[bloomingdog]

i'm ovulating and thinking about masochist John Price okay….

He’s not necessarily submissive, when he lets you dominate him it’s more for your entertainment than his, but he loves the pain in any occasion, as long as it’s coming from you. He's been hurt before, but never like this.

Arms spread open and unable to touch. He can for sure break free or break the restraints, but he doesn’t, be it out of respect or amusement. He’s naked, but you have his shirt on, sitting by his side and playing with his cock, tugging hard enough to get him hard and needy but not for him to fully get off, it’s frustrating. His soft moans a contrast to the usual commanding voice he uses with his soldiers. You could do this all day, just watching and torturing him. I just think he likes getting edged like…someone to decide for him when he cums, to give him orders, bringing him close to his orgasm and letting go until his mind is blank and there’s only wanting to cum in his brain, no more stress!!

And what about getting up and reaching for the candle lighting the bedside table, you sit back down on his lap. You place a finger inside the pool of wax that’s formed, it burns and the wax solidifies around your finger as you pull it away. He watches with anxious eyes, his chest slick with baby oil so the wax doesn’t stick to his body hair. His eyes close and fists tighten as you tilt the candle. He lets out a breathy groan when the hot wax touches his skin, his dick twitches underneath you against the damp spot in your panties. 

Or or when you’re riding him, and he’s getting close and desperate. “Please” he’s begging!! Captain Price is begging!! If any of his soldiers saw him…“Please hurt me.”  and you know he wants you to slap him. But he’s used to pain, he can take it, he wants it to actually hurt, so he asks you over and over again, harder every time until his cheeks are red and his eyes watery, and you can feel him shake all over until one last slap sends him over, hands grabbing at your waist tu push you down against him so he can empty himself inside you….

And John being marked all over, red scratches where your nails drew blood, teeth marks and hickeys littered around his neck. Him letting out a guttural moan when you bit him on the shoulder when he rides you, rhythm faltering. Like I NEED to mark him. I think he’d lowkey want you to try whipping him just bc of how much he likes it but doesn’t even know how to bring that up and-[get’s forcibly removed from the stage by a comically large cane]

[bloomingdog]

hairy dadbod john price save me......save me john......

[bloomingdog]

Acolyte

word count: 2.7k a/n: hii i'm going through a depressive episode and this is my fic about soap with a depressed reader cos he's my babygirl. might expand on them idk i love soap i wanna keep writing for him

Johnny is a friend of Kyle’s, and Kyle is a friend of Farah, who is your friend. And Johnny, or Soap, is here because Kyle invited him since he had “nothing better to do”. And it’s alright, he’s fun and a little loud, he talks over people but always apologises. You were a little nervous to meet him, having been promised a get-together with people you were already well-acquaintances with, but the tears in your eyes, from laughing, that is, dismiss all previous nerves.

“And then he-” He’s cut off by his own wheeze, it’s been going for a couple of minutes; him and Kyle trying to retell a story about their captain, but they keep getting interrupted by their own laughter. You don’t think it’s that funny, if anything their reactions are the thing that make you all go into hysterics. It’s hard to feel sorry for all the other patrons. 

You feel drunker than you really are, save for Farah, you only had two to three beers each. It’s the kind of silly drunkenness induced by being with friends. The forgotten UNO cards on top of the table shake as Johnny’s fist hits the table trying to catch his breath.

And the pub’s playlist keeps playing every top #1 hit from the last 20 years. And at some point you’re all performing a rendition of smash hit “500 miles”. And you’re getting giggly with sleep. And Farah’s driving you home. And she’s asking you about Johnny, which makes you giggly all over. And she’s telling you he’s single. 

And then it’s morning. And there’s a message from an unknown phone number.

“Hey. This is Johnny. 

Just wanted to let you know I had a blast last night, loved meeting you :-)” 

It makes you smile trying to figure out what to write back. Why is it so hard to sound nonchalant while also a little interested in getting to know him? 

“So did I!

Haven’t laughed that hard in a while lol”

That’s cool, right? It’s half a good response at the very least, since you get a response back.

“Wanna meet sometime?”

Oh, that’s good. At best, you get a little attention and maybe a lay, at worst you get a new friend. You keep texting throughout the day, you two fit like a puzzle piece: talkative, extroverted and active. He sends you a picture of a squirrel he saw earlier on his morning run, you send him a picture of your cat back with the caption “my asshole son” to which he replies “don’t be mean to him”. Those little interactions keep getting exchanged. On Monday, you send him a fun fact about a shark that had a virgin birth. Tuesday, he’s telling you about his fear of dogs. Wednesday is the perfect occasion for a picture of your cat, Gus, sleeping in a funny position. Thursday, your phone pings with a string of texts ranting about Glasgow City. Friday you’re texting Johnny that you’re at the restaurant you’re meeting at, a hole-in-the-wall that mastered the art of oily food and crispy chips, he replies he’s running late.

“I’m so sorry for making you wait.” Is out of his mouth before any greeting. “Are ye hungry?” It’s more a conversation starter than an actual question.

“It’s okay! No worries.” You’re just happy to be hanging out, not bothered by his tardiness. 

The two of you sit and chat, you learn he has a tattoo of a revolver but won’t say where. He laughs at the face you make while imagining where it would be. “Don’t be dirty!” He chastises, it’s within the law that you steal one of his chips as payment for the teasing. You ask where does Soap come from.

“A’m good at cleaning.” It’s a short answer that explains enough, you’re not keen on pushing the topic any further. Luckily, he changes the topic rather quickly, it looks like he’s not a big fan of silences. “Tell me aboot Gus. How’d you get him?” 

“A colleague’s cat had kittens, she was trying to find them homes, Gus was the only one left, runt of the litter you know?” He nods, listening, interested in what you have to say. “Kept pushing and showing me pictures of the guy until I caved. When I took him home he wouldn’t stop screaming, I think he might be part siamese, they’re really vocal. So, he kept me up all night, I thought he was sick or something, I even took him to the emergency vet, turns out he’s just a dickhead.” He smiles at the insult. “A very cute one, though.” You add, it’s hard not to love him even if he wakes you up at 6 a.m. on the dot.

 “Can I meet him someday?” he might if you’re lucky enough.

You might as well thank every saint, divinity, and omnipotent being for your luck tonight. He accompanies you home, only because “he’s a gentleman”, according to him. The kind of gentleman that kisses you dizzy and gets invited into your flat.

You text Farah about the events of the evening before falling asleep, it’s not kiss and tell if she’s your best friend. And in the early morning you’re both woken up by an angry Gus, whose side of the bed has been stolen by a guy that almost doesn’t fit in it. You’re cuddled on his side, one leg over his.

“Gus-Gus….” It’s a groggy mumble of displeasure, you know he only wants to be beside you, but the hour doesn’t help your mood. Still, you move away from Johnny so he can jump onto your chest for cuddles.

“He does skirl alright.” That morning voice might actually be the death of you.

“Told you. He’s an asshole.” A breathy laugh makes his bare chest move as he turns to face you.

“He’s real cute though.”

“Are you not tired?” The early morning light peeks through your window, the sun isn’t even out yet and you can’t imagine anyone that is appreciative of being woken up so early.

“Naw, no’ really. ‘M used to it.” 

It feels weird, good weird, to have him in your bed like that. Barely a week since you met, and he feels so close, more like a friend than a one-night stand, more than a friends-with-benefits. He checks the time on his phone before speaking again.

“Ye want breakfast?” Your eyes are closed again, hugging Gus close to your chest, hand moving up and down his fur but not doing much to pet him. His call of your name is answered by a groan, it makes him chuckle. He scoots closer to you, you can feel his arm coming up for Gus to sniff and the cat readjusts himself so his head is closer to Johnny’s. “Hi”.

Oh but the warmth dissipating from his body is to much, that and the soft noise of Gus’ purr drives you to fall asleep again. You only half dream, a mixture of images that won’t make any sense once you’re awake again, which happens rather soon as the bed adjusts and you feel a hand run through your hair. 

“Can I make tea?” His voice sounds softer than earlier, you nod, opening your eyes just a smidge to look up at him.

“Biscuits in the cupboard…”That’s as much as you can muster now. “Wake me up when it's done?”

“Course.” 

He left with Gus following behind, but you can’t seem to fall asleep again. That was…rather intimate. Your stomach feels hot and your chest tighter. Shooting your eyes open you’re quick to grab your phone again, Farah replied an hour ago.

“Wooo! Good for you”

“You’re gonna have to tell me everything about it btw”

“Farah”

“How pathetic is it to have a crush on your one night stand?”

Oh you don’t like that, calling him a one night stand, feels too impersonal, rude almost.

You’re getting out of bed, into your restroom and to the kitchen. 

“Good morning” He leans against the kitchen counter where your meds are,he’s looking at his phone waiting for the kettle to boil, clad in his boxers from last night, hair a mess and body soft under the morning light. Even though it’s the same body it feels so different from last night, scars, bigger and small, litter his body, it’s muscular and soft at the same time, big pecs a tad too inviting and a tattoo on his forearm. Reaching for the pills would mean standing next to him, probably brushing against—no, touching him, and that makes you nervous. Oh. You’re embarrassingly down bad. 

He stayed the entire weekend, Friday through Sunday. Next week it was picnic and football. You’re convinced any major team would be jealous of your 1-person teams and 5 meter field. He’s good, but you’re full of fear as he chases you for the ball, it’s the predator-prey kinda adrenaline that makes you score. 

“Yes!” 

“Offside! Offside!”

“What do you mean offside? There’s no one I can pass the ball to!” In fact, there’s not even a goal. You grab the ball and go back to him, looking straight into his eyes in fake defiance. 

“Talking back to the referee? That’s a red card.” He looks so handsome like this, standing tall and unmovable, even if only joking, and you let him know via a quick kiss to his lips. He’s pulling you back to his lips not even half a second after, deep and slow, giggly. “Bribin’ me, huh?” You let out a soft, happy, sigh and kiss him again.

“Wanna go home?”

You tell Farah everything over a cup of tea and a piece of cake, of course. And she laughs at you, not in a mean way at all, only friendly and amused, still you hit her arm.

And the following week it’s film night. This one’s more spontaneous than the others, it’s been a tough week at work, you want a quiet evening and some company so you ask him if he wants to come hang out, he replies saying that he’ll be there in 30.

It’s the two of you, your favourite take out, Gus-Gus sitting on the back of the sofa and Fargo on the TV. He’s not paying as much attention to the film as he is to you.

“What?” You say, turning to look at him.

“Ye’r a beauty.” You smile shyly and kick him on the leg with your foot slightly. “A’m serious. I like you a lot.” A big smile grows on your face, and it’s enough confirmation for him to know you feel the same.

Or at least he thought so. There are no plans for this weekend, not for lack of trying, that is, Soap’s been trying to text you all week, it’s a big shift from your daily texting. He misses the little life updates you send him. Tuesday, he thought you might just be busy. Wednesday he stops trying to contact you, did he do something wrong? Went too fast? Are you ghosting him? What did he do that was worth the silent treatment? Thursday, he tries calling you, multiple times. Friday all rational thoughts have left his brain, did something happen to you? Are you okay? Christ, what if you’re dead? He texts Farah, swallowing his embarrassment.

“She’s okay, I think.”

“Going through a bit of a depression episode at the moment.”

“She’s going recluse, I know she wouldn’t mind a bit of help.”

“I have a spare key to her flat if you want to come get it.”

The string of texts floats around his mind, spare key in hand in front of your front door. He’s been inside before, but he was invited in, this feels invasive, but Farah trusted him, and she knew you best. He sent you a message before showing up, the last bit of chivalry he can offer before showing up in your home, it went through, and he hoped you read it even if you didn’t reply. 

He calls your name upon entering, no response. Gus comes running up to him to headbutt his legs and meow, a quick look lets him know his water bowl is clean and automatic feeder full, that’s a good sign. His voice trembles as he calls for you again. 

“You know where she is?” Great, now he’s speaking to the cat, and he meows in response, great, an actual conversation with a cat. Gus takes off and squeezes himself into a room with the door ajar, your bedroom. He knocks before entering, not expecting a response. The room is dark except for the light coming from your laptop, empty and half-full glasses taking up most of the space on your desk, chair full of unfolded clothes and a doughnut of blankets on the bed.

“Go away.” The doughnut speaks. His heart breaks at the sad, much softer than usual tone of your voice.

“Love.” The pet name slips from his lips, he notices but doesn’t attempt to correct himself. He walks closer until he’s sitting next to you. “Can I help you?” 

You shake your head no, or what’s visible of it. “Go away, I stink.” He chuckles.

“That’s fine, smell better than the lads in base.” It’s a pathetic attempt at humour, you still shake your head no.

“You don’t have to do anything.” You don’t sound sad or angry like he thought you might, it’s emotionless, almost like an automatic generated response.

“But I want to. Want tae tak’ care o ye” He wants to make everything better, wants to fix everything, wants you happy and energetic and smiling. It’s silly how much he cares for you after barely a month of knowing eachother, scary now that he’s admitting it out loud. He pulls down the blankets for a full view of your face, his hand goes to your hair, it’s tangled, he’s careful not to pull on it. “Am gunna run you a bath.” It’s not a question, you laugh slightly and he smiles, realising what he said. “Didny mean it like that, c’mon.” 

He helps you up from the bed and into the restroom. From your seat ion the toilet, you observe the way he turns on the tap and rummages through your cabinet, trying to find something to put in the water, you assume. “The orange bar in the back.” He halts, looks for a second and comes up with it, he leaves it on the sink while he turns off the water, you grab the bar and crumble a bit of it into the tub. He looks at you and gets up, you take it as your cue to undress and get in. Johnny comes back with a change of pyjamas and underwear and leaves again. You can hear him moving around and making noise, talking to the cat in occasion, while you clean yourself, when he comes back it’s to put your dirty laundry in the hamper. You don’t know why that’s the thing that makes you break and start crying. As soon as he notices, he’s on his knees next to you, softly caressing your cheeks and moving your damp hair away from your face.

“Whit’s wrong?” 

“I don’t want you to do this.” Is no reply to his question. “I don’t want you to have to do this.”

“M’eudail.” He starts. “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not!” You look up at him” I’m so sad all the fucking time and I don’t want you to have to deal with that, it’s not fair to you, you know? I don’t want you to have to take care of me or put up with me.”

“But what if I want to? Wanna take care of you, wanna put up with you.” You shake your head no, looking back down.

“Johnny, I’m so much. I get so clingy and stupid.” 

“That’s fine by me.” There’s no deterring him. He lifts your head up by your chin to kiss your forehead, bright blue eyes staring at you. 

And you realise how ridiculous this is. You’re crying in the bathtub, your friend-situationship is on his knees next to you, again, crying in the bathtub. You let out a sigh and nod.

“Okay.” 

[bloomingdog]

the relationship between a lesbian (me) and her favourite dilf (john price) is so intimate

[glossysoap-deactivated20250715]

pls you cant just say sub soap and leave us drooling for this guy

sub soap is NOT delved into enough! he's 100% a man who whines and cries prettilywhen youre cockwarming him or have him wait to ride you while you call him needy for his cock twitching whenever you run a finger down his chest, all the way down

i need this man carnally, violently omg im so normal about subby soap, i wanna bite him so bad dont look at me i warned you about being unHINGED

-🌻

SUNFLOWERRRRR ur on a roll!!!! <33333

sub soap really isn’t getting talked abt that much!! but eye am here to fill that void!!

sub soap hc <3

oh he FOR SURE whines and whimpers and even cries when you tease him!!

when you’re walking by his and purposefully rub against his bulge :((

when he’s cooking and you hug him from behind and let ur hands wander down to his cock :((

when you grab him by his jaw and pull him down into a kiss :((

when he’s in full gear and you yank him by his mic collar into a kiss???????

when you don’t even mean to get him worked up and you cup his cheek and call him pretty :(( you meant it as a pure, sweet compliment but he loves being praised and it all goes straight to his dick :((

when you wear revealing clothing and he can’t touch you :( whether it be from you explicitly telling him to behave and keep his hands to himself, or if it’s because you’re on a mission together,, he pouts his pretty little lips when he can’t touch you :((

oh and he one hundred percent has an oral fixation

ur sucking on a lollipop?? he just remembers all of the times you made him cum by sucking on his tip just like that :(

when you mark up his neck?? :((( he’ll literally grind his hips into the air when you’re biting his neck, licking a stripe down the span of his neck and sucking purple marks on his jugular :(

when you hold his neck :( not even choking, just literally,, holding his neck :( using your hand as a necklace :(

oh and the cockwarming? oh i swear !!!!!!

now for this specific case, i’m gonna have it be wear you’re wearing a strap (or you have a cock, either way) and he has to sit on it and stay still hehehehehehe

he would just have to squirm and whine when you hold his hips down and keeping him still onto your cock :(

if you wanted to be mean you’d jerk him off while he sat on your cock m enjoying his cries echoing throughout your room :((

you’d stroke up and down his thick shaft, rubbing your thumb on his tip whenever you got to the head, before squeezing at the base whenever you reached his pubic bone :(

you would use ur other hand to gather up any precum from the head of his cock and lick that hand clean, all while holding eye contact :(( he would blush even more at that sight

he would whine and cry and beg to be able to bounce or grind on your cock, and when you did finally say yes, he would babble mindlessly, “thank you, thank you, thank you!” :((

he would sound damn near pornographic with how he was moaning and crying in pleasure, shouting your name when you bucked your hips and hit a particularly sensitive spot :((

when he came, you would grab his face and swallow his moans in your mouth as you kissed the breath out of him. he would whine into your mouth, all keened and high pitched and delicious :((

he would spurt white ropes onto his stomach, load after load, chest heaving as his release rocked through his sensitive body :((

you would tell him how cute he looks and how he did so good for you, ur pretty boy :((

i won’t him 😠

…. where’d all that come from 🫣

SUNFLOWER IM UNHINGED JUST LIKE YOU,, CHEWING ON SHEET METAL WITH YOU BESTIE <33333

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[bloomingdog]

Captain Honeybun

John Price, Captain John Price, is a big guy, he’s hairy, he smells like tobacco, he’s the captain of a military task force, he’s a grump. He’s all of those, and he’s also your honeybun. That’s the sickly sweet nickname you’ve given him, and he loves every part of it.

He laughed the first time you called him that, but only a little.

“Why are you laughing?” You’re fully in your right to ask.

“That’s a silly name, my love.”

And it is, it very much is. It’s silly and borderline ridiculous, and yet he lights up when you call him that. It’s an antonym to his call sign.

“Honeybun?” You call as you get home to try and locate him.

“In here!” It’s a saccharine parody of Marco-Polo the way that name works.

You’re able to find him inside the bathroom with the door ajar, dressed in only a towel and tending to his beard, he thought he’d have time to shower before you got home. You reach up for a peck, it smells of beard oil. He looks cute in a way, you can’t help but give him a hug and nuzzle your head against his chest.

“My baby.” It comes out muffled. John laughs, he’s anything but a baby.

He’s forgotten his name, truly.

“John!” 

He’s turning his head to the sound the moment you raise your voice.

“I’ve been calling you.” You explain.

“‘S not my name.” Is his excuse before getting up from the couch to where you are.

“It’s not?” A mischievous look grows on your face. He shakes his head no. “What is it then?”

“Honeybun.” It comes out as almost a whisper, a secret code only you should know. There’s a big smile on your face that prefaces a laugh. He feels like a teenager, head over heels and much too sweet.

He’d endure torture to make sure nobody knew about the nickname, however, the control he has over himself and the training he's received are lacking when it comes to technology. He’s holding his phone up for Ghost to read an e-mail, it’s customary, sent to the entire base, but Ghost didn’t receive it for whatever reason. And that’s when it pops up, the bubble of a notification from the top of the screen, Ghost can’t help but to switch his attention to it: “Hi honey bun! What time are you gonna be home? :-)” he can’t also help the chortle that comes out of him. And Captain John Price is mortified.

“Are you done reading?” He’s evading the elephant in the room.

“Yes sir, thank you.” And he thanks every God there could possibly be for the fact that the lieutenant also chose to ignore it. He relaxes a little as Ghost starts leaving. “No worries I won’t tell, honeybun.” 

His face is red, whether from anger or embarrassment he’s not sure, and yet he's grateful it wasn't MacTavish.

[bloomingdog]

Price with an ADHD reader

So self indulgent!

John Price who feels self-conscious thinking you like Soap more because of your similar personalities.

Soap and you are a tumultuous pair, feeding off each other’s energy, you’re good friends, you hang out together just the two of you. He’s not jealous, especially not of Johnny, but he does feel a pang of self-consciousness at times, feels bad about not being able to keep up with you sometimes, about not being enough. He wouldn’t share those thoughts with you, more of an inside thing, he feels silly. Of course those doubts melt away as soon as you’re telling him about how your day went, about how much you missed him, about what reminded you of him. All the possible doubts he had leaving as he gets showered with kisses.

John Price who just stands and watches when you get the zoomies.

A sudden burst of energy has you walking up and down the house following John around, jumping from topic to topic to the latest song lyrics or idle dance move stuck in your head. He watches in amusement and tries to engage in your jumping conversation.

John Price who falls asleep during your late night yapping and still responds with nonsense answers while asleep.

“-And yeah apparently emus can’t walk backwards, don’t you think that's weird? How can an animal just not do that?” Your before-bed rant has been going on for longer than usual, inspired by a Wikipedia rabbit hole that still lingers in your phone’s history.

“Does Laswell know?” He mumbles.

“About emus?”

John Price who’s reluctant to lay on top of you if you ask. 

“Please, please, please it’ll feel good!”

“Love, I’d crush you.” He had gotten you a weighted blanket for this exact reason. “Ain’t the blanket enough?”

“No! Because the blanket’s cold and you’re so much better better!” He’s reluctant, your puppy eyes are working overtime getting him to agree, which he does, of course. 

John Price who just sighs and plays along when you ask him to wrestle you.

In your defense, it' was's a good way to get rid of extra energy or help while understimulated. He’s currently got you in the loosest headlock he can manage while you kick and thrash. 

“Are you tired yet?” No answer comes, just more kicking that makes him release you.

As you try to attack him again, John effortlessly picks you up and throws you on the bed, which earns him a fit of giggles followed by an attempt to tackle him that ends you back in bed.

John Price who comforts you if you ever think you’re too much for him.

Big tears are coming down your eyes and wetting your face, you couldn’t pinpoint where all these feelings came from. You’ve got your face against his chest, voice shaking as you explain how you feel.

“I’m just a lot, you know? And I need you all the time and you like being alone and i want to give you space and I try, but I’m too much and-”

“Okay love, c’mon, none of that.” He cut you off after probably the thirtieth ‘and’. “We need what we need, and we work ‘round that all the time, don’t we? You’re not too much, you’re good just the way you are.”

John Price who lets you use him as a human fidget.

You’ve been waiting in this queue for no more than 5 minutes and it’s still getting you impatient, he notices, of course. The rapid looking-around, your foot tapping are all tell-tale signs of it. He extends his hand to you, which you take, and begin fidgeting with his digit and gloves, it keeps you well occupied, concentrated in the repetitive moments as time passes.

John Price who <3

[vhstown]

hobie green

— hobie brown x gn!reader

summary: You never knew punks could be into gardening — or into you.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mentions of underage drinking, brief mentions of politics, fluff, not very edited

a/n: based on a silly headcanon me and @qiuweyballs came up with. 99% identical to my tag team fic arrest me i love friends to lovers (just lovers in my drafts prommie)

There were a lot of things you didn't expect about your friend Hobie. The first thing was that he was Spider-Man (but you kind of figured after all those patch-up sessions at your place.) Second, was that he lived on a boat — not the most outrageous thing; somewhat non-conformist, somewhat Hobie-like — he wasn't the only boater in Camden. The third thing you didn't expect, however, was that this “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist and whatever other label he'd projected, would have so many… plants.

“You're lookin’ at me funny.”

The “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist and now plant dad in question sat with his feet propped up against one of the many windows of his canal boat, an unassuming eyebrow raised.

“…Nah, don't worry about it,” you muttered, shifting awkwardly on your feet as you tried not to knock anything over, taking in the overflowing greenery of the room.

There was pretty much every plant you could think of: regular household plants under the windows, a tomato stalk in the corner, small cacti in odd places — he even had a pretty well-maintained chilli plant, bathing more gloriously in a patch of sunlight than you ever could. The boat felt more like a disorganised plant shop than a home, if it weren't for the rowdy radical posters and punk collages peeking in-between. Maybe these plants were as much like your friend as all the anarchy-themed decoration he’d made himself — or Hobie had just stolen a boat with a lot of plants in it.

Squeezing past some more foliage, you sat beside Hobie on his tiny canvas couch. He gave you a glance of acknowledgement before reaching for his guitar, setting it between his kicked-up legs as you tried to get more comfortable. The red coating of the instrument had almost entirely peeled off, instead covered by loud stickers and scratchy writing. You weren’t sure what any of it really meant, or why his guitar wasn’t tuned in the first place (it never seemed to be when you two were hanging out) — but right now, you were wondering why he was being so quiet. The silence was nice, though, so you didn’t let yourself think of anything else to ask.

Swaying gently from time to time, the canal boat hummed with the splashing of water and faint strumming of Hobie’s guitar. These quiet, almost tranquil moments were unexpected for someone as spontaneous as Hobie, but they were also welcome, you decided. The world was falling apart, but it was nice to be away from that in the middle of a canal with your best friend — even with his many plants.

You felt a tug behind your back, realising Hobie was trying to get something. Mumbling a quick sorry, you moved to let him get the thing you were sitting on. It was a pink jumper — much too small to be his. After carefully draping it over the backrest, he cracked a smile at you.

“Gotta give that to Gwendy,” he told himself, nails tapping on the back of the guitar neck.

Gwendy (Gwen? Wendy?) was a friend he'd made recently, and you’d never seen a trace of her despite the fact that they supposedly lived together. That was until now; the sweater looked nice, soft, high-quality — nothing like anything you could afford here. Maybe she was well-off. How old even was she? Did Gwendy like plants too?

“Yeah? Is she your roommate?” you inquired, leaning forward to look at him. “Boatmate?”

“You sayin’ this isn’t a room?” Hobie set his guitar against the wall as if the conversation was suddenly more important.

“More like a garden.”

He tilted his head to the side at your response, finally meeting your eyes with his own glinting with amusement.

“You want a tour, then? Private — totally elitist.”

“Have you got more plants or something?”

He crossed his arms at you. “You’re actin’ like it’s a problem.”

It wasn’t a problem, per se, you just couldn’t imagine living with so many plants. Maybe it was his superhuman reflexes that kept him from slipping and smashing his face into a plant pot; you almost tripped on some dead roots earlier.

“Nah nah, it’s not. You got uh… free oxygen.” Clearly there wasn’t enough oxygen going to your brain at that moment if that's the only thing you could come up with. You held back a sigh; you’d never be as fast as Hobie. He just snickered.

“They privatise oxygen too?” Not his most clever quip, you thought.

“Maybe. Is that why you have so many plants? To breathe better?”

Hobie gave you a frown. If you didn't know better, you might've felt bad. “You don’t want the tour?”

“Go on,” you beckoned, dryly.

“Get up, then.”

“Can’t be bothered.” The sofa creaked as you leaned back on it, folding your arms as if you were going to sleep. If it was still quiet, maybe you could’ve actually fallen asleep to the gentle rocking motion of the boat.

“You come over to have a snooze?” he teased, leaning over until you pushed him away — one of his usual ways of driving you mad; you wouldn’t have it. “Want to be my boatmate too?”

“Wouldn’t mind.” The words came out by themselves, but you figured they might be true.

“Gwendy’s only here sometimes — you could.”

“I’d miss my place,” you objected, feeling slightly uncertain at the idea now. It was probably better if that weird feeling in your chest whenever you saw Hobie wasn’t a constant in your life anyway.

“Your place is only good for the pub down the road.” Maybe so — you two certainly weren’t good for the pub, though. All you did was shrug in response.

Hobie tapped his foot for a moment, appearing to muse about something. Before you knew it, he slid his hand between your back and the sofa and you were suddenly your feet in one swift motion.

“Hey—” The floor creaked as he started walking you out to the front of the boat, arm slung around your shoulder. You sighed reluctantly at him, but his grin just widened.

“You starting the tour from here?” Despite the cool wind now rushing past the two of you, your tone came out less energetic than you’d like.

Your heart dropped for a moment as Hobie let go of you, suddenly jumping up backwards onto the barriers. He crouched easily on the edge as you let out a small breath of relief. Even if there was no chance he’d fall into the water, you’d never get used to that.

“Nah, no tour,” he replied, hands on his knees as he looked down at you with squinted eyes. “I ain't no elitist.”

The lingering fear in your chest from Hobie’s stunt died down, and the way the late-day sun was hitting his face replaced it with that weird swishing sensation you could never get used to.

Honey-gold sunlight reflected off of his skin, his face shimmering where there were angles and glowing softly where there weren’t. His eyes glistened like copper, your own face in the reflection like the rich people on coins as you searched for any trace of amusement in his expression. You couldn’t find anything; he was just looking at you. The swishing became more like a crashing tide, your chest growing tighter. Maybe you should’ve feigned interest in the plants when you could.

“…Okay,” you managed, after realising that you’d been staring for a while. Tearing your eyes away from the tall, glistening silhouette of your best friend who was sitting like the figurehead of a sailing ship, you looked back into the boat house before another little plant caught your attention. It was the only plant sitting outside — a young rosemary with a paper tag attached to it.

You squatted down to look at it, figuring that Hobie had nothing to say right now. Taking the tag in your hands, you read “Helen”, written in lovely cursive writing.

“Helen… you name your plants?” It was too nice to be Hobie’s handwriting, but you decided to joke a bit anyway.

“Yeah,” he answered, deadpan, and you tried not to let him catch your eyeroll. “Some lady comin’ through Regent’s gave it to me.”

“People give you plants?”

“All the time, actually.”

Huh… It made enough sense. You did see your fair share of plants in other boats; maybe people wanted to give Spider-Man a thanks or something, or just get rid of some plants they get lying around. You recalled aloe plant you saw earlier, having almost slipped on the pile of dead roots beside it — interesting to gift a rotting plant. It looked like it needed a lot of care; you wondered who could get an aloe to that point.

Deciding to sit by the much nicer rosemary plant with your back against the doors, you caught the faint aroma of the leaves. If Hobie already had vegetable plants, he’d probably make good use out of this one once it got a little more mature. Maybe as a seasoning, or make it into an oil somehow, or just leave it as decoration. There was a lot you could do, you realised, and having plants was starting to look just a little cool. Everything Hobie did was cool — as much as you didn’t like to admit it.

“…What’s up with you?”

Hobie’s voice caught you off guard. You looked back to see that the figurehead was now sitting opposite you on the floor of the little outdoor cockpit, hands loose between his bent knees.

“What do you mean?” He couldn’t just tell like that, could he? Nothing was different… until recently. Until you realised you had that feeling.

“You're quiet,” he stated, though his tone wasn't all that serious. “Y’don’t come over, or come see old Hobie.”

“Old Hobie,” you repeated, half of a laugh coming out of your mouth. “Like Old Tom?”

Tom was the bar owner of the pub you frequented — if your antics could be considered “frequenting”. The two of you were probably the reason why he was “Old” Tom.

“Need to see that geezer,” Hobie mused, leaning back against the wood with a creak.

“A lot of people you’ve gotta see.” It came out far too sardonic, and you held your breath like you’d just placed a bet.

Hobie stuck his bottom lip out, lip ring catching the light. “Like you.”

The sun had faded by now, but that feeling hadn’t, you realised.

“I'm right here,” you replied.

“I brought you.”

“It’s not like I knew which out of the hundred boats was yours. Half of them’ve got plants anyway.”

“You do now.”

“I guess.”

Stretching a little, you shifted to sit more like Hobie, leg brushing against the rosemary leaves for a moment. Hobie cracked his knuckles in the meantime, and you realised you hadn’t really seen him in a while. It wasn’t all your fault, he just kept disappearing. Maybe you should stop waiting for him to come to you all the time.

“I’ll see you again before you have to go to the care home, Old Hobie,” you muttered, getting a snicker out of him.

“They’ll never get me in one of those.”

“You don’t wanna be an elder punk?”

“Not in them institutions — I’ll bail you out as well.”

You never imagined the thought of growing old with someone would go in this direction. Well, it was Hobie.

“I appreciate it, Old Hobie” you replied, though not too enthusiastically. Hobie smirked.

“Come pub with me, then. Don’t need ID if I’m retired.” Despite your best efforts, you smiled just a little.

It wasn’t like you gave Tom ID anyway, but you found it amusing regardless. Maybe it was the idea of being like those old people at the pub: loud, obnoxious, opiniated… Nothing much would change, actually.

“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“How come?” Hobie leaning forward on his knees, as if to taunt you. “Scared you’ll get pissed like last time?”

“I did not get pissed!” you retorted, face aching with an incriminating smile. Your stomach churned with the memory of that night — or lack thereof.

“Had to actually peel you off me. My Spider Powers didn’t even help.”

You groaned and laughed at the same time, trying to ease the embarrassment by putting a hand on the plant pot; it was cool, and you felt a chip near the rim.

“Don’t lie.”

“Never did.”

“Fine, yeah.” It sounded like a bit like an admission to a crime; maybe getting that drunk was a crime. “Don’t wanna get pissed like last time.”

Hobie’s smirk faded a bit, before he let out a sigh — those were rare for him, you thought.

“Seriously though, we gotta go again sometime — it’s on you, yeah?”

You frowned at that, but it got no reaction out of him. “You’re the worst.”

“Like I don’t know.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” You weren’t exactly sure what you meant by that, but Hobie didn’t seem to question it.

Maybe he did actually know what was going on with you, even if you never tried to make a move. It was possible — the observant prick. A prick with a green thumb and looked like he’d been kissed by the sun itself and that you couldn't get out of your head.

If he did know, you wished he'd say something, at least.

Your hand lingered on the pot, and the paper tag found its way into your hands again.

“Helen,” you stated, glimpsing at the nice handwriting.

“You gonna call it that now?”

“Got a better name?”

“Yours,” he replied, too easily.

You weren’t sure what a rosemary plant was like, but it sounded enough like a compliment. Did rosemary have a meaning? Hobie wasn’t thinking that deep, of course. Not about things like labels, no matter how many you had for him.

“Am I like a rosemary?”

“Dunno. If you were a plant, I’d keep you though.”

That made you laugh, albeit awkwardly.

“…What are you on about?” you muttered, shaking your head. “Random… You keep like, any plant anyway.”

“I keep the ones I like.”

“Your boat's a greenhouse. Maybe you just like every plant.”

“Maybe I just like you.”

A jolt of pain ran in your mouth, eyes almost squeezing shut — you’d bit your tongue. Hobie was silent, so you couldn’t be.

“Maybe,” you murmured through gritted teeth.

“Maybe,” he repeated, with his usual unbothered amusement that drove your feelings back into hiding. Hobie Brown — “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist — your best friend.

You’d get over it, you told yourself — not for the first time.

Now with a weird attachment to the plant, you tried to seem interested in the tag again — you could say it’d… grown on you. Would he make a joke like that? You wanted to crumple the tag. It looked too nice to do that, so you turned it around to look at the back instead.

“ROSEMARY — remembrance, friendship, love.”

A dry laugh escaped your mouth; even this plant was mocking you. Maybe it felt sorry.

“What’s got you laughin’?” You almost forgot about Hobie; that would’ve been nice. No, you’d get over it soon.

“You better name this plant after me,” you joked, more so to yourself, and in a very much self-pitying way even though he wouldn’t get it. As Hobie’s gaze trailed to the tag, that feeling in your chest threatened you, so you ripped it off before he could see it.

Thwip! Mistake. In a second, the tag was in Hobie’s hand. His face was unreadable as he looked at the back, no longer gold with sunlight.

“Yeah,” he mused, folding over the edge with his nail as his eyes met yours. You tried not to bite your tongue again.

“Yeah…?” You couldn't even give him an awkward laugh.

He held up the tag to show you the folded bit. There was a single word, the rest cut off — “love.”

“Your name fits pretty well.”

Your mouth was so dry, not even a cactus could live in it.

“I’d rather you not be a plant, by the way,” he continued, despite how lost you must’ve looked. “Be yourself, at the pub, tomorrow — opening time. Dress how you want.”

No words were coming out of your mouth. Hobie didn’t need you to say anything, though.

“It’s on me.”

You couldn't leave him hanging. You also couldn’t shy away forever, not when it was right in front of your face. Not when he'd just asked you out.

”…Like a date?”

“Better than a date.”

A smile formed on your lips. After that feeling had been buried under the soil for so long, it was starting to blossom, like the little blue flowers on a rosemary bush.

“Okay,” you replied, winning something that was neither a grin nor a smirk from him — a smile, warm like sunlight, and just like yours.

“Okay.” Hobie chucked the tag back to you, the edge still folded over as you took it in your hand.

“ROSEMARY — remembrance, friendship,”

“love.”

“I’ll let you keep it, if you want.”

Your smile turned into a grin as you brushed your fingertips over the leaves. “I’ll think about it.”

Spice, oil, decoration — this plant had one more use: getting you a date.

Maybe you liked plants more than you originally thought.

🕸️🔭🎸

thank you for reading !! honestly the friends to lovers thing was so not planned i just wrote this for fun (intended to be a drabble / imagine but it turned into this) less friends more lovers in the future hopefully?

thank you again to my friend chewy ^^ tom is actually his chr + the aloe plant detail

reblogs & feedback are super appreciated <3 catch the rest of my atsv stuff here!

[bloomingdog]

KICKING MY FEET GIGGLING this is way too sweet !!!

[canigirl]

hello tumblr interpret this however you want idc

[wapurrr]

the worst teacher

[shuploc]

Patching him back up.

[bloomingdog]

thinking about tasm!peter parker who never makes his bed unless you're staying over so you can sleep comfortably

[bloomingdog]

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 — 𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

data: your basic florist au, bit of angst, identity reveal, all that stuff. 4k words, no use of Y/N.

You know him, you know what the looks like at the very least. Once a week—the day never stays the same—him and a group of other instrument-carrying people go into the small venue in front of your shop at nine in the evening, an hour after closing the shop, when you’re about to head home. One early morning, out of curiosity, you checked the schedules adhered and covering the roller shutter in a poor attempt to find who this mysterious guy was. You found no useful information in that regard, you did foind, however, that the club opened at ten and most concerts held there started at least half an hour later. With that new gathered intel your best guess was that they came early to get everything set or a rather quick sound-check.

The venue is on one of the corners that limit the four way pedestrian crossing, the two corners on either side both hold pubs, and diagonally there’s you. “For the Roses” is a name given by its old owner, a sweet lady—and Joni Mitchell fan—you had worked for since you were seventeen, and four years later she had decided it was time to retire. For the last five months it’s been just you, it was easier to take care of it when you were two people working, that much is true, but having to close the shop has given you staring privileges. Years ago, when you first started working here the placement of the shop seemed rather odd, between clubs, pubs and the many other forms of amusement, this, however, was a strategical position. A big part of the clientele consisted of repenting boyfriends and enamoured halves of a first date, and they kept the business afloat.

You recognise him the moment he walks in.

“Hello! How may I help you?” The clock ticks away the last minutes before closing as you try to put on your cheeriest voice.

“Hi, sorry about comin’ in so late. My mate’s playing a gig, I just want some flowers to throw on stage, whole dramatics and all.” His voice is smooth with only the slightest rasp to it. He’s a fun last client.

“Do you want the classic roses then?”

“Nah don’t bother, give me the leftovers.” There are one or two extra cuttings and a bouquet that never got picked up you wouldn’t mind getting rid of. 

You excuse yourself to pick out the best leftover flowers you could in an attempt to make a half-decent bouquet. He’s oggling your shop, he’s particularly eye-catching inside your light coloured, slightly old-fashioned establishment. He likes it there, it’s cosy, the floors are filled with different types of flower arrengements and the walls display an amalgamation of different decorations gathered throughout the years, his inspection is only interrupted by your coming back behind the counter.

“Here, I tried to make it as cohesive as I could.”

“It’s alright, love, it’s gonna get thrown anyway.” Oh, that pet name went straight to your chest.

“It felt unprofessional not to give you at least a small sample of my usual, better, quality.” He gave a side smile as a response.

“How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house, no worries, I wouldn’t make you pay for only scraps.”

“That’s quite nice, take this as a tip, then.” He slid a twenty pound note on the counter, right before turning around a saying his goodbyes with a single wave of his hands.

Spinning the sign at the glass door so it reads “Closed” you turn to sweeping the floor and leaving your workplace as neat as possible, you hum along to the song playing from your phone on the counter. The 20 dollars he gave you felt a bit too much, not that you’re going to complain, not with the cost of everything, a flower shop isn’t a luxurious job to have, so it’s much appreciated. 

Drawing the curtain-like metal you spot a group of people walking into the club, one of them must be his friend.

A mere day later, he’s back, making the dainty bells above the door chime.

“Hello! Got another show you need to throw flowers at?” You quip and he chuckles.

“Nah. Only wanted to get actual flowers to have a good reason to ask you out.” He’s confident, maybe overly so, and Hobie is well aware of that, it’s not often that his confidence fails him, though. You look surprised before laughing, it’s ridiculous.

“And what were you thinking of getting?”

“I was hoping you could recommend me something.”

“Roses are usually the go-to flower, although I much prefer freesias.”

“Sick, I’d like a single freesia, please.” He says it in an overly polite manner, the whole situation is laughable.

“That’ll be two pounds.” You say as you hand him the flower.

“Here you go.” You mutter a thank you for an answer. “My band’s playing tonight, at ten, just on the other street, you could come and we could get a drink after.”

No way you’re attending a club on a Wednesday night, with a stranger nonetheless. 

“Sure.” 

“Sweet, I’ll see you. My name’s Hobie by the way.”

And it sounds like proper fun, really.

You’ve managed to avoid the biggest wave of people going home during rush hour and, thankfully, your ride home is as pleasant as the tube allows it to be and yet, you’re restless. His invite plays around in your mind. He’s handsome, that’s for sure, and it would satiate your curiosity on the other side it would also make you tired for work the next day, you’re too old for that, you think and softly laugh at your own joke. The walk home gives you time to ponder on wasted opportunities and the best years of your life, your flat instead greets you with the promise of a reheated dinner and an eight-hour-long sleep which for a moment makes you think about ditching him. 

The commute back feels longer than it usually does. You ate in a rush and got ready far too fast after your flatmate complained about needing to use the bathroom. Your phone marks 10:05PM, fashionably late. You’re thankful the show hasn’t started by the time you sit by the bar, ordering a beer. You still haven’t decided if it’s brave or cocky to ask someone out to your own show.

The whirring of a guitar being plugged signals the beginning of the show.

“Hello, we’re The Spider-Slayers! One two three!” Is your only warning before they start playing. They’re quite good, you have to admit, Hobie, as you’ve recently learned he’s named, exudes power and confidence while on stage, he’s rather skilled. It’s enjoyable, half of the audience is too plastered—it's only ten in the evening—to pay attention to the actual music and are merely glad to have a loud noise playing for them, but they’re well-liked, no doubt an established part of the community. It passes faster than you had anticipated, not even an hour later he’s walking your way while another band prepares to play.

He’s sweaty as he sits down and orders a rum and coke, he looks at you questioning if you also want one. “Make it two.” He indicates the bartender. “Did you like it?” 

He’s tall but not intimidating in the slightest, the metal in his face a contrast to all of his warm side smiles. 

“Yes!” You’re quick to answer. “It was really nice, you guys are good.” He fully smiles at the compliment, he’s got a pretty smile.

“Thanks. I forgot to ask your name earlier, sorry about that.”

“No worries, it’s Y/N.”

“Pretty.” It’s flirty. 

“Did your mate like the flowers?” You ask as the man behind the bar hands you your drinks.

“Totally, made a mess on stage and everything. She was grateful, seriously, funny and praising in equal parts, the bouquet was beautiful too, such a shame it ended like that.” You laugh at that. “How’s it working at a flower shop?”

“Good, actually, better than one good expect, I’d say it’s one of the better retail jobs out there.”

“Seems hard.”

“It is at the beginning, you should’ve seen some of my first arrangements, they were bloody awful, I’m still wondering how we didn’t get any complaints.” It’s Hobie’s turn to laugh.

“You’ve made some improvement then, your shop’s beautiful.” You beam and thank him, you’re proud of the way it’s looking these days. “How’d you end up working there? Do you need a degree to be a florist?”

“Not really, no. I’ve taken a couple courses but for the most part I was trained by my old boss.”

“Hm.” He nods. “Strange place to set up a flower shop, innit? I see you closing all the time and wonder who in their right mind would think of opening it at a nightlife epicenter.” Good to know you’re not the only observer.

“You’d think so! We get a lot of our clientele thanks to that, not all flower shops open until eight either way. Flowers make both great apologies and gifts, you can only imagine the kind of people who walk in there.”

“What, like me?” 

“No way, I’d put you in the normal bunch.” He quirks an eyebrow, an invitation to tell him more about yourself. And that you do. You talk for the two hours that the club remains open, he’s fun, you’re both chatty, you’ve got a multitude of things in common, he tells you about his bandmates, you exchange numbers, he’s a cat person by the way. 

“You want me to walk you home?” The underground closed an hour ago, it wasn’t that big of a trek to your place, you could say yes if not for the stranger—acquaintance—danger middle school talks flashing in your memory. The bus, though taking longer than the tube, was still an option.

“It’s fine, really. I’d rather take the bus.” 

“Got it, I can wait with you if you’d like.” Yeah, yeah, you’d like that. The two of you walk close to each other to the nearest stop. The pavement is damp, it gives you another reason to be glad that you wore your trusty old, slightly dirty, converse instead of a more sophisticated option.

“Thank you for inviting me, I had a nice time, you’re fun.”

“So are you, love.” How could an overused term like that have such a big effect on you when he says it remains a mystery.

You sit in a comfortable silence until the right bus gets there and as you bid your goodbyes you’re unable to contain the big smile you give him, blame it on the drinks. You send him a quick text noticing him that you got home safe and sound before falling into deep sleep.

Your phone rings and vibrates from the bedside table, it always goes off at the same time and yet today it manages to scare you awake. The trip to the bathroom and coffee making is accompanied by a string of curses: music, bad choices, the opening hours of your business and pretty boys all fall victim to your vulgarities. The lack of proper sleep makes your day go by twice as slowly, nodding off and almost missing your stop and doomscrolling during work hours to pass the time, even turning to reading an article from The Daily Bugle, it’s laughable, it’s says something something Spider-Man, something juvenile delinquent something menace for the city.

The chime of little bells half an hour before closing wakes you up better than your alarm had done earlier in the day. Looking up from your phone you spot the same bright eyes and confident stroll that kept you company last night.

“You need to stop coming in right before closing.” You scold him. You’re confident he’s aware that it’s an invitation for him to keep showing up.

“My bad. Do you like food?”

“I-What?” Indeed, what? “I like food, yes.”

“Peng. You want to grab dinner?” And he also needs to stop proposing last-minute plans.

“Where?”

“What do you fancy?”

“Thai?”

“Sure.” 

“I close in half an hour, you can stay here if you want.” Not that you’re expecting any more costumers.

He asks if he can help with anything and you hand him the broom and dustpan that hangs in the back of the shop, he laughs and takes it as payment for having you get out earlier. The floors aren’t dirty per se, it’s mostly leaves and bits of cutting that have fallen. He sweeps while you get everything ready for tomorrow and put away what’s been used today. Half an hour later you hang your work apron and close the shutters. 

There’s a nice restaurant a couple blocks away you’ve got food to-go from before. You order a spicy noodle soup, khanom jeen nam ngiaw, and he settles for stir-fry noodles. It’s good, warm and comforting, you take a bite from his plate and he follows suit with a spoonful of your broth. The conversation picked up while cleaning and it has yet to die down, he tells you about his hobbies—you can't help to make fun of him by saying Hobie's hobbies—and you share your love for museums with him, ‘We should visit one.’ he says to which you agree in excitement. 

You don’t let go of his hand until your bedroom door is closed and you softly push him into bed. Taking only a short break to take off both of your shoes you don’t waist time in straddling him, his hands on your hips as you return to kissing. Soft moans mark the tempo for your exploring hands and you stare at his bare abdomen with much less shame than you think you should have. His hands are slightly calloused and scarred, it doesn’t matter with how skilled they are. It feels like you’re drowning in him, you hope he feels half as good as he’s making you feel, if his breathless mutters of ‘fuck’ and ‘good girl’ are any indicator you can pat yourself on the back after it’s over.

The dinner is paid for, the night chilly compared to the warmth inside the restaurant. He offers to walk you home again, this time you agree because you’re no longer strangers, right? You make it half of the way before puts his hand on your lower back, you don’t make an effort to move it, it’s comfortable.

You make it three quarters of the way until you start kissing, your back against the wall of a mildly busy street, you feel like a horny teenager. You climb up the stairs to your flat two-steps at a time, your hand holding his and praying that your flatmate has confined herself to her room so you don’t have to introduce one to the other, not right now at least.

The morning after your alarm not only scares you awake but it also makes him sit up in bed with a jolt.

“Sorry.” Sleep is still evident in your voice.

“S’okay.” He replies before giving you a chaste kiss on the lips, you don’t think either of you wants to deal with each other’s morning breath, it’s a tad early for that.

You offer him breakfast. Your flatmate has left for work but she won’t forgive you if you don’t tell her of last night’s events. At least it won’t make this morning awkward, or more awkward than it already is, it happens with first breakfasts: sleepy, a mess, cranky from waking up, it’s not anyone’s best look. 

You take the underground while he chooses to walk home, it’s not crazy far away from yours, apparently. In the meantime, the work day is spent looking up frantically every time the bells over your door chime, hoping that it will be him at some point. He does come over, at ten past eight, and he has to knock on the door to catch your attention. Your strange arrangement goes on for the better part of the next two months, he comes over when you’re about to close, you eat together multiple times per week, he’s quite a skilled at making exactly seven different dishes, he invites you to his shows and you’ve met his bandmates, you’ve had every cliché date imaginable: the park, the cinema, the natural history museum, markets, the full deal. You don’t call them dates though, you’re not a couple even with all the kissing and sleeping together—literally and figuratively—he’s told you he doesn’t like labels, but he’s being exclusive with you so you’re okay with it. 

He shows up with little cuts and bruises, you attributed to being clumsy at first but it’s become more common lately, he excuses it as a protest that went south, a moshpit or just a friendly scuffle with his mates. It doesn’t ease your nerves. But you're soon to forget all about it once you’re outside, walking hand in hand and sharing headphones, he’s incorporated bits and pieces of your music to his playlist and he makes sure to show you the songs he thinks you’ll like first than anything.

Your phone lights up with a text notification from Hobie, he’s coming over soon. It shouldn’t be, but it reads as ominous, he doesn’t usually tell you in advance and would rather showing up unannounced.

“Hey pet.” He greets, it’s his latest nickname for you, you’ve always thought it ridiculous but he’s making you grow fond of it.

“Hi Bee” An animal-related nickname you gave him after he tried calling you ‘duck’ that has stuck. “You want to do something or should we head home?”

“Home’s fine, I’m tired.” It’s fair, he’s always running around doing things, you’re okay with a night in. 

He sweeps the floor, it’s his assigned task, you feel bad but he says he doesn’t mind and likes helping you. The ride back to your place is quieter than usual, he seems pensive. You’re about to open the door to your building when you notice him stuck a meter away.

“Are you okay?” Your heart is picking up speed.

“Listen, love.” Oh no. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea for me to come up.” You’re on the second and final step of the stairway while he’s at ground level, he looks smaller than he’s ever been. “I’ve had a lot of fun, really, but I don’t think I can go on with our thing, you know? I’m not good at commitment anyway.” Your lack of a response get’s him speaking again. “I’m truly sorry, I just don’t wanna go on with this and end up hurtin’ you.”

“Okay.” Is the only thing your brain is able to formulate.

“Okay.” He replies. “I’ll be leaving now.” He says as he kisses your temple, turning around and giving you a single wave of the hand for a goodbye.

You feel the tears beginning to fill up your eyes, your vision blurry, at least you were able to hold them until he left, it’s already embarrassing as it is. You don’t bother re-heating dinner that night, choosing to go straight to bed and waking up with puffy eyes in the morning. For the first time in a while you’re sure you won’t have any visits at work, it’s terrible. You feel stupid. He told you enough about himself to know that the two of you weren’t in for a long-term relationship and still you held onto some sort of hope of being an exception. 

That was two weeks ago. You’ve seen him two times since, while leaving for home. He waves your way and you wave back, out of politeness more than anything. Two weeks of radio silence that break your established routine and fill you with a sense of expectation during the last hours of work. 

It’s nine-twenty on a Sunday, it’s usual for you to stay until late at the end of your work week, Hobie knew that and would make sure to keep you company and take you home those days. The early November weather has made it so it’s already been dark for hours, the city is rather calm, you don’t suppose there’s much to do on a cold November night. A series of knocks on the door alerts you of the presence of someone outside, it startles you as you hold the broom you were using against your chest.

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight outside the door. Spider-Man was doubling down and leaning against the glass of your shopfront, electric guitar strapped across him and hanging in his back, clad in his usual metal decorations while his suit had been torn. You let him in a hurry, it’s not ideal to have an idol of the working class dead on your welcome mat. He limps to the back of the shop, in your current state of panic you don’t stop to wonder how he knows the way so well, until he’s sitting on the floor and leaning against one of the walls, guitar forgotten besides him. You follow him and crouch at his side just in time for him to take off his mask. 

“Fuck off.”

“Hi pet.”

You were so excited to be done with work and head home to watch a film, lucky for you, your ex-situationship still has a habit of coming in right before you leave. 

“Bloody hell Hobie.” 

“Please don’t be shocked right now, we can talk about it tomorrow.” He can’t be serious. “I’m knackered.” I wonder why, you think. He looks like proper shit.

“Hobie you’re bleeding.” You’re trying your best to be helpful and not panic.

“It’s fine love, it’ll heal in no time, I kinda have superpowers.” You’re choosing to ignore that and get up to retrieve your first aid kit, it’s far too basic to be useful right now, only equipped to help with cuts and minor injuries.

You can feel his eyes on you and your whole body is shaking as you kneel by his side. You try your best to keep your hands steady while pouring rubbing alcohol into a cotton pad.

“You don’t have to, I’ll be fine.”

“Let me clean it, please, so it doesn’t get infected.” He lets you, wincing at the alcohol making contact with his open injuries. He knows you're doing it more for yourself than him. “Sorry.” He shakes his head as a way of saying ‘no worries’.

You reach for his face with your bare hand once you’ve considered him clean enough, you cradle his cheek and can’t hold your tears from spilling.

“This is why I cut thing off with you, you know? Don’t wan’ you getting hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t say that.” He pleads. 

“What about you getting hurt? Does that not matter?” He laughs and winces right after.

“You’re a sweet thing. I don’t have a choice but you do.”

“And what if my choice is to stand by your side?”

“You can’t.”

“Yes I do!” You’re reaching tour breaking point and can’t help but raise your voice. “I didn’t know I loved you as much as I do until these last weeks without you. It’s been torture.”

“It’s been torture for me too.” His words soften you, and it’s only then you realize what you said, you don’t dare acknowledge them, maybe he didn’t notice or the head trauma will make him forget it.

You’re crying now and it feels awful because you should be the one comforting him, he’s hurt not you. He holds you as you shake and places a kiss to your head.

“Can we sleep here?” He asks once you’ve calmed down. The tile floor is anything but comfortable and still you nod yes.

You fix a make-shift bed consisting of your bunched up jumper and apron for pillows and your big coat, that barely covers his upper body, for a blanket. Not that it matters, you chose to turn the radiator up and it’s hard to get cold while curled up to a human heater. You’re careful while laying with him, both out of fear of hurting him and prudence of this hurting you even more. He doesn’t care and brings you closer, your head on his chest and his hand drawing shapes on your back over your clothes, you can’t help but worry about the state of his back in the morning. 

You find sleep easier than you have since your “break-up”, his rhythmic breathing lulls you and his caresses calm you down. You’re in the before-falling-asleep-limbo when you hear his voice, he says “I love you too” like a confession secret, you’re not sure if you were even supposed to hear it. It’s too late for you to react, his words mix with the beginning of your dreams into a spiralling nonsense.

🕷 i really enjoyed writing this! i was thinking of maybe doing a part 2? tell me your thoughts if you dont mind too! i haven't written anything that isnt academic in years and i feel rusty

[bloomingdog]

𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 ; 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

data: reader starts bringing Miguel homemade empanadas for a change from the ones at the cafeteria. 1.8k words, no use of Y/N, spanish-speaker reader.

an: this is the first fanfic i've written in years lol also i'm a foodie and love cooking for people so that's why

Miguel O’Hara has chosen to abstain from most of life’s pleasures, choosing to stay up working instead of oversleeping, refraining from making meaningful friendships and instead spending his days fixing the multiverse. At least he has Layla, and the empanadas from the cafeteria, of course. They’re okay you suppose, okay for a morning or maybe afternoon snack, a little soggier and a little emptier than you would like, which is why you made them today.

After almost a year of working for the Spider Society you’ve found that the majority of them are truly nice, probably due to bonding over similar, if not exact, experiences. The most notorious exception is Miguel, you’ve tried, and you’re not the first to try, to get on his good side. He doesn’t dislike you, you don’t think, but while your relationship with the others varies from friendly co-workers to actual friends you wouldn’t put it past him to not give you the time if you asked. You’re here to report about the latest anomaly you captured—a Rhino who seemed more confused than angry—the fact that you made empanadas last night is just a coincidence, mostly. A looming figure stands on the platform that starts lowering once you call for him.

“Hello Miguel, I finished the report you asked for, it should be in your inbox.” You start.

“Good. Thank you.” His tone feels similar to saying this could’ve been an email.

“And, uh, I brought you this.” You say, handing him the tupperware. “They’re homemade”.

His eyebrows furrow before taking the container and peeking inside.

“¿De qué son?” What’s their filling?.

“Uh, de pollo.” Chicken. It feels rather silly to speak in Spanish with him, although you two speak it natively you’ve always stuck with the lingua franca of the society.

“Gracias.” His face looks more relaxed, maybe it’s the previous step to getting a smile.

You’d call that a success, even if you left far too quickly to see if he liked them.

After two weeks you got around to making them again, being a local hero and working to keep the multiverse intact didn’t leave all the time you’d want for cooking. They’re simple this time, tuna with peppers, onion and tomato sauce, much like your first ones. The closer you got to his headroom the louder the voices coming from inside them got, you recognized them without problem, Peter Parker from Earth-616B and Jessica Drew, they were kinda notorious around the headquarters. You took a deep breath before entering the room, chat falling into silence and heads turning to you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” You walked fast until reaching Miguel and handed him the tupperware. “I made some more, I thought I could bring you a couple.”

“You made these?” Asked Peter Parker after nimbly taking the container from him and opening it. He tried to reach one but was stopped by Miguel’s own fast hands.

“Yes, and they’re mine. Gracias, de nuevo.” Thank you, again.

“No hay de que.” Don’t mention it. Was your reply before leaving as quickly as you’d come.

This was stupid. Bringing your boss empanadas like an apple to a teacher you’re trying to impress, and yet, you’re so proud of yourself. Proud of the softness in his face as he thanked you, proud of how he defended your gift from Peter, not that you wouldn’t have let him take one if he had asked. At the very least, having a schoolgirl crush on him would make work the slightest more interesting.

The next attempt came almost a week later, this time they were filled with potatoes, peppers and ground chili. And without a good excuse you march to his office.

“Miguel?” You called and held the container up as he turned to look at you. “Papas, pimentón y ají”

“Thank God someone is feeding him something other than cafeteria sandwiches!” Spoke a voice from his shoulder before being swatted away, Layla, she’s always been awesome. “Hey!” She said, seemingly insulted, from his other shoulder.

“Thank you. You don’t need to.”

“Yes you do.” Interrupted Layla, you’re glad someone worried about him.

“It’s okay, I made them for dinner, it’s not a bother to save you some, they’re a bit better than the ones at the cafeteria I hope.” You beamed, whatever love language making food fell into, it was yours.

“They are, much better.” He replied before an awkward silence engulfed the two of you.

“You know,” oh God, you’re going to regret this. “If you’re not eating well, I could bring you lunch? I already pack it for myself, it’s no biggie to make it double.”

“No-” “He would love that actually! You’re sweet.” The words between Miguel and his assistant being opposite leaves you waiting for a clear answer. Miguel sighs before replying.

“You shouldn’t, but if you want to it would be eaten and appreciated.”

“Okay! Yeah sure, I’ll bring it to you at lunchtime and we can eat together if you’d like, or not, whatever you prefer. Goodbye.” You waved before disappearing.

Great, this is great. Awesome, really. Now you’ll be cooking double meals, which from now on must look good while still looking effortless, all because of a stupid, silly, in reality dumb, work crush.

The next attempts at getting on his good side were done over the course of a month. Bringing him lunch almost every day was making the two of you closer, that’s a positive. It started out slow and awkward, eating in silence and questioning your decision and it grew into compliments of your culinary skills, cooking tips and dipping toes into the waters of your personal lives, more on your side even if he would share titbits of his past, before the whole Spider-Man thing, with you. One thing about Miguel was that he ate fast and everything down to the last bite, his mother, Conchata, had scolded him for not finishing his plate more than often as a child was what he told you. You wondered when was the last time he had warm, regular, homemade meals.

Fifty-three days from your first bach of empanadas came your last attempt and his first one.

“I would like to cook for you.” Was all he said, and it was enough to stop you from taking another bite of the arroz chaufa you had brought.

“What?” That’s all you could mutter, eyeing Layla for some kind of reassurance or to make sure that he had really said that and all those hits to the head—occupational hazards—hadn’t started affecting you, the A.I. just nodded her head in your direction.

“Venga…I want to pay you back for bringing me lunch for the past month.”

“Okay.” You answered, sounding more like a question than as a definitive answer.

“Good, I’ll see you here tomorrow night, at nine. I have to get back to work.” He said as he got up and back onto his elevator. Layla gave you a thumbs up to compliment his response. A man of few words, you thought while finishing your own lunch.

His second attempt on getting on your good side came the following night at nine on the dot. He looked nice, out of his suit, much more comfortable and casual.

“Come.” He called for you to follow. You honestly thought you were going to have dinner sat on a bench and from a bento box as that was the way you usually shared lunch, as if sensing the incognito of where he was taking you roaming around in your head he added. “We’re going to my place.”

His place! Had anyone ever been to his place? For sure Layla, but she doesn’t count, maybe Jessica Drew? They were close, weren’t they? His place was rather small, it was comforting to know that Nueva York had the same housing problems as its other variants. The first thing you spotted was the table that seated just two people having been set with a matching set of towels and cutlery, as well as two wine cups and an unopened wine bottle. Thank God there weren’t candles, this was much more romantic than you had anticipated, honestly you thought this was only a dinner between colleagues, this wasn’t a date, was it? The second thing you noticed were your three tupperwares, clean and stacked one above the other and wrapped in a plastic bag, you wondered where those had gone, you didn’t peg Miguel for a tupperware thief and were sure he had forgotten all about them, not wanting to ask for him to return them.

“Are you okay?” Oh, you’ve been silent for a minute, he must have catched onto that.

“Yes, yeah, everything’s fine.” You were quick to answer. “But, Miguel, Dios.” That little blasphemy was more of a whisper than a word. “What kind of dinner is this?”

If he was only a little bit more expressive you would’ve caught the way his eyes widened.

“¡A huevo!” He said in a yelled whisper, you couldn’t hold back a small laugh from escaping your lips. “I should’ve made my intentions clearer, disculpa. It’s not a date date, not unless you want to, just a dinner, to get to know each other better, outside of work.” He spoke with a twinge of nervousness, it was so out of character for him. You nodded in answer.

“What did you make?” It’s a good resource to change the topic in fear of embarrassing the both of you further.

“Chiles rellenos.” Back to one-worded answers, that’s good. “Take a seat.” He offered after hanging your jacket by the entrance.

The dinner was normal, and that made it strange, the food was good, if he was a good cook why would he not cook for himself? Oh yeah, overworking, you almost forgot. He talked, quite a lot in comparison to what you’ve grown accustomed to, he joked too. He’s quite charming in actuality. Not only that, but he even made dessert, a small dish of arroz con leche. You talked for long after having eaten, while he carried the dirty dishes to the sink, in the sofa, when he got up to get you a glass of water, you didn’t stop talking. The end of the night was marked by the opening of a portal to your own dimension and your goodbyes.

“I had fun.” You started.

“Me too. You don’t have to bring lunch anymore, I will try to take better care of myself, I’m sure Layla will tell you if I don’t.”

“It’s okay, I like eating with you.”

“We’ll take turns, then.” Words were turning soft from the previous excitement in which the two of you conversed.

“Okay. Buenas noches Miguel.”

“Buenas noches.”

You turned to enter the portal, not without pausing midway and taking a step back to him.

“I hope we can do this again.” Raising on your tiptoes and planting a nervous kiss on his cheek was your way of sealing yours as the last words. You left hurriedly, much too quickly to know if he had liked your courageous act.

🕷 thank you for reading !

[bloomingdog]

the way i made another account to write fanfic on because i'm too embarrassed :3