#spidergene

THE NIGHT could prove to be a friend, with the sounds of the grimy city in the distance a melody through her headphones. Sirens and shouts paired with an old Avril Lavigne CD playing in her walkman was the perfect distractions from unwanted voices, begging her to reach their loved ones for some selfish message. The constant '"' tell them I'm okay ' or ' tell them I'm still watching over them. ' To put it plainly, it was EXHAUSTING.

UNFORTUNATELY, she wasn't meant to be out here on the rooftop of some random apartment complex, and even as she was occupied with the words she was writing in her journal, she was sure the Bureau had caught on to her and Luciana's absence. The lights of the smoke shop below shutting off for the night completely unaware of her existence, she thought it was the dull tremble through the bricks of the security shutters. Minor clairvoyance pushed her to believe otherwise. She was forced to whip around with a slight shock, AMBER EYES latched onto the silhouette of a man in costume... but he didn't feel like a man. Not completely at least.

She attempted to keep her shoulders at ease, repeating a mantra of control trying to tame the urge of the flames that wanted to ignite at the ends of her fingertips.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- ❝ I have never encountered a man who wears colors as vibrant as yours. ❞ Ashrah keeps her tone friendly but also holds her blade a bit closer. After all, there was no way to know if a stranger would be friend or foe. ❝ Do the colors have meaning to you? ❞

tag urself i’m gwen. miguel also has a type apparently and … it’s demons …

❛ i have ... SO MANY QUESTIONS .... and i don't want any of them answered --------- ❜

❛❛ you need to leave── ! I don't want hurt you. ❜❜

psych sentence starters

IN ALL FAIRNESS, Miguel was in fact the scientist here - and on any other occasion Takeda would take his word on these sorts of things, especially when Master Hasashi spoke highly of him in that regard... but this? Takeda's got his doubts.

THE WORDS WASH OVER HIM / slip down each vertebrae like spilt honey. he lets his mouth quirk into a grin, just enough smugness to be believable. it's easier now, with miguel, to ignore the prickling of his skin whenever compliments are tossed his way. it still lingers, of course; it's hard to rewrite years of horrors scratched into his soul. but here, in the dim of their shared bedroom, the thrum of a city out their window, the heat roiling off his lover's body — peter breathes a decade-long sigh of relief.

he traces his fingers over miguel's thighs, blunt nails catching in coarse hairs. higher, higher, higher he goes, golden gaze glimmering up from waist-height, his knees leaving imprints in the rug. a shiver stirs the heady pool of desire deep in his gut. maybe it's the way those red eyes look down on him, the carnal need pressing into his body — HE FEELS IT, everything miguel wants to give, senses it in the air between them, the hum and vibration of a tensely coiled body. as if a predator eagerly watches his every movement, waiting for a moment to strike. the fine hairs on peter's neck rise. he likes it.

❛ . . . a cappuccino ? ❜ it takes him a moment, but he remembers. the outrageous image of miguel with a foam mustache comes to mind. for a man of his stature, he could sure be cute. OK, BAD PETER. ❛ yeah, man. we can go get some coffee again. there's a whole lot more to try, too. coffee shops on every corner, i swear. ❜ well now he's just rambling. probably has something to do with the unblinking stare the other man is gracing him with.