#white is my favorite color but not like this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Hackers stole 65M passwords from Tumblr in 2013.

#white is my favorite color but not like this

austrianshitposting · 20 hours

Text

My top 10 favorite signs at Vienna Pride 2024

[ID: A woman holding a sign saying "Jesus' Playlist: Only Love songs. She is wearing a purple shirt saying "another Christian for LGBTQ* Equality ]

Cute! We love seeing supportive religious folks in this house!! 7/10 🌈

[ID: A blue flag saying "Fundis zur Hölle jagen", flying in front of the Austrian Opera]

Short, sweet, good punch, keeping Pride a demonstration. 7.5/10 🌈

[ID: A woman holding a cardboard sign saying "I got 99 Problems and white hetero normative Patriarchy is all of them"]

fun reference, gets points for being political 7,5/10 🌈

[ID: A yellow shipping container, on it is a sign saying "Intersex Solidarity", next to two ads for an photography exhibition. The Exhibition is called "Inside views", the ad is showing a human body dressed in a ripcage]

It is just so funny to me I can't even really tell why. But it just feels appropriate, next to the ad and also the color of the container is very fitting. 8/10 🌈

[ID: A group of russian-speaking people demonstrating at Vienna Pride. One sign says "Proud and Loud for the Opressed in Russia, another shows Vladimir Putin in front of rainbows and writing saying "Vladimir, it's Time"]

Honestly my heart goes out to all queer people living in countries where they are still treated horribly, much worse than Austria. Love ❤️ 8/10 🌈

[ID: Where usually the movie titles being show are displayed, the Burg Kino shows a message saying "Pride without Prejudice. Hello Viella Pride 2024.]

Just a fun and sweet way to show support in a way that does not reek too much of rainbow capitalism. nice! 8.5/10 🌈

[ID: A sign saying "A day w/o Lesbians is like a day w/o sunshine"]

Cute!!!! As a lesbian, I approve ☀️ 9/10 🌈

[ID: two men holding signs saying "Hurra! Die Hurn sind da!", "In Vielfalt vereint, in tratsch entzweit" and "support your local cum dump"]

charming. fun. would get your grandma to gasp, probably. 9/10 🌈

[ID: The Group "Volksoper Wien" holding signs saying "Mama, Papa, ich muss euch was sagen: Ich liebe Operette", "Volksoper Wien: Queer seit 1898" and "125 Jahre Volksoper: man ist nie zu alt, um sich zu outen!"]

Extremely funny. Love it. Love that such a old, prestigious institution is at pride. 10/10 🌈

[ID: A sign saying "Heten Wahnsinn stoppen"]

Short, sweet, extremely funny, great reference, i love it 1000/10 🌈

Bonus:

Ace Santa :)

#Austria #Vienna #Pride #Pride Month #Vienna Pride #Vienna Pride 2024 #Regenbogenparade #Pride is a demonstration #Hosi Wien #Wien #lgbtqia #lgbtq community #Pride Parade #Pride in Austria

134 notes · View notes

otaku553 · 2 days

Note

I confess... I don't have any questions in me about the recent comic, bc I believe whatever I got in me will be answered in the next second half of the flames comic

However I love your art sm, can you spare us a couple of info dumps? I'm just a happy fan 🥹

Heheheh here are some annotations on the pages I think I enjoy the most this time! The pages that went through the most revisions were definitely the final two because I couldn’t decide for a while on colors:

This one I ended up settling on the left to give more of the impression that Ace himself was fire instead of being burnt by a fire, though from Tage’s perspective it looks like Ace is spontaneously burning alive, which is what triggers his trauma. The idea is that Tage isn’t generally affected by just fire, since fire is pretty essential to survival and he’s had to live on his own for a good while. He may avoid fire, but he can at least stand the sight of it. What horrifies him about this scenario specifically is Ace suddenly catching on fire.

These were also some drafts on the final page! After getting a second opinion I decided to leave Tage in the top half completely uncolored to get across that sort of draining of color that goes along with his horror. Ngl, the last 2 pages before they were colored were some of my favorites, because I think working in completely black and white gives you some fun ways to play around with selective splashes of color to emphasize things. When I was still working in monotone for this, the first thing I colored was actually the fire because I wanted it to be really vivid compared to the rest of the comic- and then I decided to color the rest of the comic too lmao

I’ll also show the scrapped two pages that were supposed to end this comic after the second part is posted I think— it’s a different resolution to what happens but I did kind of enjoy the paneling there

#spade pirate sabo au #annotations #ask tag

138 notes · View notes

steviewashere · 1 day

Note

Hello, since you're taking prompts, I'm here humbly requesting anything with autistic Steve because I adore him and he's relatable af. Steddie, heavy on the comfort? Other than that, whatever you like, I'll love it :)

Wooo!! I wrote this in like three hours because I was on a roll, so I'm excited to share this!

Rating: Teen and UpCW: Meltdown, Overstimulation (Not That Kind), Some Negative Stimming, Mild Internalized AbleismTags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Autistic Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling & Snuggling, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Soft Steve Harrington, Soft Eddie Munson

Also on AO3

💕—————💕 His t-shirt was too tight. Had it shrunk in the wash, he initially asked himself. Is this not even mine? But when he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, reflected back at him was the same burgundy colored t-shirt, softly worn and sweat stained, a big graphic stretched across the chest that read: ‘Go Bulls, Go!’. Where this thing came from, he doesn’t remember, but it’s kept him comforted and grounded throughout the years.

Steve had a particular wardrobe. Maybe a bit peculiar to the normal, wandering eye. But to him, his clothes made perfect sense. Every pair of jeans was just a size bigger than he needed them, to give him the extra give. All of his white boxer briefs were made of cotton, because the silky type were always too constricting. His socks had holes and patches on them—worn over and over and over again, folded inside out so that the seams didn’t catch under his toes, but they were the perfect level of softness that he couldn’t find anywhere else. Polos made of cotton. Henleys the same. And his t-shirts, well they were soft, too.

In fact, Steve loves soft things. Loves loose things. Loves expected things.

But now his t-shirt is too tight. The t-shirt he thought of all of the last three days. A t-shirt he thought would look good with his light washed Levi’s—always worn on Thursdays for his day of errands. And looking at the little desktop calendar in his room, it is indeed Thursday. He planned this, but he neither planned nor considered the possibility of a clothing malfunction. His hands go to stretch the hem of the shirt, pluck it away from his body and make the fabric accommodate him. However, at the first tug, the loosely bound hem gives an unmistakable Riiiippp sound.

And…

Great, he thinks, I’ve just ruined one of my favorite shirts.

The t-shirt’s too tight, now ripped, and about to be retired. If only he could find something that works the exact same. Every t-shirt he tries on has some sort of error: too big, too ugly, clashing colors, won’t match the Adidas he picked out last night, stretched on the collar, so on and so forth. It’s Thursday, he thinks, it’s a busy day. Errand day. And now I have nothing to wear. Well, he has something. Not exactly what he planned. But if he doesn’t just put on a damn shirt, he’ll never get through his day, and if he misses out on the free time to take charge of the few errant errands—Steve’ll never get them done or he’ll get them done on a different day, a day where it’s noticeably not Thursday.

He snatches a yellow polo from the back of his closet. Dijon mustard colored. Too scratchy over the downy hairs on his belly. But he doesn’t have the time. Doesn’t have the time to redo his hair—three puffs of hairspray and he’d have to do a fourth, but four doesn’t fit, it’s not right, it’s too different. So he just settles. He’s got a schedule today, and damn the world for already trying to stop him.

Next on his agenda is breakfast.

Which, now that his head is shoved dutifully in the fridge and he’s rummaging around like a dumpster diving raccoon, he remembers that he has to go grocery shopping. Down to three large eggs, a couple bacon strips that didn’t crunch right the last time he ate them, and some cream cheese for bagels he can’t reason eating anymore. But he makes do. Again, settling—always settling, it seems. Because today just can’t go right.

Half-way through the eggs, his brain reminds him that he’s eating eggs. The texture going from wonderfully scrambled, not too soft and not too dry—to awfully rubbery and terribly bland and disgustingly charred. His bacon didn’t crisp right, so he won’t even attempt the few nibbles that lay out on his plate. And the bagel is just…staring up at him like the thousand eyes on every spider of his nightmares. Just the mere thought of cream cheese on his tongue has him wanting to hurl. So he tosses the rest, sets his plate in the sink, and wonders if he’ll even have the time to do the dishes—they aren’t piling by any means, but he didn’t plan this. He wanted cereal this morning. Had thought about the near glass like shards of Cap’n Crunch against the roof of his mouth, drenched in whole fat milk. But, again—You’re an idiot, he’s starting to chastise—he forgot that he needed to do a grocery run today.

Now that his stomach isn’t full and is left completely unsettled. Now that his shirt is scratching him and rough in all the wrong places. Now that more wrongs have been done to him than rights, he can woefully cart himself to the supermarket.

Only to get there and not find a spot. Well, one in the back of the parking lot is barely a spot. The one he hates parking in because he always has to walk two minutes longer than he needs to and sometimes the gravel from the nearby bushes is kicked up and then he steps on it and there’ll be a rock in the sole of his shoe. Like there is today because of course, of all days, there are little jagged gravel rocks for him to step on and feel through the soft, giving out soles of his sneakers. Of course, he thinks—riding over mildly irritated to extremely annoyed within seconds.

The grocery store is hell on earth, if it exists. Lights fluorescent and produce aisle sprinklers going haywire and the coffee grounds too fresh and the chatter of people incessant. Annoying.

He brought a paper slip with him. His chicken scratch identifiable to him. Reading:

Grocery List

Milk White Bread (Wonder, not Kroger) Peanut Butter (Jiff, not Skippy) Laundry Detergent - unscented Cat food (salmon this time, maybe that’ll lure in that stray?) Pasta (Thin spaghetti, penne, and farfalle) Parmesan (Preferably not in the jar, but whatever is cheapest) Potatoes Pop-Tarts? (Eddie’s favorite is brown sugar) Chicken Chicken nuggets

The cart he grabs has a wheel that squeaks the entire time he pushes it. Wonder bread is sold out by the time he gets to the right aisle. They really should say something when they change the layout of the store, he notes bitterly, stuffing a couple loafs of Kroger white bread into his cart. Skippy was the chosen option of the creamy peanut butters, simply because the Jiff wasn’t on sale anymore. On the bright side, salmon wet cat food wasn’t too expensive, even if he could only grab three cans. The Pop-Tarts are forgotten by the time he makes it back to his car. And the first paper bag has a handle that rips off almost immediately. And he forgot to unload the quite substantial amount of baseball supplies he brought to the park the other day—which means the bags are loaded into the backseat and he can only hope and pray that the milk doesn’t topple over and squish the bread or god forbid the laundry detergent somehow gets jostled the wrong way and spills all over his car.

He should’ve made another list of things he needs to remember he’d done. Would’ve been nice, he supposes, if he told his future self that the baseball equipment is still in his trunk. But, alas, here he is playing the same Tears for Fears tape again, listening to the baseballs clink off of each other. Thank god for the Tears for Fears tape, though—it’s the same one he’s listened to nearly every day since he bought it in 1983. At least that’s something to expect. At least it’s something he can rely on after the absolute shitshow he’s had today.

Though, maybe he should’ve expected having to pull over to the shoulder. In a car that chokes and gives up when he’s two-thirds back, half-way through his errands list, and completely done with everything. His hands are tight on the steering wheel. And there’s nothing but silence flowing around him. It’s like drowning, sitting here like this. For once, after everything he’s ever experienced and having so many bad days like this, he doesn’t know what to do.

A part of him, the overwhelmingly obvious part, wants to scream and cry and kick his legs out in front of him. Wants to dig the heels of his feet into the pure asphalt underneath the rubber tires of his stupid, unreliable car. Maybe tear the shirt right off his body and squish himself back to normal. But in the open, bright pool of sunlight, he can do nothing but just sit there. Head against the steering wheel, wet breaths through his nose, and a tightness in his throat that won’t rid even after his fifth swallow. Part of him wants to cry and cry and cry and never stop crying. And it sounds good. Not here, though. Not yet.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before something knocks on his window. So, he rolls his head over to peer—not at all that gently, with enough force to drive a hard line into his skin. But when he catches sight of the person watching him nearly fall apart, he wants to cry impossibly more.

It’s Eddie. With his big, soft, concerned eyes. Hair tied up into a bun. Coveralls over his body, splattered with oil and other unidentifiable muck. Probably coming back from an early morning shift at the auto shop in town. He can help, maybe. So, Steve cranks down his window. Enough that Eddie can dangle his arms inside and crouch down to get a better looks.

“Stevie,” he softly greets. “You doin’ okay?”

Steve just shrugs. Makes some sort of noncommittal grunt. He works his jaw tight and tense. Mumbles, “Car broke down.”

Eddie hums, acknowledging. He looks over his shoulder briefly, leans to peer into the backseat, and then looks onto Steve again. “I can take a look, if you want, sweetheart.”

“Don’t have enough money to get it fixed right now.”

“Baby,” Eddie sighs. His eyes go half-lidded with aching. He reaches out a tentative hand and gently traces his fingers over Steve’s left shoulder. Inching his way to his neck, where knots are surely forming. “It’s free of charge for you, you know that.”

“I just don’t care about it right now,” Steve lies. He cares a great deal. Cares that this has ruined his day. Has ruined the rest of his plans, but if he admits that, he’s sure he’ll cry. He’s not sure why that’s his first reaction: to cry and break things and flap his hands as if ridding the energy. Not sure why it hurts to look Eddie in the eyes right now. Why everything that’s happened has affected him so negatively. Why he’s so particular about his things to do and how he dresses and what he eats. But he knows he’ll cry if he explains.

“Okay,” Eddie mutters. His fingers are soothing over Steve’s shoulder. Light and airy and so soft, it makes Steve want to melt. “How about I drive you back? Help you unpack your groceries? We can leave this baby right here for now and figure out how to get it back to you later, alright?”

Wordlessly, Steve nods, hauls himself out of the driver’s seat, and helps Eddie unpack the bags into the back of his van. That part of him that wants to destroy flares alive inside of him. And he has to restrain himself from chucking the milk carton against the side of the van. But he gets into the passenger seat, silent and seething and mildly overwhelmed.

He gets angrier, though, as soon as Eddie’s radio blares to life. Heavy, obnoxiously loud drums and guitars and vocals fill the space. Instinctively, Steve’s hands shoot to his ears, covering them completely with his palms, digging his fingernails into the skin around them. Garbled, he makes a noise of great discomfort. Grits his teeth together. Squeezes his eyes shut until little speckles of black float in the corners. And hunches into himself, compact and an easy trick to consolidate himself. It doesn’t work, though. Nothing is working in his favor.

“Turn it off, Eddie,” he distantly hears himself snap, “turn it off!”

All at once, the music stops.

Steve sighs, not quite relieved, but easier. It’s still bright. And Eddie’s van smells a little bit like marijuana. And maybe Steve hasn’t smoked that in a little while because the scent is too intense and he never knows how to explain why the smell alone makes him want to scream, but it does and he knows part of that isn’t normal but he doesn’t know how to be normal and now he’s blown his cover all because of something petulant like music being too loud and now Eddie won’t want to date him because he’s being irritable and annoying and—

“Sweetheart?” Eddie’s distant, raspy, soft voice calls. “Is it a migraine? Do you need some water?”

“No,” Steve answers tersely. “Just take me home, Eddie.” He can’t loosen himself from the tight hold, from the squeeze of his eyelids, from the tension in his fingers. But he’s probably making an ass of himself. Probably pissing Eddie off. “Please,” he tacks on, “please take me home, Eddie.”

Nothing else is said as the van rattles and grumbles, pulling away from where Eddie had been parked. There’s no words. No music. Eddie doesn’t fidget. Steve doesn’t think either of them breathe, really. And not only has he pissed Eddie off, but he’s starting to make himself angry. Why couldn’t I just be normal, Steve internally bemoans. I’m being annoying. And he shouldn’t be helping me. And I should’ve just called a tow truck. And I’m making a big deal out of nothing, just like Mom and Dad used to say.

And if he were in a different mindset, he could probably think about why that statement used to feel so miserable. When his parents would dismiss him. Send him to his room. Where he’d sob into his pillows and toss his books across the room and hide inside his closet because it’s the only place that truly felt safe. The closet, where the world couldn’t reach him, and the lights were all dark and he could hum as much as he wanted. Because nobody could find him. And nobody cared. And then he was warm, safe, the version of himself he felt he needed to be.

Eddie parks gently. He helps bring the groceries inside. And then he just stays. As if Steve didn’t just ruin everything. But he looks at him with those concerned eyes again, fidgeting with his fingers because he wants to reach out, about two seconds away from crawling out of his skin. Meanwhile, Steve’s pacing back and forth, squeezing his hands shut, eyes closed, breathing heavy through his nose.

“Is something wrong, Steve?” Eddie finally breaks.

Steve shakes his head quickly. “Long day,” he gets out.

Humming, Eddie takes a step forward. He tilts his head and attempts to make eye contact, but Steve averts his gaze. “Why don’t we sit down for a bit and take a little breather?”

“This is the wrong shirt,” Steve blurts, scratching at his stomach again. The shirt keeps rubbing up and down whenever he bends, whenever he moves for that matter. It’s starchy and too new. Too much, not enough. “And my hair is a mess.”

“It’s not a mess,” Eddie murmurs, “looks fine to me.”

“No. I messed it up this morning. Because I tried on all my shirts.”

“All of them?”

Steve nods hastily. “None of them were right. And that doesn’t make sense, I know, but it’s true. And I put three puffs of hairspray in, needed a fourth, but that’s not right either.” He angles his head up at the ceiling, furls and unfurls his hands a few more times before placing them palm down and flat against his chest. Wants to press down. Hard enough to remember, but not enough to bruise. So he does. Gives in. Allows himself this one good thing, the pressure, the hurt, the sizzling ache. “My breakfast was gross.”

“Yeah? What’d you have, baby?” Eddie gently asks.

“Why—“ Steve gasps, struggling. “Why are you fine with this?”

Taken aback, Eddie makes a soft noise. His eyes widen and he furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m being weird. I—You saw me! I was having like a little mini freakout in my car and then I got all mad at you and I was covering my ears and keeping myself tight and now I’m—Fuck, I’m going insane.

“Everything’s wrong. Everything is so wrong. My whole day is fucking wrong. Schedule got ruined. The clothes I planned out days ago didn’t work. My breakfast was bullshit and the grocery store didn’t have the right bread and Skippy is my least favorite peanut butter, but I had to get it because it was on sale and I forgot to get those Pop-Tarts you like even though I wrote them down on my stupid list but I don’t make enough lists because I forgot about the baseball stuff in my car and it shouldn’t have been there and that’s why I had to put the groceries in the backseat and the only good thing was my Tears for Fears album was still in the radio—And…Fuck.” Steve takes a haltingly loud gasping breath. He slams his hands over his chest, finally giving in to that innate urge he’s carried since he was a kid. Squeezes his eyes shut again, not wanting to see whatever hurt or disappointment or realization washes over Eddie’s face.

He continues, “I left the album in my car. The light’s too bright. I can…I can like hear the wiring in the fixtures. Everything. I’m feeling…I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know,” Steve babbles. His hands flex into his shirt, the fabric wrong on his skin. Fingernails scratching at it, trying to tear it off. Wants to crouch down onto his knees and hide between the corner cabinets, nestle himself in a dark place, cry until there’s nothing left to give.

The realization hits him all at once, he needs to get away. To the safe space he created. So he forces himself around Eddie, up the stairs, behind his slammed bedroom door. And he crawls the rest of the way into the deep, far side of his closet. On top of old blankets, underneath too small clothes. Rests his head against the wall. And just…sobs.

His elbows rest upon his knees as he shields his face with his forearms. The sounds of his cries muffled by his own skin. He kicks off his sneakers and digs his feet into the pile of blankets underneath him. Trying to get rid of the itchy, swooping, nauseous ache from inside him. He doesn’t like this part of his bad days. Doesn’t like being alone. To be left with his own mess. But he’s not sure how Eddie will respond, so he figures this is better.

Though, that’s quickly proven wrong when Eddie carefully comes in, announcing himself as the door opens. He stops in front of the closet and crouches down. “Hey, Stevie? Is it alright if I’m in here, baby?”

Steve sniffles. “I…You’re not going to be mean, are you?”

“No, Steve. I promise I’ll be nice. I just…You seem really overwhelmed and I thought maybe I could help you a little bit.” He shuffles forward slightly, opening the closet door from inside. Peeks through the gap. Asks, “How?”

“Could give you a hug? But…I was thinking we could trade shirts first? Mine is pretty soft, kind of loose. I know that’s how you like your t-shirts, baby.” For good measure, he plucks his t-shirt and gestures for Steve’s.

“You’ll look like a dork.”

“Yeah, but you’ll be comfortable. So hand me your shirt and I’ll give you mine.”

Once they’ve exchanged shirts, Steve leaves the closet and sits with Eddie against the side of his bed. Sure, the mattress may be soft and feel nice, but the firm ground under him keeps him anchored. He leans into Eddie’s side, lets him drape an arm over his shoulders, and sighs into the hold. Eddie’s other hand comes up and he traces fingers over Steve’s hairline, featherlight but caring all the same.

“Does this help?” Eddie whispers.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “Sorry about…Well, being weird and getting all intense earlier.”

Eddie shrugs. “It wasn’t like that at all, baby. You had a bad day, nothing worked in your favor. I’m not going to fault you for reacting.”

“I was crying in my closet, Eds. That’s hardly normal.”

“I’d cry, too if I had the day you experienced.” He runs his hand between Steve’s shoulder blades, pressing firmly over the tense knots that formed. “Is there anything I can do? Anything on your list that you need help with?”

Steve nuzzles his face into Eddie’s shoulder, cheek squished against the joint. Muffled, he says, “For now, can you just hold me for a while? Nobody’s ever comforted me like this after…Well, you saw what happened. But later, can you help me vacuum and mop?”

“I’ll hold you forever,” Eddie promises. “And I’ll exterminate all the dust bunnies you could ever think to encounter, nothing could make me happier.”

Something in him finally chips away. He’s not quite loose, yet. Not ready to release all the pent up negative energy he’s seemed to catch throughout his day. But he can believe Eddie, for the moment. He rests his head deeper into Eddie’s shoulder, lets himself fall into whatever song Eddie is humming, reaches out and grips firmly to one of Eddie’s hands. Plays with his rings, the smooth metal like a balm on the fatty part of his thumb. He relishes in how Eddie just lets him. Lets him, despite everything.

He can’t quite look Eddie in the eyes, not yet. Can’t force himself off the ground. Can’t quite get rid of that intense, drowning sensation that burbles in his chest—makes him want to cry and breakdown even further. And maybe he can, realistically. But later, he surmises, later he’ll do that, so long as Eddie continues to not mind.

The warmth of their shared bodies is nice. The softness of Eddie’s t-shirt against his skin. The gentle musk left on the collar from whatever cologne Eddie uses. Something with bergamot, a little bit of citrus, something like bourbon. He closes his eyes softly. There’s not much light flooding into his bedroom, just a stripe of golden sunlight from between his curtains, but that’s fine.

For the first time today, something is fine.

“I like this,” Steve quietly admits. “You being here with me through this, I mean.”

Eddie makes an acknowledging hum. “Whenever you need me, I’m a phone call away, sweetheart. I’ll come dashing over, your knight in shining armor, armed with the softest of t-shirts and the most delicious of snacks just for you, baby.”

Steve chuckles. A sound he thought wouldn’t be possible on a day like this. Despite everything, he smiles softly. “I’d love that,” he whispers, “I love you, Eds. Thank you for making me feel a little bit normal.”

“I love you, too, Stevie,” he responds, easy as that. “And I mean it, baby. I love you, I want to hold you and cherish you. You need anything, any time of day, you call me. Bad days are no joke.”

“Mmm,” Steve gently hums. “Maybe I should add cuddle time to my daily routine?”

“Maybe you should,” Eddie agrees. “I think that would be excellent for both of us.”

“Good,” Steve states quietly. He wraps his own arm around Eddie’s waist, pulls him in tighter, and tucks in close. “This feels right.”

💕——–——💕 Taglist: @hotluncheddie

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #autistic steve harrinton #angst and hurt/comfort

66 notes · View notes

cera-writes · 2 days

Note

Nightcrawler and his s/o proposing to each other at the same time.

A/N: eeeekkkk, this was precious to write! Thanks for requesting! <3 Pairing: Kurt Wagner x gn!reader

A Mutual Proposal

The X-Mansion balcony, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, offered a breathtaking panorama of the Hudson Valley. Nightcrawler, clad in his civilian attire, nervously fidgeted with a velvet box nestled in his pocket. Tonight, he was determined to ask you, his extraordinary mutant love, to be his forever.

You'd brought the two of you your favorite takeout to eat out on the balcony, dressed up in a fancy basket. Kurt had planned the date. It was somewhat formal, with a table set in the middle and a few candles lit on a white tablecloth draped over the metal table. Then, he'd bamfed in right next you. You jumped slightly, startled by his sudden presence. "Kurt! Oh my god, you scared me half to death!" You exclaimed, a blush creeping up your neck.

Nightcrawler chuckled, his blue fur softening around the edges. "Just a little teleportation trick, Liebling. I wanted to share this view with you," he gestured towards the sprawling landscape bathed in twilight hues, then pulled your chair out for you to sit.

You smiled, a familiar warmth spreading through you. "It's beautiful," you whispered, your gaze lingering on him a beat too long. You followed suit and sat down, Kurt however remained standing. The air crackled with unspoken emotions. This was one of your favorite spots just to catch a moment of peace with one another.

Kurt cleared his throat, taking a deep breath. "There's, uh, something I've been wanting to tell you." He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of the box.

Suddenly, you interjected, your voice barely a whisper. "Kurt, I…" You fumbled with the picnic basket, finally pulling out a small, intricately carved wooden box.

You both stared, mouths agape, at the items in each other's hands. Nightcrawler let out a sheepish grin. "Looks like we both have something to say, ja?" he said, his voice laced with amusement.

You burst out laughing, the tension dissolving. "It seems so!" you exclaimed, a playful glint in your eyes. "Alright, Kurt, on three?"

Nightcrawler, ever the gentleman, gestured for you to speak first. "Eins, zwei..." he counted, his voice warm and sincere.

"Drei!" you both blurted out at the same time.

A cacophony of love confessions filled the air. "I love you, Kurt," you finally managed, your voice thick with emotion. "And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Nightcrawler, his heart overflowing, beamed back. "Liebling, I was just about to ask you the same thing. I have this ring..." He fumbled with the box, revealing a stunning sapphire ring that shimmered like his beautiful skin.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you reached into your own box. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft velvet, lay a simple silver band inscribed with the words "Mein Liebe" in elegant script. It was a perfect symbol of your love and his native language.

"This is ridiculous," you said, your voice thick with happy tears. "We both planned a proposal, and neither one of us knew."

Nightcrawler chuckled, pulling you into a tight embrace. "Ridiculous, maybe. But perfectly us, wouldn't you say, Schatz?"

You squeezed him back, your heart brimming with joy. "Absolutely perfect."

As the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a myriad of colors, Nightcrawler slipped the sapphire ring onto your finger. You, in turn, placed the silver band on his. With a shared look of love and laughter, you sealed the deal with a kiss, the X-Mansion balcony bathed in the golden promise of your forever.

#x men 97 #xmen #cera writes #nightcrawler #nightcrawler x you #kurt wagner x you #kurt wagner one shot

26 notes · View notes

talesofesther · 22 hours

Text

a touch of emotion

Connor x Reader

Summary: After the meeting with Kamski, Connor feels conflicted and lost, luckily you're there to hold his hand through it.

A/N: DBH is one of my main comfort games, and it was about time I wrote a little something for my favorite boy from it. If anyone would like to see more of Connor here, let me know. <3

Masterlist

"Why didn't you shoot?" Hank inquires, narrowing his eyes inquisitively.

"I just saw that girl's eyes… And I couldn't…" Connor answers back, his voice edging on desperate. "That's all."

A howling wind prickles your skin like tiny needles. It was such a cold day, no wonder you hadn't been keen on coming out here today. Leaning back on the hood of Hank's car and pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you watch from afar as Connor tries to justify his choice, even if it had been the right one to make.

He intrigues you. Because for someone who keeps saying he's just a machine trying to accomplish a task, he acts way more human than a lot of people you know. Even on the day you'd met him, he was already all curious and talkative, you couldn't recall meeting any android like him before.

Connor has changed ever since you started working together, you realize it now more than ever. He's becoming softer, personality starting to shine through the cracks as his decisions become increasingly emotionally driven.

"Cyberlife's last chance to save humanity, is itself a deviant."

Kamski's words echoed inside your mind, as did Connor's panicked and distressed expression when he promptly denied it. Ironic, you think to yourself; he shouldn't feel as troubled as he does if what Kamski said is not true.

And that same feeling now lingers. Once they were done talking, Hank took a few steps away to make a call, most likely to the precinct judging by the scowl on his face; and Connor can't stand still, he's pacing around, fidgeting with the cuffs of his blazer as the snow shifts under his feet. There's a permanent frown on his eyebrows, he looks almost… lost, his LED with an insistent yellow color and gaze unfocused on the distance.

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, torn between reaching out to him or keeping to yourself. The snow falls heavier now, and you can feel the tips of your fingers slowly going numb. You've always liked the cold, yet it seems the cold doesn't like you.

Between the snow, the frozen lake, and the white horizon of the frigid weather, Connor stands out. He's holding onto his own arms, hugging himself, and you find it endearingly human, as if he's subconsciously trying to find a way to comfort himself.

You lay your palms flat on the hood of the car and push yourself away, walking up to him before you can think things through. The snow crunching under your feet doesn't seem to call his attention. "Connor?" You say gently, reaching out to him with your hand but stopping short of actually touching him. You hesitate. When did he start making you nervous?

"You okay?"

Those warm and tender brown eyes of his regard you with curiosity, lips half parted as he struggles on what to say. The LED on his temple switched from blue to yellow and blue again. "I- yes. I think I'm fine." Snowflakes are clinging to his hair and falling softly onto the skin of his cheeks; they compliment his features, always so gentle.

You offer him a small, comforting smile. He's still figuring himself out. It was okay, you were patient.

"I'm… sorry," Connor begins again, avoiding looking you directly in the eyes. He purses his lips and closes his eyes for a moment longer, and you doubt you've ever seen any android be this expressive.

"I compromised our investigation," he pauses, "I should have been more efficient." And reprimands himself.

You're shaking your head before he's even done talking. "No, don't say that," you take a step closer to him as your heart holds your reasoning hostage, one hand wrapping around Connor's wrist to keep him with you. "Don't say that when you've made the right choice, Connor."

There was a beat, Connor's face does something complicated that you cannot read, and when he looks up at you again, his gaze is almost too much. The amount of emotion he looked at you with nearly made you choke on air.

"But… we didn't learn anything." His voice is quiet, barely there, as if he doesn't care for his own argument and is only looking for an excuse to hear more of your voice.

"I don't care," the words fall from your lips before you can debate if you should even be saying them out loud at all.

Connor seems surprised, caught off guard as his eyebrows raise just slightly at how fast and true you spoke. His eyes keep searching your face for… something. You couldn't be sure of what exactly he was looking for. Maybe even he doesn't know yet.

Your heart stumbles on your chest when you see Connor gulping and his eyes avoiding yours again. Only then do you realize that the hand you held his wrist with had drifted lower, your fingers now gently grazing his palm. His skin feels comfortingly warm and soft, a pleasant touch sending goosebumps down your spine.

It was all foreign territory to him, you knew it, felt it in the way he tried timidly closing his fingers around your own. His movements are slow, uncertain, and tentative, bordering on afraid.

How naive of you, to be having such feelings for an android. Yet when he's the most caring, honest, endearing, and gentle person you know, how could you not?

Hank told you once; "I think you're breaking our android huh." He'd said it right after Connor had gone through the trouble of finding an umbrella just so you didn't have to stand under the heavy rain, even if you tried telling him you didn't mind. And you'd taken it as a joke back then, not really understanding the hidden meaning behind your older partner's teasing look.

Yet as you hold onto Connor's hand now, feeling the way his thumb shyly brushes your skin, you wonder if he feels it too, if he's willing to feel the same as you do. If you could dare to hope.

"All I care about," you speak slow and careful, syllables heavy on your tongue. You clear your throat so your voice doesn't sound as tender as you feel. "is that… that you didn't let him manipulate you, that you followed your heart." You bring your free hand up to his chest, right on top of where you can faintly feel his thirium pump working overtime.

Connor looked to be about to speak, perhaps to try and correct you about your choice of words, yet all he does is open and close his mouth, eyes trained on yours and LED swirling with a permanent yellow color. For a moment you wonder if he's analyzing you, and worry about what he may find. His hold on your hand tightens ever so slightly; you don't think he realizes he's doing it.

"I'm glad you didn't pull the trigger, Connor. I'm proud of you."

It's barely a second, his LED flashing red before going back to yellow and eventually, slowly, blue; but you see it. He blinked a couple of times as if processing your words or how to feel about them.

"I-" Connor's eyes seem hazy, their tender brown only a thin ring around his blown pupils. His fingers now tangle with yours. "I feel-"

"Alright kids, let's go." Hank's voice sounds all too loudly as he unintentionally breaks the bubble that cocooned you and Connor. "Fowler wants us back in the precinct." The lieutenant speaks with an annoyed undertone as he stuffs his phone back in his pocket.

You're still caught up in the feeling of Connor's skin on yours, in how you're now so hyper-aware of just how close he's standing to you. Connor, it seems, isn't much different.

When there's no answer, Hank finally looks your way and gestures you over; "come on, get a move on, I don't wanna hear another lecture about arriving late," he insists, before plopping himself into the driver's seat, murmuring something about damn love-birds.

Despite the cold, you can feel a warmth coming up to your cheeks. Without mustering the courage to meet Connor's gaze, you focus on the way his hand fits so perfectly with yours. His fingers are awkwardly intertwined with yours, holding strong and gentle at the same time.

Connor seems reluctant to let go. It hits you that perhaps he won't. You could dwell on a thousand reasons of why, or not think at all and simply bask in the feeling. But right now time isn't on your side.

You take a deep breath, and risk a glance up at him.

Any words you were about to say suddenly feel clogged up in your throat. Oh, Connor tilts his head in that endearing way you're so fond of, yet the look in his eyes is one you've never caught before; you can't name it, it feels dangerous to try, but he looks as if he just realized something.

"Come on," you tug on his hand, just about managing the timid words, "we have to go."

Connor follows quietly, his hand steady on yours until you reach the car and are forced to part.

As Hank drives, you watch Connor through the rearview mirror; there's a newfound lightness to him, a warmth to his eyes that makes you feel fuzzy inside. And when he catches your gaze, and smiles, you know he feels it too.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Connor’s taglist: @milkiane@v1ci0us

#connor dbh x reader #connor rk800 #connor rk800 x reader #dbh connor #connor imagine #detroit become human #dbh #dbh rk800 #connor x reader #connor x you #dbh x reader #imagine #fanfic #angst #fluff #my story

23 notes · View notes

kingcrow01 · 3 hours

Text

DC/Marvel Pool Noodle Party 2024

Week 2 | Who Run The World? (Girls!)

Peter Parker/Cassandra Cain, 13 fics

@dc-marvel-crossovers

Here’s the outline of the event for those interested. TLDR, This event celebrates relationship tags that have less than 30 works on ao3, both platonic and romantic. The rarest of rarepairs!

Inspired by @rags-n-bones' Along Came a Spider and @faeriekit‘s Quiet Respite, both of which handle Cass and Peters' characterization really well. They both write very interesting, and might I say very cool Cass POVs, and I enjoyed seeing the world through her eyes.

I waited a few days after lining on some light/medium brown markers coming in the mail that I was hoping to use for Cass’ skin tone, but alas, the actual colors were too dark, and their color swatches were lies. Boo. I may have blacked out while I colored, because I don’t know how I got it so dark, but Cass’ skin tone is comprised of the same markers I used for Peter's. Now that’s what I call drawing on a budget! Lots of layering, I guess.

Okay, now the most important part; what is their ship name? I’m teetering between Black Spider and Silent Spider. Otherwise we have like… Pete-ass, which is not flattering. Or Parker + Cain = Pain💪, which would be pretty accurate to their life stories.

Details:

Stretch marks on Peter’s thighs because I said so

(Peter doesn’t have an abnormally long torso, his boxers are just low on his hips)

Bruce is calling; Cass is so in trouble when he finds her cuddling with her boyfriend (not really, she’s his favorite)

Cass gets a lego Spidey keychain because I’m projecting; mine is on my keys

I made some touch ups when editing because I used a white gel pen to cover some lines on their faces I didn’t like, but that didn’t bode well with my markers when I started coloring.

Rose, Cass’ tank top is for you because you had Peter say to her, “Almost as powerful as you were wandering around in a tank top last weekend.” hehe

This was my initial idea; I was going to draw Cass with her head pillowed on Peter’s chest, and then Cass’ view, which would be Peter conked out with his mouth hanging open, I but I didn’t really want to draw that angle.