#fic: summer sun

[wellcollapse]

tease tidbit tuesday

thank you to @shitouttabuck @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @daffi-990 @jeeyuns @wildlife4life @cal-daisies-and-briars @eddiebabygirldiaz @fortheloveofbuddie for tagging me over the past week :)

this is a snippet from my new wip: summer sun!! this is something i started as a writing exercise after i hit a bit of a slump with my other WIPs. my goal was to write one scene, and only one scene from a story that i wanted to put to paper. the full story i had in mind was a dual POV look into eddie's PTSD slash recovery arc with a slight, messy twist on buddie's relationship, but but i don't think i will ever write it in full because it's too much for my current ability as a writer.

still, i feel like the scene that inspired the whole thing deserves to see the light of day, and so i'm probably going to publish this as a one-shot sometime within the next week or two. it's already at 3.5k, and i think that the full fic will be around 6k once it's done :)

anyway!! here's your tidbit:

“Eddie. Listen to me. It won’t be like this forever, okay?” Buck repeats, tilting Eddie's chin up and looking him right in the eye.  He pours every ounce of sincerity he possesses into his words in the hope that Eddie understands. Understands that even if he can’t believe in much right now, he can still trust this — trust him. “I promise, Eddie. I promise. And until that happens, I’ll be here.”  He leans forward, curling his fingers around Eddie’s hand again. Eddie holds onto him this time, and doesn't stop Buck when his thumb settles comfortably above Eddie’s pulse point. “See? You’re alive. Do you feel that? You haven’t disappeared, Eddie. You’re right here. And I’m right here next to you.”   Eddie shuts his eyes, and a few tears spill over. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Hey now,” Buck says, tapping him on the hand. They’re close enough now that their shoulders brush, and Buck gently bumps them together, letting a hint of a smile slip back into his voice. “Come on, Eddie. You know that you never have to thank me.”  Eddie squints at him through watery eyes, and Buck can already hear the expected soft, cheeky, “I know,” from him, punctuated with his signature playful eyeroll, but instead— Something in Eddie's face changes. Instead, he leans forward, and he— 

tagging @housewifebuck @captain-hen @antibyler @loserdiaz @buckleyseddie and anyone else who wants to do it :)

[acabecca]

Summer Sun // a The Summer I Turned Pretty fanfic

For as long as Riley Bay could remember, their names had always been linked; Belly and Conrad, Conrad and Belly.

And that was okay. Because for as long as it had been Belly and Conrad, it had been Riley and Jeremiah.

But then Susannah died, and it all went to hell. It wasn’t Belly and Conrad anymore, it wasn’t Riley and Jeremiah; it was Belly and Jeremiah. Riley was out on her own. One summer had changed everything, and she’d barely been able to find a place to fit in her friends lives anymore.

Maybe now, maybe this summer, was the time to finally put things right.

At least, it would be if Riley let Belly get her own way.

taglist: @sgtbuckyybarnes @fcundwitch @katiekinswrites @if-you-onlyknew @hiddenqveendom @far-shores @eddiemunscns @steveshcrringtons @stanshollaand @starcrossedjedis

[crabsnpersimmons]

Sun! Sun! MaKe mE SpRiNg RoLlS PlEaSE

‐hungry anon-

oooh springs rolls sound yum! what kind of spring rolls are your favourite?

[justaz]

BIG fan of two sides of the same coin running incredibly hot and the other running incredibly cold.

people who brush hands with merlin wincing bc holy fuck that was like touching ice and merlin just smiles and wanders off. he’s like a cat, he likes to lounge in the sun and soak up the heat. he’s always been a huge fan of summer bc it was the time when the sun was out the most and there were rarely storms or clouds to block out the heat. he like farming with him mom bc of this bc he got to spend time with her while being in the sun. he never tanned tho. for some reason. he always remained as pale as the snow.

the knights are training during a hot summer day and merlin is cleaning a blade so he’s taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves so they don’t get dirty. gwaine wanders over to grab and drink and makes conversation with merlin and nudges his arm and pauses before placing his hands on his arm. he looks up at merlin who is staring at him in confusion. gwaine asks if he’s feeling alright and merlin’s like ?? yeah?? and gwaine just keeps touching him bc fuck its hot out today and merlin is freezing cold to the touch despite sotting in the sun and it’s offering him a bit of relief. arthur ofc barks and gwaine to get back to training and he forces himself to leave. he does make a note to cuddle up to merlin when it gets too hot bc merlin can definitely make him feel better.

no one really touches arthur as he’s the crown prince and all his servants did their best to not touch him directly and if they did it was really quick and professional. gaius always had a hard time figuring when arthur would get a fever bc he always ran hot so it always felt like he had a fever. arthur loved winter bc the snow and cool temperature. his nursemaids and servants would insist on bundling him up but often times arthur would just tear it off when he was outside, he never froze or got sick from it either.

when arthur takes the knights out on an expedition during winter and they’re all bundled up and shivering while arthur is just enjoying the cool air. merlin is shivering the most tho despite being wrapped in about fifty layers of fabric so arthur sheds his cape and hands it to merlin who wraps it around himself with a slight gasp and comment about how its so warm. the knights start a bidding war about who gets to sleep next to arthur when they stop to rest. it doesn’t matter who won. they all just piled on/around arthur and steal his warmth. merlin resides in the middle though bc he’s the coldest so arthur was willing to offer all his warmth to him while the rest stole it.

after they get married, merthur cuddle all night. merlin is freezing and arthur is burning so merlin cools arthur down while arthur warms merlin up. it’s an equal exchange. they’re also touching all the time no matter the temperature. if its summer and most people think its too hot to so much as be looked at? arthur has an arm up merlin’s tunic and wrapped around his waist cooling down while merlin is stealing him warmth. in winter, merlin is the koala and is stealing arthur’s warmth which he doesn’t mind bc merlin’s touch just reminds him of his favorite season.

[shadebloopnik]

"There's something else here, I just know it!"

Charlie clutches at her hair, frustration dripping as she stares down the two men before her. The others stand by the bar behind her, waiting to see how this interaction goes down. Vaggie stands by her side, her rock amidst the chaos, because she's just about had it with the two. They've met for barely a week, and yet they acted like they hated each other for decades. Each interaction conveyed a message laced with a bitter venom she could not understand, and she's just SO TIRED of all the secrets, especially ones that threatened to wreck the hotel every few hours!

"So what is it?! Why do you two hate each other so much??? You act like you've known each other for centuries and Im DONE with being kept in the dark!"

Her horns protrude, flames flaring from her hair as she levels the two with a glare. The demonic form has her girlfriend clutching tighter at her arm, and her friends backing up behind the bar.

The objects of her current irritation deflated a bit at her anger, though not without sneaking hate filled gazes at the other.

"Its nothing, Charl-"

"NO.", her voice reverberated across the walls. "Dad, I would normally not interfere with anyone's past, but not if that past hurts the hotel, hurts my people. Angel could have gotten so much more than a broken leg if I didn't step in."

Said spider flinches imperceptibly at the mention of his name. Even when he wasn't the one being scolded, Charlie could be terrifying when she wanted to be.

"You two have a past. What. Is. It."

Lucifer, for the first time since this started, visibly lost his composure, seeming at a lost for words.

"I- we.. W-we were-"

"Lovers..."

Silence, as everyone turned their gazes to the Radio Demon.

They...had to have misheard? Right?

But Alastor continued, turning his head away, smile and eyes unreadable.

"We were lovers."

Lucifer winces ever so slightly at the past tense, hurt(and guilt?) filling his eyes, before an irritated huff breaks out of his lips.

"I already told you, I-"

"It doesn't matter."

"It DOES! If you would just let me-!"

"It was all in the past, it matters not anymore, nor will it ever matter again. Apologies for the undesirable behavior, dear Charlotte, i'll try to keep damages to a minimum for the foreseeable future."

"Wait, Alastor-!"

But Alastor had already melted to the shadows, the King's black tipped claws clutching at thin air where he'd stood. His hands shook, closing into a fist as he tried to even his breathing. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips, dragging a hand down his face. Without another word, he too vanished in a swirl of red, leaving the residents of the hotel gaping at their absence.

Charlie- whose demon form long receded- stood processing what just happened. A hand made it way to her mouth, as she leaned into her girlfriend for support.

This...wasn't what she expected.

Its like she could start to see now; all the hurt buried behind each venomous gaze, all the regret laced with each bitter word. Something was broken, and they kept cutting themselves as they wielded each shard as its deadly weapon.

Oh hells, how was she supposed to fix this??

".......this is so worth getting my leg broken."

Husk turned a baleful, yet fond glare at the spider demon who chose to 'very subtly' break the silence that enveloped the room.

"What???? I live for the drama, sue me!"

[ervotica]

oh oh oh!!!!! “the water’s so cool! come on, just come in for a dip to cool yourself down.” with bully!eddie!!! swoons

Thank you for the request my love! God I adore Bully!Eddie; Bully!Eddie goes soft on you at Lover’s Lake. You can’t find it in yourself to complain; 500< words

Lovers Lake is heaven at this time of year.

It’s sweltering, the type of heat that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin, makes your muscles slow and sticky like molasses, tired and sweaty and not particularly inclined to do much other than lay in the grass. The gaggle of your friends splashing in the shallow water laugh and chatter, each voice overlapping the other until most of the conversation is inaudible.

You turn from your place at the mouth of the lake, hair sticking to your shiny forehead as you squint and try to make out the sulking figure in the trees. The breeze rustles the viridescent leaves, branches hanging low and heavy and obscuring the dark haired boy’s features.

Pushing yourself up on your forearms, you waver at the sight of him, all long and lean and pale, hiding behind the leaves; his hair is pulled back rather than down in its usual messy curls, mötörhead t-shirt slung lazily over the slope of his torso.

“Eddie,” you call. His head tips up at the sound of you.

“What?” he snaps back, venomous. His scowl doesn’t deter you, not anymore.

“It’s too hot to be sitting over here,” you giggle. “Come down with us.”

He scoffs, turning away before your sentence is even over. He glistens in the rays of sunlight peeking through the undergrowth, a thin layer of perspiration coating his pallid skin.

“Eddie,” you whine, bouncing on the very tips of your toes. “Please.”

“Hey,” he barks, brows marrying into an expression you really hate on him. “What have I told you about whining? Don’t be annoying.”

You huff, crossing arms over your chest and crouching until you’re eye level with him.

“The water’s so cool!” You reach out to twirl a loose curl that’s broken free from the confines of his hair tie. “Come on, just come in for a dip to cool yourself down.”

He grumbles something under his breath; you know you’ve won.

“You’re so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?”

You only smile.

He snatches his hand away when you reach for it, but lets you ogle as he strips his band tee off and slides into the clear water. You plop back down next to him, Robin to your other side.

He prickles as your hands coast the bare length of his arms, spreading over his shoulders to tickle his face.

“Quit it,” he murmurs; you know he doesn’t mean it.

“Hold my hand?” you ask, soft doe eyes staring him down until he has no choice but to agree. You splash as you turn to face him, rippling water casting shapes around your body.

“Will it make you quiet?” he gripes. You scrunch your nose at him in this cute way that has his heart clenching in his chest. If anyone else ever upset you he thinks he’d kill them.

Your fingers are intertwined almost immediately. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile so big, so uninhibited. You hum, squeezing his fingers every so often. He squeezes you back just to keep you happy.

Maybe he doesn’t hate you as much as he thought.

[violetsastrocytes]

‘Hello?’ There’s a pause. ‘Hi,’ says Barty. He sounds waspish, vaguely irritated, and by that Evan knows there’s no emergency. No, no—Barty is calling for no reason at all.

(new chapter is up!)

[blueeyedgrlwrites]

So, no sentences on this fine Sunday, but I bring you a finished fic instead. I hope you enjoy!

summer sun, something's begun | E | 5,966 words

“Hello, Alex,” Henry responds when Alex turns that bloody perfect smile on him. “Not getting in the water today?” Alex teases. “Not just yet, but I may later.” Henry smiles and locks his focus on Alex. He’s memorized Alex’s routine over the last couple of weeks; find the right lounge chair, spread out the towel, straddle the chair obscenely, work sunscreen into already glowing bronze skin. The front of his shorts grows a little tighter with each passing second, and he starts to quietly hum ‘God Save the Queen’ so that only he can hear it. Alex grins. “You’re still mad we beat you in Marco Polo yesterday, aren’t you?”

Or: Henry is a divorced dad and Alex is his new neighbor. They spend a summer admiring each other from across the pool.

read on AO3

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Harry was like the dark rain at the end of summer.

He rolled in like storm clouds on the horizon, a bright blue sky that faded slowly, then all at once to a dull dark grey. Harry walked into every room with a shade around him, dimming all the lights until he was the brightest source—a flash in the darkest dark—twisting, jagged just like that scar across his forehead.

Tom knew it the minute he laid his eyes on him, the moment that smell of ozone crept by, wafting and humid, sticking to him like a second skin.

[cademygod]

last chapter of sun tea in the summer will be out by labor day and i am NOT lying this time

[evrytforourmoony]

i want every bits of this story tattooed on my forehead bc wtf it is so poetic and sad and beautiful and beautiful so fucking beautiful that i cant describe it ahhhhhhhhhhhh

and lilith janette evans i love u veri veri much do u know that!?!?!? she's such an icon ugh

[wellcollapse]

What’s your favourite wip that you’re working on atm ☺️

hi daffi!! i've been in a bit of a writing slump with my other wips lately so i decided to write something completely unorthodox (for me) and only write one scene from a fic that's been rolling around in my mind for a while. i've always really wanted to write a long fic about eddie's breakdown era (i know you're writing one too, which i'm So excited to read, hehe!!) but i don't think i'll ever have the motivation or time to finish the entire thing, so i just started writing the very first scene that i envisioned for this fic and i think that i'll post it as a one-shot once i'm done. i won't spoil too much, but let's just say it's about buck taking care of eddie right after his breakdown...but with a twist 🤫

[thepunkmuppet]

I think I’m actually gonna write that long post-tfatws sambucky falling in love fic lads. they’re the only part of the mcu I give a shit about anymore and seems like we’re getting fuck all from the upcoming movies and bucky might DIE so I’ve got to take matters into my own hands

[alrightbuckaroo]

Happy October everyone! Thanks for the tags @carlos-in-glasses, @orchidscript, @inflarescent, and @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut! Here's (a little more than) seven sentences from part ii of the Parisian Summer Romance.

For the second time in twenty four hours; TK packs an overnight bag. He packs his essentials, allows himself to cry one more time, then walks out the door with only Carlos’ apartment in mind. 

When he finally gets there, Carlos opens the door without TK having to knock. His wide brown eyes look even more inviting than usual. He gives TK a sympathetic smile and the first thing he says is, “Hey baby.” 

Carlos opens his arms and TK treats the embrace like oxygen; necessary and vital. Carlos smells like cinnamon, vanilla, and cloves. TK feels enraptured by Carlos’ warmth, a warmth that rivals the Parisian summer sun. 

no pressure tagging: @reyesstrand, @heartstringsduet, @strandnreyes (you've been gifting us so much recently, but is there a chance you can gift us a little more?), @lemonlyman-dotcom, @bonheur-cafe, @freneticfloetry, @welcometololaland, @rmd-writes, @three-drink-amy, @wandering-night19, @tailoredshirt, @sanjuwrites, @birdclowns and here's an open tag for anyone who wants to share!

[perexcri]

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - [byler week - day 4]

title from: fourth of july by fall out boy

dedicated to: the lake i lived next to in rural [STATE REDACTED] for 3/4 of my college years

It’s something that haunts him, of course.

It’s the colorful bursts of light he sees when he blinks too fast, the popping in his ears once the pressure builds up, a cool sluice of water against his ankles, and the slickness of forearms beneath his fingers. It comes to him in waves like the ones that lapped against the shore, cuts into the soles of his feet like the juts of limestone buried beneath the mud, invades his sinuses like the scent of dry, overgrown grass and burnt-orange pine needles blanketing the land.

Summer is usually the time of freedom, when the sun stays out far past when it should have gone to sleep and coaxes people out of their homes and into hazy, smoke-filled nights. The world is burning with color, the earth warm beneath his feet, and the hours trickle away in untamed drops of afternoon showers and the lingering blue wash of dusk. When he was younger, summer seemed the season of possibilities: for adventures, for discoveries, for reading new books and seeing new sights, for slipping from the cloak of shadows the rest of the year seemed draped in to finally embrace the warmth of life reignited in his chest.

Once, it had even felt like the possibility of something more.

Mike’s mouth drops into a scowl as he stares at the face of the lake. The book between his ribs and arm presses into his side just a little harder, his hands are shaking, and even after twelve years, he thought he’d be done with these pitiful twists of hope he feels every summer he returns here. He can make it down the main street of the town without worries, even if he does double-takes at every brunette he sees pass by in his car’s smudged windows, and he can make the winding trail down to the lakeside just fine. He can unlock his family’s summer home and breathe in its scent of musty sheets, stale coffee, and woodsmoke of vacations past. Hell, he can even toss his pile of books onto the kitchen table and listen to it groan under the strain of his literature Ph.D. program’s third year, a further reminder that time has passed and his life, for better or worse, has changed.

He’s always fine until he sees the ever-shifting face of the lake, how it mischievously gleams under both sun and moon. That’s when his heart convulses into these ugly, gut-mashing twists and his body gets forcibly wrenched back in time. 1999 dissolves around him like pixels on the screen of a video game being shut off, and suddenly, 1987 burns against his skin. His parents are in the lakehouse, there’s fireworks popping colors all across the sky, and the boy he’d seen around town the past few summers has his fingers tangled with Mike’s, and he’s tugging him towards the lake, his mouth flush with moonlight as he says, What’s the worst that can happen?

A lot, actually. Sometimes, you turn over a stone and discover something either wonderful or frightening, and it slips from your fingers before you have a chance to decide which one it is. Sometimes, the summer fades into the new school year, and there’s no way to contact the only person you’ve ever felt like this for, and when you come back the next year, he’s nowhere to be seen.

And now, he’s got nothing to show for it but the way his heart twists and turns inside the empty cavity of his chest, and the images that haunt the poetry he submits to the campus literary magazine: lakes frosted with moonlight, summer humidity pressing hot between chests and mouths, fingers curled into the damp fringes of hair, distant sparks of light that could be stars or fireflies, though the narrator is always too preoccupied to tell the difference.

He glowers at the lake and how it sucks all the light from the sun, steals its colors to shade water’s surface instead. The sky is growing dimly bruised with purples and magentas and oranges, the water burns scarlet from the light, and the navy cloth of night is quickly overtaking it all.

The book presses more forcefully into his side; it shakes. He’s twenty-eight, and he should be over this by now, but he can’t help that every time he sees the water, he thinks of how it tasted pressed between their mouths, or how slick it felt against the other boy’s skin, or the way they’d forcefully embraced after clambering back onto the shore, the other boy’s back crinkling into the reedy grasses of the shore, Mike sprawled on top of him, alternating between pressing his ear to the other boy’s warm chest to hear the racing pulse of his heart, or else tilting his head up to admire how the colors of light burst against the other boy’s skin and eyes. They rained on him in showers of colors Mike thinks couldn’t exist except for that summer, and how they shaded every single other moment they spent glued to each other’s sides after that. He’s twenty-eight, and he should be over this by now, but nothing beats the feeling of weightlessness that comes from falling, falling, falling down into love when you’re sixteen.

“This is stupid,” he mutters, which is something he tells himself a lot, but it’s mostly to remind himself that twelve years of a pitiful crush on a boy he knew for one summer are, in fact, a little ridiculous, and he’d been ridiculous to decide to do his summer research at his family’s old lakeside home. He’d been studying the Romantics the past three years, and for some reason, he thought this was his last chance at letting their wayward paths cross once more. At this point, it isn’t even about his own wish fulfillment–he simply needs peace, to press his fingers into the other person’s wrist and know he’s alive so they can say their goodbyes and part in peace.

The water laps against the shore, just a little closer to his battered sneakers.

“Stupid,” he repeats before forcefully tucking a chunk of his hair behind his ears, turning on his heels, and storming back to the comforting recesses of the lake house.

  Summer is the liquidity of time: he passes through the barriers of day and night, today and tomorrow with ease, sleeping at odd hours, poring over dusty volumes of poetry and diaries he’d checked out in haste from his university’s library. There’s more coffee than blood running through his veins, and when he goes outside, it’s only ever to drive into town to buy groceries or refill his car’s tank. He doesn’t look out the back windows at the lake, and he sure as hell doesn’t try to breathe in more of the musk of pine trees than he has to.

He’s safe, cocooned in his family’s old home, huddled under blankets against the frigid wash of AC he keeps steadily pumping through the vents. He hunches at the table, sprawls on the couch, curls up on the bed in languid fits of sleep, and the taste of undercooked pasta or frozen dinners becomes the all-too familiar fuel to his days of research, note-taking, and thesis writing.

When he does pull out his old weathered notebook of poetry, it’s only ever to scratch down a few lines in tired replication of the old greats: John Keats, Lord Byron, Pushkin. He used to go outside for hours and try to capture the endless summer delights in shoddy, amateur lyrics, but he knows better than to let his pens fall into those familiar strokes now, and he’s fine in the dusty corners and wilting walls inside, anyway.

All dependent variables are removed from the equation, and his summer becomes one of controlled focus: he will get this research done, and he will focus on the next stage of his life, and he will not, for any reason whatsoever, follow the pitiful tugs of his heart towards some vain hope that the other boy will remember, that he’ll show up again, that he’ll even want to come back to this lonely corner of the country on some vague inclination that Mike might be here, too.

  Except for one day in early July, when there’s a faint knock at the door that makes his head jerk up from the volume of Coleridge’s poetry he’s been mindlessly thumbing through. It’s as soft as a breeze off the face of the lake, and for a moment, he can almost convince himself he’d only misheard the breath of life around him.

Until there’s another, slightly louder, unmistakable staccato: knock knock knock.

He wrenches open the door and is met with hazel eyes he’d only ever had the courage to admire under the colors of fireworks, moonlight, and the last dying rays of summer sunsets. His hair’s been trimmed from the shaggy bangs he’d once worn, and it’s strange for it to be mid-summer and him to be clad in jeans and not shorts, a collared shirt and not a polo.

The volume of poetry slips out of Mike’s hand and falls, painfully, on the arch of his left foot.

“Is it really you?” he asks through a wince of pain.

Will grins, his face alight. “Yeah, it’s me.” There’s a beat, then, with a quirked eyebrow, he asks, “You remember?”

How could I not? Mike thinks, drinking in the matured features of the boy he only knew for a summer, now grown-up and full and alive.

Once more, summer becomes a time of possibility, and the love kept captive in Mike’s chest feels a little less small and derisive. He feels whole and electric, like he could dissolve into the brief flares of light and color of those fireworks from long ago.

For the first time in twelve years, the world seems blossoming, full of possibility, and when Mike reaches out, he’s greeted by that feeling of life beneath his fingers, a chance to know that this is real.

With a grin, he realizes that the possibilities are endless.

---

the lake in question:

[ervotica]

dbf!hopper in which your parents ask him to watch you because you twisted your ankle at the pool :( you couldn’t be safer than with the sheriff, but your parents don’t know you two are closer than they think

“it’s absolutely sweltering, how can you still want to cuddle?!”

i’m torn between smutty n fluffy so u choose bae 🫡

Thank you for this my lovely, my love for our one and only Sheriff Hopper is unmatched; Hopper humours your dramatics over a twisted ankle, fluff ensues; 800 words

bambi’s sun kissed summer celly

“Hi, Honey.”

You’re pouting the moment you limp through the police station; you know you are, and it only gets more prominent, your soft little lip pushing further out as Hopper catches a glimpse of your deflated countenance.

You hop your way over to his desk, the door swinging shut behind you, and plant your bum onto the solid wood furniture in front of the older man. Your thighs squish, pushing against the seams of your frayed denim shorts; Jim thinks you’re practically edible.

“How’d you manage that, huh?” He lifts your swollen ankle, resting the heel of your foot against his thick thigh as you whine and halfheartedly explain how you tripped and sprained your ankle at the pool.

“Wasn’t my fault! Tripped ‘cos Hargrove distracted me, fuckin’ shouting.”

“Language.”

You huff and roll your eyes but you don’t curse again. He begins rubbing soothing circles into your calf, squashing the flesh in and then pulling it tight, working his way up your leg until he’s at the pudge of your hip. He squeezes you there, laughs as you prickle and squirm under his heated stare.

“Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

He lifts you with ease, hooking your legs over one of his arms where the other holds you up at the base of your spine. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, what with the chief being your dad’s closest friend; no one ever realises there might be more to your relationship than that.

He deposits you safely in the passenger seat of his car, pausing to pinch your chin and nudge you gently into the centre of the seat.

“Attagirl,” he mumbles, leaning over you to fasten your seatbelt; you don’t bother telling him that you’re capable of doing it yourself. You adore the attention from him.

You’re dozy and content on the ride to Hopper’s cabin despite the throbbing in your ankle. Lolling your head to the side, you gaze at the man next to you with a level of adoration only seen in cringy romance movies.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he teases in that deadpan way he jokes; you flush white-hot right down to your toes.

After he parks, you let him lift you back out of the car and snuggle in close; the frayed hem of your cut off t-shirt tickles his arm. If it bothers him he doesn’t say so. You reach up and scratch at his jaw, fingers touching and then spreading out until they’re splayed across his stubbled cheek.

The couch is a welcome comfort; it smells of Jim, feels like him as you sink into it with a happy little grunt. You whine and reach for him when he steps away to toe his heavy boots off, quickly perking back up as he makes his way towards you, towards his permanent dent in the seat cushion.

You knock his hat off of his head with the way you fly across the space between the pair of you and into his lap; he doesn’t even scold you as he usually would. You thank the Lord for your injury. His arms naturally fit around your body and he hikes you up until you’re comfortable cradled in his lap, your hurt leg stretched straight to avoid any unnecessary tension.

“Honey,” he laughs, this deep bellowing sound that pushes his eyes half shut and reveals smile lines mostly hidden from the outside world. “It’s absolutely sweltering, how can you still want to cuddle?”

“Missed you,” you mumble into the fabric of his Sheriff’s uniform. “Need a cuddle.”

He coos something sweet that isn’t quite a word and you make a funny sound somewhere between contentment and a complaint. Your face goes to the juncture of his neck, eyes closed as his hand spreads across the top of your head and locks you tight against him. You go still and limp.

“‘s nice,” you slur, already well on your way to being asleep.

“You fallin’ asleep on me, sweet thing?”

“No,” you mildly protest; you both know it’s a lie. You press a featherlight kiss to his neck, and then another. Jim’s fingers scratch at your scalp the way he knows you like.

“That nice?” he asks.

Your replying snore tickles his neck.