#I’m gonna feel better eventually but that will be after I finish my ap lit work tbh

[s-ccaam-era-crepe]

yay pain flare up at work I feel great

[official-impravidus]

Just A Kiss (i don’t wanna mess this thing up)

Peter had been a fan fiction writer for quite some time. When he was in middle school, his schedule balancing robotics club, band, and AcaDec, he needed a creative outlet that wasn’t rigidly confined by STEM or saxophone repetoire.

So, he found himself writing stories.

They weren’t good. They were actually quite horrendous at first, but he expressed his love for the Star Wars stories, exploring character interactions in as many ways as he could imagine. He made canon divergent fix-it fics and cringey OC fics and even modern high school AUs.

However, as he grew older, his skills blossomed, just from the sheer magnitude that he wrote.

Every day, when he got back from his extracurriculars, already having finished his homework during school, he would find himself at the chunky computer he had rebuilt from garbage scraps, typing away until Ben called him for dinner, and then back at the keyboard when he finished washing the dishes.

It wasn’t until Spider-Man entered his life did his stories really get somewhere.

Peter had become known for his hyper-realistic, extremely detailed action sequences. After a particularly long patrol, he took notes on form and the choreography of it all, the different way that the criminals attempted to fight against him.

Of course, he took a lot of creative liberty to adapt the fights to fit his characters, but people appreciated the ebb and flow, how it didn’t focus on the gore, but instead the intricacies of technique and battle preparation.

But, his modest AO3 following wasn’t something that he broadcasted in his real life. There were enough reasons for people to make fun of Peter Parker, and he didn’t want to add to the list.

So, after almost a year of knowing Harley Keeer, Peter didn’t think to mention it.

Harley was great. He was really, really, really great, and Peter didn’t want to ruin what he could only hope was respect and mutual friendship that he shared with Harley by divulging his deepest, darkest secret with him. (Because despite what one would think, Spider-Man was not his deepest, darkest secret.)

Because Peter maybe, just maybe, just maybe a teensy tiny little bit, had a big, fat, embarrassing, brain-goes-offline-and-he-makes-stuttering-static-noises-when-he-tries-to-talk crush on Harley.

Harley was effortless charismatic. He was funny in a dry and sarcastic kind of way that could keep up banter for what felt like hours. He was kind in a genuine benevolent generosity kind of way. He was intelligent, and he made it very clear that he was competent and capable. He was confident, unwavering and strong. And he was really pretty. Sparkling blue eyes and soft, bouncy blonde hair, and a crooked smile.

So, sue him! Harley was dreamy and exactly Peter’s type.

So, when Harley approached him one morning, Peter slurping down a mango smoothie, saying “hey, Peter, so I was checking out your AO3,” was it really his fault that he snorted it out of his nose and coughed for a good two minutes in pure shock and also so he could delay the conversation as much as he could?

Class started before Harley could bring it up again that day.

But Peter knew it was coming.

The two were lounging in Harley’s room, Peter at his desk finishing his research essay for AP Lit, and Harley lying on the carpeted floor, scrolling silently on his phone.

“I just finished “ Thnks Fr Th Mmrs (even if they weren’t so bad) ,” Harley announced.

Peter choked. “ What ?!”

“Yeah, it took me a good couple hours because I mean, Jesus, 236,000 words, but I finished, and I gotta say, wasn’t expecting that ending.”

Peter swiveled around in the rollie chair. “How did you find my AO3?”

“It’s linked on your Tumblr,” Harley said with a shrug. “Anyways, I know that it was tagged major character death, but killing off Rey like that, I mean, that was heartbreaking. I felt physical pain in my chest while reading that. I didn’t even know a book could do that.”

“You read my fic?” Peter asked.

Harley looked to him, confused. “Yeah, I said that didn’t I? I’ve been reading your whole page, though it’s gonna take me some time because you’ve got like at least a million words total.” He scrolled through. “I started from your earliest fics because I figured they’ll just get better the further I get, and I’m about fifteen fics in because that last one was so long, and I don’t have that much free time…”

“Why are you reading my fics?” Peter blurted out.

“Because you wrote them?” Harley responded, as if the answer was obvious. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s… it’s embarrassing.”

“I mean, yeah, your earlier work had some formatting issues with the dialogue and some grammar mix ups, but I wouldn’t say it’s embarrassing. If anything, it’s really well written. Thnks Fr Th Mmmrs got a lot better as it went on.”

“That was my first multi-chap,” Peter said.

“You could tell. At least, at first you could. But like I said, it got better as it went on.”

“You liked it?”

Harley tilted his head. “Yeah. I did. You’re a really talented writer, Peter.” He looked to him with confusion and a hint of hurt. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this? Did you not trust me? Did you think I was going to make fun of you?”

“No!” Peter said quickly. “Well, I… I just, people think it’s weird. And that I’m weird. And it’s just one more weird thing, and I just didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

“I could never think you were weird,” Harley said softly.

Peter ducked his head, averting his gaze. “So, uh, do you have any notes? The feedback is pretty mixed in my comments, but usually the criticism I receive isn’t quite constructive.”

“Well, your action scenes are impeccable,” Harley said. “You really know how to capture movement. And the team dynamics are spot on. The build of trust and eventual camaraderie doesn’t feel rushed at all, and as a reader, is really fulfilling and satisfying.”

“But?” Peter prompted.

“But,” Harley continued, “the non-platonic relationships are lacking.”

Peter bobbed his head in understanding, hand going to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah…” He sighed. “It’s just, it’s hard, y’know? Because I’ve never… I mean, the closest I ever got was with Liz, and you know how that ended up.”

Harley sat on the edge of his bed. “Have you tried reading it more?”

“I just don’t tend to read that stuff. I’m not… it’s just not as interesting to me because I don’t get it. And that’s the problem. I just don’t get this stuff. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be good at it enough to really retain that information,” Peter said with a pathetic shrug.

“What do you have trouble with?” Harley asked, leaning forward, invested and curious.

“It’s the physical side of things. I don’t… in theory, I get how the feelings should feel. But, getting the logistics of stuff like how it feels when they finally break that physical barrier or how a kiss should be described, I just, I’m hopeless.”

“Well, I could help you?”

Peter looked up. “What?”

“I could show you. And explain it to you. Show you how it should be written.”

Click Here to Read More!

[seashellrosekitty]

Crestfallen (Part Two)

Pairing: Scott McCall x Female Reader (eventually)

Wordcount: 2.2k

Plot: You’re new to Beacon Hills, grieving your parents’ death. Scott befriends you in Biology class.

Chapter Characters: Scott McCall, Natalie Martin, Lydia Martin, and Stiles Stilinski (real world AU - our beloved Alpha and Banshee are merely humans in this story.)

Warning: Deep Angst. The reader’s character might come off as depressing to you. Also, swearing. 

Author’s Note: This is probably terrible. I feel like my writing is all over the place so please bear with me!

I was woken up by the ray of sun coming through the small part of the window that I had forgotten to close the night before. The light was seeping into my eyelids making my eyes roll back to the front and see red. When I opened my eyes, my room looked softly lit. It looked pleasant, as my dream. It was vivid. Clear as reality. I’ve dreamt of them again. But this time I remembered it when I woke up.

I was home again. I was seated on our couch in the living room. An opened book laid on my lap. Dad was seated in his favorite recliner, and mom...well...she was in my view, making dinner in the kitchen. And the house was filled with songs of Michael Jackson from the 80s. We didn’t say a thing to each other, but everything was good. Everything was perfect. Everybody was alive.

I wanted to stay asleep. I wanted to stay in that dream. But no. The day greeted me awake now and all that dream was anything but reality. Another day in this foreign room. In this foreign house. In this not-so foreign town. I drew a sharp breath before getting myself out of the covers. It was a Saturday. I had the morning free and the afternoon was scheduled for me and Stiles to meet for a History report we needed to get done together. He came by at around 4 PM. I was out on the porch when his Jeep pulled up in front of the house. He got out of his Jeep, clumsily carrying his books.

“Aren’t we supposed to do world history? Why do you have so many books with you?” “Hello to you too,” Stiles said to me, clearly pointing out I had to do better in this social etiquette stuff. Or whatever you call it. “We can’t just rely solely on our textbook, you know?” “Sure, but have you forgotten there’s Google and Wikipedia nowadays?” I responded as I opened the front door for him. “Yeah I love that stuff but this stuff is even better. Don’t you wanna ace History?” “I couldn’t care less,” I huffed. He turned around to look at me and I was just startled to have him standing too close to me all of a sudden. He squinted his eyes, probably thinking I should be blamed if we flunk History.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.” I didn’t know he was such a go-getter.

When we took breaks, Stiles went to Lydia’s bedroom. And I spent the break hanging out on the poolside. It was getting colder each week. Fall was already in season, and the pool, just like the backyard and the front yard, was full of leaves that needed to be put away.

I jumped when my phone rang. It was Scott. What could he be calling me for? After two rings, I finally picked up.

“Hello?” “Hey, Y/N. Sorry to bother you. Is Stiles still there with you?” “Yeah but he’s with Lydia now.” “Great. Could you bring your phone to him, please? I need to talk to him. He’s not answering.” “Oh. Sure. Hold on.” I stood up as I said that and rushed to Lydia’s bedroom, still holding my phone over my ear. I knocked loudly.

“Lydia? Is Stiles there?” I heard shuffling and grunting noises inside and I just felt repulsed. “Scott’s on the phone. Said he needs to talk to Stiles.”

“Tell him it’s about his dad. He’s in the hospital,” Scott said over the phone. I repeated what he said aloud. Then I heard loud thumps and stomping feet, then the door opened revealing a flushed Stiles. His shirt was clearly just worn in a rush. I instinctively leaned back from the door as I handed my phone to him. Stiles loudly whispered “Thanks” to me as he grabbed the phone and shut the door. It didn’t take a minute before the door opened again and Stiles was rushing to get outside Lydia’s room, still holding my phone and talking to Scott. I was left still standing across Lydia’s door, with a peek of her room. I was obviously interrupting something and the moment I realized that, Lydia was standing before the door and gave me a sarcastic smile as she gently closed it. That was my cue to follow Stiles to the living room where our books were laid open from the research. “Y/N/N, I’m so sorry but I gotta go. It’s my dad. Promise we’ll finish this before the deadline. Hang on to the books for me, ok?” He said and then gave me back my phone, rushing to leave.

At dinner, we had steak, salad, and mashed potatoes. Natalie’s cooking was really good, but I couldn’t forget that look on Stiles’ face when he opened the door, even up until he left. It was plastered with worry and somehow, annoyance. I wonder what happened to his dad? I badly wanted to ask Lydia about it but I thought I might be prying. Besides, she’s never given me a look I could smile at since she closed the door on me that day.

***

I spent the next few days letting myself just go with the flow. I went to class, ate lunch with Lydia and her friends, did my homework, I talked to Natalie...I even smiled for her a few times. I felt like I was there but I wasn't really there. I felt like I trapped myself in my own head and let my brain do all the work for me like I was on autopilot. I couldn't understand what was going on with me. The only times I was ever really conscious about where I was and what I was doing was when I was alone. When nobody could see me, nobody's talking to me, and I am just left thinking how am I still breathing.

I took showers at night because it calmed me. One night, I stood on the shower and let the water run across my face with my mouth open so I could breathe. The droplets of water were soft on my skin. It was probably the calmest thing I've felt upon me since my parents died. Not that it was long ago, but nothing about me was calm or pleasant anymore. Nothing felt okay. But that moment in the shower was. I felt my heartbeat slow down and I kept my eyes closed. I wanted to cry in there, but not a single tear fell out of my eyes. How is it possible for someone to feel hurt and numb at the same time? What a complicated concept. But it happened to me. Maybe it’s happened to you too. But I hope you’ve handled your situation better than I did.

***

Each day, Scott would always strike a conversation between us. He's really nice. Sometimes I wonder what keeps him going, what keeps him positive. I arrived in our Biology lab before he did, and he greeted me with his usual innocent smile. He looked handsome that day. He wore a beige shirt and a denim jacket. It was simple but it suited him.

"You're early," he said. I smiled at him in agreement because I didn't know what to respond to that, and he pursed his lips as he smiled back when he realized what he said didn't really encourage me to say anything. At one point, I wondered if I should just write him a letter to explain things. I felt bad for the boy. "How was your weekend?" Finally, an open-ended question. Not that I would tell him about the glorious shower I had last Saturday.

"Good. I stayed home, so..." I shrugged, letting him assume my weekend was, as a matter of fact, uneventful.

"Me too. There was a lot of cleaning to do," he replied, scratching his head. "So, what do you like to do for fun?" Three weeks have passed since I moved here and no one has asked me this question. Not even Lydia. I looked at him and thought of what to answer him. I didn't even know if I was ready to do anything remotely fun. Autopilot, remember?

I raised my shoulders shrugging and said, "Usual stuff, I guess," then my mind drifted to a memory I carried from when I was eleven. My parents and I went to the beach and set up a tent and spent the night there. We had a bonfire and we watched shooting stars dart across the sky. I don't know why we never did that again. My mind drifted back to Scott, who was still waiting for my answer. "But I miss going to the beach and having a bonfire," I finished with a smile. I felt that smile. It was real. It wasn't forced. And Scott was left speechless and just gave me a smile too. I started to like that smile. I didn't realize that it's nice to remember the good things. I miss them. Maybe that's what good memories are for.

The week after that, I found myself spacing out in class. I almost never remember what the lessons were. The only subject I ever cared to be mentally present in was AP Biology. I couldn’t have Mrs. Finch embarrassing me with her sass for not listening. Once in a while then, I realized how easy it was to cut class. As long as none of Lydia’s friends were my classmates, I knew I was safe from prying eyes.

One subject I liked cutting was English Literature. Ms. Blake was a good teacher and all but I dunno. I just didn’t feel like being in her class all the time. I’d rather listen to Mr. Harris in History than learning about Mark Twain with Ms. Blake. One time, I decided to finally do it. After the third period, I made sure no one I know saw me. I went outside of the school and headed to the bleachers. No one was there. At least, no one I knew. Just some kids smoking their day away.

***

At the Martins' home, the house was usually quiet. I would occasionally hear Lydia talking on the phone in her room while I'd be doing my homework or watch TV, or her mom would be making our meals in the kitchen or talking to someone on the phone. I was grateful that both of them just did their own thing, not pulling a Brady Bunch act on me. Definitely, the Martins weren't anything like the Brady Bunch. One evening, Lydia's dad came to visit. He was tall, thin, and his eyes popped out of his head. Wherever he looked made him look like he was glaring at it. I felt uncomfortable around him. He was always so critical of everything. I think he never trusted anyone but himself. I thanked God that he didn't stay for dinner because I really didn't wanna be in that situation where I'm in the middle of a feud of a family I’m not even a part of. Whenever her dad came to visit, I noticed Lydia would be extra hardworking in school the next day. She would raise her hand all the time.

I never knew why he and Natalie divorced, never even really knew when they did. All I remember was that their family was different from mine. Lydia's parents seemed like the kinds of people who both went to Ivy League schools and intended for their daughter to do the same. And my parents, well, they were more carefree than Lydia's parents. They let me explore so many things without pressure. They've let me try art, explore astronomy, even a few recreational things like fishing, snorkeling, etc. The only pressure I ever got from them was when I got low grades. I was never an overachiever like Lydia, but my parents wanted me to have at least a good passing grade. Getting a C would already worry them. I miss them.

I miss their voices. Their company. The way they used to say my name. I’ve been having little moments of realizing how my life has changed drastically in their absence. There was no mom and dad for me to go home to. No mom to wake me up in the morning. No dad to watch action movies with. When I look at these kids around me in school, I see that they’re full of life. Laughing over Tumblr memes, cheering over their favorite boy band or geeking out over the latest Marvel movie. And here I am. Breathing. But feeling lifeless. Tell me. How can I move forward from this? How can I feel alive again?

Part Three

@bojabee @jurrasicpork @chiamilia @sav625 @kim-hunter5 @thejourneyofabrokenheart @seninjakitey