#fic: hhhs

[quackquackcey]

Ch. 25: Hedgehogs, Honey, & Hazelnut-Covered Strawberries

Written for @hdcandyheartsfest day 25 prompt: soft. 644 words. Many thanks to my beta @wqtson​! 💛 Rated E. (cw: mention of smut)

Start from beginning on AO3 here, or click the #fic: HHHS tag.

Summary:

A chance meeting—or is it a setup?—leads to the start of a relationship filled with buttery baked goods, sweet smelling flowers, and hedgehogs.~ 🌹🦔

Draco tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and finally looked up from the canelé he’d just baked, a new pastry he was testing out to sell in his shop. “What?”

Harry had been staring at him for at least the past five minutes.

“Mm, just thinking.” He sat at the counter, head propped on a hand. “I’m kind of curious about your casanova side.”

Draco choked on absolutely nothing and took a large sip of tea that nearly burned his mouth, which led to him actually choking. “What— What the bloody hell are you on about?”

“Because,” said Harry, amused. “I feel like I’m missing out. I’m the only one you’ve dated who doesn’t know your suave, casanova side.” His eyes travelled down Draco’s face, lingering on his lips, then down his body and back up. “I bet they didn’t stand a chance.”

“I didn’t….” Draco mumbled.

“What? I didn’t quite catch that.”

Draco went back to fussing with his pastry, needing something to do with his hands to distract himself from the blood rushing to his face. “I didn’t date them,” he mumbled a little louder. 

Harry blinked. “What?”

“I don’t really like…relationships,” said Draco. “They’re messy and far too much trouble than they’re worth, and I like my peace and quiet, thank you very much.”

“Then why’re you dating me?”

“Because you’re worth it, obviously,” huffed Draco. “Honestly, Potter, use your brain for once, will you? Do I have to spell everything out?” He hesitated and stared hard at his pastry. “But, um, I mean, I know I’m not very, er, suave or whatever it is you said, but I’m trying to, well, be better about, um, you know, so, um”—he accidentally jabbed a hole in the pastry—“your eyes, erm….” He trailed off in utter embarrassment, because why was it so hard for him to just give Harry a simple compliment instead of their usual snarky banter, and—

Harry surprised him with a slow, soft kiss—Draco didn’t know when Harry had got up and walked around the kitchen island behind him. He set down his wand as Harry hugged him closer and looped his arms around Harry’s neck, relishing the taste of strawberry lemonade on Harry’s tongue. 

“I think it’s cute that you can’t compliment me,” murmured Harry with the softest smile that never failed to flip Draco’s stomach upside down. “And it’s an honour that you let me into your heart.”

Draco didn’t know why he teared up, but he did. He sniffled, blinking back his tears, as Harry carded his fingers through Draco’s hair and undid his loose braid. He brushed the most heartachingly tender kiss on Draco’s lips, a kiss that Draco deepened until all that could be heard throughout the kitchen was Draco’s small moans and Harry’s happy hums along with the soft sounds of their lips and tongues entangling.

Draco’s fingers dipped in the waist of Harry’s trousers. 

“How about we take this to the bedroom?” suggested Draco, breathless.

Harry grinned and waggled his brows. “Oh? Is suave Draco making an appearance?”

“Shut up, Potter—”

“Mm, I do love the sound of my name on your lips,” murmured Harry as he groped Draco’s arse, already teasing the rim of his hole, still pliant from their last round. “Have I ever mentioned that I have a fantasy of fucking you so hard in this kitchen that you won’t be able to bake here without remembering my cock up your arse, my lips all over your body, my voice praising you for being so good—”

Draco whimpered as a violent shudder of pleasure jolted through his body.

“Salazar, Harry, just hurry up—”

“That’s more like it.” 

(It became somewhat of a regular occurrence after this for Draco to end up getting fucked so good he begged for more when baking in his flat’s kitchen.)

[flowercrowngods]

who did this to you. part 3

🤍🌷 read part 1 here | read part 2 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie. now with robin!

The number rings in his head, echoing off the inside of his skull and sinking lower and lower until his heart strings join the symphony that leaves him shaking as the memory of Harrington’s slurred voice is drowned out by the dial tone that feels harrowingly like a flatline right now. 

Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.

Eddie doesn’t really feel like his body belongs to him anymore, or like there’s anything left inside him other than panic and fear and that stupid, stupid shaking that he can’t suppress even as he bites his knuckles. Hard. 

The pain helps a little not to startle too much when the dial tone stops and a female voice begins speaking to him. Still he almost drops the phone, cursing under his breath as he pulls his hair to collect himself and get his voice to work. 

“H— Hi, hello, Mrs Buckley? This is, uh. I. I’m. A friend of Robin’s, could you, uh—“ 

“Oh, of course, dear,” the woman says, and Eddie feels his eyes beginning to prick with how nice she sounds even through the phone. 

Does she know Steve, too? Would she worry if she knew? Would she curse Eddie for not taking him to the hospital right away? Would she blame him if anything happened? 

“I’m sorry? What did you say your name was?” she asks, repeating herself by the sound of it. 

He blanks, for a whole five seconds, before he spots a note stuck to the fridge saying Don’t forget to eat, Eddie :-)

“Eddie,” he croaks. “Uh, Eddie Munson.”

“Alright, Eddie Munson, I’ll see if I can grab Robin for you. You have a good day, dear, yes?” 

No. “Thanks.” 

The hand clenched in his hair pulls tighter and tighter until the tears fall and he can pretend it’s from pain and not from— whatever the fuck is happening. 

He waits, phone pressed to his ear with a kind of desperation he’s never really felt, and never wants to feel again. He doesn’t even know what to tell Robin; what to say. It’s not like they ever hang out or have anything to say to each other, so why would she— 

“Munson?” Robin’s voice appears on the other end, a little too loud for Eddie’s certain state, and he does drop the phone this time, scrambling to catch it and only making the situation worse as it dangles by his knees. 

He drops to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and reaching for the phone again. 

“Hi.” 

“What do you want? How’d you even get this number? I swear, if you—“ 

“It’s Blue. I mean, Steve. Harrington.” 

That shuts her right up, and Eddie clenches his eyes shut for a moment, hoping to keep the tremor out of his voice if only he takes a moment to breathe. 

The moment stretches. And Robin’s voice is wary and quiet when she speaks again. 

“What about Steve.” 

Eddie rubs his face, leaving more dirt and grime to fill the tear tracks, and clenches his fist before his mouth. 

“Eddie,” Robin demands, dangerous now. Nothing left of the rambling, bubbling mess he knows her to be on the school hallways. “What. About. Steve.” 

“He… He’s hurt.” 

There’s a bit of a commotion on the other end, before Robin declares, “I’m coming over. You tell me everything.” 

“You— I mean, he’s in the hospital with my uncle, so—“ 

“I am. Coming. Over,” she says, enunciating every word as though she were making a threat. Maybe she is. But the certainty in her voice helps a little, anchors him the same way that Wayne’s calmness did. “And you tell me everything.” 

Eddie finds himself nodding along, knowing intuitively that there is nothing that could stop her now. Knowing that he doesn’t want to stop her. 

“‘Kay.” It’s a pathetic little sound, all choked up and tiny. She doesn’t comment on it. 

One second he hears her determined exhale, the next she’s hung up on him and Eddie is greeted by the flatline again. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans his head back against the wall. 

Breathing is hard again, but it’s all he has to do now, all that’s left to do, so he focuses. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. His lungs are burning and there’s something wrong about the way he pulls in air and keeps it there, desperately latching onto it until the very last second, his exhales more of a gasping cough than calm and controlled. 

It takes a while. Longer than it should. But with Harrington’s blood still on his hands, with his heartbeat in his ears so loud he can’t even hear the words Wayne used to say about breathing in through the mouth or the nose or… or something, he— 

He’s fine. He’s home. Wayne’s got Blue, and Buckley is on her way, and… He’s fine. 

People don’t just die. 

They don’t. 

He’s fine. 

Eventually, Eddie manages to breathe steadily, the air no longer shuddering and his hands no longer shaking. It’s stupid, really, being so worked up over someone he doesn’t even really know. Sure, everyone knows Steve fucking Harrington, and everyone sees Steve fucking Harrington — whether they want it or not. He has a way of drawing eyes toward him even if all he does is walk the halls with his dorky smile and that stupidly charming swagger he’s got going on. Always matching his shoes to his outfit.

Eddie can relate.

Always reaching out to touch the person he’s talking to; clapping their back or shoulder, lightly shoving them in jest, ruffling their hair or chasing them through the halls, moving and holding himself like teenage angst can’t reach him. Like he belongs wherever he goes. Like he’s so, so comfortable in his own skin. Like the clothes he wears aren’t armour but just a part of him; a means of self-expression. 

Again, Eddie can relate. He can relate to all of this. 

It’s almost like the two of them aren’t so different after all. Just going about it differently. 

And now he’s… Bleeding. Slurring his speech. Wheezing his breath. And Eddie feels protective. Eddie feels responsible. Like he should be there, like he should get to know more about him. About Steve. About Blue. 

But he can’t. And he won’t. So he gets up with a groan that expresses his frustration and the need to make a sound, to fight the oppressive silence that only encourages his thoughts to run in obsessive little circles, and he hangs up the phone that’s been dangling beside him all this time. 

He needs a smoke. 

He needs a smoke and a blunt and a drink and for this day to be over and for time to revert and to leave him out of whatever business he stumbled into by opening the door to the boathouse and, apparently, Steve Harrington’s life. 

But unfortunately, the universe doesn’t seem to care about what he needs, because just as he steps outside and goes to light his cig, he catches sight of a harried looking Robin Buckley, standing on the pedals of her bike as she kicks them, her hair blowing in the wind to reveal a frown between her brows. A wave of unease overcomes Eddie, an unease he can’t really place. Maybe it’s the set of her jaw, or the tension in her shoulders, or maybe it’s the worry and anger she exudes. 

It never occurred to him before that Robin Buckley might not be a person you’d want to set off. And not because of her uncontrollable rambles. 

“Munson!” she calls over, carelessly dropping her bike in the driveway and stalking toward him. 

Almost as if summoning a shield, Eddie does light the cigarette. Pretends like the smoke can protect him. 

She doesn’t stop at the foot of the steps, though, climbs them in two leaps and gets all up in his space with that unwavering look of determination — so unwavering, in fact, that it almost looks like wrath. Cold. Eddie wants to shrink away from it, not at all daring to wonder what could make her look like that upon hearing that Steve’s hurt. 

I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture.

But those are the words of a semi-conscious teenage boy beat to a pulp, they can’t— There’s no way. Eddie misheard him, or Steve was talking about some kind of inside joke, using the wrong terminology with the wrong guy. It happens. It happens when you’re out of it, really! The shit he’s said when he was shot up, canned up, all strung out and high as a kite… He’d be talking of monsters, too, and mean some benign shit. 

But the way Harrington looked, none of that was benign. The bruising all over his face, the blood still dripping from the wound by his temple or his nose, the way he held himself, breath rattling in his lungs, or— 

“Hey!” Buckley demands his attention, giving him a light shove; just enough to catch his attention, really, and just what he needed to snap out of it. Still the smoke hits his lungs wrong and he coughs up a lung, further cementing his role of the pathetic little guy today. 

“Hey,” he says lamely, his voice still croaking as he crushes the half-smoked cigarette under his boot. “Sorry.” He doesn’t know for what. But it feels appropriate. 

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at him as she crosses her arms in front of her chest. 

“Tell me,” she says at last, and even though there is a tremor in her voice, she sounds nothing short of demanding. “I want the whole story, and I want it now.” 

And so he does. He tells her everything, bidding her inside because he needs the relative safety of the trailer even though the air in here is stuffy and still faintly smells blue. He pours them both some coffee and some tea, because asking what she wants doesn’t feel right in the middle of telling her how he found her supposed best friend beat to shit in the boathouse he went to to forget about the world for a while. 

She stills as she listens to him, staring ahead into the middle distance somewhere beneath the floor and the walls, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug of coffee. Eddie stumbles over his words a lot, unsettled by her stillness, her lack of reaction. She doesn’t even react to his fuck-ups. People usually do.

He wants to ask. Where are you right now? What have you seen? What’s on your mind? What the fuck is happening?

But he doesn’t ask, instead he tells her more about Steve. About how he seemed to forget where he was. About the pain he was in. About the smiles nonetheless. The way he reassured Eddie. 

That one finally gets a choked little huff from her, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. 

“Yeah, that sounds like him alright. He’s such a dingus.” 

There is so much affection in her voice as she says it that Eddie can’t help but smile into his mug. 

“Dingus?” he asks, hoping for some lightness, hoping to keep it. 

But the light fades, and her eyes get distant again. Eddie wants to kick himself. 

“Just a stupid little nickname. An insult, really.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to do with that. If he should ask more or if he should say that he has a feeling Steve might appreciate stupid little nicknames. Especially if they’re unique. Especially if they’re for him. But what right does he have to say that now? What knowledge does he have about Steve Harrington that Robin doesn’t? 

So he bites his tongue and drinks his coffee, cursing the silence that falls over them as Robin mirrors him, albeit slow and stilted, like she doesn’t know what to do either. Or where to put her limbs. 

“Wayne’s got him now. I took him here, after the boathouse, because I didn’t know what to do. He said he didn’t want the hospital, said there’s…” He trails off. 

Robin looks at him, her eyes wary but alert. “Said there’s what?” 

It’s stupid. Don’t say it. 

“Eddie?” 

With a sigh, he puts his mug on the counter and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “He said there’s monsters. In the hospital, I mean. He said that.”

Instead of scoffing or at least frowning, Robin clenches her jaw and nods imperceptibly, her eyes going distant again. Eddie blinks, the urge to just fucking ask overcoming him again, but with every passing second he realises that he doesn’t actually want to ask. He doesn’t want to know, let alone find out. 

He just… He just wants to go to bed. Forget any of this ever happened. But he can’t do that, so he continues. 

“Brought him here and Wayne took one look at him and convinced him he needed a doctor. And, Jesus H Christ, he was right. I’ve never… I mean, those things don’t happen,” he urges, balling his hands into fists even in the confined space of his pockets. “Right? I mean… Shit, man.” He bumps his shoe into the kitchen counter; gently, so as not to startle Buckley out of her fugue like state. 

“You’d be surprised,” she rasps, staring into the middle distance again and slowly sinking to the floor. There is a tremor in her shoulders now, barely noticeable, but Eddie knows where to look. Without really thinking about it, he grabs two of his hoodies he’d haphazardly thrown over the kitchen chairs this morning while deciding on his outfit and realising that it was altogether too warm for long sleeves today. But now, right here in this kitchen, the air tinged with blue, they’re both freezing. 

Because fear and worry will take all the warmth right from inside of you and leave you freezing even on the hottest day of the year. 

She barely looks at him when he holds out his all-black Iron Maiden hoodie to her, freshly washed and all that, but she takes it nonetheless, immediately pulling it on. It’s way too large on her, her hands not showing through the sleeves, her balled fists safe and warm inside the fabric. It would make him smile if only it didn’t highlight her stillness, her faraway stare, and the years he has on her. She’s, what, two years younger than him? Three? 

It seems surreal. Everything, everything does. 

Robin Buckley in his home, sitting on his kitchen floor, swallowed by a hoodie that is a size too large even for him, but it was the last one they had in the store and he doesn’t mind oversized clothes, can just cut them shorter when the need arises or layer them or declare them comfort sweaters for when he wants to just have his hands not slip through the sleeves on some days. And now Robin is wearing his comfort hoodie because her best friend was bleeding in his car earlier and then on his couch and now in his uncle’s car, and they never even talk, but he knows that Robin’s favourite colour is blue, but not morning hour blue because that makes her sad; only deep, dark blues. 

Her favourite colour. Her favourite person. 

It’s so fucking surreal. 

He drops down beside her, leaving enough space between them so neither of them feels caged, and mirrors her position: knees to his chest, chin on his forearms. Staring ahead. 

And silence reigns. 

“Your uncle,” she says at last, finally breaking the silence that’s been grating on Eddie’s nerves and looking at him, really looking as she rests her cheek on her forearms crossed over her knees. “Tell me about him.” 

There is a gentleness to her voice now despite how hoarse it is. Maybe she’s just tired, too. And scared. At least the shivering has stopped. 

Still Eddie frowns, confused as to why she should be breaking the silence to ask about Wayne when everything today has been about Harrington. About Steve. About deep and dark blues. 

“Uncle Wayne?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because,” she begins, and sighs deeply, works to get the air back in her lungs. Eddie wants to reach out, but instead he just clenches his fingers a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie. “My best friend is hurt very badly and the only person with him is your uncle, and I need to know that he’s in good hands. Or I swear to whatever god you may or may not believe in, and granted, it’s probably the latter, but still I swear I’ll give into my arsonist tendencies and burn down this city, starting with your trailer if you don’t tell me that your uncle is a good man who will do anything in his power to make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs. And deserves.” 

Her jaw is set and her bottom lip trembles, but it doesn’t take away from the absolute sincerity in her threat. 

“So, please,” she continues, her voice breaking just a little bit. “Tell me. Tell me about your uncle.” 

Tell me about your favourite person. 

Eddie swallows, and mirrors her position once more, so she can see his eyes and know he’s sincere. Because he’s learned something about eyes today, about how much in the world can change if only you have a pair of eyes to look into. 

And he nods, looking for somewhere to start. “He’s the best man I know. He’s the best man you’ll ever meet.”

She clings to his eyes. Searches them for the truth, beseeching them not to lie. He lets her. 

“Took me in when I was ten, because my dad’s a fuck-up and my mom’s a goner. Took me in again when I was twelve after I ran away. Makes me breakfast and I pretends the dinner I make him is more than edible.” He smiles a little, because how could he not? “He’s my uncle, but still he’s the best parent anyone could wish for. Writes those little notes that he sticks to the fridge, y’know, the one with the smiley face? Tells me to eat, because I forget sometimes. I tell him to drink water, because he forgets. First few years, he’d read to me. And the man’s a shit reader, has some kind of disability I think, and at some point I learned that he wasn’t reading at all. He was telling me stories all the time, conning me into thinking that the books were magic, and that every time I’d try to read the book for myself, the story would change.” 

There’s a lump in his throat now, and his eyes sting again. But Robin doesn’t seem to fare any better than him if her wavering smile is any indication. 

“There’s no one,” Eddie continues, “who will make you believe in magic quite like uncle Wayne. Or in good things. And d’you wanna know what he told Blue when he said he was scared of going to the hospital?” 

Sniffling, Robin shakes her head. 

“He said, Okay. Then we do it scared. And all of that after he just… with that patience he has, told him everything that was gonna happen. And that he’d be there with him through it all. That he knew the doc and wouldn’t let anyone else near him, and that there’s no need to be scared at all.” 

He sighs, breathes, stills. Swallows, before looking back at Robin. 

“So, if there’s one person who’ll make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs and deserves…” 

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Robin finishes his sentence, her voice still hoarse, but Eddie likes to think it’s for a different reason now. 

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Eddie says, nodding along as he does. 

There is something like understanding in Robin’s eyes now, and Eddie hopes it’s enough. Enough to calm the spiking of her nerves, enough to settle the coil of freezing nausea that must reside in the pit of her stomach, enough to let the next breath she takes feel a little more like it’s supposed to be there. 

He wants to say something more, wants to reach out and reassure her that everything will be okay, but he can’t know that. He doesn’t feel like it’s entirely true, let alone appropriate right now. 

There’s something in Robin’s eyes, in the way she holds herself, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she accepts his words at face value but doesn’t really believe them. Like she’ll only rest when she’s got her best friend back in her arms and hears the story — the whole story — from him. 

And Eddie doesn’t fault her, because the thing is, he doesn’t know what happened. Steve said that Hagan came at him, but that’s really all he got out of him before he started talking about death and shit, and Eddie really didn’t want to ask any more questions then. 

So they sit there for a while, the silence oppressive and unwelcome, clumsy and awkward; Robin’s mouth opening and closing a lot, like she wants to ask questions but doesn’t dare to ask them — and Eddie doesn’t know if he’s glad about it or not. Doesn’t know if he wants to hear the kind of questions asked with that kind of stare. 

It is only after a long while, when Robin’s shoulders start shaking again and she buries deeper into the hoodie and her own spiralling thoughts, that Eddie breaks the silence again, replaying in his head the last moment between him and Steve. 

“He’s not gonna break,” he tells her, aiming for gentle and reassuring. 

What he doesn’t expect is the minute flinch, the jolt shooting through her body and the pained expression it leaves her with. What he doesn’t expect is what she says next. 

“You know,” she begins, her voice as far away as her eyes, and it’s like she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. “Sometimes I wish he would.” 

What?

Eddie blinks, swallowing hard.

“Just for, just for a break. Just so he can rest. Let the rest take over for a while.” 

That… He doesn’t— What the hell does that even mean? 

“Like maybe then the world would… snap back.” She snaps her fingers, just once. This time it’s Eddie who flinches. “And everything bad would disappear. But it won’t. And he won’t.” She swallows. Then quietly, almost inaudible, “He won’t break.” 

And the way she says it… It was reassuring before. And now it feels like a burden. A curse. 

Who the fuck are you, Steve Harrington? And you, Robin Buckley. 

Eddie shudders, knowing he doesn’t want the answer to that anymore. He doesn’t want the questions either. So he buries his face in his hands, closes his eyes, and breathes. The adrenaline has worn off by now, the repeated panicking that added fuse to the fire has ceased now, leaving him worn out and strung out, tired and exhausted. He pulls up the hood, burrowing into the warmth. 

And then he stills. His usually twitching, fumbling, fiddling body falling entirely still beside Buckley. 

It’s like time stops for a while there, even though Eddie knows that it’s dragging ever on and on. He’s inclined to let it, though. He’s too tired, too exhausted to really care about what time may or may not be doing. 

“Why’d you call me?” 

It takes a while for Eddie to realise that Robin’s spoken again, asked him a question out loud, the cadence of it different to the endless circles of questions Eddie’s got stuck in his head since the early afternoon tinged in blue against crimson. 

He lifts his head, tucking his hands underneath his chin, and looks over at Buckley. Her hair is dishevelled now, her mascara smudged and crusty. Her lipstick is almost all gone, with the way he sees her biting and chewing on her lips. 

“I… It seemed like the right thing to do, y’know? He kept repeating your number. In the car, it was like… Sounds dramatic, but it was like his lifeline, almost. Repeated it so often it kinda got stuck.” He shrugs. “Seemed important, too.”

Robin frowns; a careful little thing. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Well, he just talked about you. Y’know. Tell me about your favourite person, I told him, because that’s the thing you gotta do to keep people, like, talking to you. Not shit about what day it is, or what. Just, y’know. Let them talk about things they like. Things they’ll wanna tell you about. ’N’ he talked about you.” 

She’s quiet for a while, letting his words sink in. And Eddie wonders if she knew. That she’s his favourite person. If he ever told her. If maybe he took that from him now. It’s a stupid thing to worry about, really; the boy was bloodied and bruised on his couch just an hour ago, there are worse things at hand for Eddie to worry about. But now he wonders if he just spilled some sort of secret. Some sort of love confession. 

“Did you, I mean… Are you guys, like, dating? Did I just steal his moment?” 

Robin huffs, but it’s more like a smile that needs a little more space in the room, a little more air to really bloom. It’s fond. She shakes her head, her eyes far away again, but closer somehow. 

“Nah,” she says, and the smile is in her voice, too. Eddie kind of likes her voice like that. “We’re platonic. Which is something I’d never thought I’d say. Not about Steve Harrington, y’know?” 

And the way she drags out his name… Eddie can relate. Like it means something, but like what it means is nowhere close to reality. Nowhere close to what it really means. Nowhere close to Blue. 

Robin sighs, the sound more gentle than it should be, and leans her head against the cabinet behind her. “We worked together over summer break. Scoops Ahoy.” Her voice does a funny thing, and her eyes glaze over as she pauses. Eddie waits, his lips tipped up into a little smile, too; to match hers. 

“What, the ice cream parlour?” 

Robin hums, her smile widening at what Eddie guesses must be memories of chaos and ridiculousness. “I wanted to hate him,” she continues. “But try as I might, he wouldn’t let me. Or, he did. He did let me. Just, it turns out, there’s no use hating Steve Harrington, not when he’s so… So endlessly genuine. There’s nothing to hate, y’know? And then he…” 

She stops, her mouth clicking shut as her eyes tear up a little. The Starcourt fire. Eddie remembers the news, remembers the self-satisfied smirk when he’d heard about it, remembers sticking it to the Man and to capitalism and to the idea of malls over supporting your friendly neighbourhood businesses. 

Guilt and shame overcome him as he realises that they must have been in there when it happened. 

“He saved your life?” 

Robin’s eyes snap toward him, wide and caught, and Eddie raises his hands in placation. 

“In the fire? Were you there?” 

“Y—yeah.” She swallows hard, avoiding his eyes. “The fire. He saved me. Yeah.” 

Eddie nods, deciding to drop that topic right there; to lay it on the ground as gently as he can and cover it with bright red colours so he never steps on it ever again. 

“He must be your favourite person, too, then, hm?” he steers the conversation back away into safer waters. 

“He is,” she says, sure and genuine and true. “It’s just. I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s favourite. He has a lot of people who care about him, you know? A lot of people he cares about. Even more numbers memorised in that stupidly smart head of his.” She huffs again, burrowing deeper into Eddie’s hoodie, pulling the sleeves over her hands some more. “It’s stupid, to be so hung up on this. Is it stupid?” 

“I don’t think it is,” Eddie says, scooting a little closer to Robin. “Like, I don’t even know that boy, right? But even I know that he’s got some ways to shift your focus or something. Give you a silver lining, or something to take the pain away even when he’s the one who… I don’t know, that’s probably stupid, too.” 

“Nah,” Robin says, scooting closer to him, too, until their sides are pressed together and she can lay her head on his shoulder. “It’s not stupid. You’re right; that’s Steve for you. ’S just who he is.” 

It is, isn’t it? 

You’re so blue, Stevie. 

She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.

Blue. ‘S nice. 

Yeah. Yeah, he is. 

Eddie lets his thoughts roam the endless possibilities and realities that is Steve Harrington, the depths he hides — or won’t hide, maybe, if you know how to ask. Where to look. 

Maybe he’ll find out, one of these days. Not about the terrible things that leave him scared of the hospital, not about the horrible things that have him speaking of death and dying like he’s accepted them as a possibility a long time ago. 

He swallows hard and shakes off these thoughts, because things like that just. They don’t happen. They don’t happen to blue-smiled boys who trust you to be kind even when they’re beaten straight to hell. And they sure as hell don’t happen when uncle Wayne’s around. 

Nothing bad has ever happened when uncle Wayne was around. 

And he wants to tell Robin, wants to make that promise. But part of him can’t bear the thought of being wrong. So he keeps his mouth shut and just sits with her, their heads as heavy as their hearts as they wait. 

The sun is long gone when the phone above him rings again, spooking and startling them out of their timeless existence. 

“Yeah?” he answers, his heart hammering in his chest. “Wayne?” 

“Hey, Ed,” Wayne’s voice comes through the phone like a melody. Calm and steady. Robin is scooting closer, and Eddie shifts the phone to accommodate her so they can both listen. Somehow, they ended up holding hands — and holding on hard. “We’re coming home now.” 

🤍🌷 tagging:

@theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 @annabanannabeth @deany-baby @mc-i-r @mugloversonly @viridianphtalo @nightmareglitter @jamieweasley13 @copingmechanizm @marklee-blackmore @sirsnacksalot @justrandomfandomstm @hairdryerducks @silenzioperso @newtstabber @fantrash @zaddipax @cometsandstardust @rowanshadow26 @limpingpenguin @finntheehumaneater @extra-transitional (sorry if i missed anyone! lmk if you don't wanna be tagged for part 4 🫶)

[hbdttg]

“Hold the elevator!”

The elevator doors are mere inches from closing, but Steve dutifully shoots a hand out to stop them. They slide back open, revealing a flustered-looking man about Steve’s age on the other side.

He’s dressed head to toe in black, decked out in a simple black pullover with a modest V-neck, snug black jeans, and all-black leather Chucks with a messenger bag slung across his chest. The messenger bag is, unsurprisingly, also black, but covered in a collection of tough-looking patches and pins in varying shades of—well, it’s mostly red, dark red, white, and some yellows, but the pops of color still stand out against his otherwise monochrome ensemble.

His dark, curly hair reaches a little past his shoulders and he’s got this frankly outdated fringe that, despite its very 80’s vibe, frames his face perfectly. His eyes are large and expressive, and he’s got this frantic energy about him that reminds Steve of a live wire. He’s nothing like the buttoned-up suits Steve usually shares his elevator rides with each morning, and it’s a refreshing change of pace.

The man gives Steve a thankful look before stepping into the elevator and leaning against the side wall. “Thanks,” he says, a little distractedly. He’s got a pair big of headphones on and Steve realizes he’s in the middle of a phone call when he adds, “No, not you, Gare, I was thanking the guy who held the elevator for me. Yeah, this building’s crazy. There’s a whole-ass sixtieth floor—guess I’m kind of a big deal now.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, reaching for the panel beside him.

As the doors close and the elevator starts to slowly ascend, Steve notices the man pressed the button for the floor above his. Both the fifty-second and fifty-third floor buttons are lit in a halo of green.

“You know I didn’t want to leave you guys,” the man continues, a bit more quietly now that he and Steve are sharing the same small space, “but shit, I couldn’t turn down the pay.” He scoffs. “Ugh, listen to me, just another cog in the capitalist machine. Man, if high school me could see me now. High school Eddie used to talk big about forced conformity and rising up against the man, and now here I am—”

Steve tries not to listen to the one-sided conversation going on beside him, but it’s difficult when a moment later, he hears his own name.

“—clocking in for my first day at fuckin’ Harrington Hargrove Hagan. The pretentious bastards can’t even shorten it to an acronym or something. God forbid they have to miss out on the sound of their own names.”

Steve manages to hold in the obnoxious snort that threatens to escape him. He’s starting to think he might like this guy—Eddie, his mind supplies helpfully—but Eddie’s next words have him freezing in place.

“And it’s nepo baby central. Yeah, pretty sure all the H kiddies are hotshot brokers with the company. All the biggest accounts—gee, I wonder why.”

Steve can feel the back of his neck burning hot with a mixture of annoyance and shame as Eddie cracks a caustic joke about silver spoons and trust funds.

“You’re kidding, one of them works at this branch? Damn, I guess I’ll just keep an eye out for the guy who most looks like he’s got a giant stick up his ass.”

This is quickly becoming the longest elevator ride of Steve’s life. He grits his teeth and stares fixedly at the floor display panel above the elevator doors, watching the numbers climb higher and higher. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.

“Listen, I should go, but let’s grab a drink at the Hideout later. Cool, see you then. Bye.”

Forty-one. Forty-two.

Eddie removes his headphones and shoves them into his bag, angling slightly toward Steve. “Sorry about that, man.”

“You’re good,” Steve says shortly, not looking away from the changing numbers. They reach the forty-seventh floor, and all the while, he feels Eddie’s gaze on him.

It’s not like he’s openly staring, but there’s a certain weight to his furtive glances that completely counteracts his attempts at subtlety. It’s the type of gaze Steve’s familiar with, one that he’s been on the receiving end of since his sophomore year of high school when he hit a growth spurt and actually learned how to style his hair. Assessing. Appreciative. Interested.

And in any other situation, Steve would gladly engage. He’d turn on the charm, quirk the corner of his lip up in that way Robin always rolls her eyes at but reluctantly acknowledges as ‘passably effective’, and maybe even make up an excuse to sidle a bit closer.

But he’s not giving this guy his A-game.

Instead, Steve waits in stifling silence until the fifty-second floor is announced and the doors slide open. He steps forward to exit, but at the very last moment stops in the doorway.

He initially wasn’t going to say anything—though, a past version of himself would have definitely spat something biting and bitchy to Eddie about his snark, would have snootily told him to take his little assumptions and shove them where the sun don’t shine—but sooner or later Eddie’s going to realize he and Steve are colleagues, and he’s going to remember shit-talking him in an elevator on his first day of work, and it’s going to be awkward and uncomfortable.

Steve’s just speeding up the timeline, pushing for the sooner rather than the later, when he decides to spin around and fully face Eddie.

“I think you pressed the wrong button,” he says, all sweet and helpful like he’s talking to Dustin’s mom over a sink full of soapy dishes. “Couldn’t help but overhear that you work at Harrington Hargrove Hagan. It’s on the fifty-second floor, not the fifty-third.” Then he takes a small step backward, moving out into the carpeted hallway.

“Oh.” Eddie scrambles for his phone, unlocking it and scrolling quickly until he finds something that has him straightening up and smiling gratefully at Steve. “I guess I remembered it wrong. Thank you.” He pushes away from the wall, takes a step forward to follow Steve out, but then stops dead in his tracks.

Steve gleefully notes the line of Eddie’s gaze, how it lingers at the breast pocket of his shirt, where, clipped to a retractable badge reel, his building keycard hangs. Eddie evidently hadn’t noticed it during the elevator ride up, but he’s certainly fixated on it now.

Perhaps on the abstract yet easily recognizable Harrington Hargrove Hagan logo in the top right corner.

But more likely, based on the positively mortified look growing on Eddie’s face, on the name clearly printed underneath Steve’s photo in bold, black lettering: STEVE HARRINGTON.

Slowly, Eddie drags his eyes back up to Steve’s face. He stares in silence, eyes bugging nearly out of his head, face turning a concerning shade of pink, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and his reaction is extreme enough that a small part of Steve is almost inclined to take pity on the guy and laugh it all off.

Unfortunately for Eddie, a bigger part of Steve thinks Eddie looks kind of cute all red-faced and embarrassed like this. So he glances down at himself thoughtfully before turning his attention back on Eddie. “Wow,” he says with exaggerated astonishment, “now that you mention it, I guess I do look like I’ve got a giant stick up my ass.”

As if on cue, the elevator chimes in warning. The doors begin to close, but Eddie just remains rooted in place with that same wide-eyed, horrified expression.

When it becomes clear he has no intentions of actually exiting the elevator, Steve chuckles and wiggles his fingers in a cheeky little wave. “Welcome to the team,” he says airily, before Eddie’s still-blushing face disappears behind the elevator doors.

/ Now with a Part 2!

[nctsworld]

a neo a day keeps the feelings at bay [76/∞] 

[manicpixiefelix]

Felix: I really hope my family doesn't scare Ollie off when he arrives later today.

Y/N, who got very stoned with Farleigh in the gardens just before lunch: ❤️✨🥰 Oh my god, that's right, I get to hang out with you and Ollie all summer. 🥰✨❤️

[abyssruler]

PRINCESS AND THE FROG AU WITH SCARAMEOW WHO WAS TURNED INTO A CAT BY THE EVIL AND SCHEMING DOTTORE AND NEEDS A TRUE LOVE’S KISS TO TURN HIM BACK TO HUMAN

PINOCCHIO AU WHERE EI GIVES HIM AN ULTIMATUM WHERE HE NEEDS TO FIND TRUE LOVE WITHIN A CERTAIN TIME LIMIT OR HE WILL REMAIN A PUPPET FOREVER

LITTLE MERMAID AU WHERE SCARAMOUCHE FALLS IN LOVE WITH YOU AND GIVES UP THE GNOSIS TO THE EVIL JESTER SO HE CAN HAVE LEGS AND BE WITH YOU

SLEEPING BEAUTY AU WITH SCARA AND HIS FAIRY GODMOTHER NAHIDA WHERE HE FALLS INTO A DEEP SLUMBER BECAUSE OF THE EVIL WITCH SIGNORA’S CURSE ON HIM WHEN HE WAS BORN AND ONLY TRUE LOVE’S KISS WILL WAKE HIM UP

JUST. FAIRY TALE AUS WITH SCARAMOUCHE

[oracleact]

« nothing on me »

bayverse raph x reader / fluff + angst

notes: 1.8k words, first person pov, established relationship, gender neutral reader (no pronouns used,) details of injuries and tending to said injuries.

a knock on the window at 3am? that only means one thing: the turtles are here. smiling, I rub the remnants of sleep from my eyes and hop out of bed to open up the curtain. only one turtle faces me at the window though - raphael.

I open the window and help his wide frame step down from the ledge, but my previous smile fades fast when raph groans in pain as he steps onto the floor.

“raph, what’s wrong? where are the rest of the boys? what happened?” I speak as fast as possible to try and get to his answer, worry eating away at me with each second that passes.

my raph is the mass strength and rough hand amongst the turtles. he can handle a lot of damage since he always manages to deal out more than what is done onto him. seeing him bent over, actually using my arm for support and not simply holding me because he wants to, groaning in genuine pain rather than letting out his usual gruff noises of acknowledgment - that scares me. it terrifies me when I don’t know what has happened.

“I told them to check on dad,” he begins breathlessly, “I needed you. it’s really bad this time.”

my eyes widen and I hurry him to the side of my bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. I grasp his face in my hands to check him over, turning his head every which way, but see nothing apart from a few new scratches on his skin.

“what do you mean ‘really bad,’ raph? you’re scaring me.”

“my—“ he lifts his arm and tries to reach for the back of his shell, failing miserably and almost howling out in pain, “my shell, sweetheart. I haven’t seen it yet but I heard it crack and this pain is too much for it to just be taped up.”

I scuttle around his large form and am immediately hit with the sight of a deep crack in the middle of his shell. he was right to come straight to me with this one. he should always come to me with injuries but is too stubborn most of the time and rides out the pain: ‘it may look bad to you but it’s nothing on me.’

when the boys started to properly use their skills outside of the lair, with the risk of larger injuries increasing, I began to research and teach myself how to handle ones specific to these mutants. thanks to many in depth articles about turtle care, I have safely cleaned and covered up small cracks before. the only difference between the boys and ‘normal’ turtles in regards to care like this is their size - it takes longer and requires more focus to clean cracks, ensuring that they can heal appropriately over time. although tonight’s damage will take double that, and maybe more.

“oh raph, oh my…how? wait, don’t answer that. I’m doing my first aid stuff then we can talk about it, okay?” he nods with a sad smile and all I can do is reach out and cup his cheek, returning the expression he gave me. he moves my hand to his lips for a quick kiss before I start scurrying off to grab what I need.

let’s see - chlorohexidine solution, q-tips, cotton pads, adhesive patches and a towel. is that all I need? I have no idea right now; I’m so scared to touch him that I feel like stalling for as long as I can.

I walk slowly back to where he sits on the edge of my bed, his head resting in one hand as the other rubs at his tired eyes. I lay down all that I grabbed from the bathroom before taking a deep breath and sitting down behind him. the room is silent for a couple of minutes after that, my heart beating loudly in my ears. I can’t break my anxious stare away from the crack in his beautiful carapace.

“hey…” raph speaks ever so softly to get my attention.

“yeah— sorry. I’m sorry,” I feel tears begin to form in my eyes. I hate seeing him hurt like this. “I’m going to fix you up. I promise I’ll fix this. I’ll touch around your shell, away from the crack, and you tell me how it feels. let me know how much the pain has spread.”

he gestures ‘yes’ to me but with a frowned brow, “don’t cry, love. everything is okay. I’m raphael, remember? this is nothing on me!”

but I can see it - I can see the pain written on his face, the way his eyes look misty. I don’t want to push him to talk nor do I want to directly acknowledge the pain I can see; I don’t want to break his protective wall at a time like this. it wouldn’t be fair to do so. I wipe my tears and get straight to work instead.

my small hand reaches out for him, gently patting around the edges of his shell then smoothing over the surface, “that’s not bad at all. it just feels tingly, like the nice kind of tingly you give me.” I giggle at him. it’s a relief that the shell hasn’t shattered or anything and he can feel my hand like always.

I’ve spent so many nights tracing over the faint patterns of his plastron and committing the texture to memory. it helps calm him after a stressful training day or when he can’t sleep. it secretly calms me too because it’s just us in those moments, the rest of the world fading away and leaving only raph and I. there’s no need to jump away from my hold to save new york when my touch melts away the city completely. nothing can break us out of that warm paradise as long as we are together.

despite the touch test going well, the cleaning of his wounds will definitely be painful since the crack is open and noticeable. I pour some of the solution onto a q-tip and tell raph to start breathing slowly and deeply. I help him set a pace for it before I begin to clean.

he hisses in pain when the piece of cotton comes in contact with the wound and my tears start to flow again, “I know baby, but this part is important,” I sniffle and reach my free hand for his, “use me to balance yourself.”

“I’ll break your little hand,” there is a fracture in his voice as he speaks but he still manages to let out a chuckle with his words.

“breathe and squeeze, raph, don’t worry about me.”

and so he did - each time I dipped the cotton into the crack he inhaled and exhaled quickly whilst grasping my hand in his. I rubbed my thumb over his rough skin in an attempt to ground us both over and over again.

“one last clean and then I’ll patch it up and be done for tonight.” he lets out a loud sigh at that, obviously glad that the stinging will be over soon. I hear him lowly whimper but force a cough after in an attempt to hide the noise. once again I don’t press him on it, I just kiss the back of his hand to let him know it’s alright.

the last step is to cut adhesive patches to fit the crack, making sure to leave small gaps at the ends to allow air to flow through. this process isn’t all that different from putting a bandaid on a human arm, and thank goodness for that. I want to do everything I can to help raph, to ease his pain, so this being a somewhat ‘easy’ task to complete means luck is on my side right now.

with the last piece secure I get up from the bed to face him again, giving him a small smile to let him know it’s done. I slip myself between his legs and reach out to untie his bandana. his eyes close as he presses his head onto my chest to give me access to the tie at the back.

sliding the cloth from his face, I set it on the bed and wipe underneath his eyes; he looks so worn out. my fingers move down to draw along the scars from previous battles and to check over any new cuts, the pad of my thumb eventually landing on the most prominent scar across his upper lip. my raph, my hero, our hero…with the scars to prove it all.

“give it a week and see how the shell starts to heal. if we need to do more then I’m ready for that. I’ve done my research, you’re looking at a certified mutant turtle nurse,” I wink at him as he laughs and nuzzles further into my hold.

he looks up at me with those gorgeous eyes, the light of the moon catching in them. he may be hurt but he’s here with me and healing in my arms, and I’ll hold this man forever to show him how much he means to me. he’s looking at me in the same way - in awe of what’s in front of him - both of us dumbly grinning at each other. although, he does break eye contact when a yawn suddenly comes bursting out.

“do you want to talk about what happened, or do you want to catch some z’s first?”

“hmm…as much as I want to tell you about how much of a badass I am, I really want to crash.”

he moves to lay on his back before I catch his shoulders with high pitched squeak, “shell!” I whisper-yell at him. his lips form an ‘o’ and I shake my head. only raph could forget about his injuries that quickly.

I slip into the bed first and hold out my arms, beckoning him to follow and to lay on his stomach. he does so almost instantly, getting comfy against me and wrapping his arms around my waist.

“thank you for everything. I trust you with my life, you know.”

“and I trust you with mine, big red.”

I’m seemingly stuck staring down at him, just in stupid awe once more. watching how his eyes are effortlessly closed, evident that he is exhausted, with a faint smile playing on his lips as he shifts around to find the best snoozing position. his shell is now what catches the attention of the moon and I feel satisfied with my work on the crack. I’m still worried but the patch looks good and secure from afar so I’ll take it for it now.

I’m so happy that this brave and unstoppable mutant turtle trusts me with his open wounds, with his physical and emotional scars, with his love and being. this life of ours is crazy in so many ways but I wouldn’t ask for anything to change. well, less wounds here and there would be nice but that might be asking for too much.

[youphoriaot7]

The chaos of newcomers is never something Fit exactly...anticipates. In fact, he doesn't really like it all that much—not because he's anti-social, but because it just means yet another innocent being trapped on this island of hell with no way out, and frankly, he isn't quite sure they should be celebrating that.

That being said, he's not just going to let some newbie die because they couldn't find their way out of a stone tower.

Which is how he finds himself leaning against the doorframe in the loud room, watching people buzzing back and forth with excitement. He rolls his eyes, a small smile on his face at their chaos even as he steps back. Bad, Niki, and Cellbit are attempting to brute force the locked door—but that'll take at least ten minutes. He has time to burn.

His eyes scan across the room, unconsciously seeking out a familiar figure. He finds it right where he expected it: curled up on a couch, away from the crowds.

...there's an open seat nearby...so why not?

He sinks onto the seat next to Pac. The other man's drooping eyelids snap open as his weight is shifted, and Fit throws him a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you."

But Pac just smiles and shakes his head, sitting upright. "You didn't." It seems as though he wants to say something else, but whatever it is, he swallows the words. Instead, he simply stares down at his hands, fiddling with the cuffs of his hoodie, tugging his hands in and out of the sleeves.

Fit breaks the silence. "...how you doin'?" It's an innocent enough question, if they didn't both know what the scientist had been through. Sure enough, Pac sneaks a glance up at him, giving him a half-hearted shrug in reply.

"...I'm, um...well. I'm really tired," he murmurs, offering up a weak smile. Fit nods in understanding. The past week and a half had been exhausting enough for him, what with Ramon's disappearance and the impending stress of his mission—he can only imagine what Pac's been going through in the past day, much less the past week.

He'll admit it—he's worried about the younger man. Isn't everyone? It's no different than Bad or Phil's worry for Forever, or Cellbit's concern for his friends. Pac is just coming down off of a serious drug. Being tired is normal, right? Fit still isn't sure how he managed to find an antidote, either, or why it was necessary to take the drug in order to find one.

He tries not to worry about it—Pac would tell him if something was seriously wrong. Or not—it was his business, not Fit's. Just like his scientific process. Yeah. It was up to Pac to decide whether or not he wanted to share that information! Never mind the fact that Fit's thoughts were running a mile a minute with theories he did not want to even consider.

Besides, he knew a thing or two about keeping secrets himself. There were some things you simply couldn't tell people, for a variety of reasons: either it put them at risk, or put you at risk, or—

Oh.

He tries not to stiffen at the sudden weight on his shoulder, instead glancing to the side, where Pac's forehead now rests against his plate of armor. The scientist's eyes are closed, lashes sweeping the sunken bags under his eyes. The arms of his hoodie are curled carefully around Fit's prosthetic, gently holding him in place.

...oh.

He takes a careful breath, afraid to move too much for fear of waking the other man. After a few moments of hesitation, he decides to take the plunge: he adjusts his shoulder back a bit, moving the armor out of the way so that Pac's head falls to his true shoulder. Silently, his other hand finds purchase in the folds of Pac's hoodie, resting gently against his arm.

...the door is going to take a minute. They have time to rest.

It seems all too soon that there are cries of triumph from the other room. Pac's head jerks up off his shoulder at the excitement, blinking blearily in the dim light of the tower. Fit freezes, unsure of what to do. Should he play dumb? Act like nothing had happened? Let Pac take the lead?

The other man glances down, realization dawning on his face. Slowly, he untangles one of his arms, sitting up against the sofa back. (Fit misses his warmth already.) "...I guess I must've dozed off." Pac laughs softly, scratching the back of his neck as he looks away.

Even while avoiding Pac's gaze, Fit can see the deep crimson blushing up the younger man's neck. He shrugs. "Well, that's good. You probably needed the rest."

He tries to play it off. Tries to ignore the way his heart is still hammering in his chest. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes, why the hell is he acting like some schoolboy?

To his credit, Pac doesn't seem to be doing much better. "Y-yeah," he stammers out, grinning. "Probably." The dark rings under his eyes only compound that fact—has he been sleeping at all?

They sit for a moment, just staring at each other—until Foolish leans over the back of the couch opposite them, starting up some uproarious discussion about glue and vault mechanics and things beyond Fit's comprehension, and Pac is distracted once more.

But Fit can't help but notice that his arm still lays across the sleeve of Pac's hoodie, the other man's fingers still curled around his prosthetic.

He doesn't say a word.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

been thinking of getohime/reader lately….. 😵‍💫😵‍💫 this is just a short word vomit i needed to get off my chest <3

for some reason i’m imagining a college au for them right. a uni au if you will . 

but like. imagine. it’s your first week, everyone’s still adjusting, you just so happen to get them as partners for a group project…. and they’re just. kind of hard not to love? they’re both so intelligent and competent and helpful, so kind and easy to talk to.

effortlessly charming. 

suguru who brings you both coffee when you meet up for the project early in the morning, and waves you off when you try to pay him back. effortless. utahime who goes to the cafeteria to get you more when you run out, knowing the lines will be absolutely hellish. effortless — even when you catch her almost tripping over her own two feet as she nears your table.

geto and his kind eyes, utahime and her comforting smiles. their cozy sweaters and pretty hands and half-rim glasses. effortless, effortless, effortless.

it’s just a project, you barely even know them, but conversation flows so easily, and time passes so quickly. they’re both smart and maybe a little bit bossy, but in a good way — a we’ve already started on the outline while the other groups haven’t even decided on a topic kind of way. a fact they’re both evidently smug about, but they hide it well, tuck it in between upturned lips and crinkled eyes. 

it’s nice to work with people who won’t slack off, people who take their studies seriously. it’s even nicer to work with people who smile when you meet their eyes, who ask if you have any pets while showing you pictures of their own, who purr out a satisfied good work when you’re done for the day.

they’re nice. charming. you’re friends before you know it, and suddenly utahime is waiting for you outside the university every morning, suguru is taking a seat next to you whenever you have lectures together. you share pictures of your cats in the group chat you made and complain about how vague your professor’s instructions are. you learn that suguru likes to tease, that utahime can be snarky, that she laughs at her own jokes with a cute little snort. that suguru secretly likes the gossip he pretends not to indulge in. 

suguru brings you coffee, utahime gets you more; he thanks her and she smiles, you thank her and it grows. and so on.

so, really, it’s a coincidence. a stroke of luck, that you were paired up with them, that it happened so early that none of you really had the chance to establish any other friend groups. other things weren’t coincidental, like the fact that you’re so close in age, that all of you are crippling people pleasers, that you have a tendency to get attached a little too quickly.

the group project goes well, obviously. very well. again, you see the smugness in their smiles, their crinkled eyes — show offs, you think, but they’re cute about it. suguru tells you that you did well, utahime does the same. when you return the statement their smiles grow just a little wider, and you think nothing of it because that’s just how they are — effortlessly warm.

at this point, you’ve wriggled your way into each other’s routines. so nothing changes, even after you receive your passing grade. you still walk to class together, still choose to sit side by side in the lecture hall. you never delete the group chat, and the cat pictures keep coming. your friend group grows; suguru has known a guy from the physics department since middle school, utahime is good friends with a biology major. you eat lunch together, go to the nearby convenience store between lectures. study in each others’ dorms. they’re all pretty lovely.

but you, and suguru, and utahime have a special kind of bond — the kind where you could sit together in complete silence, and anyone passing by would still be able to tell you were friends. silences are always comforting, their smiles always warm.

they dote on you a lot. satoru and shoko make fun of them for it; every time utahime absently adjusts your scarf, when suguru ties your shoelaces without being asked to. you’re always in the middle, squished between them in crowded trains, right arm linked with utahime’s, touching pinkies with suguru to your left. utahime blows on your coffee before giving it to you, suguru lets you rest on his shoulder when you’re sleepy. and so on. 

and yeah, it’s kind of embarrassing, but they’re just… really casual about it? effortless, as always. like it comes to them without thinking.

but satoru and shoko still find it funny, still won’t stop referring to them as your mama and papa, won’t stop pulling your cheek and teasing you until suguru and utahime come to your rescue. which only really proves their point.

it’s a joke, obviously. none of it should be taken seriously. 

… but, as you grow closer, and time passes, you think to yourself that maybe you are a bit of a third wheel. 

because they look so good together. matching glasses, matching sweaters, matching wits and brains. they keep up with each other so effortlessly, joking around, indulging in idle banter, talking about some baseball game they both watched last night. it’s not like they ever make you feel left out; doting on you comes easy, and they make sure you’re always comfortable. 

that’s another joke — that you’re the favorite of the group. the baby. you wish you could believe it.

utahime and suguru are twin suns. bright smiles, warm souls, hearts that always melt when it matters. they shine brighter than anyone else, so you really don’t get a say in loving them. 

it’s easy to feel small, in their presence. easy to feel a sting when people mistake them for a couple, even though you have no reason to feel sad about it. they’re your friends. what business do you have in who they choose to date? 

that’s what you tell yourself, when you notice them speaking from afar. when they abruptly stop as soon as you’re in earshot. when you catch utahime texting him in the middle of your lecture, when you realize that there are things they can’t talk to you about. things they don’t want to talk to you about.

so, obviously, you assume that this is it. that your destiny is to be their third wheel, the baby of the group, the person they’ll hang out with when they need some variety. 

which is fine. obviously. even if it stings.

you know your place.

(what you don’t know is that their little talks consist of sheepish excuses and irritated grumbles, because neither of them can seem to make any kind of progress in their plan to ask you out.

when they eventually muster up the courage to corner you, to tell you, their eyes will be bright and their smiles will be kind. understanding, merciless, so bright it’ll blind you. utahime will hold your hand and suguru will adjust his glasses. they’ll be nervous, but as charming as ever.

effortless, effortless, effortless, in the way utahime will hug you once you say yes, the way suguru won’t manage to stop himself from kissing the bridge of your nose.)

until then, you’ll assume it means nothing. you’ll let them buy you coffee and adjust your scarf and dote on you, and completely miss the playful glares they shoot each other when one of them hogs your attention.

[hybrid-aliens]

The scarf is 100% used as a baby holder. I love this fanfic and it makes such good content for my brain makes me wanna eat it. go read it :>>

It’s Three-Sided Coin by @leglessstreetlights

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44084961/chapters/110847096 

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

i just wanna see more of these two dorks interacting omg >:'D <333

[quackquackcey]

Ch. 17: Hedgehogs, Honey, & Hazelnut-Covered Strawberries

Written for @hdcandyheartsfest day 17 prompt: happy tears. 683 words. Many thanks to my beta @wqtson​! 💛

Start from beginning on AO3 here, or click the #fic: HHHS tag.

Summary:

A chance meeting—or is it a setup?—leads to the start of a relationship filled with buttery baked goods, sweet smelling flowers, and hedgehogs.~ 🌹🦔

“So, you said you had something important to tell me?”

Potter stood stiffly in Draco’s sitting room, clearly reluctant to sit down, with puffy, red-rimmed eyes partially hidden behind his round glasses and a wan smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Draco was so nervous he couldn’t breathe. “Um, right. You— You left before dessert last night,” he said as he tried to build up his courage. “Is everything alright?”

“I didn’t feel great,” lied Potter. “Maybe I ate something weird. Not your food,” he clarified, “but I did eat some yoghurt that could’ve been bad.”

Draco knew for a fact that Potter never ate yoghurt outside of the yoghurt sauce that came with their Indian takeaway.

“Um….” Draco felt like the inside of his mouth was the Sahara desert. He licked his lips, the words he wanted to say rolling around his mind like tumbleweed. “So, um, I— Do you want some lemonade?”

“…Sure,” said Potter, but before Draco even entered the kitchen, he said, “I know already. About the card.”

Draco turned around—he was on the verge of tears from sheer nerves even though he’d said absolutely none of what he wanted to say, but now, the distance between him and Potter had never felt greater.

Not even when Potter had hated his guts during Hogwarts.

“It’s fine,” said Potter, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. He seemed to misunderstand Draco’s deer-in-headlights expression. “You didn’t need to pretend you never got it, you know. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I just….” He sighed and shook his head, then turned to leave. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“Ah, wait!” The tears finally overflowed and spilled down Draco’s cheeks, and he didn’t even know why—he wondered since when he’d become such a crybaby. “I— I didn’t mean to—”

Potter looked shocked. “Hey, don’t cry, don’t cry,” he tried to console Draco. “Shh, hey, it’s fine, Malfoy, it’s my fault for owling you that card and bouquet out of the blue. I’m just sorry I made you awkward all this time—”

Draco grabbed the Valentine’s card from the sofa table’s drawer and shoved it in Potter’s hands. “I didn’t know,” he cried, his vision so blurry with tears he couldn’t even make out Potter’s expression. “I— I looked for a name, but—”

Potter opened the card.

“Oh my god.” The card dropped to the floor as Potter groaned and pulled Draco in for a tight hug. “I can’t believe— I was so nervous I must’ve forgotten to sign it. Merlin, I’m such a complete dunce. This is actually all my fault; god, I’m doubly sorry now, Malfoy.” He rubbed Draco’s back a while longer, then paused. “Wait, then what was the important thing you wanted to tell me?”

Draco didn’t move his face from where he’d buried it against Potter’s shoulder—he didn’t want Potter to see his face in such a teary mess. Instead, he pulled his wand out of his pocket, waved it in the general direction of Potter without looking, then buried his face even tighter against Potter’s now probably soaked shoulder.

Potter didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When he did, his voice sounded strangled.

“Malfoy, look at me.”

Draco did not budge an inch.

“Malfoy,” repeated Potter. “Draco.”

A tingle shivered down Draco’s spine, and Potter smiled—Draco knew he did because Potter smiled against his hair before pressing kisses to his head, then nipped his ear.

Draco yelped. “What’re you—”

The words died in his throat seeing Harry’s wet eyes and all-too-tender smile, and then Draco couldn’t help but tear up again, too.

Harry laughed. “Are you going to cry every time you see my face now?”

“Shuddup,” muttered Draco. “They’re happy tears.”

“They’d better be,” teased Harry as he gently tucked the red carnation Draco had Conjured for him behind Draco’s ear along with his long, silky strands.

‘I love you,’ the red carnation meant.

Harry kissed Draco, and it was wet and salty and perfect.

And then he whispered against Draco’s lips.

“I love you, too.”

[zootzar]

"WELCOME BACK. IT'S SURPRISING THAT YOU'RE STILL CONSCIOUS, NURSE."

@banana-zim & @mybrainisbigpoop more art made from brain maggots on your AU that I adore

[lokust]

Literally anything with lee!miguel orz

I’m especially fond of the miguel/peter b/mj poly dynamic but I’d happily take anything lolol

There was something up with Miguel. Something just... not quite right, and everyone closest to him had noticed it. Hobie and Noir gossiped about his attitude, while Gwen interrogated Lyla in an attempt to get to the bottom of it. Miles minded his own business, but Pavitr and Jess went to Miguel himself to question it.

Miguel was irritable- more so than usual, and he was really, really jumpy. Every little noise, every accidental touch, made him flinch or jerk away as if he was expecting something to happen, but nobody had any idea what.

He was also incredibly snappy- again... more so than usual. Every inquiry about his mental state or general unusual behavior was met with a snarky remark or a near-deadly glare. Everyone had caught attitude from Miguel throughout the day. Well, almost everyone. Everyone but Peter B.

It was no secret that Miguel had something going on with Peter and MJ. What little free time he had was spent in their universe, and the kids had caught glimpses of heart emojis and sweet messages from both Peter and MJ on Miguel's phone, but nobody ever dared say a word about it.

It was unusual for Miguel to spare Peter from his general grumpiness. For some reason, though, Miguel seemed to be an absolute mess anytime Peter was in the room. It was like he couldn't keep his eyes off of Peter, staring at him from across the room and blushing like mad. Even something as simple as the sound of the older spider's voice had Miguel a blushing, stammering mess, but all he could do was hope nobody had noticed, especially Peter.

They had all noticed, especially Peter.

Peter knew exactly what the problem was, and he was not helping.

Every time they were in the same room, Peter sneaked "accidental" touches to Miguel's sides or back. He made it a point to let Miguel know that he noticed the staring. He stared back, smirking while drumming and tapping his fingers against whatever surface he could find. He wanted Miguel to know that he knew.

Miguel was, in fact, in a lee mood. The worst lee mood he'd ever been in.

Miguel finally realized that the only way he'd get through the day without turning into pure mush was by avoiding Peter at all costs. So that was what he did. If Peter was going one way, Miguel went the other; if Miguel noticed their paths crossing, he made a beeline for the bathroom or the closest supply closet; if he walked into a room that Peter just so happened to be in, he immediately walked out in a flustered, frustrated frenzy.

But, of course, Peter noticed. For the last time that day, Miguel had found himself inside a supply closet, peeking out of it for just a moment to make sure Peter wasn't following him, and he let out a sigh of relief as he realized Peter was nowhere in sight and had probably gotten lost in the crowd.

He shut and locked the door, allowing himself a moment to relax. He closed his eyes, resting against the wall as he took deep breaths. He tried his hardest to calm himself down and get rid of the embarrassing blush that covered his entire face and traveled all the way to the tips of his ears.

He sighed once more before taking a deep breath, "Come on, Miguel. Keep it together…”, he said to himself before pushing himself off the wall and opening the door, peaking out one last time before deciding it was safe.

Unfortunately, just as he opened the door, he heard the unmistakable ‘thwip’ of a web shooter, and the door was shut again, white webs covering the knob. Miguel's eyes widened as he stood completely still, blood rushing to his cheeks as his heart started beating nearly out of his chest.

"Turn around”, said the voice behind him, and slowly, Miguel turned around.

There he was, Peter B. Parker, hanging upside down from a web with that goofy smirk. Miguel looked up and mentally kicked himself as he noticed the open vent in the ceiling.

Miguel opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, to try to explain the situation away, but Peter beat him to it, "It’s been awfully hard for me to catch up to you today, Miguel~”, he sing-songed, looking around the small room as he did so “That’s alright, though! I enjoyed our little game of Cat and Mouse”, Peter said before dropping from his web and inching closer to the adorably flustered spider in front of him. "Care to explain why exactly we were playing?", he asked, his voice dropping slightly as he raised one eyebrow.

Peter loved this: toying with Miguel and watching the usually stoic spider crumble into a bashful mess. Even more than watching it happen, he loved knowing that he was the reason.

Miguel's throat went dry as he looked for an explanation, stammering over the beginning of his sentence, “I-I, uh, I don't- I have.. n-no idea what you're talking about. I was just- I came in here to-“

"To hide from me?", Peter teased, stepping even closer to Miguel. Miguel had backed up against the door, his chest nearly against Peter's. "You can't hide from me forever~", he said, placing his hand on Miguel's side and gently drumming his fingers.

Miguel swallowed nervously, his eyes widening as he looked down at Peter's hand and then back up at Peter. He tensed his muscles and bit his lip, preparing himself for the inevitable, but... nothing ever came.

They stood just like that, in total silence, for about half a minute, That teasing smirk never leaving Peter’s face, and Peter’s gaze never leaving Miguel.

Thirty seconds had never felt longer, and Miguel thought surely he would combust as his eyes darted nervously around the small room before finally landing on Peter again. Peter chuckled and rolled his eyes fondly, deciding to give Miguel a break. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna get you”, he said, ruffling Miguel's hair as the younger sighed in relief, “Not yet anyways."

Miguel's eyes widened again as he looked at Peter. That was just cruel. To get him all worked up for it.. and then take it away.

“That was a fun game, my little Spider-Mouse!” Peter said with a giddy laugh, patting Miguel’s cheek gently, "We'll deal with you later. See ya at home, my love!", he said happily before turning around, flicking his wrist at the open vent and hoisting himself back into it, but before he could leave, he was interrupted as Miguel uttered just one word.

“We?”, he repeated, his heart rate increasing as he looked at Peter incredulously. Peter giggled as he peered down at Miguel, nodding and bringing his phone into view, the screen facing Miguel.

“Oh, did I forget to mention that?”, he asked, still smiling from ear to ear, “I texted MJ! Had to let her know about your current condition.”, and sure enough, Miguel caught a glimpse of the few messages Peter had sent MJ over the course of the day.

Peter smiled triumphantly as he saw the look of realization cross Miguel’s face, and he quickly tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Now, I’ll leave you to sit with that information for as long as you need, buddy! I’ll see ya at home- er, we’ll see you at home! Love ya!”, and with that, Peter was gone.

As Miguel stood there in utter disbelief, he finally snapped out of his flustered trance, allowing himself to sink down against the wall and bury his head in hands.

'This is gonna be a long day...'

It was a long day, and Lyla had to pull him out of a smiley daze more times than he’d like to admit. He just couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining the trouble he’d be in when he got to Peter’s place, the way they’d tickle him to pieces, expertly targeting each and every little tickle spot, how they’d tease him…

He couldn’t wait for the end of the day, when he’d finally be able to leave, but once the time finally rolled around, he found himself too nervous to even leave his office.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”, Lyla said as she suddenly appeared, projecting on his desk.

Miguel jumped and hissed at the sudden noise, blushing when he realized it was just Lyla. He cleared his throat awkwardly and sat up straight in his chair, furrowing his eyebrows, “W-What are you talking about?”, he asked, trying to be inconspicuous.

Lyla quirked an eyebrow, propping her hand on her hip and tilting her head, “You really gonna make me text him and tell him to come get you? Is that what you want?”, she asked, not even a hint of a joke in her tone.

Miguel huffed, taken aback by Lyla’s threat as he stared at her with furrowed brows. With a few incoherent grumbles, Miguel stood, still glaring daggers at Lyla. Using his watch, he opened a portal directly to Peter’s house.

His hands shook nervously as he felt his face already heating up. He tried to contain the bashful grin tugging at his lips, but it was no use as he stood in front of the portal. He knew what awaited him on the other side. He knew there was no avoiding it. For a minute or so, Miguel simply stood there, taking deep steady breaths and trying to calm his shaking before finally letting out one heavy sigh… and stepping through the portal.

He was tense as he stood in Peter and MJ’s kitchen, looking around the dimly lit room nervously. He saw the glow of the TV from the living room, and he could smell something sweet- like cookies baking. He took a deep breath as he slowly entered the den from the kitchen, but as he rounded the corner into the den, MJ rounded the corner as well, bumping right into Miguel.

She yelped a bit as she was unaware of his arrival, but as she looked up and saw Miguel’s blushing face, her look of surprise turned to a sweet smile, “Hi there, sweetie”, she spoke softly, her tone loving as she leaned up and kissed Miguel’s cheek, “I’m gonna take these cookies out of the oven”, she said, putting on an oven mitt that had little flower patterns all over it, “I went ahead and made you a treat for… well, after”.

Miguel’s breath hitched in his throat and he buried his face in his hands, but before he could worry himself too much with it, he heard a much louder playful voice from behind him.

“Well, honey, would you like who finally showed up!”, Peter exclaimed, picking up a cookie before hissing in pain and immediately putting it back down, “Oh wow those are hot! Hey, Miguel, we had some matters to attend, right? I think we did!”, Peter spoke quickly, a happy smile on his face as he grabbed Miguel’s wrist and immediately turned on his heels, leading Miguel through the house. “Let’s go, MJ!”

MJ stood with her arms crossed, a slight smirk on her face as she watched Peter all but drag Miguel as the younger spider turned to look at her with wide eyes that were begging for help already. She just chuckled, shaking her head and following after them fondly.

Peter opened their bedroom door and playfully pushed Miguel onto the soft mattress, laying down next to him with one of Miguel’s arms underneath him. Peter smiled at Miguel and ran a hand through his hair, “And look MJ! He must’ve gotten into these clothes before he got here. I always wondered how changing out of a holographic suit worked…”, he said, furrowing his brows a bit in thought. “The tank top’s very subtle though, certainly doesn’t make your intentions too obvious. Very inconspicuous!”. Miguel was practically scowling, but the unusual bright red color of his cheeks certainly decreased the intimidation of it.

MJ couldn’t help but laugh at the two boys as she too laid down beside Miguel and did the same as Peter, pinning one of Miguel’s arms beneath her. Miguel just huffed, his face scrunching up a bit as he turned his neck to look at MJ instead of Peter. MJ raised her eyebrows as she placed a hand on his side, gently tracing her nails up and down, “Oh, do you think I’m gonna save you from him, hun?”, she asked, leaning in a bit closer and dropping her voice to a whisper. “Not a chance, sweetheart”.

Miguel squealed and tugged at his arms a bit as MJ’s nails traveled up to his armpit, and he also wondered what on earth was going through his head when he decided to wear the tank top. Spoiler: it was this exact situation. She spidered her nails slowly and oh so lightly under his arm, watching intently as he let his head fall back against the pillow and bit his lip in an attempt to keep himself from giggling.

Peter chuckled and shook his head, “Holding out on her, hm?”, he asked teasingly as he lifted Miguel’s shirt up above his ribs. “Why don’t you see just how long that works for ya! I’ll bet twenty seconds tops.” Peter placed his hand on the very center of Miguel’s tummy and formed a claw with it. “If you win the bet, we’ll stop teasing. Deal?”

Miguel looked at Peter with wide eyes and shook his head frantically as he realized Peter’s intentions, twisting his hips in an attempt to get away from the hand on his tummy.

“Deal!” Peter said on Miguel’s behalf. “Twenty seconds starting… now!” Suddenly, Peter began digging and clawing all five fingers rapidly into Miguel’s belly, wasting no time in driving him up the wall.

Miguel let out a strained squeal and arched his back, biting his tongue to keep himself from laughing, but there just wasn’t much he could do. Within seconds, he was a blubbering mess, “NNGH! Peheheter! Peter, that’s no f-FAHAHAIR! I cahAN’T!”.

Peter cooed in mock sympathy, moving his hand a bit lower to assault Miguel’s much more ticklish lower belly. He tickled from side to side, clawing from one hip to the other over and over again, “Aww, well, that was only about two seconds. Did you misunderstand the premise of the bet?”, he asked in feigned curiosity, looking over Miguel at MJ. “Should I have been more specific?”, he asked, rapidly squeezing the little bit of pudge at Miguel’s lower tummy.

MJ chortled, shaking her head at her husband as her nails fluttered and danced oh so gently in the center of Miguel’s hollows- a total contrast to the rough tickling Peter was putting his tummy through, but the light flutters gradually became light, quick scratches, “Are you enjoying yourself?”, she asked in that soft, sweet tone. “Is this what you wanted? To come home and let us tickle all your worries away?”.

Miguel shook his head at MJ’s teasing, but his entire body tensed as he let out a squeal, Peter’s hand suddenly jumping from his hip to his armpit. Miguel arched his back as the two opposing sensations persisted: MJ’s light scratching and spidering, and Peter’s rough digging and clawing both assaulting his pits. “W-WAHAIT WAIT!”, he choked out, his face red as tears of mirth pricked at the corners of his eyes, “CAHAN’T- cahan’t tahaHAKE IT!”. He kicked his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists in hopes that it would distract from the tickling, but it was no use.

“Look at those fangs!” Peter said excitedly, “Who knew deadly weapons could be so adorable, am I right?”, he teased as his hand traveled down just a bit, squeezing and pinching at Miguel’s very top rib. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He tugged at his arms and twisted his hips, but it was all fruitless.

“Aww, Peter..”, MJ said as she slipped her hand into his tank top, raking her long nails up and down the side of his rib cage, “He said he can’t take it~”, she cooed, kneading her fingertips into the spaces between the bones.

Miguel’s laughter raised in pitch and volume, and there was nothing he could do to ease the maddening sensation. If he twisted his body to the right, he only brought himself closer to MJ’s long nails, but if he twisted himself to the left, Peter was right there, cooing about how he must love it since he’s trying to get closer.

As evil as they seemed to be, both MJ and Peter were in absolute awe as they teased and toyed with the man below them, admiring his blushing face and adorable giggles. Miguel squealed, his eyes shut tight as he squirmed. The two of them looked up at each other, both smiling as they gave a silent acknowledgment of their adoration for Miguel.

“Cant take it, hm?” Peter asked, tweaking up and down Miguel’s rib cage, vibrating a clawed hand into it after delivering a couple teasing pinches and pokes. “What about this? Is this any better for you?”, he asked, knowing damn well he’d just made it ten times worse.

Miguel’s eyes shot open at the sudden sensation of five fingers vibrating against the front of his rib cage while MJ’s nails danced up and down the side of his ribs. He couldn’t take it. “NAHAHA! STOPSTOPSTOHOHOP! MJ, HEHEHELP! M-Mahahake him stOHOP!”, he pleaded, tugging desperately at his arms. He needed to get away, but he couldn’t, and he really didn’t want to, but he thought certainly they’d tickle him to tears. He tried to take a deep breath through his loud belly laughter in an attempt to ease the sensation as he thought there was certainly no way it could get any more ticklish.

Oh, how wrong he was.

MJ giggled and shook her head, kissing his cheek, “You know I can’t do that, sweetie. You waited all day for this, why would I stop him now?”, she asked, only half teasing him. He had waited all day, and they were definitely making up for it, but suddenly, MJ’s nails latched onto his lowest rib, and a loud hiss sounded through the room in unison with a couple yelps as Miguel’s loud laughter turned to frantic giggles. It took him a moment to realize the tickling had stopped, his two partners looking down at him with wide eyes and smug grins. As he calmed down, he looked up at them, still giggling a bit, “W-Whahat is it?”, he asked, his face flushed red as he looked between the two of them.

MJ giggled, tilting her head as she spoke, “You hissed at us!”, she said, playfully feigning anger. Miguel’s eyes widened, realization hitting him like a train as he hurried to apologize, but he couldn’t get the words out before Peter was chiming in.

“That you did! And not to mention..”, Peter sat up, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding down at Miguel’s hand, “You stabbed us! Stabbed us both right in the back! What do you have to say for yourself, mister?”, he asked with a pout. It was clear neither of them were actually upset with him, but that didn’t stop him from feeling tremendously guilty.

Miguel gasped as he looked at his own hand, his claws now fully on display. He pulled his now free hand to his side, doing the same with the other as MJ sat up as well, “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”, he said, stammering over his apology as he hurried to get it out, “Did I hurt you guys? Are either of you bleeding? I really didn’t mean to, I promise! I just- it.. it-”, Miguel trailed off, unable to finish his sentence as he looked down at his hands.

“It tickled?”, MJ offered, smiling at him as she slipped her hand under his shirt, scratching gently up and down his back. He shivered a bit at the feeling of her long nails against his back, but thankfully, her touch was firm enough not to send him into a giggling fit. He really was too ticklish for his own good.

He blushed, curling in on himself and hiding his face in his hands. They knew there was no way he’d answer that, but thankfully, Peter answered for him, “It did! Like crazy probably, but he’s Spiderman”, he said with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure it was no problem for him at all!”

Miguel whined, shooting a glare at Peter before suddenly finding himself pinned down again. This time by webs that trapped his wrist against the headboard. He felt the familiar flutter in his tummy as he tugged at his wrists, “Hey! What are you doing? I-I thought we were done!”

Peter just laughed, tilting his head in confusion, “You thought we were done? Oh no! We were just getting started!”, he said as he and MJ both repositioned. Peter straddled Miguel’s hips, smiling down at him innocently while lifting his shirt up. MJ sat on his shins, facing Peter’s back. “And after all, you did scratch us… On purpose or not, I think that’s worthy of a punishment. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Miguel’s eyes widened as it struck him why they had pinned him in the way that they did, and he shook his head, “N-No! It was an accident, I couldn’t control it!”, he said, huffing a bit and glaring at Peter. “If anything, it was your fault that you got scratched!”

MJ tutted as she suddenly dragged her nails down his thighs. He absolutely should not have worn shorts. “That’s a shame… this could’ve been so much easier on you if you’d just taken responsibility..”.

Before he could protest any further, Peter’s hands were clawed and poised above his tummy, fingers wiggling as those hands got closer and closer, while MJ continued to drag and scrape her nails up and down every muscle and curve of his thighs.

“Remind me, my tickly little spider. Your worst spots are your belly, and your thighs, right?”, Peter asked, a small innocent smile tugging at his lips. Miguel couldn’t even try to conceal his nervous smile, and there was no point in trying to suppress his anticipatory giggles.

Peter’s hands were so close, Miguel swore he could already feel them.

“You ready, Miguel?”

________________

Ummm I GOT A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY SO… THERE’S GONNA BE A PART TWO HSBSHSKL

@tickles-tea I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE THIS BECAUSE I PUT MY WHOLE HEART IN IT😭

[nctsworld]

a neo a day keeps the feelings at bay [73/∞] 

[un-pearable]

knuckles knuckles knuckles kucnkws knuckles knuckles knucklesn d knickers munchkes knuckles knuckles