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#chalk board paint
littlebugthings · 3 months
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Day 4: agere mood board, my perfect agere day 
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I think I’d like for most of my day to be spent playing, watching movies with my partner and eating yummy foods
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signsandartwork · 23 days
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The Best Mural Artist in the UK
The best mural artist in the UK. Our experienced team combines artistic expertise with unparalleled craftsmanship to deliver exceptional results. From hand-painted murals to modern signage, we offer bespoke solutions tailored to your needs. Transform your space with our top-notch services today.
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thehackneypony · 2 years
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i am just so in love with her
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thebibliosphere · 1 month
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I feel like something has gone wrong when IKEA particle board furniture is cheaper than everything in the thrift store.
Especially when the stuff in the thrift store is also particle board. It’s just particle board someone’s scuffed up and painted badly with white chalk paint to make it look ‘shabby chic’.
Anyway, you can tell the boho farmhouse trend is dying because the knick-knack aisle was nothing but metal troughs and fashionably distressed white cabinets made of shiplap. I dread the inevitable influx of griege that’ll happen when the sad beige mommy’s decide to redo their houses.
Finding interesting pieces has already gotten harder without adding brown and greige plastic rainbow toys to the mix.
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sassy-john-watson · 9 months
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Denver Bathroom Powder Room Design of a transitional powder room with a vessel sink and dark walls as an example.
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imfromsixam · 1 year
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Boho Baby (CC Pack for The Sims 4)
I am happy to share with you my new modern Boho-Baby CC PACK dedicated to the little ones! A collection of everything you need to create a warm, special space for you and your children 😊
▶ ABOUT THE CC PACK
32 items.
Confort: Toddler Bed Mattress, Toddler Bed Frame, Chair, Loveseat, A functional Piti/Tent.
Build: 6 wallpapers.
Decorative: Bassinet, Chalk Board, Mobile Hanger, 2 Paintings, Panda Bear, 2 Stickers with various designs, Crocodile Toy, Cubes Toy, 
Lighting: Night Table Lamp.
Storage: Bookcase.
Surface: Desk, Dining Table, Mini Night Table.
Special items: Toddler Changing Table Mod, Rocking Horse "Dino" and Rocking Horse "Elephant" requieres this mod and this mod from PandaSama to be functional, otherwise is going to be only decorative. Bassinet it's a decorative piece, please use the Invisible Crib Mod to make it functional. 
▶ SPECIAL MENTIONS
I want to thanks Alana aka coki.creative, Alexandra aka create4sims and Jasmin aka sims4ideas for try my cc and help me to create the beautiful rooms you see in the promo pictures. You are so talented and the best! 💜
Thanks to my friend PandaSama for let me create a new design of their Diaper Changing Table Mod and the Rocking Horse Mod.
▶️GET EARLY ACCESS HERE
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niqhtlord01 · 27 days
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Humans are weird: They sing going to war
( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)
While serving alongside the human forces during the Torus Campaign I learned much of their strange culture.
Their need to stack foods in elaborate combinations which they call a “Sandwich”, their constant need to play “The Game” without ever explaining what it is unless to tell you that you have lost it, and even their obsession with petting anything within arm’s reach with an almost religious like dedication; but the strangest custom I only witnessed during the final stages of the war.
We had just deployed over the world of Obidon III and were launching a joint ground assault with the human forces. Enemy resistance was expected to be heavy and many would not survive the drop, but command believed that if enough forces reached the surface of the planet they could establish a beachhead and allow the rest of the contingent to be brought in.
During the decent to the planet all I could do was keep my eyes closed and hope beyond hope that we would survive. I was so lost in this trance like state that my friend Septem had to physically smack me on the helmet to get my attention and tell me to turn my radio channel to frequency 13.
I was confused at first since that frequency was being used for our human allies but he insisted that I would not believe what they were doing. So I reset my radio in my helmet to frequency and what I heard was something I had never expected on a battlefield.
They were singing.
The frequency was chalk full of voices in such volume that I had to turn down the volume but it seemed like every single human that was part of the attach was joining in the song. My translator unit was trying to keep up but the sheer intensity of the humans singing was causing it to drop in and out, picking up every other word.
I wanted to listen closer to them but the enemy flak began pounding the outside of our dropship. Each detonation sent the ship rattling side to side violently. I had just retightened my straps when a shell burst just beneath us sending a shockwave through the ship so strong it sent several of my comrades flying from their seats into the opposite wall. They hit the wall hard and did not get back up when their bodies collapsed to the ground.
All I could think about was how this was the moment I was going to die. This was the moment my existence in this universe comes to its conclusion and I return to the dust and atoms of the cosmos. And as I tuned myself to this reality all I could hear were the humans still singing over the radio.
They must have been going through the same amount of enemy fire as he was and yet still they somehow were still able to sing as if nothing was wrong with the world. I got so focused on their singing that I forgot about my worries for such a time that I was startled when the dropship landed with a loud thud against the planet’s surface and the boarding ramp lowered.
The following battle was a grueling six hour run and gun with the enemy as we tried to carve out a safe LZ for reinforcements. I got separated from my unit on more than one occasion and wandered into the human designated areas in the confusion.
To my utter surprise the humans were still singing.
Clad in their blue and gold armor, they broadcasted their voices from their helmet speakers as they advanced street by bloody street. One of them took shelter with me for a time as we prepared to rush a fortified courtyard which housed heavy anti air emplacement. I nodded a greeting to the human who replied in kind, yet their voice never ceased in song. I saw them rush around the corner and take several heavy rounds to their chest, but the shells ricocheted off the armor leaving only scratches on the paint.
I watched in disbelief as this wild singing human leaped over the barricade and slapped a detonation charge on the anti-air weapon before leaping back as it exploded the weapon. They stood in the smoldering flames to take a moment to catch their breath when a sniper’s round from down the street struck them in the head and blew out a large portion of their cranium. It was the first time during the entire battle I had seen a human die but I did not have long to contemplate it as the rest of the humans charged past, still singing, in the direction of the snipers shot.
Another hour of combat and the landing site was finally secured and reinforcements were brought in to take our positions. What was left of the initial landing force were sent back to orbit and recover and regroup from their losses. Out of my people’s forces I was one of twenty soldiers to have survived. I imagined the humans had lost equally as many until the pilot remarked that additional shuttles had been dispatched to carry their force back up. It seemed that despite the intensity of the fighting only three of their warriors had fallen in battle; one of them including the warrior I had watched fall.
I was beyond myself.
These reckless warriors had somehow survived one of the most intense battles the campaign had seen and only lost three of their number.
Once back on the ship the first chance I could I sought them out for an explanation. They were quartered in the lower reaches of the ship, isolated from the other contingents onboard.
Outside their area were two guards still in full armor that initially would not let me through until one of them recognized me from the fighting in the city. I was then led inside and found many of the humans feasting and laughing. Two long rows of had been setup facing each other; between them were several fires, each with a different animal being roasted over them. At the end of the rows stood three large pyres of wood which held three bodies atop each of them.
As I passed through the humans many ceased their laughter and looked at me, their eyes with suspicion. We made it half way through the throngs when a giant of a human stepped forward and blocked our path. They demanded to know why I had been let it in; going even further to say they will throw me out personally if the answer was not good. The guard who had recognized me said I had witnessed the last moments of one of the fallen and would speak of their deeds. There was a long pause as the large human glared at me, his eyes as cold as the crescent moon of my homeworld.
The human finally relented and let out a loud boastful laugh, clapping me on my shoulders and welcoming me to the feast. Those gathered around cheered and similarly welcomed me now as the ceremony proceeded once more. I could barely say anything as I was seemingly pulled into the celebration. I drank, I ate, I laughed, I even boasted of my own achievements during the battle.
At the height of the feast I was called forward to speak of the final moments of the human soldier I watched die. I learned their name had been Moris Yu, and had served in the human contingent since the beginning of the campaign. I spoke of his final moments, of how he charged the enemy alone and had single handedly destroyed their war machine. I spoke of the snipers bullet laying him low to which all the gathered humans spoke as one “To Odin’s hall he flies.”
With that pyres were set on fire and the bodies slowly turned to ash. I imagine it had some significant ritualistic meaning in human culture but it was beyond me.
After the funeral I asked one of the soldiers the question I had come to them with.
“Why do you sing in battle?”
The human took a long huff from a wooden pipe and blew a cloud of smoke before answering.
“Long ago, my people were raiders and conquerors of the sea.” They began, “Our gods watched over us and should we prove worthy we would be sent to them to join them in their halls and fight alongside them for eternity.”
“There was one warband led by a giant of a man called Osmond Frig. He loved song just as much as he loved fighting, so he made his warriors sing during every fight as it made him happy.”
“They agreed to such silliness?” I asked, to which the human grinned.
“They did after he felled the first three men who laughed at him with a single blow from his axe.” They finished before continuing with their story.
“What was truly surprising was not the sight of these warriors singing, but rather the fact that they were rather good at it. It was said they could make the Valkyries themselves shed a single tear with their songs.”
“Eventually one of the gods, Bragi, noticed Osmond’s warband and took a liking to them. Much like the Valkyries he too was moved by their song and decided to reward them with his patronage. He used ancient magic and made it so as long as the warriors sung they would be impervious to harm of all kinds.”
“So the warband grew in fame and glory as they went conquest to conquest, emerging from battles against impossible odds with nay a scratch on them. First across the northern seas, then across the continent of Europe, and then soon the entire world knew of Osmond; which is when they finally drew the attention of the king of the gods, Odin.”
“Odin watched these powerful warriors and wanted them in his hall for the eternal battle, yet despite every challenge they faced they emerged victorious. No matter what enemy Odin placed in their path or scheme he unleashed on them they refused to fall. Odin knew of Bragi’s patronage and tortured to god to reveal his secret and after seven days and seven nights Bragi told Odin of the spell he had cast and how it could not be undone.”
“But that was all Odin needed to secure his warriors.” The human said with a devil’s grin.
“During the midst of the most recent battle Odin took the form of a mighty warrior and stalked the fields for his prey. He waited for each warrior to catch their breath and cease their song before striking and slaying them, one by one. By day’s end only Osmond remained to fight Odin and though he sang long into the night he too eventually gasped for air and was slain.”
“So that is why you sing?” I asked the human. ‘Because you believe your gods will protect you?”
The human chuckled and nodded to the three pyres. “Did you not say that Moris was only slain after he ceased singing?”
I wanted to counter him with some logic, some reason grounded in reality, but I could not. I left that human area with a profound new perspective of myself in the grand scheme of the universe.
The next time I was in a combat drop my comrades laughed when I began singing. I wasn’t sure if it was good or not, but I hoped that in some way the human god would at least find me amusing and let me live another day.
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braaan · 8 months
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In all the ways that matter (w/ Yunjin)
male reader & lesserafim yunjin
smut & angst & fluff (the one where you want more of what’s already yours), 6k words
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Let’s be honest: you don’t deserve Huh Yunjin.
She’s an ambitious mishmash of love languages. But from the way she’s always including you in wishlists back to her parents in New York, how she’s always testing new big-stretch-and-yawn-at-the-movies level ways to get her hands on you, or how she’s going on her eighth permutation of pet names and emojis for you on her phone (it’s been POOKIE🧸🦷🤭💙 for the past 2 weeks — your longest running), anyone would guess that she was fluent across the board.
And that’s only while you’re pretending that looks don’t matter.
Because whenever it feels like you have to chalk up a point for Yunjin’s personality, one of her physical features always stops you at the blackboard. 
Yunjin looks like she was grandma-knit: finished patiently and smoothed tender. Where skin would normally crease, Yunjin softens. And between the way her eyes sweeten into crescent moons when she laughs, how her lips always find a way to ease back into their permanent pout, or how perfectly her chin nestles in between your fingers, there was nothing about her that didn’t compete to be your favorite.
But all of them have to settle for second best. 
Because your favorite thing about Yunjin is her eyebrows. 
They waltz between well-learned battle lines on her forehead, stretching emphatically behind boundaries they know other features did not dare cross, because compared to the rest of her face, they’re bold. They explode from sienna to whiskey and hook insultingly fast, threading down to points so sharp that it only feels right to dot them at the end like exclamation marks, putting a megaphone to the stories that her eyes tell. Only on Yunjin’s face does softness ring loudly. Eye contact morphs into reverie, amusement magnitudes up into hilarity, and tenderness becomes love.
You think it’s unfair.
It’s unfair that the reasons you could fall in love with her are endless. It’s unfair that she can simultaneously make the world the two of you share both so tiny, special, and unreplicable and then larger than life, ever-expansive, and infinite. And it’s unfair that she makes doing all of this at the same time look so effortless.
It’s a high bar to clear.
But you try anyway.
If not to at least get close to the standard she sets, for the sex.
-
The two of you are practically asking for it the time you get caught.
Standing at the far end of a HYBE practice room, it’s all so fitting: under the only lit floodlight, her on her knees, your cock at attention inches from her lips, tension teetering above climax — Huh Yunjin was going to give you a performance.
She’s kissing at the bottom of your shaft, lingering half a second longer each time as she slowly makes her way up your length. She mewls, ad libbing your grunts with soft, venom-laced yeah?s.
“You sound so pent up,” she starts, thumbing your cockhead counterclockwise.
You give her bits and pieces of an affirmative response: you let out a forced breath somewhere between a grunt and an exhale, grip your cock tighter, and pinch one of her nipples with your free hand. She translates.
“Mmm?” Yunjin purrs. She runs the flat of her tongue long across your entirety, flicking up as she reaches the tip.
You’re gripping at anything you can to stay alive. Trying to keep the facade up that you can compete. You splay your free hand and grab at her chest, playing dirty; grasping for a reaction. She plays your game and picks up the rhythm on your cock.
“You don’t want to just paint my face right now?”
Your breath is hot on your lips, tight in your chest. You’re parrying, blocking, countering. You look deep into the pools of honey bourbon in her eyes. You’re falling into the abyss.
Who fights fair with a poisoned blade? Yunjin? Not with the tears dotting the corners of her eyes; not with the drool running down her chin. Her cheeks are hollow as she swallows further and further down your cock. Her lips brush the base of your shaft. It feels good. She knows it feels good, the way she’s looking back up at you; the way you’re groaning.
She raises her eyebrows.
You cum.
And despite all of the preposition, conviction building, and white-knuckle–steeling, you think, you don’t really ever lose. Because the moment you ride out your orgasm, it’s great.
You can’t compete. You kick off the cliffhanger and throw yourself into freefall. You see white flashes where there used to be color, and the tightness under your stomach evaporates into a vacuum: hot, and all at once. You can fully exhale and for what has to be a full minute, you die.
And as usual, after she makes peace with killing you, Yunjin brings you back to life. 
She kisses the top of your cockhead before sitting back on her heels. Under the spotlight, sweat literally shimmering, she’s glowing, and she’s ethereal. Her tongue darts at the sides of her mouth before retreating, replaced by her bottom lip, equal parts pink and proud; satisfied and smug. She grabs at a small towel sitting next to her before beginning to clean up, dabbing at where you’d made a fucking mess out of her face.
But not before the door to the practice room opens. Your stomach shatters, and everywhere you just felt warm goes cold. A woman takes the empty space in the doorway, starts in your direction, and continues way too fast.
Your brain is instantly numb, and you scramble for something further than a stone’s toss away from the plot of a cheap porno. She slipped on her towel and grabbed my zipper on the way down! What do you mean Yunjin’s in this room with us? My COCK? God no, this is a thermometer that just looks a lot like- You don’t get far.
And before you try at reasoning that would effectively end you on the spot, the woman gets close enough. She yelps, producing a folder from behind her to try and shield you from any further consequences.
“Can you put-” she shakes her hands — folder and all — in your general direction, “everything away?”
Jolted awake, you scramble at your pants at your ankles, pulling anything your fingers brushed against in the direction you thought was closed. In hindsight, the zippers for your pants pockets probably didn’t matter much, but you zip those too, hoping the thought counted. Yunjin reappears next to you, the straps of her newly stretched tank top sitting awkwardly on top of her shoulders, now resembling probably anything else closer than they would elastic.
The woman gingerly peeks an eye over at the two of you and lets out a deep, full exhale. “Good, phew!”
“You would think we’d have that practiced by now,” she tuts, using what was once her plastic barrier to fan herself. She shoots a dirtier glare at Yunjin before turning towards you, and her expression visibly softens. “Oh! Same guy!”
And instantly, anything that would give off that she was disappointed just a moment ago dissipates, and is replaced by genuine admiration.
“I respect that you guys are trying to make the dating thing work!”
There were some things that practice wouldn’t get you used to.
See, when you and Yunjin first started dating, you expected a little bit of onboarding. A little bit of catching up to speed: When were her parents’ birthdays? Was she allergic to anything? What were her favorite movies? For extra credit, you’re even brushing up on the idol industry: How long was a comeback promotion period? What was an aegyo? — the usual.
But you’re still taking notes to this day.
(It’s a Saturday a couple of months ago, and you and Yunjin are snaking through the aisles of a thrift store.
“And Chaewon’s seeing them?"
Okay: Yunjin’s snaking through the aisles of a thrift store. You’re trailing behind her, making sure you connected all the right dots together.
“Nope,” she says, eyes scanning a tattered band tee. Then, equally nonchalantly: “Idols get horny, too. Dating just makes things messier than they need to be.”
There’s an expectant pause, then Yunjin turns to look at you.
“Not that that’s a rule or anything,” she adds, placing a hand on yours as if to close the lid on any implication that tried to escape. “It’s just not most people’s style.”)
‘Given’ was probably the word for it, you think. The idol industry collected teenagers at their most formative periods, and where others their age condensed pre-calculus and high school breakups, they learned choreography and how to introduce themselves across the language spectrum. When other kids’ hormones flared up and made them deal with acne, they were digitally edited, scrubbed clean, and hidden behind locked doors. An industry formed on cherry-picking highlights had to have a gnarly underbelly — what would be taboo had to be a given — and it probably only helped that everyone had to look like sex.
So you try to catch up and blend in. Try to not get hung up on how casually sex, drugs, and secrets are laced in sentences. Try to take what Yunjin says at face value.
Still, as her manager leads you through the lobby towards the revolving doors, and you’re bowing profusely as you try to apologize for what she brushes off as not the first time and very normal, there’s a certain edge about it all. Like no matter how airtight Yunjin’s grip tried to be, that you were fortifying a house of cards with pillars of paper mâché.
And it sure as hell didn’t help that halfway through the lobby, you trade greetings with her fake boyfriend.
There were some things that practice wouldn’t get you used to.
-
So get this: your girlfriend was going to be one half of a manufactured dating scandal.
She stood too close to another idol at a variety show, and online forum sentiment was eating it up (or something like that). There it was: a full page, in bold. All over social media. Yunjin, and the boy with the jawline and swoon-inducing eyes (not that you were jealous), everywhere at once, and on the tips of everyone’s tongue. The buzz brought eyeballs to her group debut, and what better way to snowball that momentum than to confirm it?
Yunjin just didn’t know that you knew yet.
And for your sake, it was probably for the better that she thinks her secret was safe. Firstly, because you don’t know how to feel about how you get the information. You were both at the pinnacle of industry — dating an idol — and at the mercy of it — cobbling together information from vague fan accounts, building a list of social accounts that got leaks right; irony never played fair.
And secondly, because you didn’t know how to bring it up.
Truth be told, you don’t know how to feel about it. You don’t know how you’re supposed to feel about it. You’re equal parts ruptured and reductive. Half of you thinks it borders on trust, and the other half scolds you for thinking that way: that you signed up for this, and don’t know how to compromise. Half of you imagines what they talk about when you’re not around: how far he’ll go to convince the public of a relationship, and the other half thinks you have no self-esteem for stooping that low.
All of you yearns for Yunjin. Because where there were all the things that you had to get used to, there were also the FaceTimes. The phone calls of complete silence when she just wanted someone to listen but was too exhausted to recount what practice was just like. The joy on her face when she told you that was going to debut.
Imposing would be selfish. She deserved everything she worked for, and you don’t even come close to par. Under it all, through the glitz, you see the Huh Yunjin that you fall in love with over again every single day, and she had too tight of a grip on your heart for you to break hers.
So you don’t bring it up, and wait for her to.
-
It’s quite literally pathetic the way notifications on your phone evoke a physical response out of you. Like it fires a neuron, you’re diving hands outstretched every time you hear it chime.
Sure, it hasn’t paid off yet — you’ve dropped literally everything to be greeted by promotional emails, pushes about the weather, and pings on the latest discounts — but you’ll hold your breath.
Though as you pick yourself up off the floor from familiar disappointment at another non-Yunjin notification, you can’t say that you’re less confused. And you’ve caught yourself multiple times today way too deep in somber tangents for some of it not to start sticking.
The loudest of them all stemmed from the fact that it felt like the answer was implied. That if there was nothing to it, it’d be easy to talk about. That if it was anything like the dating mantra, since it didn’t apply to the two of you, Yunjin would address it at face value.
And tautologically, because she didn’t, it wasn’t.
-
It’s the end of the week when Yunjin finally texts you.
have dinner plans tonight mister? :)
You draft two texts. The first makes you sound sixteen: obnoxiously sad about the state of affairs of literally everything. The second makes you sound sociopathic: blunt, deflecting, and not enough emojis. You send a third.
Nope! What do you have in mind?
Before long, you’re sitting on a blanket overlooking the Hangang. The sun’s setting, playing a global game of cat and mouse: light spills through the gaps in willow trees, gazebos, and construction, highlighting pockets of parkground with its blessing of orange-red. You’re where the surface area’s the largest, like the paper bowls of ramen didn’t anchor the blanket down enough, and the sun’s rays are what did the trick.
Or, technically speaking: bowl of ramen.
Because while Yunjin was three-quarters of the way finished with hers, sneaking bites in as she took breaths in between practically spoiling her next comeback, yours was virtually untouched. You made do with spinning the floating egg in your bowl dizzy.
“You know,” Yunjin starts, “you didn’t have to come out if you weren’t hungry.”
You look up at her. Her head’s cocked at an angle, piqued such that it catches sunlight. In the glow, she’s beautiful.
“I’m a big girl now,” she emphasizes. “You can tell me no. I might cry myself to sleep after, but — you know — in a big girl way.”
Her eyes curl up into tiny moons like they always do, and you give her a weak response.
It’s tightrope thin. Yunjin’s prodding, expecting you to riposte, poking at things she knows will get a reaction out of you; you don’t bite. You’re both expecting an answer. Your heart is jackhammering at your chest, and between the punctuation, in the offbeats, you want to yell. You want to find out if your house of cards is built on sand.
-
The both of you are walking back towards HYBE, along the scenic route that you always take, and only someone purposely oblivious would guess that everything was fine.
“Do you,” Yunjin perks up, trailing off, “not like the comeback?”
You don’t say anything.
“Maybe,” she pokes again, “you’re grumpy because I haven’t been texting you?”
You feel her eyes peek at you then retreat. In your peripheral vision you see her purse her lips, nod, and then smirk. You hear a tiny breath.
“Are you,” and she lets out an exaggerated gasp, “seeing someone else?”
“I know about your scandal, Yunjin,” you blurt out, and it's too fast for either of your own goods.
There’s a beat. You both stop walking. You turn her way.
“Your dating scandal — your fake boyfriend — whatever.”
Yunjin isn't great at hiding her emotions — her eyebrows give it away. You see her face gradient across shock, then consideration, before landing on shame. Her eyebrows knit, and she can’t meet your eyes.
There’s another beat. You can hear your heart thump in your ears, and despite the autumn at night, you’re hot. You’re searching her face for a tell, some semblance of an answer; anything.
You’re imposing.
And for the first time in the past week, you’re thinking of her. Of her today and her in the past. Of all the work she put in to get to where she wanted to be. Of what she had to give up to have tonight with you. Of all the nights before this, and the many she had to cancel abruptly because work came up. Of her being here now, and you selfishly making this about yourself.
You’re imposing, and it feels like shit.
“I’m-,” Yunjin starts, voice shaky.
You look at her, and there’s tears pooling in her eyes.
“I didn’t know how to bring it up,” she continues slowly, and then the surface tension breaks. She shuts her eyes tight, and then she’s crying. “It’s in the contract we signed. It helps our comeback.”
You hear the Huh Yunjin that you first fall in love with. Before the glitz, before she had to pretend like she was an adult-
“I don’t know what to say.”
- before she had to hide anything from you.
(The two of you are in front of the HYBE building, and she’s giving you shit for how messily you eat. It’s a late spring, and Yunjin’s hair is shoulder-length and cherry oak. You’re missing a lecture on the pigeonhole principle, and she’s dodging her manager — sea salt ice cream was seasonal, after all.
“How did you get it on your nose?” She chides you, dabbing around your mouth with a scrunched napkin. “They should have you give your I.D. to see if you can handle a cone instead of a cup. Nine-year olds can do this better than you.”
“What if you don’t debut, Yunjin?”
You were always good at telling it like it was, even if you had to disregard social tact. But you had a point. Yunjin was going on her third trainee year, and internally, it didn’t look like it was going to be her last. 
There’s a couple of beats before she softens.
“I don’t know.”
It’s a side of her that really only you do. Under the spunk and the character she has to amplify, there is fear: that she’s taking too large a gamble, that she’d be perpetually behind if she didn’t make it, that it’d be safer if she just did what everyone else was doing.
She can’t meet your eyes, and she’s fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
“I just think things tend to happen for a reason,” she says, with more resolve than you expect. “And I don’t think it’s worth it to question it deeper than that.”
“How much of that is because you’re scared of the answer?”
There’s a pause, and the implication is clear.
“Do you always hate to have just a cute, fictional moment?” You look down at her, and she’s expecting it, staring back at you, eyebrows knit, lips in an exaggerated pout. “We can’t just — I don’t know — kiss and end things on the high note?”
You break, and let out the unflattering start to a laugh. She’s deflecting, and you know to let it go. In your heart of hearts, the two of you know that you’re both right. That there’s fear in uncertainty — a lot of it — but also hope. That big payoffs don’t come if you don’t gamble it all.
You lean down and kiss her on the nose.
She’s staring at you as she walks all the way back through the revolving doors, a smirk across her lips, and the unmistakably blue speck of sea salt ice cream on her nose. She’s yelling, letting you know to let the rest of your face have some ice cream, too.)
And you’re staring at her, wishing this time was half as picturesque. She doesn’t have the words; she doesn’t have to. Asking the hard question was your thing. She’s pleading, frantically, and her watery eyes are beckoning. You want to tell her that it’ll all play out, that things happen for a reason; you don’t have to — that was her thing.
Under the soft, streetlamp glow, you see the Yunjin the public doesn’t — the uncertainty, the gamble, the fear. You hear the desperation in the dark days; the resolve, unconvincing yet unabashed, that what was far out was not so; the throughline: that if she pretended to be convinced, maybe you would, too. 
You see the Yunjin you love, and you’re so fucking whipped.
You thumb the tear trailing down her cheek. You’re defeated, and it bleeds into your voice, but never going to pass on hitting where it hurts. “What happened to changing the idol industry?”
She chokes back a laugh through tears. “Okay,” she starts, and through the sarcasm she tries for — and how muddy it was between sniffles — she’s glad to hear your voice. “It’s the goddamn industry. What am I supposed to do in the debut video: admit defeat? Who’d watch that?”
“Sorry, it’s just — all of it — so dumb,” she adds for good measure, swiping at her eyes.
Hanging in the night, in the words unsaid, in between the watery sarcasm and the tension quickly evaporating, it’s clear. The two of you resolve a silent conversation. You’re punctuating her apologies with eye rolls, and she wants to hear you say you love her, but she knows that already. You say you don’t deserve her, and she calls you stupid.
Tears hot down your cheeks, you’re both laughing now, bouncing off of each other. And then, into the what’s next of it all: “I can try to get out of it,” Yunjin says.
It’s cathartic and real, and should disarm you.
But you say no.
Down to your cores, you and Yunjin were infinitely kindred. Intertwined forever, etched in the books of fate with permanent marker. You were after each other's hearts, molded from the same cosmic clay. You had each other in all the ways that mattered, and that would never change.
-
The last stop on your train home is when you get the notification.
are you headed home?
And in the moment, you catastrophize. It was in the middle of the weekend of her comeback. What was she thinking? Did something happen? How far were you away from HYBE?
But even if you played the same situation back a hundred times over, there was no way in hell you’d get to the conclusion that Huh Yunjin was in your foyer, behind your door, and wearing what didn’t leave much to imagination.
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“Yunjin-” you try and start, before you’re kissed quiet. 
Her hands are on top of yours, leading, as you smooth down the creases of her vanilla crop top and run your thumbs down her body. Your fingers are fluid, filling the divots, tracing along the lines, running the valleys of muscle in the flat of her stomach. Between bouts, as her lips linger inches away from yours, for a moment uncaptured, you breathe in air nonvenomous, and try to grapple with it all, scrambling for something to hold on to before your brain short circuits.
You’re sinking, and you don’t know how to wrestle rights from rudimentaries. Yunjin’s eyes, glazed over, zero in on yours, and she kisses you again. Her lips are sweet and have a bite to them, yours smack as you swallow the venom thick on your tongue. She pulls away, you come up for air.
Standing in the soft, orange-yellow glow of light from the room adjacent, you see the Yunjin the public does — the siren, sultry and seductive: her eyes, soft, malleable, and unassuming — how she could convince you that your name was something else entirely if she looked at you head on — her lips, venom-laced and tantalizing — how she’d push the agenda. 
Except this time, you’re finally lucid, and you see the parallel. In the muscles — impressive in the light, but meek at the same time, like it split moments in the spotlight with softness — in the eyes — perpetually provocative, but infinitely innocent — in the perfect unattainable. Everything is polished, nudged purposefully in its direction. It’s all artificial, doctored, and done up.
Huh Yunjin is a product of industry, and you were going to fuck it out of her.
Yunjin’s smirk dismantles as you rip your hands from her grip. It completely falls apart as you pull her into you face first, thumbs across her cheeks. And as she tries to pull back, you’re keeping her where you want her, kissing into the poison. Her hands grab at your chest; at your dress shirt, half foregoing permission, pulling buttons apart, and half to steady herself as you move your dance deeper into your living room.
You’re leading this time, and as your knees bump brown velvet, you’re able to rasp: “Yunjin, on the couch.”
“How do you want me?” she whispers, breath hot on your lips.
“Legs apart.” You push her into the middle seat, and her hands are working at her shorts. There’s an audible zip, and they’re on your hardwood.
And as you’re kneeling down into the negative space in between Yunjin’s thighs, in the seconds, sultry and slow-burn, you catch a glimpse of her face. Spread across the finger in her mouth, eyes half-lidded, and eyebrows upturned, you think you see anticipation. Like you were going to rip Yunjin apart, and — straying away from what she was taught, coloring outside the lines — she might let you.
You test the theory: you take her into your mouth.
And you don’t think you’ve heard an exhale more pained. 
You’re generous — lapping at her heat through lace, grazing against her clit — and with variety — kissing her inner thighs, nipping at skin. Yunjin’s sensitive and unintelligible.
“Fuck,” she manages to get out, her hips bucking, searching for more of you. One of her hands tries to meet you where you are, to pull her panties to the side, to feel you on her. But you redirect her to where you want her to be: your free hand on her wrist, you lead her up her chest. And though reluctantly, she translates. Together, you’re undoing buttons, palming the fullness of her breast, and flicking at the hard bud of her nipple.
Eventually, you give Yunjin what she wants.
You’re cradling her thighs around your forearms, and at the angle you have her, suspended, supported by the small of her back, you swear she yelps. You draw her underwear to the side, and then Yunjin’s squealing. She’s whining, she’s so wet, she’s raking her nails at your scalp. Your mouth’s on her cunt, drawing long across her folds, tonguing the alphabet over her clit.
There’s this moment. She’s arching, thighs hooked tight at your arms, on her tiptoes. You poke your tongue into her heat, there’s a high note, and then Yunjin’s cumming in your mouth.
And as you coax her through it, tongue flat, letting her ride your mouth, you’re sharing a gaze. Morbid curiosity can’t stop her from peeking at the mess she’s making, and you want to see what it looks like to kill a goddess.
“Fuck,” Yunjin repeats, like it’s the only word she knows, as you lick your lips. Her head’s tucked into her chest, and the orange bask she’s painted in is competing with the blush sauntering across her cheeks.
“You’re so-” she starts, dodging your eyes, kicking out gingerly at you.
“Mm?” you beckon, easing yourself in between her legs, undoing the button at your pants, freeing your cock tenting at the fabric. “I’m so?” you press again, tugging her panties off, soaked beyond belief.
And how you have her under you, top unbuttoned, hanging off her shoulders, how she can’t meet your eyes, it’s apt. Like she’s disarmed. Like under the layers of polish and practice, purposefully put away; under the glitz, the expensive everything: multisyllabic and most likely mispronounced; under the spunk, in her personal space, when she wasn’t allowed to deflect, Huh Yunjin was naked, and like putty in your hands.
All it took was your mouth on her cunt.
And she sure as shit didn’t need to say anything to you to admit it. It’s hard to miss, the way she’s folding her legs behind your waist, the red across her cheeks deepening.
“Think about your answer,” you quip for good measure, and with your cock hovering inches away from her pussy: “I’m going to fuck you now.”
And truthfully, the confidence is more for you than it is for Yunjin. It’s far from your first time, but every time you slide your cock in Yunjin’s cunt, it’s like everything around you takes a collective deep breath. Time becomes measured in fractions of a second, and you’re clairvoyant and hypersensitive. The head of your cock pushes into her pussy, and it’s hot.
You inhale a breath, picking up the sex in the air.
You swear your vision inverts. There’s white where there used to be color.
You catch the entirety of Yunjin’s mewling, as she goes from fuck, please, and your cock into falsetto. She’s mixing your name with untranslatables.
You feel her fucking cunt.
Teeth gritted, you’re pairing hard and soft. You bury your length in her, the front of your thighs slapping the back of hers, and kiss her lips tender. You only taste Yunjin, and you kiss her like she’s lifeblood. It’s sweet: her lipstick, her taste still on your lips, the breaths you’re sharing. And as Yunjin breaks for air, you’re whispering in the negative space, breath hot.
“Yeah?”
And she’s nodding her head, uncontrollably. Agreeing to anything you put forward, before you even asked. Anything that kept your cock in her.
“You’re-” you try again.
Your hands wrap around her midriff, her hands wrap around your wrists.
“You’re such a-”
God, her fucking cunt.
Except you need to hear it. You want to hear her say it, airtight, with no room for implication to escape.
“Yunjin,” you finally manage, and then in whole: “You’re such a good girl for my cock, aren’t you?”
She’s nodding her head, mumbling. But that wasn’t good enough for you. You’re hilting, deep in her cunt, and steadying yourself, curling a hand around her neck. “Yunjin” — a little louder — “answer me.”
Her hands around your wrists tighten, and she lets out this moan. Like she’s trying to give you the answer you want, and frustrated that she can only whine. Finally, through the untranslatables: yes, yes, all for your cock-
But that wasn’t it. Your fingers are pressing into her throat, and you’re pounding into her, wet all over you; imprinting her into the sofa. “Yunjin,” and it’s dark. “This is all you want, isn’t it?”
And she’s doing everything she can to convince you. She’s pushing herself into your length, grabbing at your hands, and through eyes half-lidded, staring deep at you. To show you she can compete, to show you just how good she was — just for you. And through your grip: “Yes, fuck. God, yes — this is all I-”
But it’s not what you want to hear. You’re riding the line. You’re biting your tongue bloody. Yunjin’s cunt is suffocatingly tight against your cock. Your grip’s white-knuckle on her skin. You shut your eyes tight. You know what you wanted to hear.
“Your other boyfriend can’t give it to you like this, can he?”
And you spend all the luck that was supposed to last you this lifetime, because in a moment of lucidity, you pull out. But immediately after that, you’re left to your own devices, and of course, you cum.
It’s hot, and you feel like a rubber band twanged across the middle. Like everything tight is wrenched out of you, and then let go, left to ricochet on your spine, springing back and forth. Your ears are ringing, your toes are curling; you’re letting out an orgasm so deep, you’re only saved by the fact that your eyes are closed for half of it.
And as you stir, blinking vision back into your eyes, your brain coming back to center, you’re thinking back, and you realize what the fuck you just said.
Yunjin’s meeting you where your eyes are at. Your brain’s numb, her jaw’s frozen in this half-scoff, lips untouching. She raises her eyebrows, giving you somewhere between what the fuck and intrigued. It’s expectant. You opened this up, she’s saying, now what?
You’re standing in the sand, and your house of cards is crumbling. You’re toeing where you expect the line to be, can’t find it, and don’t need to look to know it’s long behind you. Your chest is tight, and the implication is still in the air. You’re scrambling for something: something to walk it back, something in between the lines, anything to drive a stake through the premise and kill it entirely.
Yunjin is less patient. She ventures into the unknown, since you won’t. “Has this been about that the entire time?”
“Yunjin,” and you’re honest, preemptively reaching your hands out to her. “I don’t know why I said that.”
You’re looking straight into her eyes, completely wide. Her eyebrows pinch, and there’s a couple of beats. You know you should take them, to fill in the blanks; not to let the implication linger. But before you do: “I thought about my answer,” Yunjin starts, lowering her fingers to where you left yourself on her stomach.
And only after she runs her forefinger across her tongue, only after she cleans it of cum: “You’re so good, and no one can give it to me like you do.”
Spread across the bite in her lip, eyes half-lidded, and how she’s staring at you through her lashes, the implication’s crystal. And you would probably literally short circuit, if not for the second wind that was Yunjin licking you off of her fingers as she doubled down.
It all crescendos. She’s flipped over, and you’re pounding her into the couch, half to punctuate any sentences that implied she wasn’t completely yours, and the other half because her cunt was still so goddamn tight. The upholstery’s harmonizing, the hardwood exhaling on her offbeat.
You’re gripping Yunjin’s hips, bottoming out in her cunt at an angle, pulling her back into you. And she’s writhing, whining, taking your cock deeper and deeper.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she’s saying, and it irks you a little more than it should.
“Yunjin,” you spit, and you’re pressing your thumbs into her skin. “Shut up and take this dick like a good girl.”
And when you’re both pressing the buttons-
“Who else can fuck you like this, Yunjin?”
no one no sorry so sorry all yours this pussy yours you fuck me so- so hot when you’re jealous
“Yeah? You want me to? You’re such a good girl for me, baby,”
yes so good only for you so messy all over your cock fuck cum in me cum in me please i’ve been such a good girl please
- the gray area might as well be a chasm.
Because after you cum inside her, Yunjin drooling over your sofa, breath shuddering, leaking all over your cock, you have a mountain to climb. Physically — how you’re crumpled over her, exhausted, entangled — emotionally — how you’ll both put a cap on this in its entirety — and all of the rest of the above.
You’ll wait for her to bring it up.
-
Yunjin’s wrapped in your dress shirt, two sizes too big, and her head’s on your chest. Nothing short of Herculean, you’re in bed, and under polyester.
“He has a girlfriend, you know,” she says.
“Huh?” you manage intelligibly.
“My scandal.” Yunjin motions under the sheets, like the word needed air quotes. “Cute little thing. Works at an animal hospital. Always the loudest voice in the fanchants.”
You’re stunned, and don’t know what the right line of conversation is. “How are they taking it?”
“Probably makes their sex hotter, too.”
Dating made everything so much messier than it needed to be.
-
Two weeks after their comeback, the scandal breaks.
The official post is tame, but knowing netizens — a look at the comments confirming your suspicions — they’re feral. It’s a collage of three photos that look like they were taken from fifty feet away, but unmistakably of Yunjin an arm’s length away from another figure. They’re on a blanket overlooking the Hangang; she’s cuddled up in one of your hoodies, two sizes too big; and in the third photo, enlarged in post for emphasis, Yunjin’s nestled in his arm, selling the relationship pretty goddamn well.
You open an alt account and leave a hate comment.
LET’S BE HONEST HE DON’T DESERVE HER 💀💀💀😭😭😭
---
:)
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jacobfreddie1005 · 2 years
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If you are searching for Fascias and Shop Fronts in New Charlton? then, you should visit once at The Chalkman. Visit: https://bit.ly/The_Chalkman
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florencemtrash · 8 months
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Hummingbird: Chapter One
Miguel O'Hara x Reader
What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?
Masterlist
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You leaned back against the desk, ignoring the leftover smattering of paint as it seeped into your overalls, and checked the time. Miles’s face was stuck to the pages of his sketchbook, blue and red ink staining his cheek as he snored softly. One hand loosely gripped an open highlighter, the other dangled over the edge of his desk, half-eaten sandwich abandoned on the floor.
Twenty minutes. He’d been asleep for twenty minutes, and if you let him sleep any longer, he’d be late for fifth period.
You rapped your knuckles on his pencil case, the ringing tin jolting the teenager awake. Brown eyes flashed around the room, fists shooting out in an amateur boxing move as he tried to figure out why his spidey sense hadn’t warned him of any danger.
But there was no danger here. Nope, just Miss Y/l/n staring at him curiously from under raised brows.
“Wakey wakey, Miles,” You wore your usual pair of yellow Converse and paint-splattered overalls, the pockets hanging wide and loose after years of carrying around paint bottles, brushes, and books. The school board liked to complain about your “improper dress,” but at the end of the day you were one of the school’s only art teachers - and the most highly approved by students.
“Oh heyyyyy Miss Y/l/n.” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck before dropping to the floor and snatching up his forgotten lunch. This was the fourth time you’d caught him sleeping in your classroom. Any more and you might actually have to start giving him detention. He tossed pens, snacks, and his sketchbook haphazardly into his bag, but not before you caught sight of a familiar blond-haired, blue-eyed girl smiling in front of a backdrop rioting with yellow, pinks, and blues more vibrant than a fireworks display. “GWEN!” the comic-style calligraphy called out next to her glowing face. Miles always seemed to be drawing her these days.
“You’ve still got five minutes left, calm down.” Miles straightened up to face you, clutching his lunchbox to his chest and smiling nervously. You folded your arms over your chest and stared pointedly at the gangly boy in front of you. With how much he’d grown over the last few months you wondered if one of his ancestors had been a garden weed. 
“You want to talk about what’s been going on, Miles?” 
“What do you-what do you mean?”
“You’ve been falling asleep in my class, this is the fourth time I’ve caught you napping here during lunch, and now I hear from Mr. Maloney that you’ve been skipping English.”
“He-he told you that?” He tugged at the collar of his shirt, hoping for a breeze to drift in through the window and save him from his nerves. He thought he’d been good about juggling the responsibilities of being a high-schooler and everyone’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. If his parents noticed anything different about him they chalked it up to teenage angst and grief over Uncle Aaron’s death. But someone had caught him slipping up.
You shrugged, “The teacher’s lounge exists, and people like to talk.”
“Oh…” he mumbled, shoulders dropping.
The dull ringing of the school bell cut through the silence, followed shortly by the rumblings of conversation as students filled the hallway, moving with the current like fish in a river.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, “Listen, Miles, you’re not in trouble, ok?” Miles sighed in relief. “If you need to eat your lunch or just take a break in my classroom that’s fine with me. I just want to make sure you’re not trying to flunk out like last year.” 
He shook his head adamantly. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - drop out of Brooklyn Visions now. He had a plan for the future: go to Princeton, figure out multiversal traveling, and reunite with Gwen and Peter and the rest of the Spider-gang. Seemed simple enough… and totally doable…
“I promise that’s not the case, Miss Y/l/n.” The sincerity behind his words satisfied you.
“Alright Miles, but I’m keeping an eye on you,” You said dramatically, squinting your eyes and pointing at his chest. Miles snorted, mouth breaking open into a lopsided grin, “Now get out of here or Mrs. Cape will think I’ve convinced you to go to art school again.” 
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I just…”
“Yes, yes, you want to go study physics at Princeton,” you waved your hand in the air, tracing some invisible pattern in the sunlight before grabbing a wet wipe from your desk and tossing it to Miles, “Quantum mechanics, the multiverse, and all that stuff.” 
It wasn’t the first time he’d told you about his future plans, but the words that left his mouth had a tendency of flying over your head. The kid was too smart for his own good.
You paused and took a moment to look at Miles, to really look at him as he scrubbed away at the ink on his cheek, “Those Princeton schmucks would be lucky to have you.”
“Thanks Miss Y/l/n.” Again he gave you that crooked, boyish smile.
“Alright now out, out!” You shooed him towards the door, watching as he saluted you and flashed you one last smile before joining the crowd of students and disappearing around the corner.
You slipped back into your classroom, the smell of charcoal, dried paint, and pencil shavings settling into your lungs - sweet and comforting. There wasn’t an inch of space that wasn’t covered in some manner of artwork: sketches, paintings, collages… colorful graffiti that you should probably scrub out before parent-teacher conferences. Most of the pieces were the works of current students, but sometimes people like to leave things behind on purpose, trusting that you would find a place for them somewhere.
You wiped down the desks, rubbed the worst paint splotches from your overalls, and then collapsed into your chair, swiveling around and munching on the sandwich you’d picked up at the Prospect St. bodega. You had thirty minutes of peace and quiet before sixth period. 
That’s more than enough time. You thought to yourself. Maybe I’ll get some grading done and-
A head of curly black hair popped into the room, face wet and screaming with tears. You straightened in your chair as the boy’s lips thinned, then turned down. His shoulders began to tremble.
“He…He,” Hiccup, “He broke up with me, Miss Y/l/n.” 
“Oh geez,” you sighed deeply, setting your sandwich down and ushering the boy in. 
There were things you missed about being a teenager… the highs and lows of a first love were not on that list.
>>>
Saturday nights were sacred - the only time you reserved entirely for yourself. No grading, no reviewing and updating lesson plans, no agonizing over student reviews. You’d used to go out with old college friends for drinks on the weekend, but most of them had moved out of the city or gotten married and were doing married people things.
Is this what getting older is like? You wondered as you snuggled further into your couch, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders to keep out the chill. It wasn’t too terrible… albeit a little lonely.
The latest in a slew of cooking shows played out on the tv, throwing flashes of light onto the book-burdened coffee table and providing the background noise necessary for you to finally get your thoughts out of your sketchbook. But the moment you went to put the pen nib down, your mind went blank, and not in a good way. Every line looked wrong, the eyes of the figure looking bloated and misshapen. Time creeped by slowly, dragging you along for a ride as smooth as sandpaper.
 You knew the cause of your frustration, but knowing never made it better. It had been two months since Richard had moved out, two months and one day since you’d found out he was cheating on you with some grad student at NYU. 
Pendejo.
You’d hated his interior decorating, but now the blank spaces on the wall screamed his name. 
You tossed your sketchbook and pencil onto the ground and went to make a cup of tea. Maybe you were better off calling it a night and crawling into bed. Mid-year reviews had just ended and you had a long list of emails to reply to in the morning. One thing you hadn’t been expecting when you’d accepted this job was the number of parents who’d be on your ass about their kids getting a B in art - in art. 
The tea kettle was just about to open its mouth and start singing when a crash sounded from the living, followed by a sheepish “Whoops.” The muffled word punctuated Paul Hollywood’s critique of someone’s lemon tart - too stodgy.
Your blood ran cold as the stranger continued to mutter. 
“There goes another one. Wow there’s a lot of stuff on the floor.” Another one of your precious potted plants hit the ground with a dull crack. 
You grabbed the wooden bat from where it leaned against the wall, swinging it easily behind your head. At least there was one good thing Richard had left you with. 
You creeped out into the hallway, backing up towards the front door with your eyes trained on the shadowy figure making a mess of your living room. The figure fluctuated in and out of existence as he stumbled about the room, tripping over the piles of books and art supplies littering the ground. His body splintered outwards like cobwebs and twisted with flashes of bright light, haunting and inhuman. 
The creak of the floorboards gave you away. All at once the figure stopped and turned around to look at you. Where its face should have been was a single, flickering white spot, pulsing with curiosity as it tilted its head to the side. 
Mierda. 
You bolted towards the door… but he was already there.
“Why hello Mrs. O’Hara. Nice to finally meet you.” A thousand voices said at once.
You screamed and swung. 
The first swing missed, leaving a crater in the drywall. The second swing hit true, but the bat merely sunk into the black void of his body, some force ripping it out of your hands as you staggered backward. “Oh! Well that wasn’t very nice.” The creature laughed. 
Spindly tendrils of dark matter grabbed hold of you and you let out one final scream before the Spot swallowed you whole.
There was a momentary blindness and the sensation of falling before you were unceremoniously spit out onto a hard granite floor. You winced at the rough cut of broken glass beneath your heels, with nothing to protect you but a thin pair of socks. You looked upward and gasped. 
Where there had once been a towering glass ceiling dozens of stories high lay a gaping hole, the metal beams blown backwards into the night air like a blooming flower. It took you a moment to recognize the building, after all you’d seen it nonstop on the news for weeks last year - Alchemax.
What the hell?
Police tape criss-crossed over the debris like yellow spider webs, the scene broken up by black holes that morphed and twisted around you, pulsing with the same energy as the stranger in your apartment.
I must be dreaming. You thought. But in the back of your mind you remembered bits and pieces of what Miles told you he’d been studying over the summer - wormholes and spacetime and portals to different universes. 
You picked up a piece of metal off the floor, experimentally tossing it into one of the spots. It disappeared under the surface like pottery in slip before popping back into existence above you. You only narrowly lunged out of the way before it crashed into the ground and stuck there like a sword in a battlefield.
“Beautiful, isn’t it Mrs. O’Hara?” the Spot stepped out of a hole in the fabric of spacetime beside you. 
You jumped back, choking the scream in your throat. “That’s not-that’s not my name.” You managed to say. “Maybe you’ve kidnapped the wrong person?” A stupid hope.
“Oh? What is it then?” You said nothing, daring to lean down and pick up a jagged piece of roof panel. It might not do much, but it made you feel safer with its weight in your hands. “Well you don’t need to tell me. I just wanted to ask you a question.” He blipped out of existence, taking with him the darkness that pooled out of his skin.
“Who is Spider-Man?” the voices said as the Spot reappeared right beside you.
“You’ve got to stop doing that! Pendejo.” 
“What?”
“Just talk to me like a normal person.” You pointed the roof panel at him, keeping him at a safe distance.
“Who. Is. Spider-Man?” He stepped closer, the tip of your makeshift weapon sinking into his skin like he wasn’t even there. 
The question made you pause. That was what he wanted to know? He had kidnapped you just to ask about Spider-Man? 
“Um, I mean, he’s kind of the local superhero. Stops thieves, saves kittens stuck in trees, makes questionable brand deals at times-”
“NO! I know who Spider-Man is.” 
You blinked in confusion, eyes shifting to the side, “Then why did you kidnap me?”
“I want to know Spider-Man’s identity! His real identity.” The edges of his body sparked, shooting outward and striking the walls of the room. Dust and plaster fell to the ground like snow.
“I don’t-how the fuck am I supposed to know who Spider-Man is?!”
“You know him! The other version of you knew him!” 
“What, other me?”
“The alternate universe version of you!” He threw his hands up into the air like a petulant child. The darkness around him grew with every passing minute, crawling around on the floor and up onto the walls like a reptile looking for its next meal. He slid his hands down his face, somehow pulling at the ether he was made of as he muttered under his breath.
“Whatever, I may have miscalculated. You’ll still be important. Don’t you worry. You may not know who Spider-Man is, but Spider-Man sure knows you.”
Next chapter ->
>>>
Author's Note: so... I may have gotten carried away and written the second chapter as well... hope you enjoy!
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rederiswrites · 9 months
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Went to the home improvement store yesterday because the wall I'd been painting got fucked up with bad paint. Was a more entertaining trip than my poor exhausted, heat addled brain expected.
So I ring for the paint area staffer, and wait. After a minute, she comes by, lugging three gallon cans of paint and looking harried.
"Is what you need simple?" she asks, trying to plan out her time.
"No," I say. "Not at all."
One of the kids flanking me snorts quietly.
Probably repressing the desire to sigh deeply, she asks for a minute to wrap up her current task, which of course is fine. Then we look at my paint and my photos of the bunged-up wall, and she arranges a refund, and we move on to the fixing what's already there part of the problem.
Sheet rock mesh, she says, and points it out. I reach for it, touch the surface, and immediately recoil with a noise of disgust. And this is where things diverge from expectation. I'd usually expect the associate to laugh it off or ignore it. But she's like, "Yeah, it's nasty. Got a bit of that sensory problem myself. Sandpaper, chalk boards..."
"Oh yeah!" I say, delighted to be seen. "My daughter and me both." My daughter gingerly pokes the mesh and shudders.
"I think it's because I'm a bit into the spectrum," she says.
"Sure, totally! ADHD on my end. Lot of overlap."
She nods, and shows me the grippy thing that will let me touch the atrociously aggressive sandpaper less.
We part ways, and I think about how two middle-aged people in a Lowe's can casually discuss their neurodivergence.
The sandpaper works. If the new paint does, too, we'll call that a total win.
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writingoddess1125 · 6 months
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Boardwalk Artist
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Finally used my limited drawing skills for this little story!
Support me on Ko-Fi
No warnings. Fluff-tastic!!
It had been a fairly good day on the boardwalk- Plenty of ships stopping by which allowed you to get some minor work done. Any money was good for you, especially as a artist which wasn't a common or appreciated trade in the East Blue.
Most your work came from low time pirates wanting a better drawing of themselves instead of the unflattering photo from their Bounty's. However the little Berry you got was enough to eat, keep a roof over your head and buy more supplies.
Speaking of supplies-
You sigh as you realize this is the last page of this pack of paper- better make it worth it. Maybe a landscape or the sky or..
However something red and blue catches your eye- spotting a stranger walking down the boardwalk past you.
Your eyes focus on the stranger, noticing the scowl on his face and the clear distaste he had that lingered on his aura. However despite the scowl he was unique looking and at least to you attractive. Strong jawline, pretty blue eyes, wonderful cyan hair and the cheaply painted over 5 o'clock shadow adding a rugged look to his appearance. Defiently your type in some way.
So you begin to sketch him, The last paper being filled up by this odd clown stranger walking past. It was almost muscle memory at this point as you captured him to your finest abilties.
He must have felt you staring as he turns to give you a passing glare-
So you waved him over, he glanced around himself like he was expecting forr you to call for someone else- till you pointed directly at him and waved him over again which lead him stepping forward. The pocey of circus people carrying weapons behind him also staring at you in question at your odd actions-
You finish the sketch with ease and smile at the odd man as he got within a few feet of your little set up.
"Here you go. Last paper of the day is free" You said kindly ripping the last peice of paper from your board and handed it to him as you stood up to pack up your things.
He opened his mouth clearly to say something snarky and rude but paused as he looked at what you handed him.
He stared at the paper, it was a pretty okay drawing of him from the side mainly charcoal with some light white, red and blue chalk were his nose, makeup and hair was which made them pop nicely. In the corner was a scribbled signature and note saying 'You look cool, Thanks!'
He looked up at your surprised as you finished packing the last of your supplies of the day.
"Er- Uh thanks?" He said in a confused tone, Clearly not used to stuff like this. Which was normal for most customers you got anyway.
"No problem, Should thank ya for the nice look" You say cheerfully putting on your backpack and tucking the cheap wooden easel under your arm.
"Oh by the way your nose looks really pretty with your hair color. Complimentary colors and all" You say with a wave and smile. Walking away leaving the Captian standing there bewildered and unable to process what just happened.
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signsandartwork · 9 days
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Chalkboard Writing: Embracing Vintage Charm in Signage
Transform your space with captivating chalkboard art! From menus to pub signs, I specialize in chalkboard writing for all your needs. Contact me today for unique and eye-catching designs.
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thehackneypony · 2 years
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guys what do you think the best leather color would be on chalk
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stirthewaters · 6 months
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Too Sharp to Touch pt.5
Word Count: 3.1k
Warnings: language, mentions of blood
Summary: After a painting session with Xavier you meet up with your friend group at the dining hall, and it seems as if everyone is talking about you and Wednesday
Pairing: Wednesday x Reader
Too Sharp to Touch Masterlist
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The quiet sound of a wet paintbrush slathering over canvas, paint dripping onto the tarp on the floor was the atmosphere for your slavery, taunting you as you remembered that this was all your fault.
Xavier was sitting atop his own painting stool, mid-paint, and looking at you occasionally to make sure you were still cleaning. Your pair of sweatpants was already getting coated in a layer of chalk dust as you knelt on the shed floor, scooping broken pencil shards into the Ziploc bag you’d been given with a very prominent pout on your face.
Sure, you could’ve been painting just like Xavier, getting the respect you very much deserved instead of being treated like a misbehaving child, but no. Here you were, on the floor, dirtying your second pair of pants this month, stooping under tables to reach the strayed paintbrushes.
And it was all the fault of Wednesday Addams.
Yeah sure, you’d gotten a few useful fighting tips a couple nights ago. Use your heightened senses, yadda yadda, don’t let anyone touch the fur on your neck, yadda yadda - but surely you didn’t deserve such a shove to the floor.
And no, you were not imagining the small glint of satisfaction in the goth’s eyes when you nearly busted the floor of the shed right open when the impact of your fall, a mess of paint brushes and art supplies flying around you. The hint of a smirk on her face? She took satisfaction in doing it, no matter what excuses you knew she would make.
“You done yet?” 
The scoff of the painting psychic broke you out of your thoughts when you realized you’d paused cleaning. Frowning softly, you sat back on your heels to look at the mess, or, more importantly, lack thereof. You’d cleaned up the pencils and paintbrushes and most of the chalks, but there was no way you’d be able to clean the stains of charcoal and chalk powder from the boards of the floor. You turned to Xavier and threw the bag at him, not caring if you hurt him or not (not that you put a lot of force into the throw anyway).
Your half-serious hopes of injury were quailed when Xavier chuckled at your throw, putting the ziploc on the table of art supplies, and turning back to painting. Without asking permission (which you both knew you didn’t need), you got off the floor and got into your worn painting stool, trying to dust the chalk powder off your sweatpants with a quiet grumble.
“I shouldn’t have had to clean that, I’m innocent.”
Xavier shook his head with a teasing smile as he dipped his paintbrush into his palette, continuing his smooth brushstrokes as he spoke.
“You know that when you’re in the shed alone whatever happens is your responsibility, Y/N.”
“I wasn’t alone, and it wasn’t my fault,” you insisted, eyebrows furrowing as you tossed him one last pout before turning to your painting you’d started the week before. “It was Wednesday’s fault, go and torture her and not me.” You didn’t comment on the fact that she wouldn’t mind being tortured. If you knew her she’d enjoy it.
“I don’t have a death wish, thank you,” Xavier chuckled softly again as his brush swirled around in his cup of paint water. “And what was Wednesday Addams doing in the shed last night?” The psychic leaned backward on his stool to look around his canvas and give you a raised eyebrow, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.
“Fighting lessons. I already told you,” you grumbled, still in a bad mood from having to clean. “She pushed me.” You adjusted the lighting on one of the antlers of the stag, head tilting sideways as you tried to get the angle right.
“I don’t find that hard to believe,” Xavier muttered from behind his canvas. “She came up to me last night, asking about you, and she sounded pissed; more than usual, at least. Apparently, you didn’t show up.”
You scoffed slightly, trying to ignore the embarrassed heat starting to creep onto your cheeks. “I fell asleep trying to fix the heater, it was making funny noises again.” You paused a little bit, perking up slightly as you glanced at Xavier. “Wednesday asked about me?”
When you saw Xavier pause as well, glancing at you with surprise and a smirk, you froze. “Yeah, she did. Because you were late?” 
You felt the heat in your face get worse as you buried your face in the canvas again, trying to ignore Xavier’s stupid smirk as you felt his eyes on your back. 
“So how did the practice go, anyway? You were talking up a storm about it the other day.”
Oh, you knew exactly what he was doing. 
Deciding to humor him, you delicately painted a fine dark line to add a good contrast to your lighting, grinning in satisfaction as you responded, “Oh it went fine, I suppose.”
The silence that followed your response made you grin wider, but you hid it as you turned your face further into your canvas and out of view, continuing to smoothen your strokes as he responded, “That’s it? Come on, Y/N, I know it was more than that.”
“Nope,” you muttered, still thinking that he deserved some sort of payback for making you clean up the mess. “Nothing at all.”
The silence dragged on, only filled by the sound of water swishing and paintbrushes dipping into the paint before you finally couldn’t hold back what you had to say.
“Wednesday cheated. She shoved me on purpose and didn’t warn me.” You continued to complain as you added a touch of green to your forest canopy background. “Not to mention the fact that she barely taught me anything-”
You continued to grumble and gripe about your night, pausing only to catch your breath as Xavier listened, before cutting in, “Sounds like you two had a good time, aside from breaking apart my shed. Next time keep it in the academy or the woods.”
You fixed him with a glare, shaking your head as you felt the heat return to your cheeks. “It was a fighting lesson, that’s all.” Turning back to your canvas, you muttered, “And I don’t think she particularly liked your crusty old shed anyways.”
“Keep talking like that and you won’t get to use my crusty old shed,” Xavier snarked, throwing a paintbrush at your head, which you dodged. “And clearly it wasn’t just a fighting lesson, you’ve been walking around in a trance all day. Did she, like, poison you or something?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her.” You turned your attention back to your canvas to try and get rid of the now very prominent blush on your face. 
You leaned toward the canvas, switching out for the smaller brush to hone in on the detail of the bloodstain. Yes, you’d used the pigs blood from the bloodstain thing you’d done with Wednesday. It made the piece more genuine, at least in your mind. 
When you leaned in you started to drag your brush delicately down the canvas when something made you freeze. You picked up a scent on your painting. No, it wasn’t the scent of blood, oils or acrylics. It was faint, maybe two or three days old, but it was a scent you knew. The scent of dead leaves and darkness, an underlying tone of death lingering behind it. 
Wednesday?
Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you continued to hover right in front of your canvas, setting your brush down so you could focus. Not only had she been near it but she had touched it. That much you knew. Yet you were still confused. Had she been here some other time? Why would she touch your painting of all the paintings there were here?
“Uhh… Y/N?”
Xavier’s confused voice broke through your thoughts as you realized you had been hunched weirdly in front of your canvas for a bit, lost in confusion and still scenting the last traces of Wednesday on your canvas. Embarrassed, you straightened quickly, muttering out an excuse about seeing a bug, and tried to focus on your painting as you reached for the paintbrush again.
-
You stood and stretched, glancing outside at the sky that was beginning to darken, the last golden rays of sun fading out slowly. Your painting was definitely coming along nicely; you’d gotten a lot of the lighting done, and the background was nearly finished; you’d have to fix the bloodstain another time. Blood definitely wasn’t something easy to paint with. 
You put your brushes away and scooted your stool back into place as you glanced at Xavier, who had his headphones on. Walking over, you nudged him, gesturing outside to let him know you were leaving.
The psychic merely nodded at you in acknowledgment, handing you the Ziploc full of the broken art supplies for you to keep before turning back to his art, and you slipped out of the shed, leaving him to his devices as you threw your shoulder into the creaky door to close it fully.
Your stomach was growling by the time you arrived at the main building, jogging up the stairs as you made a beeline for the dining hall, weaving easily through students. God, you were starving. If they were out of yogurt cups again you were going to claw someone.
Upon entering the dining hall, your eyes brightened at the sight of a bustling room, tables full of chatting students, not to mention those studying in the corner. Fidgeting impatiently you got in line, grabbing yourself a Coke. You spotted the last yogurt cup in the cooler and reached for it, only for it to be swiped from your reach by someone ahead of you in line.
Growling with frustration, you had to stop yourself from literally clawing it out of the student's hands, reminding yourself to have some self-control as you watched the student walk off with what should have been your property. 
Damnit.
Your hands felt empty carrying only your coke (ignoring the Ziploc bag of broken art supplies), as you walked toward your usual table, Enid, Bianca, Yoko, and Divina were already seated and chatting together.
“Move,” you huffed, nudging the tip of the blonde’s blazer as your hands were full. You scooted in between Yoko and Enid, setting the bag of art supplies at your feet and cracking open the coke with a claw, shotgunning it.
“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Bianca observed from across the table, giving you a smirk as she took a bite of salad. “What was it this time?”
You paused mid-shotgun to groan. “I was so close to getting that yogurt cup I could taste it.” Your words came out more of a whine than a groan. 
“Don’t be late next time, then! What took you so long?” Enid elbowed your side, almost causing you to spit your coke out all over yourself as you kicked her back under the table with equal force.
“I had to clean up this giant mess in Xavier’s shed,” you grumbled. “Leftovers from fighting practice.”
“Fighting practice! Everyone’s been talking about your fighting practice and I want the tea, so spill.” Enid raised an eyebrow at you, taking a sip of her own tea as she grinned. 
“Not everyone.” Yoko scoffed from across the table, rolling her eyes as she chuckled a little at the blonde’s exaggeration. “Us, Enid. We’ve been talking about it, not the whole school.”
“Yeah, because we want to know how in hell you managed to not only get lessons with her but somehow not get killed in the process,” Bianca raised an eyebrow, pointing her plastic fork at you for emphasis as she spoke. “She must be using you somehow.”
Enid jumped in to defend her roommate quickly. “Hey, Wednesday doesn’t use people-!”
The table burst into conversation and argument, nothing too serious, and you just listened as you chugged the rest of your coke, the sound of it melding quite nicely with the noisy chatter of the dining hall.
You clearly weren’t paying attention because one second everyone was fighting and the next Wednesday was standing right behind you and Enid, and this time you did choke on your coke, the soda going down the wrong pipe and causing you to cough as you covered your mouth, embarrassed.
“Speak of the devil,” Bianca muttered, rolling her eyes at the sight of Wednesday.
“Don’t flatter me,” came the response, the raven glaring at the siren with such a gaze that could make a grown man cry. Addressing nobody else, she turned to Enid. “I’d appreciate your assistance using this.”
Wednesday handed the blonde her phone. It was the one you knew Xavier had given her and not once had you seen her use it, not that you assumed she knew how. 
Enid tapped on it a couple times, adjusting some things on screen before handing it back to Wednesday, who frowned in slight distaste at the phone. nodding her thanks and turning on her heel. 
As she walked past you she placed a yogurt cup in front of you, not even making eye contact as she did so.
“Addams’ giving gifts?” Bianca snickered, raising an eyebrow to tease Wednesday, who glared coldly in response, hissing. “Thing retrieved the yogurt cup for me. Seeing as I have no regard for anything slightly sweet it was of no use to me and I was to get it out of my hands.”
The raven locked eyes with you at the end of her sentence and you felt a very noticeable blush ride to your face as you met her glare. 
“Suggest anything personal such as me giving anyone a gift again, Barclay, and I’ll filet your scales out one by one.” Wednesday threatened the siren coldly. Her eyes met yours once more, something flickering within them before she turned and left. As you watched her go, no you did not see Thing anywhere near her, nor could scent him.
Liar.
You dug your spoon into the yogurt, mixing the berries together, suddenly aware of the silence around you. You paused and looked up, raising an eyebrow. “What-?”
“Nothingggg!” Enid said in a singsong tone, giggling as she looked at you. “I just think that someone maybe has a little crush?”
The blonde’s words were met with a chorus of agreement and laughter, save Bianca who still looked pissed from her conversation with Wednesday, to no surprise.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you huffed as you spooned your yogurt, the blush on your face getting darker. Damnit. Yoko slammed her palm on the table, pointing at you.
“Your tells don’t lie, Y/N. I’ve never seen your face that shade of red before. Something’s up.”
You groaned, glaring at her without a retort to fire back. You were going to get her back for it. You kicked her shin underneath the table, smirking with satisfaction when the vampire winced.
“Look, all we’re saying is that first off you totally do have a crush,” Yoko pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “But aside from that, you could get murdered. Seriously, Y/N, I’m worried for your safety. Do all werewolves have a death wish?”
“Nah, just the hot ones,” you responded sarcastically, draining the last of the yogurt cup and standing up. “I’m gonna bounce, I’m headed out for a run.”
You were met with a couple goodbyes, a nod from Bianca, and a raise of an eyebrow from Yoko, but Enid stood up with you, nodding, “Yeah I’m going with you.”
You started to speak up, confused; Enid had never shown interest in going on a run with you before - but when you saw the blonde's face, telling you to stay quiet, you did as told and nodded, walking with her out of the dining hall.
As soon as the two of you were out of sight the blonde pulled you aside in the hall, holding both of your shoulders.
“Look, I’m not gonna lie, Wednesday totally likes you,” Enid said with a grin. “It’s not like many people can tell, but seeing as I’m her roomie I can see when she’s got a soft spot for someone and you’ve got her wrapped around your finger.”
“Are you sure about that?” You raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the prickling on your neck at the thought of what she was suggesting. “She seems to hate me.”
“Oh please, Y/N, wake up and smell the roses.” Enid rolled her eyes, shaking your shoulders a little. “I’m trying to help you out here.”
You sighed and muttered, “Fine. Enlighten me, oh great sensei.”
“Don’t be a dick, and listen.” Enid shook you harder. “You need to get her attention, more so than already. Show her you’re bold.”
“And how would I do that?” You said in a bit of confusion as to where this was heading.
“Maybe go out and kill something and bring it back to her? As like- to show you’re a good hunter?” The blonde didn't even notice your eyes scrunching up in distaste.
“Or I could steal something-“ You went completely off the rails, eyes sparking at your own idea as Enid frowned. “She deserves payback after making me clean up her mess.”
“Y/N, I don’t think that’s such a good idea-“ Enid shook her head, face going slightly pale. “No matter what feelings Wednesday might have towards you, she'll literally murder you if you take any of her stuff.”
“Too late!” You were grinning now, eyes alight with mischievous intent, hopping a little on your toes with the excitement of it all. “She totally deserves it.”
You were already starting to scramble down the hallway, your run forgot, but Enid grabbed our arm, speaking seriously. “Y/N, no matter what you do, just - be careful and don’t mess anything up. The fact that Wednesday likes you already means you’re on thin ice, so be careful.”
You looked at Enid and nodded impatiently. “Thanks for the advice, E, I owe you one!”
With that you turned and raced down the hall, your mind set on the prize to snatch. Something the Addams treasured, cared for, loved, even. 
The typewriter.
—————
pt.6 here!
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joehawke · 1 year
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okay but - hear me out,
Steddie au where after the upside down, Eddie survives, all is well, and he and Steve end up getting closer (what with helping the kids heal and what not, and if they happened to start focusing on healing with one another, well who had to know?) but with the amount of head trauma Steve had, he slowly starts losing his memory piece by piece. Eventually Eddie catches on, and it’s just the little things that give it away (I.E Steve not remembering stuff he normally would, and yeah, Eddie passed it off a few times because Steve’s forgetful, but never like this). Eddie finally makes Steve schedule a consult with his doctor and wouldn’t you know it, Steve’s memory is slowly deteriorating. The doctor says he has a couple months before Steve’s memory is completely gone, blank, a fresh canvas. And maybe this could be a fresh start, but steve doesn’t see it that way. In a fit of panic, Steve makes Eddie vow to not tell the kids or Robin or Nancy, makes Eddie vow to take this to the grave despite Eddie’s claims that this isn’t what they’d want. Eddie wakes up one day a few months in to Steve’s side of the bed completely cold, the sheets frozen and smoothed over to the touch like they’ve been void of warmth and weight for well over a few hours now. All that’s in his place is a stack of envelopes, all in Steve’s sloppy hand writing Eddie’s come to know so well. There’s letters addressed to all the kids, to Robin, to nancy, there’s even one addressed to hopper and Joyce. And lastly, Eddie’s name is scrawled out on the very last one.
Fast forward roughly around 2 years later: Eddie tried to move on from Steve, he really did. It was rough. God it was so rough not only for him, but watching his friends and family go through losing their Steve too. Eddie would be lying if he said he gave up on looking for Steve, god he’s been looking for Steve since he opened up that god forsaken envelope. And yet, despite searching high and low, Steve pops up when Eddie was least expecting.
Corroded Coffin hasn’t made it big yet, but they’re slowly gaining traction as they make it around to different towns to do small gigs. They’re currently stationed out in butt fuck nowhere in a small town in Indiana, and Jeff insisted on walking around the town. Eddie eventually wanders off on his own, claiming if he doesn’t get caffeine in him in the next 3 minutes he’s gonna fall asleep to the sound of Gareth’s rambling. He walks up a block until he finds a small coffee shop. It’s not the cutest thing, obviously is being worked on and reconstructed, but as long as they have coffee, Eddie could care less. The bell rings to the small glass door as Eddie pushes it open. There’s paintings lying on the booths and the smell of fresh paint hits him. Maybe the open sign in the window was put up too early?
“Be right with you!” A soft voice calls from the back, and Eddie shrugs off his previous thought, shoving his hands in his pocket as he takes a look at the (incomplete) chalk board above the counter. Eddie turns to look at the paintings scattered across the small shop, taking in the hues of different colors and landscapes. They’re good.
“Sorry about the clutter, renovating. I just opened” the voice from the back says, now closer. And maybe the soft scratchy drawl should’ve been more obvious, or maybe the weird presence eddie feels sitting hot on his gut, but Eddie almost pukes when he smells Farrah Faucet hairspray in his vicinity, and that should’ve been sign enough. But still, Eddie turns to the sound he used to fall asleep to, and the overwhelming smell that once used to sweep his pillows, and everything in him plummets to the floor because standing in clear daylight is Steve fucking Harrington. Eddie thinks he’s gonna be sick.
Something must register in Eddie’s demeanor, because Steve is saying something, but all Eddie can hear is static.
“Steve?” Eddie asks out shakily, reaching out before thinking better of it and moving his hand back like he’s been burned.
“Uh, yeah that’s me? Do I know you?” Steve asks, and Eddie’s heart plummets even farther. A wet chuckle makes its way up Eddie’s throat, and yeah, not his best move, but it’s better than the bile that was following close behind.
“I uh - I-“ and this isn’t happening right now. This is some fucked up dream Eddie’s having, a figment of his fucked imagination. A bad trip. He has to leave. But he can’t get his legs to work.
“You okay sir?” Steve asks gently, putting his hand delicately on Eddie’s shoulder and it takes every fiber and being in Eddie not to break down in sobs over the contact. A part of Eddie wants to yell at Steve, wants to scream and cry and ask why, but the other part, the more… logical part, knows why. Knows why Steve did what he did. Knows that the Steve standing in front of him isn’t the Steve he was 2 years ago. So Eddie does the only rational thing he knows how to do and he asks a detour question.
“Where are the paintings from?” He asks shakily, and Steve gives him an odd look, as if trying to read him. But he dismisses it and Eddie thanks a god he doesn’t quite believe in.
“Oh, um, here actually. Or, well my studio.” Steve says shyly, a blush coming to sit high on his cheeks and yeah, Eddie fucking missed that color.
“Studio?” Eddie asks, trying to calm his racing nerves
“Yeah, I uh, I painted them” Steve says, and Eddie’s heart breaks because here’s another piece of Steve eddie doesn’t know anything about. He doesn’t know anything about his Steve. What kind of world is he living in when he knows nothing about him? And maybe what he does next wasn’t throughly thought out, and yeah, maybe Eddie is chasing after a dead star, but Eddie also thinks he’d hate himself forever if he didn’t do what he does.
“I uh, I’ll be right back. I have to make a call outside.” Eddie stutters out, slowly walking back towards the door. He hastily grabs his phone out, almost tripping over his own feet as he gets ahold of it. He calls the band, calls his manager, and calls the kids and Robin back home. He doesn’t tell them why, or how long he’ll be, only tells them he’s on a mission. And when they ask if this mission will be worth it, Eddie has no idea, but he thinks falling in love with Steve Harrington once more might be pretty well worth it.
Or: basically eddie learns how to fall in love with the new Steve and Steve has no idea he’s already fallen in love with Eddie once before
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