorted and shook your head. "No, you're just an open book. Quit worrying."
He huffed, sitting next to you. "I can't help that. I worry about you because I care. I should've taken you home that night."
"But you did.", you say. He gives you a grimace. "I meant before finding you passed out in an alley I specifically told you not to go walking through."
"Now it's my fault?", you ask, raising an eyebrow. Peter quickly responded, "Your words, not mine."
Rolling your eyes with a smile, you take a slice, humming in satisfaction of the food.
After eating plenty of slices and leaving the rest for Peter, you sighed in relief. "You doing okay?", Peter asked. Only having energy to nod, you did.
Everything felt content for however long it'll last until both of you perked up to the sound of sirens speeding down the street.
"Dammit.", Peter mumbled and looked down at you. "I don't wanna leave you alone."
You gave him a soft smile, trying to reassure him. "I think I'll be fine without you babysitting me, Pete. Go be Spiderman."
He bit his lip before sighing and nodding. "Okay. Okay." He pressed a kiss to your forehead before going for your window. He paused and looked back at you, "Just... Call if you get a weird feeling. Please."
You nod, giving him a light push. "You're gonna be late.", you laugh with a whine. A smile appearing on his face, he opened your window. "Love you.", he says.
Grinning, you walk over to kiss his cheek. "I love you. Now, go.", you say, and he chuckled, swinging out of the window.
You watch him leave before letting out a sigh and closed the window. "Please, don't let anything happen to today.", you begged to no one special.
