You Aced It! Loved Reading Your Writing Trouble In The Library Because The Way You Write The Coupleits

You aced it! Loved reading your writing Trouble In The Library because the way you write the couple—it’s like I am right there. Awesome!

I picture your trouble like T3 (T cubed but I'm lousy at typing superscript).

For ex: trouble was looking forward to meeting up with Peter after the Chem test was finished to celebrate acing it but frat!Peter has to take a turn as minder of the freshies for the weekly evening study session at the library. So while he's sitting at the long table with them, trouble slips into the library and waits until juuuust the right time and picking a moment when he suddenly realizes trouble is there, silently Taunts him from across the room, Teases him with her eyes, and then Tempts him (or tortures him, hehe) until he is absolutely crazy. Nothing mean, trouble is just reminding him how chemistry works outside of class....

TROUBLE IS THE TRIPLE THREAT!!!!! SHUT UPPPPPPP THIS IS SO..... INCREDIBLE!!!!!

YES... YESSSSS!

I just ran across this; fascinating read. Left me curious as to how he solved the problem, if he ever did...

Anything But Bug Spray!

Peter never realized the extent his spider senses overrode his human ones until faced with a robber armed with cans of bug spray.

PAIRING: TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

WORD COUNT: 2.6k

CONTENT: injures, fluff, crack, slight angst

NOTES: I listened to ‘Last Nite’ while writing this. I suggest listening along while reading!

Music managed to provide comfort to the loneliest of people. It could be universally understood by the masses no matter its language and had the ability to connect souls through rhythmic patterns, melodies and harmonies.

Or that’s how Peter liked to put it.

As he laid down on a dingy roof with the popping of joints and rolling shoulders, he peered up to the night sky — head bobbing to the initial burst of upbeat notes through his earbuds.

The lively tempo elevated Peter as his fingers drummed together on his lower torso. With the progression of the song, lyrics began slipping past his lips and turned into crystallized puffs of smoke into the wintry air.

“Last night, she said,'' Peter mumbled, looking up to the stars while his makeshift police radio played live, waiting to alert him of any crimes. His phone slipped inside a secret pocket of his suit, earbuds tucked into his ears under his mask as he continued to sing. “Oh, baby, I feel so down. Oh, it turn’ me off when I feel left out.”

The song looped twice until he reached to shuffle his playlist, stopping as his eyes darted to the familiar green phone icon at the bottom of the screen. Instantly, his prerogative changed as he tapped to his most recent contact, then to FaceTime, and waited for the call to go through.

Peter’s face drew into a large smile as her face popped into view and he positioned his phone to capture his face, tugging off his mask.

“Hey, baby,” he smiled.

“Hello, Rudolph —”

“Oh shut up,” he groaned, looking at himself through his phone. The tip of his nose was red and cheeks were bright pink from the cold. Automatically, he felt a shiver creep up his spine while glancing at the glistening snowflakes that danced from the clouds. “I forgot to bring a jacket.”

“Pete! It’s winter!”

“It’ll be fine.”

“If you get sick I’m not taking care of you.”

A scandalized expression crossed him as he slapped a hand to his chest dramatically. “Not even my own girlfriend would take care of me?! Oh, come on! The city doesn’t even pay me!”

“Then come home, grab a jacket.”

Stubbornly, he shook his head and shifted to curl in on himself to retain heat. “Can’t.”

“You’ll get frostbite —“

“I’ll be fine!”

She finally relented, giving him an unamused look. “I hate you.”

“No —” Peter’s whining cued. “You love me. Where would you be without me?”

“Better off,” she joked, resulting in him scoffing while rolling his eyes with a playful smile. “Or maybe in England. That’s where.”

“You wound me.”

He was met with light, echoing laughter — a melody so sweet, so raw, it made Peter’s heart flip; it was the sound of his external heartbeat, far greater than any song. And maybe it was his mind overcompensating, but Peter swore he felt a surge of warmth bleed through him, combatting the chilling cold.

“Anyway, what’s up, lovebug?”

Peter’s face scrunched up into a bright grin, shaking his head at the name. “Missed your face.”

As she opened her mouth, sirens picked up in the background. Peter sat up, whipping his head to look down at flashing red and blue lights along with chatter picking up from the radio: a bank robbery, he distantly noted, three robbers, nine hostages, no casualties. Yet.

“I love you,” he heard, promptly returning to look at the screen — met with a soft smile. His lips pressed together apologetically, thumb hovering to end the call reluctantly. But yet again, she made him feel breathless, something close to radiance bursting in his ribcage that spread throughout his body more addictingly compared to any venom.

He tried to fight the beating of his heart and he could see from the corner of his eye his face turning pink, and this time it wasn’t from the cold.

“Mm, say that again? Please?”

“I love you, Peter. Be safe, come home soon.”

Once it ended, he dropped his face into his hands, trying to contain his smile before standing. He put his playlist back onto shuffle, tugged his mask on, overlooked the city and jumped —

The wind whipped against his body as he dove down, seeing the zipping cars and people pointing at him as webs shot out to grasp a nearby building.

It always brought a priceless rush as he swung throughout the city, following the police cars. He flipped himself through the air several times, muttering lyrics of the song currently playing; he could hear the subway rumbling beneath the concrete ground as he appreciated the bright city lights. They reflected off every surface, a glitter that never failed to enchant Peter.

Latching onto a building and jerking up, he perched himself on the building opposite to the robbery as he ran through and calculated his next move.

Police cars were stationed outside a tall white bricked building and Peter could hear the shouting and muffled cries of the hostages inside along with the clicking of guns. He could see the three robbers in clear view: all armed, one brandishing a gun at the hostages and the other two licking their thumbs as they counted a new stack of cash. Neither looked at each other, only their chests were puffed out as they threw the money into a black duffle bag and hiked it on their shoulders.

However, from Peter's viewpoint, the door was blocked from the inside, right where the hostages were seated, huddled into a corner.

Making a decision quickly, he hopped down to a lower ledge and picked up a nearby brick. The police watched him carefully, only for him to motion back to the hostages.

He launched the brick forward and shattered the glass windows and door. His webs shot out through the cracks — one wrapping around the gun pointed at the hostages, the other ripping off the door from its hinges.

Peter grabbed the weapon from the robber’s hands and threw it to the floor as the cops bellowed for the hostages to run. Peter nodded to an officer before launching off and following the robbers sprinting out the building from the backside.

All three were running — pointing in different directions as they shouted contrasting orders. Distracted, Peter had already shot out more webs — ripping the guns from their holsters and hands and managing to toss them to the ground — all shattering upon contact. However, one robber reached into their pocket, pulled out another small gun and pointed it at Peter’s head.

Moving to the side, he dodged each bullet until growing bored and webbed his hand to his chest as the gun dropping to the ground,

He chuckled, pointing to the robbers. “This is the worst organized robbery I think I’ve ever seen! Do criminals not negotiate beforehand anymore?”

Before they could respond, Peter shook his head and strung up two robbers from their legs and hoisted them high into the air as he swung them onto a street light. They resembled string puppets as he tugged on the webs, making them look like marionettes.

The last robber — his hand webbed to chest — wiggled free, grabbed another bag of money, and sprinted in the opposite direction.

“Hey!” Peter shouted, “Why are you running? You’re missing the best part of my speech!”

And with a shake of his head, tossing a look to the criminals behind him, Peter chased the man with a running start as he swung himself off buildings.

The sight was quite comical, and out of a movie as he observed the robber’s attire. “I see you’ve got the — uh — mask, duffle bag… guns… black and white shirts. You’ve got it all! I’m impressed!”

Having no time to react, Peter dropped down and kicked the man to the ground. He tried to scramble back up, momentarily dazed as he backed himself up against a wall. But Peter tilted his head to the side, reaching up to tug out his earbuds and slipped them inside his pocket. He clicked his tongue, “People like you make my job so easy. Thank you!”

“Fuck you!” The robber groaned.

“I never say this —“ Peter raised his wrist and shot webs into the robber’s mouth to keep him quiet while he snatched the money away from him — “But don’t swallow.”

In relation, the robber’s hand travelled to his waistband and grabbed a large bottle. Peter’s first instinct kicked in — already prying it from the man’s hands and into his own. But as he observed it, turning it to observe the label, it wasn’t a gun or a bomb like he expected, but rather a bottle of bug spray.

He looked back up, finding the robber already had another spray can in his hands — pointed directly at him.

It took a moment for the situation to fully process in Peter’s head as he stared down a barrel of bug spray. As the seconds ticked by, they lapsed into a tense silence but his uncontrollable laughter picked up as he flung his head back. “N-now you’ve outdone yourself!”

“Get-back!” The robber mumbled — words muffled. The man’s entire hand shook as he gripped the bottle tighter.

Indulging in his little game, Peter listened and took a large step back, hands raised in the air in faux surrender. He chuckled. “Really?”

“Yes-really!”

“Can’t believe you did it! You’ve figured out my weakness. Bug spray. Anything but bug spray!”

“You-don’t-want-to-be-laughing!”

“Hmm,” he pondered. “Are you some sort of entrepreneur?” Peter mused, leaning against the nearby wall before pushing himself off. “You are stealing all this money because your product failed?” He stalked up to the man, a playfulness shooting through him. “If you just wanted a test dummy, you could have asked. I've been called bug boy before so you’re onto something.”

The man was seething with anger and was pushed to the edge by Peter’s unrelenting humiliation. The robber pressed down on the white nuzzle, spraying out a short burst of bug spray out into the air and in his direction. With a sharp inhale, Peter went to laugh but ended up choking and his eyes began to burn.

“Hey —” a cough. “What the f —”

Another spray, then another, and another. And this time, it hurt.

It really, really fucking hurt.

The pain was excruciating — all-consuming as he fell to the floor. Peter’s skin felt as if it was scorched, lungs constructing and his blood felt like it was beating too close to the surface — a layer of skin was ripping itself off as an unforgiving hand closed around his throat.

Taking his reaction to advantage, the robber ripped off the webs from his face, grabbed the bags of money and ran in the opposite direction.

Peter was numb, mind disoriented, fist-clenching as he tried to stabilize himself. The action felt detached, out of control and to the best of his abilities, Peter pushed himself up and began escaping — climbing the walls to resume chasing after the robber. Managing to cast a web, he swung himself up, but it proved to be a greater challenge in itself, causing additional dizziness and making him fall several feet into the air, crash landing onto a roof.

There was a short, pained wheeze — deep panic and pain flaring inside him. His entire body hurt, and he was left unable to breathe properly — quivering as his body began to rip itself apart from an invisible force.

Everything was washed over in a blurred dark haze, much different compared to the vibrant city lights he was used to seeing. His ragged breath and compressed chest was felt through every crevice of his body — feeling everything burn and ache — compounded by an unspeakable agony. Weakly, he reached to rip off his mark — tears staining his face as he desperately gasped for air.

Peter was used to almost dying. He had been electrocuted, thrown off buildings, stabbed, shot at, clawed by a giant lizard, bitten by a venomous spider, but he never expected to die like this; spasming on a rooftop, cold, alone, gagging, mind foggy — half-blinded by pain, half-blinded in the literal sense —all from bug spray.

He could barely stand, the only thing keeping him moving were bursts of fear and adrenaline.

Swinging, falling, overwhelmed, cuts and bruises now added to his body, Peter made his way home on pure instincts — pushing past the ringing in his ears that managed to mess with his other senses.

Entering through the window of their bedroom flat, Peter was met with glass shattering and a yep from his startled girlfriend rushing up to him.

Through the buzzing in his ears, he could distantly make out her shouts and pleads — the vibrations of her footsteps rang throughout rooms. Barely conscious, Peter hardly made out the warmth being placed on his chest. A hand, he thinks, and then something over his face, his mouth — to breath properly.

The overwhelming urge to soothe her took control of him as he tried to loll his head, shaky fingers trailing along her leg. But sleep was beginning to enclose on him like a shield, a wave of pain washing over him as he winced, again and again until it encased Peter’s world into abrupt stillness.

* * * *

Hours later, Peter stirred awake. His eyelids fluttered rapidly as he adjusted to the morning sun. He groaned, feeling stiff before the realization dawned on him.

He could see.

Anticipation weighed heavy on his mind as Peter took a moment to breathe in deeply and stretch — checking over his body. He sighed out relieved as he found nothing wrong — only becoming slack as he pressed himself against his girlfriend who had been watching him carefully.

“Morning, lovebug.”

He breathed in, letting out an airy chuckle as he pressed a soft kiss along her jawline.

“You gave me quite the fright.”

“Shit,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause and a deep sigh. “I’m just happy you’re safe.”

Peter simply jerked his head in agreement — shifting so his head rested on her chest. He moaned at the feeling of her fingers carding through his hair, messaging the scalp before his eyes caught onto the flash of her cell phone screen.

She was glued to it — her eyes nearly blurring together as she rapidly read the text and curiously, he craned his head to look.

“What are you reading?”

“Wait — Pete —”

But he had already grabbed her phone, eyebrows furrowed as his face tightened and slacked with realization.

The news app was opened. It was a blurred photograph that took up the entire screen. A photograph from last night. A photograph of Peter coughing bug spray mid-spray attack, mid-spasm, on the ground as the robber began to run. The headline read, ‘SPIDER-MAN FINALLY MEETS HIS WEAKNESS?’

“Fuck,” Peter breathed, followed by a thick swallow as he felt his face burn from embarrassment. His face dropped into the crook of her neck as he huffed out pathetically.

She chuckled, feeling a little guilty but laughed nonetheless. “Who knew that the amazing Spider-Man could be taken down with bug spray?”

“... You can’t be seriously laughing at me right now. Are you?”

“N-no…”

He scoffed, “You’re the worst. Go away.”

“You’re the one gripping onto me, idiot.”

Peter tried to fight down his smile, his head shaking. “So mean.”

Unfortunately for Peter, he didn’t take into account how this newfound information might backfire on him. Robbers began carrying bug spray, hosing him down any chance they got — and each time forced him into a near-death sentence that began driving him away. And New York’s crime rate skyrocketed.

This is my type of coffee ♡

I've loved spicy food my entire life. That was my poll vote, but I also liked fish, onion, oatmeal, and broccoli. I was a beanpole but not too picky about food.

Okay, we've had plenty of those "popular food that you hate" polls.It's time for:

Me when I spy @theradioactivespidergwen ‘s WIP list and see The Golden Hour chapters….

Starting a new thread! Thanks for the tags @souliebird @loveroftoomanyfandoms @munsonownsmyass and @itwasthereaminuteago

(I love y'all dearly fr)

Rules: reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

Hoo boy, live look in at this hot ass mess:

I think most of my moots have been tagged at this point, so open tags! Let's see those WIPs besties!