Bananzie - Bananzie - Tumblr Blog

creature in fiction: *is portrayed as bad and mean*

8 year old me: but what if there was a good and nice one :0

We all agree, right?

AI to write your novel is wrong

A bargain with a demon to write your novel is okay

“you’re a writer, can you explain your process?” yes. first, i panic. then i procrastinate. then, in a fit of productivity at 3 a.m., i create chaos.

Living weapon whump stuff I love

When they're really fucking good at fighting and they don't even flinch at major injuries...

Until they get back and they cry like a kid as caretaker patches them up

Plus this same tough living weapon can handle the effects of fighting, but every time their handler punishes them it feels like a betrayal. Like "I fought for you and this is what you do?"

When they're not just loyal because they're afraid or trained but maybe they just care that much

When they're forced to kill people inside their own organization

Watching them go from a fighting killing machine and then turn, see their owner, and immediately drop to a knee in total submission

Whumpee gradually getting more and more reckless as they hate themselves for killing, hate their life for its misery, and just want to be a casualty

When they get caught. And the enemy... Is the fucking good guys.

“how do you plot / plan your book?” very bold of you to assume i do that.

🦀 Kudos Crab 🦀

If you are scrolling and see Kudos Crab, your fics will be blessed!

You will get good comments and kudos!

You will beat your writers block!

GO AND WRITE!

being alive is a little out of my price range rn

Did you feel that

Second page \o/

Pages 1 2 3 4 5

Everyone deserves a bear hug from the Dead Boy Detectives

"do it scared" ok but I would like to do something some other way occasionally. Like at least once. For a change.

current fan creation landscape is kinda like if you went to a party with a homemade cake and everyone takes a slice and silently thumbs up at you with no attempt to start a conversation except for occasionally some guy sits in the corner with a tape recorder critiquing the cake as though he was a restaurant critic and another guy is handing the cake to an uber driver like "yeah i need you to find a restaurant that makes cake like this so i can have more of it" and the only person that's talked to you in 30 minutes is a very sweet little guy who was like "hey i liked your cake" and then ran away apologizing for bothering you the moment you said thank you.

"You were in my dreams last night" yeah our souls have been clawing through our chests to get to each other since we met but I'm glad you noticed

deeply obsessed with this

in theory, i knew some people have started using ai on ao3.

in practice, i was extremely unprepared for the VISCERAL reaction i just had in seeing the tag for it on a fic

imagine if somebody kidnapped hobie to get to miles…

he’s been beaten black and blue, one of his eyes swollen shut, face cut up from when someone had hit him with rings on and he still isn’t telling them SHIT. there’s sweet blood running down his chin and his lips are red with it but he’s still talking smack, still laughing in their faces— they put something in his system and he’s woozy with it, but he grins as they yell at him to tell them where miles is because there is no way in hell he’s giving anything up.

he sucks the blood off his teeth and hisses as someone sinks a fist into his stomach; they took his web-shooters and he’s bound to a chair, but he’s not really that scared. he’s had worse.

they’ll get miles over his cold, dead body.

and besides, something is itching at the back of his mind, the hairs of his arms standing up at the imperceptible buzz in the air.

he realises just as the roof cracks open with a blinding bolt of lightning and miles lands neatly on top of one of the guys, knocking him unconscious.

the last thing hobie remembers before passing out is thinking a vehement thank fuck.

*

he wakes briefly, cradled against a warm body, making a soft noise before miles shushes him. a kiss is pressed to his forehead, and he drifts off again.

*

the next time he comes to, it’s slow; he’s on a couch, he realises, the fabric rough against his fingers. his cuts sting, he smells antiseptic, and the bridge of his nose is incredibly tender. he moves his tongue around his mouth, counting his teeth. huh. all there.

he shifts up with a groan and miles is on him instantly, a gentle hand on his shoulder pressing him back into the cushions. “don’t move,” miles whispers, sitting next to hobie’s hip. “they broke your ribs, my mama had to patch you up.”

hobie touches his torso and feels bandages. that explains the ache in his chest, at least.

a choked noise catches his attention, and when he looks over miles’s eyes are wet. “oh, baby, no. no.”

“i’m sorry,” he gasps, lashes clumping as hobie pulls him close, hands trembling as he winds them into hobie’s soft shirt.

it smells clean, good; like detergent and newspaper ink and miles, and it holds hobie together more than the bandages ever could.

“shh,” he murmurs, pressing the word into miles’s temple, ignoring the pain flaring to life all over his body in favour of tugging miles even closer. his boy needs it right now. “s’not your fault, love.”

miles just makes a sound of distress, big eyes glossy with salt. “they were looking for me—”

hobie clicks his tongue. “hush, now. i coulda gotten out, you know that.”

“then why?” miles asks, plaintive. his voice is terribly small and terribly fierce. “why didn’t you?”

“what, did ya think i’d sell ya out?” hobie huffs a laugh. “come out of it.” he holds miles to his chest and tips them back, laying against the armrest.

“i’m sorry,” miles repeats, voice thick as he presses his face into hobie’s shoulder.

“i’m not.” and he isn’t; he’d take a thousand hits, let himself get pushed to the brink of too much if it meant the people he loved would be safe.

for miles?

hobie lets his eyes flit across his face, over rich skin and a kind mouth and thick lashes that he smears dry with his thumb.

for miles, he thinks, he’d be able to take much, much more.

fin.

punkflower where hobie loves the morales family, loves how they’re becoming HIS family.

still, the first time jeff calls him “son”, he has such a visceral reaction.

he knows it’s coming from a good place and he knows he should be touched, but he’s only ever been called son in a condescending way. in a “know your place beneath me and stay in it” way. he feels so sick all of a sudden, nausea roiling in his gut, and his knee bangs against the underside of the table as he screeches his chair back and mutters a shaky “’scuse me”.

he hears rio’s concerned call of his name, sees the confusion and dread on jeff’s face right before he turns and leaves. he doesn’t stop until he’s up on the roof, ducking into the bottom of the water tower and collapsing into a corner.

stupid. it’s so stupid, and it pisses him off how tears are burning down his cheeks.

hobie scrubs them away with the back of his wrist even as he hears the door to the roof creak open, hears the familiar gait that he knows belongs to miles. he keeps his face turned away as his boyfriend appears in his line of sight, stepping gingerly like if he moved too fast hobie would break.

the punk sniffs angrily, the spikes on his cuff poking his cheek as he wipes his tears again. a hand brushes his against the ground as miles sits down beside him, close enough to touch but not quite.

he waits. for miles to say something, anything; to ask for an explanation, or offer words of comfort that will ultimately only make him feel worse.

in the end, it’s him that breaks the silence.

“i’m sorry,” he offers, and cringes. his voice is thick like rusted metal, scratchy in his throat. it’s scraping up against old wounds that never really healed, pulling at scabs to draw fresh blood, and it stings. “m’sorry, i just— he’s—” it feels damning to even say these words, but it’s the truth, and hobie’s never been a good liar.

doesn’t mean it’s not eating him alive, though.

“he’s still a cop, miles,” he chokes out, guilt winching around his lungs like a parasite, “and the last time a cop called me son—” hobie’s breath shudders out of his lungs as miles crawls into his space, ducking his head beneath hobie’s arm to press the punk’s face to his chest.

“i know,” miles murmurs, wrapping his fingers around hobie’s nape as hobie scrunches a desperate fist into the back of his shirt. “i know. i understand.”

hobie doesn’t think he really does, but that’s okay. if hobie has any say in it, miles will never have to go through what he did and understand what it’s like.

his voice is meek as he asks, “are they mad?”

“‘course not.” miles clicks his tongue, gently admonishing, like it’s a fact hobie should know by now; his fingers trace gentle circles into hobie’s skin. “just worried. hope you know my mama’s gonna feed you thrice the usual serving of tres leches when we get back.”

that gets a chuckle out of him at least, but the look on jeff’s face still haunts him, burned front and centre into his mind’s eye like an afterimage. “and your dad?” he feels miles go still, doesn’t resist as his boyfriend pulls back to look hobie in the eye. his voice is terribly gentle.

“he understands. it’s okay.”

hobie doesn’t think it’s okay. it doesn’t feel very okay. jeff had disliked him at first and reasonably so; he’s nothing like a person anyone would want their kid to be with.

and yet the captain had let him into their home, accepted him as miles’s person, given him a place at the table. of course rio would have sat him down and shoved food into his hands regardless, but still—

“hobie.”

miles calls his attention back, and he looks up into wide, dark eyes. his heart burns.

“he knows what you’ve been through. he knows how much you’ve grown.” miles huffs a soft laugh, rubbing his thumb against hobie’s hairline. “do you remember that time we went to your concert?”

hobie nods; he doesn’t think he can speak just yet.

“you were so nervous about what he would think, but he was stressing about looking like an old man in front of your friends. he literally said that as your boyfriend’s dad he had to out-hip all the other guys his age.”

something twists in hobie’s chest. “he’s the coolest old man i know.” he pauses, frowning. “maybe after peter b.”

miles laughs again, quietly. “he cares about you.”

hobie doesn’t doubt that. he’d let jeff and rio learn about him piece by piece, and with every sliver of information jeff had softened more; he might be the captain of the PDNY, but he was also a father.

hobie’s never really had a father.

not until he was asked about whether he preferred waffles or pancakes. until he was consulted for advice on what to wear to a pride parade. until jeff only looked at his blue laces with a tentative expression and he was hesitantly slipped a phone number to call if he ever got into trouble in this dimension that he couldn’t get himself out of, a helpline should he ever need it.

so he gets up, takes a deep breath and hauls miles to his feet. his boots clomp down the stairs; he takes care not to fling open the door and when he sees jeff and rio hovering in the living room, he holds out his arms.

rio reaches him first. she’s shorter but fierce, pulling hobie down to hug him tight, and he feels like crying again.

miles slips close to cling to his back, arms sliding around his waist, and hobie watches jeff meet his eyes with something almost anxious.

hobie’s lips twist in a smile. an i’m sorry and an it’s okay wrapped in one.

and maybe it really is okay, because when jeff comes around to squeeze them all together, hobie can’t help his relieved sigh as he thinks, this is what family’s supposed to feel like, certain as the next deep breath he takes and comforting like the broad hand that squeezes his shoulder.

fin.

Hobie: a fiz would be nice, love.

Miles: *coughs* so, Love- it's like British slang for: friend, homie, compadre?

Hobie: Nah, -I mean yeah, *looking dead at Miles* but nah

punkflower where hobie likes to crochet in his spare time bcs it keeps his hands busy; he does it while he’s daydreaming and it’s great! it’s fun! it’s relaxing!

the problem is that he can’t stop making things related to miles.

he picks up his hook and when he looks down again he’s made a little crochet spider in red and black. he doesn’t even remember reaching for the colours.

he tries again a few days later and by the time he realises he’s daydreaming about miles’s face and miles’s hair and miles’s smile, he’s already nearly done with a loose-knit navy cardigan. he ties it off temporarily and tries it even though he already has a feeling it won’t fit properly, and he’s right.

it’s too short on him.

because he’d subconsciously made it to miles’s measurements that he’d eyeballed.

fuck.

he finishes it anyway, passes it to miles all nonchalant just to get it off his hands and off his mind but the next time they hang out miles is wearing it and hobie has to stand in the corner with his mouth shut before he puts his foot in it, because the cardigan fits perfectly and if he talks he’s absolutely going to embarrass himself. miles is laughing with his head thrown back and hobie desperately wants to kiss him.

but obviously he can’t, so he crochets more instead and it gets even worse. he’s burning through his red and blue yarn like paper; he’s made headphone accessories, keychains, beanies, a whole collection of loose-knit tops bcs he can’t get the image of miles wearing the first one out of his head.

it’s ridiculous and he drives himself up the wall with it, but he gives them to miles anyway and says they’re just practice pieces until gwen and pav ambush him in his flat and yell at him to finally fucking confess or they’ll do it for him, bcs miles is decked out in swag knitwear and they keep getting stopped on the street by strangers asking where he gets his clothes and you know what he says?

he says they’re just his friend’s test pieces. with a sad little smile.

and hobie can’t stand it anymore, because he practically CUSTOM-MADE everything, test pieces his ass. he opens a portal right to miles’s room and his heart squeezes when he sees that miles is in one of the sweaters he made, cream-coloured with a maroon star on the front, a little green knitted sprout tied to his headphones on top of his head.

miles slams his sketchbook shut, blushing like he’s been caught, and hobie walks right up to him and says, “they weren’t practice pieces.”

miles blinks at him, still clearly flustered. “o…kay?”

he soldiers on. “i made them for ya. with you in mind. by accident.” see? he opens his mouth and puts his bloody foot in it IMMEDIATELY. he fumbles to do some damage control but miles is smiling crookedly, pulling his headphones off.

“you handmade me enough things to fill half my closet… by accident.”

“yeah.”

hobie has to force himself to breathe because miles is standing up and then they’re kissing and every damn thought gets wiped clean out of his brain.

“was that by accident too?” miles asks, close enough that hobie can smell the cocoa butter he uses on his skin, something warm tucked beneath his wry smirk and hobie wants to kiss it off his damn mouth, so he does.

(afterwards, they tumble down to dinner grinning like fools. miles’s parents don’t question, and they miss gwen and pav fist-bumping just outside the window.)

I don't think enough punkflower shippers aknowledge and use the fact that Miles can turn invisible.

Every time he realizes Hobie's flirting with him, he would automatically turn invisible from being flustered, and Hobie would wrap his arms around where he saw him last, capturing him so he can't run away

punkflower where miles is beating up a bar full of bad guys and hobie’s just chilling under a counter with a few other gals who are hiding and they’re like WHO TF ARE U?!!?;$3;37 and hobie goes oh 👍🏼👍🏼 his bf 😚

HE’S JUST CHATTING W THEM COMPLETELY UNBOTHERED BY THE CHAOS IN THE BACKGROUND until miles hollers HOBIE and he’s like right right yep coming love and he hops up, smashes a few people w his guitar and sits back down again.

literally chatting all casual with the girlies and he goes “sorry gimme a sec bae is callin” GOES OUT KICKS ASS COMES BACK “ok where were we? smth abt ya cheatin’ ass boyfriend? girly dya want me ta run him over. bcs i’ll run him over for ya—”

the girls are FLABBERGASTED and hobie has heart eyes. absolutely fucking smitten as he watches miles beat someone over the head with a bar stool.

Senpai says you’re welcome

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS

WHO IS USING THIS

AN APP??? THEY HAVE A FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

THE LAST FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

Charles whose dad smashed his cassette tape with a hammer learns to navigate the backpack cause, like, he needs to be useful, yeah?

and this way Charles has everything Edwin needs, and if Edwin gets sick of him he’ll just.. he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

but then Edwin gets the record player.

he suggests, tentatively, that Charles might play some of his “queen” if he liked. after all, if they are to haunt potential realtors away from their new office, they may as well entertain themselves.

so they take turns, switching out; edwin likes opera. he shows Charles how to waltz, chiding Charles to stop looking at his feet til they’re gliding, whirling around like they’re in the movies. Edwin’s smile is small and pleased and lovely. (Charles attempt to get Edwin to headbang along to queen results in a sort of awkward rhythmic nodding. Charles loves him so much he could die again.)

And, like. Edwin doesn’t like clutter. he doesn’t bother with the random tidbits ghosts give them for solving cases.

until now, apparently.

now he comes back from trading at the goblin market with little useless things—a cursed rubix cube, records from bands Charles mentioned years ago.

Charles is so busy trying to subtly read his book on Edwardian courting rituals (disguised by Nikos discreet manga covers) that he doesn’t realize what Edwin’s set down in front of him. he stares at Edwin’s spiky handwriting, the tidy numbered list.

“I thought, perhaps, that we might—start a new tradition.”

Charles blinks, eyes stinging. “Mate, did you.. make me a mixtape?”

“Crystal assisted me, and while she was absolutely insuffer—“ Edwin staggers, catching him with a surprised little noise.

“I love you so much,” Charles says, muffled into his throat. “You’re my favorite person. I love you so much it hurts, sometimes.”

“Yes,” Edwin says softly, hands curling around his waist. He takes Charles weight like it’s nothing. “I believe I know the feeling.”