#can we please stop shaming men for being bald and hairy

[aimlesswalker]

I just want to be some guy

As a trans man, I don’t really feel like I belong anywhere in the lgbt+ community because I’ll never be attractive to anyone (which is why I ID as queer but even then I feel outcast) and it…. it really hurts sometimes. I’m simultaneously too masculine and not masculine enough.

in the men who are attracted to men spaces, most people when they see me think I’m a twink because of being short/small and/or for being trans/nonbinary. They think I’m hairless, feminine, boyish, submissive, etc. I’m…. at this point in my life I am really really not. Testosterone has made me male and everything that entails. I’ve gained (healthy! good for me!) weight and my stomach sticks out, I’m covered in body hair, I am partway to balding. All the things that are conventionally unattractive about men. All the things that are demonized in trans men. I’m too masculine to fit their idea of a nonbinary person. But masculine in “the wrong way”. I have to either be muscular/fit or small and hairless to be wanted here. I don’t even count as a bear, you’d probably just call my shape a “dad bod”. This isn’t just some vague feeling I get in these spaces- people have legit said to me “oh I love twinks” or “oh I love femboys” and I have to awkwardly explain that no I’m not one actually. I’m not what they want me to be. And I’m really tired of people placing that expectation on me- that I’m a slender hairless twink who is submissive and likes bottoming. Just because I’m small and/or trans. so gross. 

and then in the women who are attracted to men spaces well… they’d never look twice at me. I’m short and not at all muscular/toned/fit. Again, I have gained weight, am hairy, and halfway to bald. Bedsides not being conventionally attractive- they usually want a man who can “provide”. I am disabled and can’t work. I can’t drive. I can’t give them flowers or pick them up for a date. I can’t be any of the things they’re looking for in a partner. Being disabled makes me seen as “less than”. Being dependent on other people is a trait that is endlessly mocked in men. I’m not masculine enough. 

so where the fuck does that leave me? I’m not even going to talk about how being aromantic in queer spaces alienates me further. I love testosterone, I love what it’s done for me and how I feel healthier on it. But like. fuck. I don’t feel like I’m ever going to be attractive to anyone. I never get to feel pretty or handsome. I never get to feel happy about my appearance anymore and that makes me so sad. I used to derive so much joy from picking out outfits and accessorizing and applying glittery make up. I’m too sick to leave the house ever so I don’t do those things anymore, besides the fact that I *can’t* present feminine anymore without risking my safety. People would assume I’m a trans woman and act accordingly because they see a man attempting to be feminine. I am fully man and fully nonbinary, but I never get to exist as both at the same time. I can’t be feminine without people invalidating/forgetting my manhood. I can’t be masculine without people invalidating/forgetting my nonbinary-ness. I’m too masculine for nonbinary spaces and too nonbinary for masculine spaces. I just…….. I get incredibly sad about this.

And people generally don’t care??? the sentiment seems to be that trans men who are masculine, who pass, who are stealth, etc don’t belong in the lgbt+ community, shouldn’t be in lgbt+ or queer spaces. They’re not wanted there because of being masculine. These spaces are only for “non-men”. But the second you talk about your struggles as a trans man as a reason for why you should be included, you get pegged as an owo twink femboy to most people. It’s always one or the other (demonized or infantilized) and I’m really fucking sick of it. It hurts. I just want to be some guy.

[marvelmando]

tempest [p.parker x o.c.] - one

notes: these chapters are really long. i hope you won’t mind that! if you want me to start doing a taglist, i’ll get one started :) just let me know if you’d like to be added by replying or sending me an ask!

contains: swearing, canon-typical violence

pairing: peter parker + fem!o.c.

word count: 4.7k

previous chapter next chapter tempest masterlist

PART ONE — SPIDER-MAN: HOMECOMING

"MARIN FROST, MAY I SEE YOU IN MY OFFICE FOR A MOMENT?" The raspy voice of Charles Xavier drifted through her mind, sending a shiver down the length of her back. Ah shit, she groaned internally, here it comes. The moment she'd been dreading for the better part of five months.

Shoving her sketchbook hidden under her pillow, she pulled on a pair of her worn black Vans. Other students walked the halls of the mansion barefoot all the time with no problem, but Marin could never bring herself to expose herself like that.

Students stared at her as she passed by, but she was used to that. Even after the incident in Queens, when shameful glares increased tenfold in both frequency and intensity, they'd hardly ever fazed her. (She'd noticed, of course, as she always did, but it didn't make much of a difference to her whether or not her peers hated her more than they already had.)

Still, she pulled at the string hanging off of her shirt's bottom hemline nervously. The image of her last punishment floated across her vision, causing her to wince at the prospect that she may be given it this time, too.

Marin reached the heavy oak doors to Charles' office, knocked twice, and hearing the come in, she inhaled deeply before turning the handle and pushing one door open just enough to slip her slim body through.

Charles Xavier sat primly behind his desk, hands folded neatly and resting on the wooden surface. He looked at her with what she could guess was expectancy, but over the years Marin had come to realize that he was an expert at hiding his expression (as most telepaths tended to be). "Ah, Miss Frost," he sounded pleasantly surprised, as though he hadn't literally just summoned her. "Please, take a seat."

She jerked when he pushed the chair opposite his desk with his mind, but blamed her jumping nerves on the screech the chair made as it scraped the polished floor. She didn't feel like sitting, as her nerves buzzed with frantic energy, but took the offered seat anyway. If Charles noticed the rapid bouncing of her leg, he didn't react to it.

"I swear I didn't do it." Marin blurted, her face heating with a blush when Charles raised one eyebrow. "Well, I did do it but I swear I didn't mean to ruin the garden! I thought that the tomatoes looked really thirsty and I gave them some water, but the soil still looked so dry so, to be safe, I just watered the whole ground and then it was just too much—"

"It's not about—"

"Please don't make me clean Hank's room again," Marin pleaded, not hearing his protest. "His room is just so big and you know how much he sheds and it—"

"Miss Frost." Charles stopped her, and Marin felt the words die in her throat. She wasn't sure if it was a result of him using his powers, or just because her mouth grew dry and her tongue too heavy to move. "This isn't about the garden. It's about the incident in Queens."

Marin furrowed her brow. Queens? That was five months ago, and she'd been given her punishment accordingly—removal from the X-Men and assigned cleaning duty. But if she'd already gone through her redemption stage, why was she here, still talking about that night? Marin knew better than to hope that he called her there to tell her that she was being reinstated to the team, but she couldn't help it—the idea of the possibility excited her.

Sensing her confusion, he continued. "More specifically, I want you to tell me exactly what happened that night."

What? She'd already given her report when she first returned, why was he asking her to repeat it now? "Um, I heard someone screaming, so I—"

"No," Charles shook his bald head. "Later. What happened when you saw the boy being beaten by those men?"

Marin swallowed past the lump caught in her throat. How did he know about that?

Charles sighed when Marin refused to respond. "You've been projecting your dreams, Miss Frost. Rather strongly, too." He leveled a look at her. "I believe some... new powers have manifested; can you please describe them to me?"

The realization that Charles had been peering into her dreams pierced her chest. "You can apparently see everything I dream, so why don't you tell me, Professor?" She lashed out but immediately regretted her reaction when Charles' eyes widened with disbelief. "I'm sorry, that was—"

"I think I understand, Miss Frost. What I don't understand, however, is why you didn't inform me of these powers sooner. I think you are well aware that suppressing these powers is extremely dangerous—not just to me, but to you, as well."

Marin's eyes drifted down to her hands that were clenched together in her lap, feeling like a scolded child. "I didn't realize..." she trailed off, not knowing how to explain to the Professor that she couldn't remember anything between blacking out and seeing those women react to her with fear in their eyes—that the crackling sensation of energy spilling over her skin was really just something she had dreamt of.

All she remembered was thinking of Lucy's betrayal and the abandonment she felt, and thinking of it now bubbled some of the latent anger she'd ignored from that night. The resentment burned a steady path through her like flames on a sheet of paper, catching on the edges of her dwindling control. She could feel it growing in her subconscious, but Charles was still talking.

"—can't have these powers emerge unrestrained and as chaotic as they are. You must forgive me, Marin," Charles maneuvered his chair around to approach her, looking sympathetic. "I did not want to have to do this again, but your powers are too unpredictable, too... cataclysmic to yourself and those around you to be controlled. We can excuse you for the death of your parents, but you were young—emotional and reactive, and no one blames you for accidentally catching them in the crossfire, but you have shown that you are not responsible enough to control your emotions, and we cannot have these powers resurfacing."

Marin felt her chest constrict as the air squeezed out of her like crushing an empty plastic bottle. Several things occurred to her at once: those dreams were real, and she'd had them before. Secondly, he knew. He knew about the rumors—and worst of all, he believed them.

The pain was still there, but it was the rage that surfaced this time. "Don't you dare," she spat with all the venom she had, "Talk about that night as if you were there. You have no idea—no idea—what had happened. What it was like, watching—" Marin choked off, a hiccuped sob getting caught in her throat and stopping her from continuing the memory. Her vision was clouding too much for her to register Charles' reaction. "And you knew about the rumors?! You let them continue to be spread even when you saw everyone pushing me away in fear—letting everyone hate me—shun me because of something that didn't really happen?!" Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks in a steady stream, her anger bubbling over her skin like a live wire. "You were the one person I trusted that knew the truth about me! And you're telling me that—all this time—you believed I killed my own fucking parents?!"

It wasn't until her vision finally cleared enough for her to see the look of terror in Charles' eyes that Marin noticed that she was glowing. Her skin radiated a vibrant blue, energy dancing across her skin like a solar flare. But she hardly cared—it was the fear in his eyes that broke her, causing her to flee from his office. She didn't even notice that the electricity was out as she sprinted down the halls, dodging confused students lingering in her path.

Her mind blurred once she reached her room, only one thought pounding in her head like an alarm: get out of there.

She grabbed her duffel bag, shoving in whatever clothes she could grab, her toothbrush, the small collection of cash she'd managed to save up over the years, and her sketchbook. Swiping the bottle from her nightstand, she was glad to see that it was already full and ready for her to grab as she bolted out of her room.

Marin ran straight into someone, realizing belatedly that it was Lucy, with James trailing behind her. But Marin refused to stop for anyone. Barreling forward, Marin heard Lucy yell after her, "What the hell did you do, Marin?!" Realizing that she wasn't stopping to answer, Lucy grabbed her wrist in a desperate attempt to stop her. "Where are you—"

She stopped short at the sight of Marin's crackling white eyes, and the blue light beginning to emanate from her skin. Lucy yanked her hand back like it was burned. "I can't stay here anymore."

It was the last thing Marin said as she stormed off down the hallway, slamming through the entrance and leaving a wake of chaos behind her.

+++

After almost two hours of hitch-hiking her way to Queens, Marin realized that she probably should have done more research before running away.

Not that she had much of an opportunity to before, anyway.

For the first month, in the limited amount of free time Marin had available (between diligently attending her classes and cleaning every inch of Hank's hairy room), Marin spent it searching for information on the Spider-Man. She'd only come up with a couple of grainy videos and some hateful articles written about him in the local newspaper. After then, her training schedule changed to fill any space she could get online during the allotted times to access the internet. She didn't have a phone, let alone a smart-phone, and even if she did, the Wi-Fi was locked for everyone except the school's restricted computers.

Marin briefly considered going to the Stark Tower in Manhattan but dismissed the idea once she figured that she had barely any excuse to get his attention (and if she even did, he would have probably kicked her out or sent her straight back to the Institute). She knew that finding Spider-Man was her best option—he didn't know what she was.

So, all she could do was go back to Richmond Hill and hope that Spider-Man would eventually show up.

The woman that had graciously stopped for Marin drove away after only a moment's hesitation. The lady was kind enough, and didn't try to force Marin to explain what she meant by 'I have no parents' and 'no, you don't need to call the police'. Marin glanced up at the familiar bank's overhead sign and sighed. What now? She could walk around a bit; it was nearing five in the evening, according to her small, cheap digital wristwatch. If the person under Spider-Man's mask was her age, like she strongly suspected, public school would have been far from over.

She picked a cardinal point at random, then began heading northwest. She supposed her instinct was to move toward Manhattan.

Marin wandered aimlessly for a while, and the sun was beginning to set when a red and blue figure whizzed past her overhead. Stunned into momentary shock, she watched as the person swung around a corner and out of sight. Jolting out of her stupor, she sprinted down the sidewalk, trying to catch up to them.

Once she turned the same corner, she searched over the streets but was disappointed to see no swinging hero.

It might not have even been him, she tried to tell herself. But who else would be able to swing through the streets like that? It might not have looked like him—all sleek and spandex-y—but she was sure it was him. She turned towards the road, kicking at an empty soda can. "Nuts," she muttered.

"Hey, you okay?" A voice said from above her.

Marin's eyes widened, and she tilted her head to the sky. "God?"

"No, behind you." The voice said again, so Marin turned, only to find Spider-Man perched on someone's fire escape, four stories off the ground.

"Spider-Man?" She tried. It was him, she knew, but it wasn't his suit. This one was professionally made: tight fabrics and fancy bionic eyes. His mask was also half-off, revealing his mouth and chin.

"That's me," he confirmed, although he had to yell a bit for the distance. "Who're you?"

Marin shifted on her feet, looking around awkwardly. "I'm, uh, Marin? We met like, five months ago? You might not remember me—I was in different clothes and I hadn't really expected to meet a real-life superhero, but..."

Spider-Man said nothing, just staring down at her. "Oh!" He suddenly exclaimed, his bionic eyes narrowing. "You're the girl that sabotaged my robbery!"

Marin's brows creased under her bangs. "Uh, I guess? I don't know how someone sabotages a robbery—and I wouldn't call it sabotaging, more like saving the day or something—"

"Look, what do you want?" Spider-Man huffed indignantly. "Because I'm really busy."

Marin eyed the half-eaten churro in his hand. "I'm sure you are, hot-shot, but that's actually why I'm here." Spider-Man just gave her a look—she was sure he would've raised an eyebrow if he had his mask fully removed. She could only guess that he was waiting for her to continue. "I was wondering if you needed any help? Like, with hero stuff. 'Cause I want to help."

Spider-Man took a bite of his churro. He mumbled something to himself, but Marin couldn't hear him from all the way on the street. "What?" She asked, and he repeated it, this time louder, but still unintelligible. She watched him grow frustrated as she kept asking him to repeat it, and eventually he hopped to the ground beside her. The way he landed made it seem as though he jumped off a couple of steps, not four goddamn stories. Marin couldn't help but notice that there was now a small difference in their heights where there hadn't been before.

"I said like you helped last time?"

Marin blinked. "Yeah."

Spider-Man sighed. "Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? Because I want to. And you've seen my powers, so you know I can help you save people." She felt a bit ridiculous saying it out loud, sounding more like a petulant five-year-old rather than a fifteen-year-old mutant.

Spider-Man didn't look convinced but continued. "How'd you even get your powers, anyway?"

Marin opened her mouth to respond, but no words wanted to come out. It should've been easy—I'm a mutant—but reminding herself of what she was only made her remember the looks she'd get in the halls of the Institute, the same looks in those women's eyes the night of the robbery, and the echo of Lucy's words pounding against her skull: we are not heroes, we are mutants. She didn't want to be a mutant if it meant that she couldn't be a hero—and Spider-Man was a chance at being the hero she'd always wanted to be.

"Oh, hell," Spider-Man said instead, luckily excusing her for failing to answer. "Some guys are robbing that bank."

Sure enough, she turned around, and across the street was a Queens Community Bank that was currently being robbed.

"Does this happen a lot?" Marin asked.

"Apparently," he grumbled in response.

She looked at Spider-Man hopefully, who just sighed. He seemed to do that a lot. "Just come on," he acquiesced. Marin snatched her water bottle from her duffel bag, before stashing it in a nearby alley. "And don't screw it up this time."

Marin rolled her eyes. What a charmer, he was.

They sprinted across the street, and Marin unscrewed her water bottle in preparation. The robbers were so preoccupied with grabbing money from the machines that they didn't notice Spider-Man and Marin enter the bank. Spider-Man awkwardly propped one hand on the doorframe and the other on his hip, while Marin mirrored him on the opposite wall.

Spider-Man cleared his throat, "Sup guys, forget your pin number?" The robbers whipped around, and Marin quirked an eyebrow when the plastic masks of Iron Man, Hulk, Thor, and Captain America stared back at her. "Whoa, you're the Avengers!"

"Halloween's not 'til next month, fellas." Marin cocked her head to the side, using their distraction as an opportunity to assess the situation. Four men in total, one carrying a rifle, and the others grabbing at souped-up weapons that Marin had never seen before. "And aren't you guys a little too old to be trick-or-treating?"

The man in the Iron Man mask cocked his rifle and aimed it at Spider-Man. Before he could pull the trigger, Spider-Man shot a web at the barrel and yanked, pulling it from Iron Man's grip and slamming it into his and Thor's face.

While Spider-Man caught Thor's elbow and pushed it into Hulk's face, Marin summoned her water and shoved it into Iron Man, who was recovering from the blow to his face. Spider-Man jumped, stuck to the ceiling by his hands and pulling Thor into the glass case behind him with his feet.

"Thor, Hulk—glad to finally meet you guys!" He exclaimed, sticking his feet under him so he was hanging upside-down from the ceiling. "I thought you'd be more handsome in person." Just as Marin shifted her focus from Iron Man to Hulk, Iron Man swung at Spider-Man but missed as the boy easily dodged the robber's punches. "Iron Man! Hey, what are you doing robbing a bank? You're a billionaire!"

Hulk had grabbed one of the fancy-looking weapons and charged at the (real) superhero, but Marin dipped, swinging low and swiping his feet out from underneath him. Spider-Man grabbed Iron Man's fist and shoved it behind him, causing the criminal to lose his balance and trip over the fallen Hulk. Before Marin could rise to her feet to get a vantage point over him, Hulk lashed out and kicked her in the face from his spot on the ground, causing Marin to fall back with a yelp.

"Hey! Don't you know it's not polite to hit a—oh this feels so weird!" Spider-Man shouted, his voice becoming distorted. In her haze, Marin had failed to notice Captain America charging up a different weapon while his friends were being attacked, and had aimed it at Spider-Man. As far as Marin could tell, Spider-Man wasn't in any pain, but he was trapped in some sort of blue energy field, keeping him floating in midair. It somewhat reminded her of the telekinetic powers of one of the X-Men back at the Institute, but she'd never seen a man-made weapon that could do virtually the same thing.

"What the hell?" Marin choked out, clutching her throbbing cheek. Ignoring the pain, she lunged out at Captain America, tackling him to the ground. The force of throwing him and the weapon forward, in turn, sent Spider-Man flying back into a rising Hulk and Thor.

"What is that thing?!" Spider-Man yelled as Marin grappled with Captain America for a split second. Despite her years of combat training, the criminal was still stronger than her and managed to hold her off long enough to shoot his force-field weapon back at Spider-Man yet again. Marin pulled at the weapon, and the man pulled back, causing Spider-Man to get slammed alternately into the floor and ceiling. "I'm starting—to think—you're not—the Avengers!" He gasped between each blow, eventually sticking himself to the floor with his fingertips.

Marin yanked hard at the weapon, as Spider-Man simultaneously grabbed a metal drawer from behind Marin with his web, and striking Captain America in the back of his head. It ricocheted off his head, and the corner flew into the space above Marin's brow, leaving a deep cut in its wake.

"Spider-Man!" Marin scolded, her voice laced with pain and annoyance, instinctively tightening her grip on the weapon. Then, when Captain America's hold loosened around it, the sudden imbalance in leverage sent the weapon straight up into Marin's nose with a snap. She jerked back but managed not to fall on her butt.

Recovering as quickly as she could, and trying not to be distracted by the blood dripping from her wounded nose, Marin slid underneath Spider-Man as he jumped momentarily back onto the ceiling to reach Iron Man and Thor. She blindly threw an uppercut into Hulk's stomach and spun to roundhouse kick Captain America in the chest, sending him right into the path of Spider-Man's fist. She called out to her water to knock the rifle that Hulk managed to retrieve. Once the gun was out of the way, she used the water to push him away from attacking Spider-Man.

"All right, men, let's wrap this up." Marin joked at Spider-Man, who laughed at her spider-related pun.

"Yeah, guys, it's a school night!" He finished, kicking Thor away and into the window.

Amidst the chaos, Iron Man slipped away to grab the force-field weapon, but Spider-Man was quick in his reflexes and stopped him before the weapon could activate by trapping it to the glass panels that separated the inside of the bank from the street. Spider-Man leaped beside him, latching onto the glass right next to Iron Man's head. He pulled back the plastic mask to get a look at the criminal's face. "So how did jerks like you get tech like this?"

Marin was too busy dodging Captain America's punches to notice Hulk drawing out another weapon—this one with a center that glowed a violent purple light. Her attention was caught when she heard the mechanical whirring of the weapon getting ready to fire. "No!" She cried, as Spider-Man also noticed the weapon with a shout. In her moment of distraction, Captain America landed a solid blow to the side of Marin's face, catching her bruised and bloodied nose and cheek. Marin collapsed to the ground, her vision darkening and stars blooming behind her eyelids.

Her head swam, the ringing in her ears muffling the crashes and explosions in the distance. She screwed her eyes shut, blinking rapidly to clear her vision. Only when she was steady enough to rise to her feet did she notice that the bank was empty except for her, and the building was almost entirely destroyed.

Across the street, a bodega was on fire. Rubble littered the street, glass crunching under Marin's feet as she stumbled out of the bank and toward the corner store, making a quick detour to snatch up her hidden (and thankfully not stolen) duffel bag. She hurried over to see if she could help with extinguishing the fire.

But as she tried to summon her water, the empty pull told her that it must've evaporated in the heat of whatever blast had come from the robber's weapon, and she was essentially rendered powerless. She was just about to thank the heavens that no one was caught in the crossfire of the fight, when she saw Spider-Man emerge from the flames, supporting a heavy-set man and a rather fluffy-looking cat tucked under his other arm.

Marin jogged over to the boy as he passed the cat off to the man, but Spider-Man only sprinted past Marin, clambering up the side of the closest building.

"Oh, come on!" Marin cried, using the sleeve of the jacket she'd slipped on earlier to try and wipe away some of the blood on her chin. She turned and dashed off in his general direction, her bag thumping solidly at her hip. Marin heard a voice coming from above her and followed it into an alley, where Spider-Man—now unmasked—was hanging up a phone call.

"Really?" She panted lightly at him, resting her hands on her knees. She wasn't really that out of breath, but she was growing weak from the lack of water intake after exerting her powers so much.

"Sorry," Spider-Man grumbled, not seeming very sorry at all. The dim lighting in the alley shielded her from getting a good look at his face, but she could tell he was angry. At what exactly (or who), she wasn't sure, but she just hoped that anger wasn't directed at her. After asking him what was wrong, he responded gruffly, "Lost my backpack."

Marin nodded, straightening. "So, now what?"

Spider-Man sighed, pulling his mask back on and brushing past Marin again. "I gotta get home, May's gonna kill me."

"May?" Marin asked, following behind him like a lost puppy. "Home?"

"Yeah, where people usually go to sleep and put all of their stuff."

"I know what a home is!" She snapped, picking up the pace to catch up to him, and tapping on his shoulder. "Do you... uh, mind if I tagged along?"

He thought for a minute. "Sure, whatever," he shrugged, moving to crouch on the ground. "Climb on my back."

"What?"

"Climb on my back." He looked back at her, his bionic eyes neutral and unyielding. "I'm gonna swing us there."

So, Marin secured her bag tighter to her back, and climbed on—slightly because she was curious, but mostly because she was exhausted and she really didn't feel like running anymore. Her head still throbbed from the beatings she took. It felt awkward at first, having to wrap her legs around a (semi) stranger, but as soon as he took to the rooftops, it was an entirely different level of uncomfortable.

The first roof they landed on, Spider-Man stumbled in his steps, jostling Marin violently. "Jesus, dude!" She hollered.

"I've never done this before!" He yelled right back, steadying on his feet as he leaped off waveringly, almost throwing her off of his back.

"What, jumping off of buildings?! 'Cause I know that's a damn lie!" Marin pressed her forehead into his back, marveling in the working of his muscles against her skin.

"Swinging with another person, smartass!" Spider-Man corrected defensively, and after a couple of swings, he got used to the extra weight pulling him back.

Her legs clenched around the hero's waist, keeping her eyes clenched shut as she tried to get used to the swooping sensation in her stomach as they swung through the streets of Queens.

Eventually, she felt secure enough to open her eyes, and she smiled nervously at the rush of wind against her face, blowing back her bangs and swirling her hair around her head.

He landed in front of a brownstone apartment complex after a good five minutes of swinging. Marin was about to hop off when Spider-Man stopped her. "I'm gonna climb up." He explained, but Marin didn't understand why he couldn't just go through the front door. He jumped onto the wall before she could ask any questions.

Marin wasn't entirely sure what he used to cling to surfaces like that, but every time he jumped from wall to wall, she got a sinking feeling that he was going to miss and they would fall to their death.

Marin gulped as they stopped at a window on the seventh floor, Spider-Man peeking through the glass to make sure the coast was clear. Looking over his shoulder, Marin saw a figure passing by his opened bedroom door. Once it was out of sight, Spider-Man pushed down the pane of glass and crept in. As soon as they passed the threshold, Marin peeled herself off of him, landing silently on his carpet. She set her duffel bag down carefully next to her feet, mindful of Spider-Man's stealth.

She repressed the giggle that bubbled up in her throat as she watched him crawl across the ceiling, tearing off his mask and tossing it somewhere on the floor. Marin glanced around the room, noting the cluttered desk and piled gadgetry on his small bookshelf. A pair of dumbbells rested idly in the corner. Marin made sure to stay hidden next to his bunk bed until he closed the door completely. Once she heard the click, she took a hesitant step forward.

Spider-Man had just turned around, giving Marin a good view of his face, when he stopped short.

Before she could fully observe what the hero looked like under the mask, she heard a crash next to her. On the bottom bunk sat a boy with tanned skin, hands outstretched and Lego pieces littering the ground in front of him as he stared up at Spider-Man with a mix of shock and awe.

Then, someone yelled, "What was that?!"

[hetalia-has-a-secretary]

Ok, this is going to be a bit funny but how do you imagine the axis and the allies being old? Wrinkles, gray hair included.

I'm... I'm literally just going to... Oh no now I'm thinking about growing old with Ivan

ʕ º ᴥ ºʔ crud...

Human AU: Allies and Axis get old

Allies:

America:

Yeah, he's certainly going deaf in at least one ear, so he's so much louder than before.

Despite his age he can still probably hurl cars. Like he's one of the few good looking men when they got older.

His hair is more silver than white, but that adorable cowlick is now an embarrassing bald spot.

He's not wrinkly other than the deep smile lines, and crow's feet (those lines on the temple next to your eye for those who don't know what crow's feet are)

His hands have faint moles and light brown patches. They're also kind of dry.

He's been ironically dying for the day he can go full grampa mode, and wears nothing but Hawaii shirts from Walmart and a stupid baseball cap.

He might be tough, but he has a beer gut of sorts. And he smells like fancy cologne.

England:

Oh my poor baby I'm sorry...

I can totally seeing him missing teeth and needing dentures

And no it's not because he's British, don't start with me.

He now has to comb over his hair to hide that receding hairline.

But honestly, his hair went dark gray, with hints of white highlights and honestly is a strong 7/10 on the sexy old man scale. And his eyebrows are still thick, but because of his hair grayish you won't notice until your up close.

And about the dentures, he takes them out to scare people sometimes because they annoy him.

He's not frail, but the arthritis his hands kills him, and it ticks him off. He misses his embroidery!

His face is slightly wrinkly under the eyes, and his face is sagging a little giving him a grouchy look.

But he's still a gentleman through and through.

This guy has hearing aids, but has a grandchild who took it upon themselves to add a unicorn sticker to it. He refuses to take it off...

France:

He's probably the best looking man. Like think of Hugh grant and Peirce brosnan where he has the smile and chrisma of Hugh, but the look of a fashion model boss of Peirce. (I had to look up SO MANY OLD MEN YOUR WELCOME)

Will not let his age stop him from dressing up in tuxes, and wearing designer shades and glasses.

"He says it's the wine, I'm calling BS and it's just because he's a lucky jerk" England, probably.

Wanna know what's more sexy than old fashion model France? Those sexy tan lines that block out a tank top, and swim shorts.

He's in fairly good shape, and since America is older and a bit weaker the two of them are head to head with strength.

But if you touch this man his skin is kind of loose despite not seeming to be.

He is extremely annoyed at how quickly his back and chest hair seem to grow now.

Also his long hair is now dark gray and always combed back. He really just has the vibes of a millionaire, but he anonymously leaves checks to hospitals and food centers.

China:

Basic, quiet, Old Chinese man.

Can and will kick both America and France's butts if given the chance.

He's super patient and always thinks before speaking.

Look wise he's pretty average, but one look in his eyes let's you know he's still a child deep down.

Has completely gotten over "I'm old and mature" phase of his 30's and likes to mess with everyone by being the personification of Master Splinter from Ninja turtles (Think old, wise, and never giving a direct anwser Because there's a lesson to be learned)

He has freckles on the back of his neck, and no one has told him so he doesn't even know.

Wrinkly hands that are callused from the hard work he does.

Has slight carpel tunnel, but still does martial arts and Tai chi.

His hair is dark gray with some silver strands, and he has a little bit of a goatee.

Russia:

He has said screw it and shaved his head to everyone's surprise. But on a side note he has a nice short gray beard.

Just kidding the hair came back but it never goes further than a few inches.

He's somehow more intimidating as well, but now is the sweetest old man. So he hasn't changed other than finally figuring out how to communicate.

He's a little bit like china in the sense he thinks before speaking. You can still get things to go over his head.

Knitting skills will put literally anyone's grandmother to shame.

He has an almost angry look when he's deep in thought or confused, and has wrinkles through most of his face, his eyes have sunken In a bit, and his eyebrows are rivaling England's. He looks like the stereotype of an old biker.

But when he smiles he gives off the 'best grandfather who smothers their grandkids with ice cream' vibes.

He has switched his scarf out for one of those green beanie caps you see sailors wear.

Scratch that he wears all types of hats, and only wears scarfs when outside.

His clothing style is still just as elaborate as before, and he's thought it funny to wear old fashion Russian clothes.

Turtle necks and khakis are his best friends.

Has the case of flubby belly but his arms and cafes are muscular and puts everyone else to shame. Sorry American.

Axis:

Germany:

It's weird how he looks like Prussia now.

Wrinkles? Don't know then. Crow's eyes that's all he has and maybe one or two forhead wrinkles.

He's not as muscular since he's decided to do what he's been dying to do his whole life.

Dogs. He walks dogs, babysits dogs, has a breeding program, and works at a dog shelter. Also helps rescue dogs.

Ladies love him, dogs love him more.

He's mellowed out as well, and is missing the front left tooth on the top row after some guy at a bar said his old hands couldn't win a fight. They were wrong.

He's letting himself bald out to be honest. Not having to deal with his hair means less work and more RnR.

His fashion sense is still the same.

Can still out drink people's weight in beer, but gets hangovers now, so that sucks.

Mmm- Cracked and slightly yellow fingernails anyone? We got both hands and feet. He hates it.

Italy talked him into going to a salon and all the woman there adore him, so he's a regular. Has 100% let a little girl paint his nails while she waited on mom.

Japan:

He's mad because he's ridiculously short and hunched over.

He regrets not getting his back checked out when he was younger.

He's achieved: Irration! He still can't get angry, but please don't push him.

Still knows way too much about technology, and is actually head of his own tech support company, so he's actually the richest out of them all but you'd never know.

He spends a lot of time with China now and they're inseparable (finally!!!).

Wrinkly old man. But still kind of cute.

Can't get his friendly womanly neighbor to stop flirting with him, and he slowly remembers why he was a shut in when he was a teen.

His skin is also littered with freckles, and he has no idea why or how.

He gets his hair dyed black so not even I, the hetalia secretary, know what his hair color is.

Italy:

Ya boy is wearing guchi designer and is fine AF.

Actually works with France at the local pawn shop, but dresses like an Italian Mafia boss. A lot of watches. Like, that's all he wants.

Has a cologne for every day of the week.

He now also wears sunglasses quite often, and is a LOT more serious then when he was younger. Like, he's just the calmest sweetheart to exist, but it's not hard to get him going.

He enjoys telling stories and is up there with Russia on the narrator scale. He's very vivid when he spins tales, and only lacks Russia's voicing ability.

He has Hawaii shirts but wears them better than America. Sorry again America.

He has wrinkles but they're not deep ones, but his arms are kind of hairy.

His actual hair is silver-ish white, and he loves having it combed and slicked back. He jokes that it's an homage to Germany's younger hair days.

[ashleycardus59-blog]

old hairy pussy - 5 Ways Facebook Destroyed My Old Hairy Pussy Without Me Noticing

I was delighted to see a new face, and you seemed so shy, not knowing anyone else here. You said yes and followed me into my large house and to my bedroom. I met you at the cocktail party in my back garden. My hands are on your body, peeling the black cocktail dress off of you and tossing it aside, leaving you standing here in only your black silk panties.

It surprises you how my soft hands can be so rough in handling your flesh, and my previously friendly voice has taken on a harsh, commanding tone. I approached you, and we talked and drank and flirted. Now you stand here, a bit nervous and unsure what will happen next.

I bind your arms with silky rope, pinning behind you with knots at ankles and elbows. You seemed to come out of your shell a bit, and I asked if you were interested in a sexy little game. Next I use a rod with leather cuffs at either end to hobble your ankles. The pose is uncomfortable, but it forces your chest forward, showing off your perky tits.

Thank goodness you're still wearing your black silk panties, or you'd be completely exposed to the world! Most of the people are wealthy and glamorous, and here you are young and out of your depth. You suppress a shiver, wondering if it's yet too late to back out. Painkillers, I explain.

You can still walk, but your stride is limited to an awkward shuffle, and the rod forces you to keep your legs open. You try to resist but I give you a light, open-palmed slap that leaves you shocked and speechless with tears welling up in your eyes. With what is coming, a couple aspirin wouldn't hurt, but you soon discover that those were more than just aspirin.

Next, a ball gag is placed in your mouth. I drop two white tablets on your tongue and tell you to swallow, and you obey. Though when I stroke my hand up from your hip to your breast and give one nipple a playful, gentle pinch, you realize that your senses are not dulled but rather heightened, and the pleasure is more intense. For some reason, it doesn't even occur to you to say stop or try to leave; your feet are rooted to the spot, and part of real hairy pussy you is eager to see what is next.

Now it's too late to scream, too late to say you'd rather not. I command you to open your mouth, and you do so. Finally, a blindfold covers your eyes, and now you are completely at my mercy. You feel ashamed, but also aroused, and your arousal makes you feel more ashamed while your shame feeds your arousal.

The painkillers muddle your sense of time, but it feels like forever as my hands roam across your skin, fondling your breasts and groping your crotch. Now you are completely naked, except for the bondage gear holding you firmly in the pose I dictated.

A few sharp slaps on your ass and you grunt at the pain, thankfully toned down by the drugs. You hear a sharp click followed by a harsh buzzing noise. If it's a vibrator, it's got to be some kind of overpowered industrial model. You struggle against your bonds, and I give you another slap that you're completely unprepared for this time, not able to see it coming.

But no, that's not what it is. Those panties are your last defense, your last guard against the world, and now they are torn from you, literally torn off your body by my strong hands pulling them, snapping the waistband. Your cheeks get hot as they blush rosy red, and your nipples stiffen, and your pussy becomes dewy moistening those black silk panties.

Realizing you must obey or be struck, you quiet down. You remain conscious and aware, but find that your wits are clouded. You consider struggling, resisting, but you fear another slap. You are being buzzed bald! You feel metal on your scalp at the edge of your hairline, and the buzzing device slides through your pretty blonde hair.

One nipple is pinched harshly, and you squeal into the ball gag with the pain, but that is nothing compared to what is next. You hear the snap of latex gloves pulled onto my hands. In a few short minutes, all your hair is gone! A sharp point of cold, surgical steel pierces the nipple; though the needle is cold, the pain feels like a sharp, red-hot poker. You feel the hair fall away, as you realize that your hair is being cut off down to the scalp!

You hear me get out a kit of metal tools, and fear runs down your spine. But then a new pain as the process is repeated while the other nipple is given an identical ring. The pain dulls to a low ache thanks to the painkillers, and your squeals are replaced by a breathless panting. The pain is gone now, replaced by only a slight ache in your sensitive hairy pussy pics pussy porn videos areas, and in the wake of those sharp pains you are surprised to discover your arousal is heightened even more.

Your freshly pierced nipples are completely stiff. Now your hairy pussy pics is soaking wet, almost dripping. It wouldn't take much stimulation at this point to bring you to a powerful orgasm that would leave your legs shaky.

Is it the drugs, or is it your own secret desires? Finally, one last episode of pain while your clit hood receives a barbell. As you walk, the new barbell piercing on your clit hood sends out jolts of pain as well as pleasure. Now it's time for those painkillers to do their work.

You struggle to keep up with your hobbled pace, stumbling but not falling thanks to my strong grip holding you up. The party is still going on out there! The needle is replaced by a ring with a thankfully not too extreme gauge. Now we turn a corner and you realize we're headed to the door back out to the back garden.

You shuffle along with me, wondering where we could be going as we leave my bedroom. I seize you by the upper arm and command you to follow me. We're in the hall now, you remember from when you came into the house about an hour ago, though it feels like forever. Some of the voices seem to have noticed you, as you hear a few gasps and laughter and some hushed conversation, and you think you hear your name whispered here and there.

You sob quietly with tears falling from your eyes, no doubt spoiling your makeup. But along with the voices, you hear that the party has taken a turn. There is the slap of flesh on flesh, moans and grunts of pleasure. You realize that this is no normal cocktail party, you are being paraded through an orgy! Now I force you down on your knees; someone has thoughtfully provided you with a cushion.

We're out in the garden now, in the wide open outdoors with voices all around you. You want to scream, to beg, to curse and demand to be let go, but none of that comes out. " You hear me unzip my pants, and I demand you open your mouth again. You do, and now my cock invades your mouth.

The ball gag is removed, and you take a deep shuddering breath. Your shame and arousal continue their upward spiral of mutual reinforcement. I proceed to facefuck you for a few minutes, and you choke and gag and struggle to keep up with my pace.

Meanwhile, judging from the voices surrounding you, an audience has gathered to watch the show. It slides in and out slow and gentle a few times and you do your best to suck obediently, but then I grab the back of your buzzed-bald head with one hand and roughly thrust myself into your mouth.

"Take his cock, honey! You squirm, trying to break free of my vice-like grip, but I stop and give you another slap that quiets you. Instead, all you can manage is a pitiful, mewling, "P-please. It's average in size, but it feels big as it slides between your lips, along your tongue, and to the back of your throat. When I pull out, you hold out your tongue, expecting my hot load to splash across your face, but that doesn't happen, either.

Instead, I grab you and lift you to your feet again. Even some of the female voices are offering you encouragement and cheering you on. " You expect me to cum in your throat or mouth, but neither happens. I lead you to one of the flat-top garden benches, where you are made to lie down on your back. " "Deary, swallow him to the balls!

Your arms are untied, and you knead your soar and numb wrists to bring the feeling back. Your freshly pierced hairy pussy pics is penetrated by my cock. You can finally give in to the pleasure of being completely dominated, treated like an object, fucked like a mindless slut, a fucktoy. Some members of the audience close in.

Now your knees are even more spread with your legs to either side of the bench. You feel the tip of a sharpie on your unblemished skin, someone writing on you! Now you know what's coming. There is hushed conversation, and a few voices shouting words of support.

Most of it you can't make out, but someone writes in big letters that you can feel: C-U-M-S-L-U-T. I'm on my knees at the end of the bench, hands on your hips pulling myself into you, thrusting my throbbing meat shaft in and out of your soaked cunt. Someone takes hold of one wrist and places your hands on another throbbing cock, and you obediently start jerking.

The pen is passed around, and others scrawl their own slogans on your tits, your thighs, your stomach. Your first orgasm is like a dam bursting, pleasure washing over your body. The cock in your hand shudders and pulses, unloading a puddle of cum on one of your tits. Hands maul your tits, not caring about the dull pain in your pierced nipples.

Other men jack off onto your stomach. Another cock slides into your mouth, and your other hand finds its way three-fingers-deep into a moist pussy. I cum last, flooding your pussy with my seed. Now some woman is crouched over your face, and your tongue works at her clit and real hairy pussy lips, and more cocks are placed in your hands. Cum splashes you endlessly, for what feels like hours.

The pussy you are fingering clenches and gushes, and the cock in your throat ejaculates deep inside you. Fifteen minutes later, you are mostly cleaned up thanks to a towel someone thoughtfully brought for you, and someone else found your dress. I smilingly ask if you'll be at the next garden party, and you cheerfully say you'll be there.