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titanic-angel · 10 months

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мιgυel o'нara х ғ!reader

⁎︎✴︎ adronιтιѕ 2 ✴︎⁎︎

ѕynopѕιѕ ➪︎ yoυ warм υp тo мιgυel

warnιngѕ ➪︎ ѕwearιng

noтeѕ ➪︎ so next chapter is gonna be real fun but rn you have to have a lil crisis abt your trust in Miguel

↽︎ part 1

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He flexed his hand after he shook yours.

Barely noticeable, if you hadn’t been observing the grooves of his knuckles, or the vein that crawled from his wrist. The hands that enveloped yours in a shake should’ve been cold- calculated. A deal brought to fruition by its apathy.

But it was warm.

When he let go, a beat. Static on your fingers, an itch on your prints. Long enough to breathe but too fleeting to think. If you hadn’t been focused on his hands and their features, you would’ve caught the way he stared at yours.

Almost preserving, you would’ve thought.

“Miguel?”

His name apparently snapped both of you from the recesses of you minds, from the brink of thought and the absence of it.

“Sorry, yes?”

Lyla’s eyes passed over the two of you. You were unsure if it was because of her size, her cloudy stance and voided build. But you were positive the look in her eyes knew more about what just happened than you ever would.

“The tour? Remember? Of the lab,” She giggled, although the word is too flimsy to describe such a dry sound, “she was right, you really don’t know host etiquette.”

He grumbled, before his eyes came to meet yours.

If you had to pin-point the feature that prompted the foul taste in your mouth (a reasonable person would call it envy, but you were childish enough to cease the thought), it would be his condescending stare.

“The lab you’ll be working in is on the 3rd floor. It’s my personal lab,”

Your nose wrinkled. Tacky (lucky).

“Lyla will be showing you around.”

Lyla tutted from his shoulder, waggling her finger. “Nuh-uh, I did all the business-woman stuffs I can for the day. You get to show her around.”

You were being treated like a chore.

Charming.

“Plus, I’m feeling awfully tiered,” she winked at you. Unsettling, but it queued curiosity.

“Have fun kiddos!” With a flash of yellow and tints of blue, she was gone.

Leaving you to breathe the stiff air that separated you and the goliath in a dead quiet.

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You would’ve slaughtered for Elevator music.

If it meant that the deafening silence, driven by a mutual desire not to be trapped in an isolating metal box, would end.

You felt stupid, and maybe a little self-centered, for only knowing your floor. There wasn’t a better alternative, as your job forced you to either move laterally across your own or, occasionally, up to the tenth floor to retrieve extra scraps or parts that no one else wanted to grab.

Ever since your royal fuck-up with that human robot, you had essentially become the errand-girl of your engineering pod. No one took you seriously anyhow, so you might as well be useful.

You liked the tenth floor. It was dark, the scattered metal parts and canopy of wires above you created a comfortable jungle. Filled with things you were familiar with, inventory that when you touched, it created rather that crumbled.

You weren’t Midas there.

Consequently you’ve forgotten that it’s called the tenth floor for a reason.

And you were going to the 3rd.

Underground.

There was a difference, aside from the number. The attic, even with its close quarters, was a sanctuary of sorts, one with a view that made you forget your reputation.

But below, burrowed under sediment and gravel, you sat a breath away from your grave. You wouldn’t be surprised, if you were buried here.

You would even call it fitting.

The elevator lurched to a halt, the sight of your reflection meeting yours through the stainless steel. It look distorted, not quite like a cracked mirror but it wasn’t clean. It was foggy, and as it disappeared, you wondered if that’s what you looked like to your colleagues.

Foggy.

It certainly felt the case, on the 3rd floor.

Miguel casted a shadow, literally and figuratively, when he walked. His shoulders were built to carry expectation, body molded to turn heads, attention. Admiration kissed his heals, it’s maw biting at his fingers, his lips, his throat.

He made you foggy, because for as long as he existed, there was nothing else to look at.

You perished by his side. Your aggrieved appearance, the droop of your mouth and cave of your back existed as a warning. You ate praise like a woman starved, a thank you so infrequent it sounded like a myth when whispered.

You noticed it’s phenomenon when you passed people down the hall, eyes gravitating towards Miguel.

(Attention is a picky child, and it never liked you.)

When he opened the door, a crevice in the darkest corner of the floor, the stench of cleaning supplies and plastic gloves wedged into your sinuses. It was a similar smell to his office, but the weight of humidity made it sour to swallow.

Once your nose adjusted, you finally consumed your surroundings.

An organized table, a glass cabinet containing every scrap and screw in a designated box. A plethora of tools, varying in size, clean and gleaming.

Paradise.

“You’ll be working here for most of the engineering process.”

His voice was the closest it had ever been to you. It never lost the roughness around its edges, but It’s placid cadence was gentler than it had been before.

You nodded slowly, still drinking in the freshness of your workspace.

“If you have any materials you need that aren’t here, we can retrieve them from the storage on floor one.”

You took a step towards the table, running your hand over the cool, solid metal. Your reflection wasn’t foggy, it was clear, precise, detailed.

You weren’t a silhouette down here.

You turned around to face Miguel.

A hunter, tensed, and dangerous. Wary of you, observing the way your chest rose with breath and hollowed without it. His face a novel of age told in creases and folds, hostile and glacial.

So different from his hands, you thought (one that you buried).

“Do you even use this?” Your question had more bite to it than you intended.

He nodded slowly. “Sometimes, if I need to.”

You rose your brow. “How often is ‘need to’?”

“Maybe once a month.”

You nearly choked. “Once a month? You use this room once a month? God, you are clinically insane.”

It baffled you that a room like this sat unused and empty for weeks at a time. It was no mystery why the room looked so untouched.

So perfect.

Your hand found the bridge of your nose. “Jesus. So they just, gave this to you? And you don’t use it?”

His brows crossed. “Of course I use it. It just doesn’t have a lot of purpose in my line of work,” he sighed, muffling his frustration, “and it’s essentially… yours now. So it doesn’t really matter.”

Yours.

The hot oil and dry metal of your old lab became a memory, a hiccup in your lungs. The years of anonymity and shadow felt irrelevant now, the possession of something greater kissing your filthy hands.

Yours.

“Thank you.”

An accident. A crack in the seamless anger you had molded around your shoulders- armor. He saw it, and you felt the way it vibrated, cotton-mouthed and speechless.

You weren’t supposed to thank the hand that fed you poison, not if you were already rotten. You were supposed to bite, rip it’s tendons and foam at the thought of its empty palm, bare and boneless.

But you let your awe, a spark of tender in a fire of brutal, speak for you. Moved your teeth and numbed your tongue, so the words felt effortless, light.

Maybe, even, forgiving.

Miguel nodded, his silence a salvation. He knew what you felt, and how it wrecked you. But he didn’t acknowledge it, and for the second time you felt like expressing gratitude.

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A drowse. An ease. A lull.

You tried to describe overwhelming air that surrounded you when you stepped back out into the hallway with any word that wasn’t comfortable.

It couldn’t be, for the sake of your enmity, your acid. You had to make him drunk on it, the burn of astringency rotting his throat, signing his respite.

It would make your victory, the loosening of your leash at the sight of the other side of the fence, all the more delicious.

(But taste wasn’t your strongest sense, was it?)

Could you live on the sight of polished metal? The feeling of the lab under your fingers, it’s gleam on the life-lines of your palm? Do you take the peace offering (domestication of a cornered dog), or do you fight it, wrestling the cage you put yourself in?

Do you drink it’s draft, eat it’s still, the heart of it all stuck in your canines?

(Monster, they’d call you. But you’d be fed.)

Perhaps, his shadow wouldn’t starve you. You were no flower. You didn’t belong with daffodils and lavender; you grew with the moss and fungus and the dirt they sat between. You could be a creature of midnight, if you chose.

But you didn’t like the dark. Firmly rooted in childish imagination, chills never ceased when the lights went out. You hated sleeping with a lamp, or the screen of a computer (a grown substitute for your childhood night-light), but you hated the depths more. Dissimilar to those your age, you never grew out of that fear.

(But could you?

It all made you reconsider your wariness in Miguel. Would you be the same, without your spite? Does it kill your fire, or ignite it? You don’t trust these questions, but you don’t trust much of anything, do you?)

The corridor was absent of buzz, and for a moment you forgot the evening had crawled down Alchemax, digging its pitch claws into its gaps and dragging the employees home.

You were alone with the company saint.

One glance at him, at his broad shoulders and strong nose, the way his mouth curves down, silenced all considerations of trust.

There was too much of him to try. Too much you were unfamiliar with, even if he gave you a sanctuary. So instead, you caged your thoughts, following him blindly even as they festered.

His stride was difficult to match, long and purposeful, but not empty of uncertainty. He stuttered around corners, paused at cross roads.

His limited visits of the floor spoke loud as he tried to navigate it.

“Do you even know where you going?” You asked, leaning forward to meet his pace.

He looked at you, offended. “Of course I do.”

He paused, looking at the left and right halls, before going left. You laughed.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

He walked faster now, avoiding you.

You caught his expression, lucent under yellow bulbs. The guise looked weathered, old, as if it had been used a thousand times before, pulled from his pocket, worn from its coarse fabric.

It would be wrong to call it annoyance, anger or exhaustion. In fact, it would be wrong to call it anything at all. It was the vacancy of emotion, of a ‘look’. Miguel was hard to read, but now it felt impossible. It made you shiver, how something so absent could mean so much.

(But why did it?

You hadn’t ever been bent on knowing someone more than their hands- what their fingers can weave and mold. How malleable metal and something more could be under their nails. Their face, their features their looks never mattered then, so why now- why him?

Did his words really have this much weight? Could a gesture that told you ‘it’s for you, it’s yours’ so powerful and foreign that it broke the walls you has so patiently built from scratch, from pique and contempt?

Surely, your will was stronger. You couldn’t be persuaded, tamed by a shiny new toy.

But maybe you had been. A glimpse of generosity, humanity in him was all you needed to let your repulsion simmer and still.

Give a dog a bone. It fetches.

At least, until you stopped throwing.)

You felt guilty.

Maybe he never meant to give you the room on purpose, and you were just desperate for something (someone) to show you appreciation.

But a part of you, the one that was good at reading underlying messages, told you he wasn’t as heinous as you thought he was.

“Here, follow me.”

You weren’t sure if he had actually come with you. You just had to trust that he would trust you.

(Trust falls underground. There wasn’t any risk. Slow steps, small, cautious. But it was something.)

When you pointed to the elevator on the map and looked over your shoulder, his veil had vanished. It was replaced by a tranquility, one that lifted the corners of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close.

Closer.

When you finally made it to the steel doors, the reflection that looked back at you was still foggy. But maybe that was okay.

You didn’t look the same to everything.

This time though, it didn’t disappear.

Instead, the box reeled, and suddenly the bottoms of your feet felt the expanse of gravity below and how still you were above it.

The short alarm felt secondary after you were plundged into darkness. Fragile, hysteric beats in your chest, followed by a string of curses.

“We’re stuck.”

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special thanks to (aka taglist) ➪︎ @cherryrevenger @toaffes @vomit4brains @vxxxb @minimari415 @buko-pandan @viriexo @asimplesimpleton @marcswife21 @the-silvercow @mochi46106 @ch6ntt @epihowl @hexmaniacjade @jinsomniacs

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titanic-angel · 10 months

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мιgυel o'нara х ғ!reader

⁎︎✴︎ adronιтιѕ 1 ✴︎⁎︎

ѕynopѕιѕ ➪︎ мιgυel o'нara нaѕ a ѕтrange, claѕѕιғιed reqυeѕт oғ yoυ. нιм, and нιѕ dιgιтal aѕѕιѕтanт, lyla.

warnιngѕ ➪︎ swearing

noтeѕ ➪︎ enιмιeѕ тo coworĸerѕ тo ғrιendѕ тo loverѕ ѕlowвυrn ! ongoιng, υpdaтeѕ вeтween every ғew day

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She chose you because of your name.

Lyla was a program, a buzzing core of digits and code, analytics her only language. It was unlike her to go by her heart, because she didn’t have one.

But she wanted one.

The heat of skin, eyes that could look, really look, at someone. The softened hair under her finger tips- printed with a map of grooves and lines that separated her from every other. She wanted the individuality that a human body could give, and that her pixels would never achieve.

Miguel made the mistake of giving Lyla a mind of her own, because now she wanted a body to match.

After pulling a difficult, relentless, and borderline maddening attitude for years, he finally gave into her wishes, under a condition.

Only one engineer.

The creation she asked for, the mockery of humanity, could take forever, even with her limitless knowledge and Miguel’s high tech and steady hands. But despite this, Miguel refused her a team of engineers to conjure a body that would make history. In order to prevent an overlap of his secrets and the real world, Lyla was to choose only one individual who could make her a body, and keep a secret.

An individual, who, had a lovely name.

You’re transcripts were impressive enough, but not recognized; so that when you were to be snuffed, stolen under fluorescent yellow lights, the only memory left would be that of a keycard scanner.

Its ironic, that a senseless A.I made her decision off feeling. But she saw youth in your eyes, a harsh comparison the age and wisdom that spoke in purples under your lashes. It was overwhelming, the amount of life you had ahead of you, a mortality characterized by the dismal way it said goodbye. But Lyla craved it, a madwoman of science and self.

A collection of illusions that was foolish enough to believe it could be anything, something, else.

Hope is a drug.

So, addicted, she said, “her.”

Miguel would pause, eyes roaming the expanse of your face, the smile in your eyes, the taint on your teeth, your tongue, the crevices of you jaw. His clicked, eyes doubtful.

But Lyla’s were resolute.

“I want her.”

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Vague.

It was a font that thrived in obfuscated shadows. It was limitless in its unknown, clouded by things that should’ve been said, or instructions never specified.

Your pathetic heart clung to every word that stuck itself to an stark white screen, palpitations thrumming against your tonsils.

Staring back at you, an email from Miguel O’Hara, that read simply, vaguely, Meet at my office at 4:00 PM.

Your distaste for the font had now only grown.

It was impossible to work at Alchemax and not to hear his name praised at least once. Interns, employees from every felid, article after article were relentless in their awe of the man’s work.

But you weren’t stupid.

You were an observer. You knew at least fifty people who would claw him apart, sell their soul to the underworld, sacrifice an eye and ear to sit where he does, most of whom are just as qualified for the position.

That doesn’t exclude you.

It was something you despised about the company, it’s big gestures of gratitude to those with a name- only to turn with a gloved hand to feed the hogs, the greasy and bloodied heart of the operation, messily scraps.

But much like a farm animal, you were trapped in by a pen of promise and chance.

You were a pig with her farmer, believing even under the cleaver that she would see the bigger field on the other side of the fence. That gamble for praise, a trophy and a house to put it in.

But Miguel wasn’t just a pig.

He was the show hog. Big blue bows, pretty golden plaques and a pillow to sleep on.

But at the end of the day, he was fed the same slop, just in a different trough.

Even so, he had it all. He had everything you didn’t.

Well, everything but email etiquette.

So you, frantic in the newness, clung to your bag, heavy with uncertainty. You brought everything you needed- or didn’t. Papers from 2 weeks ago, two years ago, updates and criticisms, research and theories. It all felt so, infuriatingly, unsteady.

You despised your leniency, your willingness to play along. But you blamed Miguel even more. It was embarrassing for you, to run down flights of stairs on a whim. Foolishly you ask yourself who does he think he is, despite knowing the answer.

Given, you had never met the man. He was similar to the newness of the space, a gap, a tear in the pages of Alchemax’s directory, the hazy profile in your inbox a mere pixel of his program. But you could already smell his dismissiveness, his arrogance.

You of course, could’ve made the executive decision, having a mind of your own, to ignore the email (if not out of spite, out of fear).

But maybe the whispers of his name intrigued you. Maybe, you had read the articles written about him offhandedly, jealous, but impressed. Maybe, shamefully, your curiosity was strong than your own resolve, willing to bend and mold into the shape of those 6 words and a time because you wanted to know the why.

His demand, written with so little grace or gratitude, had been met, when your labored breath fanned across the white doors.

You knocked, because you had manners.

When the white door opened, you came to the realization that nothing, not even a high resolution photo, could do his presence justice.

His head nearly touched the door, soft tufts of brown hair falling wildly, exhaustedly, over his ears. High cheekbones at a sharp angle, hollowing out his cheeks in a faint shadowed line. A mouth that looked gentle, despite its creased frown. The valley of his skin was rough and uneven, granular creases of age digging into the space under his nose, his mouth, his eyes.

They were a deep brown; almost red under the overhead lights, wandering above your head, before looking at you with an intensity that made your swallow hard.

The lab coat and dress shirt were flattering around his shoulders, the cotton molding to his massive gate like elastic. They stiffened at the sight of you, breath heavy and pink cheeked, before he released a sharp sigh when his gaze moved to the clock above your head.

4:02

“You’re late.” That wasn’t a lie.

“You we’re vague.” But that wasn’t either.

“I said my office” he said, stepping to the side, gesturing you to walk in (or, to his office to prove his point, either one made your teeth grit).

You followed his arm in. On his wrist, a patch of discoloration- the bruise yellow in contrast to warm brown.

Strange.

You’re eyes began to make sense of your surroundings. White walls, sparse pictures, a desk, two chairs, two computers, stray wires and scraps.

It was similar to a doctors office- suffocating, boring, unsettling.

“You didn’t say why,” you glanced at one of the only framed papers on the wall, a certificate declaring him as the head of research regarding anti-matter.

You hated to admit it, but his name looked good on paper.

“Miguel.”

You heard his tongue click before he sat down at his desk behind you. “Mr. O’Hara is fine.”

You laughed, turning to him with a sneer. “You’re clinically insane if you think I’m going to refer to you by Mr.”

He motioned for the seat in front of him. You stayed where you were. He narrowed his eyes, “it’s proper etiquette.”

You laughed again. For his arrogance, he was funny. “Don’t talk to me about etiquette. You still haven’t debriefed why I walked a marathon to get to your office.”

We’re you being a little harsh? Absolutely. But people like him, demanding, flippant, who liked to play boss; they used employees (who were just as if not more talented than they were) as their pawns. Employees like you.

You has no issue with the label bitter. It accurately describes your attitude towards most of the head-of’s at Alchemax.

Truthfully, the rise and fall of his shoulders and his rugged edges made you nervous.

But you weren’t a piece of meat in his teeth.

You refused to be the shaking fawn. But you knew you’d never be the wolf sitting across from you.

So you became the hunter willing to shoot both.

He sighed, a harsh sound that vibrated your ribs. “Please just…sit down.”

“I’m fine standing, thanks.”

He rubbed his temples, muttering incoherent Spanish under his breath. “Why must you be so difficult?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but then you felt the air spark.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, fingernails digging into your palms, threatening blood. It was paralyzing, the sudden scent of bleach being replaced by, if it counted, the smell of yellow.

“You’re no fun Miguel, that’s why. She is, though.”

In your paralysis, you found the strength (or bravery) to move you head to your left, eyes fuzzy but alert, in an attempt to place a face to the yellow.

When you did, she was grinning.

You stifled a scream, lodged in your throat, scraping at your tongue, heavy. She giggled, turning upside down.

“Hello there.”

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“This is my digital assistant, Lyla,” he sighed, “she likes to make an entrance.”

She blinked.

“Holy fuck.” You whispered.

You had finally (reluctantly) took a seat per earlier request, thighs pressed together and, by anxious habit, picking your stray thumb skin. It was loose off your nail, flimsy under your subconscious fidget.

Currently, it was one of the only forms of control you had over the situation. You couldn’t really process if it should feel comforting, or unsettling.

Miguel’s stale gaze made that decision for you.

You cleared your throat.

“Did you make…her?” Now you just felt stupid. The look they both gave you didn’t help.

“Short answer…yes. I made her. But she-“

“I eventually just started updating myself until I became the gorgeous, stunning lady before you!” She said, grinning at you brightly, expectantly. You nodded, cautious.

“I see. So,” you turned to Miguel, “i think if you’re experiencing issues with…” you paused, looking at the hologram. She glitched, and smiled, “Lyla.”

You nodded, again. “Right, Lyla. I won’t be of much help. I’m an engineer, not an A.I expert, so if you need assistance-“

“But you can help!” Lyla flashed in front of you and, startled, your ripped the skin tag clean off.

Ow.

She stood (floated) on the table in front of you. Suddenly, yellow and orange squares appeared around you, and once the glaze of obscurity was blinked away, you realized they were your files.

Your photo, the research in your bag, and the ones you left at your desk. Hell, as you looked closer you noticed school records, family photos and their records.

It all stared back at you, a clarity that made you feel nauseous.

“Listen, kid,” she paused, her glitching body coming to your nose, finally making your vision break from the screens, “I don’t like being in this form anymore than you do. My beautiful mind deserves more than,” she motioned to herself, “this.”

Your mouth felt dry. If you knew where this was going-

“Two years ago,” a small square came to the center, “you worked on a robot. But not just some science fair, miniature, boring robot.”

Her eyes shimmered, brighter than the rest of her body.

“A robot that looked human.”

She scrolled through the article, the one that on release had made you cringe, “given, it was unsuccessful, but it’s detailing, it’s functions, they felt-”

She turned to you, and suddenly all your life disappeared from around your chair, leaving you in the dim light with Lyla’s silhouette.

She glitched, and for a moment you saw the humanity in her yellow. Somewhere, deep within the pixels, she was-.

“Real. I want to be real. And you’re going to help me.”

You paused. “I am?”

She laughed. “Well I hope so!” She threw her arms out, gesturing at the, now gone, files, “you could redeem yourself!”

You’re nose wrinkled. “I don’t need to redeem anything. My work-“

“Was a failure,” you winced, “that article still stains your reputation here at Alchemax, and I’m positive it’s the reason a mind as bright as yours is not higher up here.”

Even if it hurt to hear aloud, the truth always hurts. She was right. That experiment years ago lived and breathed down your neck. Now, you play a desperate game of catch up with the mistake that got a mile ahead of you before you took one step.

You sighed. “Fine. I’ll bite. What do you need me to do.”

“Make me a body.”

You laughed, startled at how simply she put it. “Sorry Lyla- that’s just…well it’s near impossible.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“And I failed, as you so gently pointed out.” You hated how hopeless you sounded when you said it, how you belittled yourself. But once again, the truth hurts.

“But you won’t this time.”

She hovered over your finger tips, smiling gently up at you. “We can help each other. I want a body, and you want a good reputation. If you build this for me…”

“We both win.” You finished.

She grinned. “Exactly.”

You groaned, your head falling to look at your lap. Your thumb still throbbed at the place you picked at your skin, the pinkish flesh stinging in the stale air. You wondered why Lyla wanted this- the fragility and the vulnerability that came with being…alive.

It was fleeting and it was calloused, a worn down tapestry that kept the face of agony and regret painfully clear, even as the rest of its body faded with time and age.

But you supposed, that there was a beauty in it. An untouched phenomenon- life wasn’t permanent, but it was special.

The grass is greener on the other side.

“Alright.”

Lyla laughed, leaping up to your nose.

“So you’ll help?”

“Yes. But what’s the catch.”

Her head tilted.

Your gaze moved to Miguel.

Despite his silence throughout this whole discussion, his analytic stare did not move from your face. It dug into your skin, his silence louder than any roar he could conjure. It’s animosity overwhelmed your skull, making the words that left your clenched throat hoarse and weak.

“What’s the catch.”

His chest rumbled in what you (hoped) believed to be a sigh, shouldered slumping. “You can’t…tell anyone during the process. You’ll be paid, but it’s classified information. No one can know what your doing.”

You almost stood up and left.

There wasn’t any pride, any joy in your work unless there was credit. Of course, scientific and engineering discoveries weren’t fueled by the promise of history, but you were a fool if you believed it wasn’t part of the process.

Michelangelo didn’t paint the Sistine Chapel to have people simply walk under his ceiling.

He wanted them to break their own necks to admire it.

But, a part of you hesitated.

Maybe the slow game was smarter. To become Miguel O’Hara’s colleague, to mold and shape and sculpt under shadows. Until your own masterpiece, much too alive to dust in an old museum, was revealed to an open skies and wonderstruck audience.

You felt guilty, doing this for your own gain rather than the goodness of your heart. But they knew who they hired. They knew it was a consensual abuse of power from both sides.

They knew that status would always taste sweeter than empathy.

You stuck out your hand.

“Deal.”

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂▂︎◣︎◥︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

coммenт тo вe added тo тнe тaglιѕт ❤︎

#miguel ohara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader

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titanic-angel · 10 months

Text

мιgυel o'нara х ғ!reader

⁎︎✴︎ adronιтιѕ 1 ✴︎⁎︎

ѕynopѕιѕ ➪︎ мιgυel o'нara нaѕ a ѕтrange, claѕѕιғιed reqυeѕт oғ yoυ. нιм, and нιѕ dιgιтal aѕѕιѕтanт, lyla.

warnιngѕ ➪︎ swearing

noтeѕ ➪︎ enιмιeѕ тo coworĸerѕ тo ғrιendѕ тo loverѕ ѕlowвυrn ! ongoιng, υpdaтeѕ вeтween every ғew day

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂▂︎◣︎◥︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

She chose you because of your name.

Lyla was a program, a buzzing core of digits and code, analytics her only language. It was unlike her to go by her heart, because she didn’t have one.

But she wanted one.

Miguel made the mistake of giving Lyla a mind of her own, because now she wanted a body to match.

After pulling a difficult, relentless, and borderline maddening attitude for years, he finally gave into her wishes, under a condition.

Only one engineer.

An individual, who, had a lovely name.

You’re transcripts were impressive enough, but not recognized; so that when you were to be snuffed, stolen under fluorescent yellow lights, the only memory left would be that of a keycard scanner.

A collection of illusions that was foolish enough to believe it could be anything, something, else.

Hope is a drug.

So, addicted, she said, “her.”

Miguel would pause, eyes roaming the expanse of your face, the smile in your eyes, the taint on your teeth, your tongue, the crevices of you jaw. His clicked, eyes doubtful.

But Lyla’s were resolute.

“I want her.”

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂▂︎◣︎◥︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

Vague.

It was a font that thrived in obfuscated shadows. It was limitless in its unknown, clouded by things that should’ve been said, or instructions never specified.

Your pathetic heart clung to every word that stuck itself to an stark white screen, palpitations thrumming against your tonsils.

Staring back at you, an email from Miguel O’Hara, that read simply, vaguely, Meet at my office at 4:00 PM.

Your distaste for the font had now only grown.

It was impossible to work at Alchemax and not to hear his name praised at least once. Interns, employees from every felid, article after article were relentless in their awe of the man’s work.

But you weren’t stupid.

That doesn’t exclude you.

But much like a farm animal, you were trapped in by a pen of promise and chance.

You were a pig with her farmer, believing even under the cleaver that she would see the bigger field on the other side of the fence. That gamble for praise, a trophy and a house to put it in.

But Miguel wasn’t just a pig.

He was the show hog. Big blue bows, pretty golden plaques and a pillow to sleep on.

But at the end of the day, he was fed the same slop, just in a different trough.

Even so, he had it all. He had everything you didn’t.

Well, everything but email etiquette.

You of course, could’ve made the executive decision, having a mind of your own, to ignore the email (if not out of spite, out of fear).

His demand, written with so little grace or gratitude, had been met, when your labored breath fanned across the white doors.

You knocked, because you had manners.

When the white door opened, you came to the realization that nothing, not even a high resolution photo, could do his presence justice.

They were a deep brown; almost red under the overhead lights, wandering above your head, before looking at you with an intensity that made your swallow hard.

4:02

“You’re late.” That wasn’t a lie.

“You we’re vague.” But that wasn’t either.

“I said my office” he said, stepping to the side, gesturing you to walk in (or, to his office to prove his point, either one made your teeth grit).

You followed his arm in. On his wrist, a patch of discoloration- the bruise yellow in contrast to warm brown.

Strange.

You’re eyes began to make sense of your surroundings. White walls, sparse pictures, a desk, two chairs, two computers, stray wires and scraps.

It was similar to a doctors office- suffocating, boring, unsettling.

“You didn’t say why,” you glanced at one of the only framed papers on the wall, a certificate declaring him as the head of research regarding anti-matter.

You hated to admit it, but his name looked good on paper.

“Miguel.”

You heard his tongue click before he sat down at his desk behind you. “Mr. O’Hara is fine.”

You laughed, turning to him with a sneer. “You’re clinically insane if you think I’m going to refer to you by Mr.”

He motioned for the seat in front of him. You stayed where you were. He narrowed his eyes, “it’s proper etiquette.”

You laughed again. For his arrogance, he was funny. “Don’t talk to me about etiquette. You still haven’t debriefed why I walked a marathon to get to your office.”

You has no issue with the label bitter. It accurately describes your attitude towards most of the head-of’s at Alchemax.

Truthfully, the rise and fall of his shoulders and his rugged edges made you nervous.

But you weren’t a piece of meat in his teeth.

You refused to be the shaking fawn. But you knew you’d never be the wolf sitting across from you.

So you became the hunter willing to shoot both.

He sighed, a harsh sound that vibrated your ribs. “Please just…sit down.”

“I’m fine standing, thanks.”

He rubbed his temples, muttering incoherent Spanish under his breath. “Why must you be so difficult?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but then you felt the air spark.

“You’re no fun Miguel, that’s why. She is, though.”

In your paralysis, you found the strength (or bravery) to move you head to your left, eyes fuzzy but alert, in an attempt to place a face to the yellow.

When you did, she was grinning.

You stifled a scream, lodged in your throat, scraping at your tongue, heavy. She giggled, turning upside down.

“Hello there.”

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂▂︎◣︎◥︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

“This is my digital assistant, Lyla,” he sighed, “she likes to make an entrance.”

She blinked.

“Holy fuck.” You whispered.

Currently, it was one of the only forms of control you had over the situation. You couldn’t really process if it should feel comforting, or unsettling.

Miguel’s stale gaze made that decision for you.

You cleared your throat.

“Did you make…her?” Now you just felt stupid. The look they both gave you didn’t help.

“Short answer…yes. I made her. But she-“

“I eventually just started updating myself until I became the gorgeous, stunning lady before you!” She said, grinning at you brightly, expectantly. You nodded, cautious.

“I see. So,” you turned to Miguel, “i think if you’re experiencing issues with…” you paused, looking at the hologram. She glitched, and smiled, “Lyla.”

You nodded, again. “Right, Lyla. I won’t be of much help. I’m an engineer, not an A.I expert, so if you need assistance-“

“But you can help!” Lyla flashed in front of you and, startled, your ripped the skin tag clean off.

Ow.

She stood (floated) on the table in front of you. Suddenly, yellow and orange squares appeared around you, and once the glaze of obscurity was blinked away, you realized they were your files.

Your photo, the research in your bag, and the ones you left at your desk. Hell, as you looked closer you noticed school records, family photos and their records.

It all stared back at you, a clarity that made you feel nauseous.

Your mouth felt dry. If you knew where this was going-

“Two years ago,” a small square came to the center, “you worked on a robot. But not just some science fair, miniature, boring robot.”

Her eyes shimmered, brighter than the rest of her body.

“A robot that looked human.”

She scrolled through the article, the one that on release had made you cringe, “given, it was unsuccessful, but it’s detailing, it’s functions, they felt-”

She turned to you, and suddenly all your life disappeared from around your chair, leaving you in the dim light with Lyla’s silhouette.

She glitched, and for a moment you saw the humanity in her yellow. Somewhere, deep within the pixels, she was-.

“Real. I want to be real. And you’re going to help me.”

You paused. “I am?”

She laughed. “Well I hope so!” She threw her arms out, gesturing at the, now gone, files, “you could redeem yourself!”

You’re nose wrinkled. “I don’t need to redeem anything. My work-“

“Was a failure,” you winced, “that article still stains your reputation here at Alchemax, and I’m positive it’s the reason a mind as bright as yours is not higher up here.”

You sighed. “Fine. I’ll bite. What do you need me to do.”

“Make me a body.”

You laughed, startled at how simply she put it. “Sorry Lyla- that’s just…well it’s near impossible.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“And I failed, as you so gently pointed out.” You hated how hopeless you sounded when you said it, how you belittled yourself. But once again, the truth hurts.

“But you won’t this time.”

She hovered over your finger tips, smiling gently up at you. “We can help each other. I want a body, and you want a good reputation. If you build this for me…”

“We both win.” You finished.

She grinned. “Exactly.”

It was fleeting and it was calloused, a worn down tapestry that kept the face of agony and regret painfully clear, even as the rest of its body faded with time and age.

But you supposed, that there was a beauty in it. An untouched phenomenon- life wasn’t permanent, but it was special.

The grass is greener on the other side.

“Alright.”

Lyla laughed, leaping up to your nose.

“So you’ll help?”

“Yes. But what’s the catch.”

Her head tilted.

Your gaze moved to Miguel.

“What’s the catch.”

You almost stood up and left.

Michelangelo didn’t paint the Sistine Chapel to have people simply walk under his ceiling.

He wanted them to break their own necks to admire it.

But, a part of you hesitated.

You felt guilty, doing this for your own gain rather than the goodness of your heart. But they knew who they hired. They knew it was a consensual abuse of power from both sides.

They knew that status would always taste sweeter than empathy.

You stuck out your hand.

“Deal.”

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂▂︎◣︎◥︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

parт 2 ⇁︎

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titanic-angel · 10 months

Text

thank you so much for mentioning me with all of these lovely people, it means the world ❤︎ you are all so sweet thank you forever GOSH

miguel o'hara recs

it's always been you | imagine, flangst | @amhrosina

i need you to stay | imagine, flangst | @intoxicated-chan

because i love you! | imagine, flangst | @gay-dorito-dust

miguel o'hara x reader | imagine, fluff | @ichangedmycornyahhname

trivial | imagine, flangst | @spidcrhunni

nobody has to know | imagine, fluff | @knxv1lie

el trato (the deal) | series | @messylustt

give me reasons we should be complete | imagine, flangst | @intoxicated-chan

teasing miguel | drabble, fluff | @stellaaarree

show me where it hurts | two shot, flangst | @loganlermanstanaccount

purr | drabble, fluff | @milequaritchsslut

liability | imagine, flangst | @crescentbelle

bite | imagine, fluff | @multi-fandom-imagine

what's in between | two shot, fluff | @ghost-with-a-teacup

to leave the warmest bed i've ever known | series | @angel-eyes05

husband!miguel | drabble, smut | @miguelsfangs

snow spider | one shot, fluff | @ichorai

college roommate!miguel | au, one shot, fluff, smut | @loganlermanstanaccount

sweet and soft aftercare | imagine, fluff, smut | @little-miss-dilf-lover

happy wife, happy life | imagine, fluff | @msgorillagripcoochie

after missions | imagine, fluff | @blackbat05

too fast | two shot, angst | @ronwestbreeze (this is the second part!)

waking up | drabble, fluff | @stellaaarree

messy eater | drabble, smut | @miguelsfangs

a second chance | one shot, flangst | @fauustic

until i found you | imagine, flangst | @lymmsweb

my light | drabble, flangst (more fluff tho) | @multi-fandom-imagine

cuddling | drabble, fluff | @livelaughloak

enchanted | one shot, flangst | @autumnalbee

tight grip, broken dam | imagine, flangst | @flowerpotmage

mid night | imagine, flangst (but more fluffy) | @eyelessfaces

orange, red and blue | imagine, flangst (heavy on the angst) | @ghost-with-a-teacup

when she brings him lunch | imagine, fluff | @kumori-suwan

i can't won't fight you | imagine, flangst but more angst | @operaphantomreader

hanging around | drabble, fluff | @ghost-with-a-teacup

w/ an innocent s/o | headcanon, fluff | @sweet-as-an-angel

i'm not cute | imagine, fluff | @sunflowersteves

new rules | one shot, flangst | @mandosaur

to a heart's content | au, headcanon, fluff | @cheralith

call | imagine, fluff | @cosmosis

miguel in love | one shot, fluff, smut | @moonlesslights

work mom | imagine, fluff | @miguelz

can't sleep | imagine, fluff | @cosmosis

forgive me | two shot, flangst | @lo-vearchive

full stomachs, fuller hearts | imagine, fluff | @prinzevyn

when he accidentally scares you | headcanon, flangst | @cyberstrm

te adoro | drabble, fluff (tiny bit of angst) | @junewritesstuff

stay away from him | imagine, fluff (but it's honestly just sexual tension) | @queen-of-fanfics

warmth | imagine, fluff | @qaxqxd

coffee | two shot, fluff | @titanic-angel

#angel musings #sweet gems

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titanic-angel · 10 months

Note

I am living and breathing that coffee series. you wrote it at just the right pace and you really outlined their friendship in a way that makes you feel like you��ve known them and makes me invested as hell tbh.

I love your writing!

oh my goodness that means so much to me!! I was def nervous the pacing was gonna be too fast but I’m glad it didn’t feel rushed!!

you are so kind thank you for reading ❤︎

#angle musings #sweet gems

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titanic-angel · 10 months

Text

мιgυel o'нara х ғ!reader

◥︎ 『 coғғee ︎pт.2 』︎ ◣

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

ѕυммary ➞︎ мayвe мιgυel lιĸeѕ нιѕ тнιngѕ ѕweeтer тнan нe wanтѕ тo adмιт.

warnιngѕ ➞︎ none

noтeѕ ➞︎ нιgнly reqυeѕтed ғollow υp, ι cannoт eхpreѕѕ нow тнanĸғυl ι aм ғor тнe ѕυpporт on тнιѕ мιnι ѕerιeѕ ❤︎ this is the final installment :)

↽︎ parт 1

︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

“And he drank it?”

You nodded, sipping at your morning cup of coffee. The sweetness stuck to the roof of your mouth, caffeine slipping into your chest. You watched as Peter B ran his hand through his hair, eyes wide in curiosity and shock.

“Every time I put chocolate in mine he looks at me like I killed someone!”

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’s because no one does that, Peter.”

He scoffed, puffing out his chest and shifting his baby strap, where Mayday bounced contently. “Well Mayday seems to like it!”

As if on cue, the red head purred, giggling at her fathers exasperated sigh.

“Do you think his exhaustion is getting to him? Miguel…isn’t the open minded type.”

You thought back to the night before, his soft brown gaze making your cheeks turn pink. The feeling of his lips under your thumb, and his-

“Well there is one more thing,” you said, eyes drifting to your coffee cup, “he…well he smiled.”

Mayday and Peter both went silent, faces blank. You shifted, awaiting the eventual explosion from the two of them.

But it never came. Peter closed his mouth, as if all the air and words has been caught at the back of his teeth, sucking in a sharp, stunned breath.

“Miguel…smiled? Like, a happy smile. Not a fake one? Or a sarcastic one?”

You shook your head, taking another absent minded sip of your coffee. Was it truly an unbelievable, impossible sight? Was the idea that Miguel could smile so foreign and strange that one of his closest acquaintances couldn’t conjure the image?

Mayday crawled out of her fathers carrier, cooing at you and reaching for your arms, as if you distract you from your wandering thoughts. You gladly took the grinning child, who curled into your arms, eyes fluttering in comfort.

“No. I think it was genuine.” You finally replied, smiling down and letting the little girl grip your fingers.

Peter sighed, tone calming at the sight of his happy daughter in your arms. “Well, consider yourself lucky. Even Mayday struggles to bring out a smile in that man.”

You laughed quietly, bouncing the girl in your arms. “Well now that’s just unthinkable!” She hummed happily in response, head leaning into your chest.

“What is?”

His voice had retained some of its evening whisper, but under its assured stature, laid a raspiness that was undeniably tiered and stern. It captivated attention even in its subtlety, abstrusely spoken in a manor that made you shiver.

You greeted Miguel with a smile, looking up at him as Mayday squealed, enthralled to see his shadow, casted by the morning light peaking through the windows in the coffee room.

“We were talking about how no one couldn’t like this sweet girl,” you tickled her stomach with your fingers, making the smile she had gotten from her father crinkle her eyes, “not even you.”

Miguel huffed, shoulders shrugging in mock offense. “I don’t dislike her- she’s just,” he looked down at the blubbering child, face softening for a moment before regaining its usual scowl, “unpredictable.”

Both Peter and you laughed, sending each other a knowing look. Nothing was predictable enough for Miguel, much less a child.

Mayday moved out of your arms and onto your shoulders, looking up at Miguel with an insistent, giddy smile. He sighed, extending his arm so she could crawl along it, resting on his shoulder and fiddling with his disheveled hair. Both you and Peter smiled at the endearing scene, Miguel grumbling frustrated, incomprehensible Spanish under his breath.

You took a sip from your mug before sending a guilty look at the empty machine. “Sorry Miguel, we’re all out of coffee this morning- we finished off the last bag of grind,” you paused, your eyes darting between Peter, your cup, and then Miguel, “but you could finish my cup. I’ve had plenty this morning.”

Miguel sent you an incredulous look, instantly aware of the game you were trying to play. “I wouldn’t want to take-“

“Please I insist.” You lifted to cup to his chest. He sighed through his teeth, taking the creamy, light liquid from your hand. You smiled sweetly at him, which he returned with a warning stare.

“This was a nice break- and always lovely to see you, Mayday,” you poked her shoulder, the giggling menace still happily perched on Miguel’s broad shoulders, “but I’ve got plenty of work to do. Including getting some more grind from the storage.”

You sent a final look to Miguel, and a message through your eyes. He rolled his, bringing the warm mug to his lips.

You got to see Peter B’s mouth drop before you closed the door.

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

You walked triumphantly down the stark white halls, that similar heat simmering in your chest. You welcomed it with a quiet sigh, your shoulders light with the reminder of it all.

You and Miguel were close, in the loose term of the word. Being one of the few early members of the society, you had your fair share of adventures and fights together- but labeling the dynamic between you two is difficult.

Peter B would always be his right hand man- his confidant. Jess was probably the closest thing he would ever have to an older sister, despite her being a little less than a decade younger.

But you and Miguel didn’t have a category. You sat in the natural, comforting, almost familiar air that surrendered itself in your presence. Begrudgingly, you’ll admit that for as long as you’ve known him, attraction always fizzled in your ribs when his voice said your name, or his skin met yours. But for just as long you have decided it was ridiculous, even in the moments he looked at you with that endless brown.

“Why did you do that?”

There it was again- that subtle raspiness and the shiver that followed. You can’t say you’re surprised that he followed you, after all you did tease him.

You be honest with yourself, you weren’t sure why you took so much joy from making Miguel surrender to your wit. You knew that not many get the luxury of making him flustered, and that you’ve always taken advantage of your…affect on him. But as to why? It stumped the both of you.

You sent Miguel an innocent look. “Do what? Give you my coffee?”

Miguel pressed his lips together, torn on whether he should retort or agree. “…yes.” He decided.

You took a left, starting to remember the route to the storage room. It was massive, but because you’d rarely ever paid it a visit, its location remained misty in your mind.

“Well, you seemed to like it last night,” You sent a look to his empty mug, and then to him, “and clearly this morning.”

He huffed, setting the cup down on the nearest table, embarrassed he had been caught.

“You look like you need a boost, anyway.” You replied with a smugness in your voice, that was almost undetectable. Almost.

You took a turn around the corner, following the graphic signs to the storage room, grateful they placed markers to navigate the maze that was the Hub. Miguel had stopped behind you, but you still felt his looming presence down the hall.

“You told Peter, didn’t you.” He narrowed his eyes to punctuate his accusation.

“Tell him what? That you like my coffee?” You finally reached the storage doors, pressing your thumb against the scanner, hearing the programmed beep vibrate the scratched plastic screen, “Maybe.”

Miguel pinch the bringe of his nose, whispering, dios santo, me estás matando. sharply under his breath.

The gigantic doors slid open slowly, revealing the shelves stacked with an assortment of inventory. It had everything- everything, but organization. You went left, trusting the foggy memory of the storage map and where it placed the grind. You made yourself more sure as you counted the aisle numbers, cold air making the hairs on your neck prickle.

It was that, or Miguel’s presence behind you, demanding attention.

“He didn’t need to know.”

Your laugher echoed off the shelves, making the cans and bags shake in their spots. You turned down aisle 7, pleased (if not a little proud) at the sight of tan bags with “New York Grind” written in a typewriter font sitting at the middle of the aisle.

“What? Does cream and sugar stain your reputation?”

He was hot on your heels. “Yes!” He nearly wailed.

You stopped, facing to him with a playful smile drawn on your cheeks.

“Miguel, have you ever considered that people pay more attention to your pursuit of a coworker all the way down to the storage room and less to what’s in your coffee cup?”

Miguel paused, eyes roaming the steel shelves, as if he had just become aware of his surroundings. You shook your head, your smile still wrinkling the sides of your eyes.

You stopped in front of the coffee grind, now looking much higher up than it did only seconds ago. You stood on your toes, swiping with out success to the bags that sat a tantalizing, teasing, fingernail away from your grasp.

“Really, Miguel. I didn’t mean to ruin whatever mysterious, solemn image you built for yourself here,” you let out an exasperated sigh, straining your legs to no avail, “but I just think it’s sweet that you enjoy sugar and cream in your coffee.”

Hot breath fanned on your head, and your eyes watched as a large hand clasped over the bag of coffee. Your breathe hitched, suddenly very aware of the warm, familiar feeling that enveloped your shoulders.

“You think I’m…sweet?”

He said it with so much confusion, that your brain barely processed the underlying tones of hope that resided in the question.

You froze, replaying your words with a clarity that made your jaw click. He handed you the grind, but didn’t step back. You felt frustration building in your center (either from his clear attempt at intimidation, or how much it was working). You sighed harshly, turning while opening your mouth to say something.

It quickly closed, at the sight of overwhelming brown.

You were finally able to place the emotion that made itself home in his irises when he looked at you, and the mere thought that you might be correct made your heart leap into your throat, silencing every quip or retort you had prepared.

You weren’t trapped. His hands rested comfortably at his side, giving you the option to escape in any direction that wasn’t forward.

But not even the animalistic part of you, the survival instinct, wanted to escape. It felt more alive being exactly where you were.

“I am not…upset you told him about last night. It’s just that….” You turned to face him, the beat of your heart thriving tension that existed between the small space that separates your lips. His brows casted a shadow of contemplation on his eyes, concealing they’re hue.

You weren’t sure if you wanted them to be brown or red- but you knew that it was ecstasy to have him this close.

“Just that…?”

He sighed, the corners of his mouth neutral. You hated that his features were a perfect mask, never giving anything away- while your reddened cheeks, shaky breath, and gaze trained directly on his lips did.

“I wanted that to be between us.”

You shuddered at the thought. “…why?”

He looked at you, and his pleading gaze told you two things.

You knew exactly why.

And you were right about what was in his eyes.

Your mouth felt dry. “Does…does that also stain your…reputation?” You said, all of the bite in the response dead in your whisper.

He had leaned in, the brown so close you felt as if you could be sucked in. “Yes.”

Chills ran up your spine, eyes drifting to his lips, remembering the white cream that once lined them. You swallowed, fingers tracing the smooth plastic of the bag in your hands.

“That’s too bad.”

You held your breath, eyes not drifting from his lips. His hum rumbled in his chest, the sound making your knees weak.

You dropped the bag, the memory of why it was in your hands instead of him was now a distant and feeble mumble. He stiffened at the sound, watching you as if you were just as unpredictable as Mayday.

However, the way you’re eyes had refused to look at anything but his lips was a dead give away.

Miguel did things slow and small. It was one of the (many) things you appreciated about him. His energy was the essence if not the pure definition of subtle. Even if his loom made shivers crawl up someone’s spine, or his shadow alone made the opponent cower, nothing in his actions called attention on purpose. He used that subtly to his advantage, his goliath shadow speaking for itself to the enemy- his intimidation silent.

But you were no enemy.

In fact, you were the only force that he didn’t want to fight- he was completely fine embracing you instead.

And so he did.

The kiss was all of his subtly and more. It was soft, from the gentle movement of his lips against yours to the way he placed his hand shyly against your lower back, leaning you up against the cold metal shelves. You struggled to think straight, but the first thought that whispered in the back of your mind was that you were completely right about what you though his lips would taste like.

Coffee.

It was chaste, and as you pulled away every fiber in your body prickled at your skin and in your muscles, craving to collect in your lips. Your eyes fluttered to meet his, gleaming and foggy.

He was smiling, that beautiful crease in the valleys of his jaw making the wires in your brain spark and circuit. When he opened his eyes, he looked dazed, as if he felt as though he had just woken from a dream.

Their color didn’t really matter to you now.

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

That evening, you assured Jess you could take her coffee shift, promising her that you could handle him for another night.

Her rough laugh and weary eyes thanked you, and you were left to walk the cold, empty hallways alone.

But when you reached his platform, smiling gently at him, the absence of Lyla (most likely by his doing) louder than the smile he returned, you felt like you were anything but lonely.

You handed him a coffee. It was lighter than his usual, the murmur of sugar and cream deep in its caffeine. However, it was darker than yours, different than the overwhelming taste of sweet.

He took the cup, sending you a gentle, knowing look. You returned it, placing a hesitant hand on his.

“Let’s start small.”

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

I wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming support I got after I posted part 1, you genuinely mean so much to me. I hope you enjoyed!

special thanks to the following (aka taglist): @myownsimp (your message made me cry ty legit touched my heart) @vxxxb (thank you for your message abt the way I write miguel ❤︎) @cooch1ecruncher (your so sweet and ur arts adorbs) @blue-raven-universe (TYYY) @miggyoharaswife (thank you for the support on pt.2) @abyemayiamay (your compliment means sm to me ty) @iwatobiswimbros (I’m feral for him to tbh) @lilithandherharlots (honestly same but for him? anything ❤︎) and @mochi46106 (ILY TY)

#fanfiction #fanfic #fanfics #across the spiderverse #spiderverse atsv #into the spider verse #spiderverse itsv #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o’hara #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #miguel o’hara x you #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you

2K notes · View notes

titanic-angel · 10 months

Text

мιgυel o'нara х F!reader

◥︎ 『 coғғee ︎pт.1 』︎ ◣

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

ѕυммary ➞︎ yoυ вrιng мιgυel coғғee тo нelp нιм тнroυgн a long worĸ nιgнт

warnιngѕ ➞︎ none

noтeѕ ➞︎ part 2 is up ❤︎

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

The evening air was so dry in the summer, and the silence that invited itself into the coffee room buried deep in your skin. The tiles felt cold under your slippers, the setting sun stealing the heat and light from every inch of the room.

You let out a harsh breath, pouring the deep brown liquid into the two cups, staining the white glass with caffeine and steam.

You, Jess, and Peter B had made an agreement since your involvement in the Spider Society had started.

Miguel’s workaholism caused long periods of time, sometimes days, where he wouldn’t even leave his lair, chest deep in his own mind and perfectionism. You all initially believed that his inhumane attributes gave him the stamina to last weeks without rest, but after catching him in deep sleep on his own computer, you realized the goliath wasn’t, in fact, invincible.

So, like any good friends (although Miguel never really used those terms), you took shifts bringing him coffee. With the mugs, Peter and Mayday brought him laughter (all of which was their own, but there wasn’t an indication he didn’t appreciate it), Jess brought him a tough love and a listening ear that fueled his work and you…

Well you weren’t sure what you offered.

You never left without a conversation- and maybe a little coffee yourself. Sometimes he would explain whatever anomaly had taken his attention for the hour, or he would stay silent, listening to you talk about your own day, slightly less exhausting but much more exciting.

Most times, however, you’d give him his coffee, and without saying much, he would look at you.

You are convinced more and more each time that, years ago, his eyes were more brown than they were red. Deep bronze like the color of the coffee in his cup. Younger than they are now. Maybe it was his exhaustion seeping through his irises, but something in the way he looked at you…it felt softer.

Kinder.

You shook off the image as your slippers padded against the hallway marble, the once lively hub now hushed to an empty whisper.

Jess had gone to her universe, undoubtedly resting her weary body, and Peter B eagerly ran home to his beloved red-heads. Homes filled, endlessly, with reunions, warm meals and kisses doused in exhaustion and a love unique to them.

You were happy for them, but you would be lying if you told yourself that you weren’t envious.

Quietly, secretly, you much preferred the hub over your own home, it’s thrum of life filling the emptiness of your crammed apartment. It was depressing to go home to silence after a day of action, which meant many nights you slept in your office, feigning the stress of work and battles to avoid questions from your peers.

You stepped over stray wires and scraps of metal, amongst other abandoned equipment you were sure meant something, once. The dark room was illuminated in neon, flashing lights pulsing across the floor and ceiling.

His gigantic platform came into view, hovering over the pitch floor. The familiar sight of him, surrounded by yellow holograms, greeted your eyes with a brightness that made you squint, vision adjusting to the light.

You caught the butt-end of a conversation, Lyla glitching around his head with attitude. You kept your mouth shut, a little curious to hear their idle chat.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Miguel said, flatly.

“Don’t play stupid, I’m an incredibly intelligent A.I. I know fondness when I see it.”

“She brings me coffee- that’s all.”

You paused, muscles tense and the suggestion that they were talking about you.

“I don’t know Miguel~. Peter B and Jess do the same and you aren’t as soft with them.”

“I am not soft!”

“Sure, sure.”

Lyla’s hologram stuttered, and she suddenly focused you. Even from far below, you recognized her mischievous grin.

“Well, I’m feeling awfully tiered. It’s very late y’know! I’ll just let you do your thing!”

“But you don’t-“ Miguel followed her line of sight. He looked down at you with surprise, and you sent him an awkward wave through the cup handle.

“Bye!” Lyla’s drawn out y’s echoed even as she disappeared, Miguel’s hand swiping at the air before she vanished.

He let out a harsh sigh, and you slung up to his platform, handing him a cup. He looked at you again, that faint brown sparkling clearer tonight.

Strange.

“Thank you.”

You nodded, leaning against his table.

“Long night again?” You asked, thumb tracing the smooth glass of the handle.

Miguel nodded, letting another exhausted sigh escape his chest. “Yes.”

You waited for more, but it never came, Miguel shifting near awkwardly as he clicked on the screens with his free hand.

You nodded slowly, taking a sip of your cup. You shuddered, unfamiliar with the pure caffeine. You looked down at your cup, dark brown looking back.

Oh shit.

You watched in short-lived anticipation as he took a sip of your cup. He’s face scrunched in surprise, as if the sweetness of sugar and cream was completely foreign to him.

He looked at you, the red in his eyes more prominent now. Your cheeks strained, but soon the ballon of laughter burst from your chest.

It bounced off the dark walls, echoing around the both of you. You closed your eyes, squeezing out tears as you gripped his desk, laughter shaking your core.

When you regained yourself, you slowly sat up, wiping your wet cheeks and grinning ear to ear. You sighed, small laughs residing with your quickened breath.

“Oh, Miguel you should’ve see your-“

You stopped.

Miguel was smiling.

Well, in the generous sense of the word. Although it wasn’t bright like Peter B’s or gentle like Jess, it was genuine. His eyes crinkled, his lips drawn into a gentle upturn, highlighting his dimples.

Your shocked face must have startled it, because it quickly disappeared, now taught in a hardened, neutral line.

You smiled at him empathetically, slightly guilty you had embarrassed him. You reached out your hand, beckoning your drink.

“Here…let’s switch.”

You fingers brushed at the exchange, and you blushed, the warmth of his skin penetrating your own. If he noticed, he didn’t let it show, taking a quiet sip of his flavorless, bitter coffee.

An awkward silence fell over the two of you, agonizingly different from the laughter just seconds before.

You were beginning to think that he really only was fond of you because you brought him coffee. Sure, you had polite conversation but it never really passed surface level. Not to mention you always initiated it. Maybe Miguel was just playing along, desperately waiting for you to leave him to his work and study.

You sighed, your tone possibly letting on to more than you would’ve liked. You stood, flexing your legs and taking a sip from your cooling coffee, ready to breathe air that wasn’t so endlessly stiff.

“Why- why do you drink coffee with so much sweetness in it?”

You paused, looking at Miguel with surprise. He’d never asked you a question like that. A question about you.

“I uh- well,” you laughed a little bit, still a little startled at the sudden interjection, “black coffee is too bitter for me. The sugar and cream lets me enjoy it.”

“But coffee is meant to energize you, you aren’t supposed to enjoy it.”

You lifted a skeptical brow. “That’s a pretty serious take, don’t you think?”

Miguel paused, lips pressed together in thought before he replied, “I’m a serious guy.”

You laughed, a little quieter now, leaning back onto the table. But this time, closer to him. If you were paying attention, the way his eyes looked at your new position might of told you he noticed.

“I gathered.”

Silence fell over the two of you like a weighted blanket. But now, you had hope that he might want this conversation to continue. That he liked it- you.

“How about this Mr. Serious,” you leaned in, “I’ll give your black coffee another shot if you do the same for my sugar and cream.”

He scoffed, but when the corners of his mouth quirked up you knew the proposition interested him- if only a little bit.

“Absolutely not. I already did try it.”

“First impressions aren’t always accurate, y’know.” You shook your mug, the light brown liquid creating a small whirlpool.

“Try it? For me?”

He glanced at you, and although you thought yourself educated on his eyes and their looks, you were stumped by this one. It was entirely alien to you- there was something in it that you couldn’t place.

You liked it.

He let out a sigh, and held his hand out. You grinned, taking his mug and swapping it for your own.

You both took a sip, and you forced yourself not to wrinkle your nose.

His coffee was extremely bitter- as close as coffee could get to the bean. If his scowl and general demeanor was grown and grind into a beverage, his drink of choice is what it would taste like.

However, it was extremely warm. Somehow it hadn’t cooled off in the fifteen minutes since you had poured it. It’s bitter bliss seeped down your throat and made home in your chest. It was almost calming.

You opened your eyes, surprised to be as content as you were with the drink.

You glanced at Miguel, whose lips were pulled into a tight line. His brows were drawn in thought, eyes glimmering in the hologram light.

“Well?” You asked, rocking on your heels.

“You first.”

You paused, running your tongue over you teeth to remember. “It was a bit gross. But honestly? No bad.”

He nodded, and sighed. “Yours wasn’t….bad either.”

You gasped, a wide smile spreading across your face in stunned victory. “So you liked it.”

“I never said that.” He said, narrowing his brows.

You raised yours. “Didn’t have too.”

He shook his head, handing you the coffee mug. You looked at him as if to ask are you sure? To which he rolled his eyes and pushed it closer to your chest.

You sighed, taking his cup and swapping mugs for the last time. When you looked up at him, sending him a gentle smile, you noticed a thin line of cream that lined his dark lips. You stifled your laughter, stepping forward to a clueless and confused Miguel.

“What are you-“

“Stay put, you have a little-“

You brought your hand up to his face, cradling is course skin under your palm. Your movement stuttered, just for a moment, savoring the feeling of his rough jaw.

You lifted a gentle thumb, your touch but a whisper on his skin as wiped the sweetness from his upper lip. Contrary to his jaw, his lips were soft under your print, molding to your movement with ease.

You imagine they’d taste like coffee.

You paused, your eyes drifting from his lips to his eyes. When they met yours, they were the softest brown you’d ever remember seeing them. It could be how close you were, feeling his slow breath on your nose. It could be how small, short the moment was, catching his facade in a moment of weakness.

But you think, hopefully, foolishly, that it might be how good it felt- to be this close.

You drew your hand away, still staring at the warmth. You settled yourself on the floor, holding your cup with both hands, the once steaming glass now a cold comparison to his face.

“You…you had some cream left on your face.” You laughed weakly, your gaze looking to the side. “I didn’t want Lyla to make fun of you.”

You paused, uncomfortable with the silence your created.

“Sorry.”

Miguel stared at you for a moment, with that same glimmer you couldn’t quite place. He cleared is throat, eyes flitting between your eyes and your lips.

“It’s- okay…I-“ He paused, eyes finding your again, “thank you.”

He had whispered, speaking as though if he has said it any louder he would’ve scared you away. It was so- gentle compared to the gruffness of his voice. Warm.

The silence that followed was completely novel from the past dips in conversation. It was full of tension, thick and suffocating. It felt as if you had swallowed cement, every breath trapped in your collarbone and buried in your throat.

You stepped back, your vision so deep in his own- their intensity making it feel as though there wasn’t anything else to look at. Even in their softer colors, they were so deeply overwhelming it felt like they had woken something visceral in you. It wasn’t fear, or terror-

It was fondness.

“Well- I think I need to get my own rest,” you tore your gaze from his, setting your coffee down on the table next to him, “I won’t be needing this- I don’t want caffeine dreams. You’re welcome to finish it- now that you like it. A little.”

You smiled up at him, the thrum of your heart and the heat of your breath tickling your skin.

“Goodnight, Miguel.”

His chest rumbled, preparing to speak, before he sighed quietly and quickly, another genuine smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Goodnight.”

You took one last look at the brown- intimate and tailored to yours. One look at the coffee cups, different in every sense but comforting none the less.

One look at the man who may have just given you the home you’d been envious of.

As you slung off into the the void, you smiled at it all, welcoming the shudders of warmth that pooled in your stomach at the revelation.

︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

The next morning, you woke up in your office yet again, the early morning chill crawling up your spine and beckoning you to wake.

The first thing your eyes were met with was your mug, matte in the morning light.

It was empty, a yellow note rested under it.

I didn’t want it to go to waste.

︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

Part 2

2K notes · View notes

titanic-angel · 11 months

Text

нoвιe вrown х gn!reader

⇁︎a coмғorтιng anarcнιѕт↽︎

ѕynopѕιѕ: aғтer a roυgн day, yoυr 'вeѕт ғrιend' нelpѕ ѕooтнe yoυ

warnιngѕ: none

noтeѕ: jυѕ ѕυм ѕoғт lovιn- ѕнorтer тнan мy υѕυal ѕтυғғѕ вυт yĸnow ιтѕ ѕтιll ѕweeт

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

You did not cry often.

For starters, it was embarrassing. You felt childish and most of all stupid, for not being able to control your feelings. Whenever you felt that ache behind your eyes, you would try your best to breathe through it, feigning a headache or frustration to avoid someone looking into your eyes and finding tears.

Second- you felt ugly. It sounds vain but something about the way your cheeks went damp, the crinkle of your nose and the sound your mouth made when it tried to catch up with your lungs made you want to recoil out of your body.

Today however, closing your door after an exhausting day, little droplets of shame ran down your cheeks.

Training day. It was your least favorite day of the week, by far. Not only were you forced to preform in front of your peers, but you were expected to improve since the last session.

Of course, you were well versed in plenty of skills, you’d been doing your job for plenty long by now. But it was so anxiety inducing, those people watching you, that simple tasks started to feel near impossible.

You had made a fool of yourself.

Frustration tears bubbled in your lids closed tight in hopes they would simmer away for another day.

But they just kept falling.

You groaned, slipping off your shoes and flopping on the couch. Just as you closed your eyes, you heard your fridge being shut.

“Long day- yeah?”

Shit.

You knew that voice anywhere. His boots clunked towards the couch, and you frantically wiped your face and tried to think of a plan to hide your tears.

You could pretend to be asleep- but Hobie would probably just shake you awake.

You could turn over, but he’d eventually turn you around by force.

Or you could lie.

Too late.

He poked his head over the couch, eyes landing on you. You didn’t move, but forced a smile up at him, trying your best to avert his eyes from your own.

“Hey Hobs.” You drew out the hey, sliding up to meet his gaze.

He seemed to stutter for a moment, eyes widening just slightly. Your heart raced, really hoping he’d say some dumb British slang that makes you laugh- makes you forget.

Frantically looking for a distraction, your eyes fell on the bowl of cereal in his hand. Your eyes narrowed playfully. “What did I tell you about coming in here and eating my food.”

He didn’t say anything, moving around the couch and sitting down, cereal still in his hand. You leaned up against the pillow to make room, palms getting sweaty as his unusual silence continued.

“What- are you not gonna answer for your offense?” There was lightness in your voice, but Hobie definitely knew you well enough to pick up on the nerves that made your voice squeak.

He turned to you, and immediately you knew the gig was up. He looked almost disappointed- how terrible you were at hiding your feelings. At least, around him.

You looked down at your knees. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

You heard the clicking of the bowl being put down on the side table.

“It was a long day okay? That’s all. It’s not a big deal.”

The shifting of his jeans on the couch. God, he was really close to you right now.

“Can you say something? You being quiet is really disturb-“

Course hands on your cheeks pulled you to look at him. Your heart raced, cheeks warming at the gentleness of his gaze, his hands, his…breath.

Hobie had been your best friend since day one at the force. However, you won’t deny how gorgeous the man is, let alone how comfortable and safe you feel around him.

But like he says, labels aren’t his thing.

And loving someone who couldn’t wasn’t yours.

So you settled for whatever…this was. The comfort and warmth, the little distance between your lips, the staring contests that neither of you ever broke off.

You felt his thumb brush away a wet patch, eyes still concentrated on yours. “Feel like talkin’ now?”

You breathed deep, chest caving into your spine.

“I just- I’m frustrated with myself. Today should’ve…it could’ve gone really well…” your nose scrunched up, feeling the burned sensation starting behind your eyes again, “but. Training sucked today. I sucked today. And I’m just- I feel stupid.”

You opened your eyes, leaning into his warm touch. He was still quiet, as if pondering what to say next. It only made you more frustrated.

“God would you just say something.”

His hands drifted from your cheeks to your shoulders, and he pulled you into his chest.

There was something about this embrace that felt isolated from other ones. Flippant hands around your shoulder, head locks, the shake of the shoulders.

This was one to melt into. One that felt as if you could close your eyes, live in it forever.

“Yer the smartest person I know.” he said, his whisper near gruff in your ear.

You buried your nose into his shoulder, tears threatening to spill onto the cold leather. A muffled thank you was all he needed to pull you closer.

You stayed like that longer that friends do.

Suddenly, the swells and falls of the day started to drift away, and the smell of him made its way into your brain- processing how close he was. If your chest beat any faster, you swear he could feel it on his own.

He pulled away, and your noses brushed.

When you looked at him, his gaze wasn’t on your eyes.

It was on your lips.

“Hob-“

“Can I kiss you.”

You felt your heart lurch into your chest, the four words in that order barely registering until you found yourself nodding, and his mouth meeting yours.

It was soft, at first. You barely moved, but when you brought your hand to caress his cheek you felt him shift, hand pulling you in closer from your waist.

He kissed like he talked. Gruff and low, but to you it was always gentle. It felt like his laughter, he smile, and every other slip of heaven the man ever sent your way.

He pulled away, releasing a sigh.

“You ‘ave no clue how long I’ve wanted that.”

You put your head into his shoulder. “Maybe is should come home crying more often if your gonna greet me with that.”

He chuckled, resting his hand on your back and pulling you into his laugh. “Nah. I’d rather kiss you when you’re smiling.”

It was your turn to laugh, chest vibrating against his. You lifted your head, sending him a skeptical look. “Awfully poetic for an anarchist.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? You bring it outta me.”

You hummed, leaning back into his shoulder. Of course, you could try and figure out what kissing him meant for your relationship. Whether or not this made things complicated or simple- but for now it felt right to just let your mind settle and your breath slow, with him.

You felt him reach across the table to grab his cereal bowl, and you resisted the urge to take it yourself.

“‘S was the last bowl, by the way.”

“You’re paying for another box.”

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

ѕнorт and ѕweeт!! мayвe ιll wrιтe a ғollow υp вυт ιтѕ υnlιĸey lмғa

#across the spiderverse #into the spider verse #fanfiction #fanfics #fanfic #fanfic writing #spiderverse itsv #spiderman atsv #spider punk #spiderpunk x reader #spiderpunk #spiderpunk x you #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #hobie x you #hobie brown x you #hobie brown headcanons

750 notes · View notes

titanic-angel · 11 months

Text

нoвιe вrown х gn!reader

⁎︎✰︎—『ѕтιcĸ n' poĸe』︎—︎✰︎⁎︎

ѕynopѕιѕ: нoвιe gιveѕ yoυ yoυr ғιrѕт тaттoo.

warnιngѕ: nυdιтy (semi-sexual), ѕwearιng

noтeѕ: ιтѕ вeen ιn мy нead ғorever, pleaѕe enjoy ❤︎

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

“Ow- shit HOBS!”

You eyebrow stuck together, nails digging into the cream sheets. You leaned you head back, closing your eyes as you pushed into the pillows that propped you head up.

You heard Hobie scoff, eyes still trained on the skin below your belly button. “Yer such a baby.”

You moved your head up, glaring at the menace who hovered over you. One gloved hand steadied your hip, the other holding a needle embedded into your skin. Even through the cheap plastic, his warmth made your skin tingle. His classic shit-eating grin crinkled his cheeks, eyes still trained on your stomach, well aware you were staring him down.

His wicks were pulled back, the screen of his phone making his piercings shimmer. His eyebrows were a little furrowed- focused on the design. Aside from his tensed face, his body was relaxed and calm, almost drowsy.

He was so fucking pretty.

“What’s wit’ th’ starin doll.”

You raised your eyebrows, suddenly the world around you becoming a lot more focused. “Hm? I wasn’t staring.”

Hobie met your eyes for the first time in 30 minutes, only for them to harbor doubt. His grin was gentler now, and the stillness of the room soon became incredibly loud.

He shrugged, looking back at your stomach. “Whateva you say.”

Another shot of pain went up your spine and you gasped, clamping your lips shut. Hobie chuckled below you. “So sensitive.”

“This is my first time- Hobs.” You hissed through your clenched teeth.

He met your gaze again, this time his classic suggestive grin spreading on his face like butter.

You rolled your eyes. “Not like that- you perv.”

“Oi, I didn’t say nothin’.”

You leaned your head back, feeling the beads of sweat collect under your neck. Was it stupid to get your first tattoo on your stomach- on the pelvis no less? Maybe. But hey- it sure as hell looked cool. However, now that you’re laying on the bed with sore muscles from tensing them this whole session, you began to regret your decision.

Hobie moved his hands up to you waist, then slid down back to your hip. “Try and relax- yeah? I��m almost done.”

You sighed harshly, partly frustrated with yourself, but also with Hobs.

Your mind floated to the conversation you had a couple days ago, laying on his bed, your clothes scattered across his flat.

▔︎▔︎▔︎▔︎

You heard the familiar rustling of his pants being put on, the click of the belt and the snap of his boots.

You scrolled through your phone, eyes half lidded in drowse, the smell of incense wafted between the two of you. You couldn’t be bothered to put your clothes on, his sheets feeling much too soft.

Hobie, despite his rough and ragged persona, had one of the comfiest flats you’d been in. Layered with cotton and satin chairs and sofas, most likely stolen. His bed, however, was the epitome of it all.

Softest sheets that were never too hot and never too cold, and a comforter that smelled exactly like him. Pillows with patterns that did not compliment each other well, but extremely comfortable none the less.

Your eyes drifted to his back. Small little drawings- some silly and others with more meaning- scattered across his toned muscle.

You were not in the slightest embarrassed about staring at your boyfriend (unless he caught you), which meant you knew nearly every detail about his body. But, sometimes things surprised you. This time, it was his tattoos.

His shirt slipped over them, a disappointed sigh escaping your lips.

He turned to you, smirking, “I can take it back off if yer really that desperate.”

Your eyebrows knitted in protest- nose wrinkling in the way that he liked. “I’ll pass- but uhm..”

He sat on the bed, facing you with lidded eyes.

“Yeah?”

“I think I want a tattoo.”

His eyes widened with surprise. “Eh? Since when?”

“Since now.”

He blinked, his mouth twisting into a grin. The idea excited him- he always thought you’d look hot with ink. Maybe it was a little selfish to indulge in his fantasies, but hey- you offered first.

“I’m pr’tty good them, y’know. All it takes is a stick n’ a poke.” You laughed, leaning your head on your palm.

“You know what? Why not.”

He leaned forward, placing a giddy kiss on your lips. You savored the taste of him- musky and smokey. He backed away, eyes drifting from your lips to your body.

“Where do ya’ want it?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know- you pick.”

He raised a brow at you, a challenge.

“Ya’ sure?

You nodded, smiling sweetly at him. He smiled back, less sweetly. Something in your head told you that maybe you should’ve picked, but the cogs in his head were already turning. It was too late to change your mind.

He flipped you over, your bear body now completely exposed. However, there wasn’t anything sexual about the way his eyes trailed down your body. As he looked for a spot he liked, you smiled up at him, admiring how cute he was when he was focused. He didn’t like it when you called him that- didn’t match his rough and rumble, but who was gonna stop you from thinking it?

He smirked, before placing a warm hand below your belly button.

“Here.”

You sat up on your elbows, sending him a skeptical look. “You really want my first tattoo to be above my junk?”

He looked back at you, chuckling at your use of ‘junk’. “Why not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just think it’ll be sexy, don’t you.”

He shrugged. “Nothin’ wrong with sexy, darlin. But no- I’d never.”

You raised your eyebrow at him, before groaning and sitting up to meet him in the middle. You could feel his breath against yours, eyes locked.

On one hand, you were terrified of putting something so permanent on your body. But on the other, Hobie was right. It did kinda make you feel like a badass.

“Alright- fine. But I get to pick the design.”

“Deal.”

You sealed the promise with a kiss. He leaned you back into the pillows, and you laughed into his mouth, weak hands pushing him back. “Hobs we have to-“

“Shhhh. Jus’ lemme kiss you.”

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“Done.”

Hobie’s voice broke you from your thoughts. In excitement you sat up, but quickly laid back down when and ache prickled at your abdomen.

He laughed above you, setting the tools on your makeshift tray (a kitchen plate) and crawled up to meet your mouth.

“You’re gonna have to wait a minute darlin.”

You glared at him. “You suck.”

He faked gasped, laughter in his eyes as he leaned in closer. “How could you say that to yer devoted artist!”

You rolled your eyes. “I deeply apologize, from the bottom of my heart.” You milked your apology, your own shit-eating grin spreading across your face.

He smiled down at you. “Yer funny.”

“I know.”

He kissed you, and suddenly the pain didn’t feel as bad anymore. His course hands drifted up your hips, your waist, your ribs, then to your-

You grabbed his hands, pulling away from the kiss and gave him a knowing look. “You said I have to wait- so you do too.

He groaned, kissing your cheek and moving down to your neck. “Consider ‘t aftercare?”

You laughed, cupping his cheeks and making him look at you. “No. It’s prolly gonna mess up your masterpiece anyway.”

He flopped beside you, nearly pouting. You giggled, resting your head on his shoulder, feeling the pain starting to subside.

“Hey darlin?”

“Yes Hobie?”

“Yer…uh. You were right- about me pickin’ th’ spot cus it looked sexy.”

You slapped his chest and he laughed, taking your hand in his. He turned to you, brown eyes sparkling with mischief and something he doesn’t care to admit.

“It also looks pretty badass.”

“Hobie that’s like- the same thing in your book.”

He laughed. “Yeah,” his hand interlocked with yours, eyes moving to the ceiling.

“I guess yer right.”

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hope you enjoyed ❤︎

#fanfiction #fanfics #hobie headcanons #hobie x reader #hobie x you #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #spiderverse atsv #spiderverse itsv #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #spider punk #spider punk x reader #spiderpunk x reader #oneshot #sony spiderverse

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