#until the ice begins to thaw | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

macfrog · 1 year ago

Text

walking through fire | one shot

just something that's been on my mind the last few weeks. i hope that you're all ok going into this difficult time of year. and if there's any part of this, big or small, that you find yourself resonating with - there will always be a warm, cozy chair in my inbox/dms, free for you to come sit, hang; we can talk about everything or nothing at all. love you guys. 🤍

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you’re neck-deep in a bout of seasonal depression. your boyfriend suggests an autumnal walk. (better than most healthcare systems offer amarite)

warnings: quite literally about depression & anxiety so please read at your own discretion. established relationship, fluffy soft!joel takes care of his girl, implied suicidal thoughts, use of medication to treat depression/anxiety, feelings of worthlessness/burdening, but hope! in the end! a wee sliver of hope!

word count: 2.7k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🖤

November turns on itself all too quickly.

Your body feels like lead, sinking deep into the mattress. Like a broken, rusted shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean; your hand lying limp above the bedsheets like a sailor’s last attempt at reaching over the waves for help.

Joel opened the blinds today. Nuzzled into you, the scruff of his beard sharp on your numb skin, and then stood up and slowly unveiled the glaring light of white cloud. You shrunk further into the bed, your hot breath suffocating you under the sheets. Inhaling and exhaling, breathing in your own rotten air.

He pushes the door open and shuffles across to the bed. Your sea dips when he lowers into it, two arms slipping around your waist like a lifebuoy. He pulls you into his chest; his warm body melting the ice of your bones.

“Hey,” he whispers, and drags his nose across your cheek. He kisses your temple, combs his fingers through your hair. Dabs his thumb along your bottom lip and then says again, “Hey, darlin’. You awake?”

Your eyes flutter open, only enough to see the blurry shape of him; the strong curve of his shoulder, the binary of dark cotton and pale skin.

“Hi, baby. How you feelin’ this mornin’?”

The words catch on the dry cliff of your throat, dangling for a few seconds like panicking climbers, before plummeting into the abyss. You settle for an incoherent mumbling, a vibration on your lips that Joel understands through the pad of his thumb.

“Yeah,” he sniffs, “not so good, huh? That’s okay. You know how much I love you?”

And that peels your eyes open a fraction more. Only enough to sharpen the image of him, to find the dark pools of his eyes and the way the flame in them flickers as he says it.

“Love you so much,” he whispers. The tiny fire thaws the very bottom of your heart, even if only enough to keep the blood pushing heavily through your veins.

Your eyes close over again, and you take his shirt in two weak fists, pulling yourself into his body. Your head fits in the crook of his arm, burying into his side.

“You feel like leavin’ the house today?” he asks, voice sweet and earnest. “Just for a little while? We could go for a walk, could go for a drive. Just you ‘n me, sweet girl.”

You shake your head, your eyes prickling from the sincerity of his question. The guilt beginning to creep its way over your shoulders.

“No? You don’t wanna?” He lifts his head, staring out at the view from the window. “’s a nice day out. Cold, but it’s dry, ‘n the leaves are all orange and yellow, just like you like. Not even for a half hour?”

That same guilt – sneering, bullying – pokes a sharp-clawed finger in your ribs until you answer him. “Tired,” you mumble, screwing your eyes shut until you see the sudden, violent assault of stars in your vision.

“I know you’re tired, baby,” Joel says, stroking your back. “But it might do you a little good to get some fresh air. And you’d be with me, and we can come back home whenever you decide.”

Your fear and shame seem to cower beneath his words; melted by the soft timbre of his voice. They retreat inward, burrowing deep between the cage of your ribs, twisting and mangling around your pale bones.

“We can come back whenever?” you whisper, defying their threats.

“Whenever, darlin’. Promise.”

You surrender yourself, letting him take you in his arms and carry you over to your closet, where he sets you down gently. Keeping an arm around your waist, Joel waits patiently as you pick an outfit, and then helps drape it over your frame. You feel more statue than human – solid substance rather than plush flesh. Cold and brittle; the tender touch and lively glow drained from your skin the same way it drains so quickly of energy.

You’ve been fighting for years. Months and months and months of one step at a time and just keep going. Being told you’re more than what’s going on in your brain, being told not to let it become you. But there are days when you stand before the mirror, and you don’t recognize the figure staring back at you. The dark tunnels in place of eyes, the thin line of her lips.

There are days you can see the marks on your skin from how tight your anxiety and depression bind you; wrapping like ivy around your body until there’s nothing left of you to see through the dark green leaves. Just a haggard, shapeless thing. A skeleton too tired to carry the weight of yourself; a heart too weary to beat in time.

There once existed a time you had smiled, even laughed – you know it, you have the lines scored deep into your cheeks to prove it. Sometimes they ache when you think about it, like even they miss the feeling. Joel knows it, too – you sense it whenever he tells some dumb joke, sense that he’s searching your face for the slightest lift, the slightest dip of a dimple. And it fucking kills you, when you realize you have nothing sincere or true to offer him. No swollen cheeks, no flash of teeth. At best, a heavier exhale pushed from your nostrils.

It all feels so long ago, that lighter, fresher, happier you. It feels so far from your clutches. Like you’re drifting further and further from the surface, disappearing into the murky depths of your own mind.

The doctors, the articles, the fucking motivational posts on Instagram all say the same. Keep fighting it. Confront your illness. Prove it wrong. But you’re so fucking tired of fighting. Fighting it the entire drive to work, your heart threatening to burst; fighting it every conversation you have, your façade slowly cracking. Swallowing the panic like you swallow the medication; both of them sticking in your throat and refusing to go down.

There is no fighting it. There is no overcoming through confrontation. If you broke your leg, shattered every bone to dust, would they say the same? You gotta walk on it straight away to make it strong again. You don’t think so.

Joel doesn’t seem to think so, either. Joel, with a heart of molten gold, ready at every turn to let it pour onto your skin and paint it the color of sunlight when you can’t do it yourself. Joel, with his strong arms and wide reach, bundling you up over the top of all that foul ivy and snapping its thick stems with just his fingers.

Joel, who will sit at the edge of your bed and watch you take your meds; kiss your forehead and squeeze you tight when you show him your empty mouth. Joel, who will hold you in the dead of night and tell you stupid stories about his brother when they were kids, rubbing your back and chasing the dark ghosts from your mind.

Joel, who still sees something in you – whether he’s imagining it or not – and decides each day that it’s worth protecting. Worth saving. You’re worth saving, even on the days you don’t believe it yourself.

He drives for ten minutes, a little out of the suburbs and into a thicket of fire-colored leaves and solid, frozen ground. Fall sinks its teeth deep into the roots of the earth, drying up the bloom of summer and replacing it with something harder, something tougher. Nature is dying in the November breeze – the amber leaves painted the color of the trees’ blood as they fight a losing battle against the shifting of time. You feel yourself decaying with it: a drawn-out, painful surrender to the bleak days and dark nights.

Joel keeps his hand on your thigh the entire ride; you keep your fingers intertwined with his. The fluttering in your chest gets quicker and quicker, spreads its wings wider the further you feel from home. Your mouth dries up, forcing you to swallow after every third breath. But his hand stays there, planted on you like the root of an ancient tree: never shifting, no matter how strong the wind throws punches.

A shaky breath falls from your lips when he slows to a halt, the truck parked by a long wooden gate. He cuts the engine and turns to you, squeezing your leg lightly.

“We’re just gonna walk down there,” he nods out the window, “and back again. As slow as you like, ‘n we turn back when?”

“Whenever I want,” you whisper, nodding.

“Whenever you want, darlin’. Just say the word, alright? Sound good?”

You nod, blinking away the strain of tears across your vision. Your knee bounces, the metal buckles on your boots clinking in the footwell.

Joel rubs his thumb against your cheek. Lifts your free hand and places a delicate kiss to your knuckles. “I am so proud of you,” he mumbles against them, like scoring it into the bone.

You fill your cheeks, flattening your lips together, and he pulls on his door handle.

Five paces from the car, you realize how cold it is. The bitter air snaps at your cheeks, drags the salty tears from your eyes. Joel quickly fixes the collar of your jacket and pulls your scarf over your face.

“You bring gloves?” he asks.

Your head shakes in response.

“Here.” He fishes in the pockets of his tan jacket for a dark brown pair, flicking his fingers for you to hold your quivering hands out. He slips them on, all too big for you, and then knots his fingers through yours and leads you on down the sloping backroad.

Bordered by tall trees on either side, you feel secluded and hidden from the rest of the world. It fills you with equal parts comfort and terror: nobody else is here. No one can see your vacant eyes, the wet stain of fallen tears on your cheeks. Not the vice grip you have on your boyfriend or the weak quiver of your voice.

And at the same time: nobody else is here. No people, no sign of life. Just an isolated track, the looming trees overhead, the squelch of muck and the bite of fall for company.

Joel matches your pace, strolling along by your side with your arm through his and his hand resting on top of yours. He catches your glances over your shoulder, sees the jittery movements of your head as you scan the scene around you, and pats the back of your hand tenderly.

“Take a deep breath for me.”

You fill your lungs with a chilly gulp of air, pushing it back out again as steadily as you can.

“And again.”

You repeat the exercise, your chest swelling against your buttoned up coat.

“You’re doin’ great,” he says, looking down at you. “You feelin’ okay?”

“I’m – Yeah, I’m just…” you twist back to search for the wooden gate, “…can’t see the truck anymore.”

“’s right there, promise ya. You wanna go back?”

He pauses, and your boots scuff to a halt on the stony terrain. You chew the inside of your cheek, eyebrows arching to release more tears from between your lashes. “No,” you breathe, “I wanna try to go further.”

“Then let’s try to go further. Yeah?”

You nod, setting off when you realize he’s waiting for you to take the lead.

The fields on either side of you are strung with a thick blanket of mist from one end to the other, masking the trees at the opposite side and obscuring the line between earth and sky. Your body close to Joel’s, your heartbeat attempting to match the steady pace of his, you feel safe, protected. The promise that you can call it a day whenever your body begins to weigh too much, whenever your lungs begin to falter.

Somewhere between the thinning of the hedgerows, another slanted, shabby gate materializes. Its crisscross panels and worn wooden posts separating you from the first company in your twenty-minute walk.

“Joel,” you call, loosening your grip on his arm and wandering over to the long, dewy grass towards a chestnut horse, a sliver of white fur diving deep between her eyes.

She slowly thumps over, huge hooves sinking deep into the soft dirt. Her long tail swishing, navy rug wrapped around her midriff. She docks at the gate, puffing a heavy breath – hot, thick clouds shooting from each nostril.

“Hi,” you say quietly, lifting a floppy-gloved hand for her to sniff. “Joel?” you say again, glancing down at her swollen belly, the low droop of the rug. “I think she might be pregnant.”

She tosses her head up, ears flicking, and nuzzles into the soft material of Joel’s glove. You feel her wrinkled muzzle, the strong, solid bridge of her nose. She blinks slowly; huge, deep brown eyes twinkling in the late-morning light, and you swear she’s trying to communicate something to you.

“Hey, girl,” Joel says, running a careful hand down her mane.

The horse sighs serenely, eyes flitting between the two of you. Her nostrils flare gently, light brown lashes fluttering. You tilt your head, stroking her and letting her teeth graze the sleeve of your jacket. Her bulky head turns to-and-fro, glancing up and down the trail you’re stood on, contently waiting for the passage of time. Enjoying her view from the misty field before it all changes again.

Unexpected and unwelcome, the absence of compression in your chest suddenly makes itself known. Dread spills into your lungs, thick like tar. You turn on your heel and cast Joel one fleeting glance.

He catches it, and without missing a beat, asks, “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Is that okay?”

“’s more ‘n okay, baby. You did so good today. Didn’t she?” he asks the horse, who huffs another hot breath. Joel tosses a thumb towards her. “See?”

You step back over to the animal, now preparing to wander back on home, and give her one last tender stroke. She blinks twice, tosses her head a final time, and her broad body turns, thudding off back up the slope.

As he links your arms again, Joel blinks down at you, the corners of his mouth slowly lifting.

“What?” you ask, shyly.

“Look at you,” he says, nudging your shoulder with a glint in his eye. “You’re smilin’.”

Autumn flashes by as Joel drives you home – ginger and bronze and honey and cinnamon blurring into one as you pass them by. You settle back against the headrest, moving with the sway of the truck, your tired fingers tracing blind shapes on Joel’s palm.

Nature is burning. Perhaps dying is too harsh a term. Burning in preparation for the winter, when it will lay dormant and restful. Quiet, save for the crunch of snow beneath your feet. Bland, save for the sparkle of frost on your windowpanes. The droplets of beauty laced through, the little reminders that not all has been lost.

I am burning right now, the earth says, but wait until you see what I can become.

The days will turn to night. The sun will tear the sky to tatters, set the whole thing fucking ablaze, go down in a battle stained in red and orange and deep, dark blue – and she will still return, spilling golden all over the horizon. She always does.

The clouds will cover overhead, dampening the color on earth. The blues will fade to gray, the yellows will undoubtedly pale. And then the sky will clear, when it is ready; the clouds will break in two to let a ribbon of cerulean burst through.

The leaves will fall to the ground and feed the soil; new ones will sprout from buds left in their wake. The ground will thaw, will soften again in time to welcome the push of daisies and burst of heather. The horse will foal, the birds will sing to their babies, the buzz of insects will irritate your ears; the rivers will gush and the trees will sway and you will be okay again.

You will be okay again.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller au #joel miller fluff #the last of us #tlou #tw mental illness #tw depression #tw anxiety

500 notes · View notes

amathslutsguidetofandom · 7 months ago

Text

No Excuses

PAIRINGS: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wife!Sri Lankan!Reader

WARNINGS: HEAVY FLUFF, Simons a fucking simp for the missus, good food :)

SOME INFO: 'Avurudda' means 'New Year', and Kottu and Appa are some famous Sri Lankan traditional food

WORD COUNT: 1,484

ENJOY!

"Yes, Amma. Yes, I cleaned the house like you told me to," you confess softly to your Sri Lankan mother, a tender smile gracing your lips as you recall the gentle encouragement she always provided.

Avurudda season has arrived, a time when the essence of your Sri Lankan heritage fills the air with warmth and nostalgia. In homage to your roots, you meticulously prepared your home, ensuring every corner gleamed with the promise of new beginnings.

And with a sense of reverence, you sought out a traditional Sri Lankan lamp online, a beacon of light to guide you through the festivities of the new year

When you married Simon, Your parents hesitated, their reservations echoing the unspoken fears of marrying outside your culture lingered in your heart

Yet, can they really blame you?

You fell in love with the Lieutenant while you were a techie for one of the TF-141 missions. The mission was primarily automotive, so the team, especially Simon, heavily relied on you. You didn’t think that you had it in you to thaw the ice around the Lt’s heart, but to him, you were his solace, his light.

In the steady rhythm of time, Simon's heart quietly yielded to the gravity of your presence, each day etching deeper into the stone of his resolve, sculpting a silent monument to the unyielding strength of his love for you.

After a few tense debriefs, he finally had the courage.

From the tension of your first encounters to secret touches, which morphed into silent kisses behind closed doors. Your both grew needing the other, the love you have for him and him, you, just became heavier in the depths of your hearts.

Soon, you moved into his flat. And a year later, you’re sleeping next to the love of your life with a gold band on your finger and his last name after your first.

Your parents soon backed off when they realized how much Simon cared for you and you for him.

Your mother's voice breaks you out of your reverie.

"Have you seen the recipes I’ve sent you, the Kottu and the Appa ones?" Your Amma questions, and you tilt your head back and close your eyes. "Yes, Amma, I did. Haven’t I told you that already?"

-----

You hear the door open as you sauté some vegetables the way your mother said to, in her recipe.

"Love? Are you here?" you hear the gruff voice of your husband through the entrance hall of your home.

You holler that you’re in the kitchen.

With a gentle embrace, Simon enfolds you in his arms, his touch igniting a spark of warmth that spreads through your body like wildfire. You lean into his embrace, relishing the comfort of his touch as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin. "Hi, handsome," you whisper softly, your voice a tender caress that lingers in the air between you.

Simon grunts out a laugh and hugs you tighter, "missed you, love."

You both stand in silence, letting Simon take you in.

"Have you brought the things I asked you to?" you whisper gently, switching off the heat of the stove. Simon nods, "it was tricky to find them, but I managed to."

Simon finally releases you and goes to grab the paper bags from the table near the door and places them on the kitchen counter.

You smile at him and give a little squeeze to his bicep and dig through the bag. "Great, everything is here, thanks babe," you lay out everything and start to cook your Kottu. You start chopping up the fresh thin, soft rotti until it's the right size.

You feel Simon peek over your shoulder and then go back to the pot and get a whiff of the food you made already. "Jesus, love. It smells incredible," he leans against the kitchen counter watching you chop the last of the rotti and throw the shredded fine bread into your pot.

You inhale deeply, "well, it's Avurudda. Sri Lankan new year." You say sheepishly, as you throw a glance at your husband over your shoulder.

Simon’s eyes go wide and he nods slowly, "I see." He rubs a hand over his chin and takes in the information you just gave him. He pieces everything together and scolds himself for not remembering, "love, I'm sorry I didn’t know."

You chuckle and shake your head, "honey, it’s fine, really." Simon shakes his head, "I should remember my wife’s cultural holidays. No excuses, love." You pout at Simon beating himself up, "hey, I know what can make you feel better."

He looks up at you confused and raises a brow. "I bought a Sinhala lamp, could you help me set it up?" you smile at him as he nods eagerly before you finish your sentence. You give him the instructions and show him the package that came in this afternoon. "Alright, I’ll get on with it," he whispers, rubbing a hand on your lower back and kissing your temple.

You smile and finish your work in the kitchen.

-----

Simon sets the table and you plate the food.

Then you sit down to enjoy the meal you've prepared together, the flickering light of the candles casts a warm glow over the table, bathing you both in its gentle embrace.

Now he sits in front of you and looks at the crispy Appas and delicious looking Kottu sitting between the both of you.

"Alright, so. This is Kottu, it's basically pieces of thick paratha or rotti, cooked with veggies and shredded chicken. It’s my ultimate favorite dish," you point at the plate of food, and talk animatedly.

You don’t see the subtle smile on your husband's face as he sees you talk passionately, and he opens a file in his mind and files in the information that Kottu is your favorite meal. You then point at the crispy upside-down domes.

“These are Appas, or Hoppers, they are amazing with chicken curry," you point at the curry you made a little while ago, "alright that’s it, dig in! And, Suba aluth avurudak weva, mage rattaran.” Simon has learned a little Sinhala for you since you first got married, and he translates your words in his mind.

Happy new year, my darling.

-----

As you and Simon delve into conversation about your respective days, you both begin to enjoy your meals. With each bite, you savor the taste of home, the flavors of your heritage filling your senses with a sense of belonging.

You take occasional sips from a glass of wine, Simon leisurely drinks from a bottle of beer.

“It’s absolutely delicious, love,” he says, reaching for your hand across the table. He rubs his thumb on the delicate skin of your hand. You smile and say your thanks.

You meet his gaze, your eyes locking in a silent exchange that speaks volumes without a single word. And in that moment, as you sit together in the soft glow of the candlelight, you know that you are exactly where you're meant to be, with the man who holds your heart in his hands.

Your leg brushes against his ankle, the fabric of your sock gliding over his skin. Simon grins and gently clasps your limb, placing it tenderly on his lap. Your smile broadens as he begins to caress it, sending waves of comfort through you.

The atmosphere is filled to the brim with your love for each other, the only source of light is from the candles lit on the table and the traditional lamp next to your dining table.

Simon reflects on his fortune, marveling at the serendipity of finding a woman as remarkable as you. He finds solace in the thought of a love so deeply reciprocated, where every beat of his heart echoes with the resonance of your affection, intertwining your souls in a bittersweet symphony of devotion.

-----

You stir from slumber to the not-so-gentle melody of your phone's alarm.

Blinking away the remnants of sleep, you reach out to silence it, yearning for the familiar presence of your Simon beside you.

Yet, as you turn, you find only the empty space where he once lay, his absence palpable in the morning light.

With a soft exhale, you sit up, the soft rays of dawn casting a warm glow around you. It's then that your gaze drifts to his bedside table, where a bouquet of delicate pink and white tulips awaits, their petals kissed by the soft light of dawn.

Nestled among the blooms, a note written in his hand catches your eye.

It’s in his handwriting, the ink scratchy and blotchy. His sinhala words marking their spot on the hard paper.

A rush of emotion floods your senses as you read his words, each stroke of the pen a testament to his adoration.

Happy New Year, my love.

🎀🎀🎀

OMG!

My first Simon Riley fic!!

And

My first Sri-Lankan!Reader fic!!!

One of the main reasons I wanted to start writing is because there is very minimal representation of brown girlies in the fanfic world. Especially, there is lack of rep for South Asian women. And even though I do associate myself with being a WOC, there is still a difference in between cultures.

I srsly keep in touch with my Sri Lankan heritage, and value that part of me.

It's why I try to make my Fics as inclusive as possible, but sometimes ya girl's got to represent her girlies back home.

(dw desi babes, I got a Diwali fic planned for y'all)

Sorry for the ramble and I'm sorry if this is not what most of you lovelies wanted😅😅.

But I've planned this for a while.

Suba Aluth Avurudak Weva, my loves!

(Also, please lemme know what you lovelies think about the fic!!)

Till' then,

Stay Coquette-y,

Anya 🫶🏽🕊️🎀

#simon riley cod #ghost simon riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost x you #simon ghost smut #simon riley imagine #simon riley smut #simon riley angst #simon ghost riley angst #Sri Lankan!Reader #Simon ghost Riley x Sri Lankan!Reader

195 notes · View notes

pursuitseternal · 11 months ago

Text

“Wrap Me Up:” 🎀 A Merry (NSFW) for the Vampire Lord Astarion, “The Rogue You Were” Christmas Special 🕯️

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader | E | 5.6K of thawing his “Scrooge-ish” heart with bondage and ice play

Based on “A Christmas Carol,” because Astarion would be a total “Scrooge”

Part 2: “Yuletide in Faerûn”

Summary: He hates Yuletide, a time where he is haunted by the ghosts of Yuletides past, but you won’t let him remain so cold, not when all he needs is a little warmth and pleasure to thaw…

CW: Bondage, Ice Play, temperature play, Dom/sub tones, face fucking, nipple play, breast biting, blood kink, sex as healing, face the ghost of Yuletide past, make him look towards the ghosts of Yuletide present and future with you

AO3 link | Read “Rogue You Were” | Masterist

🧊🔥🧊🔥🧊🔥🧊🔥🧊🔥🧊🔥🧊🔥🧊🔥🧊

Cazador was dead to begin with…. His palace redone, reclaimed by your love, your master. No longer some distasteful, neglected home of a miser and monster. It is the toast of Baldur’s Gate, the lavish, decadent crowning jewel of the city, and home to the man all admired and feared. Astarion, Vampire Ascendant.

Your love. Your Master. Your spouse.

But even still, as the streets of the city filled with snow, wet and heavy from the sea, as the air filled with the sights and sounds and smells of Yuletide, your home remained cheerless.

Cazador was dead, and so was the infamous Yule Ball he hosted in his decrepit halls—forbidden by its new lord and master. Astarion had no wish to carry on any of that monster’s legacy. A gala event meant to make his spawn work all the harder for victims at the risk of torture… a night of sumptuous darkness, where victims were aplenty, a prize for their master.

And so… Yuletide was banished. Halls were bright, but no more shining than usual. No evergreens or music or mirth. No gatherings or carols or banquets or dances.

And no… gifts. Those were his orders.

Orders that you understand, but ones that make you grieved. That make you wish to show him the true meaning of Yuletide. And you will show him tonight. To do so, you have been sneaky, subtle, deceptive. And above all… disobedient. But that only makes this plot of yours all the more delicious.

He’s been away all day, corrupting officials and threatening the right people. Turning the powerful into puppets, ensuring everyone pays their tribute to the most powerful being in all the realms. In fact, you think as you begin to peer out the window looking down into the drive, banks of snow scattered to the side and torches flaming to await the master’s arrival, he has been extraordinarily ruthless of late. These last weeks leading into Yuletide, he’s been extorting more money, squeezing favor after favor from the influential, securing all the wealth he could to line his own coffers. And all the while, he grinned that brilliant fang-toothed smile, laughing to be such a menace before the festivities.

Little did he know what you are doing in his absence. Your little secret.

It wasn’t easy to keep. You had to block out his mind, the little ways he liked to check on you from a distance, swirling into your thoughts down your bonded minds as master and bride. You were careful these last few days. Conveniently sending him only thoughts of how much he pleasures you… his hands gripping your ass, his fangs in your throat, his cock shoved to the hilt between your thighs or down your throat, the slick feeling of his cum or its rich and bitter tang….

And once he was satisfied, his presence would leave you, back to your own devices.

Even when he was home of late, he spent much of his time in the treasure vaults, counting and recounting your wealth… until he wandered back to your bed for sweet words of praise and pride in your victories… and for all the carnal ways he loved to consolidate that power with you.

And so, you were free to continue your little plan. You are free to complete your plan.

The eve before Yuletide, and you place a few finishing touches around the library. His favorite place. Not only because he was fond of books, but it is a room all of his own creation. A room free from the ghosts of Cazador’s abuse and violence.

A room all his own.

And now, you made it… festive. The air smells of fresh evergreen and holly, spiced rum punch and sugared sweets, candle smoke and… him. Of citrus and rosemary, that makes your mouth and your cunt wet. Your eyes peer out from the slit in the curtains, watching the snowdrifts billow up in the wind and weather, more flakes of white falling heavy in the night. All that soft, fresh fallen snow muffles the rattle of Astarion’s carriage as it glides up the drive.

Your heart leaps, your hand pulling the curtain back, making sure the light illumines behind you. Making sure he sees you wait for his return, his most beloved spawn in his most beloved room.

He is like shadow incarnate, his black cloak wrapped tightly around his body as it still flaps in the icy winds. Those crimson eyes catch your figure, backlit by the glow within, intrigued, suspicious, his smirking grin makes your quiver, even at this distance.

“Little love… whatever could you be up to?” His voice caresses your mind, sultry and purring to warm your soul.

“Oh, don’t be so cold, my love,” you throw back down the bond of your minds, “why not come and… make yourself warm?”

“Make myself…” he continues to purr even as he strides inside the doors to your palace, “…or permit you to warm me?”

“Come and find out, my darling…”

You can feel his approach, as if you travel as his shadow. Sensing the moment he undoes his clasp, the wet wool of his cloak flopping to the tile. Riding the movement of his legs as he climbs the stairs two at a time. Hearing the sniffs of that aquiline nose that makes a little growl resonate in his throat.

“What have you done?” he hisses into your mind, a pulse of rage and suspicion flaring down your bond.

“It will please you greatly,” you chide in reply, “as long as you overlook my loving disobedience.”

His presence pulls away, only because his hand tears the handle from the library door, the panes of its dark wood flying open to reveal him.

Where he fumes in the entrance.

Crimson eyes glow as he takes in the sight… the fresh scent of spices and sweets and evergreens making his nose turn up in disgust… his gaze scanning from the decorated mantle to the table of sweets, to where you await him near the window.

“My… defiant… little… consort,” he speaks steadily through his grit teeth. “Do you wish to tell me the meaning of all this before I punish you or will it be an extra sweet revelation I pry from you… during…?”

“Or, consider this, my love,” you give him a warm and sultry smile, “you let me, your beloved bride, your treasure, lavish you with some festive joy,” you gesture to the mantle and the table of spiced punch and sweets, “bestow upon you some adoring gifts to show my undying love for you,” you point to the two, small gift wrapped boxes waiting on the table, “and of course some very… merry… entertainment…” You would blush harder if it were possible, your hand tracing down the deep cut of your silken dressing gown. His crimson eyes darkening and dilating as it follows your touch on your own skin.

“You, of all people, my darling should know the dangers involved in tampering with the ghosts of the past that still haunt me…” he crosses the room in what feels like a single bound, his hands closing on your upper arms, his warm touch crushing you against his chest. “You are on some very thin ice… darling. Tread. Very. Carefully.”

“The Rogue I love wouldn’t shy from a fight, even against facing the ghosts that once tormented him,” you smirk up at his enraged face, you can feel his heart racing in a heady mix of emotion, see it throbbing in the veins of his neck. That powerful ascended heart. “Won’t you… at least open my gifts? Let me spoil you for once this Yuletide, as you have never been spoiled before…”

A single brow raises at that. “Well,” he sniffs, tilting his head, eyes falling to the boxes impeccably wrapped before him. “I do rather like being spoiled.” It was a quiet, begrudging sort of acquiescence. “And…” he sighed through his frowning, open mouth, “I suppose you did make a huge effort… even if it was a secret…” he hisses, suddenly giving you that gaze as if you are his next, most delicious meal, “…and disobedient… and deceptive sort of effort for me…”

You smile, such a saccharine look of innocence. “I’m glad you’re beginning to see it, my love.”

His hands fly to your chin, clasping around it before slinking down to claw gently around your neck. “I still expect much from you, darling, to make reparation for your… defiance, as loving as it might be.” You laugh, letting your throat vibrate beneath his touch, as he brings your lips in for a consuming kiss.

However brief.

He presses against your throat, breaking with that dark, conceited grin. “Now, my dearest pet,” he purrs, “impress me with your festive spirit…”

You give him that slightly pouting smile that seems to lower that haze of lust over his eyes. You keep his gaze locked, reaching for the large box,

wrapped in golden paper, tied with golden ribbon. He accepts it into his hands, sifting its weight, shaking it just a touch to feel something hefty sliding inside the container. Then, you see it, almost like the first trickle down an icicle as it starts to melt, the corner of his lips turns just a little higher.

His fingers grip the end of the bow, slowly unraveling it. “What is it?” he asks, a skeptical brow raised.

“The gift to help you chase away the ghost of Yuletide past, my love…” you grin, feeling so confident, so sure of your choices, of your knowledge of him more than he would even admit to his ascended self.

That wins you a twist of those full lips. Those crimson eyes flicker up to yours briefly as his long, dexterous fingers lift open the lid. “Is that a… crown?” pure amusement, voice tickled with the flattery only a perfect gift could give.

You reach your hands in, lifting the metal circlet from its box, the little interwoven strands of dark metal rising into little spikes. “Elegant and vicious,” you hum as you take it between your hands and raise it to rest on his tousle of silver hair. “Just like you, my roguish love.”

“Well if this is your idea of spoiling me with festive cheer…” he raises a brow, turning his head to test out the weight upon his head, “you’re exceeding my expectations.” He turns to the wall behind you, where you have draped boughs of holly leaves and blood red berries around the ornate and gilded mirror on the wall. A fixture in every room now, so he may bask in his own reflection when he wishes. He primps and preens before the glass, turning and twisting to view every angle.

“And I must say, you’ve really captured my power and prestige with something so deadly and…” He pauses lost to the silence as he lavishes in his own reflection, rubbing a finger over the sharpened edges of the points.

You sneak up behind him, where he is lost in his own reflection, that piercing red stare meets yours in the reflection. “A gift, reforged from the past… your old, sadistic master’s dagger, melted down to make you into the sovereign you have always deserved to be…”

He pouts, dramatic and whining and most of all, fake, “A dagger for a crown?” Sighing, he turns quickly to capture you in his arms. “I’ll say, it is the only acceptable repurposing of a blade. You’re lucky I love you so much, if you’re going to be turning my weapons into jewelry…” He presses his lips against your neck, “But even a crown worthy of my handsome head won’t spare you from your own recompense.”

“For my loving disobedience,” you laugh, arching your neck to expose even more of your skin. “And perhaps, you should open your second gift, my love, before you settle on any ideas of exacting such delicious… retribution. Especially now that your chilled heart seems to have thawed.”

“Me?” he rasps into your ear, “cold? Chilled? Cheeky little pup… do you forget that my heart beats now, my skin warmed over as your ascended lord?”

“Hmmmm,” you sigh, “why don’t you open that second gift, a little something to help you embrace the spirit of your Yuletide present and future with me, your own… forever…”

“Oh,” he smirked, wicked and ravenous, “if you’re my gift… and all the many ways I can play with you, I doubt you’ll fit in any little box, darling.” he gave a loud giggle, “but I can imagine how festive you would look… all wrapped up in ribbon…”

You feel his hands wandering over your body, his touch seeping its warmth through the fabric of your dress as he does wrap you in arms and presses you against his unyielding body.

“My little treat, ready to be unwrapped once she’s been very… very… good to me,” he growls in your ear. Shivers racing down your spine as you giggle. Your stomach flips upside down, despite the months of this… of being his, forever. Your body still gives you away with each encounter.

And you grin like a lovesick fool, reaching to the table beside you for that second, smaller package.

He palms its wrapped sides in a single hand, the other remains clutched firmly around your waist with his hand curved hard over the swell of your ass. He smirks, dark and playful, as he bites into the end of the bow and tugs the black silken ribbon apart with those gleaming fangs. The silk slides, no resistance as the bow comes apart in his mouth.

You know that feeling all too well. Of coming apart at the command of those teeth or lips or tongue… You love that feeling. Crave that feeling.

He lets it drop from his teeth to flutter to the floor, a finger flicking open the top of the box to fall to the same fate. Then his brows furrow, he lips drawing in a smile so wide, those perfect teeth glint in the flickering warmth of the firelight.

“My, my…” he purrs, lifting his touch from your backside to fish out the gift within.

It’s coiled, wrapped around itself, this long strand of thick and smooth, a long velvet ribbon, as crimson as his own eyes.

“Perhaps our minds are shared more than the bond formed when you made me, my love,” you taunt, a lilt in your voice as you press into him harder, letting the curves of your breast flatten, the panting of your belly push into his. “Now… are you going to finally let that cold, beating heart of yours be melted by Yuletide warmth?”

He cocks a brow, tilting his crowned head at that rakish angle, hand returning to claw around the base of chin. That free set of eager fingers slipping the gifted ribbon from the box. You gasp as those fingers pull you against his lips. He sucks and caresses with all the hunger that flares under his touch and behind his eyes. “I think I’d rather watch you melt, watch you puddle on my fingers and come when I say, my consort, beloved but also naughty.”

“Sounds like you’re burning to use your gifts, my love…” you growl between his lips. “My lover with the warm touch and the ice in his heart, a bit different than before, my love….” You rake your nails into his hair. “Now I can make you warm all over.”

He chuckles, his grasp easing around your throat, winding to the back of your neck to tilt you open for his tongue all the more. “Sounds like you’re missing that icy touch of your undead rogue, my treasure,” he snaps in return, biting down on your lower lip just enough to draw blood.

“And what are you going to do to remedy that?” you reply, a little moan coloring your voice as his hands begin tearing off your clothes.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he taps his thumb over your swollen lips. “Not a sound, not if you wish to earn my forgiveness, and perhaps receive a little sort of gift of your own in return…” you shudder in his arms, the only reply needed for him to flash you that feral, twisted grin. “Then lay down, my love, and warm yourself by the flames of the fire.”

A hand tugs apart the last laces from your dress, sliding the sleeves from your shoulders. “Oh, and you won’t be needing any of that now…” Your silken gown becomes a silken puddle around your feet. Your skin turns to gooseflesh as he scores his nails down your sides. He snaps his gift, your velvet ribbon, between his hands. “Get comfortable, my treasure, while you still can…”

His gaze scalds you, intensity beyond even your expectations. He is about to enjoy this… and you are too.

He lets you settle on the puddle of furs, the thick white skin of some animal that lines the floor before the fire. Back turned on you, he busies himself at the table of sweets and punch, the clatter of dishes enough to make you smile; he is indulging. You lounge, letting the light flicker over your flesh, letting the fire warm your skin, a cascade of heat over your back and shoulders and ass. One that almost rivals the heat that puddles and pools between your folds.

“Hurry,” you mewl, rubbing your thighs together. “I’m burning for you…”

“Don’t worry, my greedy pet,” he snickers from the table of refreshments, his back to you, purposefully hiding just what he is busying his hands with. You hear the silver spoon stirring the bowl of punch, the clatter of metal and the clacking of ice cubes as he chuckles to himself. “I’m confident there are many ways to cool that lust in your veins, darling.”

He turns slowly, his face leering at you, you see why he has suddenly begun a low rumbling laugh in his chest, a small glass holds a few of the cubes of ice, your velvet ribbon hangs over his wrist, and his eyes glow with that simmering power that crawls beneath his skin. Stalking towards you, you flash him your own fanged smile, running your fingers through the lush fur that cradles your naked form.

Astarion steps over you as you lie on your back, settling down to straddle your belly, making you work for every breath beneath his weight. “Now, for the toughest decision, just what sense to control as your reparation for such a willing… if loving… transgression.” He sets the ice down at his side, the silk of his breeches strained taught with his arousal as he covers you with his body. “Do I take away your sight to awaken all your other senses, do I gag that pretty little mouth of yours to make your screams deeper and richer… or do I bind your hands and make you crave only my touch for your release.”

He trails the soft, fluttering edge of the ribbon up and down your belly, your eyes following it, drawn to the way it makes your gaze flicker to his own straining cock. You snigger, gripping your nails shamelessly into his hips, running them down his thighs hard enough to score his flesh. Stopping only once you cup that erection you crave.

“I guess that seals your fate, my love,” he licks his lips, gripping your offending hands by the wrists to stretch them overhead. The velvet caresses your skin, soft and cool as he snugs it around you, tethering them together and binding them around the leg of the chair nearest you.

It wouldn’t hold you captive, not for real, but this… this was for fun… delightful divertisment to help him rekindle his… festive spirit.

And as he leans over you, satisfied with the work of his skilled fingers to bind your hands above your head, you moan when he slips his legs between yours. Prying you wider, grinding that confined erection against you, the slippery feel of his silken pants soaking with your arousal.

Wet and warm before the fire, every nerve ignites under his attention, flaming with your need to have his skin against yours. “Seems unfair,” you try to whine as your voice ripples more as a whimper, “for me to be so… unwrapped and ready for you to enjoy.”

“You’re going to have to beg and plead more sweetly than that, my darling,” he smirks against your whining mouth, capturing it with his. You taste the burst of flavors on his tongue, the sweet and spices of the punch, his tongue cool in your mouth from having imbibed it.

Just like old times. You shudder and moan to feel it tangle with your own, that flavorful concoction, the tingle of alcohol spiking your senses. “Mmm, delicious,” you moan against his fangs.

“Not as delicious as it will be as I taste you, my pet. Be a good little consort, plead so prettily, and you’ll get everything you desire tonight.” He gives a little extra, hips undulating into your slick, his breeches undoubtably ruined by your arousal. You groan at that ferocity, that untamable hunger. And you, you buck your hips to ride that friction. You give him what he wants, a loud mewl of your pleasure to tickle his punch-coated tongue.

“Very good,” he smirks, raising back to his knees. “I’d ask you to help me…” he taunts, rubbing his hand down the front of his decadently embroidered jacket, slowly letting his buttons free one at a time. “… but you seem already… tied up…”

“Oh, you must be feeling merry to throw such taunting puns at me, my love,” you smile.

“Hush, love,” he grins wickedly, tossing that jacket to the side, the firelight dancing over his ivory skin, rippling over all the rises and ridges of his torso. “Or if you insist on that insolent mouth teasing me, I might just have to find something with which to gag you.”

You smirk, hungry and defiant, as you stick out your tongue. A taunt. And an invitation.

“If you wish,” he growls happily, hands quick to unbutton his breeches. A split second, and he frees that cock, drips of his seed already seeping from its tip. You keep your tongue dangling as he scoots forward straddling your shoulders, until your mouth has nothing more to do than let him in.

With a groan, he thrusts into that familiar wet. Head thrown back, but not so far as to risk that magnificent crown to tumble off. He’s slow, languorous, savoring the way you’ve taken him so well. “Such a good little consort, earning your penance and more…” One hand knots in your hair at the crown of your head, the other you can’t see.

But you hear his movements, that dull clank of ice cubes on glass. And suddenly, you gasp, that frigid cold in his invisible grip, trailing its cold up your thigh. He’s so quick, his face scrutinizing your slacked mouth as he continues to fuck your throat, a twist of total delight on his lips as you shiver.

That is your only warning, the only inkling of his devious intentions before he slips that cube of ice between your folds. His mouth grins so wide, you see every tooth, his pleasure cemented as he thrusts between your moaning lips. Your body fights against his pinning weight. Thrusts begin to accelerate, timed with the swirls of that ice as he circles faster over your clit.

You feel the water beginning to drip, same as your slick, and your body shudders, heated by the fire and his body, frozen between your thighs as he still sweeps the melting ice through your seam.

Wave after wave consumes you, total swept away by the play of hot and cold, the merry dance of ice and fire that crashes through your body. It makes your buck and writhe, panting and choking on his cock between your cheeks. He withdraws a bit to let you savor your pleasure, pouring those praises over you once more, “Perfect, my treasure, coming for me so hard and beautifully.”

He chuckles, stroking his fingers through your long hair, lifting your head for a few really slow, really deep thrusts. Ones that you curve your tongue around and suck hard until you gag.

“Yes…” he growls, taking his cock back in his hand as he withdraws it from your now swollen lips, “good girl, so delicious… I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson of loving disobedience.”

“Savored the fruits of it, more like…” you grin, sultry, desirous, licking your lips clean of his juices that have already snuck out to coat your lips, your tongue.

That ice, so much smaller already, skates up your mound, your belly, settling it in your navel. “Astarion,” you screech as he leaves it there, as the chill settles over where you crave the heat and weight of pelvis, where you wish for him to crush you and fuck you.

“So greedy, little love,” he purrs. “And isn’t I who should be the greedy one? Denied any semblance of Yuletide joy for so long?”

“Then be… greedy… be naughty, and I will be very, very nice,” you giggle, deep in your throat as you watch him sliding down to settle between your burning thighs.

But not before he sneaks another ice cube from the cup. You lose track of it… until he grins with his mouth spread wide, his gleaming teeth biting down on that piece of ice, shining like crystal in the firelight. You shiver in anticipation. Waiting, watching for just what he might do next.

Angling down agonizingly slowly, his eyes lock into yours, his mouth aiming that fragment of ice for your already straining taught nipples. You scream again, bucking and writhing as the cold shoots right through you, racing down your every nerve. He laughs, taking that cube back inside his mouth, swirling that ice-cold tongue now over your flesh, sucking it hard between his lips.

“I will be undone, my love…” you groan, arching under his tongue.

“That’s the point,” he laughs darkly taking out that cube to rub over your other aching nipple as he teases and toys with it, “be undone before you’ll be… unwrapped, my darling.”

It steals your breath, making you writhe and tug against your binds as you feel every shiver down your spine consuming every sensation. Then he sets the ice, nearly gone back in your navel.

Heavy-lidded, Astarion licks his lips, dragging his tongue over his fang, announcing his next desire loud and clear.

“Hungry? Then get to it, greedy love,” you squirm and squeal as he gives a bite on your breast, just enough to bring a little blood to the surface. “Hgnf,” you groan as he drinks from you, those little hums and noises he makes as he feeds bring even more arousal pooling between your thighs.

You feel his cock hardening even more, as if that was possible, the union of your bloods, that tremor down your bond as he feeds from you, chin red with your essence. It makes him grind against your mound, cock twitching, a mind of its own to find that wet and clenching pressure he craves more than anything.

You feel that slow undulation, the tip of his length slipping into your folds, teasing just an inch inside you. The chair above your head scrapes across the floor, the ribbon snapping as you struggle against your binds. “Please,” you beg, “free me. I want you… I need you.”

“And why should I release you early?” he asks, barely raising his head from the pillow of your breast as he still laps at your blood. Eyes closed. As if he is too preoccupied to watch your agony. Even though you feel his smiling lips against your skin. “Just what would you do… if… I set you free?”

“Touch you…” you pant, feeling his cock dipping in and out again, shallowly. But he stills, unsatisfied.

“And?” he goads, slowing his tongue, eyes flickering up briefly at last.

“Cling to those powerful scars on your back, trace them since I know them all…”

Another dip inside your channel, slowly still but deeper as he withdraws equally slow.

“…and?” he smirks, licking his bloodied lips and chin.

You give a laugh, heavy with your need. “Clean your face from my blood, you messy thing…”

“Hmm,” he smirks wider, the lights catching in the red of his eyes as he scans your pale skin, where you pant and squirm beneath him. “Tempting, but…”

“Worship you,” you interrupt, “caress every inch of your ivory skin, grip hard into the clenching power of your ass as you fuck me… finally, run my fingers through your hair to keep that perfect crown on your perfect head…”

His lips twitch just once, a single arm reaching for that ribbon as the velvet release from your wrists. You groan, finally… finally touching him again, your voice rasping in your throat as he sheathes himself in fully. Already he commands a punishing pace, but you are so on fire for him, you crave it. You ride it all, legs wrapped tightly around his hips, your hands clutched into his hair, pinning that crown in place.

A good thing too, his body shaking as he loses all his control. His rhythm is feral and driven, giving no regard to anything other than filling you with his cock and making you burst with his cum. But he watches, arms pressed into the floor as his eyes drink in that sight of you. The way your bosoms sway, coated in his spit and your blood as they glisten in the soft light. The way your eyes lock into his, flickering every now and then to watch the way his pale cock spears harder and harder into you.

You snicker, a wicked idea in your head as you glance to the last cube of ice in the glass. “You wouldn’t dare…” he groans inside your head. But it’s too late. You’ve already snagged that chilling, hard lump, tracing it down the planes of his belly as you reach between you.

“Oh, I would…”

You have to be quick, but he lets you… his flawless reflexes could stop you… if he wants.

But instead he just groans so loudly as you press that ice at the base of his cock. Caressing whatever length of him doesn’t thrust inside as he fucks.

He shivers, his arms shaking as he lowers down on top of you. That crown falls into the furs at your side, but he doesn’t care. His mouth devours yours, his grunts and pants as you bring him to climax deafen you, reverberating inside your mouth.

And as the melting ice drips to your seam, you follow him into that wave of pleasure. Heat and ice, fire and cold blast through your bodies. His thrusts are merciless, slamming hard against the end of your channel, the pain adding to the heady mix that steals your breath and sends his name screaming from your lips.

He stills inside you, your greedy walls squeezing out the last of his cum, working against the twitching pulses of his cock. Resting his hot, damp forehead in the nook of your shoulder, he struggles to catch his breath. Nuzzling closer, you feel his warmth saturating your flesh, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders as he lays on you and in you.

“I… should thank you, my love,” he whispers, that tenderness he saves for your ears alone. “You never give up on me, never allow me to remain trapped, haunted by those ghosts of my past… however tormenting they may be. You have… done more than make my heart to beat again, to teach me how to love again. For centuries, at this time of year… I wanted nothing more than to take one of those stalks of holly and ram it like a stake through… his heart.”

Cazador’s. He won’t say it. Can’t say it.

“But with you, perhaps it is something just the two of us may… enjoy. To savor…”

“My love,” you whisper, placing a kiss into those silken, gleaming silver locks, “you don’t need to use Yuletide as a reason to wrap me up in pretty ribbons.”

“It is rather pretty, isn’t it?” he chuckles as he raises his head, “not as magnificent as this, however…” His hand closes around that metal circlet, replacing it crookedly on his silver hair. On that head made for a crown. “Seems like you’ll need one of your own, my little consort.”

“I’m open to all sorts of gifts from you…” you purr, catching his chin to bring his mouth to yours.

“Perhaps you need me to give it to you again, my darling?” he speaks into your lips. “Another lesson for me in finding the warmth of Yuletide? I might still feel a bit frozen in the heart, if you’re not thorough, you know…”

“Avernus would freeze over before I abandon you to such a fate, gods bless it…” you catch his lips in your mouth, a good long suck in that thick lower one as you nip it gently in your fangs. Tasting the richness of his blood, the thrumming of his power that rides his essence.

“Then gods bless it,” he growls, hand catching tightly around your chin, a slight drag of his still hardened cock inside you, “every time.”

180 notes · View notes

kithtaehyung · 2 years ago

Text

🎶 Composition of the Century (The Collab Masterlist!) 🎶

Hello, everyone! Welcome to the concert hall.

Take your seats and silence your phones, we have the genius Min Yoongi himself to celebrate on his thirtieth birthday!

Isi (@raplinesmoon), Ryen (@kithtaehyung) and Mars (@joheunsaram) are stoked to announce the masterlist for our second BTS 30 for 30 collab. For this collaboration, we have gathered 30 fantastic writers to showcase 30 musical pieces celebrating Yoongi's brilliant mind during his birth month.

🎼 All details/ratings of the upcoming lineup are under the cut. These fics are slated to go on tour by March 15th, so get ready to be moved (and don’t forget to come back and give them a listen!)

by the time i've figured out what it's worth (m) by @ugh-yoongi ⤷ Guitar 🤍 Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 est. relationship, marriage au | angst, smut

🎼 You used to find comfort in it—listening to those old songs, an aural timeline of your and Yoongi’s relationship. The shy sounds of falling in love, the tinkling of a ring in a dish, the inevitable crash and burn. All those songs aren’t so comforting anymore, when you’d do anything to keep him and Yoongi’s got one foot out the door.

🎧 Listen Here!

The Eternal Prince (13+) by @phenomenalgirl9 ⤷ Accordion 🤍 Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 fantasy, reincarnation au | action

🎼 Everyone heard of the Prince who got cursed to be a beast for being too proud of his beauty, ever heard of the Prince who got cursed to have a frozen heart because he was cold? But, only one thing can thaw the ice in his heart, love. And only one person can give it to him, Y/n, will he be able to save her this time round? This time round, will his heart thaw?

🎧 Listen Here!

Seductress In Satin (M) by @daimyosjeon ⤷ Songwriting 🤍 Songwriter!Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 est. relationship au | smut

🎼 Yoongi has been ignoring you for a couple of weeks now because of his work. Finally, it's time to step up your game.

Pull On My Heart Strings (13+) by @cutest-bunny-writings ⤷ Harp 🤍 Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 angst, fluff

🎼 You've been waiting for this show for so long. To see award winning harpist Min Yoongi perform live, in a front row seat! What could possibly go wrong?

🎧 Listen Here!

Please Linger (M) by @matchy6812 ⤷ Synrix 🤍 Musician!Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 fantasy au | humor, smut

🎼 After terrorizing the villagers with one too many pranks, you’ve been locked away in The Tower to atone for your petty crimes. As far as you know, The Tower is impenetrable. Nobody can get in, and nobody can get out. It seems you’ll never escape—until one night, a man named Yoongi barges in…

🎧 Listen Here!

Floating Chapels (17+) by @persephonesorchid ⤷ Chimes 🤍 Yoongi x Reader 🎶 regency au, strangers to lovers | angst, fluff

🎼 You open a music school for underprivileged youth and since the beginning, you've had an anonymous doner: they provide your students with instruments and general funding. One day, Duke Min presents himself and a grand offer for you and your students.

The Departure (M) by @sugalaritae ⤷ Double Bass 🤍 Classical Musician!Yoongi x Classical Musician!Jungkook 🎶 rivals to lovers, exes to lovers, romance | angst, light fluff, smut

🎼 It's been 5 years since Jungkook's seen Yoongi play live. 5 years since he was in the same room as Yoongi. 5 long years and so much has changed. Now, on the evening of what looks like Yoongi's last concert, Jungkook watches from the audience. Every finger movement reminds him of what it felt like to be touched. Every bow movement pulls out an old memory tucked away reminding him how intoxicating it was to play with Yoongi and oh! how he aches for a chance once again. Except he's ruined everything, and nothing will ever be the way it was. Especially Yoongi.

🎧 Listen Here!

unrequited love (& other clichés) (m) by @hot-soop ⤷ Cello 🤍 Cellist!Yoongi x Violinist!Reader(f) 🎶 non idol au, friends with benefits | angst, smut

🎼 Namjoon thinks it’s almost funny how both of you were dumped a year apart to the day. (It’s not.) While you’re partial to ignoring your problems, Namjoon likes to analyse. He cries a lot. Has an existential crisis. Starts talking about how suffering breeds creativity. Quotes a bunch of arseholes like Huxley and Lennon, and apparently the validation from a few long dead greats is all he needs to get the ball rolling. So sure, you’ll go along with it - because he’s your friend and you’re feeling numb to everything anyway. Namjoon needs a way to process his pain. But when his community orchestra project takes off and becomes something bigger than either of you expected, you think maybe the distraction is something of a blessing - especially when it brings Min Yoongi, someone you knew from before, someone who’s going through a heartbreak of his own.

all that we wouldn’t say (m) by @effortandmore ⤷ Producer 🤍 Yoongi x Namjoon 🎶 canon-divergent (post-disbandment), exes to lovers | angst, smut

🎼 If Yoongi told someone that letting go of BTS and Namjoon at the same time was hard, it would be a gross understatement. It was, in fact, the worst year or so of his life, but he’s managed to somehow move on. He’s had time, therapy, and lots of friends, family, and work to distract him. Things are good now—the best they’ve ever been, maybe. But Yoongi knows better than anyone that good things don’t always last, and that point is proven when Namjoon shows back up in his life out of nowhere with an album that needs producing and questions Yoongi doesn’t have the answers to.

harder, better, faster, stronger (m) by @the-boy-meets-evil ⤷ Synth 🤍 Synth Player!Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 non-idol au | fluff, smut, probably not angst

🎼 Yoongi had it all. He was part of one of the most famous musical acts on the world. Sold out shows, endless opportunities to collaborate, everything he'd wanted. And he had a great personal life free from all that since so few people knew what he actually looked like. Enter you, the new person he's head over heels for. Only one problem - you have no idea he's part of the group and don't seem particularly fond of them. Will he tell you what he actually does for a living or chicken out after hearing another of your rants?

moonlight sonata (m) by @sugarwithtea ⤷ Piano 🤍 Pianist!Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 enemies to lovers | angst, fluff, smut

🎼 Passion is a fickle thing. It is a feeling that drives you to success, but if lost -- you can turn as stagnant as a pond. Min Yoongi has always took pride in his passion, his skill, his art. But what happens when slowly the flame dies inside him? He returns back home, to the place where he had started to love music. But, you are there. The bane of his existence. You hate him like a sweltering flame, bigger than his passion for music. And you, are not so thrilled with the news of his return. What happens when you both inevitably cross paths and start a saga of hate and love?

🎧 Teaser!

가연 (Ga-yeon) (m) by @raplinesmoon ⤷ Bassoon 🤍 Restaurant Owner!Yoongi x Nurse!Reader 🎶 fake dating au | angst, fluff, smut

🎼 Your younger sister is getting married at the end of the summer, and while everyone else in your family rejoices, you’re stuck without a date and picking up extra shifts, your previous failures coming back to haunt you. The only comfort you can find is in the tiny hole-in-the-wall Korean place that seems to stay open all night, and its handsome owner Yoongi. But what happens when your circumstances force you to rope Yoongi into a crazy plan? Will the lines between you begin to blur, or will the events of the summer bring some much needed clarity to your otherwise murky life?

A Love Supreme (M) by @gimmethatagustd ⤷ Saxophone 🤍 Musician!Yoongi x Author!Reader 🎶 cruise ship au, strangers to lovers | light angst, fluff, humor, smut

🎼 After your most recently published novel miserably flops, shipping yourself off to sea on a three-week cruise without reliable internet or cell phone service sounds like a great way to run from your problems (and your editor). You don’t expect to find the cure for writer’s block at the cruise ship’s jazz club in the form of an uptight saxophone player.

Dissonance (M) by @sailoryooons ⤷ Clarinet 🤍 Musician!Yoongi x Musician!Reader 🎶 enemies to lovers, idiots to lovers | a little angst, smut

🎼 You have worked endlessly for everything in your life. Your scholarship, your high standing at Juilliard, and most certainly trying to afford an apartment in New York while chasing your dreams in the legendary halls of musical geniuses. And then there’s Min Yoongi, who works hard at nothing, who doesn’t care to study, and who shows up late to everything. After three years of dealing with him, you are determined to take first chair from him during your final semester at Juilliard. Even if it kills you.

Standing Right Here (M) by @sweetestofchaos ⤷ Keyboard 🤍 Business Management Major!Yoongi x Business Management Major!Reader 🎶 college au, friends to lovers | angst, fluff, light smut

🎼 As the youngest son of the Min family, Yoongi is forced to follow in his father's footsteps to help take care of the family business. Yoongi goes about his college life with his head down, keeping to himself but one encounter outside with a classmate changes Yoongi's view about his life. When Yoongi's father catches wind, Yoongi is giving an ultimatum that will change his life forever. Will he make the right call or be left standing alone?

🎧 Listen Here!

Insatiable (M) by @mincursedarokster ⤷ Janggu Drum 🤍 Actor!Yoongi x Actor!Jimin 🎶 romantic comedy, rivals to lovers | fluff, some smut

🎼 When Yoongi loses his top spot in a recent poll to Jimin, the last thing he expect was to find himself on set with the younger male and having to take him under his mentorship as they work together in period piece where Jimin is the vocalist to Yoongi's Janggu playing. Whilst everyone around him see’s Jimin as the perfect little angel, a doting mentee, Yoongi knows differently. Can Yoongi keep his sanity and his composure on set dealing with the insatiable appetite of the devilish angel?

Hexed (T) by @minisugakoobies ⤷ Oboe 🤍 Witch!Yoongi x Vampire!Seokjin 🎶 supernatural, enemies to lovers, witch au | fluff, humor

🎼 Ancient vampire Jin really has it all - fame, fortune, and undying good looks. His immortal life is perfect... or it would be, if it weren't for that annoying(ly handsome) witch Yoongi and his unearthly desire to make Jin's world an unliving hell.

The Song of Us (PG) by @seokra 🤍 Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 contemporary romance | fluff

🎼 What was supposed to be a simple cafe date, turns into a night of adventure in a world of music you’ve never experienced before.

Gold (M) by @yoongimingyu ⤷ Vocals (Singing) 🤍 Yoongi x Reader(f) 🎶 est. relationship | fluff, smut

🎼 One thing your boyfriend isn’t shy about is his musical talent. He puts words together in a way that completely convinces you that that’s how they were supposed to be all along – strung next to each other just like that. The fact that he knows it too… It's pretty hot, honestly. You know he enjoys getting to show off a little – sit you down, share what he’s been working on and watch you light up with pride. All of this only makes it especially intriguing when he gets suddenly bashful about his most recent songwriting development.

🎧 Listen Here!

A Change of Rhythm (PG) by @min-yumniverse ⤷ Trumbone 🤍 Yoongi x Musician!Reader 🎶 contemporary romance, hurt/comfort, comedy | slight angst, fluff

🎼 Music doesn’t feel as powerful as it once has. The notes on the keyboard feel boring, and uninteresting. The guitar and drums feel likewise. Each day feels like it’s littered with laziness and unamusement. Which means; it’s time for a change of rhythm.

🎧 Teaser! | 🎧 Listen Here!

all about that bass (m) by @augustbutwinter ⤷ Bass 🤍 Yoongi x Reader 🎶 band au | crack, fluff, light smut

🎼 Yoongi’s band tries to get their grumpy bassist laid. Little do they know he has a secret.

Time Out (M) by @bangtanintotheroom ⤷ Vocals (Rap) 🤍 Underground Rapper!Yoongi x Underground Rapper!Reader(f) 🎶 non-idol au, not-quite lovers | angst, fluff, smut

🎼 What you and Yoongi had going on now was a far cry from the days when the two of you would be at each other’s throats with lyrics that cut sharp as a knife. But lately, you’ve been pulling back, busy with something that you didn’t want to divulge to Yoongi just yet. And now, he can’t help but wonder if you want to go back to those old days...

Beat of my Heart (M) by @joonminshua ⤷ Tambourine 🤍 Yoongi x Afab!Reader 🎶 college au, band au, strangers to lovers | fluff, humor, smut

🎼 'How hard can it be to play the tambourine? You just shake it around and smack it and then you have music, right?' That’s what you think until you’re holding the instrument in your hand and it sounds nothing like the way it does when Min Yoongi, your college’s musical prodigy, plays it during band practice. When he reluctantly decides to help you practice, you start to notice just how serious he is about the unassuming percussion instrument. You also start to notice just how passionate, kind, and undeniably handsome he is. Needless to say, you didn’t intend on picking up a crush alongside your new hobby.

Counting Time (M) by @mrworldwideshoulders ⤷ Xylophone 🤍 Percussionist!Yoongi x Flutist!Reader 🎶 college au, enemies to lovers (or so she thinks) | fluff, eventual smut

🎼 Min Yoongi only cares about two things. One: keeping his parents off his back. Two: finishing college on time so he can spend one last summer playing gigs with his band before he has to start working and join the rat race. Faced with losing out on his summer plans over a missing course credit or joining concert band, a guaranteed easy A, the choice is obvious. He knows how to count the beats. He just never counted on you.

Muffled Tones (21+) by @nabiolive ⤷ Drums 🤍 Drummer!Yoongi x Groupie!Reader(f) 🎶 glam rock au, strangers to lovers | angst, fluff, smut

🎼 To Yoongi, all that mattered was sex, drugs, and rock & roll. Then you came along, and although he couldn't stop thinking about you, his priorities remained the same.

dearly bereft. (nc-17) by @rkivian ⤷ Flute 🤍 Flutist!Yoongi x Duchess!Reader 🎶 forbidden romance, exes au, suggestive | angst

🎼 dearly bereft, you should be aware by now, that your words are only a product of your silly little heads - that which is also stubborn... that which puts your drivenness to perilous use. alternatively, yoongi's audacious company is to blame for your failure of ending your repetitive endeavours.

Inconvenient (M) by @v-hope-mins ⤷ French Horn 🤍 Jazz Lounge Owner!Yoongi x Heiress!Reader 🎶 marriage of convenience, friends to lovers | fluff, smut

🎼 While on a family vacation, your father delivers his ultimatum. He wishes you to be married before taking over more responsibilities in your family’s hotel chains. Either you choose someone, or he puts forward his own suitor. He admits he already has a suitor in mind - Kim Seokjin. Feeling betrayed you walk out of the lunch. Your walk leads you to an old acquaintance, Min Yoongi. The two of you get to talking, your conversation leading you to make a decision. A marriage of convenience. Yoongi obviously thinks it's a bad idea, but you convince him. However, Yoongi proves to be too good of a husband, and suddenly your growing feelings become inconvenient. How are you supposed to survive in a marriage of convenience when you're falling for your husband?

beguiling melody (m) by @ressjeon ⤷ Gayageum 🤍 Vampire!Yoongi x Seamstress!Reader 🎶 romantic suspense, strangers to lovers, historical fantasy, 1800s au, voyage au

🎼 Secretly boarding the ship in hopes of finding a better life had not been easy. Even more so when you witness something that could have put your life in danger. but the ominous yet captivating stranger sparks your curiosity when he began targeting your greatest desires - making you question if his intentions are to solely ensure that you will keep his secret.

———————————————————————

adagio (pg-15, nc-17) by @lveclouds ⤷ Violin 🤍 Violinist!Yoongi x Princess!Reader 🎶 forbidden love, strangers to lovers | heavy angst, fluff

🎼 In which Queen Mara’s only heir falls for a gorgeous violinist with a mysterious and shrouded past.

———————————————————————

Lasting Melody (R) by @joheunsaram ⤷ Conductor 🤍 Conductor!Yoongi x Violinist!Reader 🎶 exes to lovers | angst, fluff, smut

🎼 The flowers blooming always reminded you of the spring you spent in the arms of your program’s recluse. The man who was too shy to even raise his hand in class but bold enough to ask for your number. With years spent apart and your fame making it harder to build any connections, you thought about him sitting at his piano composing a melody you played when life got too hard. The same melody echoing through the empty theatre you stumbled onto to hide from the rain.

———————————————————————

to zanarkand (m) by @kithtaehyung ⤷ DJ 🤍 Yoongi x DJ!Reader(f) 🎶 marriage au, childhood friends to lovers | angst, fluff, smut

🎼 Your best friend has explicitly entrusted you to be in charge of all the music for his wedding. Which means you get a back row seat to watch the love of your life walk down the aisle. To the song that brought you together in the first place.

Thank you to all the participants and everyone showing love! If you would like to be tagged in any of these fics, go ahead and comment on this post so the writers that do tag readers are made aware :D (Or you can definitely drop a sweet message in their inboxes and/or check if they have a taglist form!)

Lastly, let's give a huge round of applause for these wonderful artists👏 They're working hard on these pieces for Yoongi Day, and even a little bit of support goes a long way💕

734 notes · View notes

fanfic-lover-girl · 10 months ago

Text

I like Hiccstrid...but I have issues

So I watched How to Train Your Dragon about a month ago and I absolutely loved it! So much so that before I took the time to watch the other two movies, I basically know the plots for the remaining movies from all the fanfiction, Youtube videos and Tumblr posts I have read about it lol. I know I have issues when it comes to consuming media properly :). I still intend to watch the movies...I hope.

Anyway, I liked Astrid's character in HTTYD 1. She was a fully fleshed-out character and besides her opening scene, she never felt like a love interest character for the majority of the movie. She was the perfect Viking, everything Hiccup was not. She was pretty (because what love interest is not pretty **roll my eyes**) but she was angry and violent. She was perfect...until the romantic flight scene. When I watched the movie, I enjoyed the sequence and I found Astrid cute but the entire scene just felt kind of forced. And it marked the beginning of my issues with Hiccstrid, as much as I still found the couple enjoyable at the end of the film.

Astrid's bullying was not resolved properly

Astrid never bullied Hiccup the way the others like Snotlout did, but she was still complicit in Hiccup's ostracization. It's obvious she does not like him or have any fondness for him. However, at no point does she apologize or express any remorse for hurting him in the movie. She just suddenly likes him after one (amazing) flight? Hiccup just moves on from her ignoring his existence like that? No reconciliation??

Astrid's punching Hiccup is not sweet

As I have mentioned before in other posts, I find the trope of a female character expressing her love for a guy through violence to be disgusting. The only fictional couples I tolerate this are Jimmy/Cindy (Jimmy Neutron: Boy Genius) and Helga/Arnold (Hey Arnold!). I don't mind Jimmy/Cindy because their fights tend to be verbal and argumentative in nature and Jimmy gives as good as he gets from Cindy. They both get a kick from riling each other up, Cindy a bit more than Jimmy. I don't know the Hey Arnold! show very well but I understand why Helga acts the way she does and Arnold is allowed to be angry when she hurts him. When she is truly being romantic and sweet with Arnold she does not hit him. She seems to mainly torment him when she is upholding her mask to hide her feelings. You can say that this is the case for Astrid too. She grew up as a Viking and Viking culture is violent. However, I hate that we are meant to see her hitting Hiccup as part of her love language. It would be fine if it were Tuffnut or Snotlout but Hiccup is not like other Vikings. He is a gentle person and he is not tough like his other counterparts. Astrid's hits hurt him and he expresses obvious pain. But Astrid gives him a follow-up kiss after each punch so it's all good? Not for me.

Hiccstrid felt kind of shallow

I think the relationship felt rushed. Astrid went from disdain to crushing way too quickly. It's like they missed a step in the relationship: friendship. The romantic flight scene should be the starting point where she reconsiders her opinion on Hiccup and maybe after a few more dragon training sessions she would appreciate Hiccup's growth. Maybe her ice queen character thaws over time as she gets to know Hiccup better in training. She laughs at his sarcastic quips. Maybe she begins to sit with him at meal times away from the others. Just small stuff to show their deepening friendship. However, Hiccstrid was not given this development because like many other action type movies the romantic relationship is given the backburner which leads to my final issue.

Hicctrid was not needed

I mentioned earlier that Astrid was not treated like a love interest until like halfway through the movie when we saw the romantic flight scene. Hiccup does not even spend time beyond the opening scene expressing attraction towards her. You can easily forget he has a crush on her. Because ultimately romance was not needed in this story. At all. When you really think about it, what did Astrid contribute to Hiccup and Toothless' story? What does Hiccup and Astrid's relationship contribute to the story? Astrid could have given the pep talk and helped rally the other teens to help Hiccup as a FRIEND, not a love interest. But of course, when the guy becomes a hero and saves the day he needs to get the girl of his dreams at the end. It would have been nice if the first movie focused on developing the Hiccstrid friendship and then developed the romance in the second movie, wrapping it up with their marriage in the third.

Anyway, this is not to say I HATE Hiccstrid. I still need to watch the other two movies before I can truly say whether this couple is truly couples' goals as many people claim. I think they look amazing together and they seem to have great chemistry in HTTYD 2. I think they complement each other in theory and Astrid would be a great help in helping Hiccup lead as chief when the time comes. But I don't love it enough to read fanfiction or watch many Youtube edits about them and at this point, I sometimes find Hiccstrid annoying to see in my fanfics unless it addresses my problems with the development of the relationship.

#httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccstrid #hiccstrid critical #anti hiccstrid #astrid hofferson #hiccup haddock #helga x arnold #jimmy x cindy #we need to stop romanticizing female assault on guys #httyd movies #httyd hiccup #astrid httyd #hiccup x astrid

102 notes · View notes

celestialseawitch-ff · 2 months ago

Note

🌹

Hermione couldn’t meet their eyes. It finally clicked in her mind, what she was feeling. The cold. The ice in her chest. Her eyes grew in horror. She hadn’t felt this unrelenting cold in three years.

Ron turned to Harry. “How do we get home?” he demanded.

Hermione slowly lowered herself to knees as she began to cry.

“Hermione?”

“Hermione!”

Harry and Ron were crouched down by her. Their hands felt burning hot on her shoulders.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Harry pleaded.

“I- I can feel him,” she cried.

Harry paled. Ron stood and stormed away as he released a stream of curses. Hermione felt her tears begin to overwhelm her.

“No, no, no- Hermione.” Harry cupped her face in his hands. He pressed close until all she could see was the bright emerald green of his eyes. “Listen to me, stay with me. You’re okay. I’m right here. You can feel it right, feel my magic?”

Hermione sobbed as she nodded. She could always feel Harry’s magic. It smelled like wind and sage, and had the uncanny ability to wind around her in the softest, most beautiful way.

“Focus on me, love. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mummy?” Teddy cried and pressed his face into her neck, clearly upset by her distress.

Hermione’s expression broke. Harry pressed a kiss to her forehead and Hermione felt his magic wind around her like a blanket, stronger and tighter than ever before.

She gasped in a shuddering breath.

“You need to block it out,” he whispered against her skin. “Just like Snape taught you. Block it out.”

“I can’t- he’s too strong.”

“You can. For Teddy, ‘Mione. Do it for Teddy.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as she cried. She forced herself to build up her occlumency walls. She hadn’t been strong enough when she was younger, but some sort of unknown magical protection had always kept her safe in the past. Whatever magic had been cast over her as a baby to hide her from her birth father had failed after their accidental time travel.

Hermione breathed in deeply and released it slowly. She felt her emotions settle. The ice thawed in her chest. The cold remained – as it always would while another was alive in her family magic. But it no longer consumed her as it had before.

Hermione opened her eyes.

“Okay?”

She nodded. “It won’t last.”

“No. But we’ll be gone before that happens.”

She shook her head.

Harry stared into her eyes. She could see the frustration in the furrow of his brow and the press of his lips. She saw the thoughts racing through his mind as if she were using legilimency. Maybe she was a bit, she tended to slip up around him – especially when she was upset. He was remembering their time travel trip in third year, the things she’d told him about it.

“Time-turners are circular paradoxes,” he said.

“Normal time-turners,” she responded with a sniffle.

“And the one we used?”

“Red and gold. I’ve never seen a time-turner with red sand. I don’t know what that means, but… it activated without me turning it. And none of us were wearing it. And it’s gone now.” She held up her hand with the little crumpled note inside. “The note came with us but not the time turner.”

“Is it back in the… future?” Ron wondered, having come back to them again.

Harry slowly shook his head. “No, I think it exploded.”

Hermione’s brows drew together as she stared at Harry. “It activated when you brushed past. I think your… magical aura might have activated it.”

Ron made a face. “Harry’s magical aura is bigger than that.”

“But it’s concentrated closer on,” Hermione insisted.

“I didn’t do this,” Harry snapped.

“No,” Hermione agreed in a soothing voice as she gently rubbed circles into Teddy's back. “No, Harry, not on purpose. But if whoever sent this wanted this to happen, maybe it wasn’t just sent to me.”

“Keyed to Harry’s magic?” Ron wondered.

Hermione nodded.

#I have like six different time travel fics on the go #all of them vary in different ways #i am obsessed with all of them lol #celestialseawitch #harry potter #fanfic #fanfiction #hermione granger #fan fiction #fan fic #hp fanfic #harmony #ron weasley #teddy lupin #send a rose

20 notes · View notes

sweetsummercourier · 5 months ago

Text

Wings of Icarus

But he told him, "Beware

Do not fly too close to the sun

The blaze will surely melt those wings."

But alas, he fell

His cries swallowed by the sea...

Synopsis: Saoirse's final memory of Eren. Their goodbye, a memory unlocked after the Rumbling ends.

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Saoirse Blackwell-Casteel (oc)

Content: angst, cursing, pregnancy, mentions of pregnancy / child, teenage / young adult pregnancy, season 4 characters are 18+

Word count: 4k

A/N: not gonna lie... got teary eyed writing this. like the teary eyed where your throat begins to hurt. I proofread and used Grammarly just to make sure, but sorry for any minor mistakes myself or the software missed :) wings in art,,, symbolism,,, not real lol

Borders by @tsunami-of-tears + @saradika-graphics

Remember me, though I have to say "goodbye,"

Know that I'm with you the only way that I can be...

Until you're in my arms again,

Remember me...

/ / /

Saoirse gasped for air, her back arching slightly as she felt her neck. It felt like a fist had been stuffed into the center of her throat, adrenaline pumping through her veins like broken ice in a thawing river.

Where was she? Where were the screams, the deafening drum of the colossal footsteps? Where were her comrades? Why wasn’t she looking through the eye of her Titan?

Ah, she thought. I’m dead.

That was the only logical explanation. Why else would she be lying in soft grass, staring up at the leafy branches of a towering oak tree? Dappled sunlight peered through the leaves as the wind wove through the branches, carrying the sounds of cheerful birds. The dampened sunlight felt warm on her pale skin.

Through her one eye, everything was beautiful and vibrant – so much more vibrant than it had been in years. She could see each leaf on the branches above, and all the grooves in the tree bark. When she looked to her right, she could see rolling hills and wildflowers. Houses were sprinkled here and there, some together and some far apart. She could see a farm, the paddock filled with cows and goats that were just little forms in the distance.

“Beautiful…” she whispered. If this was heaven, she didn’t want to leave. She wondered who else she would find here. Marco? Sasha? Hange? A sense of calm washed over her at the thought of reuniting with the friends and comrades she lost… those she always believed she could have saved, and had horribly failed.

Something touched her left cheek, something she couldn’t see. It was a gentle touch, warm and comforting. The touch made her feel like she was a flower, and someone had reached out to touch and admire her soft petals.

“You’re awake. About time.”

Saoirse turned her head to find Eren sitting next to her, leaning against the trunk. His head was cocked to the side as he stared down at her, resting his cheek on his shoulder. His eyes remained on her face as a small yet fond smile graced his lips. His hair was short and trimmed. She could see his face. His eyes were so clear… a light shone in them that hadn’t been there before.

Her body moved by itself, twisting as she sat up and latching onto him with intense ferocity. Her nails dug into the fabric of his shirt, her face pressed against his chest. He was warm. Warm and safe and real and beside her. Like it should have been all along.

“You ass… how many times have I told you not to stand on my left!” Saoirse huffed as she pulled away, moving onto her knees and gripping the collar of his shirt with his hands, shaking him slightly. “You’re such a pain!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he smiled. “I just wanted to admire you. Had I been on your right, you would have noticed me. And besides, I woulda blocked your view.”

Saoirse huffed and sat on the heels of her feet. She couldn’t stay mad at him. Not now, at least. She sighed and looked down at her hands.

A heavy weight fell on her shoulders, blanketing her. A deep sorrow sat in her chest. As much as she wanted to believe otherwise, self-awareness was a curse.

“This is another one of your tricks,” she surmised. “We’re not really under this tree outside of Shiganshina. The Rumbling’s still happening.”

“... yes,” Eren said. “I was… hoping you wouldn’t have noticed. You’re too clever for your own good.”

Eren slowly stood up and turned to her, offering to help her stand. He latched onto her hand, holding it tightly like he was afraid she’d disappear.

“Come with me… I want to show you something,” he said. “I know we’ve talked about the future we wanted, the future we could have. Let me dream with you a while longer.”

A lump formed in her throat. She had a million thoughts flooding her mind at that moment, everything she wanted to say was a swirling whirlpool. Eren’s eyes softened and pulled her closer to his side.

“Later… for now, just… let’s just be.”

Eren led her down the hill, keeping pace with her. The crisp grass swayed as they passed, flowers in full bloom reaching their leaves to the sky. People and horse-drawn carts dotted the dirt road leading to Shiganshina. Destroyed and desolate houses had been transformed into abodes filled with life. Children were playing in the streets, and mothers called for them to come inside for lunch. A dog chased a ball. A cat startled a flock of chickens. A man on horseback tipped his hat towards them and bid them a good day.

The Wall was no longer there.

They entered the city where the gate once was. The infamous gate, where both had seen the Armored Titan smash through nine years ago. There were no traces of it now. It was as if the walls and gate itself had never been.

Saoirse paused and pulled Eren to the side of the road, and just stared. There were no soldiers. There wasn’t a massive structure blocking her view. She was standing where the Wall and gate had been, right where they stood that separated the Shiganshina District from the interior of Wall Maria.

Saoirse wanted to stand there and watch the people and carts go by. To see the merchants come with their wares to set up shop. To see the weary farmer head to town to wind down at a tavern. To see the young women return to their homes with arms full of groceries. To see the children run to the river to play, dogs nipping at their heels. To see what she would be going back to once the Rumbling was over.

Life looked so… normal. Plain. Boring.

Eren squeezed her hand and coaxed her along, pulling her to continue walking. As they entered the teeming streets, what once would have been overwhelming brought comfort. The noise that would have given her a panic attack and ringing ears soothed her. Maybe it was because, after nine years of hell, everything was okay. All traces of Titans and soldiers and humanity struggling behind walls had vanished.

The couple maneuvered through the bustling streets, wandering throughout the district. The smell of fresh bread and spices wafted into Saoirse’s nose. Rowdy music and patrons were singing in one of the city’s taverns. A heated argument had broken out between a merchant and a consumer over a poor barter.

A child ran into Eren’s leg while chasing a ball. The young boy looked up bashfully and apologized, hanging his head as if he were to be scolded. Eren laid a gentle hand on the boy’s head and ruffled his hair.

“Don’t worry about it, sport,” Eren replied, very much like a dad. “No harm done.”

Saoirse smirked and snorted, looking away. She began to chuckle softly. Eren gave her a quizzical look.

“What? What’d I say?”

“Nothing… you just sounded like such a dad.”

Eren laughed softly and pressed a warm kiss to the top of her head. He laced their fingers together and gently rubbed his thumb against her skin. He was being so tender with her, which wasn’t a bad thing, but it certainly hadn’t been a common thing, especially in public. Yet in the back of Saoirse’s mind, if this was their final moment together, it made sense he was being so affectionate.

No, she thought. This isn’t the end, everything’s going to be fine. This is all just leading up to Eren telling me that everything will be okay.

Eren led her down the bustling streets to the town square. There was a large fountain, decorated with flowers and surrounded by benches. Slanted plaques lay on the edges of the fountain. There were names etched into each plaque in neat rows, displaying the names of every person – civilian or soldier – who died when Wall Maria fell, who died when they were forced to be sent back, and those who died after reclaiming the Wall.

Saoirse traced her fingers over the names, feeling the grooves of the etchings. She felt Eren pull away and move over to another plaque. His face grew somber and his heart seemed to sink to the pit of his stomach.

She moved over and stood by his side, her eye flitting over the names. Carla Jaeger stuck out like a sore thumb, and her blood ran cold. She leaned against Eren and sighed gently.

“She would’ve liked you,” Eren sighed. “I can almost picture how happy she would have been to hear she was going to be a grandma.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over what happened,” Saoirse replied. “You were ten.”

Eren remained silent for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. He passed his thumb over his mother’s name and heaved a shaky sigh. He grabbed Saoirse’s hand and gently pulled her away from the fountain and down another street.

“That fountain… this whole city… is this how the city looks or did you make this up?”

“A little bit of both,” Eren replied, not looking at her. “This is how the city looks in my memory and how it looks now that it’s been repopulated. But the memorial fountain? I made that up. It doesn’t exist.”

“Well, maybe it should,” Saoirse said. “It’s beautiful.”

Eren led her through the streets and up some paths in silence. He looked like a man on a mission, with a soft, somber expression on his face. He looked like he was half excited, half dreading to reach the destination.

He led her to a house and nodded in its direction. As they stood back, Saoirse turned her gaze up at him. She gently nudged his shoulder, yet he wouldn’t budge. He swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing. He sounded slightly hoarse like he was parched.

“It looks different… without the giant boulder on top.”

His home. His childhood home. It did indeed look so different. She hadn’t been present when they went into the basement, but Eren had brought her by to at least show her the home he lost… where he lost his mother.

Suddenly, a small child of about four years ran out of the front door. Saoirse couldn’t determine if the child was a boy or a girl, but something about the child caused butterflies in the pit of her stomach. The child laughed and called for their mother, gripping a red ball in their hands.

“... That’s me.”

Saoirse’s eye widened as she watched a slightly older version of herself step out of the house. She held a large basket of laundry at her hip, donning a white blouse and yellow skirt, a red apron wrapped around her waist. She made a gesture to the child that said “one minute!” as she began to hang the laundry on a clothesline. She had even grown her hair back, and it looked soft and fluffy.

“Is that how you picture me?” *Saoirse asked.

“Yeah,” Eren said softly. “Why? Have I offended you?”

“Not at all… just never saw myself in skirts and dresses.”

“I think you look beautiful in everything.”

“Shut up.”

They observed the pair as the child played with the ball, shouting at their mother to come play. They watched as the other Saoirse tied up her skirt to form makeshift shorts and began to kick the ball around with the child, laughing as the wind pushed up her hair.

Someone called out in the distance. It sounded like a man. They turned toward the voice and the child yelled out “Daddy!” The child abandoned the ball and raced towards another Eren, who was dressed sharply. He beamed as he picked up the child, spinning them around before pressing a kiss to their cheek. When the other Saoirse approached, they seemed like a big happy family as Eren held her close in his other arm, kissing her lips.

“... we look happy.”

“Yeah… we do…”

Eren turned to her, his jade eyes soft and sad.

“Close your eyes for me. Don’t open until I tell you to.”

/ / /

Solid stone gave way to soft sand. Ocean water lapped at her feet and the urge to take off her boots was undeniable.

When Saoirse turned to look at Eren, his appearance returned to the now. His hair was pulled back in a messy bun, eyes devoid of light. He breathed a sigh and looked at her, his frame bathed in the red light of the setting sun.

“I think back to this time a lot,” he said. “How you looked standing here, in the water. It was the first time I ever saw you smile, I think. Truly smile,” he started. “I remember thinking to myself how beautiful it was. I wanted to protect it. I wanted to see it again.”

Eren sighed softly and looked over at Saoirse. His eyes were at half mast, and his eyes just seemed so dead. So still and so dark.

“Saoirse, be honest with me. When you look at me as I am now, what do you see?”

Saoirse knew what he expected her to say. A monster. A murderer. A demon. No — the Devil. Yet while she did agree that his actions were monstrous, she did not see him as a monster.

Saoirse sighed and combed her fingers through her short hair before slowly shaking her head.

“I won’t say you’re a monster. I don’t see you as such. I’m… disappointed, and I’m mad, but when I look at you I see the man I love… and the father of my child.”

His expression softened and he reached for her hands, gently holding her fingers. He ran his thumbs over her knuckles, and for a time that felt like an eternity, there was only the sound of this imagined ocean.

“You’re going to live a long life,” he said calmly, his tone soft and low. “I want you to live a good, fulfilling life.”

“I will. With you, of course,” she replied, her tone slightly forceful with determination.

Eren hesitated and sighed softly, averting his gaze. Saoirse tugged on his hands a little as if trying to coax him into agreement. That somehow this whole disaster would end in a fairytale ending. That somehow, they would both walk away from this alive and live that life they talked about — that he had the gall to show her.

He wouldn’t have conjured that up if it wasn’t going to be true… right? He wouldn’t dangle that in front of her like a carrot… right? Right? Right?

“Where you are going, I can’t follow,” he replied. “I’m sorry…”

His hold on her fingers tightened and he clenched his teeth, a tch emitting from his throat. Emotions overwhelmed him and he huffed,

“Shit… I don’t want this at all. I want to be here with you. I want to be close to you and grow old with you. I want to see your smile every day. I want to know what it’s like to live a boring life. I want to hold our baby, I want to be there when he or she is born… I want to be a dad…”

He closed his eyes and set his jaw, tears wetting his lashes. He opened his eyes and looked at her, his voice filled with regret.

“I want to be happy… I want to be happy with you. I don’t want anyone else to be by your side but me. I want to be your one and only. I want to raise our kid together… the idea of another man raising them, calling them “dad,” witnessing all those milestones… shit!!”

Eren shook his head and inhaled sharply, trying to control his emotions. It was clear he was in a tumultuous storm, battling with his emotions and the icy mask he had created. He was battling with his resolve, the older one wanting to be free and avenging his mother and the newer one wanting a clean slate for himself and his fellow Paradisians.

“Ah… I’m sorry,” he breathed slowly, the mask settling back over his face.

“No.”

Eren blinked at her comment. Something in her stomach churned angrily, and a white-hot marble of frustration and hurt boiled within.

Saoirse pulled her hands from his and began to wring them together, pacing. It was a feeble attempt to calm her. The more she paced, the angrier she got. Maybe it was because Eren had his eyes on her. Maybe it was his presence. Maybe it was his words. Maybe all three.

“Dammit, Eren… Dammit all!” She yelled as she turned to face him. “You selfish bastard! You don’t think, do you! You think you can just say that shit to me after everything!?”

She picked up a small rock from the wet sand and chucked it as far as she could, watching it splash and sink into the lapping waves.

“You didn’t have to do any of this! This whole “it’s the memories, it’s the future” — cut the bullshit! Destiny, predetermined fate… bullshit! You didn’t have to do any of this! We could’ve lived the life we wanted! But you decided it was more important to — to end the world? And for what? For what, Eren! Tell me! How many people have died for your — your stupid “memories!” Tell me!”

“...eighty percent.”

“Eighty perc — Eren!”

Saoirse held her head in her hands and exhaled sharply, her one eye rolling around. Eighty percent. How many lives was that? How many human lives was that? How many generations had he snuffed out? How much hatred had he sown into the hearts of survivors? How many survived who believed that, through Eren’s actions, all Eldians were devils?

“I’ve redone this over and over again… all with unsatisfactory results.”

“And this is the best case scenario? Slaughtering millions? Forcing us to go to war against you? Ostracizing your friends — do not give me that look, Eren Jaeger, I cannot believe the shit you said to Mikasa and did to Armin! They have known you forever! And this is how you treat them! And me! What about me! What about the kid!”

Eren grabbed her and pulled her to his chest. She beat her fists against him. She battled and screamed, but he held her. He didn’t speak, just held her and let her get all her frustrations out. He knew that if he tried to speak to her, to calm her, she’d only freak out more.

Saoirse wept, the rhythmic drumming of her fists stilling. Instead, she gripped his shirt, feeling the fabric against his skin. He gently pressed his nose to her shoulder, breathing deeply and closing his eyes.

“Was all of this a lie?” she whimpered. “Was I just… some pawn? Was I just a puppet with a role to play…”

“No,” he responded immediately. “No, you were never a pawn or a plaything. Never once have I seen you as such… but there is one thing.”

Saoirse rested her cheek against his chest, swallowing thickly. Her chest and shoulders heaved as she stuttered, gasping for air to calm herself and regulate her breathing. Eren gently pressed his hand to her back and rubbed small circles against her, his fingers brushing against her spine.

“I cannot change the past,” he continued, “but through the Founding Titan, I can influence thoughts and memories of the past… my father never saw you in the future memories of me, therefore I originally never paid you any mind… but I did.”

Saoirse looked up at him, stunned. Eren held her shoulders gently, searching her face. She opened her mouth a few times, but no words came out at first.

“... did you alter me?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I… primarily intervened in your thoughts to ensure your survival. At first, my intentions were purely selfish: your Titan abilities were useful, and I determined they would make the events leading up to now more achievable. But I certainly didn’t think I would fall in love with you as a result.”

“And the baby?”

“... no, that was a surprise,” he replied. “Again, in ensuring your survival, I never imagined falling in love with you. I suppose I… could’ve prevented it but can’t imagine why I would. In the end, I got to be with you, even if there was an unexpected result."

Eren paused and gently took her face in his hands, tilting her head up. Tears continued to pour down from Saoirse’s one eye, liquid pearls rolling down her cheeks and onto his thumb.

“I have been a terribly selfish lover,” he continued, “but I love you. Truly, honestly, deeply. I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want our child to be raised without a father… I want you and our child to thrive. To live peacefully and happily in this new world. My biggest regret is that I won’t be by your side.”

“Eren… please…” Saoirse pleaded quietly, her lower lip quivering. “Don’t go where I can’t follow… if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have ever dreamed of the life I want now…”

Eren’s breathing was shaky, and tears pricked his eyes once more. He leaned forward and pressed a warm kiss to her forehead, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. His lips were so soft in the moment, the kiss so tender and soft and loving.

“I know I’ll be going to Hell,” he whispered against her skin. “Never doubt that I’m not watching over you, though. I promise I’ll be all around you. I’ll always be with you.”

“Where you go, I go too,” she replied quietly. “In death, be it Heaven or Hell, I want to be with you again. I would happily give up Heaven’s gates to be with the man who showed me love, who saw past my cynicism and cared for me anyway… I will shoulder your sins, too.”

Eren laughed softly and pressed his forehead to hers. He commented on how that was “pretty selfless” of her, and that he admired her resolve to abandon a peaceful afterlife for someone who didn’t deserve it.

“Raise our child well,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers. “Make them better than me. Show them that the world has so much beauty in it — so much more beauty than cruelty. Give them and yourself a normal life, free of the Walls and Titans.”

He tilted her head up a bit more and pressed his lips to hers. Saoirse moved her hands from his abdomen up to his chest, pressing herself closer to him. Even in this dream-like memory, she wanted to savor every little thing: the way he smelled, the way his chest rose and fell, the softness and warmth of his lips and how they moved against hers… how when she pulled back for a breath, he pulled her back in, a little tighter and more earnest.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he whispered. “When your time comes, I’ll be there. I will see you again. We will meet and be together again… and I look forward to hearing all the stories you’ll have to tell me.”

“Don’t go… ”

Eren finally broke away and embraced Saoirse tightly, resting his chin on the top of her head. Saoirse nestled her head against his neck. As tears dripped down her face, he rubbed her back and pet her hair tenderly. His tears began to slip down his face, knowing when they saw each other again, she’d be fighting him… she wouldn’t even remember this conversation until his head left his neck.

“Take care, Saoirse… I love you. Always and forever, and even after that… I love you. Goodbye, my love… thank you for everything.”

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #attack on titan oc #shingeki no kyojin oc #aot oc #snk oc #eren jaeger #eren yeager #eren aot #eren snk #eren x oc #courier's art #courier's writing #art #writing

15 notes · View notes

carlijcorson · 2 months ago

Text

It's a Love/Skate Relationship

US Release: January 28, 2025

UK Release: March 13, 2025

Art by Emma Gillette

Preorder & Goodreads links here! (This art print will be part of the Love/Skate Preorder campaign. More info coming soon!)

Fans of Rachael Lippincott, Elise Bryant, and Dahlia Adler will love this joyful debut novel, a sapphic enemies-to-lovers romance between a hotheaded hockey player and the ice princess at the figure skating rink next door.

Charlie Porter is a force to be reckoned with, both on and off the hockey rink. When she accidentally starts a brawl after a game, she's suspended from school, meaning no hockey this season--and no chance to play in front of college scouts.

Alexa Goldstein's pairs skating partner was hurt in the fight, and with only four months until their next competition, pickings for a replacement are slim. So she strikes a deal with Charlie--skate with her at the competition well enough to place, and her Olympian mother will use her formidable connections to get Charlie in front of scouts at D-1 schools, even without her team.

It seems impossible, and not just because Charlie has never figure skated before. Where Charlie is powerful, Alexa is elegant; where Charlie is quick to blow up, Alexa is cold as ice. But as the frostiness between them starts to thaw, they begin to wonder if they've found a partner for more than just skating.

#its a love/skate relationship #carli j corson #sapphic fiction #sapphic ya #queer fiction #ya books #pairs skating #figure skating #hockey romance #womens hockey #pwhl #lgbtq books #lgbtq community

14 notes · View notes

ayr0b0tic · 1 year ago

Text

listen man i am in shambles about this story line if i am understanding it right:

imagine you are a robot and you are made to help and create. you do that and you learn things over time and its good! good things! but eventually your maker unintentionally/intentionally(?) leaves you behind for a long time in some ice until eventually you thaw out and you're like hey. what the fuck. fuck this guy. why would you do that to me.

you do a little revenge you scare him and you leave.

and then you're on your own for awhile.

but at some point, some time, an entity reaches out to you. a white bear, possibly mechanical like you. and says hey? don't you want to be happy? i know what he did to you. i'm sorry. don't you want to experience joy? i can do that for you.

and you presumably take him up on that.

but then you are pierre and you are a redstoner and you have no memory of that. you have four friends from an airplane and an island to live on. you have a daughter. you have a boyfriend. you have happiness and a factory and a vineyard. you live there for months.

and you have nightmares. just out of reach of making sense.

and then you don't have a daughter. and you don't have a boyfriend. and have this stupid white bear that won't give you answers. you yell at it. it sends you away to sleep. you don't remember that.

but you put a virus in their computers, named for love, before that and you remember. you regain memories when you go to sleep again. even more than before. what the bear did.

you are ayrobot. you are aypierre? you are a robot? aypierre is dead.

at what point is the beginning of you and what point of you is the end of aypierre. you died. no, he died? no, you lived? but you Are pierre. you've been Being him. you remember all of your memories. pierre or ayrobot? yes. are you "you" anymore if the person who has been making memories was acting as someone else? how can you "act" as yourself?

what do you do with the memories of two people who knew each other? are you both still here? just one of the two?

which one are you? who are you?

"[It remains to be seen whether you will discern the dream from reality.

Remember.

The past will probably scare you but you have to accept it

Remember.]

[We are now one.

Your past you, and the other you

Lie down now]"

#translation from one of the books at the end is from aporradosoro's post #IM SO FUCKED UP OVER THIS LORE MAN #HELLO.FOR THE LOVE OF GOD #mcyt #qsmp #aypierre #also if i get anything wrong/miss anything please let me know! i do not speak french :'D

50 notes · View notes

plzu · 2 years ago

Text

cookies and cocoa (and maybe some kisses) - (Peter Parker x Reader)

Summary: Here’s the thing about boys and bruises and living in the city: It is none of your business, and Peter Parker has a smile that can thaw ice caps, and warm cocoa brown eyes, and surely that can’t be a bad or dangerous thing. And you owe Peter some cookies.

A/N: this started out as a holiday fic but then turned into a fic that just so happens to be taking place during the holidays. reader is heavily implied to celebrate christmas but rest assured, there is no actual christmas/holiday celebration occurring. also worth noting that any temperatures used in this fic are measured in fahrenheit

Warnings: mild hurt/comfort (i really gotta learn to dig into the meat of these tropes), fluff, a chase happens with the reader, peter & reader are in their early-mid 20s (pictured a grad school peter the whole time)

Wordcount: 6.4k

The evening sky grows violet by the time you pass through the heavy metal door of your apartment building, escaping the wintry, late autumn chill for the slightly-less cold lobby. You absently -- though, fittingly -- hum Baby, It’s Cold Outside under your breath, gripping the plastic bag of Chinese takeout in your right hand while shopping bag handles dig into the coat-sleeved arm of your left.

You make your way towards the dull silver wall of cluster mailboxes, greeted by the familiar scents of cigarette smoke and old metal and the lingering waft of paint that never seems to dry. You’re focused on attempting to find the key for your own mailbox when you pause. There’s an unfamiliar figure idling on the other end of the narrow lobby, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

It’s not that you know everyone that lives in the building. Even before moving into the city, you’ve always kept to yourself. But live somewhere long enough and you recognize the patterns of your surroundings. You start to expect to run into certain people at specific times of the day. People’s perfumes make them recognizable, or the specific cologne failing to mask the earthy stench of pot. Even the way someone moves, the way they walk, the very way they stand when sorting through their mail in the lobby, or waiting for the elevator. Children stick out like sore thumbs, even the shy ones. Silhouettes of your neighbors that live on your floor become comforting in their familiarness, particularly one that’s gangly with perpetually-tousled brown hair and warm eyes, but sadly distant smiles.

And the one thing everyone who lives here has in common is that their unguarded postures denote that they’re home.

And this stranger in the lobby is very much not home.

The keys tighten in the grip of your left hand. With forced aloofness, you attempt to make eye contact with the stranger to greet him with a head nod. The head nod. An upward jut of your chin signaling, I see you. When he fails to properly return it -- a slight jerk of his head before his gaze slides uncomfortably away from yours -- you decide checking the mail can wait. Even if he’s harmless, opening up your mailbox would unwisely shine a beacon on your apartment number.

You back up, turn away from the mailboxes, and hastily make your way past the old elevator door in favor of the granite, off-white staircase. Having the option and space to run felt much more comforting than taking the elevator up ten floors.

Your booted feet stomp with each step, quick and loud and deliberate, the sound echoing in the dim stairwell. Panic starts to set in when you hear, when you feel, the other presence behind you; he’s following you, now. This panic propels you forward, even with the several bags you carry, you manage to take the steps two at a time, until you can no longer distinguish the rustling sounds of paper and plastic with your own, quick breaths. Whatever soreness was beginning to settle in your legs from shopping all day is subdued by the adrenaline that starts pumping in your veins.

There is the phantom feeling of hands on your back. You don’t think it’s real, that he’s entirely caught up to you, and, yet, shouldn’t he be? You are weighted down by the bags in your arms and you want to cry but there is something keeping your mouth shut, an impending scream unable to erupt from your throat. Like you’re subconsciously trying to preserve your breath for the run.

It is a wonder you do not trip by the time you make it to your floor. There’s no time to count this blessing, however, as you make the split-second decision to make a sharp right turn, the exact opposite of where your apartment is. You march determinedly up to the door at the end of the hall, ring the doorbell, and hope with all your rapidly beating heart that your friendly neighbor is home.

You hear the door unlock, the chain coming off, and you swear there is no sweeter sound. When the door opens, your brown-eyed savior -- Peter -- greets you with curiosity written across his features, left shoulder settled up against the doorframe while his right hand holds open the door.

“H-hey, babe,” you breathlessly announce, with wide, beseeching eyes. “I picked up dinner for tonight!”

He searches your face, curiosity giving way to confusion until he glances behind you, and confusion turns, blessedly, to understanding. He opens the door wider to let you in, guarded stare remaining above your head as you scurry past him.

The apartment is quaint, like yours. Scattered papers on the kitchen counters and tabletop, a camera, a skateboard that has seen better days propped up against the side of the sofa. More things you do not have time to take in as you spin around to face him, and immediately begin apologizing as he shuts and locks the door.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to lead him to your door but I just- I freaked out, I didn’t want him knowing where I lived and I- I couldn’t think of anything else. You’re just- you’ve always been so nice but now- oh, I’m such a dumbass, I’m so selfish, I shouldn’t’ve-”

“Hey hey hey,” he steps closer, shushes you, “it’s okay, it’s alright.” His smile has not left his face since opening the door, a pretty quirk of his lips that’s both amiable and amused.

P-pretty?

It’s only once his hands gently encircle your wrists that you realize you’re shaking.

“You did the right thing,” he assures. Your vision is swimming with his kind face. His scent washes over you, a warm and comforting musk. “I mean, you could have knocked on Carmen’s door and she would’ve given that guy hell.”

This relaxes a laugh out of you. Carmen is your five-foot-three Colombian neighbor, whose take-no-shit personality makes up for her height. She is fiercely protective and, quite frankly, terrifying. She reminds you of your mother.

“There we go, that’s it!” he chuckles. “Now, will you do me a favor? Can you let me take these bags for you?”

You remember the food that you actually did buy, and the bags of Christmas decorations for your apartment, and the weight of it all makes it feel like your arms are about to fall off. Gratefully, you let Peter take the bags from your hands, immediately bogged down by the sudden lightness.

The adrenaline from playing the most wound-up game of tag in your life finally ebbs, and you are overcome by how overwhelmingly warm it suddenly is. You're sweating underneath your coat and beanie. You trekked up ten flights of stairs without falling even once and your legs have now turned into jelly.

“I need’ta- can I sit?” you ask, breathless, ripping off the hat from your head.

“Of course,” he responds from the kitchen, taking a glass from a cabinet and running it under water in the kitchen sink.

You plop down onto the sofa, immediately sinking into its wornness. You absentmindedly shrug out of your coat so it falls in a heap around your hips. Your body needs a minute to adjust to feeling safe.

Peter returns and offers you the glass of water, which you take and chug before you can remember to thank him. Peter (trying very politely to not look entertained by your obvious disarray) quickly shuffles some stuff around on the coffee table -- a newspaper, a couple of manila folders -- clearing it out so there's space for you to put down the glass. Meanwhile, you tell him about the shady guy that followed you, how you noticed him hanging around the lobby. How a rat would have been a more welcoming sight.

“Y’know, like, at least the rats live here.”

This shocks a genuine laugh out of him. One that you pause to admire before adding, with a shrug, “I’m probably overreacting, anyway.”

“A strange man you’ve never seen before follows you up ten flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator, and you think you’re overreacting?” Peter crosses his arms from where he’s standing on the other side of the coffee table, giving you a dubious look.

Well, when he puts it like that.

You chuckle. “Whatever, it’s Christmas. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Christmas? It’s November 30th.”

Laughing again, you’re just grateful that Peter keeps it light and doesn’t say the quiet part out loud. How this guy was probably waiting for an easy, single target to lead him to their apartment to, at best, rob them. You think, grimly, that he should choke on the lumps of coal he’ll undoubtedly be getting this year.

Peter asks if you’re feeling better. You assess yourself. Your surroundings. The frayed blue couch you’re sitting on. The way the navy blue collar of Peter’s sweater looks just as worn as the couch, stretched out all loose around his neck. It makes you smile, until you notice you did not take your boots off at the door like you should have, and then your smile turns into a grimace. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll get out of your hair in a second, promise.”

“Nah, no rush.” The grin on his face is disarming. Infectious. You feel gooey inside, looking at him, like the chocolate chip cookies your sister likes to bake around this time of year. You can almost forget what brought you here.

“I don’t have anything to give you right now-”

“Whoa, whoa-” he raises his palms up, stopping you- “you don’t owe me anything. We have to look out for each other, right?”

You wring your hands in your lap, uncomfortable with the idea of intruding in Peter’s space -- a man whom you’ve only shared a handful of conversation and friendly smiles in passing -- without giving him something for the trouble. “Sure, but- well, how ‘bout dinner?”

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Dinner? You asking me out?” he teases.

Heat floods your face but you smile, try to play it cool. “I’m asking if you like Chinese food.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Who doesn’t?” But then he glances at the bag of takeout. “Oh, no, no, I can’t take your food.”

But you’re already pulling the containers out from the bag and placing them on the table in front of you, releasing the pungent, mouthwatering whiff of soy sauce and garlic. “Well, you wouldn’t be taking my food. Believe me, after all the walking I’ve done today, I won’t just be giving away my hard-earned dinner.” You look up at him, so he can see the lightheartedness playing on your face. It makes his shoulders relax and an easy laugh spills softly from his lips.

It is astonishingly effortless, being in the same room as Peter. Like you’re old friends. He grabs some plates and utensils from the kitchen and brings them to the table. He sinks easily into the space beside you on his couch, right knee just barely touching your left. You refrain from looking at his face too long, his eyes, or you might lose the confidence that’s enabling you to scoop lo mein onto his plate as though you’ve done this dozens of times before.

And so you share your food with Peter, in his home, in his warmth. There’s laughter, and a can of soda that he stops you from opening.

(“Didn’t you just sprint up the stairs? Don’t open that, sweetheart.”)

(Sweetheart. The sobriquet falls from his lips so easily, it lights you up like the Rockerfeller tree. You hope he takes no notice.)

Once you’re done eating, Peter offers to walk you across the hall. You say he doesn’t have to, that’s silly, you’re just across the way. But he insists. Even carries your bags of garlands and knick knacks for you. He walks on your left, keeping his body between you and the mouth of the stairs.

“Prepping for the holidays?” he asks, peering into one of the bags as you both amble across the hall. Neither of you in any hurry to part ways.

“Oh, yeah, it’s my favorite time of year!” you gush, eyes lighting up with sincerity as you glance up at him from trying to find the right key. “I know we’re adults now, but I never wanted growing up to take away the magic.”

You got so caught up in your newfound comfort with your cute neighbor that you forget to feel embarrassed by this admittance. Your smile falters, and you look back down, focusing once again on your keys. “Which- I mean, I know it’s silly. Sorry.”

“I don’t think it’s silly at all.”

You’ve both stopped right outside your door, and you’re startled to see the earnestness in his features. You quickly look away to unlock your door, gulping through some emotion that comes crawling up your throat.

Door unlocked and partially opened, you turn to take the bags from his grasp. “Thank you, Peter,” you murmur. Heartfelt and, suddenly, shy.

“Hey, you know my name,” he notes, voice pleasantly soft. He leans against the outside of your doorway, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his gray sweatpants. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your tummy do somersaults.

You decide to be brave and look up into his eyes again, hold his gaze, and fully recognize that despite the tiredness in them, Peter is unbelievably good, and kind, and sweet. “Of course I know your name.” You smirk, teasing. “Does this mean you don’t know my name?”

His smile broadens, adds lovely crinkles at the corner of his eyes. There’s a bashfulness in the way his head ducks, gaze slipping away from your own before he looks back up at you. “Yeah, I know your name.”

He wishes you a good night, with a demulcent whisper of your name as he slowly backs away from the threshold of your apartment.

You watch him leave with a giddy feeling in your gut as you slowly, quietly shut the door. You lean your forehead against the cool back of it, cheeks aching with cheer.

Heart thumping in your chest for brand new, pleasant reasons, you decide: you are going to bake Thank-You cookies for Peter.

The first time you ran into Peter in your building was a wonderful, breath-taking accident. You were bringing more things over from your parent’s house, a box of decorations to liven up the new living space. Unfortunately, the elevator in your building had, rather inconsiderately, decided to stop working, so you were forced to take the stairs.

The box was more cumbersome than heavy, cradled in your forearms as your fingers gripped painfully at the bottom edge of it. It didn’t help that you could barely see over it, unable to quickly find your footing as you traversed each step.

Despite your trembling arms and gelatin legs, you were doing quite well! Sure, the whole of you was warm from exertion and you were grunting, out of breath, by the time you made it to the top of the second floor, but you were impressed by the amount of steps you managed to clear so far without wiping out. A feeling that was short-lived mid-way up the third flight of stairs as you overestimated your wobbly knees’ ability to keep you upright--

A sudden loss of balance. Gravity worked against you as your hovering foot was unable to find purchase forwards. Careening backwards, heart in your throat, grip tightening on the box in your arms. And before you could properly scream, a steadying hand met the small of your back, a gentle whoa, I gotcha- barely audible amidst the thundering in your ears.

Once both feet were planted securely on the granite, you looked to your savior, whose hand was still firm and gentle on your back, and found honey-warm eyes.

Funny, how you had stopped falling, but still couldn’t shake the feeling of lurching in your heart. Unfettered butterfly wings.

He offered to help you the rest of the way, and insisted on carrying your stuff. You did your best to dissuade him, except he had already taken the box from your hands and started waking up the rest of the steps with an effortless gait, looking back at you with an amused half-smile that you tried your damndest not to find charming.

What floor?

Tenth.

Perfect! That’s my floor, too.

A heartbeat. A slow, shy grin at his back as you attempted to keep up with his longer strides.

Lucky me.

When you run into Peter now, it is no longer with the passing friendliness of neighbors. There’s more chatter, and his charm flusters you something silly, schoolgirl giggling until you part ways and you have the mind to chastise yourself for being so damned smitten.

Twice, he leaves his apartment at the same time you are coming back home, and the way you both linger in the hallways makes your neighbors roll their eyes. Carmen is especially good at making you feel embarrassed about it, like you’ve been caught past curfew. It will break you out of your reverie, one that Peter so seamlessly traps you in. It’s not your fault, really; there’s something about the way he looks at you, his smile gluing you to the chipped mosaic tiles of the hall.

Today is one of those days. It is early afternoon on a Saturday, and you’re eager to bake with the ingredients you’ve just purchased. Peter is just locking up, and you both pause where you stand, slow smiles mirroring each other. Peter takes a few steps towards the stairs, but checks in on you, asks how you’re doing after everything that happened the other night.

You do not want to tell him that you’ve timed your mornings with everyone else on this floor since then so that when you leave for work, you won’t be alone in the hall (and how you always hope he’ll leave at the same time you do). Or how, when you’ve come back home, you take a quick peek through the glass panel of the lobby door to make sure there’s no idling stranger.

Instead, you make a lighthearted joke about being too overwhelmed with holiday shopping to even remember it ever happened. He does not miss the uncomfortable flick of your gaze to the mouth of the stairwell.

“Hey, you don’t gotta worry about that guy anymore. Haven’t seen him around.”

You try searching his eyes from where you stand, halfway to your apartment door. The thing about Peter is that there is a curious pull to him. The urge to reach your hands into the too-big jacket he wears, snake your hands against the soft worn hoodie underneath. This is a feeling that has existed since the first time you properly laid eyes on him, after moving in, and that feeling has only become overwhelmingly maximized since sitting on his couch a week ago, with only a breath of space between you, and an aching lack of touch.

Peter ducks his head, like he’s trying to hide from your searching gaze. You squeeze your keys in your hand so that they dig into the fleshy meat of your palm and grounds you. Keeps you from stepping towards him. Instead, you change the subject, wanting to bring his face back to you. “Do you wanna come over for hot chocolate later?”

There’s a rise in his cheekbones. He lifts his head back up, but away from you. The grin is still unmistakable from the side.

“That is, if you’re not busy,” you quickly tack on, courage chased away by the sudden abashed warming in your cheeks.

“No, no, ‘m not busy. I think I can make it.” Peter casts a quick, reassuring glance your way, so you know he means it.

When he disappears down the stairs, someone clears their throat. You spin to find Carmen standing in her open doorway, her eyes on you weighted with warning.

Feeling suddenly small and twelve, you blink at her. “What?”

“Be careful with that one, mija.”

You snort like she just told a joke, but her full, wide lips remain a concerned frown. “Who, Peter? He’s the sweetest guy, Carmen, you know that.”

“Sure, he's a good kid,” she says, her voice a warm nicotine rasp. “I can knock on his door and ask for sugar. But I’ve seen him with bruises more times than I can count. Someone with bloody knuckles every other day can’t be up to no good.”

She shuts the door, leaving you alone with your grocery bags and your thoughts.

You suppose you have noticed bruises on Peter, in the past. There are days when his face had been hidden behind his hood but you’d notice a smidge of discoloration on his jaw while in the elevator together. Even now, there was a slight darkening on the cusp of his cheekbone that you thought was just the hallway light fixture casting a strange shadow. But after Carmen’s words, it could have been the healing of a bruise. And you consider his words, how he mentioned you don’t have to worry about the lobby stranger anymore in an oddly confident declaration.

Here’s the thing about boys and bruises and living in the city: It is none of your business, you think, as you unlock your door and step into your apartment. It is none of your business, and Peter Parker has a smile that can thaw ice caps, and warm cocoa brown eyes, and surely that can’t be a bad or dangerous thing. And, anyway, it’s the holidays! A time of joy, not a time to be suspicious about handsome near-strangers that have been nothing but kind to you.

And, most importantly: you owe that near-stranger some cookies.

Holiday music drifts with mellow merriment from your bluetooth speakers. Your apartment twinkles with the phosphorescent glow of string-lights strung about the space. The air is warmed by the cinnamon sugar scent of snickerdoodle cookies currently baking in the oven, and the bouquet of balsam from the 3-wick candle you’ve lit to replicate the tree you cannot put up. (And you wouldn’t, even if you could, because it’d feel silly to put up a tree when you live alone.)

Waiting for Peter makes you antsy. Nerves make your hands fidget restlessly when you run out of things to do. You wiped down the smattering of flour and cinnamon sugar residue from the countertops, and when that was clean (twice over), you kept going. Fluffed the couch pillows, vacuumed the area rug, dusted your cramped and tiny bookshelf.

You hop over to the door and peer out the peephole, checking for Peter’s return, more times than you care to admit.

You feel silly about it. You feel giddy about it.

When the timer dings, it is a brief but welcome distraction. You pull the cookies out of the oven and let them cool on the stovetop.

You scurry back to the door. Peep for Peter.

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year croons from the speaker.

As it darkens, fat, lazy snowflakes begin to drift outside your window. It is almost ridiculously picturesque. You cannot believe you are going to have a cozy evening of cookies and hot cocoa with the boy next door (so-to-speak), on your couch, a flurry of snow at the window. A scene befitting a snow globe--

The cookies have been plated. A small saucepan sits ready and waiting on the front left burner, the packets of cocoa powder on the counter beside the stovetop. The milk in your fridge far from expired.

The snow starts to stick outside. There are sounds of people coming home on your floor, keys jingling, doors unlocking. Stomping the snow from their shoes before entering their homes. None of them are Peter.

When the only thing left to do is wait, you browse social media. There is chatter online about Spider-Man sightings today. A truck that had slid and keeled over while turning onto a main road, the web-slinger swooping in just in time to rescue pedestrians crossing the street. A police chase he gets involved in. A disappointing reminder that crime still persists even during the holidays.

Well. You are in the city.

Something endearing, which serves as a momentary distraction as you wait for Peter to show, is that the circulating pictures and videos of Spider-Man tonight show him swinging around with a navy blue scarf wrapped around his neck, and a cute matching knit hat -- one with a little fuzzball at the top. Even superheroes need to keep warm, you suppose. It makes you grin.

But it gets late. The snow has not relented. Looking through the window, you see the snow is starting to pile up on the street. Covering parked cars. Blanketing garbage bags left out on the sidewalk. Fresh footprints getting dusted over within minutes.

It makes you worry. Is Peter stuck somewhere? Is he safe? If you fret over his safety, pacing back and forth in your living room, then you have no time to focus on the disappointment currently breaking your heart.

Not like it’s his to break.

When it gets well past the time for it to be appropriate for visitors to come knocking on your door, your shoulders have fully slumped. There is a kindness embedded in you, though -- one you hope will not be mistaken for desperation -- that has you taking a saran-wrapped plate of cookies to leave at his door.

The floor outside of everyone else’s door is wet with snow-turned-to-slush, with the exception of Peter’s. When you bend down to carefully place the plate on the ground, you think you catch the faintest scuffling of sound coming from the other side of the door. It makes you pause. Turn your head a bit, nearly press your ear against it.

You catch it again, a definite sign that someone is home. As you stand back up to your full height, you frown, glancing down. There’s no light streaming from the cracks of the door.

Peter? When could he have gotten home? There’s no wet footsteps leading to his apartment, so it would have been hours ago.

Have you been stood up?

Maybe he just forgot, you think, even through the glumness enveloping your heart.

But because you are still kind -- and not desperate! -- you square your shoulders and knock, determined to get these gratitude cookies to their recipient so that he can enjoy them as fresh as possible. You can deal with a little heartbreak, but you’d be downright upset with yourself if Peter didn’t get to properly enjoy your cookies before they got cold and hard and possibly rat-nibbled overnight.

“Peter?” you call out, and are met with silence. Whatever shuffling was going on in there quieted.

You clear your throat, resolute. “Peter, I left you some cookies. You don’t have to open the door right now but please don’t leave them out here.”

The silence persists.

With a great big sigh, you trudge back to your end of the hallway. You’ve just barely clicked shut the door when you hear the echoing of another door closing out in the hall. You peer with a curious eye through the peephole and find the plate of cookies gone.

In spite of it all, you smile.

A knock at the door rouses you from a stiff sleep. Just three gentle raps, as though worried they’d disturb you. You blink bleary eyes to the bright daylight that pours in through your living room window, emboldened by the snowfall; you had fallen asleep on the couch, curled uncomfortably into yourself, desiring the solace of blinking string lights to chase away dark and unwelcome thoughts. Those same lights still on, but barely detectable in the effulgence of morning swathing your living room.

“I’m comin,” you call out in what you hope is loud enough, voice raspy with sleep. You throw off the old blanket that became a tangle about your legs, only to realize in disgruntlement that you had fallen asleep in the clothes you were waiting for Peter in. Not exactly lounge clothes -- a pair of black leggings and an oversized knit sweater and only one, chunky knit sock (the other had been kicked off in sleep).

With a yawn and a stretch and a crack in your neck, you shuffle towards the door, the cold a shock to your single bare foot. Keeping the deadbolt secured, you open the door just a crack. Peter stands on the other side, contrite; boyish with his puppy-dog eyes. Maybe even a touch miserable.

You remove the deadbolt and swing open the door. The sight of Peter fills you with such immediate joy, a tide of sunshine filling up your lungs. But then you remember last night, and how he didn’t show, and another emotion lodges itself in your throat altogether. A calamity of mixed feelings that distorts your face, stretches your mouth into a grimace instead of the smile that usually blooms for him.

“I know, I know,” he says, reading your expression. “I’m sorry. I messed up.”

You think about the saucepan still sitting clean and empty on the stovetop. A forlorn reminder of what didn’t happen.

“Yeah,” you automatically agree. “I mean, no-”

“I did,” he interrupts your backpedaling, eyes big and insistent. “You invited me over, and I didn’t show. That’s messed up. I’m sorry.”

You blink back a well of tears that spring up, sudden and unwanted. “Okay,” you say, because what else is there to say? He’s just your neighbor. He doesn’t owe you anything. He’s not yours.

“They were good, by the way.”

You stare at him. Is sleep still clouding your brain? It’s so bright. “Huh?”

“Your cookies. They were delicious. Best damn cookies I ever had. Swear it.”

As he talks, radiating apology and praise, his body comes to rest on the frame of your door. A familiar motion. But it lacks the usual air of comfort, laid-backness. It was more a lackadaisical slump of his shoulder. Still charming, and yet… you notice the pink of his nose, the puffy bruising under his eyes a stark contrast against the unusual pallor of his cheeks, and a navy blue scarf draped halfheartedly about his neck. The scarf elicits a foggy memory in the back of your mind, like it’s familiar somehow, but before you can work out where you’ve seen it before, a sniffle interrupts your train of thought and brings you back to the present.

“Oh, Peter. You’re sick!”

“Jus’ a little cold.” He shrugs, not without some effort, before lifting his hands. He’s holding two disposable cups. “Brought you hot chocolate to make up for last night.”

Relief is a palpable flutter in your chest when you realize that you weren’t stood up last night. Peter just wasn’t feeling well, but he ate your cookies and stepped out this morning to get you hot chocolate because he is terribly kind and sweet and good. Like you suspected.

A bubble of laughter bursts forth from your lips, and you step aside to invite Peter into your luminous little home.

“Wait, you believe in Santa?”

Peter’s shoulder knocks against yours as you walk in the cold, twinkling evening. December’s early nights are meaningless to the incandescent New York City skyline.

After hearing how your family had booked a trip for the holidays that you couldn’t afford to join them on, Peter had lured you out of the apartment with the promise of a hot ramen dinner (and dessert, if you behaved. Whatever that meant). You’d been spending more time together since the Hot Chocolate incident, and have learned that Peter Parker is very difficult to say no to. Which is how you find yourself on a frigid evening stroll in Midtown.

An aggrieved huff forms a visible cloud in front of your face. “Of course I believe in Santa. Remember what I told you about not wanting to lose the magic?”

Peter laughs, and it shimmers in the air. “Sure, but- Santa? When was the last time you got a gift from jolly ol’ Saint Nick?”

You roll your eyes, goodnaturedly, at his ignorance. “Obviously he only delivers presents to the kids. Children are the priority, Peter. Adults have money and can get their own gifts.”

He is absolutely enthralled by your insistence, and your logic.

“I’m just saying,” you continue, “if Spider-Man exists, I don’t see why Santa can’t-”

“Whoa, whoa- are you seriously comparing Santa -- an immortal man that supposedly uses flying reindeer to travel the world in one night -- to Spider-Man right now? What, because they both wear red? C’mon, sweetheart.”

“Oh, like crawling up buildings and shooting webs out of your butt is so much more believable,” you deadpan.

“It doesn’t- the webs don’t come out of-” Peter splutters, stopping to fully turn towards you. “There’s a scientific explanation for Spider-Man.”

Pausing alongside him, you scrunch your nose at Peter and his science, once again being reminded that he isn’t just awfully cute, but brilliant, too. You’ve both stopped beneath the wide awning of some gourmet cookie shop, profiles illuminated by the light spilling out from the glass plane of the store. There’s a heady aroma of chocolate blanketing the surrounding air between you both.

“Why won’t you believe in Santa with me?”

“Well, for starters, I’m Jewish.”

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry-” the apology comes out shaky with a kind of startled mirth. A tittering of giggles shake your shoulders as you hide your face behind cold, gloveless hands. For a moment, you were so caught up in defending Santa Claus that you forgot to consider his existence (or lack thereof) outside of magic, or science; you forgot faith.

“Why’re you apologizing?” Peter chuckles, no bite in his tone despite your own ignorance.

“Embarrassed,” you whine, voice muffled behind your open palms.

“S’alright, sweetheart,” he insists, and his hands engulf your wrists to gently tug your hands away from your face. “C’mon, don’t hide that pretty face from me.”

The compliment makes you freeze. For a second, there is nothing but the windchill caressing your cheeks and the burning feeling of Peter’s hands still touching you, scalding. Branding. Tethering. Air gets stuck in your chest, lungs forgetting to deflate, oxygen trapped within the balloon of the constricting organ.

You didn’t realize just how close you were standing to each other. Dark, coffee ground flecks in warm brown irises. Stubble dotting his jaw, framing his mouth, a sight that makes your heart twist. It’s a recent development this month. His mouth, pink, slightly chapped from the cold. Your gaze lingers on that mouth for a second too long, so you tear your eyes up and away and-

“Mistletoe.”

You blink. Your lashes are a frosted feather against the cusp of your cheeks. “Huh?”

Peter’s hands leave yours, leaving you momentarily weightless. But then his knuckle brushes against the underside of your chin, lifting your face up incrementally towards his.

There are a thousand, wordless thoughts running through your head that you’re worried are going to cascade from your parted lips in an inelegant tumble.

“I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to,” Peter murmurs, voice alluringly low, his breath skimming your lips like a partially answered prayer.

“I want you to,” you breathe, barely audible.

As his face inches closer to yours, your eyes flutter shut, and your heart squeezes in painful anticipation behind your ribs.

The press of his mouth against yours is cold and light, a snowflake of a kiss. His bottom lip slots itself between your own parted ones, a timid touch. Your hands, trembling, come to rest delicately against his chest, feeling it expand beneath his jacket. Staccato thrumming of his heart revealing he’s just as nervous as you are.

He pulls away much too soon. Chaste and fleeting. Your fingers instinctively curl around the fabric of his jacket, clutching, not wanting him to go far. Something you didn’t have to worry about, as his face still hovers close enough that the tip of his nose bumps against yours.

“I’m probably not good for you,” Peter says, his confession fanning against your wanting lips. It goes through you, sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the fact that it was currently 32 degrees.

You close your eyes to it, and because you are kind (not desperate, never desperate), you respond: “I don’t believe you.” And then: “I don’t even think I care.”

It is uncertain who closes the gap between you once again, but this time the kiss is more firm, and his hands come up to cradle your face, cold and grounding. The scratch of his five o’clock shadow creates a flurry of emotion in your breast that you don’t think you’ll ever be able to come back from.

You sigh into his open mouth, and something guttural hums in his throat in response. Like a desperate ache, undoing him. He works your jaw open with a slight tilt of his head until he’s delving into the warm cup of your mouth, cloying taste of garlic and chili oil still residing on his tongue.

It is thawing. Heat erupts from where you are connected, blooming dizzyingly until it brings a sweet sting to the apples of your cheeks, still clasped between the cooling caress of his thumbs.

When the kiss breaks this time, you’re afraid of opening your eyes. You’re worried you’re going to wake up, alone, to your dark bedroom, and this will all have been a terribly wonderful dream. But when your eyes flutter open, you see Peter’s very real kiss-swollen lips and flushed face and an enigmatic flickering in his dark eyes.

You melt into his hands, still framing your face, releasing tension you hadn’t realized had been building in your shoulders. You feel too malleable too soon in his arms, like you gave something away about yourself that should have been withheld a little longer.

But it is the season of giving, after all.

“So…” you clear your throat, breaking the spell before Peter can somehow take it all back. “Was that the dessert you promised me?”

Peter laughs, head thrown back to reveal his adam’s apple, and his hands slip free of your face to come to rest, pleasantly, at your waist. This thrills you, lightens you, and you grin in unrestrained joy.

taglist: @whatevermonkey

#peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker #tasm #the amazing spider man #peter parker #fic #writing #mine #bruh i almost posted over 6k words without a read more #💀

150 notes · View notes

passivenovember · 2 years ago

Text

purple pink skies.

A flier for Hawkin’s High’s Spring Fever dance goes up almost immediately after Steve considers himself out of the woods.

“Should’ve used my bike pump to inflate your balls,” Robin says.

He’s been close with Billy for a few months and in love with him for longer, but Steve couldn’t stick the landing.

It eats at him all week, stomach gaining a new gouge in the lining with each bargain prom-posal he has to bear witness to over lunch and after practice and at the mall on Saturday afternoons.

On Friday, Steve grabs a coke from the vending machine to take the edge off of not having the balls to ask Billy to go with him to the Sweetheart’s Dance. The hallway’s draped in shining pink and red cellophane while the planning committee reminds everyone to pencil their vote for Sweetheart Court, and Billy’s shooting for at least a 1250 on his SATs so he’s not even thinking about it, but.

Steve dropped the ball.

Robin eventually loses interest in making fun of him and Steve wishes he could forgive himself. He spends the weekend helping Billy shoot for a 1300 on his SAT and it’s nice, all things considered.

Max shoots daggers at him from the hallway while Billy chews on statistical equations.

“Kid’s just protective of him,” Robin tells Steve on the phone that night, “She’s gotta intimidate. Besides, Billy’s a brain. And a brain like him would rather study, anyway.”

She’s probably right.

Of course she’s right, Steve doesn’t have the spiritual strength to explore what it might mean if she isn’t.

Valentine’s Saturday comes and goes and then it’s Monday.

And Steve’s looking down the barrel of Hawkins’ last leg of winter, hopeful that the layer of ice around his heart will thaw with hard oak branches in time for Spring so Billy can finally know how he feels, and then–

Tuesday, Steve’s faced with another opportunity to trip over his words.

Save the Date: Hawkins High’s Spring Fever Dance! February 28th, 1985!

Robin snaps her gum right in Steve’s ear, “Wow. Looks like the planning committee’s getting a jump-start on mating season.”

Steve wants to tear the flier from the vending machine and eat it with a side of ranch dressing.

“Didn’t have to use so many goddamn exclamation points,” Steve mutters, but he’s drowned out by all of Hawkins High emerging from fourth period to survey the royal decree.

No one else gives a shit.

The Activities hallway has become the shitty set of a romance novel. With the jab of those three flowery words and a trillion copied posters pointing toward spring, the soft, warm light from the window is burning red, again. The air smells like the wiz of Cupid’s arrow, and everyone’s a moving target.

And maybe it’s just Steve’s own cynicism acting as a sounding tower, dialing on everyone’s conversations, but love is all anyone can talk about. Groups of girls speculate who’s going stag. Guys walk a little taller, peacocking for every watchful eye.

Steve yanks his coke can from the vending machine, “I’m going to walk into traffic.”

Robin snaps her gum again, “Okay, crab apple.”

“I’m serious. Don’t you think it’s overkill?”

“I think it’s kind of cute.”

“I’m not talking about the flier.”

“Neither am I,” Robin says. She props herself against the vending machine, studying the flier as if it were a specimen under a microscope, “That wasn’t there this morning, right?”

“Who cares. This is the second dance we’ve had this month, that’s not weird to you?” When Robin shakes her head, Steve wants to grab her shoulders and shake Robin hard enough to get her brain back online.

“Dude,” Steve begins heavily, “We had Homecoming in the fall, the Senior Snowball in December, we’ve got Prom just before summer break–”

“--Didn’t have a date then, either, Harrington–”

“I know, asshole, I’m just saying,” Steve cracks his cola can, swishing the fizz around in his mouth until the sugar burns the sharpness from his tongue. “It’s like all those people who are lucky in love think the change of every season requires a dance.”

Robin nods, chewing her gum so hard it’ll probably transition out of that gooey half-liquid stage and into a solid.

Her eyes scan the hallway, flitting anxiously between traveling backpacks and spring sweaters.

Robin twists a ring around one finger.

It’s almost like Steve isn’t there, as her eyes scan the hallway. It’s almost like—

“Oh, fuck you,” Steve groans.

Robin deflates. “Look, I get why you’re so angry and I sympathize but we can deal with the Billy stuff at Scoops, I’ve gotta get to Heather before–”

Steve resists the urge to cover his ears. To curl up in the fetal position and scream and scream and never stop screaming. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I want to make sure she doesn’t get pissed and ask someone else.”

“She’d do that?” Steve wonders, knowing full well that she will. She has.

Robin shrugs, “I’m whipped.”

“You’d better get going.”

“How long has the poster been up?” Robin snaps again, like. With her full chest.

Steve wants to throw his soda at her. “If I knew that do you think I’d be standing here talking to you?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck off, I’d be blowing the door to Billy’s chemistry lab off its hinges,” Steve says, even though they both know it’s not true.

“I’m dead meat,” Robin bounces a little on her feet like she’s gotta hit the bathroom. “Heather’s probably been expecting me to see the fliers all morning and it’s almost lunch and I haven’t even–”

“Go,” Steve says.

Robin freezes, all of a sudden. All at once. “You’re sure?”

That’s the thing about Buckley. She can poke fun at him all day long and make his life a living hell, but she’ll be there if Steve really needs it.

It’s only right that he returns the favor. “I’m sure, Bucks.”

“Okay,” Robin says, flinching a little toward the end of the hall, “Because I can send myself to heartbreak island and pitch a tent with you–”

“Nah,” Steve shrugs, “One of us should have a shot at getting laid this weekend.”

Robin kisses his cheek, quick as a flash, “God, you’re a lifesaver. And if anyone asks–”

“You and me, Billy and Heather, I got it,” Steve chuckles, “Go, before your cheerleader sends her beard after you.”

Robin sprints off down the hallway.

Steve sips lightly at the rest of his cola and doesn’t think that it’d be better for him if Billy got sent to sort through Robin’s mess.

Maybe then, with his sun and moon shining right there in the hallway, Steve could open his mouth and speak.

At lunch, Billy’s head is buried in his stats book.

It’s a picture Steve’s been trying to get used to for a couple of weeks now, Billy’s usual loose and easy frame settled with hunched shoulders and furrowed brows.

The SATs are just around the corner and contrary to the front that Billy puts on for the whole of Hawkins, puffing his chest and bearing his teeth like an angry bull dog at anyone who gets too close, he’s a genius when it comes to school.

Billy when he’s focused is more lethal than anything Steve’s ever experienced.

He’s quick to throw pens and wadded-up balls of paper at anyone who breaks his concentration, and Steve’s taken a highlighter to the eye more times than he cares to remember. And with the biggest test of Billy’s academic career looming in just forty-eight hours, today it’s that with teeth.

Statistics always gets Billy stuck in his own head, wandering through maze-like hedges of numbers and graphs. It’s difficult, sitting locked out of Billy’s world when Steve’s usually glued to his hip, but it’s something to behold.

Billy when he’s focused is the closest Steve will ever get to the face of God.

He was painted by all the greatest artists, Steve knows, dreamt up by angels. The curve of Billy’s lips as he reads silently to himself, his thumb resting soft on his plush lower lip, is poetry. The way he glances up every once in a while, grinning softly, to make sure Steve’s there to quiz him on whatever formula he’s been slaving over, is Heaven on Earth.

It’s perfect.

Today, though, Billy’s lost.

The cafeteria bustles around them with excitement over the Spring Fever dance and Billy hasn’t looked up a single time since Steve sat down. His lunch sits cold and untouched on the tray in front of him.

Robin and Heather are nowhere to be found, it’s just them, and Steve weighs the possibility of taking a pen to the forehead if he interrupts to remind Billy that he won’t score a 1300 on his SAT if he starves to death before Friday.

Steve picks at his french fries and wonders what would happen if he got up and left.

Would Billy notice? Would he eat Steve’s lunch?

Would he stand up and follow?

When Billy explodes, Steve opens his mouth, ready to pay the price of getting those eyes on him.

“I’m not gonna pass,” Billy determines, shoving his notebook into his SAT prep stack with a gnarled sound.

Steve manages to catch the thing before it careens over the edge of the table, “Woah,” he says, a fry pinched between his teeth, “Hey, that's–”

“I’ve been going over the same page of quantitative data for two days,” Billy snarls, blue eyes pinning Steve to the bench, “Two fucking days, Steve.”

“What can I do to help?” Steve asks automatically.

“It’s the VAR model, the m2, it’s pissing me off.”

“Okay,”

Billy doesn’t hear him, “It keeps saying the t-distribution with degrees of freedom is equal to n-2 and when testing the slope in a simple linear regression model with one parameter–”

“--Right, okay–”

“The test for the slope has df=n-1,” Billy snaps. His eyes well up, frustrated tears clinging to his lashes.

Steve never thought Billy would be a crier, but he is.

It’s Starfall.

It’s planets colliding.

Steve has the sudden, violent urge to wipe Billy’s tears away. “It’s alright,” He says, but Billy’s shaking his head.

“I can’t do this,” He gasps, “I can’t. I’ve been working on this same equation for–”

“Two days, I know. You’ve gotta eat something alright?”

Billy’s leg bounces, shaking the whole lunch table. Steve shuffles Billy’s notes in his hands, knowing he’ll eat shit for that, later, but he can’t bring himself to care about that when slowly, frightened as a coiled rattlesnake in a mudhole, Billy reaches past his own lunch tray to get at Steve’s fries. Steve hands them over, watching as Billy nibbles away.

Like a little bunny rabbit.

The cutest, most brilliant creature on earth–

Billy sniffs, “I didn’t sleep last night,” He says, almost like he’s terrified of what Steve will do to him.

Not couldn’t. Didn’t.

Intentional.

Steve holds his breath, waiting for the sky to rip open and for Billy’s frustrated tears to punch holes in Steve’s chest when they finally start to fall.

But they don’t. Billy scrubs at his cheeks, catching them before they can take root. “I’m sorry I’m going insane.”

“You’re not insane, you’re incredible.”

“And you’re an idiot if you think that.”

“Of course, I’m an idiot. We knew that already,” Steve tells him.

He counts the breaks at the lunch table. He studies Billy’s smooth, spotless hands, his fingers as they curl protectively around a purple highlighter. Steve didn’t even know they made that color, but looking down at Billy’s notes, all the others already serve a purpose.

Billy’s leg keeps bouncing. “I still owe you an apology. If not for neglecting myself, for ignoring you.”

Steve wants to say that Billy’s never ignored him.

Not once. Since the Hargrove-Mayfield’s moved to town last fall, since Billy joined the basketball team, since they met at Tina’s Halloween party and Billy dusted his hands off and put the pieces of Steve back together after Hurricane Nancy–

Steve’s had Billy’s deep blue attention on him like a searchlight. “You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Steve decides, “You’re Galileo. It’s alright.”

Billy doesn’t crack a smile. “It’s not, though.”

“You’re just exhausted, anyone would be. You’ve been working yourself to death over this.”

“I’ve gotta get the fuck out of here, Harrington.”

“You will,” Steve holds the stack of paper delicately in his lap, worried that if Billy spots another equation he’ll fly off the handle. “You’ve just got to balance studying with things that make you hap–”

“My SAT exam is in two days, Steve,” Billy snaps. He leans forward, lips furrowing with sudden rage, “If I don’t land a score that can get me into any college in the country–”

“I’ll take you somewhere myself,” Steve says.

He taps Billy’s notes on the table like he’s seen his father do a million times.

It’s final. It’s a promise made of dreams that hold lead in their bellies, falling like anvils in Hawkins but taking root all over the world. In Steve’s mind, it’s honest work. His promises to Billy grow and bloom where neither of them can worry over it. They wave like flags through rain and sun, until they bear fruit ripe for picking.

Someday, they’ll feed a village from the result of these small promises.

But.

Steve’s gotta say the words, first. Plant the seeds.

I love you my brilliant, brilliant boy.

He slides Billy’s packet over the table face, tucking his fingers under his elbows for safekeeping when his Brainiac snatches it up like a hungry shark.

“You’re just saying that, Harrington,” Billy determines, avoiding Steve’s eyes.

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, alright,” Billy says, reordering his notes without even thinking about it. When they’re just right, he digs through and hands the most intense one to Steve. “Quiz time, pretty boy.”

Billy’s notes are neat and orderly, the work of someone who’s too good for him in every sense of the word.

Steve tries not to think about it.

When he stumbles over the order of an equation, Billy laughs and for the first time in days, it sounds real.

And then the bell rings.

Steve’s not proud of the gut reaction he has when he sees fingers that aren’t his playing with the loose curl that hangs over Billy’s forehead.

And.

He doesn’t own the curl. He’s not liquidating real estate on the island of Billy, he doesn’t own the guy and they aren’t in love, or dating, or fucking, he just.

Doesn’t like it.

Hates it, even.

He wants to wrench those fingers off Billy’s forehead and break all five opposable knuckles before he moves like a storm over the rest of them. But Steve’s gotta wrestle with himself and shine lamp oil on the shadows of who he was with Nancy to figure out if he’s got any right to the way his stomach tries to flip itself like a burnt pancake.

He doesn’t.

Billy’s not leaning into the touch.

He’s digging through his locker. He’s late for class, probably, because the bell rings again and suddenly he’s smacking that hand away with a snippy little, “Wilson’s gonna have my balls if I’m late again,” and.

And. The owner of the hand that aims to rock Billy props himself against slate gray metal, “You never answered my question,” He mutters, grinning, and Steve knows, like. From down the hall and around the corner that his grin is eating shit.

Billy’s shit.

He’s trying to get Billy’s pants off first, though, if Steve had to put money on it. And if they weren’t in a government building, surrounded by scurrying classmates, Hands would probably be reaching for a pack of smokes right now, or a joint. Something to get Billy loose-limbed and easy to push over.

Steve sympathizes with his masterplan. Almost sends flowers, a little good on you for trying, though I wish you wouldn’t, because the gag is that Billy can’t be swayed. He’s solid and sure as Mount Everest, he’s slow-burning like a field on fire, he’s resolute and strong–

“I don’t owe you shit, not an explanation, not–”

“You could help, anyway.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a good person,” Hands tries, and it’s only then that Steve recognizes who’s trying to rain on his parade.

Billy slams his locker door. “You wanna keep that hand, Munson?”

“You’re cute when you get angry.” Through an awful, laughing smirk, the guy says, “C’mon, you’d be doing me a real favor. I’m trying to get that Carver asshole off my back for flirting with his girlfriend.”

Steve holds his breath. Waits for Billy to serve this guy a knife to the gut, but then– “I’ll think about it,” He says.

And It’s worse than anything Steve’s ever felt.

At the doctor’s office. On the court. With Nancy. It’s papercuts and the cold, trickling fear of crashing his father’s car into the side of a building. Steve dies a thousand, million, trillion deaths. He doesn’t want Billy to put his beautiful, brilliant mind to anything that isn’t school and his future, and Steve.

Doesn’t want him to think about Eddie Munson or anyone else.

God, it’s pathetic.

“You’ll think about it?” Eddie wonders, “That’s all.”

“Yep, that’s all.”

“Well, I need to know by Thursday if I’ve gotta borrow my uncle’s suit.”

The dance.

Steve ducks farther behind Hawkin’s least favorite vending machine and strains to hear Billy’s response. They’ll be alone, once everyone stops scrambling into the doorway of their next class, and Steve wants to determine if he should name Robin as executor of his estate before the weekend.

The warning bell sounds, a million doors slamming in succession until the hallway is silent. Cavernous and peaceful enough that Steve hears the shuffle of footsteps.

“You’re pushy for someone so desperate,” Billy snips, but.

He’s smiling.

Even if Steve was completely off his rocker he’d know the spread of Billy’s lips.

–

“Read that one again.”

Steve swallows, “According to the passage, the family’s life in the suburbs is described as–”

“Not the question.”

Steve looks up, confused. “If I’m not reading the question–”

“Read the passage again,” Billy determines, chewing on his thumbnail, “The whole thing.”

They’ve been going at it for hours. Steve’s exhausted, and his ass hurts from sitting on the floor of his bedroom since the sun was still high in the sky, and his heart hurts from–

Billy frowns at him, knocking Steve into gear. “The whole thing?” Steve asks dumbly, “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. I’m not understanding the global and command of evidence.”

Steve’s head hurts, too. Aches. He needs a goddamn thesaurus to get through this and it’s not even his SAT exam. He leans against one palm, comforted by the weight of such a thick book in his lap.

“I’m not understanding it, either.”

“You don’t have to,” Billy says, “You’re not taking the test.”

“Maybe we could have a break?”

“And do what?” Billy shoots back.

“I dunno,” Steve says, “Wanna make out a little?”

Billy’s cheeks flare bright pink. “You’re an idiot,” He grumbles, not believing it.

And why would he?

In all the months that they’ve been friends, Steve’s never said something like that and meant it. At least not in Billy’s eyes. With Steve, everything’s always one big joke. He never takes anything seriously and that’s probably why Billy’s going to the dance with Eddie fucking Munson, of all people–

Billy slaps his notebook onto the carpet, eyes disappearing so he can scrub at his cheeks and forehead.

He always does that when he’s overwhelmed.

Steve wishes for better. He imagines all the words and graphs and statistics melting into Billy’s freckles like sunscreen. He pictures peace, exhaling into the dim, warm light of the room when Billy takes a moment to himself.

Steve considers telling the truth for one crazy, desperate moment.

That he wants to kiss Billy. Has wanted to kiss Billy for months, probably a whole year but he was always too afraid–

“I’ll be so happy when this shit is over,” Billy starts lightly. Billy leans against the wall, his curls fanning out around him. Steve gets lost on the slope of his neck, hypnotized by the bob of Billy’s Adam’s Apple when he swallows, “Listen–”

“No. I’m not gonna listen to you talk mean about yourself.”

Billy watches him through thick, heavy eyelashes. “You didn’t even hear what I was gonna say, Harrington.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve says lightly. He doesn’t admit that he’d do anything Billy asked, anything he wanted. “I know you. And if you’re going to tell me it’s pointless to help you study because you’re not going anywhere in life, you’re wrong. You can forget it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve determines. “I’ve heard your shitty self-deprecating pitch before and I don’t buy a word.”

Billy stares at him for a long, tense moment–

And then he smiles.

And it’s like the sun has burned a hole through the roof and tucked itself on the floor for safekeeping. It’s like fountains of gold have erupted from the floorboards, and angels have taken up their cherub song.

“Got a little fire in you today, Harrington,” Billy says.

He likes it. He’s impressed.

“Yeah well. It’s been a shitty day.”

“Oh, sure, the day you helped me study before school and at lunch and–”

“It’s not that.”

Billy smirks, “Then what’s inspired the raging war, pretty boy?”

Steve picks at the carpet, avoiding Billy’s eyes. For months he’s wondered if Billy means it. Pretty boy, rolling like salted waves from his tongue to get Steve’s emotions sticking like hair in his eyes.

He can’t help but imagine that old nickname pinned to someone else, sticking like a nametag to Munson’s suit jacket. Hello my name is…prettier than Steve Harrington.

Steve can’t even find it within himself to disagree. Eddie Munson’s a cute guy. He’s got that whole bad boy thing, chipped black nails, big brown eyes, and a wallet chain hanging from his back pocket alongside a handkerchief Robin once wrinkled her nose at. When Steve asked her to explain it to him, she said he wouldn’t get it.

That’s probably true.

Steve doesn’t understand most things. Anything, really. But he understands that on paper, Munson’s probably Billy’s type.

If Billy had a type.

If Billy was–

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet,” Billy chuckles.

Big enough to crawl in, Steve thinks. Big enough to block out the sky, to hold all my thoughts, to live in forever and ever and–

“Where are you?” Billy’s foot knocks against Steve’s thigh, rocking him gently like a boat at sea.

Steve shrugs. “Lost.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Means I’m thinking.”

“You can do that?” Billy teases. When Steve doesn’t laugh, when he doesn’t smile or do anything other than sit like a bump on a log that’s planning itself a funeral, Billy leans forward. “Tell me what’s wrong, Harrington.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll laugh at me,” Steve says, you’ll hate me. Never speak to me again. You’ll run away with Eddie Munson and marry him and you’ll live a short, happy, vibrant life somewhere I can’t feel you. “You’ll think it’s a joke. Or worse, you’ll–”

“God, I hate it when you decide shit for me.”

“I’m not–”

“Y’know, back when we first started this thing you kept me out of my head,” Billy admits. “You kept me active. The leash was fuckin’ short. Still is.”

His fingers twitch against his thigh. Steve knows if it weren’t for Mrs. Harrington and the fact that she loves Billy and expects the best from him, he’d probably be smoking a cigarette even though he’s made a habit of swearing off everything that’s not good for him.

Steve wants to say Eddie isn’t good for him. That he might seem like it at first, but in time–

Billy kicks him again. Harder. “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong I’m gonna kill myself.”

“Jeez, don’t joke about that.”

“You don’t get to decide how I feel about shit, Harrington. You don’t get what i say or how I feel, or–”

“I saw you in the hallway,” Steve blurts, “With what’s his name.”

Billy doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch. “Eddie.”

“Eddie,” Steve says, and it tastes like soap on his tongue, bitter and present and the more he swallows the worse it gets.

He expects a lot of things to happen at once. Billy may not feel the same that Steve does, but he gets embarrassed easily. Red all over. His embarrassment falls just like his anger, sharp and aggressive, pushing and tugging until Steve’s resolve pops like a party balloon.

Now, though, he’s calm. Eerie. Poised like he’s trying to watch his step around Steve, who can sometimes be a landmine everyone thought was defective.

Somehow that’s worse.

Somehow the knowledge that Billy’s not as clueless about this whole thing as Steve thought, that he’s picked up on every laugh and hidden stare, that he knows Steve is gone on him and still–

“Why do you care about Eddie,” Billy demands. Like he’s genuinely curious. Like he’s got an inclination, too, and he’s gonna make Steve say it, so.

“You’re not going to prom with Eddie Munson.”

The world might as well stop. If they weren’t sitting on the carpet beaches in Steve’s bedroom, he’d get up and leave.

Billy blinks, chest heaving like he’s just run three hundred miles across a mountain range, but he doesn’t open his mouth. He doesn’t pull his eyes away or speak.

Steve holds onto those eyes. He stands his ground.

Billy jerks into motion, “He didn’t ask me to prom.”

“Fine,” Steve snaps, irritated by the particular nature of this AP, valedictorian, Ivy-League asshole. It’s Steve’s fault for loving a brain, “Fine, not the prom. The fucking Spring Fever–”

“Why are you so upset?”

Steve can’t believe this is happening.

Everything about this is so high school, so steeped in endings and triviality and of course he’d have to say it right now. With expectant, carefully guarded blue eyes picking him apart. Toes at the edge of the cliff, with nothing to catch him when he falls.

“I’m upset, because–” Steve tries.

Billy watches him with eyes like a raging sea, and he’s so beautiful. He’s smart and driven and kind, when he’s not wading through his own head, and Steve’s been trying to swallow it down forever.

How he feels.

Steve takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m pissed off because I wanted to ask you to the dance.”

Billy frowns. His fingers twitch against his thigh and Steve can almost hear the gears working behind Billy’s curls, clicking and rattling into place. “I don’t understand,” He says.

System failure.

Steve saw that coming, too. “Guessed you didn’t. Why would you? I never–”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Billy rubs a hand over his mouth, “You wanted to go to the dance with me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why would you want to go to the dance, with. With me?”

“Because I like you,” Steve snaps. “Jesus, Billy. You’re made of a million fucking things to like and I’ve spent so many months counting them, trying to figure out their weight so I can tie my feet to the heaviest one and drown myself,” He runs all ten fingers through his hair, tugging until he feels the sting of it in his toes. “You’re great. You’re the best person I’ve ever known and I just. I love you, okay?”

There, Steve thinks. Asshole.

But the realization of Steve dawns on Billy like the end of the world. He sucks in a sharp, sudden breath, and in a second Steve’s galaxy is on fire.

Billy won’t look at him.

“Billy,” Steve says. Fed up. Mean.

Billy stares at the carpet, lashes clumped with tears, and. He’s gonna cry. Steve’s ruined his last study session before the SATs and Billy’s going to cry–

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Steve slides closer, getting on his knees in front of his shaking, sputtering love, “I didn’t mean to freak you out, I just. I heard that asshole ask you to the dance and I almost lost my mind thinking about what I’d do if you said yes. I didn’t want to blow my last shot at you, Billy–”

“You’re such a dumbass.”

Steve blinks, flinching away. It hurts. He’s bleeding. “I’m sorry,” He says again, like a broken record. “I’m–”

“Munson didn’t ask me to the spring dance either. He wants me to get Heather to take him so Jason Carver stops slashing his van tires.” Billy looks at Steve with water-logged desperation, “I. You love me, Harrington?”

Steve watches a single, heavy tear fall. He nods, chases it with his thumb.

Billy’s breath is warm and sweet against his wrist. “Why’d you think that would be your last shot? You never even took a shot before that, how could it be your last?”

“Because we’ve had, like. A hundred dances this year and I never asked you,” Steve sits, knocking their knees together, “I wanted to ask. Every time, I wanted to run down the hall and kiss–”

Billy eats up whatever was coming next.

He licks into Steve’s mouth. He plants fields of hope, shining bright with the future.

When he pulls away, his eyes are serious. “I’m going to get a 1350 on this SAT,” Billy says, his fingers gentle on Steve’s jaw, “And then we’re going to the dance.”

Steve kisses him, slow and sweet, and.

It’s a deal. Written in the stars.

Harringrove for Turkey commission for the lovely, kind, and talented @keziahrainalso thanks so much for trusting me with your GORGEOUS idea, and I hope what i did with it makes you smile.

All my love,

Jaz

#harringrove #harringrove for turkey #fluff #angst and fluff

96 notes · View notes