Peter Parker ▹ Spider-Man | imagines

the seasons make their song

requested: "Hi, would you consider doing a Peter Parker imagine with a depressed reader? If you aren't comfortable writing that I understand."

third person
warnings: language, mentions of depression
word count: 1,880
4:44 pm | this life seems so empty

A million, million voices. They sung to you like a chorus, sopranos and altos that never stopped belting a note that only made you feel smaller than normal.

They never sung on key. Always deviating from each other, wanting to have their own solos, fighting one another to have a chance to make you hear their poem. You wondered if they were even poems when all they sang were terrible nothings.

Winter didn't help. When it was warmer, you could convince the voices to sing softer, to carry their lyrics with the wind and leave you in silence. It was easy to tell them to be quiet because they liked to sing to the blooming flowers; they swayed to their music.

Not today. Not when it was so cold, not when it was biting frost. When it was cold outside, the voices grew bitter. They wanted to sing their songs of sorrow, they wanted the world to hear their cries, they wanted everyone to know they weren't happy.

They said 'misery loves company,' and they did not like being ignored.

They were not just any voices, not just any lyrics, not just any choir. They were the voices in your head, and they hated you.

At the moment, their music was chaotic. Messy and unrehearsed, loud and off-tempo. They couldn't find a happy medium, they couldn't harmonize. They were too selfish to have their moment in the spotlight.

"Today is not your day."

"You can't be helped."

"Nobody is listening to you."

"You will never be enough."

"Their promises will be broken."

"Don't you see how impossible it is?"

"There is nothing where I come from, and I come from you."

Your hands were shaking. It wasn't from the weather outside, no, it was because you were afraid. The voices were hard to control when it snowed. They hated how white the world became; they didn't believe the world deserved to be blanketed in a color that meant pure and innocent.

Your trembling fingers tangled into the silkiness of your hair. You tugged, and those silky strands were no longer soft. They became tangled and twisted between your hands. You tugged harder, squeezing your eyes shut.

"Please go away," you whispered. "Please...leave me alone."

Their song grew louder. The world grew colder. The longer it snowed, the longer the voices held their verses. You wanted to scream at them to shut up, to stop telling you what you were.

Their words were becoming too much, and you were afraid that you might begin to believe them.

"(y/n)?" A voice called out.

Your lips were dry, cracked. Your teeth were chattering. Your body, numb; you hadn't realized how long you had sat in the cold for.

"(y/n)?" The voice repeated.

You finally opened your eyes. When you did, you were met with another pair. Soft, large brown eyes that were more concerned than you had ever seen before.

"Peter," you whimpered. He tried to smile at you. He reached out to take your hand, but you flinched away from his touch. He did not deserve you; the songs on repeat told you that much.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Peter said softly. He reached out again, and you hesitantly let him take your hands out of your hair. The grip on your head loosened, relieving the headache that was beginning to come over you. "I'm here."

"Nobody's ever here when I need them," you said, defeated. The melody in your head was becoming an anthem of your inability to overcome your obstacles, an example for everyone after you to not be such a failure. Like a house built on an unleveled lot of land, your foundations were shaken and everything made upon it was unstable and weak.

"I'm here now," Peter whispered. You swallowed hard, and his scent overwhelmed you. Like a familiar home, the aroma of worn vanilla and pleasant musk reminded you that he had come back. That he wasn't a figment of your imagination, that he was real. Unlike the songs those voices sang, he was not in your head. He was real, he was here, and he was yours. "I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm not good for you," you tried. Peter didn't respond. Instead, he sat down on the freezing pavement in front of you. He welcomed you into his arms, cuddled you close to his chest. He was warm and inviting, and he reminded you of the seasons that the voices loved to sing in. "I'm just...I'm so—"

"Hey, hey, hey," Peter interrupted. You whimpered as he lifted your chin, put your eyes on his. They were pitiful, sorrowful, filled with everything you hated. He meant it out of love, but you hated that he was feeling sorry for you. He deserved so much better. "I'm right here. A-And anything you think about yourself, I know it to be the opposite."

"You say that like...like I think nothing good of myself."

"Do you?"

You didn't respond. He was right. Peter was always right. You didn't think much of yourself; the voices had whole albums of why you were wore sadness in their eyes.

"You're so pretty," Peter said softly. You shook your head. He began to pepper the most delicate kisses along the skin of your forehead. The voices hated it because it threatened their chants of discouragement. You loved it because it relieved your thoughts for a moment.

"I'm not—"

"You're so pretty," he repeated, his kisses along your temple now. "You're worth it. You make me happy, a-and you make all of this worth it."

"Peter—"

"I-If I have to tell you everyday for the rest of your life, I will," Peter said, firmly. You sniffled in his arms, leaning into his warmth. The voices were crying for attention, but you weren't listening. Peter was kissing their songs away, and you savored every moment they weren't in your ear. "I will tell you everyday if you need me to. I-I will tell you until you believe it yourself."

You grabbed the collar of his shirt, letting your lips take a kiss for once. Like a dance you never forgot, he was kissing you back, carefully. The cold had nothing on the fire between your kisses, the voices could not sing loud enough for you to hear anymore.

Peter tilted his head to kiss you longer, to kiss you more carefully, to kiss you deeper. Your head was swimming, begging to continue this dance until you couldn't breathe, until you were forced to pull away.

"I love you," you whispered, barely. The snow, the wind, the voices tried so hard to not let him hear the love in the silence, but of course Peter heard it. All his attention was on you, and the only song his body knew was the one that loved you, too.

"I-I love you more," he admitted, nervously. A smile tugged at your lips. Something so lovely, so dazzling in his eyes. The cries in your head tried to scream that it wasn't true, that it wasn't a beautiful smile, that you weren't good enough.

But for once, you were ignoring everything they had to sing. For once, you were believing that maybe you were pretty, just a little.

You were starting to believe, and it was still winter.

hello ! so sorry i've been MIA. i am still very much writing! enjoy this little blurb from my tumblr. ;)))

Love, B