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Walking around with multiple vibrant and out of place spirals of ink imprinted onto his monochrome skin because of his multicoloured sweetheart is probably the most beautifully odd thought that could ever come to Peter's mind. Probably.
Having someone like Hobie Brown as your soulmate meant that your body constantly looked like it had been victim to a seven-year-old wielding a tattoo gun, complete with chicken scratched handwriting and poorly drawn doodles of everything and anything in pen or marker or whatever can print ink onto your skin. Peter can't recall the last time he hasn't woken up with something like a roughly drawn spider-logo or lyric ideas trailing along the sides of his hands. They're quite bright too, just like Hobie himself, especially on top of Peter's rather pale grey skin, messy yet eye-catching polychromatic scrawls that make his eyes shine with every glance he takes at them. It's so Hobie. He can never bring himself to wash them away.
More often than not, he finds his more underdressed self getting lost in time as he gazes intently at the lively markings through his bathroom mirror, practically lighting up the entirety of the small greyscale room, rainbow lights bouncing off the reflective surface and dancing along the walls. They are dazzling in ranges of mixed-up colours that remind him of his unsolved rubik's cube, except just a little more beautiful.
His fingers lightly trace over the uneven group of warm-coloured hearts that rest on the flesh between his neck and his shoulder. There are small snippets of various love poems scribbled over his thighs. A wobbly outline of Hobie's slender hand is present across his right hipbone. A pair of sparkling drawn-on lips lay confident and sweet on the flesh of his palm. He's pretty sure they glow a fiery red. They're so pretty and they're all meant for him, Hobie makes sure of that. The almost lovesick effect they have on Peter is just about enough to be intoxicating. Now he knows exactly how Gwen feels whenever Miles decides to decorate their arms with graffiti-styled hearts and tiny vibrant sunflowers. Pure adoration.
They only continue to glare in multicoloured fashion underneath the many dark layers of clothing Peter always wears around the Spider Society, whilst his other half enjoys parading around with his ink covered skin loud and proud. They don't particularly shine as much on his own colour switching self, preferring to blend in, but God does Peter think he looks gorgeous.
Hobie never quite catches how the countless little drawings and words he leaves on his partner look, not here, not in public, but he can picture them by simply by gazing over his own body, visualizing them as an overly bright flurry of colours glowing from Peter's smooth and captivating black and white figure. Nothing could be more euphoric than being able to see and feel the real thing.
Wherever there is a blank and untouched space available, Peter is sure to leave a rather affectionate message back to his sweetheart, the closest pen gliding across his colourless arms in much neater cursive. It doesn't radiate with strong rainbow hues like the rest. Hobie always waits for the enticing tingle on his skin that would accompany the sweet and tender words slowly forming along his wrist, laced with the usual 1930's slang. It's enough to make him swoon and lean on his guitar in a lovestruck way.
The habit of Hobie pulling up three layers worth of sleeves from Peter's arm the minute he is in arm's reach only grows overtime. Every time, he is purely mesmerized with how the colours almost sway on his partner's charming monochrome skin, filling his dark eyes with bright shades and complete awe. Peter thinks it's adorable.
Whenever Hobie does manage to force his eyes away from the brilliant sight, he glances up at Peter with a loving smirk, gently caressing the soft flesh of his beloved's arm.
"You're absolutely peng, y'know that, love?" He tilts his head as his hand trails up to lightly cup the taller man's masked cheek.
Peter smiles sweetly, so much that it could be told through his mask as his own gloved hand moves to interlock with Hobie's. The colours just barely reflect off of his goggles, shining. He's so in love. "You're one to talk, dollface."
His smile only grows when he notices his flowed cursive script also present on his own arm resting amongst the chicken scratch, glowing the brightest with a monochromatic tint, proud on Hobie's sleeveless wrist. The gentle grip on his hand tightens ever so slightly.