#dink's song

[sj-in-musicnote]

Fare Thee Well (Dink's Song) - Marcus Mumford & Oscar Isaac [Studio Qual...

[kickdrumheart68]

Andrea von Kampen - "Dink's Song" (Fare Thee Well)

[lazuliquetzal]

I keep on telling people you're the only one who knows how to plot. Can you teach all of us how to plot, please? I love you.

I AM SUMMONED? PLOT BRAIN SUMMONED?

I love plotting. It's my favorite part of the writing process. Plot is "things that happen" and the best part of writing is imagining things that happen. I'm going to assume that whoever may be reading this knows how to imagine The Happenings, so I'm gonna be talking more about structure, but in like, a kinda abstract sense.

A good plot is a little bit more than a string of events. Plot is like music: there's variation in rhythm and sound and melody, but ultimately there's cohesion, because it's all one song. You can have a bunch of wild things happening, but no matter how strange, there should be something that links them all together, because you're telling one story.

Plot structures are patterns in stories. I'm pretty sure most of them were developed as analysis tools (as in, story already exists > look! it follows this pattern) rather than as writing tools, but people use them as writing tools because it's a neat little way to organize the chaos that is "shit happens." Stories follow patterns for the same reasons music follows patterns: we enjoy the certainty of hitting certain beats. But we also like being surprised. A good pop song doesn't sound like a random collection of sounds, but it also doesn't sound like the middle slider of other songs.

There is this shared concept in both music and writing: the idea of tension and release. Basically, you're playing with reader expectation: there's an imbalance in the experience (tension), and we want to see that imbalance resolved (release). All the common plot structures deal with this basic pattern:

You set an expectation

There are complications to the expectation

You meet the expectation

And this rhythm is happening on multiple levels in writing. Scenes follow this structure (we're gonna get past that door, we're gonna find the murder weapon, we're gonna collaborate and come up with a plan) and all those scenes feed into the overarching expectation (we're gonna solve this murder!). I usually think of chapters as their own mini-story, part of the larger whole. And I think of scenes as their own mini-story, part of the larger chapter. I have engineer brain. I see the gears spinning in the clock. That's why all my chapters have at least One Important Thing happening, because that's that particular chapter's Step #3.

And One Last Important Thing:

In music, a delayed resolution is almost always more interesting than the standard resolution. In writing, that means you wanna drag out Step #2 for as long as you can. That's where the bulk of the story is happening, that's how you build tension, that's how you get people to turn the page.

So when you write a fake dating fic, those bitches better not get together until the very end. I came here for fake dating, not for real dating, damn it. If you resolve that expectation early on, you better replace it with a different expectation that's just as engaging.

But also don't drag it out for too long. Sorry. The hard part of writing is learning the difference between too short and too long. Writing is unfortunately a nuanced skill which is why my advice is like "do this but not too much teehee." But tension and resolution is just rhythm, you can build a sense for it if you engage with enough stories.

[enviedear]

dexter soy’s jason todd is very much so sweet november by sza. because—

“remember me for who i was, not who i am”

idc argue with the wall.

[briteningbolt]

The silly duo Dink and Doink 💜💛

[notnotnightwing]

I LIKE THE WAY YOU MOVE 🗣📢‼️‼️‼️‼️

@court--of--owls

[ponysongbracket]

EqG Song Tournament

Please listen to both songs before voting.

Coinky-Dink World

The Midnight In Me

[woozyhere]

@popularmxnster

[oh-gh0st]

omg this is my time to shine (<- insane abt youkai and denki mystery au)

so from what ive seen and read, in the denki mystery event story, the brothers dig up these idol like things that are wrapped up like mummies, and each one depicts a youkai from the youkai set (oni, tengu, kitsune, and so on)

in the aptly titled Oni set for the denki mystery au, a dark version of osomatsu's hyakki yagyo (night parade of 100 demons) shows up and terrorizes the brothers

those are all the connections that ive seen/read about, but i feel like there is a lot of room for interpretation about the connections between the two aus :)

INTERESTING INTERESTING…

do the mummified idols have any connection to the au? or are they just an object…

there’s definitely a lot of room for speculation and headcanons or interpretation (which is awesome methinks) BUT THANK U FOR EXPLAINING OTL

[fauna-and-floraa]

Objectively very funny to me that I started listening to stray kids with absolutely zero knowledge they had 2 Australians in the group, literally just saw a mutual post one of their songs and listened to it and was like "Oh that was so fun!" And then for the next month I was listening to some of their songs on and off and it wasn't until I heard Muddy Water that I went on my twitter like "Hoh, this guy really sounds Australian" and immediately, and I mean *immediately* 2 people were on my post like THERE ARE 2 AUSSIES IN THE GROUP JESSIE. YOURE FUCKIN AUSTRALIAN, HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW? and I was just 🧍‍♀️

[tony-andonuts]

Dink doink would be *my* favourite coin if it were encrypted and easily launderable

[nameless-and-joymaking]

was llewyn davis fruity greatest thread in the history of threads etc and so forth

[peapod20001]

Talk About The Band

Heheheogo ok so their fuckin thrown together high school band doesn’t have a name still rip BUT they DID play together and they CAN still play

My only music knowledge is thru google searches but pretty much Blondee is lead guitar and vocals , August was the rhythm guitar and vocals (him and Blondee can switch sometimes (also he’s the rich kid that had lots of intruments he’d play)) , Goose did bass guitar occasionally but usually he’d play dumb shit like the cowbell , Max was the drummer exclusively (not a singer, more of a yeller) , Ozzie did the set up for things cus the others are lowkey stupid (he would sing SOMETIMES and he can play the others instruments if needed (also unrelated to the band but he played violin)) , and Dahlia was a singer (and also played dumb shit with Goose)

They ALL still play, but it’s more of a hobby than a lifestyle

[geminiagentgreen]

Legitimately love this little tune.

[trulyumai]

making it right

—pairing: eddie munson / reader

synopsis: feeling guilty for the harsh words he gave you, eddie tries to make it right. will you forgive him or could this be the end of the iconic couple?

—warnings: none, just eddie being whipped for reader and groveling over his actions.

a/n: I love writing about Eddie so look for future works coming soon!

It was Friday night, most highschool seniors would be out partying, getting drunk and making out with some random person in the corner of the room. 

But not you. 

Laying flat on your bed, your rotary phone lays against your ear with the wire stretched to the max. Your friend had been rambling onto you about Eddie, how it wasn’t right he treated you like that, you were too good for him, the usual. 

Charlotte, the rambling girl was always saying how you deserved better. Even tried to set you up with a couple athletes from the school. 

Ever the shy introvert you turned out to be, it was awkward trying to turn down such boys; always immature about the situation. Saying they didn’t want to date anyway, yada yada. 

“I can’t believe you’ve gone this far with him,” Charlotte's voice rang out and your fingers twirled up in the phone's cord. Idly twisting and turning with the coils as you zoned out unconsciously. “I mean, look how he dresses for god's sake. Does he even own a shower?” Suddenly, a tapping ensued upon your window. 

It was slow at first, until it gradually picked up and you could ignore it no longer. 

“Char, I gotta go but I’ll call you back.” Interrupting her mid sentence the phone smacked down on the dial. 

Toes meet the wooden floor, you cautiously made your way to the locked window just in front of your bed. Peering out, nothing came into view. 

Dink! 

Something smacked the window hard, hard enough to leave a little chip in the glass. 

“Hey!” Having enough, you aggressively shoved the glass up, going as far as to shove half your body out the crevice to catch the perpetrator in act. 

“—sweetheart!” And there he was in all his glory. Eddie Munson. 

And was that… marshmallows in his hand? 

“Sorry.. I couldn’t find any rocks so this was the next best thing.” A goofy smile lit up his features. And you wanted to cry. 

You missed him so much, that was true. But he was such an asshole you couldn’t help but ignore him for days on end, disappointed in the way he embarrassed you. 

“Go away!” Squinting at the man you moved quickly back in, shrinking into the darkness that swallowed your room. 

“Wait, wait, please!” Eddie begged. Setting the snacks and candies on the ground the man opened his arms wide. “Please just let me hold you? I’ve missed you so much. I’m so sorry.” 

You tugged on the drapes, ignoring his incessant pleas for comfort. 

“I brought snacks… your favorite! And I bought that cassette you left at my place, I'm finally ready to give it up!” No matter how much Eddie complained about your music choice, he had such a soft spot for you he made you a cassette for your last birthday. Full of classics and “overrated,” songs, Eddie had so nicely put it. But after one night of staying over, you accidentally left it at his trailer. And the man never returned it. Secretly, he had been playing it in his room, over and over when he missed you. 

So it’s been used quite frequently these past couple of days. 

“You embarrassed me, Eddie.” 

“I.. I know sweetheart I’ve regretted it every minute since. I just worry for you.” 

You snapped back into view, hands gripping onto the bottom of the frame. 

“It’s not your concern, It's my life Eds. If I want you in it, there shouldn’t be a rule.” 

The curly haired man winced. Seeing you so angry made the man ball up upon himself. 

“You’re right. Absolutely. But being with me will forever mark you, honey.” 

Tears burned at your eyes, your fingers tried to brush them away before they cascade down the grooves of your cheeks. 

Seeing you so hurt, Eddie couldn’t help but sprout a few tears of his own. 

Shaky hands gripped at his jeans and he no longer felt the confidence surge through him. 

What if this was actually it? 

“I don’t care about stupid reputations, why can’t you see that? I care about us, our lives, our future. The little house you promised me and the porch you swore you’d build.” 

A wet laugh escaped Eddie as he remembered such a scene. You were lying in his bed, scraping nails against his wild hair as the man listened to your dreams—aspirations. You told him how you’ve always wanted a forever home with a garden right in front. He didn’t hesitate to promise such a thing to you. Even now he held it in his heart. 

“I want that too sweetheart, more than anything.” 

Man did he look pathetic, barely catching a wink of sleep Eddie looked more chaotic than usual. 

He did look sorry… empathy corroded up your bones, slowly gnawing away any contempt you once held for him. 

“Let me come up, please?” A brash side of you wanted to say no, to flip him off and take some recommendation from your friends. But who were you kidding? It was your Eddie. The man who would hold your hair back when you got sick, the man that would buy you little trinkets and find rocks that he thought you would like. 

You wanted him to stew in the pot of sadness for just a little longer, so a remark left your lips and it couldn’t be pulled back. “What's stopping me from moving on, from dating someone like… Steve?” 

A tight ball of jealousy nested into the man, with tight fists Eddie felt his brows furrow, blue veins sprouted from his knuckles and he could only choose to shake off such irreplaceable words. “Steve, baby? Like that man could make you half as happy.” 

“He wouldn't have yelled at me like that.” Eddie's eye twitched instantly, what was with this new attention on Steve, did he say something, did he already make a move on his girl? 

No way in hell.

“Okay, okay. I see what you're doing sweetheart. But would Steve wake up in the middle of the night to check on you? Would Steve drive you home everyday and rub your back every night?” The man went on. “Or know you're sad when you can’t make eye contact, know that you love blueberry pancakes with a touch of powdered sugar-” 

“Okay, okay I get it!” You smiled, dimples adorning your cheeks. Eddie looked purely smitten, glancing at you with wide eyes and wet lips, a tongue poking out every so often out of nervousness. 

Lightly shuffling on both feet, you nodded to him, signaling for him to come up which earned a high pitched squeal in return. Realizing how unmanly that was, the guitarist cleared his throat before moving.  

Big arms wrapped around the various candies littering your lawn, pressing them in his jacket the man began his climb. 

With each foot scattering across the various stones that stuck out of your outside wall, Eddie began his ascent. 

“Careful!” You breathed, always nervous watching the lanky man carelessly move across the material. With how much he had crawled his way up, finger marks dotted the dirt that lay upon the sides. A clear indication of his many adventures to your room. 

“Do not worry, fair maiden, I—oh,” the open bag of marshmallows dribbled down from their container. With light smacks you heard them making contact with the grass below and Eddie brushed out a laugh of embarrassment. “I’ll buy you new ones.” He promised. 

Rolling your orbs you helped pull him in. Grabbing at his jacket you backed up. The man fell unceremoniously onto your floor with a loud slam before shaking it off and grabbing at your form. 

His breath dusted across your neck, light kisses found their way up your face until one was pressed onto your smooth lips— it was soft, just a peck as the man was scared to come off as too desperate and for you to shove him off in disgust. 

No thing happened, you happily embraced his warm presence. You had no idea just how much you missed him until the familiar musky scent entered your senses. It was almost heavy—sweet with a pinch of cinnamon and some kind of deodorant. 

Eddie groaned, falling onto his knees in front of you, as if praying to your very being. Wide hands played out onto your hips, pulling you in even closer until his chin rested upon your belly button. 

Now fully looking up, you could see how his eyes lit up against the moonlight— wet and remorseful. 

Your hands gathered around his face, with brittle movements you swiped them against the tear stricken cheeks. He leaned in further, not leaving an inch to be spared between the two of you. 

A smile, so content and relaxed appeared onto the man. He held so much love in his orbs, you couldn’t help but smile back in return. 

“You're such an idiot.” Although the words sounded harsh, they were mulled over with honeydew eyes and soft spoken affection. 

Eddie let out a closed lip laugh, one that was deep, it  reverberated through his chest before a response came out.

“At least I'm your idiot.” 

Maybe you weren’t at some party or hanging out with friends. 

But at least you had your Eddie. And that’s all you could ever need.

----

----

Taglist below!

@itzkawaiix @nika-sophie05 @anukulee @littlefreckles4 @mylovelycrazyworld @ali-r3n @need-a-life-or-grass @undercoverlover420 (If i forgot anyone, please do not be afraid to let me know and I apologize in advance!)

[luveline]

𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

you and miguel have different definitions of the same word. he finally gives in to temptation —featuring a cranky but lovesick miguel and a flirty, head-in-the-clouds spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested here. fem!reader, 3k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

This has to be your favourite song in the whole world. 

You sit in the hall beside the entrance to Miguel's office (this week, you're thinking you might call it The Bedroom, on account of all the magic happening inside), headphones on, a bottle of lemonade beside you. 

Today has the makings of a great day. You're at the Spider Society headquarters and not at home, for starters, and one of the Peter Parkers you'd made friends with in the med-wing saw you this morning and recognised you, which is brilliant because he looked super similar to every other Peter Parker you've met. He offered to help you fix your rinky-dink headphones, and now they're working again and loud enough to cover the sound of Spider Chatter, even with your enhanced senses. 

What's more, Miguel has finally emerged from his dormitory, and he's walking toward you looking confused. That's a step up from unhappy. 

He asks you something. 

"What? I can't hear you." 

He says something else. You shake your head, music too loud to catch even a hint of what he's saying, and Miguel eventually crouches down to push your headphones around your neck. He's surprisingly gentle. 

"What are you doing?" he asks. 

"Waiting for you, what did you think I was doing?" 

"Why are you sitting on the ground?" He gestures backward to a red-lit control panel. "Chair right there." 

"I think that's someone's desk." 

"It's really not." 

Miguel stands up and doesn't hesitate to grab your arms and help you up too. It means more to you than it should, because it's not necessary and a few months ago he wouldn't have bothered. Which isn't to imply that Miguel is a mean guy, Lyla says he used to be a loser (code for sweetheart), and you get flashes of it every now and then in chivalry and kind smiles. 

He's not mean, he's cranky. 

"Don't sit on the floor," he says. "Just– just go inside if I'm not here." 

"Well, The Bedroom doesn't come when I call." 

Miguel's lips part in confusion for a second. Lyla appears at his shoulder, and says, "She can't get the platform to come down without you, genius." 

"Put her name on the command list," Miguel says. 

Your eyes widen. Lyla flashes to his other side, closer to you, and smiles playfully. "Done." 

"Stop sitting on the floor," Miguel says, turning around. He walks a few steps and pauses when he realises you're not following. "Are you coming with me?" 

You jog to catch up with him. Music plays against your collar, a slinking, indie sound that makes Miguel wrinkle his nose. You turn it up a little bit and smile when he glares at you. 

You enter the atrium that houses The Bedroom. Miguel hops up onto the platform because he's too tall to see sense while you struggle, but you're pleased when he takes your hand and pulls you up properly. All these familiar touches today, anyone might think Miguel liked you. 

He definitely does. 

You sit down in the spinning chair near what you've decided is your desk but certainly isn't, again pleased beyond words when you find your sketchbook from last time still there, cleaned away carefully, pencils in a pot and a brand new pencil sharpener by the side of it. It matches your spider suit. You look over your shoulder, your face lit up with thanks, and Miguel swiftly looks away from you. 

"It's electric. Tell me when the battery's dead, I'll charge it." 

"Thank you," you say, flipping your sketchbook open to the last entry. 

You aren't Picasso, but most members of the Spider Society are somewhat artistically inclined, considering the suit-making rite of passage they must all endure —if you don't know how to sew before you start, you will by the end. 

Or like Miguel, you could cheat and make the suit out of nanotechnology. 

You haven't really been designing any suits lately. Spidering is tiring, you need to relax, and your reluctant friends are the easiest subjects, though Miguel's face is painstakingly difficult to get right. He's very angular, high cheekbones with that divot that needs kissing stat, and his nose… He's really pretty, but you almost wish he wasn't so your sketches of him held a better likeness. 

He's the only one of the regular crew that stands still long enough to be drawn. Jessica doesn't like you (or maybe she does, it's hard to tell, but she hasn't forgiven you for asking if her baby was like a maraca bead when she fights) so she doesn't let you draw her. Lyla will stand very still if you request it, but after a few portraits she got bored and started changing her hair or glasses, and after a few more she gave up. Margo is hard to focus on because her blue light makes everything else seem super orange, though she does stand in one place usually. She takes up a lot of pages, but it's Miguel you've drawn most of all. 

You go around the Spider Society sometimes asking people if they'll sit for you, but again your skills aren't impressive, so it's awkward when they want to see how you've done. There are drawings of all kinds of Spiders, including yourself, between Miguel, and Miguel, and Miguel. 

His back, the side of his face, his hands ungloved. His pointy bottom teeth mid fight. The naked stretch of his arm and his Rapture injector positioned over it. He might not appreciate that one. You rip it out and toss it in the waste paper basket under your desk, where it incinerates, paper smoke curling up toward the extractor fan on the atrium ceiling. 

"What are you doing?" he asks without looking at you, his gaze on one of his marigold coloured monitors. 

"Drawing." You're not drawing so much as sitting there with a coloured pencil in hand, trying to think of conversation starters. "What are you upto?" 

"According to the program, there are no Canon events today at risk of disruption," Lyla chimes in, "so Miguel's doing chores." 

"What, not one bad thing is gonna happen today?" you ask. 

"Nothing we can predict," Miguel says. 

You swap your pencil for your drink, unscrewing the lid of your lemonade to sip at it leisurely. Today is your favourite kind of day. No fighting, lots of time with Miguel, and music to go with it. You're so happy you could melt. 

Miguel turns to you and sees your stickying smile. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Just happy to be here with you," you say.

"Don't say stuff like that," he says, turning back to his screen. 

"Scared you'll actually experience sincerity?" Lyla asks. 

"Lyla," he warns, as though Lyla might be afraid of any consequence he had the power to inflict. 

"Sorry," you say, not very sorry, but not wanting him to be uncomfortable, "it's just nice, being friends with you."

"We aren't friends." 

You're not quick to take offence with Miguel. He can be cruel. He's hurting, he's unhappy, he has a lot on his plate. Oftentimes he's so tense with apprehension his neck locks up and you hear it clicking as he turns one way or another, or if he isn't apprehensive he's disappointed, furious, upset. You give him the benefit of the doubt because you know him, but you don't know the tone of voice he uses now. It's like he's offended at the insinuation. Like he would never, ever be friends with you. 

You put your lemonade on the desk and don't know what to do. His insipid floating platform is too high now to leave without causing a scene. Maybe when he's busy you can web down and go home. All you know is that you desperately don't want to be near him. But home sucks, and the dormitories are worse. You're stuck. 

"You can be so mean," you say softly, turning back to your sketchbook and pencils. 

You're thinking you might draw him with a bunch of bee stings, or find a previous sketch and cross his eyes out.

"What?" he asks. 

Your hackles rise. "You're mean. Don't talk to me." 

"What?" Miguel stands very still. "Y/N, what?" 

"What do you mean, what? I said something nice and you said something cruel. I get it, okay, we aren't friends, so don't talk to me." 

"I've upset you." 

You stare at your blank page. "It doesn't matter." 

"No, I've said the wrong thing." 

"Miguel, don't bother. What else could you mean by that?" You laugh with little humour. Crestfallen doesn't begin to describe how you feel. "I'll be quiet. I just don't want to be at home." 

"What's wrong with home?" 

"Is there ever much right?" 

"Did something happen?"

"We aren't friends, so why ask me?" 

You bite the inside of your lip as Miguel approaches, his footfall hushed over the lightweight metal flooring. You turn to him in your chair, head tilted back to meet his eyes, arms crossed over your stomach defensively. 

"That's not what I meant when I said that." He speaks slowly, firmly, to avoid any misunderstanding. "What's wrong with home, mi cielo?" 

You tap his ankle with your shoe, looking away from his gaze. You don't want to tell him, and if he keeps looking at you like that, you will.

"¿Qué pasó?" He bends at the waist slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, dark hair falling into his eyes.

"I don't know what that means," you murmur.

"Did something happen?" he asks.

"Nothing happened, it's just– it's lonely there," you say, squirming under the weight of his gaze, his sudden caring. "What's with you? One minute you're not my friend, the next you're worrying about me? You're giving me whiplash." 

He stands up, and his face falls back into a more typical emotionlessness. He's clearly feeling something, but he's wiping the slate clean. 

"When I said we aren't friends, it didn't mean–" He grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you were staying in the women's dormitory?" he asks, frustrated.  

"I am, but I'm useless, and they don't really respect me because I'm–" 

"Eccentric?" 

"–not as experienced," you finish, eyes flaring. 

"Oh, my god," Lyla says, appearing in front of him to make sure he sees her delight at his slip up. 

Miguel bats her hologram with an annoyed grunt. She disappears again, her tinkling laughter cut short.

"It's a good thing," Miguel says quickly.

You stand up. "It's not the point." 

"You should feel at home in the dormitory, and if you don't, I'll find you somewhere else to stay here, you don't have to be in there if you don't feel welcome."

"Miguel, you're sounding awfully friendly right now." 

"We aren't friends," he says again, stepping closer to you. "What's so hard to understand about that?" 

"But we spend time together. We have fun. You like me, Miguel, you do, you tell me jokes sometimes, you make me things for me. You… you do like me, right?" 

"You know that I do," he says, his eyebrows pinching together. 

"You like me, like, you want me," you say, just to make sure.

His fist clenches hard enough to make an audible sound. Miguel's voice is fraught, and through barely parted lips, "If you know that, what's the problem?" 

You don't know. Maybe it was silly to worry about how he sees you, because you do know that Miguel likes you, but you also know he hadn't wanted to like you. His attraction to you was reluctant, you're not stupid enough to miss that, and it was important to you that whatever tension sexual or otherwise lingering between you had bloomed into mutual affection. 

"I want us to be friends, too," you say. 

"I thought we were more than that." 

It's such a quiet admission. He isn't afraid to say it, and he isn't reluctant like you feared. 

"Miguel," you say. "I want you to like me. I know I can be off-putting, I know I tease too much, but I don't want you to like me despite those things, I just want you to like me. So, when you say we aren't friends…" 

"I've never heard you say three serious sentences in a row," Miguel says, reaching out for your hand. He pulls you toward him slowly, his fingertips gliding up the length of your arm. "Then again, it's the same nonsense as usual." 

"Miguel–" 

"Of course I like you. How else do you need me to say it? I like you and I want to kiss you, I like you and I like that you're irregular. You want us to be friends? Then let's be friends." Miguel's hand closes around your bicep. His thumb presses against soft fat and muscle alike. "But not just friends." 

Relieved, you sigh. "So you're saying we really weren't friends?" 

Miguel leans down until his face is the only thing you can see. His smooth skin, his dark eyes, their darker flush of too-long lashes; it's unfair how pretty his eyelashes are, how they curl, how they bunch in triangles you have to fight to resist touching. His eyebrows so often slightly set, giving him an unhappy expression even now. 

He brings the hand that isn't clasped at your bicep to the hill of your waist. It's hot as a brand, and it pulls you closer, your neck craning with every inch he steals from between you. 

"We can be friends," he says. 

His fingers twitch against your arm, and his hand begins to climb. It's not as slow as it feels, conquering the curve of your shoulder, your neck. His hand is big, his thumb pressing into the column of your throat gently.

He looks at you for a measured lapse of time, and you know, finally, that you're on the same page. 

"What you said before, 'mi cielo?'" You hold his elbow. "What does that mean?" 

"My sky," he says. "My… my heavens. It's saccharine. It's something teenagers say, when they're," —his voice dips, the hand at your waist squeezing tight like you might slip through his hold—  "infatuated." 

"Just teenagers say that?" you ask.

"No," he allows. "I always thought it was too much." 

"But you–" 

"Yeah. I did." 

The first kiss is surprisingly sweet. On the tail end of words, Miguel presses his lips half-parted to yours, slowly, softly, like the brush of a downy feather. He lingers, and it's your own movement that spurs him on —you shudder up into his lips and he loses control. 

The sound he makes is a shock. You try to pull back to check he isn't hurting, and he lets you until he realises why it is you're pulling away. "It's fine, it's okay," he says quickly. 

Assuaged of your concern, he pulls you back in and he kisses you, he kisses you, his hand squeezing too tight and his nose bridge sliding up against yours from the force of it all. Your chest feels like a pit and you need Miguel closer if you're ever going to fill it, your hands snapping up to his face like magnets. There's no need to pull him down to you, he's already wading in, not wading —crashing, kissing you so hard your lips burn. 

You make a sound that says, hopefully, This is really fun, but don't give me a bruise.

His tongue is a heat at the seam of your lips. Your weight bends, your chest leaning into his front. He doesn't hesitate to ease his hand behind your back and prop you up against him as things get heady, and the only thing you can feel is him. 

All those times he almost kissed you, all those times he couldn't cross the gap. He poked and prodded and provoked you into getting into his space and each time you called his bluff. You wanted Miguel to give in, and now he has, it's the meltiest, most stickying warmth you've ever felt. 

Voices sound far away, off the platform and down the hall. Jessica and someone else, approaching fast. 

Something sharp snags your bottom lip as Miguel pulls away. You press your finger to your sore lip. When you pull it away, blood spots your skin. 

Miguel takes your face into his hand and angles your face to a glowing screen carefully, in total juxtaposition of the grip he'd had on your waist. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, the tip of his fangs catching the light. His adrenaline must be high. 

"Excited?" you ask him breathily. 

He wipes your lip with his thumb. The other hand pet's your cheek. You feel suddenly and smotheringly adored, all his attention on your pinprick wound. 

"Everything okay up there?" Jessica calls. 

Miguel drops your face like he's remembered himself. You turn to your newfound company, Jessica Drew and an unhappy looking Gwen Stacy. This high up, there's no way they can see the state of either of you, mussed hair and Miguel's blushy cheeks, but they'll see you eventually. And Miguel might like you, might want you, might be your more-than-friend, but he's a stickler for appearances, and being found kissing your subordinate dizzy when you're supposed to be working would mortify him.

"I cut my lip on a lemonade bottle," you call cheerily, waving at grumpy Gwen. Her lips perk up. "Miguel's trying to tell me it's my fault. Is lemonade usually sharp?" 

His hand flattens subtly at the small of your pack. 

"Thanks," he murmurs. 

"Welcome, handsome. Is it bad?" you ask, turning back to hip with your lip pouted. 

His eyes visibly soften at the sight of you. "Not that bad." 

"Alright, good. You'll have to let the platform down, I need to go." 

"What? Where are you going?" he asks. 

"If we're friends now," you say, lilting, performing a half spin in front of him just to watch his eyes narrow, "I'm going to have to make us bracelets. Friendship bracelets." He clearly doesn't like the idea of being friends still, so you amend with a softer tone, "Friends and whatever that was. Come on, you'll love it. I'll make it match your suit." 

He rubs the space between his eyebrows. 

"Will you bring your stuff here?" he asks, the platform beginning to lower under your feet. 

"Duh. I need to take lots of measurements. I'll be in your hair all day, you'll hate it." 

He nods like he agrees. "I'll hate it," he says, deadpan. When he's sure Jessica and Gwen aren't looking, he gives you a smile you've never seen before. 

You and I have a secret, it says. 

Lyla appears by your shoulder to instantly tell him otherwise. It goes without saying that she's mildly disgusted and extremely smug. "Don't match it to his suit, Y/N. Mr. Heartthrob here needs something soft. How about some baby pinks, hm?" 

Miguel sighs, but you barely hear him over your excited gasp. "Yes! Pink and white, for sure, that would be so nice." 

"Great," Miguel says. "Perfect. Thanks for that, Lyla."

"You're so welcome!" 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :D please reblog if you have the time ♡