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appleblueberry-pie · 1 month

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Please 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 do a yandere miles morales scenario if reader runs away from him

Pain Isn't Strong Enough

A/n: I'll get as close as I possibly can to "running" away as I can. If nearly spinting almost counts, then absolutely.

Miles didn't know what went wrong. You two were fine with each other the entire time. You often came over to eat dinner. Paid attention to his jokes. You made jokes back. You seemed comfortable when you came over to his place, and vice-versa seemed comfortable when he pulled up at yours. You stole hoodies from him like he wished for you to do. You often texted and called, and everything. You two had great communication skills, the whole fucking nine. So why....? Why are you not...being you??

He knew something was up when you gave him weird strained smiles all throughout the school day. Only would greet back when you two ran into each other again during passing period, and never said anything past that, especially when you two had physics together. He spoke the whole time. You best understand that he definitely checked up on you. Multiple times.

"...baby, are you okay? You've been kind of....kind of quiet lately. Did you eat? How'd you sleep last night?" "I'm fine. Nothing's wrong. I'm good." You'd say, nodding at him. He'd stare at you for a few seconds. Waiting for your face to crack or anything. But nothing. So he let it go for now.

At the end of the day, he offered to walk you home. He asked every single time you two walked back to your place, and you always told him to stop asking since you both always would go, no matter what happened. "Lemme you home, ma." He mutters it softly like every other time. "No." Miles stopped in his tracks and snapped his head toward you. "No?" He nearly shouts it. The confusion he felt was embedded deep into his voice when he repeated that word. The fact that you felt, he assumed, uncomfortable enough to openly decline him walking you home just rubbed him the wrong way entirely.

But he didn't mean to respond so abruptly. He collected himself as soon as he said it to not alarm you. He gives you a concerned stare, making sure to watch your eyes. "You sure?" He steps closer to you, getting rid of the space that he felt like was separating the two of you. "Yeah. I just want to go home." You made up some phony excuse to get him off of your back, but of course, it didn't work. "Then let me take you." "I just said no. Is it wrong that I don't want you to come with me this time?" You slip on your wording, wanting it to sound nicer to not be suspicious. And it just left Miles with more questions.

The undertones on your phrasing made him frown. He stays silent and you regret opening your mouth for every second he doesn't respond. You avoid his gaze, staring down your designated block. "No. Go 'head. My mom prolly need help with the chores anyway. I'll see you later, Mi Corazon." He softly whispers the nickname to you, pecking your cheek. You cheese every time he does it. Giving that laugh he loves and saying that you love him back. Now, you don't even flinch, not meeting his gaze once. "Hm." And you walk off.

His initial thought was that you're cheating. But he would know. So, he lets his heart and bones ache for the rest of the day as he waits for you to talk to him. He lets his mom bother him about where her "step-daughter" is and tries to stay chill the entire time he does his homework. His mind was loud and quiet at the same time. He couldn't seem to focus on one thing at a time until he knew the two of you were good. But he didn't want to press you, he didn't want to stress you out. He wanted you to take your time in reaching out to him. So, he stays patient.

By 9 o'clock, he was done with all possible things he could've done to pass the time. Did the laundry, made dinner, cleaned his mom's car, spoke with a neighbor, he even fixed the fucked up cable wires that had been preventing everyone from watching TV this past week. And it was until then, that Miles finally gets a text message from you. He was practically staring at his phone as if he knew you would answer and immediately swiped it off of his desk to see what you finally said. But nothing in the world could've prepared him for what he saw on his screen and he felt his heart drop as he read the message.

Baby - [Are you the prowler?]

He was ready. He was ready for any response you could've given him. I need space, I'm sorry, how are you, what are you doing, can you come over, hey, i miss you, i love you, fuck you, don't talk to me ever again, lose my number. "Is he the prowler"?? Is that what he's seeing on his screen right now?? Miles firmly believes he's hallucinating that message you sent, but the other ones above it that he had read a million times over are still the same, so it has to be real. Miles thinks of all of the hiding places for his gear, his other computer, his hidden weapons, his other bunch of keys, the paperwork for the deals he made, fuck, he couldn't think of what you possibly could've found that made you draw that conclusion. He cursed aloud and watched his hands begin to shake.

It wasn't the end. You wouldn't end the relationship over something as small as this, right? I mean, he would never hurt you, he knew that you knew this. But on the inside, he knew that this was the end of something. And he didn't know if he wanted to know what. Another message came up. You knew he saw it.

Baby - [Answer me.]

Miles - [I'm coming over.]

Baby - [No, don't.]

He shoved his phone into his pocket and rushed to put on a jacket and some shoes. Sneaking out to the fire escape, he rushed down to the street to speed walk over to your place.

You were scared. You didn't want to admit it to yourself, but in the back of your mind, you knew the truth and just couldn't help but feel real fear in your heart. He really was the prowler. You saw everything. That hyper-realistic metal mask you found under his pillow, it couldn't be for just nothing. For fucks sake, it even had the same holographic colors and shape. You found the claws and couldn't bring yourself to see anymore than you already did. And what made it worse is that when you spent the night the same time that you found his gear, he snuck out of the bed....not returning until the early hours of the morning. It made you sick to your stomach.

He was supposed to just be your boyfriend. Not a killer and a fucking robber and whatever else he was. Secrets as big as these just made you question everything else about the relationship you two had. What if he also had bitches on the side? What if you weren't the only one? What if he was using you? Would he......would he kill you...? You were gonna vomit.

Your body felt numb as you put on his hoodie and a pair of shoes he had gifted you. Everything that reminded you of him, you couldn't get rid of. You love him too much. The more you try to shove him away, the more he surrounds your everyday life and mind. And now he was going to find you. You weren't ready to talk at all.

You turned off your location on your phone and left. Maybe you can stay at one of your girl's houses tonight. But she lives in the direction of Miles's place, and you'd probably run into him on the way there. Maybe your cousin that lives like 30 minutes away? It's dark and....the walk would be so fucking dangerous, but it's safer than literally talking with a killer who you slept in the same bed with who-knows-how-many times. What were you going to tell your mom? Your family? His family?? Did his family know? How can you break up with him without causing an uprise? It almost seemed impossible because everyone loved you two being together. And the ones that hated it wanted it more than the two of you did. Too many people had hope in your relationship, it was horrible. It shouldn't have come to this. Maybe you should've just minded your own business.

You round one, two corners. It's dead silent and there's no one on the streets, which somehow feels worse than actual people being there stalking the streets. You hate that you can hear your own heartbeat and breath. On your third corner, you crash into a chest and rough hands grab you before you can fall. "No! No, get off of me!" You thrash in his arms and he seems to almost yell in your face. "Y/n, can you calm down? What the hell is you screaming for??"

"You know why I'm screaming at you, nigga!" "No, I don't I actually don't. So instead of running from me, can you talk to me?" You huff and go silent, pulling yourself out of his grasp to try and breathe. Miles's face falls when he sees how stressed you look. Your veins almost seemed to pop out of your neck. Did you really not want him there? He didn't know what to do. "Please, cariño, I just want to understand..."

You didn't want to start the waterworks and looked up to keep tears from falling down your face. You struggle to croak out the words, gesturing to help yourself cope. "The stuff...t-the stuff under your pillows and bed." Miles looks off to the side. "What is that stuff you got, Miles?" Suddenly it was quiet again. He didn't want to tell you. You didn't want it to be true. Why wasn't he denying it? Why wasn't he hugging you and telling you it was all fake? A science class experiment? Something? Anything but this?? He looks back at you and gains the courage to step closer, bringing a hand up to wipe away your hot tears on your face, like he promised he'd always do for you. He shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about, baby."

You just seemed to cry harder at his words and pulled his hand from your face. Your throat was beginning to close up, the truth showing in what wasn't said. "I hate when you lie to me. I know you know that I hate when you lie to me. Don't lie....don't lie.." Miles wanted you in his arms again, not far away, distancing the two of you in your mind like he knows you're doing. You're great at disappearing when feeling stressed, but to leave him alone? He doesn't think he can take that. He gave his heart to very few people in his life, and somehow it can never fix his problems. His mom's stressed, Aaron wants more from him, and his Dad.... You're the only one that's given him what he didn't know he needed. You're his salvation. And for you to slip out of his fingers is something he can't allow. His only option left is to tell the truth that he has been hiding for so long.

"I am." You sniffle and wipe your eyes. He can't seem to look at them, instead he stares at the necklace he gifted you when you first got together. Knowing that you kept it on was all he needed to keep speaking. "I am the Prowler."

Your face shifts from sadness into one of frustration as he explains. "I've been the Prowler for 2 years now. I go out almost every night. It helps my mama pay the bills, it keeps Brooklyn safe, and it keeps my close family safe as well. I don't do this for nothing." He whispers the words so quietly, as if he was whispering a taboo to you. Never slipped out of his lips before until this one moment with you. You turn your face the other direction. Miles watches you clench your jaw and rushes to take your hands into his, kissing them lightly.

"And I know that's a long time. And I know I was hiding it from you, baby. Pero tienes que confiar en mí. You're on my mind every single night when I'm out. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I couldn't come back to you one night because I wasn't careful. So I stay careful."(But you have to trust me)

Both of his knees hit the hard concrete as he stares up into your glossy eyes, not daring to look away. "You can do anything, anything to me. I don't care. You can beat me the fuck up, mami. But, por favor, no me dejes. I need you! I need you to live, baby. I can't be without you. I don't wanna see you walk away from me. Please." (Please, don't leave me)

Miles whispered the words only for you to hear. All you wanted was that apology and you wished to give in so bad. You wanted him to stay. Miles stood when you looked the other way to catch your eyes again. "Just let me walk you home, mi vida, and we can talk about this in the morning, okay? Or even tonight, if you want to. Just don't give up on me, not like this." Miles's heart was racing a mile a minute. He really didn't know if he could convince you in this moment. Your face seemed to be stone cold. But when he grabbed your hand, you seemed to tighten your fingers around his. His eyes told you what his mouth couldn't say. And by communicating through silence, you let him pull you in the direction of your home.(My dear)

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braisedhoney · 10 months

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"He’s frozen stiff, threatening claws now hovering down to the side—his eyes look huge in the darkness, that faint white glow giving just the slightest of his expression away.

He still doesn’t strike."

- all because of you (i do right) by puppyblue on ao3, Chapter 1. @puppyblueao3 here on tumblr i think!

(does this count as a fic rec or fanart. both, probably. rambles under the cut.)

SO uh—i'm really picky about fanfiction. like. really really picky.

i dunno why exactly, but i kinda have a hard time reading them right away bc a) i'm not really a shipper and that's most fanfiction i've seen and b) i like when i can really imagine the characters saying and doing whatever it is they're doing.

y'know the whole "he would not fucking say that" meme? lmao that's me, but with fanfics and only to myself. (i know everyone has their niche and i'm not here to police anybody's fun, just curate my own.)

anyway all that to say that i really, really liked this one. a lot. it's canon divergent off of into the spiderverse, and if you can believe it the comic is literally not a spoiler bc it's in the summary of the fic. but if you liked uncle aaron or even just are a sucker for redemption (? ish?) arcs, i think you'd like it! with all the angst and chaos from atsv it's a nice change of pace.

#into the spiderverse #itsv #into the spiderverse fanart #itsv fanart #aaron davis #miles morales #the prowler fanart #the prowler #um. what else do i tag this with #fanfic rec #maybe. i dunno #should i do this for more fics that i read?? i have a couple others but y'know #i'm a big nerd who just likes making things based off things that make me happy #we all need that sometimes i think #you would not BELIEVE the amount of time it took me to get to this layout for one page #like yeah i'm an amateur with comics and it could use work but. good god.#so many drafts... so many abandoned canvases...#i think part of it was bc i wanted to keep the little doodles so bad. like the hand with the mask?? i wanted to keep it #also the shadows are dark on the prowler on purpose bc that's how it's described but. might have made it brighter if i hadn't merged layers #just a bit. too late now though! *shrug*#i don’t have an ao3 account so there’s no real way for me to get this to the author #their tumblr seems inactive atm #but if they do happen to see it i hope they like it!#ney's art #ney's comics

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nadiawritessomething · 28 days

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Okay, chat, would you read fic that starts like this, is Miles G centric, explores the topic of family relationship, mental health, trust, beliefs, fears... Oh, and also being a soulmate AU with Punkprowler as the main ship?

Cause I was thinking about posting something but I'm not sure.

#also rly big and unfinished #lol #across the spiderverse #atsv #miles morales #miles 42 #prowler miles #miles g morales #earth 42 miles #spiderverse #aaron davis #jefferson morales #A03 #fanfic #fanfiction #PUNKPROWLER #Prowlerpunk

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darkfoxkirin · 7 months

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Some old art for a fic a friend of mine is writing. (But she hasn't posted it yet, sorry guys!) The scene is this; Miles gets dropping into a universe where Aaron Davis is the Kingpin instead of Wilson Fisk. The Miles Morales of this universe died a few years ago and since that was Aaron's only family left, it broke something inside and he's more ruthless than ever. When he sees this Miles, he thinks it's a dirty trick to try and let his guard down and attacks Miles. He manages to escape, but he got hurt pretty bad and feels betrayed in the worst way, since showing his face only seemed to piss his uncle off even more. (Don't worry, the story has a happy ending!)

#art #spiderman #fan art #fandom #across the spiderverse #fanfic #into the spider verse #miles morales #aaron davis #earth 42 prowler #kingpin #mafia au #gang au #aaron davis as Kingpin #sad #hurt #blood #injury #the sun will come out tomorrow

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they-bite · 9 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Spider-Man: Spider-Verse (Sony Animated Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aaron Davis (Earth-1610) & Miles Morales Characters: Aaron Davis (Earth-1610), Miles Morales, Mary Jane Watson (Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse), The rest Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aaron Davis Lives (Earth-1610), Family Feels, Battle Scenes, Misunderstandings, Redemption, Fix-It, miles accidentally kicks aaron down the street, gwen is a little shit, and aaron is a good (and very stressed) uncle Summary:

In which Miles never makes it to Uncle Aaron's apartment, and Aaron takes a look at the subway footage.

(Or: Miles and Aaron find each other out in reverse order.)

(banging pots & pans) new aaron & miles fic come and get it

#aaron davis #prowler #miles morales #into the spider verse #itsv #fics #my art #spiderverse #into the spiderverse fanfic

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all-about-that-rec · 1 year

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Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aaron Davis/Peter B. Parker, Miles Morales & Peter B. Parker, Aaron Davis & Miles Morales, Jefferson Davis/Rio Morales Characters: Aaron Davis (Marvel), Peter B. Parker, Miles Morales, Rio Morales, Jefferson Davis (Marvel), Aunt May (referenced) Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, based off a tumblr post, based off art Summary:

Aaron Davis thought he was done for in that alley. He had made his peace with it, he had said goodbye to Miles. He never expected to wake up in a hospital.

Peter B. Parker never intended to return to that universe. After all, his universe needed Spider-Man. He wanted to talk to MJ. He never expected to end up back there, swinging through the streets with Miles.

Certainly neither of them expected to be pretending to be married to an enemy, just to protect Miles Morales' secret identity. And they could have never predicted that anything more would ever happen.

#spider-man into the spider-verse #miles morales #peter b parker #aaron davis #spiderman #jefferson davis #rio morales #marvel #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic recs #fic recs #ao3 #aaron davis x peter b parker

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iamumbra195 · 6 months

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The Shattered Showcase

Summary:

He planned and attended her funeral with Jeff, setting her down in her grave to be forgotten with a numbness that consumed him whole. Those who had once scorned him for not attending his father’s funeral came to hold his hand with teary eyes and wished him well. Offered him their sincerest condolences and told him things would get better. Aaron wanted them to burn.

A look into the life of Aaron Davis and his relationships

Aaron has seen plenty of things in his short nineteen years, more than most people his age at least. He’d quickly desensitized himself to gory scenes of blood and torture in a manner Jeff had always struggled to replicate no matter how often Aaron warned him that his empathy would only get him hurt.

It was the norm in their line of business, you had to adjust quickly or you’d be scarred for life.

Aaron was accustomed to death, barely escaping its grasp more than a few times in his life. He’d seen others like him– mercenaries, cat burglars, criminals for hire– on the verge of death, had torn the life from their eyes with his very own hands. It was just another part of the job and the money he earned from it was worth every nightmare.

It kept him alive and paid for his mother’s medical bills, after all.

Aaron was always prepared to face the death of a colleague or a gang member he had accidentally befriended, always expecting the worst-case scenario no matter how much he was teased for being paranoid.

But none of those expectations prepared him for the death of one of the few people he kept close to his heart.

It was late evening when his phone lit up with a call, his shoulders slumped with fatigue as he glared at the offending device. His frown only deepened when he saw that it was from Jeff, bitterness coating the inside of his mouth at the thought of his brother.

His brother had been avoiding him for the last few weeks, largely because their last interaction had ended in a fight and scathing remarks had been thrown from either end, cutting into old, festering wounds left in the wake of their father’s death four years ago.

“You’re just like Dad!”

He wasn’t. He was doing his best and Jeff didn’t get to throw all his efforts back in his face with that twisted comparison.

Aaron scowled at the device for a few moments, a mixture of anger and something black and acrid curdling within him before he grabbed it and swiped to answer, vowing to disconnect the call if it was anything less than an emergency.

“Hello?” he answered gruffly.

The silence on the other end was filled with the faint hiss of static and Jeff’s quiet breathing yet remained oddly stilted, a mix of worry and dread twisting in his gut the longer it stretched.

“Jeff? Is everything okay?”

His brother’s breath hitched slightly and when he spoke his voice was shaky and thick with emotion the same way it had been the night following their first job, only intensifying Aaron’s worry and confusion. “Aaron?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice gentle in a manner that sounded foreign to his own ears. “What’s wrong?”

Something was wrong, Jeff wasn’t easily shaken and he certainly wouldn’t be out on his own without telling Aaron anything. No matter how angry he was, Jeff would never break that promise.

Aaron tried to ignore the poisonous whispers that reminded him of how many promises he had broken, how many times he had looked his brother in the eyes and lied in an effort to hide the wretched darkness devouring him whole.

“There was a robbery at the bodega over on the Richmond St. intersection and they shot someone before the police got there. She died before the paramedics could do anything,” Jeff began, speaking almost mechanically and Aaron’s confusion only grew.

“Jeff, wha–”

The bodega on the Richmond St. intersection.

Mom went there with Jeff every Saturday evening without fail and Aaron joined them when he could but the sight of his mother wheeling around in a wheelchair rather than on her feet was one he never quite got used to even after all this time.

It was Saturday.

His breath hitched as his composure slipped and the realization hit him like a sack of rocks.

Everything was too loud all of a sudden-- his ears were ringing and all he could focus on was the twisted image of his mother’s motionless body that his mind had conjured and his brother’s words.

“Mom’s dead, Aaron,” Jeff said, his voice breaking into a sob that made Aaron’s eyes burn.

Mom.

Mom was gone.

“...Oh.”

o-o-o-o

When he was younger, the teachers at his school would always whisper about Aaron behind their hands. A troubled child, they called him as they turned a blind eye to the bruises littering his skin and Jeff’s pleas for help.

Nobody ever listened in the end. Not even after Aaron refused to attend or contribute to his father’s funeral in any way.

That poor man, they whispered and Aaron’s skin would crawl, the part of him that still yearned to be validated begging him to argue against their accusations.

An ungrateful child, they called him and his eyes would burn with unshed tears that no one paid any mind to.

Was he meant to mourn the man that mocked his tears and ignored his needs as a child, the man that tossed him and Jeff out in the cold if they made too much noise during the winter, the man that threw beer bottles at his head and carved scars into his skin when he grew bored?

Was he meant to shed tears for a man who had scorned his existence and spat at him as he huddled on the ground to soothe the pain caused by his hand?

The same man that crippled his mother?

The same eyes that glossed over his suffering burned into his skin and accused him of disrespect. He was your father, the old man from the food truck that always parked down the street told him once sternly and Aaron– Aaron had wanted to scream.

That man had never been his father. He had been his jailer, his tormentor but never his father.

Blood is thicker than water, a philosopher had once said, twisting the original saying to fit his purpose and now their accusing gaze threw it back in his face as they shamed him for denying a dead man the title of a father.

Like he gave a shit about what they thought.

Elijah Davis could rot in the pits of hell for all Aaron cared. Sometimes he wished he had been the one to gut the man like a fish instead of some random mugger, to relish in the sight of his vacant, lifeless eyes and know that he had gotten his revenge.

But when have Aaron’s wishes ever been fulfilled?

However, Evelyn Davis was not Elijah Davis.

Something fragile and well-protected within Aaron had shattered when she passed, leaving him desperately clinging to the jagged shards of glass left in its wake even as they punctured his skin and left him out to bleed.

Offered him their sincerest condolences and told him things would get better.

Aaron wanted them to burn.

o-o-o-o

No matter how often you face death, Aaron found that the grief never got easier to bear.

It was like a punch to the gut when you least expected it and suddenly you’re waking up with the realization that you’ll never see them again. You’ll never hear their voice, laugh at their jokes and then you’ll begin to forget what their voice sounded like, what their face looked like and you’ll be consumed by the fear and realization that they were gone forever.

That’s what grief was. The fear of loss and absence.

At least that’s what the books said.

After the first few days following his mom’s funeral, Aaron had gone right back to work. It didn’t really hit him until he had taken another job, the barrel of his gun pressed against a crying woman’s head.

All he had to do was pull the trigger–

‘What if she was someone’s mother?’ the poisonous voice in his mind whispered with an eerie likeness to Jeff’s disgusted tone and Aaron froze, something cold pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He pulled the trigger anyway.

She wasn’t his mother.

o-o-o-o

The years following his arrest at twenty-one were more of a blur in Aaron’s mind than anything. He remembered fights, switchblades and blood gushing from slit necks. He remembered being approached by a goliath of a man and signing a contract that got him out of jail a full year early due to ‘good behaviour’, remembered the zeroes that filled his first check and the foreign rush of emotion he’d felt at the sight.

He remembered his brother telling him about his new life, his wife, the son he would soon be welcoming into the world.

Aaron… had a nephew.

He hadn’t met him, probably never would if his last argument with Jeff was anything to go by. They’d never really seen eye to eye but Aaron had always known Jeff was different; he wanted stability and family while Aaron relished in the graceless dance of striking fists and the steady thrum of alivealivealive that sang in his blood as he flung himself through job after job.

In a twisted way, Aaron was content to live his life through the distorted lens of a survivor. It was the only thing he knew.

In a shocking turn of events, Aaron met Miles for the first time when his nephew was five. He was a tiny kid– barely up to Aaron’s knees--with too-big eyes, missing front teeth and curly hair that was getting a little too long, and staring up at Aaron with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

He was innocent and fragile in a way only children could be, protected from the world’s depraved nature within the walls of his tiny home and Aaron wondered why Jeff had even bothered to invite him when he personified the very thing his brother was trying to protect his son from.

With a soft sigh, he crouched in front of the boy and gave him a small smile, dulling the edge of danger he knew his presence carried to appear less intimidating. It worked well enough if the way Jeff and his wife relaxed a little was anything to go by.

“Happy birthday, Miles.”

o-o-o-o

Somewhere along the way, Miles had become a fundamental part of his life.

He knew Jeff didn’t like the way Miles looked at him like he had hung the stars in the sky, hanging off his every word as if it were scripture and Aaron knew that he shouldn’t either but he couldn’t bring himself to turn the boy away.

Perhaps it was selfish but he wanted Miles to look up to him, to look at him with that little spark of admiration and mischief the way he had the very first time Aaron showed him how to use spray paint.

(Jeff had been there when Aaron walked Miles home that night, shrewd gaze catching the little flecks of paint on their skin and the hastily scrubbed spot on Miles’ shirt and something in his eyes flickered, caught between disapproval and nostalgia.

They softened after a moment and Aaron realized that was the first time in years that his brother looked at him with anything akin to fondness.)

It was selfish but Aaron had always been this way, clinging to all that made him feel human while dismissing all else. The little hand that tugged at his clothes and the kind gaze he had no right to were more precious than any zero-filled check.

Uncle Aaron, Miles would call him and something warm would blossom in his chest.

Kill that guy, Fisk would command and his heart would harden.

Jeff had always warned him that this life would catch up to him, clinging like mud that would never wash off but Aaron had always ignored him, comfortable living his life doing the the things he did best.

Those words haunted him now as he watched his nephew’s face crumple with fear and grief and he wondered if he would be some kind of catalyst in his life the way his mother’s death had been for him and Aaron– Aaron could not bear the thought of Miles becoming anything like him, desperately clinging to the shattered glass that once protected something untainted and valuable even as it cut his skin and left him out to bleed.

“You’re the best of all of us, Miles,” he choked out through the all-consuming pain wracking his body, barely able to feel the way Miles’ hands tightened around his own. “You’re on your way. Just… just keep going.”

He squeezed Miles’ hand one last time as darkness consumed his vision.

“Just keep going.”

Aaron hoped it was enough to make him let go of the glass and learn to stitch his wound closed.

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I wrote most of this like three months ago but never got around to finishing it because I've been stuck in a writing funk since

Despite us not getting that much information about Aaron, I love him and I hope BTSV tells us more about him and his motivations, especially since he is probably very heavily involved in Miles-42 becoming the Prowler

I really like his relationship with Jeff and how despite never actually seeing the two of them interact, we know their relationship is strained but they still love each other and their love for Miles is what truly makes them connect after being estranged from one another.

Their dad is canonically a piece of shit, at least in the comics so I incorporated that into this work.

I love making Aaron and Miles reflect each other despite their situations being entirely different

I tried to use the shattered glass to symbolize the two of them losing something precious to them like a glass showcase in a museum and they both cling to that glass, that memory, even as it cuts into them

But Aaron doesn't want Miles to suffer, to lose his way with no one to guide him and teach him how to close that bleeding wound the way Aaron had so in his last moments he does his best

Jeff unintentionally makes that lesson sink in when he goes to talk to Miles so Aaron succeded and Miles doesn't give up and lose his way the way Aaron had

Anyways, what do you think?

Check out my Ao3: Umbra195

#spider man: into the spider verse #spiderverse fanfic #family feels #angst #character study #aaron davis #miles morales #jefferson davis #jefferson morales #canon compliant #kinda #i took a character that we didn't get enough insight to and ran with him #writing #I've been infected with nanowrimo after like four months of having no energy to write #I think my spiderverse fixation might be coming back lol

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tomxat · 6 months

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-;- 42 Uncle Aaron misses …

-;- Credits: on wattpad @ matilda111022

-;- TW: major death, blood, mentioned throwing up

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Dimmed light was filling the room and soft music played in the background. Miles was hanging on the punching bag, circling around while uncle Aaron was standing at the table, doing… something. The young teen was struggling to get out, trying to lose the ties. He was trying really hard to explain his situation to his uncle, to the other one. Miles was aware that this wasn't his uncle even though they look the same. It gave him chills how similar they were, the only difference being his beard, it was longer than from his universe.

"[..] he was the Prowler, he looked out for me." Miles claimed, watching uncle Aaron put on the gauntlet, it glowed up for a moment. It glowed up in a dark purple, he knew this color. Memories snapped before his eyes, the way uncle Aaron chased behind him in the subway or when he grabbed him in aunt May's house. The gauntlet around his neck when Aaron was about to kill him. He remembered everything so vividly.

With a soft sigh, Miles pushed himself a bit to the side in order to move back to watch uncle Aaron and his actions, not that he was doing much but Miles' Spider senses kept going and he felt an actual threat coming from his uncle.

"He did a lot of bad things but.. I knew he wanted to be good." Miles kept going, currently not being able to watch Aaron as he was swirling around. Aaron let out a small chuckle, not caring much about it. He wasn't the Aaron this kid was talking about and he knew that for himself.

"He just didn't know he had a choice, but you do! You could be a good guy!" Miles claimed, circeling slowly back to face Aaron.

"A good guy?" Aaron laughed. This Miles looking imposter was talking funny, those statements were amusing to Aaron. He never heard someone so desperate as him, talking about good guys and choices. Aaron adjusted the gauntlet properly on his arm.

"Please.. trust me.. I know you don't wanna be the Prowler." Without any other second passing, Aaron moved around, his fist hitting right onto Miles face.

A short, loud scream filled the room for just the split a second before his head bashed into pieces. Blood splashed around the place, the punching bag moving harshly from one side to the other. But Aaron's breath hitched. It didn't take long for him to realize what the fuck just happened. His stomach made turns as his eyes focused on the lifeless young body.

A small shadow let itself fall from the ceiling, it was quiet but soon were the sounds of wiring heard and revealed Miles Morales. A different one, with his hair in cornrows and his face was skinnier, fallen. He looked older. With slow steps he moved closer to his uncle, noticing the blood and face pieces on the ground…

"Uncle Aaron..?" The teen whispered with a shaking voice. His eyes widened when they met his uncle, terrified ones. He was also covered in blood, his clothes soaked in the red, warm liquid. It was running down his dark skin leaving stains and a tingly feeling on his cheeks and neck.

"What did you do..?" Miles asked carefully, his voice not more than a whisper, a breath in the shadows of the apartment. Obviously it wasn't the first time he saw his uncle kill someone, it was almost an everyday occurrence but he never saw him that violent. It startled the young Prowler and he tripped back, feeling sicker and sicker in his body, he bent down a bit, trying not to throw everything he ate today back out.

The smell of death and human flesh filled the room and Miles needed to gag while Aaron kept staring at the dangling body on his punching bag. How familiar he looked to his Miles shot right through his brain. The statement Miles had told him just a moment before sunk in suddenly, he felt the realization hit him right into the stomach.

He just killed his nephew. Even if he was from a different universe. Miles from this different universe was still his nephew, wasn't he? Aaron's hands started to shake, he gripped his dirty jacket, trying to stay calm.. Is that what you do in a situation like this? Trying to stay calm? Trying to show no emotion? Should he be scared? He was scared, horrified actually but he didn't know how to react to this feeling. He couldn't tell if he should throw up, scream, or cry. What should he do?

He turned away instead, ripping the gauntlet off his arm. He felt sick, so sick. So disgusting, terrified of himself. He didn't know he could do such a thing, so horrific and wrong. He just wanted to scare him off, he wanted to hit the punching bag not Miles himself. He wanted to make sure Miles knew his place… not kill him. Not bash his head into pieces.

"We need to clean this off." Aaron stated through the cold silence after a while. Miles turned to him, tilting his head, his braids falling to the side a bit.

"What?" He couldn't quite understand what his uncle just said, what he meant. He just killed someone so harshly like there was no end today and he wanted to 'clean it up' like a kitchen or what?

"We need to clean this up. We need to get rid of the smell and the blood before it ruins the floor. And then we'll make sure he-.. the body is hidden." Aaron claimed. He didn't know what else he's supposed to do. He needed the other Miles out of his sight now, if he keeps staring at his headless body, he'll never get the picture out of his brain ever again.

"Are you serious?! Did you see what just happened?!" Miles gagged again, he really had to control himself not to throw up on the floor and it was very, very difficult.

"I saw it. I was literally right there. Get your ass here and help me, for fucks sake.." Aaron grumbled, he never was good with emotions but he couldn't ignore that he didn't know what he should do with the weird, guilty feeling crawling up his chest, so he was angry instead.

"Yes, sir.." Miles looked down, he knew his uncle better than anyone, and he knew for sure he should just do what he asked, especially in a situation like this. In a situation in which he needed to stay just as calm as his uncle. Show no weakness, no pain. In a situation of panic and fear, he needed to stay strong for his uncle and his own self's sake..

#aaron davis fanart #miles morales #miles morales prowler #aaron davis #uncle aaron #across the spider verse spoilers #aaron davis prowler #my fic #fanfic #42 Aaron Davis #earth-42 #Miles Morales 42

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sorryiwasasleep · 8 months

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And Pete’s Your Uncle! Chapter 14- Out Now! And below cut!

Based on The Post

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When Peter wake up, the first thing he registers is that he’s warm.

And it’s not overheating, or stifling, but comfortable.

It’s nice.

For a moment, he feels… safe.

He… doesn’t even know the last time he’d woken up feeling like this.

Probably not since he used to wake up wrapped around MJ, or with her around him, so not since the divorce at least, and even then, probably longer still, since their schedules never quite aligned to allow them that luxury of waking up together even before things had gone up in flames.

The contented smile that had been on his face had begun slowly dropping with his thoughts of MJ and it falls entirely as Peter remembers.

Remembers the last few days.

The abduction.

The pain.

The threats.

Aaron and Miles rescuing him.

The hospital.

Peter swallows the lump growing in his throat and moves his shoulders a fraction of an inch as a test and finds only a dull aching pain where there had been sharp stabbing of pain with each movement yesterday.

He must’ve healed a bit over night.

He’s still tired to his bones though so Peter releases the tension from his body again and goes to curl up and burrow even deeper into the bed beneath him.

Except with a twitch of his hand, he feels something decisively not bedding.

And he realizes, I’m not alone.

Peter is on a bed for sure, at least part of him is, he can feel enough cushioning that he has to be, but he’s becoming increasingly aware that the lump beneath him is not a pillow that he wrapped himself around and clung to tightly.

It’s a person.

And even though Peter had just remembered the last few days and being rescued, his brain stalls and he… panics for a second.

He can practically feel his heart physically sink in his chest.

Fuck

Was I—

His brain refuses to finish the thought.

His body starts to tense up again before he forces his instincts down and relaxes his posture, because if he’s in danger right now, then he certainly doesn’t want to give away that he’s awake.

Not yet.

Not before he knows more.

In the slight movement he’d made, Peter could feel the fabrics against his skin and took a relieved note that he’s clothed, as is the person beneath him, which he thinks bodes well in that his rescue wasn’t a hallucination or dream or something and he really is safe.

And then, he feels the body below his start to slightly tremble and the chest pressed against his own rises at a much faster rate as the persons breathing picks up.

And now Peter is… thoroughly confused and still semi-suspicious of his surroundings.

He cracks an eye open to assess.

And he’s flooded with relief because he can vaguely make out in the light shining through the curtains that he’s in his and Aaron’s apartment because Peter would recognize the creepy ass painting Aaron has hanging over the dresser any day.

(When he’s being dramatic, Peter likes to tell Aaron the painting is haunting his nightmares. In truth, Peter wishes his nightmares were that tame. He also does think the painting is sort of creepy looking for a bedroom. Aaron will shoot back that he ‘doesn’t get true art’, ignoring that Peter knows the painting is a good one! He just doesn’t want it looking at him while he sleeps.)

Which, if he’s in the apartment, that means the person beneath him must be Aaron.

Oh.

A rush of… various emotions in quick succession that he can’t even begin to identify right now at being strewn out over the other man flow through Peter with that realization, leaving him even warmer feeling. His cheeks start to heat up in the settled on mild embarrassment his brain had chosen, because Peter was unsure how this… cuddling he was doing was being received by Aaron, but it seemed… not well given the other man was shaking a little more noticeably now, breathing getting louder.

Peter usually moves back in the middle of the night to his own side of the bed, and by the time he gets up the next time, Aaron is always already awake and out of bed. He’s never mentioned the moving or... anything else to Peter, and Peter typically wakes back up on his own side of the bed anyway, so he figures Aaron hasn’t noticed this… quirk of his.

Side effect of being a spider-person. (Or well, a side-effect for him at least, he’s never actually had another one around to ask before and it hasn’t come up with Miles yet.)

No thermoregulation.

Spiders can’t internally regulate their own body temperature, but most are fine with cold climates and don’t necessarily get ‘cold’ like humans.

Peter is not an actual spider.

He gets cold. A lot.

And he also likes sleeping in a freezing room, which so does Aaron, so it is a double edged sword of being cold at night and seeking out Aaron in his sleep for warmth before he moves back to his own side of the bed, cold again.

Except Peter hadn’t woken up last night to do that, to disentangle himself from where his subconscious search for warmth had led him to be draped over the other man in the bed. He had been too exhausted.

And now Aaron was clearly awake before Peter could move back without him noticing, and Peter is starting to get the feeling something was wrong with Aaron, and Peter’s not sure if it’s related to him being wrapped around Aaron, but he’s sure that’s probably not... helping either if the man in his arms was panicking.

Peter pulls his head back from where it had been resting in the crook of Aaron’s neck and, blinking both eyes open now, it takes a second for his vision to adjust to the soft lighting in the room, but when it does, Peter can see that Aaron is… crying.

Aaron’s eyes are squeezed shut and his jaw is clenched so tight his teeth have to hurt and his head winced away when Peter moved his own.

Peter can see tears running down the others cheeks and he can still feel the slight tremble in Aaron’s posture, which he thinks means that Aaron must be suppressing even more of the distress and frustration that Peter could almost physically feel coming off of him. Peter could tell Aaron was trying not to make noise.

And he begins to move without thinking, Peter's right arm that had been strewn across Aaron going from the man’s arm to going to gently cup his cheek, to wipe the tears away, but he stops himself at the very last moment before his hand actually touched Aaron’s face.

The hand sort of hovers in the air for a second as Peter just looks at his own palm like it wasn’t a part of himself, before he blinks and slowly lowers it from the air to rest on Aaron’s shoulder instead.

Aaron flinches back again, but he also partially leans into the touch.

“A-Aaron?” Peter’s voice comes out fractured and at the sound of it Aaron lets out of a small noise of distress that if Peter were any farther away he wouldn’t have been able to hear.

“Are you—“ Peter had started to say ‘Are you okay’ but he knows that’s the wrong thing to ask and cuts himself off. He tries again, “What’s wrong?” because Peter is worried now.

And that worry grows and his heart sinks when Aaron doesn’t look at Peter, but instead just screws his eyes together even tighter somehow, which hadn't seemed possibly, and starts to shake his head.

And… he doesn’t stop.

Aaron's face and tears show he's clearly upset, but the second Peter had spoken, his body language beneath Peter's became tense and almost... ready for a fight, which the feeling of being above someone ready for a fight is one Peter is sadly well acquainted with and he’s... actually really sad that Aaron feels that way now, even if he… gets it, to a point.

Peter knows he's just some weird ass dude who lied about being married to Aaron when he really... could've not, but Peter happened to have powers and great connections so it was much easier and more beneficial for Aaron to just... let him stay.

And sure Aaron would help him when he was hurt sometimes, and sure he rescued him, but...

That didn't mean the other man wanted to fucking snuggle.

Based on his husband Aaron's response though, Peter knows this fighting stance might not be about him laying on Aaron at all, but just about... crying in front of anyone, something he himself hates to do too, if it’s genuine tears.

Peter has an idea what it’s about though from Aaron's face, which is still related to himself, even though it's not about Peter's current positioning.

Aaron is letting his guilt over Peter getting hurt eat him alive.

Peter can see him mentally kicking the shit out of himself.

When Peter doesn’t even blame the other man in the slightest for any of what happened. Because it wasn’t his fault.

And he really wished he knew how to make Aaron see that in a way that didn’t involve himself having to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known and telling Aaron things, but Peter can only see this day, and the entire immediate future, going exactly 1 of 2 ways.

Those ways are based on what Peter chooses to do right now as he watches Aaron continue to violently shake his head. (Peter knows there ARE other ways the future could go, but all of those options seemed even more bleak to him. The other options he thought of all seemed to lead to him and Aaron… not being... whatever they even are. Co-uncles? And, maybe Peter is selfish for this, but he doesn’t want to lose this. Lose Aaron. Not when Peter only just realized he means kind of a lot to him.)

Peter needs to stop Aaron from whatever spiral is happening in his brain and once again tell Aaron this was in no way his fault, and then he could either:

(1) ask Aaron what he needs from Peter right now to help him to avoid having or get him through what Peter thinks might be escalating to an anxiety attack. This would help the current situation, but likely would do not a damn thing to assuage Aaron’s guilt in the long run; OR

(2) tell Aaron a little bit more about Peter's own feelings and explain why he doesn't blame Aaron. Which Peter thinks… might break through and get Aaron to stop feeling so incredibly guilty over something that happened to Peter because of choices Peter deliberately made, but holy fuck does it scare him to talk about his emotions in a way that's real.

Whichever one he’s going to do, Peter knows he should probably decide quickly, because Aaron has now stopped shaking his head and turned it to the side so Peter can no longer see his face all that well.

Peter can feel that Aaron had also managed to stop the trembling in his body by going fully tense and deathly still, to the point where the man doesn’t even seem to be breathing, and it‘s freaking Peter out.

So, Peter sort of taps Aaron on the shoulders and begins to move in the process of untangling them and the other man still doesn’t look at him, face tight and guilty, but Aaron does begin to move too in response. He seems to understand, because as Peter lets go of the grip (the one he hadn’t noticed he still had on Aaron) and unhooks their legs, Aaron moves his own limbs and, where he continues to avoid looking at Peter, Aaron also helps Peter in avoiding accidentally hitting his injured back all the same, shuffling them around until both of them were sitting up— Aaron leaning against the headboard, Peter halfway down the bed facing him as Aaron looks away, face closed off once more.

Peter thinks about that moment in the hospital when he first tried to get this point across.

He’d been… pretty high.

And acted on impulse by putting his forehead to Aaron’s.

Getting close enough because he wanted to kiss him but chickening out.

Peter softly shakes his own head to clear it before looking back at Aaron, who had his gaze trained on the painting.

“Aaron. Please look at me.” Peter's voice comes out soft, but it also wavers, betraying his nerves that he feels sitting in a weighted ball on top of his chest.

It gets Aaron to look at him, eyes wide with shock.

“I do not blame you. I need you to stop blaming yourself. Please.” Peter exhales and decides to start with the easier part.

Well, easier for him.

“It’s going to wreck you if you hold onto this much guilt, when for starters, long before you were even “alive” again, it was my choice to marry you.” He raises his left hand and sort of wiggles his ring finger, the wedding band catching in the light. “To literally marry you, when I had the full awareness that you were the Prowler, and that it was likely there was loaned tech in this apartment that someone from Kingpin's group might break in to take back, and even more likely that they knew your real name and would notice if you had a husband pop up and could and might come after him. I also wasn't even convinced at that point you were really hurt, I kind of thought it was part of a bigger villain plot, but I did it anyway!"

Aaron leans up off the headboard and goes to start talking and Peter goes to hold out his right hand in a 'stop' motion, his left still raised from showcasing his ring and as he extends his arm, shoulders stretching, pain ripples across his back and he sucks in air through his teeth and yanks the hand back close to himself in discomfort and hunches over, and while not what he intended, it still gets Aaron to stop responding in any case. Peter takes a moment to breathe and waits for the pain to fade back to the dull throb it’s been before straightening up and continuing with a gasping start.

“And then, when you weren’t actually just a dead-man-who’s-memory-I-was-tarnishing-to-his-brother-and sister-in-law-by-Dear-Evan-Hansening-them, but instead an alive man? One that I very much had reason to dislike based on everything I knew about you, I still made the active decision to stay tied together, because I thought it was in all of our best interest."

Peter pauses to take a breath and he can see Aaron is still blinking out tears, but the man is also actually blinking them out now, his face disbelieving, but open as he listens, rather than all scrunched up as his tears are squeezed out, so Peter moves forward and feels like he's taking a leap off a high rise.

"Miles mostly, at the start, but also yours. And mine too.”

Peter reaches his hand closest to Aaron out and rests it just above the others knee, squeezing slightly and Aaron looks down immediately at his hand and then makes eye contact with Peter, but doesn't say anything, so Peter holds his gaze and leaves his hand there as he continues.

"I didn't think it at first, but I still made the choice to constantly be with you of my own volition. Yes, you asked for my help, but you didn't force me into anything. And you..." He swallows the lump in his throat and the affection in his chest. "You help Miles to see that he's the best of us way better than I do. And you help me. More than you think."

Peter’s eyes drop, only for a second, from Aaron’s eyes to his lips, but he immediately decides that’s a terrible idea and likely incredibly unwelcome and not appropriate given how upset Aaron is.

He forces his eyes back up.

But Aaron is no longer looking back. His gaze is on Peter’s lips.

And Peter’s breath catches in his throat because Aaron is suddenly moving, pushing off the headboard to lean forward, contorting his body to position better, closer to Peter.

He doesn’t move the leg that Peter has his hand on.

And then, there’s Aaron’s hand, warm and calloused and touching so gently to Peter’s cheek and his heart stops as his eyes shoot to the side and the next second there’s Aaron’s other hand in his hair and Peter’s face is being turned to fully look at Aaron’s own. Inches apart.

And Peter’s brain doesn’t care anymore about all the reasons why he probably shouldn’t kiss Aaron and how he’s probably even misinterpreting whatever Aaron is doing right now, because his body reacts for him.

Leaning forward, closing the gap of the remaining distance and meeting Aaron’s mouth with his own.

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hobiebrownismygod · 6 months

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Let's talk about Miles G./Prowler Miles and his characterization in fanfics/headcanons

I'm gonna refer to him as 42-Miles throughout this analysis btw

Fairly short post, about 1.1k words with pictures and gifs to help explain <3

Summary: I'm gonna analyze his characterization as being angry/aggressive, I'm gonna talk about his backstory a little bit and compare him to the original Prowler and then I'm gonna rant about his sexualization a little bit as well.

1. Characterizing him as angry/aggressive

Most of the fanfictions/headcanons that I've read treat 42-Miles like a thug. They act like he would be overly aggressive toward the reader/y/n and often characterize him as slightly misogynistic and a bully. One question. HOW? I genuinely don't understand where people get these headcanons from. You're telling me that this guy, who is literally the exact same person as Miles Morales, would be a cheating, narcissistic asshole who needs to be fixed by some random girl? Are you kidding me? Do y'all think RIO MORALES would've allowed that to happen to her son? HELL NO.

This hispanic lady?? BFFR

In the scene between Miles and 42-Rio, we see her asking him to get groceries, cracking jokes with him and just having an absolutely lovely mother-son dynamic. Its because of this that I think that he's actually a sweet, kind boy who's just trying his best to take care of his family. This little thing that he and his mom have going on proves that 42-Miles is not a bad kid. He's a genuinely nice guy who was thrown into a crappy situation.

As for his whole "You can call me the Prowler" persona, that's obviously just a setup. Miles did the same thing in the first movie when he met Peter B. Parker. He tied him up to a punching bag and put on a slightly deeper voice to confront him. 42-Miles did the exact same thing. He tied up Miles to a punching bag and did his best to intimidate him with the claw and the voice. He's just trying to look cool in front of his twin, guys. He's not that way normally. If anything, he's just gonna be a slightly more depressed version of Miles, but he's still Miles.

Its practically the same scene.

This type of characterization happens a lot towards edgy black males in the media. The same thing happens with Hobie Brown. He's portrayed as cool, a rule-breaker and a punk and immediately, people characterize him as dirty and violent which are nasty stereotypes targeted towards African-Americans. 42-Miles is portrayed as intimidating and edgy and immediately people are quick to say that he would be an asshole and that he would be a bad boy which are also horrible stereotypes. This is blatant racism and its not cute or fun to read. If you want him to be aggressive in your fanfictions, give him an actual reason to be aggressive. Don't just assume that he would be, because if you really think about it, he wouldn't.

2. Calling him a murderer (The original prowler didn't kill people)

A lot of the fanfictions/headcanons that I've read that involved 42-Miles treat him like a murderer and romanticize the idea of him being a criminal. Authors write stories about him violently murdering thugs and beating people up for no reason. Any f.f. involving his identity as the Prowler usually has a killing scene written in or an implied murder scene.

It has been confirmed that 42-Miles is gonna be an anti-hero. Now the Aaron Davis version of the Prowler did kill people. However, he wasn't an anti-hero. If we're going to compare 42-Miles to a Prowler, we need to compare him to Hobie Brown, who was the original Prowler.

Hobie Brown was also an anti-hero who actually helped Spider-man multiple times throughout the comics. He never killed anyone and after trying to lead a life of crime, he actually ended up quitting. This suggests that 42-Miles would be similar if not the same, because its confirmed that he's fighting against the Sinister Six, and isn't a "villain" and therefore would not kill anyone.

He's also 15 years old. Why are people acting like a 15 year old would be a murderer? There is no way this 15 year old kid is going out into the streets and beating up thugs. This guy was supposed to be Spider-man, remember? He fights for justice and he fights against real villains, like Doc Ock, Scorpio, Rhino, all villains who are confirmed to exist in Earth-42.

This headcanon is extremely inaccurate and people really need to chill out on the whole "Prowler" aspect of his character, because he's still Miles. He isn't a whole new character. He's literally Miles Morales in a different font, and he's not gonna be a murderous maniac.

3. Sexualizing him (he's a minor!?!?!)

I'd say about 70-80% of the 42-Miles fanfictions that cross my feed contain smut. People age up Miles, not for the plot, not for the headcanons, but just to write smut.

Personally, when I read a fan fiction or a headcanon about a character, I imagine them in my head when I do. I genuinely read the fan fiction like it would be played out with the character. So to me, people who are writing these smutty fan fictions are imagining a minor in their head while doing these things. This is absolutely insane to me.

Now I know a lot of people are gonna come for me for saying this because "if you don't wanna read it then just scroll" and "he's aged up so its okay" but this is normalizing pedophilia.

Once again, I see the same thing happening with Hobie. Why? Once again, casual racism. People see an edgy black male and they immediately assume he'd be super sexual. The people writing smut about Miles are the same way. They see an attractive black teen and the first thing that pops up in their mind is "I'd let him fuck me." He's 15 years old. No one should be writing smut about this kid. He doesn't do anything sexual in the movie, he doesn't have a confirmed love interest, he was literally on screen for two minutes. Stop treating black characters like sex toys and enjoy their damn storylines.

I explained more on the sexualization of black characters in the media in this post here if you want to read more into it or still feel a little unsure about my analyzation. I included sources as well <3

This guy is a tired CHILD. LOOK AT HIS EYE BAGS

As for the whole "aging up" thing, aging up a character for a fan fiction and aging them up for smut are two very different things. I've read 42-Miles fanfictions where they age him up, but they actually add to the plot. This one fanfiction I read (I'll link it if I find it) aged him up to create a officer x criminal trope, which I found absolutely adorable. They were able to write an amazing story with zero smut. Compare this to people who are saying "I'm aging him up to 18 <3" and its just 4000 words of straight, gut-wrenching smut.

This genuinely disgusts me. I don't know if its just me who feels this way about his sexualization, but its so icky to think about. You're taking a literal child and imagining yourself doing all these things with him and posting it for the rest of the world to see. A lot of the people who write these fanfictions are 18+ which baffles me as well.

Stop sexualizing minors and stop aging up characters just for smut. It's messed up.

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moralesmilesanhour · 1 month

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Kinda wanna write my own Aaron Davis fanfic for shits and giggles I think it'd be exciting and fun to try and get inside the head of a middle aged black man and still manage to write a compelling piece

#it'll have to wait though i have too many WIPs #in general writing from the perspective of men and boys is such an interesting thought exercise #or anyone different from you really #blabbering

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nadiawritessomething · 9 months

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An ordinary evening

Genre: General

Rating: T

Tags: Fliff and Agnst, Hurt/Comfort, Everyday life, Family bonds

Word count: 3k

(Important: this work has been translated from English into Ukrainian, as well as Spanish phrases, so if there are any mistakes: I welcome corrections)

Miles could hardly be called an obedient child.

In fact, for most of his life, he was the exact opposite of that.

Especially in his early childhood, when, as a small boy, he wasn't worried about his safety at all, while climbing trees in the city park. His hands clung tightly to the thin branches, his feet made their way up the massive trunk until the people below reminded him of ants in an ant hill. Now Miles would say that those trees weren't quite that tall, but Little Him could have sworn it looked that way.

His parents' cautionary advice was lost on Miles when he jumped over the piles of rocks as well, imagining that he was a glorious hero, climbing to save people in distant mountains. His own sense of balance was failing him, and gravity was trying to pull his little body down, but he resisted it, stubbornly balancing on the very edge. And if Miles was unlucky enough to fall down, right into the muddy ground, he would rub his hands over and over again, red from the impact, and get back up with a straight face, continuing to walk forward. Because that's what glorious heroes always do, aren't they?

He also forgot his parents' words in those moments when he jumped through puddles on rainy autumn days, not caring about the wet spots on his newly bought clothes. Because Miles never really understood why his mother was so worried about all those stuff. He was having fun, he was happy here and now, jumping from water to water, from place to place, and they could always buy a new T-shirt, right? Even if it couldn't be washed anymore, because that's what they always did: they went to the nearest store and gave him, Miles, a chance to choose new clothes. His dad always insisted on buying T-Shirts with bright colors and inscriptions, which Miles himself always thought were stupid. Something like "Best Son of the Month" or "My First Baby Tooth," even though the "son of the month" had lost his first baby tooth a few years ago. His mother, in turn, always asked him to choose something more monotonous and simple, laughing at his father's suggestions every time they had their morning coffee. But without a new set of clothes and a few rolls of toilet paper, they never set foot in the store, that's for sure.

He didn't think twice about their words until the moment his dad was pulling him down from the tree with a quick movement, his mom was starting to gently treat his wounds after another fall, and they were both pulling him away from the puddles in unison, scolding their son for once again failing to follow the standard rules of basic safety.

And even this "standard rule of basic safety" made Miles feel immensely bored. He wanted to break free right now and run forward to the park, the water, and the rocks, but he never did.

Because no matter how angry they got at him afterwards, no matter how many times they tried to explain the same ridiculous list of rules to their son or shook their fingers at him, it all ended up with his mom gently running her hand through the child's curly mop of hair and his dad hugging Miles a little too tightly, causing him to hold his breath for a moment.

And Miles promised each time that it would never happen again.

And every morning he would start all over again.

Up to a certain point.

At the age of fifteen, Miles knew exactly what that "certain point" was, but he chose not to name it, either in his mind or out loud, settling for "a certain point."

The point when the grass was indeed greener, the birds chirping in the gardens louder, the children laughing in the street more often, and families did not have to close the windows every hour to keep the smell of ash and burning from reaching them from outside.

The piont after which only mother could yell at Miles Gonzalo Morales, threatening him with not having a new hairstyle for tomorrow's outing or grounding if his games, the games of a practically teenager, got out of hand.

If you ask Miles himself, he still could not consider himself an obedient child.

Yes, he did everything that was required of him, and even more: he studied hard, trying not to miss a single important lesson. He helped his uncle with machinery and other complex things whenever he was asked. By the time he was fourteen, he was definitely able to cook, clean the house, mop the floor, and iron his own dirty clothes. In general, if you look at the situation from the outside, Miles could be called a diligent son.

However, this did not change the fact that there were really only two parental institutions, and any other rule existed solely to ensure that he followed them:

1. To keep yourself safe.

2. Do not get injured unnecessarily.

And to this day, Miles has failed on each of these points.

Because Miles was the Prowler, and this hard work could not guarantee you any safety, let alone injury.

That was why he was now sitting at the kitchen table with his mother, trying to somehow cover up what he had done. Still, as a child grows older, the concept of shame begins to catch up with him faster and faster, until it finally hits him in the back, reminding him of every year he has lived, every ban he has ignored.

It was one of those rare days when Rio Morales came home from work early in the evening, not late at night as usual. Maybe it was because of some new Green Goblin Diapers holiday or something, it didn't really matter to either of them.

All that mattered to Miles Morales was that he looked up at the stove just as his mother stood up from the table, ladle in hand.

"Prepararé pasta para cenar.¹ We haven't had dinner like this in a long time, haven't we, mijo?" she said to her son, throwing a packet of pre-purchased raw pasta into the pot.

Miles loved his mom's food. No, honestly, every combination of ingredients that came from Rio's caring hands and onto his plate was literally living art, and the most delicious meal Miles had ever had. That's why now he would give his soul for his mom's homemade pasta, even if it's made from the cheapest ready-made supermarket product.

But for the first time in a long time, his mom came home from the hospital a little early. And he simply could not neglect her rest, even for the most luxurious dinner in the whole universe.

So he slowly walked over to Rio and stood next to her, calmly watching her stir the water with a ladle. His mother, in turn, measured him with a surprised look. It was clear: right now, Miles should just sit at the table, waiting for a hot meal, just like in the old days.

However, times were different, and so instead of just sitting there blindly waiting, Miles reached out:

"Sí, mamá. Tengo muchas ganas de cenar, pero ¿qué tal si me encargo yo? Tú descansa un poco y yo practicaré mi cocina.² Okay?

For a moment, he was almost surprised at how easily the Spanish rolled off his tongue. At this rate, he thought, he would soon begin to forget English. At the very least, the process had already begun.

Meanwhile, my mom's look turned from surprised to worried.

"Pero hijo!³ Aren't you the one who should be resting here? I've cooked your dinner hundreds of times, it's not hard for me, dear!" she raised her tone a drop, and the ladle clinked against the lid of the pot.

Miles didn't want her to worry about him, but he sincerely wanted her to rest. That's why he shrugged and continued:

"Lo sé. Estoy seguro de ello. Pero has tenido un día largo. Te mereces descansar."⁴ he raised his head a little higher to meet his mother's eyes "Besides, I really need to practice. Honestly."

For a few seconds they just looked at each other. For as long as he could remember, Rio's gaze had always somehow mixed indignation and assertiveness with pure displays of warmth and love, and Miles would probably never find the answer to this one mother's secret.

His own eyes seemed to express absolutely nothing for several years.

And yet somehow Miles won the battle, because his mother suddenly nodded to him, and immediately followed by quietly waddling over to the kitchen chair.

"Don't burn down the kitchen, please!" she shouted after him in the same tone as she used to use when she said, "Don't climb that tree, son!" or "Miles, we don't have rubber boots for you to jump in like that."

It was probably because she was really tired that day, just like every other day: her movements lacked the confidence and vigor of the morning, her legs were not responding well, and the bruises under her eyes looked even bigger than they already were.

This is the reason Miles was standing here, in front of a large steel pot of cheap pasta.

"I promise I won't burn it, mom," he snarls, picking up the ladle and adding, "Te lo prometo."⁵

Just to be sure.

English is definitely no longer his first language.

In fact, every time Miles told Rio that he was a good cook, he was actually lying to her. If only so that his mother could let him do the cooking, just like now. Up until "a certain point," Miles' cooking was limited to stirring dough during family days and making hot sandwiches in the microwave. But, well, from now on, he has a lot more to learn.

So, with a cautious glance at the boiling water in the pot, Miles set to work. Today he really wanted it to be delicious.

The process of cooking the pasta did not require any complicated movements - all he had to do was stir the pasta in a circular motion and adjust the heat under the pot. However, the second point turned out to be more difficult to accomplish than it might have seemed at first: their home stove had seen better days, and every second of that fire in their apartment cost them a lot of money. So he had to cook on "low heat," watching the blue tongues with a steady gaze to make sure he didn't overcook it.

In addition, Miles really wanted to add something special to this dish. That's why he reached for the apron hanging on the cabinet handle right next to him and tied it around his waist in case any of the drops got on him. It was as simple and unassuming as possible, a light pastel-colored apron that had always belonged to his mother.

After that, having ensured all the necessary safety, he took a few spices from the shelf above: crushed rosemary roots, red pepper, and some other brownish mixture of Indian origin, the names of which Miles, to be honest, did not know.

"What are you doing, son?" Rio suddenly asks him, looking up from the table.

"Making this pasta a little bit... better," Miles says cryptically, throwing a couple of small piles of spices into the steaming water. "You wanted dinner like we used to have, right?

Predictably, this says exactly nothing to his mom. But she doesn't argue:

"Just be careful!" she warns, and Miles nods silently in response.

He knows. His mother always tells him to be careful: when he goes to school, when he goes for a walk outside, when he sits over his homework with a pencil in hand, when he helps her unpack packages, when he asks her to carry them, when... Actually, if you go through all those times, it would take forever to remember.

So he pushes these thoughts aside and continues to work on the stove: he adds a little rosemary, stirs it gently, then throws in some unknown spices, finally seasoning the dish with salt. Quick movements, lightning-fast thoughts, qualitative analysis: what Miles did best in this house. He only needed to take one look at a pile of pasta to realize how many minutes he had left to cook it.

"Five more minutes!" he shouted in Rio's direction as he turned.

He thought that his mother had already realized this: steam was billowing out of the pot, filling the room with the persistent smell of spices mixed with cheap dough.

"¡Muy bien, mijo! Estoy esperando."⁶ she smiled back, a hint of pride in her voice.

There were a couple of minutes of peaceful stirring with a ladle, during which he occasionally added salt, "by eye". There was more than enough spices, they had already mixed with water and settled on the paste, giving it a certain characteristic flavor that could be felt on the tongue even through the air.

He counted down the time in his head:

One.

Two.

Three.

And at the same second he took the pan off the fire, immediately turning off the gas.

"Dinner is ready!" he announced enthusiastically, putting the pasta on plates that had been previously stacked nearby.

They had bought a serving that was labeled as a meal for one person, but Miles had to divide it into two, carefully distributing the pasta on exactly two plates, making sure everything was the same. Although, to tell the truth, he had given his mom a little extra: she deserved it. Now all that was left was to serve what he had prepared.

"Mijo, I could..." Rio called out to him anxiously, already preparing to get up from her chair.

"No," he interrupted her with a gentle movement, "I'll do it myself.

And, more than satisfied with his work, Miles deftly balanced himself and walked over to the table. He made sure that Rio got her portion and he got his. Then he rushed to the prep table, took a pair of iron forks and knives from the cabinets, and laid them out on the table in the same way - for himself and his mother.

Only then did he sit down in his chair opposite, take off his apron, pick up the cutlery, and raise his voice:

"Bon appetit, mami."⁷ Miles speaks rather towards the plate. Not because he doesn't want to say it to his mother, but because that's how they used to do it a few years ago: start eating right away, without wasting much time on wishes.

"Buen provecho, hijo," Rio, who had somehow managed to keep her eyes on him and her mind wandering as if she were awake, said, "Muchas gracias."⁸

As already mentioned, the rules were that they would start eating right away, and it was the only rule in their house that Miles had loved since he was a little boy, so he didn't think about breaking it, and he began to throw the pasta into his mouth with the usual movements. He tried to move his fork as carefully as possible so as not to get any grease on his clothes: if he got a few greasy drops on his T-shirt that they couldn't wash, his mom would have to spend money on a new set of clothes. And he could not allow this to happen, not in any way: clothes, even those already worn by someone else, are terribly expensive nowadays.

In all other respects, he tried to focus on the result: the taste of the food in front of him.

It actually turned out better than he expected: yes, it was still not half as good as his mother could have made it without any spices, but it was something he could eat. The pasta may not have melted on the tongue, but it didn't burn it either, left a pleasant warm flavor and had some fat content even with the minimal amount of oil added.

It tasted edible, and that's enough to start with.

Then he turned his gaze to his mother, trying to read her gestures to see if she liked the pasta.

But she, unlike him, was in no hurry to eat, uncertainly picking at her pasta with a fork. Miles sighed somewhere in the back of his mind: that's probably because the workers at the hospital were given three times as much work on shorter shifts.

Rio must have noticed the surprise in his eyes, because she immediately started:

"Dear, I really like it, I really do. It's just..." her eyes were now looking somewhere in the direction of the corridor, "Did that shelf fall off again?"

Miles listened, and indeed, somewhere in the depths of the apartment, an old shelf creaked from the very fact of its existence, always trying to fall off, and which was always firmly nailed in place. Yet after a while it would start creaking again.

"Yeah," Miles confirmed, "or it's going to fall off soon. Don't worry, I'll get my tools tomorrow and..."

He was interrupted. He was interrupted by a voice Miles had rarely heard like this: a truly serious and stern, whose sole purpose was to close the topic of the dialog once and for all, to avoid any further counterarguments.

"No, Miles," Rio put down her pasta and turned her attention to her son, "I'll take care of that after work. Today you've already made dinner, mopped the floor, thrown in your clothes and ironed them after..." her tone softened noticeably, but still retained a certain iron edge, "You already take on too much, mijo. I can handle one wobbly shelf. Believe me."

Miles knew she could. Miles didn't doubt that, any more than he doubted that she wanted no part of it now. But he wasn't the one in this house who took on too much. And if his mom had to take on even more night shifts this month because of his, Miles', negligence, he wouldn't forgive himself. So he tried.

"I understand, Mommy," Miles said as quietly and gently as he could. He knew his mom didn't want an argument, not tonight, "But it'll be easier for both of us: I've taken over this shelf three times now, and I get home from school way before you get home from work. And if..." a sudden thought struck him, and Miles had to speak up before he regretted it, "If anything, we can look at prices for a repairman and ask Aaron...

"I said no, Miles," Rio cut him off without changing her tone, "I'm very grateful for all the help your uncle has given our family, but we can't rely on him alone, you understand it? I won't ask him for a penny. I have my own work, I have my own earnings."

And on this topic, Miles understood her more than anyone: he knew the numbers of each of their outstanding accounts by heart and knew that literally next week they would be calculating everything that added up to that minus. He was well aware that they were both ashamed to ask their uncle for money, which he had brought them without asking. That they each had their own way of repaying him. Rio's was working from dawn to dusk, no pun intended. Miles had a steel suit and sharp claws, serving his uncle and the city with all his might, to the last drop of sweat.

But she won't be picking up any extra hours. Not today. Not with him around.

"Then I'll take over. It will make more sense."

Simple facts, listed in a colorless voice, were a weapon that worked with everyone and everywhere, because no one could counter them.

And even his own mother, the person who knew Miles from head to toe, braided his hair, and kissed him on the cheek every morning, was on the list.

"Okay," she sighed, "Just be..."

"I already said I will. And I will." The very corners of Miles's mouth twitched upward a little. Not a smile, but something that looked like one.

"I believe you, son." Rio smiled at him. She really smiled, the way only a mother could smile, only she and only to her child. Without a single tinge of grief, uncertainty or fatigue. She just smiled, showing with her whole body what came out of her mouth at the last second "We will get through this together."

They will. Miles looked at her as she turned back to her dinner, which was almost cold, with visible relief, and suddenly stated with certainty - they will make it. Not today, not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow, maybe not in a year or two, but someday. That was the reason he was still here, pacing the city in mechanical armor like a night knight.

A concept far removed from "glorious hero," of course, but still. Still, they both get up and stand firmly on their two feet.

"Is it good?" he asks as he watches Rio eat his portion unusually quickly, "Does it taste like home?"

It's a stupid question, but it's exactly what he wanted to convey.

His mom looks at him, nods, and rewards Miles with three words:

"Yes, it's does."

----

¹ "I will prepare pasta for dinner"

² "Yes, Mom. I'm really looking forward to dinner, but how about if I take over? You get some rest and I'll practice my cooking."

³ "But, son!"

⁴ "I know it. I'm sure I do. But you've had a long day. You deserve to rest'

⁵ "I promise"

⁶ "Very good, mijo! I'm waiting."