#dora stock

[diemelusine]

Portrait of poet and soldier Carl Theodor Körner (1814) by Emma Sophie Körner (attributed to Dorothea Stock). Alte Nationalgalerie.

[badmovieihave]

Bad movie I have Poison Ivy 1992 ,Poison Ivy 2 (1996 ), and Poison Ivy: The New Seduction

[nemo-in-wonderland]

am cooking. Have been on the stove that's my tablet all morning.

Am cooking lololol

I kinda leaning on Shay keeping the Colours of House Mormont BUT also wearing a cape and a lion brooch to show his fielty to his Lady Dorothea Lannister.

I like to think he could give Jaime a run for his money, especially when it comes to protecting his Lady Lannister.

Also, I am so leaning for Dora being the one with the reins, when it comes to run Lannisport and whatnot, because I can see her being a 30-year-something unwedded woman who has constantly refused marriage proposal because:1) she got all up her feelings for her Sworn Shield and 2) because NO WAY IN FREAKING HELL she is going to be told what to do fml. (gods I am so happy to finally show this side of Dottie).

Gods, I can imagine her being all distracted by him training in the courtyard, becasue dude yes, I would be too tbh.

[mrpagesfrontispiece]

I’ve been rather dismal lately

But it’s always nice to keep a positive attitude, which is why I’ve decided to make a list of GOOD things that could emerge from a Trump Presidency! I know, I know, it looks like doom and gloom right now, (because it is) and the next four years are going to be extremely unpleasant, but I sincerely believe that (ignoring the next four years) the future has rarely looked brighter. So, my list of good things, in no particular order, shall follow:

Donald Trump will crash the economy. “But MrPagesFrontispiece!” You cry in unison “I thought this would be a list of good things!” And that’s because it is! When Trump crashes the economy, (almost inevitable due to his plans to remove the independence of the Federal Reserve) the stock market is going to tumble downwards at a rarely precedented rate! Which means that it will be an INCREDIBLE time to buy! Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the S&P 500 dips below 3 digits! And once the market is obscenely low, and you’ve all bought dozens of shares, it will eventually climb back up, as markets always do. And then we’ll all be rich! And money, despite what people like to say, really does fix a lot of problems!

The Market, after crashing, might stay down. This means that the Glorious Proletarian Revolution I said wouldn’t come out of a Trump Presidency really would happen! And wouldn’t that be great? I’d love to be proven wrong about that.

Now that America is no longer a reliable defense partner, further Intra-European Defense coordination is almost inevitable! (It’s already happening. You heard about the new Polish nuclear program yet?) Which means further European Federalism! Which leads me neatly to my next point…

Global Hegemony will shift back to Europe! The American Empire is finally on the cusp of crumbling! How exciting! We’ll finally be in a multipolar world again! Unfortunately, two of those poles will be Russia and the PRC, but I’m betting that India will join Europe in being the guarantors of Democracy. Things have been looking up in India, after all!

When Trump repeals the 22nd Amendment, it’ll mean that we can finally have Obama ‘28! THAT’S RIGHT! OBAMA MIGHT GET A THIRD TERM!

Trump is obscenely old. He’s as old as Biden was when he won the first time, and he’s certainly not aging as well. This means that we’ll get the same schadenfreude that Republicans did when they made fun of Biden! They seemed to have a lot of fun calling him Sleepy Joe and such. How does Sleepy Don sound? Now you get to do that too!

Brentry! That's right, calling it now, if Labour wins the next elections then Britan’s reentry into the EU will probably happen. This might just be happy for me specifically, but I hope that it’s somewhat of a comfort for you too.

Think of the art! Such music, such poetry, such prose, such canvas, such theatre is to come from this time! Why, they'll probably teach a college class on it in a few decades! So get to creating, creatives! Whom amongst you shall create the next Guernica? The next First They Came? The finest artworks emerge from times of despair, and I cannot wait to see what we make!

We’ll get to kick Trump out of office again! And trust me, he’ll be kicked out of office. Now, I've heard whispers that there won't be a 2028 election. I've looked at the situation, and I really don't think that's possible. For one, the Republicans might have a tripartite majority, but they don't have a supermajority in either house. As such, no Constitutional Amendments can be passed, (I was just jesting about the Obama one) and pretty much the entire General Staff hates Trump. This means that he won't be able to legally get rid of elections, and he doesn't have nearly enough support in the military establishment for a self-coup. If he tried, I would bet that just a regular coup would occur. And hey!

Turkey’s most progressive constitution ever was written by the leaders of a military coup!

now, I know times look bleak, but I hope this might have just brightened your day a little. And if it didn't, then perhaps you'd like to inquire into the story of Dora Richter? I imagine that it could provide a decent deal of hope to many of you chaps. Anyway, signing off, as is rapidly becoming my custom, with a particular phrase:

We greet the persecuted and the oppressed. We greet our friends in America. Your steadfastness and loyalty deserve admiration. The courage of your convictions and your unbroken optimism guarantee a brighter future.

[liyawritesss]

ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴇʀɪᴏᴅꜱ

Characters: e-1610!Miles Morales, e-42!Miles Morales, Hobie Brown, Gwen Stacy, Margo Kess

Type: Headcanons

Synopsis: How the Spider Gang helps you through your period.

Warnings: Light cursing, periods so descriptions of blood, cramping; these can be seen as platonic or romantic! Some nicknames are used that can also be used in a platonic or romantic sense I suppose?

A/N: Currently on my menstrual and this shit was kicking my ass for a good four hours. My partner was here to help me through it, and they sorta gave me this idea lol. Love you babe!

Tags: @6-noir @babyboiboyega @badass-dora-milaje @jacuzziwaters @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @verachii @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @lulu-network @niyahwrites @pantherheart @marsfunzon22 @briology @honeybleed @romiantic @queenofthespiderverse @onlyperc @starsoir @yasminisbroke @kdyance @sussybaka10 @daisydark @ykimobessed @asensitivecookie @famedrs-blog @movie-enhusiast22

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ᴇ-1610!ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟᴇꜱ

Something tells me that he has a lot of girl cousins for some reason, and I think that also influences his knowledge about periods outside of Rio educating him about them. He’s not grossed out or anything by it, but is very well of the severity of the different hormone changes and mood swings, and doesn’t wanna get caught in the crossfire at all.

Amidst the stuff in his room he has a little container of period stuff - pads, tampons, painkillers, the basics - for whenever his female friends, family or girlfriend (if and when he acquires one) come over and aren’t prepared when their periods come on randomly.

He lowkey feels bad when the cramps are hitting you hard because he can only do so much on the outside, yknow? Like he can cuddle you and rub your tummy and try to lull you to sleep, but there isn’t much outside of that that he can do.

If you're cuddling, Miles opts to hold you against his chest while music is playing and he’s on his phone. He knows his dad does the same to his mom and thinks that the same method of action should work universally, and thanks to him, most of the time, with the girls and femme-adjacent people he’s around, it does.

ᴇ-42!ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟᴇꜱ

Very similar to e-1610!Miles, e-42!Miles is also one to be knowledgeable about periods and the do’s and dont’s of them. However, I feel like he’s more skittish about the physicality of it all.

Like, he also has a little period kit in his room and it’s much easier to find since there’s not a lot going on and he makes sure to put it in a easy to spot place for whenever female friends, family or partners are around, and he’s comfortable being told that it’s that time of the month for that specific person, but the visual of the blood and the pain makes him squirmish. Which is ironic, given his chosen profession.

I think it's something that, while small and completely unavoidable and integral to the female anatomy, it hits close to home for him to see his mom, friends, family, or partner in pain when it comes to the cramping, the clotting, and the increased times in the bathroom. He feels guilty, like e-1610!Miles, but it’s tenfold now given his own history with being helpless with things outside of his control.

While he’s not good with words, he’ll show his care more physically. Keeps track of the cycle of the important women and people in his life, keeps his kit stocked, and if it pertains to his mom or his partner, wants to go the extra mile and buy chocolates, snacks, and act as a looming presence just in case they need anything (will def say sumn abt them being a ‘cootie monster’ as a joke to lighten the mood, but if you really wanna cuddle him, he won’t put up a fight).

ʜᴏʙɪᴇ ʙʀᴏᴡɴ

Being a friend or a partner of Hobie’s means you’re taken care of, period. Need sanitary items? He’s got a stash of em in his guitar case. Emotional? He’s leaning his shoulder to you already. Cravings? Already walking out the convenience store with his jacket stuffed with your choice of snacks. Just need to sleep? He can get you a quiet, comfy space just like that. He don’t play when it comes to this thing.

At one point you questioned if Hobie knew more about periods than you did, especially your own. The longer you’re around him, the more shocked you become with just how well he can navigate around you during this time of the month.

I definitely see Hobie as the type to want to provide physical comfort and support for your period. Back rubs, foot rubs, cuddles, cradling or rubbing or kneading your tummy to help combat the cramps and the bloating, everything. He even lets you sleep on top of him if it helps with everything. He’d definitely go to sleep with his hands cupping your tummy, thumb running along your skin to soothe your pains.

He’s good at keeping you distracted from the pain by introducing you to some music, putting on your favorite show, or just talking randomly about something that’ll engage your attention. 

Hobie acts like your personal nutritionist for your period. Tells you the kind of tea to drink, what fruits to eat, what foods you should make to increase iron intake to make up for the loss of blood. And if you can’t cook, he’ll call one of his mates up to help him whip something up (or, knowing him, he’s got connections, he’ll ask someone to make sumn for you in exchange for something he can do).

ɢᴡᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴀᴄʏ

She hates her own period, so she can’t imagine how her friends and her partner feel. She’s the type to be confined to her room when she’s on her cycle pre-spider bite, however, I’d like to think that post-spider bite, she doesn’t get cramps anymore and the flow is rather light, which makes things great for being a superhero.

Therefore, Gwen takes her own experiences, coupling them with habits and things her dad does, and puts them to use for you.

Next to the dresser in her room is a little four-cube storage unit with bins that hold an assortment of things for you whenever you’re over her place. One bin has all your snacks in it that you generally like to eat, but she makes sure that it’s stocked up when your period comes around. Another has our comfy clothes you like to wear that keep you warm. Another has all the pads, tampons, and pain killers you’ll ever need, and lastly, the heating pad/warm water bottle to battle the cramps with.

Gwen will be kind of a worrywart, especially if she knows that your cramps get really bad sometimes. She’ll hover over you, wanting to help in any way she can, and even if you tell her to back off, she’ll still just kind of like, floats around just in case. It’s all out of love, though. And best believe she won't let you go if you finally invite her to cuddle again.

ᴍᴀʀɢᴏ ᴋᴇꜱꜱ

Homegirl definitely pops in on her folks using her avatar, and I feel like this  all the same when those she loves are on her period. She herself suffers from heavy flows and monster cramps sometimes, so she knows a thing or two on how to manage them for herself, and for her friends and partner.

Nutrition plays a big part, so like Hobie, Margo will try to help you out with certain foods and drinks to help alleviate some of the pain and pressure from your period. She even forms a little challenge for the two of you to try out while you’re on your cycles together so that you can try things out and see if they work for you

Ironically, one of her favorite facts is that one can actually sync up with other people who they’ve bonded with over the internet, Since it’s likely majority of her friends are online and that she’d meet her partner through her virtual avatar, she’s not completely surprised when it happened, but more intrigued that it actually is factual

While she also knows that a healthy nutrition helps out big time, don't think for a second Margo won’t open up a tub of ice cream and a bag of chocolates with you and put on a movie to get through the first day of the period blues. Comfort over all is the philosophy that she follows, so if you’re not down for any of that healthy shit, she isn’t either. She’s more than glad to sleep in with you while eating fast food, so long as you’re there for when you two have to struggle to get back on routine lmao

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

[bazaarwords]

thank you @why-does-it-matterr​! i think i got a little carried away, but i hope you enjoy!

cw: descriptions of injuries

-

There was a place she used to go to after the Order had days like these. Bad days. Ones that left her numb.

Historically, the place is both tangible and not—a lonely tower at the Cat’s Cradle, and once there, a few long moments of contemplation. But her old home is a long way away, and so Beatrice finds the part of her mind that needs this kind of treatment and sends it elsewhere. As for her body, she deigns to get to work instead of separating herself. The OCS may not be her world anymore, but there are wounded. People she cares for.

In the wreckage of their makeshift hideout, Beatrice wonders if maybe it’s never been the events of the day that seep the feeling from her. Maybe it’s always been this—this thing she must do to herself in order to succeed. Months of wandering have not divested her of the need to perform. The months have, however, been a reminder of all she’s lost.

She sets her feelings aside. There are things to do.

The first order of business: Camila’s shoulder is out of socket, and for all their collective expertise, Beatrice remains the best candidate to set it. Years ago, before the Order had swept her away, she’d spent a long summer volunteering in a hospital. It’s not the medical training she’d received afterwards, but the exposure was, at the very least, an advantage.

“Ready?” She asks, although she knows that Camila is always ready.

Camila, in the kind way she does all things, just smiles as if Beatrice is the one that needs the reassurance. She nods. “Go for it.”

Camila doesn’t flinch. She lets out a long, measured breath and she says, “ow” and she laughs at herself. Beatrice would like to take the time to laugh with her, but her joy is locked up in that faraway place. She squeezes Camila’s other shoulder, helps her into a sling made of a torn shirt, and moves on to the next.

Sister Dora has twisted her wrist. It’s discolored and swollen, but her bones are, thankfully, intact.

“A tarask,” she explains, “I thought it’d… well, I thought it’d kill me but…”

But she came back, Beatrice thinks to herself, searching the wreckage for wood to make a splint. She saved you.

She blinks that away—she has to. Sister Dora must notice her reticence. She doesn’t complete her thought. So Beatrice secures Sister Dora’s arm, and she moves on.

Yasmine has taken a glancing blow to the head, and Mother Superion has opted to stay up with her in the wake of the fight to monitor the damage.

“I’m okay,” Yasmine says when Beatrice comes by, holding up a placating hand. “I mean—I remember my name, so. So that’s good, right?”

Superion offers the smallest of smirks. It’s fond, not hard-won. “Yes, Yasmine,” she says, and rises up on unsteady footing. It’s not the new, halo-resurrected Superion.

“What happened?” Beatrice asks, firmer than she’d meant to. Emotions are nebulous when she settles into this way.

Superion shakes her head. “Nothing that should concern you. A few bruises.” She gives Beatrice a meaningful look—one she’s not present enough to catalogue. “There’s a cot in the back. Rest. We’re fine here.”

It sounds like an order, and even though she’s put the church behind her, she still respects Mother Superion. She can still recognize that she’s done all she can for the group, within reason. So she makes her way to the back room, feeling nothing. She sits on the edge of the cot, feeling nothing. She shrugs off her outer layers, feeling nothing.

Her mind has been in that faraway place, however, and as she returns to herself, everything sinks in.

While information comes in in pieces, on thing is for certain—there’s pain, everywhere. It would make the most sense to take stock of the worst places, the ones that need her immediate attention, but when feeling rushes back into her, the only thing she can think is that she needs to get out of this room and to wherever she’s gone—

There’s a jolt, razor sharp in the already excruciating throb of her abdomen. It’s quite obviously from when she’d been launched across a courtyard. The intensity winds her halfway to standing and her hip smarts as soon as she’s fallen back to the cot. She tells herself several times that she needs to get herself back in that empty place, that world where she feels nothing. Above all things, she needs to be there because she needs to find Ava.

A week prior, there had been a desperate call for help, a train from the small Finnish town she’d wandered into the month before, and Beatrice had found herself right back in the fray. Seeing the faces of her friends again after all their time apart had been bittersweet. When the fight had come to them, she’d remembered the last words Lilith had said to her. A holy war.

Despite her best efforts, she’s in the middle of it.

“Fuck,” she says, because she curses now. Because she knows that her knee is going to give out if she tries to stand. Because she’s effectively trapped herself in this room.

Frustration wells up in her like a lit fuse.

Assess the damage, she thinks, because what the hell else can she do?

The buttons of her shirt are slow work, her hands are weak from gripping her machine gun, her knives, the side of a building as she hoisted herself and Yasmine back to safety.

God is lost to her now, but it is a miracle that none of her injuries have drawn blood. A massive swath of skin along her side is purple and yellow but unbroken—it is the very worst of things. It hurts to draw breath, and hurts even more to bend and pull her pant leg up past her knee, to find the skin there in much the same condition. Upon further inspection, her hip, too, is a wild mess of bruises.

She’s a wreck, and what do they have to show for it? A few inches of ground? A few battered nuns, scrounging up whatever tools they can find?

Ava.

They have Ava. She just… doesn’t know where.

Beatrice had seen it happen as if in a dream.

The blinding light from above, the shockwave that had sent the tarasks flying in all directions, but hadn’t so much as nudged the sisters. When she’d looked, it was Ava’s form in the center of the light—Beatrice would know it anywhere, in any world—flickering in and out. She remembers shouting, desperate, stumbling through the wreckage. The details from there are hard to recollect. It’s when she’d been grabbed and thrown, it’s when the fight had resumed and she’d lost sight of Ava.

But she had seen her. That she’s certain of.

She closes her eyes, wincing as she tilts her head to the ceiling. The breath she tries to take is shallow and does nothing to steady herself.

“Beatrice?”

The pain of movement is forgotten, the voice like a ribbon of gold around her heart.

There’s Ava. There’s Ava.

The breath is gone in a rush, and Beatrice forgets the rest of the pain and she tries desperately to stand, to run, to move. Her leg gives out and Ava’s on her in a second, easing her back down.

“Ava,” she says, voice breaking, throat tight, “Ava.”

Ava kneels in front of her and she takes Ava’s face in her hands and she can’t look away. Suddenly, that place she goes—the one that is empty and lonely is filled with life. Filled with Ava. And she’s here, she’s real and alive and breathtaking in all the ways that Beatrice has loved. Loves. She feels nothing but it, looking at Ava.

“Bea,” Ava says, fingers wrapped around Beatrice’s wrists like they’ve been fused there. “Bea, you—you’re hurt.”

“You’re here,” Beatrice responds—nothing else matters. “Ava, you’re—“ She doesn’t have other words.

It should hurt to speak. It should hurt to lean forward, but then her lips are on Ava’s and nothing hurts, everything aches. Ava makes a small noise that lets loose something in Beatrice’s chest, and she wants to draw Ava closer, but her body betrays her, her whole side lighting up as if on fire. As if to remind her that respite is fleeting. But she doesn’t care, nothing else matters—

Ava notices her wince and pulls away. It hurts to try to pull her back, but still Beatrice tries. “Fuck,” Ava says, voice shaky, “Bea—hold on. You need—“

“I need you to not leave. I’m fine, I promise.”

“I’m not—you’re not fine, your—oh, God, Bea your side—“

Another Beatrice might have taken modesty into consideration. Her shirt is wide open, her trousers undone, and Ava is knelt before her, a hand on her bare knee. She just—she just wants so keenly that the constant, painful reminders of her body’s journey through battle feel like they’re killing her. She wants to pull Ava up and on to her lap, she wants Ava’s mouth on hers again, she wants, she wants, she wants. And maybe it’s her pilgrimage and her seperation from the church that’s allowing her this clear revelation, or maybe it’s just the relief to be in the same room as the girl she loves. Maybe that’s all it’s ever been.

“Let me… shit, I don’t know how good I am at this yet.” Ava focuses down on Beatrice’s splotchy, wounded knee, and the dark room is slowly illuminated by the glow of the Halo.

It feels�� itchy, at first. It’s not a scab, but the injury takes on the properties of one—Beatrice tamps down the overwhelming need to scratch or pat at it, but then—as soon as it began—it’s gone. Ava pulls her hand away and the skin is as normal as it’s ever been. An oblong scar where bone is closest to skin from one too many skinned knees, but other than that? Nothing.

“How did you…” Beatrice trails off, swinging her leg back and forth easily.

“I’d… you know, I’d really like to explain it, but, uh. I have no fucking idea.”

Beatrice can’t help it, she laughs, a little hysterical. And then she wants to throw up.

“Don’t—no laughing. Stop it,” Ava says with a worried smile. She sets the tips of her fingers at the massive bruise on Beatrice’s side, and Beatrice can’t tamp down the shiver that rockets through her at the feeling. “Sorry. Sorry, I just need to...” Ava says, her voice thick, “just let me…”

The Halo does its work again, scrubbing her pain from her, raw and red until it’s not anymore. Beatrice takes a breath, and there is no pain.

“Good?” Ava asks.

“Good,” Beatrice responds. She wants that to be the end of it, but when she tries to move in again—“I think there’s another…”

Herein lies the problem. Her hip.

Ava looks down, and they’re in the middle of a war, but Beatrice wonders if she closes her eyes for just a moment, maybe they’ll be back in the Alps. Maybe there, this touch is necessary for another reason. Maybe Ava is looking up at her like this and maybe nothing has ever been wrong.

But they’re in the blown-out remains of a church, and there are demons everywhere, and in her darkest moments she’d worried that this—her and Ava—was lost for good.

Ava hovers over her bruise, and Beatrice nods. Ava is delicate, fingers light over her hipbone. This is not the time to wish for another life, but still she does. And for the first time in months, the wish has legs. It climbs out of that place she goes and it smiles at her, and Ava smiles at her too, proud of her work.

Beatrice draws her in, and the war rages on, but there are no more lonely places.

She has Ava. It’s enough.

[darkfictionjude]

Everyone's reaction to a crowny with some dora the explorer's backpack? Anything that anyone asks for, crowny has it and is able to whip it out of their bag or something.

I love how random this ask is just plain out there but like by everyone who do you mean? It’s really just easier for me to do the ROs or the family but not together since this time of year I have low energy 😔

Imre: a lifesaver. His briefcase/satchel is aesthetically pleasing but doesn’t fit nearly enough so he’s grateful

Nia: ? She doesn’t even want to know where you got that bag from. Although if you could stock it with some chocolate she’ll be happy

Lorcan: he keeps swearing he hears rats in there and won’t get near it

[darling-i-read-it]

Babysitter

Dandy Mott x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: dandy being dandy, straight up murder, descriptions of a womans dead body, gloria is trying to like sell dandy to women

Author’s Note: i do not know how to feel about this but dandy is still crazy adn sometimes that calls for a weirdly sectioned fic  

Requested: by anon, Hey! Your Dandy Mott fics are absolutely scrumptious and I can’t think of anyone better to hand over this idea to. I was thinking Gloria hires Reader as a personal nurse/kinda nanny for Dandy to get him used to being close to ladies his own age but it totally backfires on her cause Dandy gets interested in Reader and throws huge tantrums when his mom tries to get him to pay attention to other (rich) women

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

You really needed a job. The summer had started and now that you were out of school there was no excuse for you to be lingering around without a reasonable way to spend your time. You had scoured the town for help wanted signs, dropped off your resumes at every available desk and even visited the local circus to see if they needed someone to hand out tickets. 

Some places answered. 

None of the places were as interesting as Gloria Mott’s phone call. You hadn’t even been by her house, had no actual idea that she was attempting to hire. You had heard the horror stories of the Mott’s. Dandy had walked around town and caused ruckus but you had never actually met him. 

Gloria’s phone call was high pitched and concerned. 

“A babysitter? I’m sorry Miss. Mott, I was under the impression that Dandy was around my age.” 

“Oh yes, he is! He’s just…a little stunted. In the most affectionate way possible! I would like someone his age to get to know him, get used to the idea of regular people.” 

She said regular people like it was a slur. You had no idea what kind of abnormal people she was speaking about or if she was directly talking about Dandy. Regardless, she was willing to pay far too much money for you to just hang out with Dandy. You had babysat before, granted, no one close to your age. 

It was between that or stocking shelves at the general store for below minimum wage. 

That was how you arrived at the doorstep of a large house. You knocked on the door nervously, unsure what to expect. You teetered back and forth on your feet, peeking through the side window that had the curtains drawn. You jumped when the front door opened. 

A woman answered the door wearing an apron. She had a disgusted look on her twisted face. 

“You’re the new help?” she questioned. 

“I…I guess so.” She didn’t move aside. 

“I’m Dora Brown. Welcome to the freak show.” She finally backed up. “I’m the maid here. Gloria said you were here to babysit Dandy?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Though isn’t Dandy my age? Gloria didn’t really specify what my duties here would be.” 

“Dandy’s behavior is obnoxious and unreasonable. He’s a spoiled brat who doesn’t know manners,” she seethed. You followed her through the house, trying not to be too amazed at the decor. You hadn’t realized how rich the Mott’s really were. You couldn’t imagine having this much money, enough to decorate the walls with unnecessary pastels. 

“So I’m here to make sure he doesn’t act out?”

“I think you’re here to get him used to other people.” She stopped in front of a door. “Good luck with that.” Her tone of voice was not reassuring. She left you there, walking back down the long hallway with no instructions. You looked at the door, unsure what you were going to find behind it. You wondered if this was worth the money. Dora didn’t seem exactly happy. But who was happy at work? 

You knocked on the door. 

It swang open without much of a delay. Behind it was Gloria, her face pinched into a forced content look. 

“Oh good! You’re here.” She moved aside and took your bag from you. “Dandy’s just in his room. If you could just make friends with him.” Her instructions remained vague and you didn’t think you were going to get anything else from her even if you pried. You cleared your throat. 

“Why can’t Dandy make friends-”

“You’ll see dear, you’ll see.” She was ushering you towards the door at the end of the room. You suddenly felt unsafe; like she was leading you to slaughter. You had no room to protest because suddenly the door was open and you were being shoved inside. 

The door shut harshly behind you. 

It was like a children’s play room but enlarged. Toy horses the size of real ones were at the corners of the room. There was a bike and a chandelier. You looked around, absorbing everything rather slow, when your eyes finally landed on Dandy. He was sitting at the front of the room, in front of what looked like a puppet show stage. He stood up when the door shut behind you. 

“You’re the girl my mother is paying to watch me?” he questioned. His tone was closer to singing than speaking. You cleared your throat and nodded. You had never seen Dandy in person, only heard the rumors. He was your age. Handsome, if it weren’t for the childish scowl on his face. 

“Hi Dandy,” you breathed. “I’m Y/N.” You straightened your back. You had to do what you were paid here to do. 

“Y/N.” He played your name on his tongue. He said it again, whispering it and then saying it loudly. “Like a toy.” 

“Sure. Like a toy.” You approached him, still looking around the room. “How are you today?” 

“Fine. You shouldn’t have to be here. My mother thinks I’m still a child.” He sauntered over to you, landing just in front of you. He observed it curiously, like you were nothing but an object. He put his hand on your arm, brushing down it, like you were made of practice. 

“You’re not a child,” you told him. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“Right?” 

You nodded once. 

“What do you like to do, Dandy? This room is pretty magnificent. I can’t imagine you getting bored.” 

“I’m so bored,” he promised you. “All the time.” He gestured to everything. “My mother doesn’t like it when I speak about the circus or the clowns. I want to go to the circus Y/N.” You furrowed your brows. 

“I haven’t heard much about the circus. What goes on there that’s so exciting?” You sat down on the round green couch in the center of the room. He turned to look at you, eyes wide. 

“You haven’t heard?” You shook your head, a small smile on your face. 

“No I haven’t.” He sat down beside you, words starting to tumble out of his mouth. He liked to hear himself talk and it was easy to get him going. 

-

You weren’t quite sure what Gloria and Dora were going on about. Sure, Dandy was high maintenance. But he loved hanging out with you. He was a clingy mess, the second you allowed him to speak to you he never wanted you to leave. Multiple nights he insisted on you spending the night. You got used to him fairly quickly and had no issues getting paid to spend time with him. 

Frankly, after a while, you grew to enjoy your time with Dandy. Having someone fawn over you endlessly and obsess over your every move was more enjoyable than anyone else gave him credit for. He had no interest in the circus after a while. Why would he, when he had you?

You got him fun trinkets from there when you passed by, pictures of the abnormalities he would go on and on about. He kept them on the wall and in the corner, a shrine to your presents. 

Dandy was napping. He had to nap once a day, like a child, otherwise he would get cranky. Typically you read in the same room as him so he wasn’t surprised when he woke up without you. Dora liked to call you ‘Dandy’s favorite teddy bear’. 

You had curled up beside him, holding the book open with two fingers. Gloria opened the door slowly, not wanting to wake him up. 

“Afternoon,” you whispered. Dandy grumbled at the noise but didn’t wake up. She gave you a curt, whimsical nod. 

“Tomorrow evening I’m having some ladies over. Your services won’t be needed.” You nodded once. 

“Are you sure? Are they friends of yours or-”

“Potential suitors for Dandy,” she explained. “It’s better if you’re not here to distract him. Though your services have been increasingly valuable,” she admitted. Her voice was wispy. You nodded slowly, glancing down at his sleeping figure. 

“No worries. Should I let him know?” She shook her head. 

“I’ll let him know,” she said. 

“Alright.” 

She stared at you for a moment, awkwardly, like she wanted to say something else but nothing else came out. You watched her, evenly, until she left the room. You weren't sure when you had started to hold the cards over Dandy but it felt like you had more sway than her. 

Dandy groaned. You brushed his hair out of his face and he nuzzled against your touch. 

He reached forward, grabbing at your leg. You hummed and he put his head in your lap. You hummed till he fell back asleep. 

-

It was odd not going to the Mott’s the next day. You wondered how Dandy was handling it. You spent the day pursuing the shops in town, finally having the money to spend. When you arrived back home your phone was ringing. You set down your bags and removed your sunglasses before picking it up. 

“Hello?” 

“Oh thank goodness.” You recognized Gloria’s phone voice. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for an hour. Where on Earth were you?”

“I was out, I thought I had this afternoon off,” you said. “Is everything alright?” You asked the question, despite being able to hear the ruckus in the background. There was a crash and a yelp from Gloria. You heard some muffled calling from Dora. Then an exasperated groan from Dandy. 

“No! No, everything is not alright! Please come over!” It briefly occurred to you to ask for more money. Clearly your services were needed and Gloria’s pockets weren't exactly hurting. Instead you heard another annoyed groan from Dandy and nodded. 

“I’m leaving right now.” 

-

When you arrived you could hear the chaos from outside. Glasses shattering, plates breaking, screaming from an annoyed mother. You didn’t bother knocking, instead you just used your key and let yourself inside. 

You followed the noises to the dining room. 

“I don’t like those ladies' mothers! I don’t want those women, those foul overpriced women!” Dandy explained loudly. “I want Y/N!” 

“Y/N is not a- stop throwing things!” Gloria’s strained voice exclaimed. You pushed open the door. There was glass shattered on the ground and beside it, a dead woman. She had a singular gunshot wound in her forehead. Her lips were still open, drool escaping her lifeless mouth. Your eyes floated around. 

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Gloria exclaimed. “Dora will come clean this up. Please, please, just deal with him-” 

Dandy ran over to you, throwing his arms around you. Your receptive actions were halted for a moment, as you took in the events in front of you. 

“What happened?” you asked him as he held him against you. 

“My mother tried to have me marry a different woman,” he seethed. “Doesn’t she know we’re supposed to be married?” Your eyes opened wide. You couldn’t exactly deny your connection to Dandy but neither of you had talked about anything exactly romantic. 

“Oh Dandy,” you whispered. You brushed his hair out of his face. “Did you do this?”

“She wouldn’t leave me alone,” he explained, looking at the dead woman. She was older than him. Much older. Closer to Gloria’s age and status. You narrowed your gaze at her. Dandy was easy to annoy but he was worse when he was uncomfortable. 

“I assure you, she was just being friendly,” Gloria said absentmindedly. You watched as she left the room to find Dora. You wondered if this unnamed woman’s death would be talked about at all, or if they would sweep it under the rug like everything else Dandy does. 

“I didn’t like her,” Dandy whined. You nodded. He was still holding onto your arms, his grip tightening. You nodded once. 

“That’s alright,” you whispered. “Let’s go get some air.” You dragged one of your hands down to his hand. You gripped it, lightly dragging him out of the room. He watched the unmoving woman as he walked. You led him through the front door and to the courtyard. It was empty of any other staff. You were grateful to be alone. 

“I want to go out,” he muttered. “I don’t want to be here.” 

“We can go somewhere else. Where would you like to go?” 

“I don’t care,” he admitted. His hand remained in yours. He looked down at it, observing the intertwined fingers. He hummed, flexing his fingers in and out. “This is nice.” 

“I’m sorry your mother tried to set you up with that other lady,” you whispered. He shook his head. Just the reminder of her made him upset. He had disposed of her and now would need no other reason to think of her. 

“She’s gone now,” he told you. He said it like it was a promise, as though he had done it to protect you. “Where were you?” 

“Your mother said you were having friends over. She said I didn’t need to come by.” 

“You always need to come by,” he insisted. He raised his head and let go of your hand. “You’re not like mother or Dora. You listen when I speak,” he said, head straight. You gave him a gentle smile and he gave you one back. 

You gestured down the courtyard. 

“Should we take a walk?” He thought about it for a moment and then offered his arm. You wrapped your arm through his. He leaned against you and used you as a crutch. You wondered if you were going to get a phone call from Gloria, complaining about where Dandy was. She might even try to fire you, hire a new ‘nanny’ for Dandy, and try and set him right again. 

“Do you think we could stop at the circus?” he questioned, voice suggestive. You both knew you weren’t supposed to go there. 

“That’s a long walk.”

“We can take one of my cars.” He paused. “I have many.” You nodded slowly. 

“Do you have the keys?” His lips turned up into a mischievous smile. 

“I may.”

[scarafrisbee]

nah cuz you got a point, i should've taken responsibility later... i am god after all

gurgffhrhf IM SO SAD TO GIVE UP MY DORA GIG 😭💔😭💔💔😭💔😭❌️❌️

LMAOOO YOU HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO DO THAT IN ONE DAY ESPECIALLY WITH MY MUTUALS COMING IN HOT TOO

honestly that’s all in the day’s work of a god

[kafkasapartment]

Dora Maar, Ady, Picasso and Kasbec-dog (Holidays in Antibes), 1937. Man Ray.

Silver print on carte postal stock.

[mahgnib]

Dora Stock, silverpoint drawing of Mozart, 1789

[upontherisers]

❛ are you wearing my shirt? ❜ for Dora and Rosie . for legal reasons

a/n: this took so long babe my apologizes. cari write established relationship or draw 25 challenge. i'm drawing 25.

It’s hot in the sun, gloriously hot, the kind of hot that seeps right through her bones, the kind that makes her feel like she has dissolved and diffused into the air. The kind that sings her to sleep without any sound, that makes burning feel like a hug, the kind her mother would chase her out of on the grounds of too dark and wrinkles. Sorry, Mama. I’ve always loved the light. The kind of hot that needs no wind, no umbrella, no shade at all – just the clear sky overhead and the laughter of children splashing in the fire hydrant on the street below, shrieking and shouting and ignoring their parents as is their right on such a perfect day. 

The kind of hot that makes her sleepy without ever being tired first and she’s already napped today – Pastor had asked after her absence and Grammy, a quick thinker, had pardoned her granddaughter’s absence. A summer cold, you know how those get. And she has things to do – bring her laundry off the line after forgetting for two days and darn a stocking and do her readings for class tomorrow and review a radio contract offer for the picket – but it’s the kind of hot that absolves her of guilt and the day is about indulgences, isn’t it? She’s sunbathing on her roof, for Pete’s sake.

Besides, Robert’ll wake her up before it gets too late.

She cracks an eye open to look at him seated on the blanket beside her, engrossed in a newspaper. It’s tough to make out the date on the front page as it bends into shadow, but the breeze does her a favor. July 7th, 1943. It’s two weeks old but he’s reading like it’s December 8th, 1941, like he’s going to do something about what he’s seeing. You’re in it now, aren’t you?

“They don’t give you newspapers in Texas?”

His eyes, brilliant blue, as blue as the sky above, meet hers over the headline – 6 JAPANESE WARSHIPS BELIEVED SUNK IN FIGHT, and those crinkles in the corners remind her of the day they met, her confusion over Mildred’s forlorn pining when she learned where Dora had been assigned. Oh, I wanted that desk. And then he walked in and offered a hand and smiled and if she were a different woman – ambitious, romantic, concerned with station, she would’ve gloated. But Dora was new and Robert had only just started and they both needed to see who they’d turn out to be, legal secretary and lawyer.

“They give us Texas papers in Texas.”

“And they don’t have the news?”

He blinks and sets that pesky left brow. “Not the backpages stuff. Nothing about New York.”

“I can send them to you,” she says, “if you want to keep up. They’ll be a week behind but—”

“Do you read ‘em?”

“Yes,” she does, and her panic about welcoming him back into the apartment by daylight is that he’d be able to see the pile stacked on top of the piano, in reach when she’s tucked into the nook of the front window. The ones she managed to fish out of the bottom and shove into the broom closet before he finished giving himself the tour were from March and she doesn’t know when that started, but it surely wasn’t good. Just another thing to add to the list of things he made her look twice at – shoes, streetlights, and newspapers. She could at least get the Great Paper Purge done today. 

The corner of his mouth lifts, the one Mildred swoons over, he snaps the pages upright again. “I’d rather have your summaries. They’re a little more uplifting.”

She’d fret over yet another assignment getting put down in writing if it weren’t for the sun, for the warm stone under the blanket as she rolls onto her stomach, if it weren’t for the reminder that she’s as alive as anything, and she really needed this, didn’t she? She doesn’t know how he knew, but the sun tells her not to get herself into a tizzy over that either, and she slumps into the pillow beneath her chin, checking her watch – 1 o’clock. An hour won’t hurt. She’d pop up at two, take her laundry down, fix her stocking, then bring her books to the roof. Dinner will have to be sorted eventually, but her eyelids are so very heavy and as Robert hums along to Mr. Delaney cranking his car radio all the way up at the end of the block, she feels like she’s floating in water, indistinguishable from the air around her. 

Hell, they can walk to Dean St. and Robert can pay for dinner at Cal’s with his big fancy Air Force salary. She sleeps.

Dora doesn’t snore so much as huff, little bursts of air puffing through her lips with every exhale. It’s sweet, leisurely, and relieving that she doesn’t have to sleep like she’s desperate for it. Shades of the bone-tired woman he had coffee with a week ago still remain – her bleary, addled amazement as her younger sister gleefully announced his arrival at their grandparents’ brownstone, her gentle slump in his passenger’s seat as she quietly watched the city pass by – but she has her light back, the glow that pushes from her as she finds him a file, chats with Mildred and Bob over lunch, sheepishly hops up on stage to play with the Putman house band, and rests here on her building’s roof. 

He abandons his article about illness threats to women factory workers – interesting how the men on the line next to them don’t face the same risk – to watch her for a while. It’s strange that she’s here now, in front of him, after so many months of wanting to see her, of writing down stories that would be easier to tell in person, of picking white and yellow wildflowers on the side of the runway in Tennessee and wishing he could tuck them behind her ear and watch her smile, bright, blinding. He thinks of her more than he knows what to do with. 

Her face is turned toward him, brushed gold by the sun beating down over her round cheek and slight chin, the oval of her pink mouth, the heart of her Cupid’s bow. He’d kissed that beautiful, wide, flat nose, and brushed his thumb indulgently over her soft skin under the cover of night, but the light reveals the best of her. The small of her back, a heart-freckle on her shoulder, the curve of her spine – he wants to touch.

Hesitantly, he traces a knuckle over her shoulder blade and she stirs, but doesn’t wake. One finger, then another, then the rest, then his palm and he listens to her breathing as he rubs her back. It manages to be musical, like everything about her, as it matches the pace of the horns popping in and out of the Crosby tune floating up from the street. With our full crew aboard and our trust in the Lord, comin’ in on a wing and a prayer. He’s never been a fan of Crosby – crooners are killing the art of big band – but he doesn’t sound half bad when Robert can watch Dora’s lashes flutter as she stretches out on the plush, striped wool under them.

What’re you gonna do about that girl, his mother had asked him as he left this morning. 

Jeannie laughed from their dining table. Something stupid.

Something helpful, he insisted. 

Something helpful.

He stops rubbing her back before he really does something stupid – brush away the hair falling into her eyes, feel the freckle on her shoulder with his teeth – and pulls out the note he’d written as she was making them lemonade. Be right back. Standing, he discards his unbuttoned shirt, leaves the note on top, and grabs his edition of the Times before descending the fire escape ladder at the back of the building and slipping into Dora’s apartment. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but as soon as he regains his bearings, he gets to work.

Kitchen first. There’s not much to do; he sweeps, collects the sugar that had spilled on the counter, discards the empty lemon rinds, and washes the dishes in the sink. He picks up around the living room, scooping fallen petals from the purple flowers in her windowsill, placing stray records back in their sleeves – not without putting Benny Goodman on first, and he’s in the middle of organizing the newspapers on top of the piano when he flips through a May edition on a whim and his eyes catch black ink in the margins, two words hastily scrawled next to a small article. For Robert. The headline circled, $3,629,000 FOR REFUGEES; Jewish Relief Unit Appropriates Funds. 

He remembers this. She’d written him about it along with assurances that the new Jewish families in the neighborhood were adjusting well. Her Yiddish is rudimentary, her German sparse, and her Polish non-existent, but she made sure to greet them all with a smile when passing by on the street or the bus, and she’d joined an antifascist coalition with her grandparents that had seen her speak in front of jeering crowds at borough council meetings and counter protesters at aid rallies. But they don’t bother me, she wrote.

That’s Dora, kind and fierce. She’s going to make a damn fine lawyer. 

There are a few more of her notes as he skims through the papers and leaves them on top of the piano. He tidies the worn cushions in her window sill and it brings him no small amount of peace to picture her reading there with her legs curled under her, basking in the sun during the day and aglow with warm lamplight at night. 

He goes to look for a duster for the piano and gets lost reshuffling her broom closet for half an hour.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to pick her up in Harlem, change into their bathing suits here, and spend the afternoon on Coney Island before coming back to Brooklyn and getting ready for an early dinner at Rosetti’s followed by a show on Broadway. The tickets, nervously purchased over the phone yesterday evening while Jeannie cried with silent laughter and picked up as he drove through Manhattan this morning, sit above him next to Dora in the front pocket of his shirt. They can wait there until Germany surrenders for all he cares, as long as she sleeps in peace. There’s no use in running around the city if she can’t wake up with a lighter heart tomorrow. 

He’s not blaming anyone – there’s a war on – but he likes to think that if he were home, he wouldn’t have let her work herself into the ground. Surely someone had noticed the shadows growing under her eyes, her smile fading as the days went. How could they live without it?

And selfishly, he wanted one last look. Dora had circled the numbers in the papers; twelve bombers lost, fifteen, seventeen, twenty. Whatever that meant for him, a homecoming or a gold star in his mother’s window, he wants to remember what he’s fighting for. His older sister’s incessant teasing; the joy in Mrs. Schuman’s voice when he enters her bagel shop – her son Robert, also a lieutenant, didn’t make it off Guadalcanal; and the way Dora’s little brother protests that he doesn’t need her to adjust his hair and his tie before he goes to lunch at his sweetheart’s place but still lets her kiss his cheek on her way out the door. He’s fighting so that Darren doesn’t have to, so that Jews and Poles and the French get to kiss their little brothers’ cheeks, too, out from under the boot of authoritarianism.

A pair of gloves fall from a high shelf and hit him in the forehead. The Benny Goodman record has ended, and he places the gloves in a box marked WINTER before heading back out into the apartment. One of Dora’s shirts snaps in the breeze through the kitchen window. Laundry, right.

Dora rouses gradually, laying with her eyes closed for a few moments before she notices the quiet, no more children laughing or the radio playing. Rolling over, she opens her eyes. The sun is further across the sky than she’d thought it’d be, and she sits up with a start as she checks her watch – 4:30. Shit, shit, shit. She hops to her feet and sees that Robert isn’t beside her, a note left atop his shirt in his neat, even hand. Be right back. She’ll meet him downstairs; she needs to get out of the heat and get to work.

A cool wind blows, making her shiver and she throws Robert’s shirt on, which matches the light blue of her bathing suit, and her stomach does a funny wiggle. They used to show up to the office in the same colors weekly – it’s nice to know that some things don’t change.

The fabric is soft, well-loved, and as she runs her hands down it, her fingers catch on something in the breast pocket. Looking down, she sees two thin strips tucked in the fabric, and fishing them out, she rubs the sleep out of her eyes to read the print.

Broadhurst Theatre. 44th St. Evening - Sunday. E 19.

Robert Rosenthal, you didn’t.

She yanks the blanket from the ground, grabs the lemonade pitcher, and throws on her shoes – interior soles burning after hours baking in the heat – before leaping down the ladder and taking the stairs two at a time. He’s wide-eyed at her sudden entrance, holding one of her work blouses as she pushes through the window, slightly woozy at the green tinge everything takes coming out of the sun. They’re both frozen for a moment.

“Did you buy these?”

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

“I asked first,” she says, holding out the tickets.

There goes that damn dimple as he smiles softly, not helping slow her heart hammering in her chest. “I, uh, I got us a dinner reservation at Rosetti’s, too.” He folds her blouse over a bare forearm and she’s hit with so many thoughts at once – she doesn’t have anything to wear to the theater; he’s not wearing a shirt and she can see the firm muscle of his stomach and the arch of his hip bones; he’s doing her laundry, brassieres included; she still has to do her readings; he’s not wearing a shirt – that she starts to laugh, heaving, side-splitting guffaws. Of course he did.

This is what he does – waltzes into her life, shows her just how good it can be, just how kind the world can get, then leaves and she’s a better, lonelier person for it. Here he is, in her dead parents’ home, doing her laundry because she couldn’t manage, telling her he planned a night for them, that he chose her over a Yankees’ game or a show at Minton’s or simply an evening in with his darling mother, and he’ll be gone in three days, off to be a shield against evil, off to save the world after watching her nearly fall asleep on her feet in a dirty kitchen and still deciding to come back for her.

She laughs until she wheezes, until she’s folded over and her abdomen cramps, until there are tears in her eyes and she doesn’t know if she’s happy or heartbroken. 

“Dora.” He’s in front of her now, smelling of heat and leather and chlorine like he got the Bab-O out from under her sink.

“What have you done?” she asks as she stands and wipes her eyes. And here she was thinking they might get dinner at Cal’s.

His face falls, eyes turning big and sad like a kicked puppy, his dark brows furrow, and it nearly sends her into another fit but she manages to stay upright. “We don’t have to go if—I thought that—”

She shakes her head vigorously and reaches up to hold his cheeks, his stupid, perfect cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

His smile is so bright that it beats the sun outside and she gets lucky with where her fingertips have landed because those glorious laugh lines find themselves where she can touch them. He turns his head just so and squints as if he’s listening to a good song and steps into her, setting his hands on her hips. 

This is where they kiss in the pictures, and the thought is so laughable that she chuckles aloud before throwing her arms around his shoulders as his slip around her waist. It’s warm, not sunbathing warm, but good all the same.

“Thank you,” she murmurs in his ear. Tears bite at her eyes.

“You deserve it,” he says.

They stay in an embrace until she realizes that she still doesn’t have anything to wear and they have to get all the way to Midtown in traffic. She stands back with a sniff. “I need to borrow a dress from Jeannie.”

[cruger2984]

Hetavision '24 - First Semifinal Results

It was indeed - one hell of a Swedish bloodbath if you ask me, but ten have passed through the flames and now snatch the Star Rail Special Pass (sorry HSR reference BTW) ticket to Saturday's Grand Final in Malmö! Here are your finalists!!

Serbia: Teya Dora - Ramonda

Portugal: Iolanda - Grito (Shout)

Slovenia: Raiven - Veronika

Ukraine: Alyona Alyona and Jerry Heil - Teresa & Maria

Lithuania: Silvester Belt - Luktelk (Wait)

Finland: Windows95man - No Rules!

Cyprus: Silia Kapsis - Liar

Croatia: Baby Lasagna - Rim Tim Tagi Dim

Ireland: Bambie Thug - Doomsday Blue

Luxembourg: Tali - Fighter

I am going to see you guys in the second semifinal! So be sure to prep up and stock some drinks and snacks!!

[unhinged-diaries]

I need a name for my alter ego. Dora von tees’s name is actually Heather something. Dita Von Teese is such a good name. Or maybe it’s actually just her. Maybe she’s so good at what she does that had anyone else called themselves Dita Von tees, it’s wouldn’t hold nearly as much weight. Yea, that’s probably it.

I won’t share this name with anyone else though. In my African culture, something like that would turn you into the laughing stock of your family.

[liyawritesss]

ʟᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴇ!ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟᴇꜱ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇ...

Characters: College!Spider-Verse!Miles Morales 

Type: headcanons

Synopsis: What would it be like to hold the heart of Brooklyn’s very own Spiderman? Is it an exhilarating tale for the ages, or do things crash and burn before the romance even begins?

Warnings: Some cursing but that’s about it

A/N: Think of this as a part 2 to my original college!miles morales headcanons. Very sweet and cute, with Miles being a dork even in his young adult years.

Tags: @6-noir @babyboiboyega @badass-dora-milaje @jacuzziwaters @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @verachii @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @niyahwrites @pantherheart @marsfunzon22 @briology @honeybleed

Sign Up For My Taglist Here!

As said previously in my general college!miles headcanons, I doubt that he’s that invested in dating and pursuing a love life while at school in jersey. So I feel like it’s likely he’ll meet his partner when he travels back home for vacations, weekend trips, etc, as its somewhere he feels more at ease to be himself.

I like the idea of Miles bumping into the attractive person at the Lenny’s Bodega he normally buys his Jamaican Beef Patties from, in a very cheesy and cliche situation where there’s only one left in stock when the both of you reach for it….and Miles being the gentleman he is, would let you have it (also bc there’s a massive fight happening outside and he’s got a suit up real quick, but you don’t question just how frantic he is when leaving the store)

After that Miles tries his hardest to see you again, making up the lamest excuses to head to the corner store. Mama Rio’s out of milk? He’s already bolting out the door. Catching up with dad while he’s on patrol and Jeff mentions he’s a tiny bit hungry? No problem Pops, I got it. And lord knows that boy do not need to go on that many ‘snack runs’ with how skinny and lanky he is, cuz he not gaining nothin’

Though at some point he does run into you again, and he’s able to engage a conversation by the fact that there’s more beef patties in stock so both of you guys can get one. It’s a cheesy joke but it works, cuz when you laugh a little it gives him a major confidence boost

Of course, Mama Rio peeps that somethings up with her son when he comes home with an extra pep in his step. But just because he’s an adult now doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have grounds to tease him. “Did you meet someone today? A girl? Or….. a guy?” She absolutely lives for seeing her son happy and giddy.

It starts just as casual texting, sending tiktoks back and forth and sending casual check-ins. Over time it evolves into meetups, hangouts, facetime calls. And originally Miles is just like “they’re attractive and cool asf” and is perfectly fine with a friendship. It’s been a long time since he’s had a genuine one (in reference to the events of ATSV), and more than anything, just wants someone he can be real with.

But even he can’t fight the realization that at some point throughout your friendship, his perspective of you shifted from platonic to romantic. Miles started to notice little things about you that would make his heart stall in his chest or his stomach flip around with butterflies. Noticing a new fragrance you’ve bought, or a change in your usual hair style, or being more in tune with your emotions than even you are.

So it begs to question; when would Miles say anything about his budding feelings? Well…he probably won’t say much of anything at first. If anything he tries to bury them because he doesn’t wanna ruin the one good friendship he’s been able to maintain since he was a teen. But his changes in behavior don’t go unnoticed by you, and for a while, the two of you walk this thin line of “will they-wont they” until you ultimately bring the conversation up

You go on a couple of dates, have a couple of conversations about what would be expected in a relationship with the both of you, and with your talks Miles slowly but surely begins to gather the courage he needs to be firm with his desires for you…which comes in the form of a kiss underneath the stars while stargazing on the rooftop of his brownstone building.

In the beginning, he’s still kind of skittish, he doesn’t wanna do anything wrong ruin what you two have, and there’s a lot of reassurance that goes into play during the first few months of you two dating (on both ends, really). But once he’s comfortable and you two are really set in…good luck tryna get rid of him

Clingy clingy clingy clingy clingy- loves cuddles, hugs, kisses- is definitely a “where my hug at” typa nigga, and will immediately get grumpy if you dont give him a greeting kiss. Always has a hand on you, whether it be on your back, in your hand, on your thigh- he just needs to physically feel you to ease his mind sometimes.

He draws portraits of you and leaves them in your bedroom or his to find. He also likes when you give him feedback and praise for his drawings because they make him feel really good about them. He always jokes about how you change your hair so much, it’s hard for him to nail down certain hair types and protective styles that you wear.

When he’s home for summer break, your parents can’t and will never stop you two from sneaking into each other’s rooms through the fire escape. They just expect to come into your rooms and find the two of you cuddled up together, with blankets lazily thrown over your bodies. But it also gives them plenty of pictures to blackmail the both of you with. (Jefferson is notorious for picking on his son for clinging onto you like how he used to cling onto Rio’s arm as a baby when he slept. Miles will never know peace in his own house.)

If you have your own apartment, Rio has to beg this boy to come home, and constantly makes jokes about him moving in with you since he spends so much time at your place anyway.

When he’s away at school, he calls you three times a day - one in the morning so that you two can wake up and get ready together, one in the afternoon when he’s in between classes and while you’re either in between classes or on lunch at your job, and once in the evening so you two can unwind and fall asleep together on the phone for the process to be repeated again.

He likes to speak random sentences in Spanish and watch your face contort in confusion. In the scenario that you don’t know or understand the language, you’ll ask him what he said, but he’s so difficult with it, he lets you beg until you ultimately give up, and whispers it in your ear while giving you a back hug. It turns out to be something cheesy as hell, but you love it either way.

If you do understand/know the language, you look at him like he’s grown two heads and question what it is he’s even saying, because in this scenario he’ll say the most random and out of pocket shit just to annoy you. Though you forgive him in the end because he honestly sounds so good when he’s speaking his mother’s tongue.

Dating Miles also means sharing him with Brooklyn, and subsequently New York in general, when it comes to his Spiderman duties. If you can hold him down even though he can’t guarantee being a constant presence for you, you’ll make him fall harder than he originally had. If you love him unconditionally, even if the nights where he comes to you, battered, bruised and exhausted; even when he has to cancel dates or disappear in the middle of a phone conversation; or there are certain things he can’t tell you because of his superhero occupation - the one thing Miles will always promise you is that he’ll come back to you every single time. And that's more than enough for the both of you.

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

[samynnad102687]

Marauderstober

Oct. 28th - Jegulily - Apple Cider & Donuts

1, 110 words

James and Lily were sitting on the living room couch watching a movie when Regulus came home. He had a stressful day and just wanted to go to bed but on the way home Regulus remembered that he had promised James that they could go out and do something tonight. Does he remember what James wanted to do? No, not really. He just remembers that it was something about tonight.

Regulus took off his boots, put his keys on the hook, and set his bag and jacket on the rack next to the door. Slowly he made his way to the couch and plopped down in between them giving them each a kiss on the cheek. Even though Regulus was trying to seem ready for whatever was planned tonight didn’t mean that he didn’t clock the glances that James and Lily made towards each other the second he sat down.

“How was your day, love?” James asked gently.

“Stressful. People are fucking idiots and I wanted to burn the building down by the end of it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Would you like a shoulder massage? It might help with the stress and tension that you are clearly carrying,” Lily responded as she shifted so that she was facing him more.

“That would be nice, actually. Thanks.” 

Lily rubbed Regulus’ shoulders while he rested his legs on James’ lap and almost fell asleep. 

“Would you like to do something at home instead of going out to the party tonight?” James asked quietly after he squeezed Regulus’ knee.

Ah, so it was a party that James wanted to go to tonight. It made sense. It was almost Halloween and there was typically a Halloween party every year. A few of them actually, so if they missed this one then it would be fine and they could go to the one actually on Halloween.

“Are you sure? You were really excited about it.”

“We can go to one on Halloween, besides I’m not really that close with the host of this one. I doubt they would even notice if we were there.” James shrugged and Regulus was grateful.

“Okay.”

“What should we do tonight?” Lily asked as she finished her massage and Regulus felt a lot more relaxed than when he walked into the house.

“Do you want to make something?” Regulus asked hopefully. 

They hadn’t made anything together in a while and it was the perfect time of year for what Regulus wanted to make. James and Lily had never made it before but Regulus used to make it with Pandora and Dorcas during school before Barty and Evan came and ate them all in one sitting. 

“Like what?” James asked, curiosity dancing in his eyes. 

“How about donuts?”

“Ooh, it’s been a while since I’ve had a good donut,” Lily said excitedly. “We could make some apple cider too.”

“Yes! I haven’t had a good Apple Cider since probably last Halloween. The jugs at the shop just don’t taste right to me,” Regulus said as he looked between James and Lily.

“Then it’s settled. We’ll make some donuts and Apple Cider and stay in and watch a movie. A nice quiet evening at home,” James declared as he tapped Regulus’ legs for him to move them.

Regulus, James, and Lily got off the couch and headed to the kitchen to make sure that they had all of the ingredients they would need to make the donuts and apple cider. Regulus had pulled up the recipe that he used with Pandora and Dorcas on his phone. 

“Okay, it looks like we have everything except the apples and heavy cream,” Regulus said as he took stock of everything on the table. “Jamie? Could you run to the shop and pick those up for us?”

“Sure thing, love,” James replied easily as he grabbed his phone, keys, and jacket before slipping on his trainers and heading out of the door.

“What do we need to do while James is at the shops?”

“We can start mixing the ingredients for the donuts. The heavy cream is for the glaze after they are done,” Regulus said easily as he grabbed a bowl and started whisking the milk, yeast, and sugar.

“How many times have you made these?”

“Dora, Cas, and I used to make them in school when it was closer to Halloween, so a few times I guess,” Regulus shrugged.

“And you never thought to tell me and James that you knew how to make fucking homemade donuts?” Lily asked a little offended.

“It never crossed my mind until right now,” Regulus replied nonchalantly.

Regulus and Lily chatted a little while longer while the yeast bloomed. When James returned, they had all of the ingredients combined and were about to knead the dough. 

“Hey! I wanted to help,” James whined as he stuck out his bottom lip in a pout.

“You are going to help, Jamie. I need you to cut up the apples so Lily can start on the cider and then you can help me knead this dough if you would like to.” 

“Okay, that sounds good,” James replied happily and started quartering the apples while Lily got everything else set up. 

James finished the apples and put them in the pot before coming over to help Regulus knead the dough while Lily put in the water and spices for the cider and set it to a simmer. Once the dough was kneaded, Regulus set it in a bowl and covered it so that it could rise for the next two hours which was also how long the cider needed to simmer for. The three of them went back to the living room and cuddled on the couch after they put on a new Halloween movie to watch while they waited. 

After the movie, the cider and donuts were down simmering and proofing. Regulus grabbed the bowl with the dough and punched the air out of it before taking it out of the bowl and rolling it out. Lily strained out the solids from the cider and strained it again with a cheesecloth as James got the oil ready for the donuts. While the oil heated up and after the cider was strained, the three of them shaped the donuts before frying them. They made the glaze together while the donuts cooled. Once the donuts were glazed and the cider was cooled enough to drink, James, Regulus, and Lily made up a tray and brought it back into the living room to watch another movie. A low-stress evening was exactly what Regulus needed after the shit show of a workday he had.

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