suchpoise-archive-deactivated20 said: ❤️MEME | Closed!
Send me ❤️ and I’ll generate a number from 1-16 for the way in which my muse admits they love yours!
16. Mun’s choice (I chose 4, uh oh)
Time is slow.
All around him, he can hear the indiscriminate tick of a clock, coming in waves and crashes, a heavy crescendo of sound that counts the number of seconds he has left. He is out of strength, out of webs, and almost out of time.
She is falling. He observes that before he realizes that he is too. There are gears all around them, a free-fall so treacherous that time itself is unraveling.
There is a gentle hum in his head, a fever of fear and guilt that forces him dive forward, speeding up and cutting away the seconds he might have left to hold onto her.
“
- Peter! ”
He’s reaching out, drawn like a moth to a flame. She grabs onto his forearm, tethering herself to his being, his long-limbed grace not faltering for a second. He wraps a second arm around her frame and pulls her in so close that he can feel the flit of her heartbeat, the hollow of her lungs, and the last contingent of hope in her eyes.
She can’t see him through the mask. She doesn’t need to. She knows everything about Peter Parker. She can feel his gaze staring right back at her. To the very last core of her being, she knows that he will save the day. There is simple truths that surround her, like the solid earth beneath them, the night sky above, the broken web-shooters at his wrists, and the world that’s falling apart around them. And any minute now he is going to tell her to hold on, and he’s going to save them from this predicament.
“ Gwen I love you.”
he says it, not even as a matter of fact, or a confession that’s been burning in his throat. There’s a finality to his tone that scares her to her core and leaves her sick to her stomach. He’s wrapping both arms around her now, flipping through the air so now she’s lying right on top of him. He’s tucking her head into his chest, instructing her to become as small as possible. His hands aren’t shaky in the slightest, encasing her frame so rigidly with his that he’s become a human shield.
His final thoughts are memories, simple ones, maybe even mundane. The photo album he left on the counter-top. The last time he called Aunt May. Wishing he ate something better for lunch. Wishing he loved this girl sooner.
He’s paying attention to the sound of the ticks now, and to his surprise they do not sound ominous or vengeful. Only monotone. Then dissonant. Fading.
The night sky is silver now. Or so he assumes, because suddenly it’s cream and then a bright, blood red, before fading into a black, hollow ivory.
He doesn’t hear for long. He doesn’t feel either. It’s a jarring experience that lasts little less than a handful of seconds. But he knows that the interminable ticks are gone now. There’s only the sound of a shipwrecked heartbeat that isn’t his.
Time isn’t slow anymore. It’s not even there. It’s all used up. Maybe if he spent it more wisely, he would have more of it.
But he knows he would spend every second of it on her, all over again, every time.
He had a choice, and he will always choose her.
6 years ago with 2 notes
#suchpoise #[ RP | DRABBLE ] #[ path ; ] #[ rp | inquiry ] #//i'm a glutton for punishment lbr
amazingarachnid-blog posted this