#the lisp was so strong here 😭

[luveline]

hellooo!! im not sure if your requests are open so feel free to ignore this but i was wondering if you could write for tasm!peter where the reader just got her wisdom teeth removed and she’s all loopy on anesthetics and forgets peter is her boyfriend? i saw this video where this girl got her wisdom teeth pulled and forgot she was dating her boyfriend and fell in love with him all over again😭😭

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPR7sGQo5/

thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

"Here she is," the nurse says gently, walking you out with his arm behind your back. "Alright, say hi to Peter." 

"Hi, Peter," you mumble, eyes on the floor. 

Peter grins at you, worry warm at the back of his throat. "Hey. Is that everything?" he asks, nodding at the nurses paper bag of aftercare. 

"Everything you'll need." The nurse helps Peter take over, hoisting your arm over his shoulders before stepping away. "Alright, feel better, okay? And don't hesitate to call if something comes up. We're here to look after you." 

You seem appreciative in your fog, but it's hard to tell. Peter curls his arm around your hip and gives it a soft rub as he leads you to the stairs. Whoever devised the floor plan here had murder on their mind —the second floor is completely inaccessible. Luckily, Peter has a lot of strength at his disposal. 

You can feel it. "Woh, you're strong," you murmur. 

"You know that already." His grip on you tightens, pretty much carrying you down the tight staircase. 

"Do I?" you ask. You make a sound like you're hurting, a squeak. 

"I'd hope so." At the end of the staircase, he sits you down, worried you're not feeling well. "You okay? I can princess carry you if you need me to." 

You look at him with wide eyes. He turns to check there's no one standing behind him, but you're really looking at him. "What?" he asks, touching your knee, imploring. "You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"You're Peter?" you ask. 

Ah, the amnesiac effect of anaesthetic. His touch turns comforting, stroking your thigh with as much care as he can drive into his palm alone. "That's me. Hey, if you're forgetting me, does that mean you're not mad at me for last Friday anymore? 'Cos I know you said you forgive me but I can tell it still pisses you off–" 

Your eyes fall to his hand. "Why would I be mad at you?" you ask. 

"I finished the milk and put the carton back in the fridge, even though I promised I'd stop doing it. You see the jug and think there's milk left. We were gonna have macaroni and cheese..." He nudges your fingers with his. "Are you okay? You don't look like yourself."

"What do I usually look like?" 

"Not so, you know. Daunted." 

"You're really handsome," you whisper, refusing to meet his eye. 

"Oh, you think so?" 

You nod like your head is too heavy. You're embarrassed, you sweetheart, oh my god Peter could cry into your lap. 

"Let's get you to the car, baby." 

"Where are we going?" The gauze gives you the world's most adorable lisp, and it turns your gasp into a hum as Peter stands you up. 

"Home." 

"Together?" 

"Yeah, we live together. It's a nice place, and you're a great decorator, you know? It's cozy." 

"Thank you," you say shyly. 

You're not not shy with him, but it's been a long time since you got so quiet over a practically innocuous comment. He wants to see how you'll react to real compliments, over the top stuff that he one hundred percent means. It's a little mean, but when will you ever be like this again? 

He helps you out past the desk and onto the street to your car where it's parked a half a block down. "Don't worry about all this, okay? I'm gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart. There's an ice pack and a brand new comforter with your name on it waiting at home." Peter smiles at your starry eyes as they flash to his, amazed at his simple plans. "How does that sound, beautiful? Is there anything you want before we head home? Anything that would make you feel better?" 

"You're gonna take care of me?" you ask breathlessly. 

"That's my job. That's my number one boyfriend duty." 

"You're my boyfriend?" 

"I am!" he says happily, laughing as he speaks. "For a while. I've been trying to take things further but you're always really shy about getting married–" 

"You want to get married? To me?" 

Peter presses a soft kiss to your cheek. "You're the only person I'd ever want to get married to. We already picked the flowers–" 

"We did?" 

He laughs again, all your questions. He loves regular you but loopy you is especially endearing. "Last time I got super drunk, yeah. You never let me forget it." 

"So you love me?" you ask, stopping short.

"I love you so much," he says immediately, hugging you into his side. He dots another kiss against the top of your head. "You should remember that even if you don't remember me." 

"I love you," you say quietly. 

Peter doesn't know if that's your memory returning, or if you've fallen in love with him in the last fifteen minutes. He could easily fall in love with you that quickly, and yet he's still amazed at your confession. 

"That's good. That's great. Thank you, sweetheart," he says, desperate to hold your face in his hands but weary of causing you future pain. "There's your car," —he points, lowering his head to yours to make sure you can see it, hand now protectively held between your shoulder blades— "let's go home now. Yeah?" 

You start walking again at his requests. He can pretty much see the steam rising off of your face, giddy with happiness at these revelations. You're together, you're in love, and you think he's handsome. He wonders what you'll have to say about his biceps in this state of delirium; you go crazy for his arms sober. 

Which reminds him. 

"I totally have another secret to tell you," he says, unlocking the car as you approach and helping you into the passenger seat. 

"What is it?" you ask. 

Peter closes you in and skirts around the door, climbing into the driver's seat. He's glad that New York is as ridiculously loud as ever, because not even the closed doors or your sodden gauze can smother the way you shriek.

"My boyfriend is Spider-Man?!" 

[angelmichelangelo]

A little prompt for u!! Can’t stop thinking about 12 baby mikey being sick and hiding in his shell on instinct and splinter keeps having to coax him out to give him medicine and food and take his temperature and he turns away for one second to grab something and when he turns back Mikey is in his shell again 😭 (also I ordered a pizza yesterday and it was sooo good so here’s to hoping ur pizza is just as satisfying 🫶)

the pizza was okay! not the best but only because they put dry parmesan on top and it’s just too strong for my toddler level tastebuds but pizza is pizza lol — thanks for the prompt, enjoy some baby mikey!!

read on ao3!

x

“Michelangelo.”

Splinter is mindful to keep his voice level, ironing out the rising weariness that threatens to touch upon his words as he once again tries to coax his youngest out of his shell.

All he gains in return is a muffled little whine, the most he’s been given in the past twenty minutes or so as he tries desperately to give his son his medicine.

He shakes the plastic juice cup, nudging the squishy nipple of the lid against the rim of his shell in hopes of drawing him out but it proves to be a futile attempt.

“Please, my son,” he says, on the very percipise of pleading now. “You must have some. It shall make you better.”

Little Michelangelo does not come out of his shell, speaking from the deep confines in which he hides himself, his voice muffled still but the tiny lisp of his words still audible to him,

“No! S’yucky! I don’wan it, daddy!”

The rat’s ears press flat across his head, his willpower on the matter dwindling in quick succession.

He’d failed to scour for any medicine that was appropriate for children in the liquid form; brightly coloured and flavorful — anything a child Michelangelo’s age would have no issue swallowing down.

But Splinter didn’t have the luxury most parents had. He couldn’t waltz into a pharmacy and buy his children the medicine they needed to make them better when runny noses turned into chesty, wet coughs and upset tummies.

The pill he’d dissolved in his son’s juice is stark to him — bitter and strong, and he’d barely managed a single mouthful in him before he’d made a fuss and retreated steadfastly into his shell, still yet to emerge.

He sighs. Perhaps another approach on the matter.

“Daddy has his medicine like this,” he speaks, voice gentle and smooth. “And daddy is a big boy, you wish to be a big boy too, hm?”

A pause. Excitement grips at him, sure that the line had caught onto him.

But nothing. Michelangelo refuses to come out and take his juice.

Splinter sighs once more. “Michelangelo.” He tries for the umpteenth time now. “Michelangelo, if you do not take your medicine, you shall become very sickly. Remember when your brother became unwell?”

A whole winter ago, Leonardo had almost subcummed entirely to a very nasty bout of bronchitis.

It had been a tense few weeks, endless sleepless nights where he kept his eldest son tucked away in his own bed, frightened that the illness would catch on and he’d have four very unwell children to tend to with such limited supplies, it’d been very much touch and go for his boy.

Mikey whines — he’d been particularly fretful during that time, and resorted to spending his days doodling endless get well cards and most his nights sobbing where he was sandwiched in between Raphael and Donatello before he’d inevitably fall asleep.

“S’Leo sick too?” He asks from his shell.

A certain sadness grows tight in the rat’s chest. He sets the cup down and lays his paws across his shell affectionately.

“No, my son,” he’s quick to assure him steadily. “But we don’t want to pass this illness along, do we? That is why we must take our medicine.”

He hates to have to essentially corner his small son like this, backing him into a corner in such a way but he could not afford to have Michelangelo’s cold manifest itself into something more dangerous and deadly; as the smallest of his children, it was a fear that gripped right at him every time he’d so much as sneeze.

“It’s so yucky, daddy,” he says, his snot finally— finally protruding from his shell. “It tastes like wall.”

Splinter decides to shelf his initial question as to why his son knows what the wall tastes like to instead encourage him out even further.

“I know. But you’re being very brave,” he tells him with a confident nod of his head. ���Can you taste some for me so I know I can have some too?”

Michelangelo looks skeptical at the idea as he pokes his head out further. His limbs remain safely tucked away as he stretches his neck outwards.

Splinter lifts the cup to his lips, pressing the nipple to his lips when the turtle takes one taste of it lingering there, hisses and quickly shuns himself away with a little click of his tongue.

“Michelangelo…” Splinter sighs. “You cannot stay in your shell forever, my son. There will come a time when you will need the bathroom, or when you get hungry, or—”

An idea strikes him so hard, he almost jumps to his feet.

He smiles to himself and sets the cup down and away from his son. “Alright. No medicine. But you must be hungry, I know I am. Shall we get some lunch, Michelangelo?”

The L word has his youngest son poking his head back out again, with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Lunch?”

Splinter nods. “Hm. I was thinking maybe, as you are feeling under the weather, we can have some of the special lunch in the fridge. Instead of algae.”

Michelangelo, of all his children, was less inclined to be fussy over the usual meal of moss and worms that they were fed, often times eating the leftovers from a more picky Donnie and Raph, yet when Splinter was able to find more salvageable human food, his eating frenzy son was front, right and center for it.

“Special lunch?” He’s echoing, eyes practically sparkling. “Really?!”

Splinter has to suppress the urge to laugh, smiling at his son as his arms and legs pop out of his shell to haul himself to standing.

He leads his son to the kitchen where he fixes his children up with a sandwich. They don’t have any butter and the lunch meat he’d found yesterday is only enough for one thin slice each, but when he fixes up Mikey’s meal, he rolls up a pill into the wafer slice and tucks it away safely out of sight.

He gives Michelangelo his first before calling on his other sons, watching with a keen eye as he practically inhales the sandwich in only a few bites.

Confident that the pill has been devoured, he smiles sweetly at his son. “I think that shall make you better, my son,” he says. He plates up the other sandwiches and calls from the others from the other room. “Now,” he says. “How about a bath to cool you off? You still have a slight fever and—”

But when he turns around, Mikey is perched on the table, fully retreating back into his shell, unbudging.

He sighs once more, his whiskers dropping tiredly. “Perfect,” he says flatly.