[ Peter has been Stressed the Fuck Out – capitalized for emphasis and specificity.
He doesn't know the last time he's felt this fucking wired, this seriously messed up. The past couple of weeks, he's felt frustration and agitation buzzing through him like a power line, and that, at least, he can attribute to himself, rather than his newfound ability.
Which, by the way, he still hates using.
But Gamora makes him call it up anyway, makes him summon that blue Light into his hands – though it doesn't always work. Sometimes, they sit for a while, waiting as he tries to summon it up. Sometimes, it comes instantly, flaring to life in his hands and making him flinch with it. And sometimes, it doesn't come at all, and Peter has to swear up, down, and sideways that his failure to summon even a spark isn't on purpose.
(He's relieved for it, nonetheless.)
But Gamora is there, and she's patient, and she makes him shape it, makes him use it – just for a little while, just so he can see how it works. But she never makes him— use it, use it. Gamora never makes him use it for more than maybe a round or two, even if he loathes every second of it, even if it leaves him feeling a little like spaghetti if he keeps it switched on for too long. It tends to leave him in an awful mood, afterward, but a full night's rest tends to solve that for both of them.
Honestly, he's not sure what he'd do without Gamora, and the idea of having to deal with this bullshit on his own is terrifying.
When they make their way back to the apartment, Peter feels more relaxed than he has in a long while. That uncertainty still rings through him, but he can shove it aside for now. He sneaks a few glances at Gamora, every now and again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that he tries desperately to shove away (with minimal success, every time), and when they step inside their apartment, when Gamora pulls away to head toward the kitchen, he watches her for a second.
At her direction though, he offers a quick hum, heading into the shared space. By now, Peter has a reasonable collection of films – some from his childhood, some randomly selected, and some purchased after rentals at those little kiosks. Most of them are currently sitting on a shelf in a completely arbitrary order, but there are other cases lying on the coffee table, on the floor, on the entertainment stand – pulled out and left forgotten after a random viewing like tonight's. ]
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He doesn't know the last time he's felt this fucking wired, this seriously messed up. The past couple of weeks, he's felt frustration and agitation buzzing through him like a power line, and that, at least, he can attribute to himself, rather than his newfound ability.
Which, by the way, he still hates using.
But Gamora makes him call it up anyway, makes him summon that blue Light into his hands – though it doesn't always work. Sometimes, they sit for a while, waiting as he tries to summon it up. Sometimes, it comes instantly, flaring to life in his hands and making him flinch with it. And sometimes, it doesn't come at all, and Peter has to swear up, down, and sideways that his failure to summon even a spark isn't on purpose.
(He's relieved for it, nonetheless.)
But Gamora is there, and she's patient, and she makes him shape it, makes him use it – just for a little while, just so he can see how it works. But she never makes him— use it, use it. Gamora never makes him use it for more than maybe a round or two, even if he loathes every second of it, even if it leaves him feeling a little like spaghetti if he keeps it switched on for too long. It tends to leave him in an awful mood, afterward, but a full night's rest tends to solve that for both of them.
Honestly, he's not sure what he'd do without Gamora, and the idea of having to deal with this bullshit on his own is terrifying.
When they make their way back to the apartment, Peter feels more relaxed than he has in a long while. That uncertainty still rings through him, but he can shove it aside for now. He sneaks a few glances at Gamora, every now and again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that he tries desperately to shove away (with minimal success, every time), and when they step inside their apartment, when Gamora pulls away to head toward the kitchen, he watches her for a second.
At her direction though, he offers a quick hum, heading into the shared space. By now, Peter has a reasonable collection of films – some from his childhood, some randomly selected, and some purchased after rentals at those little kiosks. Most of them are currently sitting on a shelf in a completely arbitrary order, but there are other cases lying on the coffee table, on the floor, on the entertainment stand – pulled out and left forgotten after a random viewing like tonight's. ]
Narrow it down for me, at least. What genre?