Based On Actual Events....

You: Is something burning?

John Doe, leaning seductively on the counter: Just my desire for you.

You: John, the toaster is literally on fire.

Don’t yell at me tumblr, there’s no nips or dicks.

Come get your Steddie fix. This took forever.

me, seeing someone left me a comment: screaming, running around the room in circles, kicking my feet up in the air, jumping up and down, giggling to myself, squealing, wiggling, dancing around...

me, replying to someone's comment: Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed it. :)

“I just think you’d be happy with us,” Luffy insists for the fifth time that week, and exhausted, you reach over your shoulder, where he’s leaned over, practically resting his chin on your shoulder, and you grip his face, squishing his cheeks. 

He pouts, but doesn’t break free, and you turn to look at him, giving him a frown. Your eyes lock for a few moments as you challenge him to keep speaking, and he, never intimidated by you even for a moment, even when you are trying, continues talking.

“Just think about it more?”

You’ve thought about it, many times in fact, and every time he returns to this neck of the woods since you met just several months ago, a similar conversation arises. The naivete in the idea of you leaving behind everything you’ve built for this pirate you knew nothing about a year ago amazes you, but Luffy has always had such a confidence and almost innocent directness to the way he communicates his desires that you find it harder and harder to not question your own resistance each time. 

This time he’s particularly persistent, possibly to the point of being annoying. You apply a little bit more pressure to the grip you have on his face until his lips jut out and he whines.

“Hey, that hurts you know!” 

You let go, even if you know you could never truly hurt him, and sigh. 

“You know, asking more times won’t change my answer,” you remind him as he makes a show of stretching his face back to normal, then watches you stack a pile of books together and store them away into a cabinet. He’s keeping you company in your workroom as you finish up the last of your notes before leaving the clinic for the day. These days he no longer uses your friendship with Nami as a pretense to come and see you, and no one is sick - instead he strides in like he’s important to you in his own right, and you hate that he’s right about that. 

You wonder who even lets him in these days.

“What would it take aside from asking?”

You look at him again, tilting your head slightly. 

“To change my mind?” you clarify. 

Luffy nods. You’ve started walking, and he follows closely behind, your sweet shadow as you lock up the room and place the key in your pocket, hands behind his head as he accompanies you down the street to your favorite restaurant. 

Since the last time Luffy came to your city, a month has passed, and for the first time, you have admitted to yourself that you genuinely missed him - seeing his smile in an almost empty cup of coffee, or hearing his hearty laugh in a group of friends huddled at a bar, thoughts drifting to what it must be like for him on the sea whenever you have an idle moment.

Always joyous and free, sea salt and sunshine sinking deep into his skin.

Being by his side sounds more enticing every time he brings it up, but he doesn’t need to know that. In fact, perhaps he should think the opposite, you decide.

You stop suddenly in your tracks, and he stops too, watching you carefully as you make your first demand of him. 

“Bring me a pearl and I’ll think about it,” you start. Luffy looks confused for a second, eyebrows furrowed, and crosses one arm over his chest, his other hand tapping his chin. 

“I mean we could go to a jewelry shop right now but I don’t see why-”

Your look into his own eyes is fiery, interrupting him firmly. “As big as my head. The kind you’d only find hundreds of kilometers deep in the Calm Belt.”

The words are meant to be delivered neutrally, but their content is laden with irrationality.

You pause, waiting for his protest, but Luffy doesn’t complain. Instead he’s listening intently, dark eyes just as focused on yours, on the drivel coming from your lips and perhaps on deciphering the unspoken code beneath it.

Code that isn’t I don’t want to go with you, but Why would you go through the trouble for someone as bothersome like me?

Perhaps he picks up on the subtext a bit, too smoothly. “Is that all you want?” he asks, finally.

You inhale sharply, and resume your walk.

“Yes. Unless you bring me one of those, I don’t want to talk about ever leaving with you again, Luffy. Don’t even come back to see me.”

Unfazed, Luffy smiles even though you’ve given him a nigh impossible task - in fact, you’re not sure these giant clams exist at all, and it would be a fool’s errand to search for one, but he laughs. 

“Deal.”

Leaving the matter as it is, you resume your walk, and at some point Luffy must have taken your hand, because by the time you’ve made it to where you’ll have dinner together (and invariably he’ll clean out your wages for the entire week just in meat), your fingers are interlocked as though they’ve belonged linked the entire time. 

—

Luffy leaves the next day, leaving a note that is short and sweet on your kitchen table.

Be back soon.

You figure you’ve possibly seen the last of him in a while and your stomach turns gently at the thought.

—

Three days pass and because your friend Nami hasn’t yelled your ear off by transponder snail, you figure Luffy has dropped the entire ordeal and not wasted his crew’s time by going off track to do something absolutely stupid at your request. 

Another three pass and you worry he is stupid enough to try to do it despite being hated by the sea, and you resist the urge to call it off yourself. 

But you have to trust that he could understand how you felt. 

As impossible as it is for him to do this for you, it’s impossible for you to leave your earthbound life.

—

But ‘impossible’ sits on your nightstand that night.

A perfectly round pearl, as big as your head (bigger even if you were to hold it up and compare the object in a mirror)and polished to an impeccable shine, waits for you, with another note.

You ran out of food. Be back in a moment.

When Luffy comes back, large bags of groceries in hand to restock your empty fridge (even though he’d end up cleaning it out himself that night), he finds you in quiet tears.

Slowly, he lowers himself to the ground, allowing his arms to wrap carefully and gently around your body until you’ve leaned into him fully, your sniffles muffled as you let your face hide pressed against his forearms.

You don’t ask how he did it because the act itself is enough, and he doesn’t speak until you open your mouth first -

- to say “Hi, I missed you,” even if you’re overwhelmed. 

Luffy hums in assent, and lets his face nuzzle into your hair further, the simple act asking you again, please come with me without him needing to say it out loud, even if the pearl he’s moved heaven and earth to bring to your doorstep allows him to.

To which your heart, as though you were being proposed to with this very act, finally says yes.

shy shy shy

a little insecure tasm peter parker x reader, early stages of relationship

masterlist | requests are open!

buy me a ko-fi!

nerdy peter lovers rise

They were just glasses.

On, off. On, off. A clear reflection of Peter in the bathroom mirror, a few circles of color where his head and body would be.

Peter examines himself with the lenses on, pulls out a piece of his sweater that had gotten caught inside his plaid pajama pants. His hands run up through the damp hair that falls flat against his forehead in an attempt to give it a little volume but it's no use without his usual styling products. Peter slaps his palms on his cheeks, shakes his head and sends micro-drops of water sailing. He bounces in place, attempting to shake out the jitters his body has had trouble containing all day.

Peter pushes his contact lens case aside, gives himself one last glance over. He contemplates for a few seconds, biting the inside of his cheek. Peter sighs as he pulls the lenses off again, cradling them in his hands and blowing air through his lips.

Metal frames, thick lenses.

Couldn't have that spider fixed his vision while he was at it?

Okay, Peter's vision wasn't that bad. Maybe he could survive without the frames Peter felt altered his appearance so drastically (or at least, reflected more accurately the type of person Peter was in his spare time). Peter with Contacts was cool and confident - scaled back from the confidence he had while he was in his suit, but not as pathetic as he was back in high school. Peter with Glasses? Yeah, that guy looked deserving of wedgies.

He reaches for his phone to check the time (and make sure he hasn't left you alone for too long), but can't make out what the white numbers say through his cracked screen.

Okay, maybe it is pretty bad.

Peter sighs, picks up the mess he'd made pre and post shower, hyping himself up one more time before opening the door and flipping the light switch off.

Peter pads down the hallway and peers his head around the corner into the small living room. He squints and can just barely make out the top of your head sitting on his couch.

Even though he can't see you very well, Peter's heart makes a funny feeling in his chest, even through the eye strain.

It's like you can feel Peter's eyes on you (which, you probably can - Peter is working overtime to try and make out the details of you) because you sit a little straighter and turn your head. Peter pushes his glasses on just in time to see you smile. And then grin.

"You wear glasses?"

Your voice is curious, not at all condescending, though Peter can hear the smile in your voice as you come up to meet him.

"For the aesthetics," Peter grins, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms in an attempt to make you believe the false sense of confidence he's putting up. It's stupid, really, but a tiny piece of Peter thinks someone as consistently perfect as you should be with someone who is equally on par. And, at the moment, Peter feels like he's letting you down.

You stand close to Peter, too close (his heart can't stop fluttering and his breath has caught in his throat). Peter fights the urge to pull you close to him. Too much, too soon, though he'd really like to kiss you right about now.

You try to contain your smile, a part of you still not quite believing that you've been so consistently guilty of making Peter Parker flustered.

Your fingers gently pull Peter's glasses off with a glint in your eye and Peter frowns at the sudden loss of sight - only because he doesn't want to miss looking at you from so close.

"For the aesthetics, huh?" You grin, turning the glasses to measure the thickness of Peter's lenses. Your suspicions about the strength of his prescription are confirmed by the way Peter's eyes are squeezed together as he looks at you.

"A hundred percent," Peter persists, opening his eyes normally and looking straight at the blurred lines of your face.

You take a step back and flash your phone at Peter, tiny words melted into a block of black. Peter instinctively squints and leans forward, trying to distinguish what the small screen said.

"You're like a grandma," you laugh, fully now.

"You should feel horrible for making fun of the elderly." Peter's arms drop, reaching for his glasses with an easy smile. But you move your hands away and Peter's hands catch on the crooks of your arms as you carefully place Peter's glasses back on his face, taking care to place them behind his ears as comfortably as you can. Your fingers graze against Peter's hair, still damp from his shower, gently moving a few stray pieces back into place.

"Well, you can't go to sleep like that," you murmur. "You'll get sick."

"So I guess we have time to kill?" Peter asks, hoping the two of you will sit down for a movie - or anything that'd keep him close to you, really.

"I guess we do," you grin, hands falling to Peter's shoulders, savoring the feeling of his hands on you, unable to help the craving you have for more.

"Pete?"

"Hmm?" Peter is partially entranced, melted like chocolate with the sweet sound of that little nickname coming out of your mouth. His eyes flicker and he's trying not to stare at your lips, bottom lip caught in his mouth in anticipation.

"Could I put my stuff in your room?" You ask sweetly, trying not to laugh at the way Peter falters, blinking quickly.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Peter nods frantically, hoping he's not as red as he feels.

You bite back your grin as Peter stays there, not moving until you do, sweet brown eyes slightly magnified by his glasses. Oh, but it'd be so cruel to deny him.

You press a quick kiss to the corner of Peter's mouth. It's a little shy and you turn away immediately to grab the overnight bag you'd packed. Two pairs of cheeks are red and grateful for the excuse of it, trying to shake off the little bit of nervousness the two of you still have around each other. It's a little strange, neither of you quite used to having someone around to love so freely. It's new, too, both of you still a little afraid to do something that would scare the other off, each of you knowing you'd never be the one to run off.

But this tiny fear that lives in both of your brains is what had Peter picking over his appearance earlier and is what makes him nervous now as he leads you down the hall to his room. He'd cleaned it thoroughly, considering hiding all his trinkets and trophies, ended up shoving things that had littered his shelves into his closet.

Peter takes a breath before opening his creaky door, smiling as he welcomes you in, hoping you somehow wouldn't notice - or maybe, wouldn't care to ask about - any of the posters or books or medals or figurines that made Peter, Peter. He was partially embarrassed and entirely nervous about sharing more of himself with you. After all, Peter was an expert at shutting people out and not too great at letting them in.

He doesn't know if he's relieved or even more anxious as you stare in awe, bag abandoned near his bed. It's clear you're taking in every detail of Peter's room, eyes not missing a single decoration. Peter feels as if he's being dissected, fidgeting as he waits for you to finish your analyzing. He's about to suggest that movie when you walk over to the desk he has shoved against the wall. Peter doesn't think there's anything special about books and pencils, but you're touching the tops of the things on his desk with care and a fascination he doesn't quite understand.

You quietly move onto old trophies and medals Peter has displayed, only the ones he was proudest of.

"Princeton Math Competition? Wow, Pete." You only turn your attention to him momentarily, returning your eyes to the shelf with a grin.

Peter's heart flutters when you sound... impressed? It was an accomplishment he was proud of, but not something he went around telling strangers.

"Oh, that... that- that's old," Peter laughs, coming up behind you, sure now there'd be no chance of getting you to watch that movie.

"Tell me about it."

"W...what?" Peter laughs, glancing at you curiously.

"I wanna hear about it," you say genuinely, taking a seat on the edge of Peter's bed. "Tell me about it."

Peter doesn't have to tell you he's shocked for you to realize it, a small smile tugging at your lips as you look up at him. Peter's not sure he has the courage to ask why before you beat him, sensing his hesitancy.

"I wanna know everything about you Peter. I wanna hear about your math competitions. I want you to tell me what books you're reading. I wanna know what matters most to you," you shrug, face a little warm from the confession. You don't have too much time to be embarrassed before Peter is next to you, hands digging into the bed at your sides. His face is inches away, his breath warm on your lips.

"Please let me kiss you," Peter whispers.

"Please do," you whisper back, letting Peter take your face in his hands and pull you into a kiss. The surface you've chosen is a little unstable as the both of you shift around, neither of you quite able to let the other go until you're forced to, breathless and grinning.

Peter's glasses have fogged up and he groans, pulling them off exasperatedly. "God, I hate these things."

"Really? But you look so good in them," you comment innocently, picking up the frames and attempting to look through them, muttering something about how, wow, Peter is blind.

Peter's not paying attention, though, heart hammering in his chest. He takes you by surprises when he kisses you this time, glasses still in your hands as they rest against his chest.

"You're trouble," Peter says when he finally pulls away. "You're doing awful things to my heart."

"Should I make fun of you, then?" You tease.

"Oh, I think that'd make it worse."

"I didn't know you were into that."

Peter shoves you as you laugh, though he can't help but join you.

"I didn't know you were into nerds," Peter quips, letting you slide his glasses back onto his face - the ones that suddenly don't seem that bad anymore.

"Only the really pretty ones," you murmur, and really, how could Peter not kiss you for that one?

Peter tries to take his glasses off as your kissing grows heated, knowing they'll be useless when they eventually fog up anyway. But your hand stops Peter, lips puffy from plenty of kisses and still eager for more.

"Nuh-uh," you say, pulling Peter's hand back down. "Keep them on."

clicks on you and downloads you as a jpeg and puts you in a zip folder so youre safe and warm btw

Israel has bombed—and completely demolished—the Great Omari Mosque in Gaza, which is the second oldest mosque in Palestine. There was no purpose to bombing it. There was no advantage to targeting it. Israel simply destroyed it to make a statement: that Palestinian religion and culture not only mean nothing to them, but are something they’re actively working on wiping out. This was one of Palestine’s most sacred cultural sites. Now it’ll forever serve as proof of the horrifying death and destruction the world has allowed to befall Palestine.

Posts about Palestine are getting fewer days by days . Please don't stop .

Israel is slowly loosing the battle because they are exposed , so keep exposing them and write about Palestinians . We owe them this much .

the blog @/billluvsteve is using AI to write steddie and h*rringrove fanfiction. that AI they're using is trained on something and it sure as hell isn't the back of a shampoo bottle so if you're a writer in this community, do yourself a favor and block them! AI users begone!

could you write some more touchstarved eddie i am literally a puddle 🥺

"I dunno," You shrug, your eyes not on Eddie's but on his rings as you twist them around his fingers, "I thought the blue one was cool."

You're sat outside the diner, discarded fries on your plate that Eddie sneaks into his mouth. (You notice). The blue one refers to a guitar you'd seen while perusing the record shop before dinner, three electric guitars mounted on the wall in 'Eddie's Section'.

"Super cool." Eddie affirms, his voice slightly softer than it normally is. You don't catch it, but he's staring at you, the way your tongue pokes out of your mouth in concentration as you focus on spinning each ring at the same time.

"Which one was your favorite?" You ask, eyebrows raising though you don't look up from your task. His fuzzy, lovedrunk brain doesn't comprehend that you've asked him something, so when he doesn't respond with 'red' like you assume he will, you finally look up.

He's staring at you, the faint smile on his lips an expression you love so dearly you'd get it tattooed. It would be nothing close to the real thing, though, in terms of beauty, especially if it wasn't paired with the adoring twinkle in his beautiful brown eyes.

"Hell-oooo," You laugh confusedly, "Earth to Eddie?"

"What?" He raises his eyebrows, expression blankly fond, "What'd you say?"

"I asked which guitar you liked," You chuckle, "Everything okay over there?"

"Yeah!" He nods, his hair flying at the movement, "Yeah, 's all good. Just- no one's ever done that before. Held my hand, and, like," He glances down at your fingers, paused in their efforts, "Played with it."

"Oh." You grin contentedly up at him, "Well, I'm your first."

You're well aware of how suggestive your comment is, so you punctuate it with a giggle. It only widens Eddie's grin, and his brain whirrs with all of his firsts that you've been.

First kiss. First relationship. First sleepover. First date. First love.

He realizes the last one with a cartwheeling stomach, but where he expects fear and panic, he gets nothing but contentment. Fuzzy, warm contentment, that invades his scrawny form like moss through the cracks of an old stone wall, spreading through every possible crevice until the cold stone is enveloped in new life.

You're his first love, he admits, and he'll be damned if you aren't his last.