#favorite summer wildflowers

[vandaliatraveler]

I suppose if any wildflower can be said to embody the bounty and energy of summer, it must be black cohosh (Cimicifuga racemosa, or Actaea racemosa). Anyone who has grown up in Central Appalachia will instantly recognize and connect with the towering "fairy candles" of this woods-dwelling perennial in the buttercup family - some might even suggest a spiritual bond exists between the people of the mountains and the plant. This isn't surprising - black cohosh has a long and storied history as a medicinal herb, dating back to the Native American tribes, who used an extract from its root to treat everything from musculoskeletal pain to snake bites, and continuing with the European settlers, who used it to treat the symptoms of menopause. While there is little evidence from clinical trials indicating the plant's efficacy in treating menopausal symptoms, higher quality studies are being urged and may yet prove the plant's value in supporting female reproductive health. Irrespective of its potential contributions to medicine, black cohosh is the living spirit of Appalachia's summer woods, and one of the most spectacular wildflowers of North America.

[carolinawrenn]

Showy goldenrod (Solidago speciosa). Makes a gorgeous, gorgeous yellow dye.

[rinmemesuoka]

i love love looove spring even though every year it's like "teehee what if. i killed you <3 with weather :3 . . . just kidding! uwu not this time. . . but watch out! <3 <3 <3" and it doesnt even matter spring is like a girlfriend to me

[rabbitcruiser]

World Donkey Day 

Visit a petting zoo, or simply do some research into the underappreciated, stalwart, useful and intelligent beasts of burden known as donkeys.

World Donkey Day is a show of respect for one of the most enduring and respectable animals in the Equidae family. Throughout history, it has served throughout the world as both a mount and a beast of burden in some of the most challenging terrains and forbidding climates, and has done so with pride and endurance. It’s unsurprising that these beasts’ success is due in part to their stubborn nature, and World Donkey Day honors them for this along with their other, perhaps more laudable, traits.

History of World Donkey Day

Two subspecies of the donkey, the Somalian and the Nubian, were bred together to produce what we think of as the modern Donkey. Available evidence points to the Donkey having been working alongside humanity since 4000 BCE, most likely in Nubia, as a more versatile and resilient pack animal than the ox they were presently using. Since then they have been bred and transplanted all over the world as cultures moved, and the world expanded, and can now be found just about everywhere.

They’re also the progenitors of the sterile mule, a cross-breeding of horse and donkey that results in a breed with the strengths of both. Sadly mules are almost entirely sterile, and the exceptions so rare that no breeding stock of pure mules has ever been able to be achieved, in part due to there having yet to be recorded a case of a breedable mule stallion. Strangely, there have been cases where female mules have birthed what are, for all appearances, pure horses when bred with a horse.

Without the help of donkeys, it is hard to imagine that the modern world could ever have come into existence. These hardy pack animals provided civilization with the motive energy needed to generate wealth, well before the advent of steam power or electricity. For that reason, many people consider donkeys just as fundamental to our society as writing, pottery, and metallurgy.

World Donkey Day is all about celebrating their stoic spirit and individual charm. These creatures aren’t afraid of a hard day’s work. In fact, they more or less invented the concept. Donkeys pull carts, operate mills, and carry cargo for miles and miles, well after other species would have given up. For that reason, they have a special place in our hearts. They’re willing to put in the effort (for no pay) all to serve us – their grateful human masters.

World Donkey Day is the brainchild of Raziq Ark, a scientist whose interests primarily concern desert animals. Around ten years ago, he noticed that nobody was celebrating the humble donkey for its efforts in helping people all over the world improve their quality of life. In recognition of all this hard work, he set up a Facebook group, chronicling the trials and tribulations of the species all over the world. Eventually, the idea to set up a World Donkey Day emerged in 2018, and we’ve been celebrating it ever since.

The concept drew widespread attention in the media. The Daily Express, for instance, ran an article covering ten facts that people don’t know about donkeys. Did you know that a female donkey is called a Jenny? Ark also has thousands of followers on his Facebook page, all showing their support for this amazing creature.

Donkeys have played an essential part in human history. Ark says that they are a “precious genetic resource and a great gift of nature.” You can’t get higher praise than that!

How to celebrate World Donkey Day

The best way to celebrate World Donkey Day, depending on where you are, is merely to research these incredible beasts and the role they had to play in the world. If you’re somewhere you can take a Donkey Ride tour like the Grand Canyon or tours of certain abandoned mines then that’s an even better way to become acquainted with these adorable long-eared equines. World Donkey Day reminds us that we owe a large part of our success on this planet to these fellow travelers on the starship Earth.

There are plenty of other ways that you can show your support to donkeys all over the world and improve their wellbeing. Many of them are in constant pain and need attention fast. Often their owners are too poor to pay for a veterinarian, so it falls to the rest of us to take up the slack. Donating to a donkey charity, therefore, is a great way to show your support for these fabulous creatures directly. Currently, there are a handful of nonprofits working hard all over the world to deliver medical attention to neglected and abused animals. These charities use donated money to provide much-needed treatment to donkeys in their hour of need.

Donkey abandonment is another major issue. Many owners will dump their donkeys at the side of the road if they can no longer afford to take care of them. The animal must then scavenge for food to survive. Giving to a donkey charity, therefore, can provide these victims with shelter where they can live in safety and peace.

Donkeys are beautiful, but neglected creatures. World Donkey Day is a chance for everyone who cares about these animals to highlight their plight and do something practical about it. Are you in?

Source

[scuderiahoney]

Color Theory

Oscar Piastri x artist!reader

Masterlist

Summary: Oscar’s an old friend of yours. This time when he comes home to visit, things get messy. Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: alcohol, mild drug use, sexual content 18+ MDNI, overuse of color descriptions

It’s summer in Australia, your favorite time of year despite the overbearing sun and the overwhelming heat. Sweat spikes on your brow, but the sunlight that pours through the windows makes you happy. The door to the back garden is open, the smell of wildflowers blowing in with the breeze. You can hear your roommates chattering in the other room. You hold a paint palette in one hand, a brush in the other. There’s something just slightly off about this piece, some part of the light you’re not capturing quite right. You step back from the painting, trying to get a better view of the whole picture.

Someone calls your name from inside. You ignore them. By the third time you hear your name, you give in, setting the palette and brush down and heading inside. You’re still wearing your apron, covered in paint marks.

Lizzy, one of your roommates, smiles at you. “How’s it going?”

You sigh heavily. “Can’t get the light right.”

She nods in understanding. “We’re ordering pizza. Oscar’s on his way. Thought I’d give you a heads up in case you decide to try painting in your underwear again.”

You laugh. “It was one time,” you say defensively. “It was hot out and I was trying to become-“

“-one with the art, I know, I know,” she teases. “Just giving you a warning!”

You lean on the counter and let out a long breath. “It’s gonna be weird, isn’t it? Him being here?”

Oscar’s an old friend of yours, and your roommates, too. Old, like preteens old. He left for the UK so long ago that you’d probably barely remember what he looked like if it weren’t for video calls and social media and now, his face being plastered everywhere. You’ve kept up, have stayed friends through it all. But it’s the first time you’ll be seeing him in person in over a year, the first time he’s ever going to visit your shared house, the first time since… since he became Oscar Piastri and not just Oscar.

Lizzy shrugs. “Only weird if we make it weird, right?”

She’s right, to a certain extent. Your other roommate, Leo, shows up with Oscar in tow, and you do your best to not be weird about it, and you think it works. He greets you and Lizzy with long hugs. He smells like sea salt and something warm. His body’s much more firm and filled out than he was the last time you saw him, which makes sense, you suppose. He still smiles like golden yellow sunshine, though, crinkled eyes and round cheeks and that near permanent blush on his face.

The pizza arrives shortly after he does, and you all settle into the living room to catch up. Oscar tells stories about racing, about his first year in F1, about his teammate and his competitors. You’ve been keeping up with the races more than you ever did before- Leo always wanted to watch but you hadn’t cared that much before it was Oscar, before the guy in the orange car was the same kid who used to finger paint with you in the backyard, your mother worried about the mess. Now you sit glued to the TV most Sundays.

In turn, you, Lizzy, and Leo update Oscar on what he’s missed. All about your family lives, your jobs, your other friends he’s lost touch with. He listens intently to each story, the way he always has.

“What are you doing for work?” He asks, nudging your knee.

You sigh dejectedly. “Nothing fun.”

He pouts. Leo elbows you and speaks up, though.

“She’s still painting, though,” he says brightly. “You should see the sunroom.”

Oscar’s face lights up. “Is that your studio? You always said you wanted a sunroom.”

He’s always been one of your biggest supporters when it comes to your art. He’s the one who’d join you in the art room at lunchtime in school, eating his lunch at one of the counters while you worked on your latest piece, unable to put the paintbrush down. He’d attended all your art shows, had bought you paints and brushes and sketchbooks for birthdays and Christmases, and had even posed for a portrait you’d been required to paint for class. He’d had a hard time sitting still for that long without falling asleep.

You nod with a smile growing on your face. “Living the dream with that one.”

The night slips away from all of you, caught up in conversations about everything under the sun. You find yourself feeling sad when Oscar goes to leave. He does it with hugs and a promise to be back in a few days. When he leaves through the front door, you feel that emptiness again, that hole that’s never healed quite right after he left.

Lizzy sees it on your face and squeezes your shoulder. “He’ll be back.”

Two days later, you’re deep in painting mode, eyes beginning to ache as you stare at the canvas in front of you, when there’s a noise from the sunroom doorway. You turn and find Oscar standing there, eyes wide, brows raised. He chews on his lip sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he says, quietly. You hold back a laugh. “Leo said to come over and just let myself in, and I heard a noise, and- sorry-“

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, tilting your head and smiling. “Leo should’ve told you, he ran to the store for drinks.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, and his shoulders drop. “Right.”

“You’re welcome to hang out, though,” you say, nodding at the chair off to the side in the sunroom. “Don’t want you getting bored all by yourself.”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

He never would have questioned it before. He would’ve already been sitting, would’ve already known what you were painting, would’ve helped you get your palette set up. It’s different now. He’s been gone a while.

You jut your chin towards the chair again and wave a paintbrush in that direction. “Please. You’ve never been a bother.”

He was always the only one of your friends that you allowed to watch you paint. He knew when to stay quiet, and when you needed the background noise of his voice, without ever having to ask. He shuffles over to the chair and sits down. Oscar’s gaze dances through the room with wide eyes, and when you turn back to the canvas, you can feel him watching intently.

“What do you think?” You ask, just to break the silence. You gesture at the paintings lined up around the room. “Have my skills improved?”

He lets out a slow breath. “They’re amazing,” he says, and your heart twists in your chest. “I’m so glad you kept up on it. That you didn’t lose your… you know. Passion. Sounds cheesy, but I mean it.”

You nod. Most of your friends and family had spent your teenage years trying to convince you to learn any skill other than art. You’d continued pouring yourself into the paintings. Oscar had been one of your only cheerleaders through it all.

“It’s not easy,” you admit. “Bills and shit, you know? Real adult stuff. But I’ve been trying to get into some galleries recently. I don’t know if it’ll ever be something I can make a living off of, but I’ve gotta try.”

Oscar nods in understanding. “How about when I win my first championship, I’ll make good on my promise?”

You laugh. There’d been a night just before he’d left for the UK where the two of you had stayed up late, out far past curfew at the local park. You’d laid under a tree next to him, giddy on the high of breaking the rules and the late hour. He’d told you all about his big dreams. About F1 and championships and how he was going to make it big. And when you’d asked if he’d remember you, he’d smiled and turned his head towards you, eyes wide in the pale moonlight, nose nearly touching yours.

“I’ll use my money and open a gallery,” he’d promised. “And I’ll fill it with all of your paintings.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Even the bad ones?”

He’d nodded, so seriously. “Especially the bad ones.”

Now he sits next to you in your makeshift studio, so close to reaching his dreams. You can only hope you’ll get there, too, someday.

There’s a party at your house that night. There’ll be more people there than usual, wanting to talk with Oscar and taking up his time. But for now there’s just you and him in the studio you’ve always wanted, the one you talked about under the tree in the park. You’ll take what you can get.

Oscar finds you later at the party, in the back corner of the backyard. The sun is nearly gone, the last bits of daylight slipping away. When he walks up, you’re leaning back in an outdoor armchair, and you smile hazily up at him and hold out the joint you’d been smoking.

He shakes his head. You pout.

“I get drug tested,” he says, and you suppose that’s understandable. “And I think my trainer would kill me over the lung damage.”

“It’s just once,” you friend says next to you, “can’t do that much damage.”

“Oscar’s a high performance athlete,” you tease.

Someone finishes the infamous Daniel Ricciardo quote for you, complete with the sound effects. You’re not really listening, more focused on how Oscar rolls his eyes as he sits down on the arm of the chair. You tilt your head to look up at him.

The late sun is hitting the bridge of his nose, a bright orange band against his freckled skin. He blinks at you with thick lashes, and you wonder how you’d capture the look on his face with paint- the softness of his cheeks, the care that sits heavy on his browbone, the restlessness in the curve of his mouth. You don’t like to do portraits- Oscar’s one of few people you’ve painted, but it was years ago. He was a skinny kid with a bad haircut. Now his jawline is chiseled and sharp, and his hair falls over his forehead in a soft swoop. He's pretty.

He cocks his head at you. You’ve been staring too long. You force a giggle and nudge his knee. He laughs right back.

You’re not sure how he ends up squished into the chair with you, his arm over your shoulder, his bare thigh pressed to yours. You think maybe it was your doing- you grabbed his arm, pulled him until he sunk in next to you. The sun is gone, now, the evening chill taking over, and it’s nice to have him next to you, keeping you warm. His cheek is pressed to the top of your head.

“You can go, you know,” you say quietly. Most of your friends have abandoned the corner you’re in, moving to the lit back deck, or the firepit area. You and Oscar have stayed put, though.

“D’you want me to go?” He asks.

You shake your head. He laughs. “I just don’t wanna take up all your time,” you say with a shrug.

His fingers play with the ends of your hair. “I’m right where I want to be.”

You curl in closer to him. You’re right where you want to be, too.

Eventually, the two of you rejoin the group. He stays glued to your side most of the night, though. His shoulder presses against yours, and in turn, you lean against him. He grows quieter as the night goes on. That’s when you remember that his time spent with you while you were painting wasn’t just for your benefit. He’d been a quiet kid- popular, but easily exhausted by socializing. He’d liked the solitude and comfort of the art room nearly as much as you had.

In the backyard full of your old friends, he seems content to stay stuck on you. When he shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, you wiggle one of yours in alongside his, hoping you’re not crossing a line. Or maybe, really, you’re hoping it’s a line he wants you to cross. When he knits your fingers together, you sigh happily.

People leave one by one, with hugs for Oscar and promises to watch the next season. He says goodbye to them and then returns quickly to your side. Soon enough, Lizzy shuffles off to bed, and then Leo stretches and does the same, and it’s just you and Oscar. You hide a yawn. You don’t want to go to bed, not yet.

He squeezes your shoulder, his arm around your back, now. He has his cheek pressed against your temple. For a moment, you wonder if you could stay stuck to him long enough to keep him here. If eventually, the two of you would fuse together. That’s probably just your wavering high speaking. He mumbles something into the side of your head. You break from your staring at the coals and make a noise of confusion.

“Missed you,” he says. “Sorry I haven’t…”

This feels like too heavy a conversation to have now, when things have felt so good and warm all night. You know it’s coming at some point, but you’ll avoid it all costs. You turn further into him and wrap an arm around his middle, and let your eyes fall closed.

“I missed you too,” you say, rubbing your thumb against his rib cage through his sweatshirt.

The two of you sit quietly for a few moments. Then, you say, “you know, I still have that portrait I did of you. How many races d’you think you need to win before I can make some money off that?”

He laughs into your hair. His hand has fallen to your side now, and he squeezes- you nearly gasp at the feeling. “I was a scrawny baby in that painting. Nobody wants to buy that.”

You giggle against him. “You were a cute scrawny baby, though.”

It’s not something you would have said all those years ago. You’d have never been caught dead admitting that you thought he was cute. But now… in the safety of the backyard, in the darkness, pressed against his side…

“You’re cuter now, though,” you say.

“Yeah?” He asks.

You nod confidently. He slips his other hand from his pocket. It comes up to hold your jaw, gently. You hold your breath. He tilts your face up towards his.

“You’re prettier than ever,” he says, softly. “And I thought you reached the limit a long time ago.”

His lips are on yours within seconds, then. It’s not the first time he’s kissed you. By now, you know it probably won’t be the last. You let it happen, opening up for him. You slip your tongue past the warmth of his lips. His hand cups the side of your face as that warm feeling melts across your skin, the one that only he brings. You’ve been searching for a replacement since the last time this happened. Nothing comes close.

He uses the arm around you to pull you into his lap. You reach up and thread your fingers into his shirt, something to anchor you in the swirling feeling of him on and around and against you again. His hands fall to your hips, trying to do the same. He kisses like Australian summers, hot and long and sunny and bright orange. His touch leaves sparks behind everywhere he goes.

When you finally break away for air, his hair is a mess, and your lips feel puffy. He grins sheepishly at you. You chew on your lower lip as he brushes a finger over the arch of your cheek.

“Sorry,” he says. Always apologizing. You know he’s not sorry for kissing you. He’s sorry for how this will eventually end.

“Don’t be,” you say, quietly. “Please. Let’s just…”

He nods, then swallows before he says, “okay.”

Then he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple. You giggle at the feeling and let your fingertips dance against his face and neck. He muffles another laugh into your skin.

“Missed you,” you say again.

“I missed you too,” he says.

He walks you inside. You think about inviting him to stay the night, but you think that might be a bad idea. Instead, you give him a hug and watch him walk out the front door, into the only black and blue night.

…..

You meet up with him and a few other friends at a bar a couple nights later. You walk over from your house with Lizzy, who either doesn’t notice your nervous energy, or is nice enough to just not mention it. You shouldn’t be nervous. It’s the people you’ve known for years, and it’s just Oscar. There’s no reason to be nervous.

Except for the still fading hickey he left on your neck, covered by strategically placed hair, and the way you feel his lips on your every time you close your eyes. Yeah. There’s that, sure.

The bar is crowded even before all of your friends arrive. Oscar comes in with Leo, having been out all day while you and Lizzy had to work. There are at least five people there who are acting like they haven’t seen Oscar in years, even though they were all at the party a few nights ago. You try your best to hide your jealousy. He has other friends. He probably likes them way more than he likes you, anyways.

He finds you later, standing at the bar, waiting to order a drink. He’s just- there, all of the sudden, warm shoulder pressed to yours, elbows on the countertop. He smiles softly at you when you turn to him, and he leans into you.

“Hi,” he says. “I was looking for you.”

You want to laugh, because surely he wasn’t, but- there’s something so serious in his eyes. You lean into him in response, just to watch him raise his brows and smile wider. There’s a little mole on the swell of his cheek. You want to reach out and touch it. You refrain.

“I’m here,” you finally say, nodding towards your crowd of friends in the corner. “You’ve been a busy man tonight.”

He sighs, heavily, like it’s been difficult for him. It probably has been. He’s a quiet person in general. Not one to really like being the center of attention. You wonder if he’s exhausted as easily by it now as he was before, or if his years of podium celebrations have dulled the sensation a bit. Wonder how much of your Oscar is still left, under the facade.

He chews on his lower lip lightly, and you smile softly. That’s an old habit. That’s one you recognize. You also think of the night by the firepit, how you’d pulled that same lip between your own teeth, and the noise he’d made in response. Your face grows warm.

The bartender finally turns to you. Oscar orders for both of you, because of course he knows what you’re drinking. Then you follow him back to the crowd of your friends. When he grabs your hand to pull you along, you don’t complain. You just squeeze his fingers in response.

You stumble out of the bar with him, hand in hand, hours later. He’s insistent on walking you and Lizzy home, claiming that Leo won’t be enough to keep an eye on the both of you. You’re just happy to have his fingers locked with yours, to have his shoulder brushing against you as you both sway down the sidewalk. It’s comfortably warm outside, and you hum to yourself as you walk, listening to Lizzy and Leo arguing about nothing important.

Your journey home is stopped by Oscar, who stops in his tracks suddenly. You turn back to look at him. He’s staring across the street, where there’s a neon sign lit up in the window, the word Pizza flashing like a beacon. You laugh as he tugs on your hand.

“No, come on, we’re going home,” Lizzy calls out.

“I want pizza,” Oscar says in response, deadpan.

You turn to your roommates and shrug. “He wants pizza.”

Lizzy sighs. “I want to go home.”

“You guys go,” Oscar says with a dismissive wave. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

Less than ten minutes later, your legs are stuck to the vinyl of the pizza parlor booth, knee bumping Oscar’s underneath the table. There’s a pepperoni pizza between the two of you, far too much for you to actually finish.

“Yknow,” he says, waving a piece of pizza around in the air. “Logan dips his pizza in ranch.”

You laugh at the disgusted look on Oscar’s face, at the way he says ranch. You take a sip of the soda he insisted on buying for you, along with the food.

“Bet it’s good,” you admit, shrugging.

Oscar wrinkles his nose. “I’m not a picky eater, but… isn’t pizza good enough on its own?”

You shrug, pretending to think deeply about it. Except that Oscar knows you well enough to know you’re pretending, so he starts laughing. And then you follow suit, doubled over in the booth, grease from the pizza on your fingertips.

As his laughter fades, he presses his knee against yours. It feels deliberate.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he says.

Something twists in your chest. “Missed you, too, Osc.”

Your friendship goes through cycles. When he’s here, it’s almost like nothing has changed. But when he’s gone… the two of you aren’t good at long distance friendship. Or maybe, really, you’re better at it than most. You can go months without talking and pick up like nothing has changed. The tough part comes when he’s here, within reach, and then he leaves. That’s the moment you dread, the part you don’t handle well. It would probably be easier if you stopped kissing him every time he came home. But you look across the table, and his lips are soft and cherry pink and slightly shiny from the pizza, and you know that would be impossible.

“I’ve missed you too,” you say, because you know he needs to hear it even if he already knows it. “I was worried that maybe now that you’re in F1, you’d gotten too important for… us.”

You really mean me, but it feels a bit too much to say out loud. You think he knows, anyways. He reaches a hand across the table, lays it over top of yours. There’s a sad smile on his face.

“I could never,” he says, eyes drilling right into yours. “Promise.”

He walks you home, hand in hand. The front porch light is on, probably Lizzie’s doing. He insists on coming all the way up to the front door, which is sweet and does absolutely awful things to your brain. Because he’s right there, his hand in yours, and you’re fumbling for your house key in your purse, but really you’re thinking about kissing him. When his fingers squeeze yours, you give up on the key and turn to him.

He knows it’s coming, you think. When you cup his face in your hand, he’s already leaning in.

The kiss is softer, messier, than the other night. You’re both still a little tipsy. But it’s less frantic, more comfortable. His other hand falls to your hip, and you lean back against the front door to your house and melt into him. He presses against you, warm, firm muscle against every curve of your body. You don’t want this to end. You want to wrap your arms around his neck and beg him to stay right here, to never leave, to come back to you.

He pulls away first. You try to kiss him again, hands tugging at his hips as he pants through reddened lips.

“You’re drunk,” he mumbles.

You shake your head no. “Not that drunk.”

He leans in close and kisses your cheek. “This is a bad idea.”

That makes your gut twist, makes your chest hurt. You roll your eyes and turn away so he won’t see the way your tears well up. He’s right, you know, but it hurts to hear it.

“I care about you. A lot,” he says, quietly. “And I… if things were different…”

“I know,” you say, because you do know. “Yeah. Bad idea. You should go.”

You leave him standing on the porch and disappear inside the house. When you lay down in bed, you lay awake for hours, swirls of color dancing behind your eyelids.

…..

The next night, you find yourself in your studio, alone. There’s paint on the canvas in front of you- not the good stuff you’d normally use, but the cheap kind you keep on hand for moments like these. Children’s finger paint, runny and thin and non-toxic. It’s running down the palette and dripping down your wrist. You’re in a pair of shorts and a sports bra, and frankly, you’d probably be wearing less if you didn’t know your roommates were due home eventually.

Oscar’s leaving tomorrow morning. At this point, the last you’ll see of him for a while will be when you left him on the porch. You swipe a bit of blue on the canvas. You’re not really painting anything, just trying to put color to the feelings. He’s leaving and he’ll be gone for a while again, and things are weird again, because he kissed you and then you kissed him and now he has to leave. You add a swipe of orange. Papaya, you think, gritting your teeth.

You wonder if things really would’ve been different. If he’d stayed, would you be together? Would he love you the way you want him to? Maybe. Or maybe, no matter the universe, this is how it ends. Maybe there’s always a bigger dream waiting. Maybe you’re not enough for him.

There’s a knock on the door. There’s red paint on your fingertips.

“Busy,” you call out.

Someone sighs. You freeze, hand halfway to the canvas. It doesn’t sound like Lizzy or Leo.

“It’s me,” Oscar says. “Can I come in?”

You huff. “Sure.”

He opens the door and blinks owlishly at the sight of you. You know you probably look crazy. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. The silence is deafening. Paint runs off the palette and onto your leg.

“Rough day?” He asks, because he knows.

You laugh bitterly. “You could say that, yeah.”

“I’m-“

“Don’t apologize,” you say with a sigh. “I’m not sorry.”

“No?”

“No,” you say. “I’m just… frustrated.”

Frustrated that he gets to live out his dream while you wither away in the hot Australian sun, waiting for your chance. Frustrated that every time he comes back it sends you into a tailspin. Frustrated that he’s leaving again. Frustrated with yourself for kissing him, frustrated that you want to do it again.

He crosses the room and stands next to you. You watch his shaky fingers drag through the mess on the palette. Then he reaches out and drags them through the mess on the canvas. He’s the only one you’d let do that, the only one who’d be brave enough to even try.

You follow suit, dip a finger in the yellow and smear it in a line over the canvas. Oscar’s finger falls to your wrist, scoops the bright blue from your skin and draws a squiggle with it. Cadmium Yellow and Phthalo Blue mix on the canvas and turn into envy green. Oscar dips his hand into the Cobalt Violet and draws a line of it up your arm like a bruise. You laugh and pick up the Ultramarine Blue to match the empty feeling in your chest. It leaves behind rivers on his cheeks when you hold his face in your hand and kiss him. Gently, first, and then with all the color you can muster up. You drop the palette on the floor. It splatters everywhere.

You wonder how you’d go about painting this. Red for the brush of his tongue, the bite of his teeth against your neck. Blue for the way his fingers dig into your hips. Bright pink for the way he moans into your mouth, breathy and broken and oh-so-lovely. The way you drop to your knees is lavender purple. The feeling of him heavy on your tongue, the way he sighs over it, is sunflower yellow.

He gets paint in your hair when he pulls you off of him, and then he sinks to his knees with you. You think about suggesting the couch, but then he’s pulling you all the way down onto the floor and you can’t bring yourself to protest. He cleans the paint from his hands first, always a gentleman. Then his fingers slip into you in a rush of an orangey-yellow feeling, one that turns more and more pink with each press of his hand, each swipe of his thumb against your clit. And when he finally presses his cock into you, it’s the brightest burst of sky blue behind your eyelids.

The colors melt together in your mind. You’d never be able to put this onto a canvas- not the way he breathes so heavy in your ear, the way his fingers drag against your skin, the way you shake as you clench around him and he spills himself inside of you. There’s no way you’d get the color right.

You drag him upstairs afterwards, both of you giggling, and you gasp when you hear the front door open just as you pull him into your bedroom. You head for the attached bathroom first, drag him under the hot spray of water and watch the rainbow mix into brown and wash away down the drain. There’s paint crusted in his hair and yours- you do your best to scrub it out as he leans heavily against you.

You don’t even bother asking if he wants to stay. You just drag him to the bed and toss him a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants you think are Leo’s. He doesn’t question it. You can hear your roommates downstairs talking. You wonder if they know.

Oscar flops onto the bed and reaches for you, tugging at the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing. You go easily, willingly, eagerly. He wraps you up in his arms and presses his face into your neck.

“I…” he starts, then cuts himself off.

“I know,” you murmur, because you do. “Me too.”

I love you. I wish it was different. I would stay if I could. I’ll miss you.

You wake up in the morning to his lips against your cheek. You drag yourself out of bed to walk him to the door. Your chest aches, and the feeling is a color that you can’t quite put your finger on. Someone’s there to pick him up and take him to the airport, take him far away for a long time.

He kisses you on the forehead and squeezes your shoulder. “I’ll see you soon,” he promises.

You nod and lean up to kiss his cheek. “Yeah. See you soon.”

The ache he leaves behind is a muddy mix of all your favorite colors.

…..

Six months later, you stand in an art gallery full of people. Your paintings hang on the wall nearby. You sip your drink and try to pretend like you’re not waiting and watching their every little reaction. Like you’re not searching for validation in the faces of strangers.

It’s strange to have these paintings hung up for everyone to see. When others look at them, they see pretty landscapes or flowers or a simple still life. They don’t know the meaning of it all.

You step away to grab another drink, something to quell the anxiety rising in your chest. When you come back, the one person who might just see through the facade is standing there, staring, wide eyed.

You swallow tightly and walk up next to him, and let your shoulder bump into his. “You made it.”

Oscar’s eyes stay trained on the paintings, but he leans into you. “Of course I made it.”

You want to tell him that there’s no of course here, that you’d invited him without really expecting him to show up. You keep your mouth shut though. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that he is here.

“What do you think?” You ask, quietly.

The truth is, of all the people in the gallery, his opinion is the one that matters most. You wonder what he sees when he looks at the canvases. Does he see the rays of sunlight on a table for what they truly are- a poor recreation of the sun on his skin? Does he realize that the deep purple of the plums in the still life matches the bruise on your knee that lasted for weeks after that night in the studio, the one you’d press your thumb into when your heart ached? There’s the painting of the orange lilies, color matched to the papaya of his car and race suit. There’s a painting of an empty table setting, a painting of a wide open blue sky over the backyard, and most telling of all, there’s the fabric study of his t-shirt, left behind, draped over the chair in the studio.

The collection is the closest thing to a portrait that you’ve done in years, even though there are no people in it. It’s the closest thing to a self portrait that you’ve ever done. Does he know?

His hand brushes against your elbow. He points at the empty plate on the empty table. “That’s how leaving felt for me, too, you know.”

You could cry, just knowing he understands. Instead, you nod and lean into him. You have people to talk to, art critics to impress and studio owners to try to convince, but the truth is that Oscar will always be the only one who truly understands. You stay with him for just a moment longer.

He stays the whole time, even as people begin to leave and the catering staff starts clearing the tables of food and drinks. You find him after you’ve had the last of your conversations with the important people. He’s standing near the door, looking only slightly out of place, scrolling on his phone.

“You didn’t have to stay the whole time,” you say.

He shrugs and smiles. “I know. I wanted to. There’s a pub down the street, it’s one of my favorites. D’you have time for a drink?”

You nod and pout. “Maybe some food too? M’starving.”

He nods eagerly in agreement. He leads you out of the gallery, holds the door for you and everything. The cool London night air hits you like a blast as you step outside.

Right. You’re not in Australia.

It’s a strange feeling, being here with Oscar- his chosen home for all these years, and yet it’s the first time you’re seeing it with him. He reaches for your hand on the sidewalk and tucks it into his jacket pocket, right alongside his. The pub isn’t far- when you get there, it’s crowded and warm, and he helps you slip your jacket off your shoulders. You smile at him in thanks. When he smiles back, your heart skips a beat.

Ten minutes later, you’re at the bar, beers in front of each of you and a pile of chips between the two of you. Your knee is pressed against his under the countertop. He’s smiling at you, his face lit up golden yellow in the inky gray light of the bar.

“So. What did you really think?” You ask, leaning towards him.

He shakes his head, almost disbelievingly. “The same thing I always think. Your paintings are amazing. It was like I could feel it, you know? Like I’m staring at, I dunno, fucking plums, but feeling something completely different.”

You nod, chest feeling tight. You’re unsure of what to even say. How to explain to him that maybe he’s the only one who feels that, because all the paintings are about him. You think of the portrait you did all those years ago, sitting in your storage, and how it doesn’t even begin to do him justice.

“How much?” He asks, and you blink widely. “I wanna buy them. I want- yeah.” He has this dreamy, hazy look on his face. “Can I buy them? Or even just one-“

“Osc,” you murmur. You reach out and press your hand over his on the countertop. “You don’t have to do that.”

He tilts his head at you, and when he speaks, his voice is almost raw. “I meant what I said, you know. The plate. That’s how I’ve felt. All of the art, it’s… you know.”

“I know,” you say. “But they’re not for sale.”

He deflates. You squeeze his hand and try not to grin too widely. “Right,” he says. “No, of course, sorry. Just thought it might be cool to have some of them in my apartment. We could get prints made, right?”

“Sure. “ you pause and take a deep breath. “The gallery wants to extend them,” you say, and his face lights up again. “The curator spoke to me after the show. She wants to keep them up for a few months.”

“That’s amazing,” he gushes, leaning over and pulling you into a hug so tight it almost topples you off the barstool. “Oh, wow, baby, that’s- and I could go see them, then, even when you’re gone?”

You laugh against his chest. “Yeah. Sure. Or, um…”

He freezes, the hand that had been sweeping up your back stuck in place. He’s holding his breath. You might be too.

“They offered me an artist’s residency,” you blurt out. “They want me to come stay for six months, maybe longer if it goes well. Work out of their studio, show art, teach some classes.”

Oscar’s voice is breathy and high pitched when he says, “here?”

You nod against his chest. “I mean. I’d have to find an apartment. And move all my stuff. And probably break Leo and Lizzy’s hearts.”

“But you’d be here,” he says. “Here, like… it took me twenty minutes to get here tonight. And you’d- this is what you’ve dreamed of, isn’t it?”

You nod, eyes burning with tears. “Would that be okay?”

Oscar laughs- you feel it more than hear it, in the shake of his shoulders and the rumble in his chest. “Yeah. I could live with that, I think.”

He kisses you in the bar, nearly pulls you off the stool with the force of it. You kiss him right back, bracing your hand on the countertop, not a care in the world who sees it. Fireworks light up behind your eyes like splashes of paint.

…..

There’s not a sunroom you can turn into a studio in your new apartment in London. It’s a smaller space, and you end up doing most of your painting at the main studio anyways. But Oscar is there, perched on the edge of a table watching you paint whenever he can. And in the entryway of your new place, you hang up the old portrait of him, right next to a photo of the two of you taken just after you moved to London.

In the photo, his arm is around your shoulders, his lips against your temple. He’d asked you to be his girlfriend officially seconds after it was taken, but there’s a light in both of your eyes that tells you it was inevitable, really. It’s something in the way he’s smiling, in the way his cheeks burn red and his lips are pink and the way you smile at him, too. Like you’ve both known it all along. That the two of you have always been complementary colors, just waiting for the right moment.

a/n: been working on this one for a while finally got it! hope you enjoyed thanks for reading!

Taglist: @4-mula1 @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @ggaslyp1

[jarofstyles]

Illicit- II

Check out our Patreon- part 3 and 4 are up there now!

Warnings- Cheating (H with Y/N), asshole H lol

WC- 3.1k

------

“How was the event yesterday?” Niall asked, leaning back in his camping chair. 

The lake view was stunning. Nestled in the foothills of the mountain range, the lake town had always had charm. It was a true small town, despite the string of multi million dollar lake homes, and Harry had found it to be one of his favorite estates their family owned. That’s why he hosted an end of summer weekend there with his true friends. His small handful of trusted people and their significant others- and a few staff with iron clad NDA’s- were invited out to the lake house for the last hoorah of summer activities. Tubing, swimming in the lake or the pool, volleyball, bonfires, even fireworks that he hired out, all of it was being utilized before it couldn’t be anymore. It was similar each year, but this year had a new, important addition.

Y/N, his sweet little thing. 

“Horrible.” Harry grunted, watching as Y/N and Zayn’s girlfriend Hannah combed the bush around the lake looking for wildflowers. “It’s never good. I despise those things, and the fact I have to go to save face makes it even more insufferable.” The events were so drab and dull. Sometimes, in his youth, he’d enjoy the food or the drinks. Winning something at auction. But now it was watered down with people who, quite frankly, didn’t deserve to be there. He could give to charities on his own- and he did- but un-fucking-fortunately, if he showed up then there would be more eyes on it. His presence was just as valuable as his money. 

“Don’t blame ya for hating ‘em. As soon as I got out of them I felt better. But how was Katherine? She splattered you all over her instagram, said she got flowers from ya. Did you?” He knew the answers, obviously, but wanted the confirmation he all too easily got with the scoff and Harry’s head tipping back to finish his beer.  

“Fuck no. I haven’t gotten her flowers since the first date. I left Y/N in my bed, arrived to the event late to get my ear chewed off about how rude it was and dragged around to be photographed even though I’d rather chop off a thumb.” He grunted. “Then I went home, Y/N was asleep so I packed and then… woke her up.” His face grew a slight smirk, remembering how he woke her up with his mouth between her thighs and flowers actually bought for her on the nightstand. He felt awful whenever he had to see Katherine and knew it wasn't something that Y/N liked either, so he wanted to make it up to her whenever he could. The fact that Katherine showed him off like a showpony and lied about flowers she had certainly got for herself was laughable but not at all surprising. 

“It’s so odd to see you like… properly into a girl.” Niall admitted. “I have to admit, though, y’look actually happy. Weird as fuck to see you walk around with a smile after the scowls you’ve become famous for.” It really was. Y/N had exposed a softer, gentler side of Harry that hadn’t been seen before. Before Y/N he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a woman on his lap, and yet he pulled her into his lap whenever he got the chance. Even here. He didn’t give a fuck if his inner circle saw- no, he wanted them to. The need to show off the one girl he actually wanted was overwhelming at times. 

“She’s different.” There was no use in denying how much he really loved Y/N. It was obvious, written all over his face when she was around or even mentioned. She’d taken the stiff iron walls of his heart and turned them into soft molten fluff for her to mold. There wasn’t much shame he had, except for having to hide her for a bit. “I just want this contract to be over so I can move it along. She’s halfway moved in but I want her there all the time. Just can’t have her fully there because… y’know.” Because Katherine liked to show up unannounced sometimes and demand attention. He never really did, sending her off with the excuse of work, but once he got serious with Y/N he had his locks changed and a lack of care that increased as the days went on. 

Harry was an awful boyfriend to Katherine and he simply did not care. He hoped that she would come to her senses and break up with him but apparently, the perks of being attached to his name were too good to give up just because he was mean, didn’t give her attention or affection. He’d refused to kiss her besides the cheek and told her that he didn’t care if she got it somewhere else, but he was on a ‘sex ban.’. Ironic, considering he was the most thoroughly sexed he’d been in his life. Sometimes he felt a tad bit of guilt, just knowing how his mother would feel if she found out how awful he was to her- but she didn’t like the girl either! 

He was desperate for this to end so he could introduce her to Y/N. The woman he was certain he was keeping for as long as she let him. Harry was a possessive man and intended on that being forever, but he cared about her too much to lock her into a secret engagement. She deserved to be able to show off and tell the world- and so did he. 

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. It’s good there wasn’t an infidelity clause, he was dumb as fuck for that. It’s a shame cause she’s a pretty girl, could probably find some other new blood to stick to and make her money that way. But I get why she’s sticking to you. All those people wanting a slice of your empire must be fucking exhausting.” Niall was wealthy, his family going back a few generations short of Harry’s own, but it didn’t have the public notoriety that his did. He often wished that was the case for his legacy. 

“Wish she would just have a real moment of clarity and realize no money is worth this, that she could be getting dick and designer bags and someone else to dote on her. Not me. Never will be me. But, in just a few months it’s not my problem and her arse will be on the curb whilst Y/N will go public with me.” He didn’t plan on waiting very long for that. Perhaps it would be in bad taste to only wait until a day after a public breakup but he would do it if Y/N didn’t have some weird guilt surrounding Katherine. 

Their conversation was cut short by a call of his name, his beaming girl approaching with a basket of wildflowers in her hand. His heart stuttered, his scowl falling to build up a soft, fond smile. His arm opened and he patted his lap, motioning her to sit pretty on his thigh and drape her legs over him- which she easily did. Her breezy, cornflower blue dress hit just above her knees and the off the shoulder cut showed off a nice amount of skin. A necklace she had gotten from him, a sunflower pendant with an H etched into the back hung perfectly on her neck, glistening in the setting sun. The floppy sunhat looked fucking adorable on her, pushed back enough to ensure it didn’t hit Harry in the face. 

“What have you got, my love?” He asked tenderly, hand folding on her thigh and tucking under the hem of her dress. An intimate hold, but they were in their own safe place. As soon as he went public with her, he was going to show the world just how much. HE wasn’t necessarily the public type, but he had no qualms with letting people see Y/N on his arm, draped in jewelry his money bought, on his yachts, in his businesses, with his ring, and hopefully, full of his child. He couldn’t think about the last one for too long without getting hard, though, so he reserved that for later. 

“We got a little bouquet for the table for dinner. Love the flowers you got too, but it feels nice.” Her hand stroked through his ungelled hair, loving the curls they formed whenever he was unstyled. He left it like that specifically for her, and she took advantage of it. “My mum and I would do it every summer, we had that flower garden. Remember the photos?” Harry nodded, he did indeed. He would be building her her own whenever he could propose and they moved further out of the city. “Yeah, good! So, we got some and m’gonna go ask Ms.Greta if she’s got any vases. We’re eating outside tonight, yeah?” 

“We are. Proper grill out. I think she does have some, I don’t remember offhand what we’ve got here but-” He squeezed her leg, letting his fingers press into the warm flesh. “Before y’go and do that, think you forgot something.” His expectant look was clear on his face. Y/N gasped, quickly remedying the situation as she curled her hand around his strong jaw and tilted it so she could connect their mouths for what she intended to be a chaste kiss. Harry had different intentions. Instead, he snuck his tongue into her mouth and used his hand to cradle the back of her neck, slightly damp with sweaty hair, keeping her to his mouth. He was never one to half ass, even when Niall began to fake gag. 

“Alright, fucking christ. Swallow her whole, why don’t you!” Niall continued to make childish noises but Harry continued, ignoring his friend as he hummed against his girl’s mouth. He had few places he could actually do these sorts of things and he’d be damned if he let anyone tease him out of it. This was the woman he wanted more than anything, and he liked the tiny glimpses he got into their possible future. 

—------

“I like this.” Y/N mumbled into his chest. The day had dwindled down and she was sitting on his lap in front of the fireplace in the master bedroom. Harry’s chest was bare as her cheek rested against the smooth expanse, the middle of it covered in a thin layer of hair. He’d started to let it grow since they’d begun to see one another when Y/N expressed how much she found it sexy, and Harry was one to please her when she said things like that. “Not having to hide. I can’t wait until you can be mine for everyone to see.” Her lips brushed his pec, pressing a chaste kiss there.

Guilt swarmed inside his stomach like a disturbed beehive, making him swallow down the lump in his throat. While he felt no guilt at all for the supposed infidelity towards Katherine, the guilt lied in having to suppress the most incredible relationship with Y/N. He knew she didn’t love feeling like a secret all the time, and while Harry had said he didn’t care if people found out, Y/N had to think of her own reputation. That was what had him ensuring he kept it under wraps. While people would just see him as yet another dumb, horny man? They’d see Y/N as a homewrecker, a slut, every bad name under the sun. Not to mention the online bullying she’d be subjected to by Katherine, her little group and all her naive fans. 

He’d never cared about someone like this before. Yes, of course he loved his family and his friends, but this was a whole other level of care. It went bone deep. Y/N was the type of person you met once in a lifetime. The type you couldn’t let slip through your fingers because you really couldn’t. Y/N was everything and more and Harry was dedicated to keeping her as happy as possible, but the reality was that they had to hide just a bit longer. 

“I know, my love.” He said quietly, trailing his fingers over the crown of her head. “It’s hard right now. I never anticipated meeting you or I never would have… Wouldn’t have taken the deal.” The words were murmured just for her, eyes searching her own to try and gauge her emotions. She didn’t seem particularly devastated, but there was still that undercurrent of sadness that made his chest twinge. “I know I’ve told you time and time again about how much I am obsessed with you, how you’re the woman I want… But I can’t wait either. You’ve not even a clue about how much I look forward to showing you off.”

While he had complained of Katherine doing so, it was a whole other ballgame when you truly adored the person and felt proud to be theirs. 

“You do?” She peeped, eyes rounding as she peered up at him. Sometimes she was so fucking beautiful that it felt like a hit in the stomach. She was clear of makeup now, showing off her natural features. He loved seeing her in any capacity but this had to be his favorite. Private, intimate, bare. Her hair in two messy braids but still managed to have some strands in her face. Her lips were soft and plump, the overnight mask on them that she had tried to explain to him and he still had no clue what it did other than make his girl happy- his Y/N was his gift. He knew he didn’t deserve her but he never claimed to be a good person- He would keep her forever. Some could call him intransigent, but he wouldn’t argue. 

“Of course I do. Look forward to everyone seeing you on my arm. I think it will be apparent that I’m pretty far gone. People will wonder what magic powers you possess.” He laughed through his nose, leaning in to kiss the side of her head. “You just bewitched me, sweet little thing. Had me in knots when you blocked me, y’know that?” His smile grew. “Never wanted to talk to someone so badly in my life.”

“From what I knew, you had an actual real girlfriend!” She defended adamantly. “And then you basically locked me into a room with you to explain yourself. Scared the shit out of me. Y’know, there were rumors that people thought you were some sort of mafia boss.” She snorted. “Kind of believed it for a bit. You’ve got the whole, tall, dark and handsome thing going on. Mysterious. Kind of a dick.” She yelped when he lightly pinched her side, erupting into a fit of giggles. “Hey! No. You’re a handsome asshole. And to your credit, that was the last time you were all weird with me. Once I believed you, you became a sweet little thing.” Her voice cooed as she reached up to pinch his cheek like a grandmother would, making him roll his eyes.

It was true, though. He’d met her and it hadn’t gone so well in the beginning. His reputation for being cold and callous to new people, to most, actually, didn’t help when his interest in her spiked. He remembered very clearly, watching with a drink in his hand as she laughed with some of the girls. Grinning wide and showing teeth, making his chest do the weird pitter patter it usually did now when he saw her, but the first time had shocked the hell out of him. He’d never had that sort of reaction to someone before. Sure, he found people hot and experienced lust, but it was the first time in his life he craved conversation. To be nosy. So he hunted her, cornered her like prey and had him picking her brain for a while. He’d been gaining momentum, touching her and getting her a drink , and she had been into it until someone whispered into her ear on the way back from the bathroom what he assumed was the information that he was ‘taken.’ 

So what? He had gone through drastic measures to convince her to see him again, even showing her the contract that was notarized. 

“A mafia boss?” He snickered, raising a brow. “Not a chance. Though I appreciate you thinking I’ve got what it takes. No, unfortunately it’s just the multitude of legitimate businesses in my empire, my darling.” His smile grew warm, watching her return it. “Though, if that’s something you want to roleplay in bed, I’d not be opposed.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t be, perv.” With a roll of the eyes she patted his chest. “Never met someone so dirty in my life. Energizer bunny must be a sponsor of your cock because I swear, even being older than me you’ve got more stamina.” It was the truth, but she didn’t grasp how it was just for her. He used to be satisfied with a fuck or two a week, he could go without it if he went to the gym. Being with Y/N changed him to an insatiable beast, but she was his willing accomplice. 

“I don’t see you complaining when my cock is in your pretty cunt and you’re crying for me t’let you cum. Begging Daddy to let you cream all over my cock, because you tend to be a messy little girl. At least m’nice enough to let you.” He said with a straight face. There was no comment about how he could feel her clench on his thigh, but she already knew he could. His filthy mouth couldn’t be competed with and thankfully, Y/N had a thing for dirty talk.

“Alright- jesus.” Y/N whined, burying her face against his chest. “Don’t get me worked up now. I’m a little sore, someone took it out of me in the shower.” The grumbled words made him smirk, smugness and pride evident on his face. If she was really hurt she would let him know and he would grovel on his knees to make it better. “If you take it easy, I think you could have me in the morning. Wake me up with it.” A treat for the man, considering he adored watching her eyes peel open and a whimper sounding from her sleep swollen lips as he slipped in and out of her warm insides.

“Hm. I suppose that’s a fair deal.” He signed, acting resigned as he tugged her closer to him. “I’m lucky to have you, my minx. Always so good to me.”  Even more than he deserved. 

[aestheticanimegirl15]

No cause imagine living in the countryside with your favorite 141 or just your favorite cod member. Doesn't matter what country it is, America, England, Scotland, ect...but just imagine living in a house in the country. No one around to bother the two of you except each other, the sounds of nature all that you hear in the quiet moments between you two. Imagine going out at night and sitting on the back porch, huddled beneath a thick blanket and watching the stars, pointing out any and every constellations you see, doesn't matter if it's a real constellation or not. Imagine them coming inside with a handful of wildflowers that they picked especially for you, dirt on their hands from where they plucked the stems from the ground. Just think of what it would be like to lay on a picnic blanket underneath a tree on a warm spring or summer day, a book in their hand that they read out loud to you with your head on their chest, the rumble of their deep voice vibrating through you and slowly putting you to sleep. Just......imagine them being able to live a peaceful, nonviolent, civilian lifestyle with you and only you..

[notjustjavierpena]

Meadow (Drabble)

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost

My last fic here in a while. Please consider following me on AO3 💖❤️

Summary: Javier hears you singing to his newborn.

Pairing: Javier Peña x reader (no y/n)

Tags: Domestic, sugary fluff, Javi POV, babies!

Word count: 850

Meadow

Javier tries to be quiet as he returns to you, carrying a stuffed Eeyore in his hand while listening for the sound of Inés' unhappy hiccups. He calculates his steps on the ground to make sure not to step on a twig or a branch, the crackle of it sure to distress his newborn even more.

He finds that the tall grass dotted with wildflowers and the soft earth is forgiving of his feet, so much so that his presence goes completely unnoticed by you. He never knew that this spot existed, having always treated the road as nothing more but a road until you showed him that its surroundings were so much more. There’s a metaphor somewhere in that, something about him just passing through and you making him able to stop and take a look around. 

The sun is warm on his exposed skin, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and you have convinced him to leave the jeans for a pair of comfortable slacks instead. He checks the time to see how long he has been gone and it’s nothing more than a few minutes, realizes that the sun is starting to fade from being at its highest point today. 

As he draws nearer to the spot you chose, Inés’ cries have died down completely until they are not heard at all. Instead, it is the soft sound of your voice that drifts through the air to him. You are singing quietly to his daughter, a lullaby that he remembers having heard before in a distant memory of his own childhood. 

A breeze rustles the leaves of the oak tree you sit beneath, its crown of leaves protecting you both from direct sunlight. As if forced by nature to relax, he hears the birds chirping too. This is peace and contentment, he thinks, and how wonderful it is to do nothing with the people that he loves the most. 

When he finally spots you, he finds you sitting on the blanket you brought with your sweater tucked underneath your slightly bent knees. Inés is resting in your lap, cradled by your soft arms, and sleeping soundly with her tiny fingers curled into fists. You are so beautiful as you stare down into his daughter’s blissful face, your smile even warmer in the soft glow of the sun. 

Occasionally, you run a thumb over the length of her nose but you never stop singing to her. The stuffed animal seems a waste of time now but if he hadn’t gotten it from the car, he would have never caught you like this. 

How has he gotten so lucky, he wonders, to have such an incredible woman to be the witness of his life? He cannot believe how sentimental you have made him, his chest aching as he watches your beauty grow even further as it is enhanced by the nature around you. More than a decade in Colombia and he thought he would never feel anything again. How ridiculous a thought that is. 

When he finally makes himself known again, bursting the bubble of quiet admiration he has been in, you turn your head when he kneels down beside you. You stop singing but Inés sleeps on.

Without a word, you notice Javier and then smile until it widens into a grin on your face that outshines the summer sunshine. He smiles back and places Eeyore on the ground in front of you, purposefully posing him to stand in the grass because you always hate when he is careless about stuffed toys. 

“I hope he doesn’t mind getting left in the car,” he whispers as he makes sure Eeyore won’t tip over, “Sorry it took a bit.”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, “You have made it up to him; grass is his favorite.” 

“Papá! There are frogs here!” Suddenly, his four-year-old son emerges from somewhere in the tall grass, carrying a stick in his hand that he seems to be using as a sword. He grins widely as he approaches the three of you, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he walks quickly on the uneven ground and Javier holds out his hand in case he has to catch him.

“Careful, Muchacho (young man),” Javier chuckles, “You might scare them away if you trip.” 

“I found the biggest frog ever!” Lucas brags and falls into his father’s embrace, throwing his arms around his neck, “I want to show you!”

Javier looks at you to silently ask if you need him. Lucas presses on, “Come on, Dad!”

Inés fusses a little at being woken up by the noises around her. You take the stuffed animal and wiggle it in the air in front of her. You start singing again. It is something about meadows and daisies, something about being warm and kept from harm. 

“Go,” you stop briefly to urge him, “We’ll be here when you come back.”

And as Javier gets up from the ground and takes his son’s hand, he smiles because he knows that you will.

.

.

.

My last fic here in a while. Please consider following me on AO3 💖❤️

[vandaliatraveler]

Shameless opportunist,

Bequeath your heathen seed

To impoverished clay and dirt

Who would have guessed

That one day would sprout

This starry-eyed flirt,

Giddy harlot born of worthless dirt.

I freely give thy heart to thee, Rose Pink (Sabatia angularis), nom de plume Rose Gentian.

[staygoldwriting]

💌 To the Steve I Loved Before: Part 3

A Steve Harrington TATBILB!AU fic

Read Part 1 and Part 2!

Summary: Y/N has written love letters to get over her deepest crushes. What happens when Steve Harrington gets his hands on her letter to him?

Disclaimer: This is inspired by the To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before series by Jenny Han! I have used none of her characters, but have only used the premise of a love letter in the wrong hands.

Word count: ~1k

Warnings: None, just fluff as usual 

A/N: AHHH this is my favorite chapter so far! It’s largely Eddie, but don’t worry... Steve will be around very soon! Things are starting to get tense, folks 🙈 Please let me know what you think, and, as always, please show love and support! ❤️✨ If you want to join the taglist, don’t be afraid to ask! I’m happy to add you 🤗

You sat at the desk and tapped your fingers anxiously, the idea of Eddie reading your letter running rampant through your mind. You sighed heavily, then fiddled with your nails, chipping the polish off. 

You worked at Contempo Casuals in the Starcourt Mall, the newest and most popular hangout spot in Hawkins. As a result, you were on high alert for Eddie, but you doubted he even knew where you worked. Nonetheless, you tried your best to stay toward the back of the store. As you turned to fold some clothes, Robin rushed up to you and slammed her hands on the counter. 

“Y/N!” she gasped. “What happened at home, update me!”

“My dad sent the letters out,” you said in defeat as Robin covered her mouth in shock. “Most of them are going to the wrong address, but two are gonna make it.”

“Which ones?” she asked grimly.

“Kevin S,” you said, and Robin nodded. “And Eddie Munson.”

“Oh no,” Robin breathed, her face going pale. “That was the letter, right?” 

“Yup. The only one that’s worse is Steve’s,” you said, folding shirts. 

“Aw man,” Robin huffed. “What are you gonna do?”

“Avoid him until it all blows over,” you said. “I mean, I’ll be leaving soon, and we never cross paths regularly, so I’m trying not to worry.”

“Well, if I got a love letter from someone, and if it was as sappy as the one you gave him, I’d be trying to find you,” Robin shrugged.

“Helpful,” you said bluntly. 

“I’m just saying, be on your guard,” Robin said, checking her watch. “I’ve gotta go, but come by after your shift and I’ll hook you up with some free ice cream.”

“Thanks, Rob, see you, and cross your fingers I don’t see him!” you called as Robin left.

You sighed and went back to folding shirts. He won’t come looking for me, you thought to yourself. He barely even knows who I am, it was just a camp crush, we never even talked afterward. You kept folding and thinking when you heard someone come into the store.

“Welcome to Contempo Casuals,” you called halfheartedly. 

“Y/N?”

You tensed up and turned to look at Eddie Munson, who was standing at the counter, holding your letter to him. 

“Can-can we talk, please?” he asked gently. You nodded grimly, then looked down at the letter. He chuckled softly and looked at it.

“So, you think I have an angelic voice?” he asked, a small blush appearing across his cheeks. “I-I had no idea you felt like this.”

“You weren’t meant to get the letter,” you mumbled, and he cocked his head to the side.

“Why not? I’m very flattered, by the way, thank you for saying all those sweet things,” he smiled softly, making you blush and your heart beat wildly. 

“Can I look at the letter again? Please?” you asked. Eddie shrugged and handed it over.

-💌-

Dear Eddie,

Spending this past summer with you has been nothing short of a dream. I wish that I could still wake up to see you everyday as I’ve grown used to doing. I miss seeing you all grumbly in the morning, hair a mess as you trudged to brush your teeth. I miss the way you’d lean on my shoulder as we ate our breakfast, you still half asleep. 

When you complimented the way my hair smelled, I washed it twice a day so it always smelled like wildflowers--that’s the way you described it. And when you nicknamed me Wildflower, my heart skipped a thousand beats. I wish I could be your wildflower forever.

Whenever we worked together as counselors, I felt our connection grow. I stole so many glances at you. Did you ever look at me? You probably didn’t, why would you? I can’t ever be as beautiful as you are, inside or out. I can tell that you’re a good person, Eddie. I can tell by the way you sing with that voice of yours, it’s like an angel’s. Sometimes I think you spared me by never singing a love song (at the risk of falling for you more, if it’s even possible), but I can’t help but wish that I could hear you sing to me, just me. 

I love you, Eddie Munson, and I dream of a day that we can be together. For now, I’ll have to do with the memories.

Forever loving you,

Y/N

-💌-

You looked at the letter with pure dread. Your hands went clammy and your throat went dry. You tried to compose yourself as you looked back at Eddie, trying to avoid eye contact.

“I’m gonna need this back,” you said, folding it up.

“No way,” Eddie said, grabbing your hand, making you gasp. “Please, I’m sorry, but no one’s ever written me something this nice before. Can I please keep it?”

“Um,” you hesitated.

“I won’t show a soul, I promise!” he said quickly. “I’ll keep it in a box in another box in my room or something, I’ll keep it private, always!”

“Well, fine,” you said quietly. “But no one else, okay?” you asked, finally looking into his eyes.

“Cross my heart,” he smirked, making the motions. “But I do wanna tell you, Y/N, in the gentlest way possible, I-I don’t feel the same,” he said sympathetically.

Great. You’ve just gone through the greatest embarrassment of your life, and it turns out, you spent an entire summer falling for a guy who never gave you a second look. You could’ve sworn he felt something back, but here he was, telling you that you don’t mean any more to him than one of his friends. Maybe even less. You felt overwhelmed with the rejection and suddenly got desperate and incredibly foolish. 

“It’s okay, I don’t feel that way anymore,” you said, trying to sound casual. 

“You don’t?” he asked gently.

“No, no, I don’t, so don’t worry at all!” you said, forcing a laugh. “Besides, I’ve got a boyfriend now.”

WHAT?!

“Wait, really?” Eddie asked, smiling. “That’s awesome, Y/N, who is it?”

Before you could stop yourself, you blurted out the first name that came to mind.

“Steve Harrington.”

-💌-

Taglist: @tillkummer​ @mlle-ayka​ @sonicthehedgedoggo​ @klaine-92​ @aurumbelis​ @onlyangel-444​ @beep-beep-sherlock​ @morishitoshi​ @onceuponathreetwoone​ @toomanybandstocare​ @underthebatcape​ @zeldaknight​ @fieldofsecretss​ @prettyinpunk85​ @igotbasicdrag @gothicfaires​ @thatonecurlygirl​ @luvthatlovestolove​ @loliakeoghan23​ @dearelliewrites​ @mslunawinchester​ @aphex2winn @simonsbluee​ @inkedaztec​ @dumplinshee​ @pastel-abyss-x​ @frozenhuntress67​ @hawkins-hs @witheringawayagain​ @theshinyrock​ @hollandcomics @pinkgothiccprincess​ @persephone13​ @katsukis1wife​ @murnsondock​ @fictionlandslanddreams​ @srapalestina​ @babyghouly​ @madformunsonsstuff​ @harrys-tittie @middle--fingering​ @urmomgov​ @maybankstarkey​ @jbetches @stardustmunson @maltinonka​ @chaerfull​ @middle-of-the-earth​ @lilsunshine1092​

[four2andnew]

June Prompt #1: Blue for @hinnymicrofic (post-war, canon compliant. Roughly three years after the war) Read on AO3

He damn near has an existential crisis when he overhears Ron and Hermione arguing over his favorite color some weeks before his birthday - red Ron said, no, green Hermione had said. And all Harry could think is - fuck, neither.

But then, why can't he answer which is his favorite color? And that's when the almost existential crisis begins.

He supposes he understands why Ron and Hermione are confused. His entire wardrobe is outfitted in jumpers of scarlet and emerald, all lovingly knitted by Mrs. - Molly. She certainly has a penchant for dressing him in Gryffindor colors if she isn't trying to match his eyes, she claims she can never get the color just right. He hasn't bought himself clothes since he burned everything that summer after the war was over, and what he bought back then was all basic black, white, and shades of those in between. All the color he wears comes solely from Molly's knitting basket.

How does one determine their favorite color anyway? Is he supposed to just know? Maybe Ginny would know. She's intuitive like that.

He leaves Ron's cubicle, not having even interrupted their argument to review the case file in his hand. It can wait til the morning. Ginny was likely prepping dinner as it is. He practically runs out of the floo, stumbling through the lobby of their wizarding complex to the lifts, impatient as the ancient piece of machinery rumbles up to their fifth floor flat. He should have taken the stairs.

"Gin!" he calls, shucking his cloak and heavy boots at the door. "Ginny, what's my favorite color?"

Her laughter tinkles out from the kitchen, "What is this, our new security question?"

Damn, that's probably a good idea. Seeing as he can't even answer the damn question himself, it'd confuse the fuck out of imposters.

"Ron says it's red and Hermione says it's green, but…" he cuts himself off and wrinkles his nose, Ginny mirroring him as she rounds the doorframe.

"Don't be silly, it's clearly blue."

And fuck, if the floor doesn't come out from under him. Another color to consider? Although…

He realizes Ginny's prattling on about colors and he's missed about half of what she's said. He jerks back to focus on her words.

"...Mum's obsession with your eyes. And she's not wrong, of course, your eyes do look drool worthy when you wear green, but that hardly means green's your favorite. Honestly, Hermione thinks she's so observant but she doesn't see how cocky you are on days you wear your blue boxers or how giddy you get when you discover I'm wearing one of my blue knicker sets. Nor should she, mind. Knowledge of our under things is for you and me alone. And neither of them were with us when you tried to fill the buggy with every blue towel at Tesco. You always pick blue ink when you aren't filling out your department forms…What? Why are you smiling at me like that?"

He can't help the goofy grin plastered on his face listening to Ginny ramble about all the little ways she's determined his favorite color. He likes knowing she's paid such close attention to his habits, his preferences, that she knows him so well.

"Yours is yellow," he blurts, determined to show he notices all the little things about Ginny just as much as she does him. Merlin help him if he's wrong.

"You always pick the yellow wildflowers when you make those little flower crowns. Always pink and white for the one you make Victoire, but just yellow for your own. And when you're sick, you always pick the yellow blanket to curl up under, even if you have to dig out of the wash. Yellow dresses make you twirl instead of just swish the skirt."

Her grin matches his now and he knows he's nailed it. She reaches for his collar the same moment he reaches for her hip and they pull each other in for a sloppy kiss, giggly and carefree, and so in love.

[wroteclassicaly]

Being romanced by King Steve. His parents are away, you’re the first girl he’s invited to spend the night, all the others never getting an invitation. It’s at his house on a Sunday night during summer break. You both just finished an evening swim, getting your shower and snuggling into warm clothes, his arm thrown around you, thumb rubbing the exposed skin of your shoulder where the blanket had slipped off. You’re watching Slumber Party Massacre, Steve’s numerous attempts to scare you during bathroom and food breaks having been retired. He’s got snacks & food; pizza, leftover kfc, candy, popcorn, chips, beer, and your favorite soda, plus he even got two slices of chocolate cake and some ice cream (he’s going overboard for you, okay?).

It’s been a mostly innocent time, with some kisses and chlorine, Steve able to spin your around in the water, like you truly weighed nothing on the surface, and you could just be a girl spending her time with the most popular boy, whose just a boy (no extra pounds, no statuses, no outside threats and anxieties) — watching Steve eventually attempt to tan from your spot on your beach towel, your wildflower he’d picked from his neighbor’s garden at your side. He had caught you, one thick finger pushing his Rayban glasses down to the bridge of his nose, that signature smirk making him look like a trouble making panty dropper. His hair wasn’t dry yet, some quaffed ends still dripping, catching his freckle and mole speckled chest, even onto his arms. He loved watching you watch him, but most importantly — he loved watching you.

You’d shared a mostly innocent shower, hands lingering and squeezing in… places. Steve enamored with your overflowing stomach, your plush bottom, your heavy breasts, and how his body wash looked poured over them, and how your thighs touched when you stood, but pried apart every time his hand slid a little lower to tease. But he respected your nerves, didn’t push. You weren’t sure of what this was, if it was a bet to be full-filled, a secret fetish to see what sleeping with the big girl of Hawkins High was like, but you didn’t want the day, let alone the night to end. That meant facing the truth, that things couldn’t always be this nice or private.

Two different worlds.

However, tonight — tonight Steve Harrington makes you feel like your worlds are the same, and that you are at his very epicenter.

[smilepebble]

@heropartnerweek day 2: Home / Flowers / Favorite Scene

lets go see the summer wildflowers!

[warcrimesimulator]

So, as someone who lives in south/central Texas, it's always been hot as fuck here. I quite literally live in a subtropical savanna biome. But a lot has changed, and it never really used to be unbearable save for that short period at the height of summer when it was preferable to watch cartoons in your room instead of playing outside.

In the spring there used to be so many wildflowers, and they lasted a good while. Now, they're usually gone within a week. This past spring the mountain laurel and redblossom didn't even bloom at all.

It never used to be this hot in September. My birthday is in October, right before Halloween, and I remember how much cooler the temperatures used to be- autumn was always my favorite season, but now there is no autumn, because the summer temperatures don't end until December (and winters aren't truly cold anymore, either)

How can people still remain in denial. We're living in a different world than the one we grew up in.

[spideystevie]

come back ... be here

summary: the summer before college is the cruelest time to fall in love 

word count: 4.8k

a/n: got this idea from #17 on this prompt list also loosely based on come back...be here by taylor swift. i am absolutely obsessed with the chasing down/running to your lover to tell them you love them moments in romcoms so i hope this delivers that. there’s some swearing but that’s it. just your classic friends to lovers. 

Hawkins has been all you’d ever known. Tree lines and lazy stoplights, friendly smiles and small town camaraderie. It was as much a comfort as it was a cage. The fear you’d always be stuck in your tiny hometown, never getting the chance to branch out and plant roots in other places. It was a stinging ache in your chest, monotonous and persistent. 

Your big escape lived in New York City. There was something in the promise of a city that never slept, of the people you passed never being the same ones each day, of a new beginning that made your chest ache in a different way. Something saccharine yet bittersweet. 

The days dragged away, heavy and long, one after the other after you sent away your application. You weren’t sure it would come back as an acceptance, but you also weren’t sure what you would do if it came back as a rejection. It’d be the final nail in the coffin, a finality you couldn’t accept. 

March was washed away and April bloomed like wildflowers in the fields. Songbirds chirped as the sun lifted over the horizon, washing the town in hues of orange and gold. A freshness blew in with the wind, sun-drenched and floral. Full of hope and new beginnings. 

The wooden chair at your dining table creaks as you sit down. A yawn escapes you, fingers wrapped around your favorite mug filled with fresh coffee. You’d slept in, grateful for a day off at work though you missed being obligated to see your friends for hours a day. The house is quiet, empty like usual with your parents away on business. It makes the sound of the mail coming in from the slot in the door that much louder. 

It hits the entryway floor with a smack and you pause, cup of coffee halfway raised to your mouth. You set it down on the table gingerly before standing. The chair screeches against the floor when you push away from the table and stand. You’re still in your sleep shorts and a sweater so old you can’t remember if it belonged to you or Steve first. 

Your footsteps are quiet but your knees crack when you bend to pick up the mail. You shuffle through it, freezing at an envelope placed towards the bottom. A purple return address next to the NYU crest, your name clearly printed in the very center. An eager anxiety pricks at your stomach. You drop the stack of bills and miscellaneous mail on the table near your forgotten cup of coffee, feeling more awake than ever. 

Your feet carry you up the stairs to your room and you shut the door behind you though there’s no one else home. The letter felt like a ticking bomb you needed to diffuse and you stared at it with a disbelieving awe. You could’ve opened it in the front room of your house but your bedroom seemed like the safest place. A waiting solace if you opened it and everything fell apart.

The envelope is thick and heavy in your hands. You trace your fingertips delicately over the NYU crest in the corner. It feels dreamlike, hazy around the edges and you have to pinch the skin on your wrist to make sure you’re not dreaming. 

Maybe you should’ve called Steve before deciding to open up the ticket to your future. But there was something about this moment that felt like you needed to be alone.

You hadn’t thought this moment would come when you graduated a year ago. You’d settled for the few odd courses at the community college nearby, content with stocking tapes at Family Video and saving up money to escape your small town with your best friend. 

Steve had been the one to shove the application in your hands, knowing it had been your ultimate goal. You’d protested at first, worried you wouldn’t get in and unwilling to deal with the sadness that’d come with that. But Steve had persisted, nothing but supportive the whole way. 

Nerves make your hands tremble as you carefully tear into it and you take a deep breath, steadying yourself before you pull the letter out. Your movements are careful, concise as you inch it out of the envelope. It shakes slightly from the anxious tremor in your hands as you read. 

We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to…

You never finish reading it, the paper falling to your bedroom floor as you let out a squeal. Your grin is contagious as you stoop to pick the paper up, practically sliding down the stairs in your home in your haste to leave and tell Steve. 

You forget you’re still in your pajamas as you all but speed down the small streets of Hawkins towards Family Video. The acceptance letter, creased and a little wrinkled from your tight grip, sits on the passenger seat of your car. The parking lot is empty, the asphalt shining beneath the springtime sun. You nearly forget to lock your car in your excitement after you park. 

The bell above the door jingles as you yank it open, rushing into the store with your letter clutched at your side. It’s empty save for one customer at the back of the store being helped by Robin and Steve who sits behind the counter. He looks up when he hears you come in, an amused and endearing smile taking over when he sees you still in your sleep shorts and that old sweater, hair slightly mussed from sleep. His eyes hone in on the piece of paper at your side. 

“I got in!” you exclaim before Steve can greet you, waving the letter in the air and shaking it for good measure. Your smile is bursting at the seams. You’re shining like the sun in the sky. Steve’s mouth parts, jaw falling slack. 

“Seriously?” he says it like you’re kidding him but a surge of pride takes over when you nod. 

“Seriously!” you wave the letter again. His lips split into the biggest grin and he’s sliding over the top of the counter in a flash. Steve crushes you in a hug, nearly crumpling the letter between the two of you. Your heart swells and picks up its pace at the gesture, something that feels natural though slightly confusing. 

“M’so proud of you,” Steve says, voice muffled in your neck. He pulls back, immediately reaching for the paper in your hands to read it for himself. He mumbles it under his breath through the most genuine and proud smile you’ve ever seen on his face. “We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to the school of Liberal Arts at New York University…”

Somehow it sounds even more surreal coming out of Steve’s mouth. Robin comes over a minute later, an eyebrow poised as she takes in your appearance and Steve’s grin, the paper still in his hands. “What’s going on here?”

“I got in!” you grab the paper from Steve, all but shoving it in Robin’s face. Her eyes widen as she looks from the letter to you, back and forth before pulling you into the tightest hug. She pulls back, hands on your shoulders. 

“I knew you could do it!” she squeezes your shoulders and then pulls you into another hug. The saccharine and bittersweet ache blooms heavy in your chest watching Robin read over the letter, your two friends fawning over you with more pride than you’ve ever seen. The realization of a goodbye in the future floats around your head and you push it away, leaving it for the end of a summer that has yet to begin. 

The summer that follows your acceptance feels like a new beginning. It’s turning a new leaf in life. It flips the page to a new chapter in your friendship with Steve. A delicate beginning rush. 

It wasn’t a secret to anyone who watched the two of you that there was something stronger lingering beneath the surface of platonic interactions. The world was a foggy shade of rose, dull enough to go undetected by the both of you. 

As June gave way to July and July bled into August, the fog lessened. Vision growing sharper around the edges, dusty rose seeming to permeate it whenever one of you was around the other. The nights spent together grow later and later until you’re minutes away from being asked to stay over instead of being driven back home. It’s lingering glances and fleeting touches, smiling a little too wide when you see him and cheeks burning vermilion when he sees you. 

You and Steve fell in love beneath a summer sun, flickers of love spotting in your hearts like new freckles on skin. It’s a blur of honeysuckle walks and close calls, moments spent in Steve’s pool that were more flirty than friendly. You’d almost tasted Steve and chlorine in the dead of July, his lips pressing wet against the plush of your cheek instead as you yelped at a honey bee buzzing past your head. It’s melted ice cream cones leaving you with sticky fingers and late night drives, your head poked out of the car to see the stars in the sky. 

The two of you know it before you’re conscious of it. You realize it sooner than Steve, hanging on a thread that something will give before you catch your flight at the end of August. Pulling and tugging at the frayed ends, hoping Steve will join you in the little enclave you’ve carved out in your heart. Steve crash lands into love, head spinning when he realizes it, August feeling like it’s slipping away like a moment in time.

A final summer. It’s the cruelest way to fall in love. 

Your last night in Hawkins is spent with Steve. A final movie night. A final goodbye. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, sinewy muscle a comforting weight while you’re pressed into his side, knees bent and almost resting in his lap. 

He let you pick the movie despite it really being his turn to pick. A John Hughes movie plays on the television in his living room, something Steve always associates with you. An empty bowl of popcorn sits by your feet on the couch. Steve smiles when you laugh and pretends to be annoyed when you quote the lines on screen with the characters. 

The screen fades to black, feeling like a goodbye in itself. Your stomach drops while the credits rise on the screen. Steve tenses beneath you, the two of you more than aware of what the movie ending means for the two of you. You don’t move, wishing there was a way you could stay here forever. 

Steve was your final goodbye before your morning flight tomorrow and you were dreading it.

He would give anything to freeze time for another week just to have more time with you. He knows it’s silly, that you’ll be back when the seasons change again but something in him wants to beg you to stay. You both hesitate by his front door, not knowing how to say goodbye to someone you’ve just begun to love. You dragged out tying your shoes as long as you could, hugged Steve more times tonight than you can count. 

Something in him is prodding his brain, urging him to tell you everything like he’d planned to tonight. He’s not sure how he can. You stumble through the whole goodbye, extending it out to the empty street where your car is parked. 

Your eyes seem to plead with him. For him to tell you that he’s in love with you too, to ask you to stay. A part of you thinks you would if he asked.

He never does. 

He hugs you tight one last time, bodies pressed so close together you think you might melt into one. You wish you could. You lean back enough to look at him, eyes darting all around his face like you’re trying to commit every angle and plane, every freckle and mole to memory. 

Steve looks at you with a deep intensity, the beginnings of a confession sitting on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he says, “you’ll call me?”

“So much you’ll be sick of me. I’ll even send letters by carrier pigeon if I have to,” your lips quirk into a sad smile. Steve laughs softly though there’s a seriousness etched into his features. 

“I’d never be sick of you,” his voice is husky and low. It spreads heat to every part of your body, makes your heart bruise your rib cage. Something in the way he says it feels like a confession in itself and just when you think you’re going to get one, he presses a long and lingering kiss to your cheek. 

He opens the driver's side door of your car for you, giving you a tight smile. You blink at him as he takes a couple steps back towards his front door. 

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” he calls from a few feet away. You muster up as much of a smile as you can and nod. You grip the side of the car door with one hand, the other resting on the roof of your car. You watch his back recede from you as he gets closer to his front door. 

“Hey, Steve?” you call out. The tiny flame of confidence inside you gets snuffed out when he turns around, eyes a little wide and his hands in his front pockets. You swallow, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. There’s a long pause as you debate what to say, a confession now sitting on your tongue. Instead, “miss you already.”

“Miss you too,” his smile is sad, twinged with heartbreak. “Have a safe flight.”

And then he’s turning back around and you get in your car, the engine revving to life. You don’t drive off until you see the front door close behind him. 

Steve feels incredibly mopey the next morning. A heavy disappointment hangs on his shoulders, the regret of not telling you eating at his stomach. The pestering nag from the night before persists even as he gets dressed and heads to work. 

When you had gotten your acceptance letter, excitement bleeding out of you and pride heavy in Steve’s eyes, the day you had to leave seemed like it was years away. To Steve, it felt like he blinked and it was here. In a few short hours you’d be on a flight to New York, miles away from Hawkins until the winter holidays. 

It didn’t feel right going into work without you in the front seat of his car. It didn’t feel right that he’d be stocking tapes with Robin while you were soaring through the sky overhead. 

He gets to work the same time you arrive at the airport. A new box of tapes sits on the counter that Robin has already started working on. A few stacks of new releases are already sitting near the computer when he clocks in. 

“Thought we weren’t getting another shipment until next week,” he says, sidling up next to Robin to help sort through them. She gives him a once over, taking note of the downturn of his lips and mopey look in his eyes. 

“Thought you weren’t gonna be coming in today,” she replies, moving to the computer to enter a stack of the new tapes into the system. Steve pauses, eyebrows furrowing as he looks at Robin’s side profile. She pretends she can’t feel his eyes burning into her skin.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, leaning against the counter. Robin doesn’t look over, fingers flying across the keyboard. 

“Figured you’d be too depressed to come in today. Isn’t today the day of the big move?” she asks, more than aware of the answer. She’d stopped by yesterday to say goodbye on her way into work. “You told them last night didn’t you? That was the plan.”

Steve clenches his jaw, trying to ignore the regret eating at his insides and the nagging that pounded his head. He doesn’t say anything, bracing himself for Robin’s response. At his silence, her fingers stop moving and she turns to look at him. She raises her eyebrows, annoyance clear on her face. 

“Seriously? You let them go without saying-”

“Yes, god, Robin, it’s not a big deal, I’ll just…say it when they come home in a few months,” he tries to shrug it off, turning back to sort through the new tapes. He pretends he doesn’t notice Robin’s eyes boring into his skull. She rolls her eyes, turning back to the computer with a sigh but she doesn’t say anything else. 

A silence blankets the store. The only sound comes from the keyboard as Robin types and plastic hitting plastic as Steve stacks tapes on top of each other. Steve frowns when he lifts the next VHS out of the box. It’s the newest John Hughes, one you’d made him see in theaters more than once. 

The nagging from before grows louder in his head. His head is spinning as he stares at the cover, mind reeling with impulses.

“Robin, what time is it?”

She turns and grabs his arm, twisting it towards her to read the time off his watch. “8:16. Why?”

“I gotta go,” he drops the tape on the top of a pile, rounding the counter. Your flight didn’t leave until just after 10, if he left now he’d make it in time. He’d have to. 

His feet carry him faster than ever to the door. He’s pure adrenaline, brisk movements that pause when he reaches the entrance to the store. He looks back to Robin, one hand ready to shove the door open.

“If Keith asks, tell him I…” he trails off. Robin looks at him with an amused glint in her eye. “Just cover for me.”

The bell rings overhead as he runs out of the store and to his car. She shakes her head, a smile on her face as she watches him peel out of the parking lot, tires squealing as he goes. 

Steve has no regard for the speed limit as he drives, the only thought on his mind being you. He feels sick to his stomach with adrenaline, hyper focused on getting to you before you get on the plane to take you to New York. The airport is an hour away, maybe even less with how heavy his foot is on the gas when he merges onto the highway.

Trees whip past the windows in a blur, the small town of Hawkins disappearing into the horizon behind him as he nears bigger buildings and a busier world. The Indianapolis Airport sits on the outer edge of the city, seemingly just as crowded as he remembers it to be when he was younger.

Steve races into a parking spot, his tires braking with a screech against the asphalt. He throws the car into park and almost forgets to lock it behind him in his haste. He’s all but sprinting through the crowds of people at the airport, swerving around families and yelling apologies over his shoulder when he bumps into someone. 

He practically skids to a stop in front of the list of departing flights, eyes racing over random gates and times to find yours. His chest heaves and he’s sure he looks a little manic. A twinge of anxiety eats at his stomach when he notices the time ticking away on his watch. 

The place feels infinitely bigger than Steve remembers it being as a kid and he gets lost once or twice, frustration pricking the nerves under his skin. His sneakers squeak against the floor as he hustles towards your terminal and to your gate.

If he could go back and change anything, he’d have never played it so nonchalant around you. Steve would’ve kissed you breathless months ago, would’ve confessed to you the moment he fell. He wouldn’t have let you leave last night without making sure you knew.

He’s out of breath when he finally reaches your gate and his heart sinks into a deep pit in his chest when he realizes it’s empty. 

Steve thinks he might be sick. 

His hands press against his temples and he turns in a small circle, eyes squeezed shut. He kicks at the ground, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the linoleum. 

“God dammit,” he groans, dropping his hands. He opens his eyes only to watch as the plane moves away from the gate, taking you with it. He shakes his head. “Fuck.”

He says it louder than he really anticipates, vaguely aware of the stares he gets from parents and their kids waiting in nearby gates for their flights. The inside of his chest feels hollow, a cracked shell that used to house a beating vessel. 

The sound of his voice pricks your ears and you look up from where you’re sitting, eyes searching for the source of an all too familiar cadence. It doesn’t make any sense for him to be here but it doesn’t stop the anticipation that rises beneath your skin. 

Your heartbeat immediately picks up speed when you catch sight of him. Steve Harrington stands at the empty gate across the way. His back is to you but you’d recognize him anywhere, his slight slouch in posture and the waves of brown hair at the back of his head. What the hell is he doing here?

“Steve?”

His head snaps up, immediately whipping around to find the source of your voice. He thinks he has to be hallucinating when he turns around and you’re standing right there. An old sweater of his hangs off your shoulders, a small bag by your feet. He wonders if it smells like a mix of his cologne and your perfume.

You have to be a mirage, a glimmer appearing out of light. The confused pinch between your brows deepens, something that couldn’t be replicated, and he stares at it, wondering how the skin there would feel against his lips if he kissed it away.

“Hey,” he breathes it out, stepping towards you until he’s a few feet away. You shake your head at him and the Family Video vest he’s still wearing, his orange name tag glinting in the fluorescent airport lighting. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, a little exasperated, your arms wrapping around yourself. He looks around at the bustling airport, catching the sign above your gate and realizing he had been looking at the wrong one all along. You hadn’t left him yet. His gaze lands back on you.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he says. 

“Steve, what are you talking about?” your confusion only deepens, intermingling with a smidge of frustration. 

“I was up all night thinking-”

“That’s never good,” you joke, your smile half hearted and faltering when he doesn’t even crack a smile at it. 

“-about you and how you’re finally going off to college like you always wanted and how I won’t see you for months and how that makes me sick with missing you and the only thing that kept going through my head after I said goodbye to you last night was that I can’t let you go.”

“What?” there aren’t enough words to express the confusion you feel. Steve was the one who’d encouraged you to go from the beginning. He couldn’t be serious but the determined glint in his eyes tells you he was. “What are you-”

“I can’t let you get on that plane without telling you that I’m in love with you.”

His confession hangs heavy in the air between you. The air grows thick, you feel like you can’t breathe properly. You feel like the world is spinning on a new axis, faster than the plane that’s set to take you away. He takes a step closer to you. 

“Steve…” your voice can barely be heard over all the noise. He shakes his head a little, eyes pleading a little with you to listen.  

“I love the crease you get above your nose when you’re confused,” a step. “I love that you’re the first thing I think about whenever a new John Hughes movie comes in a new shipment,” another step. “I love that my jackets always smell like you whenever you give them back,” another step and you’re toe to toe. You look up at him, eyes gleaming with the beginnings of tears. “I love that you’re the only person I’d drop everything for just so I could speed to the airport to say one final goodbye.”

His knuckles brush against your cheek, his fingers tucking themselves beneath your jaw by your ear. You’re doe-eyed and feeling like you might fall over. Your arms fall to your sides. 

“I couldn’t let you get on that plane without telling you.”

You let out a soft laugh, thick with emotion and tears. Steve brushes away one that escapes with his thumb. You shake your head but your face is beaming.

“You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington,” your face softens, voice dropping. “But god, I’m so in love with you.”

He grins, dipping his head down to press his lips against yours. His other hand comes up to cradle the other side of your jaw. Your hands press against his chest before gripping at the fabric of his work vest. 

Kissing Steve feels like second nature, like you should’ve been doing this all along. The world may have been put on a new axis but something has finally clicked into place. It feels like coming home. 

The overhead intercom announcing boarding for your flight causes you to pull back. The lovesick look in both of your eyes turns a little sad. You swallow. “That’s me.”

He nods, hands falling away from your face and finding a home in his front pockets. You glance over your shoulder at the line formed by the counter. It’s dwindling rather fast but you waste no time in throwing your arms around Steve’s shoulders. 

You hug him to you tightly, squeezing him harder when his arms wrap around your waist. You can feel the tears pricking your waterline again and you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face into the side of his neck. You wish there was a way to fuse your bodies together. 

Steve loses track of how long you stay like that, holding on tight to each other, not wanting to let go. He’s not sure how he can let you go now, it feels so cruel the feeling that sinks deep into his bones. 

How can you miss someone so intensely when they’re still being held in your arms?

The intercom announces the last call and you take one last inhale, desperate to memorize the scent of his cologne and the way it mixes with a scent that’s just him. You press a kiss to his neck, chaste and soft. 

“I’m gonna miss you like crazy,” you say, arms loosening their hold as you step back. Steve smiles at you as he nods, his eyes shining with tears and everything else he wishes he could say to you.

“You’ll call me when you land?” he asks, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. You squeeze his hand and nod. He glances at the flight attendant by the entrance to the jetway who’s watching you say goodbye before kissing you one last time. 

It’s more firm than before, says everything that you both can’t say and more. When you pull back, he slightly nudges you in the direction of your flight. You bend to grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder.

You hold his hand until you can’t anymore, fingers outstretched towards each other like magnets being pulled apart. Your footsteps are a hurried drag as you go to give your boarding pass to the attendant. An invisible string is being pulled taut between the two of you, willing you to stay together.

You turn to wave one last time, blowing Steve a kiss that he catches and sticks in his front pocket. Your chest aches with longing, you miss him already. He mouths an I love you that has you grinning sadly and then you turn around and walk down the jetway. 

You wait until he can’t see you to wipe away the tear that slipped over the curve of your cheek. Something about falling in love like this feels cruel, sinking into the feeling right as you’re about to be worlds away.

Steve stays where you left him until your plane takes off and disappears from view. He misses you immediately, stomach twisting and heart yearning. He loves that he has someone to miss but god does he wish you took him with you.

[husbandhoshi]

jeonghan + 2am + cute🥰

[2:00]

“i don’t think this is a good idea.”

the night that blankets hwaseong is buttery and lush, moon hanging over the sleeping city like a ripe apple.

"have i ever had good ones?" jeonghan answers plainly, and he waits for your nose to scrunch up in annoyance before he smiles.

it's a habit, much like the way he matches your stride, the way it feels right to walk beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

it reminds you of when you were children, walking with pinkies linked through the wildflowers, except now he's at least two heads taller than you and a lot funnier.

"what if someone sees us together?”

jeonghan chuckles, deep and intimate, and takes his baseball cap off to plop it on top of your head, pushing the brim down to your eyes.

he has a big ass head now too, you think, but you keep that one to yourself.

"better?"

"you know that's not what i mean."

“who would say anything? we know everyone here.”

and that shuts you up because he’s right.

you wore the city like your second skin. borne into you, the laugh of the ahjumma who owned the jjampong place, the glitter of july-ripened strawberries, the titters of old folks feeding the gulls.

you never thought jeonghan would leave all that behind until the tuesday six whole years ago he said was going to seoul to become an idol.

“did you miss me?” he asks.

like crazy. like i’d never missed anything more, you want to say. instead you swallow down the lump of crazy chewed up words and think of something more normal to say.

it’s not like you hadn’t talked since he left.

have you eaten? he would text you. other times, like my last instagram post or you’re a fake fan.

only once: how big is the moon in hwaseong? are you looking at it too?

there was a time you couldn’t imagine hwaseong without your best friend. for a moment, it was like a ghost town, haunted by the boy who picked up bugs on the ground and always let you have the last bungeoppang, even if it was filled with red bean (his favorite).

but it seems he’s outgrown his shadow. he stands tall and expensive, and even the hat on your head seems like it costs more than your car.

and yet, you hear his old man groan claw its way out of his chest, and you feel as though nothing at all has changed.

“ya, are you actually ignoring me? did i fly a thousand something miles out here to get ignored?”

it’s another habit, what jeonghan does next, but you can swear the stars drop out of the sky—he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side, made strong and lean by time.

it jerks you into a moment seven summers ago, when you’re you and jeonghan is just the gangly boy next door throwing rocks at your window, and you forget for a moment how woefully plain you feel next to your best friend turned celebrity.

“sorry,” you laugh, gathering your bearings. “of course i missed you. i even got weverse or whatever.”

he rolls his eyes in a way so dramatic, you would almost delete the app off your phone if it wasn’t for that smile, a traitor to the cool front he always has.

“i missed you too.” he says it easily, simply, as if all of this was just foreplay.

“it must be a lot quieter here than in seoul, huh? and the food is—”

“no, i missed you.”

he stops in his tracks, elvish features almost offensively attractive in the fluorescent streetlight, to look at you.

to look at all of you, not just the you who bandaged his knee when he was learning to skateboard for the first time, but the you who answers his anxious late-night calls, the you who greeted him at the airport with that dizzyingly warm smile, the you who stands before him now.

and it’s you who he takes into his arms, hesitantly, then all at once, as if he’s dreamed about this for ages (he has).

he takes off the too big hat, holds the face he knows so well in his hands, and kisses you under the hwaseong moon, finally not so far away.

(“you think the paparazzi got their pictures?” he jokes between kisses, knowing full well your audience consists of a raccoon and maybe the weird guy who owns the liquor store across the street.

“we can give ‘em another one.”

he’s never one to argue with a good idea.)