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supercutszns · 3 months

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Luke x reader where a girl, daughter of Aphrodite, flirts with him and insults the reader, causing her to avoid Luke, but later he manages to find her and confesses that he actually likes them... I don't know if they should already be together or not, but I believe in you!!! you write very well :ooo

Sorry if the idea is bad or you wouldn't want to write something like that, if that's the case please pretend you never read this 🤡🤡🫶

true colours; luke castellan

wc + pairing: 3.6k, luke castellan x child of iris! reader

synopsis: everyone wants luke castellan, including you. curse your mother for getting your hopes up.

warnings: friends to lovers, reader is very insecure, bullying, lee fletcher & will solace cameo!! some angst with a fluffy ending

notes: thank you for the request!! as always this is longer than i anticipated but hope you like it :) i also combined it with another request for a child of iris reader (i also identify as a child of iris sometimes so i lovee writing for them) also i’m pretty sure lee + a lot of parts of this are ooc sorry but i havent read the books in about a year so hopefully everything’s fairly accurate!🌈

You knew this summer would be different because your mother sent her wishes twice as much. On the first day of July, when children flood into Camp Half-Blood like a hive of wild bees, a rainbow always lights up the sky.

This year, there were two.

As a child of Iris you’re technically supposed to be in the Hermes cabin. But your love for art, for music, for fun, has made you a particular favourite of the Apollo cabin. Most of your friends are there. They tolerate you singing in your soft, often unsure voice. They love when you catch sunlight and filter it into prisms of colour on their cabin walls.

You’d probably move in there permanently if it weren’t for Hermes. Or rather, his son.

Over the last few months, in the sticky summer heat, your mother knew you would fall in love.

It's not any surprise you love Luke. Everyone loves Luke. A fact that's becoming more obvious every passing day.

It used to bother you less. You’ve always been his meagre, hopeless friend, never any real competition to these girls. You’d basically taken yourself out of the running and instead decided to pine after him in the very back of your mind. A safe, deluded fantasy that would never happen.

Until recently, where it seems less like a fantasy and more like a terrifying possibility.

Over the past few weeks Luke has gone out of his way to be sweet to you. Or at least you think so. He’s spent extra time talking to you at lunch, laughing at your half-formed jokes almost in earnest. At bonfires he saves you a seat, grabs you a marshmallow on occasion. You even made him a friendship bracelet of sorts—admittedly a little ugly—but he’s never taken it off. Not since the day you gave it to him.

Not to mention helping you last week before the archery competition. His hands lingering over yours as he steadied your bow, the curls of his breath on the back of your neck when he stood behind you.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, a tinge of mirth in his voice. “You just steady your aim and first is as good as yours.”

(You came in fifteenth.)

You don’t want to say that it’s him weakening your aim, making your pulse beat out of your neck. His nose brushes against the back of your jaw as he leans forward and you smell the pine on his skin. Is this friendly? Is he this close on purpose? Are you delusional?

It’s all you’ve been thinking about these past few days. So when Luke Castellan’s endless admirers come to the forefront of your mind, you feel like all those moments of potential buildup have been ripped away.

“You alright there, sunshine?”

He takes you out of your spiral with a teasing lilt you love. When you look at him, his face is a shimmering warmth, complete with boyish smile.

“Yep,” you reply, trying to ignore the nickname making your insides flutter even though you know he’s saying it ironically.

You’ve always had a gift for identifying colour. It’s the thing you pay attention to most. Something inherited from your mother, you suppose. So you’ve memorized the way Luke’s eyes melt in the sunlight. How his scar blends with his pinking cheeks when it’s hot outside. You never told him, and you probably never will, but you’ve painted him from memory quite a few times in the Apollo cabin—always with the excuse that you were practicing. It's so blatantly obvious you're in love with him there's no point in your friends bringing it up.

The two of you are meandering around camp before dinner, a tradition Luke started early on in the summer. You talk about high points of your day (mostly you) or share nuggets of gossip you’ve heard around camp (mostly him). It's the thing you looked forward to every morning. A time when his words are just for you.

Idle chatter flows as you keep walking. Sometimes your arm brushes his and you have the embarrassing urge to tug yours away. You do your best not to stare at him too long or laugh too loud at his jokes.

“Hey, Castellan!” Someone calls.

Luke’s head turns. Your heart plummets. A beautiful girl, Aphrodite cabin, you think, is heading towards you. She’s all honey-spun hair and dazzling pink lips, and it’s obvious she knows it. You don’t know her name. But Luke does.

They fall into conversation the second she arrives. It’s just greetings, pleasantries, but there’s a coy smile on the girl’s face that betrays any sense of disinterest. “Heard you’re not too keen on pairing up with us for the Chariot Race next week. What gives?” Her tone is pouty and playful as she taps Luke’s shoulder. She side-eyes you, lips curling imperceptibly. “I’m sure you’ll have a better chance with us.”

He lets out a strained chuckle. “Dunno, just thought it was fine to switch it up.”

Just like that, you’re out of the loop again. More of her friends flock after her, and soon Luke is tangled in a whole other world. They’re all glowing with a kind of righteousness you only get when you’re popular. You know Luke has friends, tons of them. He's the leader of the cabin with the most campers. Not to mention assertive and gorgeous. His presence is so inviting it’s a challenge not to fall in love with him.

So you can’t blame this girl, the one that keeps touching his arm and giggling. It’s not like you’ve staked your claim on Luke—no one even knows you exist. As much as you want him to be yours, you know you’ll never stop someone from taking him first. It’s your fatal flaw, you think. Cowardice.

You end up sidelined completely. Watching him swathed in people more charismatic than you plants an ache deep inside you. All your wishful thinking feels sour now, a pipe dream, a bedtime story to help you sleep better. Somehow it hurts more knowing that it’s nobody’s fault but yours. These people can’t be doing this on purpose. It’s just who they are. It’s who you are—always a step behind, always daydreaming. You are your mother’s daughter, after all. Just a prism reflecting everyone around you.

Eventually, one of the boys in the group takes notice of you. He’s not nearly as captivating as Luke is—you don’t find the colours of his eyes hold as much depth. There’s also a haughtiness when he looks at you. He sneers, “What the hell do you have on your face?”

It draws the attention of others in the group. You feel like a naked sculpture in an art gallery. “Uh, what?” You stammer.

Some of them purse their lips. The girl with Luke lets a laugh slip. You’re pretty sure you look like an idiot, waiting there with your brows wrinkled in a daze. Their gazes keep flicking over to your cheek, so your hand flies up there before you can delay any more. When you press your fingers to the side of your face, they come away tacky and pink. Mortification constricts you.

Paint. It’s leftover, half-dried paint. The colour of Luke’s cheeks in the sun.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. It’s drowned by snickers. All you can do is find Luke, the only face you know, and ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?” without sounding too hurt.

You know you failed when your voice comes out wrong and his ebony brows push together. “I thought it looked—”

He never gets to finish because the golden girl laughs a little louder, the pink tones in her face a little darker. “Oh my Gods, you’re that Iris kid that’s always singing, right?” She giggles sharply, cornflower eyes darting between her friends. There’s something in there you can’t quite pick up on, until it flushes the pupils of all her friends, and they all grin with a secret knowledge they want you to see. “You’re, like, really good!” The girl simpers, but her bottom lip pulls between her teeth to soften another laugh.

“Oh, so good!” Another friend piles on.

Their passive-aggressive chuckles start to sound like hail on a window. You shift further away from them. Dirt slides beneath your shoe, and you long to kick up more of it, displace yourself, disappear.

You don’t look at Luke. The giggly, flaxen girl has already turned back to him, and you’re sure he’s enthralled once more. You try to stir up the image of Luke’s closeness during archery practice, the lilac bruise on his knuckles when he angled your bow, but it doesn’t take. Now, it feels like you’ve dreamed it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Luke leaning down to catch a whisper from the Aphrodite girl’s ear. The boy that first commented on your cheek leans closer to you again. He’s suffocatingly smug when he grins, “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you go … wash that off? You don’t want to look like that at dinner.” He snorts. “For an Iris kid, you really aren’t good at taking a message.”

If you were a more confident person, maybe you’d point out how that didn’t really make sense, or how stupid it sounded coming out of his mouth. But the sentiment of it wounds you, and you’re weak enough as is.

"Guess you're right," you mumble. You wipe your face of paint as you leave. The memory of Luke’s skin stains you until you wash your hands off in the sink.

You haven’t talked to him since.

It’s been a few days of you avoiding him, and it’s hard to explain to anyone why you’ve been doing it. How do you tell the truth? Luke Castellan is a work of art and you are … a weird doodle, or something. Despite your adoration, you know there’s no reason he should feel the same for you. Everyone loves him for a reason. Everyone must ignore you for one, too.

“Why haven’t you been talking to Luke?”

The question breaks your concentrated silence in the Apollo cabin. You’ve been sitting here for a while now, humming to yourself over a mostly blank canvas. The cabin is dusted with a lilac haze, thanks to your manipulation of the light streaming through the windows. Helps you feel less like you’re at camp and more like you’re in a fairytale.

“Helloooo, lady, I asked you a question.”

You begrudgingly look up. Lee Fletcher, head of the Apollo cabin, is at the mouth of the cabin, gazing at all your supplies strewn about the floor like they’re a bunch of unsavoury substances. “It looks like a hurricane came in here. Now why aren’t you talking to Luke?”

“How do you know I’m not talking to him?” You mutter as Lee sits beside you.

“Uh, because you’ve been sleeping here multiple nights in a row and you never do that. And you don’t sit with him at dinner. And whenever we see him you drag me in the other direction—”

“Lee!”

“I’m just saying, you should probably talk about it. My beautiful voice can heal wounds, yes, but not of the heart.” He splays a hand across his chest in mock theatrics.

You don’t say anything. The familiar weight of the brush against your fingertips is far more comforting than trying to talk, so you busy yourself with your canvas again. “He waits for you, you know,” Lee continues, quieter. “In the morning. And before dinner. He always asks if you’re here.”

“Oh,” you say, and your wavering voice betrays your expression. But you think of everyone else at camp, their gleaming smiles and their celebrated parents, their own cabins and friends and dreams, how you don’t seem to have any of those. You think of the girl whispering in Luke’s ear. All her shades of beauty. You know it’s wrong to compare yourself, to be jealous. You’re just … sad.

The cabin darkens from a lilac to an imperceptibly gloomier shade. A blue sort of longing gets caught in your throat, blurring the colours on your canvas. But you keep your brush steady, focused on the scratch of its bristles so you don’t have to hear what you say next.

“I think I love him, Lee.” And then, “But I don’t think he loves me.”

There’s no sound except the scraping of your brush when it’s run out of paint, and a sniffle when a tear rolls down your cheek.

“Oh,” Lee fills the silence the way you did just moments before. Then he says your name, laced with pity, and hugs you on the floor of his lavender cabin.

“You want to help me lead the bonfire song tonight?” He asks after a minute. “Or at least … come to the bonfire song?”

“No to the first, yes to the second.”

You wish you said no to both.

The spot you choose after dinner is right next to the fire so you can distract yourself with the golden flecks of flame. Fire is so fluid, so complex, from a colour perspective. But no matter how close you get, the searing warmth can’t hide Luke’s gaze peering over the embers.

He will not. Stop. Looking at you.

The singing from the Apollo kids usually soothes you but tonight it’s just making you anxious. All this attention so close to you. Will Solace has been sitting next to you this whole time, your unofficial assigned companion for the night thanks to Lee. One of his siblings beckons him over, and he shoots you an apologetic look, hesitating. "Just go," you wave off kindly. "It's all good." He's not entirely convinced, and you aren't either, but he squeezes your shoulder with thanks and leaves you anyway.

Now you’re acutely aware the space next to you is wide open. And so is Luke, it seems. There’s an awkward moment where your gazes slide over each other and he weaves out of his current crowd towards you. So you do the most mature, sound thing you could possibly do in this situation:

You say you have to go to the bathroom to no one in particular and get out of there.

It’s dark, but you’ve got sharper eyes than most. Soon the noise of the campfire is behind you. You traipse through the camp towards the bathroom,but you don’t get far before you hear something that makes your stomach drop in the worst and best way.

Luke, calling your name.

At first you think you can get away with not hearing him. Then he calls a second, a third, a fourth time, punctuated with, “Come on, I know you can hear me, can you just turn around?”

He’s got longer legs than you so the next time he speaks it’s practically in your ear. “Hey, just look at me. Please. I want to talk to you.”

There’s something so tender in his voice that it makes you cave immediately. But you already feel so fragile, you can feel the tears behind your eyes. You know you won’t have the strength to talk to him.

His hand curls gently around your wrist and it sends warmth all the way up your arm. He says your name again, softer, and you love the way it sounds. You can’t meet his eyes, but you already know what he looks like. Even in the dark you picture him crystal clear.

“Look at me,” he repeats. “I just—I need to know what I did wrong.”

His dark eyes are full and apprehensive when you heed him. You notice how much you’ve missed studying his face—the slight bunch of his brows, the tensing in his jaw. And you almost delude yourself that he’s missed you just as much, the way he squeezes your wrist and rakes over your expression.

“Why are you ignoring me?” He asks.

“I’m not—”

“You are. I know you. Just tell me why.”

He looks so sweet, so earnest, and it kills you. You think of the way he looked when all his friends made fun of you. It all comes up before you can help it.

“Do you always let me walk around looking like an idiot?” You ask bitingly, staring at the floor. “The thing, with the paint on my cheek—why didn’t you tell me? I looked so stupid and all your friends just laughed at me!”

His face falls. “I tried to tell you, I thought—”

“It’s okay to say you don’t like me, or that you’re embarrassed, or whatever, but I …” You swallow, tears thick on your lower lashes. “Everyone makes fun of me. I don’t know why you don’t.”

“Because I do like you,” he states, hand moving up to your forearm.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper. “You’re so much … better, you know you are, and I don’t want your pity, or your spare time. I just—I made something up in my head that wasn’t there and I only noticed it the other day after you talked to that girl and that guy made fun of me and I’m really, really sorry—”

“It looked cute. I was trying to say I didn’t tell you about the paint because I thought it was cute.”

There’s a lull.

“What?” You blink stupidly.

“I know I should’ve told you about it, but I swear I was going to before dinner, I didn’t think we’d run into anyone before then.” His cheeks tinge red. “I had this whole dumb thing planned out where I’d wipe it off your cheek and tell you how cute it was once you got embarassed. I was waiting to tell you. I was thinking about it the whole time.”

His hand on your arm is a frighteningly grounding thing. You're dumbstruck by that alone. Your lips part, but all that comes out is, “Why?”

A gentle laugh tumbles out of his throat. “Why do you think?”

His other hand comes up to brush your cheekbone, where the paint had been, and you can imagine him doing it to you on that day. How you'd probably react just the way he said you would, the way you are now. A warm orange glow blooming in your chest. “But the girl—”

“She tried whispering to me how much she liked my bracelet,” he smiles fondly. “Told her you made it for me. It shut her up. I don’t know what that guy said to you but I chewed ‘em all out the second you left. They knew I wasn’t happy. I tried looking for you but you were gone. I don't like them, you know."

You don’t know what to say. It’s too difficult, too uncertain for you to jump the gun on this. So you just stare at all the shifting colours on his face as he moves closer to you. All this time going over his every detail, and there's still more to be enthralled by.

“I found the paintings,” he says, voice so close you can feel it brushing your skin. “The ones of me. I was looking for you in the Apollo cabin a week ago and you left one out. I knew it was yours because ... I mean, there’s no one in the world that can make me look that … beautiful.”

The last word is apprehensive but it’s spoken with an unimaginable tenderness. He looks a little teary himself. You think you’re dreaming. “I knew I had to tell you after that. I’ve been trying to tell you. But you started pulling away from me so I thought I was making it all up.”

“Tell me what?” It’s a ghost of a question between you, an impossible thing, but the hand on your arm slips around to your back and he presses it there with such certainty.

“You’re really gonna make me say it?” He cocks his head, but you nod. “I’m in love with you, I think.”

The words cascade over you in ribbons of warmth. Your brain feels fuzzy, seperate from the rest of your body. Your mouth opens multiple times but you can’t seem to control what comes out. “Luke, are you joking?”

“Not even a little.”

“But you’ve got so many other—”

“I want you.”

“I am literally the most incompetent person alive; I can’t sing, I can’t talk to people, I have a weird knee—”

"Your knee is fine!"

"I'm just saying, this makes no sense from an outsider perspective, it's—"

“Okay, clearly the telling thing isn’t working so I guess I’m just gonna have to kiss you.”

It happens so quickly you don’t have any time to think (probably for the better). You let out a surprised “oh” before his mouth silences you, stopping every other thought. He’s gentle, thumb still rubbing your cheekbone, other hand still firm at your waist. You want to panic—where should you put your hands? How do you know you’re doing this right? But he steadies you, the way he always does, and you give in.

He starts to smile against your lips. You’re almost positive the intensity of your heartbeat could summon a storm. When he pulls away, he kisses the corners of your mouth and you think you’re going to evaporate. “I don’t think I’m very good at this,” you whisper.

“You’re perfect.” He grins a little when your hands tentatively tug at a curl on the nape of his neck. “And none of that stuff you say is true. I mean, you’re definitely a better singer than me.”

Leaning close to your ear, he warbles out a song you know but gets the words horribly wrong anyways. You can’t help but laugh. “Okay, maybe you have a point.”

He hums and chuckles with you. You swear the moon gets brighter when he wraps his arms around your waist to kiss the side of your face. “Next time you paint me, I want to be there when you do it.”

You blush harder than you ever have in your life. “Only if you try painting me,” you say quietly.

“Of course. You’re very pretty, so I’m sure my horrible artistic skills won’t even make you look bad.”

Luke lets you press your face into the crook of his neck. You soak it up for all it’s worth.

In the morning, you wake up in the same position. Your nose tucked against his collarbone, the shade of pink you love freckled across his cheeks. You can't wait to paint him again.

When you look out the window, you say a silent, grateful prayer to your mother.

She's given you two more rainbows.

#perrie’s fics #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #charlie bushnell #perrie's requests #pjo #pjo x reader #pjo fic #luke castellan fic #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan fluff #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo tv show #heroes of olympus #percy jackson

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shirecorn · 10 months

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Changelings! Six legged insectoid beasts grown to the size of ponies, their target mimic species. Rather than evolving perfect physical mimicry, changeling imitation is a two-pronged process. In addition to a color-shifting carapace, magic distorts and twists the silhouette to match the mimicked subject. The spell is weaved with a rapid beating of the the wings, which creates a delicate network of invisible magic threads that tie the changeling's physical form to the projected mirage to make it move. After casting the spell, the changeling needs to recast it periodically, so if you doubt your friend's identity, listen for the buzzing of wings.

It takes a lot of concentration to keep the illusion in place, and changelings are naturally much taller than ponies when standing at their full height. Inexperienced or agitated changelings may forget to crouch, which breaks the illusion in a terrifying way. Because the features of the mirage are bound to the underlying insect body, moving wrong will distort the perceived form before it reveals what lies beneath.

The reason changeling bodies are so much longer than their target species is to allow a changeling to mimic creatures many times their size, provided they have the wingspan to reach the entire length of the target individual. A full wingspan is the sign of a healthy changeling, one that has enough magic to cast their illusions without much effort. Without sufficient magic, a changeling must constantly refresh their spell, and the ceaseless beating tears their delicate wings to shreds.

There is one changeling with enough magic to spare: The Queen. Drones store magic in their tails and bring it back to feed her. The queen of years past has been bleeding them dry and soaking up all their magic, leaving what should be a healthy reservoir in their tails as a withered pocket. This new style of ruling could possibly have started as a response to the ascension of the Goddess of Love, and the resulting magicification of feelings of romantic and platonic love.

For millennia, changelings evolved to feed on emotions directed at them (or rather the being they mimic) and convert it into magic. Positive emotions were the most stable, but any emotion worked. But when Love started to feel an entire meal, and gave the drones strength to subsist on their own, their queen demanded every drop of intoxicating love for herself, leaving them in a constant state of starvation and desperation.

Just a little love can go a long way. Changelings are forbidden from changing their colors or illusions to express themselves, as they must be seen as "mindless drones" and part of a single hive mind, despite their potential for individuality. Instead, they remain black unless imitating a pony or other creature. Each section of a changeling's carapace has a clear top layer with liquid suspended above the actual armor layer beneath. Microscopic grooves display different colors and shades based on how much of the liquid fills them, and how much pressure it's under. With the base colors set, wings spin the illusion of form to completely disguise the changeling beneath.

But what if they didn't have to save all their energy for disguises? What if there was enough love to go around?

The Changeling Revolution is an ongoing battle, but it has a hopeful, vibrant spark. Led by a mild-mannered former "drone," a growing faction are discovering peace, safety, and individuality by feeding off love directed not at illusions they cast, but to the people they truly are. It's a scary, vulnerable first step to allow others to see your true nature, but the rewards of loving and being loved are worth it.

Revolutionaries are not "reformed" so much as healed by embracing individual love. It turns out when each changeling allows themself to have their own color, preferences, and name, then the love felt from one changeling to another can be converted into magic, and a hive can become a thriving ecosystem within itself.

Nymphs, once destined for a viscous cycle of deception and starvation, are now able to bask in love given to them by hivemates, and they grow up stronger and kinder than any generation before. Though they can only shift into pastel colors until their carapace fully hardens and darkens, they still express by choosing their own look, name, and destiny.

The healing of the changeling population is as varied as their prismatic colors, and as beautiful as their glittering wings.

#changeling #mlp changeling #changeling fanart #changelings #changelings redesign #mlp redesign #mlp thorax #mlp ocellus #friendship is magic #queen chrysalis #mlp #mlp fim #mlp g4 #shire draws mlp #skyscraper gods #sckyscraper gods lore #long post

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steddiealltheway · 6 months

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The upside down is colder than Steve remembers.

To be fair, he only wearing a vest, pants, and no shoes at the moment, and he may be actively bleeding out even with the bandages because of the damn bats but… he just doesn’t remember it being this cold.

He probably didn’t spend long enough in the tunnels to truly get a feel for things. But now that he’s fully here, he can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Will.

The place is dark enough to even give Steve nightmares although he has Robin, Nancy, and Eddie at this side. How did Will survive with no one?

Steve looks down and carefully steps over a vine as he makes his way through the woods. Did Will ever step on-

“Is this a bad time to mention that I haven’t kissed anyone?”

Steve and the girls turn to Eddie, giving him looks of confusion at the random outburst.

Eddie keeps walking, staring at the ground as he tries not to activate the hive mind. “I’m just saying, it kind of feels like the end of the world here, and it makes you think. Like, do I really want to die a virgin? Not really, but dying without kissing anyone… I feel like that’s a bigger problem in my book.”

Robin and Nancy share the same look of confusion mixed with an air of why are you talking to us about this? But Steve thinks he gets the nervous rambling. He wouldn’t want to die unkissed either.

Eddie slowly stops and turns around, finally noticing that the three of them stopped when he made his first comment. He just stares at them for a moment before sighing, “Forget I said anything. I just hate walking in silence with all these thoughts of impending doom.”

With that, the girls start walking again, quickly catching up to Eddie, but Steve struggles as he thinks a little too hard about what Eddie said instead of thinking about not stepping on a vine. So he compromises speed for a very important thought.

Eddie wants to kiss someone. Probably. Definitely.

He can’t kiss Nancy because she’s with Jonathan, and Steve’s pretty sure Nancy would not be the greatest choice of a first kiss - since she would be unenthusiastic.

And Robin… well. She would be equally as unenthusiastic, probably even more so.

And really, everyone must be thinking the same thing. Because there’s one obvious solution.

“I’ll kiss you,” Steve announces as he steps over a vine. He watches as the three of them freeze in front of them, and Eddie almost even trips on a vine.

Once he catches up to them, Steve says, “It’s the clear solution to the problem.”

Robin shoots him a look of bewilderment and mouthes what??

Steve just looks away from her. It’s not a crazy thought really. Eddie wants to kiss someone before the world maybe ends, and Steve is just a really generous person who would like- enjoy- no, volunteer very very generously to help the good cause.

“You’re kidding, right?” Eddie asks.

And oh. Steve hadn’t really thought about how Eddie might not want to kiss him. Shit. He shakes his head. “I’m not kidding, but I wouldn’t do it unless you wanted to. And it’s okay that you don’t. Let’s just keep going.”

Eddie reaches out and grabs his arm. “I never said that I didn’t want to,” he says quickly.

Steve’s pretty sure he hears Robin snort at the comment, and he can sees Nancy trying to hide an amused smile behind her hand. He ignores them and puts his hands on his hips. “Alright.”

“Okay,” Eddie says.

They both stare at each other not moving.

“We’re going to give you some space,” Robin says, grabbing Nancy’s hand and pulling her deeper into the woods.

Steve doesn’t pay much attention to them as they walk away, he’s too busy staring at Eddie. And yeah, he’s a good looking guy. He knew that from high school whenever he would go on his rants, and Steve had an excuse to stare. And really the thought of kissing him is definitely not the worse and actually… he’s kind of looking forward to it, if the fast beating of his heart is any indication.

Eddie though, he looks… scared. Maybe just nervous. But his expression definitely isn’t in any way happy.

Steve takes a step toward him and softly says, “We don’t have to do this, okay? And it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Eddie shakes his head and laughs humorlessly. “It’s not that I don’t want to it’s just… you’re Steve Harrington.”

“And?”

“And that name means something. And it shouldn’t be tangled up with my name.”

Steve raises his eyebrows at him. “I’m pretty sure we already crossed that line a while ago.”

“But you know what I mean,” Eddie sighs, looking at the ground.

Yeah, he does know what he means. But… “The world might end. I think there are stranger things than you and me kissing.”

Eddie shakes his head. “I think that would be the most shocking thing out of all of this.”

“Then get ready for me to rock your world, Munson,” Steve says with a smirk, stepping closer and brushing a curly strand of hair out of his face.

Eddie takes a deep breath and settles his hands on Steve’s waist above the wounds he’s forgotten about. “Is this… okay?”

Steve nods and wraps his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. “Yeah. Is this?”

Eddie just hums mhm, his eyes get a little wider and his cheeks flush a deeper pink.

Steve can’t help but look over Eddie’s face, taking in what he looks like at the closer proximity when he’s allowed to look. His eyes wander down to where Eddie’s full lips are slightly parted as if they’re just waiting for him to kiss them. But Steve looks back into Eddie’s dark eyes, searching for hesitation but only sending nerves and anticipation.

“I like that you’re the same height as me,” Steve randomly blurts out.

“Why’s that?”

Steve feels a blush creep up his neck. “Because my neck won’t strain when I kiss you.” Eddie laughs, and Steve decides that if the world really is coming to an end, he should be fully honest. “Plus, it’s easier to look at your eyes when they’re at my level.”

Eddie’s grin turns into a soft smile. His eyes glance down at Steve’s lips.

He knows the moment has come. “I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay,” Eddie says, leaning in closer.

Steve smiles before closing the distance between them and kissing Eddie slowly as if they have all the time in the world. He breaks the kiss and pulls back enough to take in Eddie's expression - eyebrow raised in astonishment, lips slightly parted, and eyes still closed.

And yeah, they might not make it to tomorrow, plus Eddie looks hot. So, Steve doesn’t pull away. Instead, he kisses him again, this time with much more fervor and… yes, tongue. Sue him. He just wants to make Eddie’s first (and second) kiss memorable.

Eddie’s hands press into Steve’s back, pulling him closer as Steve slows the kiss, needing air. He pulls back and breathes in deep, staring at Eddie’s kiss swollen lips and feeling… many things.

But instead of giving into those feelings, Steve just pats Eddie on the arm and says, “See, you’re a natural.” As soon as he walks away, Steve wants one of the vines to drag him far far away so he doesn’t have to think about what he just said. Christ. He’s not smooth.

As soon as he catches up to Robin, she practically yanks him back so Eddie and Nancy can wander off out of earshot.

Steve crosses his arms and stares at her. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You know exactly what this is about,” Robin says, jabbing a finger into his chest.

Steve winces. “Okay. Yes. I kissed Eddie. But what else was I supposed to do? Make you or Nance kiss him? No way.”

“You realize that he was just thinking out loud, right? You turned his thought into an invitation.”

Steve shrugs and walks toward the other two, trying to make sure they don’t go too far. “It sounded like an invitation to me,” he says with a shrug.

“I’m sure it did,” Robin mutters.

Steve turns to glare at her.

Robin sighs and lays a hand on his arm. “You can talk to me, you know? Even if you’re in the process of figuring things out and can’t get a true read of things.”

Steve turns and looks back at Eddie, noting how his heart beats a little faster and his body wants more than anything to get closer to him. He looks back and Robin and asks, “How obvious am I being?”

The tension in Robin’s shoulder goes away slightly at the question, and she smiles. “With the ‘you’re a natural’ comment? Totally fooled. No one would guess a thing.”

Steve’s jaw drops. “You were watching that?”

“How could I not? And do I regret it?” Robin pauses before answering her question, “A little when you started using tongue.”

“Jesus, Robin,” Steve says, trying to sound annoyed, but he can’t help but laugh.

Robin smiles and nudges him. “It seems like you have a type.”

Steve raises an eyebrow before he looks to where Robin is staring. He watches as Nancy and Eddie talk quietly about something, both sharing a small smile, amusement evident in their big round eyes, and dark, curly hair framing their faces. Maybe Robin has a point.

“Maybe I do,” Steve says as Eddie glances back at him and smiles. When he turns back, Steve asks Robin, “Do you think we could talk more about it when we’re not in an alternate dimension, and I have time to think about things?”

“Of course,” Robin says and squeezes his arm. “But for now, I’m going to give you things to think about!” she announces before running ahead to Nancy and quickly starting some type of hushed conversation.

Steve looks at where Eddie lingers behind the girls and quickly runs up to him, deciding maybe he can figure things out now. And maybe he can verbally thank him for saving his ass instead of just kissing him and hoping he gets the message.

Gosh, he doesn’t know if he can get through this without getting distracted by his lips. But he’s going to try.

(And he’s going to fail)

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie ficlet #stranger things #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #did I just accidentally sort of make this canon compliant?#maybe #do i regret it?#not at all #now I’m just going to insist this is a deleted scene #because it is #they kissed your honor

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dingdingdingwehavealoser · 2 years

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You ever just think about your ocs a little too hard while putting them in horrible situations that you actually start crying?

#god #Jesus #fuck #sorry the story line is a holy man that has devoted his entire life to protecting the universe to the point that is his entire life #he meets an eldritch being from a hive mind that tries to convince him to join them #he refuses of course bc this a being whos existence is breaking the universe #eventually though as he grows older and weary he accepts #his memories are wiped away and the first thing the hive mind wants him to do is destroy his former universe #with no attachments he goes on his merry way to do so and gets interrupted by his former student that has now taken his helm #they talk and there's a lot happening in the conversation but a man point is how horrible the universe had treated him #anyways the apprentice doesn't really try to stop him instead they just ask to be able to at least say goodbye to his friends and family #before it all goes away #the former holy man agrees then leaves to go to his birthplace though he doesn't really know for sure #the memories are very faint #the village that he was from has now been torn away the wildlife stripped away #and he sits just outside the cafe where his home had been #then stares as his former universe starts to break apart #he closes his eyes and after a long moment he opens them to find the eldritch creature #and they strangely feel happier than they ever had been before #sorry #Maybe I shouldn't be listening to hozier while I think about this #uh #should I tag this so I can find it again?#10/10 #sad #fiction #oc stuff

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blondephenobarbitol · 4 months

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I'm thinking about the implications again.

The numbers that the hive mind performs aren't random. Both the lyrics and the choreography will often boil down to to one purpose: to cause pain. (Pokey is ruthless.)

Sometimes it's physical, and that's easy to spot. The cops spend half of their song just kicking and pushing people to the ground. Join Us And Die literally ends with Ted getting beat up.

And when the choreography doesn't allow for it, the lyrics are specifically trying to elicit an emotional response. The hive uses Alice to torment Bill. He's watching someone he loves die in front of him. It does the same for Charlotte.

Okay, the hive gets a kick out watching people suffer. That's not new information. But the implications...

Look at Inevitable. It's a pretty significant shift from the rest of the numbers. Whereas those seem tailored for pain and fear, Inevitable seems to be comforting? Just look.

Paul walks out, and the first thing he does is hug Emma. Which doesn't seem significant at first, but think: Did Bill get that same courtesy?

Alice's first line is meant to taunt Bill. Paul's is almost consolatory; " Emma / I'm sorry / you lost." I won't dissect this completely, the theory is that this first line is genuine. Paul is actually sorry that their plan failed.

And when you take a look at the choreography, it becomes clear that it's a lot kinder than the other songs.

We see Paul waltzing with Emma and kissing her hands. And even though he's not letting her get away, he's not trying to hurt her. He's not even trying to intimidate her. He's shown more than once bending down--getting on her level, like you would to a child--as opposed to towering over her.

The lyrics aren't messing with her either. Whereas Sam is manipulative and Alice is spiteful, Paul's lyrics are reassuring.

"I'm still the man you trust," is a lot different than "Don't you twust me?" when you get right down to it. It carries with it a connotation of 'I'm okay, and you will be too.'

"What if I told you I made it?" actively contradicts the 'I killed your loved one' narrative that Alice used with Bill.

It's not like Emma is buying any of it. She's still terrified. Paul doesn't need to hurt her or taunt her in order to scare her, just singing was enough. But it's clear that he's not trying to.

The hive mind gets a kick out of watching people suffer. Emma is the leading lady. You'd think that she's the one who should have the most brutal song. But she just doesn't. It seems like her song is trying to be the kindest.

We know it's implied that once they get infected, people are still conscious inside their musical doppelgängers (source: the line "your own body is your front row seat" as well as Sam breaking through its control long enough to say "Charlotte" before falling back under).

I think Paul was conscious during Inevitable. I think he knew that they weren't escaping this. I think he knew he was eventually going to kill Emma, and there was nothing he could do about it. But I think he didn't want her to suffer.

Instead, I think he resolved to give her as kind a death as he could. He would lie. He'd tell her he was happy and that she was safe. He'd be as gentle as the hive mind allowed. She was running out of time, so he'd love her with every second they had left.

(but that's just a theory...a musical theory... and cut)

#tgwdlm #the guy who didn't like musicals #emma perkins #paul matthews #starkid #team starkid #hatchetfield #hatchetverse #lords in black #pokotho #pokey #npmd #black friday #theory #scene analysis #analysis #lauren lopez #jon matteson #jeff blim

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wehaveallgotknives · 1 year

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I’ll stop goncharov posting soon but can I just say how fascinating it is to me that the genre we picked was cold war mafia movie? because if you had asked the internet a month ago what kind of film tumblr would invent, if tumblr were to invent a film, the answers would have been way more woke. a queer coming of age romance or a sexy heist with a super diverse cast or live action infinity train or whatever.

instead, the hive mind, the collective, latched on to something with much narrower boundaries, with stricter rules. no cold war mafia movie would have “good gay rep” or “a happy ending”, like you might expect tumblr to want. we want, we made, something rife with hidden truths, deception and manipulation, suppressed and sublimated emotions. it’s a movie rife with symbolism and suggestion, a text that needs to be unpicked and puzzled over, not one that spoonfeeds us a morally pure protagonist.

the website famous for our shithouse reading comprehension made this complex metatext about methods of interpreting an ambiguous artwork and that’s given me more hope for humanity than I’ve gotten from the internet in a long goddamn time

#goncharov #something something performative identities in a restricted society #something about how we’re trapped by capitalism the same way goncharov is #idk this is hitting the nexus of narratology and semiotics in a way that makes my brain light up

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steddielations · 11 months

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gotta talk about how Eddie didn’t understand the hive mind until Steve explained it for him, and he didn’t question Steve or doubt him at all, he just trusted Steve’s word. that must’ve been validating for Steve, who’s usually the one getting things explained to him or having to argue his point so people listen

something about, Steve knows what it’s like to be out of the loop and he kept trying to make sure Eddie was keeping up, to the point of over-explaining and Eddie’s like “yes you mentioned the superpower girl thank you now please tell me our son isn’t cursed”

and yeah maybe Eddie should’ve known what a hive mind is since he’s super into fantasy sci-fi, but he was under a ton of stress and instead of Steve being like “you of all people should know” he just broke it down for him and i love that actually

so when Steve doesn’t get the Ozzy reference later, maybe Eddie was just giving Steve the same understanding that Steve gave to him, explaining it and not making him feel dumb for not knowing

#really reaching for a feast with these crumbs but walk with me #steddie #steddie headcanons #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fics #rueswriting #st meta #steddie headcanon #stranger things #character analysis #mp

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foone · 11 days

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What would you call it if someone was the inverse of plural?

That is, instead of more than one person in a single body, you'd be one person in multiple bodies?

Like, not a hive mind: You're not a gestalt entity made up of multiple people merged into one mind: You're a single person, with a single mind, just across multiple bodies.

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happyhauntt · 13 days

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bury these bones — spencer reid.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: spencer's day isn't anything more than average, but a surprise phone call and impromptu hospital visit have him rethinking his expectations.

─── pairing: spencer reid x autistic!medical examiner!reader.

─── warnings: fluff, a little angst, reader is autistic & a mom, no use of y/n. swearing. mild description of injuries (not serious), references to the 'lauren' arc of season 6, hospitals, this is mostly just flirting with a bit of background angst. i did do some research but honestly all facts & figures in this are probably Not Accurate and should absolutely never be repeated.

─── word count: 1.9k.

IT ISN’T OFTEN THAT SPENCER is the first one into the office. More often than not, Hotch is already at his desk by the time dawn breaks, and Morgan can usually be found finishing up in the gym. Nobody ever expects Rossi to arrive on time — he usually strolls in a little after 9:30 with his blazer slung over his arm and a half-finished espresso in his hand — and Emily maintains some semblance of a work-life balance by appearing no sooner than work is supposed to start, if she can help it.

The point, Spencer supposes, is that his routine usually falls comfortably in the middle and yet, today, as he emerges from the elevator and heads towards his desk, the bullpen is almost eerily quiet.

Bizarre, he thinks, setting his bag down by his chair. The BAU is so often abuzz with activity, the low hum of worker bees all in a hive slipping into background noise, that to see it so empty is… jarring, to say the least.

Spencer heads for the kitchen after a moment, ears ringing in the silence, and makes a pot of coffee before meandering back to his desk. A glance at the clock tells him that it’s still early, and as a mouthful of too-sweet coffee sits on his tongue, he reaches into his bag and draws out today’s paper, flipping through to the crossword.

Silence is golden, after all. If he’s lucky, he’ll beat his personal best.

He’s halfway through, about to move on to 6, down, when the phone rings. The shrill sound of it pierces the air, and Spencer can’t help flinching a little as it startles him. Eyes dart all over the bullpen, trying to locate the source of the noise, before they land on Emily's desk. The offending phone trills on and on. One of the lights blinks red. External call.

He discards the newspaper on his desk, tucking a spare pen inside so the page isn’t lost, and strides across the office to Emily’s desk to answer the phone. It won’t be the first time he’s taken a message for one of his coworkers, and he suspects Emily would rather this than letting the call ring out.

“Agent Prentiss’ phone.” His voice feels too loud in the sudden silence of the office, now that the ringing has ceased. “Dr. Reid speaking. Can I help you?”

“Dr. Reid?” The voice crackling down the line lilts with confusion, and his chest floods with warmth at the familiarity of it.

He can almost picture you, in his mind’s eye. The exact expression on your face as you hear him speak instead of Emily, the little scrunch of your nose, your head tilting to the side. It’s the same look you have when you find something strange inside a cadaver.

The same bewildered wrinkle appears between your brows when you’re on the plane after a case and Spencer’s trying to teach you how to play chess, and you start to laugh and tell him you’re hopeless, but his persistence is endearing, so you let him explain the rules all over again.

(You’ve only been part of the team for a few months, only accompanied them on cases a handful of times, but the sound of your voice is as familiar to him as the moon on a winter’s night. He can’t quite put his finger on when or how he became so attuned to you, drawn in the same way the moon pulls the tide, but he’s certainly not complaining.)

“I keep telling you to call me Spencer.” An amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You scoff. “That’s not professional.”

“Our technical analyst tucks fluffy pens into her hair, and on our last case together I walked in on you dancing to Abba in the middle of an autopsy. I think professionalism is a thing of the past.”

“Bite me, Dr. Reid,” you say, but your words are flooded with affection. “Where’s Prentiss? Why are you answering her phone?”

Spencer shrugs. “She’s not in yet. Anything I can help with?”

Silence. If not for the sound of your breathing, Spencer might think the call dropped.

Another moment passes before you swallow thickly, a quiet gulp that sends an odd zing skittering through Spencer’s nervous system.

“I need a favour and I don’t want to worry Jackie.”

From what he’s heard about your sister-in-law, Spencer thinks that’s fair. “Sure, what is it?”

“Can you pick me up from the hospital?”

Recent surveys conducted by NORC at the University of Chicago suggest that almost half of the American population dislike hospitals, so Spencer knows he’s not alone in his discomfort, but none of his facts and figures are helpful the moment he steps into the Emergency Room at St. Sebastian’s.

The clinical scent of disinfectant sends a thousand tiny spiders crawling up his spine. He tries not to gag but he swears he can taste it at the back of his throat. Spencer forces himself to pause near the door and shuts his eyes, just for a moment, to focus on the solid ground beneath his feet rather than the lurching of his stomach.

In his line of work, he’s no stranger to hospitals. To meandering through long, dim corridors in search of something to occupy his thoughts, of all the beige and stark white walls so bright it hurts his eyes, of lumpy hospital beds and IVs itching beneath his skin and that smell.

He was here, not that long ago. He’d wept when they told him Emily had died in surgery, and she’s fine now, but he can still taste iron on his tongue and sometimes it’s still hard to believe she’s alive until she walks through the door unharmed.

When he opens his eyes again, the ER is still the same, but the unpleasant churning in his stomach has started to subside. At the desk, he reels off your name, stuttering as he goes, before the nurse directs him over to Bay 3.

I was in a car accident. That’s what you’d said on the phone, and his whole body had gone suddenly cold even though you’d seemed oddly cheery, and he’d had to remind himself to breathe. You were calling, not a nurse or a doctor, so it surely couldn’t be that bad.

But he doesn’t believe it, not really. Not until he sets eyes on you himself. Not until he can see the truth right in front of him.

You’re sitting cross-legged on one of the narrow ER beds. The curtain is pushed out of the way, and he can see your shoes have been tucked neatly beside the bed and your socks have little mushrooms on them. You’re not in a hospital gown but jeans, and a laugh bubbles up in his throat because your shirt says ‘meaner than I look’, which is patently untrue in his experience — but he also files this away in the rolodex of reasons you should call him Spencer, because you were going to show up to work dressed like this, and he never wants to hear the word professional out of your mouth again.

He also wants to take a picture, kind of, because there’s something so endearing about the image. He’s often grateful to have an eidetic memory, but never more than in this moment. He wants to remember this forever.

Spencer clears his throat as he approaches. The smile you send him as you look up and notice him is bright and wide and it makes him feel all warm and happy, like a cat curled up in a patch of sunlight.

“What happened?” His gaze is wary as it trails over you from head to toe, quickly cataloguing all your injuries. You hadn’t explained much over the phone, and he hadn’t thought to ask in his haste to reach the hospital, but now his eyes snag on the bruise blossoming over your cheek and it’s all he can think about.

You don’t look too bad, all things considered.

The bruise looks worse than it feels. The collar of your shirt is speckled with blood, but the cut above your temple is shallow and sealed with two steri-strips.

All-in-all, it could’ve been worse.

“My tire blew while I was driving into work this morning,” you tell him as you tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “The car spun out. All of this—” You gesture vaguely at your face, “was caused by the airbag. But I’m fine.”

It’s not that Spencer thinks you’re lying. It’s not.

But you can’t quite look him in the eye, and you’re wearing the same guilty expression you have when you pilfer the last of the coffee, so he’s not about to take your word for it.

A quick glance at your chart offers all the answers.

“You have a concussion!”

“A mild concussion! Mild! I don’t even have a headache!”

It’s a good thing you called him— or, well, Emily, rather than your sister-in-law. According to you, Jackie has been known to freak out over a paper cut. This might have given her a coronary.

Spencer frowns. “You needed a CT scan.”

“Precautionary measure.” A nonchalant wave of your hand follows your words. “I’m a doctor too, remember? I’m fine. Really.”

“They say doctors make the worst patients.”

You grin at him. “I already had a meltdown in the bathroom earlier. Scared a nurse. I think he wanted to sedate me but then he saw my lanyard and he took me to a quiet room to decompress. I’m good, I promise.”

The lanyard in question is covered in little sunflowers and tucked inside one of your shoes for safekeeping. Displayed on one side of the little plastic window is your Quantico identification; on the other, a little slip of paper Spencer suspects you made yourself, judging by the pink floral background and slanting script that I’m autistic and trying my fucking best.

The sight of it is familiar to him now, the same way your smile is seared onto his brain for eternity, but he recalls seeing it for the first time and chuckling. You’d offered to get one for him, too, gleefully declaring that you’re just like a sunflower, Dr. Reid, and there’d been so many butterflies in his stomach that he could have taken flight, then and there.

Now he merely hums, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. Stepping back, he watches as you slip your shoes back on and shoulder your bag, having signed a release form not long before he arrived.

“Hey, Spencer?” Your voice is small, and the way you’re looking at him, all wide-eyed and wonderful, brings those butterflies back tenfold. He hopes the flush of his cheeks isn’t too obvious.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for coming to get me. I’m really okay, I promise. I’ve had worse.”

His heart pinches.

He doesn’t like that you’ve had worse.

“Well,” he says, after a moment too long of staring at you, “mild or not, I’m not leaving you alone for the rest of the day. We’re going to follow the concussion protocol. 65% of people reported developing hearing and memory problems as a result of missed symptoms of head-related trauma last year.”

You’re watching him. The corner of your eyes are a little wrinkled. A fond smile toys on your lips. “I expected nothing less, Dr. Reid.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine #* chapter update.

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