#AND maybe even more importantly show what i'm most proud of.

[moe-broey]

Contained. (Not pictured: Two different WIP folders bc they're a secret 😌)

And since I've learned I have zero object permanence and three ring binders are where all my art goes to die very painfully in purgatory

I'm hoping. This will resolve that (Load Bearing Takumi and Henry Fire Emblem)

Finally ran out of pages in my sketchbook, you know what that means!

The. Pile

I think I should like. Get into scrapbooking or something 🫡

[bluehourbucky]

the sundress

pairing: yelena belova x f!reader

summary: yelena being a tease

warnings: sexual content; fingering; teasing;

a/n: ugh I don't know what happened. imma go to horny jail.

minors do not interact

18+ only under the cut

[masterlist]

---------------------------------------------------

you love your yelena. you really do love her.

but sometimes, you don't know what to do with her.

today was supposed to be a nice day, very chill . you got invited to one of your co-workers' baby showers, and you were allowed a plus one. who else would you bring than your girlfriend. yelena happily agreed to go.

as you were getting ready to go you look over at your naked girlfriend straight out of the shower, you wait for her to put on any underwear- she's not big on bras, but panties at least. no, yelena decided to slip on a white sundress with cherry's on it, it's so short and flowy that if a little breeze flows through you could literally see her ass. and the low cut doesn't help either.....

it's the only dress that makes you absolutely feral where you have no other thoughts but to want to fuck her.

"sweetheart, no. this is a baby shower, you can't do this to me." you whine but your girlfriend gives you a big smile, and of course a twirl.

"моя любовь, you love this dress, no?" yelena pecks your lips and heads for the door. she's going to be the death of you.

and you're so not proud of the way how you arrived to your coworkers place. you're a good driver and most importantly a very safe driver. however, you can't lie and say that your fingers haven't been buried deep inside yelenas pussy making her cum twice while driving with one hand on a highway.

"this was nice." yelena teases while cleaning herself up because if you started cleaning her, she would be even more messy than she already was. you glare at her while cleaning up your fingers, and she just laughs at you - how dare she.

"hi! welcome welcome! you must be yelena I have heard so much about you!" your co worker greets both of you with a happy smile urging you to come in.

the party is set up in their backyard, they recently moved to a bigger house wanting to accommodate their new addition.

yelena quickly finds people to talk to and you love that about her, she manages to light up any space she ever blesses with her presence.

but she's driving you insane - she's giving you a show, and you literally can not do anything about it. yelena twirls the hem of her dress, occasionally lifting it just a little. and whenever it gets just a tad bit colder, her nipples go hard - that's when she takes the opportunity to give you a kiss on the cheek brushing her chest over yours.

it's insane what she does to you without even touching you, you're sure you've ruined another pair of panties because of this.

she's going to be the death of you, you just know it.

"do you know if she's single, you seem like good friends?" you almost choke on your drink when one guy asks and points to yelena. trying so hard not to roll your eyes, men are so gross and oblivious.

"wouldn't know maybe you should ask her?" being a stupid man, he doesn't realise you're being sarcastic. to be fair, he literally saw you kiss yelena multiple times and still called you friends.

you watch as he leaves and you almost fall from the chair when yelena turns to you and gives you the disgusted look when he asks her for her number.

"what was that about? jeez, men are gross." she plops down on your lap, and kisses you. you happily accept her kiss and caress her thigh, squeezing it lightly.

"you're getting punished for this, you know that darling?" you say looking straight into her eyes.

" oh i'm counting on that." yelena stands up, smiles cheekily and walks away giving you a full view of her ass for a short second by lifting the dress. luckly for her no one was around to see it or she would be in trouble

but yelena knows that she got you wrapped around her finger, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

[the end]

anyways I'm going to horny jail

also idk how to write smut so sorry for leaving yall like this

[somethingsomethingwords]

Ok so, here is another one. This is a little bit different from what I usually write or even like reading, but alas, sometimes an idea just enters your brain and just doesn't leave. Also this one has a title ig. So here it is. I hope you'll like it. Enjoy 💜

Of course I wanted you to stay

(but you didn't, no you didn't, no you didn't)

Lance was so full of adrenaline he almost dropped the mic. He was shaking from head to toe, but there was a huge grin on his face.

There was no sadness, because even if this was the last concert of the tour, it had been one of his best ones like, ever.

Also he was home, so he knew that after all the crazy partying he would do tonight, tomorrow he'd meet his sister, he'd go to that bakery that sells the best cupcakes, and he'd be able to roam the streets with his thick glasses and ugly beanie and scarf combos, and no one would recognise him.

But still, that's tomorrow. In that moment, there was the encore.

It was always different, so it was always special, but that day even more so. It was composed of three of his older songs, about pain and heartache and moving on despite the past, maybe in spite of it. He loved it very much. Because he was home, singing his first hits and he was ending one of the happiest and saddest tours of his life.

It had started great, new album, in love and energetic. Then he was left behind, alone and with nothing to show for it. Because it had to stay a secret. He had to keep his love secret. He had had no one to complain to, because the only people who knew would have been put in an uncomfortable situation, and he didn't want that. So he hid his hurt and did what he always did. He put it in his music. He sang his pain until the only hurt he could feel was the one in his throat.

It really had been a rollercoaster. But now it was the end, everything was better, and he wanted to send a last fuck you. He may have matured, but nothing would make him lose his pettiness.

So he sang.

Are you sorry like you weren't at the time?

Loving you was easy,

that's why it hurts now

The worst way to love somebody

is to watch them love somebody else

and it works out now

And sang.

Cause someone loved me,

someone fucking loved me

Someone fucking loved me,

I loved him too

Goddamn it, I was worth something,

I fuckin' earned something

I have a right to die, a right to live,

a right to choose, too. And God, no!

Of course I don't wanna feel better!

Can you fucking imagine?!

And sang.

Because, in the end,

you can see how much I loved you

from the fact that I'm fine now

It's a lie, but I say it anyhow

He put every single emotion into these songs, and finally let them go.

When the crowd roared, it all exploded.

He felt a solitary tear wet his face, but nothing could have stolen his smile. He waited for his band, then bowed and left the stage.

The night was young and he was feeling free and wild. And quite hungry, actually.

So he took his band to his favourite pub. They ate, and drank, and ate some more.

On the taxi towards his house, Lance realised that, no matter how much it had hurt, he didn't regret having what he had with Fernando.

Even the tears, even the heartbreak, they all shaped the person he was today.

He liked to think he was loyal, and dependable and kind. But most importantly, he liked to think he was better than the person he was yesterday.

His house appeared, and after paying and tipping the taxi driver, he opened the door.

Yeah, it was big and a little bit empty and a little bit cold. A little bit like his heart. But it was something to be proud of, because it was his, and he was working on it.

---

The next day he really started to rethink all of this rock star thing.

His head pounded with his heartbeat and his mouth tasted rancid.

He got up and drank some water, downing a couple of aspirins for his headache.

After the shower he felt somewhat normal, and decided to go out for breakfast.

He reached his favourite bakery and ordered two pastries to go. He wanted to retreat and lay warmly in front of the fireplace.

Lance noticed him as soon as he stepped out, but he decided to ignore him. His house wasn't that far, he could reach it quickly and without having to talk to him. For once, he wanted to thank whoever made him with long legs.

But even if he could go fast without running, so could the other.

They walked in silence, side by side, for a few minutes.

When the silence and the presence were getting to him, he abruptly stopped and turned towards the other man.

"What do you want?"

Fernando didn't deserve kindness nor gentleness. He forfeited those when he left Lance. Via text. Without explanation and blocking him immediately after.

Lance had spent too many days crying; now he wanted nothing to do with the man.

"Hello Lance. Was just around" he said, as if it explained why he was in Canada and not in England, in Monaco, hell even at home in Spain.

Lance huffed and started moving again, having had more than enough, but stopped when he felt a firm grip on his wrist.

He stared at the hand on his arm with wide eyes, before raising them to Nando's face.

"You have three seconds to either take your hand off or have it broken" he said shakily.

There must have been something in his voice that made the threat a real one, because suddenly he was free again.

"Lance, am sor..." Nando started.

"Shut up before I make you. We can't discuss here, someone could recognise you. Come to my house" surely not his finest moment, but all Lance could feel was fury. Still, he wasn't raising his voice, so he could consider it a win.

you are still protecting him, Este's voice said in his mind.

shut up, of course I am, but what else could he do?

They arrived at his house. He quickly opened the door and closed it when Fernando got in.

"You have no right to come here with your flimsy excuse and expect me to be ok with it. Now, tell me what you want and get the hell out of my house" there, simple and direct.

For a moment, Fernando seemed seriously sorry. But Lance didn't care. He was the one left behind, the one who had to pick up his pieces when he fell apart. He healed as best as he could, and he would not apologise for building up his defences.

"Lance, I am really sorry, for what's worth. I want to explain"

"You are a few months too late. At this point, I don't even know if I care. I only ever asked one thing, Alonso. One. I was ok with being kept a secret, and avoiding being seen together, and the distance. I only asked you to openly communicate and shit like that. You just left without a word" now that he had started, he couldn't seem to stop.

"You knew, I told you why I wanted that. Why I needed you to be honest and open, yet you just disappeared. I had to ask Este, who had to ask Mick. And for what. To be told that you had a new model girlfriend? So no, Alonso, I don't care anymore. It would just reopen old wounds. Now go, I'm sure you have somewhere else to be"

and someone else to be with, it wasn't said but both could hear it.

"That's not right. I have nowhere to go. Am alone, Lance" he said, something hurt and teary in his voice.

Lance was about to replicate, sharp words already on the tip of his tongue, when something in Nando's expression made him stop. His eyes showed how open he was being, how vulnerable.

Lance sighed, and led the man into the living room, making him sit on the couch, while he went into the kitchen and brought back two glasses of water. He would have preferred something stronger, but this felt too important of a moment to have it tainted by alcohol and not being in the right mind.

He sat on the opposite side of the couch, and waited for the other to start talking.

"First of all, am sorry, really. I knew it would hurt you, how I left you, but I did it anyway. And I know you have no reason to believe me or care. Am here because I believe you deserve the truth about everything"

He seemed honest, but Lance wouldn't trust him so easily, not again.

"What are you hoping for with your confession months later, mh? I'm not going to obediently come back to you, waiting to be heartbroken again. You're not gonna fuck me and leave, either. So, what do you want?" he was probably being unfair to the other man, but anger and confusion had never been a good mix of emotions for him.

"Lance, I would never..."

"Like you would never leave, Alonso? Don't make promises you can't keep and don't say things you don't mean" he interrupted, harsh and stubborn.

"You are right. I made promises and then I broke them and betrayed your trust. But I need you to know I had reasons. Not perfect, not good, but I had them" and goddamnit, Lance could feel himself beginning to soften.

just listen to him, said his conscience, suspiciously sounding like Mick.

"Would you care to explain them?" Was he being sarcastic or curious? He himself didn't know.

"Of course. Someone was starting to notice some...changes in me. I was happier, nicer, smiled more. Someone I don't like said something in a way I didn't like. Made me understand that he knew something was up, and would ruin me. So I decided that I needed to protect myself, to protect you. Left you because I couldn't see you. I knew I'm not strong enough to leave you if I saw you"

It all sounded logical, from a certain point of view, but Lance knew there was more, so he waited for the other to continue.

After a few seconds, Fernando raised his eyes, looking at Lance, before turning them down again.

"I didn't like the weakness. All the time, I was thinking about you, wanted you near. It was too much. So I thought I could just stay away, and forget about it"

about you, was left unsaid.

"And can you? Forget about it?" Lance not only wanted to know. He needed to, before going on with the conversation. He could feel his hands beginning to shake and his eyes starting to water, but he had to be sure.

Fernando immediately raised his eyes, and spoke with a tone determined and something like hope in his eyes.

"Of course I can't. I'm here right now, begging for a second chance" he said pleadingly.

"Then beg" Lance said, not meanly, but he also wasn't feeling particularly charitable, and it was better to make some things clear from the beginning: he wasn't going to repeat the same mistakes. He wasn't the young man staring at his teen crush, starry eyed and in love and grateful for every scrap of attention and affection. He was older, maybe a little bit more bitter, a little bit wiser. Fernando left some marks onto his heart, and he wasn't going to refresh them for nothing less than certainty.

"Lance, please give me another chance. I know I fucked up, was so wrong. I'm begging you, let me fix this. However long it takes, is ok. Just, tell me you'll think about forgiving me, and starting again" he was being so earnest, how could Lance resist?

"Even if I forgive you, and it's a big if, I'm not going to forget anytime soon, ok? I'll need time and space and for you to make an effort" he really was weak for this man, but who could blame him, he spent half his childhood idolizing him and then he met him and fell in love.

"Will do whatever it takes. But let me, please"

Realising all the air stuck in his lungs, Lance sighed.

"Ok"

He didn't even finish the word that Fernando picked him up and spun Lance around, making him laugh despite himself.

Fernando finally put him down, and took his hand to kiss it, maintaining the eye contact for a few seconds.

Lance could feel himself blushing, and quickly shook his head, still smiling.

After a few seconds of just getting reacquainted with one another, Fernando broke the silence.

"I liked the show yesterday. Especially the encore"

And now Lance was definitely blushing. His encore had been designed as a way of finally letting go, one last screw you to the man now in front of him. But he couldn't say that to him, even if it was pretty clear.

It would have been childish to throw shades at Fernando in one of his concerts, no?

"Yeah, I was inspired, I guess" his smile smaller but still there.

"Fuck the guy who made you suffer, the bastard" and in his jokingly way, Nando was telling him that he wasn't angry, and that they would be ok.

"Yeah, fuck him"

[bloodiedrogue]

IS THE MEMORY REALLY MINE? (6)

SUMMARY: After all the begging and pleading, Miguel finally shows you who he is. And more importantly, how you fit into all of this.

PAIRING: Miguel O'Hara & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 12,261

WARNINGS: Angst, dual POV, SMUT (I know, fucking finally), oral sex (fem receiving), vaginal sex, switch Miguel, inappropriate use of webbing, orgasm denial, major character death, canon typical violence, depictions of depression and dissociation.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Holy fuck, okay this chapter got so out of hand but I'm so proud of it so please for the love of god if you decide to reblog any of the chapters let it be this one.

CHAPTER LIST / LAST CHAPTER / MASTERLIST

-

“Who’s that?”

Miguel averts his gaze, moving from the woman in the corner to the edge of his glass. It’s the first one he’s had all night —the only one he’ll have because he thinks beer is gross and didn’t have the heart to tell Gabriel he’s more of a scotch guy. Disgustingly, it stares back at him as he lifts it up, sniffing the contents before shrugging his shoulders and taking a sip. 

“She’s cute.” 

He’s in his face now, grinning from ear to ear and sipping a drink Miguel’s lost count on. He’s had to have had at least six by now. Miguel remembers the third and the fourth —vaguely the fifth as well— so most likely it’s a number above that. Six or even seven, he guesses. 

“Go talk to her.” 

He lets out a sigh, giving his brother the look. The one that says fuck off, I’m not doing that. Not in a million years. Not even if I’m drunk. 

An hour later he’s drunk enough to walk over, scotch in hand, eyes half-lidded. There’s not an ounce of nervous energy inside of him. Everything’s been drowned out by the onslaught of shots his brother ordered him, telling him to drink up because it’s Saturday night and neither of them have work in the morning. 

You’re sitting in the booth by yourself. All of your friends have gone out for what he assumes is a smoke, and you’re on your phone, narrowing your eyes at the screen with a topped-up glass in your hand. 

“Hi.” He clears his throat —awkwardly smiles when you look his way and slide into the booth across.

“Hi?” 

Thankfully, you look a bit drunk yourself. Your eyes are tired like his but a bit more bloodshot; the whites of your eyes peeking through the pinks and reds that dart around like lightning. 

“I, uh, thought you could use some company. Y’know, while your friends are…” 

“Gone?”

“Yeah.” 

You’re skeptical now. You drop your phone on the table face down before leaning back in your booth. Slowly, you move your arms to cross over your chest, prompting him to look down just for a second, noticing the low neckline you’re sporting. It’s nice. Classy, even. 

“I don’t know if we have enough room for anyone else,” you tell him, taking a moment to look across the bar to the window where a group of people are smoking cigarettes and doubling over in laughter. “There’s quite a few of us.” 

“Oh, so they won’t mind if I steal you for a bit.” 

He has no idea where this confidence is coming from. Maybe it’s the never-ending feeling of loneliness finally giving him a good kick in the ass or simply just the alcohol. Either way, he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he just raises his brow and takes a long sip, watching the way your mouth falls open and your tongue tucks its way into the edge of your cheek. 

“Let me buy you a drink?” 

“Uh—“

He sees that you’re thinking about it. Mulling it over in the form of pressed lips and avoided glances. Even on the surface, he can tell that you’re intrigued —that he’s somehow impressed you, but that you’re afraid he’s the kind of guy that’ll take an inch when given a mile. 

“I promise that’s all I’m offering,” he assures, dropping the glass in his hands onto the table before raising his hands innocently.

“I don’t know.”

He smiles, half to try and convince you he’s harmless, half out of discomfort. “C’mon, I promise—“

He’s interrupted by the voices of your friends. All of them are huddled in a group, still giggling to themselves until they’re in front of you, staring at him with raised brows that slowly glance your way. Almost immediately, one of them asks who he is to which you say just a friend, causing them all to look at him who has no idea what to say. He didn’t plan on having to lie.

“Yeah, we uh, we work together.” He nods and looks at you, watching the way your mouth closes in a tight-lipped grin. 

Your friends nod back and redirect their attention to you, telling you that they’re going to head to some club in the underbelly of the city. The new one that’s owned by Fisk. 

“That sounds fun but uh, I have an early morning tomorrow. Got that new job interview and everything.” You stare at him as you say that last part, a smirk pulling across your lips that have your friends in stitches before they’re pouting and accepting defeat. 

After that, they all take turns hugging you before they go, patting your back through disappointed slurs that have Miguel looking towards Gabriel who’s throwing darts with one of his buddies.

“Don’t have too much fun!” 

When your friends are out of sight, Miguel lets out a heavy breath and throws his head back against the booth, looking at you with narrowed eyes. “I guess the coworker excuse was pretty weak.” 

“A bit, yeah.” 

“Next time I’ll try and come up with something more believable. Maybe something like, we met at the gym or something.” 

You scrunch your face.

“What? You don’t go?”

“If it were life or death, you still wouldn’t find me there.” 

He snorts —shakes his head and takes a sip, watching from the corner of his eye as you do the same. Subtly, your lips grin against the glass as you take a pull, making it hard for him to focus on anything else because, truth be told, you’ve got amazing lips. Beautiful eyes and pretty skin. 

He likes the way you look. It’s why he’s been staring at you all night. Why, even when you were drunkenly yelling with your friends, demanding the kind of attention he usually avoids, he found himself giving in. 

Now that he’s sitting across from you, he understands why he chose to come over. It’s because there’s something warm about you. Comforting. He can’t quite place it, but regardless there’s this magnetized feeling in his chest that refuses to go away as he sits across from you; forcing him to continue this conversation until he’s certain there’s an end. 

Because so far you haven’t given him a reason to leave. You haven’t outright denied him that drink or thrown the one in your hand at his face. All you’ve done is sit there and stare. 

Oh, and smiled, he points out, watching you practically choke on your drink with upturned lips. 

“Is this how you pick up all the girls?” you ask, amused. 

“What do you mean?”

Despite his often bitter-looking expression, at this point, he’s grinning like a madman —eating up the attention you give him like a starving man, desperate for joy. 

It’s been so long since he’s done this. Since he’s tried to pick up a pretty girl at the bar just because. With this new gig as Nueva’s Spider-Man piling on top of his already heavy workload at Alchemex, lately, it feels like the only time he has to himself is when he’s sleeping. So, it feels nice to do this. To sit across from a stranger and pretend like things are normal. 

“I don’t know how to explain it.” 

You cock your head to the side, watching the way he shrugs as he takes the final sip of his drink. 

“Maybe you could explain it over another one,” he says, motioning to your glass that’s managed to almost empty in the short time you’ve been sitting together. 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe?”

His brow twitches with excitement. You’re thinking about it again. More so, because now instead of an I don’t know it’s a maybe, which means progress. 

“Depends on the drink.”

“Take your pick, sweetheart.”

You shake your head and lean forward, pressing your chest against the edge of the table. “How about we play a game?”

He hates games, especially ones like this where the stakes are embarrassingly high. He likes you. Thinks you're charming, even though he doesn’t know you at all, and because of this, the last thing he wants is for some stupid, flirtatious game to ruin everything. 

“What kind of game?”

“Pick a drink,” you say with a shrug. Acting as if this is the most nonchalant thing even though it isn’t. It’s high stakes —too high if you ask him. “If you pick one I like I’ll let you buy it for me.” 

“Seems a bit one sided.”

“Says the guy who slid into my booth without asking.” 

You’re right. He’s annoyed, but you’re right, so instead of arguing he agrees to your terms. “So, am I guessing like, mixed drinks or—“

“I’ll throw you a bone and settle for the type of liquor.” 

“Appreciate it.” 

“I know.”

If he weren’t trying to impress you he’d comment about how smug you’re being. But since he is, he merely presses his hands together in the form of a prayer, thanking you. It makes you laugh, which instantly gives him the motivation to focus, prompting him to slide toward the edge of the booth and narrow his eyes at the bar, scanning all the bottles on the shelf. 

He isn’t sure why but his eyes immediately draw to the vodka. Maybe it’s a bias but every woman he’s ever met has drank it. That or gin, so his mind starts scanning all the clear liquids, reading and rereading the brand names like a script he’s been asked to memorize. 

“Can I phone a friend?” 

“No.”

“Ask the audience maybe?” He smirks, peaking over his shoulder to see you roll your eyes. 

“That’s cheating.”

“How?”

“I’m the only one here.” 

He clicks his tongue and looks back, looking at everything all over again. Vodka, gin, bourbon, whiskey, tequila —all of them morph together in his mind, their labels layering over each other until all he can see are blotches of colour and random letters. 

He has no idea what you like. The only thing he’s seen you drink is beer so there’s no statistics to back his answer. No matter what he’s going in blind and it makes his stomach feel sick, knowing that this is the end. That the potential night he imagined with you will walk away thanks to some stupid fucking guessing game. 

“I—“ 

He shifts his jaw in annoyance as he slides back into the booth, facing your proud face in defeat. You knew this would happen —that he’d be sitting here, sweating while trying to figure this out. It was your plan all along. A revenge plot for showing up unannounced. 

Despite the humiliation of it all, it somehow makes him more interested. Something about a woman being able to fight back always makes him a bit stupid.

“Would you like a scotch?” 

It’s the only alcohol he can think of on the spot. He can see the bottle clearly in his mind, the amber liquid sloshing about as it’s poured into a tulip-shaped glass. Clearer than anything, he can smell the smoke —the citrus-filled bites that sting his nose every time he takes a sip. 

He can taste it on his tongue, and immediately he knows after this is over he’s going to walk over to the bar and order a double to numb the pain. 

“Wow, didn’t think you’d get it.” 

Okay, so apparently he’s ordering two doubles.

“Really? You like scotch?”

You nod. 

At that moment, he thinks he might be in love. You’re pretty, mean, and have good taste —a trifecta of traits that has him practically jumping from his seat to order your drinks. 

At the bar, he constantly glances back to make sure you’re still there. To ensure he didn’t just imagine you in his inebriated state. Every time he looks back you’re awkwardly staring at him, your chin resting against your open hands. 

When the bartender asks him what he wants, he orders two doubles, offering him cash once they’re slid onto the counter in front of him. Then, he tells the man to keep the change, offering him a curt nod that’s so out of character he knows if Gabriel’s watching he’ll probably never hear the end of it.

“Well, uh, here you go.” He places the drink in front of you and slides back into the booth, watching as you take it in your hands and raise it into the air. 

“Cheers, uh…”

“Miguel.” 

When you say your name in response his heart skips a beat. 

-

He’s muttering that same name against your lips a few hours later, pushing you further into your apartment. Hastily, his hands move along the hem of your shirt, the fabric feeling soft against his fingers as he slides them underneath to grip your waist. In response, you nip his lower lip and grin, both of you chuckling through heavy breaths that have him kicking your door closed and pulling you close. 

So close that he’s worried he’s overstepped once he feels you start to pull away, his hands stiffening until he hears you say the word bedroom. 

Normally when women invite him over like this they offer up the location —say the word bedroom like it’s a question he has to answer. Usually, they’ll play with his shirt and bat their eyes. Make it seem like the idea was his all along so that they don’t have to feel like they’re acting too desperate. It’s cute, sometimes. If Miguel’s honest though, the way you say it —the way you tell him where he’s going by gripping the collar of his shirt, instead of asking him if it’s okay— makes him want to fuck you right then and there. To ditch the prospect of the bedroom in favour of the dusty, old hardwood.

Which makes maneuvering through your furniture a gruelling task. Because he’s so distracted by your lips and hands and hips, he manages to slam his shin against the edge of your coffee table before hitting his elbow against the wall. Both times he ignores the pain, groaning into your mouth as you open another door behind you, fumbling for the handle through your mutual fixation. 

As you do, he can practically feel your mind speeding through the inevitable —the panicked moments where you’re reaching for his shirt to pull it off. The one where you then playfully toy with the loops of his jeans while he kisses down the edge of your mouth to your chest. 

When you’re inside the room, everything plays out exactly like this. The fabric of your respective shirts are discarded in haste, both sets of pants lingering as Miguel stares at the curvature of your chest inside your bra. Reaching forward, you tease the zipper of his jeans with slow-moving fingers and in that moment he feels like he’s dying because all he wants to do is touch you. To taste you. He wants every inch of you wrapped around him like a heated blanket made of flesh and bone. He wants to trail his fingers across every curve and divot, lick long languid streaks across your most sensitive spots so that he can hear that pretty mouth of yours call out his name.

Before he can even resist temptation he’s pushing your hands away and gripping the base of your neck. Hungrily, he shoves you into his chest, enveloping you in thick muscle that twitches every time you move against him, especially when his mouth takes hold of yours. His lips feel heavy then, moving with more force as he pushes them down along your chin, stopping to expose your throat and hum in approval. 

“Was this what you expected when I said hi?”

Both of you laugh. He can feel the reverb of it in your throat, dancing across his fingers before it hits his mouth; feeling too impatient to await an answer before latching on. 

“Not really, no.”

  Your voice is all breath, pushing from your lungs to hit his ears in a way that motivates him to skim your throat with his teeth.

“Don’t tell me you’re a biter.” 

Almost instantly, his lips encase around a particularly supple-looking portion of your neck. In the process, he discards the idea of teeth, remembering the fact that he’s venomous now. He can’t bite like he used to, even if the thought’s intriguing. 

“Mm, no. Too old fashioned for that.”

“You, old fashioned? I never would hav— oh, my god.”

His lips move lower, decorating your skin in marks he’ll later admire. “Shh, you talk too much.” 

“You shh.” 

He’s certain you expect him to laugh. But considering how much he needs this he merely pulls away and stands, suddenly towering over you in a way that has you visibly swallowing and backing up, your hands quickly ghosting down the edges of his arms until they’re locking onto his wrists. At that point your calves are pressed against the edge of your bed, threatening to topple over. Miguel knows this because the second you’re there and he steps forward, he notices you fumble and grip his hands. 

“Careful there.”

It sounds so condescending that when the words slip from his mouth they end up sounding more like an insult rather than a moment of care. So much so that it makes you roll your eyes and swat his hands away before falling backwards onto the bed, spreading your arms out wide. 

“Okay, bye, I guess.” 

Jokingly he turns on his heel, hearing you shift before you’re wrapping yourself around his lower back, placing a chaste kiss against his hip. “Get back here.”

This time he does laugh, reaching around to run his fingers through the roots of your hair. “Why should I?”

You respond by turning him around and undoing his pants, this time making quick work of the zipper as you stare up at him. Not a moment goes by where you break eye contact. Even when your hands awkwardly fail to push the fabric past his thighs and he’s forced to help you, do you even think of looking away. It’s admirable, Miguel thinks, watching the dedication of your features. The way they pick him apart piece by piece as he kicks away the remaining fabric before peeling off his socks. 

When he’s finally free he slowly kneels in front of you, following silent orders by taking the rest of your clothes off. First, he starts with your pants, slowly but surely pulling them off your hips and thighs, following the newly exposed skin with open-mouth kisses that have you throwing your head back. Then, after he’s placed a few pecks to your knees, he swiftly darts up to your mouth, distracting you with an eager tongue as he reaches around to unhook your bra.

A mutual sigh rings out between you as he darts down, moving to survey the newly exposed flesh. Hovering for a moment, he cocks his head to look at your form and how it curves into these shapes that have him acting instead of thinking. Moving instead of asking as he continues his descent, placing damp kisses across your skin until his hands are on the band of your underwear and he’s looking up. 

It’s the only time he’s asked for permission all night. Resting his chest against the lower half of your stomach, he raises a brow at you, watching the way you breathe in and out and stare back. Your pupils are blown out of proportion, the colour of your irises hidden by a darkened lust that Miguel prays you’ll act on. 

“Please.” He mutters it through open-mouth kisses that move lower until they’re ghosting your clothed entrance, sending a series of shivers down your spine so intense, Miguel can’t help but grin against you. 

“Go ahead.” 

There’s a mix of excitement and confusion as he slips the fabric off your hips. A tinge of something foreign in his chest once everything’s gone and you’re lying there bare, squirming under his touch. As his arms curl underneath your thighs, dragging your form towards the edge of the bed for better access, he feels it rattle against his ribs. 

You’re already wet when his mouth latches onto your clit. Soaking against his tongue as he runs it along that sweet spot that has you sighing out his name. When he hears it, he somehow pulls himself closer, nudging his nose against the space above your cunt as his fingers fan across your stomach, applying a bit of pressure to keep you still. Beneath them, he can feel the spasms of every breath. Each time his mouth sucks a little harder or his tongue changes pace, he can feel the shift of every movement and he can’t help but lose focus. 

There’s something about you that demands his attention in ways he never thought possible. Maybe it’s the way you carry yourself whenever his aggressive side slips through or the way you’re roughly reaching down to grip his hair, pushing him further in regardless of his need to breathe. Either way, it perplexes him —leaves him with inquiries that mould to the sections of your body he can feel against him. 

How come this feels different? 

As he unhooks one arm from your stomach, he can hear a quiet whimper leave your throat. Desperation sinking in from the lack of support as he hooks one leg and begins to trail through your folds. 

Is she lonely?

Quickly, the whimper transitions to a groan, followed by a breathy fuck that has him slipping two fingers inside of you, slowly pumping in and out. 

Am I lonely?

For a second he pulls away to breathe, feeling your slick tingle against his lips. Feeling you shake against his fingers that begin to curl in place of his absent tongue.

What if together we were less lonely?

There’s a weird sense of relief when he looks up and notices you staring back. All overwhelmed and half-lidded, your eyes look at him with a fondness he’s never felt before. A fondness that makes him wish that this moment could last forever as he slowly dips back down, refusing to break eye contact.

“Don’t stop.”

There’s no politeness in your words. Just aggression and desperation as you lift your hips, and in that moment, every question in Miguel’s mind is answered. Every reluctant thought of why you feel so different in his hands that pushes to the surface is lost through the distracted movements of him navigating through your pleasure. 

Picking up the pace, his unused knuckles ghost the outside of your entrance, providing an overwhelming amount of friction when paired with what’s already happening. As they brush against your folds, Miguel can feel you tipping over the edge. Your breathing is hard and trembling against the hand that creeps up to rub your sides. 

Your face is fully hidden behind the rising of your spine as it curls in tandem with the fingers inside your cunt and Miguel can’t help but imagine what you look like. How your eyes are screwed up tight and your mouth's all open, letting out sound after sound as he finally hits that spot that has you shaking uncontrollably and reaching to pull him off.

He doesn’t budge. Refusing to even consider it, even when you’re practically crying into the air, begging for him to stop, because all he can think about is giving you more. More stimulation, more movement, more push to counteract the desperate pull you have against his head that refuses to lift the anchor. 

Miguel feels within himself that you need this. This over-the-top decoration of worship that has him holding you down with a heavy hand as he readjusts his position. On the bed, you’re a sight meant only for him —a goddess, listening to the prayers of praise he mumbles under his breath and he pulls down the fabric covering his cock, lining himself up.

He doesn’t ask this time when he pushes into you. He doesn’t hesitate or wonder why the feeling of you wrapped around him instantly becomes too much. All he does is continue to please you. To cage you in against his chest with greedy hands that grip your hip and face, pulling you in. 

When he kisses you there’s nothing else. Every feeling and sound is muted behind the backdrop of his mind. As his body moves against yours —pushing further into a space that feels so familiar he feels almost breathless— all he can think about is fate. If those moments at the bar that somehow led to these moments in your bedroom were meant to happen.

It feels like you were made for him. Moulded from his rib like Eve from Adam. You’re a connection he’s never felt before. An unfamiliar body surrounding a soul he’s always known. 

It makes his movements all the more frantic as he kisses your mouth —your cheek, your chin, your neck. Anywhere he can latch onto to make this moment last as presses your hip and juts further in, feeling the fluttering of your walls begin to take hold of his orgasm. 

As he burrows his face against your neck, breathing harder than he ever has before he can feel everything building. The presence of your hands coaxing goosebumps across his back; the heavy breaths against his ear as you let out a blissed-out laugh before you gently nibble the shell of his ear.  

All of it becomes too much, and in an instant he’s coming inside you, twitching against your hips with a groan that has you humming as you kiss his cheek.

-

The morning after feels a bit too bittersweet. 

When Miguel wakes up, still wrapped around your frame, his chest pressed firmly against your back as both of you simultaneously stir, there’s an inkling of reality that sets in. A reminder that it’s an entirely new day as the sun outside beams through the window near your legs, coating the blanket overtop with morning light. 

While blinking, he nudges his nose against your head, feeling his chest swell at the arrival of his thoughts. The night has ended and it’s time to go home now and despite knowing that’s true, there's something that prevents him. 

“What time is it?” you ask.

Grumbling, you try to peel from his grasp but fail when he tightens further around you, groaning in response because, as weird as it might be that he’s still here, he doesn’t want whatever this is to end yet. Instead, he wants to be a bit selfish. To lay in a moment that feels unreal he finds himself smiling against the back of your head.

“Don’t care.”

“I do.” 

Reluctantly, he lets you roll over to face him; your eyes fluttering open for a second before they quickly close, realizing how bright it is. “Then check your phone.” 

“I can’t,” you groan and shove your forehead into his chest, letting out a yawn.

“How come?”

“I have a hot guy holding me.” 

Miguel lets out a single ha as he runs his fingers along the base of your spine, feeling you jump beneath his touch. “That’s disgusting.” 

“What is?” 

“Your compliment.” 

You don’t know this, but he’s never taken to compliments. Something about them always feels cheap —tacky even. Considering they’re almost exclusively about appearances, it always feels weird when someone offers him one, saying things like you have nice arms or beautiful cheekbones or the classic you have an incredible ass. 

Over the years, he’s concluded it's all manipulation. Words of affirmation to get you to like whoever’s saying them. If you compliment someone, it’s pretty much proven that after it’s said a deeper connection will develop in the form thanks to a biased opinion. And because of this, he finds them deeply uncomfortable hear; often opting to brush them off or outright change the subject. 

Somehow when you say it though, it’s different. Honest. As if you’re offering him a truth he’s always needed to hear. 

It sounds weird given the lack of time spent together. He’s known you for seven hours tops. Eleven maybe if count the time spent sleeping in the same bed, but something about you feels genuine. To him, you feel like a no-bullshit kind of gal and he likes it. Enjoys it in a way that —even though he knows that these moments spent lingering under the covers are nothing more than delays to the inevitable— he can’t help but long for something more. Something real and tangible and— 

“It’s nine, by the way.”

He regrets telling you the moment you’re swearing under your breath and pushing him away, your naked frame bounding out of the bed. Blinking in confusion, he watches as you rush across the room to open your closet and sift through its contents with a frown. 

It’s sudden, seeing you go from so relaxed to stressed, and guilty it makes him laugh even though it’s obvious that you’re late for something important. 

“You good over there?” 

Your body is tense as you throw on a fresh pair of underwear, practically tripping on the fabric as you attempt to pull it up over your ankles. “My job interview is in thirty minutes,” you tell him, and he nods. 

You mentioned that last night. Something about a journalism gig with the Bugle. If he’s honest, the details on what exactly you were applying for are still fuzzy —a half-remembered phrase lost to the events of last night. He remembers you talking about school, for sure. You took classes at one of the local colleges before getting a gig at some magazine you absolutely hated, so you quit.  

Or maybe you got fired?

As he attempts to recount these details, he watches you quickly pull together an outfit that looks professional enough. At first, you grab a pencil skirt and a nice top, holding it up to inspect before shaking your head and choosing a dark blue blouse tucked into a pair of black slacks. Then you move to stand in front of the mirror and roll up your sleeves, examining everything together before rushing to grab a pair of socks. 

“You okay?”

“Yup, never better.” 

The sarcasm that clings to your words is apparent. In this moment you’re anything but okay. You panicked and confused and even though Miguel knows he shouldn’t care he finds his sympathy level rising. 

“Do you need a ride?”

“What?”

He repeats the question before he can even suppress it, realizing he’s made a mistake. A moment of uncharacteristic weakness that has him biting his tongue, watching the way you stare at him like he’s just lost his mind.

“You want to give me a ride?”

“Sure. If you need one.” 

Miguel wonders if maybe he’s lost his mind because normally he doesn’t do things like this for people. Normally, instead of getting roped into the affairs of others he just coasts through life by his lonesome evading favours of any kind. 

For example, at work, he single-handedly avoids everyone who comes within a certain radius with any sort of question. With women he’s nice, but not too nice, knowing that if he steps over that threshold he’ll be roped into something he wants nothing to do with. Hell, even at home, Gabriel has a hard time convincing him to do anything without him questioning his motives. So, all of these details combined with the fact that he just met you make his offering all the more strange. Maybe even creepy based on the way you’re awkwardly grinning and avoiding his gaze as you pull on your socks. 

“Or I could just, uh —go?”

When you don’t respond right away he sits up in your bed, tearing away the sheets to stand and grab his clothes, trying to forget the fact that he’s naked and nervous and suddenly overthinking everything about your time together. Something that’s so unlike him that he has to really think about what you’re doing to him. How someone like you —someone so normal— has suddenly developed this ability to turn him into a blundering idiot who has no sense of mental direction.  

“No, no, I’ll take the ride,” you tell him then, ripping him from his thoughts in an instant. “I’m just surprised.”

He finds his underwear by the edge of your bed and pulls them on. “Why?” 

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy that offers to chauffeur girls around.” 

He’s not. Not even in the slightest. Sure, he’s nice. Charming, even, but unless there’s something in it for him (like there was last night) he could care less. He should care less.

“Wouldn’t want you losing out on a good opportunity.”

Did he seriously just say that? Jesus.

You smile and nod, but regardless, he can still tell that you take his answer at face value. He would too if the roles were reversed because no one in this day and age does anything without some underlying motive. Every favour comes at a price, so for him to just offer to help without anything in return is questionable. 

And even after you’re both dressed and sliding into the front seats of his car, he can’t help but focus on how out of character he feels. How instead of doing all this extra work on the off chance he impresses you, he should’ve just left. When he was still awake, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, he should’ve just gotten up and left without saying goodbye. 

It would’ve been easier that way. Less jarring and awkward than waking up to him gripping your chest like it’s something he does every day. If he’d done that, he wouldn’t be in this position: driving you to an interview he knows you’ll inevitably be late to. 

“I don’t mean to sound like an asshole but could you, uh, maybe speed it up a bit?” 

The traffic is already too thick for him to race through. Up ahead, the light flashes red and he’s about fifteen cars behind. There’s no way you’re making it in time and it’s apparent that you know based on the desperation of your voice.

“You obviously know that I can’t.” 

“I know —I just— fuck, I really need this job.” Your leg is bouncing as you lean an elbow against the edge of the window, using it as a resting place for your chin. “God, I should’ve set an alarm.”

“Probably, yeah.”

He’s never seen a head turn so quickly. Your eyes, which were filled with worry just a second ago, instantly narrow to a point, causing him to swallow hard. 

“Don’t chastise me.” 

“I’m not chastising you!” His hands fly off the steering wheel in defense for a moment before they land back down, realizing that the light’s turned green. “I’m just agreeing with you.”

“Yeah, but you said it like you were better than me.”

“How?” 

He’s confused but weirdly entertained. Like most of the time he’s spent with you, everything feels brand new. As if he’s experiencing a different way to interact with a person. Everything you do has him second-guessing his responses —sitting with the words inside his head before releasing them into the air, and it’s weirdly refreshing.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s your voice.”

“My voice?” He laughs. “What’s wrong with my voice?”

“I don’t know, it's just aggressive sounding —judge-y.” 

“My voice isn’t judge-y. If anything your’s is for assuming that mine is.” 

This time you laugh. “You know what, I actually don’t have time for this.”

“Neither do I!”

“Then why did you offer?” 

When Miguel doesn’t make the light you let out a groan and reach for the door handle, fiddling with it angrily until he rolls his eyes and presses unlock. After he does, you shoot him an angered look and throw open the door.

“Hey, wait a minute, where are you—“

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. Instead, he’s just met with more confusion as you flip him off and weave through the cars, holding out your hands cautiously until you make it to the sidewalk and start to bolt.

-

He hasn’t stopped thinking about you. Not since you left him on the street about a week ago, never to be heard from again. No matter how hard he tries to distract himself with work or missions or even Gabriel, he can’t seem to get rid of the image of you tearing down the street without looking back.

As he swings onto a nearby building, landing on the edge with ease, he can still clearly see the anger in your eyes at that moment. The knitted brows formed over half-closed eyes honing in on your destination. He’s never seen anyone look so motivated. 

It makes him wonder if you made it. If by some divine intervention, the person interviewing you was also late. As ridiculous as it sounds, he hopes they were. That they turned up, out of breath and panicked long after you settled into a waiting room chair; your bearings already in check. Secretly, he hopes you impressed their socks off —that they offered you the job and now, eight days later on the dot, you’re happily employed. 

It’d make the guilt he feels for not even trying to get your number less intense. If he could just get some confirmation that that argument you had in the car wasn’t an introduction to an equally, if not worse, ending day, maybe then he could just stop thinking about you. 

Deep inside he knows that’s not how it works. Connections like that don’t just evaporate overnight —they linger. Fester and boil underneath flesh that rises in a wave of goosebumps every time he thinks of your voice and how it felt fighting against his own. 

As he surveys the city below, crouching down to sit on the building’s ledge, he wishes he could forget you. Wishes that those moments he felt in bed with you were nothing more than urges. 

Miguel’s been in love before. More times than he cares to admit, but he’s always been able to push past it. To pin it as another weak moment of infatuation that just got out of hand. Normally, with time he can shake himself out of it. A couple more days without seeing you will probably do the trick, he thinks, and if not, he can always find someone else to keep his mind off of you.

“Fuck.” 

He can tell you’ve really gotten under his skin when he finds himself palming the sockets of his eyes, trying to come up with a plan, knowing the longer he spends away from you the better he’ll feel. That maybe if calls up Gabriel after he stops a couple of robberies or something he can find someone else to fill the void. 

Yeah, that could work, he decides. If he can find someone else to fuck for a while maybe then he can erase the memory of you entirely. 

Specifically the memory of you that night. The one where your hands against his head while his mouth’s on your pussy. Thinking about it now, Miguel’s certain that’s the memory that solidified all this. The one that made him realize that maybe he’d be willing to force through the barrier of intimacy he so often fears. 

He’s not sure why that moment specifically sticks out in his mind. Maybe it’s the lead-up —the intimate conversations had between you at the bar before you left or the insatiable way you took your own pleasure rather than the other way around. 

Regardless, as Lyla appears in his peripherals, signalling him of an incident near 4th Ave, he can’t stop thinking about it. How every little sound and movement sends his mind into a mess of thoughts, realizing that he doesn’t want to remember it. Nor does he necessarily want to forget it either. No, he wants to experience it first hand, the moments that you shared. The soul that you willingly bared for him. 

When he arrives at the Daily Bugle, there’s an inkling of fear that rises throughout his chest. He’s not sure why when Lyla mentioned the address he didn’t think clue into where he was going. Most likely he was just too distracted, but now that he’s here, sailing through the window of an already crashed party, he’s panicking —looking through the crowd of people being antagonized by a handful of gunmen. 

It’s a mix of dread and relief when he doesn’t see you right away. The Bugle doesn’t often throw parties but based on the decorations that flash through his vision as one of them bounds across the floor to meet him, that it’s for someone’s retirement. Meaning that, if you didn’t get hired, you might be at home. 

Because for some reason he doesn’t see you attending a retirement party for someone you just met a week ago. You seem too reserved for that. 

“Spider-Man!”

There’s about half a dozen people that cheer for his presence, calling out in excitement before they’re silenced by the barrels of guns. 

Miguel sighs and gets to work then, shoving all the thoughts of you to the back of his mind to throw himself into the line of fire; quickly, shooting webs at hands and faces while maneuvering his body through the air to dodge what blows come his way. 

It all feels so seamless now that he’s had enough practice. Every motion easily flows into the next, pushing him around the room to focus on every gunman. Under his breath he calculates the timing of all his shots, making sure the webs wrap around his targets at the exact moment he needs them to, suppressing all their shots as he works to disengage.

On the ground beneath him, a handful of the men are trying to dislodge the webbing from their guns, grunting and groaning as they dig their fingers into the silk. Grinning under his mask, Miguel takes this opportunity to knock some of them out; kicking and punching until they’re weak enough for him to web as well.

He repeats the process a few more times until every gunman is tied together in the corner of the room, struggling to break free. At that point, everyone in the room begins to cheer again, rushing to each other to check that nobody got hurt. 

As this happens, Miguel awkwardly moves towards the already broken window, glancing around the room until he notices a middle-aged woman looking at him with wide, nervous eyes. 

It’s obvious she needs some kind of help. Hidden between the legs of the crowd, she’s looking at him like she’s just seen a ghost, her bottom lip quivering as she turns to her side, reaching out her hands to grab someone prone. As soon as he sees this Miguel’s over there in an instant, brushing past bodies that willingly move as the woman looks back up.

When their eyes meet he’s met with the realization that someone’s hurt. And unfortunately, that someone is you. 

Almost immediately his entire body goes into shock. His breath picks up and his knees give out, but somehow through the stressful haze, he manages to play it off. As if his dramatic movements are nothing more than feelings of urgency at the sight of an injured civilian.

“What happened?” His voice sounds distorted —lost through the crowding of his pounding heart and racing thoughts as you work to sit up.

“I got shot, genius,” you groan. Then you motion to the pooling of blood that stains the fabric of your sweater.

“Thank you for clarifying.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Every word spoken between you feels like it’s nipping at the edges of his heart. As he watches you struggle to sit up, it aches for you —because of you, knowing that you’re in pain and somehow he was too distracted by outside forces to prevent it. 

“Stop moving.” 

He sighs in annoyance and forces you back down to press his hand against your wound, causing you to cry out and attempt to push against him. “We have to stop the bleeding, okay? Stop.” 

You’re defensive for a moment, looking at him with those rage-filled eyes that make him swallow hard and divert his attention, commanding the room to give him something to wrap you with. Immediately, a man nearby rips off his jacket, handing it to Miguel who tells you to apply pressure to the wound while he fashions you a bandage. 

“I thought you’d be nicer,” you mutter breathlessly, watching closely as he wraps the fabric around your shoulder, tying it as tight as he can before taking you into his arms. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

He’s out of the building and in the air in less than a minute, holding onto you for dear life. Against him, he can feel you flinching at every movement, breathing so heavy he can feel the heat of your breath against his ear. 

“We have to get you to a hospital.” 

Your fingers tighten around the blade of his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as you shake your head. 

“You could die—“

“I don’t have insurance.”

It’s the most insane thing he’s ever heard. So insane that he actually scoffs in your face, earning himself quite arguably the angriest look you’ve ever given him. 

“Quit judging me. Not all of us are rich.” 

“I know, I just—“

“Just drop me off at home, okay? I’ll call my uncle.”

“Your uncle?” 

He can’t believe you’re willing to risk your life to avoid a hospital bill. Miguel’s well aware that the cost of medical care is high —always has been, but surely you could make an acception this once considering there’s a bullet wedged inside your flesh. 

“He was an army medic. He’ll know what to do.”

As much as he wants to continue this argument he can feel the changing of your breath. How it goes from continuous and heavy to an even set of gasps that have him rushing towards your apartment. Weaving through the city skyline, he makes quick work of the journey, whizzing past windows that flash across his vision. Against his chest, he can feel you squirming impatiently, your voice hoarse as you tell him to stop taking the corners so roughly right before he takes another one, spotting your building.

When he arrives at your fire escape there’s a sense of relief that floods over him, making you groan. “The window’s locked just, uh, bust it open.” 

He holds you tight, lifting his leg to kick out the window. “You’ll pay to get a window replaced but refuse to go to the hospital?”

“I was planning on billing you.” 

It’s almost comical how consistent your speech is. How, even though he’s literally saving your life right now you manage to be an impenetrable force of sarcastic wit. It makes him laugh as he breaks away the edges of the glass and crawls in, making sure the hold that he has on you is tight. Then when you’re fully inside, he rushes you to the bed, asking you about your phone so that he can personally call your uncle to explain the urgency. 

This time without argument you hand it over, motioning to the pocket of your jeans, making him realize it’s too hard for you to get it. 

“Don’t even think about getting handsy with me right now.” 

He nearly chokes as he reaches into the back pocket of your pants, his fingers brushing lightly against your ass before they quickly retreat. 

“Don’t worry. You’re not my type.”

“You mean I wasn’t your type last night?” 

He can almost feel the curling of your smirk. The way it pulls across your face in such a devious way he has to really focus on going through your contacts instead of overthinking what you just said. 

Because you said it, right? Without context, you mentioned last night. Without clues, you made a simple call back to him and you and all the things that happened over the course of a few hours. 

Feeling overwhelmed, he turns his back to you and calls your uncle, ignoring absolutely everything but the task at hand, knowing what’s at stake. If he doesn’t focus you could die. And if you die he’ll never be able to ask you how the fuck you know he’s Spider-Man. 

So instead of giving in to his racing thoughts he just explains the situation. Cool and calm as possible, he tells your uncle everything before hanging up the phone, promising to take you to the hospital if things start to go south. Upon hearing this, you clear your throat, prompting him to turn back around.

“What?”

“If you take me to the hospital I’ll kill you.”

Your threat is anything but convincing, but Miguel doesn’t argue, knowing the stress of it all is the last thing you need. 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know.” 

“I know you know. I’m just… reiterating.” 

Your voice is beginning to strain so instead of responding he merely just sits on the edge of your bed, watching the way you clench your teeth around a sudden burst of pain he wishes he could get rid of. 

If only he’d gotten healing powers instead of retractable claws and venomous teeth. It’d make the situation you find yourself in a whole lot easier. If he could just take your pain away he’d do it in a second. He wouldn’t even think about it.  

“Stop looking at me like I’m dying, Miguel.”

The way you say his name is evil. The way it makes him feel is full of sin and as much as he hates you for it, he finds himself releasing a heavy breath and letting his mask disintegrate into dying pixels that show the annoyance on his face. 

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

Despite the pain you’re in you manage to grin again. “I know, but you like it, so shut up and kiss me. I need a distraction.”

It’s the most surprised he thinks he’s ever been. Hearing the bluntness of your words mixed through the struggle of your voice. It’s off-putting in a way that has him leaning without question, pressing a shaky hand to your cheek; knowing that if this is what you need to feel like yourself again he’ll give it to you.

No questions asked, he’ll give you anything you ask for. Anything you want, even if it feels unattainable because in this moment you could ask for the sun and he’d throw himself into space to get it. 

And that scares him.

-

It’s terrifying seeing this side of him. The side that's disgustingly sweet and stubborn. The one that forces you to rest —to let him cook and clean and replace the bandages of your healing shoulder. It’s nice, you tell yourself, even though the more you experience it, the more you fear it. The ever-growing pit in your stomach blooming against your insides; curling around your organs in tendrils of vine that will someday wither away and die. 

You don't know how long it will last. You expect the moment you’re better, he’ll leave. That once you're back to the swing of things he'll tell you some bullshit excuse like it’s been fun, but I have other things going on before he walks out into the hall never to be seen again.

In the grand scheme of things, you've known Miguel for a few seconds. A minuscule amount of time compared to the rest of your days spent on this earth. At this point, you’re nothing more than a pair of people waving to each other on the street before parting ways. Two individual bodies meeting in the middle only to separate.

As you lay in bed, stretching out your shoulder two weeks after the incident, you can feel him staring. His eyes burning holes into the side of your head as peeks one eye open. 

“You okay?”

You tell him you’re fine. That you’re just stretching and that he shouldn’t worry but immediately he defies you. Stares at you with worry in his eyes as he sits up, watching you strain to sit at the edge of the bed and gently roll your shoulder. 

“Do you need—“

“I said I’m fine.” 

You don’t mean for it to sound so harsh but ever since that night at the Bugle he’s been glued to your side. Lingering like a fly on the wall, watching your every move. 

It’s nice, but you know it won’t last. So, instead of dwelling on it, you force yourself to stand and move towards the bathroom, groaning under your breath at the pulsing pain as you open your medicine cabinet and pop two painkillers into your mouth.

“Here.” 

Miguel’s behind you before you can even tell him to stay put, offering you a glass of water that you begrudgingly take, feeling your chest ache, wondering if you’ll be able to cope if he vanishes. 

It sounds crazy but despite the annoyance you feel every time he forces you to rest or do your required stretching, you enjoy his presence. The way he takes charge regardless of the fight you put up. The way he’s always there when you need him. 

“You know you can chill out.” You take another sip of water, peering at him over the edge of the glass with a raised brow, watching the way he rolls his eyes and leans against the doorframe. 

“I know.” 

“I’m better now. I can do things. You don't have to hover.” 

“I’m not.”

You snort. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m not,” he repeats, and suddenly it feels like you’re crumbling. Falling beneath the rubble of your heavy thoughts, watching the way his eyebrows knit together, looking at you like you’ve just insulted him. 

Maybe if you did that it’d make the end come faster. Maybe if you were meaner he’d get tired of you and call it. Leave without saying goodbye in the middle of the night, or something. 

If he did, you’re certain you’d get over it. Just like the wound that spreads across the edge of your shoulder, it’d heal and, over time, you’d be fine.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

Your declaration confuses him. Makes him open his mouth and cock his head as he watches you hand over the glass and turn on your heel. He can tell you’re being weird but, because he doesn’t know you well enough, he probably isn’t sure how to handle it. How to navigate the upheaval of your emotions as you struggle to strip down in front of him and turn on the water. 

Uncharacteristically he leaves you alone without arguing, closing the door behind him so quietly that as you step under the warm water, you can tell it’s already happening. The calm before the storm is developing and you're stuck inside the centre of it, watching the rain and wind waft together in the form of miscommunication and passive aggression. 

God, this sucks. 

As you peel off the bandage, wincing and shaking at the way it sticks to the edges of your skin, you can feel the pinprick of tears. You’ve never been a crier. Reserving your tears for moments where they’re actually deserved, the feeling is foreign. Overwhelming in a way that has you pursing your lips and heavily breathing, trying to force it away. 

To distract yourself you toss your bandage into the trash beside the toilet then close the shower curtain, shielding yourself from Miguel and the rest of the world as you slowly lower yourself into the bowl of the bathtub. 

Everything hurts at that moment. Your shoulder, your head —your heart. All of it pounds with a ferocious bang, echoing throughout the rest of your body as you curl into the fetal position, hugging your legs with your good arm, wishing you could go back to that night. The one where things were easy and simple. The one where Miguel was nothing more than a guy trying to pick up a girl for some fun. Everything seemed so perfect then. So picturesque and dreamy; both of you filled with the kind of anticipation you wish you could use to replace the kind you feel now. 

Back then, it felt like you had something to look forward to. An unknown where the expectations were built but not yet solidified. Now though, it feels like there’s standards. Assumptions that the both of you secretly have now that your time together has grown. You’re not sure what his are but yours are needy. Desperate and embarrassing to the point where you’re certain once he realizes he’ll grow tired. 

And then he’ll leave. 

And then this toxic, fast-growing support system you’ve come to care about will be gone forever and you’ll be left to pick up the pieces like you always do. 

You know you sound crazy, thinking like this. Thinking that this guy is worth the effort of your tears. You barely know him. Sure, over the last few weeks, he’s told you about his life —about his brother and his mom and in detail, the incident at Alchemex that earned him his powers, but he’s still a stranger. A body of water that’s washing over your shores, attempting to pull back the sand. To roughly erode the walls of an already decaying structure too tired to continue. 

You want to reciprocate. To tell him all about your life and why you are the way you are, assuming that if you did, he’d understand why you’re so defensive. Why, instead of accepting him and all his help, you’re quick to push him away. 

Moving your palm to gently rub the dry skin of your wound, you give in to the tears, feeling a sob rip through your chest —feeling the shame of your own emotions take over. 

You hate crying more than most things. It’s a useless emotion meant only for the weak. Since you were a kid crying was always the last resort in the list of reactions when something bad happened, and to this day, that still rings true. It’s why your first response is to get angry —to lash out with hostile remarks or combative body language.

It's why you’re so broken, you think. Why, you can only count on your fingers the handful of times you've shattered under the pressure.

You’re gasping through the stream, then. Moving your hand from your shoulder to your face to suppress the cries because the last thing you want is for Miguel to hear you. For him to witness you in your lowest state. 

At this point, Ben’s the only one that’s seen you cry and that was on the day that Peter died. The day that everything became messy and confusing and your emotions turned into this burden you constantly have to carry. 

You don’t want Miguel to have to see this side of you. The side that’s so irreversibly weak and careless and unable to cope with time and how, at the end of it all, it’s just you. Just the thought is too much for you to bear. Especially now that you’ve had a taste of what it feels like for someone to care again. For someone to look at you like you’re a person deserving of the bare minimum, despite the effort you put in to avoid it. Despite the way you constantly berate him for coming so quickly into your life without the prospect of knowing if he'll leave again. 

Another sob escapes, shaking you to your core. Erupting from the confines of your shattered bone and blistering flesh, it takes the wind right out of you. Leaves you gasping for air under the heat that wraps a hand around your throat. 

The tears in combination with the steam have made your eyes virtually unusable. Everything around you is so blurry that when you turn your head at the sound of the creaking door, you don’t see Miguel come in. You just see the outline of his body and the colours of his clothes disappear before he’s rushing into the storm and holding on for dear life. 

He’s the gentlest he’s ever been, wrapping himself around your back. One of his arms wraps around your stomach for support while the other reaches to shut off the water, making sure not to bump your shoulder in the process, then it skims across your scalp. 

His fingertips ghost your tired head. His mouth presses kisses in their wake, whispering affirmations in between. His other hand thumbs the edge of your torso. 

Every movement is intimate. A combination of sensations you’ve never experienced. Somehow instead of freaking you out they calm you down. Pulling you back to a place of reality where your thoughts become memories and Miguel is present and willing to stay. 

Under your breath, you apologize. Under his, he says it's okay. 

“I like you, I think.”

His body shifts. A sigh of relief is released and it’s the first time in your life you’ve felt okay about being vulnerable. “Yeah?”

“But I’m not good at this.”

“Okay.”

“I don't know how to be there for other people.”

“That’s okay.” He kisses your face. 

You close your eyes at the impact of his lips, feeling your stomach flip. “You say that but what if I fuck it up?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t open his mouth to tell you that everything’s going to be fine. Nor does he agree. All he does is sit, tighten his grip and let out a sigh, letting you figure it out on your own.

-

You figure out his coffee order by week four. 

Now that you’re healed and able to do more things on your own he’s started working in the lab again, opting to give you more space after a conversation about smothering just days prior. 

You like having him around —love it, if you're honest, but sometimes you miss the solitude of your own space. The moments at night when the air is cool and you’ve just finished making dinner. 

Before there was you and him, you used to eat out on the fire escape. Grab a beer from your fridge and carefully crawl through the window to watch all the people down below. You’d play music from your phone and just exist, lingering in a space where your mind could go completely blank for a while. 

When you told him this he understood completely. Kissed your face and told you to let him know when you wanted him back. 

Now that the weekend has passed you miss his presence. His tall, looming yet loving figure napping soundly on your couch or following you around the kitchen, arguing about which spices should go in whatever dish you’re making. 

As you finish up some work for the Bugle, you shoot him a text, telling him you have a surprise for him. He responds with a question mark that makes you roll your eyes and stand from the table you’ve been using at the coffee shop nearest to his office. Then, you walk up to the till and order something you hope he’ll like, waiting patiently at the hand-off plane. 

While waiting, you text back and forth for a bit, arguing about the surprise reveal even after the cup is in your hand and you’re walking through the Alchemex entrance, telling the receptionist up front you here to see Miguel O’Hara. 

When you’re offered clearance and then given directions you practically race to his office, trying to suppress the ever-present grin that pulls across your face once you’re at his door and tapping your knuckles against it. 

It takes a few moments for him to open the door. On the other side, you hear shuffling, followed by silence and then eventually slow-moving footsteps that have your heart pounding in your chest. 

When he opens the door he narrows his eyes, confused at how you’ve suddenly appeared in front of him. “How’d you—“

You lean in to kiss him, lingering there for a moment before shoving the coffee into his hand. “Surprised?"

“Very.” 

“Good.” You grin triumphantly as he sidesteps to let you inside.

“How did you get here so fast? Your apartment’s across town.” 

“I did some work at that cafe across the street,” you tell him, watching him pause to look down at the cup in his hand before taking a sip. “Thought since we haven’t seen each other all weekend I'd pop by. Bring you some energy.”

He hums around the lip of the cup.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked so I kind of just guessed.”

He smiles then, moving to wrap his arm around and pull you in, placing a kiss to your head. It’s the kind of kiss that’s full of warmth. As if he’s grateful for the gesture. As if this kiss is his way of telling you you did a good job. 

-

By week twenty, you discover he likes being put in his place. 

After an argument about not calling you after one of his missions, you tell him to fuck off when he shows up at your window the next day, holding a bottle of apology wine. It’s the middle of the night and you tell him you have work tomorrow, but all he does is move behind you, reaching around to close the lid of your laptop with a satisfying smack.

“Miguel, I'm serious. Go home. I have shit to do.” 

Ignoring you, he pulls your desk chair out, using the wheels to spin you around before letting his mask disappear, revealing the tiniest inkling of a smirk. “But I brought you wine,” he says, acting like it means something. As if bringing you wine is the all-encompassing apology for bad behaviour. 

“Okay, and?”

“And I thought maybe we could pop it open. Hang out a bit.” 

You know that hanging out is code for sex. That his adrenaline is pumping from a good night out and now he wants to fuck you so that he can get his energy out and sleep. It’s what he always does.

Normally you’d be fine with it, but tonight you’re honestly exhausted. Barely hanging on as you fight the onslaught of fatigue trying to take over your mind the longer you sit at your desk, attempting to write. 

“Miguel, I can’t do this right now. I have an article to finish and another one to edit—“

 He leans down to kiss you but before he can you shove him off, rising from the chair in heated anger, listening to the way he laughs.

“Seriously Miguel, stop.”

In an instant it's like he’s switched his tactics, moving from one extreme to the other. Gently, he grabs your face in his hands, looking down with false innocence that has you rolling your eyes. “Please?”

“I’m busy.”

“Please.” 

“Miguel—“

He drops to his knees, bracing your hips in his hands as he lowers his face to your cunt, resting his cheek against it. “I’ll be good, I promise.” 

You don’t know what's gotten into him. Maybe during his mission, he bumped his head a little too hard or some goon injected him with some sort of aphrodisiac. Whatever it is, there’s something different about him. Something so desperately adorable that when he kisses the fabric of your shorts, lingering for a moment as he plays with your waistband, you partially give in.

Huffing, you glance around the room feeling your face begin to warm. “Okay but, we’re doing it my way.” 

“Course.” 

He quickly realizes your way involves him being strapped to the bed, unable to touch while you take your pleasure. 

After agreeing you made him web himself to the headboard of your bed, both of his hands tightly wound in layers of silk that you touch with curiosity, sitting naked across his chest. 

You can tell he hates whatever it is that you're planning. Whatever sick revenge plot is brewing inside your head as you run your hands along his wrists and lean forward to ghost your lips across his. 

“This is nice.” 

“Is it?”

You hum, watching his eyes narrow once your hands hit the ditches of his elbows and swirl around, decorating his skin in spiralled goosebumps. 

“I’d argue it’s rude but—“

“My rules?”  

“Your rules.”

You give him a kiss for good behaviour. A quick peck that has him chasing after you as you continue to move lower, making sure to never break eye contact.

“You know, I never get as needy as this when you work late.” 

His lips firmly press together when your fingers begin to move up his arm, sliding up the edges until they stop atop his shoulders and you squeeze. 

“I never interrupt your work asking you to fuck me.” 

He swallows hard when you raise your hips into the air, moving both hands towards his chest as you line yourself up over him. 

“I’m nice to you. I respect you.” 

“I respect—“

You slide his cock inside of you agonizingly slow, mockingly matching the way his mouth falls open and he throws his head back. As you do this, you can feel his chest rise and fall, quickly twitching as you take him in, suppressing a moan of your own. 

It never fails to feel this good. The way he fills you up always has this calming quality that empties your mind. When he’s with you, the entirety of the world is erased, the feeling of comfort immediately replacing it once you feel those first few inches slip inside and eventually settle against your base. 

Gently, you lift yourself off, moving at a pace you knows he hates with a drunken grin. 

“Nice and slow, right baby?” 

His hands pull against his webs, threatening to break free before you reach up a hand, lacing your fingers in his. 

“Be good.” 

You can feel him fighting off the urge to defy. The way he tightens his grip around your hand. The way his hips push up every time you rise away. All of it proves just how much he truly hates this and how he wishes that you’d hurry up and let him go so that he could fuck you properly. 

A small chuckle escapes your lips as you lower yourself down again, moving your hand from his grasp to follow the trail of his arm again. This time though, instead of resting it against his chest you let it skim across his skin, lowering past his torso until it’s sweeping through your folds for him to see. 

“If you’d just listened…” You shake your head and click your tongue, chastising him in such a humiliating way he’s forced to close your eyes and just breathe. 

You don’t give him the satisfaction though, pausing the movements of your hand to snap your fingers and scold him, telling him that if he wants to come he has to watch. 

-

When week forty-two hits, he tells you he loves you. 

After a mission goes wrong and he loses the police captain to a fatal gunshot wound at the hands of one of Kingpin’s goons, he crawls into bed and holds you so tight you end up coughing at the impact.

“Sorry,” he says. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “Are you okay?”

When he doesn’t respond right away you know he’s not, so you grip him just as tight, pushing his face toward your chest so that you can kiss the top of his head. 

“I love you,” he says then. 

He doesn’t ask for you to say it back —just snuggles closer, letting the increased rate of your heart lull him to sleep. 

-

On week forty-four, you say it back, telling him you wanted to say it that night but didn’t know how to. You’ve never loved anyone before —not like this.

He tells you he understands and that he’s glad you feel the same before kissing you.

When he pulls away both of you smile and continue cooking dinner. 

-

In between week sixty and week sixty-one, there’s a moment where Miguel looks at you strangely. It’s subtle —a simple widening of the eyes paired with his usual grin— but there’s something different. Something mischievous that has you raising your brows and reaching to grab his hand as you walk along the sidewalk.

“What's that look for?” you ask.  

“What look?” 

You know he knows. The way he awkwardly laughs almost immediately after, turning to hide the blush that develops across his cheeks, tells you everything you need to know and more.

He’s up to something. 

“I know you think you’re good at lying but you’re not.” 

“Says who.” 

Before you can answer, there’s an explosion in the building beside you. Enveloping your skin in a hot burst of flame, your body soars through the air after impact, landing you near the centre of the street where oncoming cars screech to a halt as Miguel pushes through the pain to make sure you’re still alive. To make sure that he’s there when you open your eyes and smile at him and tell him everything’s okay, even though it’s not because, instead of in the street, he’s standing on a platform years later, knowing how this ends. Watching how it ends for the hundredth time alongside a version of you that sits there in shock, realizing why he’s been so reluctant to let you in.

-

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[dustandshadows8]

Why I think Wednesday is demiromantic or greyromantic 

(None of this fan art is mine I found it on Pinterest so credits to the og artists your talent is incredible.)

First, of all for all you beautiful people who have forgotten or didn't know these two definitions, let's take a look:

A grey romantic person:

is a person with a romantic orientation that is somewhere between aromantic and romantic.

For example, a gray-romantic may:  -Experience romantic attraction but not very often.  -Experience romantic attraction, but not desire romantic relationships.  -Desire relationships which are not quite platonic and not quite romantic.

A demiromantic person:

is a person who cannot feel a romantic attraction to someone until a strong emotional connection is established. The emotional connection can be any number of things from a prolonged talking stage to a sexual relationship turning to more. It depends on the case and all people are different on how they feel emotional connections with others.

At the beginning of the show Wednesday says that she does not have any interest in being like her Mother and falling in love and getting married. (Just like to say the proud aroacespec positivity I got form hearing those words...)

First of all this indicates that Wednesday does not consider herself a allo person, she has romantic feelings and has decided to never act on them or she has never experienced romantic attraction before (demiromantic/greyromatic?).

However as the show progresses we can see her form what can be interpreted as romantic bonds with two people.

(And will be by a wider straight/cis/allo audience who might not understand the aroacespec coding in the show.)

But, more importantly, she also forms a possibly stronger platonic bond with Enid.

Wednesday's relationship with Enid progresses in a healthy way. They get to know each other. At the beginning of their relationship they have a tape across the floor which nether of them cross, even at the end when Enid thinks he's saying goodbye for ever she does not hug Wednesday because she knows she doesn't like it. They respect each others boundaries.

Across the show we see their friendship deepen and Wednesday begin to more openly return Enid's affections.

One of the most important things to take from this is the speed of, said, progression.

It takes the whole show for Wednesday to be comfortable enough to hug Enid, which shows he level of trust she has gained for her new friend. She doesn't even accept affection from her family.

And, just as importantly, there is still room for a lot of growth in their relationship.

How does this tie into the grey/demiromantic theory?

Well, as Enid and Eugene are the only two people who Wednesday willingly calls her friends (correct me if I'm wrong my memory is shit) and Enid is the (potential?) romantic interest in the situation, she has obviously formed an emotional connection with her and only after she has formed an emotional connection will she allow Enid to hug her.

It ties pretty perfectly into the Demi category.

Now we have to address something else.

The boys.

First of all, especially as an ace (maybe grey or Demiromatic?) person myself, the relationships with both of them seem very rushed and forced.

It seems to me, that she only uses them to find information about the case. The whole show, everything, even the kiss all looked like a ploy for information.

After she suspects Xaviour she turns on him pretty quick. Would she do that if she really cares about him? And she has no problems with being against Tyler in the final.

All through the show her interactions with them are abrupt and harsh, she often forgets about them to continue her investigations, she frequently appears to have no regard to their feelings.

Why would she treat them so badly if she cared about them?

And why would her reserved personality allow her to progress two relationships so fast?

So how does the grey/demiromanticism link into these situations?

It's her extreme awkward and unusual reactions and treatment of both guys that leads me to think that a) she doesn't romantically like ether of them and b) she truly doesn't know how to interact with someone she has a crush on.

Sometime, when your feelings have deepened from some previous emotional connection, it is a lot easier to ignore them.

And Wednesday has never formed such a connection before Enid.

How would she know how to act and show romantic affection?

The stuff you see on T.V looks stupid. People meet each other, go on cute dates, have an mis-communication, get back together, kiss in the rain.

Where is the realism in that? Where is the emotional bonding the inability to understand emotions? The questioning of feelings?

Is this just how allo relationships are portrayed in the media or do people really just know if they like someone, that easily?

I genuinely don't know if some people just know if they like someone without months of questioning.

And Wednesday probably wouldn't ether.

Which is why she tries to make her relationship so like that, quick and easy, even though the emotions (that I'm assuming allos manage to feel after like two weeks or something) aren't there. Instead it's just the words and actions without any feelings.

So, it's the build up of her and Enid's relationship, her reactions to the boys advances especially in the cliche development of their relationships that feels so forced that and doesn't suit her personality at all that leads me to think that Wednesday is ether grey or demiromantic.

As for the ace part in both.

Maybe I'm just self projecting. But does that girl really appear allo to you?

Really?

[snufkinstories]

Another day in Moominvalley. Peaceful and quiet, for the most part. I sat on the front porch of the Moomin's house this morning, watching the trees dance in the breeze when I saw something that caught my eye: a butterfly. But not just any butterfly. A beautiful, bright blue monarch butterfly. It's a sign of good luck, y'know? But it reminded me of a story from my times in the winter.

Throughout Europe, I walked and trotted my way down to the South for the winter. I usually would take a cleared path, but this winter I decided to be more adventurous. I take my stuff and myself into unknown lands full of new colors and scents, taking in everything as I go. Not far into this small expedition do I find a colony of marvelous monarchs, all fluttering and playing with each other. I thought it was breathtaking.

But sitting on the grass nearby watching all the monarchs was something strange. A blue butterfly. A blue monarch to be exact. It sat and watched as if it couldn't play with them. I felt sorry for the poor butterfly and chose to move closer in inspect. Nothing was wrong with the butterfly. It's wings weren't broken or damaged, none of its small little legs were hurt, so why wouldn't it fly?

I asked the butterfly, "Why won't you fly, Mr. Butterfly?" The butterfly doesn't speak, of course. But it moves. It moves like it says something, like charades. It flies happily around me, but acting as if it were happy. Then it sits down on my lap, looking sad and hopeless as it flutters it's soft blue wings. I think for a moment before I guess what the butterfly is trying to tell me, "Do you think thst because you're a blue monarch, that the other monarchs wont want to play with you?"

With that, the butterfly jumps up and flutters for a moment, which I could only assume meant I got it right. I sigh as I hold out my finger for the butterfly to rest on, to which it crawls on and sits as I stand up. I reassure the butterfly, saying that it will most definitely be welcomed into the colony as I cautiously make my way over to the fluttering colony. As I approach, all of the butterflies seem to stop in their tracks, facing me and the blue butterfly. I can't see their faces, so I only assume they don't know why my presence is here.

I speak up to the colony, making sure not to sound intruding or rude, "I do apologize for interrupting, but this magnificent blue butterfly wants to join your colony! Although it is a bit shy, and didn't know how you all would react to it's beautiful blue wings." A few butterflies fly over to us, seemingly talking to the blue butterfly. I let them chat, and soon enough, the blue butterfly flies off into the colony with them. I watch as they play for a moment, smiling and proud of myself. More importantly I'm proud of the blue monarch for being brave enough to show itself to the colony. As I walk off past the colony, I look back once more and wave. The blue monarch stops for a moment before fluttering it's wings harder as to wave back. I chuckle as I head off, making my way down South once again.

This way a more wholesome story, and one that I personally love. I like that I got to help that monarch find its colony, and I'm glad that I stopped to help. I hope you take this as a reminder to help someone, even if you don't know them, and make their day. You don't know how it will impact them, and it might change their entire look on life. Maybe even help someone you know. You don't know if and how they're struggling, just like the blue monarch in my story.

Just make sure you help someone smile today. I'll be back tomorrow with another story! - Snufkin

[hello-nichya-here]

Happy Appreciation Day!!

In order to mark it I want to share something I was thinking of the other day.

Zuko's default love language is acts of service/exchanging favors.

He makes tea for Iroh while he recovers, brings shells and food to Mai and most importantly he shows trust, love and vulnerability by asking questions or for help. To him saying "I need you" is almost the same as "I love you"

He does that with Iroh quite a lot but he also does that with Azula while they are in the Fire Nation.

Thus, it's safe to say that he does love her but he doesn't show it in a way that is immediately obvious.

Thoughts?

Thanks! Also that's a really good read of Zuko's character, and I think Azula also shows love the same way - after all, their whole lives revolve around achieving stuff that will make Ozai proud of them.

The thing is, her and Zuko also only FEEL loved the same way, also "thanks" to Ozai - words of affirmation. They need to HEAR the other say, constantly, in the most direct way possible "I love you" otherwise they don't get it.

That's why Aang saying "Maybe we could have been friends" sticks with Zuko so much, same for Ozai saying "You were lucky to be born", why Iroh giving him the silent treatment drives him crazy, and why Azula reminding him Ozai sees him as failure messes with him so much at the start of book 2.

That's why Azula cries at the very thought of hearing her mother say "I love you", clearly likes Ty Lee's constant flattery, loses all control at Mai's infamous "I love Zuko more than I fear you", and is EASILY manipulated when Ozai says he's only leaving her behind because she is the one person in the whole world that he can trust enough to have in charge of the capital city.

And it also helps further explain Zuko's complete lack of awareness that Azula genuinely cares for him. She usually demonstrates it in a way he doesn't immediately get, and, even when she's saying very clearly that she cares about him, he doesn't believe it because Azula always lies.

And one can understand his suspicion - in "The Awakening" she says she told Ozai that Zuko killed the Avatar "because he was worried and she was happy to share the glory", but she was actually setting him up in case he had lied to her about Aang being dead. But in "The Headband" she warns him to be careful when visiting Iroh, says she's gaining nothing from it and is just looking out for him, and she's beign honest.

Zuko doesn't know where he stands with her, and that frustrates him to an absurd degree - to the point that he can't notice small, huge things like "She had no idea about Aang being alive until they were already home. She brought me back because she knew it was what I wanted."

Goddammit, I'm gonna be thinking about that subtle tragedy for the rest of my life now, thanks.

[sitp-recs]

Hey hey, I just found your blog so I'm sorry if you already recommended these fics (or don't do fic recs).

Do you know any drarry fics were there is some type of makeover like a house makeover, finding a new job, getting new clothes for Harry, ... Or Draco is just really stylish and sure of himself? I'm thinking something like Turn, House Proud, Heal Thyself or Let him lead me to the banquet.

If you know any fics like these which aren't drarry that would also be really nice.

Wishing you a lovely october :)

Hello, Happy October! I adore those fics you’ve mentioned, they’re all incredible. I do feel like astolat captures this proud, confident Draco perfectly - it’s one my fave characterizations! I think you might enjoy these fics if you haven’t read them yet, they’re a mix of makeover trope and fashionista/confident Draco:

Burning Down the House by @peachpety (M, 4k)

Harry is happy as editor-in-chief of The Quibbler. From planning to printing, design to deadlines, he enjoys being in the hot seat. And after vanquishing Voldemort, managing fires is an easy part of the job. Until his scorching crush on his impeccably dressed fashion editor flares out of control, and he's forced to face actual fires.

Sex on Legs in Six-Inch Heels by @tessacrowley (E, 9k)

Draco Malfoy is a brilliant freelance cursebreaker and the only one who can help the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with a very dangerous case, but more importantly, he's wearing six-inch heels, and Harry cannot handle it, he really just can't.

Haute Allure by @lol-zeitgeistic (E, 12k)

Harry is famous for his menswear now. Malfoy is the inside leg that he loves running his tape measure up.

Party of Two by fireflavored (E, 13k)

Drinking, sex, and a total misreading of the concept of fuck buddies.

A Saviour’s Guide to Manners and Decorum by @wolfpants (E, 13k)

Honorary Minister Harry Potter (yes, he's fully aware his job title is meaningless, and he quite likes it that way) is a disaster at public events. After seven years of dealing with his boorish behaviour, cringey table manners, and clumsy dancing, the Ministry's press team take matters into their own hands and hire Wixen Britain's leading Etiquette and Deportment Expert, Draco Malfoy, to take on the challenge of cleaning up Harry's image before the Ministry's 300th Anniversary Celebration Gala.

Queer Eye (For the Wizarding Guy) by Magnolia822 (E, 23k)

Harry’s life is fine. He might be a little disorganised, and maybe he needs a bit of a haircut, but he’s fine. Really. He doesn’t need a lifestyle intervention, especially when the one giving it is Draco sodding Malfoy and his team of queer fashion and design experts. Of course Harry’s friends disagree, and now he is stuck with Malfoy for a week. One of them might not survive.

Slithering by astolat (E, 27k)

Draco found the nest down in the Manor’s cellars, while he was clearing them out.

'Tis a Far Better Thing by @the-sinking-ship (E, 37k)

'Tis a far, far better thing doing stuff for other people — or however the Muggle saying goes — because Potter is in need of professional help, and Draco is just the man to give it to him.

Shine, Even in the Darkness by raitala (E, 41k)

Harry hasn’t seen Draco for over fifteen years, but now he’s showing up everywhere and Harry is sort of weirdly attracted to him, but that can’t be right?

Nights With You by @the-sinking-ship (E, 58k)

Draco is mortified when moments prior to departing for the most anticipated destination wedding of the year, he is cruelly dumped. But when he learns that Harry Potter has, at long last, split with his horrible boyfriend, Draco is certain his luck has changed. Never a man to squander an opportunity for revenge (and what would probably be a spectacular shag), Draco vows to make Potter his for the weekend. Now all Draco has to do is convince him.

Home Truths by @skeptiquewrites (E, 67k)

In the off-season Harry decided to fix up Grimmauld Place and found that Draco Malfoy was the only person who could help him. A demanding career and unrelenting press scrutiny were enough to deal with before Harry added a house with a mind of its own, family history, and a tense, flirty, complicated relationship with his childhood nemesis to the mix.

Life Lessons by @bixgirl1 (E, 68k)

On the cusp of a promotion, Harry needs a little help with his image. Enter Draco Malfoy — who doesn't really do that, Potter — to whip him into shape… and make him feel things he hasn't for a very long time.

Criminal by @the-sinking-ship (E, 83k)

Things were going just fine for Draco Malfoy. He successfully conned and counted cards across Europe and America, amassing a small fortune, along with a lengthy rap sheet. That was until he made the grave mistake of returning to England for a high stakes card game and got himself caught – by Harry Potter no less. Now, Draco is stuck in England under Auror Potter’s guard with no friends, no distractions, and no escape. How the hell will he pass the time? And since when did Potter get so bloody fit?

Bonus: art!

Dropped Dead Gorgeous by dustmouth (T)

Draco Malfoy is hired to organise a funeral party on the anniversary of Harry Potter's first death. This of course has everything to do with how he is a true artiste with lace, fripperies, and dead bodies, and absolutely nothing to do with why Harry Potter keeps inviting him out to dinner.

[jinkoh]

Pentagon - s/o has a panic attack

SFW; gender-neutral reader

anon requested: Could you do a ptg ot9 where they walk in to you having an anxiety/panic attack? I’ve been having them a lot lately and I know they’d be so comforting 🥹

a/n: tysm for your request ❤️ I'm very sorry to hear about your panic attacks. I hope these can give you a little comfort!

I went for a scenario where it's the first time they are with you while having a panic/anxiety attack, since I'd assume that with time they would adjust their reaction to match your individual needs as best as possible. I hope you'll like it!

Always feel free to stop by in my ask box to talk or to request something else❤️

Masterlist

Jinho

Jinho tries to find out as quickly as possible what you need and how to get it. If you're responsive he'll straight up ask how to help you in the situation. If you aren't able to talk to him, he tries to figure it out in different ways, but he'll still talk to you. Might try to get you back by telling you basic information, like the date and time, the place you're at and most importantly the fact that he's there with you.

Hui/Hoetaek

He's probably dying to comfort you with physical touch, like giving you a tight hug, holding your hand or rubbing your back. If he knows you're okay with it in situations like this he does just that, maybe softly talk to you too. He might just tear up a little because it pains him so much to see you like this.

Hongseok

Hongseok would be really good at dealing with this kind of situation. He stays calm and talks you through breathing exercises or other coping mechanism he knows can help with panic attacks. He will give you a big bear hug after you calmed down a little (and if you're okay with that).

Shinwon

I know Shinwon is a scaredy cat and all that but I'm convinced he would handle this pretty well. He doesn't get anxious or panics about this. Instead he crouches down in front of you and starts shifting your attention towards something else. Shinwon probably tells you something incredibly trivial, like details about his last trip to your local grocery store. But because it's so trivial, it's also easy for you to follow his words and calm down.

Yeo One/Changgu

Changgu tries to make you focus on soothing sounds. If there are any sounds or noises he knows you like or find calming, he makes/plays them for you while quietly narrating what he's doing. He looks at you with the sweetest smile once you calmed down a little because and he's so proud of you for making it through that.

Yanan

I think he's a little panicky himself. Yanan wants to help so much but he's also scared to do something wrong. Is he supposed to talk to you? Call someone? Can he touch you? He doesn't know so he's a little hesitant. Eventually he settles on sitting next to you and timidly talking to you, maybe rubbing your back or upper arm if you seem okay with that. A little later, maybe a day after, he'll ask you to tell him what you need from him in situations like these so he can do a better job next time.

Yuto

He's the quiet type, not really saying much, but making sure you know he's there for you. If you allow it he hugs you or holds your hand. If you have the need to talk or cry, he listens calmly, making small hums and noises from time to time to show that he's paying attention and to reassure you that he's there for you.

Kino/Hyunggu

Hyunggu is very sweet and gentle, asking you to focus on his voice and praising you for doing so well when you nod or reply. He paints a picture with his words for you, making you imagine a meadow or the ocean or a place he knows you love. He praises you even more once you've calmed down a little.

Wooseok

Another one who feels a little flustered and helpless about it. Wooseok wants to hug you and talk to you but it probably ends up being a little clumsy. He might just give it a quick google search because he so desperately wants to do the right thing to help you out. Later on when you've calmed down again, he'll communicate how helpless he felt. He doesn't want you to feel guilty about it and makes sure you know that. But he does ask you for pointers on what to do should it happen again.

Masterlist

[maybege]

May you have once again crippled me with your single dad!Boba/matchmade!Boba thoughts 😩🤤🥴

Your Boba AUs are my own true weakness 😮‍💨

Some thoughts for ✨thirst hour✨ to follow up your Thanksgiving with Boba:

You stare at Boba's number in your phone on and off for a week trying to decide whether or not to invite him to your cousin's Christmas party. It's a much more laid-back affair that she puts on for the younger members of the family to enjoy without the burden of sour aunties and drunk uncles

There's no pressure to be coupled up for the party but you find yourself wanting Boba at your side, wanting his arm around your waist and his voice in your ear. The heat of the kiss you shared at Thanksgiving still burns hot in your veins and you long for an excuse for his lips to be on your body again

Eventually you break and call him. You try not to read too much into the fact he remembered what your favorite Christmas cookies are or that he offered to bring them. Despite your feelings, you want to try and keep things professional between the two of you--just because you had fun together doesn't mean this isn't just a job for him

It doesn't help when Boba keeps tucked into his side entire night or that his green button up makes him look even more amazing than usual or that he's a surprisingly good dancer when the music comes on. He twirls you around like princess at a ball, leading you effortlessly through the music. He looks so happy and you're having such a great time that you don't notice that the pair of you are now swaying under the mistletoe

Boba does, however, smiling impishly and motioning up to it with his chin. Heat flashes through you, a thousand panicked thoughts jumbling your words. "O-oh, um, we don't have to, if you're not... I mean, um, if you don't want to..."

Boba chucks up your chin, his brown eyes sparkling and warm. "I want to, princess," he murmurs gently, stroking his thumb over your bottom lip, "I've wanted to kiss you all night."

Ok I'm going to stop now before I make myself insane :))))

Okay okay okay, I love everything about this. It gives me holiday movie romcom vibes in the best way and I can see it so clearly. 🥺😭

Boba took ages to get ready and his kids tease him about how their usually so calm and collected dad asked them five times whether they were really sure that the dark green button down was the way to go ...

... and you spent a ridiculous amount of time sifting through your special occasion dresses to find The One that is not way too over the top but is also pretty (and maybe even sexy) enough to significantly heighten the chances of Boba touching you again.

Despite your nervousness, once you actually see each other, everything is just perfect. The entire night is a smooth ride full of whispered jokes, flirty banter, and - most importantly of all - Boba's hand on the low of your back as soon as you stand next to each other.

It gets even better when he asks you to dance with him, leading you through the steps to the low music and the twinkly lights shining above your heads. You both use the excuse to just gaze at each other (as part of you playing a couple, of course, and not because you are hopelessly in love with each other.)

And then the mistle toe? Be still my beating heart.

He is so proud of how brave you are to ask him so he makes sure to show you just how much he doesn't mind kissing you - how much he wants to kiss you. Maybe he intended it to be a short kiss at first, keeping in mind that this is still somewhat of a family gathering. But then you sigh and completely melt into him and before long, he has his hand on the back of your neck, pulling you closer and you both feel the fireworks between you.

You are so out of breath when you pull apart and maybe one of your cousins makes a joking remark about how you ought to "take a room, you two" and Boba leans down to your ear and whispers, "We might just do that."

it's thirst hours with may - come join us!

[local-pr1nter]

EVEN MORE AOT X DA DRABBLES CAUSE SOMETHING JUST HIT ME-

TW!!! Same as the rest of the series of posts, canon typical murder and death (AoT), along with implied thoughts of harm to ones self (it's mentioned very briefly and I don't go into extreme detail- but still, please avoid or skip past this post if you're uncomfortable with that sort of thing!!!)

Okay so Mondo would be the armored titan and one of the warriors sent to Paradis right. Physically he's the strongest out of them, and has the strongest capabilities as a leader. He still has his flaws of course, mostly his big heart and how quickly he gets attached to someone he cares about. He definitely got distracted from the mission while posing as a cadet, enjoying his freedom as a soldier instead of a warrior back on Marley.

He however doesn't have much waiting for him back at Marley. His father isn't present, potentially leaving him with his mom. He may have had friends in the other warriors, but they all had families to go back to. What did he have?

This is where the angst comes in.

I'm thinking that it was mostly him and Daiya growing up. Their father was never there and their mother was either dead/disappeared/or was working 24/7 and couldn't do much else but send them money so they had food on the table. So, the two brothers had to watch each other's back- they were all they had.

Then, Daiya considers the warrior program.

Maybe, if he became an honorary Marleyan, their father would come back. Maybe his mother wouldn't have to work so hard. Maybe he wouldn't be forced to break his back so he and Mondo can barely survive. Maybe, and just maybe, Marley would give them a break

And so, Daiya decided he would become a warrior candidate- and he aimed to inherit the armored titan. Mondo would've joined him, to try and inherit a titan of his own- but Daiya said no, as he was doing this for Mondos sake. He wanted Mondo to live a long, happy life, even if it was in the zone. He couldn't let him throw all of that potential away for a mere 13 years.

And so, Mondo could only watch as his brother trained alongside the other candidates- he was older than most of them, but he was determined, pushing himself to catch the attention of Marley- to show that he was capable of wielding the power of a titan.

And it would've worked, if he hadn't gotten caught up with the resistance. It only brought him the wrong kind of attention.

And so, Mondo was left alone. His mother was never there, his father was gone, and now Daiya was being sent to Paradis.

To say Mondo was devastated would be an understatement. He had no idea what to do anymore- he was only just hitting fifteen years old- what could he even do?

He thought about giving up, only to be stopped by another warrior candidate- specifically, Kiyotaka, who knew Daiya. Taka relates to him and pushes him to keep going- he can't give up now.

And so, encouraged by Taka, Mondo does the one thing he can do; join the warrior program and inherit the armored titan. He would finish what Daiya started once and for all.

And holy shit he's probably the perfect candidate to inherit the armored titan. He proves his loyalty to Marley through his dedication and hard work, quickly putting him up with the rest of the ones to inherit a titan.

He finally has something he can be proud of- something positive in this shitty world. And now, believing he's proven to Daiya that he's just as capable as he is, redeeming his name, he puts all his effort into being the best armor there ever was.

So imagine how torn he becomes when hes forced to head to Paradis and kill the devils- only to discover they're just like him and Daiya. He gets attached quickly, finding friends in the 104th and relating to a lot of them. This is probably the happiest he's ever been- and most importantly, he's free.

But then he would be presented with the hardest choice of his life; betray his fellow warriors and pursue a good life, like Daiya wanted, or betray the 104th and ensure his name and Daiyas legacy were redeemed.

GAHHH THIS IS SORT OF INCOHERENT AS ITS MIDNIGHT BUT IT JUST POPPED UP IN MY HEAD AND I HAD TO WRITE IT DOWN BEFORE I PASSED OUT

[thenewfuture]

This goes back to that previous criticism I made about Hiyoko's simulated death scene. The closest comparison I can think of would be "slasher movie victim writing". Where a character is so utterly unlikable that it feels like you're meant to outright cheer on their murderer subjecting them to a grisly death. That's how it came across, and the current scene is really not helping matters at all. Especially the implication that Hiyoko owes the people who framed her for murder an apology. Just…no. That is ridiculously unfair, and Fuyuhiko and Peko are mature enough to know damn well that they're not entitled to that. In fact that's something else that I feel needs addressing. The writing's emphasis on sympathizing with the murderers is getting a little...much. I mean yes, of course we the audience can and should find it in our hearts to forgive them. But I think they're being let off the hook a little too easily. Mainly at the expense of the people they harmed. And it's not just Hiyoko being unsympathetic compared to her own murderer and the people who framed her. Or Mahiru coming across as the unreasonable party in the matter of settling what happened in Chapter 2 and in the Twilight Syndrome incident. But also cases like with Gundham and Teruteru or with Teruteru. Yes all things considered, Gundham is the most sympathetic blackened in the game. And there was a gentleman's agreement going on. But I think the others would be quite right to call them out on the fact that they didn't need to get two people killed or have a lengthy class trial. One person committing suicide and making it as obvious as possible that they did so (like Sakura did) would have sufficed. They let male pride needlessly complicate matters (and unintentionally led to Nagito's later actions down the road). Teruteru frankly was let off way too damn easy for his actions. Unlike Sayaka and Leon in the first game he had a far better understanding of what the cost of committing a murder and getting away with it would mean for his classmates. And he had an ENTIRE DAY to think things through and report Nagito to the others. Plus unlike his co-conspirator, he doesn't get the excuse of being mentally ill for wanting to start the Killing Game. He really needs a scene where he owns up to the fact that he bares equal responsibility to Nagito. And speaking of Nagito, he seems to be the one killer who's the exception to this treatment. Being scorned by everyone for his actions. Even though when you look at things objectively his was perhaps the most understandable and sympathetic reason for starting a class trial that didn't involve mind control or self-sacrifice. No one shows empathy for his actions in Chapter 5 or acknowledges that Monokuma manipulated him into mutilating himself to death. By deliberately withholding the part about the Junko AI possessing them all. And probably also the fact that they were brainwashed and didn't commit those crimes of their own free will, judging by the way that Junko's AI tries to downplay those claims when Makoto intervenes. On their own, with no one there to offer emotional support, it is likely that any of the Remnants would have completely snapped if they'd been in his position during that revelation. I'm sorry but it feels like there are a lot of double standards going on when it comes to the "problematic class members".

I cannot apologize enough if Hiyoko's death scene seemed unsympathetic and harsh. Maybe it was and I went too far trying to get the point across or convey it. But even so, I am still proud of that work and I swear to you it was supposed to have the exact opposite effect. Even so, I'm going to break down the rest of your ask here because....wow is it a lot...

Murderer sympathizing. So if you've played any murder mystery game; DanganRonpa, Ace Attorney, Zero Escape, etc..., you know that it primarily focuses on figuring out who committed a crime and more importantly WHY they did it. Motives for killers vary over games and mysteries, but there comes a time when you can understand a killer's motivation. Now, no sane and stable person would ever kill someone in real life, but if you can understand the push as to what drove them to such actions, then that character has depth and is in some ways relatable. DanganRonpa is full of these types of characters, on the sole basis that the players are TRAPPED IN AN ENCLOSED SPACE! Killing to get out is encouraged! Almost every character in these games would have at least one reason to kill, making them all sympathetic! Now of course there are some outliers in the mix(Celeste, Despair-state Mikan, Korekiyo) but the ratio of sympathetic to not is quite high. So why did I say all this? Well, you the payer have to understand why some killers did the crimes they committed? Well then so should the characters by default too. Especially in an enclosed setting like DanganRonpa, the characters have to come to grievance that some amongst them has just died. How could they possibly react to that? Well Hiyoko reacts like this:

Hiyoko was there when she heard Teruteru say he not only wanted to stop Nagito from murdering someone, but to also see if his sick mom was all right after all this time had passed. And yet, she say this. So its clear Hiyoko has the mindset of: kill=bad. She is the outlier of the group. Hiyoko cannot understand why Teruteru would do such a thing, or why others would feel sorry for him. Hiyoko is the one in the wrong here.

2. Hiyoko owes Fuyuhiko and Peko an apology. Okay, we understand sympathy for killing somewhat, right? Good. Let's move on to Fuyuhiko and Peko. Fuyuhiko found out his sister was murdered. His classmate knows something but won't tell him. In fact, she even hid evidence and lied about the fact just to cover up her own. Fuyuhiko has every right to be pissed! And in some cases, the right to kill Sato for what she did! Okay? Okay. On to Peko. Now of course I'm not expecting one to understand the feeling Peko has of being used by the Yakuza and basically a weapon only to serve someone else. But the want to protect someone from becoming the blackened is understandable at the very least, no? Now, OF COURSE, Hiyoko has every right to be royally pissed at being framed for murder. I don't expect to forgive them easily. In fact, if you saw this blog at all, you'll know that Fuyuhiko and Peko apologized to her first! They are fully aware of not expecting an apology from Hiyoko. They've made peace with that fact. Hiyoko DOES owe them an apology for bursting in on their therapy session! Now again, you may say that aspect is going too far and you'd be right. I personally think it falls in line with Hiyoko putting her beliefs and ideologies first and wanting others, especially her best friend, to agree with her take on it. I mean it's already pretty on brand with what the two do. Hiyoko does something bad, and Mahiru just accepting it.

3. Gundam and Nekomaru. Now I'm not here to discuss the moral implications of murder versus suicide. I will say this though. Chapter 4's trial and murder was about wanting to live, no matter what. Hajime's offer to not kill and just starve to death was just throwing life away as Gundam put it. It's like stories of a soilder who would rather fight with a stick than just to give up and die. He has no options left and his chances are pretty slim, but he still wants to live. That's the whole reason behind Nekomaru and Gundam's duel. A duel for life. Whether the others live or Gundam wins the class trial, no one is giving up on life. Everyone wants to live. And so they fight for that honor.

4. Nagito. "speaking of Nagito, he seems to be the one killer who's the exception to this treatment. Being scorned by everyone for his actions. Even though when you look at things objectively his was perhaps the most understandable and sympathetic reason for starting a class trial"

Okay that may have been in pretty low to go for that, but still. I'll humor you and say that Nagito maaaaaaay have had a good reason for it. Stopping suppossed psychotic terrorists does sound like a good enough reason.......too bad he ruined it by basically insulting everyone in the 4th trial and half of Chapter 5. He kept insulting the others and especially Hajime for reasons ONLY HE KNEW ABOUT! Monokuma did not manipulate Nagito in any way, in fact it was the exact opposite. Monokuma simply gave him the file because he cleared Russian Roulette at the highest difficulty, I don't he expected anyone else to do that. Nagito's plan was all his own! You think Monokuma could have predicted out of ALLLLLL options to murder the gang, that Nagito would just choose to poison a fire grenade and let his luck choose the one person he wanted to win!? Now you say that the file hid the fact of Junko trying to possess their bodies and that they were brainwashed, but OOPS I guess we'll never know because Nagito ripped the fucking pages out by the time Hajime and Chiaki get to it. Thanks, you ugly trash turnip. Maybe he knew, maybe he didn't, we'll never know. We're simply just playing guess at this point, so it's futile to justify this action any further. Bottom line: Nagito did it all his own without any help because that's how deeply committed he his to his own ideology about hope and Ultimates.

Anyway, I keep saying Hiyoko will get better, but if you're still on this and you don't believe me or won't even like where I go with it. Then it's probably best if you leave, honest. I won't make you stay and read my blog if it upsets you this much. It was not my intent, honest.

I am really tired, it is so late that I stood up making this answer....

-Mod

[chaomother]

Just like many others here, biting is so hot to me. But if they don’t want bites (more so sonic and silver than shadow but still) there are other ways to show off that they’re yours.

1) You know how everyone has a color/item that’s theirs? Imagine if your boy wore your particular color/item. Maybe it’s a brand new jacket similar to the one you love to wear with your color boldly the main focus and maybe hints of his own with yours being inverted but more or less the same, maybe they wear a matching gorgeous bracelet with both of your initials carved in sweetly with the vow you made with each other to one day get married, or maybe it’s a leather collar with ‘Property of *your name*’ in a heart shaped tag that he’s worn out on the field in a fight, walking around in busy streets, and more importantly in the bedroom when he’s working hard to worship you 😉

2) Imagine taking them out on dates, to when you show up you bring him his favorite flowers and maybe favorite treat depending on the date. You coo out compliments and flirty lines that has him absolutely red face but smiling. Your hand brushes his and he tries to make a grab at as if he needs to hold it, but when your fingers brush his back the fur immediately bristles and his shivers are embarrassing obvious. Your arm instead wraps around his waist and he leans so heavily, you may struggle slightly to keep walking but your able too. Everyone in public is in shock at how you turn such an amazing tough hero/legend etc into a oowey gooey Lovestruck punk! And when you shoot a smug grin at the strangers that turns sweet for your lovely S/O they can only hope their own partners will show them off just as much.

-TC anon (also welcome ☄️! Hope you enjoy your time here!)

these are as flawless as always, tc!!

there's no way you could convince sonic to take off your trademark jacket even if you tried! he's extremely proud to be your partner so of course he loves showing you off when he can, "yeah i'm their boyfriend and they're my partner!! i'm all theirs!" shameless.

i bet silver would love it if you'd wear the article of clothing first, so that way he can smell your sweet scent all day with him♡♡ he has absolutely no shame in the way you'd think—of course he gets shy when people point out how much he adores you, but i imagine him as the type of guy who would literally walk outside with the collar when you ask about it, like, aren't you going to take that off? you know it says property of [name] right?? and he'll respond, "it's true, what's the problem?"... lmao he's #1 worshipper out of the three of them!!

and shadow's conditions are simple: if he's wearing your colors, you're wearing his. it's as simple as that. it satisfies both of your jealous feelings, so it's all good! shadow is the most overprotective over you out of the three of them, so wearing matching things gives him an extra layer of comfort... he has major attachment issues so knowing he's wanted by you sates him just as much as him leaving his mark on you yknow?

thank you so much for sharing!♡

[none-prob]

I write about a character per day

Day 12: Edalyn Clawthorne

Owl lady. Anarchist. Mother of two.

There's just so many things I want to say about her.

I think Eda's life before Luz was summed up quite well with her own quote: "It's my power, kid. And before you showed up, I spent my whole life wasting it." That goes to show how impactful Luz is on Eda's life, and that's not the only character Luz had a positive spin on (I'm considering writing about Luz after W&D).

Before Luz came, Eda's life, which we can speculate, was selling human garbage to the Isles' citizens, pickpocketing, do anything in order to buy potions to not let the curse affect her, while also running away from the Emperor. Even with King and Hooty, and previously Raine and Lilith, her life was probably not as adventurous as when Luz came. Maybe, maybe not, and I wished we could have seen more of Eda's life before Luz, but we won't. It's fine, because everything she did with Luz and everyone in the house was awesome. Even the swap thing, yeah that's my controversial take, I think Once Upon A Swap is a good episode. It's a good episode in a show full of great episodes. But anyway, the point is, Eda had really used her power for good, even pushed her hardest to save Luz, and she's proud of it. That moment for me was like losing a family member, one who only been around for a few months. And it all started with a little crown. And speaking of that...

Her relationship with King was also blooming. Before Luz it wasn't that exciting, as they probably just did their things together. But with Luz and later on Lilith, King was more open about her story, only to find out it was fabricated by Eda. But what was his response after Eda said so? Asked her to adopt him. It's one of the few times Eda ugly cry throughout the show, and it's fine. It's beautiful. Eda was now a mother of two, of a human and a Titan. It got so much better, for the very few scenes in For the Future they bonded together over a mutual feeling. King hugged Eda's leg in the most emotional way possible.

Mother of two, but ran away from her own mother? Alright now that's an interesting shift. But like I said when I talked about Gwen, which is another niche character I also enjoy a lot, I'm so glad they communicated and made up the past. I can understand avoiding parents, the lack of communication resulted in avoidance, while your parents just want to do the things they think it's best for you.

How about her sister? Lilith probably has the second greatest redemption arc in the show in my opinion, after Hunter. It only took a few attempts, an all out battle, putting her sister at the risk of life, and a pain sharing spell for a Lilith redemption. Once again, a little lack of communication between them, had lead to a rift that took decades to fix. It's really sad, but I'm glad they're together to right all wrong, and learn magic together.

I think it's amazing that Eda managed to make peace with the Owl beast, something that had been a pain for her that she can't get rid of for 20 years. This is a really important lesson. Sometimes, you need to make peace with things that hurt you, especially those you can't get rid of. One lesson that Steven Universe had taught that no one seems to be able to grab. Eda got so much better, basically regained her power in one of the most stylish way possible.

The curse was an indirect reason that caused her to break up with Raine. Raeda is one hell of a beautiful relationship. I've talked about Raine's side before. Eda was the one who saved Raine's crew from the Emperor, who sacrificed to get a sigil for Raine's plan, and visited puppet Raine. Eda was impressed by Raine from the first look, from the first drink, and the rest is history.

I think this next part is my favourite of Edalyn Clawthorne. It's her desire to rub in on Emperor's face, but more importantly, to protect all wild witches left. An incredible anarchist. And in the most creative ways possible, including body swapping her own sister (see this is why I will defend Once Upon A Swap). With or without power, she is a legendary rebel. Someone who had built her name as the most powerful witch on the Isles, for managing to escape the police state from the Emperor without fail. No power, no problem. She will still be sneaky, be smart, and having absolutely none of it with the Emperor. She's not a rebel who just want to cause chaos, she's an anarchist who will stand up for the right when she needed to.

I love Edalyn Clawthorne. She's simply the coolest witch on the isles, without a competition.

[pineappleciders]

i think ur account is pretty sweet and wanted to ask do u have any tips for starting out in tumblr ive been wanting to start doing stuff on here for a long time but cant get a grip on it and have no idea how to start or what to even do and u seem cool and ive been following u for a while so well uh do u have any tips for starting out or something it would mean a whole lot to me giggles !!!

HI okay first off THANK YOU and here is all my general advice and personal experience:3

when i first created my account i only wrote stuff for omori and basically nothing else, i didn't post my art or anything like that. and then one day i was like what if i posted my drawings and i did and BOOM people liked it so i kept going!!! i've thought about making two separate blogs for art and writing but that would take a lot of effort and it seems complicated because i know a lot of people only follow me for one or the other so idk maybe i will but ANYWAYS

i say just go for it. it was completely on a whim that i made a tumblr account. before i didn't even use tumblr i had one account years ago that i rarely used, i just wondered hey i like content for my fandoms but what if i MADE content for my fandoms and BOOM pineappleciders was born.

i write because i eeally enjoy these fandoms and communities, and requests are so fun to do because i get to show people my observations and opinions of these characters and their personalities!!& all while bringing comfort to people and making them feel heard. so it's a win-win!

i'd suggest taking any of your interests or hobbies and making it into soemthing. like if you're interested in a video game i'd start posting art or writing or an AU or just talking about the game and theories ans stuff!!!

if you like to draw and are thinking about posting your art, PLEASE do NOT let anything affect you!!! there are going to be rude people ans there will be times where you post cringe and a lot of people see it. even if you don't get a lot of followers or notes at first, do not let it drag you down. i started my blog because i wanted to do something that resonates with my special interests and i wanted to share it with people. don't make content FOR people, make content to SHARE with people.

if you want advice about how to get more followers or likes and stuff, all i can say is just do what makes you happy. i've never really been in a situation where i've felt i have to get more likes on this one post or i need more followers or anything like that, because i post for those 2 people who immediately like the post .4 seconds after i post it. i post for the people who like my interests just as much as i do, and most importantly i post because it makes me happy!!!

moral of the story is find the community that you want to be in and start there. give yourself a pfp of a character from a fandom or make your blog all pretty or relate it to a fandom or whatever, the point is to just do what makes you happy and post what you want to post!!!

i have about 1,800 followers, and i still remember getting happy over 10 and 50 fillowers. i'm so glad that people like my content, and i hope i can keep sharing it with you gusy. also remember to take care of yourself and don't pressure yourself into working overtime, you always come first. also never be sad if you don't have a lot of followers!!! literally 10 people is a lot. 20 people is a lot. 2K PEOPEL IS A LOT. if u think about it like all of them r in one room looking at you or your post and liking it then THAT IS A LOT. be proud of your milestones!!!!

idk if any of that made sense but basically if you're looking for likes and shit go to tiktok or instagram. if u want to share love and content wiht a community because creating is something you enjoy and you want to share it with others use tumblr. it's all about making a blog for something you enjoy and utilizing . basically if u also want a place to freak out about yoru interests and have others freak iut about them too then tumblr is the place. i've found that i can post the weirdest shit and only lose a few follwkers. pretty based tbh

sorry if i rambled ily and i hope everything goes well!!!!!! remember to put yourself first❤️

[linklethehistorian]

💖🎉 Okay, I want to give a real answer as well cause you deserve all the praise in the world.💖It goes without saying that I appreciate you as a person and love your amazing personality. I treasure you more than anything, and love everything you make. You put so much passion, love, dedication, and time into everything I've seen you make and it's something I've always admired about you. You genuinely love and care about BSD and every other fandom you are in more than anyone else I've seen.

Ask continued below the cut, with images and an image ID transcript, followed by a response.

[Image ID: 3 additional asks submitted by OP, truedge, that read the following:

You're an amazing artist and a brilliant writer. You’ve always put so much detail into everything you write, leaving nothing unsaid. You make it so easy to imagine exactly what is happening in your fics and articles. I can just close my eyes and I'm there. Your art is always a joy to look at every time you show it to me and I treasure the drawings you have made for me in the past. It's amazing how fast you can draw things and still have them come out really good.

I check your blog everyday to see if you've got any new posts to share with us and always get excited to see something new. I'm so proud of what you have and are continuing to accomplish and I couldn't be happier for you. I'm sure in the future you'll have many times as many followers as you do now and you deserve every- one one of them. It truly is rare to find someone with your level of passion, and I love and appreciate it so much ❤️ Thank you for everything you do here, for helping more people know just how badly Bones screwed Arthur, for getting me into BSD, for all the amazing posts and most importantly for being such a loving and caring person who means the world to me. I wish you the best, sweetheart, and hope this blog will only continue to grow so more people can appreciate all your hard work ❤️

Okay, so this is an exceedingly late response lmao (as many other asks I will answer here will be, as I finally attempt to empty out my inbox), but seriously, thank you for these asks. 

I’ve been letting these sit in my inbox for a very long time for a couple of reasons, but the major one being largely that I didn’t want to half-ass my reply to it by trying to rush it out quickly. As with all of the asks of this nature, I wanted to make my time with it and show my appreciation back to the person who would send such a lovely and thoughtful message, and given how much longer this one was compared to the average, I thought it deserved equally as great of a reaction.

So…thank you so incredibly much for your words. I’ve read them many times now, over the months that this has been sitting in my inbox, and they still make me smile every time.

As I’m sure you know and thus probably goes without saying, your constant support, in particular, has always been a major joy in my life, and a great source of inspiration that has often served to help keep me going, even when I doubted myself and my ability to reach others with my content heavily. I can very safely say that without you and a very select few other people in my life up until this point, I probably would not have been able to make it as far as I have.

When my now ex-fiancé was making my life particularly difficult or stressful, you would always be there to pick me up when I was down and remind me of how much better I deserved than to deal with all of his gaslighting, neglect, and manipulative bullshit. You made me believe in myself as a person and, in doing so, slowly rebuilt the broken, self-depreciating and skeptical individual that I had become into someone who could actually feel like I had worth and value all my own.

Like you say, you’ve always read all of my posts and watched out for my new content eagerly like it really meant something to you on a personal level, and wasn’t just a thing you were doing to appease me or make me feel better about myself. Maybe it’s just because of my past with my ex where I practically had to beg him and shove things in his face to get him to even have any interest in any aspect of my daily life and even then got clearly disinterested responses, but I’ve never really liked it that much when someone participates in pity-engagement with my works; like, don’t get me wrong — I appreciate all the love and support that people give me equally, but there’s just something that feels so hollow about a person doing surface-level engagement and making empty compliments and comment over something they don’t even really like or care about on any level just to make someone feel like they care and are interested in their daily lives and interests. Even if there are good intentions behind it, it still just feels so performative and fake… That’s why I appreciate you and your engagement with my works so much; I can feel how invested you’ve become in me and the things I write and draw and say, whenever you respond to something, and it makes me so happy. You may not be the only person in my life to do this, but you are one of my very biggest and most passionate supporters and I don’t know what I’d do without that.

Realistically, I don’t know what the future has in store for me at the moment in regards to all of this — if my blog will shrink or grow over time, if I’ll become more or less popular and respected within the BSD fandom, or what all I’ll accomplish within the coming year; right now, in the current state of mind that I’m in, it can be hard to even see past this very moment or have a particularly bright outlook about anything, but what I do know and have faith in is that there is going to be this coming year and that whatever it brings, I’ll be doing my best at every moment to be here and to hold the people I care for as close and as tightly as I humanly can.

I know that I am incredibly lucky to know and have someone who is so kind, so gentle, and so sweet as you, who supports me and leaves me such lovely things and messages, who shares in so many of my passions and who always tries his very best to be a source of goodness in my life. 

There are many more things I could potentially say, but I don’t want this to drag on for 500,000 more words and become the longest post on my blog, so for now let me just say, thank you.

You mean the world to me.

—

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