#Leer!Miles Morales

[skylarstark4826]

Hobie Brown doesn’t believe in consistency. Hobie Brown doesn’t believe in labels.

So, if it came to light that there was a…little quirk about him that consistently labelled certain little “moods” he gets into, one could understand how he’d be hesitant to believe it.

Or maybe he’s just in denial.

“The fuck you mean I change colors?” He asked incredulously, his whole body shifting to a sort of greyscale before Miles’ eyes.

“That! You just did it!” Miles’ hands flailed a bit before he gripped his sleeves, and he laughed a bit at the look Hobie gave him. “When you get upset, you turn grey.”

“I can’t be grey already, mate, come off it.” Hobie chuckled, running his fingers along his hairline before returning his hand to the neck of his guitar. “Though, between the Spider thing and you lot on my arse all the time, the stress could be gettin’ me.”

Miles scoffed, offended. “You know that’s not what I meant! And since when do we stress you—” He paused, realization lighting his face as Hobie’s scheme turned to several tones of pink. “You’re messing with me!”

“Oh?” His voice remained steady, but his eyes were distinctly smug. “I felt like that was pretty serious just now. Full sincerity.”

“No, because you always turn pink when you’re being a goof.”

He froze, fingers catching a sour note on his guitar. Miles flinched a little when just his eyes moved to stare at him. That side-eye alone could level mountains.

…But he was still pink.

Miles eyed him warily, crossing his arms. “I know you’re just trying to get in my head.”

Hobie laughed quietly, and his color returned to…normal? Red Spider suit; black vest; and his skin was actually a human color. Yeah, this could be considered normal. “Hate to break it to you, mate; but it’s very easy to get into your head. You get in there so much on your own; you start leaving the door open.”

Miles pouted, but he inched closer to Hobie’s side and rested his head on his shoulder.

Hobie smiled a bit more, plucking a few notes. “Bit of a fuss-bucket, but we like that about you. ‘S cute.” He leaned in turn, letting his head rest on top of Miles’ as he hummed softly.

“Someone has to worry about you and Gwen, especially when you start scheming together. Or not checking in for days; remember the talk we had about that?”

“Gotta unplug sometimes, my guy.” His color shifted again, flipping between grey and another muted palette. “You…you worry about us?”

“Always. You guys both bottle everything up and then act like drinking from it will make it go away.”

Hobie winced, but he couldn’t help another little laugh. “That’s a half decent line, innit? I…You worry about me, huh?” He murmured, his hands going a little tense before he suddenly looked away and cursed under his breath.

Miles glanced at him curiously as he flickered again, between those muted tones and his bright pink. “Are you—”

“Shut up.” Hobie ran his thumb under his eye, a smile stuck on his face as his body settled into the pink palette.

“Hobie!” Miles said just a bit teasingly, hugging the taller boy’s arm and rocking against him. “You’re all pink~ You turn pink when you’re happy, is that it?”

“I don’t turn colors; what are you on about?!” He let himself rock with Miles, reaching to ruffle his hair with his free hand. “An’ I’m not happy; I’m miserable. You’re out here tormenting me.” He carried on dramatically, slipping his arms around Miles and pulling him into his side as he started to lean over. “Makin’ me cry and all. Terrible.”

“Aw, poor thing.” Miles snorted, trying to get his hands between them again. “Maybe I should cheer you up?” He got one hand just under Hobie’s vest, squeezing his side a few times.

“Oi, watch it!” Hobie yelped, giggles starting to slip out as he tried to lean into Miles. “You’re tickling!”

“You’re ticklish?! That’s crazy, man. Unbelievable.” Miles smirked, bringing both hands to scribble up his sides. “That sounds like a cute thing, and you hate being cute.”

“Miles, you—No!” Hobie let out a cackle as Miles grabbed his waist, electricity rushing through his midriff under his touch. Sparks of color flashed across his body, and he tried to shove Miles’ shoulder as his form settled back to pink.

Actually… Now that Miles really thought about it…

“Have you always turned pink when you get tickled?” He asked softly, letting his thumb press circles on Hobie’s hipbone and brushing stray tears off of his face with his free hand.

Hobie slapped lightly at Miles’ face as he giggled. “Stop saying that…” He half whined, lifting the neck of his guitar as he let his head fall onto Miles’ again.

“How do you keep denying it?!” He pulled his hands back, rummaging in his pockets for his cell phone. “Here, c’mere.” He giggled as Hobie slipped his arm around his waist and hooked his chin over his shoulder, and Miles snapped a picture of them without really looking.

“Okay, there, l—What. The. Fuck?!” Miles stared in disbelief at the photo.

Hobie snorted, laughing snidely as his body turned a few neon colors before going pink again. “Oi, that mouth, love.”

“There’s no way—Hobie!” Miles squeaked as Hobie suddenly pressed a flurry of kisses against his neck and cheek, his phone slipping out of his hand as he laughed.

Sure enough, the photo only showed the pair of them: with Hobie’s red Spider Suit, black vest, and dark brown skin.

-------------

Gwen had made the fatal mistake of letting Hobie bring her to a pub in his dimension. She had also made the mistake of letting him drag her to three more after that. They were cuddled up in the hammock Hobie had strung up on one side of his bedroom, rocking slowly as the canal shifted the boat.

“Not really sure why you thought you could beat Karl on that third one, lovey.” Hobie purred, fingers carding through Gwen’s hair as her head rested on his chest. “How many times have you told me you don’t even like whiskey?”

“Not my fault you keep shitty whiskey…” She murmured into his shirt. “’N I needed to shut him up.”

“Forgot the sauce makes you a rude li’l bitch, didn’t I?” Hobie smirked down at her as she set her chin on his chest and tried to glare at him.

“Why are you so okay anyway?” She griped. “You knocked back half a bottle of vodka right at the start.”

“Little lesson for the pub crawl: Ol’ Roy waters down the vodka bottles he serves out. Keeps the good shit for himself. Takes a bribe and a half to get so much as a shot out of him, but you need that buzz to choke down some of the food Mary’ll serve ya. Bet you didn’t even notice how fast we booked when they tried to give you those burger things; they’re awful, and you hadn’t even—Aw, love…”

Gwen’s eyes had fallen closed, and she smiled softly as she snoozed quietly against him. “’M listening… Promise.”

“Sure you are.” He pulled her head to rest against him again, tracing gently along the side of her face. “Kinda important, though, you do need to eat more if you’re gonna drink that much. The healing thing ’ll fix ya quicker, but still. That second place? We hit it just for those chicken strips, okay? The cheap wine was a bonus. And I’m still mad you let Riri take that root beer float from the Winchester, man; you’ve gotta try it.”

“I just try not to eat dairy when I have a stomachache…” She yawned for a moment, stretching her arms and hands like a kitten before loosely clutching at his shirt. “Bad things happen.”

“She said, shortly before getting into a drinking contest with a super soldier and keeling after three shots.”

“Hm? Oh, sorry; I got distracted by your cigarette breath. Run that by me again?”

Hobie barely stifled a laugh, ruffling her hair gently. “Okay. It was only, like, two.”

“Two per pub, more like.”

“Nah, it was not like—” He suddenly paused, thinking back to a few hours prior. “…Shite.”

Gwen chuckled sleepily, trailing off into a quiet snore.

Hobie huffed as he smirked, humming a tune and letting his fingers strum against her spine. He wasn’t entirely sure how long they stayed like that; the rocking of the hammock was good for melting away any semblance of focus. Suddenly, though, a thought jumped out of the remaining haze of alcohol to the front of his mind.

“Oi, Gwendy.” He murmured, dragging his nails more purposefully up and down her back.

She shifted slightly, a smile breaking her face as snickers slipped out. “Mmph… Not funny, Miles…” She grumbled, pushing softly at Hobie’s face.

“Ooh, I’ll try not to be offended at that one, love.” He sneered as she whined. He moved his hand to lightly tickle her ear as it turned bright red. “Remember you told me I could ask you one stupid question a day?”

“Seriously? Now?” She huffed, the pout audible in her voice.

“It’s still today, innit?” He kissed Gwen’s hand when it shoved the side of his face again. “Just the one, I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah…Go on.”

“So, um… Do I, like, change colors?”

Gwen was silent for a second before starting to giggle as she looked up at him. He could tell by her tone that she might still be a little buzzed. “What? Like a chameleon? Hell no!” She asked in disbelief.

“Heh, right?! God, I can’t believe I almost fell for that. Miles tried to get in my head that—”

“You change more like a fever dream.”

And, suddenly, his body flickered between normal and grey. “…What?”

“It’s like… Maybe a strobe light? No. It’s like flashing, but not quick, like…”

“I do not change colors!” He insisted, the greyscale settling in.

“Ack! Volume…”

“Sorry, just—” His palette was quickly muted, and he hugged Gwen close. “I’m pretty sure I would know if I was changing colors all the time, y’know? And you never said anything like that before.”

“I don’t go around questioning how people’s bodies work in other dimensions.” She shrugged, her head falling onto his chest again. “You want me to let you know every time I notice you breathing? I can hear your heartbeat; does that surprise—Oh, that’s really fast, actually.”

“Nah, nah, nah, don’t get distracted.” Hobie ruffled her hair again, his colors shifting brighter as she laughed softly. “Does—Does everyone do it? The gang and all?”

“Your gang here? I mean, yeah. I think it’s just your dimension’s thing. Changing colors with how you feel, I think.”

“Oh, you think now? Which is it?” He turned pink, unable to keep the smile off his face as she stretched groggily and let her hands fall onto his face again.

“Hey, you’re all different. I don’t keep track of all of you. I know most of your little patterns though, Cuddlebug.”

Hobie pouted, feeling his face heat up. “Don’t believe much in patterns…”

“Okay, but then how did I know you’d say that?” She cupped his face in her hands, thumbs drawing the smile along his cheekbones. “I can feel you blushing.”

“Pfft, yeah?” Hobie shifted between pinks and neons, taking hold of one of her wrists. “You wanna feel somethin’, eh?” He dragged the flat of his tongue up her palm, his piercing almost catching between her fingers when she shrieked and pulled away.

“Oh, my god, you fucking weirdo!” She accused, scrubbing her hand against his shirt as he laughed at her.

“I thought you’d see it coming, love~ I’m so easy to predict, apparently.” Hobie sneered, his colors still shifting despite lingering on pink.

“That’s not what I said, you big baby!” A few giggles snuck into her voice as she pushed herself up onto her knees, gripping her head for a moment and wincing.

“Easy there, Gwenny; watch your volume.” He taunted, lifting his hands and letting her brace herself against them. It quickly turned into her trying to shove his hands over his head, which he definitely didn’t just let her do without a fight. Definitely.

“You don’t believe in patterns; do you ever not speak bullshit?” She grumbled, letting go of his hands and crossing her arms.

“Gettin’ a little hostile, aren’t we?” He chuckled, crossing his own arms under his head as his colors flickered again. “I mean, here I am having an existential crisis, and you just want to leave me in the dark.”

“Yeah, you look so bothered by it.” She huffed and rested a hand under her chin. “You’re flipping between stuff, but…You light up when you’re happy; you start fading when you’re down; when you get upset, you turn grey. Actually, no, it’s like: You turn into some kind of newspaper collage. Like, literally, there are words on your face right now. I think they change depending on what’s bothering you…”

Hobie touched his face, finding himself distracted. “When do I turn pink?” He murmured, accidentally interrupting her going on about neon or something.

She snickered just a bit before she grinned brightly. “You turn pink when… God, it might be the best one. You turn pink when something makes you super happy. Happy like when cats purr; it’s your tail wag. You also turn pink when you’re planning pranks or goofing off with the band; it’s so great and—Wait. You said that Miles…” She paused suddenly, thinking for a second. “You do turn pink around Miles a lot, don’t you?! Hobie that’s so cute!”

Hobie groaned, letting his arm fall over his face.

“You turn pink when you blush sometimes too~” She poked his cheek, and a smile crept onto his face. “That’s the happy blush~!”

“Shut up…” He whined, a few giggles sneaking into his voice and getting amplified when Gwen’s fingers started crawling up his ribcage. “Gwen…”

“Is that my Gigglebug?” She asked teasingly, starting to scribble her fingers as her hands moved toward his armpits. “Oh, my god; did Miles find out you like getting tickled?! Is that what this is about?”

“Gwen, I do not—!” He started to insist, only to break into loud giggles when her hands shot up. “Gwendy, please!”

“Oh, yeah? Then why are you still pink?” She giggled a bit herself, bracing her knees around his legs as the hammock started to rock.

“I don’t change colors!”

“Okay, you’re just trying to do the contrarian thing. I love the commitment to the bit, but you are literally tickled pink right now.”

He lashed his hands out, hugging her tight and pulling her back down onto him. It didn’t help much; her fingers still found a bit of wiggle room against his upper ribs, but she rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“I hate you.” He murmured, the bright pink still lingering as he nuzzled into her shoulder.

“Hate you too, punk.” She teased, shifting slightly to kiss his mouth. “Ack! Yeah, that was definitely more than two cigarettes, Hobie.”

He snorted, his colors flickering for a moment as the hammock slowly stopped shaking, and Gwen chuckled and rested her head on his collarbone.

And then the hammock fell to the floor, and both of them laughed themselves hoarse.

------------

“What happened?” Miguel had asked worriedly when he first saw the look on Peter’s face. He had rushed Miguel across the facility and down to the infirmary before finally answering:

“There was an, uh, incident down in Equipment Development.” Peter explained a bit warily. “One of the kids got hurt. Kinda figured you’d want to make a proper report, and he’s not exactly being cooperative.”

Miguel had paused at that, realizing that there were very few Spiders in Spider Society that tended to be uncooperative. Definitely only one uncooperative kid. Sure enough, there was a single occupied bed in the infirmary, and Hobie sat as tense as if he were made of stone. His left forearm was wrapped tightly in bandages, his hand barely having the leeway to squeeze the grip strengthener in his hand.

“Hey, hey, Hobie Brown!” Peter called in a playful tone, clapping Hobie’s shoulder. “Lookin’, uh, a little blue there, eh?”

The muted blue shifted instantly to greyscale, and a distinctly not-human sounding hiss filled the air between them.

“Okay, not funny; got it!” Peter said quickly, stepping back and nudging Miguel forward. “Miguel, here, just needs t—”

“Fucking hell; what’d you bring him for, pops?!” He griped, flopping himself over onto his side and cringing as he adjusted his arm. His voice was groggy, still slightly affected by the heavy anesthetic that had been used on him.

Peter sighed softly, and Miguel rolled his eyes. “I brought him because your injury is, well, pretty bad. We need an incident report, y’know?”

“He said you were being obstinate about it.” Miguel chimed in, and Hobie’s color flickered as his head whipped around to glare at both of them. “He has half a point though. Tell me what happened.”

Hobie huffed, settling back to greyscale as he returned his focus to his hand exercise. “Ain’t nothin’ to write about.”

“Literally, the one thing I asked you for.” Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, if it were nothing, you wouldn’t be sulking in here.”

Instantly, Hobie put on his smirk, rolling onto his other side and looking at them with a shrug. “So, who’s sulking? I feel great.” His greyscale somehow grew cloudy, those dark blues melting in as if the newsprint had been dropped in paint. Neither Miguel nor Peter commented on it.

“I mean, Miguel definitely knows a thing or two about sulking; I’d tend to agree with him on this.” Peter tried another joke. Hobie chuckled, but he didn’t change.

“I don’t believe in agreements, then.” Hobie shrugged, smiling a bit tauntingly.

Miguel eyed him for a moment. “LYLA, pull up the footage from Equipment Development. And the medic’s record.”

Hobie’s face fell before he could catch it, and he sat up quick enough to make himself dizzy. “Oi, Tink—”

“You got it, boss!” LYLA’s voice was bright before she appeared on Miguel’s shoulder. “It is a little rough though.”

Miguel watched through a small holographic window as Hobie assisted Peni with repairing and recalibrating the blade weapons in her mech’s arms. He’d made some joke, and she laughed and punched his arm. They stepped back a bit—not nearly enough, and definitely not behind the designated safety glass—and she pressed a button on a remote. The saw blade spun, apparently picking up speed even after she pressed the button again. They moved warily, and Hobie’s eyes never leaving the mech as he put one arm in front of Peni, his color shifting to the harsh greyscale. It quickly turned into both arms snatching her off the floor when the saw shrieked and launched off of its gear. Miguel tore his eyes away before the impact, clamping his hand over his wrist before the scream could bury itself in his mind.

“Dios mio, kid…” He murmured, and Peter covered his mouth as he tried to find something to say.

Hobie stayed silent, wincing a little as he stared at his arm.

LYLA hummed sympathetically, petting the side of Miguel’s head. “Medics’ report says that the wound was pretty deep. Hobie’s one of the faster healers, but nerve damage is no joke. They want him on observation and physical therapy for a little while before he goes on another mission.”

“And why exactly did you need me to ‘get a report’, Blue?” Hobie asked gruffly. “Just rip me up and piss off, alright?”

“Excuse me?” Miguel might have stammered a bit.

Hobie’s hand clenched as his body stayed that dark grey, and he groaned irritably. “Just tell me how fucking stupid I am! How the irresponsible rebel let a poor li’l bird get hurt! I know what the others said!”

“Wait, wait; hold on.” Peter said slowly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Who said that about you?”

“Oh, like I keep a fucking catalogue of which Red-Suit Peter Parker is which. Come off it.”

Miguel pulled up the video again. Peni got hurt? And if she had gotten hurt, why didn’t Peter mention it? He braced himself as he let it run this time, and he spotted it: The moment of impact, as Hobie held her tight, the very edge of the blade nicked her forehead. And even then, he only realized it had happened when she kept wiping a dribble of blood away from her eye. She was the one to activate her watch and send out an alert, but a few Spiders had already come running as Hobie screamed.

He looked up, watching Hobie bicker with Peter for a few seconds. “Why do you think I’d call you stupid for this?” He asked, and both of them balked at his tone of voice. His eyes were soft, concerned; and his tone seemed a bit shaky.

Hobie cringed, the look on his face incredulous as his colors flickered. “You’re asking me that after last year, huh? We’re only supposed to save some people sometimes, yeah?”

Miguel sighed. “I haven’t forgotten. But don’t try to put words in my mouth about this. I’m not going to scold you for probably saving your friend’s life.”

Hobie rolled his eyes, biting his lip on some comment, surely.

Peter’s hand returned to Hobie’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Hobie, no one—No one—should even have the nerve to tell you that you were wrong here. Lab accidents just happen. Peni is safe; no one’s dead; HQ isn’t on fire; I don’t see any sentient saw-based super villains, and you’re not even missing that hand.”

Hobie huffed softly toward the end, remaining mostly stone-faced despite his color shifting brighter.

“Just know you’re amazing, Spider-Man.” Peter said finally, patting Hobie’s back.

A shock of neon flickered through Hobie’s palette, and he let a soft chuckle slip out.

“Oh, that’s what gets a smile out of you, really?”

Hobie lightly shoved Peter’s arm with his good hand. “Yeah, right, pops. You know you ain’t that funny. Lemme go back to my sulking; I’m so good at it.” He let himself fall onto his back, draping his arm across his face and sighing sadly.

And flecks of pink bloomed across his normal colors. Peter gave a look of exaggerated offense, crossing his arms and looking back at Miguel.

Miguel let out a fraction of a chuckle. “Didn’t think you were the type to doubt yourself this much, Spider-Punk.”

“Sorry, Hook, I like to think I’m multifaceted. Full a’ surprises and all.”

He blinked at the nickname, letting a smirk creep onto his face and resting his hands on his hips. “Well, if you can’t pull yourself up out of this little rut, I suppose we’ll have to help you—” He gave a light tap to Peter’s shoulder and winked as they made eye contact. “—And the method might not be so delicate.

“Pfft… Don’t know what I believe less: You thinking I want your help or you thinking I’d need you to be delica—!” His voice was caught in a yelp as one of Miguel’s hands suddenly squeezed one side of his ribcage. As he started to flail, Peter fired a bit of webbing that stuck his bandaged arm to the wall.

“If you really want some commentary, you should probably keep that arm immobilized for a bit.” Peter taunted, leaning closer to scribble gently at Hobie’s other side.

“Oi, hey!” He griped, giggles starting to slip out of him as his free hand pawed Miguel’s arm. “Fuck off; that’s not funny!” He curled over onto his side, pinning Peter’s hand under his weight. It didn’t stop him scribbling his fingers at all, but Hobie seemed determined not to let him have that hand back.

“It’s a little funny.” Miguel shrugged as he sat on the bed as well. He set his left hand firmly on Hobie’s shoulder, flexing the fingers on his right to get them primed. “You called me Hook earlier, didn’t you? I wonder why.” He said it playfully, as if he didn’t actually know, and he dragged his claws gingerly against the back of Hobie’s t-shirt.

Hobie’s legs kicked out as a shriek escaped him, his laughter jumping quickly to cackles as bright pink tones covered his body.

Peter chuckled as he watched them, squeezing Hobie’s side softly until he got the opportunity to pull free when the kid suddenly writhed. “Must be really funny if you’re laughing this much.” He teased, sneaking a few pokes across his stomach. “Hobie ‘Spider-Punk’ Brown stuck in a giggle fit from the evil backscratcher~!”

“Pops!” He laughed, his free hand making a grab for Peter’s wrist again. Miguel, completely undeterred—and maybe a little shocked by it—pulled Hobie to lie flat on his back, and he let his claws scribble softly all across the kid’s stomach. Hobie covered his face, giggling brightly as he seemed to make an effort to keep still.

“Aw, the lone wolf still kicks for tummy scratches.” Peter smirked, leaning on Miguel’s arm and tickling along Hobie’s ribs. “Definitely something Miguel knows about.”

“You are terrible.” Miguel chuckled, shaking his head and sneaking scribbles toward Hobie’s sides.

“You’re both terrible!” Hobie barked out, twisting a bit harder than he meant to and shouting suddenly. “Ack, shit!” Bright red lightning-like bolts flashed along Hobie’s arm as his body flickered between the pink and newsprint palettes.

Peter flailed to remove the webbing from the injured arm, not that there was anything he could do beside watch Hobie ride out the sting of pain. “I am so sorry…” He stammered, suddenly panicked and rambling while Hobie’s voice came out a bit ragged:

“M’fine, m’fine, mate, really.” He insisted, flexing his fingers as best he could and letting out a sigh as the pink tones started to reappear. His eyes fell on Miguel, and when he smirked, Miguel realized he’d been holding his breath.

“You’re fine?” Miguel asked, pushing himself to stand back up.

“As I can be.” Hobie shrugged, grinning harder to cover the wince. “You two gonna stop bothering the invalids now?” His bright pink was muddied by the muted blue, though it flickered between the two.

Peter sighed and shook his head with a weary smile, patting Hobie’s knee as he got up.

Miguel crossed his arms. “Not just yet. Have you told your little crew about this?”

Realization flashed across Hobie’s face, and grey text etched itself into his skin as he tried to push himself up. “Shit, I need to get home, I—”

Miguel grabbed his shoulder before he could accidentally put his weight on the wrong arm. “We can arrange that. I meant: Have you told Gwen and Miles? Or Pavitr?”

For as tall as he was, Hobie seemed to shrink at the idea alone.

“Hobie…” Peter scolded without scolding him.

Hobie pulled a pillow over the side of his head, groaning in frustration. “Ugh, look, okay? I don’t want them worrying over me. I don’t de—” He bit his tongue and paused, the color draining away from him— “They’re busy and all, and I’ll be fine. I begged the doctor not to say anything to you, but Peni had already run off. Then Pops showed up, so, yeah, maybe I was a bit pissed off.”

Both men glanced at each other. Some parts of Spiderman really are always the same.

“They care about you, you know.” Miguel said softly, and Hobie cringed himself into a smaller form. “They love you.”

His hand clenched tighter on the pillow, and bits of the newsprint highlighted itself in pink while others crossed themselves out or tried to become more prominent.

It was sort of an unspoken rule in Spider Society not to read the words that would flash across Hobie’s body, or at the very least, not to comment or draw attention to them. He rarely got emotional enough for them to be legible anyway, but most Spiders could respect the idea of staying out of someone’s head.

But Hobie doesn’t change colors. So, if Miguel’s hand covered up the words “I don’t deserve them” when he pressed his palm to Hobie’s back, it was a coincidence.

“If you stay here to heal up, they’ll notice you missing.” Miguel caught a glimpse of something and glanced away. “If you try to sneak out before you’re healed up, they’ll notice when you can’t use your hand properly. Tell them.”

“…Fine.”

“Promise you’ll do it.”

His colors darkened a bit. “Promise…”

Miguel pat his shoulder firmly, finally stepping back. “And stay behind the safety glass next time. That’s why it’s there.”

Hobie chuckled softly, letting out a quiet sigh as Miguel and Peter made their way out of the infirmary.

“LYLA, let the medics know that Hobie might need another round of painkillers.” Miguel said once they were definitely out of earshot.

She appeared on his shoulder again, a clipboard in her hands. “Already done, boss!”

“By the way, give me an estimate on the kid’s recovery. What do you think?”

She flipped through papers on the board, kicking her feet casually. “Well, based on previous known injuries, and the medic’s report; adding in physical therapy time: I’d say he’ll be mission-ready by next Friday. Probably the Monday after to be 100% normal. Just estimating; you know he’d probably say otherwise.”

Miguel nodded. “Check in once in a while. If he hasn’t told anyone by Wednesday night, drop them a message first thing Thursday.”

Peter looked at him with a smirk, and Miguel rolled his eyes and chuckled.

---------------

“Hobart Brown!” That was Miles’ voice, and it was weighted by his Puerto Rican accent. He was pissed. His sneakers squeaked against the infirmary floor as he stomped up to Hobie’s bed.

Hobie nearly choked on the sip of water he’d taken, catching the grip strengthener when it slipped out of his hand and flickering through several different color palettes.

“Oi. We don’t pull the government names, you know that!” He had barely set his water bottle down when Miles cornered him against the headboard, eyes sharp with rage.

“Shut your punk ass up!” He barked suddenly, seeming to shock both of them for a second. Hobie rested his left hand on his chest, and he felt his face heating up.

“When the hell were you going to tell us that you got hurt?” He continued, crossing his arms as he glared.

Hobie winced, and dark blues settled in with flickers of pink. “I-I, well…When I stopped being hurt?”

“Hobie!” Miles ran his palms over his face, and absolutely none of the anger had drained from his eyes when he looked back up at him. “How could you do this?”

“I did check-ins; you can’t say I didn’t!”

“Yeah, and you lied to us!”

“I—I did not lie. I just…didn’t…”

“Lying by omission is lying, Hobie! And it’s a shitty thing to do to your partners!” His hands were moving a bit wildly before he clutched at his jacket sleeves for a moment. He sighed heavily and let them fall to his sides. Hesitating just a little, Hobie slowly took Miles’ hands into his own, and Miles stared at the remains of the newest scar on his forearm. Miles squeezed his hands tightly, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

“It’s just… After everything that happened, and out of everyone here…You were the one person I thought would never lie to me! Not about important stuff, at least...” He moved one hand to the side of Hobie’s face, brushing his thumb over the words he pretended not to see. “And you are so important! To me and Gwen and Pavitr and your band and so many people.”

In the midst of his speech, Hobie spotted Gwen creeping in with her hands behind her back, but that last part might have gotten to him a bit. The colors on his body fluctuated again, and he felt himself sinking into the hand cradling his face.

“Did you make him cry yet?” Gwen asked a bit playfully, approaching the bed and lightly nudging Miles with her elbow.

“Gwen…” Miles chided softly as brighter tones started to appear on Hobie’s body.

“He has such a way with words, Gwendy; I don’t know what to say.” Hobie leaned to rest his chin on Miles’ head, rubbing his thumbs across his knuckles.

“Yeah, yeah; I wasn’t done, by the way!” Miles pouted.

“I’m not stopping you; I just thought we should give our maybe still-injured partner his flowers.” As she spoke, she pulled a picture frame and a card from behind her back. Pressed inside of the frame was a bouquet of clearly handmade paper flowers wrapped around the neck of a familiar-looking paper guitar.

Hobie found himself staring, the breath stolen from his lungs as he took one corner of the frame in his hand. Gwen didn’t let go, and he was glad for it, because he felt like his hands would have been weak even without the injury.

“Miles made them for you last week—”

“Don’t tell him that!” Miles groaned, blushing as he tried to glare at her. He gestured to Hobie’s face and color with one hand while the other rested its palm on his own face. “See, he’s not going to listen now!”

Hobie had slipped his arm around Miles, pulling him in for a hug and kissing his wrist instead of trying to get him to move it. He had shifted almost completely to a bright pink, bits of text occasionally visible on him before shifting back to blurry lines.

Gwen snickered and sat on the bed, hugging Hobie’s arm. “You seemed pretty off in that first call. Guess we know why now, but he wanted to make you something to cheer you up.”

“I can admit it’s working.” Hobie nodded, smiling at Miles again. “It’s beautiful, love. You never stop amazin’, do ya?”

“Do not compliment me when I’m mad at you.” Miles huffed, his face softening as he looked up.

Hobie set the frame on the table beside the bed, holding the stand out with his pinkie and flexing his hand as he pulled it back. “’S the best time to compliment you though, innit? You care so much; feel so much; I admire that about you.”

Gwen nodded. “Plus, your accent slips out when you’re mad. It’s the cutest thing.”

“He sounds like his mom.”

Gwen slapped Hobie’s arm, barely stifling a snort. “Stop right now. You know his parents already don’t like me. Plus, don’t say that after I saw you blushing when he yelled at you.”

“I like a li’l double meaning, I’m afraid. And Man’s got a bark on him. Makes me weak.”

Miles looked between them, groaning. “Of course you would roll up like this. You two are practically the same.”

They glanced at each other; Hobie’s colors flickered darker, so Gwen was the one who said: “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a type.”

Miles glared at them, but the tiniest hint of a shy smile pulled his lips.

Hobie chuckled softly and shook his head. “Ey, come on, don’t lump her in with my bad decisions. If she had listened to me, she wouldn’t have told you about her broken arm from that Rhino mission.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot you were the one who said that first. Do you do this a lot?” She murmured, and suddenly both of them were eying Hobie with an edge of…judgment? Felt like judgment. Hobie cringed, looking away for a moment.

“I…” No, no, no. He’d jumped from the church wagon a long time ago; no need to start an impromptu confessional.

They love you.

Shit.

“Look, we’re Spiders, okay? We heal fast. I heal faster. When I get hurt, it’s nothing. Maybe I have to sit out for a while, but the crew can handle most work and shows.” The words were just falling out of him without much control, and he found himself squeezing Gwen’s sleeve when one of her hands traced lines on his arm. “My crew—My friends—I feel like they, uh… How the fuck…? T-There’s plenty of them. They go out, knock some heads and chill with each other. You two… You have whole cities to go home to; you’re flying solo when you’re on patrol. And I don’t want to be the one… distracting you?”

Somehow, stopping felt worse than the rambling. They were still staring at him, but their eyes were soft; both of them took hold of one of his hands.

“You wanna translate?” Miles asked, running the pads of his fingers along some older scars before pulling his hand up to kiss his knuckles.

Gwen shook her head, smiling. “Just means he loves us~” She said almost teasingly, lacing her fingers with his and hugging his arm again. “Loves us so much he thinks he’s not good enough.”

“Did I not just get through telling him how important he is to us?” Miles asked in disbelief. “Honestly, this guy.”

“Feelings are dumb like that.” Gwen shrugged, huddling closer to Hobie’s side. “That’s why I can’t stand them.”

“Tell me about it…” Hobie murmured, resting his head on top of hers. “I do care about you birds, though. Can’t really hide from that. Where’s Pavi, by the way?”

“He’s gonna call before he drops in; said he was making your favorite thing from his dimension, and he didn’t want to interrupt us.” Miles finally walked around the bed to properly cuddle up to Hobie’s other side.

“He also told us it was supposed to be a surprise,” Gwen giggled as Miles leered over at her, “but I think Miles was already raging.”

Hobie chuckled, grinning softly as he looked down at his hands. He flexed the fingers on his left hand; they felt a bit stiff, but they moved just fine. Well, fine enough for now; he needed to get his hands on his guitar.

“What are we thinking?” Gwen pressed a kiss just below Hobie’s shoulder.

“Oh, you can’t tell?” Hobie teased, his palette settling on the bright pink tones. “I thought you said I change colors.”

“Do you seriously still think we’re making that up?” Miles laughed lightly.

“Maybe~ What color do you see?”

“You’re pink, as usual, you dork.”

“Cool, so you probably know what I’m going to do next.” He slipped his arms around both of them, hugging them tight as he let his fingers scribble against their stomachs. “Or not? How were you both too slow?” He laughed, speaking over them as they fell into loud giggles and complaints.

And, okay, maybe he could admit that he would call this moment “pink”.

[kombuuuu]

Can I request Miles 42 bullies you at school and is always bothering you but he gets mad and tries to fight someone else who is bullying you because he’s the only one who can be mean to you😩😩‼️

Deflecting.

Earth42!Miles x Fem!Reader

“I would get your hands off her if I were you, homeboy.”

This one is kiiiinda violent, not by Miles mostly be warned C:

PART TWO !!

such a cute wife (throw me on an island to live in my delusions)

You were quiet, silent most days. Not stepping out of the very thick circle you’d made for yourself consisting of just you.

And yet, still.

Still, the mere thought of keeping to yourself as a permanent transfer student would make even the most daft of people scoff.

You weren’t anything special, you were void of attention, and happy that way. Acted appropriately and left anger at the door. Had nothing and no one to complain to, so why make problems for yourself?

You’re entire life was just floating along your schooling and waiting patiently for the day you left. Even if you were the rare case of “Got transferred half way through the year because the school saw potential!” girl, you’d just wanted to be left to yourself.

But even the premise of that seemed almost impossible now.

Because ever since you were pushed by some rushing kid straight into Miles Morales, tripping him over with you. Him and his asshole friends had made it their life mission to bother you.

“The cute new girl?”

“Yeah, the one that—,” The first boy glanced at Miles. “,—tripped on.”

“Oooh, shit—, She’s fucked.” The other man whispered back, laughing under his breath. You could feel his taunting stare at the back of your head, and when you checked your peripherals, Miles was sending a sickening glare your way.

You sighed.

—

The ache in your head was probably the only thing keeping you awake.

The day dragging longer than usual had you right about ready to get home and knock yourself out within a minute of being in your bed. Your hand slowly dragged down your face, taking a deep breath and stuffing your jacket somewhere in your locker. The heat of the school mingling with the temperatures the Summer was providing and then adding on the rain from the prior day? You cursed Brooklyn and its humidity. Reaching to close your locker, you finally fit the jacket in the already cramped space. A little piece of the fabric poked out, and you pushed it in while simultaneously trying to keep everything else in too. Pulling a face before you finally managed to get it shut, and slip your finger out before it can get trapped. You turned the key into the dumb metal and scowled at it before pocketing the key and turning to leave.

Being so engrossed in your feud with the locker, you had failed to realise the very man who’d given you this headache, leering over your frame. Turning straight into his chest and reacting in a pained groan, gripping your forehead in displeasure and glaring up at whomever was standing so close to you.

Which happened to be Miles Morales. Staring down at you with cold, dulled eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” The simmering anger in your voice was made known, and also promptly ignored. He tilted his head down at you, braids shifting with the movement, his expression barely changing. If only he had a conscience. Then maybe you could read his expression, the emotions on his face —, but in this universe? The thought seemed laughable.

He stepped forward, sending you staggering closer against your locker.

“Back off—,” You’re voice shook a little as you swore. Dropping his eyelids into a glare, he spoke, “You keep talkin’ to me like that, and we gon’ have a problem.”

“You keep creeping up on me like a fuckin’—,”

“Like a what?” Miles’s bored, taunting voice grated against your eardrums.

You let out a shaky breath, chest heaving, and clenched your jaw. Shaking out the annoyance in your bones, you kept your calm.

“Don’t get shy on me now.”

A surge of anger rose through you, before you willed it away.

He was antagonising you.

You tried not to instigate him. If you didn’t encourage it, maybe he’d go away.

“Never mind. Whatever, Why—,”

“Miles, my man.” A different man clapped him on the shoulder, giving you the chance to step back and away from him. The other man was tall and lanky, spindly in the way where he looked out of place for a high school. His blue eyes caught sight of you, smirk contorting the bridge of his nose and baring his teeth. “Fuck you doin’ with this thing?”

“What d’you want.” Miles diverted attention from you quick, his companion not getting the hint.

“Fuck, nevermind man,” The man sent a sleezy smile at you, looking you up and down slowly, a short whistle under his breath.

“Shut the fuck up, James.”

You glared are the taller man, something like bile clawing at your throat. The way he was talking about you was sickening, nothing more than a bothersome rodent.

Miles glanced at you, raising a brow, he wanted to see how long it would take before you’d finally fight back. Through the months you’d been at this school, not once had you actually lost your nerve.

On worse days, like this one, you gave him attitude. Snapping at him the moment he showed up, knowing if you didn’t, he’d take the chance too first. He looked forward to those days, where you would engage him. It sent some sick thrill through him. Watching the way your eyes unfocused, urging yourself not to roll them. How your composure surely chipped but never cracked, fingernails digging prints of a fine line when dug into your palms.

He watched your breathing stutter and counted your breaths with you, he’d basically memorised the pattern.

10 beats in, hold for 8, and 12 beats out.

Though, this was only on a good (bad?) day. Other days you just stood and took it. Letting him say whatever he wanted to you, talk shit right to your face. Spread rumours without repercussions and mess with you just because he had the urge.

And just like always. Through the heat of Summer and the full ache in your head, you managed to do nothing.

Just stand and stare as James acted like you were less to a piece of meat.

Miles scowled, dropping his shoulder and causing the man to fall from leaning on him. “Omf— Hey! What the fuck, dude.”

“Let’s go.”

James scoffed, rolling his eyes but following behind nonetheless.

“Miles, what was that shit about?”

“None of your fucking business, homeboy.”

Their voices faded as they walked away, the white noise of chattering people swallowing the scraping of James’s voice.

You wondered what Miles had really wanted this time, as he hadn’t gotten the chance to say anything with James showing up. You hate to thank him, but god. You might’ve lost your mind.

—

Four months in and you were losing your mind. Miles hadn’t stopped, neither had his determination. He seemed so eager to piss you off and do nothing but stare coldly as you composed yourself every time.

Just as that thought brimmed in your head, something kicked out in front of you, sending you flat on your stomach. Hands pressed into the hardwood of the gym below. You groaned, knees being knocked straight to the ground, landing with your arms outstretched in front of you. At least it wasn’t your face.

A voice was heard behind you and you froze, unsure what to do at that moment.

“Get up, [Name].”

James.

“Yeah, I’m—“ You shuffled back onto your feet. Standing up cautiously and checking your uniform was in place.

“Shut the fuck up.” He interrupted you, and you turned around slowly to face him. “Ever since I made it clear how little you were fucking worth, that dipshit Miles has been a fuckin’ dog to me.” He spat at you, the anger rising in his voice, he gripped the polo shirt you wore, dragging your limp upper half closer to his.

You shivered at his breath on your face, wanting to gag.

“Sorry.”

“You’re a fucking freak—.” His group of even more childish people were standing behind him like some sort of team work movement.

“Please let go.”

“I’ll fucking gut you. I needed that motherfucker—,” “Woah.” “,—He’s lucky I don’t beat his ass for ditching me.” Seems like attachment issues. “And you too, cunt. I’ll end your fucking life.”

He pulled you ever closer, using his height to intimidate you, six foot four of an angry man standing over you, no thanks.

A whistle was heard from the main room of the Gym, prompting James to let go of you.

“You’re lucky you’re a looker, call it pretty privilege.”

“..”

“Next time I’ll fucking kill you.”

You dropped from where you had been dragged onto your toes, stumbling a little as James’s group snickered when they walked past, bumping your shoulder and wolf whistling.

—

The lesson ended, and you rushed to get out of there. Making your way to the locker room, and being the first in there, also the first to leave. Changing from your sports uniform and rushing out of the Gym.

You kept looking over your shoulder, Knowing that James wasn’t lying. He probably would kill you, or, objectively worse.

You tripped over your feet before righting yourself again. People around sent curious looks to you which you ignored easily.

Getting to the front of the school, glass double doors shut with a “locked” sign on it, you continued to shoulder forward. Ignoring the shout of the office lady, you pushed against the metal bar and opened the door. You’d already known about the doors being unlocked constantly, having seen many times teachers trying to check no one was watching before slyly slipping out. So when the door opened for you with no trouble, you breathed out quick, and booked it.

You praised yourself for the amount of cardio you could do, the school was three stories for goodness sake, the amount of stairs you needed to climb was insane.

You slid to the side, dodging the occasional pedestrian and making it to the main gate, another shout was heard from the front of the school and you slipped out the gate just as it opened for another teacher, thanking them as you passed.

“Thank you!” You shouted as you ran.

“You’re welcome?— Oh..”

“Kid, Get back here!”

The office lady watched you hit the end of the street and turn, no longer in her sight. She threw her hands in the air and sighed.

“I’m going to get fired.”

“No, Marlene. I’ll cover you.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Why were they running, anyway?”

“Dunno, maybe AP exam.”

—

Miles watched as James was escorted back inside the building. His scowl etched onto his hideous face. Two of their shared buddies trailed behind him, rolling their eyes at the teachers questioning them.

One of the girls in his group was pressing against him, Miles getting more agitated by the minute. His disinterest in her only seemed to fuel her infatuation more, and it was getting annoying.

The guys at his table were all laughing at some—, probably sexist joke one of them made, the ladies giggling along with them, feeding their toxic lovers the attention they so desperately want. It’s not like Miles thought he was above these people. He just was. They were scum, but the only friends he could keep. Hurt people hurt people, and all that sappy shit. So when you hurt so much, only a small portion of people can stand you, and you them.

But when your name was mentioned, he perked up significantly — his ears fine tuning to the conversation. Completely forgetting about the raven-haired girl pressing against him, and focusing on the words spat by James and his two huevos.

“She’s hot though—,”

“Fuckin’ cares ‘f she is? Woulda beat her ass.”

“[Name]?”

“Yeah, [Name]. Miles got all fuckin’ sissy I thought she was hot, and now we don’t talk.”

“So?”

“So—!? Now I lost my chance with Imogen, she’s all fuckin’ over him cause I’m gone.”

Right, Imogen was her name.

“You want to beat her up over you losing a bitch? Just bag her instead?”

James rolled his eyes, debating it. Miles tensed, his relaxed posture straightened quickly, causing him to almost knock Imogen in the face. Too which she squealed at. An awful noise, really.

He quickly stood, chair falling behind him with a loud clang, and strode out of the hall, Glaring at James the entire time. His two friends laughed James’s sudden hesitance to respond, knowing how piss scared he was of Miles.

James stayed silent until the doors to the cafeteria closed, and the whispers started up. Then told his buddies off in a harsh tone.

No one had ever seen Miles do anything too bad. But with the amount of times he’s shown up to school with a busted nose and smug aura, you could tell—, whatever fight he’d had.

He’d won.

��

To say that Miles wanted to have the day away from school, probably wasn’t true. With the stuff he’d heard James and his dogs speil, he’d rather you not be alone.

He was—, worried.

But when his Uncle Aaron called him in for something urgent right at 4 AM, telling his Ma it was a work emergency, he couldn’t refuse his Uncle. He fit his mask onto him, faceplates slotting closed. Claws being turned and clicked into place, he flexed his hands, dragging the window of his room open in the early morning, and left with his Momma sound asleep.

—

The peace and quiet of the day had been rather disturbing. Not having Miles or any of his groupies bother you—. Was off, not unwelcome, but odd.

So when the bell rang for your fourth class, everyone heading from their lunch break back to their assigned classes, it was only by nature you’d be pulled into deserted corner of the school by some unknown figure. A hand placed over your mouth and the other gripping your wrist, pulling you back.

You struggled against the mystery person, a sickeningly familiar voice croaking in your ear.

“Be—,” You kicked your head back, knocking his jaw. “,—Fuckin’ bitch, be quiet.”

Your foot slipped under you, bringing him more leverage to haul you further from the light of the main hall.

You screamed through his hand, tears building behind your eyes when you heard a door unlock.

“Get in.”

“Fuckin—, Open it wider, dipshit.”

“Fuck off.”

James ripped his hand off your mouth before you could realise, pushing the middle of your back so you were forced into a dark, cold classroom.

You fell to your knees, a sense of déjà vu kicking in as you braced yourself with your hands.

Your chest heaved, James slamming the door shut.

“Keith, close those blinds.”

“Fuck are you gon’ do?”

“Beat the fuck outta her.”

—

Miles stuffed his claws somewhere in his locker, uncaring for secrecy. No one was there now, everyone having gone to class. He’d arrived fairly late, not an unusual occurrence considering his occupation, though. So the office ladies didn’t mind.

He slammed his locker shut, an image of you doing the same with a pout on your lips coming to mind. He had class with you now, sat right next to you, actually.

So he made his way towards the back block of the school, where you’d be.

—

A hit straight to your cheek sent you flying to the floor again, Mathew letting go of where he was holding you up.

“Dude your grip is shit.”

“Nod off.”

Keith muttered something about “Fucking brit..” from his seat on the prior teachers desk.

You groaned internally, eyes lolling to the closed curtains, the broken glass of the window letting in a sweet breeze. The only reprise from this entire ordeal was a broken window.

There’s some poetry in that, or something.

Blood dripped from your nose and lip. A cut on your cheek now present too. James, the creep, had rings on his thin fingers that, when used, hurt to no end.

You were picked back up by under your arms, closing your eyes in pain and hissing. You opened your eyes in time to see the small glint of metal in James’ pocket, and the wince on Keith’s face before another fist connected to your temple.

—

You weren’t there.

You had shown up to school, evident by your paper on the lecturers desk, but hadn’t shown up for the period.

And by the empty seats of James, Keith and Mathew. He could only guess what was happening right now.

Miles slammed the door to the class shut, ignoring the panicked yells of his teacher and started towards the darker parts of the school. Where no one used, a chemistry accident setting the safety board director deep in debt and a block of the school unusable.

He flung open his locker when close enough, snatching the prototype version of his claws from the locker. Small, sharp finger coverings that were something close to the claws he had for his Prowler suit. The knuckles were brassed and the wrist latch clasped easily to his skin. He slammed it shut again, not bothering with the lock, and honed in his hearing.

The walls were thin enough.

—

“Don’t you think this is a little too far?”

“Shut the fuck up, Keith.”

“Fuck you gonna do if she snitches—?”

He gripped James’s wrist, holding the knife away from both you and himself.

“—You gon’ ruin your life for this shit, man?”

“She’s been playing my fuckin’ nerves—, yeah.”

Keith gave him a bewildered look while Mathew stared on in disinterest, still holding you at a position you couldn’t right yourself.

The blood had stained your shirt now, bruising littering your face and body.

James had taken to ditching the knife.

“Fuckin—, Whatever man.”

It clattered to the ground with a large clang, the tiled floors of the science room made the echo ring in your head like the growing migraine.

“Drop ‘er.”

Keith glanced down at you, then backed off. An odd look on his face while he kicked the knife away from James, unintentionally pushing it closer to you.

He walked back to his seat.

Mathew let go, watching as you dropped to the ground and started coughing.

Choking on your own blood before you spat it out.

“You know how long i’ve been wantin’ to fucking do this?”

He raised his leg, tilting your chin up with his boot, how demeaning.

He swung back and kicked your ribs, sending you into another coughing fit while you fought the urge to throw up, tears streaming the blood dripping down your chin.

“Your family ruined my fucking life.” Another kick to your stomach, you gagged.

“Taking my dad, then my fucking girl too?”

What is this guy on about.

“Your fucking daddy couldn’t just mind his own business. Had to get involved, then you.”

A harder kick to your stomach, you clenched your abs and covered your head.

A sudden shock ran over you, a familiarity that always sat with James clicking in your mind.

James Ohnn, son of Jonathon Ohnn, a man who had a hand in the collapse of a still-in-construction Kaleidoscope that was said to bring revolutionary science to the new world. It’s framing shattered while the workers on it all went with it.

His father was the lead scientist of that Kaleidoscope, and by turn in of your dad, was promptly arrested.

“I didn’t do shit—,”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

He kicked your ribs again, and you swore you could feel them crack.

“I’ll kill you, you fucking ruined me.”

He swiped the knife again, Keith shouting something you couldn’t hear amongst the ringing in your ears.

You shut your eyes, crowding your head with your arms.

A slam broke through the muffles of your mind. Panicked voices and accusations being thrown around before a thick accent curled around your head.

Miles Morales.

“I’d get your hands off her if I were you, Homeboy.”

Miles approached slowly, checking your face while keeping his eyes on the three men.

“Fuck off, Miles.”

“No.” His head cocked to the side, eyes slanting while he assessed the situation.

“What, you gonna fight us?”

James’s voice was shaking. He’d never seen Miles looks o absolutely pissed before.

“Don’t think I can, asshole?”

“It’s three against one.”

“Realmente piensas—, sabes que, no importa.”

Miles lunged at him, Keith and Mathew shouting in tandem while you struggled to keep your eyes open. The pain working its way past your adrenaline and into your bones.

He grabbed James by the wrist, twisting it back and listening to the sickening crunch of his Lunate bone in curious satisfaction. James screamed, trying to tear his hand away from Miles. Even with his right hand pulling too, he wouldn’t budge. The metal clicked together every time James shifted, and Miles gave an extra squeeze before letting go. The force James was pulling sending him flying back, he stumbled and tripped over your feet, falling back and smashing his head on the tiles.

The other two boys scrambled for the door, running out the hallway and whining like dogs.

James groaned, rolling onto his stomach, Miles deadpanned down at him. You watched through blurry vision as Miles picked his up, sat him against the teachers desk, almost slumped against it. Grabbed his hair by his crown, slowly bringing his head forward, bending him at the waist. Before slamming his head back against the wood with a dull thud. He repeated this sick, prolonged process until James had fallen unconscious. Standing over him, then going to grab the knife laid a bit from you. You looked at him from your position, not unthankful, but still—, he was evidently a contributor.

“Don’t move.”

“Wha— Why? I have to get home.”

Miles scoffed, crouching down next to you, knife in hand. His limp wrists resting on his bent knees.

“You gonna’ go home with a cracked rib and busted face? Nah, Chiquita. Vente conmigo, yo te arreglo.”

He stuffed the pocket knife down the side of his Nikes and took off his claws, putting them in the pocket of his jacket.

He hooked his arm under your knees and upper back, cradling you bridal style before standing to his full height.

You panicked a little— “Wha—, No. Miles, put me down.”

“No.”

“Hh— Whatdyu’ mean ‘No’!?”

You hooked your hands over his shoulders and gripped him as he made his way through the back exit of the school.

“I said, I’m taking you home.”

—

You groaned in pain, shirt lifted to just under your bra line as Miles assessed the damage.

He had been joking when he said cracked rib, but there was an underlying sense of real possibility. According to him though, nothing had been enough to seriously injure you. Except the disgusting looking bruises littering yourself.

You tried to focus away from the pain. Or Miles in general, he was very distracting, the lingering attraction you had when you met thought to be squished, was bubbling up again.

He had an ice pack pressed to your skin, and if you were a tad less conscious, maybe you would’ve made a joke of how cold his hands already were. The sweltering heat doing nothing to soothe the bruising.

“Keep this here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Watch the attitude.”

You huffed a breath, laugh being painful.

“Yeah, whatever.”

You shifted yourself to alleviate some pain, and took his place holding the pack on your stomach.

He grabbed an anti-septic from the small kit he had for first aid. When he’d pulled it out earlier, you’d questioned it.

“You get injured women on your room often, Miles?”

“Nah, Just you. Usually they can take care of ‘emselves.”

You’d giggled at that, not entirely offended but more so amused he’d decided not to take offence at your jab.

His hands reaching for your face brought you back to the present. Flinching back in surprise, you watched him watch for a moment. “Chill, ma. Just gon’ put this on your cuts. Needa’ touch your face for that.”

You cringed, the twisting of your lip having you suck in a harsh breath. “Yeah—, yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“Mhmm.”

The callouses in his hands were made known the moment he touched you, spreading the cream along the cut on your brow, cheekbone and lip.

His hands were a nice contrast compared to the heat of your cheeks, and the gentleness at which he was using.

When Miles touched your face, leaning his body closer to yours, he wanted to savour the feeling. The softness of your flesh against his own, how he could trace the contour of your cheek without it being awkward. His thumb rubbed a small amount of cream onto your lip and he couldn’t look away. The sight of your blood stained skin under his blemished hands had him stuck in the moment. Unable to answer her last question.

“Miles?”

The way her lips formed around his name sent a burning heat throughout his body.

“Yeah—.”

“Is my lip okay? ‘M I gonna need stitches?”

You poured up at him and he shook his head. “No.”

“Mmh— Okay.”

You looked to the side, addressing his room and Miles watched the way your eyelashes brushed along your cheeks when you blinked.

“Okay, just this left. Gonna be a little cold.”

“Thank you.”

“No stress, Chiquita.”

He grabbed some petroleum jelly, spreading it along the cuts on your face and moisturising the wound.

He then placed adhesive bandages along the places necessary, and placed everything back into his first aid.

“Miles.”

“Yeah, Mami?”

You paused at the name, he’d been using those a lot lately.

“How’d you know to find me?”

He looked down, shuffling up next to you against the headboard. You gazed out the window, ignoring the tension that was eating at the both of you. He did too.

“Gut feeling.”

—

DAMN BABY THIS ONE GOT WILD

tags :3 @gemma42 , @denuparxoume

my gorgeous translator @kissmxcheek !!

[i-love-you-just-the-same]

Just watched a miles morales spiderman movie… so spiderman! gaz anyone? (this is not going to be canon complicit or probably be accurate at all LMAO) (this so has been done but its iconic so wtvr)

spiderman!gaz who gets bit right after he graduates high school. scares the fuck out of him when he starts attaching to walls and breaks his one of his mom’s favorite mugs. spends a lot of time alone and trying to figure out what's wrong in secluded places in public parks, etc. that's how you two meet--when he's climbing a tree with just his fingertips for grip.

gaz begs you not to say anything but you're just curiosity personified. "how'd you do that? what happened? oh my god you're practically a spider."

you two are together constantly from then on. same college, same interests, same work. you help him develop the web slingers and design a spider suit. you help with cases and scare him regularly. gaz is constantly taken by your bravery, but your willingness to put yourself in danger scares him. holds you close after you nearly get your head taken off by one of the villains. gaz realizes how much you mean to him in a moment like this.

he swoons like a lady in a romance in 1830s England when you help him patch up after a particularly horrible fight. it's all worth it to feel your fingers run down his face to clean up his spilled blood. your careful hands which piece him back together. kyle's so thankful when your done. shows it by tenderly washing his blood off your hands and kissing each finger softly. tomorrow he'll claim blood loss for his sappiness, but tonight he's all puppy eyes and asking if he can sleep in your bed with you.

he eventually has to rescue you while you're on a date that you did not inform him of. gaz gives you an earful for it ("god, doll, you can't just go off with random men without telling me. how am I gonna protect you if I don't know where you are or who you're with?"). next time you tell him about a date, he watches from the next rooftop over. the entire time (fuming). he's supposed to curl up beside you like a kitten, not that fucker. he has to keep himself from kicking the guys ass after when he sees the little kiss you press to his cheek. gaz needs it to be him for you, not some other bastard. he's spiderman for God's sake, how hard could it be?

gaz starts to try to make you jealous with the photographs on the news of him holding other people close. he gets more flirty with a girl in one of his classes and makes a show about it-- but he finds himself angry by your lack of attention.

it comes to a head one night when you're both walking to your home from his apartment. you've both had a few too many, but he wants to make sure you get home safely. gaz keeps an arm firmly wrapped around your waist. his mouth is too close to your hair, neck, and face. he's looking for anything to say you feel similarly, so when you tilt your head up to meet his eyes it goes batty. even more when you drunkenly slur "ky... you look sooo good when you're in your suit. swinging around..." and you giggle. like it's nothing at all, like his heart isn't in his throat, like you haven't given him the hope he's been looking for.

ends up with you two going to a party a few nights later after you and the other fellow break up (has nothing to do with gaz, sure). kyle wipes the streets the morning of to keep him from having to leave you. however, they'd have to pry him off you. keeps a hand at your waist or in tucked in yours for the entire night. leers at anyone who glances at you too long or any who make you the slightest bit uncomfortable. by the end of the night, he's made his intentions clear. so when you press your lips to his cheek in goodbye that night, gaz knows he's doomed to love you forever

[inthefallofasparrow]

CORRESPONDENCE 1031 – THIRD QUADRANT 6 > NEVADA CENTRAL DISPATCH ~092338 RE: ASSESSMENT REPORT - Officer Yuki de Witt

OFFICER’S NOTES: 3Q6 is one of the more efficient quadrants within the Mining Division. All of Sectors 5 through 9 have consistently run at full or double quota for the last season. CIRCUMSTANTIAL: Successful liaison with 3Q6 Board of Captains (Cpt. SPIEGEL, absent) regarding the sudden death of Unit 23 Cpt. SILTSMEAR from 4Q6. Decision pending. Further info required. INCIDENT REPORT: n/a WORKER MORALE: Moderate

~RESPONSE: Received (211)

DIGGING CORPS - LOG 081/- Hey. I know you’ll never read this, but I guess I don’t need you to. Was only supposed to stay a few days, write up my assessment for Dispatch and then leave, but then one of the captains in a neighboring quadrant fucking died. Nothing nefarious mind you, just dust pneumonia. Certainly, more paperwork than it was worth. Sounds like a lot of weird shit’s been going on over there, so one of the captains went over to assist with the transitional period, and I agreed to stay here at Third Q6 to cover until he could be replaced. That was over a month ago now, and I miss the fucking sun! Never thought I’d say that. Had a few reservations about being stuck underground this long as the only woman for miles in any direction, but so far, apart from the odd leer in the mess hall, I have remained “unharassed”. The worst of it would be one particularly cantankerous geezer called Ira Trask, Foreman of 9C, who insisted on addressing me by my first name until I referred him to the NCD handbook on worksite professionalism, and he relented. I assumed he just wanted to be friendly so I'd help get him promoted, but now I think it was something deeper, more sad and nostalgic. There’s a lock on my door at least, and being exceptionally tall seems to give them second thoughts. But as you’d imagine, height’s not generally an advantage in tight, enclosed spaces with low ceilings. Most shovelmen develop a stooped physique during their time in the corps. Fucked if I’m gonna stay that long.

Yuk

DIGGING CORPS – LOG 94/- Decided if I have to be stuck down here in Satan’s ass crack, twiddling my thumbs, I might as well spend the time processing some individual Worker Profiles. The shovelmen generally alternate between reticent, awkward, sullen or befuddled by the concept of being personally assessed, but if me doing their interview gets them a few minutes to slack off their shifts, they’re happy enough for the distraction. Foreman Trask is displeased by the interruption, but he is welcome to sit on it.

Names seem to be taboo here. I know all the workers’ names of course, because it’s on their file, but that really freaks them out and there’s no point in using them. Share anything of your backstory with your fellow shovelmen, anything that they can tie back to you, and that’s a power they now hold over you. It's like some kind of deep occult shit, but for fucking miners. Everyone gets a new name here, bestowed upon you by your peers. And you only get that so you can tell whose shovel you’re holding.

Met a greenie from Unit 9A named Theodore today. The others call him ‘Mouse’ which he seems to prefer. Whether it’s for his demeanor, his silky brown hair, or, I don’t know, maybe he just likes cheese, he won’t answer to anything else despite having only been here two months. I asked him and a few others what they knew about the late Captain from 4Q6. Common sentiment seems to be that he was mad as a balloon.

Yuk

DIGGING CORPS - LOG 113/- Had a dream about the swing mom never built us. The big tire swing that wasn’t in the apple orchard. I know you don’t remember it, because, well, it never existed, but I feel like I’ve mentioned it before. Anyway, in the dream, I was swinging in the orchard at night time. And the sky was so pitch black, because there weren’t any stars at all. Just a void. Like, the dream was set after the sun had just died, and there was nothing left. Or maybe it wasn’t night. Maybe the orchard was inside a cave. It doesn’t matter. So, the swing was just a regular car tire, but then as I swung higher, I looked down and it was suddenly bigger. Stretching out to the size of a tractor tire. Or something off a monster truck. Then, I swung higher, and the tire grew again, too big for any actual vehicle, and now I could easily fit inside the trough of the tire itself and lie in it like a big hammock. But I couldn’t do that, because the trough was full of apples. Hundreds of these squishy brown apples in various states of decay. And the apples were growing too. Larger and larger, bustling and toppling over each other until they were the size of bowling balls, and then beach balls, and I was sort of half-drowning, half-swimming in these apples. And then I realized. They weren’t growing. I was shrinking. So, I climbed inside of an apple where the pip should be, because I knew deep down that was the logical place to go to die, and then I woke up. I’m pretty sure I know what it means, even if you don’t.

Yuk

DIGGING CORPS – LOG 115/- Random insights gleaned from Unit 9 Review a.k.a. ‘Operation: Peanut Gallery’:

Shovelman ‘Wiles’ - Appears to be the closest thing Sector 9 has to a medic. At least, he says he knows how to saw a man’s leg off without killing him, which is good enough here apparently. I didn’t ask for specifics. There is a constant film of dust covering his glasses, which he seems unaware of.

Shovelman ‘Twoshort’- Tried to convince me it’s common practice for the men to eat handfuls of dirt as a snack, given it’s more nutritious than whatever they were being served in the mess hall. I offered to immediately lodge a formal complaint with Captain Spiegel and the Food Prep team on his behalf, and he backpedaled comically fast, and then tripped on his way out because his foot was asleep.

Shovelman ‘Basher’ – Built like a shuttle truck and functionally deaf after an incident with a stick of dynamite last year. Uses a form of abridged sign language that he and a few others in his unit invented specifically for him. Extremely introverted at first until Wiles came to interpret for me, then he wouldn't shut up.

Shovelman ‘Blessed’ - Recently discovered an injured bat, which he has taken it upon himself to nurse back to health against NCD regulation 58N. He also appears to be deathly allergic to said bat, as his face and hands had swollen incredibly within minutes of handling the thing. A persistent sneezing has overtaken him, but apparently that’s normal and unrelated to the bat. Also allergic to dirt?

Regardless, get me the fuck out of here. Yuk

[darylsfavoritegirl]

male reader & daryl getting real high (smokin lots of joints) off in a secluded area of alexandria? talking about really deep shit, like their equally horrible pasts, & bonding over how similar they are? idk i'd love to see that. :)

thank you for the request :)

A/N: this is poorly proof read and could've been a lot longer i just got really impatient and i had to post something. also the reason why their conversations are so vague is because 1- theyre high 2-theyre men

so there you go :)

"Took me damn forever to find ya." The archer huffed as he ambled towards you. His backpack was hanging on his left arm as his apperance hinted how he was very well ready and equipped.

Your eyes were semi-shut as you inhaled the joint between your fingers. The clammy tip of the marijuana kept easing your muscles, making them only become more lethargic with each passing second as contentment was all you could sense in your being.

A cunning smirk was bearing your features because you couldn't help it. The run had already gotten cancelled and seeing the tough archer this keen made you ridicule him inside though you knew it was wrong, you were getting lit.

Your eyes observed the area for a brief moment. You were close to the outer walls in Alexandria where no one took patrols owing to the fact that it was one of the strongest walls.

Wind carried a few kids' laughter as they hurried to catch a ball as your eyes shifted to Daryl.

"What'ca ya doin?" He inquired with squinted eyes and curiousity he couldn't conceal.

"Gettin' high." A smirk tugged the corner of your lips as you raised one brow softly.

He stood inches away from you as he eyed you down. He rested his body weight on his right leg and bit on his middle fingernail.

You squinted your eyes at him as the sun was shining behind his body.

"Ain't the time."

"C'mon." He spoke under his breath and turned his body to the side.

"The run got postponed." You confessed at the end.

A sense of being taken aback flashed his face.

"Wha' for?" He spoke low

You exhaled as smoke escaped your mouth and lowered your head. You leered at him through your brows for an insant.

"Some herd is moving towards the area or some shit." You sighed once again, lifting your gaze to see him.

He kept his hands on his pockets, eyes narrowed indicating he was lost in thought. You shielded your hand above your eyes as you got up, pushing your chest out. Your cockyness could be spotted ten miles away everytime you were up in the clouds due to being high.

"Have a smoke with me." You mouthed.

His hesitation radiated the perimeter as you looked at him and inquired

"No?"

You challenged him as he seemed as if being pulled back into the Earth. His brows raised, looking through your entire being.

You had only known him for a few months when your group ran into two people called Glenn and Tara. Your group was on a mission that seemed to be never ending, yet some idiotic scene broke out. That Eugene guy had you fooled in your entire journey.

You didn't really know Daryl, neither did he. He was the silent type, not talking much unless necessary or for the sake of so-called compulsory morality even in the events of a nettlesome apocalpyse.

You approached near your bag you had left next to the thorns alongside lawn that hadn't been mowed for atleast a couple months. You put one knee on the ground as you took out your stash.

You got up, throwing the pack of stash to the air and catching it.

"Let loose." You exasperatedly sighed and rolled your eyes enough to catch his attention.

"Runnin' off like dis helps ya with wha' ?" He geniuenly wondered as you could see him relaxing a bit more. His brows were still furrowed yet you sat on the step of a stair.

"You wouldn't believe it." You quipped as you tapped your hand on your next to the step.

You traced him through your lashes with squinted eyes. You could view his undecisive, reluctant-ish demanour.

" 'm in." He muttered vaguely and sat next to you as a grunt left his mouth.

You took out your lighter in your pocket and ignited his joint.

It wasn't until he burnt a few marijuanas that he finally uttered a few words. Until then, neither of you did anything besides inhaling the soothing drug between your lips. The more breeze grazed your faces, the more tranquil you both became. So out of touch with outer problems that were going on at the moment. So serene, so unruffled.

"Heard ya was a military guy." He explained. Your eyes shifted to his face lightly to observe his droppy eyes, god knows how sleep deprivated he was. His back was slouch, head barely lifted to the direction infront of his eyes.

"Did it for money." You confessed, sticking your piercing gaze to his greasy hair in hope to get him look at you.

"Mmhm." He clattered subtly as he chewed on his goatee beard.

"Were you?" You inquired, contemplating this might be one of the very few chances you had to get to know this group of people a bit better, people whom you had meet not so long ago.

"Nah."

"Mah brother, Merle, was." He got quiet, brows furrowed more than before. No matter how tranquil he became, you noticed how he couldn't get his teeth off his lips or beard.

"You got a brother?" You sung in a zealous way. You adored men like Daryl, men who grew up in the south. Men like you. Real Americans.

"Did." He uttered softly as he forced a harsher scowl.

Your eyes widened lightly, mouth ajar as your chopped lips throbbed at the breeze. This was the end of the world, it was never bright to ask such questions

"Fuck, man. I- I didn't know." You finally spoke low as he clapped his hand to get rid of the dust that had accumulated from the step in this unattended side of the town.

You were face to face as mortification swarmed all over your body. You had tonnes of questions, did he die before the fall? What was he like? Does he think about him occasionally?

"Relax." A forceful smile painted his lips as his eyes fixated on the wall infront of him.

"I ain't thinkin' 'bout him no more." His averted stare locked on a far distance.

His joint was between his chopped lips as he picked the skin on his calloused fingers.

"Left fer tha military not cuz he was ready ta be a martyr." He clenched his jaw, eyes spiritless more than ever. Narrowed as though he couldn't think of words to utter. Plain as it was, you didn't want him to close in his shell because of your anticipation in getting to know him more.

"Bleed fer America or sum' shit." He added.

"Did it to escape life." His lack of energy was evident.

"If a man's got his reasons." You muttered under your breath as your head sagged between your shoulders softly. You didn't mean what you said, that's why it came out so brittle, so weak. Even you didn't believe it, it was just some limp excuse you had created for yourself years ago so that you would stay sane.

"Nah, I knew his damn reasons."

He gave you an insightful glare, leaving you crumble inside.

You took a deep breath, fingers playing with the buttons of your flannel. Your eyes raised at your fingertips as you debated whether to speak up or not.

"You know, I grew up in Georgia."

"Countryside, very south." You shook your head as you let out a nervous chuckle. Your smile lines didn't shift as they started tremble slightly from how long you'd been holding a smile.

"Son to a rancher family. Fanatically religious."

You dared to eyeball him through your brows. Smoke hitting his face as breeze changed its direction, your hair fell infront of your eyes.

"I mean, I know I don't sound like a southerner."

"But I am."

"Worked damned hard to lose my accent 'cause of prissy boys." You let another uneasy chuckle, remembering the very first day your dad dropped you in some college you'd believed you were gonna succeed in, that you were gonna prove you can be better than your blood. That you could end the cycle and prove everyone else wrong.

It wasn't even a term in school that you decided to drop out. You couldn't go back home and bear hearing condescending comments from your family, how college was some capitalist trick, how you should be like them and not fill your head with delusional ideas. So you signed up for military.

You were getting way away from your point as he turned his head to you, grabbing another marijuana from your stash.

Your track of thought was interrupted by the sound of him going through your stash.

"Fuck it. Now I'm just ramblin' " You shook your head as you took a long drag.

"Ya ain't. Keep goin' "

You couldn't tell if he was just being polite -yet rational for you to assume he never had such worry. You glared at him with cautious eyes as he placed his palms on the frontstep of the back door of the whatever abandoned house's perimeter you were on. He placed his feet on the long, untamed lawn, crossing his next foot on the other and threw his head back. You could feel him getting lost due to marijuana, you lost count of how many he had had now.

"The way I see it," He grunted between drags and observed the sky with his dark eyes.

"Ain't nothin' there ta worry 'bout." He spoke as if he couldn't believe his ears to see someone being this self-conscious about their accent.

"Fer me, never did." He took another drag.

"Never had ta deal with no pansies from the city before."

"That was stupid, I know." You chuckled at his way of seeing things.

"Where'd ya say ya grew up in again?" He shifted his head to you after a couple of seconds

"Georgia."

"Uh-huh." He curled the tip of the marijuana with his thumb as he exclaimed softly.

"What is it?" You asked.

"Same 'ere." He raised a brow.

"Fact is, ain't never been outta Georgia 'fore al' dis." A smile between sorrow and misrepresented self-conceit coloured his features. He squinted eyes at you.

"Ain't no way." You huffed with a hint of astonishment in your eyes.

"Tha's right." He said.

" 'Lways had sum' shit ta keep ma' engaged."

"Nuthin' worth a damn." His eyes indicated a sense of inward melancholy.

"Just drifted behind ma brother 's all I done. Did whatever he'd told me to." His eyes spaced out as though he was remembering those days.

It got silent. You respected his privacy at the moment. You couldn't tell if he was gonna regret having you told these things next day. You didn't even know if it bothered you. You had more things in common than you'd ever guess.

"You got family before all this?" You asked, not hiding your interest.

"If ya can call it tha' " He chuckled loosely.

Your eyes observed his body head to toe as he lied down restlessly on the stairs with a curled marijuana that was to burn his fingertips.

"Old man was a jackass. Ain't never done shit for us." He kept speaking. He wasn't looking at you, in fact did it feel like he didn't acknowledge anyone's presence.

"And ma' mom.." He didn't finish his sentence. You didn't force him to.

"Well.." His adam's apple trembled lightly as he used the wooden floor as an ashtray.

He got quite more than ever, eyes glossy which put you in disbelief. You couldn't know men like him would cry infront of an another man. Nonetheless, after a few swift blinks, he put himself together. He shifted his position and sat on the corner of the stair, back leaning against the porch fence as he beheld you.

"Grew up surrounded by a whole bunch of people that knew nothin' 'bout them kids."

Your heart clenched at his words. You knew the feeling, you swallowed your spit as you wished you had brought something to drink.

He sat across you. You dropped your head between your shoulders as you restlessly controlled your shallow breaths.

You didn't know what was going on inside of you. Your stomach felt like tightening alongside with the feeling of your heart being flipped inside and out.

Blood rushing to your every cell only made you stimulated, hands getting sweaty as you kept being occupied with your flannel's buttons.

You pressed your lips together only to start biting on the skin a second later.

"Ya al'right over there?" He asked mindlessly.

You lifted your head as he started to scribble on the wooden floor with his knife. He eyeballed you through his brows. His body language suggested a subtle irritation as you didn't answer. You were thinking of right words to utter.

"It's just... Didn't think you'd be the person who..."

You cut it mid-sentence as you decided to not jump into a conclusion.

"Men like you are always so though and so..." Your eyes traced the sky and your lips kept shaking as you begged to utter the proper things.

"Stop." He shook his head and your eyes grazed his face.

"Ain't into tha' whole pep talk crap." The curls of his lips trembled. He went back to scribbling the floor as if not expecting a respond from you.

"It ain't a pep talk." You stuck your gaze upon his greasy bangs.

"My dad was a drunken 'sides the times he was done with his farm errands." Your eyes followed his scribbles on the floor as your mind travelled to that dreadful childhood, youth...

"Taking care of the animals or..."

"I don't fuckin' know, mending the field or some shit."

You knew it like the back of your hand that you didn't make any sense at the moment. Your body, brain, mind were just too numb.

"Just another asshole that had a problem with everyone else in the house..." You muttered.

"Sucks." He grunted.

"It does." You mumbled once again.

You spent the rest of the day either sitting in complete silence or talking about the world before everything had gone to shit as sun set over Alexandria.

[11vr1]

Now hear me out here… Miles Earth 42 x F!Reader dancing Bachata🤭 Orrr something like they are at a party and a family friend decides to dance a rather romantic song with us so Miles gets jealous. So many different scenarios with Bachata and dancing I wouldn’t mind fluff either where like they dance in the living room or smth I just love Bachata and romantic dancing ♥️😊

-J

Eres Mía ⭒ Miles Morales

Synopsis › Miles gets jealous and a nearly gets into a fight, so he makes it up to you by teaching you bachata.

Pairing › Earth-42! Miles Morales x Fem!Reader

Inspo › Request.

Includes › ATSV SPOILERS, tooth rotting fluff, swearing, bad Spanish, jealousy, pet names, a tiny bit suggestive

P.S. › Thank you for this ask! I had so much fun. A nice change from the angst. <33

P.S.S. › I am now making a taglist!!! Lemme know if you wanna be on it. I also think I want to find mutuals and get more involved in the community…

When Miles asked Y/n to be his plus one, she almost couldn’t believe it. His delivery was cool and casual as if he didn’t invite her to a party with all of his family and closest family friends in attendance. They had become official a little over a month ago (though Miles swears it’s been longer), so the first family gathering was a big deal, a huge milestone most couples put off until much later. When she tried to explain to her boyfriend the significance of this event, he didn’t understand. “Don’t start stressin’. It’s jus’ my abuela’s birthday party,” she remembered him saying.

Abuela?

Abuela!

If his grandmother was anything like Rio Morales, Y/n would be walking into a lion’s den. Miles did nothing to placate her worries, making her do the exact thing he told her not to do: worry.

The weekend had arrived and so did the much anticipated birthday party. Y/n spent a considerable amount of time getting ready, choosing a tie front top with a cami underneath and satin skirt to combat the sweltering city heat. She double checked every angle in the mirror before leaving her apartment.

The corners of the gift envelope addressed in her elegant script were slightly bent from being clutched in her nervous hands all the way to Harlem. It was easy to find the building. Y/n simply followed the booming sound of music and laughter to the rooftop. The party was already in full swing. Half of New York showed up to celebrate Gloria Morales’ 70th birthday.

Y/n moved through the packed party-goers to the gift table, not seeing a single familiar face amongst them. She felt out of place. Does she introduce herself? Wait? Look for Miles? Certainly he wouldn’t leave her to brave his family alone. A tinge of panic settled in her stomach as she looked again.

“You lost, babygirl?” Y/n nearly jumped out of her skin hearing a strange voice beside her. The boy was taller than her and around her age or a little older. His feather duster of a mustache curved with his smirk as his leering eyes roved her head to toe slowly. Painfully slow.

She prickled, immediately raising her guard. “No, I’m just waiting for someone.” He glanced around, seeing everyone engrossed in their own conversations.

“I ain’ never seen you round here before. What’s your name?” Y/n hesitated to answer, but gave him a curt reply. “Thas cute. Real cute.” This was a party after all, the point was to mingle. And she didn’t want to seem rude. She had no idea who this guy was. He might’ve been a cousin, a family friend, someone who could easily say the wrong thing to the right person about her. “You know how to dance?” The night was starting to look very long.

Where was Miles?

⋆

Miles was very late. On his way, but late. His mother has surely noticed his absence by now. Abuela was definitely asking about him. And Y/n…she was probably already there. He cursed himself underneath his mask. That last job was pushing it. There was no time to go home, change, and take the subway like he originally planned. Luckily, he knew a shortcut through the skyscrapers and shadows of New York.

The window of his abuela’s apartment squeaked as it slid open. Miles rushed to shed his Prowler persona in the guest bedroom and stuff the suit in his bag. In a second, he appeared to be a normal teenage boy despite the forming bruises. He prepared himself to face the wrath of his mother, grandmother, and girlfriend. What he was not prepared for was seeing Y/n about to be pulled to the dance floor by another guy. They were close. Too close for his liking.

Something burned inside Miles, one he was reluctant to identify—jealousy. Dare he say doubt? He was new to the boyfriend thing. Sometimes he said the wrong thing, silent at the wrong times. But he tried. Was Y/n already fed up? There was no denying she was gorgeous. She could pull any guy she wanted.

He stalked closer, effortlessly weaving through the crowd. “Oh, come on! I’m not asking you to marry me. Just one song.” The guy tugged at her again. Miles recognized him. Eric and his family were friends, though Miles only endured his presence when they were forced to be in the same place. They’d never gotten along, finding each other to be a nuisance and a relationship beyond neutrality unnecessary. But that little understanding might just end right here, this was not about to fly on his watch.

“I told you I don’t want to dance,” Y/n separated herself out of his grip. The sheer expression of disgust on her amused Miles. She found him as annoying as he did.

Eric made the mistake of reaching towards her again. He had the chance to back off and it sounded like he had been warned more than once. This was not about to fly. Miles decided it was time to interfere. He swiftly placed himself at Y/n’s side, his footsteps soundless, a skill learned from his…side hobby. “La escuchaste, cabrón. Retrocede.” Venom laced his tone, an unspoken threat at the tip of his tongue. The air turned to ice around the three of them. You heard her, cabrón. Back off.

The confidence drained from Eric’s face. He knew good and well Miles was not to be messed with. There were rumors about him and his penchant for beating anyone who pissed him off into the ground. “Ella es tu chica, Morales?” He stepped up to him in a vain attempt to mask how intimidated he really was. Miles moved Y/n behind him. She watched the standoff silently, keeping a hand on Miles’ bicep in case it went south. She’s your girl, Morales?

Miles tilted his head, sneering down at the posturing fool. “Sí, ella es mía. Ahora déjala.” Yeah, she’s mine. Now leave her alone.

“No estaba tratando de hacer nada,” Eric scoffed. He turned his attention back to the pretty girl hidden behind Miles. “If you get tired of this asshole, come find me.” I wasn’t trying to do nothing.

Miles lunged, thankfully, with some supernatural girlfriend sense, Y/n was quicker and held him back. Eric flinched, his fear visible for that split second. Heads turned. “You need to calm down, Miles.” Her hand made its way into his, gently pulling him away. He backed away, never breaking his cold glare from Eric.

⋆

Together they left the party. Miles muttered curses in Spanish Y/n couldn’t catch as he stomped down the stairs. “Miles! Miles, baby, slow down!” She called his name again. “You not ‘bout to make me run after you in these shoes!” He stopped. His jaw was tight, eyebrows set low on his face, hands burrowed in his pockets to hide his balled up fists. Damn. Even seething he was gorgeous. “We talked about this. You gotta talk to me.”

He was silent for a few moments, he merely stared down at Y/n as she wrapped her arms around his middle. His heart pounded in his chest. (It was because of her. Miles refused to admit those lustrous eyes and her touch still had such an effect on him) “Ian like seein’ you wit him. Shit pissed me off. For a minute I thought…” She fixed his collar, avoiding his gaze to keep herself from smiling. “Nothin’.” Miles was jealous and willing to protect her by any means necessary.

Y/n heard the words left unspoken. Miles was a fortress locked up tight to keep the outside world out. But behind his many walls he was a boy with feelings and insecurities. “Miles, I’d never do that. I like you too much.”

“Yeah, I know, ma. Sorry for gettin’ all upset.”

“‘S fine. That’s not what I’m mad about.” She eyed the fresh bruises coloring his cheek and temple. “Where were you?” At this point, she was more concerned than angry. Miles wasn’t inclined to long conversations, but he was decent enough to send her a text. Although dry and vague it was something. Y/n would take what she could get.

Miles stiffened in her embrace. “I had to take care of some stuff. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Lemme make it up to you.”

“You owe me a dance.” Prying it out of him would get her nowhere. She decided to let it go. Just this once.

“A dance?” he asked. She grinned, happy to catch him off guard for once.

Y/n nodded. “Mrs. Morales told me you’re a wonderful dancer. Don’t be holdin’ out on me.”

His sigh was long and deep, directed towards the ceiling of the narrow hallway. Miles was in no place to refuse. He took her hand and started walking. “Alright, but we not goin’ to the roof.”

He led her to his grandma’s apartment. It was sizable and definitely decorated by an elderly woman. Y/n admired the photos sitting on the mantle. There was Rio and Jefferson Davis, dressed in white for their wedding day. She paused on a picture of an infant covered in paint, smiling from ear to ear with two teeth. She awed at Miles. He was so cute, so carefree without the shadows of the world dragging behind him.

“Ven aquí, mami.” He stood in the middle of the living room, hands outstretched, a song playing behind him from his phone. She peeked at the song as they joined hands. Come here, mami.

“Eres Mía” by Romeo Santos.

The song was unfamiliar to her. “What? You thought you was gonna to twerk and grind on me?” His low chuckle sent shivers through her. She didn’t answer. “Nah. We gon dance for real. Bachata.”

“Wait, Miles. I don’t how to—”

“Imma teach you. Two steps to the music. Thas all it is,” he showed her. Y/n mimicked him, each step hesitant and unsure, but Miles was encouraging and a surprisingly good teacher. “See? Easy.”

He raised his arms to spin her around and brought her closer. Y/n faltered. “Aye, come on, mami. I know you can move your hips better than that.” He repositioned, hands at her back and waist, his thigh between her legs, ruffling her skirt. Miles guided her across the floor, his fingers wandering to the trim of her cami, drawing a distracting trail of heat on her bare skin. Her own hands found their way to his nape, brushing his twin braids as they swayed to the beat. Soon she found her rhythm.

“There you go,” he praised, rolling his hips into hers. She followed. Her body trusted him. She trusted him wholeheartedly and fell into his lead.

They rocked together in silence, the song having long since ended. Miles nestled in the crook of her neck to breathe in the sweet scent of her perfume. “Thank you for helping me. I should have said so earlier,” Y/n said from above him.

“It’s my job, princesa.” Miles left the softness of her neck. “Eres mía.” You are mine. Y/n blinked while he returned to her warmth. She hoped he didn’t feel the way her temperature rose.

In three short months he made a place for himself in her life. He was the most unexpected surprise. She had a list of the ideal boyfriend and Miles Morales didn’t check off a single one. Yet everything never felt more perfect than in his arms, dancing to the distant sirens and traffic.

His phone buzzed from the end table. “Is that your mom?” He shrugged in response. “We should go.” Y/n suggested, but Miles’ grip only tightened.

“One more minute. They can wait.”

[courtesons]

open to: males (bottom or verse muses)

scenario: your muse is being mistreated/harrassed/abused by another guy and Owen intervenes in quite an intense way. The guy could be an ex, a current partner, a dominant in a kink club, a pimp if your character is involved in that work, a stranger or something else entirely. The location is also entirely up to you. (please check rules)

Owen could always spot this sort of thing a mile away. The sight of an abusive dynamic from the way the victim would be hunched in on themselves, the fear in their eyes and just the leering presence of the culprit. His suspisions only grew greater when he began to move closer and could see what was happening clear and hear what was being said. Perhaps some would find it ironic that a crime boss would oppose such a dynamic but Owen has his own morals and it was fairly clear cut what he had to do in this instance.

Grabbing the culprit from behind, towering over them as he forced their arm all the way behind their back - not quite enough to break anything but the pain would be intense and the message would be clear. "Before I decide what exactly to do with you, I have a couple of questions" He said calmly - his deep voice rumbling in his chest as his eyes fell on to the the victim of this alteraction. "Do you know this man?" He questioned calmly - a patient look on his face despite keeping the cursing, struggling scum under his grip. "Tell me what happened".

[traincat]

I know you haven't been following Zeb Wells run because you love yourself and you are a beautiful human being, but I know you saw that leak.

And sis, fuck it, just let Miles be Amazing Spider-Man. This whole Peter Parker thing? Tank that shit. Years ago, you suggested this and I, an avid Miles Morales fan, disagreed, but now...Norman Osborn is the good guy and genius now, Ned Leeds is happily married to the woman he abused with a kid, and apparently someone cloned Gwen Stacy to sleep with her best friend's father in a some twisted bed trick and I AM SO FUCKING DONE!

No, I am sick of the misogyny of these past three writers. I was sick when you had "Superior" Spock beat down Felicia Hardy and it being touted as "cool" and how awesome Otto was while he objectified and leered at Mary Jane in Peter's body or used Peter's memories with Mary Jane as his own porn take. I was sick of Cindy Moon being used as a glorified Axe Commercial power fantasy of Peter being oh so irresistible that she can't keep her hands off of him and some twisted Asian fetish! I am sick of a writer stating MJ has no real value as a love interest to Peter because she doesn't care about real things! I am sick of the background routine violence of different variances of sexual assault such as Michelle Rodriguez getting assaulted by Chameleon because she thought it was Peter, Anna Marie getting assaulted by SpOck because she thought it was Peter and after the fact still fancying the guy who tricked her, Betty Brant getting impregnated by the clone of her abusive husband because what is the point of being a woman in Spider-Man if you aren't sleeping with Peter and not married?

You kill Kamala Khan? Sure, it's to bring her back as a mutant but you do it in Peter's book? Yes, Kamala Khan, famously known as Spider-Man character, dies in a plotline that had nothing to do with her. Peter has no connection to her. And you fridged her? For Peter's angst?! While you have MJ and FUCKING Paul eloping in the background!? I am over this shit. Bring on Miles.

I was actually going to wait until "the most shocking issue ever" was released to catch up on Wells' run and then I saw the leaked spoilers and then Marvel confirmed the leaked spoilers and then there was no avoiding the leaked spoilers. And like to be completely fair I did not see this ending coming. I don't think even the most out there comic bookies had "Kamala Khan dies in a Spider-Man book" on the odds. It's just a completely ludicrous choice on every level, unless your only marketing strategy is to cause outrage.

It's sort of weird because up until this point I think my biggest complaint about this run wasn't unique to it specifically -- my complaints were things that the Spencer and Slott runs had also done, and to a lesser extent, mostly because of time restraints, the various short-lived Spider-Man tie-ins and events. (Beyond was a mess, and while Wells was leading it, there's multiple people to blame there.) It's all well and good that people are saying it took too long to reveal the bad guy of this storyline, because it did, but compared to the seventy issues it took them to reveal Kindred's identity, this has been fast-paced for modern Peter Spider-Man comics (which is a problem in and of itself). Like if I had to pick one Wells-specific complaint before this point, I'd have to say that the way he withholds information doesn't actually serve his storytelling -- it makes readers frustrated, not intrigued, to be confronted by things like Paul and MJ's mystery kids. It's similar to how there was obviously something wrong with Ben Reilly in Beyond, but the story took far too long to reveal what it was. I think the flash forward in Amazing Spider-Man and questions like "what did Peter do" hurt it far more than it helped to build up any sort of reader curiosity. It doesn't help that those storylines ultimately don't lead anywhere, it's just red herrings and desperate scrambling all the way down, but this time with Wells bringing up a storyline I best remember as "pretty boring" that he wrote in 2008. I genuinely don't believe anyone out there was asking for a The Last Nameless Day sequel. (Does anyone even remember The Last Nameless Day.)

And the "shocking ending" they've been teasing this entire time is killing Kamala Khan in a totally unrelated superhero's book with no catharsis and no meaning for the actual character, and framing Peter front and center on the cover of her announced memorial issue. It's deeply tasteless, stupid, and offensive, even more so because we know she'll almost definitely be brought back in a few months in time for the release of The Marvels movie. I had been kind of side-eyeing this run having Kamala intern for Norman Osborn, because she's a top ten character I want Norman to stay away from, and that they did that with the intent most likely of killing her off all along is just so tasteless. And you're right, the misogyny in the recent years has gotten really out of control, even as they try to spackle over it with girl powers moments you can crop down to a single panel, recirculate around social media, and feel good about devoid of context. There's been a lot of fridgings (Mattie Franklin, Ashley Kafka, Marla Jameson) but they were all of Spider-Man characters. If Marvel has a headlinining, incredibly popular, marginalized teen girl character, and they're going to kill her off for shock value or to reset her powers in keeping with the movies or whatever, they should at least have the grace to do it in her own book and not in a highly criticized Spider-Man run. It's clear these problems are going way higher on the Marvel ladder.

I would rather they kill Peter 100%! And this has nothing to do with the "twist ending" because it definitely wouldn't fix that, but I really do think at this point that the only way to fix a lot of the damage that's been done to Peter Spider-Man on such a deep level is to kill him for a few years. Like at least five. It'll give some purpose to the endless amounts of spinoff books (who was asking for a Red Goblin Normie Osborn spinoff) and provide enough time for things to settle enough for a soft reset.

[yabancreations]

Sobre la traducción del título «guoshi» en la edición española de TGCF

Recientemente, leí el hilo de observaciones que Bruja del Caos hizo en Twitter sobre el segundo volumen de La Bendición del Oficial del Cielo publicada por editorial Norma. Me llamó la atención la confusión causada por la decisión de traducir 国师 (guoshi) como «cultivador del reino jefe» o «cultivador jefe», lo cual Bruja del Caos resalta en los siguientes pasajes:

Tras un par de impresiones que intercambié con Bruja del Caos sobre el tema, que pueden leer en las capturas de abajo o directamente en Twitter, se me ocurrió una posible explicación para la decisión del traductor, además de mi propia alternativa que, a lo mejor, podría ser más clara.

Para sustentar mi idea, voy a definir varias cosas de contexto que puede que muchos ya conozcan. Perdón por la repetición, es para que todos tengamos claridad. También mencionaré datos relevantes pero no tan directamente relacionados con el tema porque me gusta dar datos curiosos. Espero que les gusten.

En fin, empecemos por lo primero. Las tres novelas que MXTX ha publicado hasta ahora se mueven entre dos géneros de la literatura china fantástica: Xianxia y Wuxia.

Las historias del género Xianxia se desarrollan en el universo mitológico que nace del folclor y los tres sistemas de creencias principales chinos: el taoísmo, el budismo y el confucionismo. Van de inmortales, dioses y criaturas legendarias, tienen magia y alquimia, varias dimensiones (como el reino fantasmal o el cielo) y el destino del mundo entero está en juego. La Bendición del Oficial del Cielo/TGCF es principalmente Xianxia.

Wuxia cuenta las historias y aventuras de artistas marciales en la antigua China. Estos artistas marciales normalmente son cultivadores de la inmortalidad bajo uno de los sistemas de creencias antes mencionados, y están organizados en una configuración social independiente del gobierno que se llama Jianghu (江湖). La traducción literal de esta palabra es «ríos y lagos», probablemente referencia al río Yangtsé y el lago Dongting, que son de los más importantes de China, y se refiere al mundo natural/rural que existe más allá de la ley o la estructura social, libre y salvaje. En el Jianghu predomina el que sea más fuerte, y el código moral se define a grandes rasgos bajo el concepto de honor en las artes marciales.

En el Jianghu no hay reyes ni gobiernos, pero sí hay una organización social y jerarquía basada en sectas. Las sectas son grupos que se organizan alrededor de un método/técnica de artes marciales y/o cultivación de la inmortalidad sustentada en uno de los sistemas de creencias. Algunas sectas son lideradas por una familia, que en este contexto se llaman clanes, mientras que otras son lideradas por uno o varios grandes maestros sin lazos familiares que transmiten sus conocimientos bajo un modelo de escuela. En el primer tipo, los hijos heredan el liderazgo de la secta de sus padres, mientras que en el segundo, el poder pasa al discípulo más sobresaliente cuando su maestro decide retirarse, asciende o muere.

Las sectas en El Sistema de Auto-Salvación del Villano Escoria/SVSSS, novela que tiene un buen balance de elementos Wuxia y Xianxia bajo el género sombrilla de historias de transmigración, son tipo escuela. La de los protagonistas es taoísta, pero también vemos sectas budistas y escuelas de artes marciales y magia demoniacas. Por otro lado, El Gran Maestro de la Cultivación Demoniaca/MDZS es principalmente Wuxia y sus sectas están lideradas por clanes taoístas, para los cuales las técnicas innovadoras del protagonista son inaceptables, ya que rompen varios tabús.

En MDZS se ve claramente cómo el Jianghu opera de forma independiente al gobierno: sabemos que hay un emperador porque se le menciona en un par de ocasiones, pero nunca aparece ni nadie se preocupa por saber qué opina del conflicto. A pesar de que hay miles de muertos y damnificados por la violencia, toda la guerra entre las sectas se da sin intervención el ejército imperial.

Por eso es que, aunque como dijo Bruja del Caos, pareciera lógico decir que los cultivadores que nacieron u operan en el territorio de un reino son cultivadores de dicho reino, en realidad ellos no le responden a la dinastía que rige sobre sus territorios, sino solo al Jianghu. De hecho, a veces Jianghu se traduce como «mundo de pandillas» o «bajo mundo» precisamente porque están por fuera de la ley. Para que el gobierno y el Jianghu se relacionen, debe haber algún tipo de acuerdo o negociación. Por ejemplo, en la novela Mil Otoños de Meng Xi Shi, hay varias dinastías imperiales peleando por el dominio del territorio chino. Cada una de ellas le ofrece alianzas a las sectas más fuertes de los diferentes sistemas de creencias (los confucionistas al sur, los taoístas al norte, y el centro disputado entre los budistas y los demoniacos), dándoles beneficios como recursos para construir templos o sedes, permiso para que enseñen sus credos a la población, miembros de sus familias como discípulos o cónyuges, etc. a cambio de que las sectas las protejan y les den apoyo militar y/o logístico en la disputa por el territorio.

Esto tiene un precedente histórico que podemos ver claramente en el origen del título que nos ocupa. El cargo de guoshi fue originalmente instaurado por Kublai Khan —un emperador de origen mongol que fundó la dinastía Yuan en el siglo XI de nuestro calendario— quien se lo confirió al líder de una de las cuatro grandes sectas del budismo tibetano (porque sí, las sectas del género Wuxia también tienen base histórica). Su labor consistía en administrar la región del Tíbet y manejar las relaciones entre el clero budista y la corte imperial mongola. A nivel práctico, el negocio fue darle a esa secta jurisdicción sobre la práctica budista en el imperio, y por consecuencia poder sobre las otras tres sectas que operaban en el Tíbet, a cambio de que el guoshi convenciera a la población del Tíbet de aceptar y someterse el gobierno mongol.

Ahora bien, los cultivadores que se vuelven guoshis en TGCF (Mei Nianqing, Ban Yue y Xie Lian) no son parte de sectas por las que tengan que o quieran buscar beneficio político, sino que son individuos cuyo poder marcial o nivel de cultivación es tan alto, que los reinos con los que interactúan deciden ponerlos de su lado. A cambio, ellos reciben aceptación social, seguridad económica, y aunque el tema en realidad no se toca en la novela, la posibilidad de presidir sobre las prácticas religiosas y/o la interpretación del conocimiento del sistema de creencias que tienen. Por ejemplo, Mei Nianqing mal que bien impone su método de cultivación taoísta en Xianle, que sabemos que es uno de muchos porque requiere celibato, el cual —como se dilucida en la novela y como MXTX explicó directamente en una nota de autor que dudo muchísimo que hayan incluido en la edición impresa— no es obligatorio en otros métodos taoístas de cultivación.

Todo esto para decir que llamar a cualquiera de esos tres personajes «el cultivador del reino (jefe)» tiene sentido porque cada uno es o el único cultivador oficial/formalmente parte del gobierno del que es guoshi (Ban Yue, Xie Lian), o el líder de una secta de tamaño e influencia indeterminados (Mei Nianqing). Soportando esta idea está el hecho de que más adelante en la historia conocemos a algunos cultivadores que son parte del Jianghu y no tienen relación con el emperador mortal del tiempo presente, por lo que no son cultivadores del reino en el que viven.

Adicionalmente, puede que se haya descartado la opción de traducir guoshi como "tutor/preceptor imperial" porque aunque Mei Nianqing y Xie Lian enseñan, Ban Yue no lo hace, y el título histórico de guoshi en sí no tenía un componente de tutorado o enseñanza tampoco. Debido a que 师 (shi) significa «maestro», resulta intuitivo traducirlo con la connotación de «persona que enseña» y usar sinónimos como «tutor» o «preceptor», pero recordemos que la palabra tiene otras connotaciones, como por ejemplo «dicho de una persona o cosa: principal entre las de su clase», de la que creo que salió lo de «jefe», definido como el que manda, el que domina, el que está arriba.

De esa manera, «cultivador del reino jefe» funciona como traducción de guoshi en la medida en que con ese título se denomina al cultivador más poderoso que está al servicio del gobierno y no del Jianghu. El problema, por supuesto, es que no se entiende de dónde sale sin este kilométrico contexto, e incluso dado el contexto, no suena como un título, sino como un vago descriptor.

Personalmente, si no tuviese la opción de dejar guoshi en pinyin y explicar de dónde sale el término en una nota al pie o en el glosario, yo consideraría «maestro cultivador (imperial/real/de la corte)» como opción. Como mínimo, cambiaría «jefe» por «líder» para que sonara un poco más formal, o si no hay manera, «cultivador en jefe», porque mejor que suene militar a que suene... como suena.

[imandriebitemepls]

Miles willing let his sunflowers wilt

Miles falls, disgusted at himself.

Miles looks numbly at his 42 variant, his 42 prowler variant. Someone who deserved the life he mistakenly stole from him. Someone who Miles' most likely would've become, and now he feels as if he also took that from his variants hands as the numbness turns into a tired rage he's had ever since becoming Spider-Man's replacement, all those nights spent hating himself and doubting his existents all together. A existents he traded a life, the same exitance watching his uncle die because he was a mistake. A non-spider man with abilities most spiders didn't have. An anomaly, a monster, a freak of nature and universes across universes. The original anomaly.

Then, suddenly he hears what his variant spits out at him, obviously upset at the creature wearing his face, the same creature Miles' 42 mom saw, the same creature he very much still alive 42 uncle saw, the creature who 42 Miles' dad could've saw if Miles' hadn't been the fuck up he always was.

Tired rage spills back into numbness with even more hopelessness since he saw the other(rightfully) spiders, leave his universe with so much sadness and hurt, even his body hurt more than he thought it could handle without, at the very least, bleeding out.

He couldn't live anymore. Yes, physically he's still here but the Miles' he had been before being bitten had died, and he mourned his innocents death before he put on a carefully made mask around any and everyone who had met Miles' and who would potentially others he might meet as well. That part was the easiest since those people didn't know him before and even easier since he barely met any friends or even acquaints.

He understand why this Miles', deeper but very much still him- (no) he thought- (not him Miles' could never hold a candle to any and every Miles' every universe offers, he's a mistake.)

"Who are you and why do you look like me?" 42 Miles' states more than questions his counterpart.

"It doesn't matter, you won't believe a single word that comes out my mouth" 42 Miles' bristled at the non-answer and Miles' knows he deservers the truth since he looks just like him, only with a few differences, and is probably worried about how they got his identity and if this creature knew more beyond his looks.

Miles' sighs as he mentally prepares himself for the onslaught of questions and hateful gazes

"I am Miles' Morales from a different dimsention, I was bitten by a radioactive spider not from my universe but from this one instead. The night I got my powers I saw my dimsention version of Spider-Man aka Perter Parker. Since my universe already had a spider and its very own Spider-Man, I was deemed an anomaly only a few hours ago while being chased by every Spider-Man on earth 298, your earth being 42 and mine being earth 1610," Miles' pauses for a second to gauge their reactions, and as he expected they looked as if the creature in front of them was crazy mixed with an expression of curiosity of this batshit insane talk was going to lead.

Miles' continues until he get to the part of his uncle variant dying in his arms as all he could do was cry for a few moments until his dad saw him and he had to flee.

Surprised at the whole baffling situation, and Uncle Aaron being dead instead of 42 Miles' father in this universe. Learning how he had painted a mural for his uncle, noting similarities with earth 42's world as well as finding out Miles dad was gonna die- (again) 42 Miles' thought sourly- only to find out why the spider society was chasing him to begin with, noting how monstrous of his own people who know how it feels to deal with loss, and made him share their pain- (pain he'd already seem to have 2x more of before his 'friend' spider leered him to be hunted, again)- Miles' thought as he stared blankly at the section between 42 Miles' and his uncle, his rightfully alive uncle.

Not noticing the tears that spilled from his eyes as he continued his explanation. His voice finally cracking when he all but slurs out, "There's no way to save my dad, my home, my world. Because even if I can go back home there's still a interdimensional villain out to destroy everything I love and most likely my dimension and more." he wails as he feels the painfully familiarity of grief he could've stopped, but it seems all and every universe is trying to kill or hurt him since he unintentionally took lives that weren't meant to be taken from 1610 universes gentle hold, killing coldly them as soon as he was bitten.

"If maybe I died instead of uncle Aaron things would be better, if I had just never been born everyone would be here still. Maybe Miguel was right I'm a mistake, there's no hope no one is on my side, not like I deserves it. the deaths I've caused by just being born is too many with very little lives I've saved at this point. My world is dying and I might as well let my cells be destroyed by this universe for every person that now has to suffer here and getting my universe killed, the least I can do is die a slow and panful death for the actions I can never atone too.."

42 Miles' and Aaron look on at the broken boy with petrified faces eyes widening when they see him distort and slump forwards as he passes out glitching like a glitch in a game.

[skylarstark4826]

I loved this beautiful Fanart from Spiderman's GhostPunkFlower polyamorous ship across the spiderverse of the characters of Spiderpunk (Hobie Brown), Ghost Spider/Spider-woman (Gwen Stacy) and Spider-Man (Miles Morales) together, especially because I love that it is about the month of LGBT pride and especially because I find it super adorable that in the Miles and Gwen are tickling their beloved boyfriend Hobie a lot while he tries to do everything possible to protect himself from the attack and that he was receiving from his boyfriend and his girlfriend. This is something really adorable and beautiful to see in the three and... I LOVE IT... I honestly imagined this after Hobie and Gwen saved their beloved Miles from the alternative dimension (as in the second movie)

By the way, this beautiful Fanart of them is not mine and the credits are not for me, but I let you know that right here I am going to leave you the link of the true creator on Tumblr

[pibitas]

la psicología y la filosofía

(después de leer a Séneca, feb ‘23)

Leyendo un poco de filosofía, noté lo importante y trascendental que era esta disciplina hace miles de años atrás, donde solo los “ilustrados” eran los privilegiados de tener conocimiento acerca del arte, la astronomía, la arquitectura, la física, la geografía, etc. Todas disciplinas que hoy en día, en la modernidad, tenemos relegadas, las ignoramos completamente por su aparente “poca utilidad”. En ese tiempo, se invitaba a la reflexión del ser, a la conciencia de la conciencia, al creer en; se le dedica tiempo y amor a la felicidad, se cuestiona el origen de todo y hacia dónde vamos. Se busca comprender el entorno, empezar a formular preguntas y tratar de encontrar las respuestas a través de la introspección.

Me di cuenta que la psicología, a diferencia de las otras disciplinas, es un campo de saber prácticamente nuevo en su “formalidad”, como proposición académica y transferible, tiene poco menos de 200 años, mientros las otras, mas de 2000. Entonces, qué puede pasar en un mundo donde las personas mas adineradas y con más poder con los privilegiados en obtener primero todo ese conocimiento de la psiquis humana? tener esa información implica contar con una herramienta capaz de transformar/manipular individuos según deseos propio, y no solo individuos, sino masas.

Ahora, mirando la actualidad  y lo rápido que cambió el mundo desde 1800 hasta ahora, hipotetizo que el conocimiento psicológico tuvo mucho que ver, más el relacionado a lo cognitivo-conductual. Hace miles de años atrás, lo mas importante estaba afuera, no en el “hombre”, entregados a un Dios (no relacionado exclusivamente con la religión) creyendo, reflexionando sobre temas más terrenales, del aquí y ahora: la moral, la virtud, la muerte, los placeres, los deseos, la ética, la voluntad, el miedo, el amor, el alma, las pasiones, etc. Todos temas que invitan a que uno absorba sabiduría para el alma, para el presente, que es lo único que existe.

Por otro lado, y de la mano de miles de acontecimientos políticos y sociales, hoy en dia nos vemos envueltos en una sociedad “automática”. Ya no se invita a la introspección, sino todo lo contrario, se vive sin tener consciencia.  Poderosos, como compañías, países, organizaciones, etc. manipulan a traes de la publicidad, medios de comunicación, redes sociales para que individuos consuman, lleva a que nuestra dinámica como ser humano tenga sus bases en el tener, y si no lo necesitás, nos las arreglamos para crearte el deseo. Es asi como la validez del ser humano pasa por la adquisición de bienes, de material, estando totalmente errados.

La sobre-información sautra, no estamos acostumbrados a saber tantas opiniones en menos de 5 minutos, ni saber lo que esta haciendo cada persona en un mismo instante, no es natural. Estas experiencias aplastan nuestro espíritu, no nos dejan salir de la burbuja cuasi-digital, ni siquiera de los límites de la humanidad, es decir, activar de verdad una perspectiva universal, osea no cerrarnos en las problemáticas del planeta tierra y la humanidad, sino ir mas allá, expandir nuestra consciencia a nivel inter-planetario/galáctico.

Aca es cuándo me pregunto, ¿estoy absorbiendo este conocimiento (filosofía y psicología) en el momento correcto? No digo en el momento correcto de mi vida, sino de la historia. Siento que se vienen cambios muy grandes, y vamos a tener que vernos obligados a volver a nuestras disciplinas madre, al conocimiento mas primitivo, para salir o por lo menos fluir con la situación,  Siento también que mucha gente está pasando por lo mismo, que tienen la misma sensación, y a lo que llegamos es que nos tienen como quieren. 

[nasty-rick]

Cartas al aire.

Aun conservo en mi memoria tu tono de voz, tus risas y tus llantos, tus sueños y anhelos en mi piel que se desangra cada noche en busca de tus caricias; desgarro mi mente en busca de tu presencia para consolar mis noches cuando me aferro hasta el mínimo recuerdo de tu rostro, de tu aroma y alma. Lamento tanto no poder estar contigo ni poder contarle a nadie de lo feliz que fuimos mientras lo nuestro sucedía día con día. Tal vez te quiero para mi y solo para mi, soy un egoísta y no quiero compartir lo poco que me queda de ti.

Soy consciente que nadie nos pertenece salvo en la memoria y recuerdos, miles de veces quisiera ser uno en mis recuerdos para pertenecernos uno al otro para siempre. Pero llegó diciembre y las hojas comenzaron a caer, el sol ya no sale en ocasiones y nos invade el frío hasta en los huesos, y ni con todo ello logro hacerme sentir algo, más que el dolor que me deja tu ausencia en estas fechas. No hay navidad feliz, no hay nada de nuevo en el año próximo.

Me encaminó por el buen pensar y ser sensato de mis acciones de mi vida tratando de ser mejor individuo moral aun cuando las circunstancias no comprenden, más allá de ello replico los pequeños destellos de tu vida y los propósitos que tenías destinados en su momento "no dejar nada a la deriva" ni lo más mínimo como lo aconsejaste en los banquetes que solías organizar, que en el deleite el tiempo parecía transcurrir de manera positiva y fugaz, acertando en la relatividad de perdernos y perder la noción de nuestro alrededor. Pues ¿No fueron bueno los momentos que se nos concibieron?

Trato de no hallarme en mis pasados y ser más consciente del ahora y mi presente, pero ¿Quién puede olvidar tan rápido? ¿Quién olvida el amor o la felicidad? ¿Realmente es malo... Querer vivir en este recuerdo?

Las personas no serían capaz de comprender. ¿Yo no soy capaz de entender? ¿Existe amor tan extraordinario como el tuyo en el mundo? No tengo respuesta, pero creo que no lo hay o no lo conozco.

Se muy bien que no podrás leer mis palabras, se que es una carta al aire, sin rumbo, sin destino. Me siento mejor así, fluyendo mis palabras y no estancadas.

En fin solo quiero decirte que es imposible no extrañarte, dejar de amarte y soñarte.

Espero vernos pronto.

Te quiero y te amo.

Firma: Ricardo Novas.

[liesmyteachertoldme]

We’re 7th in literacy, 27th in math, 22nd in science, 49th in life expectancy, 178th in infant mortality, 3rd in median household income, number 4 in labor force and number 4 in exports. 

Demoralizing America: We lead the world in only three categories: number of incarcerated citizens per capita, number of adults who believe angels are real and defense spending, where we spend more than the next 26 countries combined, 25 of whom are allies, writes constitutional attorney, founder and president of The Rutherford Institute, Dr. John W. Whitehead.

America sure used to be the greatest country in the world. We stood up for what was right. We fought for moral reason. We passed laws, struck down laws, for moral reason. We waged wars on poverty, not on poor people. We sacrificed, we cared about our neighbors, we put our money where our mouths were and we never beat our chest.

We built great, big things, made ungodly technological advances, explored the universe, cured diseases and we cultivated the world’s greatest artists AND the world’s greatest economy.

We reached for the stars, acted like men. We aspired to intelligence, we didn’t belittle it. It didn’t make us feel inferior. We didn’t identify ourselves by who we voted for in the last election and we didn’t scare so easy.

We were able to be all these things and do all these things because we were informed… by great men, men who were revered. First step in solving any problem is recognizing there is one. America is not the greatest country in the world anymore.” ― Aaron Sorkin, The Newsroom (Episode 1)

We have managed to survive crackdowns, clampdowns, shutdowns, showdowns, shootdowns, standdowns, knockdowns, putdowns, breakdowns, lockdowns, takedowns, slowdowns, meltdowns, and never-ending letdowns.

We’ve been held up, stripped down, faked out, photographed, frisked, fracked, hacked, tracked, cracked, intercepted, accessed, spied on, zapped, mapped, searched, shot at, tasered, tortured, tackled, trussed up, tricked, lied to, labeled, libeled, leered at, shoved aside, saddled with debt not of our own making, sold a bill of goods about national security, tuned out by those representing us, tossed aside, and taken to the cleaners.

We’ve had our freedoms turned inside out, our democratic structure flipped upside down, and our house of cards left in a shambles.

We’ve had our children burned by flashbang grenades, our dogs shot, and our old folks hospitalized after “accidental” encounters with marauding SWAT teams.

We’ve been told that as citizens we have no rights within 100 miles of our own border, now considered “Constitution-free zones.” We’ve had our faces filed in government databases, our biometrics crosschecked against criminal databanks, and our consumerist tendencies catalogued for future marketing overtures.

We’ve seen the police transformed from community peacekeepers to point guards for the militarized corporate state.

From Boston to Ferguson and every point in between, police have pushed around, prodded, poked, probed, scanned, shot and intimidated the very individuals—we the taxpayers—whose rights they were hired to safeguard. Networked together through fusion centers, police have surreptitiously spied on our activities and snooped on our communications, using hi-tech devices provided by the Department of Homeland Security.

We’ve been deemed suspicious for engaging in such dubious activities as talking too long on a cell phone and stretching too long before jogging, dubbed extremists and terrorists for criticizing the government and suggesting it is tyrannical or oppressive, and subjected to forced colonoscopies and anal probes for allegedly rolling through a stop sign.

We’ve been arrested for all manner of “crimes” that never used to be considered criminal, let alone uncommon or unlawful, behavior: letting our kids walk to the playground alone, giving loose change to a homeless man, feeding the hungry, and living off the grid.

We’ve been sodomized, victimized, jeopardized, demoralized, traumatized, stigmatized, vandalized, demonized, polarized and terrorized, often without having done anything to justify such treatment.

Blame it on a government mindset that renders us guilty before we’ve even been charged, let alone convicted, of any wrongdoing.

In this way, law-abiding individuals have had their homes mistakenly raided by SWAT teams that got the address wrong. One accountant found himself at the center of a misguided police standoff after surveillance devices confused his license plate with that of a drug felon.

We’ve been railroaded into believing that our votes count, that we live in a democracy, that elections make a difference, that it matters whether we vote Republican or Democrat, and that our elected officials are looking out for our best interests.

Truth be told, we live in an oligarchy, politicians represent only the profit motives of the corporate state, whose leaders know all too well that there is no discernible difference between red and blue politics, because there is only one color that matters in politics—green.

We’ve gone from having privacy in our inner sanctums to having nowhere to hide, with smart pills that monitor the conditions of our bodies, homes that spy on us (with smart meters that monitor our electric usage and thermostats and light switches that can be controlled remotely) and cars that listen to our conversations and track our whereabouts. Even our cities have become wall-to-wall electronic concentration camps, with police now able to record hi-def video of everything that takes place within city limits.

We’ve had our schools locked down, our students handcuffed, shackled and arrested for engaging in childish behavior such as food fights, our children’s biometrics stored, their school IDs chipped, their movements tracked, and their data bought, sold and bartered for profit by government contractors, all the while they are treated like criminals and taught to march in lockstep with the police state.

We’ve been rendered enemy combatants in our own country, denied basic due process rights, held against our will without access to an attorney or being charged with a crime, and left to molder in jail until such a time as the government is willing to let us go or allow us to defend ourselves.

We’ve had the very military weapons we funded with our hard-earned tax dollars used against us, from unpiloted, weaponized drones tracking our movements on the nation’s highways and byways and armored vehicles, assault rifles, sound cannons and grenade launchers in towns with little to no crime to an arsenal of military-grade weapons and equipment given free of charge to schools and universities.

We’ve been silenced, censored and forced to conform, shut up in free speech zones, gagged by hate crime laws, stifled by political correctness, muzzled by misguided anti-bullying statutes, and pepper sprayed for taking part in peaceful protests.

We’ve been shot by police for reaching for a license during a traffic stop, reaching for a baby during a drug bust, carrying a toy sword down a public street, and wearing headphones that hamper our ability to hear.

We’ve had our tax dollars spent on $30,000 worth of Starbucks for Department of Homeland Security employees, $630,000 in advertising to increase Facebook “likes” for the State Department, and close to $25 billion to fund projects ranging from the silly to the unnecessary, such as laughing classes for college students and programs teaching monkeys to play video games and gamble.

We’ve been treated like guinea pigs, targeted by the government and social media for psychological experiments on how to manipulate the masses.

We’ve been tasered for talking back to police, tackled for taking pictures of police abuses, and threatened with jail time for invoking our rights. We’ve even been arrested by undercover cops stationed in public bathrooms who interpret men’s “shaking off” motions after urinating to be acts of lewdness.

We’ve had our possessions seized and stolen by law enforcement agencies looking to cash in on asset forfeiture schemes, our jails privatized and used as a source of cheap labor for megacorporations, our gardens smashed by police seeking out suspicious-looking marijuana plants, and our buying habits turned into suspicious behavior by a government readily inclined to view its citizens as terrorists.

We’ve had our cities used for military training drills, with Black Hawk helicopters buzzing the skies, Urban Shield exercises overtaking our streets, and active shooter drills wreaking havoc on unsuspecting bystanders in our schools, shopping malls and other “soft target” locations.

We’ve been told that national security is more important than civil liberties, that police dogs’ noses are sufficient cause to carry out warrantless searches, that the best way not to get raped by police is to “follow the law,” that what a police officer says in court will be given preference over what video footage shows, that an upright posture and acne are sufficient reasons for a cop to suspect you of wrongdoing, that police can stop and search a driver based solely on an anonymous tip, and that police officers have every right to shoot first and ask questions later if they feel threatened.

Are you depressed yet? You should be.

More than depressed, however, you should be outraged at what has been done to our country.

I’m outraged at what has been done to our freedoms.

We are no less prisoners than those who are incarcerated behind prison walls.

As Aldous Huxley recognized in his foreword to A Brave New World: “It is perfectly possible for a man to be out of prison and yet not free—to be under no physical constraint and yet be a psychological captive, compelled to think, feel and act as the representatives of the national state, or of some private interest within the nation wants him to think, feel and act. . . . To him the walls of his prison are invisible and he believes himself to be free.”

Appearances to the contrary, this country does not belong exclusively to the corporations or the special interest groups or the oligarchs or the war profiteers or any particular religious, racial or economic demographic.

This country belongs to all of us: each and every one of us—“we the people”—but most especially, this country belongs to those of us who love freedom enough to stand and fight for it.

from the Herland Report

[estelacroft29]

Hoy es el primer dia del verano que he sido medianamente productiva:

Me levante a las 12:30 si bastante tarde, sin embargo hice muchas cosas. Me puse a jugar a spider-man: miles morales. Y a las 14 aproximadamente comí. Seguí jugando hasta las 16:30. Pase a leer otro capitulo del libro que nombre anteriormente. Y fui a llevar a mi perro al veterinario, pase por la biblioteca para recoger la tarjeta para poder cojer libros prestados. Y Despues me puse ha yacer deporte intenso durante aproximadamente 1 hora. Y ahora a las 23:36 estoy sentada en una parcela con mis amigas. Aun no he cenado y el deporte me ha dejado hambrienta.

[lilbukatnews]

VOX registra una iniciativa para que se aplique la Ley de Partidos y el Congreso inste a la ilegalización de Bildu por incluir a miembros de ETA en sus listas

«Se trata de un deber moral, de un compromiso en defensa de las miles de víctimas de ETA”, ha señalado la formación liderada por Santiago Abascal — Leer en gaceta.es/espana/vox-registra-una-iniciativa-para-que-se-aplique-la-ley-de-partidos-y-se-inste-a-la-ilegalizacion-de-bildu-es-un-deber-moral-20230512-1203/