#blaze is a trans boy

[hauntedvoid]

just been laying here hitting my pen and scrolling through tumblr. my tdick is throbbing so hard rn and all i can think about is how bad i want a dog boy between my legs eating me out and sucking my tdick like a feral mutt. bitting the insides of my thighs and leaving marks. holding my hips down if i get too squirmy or try to run away. i’m not done until he’s satisfied. until he’s tasted enough of his precious puppy.

#salem blazed #ns/fw #ns/fw text #t4t nsft #ftm puppy #trans mlm #ftm nsft #trans nsft #ftm sub #puppy sub #bd/sm puppy #dog boy #fuck i’m so wet

[d4rk-x-w0lf-17]

the idea of sonic crushing on someone who could beat his ass is so funny because like

sonic @ mighty, who's able to beat his ass at literally any given moment: h-hewwo....❤️🖤

sonic @ knuckles, who literally beat him out of his super form: 🥺👉👈

sonic @ shadow, who beat his ass several times: so you wanna hit the movies later--

sonic @ blaze after she kicked his ass into next tuesday:

sonic @ jet, who relentlessly taunted him and managed to beat him in a speed race (technically not on foot but sonic still count it): 👌🏻😩

#this boy has so many rivals-- #also i headcanon him as a trans panromantic asexual ☺️ #sonic the hedgehog #mighty the armadillo #knuckles the echidna #shadow the hedgehog #blaze the cat #jet the hawk #sonighty #sonknux #sonadow #sonaze #sonjet

[t4tails]

WAIT PPL DON'T HC CANON GIRLS AS TRANS GIRLS??? WHAT

sorry. was surprised. yiu don't look at a canon gender and think "nk no they transitioned to get there"?? ppl wildin...i mean i trans canon genders into different gender (amen to the cis boys i turned into she/hes to figure out i was she/he)? but i also keep some character's gender just trans them?? whag...ppl don't?? i (head in hands) hnngbsbnnaaag

im having trouble understanding this ask lol. i have hcs that go both ways if thats what your asking? like since we're talking trans fem sonic hcs, i think metal and tails are trans fem, but i also think amy and rouge are too. same for trans masc, espios totally a trans guy, but i really like trans masc cream. i have multitudes and it depends on the character lol

#og post #ask #anon #some i fully cant decide like sonic LOL #trans girl sonic and trans boy sonic and nonbinary sonic are all SO real #and im a big believer in they/them silver she/he blaze and any prns knux. my sillies

[oysterdelite]

introduction !!

MINORS DNI

Hello everyone! I’m making this blog cause oh man what is a 20 year old with a weird interest in breeding other t-boys to do but get on tumblr and find a community lol

Anyway hi I’m Oyster (or delite or del or my real name which I’m only willing to share if we become buds!) I’m a Service/Soft Dom & Stone Top, I’m pre-T, transmasc, and use He/They pronouns (He preferred!)

I like puppy boys and kitty boys and enjoy being called Sir most! I will be posting probably mostly about pounding my boyfriend most because I’m deranged.

(Yes I chose this blog name because something something eating clam lol)

I’m autistic, chunky, and Latino so plz no ableism, fatphobia, or racism, you will be blocked!

Anons: Currently Accepting Anons!

DMs: CLOSED!

Star ⭐️, A, Anon <3, Top Anon, 🦊, 🧸, 🎾🐾, 🦈, 💤, Holy 🪽 (he/him), 🪷, ❇️, 💙, 🦇🐾 , 🎲, 🏵️, 🐑, 🍓🐶, 🌿, 🕯️, 🐕🎀, 💜🖋️, 🦴, 🐚, 🌟, L, 🥕, 🪱, 🍑, 🐈‍⬛🖤, 🦷, 🥀🐾, 🍪, 🕸️, 🍬, 🏴‍☠️🧬

Tags!:

#oyster answers for answer asks, #oyster’s anons for answering anon asks #oyster delite and #oysterdelite for general tag, #oyster blazes for when I’m faded and talking out my ass, #oyster blogs and #nerdy oyster for my interests and general blogging, and #oyster says something serious for serious talk!

I’m 5 feet tall which I think is always very funny to people who can’t comprehend a short autistic trans guy who only tops lol

More below the cut about kinks, limits, dni, and more info about me!

My posts are not consent to send me unsolicited photos- please ask FIRST!

Given that this is my page, I am allowed at any time to stop interacting with you for any reason. If I am uncomfortable or just not in the mood to talk- I may not answer. Please do not take offense to this. I am still a regular human behind the screen.

I am fine being friends with y’all but I do have a partner so any “flirting” is pretty much platonic and does not mean we are dating, talking stage, a “situationship,” etc. If you would like to get to know me more please feel free to reach out but just because you jack off to my text posts does NOT mean you deserve to have access to any personal or private information about me and is not consent to pressure me into sharing more than I’m comfortable with.

Kinks!

(Highlighted are my faves!)

Breeding

Drool

Monster Fucking

Knotting

Semi-Public sex

Begging

Hair pulling

Praise

Light cnc/Dubcon (agreed upon before hand and given signals when it’s ok)

Edging

Pet play

Somno

Intox

Voyeurism

Overstimulation

Teasing

& more I can’t remember rn

Limits

Feel free to keep interacting with my blog if you enjoy these, they’re just not for me!

Any body fluids other than cum or spit (blood, pee, fecal matter, vomit, etc)

Impact play

Bondage (really depends on the situation! Intense bondage is a little too much for where I am now!)

Forced masc

Proper rape play (light cnc is fun but I will not enact scenes involving grabbing someone off a street or forcing myself on them if they’re thrashing about or fighting back)

Daddy kink (I prefer Sir! This may change from day to day depending on how I’m feeling but in general I usually won’t respond to that)

Hard Limits

PLEASE DO NOT REBLOG OR COMMENT ON MY CONTENT IF YOU ENGAGE WITH THESE TOPICS

Race play

Ageplay

Ddlg or anything similar

Beastiality

Necroplay

Detrans

Anything weight related (feeder/feedee etc)

Incest or fauxcest

DNI!

Racists, Transphobes, Ableists, Fatphobes, Conservatives, Zionists (Free Palestine!), etc

Anyone under 18!!

MAPS, pedos, Zoos, etc

Men DNI blogs (I am a man! Please for your sake, don’t interact with my stuff!)

Anyone who thinks they can “fix” my stone top identity. No I don’t bottom, no I don’t like receiving please don’t try to change that I will block you!

Get to know me better!

I have an elderly dog and I work as a math tutor for my college. I’m currently studying graphic design but I was previously a biology major. I like to draw in my spare time, I’m a huge fan of post punk and new wave music. Every time I go to karaoke, Creep by Radiohead is the first song I choose (yes I’m cringe). I love D&D and nerdy shit and spend most of my time at my local game club! I’m autistic, adhd, and probably have POTS and hypermobility so some days or weeks are harder on my body than others! My favorite color is pink and I love spy movies and comedy sitcoms about terrible people.

I have a real life outside of tumblr, please do not be offended if it takes me a little while to get back to you!

I think that’s about it! Come have fun with me! Feel free to send in asks to me anytime, but I am getting busy so I ask that you be patient!

Love,

OysterDelite

#mlm nsft #t4t #gay #t4t mlm #t4t nsft #ftm nsft #ftm sub #ftm ns/fw #ftm bottom #ftm puppy #trans ftm #transmasc #breeding k1nk #submisive and breedable #FTM dom

[fox-steward]

hi, your blog is incredibly interesting- i genuinely didn't realise there was a not conservative side of the gender critical sphere. i've been on testosterone for about 7 months now, so far this has been making me feel more like myself. personally I am not thinking about 'gender' but rather what i want to look and sound like- this has been working better than the whole 'gender is a feeling' thing..which is definitely a theory! If its okay to ask, what are your thoughts on medical transition?

i think medical transition is, broadly, very harmful.

it harms the individual: disrupts natural hormone cycles, negatively impacts cardiovascular health, negatively impacts reproductive functioning, creates an artifice which the individual comes to rely on to "feel like themself," thereby severing that person from true authenticity, necessitating the person remain a lifelong medical patient to keep all effects of hormones, subjecting the person to unnecessary risk of surgery, including death. it costs a lot of money and time that you don't actually have to spend. there is no evidence it correlates with mental health improvement, and it is my opinion that by focusing on transition, people do not attend to the areas of their lives that actually need and would benefit from attention and intervention.

it harms the group: gays and lesbians are disproportionately impacted by medical transition; gender non-conformity (which homosexuality is a form of) has become pathologized; now young lesbians and gays are not only growing up in a culture dominated by heterosexuality and rife with homophobia, they also have to navigate the pervasive message that they might benefit from transition. when i was a kid i was told by adults that i was "trying to be a man," that real women are not lesbians, and eventually i agreed with them. that gender non-conformity is seen as a precursor to "trans identification" only makes this worse--it's like, you get the "what, are you trying to be a man >:( ??!!" but also, "what, are you trying to be a man <=D ??!!" messaging. and what chance do we stand against attacks from all sides?

it is harmful to all women: look around at misogyny--devaluing women's opinions as vapid or lesser, assuming women are weak and fickle, dismissing women's perspectives and ideas, preying on women and girls sexually, seeing women as one-dimensional vessels for the transformation of the men around them--of COURSE girls don't "feel like a woman" these days, who would? instead of looking at the way society treats women and the disidentification it is producing among youth as the blazing alarm that it is, trans culture has wedged itself between women and liberation with the suggestion that "maybe you're not a woman if you don't feel like one?" never minding that "feeling like one" generally means liking being objectified, belittled, seen as weak, ignored, simultaneously not being taken seriously but being blamed for things. not only does this derail the actually important conversation about misogyny, but it leaves women and girls vulnerable to the predation of medical transition, which as i mentioned above, is harmful physically, emotionally, socially, and financially.

also, i would argue there are actually no conservative "gender critical" people. conservatives tend to reject gender non-conformity and embrace traditional gender roles; ain't no way to be critical of gender while holding central traditional gender roles. conservatives may be "trans critical," but they're not actually "gender critical." trans ideology has a lot in common with conservatives when it comes to gender, actually. both reinforce traditional gender stereotypes; how different is "i'm masculine and fit in more with boys than girls, so i must really be a man" from "i'm not a man, so i can't act masculinely, i must act femininely" really? they are threads of the same rope and that rope holds us prisoner, it doesn't free us. true gender non-conformity is being female but realizing that your masculine nature doesn't change anything about you (trans ideology), nor does it need to change itself (conservative ideology).

i know you didn't ask for this part, but you're here in my inbox, so here you go: doesn't it strike you as strange that it's taking synthetic medical intervention to make you "feel like yourself?" is the route to authenticity really via the path of cosmetic surgery and synthetic hormones?

it's either intellectually dishonest or intellectually lazy to stop at you're just "thinking about...how you want to look and sound." WHY do you want to look masculinized and have a deeper voice? there is a zero-percent chance the answer to that question is entirely separate from how those traits get you treated in society. and that's the impact of misogyny. and please don't misunderstand this as me suggesting you should not be masculine--i just don't think you have to subject yourself to the harms of medical transition in order to BE masculine.

and i say this as someone who took these steps, who masculinized with a mastectomy and many years of testosterone. i get that there are certain advantages to appearing as a man in society despite being a woman, but largely these are individual advantages for ME that come at the expense of WOMEN. thinking i'm a man, men take me more seriously; this impacts women by reinforcing the idea that men deserve consideration when women's voices don't, and it means that i don't have to advocate for women to be taken seriously because I don't personally need it; it runs the risk of making me complacent to this phenomenon, convincing me that surely women are exaggerating when they share their experiences because i don't have such a hard time of things, all the men are nice to me. see how pernicious it is?

because i'm 5'10", skinny, and with a flat chest, many people think i'm a man when i'm running. this means i can run at night, with headphones in, in new places--all basically without fear. the stories other women tell me make it clear this isn't the case for them. some women i know don't run outside anymore at all because of how men treat them, sexualize them, harass them, prey on them. so i get that it is a clear advantage to appear as a man sometimes; this is one thing i'm actually really grateful for. but it is not worth the damage i did to my body, it isn't worth the sense of alienation i sometimes feel from women, a sense i also felt with men, even when i was pretending to be "one of them," it isn't worth the money and time and effort i spent trying to convincingly imitate men that i could have spent on things that would actually nurture me and my life.

"gender is a feeling" certainly is a theory, but so is "transition makes me more myself," and one is about as good as the other.

we are not alive to simply take our thoughts and feelings at face value! interrogate your feelings and your ideas! we live in a culture and none of us are immune to that. something something unexamined life.

best of luck, i'm rooting for you.

#gender critical #detransition #radfem #radical feminism #detrans #asked #answered #transgender #anonymous #anon

[disillusioneddanny]

There’s a Fine Line

Danny stared at his shoes, eyes unseeing as the adults bustled around him. They were just messing around. Just taking pictures in the lab. None of this was supposed to happen this way.

The adults whispered to one another, a miracle they said. Standing in the portal had somehow been the only thing that had saved him.

But it hadn’t. It definitely hadn’t saved him, that was for sure.

Just five hours before everything had been normal.

“Come on Danny, just step inside so I can take a picture!” Sam had insisted, holding her phone ready to take a picture of her friend.

“Yeah man, it just looks so cool, don’t you think it’d make a pretty cool picture?” Tucker said with a smile. Danny just gave them a nervous smile and shrugged the jumpsuit on. His parents were upstairs cooking dinner, Jazz was in her room in her bedroom doing homework. No one would notice if he just stepped in for just a second.

Once he had gotten the suit zipped up, Danny walked towards the portal and took a step in only for his foot to get caught on a cord on the ground. He felt his body propel forward and caught himself on the wall, his hand slammed into a button.

After that, it was just pain.

When he woke up, the house was gone, fire blazed around him, sirens rang through the air but there was no house. Just him and the portal. He slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up from this nightmare. But the house was still burning and-and that was Sam’s boot on the ground but where was Sam? Where was Tucker? Or Jazz, or his mom or his dad?

“We found the youngest Fenton! He’s alive!” A fireman shouted, running towards Danny.

It had been some kind of nuclear explosion, they said. Something in the lab had exploded just as Danny had turned the portal on.

Now he was sitting in the Amity Park police department as the officers tried to figure out what they were going to do with the fourteen year old. Apparently someone that had been scheduled to meet with his parents about buying some of their weapons was coming to talk to him.

Danny wasn’t sure what exactly was going on but he didn’t really care. Everything in him was demanding that he run away, fast away and disappear forever.

His Aunt Alicia refused to foster him after learning he had come out as trans, no one could get a hold of his mysterious god father that he’d never met, he was basically completely and totally alone.

Everyone he knew and loved were gone and it was his fault. He should have never gone in the portal.

Bruce Wayne hadn’t expected this to happen when he came to Amity Park. The twenty-six year old had originally come to this sleepy town to talk to the Drs. Fenton about their inventions and studies. If there was any credence to their work, he was interested in purchasing at least a few of their weapons, just on the off chance that ghosts ever attacked Gotham. He had not expected to see a large mushroom shaped explosion from across town at the very place he was supposed to go to in just twenty four hours.

Then he had learned that the only survivor in the house had been the Fenton’s youngest child, Danielle Fenton. Something in him had screamed that he needed to go and meet the young girl to see if she was okay, to provide some kind of comfort. He knew what it was like to lose your parents at a young age, he had been even younger than the young girl when he had lost his own parents.

He raced to the police department, already prepared to take the girl in. Only, when he had gotten there, he just seen a teenage boy sitting with a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Ah Mr. Wayne!” An officer said upon seeing the billionair. “My name is Officer Haddis, we spoke on the phone. It’s so kind of you to offer your home to Ms. Fenton here-”

“Mister,” Danielle said, glaring at the officer. “I’ve already told you, I go by Daniel. My parents just never got to change my information,” Daniel snapped, glaring at the officer. They looked at Bruce with a scrutinizing look, their brows furrowed. “Who’re you?”

Bruce smiled and crouched down to the teenager’s level where they sat in the creaky, plastic chair and held out his hand. “My name is Bruce Wayne, I use he/him pronouns. I was supposed to meet with your parents tomorrow about their inventions. I’m so sorry for what happened,” he said quietly, his chest aching at the dullness in Daniel’s eyes. “I lost my parents when I was really young too. I was thinking, maybe you could come stay with me?”

Daniel stared at him for a moment before they took his hand. “Danny, he/him. It’s better than getting thrown in fostercare, I guess,” he mumbled, shaking Bruce’s hand. “If you misgender me, though, I’m kicking your ass.”

The vigilante just chuckled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare to do something like that. Now, how about we get some paperwork finished and we can go back to my apartment and start figuring out what we’re going to do from here.”

The rest of this fic will be posted here if you want to read more

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp crossover #dpxdc

[merrysithmas]

masculinity in star wars

you know, after some great posts by the brilliant @intermundia my mind has been going. something i've long thought, and something they recently put into very beautiful words, is how one of the central themes of star wars, and why so many nonbinary/queer/trans/masc people gravitate towards it, is masculinity.

i'd even argue it is THE central theme (even beyond the concepts of Spiritual Balance & Good vs Evil), which explains the phenomenon of cismen being so violently gatekeeping and protective of it.

we all know when sw was released in the 70s the emotional arc at its core revolved around the concept of Father and Son, the forgiveness, redemption, or blame therein.

it is easy to see why Luke Skywalker, noble, innocent, and nontoxically pursuing a masculine concept of "knightship" (while retaining feminine qualities himself which would prohibit him from fitting in with the imperials) would become a hero to many young cis boys who had overbearing, unrelatable, absent, or downright evil fathers. it is easy to see why obiwan, the wise and protective second-father figure would become their beloved guru.

it is also easy to see, of course, the reverse, wherein many men who feel they failed at fatherhood, partnership, and life, would relate to Vader and the salvaging love he had for his son. the possibility that they were not totally consumed and digested by the toxic masculinity that had conscripted them and of which they then became soldiers of - an Empire.

the question SW asks in almost every film to this date is - what is masculinity? where does it come from? how do we define it? what do we do with it? and how do we balance it?

we see this reflected over and over again - Din Djarin with Grogu, the Bad Batch with Omega, Palpatine/Qui gon with Anakin, Obi-wan with the Skywalker twins, Rey's unrelenting search for a father figure in Luke, Kylo Ren and his burning abandonment in front of the absent Han Solo, Yoda and his Order, Cassian Andor and the powerless castration he experiences via the Empire, the HyperMasculine Empire, the warsome Mandalore vs. the pacifist Satine Kryze, Cal Kestis & his success borne of his crew of resourceful women.

Characters who are presented as male are constantly being challenged by ideas of masculinity and by which route they will choose to express it.

what does it mean to be a "man"? a question queer, trans, and masc people often ask themselves in relation to our identities. and a question we see the SW characters face constantly. is it sacrifice (Anakin)? protectiveness (Din)? bravery (Luke)? resilience (Obi-wan)? taking up arms when you are wronged (Cassian)? vengeance and blazing your own way (Vader)? Kindness and vulnerability (Cal)?

of course, this concept of masculinity in SW as a central theme also extends to its female characters and what it means to have female masculinity of any kind especially within a patriarchy or a situation where masculinity can be translated into a threat (to anyone, including oneself). this is another reason, id argue, for uproar in the cismale sector of the fandom when they are faced with a topic (female & queer masculinity) that they neither experience nor understand and see therefore, as a threat.

characters like leia, rey, jyn, reva all display various components of outright female masculinity and/or display a picture of women grappling with the masculinity around them, which i would postulate is what makes them so iconically and instantly popular. they are allowed to be whole on screen. they are not merely a "feminine" archetype. they are whole - masculine, feminine, passive, and aggressive.

Leia with her commanding military presence is never once questioned. She then becomes a mother who grapples with the duties of traditional motherhood while following a path that is most meaningful for her (the Rebellion).

Jyn, the abandoned streetrat rebel who is allowed to be callous, doubtful, unpreened, and cynical. Whose strength of heart eventually pulls a motley crew together.

Rey, a sexless scrapper whose skills come from self-reliance, who is pushed face to face with someone who repulses her - Kylo Ren with his burning crucifix of a saber, who haughtily croons to her that he can take "whatever he wants" from her. She pushes him away, rejects him continually, until he renounces the toxicity of his confused perspective (brought on by his own torture). Only to in the end embrace Ben, the good man who'd die for her to live: as she embodied the principles that he failed.

Reva, a hardened and traumatized covert soldier who gives in and then climbs out of the charybdis of vengeance and spiritual suffering. who mistrusts and is disgusted by the men who were supposed to protect her family (Obi-wan and Anakin). we rarely get to see this rage and pain from a female character on screen.

as queer people of course we see ourselves in between those philosophical questions and identify with various characters and their struggles. we are always presented with these internal questions of what makes an identity and confronted with our own society's labels of "masculine" and "feminine" and how they relate to our place as queer people.

& of course, "canon" doesn't truly exist in the sense of a character's gender or sexuality - a character's orientation and identity is up to the viewer- and with complex questions of identity already at play in this universe it is easy to see oneself as a queer person within this story.

and then of course, we are now starting to see characters like Merrin, Obi-wan, and others' sexualities expanded upon further than the "assumed cishet" brand usually defaulted by the general audience.

so those are some futher, not-totally developed thoughts on the topic here haha

#just thoughts #star wars #sw meta #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #luke skywalker #leia organa #din djarin #cassian andor #cal kestis #rey skywalker #reva sevander #jyn erso #han solo #kylo ren

[parakeet]

Did anyone else see that post that was blazed recently where someone got art of their fursona made and was like this must be what gender euphoria is like for trans people no wonder they’re always chasing it? Wild stuff on this website. I keep getting that boy that wants to be a deer book blazed to me as well and one time the writer had a faq on it bc they’d been asked if it was trans metaphor and they were going on about how it wasn’t a political statement about gender it was just art. I hate the blazing feature

#blazed on the transmisogyny website as well. can’t make it up #I understand there are different types of dysphories btw… just seemed in poor taste

[lemonmatronics]

Alright gang Blaze is done to it’s time to vote again!

Including some boys from now on I gotta stop restricting myself to only drawing girls jdjshjd

If Metal wins I WILL be drawing her as a trans girl, you know me, she’s getting a fucking skirt

Already Drawn Rouge Amy Blaze

I won’t be waiting a whole week to pick I’m just gonna see what the votes at when I’m ready for it and whoever’s leading is it

#sonic the hedgehog #Sth #sonic #knuckles the echidna #metal sonic #cream the rabbit #vanilla the rabbit #sonic fanart

[allwaswell16]

All the One Direction fics I read and enjoyed in March 2023. You can listen to my podcast to hear me talk about each of these fics as well as an overview of what was posted on ao3 including the fics on this month’s fic roundup which you can find here! Please let the writers know if you liked the fics by leaving kudos and comments! Happy reading!

Fanfictional Podcast #48 |  ko-fi | fic recs

—Louis/Harry—

✿ A Bright and Blazing Flame  by green_feelings / @greenfeelings

(E, 23k, a/b/o, part 4 of series) Bonded, engaged, and moved in together — there’s nothing to daunt Louis and Harry’s happiness. Until the past catches up to them and everything comes crashing down when they least expect it.

✿ Keep Me Closer by zanni_scaramouche / @zanniscaramouche

(T, 18k, a/b/o) Louis expects Harry to react poorly, maybe even file a formal complaint and that’s gonna suck ass but Louis won’t say shit cause he knows he deserves it, so he prepares an apology before Harry’s even turned around. What he doesn’t expect is Harry to fucking drop.

✿ In the Strangest of Ways by SunTomato / @sun-tomato

(NR, 17k, ghost au) when the haunting sounds of a melancholy piano piece accompanied by the vague shadow of a beautiful male figure appear, Louis is determined to find out who this beautiful man was and what happened to him…

✿ anything you want until the morning by honey_beeing

(M, 12k, strangers to lovers) A Late Night Talking AU where Harry and Louis find each other on the way to work every night and then learn to not let go of each other ever again.

✿ Wed’n Walk (Or, We Went to Amsterdam Together) by @hellolovers13

(E, 11k, fake relationship) When Harry had first started planning his honeymoon to Amsterdam, he had not envisioned ending up there with his best friend. Or getting fake-married to him for 24 hours.

✿ Station 28 by @justahappycloud

(G, 10k, strangers to lovers) Darling, you are my favourite accident by far.

✿ Awaken As Mine by thinlines / @thinlinez

(E, 9k, a/b/o) Omega Harry was sure he had found his alpha, but how to get reading crazed, bookworm Louis to look twice at him was a mystery for the ages.

✿ Grow as We Go by @larryatendoftheday

(T, 7k, breakup) a fic about growing up and choosing each other.

✿ Catastrophe (Or Not) by grapenight / @louiswolves

(G, 5k, pet fic) Harry's a crazy cat person and Louis is the vet he keeps bringing his cats to with minor concerns like "she's been acting weird lately" and "he didn't poop today so I'm worried" but it's really just excuses to keep seeing Louis everyday

✿ Soft Wings by @kingsofeverything

(G, 4k, tattoo au) Harry is a Dolly Parton fan who wants to get a tattoo in tribute to her. Louis is the tattoo artist.

✿ Cookbooks and Toothpicks and One Lizard by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

(G, 3k, witch Harry) If there is one thing that Harry hates about Halloween, it’s what a spectacle everyone suddenly makes around him.

✿ when we're finished saying nothing by @disgruntledkittenface

(E, 3k, girl direction) An alpha/alpha AU inspired by Written All Over Your Face.

✿ I Hope You Choke (on those words) by Imogenlee / @imogenleefic

(E, 3k, musician Louis) Harry Styles had been head of security for concert venues for over eight years.Never in his career had he seen a musician as reckless when it came to personal safety as Louis Tomlinson.

✿ Never Seen A Boy Like YOU Before by @jaerie

(E, 3k, trans Louis) Of all the housemates out on the ranch Louis had had over the years, none of them could even come close to Harry. 

✿ Snow One Like You by cherrylarry / @beelou

(G, 3k, girl direction) The strangers to lovers stuck on a ski lift au

✿ Lapful Of Lou by hazzahtomlinson / @itsnotreal

(M, 2k, friends to lovers) they are both idiots and it takes a drunk Harry (with no brain to mouth filter) to get things going.

✿ Oblivious by grapenight / @louiswolves

(G, 2k, uni au) Louis and Harry are roommates, and Louis is instantly attracted to Harry.

—Rare Pairs—

✿ neither wanting more, neither asking why (series) by @justanothershadeofblue

(E, 40k, OT5) If Louis is the origin, Zayn the expansion, Liam the complication, Niall the solution, then Harry - Harry's the completion.

✿ The Hour of Us by sitandadmire / @niallziam

(M, 5k, Harry/Louis/Niall) the modern witches AU where Niall collects spell books, Harry is fascinated by plants, and Louis is ready to protect them at all costs.

✿ find our place by @nouies

(NR, 3k, Zayn/Louis) “Fuck!” Louis says as he hangs up the phone and turns it off. He hopes the call didn’t connect, otherwise he would have to change his number. Again.

#28th appreciation #1dficvillage #hltracks #trackinghappily #trackinghome #tracksintheam #1dsource #larry fan fiction #one direction fanfiction

[risingscorchingsuns]

What was hikaru's transition experience in the corps? How did they take his coming out (if that happened)? How easy was it for him to get care (you said shinobu did his top surgery)?

This is a great question! Unfortunately Hikaru being trans is one of the most historically inaccurate parts of his story, if not medically, then definitely socially. I use a lot more modern methods and language because I wanted Hikaru to be trans similarly to how I am. It’s my canon-accurate Achilles Heel 😭

Don’t get me wrong, trans people definitely existed back in the Taisho period!! We’ve always been here, but back then we were recorded a little differently, generally regarded as “women in men’s clothing”, et cetera. I will never deny their existence, and Hikaru being modern with his gender expression isn’t meant as erasure or denial to them, but as an expression of myself via a fictional character. Their existence is real, and valid, and they are no less trans than Hikaru- at the end of the day, he’s my silly little self insert, and I wanted to write his experiences based off of mine. If the focus of Hikaru’s story was his gender journey, I would put more emphasis on the time period and the difficulties surrounding being trans in the Taisho period, but the themes surrounding Blazing Heart’s Rhapsody are acceptance and solace found within family, and love in spite of war. This isn’t a story about trans people- Hikaru just happens to be trans ☺️

Hikaru realized he was a boy very very young, (probably around 6 or 7) and his father, Hiroki, encouraged him to live in whatever fashion made him feel most comfortable. Because Hikaru grew up in the woods with only his father and little brothers, he was never really socialized as a woman or a man- he was just Hikaru, the oldest Eritora child. He likely hit puberty while living on his own in the Sumitomo Forest, but didn’t experience dysphoria until he was found by the Kochos when he was 16. When he was brought into the Corps, Hikaru experienced gender norms full-force for the first time. It wasn’t really that they didn’t support Hikaru being trans, it was more that he didn’t fit. He was Different, and that made him Othered. For the first time, Hikaru was struggling with where he belonged, and that was when he started to really learn the societal importance placed on gender roles. Additionally, Hikaru is neurodivergent, so these norms never made much sense to him logically in the first place. So while he never really had to come out, he did have to fit in, which was difficult for him to navigate. He talked to Shinobu, who in all her medical expertise, gave him the best advice she could. She was the one who helped him hormonally transition, (if she can inject herself with 700x the lethal dose of wisteria without fucking poisoning herself, she can probably make Hikaru’s testosterone. She’s iconic like that I think.) and ultimately it was Shinobu who helped Hikaru figure out where he stood in terms of gender identity. Hikaru is a self-made man in every sense of the phrase, but he couldn’t have done it without the help of those around him.

As for top surgery, I don’t really have a canon-friendly justification for that. Shinobu’s not a plastic surgeon, she’s probably done minor surgeries before, but never anything to the level of gender-affirming surgery. I feel like she’d DIY that shit tbh. She could pull it off. I’d let her do my top surgery. Shinobu says trans rights 🗣️

Thank you for this ask!!! I rarely get to do longform Hikaru analysis :D

#hikaru eritora #leon rambles #demon slayer oc #demon slayer #kny #kny oc #leon askbox

[kingarthurtournament]

Round 3 Side A Poll 1

Sonic

"Sonic gets sucked into Camelot and wields the talking sword Caliburn. He kills King Arthur, who is revealed to be a fake created by Merlin. In the final battle, Caliburn transforms into Excalibur; afterward, Caliburn explains that the fact that Sonic is his wielder means Sonic is the true King Arthur."

"As a known supporter of trans rights, openly ACAB and constantly making people aware of bisexuality, I think Sonic would be exactly the king that England needs right now"

Excalibur

"he looks like a weird sweet potato and nobody in the cast can stand him. every time he appears he has to sing his (bad and corny) song. he's insufferable"

"Fool. My legend dates back to the twelfth century you see. It began on a midsummers day with the sun blazing overhead. No, wait. It was a blustery Autumn day. I was the unsavory fellow back when it all started. Which was in the winter as I recall. I remember the tough crowd, all the hot babes fought over me that summer. Yes. Yes that’s right, it was summer. A scorching midsummer day. I was a dangerous man at the time. And yet, refined somehow. Everyone thought so. They still think so to this day. Although, maybe they didn’t think so as much back then. But they definitely said I was dangerous, I’m sure of it…And I know I’ve always been refined so they must have been thinking it. Yes. Yes indeed. Everyone thought and said and talked about how amazing I was. I’m still amazing of course, but no longer the bad boy I was back then. On that chilled, frozen winter day. I will continue the re-telling of my legend; But first, there will be a five minute break. Stand still and await my return."

#king artur tournament #bracket #round 3 #poll #sonic the hedgehog #sonic and the black knight #excalibur soul eater #soul eater

[shurisbraids]

𝓖𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓲 (𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝟏)

gif credit to user perccyjackson (prev. milesgmorales)

↝rating: g

↝pairings: vinylfang, punkflower (if you squint)

↝genre: angst, family, hurt/comfort

↝wc: 8.1k

↝song insp: "a body, a coffin" - amaarae

↝content: non-explicit, au (canon-adjacent), multiple povs, longfic, rare ship, minor spanish, head injuries, alt versions of characters, alt!miguel o'hara is trans and has anxiety issues, medicine use, minor suggestive content (strictly b/t adult characters), nursing, mention of violence, mention of child death, miles finally gets a fucking break

↝a/n: took me f o r e v e r to churn this fic out, but it's finally here!! my baby miles went thru so much in atsv and that ish wasn't fair. so, here's my personal remedy for that. loosely based on an au made by me and @arachnicas months ago. this is part 1 of a series i'm making (mainly centered around vinylfang). hopefully, the next part doesn't take me as long to finish.

↝summary:

“Who are you?” Miguel—this new Miguel—asked, his tired eyes studying Miles with an ounce of curiosity, caution. The boy sat up straighter, feeling his throat tighten. He couldn’t ignore the crack that hung at the edge of the older man’s voice as he asked his next question, “Why do you look like my nephew?” (Or: What if, during Miles’s escape from Spider HQ, the Go-Home Machine malfunctioned, sending him to another dimension with its own variant of Miguel O'Hara, and Miles, upon meeting him, had to figure out whether he could be trusted or not?)

Something was wrong.

A controlled dimensional jump shouldn’t have been this bumpy—but it was.

And Miles was terrified.

An angry, roiling expanse of space crackled and heaved all around him, spitting out shimmering clouds of stardust and supernovas, as he shot through the wormhole at unprecedented speeds. Everything swept past him in a hellish swirl of sound and color, energy and matter. Waves of particles crashed against his sides, leaving panic to scream across his nerves and flood his brain. He found it difficult to breathe, air fleeing from his flattening lungs.

His first thought, of course, was that he was going to die—that the barrier would shatter, and he would tumble into the gaping maw of the abyss beneath him, drown in that primordial sea of heat and ink and light, and disintegrate into the ether. Forever lost, while the Spider Society continued their fruitless search for him, while the Spot wiped his home dimension off the multiversal map in a blaze of death and rage—

(No, no—he couldn’t think like that, he had to save his dad, stop the Spot, prove Miguel wrong, prove them all wrong, he would be fine, he was heading home—)

Hopefully in one piece. At this rate, though, it would probably be in multiple pieces.

His second thought was why was this happening, why now? The Go-Home Machine had apparently malfunctioned—whether it was due to Miguel’s assault or a natural glitch Miles didn’t know—and decided to transport him through rougher terrain of the time-space continuum. Could it have messed up his destination too? In that moment—fighting down nausea and fear and ignoring the painful throb in his shoulder—Miles hoped not. He really, really hoped not.

Soon, he could see it: the portal at the end of the tunnel, glimmering an inviting pearl-white. Coming closer, closer. Promising freedom, salvation. Another jolt of the vector made his stomach lurch, its quivering hexagonal frame pulsing orange, then gray, then orange, then gray again. Taking a deep breath, Miles prepared himself, swallowing the scream in his throat. At this speed, in this position, he was definitely going to crash into whatever lay beyond that shifting eye.

(Not too hard, please, please.)

Arms up and crossed together, eyes screwed tight, he passed through. Just as the vector crumbled and the portal flickered out of sight. Ankle flew over head. Sky became land, and land became sky. His body slammed against the ground—head meeting concrete, the impact drawing all air from his lungs.

A bullet of pain shot through his skull, drawing a curtain of darkness across his vision as he went unconscious. His face fell to the side, limp. Cushioned—oddly enough—by a bed of withered flowers. The last thing he saw was a blur of a mural, sporting a face that was far too familiar.

Earth-88.

Another Nueva York: a sprawling corporate metropolis—the crown jewel of its nation—hiding more than a few secrets in its forsaken underbelly. Embraced by chrome-kissed skies and winking neon lights. Guarded by its own friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, Miguel O’Hara—always the same, but different—who was more concerned with putting up new room décor in his best friend’s apartment than committing to any superhero theatrics. He always reserved that for later.

“Are you sure you want this picture over the shelf?” Miguel asked, throwing a glance at Jess as he flipped the art frame in his hands.

She gave him a humorous look. “Yeah, I’m positive.”

They were working in her guest room, increasingly satisfied with its subtle metamorphosis. It was mid-afternoon, sunlight soaking through the curtains and casting the room in a mauve glow. The room already sported a nice layout—all gold and blue with regal hues—but Jess had recently grown tired of a few empty spaces, especially those on the walls. She bought a collection of new household items—pictures, baskets, candles, even special lights—she felt would add to its warm atmosphere.

“I think it’d look better with the collection on the opposite end,” Miguel muttered as he lifted the circular painting upward. “Same gold hues and all.”

“Yeah, but it complements the color of the shelf, too.”

As he hinged the portrait on the wall, he retorted, “Maybe if you squint. Or look at it sideways.”

Jess couldn’t help but laugh. “Hey, don’t challenge my color-coding skills: I’d easily do you in.”

Soon after, she had him dressing the corners of the rooms in lights as she moved tiny statues around, adjusted chairs into new positions.

“You and Aaron still coming to the baby shower on Saturday?”

“Of course, we are, cuata. We wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Miguel quirked his brow as he added, “Though Aaron may reconsider, he told me, if any of the games involve him having to wear a diaper.”

That earned a chuckle from Jess. “Maybe. I’m sure that would be a turn-on for you, huh?”

Miguel wrinkled his nose, but he couldn’t suppress the smile that crept onto his face. “You wish.” (In all honesty, his husband could be wearing just a leaf over his crotch and Miguel would still goggle at him.) He stepped down the short ladder. “Are you sure you don’t want tell me the gender beforehand?”

He knew she was keeping it a surprise—hence, the gender-neutral party theme, but maybe she would make an exception for him.

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think just because you’re my best friend you get a free pass.”

“Promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Mhm. Not trusting you on that, O’Hara.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Jess.”

“I’ll let it break. Not like you’re using it or anything.” She turned towards the door. “Be right back. I got us drinks from Katy’s.”

Miguel perked up. “Is it boba?”

“Yup,” she said with a smirk. “I wouldn’t disappoint you.”

Katy’s was everyone’s favorite spot near St. Theresa’s, a cozy little café with specialized drinks and desserts to die for. Jess and Miguel loved visiting there right after work. His obsession with boba tea could never be understated—and since she knew he was coming over today she ordered two beforehand. Almond milk tea for her and coconut butterfly tea for him.

“Okay,” Jess breathed, slotting the appropriate tea into Miguel’s hands. “Breaktime.”

They tumble into small talk, workplace gossip, new developments on their respective side of town. Updates over their favorite TV shows, family marriages and divorces, oh, did you hear Dr. Phillips was caught making out with Rachel from ER in the closet? Words punctuated with light gasps and disbelieving chuckles.

Eventually, Jess paused a moment, brows pinched with confusion, as she placed a hand to her belly, feeling for something.

“Everything okay?” Miguel asked, eyes growing wider. “Did the baby just—?”

“They sure did!” she crowed, eyes bright as lanterns. “Here, you wanna feel?”

He nodded, allowing Jess to guide his hand to her stomach. His features twisted into a wonderous expression as he felt movement, the ghostly imprint of a foot fluttering beneath her skin. Even when he had done this multiple times with different patients, the beginning stage of life never ceased to amaze him, make his heart hurt.

Of course, he was genuinely happy for Jess and couldn’t wait to see her child. Holding them, spending time with them. (‘A boy,’ Miguel would think. ‘It’s gonna be a boy.’) Maybe they would have her dimples and wide, gap-toothed smile. Maybe one day they would even call him “Tio.”

Just like Miles had.

Maybe they would look like Miles.

At once, he felt his eyes dull, a black oily feeling seating itself at the base of his ribcage. Something close to grief; something close to envy. Jess—unfortunately—took notice. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, sympathy laced across her brow.

“Hey. Are you okay?” The words trickled out in a murmur, a gentle stream, drawing him out of this fleeting spell.

A part of him already knew. A part of him didn’t want to answer. But he does anyway—because he’s not shocking rude—his form bracing itself as if facing an incoming storm.

“Yeah?” His voice came breathless, weak. He was suddenly overcome with the urge to kick himself. Why did it come out like a question—like he was asking for permission? He tore his hand away from her stomach, deciding he had left it there for too long.

He turned his gaze elsewhere, as if embarrassed. “Sorry, I just—”

“Is it… about Miles?”

A blanket of ice coated his veins. His heart clenched. He couldn’t hide it: his expression said it all. Her pregnancy never reminded him until now. Reminded him of Miles. His nephew, who died months ago. Maybe it was because the baby’s arrival was so soon. Jess would have her child while his would still be six feet under. It wasn’t that he was envious. No, not really. It was just right now, that bump only served as another reminder of what he lacked.

Miguel looked at her then, his expression sullen and vague.

“No,” he whispered. A lie, of course—and she could tell.

The woman shook her head, curly hair bouncing, and placed a hand on his wrist reassuringly. Her eyes swam with sympathy. She kept her voice gentle as she said, “I know it’s been tough. If you’re still not over it, I get it. Recovery is different for everybody. Like I told you before, if you need any more support—”

Miguel’s eyes darkened. “I don’t.” Maybe his tone was a bit too cold, but it slipped before he could catch it. Talking about it right now wouldn’t help him. Talking about it was rarely something he wanted to do anymore. It wouldn’t lift the boy from the dead—and it wouldn’t make his absence hurt less.

Jess dropped the topic without another word. “Fine, sorry.”

His eyes softened as he rubbed the back of his neck. “No, it’s nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m the one who should be saying sorry.”

Maybe it was the turn of conversation that suddenly made the environment colder, the colors duller, and his fingers looser. Maybe it was the thing that suddenly made him want to leave. By now they were pretty much done with their little activity.

“If we’re finished here, I might as well get going, cuata.” He rose from his seat. “Still have some errands to run.”

“That’s fine.” He tried to ignore the note of sadness that rode her tone. “See you around, Migs. Thanks for helping. Tell Aaron I said hi.”

“Will do.”

So—Miguel returned home. He turned the lights on in the kitchen and swept his gaze around the interior. Slowly, mechanically, out of routine. Same dishes that needed to be put up; same board on the wall choked with half-written sticky notes, words of affirmation from him to Aaron or from Aaron to him.

Same life to live, same responsibilities to tend to. And yet none of it truly felt the same. The world spun on—even with Miles gone—and to Miguel that felt like a crime. How could the world continue with that soft, sweet boy gone, with his future left unfulfilled? It had been five months since he died, since Miguel felt another precious string of his life snap, since he was reminded again of his inherent helplessness in life’s orchestrations.

Since the Sinister Six attacked near Miles’s school and left it—and the rest of the block—a near-smoking crater in their onslaught. Miles should’ve been here, in the living room, working on his homework, notebooks and pencils scattered across the floor, music leaking from his holographic audio player.

LYLA flickered to life in front of Miguel, sporting casual lounge clothes. “Hey, sunshine,” she purred. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Want me to go over the rest of your schedule for today?”

“You know it.”

Typical errands: do laundry, go on a daily walk, water your plants. Padding into the living room, he turned on the television to get the latest news. A series of bank robberies in the 42nd District, all presumably by the same person; a kidnapping at the train station; a car accident on Highway I-45. No mention of any member of the Sinister Six—not yet, at least.

They normally caused trouble Downtown, their territory, but they certainly weren’t above making their mark on the upper crust of Nueva York. News organizations from Uptown rarely ever mentioned activity in Downtown. Not that it mattered: he and Aaron had connections down below who kept them updated. If any of them knew the current whereabouts of the gang members—especially the Green Goblin—they would tell him.

She was the one he was on the hunt for.

She was the reason Miles was gone.

Drawing his life from him with the calculated toss of a bomb. Miguel had been too late to catch it—had been too preoccupied with handling Doc Ock to notice in time. A bristling flash of white was all that was left to see, and Miguel hadn’t been able to capture the scream that tore free from his mouth right after.

There was nothing much left to remember afterward; just the cacophonous sounds of police and ambulance sirens, flashing lights painting smoldering walls blue-white-red. Why hadn’t he seen the signs ahead of time? Why did he thought it was a good idea to prioritize Doc Ock? Why hadn’t he moved fast enough? Why hadn’t he?

He swallowed the memory down, took a deep breath, tried to count to ten. Something close to rage punched a boiling fist through his ribcage. He swore one day he’d finally catch those monsters and make them pay.

But none of that now.

Just focus on what’s in front of you; don’t think beyond that.

And so he did. He vacuumed and he gathered laundry; he read another chapter of a book; he finished the rest of his boba tea; he absentmindedly listened to the new playlist Aaron had made for him as he wiped down windows. Eventually, as he chipped away at his chores, that urge unmistakably rose in him—the urge to see Miles. Not the boy himself, of course, but the mural made in remembrance of him. He hadn’t originally planned to go today, but he decided it was about time to pay another visit.  

In all honesty, he preferred visiting the mural over the grave. He rarely ever visited the latter even when Aaron would try to coax him to go. At least at the mural he could see Miles as he had been, vibrant and alive, with a dimpled smile that could melt even the coldest heart. Aaron had painted it a week after the funeral. He had done an amazing job capturing the boy’s spirit in the colors, the lines.

Now it was time for a walk, wasn’t it? Just a small circuit that stretched a couple of blocks. Away from the streets most populated by pedestrians. After shrugging on his exercise clothes, he made his way out the door, down the stairs. He breathed in the crisp afternoon air, passing under clouds raked across the blue expanse of sky.

Trotting down the street, catching snapshots of neighbors and strangers amid their own business, as usual. Past endless rows of pristine apartment complexes; past the elevated highways brimming with vehicles; past the community gardens too neatly arranged.

Miles’s mural wasn’t too far ahead, tucked away near his favorite place to hang out with friends. Maybe someone had left more flowers, copies of his favorite toys, manga volumes. He could stand there like he always did, let a gentler pool of memories pour across his mind’s eye and drown him for those few sweet moments. Tell Miles he was sorry, so sorry. Pretend that he hadn’t failed him in the worst way.

Miguel wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. He briefly watched a plane streak across the sky before he took a sharp left between two buildings—a shortcut—sucking in a deep, silent breath. It didn’t take long for the mural to come into sight, visible even from the narrow passageway. Unmolested—or so he thought, as he reached his destination with silent, measured steps.

Nothing would’ve prepared him for what greeted him there.

He froze in place as his gaze fell upon a figure collapsed amidst the entourage of memorabilia. Unmoving. Unconscious. Alarm shattering his stupor like a hammer, Miguel moved closer to get a better look, wondering what had happened. Had the person been attacked? Had they passed out? Even from where he stood, there was something oddly familiar about the stranger’s profile. Once he stooped down, obtained a clearer portrait of their—his—identity, Miguel felt the world around him tilt sideways.

It was Miles.

Arms spread out like wings; body crumpled like an angel fallen. Skin bruised and battered; hair coated in debris. Clad in a tattered costume, a brilliant red spider swimming in a sea of black upon his chest. Viciously familiar. Panic made the man’s heart crash against his ribcage.

No. No. This wasn’t possible.

Miguel wanted to believe this was a dream, a hallucination. Shakily he pressed an ear against the boy’s chest. A heartbeat. He was alive. But not in the best condition. He must’ve fallen—from where?—and landed on the concrete. A small pool of blood formed a morbid halo around the boy’s head, painting the flowers beneath it red. He paused, glanced around as if he expected an ambush before turning his disbelieving gaze back on Miles.

It’s a trick, a voice hissed in the back of his mind. It could’ve been, the man noted. But that didn’t stop him from gingerly picking the boy up, from observing his injuries, from leaving the place with him in his arms bridal style.

Miguel didn’t know what was going on, but he certainly welcomed it. A mixture of confusion, desperation, and fear pulsing in his bones. And something else: excitement.

“LYLA, run diagnostics.”

The AI flared to life in front of him, adjusting her triangle-shaped glasses. “Hm? What, you fell and scraped your knee—?”

She paused when she saw the injured boy lying on the kitchen table, which was cleared of space to make room for him. Miguel had already cleaned up the back of his head.

“Miguel… Is that who I think it is?” She teleported closer for a better look, eyes wide with shock.

Miguel was standing at the corner of the table, arms folded, expression giving nothing away. “Yeah,” he breathed, “or maybe not.” He wasn’t sure yet.

It didn’t make sense. There was no way this Miles was his Miles. He looked too different, wore different clothing, didn’t even have his hair in his eyes. Out of all the technological advancements Nueva York boasted, resurrection wasn’t one of them. Cloning was one of the only conclusions he could reach.

But who would clone Miles, and for what reason?

Did someone figure out Miguel’s secret identity and was leading him on? That couldn’t be possible either, was it? In any case, regardless of how this panned out, he wasn’t going to treat the boy cruelly—only cautiously. He was injured, and, of course, Miguel felt his nursing instincts kick in. He could’ve seen a supervillain bleeding out on the street and still rush to save them, whether it was by his hand or another’s.

Rubbing the side of his face, he groaned, “Again, diagnostics.”

LYLA perked up, “O-Oh, right!” She fumbled with her glasses a bit before scanning Miles, a wave of blue light washing over him. “Lacerations on face; mild contusion with bruising and bleeding at the base of the skull. Swollen left cheek. Ooh, nasty—ice can help with that! Acetaminophen should help with pain relief…”

Miguel pulled up a holographic screen, making notes of LYLA’s report with a speed honed only by focus and achieved through years of experience. None of the injuries were anything he couldn’t handle. He and Aaron dealt with worse in their line of superhero duty.

And now came his favorite part: tending to his patient’s wounds. He applied antiseptic and ointment; he wrapped bandages around the boy’s head with incredible care, all the while taking note of his vitals (as if he would flatline at any moment); he pressed an ice pack against his cheek, got the medication for later ready.

Eventually, the man paused, glancing between the living room couch and Miles’s room down the hallway. Where to put him? It probably was a better idea to place him in the living room, but his heart demanded he put the boy in his counterpart’s room. That was his rightful place, in a way.

Maybe he would be more comfortable there, even if the room wasn’t truly his. After peeling off his suit, wiping him clean, dressing him in his Miles’s pajamas, Miguel put him in bed and added as many blankets and pillows he could for maximum comfort. He stepped back, breathed in and out, felt warmth burn at the back of his eyelids.

Stay calm, stay calm. And don’t you dare cry.

Tea. Maybe this one liked tea.

Eventually, Miguel found himself in the kitchen, watching water come to a simmer in a small saucepan in front of him. He had all the necessary ingredients he needed to make a cup of tea. Next to add were the milk and spices, which he poured in slowly, one at a time. He would serve it to Miles as part of his lunch, alongside a plate of sincronizada, a little snack his Miles always enjoyed.

There were leftovers from this morning, so he decided to heat those up and include them. They were light on the stomach, which was always good for someone who sustained head injuries. And they were easy enough to make. He just wanted to prepare something quick just in case Miles woke up earlier than expected.

As he toiled away in the kitchen, he watched the boy sleep via holographic screen. Every few seconds his gaze would slide over to the boy’s sleeping form. Occasionally, Miles would shift, twitch, turn in bed, but that was all. No signal, no portent coated in insidious intent. He was struggling to keep his anxiety at bay, but the situation almost called for it to spill over, tangle into his thoughts, shake at his limbs. As if on cue, LYLA popped up again, forehead lightly creased with worry.

“Hey, your heartbeat is spiking,” she said. “Remember: relax yourself. Breathe in, breathe out—like we practiced.” She gestured in front of her chest.

“Yeah, I know,” Miguel whispered, briefly shielding his eyes with a hand. “Can you just… play my ambiance playlist for me?”

“On it! First song’s my jam.”

Soon music drifted gently through the air, a melodious balm, dressing the room in blue, soporific hues. He breathed in, breathed out, finished the tea, strained it into a cup. Slowly but surely, he felt that cloud of anxiety dissipate, coil and sink back under his nerves. Not gone, but still easier to manage, to somewhat ignore.

It couldn’t have been just a coincidence that he found Miles the way he had. Speculation grasped his mind with electric fingers. His little guest could’ve been anything: an escaped experiment; a biological Trojan horse; a corporate raider; a copycat. Regardless, his presence soothed the ever-present throb of guilt in the man’s stomach, made him feel like nothing had changed over the last five months.

If only for a little bit. No, this wasn’t his Miles, but for this sweet morsel of a moment, he could pretend it was. And that made his mood lighten so much more. Eventually, a kernel of thought bloomed at a corner of his mind—one he didn’t want to entirely welcome: what if this Miles was from an alternate dimension?

Multiverse theory: a school of thought Aaron loved to entertain with him over the years. That there was a kaleidoscope of realities scattered across space and time like seeds. Miguel never agreed with it and spent a handful of nights arguing with Aaron over it.

But now, what if it was true? What would it mean? Miguel couldn’t bring himself to think about it too extensively. In the end, it was only one hypothesis. He would get his answer once the boy woke up.

LYLA stayed right next to him, floating cross-legged in mid-air. “So,” she sighed, “what are we gonna do with him?”

“What we always do in situations like this,” Miguel drawled. “Interrogation.”

“But this time with room service,” she said cheekily.

He smirked. “With room service, yes.”

A crackling red prism swallowing him whole. His heart practically bursting from his chest as he raced through Downtown. Gwen’s face, whipped by wind, laced with worry and guilt. Miguel’s claws battering at the shell the Go-Home Machine wove around him, countenance a portrait of mania—  

Miles woke up with a jolt, wincing as he felt the back of his skull scream. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton and his vision was blurry. A ghost of nausea coiled around his stomach. His mind was sluggish as it swam through the murky waters of fatigue. It grasped at lucidity with slippery hands, feeling for a sense of where he was.

It felt… oddly comfortable, wherever he was. Softness embraced him in every direction. Soon he realized he was in bed, wrapped snug in the fluffiest blanket imaginable. It smelled like sunflowers. He blinked once, twice, groaning softly, looking about the room when his vision cleared. There was something about his surroundings that felt familiar.

Am I home? he thought. Did I make it?

Once he felt strong enough, he sat up slowly, rubbing his face. Then he froze, noticing the sunlight piercing through the curtains. It was purple. And the sun in his universe wasn’t purple. Dread plucked at his nerves like strings, sending a chord of alarm through his head.  

Oh, no.

He wasn’t home. The machine had sent him elsewhere.

And now he could tell something was off about his room. None of the trophies, books, or photos rang familiar to him. Not exactly. He finally looked down at himself, noticing he wasn’t wearing his costume either. Where was he? Who did this? He wanted to get out of bed, leave the room, check the window—anything—but it felt like his legs were made of lead. Heavy and dead.

Suddenly, the door opened.

Miles felt his heart leap into his throat as he glimpsed his visitor. Too familiar, too familiar. It was Miguel—again. Dressed in a pleasant expression, holding a tray of food in his hands.

“You’re awake,” he said warmly as he stepped inside.

Panic sent a lightning bolt down Miles’s limbs. His back hit the headboard with a heavy thunk! as he threw himself backwards, drawing his knees to his chest. Just like in that wormhole, he found it immediately difficult to breathe. He was hyperventilating—eyes wide and glistening with fear—which caused Miguel to abruptly stop. Worry streaked across his face.

(No, no, no—it was too late, too damn late, they caught him, who knows how long it’s been, his dad could be dead, and he failed, he failed—)

Miguel put the tray on the desk and drew his hands up in a calming position. “Hey,” he whispered, “it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you—”

“Please don’t let my dad die,” the boy whispered, a helpless, broken plea.

He hated how weak he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. He was injured, with nowhere else to run, no one else to turn to, and he was completely at this man’s mercy. Lord knew where the Society had taken him, what this dimension even was.

It was Miguel’s reaction, however, that caused a needle of confusion to pierce through his tapestry of panic. He looked stung, as if what Miles told him had brought up a bad memory, brought up pain. His mouth opened, then closed again—as if he didn’t know what to say.

His face grew pinched as he looked to the side, then back at Miles again. “Why would I do that?” he asked, his voice lower, more confused, more… vulnerable.

Panic loosened its grip on the boy’s senses, and that’s when he realized something: this Miguel was different. Different clothes, different physique, different hairstyle—different everything. Freckles spattered across his features like specks of paint. Hair reddish-brown with slivers of gray. Faint ashen rings hanging beneath his eyes. There was a certain tenderness in his stare, and it stirred a warm emotion in Miles that he didn’t want to examine.

This wasn’t “his” Miguel O’Hara; this was a variant.

One he’d never met before. Come to think of it, Miles didn’t remember seeing any other Miguels at HQ. Though it was hard to tell considering most of the Spider-People there kept their masks on. He could mull over that mystery later. Right now, he had to figure out whether he could trust this one or not. Whether he was with the Society—and simply playing dumb—or a person disconnected from them. If he was confused, asking why, maybe he knew nothing at all. But still—but still—

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You’re not one of them, are you?”

“Who?”

“…Nothing.”

“What are you talking about?” Miguel prompted, brows joined together in confusion.

Miles shook his head, rubbing his eyes with a trembling forearm. “No, j-just forget it—I mean—it’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.” His voice stayed gentle, quietly imploring. Cautiously, slowly, he took a few steps closer—only to stop in his tracks and twist his features.

Miles felt his Spidey Sense flare to life, not out of danger but familiarity, reaching forward and probing the boundary of another. The one belonging to the man right in front of him. Like you, it whispered, silvery and soft. Like you. With that revelation came a brief rush of emotions: confusion, relief, wonder. The Miguel he met before never had a Spidey Sense, but this one did. Meaning that he was a Spider-Man, too—unequivocally. And he looked overwhelmed with disbelief.

“You’re like me?” Miguel whispered. “How?”

Miles responded, words coming slow, almost hesitant, “I was bitten by a radioactive spider.”

“From where?”

“Not anywhere here.” Relaxing his legs, Miles glanced down at his hands, expression softening. “I—I’m not… from around here…” He wanted to kick himself for being so vague, but he wasn’t sure if he should reveal his origins just yet. Would this Miguel even believe him?

He looked up again to see Miguel giving him a thoughtful look, brow set in a pensive bend. The boy’s last response thankfully didn’t elicit any negative reaction from him. He could tell Miles wasn’t exactly comfortable revealing his origins yet. All he gave was a subtle nod of understanding, seeming to put the dots together immediately.

“That’s why you had that costume, isn’t it?”

“Right,” Miles said. “I’m Spider-Man. Well, a Spider-Man, anyway.”

“And here I thought I was the only one,” Miguel murmured, snorting out a light chuckle. “Looks like I got competition now, huh?” An attempt at lightening the mood, soothe the boy’s uncertainty.

Miles made a vague attempt to mirror the man’s smile. “Wouldn’t put it like that. I’m just someone passing by.”

“Well, ‘someone-passing-by,’ how are you feeling?” he asked. “You weren’t in the best shape when I found you. I hope you were able to have a good rest.”

Miles swallowed. “Y-Yeah, I did,” he rasped. “I’m okay. Mostly.”

“Is your head still hurting?”

“Yeah, but it’s not as bad as before.”

“Anything else?” Miguel asked, adopting the familiar tone of an examiner. “Dizziness? Nausea?”

“A little bit of both, but it’s no big deal.”

“Mm, noted.” He gestured to the tray on the desk. “I brought you food. Are you ready to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” Miles muttered, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. The loud gurgle that erupted from his stomach begged to differ. The boy startled slightly, embarrassment crossing his face. “Uh—”

An amused smirk pinched the corner of Miguel’s mouth. He probably knew what Miles was thinking. “The food isn’t poisoned, I promise.”  

To demonstrate, he removed the tray, took a sincronizada off the plate and took a bite out of it. “See?” he said around his chewing. “Mmm, delicious.” He lifted it in the boy’s direction. “Now you wanna try it?”

With a sigh, Miles leaned back into the pillows in defeat. “Okay,” he grumbled. The food did smell pretty tasty, at least. His Spidey Sense hadn’t gone off yet either, he noted. A good sign.

Something close to triumph winked in the older man’s eyes. It didn’t take him long to settle the food tray in Miles’s lap, watching the teenager briefly study the food before picking up a piece. It looked like stuffed quesadillas. Cheese and onion and bits of ham peeking from beneath the crust. He had never eaten this before, but it looked familiar enough. And he could never resist the smell of his favorite tea.

“Not sure if you like any of this,” Miguel said under his breath, almost timidly. “If not, I can make you something else.”

“No,” Miles replied. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

The food was pretty good—and the chai tea was perfectly brewed. Miles was starving, but he took slow, cautious bites, remembering what his mother told him about eating too fast. (“You’ll get sick that way, mijo,” she chided him one day.) As he took sips from his drink, he tried to ignore the way Miguel was looking at him. His gentle expression never wavered. Eventually, when Miles finished his food, he drew a chair closer to the bed, sat down in it.

The air shifted. Miles compelled himself to stop eating, gaze sliding back toward the man.

“Alright,” Miguel sighed, “are you ready to answer more of my questions?” His voice, still soft, but the semblance of an edge lurking beneath the words.

Suspicion slinked through Miles’s chest. He gave a final gulp, bracing himself. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Who are you?” Miguel—this new Miguel—asked, his tired eyes studying the boy with an ounce of curiosity, caution. Miles sat up straighter, feeling his throat tighten. He couldn’t ignore the crack that hung at the edge of the older man’s voice as he asked his next question, “Why do you look like my nephew?”

Miles stilled, face going slack, ice punching a sharp fist through his ribcage. Your nephew? Realization arrived on its own ragged chariot. So, it wasn’t a coincidence after all. This was his room—or, rather, the room of his own variant. Who, apparently, was related to Miguel O’Hara in this universe?

After everything the young hero had been through over the past twenty-four hours, a part of him didn’t want to believe it. The more logical side of him, however, chalked it up to statistical inevitability. In a broiling sea of nigh infinite universes, why wouldn’t that happen eventually?

Taking a deep breath, Miles replied, “I’m Miles. Miles Morales.”

Miguel’s eyes closed, and a painful, resigned expression tore across his features. “That was his name too,” he whispered.

“I look like him because I am him,” Miles said. “From another dimension.”

His answer appeared to send a firecracker off in Miguel, who sat up straighter, astonished. “Impossible,” he said. But even then, Miles could see the unerring shield of his disbelief dent, bend inwards, as reality battered against it. “I-It’s not feasible, it can’t—”

Miles perked up. “It is possible. You gotta believe me! I’m from Earth-1610… B, I think?” He squinted in thought for a moment. “Yeah, B. And I’m here because—”

A scream tore from his throat as his body abruptly glitched, sending the food tray tumbling to the floor and Miguel reeling backwards, rendered speechless, eyes wide with shock.

Oh. That’s right. His day pass. He didn’t have it on.

When the glitching subsided, Miles tensed, panted, waiting for the crackles of pain to subside. He saw Miguel hover over him, the very portrait of an anxious parent, arms stretched forward. “Is there anything I can do?”

Miles instinctively pulled away. “My day pass,” the boy wheezed, eyes scrunched shut. “The wristband.” He prayed he hadn’t lost it during his escape here. Or that it was thrown away.

Thankfully, Miguel seemed to know what he was talking about and rushed out the room, coming back with the wristband clutched in his fingers. “You mean this thing?” he said. “Didn’t think it was that important.” He had taken it off Miles when he was dressing him earlier. He slid it back onto Miles’s wrist. The boy mumbled a thank you.

“What was that?” Miguel asked, exasperated.

“That’s what happens when you’re in another dimension,” Miles said. “You glitch, a-and your body starts breaking down because you don’t belong there.” He raised his wrist. “Not unless you have this—something that can anchor you.”

Fascination dominated the older male’s expression then. He leaned forward, taking a closer look at the wristband. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. How does it work?”

“Beats me,” Miles said with a shrug. “All I know is that it works.” A brief, nervous laugh rattled past his teeth. The other you made it.

“And you’re sure you’re not some weapon? That this isn’t some trick?”

“Yes, I’m sure, man,” Miles sighed. “I’m here for a totally different reason. But… I know it might take you a while to really trust me.”

“I’m sure the feeling is mutual,” Miguel replied. “Which… is understandable.” He shook his head, as if breaking out of a trance. “Sorry, I haven’t given you my name yet. I’m—”

Miles cut him off, “I know who you are.” He looked more tired than normal then. “You’re Miguel O’Hara.”

Miguel looked startled. “How did you know?”

“Because I’ve met you before. Another you.” He thumbed his wristband. “He’s the one who gave me this. H-He’s in charge of this thing called ‘the Spider Society.’ It’s this group of Spider-People from different dimensions—”

“Wait, did you say ‘Spider-People’?” Miguel interjected. He dipped his chin, brows raised. “You mean, there’s more like us?”

“Yeah. Thousands of ‘em!” Miles gestured above his head widely. “There was an… accident that happened back in my home dimension. These bad guys used a machine, a collider, to access different dimensions and my Spider-Man tried to stop them, but the collider ended up tearing holes in the multiverse. And a lot of people ended up thrown into the wrong dimension. So, the other Miguel made the Society to clean up the mess and put those people back where they belong.”

There was more, of course—so much more—but he couldn’t just dump all that information onto this Miguel when he was allegedly new to all of this. He was currently looking at Miles like the boy just grew another head. His expression eventually grew distant as he processed everything Miles told him.

“Is that the reason you’re here?” Miguel finally asked. “You fell through a hole by accident?”

“No, I came through a portal—and it wasn’t an accident! Well, jumping into the portal wasn’t an accident. I was trying to escape—you know, get back home—but the machine screwed up and sent me here instead.”

“And this Spider Society… Are they the ones after you?”

Miles nodded, staying silent.

“Why?”

His throat went dry. He buried his feet into the mattress beneath him as he turned his gaze elsewhere: at the window, through the blinds, which bled purple light. He could see the city beyond, draped in a glimmering veil of neon colors—so similar and yet so different. A study in purples and pinks and blues caged within hardened binary lines. Nothing like the angular, crystalline white of his Miguel’s homeworld.

“Miles,” Miguel said, drawing the boy’s attention back to him, “it’s okay. Just tell me.”

“Because I’m trying to save my dad,” Miles admitted in a whisper, feeling his defenses falter again. “That’s why I brought him up earlier. They told me that he has to die o-or else my whole dimension’s gonna collapse.”

“What?” Disbelief colored the older male’s tone, smeared itself across his expression.

Miles continued, “It’s a part of every Spider-Man’s story… or, at least, that’s what they say. I have to lose people close to me in order to become a stronger hero. And if I don’t let it happen, if I don’t carry out this next chapter, my whole world will rip apart at the seams.” He rubbed his hands together, determination pooling into his tone. “But there’s gotta be another way. I told them I could do both. Maybe it’ll be different for me.”

Because he was never meant to be Spider-Man, was never meant to leap with faith, by faith.

Because he was the-spider-that-never-was.

Bastard child meeting crown. Water and oil miraculously merging. A paradoxical synthesis.

But maybe—just maybe—the impossibility carved under his skin would give rise to a new path. A path unexpected. A path once deemed incalculable, inconceivable.

“That's... insane,” Miguel whispered, uneasiness seeping into his voice. "How do they know all this?"

“Because it's happened before,” Miles replied. “The other you, he took the place of a variant in another world and eventually that world collapsed because he wasn’t supposed to do that. I can’t tell you for sure if it’s completely true, though…”

“Well, whether it’s true or not, I hope you’re able to save your dad,” the older Spider whispered. “He’s not alive here.”

Miles froze, mortified. “Really?”

A shard of pain pierced Miguel’s stare. “He died ten years ago. Your mother too. There was an accident.” He moved to pick up the tray and cup off the floor—a feeble attempt to distract himself, it seemed. “And that’s how your uncle and I got custody of you.”

“W-Wait… You mean Uncle Aaron?”

“Yes.” His smile grew warm. “We’re together.”

Okay. That was what made Miles feel like he was about to slide right through the floor. His uncle Aaron and Miguel… in a relationship? He wondered what greater cosmic machination brought that to happen. The multiverse really did whatever it wanted, didn’t it? And finally he noticed it, the wedding ring glinting faintly on Miguel’s finger. Fostering within Miles not just curiosity but excitement.

Uncle Aaron was alive. Not bleeding out in an alleyway or rotting in a grave. He was alive, at least here, and that’s all that mattered to Miles, whose mind was set adrift in a current of all the things left unspoken between them—all the things he had thought endlessly about for the last year and a half. Suddenly he yanked his attention back to reality as he remembered the situation at hand.

“We raised you, loved you. And then… you died.” Miguel’s tone flattened, empty as a graveyard. His words came clipped, laconic.

Miles felt cold fear burrow into his spine. “I—I’m dead?” he choked out. Then he remembered where he landed: behind the back of a building, a mural—one in the likeness of a boy Miles hadn’t fully recognized—hanging above him like a guillotine. But now, in a clearer state of mind, realization quickly took root: that boy had been him.

“Yes.” Miguel looked around slowly—as if the movement was laborious. “This was your room.” He peered down into the teacup almost thoughtfully. “Haven’t really moved anything out yet. Can’t bring myself too—not yet.”

“How long has it been?”

“Five months.”

“If you don’t mind me asking… what happened to him?” Miles asked.

Miguel didn’t respond; he just gave a sad dip of his head. “Something I hope to make amends for.”

Even in another world Miles had to see the same guilt—the same sense of helplessness—in this Miguel, leering, always leering. Another link in the chain; an onerous form of mitosis. But it felt different somehow (because it would always be different). Miles was possibly wading into some dark waters, so he decided to drop his questioning there, even with another one seated on his tongue. He winced as he felt his head throb again and he grasped the back of his head. Miguel took note of it, rising to his feet.

“Hm. I’ll get you some medicine,” he murmured.

Miles cleared his throat, “Thanks for the help and all, b-but I can’t stay here. I gotta go.” He knew it wasn’t the best idea in his current state, but the Society could knock at this dimension’s door any minute. He really didn’t know if Gwen or Peter would be in tow once they did—his stomach soured over the idea—but he didn’t want to stick around and find out.

“Go where?” Miguel paused at the door, turning to look at him. An odd note entered his tone. “You’re injured and light years away from home. If you don’t want to stay here—find a hostel or something—then that’s fine. But now might not be the best time, alright? At least wait until most of your injuries are healed.”

Silence. Miles didn’t move.

Miguel continued, “Try to get some more rest. I’ll bring you medicine for that headache. Then I have some errands to finish. We’ll go from there. If you want, I’ll have LYLA provide surveillance around the area and alert me to any funny stuff. Okay?”

Miles huffed and crossed his arms, but ultimately had a resigned look on his face. “Fine. I’ll stick around.”

A sad smile found its way on Miguel’s face, “Thank you.” Food tray in tow, he then asked, “Is there anything else you need, Miles?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll be on my way.”

After choking down a few painkillers, Miles sunk back into bed, sporting a rather dull expression as he stared at the ceiling. He let the distant whirs and beeps of cars outside wash over him as he tried to still his racing thoughts. His fingers flexed in and out, in and out. He wanted to relax, believe that he was somewhat safe here, but it was hard.

He didn’t have the luxury of that—no, not really—no matter what this Miguel wanted to believe. He was gone for now, but he felt that sense of being watched, almost like he was back at Spider HQ. Anyone could spot the brilliant blue stripes racing along every corner of the bedroom. Blinking, blinking. LYLA was watching him from there, he knew.

Groaning in frustration, he turned over on his side, squeezing one of the pillows. Its smell soothed him a bit, reminded him of home. Once his headache faded, reality really began to sink in.

He hadn’t made it home. He was lost and alone (though perhaps not too alone) on a completely different world and his friends had betrayed him. He was under the care of another Miguel, who was technically his uncle, who was married to his other uncle, Aaron. And only time would tell where his loyalties truly lied. His mother and father were dead. He was dead. His family ripped apart, left frayed as a rope. And it served as another frantic reminder of what could happen if he didn’t get home.

Two days. That’s what they told him. But time was a fluid, funky thing in the multiverse. Who knew how long that would equate from here to home?

And in the meantime, he would have to finish things with Miguel. If he stuck around, he might even get to see Uncle Aaron again. Catch up with him. He wondered how the one here was like. Would he look the same, walk the same, have the same style? Would he still be the Prowler—and did his husband even know?

Miles would find out soon enough. All he could do now was lie here and wait. Distract himself. Wonder what would happen next. Craft a script in his head with all the potential questions, scenarios, and answers that could come later. What he was willing to immediately answer and what he needed more time to process. His nervousness finally cooled, hardened into a determination ringed by iron. A setback; that’s all this was. If he played his cards just right, it’d be a minor one.

You want the full story, Miguel? Fine. Come back, and I’ll give it to you.

#miles morales #atsv miles #spiderverse miles #earth 1610 miles morales #miles morales fanfiction #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #spiderverse miguel #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 fanfiction #spider man: across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse #atsv #prowler99 #itsv #aaronmiguel #{🎧} miles morales. #{🩸} miguel o'hara. #{🕸️} across the spiderverse. #{✍🏾} shu writes. #{📖} gemini. #{📚} library. #{💒} vinylfang.

[batwritings]

I need some karlnapity fluff in my life, maybe with a trans reader that is insecure about their chest or top surgery scars?

*cracks knuckles in has been through two top surgeries now and is very familiar with the topic* Comin' right up! Enjoy!~

Warning! This work is going to contain medical information but may still be slightly uncomfortable for some readers! Please click away if you think this may be upsetting to you! Thanks!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You didn't mean to scrunch your face up when you looked over your scarring. While you could still recall the euphoria that washed over your body when you first had the gauze and tubing removed from your chest, your anxious mind still had racing thoughts. What if people didn't see you as you wanted them to? What if the need to change your appearance in such a drastic way made you less of who you wanted to be?

"You're overthinking it again amor," You heard behind you. You whipped around to see your trio, your boys watching from the doorway. Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity all wore the same worried expression for you.

"What if this doesn't change anything Q?" You mumbled, looking now at your sides where the scarring stretched up from your chest. You lifted your arms up to see them in full, eyes full of trepidation.

"Are you happy with it?" The duck hybrid asks, slowly stepping into the room. He looks over your scars with scrutiny and a gentle hand. He knew fully well how to care for a scar and the damage that could be done if it was left to fester. "Does it help you feel better?"

"Well, yes but--" You try to argue your point again, but you're immediately cut off.

"So don't worry about what other people think," Sapnap tells you, ever blunt and to the point. He leans over Quackity to inspect your chest, checking for any moisture that needed to be added to your nipple grafts.

"Plus, we love you as you are," Karl chimes, hugging you from behind. The sleeves of his hoodie come to wrap around your tummy and his fluffy-haired head rests on yours. "As long as you're happy, we're happy."

You couldn't not smile, blushing slightly at their kind words. Your boys had been nothing but patient with you during this process, tending to your scars and making sure you didn't need to so much as lift a finger as you healed. You look back at your reflection again and you meet Karl's mismatched eyes. He echos your smile, kissing the back of your head sweetly.

"Besides," Sapnap starts again, with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "At least the worst you have is pepperoni nipples. Not like they fell off or something." You couldn't help but laugh at the blaze hybrid.

"At least they don't look burnt like somebodies," you tease back, continuing to laugh at his offended gasp. Quackity shakes his head fondly, a content smile on his face. Karl begins to tease Sapnap too, and you all have a laugh at his fake whines of protest.

You had your boys and the four of your were happy.

#bat writes #anon reqs #karlnapity x reader #karl jacobs x reader #dsmp fluff #quackity x reader #sapnap x reader #sapnap fluff #quackity fluff #dsmp x reader

[agender-wolfie]

This is purely self indulgent.

I’m big, like 300lbs big. So I wear 4x hoodies for comfort. Now, imagine it being cold out and you find that some of your hoodies are missing.

just imagine walking into the common area, getting ready to ask the boys if they’ve seen your hoodies, when you spot all of them wearing one.

Ghost in the pink “Mental health matters” one

Price in the blaze orange one with the white outline of a wolf on it

Soap in the light blue Trans-scendent 🏳️‍⚧️ one

And Gaz in the black and green “I don’t have A gender, I have anxiety” one

And they all just have these sheepish looks on their faces but not a one of them feels guilty.😂

Y/N: “Are those my hoodies?”

Soap: “You mean our hoodies?”

Y/N: -3-

#your hoodies? #I think you mean OUR hoodies #ghost imagine #price imagine #soap imagine #gaz imagine #gender neutral x reader #babygirl ghost #Simon Riley #John price #John mactavish #kyle garrick #simon riley imagine #plus size reader #Simon Riley x plus size!reader #john price x plus size!reader #john mactavish x plus size!reader #kyle garrick x plus size!reader

[caroliimeh]

[Long post]

Being trans is so cool and fun and rewarding and I wouldn’t live my life any other way. There’s something inherently beautiful about crafting your own identity; about rejecting societal norms and prejudices and blazing your own path forward through this fucked up world we live in. I was raised religious; my dad is a pastor. I was always told that God makes no mistakes and that I should be content with the way I was created. But if there is a God, I like to think that they gave us free will for a reason - so that we as humans can share in the act of creation.

I’ve known I was a girl as long as I can remember. Up until a few years ago, I was too terrified to tell anyone. I’m so glad that I did. It was never a decision about whether or not I was a girl. It was a decision I made to accept what I knew about myself and begin to participate in the divine act of creation.

I’m happier now than I have ever been in my life. It’s not easy being trans, especially in the current social and political climate. Trans people are constantly being demonized, stigmatized, and bullied by so many in positions of authority. Every day the news shows a new story about how trans women are either biologically advantaged or confused men; or how the worst thing an AFAB person can do is cut off their boobs and “pretend “ to be a man. Not a day goes by where I don’t feel targeted or threatened; either by awful people on the internet, by people’s nasty looks at me just for existing around them, or from the government trying to make me illegal. That being said, it’s still infinitely better to endure all of that than to try and live as a man.

Being trans is awesome. Every morning I wake up and I feel lucky that I get to live this life. If I could go back and tell five-year-old me anything, I’d tell that frightened little girl that life does get better. That it’s okay to be scared, but it’s better to speak out and make her voice heard. That trying on Mom’s high heels and makeup in the bathroom with the door locked wasn’t a thing that most boys did. That, yes, being a girl is actually an option. It would have saved me so much trouble later on.

Being trans saved my life. It has saved many other lives throughout the span of history and it will continue to do so for as long as we as humans exist. To any trans people reading this: You are beautiful. You are validated. Your existence is not a burden on anyone who truly matters. Your story is not over. It is of the utmost importance that we do not lose hope in the face of prejudice and malice; instead, we must all support each other through times like these.

The poet Andrea Gibson once said, “I suppose I love this life, in spite of my clenched fist.” My hope for anyone who sees this post is that you will love your own life; and that you also will not be afraid, like I once was, to clench your fist in spite of the world. Exist unapologetically. Spread love. Everything will get better, I promise you. You are not alone in this.

#transgender #trans #transisbeautiful #trans joy