#they're both comic reliefs

[thisheademptyyeet]

First art of the year I guess lmao

[fiona-fififi]

I love Ravi, but I wish they'd, like, DO something with his character.

[cruscribbles]

mf got the sans undertale fit

[br1ghtestlight]

realizing lightbulb inanimate insanity and gene bob's burgers are both mischaracterized in similar ways except the fandom infantalizes lightbulb and demonizes gene for some reason (mind you lightbulb is a Actual literal adult and gene is eleven years old) </3

[wreywrites]

Tiger Shark

Part 5: The Net

Chapter 29

I rise into the arena. We are in a lake, our pedestals tiny islands, and the cornucopia on a larger central island with evenly-spaced rocky spokes running from it to the shore. I glance around, a smile already growing on my face. This I can do.

I find Finnick, about seven people to my left. At my look, he gives me the tiniest of nods, fingers tapping on his own leg, Stay with me.

I will stay with him forever. This I know.

The cannon sounds, and I dive into the water. I am the first person at the cornucopia. I grab a pair of the silver spears, jam some knives into my belt, reach for a backpack. There aren’t any.

A few yards away, Finnick is picking through the weapons at a leisurely pace. The odds are very good not many others know how to swim. At least not like we do.

Katniss gets there next. Finnick flashes her his bracelet—his token he told me was a surprise, more like part of whatever his plan is, I think—and she nods. She seems angry about it, but she nods, and then goes to work on the Cornucopia.

There is a loud splash and a shout of “Damn it, Katniss!”

“I’ll get him.” Finnick passes me his tridents and dives back into the water.

Katniss is staring at me as I grab a sword and hang it on my belt as well.

“Anyone else you want?”

She frowns. She looks confused. I feel confused.

“I’m with Finnick. So we’re allies, right?”

Stitch is sitting by the fire, assembling a buffalo hide poncho.

Stay with me.

“Is there anyone else you want? Anyone else I need to get?”

She blinks. Then- “Seeder. Wiress and Beetee. Maybe Cecelia.”

Seeder is already halfway to the shore, following Chaff. I don’t know where Nuts and Volts are, but I have a sneaking suspicion Johanna and Blight are in on whatever this is, and I know Johanna knows how to swim. Cecelia is bobbing toward the shore in the same direction as Finnick is pulling Haymitch.

I jerk my head in their direction. “Looks like we got them. Get going.”

For once, Katniss listens. She dives off the platform after Finnick, who nearly has Haymitch to the shore. I start arranging the stash of weapons I am carrying. I grab an axe for fun when I discover I can manage one slung across my back with Finnick’s tridents and my spare spear.

I duck back out of the Cornucopia, coming face to face with Gloss, who is also armed with a spear. Neither of us move.

Someone is yelling. Someone is yelling my name.

A smile flickers across Gloss’s face, almost imperceptible, and he gives his head a quick jerk to the side. He is letting me go.

I have a feeling that if I was anyone else, I would be dead. I would at least be fighting for my life. I also have the feeling that if this happens again tomorrow, I will be fighting for my life then. But just this once, Gloss is letting me go.

I nod, run past him, grabbing another sword on the way by, because why not, and dive into the water. Within twenty yards I come upon Alvan, doing what could be generously called a strong dog paddle.

“It’s me,” I grunt, swimming up beside him. I pause, treading water long enough to tuck the sword and spears through my belt. The whole time, Finnick’s smile and “Stay with me” run through my mind as I force them to drown out the flood of memories trying to sweep everything else away.

“Come on.” I put an arm around Alvan, and he knows enough about swimming to do a decent job of helping me help him all the way to shore, where we find Finnick, Katniss, Haymitch, and Cecelia. I pass Alvan a sword and a knife and he nods his thanks. Finnick takes his tridents back, and I hold my spears while they go through my stash and divvy up the rest.

We set off into the trees.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

It is quickly evident our biggest problem will be water. There just isn’t any, other than the lake, and that is saltier than the ocean. Finnick and I discuss this quietly from our place in the back of the group.

It’s just like Mako and I when we ran out of tablets. We could boil it, but we have exactly zero pieces of the necessary equipment, and boiling for six of us would take forever anyway. Alvan, who knows animals, says we all need to be on the lookout for any, and they should lead us to water eventually. Katniss snorts as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. She doesn’t trust any of us, and seems to trust Alvan least of all. Possibly because I think she has a grudging respect for Finnick, and she wanted Cecelia, but Alvan is there because I brought him along, and I’m only there because of Finnick, whose claim to an alliance with Katniss is tenuous at best.

Though, sometimes I catch Alvan and Haymitch giving each other a look. The same look Finnick has sometimes. Alvan knows whatever it is that I don’t know. I know there is a plan that I don’t know. Katniss doesn’t even know that she’s out of the loop on something. I can see it in her eyes as she watches the rest of us settle down for the night as Finnick and I weave sleeping mats for everyone from the prolific jungle vines while the others cut up the two tree rats Katniss shot a while ago when she was looking for water. Then they skewer the chunks on sticks and roast them by tossing them against the force field boundary of the arena that Haymitch found for us.

My tongue is already fuzzy and dry. Dehydration is going to kill us before the other tributes can.

“Getting dehydrated is the last thing that baby needs!” Haymitch calls to the trees.

Overhead, the anthem plays, and it has been a horrendously slow day, because only the men from Five, Six, and Eight are dead. Cecelia deflates when they show Woof’s picture.

“Sorry,” Alvan says to her. “I know how much he meant to ya.”

I don’t remember Cecelia’s Games. I was too little. I’m not sure if Woof was her mentor or not. But Beck wasn’t my mentor, and if he had ended up in here with me and died, it would wreck me. The even worse alternative is that Finnick was my mentor, and he has ended up in the arena with me, and we cannot both win.

Almost like he can read my mind, Finnick taps the ground between us. Stay with me.

I nod. I have no idea what he means, or what his plan is, or what is going on that everyone else seems to know about. But I can stay with him. That I can manage.

A parachute flutters down, landing in the middle of our little circle. We stare around at each other, completely unsure who it’s for.

Finally, Finnick pauses in his mat weaving and gestures at Haymitch. “Age before beauty.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes as Katniss snorts and Alvan chuckles, but he gets up and opens the package.

A little metal tube falls out. It is sort of sharp on one end, but not nearly sharp enough to be an effective weapon. It has no more than hit the ground when Haymitch leaps to his feet, grabs the thing, pulls a knife, and runs to the nearest biggish tree.

The rest of us stare at him like he has lost his mind as he bores a hole in the tree trunk with the knife, then jabs the gift from the parachute into the hole in the bark, taps it farther in with the handle of the knife, and takes a step back, looking triumphant. He has truly gone crazy.

And that’s coming from me.

And then a trickle of water runs out the end of the tube.

We are all on our feet, crowding around Haymitch and the tree.

“It’s a spile,” he grins.

One by one, we cup our hands under the trickle and slurp down water that is the same temperature as everything in the arena. It’s still water though, I think as my turn comes around again. Water makes or breaks in the arena. I know that all too well.

Between his turns at the spile, Finnick weaves a basket that would make Mags proud. It is perfectly symmetrical and watertight, so we can fill it with our newfound water. After we have all drunk our fill and splashed our faces, we fill the basket, then Katniss pulls the spile from the tree, loops a vine through it, and hangs it around her neck. Then we return to our circle.

Finnick hands Katniss the comfiest-looking mat. “All yours, Katniss. Better keep that baby comfortable.”

She frowns, then nods. “Who’s taking the watch?”

“I can,” Finnick says.

Katniss’s frown deepens, but Haymitch says, “Sounds good to me,” and flops down on his own mat.

“Fine,” Katniss says. “Wake me in a few hours.”

Finnick nods. He sits down at the edge of the circle with his back to us and the force field and his face to the lake and the center of the arena.

I start toward him, to sit down and sleep against his shoulder, but Haymitch calls me over. I sit next to him.

He is drumming his fingers on the blade of the axe like he’s restless and somehow both excited and nervous to use it. He says nothing, but the drumming of his fingers shifts slightly, and then, shakily, They don’t know. Don’t let them know.

I nod. I want to ask who taught him Taps, but from his questionable grasp of it, I almost think he doesn’t really know it. He only knows how to say what he just said.

He says, “Thanks for the axe.”

I nod again, and lay down on my mat, one hand clenched around one of my spears, the other arm under my head as a pillow, and Haymitch starts talking quietly, telling me about the supposed health benefits of white liquor.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

Katniss is shouting.

My fingers tighten around the spear but before I can process anything else, someone is hauling me to my feet.

“Run!” someone yells. “Run!”

I stagger forward, following the hard grip on my wrist, blinking the sleep from my eyes. Things still look fuzzy, no matter how much I blink. Then I realize it isn’t my eyes, it’s the milky white mist creeping toward us.

“Run!”

It is Alvan, dragging me along as Finnick and Cecelia haul Haymitch to his feet and Katniss staggers after all of us, still screaming, “Run! Go!”

It’s almost like a jellyfish sting—Finnick is talking me to sleep, the epic of the jellyfish up by the Traps—but it’s everywhere and a scream rips from my throat—Merritt roars in rage and charges at Jilly and the arrow buries itself in his chest—but now he is dragging me through the jungle—no, that’s Alvan—but someone is screaming and there is the thunder of the stampede—or is that our wild, blind flight from the fog?

A buffalo slams into me. I stagger, hitting my knees hard. The mist creeps closer—more jellyfish stings. Katniss scrambles to her feet and takes off running again. Merritt hauls me upright.

“Come on, Annie!”

It’s not Merritt, it’s Alvan.

Someone is yelling, screaming, behind us.

Merritt—Alvan—screams back. “This way! Up here!”

Katniss runs by. Alvan hauls me along and I stagger after him.

I can’t feel my arms, but at the same time I can feel them too much. They are twitching, my grip on my spears loosening. One of them falls but I have to leave it. The other starts to slip and I make some sort of sound that Alvan hears over everything else. He reaches back and grabs the spear, still pulling me after him. “Come on, Annie! We gotta run!”

And it gets worse as we go.

The fog creeps inexorably forward, and we stagger onward. I am in so much pain. With every step, my muscles twitch more, slipping from my control into their own twisted dance. I don’t know where anyone but Alvan is.

“This way!” Cecelia’s voice comes from so far ahead it seems impossible we’ll ever reach her, and then the ground drops out from under my feet.

Alvan and I tumble down the small slope. I can’t get up. But Cecelia is there, and she looks triumphant. I stare at her, and she points up at a tree with a handful of orange monkeys sitting in it.

I find the muscle control to nod. They wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t safe. Animals are smart. Here, under their tree, we are safe.

I have only had time to process all this when Katniss crashes down the slope as well, followed immediately by Finnick, who is carrying Haymitch on his back. They are covered in horrible blisters, but of course they have been exposed to the most fog. Finnick and Haymitch especially. Cecelia is practically spotless, but she had a good head start, and wasn’t dragging or carrying anyone.

The fog suddenly becomes thicker, only a few feet from us, but it creeps no closer. I frown. It almost looks like it has hit a glass wall, some invisible line it can’t cross, so it piles up.

My head is spinning from the pain as it burns and stings and my muscles jerk and twitch. The spear falls from my hand. Taffeta is standing over Mako’s body as his head rolls away and Elsie is whooping and laughing as we stampede the buffalo and Stitch falls dead next to the river and Jilly’s scythe sings as she swings it through the air.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

My own scream drags me back to reality as two pairs of strong hands push me completely under water. But the stinging burn is seeping out. I stop struggling against the hands and they immediately release. I come up for air, gasping, then plunge myself back under, letting the pain leach away into the waves.

The waves have always been safe.

Mom taught me to lobster dive. Dad taught me to sail. Rizz taught me to fish. Coral taught me to backflip. Finnick taught me to keep swimming.

So I do, until all the pain is gone, and even the stiffness has leached out of my muscles.

When I am done, I drag myself back to shore.

“We’re gonna need your help with these two.” Alvan gestures at Finnick and Haymitch. They took the worst of it by far.

I sigh, then size up my help. Katniss needs to deal with Haymitch, but would I rather have Cecelia, who is taller, or Alvan, who has that stocky strength I remember from Merritt? There is thunder in my brain.

I yank in a breath. “Alvan, grab his feet.”

Alvan grabs one knee in each arm as I slip my arms under Finnick’s and lace my fingers together behind his neck. Finnick screams.

I’ve never heard anything like it before. Pitiful, terrified, agonized. To say it breaks my heart is an understatement. It’s a gut punch, knocking all the air from my lungs and sucking all the air from the arena so there is none left for me to pull back in.

Stay with me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, trying to comfort him even as I tighten my grip in preparation for him to struggle. “I’m so sorry.”

He screams again. It hurts so much he can’t even fight as Alvan and I carry him to the water. He just trails into a pathetic whimper.

Stay with me.

I force myself to stay present, to muscle through for him.

“Let’s start with just his feet,” Alvan says as the waves lap over our shoes.

I shake my head. “We have to do it all at once. We’ll never be able to hold him down otherwise.”

Alvan takes a deep breath, sizing Finnick up, then nods. We pivot and push on, getting as far in as we can before the water touches him. He screams again.

I give Alvan a look, and we drop Finnick.

The water is only just over my knees, but I know how much it hurts as he convulses and sinks to the bottom. I give him about ten seconds, then drop down after him, grab his shoulders, and pull his head above the water. His teeth are clenched and his eyes squeezed shut but he hauls in a breath.

“Stay with me, Finnick.”

He whimpers in response.

“Hey honey,” I say teasingly. The ghost of a smile passes his lips before a twisted look of pain covers it up again. “I know it hurts. The water makes it better though. Just like swimming at home made everything alright. Hang in there. Stay with me.”

He nods, teeth still gritted.

There is splashing and shouting and swearing on the shore. I glance up to see Alvan, next to Finnick in case he starts to thrash again, or sink, chuckling at the scene. I turn my head to the left and see Katniss and Cecelia wrestling Haymitch into the water. Even in his nerve-damaged state, arms twitching wildly and legs barely functional, Haymitch is on his feet and putting up a good fight.

“I’ve got him,” I say to Alvan with my own slight smile. “Go help them.”

He wades back to shore.

Finnick is looking better by the second. Finally, his eyes flutter open. “Remember that jellyfish story I told you?”

“Yeah?”

“This was worse.”

“Yeah.”

I let him relax in the water for a while, soaking the poison from the mist away. Then I take a deep breath. “Finnick, I know you don’t want to hear it, but I need you to gargle some. And wash your sinuses out.”

Another whimper. Like I’ve lost my mind, but not in the usual way. Not the way he knows how to help with.

“I know,” I whisper. “Now,” I let a smile slide back over my face and my voice return to its normal volume, “you can either go under voluntarily, or I can dunk you like they’re doing to Haymitch.” I let him sit up so he can see the other three trying, hardly successfully, to keep Haymitch in the water.

“I’ll drown myself, thanks,” Finnick rasps. He drags himself through the water until it’s deep enough to swim. He sucks in some water and snorts it back out his nose, then gargles a few mouthfuls, and finally stops, treading water and coughing. I follow him into the deeper water, and soon we are swimming like at home. Mostly because I don’t want to have to help with Haymitch, but also these are—beside the fact that we are actively in the Hunger Games, again—the best swimming conditions I have ever experienced.

When Haymitch is no longer screaming and using every swear word I’ve ever heard and some I haven’t, we make our way back to the group, shedding our jumpsuits, ruined by the fog, leaving skintight shorts for both of us and a high-quality sports bra for me with the added bonus of nothing for Finnick. Maybe the audience will enjoy this enough to send us some food.

Alvan is sitting on the shore also only in the shorts, looking generally terrible with his blister-pocked skin, but he seems to be in good spirits as he says dryly, “That could’a been worse.”

I snort.

Finnick looks philosophical. “You’re not wrong about that.” Then, absently, he licks his lips. “We need water.”

“Agreed,” I frown at the lake.

Alvan hauls himself to his feet. “I’ll get the spile.” He walks to where the others are sitting in the shallow water, similarly stripped down, except for Cecelia, who had only a few blisters on her hands.

A few minutes later, Alvan returns, and the three of us make our way into the trees until we find a suitable one. Alvan taps the spile into the tree as I keep watch and Finnick hurriedly weaves a new basket. Then the three of us splash clean with the water and drink our fill. I am reaching for the basket when Finnick bumps my shoulder. I glance up to see him looking pointedly past me. I turn, very slowly, to see a tree full of monkeys. Orange monstrosities smiling down on us with mouths full of fangs and bloodlust in their eyes.

I tighten my grip on my spear. “Alvan,” I say calmly, quietly. “Get the spile.”

He yanks the spile from the tree without question, turns back to see Finnick and me standing, facing opposite directions, hips pressed together. No blind spots.

Alvan’s eyes go wide. I shake my head almost imperceptibly, but I feel Finnick tense next to me. Something is behind me. Probably more of the demon monkeys. Cecelia starts to shout, and all hell breaks loose.

It is muscle memory, really, as I stab the spear, killing monkey after monkey, flinging their carcasses to the side. Finnick and I cut our way to Alvan, who is already bleeding from a gash in his shoulder but is wielding his sword with that deadly proficiency I remember he and Cally both had during the Fifty-Ninth Hunger Games.

By some unspoken agreement, the three of us in our triangle of death begin to work back toward the beach and Katniss and Haymitch and Cecelia.

But the monkeys. There are so many. By the time I can feel sand underfoot at the edge of the jungle, I have never been this tired. Not even after eight hours of treading water. I stumble. Finnick catches me, but leaves a gap in our defenses. A monkey springs. My spear is already buried in a different one, Finnick is busy with two others, Alvan at my back can’t see it. And time is moving so slowly. So, so slowly. This is how I will die. A stupid mutt monkey in the Hunter Games when I shouldn’t even be here because I am already a victor, I shouldn’t have to be reaped again, that’s the deal-

The woman from Six materializes from the trees, painted in mud, between me and the mutt. It sinks its fangs into her neck. The cannon booms immediately. I yank my spear from the other monkey, stab the one on the morphling’s chest, prepare for another, but there are none. They have melted back into the trees.

My breath is coming too fast. It is silent. I drop to my knees. There is a head on the ground. Taffeta’s eyes find mine-

A hand grabs my shoulder. I jump, reaching for my spear, but it’s just Merritt—Alvan—I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. It’s Alvan.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Your shoulder,” I say.

“Yeah.” He shrugs a little.

Cecelia kneels next to him with an armful of moss.

Now that we aren’t in immediate danger, I notice how uncomfortable I am. Tired too, but my skin crawls and itches. It is all I can do to not scratch everywhere. I feel a little better when I notice the others absently itching at their scabs from the fog blisters as well.

Finnick’s neck is bleeding under his ear as he scratches at it.

“Don’t scratch.” Katniss’s voice is somehow teasing and dead serious at the same time as she pulls her own fingers away from the back of her other hand. “You’ll only bring infection.”

“That’s true!” Cecelia calls, not looking up from Alvan’s shoulder, which she has been bandaging with moss and vines and the remains of one of our shredded jumpsuits.

“Yes, Mom,” Finnick rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Then he sprawls out on the sand. “Wake me up if I start scratching, I guess.” In seconds, he is snoring gently.

“I’ll watch,” Cecelia says. “You all get some rest.”

I don’t need telling twice. I curl up in the sand. Alvan starts talking to Cecelia about home remedies for itchy skin. She knows a few, but nothing using what we have in the arena that she’s seen.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

There is a monstrous scaly green face only a few inches in front of me. I yelp, scramble backwards on my elbows, reach for my spear.

But the face howls with laughter.

“Damn it, Finnick!”

He laughs harder. I punch him in the stomach.

He wheezes and doubles up and I shove him off to the side.

I can hear everyone else laughing now too as I get to my feet and laugh at his predicament, and everyone else’s. Except for Cecelia, they are all completely covered in green slime, the pockmarks from their blisters showing through hideously.

“Somebody sent us medicine,” Haymitch says, passing a little tube to me. “It’ll stop the itching.”

I glance down at my hands and see that I have been scratching in my sleep. There is blood caked on my fingers and bits of scabs under my nails from where I clawed at myself. I nod, unscrew the lid, and smear some of the goop onto my arms. It’s good stuff.

Cecelia helps with my back once I have done everything I can reach. We sit down in the shade with the others.

Done with his shellfish trawling, Finnick drops down next to me. “You look terrible,” he whispers with a wicked grin.

“So do you,” I whisper back.

“Does it feel wrong to you? Not being the second-prettiest person in the arena?”

“After Gloss?”

A shocked, horrified, insulted look crosses his face.

I laugh at his pretend offense. “Yeah. I don’t know how to get by without my good looks. I imagine it’s worse for you though.”

He barks out a laugh.

Alvan and Katniss return with a basket full of water. Alvan’s gaze finds Finnick and me and he pushes the water basket at Katniss and howls with laughter, slapping his thighs and cackling like a madman. I would know. “Y’all look-!” He gasps for breath. “For the pretty ones, y’all’re havin’ a rough day!” He collapses onto the sand, feet almost kicking in the air. He looks ten years younger. He also looks like a sea monster.

I glance at Finnick, smiling.

He is smiling too.

Katniss passes around the basket of water, and Cecelia is drinking when a parachute drifts down into our midst, with six of those beloved cream cheese rolls.

Finnick raises his in my direction. “Cheers to you, Tiger Shark.”

“Hear, hear,” Haymitch says through a mouthful of bread. “Excellent dessert after our shellfish.”

Then there’s a scream, and a rushing, sucking roar that I recognize. Finnick tenses next to me and we both look up across the arena to see a huge wave come crashing down through the trees. We stare as it roars toward the cornucopia and causes such a surge that all of our possessions on the sand begin to wash away. Everyone scrambles to save what we can grab, which happens to be everything but the ruined jumpsuits.

Holding my spear and the water basket, I watch the water recede again. I won by swimming once, but I don’t think I can survive that. Then again, I’m not supposed to survive this, any of this. It’s the Hunger Games. Twenty-three of us are not supposed to survive this.

The ground shakes and the dam breaks and I am sprinting through the trees and there are buffalo all around and-

“Annie?”

I blink.

Finnick is standing at my side, looking intently at me. “Let’s go get some oysters.”

I nod and follow him out into the water. I am up to my knees when I see them—three figures emerging from farther down the beach, red like cooked lobsters. I frown.

A few yards away, Finnick follows my gaze. For a few seconds, we both process this, then I jump up, running for the beach, and behind me Finnick is shouting, “Johanna! Johanna!”

“Johanna!” I yell with him.

Katniss stares at us as we sprint past her.

“Annie?” Johanna shrieks back. “Finnick!”

We are almost within arm’s reach of her when I realize what it is. I skid to a stop in the sand, staring at Johanna and the two figures with her. They are covered in blood.

****

****

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Tag List:

@avoxrising @snow-dragon-rider @anakins-ride-or-die

[iamthepulta]

Westlie Faire, Florida AU:

Westlie's father owns an extremely popular rental shop for fishing ships and tourist boats. She works whatever shifts the sub-minimum-wage staff can't cover, which leads to a lot of sleepless nights and half-daydreams about owning her own catamaran and running away.

Westlie's younger sister, Morgan, is a surprisingly competent yet completely unreliable travel journalist who keeps quitting and coming back to Florida for two weeks before bolting off again. Jellyfish and Manatees love her.

One day, Westlie was scheduled to guide a boat tour. She was half-asleep, musing about patricide if she had to listen to another "kids these days just don't want to work anymore" spiel, when one of the clients found a 8 year old stowaway in the tacklebox.

Lizzie - "Just Lizzie" - was apparently on her way to Jamaica. Westlie didn't have the heart to tell her, "Dear God, Jamaica is 550 miles away and there's a sign on the dock: 'Fairweather Boating Expeditions,' that definitely does not read 'Free Passage to Jamaica'." Lizzie also didn't have any parents.

So Westlie, who was not a great person and did not ever want children, actually, snuck Lizzie into her corner of her father's Miami McMansion. And then Morgan started to control the weather.

[abd-illustrates]

YOU!! I DONT KNOW IF PEOPLE SEND ASKS ABOUT HEARTLESS ANYMORE BUT I RECENTLY RESURFACED BACK TO IT AND I JUST *EXPLOSION SOUNDS* /pos

BRO I cannot express to you how much I think about Doppel and Glass and their character concepts and their dynamic and just generally the story. Man, I don't know what it is about those two, but like...AJHSJHD!!

I really like thinking about angst and ways that you can make both of them complex and stuff, you know, separating from just "haha silly comic relief guys!" I like thinking about them and how their not the same, and how they're both technically separate beings kinda? And how they're different and stuff and AA-

ALSO I love they're character design man? Like, it looks...crunchy. that's probably a bad way to put it, but they feel like those sensory videos where people take wax and slime and crush it all up and its really satisfying and crunchy.

AUGH they're all so awesome and I love love LOVE thinking about Heartless as a story and how it would play out and stuff. Keep up the good work and stuff, sorry for word bombing you I just suddenly got a lot of feelings and had to get it out somewhere

sgssgfjsgh thank u so much for taking the time to send this ask dude!

Seeing any love for the Heartless gang always sparks more joy than I can convey, no matter when -- but ur timing is uncanny haha, these two have been on my mind a lot lately too! (Especially since the new Madds Buckley song dropped 'cause it's just sO--- 👀😩🤌)

I'm not very articulate rn but pls take this doodle as a big thank u for the encouragement and for sharing ur thoughts about 'em! 🪞💜

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Futile Devices

Miguel O'Hara x civilian f!reader

Summary: The deal was explicitly no strings attached. You were finding it harder to keep up your end of the bargain. 

Word Count: 8.2k (A behemoth of a fic, I'm so sorry guys)

Warnings: FWB, language, angst, reader is totally in love with Miguel, Miguel being a bit of an ass, probably a tad toxic? SMUT, p in v (no protection), cum play, low-key breeding kink? Like super low-key. Oral (f receiving). Miguel climbing through windows. Idk why I'm obsessed with that thought lmfao I make him climb through windows every chance I get. Idiots in love. Probably a rushed ending, sorry!

Thanks to @whatthefishh for beta-reading. Partly inspired by this.

Also, this is mega ultra cliche, we all know they're gonna end up together, so just enjoy the ride! It's not the destination, it's the journey 😌 Hope you guys enjoy, and if you do, pls let me know what you think! I love reading your comments!

MDNI pls.

...

It was always a mission getting to Miguel's office.

Headquarters wasn't built to accommodate civilians, the winding pathways and corridors a danger if one wasn't too careful.

You had to be extra careful. 

You hurried toward Miguel's office, heels clicking against clean tiled floors as you dodged a fuck ton of spider people and the inescapable attention of one annoying Peter Parker.

"Come on," Peter Parker number two hundred tried his luck again, "just one date. I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go." 

"No." You rolled your eyes, swatting him with the manilla folder in your hands like you would a fly. 

“Look, all I’m saying is you should give me a shot. I’m funny.”

“So is every other Peter Parker I’ve encountered.”

“I’m different.”

“I doubt it.” 

He deflated, keeping up with your quick steps. “Who doesn’t like funny guys?”

“Me.”

“Sure,” he stretched the word out, unconvinced, "so if not funny guys then what? The ones with sticks up their asses, like Miguel?" He snorted with a shake of his head. You knew it was a sort of rhetorical question but you couldn’t help swallowing thickly, your hands gripping the folder a little too tightly. 

Yeah. Something like that.

You felt your heart drop to your stomach when Peter Parker two hundred raised his brows at your silence. So maybe he did want an answer.

"Nah, there's no way. I'll try again tomorrow." He smiled, shooting a web out in some random direction and swinging off toward the floor above. 

Fuck. That was close.

You breathed a sigh of relief, loosening your fingers over the folder before quickly hurrying toward your destination. 

You pressed your watch against the sensor outside of Miguel's office, waiting for the metal door to slide open. It didn't. You tried again. Still nothing. Again. It wouldn't budge.

"Ugh, come on, Miguel!" You banged the door with a tiny fist as if that would make a difference, "open up!" 

Lyla appeared suddenly, her sprite-like form circling your head once before she faced you.

"You probably shouldn't go in there," she warned, "he's in a…mood." 

"He’s always in a mood," your hands were on your hips now, the manilla folder crinkling further in your hand, "I need to report a couple of grievances—"

"Mmmmmm, I'm sure that's the last thing he wants to hear right now, Miss HR." God you hated when they called you that. You rolled your eyes, swatting her away with the folder which did nothing, of course, and pressed your watch against the sensor. 

"That's not gonna work, honey."

"So let me in." 

"Promise to be nice?"

"To who?" You snorted, "You or Miguel?" 

"Me," Lyla grinned, adjusting her heart-shaped glasses, "forget Miguel." 

You sighed, cracking a smile, "Lyla, would you please let me into Miguel's office?" The Ai made a noise of approval, comically saluting you before granting you access.

"Don't say I didn't warn ya." She sang, disappearing from your sight. 

You sighed. Miguel's shifting moods were nothing new to you—not anymore. Back when you both worked at Alchemax, he was passive and less quick to anger. But that seemed a lifetime ago. 

Life progresses. People change.

“Mig?” You called out, peering up toward his solitary platform. You could hear the soft hisses of machinery, the yellow glow of Miguel’s holo screens illuminating the area above like a radiant star.

He didn’t answer. 

“Miguel,” you tried again, “we have some things to discuss.” You slapped the manilla folder against your hand as if he’d recognize the sound of formal complaints filed within the last week. 

The platform began to descend after a moment, and you breathed a sigh of relief as his figure came into view. His shoulders were stiff, his body rigid as he swiped through the yellow screens.

“I told Lyla not to let anyone in.” His voice was cold, frigid even. He didn’t bother to face you, his eyes pinned to his screens as he leaned forward, the muscles of his back flexing through his suit. 

You couldn’t see what he was looking at but you could hear it: the soft giggles of a little girl, the cheers of a soccer game, the chuckles of a man now broken. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard the sounds of Miguel’s past. It probably wouldn’t be the last either.

“I-uh, got some reports to share with you.” You felt foolish. Lyla was right. HR complaints were the last thing on Miguel’s mind. 

“Reports of the anomaly on Earth 9811?” Your brows pinched in irritation. He knew those weren’t the reports you had. You were fucking HR, not on active duty, let alone a spider person. 

"No, you'd have to ask Jess or Gwen about that, but you need to listen—"

“I don’t want to hear it.” He grunted. You saw his hands form fists at his sides, the same hands that’d fisted your sheets in the throes of pleasure just days ago. 

You shook your head. It was not the time for that kind of thought. 

You carefully opened the crinkled folder, pulling out the paperwork you’d printed from your antique printer to read aloud from it.

“Peter Parker of Earth 5431-02 has formally filed a complaint,” you began, your eyes scanning the black text before releasing an exasperated sigh, “he’s saying you threw a chair at him?” Miguel grunted, the holo screens shutting off at his (Lyla’s) command.

“He’s an idiot.” Miguel snapped, finally turning to face you, his sharp features shadowed by the lack of light. He regarded you carefully, red eyes tracing your figure. You’ve grown used to the way his eyes lingered over you, especially when you were under him, his body pressed against yours, but sometimes you couldn’t help but squirm under his more severe gaze.

“Well, yeah,” you reluctantly agreed with a tilt of your head, “but a chair, Miguel?”

“It’s not like it hurt him...badly.”

“That's not the point."

“The point is that I got my point across.” Miguel snorted. 

"It's the principle. You don't go around throwing fucking chairs at the people who work for you!" 

"Mhm." 

"You're their boss! What kind of behavior is that?"

"Uh-huh." 

You were about ready to strangle him but knew your fingers couldn’t even go around his throat properly. You’ve tried before, under very different circumstances. You settled for pinching the bridge of your nose, as he often did, taking a breath to calm yourself before you completely lost your shit. "Listen to me."

"I'm listening, HR."

"Ugh, look," you pointed a finger up toward him, your brows knitted in obvious irritation, "annoying or not, he's still a member of the Spider Society, therefore, he has every right—”

“—to file a grievance under any circumstance as a result of an injustice, discrimination, or harmful behavior, and is to be given the respect to which every spider person is due as a valued member of the society. I know.” Miguel finished the legal jargon for you, hopping off the platform with an ease that’d always surprised you.

He stepped into your space, his large body casting a long shadow over you as he snatched the crinkled paperwork from your hands. 

“I’ll speak with him.” He grunted. You pursed your lips, watching as his eyes scanned over the page.

"Make it right, Mig. Apologize. Formally. Or informally. It doesn’t matter— there’s nothing normal about this place anyway.” You placed your hands on your hips as you leaned forward, aware of how he was suddenly gazing down at you. “Just be nice, okay? Compensate him with, I dunno, a minor mission. He always wants to get involved, so let him.” 

Miguel rolled his eyes, heaving a great sigh while running his hand through his hair. “Fine.”

“And no more throwing chairs to make a point.”

“Uh-huh, fine, anything else?” God, you wanted to smack him. You opted for snatching back the paperwork from his hand, smoothing out the wrinkles over your skirt-clad thighs before searching for the proper page.

“Yeah," you brought a finger down on the page, "the spiders are getting bored of the cafeteria food.” That was enough for Miguel's face to pinch in displeasure.

“What’s wrong with empanadas and churros?” He scoffed, waving his hand to dismiss the complaint, “And that stupid blue burger with my face on it?” He paused, eyes squinting for a moment, “You know what? That can go. Get rid of it.”

“Fine. Do I have permission to organize a survey?”

“For food?” 

“Yes, for food. They want options.” 

“Aye, por Dios,” Miguel grunted, waving his hand again, “Fine.” 

“Fine.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Nope.” You organized the documents back into the manila folder before handing it over to him.

“You know you could just send this electronically, right?” He looked down at the folder, his eyes tracing your neat cursive in black ink.

“I’m old-fashioned.” You shrugged, turning on your heels. You heard him snort out a laugh, a tiny thing that made you smile. He has a nice laugh.

“One more thing,” Miguel called out, demandingly. You looked over your shoulder at him as he regarded you with heavy eyes.

“What is it?” 

He boarded the platform once again, the machinery coming to life and slowly elevating him back to his preferred height. He tossed the folder somewhere over the desk, to be forgotten. It was the least of his worries at that moment.

You watched Miguel ascend above you like some kind of heavenly being, the yellow light of the holo screens illuminating his tan skin till he glowed molten gold. You waited on him with bated breath, his response sinking straight to your core.

“Keep your window unlocked tonight.” 

…

He loves it when you ride him. 

His large hands were glued to your hips as you bounced on him expertly, your cunt soaking him in your sticky juices. 

Most nights began this way—with Miguel's cock buried deep in your pussy after a long day of enduring his insufferable attitude. You'd fuck the stress out of him—fuck the astronomical weight of the multiverse off his shoulders if only for a few short hours.

"Been thinking about this all day." He groaned under you, throwing his head back over your pillow when he felt your walls grip his length viciously, fighting to keep him in.

"Yeah?" You gasped, your hands firmly planted on his bare chest as you made work of your hips, rotating them in delicious circles—the way he liked—your thighs spread wide to accommodate his massive size. "W-wasn't enough to curb that a-attitude though, huh?" 

Even amid the utmost pleasure—of Miguel's length hitting a spot that had you trembling—you found the strength to taunt him, your hazy eyes catching a glimpse of the twitch in his brow. That meant trouble.

Within seconds Miguel had you on your back, his imposing body trapping you against your mattress. His cock slipped out for a moment but he had no problem finding his way back into your slippery channel, snapping his hips strategically to reach as deep as he could.

You cried out, your hands scrambling to find purchase over his shoulders, your pretty manicured nails digging into his perfectly golden skin.

"F-fuck! Miguel!"

"Wanna say that again?" He growled, his face hovering mere centimeters from yours, "Go ahead, say it again." You did nothing but whimper as he pounded into you mercilessly, his cock stretching you open. 

"That's what I thought." Miguel chuckled smugly, delighting in your little chokes and stutters, egging him to keep pounding you relentlessly. You tried speaking—tried to articulate your words to him, but you couldn't, too cock drunk to focus on anything else but his gorgeous face twisted up in pleasure and his thick cock kissing the secret place within you.

He had you coming soon after, stars exploding behind your lids as you trembled in his arms. Your cunt squeezed him just right and he came, panting in your ear as he filled you to the brim. 

His spend stained your sheets when he pulled out, and as always, he watched it dribble out from your swollen cunt with lidded eyes. He wasted no time in taking his fingers and stuffing the mess back in.

“Keep me in there.” He muttered, swiping through your puffy folds one final time before he ripped himself from you. You immediately soured, keeping your gaze on him as he quickly cleaned himself off with a cloth you left for him on your nightstand. 

You admired his figure: the ripple of his muscles as he moved, the broadness of his shoulders, the glow of his skin in the dim lighting of your bedroom. 

Miguel was gorgeous. You’ve always thought so.

His suit glitched before coming to life, covering his sculpted body in the usual blue and red you've come to know. 

“Did…you want to eat before you go?” Dinner was on the stove, cold but still good. You sat up against your headboard, more of his spend leaking out as you fiddled with your fingers over the soiled sheets. 

Miguel shook his head, sighing as he closed his eyes for a moment.

“I have to go.” He said, stepping forward, grabbing your hand, and placing a chaste kiss over your knuckles. It was the only form of affection he’d allowed himself to give you. He’d never kissed you before. Probably never will. It wasn't part of the deal.

Your heart sunk, your skin searing where his lips had lingered. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Most nights ended this way—with your aching cunt full of his seed and your eyes wet with unshed tears as you watched him leave through your window, disappearing into the night.

…

A few days later, Peter B. Parker landed in your office. Quite literally. 

He plopped down on the seat in front of yours from seemingly nowhere, a messily packed diaper bag hanging loosely from his shoulder. He had his daughter snuggly pressed against his chest in her carrier, her chubby arms and legs flailing over his pink robe.

You yelped, dropping the pen in your hand, clutching your chest in freight. 

“Jesus! Where the hell did you just come from?!”

“Up there.” Peter pointed up. You followed his line of vision, noting the door to the air vent busted open, barely hanging from its hinges. “Sorry about the vent.” He offered sheepishly, taking a large bite of a slice of pizza he'd pulled from a greased-up brown paper bag. 

"You could've just taken the elevator!"

"Takes too long to get to the basement.” He said between a mouthful of pizza, “Why'd Miguel give you an office down here anyway?" 

"I'm scared of heights." You reminded him, watching Mayday struggle to release herself from her carrier prison. Peter snorted out a laugh, dropping the diaper bag on the floor while simultaneously taking another bite of his pizza.

“Doesn’t make sense to work in a place like this.”

“It was the deal I made when Miguel asked me to work for him. Chew with your mouth closed.”

“Have you tried the cafeteria pizza?" He asked suddenly, ignoring your demand and speaking with another mouth full of the greasy treat, "It's the new thing. Everyone's going crazy."

You smiled smugly. "I know. You’re welcome."

“Ah, I should've known Miss HR was behind this!” You rolled your eyes at the nickname, rummaging through your drawer before tossing him a few napkins.

“What can I do for you, Peter?” 

Mayday whined, crawling out of the carrier and over her father’s thighs. She hopped on your desk, scattering some of your paperwork. You quickly caught her before she tumbled off the edge, cooing at her before placing her in your lap. You squeezed her in your arms and she let out a scream of delight before squirming, reaching out in wonder at the different knick-knacks on your desk. 

“Right, almost forgot." Peter took the last bite of his pizza, wiping his face and fingers with the napkins you provided before his face morphed into something serious. "Is this guy bothering you?” He pulled out a yellow holo pad, one presumably given to him by Miguel, revealing a video of you and Peter Parker two hundred from the other day. 

You blinked, your eyes tracing the moving image carefully.

”Oh. Not really,” you finally said, ripping your gaze away from the screen, “Nothing I can't handle. Why?” 

“Miguel asked me to investigate the situation discreetly.” 

"Asked?"

"Well, demanded, you know Miguel," Peter shrugged, reaching down into the diaper bag and procuring a lollipop when Mayday began to whine, “he’s concerned. I figured it’d be easier to just ask you about it.” 

You frowned, grasping the sweet when he handed it over to you, pulling off the wrapper and placing it in Mayday's chubby hand, “That’s hardly discreet.”

“I didn’t wanna follow the guy around!” 

“He's making you do that?”

“‘Of course he is. Doesn't like the guy. He barely tolerates me!” 

You snorted. “Why does Miguel even care?”

"You know him better than any of us do. If anyone would know, it’s you." 

Well, that was true.

You knew Miguel before he created the Spider Society, before he was ever Spider-Man. You knew him before his addiction to Rapture, before he experienced fatherhood, before he lost Gabriella. 

Back when, to the world, he was just some guy in a white lab coat. 

But he was never just some guy to you. 

You’ve loved Miguel for years. You’d loved him in your early days at Alchemax, when he was fresh out of college and eager to begin his shaky career, back when you were hanging on to the corporation by a measly thread of an unpaid internship. You were a pair, stuck to each other like glue.

A few years later, when you both decided to take it a step further and mess around, well, that only ignited your feelings further. Miguel was an attentive lover. He knew your needs and fulfilled them, taking you to the heights of pleasure before humbling you just as smoothly with his strict rules about your agreement. 

He didn’t have time to cater to someone's feelings—didn’t have time for a romantic relationship when he had too much on his plate. But his sexual appetite demanded attention—and why not with someone he’s called a friend for years? 

You were just a friend. And that’s all you’d ever be. 

It was just sex. That's all it'd ever be.

“You okay?” Peter ripped you away from your thoughts, his brows furrowed in concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You answered with a sigh, gently resting your chin over Mayday’s soft curls. “Is Miguel worried?” 

“You’re the closest thing he has to a friend, of course he’s worried about you. Those were his words, not mine.” Peter shrugged, putting his holo pad away, “so is there a cause for concern?” The thought alone almost made you smile. Almost. Instead, you scoffed, shaking your head.

“I’m usually the one that handles these situations, you know.”

“And who’s supposed to help you?”

“I don’t need help.” 

“Right.” He didn’t seem convinced. “Miguel doesn't seem to think so. You sure?”

“Very.”

“Alright, I did my part!” He clapped his hands as if he’d successfully completed a mission, “Time to go, Mayday!” He stood, grabbing the babbling baby from you and placing her back in the carrier.

"She's precious." You said, gently pinching Mayday's drool-covered cheek as she teethed over her lollipop.

"Takes after her dad." Peter grinned, snatching up the diaper bag, "Listen, if you ever need any help—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, get outta here, Parker." You shooed him away, quickly organizing your wrinkled paperwork together. You could still feel his eyes on you as you kept your hands busy, and when you finally looked at him he had a silly smile on his face.

"What?"

“You guys are idiots." He was still grinning.

"What?"

"Nothin'," he said, pressing a kiss to Mayday's red curls, "Just do me a favor. Don't mention any of this to Miguel, alright?" 

You crossed your arms, leaning back against your swivel chair. "Sure."

...

"So you think I need help?"

Miguel's hands immediately stilled on your hips as you stirred the boiling pasta over your electric stove. 

You didn't hear him come in, but you had a feeling he’d show up. It had been a couple of days since he’d fucked you, and there were many stressful days between then and now.

So you’d left your window unlocked just in case.

"What are you talking about?" He muttered, his fingers lightly dancing on your waist before pulling away completely.  

"Nothing." You huffed to yourself, cutting off the heat and getting on your toes to reach for the pasta strainer on the shelf above. After a second of watching you struggle, Miguel put a hand on your shoulder to stop you, reaching forward to grab it for you.

"Doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’.” He finally said, observing you strain the pasta over the sink, the steam from the hot water engulfing you both in what felt like a thick cloud of tension. You peered over your shoulder at him, your eyes raking over his solid form.

“You know, Peter Parker two hundred?” You asked, witnessing his face contort from passive to extreme annoyance.

He sucked his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. He leaned back against your counter, looking so out of place in your tiny kitchen, his broad shoulders almost the entire width of your cupboard. “I told Peter to be discreet.”

“He said you’re worried about your only friend.” You continued to tease him, emphasizing the word as you lifted the lid to a pot where a homemade Pomodoro sauce was bubbling. 

“I said that?” Miguel muttered, feigning innocence, watching you take a spoon and scoop some of the red sauce for a quick taste. You could feel his gaze on you, his eyes tracing the way your tongue licked off the remnants of sauce. 

You hummed in approval before scooping up some more and turning to offer Miguel a taste. You lifted the spoon toward him, and after a moment of contemplation, he hunched forward with arms crossed over his toned chest, mouth opening slightly to allow you to press the spoon past his lips. 

His eyes fluttered as he savored the rich taste, humming his own tune of approval. 

"Is it good?" 

“Mhm.”

You beamed, eyeing how he licked his lips like a satisfied cat, his fangs protruding slightly when he ran his tongue over them. The same fangs you’ve felt over your delicate skin from time to time. 

Miguel was a biter. You didn’t mind.

Miguel grunted, using his thumb to wipe off a bit of sauce that lingered near the corner of your lips. You inhaled a shaky breath, your eyes fluttering from the heat of his touch.

"What else did he say?" He murmured, looming over you, his hand now gently cradling the back of your neck, thumb caressing your skin. 

"T-that you're worried about me?" You breathed. Miguel pulled you closer suddenly, the faintest noise of surprise escaping you. His suit always felt strange under your fingers, the digitized fabric almost slippery, like fine silk. It was ridiculous how perfect you felt wrapped up in his arms. You sometimes wished he'd show up in civilian clothes. You missed his lazy outfits when he'd throw on an old t-shirt and a pair of sweats. 

You couldn't remember the last time you'd seen him in anything other than his suit (and his naked form, of course). It meant he was always on the clock, devoting all his precious time to the multiverse. 

It meant that whenever he was alone with you, he considered it work.

And yet, the suit made you feel secure and safe—like nothing in the world could harm you. And there was truth to that, though the only thing harming you these days was Miguel himself. But that was your fault too.

The deal was explicitly no strings attached. You were finding it harder to keep up your end of the bargain. 

You gazed at his full lips. You desperately wanted to taste them, to know how soft and warm they would feel molded against yours. If you were brave enough you might have stolen a taste, might have felt those sharp canines for yourself on your tongue.

Miguel’s thick fingers trailed into your hair, gripping the roots with just a hint of pressure, his lidded eyes taking in every part of your face: your brows, your eyes, the bridge of your nose, and your supple lips—wet and swollen from biting them so damn much.

"Maybe just a little," he finally answered, his shoulders shifting in a slight shrug. You could feel his length press against your hip, hot and throbbing, demanding attention. 

It filled you with pride knowing your proximity was enough to get him excited. It shouldn't though. It was only arousal. Basic primal instincts. 

You shouldn’t be feeling pride for any of this. You had to remind yourself of that.

You closed your eyes, willing your heartbeat to slow down just a bit. Could you really be this love-sick? So hung up on a man who was emotionally unavailable? If you hadn’t fallen before, then you knew you were plummeting now, so far gone that you’d let Miguel do anything to you.

So when he whisked you away to your bedroom, dinner long forgotten, you didn’t put up a fight.

He fucked you from behind. 

It was a tight stretch, your wet cunt fighting him as he tried pressing his swollen tip in with little luck. 

"Gotta let me in," he grunted, spreading your cheeks wide to gaze down at your twitching holes, "you're too tight. Let me in." 

"I'm trying," you panted, tears in your eyes as you buried your face into the sheets, "i-it's been a while." 

"It's okay," his large hands caressed the globes of your ass in comfort, "it's my fault. Haven't been fucking you enough, hm? S'my fault." Miguel rubbed his cock through your soaked folds a few times, the obscene noises of your sopping cunt causing him to grunt. 

"Goddamn, so fuckin' wet." He muttered before lining himself up and carefully pushing in again. You cried out, fisting the sheets when he successfully got the tip in. He groaned, the guttural sound masking your tiny mewls as he pushed on, your wet cunt coating him entirely in your sticky essence, easing his entry just a bit.

"Fuck, Miguel, it h-hurts." You whined, the stretch of him both painful and pleasurable as he bullied his way in, his girthy cock plunging through your fluttering walls. 

"Shh, I know." He rarely cooed as he did now, reassuring you with gentle noises and tender touches as he eased into you, balls deep in your core, “Look how good you’re doing for me. S’good.” A fresh wave of arousal dripped from you at his praise, your fluttering cunt allowing him to push and pull as he pleased.

He began a steady rhythm, holding your hips tightly to work you over his length, muttering to himself all the while as he watched how your creamy juices clung to his cock and covered his skin.

The pain quickly subsided into blinding pleasure. Miguel had you mewling into your mattress, your eyes rolling and drool slipping past your lips, your back impossibly arched, and your swollen cunt wetter than it’s ever been. The slapslapslap of his hips against your ass was loud in the quiet of your bedroom, your moans even louder when he skillfully hit something inside you that made you see stars every single time. 

You loved the feel of him, loved the stretch of his cock, loved how your cunt would ache for days after as if to remember him. 

“Coño,” Miguel growled, keeping a large hand on your lower back to keep you steady in your arched position, “you sound so pretty when I fuck you.” He suddenly gripped your hair, pulling you up as he curved over you, continuing to spill filth into your ears.

It was too much. 

“M-Miguel, I’m g-gonna—”

“Cum for me.” 

That was it. The dam burst within you, your eyes rolling back as you cried out, cunt spasming and gushing all over him.

“That’s it,” he muttered, sloppily thrusting into your tightening core, “good girl.”

“Miguel,” you continued to whine, grinding against him, “Fuuuck, I love you.” 

You didn’t even realize what you said until it was too late, so wrapped up in the bliss of it all that your mouth worked faster than your brain could think.

You froze when you felt him still above you. He released your hair, bringing his hand back to your hips before gripping them viciously, chasing his own release. He rammed into you faster, slamming his hips against your ass one final time before letting out a guttural groan deep from within the confines of his chest. You could only imagine how he looked: tan skin glistening, chocolate hair plastered against his brow and head tossed back in pleasure. 

Miguel said nothing as he gently removed his cock from your aching sex, letting his seed dribble out from you and soak into the sheets.

As soon as you turned around he was already in his suit, pushing a few buttons on his watch before he brought his wine-colored eyes to you. 

"I have to go."

“Mig?” You whispered his name softly, your naked body burning with embarrassment, “I-I’m sorry I—”

"I’ll see you tomorrow.” It was the same thing he always said, but it hurt twice as much. It was as if he were on autopilot, disconnected from what just happened. 

You felt your heart plummet into your stomach as you watched Miguel leave through your window with a speed he usually reserved for missions.

His spend caked your thighs. There was so much of it coming out of you, more so than usual, his cum ruining your sheets enough that you’d need to change them before bed. 

You sniffled, eyes watering, tears threatening to fall. He didn’t even kiss your hand goodbye.

You ripped yourself away from the soiled sheets, stomping over to your window as his cum leaked down your inner thighs before slamming it closed, locking it for good.

...

“You made this?” Miles exclaimed with a mouth full of spaghetti, clumsily twirling another forkful over his paper plate. You were handing out some of the spiders' leftover Pomodoro pasta from the previous night. You’d lost your appetite. It’d be a shame if you let it all go to waste.

“Yeah, eat up, there’s enough for everyone.” You scooped out more pasta from a Tupperware and onto a paper plate for Gwen. The younger girl’s eyes sparkled as she grabbed the plate, immediately slurping up a bite.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, lips covered in red sauce, “why are you working at the Spider Society when you could be a chef?”

“It’s because Miguel begged her to work here,” Miles quipped, a lone spaghetti hanging from his mouth.

“And who told you that?” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Uhh,” his eyes flew over to Peter B., who was waiting patiently for his own plate of pasta to be served. You turned and narrowed your eyes at Peter, who chuckled nervously. 

“Listen,” he began, hands thrown up in surrender, “the kid got curious, okay? He was convincing, I mean, look at those eyes.” You huffed, snatching Peter’s plate and loading it up with pasta.

“You guys are annoying,” you muttered with no bite, shifting your gaze toward Hobie, who sat quietly with his legs thrown up on the table, “Hobie, fuck the government and all that, but you need to get your dirty boots off the table if you want some food.” 

Hobie sighed dramatically, letting his boots drop to the ground.

“Fine, boss lady.” 

Satisfied, you handed him a plate.

“So, let’s talk about you being a chef?” Gwen tried again, scrapping the remaining bits off her plate. 

“It’s just pasta,” you shrugged, pulling out a chair and taking a seat, “anyone can make a Pomodoro.”

“My dad can’t.”

“…why?”

“He’s Irish.”

“And a bloody cop,” Hobie interjected, twirling his pasta with a plastic fork, “hate those.”

“Here we go,” Gwen huffed, the beginnings of an argument forming. You chose to ignore them, letting Gwen, Miles, and Hobie bicker between themselves.

You squirmed in your seat, crossing your legs to cure the throbbing within. You could still feel Miguel, the stretch of his cock, and the inevitable ache that lingered afterward. You were still full of him, your cunt wet even hours later, plaguing you with the thought of never feeling him again. 

You drummed your fingers over the messy table littered with paper plates and napkins, your body hunched forward, lost in thought.

“So…” Peter began, adjusting the collar of his pink robe, “you gonna tell me what’s going on or am I gonna have to force it outta you?” You whipped your head to look at him, brows furrowed as you regarded him.

“What makes you think something’s going on?” You whispered, hoping the cafeteria was loud enough so the rest of the table wouldn’t hear.

“Something’s going on or you wouldn’t be whispering,” Peter whispered back, his blue eyes pinned to yours as he searched for answers. 

“It’s nothing.” You answered quickly, continuing to squirm in your seat, fighting to ignore your achy cunt. 

“Did you guys finally smooch?” You froze, your hands gripping the edge of the table with a force that made your knuckles go white. 

“Peter, what the fuck are you talking about?” You hissed, watching him happily eat his Pomodoro.

“You think I don’t know?” He challenged, “It might not be obvious to everyone else but I know what’s going on.” He winked at you, dabbing a napkin messily over his mouth.

Your heart was pounding, ready to beat out your chest, but you schooled your features as best you could. You swallowed thickly, crossing your arms over your chest as if to make yourself smaller. 

“Okay, fine, you know. What of it?” 

“Miguel’s being mopey.”

“Mopey?” You snorted, shaking your head, “He’s always mopey, isn’t he?”

“This is a different kind of mopey,” Peter raised a brow, “it’s actually kind of… frightening.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s got nothing to do with us, for once. Usually one of us pisses him off enough to throw things but he’s on a mission. Said he needed to clear his head. So what happened?” You sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I might have said something I wasn’t supposed to last night.”

“What?”

“We made a deal,” you explained in a whisper, “no feelings, just…you know,” you wiggled your fingers, hoping it would be enough of an explanation. Peter nodded, urging you to continue, “Well, I messed up.”

“How?”

“ItoldhimIlovehim.” You blurted out, your hands flying over your mouth. Peter blinked with a subtle tilt of his head, before a grin stretched over his lips. You groaned, now covering your eyes, “W-what is that, why are you smiling? Stop it.”

“I mean, one of you had to say it first.”

“Peter, you’re killing me here.” He rolled his eyes, inching close enough till your knees brushed against his.

“You don’t think the big guy feels the same way?”

“No!” You squeaked incredulously, “There’s no way. You should’ve seen him yesterday. He could barely look at me!” 

“You caught him off guard.”

“I know that, but he still could’ve said something. Anything.”

“He’s a guy. Guys are stupid.” You groaned, pushing your hair out of your face. You turned to look at the other spiders. You knew they’d been listening given the way they all turned away immediately.

“Someone is stupid,” you muttered to Peter, feeling dejected, “and it’s definitely not him.”

...

You took a deep breath before placing your watch over the sensor.

The door to Miguel’s office didn’t budge, not to your surprise. Lyla must have blocked the systems again.

What were you even doing there? 

You hadn’t seen Miguel in about a week. That was ample time to inform you he wanted nothing to do with you. You couldn't blame him but still, it was…unprofessional. He was your boss at the end of the day. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have started fucking the head of the Spider Society. Your weak heart wouldn’t be in shambles if you didn’t.

It was a stupid move, you knew, telling someone you love them in the throes of passion when they clearly weren’t on the same page, unprovoked or not. He probably hates you. He must. 

You’d given yourself enough time to think it through and given yourself so many pep talks before deciding a professional relationship with Miguel was for the best. No more friends with benefits. 

No more keeping your window unlocked.

You took a breath and tried again. No luck. 

Did he fire you? That couldn’t be right. You were still in the system and able to enter HQ with your keycard just fine. 

“You’re always catching him at a bad time,” Lyla sighed beside you, whipping out her tiny little holographic phone, “he didn’t even want to take a photo! Unbelievable!” The small image on her screen revealed a snarling Miguel, clearly unamused by the bunny filter plastered over his face. It was cute, even if he looked a bit terrifying baring his fangs. 

Lyla shifted to face you, hands on her little hips as she looked you up and down.

“You look niiice,” she quickly snapped a photo of you, “no cute filter needed.”

“Uhh, thanks?”

“Now it’s your turn to say something nice to me.” The Ai grinned when you rolled your eyes. 

“You look…extra yellow today, Lyla.” 

“Thank you! I’m in default mode.”

“Okay, so I’ll just come back later then?” You rushed to leave but Lyla stopped you, zapping in front of you suddenly.

“Nah, I’ll let you in.” You could hear the door to Miguel’s office opening, “Fix him.” 

“What? How am I supposed to do that?” 

Lyla shrugged, “I dunno, I just know you’re the only one that can.” She waved farewell, disappearing in a glimmer of gold. 

You groaned, dropping your head in your hands for a moment to collect your thoughts. Your palms began to sweat—they always did when you were nervous—so you quickly wiped them over your black pencil skirt before facing the office entryway. 

It was dark as usual, the only light illuminating the area was Miguel’s bright yellow screens. They hung above him as he sat slouched in his chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His head turned lazily to regard you. 

“I heard you’ve been mopey.” You began, cracking a smile when he snorted. He shook his head, watching you slowly approach him like one would a wounded animal.  He didn’t confirm nor deny the accusation.

“What do you need?” 

“To talk to you.” You said, finding the courage to step into his space, leaning back against his desk and blocking one of the yellow screens.

“About?” 

“Us.” Miguel hummed, running a hand through his messy hair. He sat up in his chair but said nothing else, allowing you the space to speak freely.

“I-I wanted to apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable,” you began to fumble with your fingers, unable to keep eye contact with him for very long, “I know that what I said was…crossing the line—”

“Did you mean it?” He asked abruptly, the question forcing your eyes away from your fingernails and toward his chiseled face. He looked exhausted, eyes heavy but swimming with curiosity.

“W-well, I mean, it was a moment of—”

“Did you mean it?” He repeated, his tone stern as he awaited a proper answer from you. You bit your lip, slowly nodding your head.

“Yeah. I did. Still do.” 

The silence that stretched wasn’t very long but it felt like an eternity. Miguel only stared at you, his jaw tight as he sat forward, his elbows resting on his toned thighs.

You wished you could read his thoughts, take a peek at what ran through his mind. He was always so good at hiding his emotions, never showing an ounce of what he felt. That wasn’t always the case but after Gabriella, he didn’t show much of anything. 

“I think it’s best we don’t see each other anymore,” you finally concluded, crossing your arms, “we should stop.”

“What?” Miguel’s eyes narrowed, “What do you mean stop?” He was towering over you in a matter of seconds, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at him. Your heart was pounding, your hands flying to grip the edge of his desk.

“Mig, we can’t keep doing this.”

“Yes, we can.” He caged you in his arms, bringing his face just a few inches away from yours. He never had much of a problem with eye contact, but you did. You chose to look at his collarbones and the large swoop of his shoulders. It was intimidating and arousing all at once and you weren’t getting anywhere with this speech, were you?

“We can’t. Not when we’re not on the same page.” 

“Who says we’re not?” You felt his fingers graze the side of your face, pushing a lock of your hair behind your ear. You turned away, squeezing your eyes shut, feeling the familiar prick of tears behind your lids.

“Stop playing with me.” You said, pushing him away with little luck. Miguel shifted slightly at your touch, watching you rub at your eyes. 

“I’m not.” 

“Then why have you not said anything for a week?” You hissed, the frustration threatening to boil over, “You’ve left me agonizing over this for a week, Miguel!” You wiped furiously at your cheeks, catching a few stray tears. “I’m such an idiot.” 

Miguel grabbed your wrists in his hands, yanking them away from your face. His concerned eyes met your wet ones, a frown tugging at his lips.

“Stop.” He demanded, taking your flushed face in his hands and wiping the wet streaks away with his thumbs. “Don’t say that about yourself.” You glared, cheeks puffed and swollen from the pressure of fighting away tears.

“Fine,” you snapped, ignoring the way he stroked your cheeks, “you’re the fucking idiot.” 

“I am,” Miguel agreed with a sigh, refusing to release you, “I didn’t know what to say. Thought you might have been lying—don’t look at me like that.” 

“You’re pissing me off.”

“I know, beba.” The endearment startled you for a moment, your glossy eyes peering up at him as a rush of excitement settled in your stomach. He’d never used endearing words with you before. It had you stumped for a second before you remembered yourself, your brows furrowing in irritation

“Why would you think I was lying? Mig, I’ve loved you for years, you buffoon!” Miguel loomed closer with every word before he kissed you, silencing you effectively. Your eyes fluttered, your lips unresponsive at first until he coaxed you into a gentle rhythm. 

Kissing Miguel was so much softer than you imagined. 

You thought he’d be all tongue and teeth, desperate to devour his victim. His kisses were syrupy and deliberate, steady and reassuring. He was taking his time learning the shape of your lips, the plumpness, how perfect they felt molded against his. 

“I’m sorry, beba,” he said between kisses, letting you snake your arms around his neck to pull him closer, “perdoname. I’m an idiot.” You hummed in agreement, continuing to assault his lips sweetly. You couldn’t stop kissing him if you wanted to, sneaking your tongue past the seam of his lips to taste more of him. 

He growled, tightening his hold on you, allowing you to taste at your leisure. He tasted fresh, like the spearmint gum he always had on hand.

“Perdoname,” he repeated, wanting so desperately for you to forgive his transgressions, slotting himself between your legs.

“Yeah? You’re sorry?” you teased, feeling the familiar ache of arousal blooming in your core, “show me how sorry you are.” Another growl ripped from him, animalistic and provoked. He wasted no time, pushing you down so that your back was flat against his desk and your legs were wrapped around his hips. 

He pressed a button beside you and suddenly, the platform began to elevate. 

“Mig,” you sat up in a panic, but Miguel only pushed you back down, lifting your skirt up till it pooled over your waist, “w-why are we moving up?”

“Privacy,” he grunted, spreading your legs, running his thumb over the soaked patch of your panties. Your hands scrambled to find purchase on something over the desk, your heart hammering in your chest as the ceiling seemed to loom closer.

“Y-you know I’m scared of heights!” You squealed when the platform came to a jutting halt, squeezing your eyes shut. You didn’t even want to think about how high up you were.

“It’s okay,” Miguel purred, gently rubbing your clit through the fabric, “you’re safe, you’re with me, beba, no tengas miedo.” 

“M-Mig, please,” you didn’t even know what you were begging for at that point, you just needed something, and whatever that was, he gave to you. You felt him push aside your panties, and you finally spared him a glance, almost choking at the sight of him mesmerized by the sweetness between your legs.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he muttered, slipping a finger through your folds, “you dripping all over my desk.”

“Y-yeah?” 

“Mhm,” he hummed, easily ripping your panties apart before getting on his knees, “smell s’good.” He muttered, licking a stripe up with his fat tongue, scooping whatever mess you made. He moaned at the taste before completely diving in, eyes closed and large hands keeping your trembling thighs spread for him.

As always, you were a whimpering mess for him, mewling with every precise stroke of his tongue. It was the first time he’d done something like this, and god, it was nothing you could have ever dreamed of.  

He moaned into your cunt, the gentle vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. You trembled and whined with every loud slurp of his mouth over your clit, his tongue swiping over your precious bud before working his way down to dip inside your hole. 

“Fuck, Miguel,” your hands flew to his hair, your fingers weaving through the thick strands to keep his head in place. He skillfully nipped and licked the surface, lifting his face away slightly to spit into your cunt, watching it run through your puffy folds with lidded eyes before devouring you again.

“You taste fucking amazing,” he groaned, sucking your clit between his lips.

You threw your head back, letting out the prettiest moans for him. You forgot about everything, about where you were and how high up you were from the ground. You couldn’t care less as long as Miguel continued to eat from you like a madman. 

You could feel the tension in your abdomen, the clear sign that you were close. Miguel continued to drink from you, slurping obscenely at the fresh arousal that dripped into his mouth.

“Close?” He asked, giving you kitten licks, his hands squeezing your thighs encouragingly. 

“God y-yes, so close.” You could feel him smiling against your folds before starting up a vicious rhythm again with his eyes closed. 

With a loud cry, you came into his waiting mouth, your back arching and body withering over the table from the overstimulation. Miguel licked and sucked every inch of you, determined to catch every drop of your orgasm. 

“Oh my god,” you moaned, releasing your grip from his hair and draping an arm over your eyes. Miguel stood, removing your arm and leaning over your fatigued body. He looked down at you with intense red eyes, his mouth and chin completely covered in your slick. You bit your lip when a smile curved at the edges of his lips before he swooped down to kiss you.

You moaned, completely aroused all over again from your own musky taste on his lips. He slipped his tongue in your mouth, allowing you a proper taste. 

“Perdoname.” He begged again over your lips before gently brushing the tip of his nose against yours. You giggled, pushing him away slightly so that you could sit up on your elbows. 

“Mm, I don’t know,” you teased, “you’re gonna have to try again.” Miguel shook his head, tapping a button on his watch, and allowing his suit to vanish. You gasped at his sudden nakedness, your eyes glued to his throbbing erection. Miguel grinned, fangs bared, tapping his cock over your sensitive cunt.

You closed your eyes as he immediately pushed in, moaning as he worked himself into your tight channel. 

In your euphoric state, you barely registered him grabbing your hand and placing a chaste kiss over your knuckles, whispering over your skin. Your ears picked up a few words, some naughty and some sweet, but your heart fluttered and your chest tightened when you caught the last two words before he began pounding into you.

“Te amo.”

[atlasofoverthinking]

The Problem with the League of Villains

this is just me ranting after reading many people say that the lov deserved a better ending (i agree with them don't worry). most of that stuff has already been said but i'm bored and need something to write

so why is everyone disappointed?

by definition, an antagonist is someone that goes against the main character(s) and a villain is someone who does immoral and/or illegal things (wow, shocking)

so by definition, the league of villains is aptly named. shigaraki and dabi are mass murderers, toga is a killer too, and even if the others are 'less dangerous' they're all guilty of terorism and kidnapping a teenager.

not nice, right? then why would anyone would want them to have a good ending?

long story short: horikoshi made the league too sympathetic and relatable

when horikoshi has decided to make them funny, he's decided to make them likeable. that's not enough though. you can find a fictional villain funny and not root for them (for some reason the examples that comes to my mind are the disney villains. captain hook is hilarious but no one wants him to win)

the cause of everyone's disappointment is the relatable part. everyone in the league has gone through stuff viewers can relate. touya, shigaraki and toga have been abused; twice has mental health issues (and stuggling to get a job is relatable too lmao); spinner has been discriminated against... you get the idea

and even without knowing their backstory, most of the league's fights can be considered noble: they want to change society and make the world a better place. to take a more precise example, the league kidnapped bakugou because they thought he had gone through similar struggle as them

(this is mr compress talking in chapter 85) as far as i've seen, most of the fandom either think bakugou being chained and muzzled at the end of the sport festival was just comic relief or agree that it was fucked up

so yeah, you can't put a group of people rejected by society, who just want a better world and expect people to not like them

and that's why their ending is disappointing (the rest contains heavy spoilers of the last few chapters of mha)

they're all either in jail or six feet underground. we rationally could understand it, they're all criminals/villains so of course they wouldn't get a happy ending and face consequences for their actions. the only one who could have gotten away with it is shigaraki because of all the grooming/brainwashing he's gone through and maybe toga because she's a child

but if you relate to a character, you want them to get a happy ending. of course fans would want dabi to be at peace, but instead he's forced to spend his last moments being stared at by his abuser). of course fans would want shigaraki to be free from afo (but instead his only freedom was death). of course fans would want toga to be understood and cared for (but she never had that opportunity)

that's not very 'save to win' out of you horikoshi

maybe it's just a shortcut made by the fandom, but the league are seen more as victims of abuse than actual criminals. i mean, what's more important in dabi's story? the fact that he burned himself alive after overworking himself to get his abusive father's attention, or the fact that he's burned people alive? probably both, but there's more focus on the first element.

and obviously we would want abuse victims to get a happy ending

basically, their ending isn't coherent with what we've seen of them, and that's why people are disappointed

btw, the same logic applies to stain. some fans agree with stain's reasoning bc he's fighting against corruption. of course, his logic is stupid and he's delusional but he's introduced not long after we've discovered shouto's past. you can't say "one of the most popular heroes is abusing + all he wants is to get n°1 to satisfy his own ego" and then follow with "see that guy fighting against corruption? he's bad, don't do that"

the clever way to make sure no one would agree with stain would have been to make the heroes fight against injustice with good methods. i live for the fanfics in which izuku takes down the hpsc

okay i'm done ranting thanks for reading

[conarcoin]

Some of my favorite DSMP quotes I think are underrated:

"Do you know what happens to traitors, Tubbo? ...Nothing good." - Schlatt

"TommyInnit, I am a slow-burning fuse." - Wilbur

"History will forget that a country ever existed in this area." - Techno

"Let the space between the Badlands be total chaos. That's got nothing to do with us! Manberg? Pogtopia? Who cares!" - BBH

"Tommy, you just did a coup. You just did a hostile government takeover and then immediately instilled yourself as president. And then you gave it to your friend, but that's still a tyrant, Tommy!" - Techno

"I know I'm forgetful, I know I'm an amnesiac and I'm the comic relief in all your stories, but I still feel this- I still feel things!" - Ghostbur

"For what it's worth, I don't know what went on today. But even though you kidnapped me, and I'm still kinda dealing with the trauma, I think at the end of the day you're just a conflicted person, not a bad person... And I hope one day you find what you're looking for." - Connor

"If you wanted to stop us, you should have brought more than just yourself. You should have brought an army with you." - BBH

"You threw away my life for some kind of fucking sales pitch?" - Foolish

"I've been watching for a long time. One person lashes out and then the other does, until they're both gone. From what I've seen, it feels like people don't stop taking that revenge. Is it ever worth it?" - Slime

"You showed me that when you saw me, something malleable, and all of you made me into the worst parts of each." - Slime

[revvethasmythh]

Reminded again, as I periodically am, that there's a fair number of people in the fandom that think of Nott the Brave and Veth Brenatto as two different characters, and not fundamentally the same woman. In the absolute literal sense, this is false: Nott the Brave, returned to the body of her choice and using her real name once again, is absolutely precisely the same person she was before Caleb cast Transmogrification on her. This is, incidentally, one of her main sources of angst towards the end of the campaign! A part of Nott must have both feared (and, in some ways, hoped) that when she was changed back into a halfling, she would also be a different person. That the person she became traveling with the Nein would be an easy identity to shed, which she may have hoped for because it would be easier to fit herself back into her home life with Yeza and Luc--and because it would be easier to say goodbye to the Nein if that were the case. And she feared it because she liked this person she became, no matter how transgressive society would label her for it. And she loved the Nein and didn't want those feelings to be altered.

But she didn't change. Veth Brenatto is Nott the Brave and Nott the Brave is Veth Brenatto. This was always the point. That's why it's an anagram. It's just that when she's Veth Brenatto again, she is much more focused on the why of what she's doing. Why am I still with the Nein? Why am I still adventuring? Why do I have this reticence to return home to my family? Why don't I long for that quiet, domestic life the way I once did? Her emotional journey becomes intensely personal, sometimes subtly/quietly told, and wholly about what kind of future she wants for herself and how her choice could affect those around her. Her two families become anchor points pulling her in different directions and she has to deal with that. Which is a different story than what she was telling when she was still Nott the Brave. Nott's story was much simpler--I am a goblin and I hate it and I would like to be a halfling again. I would like to be able to be with my family again. It's straightforward and it's achieved! But that's not where it ends, because she still needs to figure out a real, functional future for herself once her goal has been achieved.

All this to say, I think when people say they prefer Nott over Veth, it's important to remember that you are reacting to a certain story arc for the character, not an entirely different character. It may also pay to ask yourselves why you think they're so different. Was "Nott" funnier than "Veth" to you? Does her ability to serve as comic relief fundamentally change whether you like her or not? Did you appreciate "Nott's" themes more than "Veth's"? Or did you even notice the themes being explored in Veth's later game at all?

[girlwithherheadinthestars]

academic rivals prompt/scenario list pt. 2

[they end up at the same SAT test center] "why are you here?"

"same reason you are."

"clearly not because i'm here to ace this test. you're here for, what, comic relief?"

"the only comic thing about this is the look on your face when i get a better score."

(they end up with the same score)

"how much did you study?"

"not a lot."

"yeah me neither."

(both get hundreds)

person a: (comes over to b in a trench coat and sunglasses) good day.

person b: (reading a newspaper inconspicuously) good day.

person a: i'm here to talk business.

person b: i certainly hope you're not here to bore me.

person a: enough of that. do you know how much c got on the midterm?

person b: (looks left then right to make sure no one's listening) 89.

person a: damn!

person b: yeah. (shrugs, goes back to newspaper) so i won.

person a: i'll have you know --

teacher: guys -- what -- what are you two doing? this is economics not theatre.

"you're looking at a again."

b starts, looking at their friend. "i most certainly was not -- "

"you always are. on wednesday you couldn't take your eyes off them."

"i didn't even see them on wednesday."

"it's fine, i can't blame you, they looked hot in red."

"they were wearing blue -- " realizing they're caught, sighs. "whatever. i still hate them."

part. 1

part. 3

[kitkat-the-muffin]

Tis a niche of its own

Sorry there is only two female characters, I kinda pulled these off the top of my head and probably missed a ton of other candidates. Reblog with an addition if you have one!

Edit: I forgot to make this poll a week long! Once this poll ends I'll remake it with new additions depending on the results (the characters with the fewest results will be replaced with suggested characters from the notes so be sure to suggest some!) in the meantime tho plz reblog to increase sample size

This follows my own definition of what "Comic Relief" means: A character that is used as a conduit for comedy in a piece of media

Through character studies I have determined that there are 5 types of comic relief: the Character Relief, the Audience Relief, the Tone Shifter, the Butt of the Joke, and the Slapstick. Characters that identify as "Comic Relief" usually fall into one or more of these categories

Further explanation under the cut

The Character Relief refers to a character who actively makes jokes to be funny in-universe through conscious humor. Examples from this poll would be Sans and Rayla, who go out of their way to make their friends laugh

The Audience Relief refers to a character who makes the audience laugh regardless of their impact on the story. Examples from this poll would be Lapis and Gus, who are often involved in comedic bits meant for audience entertainment that aren't acknowledged by the narrative as anything unprecedented

The Tone Shifter refers to a character who makes jokes to relieve tension and shift the tone of a scene, either consciously or unconsciously. Examples from this poll would be Jay and Leo, as they both consciously make jokes about grim situations to help their friends or family feel better. Additionally, Jay would do this unconsciously before his trauma made him start doing it on purpose

The Butt of the Joke refers to a character who is made fun of by other characters in-universe, whether endearingly or not. Examples from this poll would be Dewey and Lance, who are often met with insults whenever they do something wrong or silly. The insults are usually meant to be endearing and comedic, but they can still feed into the character's possible inferiority complex. This also applies whenever a villain hits them with a sick burn*

The Slapstick refers to a character who is made fun of by the narrative and the audience like a punching bag. Examples from this poll would be Sokka and Yusuke, who are sometimes put in troubling and awkward situations as a gag for the audience's entertainment alone. These gags are not fun for the characters yet delightful to watch

Most comic relief characters can be characterized as multiples of these. For example, Jar-Jar from Star Wars is both Slapstick and Audience Relief, and even if you don't find his jokes funny that doesn't change the fact that they were written with your entertainment in mind

If you're curious how a "The Narrative's Favorite (derogatory)" character would fit into this chart, they're likely both a Butt of the Joke and a Slapstick character, making their life absolute hell. To be honest, MK from Monkie Kid is an example of a character who fits all 5 categories, but he isn't blue so he isn't in this poll

*Ok if you've ever seen Phineas and Ferb Mission Marvel let me just say MODOK is a total Butt of the Joke and my favorite line in that special is when a TV announcer calls him a "Giant Chicken Egg with a Face" and I just had to mention that omg

[matan4il]

911 ep 701 first watch reactions

(I don't think I have the energy to write proper Buddie meta, so here's me randomly squealing instead...)

LMAO In case you were wondering whether s7 of 911 will be subtle about their gratitude/debt to ABC for saving the show, the answer is a resounding no.

Also, I have lost a lot of respect for Frank as a shrink, but gained a lot of love for him as a sass king. "Did she win!?" The murderous look Athena gave him was priceless. I love her, too. She doesn't even need words to rule.

Man, nooooo. Don't give me a mutual "I love you" between Bobby and Athena like that.

"Go ahead and cut the green wire." Everyone and their sister: "Green? You said Red."

9-1-1 is the superior comedy they slipped into our drink, while we were here for our weekly action, suspense, drama and familial love.

Buck broke off with Natalia, and the show really did it like that. XD Every single person who rolled their eyes at this pairing during s6, we were all justified, but wow. The show really is the only forum to respect the pair even less than fandom does. And of course we find out about it in the middle of a scene built around Eddie being half naked, Buck watching him, with the camera specifically turning so we can discover Buck was initially covered by Eddie's body, and the angle change reveals him, when the whole thing wraps up with Eddie welcoming Buck back to the land of the living... Yeah, wonder what made Buck feel alive again. Don't know. 'Tis a mystery. We were given zero clues...

"I want the honeymoon life." *cries* Chimney is just such a good, good man. And okay, expecting your whole life to be a honeymoon's a bit unrealistic, but Madney are living together and they have a child. They know this. Chim knows this, but he still wants to go for it. Aim for the moon, you'll at least land among the stars, right?

Bobby baffled by Athena's reaction to Norman and Lola is hilarious.

I like how Chim has a great idea, but it's still obvious that it's gonna go wrong, because he can't help going overboard with it...

OMG, that scene with Eddie recounting to Buck what Christopher's date was like... If I were to write my Buddie meta, I would serve a three course meal just from that. I mean, the fact that watching Chris hanging out with a girl he likes, makes Eddie compare it to "hanging out with his guy friends" (when there's no lack of interest in this girl... in fact, it turns out that if anything, Christopher's problem is the opposite of a lack of interest) is so telling. There's a reason why that's where Eddie's mind went.

But then also... Eddie's trust in Buck got to me, the way he went to his best friend (not his own gf) for help with Chris. But that was still played with half a smile. But then Buck sort of disses himself jokingly, and Eddie won't have it. "You didn't end up like you." He sees how Buck worked on being a better person, even when Eddie wasn't there for the worst of it, and he appreciates it, and won't let Buck forget it. Meeeep. I love them.

Oh Chim. I was giving you so much credit, and then you went and bought that outdoors jacuzzi. lol Still love him. That's what Maddie's reminding herself of right now, too. ;p

Poor Hen, she was great in this ep, but none of it was really about her, she was comic relief, both with Chim and with the red wire. Then again, she was amazing in this, like she always is with everything.

Eddie and Buck were both so good with Chris this ep, MY HEART. Buck with getting him to talk about what's really bothering him, and Eddie with realizing exactly what his son needs, and how to give it to him. They completed each other. Neither one would be helping Chris without the other one. Tell me again how they're not soulmates?

In conclusion, I love Bobby saying, "Let's go prove one of us wrong," when they're both right. Something WAS going on with Norman and Lola, AND Athena was using them to avoid him.

Argh. That scene of the ship and its passengers being hijacked was rough to watch. </3 I'll still be here to watch the conclusion of this. That's the power of 9-1-1 for you.

It def felt like a great kick to the new season. We had lots of comedy and fun, some great tension, some emotional moments (especially with Christopher), but all in all, it's still clear that the whole thing's a build up to next week. Are you excited?

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Removed from the high stakes of pirating all of Izzy's behavior immediately becomes hilarious and I love that. The lower the stakes of your modern AU are the more imperative it is for his behavior to be exactly the same, I think. He can fill a crucial niche as both antagonist AND comic relief. He must be out here threatening Ed's life because Ed chooses to buy a cute choker at Claire's and wear a skirt to work.

It's not Izzy if he's not shaking his head at Ivan and Fang and going "he's lost his fucking mind" and they're looking at Ed on the other side of the coffee shop happily adding rainbow sprinkles to their available cupcake toppings

[randomidiocyncrazies]

i think one of the best things about Saionji and Nanami is that they're just. such losers. and the narrative never lets you forget it.

oh sure, Nanami is rich and Saionji is technically popular in-universe; but they're also the comic relief and eat shit every time they show up. They're ALSO some of the most perceptive characters in the cast, with both of them trying to leave the duel game at some point and recognizing on some level that it's bad for them. BUT they also spent most of the show thinking they can win at this bullshit farce system for sure and proceed to get outplayed every step of the way, though I'd argue this is much more a Saionji problem than a Nanami problem—once she's been made aware of what's going on, Nanami is the most resolute in leaving not just the dueling game, but Ohtori itself. (Saionji, on the other hand, only tried to leave the dueling game because he felt he was tricked; he didn't have the conviction or resolution to risk giving up his privileges and leave his comfort zone.) The most perceptive but also the most willfully blind characters.

Like. It's so funny to me that Saionji smugly tells Utena the castle is just a mirage when he tries to assert his superiority over her in ep 1, and then proceeds to treat the castle as totally real and have a whole breakdown about it a few eps later—it's fake (which it is) when he can use it to belittle Utena, but it's real (which it is not) when it's about what he wants to attain. What a goddamn idiot; what an absolute clown.

And Nanami. keeps trying to bully the protagonists but the tables always turn on her in the most slapstick way possible. tries to put Anthy and Utena into humiliating situations, and gets put into the most bizarre circumstances/episodes herself. Girl who tries to make fools of others has the story present her as a fool.

(and that's why they're my faves)