#and the fact that it has removable parts means it doesn’t have to be so noticeable from outside clothes

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@zepskies

I've been waiting ALL week for this!

Dean has a problem. Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock… 

It's not a problem Dean, (the gun is obviously BUT) she is beautiful and you will love her and I will cry at your wedding.

He nods, and his smile falls with a weary sigh. The hard part about that is he doesn’t feel much guilt about what he’s done. At the same time, he does, and the conflict churns in his stomach. He knew what kind of man Roman was. He was the kind of soldier that could’ve filled Colonel Sanderson’s shoes one day. A fellow soldier under Dean’s command...

Dean no. No feeling bad for saving your girl and for killing the "sack of shit in human clothes."

Also I didn't notice the Colonel Sanderson thing before and now all I can think about is KFC lol.😂 Which is not to take away from how good this fic is or how well it's written. It's just me lol.

Dean grimaces, but he stays quiet. He turns to the woman and holds a finger over his lips. She stares back at him in apprehension. He begins to creep slowly around the hill, but she grabs onto his wrist. For a second, she looks just as surprised as him by the reflexive action. Then, she shakes her head at him. Don’t go out there, her eyes say. Dean smiles, and he gives her a reassuring wink. He gently removes her hand and gestures at her to stay where she is. He army crawls up the side of the hill. It gives him a vantage point to watch his men, who approach just a few feet down below. 

Oh goodness she is already so protective of him and oh my word the wink had me melting lol.

I also don't think that I mentioned this before, but I really like how you wove in the other characters in the show. Seeing Benny and Cas show up just made me so happy.

Dean knows the position he’s put his own men in. He doesn’t blame them for following the Colonel’s orders. He just hopes they can forgive him for what he’s about to do. He leaps off the edge of the hill with a yell and brings Benny with him to the ground. He sweeps Cas’s legs out from underneath him, then tosses a punch that lands on the corner of Benny’s chin. He kicks Benny’s gun away, and wrestles Cas until his pistol falls from his hand. The three men scrap and trade blows, until Dean is the only one left standing. His men are groaning on the dusty ground, slowly picking themselves up.

Oh my word seeing that fight in my head, um... YES PLEASE.

And the loyalty?! The love for their friend?! The "Goodbye brother."? It's so good.

“Kim…mila,” he attempts. She guides Mato closer and grabs Dean by his cheeks with one hand. “Kimmí.” “Kimmí,” he repeats with his cheeks squished. His face is starting to warm up, and not altogether in embarrassment. “Mila,” she says with a nod. “Mila,” Dean says. “Kimmímila.”

She's squishing his face! That is so cute, oh my stars. Plus I am cackling at how long it took him to be able to say her name.

“But my mother had a dream before I was born,” Mila says. “She saw beautiful wings, and said I would have a free mind. When I grew, and wanted to spend my days with horses more than cooking and sewing things, she didn’t call me free. She called me stubborn.” Her face begins to fall. “Maybe too stubborn.”

I absolutely love this! I really love it when writers pick the names of their characters based on the meaning behind it. And the fact that you gave the meaning of her name a backstory of her mom having a dream and the butterfly meaning that Mila "would have a free mind" is just so perfect for her. Because she is stubborn and she does have "a free mind" by being rebellious and strong, by being a strong female character who does not conform to the whims of what other people deem to be appropriate for her. Also it was funny that Dean thought she was like a "lioness."

"Fair enough," he says, glancing over at her. “I think my dad thought the fighting would end with the war, but, uh...it never really ends, does it?”

This is a really wonderful line, that the war "never really ends." It really fits this story and honestly it really fits the entire early history of the United States when it was acquiring territory and embracing the "manifest destiny" ideals.

Dean enjoys listening to her stories. He likes what he learns about her, but also, he just likes the sound of her voice, smooth and steady, almost calming. He thinks she might like the sound of his too, the way she’s smiled at him, laughed with him, glanced at him when she thinks he’s not looking.

Okay, the whole part where she is explaining things about her life and her culture was so sweet. Them opening up with one another is just so soft and a little fluffy and I'm so glad that they got to have those gentle moments with one another. Not to mention this bit where Dean admits how much he likes listening to her, is just so good lol.

And I thought it was really on brand for him to be a little upset that she doesn't completely trust him yet, even though that he killed one of his men. But he's got to learn to be patient... and then propose. LOL.

At the very least, the way she looks at him now is softer than that first day.

I think my soul has left my body. This is so cute.

She nods back at him and pretends not to watch when he sits up with a groan, stretching and bending his arms high behind his head. He removed his uniform jacket to sleep. It allows her to see every dip of male muscle that his plain white shirt clings to, even in the long sleeves. Her gaze furtively runs over the broad shoulders, the tapered waist, then back up to his half-bearded face, defined by a strong jaw and dark brows. The sun catches on his brown hair and teases the ends of it golden. She would never admit it, but he’s not unpleasant to look at. 

Don't be afraid to admit it Mila, we all know how good he is to look at. And why shouldn't you look at your future husband? 💍

A breath gets trapped in her throat as she once again looks between his warm hand closed over her smaller one, and his face. In the small space between them, there is a different kind of tension than before. Mila can’t tell what the man is thinking when he looks at her like that, but she doesn’t like it.

Oh my sweet goodness, the TENSION!!

This is so good my friend and I am so excited for what the future of this series holds and am praying that it doesn't end in death!😬💗

The Honorable Choice - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you…” ⬅️ If you’ve seen The King & I, then you’ll probably be singing that line in your head like I do.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: @jacklesversebingo Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 3.1K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, protective Dean, historical tidbits, fluff

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🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 2: Death & Sacrifice

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and the hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock… 

He just can’t do it.

His finger eases off the trigger of his gun, and he lowers it to the ground beside him.

“I told you,” he says. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Her head tilts as she stares at his gun, then at him. She relaxes somewhat, and she backs off of him, sliding from his lap down to the grass beside him. Her closed fist with the knife comes to rest at her side. She gives him a look of wary bewilderment.

“You are a strange man,” she says.

Dean has to laugh a little, smiling at her afterward.

“I guess so,” he replies.

Her brows furrow. “You killed one of your own…for me?”

He nods, and his smile falls with a weary sigh. The hard part about that is he doesn’t feel much guilt about what he’s done. At the same time, he does, and the conflict churns in his stomach. He knew what kind of man Roman was. He was the kind of soldier that could’ve filled Colonel Sanderson’s shoes one day. A fellow soldier under Dean’s command...

And a sack of shit in human clothes.

Dean leans back on his hands in the grass and slides his legs out long. His stare falls to the earth between his boots. The ground is soft underneath him. Maybe it rained this morning. 

“Yeah, that’s gonna make it tough when I go back,” he says. “At best, that’s a court martial. At worst…”

The Lakota woman frowns, her dark brows nearly meeting in the middle as she considers him. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him.

“Tell you what,” Dean said. “Give yourself and your horse a rest tonight. I’ll go back and tell them I lost you in the canyon.”

Her eyes widen further in surprise. He can’t blame her for it. He’s surprising himself every time he opens his mouth.

“Will they kill you?” she asks.

Dean shrugs. “Nah, I’ll be fine.”

She levels him with a firmer look, one that demands the truth.

His nonchalance wanes, and he sighs.

“They might,” he says.

She shakes her head. She seems to deliberate over something, but eventually she comes to a decision. Just when she opens her mouth to speak, a gunshot rings out and hits the ground not far from their feet. A warning.

The sound of hooves thundering on the earth reach them before they look up. Two horses gallop towards them in the distance, their riders wearing blue uniforms.

They both tense up, but Dean is the first one to move. He grabs her arm and helps her stand along with him. They scramble back and lead the horses by their reins further into the trees. They find a denser patch and a raised hill to crouch down and hide behind.

The mustang is too tired to go very far, but Baby is already making anxious sounds, protective of her rider.

“Shhh,” Dean whispers, and runs a soothing hand over her side. He leads her to lay down with her legs tucked underneath her.

The Lakota manages to do the same with the mustang after whispering to him softly in her language. There’s a trust between them, Dean realizes. They have a connection that seems to mirror his own with his horse. He doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before.

“Captain!” Benny calls out.

Dean grimaces, but he stays quiet. He turns to the woman and holds a finger over his lips. She stares back at him in apprehension. He begins to creep slowly around the hill, but she grabs onto his wrist. For a second, she looks just as surprised as him by the reflexive action. Then, she shakes her head at him.

Don’t go out there, her eyes say.

Dean smiles, and he gives her a reassuring wink. He gently removes her hand and gestures at her to stay where she is. He army crawls up the side of the hill. It gives him a vantage point to watch his men, who approach just a few feet down below. 

“Captain Winchester!” Cas calls next.

“We don’t want to have to come and get you, Dean. Come on,” Benny says. He does sound reluctant, for his part. His voice grows more somber when he says, “Colonel’s given us orders to bring you and the girl back…dead or alive.”

Dean knows the position he’s put his own men in. He doesn’t blame them for following the Colonel’s orders. He just hopes they can forgive him for what he’s about to do.

He leaps off the edge of the hill with a yell and brings Benny with him to the ground. He sweeps Cas’s legs out from underneath him, then tosses a punch that lands on the corner of Benny’s chin. He kicks Benny’s gun away, and wrestles Cas until his pistol falls from his hand. The three men scrap and trade blows, until Dean is the only one left standing. His men are groaning on the dusty ground, slowly picking themselves up.

Dean’s heaving for breath as well as he leans back against the side of the hill. Despite that momentary victory, he knows what they all know: that this fight isn’t going to end until either they’re dead, or he’s dead.

“Where’s the girl, Dean?” Benny says. He implores him to see sense. “We take her back with us, we can smooth all this over with the Colonel. All of it, even Roman.” 

Dean lets out a deep breath, but he shakes his head.

“Can’t do that, Benny,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a question circling in his friend’s eyes, but after a beat, Benny seems to know the answer to it. He picks up his gun from the ground. Just like Dean once did, the Lieutenant now has a choice to make.

He shares a heavy look with Cas. The two of them nod, before they focus back on Dean.

Benny’s hand falls, and he stows his gun.

“You died today,” Benny says. “We found your body somewhere in the canyon. Your horse too.”

Dean nods, with something of a smile. He supposes faking his death is the only option now. He rips the badge off his uniform jacket and tosses it to Benny.

“There’s your proof,” he says.

Dean shares a grim nod of respect with Cas while Benny examines the torn patch denoting a captain’s rank.

“Take care of each other,” Dean says.

Benny’s head raises, and he meets Dean with a somber gaze.

“Goodbye, brother.”

Dean doesn’t return to her until the men are out of sight through the trees. She’s still hiding along with the resting horses, waiting for him. That alone surprises him. It would bring a small smile to his face, if the weight of that goodbye didn’t feel so heavy on his shoulders.

He reaches out a hand for her. It takes her a moment to consider it, but she accepts his offer.

He helps her to her feet, after which, she quickly pulls her hand back. She’s wary of his touch, her face guarded when she looks up at him. Dean supposes he can’t blame her, even if it does strike a nerve. After what he just did for her…

His face becomes stoic, and he turns away to grab his hat from the dusty ground. “We should probably head out.”

She nods and calls to her horse to encourage him to his feet. Despite himself, Dean can't help but be curious. How did this girl manage to tame that wild beast?

“Does he have a name?” he asks.

“Mato,” she replies.

“Mato,” Dean echoes. “Does that mean something? You know, in your language.”

She eyes him wryly, brushing her hand over Mato’s hide.

“It means angry, like a bear,” she says.

Dean snorts. “Yeah, good name.”

He remembers his bruised side (and ego) from when the mustang threw him off his back.

Dean watches her with another realization as she gracefully mounts the horse. Baby has gotten up to her feet as well, already nudging the back of his arm with her snout. He rubs her nose in affection.

Then he turns to climb up onto her back, settling his feet into the stirrups and loosely grabbing the reins. He follows his companion’s lead farther into the forest, but he guides his horse to fall into step beside hers.

“Will you tell me your name now?” he asks. “Think we’ve been through enough together at this point, don’t you think?”

She considers it with a tilt of her head. She looks over at him with a small smile.

“Kimmímila,” she says. The syllables roll off her tongue effortlessly.

Dean raises his brows. “Kim…Kimmeela.”

She shakes her head at him, her lips pursing.

“Kimmímila.”

Lord help him, but he tries his best. His brows furrow.

“Kim…mila,” he attempts. She guides Mato closer and grabs Dean by his cheeks with one hand.

“Kimmí.”

“Kimmí,” he repeats with his cheeks squished. His face is starting to warm up, and not altogether in embarrassment.

“Mila,” she says with a nod.

“Mila,” Dean says. “Kimmímila.”

He’s treated to her smile, warm and true. She releases him, her gaze flitting over his face. Then she keeps riding. Dean grins to himself.

“Think I’m gonna call you Mila,” he says. Make it easier on myself.

She even laughs, a honeyed sound. “Yes, my father does too.”

“What does it mean? Your name.”

“In your language?” she says, in a tone that teases him back. She becomes thoughtful as she searches for the word. “It means…butterfly.”

“Really?” Dean remarks. She doesn’t strike him as a butterfly.

More like a lioness, he thinks, only somewhat holding back his grin.

She gives him some side-eye, despite her amusement.

“You think it does not suit me,” she observes.

“Well, I didn't say that—”

“I don’t think so either,” she admits. “There are many things that don’t suit me.”

Dean chuckles. He can imagine that.

“But my mother had a dream before I was born,” Mila says. “She saw beautiful wings, and said I would have a free mind. When I grew, and wanted to spend my days with horses more than cooking and sewing things, she didn’t call me free. She called me stubborn.” Her face begins to fall. “Maybe too stubborn.”

Dean offers her a rueful, sympathetic look. “Yeah, I get it. My brother always said I was damn hardheaded,” he says. “…Maybe we’ve got more in common than we thought, huh?”

Mila’s smile returns, however slightly.

“You have a brother?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah. He’s a lawyer, so he’s more needed back home,” Dean replies.

Damn. He really does miss his bookish little brother.

He explains to her about his family, his brother and mother who still live in Lawrence, and how he joined the army, in part to honor his father.

“What happened to him?” she asks.

“He died…in some cornfield near Sharpsburg, Maryland, fighting the Confederacy,” he replies, heaving a breath.

"Con...federacy?" she questions.

"The South," Dean explains. "See, most of our southern states thought they should be their own country, letting slaves plow their fields and mind their kids. I may have lived on a farm, but my father always paid his workers. He fought for the Union."

"So you fought among yourselves, over land that did not belong to you," Mila points out.

Dean falls silent. After a little while, he concedes her point with an incline of his head.

"Fair enough," he says, glancing over at her. “I think my dad thought the fighting would end with the war, but, uh...it never really ends, does it?”

Her expression of curiosity fades, turning more solemn.

“No,” she agrees. “…I am sorry for your father.”

Dean's a little surprised to hear that from her, but he nods his thanks. They continue to talk as the sun begins to set in the west. When it dips behind the canyon, they stop to make camp for the night, and he helps her catch a rabbit to roast on the fire they build together.

That night over the meal, she slowly opens up to him. He learns that she’s an only child, though she has a sibling-like bond with her older cousin, Šóta. She spends most of her days planting or harvesting their crops, depending on the season, as well as sewing, painting, helping the elders of her tribe with tasks, and helping her mother and aunt cook.

When the rabbit is gone, she unbinds her long, thick hair and untangles it while she speaks. She explains that the Lakota are just one of many tribes. There are six other bands of Sioux who live in this region. Along with the Dakota and the Nakota, they are the “Seven Council Fires” who have made the Great Plains their home for generations.

She tells him about the way her tribe lives, caring for one another, giving the land back as much as they take, and letting it rest. The men hunt and protect the village from the outside, but the women protect the inside, their way of life.

Most of all, Mila tells him, she loves caring for the horses. She goes out and rides whenever she can duck out of her mother’s watchful eye.

Dean enjoys listening to her stories. He likes what he learns about her, but also, he just likes the sound of her voice, smooth and steady, almost calming. He thinks she might like the sound of his too, the way she’s smiled at him, laughed with him, glanced at him when she thinks he’s not looking.

She still picks a spot as far away from him as she can to sleep though. She keeps the fire pit in between them. He even catches sight of her knife, hidden in the hand she tucks underneath her cheek. Evidently, she doesn’t fully trust him just yet.

It annoys him at first, considering how many times he’s saved her already. How much he’s sacrificed just to get them this far…

Until he remembers how they met. He remembers the disdain and anger in her brown eyes, then the mistrust, and the fear hidden underneath. He thinks of every experience she’s likely had so far with the U.S. Military, and anyone else who looks like him.

Dean settles down on the ground and stares up at the innumerable stars in a raven sky. He’s exhausted, but his thoughts don’t let him rest for a while. 

At the very least, the way she looks at him now is softer than that first day.

In the morning, Mila watches the strange man wake.

He blinks and rubs his bleary eyes, yawning, groaning at the sun’s brightness like a child. She hides her smile by bowing her head over the apple she’s cutting with her knife. The orchards span wide across the forest, and soon he’ll find two yellow-red apples beside his head.

His brows raise at them, then he looks up at Mila sitting with her legs crossed behind the small fire pit. The wood there is just ash and blackened remains now, but it still carries the smell of burning.

“Morning,” he greets.

She nods back at him and pretends not to watch when he sits up with a groan, stretching and bending his arms high behind his head. He removed his uniform jacket to sleep. It allows her to see every dip of male muscle that his plain white shirt clings to, even in the long sleeves.

Her gaze furtively runs over the broad shoulders, the tapered waist, then back up to his half-bearded face, defined by a strong jaw and dark brows. The sun catches on his brown hair and teases the ends of it golden.

She would never admit it, but he’s not unpleasant to look at. 

Last night, she declined his offer to travel with her until she reaches her tribe safely, but he was insistent. Again, strange.

So here she is, with him. Here they are. 

Dean turns to see the horses grazing nearby. Mato no longer has the saddle and bridle his men put on him. He looks rested and at ease. He even whinnies at Baby, tossing his head a little. She answers him and flicks her tail. They continue eating together.

Dean smiles, then grabs an apple. He raises it to her in thanks before he takes a large bite. Its juices run down the corner of his mouth, and he wipes at it with the back of his hand. Mila can’t help but be drawn to the sight.

She tears her eyes away when he looks over at her.

“We have a long way to go. Three days, if the weather is good,” she says, continuing to carve pieces of her apple to eat. “We will know we are close when we reach the river.”

Dean nods in understanding. With a grunt, he gets to his feet and takes another bite out of his breakfast. She doesn’t expect the way he approaches her with a hand outstretched. She looks up at it, then at his expectant face.

“Come on. Let’s hit the road then,” he says.

Mila considers his offer for another moment. He seems to be making this a habit. Amused, she wonders if this is just kindness, or if the women of his people aren’t allowed to stand without a man’s help.

She pockets her knife, swipes her braided hair over her shoulder, and slips her hand into his, allowing him to help her to her feet. When she gets there, he’s closer than he should be.

A breath gets trapped in her throat as she once again looks between his warm hand closed over her smaller one, and his face. In the small space between them, there is a different kind of tension than before. Mila can’t tell what the man is thinking when he looks at her like that, but she doesn’t like it.

And at the same time, she does.

She takes back her hand, and she goes to the horses. She firmly ignores how her heart gallops, even as she rubs at her chest like it’s an ache that can be soothed.

She doesn’t hear Dean’s unsteady breath, nor does she see the way his green eyes follow her.

AN: *rubs hands together* Well, here they are! It's all starting to come together. What did you think of Dean's decision?

Coming up next, we have the final part: some action, some fluff, and some potentially perilous situations for Mila and Dean...

Next Time:

“Yeah, about that…I’m thinking your tribe doesn’t take very well to outsiders,” he says. “White men in particular.”

Mila presses her lips together. He can tell she’s been thinking the same thing, but she turns to him with a determined set to her features.

“I will protect you,” she says.

Dean frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that. On one hand, it warms him that she seems to really mean it. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to know what it’ll take for her to protect him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

She turns her face away and doesn’t seem to want to answer at first.

“Mila…”

“The Chief is my uncle,” she says at last. “He will listen to me.”

Dean blinks. Well, that changes things…maybe.

COMING 11/17! (New chapters every Sunday.)

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Series Tag List + Dean W. (Part 1):

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@deanbrainrotwritings @urfav-tz @alwaystiredandconfused @torchbearerkyle @mrlonelycat

[darlinimamess]

.

[fortythealien]

The only thing he could sense was a splotch of crimson in his sight and the taste of iron in his mouth. His limbs were unresponsive. — He must have died.

The monster swallowed him again, but this time, his enemy is not another person. The imposing armor stayed quiet. He was grappled and imprisoned within those pair of arms. The speaker was the woman with sunglasses.

"Listen, I can always kill you again, otherwise I can't bring you back." Her voice was very gentle, and even the monster inside his body stayed silent to listen to her. "But I don't want to." The woman leaned down and whispered in his ear. It was a deal he couldn't refuse. "What do you people want?" "Is there anything more satisfying than seeing how the undying die? That's what 'he' said."

The giant armor loosened its arms. "Destiny" was ahead, and he will be leaving with them. "Listen, Bladie, loosen up." "Listen, don't think about anything at all." He nodded. The woman walked to his side, smiling. Yet he thought her smile looked very sad. "Maybe someone left her before they could listen to everything she had to say," he thought.

-Blade's Character Story: Part III

I love how tender Kafka and Blade's relationship is.

Pretty much every time Blade's onscreen he's getting hurt, going berserk, bleeding, killing, beating up his ex husband's boyfriend's son, etc...

Except Kafka's companion quest, where he is calm and sedate (and engaging in some very elaborate sensory deprivation/hypnotism kink, which, I'm jealous, but whatever)

ANYWAY. Kafka, known for being a ruthless, borderline sadistic dominatrix, does not have to do all this for him. They could've and should've left the Xianzhou sooner, but she has to stop and make sure Blade's okay. And there's just something about the way she talks about him. She literally cannot feel fear, but there's an intense need to keep him from suffering unnecessarily.

And Blade appreciates it! Most of Blade's party join lines are vaguely annoyed or a little threatening, but when he sees Kafka in the team, he's happy. He's even a little silly! He's excited to kick ass with his best friend!

I think it all boils down to the fact that Blade doesn't trust anything - not his past friends, not his hands, sometimes not even his own mind.. but he trusts Kafka, and I think that's beautiful

[originalwinnerfanfish]

Well, I did it

Megatron - I love his tfp design. Probably one of the best iteration of Megs. He is huge, heavy armoured, his face covered with scars… He doesn’t looks like an ordinary military leader who is only capable of giving orders, but like real warrior who can destroy any enemy with his bare hands.

So, in the WOF version, he definitely shares some features with Princess Burn, not only because of his might, but also because of his horns shape and dirty-dark scales (that absorbed blood of his enemies)

Starscream - Boy, I hate him so much 🤣… but in the good way, trust me! In my opinion, when the show's creators make you feel such strong negative emotions towards a villain, it means they've done a great job. Also, I think that his animation in the show was absolutely incredible, because even though he's a 3D model, he still manages to move like a 2D character, which is amazing!

I feel that in my design he still looks more like a skywing, than an icewing (which is kinda logical)

Soundwave - This one was tricky. I couldn't figure out what his mask would look like, so I just made his face a really dark color. I think Soundwave has both gifts of the nightwings, and he’s equally great at telepathy and a future vision. So he doesn't really need equipment to predict enemy movements, which makes him an ideal communicator in the WOF setting. His Laserbeak is part of the armor enchanted by Shockwave, and it might also allow him to open portals (but I'm not sure with this one)

Shockwave - My favourite evil genius. He would definitely have animus magic and mind reading. I think Shockwave is the only one who has advanced the study of magic so far, precisely because he combined it with scientific knowledge and created safer methods of using it, that don't damage the mind. It's like if a Mastermind got animus magic in books.

I also like to think that he didn't heal the damaged part of his face just so that his enemies would fear him more)

Dreadwing - This man deserved better! It's really a shame that he was removed from the show so quickly due to financial problems. It would be great if his arc got a proper conclusion in season 3.

Considering that I didn't want to make him a hybrid, it was difficult to choose a suitable color palette. So let’s just say, that I tried my best😅

I don’t think that he would have any nightwing powers, but honestly it doesn’t even matter - this guy can make a bombs, what else does he need to be cool

Arachnid - Did anyone even doubt that she would be a hivewing? Damn, she even got her own “Othermind” virus. Her design was the easiest to work with - just a little poisonous ass (suspiciously similar to Maleficent).

Just like Starscream, I hate her, but in a good way. She's one of the creepiest characters in the entire series, who’s acting like a fucking heartless monster, especially with Arcee, but even so, there's always was something mesmerizing about her. I just really like strong female villains

Knockout - Wery bright and charismatic guy, definitely one of my fav cons!

I tried to draw him as handsome as possible. Worked a lot on the face shape and coloring, and as for me it turned out pretty nice (finally).

Most decepticons think Knockout is as stupid and lazy as all the other rainwings. And it's not like he completely disagrees with that. Of course he’s not stupid and lazy, but if it’s means less dirty work on the battlefield, well, he’ll continue act like a tipical rainwing

(I also believe that Megatron keeps him as an “art”)

Breakdown - Fun fact: "Operation Breakdown" was the very first thing I saw in this series. And it was an interesting experience for 8 year old me. Maybe that's why I'm so scared of eye gouging scenes in movies now…

I think that he didn't have any siblings initially due to his parents nature, and even after meeting Bulkhead, he felt uncomfortable among the other mudwings. And this is why he later chose the side of the decepticons. And maaaaybe because of one cute rainwing influence)

P.s.

I think that, being mostly nightwings and icewings, the decepticons are much more concerned about purity of their blood and rarely accept half-breeds into their ranks.

During the war, there were many animus dragons among decepticons, which is why they have so many artifacts that allowed teleportation and communication at a distance. But, honestly, I still can't imagine what Nemesis would look like in this AU

[corollaservant]

oh noooo kinks post is gone 😭😭

buddy, you lurkin? this was up for an hour 😳 jk jk—this was filthy, made me feel like i was too disgusting on the internet or shadowbanned. anyways yk what? here you go (cause it was fun to write) <3

(18+) MHA kinks (shiggy, overhaul, dabi)

cw: coercion/gaslighting, edging (lol?), s/m, asphyxiation(implied), kai's mysophobia (the correct term is microphobia but anyways)

Shigaraki: i think he’s into gaslighting and coercion and ik the latter doesn’t classify as a kink (more like an offense) but hear me out:

he brought you to that miserable bar the LoV hangs out in and can’t stop touching you, while you’re forced to sit on his lap. you love public, right? well, no and he knows. whether the LoV watches or not doesn't matter, he wants to see your attitude change, once you can't hide the fact he's fucking you over fabric anymore. his cock twitches, when he stops and you silently beg with your eyes. he'll tell you that he thought you didn't like this while you’ll apologize for even thinking that.

when alone, he’ll have you sprawled on the bed, parting your legs and asking you which you prefer, his fingers or tongue. you’ll brokenly breathe out a “fingers, please” as he’ll sneer and..oblige. he’s clearly skilled, his fingertips tease your cunt as if he’s strumming close chords on a guitar and fuck—you look pretty as shit watching him push them inside. ‘’so you’re saying that you don't like my tongue, yeah?’’ he’ll feign sorrow, you never said that but he makes you reflect on it. ‘’you know what i think? i think you’ll like my tongue just fine’’ he’ll tell you and start sucking on the swelled nub as you tremble. ‘’actually.. you’ll like it more’’

once you shamelessly cum on his tongue exhausted, he’ll continue. ‘’ready for the main event?’’ he’ll ask as you beg him to at least wait a second, you ache down there but he obviously doesn’t care. ‘’there’s no time to wait..come on baby, you know it feels better the second time around.’’ he’ll tell you as his tip splits your folds. you ultimately consider that he might be right after all. actually, he’s never wrong.

Overhaul: this man has an edging kink.. before you say anything, it’s not what you think.

he’ll have you on that examination table (not too heavy on his medical kink tho), mask and gloves on, of course what did you think? that he’d make an exception? the fact he’s even touching you is enough boundaries crossed for him. his gloved hand will spread your juices across your pussy, as he winces behind the bird mask. he hates dirt, bodily fluids, liquids, any bodily emission/discharge, call it whatever you want. the moment he senses your pulse and legs jerking, he’ll remove his hand in fear you might cum on his gloves. you’ll whimper upset but he doesn’t really care, you should thank him for allowing you this proximity in the first place.

same with sex. condoms with him is like the concept of gravity — self fucking explanatory. sometimes he’ll even use two. don’t get him wrong, it’s not like you are the problem, it’s more like your body, he feels like he purifies you each time he thrusts calculated in your cunt (he's delusional). he likes you being vocal as long as you don’t accidentally spit on him, which will earn you a slap.

to prove that the issue is not you, the man will not allow himself to cum inside you, even with the (2) condoms on. he just prefers transmitting the ‘filth’ directly onto you, which means he’ll have you pump his cock and receive all his load (wherever it lands, he makes sure it's angled towards you). 

he's a weirdo of course, but he makes up for it in aftercare. he sterilizes you like there’s no tomorrow. if you’re lucky and you make him cum quick and clean, he might offer a cup of tea and your favorite snack. 

Dabi: sadomasochism. i’ve seen both variations separately done for him before — i just think he’s both.

obviously he’s more into the first (sadism). will treat you like a potato sack, lifting you up without asking, throwing (literally throwing) you to the bed, not caring about where you’ll land and ripping/burning the fabric that clings onto you. assaults your cunt—spits on it and slaps the clit with his hands (sometimes too hard, it makes you cry).

facefucks you the minute you get a hold of his cock, he doesn’t even give you a second, he will grab your head and move it to an unforgiving pace. definitely a cheek slapper — needs to feel his dick in your gums from outside. he might pinch your nose shut and leave you with no airway to..survive. but it’s ok, you make it out alive.

has ropes and recently bought a leash and a collar. it’s red with a black handle and he uses it each time you talk too much. might get bored just holding the handle as he needs to touch (bruise) you, so he’ll hang it to the bed’s end and just pull at the steel. shoots his cum inside only when you're loud enough to make his ears ring. (rip neighbors, they're already considering moving out after they called the cops on him and he almost fried them)

until..

the thing is.. Dabi lives in the past, he doesn’t share his life with anyone so how is he supposed to not dwell on it by himself? has a lot of inflicted pain he can’t share but subconsciously craves. the first time you take liberty in causing him pain ever so little is accidental. you are on top, he’s setting the pace, sure, but your weight falls on his face as your arms enclose his neck. you’re not trying, hell, you don’t even know how to choke someone properly (why would you?) but you need to hold on to something and you think you’re imagining it when you hear a very soft moan. no, you’re definitely imagining it. it will cross your mind later on.

after that, you try to experiment in the territory, you’re in missionary and he thrusts inside you while you bring his neck close and squeeze again. this time you deliberately apply pressure as he hisses a fuck so.. you slap him. it’s a light, small smack on his cheek, again, you don’t want to piss him off but he groans, this time louder and you grin. you might end up slapping him harder the more the sex progresses, the staples hurt your knuckles but he’s making desperate (sexy) sounds.

he’s not gonna be descriptive since he is waay too embarrassed (you will never hear a ‘’shit, i love it when you cause me pain, babe’’) but you don’t care, his expressions tell you everything you need to know.

the next time you’re on top and test the waters, you grab the leash and collar from the nightstand and raise a brow. that’s how most of the communication flows, with mute understanding. he’ll huff in annoyance while his hips involuntarily buck up and he’ll mutter: ‘’shit, whatever.. get this over with.’’ (i hc he calls you bro when embarrassed lol) breath already hitched as you adjust the buckle to his neck. safe to say you’re more than proud to see him fall apart, even if tears never spill from his eyes. 

[cy-cyborg]

How The Owl House did amputee representation right before Eda ever lost her arm - Disability in Media

[ID: A screenshot of Eda from The Owl House, an old woman with pale skin, very large, grey hair and pointed ears in a red dress. Beside the screenshot on a dark pink background is text that reads "Disability in media, How the Owl House got amputee representation right before eda ever lost her arm." /End ID]

Dana Terrace's The Owl House has some of the best disability rep I’ve seen on a Disney channel show in a long time, with Eda, the main character’s mentor, being one of many stand-out examples.

Plenty of people have discussed how Eda’s curse and the loss of her magic can work as an allegory for disability and how refreshing it is to see a story (especially one aimed at a younger audience) who’s focus is not on her “overcoming” it, but learning to accept it as a part of her and go from there. Eda’s story tackles a lot of subjects that are often mishandled in other examples of disability representation, from the subject of parents who refuse to accept, to glass siblings and much, much more, The Owl House handles all these topics beautifully.

But one thing that dawned on me during my most recent re-watch of The Owl House is how well Eda (and later Lilith) worked as amputee representation, long before Eda actually lost her arm.

One of the side effects of Eda and Lilith’s curse is that sometimes their body parts, mainly their limbs, can fall off. It doesn’t hurt them, and Eda is seen removing them intentionally at multiple times in the series, but they can always be reattached.

[ID: an image of Eda holding her sister Lilith's hand. Lilith is a pale woman with long, black hair, wearing grey clothes. She is looking at her other arm suprised, as her hand is missing. Luz, a Latina girl with short brown hair and a purple hoodie is looking on, smiling. /End ID]

While most likely unintentional, the way the show depicts this with Eda in particular is exactly what I wish more people would do with their prosthetic-using amputee characters.

Eda detaches her limbs, especially her legs, when they’re inconvenient or when she’s relaxing.

[ID: an image of Eda laying on the couch in a bathrobe, her hair in a towel. She has taken her legs off, throwing them to the other side of the seat. /End ID]

The fact that this is mostly played for laughs is actually a good thing in my opinion (though obviously, the show’s overall tone is part of that), as it shows the audience who are mostly children and teens, that in a world of weird and downright scary (from the perspective of the characters) things, this isn't one of them. It’s just a thing she and Lilith can do, and it can even be funny.

[ID: An image of Luz and Eda dressed as pirates. Eda is sitting on the ground, her legs detached and off screen somewhere. /End ID]

It does startle Luz and Lilith on a few occasions, but that’s more because they didn’t know the curse could do that, but once they’re introduced to it, it’s never really brought up as a big deal again.

I’d love to see more amputee characters who do this with their prosthetics. So often media is almost afraid to have amputees take their prosthetics off on camera or on the page. For some folks, our prosthetics are like a part of our bodies, but that doesn’t mean we never take them off. Show your leg amputee flop on the couch and throw their legs across the room. Have them go without on occasion, not because they have to, but because they just don’t feel like putting them on.

Likewise, the owl house creators never shy away from showing Eda when her limbs aren’t all attached. A lot of media, and kid’s shows in particular, will avoid having an amputee character’s stump visible if they ever do take their prosthetics off - treating that part of the character’s body the same way they treat gore or nudity. I’ve talked before how this actually does have a real impact on how kids in particular react to amputees - I’ve legitimately had kids I worked with cry when I took my prosthetics off, then immediately calm down when they see there’s nothing "scary" under my socks. As much as I love How To Train Your Dragon, it’s very guilty of this. Hiccup looses his leg at the end of the first movie, and wakes up with his prosthetic already attached. The Netflix series has a few instances where he has his prosthetic off, but the camera almost always avoids showing it until he can cover it up again, or is super zoomed-out so you wouldn’t be able to “see anything”. To their credit, they do get better with this in the last movie (though it's still always covered), but for the majority of the series, they are very reluctant to have any shots where hiccup’s leg is in view without the prosthetic (unless they’re very far away).

[ID: a screenshot of Hiccup from How To Train Your Dragon 3, a white man with short brown hair, and one leg missing, wearing armour made of black dragon scales and no prosthetic. He is holding onto toothless's head, a black dragon. /End ID]

Ironically, Eda does (permanently) loose an arm at the end of season 2, but I don’t really have much to say about her as amputee representation on that front, since she’s absent for a lot of Season 3, and when we do see her again, everything is so hectic, the story doesn’t really have any time to focus on her missing limb (which is reasonable). I will say, I do appreciate that they kept the amputation when she's in her owl-beast form in the finale, but there's honestly not much more to say about it. We do see her again in the epilogue after she’s had some time to settle into the amputation, wearing a hook prosthetic, but it’s, once again, too quick to really say anything from a representation standpoint. There's a few little nit-picky things I could bring up, like the fact they seemed to change the type on amputation she had (when she looses it, we see the split was very close to the elbow, but in the epilogue she has most of her forearm again) but those read to me more like animation mistakes or an odd prosthetic/clothing designs rather than a representation issue - and as someone who's worked in animation, given the stress the team was under for the finale, I'm not really worried about it. Like I said, it's more nit-picky than anything.

[ID: A screenshot of Eda, her hair tied back and wearing a red robe and a hook for her right hand. /End ID]

Despite all that though, I still think Eda is still good amputee representation, but mostly because of how they depict her curse’s side effects rather than her actual amputation. She’s honestly one of the only characters that I think you could refer to as “amputee coded” (outside of maybe Teen Titan’s Cyborg), and I genuinely wish more creators would treat their actual amputee characters the same way the Owl House treats Eda in that regard.

[gay-dorito-dust]

I don’t know if you have this but please can i request headcandons of the spiderverse Boys with their lover reader wearing their (spider boys) clothing like a hoodie or a t shirt?

Miles thought he had stopped breathing when he saw you wear the jacket he has been searching high and low for the past fifteen minutes.

He had been wanting to see you in his clothes but the poor boy didn’t know how to say it without tripping and stumbling awkwardly over his words like a new born baby deer.

‘Hey, have you seen my jacket-‘ his words faltered and then later died on his lips when he raised his eyes as he entered his room, only to see you wearing the very jacket he had been searching high and low for. ‘You’re wearing it.’ His voice cracked and out of embarrassment Miles cleared his throat and tried again. ‘You’re- You’re wearing it.’

You smiled at him, finding his attempts in keeping his cool amusing, especially when it was doing something small like wearing his clothes but you couldn’t help yourself! The jacket was still somewhat warm from previous use and smelt like him, which brought you comfort for the days where he couldn’t always be with you as it felt as though you had a part of him always with you. Though it doesn’t compare to actually having Miles with you, it still brought you a sense of relief and security that you always get when with the young lad.

‘Did you want it back?’ You asked, about to take it off when Miles exclaimed ‘no!’ Making you both jump with how loud it came out but made you both laugh none the less. ‘I mean, no, keep it on as long as you want. You look great in it.’ Miles admits, running the back of his neck, highly aware of the heat radiating within of every part of his body, from the tips of his ears to his chest and even to his feet, as though it was going to burn him from the inside out.

‘Just great?’ You teased, brows raised.

‘Did I say great? I meant you look beautiful, handsome, pretty, beautiful, cosy, comfy.’ Miles rambled and you knew you had to intervene before he hurts himself, which lead you to walk towards him and hold his face in your hands, internally melting when his beautiful doe brown eyes looked into yours as though they’re the only thing grounding him right now. ‘Relax, I’m only teasing babe.’ You reassured him, thumbs stroking his cheeks as means of calming him down. ‘Now are you comfortable with me wearing your stuff because I can stop if you want.’

Just when you were about to pulls your hands away from his face so you could remove and hand back his jacket, Miles placed his hands over yours, keeping them glued to his face as he looked at you adoringly. ‘It doesn’t bother me at all.’ He tells you. ‘In fact it makes me really happy just seeing you in my stuff,’ he chuckles to himself. ‘I swear it feels as though I’m still dreaming sometimes.’ He finishes.

Miles loves it when you wear his clothes as it means that even when you were apart, you’re thinking about him, always and wishing for his safe return. He feels loved, extremely loved.

Pavitr’s day is immediately made a thousand times better when he notices that you’ve been wearing his clothes. He fucking adores it so much to the point that he’s already making plans on just letting you use his wardrobe at your disposal.

It doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad day because seeing you in his clothes even on days where he’s mentally, emotionally and physically okay, he’s automatically made even more chipper and happy to the point he will not shut up about his rant on how cute and adorable you look in his shirt.

He’s talking about a mile a minute that you were starting to get concerned when you saw he wasn’t stopping for breath. When he does remember to breath, you were able to realise the breath that you didn’t know that you had been withholding yourself.

Probably has a multitude of pictures of you wearing his clothes and might’ve made one his lock/Home Screen or maybe both, so that when he was doing his spider-man stuff, he’d be reminded that you were waiting for you Pav to come back safe and sound.

He will shamelessly scream it from the rooftops that you were wearing his clothes and say loud enough for all those within the radius to hear. He’s not ashamed in the slightest and will brag about it until he can’t no more. His friends, Hobie, Miles, Gwen and Margo were often subjected to these bragging sessions more so then anyone else.

To the point where Hobie and Miles dog pile him in getting him to shut up about you wearing his clothes for a second. Yes they get it, it’s really cut that your wearing his clothes and how when you return them to him they smell like you’ve never left.

They get it, Pavitr is an absolute sucker for you in his shirts and whilst they found it cute themselves, pav didn’t need to get all dramatic with his long winded speech about how his clothes on you looked as though they were tailored to fit you like the did him, nor how he believes that was a sign for him that you two were meant to be together forever.

Overall Pavitr gets overwhelmingly affectionate when you wear his stuff to the point where your being smothered alive by his constrictive hugs and flurries of kisses raining down on your face. He loves, loves, loves seeing you in his clothes. It makes him happier then he’s ever been.

Hobie is the definition of ‘what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours.’

So let’s say you find his vest with the pins spanning across the lapels and the spikes that traversed across the shoulders, draped over the door and decided to wear it for a while until Hobie notices it’s absence.

Jokes on you though because Hobie never left anything of his without it being purely intentional and Hobie left his vest over at yours with the intention that you’d pick it up and wear it out of your own fruition, rather then having him telling you to wear it.

Outwardly his reaction upon seeing you wearing his vest is relatively neutral but that’s only to those on the outside but you could see the smile etching it’s way across his face along with the mischievous, all knowing glint within his eyes that told you all that you had willingly fallen right into his trap, just as he expected.

You’ve been had but you couldn’t be mad because it meant that Hobie had this in mind for a while and played the waiting game to execute his little plan. He wanted to see you in his clothes that he was willing to leave his beloved vest in your hands.

Hobie isn’t territorial but just seeing you in his clothes makes him feel all sorts of things but he just chalks it down to being a spider attribute he got from the bite and nothing else.

All this cheeky fuck would say to seeing you in his vest is; ‘guess I was right, it suits you.’ Which might as well have been his way of telling you that you were more then welcome to steal his clothes but just don’t be surprised when you start seeing some of your own stuff disappearing now and then.

Can’t find your crop top?

Hobie’s wearing it the next time you see him.

Needless to say Hobie loves it when you wear his stuff, so he’s going to do the exact same but with your clothes because he loves the expressions he gets when you ultimately realises who had been stealing your clothes for the past few days.

Miguel may act cool, calm and collected with a smidge of feral his heart isn’t immune from melting at the sight of you wearing his clothing.

It doesn’t even matter how long you’ve been doing it as it always made this secret softy feel as though it was the first time all over again.

Miguel is so occupied with his work to unhealthy extent that he doesn’t realise your wearing one of his shirts, and even when he does; it takes him a minute due to the lack of sleep affecting his ability to comprehend his reality before he’s doing a double take upon realising that yes, that was his shirt your wearing.

It’s cute watching his eyes nearly pop out of his head upon realisation.

‘Is that my shirt?’ He’d ask, although already knowing the answer. He’s not against it, he’s just surprised that you’d even want to wear anything of his. He doesn’t think he’s deserving of such a gesture but it touches his heart nonetheless.

‘I missed you.’ You replied, tugging at the bottom of his shirt. ‘You’re so busy with work that I don’t often get alone time with you anymore. So whenever your away and I’m missing you, I go through your closet and pick a shirt out, and wear it for the rest of the day because it makes me feel as though your here with me.’ You finished with a shrug.

Miguel couldn’t help but feel his heart hurt upon your admittance of missing him. He knows how often he prioritises his work that he was completely blindsided by how it affect you, so much so to the extent that you sought out comfort from his clothes because he was nowhere to be found.

‘You look at home in my clothes.’ He tells you as he decided then and there to cut out some time of his day just for you and be there for you like a lover should be. ‘And I’m sorry that I haven’t been here as much as I should but I promise that’ll change.’ Miguel practically pleads to you as he holds you against his muscular chest, his hands rubbing your back, secretly loving how his shirt looked on you more so then anything.

Seeing you wear his clothes became Miguel’s favourite sight to see first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He takes pride out of it but the reasoning behind it will always make him upset at himself at his failings of being a partner.

It’s something he’s improved on ever since and you couldn’t help but get giddy when you felt him walk up behind you in the mornings, burying his head into your neck, greeting it with kisses, as his arms enclose on your waist, speaking to you in his low raspy morning voice about how beautiful/ handsome/cute/pretty/stunning you looked to the point where you wanted nothing then to bury yourself into his chest so he couldn’t see the dopey, lovesick smile beaming across your face.

Miguel isn’t immune to seeing you wearing his clothes and he never will be because it’s a declaration of love in its own unique way.

Peter B would find you wearing his clothes unbearably adorable.

He just wanted to squeeze you tightly but knew that probably wasn’t the smartest idea considering with his strength but that never stopped him from taking photos of you doing mundane things in his shirt or sweatpants that you had to tie up by the drawstrings.

Peter has taken too many pictures that he might as well have dedicated an entire album to you wearing his sweats, shirts or even his pink bathrobe and doing mundane things such as making breakfast, watching your favourite shows on tv, playing with Mayday and the like.

So don’t be surprised when he starts showing anyone that would listen over at the spider society pictures of his lover looking absolutely gorgeous/handsome/pretty/beautiful/adorable in his clothes 24/7. Miguel especially but Jess, Miles, Gwen, Pavitr, Hobie and Margo were also some that got pestered by Peter.

Peter B is also very vocal and would smother you praise of how good you look in his clothes because what he says is 100% genuine.

For example;

‘Look at you! You look amazing!’

‘You’re so cute in my clothes, please don’t stop wearing them.’

‘How could my lover look even better when they’re wearing my clothes. It shouldn’t be possible but here you are, proving me wrong.’

This corny bastard would teasingly call you a mini version of him since you want to wear his stuff so badly.

You’ve defiantly caught him admiring you from afar when you wear his clothes. His eyes are soft and half lidded as he rests his face against his hand, he wasn’t aware that he was leaning so much to the point that before long he was on the floor. It’s so cartoonish and goofy but it’s just so Peter that you can’t help but let out a little chuckle before going over to help your lover off of the floor.

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico really fucking hates capture the flag.

Well, not always. Last week was fun. Last week was the annual Everyone Against The Stolls (to atone for their crimes), and Nico got to chase Connor around at top speeds, cackling, committing his shrieking and begs for mercy to memory. That was nice. That almost made him forgive the fucker for digging a trench under Nico’s unwelcome mat for him to fall into at seven thirty in the godsdamn morning.

But tonight’s game is boring.

He’s been standing, alone, at the base of the flag for the past forty bajillion hours. He’d raised a few dozens skeletons to spar with at first, since animating them to fight himself isn’t technically against the rules, but that got dull fast. (It isn’t much fun sparring with a partner who doesn’t have a brain. He already has to do that enough with Percy when he comes to visit camp.) He’d climbed the various trees around the clearing, or at least he tried until he got reamed by the dryads for climbing on a manner that was too annoying (?), and tried his hands at a few summoning spells. Nothing held his interest long.

And now he’s just standing, doing nothing, and he’s not allowed to leave. He has to stay in this stupid spot on the off chance that someone comes stumbling over to fight him for the flag.

“You’re our best swordsman, she said,” he says mockingly, beaming the nastiest vibes he can manage in Piper’s vague direction. “We need you on our defensive line, she said. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.”

His checks his watch. He groans. He looks critically over the grass, looking for a softer patch, and when he locates it he throws himself dramatically upon it, groaning louder.

“This sucks!” he yells, to no one.

“Will you shut up!” shouts back the dryad he pissed off earlier. “For the love of photosynthesis! Fuck!”

He bites his tongue hard to hold back laughter. (If he can avoid getting his entire cabin overgrown with prickle bushes again, that’d be great.) “Sorry,” he calls, trying with everything he has to sound contrite. Convincing his father to fight the Titan War was easier, actually. Acting is not his calling.

“Hmph!”

At least listening to see if she’ll come out and yell at him again provides something to ease his boredom. Yes, he’s going to regret bothering her, but in his defense, solo guarding is cruel and unusual punishment. He’d rather sit by an outlet with a fork and see if he can poke and let go fast enough to avoid dying. That at least would be interesting.

A rustling of leaves recaptures his attention, and he pauses.

“Holly?”

When no one answers, which is odd because she’s taken every opportunity in the last hour to either insult him or pelt him with stones, he lifts his head.

“You’re not going to scare me, dude. I had my fear glands surgically removed to become a better soldier.”

Not true. Obviously. But a fun bonus of being the camp weirdo is that no one doubts anything he says. He’s working on convincing everyone younger than him that he needs weekly tributes of chocolate delivered to his door every Friday or the dead are going to take over the world. So far, it’s working.

“Look, Holly, I’m sorry about the zombie, okay, I promise it didn’t mean to sneeze part of its brain on you —”

The rustling sounds again, only this time Nico can see that it’s not Holly’s tree, and in fact she is nowhere to be found. Alarmed, he jumps to his feet, shifting so he’s balanced on the balls of his feet, poised to attack. Is Piper’s plan failing? Has someone actually managed to make it all the way over here without getting (gently, probably, although they lost the last game and Piper gets cranky without dessert) maimed?

The rustling sounds for a third time. This time, an armoured someone stumbles out of the underbrush, tripping over their own foot and nearly landing flat on their face.

Nico has his sword at their throat in a millisecond.

“Wo-oah, Morbius. That’s probably my least favourite sword you could stab in me.”

Nico goes bright red. “I have never wanted to stab you more than right this second.”

Will, chest plate skewed to the right, quiver completely empty, and black paint smeared under his eyes, snickers. He puts a finger on the tip of Nico’s sword and pushes it away from his neck.

“The opportunity was right there, babe. I couldn’t not.”

“You really, really could. In fact at all times, you should remember these words of wisdom: shut up.”

“…Damn. Inspiring.”

Nico rolls his eyes, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the smile on his face and the obvious pleasure in his expression. He’s even feeling merciful enough to accept Will’s kiss, although his sword keeps a good amount of distance between them. (Will’s on the blue team, after all. It would be unprofessional to be fraternizing with the enemy.

…Well, too much, anyway.)

“What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the other archers, sitting in trees and causing havoc.”

Will shrugs, grinning lazily. “I quit. This game is senselessly violent and I’m Against It On Principle. I’m a pacifist, you know.”

“Uh huh.” Nico raises an eyebrow. “I assume this doesn’t count you choking Cecil out in a headlock, this morning.”

Will opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it again.

“Cecil is my mortal enemy,” he grudges after a moment. “He doesn’t count.”

“‘Course not. Not like you cried for two hours when he went to visit his mom last weekend or anything.”

“Will you — stop saying I cried. I barely teared up, okay. Barely.”

Nico can’t quite force down the stupid grin that pulls across his face, matching Will’s, nor can he resist grabbing the leather straps of his boyfriend’s armour and hauling him close.

“You better not be here to distract me,” he mumbles, leaning close and pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Will hums, settling his hands on Nico’s hips.

“Nope. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Drama queen.”

“Excuse — I am the least dramatic, I’ll have you know. I’m a pinnacle of solemnity. I am a shining beacon of stoicism. I am — mmfh,” He trails off. “Okay, doing this now, mhm.”

Nico smiles triumphantly into the kiss. Will, he has found, is very easy to shut up, despite his long-running nickname of Motormouth. It’s almost like he has an off button that can be accessed only by Nico sticking his tongue in his mouth. Nico is doing his civic duty, honestly. He should be compensated for his service.

(‘Course, doesn’t hurt that Will smells, like, really good, all the time, and his lips are soft as hell and he is actually quite the kisser, in fact. That is definitely a fun bonus.)

He smooths his hands over Will’s shoulders, travelling up the sides of his neck and settling in his hair. Will keens, slightly, when he wraps a finger around a frizzy golden curl and tugs, slightly, when he scratches his nails along his scalp. The rush of power at the feeling makes Nico dizzy, and his sword clatters to the ground as he busies himself with more interesting — and important — things.

Like pulling more of those sounds from his boyfriend’s throat. Or making his knees buckle, again, like he did the other night — gods, that was good, it made Will flush scarlet and Nico feel like he was fuckin’ floating, to have Will so needy and touchy and totally at his mercy —

“Free line to the flag! Go go go go!”

Nico startles, whirling towards the sudden cacophony of noises. To his horror, what looks like half the camp, helmets shining with plumes of blue, comes pouring into the clearing, weapons raised, voices mixing in one long, victorious shout. He lunges for his sword, but before he can grab it, two strong arms tighten around his torso, pinning his hands to his side.

Immediately, he knows he’s been set up.

“Oh, you — fucker!”

He feels the curve of Will’s grin against his neck. “First shower privileges for a whole month, baby.” He noses along his jaw, pressing an apologetic kiss to his cheek. “Couldn’t resist.”

Nico struggles, aghast, watching the once-red flag shimmer in Lou Ellen's hold to a bright, shining blue. “I am breaking up with you, you traitor, you Iago, you vixen — ”

Will snorts. He ducks down and pecks Nico on the lips, again, and again, and then shifts to his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his temples, his forehead, and all over his face, making louder and louder mwah sounds until Nico is laughing, punching his shoulder and shoving him away.

“Okay! Okay. Let me go, you villainous toad. We will discuss how much you’ll have to grovel for my forgiveness after Piper finishes yelling at me for getting distracted.”

Will presses one last kiss to his nose, smiling cheekily before stepping away, heading towards his boasting team. “Enjoy that lecture! Love you!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nico rolls his eyes, resting his aching cheek in his hand. “Love you too, asshole.”

[sugarushwriting]

bad idea right? frat boy sunghoon, #3

part 1, part 2

“i only see him as a friend, biggest lie i ever said.”

hehe, here’s the dirty part. pure smut to the best of my ability. enjoy 🤍

not proofread. please share, reblog, like, comment all of it! pls do not repost or translate. ty!!!

wrote 97% while at work on break in 30 minutes.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡

“too bad peach, means you’re not getting fucked properly.”

your eyes widened and you stood frozen in your spot. towel tightly wrapped against your naked body, goosebumps appearing on your skin.

“uh—i, huh?”

“aww did i make you speechless?” sunghoon chuckled.

you nodded. you literally were speechless.

“didn’t you just say you weren’t trying to woo me into bed?”

“all i did was state a fact, peach. if you aren’t sore after sex, then the men you pick aren’t doing it correctly.”

you scoffed, “and what, every girl you’ve had sex with has been sore or trouble walking afterwards?”

sunghoon smirked, “yes, peach.”

“i don’t believe you.”

“then ask them yourselves for proof. i am sure some have pictures of my handprints and marks i’ve left.”

oh. “oh, uh—,”

“or my bite marks.”

you started to feel hot. everywhere.

“sunghoon—,”

“yes?” sunghoon was giving you lustful eyes, and continued to have a smirk etched on his lips.

“you—you can’t just say things like that!”

“you started it.” sunghoon shot back.

“huh? when did i ever bring up sex with you first?” you crossed your arms over your towel covered chest.

“that night you high jacked my bed. and i quote, you said, ‘would you have sex with me if i asked? or kiss me? would you even hug a girl like me?’” sunghoon had said back to you what you said that night you were drunk.

“i don’t remember that.”

“probably because you were drunk out of your mind and sad.”

“then it doesn’t count!”

“drunk words are sober thoughts, peach.”

you opened your mouth to shoot off a reply but sunghoon cut you off, “do you want to know my answer?”

“what?” you asked confused.

“after you asked me these questions you didn’t even give me time to reply. you answered for me and said that i wouldn’t. but do you want to know the truth?”

you swallowed. did you? did you want to know the truth? you did, so you nodded slowly.

“yes peach. yes i would have sex with a girl like you. yes i would kiss a girl like you. yes i would hug a girl like you.” sunghoon listed.

all during his answers, he walked closer to you, you not even moving, now you both stood toe to toe.

you could feel his breath, that’s how close you were standing. it seemed his breathing had picked up, so had yours due to the intensity of the conversation.

“actually peach,” his tone change a little darker.

you heartbeat quickened in anticipation of what he was gonna say next.

“i wouldn’t just have sex with you. i am going to fuck you.”

going to? was that a threat or promise?

it was both.

you squeaked before sunghoon’s lips attached to yours in a heated and hot kiss, his tongue immediately seeking permission to find yours.

you let his tongue meet yours, and felt his teeth bite your bottom lip.

sunghoon’s hands went to grab underneath your ass, to lift you up to where he was holding you, your legs wrapped around his waist. not once did the heavy make out session stop.

you both moaned into each other’s mouths, it seemed you two weren’t getting enough of each other as you pressed your body closer to his as possible.

sunghoon had walked you both to his room, and gently placed you on his bed.

he slowly removed his lips from yours, you whining at the loss, you unconsciously following his lips.

you sat in the bed in the towel, sunghoon leaning over you by having his arms on either side of you as he leaned down so his face was in front of yours.

he had a drunken smile on his face. licking his lips, his eyes flickered down to your towel and back up to meet your hungry eyes.

“you may not get on your knees for anyone peach, but you will get on your knees for me.”

you whimpered and grew wet at his words.

“get on your knees.” sunghoon all but growled in a deep tone.

you obeyed. you, without even thinking slipped off the bed, your eyes glued to sunghoon’s, and rested on your knees.

sunghoon had a proud smile. his hand came to cradle your cheek. “my good peach.” his thumb traced your bottom lip before he forced that thumb into your mouth and on your tongue.

reaching down with his free hand, he undid the towel so it slumped to around your lower half, revealing your naked body.

he removed his thumb, and both hands got busy to his belt and pants. first the belt came off, but he didn’t toss it. instead, he gripped it in one hand. then he continued on to unbutton his pants.

“unzip and pull them down.” he ordered.

your hands slowly did as he said. your hands went to pull his boxers down but he tsked.

“eager are we?” he chuckled. “did i say to pull down my boxers?”

you shook your head.

“words, peach.”

“no.” you pouted.

“on the bed all fours.” sunghoon stated and took off the remainder of his pants as you got up onto the bed and got into the position he wanted.

from behind, sunghoon took off his boxers and shirt as well.

sunghoon pushed your upper body into the bed, your cheek smushed against the comforter. from the corner of your eye you could see sunghoon was naked in all his glory.

and you saw what hung between his legs.

you snapped your eyes shut. holy fucking shit.

you had no time to think as sunghoon’s belt came to snap against your ass.

you screamed in both pain and pleasure, mixed with a loud moan.

you’ve never had this done to you in bed. why? why have you never done this? you got wet just from the slap, and even wetter at the thought of him using it again.

sunghoon’s lips met your ass cheek for a soft kiss then used his palm to soothe.

“i would use more peach, but i know your butt hurts from your falls on the ice.”

you felt a hint of teasing in his tone.

his body covered your backside, his lips meeting the nape of your neck.

“i will take my time with you, and admire your body. but first, i’m fucking you.”

sunghoon grabbed both your wrists to bring them to behind your back, using his belt to tie them together. your chest and right cheek were pushed into the bed.

his right hand held your hands that were tied together. “you yell red if you need me to stop peach.”

you nodded, and heard sunghoon shuffling through the table beside his bed. in no time, the condom was on, and his index and middle finger rubbed circles on your clit.

“while i please you, i want you to be vocal about it peach. i don’t care if the boys here you. i want to hear you.”

sunghoon wasted no time pushing his dick inside your slick cunt, your walls gripping him with ease.

“oh fuck.” sunghoon groaned under his breath, as you let out a moan.

just as you thought he was done, he kept pushing, until you swore you felt the tip of him hit your cervix. that’s how deep he felt.

you were sure you could possibly see a bulge in your stomach if positioned just right.

sunghoon’s hips snapped back before the ruthless thrust began.

“fuck, sunghoon!” you screamed.

he was right. you weren’t getting fucked properly. whoever you slept with beforehand was always too gentle. left you unsatisfied.

sunghoon was about to satisfy you in many ways in just under a minute.

“peach,” sunghoon moaned out breathlessly, “you feel so good.” he swallowed, trying to find words. “just right for me. fuck why haven’t i done this sooner? why haven’t i tried to get your attention before this?”

his hips snapped against yours, sounds of skin on skin, groans and moans only to be heard.

“hear that peach? that sound? it’s your cunt. all wet for me. all wet and taking me in.”

if sunghoon kept up with the dirty words, you surely were going to come sooner than you wanted.

you wanted to feel him inside you longer. maybe forever.

his hand kept a grip on your wrist, pulling you up a bit, where your body hovered over the bed.

“look at how your ass ripples from my fucking. so good.”

“so good, sunghoon.” you moaned out.

sunghoon forced your body to lie flat on the bed as he kept fucking you at a ruthless pace.

oh his tip was hitting the right spot. your cunt seem to moan for itself, you were so wet, it was squelching.

“listen to your pussy talking to me, peach.” sunghoon moaned out in a deep tone.

yep you were done for.

your walls squeezed him tighter. “oh sunghoon.”

“your pussy is clenching for me. begging for me. fuck, i should’ve fucked this pussy raw. to fill you up with my come.”

your thighs tightened. “sunghoon, i—i’m gonna come.”

“let go for me peach. come around my cock.”

with a loud grunt and moan, you came around sunghoon, you forcing your ass back to have him as deep as possible. sunghoon came right after you, riding out both your orgasms.

you buried your head in the pillow as you literally began to cry at how much pleasure you felt.

sunghoon pulled out, untied your wrists, threw the condom away, and rolled you over to your back.

his head came to nestle in the crook of your neck, as he left soft kisses against the length of your neck before he found a spot he liked, and began to suck.

you bit your bottom lip, now being conscious of your volume for some reason. his teeth, specifically his sharp vampire-like teeth, nipped and nibbled on your skin.

your legs went to wrap around his waist again. his bare tip rubbing against your aching and over sensitive clit.

“playing with fire, peach.” sunghoon laughed against your skin.

you smiled in a daze, wrapping your hands around his neck. you overcame with confidence, kissed his cheek, then lifted his face to above yours and pulled him into a heated kiss.

“mhm, what was that for?” he smiled after he ended the kiss.

you bypassed the question. “why do you call me peach?”

sunghoon smiled, hand twirling a piece of your hair before tucking it behind your ear.

“because one, you are like princess peach.”

“i look nothing like her.”

“i’m talking about always happy and excited. i don’t know just something.”

“oh.”

“also whenever someone says or calls you a peach, it means you’re a good person, and pleasing. you’re just, peachy. peaches are also juicy.”

sunghoon smiled and gripped your ass and you squealed in surprise with a laugh. sunghoon laughed with you and gave you a quick peck.

he rubbed circles on your hip, then pinched it. “mhm, i want you again already. not finished with you.”

you smirked. “gonna keep your promise or was it a threat?”

sunghoon sighed. “which one?”

you started to play with the hair on the nape of his neck. “fucking me so good that i’m sore. and fucking me raw.”

“oh peach, those were both promises. be careful what you wish for.”

sunghoon rutted his dick inside you, bare.

“mhmm,” you moaned against his lips. he used his tongue and licked your neck up to your chin, up to your lips.

“pussy still so wet for me.” sunghoon gripped each of your thighs that were wrapped around his waist, as he sat up. dick still buried in you.

your hands reached up above your head.

“want me to fill you up, peach?”

“yes please.” you moaned.

sunghoon, while still buried in you, kissed down your neck, to your chest, taking a nipple in his mouth, giving it a quick lick before biting down softly.

your back arched, your hair tugging on sunghoon’s strands.

he hovered his lips over yours once again. “don’t know if i want my dick or tongue in your pussy.”

you literally flexed your walls around him at the thought of his tongue, sunghoon smiled, pulling out.

“tongue it is, peach.”

wasting no time, sunghoon got to his knees, face hovering over your lower half. his tongue licked between your folds before diving right in. literally.

you’ve never been ate out so good. literally he just started.

he licked, sucked, nibbled, spat, and even used his heavingly fingers.

two of them. then three.

your walls began to tighten up as he used his free hand’s thumb to put pressure on your clit.

just as you were there, he stopped, removing his tongue and fingers, just to as quickly replace it with his dick once again.

“mhmm.” you moaned softly, gripping his back.

sunghoon—let’s say, never fucks a girl in missionary. he prefers doggy or reverse cowgirl. you’re the second girl he’s done missionary with.

(his first being an official girlfriend a few years ago).

he enjoyed the look of pure pleasure on your face knowing he was the reason for it. the way you squeezed your eyes tightly when your pussy clenched for him, the way you tried to contain your volume by biting on your lower lip, but failing.

he loved the way you dug your nails into his back, as he dug his into the flesh of your thighs. he was making sure to leave his mark.

in addition to the 2 marks he left on your neck.

at first, he only wanted to fuck you to get back at karina for the way she treated you. but then, he genuinely just wanted to fuck you.

he enjoyed his time on the ice with you, the way you made him smile and laugh when you fell or how cute and happy you got when you skated for more than 2 minutes without falling.

his peach.

he was making sure to mark you up so you’d remember him. you’d remember the way he made you feel.

“i’m close again sunghoon.” you moaned.

sunghoon leaned down to attach his lips to yours, heavy make out session, while his thrusts became sloppy, more skin on skin noises, your wetness leaking on to the bed, down your thigh, and covering sunghoon’s lower stomach and upper thighs.

his fingers dug deeper into your skin, your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, trapping him.

thank goodness you couldn’t get pregnant.

“peach—i have to pull out.” sunghoon groaned.

you shook your head. “in—in me, hoon.” you moaned pulling his body closer to yours.

the thought of accidentally impregnating you should scare him.

but it didn’t.

it only made him want to come in you more.

“fuck peach, you are just for me.” he whispered against your lips, as you came around him, and he followed soon after coming deep in you.

he held you down as he kept his dick buried in you as deep as possible. “mhmm peach, gotta make sure my come doesn’t drip out of you.”

he loved that you milked him dry.

you both, breathing heavy, stayed in that position for a while. sweaty bodies, sunghoon on top of you, dick still in you (slowly softening), your cunt still clenching around him.

breathing heavily in each others mouths, you kissed here and there, with tongue and without.

sunghoon put his head against your collarbone, and slowly pulled out, making sure you didn’t waste a drop.

he rolled over on the bed to his back, as you laid there unable to move.

suddenly exhaustion washed over you.

sex with someone never did that to you. pleasing yourself never did that.

how did sunghoon, of all people, make you exhausted like that?

without much thought, your eyes began to close and sleep took over.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

you awoke in a soft bed, your body dressed in nothing but a tee shirt and covered in sheets and covers.

opening your eyes slowly, you adjusted your vision as best as you could. next to you, sunghoon laid on his back, eyes closed, chest moving up and down, as he softly snored and slept.

you couldn’t help but stare and realize how attractive he was. you finally noticed just how attractive park sunghoon is.

no wonder karina and other girls fell to his feet.

your eyes widened.

karina! fuck! what kind of friend were you? wait, were you two even still friends? wait who cares?

you did.

you swallowed. sometimes you really did hate being a good person with a good heart.

you reached over to cradle sunghoon’s cheek, causing his eyes and lashes to flutter.

he yawned with a stretch opening his eyes. you didn’t take your hand of his cheek.

he smiled when he looked over at you.

“did i fuck you good peach?”

you giggled. “yes you did, hoon.”

with a smile he leaned over and kissed your nose. “mhm, love that nickname for me.”

fuck karina and fuck her feelings.

[gb-patch]

Sorry to send another ask amongst the sea I'm sure you're receiving, but I find myself more concerned about Rose being a sensitivity reader as I find more information. One of Rose's friends continues to insist that the conversation about Tamarack and male MCs was part of a larger discussion about biphobia in the fandom. However, they claim that Rose's position is "people erase Tam's bi/pansexuality by refusing to portray [her] as being attracted to anything other than men." This explanation of Rose's belief is, in-and-of-itself, biphobic. It claims that portraying Tamarack as attracted to men erases her queerness. This is textbook biphobia and bi-erasure that I as a bisexual encounter every day. It is NOT a good-faith defense of a queer character. It reduces us down to our partners and makes the claim that if we end up in a relationship that's "straight-passing," we're erasing our queerness. Especially as a bi sapphic myself, it reduces my identity strictly to the perceived-man I'm dating, and not my inner or previous experiences, or those of my partner. It's very uncomfortable that Rose, a non-bisexual, was discussing this like they're defending Tamarack's queerness when they're doing the opposite.

This is a doubly strange position when Our Life is a game about the acceptance of love in all its forms. The conversation could be different, MAYBE, if Our Life was a TV show or a book or a comic. But this is a game where people are meant to play as characters of their own design. I do not feel confident about Rose being a sensitivity reader for a game with bi/pansexual love interests if these are their beliefs about bi/pansexuality, particularly if they're unable to adapt their opinions to be relevant to different formats of media; this shows they're lacking in skill in the areas of media literacy and critical thinking.

I’ve been trying to make a post that presents the concerns people have about this, but your ask touches on the points I was going to, and I’d say it’s better to have it said by a player than me deciding what people are thinking. So, this is something that I want to make clear- that I see this and other asks/comments about it. What you’ve said is something a lot of people are unsure and upset about. I am sorry that you feel so out of place in this community now. And I am also sorry to players of any sexuality who use a male MC. That comment dismissed players and Tamarack’s identity.

It did come from a longer discussion about bi-phobia issues. The overall feelings were “if people did only want Tamarack to be interested in men, I really wouldn’t like that and wouldn’t it be a funny concept if Tamarack then left them for a woman?”. The comment itself didn’t encompass that idea at all. It does not give a good impression about where they’re coming from. It was unkind.

The viewpoint Rose is trying to have isn’t that “Tamarack can never express an interest in men” which would be wrong, it’s “I stand by the fact that Tamarack is someone who wouldn’t only be interested in men and no one else”. If it’s true that Rose likes Tamarack being interested in all genders and doesn’t want her bi-ness to be forgotten, I’d say that’s an acceptable view. If the point actually is that Tamarack should only be with women and if she’s not than Tamarack is no longer bi or she’s a bad character, then you're right- that isn't acceptable and that is going to get someone removed from the project. I do believe Rose agrees with what you’re saying and means it when they say they want to stop bi-erasure, not participate in it for real. But they had a very harsh way of talking about it.

I understand that people don’t know Rose and this situation has made them believe they do seriously hold that first view. But from working with them, there’s never been any feedback that shows an opinion of the sort.

Right now, I think that comment was being edgy and making a quick, very poorly-worded quip to people they’d been chatting with about that topic already. Rose has left the GB Patch discord servers, they used to be a mod, and may or may not ever be back in there. Rose won’t make blog posts responding to players going forward. They’re going to take a break from this and then try to give helpful feedback. We’re going to see if things can be okay from here.

And with this coming up, we’re all really aware that it’s something to consider about the game. I’m going to be as conscious as I can for any advice that seems to go against the character’s identities and I’m going to question my own knee-jerk choices for how I handle things. Other sensitivity readers will be able to give their viewpoints as well, so will the players. If the game’s content isn’t welcoming or is biased people will notice, and I’ll be here to accept what I’ve done. I don’t want that to be the result of this, of course. I hope the game will be thoughtful and considerate, but I can’t fire Rose at this point to try doing that.

No one has to keep following the game, though. I’m sympathetic to anyone who is too uncomfortable with all this to stay around.

[heartpascal]

or is it loneliness?

▹— (eventual) spiderverse found family x platonic!reader

▹— summary: you need closure, and information. two visits kind of give you that.

▹— a/n: guys idk what im DOING. i have things planned for atsv but not how we’re gonna get there … rn im just yolo-ing. im not a big fan of this one but im gonna start writing the next one asap, which will hide fully be more found family-ish lmao arachnid is gonna start warming up to them all some day i swear

▹— warnings: angst, injuries, not good thoughts, dead parents, sensory issues, explosions, violence, fighting, blood?, damaged hearing for a good minute, peter b parker eating burgers deserves its own warning, food, mention of throwing up / nausea, insecurities about being good enough, refusing help, idk what else, if ive missed anything let me know!!!

▹— taglist: @rhymingtree (everything taglist) @justmare @uniquemonstrosity @lacunaanonymoused @erensbbg @dulceteris @noxxing @escherichiacolli @ray-rook @i-3at-kidz @miwagila @stoneforests (is it freedom’verse) — also i only tagged those who explicitly asked to be tagged!

MASTERLIST , part one

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

You spend a long time sat on the edge of the open window, staring out at the traffic below after getting back from Spider Society HQ. There’s a tangible relief that comes with returning to your dimension, like a weight being removed, a tension that is finally released from where it had been pulled taut. Your shoulders feel just as heavy as they did when you left, but you try not to think about it. You try to be happy that you’re back.

While you wouldn’t say it aloud, and you hate to even have the thought, you don’t think anybody had noticed you were gone. But then again, who would? You have no reason to be so upset about such a thing.

Time slips by as you diligently sew up the tears in your suit, frowning as you hold it up once you’re finished. It looks nothing like it used to, but then again, neither do you. Things have changed, it only makes sense that your suit would, too. You wonder if travelling through alternate dimensions can alter your perception of things. You’d swear that your suit had been a different shade before you left, lighter, maybe, but you have nothing to compare it to.

At least now, this time, when you put on your suit there is evidence of damage that Gwen Stacy had caused. The stitching along your the material where she had tore into you is a tangible thing, physical, and you run your fingers across it as if it might disappear. It’s almost a relief, to be able to feel where she had caused you pain, as opposed to the invisible ache she had left within you after fighting her the first time around.

Alongside the scar raised on your body, the fight with Gwen had left you with a sort of paranoia. An uncertainty in the back of your mind that has you glancing over your shoulder, has you messing up simple manoeuvres as you panic, thinking you hear her voice.

It must have been your third day back from the HQ that you come to the conclusion that you have to visit Gwen Stacy in her prison.

The decision doesn’t come easily. It comes slowly, torturously so, a realisation that deafens you as you glare through squinted lenses at the city around you. You won’t be able to go on like this, getting yourself hurt in stupid ways all because you’re not certain that she’s back in her prison. You’re meant to be a hero, which means that messing up, despite whatever paranoia that lingers in the back of your head, is unacceptable. It has consequences.

Seeing her in the flesh will likely be the hardest thing you’ll ever do. Except, maybe, not killing her when you caught her in that other dimension. You keep your mind on the fact that she won’t be able to touch you, that she’ll be walled away, to reassure yourself that there is no risk of either of you hurting the other — at least, physically.

But seeing her isn’t the only difficult part.

No, the hardest part is stepping back into an identity that you had lost your grasp on, long ago. You wear your old clothes, clothes that you hadn’t put on in months, and try to remember how it felt to be you, rather than Arachnid.

“Hi, Mrs. Stacy.” You say, when the door to an all too familiar apartment opens just a slither, and you catch sight of her wrinkled eyes. There’s a noticeable change to them when she realises who you are, and she’s slamming the door shut, undoing the chain, and reopening it before you can say another word.

She whispers your name like she can’t believe it’s you — and you can’t blame her.

You had disappeared, months ago, after the death of your father. Going missing was far easier than being placed in a foster system that would only hold you back. It had been so much easier, not having to face anyone, not having to speak at his funeral.

“Hi.” You repeat, when her stare lingers in the silence for far too long. The sound of your voice once again breaks her out of her trance, and she’s rushing forward to pull you into her arms as if you were her child. You suppose, in some ways, it was quite a lot like that. At the very least, your presence will remind her of the daughter she had lost.

“Where have you been? Oh, honey, I was so worried.” Mrs. Stacy says, her voice trembling by your ear as she squeezes you tight, unfazed by your lack of reciprocation. “Come inside, please.”

You follow her through the doorway, closing the door behind you as you had done so many times before. Not looking around at the apartment is near impossible, but you’re not sure how much familiarity you can take. Even just seeing Mrs. Stacey’s aged face makes your chest ache, your legs feeling shaky.

“Sit down, honey, let me get you a warm drink.” She says, a tremor to her voice as she bustles towards the kitchen which is adjoined to the living room. The news plays on the television, and you’re glad to hear a weather report, rather than some city-wide attack. Mrs. Stacy is quiet as she goes through the process of making your favourite drink, but with your enhanced hearing you listen to the telltale clink of a spoon against ceramic. You listen closely to her hitched breathing as her footsteps pad back into the room. “Here.” She hands you the warm mug, and you don’t comment on the way her hand shakes.

“Thank you.” You say, though it feels stilted, wrong, too formal. It’s hard to be normal in this setting, to be whoever you used to be, especially as she stares at you like she’s seen a ghost.

Mrs. Stacy stares at you for a long while before she speaks again, as if she’s still not sure that you’re real. “Where have you been? After—After your dad… we didn’t know what happened to you. Are you safe? Do you need help?” She asks, frantic once she’s gotten started on her questions.

“Mrs. Stacy, I’m fine, really.” You lie, smiling tightly over the rim of the mug as you hold it towards your face. Before, you would’ve burnt your tongue drinking it too fast, but you’re hesitant to drink it at all. The last thing you want is to become too familiar to your old life. “I’ve been staying with some friends, downtown. It’s been good.”

She raises a brow at you, and stares for a moment longer. “Honey… you don’t look well.” She tells you, and raises the back of her hand to press it against your forehead. Her frown only deepens when you flinch away from the touch. You try not to curse yourself too much, but can’t help reprimanding the way you hadn’t anticipated such an action.

The skin on your forehead is clammy, but that’s just the anxiety, the nerves at being back here. Arachnid can’t get sick.

“Listen, I… I was hoping I could ask a favour from you.” You say, hesitantly, gripping the warm mug tight between your hands, but loosen your fingertips against the ceramic when you hear a minute crack.

Mrs. Stacy furrows her brows, looking more concerned by the second, but nods. “Of course, anything.” She tells you, and places one of her hands against yours on the mug.

“I was hoping I could visit Gwen.” You voice, after one last moment of hesitation. The way her face immediately crumples at the request doesn’t give you much hope, especially as her hand withdraws from your own. “I—I know you don’t get to see her very often, and maybe it’s selfish, but… I don’t know. I wanted some kind of closure, I guess.” You ramble on in response to her silence, glaring down at the liquid still swirling in your mug.

“Honey,” Mrs. Stacy interrupts, her voice soft in contrast to the way yours was growing in volume. You quiet immediately, your gaze drawn up to where her tearful eyes stare at you, her expression almost mourning. “I would never deny you that, but you should know… I haven’t visited Gwenny since she was put in there.” She admits, her stare dropping to her lap, almost ashamed.

“Oh,” You voice, softly, in response. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed— I—I mean, I can’t even imagine—”

“No, don’t be silly, how would you have known?” She replies, raising her eyebrows at you strictly. “Now, I can get you that visit. I’ll call my attorney first thing tomorrow, but… really, honey, do you need me to call someone for you? Who are these friends?”

Her voice is familiar, and it’s kind, which makes it all the more painful. It’s strange, seeing the resemblance between her and the Green Goblin, and it makes a part of you ache. Your life wasn’t the only one torn apart by Gwen. In fact, her mother probably faced the worst of it. With her husband being long gone, her oldest son away at college, youngest withdrawn after her daughter became a homicidal maniac, who did she really have left? Who was looking after Helen Stacy?

You smile at her, as best as you can without tearing up, and reach out to grasp her hand, which she readily accepts. “I’m okay, Mrs. Stacy, I… It’s just a few friends of my dad, from his home town. Their kids, too. It’s better than being put in the system.” You tell her, and can only hope that she believes you. You have no way to back up these lies, knowing those friends of your father don’t exist.

“You could’ve stayed here, you know?” She says, teary and squeezing your hand so tightly you can hear your bones creaking. You smile sadly at her.

“You’re a much stronger person than me, Mrs. Stacy. I couldn’t even face my dad’s funeral, let alone be around the memories of somebody I lost. This place, it—it reminds me of her.” You explain, voice shaking as you hold back your own tears, swallowing them down and trying to breathe through the ache in your throat.

The way her heart breaks is almost loud enough for you to hear it, but she nods her head understandingly, regardless. “Of course,” She says, nodding still, “But know you always have a place here, okay?”

“Okay.” You respond, heart clenching so tightly you’re not sure it can pump your blood any longer.

“Now, what’s your number? Your old phone was disconnected.” She says, shaking her tears away to pull out a pad and pen from the coffee table. She sets the notepad against her knee, looking expectantly toward you.

“Oh, right,” You stutter, teeth chattering as you comb your mind for the number of your burner phone. “There was a mixup, because it was in my dad’s name.” You explain needlessly, still searching your mind for the answer. Finally, you remember it. You listen to her ballpoint pen scrape along the paper as she writes the numbers as you say them, and then she clicks the pen off after writing your name beside it, underlining it twice.

“How about I give you a call with the details of your visit, okay, honey?” She asks, nodding with a pleased hum at your affirmative. “Good. Stay for dinner, okay? I’ve missed you.”

Who are you to deny her that?

Though, even as you try to pretend that you help to set up the table for her benefit, and as you hug Gwen’s little brother tightly when he comes home for his, you know, deep down, that it’s for you. That this is a moment of selfishness that you’ll let yourself have, because god, you deserve it, don’t you?

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

It’s thirteen days post Spider Society discovery, and you’re starting to regret the way you discarded that watch so carelessly. Not because you want to be a part of some cult of superheroes, but because you wish you had asked some more questions.

Surely Miguel O’Hara must’ve known a way to stop these villains from appearing in other universes? And if he did, had he already implemented whatever it was to stop Gwen escaping again? How exactly did she escape the first time? Was it a coincidence? Is there somebody out there, working behind the scenes, helping her get out?

You, unfortunately, have no way to answer any of the burning questions nagging at the back of your head. While a part of you hopes that you never see any of the Spider Society weirdos again, you also desperately want answers. Especially if it meant you could call off your visit to Gwen Stacy.

But the day arrives as any other does, and you spend every moment before the drive over to the prison desperately hoping that one of the Spider-people will show their face. None of them do, and you’re left to get into Mrs. Stacy’s car and simply brace for the journey ahead.

You’re pretty sure that swinging would be quicker, or easier, but you had no way to explain that way of transport to an interrogating Mrs. Stacy, and so you had to relent to her insistence on driving you. Now, you sit here, shifting in the seat of the car, uncomfortable without your suit underneath the clothes you used to wear on a daily basis. Even the knowledge that it’s stuffed into the bottom of your tattered backpack in the boot of Mrs. Stacy’s car doesn’t bring you any comfort.

Instead, the rough material of an old jacket has your skin crawling like you were being bitten by a thousand mosquitos, and the trousers on your legs itch like you’re allergic to them.

You suppose, really, that the spider bite that gave you so many powers had to have more drawbacks than just destroying your life. It only makes sense that your heightened senses would extend to the receptors on your skin. It makes every movement in these clothes torturous, and you wonder if it had always been this way, or if you were just so unused to wearing your old style of clothes. Either way, you hope that you won’t have to wear them for much longer.

If it all goes to plan, you should be in and out of the prison, just ensuring that Gwen Stacy is actually in the cell as she’s supposed to be. Then you just have to endure the fifty minute drive back to the city with Mrs. Stacy, and you’re free. You won’t have to wear these clothes again, won’t have to use your name, no — you can just sink back into the half life that is being Arachnid. It’s better that way.

“Okay, honey, here we are.” Mrs. Stacy says at last, having shifted her car into park. She pointedly avoids looking at the looming high-security prison ahead, instead focusing on you as you wipe your sweaty palms against your trousers. “Now you take as much time as you need in there, alright? I’ll be just out here, if you need me.”

You smile tightly at her, nodding with what you hope is more of a grateful expression rather than a grimace. “Thank you, Mrs. Stacy, really. I appreciate it, more than you know.”

That much was true — after all, it wasn’t like you could tell her that she was allowing the vivid paranoia you had been experiencing to be put to rest after her daughter escaped to another universe. Mrs. Stacy, from what you could gather, didn’t even know that Gwen had been missing for any amount of time. She had no idea what Gwen had done, how many more people she had hurt, but you assured yourself that it was better that way. Mrs. Stacy already had to deal with plenty, and that knowledge surely wouldn’t help.

She was already dealing with her own grief and feelings on the situation, as well as trying to support her two sons in the matter. Given what Gwen’s little brother had asked of you when he found out about you visiting her, you knew that he hadn’t been to visit Gwen, either. It seemed that he wasn’t coping with it all very well.

“Of course, you’re family. You should know that by now.” She says, smiling with teary eyes, reaching across the console to grasp your hand tightly in her own.

Her words take a stab at your chest, especially considering what had happened to everybody else who had seen you as family. Dead parents, villainous best friend — it really didn’t bode well for your loved ones. You just reassured yourself with the fact that you’d be able to disappear as soon as the two of you returned to the city. You couldn’t put her in any danger, that way, or her remaining kids.

“I’ll—I’ll see you after, okay?” You respond, squeezing her hand in return before quickly letting go and throwing open the car door, getting out and catching a slither of Mrs. Stacy’s surprised reply before you shut the car door.

There are guards waiting for you at the gates, checking you are who you say you are, scanning you for weapons before you even get in the building. They’re satisfied after their searches, content that you weren’t stupid enough to bring a weapon into a highly secure prison. You keep your focus on your breathing as they walk you in, handing you clothes to change into as well as a box to put all of your belongings in.

The scrub-like clothes they give you are even worse than your own, sending shivers up and down your spine at the feeling of each fibre scraping against your skin. You just try to breathe through it. Luckily, the rest of the security checks blur by, which means less time spent on agonising over this visit. You barely hear a word of the statement they read to you before you go in, and your hand cramps as you write your signature against a dotted line of a waiver. All of the other legal things were sorted out by Mrs. Stacy’s lawyer, which you are more than thankful for.

Instead of having to deal with that, you just have to wait.

You think that the waiting might be the worst part of it all. With the scrubs making your hairs raise and promoting uncomfortable shivers up and down your body, as well as the cold metal seat that they sat you on, you’re far too aware of everything around you. You can hear the hundreds of heartbeats in the buildings, the beeping of security doors, the footsteps heading your way. You can smell the coffee that the head guard in the adjoining room to the one you’re in is drinking, as well as the day-old sandwich in his desk. Worst of all is the way your own heartbeat is thrumming in your throat, padding harshly against your chest, so loud in your own ears that it slowly starts to drown out everything around you.

Gwen’s footsteps are heavy, accompanied by the clinking of the chains she’s shackled in. You can practically hear the maniacal laughter that had come from her whilst in that alternate dimension, even though she’s completely silent as she enters the room.

She smiles at you when you look up, and for a moment you’re fooled — it’s soft, gentle, kind. But then you see the glimmer in her eyes that was distinctly not Gwen, and you feel the scar along your side throbbing with phantom pain.

You smile tensely at the guards, who regard you with looks of gentle concern and caution, before they attach her chains to a link on the floor beside a chair three metres away from where you sit. They nod at you, which you return, and you watch as they go and take their positions beside the door before you move your eyes back to the elephant in the room — which is Gwen Stacy.

“So, you missed me?” She asks, baring her teeth in a grin that has too much teeth to be anything friendly. Gwen regards you closely as you stare at her, watch for any signs of flickering, any signs that this isn’t real. Her brows raise slowly, the longer you’re silent, but you’re in no hurry to talk. “No? Is that not it?”

“Sure, I miss you.” You respond after another stretch of silence, tilting your head to study her more closely. You don’t acknowledge the way that your voice shakes as you speak, the way it comes out in something closer to a croak before you swallow harshly against your dry throat. “Thought I’d come to check in.” You add, brows furrowing to make sure she gets your true meaning.

“Ah,” She voices, then laughs, shoulders shaking, chains clanking loudly against her metal chair. “I get it, now.”

Gwen doesn’t add anything else after that, even though you suspected that she may take this opportunity to loudly claim that you were Arachnid, outing your identity once and for all. Apparently, if she does want to out your identity, she doesn’t want to do it like this, as she stays silent until you speak.

You sit forward on your chair, ignoring the way the guards at the edges of the room shift uneasily at your movement. “Your mom arranged this for me, you know?” You say, eyebrow raised. She probably knows what you’re doing, or what you’re trying to do, but she doesn’t voice it. Instead, she just shifts to lean backwards in her own chair, sighing as if relaxing.

“Hmm, so she can visit.” Gwen says, nodding her head as if it’s all making sense now.

“She can, she just doesn’t want to. Neither does Georgie.” You respond, and find satisfaction in the way her eyes flash at the mention of her little brother, the nickname that the two of you both used to call him. She recovers quickly, but you can tell that she knows it wasn’t quick enough. The Green Goblin cracked, right in front of your very eyes. It’s proof that, if anything, her little brother has some meaning. “He wanted me to tell you something.”

Her head tilts across from you, though she doesn’t move from her laid back position.

You clear your throat, and look at the words you’d written on your skin. She tilts her head forwards the slightest amount, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat, glancing at the guards who look just as uncomfortable as you feel. “He said that he misses his Gwenny, but he doesn’t want you coming home.” You stare at her as you repeat his message, the one he had told you nervously, as if he was truly afraid that Gwen would escape and come back. Her eyes twitch as she focuses on keeping her expression cool, but you know that the words have hit something in her, even if it’s part of the Green Goblin. “Looks like you even ruined your own family.”

You’re up on your feet as she lurches forwards, flung backward from where she tried to go against her chains to rush toward you. The guards are in front of you in mere moments, but you weren’t in any danger. Not as long as she stayed in here.

It’s almost satisfying, to see her chained up. It’s so different to seeing the Green Goblin on the outside, where she could be your Gwen Stacy. Whereas in here, bound by chains of heavy metal, clothed in uncomfortable looking prisoner scrubs, she was nothing but the Green Goblin. It was reassuring, almost, to be able to pick apart something physical between the two.

She bares her teeth at you, animalistic in a way that Gwen never was, and glares at you as you follow one of the guards out of the room, the others closing in on her, ready to take her back to whatever cell she came from.

The clothes you wear become less overbearing as you keep your focus on the guards taking Gwen away the whole way back through security, only switching back to your surroundings when they hand you the tray of your own belongings to change back into. You’re relieved for many reasons, and you try to focus on that feeling as you approach Mrs. Stacy’s car rather than the way your jacket itches.

Mrs. Stacy looks as if she wants to speak as you get in the car, as if she wants to ask about your visit, but she seemingly can’t bring herself to do it. You keep your mouth shut.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Not a month later, your daily activities are back to normal, uninhibited by the daunting idea of Gwen being free. Still, though, you think about her more often, as much as you did in the time after she was put away the first time.

Mrs. Stacy had tried to call you more than once since, and at the two week mark you’d had to invest in a new burner phone. You just couldn’t risk anybody getting a hold of it and seeing her contact, or the ringer going off and exposing your position in a fight. No, it was better for her not to have your number. Besides, you had hers memorised if you needed to call her.

It was better if you tried to reduce any connections to Gwen Stacy. You’d be much better off, the less you thought about her.

Despite knowing that, you couldn’t help it. And despite seeing that crack in the Green Goblin exterior at her little brother’s words, you didn’t have much hope for her. You don’t think they’d let her out of prison even if you could find a cure, somehow. The fact of it was that Gwen Stacy’s life was over. She had no hope of a future in this world, the Goblin had destroyed that. All you could do was remember her and hope beyond anything that in one of those alternate dimensions, you and Gwen were happy together.

The thought of it played on your mind every day, a lingering pain that stung at your eyes. You thought about it so much that you had even imagined the world where Gwen had never become the Goblin, where you and your Gwen were happy. It was a suffocating image, one without any hope of being true, but you couldn’t help thinking about it.

Even as you fought villain after villain, petty criminal after petty criminal, you thought about it. Even now, as you were swinging around a bridge, dodging all the debris this villain was throwing your way, it played on your mind.

It was a distraction, and it was one you needed to get rid of.

That much became certain as the villain you were facing, Tombstone, managed to get a hit on you, sending you flying across the bridge. You landed on a car with a groan, the windshield cracking below you, and you rolled your eyes as the person in the car held a hand on their horn until you managed to climb off, a distinct Arachnid-shaped dent left in the bonnet.

Well, that would be aching tomorrow, that much was for sure.

He grinned where he was stood across the bridge from you, showing off his filed teeth, as if trying to intimidate you with the pointy edges of them.

“You’ve been a formidable foe, Arachnid,” Tombstone says, his voice barely a whisper above the wind, but you can hear him perfectly. You suspect he knows as much, and that only makes you nervous. “But I think it’s time for our battle to come to an end.”

“I actually agree.” You respond, stretching your aching back and feeling a bone shift when it definitely shouldn’t. You can’t help but wince, gritting your teeth and glaring over at Tombstone across the bridge.

You’re getting tired of these villains, of their constant spiel about how the world should be, about how everything should be how they wanted it to be. What was so wrong with the human population that everybody couldn’t just get along? Surely, if everybody got along, listened to each other, the world’s problems would be solved. But then again, this is New York, and it’s a city in which greed is bred.

A light press against your webshooter has you slinging high up on the bridge, staring down at Tombstone as he watches you intently. You’re planning your next move, considering all the variables, when a burst of orange manifests into the air behind him. He looks confused as you falter in your web slinging, dropping slightly before you catch yourself, and he turns around just in time to receive a curled fist to the face, courtesy of a familiar man in a red and blue suit.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” You murmur, lowering yourself to the bridge to approach this Spiderman, glaring at where Tombstone stands, straining against a red barrier that had materialised from the device Spiderman had placed at his feet.

“I hate that guy!” The familiar voice of Peter B. Parker says, shaking his fist as he hops slightly from one foot to the other, his lenses squinted before he finally turns to acknowledge you. “That guy sucks.”

Your brows are furrowed, eyes squinted behind your lenses as you stare at Peter, confused. This Tombstone guy isn’t an anomaly, is he? While you hadn’t faced him before, you knew that there had been a battle between him and another vigilante down in Hell’s Kitchen. And he knew your name, hadn’t been calling you Spiderman like the last anomaly. So why was he here?

Peter sighed, as if he was disappointed to be met with your confusion. “You got a place, kid? Or a burger joint, maybe?”

With that same amount of confusion, you nodded, brows furrowed as cops came to collect Tombstone, who was still in a fit of rage. You can just barely hear him swearing to get you back, both of you, through the barrier. Peter gestured a hand forwards for you to lead the way, and with slight hesitation, you swung off with him following.

Now, the two of you are sat in a Shake Shack, despite you wanting to head back to the offices you were set up in. Peter had ordered two burgers, one for you and one for him, though you had decidedly rejected the one he pushed towards you. He had only shrugged, and accepted it onto his own plate.

“My wife’s pregnant, can’t even stand the smell of these.” Peter groans, stuffing what must’ve been at least a quarter of the burger in his mouth. You just nod at his statement, though you had to admit you were slightly surprised that this guy was going to be a dad. But then again, you’re pretty sure you can remember your dad scoffing down his favourite food in a similar way. “Now listen,” He continues, speaking with his mouthful and paying you no mind as you cringe at the sound. “Miguel wants to strike a sort of… deal with you.”

“Okay?” You respond, brows furrowed. You look around the place, uncomfortable with all the people staring at Arachnid in a booth beside an old man stuffing his face. The lenses of your mask squint with you as you look at Peter, waiting for him to add anything on to explain his statement. “Then why’d he send you?” You ask, at last, when Peter makes no move to speak of his own free will, too engrossed in his second burger.

Peter held up a finger, gulping down a sip of his strawberry milkshake. “Said something about this being good practice for me,” Peter eventually answers, flashing you a smile. “You know, being a new dad and all.”

He seems to realise quickly that that was the wrong thing to say as your eyes narrow further, visible only through the shift of your lenses. The last thing you need is some random guy trying to father you. Even just the idea of it irritates you, makes the very blood rushing in your veins feel hot with anger. You had a dad, and look what good that did you. He’s gone.

Not to mention the implication of you being a child! You’re far from being a kid. You’ve been looking after yourself for some time now just fine. Whatever deal Miguel wants to strike with you is because they need you. Not the other way around. You knew that you shouldn’t have let that Spider-doctor fix you up.

“I’m not some kid. I don’t need you lot, you need me. Don’t get it all twisted, Peter.” You respond as he continues to look like a deer in headlights, clearly kicking himself for revealing what Miguel had said. You keep your voice low, fighting to stay unheard with the quietened air in the diner. “Now hurry up and tell me about whatever bullshit deal you want to strike with me, so I can say no and we can go our separate ways.”

“Kid,” Peter sighs, before immediately wincing as he realised he just directly disregarded your statement about not being a kid. “Sorry, Arachnid,” He corrects, settling his hands on the table in front of him, finally taking a break from his almost-finished food. “Nobody’s saying you can’t do this.”

“Sounds like that’s exactly what you’re saying.” You mutter, averting your eyes from Peter and instead narrowing your lenses at the people still staring in your direction.

“All we’re saying is that you shouldn’t have to do this alone,” He continues, ignoring your interruption with nothing but a quirked brow. “It’s a tough job. Everybody needs someone to look out for them, you know? It’s in our nature to feel responsible for everything around us, as Spider-people. But you can’t carry the whole weight of the world on your shoulders, it’s too much!”

You stare blankly at him, remaining unimpressed with his whole speech.

Peter sighs once more, looking at you with hesitant hope that you’ll come around. Unfortunately, you’re not about to let these people think that you’re incapable. If anything, Peter’s little speech was just adding fuel to your fire. You liked proving people wrong — it’s what you thrived on. You needed to prove them wrong. Because if you didn’t, what did that make you? You couldn’t let people be right about their assumptions of you. If you couldn’t prove everybody wrong, then that meant some of the things people said about you were right. And with the amount of people who accused you of being responsible for more deaths than you saved, who portrayed you as a menace rather than a vigilante, who said you weren’t worthy of your powers, who said whatever divine intervention had given them to you was wrong, you couldn’t let them be right. You wouldn’t.

“I already told you people. I’m not interested.” You spit out at him, feeling your frustration brimming over the edge. Why would nobody just trust you? Was that so much to ask? You understand that you had made mistakes, that you had cost people their lives, but you were trying. Why couldn’t that just be enough?

Peter says nothing as you slide out of the booth, stomping your way out of the Shake Shack as if you were some kind of grumpy teenager. He could only hope that his unborn child was a less grumpy teen, but then again, he was pretty sure you had every right to be miserable. Correcting himself, he could only hope that his unborn child never experienced your reasons for being so miserable.

You make your way towards your office building, swinging through the streets whilst doing your best to keep your heightened hearing down. You really didn’t want to have to deal with anything else, tonight. All you wanted was to get back, to put on the only clothes other than your suit that didn’t make you want to crawl out of your skin. Even if it was just for an hour, you’d take it.

While you had gotten used to how quiet it was in the building a long time ago, you couldn’t help but think that tonight, it felt almost… eerie. There was something tingling, buzzing at the very base of your skull, but even as you strained your hearing, your sight, everything, you couldn’t detect anything out of place. Everything seemed normal, so you couldn’t understand why you were so on edge! It couldn’t just be Peter’s presence, surely, because he posed no threat to you. So what was going on?

Picking up your backpack filled with belongings, you stared around at the empty office, the breeze that flowed through the open window sending a shiver down your spine, even though you weren’t feeling cold. Something wasn’t right. You just couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Hello? Anybody there?” You call out, straining your hearing once more, trying to listen out for even the slightest sound. A movement, a breath, anything, even as you couldn’t help but think that this was the most cliché horror movie like moment that you had experienced to date. Still, you heard nothing, but that nagging feeling didn’t dissipate, and you quickly lost all desire to change out of your suit.

The unease you felt only grew stronger as you stood there, unsure what to make of the feeling. It was quickly growing towards being overwhelming, but you didn’t know what to do.

Luckily for you, you didn’t have to make a decision.

Unfortunately, the decision was made by one of the very people you were trying to prove yourself to.

Peter B. Parker — or at least, you were pretty sure it was him — swung through the very same window you had, only to grasp a hold on your arm and pull you out of the window as he jumped straight back out of it.

Now, you had been Arachnid for a long time now. You had gotten used to the swinging, to the way your stomach dipped and your throat tightened, but you had never experienced it where you weren’t the one in control. Finally, you understand why people you brought to safety had, on occasion, thrown up immediately after you set them down on their feet again. The feeling of falling, of having no choice but to trust somebody else to catch you, it was terrifying.

But what was infinitely more terrifying was the way that the very floor of the building you had just been stood on exploded.

The blaze was blinding, even with your lenses protecting your eyes, but the noise that came moments later was much, much worse. And sure, you had been around explosions before, but never one that big, never so close. And never so unprepared for one.

Your ears were ringing, and you vaguely realised that you had become dead weight in your shock, with Peter struggling to keep his grasp on your arm firm. After a moment, you had the sense to grab his forearm in return, trying to assist him in holding you up. He didn’t seem as effected by the explosion in comparison to you, and you wondered if he’d had the time to put earbuds in his ears as you had sometimes done before a fight. Either way, you were insanely envious as the pain in your ears increased, leaving you struggling to focus on holding on to Peter.

When he set you down, which couldn’t have been more than a minute after he had grabbed you, considering you could still see the office building smouldering, you had to hold a hand over your mouth even over your mask, trying to rid yourself of nausea. Smoke was leaking into the darkening sky, and you saw the flash of sirens below, but heard nothing other than the distinctive ringing that felt like it was melting your brain.

Peter’s hand was squeezing your shoulder, and after a moment in which you didn’t acknowledge him, he was gripping your other shoulder with his spare hand, shaking you the slightest bit. You looked up at him with a groan, squinting past the floating lights in your vision to see that his mouth was moving, no sound coming out. You shook your head, trying to get rid of that incessant ringing, but it didn’t work. You dropped your chin to your chest again, hands bracing against your ears as if they could ease your pain, and you didn’t make a move as Peter removed one hand from your shoulder.

Mere moments later, the same tingling you had felt before the building you were in exploded returned, stronger, more intensely. Your head snapped up, frantically looking around, paying Peter no mind as he spoke into the orange-glowing watch on his wrist. You breathed through your nose, trying not to cough at the smoke permeating the air, and you just managed to push Peter over the edge of the roof of the building, with you diving after him, as another explosive went off.

That explosion was smaller than the last one, and the only reason you had managed to avoid it was because you knew it was coming. You knew what the alarm bells in your head were trying to tell you now, and you spotted the projectile just seconds before it reached your feet.

Part of you was glad that your senses were dulled from the first explosion — your hearing, especially, as it meant you were less effected by the close-range on this one. You saw Peter’s eyes widen as he looked up above you at where the explosion had just occurred. You just about managed to web him before shooting a web towards the next building, feeling something in your shoulder pull sharply with his extra weight and the suddenness of the move.

You squinted down at him as he gripped the web attached to his chest with one hand, his lips moving more frantically as he spoke to a hologram projected by the watch on his other hand.

“Shit, what is going on?” You asked, though mostly to yourself, but the only way you could tell you had even voiced the words was by the way they rumbled out of your throat. That explosion had messed up your hearing, for the moment, anyway, and you quickly realised that with your slow healing and the ringing in your ears, this fight was going to be majorly difficult.

You only had a moment to think that, before something snapped the web that was holding you to the building, sending both you and Peter falling through the air. Embarrassingly, you’re pretty sure that you let out a yell of some sort.

All the air was knocked out of you the next second as something hurtled into you, sending you careening towards the windows of the closest building. Peter, for a moment, had a shocked expression on his face, before he seemingly realised what was going on, smiling and letting out a string of words that you didn’t hear. You groaned as your sore back collided with the window, smashing upon your impact, and you were sent sprawling over a desk, a monitor breaking underneath your sudden weight.

Yet again, there was a hand against your shoulder, and you paid it no mind as your head dropped back, thudding against the desk. You couldn’t help but groan, the duress that your back had been under today was certainly taking its toll, leaving your whole spine throbbing with pain. On top of that, you were struggling to catch your breath, and with the sudden adrenaline provided by the spider-sense fading, the intensity of the pain in your ears was increasing.

Finally, you managed to peel your eyes open to see a concerned Peter B. Parker looking at you, with Miguel O’Hara stood beside the shattered window, staring out menacingly, as if daring whoever it was to attack again. Peter said something else, squeezing your shoulder, and all you could do in response was hold up one thumb.

Miguel seemingly barked out an order over his shoulder, and a moment later, you were squinting against the bright orange light of a portal.

Peter was hauling you to your feet, leaning to hold one of your arms over his shoulder, practically carrying your weight towards the portal looming ahead. “No, no, wait,” You said, and you felt the way your words slurred as you became slightly delirious with a mixture of pain, adrenaline, and desperation. “Stop, I gotta—”

He only shook his head, before tipping the two of you forward until you both fell into the portal.

The dizzying feeling of inter-dimensional travel definitely didn’t help the pounding in your temples, nor the nausea you had previously been feeling, and you had no choice but to try and focus on Peter’s grip on you as you squeezed your eyes shut. When the world finally stopped spinning, or feeling like it was falling away around you, you opened your eyes just enough to take note of where you were — which was back in the Infirmary of the Spider Society HQ.

You shook Peter off, standing on your own weight and waving him away when he tried to assist you as you swayed once more. You glared, eyes narrowed, and turned to head straight back through the portal you had come from, only to see it close before your very eyes.

The same Spider-Doctor from the last time you were here snapped a band around your wrist, and you squinted down at the red and blue band. It made you feel lighter, even slightly, which felt good on your aching bones and muscles. You opened your mouth to speak as the Spider-Doctor led you to sit down on an empty bed with white sheets, but you vaguely saw the way his mask shifted as he presumably spoke. You couldn’t tell what he was saying with his mask on, but a minute later, you felt a sharp prick against the inside of your elbow.

You just about had the lucidity to murmur “You fucker—” before you succumbed to the weight of your eyelids.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

When you woke up, it was to a throbbing pain in your forehead, that only got worse when you tried to open your eyes. At the very least, you were glad to have your hearing returned to you, albeit slightly muffled, which you were only aware of because the sound of voices across the room was the reason for you waking.

“I’m just saying, maybe knocking the kid out wasn’t the greatest idea!” Peter B. Parker’s annoyingly loud voice says, slightly high pitched in the end. Who he was saying it to, however, you couldn’t say, not without opening your eyes. And that didn’t feel like a good idea, the lights even with your eyes closed feeling like too much.

Instead, you just groan, bringing your hand up to rest over both of your eyes. “It wasn’t a great idea.” You say through gritted teeth, more than annoyed over the situation you found yourself in. Honestly, what did these people have against leaving you be? Why did they think they had any right to tell you what to do, or how to handle things, or to overrule you when it came to your own treatment?

“Hey, kid!” Peter responds, drawing the letters out in that typical oh shit voice. From the snippet of the conversation you had caught, at least he was seemingly trying to advocate for your consciousness. However, that didn’t change the fact that he was there when that Spider-Doctor knocked you out. No, you were still pissed. And when you got your hands on that doctor? He was in for it.

Any other thoughts or feelings on the matter were overturned when you realised that your hand was resting over your eyes, not the lenses of your mask.

Who do these people think they are?

You open your mouth to jump into a rant on that exact subject, on the audacity that they all have, but find yourself silenced by somebody grabbing onto your free wrist, and seemingly dropping your mask into your hand. You feel it until you’ve got it the right way around, and then pull it over your face.

The lights are much more bearable with your lenses back over your eyes, but it’s still painful, and still worsens that pounding in your head. But it does mean that you can see who’s around you; Peter, Miguel and the Spider-Doctor. You have half the mind to leap at that doctor, but Miguel is raising placating hands in your direction before you can make the move to do so.

“Let’s all calm down.” Miguel says, placing his hands on his hips when your eyes only narrow at him.

“What is wrong with you? Who gave you people the right to—to take off my mask? To knock me out? Hell, to come to my universe and get in my business!” You practically yell out, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the way your back hurts with the movement and glaring when the three of them step forward to help you.

“If Peter hadn’t gotten there when he did, you would’ve died.” Miguel responds plainly, seemingly aggravated by your irritation. One of his arms is raised in a gesture towards the man, who smiles almost guiltily, as if helping you was a crime. Which, in your mindset, it might as well have been. “There was an anomaly, a villain from another dimension targeting you.”

“I can handle myself.” You spit out, though the way the room spins when you stand is almost a direct contrast to your words. Your blood is rushing through your veins, and you realise that there’s a machine beeping next to you, increasing in frequency. As you look, you realise it’s measuring your heart rate, and you yank wires off of you that you hadn’t even noticed before, as if they were exposing you somehow. “And that doesn’t give you the right to take off my mask. Who does that?”

Spider-Doctor raises his hands, as if surrendering, though seems unintimidated by the way your glare switches to him. “It was necessary. Your hearing was severely damaged by the explosion, you needed treatment. You have dampening-buds in your ears now, while your healing catches up.” While that sounds reasonable, it only makes you angrier. Why did these people even care if some anomaly killed you? If your hearing was damaged? Why did they insist on bothering you?

Miguel sighs, pinching his nose, before he lifts his head up to speak to you again. You just about stop yourself from making a snotty comment about his attitude. You didn't even want to be here, and here he was, acting like dealing with you was such an inconvenience to him. It was frustrating. “Your universe seems to be at some sort of epicentre of anomalies, and we don’t know why. Yet.”

“We’re just trying to keep you safe. You can’t deal with all of those anomalies alone, nobody can. Sometimes, you need a team.” Peter says softly, like he could convince you of the matter. “Believe me, you don’t want to learn that the hard way.” He adds on, smiling almost hesitantly, as if there’s a memory he’s thinking of connected to his own words.

You’re sighing through your nose, your teeth gritting together as you regard them. “Okay, fine, you want to come take out your anomalies, or whatever? You do that. But anything more than that isn’t welcome.” You say, at last, your eyes narrowed towards them as you wait for their responses.

You still don’t really understand it, any of it, but it’s becoming clear that you have no choice but to deal with these people. Apparently, they were not budging on all of this stuff, which — fine, so long as they stay out of your way. The last thing you need is a bunch of Spider-people stepping on your toes, or making you seem incapable in front of the citizens of your own dimension when in the end, they’ll all up and leave.

After all, you can remember your mother telling you how important it is to do things yourself. The moment you start accepting help, you relax, and when they decide they don’t want to help you anymore? You’re screwed, your sense of independence reduced to ashes. And as Arachnid, there’s far too much at stake to risk that happening.

“Here,” Miguel says, only nodding his agreement — or at least, that’s what you assume the nod was for. He throws a watch towards you, and you catch it with some confusion. “In case you see any anomalies before we do.” He explains as he watches you fiddle witht he watch in both hands, glaring down at it as if it was offensive. He’s relatively satisfied when you relax at that explanation. While Miguel doesn’t voice what else it’s for, knowing you’d only get irritated and refuse the watch, he’s silently hoping that you’ll understand. It’s so you can come to them, if you need them. They can only hope that they’ll be able to tell you that, one day, before it’s too late, without the offer scaring you off.

“So, I’m good to go?” You ask, looking between the three Spider-Men still staring at you and the watch you hesitantly clasp around your wrist. They nod, or, Peter and Miguel do, while the Spider-Doctor throws his hands in the air, exasperated.

“That dimension is yours,” Peter says, leaning over to see the screen of your watch. “The button at the bottom will input this dimension as the destination. Just press that,” He points to another button, “To open the portal to whichever dimension has been typed in.”

You nod, still pissed that he’d let the Spider-Doctor knock you out, but at least you didn’t give him a snarky comment. Instead, you just pressed the button to go back to your own dimension, and stepped through the portal the moment it was big enough for you to go through.

You didn’t expect for him to follow you through.

“Hey, listen,” Peter says, almost reluctantly, as if he doesn’t want to upset you. When you turn to him, he raises his hands, as if to further prove that sentiment. “I am sorry that he knocked you out, I didn’t know he was going to do that.”

“Okay, fine, apology accepted.” You say, flatly, turning to survey where exactly you are. It doesn’t take you long to notice the remains of the building you had been camping out in, the building charred and the air still thick with all the smoke that had been produced.

“I wasn’t done,” Peter sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose momentarily. “I also wanted to say that I’m sorry about your building. And I wanted to ask, well, mention about how when Doctor-Peter took off your mask, he noticed you don’t have anything protecting your ears, like other Spiders with your level of enhanced hearing do.”

You turn to stare blankly at him, while mulling through where exactly you’re going to stay in your head. If you’re being honest, you’re not paying his words much mind. So what, you don’t have anything protecting your hearing? Sure, sometimes you had stuffed earbuds into your ears when you knew you were going into a rough fight, but you didn’t know when some psycho exploded your building right in front of you. Plus, it’s not like you have unlimited resources to figure out some way of protected your ears under your mask while also letting you effectively use your hearing.

“Okay? And?” You ask, voice edging on the side of boredom. In all honesty, you just want to be left alone. You want to put on your comfy clothes, curl up into a ball and go to sleep so you can dream of a world where everything is okay. The likelihood of that happening is small, but not impossible, right?

“Well,” Peter hesitates then, which piques your interest the slightest bit. “Here, I had these made back when my hearing was crazy sensitive, but it’s not anymore, so I got no use for them!” He says, holding out two blue and red earbuds in a clear case. “You gotta wait until your ears are healed up to use ‘em, but I figured they’d do you more good than me.”

For a moment, you’re ready to deny him. To glare and insist that you don’t need his help. But then, he had said that they were originally for him, and he didn’t need them any longer, so really, would it be so bad to take them? To accept this one thing? To allow yourself to be saved of this tiniest bit of pain?

“You’re sure?” You ask, likely the least aggressive you’d spoken to him, though that’s not to say that it was asked softly. You were still firm on not accepting their help, on doing your own thing, but you could accept this much, surely? It couldn’t hurt.

Peter smiles, a short laugh leaving him, and he waves the box towards you. “I’m sure!”

“…Thanks.” You say, shortly, as you accept the earbuds offered to you. He also hands you the backpack that you had lost track of after the attack, and you accept that far more quickly. You’re glad that it feels the exact same weight as it did the last time you held it, before you shove the earbuds into the opening and zip it back up.

There’s a portal still open on the rooftop the two of you stand on, and Peter backs up to go towards it almost reluctantly. “Also, if you need somewhere to stay—”

“Don’t push it,” You respond, quickly, cutting him off before he could finish what he was saying. He doesn’t take offence to your abruptness, and smiles with a nod, before he disappears into the portal. You stare out at the city around you, looking in the direction of another building you had been very reluctant to return to. “What is my life?” You ask yourself, rhetorically, because you don’t know how you’d even answer that.

You glance behind you to ensure the portal is closed, before jumping off the rooftop, freefalling, relishing in the way the cold wind soothes the pain in your back. Before long, though, you have to shoot a web to catch yourself. You head towards the only place you know will be suitable for you, but can’t shake the way the thought of it chills you.

All you can do is hope that this multiverse stuff will be over with, and soon.

[mariacallous]

A woman without biologicalchildren is running for high political office, and so naturally that quality will at some point be used against her. Kamala Harris has, in the short period since she emerged as the Democratic candidate for US president, been scrutinised over her lack of children. The conservative lawyer Will Chamberlain posted on X that Harris “shouldn’t be president” – apparently, she doesn’t have “skin in the game”. The Republican vice-presidential candidate, JD Vance, called Harris and other Democrats “a bunch of childless cat ladies miserable at their own lives”.

It’s a particularly virulent tendency in the US, with a rightwing movement that is fixated on women’s reproduction. But who can forget (and if you have, I am happy to remind you of a low point that still sticks in my craw) Andrea Leadsom, during the 2016 Conservative party leadership election, saying that Theresa May might have nieces and nephews, but “I have children who are going to have children … who will be a part of what happens next”. “Genuinely,” she added, as if the message were not clear enough, “I feel that being a mum means you have a real stake in the future of our country, a tangible stake.”

It’s an argument about political capability that dresses up a visceral revulsion at the idea that a woman who does not have a child should be vested with any sort of credibility or status. In other comments, Vance said that “so many of the leaders of the left, and I hate to be so personal about this, but they’re people without kids trying to brainwash the minds of our children, that really disorients me and disturbs me”. He appears so fixated on this that it is almost comical: a man whose obsession with childless women verges on a complex.

But his “disorientation and disturbance” is a political tendency that persists and endures. It constantly asks the question of women who don’t have children, in subtle and explicit ways, especially the higher they rise in the professional sphere: “What’s up with that? What’s the deal?” The public sphere becomes a space for answering that question. Women perform a sort of group plea to be left the hell alone, in their painstaking examinations of how they arrived at the decision not to have kids, or why they in fact celebrate not having kids, or deliberations on ambivalence about having kids.

Behind all this lies some classic old-school inability to conceive of women outside mothering. But one reason this traditionalism persists in ostensibly modern and progressive places is that women withdrawing from mothering in capitalist societies – with their poorly resourced public amenities and parental support – forces questions about our inequitable, unacknowledged economic arrangements. A woman who does not bear children is a woman who will never stay home and provide unremunerated care. She is less likely to be held in the domestic zone and extend her caregiving to elderly relatives or the children of others. She cannot be a resource that undergirds a male partner’s career, frailties, time limitations and social demands.

A mother is an option, a floating worker, the joker in the pack. Not mothering creates a hole for that “free” service, which societies increasingly arranged around nuclear families and poorly subsidised rights depend on. The lack of parental leave, childcare and elderly care would become profoundly visible – “disorienting and disturbing” – if that service were removed.

“Motherhood,” writes the author Helen Charman in her new book Mother State, “is a political state. Nurture, care, the creation of human life – all immediate associations with mothering – have more to do with power, status and the distribution of resources … than we like to admit. For raising children is the foundational work of society, and, from gestation onward, it is unequally shared.”

Motherhood, in other words, becomes an economic input, a public good, something that is talked about as if the women themselves were not in the room. Data on declining birthrates draws comment from Elon Musk (“extremely concerning!!”) . Not having children is reduced to entirely personal motivations – selfishness, beguilement with the false promise of freedom, lack of values and foresight, irresponsibility – rather than external conditions: of the need for affordable childcare, support networks, flexible working arrangements and the risk of financial oblivion that motherhood frequently brings, therefore creating bondage to partners. To put it mildly, these are material considerations to be taken into account upon entering a state from which there is no return. Assuming motherhood happens without such context, Charman tells me, is a “useful fantasy”.

It is a binary public discourse, obscuring the often thin veil between biological and social actualisation. Women who don’t have children do not exist in a state of blissful detachment from their bodies and their relationship with maternity: a number have had pregnancies, miscarriages, abortions and periods. A number have entered liminal stages of motherhood that don’t conform to the single definition from which they are excluded. A number extend mothering to various children in their lives. Some, like Harris herself, have stepchildren (who don’t count, just as May’s nieces and nephews didn’t). A number have become mothers, just not in a way that initiates them into a blissful club. They experience regret, depression and navigate unsettlement that does not conform to the image of uncomplicated validation of your purpose in life.

But the privilege of those truths cannot be bestowed on creatures whose rejection of the maternal bond has become a rejection of a wider unspoken, colossally unfair contract. Women with children are handed social acceptance for their vital investment in “the future”, in exchange for unrewarded, unsupported labour that props up and stabilises the economic and social status quo. All while still suffering sneeriness about the value of their work in comparison with the serious graft of the men who win the bread.

On top of that, women have to navigate all that motherhood – or not – entails, all the deeply personal, bewildering, isolating and unacknowledged realities of both, while being subject to relentless suffocating, infantilising and violating public theories and notions that trespass on their private spaces. With that comes a sense of self-doubt and shame in making the wrong decision, or not being as content with those decisions as they are expected to be. It is a constant, prodding vivisection. That, more than anything clinical observers feel, is the truly disorienting and disturbing experience.

[yuurei20]

Malleus Facts Part 63: Stars, Food, Draconian and Crowley

Malleus seems to enjoy stargazing: he seeks out a location to look at the stars during Vargas Camp and says that it is “a nice enough pastime” because “even the passage of centuries doesn’t change them.”

When Sebek insists on taking Malleus back to Diasomnia before Ortho’s meteor shower during the Wish Upon a Star event Malleus responds to his apology with, “At least you can count on the stars to never betray you…”

EN has recently been translating “Draconian” (the name for Malleus’ fans) literally, possibly because Ace explains it and it was too hard to write around, but the word has actually existed from the beginning of the original game, changed or removed from dialogue until Book 7.

Malleus’ least favorite food is “full-sized cakes,” because, while he has nothing against sweets, “there is such a thing as excess” and he can never finish one in a single sitting.

When it is pointed out to him that whole cakes are not designed to be eaten by one person he explains he never had anyone to share them with.

This point returns in Glomas, when Silver recommends that they bring a cake to Noble Bell College to express their gratitude. Malleus vetoes the idea, saying that he would rather give a gift that he woulda also enjoy.

Malleus seems to have similarities to Crowley, but it has yet to be revealed what (if anything) this means:

・They hold similar poses in an event ・Malleus repeatedly says that he is not a child, while Crowley has two lines emphasizing that he is an adult

・They both have "You called me?" lines (while Malleus' phrasing changes on EN it is always the same in the original game, and Crowley's phrasing is different while meaning the same thing: 「私をお呼びですか？」 for Crowley and 「僕を呼んだ？」for Malleus)

・They both comment on how the prefect is unafraid of them (again Malleus' phrasing is written in different ways on EN, but is the same in the original game. This may be important, because again Crowley's phrasing is different from Malleus', while meaning the same thing.)

(It is possible that these specific phrases are being repeated intentionally, but--much like an anime based on a manga that is still ongoing--EN did not have access to future content and did not know they were important, which also happened to Idia (ref: Idia and Ortho (pt4) )

On the subject of the crow that serves the Thorn Fairy Malleus says, "It'd be a marvel to meet someone so skilled. Maybe someday..."

[ovaryacted]

Me writing for DI! Leon means I get to make him as hairy as I fucking want because I absolutely, positively, 200% believe that he has a nice happy trail and leg hair.

The manly hair testosterone hormones didn’t really kick in for Leon until he was 29 cause of stress and trauma, so when he could finally grow out that stubble it never left his face. But DI! Leon is a whole different ballgame. He’s not hairy like a werewolf (that’s more Carlos for sure), but he definitely has more body hair in that era cause he just kinda stopped focusing on it as time goes by.

You’d just like to watch him trim the stubble or shape it up, maybe even shave it off and let it grow back a bit. But you constantly tell him to keep it, that you like the way it feels when he kisses you or when he nuzzles into your neck. You enjoy the sensation of having his cheeks rubbing against your inner thighs as he eats you out, grabbing on to his head and pulling him in closer. Sometimes you’ll squeeze your legs around his head on purpose so you can feel the friction of the prickly hairs on his jaw scratching at your skin, only heightening the sensations for you.

Imagine riding him on his thick thighs and he has leg hair, feeling it against your skin every time your hips came back down on to his body. Think about the fact that he has a happy trail and trims his pubes a bit but doesn’t fully remove it CAUSE HES GROWN! So whenever you suck his dick so messy in the way he likes, the spit just spills all over and builds into a small puddle at the base of his pelvis. His favorite thing to do is watch you slurp it back up, how your nose nuzzles into his skin whenever you deep throat him. Don’t even mention the way he moans when you put his balls in your mouth, slurping on them like no tomorrow.

But the best part of it all? He loves it when he gets the white ring surrounding his cock when he fucks you. He wants to see the way you clench and cum around him, how your fluids stain his skin and pelvis, like your own personal way of marking him. He wants to smell like you, hell even taste like you. Probably enjoys putting you in a chokehold so you can feel his bicep curling around your neck, having your hands grab at his forearm and caressing the hair on his skin. If he’s not able to still feel the remnants of your release on his top lip, he’ll make sure it sticks elsewhere.

Petition to make him more hairy? Everyone raise your hands. I SAID FUCKING RAISE THEM! I KNOW Y’ALL ARE OUT THERE! Don’t be shy this is a safe space.

[caorann8]

Grief in Dawntrail

Alrighty, here are my thoughts as a funeral director having finished Dawntrail. Obviously spoilers under the cut.

When someone says a game feels like work, that’s normally a bad thing. In this case it’s not. Two of Dawntrail’s themes are community/their different cultures and grief and while they’re explored more separately in the two halves of the story they are intrinsically linked. Funerals at their core are about remembering the person who’s died and coming together to support each other and remember the person. Even with the decline of “traditional” funerals, people who are just having a cremation and nothing else from the funeral home often say they’ll have something at home with their friends and family.

This is why Sphene pissed me off from the start. With the Yok Huy we see a beautiful funeral tradition. The body may return to the mountains but their legacy will always remain for their community to read and remember over and over again, even for future generations. Meanwhile Sphene echo’s the same message, “You will never die so long as you’re remembered” but then removes the memories as a misguided attempt to protect her people. They aren’t remembered, they’re actively forgotten by their entire community until those people die too.

Death and grief are complicated things. Something we learn in school is there are no stages as most people think. It’s a roller coaster that goes forward and back, has good days and bad days, and will sometimes crop up years later. What lessens it is allowing yourself to process it, and support from friends/family/community helps immensely. By denying them these memories, Sphene denies them growth and stronger bonds. A friend of mine said the people of Alexandria wouldn’t survive the Final Days and I agree. We even see this in the WoL! How many times are we able to quote Haurchefant or other characters who have died but made an impact on our journey? Even Emet-Selch asks us to remember them. The ancient’s love, their follies, the good and bad. While grief hurts in so many different ways, we often come out on the other side better, whether that be with new tools, new outlooks, or even just relief that the person isn’t suffering.

And this doesn’t just apply to people we care for. Look at the death of Zoraal Ja. Wuk Lamat hated him and he’d abandoned Gulool Ja. Regret or joy that it’s over are valid feelings . Both grieved in their own ways and had support to work through it. The fact that they were actively told to take a break to process everything, both after his death and after the attack on Tullioyal, was a beautiful touch. Grief is exhausting after all.

Finally, I want to talk about my experience going through Living Memory. That’s the part that truly felt like my work. Just sitting and listening to people say their final goodbyes to their loved ones. Some crying, some laughing at good memories, some angry, but all taking that moment. I didn’t cry really (except Cahcuia, that one got me), I got choked up and there was a heaviness for a lot of it, but there’s a joy in knowing nothing’s left unsaid. Even deleting the areas didn’t affect me much. They each got their last hurrah, like a eulogy at a service or stories shared over a meal. Plus the knowledge that reincarnation exists in FFXIV means they’ll be able to enjoy life again.

At the end of the day grief, in all its forms from the end of relationships, to what could’ve been, to death of a loved one, shouldn’t be swept under a rug. When people find out I’m a funeral director I often get asked if it’s “depressing with all the crying” and I always reply that I hear laughter coming from visitation rooms more often than tears.

[johnwickb1tsch]

John Wick x You │Tarasov's Daughter

You are the eldest daughter of Viggo Tarasov. You’re smart enough to take over the family business, but you’ve always been overlooked because you’re a girl (their loss). But John Wick sees you. In fact he saw a lot of you, once, when he’d been your bodyguard for a brief time during a turf war back in the day. You’re not sure who seduced who really, but you’ve never forgotten the feeling of his big hands digging into your hips or his teeth in your shoulder while he fucked you against the marble top of your bathroom sink, watching you go to pieces for him in the mirror. Maybe he was even your first! You seethed with jealousy when you heard he left the Underworld to get married to a nice normal American lady and settle down in domestic bliss. You were actually allowed to DO that? No one in this life ever really got out. You can’t help but think that you could have made him just as happy as some boring middle-aged photographer. Helen. What a stupid name. So when the shit hits the fan after your dumbass brother Iosef disrespects John Wick (and kills his dog, what the actual fuck?) you wonder if John will come after you.

Pick your poison: Canon!John Wick │ Dark!John Wick │ Yandere!John Wick

18+, all the warnings, dead dove do not eat! Predator kink, size kink, kidnapping, dub-con, brat taming, dark!john, mean!John, yandere!John , jesus fucking crist tumblr u have broken me…🙃

Canon!John Wick

John doesn’t hurt women unless they are really REALLY giving him no choice (Looking at you, Perkins!). But you are the means to his end, so he doesn’t hesitate to take you for bait for Iosef and your father’s men. He is raw and back in full predator mode after taking a hiatus for five years. Of COURSE you piss him off, and when you try to escape he snaps. He still calls you moya milaya printcessa (my sweet princess)tho while he fucks you against the wall with his hand on your throat. When the idiots your father employs do finally come for you John kills them all, and your brother, and your uncle after taking back his car. He lets you go, and a part of you forever wishes that he’d kept you…

Dark!John Wick

You were always such a fucking brat back when he had to watch over you, and finally he can get his revenge. When you mouth off he undoes his tie and uses it to gag you, something he’s always wanted to do, and as you watch him whip off his belt with such calculated flourish you are practically sliding off your chair. He bends you over his knee, the way someone should have a long time ago, and he taunts you when he finds you’re soaking with slick in between whipping you. Is it just you, or is he not hitting you half as hard as he could tho? You don’t know and you don’t care, you’re 98 percent sure you’re not getting out of this alive, so you at least want to die having had his magnificent manhood inside you one last time. You are delirious by the time he soothes the welts on your ass with the light touch of his fingers. “Are you going to be my good little girl now?” he demands as he tosses you on the bed like you’re just a ragdoll. Like he wants to hear your reply, he removes his tie from your mouth.

“If you fill me up with that big beautiful cock of yours.”

He laughs at you, and you get the feeling he’s delighted by your sass, even in this cruel mood. “You don’t get to make the demands anymore, milaya.” He slaps your thighs apart and goes down on you, licking you relentlessly, bringing you to the edge again and again but never letting you cum.

“Please, please, please,” you beg and tears stream down your face as finally you watch him undo his pants. He has utterly broken you.

“You always were such fucking whiner,” he hisses, pulling your hair hard as he plunges himself inside your swollen cunt. You hate him for how good it feels as he fills every last inch and corner of you, and if you ever get your hands free you’re so going to make him pay for this.

Yandere!John Wick

John always carried a torch for you, but you were so off limits. The boss’s daughter. A sure death sentence, but it almost would have been worth it. He’d thought about you constantly for a good long while, your beauty and your body was burned into his brain, but then he met Helen, and that fire smoldered to red hot coals he kept in the back room of his twisted black heart. But when Iosef starts shit there is absolutely nothing to stop him from taking what he’s always wanted. He’ll make you his perfect little pet, one last bit of revenge against the Tarasovs for disrespecting him after all he’d done for them.

When you see him materialize from the shadows in the mirror behind you, you try to go for the gun you keep in the top drawer of your vanity. You’re half certain he’ll kill you for it, but you’re y/n Viggovna Fucking Tarasov, and you will not fucking beg like your little bitch of a brother undoubtedly did. You’re not surprised when he manages to disarm you in the blink of an eye. You wait for the blade in your throat or the gunshot in your gut but he just holds you in those inexorably strong arms, looking down at you with those burning dark eyes. He’s so tall, he’s so much bigger than you and that always turned you on.

“You’re mine now, printcessa.”

You know you’ve always been his but you hate being helpless. He kisses you hard, unforgivingly, possessively, and you try to bite him but he knocks you out with a headbutt. Ouch!

You wake up in a luxuriously appointed room that you just know in your gut is now your new prison. Wick is no fool. There are digital locks on the doors. There are windows that you know will be unbreakable. Your hands are bound above your head, and though you try to worm free it’s impossible. After a while John enters, straddling you on the bed. Even though your legs are free his weight pins you down, you are trapped, and you’re embarrassingly certain he can feel the heat that’s pooling between your legs for it. His face is covered in cuts, his knuckles are torn. He’s been through Hell, but he came out the other side, the way you begrudgingly knew he would. “Your family’s dead,” he tells you. “No one’s coming for you.” He doesn’t really seem to take any joy in it, his handsome face stoic as stone. “You belong to me now, and I hope your father rolls over in his grave every time I defile you.”

You try not to enjoy it while he rails you into the soft mattress, or when he touches you while he does it, his long fingers so exacting. He is a master of manipulating the human body, for pain or for pleasure. You think he makes you cum out of ownership over anything remotely tender, but he makes you see God so often it almost feels like he cares about you. He becomes your dark deity, the altar you worship on, even if just in the deepest depths of your heart. You still have some pride.

You still try to fight and still try to run, even though he punishes you every time. Maybe you’re made bold by the fact that he hasn’t killed you, where he killed everyone else. They were kind of assholes though. John kept you, after all, and you can’t fault his taste. You think he secretly loves the chase, maybe even admires you for fighting him when there really is no hope. He loves reminding you who is in charge though too, and on nights when he’s in a particular mood you know you won’t be able to sit without feeling it for a week.