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thesunisatangerine · 6 months

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against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part six

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: explicit descriptions of violence, blood, and death

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 3.3k

You had to get out of there.

Tremors shook the ground as another shell made impact somewhere far to your right but it was close enough that the explosion left your ears ringing. You flattened your back further against the fallen wall behind you when you heard the unmistakeable sound of gunfire, the rubble that cut into your skin barely registered in your mind from the adrenaline that rushed through you. But the cacophony of noise amalgamated into something continuous, something malevolent and cruel; something that promised death in its wake.

Bullets embedded themselves in a column, a wall, a body–everywhere–and fine pieces of debris flew and pelted against the exposed skin of your cheeks and against your helmet. Your eyes watered from the fine powder of pulverised cement and the oppressive heat, while your lungs were smothered by smoke and a choking stench–something like freshly-laid asphalt mixed with the distinct, rancid smell of burnt human flesh, sulphuric and sharp.

Through lidded eyes you witnessed the depravity; the extent of humanity’s appetite for senseless destruction and anarchy. It was total chaos–no, it was worse than that: it was butchery and brutality at its finest; a type of hell on earth.

All around you were bodies upon bodies, men and women alike–children. Their faces, frozen and pallid, permanently bore imprints of terror and agony; their crooked fingers and still eyes fixated to the sky imploring in violent judgment–resentful and anguished in their silence–the unspoken question:

Why?

Everything overwhelmed you all at once: the sight and the smell made your stomach churn to no end. Even when you heaved the remnants of your stomach to the ground, the nausea remained, pulsing and gnawing.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you brought your camera to your eye and you willed the shaking in your bones to still.

You took a shot.

Another round of bullets splattered to a nearby wall and this time, you threw yourself front-first to the ground and you felt the rhythm of your heart reverberating against the mud. And a sinking feeling hit you. You’d bore witness to many conflicts, faced mortal peril, and was familiar to death like it was an old friend. Each time you were in such a situation, hopelessness never got the better of you–it was like you’d always known you were going to make it out each time.

This time it was different, you could feel it in your bones. You were going to die here and it wasn’t a matter of if, just when and how.

But you had a job. If you were going to die, you would die being the mouthpiece for the ones who’d already been silenced–from their premature deaths or from the hand of the power meant to protect them or both–to show the world what they’d suffered, what they’d sacrificed.

With that in mind, you steeled yourself. You loaded your camera with another ring of film, fingers stiff from the cold and marred by blood and mud, and you captured the scene.

Repeat.

There were people screaming, running, clamouring for survival. As you moved with them, you kept an eye out for other survivors who needed help to get out of there. You scanned the faces for the familiar ones of Jones and Gilda but they were nowhere to be seen. You’d lost track of them after the initial explosion and the chaos that followed so the only thing you could do now was to look for them as you went and hope for their safety.

Meter by meter, inch by inch, you moved slowly away from the direction of gunfire. You were farther ahead now but the gunners were still dangerously close, still close enough to be able to catch up to where you were if they continued their pursuit, so you remained crouched and cautious for any sound that could indicate danger.

When you came across the rubble of a fallen building–freshly destroyed by artillery from the smoke that came from it–you heard a whimper. It startled you; the softness of the sound barely pierced through the ringing in your ear but when you peered under a slab of concrete braced by a rugged beam, you caught sight of a scene that shattered what was left of your heart.

In the shadows, big eyes that you could not mistaken belonged to a child shone with terror, a little girl that looked no more than ten years of age, her mouth partly open in fear. You could discern another person next to the child but they weren’t moving at all and from the blood smeared on the girl’s cheek, you had a sinking feeling that the other person was dead.

Gunfire echoed somewhere behind you and you flinched at its closeness. How did they get so close so fast? You needed to get the both of you out of there. If you could save this child’s life then maybe, just maybe, your life was worth something after all.

You raised both of your hands up and spoke gently, hoping the little girl would be able to understand that you were there to help as you stooped to fit through the gap. The child hesitated and receded further back into the rubble so you tried again as you inched closer to where the other person laid unresponsive, patient despite the ever-closing sound of shots being fired.

You reached the other person–a woman–and when you placed two fingers against her pulsepoint and found no rhythm, you bit your quivering lip and looked at the child, chest heavy. And as if the little girl finally understood that you meant no harm, she inched towards you and placed her small hand in your open one. With a firm yet gentle grip on the girl, you guided the both of you out of the rubble.

Once outside, you carried the little girl behind a wall, heart breaking when you felt her shiver and at the fact that it took little effort carry to her for she weighed so little. And now with light and cover, you inspected the little girl.

To your relief, other than the trail of flaking blood that originated from the crown of her head and on her cheeks, the little girl looked like she didn’t sustain any other physical injuries. Satisfied for the time being you began to tend to her, gave her water and what little food you had on you, and then wiped away the blood.

After she finished, you detached the velcro of your bulletproof vest and unbuckled your helmet before you put them on the little girl. Then you hoisted the girl up on your back, leaving your camera dangling heavily on your chest.

You managed to sneak across the district without being noticed but you knew the danger was never far away. A little farther on, you began to recognise key landmarks that let you know you were close to the base you came from. So even when the muscles in your legs protested for you to rest, you pushed on.

Not a moment later though did loud shots fill the air and immediately, you fell to the ground, feeling fine rubble and shrapnels cut into the side you landed on as you manoeuvred your body so that the child wouldn’t get hurt. The little girl cried out and adrenaline coursed through your veins, instinct driving you to keep the child safe so you pushed the two of you against a nearby wall, your back to the open space while you shielded the child with your body, her head safely caged between your arms and chest.

You craned your head over your shoulders to figure out where the shots were fired but then a feeling of lightness passed through you followed by a growing thickness at the back of your throat. You coughed, the force of it made you keel forward, and as you looked down you saw fresh blood splattered on the face of the girl, her eyes wide with horror as she looked up at you.

Then you felt it, a burning sensation that enveloped the entirety of your right side which left you cold. When you looked to your side your shirt clung to your skin, soaked with blood.

No.

You sputtered again and you tried to breathe but the pain only intensified and instead of feeling relief, the act smothered you–it felt like you were drowning. Then everything began to blend together: the shapes lost their edges and some images doubled, but the light seemed to intensify on its own, swallowing all in its wake. Then you sagged forward and the ringing in you ears, too, blared unceasingly.

No.

You must…

The child…

Wait.

Alexia–

“–are you okay?”

You started as Derek’s voice brought you from your reverie, your mind someplace else that you’d already forgotten but the feeling that you were missing something important lingered behind in the back of your mind.

“Huh?”

“Honey, your brother’s been trying to get your attention for the past minute. Are you alright?” The familiar voice of your mom brought your focus to her. She sat at the head of the long table while Derek opposite you, and you found twin pairs of blue eyes looking at you with concern. Your mom stood, chair scraping against the tiled floor as she did and she made her way towards you. She put a palm over your forehead once she was close enough before she asked, “do you have a fever?”

“Mom, I’m fine. I’m just–” You began but suddenly, a wave of exhaustion came over you which left you cold. It was as if a sheet of ice was put over you and you felt the coldness cling to your bones, weighing you down as your body slowly began to freeze over. “I’m–I’m just tired. I think I’ll rest up now.”

When you moved to stand, staggering slightly due to the weakness in your knees, Derek snatched your hands and clung to them, and you looked at him in alarm, eyes wide.

“Please, don’t. Don’t.” He said through gritted teeth, the corners of his mouth drooped low in a pained grimace, blue eyes glazed over and brows furrowed in a silent plea.

His obsecration confused you and you were about to ask him why you shouldn’t rest if you felt tired when your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip gentle yet firm. You turned to her and when you found her gaze, she wore the same expression as your brother.

“You’re brother’s right, honey. Just–please, just stay with us for a bit more.”

What was going on? Why weren’t they letting you go?

Another wave of fatigue doused over you but this time, pain erupted from your chest. So intense was it that it nearly made you keel over the table, nails digging into its hard surface as you tried to catch your breath but with each inhale the more it felt like you were running out of air.

“I’ll–I’ll join you in a bit. I just… I just need a nap.” You staggered to your feet, pulling your hands away from Derek’s grip with the remaining strength you had and brushed off your mom’s protest.

As you passed the full-body mirror just beside your bedroom door, you saw your reflection, haggard and pale, and with her were the familiar silhouettes of the people that haunted you… your mother and father. They stood there behind you–your mother to your right and your father to the left–but you only found an empty space where they stood when you whipped your head back to look for them.

So there you stood, rooted in front of the mirror as you soaked their images in but for some reason, your couldn’t quite discern their faces. They were blurred; it was as if someone had swiped their thumb over the freshly laid ink of their image and made their features indecipherable.

Longing prompted you to reach out a hand to try and trace the lost edges of their faces but instead of meeting the mirror’s smooth surface like you expected, your fingers sank into the mirror like it was made of water. Quickly, in fear that it would hurt you, you retracted your hand and you watched in awe as the mirror image went still again, back to the reflection of yourself and your parents.

Then out of curiosity you plunged your hand again into the mirror and instead of feeling pain, you felt… nothing. The sensations in your hand in the mirror stopped as if it had ceased to exist completely.

Would it soothe then the pain in your body if you stepped into it?

The thought tempted you and you stepped forward, ready to sink into this silver miracle, but something stopped you–a weight on your shoulder pulled you back from the mirror. You staggered backwards, caught off guard from the force of it, but when you looked back you found nobody however this time, when you returned your attention to the mirror, the reflection of your parents was gone.

Emotions bubbled in your throat, bitter grief and burning confusion a familiar taste on your tongue. Where did they go? Why did they leave you? And as these questions filtered through your mind, another wave of exhaustion doused over you, its weight was unbearable. You needed relief, and soon.

You were ready to step into the mirror–into oblivion–but it wasn’t there anymore. In fact, everywhere you looked there was nothing, just negative space as if the light had dissolved all existence but you. You looked down and you saw your reflection on the still water you were apparently standing on.

It was so still, so peaceful, and you feel so heavy. It would be easy to just sink into this blissful nothingness–this silence–after… that’s right, after having witnessed the revolting boil of humanity’s thirst for blood. Yes, that was it, the reason you were here: you were here to forget.

The longer you stared into the water, the more your will to remain standing frayed.

Not a moment later, you let yourself be plunged downwards into the cold water. Into nothingness.

You woke with a start, breathing sharply as you did, the sensation of falling still with you and the memory of the dream you just had lingered. It was about… what was it?

When you opened your eyes, you found golden light and you squinted at the stream of the early sun that found its way through the gap between the heavy curtains. Your cheek was warm against Alexia’s bare back and you relished the way her muscles shifted beneath her skin as she breathed, still deep asleep.

With her so close like this a sense of peace and calm washed over you, the kind that only Alexia’s presence could provide. You turned your head slightly and shifted closer to her, pressing a soft kiss on one of her shoulder blades before you nuzzled the nape of her neck where her scent was most prominent.

You sighed as you breathed her in.

“What are you up to back there?” Alexia’s voice, rough and heavy from slumber, met your ears and the question elicited a small laugh from you.

“Nothing. Just getting comfortable.”

Alexia hummed then she murmured, “come here.”

You moved as she began to turn and disappointment filled you from the separation but when she pulled you into her embrace after she settled on her back, the disappointment quickly faded away. And when she kissed you, soft and languid, everything melted away except for the tender warmth of Alexia’s lips.

You were content.

Suddenly, a gnawing feeling seeped into the edges of your mind and, little by little by little, apprehension filled you. There was something you’d forgotten, somewhere you needed to be.

You pulled away from Alexia’s lips. “What time is it?”

“Don’t go.”

Her answer jarred you. You lifted yourself up on your elbow and considered Alexia, confused as to why she would say such a thing. She knew you had to go. How could you not go? Where else could you possibly be? So you asked her as much.

“No, you don’t have to. Please.” Alexia placed a hand on your cheek, her eyes glassy. You sighed, turned your cheek away from her touch, and extricated yourself from her warm embrace. You stood at the foot of the bed and regarded Alexia again who was now sitting up, the sheets pooled around her waist, her chest bare, shoulders hunched forward as she looked at you. You only shook your head before you went into the en suite bathroom to get ready.

Once you got in the shower you, unsurprisingly, thought of Alexia and your confusion returned twofold. Why was she making this difficult? She knew you had to go. You already told her…

At that thought, you frowned as you tried to remember. When did you tell her? Why did you need to leave? The questions were beginning to make your head hurt so you left the shower, wrapped yourself in a towel and headed to the closet. In there, you found your stack of simple white clothes. You picked a white shirt and a matching pair of jeans and you made your way to the bedroom door.

As you passed by the bed, you saw Alexia just as you left her and from where you stood, you saw how small she looked. And those eyes… they shone with something you could only name as plea, the tears in them now in danger of falling.

Your chest ached and so did your head.

You shook your head and made your way to Alexia, pressed an apologetic kiss against her temples, then you moved to the door.

You opened it and an abyss greeted you, a world of no outlines, shape nor colour, just a brilliant white that called to you. Its pull was magnetic, like a tide that wanted to sweep you away, but there was something keeping you in place, an invisible tether and it was anchored to the woman sitting in your bed.

“Please, don’t go.”

You had one foot out of the door when Alexia spoke with such gentleness you couldn’t do anything but look over your shoulder. The sight of her crying made the pounding in your temples unbearable and the pain in your chest blazed anew, excruciating and cruel. The world blurred and warmth slipped down your cheeks.

Why were you crying? Why was this difficult? You had to leave, you were about to miss something important.

“Alexia, why?” You sobbed, clutching your chest. It hurt.

She was out of the bed now, right beside you, and she reached out and cupped your face with one hand, the other went to your hand on the door handle. Her touch that used to soothe you, that used to bring you peace and clam, sent pain to every nerve in your body. You gasped, your chest was in danger of bursting and your knees lost their strength. And then you remembered why you needed to leave: you needed this pain to disappear; you had to get better.

Finally, your knees buckled under your weight but Alexia was there to catch you, her body strong and firm, and oh, so warm.

“Alexia, please let me go,” you sobbed into her arms.

Everything hurt. But she held you, unyielding.

“Stay. Please, stay with me,” she whispered in your ear and the words were followed by another wave of pain. This time, you screamed in agony and clawed at Alexia’s shoulders to get yourself away but still, she didn’t budge.

“I got you. I got you. I got you,” she repeated as every nerve in your body screamed at you. Everything coalesced into a singular, never-ending noise but Alexia’s voice pierced through the veil like a silver lining, a life line that you held onto as you were washed away into an ocean of light.

#ap11 #not proofread #mine #my writing #a/n: sometimes it just hits you: the magnitude of man's madness. where does it stop? when? who will pay? why?#cant think anymore right now but let me know what you think about the story so far #apologies for the mistakes i wrote this in sleep deprived mode ill fix them later #woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader

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lunarharp · 9 months

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if i just told you i love you would this world change

#witch hat tag #orufrey #these kinda suck lol i feel like i cant draw right now *irritated sigh* BUT I FEEL EMOTIONS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#if you are gay go watch good omens season 2 right now. NO YOU DONT KNOW THO!!!!!!!!!#i know being this affected by good omens is probably cringe. I dont care any more. the last 1 minute of good omens season 2 was #some of the most affecting acting i've ever seen in my life. sometimes someone acts with the force as if their entire career led to that #like during the credits part the very end im not even talking about before that. holy god #aziraphale i know everything about you. i know what you are feeling right now. i can see everything on your face. we're going to make it #ER.... NOT THAT THIS HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH THIS POST. IT'S NOT SPOILERS !!!!!!!!!!!!!#I JUST FEEL THOROUGHLY CHANGED !!!!!!!!!!! SHIT GETS REAL FROM NOW ON.. LIKE IN GENERAL! IN MY LIFE!#tormented gay love tormented gay love TORMENTED GAY LOVE TORMENTED GAY LOVE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#btw the first 3 images were drawn earlier with an entirely different feeling and an entirely different mood.#Why do you keep pulling away from me?#It is because i love you that i do this #the lyrics from one of my japanese orufrey songs (A SONG THAT THE CREATOR LISTENS TO!!!!) led to feelings #“あなたが知らない私を残さず見ててほしいの” but i'm not translating it cause it just sounds weird. if with his eyes oru's asking “WHY don't you want #to let me in? to see all of you?“ those lyrics are like ”I actually want you to see every last bit of the parts of me you don't know“#oru you have no idea how much i want to lay bare my whole soul for you #maybe it's an alternate version of chapter 40. to me #i need to draw something really fucking good or i'm not going to forgive myself. i will not rest in this life #until i have made the orufrey that fully satisfies me nor until i have seen what the manga is leading to #NO STORY MEANS ANYTHING WITHOUT TORMENTED GAY LOVE AT THE HEART OF IT. THATS THE HEART OF THIS WORLD!!!!!#........... so Hi im normal :) haha *goes and finally makes breakfast*

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httpiastri · 1 month

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bailando, bailando 💃💃

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frobby · 4 months

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I think one of the funniest framings of the first ep of blue exorcist is hypothetically Yukio and bon met cuz they originally shared a dorm only for Yukio to immediately leave and not return until a week later and now he's his teacher

#I'm fully assuming Yukio went home for his father's funeral prep cuz it would be weird if he didn't #It's actually really weird we don't see him the day of but the funeral had already ended when we see rin grieving so that's prolly why #I get its a narrative set up so we don't see Yukio since he left until he's revealed cuz rin is the protag but still #Anyway that was prolly really weird for bon especially cuz it's never mentioned #I'm also assuming the exwires didn't know Yukio would be teaching cuz it was a sudden change since Shiro was supposed to teach originally #I'm just now realizing this would stress me the fuck out #I cant believe rin went to school right after his father's funeral like take a week off or something #None of these notes are actually about this post #Take all of this as you will #blue exorcist #ao no exorcist #yukio okumura #ryuuji suguro

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gophergal · 2 months

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Can we see some femheavy and femmedic

Of course! Have two Red Oktoberfest Yuri on the house :3

(looks better on Pillowfort!)

#gopher art #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #heavymedic #red Oktoberfest #team fortress 2 #fem fortress #i think of them as old women yaoi now. i cant tell you whyit just sounds more fitting to my brain #yes femheavy is also a big romance novel fan to me just like m heavy #couldnt decide which idea i liked better so you get both #Monika (my name for Femedic) is giving real “why read that romance book when you have me right here >:0” energy

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starry-bi-sky · 1 month

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more cfau miscellaneous things because Childhood Friends Danny and Jason have my head and heart always and I need to finish rewriting chapter two dammit (and redo the half-finished chapter 4 because its just Not The Vibes). i'm almost through I need to get through the graveyard scene. (i just stubbornly refuse to have it be shorter than the original chapter and thats the little death. that is the mind killer.)

Danny and jason’s ghost forms both smell faintly like burnt flesh and cigarettes. However, Jason has a more smokey smell while Danny’s smells almost,,, electrical? In a sense? Like he just straight up smells like burnt flesh and sulphur while Jason smells like someone put him in a smoker first.

It’s very much an unpleasant smell but Danny finds an odd comfort in it just as much as he finds a comfort in the smell of nicotine.

(Jason post-revival smells burnt flesh once and is immediately offput by the fact that it brings him an instinctive comfort. He doesn’t realize its because it reminds him of Danny, and is uncomfortable by it.)

In an au of an au, Danny’s altercation with Rath ends with Rath regaining enough of his sanity to snap out of the grieving state and ends with him breaking down. Instead of being souped and imprisoned, Rath, who is permanently 14, decides to Move On into the unknown. He’s exhausted, heartbroken, and tired.

(Is this influenced heavily by the ParaNorman scene where he talks to Agatha and helps her move on? Yes. But it doesn’t fit with the Original Storyline so im shoving it into an Au of an Au.)

Rath tells Danny that Jason lied to them (which he genuinely believes), and that he’s tired of waiting/looking for him/grieving. Jason is gone. He isn’t coming back, he abandoned them. And he wants his mom and dad, and his sister, and his friends. And he’s ready to join them.

He leads Danny out to Gotham, which other than Amity Park might’ve been the only city left untouched due to Rath’s own mental block on the place. They go out to the park he and Jason used to frequent or up to one of crime alley’s rooftops, and there Rath lies down and goes to sleep. Only to never wake up again, materializing into nothing as his soul moves on.

Before Rath leaves, he forces Danny to promise him that he’ll only wait for Jason for ten years. After that if he doesn’t find him, or if Jason doesn’t show, then Danny has to move on. Whether that be like how Rath does, or if its inly mentally/emotionally, doesn’t matter. He has to move on. Don’t wait for him. Don’t waste his time any more.

(“Oh, and if you find him, kick his ass for me.”)

Danny reluctantly agrees, and Rath lies down. Danny sings to him as he falls asleep.

(Angsty points if the vigilantes including Red Hood caught wind of their presence and were silently watching from the shadows. Rath might know they’re there, but Danny’s too focused on Rath to notice.)

(If only so that Red Hood realizes that this is what happened to Danny, and that Danny is gone before he can make things right. The tragedy, folks. The angst. The initial realization that Danny was Rath, and then also that Danny was dead and has been dead for years, and that before he moved on, he moved on believing that Jason abandoned him.)

(like i said it doesn't fit in the original timeline/storyline hence why its an au of an au and isn't nearly a fleshed out, but i was largely just focusing on the tragedy of Rath moving on and Jason being alive to see it and realize just who Rath is.)

Just like how the Lazarus pits shot Jason's twiggy 4'6-5'4 (depending on what you find) feet tall and 86lb ass up like a tree an essentially fixed his malnutrition, the portal did the same thing for Danny.

(granted i forgot about malnutrition and danny's likely stunted growth at first -- his family lived in crime alley and despite both his parents working, I don't think they had enough food all the time. He probably wasn't as badly malnourished as Jason was, but he wasn't healthy either.)

Granted his ghost in its "natural" state (14) is short, and his growth spurts were slow at first, it did result in him reaching his dad's height. There were points where it just happened overnight, like a baby. He went to bed one night 5’6 and woke up the next day 5’10.

Jazz is shorter than him. Although I have't decided if she's even liminal at all (and if she is, it didn't cure everything because she would have also suffered childhood malnutrition, and since in au canon their parents didn't get their hands on physical ectoplasm until after they got to Amity Park. So the exposure is less.)

Danny's voice absolutely sounds like canon Dan's. It kinda just dropped one day when he was 16-17 and never went back up. Sam and Tucker sometimes ask him to just talk about anything because they find his voice soothing.

I'm not sure yet how Danny would feel about it at first considering Rath, but I imagine that Rath, when he did speak, would have had a quieter and scratchier/weaker voice considering he's spent the last decade shrieking and crying.

(and i suppose technically that shouldn't have any effect on his throat considering he's a ghost and idk if that would actually affect him, but i like the idea so im keeping it)

In the beginning you could hear him from a mile away by the sound of his loud, echoing wails, but ten years later you can only really hear him by the soft, shuddering sobs he makes. Like he's gasping for air that isn't there. The future is full of very quiet survivors.

And it's much easier to speak when you pitch your voice upwards (especially when whispering/speaking quietly) so he might've spoken in a higher, airy pitch in order to be heard. So Danny might actually find a comfort in having a lower voice.

#tw mentions of gore #cw gore #i suppose this counts as gore #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #dpxdc crossover #childhood friends au #cfau #really leaning into the idea of rath just being a horror. the horrors! i am delighted in the horrors!#im having fun with it #i swear to god turning 19 turned a switch on in my brain because i am much more comfortable with gore and heavy injury now than i was l #literally a year ago. the urge to write about some of danny's most horrific injuries in his fights is STRONG #like the hORRORS folks. *th horrors*. i dont think i'll ever write a dissection fic because that icks me out but the idea that danny's had #to stitch up his own throat because it got slit in a fight nd he cant shift back to human until he's done because his ghost will survive bu #his body wont #the idea that he's been impaled multiple times before and it hurts each fucking time but he still gets up and hurls the hurt right back in #equal measure. because that's how you wanna play? okay. lets play. he's 14 and his best friend is dead. he can play.#and the idea that all ghosts have 'corpse' forms where their ghosts look exactly like how they died. and danny is utterly unrecognizable #jazz being liminal or not just isnt important to me because she's barely gonna show up in the story anyways #same reason why i hardly use the headcanon that ellie becomes danny's daughter because what use is she to me like that? she'll hardly have #an impact on the story and i refuse to treat characters like props. if they can't help progress the story then they aren't included

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july-19th-club · 1 year

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i know for a fact i have made this post before but for me it's very important that bbc merlin is a pointless tragedy. it wouldn't be good (it's frequently not good anyway but it would be a lot further away from good) if it wasn't a pointless tragedy! it's simply not arthuriana if it doesn't go past the high point of the heroic/legendary/high medieval romance stuff and end with detailed rundowns of exactly how everybody got betrayed and died like that is what makes it real arthuriana to me and not just a silly show about a wizard

#'why did he die at the end! why did they make us miserable? why can't we have nice things!'#BECAUSE IT'S ARTHURIANA OKAY .that's what HAPPENS #if you're doing arthuriana you're not doing it right unless when you finally get to the end of this endless string of knight adventures #the main guy is like. dead and you're like well . what am i supposed to do now #like when i first read the great illustrated classic abridged king arthur in third grade and got to the end ofi t #and guinevere had been sent to a nunnery and half the nights had died in this battle or that one and merlin had been stuck in a cave #and then arthur dies and bedivere chucks his sword in a lake and then the book just ENDS #and i sat there consumed with emotions id never felt before. well i would've been disappointed if the end of bbc merlin had #NOT made me feel those emotions again #but it did. to me that is in fact its greatest success #merlin #q #like. dont get me wrong i like a fixfic as much as the next guy and in fact i plot them out all the time #but you cant DO that if the original material is. like. already happy #or meant to be

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seldompathic · 3 months

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Small. Puny. A scrunkly little guy.

#sonic the hedgehog #sth #sonic art #classic sonic #i can't stop thinking about this dude #still learning digital art so dont flame me #I am READY FOR THIS #WHY CANT I BE GOOD AT COMICS RIGHT NOW???

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plush-rabbit · 9 months

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Too Soon

Part 5 to the Pouts and Spots Series

Word Count: 6.1K

A/N: sorry this is so late!! im like going through it and it sucks!! but here it is!! next chapter is gonna be my personal favorite and i wanna finish up cookies and cream mainly to get to one line that i really wanna use

The book is held carefully in your hand, spread just enough for you to catch the words, but not too far to ruin the paperback cover. Words turn over in your head, voices filling those for the characters, cadence heavy in your thoughts, but when spoken out loud to nobody but yourself, the words fall flat- so you’ve chosen to remain silent. Your home is quiet, the moaning of pipes and life outside from your walls echo through, and it’s the perfect background noise save for the barking dog that howls loudly in the confines of its home.

Pinched between your finger and thumb, the page turns, and your eyes skim over the words. Your tongue traces over the letters, and you startle when your phone buzzes beside you. You close the book gently, and place it beside you, careful to not let any of the corners be bent. It rests flat on the armrest of the couch, and you reach for your phone that continues to buzz harshly in the soft of your hand.

The name reads “Johnathan”.

You swipe at the green phone symbol and put the phone close to your ear.

“Hello,” you rasp out, your mouth dry and tongue rough.

Your name is called, nervously with only a hint of confidence laced into the last sound. “Hi, it’s Johnathan.” You can tell that he almost immediately regretted adding in that sentence. “What are- What’s up?”

You smile and tilt your head closer to the phone. “Hi Johnathan,” you tell him, stretching out your hand and looking at your nails, unpainted and pink. “I’m just at home, reading.” You flex your hand and think to yourself that you should paint your nails. “What about you?”

“Oh- I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to interrupt your reading.” He says it as a nicety, but there’s no genuine sorrow in his words. and you bring your hand down.

“You’re good,” you reassure. “I needed a break anyway.” You glance at the book and trace your finger over the title. Your finger traces over the curves and sharp lines, up and down, and down and up. “The words were starting to look like words,” you mumble, tipping at the last point of the letter. “What are you doing?”

“I just got out of work-” and as if to prove himself, he yawns. “I’m-” the yawn still stretches through the words and you scoff a laugh. “I didn’t mean to yawn. I’m just,” he sighs, “tired is all.”

Pulling the phone away, the screen lights with the call and in the corner, the time reads much later than you had expected it. And to show how late it is, you yawn, and turn yourself away from the phone. You pull the phone close to you and blink away the tears. “You’re out late. Did you get a new schedule?”

“No,” he says dejectedly. “I’m close to something big, and the later I stay, the earlier I can finish the project.” You bite your tongue to refrain from asking anything about the project. “We’re close, but not close enough. But these late nights are killing me.”

“You’re there practically all day and every day. It’s definitely going to take it out of you,” you sympathize. You look over to the book, the spine unblemished and only little indentations give away that the book is being put into use. “You gotta see people other than scientists, ya know.”

He falls silent. “I’m sorry,” he tells you again, and this time, he sounds apologetic. You wait for him to continue. “I know that we’re-” he pauses- “something. I haven’t meant to be busy, but- it’s work and I can’t just stop working and-”

“It’s okay, Johnathan,” you tell him. “I hadn’t meant it to sound backhanded.”

“You said you were reading?” You hum into the phone. “What were you reading?”

“Um.” You turn to your book, mouth pulling into a thin line. “It’s kind of difficult to explain. It’s about cowboys? It’s supposed to be a classic,” you tell him.

“You think I could borrow it once you’re done?”

You snort a laugh, and then slowly let small giggles escape past your lips. “You never struck me as the cowboy type.”

He scoffs. “Why because I’m a scientist?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

“I will have you know I loved horses as a kid,” he says boldly.

“Really?” You ask not quite believing him.

There’s a pause. “Sort of,” he confesses and you smile, leaning into the back of the couch. “Their teeth freaked me out but I’m sure I owned a toy horse.”

You laugh and stare at the decorative pillow at the end of your couch. “I had these toy lions that I loved. They were like figurines for miniature sets, I think. They didn’t do anything special but I liked them a whole lot.”

“Do you still like lions?”

You shake your head to no one. “I’ll watch a video about them, but I’m not out there buying lion themed things, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. In the background, you can hear a car honk and you scratch over your knee mindlessly, the sharp curves of your nails leaving your skin with a light sting. “We should go out again.”

“You think so?” Your feet are flat on the ground as you stand up, grabbing at your book gently and letting it rest flat over the coffee table. You walk away from the living room. The bedroom door creaks open and it clicks shut. You’re in complete darkness, and only memory serves to be your guide.

He clears his throat. “I want to take you out.”

You step on your rug, the plush soft and a comfort compared to the cold floor. “Now it sounds like you want to kill me, Johnny,” you mumble.

“We should go on another date.” Your hands stretch out, the pads of your fingertips touch against the edge of your nightstand, and your fingertips bump against a candle that sits close to the edge. You hum in encouragement. “We can get coffee and go for a walk.” You find the body of the lamp and trace up the cool glass. “Afterwards, we can come back to my place-”

Your hand bumps against the lampshade harshly and you feel the lamp tumble. You gasp and both of your hands reach. The phone falls to the floor and you can hear his concern, cracked and trembling with static, through the phone. You rush to turn the lamp on and a warm glow fills the room. You blink away from the light and reach to grab your phone. You wipe the screen against your shirt and clear your throat.

“Sorry, sorry,” you repeat. “I um- I accidentally tipped the lamp over and I let go of my phone-”

“You’re okay?”

“Mhm,” you hum. ‘I’m good, sorry.” You pat the palm of your hand against your cheek, and in your chest, your heart drums rapidly. “You were-” your voice comes out in a squeak and you clear it away- “you were saying?”

“You know, after coffee, maybe we could come back to my place and-” he lets out a shaky breath- “watch a movie?”

Your smile stretches and you collapse onto the bed, trying to stave off the burning feeling that you have. “Yeah, definitely. When are you free?”

“Would you like to meet this Sunday? I should be able to have a day off.”

With your arm stretched out, you grab at your pillow, the silk case crumpled into your hand, and nails scratching at the fabric and feeling the soft cushion that rests underneath. “Sunday works,” you say quietly. He makes a noise, and you stare at your ceiling, a patch of white paint stains the blade of the fan. “How was work?”

“Work was good,” he answers softly. “I’ve been closer to figuring out how the-” he stops himself and you frown. “I’ve been busy and things are making more and more sense, but I still need to figure out how to actually make it work.”

He doesn’t want to tell you about it. That sentiment doesn’t stray away once you acknowledge it, it only lingers, and it feels like a heavy weight on your chest. You let go of the pillow case and rest your hand over the soft swell of your stomach. Your hand finds comfort over the fabric of your shirt. “I hope you figure it out soon,” you tell him earnestly. The lack of information that he shares with you can only be blamed on your profession and the way that the two of you had met. You sit yourself up, the bed creaking under the change, and you notice how the dog had stopped barking, leaving you in silence save for Johnathan on the other side of the phone.

“I just got home,” he tells you and you hear the car turn off. His words linger, and leave room for you to talk.

“I’m glad that you got home safe.” You stare at the corner of the bed, where the comforter is wrinkled and where your blanket is folded neatly, corners meeting corners. “I think I’m going to head to bed. You should do the same.”

“Oh- Yeah, of course. I- I’m sorry for keeping you.” You don’t reassure him this time, instead, you keep quiet, not a click of your tongue nor a sigh escapes from you. “Goodnight,” he says your name with the same gentleness that he always has, and you lean into it.

“Night, Johnathan.” The bed whines as you move, and in the corner where the wall and the ceiling kiss, you spot a spider, still and silent, and you watch it. And in the darkness, it disappears, and you can only imagine it in your mind until you think you feel something phantom over you.

The door clicks behind you, and you roll your lips to stop a smile from forming, but the effort is futile as your grin grows. “Johnathan,” you chirp, taking a step forward to look around, “your place is a mess.” You catch his eye and he visibly winces.

“I- I haven’t had the chance to tidy up.” He picks up a pillow, and attempts to fluff it. It’s placed delicately on the corner of the couch, and you both watch as it flops over. You huff a silent laugh over it.

You hum, taking a peek over to the kitchen. “Do you want me to take off my shoes?” You tap your heels against the floor and grab at a severely thinned pillow. The pad of your index finger traces over the edge, the fabric worn and threads pulled along.

“No, no. It’s fine. It’ll give me motivation to clean after I return.” He edges further into his home, and you follow, tossing the pillow back onto the couch without much care for delicacy unlike the one given to its match.

“Oh, so knowing that I was going to visit wasn’t motivation?” You cock your head to the side, and lower yourself to a squat to read over a stack of books that are cluttered onto the end table.

“That’s not- I was busy.” You give him an impish grin, and he rolls his eyes. “I haven’t been home in a minute, okay?”

Your smile falters, and your fingertip traces along a spine. Looking over to him, you quickly turn away when he catches your gaze. “Long days at the office?” You ask, focusing on a book. “Hah, “Does Any Of This Matter?’” You tap the spine of the book. “That’s funny.”

His gaze is resting on you, a soft look that makes your skin itch. “Yeah,” he breathes out. There’s movement in the corner of your eye, and you force yourself to read the other titles despite the lack of amusement. “Long days.”

“If you want-” you rise slowly, bending your leg behind you to give yourself some relief- “you can just rest and we can go out some other day.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.” And with his body betraying him, he lets out a yawn that he hides behind his hand far too late. Looking at you and your disheartened smile, he waves his hand. “I want to go out today.”

You force yourself to look at a whiteboard that is mounted over a counter. Black marker draws equations that only make your brows knit together. Orange and green are contrasted against the black and white. In the bottom-left corner, there is a crudely drawn person near a black swirled circle.

“Hm-” you cross your arms over your chest- “I don’t understand any of this.”

He laughs loudly, and his hands cup over your shoulders. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he tells you, giving what you’re sure is meant to be a reassuring squeeze.

Your mouth drops and you practically hurt your neck to whip around to look at him. He refuses to meet your eyes, and can only smile coyly. “You are so rude to your guest.” You pull away from him and swat at his arm. You can’t help but want to wander all over his flat, to peek at every nook and cranny, wanting to see more of him, the him that he is when he’s alone and no one is watching. Glancing at an empty water bottle, you find that he lets things clutter around him. A part of you entertains the idea of getting to clean his home together, to sit with him after a long day and have his arms wrapped tight around you. You shake your head at the thought and turn your attention elsewhere.

A bulletin board decorated with various images and newspaper clippings catches your attention and you let yourself be taken to where it hangs. There are sticky notes with random numbers stuck to the bigger poster that’s been layered with other items. You pinch over the edge of an old newspaper, and suck in your bottom lip. “I didn’t know there’s gonna be a new Alechmax in India.” You turn to him, your smile a poor mask for the anxiety bubbling in you. “You’re not getting transferred, right?”

“No!” He yelps, before clearing his throat. “No,” he says in a more controlled tone. “They’re hiring in the area. I might have to visit in the future, but even then it's just a possibility.”

You nod to yourself, and walk around his flat, peeking at every loose leaf of paper, and you can feel his eyes on you. In the kitchen area, you look at the refrigerator. You smile, looking at him with your finger pressed against the photograph. “Awe! Is this you?” He stands with other scientists, all pressed side-to-side, and his smile is small and stiff, shoulders hunched and head slightly bowed.

Soft footfalls quickly approach where you stand, and when you look up, he’s peering at the photo. “It was taken around the time when the new batch of scientists- including me- had started.”

You bump your back against his chest, and his hand wraps around your hand. “I didn’t know you were so sentimental,” you muse. Against you, he shrugs. “We can always take pictures together, too, ya know?”

“We can?” He asks in a timid voice.

“You know, I may be a writer, but I can also take really good photos.” You lift up your free hand and make a motion of pressing a camera button. “Haven’t gotten any complaints about my skill.” His hand squeezes around yours and your grin stretches. “Anyways, you gotta go change, remember?

“Hm? Oh- Yeah. Right, right.” He lets go of you and you turn around. “I’ll be-”

Something else grabs your attention, if it were just one, you could have spied on it on your own, but when grouped with so many, you have to ask. “Why do you have so many cages?” You brush past him and lower yourself, trying to find something inside the clear plastic boxes. They’re not labeled, and nothing seems to be inside. “They’re all empty,” you mumble. You tap against the clear screen, and your fingerprint is left behind.

He grabs you, pulling you away and putting your attention elsewhere. You gasp in shock, and give him a confused look. “Snakes,” he answers, practiced and perfected.

Your reporter senses tingle. “Snakes?” You ask, not believing the story, giving a side glance to the cages.

“Yeah, snakes.” His hands leave your body and you watch him. “Do you want a drink? I never offered you- That was my bad. You want water? I’ll get you water.”

“Johnathan,” you start, and he turns towards you. His eyes are scanning you, and he takes a brief look over to the empty cages. You follow his gaze, and return to him. Taking a deep breath, you take a step closer to him, and pull down the hem of his shirt. “We’re already getting drinks, remember? You need to change. I have an appointment early tomorrow, so I can’t really be out so late.”

“Right,” he breathes out. His eyes glance to the cages and you bite your tongue to avoid asking him anything more. “Let me go get changed,” he mumbles. “I need- I’ll be quick.” Without waiting for an answer, he brushes past you, and behind you, the cages sit empty.

Left alone, you walk back to the couch, grabbing at the thinned pillow and placing it on your lap. You fiddle with the corners, and turn to the end table, the lamp surrounded by books and binders, and giving a quick glance to the room that Johnathan disappeared into, you grab the binder and have it rest on top of the worn pillow.

You’re careful to open it, and your caution pays off when loose paper is at the front of the binder. It’s scribbled out notes, corners bent and highlights made upon certain lines. There’s a business card stuck through a ring. You read the name- Dr. Owens. You stick your tongue out and move on. You find more of what you found in the beginning. Notes that are scribbled out, some crossed out in angry pen strokes or in permanent black marker. Equations that make your head spin, and you flip through each page with care to not let anything slip out. Some pages are decorated with sticky notes that are wrinkled and brightly colored against the black and white pages- letters, question marks, exclamation marks, and doodles decorate each sticky note.

Whatever Johnathan has chosen to write about in this binder is not your concern. You don’t stop to read past a few words of what you can recount from what he’s said previously. In the middle of one page is a recipe, the words smudged, and smeared across the page. You wonder if he’s already made it, and another wonder passes in your mind if it’s something that he would like to do with you. On one page, is a roughly drawn picture of a spider. You stare at the black-inked spider, your finger tracing over it, practically covering half of the drawing.

You hear a rush of steps, and when you look up, the binder is snatched from your hands, and it is snapped shut, and held protectively in his arms.

He wears a white button-up, decorated with black squares and black outlined squares. It’s tucked into his pants. “Oh, you’re ready,” you chirp. The pillow is placed beside you, and you walk past him, standing by the door. “You got everything?”

“Why did you look at it?”

You scoff, a thin smile stretching across your face. “I was bored-” you shrug- “it was just there and I thought-”

“You thought what? You thought you could take a look at my things?” His tone makes you stand a bit straighter, your hands curling inwards, and your mouth goes dry.

You brows knit. “Johnathan-”

“I invited you here so you could wait-”

“You didn’t mind me looking around before-” You spit out, confused about what is unfolding.

“Because I was here,” he snaps. “I was letting you walk around, not open up my things. I don’t look through your things.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I just- It looked interesting. I’m sorry, Johnathan.” You know that you shouldn’t have looked through it and he has every right to be upset, but you don’t enjoy this feeling of him looking down at you.

“His hand slides through the air and you bite the inside of your cheeks. “Don’t touch things that aren’t yours. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

You feel your ears burn. “I’m sorry-”

“What did you see?” You turn your head, and your nails bite into your palms. “What did you see?” He repeats.

“Just equations and doodles. Nothing else that I could have understood,” you say meekly. You hate how you feel right now. You hate that it’s him that’s making you feel so small.

“I don’t know why you thought it was okay to look through my things,” he hisses out, and you never thought you’d see him so upset- “but I didn’t give you permission. You come into my home and touch everything and-”

“I’m sorry,” you say loudly, stomping your foot on the ground, and finally he stops. “I can’t do or say anything more about it.” Your face burns, and your hand has begun to shake and even with your nails piercing into your skin, you can’t stop the trembling. “You know what-” you turn your head and try not to feel cold in his home- “you said it yourself that you’re overworked and tired, and obviously I’m not helping, so I’m leaving. We can-” you turn to him, and the stress is leaving, his face softening, and worry replacing any previous emotion- “pick this up some other time. But I’m gone. I’m going home.”

The doorknob is cold in your hand, and it twists softly and you let it go with suddenness when a hand holds your wrist. “Wait, no.” You stare at the door, finding paint staining over the metal. “I’m sorry. I don’t know- It’s just that there are important notes in there and I shouldn’t have left it out-”

“It’s fine, Johnathan,” you say in a tone that makes it quite obvious that it is indeed not fine. “I’m just gonna go home. It was my fault; I shouldn’t have looked through it.” You stay silent, and weakly, you pull your arm free, and he lets it go without resistance. Your teeth glide over your bottom lip. “Good luck with your research or whatever.” You give a wave without looking back, and keep yourself focused on the doorknob, and your hand wraps around it once more, and it opens easily.

You don’t hear the door close behind you, nor do you care to look back. Your ears burn and your chest is hot. The outside air is crisp, and you keep your gaze on the sidewalk, carefully stepping out of people’s way by the position of their shoes. You focus on the weeds that bloom between the cracks. And you only stop when a hand grabs at yours.

Tears prick your eyes, and you pull your hand back to you, ready to spit venom at the other person, only to find Johnathan looking at you, out of breath, and glasses askew.

“You walk fast when you’re upset,” he says between breaths. You stare at him, your eyes wandering to the other side of the street. He follows your gaze, and he reaches for you again, only to stop when you step away from him. “Can we talk, please?”

“I’m going home,” you tell him. “Go get some rest or something.”

“Let me buy you a drink. I- I told you that I wanted-”

“I don’t want a drink,” you snap. And just as quickly, you regret it. You turn away from him, and wait at the crosswalk. You watch the pixelated red hand, and when it turns into the off-white figure of a man, you walk quickly, rushing between people, hoping that he isn't following you, but wishing that he is. You hope that you’re someone worthy of being chased.

Your stomach drops when he grabs at your hand and walks with you. “Then let me take you home,” he says in a whisper. “At least let me do that.”

“I don’t want you to,” you tell him, still walking with him hand-in-hand.

There’s far too many people, your body is growing restless. You walk without purpose, your steps quick and heavy and he follows without a sound, his hand neither tightening nor softening his hold as if in fear that once you’re reminded of him, you’d pull away again. You round the corner of a building, the back of it is empty save for the stray cat that naps over the dumpster. With his hand still wrapped around yours, you step away from him, your arm stretched and your hand clammy.

You take a deep breath and look at him, eyes wide and already filling with tears. He takes a step closer to you, concern creasing over his features. “I’m sorry,” you say in a choked voice. “I shouldn’t have looked through your place.”

Johnathan shakes his head. “You were just curious,” he tells you in a low voice. “I shouldn’t have gotten upset with you.” You turn your head and blink rapidly. His hand lets go of yours and he cups at your face, his thumb arching over your cheekbone. “Please, don’t cry.”

Shaking your head, you tilt your head away from his hand. Your fingertips find themselves pinching over the bridge of your nose, your eyes shut tight where light doesn’t peek, and where organic shapes are the only thing that you can see. “I just wanna go home, Johnathan.”

“Let me take you home, then. We can walk back and-”

When you open your eyes, the sun blinds you for a second. “No.” You hold your hands in front of you, your palms facing him. You turn your head, and let your hands fall. “I just want to be alone for a minute. I know that if I go back with you and we talk, we’ll just-” you stop yourself- “I just-”Your hands shake, a trembling that’s rapid and and makes you feel too seen, too vulnerable, and with the way that his hand stretches out as to grab yours, only makes you want to retreat away from him.

Something speeds by, a gust of air and a mechanical whir to it that has Johnathan reaching towards you. His arms wrap around you, and you’re pressed against his chest, your vision clouded by blue until you shift, pushing yourself away from him. You look up in time to see Spider-man swing by, his attention focused on whatever had just rushed by. Your hands reach for your phone, and you glance at the battery- seventy-eight percent. It’s enough.

You turn to Johnathan, and stare down at your shoes- while not ideal for chasing around the city’s web-slinger, it’ll have to do. Looking back up at him, you find that he’s staring at you, no movement, and no sound. You turn to look the way that Spider-man had just swung towards. You turn back to him, your phone held tight in your hands. “I gotta go,” you tell him.

“You’re going to chase after Spider-man and some villain of the week rather than talk to me.” His tone is a mixture of hurt and accusatory, as if you’re doing something wrong- again. And you know for sure that you are this time, you know that you should go back with him and talk it all out, but the thought of being alone with him right now makes you upset.

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Yeah, I will. I am. Get some sleep or something, we’ll talk later.” Your heels spin against the concrete, and you rush to chase after Spider-man.

As you trudge down the sidewalk, your camera is heavy around your neck and despite the padding, the straps make the soft flesh around your neck raw. All you want right now is to collapse on your bed, or take a shower. You hum, a shower would be nice. In your pocket, your phone buzzes- something that it’s been doing all day. If it’s not emails, it’s notifications from social media, and if it isn’t that, it's phone calls and messages. You answered the people who you wanted to talk to but when the name ‘Johnathan’ appeared, you promptly ignored it, the buzzing thick in your pocket and continuous.

You should talk to him. It was a fight- an argument, really. But you can’t look at him right now, nor do you have the energy to talk to him. You’ll figure it out in the morning. You’ll have a light breakfast and message him some type of apology and then he can make the difficult decision of replying or not.

Closer to your home, on the steps you see someone and you halt. Your hands grab at your camera, and you tap your fingers against the sides. You could turn around, find some other entrance. If people can use fire escapes for something other than their intended purposes, so can you. The heel of your shoe scrapes against the concrete, and before you can spin on your heel, the person looks up and sees you.

Jonathan stands up and pulls the hem of his shirt down, and you hold on tighter to your camera. Canines worry at your lip, the flesh soft and tender underneath the sharp points. He takes a step toward you and you glide your foot against the concrete, ready to run, ready to look at anyone but him. But he falters, and his shoulders slump, and the sad look on his face makes you walk nervously up to him.

You say nothing, and he stands at the bottom of the steps, and you stand above him, and he says nothing. Neither of you make a motion to talk to the other, and a part of you wants this to end. You don’t like the difficult bits, you like it easy. You like not having to worry about what the other person is thinking of you, but now, it’s all that you can do. You hold your breath, unable to think of anything other than the beginning of your supposed coffee date.

He points towards his neck. “When did you get your camera?”

Covering the lens of the camera with the palm of your hand, you tap your foot against the stair. “I was lucky Spider-man was near the office. I was able to pick up a spare.” He nods, and you move down a step when another tenant enters the apartment complex. “Do you want to come up?” He nods, and follows closely behind you.

Your apartment is cozy- littered with personal objects and mail that sits at the coffee table. The spare camera joins the mess of your stuff on the table. He makes a motion to his shoes and you wave your hand, not caring at the moment, only wanting to distract yourself. He nods, and slips them off. You keep him in the corner of your vision, watching as he walks gently to the couch, sitting at the end of it with his legs bent and knees and thighs close together. The blanket that you use is crumpled and he sits beside it, grabbing at the corner of it and testing it between his fingers. You hold your breath and walk toward the fridge, opening it and pulling out two bottles of water. The frost over its wipes away with your touch.

“Were you waiting long?”

“Since 8.” You look at the clock on your stove. It’s 9. “You didn’t answer my calls.”

“I was busy with work.” You're quick to get to the point. “Where there’s Spider-man and a villain, there’s always bound to be some sort of danger.” You place the water in front of him and sit a cushion apart from him. Your water is in your hands, the cold slowly numbing and wetting your palms. “Got some good pictures, still and all.”

His eyes scan you over and you look away. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” You press into the bottle and a droplet of water traces down your arm.

“I’m serious.” He turns himself to look over to you.

You hunch over, your forearms resting over your thighs. “I’m not in a hospital, am I?”

He swallows. “I don’t like how we left things.”

You sigh and dip your head down, before lifting it with weariness. “I already apologized, what more do you want?” The water bottle is placed carefully on the floor, and even with your carefulness and gentleness, it still falls over.

“I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.” Your lips pull into a line and you grab a bunch of the blanket and dig your hands into the soft plush. “That was wrong of me. But-” you push yourself against the back of the couch and he stops. “I apologize.”

Your chest rises with your inhale, and falls down at the quick release. “What more do you want me to say, Johnathan?” You turn to him and he pushes his glasses up by the bridge. “Let’s just forget it happened. I won’t go to your place and look through your things. We’ll just- I don’t know- meet at my place. It’s not like I’m doing anything other than journalism.”

He says your name delicately, whispered as if saying it out loud would be too much and said with strain as if your name is too heavy for his tongue. “That’s not it. I’m really sorry.” His voice breaks and you flinch, looking away. “Work’s been a lot, and Dr. Octavius and Mr. Fisk are breathing down my neck-” he waves his hands, rolling his hands and flexing his fingers- “but- but that’s no excuse as to how I talked to you. I don’t want- The less that you know, the better.”

“I know,” you say curtly. “I remember our conversation from before.”

He sighs. He crosses over to sit beside you, the blanket held in his hands, the corner edge of it now held tightly. “I’m sorry,” he tells you. “I’m not good at this. I’ve dated before, but that was before things at Alchemax were getting serious. I’m not- I like you a lot. When I saw you reading through it, I-” he shakes his head, and his knee touches yours. “We met because you were determined to know more about Alchemax.”

“I told you before that I’m not using you to get to that.” Your back is straight, and your hands curve over your knees, the knuckle of your littlest finger grazes against his knee. You want to take his hand. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything else.” He takes your hand, and holds it tightly between the two of his. “We can put this behind us if you want, but I promise, I won’t talk to you like that again. I- I didn’t like getting mad at you. And I didn’t like the feeling that it left me with.”

“I didn’t like it either,” you mumble. “It felt like you were talking down to me, rather than to me.”

His hands tighten around your own. “I won’t do it again. I promise.” You nod and you feel much more tired than you had before. “Is it okay if I hug you?” You nod, and he lets go of your hand, and embraces you.

You lean into him, your hands fisting at his shirt, clawing into him to keep him against you. Unlike your feverish grasp onto him, he holds you gently, his hands laid wide and flat against your, curving over your body, and holding you close to him. He leans into your touch, whereas you push yourself against him. His hair tickles at your nose, and you keep your eyes close, full intent to sit there until he’s ready to pull away. You’ve made your peace to sit there, to let vines grow and keep you tethered to the couch, to not let go of the smallest comfort that he's given you. When you feel his lips press against the side of your head, you press a faint kiss over his shoulder, content when he runs his hand upwards and presses another kiss against you.

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