maría. probably older than you. she/they/ella. english + castellano (normalmente en los tags) // PROMPTS ARE CLOSED!! // i like books, black sails and star wars. back in batman hell. i used to make mixes. i write stuff (tag: maría writes). formerly known as jasondont.
prompt policy: i only accept prompts within the context of or in response to an ask game or meme. i usually reblog the post in question a few times–if you can’t find it easily it’s probably been too long and i have lost interest. i enjoy rareships, but there are a few characters i’m not a fan of, things i just don’t feel comfortable writing, and concepts and dynamics i don’t vibe with. i won’t work on those. finally, while i do love prompts, i don’t like being told what to do. vibes, inspiration in the form of quotes/pictures, characters, DNWs are very welcome and make me very happy; very specific instructions don’t.
i tag pretty much everything except shitposts. if you need me to tag something in particular, tell me.
my writing tag is maría writes, and the one i use for the very few text posts i make is maríadont. i also tag posts and reblogs related to any current long-ish wips and some fics.
if you’re a dick on my posts/in my ask box, i Will block you. if i catch you being a dick on someone else’s posts or ask box or on your own blog, i Will block you.
i post pretty much all of my fic on my ao3 account, here.
i am forgetful, a bit shy and bad at replying to messages in a timely manner, but you are welcome to ask me stuff! please ask me stuff!! i love attention!
tagged as: #i feel Ridiculous writing this but i've been getting more followers lately so. #maríadont #editing this post a few years later for obvious reasons lol
more not actually mattpeter, this time post born again (the comic, not the show) and from peter’s pov
Peter follows him into the kitchen. It is cramped but tidy, and cheerful late afternoon sun comes in through the tiny window to the side. Peter leans against the counter, arms crossed, and watches as Matt messes around with a tiny moka pot. It’s bright red, almost the same shade as his suit. Peter wonders if Matt knows. “I really was in the area, Matt,” Peter says, mostly to say something. Matt hums. “I know. I felt you when you came out of the tube station.” “Of course you did, you smug son of a bitch.” Matt smirks, barely there. Peter watches him for a beat. The red hair, the freckles, the broken nose and the square jaw. Matt probably knows he’s being watched. He leans on his big broad hands, his arms visible through the thin cotton of his dress shirt. He looks—he looks good. Fit and strong and handsome and at ease in this small apartment that smells like coffee and books. “You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.” Matt’s self-satisfied smile slides right off his face. “I didn’t know if that was real or if I—dreamt it,” Matt says, voice low. “I half-convinced myself that it was part of the nightmare.” Peter laughs softly. “Well, it wasn’t.” The moka pot starts making noises. Peter watches with interest as Matt lowers the little lid. “You scared the shit out of me, Matt.” “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—” “Shut the hell up, DD.” Matt closes his mouth with a click. “She knows, right? About your horny little secret.” A nod. “Good. Anyway. I went to see our friend Willie. Didn’t help, not even a tiny little bit, as you said it’d happen, but I webbed him to his chair.” “You what?” “You know. Twip, twip. Glued his fat ass to his desk chair. He was so angry. It was hilarious. I wish you could have seen it, or felt it, or whatever it is you do.” Matt’s shoulders start shaking. He hides his face in his hands.
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