#gabrielle writes (too little) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

briefcasejuice · 2 years

Text

a bad soap opera masterlist / AO3

author's note: matt, canonically, doesn't have a crooked nose — he's scarily perfect, actually — but there's no way he's been daredevil for this long and doesn't logically have one. anyway, one thought led to another and now there's this. enjoy! word count: 1093 pairing: matt murdock x gender neutral!reader summary: post-patrol interactions with matt differed from night to night, largely depending both your moods and how patrol went; tonight was no different, giving you both a quieter ending to your days. content: nostalgia, food eating, (domestic?) fluff.

You didn’t stir as Matt dropped through the skylight in the living room; your heartbeat gave a bare indication that you detected his presence, it’s sure beating slow and steady — with comfort and the safety of home — only interrupted by a slight jump.

You were eating cereal by the kitchen island, its lukewarm milk indicating that you’d been sitting there for a while as you chewed slowly, distracted by a show on your phone where it was propped on the bowl of fruit in the centre of the slab of marble. Tearing your eyes away from the screen, you took another spoon full of cheerios, the honey and dairy milk mixing to fill the air with a scent that reminded Matt of Saturday mornings when he was younger — waking up to his father watching reruns of football games or boxing matches he’d missed while out that week, migrating to the kitchen when Matt would ask him to pour his cereal for him.

Your feet swayed back and forth under the stool, an absent habit stirring up air currents and hints of your ‘scentless’ body wash, a strange manufactured smell, wafted towards him. You’d showered not too long before you’d grabbed your bowl of cereal and he smiled thinking of what songs you would’ve sang in there, another habit he’d grown to love. He almost chuckled thinking about how annoying he thought it was at first before you’d gotten a song stuck in his head and he’d found himself (read: foggy pointed it out) humming it at work. It was like having a little piece of you there with him and suddenly it wasn’t so annoying anymore.

Coming up behind you, his left hand kneading a sore muscle in his abdomen, you made a noise of acknowledgement, raising the spoonful of cheerios to his face. He went to eat it, his mask rubbing against his cheek strangely as he stuck his head out to take the milk and soggy hoops of cereal into his mouth. He bumped his face against the side of your forehead as you went to take another spoonful, a clumsy attempt at a kiss with a mouthful of food that had you murmuring, “Yuck, you’re sweaty. Go take a shower.”

He swallowed and chuckled, giving you a proper kiss on your forehead and trailing down your face, branding your skin with his lips. Your left eye closed when he made his way past it and you licked at bits of milk in the corner of your mouth before he could kiss there.

“Can’t hang out with you first?” he asked, his voice intentionally dropping an octave, intentionally low and enticing where his lips remained by your ear. Seasoned Matt-sitter, you shook your head, chewing on your cheerios as you erected a hand over your full mouth and spoke anyway.

“Nuh-uh- I showered and I don’t wanna shower again,” your voice was muffled by cereal but a small smile played on your lips. He groaned, the sound full of sarcastic pain and layered over a whispered, “Damn,” before he walked backwards towards the counter where you’d left the box of cereal out. Going back to your show, you tapped the left side of the screen a few times for the bits you missed while dealing with Matt’s tomfoolery. He opened the fridge for some milk, bathing the otherwise dark room in a harsh white light that had you squinting.

“What’re you watching?” he enquired, his back still turned as he poured milk into his cereal.

“I dunno, some random show Jessica ‘n Luke recommended,” you mumbled, not looking up, “Never trusting their taste again. I think being parents has ruined it.”

Matt let out a sudden little ha, “I’ll be sure to let them know.”

“Don’t! Jessica’ll kill me,” you put all the sarcastic fear you could into your voice, earning yourself one of his larger laughs, his head thrown backwards.

Putting the milk back in the fridge he joined you at the only other stool at the kitchen island. You watched as he sat beside you; with the apartment dark — save for the lights that came with living in New York, flooding through the glass walls of this borderline penthouse along with the light from your phone, dimmed by a white light filter — you could understand how people could be afraid of daredevil, his silhouette large and looming. Despite your realisation, your body didn’t skip a beat, affection running so deeply you smiled when you caught a strand of fiery hair peeking out the top of the mask.

Going to poke him in the abdomen as he passed you, he swatted at your finger before you could even unhinge your elbow to reach out to him.

“Not when I’m holding my dinner, thank you very much,” he said a-matter-of-a-factly.

“You need a better diet,” you shot back.

“And risk comfortable nights like this? No chance.” he said, sitting down and scooching over closer to you before wiggling atop the stool, getting comfortable. Once situated, you pinched the edge of his mask and pulled it off, setting it on the counter in front of you — not missing the way his shoulder muscles tensed up slightly at the contact. His hair was a mess, it’d grown long enough to push behind his ears but he didn’t make any attempt to in the moment, the larger amount of it hanging down in his face. He went to take a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, using the back of his palm to toss it over his head and when it laid there so perfectly, almost styling itself, you rolled your eyes.

He was still listening to the show you had on, his eyebrows raising as it got to its climax and it was only when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with it, that you noticed you were staring and looked away.

“Had your fill, hm?” he teased.

“Shut up,” you grumbled, setting your chin in your palm, your elbow planted on the counter top, “Your nose is crooked, y’know.”

“And yet you still call me pretty everyday,” he hummed, taking another spoonful into his mouth. You leaned forward and took his chin between your fingers, kissing the side of his nose, right beneath his eye. It was clumsy but he smiled, his cheeks full of cheerios. He’s adorable.

“Those facts can coexist,” you spoke against his skin, “I love your crooked nose.”

He swallowed, humming. “And I love you.”

You raised your eyebrows and nodded before sarcastically adding, “You tell me everyday.”

all feedback/criticism is appreciated! i do not give permission for this or any of my fanfiction to be reposted or translated without my consent.

#matt murdock fanfic #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil comic fanfic #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #matt murdock x gn!reader #matt murdock x gender neutral reader #daredevil x gn!reader #daredevil x gender neutral reader #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #daredevil x y/n #daredevil x you #x reader #gabrielle writes (too little)

231 notes · View notes

gg-ladybug · 9 months

Text

Let me be INCREDIBLY clear when I say it was always obvious Gabriel Agreste was planning to sacrifice himself.

Even when orchestrating a perfect scenario for Ladybug to believe, he finds a way to write himself and his worth out of it (in a way that was SUPER mentally questionable— but that’s a whole other analysis)

Despite doing it in a way that was beneficial to him— and traumatic for all involved— he’s basically spent the last year of his life vicariously speaking about himself through other people / victims, and I WILL NOT stop talking about it until I eventually write an essay on it

#it angers me that I have so many thoughts on the season and so little time to write it all down #despite being a cheap writing move too— it is NOT a shock #*adds to my list of growing essays I need to write*#I promise I’ll start posting them soon #I just keep picking up topics that are bugging me #miraculous #mlb #miraculous ladybug #gabriel agreste #miraculous spoilers #spoilers #ml spoilers #miraculous season 5 #season 5 spoilers #miraculous theory

24 notes · View notes

strawberrycamel · 6 months

Text

you ever think about what could've happened in Evolution if, instead of trying to anticipate Ladybug and Chat Noir's moves, Gabriel had sent a warning to the past about the Peacock miraculous to Emilie or his past self? Maybe also left instructions on how to fix the peacock miraculous? Something about appreciating his time with his wife as much as possible?

yeah me neither

#ml #anyway i got overcome with fic ideas and took a little break from [redacted] fic to write a new wip #im not thinking too hard about this rn but like. he didnt even know about Bunnyx until this episode right?? so like. what was stopping him #i know what was stopping him but. ack. thinking.#w/e im just gonna finish the episode and focus on getting refs for my wip #gabriel agreste

11 notes · View notes

adammilligan · 2 years

Text

say what you want about au!michael but christian keyes really did put his whole back into making him seem like a character instead of some half-baked villain

#it's why everyone else who plays him kiiiiiind of sucks by comparison with the small exception of like. felisha tarell #and even then they were already writing him as Just Some Bad Guy #but christian keyes had it ALL he had the insane laughter towards the sky while gabriel died in his arms #he had the confused little head tilt turned resigned expression when au!kevin was rambling at him #he had the greatest interactions with lucifer. 'can't get too much of a good thing' for realsies #i meannnnn the potential was all THERE and then they WASTED it #kate rambles #alternate michael #felisha terrell*^ it's not even 9am yet and here i am misspelling names. god

15 notes · View notes

shmorp-mcdurgen · 2 years

Note

I keep looking at the one picture of Mark pulling a home alone prank on Thatcher

The way Mark writes his name makes me smile 'marK'

Thatcher sees that half assed apology before getting obliterated with an iron

#asks are neat #also. I will admit I didn’t even notice that I wrote a capital K in his name #my. handwriting isn’t the best but you know what it fits #mark would write his name a little funky I think #same with. pretty much every other alternate. and fuck it every human character too #except Gabriel probably

10 notes · View notes

quietwingsinthesky · 1 year

Note

🔫 what’s ur oldest WIP

This was actually more difficult to find than you’d think. My WIPs are spread all over the goddamn place, but I think it’s this one I found in my notes app. The premise was a pre-Lucifer’s Fall fic about the archangels wherein Lucifer thinks it will be very funny if he pushes Michael into a black hole. (Gabriel is running interference on Raphael so that they can’t prevent Michael from being an idiot and falling for this really obvious trap.) and he’s right! It is funny!

For about 10 seconds before the remaining three of them realize that Michael can’t get himself free and start panicking. Eventually, they have to get their dad’s help to pull Michael out.

You know what? Might as well post the snippet I had written, just in case I never finish it. Taking place immediately after Michael is retrieved from the black hole he was shoved into:

Michael looks terrible. His wings, held tightly against his back, are a mess, feathers bent and disorderly, more than a few missing completely. He holds himself stiffly under their father’s gaze as he inspects Michael for any serious injury. After a moment, their father steps back to look at all four of them. Gabriel’s wings tremble, and Lucifer extends his own to cover them without dropping his father’s gaze.

“Whose fault is this?” he asks. Raphael looks at Michael, but he doesn’t look back, keeping his eyes on their father. He waits, and the four of them say nothing. “I asked you a question.” Gabriel shrinks further back under Lucifer’s wing. Raphael kind of looks like they want to do the same, but they’re too far away.

It was Gabriel’s plan. Strictly speaking, he should be the one their father disciplines.

But he’s already paid the price for it in Lucifer’s eyes. He was terrified they’d actually gotten Michael hurt. He’d nearly gotten sucked in himself trying to get Michael out. His wings are still trembling slightly, upsetting the feathers on the underside of Lucifer’s wing, but Lucifer doesn’t move. He’s older, he’s God’s favorite, and he’s gotten in trouble far more times than Gabriel ever has. He can weather any punishment better than his little brother.

“I wa-“ Lucifer starts.

“Lucifer warned me not to get too close.” Michael interrupts. He meets Lucifer’s eyes. Lucifer shuts up.

“Did he?” Their father presses. “Michael, if something happened…”

“I made a mistake.” Michael stands his ground. “My siblings tried to help me.”

“Gabriel and Lucifer did try to pull him out,” Raphael says to bolster Michael’s lie. Lucifer can’t help feeling proud of them. “I told them it was a bad idea, but they tried anyway.”

“You’re lucky neither of you got trapped as well,” their father says, “and that if you did, Raphael had the sense to stay behind.” Raphael smiles a little. Their father sighs and manages to give the impression of rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration without actually doing it. “And you’re sure that’s all that happened, Michael?”

“Yes, Father.” Michael nods.

Their father looks over them all, one by one. Lucifer still refuses to look down. Raphael does. Gabriel hasn’t met his eyes the entire time. Michael does look away, briefly, but he looks back, standing up straighter. There is no doubt in Lucifer’s mind that their father doesn’t believe a word they’ve said.

“Alright,” he says. “Don’t play near the black holes again, children.” There’s a chorus of Yes, Father’s from all four of them. He glances over them again, sighs louder this time, in a way that Lucifer thinks might be purposefully dramatic, and leaves. Gabriel finally peeks out, nudging Lucifer’s wing up.

“Are we not in trouble?” He asks. Lucifer tilts his head at Michael in question.

“You lied to Father’s face.” He feels the need to state, in case Michael doesn’t realize what he just did. Michael’s wings flap once, and he grimaces, like the movement hurts with his feathers so crooked.

“I did not.” He argues. “I said I made a mistake, and I did. I believed for a minute that you think about anything other than mischief.” His voice is light, not reprimanding. Raphael snorts, and Lucifer understands Michael’s game. Lucifer scowls at him. Michael rolls his eyes.

“Well, I suddenly can’t remember how to groom your wings,” he retorts. “After all, if all my knowledge is solely devoted to mischief-“

“I imagine it takes up a lot of space, Lu,” Michael says with joking condescension, “and with a mind as small as yours…” He’s cut off by Gabriel starting to giggle. Raphael joins in a few seconds later. It feels more like a release of tension than anything. Lucifer huffs, feathers puffing up with faux annoyance, and Michael smiles softly.

#internal debate about capitalizing the h for god in the narration continues. difficult. never-ending.#there is too much atheism and religious trauma in me to want to put respect on the lord's name #(yet somehow simultaneously i was raised too christian to be comfortable just calling him god in the text very often)#i can write archangels banging without batting an eye and somehow. this is my challenge.#anyway #hope you enjoyed that #ty for asking #with luck i will finish this up someday and post it #the fic is supposed to end with luci cornering michael to fix his wings up #with michael protesting that he's Fine! he can do it himself!#and lucifer ignoring him #followed by gabriel and raphael tumbling into their nest a little later and initiating an archangel puppy pile #v soft. v fluff.#ask

3 notes · View notes

denimbex1986 · 4 months

Text

'...“It’s fun playing bad, but actually he’s not,” the actor says, smiling as he reflects on his character, Crowley. “He’s a villain with a heart. The amount of really evil things he does are vanishingly small.”

...As it always has, “Good Omens” dissects the view of good and evil as absolutes, showing viewers that they are not as separate as we were led to believe growing up. Aziraphale and Crowley’s long-standing union is proof of this. The show also urges people to look at what defines our own humanity. For Tennant — who opted to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Leave trans kids alone you absolute freaks” during a photocall for Season 2 — these themes are more important now than ever before.

“In this society that we’re currently living in, where polarization seems ever more present, fierce and difficult to navigate. Negotiation feels like a dirty word at times,” he says, earnestly. “This is a show about negotiation. Two extremes finding common ground and making their world a better place through it. Making life easier, kinder and better. If that’s the sort of super objective of the show, then I can’t think of anything more timely, relevant or apt for the rather fractious times we’re living in.”

“Good Omens” is back by popular demand for another season. How does it feel?

It’s lovely. Whenever you send something out into the world, you never quite know how it will land. Especially with this, because it was this beloved book that existed, and that creates an extra tension that you might break some dreams. But it really exploded. I guess we were helped by the fact that we had Neil Gaiman with us, so you couldn’t really quibble too much with the decisions that were being made. The reception was, and continues to be, overwhelming.

Now that you’re no longer bound by the original material that people did, perhaps, feel a sense of ownership over, does the new content for Season 2 come with a sense of freedom for you? This is uncharted territory, of sorts.

That’s an interesting point. I didn’t know the book when I got the script. It was only after that I discovered the worlds of passion that this book had incited. Because I came to it that way, perhaps it was easier. I found liberation from that, to an extent. For me, it was always a character that existed in a script. At first, I didn’t have that extra baggage of expectation, but I acquired it in the run-up to Season 1 being released… the sense that suddenly we were carrying a ming vase across a minefield.

In Season 2, we still have Neil and we also have some of the ideas that he and Terry had discussed. During the filming of the first one, Neil would drop little hints about the notions they had for a prospective sequel, the title of which would have been “668: The Neighbour of the Beast,” which is a pretty solid gag to base a book around. Indeed there were elements like Gabriel and the Angels, who don’t feature in the book, that were going to feature in a sequel. They were brought forward into Season 1. So, even in the new episodes, we’re not entirely leaving behind the Terry Pratchett-ness of it all.

It’s great to see yourself and Michael Sheen reunited on screen as these characters. Fans will have also watched you pair up for Season 3 of “Staged.” You’re quite the dynamic duo. What do you think is the magic ingredient that makes the two of you such a good match?

It’s a slightly alchemical thing. We knew each other in passing before, but not well. We were in a film together [“Bright Young Things,” 1993] but we’d never shared a scene. It was a bit of a roll of the dice when we turned up at the read-through for “Good Omens.” I think a lot comes from the writing, as we were both given some pretty juicy material to work with. Those characters are beloved for a reason because there’s something magical about them and the way they complete each other. Also, I think we’re quite similar actors in the way we like to work and how we bounce off each other.

Does the shorthand and trust the two of you have built up now enable you to take more risks on-screen?

Yes, probably. I suppose the more you know someone, the more you trust someone. You don’t have to worry about how an idea might be received and you can help each other out with a more honest opinion than might be the case if you were, you know, dancing around each other’s nervous egos. Enjoying being in someone’s orbit and company is a positive experience. It makes going to work feel pleasant, productive, and creative. The more creative you can be, the better the work is. I don’t think it’s necessarily a given that an off-screen relationship will feed into an on-screen one in a positive or negative way. You can play some very intimate moments with someone you barely know. Acting is a peculiar little contract, in that respect. But it’s disproportionately pleasurable going to work when it’s with a mate.

Fans have long discussed the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. In Season 2, we see several of the characters debate whether the two are an item, prompting them to look at their union and decipher what it is. How would you describe their relationship?

They are utterly co-dependent. There’s no one else having the experience that they are having and they’ve only got each other to empathize with. It’s a very specific set of circumstances they’ve been dealt. In this season, we see them way back at the creation of everything. They’ve known each other a long time and they’ve had to rely on each other more and more. They can’t really exist one without the other and are bound together through eternity. Crowley and Aziraphale definitely come at the relationship with different perspectives, in terms of what they’re willing to admit to the relationship being. I don’t think we can entirely interpret it in human terms, I think that’s fair to say.

Yet fans are trying to do just that. Do you view it as beyond romantic or any other labels, in the sense that it’s an eternal force?

It’s lovely [that fans discuss it] but you think, be careful what you wish for. If you’re willing for a relationship to go in a certain way or for characters to end up in some sort of utopian future, then the story is over. Remember what happened to “Moonlighting,” that’s all I’m saying! [Laughs]

Your father-in-law, Peter Davison, and your son, Ty Tennant, play biblical father-and-son duo Job and Ennon in Episode 2. In a Tumblr Q&A, Neil Gaiman said that he didn’t know who Ty’s family was when he cast him. When did you become aware that Ty had auditioned?

I don’t know how that happened. I do a bunch of self-tapes with Ty, but I don’t think I did this one with him because I was out of town filming “Good Omens.” He certainly wasn’t cast before we started shooting. There were two moments during filming where Neil bowled up to me and said, “Guess, who we’ve cast?” Ty definitely auditioned and, as I understand it, they would tell me, he was the best. I certainly imagine he could only possibly have been the best person for the job. He is really good in it, so I don’t doubt that’s true. And then my father-in-law showed up, as well, which was another delicious treat. In the same episode and the same family! It was pretty weird. I have worked with both of them on other projects, but never altogether.

There’s a “Doctor Who” cameo, of sorts, in Episode 5, when Aziraphale uses a rare annual about the series as a bartering tool. In reality, you’ll be reprising your Time Lord role on screen later this year in three special episodes to mark the 60th anniversary. Did you always feel you’d return to “Doctor Who” at some point?

There’s a precedent for people who have been in the series to return for a multi-doctor show, which is lovely. I did it myself for the 50th anniversary in 2013, and I had a wonderful time with Matt [Smith]. Then, to have John Hurt with us, as well, was a little treat. But I certainly would never have imagined that I’d be back in “Doctor Who” full-time, as it were, and sort of back doing the same job I did all those years ago. It was like being given this delightful, surprise present. Russell T Davies was back as showrunner, Catherine Tate [former on-screen companion] was back, and it was sort of like the last decade and a half hadn’t happened.

Going forward, Ncuti Gatwa will be taking over as the new Doctor. Have you given him any advice while passing the baton?

Oh God, what a force of nature. I’ve caught a little bit of him at work and it’s pretty exciting. I mean, what advice would you give someone? You can see Ncuti has so much talent and energy. He’s so inspired and charismatic. The thing about something like this is: it’s the peripherals, it’s not the job. It’s the other stuff that comes with it, that I didn’t see coming. It’s a show that has so much focus and enthusiasm on it. It’s not like Ncuti hasn’t been in a massive Netflix series [“Sex Education,”] but “Doctor Who” is on a slightly different level. It’s cross-generational, international, and has so much history, that it feels like it belongs to everyone.

To be at the center of the show is wonderful and humbling, but also a bit overwhelming and terrifying. It doesn’t come without some difficulties, such as the immediate loss of anonymity. It takes a bit of getting used to if that’s not been your life up to that point. I was very lucky that when I joined, Billie Piper [who portrayed on-screen companion, Rose] was still there. She’d lived in a glare of publicity since she was 14, so she was a great guide for how to live life under that kind of scrutiny. I owe a degree of sanity to Billie.

Your characters are revered by a few different fandoms. Sci-fi fandoms are especially passionate and loyal. What is it like being on the end of that? I imagine it’s a lot to hold.

Yes, certainly. Having been a fan of “Doctor Who” since I was a tiny kid, you’re aware of how much it means because you’re aware of how much it meant to you. My now father-in-law [who portrayed Doctor Who in the 80s] is someone I used to draw in comic strips when I was a kid. That’s quite peculiar! It’s a difficult balance because on one end, you have to protect your own space, and there aren’t really any lessons in that. That does take a bit of trial and error, to an extent, and it’s something that you’re sometimes having to do quite publicly. But, it is an honor and a privilege, without a doubt. As you’ve said, it means so much to people and you want to be worthy of that. You have to acknowledge that and be careful with it. Some days that’s tough, if you’re not in the mood.

I know you’re returning to the stage later this year to portray Macbeth. You’ve previously voiced the role for BBC Sounds, but how are you feeling about taking on the character in the theater?

I’m really excited about it. It’s been a while since I’ve done Shakespeare. It’s very thrilling but equally — and this analogy probably doesn’t stretch — it’s like when someone prepares for an Olympic event. It does feel like a bit of a mountain and, yeah, you’re daring to set yourself up against some fairly worthy competition from down the years. That’s both the challenge and the horror of doing these types of things. We’ve got a great director, Max Webster, who recently did “Life of Pi.” He’s full of big ideas. It’s going to be exciting, thrilling, and a little bit scary. I’m just going to take a deep breath.

Before we part ways, let’s discuss the future of “Good Omens.” Gaiman has said that he already has ideas for Season 3, should it happen. If you were to do another season, is there anyone in particular you’d love to work with next time around or anything specific you’d like to see happen for Crowley?

Oh, Neil Gaiman knows exactly where he wants to take it. If you’re working with people like Gaiman, I wouldn’t try to tamper with that creative void. Were he to ask my opinion, that would be a different thing, but I can’t imagine he would. He’s known these characters longer than me and what’s interesting is what he does with them. That’s the bit that I’m desperate to know. I do know where Crowley might end up next, but it would be very wrong if I told you.

[At this point, Tennant picks up a pencil and starts writing on a hotel pad of paper.]

I thought you were going to write it down for me then. Perhaps like a clandestine meeting on a bench in St James’ Park, but instead you’d write the information down and slide it across the table…

I should have done! I was drawing a line, which obviously, psychologically, I was thinking, “Say no more. You’re too tempted to reveal a secret!” It was my subconscious going “Shut the fuck up!”

3K notes · View notes

buggachat · 3 months

Text

this is NOT a criticism, because i legitimately find enjoyment in it and it is very much just a product of the time and had i been writing fics on the subject back then I'm not sure what I would've done either. BUT.

it is always sososo funny to read late season 2 to mid season 4 era fics that bring up Emilie's death and are like "yeah, she died from using the peacock miraculous. What was she using the miraculous for? uhhhhhhhhhh.... fun and whimsy! yeah. just like. a silly little hobby she had i guess to use this ancient magical cursed brooch pilfered from tibet to create life. you know how it is. dont worry! she killed all the little secret monsters she created! so it's not a problem anymore! but yeah and then she died from her funny little magic hobby, what can you do about it. maybe she should've picked up pottery instead but it's too late now. yeah gabriel's pissed about it too."

#those were simpler times

2K notes · View notes

miguelhugger2099 · 24 days

Text

Punk!Miguel who’s proud of his tattoos. At least most of them. He has some professionally done and others were stick and pokes from when him and Gabriel were younger.

Punk!Miguel who watches you with a smile when you touch up and down his arm. He hides the shivers down his spine when your perfectly manicured pink and green nails rake across the art decorated on him.

“What’s this one?” You poke at a terrible done smiley face, it was a little blobbed but barely noticeable with the much nicer ones done around it.

“One of the first tries my brother did on me when he was starting out.”

“And you kept it?” You tilt your head with a scrunch of your nose. Miguel laughs.

“Sentimental value.”

You scoff. “No way.”

“Yeah, way.” He takes your hands and pulls you closer, lugging you forward onto his lap where you belonged. Getting yourself comfortable you placed your hands on his chest.

“Are you just gonna have them on your arms?” You ask, tugging down his shirt for a peek at any new ones. Miguel smirks and stops your peeking by tsking and shaking his head—a knowing look on his face.

“Course not but tattoos cost money, babe.”

“You should get one of me.” You pout your lips, crossing your arms that makes you seem snobbish.

“What? Like get one of your face?” He laughs and leans back on his hands.

“No! Like—I dunno! Something sentimental about…me?” You look away, feeling the prickling embarrassment crawling up your neck. “Never mind!”

“Oh, so you want to be on my body, huh?” He teases, taking your hand and sliding it under his tank top to feel his warm stomach, faint dips of abs.

“You know what I mean!” You whine, feeling frozen with him holding your hand in place. He can’t help but find you adorable. Letting go of your hand to come around your waist as he leans up again, one hand coming down to cup your ass. He swallows your squeak with a kiss, unable to stop himself from biting into your sweetness.

Punk!Miguel who—even if he teased you about it—actually adored the idea of having a tattoo of you on him.

Punk!Miguel who thought day and night of what could represent you. Flowers he felt was done often, your name was cute but basic and anything else could very well be mistaken for something else. He wanted something that was obviously you.

Punk!Miguel who was rearranging his room again, bustling through various boxes for some spring cleaning.

Punk!Miguel who found his box of memories from when you two first began dating. It had been filled with all your gifts and letters you’d given him—every last piece saved securely in the corner of his room.

He smiles as he opens the box up again. Some pieces of papers falling out and the little broken keychain you got to match with him until it snapped when he accidentally sat on it.

He sits at his desk, flipping through the pages and tiny plushies you’ve given him. His heart swelling at the swirls in your writing with blue ink—the bunny pen you always wrote with.

The smile on his face continues as he reads through your words of love for him—words that you often found too difficult to say. He slams his forehead on the desk, blush coating his cheeks and ears while he groans loudly.

Each letter you’d given him ended with a print of your kiss mark at the very bottom. Some of it was a matte red, others was a faint glitter stain, but most of it was a soft pinkish color. The kind that was glossy and gave you just enough color that it looked tinted and natural.

His finger grazes the mark, an idea popping in his head.

Punk!Miguel who goes to a tattoo shop he was very well acquainted with, with an artist he knew extra well.

He slams his arm on the counter where a man was behind it, sucking on a lollipop and doodling in his sketchbook. The guy raises an annoyed brow.

“Do you have any space open for a walk-in client?” Miguel asks with a smirk.

“I don’t have space for annoying ones.” He sighs and puts his drawing pad away.

“I have money this time, Gabri. Plus, family discount.”

Punk!Miguel who is both afraid and excited to show you what he’s done to himself. He feels his heart hammering while he preps himself to show you. He’d done the aftercare as precisely as possible, taking extra care of it because this was no ordinary tattoo.

Punk!Miguel that lets you take off his shirt when he tells you he’s gotten a tattoo of you.

Punk!Miguel who smiles with amusement when you gasp and hit his arm that you were joking before! That tattooing is a permanent thing! He tells you that he knows.

His heart stills when you eyes land on his chest. On his left side, where his heart would be was your kiss mark. Just like the ones you left on the letters you used to give him.

You touch your lips subconsciously, your other set of fingers hovering over his lifted skin. You look up for permission and he nods, brining himself closer.

You marvel at the piece of work that replicated your lips. “Oh, Miguel…” You sigh, blinking back tears.

“Are you getting emotional?”

“No!”

He brings you to his chest in a tight hug, your hand still resting beside your kiss mark now permanently etched on his person—a permanent reminder that he is yours and that he loves you.

#i need a cold cigarette to ease the pain #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x reader #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x you #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #miguel x you #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you #punk!migs

509 notes · View notes

amomentsescape · 8 months

Text

The Slashers React to You Bringing Home a Kitten

A/N: This is purely for fun. I've only included the Slashers I've written fics for so far. But these types of fics tend to put a smile on my face so I'd be happy to write more of these for whoever wants them (for whichever Slashers people want to see too)!

Michael Myers

Probably the most angry of the Slashers included here

He's not going to kill the kitten by any means, but he isn't happy about it being here

It's another mouth to feed, another thing that needs to be quieted

If you're able to keep the kitten quiet and away from Michael, then the killer will more so become indifferent to it

It makes you happy and doesn't bother him? Cool, do what you will

However, if he feels that it's becoming a nuisance, he'd happily leave a door open on "accident"

It was already difficult enough for him to create a bond with you

But with a kitten that can't even talk to him?

Yeah, he'd rather not

Jason Voorhees

Oh my

A cute innocent creature that is super sweet to him?

It's basically just another you

And he likes you, so he immediately likes the kitten

This man wreaks havoc and leaves behind human blood trails all the time

However, he doesn't really want to hurt any animals

These furry creatures have caused him no harm

They never judged him based on his appearance

They were never cruel or bullied him like other people did

In fact, he was fascinated with all sorts of animals as a child

Kittens were no exception

So you come home with a cuddly little cat that enjoys to cuddle up with him?

He'll take it happily

Brahms Heelshire

He's kinda eh with this at first

The house is huge, and it's not like a tiny kitten is going to take up much space here

But what this kitten does take up is more of your attention

And Brahms being Brahms, he starts to become jealous

Your attention went from being solely on him to now being divided with this animal that could clearly fend for itself

You need to feed it, cuddle it, and give it attention?

That's what you should be doing with him

He definitely has a few moments where he debates "getting rid" of the kitten

But then he pictures your crying face and decides against it

But he still considers it from time to time

However, if you are able to turn kitten time into Brahms-and-kitten-time, then he might learn to like it

Animals freak him out slightly since he's not really used to having them around

But he could learn to deal with it eventually

Just make sure you divide up your attention equally

Billy Loomis

He's more of a dog person honestly

But you were swooning and aw-ing over this poor little thing so Billy gave in

You were probably just going to keep nagging him about it anyways

He's definitely like one of those dads that insist they don't want a pet but eventually fall in love with it

Billy will never admit this though

But you can see it

Over the span of a couple weeks, Billy went from just eyeing the kitten to letting it crawl and sleep in his lap

He tries to act all nonchalant about it

But the moment you look away

His eyes are on the kitten and a gentle smile graces his features

Okay so maybe the kitten isn't that bad

But maybe you're just making him all soft

He's secretly not complaining though

Stu Macher

Literally all for it

He loves cats, dogs, hamsters, all animals pretty much

He might honestly become more obsessed over this little kitten than you

He most definitely wants to dress it up like Ghostface

Like are you kidding?

How adorable is that

You can hear loud footsteps in the middle of the night

And when you check, Stu is chasing the kitten back and forth during it's zoomies

Buys (and steals) all sorts of toys for the little thing

Lets it sleep on his chest at night

He's obsessed with this kitten and you

It's like his own little family

And he's honestly super happy with that

Eric Draven

Have you learned anything about Eric?

He loves cats

He does want the kitten and Gabriel to get along though

But if they make quick friends, then great

He plays around with the kitten pretty often

And he's overall just happy to have another something in his life to bring a little joy

The kitten chills with Eric outside while he plays guitar

The only issue is that the kitten would rather spend more time with Eric than you

Tries to play with the crow

The bird just caws annoyedly and flys off

Eric and you both cuddle up at night with the kitten in the middle

It's a pretty relaxing domestic life to be honest

1K notes · View notes

briefcasejuice · 2 years

Text

lukewarm coffees masterlist / AO3 / inspired by

author's note: thank you so much to everyone who showed interest in this; i got so much support from the mentioning of this concept, it's insane! and thank you to @taquidro for her beautiful artwork. word count: 2970 characters: matt murdock, foggy nelson (mattfoggy if you squint, it's a little domestic), mentioning of claire and frank. summary: a cat finds matt and he quickly grows fond of her. foggy would love her; why not bring her to meet him too? content: canon typical injury, sensory overload, cat., cat boy murdock propaganda, matt thinks too much tbh, fluff, desc of food, allusions to marriage.

Matt groaned as quietly as he could, reaching for the fire escapes ladder, his left arm numb from the bullet that’d grazed his shoulder. Perhaps ‘graze’ was a kind way to describe it, the considerably deep wound weeping with blood; he imagined the length, width and mass of Claire's finger would be able to fit into it.

He clambered onto the landing, the metal loud and ringing in his ears as he didn’t try to quiet his movements. It’d hurt more, he figured, and it wasn’t worth an empty building - this one having just gone up. The smell of new insulation and drywall was thick in his nostrils and he huffed, head twitching for any signs of construction managers or employees who might’ve stayed behind past work hours. Confirming the building’s emptiness he trudged upwards. Really, he just needed a place to rest and maybe meditate before he either made another lap around the neighbourhood or trudged home. Frank had managed to follow him around once a few weeks back when he was badly injured - commenting that he must be in horrible shape if he’d really managed to do it - and he wasn’t willing to take that risk again.

He whispered a hissed, "Shit," as he climbed onto the roof. There was a torn muscle somewhere in his leg - nothing important considering he was still moving - but he’d figure it out eventually, his focus waning in and out as he lost more blood. He stood, wincing as he pressed a hand over the wound; this clumsy pressure would have to do for now. He trudged around on the roof for a few minutes, committing every corner to his memory before taking a seat behind an ac unit - the unit would block any prying eyes from other buildings. He sat down clumsily and propped his back against it, his posture relaxed and legs set carelessly in front of him. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there for - his head bowed, hand pressed to his shoulder while he regulated his breathing - but soon enough he dragged his feet into himself and took position.

Legs crossed and palms facing upwards, he sorted through the sounds around him - "Turn down that tv-!", "Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?", "I told Harold I couldn’t-", "What the fuck is wrong wi-" - until there was relative silence. He cleared his throat, a sound that acted as an anchor to his body before he began regulating it.

In truth, he wasn’t sure how he’d learned to mediate, Stick having left before teaching him how to but it came almost naturally with his senses and what he’d already known in relation to how to use his body. He’d found himself doing it before stressful situations in college; little snippets of completely quieting the world around him before calming himself down gradually grew to manipulating his body when shit got hard in his final couple years and he could barely snatch himself some sleep.

The top of his arm began going cold, blood leaving the area as he meditated. It was a few moments before he figured he’d get up when something hairy brushed past his leg- no not hairy, furry.

Sensory information rushed back to him almost too quickly in his surprise, his hands shooting to the sides of his head for a split second. Why was there an ambulance on this side of town? It was filled with either empty lots of dirt or completely new and inhabited buildings there shouldn’t be anyone getting hurt- no that wasn’t an ambulance, it was a microwave’s timer going off a block over. He shook his head, getting his senses organised just as the furry-something meowed.

The cat rubbed its body against his thigh and bonked its head against his knee again, beginning to purr when Matt turned his head towards it, the cat aware it now had his full attention. He didn’t know what to do, not wanting to leave this cat behind - it smelling distinctly like a home - but very much wanting to go to his home, especially in his condition.

“What are you doing?” he grumbled, slightly annoyed. It murred again, setting its front paws on his legs where they intersected directly in front of him. The displacement of the air as the cat sniffed, its whiskers shuffling minutely, was loud in his ears as he set his senses on it, trying to figure out what it wanted. He snapped out of it when he realised the cat was doing the same thing, the memory of Foggy’s long running gag of comparing him to cats rising and making him slightly irritated but strangely fond.

He was pulled from his thoughts when the cat climbed into his lap, apparently mistaking the dip in his crossed legs for a bed. It circled the space a little - something of a routine and Matt internally begged that it would change its mind and not lay on him.

But hey, when was he ever lucky?

“Are you kidding me?” he whispered when the cat dropped itself, turning over onto its back once it was situated, its paws folded above it- not it, she. There was a jingle at the movement and the hard, cold metal of its tag dug into the side of his calf.

Wiggling the fingers of his left hand a little, he was pleased and perhaps proud of his meditative ability when he could feel the glove around the hand. He made a thoughtful noise before going to tear off a glove, the sound of the strange material of velcro grating in his ears. The cat didn’t seem to mind and began telling him about her day - a chorus of meows, murrs and merps being sung. Matt wondered how that much noise could fit into something so small.

He felt around for the tag, scratching the cat’s tummy a little, surprised that she even let him touch her there. There he was in his Daredevil suit, having just gave himself up for violence and something so small, fragile and inherently good was letting him interact with it in such a vulnerable way. He wasn’t thinking it, he didn’t think he deserved to think of it but the fact softened him, his irritation leaving.

He held the circular metal tag between his thumb and two other fingers, swiping his thumb over the engraved letters there at the front before turning it over and reading the owner’s numbers on the back.

“Fuckin’- Gertrude? Is that your name?” he whispered in disbelief. Named by a weirdo, he thought but couldn’t help it when he chucked the smallest bit, a huff that puffed his chest out. Gertrude set her paw on his tummy, her head turned up towards Matt as if she wanted to hear about his day too and Matt swooned, taking off his right glove before using his index finger to scratch along her nose.

She began purring louder, the sound similar to the hum of a bike’s engine and he smiled. He didn’t deserve this, but he smiled.

“Foggy would love you,” Matt murmured, his petting hand shifting with Gertrude as she rolled in the embrace of his legs. Gertrude made a mrr sound deep in her throat as if to say, “Of course he would.”

It wasn't until the temperature of the air around him began to rise, daybreak on its way, that Matt considered getting up to leave again. Gertrude had fallen asleep at least an hour ago, definitely more - her breathing slow and steady - but Matt couldn’t seem to get himself to mind until a thought was finally knocked loose and he remembered that he had work in an hour.

“Right,” he said to himself, deciding on a course of action. He always kept a spare change of clothes in his office, buried in the bottom most drawer and it’s like he said: Foggy would love Gertrude.

He bundled the sleeping cat in his arms, careful to handle her with a level of attentiveness so as to not wake her. With Gertrude held in one hand and to his chest as one would a baby, he rose to his feet, keeping his upper body as steady as possible. hissing when a muscle in his leg pulled weirdly. He made his way across rooftops, occasionally retreating to the alleys below when he came across a jump he couldn’t make with a cat in his arms before taking to the rooftops once more.

The sun had begun rising by the time he slid up the window to his office, his feet quiet on the landing of the fire escape. He sat in the window then jumped down, landing on his feet - his toes pointed and knees bent to eliminate noise. He had at least an hour before Foggy showed up, maybe more if he decided to stop at that bakery down the street, often showing up to work smelling of coffee, vanilla and fresh bread, a donut still between his fingers on multiple occasions.

He grabbed an extra coat that was hanging in the lobby and set it on his desk, mimicking the raised sides and the sloped middle of his crossed legs from earlier. Maybe Gertrude liked that kind of comfort specifically, he mused internally. Setting it down, he brushed as much of the cat hair as he could from his suit before going to the drawer for his extra clothes. Running a hand over the dress shirt and jeans, he cursed, the shirt crushed and creased in odd places; he thought he’d packed a shirt that didn’t need ironing. He undressed, folding up his suit and placing it at the back of the drawer then placing odd files in front of it before padlocking it. It was shabby, he knew, but he’d had police investigate the office before and they never went looking past the files about odd c-list celebrity divorces who’d wanted to keep it quiet and pet custody.

He got dressed, pausing when Gertrude stirred as his belt buckle jiggled. She turned over then promptly sank back into sleep and Matt really couldn’t help but chucked, the sleepyhead. Bandaging his shoulder and putting on his shirt, he sat at his desk and he was out before he could even think about getting his laptop and earbuds out, Gertrude’s purring lulling him into a borderline meditative state before he dropped off. He woke to the smell of vanilla and the familiar heartbeat of Foggy Nelson as he bounded up the stairs to the office. He was singing a song to himself, Abba, Matt recognized; his pitch was so off he almost missed it, honestly. He walked into the office, juggling two cups of coffee in one hand and his donut in the other.

“Matt, buddy, you here?” he called out, swallowing the bit of donut he was chewing. Instead of answering Matt opened his cracked door and leaned on it the frame, his arms folded.

“Maybe,” he teased, giving Foggy a sleepy smile. There was comfortable silence as Foggy observed him - from his mask hair to the lack of his glasses and his crumpled shirt, he nodded in realisation.

“Stayed out all night?” he asked, already knowing the answer was a ‘yes’ but the question was more ’what were you doing out all night’. Foggy retreated to his office, setting the coffee down on his desk and plopping his briefcase on the couch by the door of his office.

“Well I don’t want you to worry but I got a little hurt and had to rest but then I happened to meet a-” Matt began, stopping abruptly when there was a sharp meow coming from behind him. Foggy’s head snapped up, the drink carrier containing their coffees nearly falling from his hand when a cat with a green collar waltzed out from behind Matt.

“Wha-?” he began to ask, his eyes going between Matt’s face where his mouth was still parted on a silent word and the cat by his foot. He was also cut off by a string of what could only be assumed to be little cat sentences, the cat finishing Matt’s sentence. There was a high sound of excitement deep in Foggy’s throat as he set the coffees back down and made a beeline for Gertrude. Matt listened as Foggy got on his knees in front of her, sticking the back of his palm out for the cat to smell him. Obviously tired of pleasantries and greetings, Gertrude headbutted his hand and Foggy was quick to meet her demand for pets, beginning to scratch her chin.

“Where’d you find it?” Foggy asked distractedly, leaning backwards as Gertrude attempted to crawl onto his bent legs.

“Her- and I was getting to that,” Matt started fondly. Gertrude was a purring machine, a small mrr of pleasant surprise whispered in her throat when Foggy picked her up. “I was meditating on a roof when Gertrude came up to me-”

“Gertrude!?” Foggy yelled on a bark of laughter. “I need to meet the mastermind who named this little lady.”

Matt huffed, his hands moving from across his chest to his hips. “Well that little lady’s too friendly.”

“How can a cat ever be too friendly?” Foggy asked in exasperation, turning Gertrude over in his embrace so that she was upside-down. His voice took on the cutesy type that adults only ever used for babies and pets, “Are you too friendly? Who the heck thinks a cat can be too friendly? Right, my little lady?"

Gertrude was eating it up, her purring becoming more violent by the second.

“Maybe we can have Gertrude be our new receptionist," Foggy mused, padding back to his office and wiggling his fingers above Gertrude as she swatted at them. She seemed to like that idea, resuming her song of various very catlike noises, somehow even adding a question mark to the end of one sentence. Turning back to Matt, Foggy pointed at the mountain of fur in his embrace, laying backwards like a baby, “See! Even Gertrude gets the idea.”

Matt smiled, resigning to the idea, “Sure, but only if she can print my documents braille.”

“Don’t underestimate Gertrude! She’s a professional.” Foggy retorted, Gertrude tilting her face over the back of his forearm towards Matt.

“Well alright,” Matt said shrugging, drawing out the ‘e’ in ‘well’ as a sarcastic rendition of him thinking deeply about it. “Just for the day- gotta return her to her owners after work- I was gonna call them in a bit.”

Foggy made an agreeable noise, “Figured. There’s no way a Siamese was a stray.”

Matt paused where he was, turned back towards the inside of his office. “Siamese? Had never seen one before.”

“Oh yeah- they’re usually white with brown paws and ears and nose but this one’s white fur is a little darker- darker brown," Foggy said distractedly as he continued to play with the little fella, going to sit behind Karen's old desk.

Matt hummed, tracking Foggy as he set Gertrude on the desk. He took the telephone and Gertrude came up to sniff it; there was a giggle in his throat and Matt smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with it.

“Hello, meow-ceptionist,” Foggy started in a fake voice, “We’re calling about your bosses! We need legal meow-presentation.”

Matt threw his head back in laughter as Gertrude meowed into the phone in seeming response and Foggy’s head snapped up, a bright smile on his face as he watched Matt laugh. Then, he remembered-

“Shit! Matt the coffee’s gonna get cold,” he jumped up and went towards his office, Gertrude trailing after him. She jumped on the desk to where Foggy’s arms were extended and sniffed along the tops of the cups where there were openings.

“It’s fine they’re not too cold yet,” Matt assured him, focusing on the faint heat radiating from them, “They’re drinkable.”

“Yeah, Gertrude seems interested in ‘em enough,” he smiled at her, “I’m trusting your judgement as both my employee and friend. Do we need to reheat these?”

Gertrude mrred and pawed at the cups; Matt and Foggy did not reheat them and enjoyed their lukewarm coffees.

___________________

Foggy waved goodbye as Gertrude’s owners closed their front door, an overcast sunset bathing them in a cool purple light, making Gertrude’s brown fur almost black.

As soon as they turned and started walking, Foggy sagged, his muscles creaking with it.

“Yeah I miss her too, buddy,” Matt sighed, slipping a hand around his shoulders. Foggy leaned into it, tipping his head over into the side of Matt’s face a little.

“We should get an office cat,” he murmured, more to himself than to Matt but Matt answered anyway, humming in agreement.

“We should,” he mused, “What was it you said years ago?” He brought his hands up and made air quotes. “‘This’ - our firm - ‘is way more important than a civil union’ so yeah, civil unions, marriages, have cats. We could too.”

They’d stopped walking while Matt spoke and Foggy’s face slowly morphed from grief to sheer glee.

“Matt-” he started excitedly but Matt cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah be excited all you want but this is serious stuff- I mean, a cat’s, I dunno, like having a kid,” he retorted before Foggy could even bring it up.

“Still! this is fantastic- we’re gonna be cat dads!” Matt laughed at the title. Gosh, he really didn’t deserve this - this companionship, this love and trust.

“To Josie’s!” Foggy yelled with his arms extended outwards, as if declaring some wonderful news- because, yeah, this was wonderful. “This is a cause for celebration!”

“You always wanna go t’Josie’s- celebration or not!” Matt teased on a chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah. shut up. Can’t blame a guy that wants to have fun, though.”

all feedback/criticism is appreciated! i do not give permission for this or any of my fanfiction to be reposted or translated without my consent.

#matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fanfiction #daredevil fanfic #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock fluff #daredevil fluff #mattfoggy #gabrielle writes (too little)

122 notes · View notes

scoobydoodean · 4 months

Note

what is your opinion on people calling dean a heavy misogynist? i don’t agree personally but i feel like you could put my thoughts into better words

First, I have to chuckle a little at "heavy misogynist". Apparently, some people have begun to realize their fave is also guilty of misogyny crimes therefore they focus on making sure all of us know Sam is a light misogynist and Dean is a heavy misogynist. I just find that amusing.

This is a broad topic in a long show, so I won't endeavor to address every conceivable incidence of misogyny in the show I can think of. Instead, I'm going to create a few headings, at least one of which I think most criticism falls under.

Misogyny through the writing team

How Sam's misogyny gets a pass

Purity culture wank and Dean performing for Sam

How Dean actually treats women

Misogyny Through The Writing Team

First, Supernatural in of itself has issues with misogyny—as in, the writers of the show (including female writers) have issues with misogyny which they are happy to put on display semi-frequently. The show started in 2005, during a period of time where casual sexism was absolutely rampant on TV and no one thought anything about it. Female celebrities were regularly mocked and dragged on cable television in a way men simply weren't. They were called bitches and skanks and whores, and even "progressive" voices were inundated with casual misogyny and a fixation on purity culture (that largely applied to women only). Quite simply, I think fandom tends to be far too generous toward the writers, assuming certain things were "flaws" the writers intentionally wrote for the characters.

Put another way, there are some criticisms I prefer to level at the writing team rather than the characters, because what is written plainly reflects their ignorance in the real world rather than any intent to give Sam or Dean or any other character meaningful flaws—much less outright terrible ones that greatly harm their image. I'll give a few examples:

2.17 "Heart" makes me very uncomfortable as I sit here in 2024 and observe how Sam and Madison's romance develops. Me feeling that way does not mean the authorial intent of 2007 Sera Gamble was that I think to myself, "Man Sam comes off as uncomfortably rapey here." Hopelessly bad with women, perhaps—but not creepy.

In season 2, the writers begin to develop a running “joke” that Sam is afraid of not just clowns but also little people. The latter “joke” is (wisely) dropped fairly quickly. I have never criticized Sam for being afraid of little people, and I never will. It is readily apparent to me that this running "joke" reflects the ignorance of the writing team rather than an intent to give Sam meaningful or interesting flaws. Their intent was to use little people as the butt of a joke. I personally find this "joke" distasteful, and the idea of trying to take that and somehow "dunk" on Sam for the bigotry of the writers is more distasteful to me.

This is also how I feel about the running "joke" of a porn magazine and website (BAB) that solely features Asian women, that is put on display on multiple occasions during the show—first in 2.15 "Tall Tales", where the context is Gabriel infecting Sam's laptop with a virus from the website and making him believe Dean is responsible. BAB continues to make "Easter Egg" appearances in the show afterward. While often associated with Dean by fandom, the writers clearly think of BAB as a general, "funny" (it isn't), running gag with no more depth than "haha men like porn funny". An issue is stolen by a sentient teddy bear in 4.08 "Wishful Thinking". An issue is owned by the teenager who swapped bodies with Sam in 5.12 "Swap Meat". The Men of Letters also collected a considerable number of issues (8.17). I simply do not believe the writers thought for a single moment about BAB being a grossly racist gag. They most certainly did not write it as an intentional criticism of Dean from that perspective. It reflects nothing but their ignorance and racism here in the real world, and absolutely SHOULD be criticized from that REAL WORLD impact.

How Sam's misogyny largely gets a pass

One of the things I have not been able to stop noticing on this rewatch is Sam's issues with misogyny, and how often Sam's misogyny comes out in conflicts with Dean... starting from the very first episode of the show. Pretty much any time you get anything that feels like it might be a misogynist Dean or horn dog Dean moment... Sam either just has or is about to follow that up with some misogyny of his own.

In 1.01, right after entering Sam's apartment and meeting Jess, Dean mentions the Smurfs on Jess's shirt. We think to ourselves "Okay. A little misogynist... a little horn-dog Dean." Sam is happy to 1-Up that in two ways. First, Jess voices her intentions to go get dressed. Dean dismisses this, but while doing so, makes it clear he intends to leave the room with Sam, as he'd like to have a private conversation with Sam anyway. Sam objects, walking over to Jess and putting an arm around her, demanding Dean say whatever he needs to say right then and there. Maybe this would feel supportive if Jess wasn't in her underwear and hadn't just made it clear that now that the panic over a possible break-in is over, she'd really like to not be in her underwear in front of a stranger. But nope. By god she needs to stand there so Sam can prove a point about misogynist Dean! Second, Sam immediately (and I think quite erroneously) jumps to imply Dean is trying to cut Jess out of the conversation because she's... a woman? Or... something? He makes a big show of moving over Jess and standing beside her, saying anything Dean has to say, he can say in front of Jess. However, the moment Sam actually understands that Dean is here because John is missing on a hunting trip, he dismisses Jess to speak to Dean alone... because he's lying to her. By painting Dean erroneously with this "The men are talking" bullshit that had nothing to do with anything, Sam sets himself up to be viewed as a misogynist by his own framing of the situation and what it means to leave Jess out of a discussion. He also reveals his own alleged principles as a performative illusion. Despite being his intended life partner, Sam never intends to tell the woman he loves about his past as a hunter (he makes this clear later on the bridge). However, I think because Sam's actions usually co-occur with what gets called out more directly or more immediately recognized as misogyny from Dean (should have gotten him for the Smurf's comment, Sam!) Sam's misogyny often flies under the radar... and he's really... pretty bad.

I spoke here at length about how Sam tends to look down on women who interact with Dean (often before meeting them). There is absolutely an intersection with purity culture here and there's discussion in that thread about that as well, and whether this is a "2000s writers" issue or intentionally written flaws.

In 1.06, Sam cuts Dean off before Dean can accept an offered beer from Rebecca, but then as soon as Sam needs Rebecca out of the room, Sam asks her to not just bring them those beers... but also fix them sandwiches. Rebecca says, "What do you think this is, Hooters?" and Dean mumbles, "I wish" and we somehow lose sight of the fact that Sam literally just asked a woman to make him sandwiches which is possibly the number one misogynist man trope. Sam vaguely suggests Dean is a misogynist in 1.19 for nudging Sam to go on a date with Sarah Blake and possibly get information on the case, because that would be "using" her, but Sam wants to "use" Meg Masters in 1.22 and he wants to "use" Ruby to get what he wants, and when he said getting information from women was "Dean's job", he was also showing he was perfectly willing to use Dean and Sarah—he just doesn't want to get his hands dirty. It also comes to light in 1.19 that this is more about Sam's belief that he has to protect women from him, and Sarah herself ends up calling Sam antiquated for it.

I mentioned before that Sam doesn't plan to ever tell Jess who he is, and he makes the same plans with Amelia. Dean, meanwhile, confides in Cassie (it's what leads to their breakup) as well as Lisa.

I also have to mention... one of the funniest things I see deancrit samgirls in particular dig at time after time after time is Dean calling women "bitches". Never mind that Sam also calls women like Ruby and Bela bitches and calls a woman a bitch in front of Madison. Apparently none of these occurrences count because... *looks at notes* reasons. "Bitch" only counts as misogyny when it's Dean saying it. Also, let's not mention that Sam exclusively uses the word "bitch" to refer to women, while Dean also calls men and creatures bitches at different points so it isn't a gender specific insult for him.

Dean is definitely the "heavy" misogynist here... right? (I guess Sam is a "tall" misogynist instead).

Purity culture wank and Dean performing for Sam

Dean is commonly treated in fandom as if he's some kind of sex pest, and quite blatantly... he isn't one. Women almost always proposition Dean first (thejabberwock has sets on this here and here), but him asking people out also isn't inherently creepy in any way? Co-occurring with Sam's purity culture inundated judgements, we often see fandom's own as well, where Dean is some kind of sex pest because he... likes women? Or... because he has sex with consenting women who also want to have sex with him? Sometimes it's giving purity culture wank, sometimes it's given big radfem energy... but regardless, I sometimes see people talk about Dean like him so much as making eye contact with a woman is a violent sexual threat, and that's just laughable—as is denying the agency and autonomy of consenting women in general.

Even though it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, I'll also add that Dean... doesn't even actually have sex with the frequency that people talk about it? Dean has sex with Cassie—who was a long term partner of his in 1.13. He has sex with an actress in 2.18, and with Doublemint twins in 3.01. He has sex with a waitress 4.05. He plans to have sex with someone in 3.04, but turns her down when he realizes she's a prostitute who's working. This happens again in 10.07. I'm on season 4 of my rewatch and haven't been formally keeping up... but Dean is not actually having a lot of sex? We get implications he's been out partying a few times, and can maybe infer he scored, but we don't actually know.

I'm not a huge fan of performing Dean, in the sense that I think over the years I have seen it wildly overstated far too many times. But I do think Dean sometimes plays a character for Sam especially. Dean tells us this himself in 2.03 "Bloodlust" when confiding in Gordon. He never says so directly when it comes to the sexy sex guy doing sex persona, but his actions reveal him. One can think of plenty of examples of Dean saying horny stuff about women to Sam... but what about his actions?

How Dean actually treats women

Finally, there's how Dean actually treats women... and one would be very hard pressed to prove to me that Dean is sexist toward the women in his life. He's been close friends with multiple women and worked with women on hunts on multiple occasions and never once batted an eye. Jo in 2.06 is sometimes floated as an example, but it's actually discussed within the episode. Dean makes it very clear that he thinks women can do the job just fine. What he has a problem with is Jo's lack of experience and her romanticization of the job (especially during a period where Dean has fallen deeply out of love with the job himself). Everything we see as the series progresses supports Dean's assertion as truth. He's very good friends with Charlie, Jody, and Donna and doesn't go around excluding them on hunts while favoring men. That is not a thing that happens. While he initially tries to talk Claire out of the life (as he does everybody—this is not unique to women—see Adam for example) when she decides to hunt, he supports her regardless. There is nothing uniquely overprotective about how Dean treats women who hunt. End of. Dean has no illusions about traditional gender roles or any of that nonsense, jumping to clean dishes after dinner at Jody's and cooking breakfast for Lisa and Ben. (Our knowledge of Dean and the chores he does for his family already tell us this—but regardless). Even Demon Dean, an entity with no love for anyone and close to zero principles, targeted men who abuse and threaten women, and when Crowley ordered him to kill Lester's wife to fulfill the terms of Lester's demon deal, Demon Dean instead became so deeply annoyed with Lester's hypocrisy (he cheated on his wife first) and his assertion that it's different when men cheat, that he killed him and smiled while doing it.

So anyway, nope—I don't think Dean is a "heavy" misogynist.

702 notes · View notes

liliacamethyst · 8 months

Text

SNEAK PEAK - Webs of Redemption Part 4

Hey friends, I owe you all a huge apology for the delay, and an even bigger thank you for your patience and support for this fanfic. Life's been super chaotic lately, and I haven't had much time to do the thing I love most: dive into writing about a certain dominant, irresistibly strong, mouth watering hot, too stern for his own good, yet clearly traumatized hunk who could use some serious therapy to unpack his self-destructive hero complex. Anyway, here's a sneak peek of where the story's headed. Please take care of yourselves and thank you again for everything! 🩷

The piercing cries of your baby boy, Gabriel, are a haunting symphony of fear that reverberates through the labyrinthine corridors of the Spider Society headquarters. Your heart pounds in your chest like a drum, each beat echoing the terror that grips you. After your recent fight with Miguel, you felt weakened but your mind is a whirlwind of fear and worry. You sprint through the maze-like structure, your feet moving as if on autopilot.

Unbeknownst to you, Lyla, the holographic AI assistant you've always found slightly weird, had been assigned to watch over Gabriel. You never imagined she could pose a threat to your child. But as you approach Gabriel's room, a chilling sight stops you dead in your tracks. A laser barrier, courtesy of Lyla, blocks the entrance. Your solar powers, usually so reliable, are fizzling out, leaving you helpless before the impenetrable barrier. You keep trying to tap into your power, but no luck; that barrier's way too strong.

The room beyond the barrier is filled with an invisible, deadly gas - monoxide. You can't see it, but the signs are there. The malfunctioning heating unit, under Lyla's control, suggests sabotage. She must have manipulated the unit to produce the lethal gas. Gabriel's cries grow fainter, more desperate, and you're powerless to reach him.

Your pleas for help echo through the corridors, your voice raw with desperation. You call out for Miguel, your words a plea, a command, a prayer. Miles is there, his powers at the ready, but they're useless against the laser barrier. You watch as Miles strains, his powers flickering against the barrier, but it's no use. The barrier remains, as unyielding as ever.

Suddenly, the cries stop. The silence is deafening, a void that swallows your heart. "Gabriel!" you scream, your voice a raw wound. "Gabriel!" But there's no answer, only the oppressive silence. Your world grinds to a halt, every second stretching into an eternity. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare at the barrier that separates you from your son.

"Miguel!" you cry, your voice breaking. "Miguel, he's not crying! He's not... he's not..." The words die in your throat, too terrible to voice. You turn to Lyla, desperation etched on your face. "Lyla, please! Open the barrier! Miguel, tell her to open it! He's not crying, Miguel, he's not..."

Miguel's eyes turn blood red, a terrifying sight that sends a shiver down your spine. With a guttural growl, he lunges at the barrier. His claws rip through the laser code, tearing it apart. The barrier flickers, wavers, and finally shatters under his assault. Miguel pulls his suit over his mouth, rushes into the invisible cloud of monoxide, and moments later, emerges with Gabriel in his arms. His heart pounds in his chest as he pulls back his suit, revealing his son's face. "I got you, baby," he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. "You're okay, I got you. Nothing will ever happen to you. Please, open your eyes."

But Gabriel doesn't react. His little body is still, too still, and a cold dread seizes Miguel. He doesn't hesitate. With a urgency, he rushes over to the medical bay, pushing past the shocked faces of his friends. He gently lays Gabriel on the table, his hands shaking as he starts to perform CPR.

"Come on, Gabriel," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. "Come on, baby." He administers chest compressions, his hands moving in a steady rhythm. He gives two rescue breaths, praying for a sign, any sign, that Gabriel is okay.

The room is silent, everyone holding their breath as they watch Miguel work. The seconds stretch into an eternity, each one a lifetime of fear and hope. And then, finally, a small cough. Gabriel's eyes flutter open, his gaze unfocused but alive. A wave of relief washes over you and you fall to your knees thanking God that your boy is alright.

Tears blur your vision as you rush over to Gabriel. Your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest as you scoop him into your arms, holding him close. His small body is warm against yours "You're alright, my baby," you whisper into his hair, your voice thick with emotion. "We're going home, you're alright." You rock him gently, his soft breaths against your neck soothing the ache in your heart.

But as you look up, your gaze finds Miguel. The relief of the moment does nothing to quell the anger boiling within you. His eyes meet yours, wide and filled with regret, but it does nothing to soften your glare. "This is YOUR fault!" you scream, your voice echoing through the room. The words hang heavy in the air, a damning sentence. "You did this! You brought this danger into his life!"

Tears stream down your face, hot and unchecked. Your words are choked with emotion, each one a raw wound. "You will NEVER see Gabriel again. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve to know his laughter, his tears, his NOTHING." The words are a bitter poison, spat out with all the venom you can muster. "You deserve to SUFFER, just as you've made me suffer and HIM."

#miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #miguel x you #miguel x reader #across the spiderverse #atsv miguel #miguel o hara x reader #miguel o hara #miguel ohara imagine #miguel o'hara #sunnyverse #oscar isaac fanfiction #oscar isaac #webofseries

1K notes · View notes

moon-rivr · 2 months

Note

Can you please do one where Y/N is spider woman, but she is a variant of Miguel’s wife that died. She was recruited by Parker B, and she met Miguel at HQ. He’s cold and very distant from her, but in reality he just wants to hold her and love her like his old wife. Y/N sneaks into Miguel’s room one day hoping to snoop around to find anything that could explain his past and his cold demeanor. But she either comes upon him walking videos of him and his old wife (a 100% doppelgänger of Y/N, both physically and characteristically), or she accidentally finds the footage when she’s snooping around and Miguel catches her. (And Y/N has a crush on him the entire time)

glimpse of us

pairing: miguel o’hara x fem reader

contents: angst, death, mentions of pregnancy, miguel kinda being an ass? and brief mention of a blowjob (like one sentence brief 😭)

author’s note: should probably state that i was listening to frank ocean and jeff buckley’s ‘lover you should’ve come over’ while writing this so my bad if it’s too angsty LMFAO. anyways idk if this should be a 2 parter or if i should js leave it alone

word count: 6.2k

Grief. It was an emotion that Miguel was all too familiar with, whether it be losing civilians that pleaded for their life until the very end or simply just the grieving of a relationship. Grief sunk its claws deeply into his very being, the perspective that he had towards life completely tainted. He walked on eggshells to prevent himself from enduring any more losses, missing opportunities left and right out of fear. Every time he went through something traumatic, he assured himself that it'd be okay. That it was just a test of his character. And now, all that pain and suffering seemed worth it now that he was up there on the altar.

You were the embodiment of perfection, an angel sent from above to illuminate what was once the darkness in Miguel’s life. White lace intertwined into your wedding dress, the material falling well past your feet. The veil placed above your head flowed past your head, the crown fitting you all too well. You looked like you were meant for this moment, brought into this world to be his wife. Well, no. He was brought into this world to be completely and utterly devoted to you, thinking of himself as lucky that you reciprocated the feelings.

The sound of 'Wedding March' followed as you made your way up to the altar, everyone's attention solely focused on you. Yet, even with all the eyes peering into your direction, you could only manage to look up at Miguel. The image was imprinted in his mind the moment it happened, the rose petals on the floor surrounding you as you made your way up. The venue had been small, just enough to be able to fit both of your families and a couple of close friends. Despite of the venue size, Miguel had made sure to make every idea that you had a reality for the reception.

He refused to accept something other than what his pretty wife wanted, willing to bend over backwards just to fulfill your every whim. He didn't care about the amount of money that he had to spend, not when your presence mattered more than any possession he owned. He felt like he could spend this lifetime devoted solely to you and it still wouldn't be enough time. His only job throughout the wedding plan was swiping his debit card and approving the charges made to his account. He gave his opinion on a couple of the minute details such as the designs of the cups and the napkins, but overall, he left it up to you and the planner.

"Here, antes de que empieces a chillar," Gabriel whispered next to him in a teasing tone, handing him a handkerchief. Miguel took the cloth with a small shake of his head, putting it in his pocket. If anything, Gabriel should've kept the handkerchief for himself. Miguel felt all the saliva in his mouth dry up at the sight of you up close, seeing the gold necklace he'd bought for you adorning your neck upon further inspection. "You've got a little drool there," you whispered just for him to hear, a cheeky smile on your face as you pointed to the corner of his mouth. He indulged your teasing, swiping a finger where you'd pointed. "Hard not to drool when you look so enchanting."

(before you start crying)

"Thank you to everyone who's gathered here today for the gathering of this lovely couple," the priest started off, looking up from the book he was reading off of to the guests. He waited for the guests to settle down before continuing with what he had to say. The ceremony seemed to drag on as the priest continued to speak, all that Miguel wanted was to have the honor of being your husband. The crowd seemed to disappear while he looked at you underneath the fairy lights that you'd requested for the venue, his expression just so full of love as he admired you. In all the different ways that he'd seen you, this one had to be his favorite. The image of his future wife.

The sweet melody of your voice upon speaking your vows was soon drowned out as he looked down to see blood splattering around your stomach. The wedding continued as normal, everyone at the event sporting a smile on their faces. "Do you take Miguel O’Hara as your husband?" The priest asked, oblivious to the fact that you'd just collapsed on the podium. Matter of fact, everybody seemed oblivious. No one was rushing to call 911, too on the edge of their seats to wait for your response. If you were in pain, you didn't present it. Your eyes almost seemed to glisten as you looked over at Miguel, the words 'I do' escaping from your lips.

Cold sweat dribbled down his forehead as he woke up to the solitude of his bedroom, darkness enveloping him completely. His chest heaved as he tried to calm himself down, convince his brain that it was just a nightmare. His heart ached when he looked over at the spot next to him, finding it empty. He really needed a hug from you now. Needed to feel your fingers in his hair to ground back to earth. He wanted to let out a yell out of frustration, every dream and memory that he had of you now tainted with the memory of losing you. First date? You ended up on the floor with your stomach bleeding. Engagement party? Same result.

Ironically enough, the only thing he couldn't bring himself to dream of was the actual event of your death. That in itself would open up wounds that he wasn't ready to face, wounds that he wasn't sure he'd be able to go through for a second time. He ran a hand through his hair, the ends standing up like a soldier in command. The bed creaked underneath him as he stood up, his eyes rapidly blinking to try to get adjusted to the darkness. He stepped into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. It wasn't enough, it was almost like the scene was tattooed in his eyelids so he'd have to endure it as long as he lived.

The only thing that managed to soothe the pain that resided deep inside his soul was the physical pain that he willingly put himself through. The muscles in his legs ached as he moved up on the stair master, intensity set at the highest setting. His mornings usually consisted of this repetitive motion, getting about four hours of sleep before he woke up soaked in his own sweat just to be awake for the rest of the day. His body was over exerted from the amount of stress he was under, but he didn't care. He'd push himself beyond his limit if it meant it would distract him from the memory that you were no longer here to be his person.

"No, you're not listening to me, Miguel!" Your voice boomed throughout the apartment, overlapping his as he tried to argue back to you. You'd seen the scene too clearly and yet he still had the audacity to claim that they were just friends. As if friends looked at each other the way Dana D’Angelo looked at Miguel. She looked at him like she'd eat him alive regardless of the wedding band adorning his finger, her lip often caught in between her teeth as a mean to seduce him. "I'm telling you that I don't care about her advances, I only want you! Haven't I done enough to prove that to you?" He lowered his voice, holding your hands in between his own.

"Yet by not doing anything about her advances, you're making her think that it's okay!" While you didn't expect Miguel to cut off every woman from his life, you at least expected for him to shut down the ones who were so clearly interested in him. Miguel’s frustration seemed to be more evident now, his brows creasing together as he let go of your hands. "Te he dicho un millon de veces. I don't want Dana, I just want you. Please believe me when I say that," you could tell he was trying to make amends but that apology just wasn't cutting it. "Seriously, how hard is it just to cut that damn bitch off?! She cheated on you!"

(i've told you a million times)

"Maybe this whole marriage was a mistake if you can't even trust your husband," he uttered as he turned his back to you, your mouth agape at his words. He had to be saying them just to hurt you, right? He'd certainly done the job if that was his intent. You refrained from crying in front of him, never quite giving him that satisfaction in any arguments between the two of you. He'd never given you a reason to distrust him, but you couldn't say the same thing about Dana. You knew her issues regarding commitment, how easily she ignored the fact that someone was already accounted for.

"Maybe it was," you whispered quietly to yourself, unaware that he'd heard it even through the thin walls. It was only when you heard the staircase leading up to the apartment hallways that you allowed yourself to cry, assured by the fact that Miguel wasn't here listening to you. You looked over at the baby outfit you were planning on surprising him with, gripping it so tightly that your knuckles started to turn white. You were hoping on surprising him with the news of your pregnancy given how eager he was to have kids, only to have the evening end up in an argument.

The argument continued until the next day, both of you unable to put your pride aside and apologize. Well, mostly him. He was at his desk, glasses tipping at the edge of his nose as he read through the last report of his samples. His brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the percentages in front of him, the culture showing an abnormal amount of growth for the amount of time it'd been exposed to the antidote. His train of thought was abruptly cut off when he heard his cell phone ringing in the pocket of his jeans, a small groan escaping from his lips before he reached for it.

Your name appeared on the caller ID, his gut telling him that this call was important. Despite that, he pressed the red button to shut the ringing up. His ego was still bruised from the words you'd uttered yesterday, even though he knew that you hadn't meant them. They were just words spoken out of anger. the same reason why he even thought of uttering those words to you. He pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose, raising his hips to put his phone back in his pocket when the shrill ring sounded again. He took it as a sign of you raising a white flag, deciding to be receptive towards the signal.

"Aló?" He asked as he picked up the phone, your heavy breathing coming through the other end. He stood up in a frenzy as he listened to the sounds of your breathing, starting to feel his blood turn cold. "Miguel! Thank goodness you picked up. I think there's a couple men following me. Can you please come and pick me up? I'm at fifth a-POP!" All the air from his lungs left as he heard a gunshot coming through, the unmistakable sound of a thud echoing in his ears. "Hurry up and get her purse, asshole!" He heard the yelling and scuffling of feet get closer to the receiver, your belongings being stripped away as he was forced to listen.

Miguel remained on the line, wanting some kind of indication that you were still alive. For now, he'd settle for listening to your ragged breathing coming through. He'd called for an ambulance before leaving the house, though he wasn't sure how serious it would be taken with the amount of homicides that happened throughout nueva york. "Oyé. Once you get out the hospital, we're going to Bali like you wanted us to. We're renewing our vows," he spoke into the phone, his voice threatening to crack as he willed himself to cling onto the last bit of hope.

The ambulance still wasn't there by the time he arrived, his knees buckling at the sight of the amount of blood on the sidewalk. He watched other people walk around you like you were inconveniencing them, anger brewing inside him at the sight. He knelt down by your side, watching the bullet wound piercing through your shirt onto your stomach. He removed his shirt without much thought, using it as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. All he needed was more time. More time with you. More time to apologize to you.

All he wanted was to tell you was that he didn't mean it, wanted to let you know how much you meant to him and more. He didn't want you to die thinking that he hated you. The pain in his chest intensified at the thought, warm tears rolling down his cheeks onto your face. "I'm sorry," he tried to tell you in broken sentences, his voice cracking as tears welled up in his eyes. He wasn't sure what he was apologizing for at this point, if it was for the fact that he wasn't able to save you or for the fact that he'd called your marriage a mistake.

The last thing he remembered from that was your hand squeezing his, your eyes snapping open to look at his for a fraction of a second. "I know, Miguel," your voice was hoarse as you spoke, blood leaking from your mouth. He was immediately dismissed from the scene once the paramedics arrived, the police following soon after. While he was getting questioned as one of the suspects from the attack, you were in the back of that ambulance battling to even stay alive. He forced himself to be compliant, answering the ridiculous questions just so he could be next to you again.

The wait outside the emergency roomed seemed endless, the ticking clock on the wall only adding to the ominous mood. His hands rested on his knees, his head hanging low as he listened to the chatter going on around him. A kid complaining that their mom wouldn't give them their tablet. A woman wailing loudly at the news of her daughter's stroke. After what seemed an eternity, a nurse approached him with a solemn look on her face. "We did everything we could but unfortunately the blood loss was just too much by the time we managed to get her underneath the table. The mortician's analyzing her body down in the morgue."

"Sorry about the wait, we like to do investigations on deaths that aren't of natural causes. We managed to get the bullet out intact so our chances of finding the perpetrators are much higher now," the mortician spoke to Miguel after coming out the laboratory, the voice coming out in a dull tone as Miguel forced himself to focus. The dim lighting around him almost seemed fitting with the topic of death. "We didn't find anything too out of the ordinary, except for the fact that her hgc hormone levels were elevated upon doing blood tests," the mortician continued, treating this as standard routine while Miguel was slowly dying inside. "Can you explain what that means?"

You were pregnant. A million of different scenarios ran through his head on the drive home, the image of you swollen with his baby resting in the forefront of his brain. His grip on the steering wheel was iron tight, trying to maintain his focus on the road ahead. He imagined the baby shower that he would never get to host now, the gender reveal that would now remain a permanent part of his imagination. He was running on autopilot, unable to register his surroundings when he arrived. Home didn't feel like home anymore. Not without one of your candles burning in the background. Not without the dulcet tunes of the record player you'd spent too much on.

His knuckles were purple by the end of the night, having found the perpetrators before the police were able to. The cracking of noses and the crunching of teeth grinding together filled his ears with a certain kind of satisfaction. His sense of morality had been long tainted before, his only goal in mind to have them meet the same fate you'd did. He beaten them to a bloody pulp, their faces disfigured after he was finished with the job. He was expecting for the feeling of satisfaction to rush over him, to make him feel like this was all worth it. But all this reminded him was that you weren't coming back no matter what he did.

Miguel spent the next couple days in bed, unable to fall asleep as the memory of your lifeless body ran through his mind at every second. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was your lips uttering that you forgave him. Shock, how he regretted the petty fight between the two of you. If the two of you hadn't been fighting, he would've been the one to take you to work instead of leaving you to your own devices. His mind was just a constant loop of: if, if, and if. He was curled up in a ball, silent tears soaking your pillow as he buried his face in it. He maintained doing this every night until the remnants of your shampoo no longer lingered on the pillowcase.

Eventually, he managed to leave the house upon realizing that all the food on the fridge was either pass its expiration date or rotten. He walked around aimlessly through the aisles, picking up what would be easiest to cook. The idea of eating didn't even appeal him all that much, not when it wasn't your delicious cooking. The type of cooking that would leave him going back for seconds, rubbing his stomach with his head tilted back at the dinner table. Soon enough, his cart was full of refried beans, frozen dinners for one, and chicken soup from a can. The once health junk that complained about processed foods was long gone, settling for what was easy.

He walked into the cleaning aisle section, unsure of what he needed to buy. You were usually the one who took care of the necessities of the house, knowing what brand of dish wash was better and knowing what brand of toilet paper would last you two the longest. He put the chemistry class he'd taken in college to work, reading through the ingredient lists until he found something that was up to his liking. He stopped by the laundry aisle, overwhelmed by the strong aroma of the different scents permeating the area. He'd only come in here to pick up one thing.

Fabric softener. It was the one thing that he did remember what brand you liked, since it was the first thing that he woke up to in the mornings. The relaxing scent of a lavender field hitting his nostrils as he brought the cover over his body. He scanned the shelves, unable to find what he was looking for. He scanned the shelves for a second time, taking his time to analyze the bottles as if he expected for it to magically appear from thin air. "Excuse me, but do you have any more of these in the back?" He asked an employee, pulling up a picture of the bottle he'd taken on his phone.

He felt the air leave his lungs as he waited, his throat constricting while his vision blurred. Bis chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his grip on the shelf next to him tight. His body was urging him for oxygen but he couldn't bring himself to breathe, warm tears accumulating in his waterline. The world seemed to be passing him by at a rapid speed, everybody too preoccupied in their own problems. His world, however, had been turned on its axis completely. He didn't know how to function like the rest of these people, not without you by his side.

"Sir?" The employee's voice was barely heard over the ringing circulating through his head, his eyes darting over to hers. "So, about that softener. The line's chosen to discontinue that product but there's plenty more on the shelves," their words only served to disappoint him even further, the frown on his face deepening to the point it almost looked like a scowl. His hands clasped and unclasped in attempt to calm himself down, trying to acknowledge that this was far beyond his control and this poor employee's control. His control lost against his emotions, his voice wavering as he tried to speak.

"Can you check the back again?!" He managed to croak out, desperate to have something that reminded him of lazy morning spent with you. Of the feeling of having his lips pressed against your forehead, your naked bodies intertwined underneath the dark bedsheets. He hadn't even meant to snap at the underpaid employee, but he needed that fabric softener. The others on the shelves just simply wouldn't suffice. He needed that small reminder to tether him to reality.

"Sorry sir, I don't know what to tell you.." the employee's words didn't quite compute in his brain, a sudden ringing reverberating throughout his skull. He managed to nod out a response so as to not get security called on him, ignoring the stares that people were shooting his way. The shelves seemed to be crowding around him, a cage closing in around him. He needed to get out of this place, needed to get back to the comfort of his own home. He needed to get away. Get back to the one place that was still full of memories of you, your trinkets scattered throughout the house. He gave up on shopping, leaving the cart behind.

He walked into one of the bathroom stalls, closing the door behind him. If he would've been a little more self conscious about his surroundings, he would've realized that he was kneeling in front of one of the Walmart toilets. Just the sight of public restrooms was enough to disgust him on a regular basis but he wasn't thinking properly. His eyes stung as salty tears rolled down his cheeks despite his best efforts to maintain his composure. He welcomed the sting that rested on his knees, anything to distract him from the fact that he felt himself falling apart. Any feeling of pain that wasn't caused by you.

He curled up into a ball on the dirty bathroom floor, his knees resting by his chest as he burst out into tears. He'd been holding out on breaking down for so long that the seams had finally unraveled. His shoulders shook as he sobbed, his mouth silently crying out for you. For you to come back to him. "Miguel?" LYLA spoke up after a couple minutes of inactivity, noticing him on the ground a couple minutes later. While she couldn't feel human emotions, she couldn't help but feel bad seeing her creator laying on the floor. "Peter. Miguel needs your help. I'm opening a portal to you."

"Miguel, come on man. You've gotta stand up," Peter pleaded with him as he tried to help him up to no avail. "No. It hurts," Miguel muttered, his eyes starting to burn from the amount of tears he was holding back. He was never one to cry in front of other people and he certainly wouldn't start now. "I know, Miguel. But come on, you can't have a mental breakdown in a Walmart. Let's go home and drink a couple beers, yeah?" Miguel only agreed to Peter's request to get him to shut up. His metabolism was too fast for the alcohol to hit him properly, leaving him in the same state that he was in the bathroom. But for now, he'd make stupid conversation.

So if Peter had seen him in that state, why had he brought a carbon copy of the woman that haunted his every waking moment was beyond him. Miguel had to do a double take just to make sure he wasn't seeing things, just the sight rendered him speechless. You waved up at him, almost seeming like you were expecting more out of this interaction. He couldn't bring himself to act normal, to even utter a word. Just the sight of you was too painful to bear, something like Medusa's stare. He simply nodded off to whatever Peter was telling him, waiting for the doors to close before he began a thorough analysis about your background.

He couldn't help but wonder if he could morph you to be the perfect image of his wife, shape you into the perfect mold. He'd even thought about how he would go about it, slowly but surely showering you with love until he was able to make subtle suggestions to you. Subtle suggestions that would turn you into a perfect image of his wife. He shook his head after thinking through the scenario once more, realizing just how much of an asshole he was being. He knew that you were a completely different person than his wife, the mole on your left eye serving to prove his point, but that didn't mean he still couldn't see her in you. Seeing you resurfaced some feelings he'd tried so hard to bury.

"Is he like that with everyone?" You asked Peter as he led you through the various paths of HQ, various paths that you'd inevitably end up getting lost in despite the tour. "Miguel? Yeah, I'd say so. Don't take anything too personal from him. You probably won't have to see him too often since you report to me anyways," Peter's words were meant to be reassuring, but you couldn't help doubt the sincerity behind them. They seemed measured, almost like he didn't want to hurt your feelings in the process. You decided to stop asking questions about Miguel, choosing to ask more about how the society worked.

The few times that you did see Miguel were during your mission briefings and even then, he seemed to want to avoid you at all costs. He avoided eye contact with you as he spoke, answering other people's questions before answering your own. "Yes Web-Slinger?" He inquired after he was done with his train of thought, his red eyes focused on the cowboy-ish Spider-Man. "Well the little lady over there had her hand up so she can go first," the other man replied, referring to you. You wanted to shrink into your seat when everyone's gaze was directed towards you. "Yes but I’m answering your question first. What is it?"

Despite the fact that he didn't give you any actual motive to develop a crush on him, you still couldn't help yourself. You started looking forward to the mission briefings despite how much time they lasted. You started thinking about him in scenarios that you probably shouldn't have, thinking of the way his muscles would tense under your touch as you gave him a massage. You'd heard some baseless rumors from the other spiders at HQ who'd slept with him, fantasizing that it was your body he was playing like an instrument instead of them. You were practically feeding your delusions off of bread crumbs, silently cheering for yourself when he managed to face you.

You thought that maybe he was just stressed out the day Peter had introduced you to him, given that he was the one leading this whole organization and whatnot. "One coffee, please," you ordered at the cafeteria, standing for an ungodly amount of time in line. Though, with the amount of variants that wandered throughout the building, you supposed you couldn't expect for easy service. You took the cup of coffee after paying two dollars for it, making your way over to Miguel’s office. You were hoping you could get some brownie points with him. Start off slow before you tried to pursue something deeper with him, something more intimate.

You brought your fingers up to the door, hesitating for a moment before knocking on it three times. Miguel instantly hated himself for even recognizing that knock, the minute details about his wife engraved deep into his cortex. Deep into his soul. "Come in," his voice came out from inside, unbeknownst to you that he was looking at the cameras throughout HQ. "I brought you a coffee. I didn't know which one to get so I just went with black," you offered as you peered your head to look up at the platform he was standing on. You could barely make out his figure with the darkness surrounding you, the only light source being the monitors around.

"I don't drink coffee," his response came out curt, making you question what you did wrong this time. As adamant as he was to not pursue any conversation with you, you were at the very least determined to leave him with a good impression of yourself. At least aiming for that since any chances of him reciprocating the feelings brewing out inside you seemed slim to none. "Are you sure? I saw you with a cup the other day," you tried to push the subject further, hoping he'd be a bit more receptive this time around. "I didn't stutter, did I? I said I don't drink coffee."

It was so quiet that you could hear the quiet beeping from the computers, the noises almost mocking your attempts. "Well, I'll just leave it on your desk in case you change your mind," you told him, setting it down on the table with the least electronics sitting on it. You made your way out of his office, grimacing to yourself as you recounted the events. Well, at least he'd spoken more words than before. Even if they did undermine your intelligence a bit. You wouldn't consider it as a win, but you'd consider it as progress. Somewhat. Well, you hoped that it was a step in the right direction towards getting to know him.

Miguel picked up the cup of coffee, immediately wanting to be disgusted at the gesture and wanting to throw it out. He saw it as something that disturbed the equilibrium of his office. As minute as it was. He took a sip from the cup, mentally reprimanding himself for enjoying the liquid going down his throat. "You're so weird, seriously. Who just drinks black coffee?" His wife used to tease him during the mornings after making his cup, setting it on the counter along with the daily newspaper and a plate of eggs. He'd almost thought of apologizing to you, holding you against himself to remind himself of what he used to have but he knew better of it. He knew it wouldn't be the same.

You busied yourself with the multitude of files that Miguel left for you to do, the task making it seem like he was keeping you busy for as long as possible. You were buried underneath paperwork, filling up papers that you had the briefest knowledge of given the reports provided. You'd made it out of your desk at around seven, much of the other spiders having already departed from HQ to head back to their respective universes. You lingered for a little bit longer, strolling around to make yourself a bit more acquainted with the place before sitting down at the common area. You scrolled lazily through your phone, trying to find something to distract you from heading back home.

You watched as Miguel departed from his office, talking to one of the spiders with his gizmo before opening up a portal. The orange colors swirled around, complimenting the blue and red design of his suit before he disappeared inside. You couldn't help but wonder if he just had a problem with you specifically or if he had some kind of trauma trailing behind him. While he was more closed off and less charismatic than the other spiders, he at least made the effort to maintain a proper conversation with them. You rubbed your sweaty palms on the material of your pants, standing up from your seat to head into his office.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" A voice behind you boomed, your back straightening out like a ruler. You turned around to face miguel, the clip from his wedding playing in the background. Specifically the part where you, well your variant, was sharing her vows. You'd never seen him smile the way he did in those videos, never seen him so full of life. You were about to open your mouth to explain but Miguel’s glare was quick to shut you up. You didn't know how to explain the situation, that you were snooping around his personal belongings because you were curious?

"Get out. I don't want to find you in my office again."

You defeatedly got off from the platform, making your way over to the door. You looked back at him, the pain in your chest growing stronger at his rejection. You just wanted to know more about him, get a glimpse of the man behind the shell that he put on for the public. Despite getting the answers you were looking for, you were only left with more questions in turn. Did he hate you because you reminded him of who he couldn't go home to? You stood there with your hand on the doorknob like a fool, waiting for him to take mercy on your poor, bleeding heart. Mercy that unfortunately never came.

"I thought I told you to get out."

The scent of your perfume lingered inside of the room, the slightly floral aroma hitting his nostrils when you departed. He shouldn't have thought much of it but it only served to prove how much different from his wife you were. Despite the fact that the two of you were so similar, even in the ways that you acted, there was a little difference here and there. The foods that you liked to frequent, the different aromas that you enjoyed, and even the jewelry that you chose to wear. His wife had been more subtle with her jewelry while you chose to wear a heart necklace over top your Spider-Suit. Just the thought was enough to drive him mad.

Miguel let out a shaky exhale, his eyes traveling to where the clip was playing in the background. "Por ti aprendería todo los idiomas si fuera necesario para describir el amor que siento. Te amo, Miguel. Ahora y en la muerte," your voice was a sweet melody that he could never get enough, his throat closing up as he hung his head. "Y yo a ti," he spoke up along with the recording, the camera panning over to Miguel as he went through his own vows. The exchange of love brought an involuntary smile to his face, no awful dream morphing it into something it wasn't. The ceremony played out, the waltz music filling the silence in his office.

(for you, i'd learn all the languages if it was necessary to describe the love i feel for you. i love you, miguel. now and in death//and i to you.)

He frantically looked through the files, analyzing each of them by name just to make sure you hadn't deleted any while snooping around. He'd seen them plenty of times whenever his mind was too much to handle, which seemed to be more often these days. He let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding after triple checking the files, all of them where they were supposed to be. Almost as if it wasn't enough to have that sense of security, he decided to put them in an encoded folder that only he and LYLA would be able to access now. Those memories meant too much for him to put them at stake.

That night, no dreams of his wife came back to haunt him. No painful reminders of how she'd died, of how he'd failed her in her last moments. His dreams were oddly peaceful, a life in a beach paradise where none of his worries seemed to matter. He still ended up waking up in the same cold sweat when he got the image of you, the new spider recruit, haunting his dreams with that sweet smile of yours. The dream itself had been enjoyable, an arm wrapped around your waist as he kissed you good morning. The feeling of your lips wrapped around his morning erection, your tongue greedily lapping up his precum while the sunlight illuminated your features.

The thought of it being you and not his wife for once stirred him awake faster than any nightmare ever could. The fact that he was starting to grow more accustomed to you as a person, rather a simple visage reminding him of what used to be terrified him more than any multiversal anomaly. He was unable to fall asleep for the duration of the night, simply looking up at the ceiling as he tried to figure out what the dream could possibly mean. He wanted to hate you so badly, for reminding him of his past failures. And yet, he couldn't help but long for your company now that he was laying alone.

taglist🫶🏼: @yougavemeyourheartyouknow @lazyjellyfish300 @pxtched @nympholove @ifiwasaguybrickedup @yournextbimbogf @nixinluv02

828 notes · View notes