#That sounds pretty doable

[hauntedtotem]

the only thing stopping me from selling keychains and standees is that I have no idea how to ship things

[szappan]

idk if this would be helpful to you but how about. you pick your fave 5 letters. then make up a thesis statement/question/thing that stars with each of thise 5 letters. and then make a poll and have people vote on it? not the same as getting assigned something specific but it might give you direction. in case you dont have any favourite letters here are my 10 top 10 if you want more examples 1. j 2. e 3. o 4. g 5. d 6. b 7. i 8. l 9. z 10. u

if this isnt totally your thing and youre not interest u dont have to reply i just thought maybe u need a nudge like this :-)

augh this is brilliant thank you my friend ill give this a spin :-) those are very good letters indeed!! thank you for your help, getting peer reviewed should be very useful, so ill think about those statements now!

[maideninorange]

The idea of a Pikmin and Touhou crossover… I’m imagining a horde of fairies vs a horde of Pikmin now

(Pretend this is a universe where Olimar isn’t the height of a cherry lmao)

(Definitely not what I had in mind, but now I cannot unsee it lol!!!)

That would definitely be quite a fight, I'd imagine! With the very obvious size disadvantage removed, the main issue would be that all fairies can fly (like almost all Touhou characters), whereas that's only true for one Pikmin type. Not to mention that fairies will always resurrect some short time later, something that isn't true for Pikmin.

Of course, that's only an issue if we assume both are leaderless. Assuming, say, Olimar is commanding the Pikmin in this instance, it probably would be a lot fairer of a fight. Pikmin can very easily bring fairies down once they stick the landing on them.

Just watch out for danmaku. Fairies love their bullet showers.

[bangcakes]

.

[nomaishuttle]

rambled too long so im continuing

[nomairuins]

and also it doesnt even matter if i miraculously get a job tmrw bc we don't have a car . and im too out of shape to walk anywhere bc everything is far away . so i genuinely dont jnow what to do

[invinciblerodent]

I've been kinda thinking about character motivations, and reasons for decisions made in each playthrough all day, and I think the core of Iona's personal narrative is finally starting to expose itself to me, which is neat.

Like... while Arvid's arc is overall about him balancing the divine with the mundane, and learning to make decisions with his own needs in mind occasionally, Iona's is shaping up to be one of... the continual challenging of long-held beliefs, and picking through her own survival tactics like she's unpicking a big, painful knot in one's hair that's tugging at the skin. Her story is kind of looking like it's about finding the line between what's true, and what was merely said enough times to start sounding like the truth- about what even the liar was lied to, basically.

From the beginning, when she's outed as specifically not a by-choice magic user, but a magical being, one with living sorcery in her veins, to her vehemently anti-magic community their warmth turns instantly to cold steel (even running to her husband for help and comfort only to meet scorn, rejection, and pain), she has had to constantly challenge herself, and try to find just how much of her view of the world was grounded in common sense, and how much of it is just... common nonsense.

It kind of works out beautifully that the first people she breaks bread with in the game are a guarded and jumpy young woman who is 100% lying to her (yeah, turns out she's an ardent worshipper of a dark, forbidden goddess), and a handsome, if foppish, city-type fellow, who only suspends his bristling about roughing it long enough to lay on the charm extra thick and obvious (whoops, a vampire- someone she would have ordinarily believed to be a mindless monster at that point).

Over and over in the story, Iona seems to have to completely reevaluate all the things she thinks she knows. Everything, from her idea of what a monster is, to where the line between morality, justice, and ruthless self-interest lies, to what love is and looks like (is it a contract? a mutually beneficial transaction? something different and delicate and precious and entirely new?), is constantly being challenged, and since the factors doing the challenging seem immutable, it has to be her who does the changing.

In the beginning portions of act 2, she was a little... noncommittal, about the whole ascension thing. Sure, in act 1 she was fully in favor of upending Cazador's whole schtick (in a "cool plan my guy, godspeed, have fun with that, glad that's not my mess to clean up" kind of way), and this thing, while literally diabolical, it was easy enough to see that it'd at least get results. Like, maybe the ends really would justify the means like they so often have so far, and the "number of souls" sacrificed were no more than an abstract that he at least seemed excited about. But meeting Dalyria and Petras (and experiencing that spark of genuine fear of Astarion then), talking to the attacking spawn, that (on top of everything else learned, including the sentience and potential benevolence in mind flayers and all that) is yet another very sharp pivot in her mind that exposes the whole thing for the nakedly amoral action it would really be.

Between that night in the Elfsong, and when we'll finally go to Cazador, she'll be slowly piecing together her thoughts on how much power is it really okay for just one person to take, how much revenge is justified, and at what point does it turn to harmful excess, to evil for its own sake, and there is something... that's imo kind of beautiful about how "not my circus, not my kobolds" turns into "I want you to live a life you can be proud of".

(In my headcanon, after the "the world can be a wonderful, kind place, Astarion, if you find your place in it" line she says in that post-attack callout, there is just a tiny bit of an insert of an expansion: it's just him asking, with an exhale that could pass for amused were it not for the somber look in his eyes, "you really believe that, don't you?" and her responding, with just a hint of a desperate edge, as if uncertain herself, "I have to. Otherwise, what's the point? To all this?")

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice. 

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window. 

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman. 

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment. 

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara? 

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning. 

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach. 

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was… 

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying . 

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist. 

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!" 

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring. 

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask. 

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him. 

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep. 

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him. 

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class.  She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely. 

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day. 

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it. 

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo. 

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it. 

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course. 

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself. 

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall. 

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure. 

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself. 

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here. 

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video. 

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen. 

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all. 

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners. 

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you. 

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs. 

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-" 

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please." 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers. 

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall. 

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home. 

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions. 

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night. 

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy?? 

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water. 

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there. 

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway. 

You wince."...F-Fine?" 

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?" 

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further. 

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together. 

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand. 

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"You look… wet." 

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze. 

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed. 

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression.  His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds. 

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?" 

He's got a hand on your arm now,  The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details. 

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy. 

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside. 

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word. 

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?" 

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too." 

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same. 

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way. 

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost. 

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand. 

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza? 

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal. 

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy. 

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats. 

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought. 

"Yeah?" 

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-" 

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!" 

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-" 

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips. 

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you. 

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand. 

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close. 

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile. 

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side. 

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular. 

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?" 

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it. 

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty. 

"Huh. I guess they do." 

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums. 

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name. 

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch. 

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ." 

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest. 

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-" 

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own. 

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name." 

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing. 

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-" 

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together. 

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest. 

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts. 

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck. 

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum. 

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth. 

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin. 

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt.. 

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara. 

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?" 

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?" 

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction. 

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach. 

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel." 

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth. 

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue. 

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole. 

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue. 

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off. 

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily. 

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him. 

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him. 

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs. 

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck. 

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should. 

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head. 

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily. 

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

_

edit: the full fic xx

[foone]

There exist another dimension called The Empty World. It's very much like ours, in fact it seems to have been identical up until a few weeks ago, but it always seems that way. If you go there today, it was identical in late february, and if you go there this october, it'll have been identical until september.

It's empty, as you might guess. There's no humans, and no animals bigger than a cockroach. The sky is grey, and it slowly rains ash. It's colder than our world by a bit, enough to require a jacket even in summer. The streets are empty, the cars parked neatly in their garages or in lots, but they're all empty and abandoned, their doors locked like they expect their owners to return any minute now.

The newspapers left on stands don't mention any oncoming disaster. We have no idea what the TV or internet would have said: the power is out. The power is very, very out. Not just the grid, but batteries are drained. The cars won't start, the emergency lights are out, and anything with solar panels seems to be getting less energy than you'd expect, even with the perpetually overcast sky.

It's a very silent world, like the calm after a snowstorm. Sounds don't seem to echo as much as they should, nor does sound seem to travel as far. The radio spectrum is empty except for static, there's no one transmitting on any frequency.

There's fewer fires than you'd expect. Even places you'd expect to soon catch fire without human intervention are still standing, undamaged. Campfires can be lit but with difficulty: something is keeping them from burning as they should. Even if you pour kerosene on a campfire it'll barely grow, it's like something sucked the energy out of everything.

All the locked buildings are still locked. Alarms don't sound if you break in (understandable, given the power situation), and of course no one comes to investigate. So The Empty World is your oyster: you can break in wherever you want (provided you can physically do it: some doors are pretty hard to pry open even with tools), take whatever you want, and bring it back here.

Everything resets when you leave. You always enter The Empty World like it's your first time there, like this just happened and you're late to the party... but the party keeps getting rescheduled. You can even take something multiple times if you want.

When you enter The Empty World you get there at the same relative position as you are on this world. If you're in New York, you show up in the empty New York. If you're in Topeka, you show up in empty Topeka. So you have to travel around this world to get to where you want, and you can't just appear in the middle of a bank vault... unless you break into the vault from this world. (So it's great if you work at a bank and want to steal from your employer without repercussions, but not so useful otherwise).

You don't just have to take things, you know. You can take computers and files and books and diaries. You will have to deal with recharging laptops and breaking through any security when you get back, but it's doable.

So, imagine you've just gotten access to The Empty World. What are you going to do with it? What will you take, and where will you go?

[orionremastered]

Damian Wayne x Paramedic!Reader

Soulmate AU

Part One, Part Two, Part Three (finale)

The ache in your chest had been there for a week now, and it was becoming your new best friend. Coincidentally, the first and only time you talked to your soulmate was also a week ago.

You hadn’t expected it at first, and you even asked Harper to check if you were going to have a heart attack in the back of the ambulance during a meal break.

As you figured, nothing was wrong.

So after a long night shift, a shower and dinner for breakfast, you were almost, and by almost I mean seconds away from falling asleep.

A knock at the door snaps your eyes open and with a grumble, you get out of bed and get yourself into more appropriate clothing than sleepwear.

“I’m going to kill whoever's at the door,” you grumble, glaring through the peephole before you opened the door.

This was Gotham, and you weren’t stupid.

It wasn’t the Ridddler or the Joker, but rather your soulmate. Standing in a black jacket with the hood over his head, waiting patiently in the middle of the hallway.

Unlocking the door and pushing it open, you narrow your eyes at the tall and no doubt muscular figure.

“How the fuck do you know where I live?”

“Hello,” he greets, walking past you and into your apartment, gazing at it like he’s on a sightseeing tour. With a grumble, you close the door behind him and lock it again.

“What do you want?” The ache in your chest was gone but your heart craved even the slightest touch, begging you and pulling you towards him. Your other half.

“I want to talk,” Damian admits after a short pause, hanging his jacket on the hook by the door. “Something you apparently don’t want to do.”

“How are you feeling?”

“It’s been a week, habibi,” he points out, raising a dark eyebrow. “Don’t try and change the subject.”

“What does habibi mean?”

Your apartment goes silent before finally, Damian sighs. “I’m certain you’ll figure it out eventually. Now, we’re going to talk about this without you trying to change the subject-”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve made my stance on this very clear,” you state, lightly emphasizing each word in order for it to sink in. “I cannot have publicity if I want to be able to do my job.”

Being a paramedic was the biggest achievement of your life- a ‘fuck you’ to your parents, an amazing work partner, a fulfilling life- the pay didn’t matter much to you, and that’s what your parents hated.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to go to galas or anything similar.” His tone changes, “But you can’t just give up an entire relationship-”

“I don’t think you understand just how public of a figure you are,” you interrupt. “You could’ve been followed here by paparazzi- they follow you everywhere. I can’t be walking on eggshells whenever I want to go outside with you.”

“I wasn’t followed,” he says with a frown. “And… that is a valid point.” His jaw clenches, unclenches and finally he sighs his thoughts into the air. “What if we just try? This is all theory but in practice we might be able to pull it off.”

“That’s a lot of stress for someone that already has a high-stress job.”

Damian’s head snaps towards you, a grin slowly forming on his face. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He explained it all. You kept thinking that was it but no, he kept going. The gist is; he was an assassin, then Robin, now Batman.

It created more problems than solutions but you were somewhat willing to hear him out. It was almost midday now and you were exhausted.

“And your plan is what, exactly?”

“You don’t date me, you date Batman. He’s a ‘public’ figure but he’s a different kind of public than a Wayne.”

You didn’t think it was a bad idea, much to your surprise. It could work, and perhaps not just as a temporary fix.

Your heart was screaming at you by now, kicking and shouting for you to just give in.

“That sounds doable.”

A smile, genuine and bright and rare, breaks out onto Damian’s face. He wraps his strong arms around you, pulls you close and is finally able to kiss you lightly on the forehead before resting his head on yours.

You were soaring in warmth and joy and you were finally here, where you needed to be. You could make this work. You will make this work.

And for the first time as you stand in your soulmate’s arms, you want to make this work.

~~~

Masterlist

[daintylovers]

something about buzz cut stiles gives such intense munch vibes-like I know later season stiles is too but from the way buzz cut stiles treats lydia and pretty much any pretty girl, I just know he’s out in the rain begging for it fr. only problem is that when he DOES get the pussy he just can not stop 😭😭😭

REALLLLLLLL

not to sound harsh, but- buzzcut stiles is the biggest loser virgin i know. he wants it, and he wants it bad. like foaming at the mouth, practically cumming in his pants.

and ur so valid when you say he just can't stop after he's had a taste. but can you blame him??? like you just taste so good, and it's not something that can be recreated, you know? so he's got to savor every taste he gets.

it's borderline too much. cause it's not like he has the hair for you to pull on when it starts hurting a little from how sore you've become. this man can go for hours. he lives to be buried in between your thighs. also, just thinking, but this man would be obsessed with thick thighs. like the thicker the better. there's just something about being able to hold them that gets him going.

anyways tho- you're mewling and scratching at his scalp, cause it's too much but also not enough?? you're confused as hell. but he does not care.

let me repeat this. he. does. not. care.

he's in too deep and by the way you keep moaning, he knows he can get at least two more from you right? it's only been four, so a total of six is perfectly doable.

by the time he's finished, he's looking up at you through hooded eyes, lips glistening. his tongue keeps peeking out to lick at the excess. and he sees you, practically passed out from the intensity. and he feels on top of the world.

stiles isn't the type of guy to get ego boosts often, but this moment?? holy fuck, if he had a camera he would snap a million pics and cover his walls with them.

once you guys get cleaned up (him doing all the work), he's immediately thinking about ways to move around his schedule so this could happen again.

and again. and again.

[certainlynotasimp]

I had a thought seeing as how whipped Miguel is for sunny what if sunny has Miguel get them like a puppy or kitten because I know he would eventually cave in

To Love and Hold.

((Miguel O’ Hara X Female! Reader))

A/N: This man is whipped more than cream😭😭. Thank you for the request and I’m sorry if it sounds muddled because I literally fell asleep writing it and I just finished it this morning.

A/N: If you guys wanna read more about Sunny and Miggy then come on to the Masterlist! And if you wanna be added to the taglist, then please leave a comment here>><<. And thank you all for reading💕✨

Warnings: Grumpy x Sunshine, Barely any use of (Y/N) ((Sunny is their nickname, not there name)), Female Pronouns, Fluff, Comparing Babies to Pets ((please do not have a baby if you want a pet lol)), Baby talk, breeding kink? (This isn’t a smut, but I love giving Miggy ideas), slight nudity, and Google Translated Spanish (It was 3am by the time I wrote this and I felt bad for messaging people to double check this so please forgive any mistakes and correct me the in comments.)😭

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are some things that always remain the same for every dimension. No matter how small or advanced that dimension may be, there were three things that Miguel can think of that always remains the same.

There’s always a Spiderman or Spiderwoman.

New York is still a cesspool for crime

….

“Miggy, come look at the kitties!” an excited shrill breaks the man out of his thoughts. He scowls at the unwanted attention around him as he readjusts the baseball hat on his dark locks. Not having his spider suit engaged was an odd feeling, especially since they were in an unknown dimension looking for an anomaly that not even Lyla can find.

“Come on, Guapito!” She urges as Miguel glares at her for yelling out in a public place. He tugs at the collar of his crew neck as he saunters over to the bouncing woman. Her pink sundress makes her standout like a sore thumb as she gawks at the group of kittens in the window.

There were three orange tabbies exploring their surroundings and tussling amongst their glass prison. He can agree that all of them looked adorable, but seeing as he was never an animal person, he doesn’t understand the cooing his companion does towards the cats.

“We can’t keep wasting time window shopping, mi amor.” He quietly scolds her as he gently leads her away from the pet shop and starts walking her down the sidewalk. His eyes burned as he looked at the pavement beside him until he felt a small tug to his shirt.

Already running though all the things that might come out of her pretty glossed mouth, Miguel sighs and looks at her. “What is it, shortie?” He tries to tease, hoping she would get annoyed enough to just give him the silent treatment.

“Miggy,” She sings sweetly, already the itching feeling started in Miguel’s brain.

‘What does she want?’

“I was thinking…” Her voice hesitated as he feels her arm slither it’s way around his waist. The hand on the small of her back tenses up as her touch ignited tingles down his back. “Since I’m the only person who lives at the Lobby and I can’t live with you…

Here it comes,

“Can I have a cat?” She flutters her eyelashes up at him as she presses herself into his side. Miguel tugs down his baseball cap as he rolls his eyes.

“No.” He answers sternly as he tries to avoid eye contact by looking around them. Miguel is as stubborn as a mule. If he decided on something, then there’s barely enough room for anyone to even breathe a different way about it.

He admits that when it comes to his little spider, he lets some things slide that he knew he shouldn’t have, but normally her requests were doable. Not this one.

“But, Miggy, why not?” She whines as she glares up at him.

“Can we talk about this later, Cariño?” He growls as he notices the atmosphere around them changing. Before she could protest anymore, her Spidey senses hit her like a shotgun.

“Watch out!” She warns as a cat gets throw over a row of buildings, heading right towards them. Miguel grabs her waist and leaps on top the nearest building as the car takes out the sidewalk.

Both put a pin in their conversation as they suit up and go detain the anomaly villain.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Another sticky note falls onto the floor beside his feet as Peter looks up to his colleague, amused by the antics he’s enduring.

For the past week, Sunny hasn’t let go of the idea of having a cat. Miguel tried envading her pleas at first, trying to distract her with other topics and missions to worry about. When she caught onto that, she confronted him about it. Much to his misery, he had to be brutally honest with her about why she can’t just bring a cat to come live with her in The Lobby.

“Taking something from another dimension is already risky enough, but to take a living animal could cause serious anomalies that will cause a crash.” He tried to explain with a stern stare as his love looks at him.

“Do you know for certain that it will happen?” She quips with her head tilting slightly. Miguel raises an eyebrow before replying, “I mean, considering if we are just talking about a normal cat, then no I’m not certain, but…”

“So let’s try it!” “Oh santa madre de Cristo... Mi amor, por favor sé razonable…”

Now her tactic has been subliminally suggesting him with hidden messages. He wasn’t surprise when Peter picked up the sticky note and sees a little doodle of a cat playing with a ball of yarn.

“Aww that’s cute.” Peter admires as he examines the note. “I can’t wait for Mayday to get old enough so she can draw me little doodles like this.”

Miguel snatches the sticky not from him and throws it on the small pile he’s accumulated. This might be Mr. kitty 11 or 12 that his Sunny has hidden in his suit today.

“(Y/N) has been hiding them on me hoping I would get her a cat.” He admits as he slumps into his office chair. Normally, he would act like it wasn’t bothering if it was anyone else making a stupid request. But it wasn’t just anyone. It was his beloved. His beloved who was so tired of spending nights here alone that she desperately wanted a companion.

“Why can’t you get her one?” Peter nonchalantly says as he leans against the monitor’s desk. “There’s plenty of strays around my apartment that she can have a full range to pick out of.”

Miguel scowls at Peter’s ignorance as leans back in his chair. “Any small change to a dimension can cause it to implode on itself. I’m not risking an entire universe just for one cat.”

Miguel digs his finger into his eyes as he groans in frustration. He hated making her upset, but she should understand just as well as he does what the possible consequences they would face if he did go pick up a random cat.

Peter watches at him in amusement before commenting. “Why not go get one from one of those dying universes? Certainly it wouldn’t cause too much damage if it’s already going to shit there.”

Miguel rolls his eyes as he looks at Peter in annoyance. “There’s still risk of-“

Peter claps his hands as an idea sparks in his mind. “Oh, I know, you two can have a baby!”

Miguel freezes in place as a look of pure horror goes over his face. His skin turned pale at the thought about having a child.

“Can’t risk the universe being brought to the end if you make a baby. Besides it would help her deal with her loneliness by constantly having someone to take care of and it would be a more fun to-“ Peter’s reasoning gets interrupted by the sound of Miguel opening a portal and jumping through as Peter smirks victoriously.

“Worked like a charm.” He chuckles as he knows he just made his friend one happy lady.

~~~~~~~~~

“Cariño?” A soft knock interrupts the deep slumber of the curled up spider as she stirs awake. She yawns as she looks over towards the clock and realizes it was the equivalent of 3am in Miguel’s home world.

Another knock draws her attention back to the visitor as she slips out of bed. Her body shivers as she exposed to the cold air of the room. The old college shirt only stopping at mid thighs as she shuffled to the door.

“Miggy?” She calls through the door.

“Déjame entrar, mi amor. Tengo un regalo para ti.” He pleas lovingly at her which causes her lips to curl into a soft smile as she realizes what he must have.

Opening the door, she gasps at the sight before her. In his spider suit, Miguel had several scratch marks along his face along with pieces of rubble in his dark locks. His dark eyes shined in exhaustion as the furious little ball of fur battled to be free from his hold.

Her concern briefly switches to awe as she sees a small, filthy kitten hissing and wiggling in Miguel’s large hands. Its long fur stuck out in clumps due to the debris covering it as its black and white fur looked gray. Its yellow eyes glares up at Miguel as it cries for its mother.

With a wide grin, the woman takes the small kitten from Miguel and holds it to her chest. The kitten stopped it’s hissing for a moment as it push itself off of her chest to look at her. A curious tilt of its head along with a soft hello causes a tear to roll down her cheek. The bundle of fur relaxes into her chest with soft purs emitting from its fragile body.

“Mi amor…” She whispers as she looks up at him, “Thank you so much…can I really keep it?”

“He doesn’t really have any other option. His world was dying due to some invasion caused by the Talokians and since the universe was crashing away, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to let you have the only survivor.” Miguel says nonchalantly as the conversation with Peter plays in his head again.

The idea of his little sunshine bare foot with swollen ankles as she roams around the Lobby and his apartment certainly was a conflicted vision. His clothing being the only thing that would fit over her body as she created their child in her body. Their child. Their family.

His thoughts get interrupted by the feeling of small hands dusting off debris off his shoulders. His eyes meet hers as he realizes that he’s been silent for a while. The kitten was now curled up on a soft looking blanket on the floor while his little spider tried to clean him up a little. Her soft lips connect several times to his jawline causing him to chuckle.

“You’re welcome, Cariño.” He mutters before leaning down and meeting her excited lips with his own. She giggles when he wraps his arms around her waist and picks her up as he closes the door behind him.

“Now then.” Miguel muses as his mouth curls into a warm grin while walking them to the bed. “You can show your gratitude by…” He pauses as his lips brush against hers again before a surprise squeal erupts from his love as she was tossed on the bed.

“Acostado ahí…” He mutters as he removes his gizmo, causing his suit to disintegrate, leaving him in only a tight pair of boxers. A blush forms on her cheek as she admires his muscular physique, despite the nasty bruises that mare his tanned skin. He smirks when he sees the effect hr has on her before crawling onto the bed. Her breath shudders as his broad shoulders slither up between her legs as his hips cause her legs to part.

Before she could react, Miguel lays his full body weight down on her as his head rests on her chest. His arms wrap around her waist as he buries his nose into her shirt as he yawns. His exhausted red eyes look up at her warm ones as he mutters against her clothed breast, “Y déjame dormir escuchando mi lindo corazoncito…¿Sería eso aceptable para ti, mi amor?”

Smiling softly down at him, his love’s arms wrap around his shoulders as a hand finds itself tangled in his thick locks of hair. “Of course, my love. It’s yours to listen to forever.”

With a soft kiss to his crown, the couple falls asleep in each other’s arms as their new kitten climbs up and curls up on Miguel’s back.

~~~~~~~

Translations:

ah maldita sea... mi vida, por favor se razonable…-ah fucking hell... my life, please be reasonable…

Déjame entrar, mi amor. Tengo un regalo para ti. -Let me in, mi amor. I have a gift for you.

Acostado ahí…-Laying there…

Y déjame dormir escuchando mi lindo corazoncito. - And let me sleep listening to my pretty little heart.

¿Sería eso aceptable para ti, mi amor? -would that be acceptable to you, my love?

~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@ameliadraws

@tojisrightnut

@whyareyoubored

@silly-lovestruck-em

@luvil1y

@chims-kookies

@himesuedi

@22carolina08

@chaoticevilbakugo

@boredwithlifeatthispoint

@hoshhoshh

@isaidoop

@pheroineux

@rosiepetalss

@aniya7

@savannahlynnes

@boldlypessimistic

@dilfaddiction

@xsuvs

@bunnybopug01

@tanakaslastbraincell

@brivers

@mistermouseshideyhole

@paranoiac-666

@reypolaris

@beeframon

@sofiahowland376

@bby-lupin

@thesrtuggleisveryreal

@arminarmout15

@mintellaine

[rosewaterandivy]

girl crush

Summary: there’s more than two beds, but of course you sleep in his.

W.C.: 2.5k

Warnings: y’all know me - it’ll be the usual! Smut, idolatry, devotion, unprotected sex (wrap it up!), pussy drunk Steve— I don’t make the rules 😤‼️

a/n: aka your first time with Steve, who may or may not be your boyfriend?

🎶 I’ve got a girl crush, I don’t get no sleep, I don’t get no peace, thinkin’ bout her 🎶

“Wish I could babe,” his voice sounds distant over the phone, wind whipping every other word through the mic, “But we just started production out here, we won’t wrap for a while yet.” You’d caught him during a break in filming, miraculously.

Several dates in LA after an introduction from Eddie, and here you are trying (and failing) to plan another. He’s back in California after a press tour and you were fresh off of recording your latest album.

“Well,” you drawl out, “I could come to you?” The question is rushed, breathless, you screw your eyes close in fear of fucking it all up.

A pause.

“You sure?”

“S’easier than dealing with your schedule, Harrington,” you say lightly, “Palm Springs is doable enough.”

He’s working on some indie picture out in the desert, you were murky on the details. You hear shuffling from his end and ‘psst’s trying to get someone’s attention.

“Rob… Rob! Can you– yeah, the address?”

A moment later your phone dings with a notification.

“So,” you say, throwing clothes haphazardly into a bag, “What’ve you got planned for us?”

Three or so hours later finds you in the desert and absolutely ecstatic about it. Dressed down in cut-offs and an old merch tank–or, as dressed down as you could get–you breathe in deep, thankful to be out of LA. Little to no paps and tabloids to be worried about–or worse, Deuxmoi acolytes–so you could finally relax.

Steve met you out front with the fattest joint you’d seen in years, he nearly dropped it when you all but tackled him to the ground. You were so happy to be with him again.

“Little soon to be proposing, no?”

“Think I’d do better than some hydro from Arglye,” he grouses, but you take it from him anyway with a deep inhale, “Says ‘hi’ by the way.”

“Tell him I accept and we’re registered at Tiffany’s,” you say finally, exhaling slowly.

He rolls his eyes, “Okay, Material Girl,” he helps to hoist you back up, “Tour time.”

After the grand tour, which was impressive–“Holy shit, do you have Robin on retainer? ‘Cause if not...”--Steve entertained you in the kitchen, making what he called the ‘secret sauce.’

“Oh, that?” you scoff, pouring some wine, “Had that on date number two, if you’ll recall.” You take a sip and continue with a waggle of your brows, “My compliments to the chef, as ever.”

Steve blushes at that, recalling how pretty you had looked with your glossed lips around his cock, all warm and soft under the dim light from the setting sun. A groan rumbles from his chest as he braces himself against the countertop, knuckles turning white.

“You’re a menace,” he said, voice low and gravelly, before he turned his attention back to the pots and pans on the stove.

You shrug and drink some wine, savoring the crisp tart taste against your tongue. Steve flits from one spot to the next while he cooks, stirring the sauce one moment and blanching veggies the next; all the while, remaining loose enough to pour a second glass of wine for you and another for himself.

Infuriatingly attractive that.

The sun had gone down in the desert while Steve finished with the pasta. You’d assigned yourself the task of setting the table and doing the dishes after dinner. Plates and cutlery arranged, you helped yourself to some salad while Steve served the pasta.

You mouth had already been watering at the mere scent of whatever was bubbling away on the stove, and all it took was one bite to have you audibly moaning at the dinner table. His eyes met yours, mischievous and curious, as he sipped his wine.

“Fuck me, that’s good,” you say with closed eyes, savoring the taste.

Steve laughs quietly across the table.

Dinner goes on, you try to reign in your vocal appreciation of the meal. He fills you in on some details of the shoot, set gossip, and the like. You offer up the scant information you have about the upcoming tour and album release. Clearing the table is easy enough between the two of you, knocking hips every so often as you washed and he dried the dishes.

You ended up in his bedroom, collecting the duffle you’d packed from the guest room down the hall. It was a kind thought, that you would opt for a separate room and your own space; he was hesitant like that, never wanting to assume.

Electing to change in the ensuite bathroom, you step out of the denim cutoffs and fold them neatly on the counter. Shoes had been kicked off at the front door earlier in the evening, leaving you now in an ancient Corroded Coffin shirt that had seen better days. He’s sat on the bed, looking all soft and sweet–tousled hair and wire rimmed glasses framing his face nicely, skin flushed from the wine.

He bit his lip when he saw you come out, hair a mess and legs, legs, legs, but a vision nevertheless. He can’t help himself as you step between his splayed knees at the edge of the bed, his hands coming to rest against he curve of your hips.

“Hey honey,” he murmurs as your arms wrap around his neck.

“Hey Steve,” you greet in return, lips pulled tight in an embarrassed smile.

Gently, he tugs you closer to him, the fabric of the shirt rucking up against your skin. His finger skirts against the back of your thigh, the skin shivering involuntarily. “Missed you,” he says, voice raspy and low.

His soft gaze lingers on you, warm hazel eyes looking up through long lashes. “Missed you too,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?” he asks, fingers grasping at the flare of your hips before he leans back on the bed, “C’mere then.”

As you clamber onto the bed, he lays back against the cool cotton of the duvet pulling you down with him. Substantively seated in his lap, you rest your head against his chest and let out a sigh.

“Comfy?” he says, a hand trailing lazily up and down your back. You nod, fingering the fabric of the shirt between your fingers. Softened by time and wear, paint and lettering disintegrating each time you wore it. It smells comforting like you–cardamom and sandalwood with a hint of something boozy–smells like home.

“I’ll keep you close then.”

His other arms falls against your hips while he continues to trace shapes against your back. You feel his lips leave at the crown of your head before his head falls back against the mattress. It’s quiet and he can tell from the rhythm of your breathing that you’re a few minutes from falling asleep.

The nation’s favorite spitfire in his bed, face nuzzled into his chest, bit by bit chiseling your way into his heart.

Steve lets his teeth worry his bottom lip, willing his nerves not to get the best of him. “Y’know, I really like you.”

“Mmm,” your drowsy moan comforting, the lazy smile tugging at your lips setting off the butterflies in his stomach. “I really like you too.”

Fuck, he hadn’t been this nervous in a while. And yeah, you’d been seeing each other for a minute but not long enough to have the ‘what are we’ conversation.

His hand tangles in your hair, loose and windswept from the drive, fingers scratching lightly at your scalp. A muffled moan pours from your lips and vibrates his chest.

“Sorry, sorry” you slur sleepily, “M’not normally such a lightweight.”

Steve, for his part, doesn’t think anything of it. You’d had, what, one glass of wine at dinner— maybe two? But you could be tired from the drive.

Maybe he’s misreading this thing entirely. A brief flicker of panic licks up his spine; maybe it’s too soon, maybe you just want to sleep—

“Can hear you thinkin’ up there,” you mumble and pull him from his downward spiral. A brief movement as you settle your chin to his chest and glance up. Your eyes are half-lidded and sultry, lips pulled in an enticing fashion.

He grunts when you shift your weight until you’re practically sitting on his chest to keep him breathless. He’s smiling up toward the ceiling, one side of his lips curled upward, jaw slack, easy and yielding because Steve offers himself to everything like this: headfirst and wide-open.

It’s be infuriating if he wasn’t crashing headlong toward you. It’d be irritating if he wasn’t so damn earnest about it.

After a while of feeling out each other's atmosphere, eyes catching every so often before flitting away to focus on something else, Steve arches up to request a kiss, all warmth and need.

You lean down to touch your lips to his gently, brushing your nose with his along the way— a wholly delicate gesture he never would’ve expected from you, but has grown to adore.

“We can go slow,” you breathe against his lips. “Don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Steve’s stomach swoops. He reaches up to cradle the back of your neck, drawing your forehead to his. “That so?”

You're smiling— so big and beautiful it hurts. And his heart is so loud he thinks you must hear it.

The kiss was clumsy, you chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your lips to his burned down his throat, like whiskey and joy— warm and smooth and cataclysmic as his hand cupped your face. You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush in excitement because you’re not letting go, so he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning all the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it lights him up. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut. Even now, he’s crushed with longing.

You press the heat of your core into his groin, grinding your hips into his.  

When your tongue touches him again, he thinks he might go blind. His eyes flutter open as much as they can, to savor the moment of your face so close to his. Your eyes, shut. Your skin, flushed. Your hair, a silky, folded curtain against his chest.

You are straddling Steve’s thigh now, sitting on your knees and moving against his thick limb in slow orbits. The underwear sitting against your hips is still there but does nothing to keep the slickness between your legs at bay. His thigh is moist from it, and it catches a shine in the fading light.

“Need you, baby,” you plead. “Any way you want.”

You glow like a full moon in the night, divining his animal desires with phosphorescent eyes.

Too eager now with permission. Too eager now with the fiercest kind of lust—of love—he lets it go. All for you, and you all for him. He nips at your collar, drowning deeper and deeper. Fingers meandering to hook into the gauzy and damp fabric hiding you from him and pulls. Wants you bare and shuddering beneath him. Hip bones against hip bones, the noises you make—ragged and hoarse—sending tremors down his back.

Steve grips your waist and moves you from his leg. A whimper escapes before it turns into a gasp as he turns you around, back meeting the cool of the sheets. “You call it, sweetheart.” Comes his husky voice in your ear. You know he means it completely.

A moan slips forth when he dives into the back of your shirt and tears it off, does the same with his. He wants to hear that noise again. The two of you are entwined like real lovers, pulling apart only to breathe and whisper to each other.

He falls onto his forearms, touching foreheads together, noses together, lips hovering until you meet him in a sloppy half-kiss, tongue slipping over his, spit and sweat shimmering across your mouth.

Steve doesn’t bother taking his boxer-briefs off completely, crumpling them down just below his cock is enough for him to slide in like he was created for you. He tells you as much, as you whimper and cry out beneath him.

“Look at me,” He prompts, tilting your face so you see where he’s connected to you. He’s searing hot as he thrusts upwards. “You were made for this.” He’s delirious with it, the heavy thrum that flows through the union of your bodies, “You were made for me.”

Like a prayer, he repeats your name.

Inside of that deafening miasma, Steve is still awake and a part of him knows that this is what he’d been longing for. His cock is throbbing inside of you and every time he pulls out and thrusts back in, your cunt wipes any shred of doubt from his mind.

Your head tips backwards and he catches the base of your skull in one giant hand. “So good,” you praise, “You’re so good, Steve.”

God, he’s so hard. Cramming himself inside your body, torso to torso, as close as he can get because he needs it—he needs it so bad.

He’s blind with it, drunk off it, beginning to rut like he’s in heat, surprised at the confessions he burns into your neck g’na marry you, fuck— that have you gasping and clenching in equal measure. Catalogues and litanies of honey, baby, fuckfuckfuck, god—growling devotions sinking into your throat, your shoulder, your chest. Sucking inscriptions in the common tongue of love as they slip past his lips.

You take all of him again and again, matching his pace, eyes squeezed shut, opening briefly but dazed. Panting and pleading his name, sudden waves of orgasm making you shake and shiver. Then he starts again— easier, kinder, letting the beast work its way back through his skin. Tongue sweeping lines. Canines pulling flesh.

You sigh and smile. A sacred dream of flesh and blood wrapped around him. “Wanna see you, baby,” you say, “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

So he does, blinking through the darkness and finds you like a beacon, as you always are, as you always will be. His hair falls to one side, lighter from the summer sun, suspended and rocking along.

“’S that good? Like this?”

“Yeah. Yes,” he babbles, “Wanna give you everything.”

“Come with me, Steve—come on, baby.”

And it’s all so fast. Your words. His words. Your hands. His hands. Hips moving in heavy thrusts and hair falling over his face and endless moans of god, fuck, 'm gonna come at the last minute before his eyes roll back behind his lids.

Steve buries his face into your neck, groaning. “Mine,” he whispers finally coming back to himself. Raspy and slow and again when you gasp. Your nails dig into his back reflexively, thighs squeezing him tight.

He’s smiling like an idiot because he doesn’t know what else to do about it. His heart is fluttering and filling up. He looked at you for too long, thought about you too hard even though you’re right here and his, and maybe that’s what launched itself into his dizzy head.

A hard kiss that makes you whimper. Mine. Another to the line of your open jaw. Mine. Your throat. Your collar. Your chest. Mine. Mine. Mine.

You smile into his temple, rubbing your cheek on him, too. 

“Keeping me all to yourself?”

He nods eagerly, heart full, then overflowing. “Keeping you forever.”

[mosaickiwi]

Nails, TV, Moving

Rendacted paints your nails and 'asks' you to move in. 1.3k words, GN reader c:

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

~

"Unfortunately for our contestant—" the host’s words get cut off as you press a button on the remote.

"Booooo," you jeered at the TV from your spot on the floor and changed the channel. 

Ren hummed softly at your voice, but didn't look up. Despite the dark bangs that obscure their eyes, you can tell they’re focused. He was happily painting your nails—the same shade of black as his own—at your request. He insisted you sit as close as possible on the blanket he laid down, instead of across the coffee table. He'd only ever painted his own nails after all, so the angle was very important to keep him from messing up. You were certain he just said that because he wanted the closeness.

The screen barely flashes a few frames before you're changing it again. A football game, a cartoon, a drama, and then—you finally stop. There's a couple wandering through a cabin, with a disembodied voice narrating all it had to offer. One of the many house hunting shows that came on every so often.

"Oh, this one's pretty." You put down the remote to watch. The couple head upstairs where the master bedroom is and your excitement quickly dies. "Maybe not. The bathroom is a huge let down."

Ren casts a glance up at the TV as the camera pans over the room once more. He took in the slanted ceiling, with the tub stationed on the lower end, lit up by an angled skylight. He didn't really see whatever problem you had. "What's wrong with it?" he asked.

"The ceiling is already so low. You'd have to fold yourself in half to get in that tub, tall as you are. And you'd probably hit your head every time you got out. We couldn't live there," you grumbled and rested your chin on your free hand, eyes never straying from the screen. "No way I'd put you through that."

You didn't notice how he perked up when your concerns involved him—you even said ‘we.’ A miniscule drop of polish fell on the paper towel under your hand. He wasn't sure if you were being considerate, or if your perfectly normal relationship was at the point of buying a home together. He hoped it was the latter. Either way, including them already planted ideas in their mind. "So then, what's our—your ideal home have?"

"My ideal home…" You’d only really thought about things you didn’t want, thanks to your current apartment. "I can't say I'm very picky. No holes in the walls, enough room to breathe, no rats," you paused for a bit—now they were in a rather awkwardly shaped second bedroom. "When I was little I wanted to live in a bounce house. Or have a freezer dedicated to ice cream."

Ren smiled while he carefully painted the nail of your pinky. "One of those is doable."

"True, but I'd rather not blow up my house every day," you joked and continued pondering. "The location is probably the most important, right?" He silently nodded in agreement as you went on. "Corland Bay's nice and all—having everything so close together makes things easy. Except sometimes I wanna fall asleep without hearing cars pass by or Violet playing games. It's much quieter here. Plus your bed is comfy."

"You're more than welcome to live here, Angel," he innocently offered. “Although maybe you’d enjoy somewhere more secluded.”

“Like just out of town? Not too far from civilization. I'd still wanna be near the beach." You watched the couple fuss about the kitchen in another house before you really processed what he just said. You turned to look at him for the first time since the show caught your interest. "Are you asking me to move in with you?" 

"Oh, is that what it sounded like?" His tone was full of shock, but you could see the way his snake bites pulled up in a faint grin. He examined your nails and lifted your hand once he deemed it finished. "I do have all this space, though. The library’s close by. Beach is a short walk away, too. No neighbors, no noise. I've never had a rat problem. I guess it hits all the marks f’you, doesn’t it, Angel?"

"Ren…" You rolled your eyes at his antics. 

"If you really want to move in that badly, I'm not opposed," he said teasingly. "Other hand."

You didn't respond just yet, merely giving them a playful side eye and placing your hand flat on the table. Gently, you blew air on your wet nails while he went to work. The noise of the TV faded into the background as you thought about his offer.

It was a big step to take. You already spent a fair amount of your time at his place. The ever-dwindling amount of laundry you did at home served as proof. Cohabitating with them wouldn't be much different from now. Ren always gave you space when you asked, even with his clingy personality. He was tidy, quiet, and never made a fuss—the perfect roommate on paper. The real issue was money. A place like this would cost way more than a librarian’s salary could pay.

"As much as I want to, I have to consider rent first," you thought aloud, causing him to stop and look up.

"Angel, you don't need to pay anything." His answer was almost immediate and it surprised you how firm he sounded about it.

You shook your head. "I know I probably can't do half, but I’d like to do my fair share. How much is your rent each month?"

"Well, actually," he stalled and idly rolled the nail brush in his fingers before putting it back in the bottle. The rent was one thing he couldn’t be bothered to keep track of. "...I have no idea?"

"How—what?"

"It's an automatic payment so I never think about it," he admitted, explaining further at your incredulous expression. "I mean I definitely saw it when I found the listing—and when I signed the lease. But I can't remember it off the top of my head."

You had a hard time believing what you were hearing. You knew your own rent by heart—it mocked you every time it took a chunk out of your bank account. A question about how he budgeted weighed in your mind, although the rather calm way Ren spoke clearly answered it: he didn't. It seemed obvious now; he'd been a frivolous spender from the beginning.

The blank look on your face made him a little worried. "Honestly, Angel, it’s not an issue. I’ve been paying it on my own just fine," he insisted. "You don’t have t’worry about any cost if you stay here, I promise.” He’d be happy as a clam to pay triple whatever he already was if it meant you'd move in. Hell, he’d even pay for you to live in one of the empty units next door.

"Fine then," you sighed in defeat, glancing towards the TV screen for a moment. The show was already ending. "If I tried to give you money you'd just find a way to give it back anyways.”

Ren let out a faint breath as if he was holding back laughter, but didn’t disagree. "So, how about it? Gonna move in?” he asked with a sincere smile.

You couldn’t help but smile the same in return. “Yeah, why not? I’d be crazy to say no. I can talk to my landlord and be out in a few weeks, probably.”

His excitement only seemed to grow at your words. He was radiating silent joy, fingers tapping rhythmically on the table as he uncapped the bottle of polish once more. You could almost imagine a tail wagging behind him as he tried to make steady brushstrokes over your nail.

“Are you really that happy?” you laughed and he nodded. “Maybe I should just move in tomorrow.” His hand barely slipped, leaving the tiniest streak of polish on the side of your ring finger.

“Oops,” he muttered.

[reorientation]

i might suck off a straight boy from my class for zyns (nicotine pouches lol). i can't buy them yet but he can (i just turned 19 and hes 23). when i hit him up to buy off him, he sells for double the retail value, and triple for anything higher than 10mg. i asked if i get a classmate discount, or if i can buy one at a time. and he said no :(. i ""jokingly"" said id blow him for some, and he said the only people he'd accept that offer from are girls.

so, like a good crackwhore, I told him im actually ftm and it wouldn't be really gay. he didn't believe me until I showed him my pussy on a video call. he said he'd consider it, and responded like an hour later. lmao. he said it sounds kind of gay but if i came to his apartment looking pretty, and wearing something feminine he'd see if he felt gay about it. he went on to say he just thought i was gay since im too feminine to be a guy, but being trans makes more sense. he also asked why i transitioned when id make a really cute girl. im swooning.

the joke is that i can afford to buy the zyns at the price he listed. its inconvenient and annoying but doable. i could also keep trying my luck at local convenience stores and eventually be able to find something, probably. im not even trying to quit that hard. but likeee. not going to lie, he's hot and i was slightly horny already when i hit him up. id suck his dick for free tbh. its embarrassing that im willing to let him use my mouth for fucking nicotine pouches, and because im a perv who likes being misgendered. but ive already came twice, and post nut clarity is not kicking in, so its probably a good idea. will keep you posted.

God, this is fucking funny. You went to such lengths to sell your virginity to a straight man - and you didn't even save any money off of it! Plan B is like 50 bucks!

Let's see, the series of events here is:

Offered to suck a straight guy off for convenience-store drugs

Had to show him your cunt just to get him to consider it

Went over "looking pretty" like a good call-girl

Intended to just blow him and instead wound up getting fucked for the first time and creampied without protection

Went home with a few nicotine pouches, a pussy full of cum, and negative net savings

A savvy consumer you are not! God, FtM girls will take any excuse to slut themselves out.

but ive already came twice, and post nut clarity is not kicking in, so its probably a good idea.

That's the thing: actual men have refractory periods. You can only make sperm so fast, and there's not much biological point in putting another load in a girl when there's a few hundred million fresh sperm already on target. Girls who've pumped themselves full of testosterone don't get that! You can just keep rubbing yourself dumb, convincing yourself that being a stupid whore is a brilliant idea. Just another one of the dangers of trying on hormones that you weren't built for.

Still, this was very funny. Hope you enjoyed the walk of shame home from your extremely-lame-drug dealer's place, and congratulations on the start of a long career of taking cum.

[eirikrjs]

Thinking Beyond Replacement

The new Lilith reveal when Vengeance was announced led to another stupid & frankly outdated thought: "why design a new look for a classic SMT demon that's still popular when the new is functionally identical to the old?"

This thought nevertheless got me curious, so i made the Qadistu quartet edits seen above. I've become pro-Doi Lilith for the following reasons:

Kaneko is super dead now that he left Atlus. It's time to move on for real. I'm especially talking to myself.

the palettes of Eisheth Zenunim, Agrat bat Mahlat, and Naamah aren't dissimilar to the Amemiya or Kaneko Liliths, so they would still look fairly cohesive even with the latter. But Lilith is still the leader of the Qadistu and her bubblegum pink hair makes her pop out among them.

However, I think it's undeniable that Doi designed the Qadistu as a unit, combining, as he says, "beauty and ugliness." All 4 have grotesque features and I particularly like Lilith's bony joint aberrations:

There's just a level of cohesion usually only a single artist can lend to such a related/thematic assemblage; I'm also pretty positive on Naamah; even if her purpose in the Qadistu might just be to breast boobily, she's a demon I've wanted in SMT for a long time and i think her design delivers.

I'm not as hot on Agrat bat Mahlat, she reminds me of Ranni for some reason; I just think the "dark witch" motif is a little derivative but at least she adds variety to the group. The most notable thing about her to me is that her red eyes make it look like she's been doing some heavy dabbing in the sweet leaf. Eisheth Zenunim I'm pretty neutral about.

Last point on accepting change, as sad as that sounds to say (but it totally is what's necessary):the 4 Qadistu are the wives of Samael, and so the new Lilith is still wrapped by a snake--a red snake, the same color Samael has always been in Kaneko's designs. While it seems a given Samael will be involved in the story eventually, it would also mean he will have a new design, and probably not a snake, or at least something more involved. I also imagine Lilith's snake having a role in cutscenes--further necessitating the need for an all-new design/model.

Also, i totally expect there to be some classic SMT comparative etymological conflation bullshit with Samael this time around, because "Samael" is one of the alternate names of Yaldabaoth. And oh yeah, Sophia is the mother of the demiurge and in vanilla she called herself a sacred prostitute:

So expect her involvement, too. I'm honestly pretty excited for Vengeance! It's coming out at a great time for me, I think it'll be doable for me one-handed,Doi's new designs I would put on a Kaneko quality scale of somewhere between SMT2 and Devil Summoner, and vanilla SMT5 was so low impact, the only place it can go now is up!