#Ditzy is very uncoordinated

[camping-with-monsters]

Oh my gosh, the love for Rainboot has been lovely to see :)) I’d like Rainboot fans to know that he has a few friends too!

Here are some of his pals, Calliope the Blacephalon and Ditzy the Drifloon!

Credit to @pazam for the idea itself, and @pizzabits and @menthum-mint for the names!

[bruisedboys]

STAR TRIPPING, blurbs ─── send in a character + a prompt from the lists above and I’ll write you a blurb!

❛ nope, puppy dog eyes aren’t going to work this time! ❜ + miguel o’hara

hiii angel! thank you sm for the request, I cheated again and changed the dialogue a bit just to fit his character more!! love you xxx

miguel o’hara x gn!spider-person!reader, fluff, ditzy!reader, miguel being a grumpy worrywart tbh

You’ve messed up on a mission more times than you can count. You’re clumsy, you’re a bit on the uncoordinated side despite being a spider-person. And Miguel talking in your ear every five seconds makes you flustered. He’s got a nice voice, rough around the edges but smooth and velvety where it counts. And he’s never on anyone’s case as much as he is on yours, so every time he utters a command into your earpiece or tells you to watch out for a falling piece of building you almost trip on your own feet.

After yet another mission where all you did was get in the way, you make your way defeatedly to Miguel’s lab for a post-mission briefing. You know for sure he’s gonna bring up the fact that you stopped to tie your shoes in the middle of a fight, and he’s definitely gonna mention how unprofessional and dangerous that was. But listen, having untied shoelaces is a danger in itself. Especially when you’re the type of person to trip on tied shoelaces.

Miguel’s back is to you when you enter his lab, orange and blue holographic screens projected in front of him and around him. You don’t get to glimpse what he’s watching because he swipes it away with one hand as soon as you’re close enough to see, the screen disappearing into thin air like magic.

“Hi, Miguel,” you sing, as charmingly as you can, hoping to get out of a scolding.

Miguel sighs audibly, like your very existence irks him. “Hello, Y/N.”

“Uh, oh-kay, you don’t sound happy to see me,” you say, mocking offence.

Miguel turns to face you. He’s extraordinarily handsome, even when he’s scowling like he is now. The urge to push your thumb between his brows and smooth out the grumpy wrinkle there grows stronger every day.

“You’re right, I’m not,” he agrees, completely stoic. “Who ties their shoelaces in the middle of a fight?”

You huff. “Uh, me? You know I could’ve tripped on them, right?”

“Why d’you even wear shoes in the first place? They just get in the way.”

You roll your eyes and skip over to his desk, ignoring his question and instead entertaining yourself by going through the stuff on his desk. He’s not messy but he doesn’t necessarily keep it organised — there’s papers and gadgets and devices all over it just begging to be dug through. “You’re so grouchy.”

“You’re so careless. Don’t touch that.”

You pull your hand away from the important looking device with about a million buttons on it that you were about to pick up, giggling to yourself. It’s fun, annoying him. He’s all bark and no bite, especially when it comes to you. Maybe only when it comes to you. He’ll gladly let you know how much of a nuisance you are but never seems to actually do anything about it. Peter B. says it’s because he’s deeply in love with you. You say he’s just a big softie at heart.

“Look, Y/N,” Miguel says, and you know he’s about to go on one of his telling-offs. You can feel his eyes burning into you as you sit in his spinning desk chair and sway it side to side, the toes of your shoes skimming over the floor. “You can’t be so careless. It’s stupid. You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days.”

“Yeah, right. Death by shoelace,” you murmur to your shoes.

Miguel groans loudly. You look up at him. He’s turned away from you, pinching his nose with his head ducked, mumbling to himself what sounds suspiciously like curse words in Spanish. Even though you can’t understand what he’s saying, you can tell by the tense in his shoulders that he really is annoyed, not just fake annoyed like he usually is with you.

You mull it over in your brain. You could either one, deny you made a mistake, probably annoying him further and getting yourself kicked out of his office, or two, admit you messed up, which would hopefully get him to stop being so grumpy for once, and you can stay here as long as you please. You sigh and decide to admit defeat.

“Miguel?” You say into the silence, sweet as you can.

“What?” He snaps, still with his back to you.

“I’m sorry for tying my shoe in the middle of a fight. It was dumb. And I’m sorry for … getting in the way all the time.” You hop up off your seat and walk towards him, hoping he’ll turn at your approaching footsteps. When he doesn’t, you add, “Would you look at me? I’m trying to apologise here.”

Miguel turns around then, swivelling on his heel to face you. You’re close, close enough that you could reach out and touch his abdomen, his chest. You don’t, though you’d like to. Instead you give him a soft smile and your best I’m sorry eyes.

“I’m really sorry,” you say sincerely. “I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

Miguel stares at you, completely stoic apart from his eyes, which are significantly softer than usual. His frown stays put but his eyes go all melty, like they’ve been glazed with honey, and the furrow in his brows softens just slightly. He looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, changes his mind and closes it, then opens it again.

“Are you giving me puppy dog eyes?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. “‘Cos that’s not gonna work on me.

“I’m not giving you puppy dog eyes,” you argue, even though you totally are. “I’m trying to say sorry.”

“Well, you’re forgiven,” Miguel says abruptly, shrugging his shoulders. “Just … please try to be more careful.”

You think he’s done with you until he reaches out and presses his thumb to your jaw in what you think is a show of affection, the pad of his thumb sliding down the length of your jaw, then a brush of the back of his fingers under your chin, a trail of burning hot stars left in his wake. You think your whole face might be on fire, but it’s over as soon as it starts, and Miguel goes right back to scowling. “And stop looking at me like that.”

He drops his hand and turns away from you abruptly, pulling up a holographic screen with a list of anomalies yet to be caught. You don’t comment on the implication that his last sentence has made — that your I’m sorry eyes really had been working quite well on him — but instead spend the next five minutes in a shocked sort of silence, the weight of his touch still present on your now burning face.

[bombshellsandbluebells]

Romancing the Flame (2/?)

Summary: When Emori’s brother is held hostage in exchange for a priceless, mythical jewel called the Flame, she teams up with sarcastic thief and treasure hunter, John Murphy.

But someone else is after the Flame too, and it’s a race to find the lost city of Polis and the jewel hidden inside.

To get there first, Emori and John will have to overcome booby traps, mercenaries, and their mutual mistrust of each other.

AKA my ode to the classic action/adventure films of the 80s/90s, packed full of as many references and tropes as I can manage. The title is a reference to the film “Romancing the Stone.” Official film poster here!

All my love to @infernalandmortal for editing and being just as excited about this fic as I am!

read on ao3

Chapter One

Chapter Two: The Deal

There was something about seedy bars that made Emori reckless. She’d like to blame it on the alcohol, but she’d only had one beer so far, and she knew she could drink half the men in this bar under the table. Maybe it was just the general sleaziness of the place – the atmosphere of crime and depravity hanging heavy over everything left the implication that you could get away with anything while inside.

Out in the real world, the law was a real threat, and one that Emori was cautious of. She’d long since learned the importance of staying inconspicuous and hidden, and normally she avoided unnecessary attention – but here she knew for a fact there was an illegal poker game unraveling in the back room, and that made her feel safe.

Normal grifts called for days of preparation and careful execution, but bar grifts were easy. They only required that she keep the mark drunk and horny enough not to notice what was happening – or just that she win the inevitable fight that broke out. No one was going to call the police in a place like this, after all, and she could handle a few bruises and cuts for the sake of some extra cash.

She does a lap around the place on her way back from the bathroom. By the time she reaches her table, she’s already zeroed in on at least three different opportunities.

Otan is exactly where she left him, staring morosely down into his own drink like the loser she often tells him he is. He looks up when she sits down.

“Hey.” She jerks her head towards the back corner. “Check out the dart game.”

Her brother follows her gaze to the two men in the midst of a game, then looks back at her with a deeper frown. Her excitement must be obvious, because he sighs heavily. “Hustling? Really?”

“It’ll be fun,” she says, her voice sing-song. She pokes at his shoulder, but Otan shrugs her off, grunting unenthusiastically in reply. “Come on, you know we’ll win.” Emori herself can probably hit the dartboard from where they sit right now. Otan, she knows, would hit the bullseye.

“I’m not worried about winning,” he argues. “I’m worried you’re going to start a fight, and we’ll get kicked out before I can finish my drink.”

Emori deftly grabs his drink from his hands and downs the entire thing. The whiskey is cheap and biting; it burns the back of her throat as it goes down. She slams the empty glass back on the table with a loud clink, and roughly wipes her mouth with the back of her gloved hand.

“There, drink finished.”

Otan glares at her. She smiles sweetly back at him.

They stare each other down, Otan looking for all the world like the human embodiment of a rain cloud and Emori bright and grinning, unwavering. Finally, with the kind of disappointed certainty that comes with having lost hundreds of similar arguments before, Otan sighs deeply in resignation and kneads at the rough, scarred skin of his forehead.

“Fine,” he says, and Emori laughs, delighted.

“It’ll be fun,” she promises as she tugs him out of his seat and towards the game. “Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve treated ourselves. We could use some extra cash.”

“You’re buying me another whiskey with it,” Otan tells her, then falls quiet as they reach the two men.

It’s easy to slip into the roles. They fit as comfortably as well-worn shoes.

“Come on, Em,” Otan says, gently tugging back the arm Emori has a hold of. She follows the movement, exaggerating her stumble a bit before she rights herself against her brother. “These guys are already playing.”

“Come on, O! I want to play!” she whines, slurring her words in a convincing charade of drunkenness.

The men pause their game and glance over at them.

Emori smiles at them and waves lazily. “Hey, you guys want to play with us?”

The two men look at each other in silent debate, and then eye Otan and her speculatively. They’re hesitant to accept Otan, she can tell, as people usually are – his sour expression and bulk might not be unusual in a place like this, but it certainly doesn’t do him any favors when making friends – but she’s laying the drunk, ditzy charm on well enough that they’re interested. One of them drags his eyes up and down her body.

“Ignore my dumb brother,” she slurs, emphasizing the last word. “I think you guys look fun! I want to have some fun!”

Otan tugs gently on her arm again. “They’re not interested, Em.”

“We didn’t say that,” the one eyeing her like a snack says quickly, and Emori hides a triumphant grin. Hook, line, and sinker.

He turns to at his opponent for confirmation, and the other man nods. “Yeah, we’d be up for a game.” His grin makes her skin crawl. “I’m Emerson. This is Dax.”

“I’m Emily,” she says, then slaps an uncoordinated hand against Otan’s chest. “This is Oscar.”

She steps closer to Emerson because the hungry way he eyes her makes him the better target. “I don’t know how to play,” she tells him, pitching her volume as if she’s trying to whisper but too drunk to manage it.

And he buys it. His grin stretches wider. “Don’t worry,” he assures her, placing an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll teach you.” He strokes down her arm, lower and lower, then switches to her back. It creeps dangerously close to her ass, and it's only years of practice that keep her smile in place. If they weren’t about to rob him blind, she’d have decked him the minute he touched her. Instead, she just giggles and leans in closer.

It’s all almost too easy.

Emori and Otan return to their motel room that night with their pockets heavier than they left. They hadn’t been able to raise the bet very high – Emori’s thinks the men had grown suspicious despite their flawless act – but Emori had treated herself to Mr. Grabby Hands’ wallet before they left.

“What’d I tell you?” she boasts as Otan unlocks the door. “It was fun, right?”

“Sure,” is all Otan says, but he’s grinning.

Emori is so high on their success that it takes her a moment to realize what happens when they enter the room. Something grabs her and shoves her face-first into the wall beside the door. Her nose throbs with the impact, and she has enough clarity to hope it isn’t broken, before she manages to take in the rest of the situation.

There are people in their room. One of them, clearly a man much stronger and larger than she is, has her pinned securely against the wall. She hears struggling behind her, but all she can see is the ugly paisley wallpaper of the room.

“Get off of me!” she shouts, straining against the arms holding her down. “Otan?! Otan!”

“Emori!” she hears him shout, before the distinct thud of someone getting socked in the face. She hopes Otan’s getting one up on their attackers, but she has a horrible feeling that it’s Otan who’s been hit. Her suspicious are confirmed when she hears her brother groan. Fear settles in her gut. She tries harder to fight back.

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t find you, did you?”

The familiar voice coats her ears like tar, heavy, thick and vile. She freezes.

“Did you, Emori?” Baylis continues, and she chokes down a whimper. Even if she can’t see him, she can picture him perfectly in her mind – the cocky, feral grin, the hateful eyes. He probably still has the scar on his temple too. Baylis laughs, and she flinches. Her nose throbs sharply when she pushes it further into the wall. “Come on, we all know your brother’s an idiot, but you’re smarter than that.”

She wants to spit an insult. It sits on her tongue like ready ammunition, only the pistol’s jammed. She can’t get her mouth to say the words. They’d known it was a risk when they left, but they’d thought it was worth it. For months, she’d worried Baylis would find them again, and when it hadn’t happened, she’d grown passive in her sense of safety. She’d stopped worrying. She’d forgotten to be scared.

Now, the weight of that terror comes back all at once and locks her limbs tight and her jaw shut. She feels like a rabbit cowering in a trap, and she hates that almost more than the man behind her. Almost, but not quite.

“Turn her around,” Baylis orders, and the hands yank her from the wall and spin her around so roughly her rattled head spins. There’s definitely blood dripping from her nose.

Her imagination had been spot on. Sure enough, the scar is visible on his temple with his hair gelled back the way he always wears it, but she can’t even enjoy it – not when she sees the gun on his hip or the two large, heavily-armed men flanking him. Two others have Otan pinned, one with his arm tight around Otan’s neck. Her brother’s face is turning red with the strain.

He locks eyes with her and she reads her fear mirrored in them. Two men on Otan, one on her, two others waiting to act, and Baylis.

They’re fucked.

“Well?” Baylis barks. The man who has a hold of her tightens his grip. His nails dig into the skin of her arms. “You have anything to say?”

She tries to voice an apology, but her mouth fumbles around the shape of it. The words get lost somewhere in her throat. Baylis waits, his eyes locked on hers. Emori licks her lips and tries again. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Baylis mocks. “For what? For running away? For stealing my money? For this?” He gestures at the scar on his face.

“All of it,” she gasps. Anything to please him. She’d gotten in his good graces once before; maybe she can do it again. “I’m sorry for all of it. I’ll make up for it. I’ll – I’ll-“

Otan squeaks, and her eyes dart to him. It’s too small a sound for a man as large as her brother, but he looks small now. The man holding his neck is squeezing it tighter, and her brother flounders like a fish caught on the shoreline as he struggles for breath. She can see his fingers dancing and twitching in the air for something to grab onto, but he’s too well-pinned. He clutches uselessly at open air.

“I’ll pay you back!” she shouts, desperate.

“You will?” Baylis steps close to her. He’s at least a foot and a half taller than her; she has to crane her neck to look up at his face. But then he crouches, and she has a bewildered second to wonder what he’s doing before he digs a hand into her boots, searching. She tries to not to squirm at the feeling.

He finds the wad of cash stuffed in her right boot, and the knife stashed in her left, and then Mr. Grabby Hands’ wallet in her jacket pocket. He pockets the knife and thumbs through the wallet and the ball of cash. Then he does the same to Otan, pulling out the knives he keeps in each boot and his own wad of money.

“See, we already found the pathetic bit of cash you had stashed in your bags here. And with this,” he waves the money he’s holding, “and whatever you hid in the car you stole, I know you don’t have nearly enough to pay me back.”

“I’ll get you more money. You know I can.” It was, after all, why he’d brought her in in the first place.

“Oh, I know you will,” Baylis assures her, pocketing the cash. He pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it, then holds it in front of her face.

The word “Polis” is written on it, which means nothing to her. Below it someone has drawn an infinity symbol.

She can’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbles out of her. “I can’t get you that,” she argues.

Baylis slaps her. Her nose protests loudly. She can see her blood on Baylis’s hand as he pulls it back. His grin is gone; now he just looks angry.

“It’s a symbol, you bitch,” he hisses. “For an ancient city called Polis. There’s a jewel there that’s worth more than the fucking queen of England. It’s called the Flame. That’s how you’re going to pay me back.”

It takes her a moment to connect the dots; she blames the distracting throbbing of her face. “You’re sending us on a goddamn treasure hunt?”

“Not both of you. I’m keeping your brother so you don’t run off on me again. You bring me the Flame, and I’ll give him back to you, safe and sound.”

He’s offering her a way to freedom, but it smells like bullshit.

“I need Otan’s help,” she tries. “You need to let him come with me.”

Baylis sneers at her. “You think I don’t know who the brains of the operation is? You don’t need him to find it.”

“There’s no way I can find this. Baylis, please,” she begs, “let me pay you back some other way.”

He moves towards her, and she thinks he’s going to slap her again. She braces herself for the hit, but instead, he grabs her face roughly in his hand and squeezes. His rough fingers dig into her cheeks. She can feel them pressing against the bone. “You either bring me back the Flame, or you find some other way to get me as much money as the queen of fucking England. Or you run off and let your brother die. Your choice.”

Emori locks eyes with Otan again. It’s easy to make her choice. “Fine! Fine, I’ll find it. But you have to give me a lead.”

Baylis lets go of her face, and she wishes she had an arm free to scrub the feel of him off her skin. She wants to throw up.

“I gave you a lead. Polis.”

“I need something more than that,” she pleads. “Look, if you want to get this jewel, then you need to give me something more.”

Baylis considers her as he folds the paper back up and tucks it in his pocket. Then he nods. “I got the information from a man named Murphy in The Dead Zone. Look for him.”

She thinks that’s it, but then he pulls out her knife. There’s no way in hell he’s handing it back to her, and that worries her.

“One more thing,” he says. Her stomach churns with fear, writhing like a pit of snakes. She tries to stop herself from trembling, but it’s hopeless. He’s already seen it anyways; there’s no use in playing brave. Baylis gestures with her knife at the scar she gave him. “I’m gonna repay you for this.”