#trix's writing

[scout-is-missing]

Hi there! I saw you had open requests so I was a bit excited to ask for fluff requests👉🏼👈🏼 I’ve been a little overwhelmed and overstimulated with everything so I was hoping I could ask for Miguel helping reader with their feelings.

Comforting them with like a nest of blankets and pillows｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡ i sometimes get super anxious and agitated that I feel like I snap at others and I like the thought of Miguel knowing how to fix that because he’s a workaholic and often burns out. Just a fluff, a little angst since it’s not a nice kind of burn out, it’s like a snappish and mean kind, any scenario works:) thank you!!

「 ✦ Burnout ✦ 」 ⤷ summary: Miguel comforts his partner after a hard day at work ⤷ word count: 1,103 ☆ ⤷ content warning: fluff, hurt/comfort ⤷ pairing: GN!Reader x Miguel ⤷ A/N: Oh! My first request! I'm so excited ♡ I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for sending in the request, lovely anon ♡ ↳ Masterlist ☆ Rules ☆ Prompt Lists ☆ AO3

You don’t know exactly what set it off.

It might have been the incessant buzzing of your phone, signalling far too many messages in your inbox that you didn’t want to respond to. Or perhaps it was the way your mind kept circling back to all the tasks you hadn’t completed today—the chores you promised yourself you’d finally get around to but kept on the back burner regardless. Those unfinished tasks buzzed in the back of your mind, taunting you for being unable to manage something as simple as laundry. Or perhaps it’s the way that work seemed to drag today.

 Every little thing that could’ve possibly gone wrong just piling up on your plate, your responsibility, offering you an unfortunate little taste of Murphy’s law.

You have just enough energy left to drag yourself back home, your patience already running thin by the time you arrive at the apartment you shared with your partner. Miguel being home at all was a bit of a gamble, lately—  he had always been a busy man, an unfortunate side effect of his brilliance, and his itch to constantly be doing something, but in recent months the worrying state of the multiverse is what has been keeping your lover away from you far more often.

You spot him right as you walk into the apartment, sitting at the dining table, hunched over his gizmo with a screwdriver in hand. The soft glow of the device cast shadows on his sharp features, highlighting the furrow of his brow. You vaguely remember him mentioning something about upgrades he wanted to make for durability. That man was always working. Always tense, always focused

“Hey, you’re home.” 

Miguel greeted from across the room, his voice low and calm. He didn’t look up right away, too engrossed in his work, but the warmth in his tone was unmistakable.

“Yeah.” 

You muttered, kicking off your shoes with more force than necessary. Your shoulders were hunched, every muscle wound tight with a tension you couldn’t shake.

Miguel glanced up, sharp eyes immediately noticing your agitation.

He didn’t say anything right away, just observed quietly.

“Rough day?” he asked after a moment, his voice carefully neutral.

“You could say that,” you replied, a little sharper than you meant to. You wince at your own tone— you notice right away how harsh you sound, and you really don’t mean to.

Miguel didn’t react to your tone.

Instead, he set down his project and stood, crossing the room slowly, unsure of whether to give you space or push the subject.

When he’s snappy and overwhelmed you often try to talk him through it— you always insisted on communication being key to a successful relationship, despite both of you being terrible at it.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really…” you said, your voice tight. The overstimulation was getting to you, every little sound and sensation grating on your nerves. You wanted to scream or cry or both, but none of it would help. 

You’re not even sure you can muster up the strength to properly explain what happened, even if you wanted to.

Miguel nodded as if he understood — and maybe he did. You knew how often he pushed himself past his limits, how he carried the weight of his responsibilities until it crushed him.

He never quite got used to how sensitive his senses became after his mutation, how even small things could overwhelm him when he was worn down. He’d never admit it outright, but you could see it in the lines of his face, in those rare moments when exhaustion slipped through his carefully composed exterior. 

“Okay. You don’t have to talk. But… let me help?”

His voice was softer now, as gentle as he could be.

You opened your mouth to argue, to insist you didn’t need help, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you just stood there, silent and tense, until Miguel took it as a yes. He didn’t ask for permission before taking your hand, and leading you toward the couch.

“Sit,” he said, and you obeyed, too tired to fight it. He disappeared for a moment, and you heard him moving around in the other room. When he returned, he had an armful of blankets and pillows.

“Miguel, what are you…?” you started, but he cut you off with a small, knowing smile.

“Just trust me. I know what burnout looks like, and I know what helps.” He set the blankets down and began arranging them around you, creating a soft, warm nest. “Sometimes, you don’t need to talk or solve anything. You just need a safe place to land.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how thoughtful he was. The tension in your chest didn’t vanish, but it eased a little as Miguel draped a particularly fluffy blanket over your shoulders and dimmed the lights before settling beside you, close but not too close, giving you space to breathe but staying close just in case.

You close your eyes, taking deep breaths, taking in the quiet and the comfort of your home, or your couch and the nest of blankets around you.

You’re safe. No one can harm you as long as you’re here— next to your loving partner, buried in the softest fabrics you own. Your body is still tense as you allow your body to sink into the cushions, trying to will your body to relax now that you’re safe and comfortable.

“Better?” he asked after a while, his voice is low, comforting, and he makes an effort to speak quietly as to not to set you off further.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. A little.”

“Good.” He didn’t press you to say more, didn’t demand explanations or offer more solutions. Instead, he sat quietly, a steady, anchoring presence beside you. It was exactly what you needed.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, the weight of the blankets grounding you, Miguel’s calm presence easing the storm in your mind. Eventually, you found yourself leaning against him, too tired to fight.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Miguel rested a hand on your back, gentle and reassuring. “Anytime. You do the same for me, even if you don’t realize it.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words sink in. You didn’t have to face things alone— not when you had people by your side to anchor you when the world felt too overwhelming.

You can worry about fixing your problems tomorrow. For now, it was enough to rest, wrapped in warmth and comfort, knowing Miguel would be there when you were ready to face the world again.

[kifkay]

Winx memes once again

[grimgoregrimoire]

Play games with your characters!!!

·:*¨༺𖤐☆✮☆𖤐༻¨*:·

I mean this literally, your favorite game? Play it with your character!

Put your character in The Sims and see what they do. Play The Walking Dead, but make all the choices your character would make. Cards Against Humanity, but your character has to answer everything.

As weird as this sounds, it's a great way to get to know your characters better, and the best part is that you can do it with pretty much any game you like!

Trixed Thursday 28/03/24

[s12-kittie]

Random Icy headcannon

She actually loves sparkly things but she's afraid to have/use them bc she thinks she'll lose her aithority if someone spots some glittery thing on her, SO

She actially wants her makeup to look like that

BUT bc (read the stuff above), she only does it like that

Yep, this was important

[idiotthatdrawsakaartist]

Writing Icy is so much fun lmao

[darlenicy]

Winx au where the Trix can decide whether to go to Light Rock or to the underwater prison on Andros after season 3. Icy and Stormy go straight away to Andros. Darcy however chose Light Rock. She's sick of her unsteady life and wants to build something new and safe instead of breaking out again, seeking chaos and losing to the Winx again.

[neverforgetyou]

... am i still young?

tw // implied suicide

I pity you.

You, a shining star in this darkness we call life.

So naïve. Don’t you know?

This is where we come to die.

Whether it’s within these walls, or on the stage.

They feast on our suffering.

They will destroy you.

Don’t you know?

The pain that comes with all this?

You watched it on TV,

A “bonding activity” with your “mother” you called it.

Have you ever felt that pain before?

Your bright smile makes me think you haven’t.

Trix understands,

The scars on her body showcase

The suffering caused by segyein.

I’m sure An knows,

But, like you, she doesn’t know.

I do.

You’re so caught up in the thrill of it all,

The excitement of being in your favorite “show,”

That you haven’t even considered it yet:

Why would they send someone who can’t sing

To compete in a life or death singing competition?

…

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry to be the one to break the news to you.

I’m sorry for the secrets I’ve been hiding.

I’m sorry for not confiding in you like you confide in me.

Cindy,

I’m sorry,

But I

Can’t

Take this

Anymore

…

Trix.

An.

Please … take care of her for me

Goodbye.

an and trix by @astoryofsuchwoe tags: @imperfectnothing @eventseraphim

[professor-geen-berries]

I made an oc! She's very traumatised...

Tw: blood and wounds

She has a whole tragic backstory but ill go into that later i just wanted to share the art :)

[astoryofsuchwoe]

Pain . . .

(i wasn't lying i had to make a drabble. vic gets shot in this one and im bad at describing pain. dividers by @/cafekitsune !)

(other characters mentioned are :: pale and felix ; @sotogalmo , theo and cindy ; @tsukacchako , token ; @kyokills )

Vic had never felt a pain as overwhelming as this.

He's felt pain before, obviously. When he was younger, he almost broke his leg during his first mission. He's been shot at before, stabbed a couple of times, definitely broke his arm once.

But nothing could really compare to this.

He had been ambushed on his mission, overwhelmed by the sheer number of guards that came after him. He definitely should have listened to Felix and at least brought back up, but he was too stubborn to do so. Too afraid to endanger anyone else.

And now here he was, bleeding out of his chest. The guards were incompetent, sure, but he was pretty sure they had punctured a lung, or at least the area around one.

It was excruciating. His vision faded in and out, his breaths coming out in shallow pants, a sweat building on his forehead as he stumbled his way back to the base.

He had to get back, he had to make it back home. He promised Cindy that he'd be there when she played her new piece. Promised Token that he'd let them try one of his cigarettes (but he obviously wasn't going to). Promised Trix that he'd return safely, even when they both knew that was never a certainty.

He struggled, clutching his chest as he stumbled about like he was drunk. He wished he was drunk. Maybe it could make him forget about the pain.

He collapsed when he was a couple blocks away from base. He knew that someone would find him eventually while on patrol. He just hoped it'd be soon.

He leaned against a building, attempting to catch his breath while the pain refused to cease. He gasped, and not for the first time, his life flashed before his eyes.

He could see the entire resistance, laughing and joking even when they were supposed to be taking their planning seriously. He could see his old groups, the kind adults that shared their bread with a stowaway like him. He could see Trix, clinging onto him after a particularly rough beating by their Guardian.

...He could see Theo and Pale, sitting with him in the grass, listening to his ramblings.

He didn't even realize it, but he was mumbling to himself. It was mostly nonsense, he was far too delirious to even think. But, as he was starting to black out, as he could see someone's faint figure, as he could hear his name being called, he could only mumble two old nicknames to himself.

"...Signs...Glasses..."

(signs and glasses are his nicknames for theo and pale <3)

[magixfairyix]

Trust and Hope

An Iarcy (Darcy x Iorda, OC) one-shot that's way past the events of Snow, Shadow, and Storm. Not the same timeline or universe as A Heart of Two.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The night of Karaoke in Magix City continued to go on, and soon everyone walked out of the building. Darcy stayed behind for a short moment, glancing up at the sky before Riven walked up to her.

"So, you like Iorda?" Riven questioned, his tone holding no judgment.

"Wait, what?" Darcy paused, eyes widening before they chuckled slightly. "What... what made you think that?"

"Well, you were blushing earlier. And you chose a song for Iorda that was practically a love song," Riven said, slightly teasingly before his expression became more concerned. "Does... she know?"

Darcy sighed, rubbing their temples. "No, she does not. And I don't want her to. You heard about the recent breakup she had, right?"

"With Ame? Yeah."

"She's been through a lot, and I'm not the..." Darcy paused, shrugging. "The best person for her to be in a relationship with."

"Bullshit," Riven said plainly, and Darcy raised a brow. "She clearly likes you. And hasn't everyone been calling you two partners jokingly for like, four months?"

"Stormy said the same thing, but nothing can be said to change my mind. I don't want to hurt her" Darcy said as she and Riven started to walk far behind the rest of the group.

Riven scoffed slightly under his breath, smirking. "You should be more worried about yourself considering she almost broke someone's hand."

Darcy chuckled under their breath. "Yeah..."

Then Flora, Stella, Brandon, and Iorda walked over to where Darcy and Riven were. The duo walked away from the wall and joined the rest of the group. Flora, Stella, Brandon, and Riven started walking back towards the bus to Alfea, though Iorda and Darcy walked further behind the group.

"You doing okay?" Iorda asked reassuringly.

"Yeah," Darcy answered calmly. "Just tired..." They pause, remembering the fact that both of them could feel each other's emotions. "And stressed."

Iorda paused as the two of them kept walking, glancing at her side. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Darcy's heart warmed at how well Iorda knew them, but they buried it. They breathed in slowly, composing themselves. "Today was just... one of those days where I feel... like a bad person. It's nothing new."

Iorda's eyes widened—she knew Darcy had a problem with that, and anytime that happened Iorda was fully to give all the reassurance possible—as she met Darcy's gaze. "Darcy, you are a good person."

Darcy stayed silent, clearly disagreeing.

"You are one of the people I trust the most," Iorda said calmly. "I'm always going to be there for you, because over the years... You've been there for me. No matter what I'm going to be right next to you, and I swear on Omega that I'll always trust you and value our... friendship."

Thankfully Darcy didn't seem to have noticed the pause during the word 'friendship,' and they couldn't hide the small smile that appeared. "Isn't it immoral of a Guardian to swear on the planet they're supposed to protect?"

Iorda shrugged, chuckling under her breath. "No longer a legal Guardian, but that doesn't mean the Council can't stop me if I decide to go down there once in a while."

Darcy smirked teasingly. "So rebellious."

Iorda smirked back. "Says you, dep'la."

Darcy had to bury their panic at the comment—a week ago the Squad had a movie night and Iorda was dared to say that, and apparently now decided to say that again—and wished they had a pillow to hit Iorda with. Iorda on the other hand was regretting saying it and was trying to bury her gay brain.

"Glad I'm corrupting you so well," Darcy teased and decided to retaliate because them and Iorda banter on the daily. This wasn't any different, right? "Sweetheart."

Iorda coughed on air because one thing she hadn't learned from Darcy was how to have an excellent poker face. She wasn't expecting that comment, and holy shit her brain wasn't functioning she was too gay for this. If she had a pillow she would scream in it.

"Shut up," Iorda said, laughing under her breath and trying to calm herself down. Darcy cackled, throwing thier head back, and Iorda looked back at the group awhile in front of her. "MUSA I'M GETTING VERBALLY ATTACKED!"

Barely Iorda could see Musa look back at them. "GOOD! YOU PROBABLY ENJOY IT!"

Darcy laughed even more, and Iorda tried her stop herself from doing so as well. "I mean, you did start it."

"I know I know," Iorda said, calming down and smiling. "So, are you feeling a bit better?"

Darcy smiled to themselves, looking up at the dark sky and wondering why fate was so cruel to make her have feelings for the one person she'd never trust herself to be with. "Yeah, I am."

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

[scout-is-missing]

「 ✦ sweet dreams of holly and ribbon ✦ 」 ⤷ summary: Deadpool visits Miguel on Christmas eve ⤷ word count: 2,989 ☆ ⤷ content warning: grieving, fluff ⤷ pairing: Fem!Deadpool reader x Miguel ⤷ A/N: Me posting a Christmas fic during new year's? It's more likely than you think! ↳ Masterlist ☆ Rules ☆ Prompt Lists ☆ AO3

[01]

As it turns out, actions have consequences.

Miguel knows this truth intimately. His entire existence is shaped by a series of bad decisions—most regretful, all irreversible, and the ensuing consequences that come back to haunt him later. He’s older, now, not much wiser, and yet, somewhere beneath the rubble of regret, he still hopes, absurdly, for a break.

True to her word, Deadpool continues to visit him.

It’s not unpleasant, most of the time. She arrives unannounced, making an over-the-top show of bypassing his security updates, “by skill alone,” she insists. He pretends to be irritated by her antics, her innuendo-laden quips, and the terrible puns that he’s sure she rehearses nightly in front of her mirror. And she’s gone just as quickly as she appears, flashing a grin and sashaying out the door, searching for another hapless victim or a greener pastures to poison.

Like a hurricane, leaving chaos in her wake.

A force of nature, unstoppable and unpredictable.

Miguel tells himself he’s sturdy enough to weather her storms.

It occurs to him, though, that Deadpool’s presence is partially his fault.

Vampires, he’s heard, can only enter a household if invited, before being able to come and go as they please. Not that he thinks Deadpool is a vampire (though, honestly, with her, who knows?), but the principle feels the same: By allowing her in, tolerating her mischief and offering even the barest hint of a welcome, he’s given the merc a permanent free pass into his life, handing her permission to disrupt it as she pleases.

Now, she’s everywhere.

Popping up during Miguel’s rare patrols to fling terrible jokes and snacks his way or sprawling across his office floor to colour disturbing doodles while he works, which she proudly dubs “masterpieces of modern art.” At first, he assumed Deadpool’s only sporadic appearances meant she was moving on, her chaotic energy drawn to new, more interesting prey. But then he realized her visits always happened between her jobs. 

When she wasn’t busy with her brand of mercenary madness, she found her way back to him.

She was around often enough that her absence felt like a tangible weight on the days she didn’t come.

He calls it Stockholm syndrome. Lyla, adjusting her heart-shaped glasses, cheerfully, helpfully informs him that Stockholm syndrome isn’t real.

He clings to the term anyway.

Things don’t really get easier, even with (or despite) Deadpool’s more frequent visits. They ease Miguel’s loneliness, sure, but it doesn’t heal his wounds and make the ache in his chest disappear like magic. 

Grief doesn’t fade.  It burrows under the skin, a wound that festers no matter how many bandages you wrap it in, a constant ache that lingers, no matter how much time passes. 

Day by day, he copes. 

Miguel returns home a little more often. His kitchen countertops remain dusty, but his office slowly recovers from the worst of his depression-fueled chaos.

Abandoned projects are shoved into corners, ignored but not forgotten. He learns to grow around the gaping hole in his heart, even when it threatens to swallow him whole.

His office shows faint signs of life. Baby steps, Lyla calls them.

(He doesn’t let her judge the nights he spends rewatching home videos. The ones where a version of himself, happier and whole, laughs as Gabriella runs barefoot through his living room on Christmas morning, slipping over wrapping paper when he attempts to show him a new trick she had learned. )

The holidays bring with them a specific ache. An emptiness that swallows the progress he’s made. Christmas was supposed to be a time for joy, for family, for moments that Miguel never got to have. He never saw Gabriella’s face light up at the sight of her presents or heard her complain about itchy sweaters. He had so little time with her, and what he has now are scraps of a life that doesn’t exist anymore.

It’s Christmas Eve, and he’s buried in work.

The others are long gone, celebrating with the loved ones they’re fortunate enough to have. It leaves the Spider Society’s headquarters eerily quiet, for once. Even Peter’s off playing family man.

Miguel’s only company is the dull glow of his screens, filling his vision, different responsibilities all competing for his attention as he multitasks. To his right, there’s raw data to analyse for his day job, to his left are the files of potential spider-people to recruit into his growing collective. Centre stage, a home video playing on loop. 

Deadpool’s entrance is startlingly subdued this time. She slips in so quietly, she might as well have strolled through the front door with a welcome mat under her arm. For someone so loud and larger-than-life, it’s easy to forget that she’s also disturbingly good at her job, stealth, included when it suits her.

Miguel notices her leaning casually against the desk behind him, the crooked angle of her Santa hat adding an odd whimsy to her usual leather-clad figure. Her gaze lingers, unapologetically, shamelessly, on his broad shoulders before flicking to the home video looping on his screen. She doesn’t comment, though the tension in her posture suggests she’s actively fighting the impulse. Instead, the merc picks up an empty takeout container, inspects it with a grimace, and shakes it like it might suddenly produce something edible.

Miguel doesn’t turn to look at her. He doesn’t have to. He knows she’s there, waiting for him to react, to acknowledge her presence. But he waits. Waits for her to say something cutting or inappropriate, for her to pry into the life he keeps locked behind layers of stone and silence. To tease him for falling apart again—or worse, to pity him.

He braces for the inevitable.

But she doesn’t do any of that.

“Your taste in takeout is abysmal!” she says instead, her voice dripping with mock disapproval. The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself  “Where’s the spice? The thrill? The flavour, Miguelito?” 

She drops the container back onto the desk with an exaggerated sigh, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

When she glances back at him, her mask doesn’t hide the sharpness in her gaze, like she’s peeling back the layers he keeps so carefully guarded. Like she’s trying to assemble all the little broken pieces of him into something she can understand. Something whole. Trying to understand the whole story based solely on the little glimpses he allowed her to see.

“Better bland than expired.”

She doesn’t take the bait, which is unusual for her. He eyes the screens in front of him, already getting overwhelmed by all the responsibilities he needs to return to. He can already feel a headache starting to form, and he knows, that Deadpool’s presence will only serve to make matters worse.

But somehow, despite himself, he didn’t tell her to leave. He did tell her to do as she pleased, after all, he knew, deep down, it wasn’t something he could ever take back.

Like a vampire, Miguel’s mind supplies. In his weakest moment, he’d let her in. He hadn’t even tried to stop her, too tired, too resigned, and too drawn in by the light she carried with her. He’d bared his neck, and she’d sunk her teeth in. Her presence became a mark he couldn’t erase, a tether he couldn’t sever. 

He’d let her in, foolishly, willingly, and now she was everywhere.

Deadpool steps closer, her presence as loud as her voice is soft.

“I always thought you’d go big for the holidays,” she says, a thread of wistfulness threading through her usual bravado. “Big feast, tamales, flan, the works. Maybe even some singing. You have a deep, dramatic voice. I bet you’d kill at carols.”

Miguel snorts, barely glancing her way. “I don’t sing.”

“Not yet,” she quips, lightning-quick, her tone regaining its usual teasing edge. “Give me time.”

His lips twitch, but the moment flickers and dies as his eyes return to the screen. With a flick of his wrist, he minimizes the video of Gabriella. He doesn’t need her catching sight of it, doesn’t need her insight slicing him open when he’s already frayed at the edges.

She leans in closer, hands on her hips, and inspects his workspace with the exaggerated scrutiny of someone who knows it’ll get under his skin. He doesn’t miss the flash of her eyes: sharp, always searching, as though she’s piecing together a puzzle he didn’t even realize he was giving her.

“You know...” she murmurs, her voice deceptively soft, “I always figured you’d be good at this kind of thing. Cooking, hosting. You give off big, ‘don’t get in my kitchen’ energy.” She waves vaguely at the mess of his desk. “I figured, at least once a year, you’d make some grand feast. Surprise the whole Spider Society. Show everyone you’re not just an emotionally constipated vampire.”

Miguel doesn’t rise to the bait. Not immediately. But her words linger, brushing against memories he tries to bury. Family dinners he’ll never have again. Voices that won’t ever echo through his halls. He minimizes another screen, obscuring data reports and his daughter’s ghost alike.

“I came here with expectations, man!” The woman adds, leaning back against the desk now, her head cocked and her posture lazy, though her eyes gleam with something sharper. “You’re supposed to be brooding, not boring.”

She’s joking, but her voice lands flat against the weight of his silence. When he doesn’t respond, she sighs, her theatrics dialled up to mask her displeasure.

“Come on, Spidey. Even big, scary, emotionally stunted vampire-dudes need to unwind sometimes.” She gestures dramatically, like she’s pitching a rom-com. “You know what you need? To find yourself stranded in a small town in the middle of nowhere during the holidays. Maybe meet a single mom and her precocious kid who teaches you the true meaning of Christmas. Hallmark loves that stuff, and I could definitely pull a few strings—”

Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, his frustration evident even in the smallest motion. “I’m not a vampire. And I don’t need to unwind.”

The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him, though, and she caught it. She always did.

"Of course not. You're Miguel O'Hara. A man with the emotional depth of a teaspoon—"

"Can you get to the point?" he interrupted, glaring at her.

Deadpool pushed off the desk and started pacing dramatically, arms spread wide. "The point, dear Miguel, is that it's the holidays, and while I'm not exactly what you'd call 'festive'— I mean, unless you count stringing someone up in Christmas lights as festive. I thought you might appreciate a little...cheer."

Miguel snorted, leaning back in his chair. 

"Breaking into my office to annoy me is your idea of holiday cheer?"

"Well, duh.” She stopped mid-step, turning on her heel with a grin that Miguel could hear even through her mask. "And, because I’m such a benevolent holiday spirit, I even brought a gift!"

With a flourish, she whipped out a brightly wrapped package from one of her hammerspace pockets. It hit the desk with a muffled thunk, the sheer volume of tape on the underside suggesting that the wrapping process had been nothing short of a battle. A crooked red bow perched on top, that at the very least, suggested a genuine effort. The wrapping paper, of course, was adorned with her unmistakable logo, turning the whole thing into a self-promoting eyesore.

Miguel eyed the package with the wariness of a man who had been burned one too many times—literally, in some cases. He could never quite tell when Deadpool was being genuine, and the twinkle in her voice only heightened his suspicion.

"If this explodes—"

"Relax, it's not a bomb." Deadpool crosses her chest solemnly. He can tell by the way her mask moves that she’s trying hard to keep a smile off her face. "Swear on my questionable moral compass."

Miguel hesitated before picking the package up, his talons grazing the edges of the poorly wrapped package to cut through the layers of excessive tape and garish paper, revealing...a scarf. It was lumpy, uneven in all the wrong places, and unmistakably handmade. The navy and red stitches, his signature colours, he notices, are woven with more enthusiasm than skill.

His gaze caught on the uneven blobs of red yarn near the middle. Blobs of red yarn created a pattern that vaguely resembled his mask—an earnest effort, even if imperfect. As chaotic as the woman who made it.

"I made it myself!" she declared, her voice bubbling with pride. That much is obvious, but Miguel is kind enough not to voice the thought. Her gloved hands clapped together, and she leaned forward just enough to invade his space, her masked face tilted as if daring him to be unimpressed by her efforts.

He stared at the scarf for a long moment, then shifted his eyes to her. Then back at the mask, then back at her. The hardened lines of his face softened, a flicker of something tender breaking through his usual cold expression.  

"...Why?"

Her bravado faltered, just for a second, before she recovered with a playful shrug. 

“Because you’re always brooding up here, and I figured you could use something warm. Not just, you know, emotionally—but literally. It’s freezing in this place!”

Miguel turned the scarf over in his hands, his thumb brushing the uneven stitches. He could feel the effort in every imperfection, the way each loop of yarn reflected intense trial and error, intense persistence on her part for a gift she didn’t have any obligation to give him. It was ridiculous, clumsy, and...incredibly thoughtful.

“You realize I have enhanced thermoregulation,” he said quietly, his fingers lingering on the rough yarn. “I don’t get cold.”

She let out an exaggerated groan, throwing her hands in the air. Half frustrated at him for breaking the delicate, sweet moment they had built, and undeniably charmed by… By how weird and nerdy he could be. Of course, he’d say something like this.

“Wow, buzzkill. Do you always have to ruin the moment, or is that just a holiday special?” Despite her words, her voice was warm, almost affectionate. “Just take the stupid scarf, okay? Humour me for once.”

Miguel didn’t respond right away, his fingers lingering on the uneven loops of red yarn, tracing the clumsy pattern that tried so earnestly to copy the sharp, angular shapes of his mask. There was something disarming about the imperfections, something that softened the edges of his thoughts. Slowly, he wrapped the scarf around his neck, the knitted scarf bunching awkwardly against his collar. It wasn’t comfortable, not in the traditional sense, but it radiated a warmth that had nothing to do with the yarn and everything to do with her.

Deadpool stepped back, her arms crossed, but the usual sharpness of her posture had melted into something softer. Her head tilted slightly, her masked face angled as if she were waiting for something. Not thanks—She knew him better than that. 

Something deeper, quieter.

"...It’s not bad,” Miguel murmured at last, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. Barely there, but real.

Her laugh came softer this time, stripped of its usual bravado. It lingered in the air between them, warm and genuine. “High praise from you, Spidey. Careful, or I might start thinking you like me.”

Before he could respond, she stepped closer, closing the space between them in a way that made his breath hitch. Deadpool’s gloved fingers brushed the edge of the scarf, adjusting it with care as she tugged it into place so it would sit just right. The touch was light, fleeting, but deliberate—lingering longer in its meaning than its physicality.

"You should wear red more often," she murmured, her voice softer now, almost contemplative. “Brings out your eyes.”

Her words hung in the air, heavier than her usual quips, settling in the small space between them like a secret shared too closely. She didn’t step back right away. Her presence, unyielding and grounding, wrapped around him as surely as the scarf she’d so carefully fixed. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that kind of weight until she was standing there, filling the empty spaces he usually drowned in.

For a moment, it was as though time itself paused, the sharp edges of his grief and guilt dulled by the unexpected softness of her gesture. Her gaze, hidden beneath the mask, felt unspoken but palpable— something uncharacteristically vulnerable, like she wasn’t sure if she’d stepped too far or not far enough.

Then the moment broke, so quick and fragile he might as well have imagined it. She patted the hero’s chest twice, the motion forcefully casual but hurried, as though trying to shake off the intimacy of the moment.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Webs,” Deadpool said, slipping back into her familiar mask of faux cheerfulness, trying to inject levity back into their conversation. “I just wanted an excuse to touch all this prime real estate. Who could resist?”

Miguel raised a brow, smirking faintly despite himself. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it,” she shot back with a grin in her voice, but there was something just a little off about it—something a little too forced. Her actions had the faintest edge of hesitance, her usual confidence tempered by something closer to uncertainty.

Before he could parse it, she was already retreating, slipping back into the flurry of movement and action that defined her. A whirlwind in and out of his space, gone just as quickly as she’d arrived. Her absence left the air around him feeling quieter. Much, much emptier.

Miguel let out a quiet sigh, his fingers brushing the edge of the scarf again. Lumpy, uneven, and utterly ridiculous. But it was also, without question, the warmest thing he’d worn in years.

[princess-of-the-corner]

I love the irony in your Winx Reboot, that first of Trix to "get redeemed", is one that uses "Powers of Darkness™"

I mean I am a strong believer in the 'Dark =/= Evil' trope! Dark is just a part of nature! We all need the Dark just as much as the Light!

[grimgoregrimoire]

All that shit you don't want people to know? Write it.

·:*¨༺𖤐☆✮☆𖤐༻¨*:·

There are a lot of topics people don't like to talk about, right? Whether it's stuff society has taught us to not talk about, like sex, or stuff that's just really personal, that we'd like to keep to ourselves. That's totally fine, but you shouldn't keep that shit bottled up.

A great writing and mental health exercise is to explore that by writing it.

For example, I've never liked to think about or talk about death. So I dove right in and decided to write a very short story about the processes of death in a way that was more palatable to me.

It was a great way to confront the big scary on my own terms, and while I don't feel completely exorcized of the anxiety, it's great to get some of it out.

You could even take this one step further and burn it or rip it to shreds as a physical and philosophical way of destroying all of it.

[s12-kittie]

I love that many people think that Darcy should have glasses instead of sunglasses (STRAFFI PLS MAKE IT CANNON)

My headcannon for her is that she's a bit long-sighted, so she needs glasses only to read/takke a closer look at smth

That's all I wanted to say today XD

[doubtscomein]

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hello hello ! this is a sideblog for @astoryofsuchwoe 's ocs ! currently im working on my pjsk and alnst ocs !

✧ .. oc masterlist

✧ .. dividers by cafekitsune !

[trixstriforce]

when i saw articles talking about how link and zelda held hand sin spirit tracks i thought it was Lame and probaly not well excuted and im so soso os sososososoos sorry link and zelda i did not need to disrespect u on ur wedding day like that