#peachy canyon

[wine-porn]

Lakeside Paso

A few quick notes on the Atascadero Lakeside Wine Festival today… Outstanding in Spot 1: Peachy Canyon‘s Cinsault rosé and the sublime Peche Blanc white blend. Fair perfection in Provence-style rosé for the former, an unbelievable balance of textures in the latter–and the finish will blow your mind. Like I have often mused about Tablas Creek: the beauty of Ancient Peaks is NOT in the hi-profile…

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[feelin-peachy-keen]

#me #peachy thoughts #rb for sample size #tumblr polls #nature photos like my header of the Grand Canyon

[upsidedownwithsteve]

We Tried The World CH4.

THE MASTERLIST THUNDER LAKE, COLORADO.  1227 MILES FROM HOME. 

The world around you changed as Steve drove you both out of Kansas. You packed up the car and drove through the night, bikini still on underneath a sundress, hair damp and skin smelling like chlorine. 

Steve sat next to you, tired, happy, sipping coffee and looking like he’d just leaped off of a cliff. His eyes were bright for the late hour, his hair wild from a day spent mostly underwater. 

He seemed lighter since he’d told you his secret, whispered it into the reflections off the pool, letting the silence and the sinking sun soak it up. You’d dressed on the edges of the water, both smiling, both blushing, avoiding too much eye contact as you dragged towels over bare skin. 

He’d opened the car door for you after you both scaled the fence and you wondered if his secret had sunk to the bottom of the pool, if it was supposed to stay there, never to be spoken of again. But by the time you’d driven out of Wichita and hit the back roads, the sun was gone, the moon was high and Steve stopped at some traffic lights and they lit you both up in scarlet light. 

The boy let out a breath, like he was readying himself and you’d turned at the noise, a question on your lips you never got to say because Steve leaned over the console, just a little, hand outstretched. His fingers were surprisingly warm when they grazed over your cheekbone, just underneath the line of your lashes. You’d blinked, almost gasped, and then Steve was pulling back and whispering “eyelash.” 

You slept for a while, tried your best to stay awake to keep the boy company as he drove but after the second stop for gas and another coffee, Steve was pulling one of his sweaters from his bag, coaxing it over your like a makeshift blanket and you couldn’t help it. 

It smelled like him, like the forest, like sunscreen and faded cologne. You closed your eyes without meaning to, lashes fanning over sunburnt cheeks and Steve turned the music down low, until whoever was singing was whispering to you, lulling you to sleep under Steve’s sweater. 

When you woke up, it was still dark, the land outside looking a little rockier, a little more up and down than before. The moon was high, a pale yellow that cast some light into the front seats of the BMW. Steve had pulled over, into a dirt parking lot off the side of the road and he slept upright, arms crossed, lips slack, head nodding off in every direction. 

 So you woke him up with your hand pressed to his forearm, squeezing softly to him to stir. He looked at you, bleary eyed and sleep mussed, leaning into your touch like he needed it to wake up. Steve didn’t fuss too much about handing over his keys, all previous arguments about you taking turns to drive out the window. 

Sure you knew how to drive, even a stick shift. You just didn’t have your licence. But that didn’t seem to matter all that much at three in the morning, in the dark and in the quiet of nowhere, Colorado. 

The world was asleep, letting you do what you wanted, what you pleased. It shut its eyes and gave you the moon, a long open road and only a hint at where you were driving to. Steve said ‘thanks, sweetheart,’ as you passed each other in front of the headlights, swapping places and sleepy smiles. 

If you reacted to the term of affection, you didn’t show it. And if Steve grinned when you slipped his sweater over your dress before settling behind the wheel, he hid it well. He fell back asleep quickly, an almost undeserving amount of trust given to you as he shuffled into the corner of the seat and the window, the keys to his most beloved possession in your hands. 

So you drove until the sun started to come up, a whole new picture in your windscreen. Mountains, canyons, valleys. The land turned rusty, oranges and reds and patches of green and wildflowers. The road went up, up, up and you climbed with the sun. Peachy skies greeted you, made Steve stir and wake up with a smile because the warmth of a new day was creeping into the car and you had the sleeves of his too big sweater curled around your hands as you held onto the wheel. 

Your ears popped and so did Steve’s, a quick sting that told you both you were higher than before, the roads still climbing, twisting and turning between mountains, overlooking lakes that seemed to appear from nowhere. Everything was pink when the sun came out, the sky, the rocks, the land, the water. 

Even Steve, who was looking at you with the softest smile, his hair mussed from where he’d tan his hands through it, the crease of his seat belt cutting across cheek. The bruise around his eye was completely gone now, skin unmarked except from the evidence of a good sleep. 

He watched you change gear, tongue peeking out from between your lips as you concentrated and the boy was laughing, turning the radio up as the new day started, a new song, a new state, a new kind of buzz between you both. 

Synths, drums, building, rising, getting faster and faster, and then you rounded a corner on the quiet road, burst out from between the tall trees that grew on either side of the tarmac and then and then and then—

A picture perfect view, a rolling mountain, rose coloured in the rising sun, dusted with greenery, with trees that looked like matchsticks. It led down to a lake, almost too blue to be real holding a mirror image of the scene above it. 

The sky was like silk, washes of pastels, clouds coming in from the horizon that promised a bright and warm day. And then you were laughing and so was Steve, a burst of noise that said ‘holy shit, can you believe this?’

The boy was grinning back, leaning forward on his seat, hands on the dashboard, eyes fucking shining and he looked at you like he knew, like he agreed, like he was telling you, ‘I’m so fucking happy I’m here. With you.’

I’m so happy it’s you. 

You pulled off the road, tires kicking up clouds of orange dust and you were still laughing, eyes a little glassy, overwhelmed. Steve seemed to understand because he didn’t question you, he just got out of the car too, walked around the front of the bumper and joined you at the metal barrier that separated you both from the drop below. 

The world was still waking up, birds barely calling out, the low buzz of insects seeming too far away and the heat in the air still felt fresh. Steve’s shoulder brushed yours and together you took a big breath in, held it and let it out on another huff of laughter. He let you lean into him, tears brimming at your lash line because it was all so pretty and it had been ten days since you’d left Hawkins. Ten days since you left the place that was supposed to be home and suddenly it hit you that you didn’t really miss it.  

Not your aunt's house, or your bed, or even the way the neighbours cat sat on your windowsill each morning.  

Because it had only been ten days but suddenly Steve Harrington was the closest thing you had to a best friend, the closest thing to a home, something that made you ache with warm familiarity. 

You sniffed, sighed, scrubbed the back of your hand over your watery eyes and then Steve was there, laughing softly, not unkindly, just amused. His hands curled around your shoulders, squeezed at you and tugged you back a little, just enough that your back bumped his chest and he let you stay there, leaning, supported. 

His chin hooked over your shoulder and it felt a little like a hug. 

“Y’okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, suddenly feeling a little silly at your outburst of emotion. You felt entirely vulnerable, more exposed than you ever had, feeling more naked than the times you stood before the boy, wet and in a bikini. 

“Yeah,” you tried to whisper back, but it came out in a little gasp. “M’fine, shit, it’s just— it’s just pretty, y’know?”

Steve’s gaze flickered from the view to your face, lips twisted in conflict as if he was trying to decide what he wanted to look at more. But your eyes were shining, unshed tears clinging to your lashes like glitter, lips parted in awe. He could see the summer in your skin, in the glow that wasn’t there when he first picked you up that morning, just outside your house. 

His stare settled on you, close and steady, your back still pressed to his chest and for a second, he wondered if he’d be allowed to reach out and hold your hand, I’d you’d let him, if it would make you smile. But he didn’t feel as brave as he wanted to, not yet. So he cleared his throat and nodded, his cheek brushing your hair and said:

“Yeah, s’real pretty.”

He was still looking at you.  

—————

Steve took back over driving duties. It went like it always did, windows down, music up, his sunglasses over his eyes and his hair a little wild. Seeing him like that made your stomach flip, like you were the only one that got to see this version of him. 

Maybe you were. Maybe this Steve was yours. 

You sang to him, he sang back, voices louder and crazier as the wind whipped through the car and the sun made everything so much warmer than you’d ever felt before. 

It made your cheeks hurt, smiling at it all. It made you feel like a teenager again, the way Steve looked at you. Tongues pressed to cheeks to stop yourselves from grinning too much, eyes dancing over the other, gazed hidden behind Ray Bans and tangled hair. 

Steve drove you both into a town, cheeks burning as you passed signs that said “Loveland” and it seemed like easy to follow each other around the streets. The place was a big city, but it had a small town feel that felt a little like home and it eased you both as you walked around parks and lakes, trying to find a store. 

It was easier to touch each other more too, ten days in and a few nights tangled together, legs twisted, ankles hooked around calves and cheeks pressed to chests. So you didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t think too much of it when Steve pointed to a supermarket across the road and grabbed your hand. 

He held it as you navigated through the traffic, jogging a little to keep up with him and as you walked through the doors he didn’t let go. It was hardly a thing, palms barely touching just fingers twisted together like you were scared to lose the other. 

He only let go when he grabbed a cart and the boy rolled his eyes and grinned when you hopped inside of it. So it went like that, Steve pushing you around the store, your sundress and his sweater riding up your thighs as you let your dust covered shoes hang out over the side. 

He passed you snacks, bottles of water, some cans of soda and even a new blanket as you read out loud from the little book you’d bought way back in Illinois, telling Steve all about the Rocky Mountains and the Continental divide. He even threw a disposable camera on your lap as you neared the checkout, a roll of film loaded and ready to go. So it was settled, because you asked and Steve said yes, and suddenly you were planning for a few days in the wild, with creeks and lakes and canyons and the chance to see stars in the sky again. 

You could feel Steve’s eyes on you as you loaded up the car, his sweater still swamping your frame, the hem of your dress peeking out from underneath. He hadn’t asked for it back and although the day was getting warmer, the temperature creeping upwards, the soft material smelled like him, like mint and boy and summer and Steve, and you didn’t want to take it off. 

Not yet. 

The drive out of town made your body buzz, that same feeling of anticipation you felt when you had travelled towards The Ozarks. It happened the same way, with the skylines and brick buildings falling away from you as you ventured further away from the city. The road led you back into canyons, made you both feel like ants in a toy car and it was brand new, it was different, it was a little bit magic. 

The road started winding, the land around you growing and when the sun reached its peak in the sky, what little clouds had been there slipped away and you were left with blue, blue, blue. Everything around you got taller, jagged rocks lifting up from the ground until they became cliff faces and mountains grew in the distance, breaking up the skyline with peaks of snow that seemed so far away. 

You passed campsites, cabins and people walking with backpacks heading towards trails, cars with canoes on their roofs, signs warning you about mountain lions. It was a new world, something else entirely, and Steve seemed as mesmerised as you were. So you stopped at a little information centre, took turns in the tiny toilet and grabbed a map of the trailheads and some chips from a vending machine that needed a shove from Steve’s shoulder to rattle loose.

The parking lot cleared as you walked back to the BMW, kicking up dust as you stared up at the mountains in the distance, the canyons that closed you in from both sides. Trees littered the cliff faces, patches of green that broke up the rock, the roads, the wooden cabins that were selling hiking equipment and camping gear. 

You turned to Steve as you reached the car, sundress skimming your thighs, Steve’s sweater trailing past your fingertips, your hair a little wild from the way the wind had whipped through it during the ride here. You found the boy a few feet behind you, sleeves rolled up, all tanned skin and hair messier than yours. He held the little camera he’d bought up to his face, eyes squinting as he looked through the lens at you.

“What’re you doing?” you laughed, embarrassed at his blatant attention.

“M’takin’ a photo of the mountains,” Steve grinned, pressing the button until the camera clicked and whirred. He was still pointing it at you. “You can draw me, but I can’t snap some pictures? Rude.”

He was still grinning when he brought the camera away from his face, rolling his eyes and passing it to you when you wiggled your fingers at it. The boy hopped up onto the closed trunk, knees on his elbows and squinting into the sun but you clicked the camera, capturing Steve and the mountains, the burgundy of the car, the glare of the sun.

It was quiet when you let the camera fall to your side, memories already locked inside of it, both of your smiling faces, surrounded by a world that looked a little alien to you. Steve nodded towards the hills and valleys in the difference, the road that wound around a bend and disappeared into the wild.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Always,” you replied.

So you both drove out towards the mountains, climbing higher and higher again, cars becoming less frequent the further into the national park you ventured. You passed campgrounds, signs for cabins and tent pitches and Steve turned off onto a smaller trail, dirt road kicking up dust as you turned the music up a little louder, smiling as you sang. 

“Maybe you wonder where you are, I don't care,” you were louder than ever, unashamed, eyes shining, windows down and Steve’s eyes flicking from the road to you. 

“Here is where time is on our side, take you there, take you there,” Steve finished, and god it all felt a little cosmic, like the world meant for you both to be there. 

You stabbed a finger to the map, declared your destination to be a blue spot on the paper called ‘Thunder Lake’ and Steve made a joke about you always leading them to water, like some sort of make believe creature, something from a fairytale. But he listened and obeyed when you pointed this way and that, yelling left and right through laughter and new songs. 

The road opened up for you both when the trees on either side of you cleared and a rocky beach led down to a crystal blue shoreline, mountains surrounding the water, closing you in. The lake felt like it belonged to you and Steve, it felt like a new secret to share. 

You stepped out together, wonder on your faces, smiles curling into grins and it was like the air glittered, like the sun got a little warmer when you stepped into its light. 

The car was left on the gravel, the air not as warm as it was back in town, so you kept Steve’s sweater on, ducked your head and bit your lip when he plucked at the material and grinned at you. You had lunch by the waters edge, the surface glassy and unspoiled, mountains for friends as you shared a packet of chips, broke apart sandwiches and took a half each. 

It was the nicest kind of quiet.

And when the run had passed its highest point in the sky and the world started to glow a little pink, a little more peach and orange as evening rolled in, you lay on your stomach on a grassy patch, sketchbook opened and a pencil sucked between your lips. Steve was a little away, balancing on one foot on a rock in the shallows, arms outstretched, an old flannel hanging over his t-shirt. 

You were finishing up drawing the rip in his jeans, just above his knee when he came wandering over. He’d caught you drawing him enough times now that you didn’t immediately hide your page, but the flush was still evident on your cheeks when he plopped down beside you. He was close, closer than he used to dare, thigh pressed to your ribs and his face hovering over your shoulder.

He smelled like the mountains, fresh and like pine needles, the last of the sunscreen and passionfruit iced tea. 

“Does my hair really look that bad?” he complained, but there was a smile on his lips, a shine in his eyes when you snorted and nudged at him.

“Shut up,” you told him, fonder than ever. 

“Can I?” he asked, nodding towards your book. 

You nodded, swallowing hard. Your hands felt empty without it, but Steve kept it close between you both. 

The cover was frayed, stained, the pages curling and dog eared, some ripped, some missing. The book held a little of everything, scenes from Hawkins, some self portraits, your aunt cooking soup at the stove. The most recent pages were filled with Steve.

Profiles of his face, strong jaw, full lips, furrowed brows. Steve lying in the sun, Steve driving the car, head tipped back, sunglasses hiding the way his eyes glittered. You’d drawn the car, muddy, dust covered and loved, the lake from the Ozarks, a bird's eye view of the winding roads that took you out of Kansas. You sketched the outside of the motel from Illinois, wrote the room number underneath the lines of ink like a signature, and drew two floating figures in a big, wide pool.

You were holding your breath. 

“I like these,” he murmured, trailing his touch over the lines, a finger pushed to the figure that was supposed to be you, floating on your back in water. “They’re really good.”

You ducked your head, tried not to smile and whispered a thank you and grinned anyway when he poked at your cheek. 

Then you were squealing, laughing, tugged clumsily onto your back as Steve fell back with you, his hands on your shoulders as you both dropped back into the long grass. The camera flashed above you, a click and whirl as Steve captured the scene. 

The pair of you, shoulder to shoulder, cheeks touching, lips split with wide smiles and eyes bright. Your hair mixed with the boys, with the blades of grass, skin painted apricot in the setting sun. 

“We were definitely only half in the frame,” you snorted, your hand pushing at Steve’s side as he scoffed in protest. 

“What d’you mean, I’m practically a professional.”

You laughed again, softer this time, because Steve was pushing himself up, turning to hover over you and he was grinning, backlit by the sunset and you were suddenly reminded of his favourite colour. 

He was sunset yellow, gold and peach and tangerine, coral coloured cheeks with hair that suddenly seemed caramel. He was sunkissed, freckled, stubble on his jaw that had grown since the last motel stop, his hair a little more curled at the ends from being outside. 

Clouds had started to roll in over the mountains, burnt orange and indigo, bringing in the threat of rain but you couldn’t find it in you to care when Steve was looking at you like that. 

Like the same he had on the Fourth of July, right before he kissed you. 

But then he was sitting back, clearing his throat and tugging at his hair like he needed to give his hands something else to do. In case he felt like he was going to do something stupid. 

Like touch you. 

So Steve handed you back your book instead, pages slipping free that you’d once torn out but decided to keep, half finished sketches, lists and a photo that was lined with peeling, old tape, yellowed and dog eared. 

“What’s that?” Steve picked up the photograph, gentle with a finger and a thumb, like he knew it was something special. 

You sat up and looked, heart skipping a beat. It was an image of a house, white wooden slats, a blue roof and matching shutters, a buttercup yellow door surrounded by hanging flowers. The house sat on a hill, sand covering the path leading up to it, long grass on its edges, like nature itself built it. The photo looked old, like the photo had seen some water damage, some wear and tear and a lot of love. 

“Uh,” you started, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears that you didn’t want, didn’t expect. You sniffed, shrugged, feeling silly. “That’s my grandparents house.”

“Oh,” Steve looked at you, unsure whether to reach out and touch you or not. He placed the photo on the open pages of your book and nodded. “S’really lovely. The house- it’s pretty.”

You smiled and nodded too because it was. 

“Did you go there a lot?” The boy asked and he sounded so earnest, so sincere. “Is it in Virginia too?”

You shook your head, smile slipping into something sad and you picked up the photo, ran a thumb over its work edges and glanced back up at Steve. There were four of him, his pretty face split into fractures with the tears that made your eyes a little glassy. You blinked, felt stupid when wet hit your cheek and surprised you. 

“No, uh, I’ve never been,” you told him. “I met them once or twice, I think? I was young. They were so mad at my mom and they were really old when she left. They couldn’t travel a lot and by the time they got sick I knew my mom was never coming back and my aunt couldn’t afford to fly us out.”

You left the rest unsaid, the obvious outcome lingering in the air like the end of a movie that never got a happy ending. 

“Oh,” Steve whispered and you nodded again, like you agreed with him. 

“It’s silly,” you said because maybe it was. “I’ve never been but I look at this photo and it feels like the closest thing I maybe would’ve had to a home. I remember my grans baking; scones and the best meringues you could ever taste.”

Steve smiled when you did, your face lighting up with a memory and he watched your eyelashes flutter like you were trying your best to remember it all. 

“My aunt said my grandad called me ‘duck,’ said he loved quiz shows and toffee.” 

You sniffed again, rolled your eyes at yourself and leaned against Steve when he let himself fall into your space again. 

“I remember him bringing me a bag of it when he last came to Hawkins, told me to hide it and not tell my aunt,” you huffed out a laugh. “I still have the last piece of it.”

You thought of the chew, still twisted in its shiny gold wrapper, hidden in a little tin in the bottom of your bag, mixed with jewellery and loose coins. 

“That’s nice,” Steve said and he whispered your name, caught your attention and smiled all sweet, nodded encouragingly at you like he was saying it was okay that you told him. “S’really nice that you have those memories.”

“Yeah,” you smiled, watery, wiped the back of your hand roughly across your face and nudged your shoulder into Steve’s, a solid and warm comfort. “My aunt said I looked like my gran. Not my mom, she always said I looked when my gran when she was young.”

Steve let his knee knock against yours, smiled at you a little wistfully, glanced at you from the corners of his eyes. “Oh yeah?” He said, “your gran must’ve been real pretty then, huh?”

You scoffed, burned with embarrassment, but more than a little pleased with his words and you were quiet and insincere when you mumbled, “shut up.”

He knew you didn’t mean, Steve could see the pink on your cheeks and the shin in your eyes but you were hiding your smile and he decided it was a very pretty look on you. Pleased, maybe even a little overwhelmed by him. 

“Do you miss home?” You asked him, breaking the quiet that settled over you both for a minute or two. You were both staring out at the water, the reflections of the blue mountains in the lake. “Your friends?”

Steve shrugged, smiled a little sad like you had done and let his fingers run over the grass, searching for stones to skip across the shore. 

“I think,” Steve replied, “that if this trip has caught me anythin’, it’s that I don’t think I really had a home, y’know? A house, sure, a real nice house too.”

He found a stone, threw it into the lake and you both watched it splash and sink. The skies were darker, clouds rolling down the canyons, settling in the skies above you, dark and heavy.  

“But I miss my friends,” Steve nodded, staring at his hands. “Miss them a lot, yeah.”

“D’you wish they were here?” You asked, “Robin? Eddie, Dustin?”

“Sometimes?” Steve squinted at you, like he wasn’t really sure of his answer, like he felt guilty if he said otherwise. “We’re always with each other- and I love that, I love them. They’re my family, y’know?”  

“But we’ve been through a lot together and sometimes it’s too much, and I just… I just-”

You sighed, nodding as if he’d already said the word you were both thinking. “Need to breath?”

Steve laughed, a little humourless, a little relieved and he nodded, thankful for the way you seemed to know what he wanted to say, what he needed to hear. 

“Yeah, that,” the boy agreed. “But, hey, I’ve got you with me, right? And you’ve got me.”

You smiled at that, because the boy’s words lifted at the end, a little more lightness and warmth returning to him, despite the way the wind had picked up, pulling more of those dark clouds closer. You wrapped your arms around you, leaned closer into Steve’s side. 

You didn’t look at him when you next spoke, felt like you couldn’t because god, you felt painfully shy, like a teenager with her first crush, like you were talking to that boy next door who seemed too pretty to be real. 

“We’re friends?”  

Steve looked at you then, turning and holding in a little noise at the realisation of how close you both were, shoulder to shoulder, noses only inches apart. He was looking at you that way again, like he had in the kitchen, with fireworks in the sky. Maybe you were looking at him the same way too. 

His grin was achingly soft and he cleared his throat, nervous, nodded and tried his best not to look at your lips, the way the corner of them tilted upwards in a shy smile. You wondered if he’d crack a joke, if he’d say something stupid.

But he didn’t. Steve just gave a little half shrug, tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and tried to hide his blush. But he kept gazing at you, nodded and said, “yeah, sweetheart, yeah… we’re friends.”

It was lovely the way he said it, like you’d both earned the title. Like travelling through four states had been enough time for him to be able to look at you and realise you were no longer a stranger. Steve knew your favourite colour, your favourite animal, your favourite movie. He knew how you liked your coffee and that you preferred the right side of the bed. 

It warmed you to realise that you knew the same. You knew that his hair was a wonderful riot in the morning, that he hated apple juice, that he always mumbled to himself when he was trying to figure out a problem.

You hadn’t realised you’d been staring, or that Steve had been staring right back, still too close, his hair tickling your cheek when the wind lifted at it. 

And then, rain. 

A lot of it, loud and fat, huge droplets that hammered down with a dull roar, soaked you both to the skin almost immediately. You both jumped with a yelp, a few choice curse words and a shocked laugh that sounded more like a gasp. The sky had turned darker than ever, a moody violet that blended with the canyons, madee your little slice of the world turn into a glittering snow globe that held nothing but inky colours and the roll of thunder.

It was freezing, a stark contrast to the July weather that you’d experienced in every state; humid air, hot sun and cloudless skies. You couldn’t see one patch of blue above. But Steve was in front of you, grinning, laughing, grabbing at your cold hand and dragging you back to the car. You were sodden, the boy's sweater a water logged weight on your shoulders and it hung too low, dragged cold and wet at your knees and holy shit, it was comically heavy.

You tried to lift at it, yelped when it clung to your dress and brought that up your thighs with it and Steve tried not to look, tips of his ear tinged pink as he unlocked the car door and turned back to you, motioning to help.

His hands grabbed the hem, a sharp burst of laughter leaving his lips as you squeaked and together, you both tried to wrestle the sweater off of you. It came off with a slow drag, a heavy thud as it hit the roof of the car and you were unsteady on your feet, knocking into Steve so he had to catch you, hands gentle around your wrists so you didn’t fall into him.

The rain was so loud, you could hardly hear the way his laughter faded into purposeful breaths. The roar of it all matched your heartbeat, a constant thudthudthud that rattled your insides. 

Steve was really close. 

His hair was soaked, curling at the ends, dripping water down his cheeks, drops of it caught on his lashes, spilling over his cupid's bow. He looked unfairly pretty, like a painting, a watercolour that was all muted tones, trapped sunlight behind a glass frame. 

Steve was staring again, unabashed, unashamed, but fuck, so were you. You watched him lick the rain from his lips, tracked the movement with a gaze that felt too greedy, too wanton. 

You heard him say your name, a hardly there sound underneath a roll of thunder and suddenly it didn’t matter that you were both soaked to the bone, that you were freezing in a wet sundress. Steve’s t-shirt was almost translucent and the lake looked angier than when you’d both arrived, like it was tired of waiting for something to happen.

Something. Anything. 

Then, it was like a dam burst.

“Can- can I kiss you?” Steve called out, an almost yell to be heard over the din, his cheeks flushed, his eyes so unsure and god, fuck, shit-

You nodded, licked at your own lips, tasted rain water and leftover peach ice tea, watched Steve’s face light up like the sun had come back and then as he moved in, head bending down to yours, your hands shot out, grabbed at his shoulders and you shouted, “wait!”

Steve froze, eyes wide, panicked, rain still pouring over him and you shook your head, stumbled over your words until you got them right, and shit, you had to lean in close so he could hear you. Thunder rumbled above, echoed around the canyons and it felt like your chest vibrated with it.

You held onto the boy, felt the heat of him through his wet shirt, the soaked flannel that drooped open on either side of his chest. Steve wondered if you could feel his heart beat, if you could see the thumpthumpthump of it under his clothes.

You had to take a breath before you spoke, inhaling summer and rainstorms and Steve. 

“I wanna- shit, can I? Can I kiss you this time?” You were wide eyed and breathing too hard, fingers curling around his shoulders, pushing onto your toes like you were waiting for it. “I wanna kiss you this time.”

You sounded braver at the end. Resolute. Determined. 

Steve thought you’d never looked prettier. He laughed, a bright burst, his gaze trained down on yours and he nodded, so sure, his own hands finding your waist and his fingers dug into your sides, made 

fistfuls of your sundress and then and then and then-

When Steve first kissed you over a week ago, it was with confidence that only tequila could bring. 

This was different. It was sweet, it was lovely and then it was more.

Your lips slid over Steves easily, both of you wet with rain, tasting like a storm. It was easy to push yourself into him, to let him catch you and hold your weight. It was a pretty give and take, slow and soft presses of your mouth to his and then your tongue licked into his mouth and you felt his groan, a whisper under the roar of the world around you, but fucking christ, you felt him vibrate against your chest, a rumble that seemed too good to be true.

But Steve opened his mouth for you, let you lick in and slid your tongue over his and you couldn’t help the way you surged up, onto your tiptoes and into him, pushing the boy against the doors of the car and that was it.

His hands were everywhere, stuttering over your sides, over your wet sundress, scratching at wet skin, damp cotton, swallowing the little gasps that you gave him. And your hands were in his hair, pulling and tugging, almost a little mean but the boy kept moaning for you, whispering your name into your own mouth like he was telling you a whole other secret. 

Your noses were pressed to each other's cheeks, teeth dragging over swollen bottom lips, panting into open mouths, hands pressed to dips and valleys, lines of muscles, the pretty slope of each other's jaw. The rain didn’t matter, not anymore, or the cold. Nothing really did.

Because Steve tasted the same way he looked, like he’d swallowed summer and held the sun inside of him.

Neither of you stopped until lightning struck. 

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington imagine #stranger things fic

[hazelnut-u-out]

Ring of Fire - 1

this is the first chapter of my space cowboy revenge era birdrick au!

i'm eventually going to post this on my ao3, too, just because it's about to be a monster of a multichapter fic.

anywayyyy, get to know the boys! not a very tense chapter, but they’re coming, don’t worry. >:)

Synopsis:

Rick and Birdperson are wanted outlaws, listed amongst the Galactic Federation's "Most Wanted" and currently investigating leads on the red sand planet of Blindrock Terminus- an Old-Western-Style planet populated by an alien race with strict religious customs.

Rick is struggling with balancing his blossoming feelings for his partner in crime and their respective senses of loss. Does his companion feel the same way? What plot is waiting to reel them in?

-2342 words

----------

“Rick,” Birdperson huffed, his warm breath skittering along the bare skin of his friend’s back as he leaned in closer to examine his work. “Do you think you could at least try to stay still? This isn’t exactly the best light source. You’ll end up with misshapen lines.”

 

“Hmmf…” Rick let out in hushed agreement, shivering at the contrast of the heated gust against his skin that had been previously chilled by the night air. “I think you care more than I do. Plus, you-you’re not exactly bein’ gentle.”

It was a handsome night, the three moons hunkering in a low and lurid display to the terrain, and the sand of the campsite lay littered in cigarette butts and whiskey bottles. The rocks and logs they’d set up had long since absorbed the essence of their pastimes into the nature of their existence; and what a taught existence it was.

Rick quite fancied Blindrock Terminus. It was similar to what he knew, in an odd way- shaded canyon roads; shanty towns; rolling hills and layers of burgundy rock, soil, and stone- though, he wouldn’t recommend seeking out refuge on a planet with such a strict set of religious customs.

 

The pair had risked a trip into town earlier that day- something they never would have done if not absolutely necessary. Birdperson had been insistent that they go to the Zorpantheon Rattle, claiming he’d done some midnight detective work before Rick had made the executive decision to decrease the base into a pocket ship and stay out on a campsite to avoid detection.

 

Shitshow, to say the least. Rick had never seen more Federation guards lurking around something quite as inconspicuous as a bar, and it didn’t help that the alien company wasn’t something Rick didn’t find unsightly.

 

His partner had cursed him as they fled back to camp- taking a more round-about route to shake the last few remaining guards tailing them- and Rick couldn’t even deny, for once, that it would’ve been worth it to keep his dick in his slacks. He hoped BP simply assumed that Rick had a decent reason for letting the guards slip out of his grasp.

 

Now, the crimson desert trembled in shades of orange in the crackling dance of the firelight, and Rick loathed the uncomfortable scratch of the red sand against his stubble. He winced, arching upward again, when his companion came down with a particularly aggressive poke on his lower back. 

 

Birdperson snorted, allowing Rick time to settle back down atop the sand before returning to his work. 

 

“I’m startin’ to think you’re doing that on purpose,” Rick grumbled, his voice gravelly in sonority, as he turned to lay his other cheek against the ground and look up at BP through the gaps in his tangled mess of powder blue hair.

 

His companion was an oasis amongst the dry rolling landscape surrounding them- soft and delicate; just the perfect temperature where most things existed in a limbo of too hot or cold. Birdperson was the image of focus- sat on his knees, hunched over and engrossed in his task. His tongue perched tautly between the left side of his teeth, nearly the same peachy salmon shade of his undone button-front. His frame was a russet statue, tendrils of wavering shadow lapping at his harsh angles and his eyes dusky beneath the brim of his ebony hat.

 

Rick almost forgot about the tender ache of his lower back, a lazy smile snaking its way along his face in a crawl as he opened his mouth in a quiet utterance of outward thought. 

 

“This light flatters you.” 

 

The other man’s stare flicked up to meet his compliment’s momentarily, tarrying Rick’s heart with a gentle tremor of his lashes. He smiled a bit, a playful glint toying with the glimmer in his eye, and he sat his instruments down on the leather pad at his right. 

 

“What do you mean, Sanchez?” Birdperson whispered, and something sultry played along the canyon air that carried his voice to the man laying below him. 

 

“Um…” Rick nearly froze in place, his breath involuntarily catching in his throat. “Y-You look chiseled, is all.” Suddenly, his voice was barely more than a murmur over the rustle of the fire. He watched as Birdperson slowly leaned closer to his face and reached one hand behind Rick’s head, his wingspan arching out overhead and blocking out the shimmering rays of flame. Rick’s eyes fluttered closed. 

 

The smack of short-trimmed felt against his face startled Rick’s eyes open and Birdperson’s coarse laugh rang out overhead in a jovial pierce of the stoic night air. 

 

Rick scowled, pulling his cattleman down just enough to peer over the brim shyly; his cheeks flushed and heat thrumming along the tips of his ears.

 

“Chiseled from what?” BP asked, clutching his side as if it hurt. “Cotton?”

 

“Rude,” Rick whispered in an attempt to sound angry, but it came out silky and sweet-tempered. His accomplice suited laughter so beautifully. 

 

“Shut up and let me finish this tattoo. It’s almost done,” Birdperson said dismissively through a chuckle, moving to pick up his instruments once again. 

 

“Hey- Hey!” Rick tutted, tossing his hat to the side and twisting away from BP’s chasing grip. “L-Let me adjust! My armitas are ‘causing a mean denim wedgie.” 

 

Dust stirred up around him in minute scarlet clouds as he shuffled, bunching up his discarded flannel beneath his chin and finding a more comfortable position for his hips. The sand beneath them scraped along Rick’s bare chest, no doubt getting stuck in the tufts of hair along his abdomen, and his belt buckle kissed his naval. 

 

His friend made to cover up his small container of ink with his hand, shooting Rick a glare.

 

“Do you want dust in your wound, you heathen?!” Birdperson chastised with a coy grin that told Rick his counterpart would not at all be opposed to the possibility as a fitting punishment. 

 

“I-I’ve already lost one bet tonight, compadre. You’ll have to set up another- and get me drunker to-to give me a red tattoo,” Rick said through gritted teeth, burying his face into the fabric and taking in a deep breath through his nose- heavy with the lingering scent of whiskey. 

 

“Well…” Birdperson quipped, trailing off as he focused on sticking a particular spot for a few moments. “If you hadn’t let them get away, I would have been too preoccupied with torturing Federation agents to even bother with cashing in your debt in the first place.”

 

Rick winced, fumbling around with one hand without looking to try and find his flask. After a long spell, his fingers finally closed around the cool metal of the container and he lifted his head, unscrewing the cap. 

 

“T’was hardly my fau- OW! Watch it, man- shit!” Rick started, his body involuntarily trying to lurch away again, but BP placed a calloused hand along the center of his back, holding him in place. 

 

“Hush now, I know you like it,” BP teased, offering a comforting stroke along Rick’s spine that was probably meant to be a soothing platonic gesture, but only made Rick’s stomach blossom into a cacophony of fluttery. “I saw you with those Warekins at the bar.” Rick suddenly felt feverish, his cheeks growing hot as he tried to mitigate the flicker of embarrassment that ran through him. He hadn’t known his friend had seen him with those aliens. 

 

“Heh.” Rick tried to feign disinterest, letting the warmth of the whiskey settle down into his belly and careening the flask towards his companion, who simply leaned over and opened his mouth.

 

It did nothing to qualm Rick’s blush to pour the lukewarm spirit into his friend’s slack jaw, nor did it help when trembling hands resulted in some of the liquid spilling over Birdperson’s cerise lips- still swollen, Rick noted, from his eariler kissing session with the butt of that Federation agent’s gun. 

 

He wondered what it would be like to collect the droplets with his own lips- if he would be able to taste the liquor on the other man’s tongue. If he only leaned in…

 

Swallowing thickly, Rick attempted to speak without a waver in his tone. “Hardly relevant. Th-That had nothin’ to do with pain.”

 

“Don’t they have special cells on their fingers that shock you?” BP mused, swallowing. 

 

Rick chortled, taking another sip from his flask. 

 

What must have been Birdperson’s taste- syrupy and smokey- lingered on the lip of the container and mixed with the heady wallop of liquor. It swarmed Rick’s head, and he thought it was more the closeness of his partner than the spirits that made him feel all the more intoxicated. 

 

“No,” he said sportively, bending his knee to nudge the other man’s leg with the tip of his boot. “It-It’s not a special cell, it’s nerve fibers. They flood their fingers with electrolytes n’ shit to promote an electric current.”

 

“Either way, that shit must hurt.” BP stopped working suddenly, and Rick could hear him shuffle backwards on the sand, allowing his heart rate to finally begin to slow. “Done!”

 

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, buddy,” Rick said with a wink, sitting the flask aside and trying to twist his body backward at an unnatural angle to get a look at what his friend had sealed into his skin. 

 

“Hold on, hold on,” Birdperson sang, as if appealing to a child. “I’ll get your camera.”

 

Feeling the lull of the alcohol on the inside of his skull during his frenzy to stand, Rick had no interest in protesting against an opportunity to return to his previous position. He settled back down, crossing his arms and propping his gruff chin onto the corded muscles of the lithe appendages. Birdperson’s fumbling rolled over the sand like a working man’s hands along a sheet of silk, and Rick looked up to observe the two equore they had tied to a rock about fifteen feet away.

 

They were enormous, spindly creatures- their orchid-scaled skin glistening beneath the light of the trio of indigo planetoids that haunted the sky above. 

 

Horses, Rick thought. Reptile horses that drink blood and have three eyes. 

 

A distinct ‘click’ resounded from behind him and he could see the flash of light take up both sides of his peripheral vision. 

 

“W-Waste of film, ya know,” he fussed, but turned towards the whirring of the device with budding anticipation. Rick wasn’t one to normally care about what was going to mark his body. He could keep fighting and fucking until they put him down in the dirt, and the worms would eat it all indiscriminately- but something about this moment had him… excited.

It was that excitement that had him pushing himself up onto his knees and snatching at the slip of paper just as Birdperson began to shake it.

“Le-Lemme see!”

 

“I’m not an artist, but I’d say I did a pretty decent job,” his friend said softly, shifting and leaning back onto one of the gray sleeping bags the two had laid out parallel to the fire, hands behind his head and his shirt falling open to reveal the whole of his stalwart torso. His wings twitched as his feathers dragged along the sand, leaving miniature crests and hollers in their wake.

 

The image on the front of the paper was developing slowly, much to Rick’s disdain, and he groaned in frustration, plopping down onto his rear. After a lengthy pause, the image started to come into focus as he leered down at it through a demanding squint. 

 

“Angel wings,” he breathed. 

 

Birdperson let out a hearty laugh, and Rick shot him a questioning look- not sure what was funny. 

 

“No,” his partner said agreeably. “My wings.”

 

Birdperson said it as if it were nothing- something casual and obvious- but Rick’s throat threatened to close in on itself as his heart swelled three sizes too large to be trapped within a measly human rib cage.

 

“Huh.” Rick muttered as he slumped forward, eyes wide as he drank in the photo before him. The utterance wasn’t as if he were bewildered, nor was it condescending or taut. It was more a noise of awe- of adoration- and Rick couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be marked with, someone he’d rather be branded by, until death. 

 

“You hate it,” BP said dejectedly. 

 

Rick’s head shot up, and he shook it incredulously. 

 

“No! No, man. I-I… I love it,” he insisted, lifting his bum to take out his wallet and shoving the photo inside for safekeeping before leaning back against a large rock and kicking off his boots. Rick flexed his toes along the outer edge of the fire, blistered hands reaching for his battered guitar. “High time Rick Sanchez got a tramp stamp.”

 

 “You’re just saying that,” BP prodded, his eyes wandering up to peruse the stars. 

 

“Lo juro,” Rick replied sternly, his gentle plucking on the strings as he tuned the instrument little notes tiptoeing along the smoke that rose above them. “I hope that when they take me out, they skin me and tan my hide- make me into a real nice leather. Be some boot licker’s saddle, but my tattoo might stick around.”

 

“You’re sick!” BP laughed out, and Rick couldn’t help his wandering eyes. As his friend took inventory of the stars overhead, Rick counted the imperfections- scars, freckles, and moles- that he could make out along his sun kissed skin. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess my mind drew a blank when I realized I had to pick something. It’s not like we’re- well, you know.”

 

Rick’s heart sank, but he couldn't identify the home of the blade that flayed him.

 

“Mhmm…” he hummed, dropping his attention to his guitar and toying with a woeful little tune. His eyes burned as if he’d been looming over a hearth.

 

“First watch?” Birdperson asked after a bit, his words drowsy and slurred. 

 

“Sure,” Rick offered. “Long day of kicking bug ass tomorrow.”

“The life of wanted men,” his counterpart sang sweetly, smile in his voice, over the purr of Rick’s melody.

______

#rick and morty #birdrick #rick sanchez #birdperson #ring of fire #my fic

[thewinchesterclowncar]

Name of Work: Poughleepsie

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Dean Winchester, Stanford Era Dean, Ghosts, Havasupai Language, John Lets Dean Take the Impala

Username(s): @mbqnoyolo

Summary: Dean drops Dad off in Bullhead City and Sammy is at Stanford. Twenty-four year old Dean Winchester checks out a case in Peachy Canyon, Arizona, but finds somethings else in the red rock canyons.

Link:

#The Winchester Way #The Clown Car #TWW weekly prompts #TWW writes #TWW art #TWW meta #TWW creates #TWW fanfic friday #TWW fanart friday #fanfic friday #fan fic friday #dean winchester #stanford era dean #ghosts #havasupai language

[yournowheregirl]

Alice! Some sunday morning sleepover questions for you: your favorite memory & top 5 hot beverages 💜

Annaaaa, hiiii! Come join me in my Sunday pillow fort! ✨

My favorite memory

Ohhh this is a tough one, I have so many tbh! But one that immediately comes to mind was me and my parents roadtripping through the USA a couple years back. I was just so amazed at all the wonderful nature out there and the Grand Canyon and Bryce NP and Yosemite NP especially made me feel so small and had me go full existential crisis because just WOW. Also driving along the Pacific Coast Highway was sooo fun. The views were amazing and there was this one bit where you could smell the ocean and all the flowers that were in bloom, I could've stayed there forever.

Top 5 hot beverages

Is it bad to just name my 5 favorite tea flavors? Because honestly, I the only hot beverage drink is tea 🙈 Either way, in no particular order: peach mango (the one from Lipton is my go-to), forest fruit, this one tea flavor I had in Maastricht once that still haunts my dreams, rose berry blues from Pickwick (it's like rooibos, strawberry, raspberry and rose - the only rooibos tea I like) and then the one that got away from me (aka discontinued) Pickwick's zuidvruchten tea (which was this peachy, pear-y, apple-y flavor and I miss it every damn day)

✨ ask me sleepover questions ✨

#thanks for asking anna!! #ask game #unclewaynemunson

[thefearandnow]

Start With This: “Speed” Episode

Create: Set a timer for 7 minutes and write without stopping on the topic “Orange.” Then put your work aside for at least a day. After a day or two, set a timer for 23 minutes to edit and refine your piece.

I remember the day I started seeing your sounds. I was walking through a canyon with you, crunching on dead leaves stifled by damp mud. We would usually take the back way that cut through the golf course but instead we turned toward a narrow foot path leading up between two big houses. We got to the top of the hill, turned around and saw the sun setting over a grove of eucalyptus. Orange rays spilled over the edges of the marine layer floating just above the bay, refracting a blend of colors like a painter’s brush stroke. The colorful rays extended down through the long strips of green that clung to the trees and a fresh breeze blew through us. 

I looked up at you and saw a soft cloud of mist float faintly from your lips, catching the sunset with a peachy glow.

“We live in a beautiful place,” you said.

Ever since I’ve seen colors released from your voice. I‘ve seen the paralyzing blue wisps of comfort, harsh reds filled with passion and sickly greens that dripped with fear. Even warm pathetic yellow lies. But never that same shade of orange that drifted across your lips like a lazy epiphany, as familiar as the sun herself. 

One night as we were driving back from your sister’s house, I looked out the window and watched the sun peek her head out from under the marine layer. 

“We live in a beautiful place,” I said. 

“Don’t change the subject,” you said. 

And I had tried to. I had tried to remember the time with the beautiful place we lived and the orange mist unfurling, the breeze that blew through us, the back way that cut through the golf course. 

“That’s the thing that hurts the most, you don’t even know you’re doing it”

I swallowed hard. Purple fingers pulled the strands of orange out from the sun with artistic precision. 

#I actually really enjoyed this exercise #I'm gonna come back around to this workflow cause I think it really helped me just choose an idea and stick with it #start with this #start with this podcast #writing exercise #second person story #microfiction #my writing

[chaptersofnow]

More pride month doodles for some of the background kiddos

#mlp #mlp next gen #peachy pie #apple gourd #Arkansas Black #snow cap #heishii shellstring #Nyaguthii #canyon

[evilscribbles]

Colorado Sunset

#it was so pretty #clouds #sunset #sky #landscape #mountains #canyon #lighting #pretty #stunning #gorgeous #illustration #practice #peachy #wow #nature #cool design #sunrise #sunbeams

[wine-porn]

Eat A Peach

Big brick, as one would assume, but shockingly vibrant in the nose for a wine of this caliber at this age. Don’t get me wrong, it’s flabby and banana and fruit headed far towards prune and ripe fig, but I honestly expected a complete wasteland of fruit from this label at this age. A little briar, a little sage and honey, and a lot of flabby post-coital dreariness, nutty and sweaty, an…

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#Incredible Red #Paso Robles #PAso Robles Zinfandel #peachy canyon #Stephen McConnell Wine Blog #Steve McConnell Wine Blog #Westside paso robles #wine1percent #Zinfandel #Zinfandel vines

[bristark616]

multiversal soulmates - part two

pairing: tasm!peter x stark!avenger!reader

word count: about 1.5k

warnings: mentions of blood. i think that’s it?

summary: Let’s cure some ass! Only problem? Electro’s gotten his hands on some Stark tech. In comes (Y/N) Stark, ready to take back the arc reactor. What she wasn’t ready for, however, was meeting that Peter Parker.

a/n: heeeeyyyy besties!!!! told ya i’d keep you updated if i strayed away from canon any more. basically, i wrote this so that doctor strange had to send everyone back to their universes individually, as opposed to just one spell that sends them all away. not too big of a change, right? oh, and the whole “who’s peter parker” thing is just nonexistent here LMAO. the multiverse gets closed and everything is peachy keen. happy reading!

“I’ve been dangling over the Grand Canyon for twelve. Hours.” Doctor Strange said angrily. “This ends now.”

“Strange, wait!” (Y/N) yelled, placing herself between him and Peter One.

“Oh great; he roped you into this too? This has to stop, Stark; can’t you see that?”

“His plan is working! He’s curing them!”

“I don’t care! It’s too – what the hell is this?”

Peter Two and Peter Three had just swung down to their level, standing on either side of (Y/N), helping her in her attempts to shield Peter One from Doctor Strange.

“Oh, Doctor Strange, these are my friends,” Peter One introduced, stepping out to the front. “Peter Parker, Peter Parker – Spider-Man, Spider-Man. They’re mes from other universes. Guys, this is the wizard I was telling you about.”

“You were in the Grand Canyon?” Peter Two asked angrily.

Peter Three nodded in support. “He could’ve used your help!”

“It’s fine,” Peter One said. “Strange, you can’t send them back yet.”

“And why not?”

“Can the Spider-Man come out to play?”

The sound of Green Goblin’s voice pulled everyone’s attention away from the spell box. Osborn threw a handful of bombs at the group. The three Peters, (Y/N), and Doc Ock moved quickly, shielding the spell box hovering between Strange’s hands. In the midst of the chaos, a pumpkin bomb landed right in the center of the box. Peter One noticed before anyone else.

“Strange, no!”

The box exploded, and the scaffolding beneath their feet began to shake. There was a scramble for security as the metal beams began to tip. Doctor Strange’s cloak was enough to save him. Peter One webbed MJ and Ned, holding them securely as he lowered them all down. Peter Two took to Electro and Doc Ock. Then there was (Y/N), who fell backwards off the platform.

“NO!”

Peter Three launched himself off of the highest point of the scaffolding mere milliseconds after seeing her fall. Tears were already blinding his vision as he expected the worst. He shot a stream of webs from his wrist that landed right at (Y/N)’s stomach. Using all of the strength he could muster with one hand, he pulled her up into his arms – all the while, slowing down their descent with another web. Peter landed safely and gently, with (Y/N) clinging to his chest as he held her in his arms.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice trembling as he looked down at her.

She nodded, tears flooding her eyes as well. “A – are you?”

He nodded as well, shutting his eyes tightly as he rested his forehead against hers. Peter could hear (Y/N)’s heart pounding against her chest, thanks to his advanced senses. He bumped his nose against hers gently, his lips lightly brushing against hers as he spoke.

“I got you,” he whispered, lips hovering over hers. “I got you.”

She let out a soft whimper in approval as Peter’s mouth met hers with an urgence that could only come up after a brush with death. The kiss was passionate but tender, and their mouths worked in perfect sync – like a dance that they’ve practiced their entire lives. Peter swiped his tongue along her bottom lips, silently asking permission to enter her mouth. She parted her lips for him, bringing a hand up to hold his face down to hers as he slipped his tongue past her lips. They stayed together, lips locked and tongues ties, for as long as they could. It was Peter Two who eventually got them to pull apart.

“You two done down there?” He called down from where he was swinging by Lady Liberty’s head. “We’d love to have you back!”

“You good?” (Y/N) asked breathlessly, giggling as Peter chased her lips when she pulled apart.

“Mhmm,” he mumbled into her mouth. “Hold on.”

Still holding her tightly in his arms, Peter swung them out of the way of the rubble and over to where the fight against the Green Goblin ensued.

•••

“I gotcha! I gotcha.”

Peter Three caught (Y/N) from under her arms just as she lost her balance. A groan fell from her lips when he helped her onto her feet. Her vision was white from pain, so she shut her eyes tightly. She didn’t open them until she felt Peter’s forehead to fall gently against hers.

“I think some of your ribs are broken,” he observed quietly.

“Yup – they definitely feel broken,” she moaned. “How can you tell? I – is it your Peter tingle?”

“My Peter tingle?” He giggled. “Uh, yeah. If that’s what you wanna call it. You okay? Can you walk?”

She nodded against his forehead, their noses rubbing together at the movement. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Peter held her face in his hands, studying her with a frown. There was a cut at her temple that was barely bleeding, but the sight of any amount of blood was enough to worry him. He wiped a dab of the scarlet fluid away with the pad of his thumb, rubbing it into the fabric of his suit, right at his thigh.

“I’m fine, Peter,” she insisted, looking up at him sweetly. “Promise.”

“Stark.”

(Y/N) whipped around – a little too fast, but Peter was there to steady her. Doctor Strange was standing before them, barring a solemn expression. Orange ruins were glowing around his forearms. He had already sent everyone home – everyone but Peter Three. (Y/N)’s heart sunk and tears quickly flooded her eyes.

“No, no, no. Strange, please.”

Strange studied them carefully. (Y/N) was standing in front of Peter Three with her arms outstretched, attempting to shield his body with her own. The latter was holding her waist at a spot a little too low for strangers. Both her and Peter had tears in their eyes. They had gotten attached alarmingly quick. It was as though they physically could not stay away from one another. Strange felt it, too – that strong, cosmic energy that was pushing them together. How or why this happened, he didn’t know. But it was concerning, nonetheless. Strange had no idea what kind of repercussions a multiversal attachment like that could have. Peter needed to leave, and fast.

“Every second he spends here is dangerous,” Doctor Strange said. “The fabric of reality is too fragile for him to stay.”

“Just give us more time. Please,” she begged, tears now freely falling down her cheeks. “Please.”

He gave in to their tears. “Three minutes. But make it quick.”

Ignoring the fact that Strange, Peter One, MJ, and Ned were all watching them, Peter spun (Y/N) around and pulled her in for a kiss. She immediately wrapped her arms around his waist, gripping the spandex of his suit in her hands tightly. Her injuries went forgotten; their attention grasped by the fact that they only had minutes left together.

“Peter,” she mumbled, pulling apart to look up at him. She wanted to look at him as long as she possibly could – she wanted to commit every single detail of his face to memory before he left. “I – I’m – “

“I know, I know,” he whispered, running his spandex-covered thumbs along the height of her cheekbones. His heart was breaking more and more by the second. The thought of leaving her, the desperate look in her beautiful eyes, the way her voice cracked through her tears – it all made Peter feel like he was being stabbed in the chest. “I know.”

“I’ll bring you back,” she insisted. Her voice was determined, despite its trembling from her tears. “I don’t know how, but I will.”

“I know you will.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“I don’t wanna get rid of you,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. He attempted to hide his pain with a smile, wanting to be strong for her, but he failed miserably. “I – I don’t wanna leave you. I don’t wanna go.”

(Y/N) brought a hand up to the back of his neck, running her fingers through his fluffy brown hair at the nape of his neck. He gave her another kiss, the saltiness of their tears coating their lips.

Peter pulled back with a groan when a burning sensation took over his body. He knew he was being sent home – it was the same feeling he experienced when he was brought here earlier. He looked down at (Y/N), who was sobbing in his arms, holding him tightly.

“No, no, no – Peter.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered, smiling at her through his tears. He wanted to make sure that the last thing she saw of him was a smile. “Everything’s okay.”

“I don’t want you to go. Please don’t go.”

“You’re gonna bring me back. You said you would.”

“I will – “

“Then this isn’t gonna be the last time we see each other.” He was in a lot of pain now – he’d be gone in seconds; he could feel it. But he still put on a brave face. “I’ll see you soon, my love.”

She could feel him slipping from her grasp, despite him not making any efforts to step away from her. She held him tighter, but it was no use.

“No, no. Don’t – don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Peter – “

And just like that he was gone.

part three

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ taglist! 

@taina-eny @ssophiebirkas @nickangel13 @sagestuffing @imadamselindistressicanhandelit @hellothereobi @aubreylovesthegames​ @todaywasafairytale07​ @milkiane

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #tasm!peter #tasm!peter parker x reader #spider-man x reader #tasm!spider-man x reader #spiderman #spider-man #spider-man: no way home #spiderman x reader #andrew garfield #tom holland #tobey maguire #mcu #marvel #soulmates #soulmate au #multiversal soulmates #bristark616

[peachybeann]

like a boulder

is this weight on my shoulders

more like the Grand Canyon

the years I get older

the passing of seasons

my hearts getting colder

button nose, button lip

how i wish I’d have told her

the emotions we’ve evolved to have didn’t prepare us for

the weight of grief

and that life’s blossoms

have a sealed fate

to wither

peachy-

#personal #relatable #short poems #poetry #poet #poem #me #feelings #deep poetry #spilled ink #original work #original poetry

[rubykgrant]

I’m gonna write out little high-lights of my RVB Monster AU for Halloween reasons~ Things happen in a mostly normal-world modern setting, but obviously with monsters/fantasy creatures and such. Things plot-related happen almost the same way, but some stuff is earlier/later, shuffled around to work for my own purposes (so some of the key moments still happen, but occasionally in a different order). Here is the beginning, which as always, starts with two morons asking a big question-

“Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

“Well, that’s one of life’s great mysteries, isn’t it?”

The two men were standing on the rooftop of an old warehouse. The building had gone through several owners, being used as a storage facility, a garage for fixing up cars and various vehicles, a shipping business, a veterinary clinic for large animals and livestock, a recycling center… and possibly some kind of drug lab at one point. It was none of these now, but if a stranger saw the inside, they would assume the new owner was a combination a mechanic/pet doctor, using the left-behind equipment (and considering how shady everything appeared, a stranger would also probably assume this was a front for yet another drug lab). It was still none of these things. In truth, it was much stranger.

One man stood slouching with the late-afternoon sun on his back. The other was leaning against a vent that came out of the roof, in the shadows. He had a red long-sleeved button-up shirt on (despite the hot temperature), and black jeans. His shirt was neatly tucked-in, and his matching red hair was trimmed short in what was decidedly a “going to a job interview” style. His eyes were two different colors. Once, they had both been a soft brown, but now one was glass, the color of the iris some kind of magenta… or maroon. The other eye (the one that was still organic) was a golden-yellow. He looked like somebody who had gone through a growth-spurt some years back, and still hadn’t settled into himself; too lanky and gawky for his own good.

His companion in the sun was a little shorter, and considerably larger, but completely at ease with his shape and his weight. His skin was mostly a warm copper brown… but he had several patches of mis-matched skin tones on his left side; around his eye, his chest, his arm, his leg. Each area also showed several scars, signifying that it was the result of surgery and skin-grafts. His dark brown hair was parted in the center, falling down around his shoulders in long curls, and stubble on his chin. His eyes were so dark, they almost looked black. He wore an old faded baseball shirt (once white with orange on the collar and short sleeves, now a dingy-peachy color), and loose gray jeans that were worn-out at the knees. They were quite the odd pair, opposites in many ways that were obvious (and more that were evident in their interactions), yet it was clear they were used to each other’s company.

“Why ARE we here?” the man in the sun continued, answering the question from his friend in the shadows. “I mean, are we the product of some cosmic coincidence, or is there really a god watching everything? You know, with a plan for us and stuff. I don't know man, but it keeps me up at night…”

“WHAT?” the other man stood up a little straighter, but remained behind the vent. “I meant why are we out HERE, in broad daylight? Sarge KNOWS it’ll burn me, and there’s not even anything for us to do! The only reason he sends us out to keep watch is because there’s that building over there he thinks is haunted, but we can’t see anything from here… and if there WAS anything going on over there, like ghosts or whatever, they could definitely see US! We don’t have any cover on the roof, but whoever might be over THERE is hidden behind the windows!”

“Oh… uh, yeah…”

“What was all that stuff about god?”

“Nothing,”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,”

They both decided to just skip it, and move on.

“But seriously, why ARE we out here, and why does Sarge care about that building so much?” the taller man waved his arm, gesturing to the building in question.

“I guess he wants to try catching ghosts next, or something?” the shorter man shrugged.

“Then we should just GO OVER THERE, right?”

“Pfff… nah, are you kidding? Just standing around, looking at a building? This is the easiest job I ever had,” he sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Grif, you- OK, first of all! This isn’t a JOB, we aren’t getting paid! Second, you don’t even remember most of your life before a few months ago, you have no basis of comparison!”

“Fair point, but come on Simmons… seriously? What job could I have possibly had that would be easier than this?”

From his spot in the shadows, Simmons looked away for a moment, thinking.

“Hmm… well, I remember reading about people being paid to take part in sleep studies. You just nap and keep a dream journal, or whatever…”

“Oh man, are you kidding!? I WISH that was my life!” Grif kicked at an old rusty can, causing it to fall off the roof. “Instead, here I am, stuck in this stupid building, in this stupid town, in this stupid canyon-”

“Where we have to look at a potentially haunted building, at random intervals, day and night…” Simmons added.

“All because Scruffy the Vampire Slayer is paranoid!”

Despite himself, this caused Simmons to snort laughter. Grif grinned, pleased that his pun was appreciated.

“Even if that building IS haunted… it doesn’t seem like something bad, you know? I never see anybody running out of there screaming bloody murder. If we just ignored it, what would happen? Nothing. It would just be a boring building with boring ghosts, and we’d just be another boring building with boring… whatever we are,” Simmons leaned once more on the vent, glaring up at the sky that was still dangerously bright.

“I think monsters sums us up pretty good,” Griff suggested.

“Right, monsters who don’t do anything. Over there are ghosts who don’t do anything. Whoopty-fucking-doo…”

“You gonna actually SAY that to Sarge? Hmm? Gonna finally stand up to him, use your big-boy voice, and tell the crazy old man you don’t wanna follow orders anymore? Is this beginning of your rebellious phase?” Grif reached over, shoving Simmons lightly on the arm.

“Well… no… but! I’m gonna remind him that me being outside in the day is a bad idea! YOU should get the day shift, and I should get the night shift. It just makes sense,”

“Aww, but Simmons… then we wouldn’t get to spend quality time together, having all these deep and meaningful conversations!” Grif gave him a look of fake-concern, like he was hurt and might start crying.

“Oh, right. I forgot. We’re philosophers discussing the secrets of the universe, life’s great mysteries, right?” Simmons smirked.

“Exactly… like, if you could only taste one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be? No matter what you ate, it has the same flavor?” Grif asked.

“That’s a stupid question for a vampire, man. Everything I eat DOES have the same flavor now. It all tastes like blood, because guess what? I have to drink blood. Because I’m a VAMPIRE,” Simmons shook his head.

“No, but I mean, if you could magically taste something ELSE, whether you were drinking blood or eating a salad, or whatever, what would you pick?” Grif pressed on. “I’d want everything to taste like chocolate. Milk chocolate. That’s my favorite, and I’d never get sick of it…”

“Jeez… it would’ve been impossible to get you to chill out if you tasted chocolate every time you tried to eat a person!” Simmons replied, remembering how it had been with Grif when they first found him.

“Yeah, I don’t know what those other zombies were on about… brains and human flesh is GROSS. Chocolate, though? MMM, I could do the zombie-shuffle-walk for days to get some good chocolate,”

“Uh-huh, and  that’s EXACTLY how we caught you!” Simmons almost reached out to return the arm-punch, but managed to hesitate and stop in time… Grif was still in direct sunlight, and Simmons would get scorched if he left his little patch of shadow. Grif seemed to realize this, in that quiet and easy way that caused both of them to somehow pick-up each other’s habits. Grif leaned over to nudge Simmons with his shoulder, and they both laughed together.

#red vs blue #rvb fic #monsters #vampires #zombies

[reddpenn]

Hey, does anybody want to see some more of my cool rocks?

This one looks like a painting, doesn’t it?  This Cool Rock is polychrome jasper.  When I look at this rock, I feel like I’m standing at the bottom of a canyon in the desert, staring up at the blue sky.

That flaky texture, cranberry color, and pearlescent shine make lepidolite look like a sugarcoated dessert.  Here’s something cool about lepidolite:  its crystals are a little bit elastic, so they can bend without breaking, and they’ll snap back into shape when you let go!  (I’ve gotta stop peeling crystals off of my specimen to play with them, or eventually I won’t have any lepidolite left…)

These little blue cubes are fluorite, which is my state mineral!  Fluorite comes in so many different colors, I hope to have a collection of lots of them someday.

Wanna see some BIG CUBES?  Check it out:  the Most Beautiful Pyrite in the World.

This Cool Rock is called Puddingstone, and it deserves more love.  It’s a conglomerate of pebbles that can be anything from jasper to granite, mixed together in a silica matrix to create these cool spots!  My puddingstone has a really pretty peachy-pink matrix, with a lot of different colors inside it!

I think my last Cool Rocks post gave the impression that I don’t like amethyst, which couldn’t be further from the truth.  Look at this slice of amethyst stalactite!  This rock is one of my absolute favorites.  That green core is made of agate, and makes the whole thing look like a flower that got suddenly turned to crystal.

Here’s another flower: a Desert Rose!  This huge red rose is made of barite, but selenite can form little white roses too.  Maybe I should get this barite a selenite friend?

What’s hiding inside this ordinary rock?  It’s a bunch of tiny spheres of wavellite!  Hi little guys!  You’re looking very green today.

Slipping in an edit here:  initially I had ID’d this one as turgite, but after a little more research I’m not sure that’s the case.  This little handful of rainbows and glitter is just a particularly iridescent piece of hematite!  How cool is it that even regular hematite can be so colorful?

What’s so special about this boring old rock, I ask, rhetorically, having never been so wrong about anything ever.  This is ulexite, also known as TV rock!  Take a look at what it can do.

It’s hard to capture the full effect in a photo, but we’re not just seeing through a clear piece of rock.  Ulexite’s crystal structure is a natural fiber optics cable.  Any image at the back surface of the rock gets projected onto the front!  Science!!

This is prehnite, and there’s not much to say about its loveliness that you can’t see for yourself.  A translucent green beauty.

This is the most valuable rock I own!  I saved up for a long time to buy the specimen I had my eye on, always worried it would be sold before I could afford it.  Lo and behold, here it is!  Rutilated quartz!!!  It’s an ordinary colorless quartz crystal, with amazing hair-thin veins of golden rutile shooting through it and sparkling.

But wait, there’s one more Cool Rock I must show you.

...And it’s not really a rock at all.  Elegant element 83, a strange and spiraling eldritch beauty, an alien-looking crystal of pure metal, rainbow and mildly radioactive...   You know her name; it’s Bismuth!

 Weird and wonderful bismuth!  Colorful, coiling bismuth!  What a wonderful crystal to see!  Metallic, magical, magnificent bismuth!  What a wonderful crystal to be!

(You can see more of my rocks over here!)

#red pen has cool rocks #rock collecting #long post #look at my cool rocks

[kar-krashew]

@arsenic-creator THIS IS THE CHEESIEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN BUT HERE'S YOUR CARS AU MALEC FIC.

(Rated T for language).

----

There are a lot of things that Alec misses about life outside this shitty little town, even though he’s only been here for a few days: his family, his friends, his cell phone— he could go on for a while. Hell, he even misses Aldertree’s incessant bragging at this point, which is a little concerning, because the man is a menace and just generally unpleasant to be around. The fact that Alec has not had a very public fistfight with him yet is a goddamn miracle.

But— he’s getting distracted. The point is, there are a lot of things on that list.

So, it’s genuinely impressive when Simon shows up and rambles for long enough that all Alec really misses now is some peace and quiet, because Simon does not know when to shut up, oh my god—

“What happens if you get pulled over on the road and you don’t have your license on you? Do the cops just let you go? I mean, you are a world famous racer, so it would be assumed that you know how to drive, right?” he pesters, “Or do you still get in trouble?”

Alec groans. He’s been dealing with this for the better part of an hour now, and throwing himself into a nearby cactus plant has never seemed more appealing. Simon, ruiner of lives and seemingly oblivious to Alec’s current temperament, barrels on steadily in his rant about cops and racers until they approach the main part of the plaza, where he suddenly pauses and grins.

Dread claws its way up Alec’s shoulders. Simon grinning like that can only bring bad things.

“So,” the kid drawls, “Where are you staying tonight? Anywhere special? In the spare bedroom of a local attorney, by the name of Magnus Bane, perhaps?”

Scratch that: Alec’s going to throw Simon into a nearby cactus plant, and he won’t even feel a little bit guilty. He could make it look like an accident and everything.

“Fuck off, Simon,” he scowls. He tries increasing his pace to ditch the kid, but Simon is nothing if not persistent. “Don’t you have anything else to be doing right now?”

“Nope.” Simon pops the word in his mouth, grin growing even wider. “You like him. Like, like-like him!” he declares, leaning in closer. “If it helps, I think he likes you, too.”

“Are we fifth graders now? Is that what’s happening?” Alec pointedly ignores the blush threatening to take over his face, and glowers down at the brunette. “Besides, he’s just being nice. It doesn’t have to mean something.” He’d meant to sound firm and sure when he said it, but his voice tapers off and gets soft instead, and now Alec is considering committing multiple misdemeanors if it means he’ll get out of this conversation. Simon shoots him a knowing look.

“But you want it to mean something,” he observes. Alec rolls his eyes, not bothering to grace the statement with a response. Simon takes it as an open invitation to start singing a very loud and terrible rendition of a song about Alec and Magnus sitting in a tree, and it’s enough for Alec to give in and violently shove the other.

Unfortunately, Simon does not hit any of the cacti nearby.

God, Alec hates this town.

---

The thing about Magnus Bane is that, well—

The man is fucking beautiful. Like, holy-shit-Alec-can't-breathe-around-him beautiful, with golden skin and kohl-lined eyes and dark hair and a jawline that Alec would love to get up close and personal with.

The first time they’d met, Alec made a complete ass out of himself by stumbling all over his words in court and then had gotten himself stuck doing community service, largely because of Magnus, for the god-forsaken town he’d managed to land himself in.

(Look, it’s not his fault that he somehow managed to destroy the town’s main road after veering wildly off course and out of control on his way to Brooklyn, okay? These things happen.)

It had kind of been all downhill from there.

But now, somehow, he’s lying in Magnus’s spare bedroom and watching the sunlight as it touches everything in the room with its golden glow, illuminating the walls, the potted plants, the shelves, the man leaning against the doorway—

“Holy shit!”

Alec scrambles to sit up in bed, frantically pulling up the sheets to his bare chest, as Magnus laughs. “Magnus!” Alec squeaks. “I, um, what’re you doing here?”

Magnus grins, rounding the corner of the bed to place a tray in front of Alec. “I thought I’d bring you breakfast,” he says, “before I asked you if you wanted to go for a drive.”

Alec frowns. “A drive?”

“A drive,” Magnus repeats, shrugging a shoulder. “I wanted to show you something, and took the liberty of filling your car up with gas again.”

“Wha— Why? You don’t think I’ll try leaving town again?” The only reason Alec hadn’t been able to leave when he first tried had been the lack of fuel in his tank, so he’s genuinely confused as to why Magnus decided to change that.

“I don’t know, will you?” the other asks. He tilts his head, looking gentle and blurred in his robe and smiling softly, something warm cradled in his eyes, and Alec knows with sudden certainty that he won’t. He might’ve said yes a few days ago, but now?

“No,” he replies. “I won’t.”

“That’s that, then,” Magnus beams, and Alec can’t help beaming back a little stupidly. “I trust you. Now, finish up, Alexander. We’ve got daylight to catch.”

---

“Where do you want me to go?”

They’re both sitting in Alec’s car, windows rolled down, on an old road leading away from the interstate. It’s beautiful out here— green trees circling a little lake tucked in between the rocks and dirt— but Alec has a feeling it’s not what Magnus wanted to show him.

“Just follow the path,” Magnus instructs, unbuckling his seatbelt. He turns to Alec and winks, before hoisting himself so that he’s sitting halfway out of the window, laughing at Alec’s surprised yelp and swerve of the car. “Careful there, hotshot!” he giggles, then leans further out like he’s got a fucking death wish, closing his eyes against the wind.

“Are you insane?” Alec yells out, and Magnus laughs harder.

“All the best people are, darling!” he responds. “I’ll be just peachy. Just keep going, we’re about to get to my favorite part!”

Alec’s about to yell out again, probably something like you have a favorite part of almost dying? or I think I’m halfway in love with you as they pass through a rocky tunnel, but before he can say either, his breath catches at the sight in front of him.

A huge, sparkling waterfall cascades down from the mountains, overlooking the rocky canyon and trees below it, framing the bridge that hangs in between. It almost doesn’t look real, more like something out of a corny road trip movie or a documentary, and Alec slows down as they approach it, taking it in. Magnus grins as they pass by, leaning out to catch errant drops of water on his fingertips, and God, it’s such a cliché and cheesy thing to do, and Alec wants to kiss him straight on his stupid mouth.

“I bet you don’t see that out in the city,” Magnus says smugly, tucking himself back into the car. He glances back at Alec with a smirk on his lips, running a hand through his wind-mussed hair. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“Yeah,” Alec breathes, staring at Magnus’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “It really is.”

(Fuck, now he’s the one being cliché. Izzy’s going to find out about this somehow and laugh at him forever.)

“Right.” Magnus clears his throat, looking away, jarring Alec back to reality. “We’re almost there, just pull up at the sign there,” he continues, pointing to a clearing ahead.

Alec coughs, nodding. “Right. Yes. The sign.”

The sign in question is a small landmark that points to a dilapidated, out-of-place building hidden between the rock of the mountain. “The Hotel Dumont,” the front reads, paint chipped away at the edges of the letters. The building looks Victorian in design, with intricate arches decorating the front, though many of them are cracked and gray now, and there’s a large open courtyard area in the front that appears abandoned now. It must’ve been beautiful, once. Now, it carries only echoes of a world passed.

“What is this place?” Alec asks. Magnus shakes his head and exits the car, then stands and stares at the sign for a while when Alec joins him.

“This used to be their livelihood,” he finally says, “The Hotel Dumont. Raphael used to run it, and everyone else would pitch in. You wouldn’t believe what it looked like earlier: parties in the main hall, music playing in the foyer, people laughing. It kept them going.”

“What happened?”

Magnus smiles wistfully. “A famous racer by the name of Valentine dropped a particularly scathing review of the hotel after Raphael caught him harassing customers and kicked him out. Had enough influence and lawyers to destroy all of this place’s credibility. These days, everyone’s barely getting by. It’s why they took so long to warm up to you; you essentially represent everything that ruined them.”

That’s horrible, Alec wants to say, but instead he looks over at Magnus and notes his glittering makeup and golden rings and silk tunic and blurts out, “Then how did you end up here?” and immediately winces.

It’s a valid question, technically— Magnus obviously wasn’t one of the town’s original residents, if his extravagant nature and the way he discusses the hotel are any indication— but still. Alec could’ve been gentler about it.

“I was an attorney in L.A, actually,” Magnus sighs. “It was good, I suppose, and money was never an issue, but I don’t think I was happy.” He shuffles closer to Alec as they idle in front of the building, brushing their shoulders together. “Got myself horribly drunk one night and made a whole plan to run away and leave the city behind. I woke up the next day, saw the plans, decided I might as well, and just started driving until my car finally broke down here.”

They’re silent for a moment, and Alec reaches out to touch his fingertips to Magnus’s comfortingly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I can’t imagine what that must’ve felt like.”

Magnus turns to face him completely then, looking up at him knowingly. “Can’t you?” he asks. He takes Alec’s palms in his own and holds their hands between them. “Are you happy out there, Alexander?”

Alec blinks, startled. “Of course I am,” he protests automatically, because why wouldn’t he be? He’s rich, he’s famous, he’s doing what he loves; it’s all perfect. And yet—

He thinks about the constant pressure from his family and fans to be perfect and flashy and smiling all the time. He thinks back to his mother’s desperate attempts to hide his sexuality from the media, setting him up for meeting after meeting with beautiful women. He thinks about the façade he’s made for himself against the person he is right now, standing here with Magnus, and realizes that they’ve never been the same.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I— I’m not sure.”

Magnus hums. He looks back at the hotel, Alec’s hands still clutched in his own. “You don’t have to leave, you know. You could stay here,” he says.

Alec surveys the landscape, then the man in front of him. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I think I could.”

---

He never gets to find out, because the next day it all goes to hell: Maryse Lightwood descends on the town, armed with a fleet of reporters and a truck waiting to take Alec away.

“We’re going now, Alec,” she demands. “Say goodbye to your ‘friends’ if you need to, and then we’re leaving.” She glances warily over at Magnus, who’s holding Alec’s hand, and frowns before she turns on her heel and walks away.

“So,” Magnus says flatly, “It appears you’re finally getting to that race.”

Alec wants to scream. He hates this, hates that this is how it’s going to end, before it’s even truly begun. If he just had more time—

“Magnus, I wanted to—” he starts, “I wish we—” He exhales, running a hand through his hair exasperatedly, and Magnus smiles.

“It’s alright, Alexander. Just stay in touch, okay?” He pats Alec’s shoulder. “Go on, darling. I don’t think your mother would appreciate me keeping you any longer than I already have.”

Alec hesitates a moment more, wanting to do something, anything, to make this different, but then he swallows and steps away.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll, I’ll call you.”

(It won’t change anything: his life will be exactly the same as it was before. Just one phone call added onto the routine. They both know this is goodbye to whatever they could be.)

Still, Magnus squeezes his fingers and keeps smiling. “I’ll be waiting, Alexander,” he says.

“Sure,” Alec replies uselessly.

So he’s here now, weeks later, sitting on the stands and supposedly getting ready for a race that he doesn’t have heart in anymore.

Honestly, fuck this race. They all go the same way: he’ll race, he’ll win or lose, he’ll pose with some model for a newspaper, and that’ll be it. It used to be enough for him, once.

“Alec?” a voice interrupts, “You okay?”

It’s Izzy, crackling through the comms piece in his ear. Alec clears his throat. “Yeah,” he replies, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as brittle over the mic as it feels, “I’m fine.”

He’ll swallow his emotions and make it enough, again.

“Alright,” Izzy concedes, but she sounds disbelieving, “If you say so. It’s almost time, you might want to head to the car soon, okay?”

Alec hums in the affirmative, heading down to the track, paparazzi trying their best to bombard him. He takes a deep breath, avoiding the cameras, and opens the driver's side door of the car.

He’ll call Magnus after this. It’ll be enough.

Alec ducks under the roof of the vehicle. “Hey, Izzy?” he calls, seating himself behind the wheel. “If I win, remind me to call Magnus, okay?”

“I’m afraid that would be a little redundant, darling,” a new voice replies, and Alec’s heart skips a beat. “Given that you’ll be talking to me already.”

Magnus.

“Magnus?” Alec fucking leaps out of his car, searching frantically around the pit for the man in his ear. A warm laugh floods the comms, and Alec feverishly pushes past cameramen and well-meaning assistants (who are trying to remind him that he really should be in his car right now) in his desperation, only to turn around and:

It’s him. It’s really him, smiling warmly at Alec with his gorgeous brown eyes, wearing black eyeliner to match the Lightwood tracksuit he’s wearing, and Alec missed him so much, oh god, he’s really here—

“Magnus,” he breathes, then he’s throwing his helmet down and closing the distance between them and pulling at Magnus’s lapels, up, up, up, and straight to his own mouth.

He’s kissing him.

Magnus is gripping onto his face too tightly and Alec is clacking their teeth together too harshly, but it’s Magnus, and it’s perfect, and Alec is kissing him, and he could lose every race from this moment on and still feel like he’s on top of the world if it means he’ll get to have this.

“You came,” he whispers when they finally pull apart. Magnus cups his face, stealing another kiss, before he responds.

“Of course I did. Honestly, I’m offended you didn’t ask for me to show up here, yourself,” he teases, and Alec grins bashfully.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” he replies. Magnus rolls his eyes before pressing their foreheads together.

“Well, darling, we better change that soon, hm?” He twirls his fingers at the nape of Alec’s neck, and time feels like it's perfect and frozen forever in this moment, until Magnus clears his throat.

“I hate to interrupt this, Alexander, but there’s a race and a very excited group of reporters waiting for you, and you should probably get back to both. Unless, of course, you’re not planning to participate?”

Alec snorts and pulls away, loosening his grip around Magnus’s waist. “I plan on participating, Magnus,” he says. “I have a very special someone I’d like to dedicate the trophy to, if they’re open to the idea.”

Magnus grins. “Mmm, you’d have to win, first, wouldn’t you?” he winks, and Alec smirks back.

“For you?” he replies. “I’d do nothing less.”

Alec knows that he’s going to have an absolute media shitstorm waiting for him after he ends this race. But, looking back at a beaming Magnus as he picks his helmet up, he thinks it just might be worth it.

God, Alec loves that town. He's not sure why he ever thought otherwise.

#my writing #fic #malec fic #malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #cars #this is a fucking cars au #im not even ashamed #simon lewis #Simon is MATER lmao #shadowhunters #life is a highway blares in the background

[whirlybirbs]

𝒜.𝑀.   ;   rattlesnake whispers.   |    a high-society drabble

summary: you’re beginning to distrust dutch van der linde.

pairing: arthur morgan/reader (turner placeholder lastname), hosea + reader friendship-centric in this drabble.

a/n: things weren’t gonna be peachy forever. part of a companion piece to simpler said aloud. this is a drabble for the collection high-society, which follows the events of that fic.

In the last handful of weeks, you can't help but feel as if someone has suddenly plucked the pair of rose-colored glasses — ones you weren't aware you were even wearing — from your nose.

...Concerning the one Dutch van der Linde, specifically so.

In the beginning, when you'd been swept from that stagecoach on that hot summer day — when you'd eventually ended up marooned by your own family, left with nothing but a trunk of old belongings and a growing sense of alienation... Well, Dutch had been nothing but kind. Fatherly, even, and you'd found yourself admiring that gang's head of household.

After all, he and his boys had dragged you — quite literally — into this mess; Dutch would see to it that his well-manicured and grandiose reputation as the good (not the bad, nor the ugly) would ring true.

He fed you, sheltered you, even let you dig your roots in when that ransom money never came, and when it felt, at times, you brought more trouble to them than good.

There were times when the sheep's clothing slipped, however; when he showed his teeth and spun silver-tongued threats veiled in well-to-do manners. There were times when Dutch van der Linde's voice was gilded with promise, yet all you heard was greed. You knew that sound well. You were practically weaned on it.

Oily and greasy and slippery.

High Society and the like.

You dared not say a word of these thoughts — though, you could sense the shift in the air when you'd all been forced to Clemens Point many weeks ago. Between him and Hosea, a canyon had been driven. The divide seemed to shake Arthur.

At the time, you didn't know any better.

Now... Well, you know the exasperated wince that flickers onto Arthur's face when Dutch raises his voice beyond the tents, down by the lake — insisting a stagecoach robbery would do the boys some good.

To get out there! Get some cash... and soon! California...

You know the gentle squeeze of his hand on your shoulder; the passing mutter of a promise he'll be back soon... All the intricacies of Arthur Morgan sewn uptight with irritation and hesitation. He rides off with Charles and Bill, blue eyes cast back your way. The errand boy once more.

You fiddle with the dog-eared page of the book in your hands.

You've read over the same paragraph a hundred and one times by now.

Hosea notices.

"You're fussing."

Your lashes flutter.

Hosea is smirking — he turns his attention back to his newspaper and if you knew any better, you'd think he was simply trying to quiet the vicious paranoia beginning to unravel itself in your brain.

"I suppose I am."

Hosea's brows furrow at the quiet admission; he looks back up at you with a mild sense of surprise.

You're a smart girl — very smart. So smart, in fact, that Hosea is continuously wondering how on Earth Arthur keeps up. You've got a sharp sort of wit that could cut a man down in two strokes. To hear you go quiet at a playful jab... Hosea decides, in that moment, he will follow up when there are not so many souls around.

"You an' our dim-witted golden boy, then?"

You note the change in subject with a sigh of appreciation.

Your book snaps closed and falls to the table; you cross your legs, sunshine colored gingham skirt swaying in the afternoon breeze. Hosea managed another wry smirk in your direction as you shake your head and laugh.

"He isn't dim-witted —"

"Says you," Hosea mumbles, "I taught the oaf how to read..."

"Last week?" you chirp, voice alight with amusement, "Late bloomer, he is."

Hosea barks out a laugh. He folds his paper up. "Is it serious, then?"

You waver. "I certainly m'not lookin' t' play his heartstrings like a harp, if that's what you're wonderin', Hosea."

A hum.

"Good," he knocks his knuckles on the wood of the table before him, "You two are a smart pair. He's... had his heart broken before, poor sod, but... He's good. Strong. Has a lot t' give to th' right person."

You fiddle with your fingers, a light smile playing upon your lips. "He's far too hard on himself."

"Always has been," Hosea sighs as he leans back in his chair, "When he was younger..."

The words die off like Hosea remembers something with an immeasurable fondness. The twinkle in his eyes finds the afternoon clouds, and you exhale softly through your nose.

"He's a good man," Hosea says finally, "Robbin' an' killin' aside. Given th' chance, I know he'd a' been more in this life. Just th' way things worked out, s'all."

"Isn't that how it is for all of us?" you earnestly, "If things were different..."

"If things were different," Hosea continues, gently and with a warm sort of fatherly care, "Would you still be here?"

"How y' mean?"

"If that daddy a' yours had paid the ransom," the seasoned con-man explains, "Would you still be here?"

Would you have left? Broken Arthur Morgan's heart once more?

You pause. The paranoia that sits on your tongue tells you to think quick but — this is Hosea. Blind faith and undying loyalty matter little to him. You know that. Hosea is not Dutch van der Linde. You wonder, bitterly, if that will be his downfall.

He cares about his son. You know those intentions sit deep in his words.

You fiddle with the hem of your linen shirt, rolling the sleeves as you weigh your answer.

"I knew I cared for Arthur back when we were camping at Horseshoe Overlook," comes the timid confession, "He... He went and bought me this beautiful gold fountain pen, and..."

Your brows furrow and you look as if you might bleat out a laugh.

Hosea smiles. "I remember."

"I acted like it was nothin'. Both of us did... but, I think we both knew we didn't nearly hate each other as much as we went on about," you sigh with a little laugh, weaving your fingers together and leaning forward onto the table, "And, Christ... You and Dutch and Miss Grimshaw and... I'd never met people so quick to take me in. Had that money ever come... I wouldn't have wanted t' leave. But, debts owed are a dangerous thing."

Hosea is quiet for a moment.

"You know," Hosea lowers his voice, "Leaving, sometimes, isn't a bad thing."

He then sees that flicker of emotion from earlier — the very one you'd been fussing over — and he knows you get his meaning. Your eyes dart to the tent of the man in question... But, before you can open your mouth to press on about it, the roar of the very one you'd come to stiffen around flashes his teeth and rounds his tent.

"My, my!" Dutch calls, "Look at you two hens, gossiping the day away."

Hosea sees the flash of anger on your face. Only for a moment. Well-timed and well-bided. Gone as quickly as it came.

You turn in your seat, smile as bright as the morning sun.

The con-man wonders how many years of practice that took.

"Hello, Dutch," you call with such sincerity, Hosea nearly wonders if he'd misread your previous worries, "How are you?"

"Just peachy, my girl," he swaggers forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his vest, "And what, may I ask, had you both so deeply engrossed in conversation?"

"Our bumbling idiot son," Hosea supplies, waving his hands as he drops the paper down, "and his good-nature."

"Ah, yes, Arthur."

You'd wished Dutch would just move on. Slither to whisper in snake-tongue to his rattlesnake brethren, Micah, across the camp.

But, no.

Down he settles into the empty seat across from you. Dark eyes try to pin you in your seat — but you don't allow it. You're quick. Wretchedly smart. You lean forward and drape your chin into your palm, attention fully rendered on the gang's leader.

How Hosea ever thought you to be some pure, little lamb... He knows better know. Better than Dutch, it seems.

He supposes that's what High Society does to women like you. Anger and hatred and all those very human emotions... You learn to disguise them beneath facades of couth manners and passive smiles.

"You say that as if y' have an amendment you'd like t' make, Dutch."

There's a beat of silence that washes over Dutch at the polite challenge to speak his mind — and at first, the dark-haired man can only muster a bark of a laugh and slip his eyes to Hosea. He hadn't expected that. You'd caught him off-beat.

Dutch then wets his lips and reaches to palm his pockets for a cigar.

The gears are turning as he reaches for a match.

"Well," he begins, striking it on the table with a flick, "I s'pose our blockheaded enforcer is a romantic, is all."

Hosea feels as if he's watching something he should stop.

"And do y' have quarrels with romantics?" you ask with a well-manicured kindness. Hosea wonders if Dutch even questions it, or if he's got his head so far up his ass he can't even hear you, "I, well... I always thought yourself a romantic, Mr. van der Linde."

"An idealist, Miss Turner," comes the puff of cigar smoke, making his gaze look hollow and lifeless, "I am an idealist — our dear boy Arthur, however, is not. He lets... fantasy cloud his better judgment."

"Does an idealist not drown himself in ideals," you tut easily with a smile sweet like honey, "As a romantic does in fantasy?"

Dutch's words falter for a moment.

You fill the silence.

"A well-spun argument, I must say, but semantics all-the-same," you wave off the idea that your words could be construed as anything less than polite as Dutch narrows his gaze, "Wouldn't you say so, Hosea?"

"I s'pose so," comes the hesitant affirmation, "When it's put like that."

Another beat of silence.

"Perhaps you misunderstand me," Dutch laughs loudly, clapping his palm on the table — and you watch as the silver tongue spins his web up and around, as he always does when caught in the mouth of the truth, "Arthur is... well, he loses himself in romance. Very different."

Very different, indeed.

Loses faith. Clears his head. Realizes you're goin' batshit, Dutch.

You hum, leaning back and tilting your head.

Hosea clears his throat.

"Speaking of," Hosea tries to redirect, "Where did they head off to?"

Your eyes never break from Dutch's stare.

It's he who looks away in the end.

"Micah heard whispers of a stagecoach passin' through the Bayou. Some real estate brokers, lookin' to reinstate foreclosed land. Could be some papers we could work on sellin'."

"Whispers."

Not a question. But it's laced with doubt. You're playing a dangerous game.

Hosea's eyes bounce to Dutch. "We dealin' in whispers, now, Dutch?"

Irritation bubbles in his voice when he speaks. He takes a long puff of his cigar. "An' just then, were you not th' one chastizing me on my semantics, Miss Turner?"

Yet, despite the tipping point of rage indicated in Dutch's voice?

You smile and laugh and shake your head. "All in good fun, Dutch. I caught your meaning."

It snuffs out the fire. Where there is no means to justify it... Dutch knows anger that's seen as undeserved will draw sides.

Smart.

"Good fun, indeed, Miss Turner," he says as he stands, "Hosea."

"Dutch."

Those rose-colored glasses are gone.

Hosea's were lost long ago.

Now, the two of you share a long look sans the hue.

#simpler said aloud #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #this is mostly PLOT device #bc things r gonna pick up for a bit