#the meetcute

[as-above-is-moving]

@splinter-sister

It had taken nearly an hour of public transport to get here, but Gale had finally found the Workshop that she'd been looking for. She stuck out like a sore thumb amidst all the grey and earthy tones of mechanics and scrap metal junk piles, with pink hair, bright purple eyes, and a style that could only be described as soft pastel punk.

Having caught the attention of nearly everyone there who wasn't wedged under a car of some kind, one of the mechanics did come over to ask what she was looking for. The others waited and watched, curious about what was being said between the two as she pointed to her phone and the gentleman looked it over. After a few moments he returned to the others, and to some of their disappointment, informed them that she was looking for a specific mechanic to help with a bike she'd purchased. The mechanic came and found him, knocking on the side of the vehicle he was working on to get his attention.

"Oy, Burner. There's a girl here about a motorcycle that needs fixin'. Says she'll only talk to you."

[carelessflower]

Divorcee Alec and Single father Magnus but Magnus was his divorce lawyer…

meet cute?

omgggg they bonding for legal documents and how to make alec ex husband suffer

[tamelee]

'I wanted to talk to you' ;-;

[eddiesxangel]

I Do Believe In Fairies | E.M

Cw: Halloween party, reader is dressed as Tinkerbell, alcohol, anxiety, blood, fluff, meet-cute, 1.7k words.

An: this is a repost, not a lot of people saw it the first time so hopefully you enjoy 🧚

Your anxiety flourished as you walked into the dimly lit room at the back of the restaurant. Your boss was hosting her annual Halloween party, and you came alone because your work friends were meeting you there. They had planned a group costume, but you didn’t have time to go shopping, so you settled on your usual Tinkerbell.

As you scanned the room for your friends, you noticed you hadn’t seen anyone out of costume. Even the bar staff were dressed as mad scientists so that settled your nerves. You always felt weird about appearing in places overdressed or worried you would bring more attention to yourself than needed. To say you did not like to stand out from the crowd was an understatement.

Surprisingly, the night has been going well. There have been no embarrassing qualms like your wings getting stuck on someone’s face or you tripping over your heels. Your boss was in a great mood, and your mood lifted once your friends arrived and a few drinks had been consumed.

A few hours into the party, you were chatting with your friends, and they quickly excused themselves to get more food. You turn around because you don’t know what to do while waiting, and an unfamiliar but handsome face approaches you.

"Hi, I’m Eddie." He smiles.

“Hi, I’m Tinkerbell,” you giggle

“The Tinkerbell? No way.” he raises his hand to his heart and pretends to stumble back. You noticed his fingers were adorned with tattoos and plenty of silver metal rings.

“What are you supposed to be? A waiter?” You giggled, flicking his black apron wrapped around his waist, which held a notepad and pen sticking out of the pocket.

He was dressed in a sleek black button-up shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up, paired with well-fitted black dress pants and matching shoes. Around his waist, he wore a neatly tied black apron. His hair was neatly pulled back into a low bun, and his most striking feature was his incredibly large brown eyes that seemed to draw you in.

“Uh-yea? So can I get you anything? Another champagne?” He smirked.

“Very committed to the role, I see,” you state as a matter of factly, twirling your empty glass.

"Another champagne coming right up." Eddie gives you a wink and walks away.

“Hey, I’ve never seen him before. He in marketing or something?” Your friend dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo comes back and hands you a bread roll.

“I don’t know, but he’s so cute,” you whisper back.

A few minutes later, Eddie returns with your drink

“One champagne for Tink.” You quickly turn your shoulders and see Eddie, but your wings knock the glass out of his grip.

��Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” You quickly squat as much as your tiny green dress and heels will let you so you can pick up the bigger pieces of glass.

“Do you know where the staff are? I haven’t seen anyone all night. We need a mop and a broom,” you say frantically, holding broken glass in your hands.

“It’s okay, Tinkerbell. I’ll be right back; don’t move.” Eddie ran off to the back to grab the broom from the supply closet and a paper bag from the kitchen, and you continued to pick up the pieces of glass.

When he returned, you held your thumb, bouncing repeatedly like you had cut yourself.

“Fuck” you whispered under your breath. You cut your thumb.

“Here,” you look up to see Eddie holding out a bag to put the glass in and a broom in the other.

“How did you find this? Why didn’t you find someone that works here? Won’t you get in trouble?” you were rambling, and your thumb was in pain.

“Sweetheart, I work here.” He takes your hand to examine your thumb.

“What? But you-” he gently took your wrist and weaved you through the sea of monsters, witches and mummies until you got to a door that said Staff Only

“Am I allowed back here? I don’t want to get you in trouble?” you worried.

“Calm down, Tink. My middle name is Trouble. Let me help you,” he said calmly and collectedly. Being near him made you feel calm yet anxious at the same time.

“I’m sorry, but I thought you were in a costume...” You shake your head as he closes the door behind you.

The single washroom was very quiet, much more intimate than the loud, boisterous party room.

As you turned to face him, you noticed the lighting was much better in this spot. In contrast to the dimly lit party room, you could now clearly make out his features. His face was clean-shaven, with a hint of a 5 o'clock shadow starting to form. His jawline was defined, and his lips were full. You were so engrossed in admiring his features that you didn't even realize he had moved and was now standing beside you at the sink.

“Don’t sweat it, babe,” he smirked, turning on the faucet and guiding your hand under the water. You winced at the cold water hitting your open skin, and Eddie apologized. He grabbed a paper towel, and you wiped your wound as he unwrapped a bandaid.

“Thumb,” he asked, and you stuck it out like you were giving him a thumbs up. He wraps your thumb with concentration, his tongue peeking out as his eyes focus on your finger. He unexpectedly kisses it. “There. Good as new.”

“So how do I contact your boss to inform them about the excellent customer service?” You awkwardly giggle.

“Shit, I’m sorry, you’re uh, you’re just adorable, and I don’t know what came over me” he took a step back.

“I think you’re cute, too.” you look down bashfully

Eddie sighed with relief.

“Why don't you give me your number so I can ask you for a proper date?" He smirks.

You pass him your phone so he can enter his contact info.

A loud bang on the other side of the door startled you, and you jumped.

“Come in, Ed. We are drowning out here; get her number already, and let’s go,” his friend yells. Eddie hands you back your phone and swings open the door. Eddie's coworker is standing on the other side dressed as a pirate.

“Jesus Christ, man, we’re on the clock,” the one-eyed pirate whispers under his breath

“It wasn’t like that man; she cut her thumb, and I was-” You didn’t hear the rest because they both walked further away.

You chased after them out of the staff bathroom, not wanting to get into trouble and made your way back to the party

“Where did you sneak off to? Your friend, dressed as Shaggy, wiggled his brows at you.

“Oh, uh, cut my hand in the broken glass.” You lift your hand to show them your bandaid-clad thumb.

“Yeah, you cut your thumb,” he air quotes and laughs.

You playfully roll your eyes, and your phone chimes, so you glance at it.

Lost boy: Hey Tink, sorry I had to run off. Got kidnapped by the evil pirates. Hopefully, you’ll be able to save me with that magical fairy dust and find me after my shift. 😉

[stick-ball]

In this essay I will

[pricegouge]

the welly boot incident, a silly little meet cute inspired entirely by this post here cause i'm an absolute slut for the swamp thing look.

pricegaz x fem!reader one shot. A little bit of subspace as a treat but nothing explicit. Still mdni please

"Brassard, what the hell am I looking at?"

It's been a shit job from the start. Bad contractor, bad intel, bad campaign all around. John supposes he can only be happy that for once in his life, the quality of intel seems to be off in the 'right' direction - which is to say he'd rather be posted up in a field for hours with too much manpower than not enough. He's got Gaz on his right, deadly still and silent despite being hours past projected time of contact with no sign of the target. Price is spotting, growing more irritable by the minute. There's supposed to be a watch up on the south ridge to announce any incoming traffic - op related or otherwise - but the sudden arrival of one garishly dressed civilian meandering through the meadow toting a Hubble sized macro lens seems to suggest that while eight hours of fruitless vigilance may not test the most seasoned of soldiers, it is enough to beat the handlers hired to assist them. 

The silence on the comms grows long enough to get even Gaz squirming, a subtle rotation of his boot the first move he's made in hours. In his ghillie, the movement is swallowed by the shifting of grass in the wind.

"Brassard?" Price growls, inspecting this newcomer through his scope for potential threats. She certainly looks unassuming enough, as he's never known any faction of armed services to issue woven fuschia caps, long purple cardigans, or yellow welly boots. Still, confirmation on anything useful like 'where the fuck she came from,' 'was she driving a civilian car?', or 'should we take the fucking shot?' would be ideal.

"Cap?" Garrick's voice is low, smothered, cheek sealed against his rifle even after all these hours. Still lethal and ready to trust his captain's call.

John waits another beat, hoping for some forthcoming intel. Doesn't get any. "No."

"She's gonna blow our spot."

'Against who?' John wants to ask, but the question of where their overwatch disappeared to is a toss up, and while every hard-won instinct in his body tells him this whole mission is a bust and the man likely fell asleep, the paranoid option must always outweigh the most likely if one wants to see the next sunrise, and it's entirely possible the man was eliminated. 

"Well, shooting her won't make her any less hi-vis," Price sighs. Abandoning his lens, John raises his head enough to take in the whole scope of the meadow. They're posted on a small hill, sights trained down into the shallow basin where a derelict road ambles parallel a small brook, currently overflowing with springtime runoff. It's beautiful, really, dotted here and there with early blooms which nod in the gentle breeze. With the low ridge to the south simultaneously blocking most of the sun's glare and offering a great position for extra coverage, the area had presented itself first and foremost to him as a sniper's delight; but faced now with an artsy-type civilian wandering around and looking for all intents and purposes to be in her natural element, he supposes his assessment probably laid outside the norm.

"We could use her like dazzle camo," Gaz suggests instead and John's mustache twitches with a suppressed snort. It's almost tempting, except if the target does ever drive through, John doesn't trust him to simply be confused and gape at the spectacle uselessly.

John drums his fingers off the dirt irritably, returns to his scope to see if he can pick out where their backup is situated. "Shit," he hisses, taking in Brassard's limp form up on the ridge.

"Dead?" Gaz asks, voice returning to the low hum that tells Price he's slipping back into professionalism.

"Looks like," John confirms, disassembling his tripod. 

"We retreating?"

"'Course not. We're containing the civilian." Beginning to crawl forward, John spots Gaz break his scope seal for the first time since establishing it out of the corner of his eye. 

"How?"

"Physically."

***

You never even see them coming. One minute you're humming to yourself as you stage a close up of a bee and the next you're squawking and thrashing while being pulled to the ground by your ankle. Before you can even make sense of what's happened, a man settles his considerable weight onto you and clamps a hand over your mouth. "Easy," he murmurs into your ear as a mass of twigs and grease paint pulls up next to him. "Not gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

You only realize how hard you're shaking when the man next to you starts setting up a tripod and the kind of gun you've only ever seen in movies and your teeth rattle behind the calloused grip that covers them.

There's a hand on your head, palm flat and heavy as it pulls your hat off. The weight above you shifts, hips digging briefly into your ass as he moves to pocket your cap. It's slow, movements steady and calculated as the voice that continues in your ear. "I'm Captain John Price. This is my sergeant, Kyle Garrick, and unfortunately you've found yourself in a bit of a pickle."

Next to you, the man with the gun - Kyle - spares a small, commiserating smile. It does not calm you.

"If I take my hand off your mouth, you gonna stay quiet?"

You're nodding before you can even think it through, surprising yourself when your new found freedom only draws rapid pants from you instead of screams for help. 

"There's a good girl," John rumbles, lips still pressed close to your ear. His voice is low like oncoming thunder, and despite yourself, the next shudder that racks your body isn't entirely fear based. He's got a mustache of some sort, bristles soft where they press against the shell of your ear. You were set up for failure, really.

"Can you get off me?" You mean it to sound pricklier, blame it on all the hyperventilating when your voice comes out breathy.

John huffs, breath warm as it fans down your neck. He's wearing some sort of armored vest from the feel of it, but you can still feel the abs of his lower belly jump with his laughter. "What's your name, darlin'?" You don't answer him at first, still weighing whether or not you believe him. "How 'bout 'flower', hm? Look like one out here in all these colors."

"A buttercup, in those wellies," Kyle agrees and you side eye him, for the first time noticing how upsettingly handsome he is under all that grease paint. Full, pretty lips and the kind of big soft cow eyes that always turn you to putty. If you find out the man on top of you is also handsome, you're toast.

"Right, those bloody boots." John's weight shifts off you a bit and you try to scramble forward. You make it maybe an inch before he plants a wide palm on your back and pushes you back to the ground. "Hold still, flower," he rumbles and you're helpless but to comply as he kicks at your boots with his own. You ask why he's stripping you but he ignores the question, reaching back to snatch up your discarded shoes instead. "Clear?" he asks, and Kyle takes a minute to swing his scope around.

"Far as I can tell."

And then John tosses your boots into the nearby brook with an unceremonious plop.

"Hey!" you gripe, only to be silenced by John's hand clamped over your mouth again. 

His voice is sterner now when he speaks, the low murmuring from before replaced with a harsh grumble. "Hush now petal, we have to be quiet. Look at me, yeah?"

You regret it the second you do. Like Kyle, John's covered in leaves and debris and greasepaint. His eyes glint menacingly from the depths of the shadow cast by his low brim, his chops a thatch of hair only distinguishable from the mass of brush that covers him by the fact it's too well-kept. He looks like a swamp thing. He looks like the earth itself come to swallow you whole.

"I'm gonna take my hand away now, but you're going to be a good little flower and stay quiet, yeah?" You nod. His grip is so strong on your jaw that you drag his hand along with you. When he calls you a good girl this time, you can't help but melt into the grass beneath you. John seems to take your laxness for acceptance of your situation and he squeezes the nape of your neck when he pulls his hand away to set about erecting some sort of tiny telescope. He murmurs to you as he works, voice gone back to the quiet, calming rumble from before. 

"I can't get off you because you're not wearing appropriately camouflaged clothes. Even if I were to strip you of this fucking cardi, you'd still stand out like a sore thumb. That's why the wellies had to go in the stream. No good place to hide 'em." You frown back toward the brook, watch as one of your shoes goes bobbing along out of sight. The other probably sank already.

"My car's too far away to walk barefoot."

"I'll carry you," John suggests casually. He's got his little scope established now and when he lowers his eye to it, his cheek sits flush against yours. "This position is shite," he grumbles.

Kyle hums in agreement. When he speaks, his voice is teasing. "We could carry petal here back up on the hill."

"Watch it," John warns. Kyle doesn't so much as smirk. Their talk turns mostly technical after that, muttering about degrees and cardinal directions, calculating inclines. You let it wash over you in favor of contemplating your predicament. 

You trust they're military, at least. Kinda hard to fake the funk to this extent. That fact doesn't necessarily soothe you, but knowing this about them is at least better than knowing nothing about them. You suppose it doesn't matter either way though, as there's not a whole lot you can do to get yourself out of here if the way John bears down on you every time you try to wriggle out is any indication. Sometimes he breathes soothing words against your cheek. Most times, he just ignores you.

They slip into silence eventually, which makes the long, boring minutes drag even worse. You know enough to figure this is a sniper mission which means it's possible you'll be here a while, but that doesn't make you physically prepared for it. You check the positioning of the sun from time to time, but frown when you find it unchanged. You tell yourself it's only because you don't actually know how to gauge time like this.

You crack after what feels like an hour but is probably only fifteen minutes. "What are you guys supposed to be doing here, anyway?"

"Classified." John's eye is still glued to his scope, barely giving you the time of day. 

Should've figured. "Aren't I going to see it unfold anyway?"

"Might not." You're not quite sure what that means, but something about the tone makes you nervous.

"Are we gonna be here all day?"

"Hot date?" Kyle's also still glued to his scope, but something about his tone is less dismissive so you latch on.

"Yes, actually."

Finally, a break from contact as John pulls away from his scope to look at you. There's a spot of paint missing just above the trim line of his beard and your stomach flips in guilty excitement when you realize it might have transferred to your skin. Of course he ruins it, "In a fuschia cap?"

"I'll have you know I made that cap," you squawk and John only needs to twitch his mustache at you to get you to shut up. He may also raise a brow. Hard to tell under the low angle of his brim.

It's Kyle who apologizes. "It's a lovely hat, flower."

John grumbles while you thank his friend, returns to his scope as he mutters about it still not being good date attire.

"I was going to change first." You're not sure why you care what either of them think of your date outfit, but you do what the record to show you're capable of dressing sexy when needed.

"What you're wearing now looks nice." Kyle's cadence is complementary, but it's the same tone he had used to pick on John earlier so you know he's referring to the absence of one cap and a pair of silly wellies.

Well, you can be quippy, too. "Think I'm currently wearing your boss."

Both men laugh. Kyle takes his eye off the scope to take in the spectacle on his left for the first time since setting up. "Like I said, looks good on you," he winks.

"Eyes on the prize, Gaz."

"Were, sir." Kyle - Gaz?- cackles when you have at him, but ducks back to his scope and you huff, already bored again.

John notes your frustration and decides to make it worse. "Might not make your date, flower. At this rate we'll be here all night."

"'Course," you mutter, tucking a bit of bramble more thoroughly into the netting that adorns the sleeve in front of you. "First date I land in months, and then comes you lot."

"Sure he'll understand." John sounds distracted. When you glance at him, he's staring down at the way you're weaving into his equipment.

"He'll understand I got pinned under an army sniper?"

"Could tell him you got laid up with -."

"Shouldn't you be keeping quiet, sergeant?"

"Sorry, sir."

You glance between the two of them, but they're both resolute in their professional silence now. You sigh again, folding your arms under yourself to rest your head on. 

A moment passes. Another.

"Got a fox in my shot."

"Two o'clock?"

"There 'bouts, yeah."

"Saw 'im poking 'round a moment ago."

You nearly knock John's chin with how quickly you raise your head. "I wanna see."

"Hush," John instructs dismissively. 

You huff, and then remember you don't need him anyway. Wriggling your hips what little you can, you feel the hard cylinder of your lens press against your right thigh and you squirm around until you can feel it under your fingers.

"What're you doin?" John's lifted slightly off you, but you think it's a move probably rooted more in curiosity than an actual desire to make your task easier. Still, you'll take it.

Grinning triumphantly, you pull your camera up until it rests next to John's tripod and then frown, dejected, when you spot the snap halfway up the barrel. "Must've fell on it," you pout.

John is unsympathetic. His hand is big enough to encase the whole unit when he grabs it, flinging camera and all into the stream with another disheartening splash. 

Your cry dies in your throat this time, the fight gone out of you. When you slump back onto your arms dejectedly, John pats your elbow. "Material could've caught the light, flower. Had to be done."

You pout anyway. "Bloody expensive."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"You will, cap? Or will the service?"

"You will, if you don't shut up." 

"Wouldn't mind. Get 'er a real nice one. Anything you've had your sights on recently, buttercup?" 

"Don't have my sights on anything, currently," you snark and you can practically feel John roll his eyes. 

"Christ, here." He fiddles with the device a bit, then leans back enough he can guide your face up to the viewfinder. You keep a squeal of delight bottled in your throat when John's hand lingers over your jaw, reminding you how you need to keep quiet.

You watch the fox happily for a moment, content to let the boy's low conversation wash over you as you let this new amusement pass the time. Except then the fox wanders out of frame and when you move the scope in order to follow, you only seem to muck it up more. 

"Give me that," John grumbles, not unkindly. You slump back down anyway, like a child.

"Forearms, cap," Gaz drawls and you see John peel away from his scope long enough to look down at you. He grunts in acknowledgement, fiddles with his tripod, and then lowers himself even further onto you, wrapping one scraggy arm around your own to block you in completely.

It's so much worse. John runs hot, apparently, and without the breeze on your face at least, you're sweaty within minutes; or maybe hours, hard to tell. 

You've nothing better to do so you try synching your breathing with John's, thinking maybe that's the secret to his seemingly infinite patience. It's hard work, though, his breaths somehow both shallow and slow, and you wind up counting them instead to pass the time. 

Eight sets of one hundred later, Gaz breaks the silence with a low murmur which may as well be an explosion with how much it startles you out of your reverie. 

"Gotta piss." 

Your voice is floaty when you complain, head wobbling up to eye him. "Ew." 

John's stern chastising Kyle, calm when he brushes his lips against your ear. "Quiet, sergeant. Go back under, petal." You hum in agreement, duck into his arm, count his breaths again.

You lose track after another five hundred, content yourself to feel the warmth of him contrast with the cool damp of the soil underneath you. You remember the sight he makes above you, a rolling crest of greenery pulling you under. You blame your sleepy state when you begin to fantasize about it like some old myth; Hades collecting his dues. When he does speak again it's low enough you're not sure it actually comes from above you, half convinced you're hearing the movement of tectonic plates deep below instead. He sounds pissy though, despite his low, soothing tone, and you try to blink yourself into wakefulness, peering around to find Kyle unloading his gun with distractingly deft fingers.

"What's wrong?" You ask, dumbly, and John drops his hand from his radio back to your shoulder, rubbing at you with a heavy, steady hand. 

"Nothing, flower." To Gaz he adds, "Liked him better when he was dead,"

Gaz side eyes him, begins to load his gun back up. "Say the word, cap." His voice is so serious you only figure he's joking when John puffs a laugh across your cheek. 

You watch as John disassembles his own equipment, the weight of him almost fully pressing down on you now that both his arms are raised and busy. It's strange but you're almost sad it's over; it had been oddly relaxing, tucked away underneath him.

"You awake yet?"

"Wasn't asleep." He keeps pulling away from you, but the ground is cold so you get your hands underneath yourself and push up, following.

"Right. You ready to get up, then?"

John's movements are still slow and heavy. When you nod, he levers himself up to a kneeling position, wraps his hands around your tummy to bring you up as well. He sits there a minute while tucking various tools and things into his pockets and placing your cap back on your head. It takes you a moment to realize the way he's seated has him straddling your calves. He doesn't seem to mind how you lean back into his chest. 

"What time is it?" 

"Still hoping to make your date?" Gaz teases. He gets his equipment settled and holds out a hand to you to help you stand. When your feet catch on John's big boots, the captain steadies you with a hand on your back.

You'd nearly forgotten about the mousey little man who would likely be left waiting for you downtown. He doesn't hold much appeal anymore but you lie anyway and tell Gaz yes.

"More bad luck there, petal," John commiserates. His voice should be further away now that he's not laying on you, surely? When you turn you find him standing far too close, somehow seeming even larger now despite no longer crushing you into the ground. Gaz is tall too, you note, and between the two of them in their ghillies, you imagine you look like some illustration from a fairytale book: the barefoot maid and her two elements, maybe. It's silly, distracting, which is why you've already forgotten what he's talking about when John continues, "'fraid you still got debrief to sit through." 

"Huh?" You ask stupidly, and then yip when John throws you over his shoulder.

"Debrief. Could take all night," Gaz winks. "Looks like you're ours for the evening, flower."

"Oh. Well, you do still owe me a camera."

Gaz laughs, neat white teeth splitting his face in a handsome smile. "That's right, and cap here owes you some boots."

"Any color you want, flower," John agrees.

next>>

[kitkatpancakestack]

You did the right thing . . . I mean, moving out here. Whoever she was, she's in your rearview now.

Justine Alpert and Jordyn Chang as Chloe & Gabi in 9-1-1

[seeminglydark]

🎃First Halloweeny art of October, a throwback to the original Meetcute. Poor kid never knew what hit him.🎃

Carrie and Sully are from my webcomic and podcast Mil-liminal.

[centipededotgov]

I’m gonna fucking pass out

[sic-vita]

GOOD OMENS + 6000 years meetcute

[harmonictechnicality]

Robin drags Steve to a local art exhibit on a goddamn weeknight. This is not his scene at all.

Pretentious douchebags in scarves discussing if that splatter of paint represents socioeconomic downfall? Nah, this shit is not for him.

Robin ditches him halfway through the exhibit to talk to some sculptor that she’s got a thing for. Honestly, Steve would’ve done the same thing if it were him. But still, Steve is five minutes away from leaving her ass and taking a cab home.

He’s sitting on metal bench, centered a few feet away from the oversized canvas of scattered colors.

It looks like such a mess. Scribbled strokes of paint and lines that bump into curves. Everything intersecting. Someone would probably try to convince him that it represents the artist’s troubled past or fucked up childhood.

To Steve, it’s just a mess.

“What do you think?” A voice asks, joining Steve on the bench.

He looks to be about Steve’s age. Bold features, bolder hairstyle. All black clothes with chunky red combat boots. Elaborate tattoos creeping over the collar of his shirt.

Steve shrugs. “Truthfully? I don’t get it.”

“It’s art. What don’t you get about it?” The guy looks stunned.

Is Steve really about to argue with a complete stranger over lines and colors?

“There’s nothing but lost movements.”

Guess he is.

Steve observes the nameplate next to the canvas and goes off.

“Like this Eddie Munson guy held up a paintbrush and went, ‘fuck it, they’ll never know this is bullshit.’ Honestly, this whole place is a facade for people to masquerade around, pretending to be in tune to artistic expression, but they’re not.”

“They’re not?”

“No.” Steve answers immediately, a little defensive. “Nobody here gives a shit about what the artist is trying to convey, and this artist…”

Steve points at the artwork.

“This Munson guy knew that. Knew he could fool every rich asshole in this place.”

The guy looks at the painting and laughs. He’s got a nice smile, Steve thinks. Wide and genuine. Not too perfect. Not overly rehearsed. Like he doesn’t give out smiles to just anyone.

“Eddie Munson couldn’t fool you though, could he?” He finally says, looking directly at Steve.

The intense eye contact makes Steve a bit fidgety. Nervous. “I guess not, no.”

“I like that.”

“Like what?”

“That you refuse to see what everyone else sees.” The guy turns away, releasing Steve from the gaze. “Even if that would be easier.”

It almost sounded like he was trying to say he likes Steve. Not that Steve would complain if that were true. This guy is not his type, but that doesn’t mean he’s unwilling to expand his definition of type for someone that’s interested in him.

“What do you think about it?” Steve tilts his head towards the canvas.

The guy twists the ring on his thumb, processing an answer. He crosses his legs, then un-crosses them. Twists the ring counterclockwise now.

“I think the painter abandoned their originality to meet their growing audience’s expectations of them as an artist.” He finally says.

Steve scoffs. “How did you draw up a conclusion like that?”

The guy hums and abruptly changes the topic. “What did you say your name was?”

“Steve Harrington.”

“Right.” He gets up and gestures toward a ‘staff only’ door. “Up for a little field trip, Steve Harrington?”

This is dumb. Breaking laws is something Steve left behind in his angst-filled teen years.

But this guy is bad-boy hot and Steve is painfully bored, so he follows the stranger despite his better judgement.

They enter the door and are instantly greeted by a trail of empty paint buckets. There’s dirty tarps covering the floors and countless canvases laid out across the wide room.

Right away, Steve can tell this is what art is all about. The chaos. The urgency to create as soon inspiration strikes.

And these paintings look nothing like the one hanging in the gallery. These paintings are full narratives told through shapes and pigments.

These paintings could be an autobiography on the topic of someone who experiences life deeply. Passionately.

These are the untold masterpieces.

“Wow.” Is all Steve finally comes up with.

“To answer your question,” the stranger gestures grandly to the entirety of the room. “This is how I drew up that conclusion.”

“This was the originality. It’s stuck behind these four walls, but it’s where everything started. It’s where everything should have stayed.”

Steve carefully watches the man explore all the different works of art. Bending down to touch some. Smiling playfully at others. Steve is stupidly captivated by his ability to shine amongst literal art.

“What did you say your name was?”

The guy chuckles and walks back over to Steve. “I didn’t.”

“Right. Are you gonna tell me?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends on if you’ll still kiss me after I tell you.”

They’re standing close, Steve hadn’t realized it until now. Maybe it was him closing the distance. Maybe it was the stranger. Maybe it was gravity growing tired of their mediocre foreplay.

But they’re close now. So close that Steve can see the lightening bolt tattoo below the stranger’s left ear. A thought runs rampant in Steve’s slutty mind that he could see every single neck tattoo if he were to start unbuttoning this guy’s shirt.

He’s close enough to do it.

“I’ll still kiss you afterwards,” Steve agrees dreamily. Getting high off of paint fumes and close proximity.

The stranger lets his hand wander up the back of Steve’s neck, breaths getting caught in Steve’s throat at the contact.

“I’m that Eddie Munson guy.” He says in a low whisper. “The same one who held up a paintbrush and went, ‘fuck it, they’ll never know this is bullshit.’”

Every word he utters is cautious now. Like Steve might change his mind about kissing him.

Steve doesn’t change his mind.

He pulls hard at Eddie’s collar, lets their lips collide dizzily fast. Eddie’s mouth pushes against his to lead the kiss, Steve is more than happy to let him do so.

It’s a noisy kiss. Sounds escaping out of the corners of their mouths. Airy gasps and rustling clothes filling the open space.

Steve breaks the kiss to speak, inhaling as much oxygen as he can get. “I’m guessing you bring lots of guys back here and woo them with your secretly amazing art.”

Eddie had transitioned to kissing Steve’s neck while he was talking, but stops as soon as Steve says that.

“You’ve got it all wrong, sweetheart.” Eddie cradles Steve’s flushed cheeks with both hands. “I only bring pretty boys who refuse to see what everyone else sees back here.”

Steve moves Eddie’s hands and wraps them around his own neck. “Even if that would be easier.”

Eddie smiles. “Exactly.”

He goes back to sucking on Steve’s neck, like he was rudely interrupted before, and Steve starts to feel as chaotic as the art surrounding them. Eddie marks him with a fresh bruise, just below his right ear. Mirroring the exact spot where Eddie’s lightening tattoo is located.

Eddie licks over it. Swirling his tongue in sweltering circles, making Steve pant wow as he finishes the creation he was designing solely with his mouth.

He exhales a single laugh into their kiss.

“Why are you laughing?” Steve asks.

Eddie shakes his head.

“I really like doing things that make you say wow like that, Steve Harrington.”

Steve kisses Eddie’s cheek. “I really like that too.”

Eddie kisses him thoroughly slow once more, then nibbles over Steve’s ear as he whispers:

“Kinda curious to find out what else I can make you say.”

[eff4freddie]

Physical Therapy

Joel Miller x AFAB Reader No Outbreak AU - 4.4k words

For @punkshort's AU August challenge, in celebration of her one year Tumblr anniversary!

A.N: My prompt was 'lifeguard Joel' and I'm nursing a bit of a sore wrist at the moment, hence whatever this is was born. Thanks for the fun prompt! I would very much like Joel to save me from drowning now, please and thank you.

Warnings: None.

It had just started out as a kind of tickling feeling around behind your ear on your left side, and down along the back to the shoulder blade. When you’d first noticed it you’d thought you had a hair stuck under your shirt, and all day you kept reaching up under your bra strap to try and free it. Later, you would rub the skin red trying to lift the phantom follicle from your skin.

Later, it developed into a coldness, punctuated sometimes with ants marching up and down your shoulder blade. Your clavicle ached in cold weather, and you rolled your shoulders of a morning to try and shake the weird sensations from the joint. You were too busy to worry about it, you had too many deadlines, you could just type with your left arm resting on a pad of paper to elevate it. You knew you’d been working too hard on your paper for your next research symposium. As soon as it was over you’d deal with it.

When it started thrumming of a nighttime you’d just take ibuprofen to dull it, numb it off with a heat pack and an occasional glass of whiskey. But when it got too hard to type, when the daggers started shooting down your arm to the point that you could barely get your sleeve over it, when your shoulder was so frozen you couldn’t lift it over your head to brush your hair, you conceded defeat.

Your physiotherapist was lovely, and young, and fit, and you wished you could hate her. She ran marathons on weekends, on purpose and apparently without having first been threatened, and she gave you a bunch of exercises you promised you would do, made you pay $24.95 for a bit of stretchy rubber you could tie to your doorknob and stretch with, a couple of strength building exercises printed out and folded neatly, which you immediately threw on your coffee table and used as a coaster.

You went twice a week after work. She massaged you until you had tears in your eyes, biting back the pain by clamping down on your back teeth. You lied to her that you’d done your stretches, and she let you, because she was a nice person. Your recovery stalled, and you both pretended not to know why.

In the end, you just got fed up with yourself. You’d had to push back your presentation at the symposium, had found it too painful to sit at your desk for the long stretches it would take to be prepared. Your supervisor had insisted you take time off, that your PhD could be extended, and you had balked at the idea and then, eventually, conceded that too. Your stupid frozen shoulder was icing out everything in your life you cared about. You suggested to your physio you might like to swim.

--

It had been a while since you’d been in a bathing suit. Glad you’d at least thought to shave, you went into the change room dreading coming out again. You’d deliberately gone at 2 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, figuring the only people there would be either 100 years old or ladened with babies, and their bodies wouldn’t be so threatening to yours. You remembered a time when your body had felt strong, when your legs had carried you around European cities, up and down mountains. You wondered where that girl went.

You were a careful person, and you liked rules, so you shuffled as speedily as you could towards the pool, careful not to run. Your brother had slipped once, aged 9 and a half, and knocked out two of his teeth when he went down. Your mother had to wait three months to get them fixed, having to save up the fee, and your brother had whistled slightly on windy mornings. You’d teased him about it, and you felt bad about it now, holding your arm tight to your body so as not to jostle your shoulder.

The water was cool, and you took the stairs one at a time to get yourself into it. You gasped when it reached your belly, reaching down to splash yourself to try and acclimatise. It wasn’t an especially warm day, but the sun was out and it was warm enough on your skin. You sunk down, feeling the water lap at your shoulder. The relief was immediate, the cool spreading over your strangled nerves, and you let out a sigh. You didn’t think you were about to swim any laps, but it was enough to bob around in the shallow end and feel the water carry your weight. Your mind was quiet for the first time in a while. You watched two birds glide on the breeze, ducking down to skim over the surface. You hoped they didn’t shit in it as they passed.

Then, a giggle. A tittering, high-pitched thing that shattered your reverie and made you turn towards it, a scowl on your face as you looked up into the sun. A woman in a high-cut bikini straight out of the 80s was standing at the base of the lifeguard’s chair, looking up at the man sitting atop it. She was practically drooling, flipping her hair and nearly slipping out of her top. You couldn’t make him out, the glare casting him in darkness and too proud to shield your eyes with your hand to get a good look. She had all her weight on one foot so she could thrust her hip out and her chest up. You heard his voice rumble out of his chest, deep and heavy and surprisingly kind. You couldn’t make out the words. You reminded yourself you didn’t care.

--

Your physio was proud of you, and you wanted to hate her for that, too. You reported your attendance at the pool, lied about doing your exercises, and paid another $24.95 for another rubber band thing after you pretended you’d misplaced the first one. You knew exactly where it was, on the doorknob where you’d tied it the first night and then ignored it. But it was a good, if expensive, excuse.

The next time you went to the pool you chose a time slightly earlier in the day, hoping that the midday sun might tan you a little as you rehabilitated. You bobbed around again in the shallow end, experimentally rolling your shoulders and moving your arms in small semi-circles in front of you. The water carried the weight so you could just focus on moving the joint, and when the ache set in you could just float there, let the water carry you completely as you floated on the surface. With your face to the sky and the sun beating down the whole world turned bright and colourless. It sanded down the sharp edges, turned the detail to pulsing fuzz on your retinas.

80’s Bikini Lady didn’t resurface, but you got out when an entire class of 4th graders arrived for their swimming lessons. As you went for your towel you heard that rumbling voice again, booming out over the top of 20 excited kids, instructing them to quiet down so he could teach them to tread water. You wondered if that was what you were doing now, your research and your thesis gathering metaphoric dust on your laptop. Treading water.

--

It took you until your fifth visit to try an actual lap. Your shoulder had been feeling lighter, the joint freeing itself under the water just enough that you could bear the weight of the it as you moved. You had been experimenting with little half breaststrokes, just two or three with your head high over the water and only deep enough that you could plant your feet at the first twinge of pain. But you wanted to try something different, today. You wanted to make it down to the other end, even if you had to grip the lane rope and pull yourself there.

You felt eyes on you as you walked to the edge, and you turned quickly to see the lifeguard was at his station. It was early enough in the afternoon that you could see him properly, his aquiline nose, his curls unruly and chocolate brown. He nodded at you, an acknowledgement that he was keeping watch, and you nodded back to him. It was just you and a man in his 60s in the pool today.

You hissed a little as you descended the stairs, feeling goosebumps rise on your skin. Today it was cloudy, and the water was cooler than you had been expecting, and you worried for a moment it would be bad for your shoulder somehow, that your muscles would be less malleable, less cooperative, in the cold. You swallowed, wondering if you really wanted to do this today. Then you remembered your thesis, and the way you had thrown yourself on dancefloors, in spin classes, ridden boys in your dorm room like your hips would never ache. You wanted that girl back. She was at the other end of the pool.

You pushed off, holding your arms straight out in front of you and using your feet against the wall of the pool to propel yourself forward, letting the momentum drift you the first few feet. With a brave breath in you spread your arms wide in a breaststroke, kicking with your legs to keep up some sort of speed. Three strokes, then four, then five and you were nearly a quarter of the way down the pool already. You just had to keep breathing, stick with it, pace yourself out. You cupped the water with your hands, pushing it away from your chest as you moved. There might have been a little twinge, but you banished any worry. You were doing it, if slowly, if gingerly.

You swam over the point where the bottom of the pool fell away, past the point where you could stand. The water felt cooler, the depth of it stealing some of the warmth, and you felt a little warning tingle up your elbow. Your neck pulled a little to the right to try and dodge the pain, and you faltered a little, lost some of your rhythm. In your surprise you’d opened your mouth and taken in a little bit of water, and you spluttered.

Suddenly your arms were out of sequence, and you were struggling to bring them back together in front of you while kicking with your legs. They felt uncooperative, like they were on different strings, and you were finding it hard to keep your neck bent up high enough to keep your face out of the water completely. You jerked to try and regain your momentum, and sent an electric shock through your shoulder, pain spreading out all the way down to your wrist. You gasped, the pain making you pull your arm into your body, trying to cradle it against your chest, and you started floundering, your nose and mouth dropping beneath the surface as you struggled to stay upright. You swatted at the surface of the water with your good arm, panic in your chest, as you tried to figure out if it was better to turn and head back to the shallows or carry on to the other end.

You heard a splash behind you, a huff of air as a body broke the surface and then an arm around your waist.

‘I’ve got you,’ he said, and you leant back into the warm body behind you, trying to suck in air.

‘My shoulder, my arm,’ you cried, keeping it tucked against you as the lifeguard pulled you to where you could stand. You gasped, choking a little on water but mostly just from shock, your face burning red with humiliation and the pain of your throbbing collarbone. ‘I’m sorry,’ you said, suddenly feeling like you wanted to cry, as you caught your breath, the man still holding you gently around the waist and leaning down to study your face.

‘You’re OK, you’re OK,’ he said, his voice like warm honey as it oozed over the panic in your brain. ‘Take a breath, I’ve got you.’

Oh fuck, you were definitely going to cry if he kept being so nice to you. You felt heat in the back of your eyes, bit down on your bottom lip so he couldn’t see it wobbling.

‘I just wanted to swim a lap,’ you said, and you could hear the desperation in it, feeling as small as a child.

‘You injured?’ he asked, and you nodded. He tugged you further towards the shallow end, led you by the good arm over to the steps.

‘My physio said exercise would help it,’ you explained, throwing her soundly under the bus. ‘I just…I thought I was ready.’ You felt the frustration bubbling over. You had a terrible habit of getting teary when you were mad. ‘It’s just been so shit, and I wanted to…I just don’t even know this body anymore, you know?’ you complained, wincing when you realised you’d just trauma dumped on him.

‘Can’t rush these things,’ he said, unfazed. ‘Gotta take it at your own pace.’ Standing up in this part of the pool the water only came to his waist, and he gestured to his belly where a jagged scar punctured his left side.

‘Jesus,’ you said, at the sight of it and also realising for the first time he was shirtless, water running in rivulets down his golden skin. He was so broad it was no wonder he’d managed to get to you in the centre of the pool in all of three strokes. You felt yourself start to tremble, and you weren’t sure it was from shock.

You’d known, of course, that he was handsome. You had eyes, after all. But up close, standing over you, hair slicked back as his brown eyes roamed your face for any sign of distress…up close, he was devastating.

‘Joel,’ he said, holding out his hand, and you took it, awkward and shy. He told you he liked your name when you mumbled it to him, and you realised he was very good at his job. You wondered where you could find an 80s bikini.

‘Thank you, Joel,’ you said, when your heart had finally settled back into its normal rhythm. ‘I’m sorry you had to…’

‘Trust me, pulling beautiful women out of the deep end is not the hard part of my job,’ he said, and then you watched as his eyes widened, like he was only just realising what he’d said, and you felt heat crawl up your cheeks.

You wanted to ask him what the hard part was. You restrained yourself, because you’d been humiliated enough for one day.

--

You skipped your next session at the pool, instead using the rubber stretchy thing to try and elongate the joint. It didn’t feel as good, and you nearly snapped it into your face more than once, and you definitely didn’t think about Joel’s golden skin glistening in the sunlight the entire time you did it. You didn’t think about his arm banding around you as he pulled you to safety, not even a little bit. The rubber thing was fine. It was going to solve all your problems.

--

You hated the fucking rubber stretchy thing. For one, it smelled like condoms but in a weirdly stale kind of way, and for two you were fairly sure it was going to rip your door off its hinges in your crappy little apartment, and you really didn’t want to have to call your landlord when that happened. It might mean you’d have to tidy up.

Also, it was late Spring and pretty soon school would be out, and the pool would be heaving, and so you had to get your shoulder back to normal as soon as possible before the place got flooded with kids. The bikini you fished out from behind a bunch of old clothes in the back of your closet was so that you could move your shoulder more freely. You were being pragmatic. You were planning ahead.

It was hotter again, the warmth of summer encroaching, and you were genuinely relieved to see the sparkling, clear water when you arrived on the pool deck. You walked, head held high and chest out just a little, past the lifeguard chair, studiously not looking but also really trying to look. You spent an extra few seconds fishing around in your back for your sunscreen, trying to steady your pulse. When you swivelled around, preparing to smear it over yourself, you glanced over at the chair.

Unless Joel had aged 20 years in the week since you’d been, and gained forty pounds and lost all of his hair, he was not on shift today. You felt yourself deflate, your shoulders slumping, your left collarbone sending out a thrum of pain in warning.

It was probably for the best, of course. You were here to do rehab. This was serious medical stuff.

You didn’t want to hazard another lap, not with Beergut McBaldALot on patrol, so you floated a bit in the shallow end and practiced making circles with your arms. You were stiff, having taken a week off to whip yourself up into a pointless frenzy over the lifeguard. The water eased some of the tension in the muscle, and you once again felt your mind start to still.

You wondered if, on his down time, Joel preferred board shorts or speedos. You couldn’t imagine him in a full banana hammock – you could, but you didn’t want to – but you wondered if he was a Daniel-Crag-In-His-First-Bond-Movie-When-He-Emerges-From-The-Ocean-Booty-Shorts kind of guy. That didn’t feel right either, though. His work uniform was boardies, and you decided that Joel was the type of guy who just wore them on his own time anyway, because they fit and they were on hand. As for what was going on underneath them. Well, that was something else entirely.

As you bobbed in the water you imagined his strong arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest and letting you rest your head on his broad, tanned shoulder. You wondered if you’d be able to feel his heartbeat on your cheek, if that close you could hear his tight little exhales as he glided you through the water, held you up so that you could finally, finally let go. You sighed a little to yourself, drifting in the middle of the pool and hoping no one had any plans to swim any laps. You let your hair trail out behind you as you drifted, imagined the slight pull of the water was his fingers threading through.

--

You weren’t hungry but you had nothing at home, so you stopped off at the grocery store on the way home, your shoulder feeling better for having had a little bit of movement. Sleepy from the warmth of the sun and your weightlessness, you barely noticed the man standing at the end of the cereal aisle until you were tripping over him, his arm shooting out to catch you before you could really, properly fall.

‘Ooof,’ he exclaimed, and you knew that voice, felt the furious rush of blood to your cheeks as you righted yourself and were met with the same warm, brown eyes.

‘We really must stop meeting like this,’ he said, smiling down at you, and he was just as beautiful on dry land as he was submerged. You felt your hands start to tremble and you worried you’d drop your basket.

‘Joel,’ you said, trying to hide the comingling shame and excitement on your face. ‘You look different when you’re wet.’

Murder you. End it now. It would simply be kinder.

Joel, to his credit, just laughed a little.

‘Hair’s a lot fluffier,’ he said, reaching up to tug at it and making you want to chew on your own fist.

‘There’s that,’ you said, your voice oddly strangled.

‘You breakfast shoppin’ at 4 in the afternoon?’ he asked, gesturing to the cereal box in your hands.

‘Dinner, actually,’ you said, strangely proud at your sheer level of disfunction. ‘Ever since my shoulder, cooking hasn’t really been…’

You trailed off. Your mom had sent over a couple of frozen lasagnes, and you’d worked your way through those in a week. For a while you got dinners delivered but it got expensive, and then worst, it got boring. Before all of this started there were some nights you’d been so engrossed in your thesis you’d forgotten to get dinner at all. You missed those nights, too. To be so distracted.

‘How’s the arm?’ he asked, and you realised you were cradling it again, holding it fast against your side.

‘It’s slow, and I’m trying to be patient,’ you said, honestly, and his brows saddled. He hummed in thought, pouting his lips out a little. You fought every atom in your body not to lean forward and pull them between your teeth.

‘Your physio given you exercises?’ he asked, and you nodded, avoiding his gaze. ‘You doin’ em?’ he asked, and you were suddenly really interested in the nutritional content of your Cheerios. He snickered out a laugh. ‘No one ever does ‘em.’

‘You speaking from experience?’ you asked, and he smiled.

‘I used to…well, not a physio but I did a little personal training, and uh…basically unless I was there barkin’ at ‘em no-one did what they were told.’

Bark at me, you thought. I’ll do anything you say.

You coughed, trying to collect yourself. Fuck, he was beautiful, but you realised what you liked most was just the warmth in his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. You trusted him, you realised. You didn’t know him, and you trusted him.

‘I’m pretty sure my physio knows I’m lying to her,’ you confessed, and he smiled.

‘She definitely does,’ he agreed.

‘I’m otherwise a very honest person,’ you added.

‘I have no doubt,’ he said, with a little twinkle in his eye that made you want to gouge the things out so you didn’t have to deal with them torturing you anymore.

Instead, you looked into his basket and saw kale, a bunch of carrots and a carton of eggs. You grimaced.

‘Please tell me you’re not on a cleanse or some shit,’ you said, and he smiled.

‘Nah, you got me just before I headed over to the candy aisle.’

‘You like candy?’ you asked, and he grinned.

‘Got a sweet tooth,’ he confessed.

‘Name your poison.’

‘Reece’s. The umm…the cups.’

‘The cups. A peanut butter man?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ he said, that southern drawl appearing again. You felt it hit you like a bullseye in your core. You wondered what else you could get him to agree to.

‘A man of taste,’ you said. You were flirting over grocery items and you didn’t fucking care. You would banter about the phone book if he kept grinning with his whorish little dimples out.  ‘Thank you for helping me out the other day,’ you said, and he shrugged.

‘S’my job,’ he said, and you shook your head at him, swishing your hands in front of you as if you could push his humbleness aside.

‘Yeah, but you chose that job, and I’m glad that you did,’ you said, simply. ‘It’s a generous thing, putting yourself on the line for someone else.’

‘Always been a kind of protector,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘I can see that,’ you replied, honestly, and he turned his gaze to you, considering you for a moment. ‘Although I guess a lot of the time it’s just watching people splash around.’

‘Ain’t hard to watch some people,’ he said, gazing down at you, his jaw muscle twinging a little.  You felt your stomach do a silly little flip.

‘No?’ you asked, your throat dry.

‘Mmm-mmm,’ he said, shaking his head but not breaking eye contact. You wanted to grab his broad, golden shoulders and hitch your thighs over them. You wanted to reach up and take his curls in your fingers, pull him onto his knees and his mouth to your nipple, let him nibble where they pebbled. You wanted to drown the gorgeous fucker, just for being so pretty he was setting your brain on fire.

For a second the two of you stared at each other, trying to pretend the sparks weren’t flying.

‘That can’t be dinner,’ he said, after a while, and you realised he was talking again about your cereal.

‘I could get some grown up muesli if that would make you happy,’ you offered.

‘Wouldn’t want you to get malnourished, come by the pool and drown from lack of…vitamins,’ he finished.

‘Lack of vitamins?’ you teased, and he blushed.

‘Can’t have you wastin’ away on me.’

‘So, you’re saying I have to eat the muesli for your benefit?’ you asked, and he shook his head.

‘No breakfast for dinner,’ he said. ‘Maybe I can fix you somethin’.’

Your heart stopped, right there in the grocery store, in your flip flops with your hair still wet from the pool.

‘…’ you said, and he finally broke your gaze, finally allowed you to breathe for a second. He looked thoughtful, maybe even a little sorry.

‘Not professional of me to ask out the patrons,’ he said, after a while.

‘Do you work at the grocery store?’,’ you asked, bolder than you were feeling. He moved closer towards you, just a half-step, so that you could feel his breath ghosting over your face.

‘If I gave you some exercises, would you do ‘em?’ he asked, his voice so low it came straight from the Devil himself. You felt the jolt of want spear between your legs.

‘My physio might get jealous,’ you said, and he grinned.

‘As your lifeguard I feel like it’s my duty to overrule, baby,’ he said. He lifted a hand to your bad shoulder, holding it gently, supporting the joint. You sighed a little, the extra support releasing some of the pressure from the tendon.

‘If you think it’s that serious,’ you whispered, as you leant in towards him, his mouth hovering just out of reach of yours. ‘Life and death.’

‘I’m afraid I might,’ he replied.

His lips tasted like coffee and sunshine. You lifted your arms to rest them on his shoulders. There was not a single twinge.

[spoopyblues214]

Pssst.. rottmnt fans.

Would you like to romance a turtle? How about all 4 with multiple different routes?

Well, look no further! I'm developing a visual novel for just that.

Meet'Cute Turtles in your area is a short little project I'm working on, and depending on the feedback, I may add more story or extra content! Once I'm further in, I'll make a separate blog for the game.

[Here's some sprite art]

@meetcuteturtles-official for the game blog!

[tgmsunmontue]

                The loud THWACK of the ball hitting the wooden floor at speed has several heads turning, including Jake’s, and he straightens up from where he’d been bent over the table talking to the others. He turns toward the pool table, sees the brightly coloured yellow ball rolling across the floor toward him. At the table the woman is laughing almost uncontrollably, the guy playing with her has gone bright red and Jake shifts slightly, stopping the ball with his foot before reaching down and picking it up, eyebrow quirking as he looks at them. Then the woman is shoving the guy toward Jake and he takes pity on him a little, because he’s clearly embarrassed.

                “Yours?”

                “Yeah. Thanks.”

                “New to the game?” Jake asks.

                “Uh. No.”

                “He was a little distracted is all. Normally he’s a half-decent player,” the woman says, and she’s smirking like she’s incredibly amused by something. Then she’s shoving the guy with her cue, putting a bit of force behind it because the guy stumbles closer to Jake.

                “Uh. Can I buy you a drink?”

                Jake blinks, not having clocked anything so he’s a bit surprised. Not unhappy though.

                “Yeah. Sure.”

…            FEW MINUTES EARLIER AT THE POOL TABLE …

                “Why do people like that exist Nat? It’s not fair to the rest of us mortals.”

                “Speak for yourself, I’m plenty gorgeous when I want to be. And you’re not exactly an ogre, you just hang back too much.”

                “I’m cautious,” Bradley insists.

                “You’ve missed out on asking four different people out because you waited too long and other people asked them out first. You have to seize the moment.”

                “Oh god, now he’s bending over. Fuck.”

                Natasha picks up the yellow ball and throws it.

[thesoupisburning]

toriel definitely fought in the war btw like no way she's that strong AND knew the king and wasn't like. a general or something. and it's awesome and she's awesome

[divanchedraws]

they dont know yet 🤌