#getting back into the swing of things slowly. but i do miss drawing him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubbles-for-all-of-us · 10 months

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Super excited to see more Fourth Wing content on Tumblr. I don't have any specific ideas yet, but maybe some fluff with our hot wingleader Xaden? Or some wholesome training scenes with the dragons?

It needs to be brought here because it's a crime to have practically nothing here!!!

Morning lights

The morning sun wasn't even fully out when Aetos banged on every single door on the first year's floor shouting something about the promised training and how lucky everyone should feel that he's taking his time to put in extra work even if it should be a punishment for performing worse then others squads in the last training session.

You suddenly become hyper-aware of the still-cold morning air seeping through the window, that you left ajar last night. Dawn is still breaking outside. Light shades of pinks and oranges painting the horizon. It's a beautiful sight. One you wouldn't want to miss or at least enjoy one of the mornings when someone isn't forcing you out of bed.

You move to get up slowly but two strong hands instantly tighten over your lower stomach, drawing you back to where you were laying moments ago. "Remind me to spit into Aetos morning coffee", the husky voice fills the space. You let out a breathy chuckle, turning slightly in the embrace of the man who's been sharing your bed for some nights now. "Don't, he might come swinging at me", you mutter, trying not to fully chase his sleep away since his eyes were still closed. He lets out a slightly frustrated huff, "I would love to see him try", and here it is real Xaden Riorson lethal, powerful, ready to fight at any given moment.

It was slightly funny how this big muscular male was squeezed beside you looking like an absolute work of art that didn't belong in the first year's bedroom. Your fingers carefully moved to run through Xaden's dark hair, nails scratching the scalp softly. The most content sigh leaves his lips as his hands grip your hips tightly.

"Wingleader, the cadet is needed on the training grounds", you say in a more serious tone, in a way mocking Aetos. But you also know that time is working against you now. You do need to get out of bed and get ready. The last thing you want to listen to is grumpy males complaining. "This cadet is needed in bed", Xaden mumbled against your skin, bringing you even closer to him, his warmth seeping into your skin and now you understand why you didn't feel the cold breeze from outside. How could you when you have a whole personal heater in your bed? "Is that an order?", you tease, Xaden opens one eye, throwing a glare your way, "Yes. Yes, it is".

Yet it all wasn't that simple. He was still a wingleader. A wingleader who shouldn't even be here in the first place. Because the conclusion that everyone would go straight to would be that you slept your way into safety. And you don't want to be labeled as a whore. This place was a shit show as it is most of the time.

You firmly push at Xaden's arms, the last thought fueling you with enough strength to pull away from him. "No...", he tries to grab onto your hips once more but you're out of his reach now. Could he easily drag you back? Yes. One flicker of his shadows and you would be pinned to the bed. But he's not stupid too. The commotion outside the door is getting louder. Meaning that you're running out of time.

"Now you're being a whiny baby", you tease, pulling Xaden's shirt from your body and reaching for your flying leathers instantly. Better safe than sorry in these kinds of situations. "I'm not a whiny baby", he argues back and you can hear the announcer in his voice that makes you chuckle, "And now his masculinity has been scarred", you place your hand on your chest sighing dramatically. "Sometimes I hate you", he rolls his eyes, before moving to sit up. His muscular chest somehow looking even more unreal in the early morning light. But you shake your head quickly, reaching for your daggers, "Oh same... look at us sharing mutual emotions", you flash him a smile that he doesn't return.

"Be careful", he says, eyes now practically cutting right through you. One of his shadows move to caress the scar that now was forming on your forearm. You brush your fingers over the shadow, "I'm always careful". But you can tell that the worry growing within him is much bigger than most mornings. "This is something Aetos came up with. Most definitely no one in command...", but you cut the distance between you, knee pressing into your mattress as you lean closer to him, "I will be fine, Riorson", you lean in brushing your lips over his. The kiss is gentle and soft. A rare moment because most of the time it's filled with so much speed and desire that you lose yourself in the moment. Not even noticing when it ends. "And I have Liam" you mumble, packing his lips one more time before turning to leave. Xaden growls and you know that it's because you said another male's name right before kissing him. Territorial bastard.

"Any clues about what this is?", you catch up with Liam, who instantly wraps you up in a side hug as you walk alongside the others.

"Not really. Some bullshit", he grumbles still sleepy. "Use your far sight signit", you wrap your hands around his middle. "And look into Aetos insides?", you let out a laugh, quickly clasping your hand over your mouth and shoving Liam slightly. Yet a couple of heads instantly turned your way. Jack one of them. Instantly glaring at you. You return the favor by flipping him off but that only makes his snarl more.

Morag. You call out. Not far away. The voice rings out, soothing you in a way. Do you stink of wingleader once again? You roll your eyes. Mind your business. Morag lets out a dramatic sigh. I have to carry your stinky ass. You flip him off mentally. Out of the two of us, it's you who stinks.

"I'll see you out there", Liam taps your shoulder as he walks towards his dragon. Wrapping your arms around yourself you watch as he jog towards Deigh. You can't imagine your life without him now either. You two had bonded almost immediately. After crossing the parapet you burst into tears. Liam had instantly stood in front of you shielding you from the crowd and equally as much not letting others see your tears. "If it helps, I'm sure a shat myself midway", he had whispered, making you let out a chuckle as you whipped your tears.

But you're brought out of your head as a hand holding a cloth clasps over your mouth and you're brought into a tight chest with a huff. Your hands instantly move to push away from the person holding you down, moving and wiggling in its hold. "Squad whore", the words ring in your ears and you instantly know how this is. Just don't have much time to be mad when a wave of dizziness hit you. That fuck must have dosed the material in something.

I'm almost there. Hold on. Morag's voice fills your head. Your nails dig into his pam as you try to rip it off your face. But then you see the gleam of light. Reflection. Sun. A dagger. Your eyes widen. Jack strikes for a kill just you move you heal up shoving between his legs as hard as you can. The blade zaps the side of your neck, and the warm blood trickles down almost immediately. "I'll end you bitch", Jack barks from behind you. You try to step away but your legs buck as you come in contact with the ground. The roar pierces the field. For a moment you feel relief flowing through you because it has to be Morag but it's the blue wings that make your gut drop. Even the shouting from cadets dies down. Sgaeyl. Why is she here? She shouldn't be here. You try to push your hands against the ground. You need to get out of her way as well, yet your body feels so heavy. She lads with a thud, sending dirt debris flying all over.

Xaden you plea in your head, gods what a way to die by his dragon. Just Sgaeyl steps closer, growling as she glares ahead. You count your last seconds and then her wing moves over you. Drawing away the early sun. You feel the blast of heat and then an agony-filled cry.

Breath Morag orders. What's happening? You ask, feeling your consciousness starting to slip, your hand now clasping the side of your neck. You stink of someone and you're sure Morag is rolling his eyes. Xaden. Sgaeyl felt Xaden on you. Or has he told her something? Does he know? Sgaeyl moves her wing away, and her snout if you can call it that moves closer to you as she inhales your scent. "Thank you", you mutter, "Just tell Xaden a less dramatic story, please", you're not sure but it sounds like she lets out a snort before moving to nudge your hand and then everything goes black.

When you open your eyes once more it takes you a moment to realize what had happened as memories filled your head. Head. Head that was pounding. The tightest on your neck piercing with pain. "Love", a voice rings out and you flinch instantly. Warm fingers run down your arm, that same comforting warmth that you know. You blink your eyes a couple of times. Waiting for your eyes to concentrate. And there he is. His hair was messy from all the pulling he must have done. The shirt slightly wrinkly. "Why are you here?", you ask groggy, hand instantly reaching for your throat at the uncomfortable pulling. "In my room? Or with you?", panic runs through you. You can't be in his room. No. No. No. People will talk. You move to sit up but Xaden's arms instantly hold you down.

"You're not going anywhere. Gave me enough of a fright", he grumbles in frustration, "I didn't ask for it", you argue back. Something in his eyes darken, "And I did? I've never ran faster and you were there behind Sgaeyl wing all bloody", his voice raising with every word he spoke. Your gaze softens. Losing had always been his biggest fear. And it's been a long while since he had something precious to lose. "Sgaeyl saved me all thanks to you I'm sure", you lace your fingers through his. Xaden shakes his head, "That's all her doing. I did get a lecture about not taking proper care of you", you let out a slight chuckle, imagining her lecturing him and him not being able to talk back, "Say thank you to her from me", you mutter.

Xaden runs his fingers through your hair, letting out a sigh, "I...I love you", he whispers, bringing your hand closer to his lips. You smile at him sweetly, brushing your free fingers across his cheek, "And I love you". Xaden leans in, brushing his lips over yours before pressing his forehead against your shoulder, "Though I wish I could bring him back just so I could kill him myself", he grumbles, "Xaden!", you warn him, yet let yourself chuckle.

#xaden riorson #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson x you #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x you #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing fanfic #xaden x reader #xaden fourth wing x reader

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slytherheign · 1 year

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CONNECTING ARTS | tasm!peter parker

PAIRING: photographer!tasm!peter parker x painter!fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 8.4k

SUMMARY: peter is slowly losing hope for his love of photography when he finds himself at a loss of inspiration. to give his passion a last chance to prove it’s worth holding on, he decides to do one last project: to capture a stranger’s life for 1 week. unbeknownst to him, with every click of his camera, he’ll slowly fall in love. unbeknownst to you, with every stroke of your paintbrush, you’ll realize your lives are more connected than you both initially thought.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, cursing/swearing, parent's negligence, reader being an orphan, anxiety, depression, inaccuracies (?) there may be some because i’m not a photographer nor a painter. let me know if i missed any warnings. [⚠︎︎RATING: G]

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is angsty towards the end but it’s hurt/comfort and there are more fluff moments so the destination is sweet street instead of angst avenue. this took so long to write but it’s only bc i added a little bit of mystery here about the person in the reader’s painting and their pasts. i hope y’all forgive me. enjoy reading!

DESTINATION: Sweet Street | GO BACK TO THE STATION. CLICK HERE FOR ALL THINGS CONNECTING ARTS (reviews, commentary, etc. about this fic).

It’s truly terrifying how a person could suddenly lose interest in something they have spent their whole life yearning for.

This was Peter’s greatest fear—to watch the once-ignited flame of passion within him get slowly extinguished. Photography was supposed to be his lifeline. How could he let himself get drained of something that was his escapism?

Was it his surroundings, his personal life, or just life in general that made him uninterested in his hobby? He had no answer. He truly, certainly, absolutely did not know.

He stared at the camera that was atop the center table, and as he did so, flashbacks of the joyous moments he spent capturing people and places struck him. He had held that camera for years—garnering both little and grand memories that were far too special and memorable to forget. He couldn’t just let it go.

One more chance, he thought.

“Okay, let’s try again,” he said to himself. “One last time.”

So he grabbed his camera and went to the nearest place he thought would spark even just a pinch of inspiration—the park.

The busy yet calm buzz of people's chatter met him as the wind blew softly against his skin. He walked a few yards until he saw a bench which he sat on almost immediately. He raised the camera close to his eyes, adjusting the lens as he took pictures every now and then while scanning the surroundings.

A couple on a bench that was turned back from him and facing the city bay. The guy had his arm around the girl’s shoulders while her head rested on his.

Click.

A mother gently pushing her child that was giggling so hard at the swing.

Click.

A lovely couple walking the grounds, holding each other’s hands without an ounce of care in a world that judged them because they were both women.

Click.

A large oak tree from which the outline beautifully clashed with the slow setting of the sun.

Click.

Suddenly, his hands seemingly moved on their own as the camera panned over downwards without him even noticing.

A girl underneath an oak tree, gracefully sitting on a paint-covered cream blanket. Art supplies were messily scattered over the soft blanket while the girl was drawing something on a canvas in front of her.

Click.

He zoomed in, focusing on her face. He couldn’t help it, she was mesmerizing. The girl must’ve felt it because she looked straight at the camera, piercing his eye that was behind the lens.

He put down the camera instantly, mouthing an apology towards you as he realized he probably distracted you from your drawing. You shook your head, letting a small smile form on your lips. You gestured for him to come over, and without hesitation, he did.

You quickly but carefully moved some of your things to give him space on the blanket to sit on. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “What are you drawing?” he asked.

“Someone,” you replied, showing him the canvas. There wasn’t much on it at the moment, just the initial sketch of a person’s body and a white fence in the background. The person did not have a face yet.

Click.

Peter captured the canvas with his camera. As he looked up, he saw your puzzled face staring at him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I haven’t asked for your permission to take pictures of you and your work. I can delete it if you want to.”

“No, it’s fine,” you reassured him. “I’m just curious, do you take pictures of everything?”

“No, usually just the interesting stuff,” he chuckled at your question.

“So you think I’m interesting?” you winked playfully.

“I…” he started to say, but then stopped before smiling. “Yeah, I do. The most interesting, actually.”

He noticed your cheeks redden, but before you could think of a reply, Peter’s eyes slightly widened as an idea dawned upon him.

“Can I ask something crazy?” he asked.

“I love crazy,” you beamed with excitement, putting down your canvas to face him. “Go ahead.”

“I was thinking… if maybe I could capture the process of you completing your artwork? Like… capture your life for a week?”

He noticed the slight skepticism in your eyes. “I know this is kinda weird considering we just met but I–I just think you’re really cool a-and awesome and I’m really fascinated by you.”

“You know, usually I don’t entertain strangers much more let them stay in my apartment… but I have a good feeling about you,” you admitted. “So…” you nodded.

“Okay, just so we’re clear, you are agreeing for me to capture and document your life for a week?”

“Yes.”

Perfect. This was the exact thing he needed. A good and worthy ending for his slowly dying passion.

“I feel like shit,” he said suddenly. “I haven’t even asked your name. I’m Peter,” he offered his hand.

You chuckled as you shook his hand. “I’m Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. How do you want this to work?” he didn’t want to decide by himself since it’s your life he would be documenting in the first place.

“Uhh–here,” you ripped a piece from a sketchbook you weren’t using. With a pencil you pulled from the back of your ear, you wrote your address on the piece of paper. “That’s um–where I live. Come by tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

Peter smiled on his way home.

He was ready for his very last project.

DAY 1.

You awoke from the same ray of sunshine that visited you every morning through your large window. You wasted no time as you made your bed and took a shower quickly. Normally, you wouldn’t even bother to leave your bed for at least half an hour after waking up but today was different. You had a visitor and for some reason, you wanted to impress him. After all, he was the first person to ever visit your place.

The place that you called home was a studio apartment with a loft bedroom. You had no usual living room because you turned it into a painting studio. The only places where paint—with exception of white—didn’t reach the wall or the floor were the small kitchen area and the loft bedroom where you sleep every night. But above all things, your favorite part of your apartment was the large window that occupied the entire wall facing the first floor and the loft floor.

After dressing yourself in a white shirt and brown overalls, you decided to put your hair up in a ponytail. The moment you started to heat water for your morning coffee, you heard a knock on your door.

“Hi,” Peter greeted.

“Hello,” you smiled in return, opening the door wider for him to enter your humble abode.

Peter’s mouth slightly parted from the aesthetic of your apartment. His eyes scanned the place like a child in a candy store. He saw the canvases on the floor that were both empty and painted on, and the large wooden table in the middle of the room that had art supplies and an unreal amount of colorful paints scattered on top of it.

Click.

And from that moment on, he knew your place was something else.

“This place is amazing,” he complimented.

“Thank you,” you said, a proud grin presenting on your lips. “Coffee?”

“Thanks,” he smiled, accepting your offer. “How long have you had this place?”

“Since I was 19. A year after I moved out from the orph–uh from my old home.” Thankfully, Peter was too busy admiring the place to even notice you almost slipping out.

No one gets to know your past. That was your life rule. The present and the future were what mattered.

“Here,” you placed the mug atop the side table near the entrance. There was a small couch—noticeably thrifted—beside it where Peter sat. “Careful, it’s hot,” you warned him as he tried to hold the mug and drink while still being distracted by your paintings.

You sat beside him, sipping your coffee as well. “How did you get into photography?” you asked.

“I think I’ve always been interested in the art of photography since I was a kid. I’ve always loved taking photos back then and I think it’s really cool that memories can be captured in the form of pictures forever.”

You agreed, nodding your head. “Same goes with painting. Sometimes, I paint my surroundings, mostly people that I see around me; sometimes, I have pictures as my reference; sometimes, I like storing memories in my head and then painting them when I get my hands on a canvas. But the best thing about it though is that I can paint not what I see but what I want to see.”

The last line you said seemed to get his full attention. “What do you mean by that?” his face showed an intrigued expression.

“It means that I can paint whatever I want. I can paint the past, the present, and the future. And sometimes, you hate the past and the present, so you just change them in your paintings. And then when you start hating the future too, you just paint what you want the future to be. Basically, what I’m saying is, you can manipulate life through a painting. Reality and imagination share a room, and there’s really no limit.”

There was something about the words you said that made Peter realize just how deep of a person you are. It wasn’t just your paintings he was mesmerized by anymore, but also you. He would love to get to know you more.

DAY 2.

Same time, same place, different day.

“Good morning,” he greeted you once you opened the door. You let him in, excited for the day because you planned on teaching him how to paint. It wasn’t your idea, he asked you yesterday if he could be the first person you teach how to paint and you accepted the challenge. You didn’t consider yourself a good teacher, but oh well, you weren’t going to back down from a challenge.

“Coffee?” you offered.

“Oh no. You promised to teach me how to paint and I would very much like to start learning now,” he had a huge excited grin plastered on his face.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” you smirked proudly.

“How do you know which canvas to use? There are so many sizes,” he asked, standing over the piles of empty canvases on the floor.

“It depends on what you’re going to paint. Do you have something on your mind?”

“I-uh… no? I thought the idea would come naturally honestly.”

“That’s fine! Sometimes, it comes naturally. Sometimes, it doesn’t and you have to push yourself until it eventually comes.”

“Why would you push yourself if it doesn't come naturally? Wouldn’t you just take a break and wait?”

“I could wait, But I prefer not to. I push myself because I want to paint and the lack of ideas won’t hinder me from painting. This is my passion, I want to do this forever. If I took a pause every time I had no idea what to paint, most of my paintings wouldn’t exist and I would’ve given up this passion years ago.”

“What about rest? Do you even take a rest?” he asked as you handed him a small-sized canvas. You thought it was the best for beginners.

You chuckled lightly. “I’m human, Peter. Of course, I rest. But not when I know I’m getting uninterested in painting. When I get over that phase and I’m inspired again, that’s when I rest. I don’t go to bed until I have that fire in me again that dances with the art of painting.”

Now, that was something that hit Peter all the way to his core. How could you even manage to do it? To answer the question he didn’t even know he had in his heart so effortlessly and precisely?

He now knew his mistake—he let the lack of inspiration slowly extinguish the fire in him whenever he was feeling uninspired. He realized now that he didn’t push hard enough. But that would change, starting now.

“I think I know what to paint now. And this size is just perfect, thank you.”

You watched him put his canvas on an easel. He looked at you, his eyes asking a question about what to do next.

“You can draw first, sketch what would be the outline of your painting, and then let it guide you when you start painting. Or you could proceed to paint immediately. But if you ask me, I would recommend sketching first so you won’t make a lot of mistakes later when you actually start painting.”

“Okay. I’ll sketch first. Thank you,” he said as you handed him a pencil. He started drawing lines, and then curves, and then came the shapes.

“That’s really good. Damn, didn’t know you were good at drawing,” you complimented. He laughed lightly. “Thanks, I think I got the genes from my mother. My aunt always told me she was a really good artist.”

Once he was close to finishing his drawing, it dawned on you that he was drawing a sunrise. You wouldn’t tell him, but it reminded you of one of your paintings. It wasn’t a sunrise, but it was similar. Maybe you’d show it to him when he finishes his painting.

“I’m done!” he announced proudly. “Nice!” you replied. “Are you ready to paint?”

“Oh no no no… please, I think that’s enough for me today,” he laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, but that little drawing took a lot of work. I’d like to go back to my camera now.”

DAY 3.

Same time, same place, different day.

“Good mo–”

“Morning!” you cut him off as you opened the door. He laughed seeing your proud face. “Come in.”

“Coffee?”

“Actually–yeah. I’d like a coffee,” he answered, yawning.

“Had trouble sleeping?” you asked.

He nodded. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He felt how the silence almost swallowed the room and how your eyes never left his. Only then did he realize what he said.

“I–uh-I m-mean ab-about the things… y-yeah about the things you said yesterday w-when you talked about painting an-and your passion and your–uh… like making sure the fire that dances within you stays lit,” he was rambling.

You let out a giggle. Deep inside, you were struggling not to blush. “I understand. You know, if you want me to stop saying deep things about life and other stuff, just tell me.”

He was quick to raise his hand, as if stopping you from doing something idiotic. “Oh no. Please, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop saying things that are so deep that it makes other people unable to sleep just thinking about them.”

“You make it sound like you don’t like it,” you chuckled as you turned your back on him to prepare his morning drink.

He shook his head. “Oh, I like it. I like it when you say things like that. It makes me double-think my life or just life in general. For the better.”

“Thanks. I don’t really have a lot of people to talk to so I can understand if you think I’m being too much.”

“You’re not being too much, I assure you that. You’re just wise… and I love that about you.”

You almost dropped the mug by turning almost instantly to face him. No one has appreciated you like that before, and it certainly felt good. You couldn’t stop—and didn’t want to stop—the smile that formed on your lips.

Click.

You were out of words if you were being honest so you instead chose to ask why he took a picture of you just then. “What was that for? The picture? I wasn’t even painting.”

“It’s for memories… beautiful ones,” he winked and you swore you felt something in your stomach that you never felt before. Oh, this can’t be happening.

“Um–anyway, here’s your coffee,” you said as you handed him the drink. You quickly changed the topic. “I was thinking maybe we should continue doing our paintings? You continue yours and I continue mine. If you need my help or you have any questions, just tell me.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

This was harder than Peter expected it to be. There were so many colors to choose from. How could he know what were the right colors to use? This was his first painting and he was being mentored by an incredible painter. He wanted this to be good. He wanted to impress you.

“You could always start with orange or yellow,” you said as you noticed him struggling.

“I feel like I need a reference just to know where the orange starts to blend with yellow.”

“Okay,” you agreed with him. “The internet has a lot of pictures of the sunrise.”

“I know, but I kinda want my own?” he shrugged. “Those pictures are the sunrise from other people’s eyes that they took from their cameras. I want to know the color of the sunrise from my perspective, you know? It’s just that I just realized I’m doing a sunrise painting and I haven’t even seen the sun actually rise… I want to see it for myself and then take my own pictures of it while it happens. Maybe then I could connect more with my painting.”

You stopped painting as you stared at him, feeling extremely proud that you couldn’t help but grin. “You want to connect more with your painting?” you repeated.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s do it. Tomorrow, let’s meet up at the park early in the morning just before the sun rises. I’ll take you to my secret spot.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m excited,” he smiled and you reciprocated it. He then picked up his camera again to take pictures of you.

By now, the background of your painting was finished. A white picket fence, on the back of it was a brick-walled house. A figure was in front, but it was yet to be painted on. The outline of the man was the only blank surface left on your canvas.

Click.

You were glad Peter still hadn't asked any questions about your painting.

DAY 4.

Different time, different place, different day.

You immediately saw Peter the moment you were close to the park. It wasn’t hard to spot him since it was early and not a lot of people roamed the place just yet—only the ones who jog there every day.

You didn’t notice him click his camera when you rushed towards him.

“Good morning!” Of course, he couldn’t forget about his daily greeting. In response, you greeted him back.

“And before you offer me coffee, I’d like to take you to my favorite coffee shop later. My treat. That is, of course, if you only want to.”

“I’d love to,” you smiled. “Let’s go.”

You held his hand and Peter swore he felt some kind of electric shock. A shock that was so addicting he was willing to get electrocuted if it meant getting to hold you much longer.

“We’re here,” you announced and Peter was suddenly brought back to earth. The ‘secret spot’ you mentioned was a little hill that was just a mile hike away from the park. The pathway entrance was covered with trees so it was concealed from most people. The view from up there was insanely breathtaking. He could clearly see the city bay and he was sure the sun would rise from where the city bay ended. You still held his hand and he assumed you just forgot you were holding it in the first place. There was no way you would hold his hand for this long.

You absolutely did not forget. But you didn’t do it on purpose either. See, the thing in your stomach that you felt yesterday always visited you whenever he was in your presence. For some reason, there was a need for your body to touch his, and as much as you tried to control it, there was no containing it. That was what happened. Your hand acted on its own and it didn’t want to let his hand go. It was kind of embarrassing and you just wished he didn’t mind it.

Oh, he didn’t mind it, that’s for sure. In fact, he was enjoying it. Although it was taking everything in him not to wrap his arm around your shoulders and keep you close.

“Look,” you pointed at the sun that was starting to peek from where the bay ended in your perspective. And there it was, the sun slowly and magnificently rising above the waters. As much as Peter didn’t want to let go of your hand, he needed both of his hands to capture the moment. You glanced at him as you wanted to watch his reaction to his first time witnessing the sunrise. And while his face was covered by his camera as he took a picture of the scene, you saw his lips form a peaceful smile. You found yourself looking back at the sun with the same peaceful smile on your lips.

You knew he was done taking pictures when the once-darkened place was brightened up by the star that was the sun. It was evident since he lowered the camera from his face and adjusted the strap to let it hang by his neck comfortably. What you didn’t know, though, was that before he put his camera down, he sneakily took a photo of your face joined by the hues of the sun.

“This is our secret spot now,” said Peter.

“Yup,” you laughed. “So, coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he teased, offering his hand for you to take.

Peter brought you to a little cafe not far from the park, it was located near a library which you reminded yourself you would visit some other time in the future.

You were taking your last sip of coffee when you heard the familiar click of his camera. This time you actually posed a peace sign for the picture. Peter chuckled at this, and in return, it made you laugh as well. He seized the opportunity to take another picture.

Click.

“It's nice here… the staff, the view, the ambiance, the food, and of course, the coffee,” you commented.

“So, now you get why this is my favorite coffee shop?”

“Correction. This is our favorite coffee shop now.”

DAY 5.

The next day, you met up back at your studio apartment. After your usual morning greetings and coffees, both of you were busy doing your own paintings. You looked over at Peter, seeing him so focused on his painting. You suddenly had an idea.

After one last stroke to complete the body of the faceless person you were painting, you stopped. You stood up and went to the table where Peter put his camera on. He didn’t notice you, he was too busy to even notice you standing. You carefully and quietly put the strap over your head and adjusted it to your comfort. You walked little steps towards him, positioning yourself just behind him where you could see his back as he worked on his painting on one of your easels. You adjusted your eye to the viewfinder and just when you found the perfect view, you clicked its shutter.

Click.

The familiar click of his camera forced his eyes to look away from his painting. He looked quizzically at you. When he realized what you were doing, he smiled widely as he carefully put his paintbrush in a brush holder.

“What are you doing?” he laughed. God, you loved his face when he laughed. You couldn’t resist clicking the shutter for the second time.

“Nothing,” you chuckled. “Just continue what you’re doing. You’ll be the painter and I’ll be the photographer for today.”

Moments later, you probably had circled around Peter just to make sure you could capture every angle of him painting. He was smiling for most of them.

“Am I even doing this right?” he asked, gesturing for you to look at his painting.

You stood beside the stool he was sitting on. “You’re doing great. But I think you should blend this area a little bit more,” you said, moving closer as you pointed out the area you were talking about. “And you might want to go softer on your brush.”

“Have I told you how attractive you are when you teach me these things?” he said suddenly.

That caught you off guard, and you weren’t sure what to do so you just looked at him with an awkward smile. Peter didn’t know where his confidence came from, but all of a sudden, he dipped his pointer finger into the orange paint on his palette and smeared it on your cheek. Your mouth widened with shock but you immediately did the same thing to him. And so, you two had a full-on fight which ended up with both your clothes and faces covered with colorful paints.

“Oh, I have to take pictures of this,” he stated before running to the sink and washing his hands so he could hold his camera and not worry about smearing paint on it.

He got back quickly, asking you to do silly poses as he took your pictures. You did the same to him, instructing him to do ridiculously funny poses when you took his pictures. After a while, he set the camera down on a table facing the two of you and set it on a timer so he could take photos of both of you together. You two were having so much fun that none of you even cared or noticed that some of the poses you did were both of you being too close to each other’s bodies.

That was how the day went for the two of you. Covered with paint and indelible memories with each other.

And maybe even growing feelings towards one another.

DAY 6.

Same time, same place, different day.

“Your painting fully dried overnight,” you said excitedly as you opened the door for him. “Would you like to see it?”

“Well–good morning to you too,” he giggled. “Actually, can I go to the bathroom first? I really need to pee.”

“Oh-yes, of course,” you smiled, letting him inside. “It’s up there in the loft beside the bed. It’s the only bathroom so it’s not hard to find.”

As Peter went to pee, you decided to find a painting of yours similar to his sunrise. You were thrilled to show it to him.

You held your painting behind your back as Peter exited the bathroom and went to see his finished painting. “You can touch it,” you reminded him when you saw how his fingers hesitated to touch the canvas in fear of ruining what he’d done. He finally touched it, picking it up with his hand and stroking the piece of art with the other as he admired it. He did this. With his hands.

“It’s beautiful,” you commented. “You seem to be a natural. It doesn’t look like it was your first time. I’m proud of you.”

“Well, I had the best mentor, so…” he smirked. “But in all honesty, thank you so much. For introducing me to painting, for teaching me how to paint, for your wise words—everything. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you said before remembering the piece of art behind your back. “I have something I want to show you. But I’m getting tired just standing, so let’s sit on the couch.”

Once you both settled on the couch, you showed him your painting of the sunset. You put it side by side with his sunrise and it created a perfect contrast together. The same sun, taken from the same secret spot on top of that little hill, but at different times of the day.

“Unbelievable. They’re almost the same,” he whispered, wonder-struck. “May I ask why you painted a sunset?”

“I painted this during one of the hardest days in my life. Why a sunset? A sunset because it reminds me that even though the day is hard, there is an end to the day. A sunset… because it represents the opportunity to rest. It reminds me that if the sun can rest after a tiring day, then there is nothing wrong with closing your eyes for even just a moment.”

He looked at you with deep understanding. “Why did you paint a sunrise?” you asked.

“I’ve always known that a sunrise meant the start of another day. But only when I started to paint it and connect with it did I realize that there is more to that. Why a sunrise? A sunrise because it reminds me that another day isn’t only another ‘day’. It’s also another chance to live and take risks. A sunrise… because it represents the opportunity to start again. It reminds me that if the sun could come back up after a long dark night, then I can too.”

Your eyes glistened with tears as he said those words but you didn’t let him see it. Art really was a voice that spoke beyond thoughts and words. Those paintings weren’t just paintings, they were experiences. Your sunset was a symbol of rest—what you have always wanted to have after all those years. His sunrise was a symbol of hope—what he was searching for for the longest time.

You ended up framing the paintings and hanging them on your wall beside each other. Together, they created the most beautiful contrasting artwork. The two paintings became one—it was like they were always meant to be beside each other.

Click.

“You know, I went through the photos you took while I was painting. They’re really good. The angles? they’re perfect. If you ever want to change careers, just tell me,” he joked.

“I think I’ll stick to painting,” you chuckled. “But thank you, I mean, I had a great mentor so that’s probably why the photos turned out good.”

“You mean me? I didn’t even teach you as far as I can remember.”

“Well, not literally. But when you take pictures, I observe you and the ways you hold the camera. So, I definitely got my ‘skill’ from you,” you admitted.

“You observe me?”

You noticed his lips slowly form a smirk and only then did you realize what you just revealed. “Uhh-let’s not m-make it a big d-deal,” you nervously laughed, feeling the anxiety creep up on you. You never knew how to deal with social situations like this. When things went awkward or you didn’t know what to say, you ran. Hence why you never had a long-time friend. Peter was the only one you lasted this long with.

“I was just teasing you,” he smiled, stroking your arms with his hands to calm you down. You didn’t know how he knew you were slightly panicking on the inside. But somehow, he did. And then he smiled at you with the softest and most caring smile you’d ever seen and suddenly the anxiety and the panic shifted into a feeling of comfort.

You had never felt like this before.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours, and almost in an instant, the once bright day outside your windows turned into a dark night.

Time really did fly when you were with someone you loved.

Loved.

None of you would admit it yet, but it was definitely there.

“It’s time for me to go…” he announced.

Before he could fully stand up and start to make his way to the door, you held his wrist to stop him. He looked at you with confusion, but the glint in his eyes said a lot more—he hoped you would ask him to stay.

And that you did.

“You can stay here tonight…” you whispered. “Only if you want to, of course.”

“Do you want me to stay?” he softly asked, glancing at your hand that held his wrist before looking at you again.

“Yes.”

DAY 7.

Different time, same place, different day.

Peter woke up earlier than usual and yet he felt that the sleep he had taken was the most satisfying he ever had. Why? Well, it was because he slept next to you.

Let’s take a few steps back…

Yesterday night when Peter was about to leave, you insisted on letting him stay. He offered to take the couch but you felt guilty that you were about to sleep on a soft mattress while he would sleep on an old couch downstairs so you told him that it was fine if he slept next to you on your bed. He was hesitant because he respected your boundaries but eventually you were able to come to an agreement to put a pillow in between both of you to not make things awkward. None of you knew how it happened, but when you woke up, the pillow was moved to the floor and your hand and his were almost touching. It seemed like your bodies naturally gravitated towards each other—but of course, none of you would admit that. At least not yet.

He quietly made his way down to where you were painting, careful not to disturb you. He grabbed the camera along the way. He would never get tired of capturing photos of you while painting—you were a master of arts in one of their truest forms. You were sitting on a stool with an easel in front.

He pulled the camera close to his face, aligning his good eye with the viewfinder. He adjusted the lens, zooming it in your hand that held a really old—it seemed to be your favorite—paintbrush. But before he could click the shutter, he noticed how your hands were shaking as you stared at the painting. He immediately put down his camera and stared at it as well and only then did he realize that you haven’t made any progress on your painting today. The painting was almost complete, the only thing missing was the face of the man in the middle. Up until now, he was still faceless.

“You know, this is the longest it’s taken me to paint a person,” you said, feeling his presence behind you. “It’s just a face. Why is it so hard?” you sighed with shaking lips. You were battling the tears that threatened to fall from your eyes.

For the first time ever, he didn’t know how to reply.

“No–don’t answer that,” you let out a breathy laugh, but there was pain underneath. “That was a rhetorical question. Of course, I know why it’s so hard.”

With shaking hands that you tried so hard to steady, you started coloring the face with a skin tone color that matched the rest of the man’s body.

One stroke.

He didn’t know what to say, but hopefully, he knew what to do. Peter moved beside you, intertwining his right hand with your left as you painted with your right.

Two strokes.

You felt him squeeze your hand, doing his best to comfort you.

Three strokes.

Painting the structure of the face was done. Now onto the details of the face.

You closed your eyes, trying to dig up the memories you had with this man. But it was hard since the man you were painting only stayed for a little while in your life.

You opened your eyes, picking out a thin paintbrush that was perfect for little details. You started with the lips.

One stroke.

Peter’s presence was giving you not only comfort but courage as well.

Two strokes.

And then another.

The pinkish-red lips stared at you from the painting. You let out a breath. Next was the nose.

You picked up your pencil to draw some lines for a little bit. You only did some to serve as your guide. Next, you cleaned the thin paintbrush before dipping it in another color—black.

One stroke.

You followed the lines you drew. But they were just lines, you have to paint the details to actually make the nose specific from the rest.

Two strokes.

And then you did some shadows with the outlines to blend them with the skin. It was done.

“I think I’ll continue later,” you sighed sadly, squeezing his hand. “I need to take a breather. S-sorry this is hard for me.”

“It’s okay,” he smiled, squeezing your hand back. “Do you want me to join you?” he softly asked.

“No-I want to be alone for a moment,” you smiled to show him you appreciated his concern.

He watched you leave and was alone for a moment. He glared at the painting, wondering what this person could have done to hurt you this much. How could someone even hurt the most precious person to ever walk on earth?

He heard the door open loudly, making him turn immediately. You were at the other side of the door, looking up at him with your eyes red evidently from crying. He walked past everything—the table and the clutter on the floor—hastily just so he could hug you.

He carefully closed the door as you leaned into him. Your body was weak due to repressed emotions now releasing all at once. He noticed your knees slowly giving up and he guided both of you to sit on the floor.

The camera, the photos, the paintbrush, the painting—all were forgotten the moment he wrapped his arms around you. He cradled your face with his hands, brushing your cheek and wiping your tears.

“I’m a mess,” you said, sniffing.

“You’re beautiful,” he responded, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?” he cooed.

“Will it help?”

“I think so. But it’s still up to you,” he replied honestly.

You nodded. “I know you have questions, ask them.”

“Who’s the man in the painting?”

“My father. Or at least what I remember of him.”

His back was resting on the wall as you leaned into his side, his arm was still wrapped around you.

“And the house in the background, is that your family’s house?”

“It’s the orphanage. I spent my whole childhood there. That’s where I grew up.”

“Did he visit you there?”

“No,” you laughed painfully. “Remember what I told you before? That the best thing about painting is that I can paint whatever I want to see or happen? That painting is one of them.”

He was listening intently. He didn’t want to say anything because he knew that you didn’t want any advice at the moment, you just wanted a listener.

“I never met my mother. The caregivers at the orphanage told me she died when she birthed me. When I asked them how I got there they told me about my father. He took care of me for 4 months, and then I think his heart broke whenever he saw my face because I looked a lot like my mother. It came to a point where he couldn’t look at me or care for me anymore so he put me in that orphanage. I guess the heartbreak was bigger than the joy that I brought.

“I always imagined him visiting me, getting me out of that place, and bringing me home. But that didn’t happen. So I coped with drawing and painting. Until now, I still wonder what could’ve happened if he came back for me… hence why I’m doing the painting.”

“Do you have any pictures of him?” he asked.

“I only had one. It was a picture of my parents at their wedding. I used to stare at it every day until I lost it and I would never forgive myself for being so careless back then. The last time I held that picture and stared at it was when I was 7. It’s been too long and I can’t seem to remember his face that much.”

“Is that why it’s so hard for you to paint his face?”

“Yes. But also because of the realization that my wishes only come true in my paintings. I wanted him to come back for me or at least visit me. I didn’t get that visit, so I’m getting it in the painting.”

“Have you tried looking for him?”

You nodded. “Of course. But you can’t find who doesn’t want to be found.”

“Did you at least have any people who cared for you like a parent?” he asked, sympathy evident in his expression.

“I had this one particular caregiver who made me experience what it was like to have a mother. She was the one who gave me my first paintbrush and painting set. She was the one who made me discover that I had a talent for drawing and painting.

“But she didn’t stay for long because she had to leave the orphanage permanently to take care of her own family. She told me something happened and she had to take care of a little boy.”

Peter’s face furrowed from the familiarity of that exact situation, but he let it slide eventually. This was your story, this wasn’t about him.

“I have some questions for you too,” you chuckled. Tears were no longer falling on your face. Peter was right again. Indeed, talking about your past helped.

“Shit. Do I have to get nervous?” he joked.

“It depends on what your answers are gonna be,” you joked back. “How did you get your camera? Did you buy it or is it from someone you look up to?”

“The answer is the latter. I had a teacher once in high school, he wasn’t a professional photographer but we shared the same interests. I remember the first time he stepped into the room to teach English but instead of focusing on him the first thing I noticed was his DSLR camera. It was kept and hidden in a bag but I know a camera bag when I see one. I think, over time, he noticed I was always glancing at his camera that one day he called me to stay after his class and gave it to me. He told me that I needed it more.”

“Were you two close?” you asked.

“We were, yeah.”

“Where is he now?”

“He died a year ago. He’s gone now but I still treasure every lesson he’s taught me.”

“And your parents?”

“They died when I was 4 from a plane crash. Since then, I stayed with my aunt before she was gone too.”

“I’m sorry, Pete. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine. I feel comfortable around you—the heavy things don’t feel as heavy anymore.”

Silence surrounded the apartment, calming the two of you as you held each other. No one needed to speak at the moment, just you in his arms were enough.

Day almost turned into night and you finally stood up.

“You don’t have to finish it today,” he said as he noticed you staring at the painting anxiously.

“I know. But I want to.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Then I’ll be there with you.”

He walked towards you and intertwined his hand with yours.

“Thank you.”

Together, you walked until you were in front of the easel again. He picked up the paintbrush and held it in front of you. He gave you an encouraging look and you smiled as you took the brush with courage.

“Here we go.”

You did the eyebrows first, it didn’t take you as long as you did when you did the nose and lips.

The eyes.

The hardest part because the eyes were what looked into the soul.

One stroke.

Two strokes.

Three strokes.

You weren’t shaking anymore.

Four strokes.

Five strokes.

“You can do it,” Peter encouraged.

Six strokes.

Seven Strokes.

“You’re doing great,” his hand held yours tighter.

The last stroke.

You did it. You painted your father. You remembered his face. And above all, you painted him in front of the orphanage, coming back to get you.

You smiled.

Peter stiffened beside you. His eyes widened as he looked at your father in the painting.

“Peter?” you called his name.

He stayed unmoving.

“Pete? Are you okay?”

“That’s him…” he pointed at your father.

You were confused. “Who?”

“My teacher in high school. The one I told you about. The one who gave me my camera,” he collected his camera from the table. “The one who gave me this.”

You were speechless and shocked to the core. “Are you sure?”

“It makes sense now,” he continued. “He once told me in our conversations that the greatest mistake he’d ever made was leaving something he loved because he was so scared he would never be deserving of it.”

You didn’t know what to feel.

“But now I realize, he wasn’t talking about a ‘thing’, he was talking about someone. You.”

“Did he try to come back for me?” you asked, curious but you weren’t hopeful.

“I-I don’t know… I’m sorry.”

“I-It’s okay,” you sniffed, wiping your cheeks. Funny, you weren’t even sure when the tears started to cascade down on them.

“You mentioned your teacher died last year, right? That means he’s…”

“Y/N, I’m sorry,” he softly spoke, even his eyes couldn’t help but tear up slightly.

“It’s not your fault. Besides, he wasn’t even there for me for most of my life. It’s fine,” you reasoned, telling him it was all good but another tear still slipped from your eye.

He hugged your side and stayed like that for a good while as he tried to think of another subject to talk about to keep you from hurting any longer. His eyes caught the brush holder and focused on an old paintbrush that you use almost every time. It seemed to be your favorite. The marks on the wooden handle told him the age of the brush; the bristles that were still intact and usable told him just how much you take care of your art supplies.

“That paintbrush… you use it every time, is that your favorite?” he already knew the answer but he still asked just to distract you.

You didn’t need to follow where his eyes were looking or ask him anything, you already knew the brush he was talking about. “Yes, it is my favorite. Remember when I told you I had this caregiver in the orphanage that gave me my first painting set and paintbrush?” you said before picking up the brush. “This is the paintbrush.”

“You must’ve taken good care of it all these years,” he commented.

“I did. It’s special and it holds a lot of good memories.”

“What’s your favorite memory?” he asked, interested.

“Me as a little kid doing my first painting with my caregiver. She was encouraging me every step of the way.”

“What’s her name?”

“May.”

His eyes widened with realization. He remembered asking his aunt what her job was before she took him in after the incident that killed his parents. She had told him she was a caregiver at an orphanage. But the city is wide and big, it never occurred to him that that orphanage was the same one you were from.

“May Parker,” he breathed out.

You looked at him. “Yes! That’s her–I forgot her last name but that’s her. Do you know her?”

“She’s my aunt.”

Now everything made sense and all the why’s were answered. No wonder why you felt a sense of familiarity the first time he put his camera down and you saw his face. No wonder why your heart jumped when you learned his name. May Parker… Peter Parker… holy shit. How come you didn’t notice that before?

“You’re the little boy she always talked about. Her little nephew who loved taking pictures so much,” you said, eyes once again starting to tear up.

“And you’re the little painter girl she always mentioned,” he smiled. “She promised me she would introduce me to you but life got busy and that never happened.”

“But look at us now. I guess fate still found its way to introduce us to each other,” you stated softly.

Peter once again cradled your face with his hands, slowly stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “Can I tell you something?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“That day I met you at the park, I was at my ending point with photography. That day, I was determined to find the last project worthy of my dying passion. Then I met you. And in just a matter of days, I knew you, and it changed my life,” he started.

“You taught me lessons about art and life. You gave me something I’ve been trying to get back for a long time—hope.

“Above all, you made me remember why I even started taking pictures. You made me realize my purpose. I know now that I never lost the flame, the candle just stopped burning. But you… you rekindled it and suddenly it was back again… and it’s stronger and hotter than ever.

“Now, I can admit, to anyone and myself, I love photography. This is my passion. It’s not just the flame… but the fire within me that sways with the wind.”

He felt your hands gently wrap around his wrists as he continued caressing your face. “Oh, Peter…” you whispered.

“T-there is something beyond words that I feel for you. I-I don't know how to properly say it but I’m still gonna try,” he whispered back. “You’re not just the muse of my favorite pictures, you are my camera. Without you, I’m unable to reach my full potential. You’re the perfect angle I’ve always wanted to find. And now that I’ve found you… everything makes sense. The blank spaces in my heart and in my life aren’t blank anymore because your name is now written all over them.”

You moved closer so your forehead could touch his. “And you, Peter… are the colors that I paint on my canvases. The sunrise to my sunset. Ever since you came, the meaningless life I had before became meaningful.”

Silence surrounded you for a moment. Your foreheads were still touching while both your eyes were closed. Tears stained both your cheeks as the two of you couldn’t stop crying out of adoration and love for each other.

“All the ones who guided us are gone now,” you breathed out.

He placed a long kiss on your forehead before speaking.

“From now on, it’s only you and I.”

After uncovering the past and embracing the present, you were looking forward to the future.

It truly was amazing how art could connect people together.

The hopeless photographer was once again hopeful;

The restless painter wasn’t exhausted anymore.

And soon the two of you would realize that the love you shared was a testament of…

Interlacing fates,

Intertwining lines,

and

Connecting arts.

SLYTHERHEIGN TAGLIST: @writingstoraes @joshiiieeenesx

TASM!PETER PARKER TAGLIST: @mymilkducts @i-am-woman-strong @lauraneedstochill @jeanettexkillian @ms-mandalore @enaraism @alessandralol @sad-darksoul @sincericida @mentallystablepotato @mich0731 @logolepsic-insomniac @k0miiki @dreamsarecloserwithyou @jumilzzz @primroseparker @preciousbabypeter @myheartonthemove @rebecca-johnson-28 @silkholland @ellievickstar @okkulta @geekygamerchick @starqwerty20 @the-quiet-observer @softiepeterpan @willowhaired @sflame15-blog

me, as the author, connecting with the story through writing is further proof of how art connects us all together. i can only hope that i wrote this well so that you can connect with it too through reading. thank you all for being patient, this is for all of you.

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abbu0414 · 3 months

Text

Time Apart (Simon Riley x Reader)

Word Count: 788

♪ Song to Listen To: Slow Dancing in A Burning Room by John Mayer

It had been weeks. No. Months since you had last seen him. Maybe that was just an exaggeration, but he was the first boyfriend you had that had a job like this. You had been together for about 5 or 6 months and you and Simon had been inseparable since and at the last possible second, he was summoned for a mission for work. This mission was just for 4 or 5 weeks, which in retrospect wasn’t that long, but this was the first time being apart from each other. The very first thing that he told you was that this mission was no contact. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t risk your safety like that.

Week 2 and 3 weren’t that bad and you just made a routine to keep yourself busy. It didn’t help that you were also an anxious overthinker. Every night you would lay awake thinking about Simon and his chances of coming back to you.

“No, he’s coming back.” Is what you would tell yourself every night before you fell asleep in his too big workout shirt. His scent alone would be enough to lull you asleep in your shared bed and strong enough for you to ignore the missing body that was supposed to be next to you.

By week 4 and 5, you slowly started to eat less and sleep more. You don’t know why you reacted this way to him being gone, it’s not like you weren’t used to it. Your dad had been in the military for 20 years and it wasn’t uncommon for him to be gone for months at a time. So why is this different?

You had finally convinced yourself to swing your legs out of bed and drag yourself into the kitchen. Luckily, you had showered after work so all you had to do was put on pajama shorts and Simon's big t-shirt. Boiling some pasta water and putting on your headphones on full blast made you feel better and you knew it would melt away the sadness. While you were lost in your own thoughts and swaying to the music, you failed to hear the door unlocking, and the soft but heavy thud of duffle bags. A long sigh escaped his lips.

“Oh shit the pasta”, you muttered to yourself. Simon’s steps drew closer to you, taking in your body like a parched man looking at water in the desert. Heavy footsteps drawing into a close. You feel your hair being pushed to the side and your neck being peppered with kisses.

“Holy shit!” You turn around quickly, with your headphones falling off your head just to be met with his adoring brown eyes.

“Miss me love?” He whispers with a smile.

“Oh my god” tears run down your face and you jump into his arms. He didn’t hesitate to support your body with his hands around your torso while your legs locked around his waist. “I’ve missed you so much Simon.” You buried your face in his neck and took in his overwhelming cologne, the smell of pine on his tactical vest and the cold sensation of his dog tags hitting your chest. He sets you on the counter gently, trapping you in between his arms. You put your hands to his face and lift his intimidating balaclava to look at his bare face. You mark all the new scars and take notice of the one on his lips. You kiss all the scars and then his lips. He takes a moment to look at you.

“Is that my shirt?” He asks, looking down at the material hanging off your body and you shrug your shoulders. “It looks good on you, keep it.” It’s his turn to return the affection and he starts at your collar bones and works his way up your neck and eventually lands on your lips. This time he hooks his hand around the back of your neck for support and kisses you deeply. Nothing beats the feeling of an ‘I missed you’ kiss. You enjoy this feeling as you wrap your arms around his neck. You hop off the counter and take his hand in yours as you go to his bags to help him put his stuff away.

“Let’s get you settled back in so we can eat and you can tell me about your trip, the unclassified stuff anyways” You smile at him.

“Anything for you.”

After dinner and his much needed shower you laid in bed with his arms around you and your legs entangled with each other. It was the best sleep you both had in weeks.

#cod mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost fanfiction #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #reader insert #x reader

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frogserotonin · 1 year

Note

Hiiii, I badly need more Anthony Lockwood x reader on this app so could you do one where reader joins the agency and there are immediate sparks between her and lockwood (he's always flirting with her, he always does small things for her and he always protects her first in a mission) and one day he gets really injured trying to save her during their missions and at home she's really worried when patching him up and they end up confessing to eachother after they have a mini argument. Then they kiss and make up or makeout 😘

god yeah anon, i get what you mean, the reason im writing is literally bc i need more fanfic 😭 i have read every fucking lockwood x reader on here and ao3 if ya'll want anything written just ask :D - lots of love, mars

everything - anthony lockwood x reader

warnings: violence, ooc, kissing, cursing

You weren’t exactly sure when it had started, this weird tension between you and Anthony Lockwood. It was an odd thing that the both of you left unspoken about, despite the numerous jokes, comments and questions from Lucy and George.

Maybe it had been when you’d first joined the agency. When he’d opened the door to see who was knocking and gone completely slack jawed at the sight of you, before collecting himself and adorning his prize-winning smirk.

“Well hello love, how may we help you?” he’d said, casually resting against the doorframe.

“Are you Lockwood of Lockwood and Co?” your cheeks had reddened from the cold and nothing else. Most definitely not because of the casual pet name he’d thrown in.

“That would indeed be me.” he nodded, easy smirk still resting on his lips. “I assume you’re here for an interview then, come on in and we’ll get you sorted.”

After you’d passed the interview with flying colours, he’d told you how much he looked forward to working with you with a wink and a charming toothy grin. Even now, your heart rate went up a considerable amount every time you saw that fucking smile.

Maybe it had been your first case, when you and Lockwood had had to hide from a very persistent Type Two and you’d dragged Lockwood into the nearest open room and shoved him into the wall. You’d pinned him there with one hand on his arm, pressing it to the wall, and the other over his mouth. Afterwards he’d tried to charm his way out of your teasing his red face.

You didn’t know when it’d started but far out, you knew that it was there and that if nothing happened soon you might just kiss him the next time he speaks.

~~~

“George, Luce, angel, we’ve got a new case.” Lockwood called from the hall, placing the phone down and smiling widely. (Damn that smile, it made your heart weak and your brain fuzzy) “We’re going as soon as possible so it’s best we get ready as fast as we can.”

And that was that. You all packed the necessities, like you always did. You all loaded into a taxi and waited patiently until you were at the clients house, like you always did. Lockwood checked with you to see if you had everything you needed, like he always did.

“George!” Lucy called from her place halfway up the stairs. “Come with me, we need to check out the drawing room you read about.” You almost missed the wink she directed your way.

Great, now you and Lockwood were alone. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Shall we?” he offered his hand and pulled you towards some of the creepier looking closed doors, not-so-discreetly pulling you behind him. Slowly he opens the furthest door, nothing happens. You open the second door, and suddenly you’re thrown against the wall.

“Y/N!” Lockwood cried, pulling his rapier out and swinging it at the ghost that’d materialised. For a bit he succeeded in pushing it back, allowing you time to reorient yourself, before he too was thrown away from the ghost, his rapier landing near his head. You groaned and hauled yourself up, grabbing your own rapier and stabbing at the ghost. It disappeared, then reappeared behind you, causing you to swing around wildly, accidentally putting yourself in the ghosts close vicinity. You felt your limbs start to lock up as you held eye contact with your doom, hoping and praying that Lucy and George had found the source and were covering it with the silver net. The ghost moved closer and closer to you, and you silently mourned all the things you never got to say.

And then, just as you’d accepted your fate, Anthony fucking Lockwood pushed you out of the way. You didn’t have time to dwell on that though, the both of you rolling in opposite directions so as to avoid the ghost swiping at you, before disappearing. You sat up and looked at Lockwood, catching his eye and sending a wobbly smile his way.

“You okay?” he asked, voice a bit strained. You nodded and asked him the same question.

“Yeah…I’m good.” he said, lying through his teeth.

“The fuck you are.” You forced your sore body to stand up so you could walk towards him and check him for injuries.

“Y/N! Lockwood!” Lucy ran towards you, halting your endeavour. “Are you two okay?”

~~~

The taxi drive home was awkward and tense. You fought a raging battle against the urge to call him out for being injured, to ask him what was wrong.

When you got home you dragged Anthony into the kitchen and sat him down on a chair.

“Tell me where the fuck you’re hurt right now or I swear I will find out what your worst fear is and make it real.” Lockwood chuckled.

“Love, I’m fine, really.”

“Don’t lie to me, Lockwood.”

Then silence and a slight guilt and still, somehow, that damned fucking tension. So you, do what any normal person would do and pull his jacket off, immediately spotting where he was injured due to the blood staining his white shirt. More silence and more guilt, that stays in the air while you wrap his cut.

“I’m sorry-” He starts but you’re quick to cut him off.

“If you were sorry you’d stop throwing yourself at danger at every given opportunity. You’re so fucking reckless, all the damn time!” You didn’t mean to start berating him but now you couldn’t stop, because he did need to hear this. “Do you know how much you worry us? Do you think George and Lucy and I like seeing you get injured? Goddamn it we care so much about you. Why do you pull these stunts?”

You only now realise how close your faces are. You could feel his breath on you face.

“I don’t think you realise how deeply I care for you.” he whispered, voice husky and low. “You are...everything. I can't breathe when you're not around me and I can't think when you're near me. I would set the entire world aflame if you asked me to. You're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I sleep. I love you so much it hurts my heart and my head and my entire being."

You didn't know what to say to respond to that. You were a mess. God maybe-

Fuck it.

His lips were soft against yours. His hair between your fingers, softer. His hands on the sides of your face, gentle. You were kissing him and he was kissing you and you were losing your mind.

"Darling, you drive me insane." he whispered against your lips, matching smiles painting both of your faces.

"I love you too, idiot."

"Of course you do."

#anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lucy carlyle #george karim #mars's fanfiction stuffs ✨

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blue-jisungs · 10 months

Text

best years

a/n. soft soob :(

warnings. alcohol consumption, throwing up (nothing too graphic), cursing

soobin woke up slowly, the sunlight dancing on his face and warning it up pleasantly. he crooked an eye open and noticed you’re gradually waking up from slumber too. you nuzzled your head further onto the crook of his neck, the smell of your hair hitting his nostrils.

“good morning” you mumbled sleepily, only to yawn after. your fingers started drawing hearts on his chest and his thoughts couldn’t help but wander.

he will never forget how shocked he was when one day he opened the door and saw… you. voice got stuck in his throat, lips parting in shock.

“are… what– y/n?” he whispered, the ability to form full sentences flying out of the window. why you, his ex of 3 months, are here? especially that he was the one who fucked up?

“i… i missed you” you murmured, looking at him. soobin’s heart swelled; he knew what he had to do.

he slowly swallowed, deciding to turn off his brain and just got things off his chest.

“you've got a million reasons to hesitate… but, darling, the future's better than yesterday” he breathed out. your eyes widened, realising that he still… loved you.

“soobin, i– I wasted so much time on people that reminded me of you and…” you started and he ran a hand through his hair nervously

“and i gave you a million reasons to walk away. but you’re here. give me one more chance, i won’t fuck this up” soobin pleaded.

you just pulled him into a kiss.

he noticed it a while ago; it was hard not to. your leg was bouncing up and down under the table, causing it to shake slightly.

he put a hand on yours, laying atop of your thigh, looking at you worriedly. the colors from your face drained, looking just like boiled sujebi dough in the soup on the table.

“i’m fine” you murmured, shaking your head. taehyun and beomgyu were standing strong, however your drinking companion – yeonjun – was mere moments from passing out.

soobin let out an airy breath and pulled away.

“let me know if you’re feeling unwell, okay?” he asked, voice stern yet soft enough to not make you feel uncomfortable.

as he leaned away and let you return to the conversation (if you were even able call it like that, based on the oldest’s incoherent answers). your boyfriend returned to discuss the ridiculousness of–

with a unpleasant screech of chair scraping against the floor, you ran out of the room.

soobin wasted no time rushing after you, ignoring the other customers’ judging looks. the door from the bathroom slammed loudly as you pushed them open, grateful that no one was occupying it.

soobin held your hair as you returned the consumed alcohol, the other hand stroking your back in a reassuring motion.

moments later he announced that you two are going home, meeting with kai’s sad pout.

“i have to carry her home, she cannot stand up” he sighed, pure care in his voice. you were blinking slowly, trying to fight the heaviness of your eyelids. before beomgyu asked why, he added with a tender smile: “she did all these things for me when i was half a man for her”

soobin held you tightly, hand on the back of your head. his heart was ripping apart with every sound of the sob leaving your lips.

“it’ll be okay, trust me” he whispered, for the nth time that night. lulling you, swinging gently back and forth your hands gripped tighter the material of his t-shirt “i know. i know…”

your pain was his pain too.

he leaned his head against yours, inhaling your scent to somehow calm down. his eyes were watery, your suffering piercing through his bones.

“i’ll build a house out of the mess and all the broken pieces” soobin whispered, your breathing slowly getting more steady “i'll make up for all of your tears…”

both of you were crying until the sun rose, shining tenderly on your tired faces. eventually you fell asleep in his arms and your heart at peace.

“–hey, you’re here?”

you were looking up, your chin resting on his chin, his hair were sticking in different directions, proof of how much he shifted in his sleep. that’s why he was so mentally absent right now…?

“oh, yeah. sorry, i zoned out” soobin giggled, dimples showing up.

“well, i noticed. you’ve been staring at me for like, ten minutes” a playful chuckle left your lips and he just pulled you closer, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

he fell silent again, his thumb drawing shapes on your skin.

“soob, what are you thinking about?” your soft voice made him grin.

“what if i showed you?” he asked before he could process what he’s saying.

you frowned, curious.

well, fuck it.

soobin pulled away, the duvet falling off his body. he rubbed his eye, still a bit drowsy from his slumber. as he looked through his night stand you peeked over his arm.

“i was thinking about you. us. and well, uh… i didn’t have a plan yet, but–“ soobin started and let out an excited gasp “here it is!”

he turned around, his bare face glowing with joy. soobin smacked his lips, frowning suddenly.

“i’m having second thoughts but…” he explained upon your confused expression.

his huge palm grabbed yours and handed you a small, velvety box.

it was just like someone took your breathing ability away.

“i’ll give you the best years” he hummed softly, his morning voice sending shivers down your spine. you traced the sides of the box, eyes watering “i promise, darling, you won’t regret”

you opened it but… it was empty.

“bin–!” you choked out, snapping your gaze at him. soobin let out a heart-warning laugh, the dimples making a guest appearance and making it hard to be mad at him.

“laying here with you made me feel at ease; you feel like home. i’ll give you the best years of your life. and i commit to you, and i love you, and i’ll nurture you no matter what” soobin said, putting the box away and grabbing your chin “but you’ll have to wait for the actual proposal, darling”

“i hate you” you laughed through your tears, hugging him tightly. soobin just grinned widely, heart thumping against his rib cage. he’ll take it as a future yes.

txt masterlist | event masterlist

taglist.@geniejunn ,, @luvhyun3 ,, @starlostseungmin ,, @elviransworld ,, @jnks6r ,, @sieunsgf ,, @ethereallino ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @duolingofanaccount ,, @slytherinshua ,, @stxrseungs,, @ka-ni-ma ,, @iliveforlixie ,, @ameliesaysshoo ,, @dazzlingligth ,, @mark-geolli ,, @l3visbby ,, @w3bqrl ,, @ddeonudepressions ,, @yourfavoritefreakyhan ,, @cinnamoroxie,, @kazmura ,, @primoppang

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lonleydweller · 16 days

Text

🥀Yandere Self aware Nubbins (TCM game) hcs🥀

This wasn't a request.. but I thought of the idea and figured it'd be a fun write

Warnings: yandere trope, obsessive behavior, 4th wall break, self aware character, stalking

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● I'm assuming for this concept that you're more than likely someone who mains Nubbins when it comes to playing as family. Always choosing him if someone else hasn't already chosen him during a match!

● The greasy feral man was your favorite, he could easily maneuver through gaps and crawlspaces to pursue victims, moved swiftly, and had helpful little traps you could set around. Little did you know the favoritism would be reciprocated.

● I mean he must be your favorite right? You play as him every chance you get! You always seem to have so much fun playing as him! He knew he was the best! Otherwise why would you choose him over the rest? The idea of being someone's favorite, your favorite, the favorite of what is essentially an omnipotent being to him, makes him giddy.

● He loathes whenever you're away from the game, or when you're unable to play as him in the match because someone else is. He dosen't want these pigs controlling him! He wants you to! Just you. You play him the best!

● You may notice when you play as survivor that all the hitchhiker players you encounter seem to struggle killing you. Even high level players seem to stopping irregularly, missing hits, going the opposite direction of you even after spotting you, and randomly falling over even when no one's barged them. Perhaps it was a simple bug? Lag? Or maybe you were just getting that good at the game?

● If you're playing as a family member and someone else has taken up Nubbins, then the issues aren't as prevalent. However the character still shows irregular behavior. Doing certain animations like stomping his foot, being stunned, or swinging at nothing, even when they're not doing anything that would warrant the animation to be played. Almost as if Nubbins was having a fit, but that would be ridiculous right? It's just lines of code.

● You may notice slight, changes in your game, ones you could easily brush off as luck. Struggling to get a certain perk in the skill tree? What do ya know you got all of them! Nubbins seems slightly faster than normal? Maybe you're just tripping yourself out! Were you struggling to hit victims sometimes? You're getting a few extra hits in now!

● Do you like hearing him talk? Do you smile or laugh whenever he says a line? Do you make comments and talk back thinking you're just talking to nothing? He seems to babble even more as you run around and slash as victims. Especially the lines you seen to like the most.

● Slowly the lines might change. He starts saying the lines he'd say to other characters, like cook, Johnny, leatherface, ect. Even when they're not anywhere in sight. Particularly lines that used words like we, us, our. Maybe they were nearby and you just didn't notice?

● Now I feel it would take awhile for Nubbins to do anything drastic such as look at you through a camrea, connect to other devices, or dig through personal information and files on whatever device you play the game on. If he eventually does however, it will certainly further his obsession. Especially if he finds out you're a fan of the original tcm movie, if you have merch, drawings, or even met his actor, it kicks his obsession into overdrive.

● Many of the irregularities you may notice can just be passed off as bugs, errors, player fault, or luck. Nothing strange. Nothing to indicate that the lines of code were sentient. At somepoint however, the occurrences get to the point they can't be just be brushed off as a faulty game.

● He starts speaking new lines, one's you know aren't in the base game. One's that are too specific. Too direct. Praising you, your skill, what a great team you two make. Insulting other players. Commenting on your appearance, your home, your voice, things you've been recently doing. Then the console won't turn off. The game keeps opening even after you close it. You get loded into rounds where there's no other players.

● Your best bet at this point is to throw out your whole console. Any tcm media too. Hoping he hasn't infected other devices, hoping he hasn't leaked into the real world. Could he? If he could do this what would stop him from going farther? Who says he can't come out from the movie itself? His original source? You'd never be able to know until it's too late.

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#writers on tumblr #dweller's writing #yandere slashers #Yandere nubbins #Yandere nubbins sawyer #Yandere nubbins slaughter #yandere tcm #Yandere tcm game #Tcm game x reader #tcm nubbins #tcm 1974

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emry-stars-art · 1 year

Text

I didnt mean to rediscover how much I like brainstorming and world building stuff but here we are - this time it’s (mostly) pirate Neil and shark Andrew flavored!

@tell-me-your-vision had some very good tags on the last post like this so of course I started thinking harder about it lol, you all know by now that the best way to get me to draw more is to leave ideas and questions in your tags 😘 it’s very interesting figuring out what parts I want to be drawn directly from the source animal and what I want to have artistic liberty with! Sometimes you just gotta say “it’s this way because I decided it is” and offer no more explanation, not even to yourself.

That being said. If the snippet interested you, find more of the unfinished scene here :D (and if you want to leave a comment… 👀)

I don’t know how clear this image is going to end up being, so here’s the important notes typed up:

Does [Andrew’s] missing fin cause maneuverability problems? Yep. Fins keep the body stable and streamlined in the water. No fin/half detached fins means Andrew spends a lot more energy to be equally as efficient while swimming. (That’s part of why he had more upper body strength than most mers.)

Does jelly Neil feel pain like humans? Not at all. Pain vs nociception - the detection of averse stimulus. So Neil can sense and respond to ‘painful’ stimuli, and he does feel some pain like a person would in his upper half, but it’s mostly just a sensation that he responds to. (This is dangerous. Less pain means he doesn’t realize how dire a situation may be.)

A second eyelid - like a crocodile/etc; a clear secondary eyelid that closes horizontally beneath the primary eyelid, developed to keep the eye safe and clear underwater. Why jelly Neil rarely ‘actually’ blinks

Pirate Neil’s prosthesis. Most of it is always hidden under clothes; it’s made of leather, copper, rubber, and cumaru wood. It was given to him by Stuart as soon as the man found out that Neil had lost his leg, and Stuart had it custom made through his vast connections. At one point in the timeline, Neil angrily takes it off to show a wary and lashing-out sharkDrew that he has also once been on the wrong end of a ‘whaler’s’ knife.

The tiny two panel comic in the bottom right corner: pirate Neil says “stop trying to stab me in the leg” while sharkDrew was fairly certain he just took out this pirate’s kneecap with his sharp rock

The snippet:

“And it was terrified. It’s second eyelids fluttered, it’s eyes were hazy. It held the rough stone ready in case Neil tried to get close again. It still wasn’t breathing right. It was still bleeding.

“Okay,” Neil said softly. He held his own hands out a little to the side. “I’m not going to hurt you more.”

The shark snarled, though it’s mouth never opened.

“I didn’t hurt you in the first place. They’re still finning mers?”

Neil tried to step in, slowly, and was met with another vicious swing. He was ready this time, avoiding the sharp stone neatly.

“Hey, thing. Keep moving like that and you’ll bleed to death.”

Another attempt, and another swing. Neil looked at the place it’s fin had been, now a horrible, gaping wound on its back. He could see the meat beneath the blood. If he didn’t help soon, the shark would go into shock, if not simply die here on the rocks.

“Do you even realize what’s at stake for you?”

#oops i was so worried about links I forgot tags #uhh #mer au #jellyneil au #sharkdrew au #mermay #aftg #fan art #my art #all for the game #neil josten #andrew minyard #brainstorming #sketchbook #shark #basking shark #jellyfish #sharkdrew #mer research notes

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luveline · 2 years

Note

hi lovely!! could i request rockstar!remus where he and reader (established relationship) escape from a party to be alone together<33 thank u !!!

yes omg omg omg you can

You're looking at this girl that could've been a model but chose to be a singer talk about her miraculous dip into acting and think to yourself, Fuck, I wish I had been a nepotism baby.

The world is much, much bigger for her. She talks about dinner with foriegn royals, summers in Thailand and winters in Dubai. Her voice is scratched on coke and her pupils are wide as two-pence pieces to prove it. She's an example of what may be half the room.

Rich kids turned rich adults. Most mean well. Some even turned out tolerable. None can make you smile like Remus can, his lips to the top of your ear and his front to your back.

"They just loved her audition," he says. "It had nothing to do with her dad, or his dad, or their billionaire cousin once removed. Seriously."

You turn your head to show your listening to him without making it too obvious and say, "Be nice, Remus. Didn't you hear about her near brush with death? She was one missed massage from paraplegism."

"We need to get out of here," he says desperately. "I can't fucking stand these people."

You reach back and find his hand to give it a great squeeze. Yes, please.

Remus pulls you away. He's quickly met with questions from a handful of people you know but don't know, know of, know from TV and the silver screen, from toothpaste adverts and perfume campaigns. He brushes each aside with a promise to come back, though from the way his pace quickens and his grip tightens on your hand you can't imagine a swift return is in the cards.

You're laughing by the time you burst out through the patio doors. Remus' eyes widen and you gasp at the sight that greets you — more people, an endless wave of someone's. He yanks you stumbling and laughing down the poorly lit path to the side of the house, his breathing loud now that the music soundtracking the world's most inane jerk circle has faded.

"This is more like it," he says in the dark, swinging your hand gently as the two of you slow.

You giggle and let yourself fall into him. It's a brilliant feeling, to know you can melt into someone and have them love you, have them want to draw you closer. Remus encircles your waist and brings you to his chest, cheek rubbing against the top of your head.

"Oh my god," he says softly.

"What?"

"Why are we here? I need to be in bed with you."

A startled laugh escapes you, the sound rough with surprise. "So forward," you croon, bringing your hands higher to stroke through his hair.

"Not like that..." His head tilts back under your touch, chasing the affection of your fingertips. "I love you."

He's told you before. Every time feels new. Especially over small things like this, no source in sight but an obvious, unquestionable truth. He loves you. He'd rather be alone with you than in a room of celebrities. It's so like him that you shouldn't be surprised, but you are.

"I love you too," you say, scraping his short hair from his face. "I wish there were another word for it."

"I think that's it," he says. There's a hint of apology there, maybe some ruefullness, like he's sorry they haven't made a better word to describe how you both feel.

"It's like, I'm infatuated with you," you begin.

"Oh, yeah?" He laughs.

"And I just feel so lucky to be with you."

"Me too."

"That it's bordering obsession. You smile at me and I wanna give you everything you've ever wanted."

Remus covers your hand over his cheek and blinks slowly. He turns his lips into your palm and takes a playful bite of your hand before kissing the skin there softly. "I think love might be the right word."

You watch him lean into you and figure he's right.

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #remus lupin #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin drabble #marauders era #marauders #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin x gn!reader

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waklman · 1 year

Text

Of Course He Loves Me

summary: your past comes back to haunt you, and your roomate jake is there to witness it.

pairing: jake seresin x female reader

warnings: hurt/comfort. talks of past exploitive experiences, bad treatment of women, negative self talk, and allusions to sex. 18+ blog.

a/n: inspired by rhiannon mcgavin qoute shown above bc it reminds me of jake :)

word count: 3.6k.

“Do we want chocolate chips in our pancakes?” Jake asks, solemnly, waiting for you to make the executive decision.

“I think we do,” you confirm, matching his serious tone—twisting your middle to grab the said bag of sweets. The plastic crinkles when he takes it from you, with a pleased hum.

Jake sets it down, then quickly scans the spread in front of him. His eyebrows pinch together, realizing he’s missing just one item. “Pancake mix..” he lowly mutters to himself.

You scoot forward, aiming to hop off the counter to fetch it, but Jake stops you–pinning the hem of your sleep shirt down against the countertop with his hand, wordlessly telling you to stay put with a shake of his head. He doesn’t spare you a second to object–already guiding himself across the kitchen in search of the box of dry ingredients himself.

A defeated sigh slips your lips, looking ahead as he trudges off with heavy footsteps.

The towhead blond has yet to tame his bed head–there’s two pieces of hair sticking out each side of his head resembling ears, making him look like a newborn kitten.

While he slowly sifts through the cabinets, the sunlight filtering through the apartment reflects off something on his finger, drawing your attention away from the state of his hair. You softly smile to yourself, seeing the ring you had on last night, now sitting safely on his pinky finger. It was a drunken habit of yours—you somehow always lost track of your personal belongings on nights out. Knowing this, Jake made sure to keep your things under his care when you had too much to drink.

Your chest tightens in appreciation for him, there was no one who looked out for you the way he did.

“Whoever gets to marry you, has to be the luckiest girl in the world,” you announce quietly, looking down at your legs, bringing them to a slow stop–no longer unconsciously swinging them. You blink in recognition, seeing that at some point last night–he pulled a pair of fluffy socks onto your feet. You wiggle your toes, as all the events—previously muddled by alcohol, start to come back to you.

“Marriage? Darling, I thought we’d be roommates for life,” he quips with a light laugh, carrying the acquired box back over to join you and the rest of the ingredients.

“I’m serious, not everyone is lucky enough to have someone like you,” you try to laugh, but it falls short—now aware of the reason why you drank so much in the first place. Fuck.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you look past your own feet, searching for something to steady yourself on–and your eyes land right onto Jake’s feet. He has on a pair of your fluffy socks too, but they’re an older set, with matted tufts of cotton and elastic fibers scutching in on itself.

Jake sets down the box, putting a pause on breakfast for now, troubled by your abrupt silence. He can see from the corner of his eye that you’re just vacantly staring at the floor. Something about the shift in demeanor ticks off a warning signal in his head.

Then, it clicks. You got wasted last night, throwing back shots like it was nothing. When he tried to probe, you drunkenly told him you just wanted to try something new. And a part of Jake found it off-putting—you had an affinity for sweet drinks, so why the need for change?

A knowing concern coats his thoughts immediately.

“Did he text you again?” He asks, face unafraid. But deep in his gut, Jake feels the anxiety anchoring him down from where he stands, locking his knees in place. He wills himself to look away from the box mix in front of him, finally lifting his head up to look at you.

From your peripheral, you can see Jake’s eyes set on the side of your face, patiently waiting for a response. In no way does he rush you, but you feel hurried to give him an answer. Yet you can’t. The walls of your throat have already swelled thick, pressing together at the center, preventing you from speaking.

Jake swallows grimly, eyes dropping down to see you gripping onto the granite counter for dear life, knuckles tight and veins about to burst from excessive strain. After a beat of silence, he calmly moves around you, flipping on the sink beside you.

The panic that takes hold of you doesn’t allow you to see him test the temperature of the water, nor does it let you feel the way he carefully pries your hand from the counter, easing each finger off the cold ledge. You’re brought back once you feel a warm liquid run over your hand. It slips through your fingers and soothingly traces the skin of your wrist, that’s held by him–you can feel everything again.

Jake slowly takes in a breath, allowing you to mimic him. His eyes are still locked on you, and a brush of relief briefly sweeps his heart when he notices you taking languid breaths with him. Though, your gaze is still lowered, eyes focused on the lining of his socks.

After a few more steady exhales, you attempt to reply to Jake’s question again–but embarrassment enters your system, holding you back. You chose to slowly nod instead, knowing he’ll understand. “Okay, I see,” Jake answers cautiously, keeping his voice low.

He’s still holding your hand under the running water, with both of you acutely aware of the deja vu that washes over this familiar exchange of words. It’s almost a pitiful routine that you two fall into every year–all starting with a text from your ex-boyfriend each time.

It’s as though you could never get rid of him—the older guy you met working part time back in highschool always made yearly appearances in your life again, like it’s some twisted occasion he must attend to.

He’d tie you down, under the false promise that “he’s changed”—convincing you to meet up with him. And you’d go, fully expecting to receive an apology—chasing that closure you deserved. But everytime, without fail, your old wound would be mercissley torn right open by him, raw and bloody for the world to see—for him to see.

And it was ruthless, the way he’d ripped you apart, belittling you, reminding you how gullible and worthless you are—throwing it in your face for his own sadistic pleasure. No one will ever love you if you’re this pathetic, crawlin’ back to me like some fucking puppy. It made him satisfied with himself, knowing you’d always be there for him to gain a sense of control again. He chased that high each year, renewing himself with it—tossing you aside like garbage, after he got what he wanted, until he needed you again next time.

And everytime, Jake was there for you after shit hit the fan—holding back his anger, while he consoled you–trying his hardest to sweetly smile at you while you weakly combat your heartache. Jake hated how useless he felt—his efforts were always futile. Because, truly there was nothing he could do to stop the hurt that laid inside of you.

But there was one thing Jake could do, and that was making sure to never express his disdain for your decision to see your ex, because he knew how you felt when everyone else in your life did. It made you feel small and stupid—the two things Jake never wanted you to feel about yourself. To him, you were nothing but forgiving and sweet, just stuck in a harmful cycle. This was not your fault, it never was.

Back when you two were teenagers, Jake had been somewhat alarmed by your relationship with the guy, because what did a man of his age want with you? But Jake held his tongue and trusted you, holding back his concerns when you told him about your new boyfriend, because you glowed like you never had before. So, seventeen year old Jake did what he thought was best—he kept his mouth shut—because what kind of best friend would he be if he stood in the way of your happiness?

But, if he knew then, what he knew now, Jake would have done anything in his power to stop you from ever meeting him. Because that jerk shouldn’t have ever been interested in someone so much younger than he was, in the first place. It took Jake years of maturing, reaching his very age today to come to that realization because now you two are no longer kids.

“And he wants to see you again?” he asks, jaw clenched, already knowing the answer.

You swallow. “I’m seeing him next week.”

“Jake?”

“Yes?” Jake answers before he can even think, already peeking over the back of the couch in search of you.

He looks in the direction of the wall by the end of the hallway, patiently waiting for your footsteps to finally reach there.

You come out, holding up the front of your dress and Jake doesn’t know what to feel. “Can you help me zip this up?” you ask, embarrassed you couldn’t get your dress on fully. Your hands had been trembling all day, knowing who you’ll be seeing tonight.

Jake immediately rushes to get up at your request—not letting you take another step towards him. You lightly smile, not surprised by his behavior at all. He’d been like this since you met, programmed to never let you take the extra mile to reach him.

“I shared my location with you,” you whisper, back facing towards him now. You shiver, feeling his knuckle brush against the exposed skin there, gently holding the small zipper between his fingers.

“Why? I trust you.” He pretends to be unaware of the situation, trying to convince himself that his gut feeling isn’t true—that you’re not seeing him tonight.

“I’m seeing him in a bit, and I just—I want you to have my location.” Jake finally zips up your dress, feeling like he sealed your fate—you’re destined for a dreadful night, and he can’t do anything about it.

He reaches for your waist, but doesn’t have to do much to get you to turn around, because you’re already spinning around to face him.

Jake swallows hard. You look almost unreal under him—too pretty for his brain to even comprehend. And a part of Jake hates that he won’t be the only one who gets to see you like this, especially not tonight.

“Okay,” he stares down at you, expression unreadable.

You look up at him, wanting him to give you a reason to stay instead—but he doesn’t see the thought begging to be seen in your head, too distracted by the sick feeling pooling in his stomach.

“Be safe, and remember to text me, please,” he whispers, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead—as if he’s implanting his reminder there.

The light pressure of his lips makes your heart melt in your chest. With his hands still on your waist, Jake lightly pulls you into him, not sure if it’s to comfort you—or himself. He just knows that he needs to hold you. You instinctively lean into his touch as he begins to wrap his arms around you securely. “Will you come pick me up after?” you mumble, against his shirt.

“I’ll be there the moment you tell me to.” He assures you, meaning it fully.

Jake feels restless, swerving into the acceleration lane, slamming his foot on the gas. The rain harshly slamming down against his windows just spurs him on even further, bringing him past the speed limit.

It’s already well past midnight, and you called him not long ago, barely able to get out a word, too choked up even speak—having to hang up and text him instead.

Leading up to this, Jake had been shamelessly checking your location. With every second that passed with no update from you, his leg bounced harder against the wooden floor, prompting the downstairs neighbor to smack their ceiling, warning him to knock it off for the fifth time. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Jake had practically lunged at his phone when you finally called, heart sinking when he painfully listened to you whimper–the only coherent word that left your mouth was his name.

He already knew your location, rushing to meet you there now. It’s a ten minute drive from here, Jake made sure to check—but he’s already nearing you in under three minutes.

It’s not long until he spots you in the empty parking lot. He practically throws himself out the car, ignoring the fact that his door is still slung open.

The sight of you sitting on the wet pavement, knees protectively pulled against your chest, and face buried into your hands makes him sick to his stomach. It takes everything in him to maintain his composure, finally reaching you as he lowers himself to your level.

All the weight of his worries pit against him now, making it hard to breathe—it’s suffocating almost.

With careful hands, he wraps his fingers around your cold ankles, attempting to regulate your body temperature, sweetly swiping the skin there. Jake swallows unsurely, feeling you shake like a leaf under him.

In the palms of your hands, you’re biting back the viscous cry threatening to spill over. Jake’s chest caves in, weak from seeing like this. “It’s okay, let it out.” he permits, leaning in to whisper the words against your ear–drowning out the sound of the rain completely.

It’s okay, let it out. Those five words mean more to you than you could take, especially coming from Jake.

Before you can even realize it, the honeyed reassurance opens the flood gates to everything you’ve been suppressing. The horrible insults you pathetically took in the past hour, the sickly feeling of his hands on you from earlier, and the stabbing memories from years ago all bubble to the surface. And you finally break.

You lamely fall forward, with Jake catching you immediately, in his arms–as the sound of your cry finally echoes into the air. It hurts–the way it thrashes against the walls of your throat, and mercilessly sears through your lungs. It hurts so much, but you can’t hold it in anymore–instead, you force yourself to take on the painful feeling as the cry empties out of you.

Jake screws his eyes shut at the withering sound, promising to himself that this is the last time he’ll have to hear you like this. He will never let you feel this way again.

Trying to keep his voice from trembling, Jake forces himself to smile, sweetly whispering to you, once again. “Let’s head home, Darling.”

You haven't said a word since you two got back, too ashamed to speak of tonight’s events.

But Jake doesn’t show you any sign of judgment, as he pulls out your skincare bottles from the drawer with pursed lips. He came into the bathroom, after waiting outside for you to finish your shower, helping you prep for bed now.

“Toner pads first,” he declares softly, screwing open the container.

You tiredly look through him, unable to tear the sad expression off your face. But he softly smiles at you anyway, carefully swiping the cotton pads against your skin.

It’s like this for the next few minutes—with you lost in your thoughts, sitting on the sink while Jake does his best to correctly go through each step of your routine.

“I’m so naive,” you weakly profess out of nowhere, starting to sniffle.

Jake stills, putting down your moisturizer, remaining quiet to let you continue.

“I was—I am, so stupid Jake,” you correct yourself. “I can’t even be mad that everyone looks at me like I’m—like I'm dumb,” you spit out. “I deserve to feel like an idiot, because I just am.” Your voice begins to tremble, but you keep going anyway. “Of course, I had to throw myself at the first person who gave me an ounce of attention, because I knew no one else would, but look where that got me.” You pause, harshly wiping away the rogue tear that slips down your cheek. “He’s right Jake, I’m damaged goods, no one can love me when I’m like this.” Jake breathes heavily, dissecting the way you talk about yourself. You couldn’t be more wrong.

“Stop it.” he says sternly, no longer smiling.

His tone catches you by surprise, and you’re scared to keep looking at him. He looks so tired of you—so done with you. Anyone else would’ve given up on you by now, it comes as no surprise that he’s taken the chance to do so.

You lock your eyes on the limp hands in your lap instead, ready for him to admit defeat, like he should. Instead, Jake catches your discernment and reaches out to grab your hands.

“Look at me,” he says more softly this time.

Tentatively, you lift your head to look at him again, ignoring the tears blurring your vision.

He takes a deep breath, before speaking again.

“You’re not naive. You're not stupid. You're not dumb. You’re not an idiot. You’re not damaged goods,” he says firmly, addressing all the hurtful terms you called yourself. “And you’re not incapable of being loved.” You feel your bottom lip quiver at the final statement.

“If any of that was true, I wouldn’t be able to care for you so much, but I do. I care about you so fucking much,” he says, face contorted in pain, seeing the disbelieving look on your face. “You’re everything he’s not. Every bad thing he says to you, is not about you at all. It’s about him. He’s naive, he’s stupid, he’s dumb, he’s the idiot, and he's the damaged one.” You finally allow the tears to drip down to your neck—completely soaking the neckline of your shirt.

Your eyes snap shut, shaking your head at him, denying what he says. “I mean everything I said.” Jake affirms again, gently swiping away your salty tears. You still don't believe him.

“How do—how do you not hate me, as much as I hate myself?” The choked out sentence punches him right in the heart. This hurts Jake most of all.

You turn your head away from him, eyes still screwed shut. But he’s already pulling his hands from your lap, to cradle your head in his hands instead.

“I can never hate you,” he says, voice strung in hurt. He doesn’t know what was the worst part of your question. How could you possibly hate yourself? How could he possibly hate you? And how can you possibly hate something, he loved so dearly.

You open your eyes, ready to spit out something—anything that’s hurtful enough to get rid of him. He doesn’t deserve to deal with you anymore. But the words die on your tongue, because he’s looking at you with so much concern, with so much love.

And it’s as if your body has a mind of its own, because now you lurch forward, capturing his lips in a kiss.

Your head spins when kisses you back in an instant, purposefully slotting his lips against yours, like he has the ability to suck out the hurt living inside you. But it feels like he does, because it's healing, the way he kisses you.

Your heart bursts under your ribs, feeling him slowly drop his hands to your waist, thumbs swiping over the fabric of your shirt, with no urge to take it off you. Yet he’s still able to pull a noise from you, swallowing it down his throat as it leaves you.

His tongue slips into your open mouth next, curling against your own wet muscle—its almost euphoric. The entire room blurs around you, your mind can’t process anything—but him.

Yet, you pull away first, shocked by the unfamiliar feeling that started brewing in your tummy. You blink shyly at him, he’s fully pressed against you now. “I can never hate you,” he whispers the affirmation again, planting a kiss on your forehead. He stamps the declaration there, hoping it never leaves your mind.

“I know,” you answer him, believing him this time. Jake swallows, seeing you stare up at him, trusting him fully.

Without a thought, Jake leans back down to peck your lips, drawn in by the way it’s wet with his saliva. It’s meant to be short, because his lips are already drifting from yours—but you chase after the feeling in your stomach again, feeling it growing stronger. Jake hands trail down to your hips, squeezing them in surprise, kissing you back.

He feels your hands already reaching for his pajama pants, fingers digging into the band, and he stops you, moving his hands to coax yours away from there.

You retract your mouth from his, feeling regretful. “Shit, I’m sorry Jake I—”

“It's not that.” He assures you. Your brows furrow at his reply, until you understand the apologetic look he’s now giving you—and you know exactly what it means. I love you, but not tonight.

You nod.

Jake kisses the corner of your mouth, withdrawing his hands to dig out something from his pocket. You smile at what he pulls out from there. It’s a pair of mismatched fluffy socks, one blue and one pink.

You both look down at his own feet, and he lets out an embarrassed laugh. He’s wearing the matching pair for each sock in his hand. His left foot has a blue sock on it while the other has the pink sock.

A warm feeling pins you down—Jake is wearing your socks.

note: this one is very special to me, so thank you for reading. as always, reblogs are very greatly appreciated!

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transvampireboyfriend · 7 months

Text

There's discussion of ronance under the cut! so if that's not your thing maybe skip this and the next part :)

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8

The sunset finds Steve sitting on a log, methodically breaking apart graham crackers and chocolate bars on top of a cooler.

Jonathan and Argyle are rolling joints beside him, sitting on a separate log and making light conversation with him.

Eddie's building a fire in front of them, a few feet away, just out of earshot. Steve loses the thread of conversation every now and then because he keeps getting distracted by Eddie's arms.

Some crackers and chocolate bars are unevenly split too. It's Eddie's fault that they're all wonky.

The taller boy (he will not let Steve forget this) is splitting a few dry logs into smaller ones using the cabin's axe.

He found and donned some leather work gloves, his tattoos shift as his arms flex, there are flashes of armpit hair every couple of swings, and there's sweat slowly dripping down his forehead.

Steve's doing his absolute best not to stare but it's very difficult.

When Eddie swipes the sweat off his brow and strips the gloves to bring out his pocket knife, Steve gets a coughing fit that Argyle has to bring him out of by clapping his back.

"Whoa there man, are you okay?" Argyle asks him,

Steve just franticaly nods as Jonathan snickers beside them.

Just as Eddie settles down in a crouch and starts shaving wood off the sides of the smaller logs, the girls come back from their walk.

Nancy walks to Eddie, offers a handful of dry pinecones and sets about arranging the logs.

Jonathan and Argyle announce they need popcorn and go back to the cabin to make some.

Robin has something trapped inside her hands.

She walks towards Steve, stands behind him and leans down to place her arms around his neck. Her hands remain closed, so that whatever is between them is now right in front of Steve's face.

"Guess what I got" she says, leaning her chin on top of Steve's head.

"That better not be a skunk, Bobbie"

Robin giggles "Have your ever seen a skunk, dingus? My hands are tiny!"

"A baby skunk, then" Steve amends, tone whiny.

Robin snorts, "Shut up. Look,"

As she opens her hands a tiny light shines out of them. Steve gasps.

"Hi!" he says, waving his index finger at the firefly,

"His name's Harold," Robin supplies.

"What? That sucks" Steve accuses, trying to look up at her, but only jostling her head a bit.

Robin gasps, "It's a perfectly good name for a firefly!" she protests, digging her chin atop his head.

Steve ducks his head and half turns in her arms, gives her a look and then turns back.

"How are the wife and kids, Harold?" he asks the bug,

Robin doesn't miss a beat, "He's gay, Steve. You should know better",

Steve can't help but laugh loudly at that.

Robin rushes to close her hands back up,

"Stop! you're scaring him!" she accuses, though there's a smile on her face.

Steve sobers up and puts down the two cracker halves in his hands to pry Robin's hands open again,

"Harold, I sincerely apologize." he offers in a gravely tone.

The bug turns around in Robin's hands.

"I think that means I'm forgiven" Steve says, looking up at her.

Robin chuckles and gently places the bug on top of Steve's left knee, moving to sit beside him.

Steve smiles at Harold before looking at her from the side,

"You having fun?" Steve checks in,

Robin smiles at him, throws her right arm around him and leans her chin against his shoulder.

"I am!" she answers "How about you?" she asks in return, half hugging him.

Steve presses his cheek against her in appreciation, just for a moment before he answers,

"Yeah, I'm having fun too" he smiles,

"Good. I wasn't lying earlier, when I said that suits you" Robin points out, drawing back without letting go of him, to look up at Eddie's bandana still on his hair.

Steve feels his cheeks start to burn.

"Shutup." he mutters defensively "he's-" Steve turns to look at Eddie, who's now fanning the flames of the fire he started and fanning himself every couple of seconds, making the few strands of hair that fell from his bun flap about wildly.

Steve can't help the smile on his face.

"Great. He's just great" he says honestly, feeling a little in awe of just how much he really likes Eddie.

Robin lets go of him only to jab her elbow in his ribs,

"See!" she says "I knew you had to make a move!"

"You were right." Steve concedes, "Not that I'm- I just mean he didn't seem put-off or anything when I tried flirting a little,"

"Of course he didn't! Steve!!" she protests,

"I know. I know," Steve says, reminded of the many times they've discussed his insecurities.

He relays his conversation with Jonathan then, and she listens, pointing out that putting it all together definitely makes it clear why Eddie hadn't made a move yet, and how Steve definitely has a chance.

"Yeah. I hope so," Steve says,

Robin rolls her eyes at his cautiousness and watches Harold finally fly away. Her eyes fall on Nancy, across from them.

Steve moves his eyes away to finish breaking off the last couple of crackers from the bunch.

Steve can admit he felt a pang of jealousy the first time he noticed his best friend laughing too hard at something Nancy said, but he quickly realized he was jealous of Nancy, he was worried she'd take Robin from him. An irrational fear that he also went through with Eddie, when he and Robin got close.

Whatever attempt Steve made at reviving the spark between him and Nancy in the upside down, got flipped right side up as soon as they were out of that hellish time.

Which was fortunate, because Nancy was still in a relationship back then, and Steve actually didn't feel like trying to woo the girl that broke his heart years ago.

Not to mention, they were different people now.

And he could admit now that he had freaked out. He'd seen the prettiest boy he'd ever known smirking at him and calling him metal and Steve had felt himself fall violently, far quicker than he was ready to.

So he'd grabbed on to whatever solid ground he could find, and he didn't have much of that.

It was just stupid. They hadn't really talked about it but Nancy had dropped by Eddie's room at the hospital a couple of times, she'd seen how devastated Steve was and she was never dumb. Steve could see the realization on her and luckily, the relief too.

Slowyly but surely they've arrived back to a place where Steve is glad to have her in his life again. He wouldn't hesitate to have dinner with her any day now, and every one of their friends know what they have is purely friendship.

So when he noticed her half-flirting with Robin at their job again, Steve tried to communicate to her that same understanding and relief with the same look.

And Nancy seemed like she got it.

Steve's fairly certain she and Robin would be good together, he's told Robin as much, but she disagrees, denied that she was attracted to their friend at first, and now refuses to give them a shot.

When he looks back up Robin's still looking at her, her cheeks on the verge of a smile.

Steve, done with his task, wipes his hands on his jeans.

"Are you sure there's nothing there?" Steve asks softly, for maybe the fifth time since Robin and Nancy met.

Looking back at that time now, with his own feelings out of the way, Steve can see clear as day, that Robin was into her from the start.

Robin looks at him now, and her face falls into the same caught look it always does when this comes up. She sighs,

"Are you sure you wanna ask me that?" she counters

"Robbie!"

"Dingus!"

"I want you to be happy," Steve tries,

"Even if it means I make a move on your ex?" she asks, her voice bitter,

"She's my friend too, Robs!" he protests,

"She broke your heart, Steve,"

"Years ago! And-"

"Not that many," Robin interrupts,

"And!" Steve emphasizes, "We're different people now,"

"You were practically offering her six babies not a year and a half ago," Robin points out,

"And you and I both agreed that that was a little bit crazy of me and a clear lapse in my judgement." Steve reminds her, "She doesn't want that. And I don't want that with her. I don't want anything with her beyond friendship and you know it,"

Robin doesn't look convinced.

"I don't care what you say. It would be weird." she says,

"Not for me, if that's what you're implying," Steve tells her,

"You've said that about other things when you did mind!" Robin accuses,

"And you've called me out on it!" Steve counters, "And I'm working on not doing that anymore. And it's not what I'm doing now!"

"I'm not gonna put my happiness before yours," Robin tells him,

Steve turns to her fully, straddling the log between them,

"I'm not asking you to do that, Robbie. I'm asking you not to put MY happiness before yours." he says, "Not even!" he amends, "I'm asking you not to put my comfort before your happiness."

Robin grimaces.

"What if you do mind? Down the line?" she asks,

"You can't base your decisions on hypotheticals." Steve protests, growing impatient, "And especially not on hypotheticals about my feelings, Rob!"

"Don't be an asshole. You're important to me!" she protests,

Steve sighs.

He reaches out and takes one of Robins hands in his own.

"And you're just as important to me," he tells her, "but i don't need you to protect me Robin. I'm not made of glass." he looks into her eyes as he goes on, "Yeah, maybe I'll be uncomfortable at some point, but I've been uncomfortable before and I'll be uncomfortable in the future,"

"I don't wanna be the cause of that," Robin says quietly, squeezing Steve's heart.

She moves to stradle the log too, facing Steve.

Steve offers her a soft smile.

"I know." he says, rubbing her knuckles in an attempt to reassure her, "You wouldn't be. Even if I saw you and Nance happy together and it made me uncomfortable, it wouldn't be because you decided to be with her, or because you're happy with her, Robs. It would be because she's my ex and she broke my heart. That's not on you,"

Robin looks like she wants to say something else but then changes her mind.

"It would be weird," she insists half-heartedly.

Steve understands what she doesn't say, that she wants him to let it go.

"Okay." He concedes, taking her other hand and lacing their fingers. "Fine then. I won't bring it up again. I just ask that you don't- Don't think of me as this, this responsibility, okay? I don't wanna be that, I wanna be your best friend." he says, tugging on her hands a bit.

"Idiot." She calls him with a hesitant smile, clearly still awkward with displays of affection.

Steve chuckles. She tugs his hands towards her,

"I love you" she says.

It's not lost on Steve how this requires effort from her. He brings their hands to his lips and kisses the back of her palms, one and then the other, making her giggle.

"And I love you," Steve tells her, he untangles their hands and returns to his previous position, reaching for the big bag of marshmallows sitting next to the cooler.

"Now help me roast these," he requests, opening the bag, "this is as far as I came when I was little"

"Oh, did you have a maid that roasted your marshmallows growing up?"

"I hate youuuuuuu" Steve complains, and throws a marshmallow at her head.

part 6

#steddie lake fic #steddie headcanon #.#WE NEED A FIREFLY EMOJI #lmk if Nance isn't actually in a relationship in this last season???? i don't actually know this is just what i gathered off like that gif #of her hugging jonathan lol #n e ways as always #ooc #also let me.know if the timeline is confusing with that year and a half comment #the idea is Nance and Jargyle already went back and then came to Hawkins again this summer. and they're leaving again soon #does that make sense?#idk #not using the steddie tags bc this is not that much steddie #we'll get there tho i promise #🦟💡?#oh no it's 🪰🔥!#it was there all along

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cxsmicbaby · 10 months

Text

this is the day

pairing : peter quill x reader

warnings : alcohol use; angst with a happy ending :p

word count : 4.7k

a/n : inspired by this is the day by the the. i love this actually. something cute :)

peter’s forgotten how to have fun. you help him remember, and suddenly he is reminded of things he pushed down a long, long time ago.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Peter is starting to really hate space.

He’s spent his whole life out there; once, a ravager, then a lone ranger, and now in apart of a team of his own. He used to sit by the windows on Yondu’s ship and watch as the stars slowly passed them by, twinkling; he would think about how once, they had been more like drawings on the sky than real things, and now, they were places he could go. It was like magic.

It’s all grown pretty stale, if he’s being honest. Which is why he really enjoys just staying put on Knowhere, drinking until his vision goes blurry. Listening to his music and ignoring all his problems. Letting the rest of them carry the heavy weight, because Peter tried, and he couldn’t handle it. He hasn’t been out in his ship in months. Sometimes he misses it, but then he remembers that it’s the feeling he’s missing, not the actual act. There’s no way to get that feeling back.

You seem to think different. You, with your inability to accept defeat, and your voice so loud he can hear it even when his music is on full volume. You’re outside the bar, engaged in some sort of argument with who-knows-who, and it sounds like you’re losing. Peter isn’t drunk enough to not be able to stand just yet, and his curiosity gets the better of him, so he turns his music down and tries to listen for what you’re saying.

“—acting like a dick, Rocket. He hasn’t left that place all day, and he’s been doing this for weeks. I’m sure the seat has his ass imprinted into it.”

“He’s grieving. I think we should just let him be, you know? Let him get through it.”

“Everyone is grieving! You don’t see anyone else drinking themselves to death.”

Rocket doesn’t seem to have a retort to that. Peter thinks that maybe he should be hurt by the way you’re talking about him, but he knows you’re right. You usually are.

“All he needs is to be reminded of who he is. Reminded of why he does this in the first place, you know. Of why it’s fun to be alive.”

“Okay, and how would we do that? We can’t even get him out of those clothes. He’s been wearing them for two days straight.”

Peter looks down at himself. He has been wearing these clothes for two days, hasn’t he? That’s gross, he thinks. He almost smells himself before he decides against it.

He’s so distracted by the idea of his own stench that he doesn’t notice the voices have stopped, and suddenly the door swings open, sending him tumbling backwards. Peter falls on his ass, but scrambles to stand, very conscious of how disgusting everyone must think he is after overhearing such a sobering conversation.

You stare down at him, your mouth spread into a wide grin. You offer him a hand, which is not what he was expecting, but he takes it anyway.

“Go take a shower, Pete! We’re going on an adventure.” You pull him to his feet.

“What?” Peter says, and his eyebrows furrow a little at how dumbstruck he sounds. Maybe it’s the liquor. He did have a good amount before your screaming disrupted him.

“I said, we’re going out. We’re gonna have some fun, like old times.” You’re not asking him, you’re telling him, and even if he’s slightly drunk Peter knows better than to outright say no to you. He’s known you a bit longer than the rest, as he met you about a year before the whole Ronan thing. You worked together on and off, and he got to know you and your quirks—he was a different guy back then, though. He’s honestly not sure why you kept talking to him, because sometimes he thinks about the vulgar things he used to say to you and shivers in disgust. Even worse, the things he used to think about you. If he had voiced any of those thoughts he probably wouldn’t be alive right now.

“Man, I’m tired. Can’t we go another time?” he tries, attempting to let you down easy. Your smile doesn’t falter, and you slap your hand on his shoulder, probably a little harder than you meant to.

“Nope! We’re going now, today. Go home, I’ll pick you up in an hour.” The rest of the sentence goes unspoken—if you aren’t ready when I come, I will kick you in the nuts until they both explode. Peter hears it, though, despite your warm grin. You’ve always had a very pretty, innocent smile, which doesn’t really match your personality. He finds it slightly off-putting.

Peter takes his time walking home, finishing the bottle of liquor on his way there. His tolerance has gotten infuriatingly high due to his overconsumption these past weeks, but it’s still worth a try. Maybe if you show up and he’s too drunk, you won’t make him go. You’ll certainly be disappointed, but he’ll still be able to stay in.

No, that’s not really worth it. Peter really hates disappointing you. It’s different than when you’re mad, because when you’re mad at least Peter knows he is going to either be hit or berated, and that’s always over soon enough. But when you’re disappointed, it lasts. And you’re sad. He’d rather you be mad at him than sad because of something he’s done.

It occurs to him; you’ve probably been saddened, seeing him like this. And that’s what motivates him to actually shower for the first time in who knows how long, and to put on an outfit that doesn’t stink, and to wait patiently for you by his door. He closes his eyes and tries to get a moment of sleep, but soon he hears those tell-tale knocks and he stands with a sigh, opening it to see you standing there. You look excited.

“Wow, you actually did it! I’m so proud,” you exclaim, and though he’s sure you’re being sarcastic, Peter feels himself smile a little. He bites it back and pushes gently past you.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just go. Wherever it is we’re going.”

Peter lets you drive, because he doesn’t feel like it, and he also doesn’t think it’s a great idea to steer a spaceship while... impaired. When the ship leaves the planet’s atmosphere, he feels himself jolt up a bit, unfamiliar with the feeling after spending so long on the ground. The blue sky fades into darkness, littered with stars. He should think it’s beautiful, but all he can think about is how many horrible things have happened to him out here. How many horrible things he’s done.

“You’re gonna love this, I promise. Total blast from the past,” you reassure, noticing how his face has fallen ever so slightly. Peter ignores you and sighs instead, reaching into his pocket to slide a cassette tape into the stereo. At least if he’s forced to be out here, he can have his music.

He’s not prepared to hear what plays. It’s a classic, for sure. It’s a great song. But he can’t hear without thinking about her, and that’s really not what he wants to be doing right now. He still remember exactly what Gamora looked like, staring up at him with glittering eyes, hearing this song for the first time. He was the one who introduced her to music. That’s basically a soul bond. The thought makes him slump into his seat.

“This is a good one,” you say, swaying from side to side to the melody, oblivious to Peter’s grief. “A little slow, though. You should change it to something more upbeat.”

“Yeah,” Peter whispers, and you turn to him with slightly worried eyes. But he changes the song without saying anything else, and the rest of the ride you both stay quiet.

Peter closes his eyes about halfway through, and when he opens them up again you’ve landed somewhere he recognizes. Of course, he thinks, of course you would bring him here. This is definitely a blast from the past, you got that right.

“Come on, let’s go! It’s about to be prime-time, so there’s probably a happy hour deal somewhere.” You’re already up, putting on a brown leather jacket and walking toward the ship’s door, where a platform is lowering toward the ground. Peter doesn’t know how he feels about being here. Sure, he has a lot of great memories about this place. Most with you, if not all. But something about it makes him feel old and decaying, like those good days are the best he will ever have, and from there it’ll just continue going down.

“Alright, alright. But I don’t wanna stay out for that long.” Peter groans as he stands, stretching for a moment before he follows after you. You seem very happy, or at least, you’re trying to be. For him. That’s the only reason he’s still here, honestly. He knows you just want to make him happy.

The two of you walk out of the ship and down the bustling street, which is already pretty packed. Girls with antennae and guys with gills flirt on the corners, blobs that are vaguely person-shaped slide down the sidewalk in groups, making weird noises that someone smarter than him might be able to discern as speech. This place is just as strange and slightly decrepit as before.

“What do you say, should we just hit up Blue Diamond? I’m sure it’s still open,” you offer, an odd sort of pep in your step. You’re not usually this bubbly. Peter sort of enjoys it.

“I guess, yeah. I’ll just go wherever you wanna go.”

You sigh, and pause for a moment, turning to face him. Your hands fall on his shoulders and you look up at him, trying to stare into his eyes hard enough that he’ll really hear you.

“If you act miserable, you’re gonna be miserable. Try not to be such a downer, okay? Try to have some fun, even if it’s only for right now.” You’ve not been so sincere with him in a long time, and it’s a bit startling. Your eyebrows are raised and you look a little vulnerable, and Peter is starting to feel very, very badly about the way he’s been treating you recently. So, he manages a smile.

“Alright, well since this night is for me, I should get to pick where we go.” His smile grows a little, because yours does too.

“Makes sense to me. Lead the way!”

Peter ends up taking you to Blue Diamond, mostly because he remembers they have a drink there that is strong, and still tasty. Plus, if the same bartender is still working there, he might be able to charm his way into a free drink. She always had a thing for him, you could both tell. You used to laugh about the way she made goggly eyes at Peter when he wasn’t looking.

It’s not the same bartender. It’s actually this weirdly handsome guy who is built like Drax if Drax was a little less bulky. Peter told him once that he needed to get rid of his no-neck, but then Drax told him he needed to get rid of his beer belly, so he stopped.

“It hasn’t changed at all, has it?” you say, standing by his side. You’re right, it hasn’t. Same dim blue lighting, same metal barstools, same ratty old booths. Except, now they have table where people are playing something akin to beer pong, but instead of their hands they’re using these weird, mini tennis rackets. Strange, but Peter’s seen much stranger. Actually, it looks kinda fun.

You start for the bar before he does, strolling past a photo of the bar’s owner on the wall. He must’ve passed, Peter thinks, and that gives him that same sort of painful, existential feeling. He can remember talking to the guy like it was yesterday, and now he’s just gone. He wonders if he felt fulfilled when he died.

Peter takes a seat next to you at the bar, and you wave the bartender down, ordering two drinks that he doesn’t catch the name of. The bartender eyes you in a way that Peter doesn’t really like. It reminds him a lot of the way he used to stare at you when you would go here together, and that makes him feel gross, because if the bartender is thinking the same things he had been in those moments, he probably deserves a slap across the face.

You did slap him across the face, once. Peter remembers exactly what it was about, but neither of you have ever brought it up again, so he chooses to pretend it didn’t happen.

“So, what about this is going to suddenly make me realize that life is fun?” Peter starts, swiveling in his seat so that his body faces yours. You roll your eyes, as this confirms for you that he was listening to your conversation with Rocket.

“I just. I wanna remind you of what it feels like to be happy, you know? You deserve it, Pete. I’m serious.”

He did not expect that answer. “Why are you being so... sweet, lately? You’re being very nice to me and it makes me think you’re up to something.”

You laugh a little, and Peter realizes how long it’s been since he’s heard that; your giggle, which is probably the most perfect-sitcom laugh he’s ever heard in his life. You gaze at his face for a moment before you shrug, and pin your attention somewhere else before you bring your eyes back. There’s something else there now, something realer than before.

“I don’t know. I care about you, a lot. And it feels like you’re letting everything suffocate you. Whatever happened to the Peter that fought back?” You shove him playfully, and he smiles a little sadly at your words. “The Peter that didn’t let anyone tell him that he wasn’t worth it. That was you, it still is. But now it’s you telling yourself that you can’t do it. So I just thought maybe it would help if someone told you that you can.��

Peter doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he might cry, so instead of steeping in the moment he turns back to the bar and sees the guy coming back with your drinks. Perfect goddamn timing.

He downs the first one mere seconds after it’s placed in front of him. The drunkenness he had experienced before you left had turned to lethargy, but now it’s back with a vengeance. The alcohol is quickly in his veins, making him warm, his cheeks a little red. He takes off his coat and drapes it over the back o the stool. If he’s gonna be there, he might as well try to get into it.

Peter orders another once you’ve finished yours, which is not too far after him. You’ve always been a bit of a heavyweight, so you seem mostly sober, but that’ll change quickly. After two more, you’re giggling and leaning on his shoulder, your cheeks tinted pink and your words loose and stumbling together.

“Remember that time we ran into that weird guy here? The one with the horns?” you say, through bouts of laughter. Peter looks down at you and he smiles. He does remember.

“Yeah, I remember how I had to beat his ass. That guy was a fuckin’ pervert.”

You giggle again, hiding your face in his side. Without thinking, Peter wraps his arm around you, and his hand is flat against the curve of your back. Your skin is warm.

“I always thought that was so cute, how you fought for me. So chivalrous,” you confess, your words slightly muffled by his shirt. Peter feels an oddly familiar feeling rise from his stomach to his chest before he swallows it down with a laugh.

“I’ve always been a gentleman, what can I say?” Peter knows that is so false, and so do you, because you shoot up laughing so hard he’s sure tears will spring from your eyes any moment now. You’ve always been so pretty when you laugh, not for any really specific reason, but mostly just because he likes it when you’re yourself. You put up this really tough front a lot, but Peter likes to think he knows you better than anyone. That’s not who you really are. This is who you really are.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Pete. I haven’t forgotten that night.”

And just like that, the entire illusion comes crashing down, and Peter feels the warmth in his chest rise to his cheeks and ears. He’s sure they’re bright red, and this is confirmed when you gently take the edge of one between your fingertips, giggling and teasing him about how embarrassed he’s gotten. He grumbles, pushing your hand away. Your touch sends goosebumps down his neck.

“Come on, don’t bring that up. You know I hate myself for that.” Peter shakes his head and finishes off the remnants of his third drink. It goes down easy and he decides he should probably take a break before ordering another.

You lean your elbow on the bar, your cheek in the palm of your hand. You study him with soft, playful eyes, your smile nostalgic, as if you’re remembering something fondly. Peter thinks you must not be talking about the same thing, because if you were, you wouldn’t be thinking of anything fondly. He can still feel the sting of your hand on his cheek. It ached for a day afterward, and he felt so guilty that he didn’t even ice it. He wanted to feel the pain, a reminder that he should never ever even think about doing something like that again.

And then you speak. “I wasn’t really that mad at you, you know.”

Peter’s mouth parts in surprise. “What?! You fucking backhanded me, man. And I totally deserved it, I’m not complaining, I’m just—what?”

You inhale deeply, and turn away from him, toward the bartender, who has been checking you out even less shamefully since you’ve shed your jacket. You order another drink, which Peter thinks is not a great idea, but who is he to tell you to stop? He’s been doing the same thing for weeks, and he didn’t listen to anyone. It’s not really his place. He only wonders why your reaction to his outburst was more drinks, and not to explain. It makes him feel like there is something you don’t want to tell him.

“I mean, I wasn’t mad for the reason you thought I was. And you’re right, you definitely did deserve that. Even if I felt a little bad about it after,” you finally say, facing him once more. The lighting washes you in blue and makes Peter think of a siren, calling him to his demise from the ocean. He leans closer.

“What... what do you mean?” he asks, timidly. Peter is still very much drunk and he’s struggling to focus. Your eyes get brighter the closer he gets. Your skin looks very soft and he notices a necklace he didn’t before. Mantis must’ve brought it for you on her latest escapade. It’s beautiful.

You stare back at him, and suddenly you giggle softly. “It’s nothing. Just forget it.”

Peter doesn’t want to forget it. But he knows you, and he knows that pushing you too far always results in you pushing back.

The two of you drink, and drink, and drink a little more. You play that weird tennis-beer-pong game and he wins, but not by much. A song you really like comes on and you dance. He watches you from a booth, oddly entranced, before you force him up. You dance awkwardly together around the room, jumping and shimmying, probably off tempo. Peter doesn’t realize it until it’s time to leave, but he hasn’t felt that strange painful nostalgia in at least two hours. That’s a new record.

“Let’s not go back just yet,” you say, your eyes lidded and your words slurring ever so slightly. “I needa walk some of this off before I get back behind the wheel.”

The wheel? That’s not happening. “Nah, we should just sleep on the ship here, and go back tomorrow. I don’t wanna die yet.”

You laugh, and lean into him, interlocking your arms as you start to walk. Your head is heavy on his shoulder, and he keeps tripping over your feet, but he wouldn’t dare ask you to move. He doesn’t want you to. He thinks about how good it feels to be close to someone, and realizes that he missed that, probably most of all.

“Peter,” you start, your voice slightly breathy. You must be very tired. It’s later than he expected to it be and he knows you haven’t drunken like that in a while. Peter likes the way you say his name. “I missed you so much.”

Your words make his heart break. “I know. I missed me too.”

Quiet. The street is nowhere near as bustling anymore; just a few losers sitting passed out on the ground, a group of drunk younger people skipping down the street, a homeless woman petting a stray dog. Peter can hear the sound of his own breathing, steady and slow. Relaxed.

“You didn’t miss me?” Peter can tell you’re teasing, but he can also sense a hint of truth behind your words. His chest aches.

“Of course I did. Of course.” His voice is soft and quiet.

Silence, again. Then, your hand slowly slithers down his arm, and you timidly lace your fingers with his. Peter squeezes. Your hand is cold, despite the rest of your body running hot with liquor.

“Peter?” you say yet again, lifting your head so that you can look at him. Your smile is gone, and your eyebrows are slightly upturned. You look so vulnerable, and again it makes his stomach turn. He wants to hold you in his arms and tell you over and over that he’s sorry, he’s sorry for things he’s done to you, things he hasn’t done, for the way he’s treated you.

“Yeah?” he whispers, instead.

“I wasn’t mad at you because you kissed me. I was mad because I knew you didn’t mean it. Not in the way I wanted you to, anyhow.”

Peter feels like his organs have turned inside out.

His hand goes limp in yours and you take that as a sign that he doesn’t want to hold it anymore, so you let go, your arm falling to your side in defeat. You turn away, and you cross your arms over your chest, almost hugging yourself. You’re always protecting yourself from being hurt, physically, emotionally—he hates that it’s him you are hiding from, this time.

But despite all that, Peter stays silent. He doesn’t know what to say. All the repressed feelings he has for you suddenly threaten to swim up to his throat and he massages his chest, trying to keep them down. You take a deep breath and it sounds watery. You’re still walking, but you’ve slowed just the slightest bit. He slows to be next to you.

“Hey,” he finally says, craning his head, trying to catch your face. Peter swears he can see tears and his hands start to shake. “Hey, look at me. Please.”

You sniffle, and stop walking. You’re clutching yourself really tight, like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Peter’s never seen you like this, and it fills him with this heavy shame; it’s him, that’s made you this way. Him that has reduced you to this. Never in his life has he ever wished anything but good things for you, but here he is, something bad. Something that hurts.

But you look at him. You’re crying, but you still look at him.

You stare at each other in silence for a few moments before you scoff, and avert eye contact. “Well? Say something. Don’t just gawk at me like I’m a zoo attraction.”

Peter swallows hard. “I... I did mean it.”

Something heavy hangs in the air, like the sky right before downpour. You look into his eyes again and your eyebrows suddenly furrow.

“Oh, fuck you, Peter!” Your sudden volume makes Peter flinch, but you keep going. “You are such an asshole. You strung me along for so long. Giving me hope that maybe you felt the same, just to turn around and flaunt another one of your conquests in my face. If you really mean it, you didn’t do a good job of showing that.”

You’re crying hard now, unable to make it through your words without pausing for a small sob. The sight makes Peter reach out for you involuntarily, and he feels his face fall when you recoil from his touch, staring at him like he’s the worst thing to ever happen to you, like he’s the bane of your existence. But then that fades away and you’re just sad, and you’re suddenly looking at him like you love him, and you’d do anything for him, and Peter wants to cry too.

“I swear, I didn’t know,” Peter tries, his voice still quiet. He swallows a tremor. “I thought... I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way. About me.”

You try to glare at him, but your eyes are glistening in the streetlamp’s glow and you look like a fucking angel.

Peter takes a step forward. “I felt that way about you. I... I feel that way about you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

You don’t move away, but you don’t say anything. You’re still hugging yourself, trying to fold away from his gaze. Peter feels fear bubbling in his chest the longer you remain silent and he can no longer fight the tears that are prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“Please, say something,” he begs, close enough now to touch you. “Please. I can’t... I can’t lose you too.” Peter’s voice cracks and he reaches up slowly to put his arms on yours, trying to drag them from their positions clutching your sides. You let him, and he lets out a small sigh of relief. He holds your hands in his, which are trembling ever so slightly.

Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s still in him, but he swears he can see you about to smile. And then it becomes real, and a soft, beautiful smile spreads across your face, and it’s like the sun is rising.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” Peter says, before he can stop himself. And just like that, your lips are on his, your hands on his face, holding it gently between your palms. Peter blinks once, unsure this is really happening, before he feels himself melting from the inside out. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, kissing you like they do in those old films, passionate and loving, like it’s the last thing he’s ever gonna do that matters.

It’s you that pulls away, even though Peter chases after you. You’re still crying, but you’re also still smiling. Peter thinks that he would kill someone just to see you smile like this.

“Let’s keep walking. The night is still pretty young,” you finally say, quiet, like you’re telling him a secret. Peter watches your face for a moment before he mirrors your grin, and wraps his arm tight around your shoulder. You’re right, the night is young. And he has a lot of lost time to make up for, a lot of things to say and do that he has wanted to for so long, and now he finally can.

You walk together, still tripping over one another, still giggling like drunken idiots. And when you reach the ship, you stumble inside, and collapse onto the floor with a heavy, tired sigh. Peter lies down next to you and you cuddle into his side.

“Did it work?”

Peter hums, unsure what you mean, but then he remembers. He strokes your head and closes his eyes, feeling the exhaustion from the liquor beginning to creep up on him.

“I think so.”

You rest your hand on his chest. “You’re worth it, Pete. You are.”

And though someone can say something like that and you can not believe it, Peter believes it, for the first time in so long. He is worth it. Maybe not worth you, just yet. But he can fight for that, he can learn. He can be the person that you deserve. He will be.

That night, Peter dreams of the stars.

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