#here ill give u a bucket good luck rereading

[diodellet]

this is me wringing miguel out esemefeych!!! para bagong laba yarn!!!

in a word of high-science and technology, here he is musing sentimentality over the most mundane details of his lover...

DARE I SAY THAT MAN IS SICK!!!! SICK WITH DOWN BADDERY!!!! SICK WITH LOVE EME!!!!

꒰ Letters to My Beloved ꒱

*sob* I just wanted to peacefully read “Letters to Milena” but ended up with another fic idea for Miguel O’Hara, this time a side story to The Spider and the Fly. Istg everywhere I go, he follows me (ꐦo_o）

For this fic, I took inspiration from this quote and Miguel’s ATSV lore. The thought of how language affects Yandere! Miguel x Variant! Darling’s dynamic…..how twistedly romantic~

Tw:: YANDERE, unhealthy relationships, self-deprecation, stalking, wtf is personal privacy, mention of noncon -> dubcon + nsfw, MDNI

Note:: Female reader, ATSV spoilers, guest-starring LYLA + Hobie + Spider-Cat, Darling’s mother tongue + cultural identity are different from Miguel’s (not Irish-Mexican)

♡ 4.3k words under the cut ♡

FILE NAME: ______ (EARTH-███)

— CLASSIFIED INFORMATION —

1. ______ wears the same brand of perfume.

2. Speech patterns: Softer voice, less outspoken, code-switches more often.

You don’t sound like her.

That is the second thing Miguel notices. It is another dissimilarity between you and his Variant’s wife, a significant detail which betrays closed eyes.

You have the same voice but a different manner of speaking.

You’re more quiet—softer volume, less talkative.

Your tone is anxious. Polite. Rarely cheerful, unless feigned.

Every sentence is carefully worded. There are more sorry’s and maybe’s.

There is also your code-switching. Unlike her, you habitually curse and talk to yourself in your mother tongue. But with others, you switch to perfect English—and you do it all the time, with greater proficiency, even when you are speaking to Miguel.

His wife is also the last person to cry and vent to Spider-Man. But that is an unfair comparison, given the circumstances of your first meeting.

To you, Miguel O’Hara is a new acquaintance and that is reflected in your conversations. It is only natural that there are no endearments, no inside jokes, no ounce of familiarity.

When he speaks to you, he doesn’t have to imitate another Miguel.

꒰♡꒱

“Um, excuse me? Spider-Man?”

He turns to face you. “What is it?”

Soft tone, not much eye contact. Your next words are even less familiar.

“I…haven’t gotten your name yet, have I?”

It’s just the two of you in the elevator. There wouldn’t be any awkward silence if the other Spider-Men had joined you, but they were sent home after their mission in Earth-███.

Their company won’t do you any good. It hasn’t even been an hour since your rescue, and you need time to adjust. He needs time to process everything.

…Your resemblance to her is uncanny yet minimal. Different hairstyle. Professional attire with stylish jewelry. An ID for a company which she’d find dull and unfulfilling. Dark eye circles, a nervous frown, a dim gaze trained on the floor.

A day pass is secured to your wrist, soon to be replaced with a modified Dimensional Travel Watch. A Lock feature would be a good safety measure.

Before Miguel can respond, you are already overthinking.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked earlier but I was still shaken from—wait, is it rude to ask for your identity? Is that why you haven’t told me?”

“Calm down.” He touches your shoulder, just briefly enough to get your attention. “It’s fine. I was planning to tell you later.”

Your relief is obvious. “Really? You’re sure about this?”

Are you always like this or is it just the emotional shock? Considering the situation he found you in, he has a lot of personal data to gather.

“My name is Miguel O’Hara.” He reveals his face, analyzing your reactions. “And I’m this dimension’s Spider-Man.”

No flicker of recognition—another version of you who has never met him.

“Noted.” You repeat his name to yourself, pronouncing it slowly. “Thanks for telling me.”

It sounds almost foreign in your voice. And now that he is looking closely, is your lipstick a darker shade?

When you face him, your lips are drawn in a shy smile. “I’m ______, by the way.”

You use your maiden name, not O’Hara.

“I know.”

7. ______ doesn’t understand Spanish.

It was easier to communicate with his wife.

Intimacy aside, she’d learned Spanish for her Miguel. She rarely spoke it, but she clearly understood his bilingual conversations with Gabriella.

Their daughter didn’t know your language. As a matter of fact, she always seemed more connected to Miguel’s roots than yours. The most she’d learned was a few phrases and the names of your favorite food.

It made sense. Among your Variants, his wife was the most disconnected from her family and, consequently, her community. With less opportunities to use your language, she’d forgotten most of it and found no practical benefit in teaching it to Gabriella.

Or maybe it was to establish more barriers between her old and new family. To keep her daughter deaf to the former’s criticisms.

Regardless, your language constituted her chats with old friends, her wistful stories of the past, the expressions which eluded translation. It took a while for Miguel to learn her speech patterns and replicate her husband’s responses.

On his first day in their dimension, he looked through his Variant’s belongings and found a Spanish textbook. There were two sets of handwriting in the margins, yours and his.

It must’ve held special memories. He could enviously imagine his wife’s earnest efforts, her Miguel’s amused guidance, the expansion of her capacity to understand him.

It wasn’t the only thing exclusive to the happiest versions of yourselves.

A first meeting which occurred under a <0.001% probability. Dates spent bonding over the expectations of their families and Nueva York. The happy family they created together.

His Variant called her mi sol. It was a fitting nickname.

To this day, Miguel wonders if it sounded different in his voice.

22. Fluent in mother tongue, more connected to her cultural heritage.

23. Dislikes direct confrontation, tends to hide her feelings and vent in private. More creative with insults.

You do surpass his wife in other categories.

You’re more organized. Your cooking tastes better. You are a good listener, a competent secretary, and the last person to give Miguel a headache.

You have a stronger cultural identity, despite coming from an equally prejudiced version of New York—or is it because of that? In a world which treats you like an outsider, perhaps that is why you’ve latched onto your heritage for an easier sense of belonging.

It explains why you put up with your family’s values, no matter how biased.

It means that you can speak your language fluently, with none of his wife’s guilty errors and pauses. Only then do you act more confident than her, less regretful.

And it manifests in your speech patterns, in the moments when you aren’t adjusting your manner of speaking for someone else.

In your personal notes, you mix English and your mother tongue. It’s the same for your conversations with the Spider-Men who know your language.

You speak in a localized variety of English with its own vocabulary, pronunciations, and untranslatable terms. Your version sounds nicer, more articulated.

You are more vocal in your language since less people understand it. It’s your default tongue for swear words and sarcastic comments.

Once, you were given extra work due to an MIA Spider-Man. Before contacting him, you opened a blank file to type paragraphs of profanities and insults in every language you spoke. Then you promptly deleted it and sent him a polite, if not passive aggressive, message.

LYLA had picked the perfect time to hack into your device. She saved a copy for Miguel, who felt less stressed after reading it.

He might have quoted a few lines when he confronted the same agent.

53. Handwriting: More legible, heavier pressure, prefers the same color of ink. ______ writes less often, only for short notes.

Securing a handwriting sample is easier than expected.

In the futuristic dimensions, digital text is the go-to medium for communication. But like his wife, you write physical notes every so often; his research links it to a mutual memory.

Your personal reminders are handwritten. Your old laptop has scanned documents with your signature and written information. Whenever you prepare packed lunches for Miguel, you include little notes for him.

Good luck. Take care of yourself. Call me when the mission is over.

His wife rarely wrote notes for him, so that is another exclusive perk.

Her handwriting was more aesthetic, according to Miguel’s memories and a folded note he’d kept. The latter’s contents are nothing special, just a to-do list with four unchecked tasks, but it is sufficient for comparisons.

You grip your pen differently, too. Your writer’s callus is lighter, and its location is off by exactly one millimeter. Still, he likes the feeling of your hand in his.

꒰♡꒱

“How many times are you going to read that?”

LYLA checks the food container. It is Miguel’s favorite snack this time, with a purple Post-It taped to the lid.

“Tell me if I should adjust the recipe. Might be too sweet. -______”

“It’s nothing,” he replies, setting aside the note.

“If you say so,” she trills. “At this rate, you’ll need a hammerspace for her notes.”

“A text would’ve been more efficient.”

Then again, it can’t be compared to reading your written words. Maybe it’s due to the specific medium, the interplay of visual and tactile sensations, a past version of you preserved in letters and imaginary voices. It isn’t the same as watching a video of you.

There is also his own perspective as a Nueva Yorker. Digital and handwritten text are vastly dissimilar. One is consistent, formattable, and widely-used while the other demands to be deciphered. And your letters always change depending on your mood or health.

Miguel traces the back of the Post-It. The indentations are less heavy. Were you in a hurry when you wrote the message? Focused on something else? Or is it an issue with your pen?

LYLA is still smiling. “Someone is growing soft.”

He glares at her this time. “Do you always have to call me out?”

99. More friendly with the Spider-Men who know her language.

100. Hobie Brown asked ______ to teach him a bit of her language. He specifically asked for swear words and the term for “close friends.”

You don’t know that Miguel can understand you.

Nueva York has a vast selection of translation devices, but the technology is insufficient. AI fails to interpret the tone of your voice, your personal vocabulary, and how those factors alter the meanings of certain words.

It can’t decode his wife’s speech patterns. There was a history to her endearments, a context for every word. But Miguel could only play along and take what she said at face value, even after learning your language.

He keeps it a secret from you, in case it becomes useful.

But hiding that skill comes with its own cons. The ______ who limits herself to English is different from the ______ who expresses herself in mixed languages.

It’s apparent in your chats with Miguel versus other Spider-Men. Foreign nicknames, inside jokes, secrets exchanged in your shared language—they are privy to another version of you, one whom he can only access through hacked texts and CCTV recordings.

It is only in those speech patterns that he can find you in your variety.

꒰♡꒱

You’re talking to your friends again.

Miguel switches to a closer CCTV and raises the volume.

Great, it’s Hobie and your dimension’s Spider-Man.

Despite their increase in missions, they’ve still found time to visit you in HQ. This time, Hobie is learning a few phrases from your language. His accent keeps messing up his pronunciation, but you’re a patient teacher.

At the same time, your Spider-Man is informing you of recent events in your old home. Miguel makes a mental note to do more research on Earth-███ slang.

You check your personal messages, and Miguel opens another holographic screen. The spyware shows a group chat with your close coworkers.

They are planning a film marathon—in HQ, so that you can join them. It takes a few backspaces for you to accept their invitation.

“LYLA.”

“Huh?” She appears in front of Miguel, fresh out of Sleep Mode.

“Assign Spider-Punk and Spider-Man ███ to the Anomaly in Earth-94. Then put…” Miguel opens the Nicknames tab of the chat. “...Peter G, Patrick, Julia, and Felicia in charge of next Friday’s missions. Any dimension will do.”

“Seriously?” LYLA gives him a knowing look. “Ben hasn’t called for backup. And should I remind you of last Sunday, 12:31:46 p.m., when ______ friendzoned Patrick? I have the video in three CCTV angles, max volume.”

“Just do it.” He lightly swats her, only for LYLA to flicker out of his grasp.

Through the CCTVs, Miguel watches her speak to your friends. They activate a portal and say goodbye to you. After they leave, you reread the group chat, smiling.

“She’ll be disappointed, you know,” LYLA informs him. “You better make it up to her during your movie night.”

“Send me her personal schedule.”

Miguel scrolls up the group chat for the movie titles. Nueva York’s versions are usually darker in terms of storyline; both of you would prefer that.

The next agent to approach you is Spider-Cat. He loafs on your desk, to which you eagerly take photos and mimic his meows.

“Should I do something?” LYLA asks sarcastically.

“Don’t mind him. He is her Sector’s emotional support animal.”

150. “Pretty” is also an important term in ______’s vocabulary.

If there is one word which sounds the same in your voice, it is “pretty.”

It was his wife’s best compliment, frequently said without explanation. It must’ve been a nice change from her job, where magazine layouts required professional critiques.

Everything was pretty—butterflies, fashion collections, the Banksy-esque glitches which appeared in her dimension prior to its collapse.

Gabriella, especially. She was always “pretty,” even in her regular outfits and soccer uniforms. That was something which Miguel could always agree with.

It’s similar with you, though you’re less vocal about it. There are only so many praises you can give to Nueva York’s fashion scene or your coworkers’ spiderwebs.

Unlike his wife, however, you don’t call yourself pretty.

There are zero records of you using that term to describe yourself. The most you will say is that you look pretty in an outfit, never thanks to your natural features. It is a distinct crack in your self-image, another deviation from her.

Hence, your weakness to flattery—one which Miguel has guiltily exploited through the rare compliment or responses to LYLA’s calculated remarks.

There is another key difference in how you and his wife use that term.

His Variant’s wife had never called Spider-Man 2099’s webs pretty.

But you do.

꒰♡꒱

“Careful, don’t break it!”

“Are we seriously having this conversation again?” Miguel gives you an exasperated look, claws raised. “It’s just a web.”

“But still…!” You pull your hand away from his, the motion illuminated in red. “I’d like to preserve the design.”

“Which would be fine,” he counters, “if it were actually removable.”

Sentimental. Just like her.

In the dim light of his room, your stubborn expression is eclipsed by his webs. The laser red threads are still stuck to your wrists, but they’ve been woven into a glovelike pattern over your left hand. The design lacks the coherence of your string figures.

Seriously, you were only left alone for five minutes. The last thing Miguel expected was to come back to you like this, staring at his webs with a weak smile, your admiration undeterred by every ugly purpose they have served.

You shouldn’t be so calm right now.

The alternative would be easier to grasp. Any other ______—his Variant’s wife, especially—would have cursed him, fought back once the venom wore off, resisted to the very end, and he would’ve accepted all of her hatred. He deserves it after everything he has done.

But you defied his predictions. What happened instead was your breakdown. Your shift from fearful resistance to broken submission. Reciprocated touches. Soft moans and heartfelt whispers. Desperate pleas for him to keep talking, to tell you everything he loves about you, that you can handle one more round…

And more crying. Lots of happy tears, so unlike those from your first meeting. Neither can he attribute them to acute emotional shock.

You make different sounds in bed, but the circumstances allow that.

This is between you and him, after all. Your first time together, neither of you pretending.

He hears a defeated sigh.

“Fine.” Reluctantly, you hold out your hand. “I’ll just save this image in my memory. But can you untangle the webs instead?”

It’s the least he can do for you. “Where do I start?”

You point at the base of your ring finger. “Here.”

The final knot is a ribbon bow, tied in the same spot as her wedding ring. 

With a shake of his head, Miguel retracts his claws and takes your hand. The knots are easy to unravel, and are quickly reduced to a handful of loose threads in your palm.

“Happy now?” he asks you.

You close your hand, a small smile on your face. “I’ll keep it somewhere safe.”

He lets go of your wrist. “Do whatever you want with it. I don’t mind.”

Pulse is normal. The friction burns should heal in a few days.

An awkward silence falls. Now would be a good time to clean you up; but before he can suggest it, your bath is delayed once more by a glance at the mirror.

“Skies.” You visibly recoil and cover your face with a new pillow. Your muffled curses and self-criticisms are easy to decode. “I look like a mess.”

Miguel observes your reflection. You don’t look that bad…minus the love bites, the twin dots on your neck, and the other traces of his touch. Most severe are the claw marks on your thigh, hidden beneath a layer of bandages.

It isn’t deep enough to scar. But that doesn’t make the memory any less painful.

“It’s nothing to cry about,” he says drily, eyeing his own marks.

Now you are glaring at him. “Says the person at fault.”

In his peripheral vision, he notices your hand on your stomach. Your fingertips barely graze the skin, shaky and hesitant…of course. The aftermath must be on your mind.

Note to self: Tell LYLA to monitor your vitals until a pregnancy test can be taken.

“I hope this one looks like you,” he mumbles.

“What?” Just as quickly as he says it, your eyes widen with renewed disbelief. “Is this about…what the hell did you just say?!”

He puts his hand on top of yours, pressing it to your stomach.

“We won’t know until our kid is born,” he says lightly, “but I’ve run a few simulations. Among the DNA combinations, over half are in favor of your physical traits.”

So many possibilities, so many variations of their family.

The explanation does little to comfort you. “But what about your traits? Or a mix of both! I mean…think of Gabriella! She’s adorable, very pretty, all thanks to your genes…”

Your voice trails off. When you continue, you speak in a soft whisper.

“Even if the chances are small, wouldn’t you prefer a kid who looks like her?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, spoken with zero hesitation.

Even if the physical possibility exists, his daughter is exclusive to a dead memory. And how could he handle a replica of the child he failed to protect?

His grip on your hand tightens. “Like you said earlier, it requires specific cells. And before you ask, I don’t have the time to genetically edit their appearance.”

“Oh, okay.” There is a deep breath, a comfortable silence. “That makes perfect sense.”

What else? There’s also Miguel’s Spider DNA, your parenting styles, and many other factors which could never recreate Gabriella. What will your kid’s name be? Will they learn your language alongside English and Spanish? Will they be encouraged to take up soccer or a different hobby?

Is a happy family possible for the two of you?

It’s hard to say. But it’s still a fresh start, for which he can set aside logic.

“Besides,” he adds. He holds your gaze, committing those bright eyes to memory. “I can’t imagine a prettier face for our kid to inherit.”

…

¿Diablos, are you crying again?

153. ______ dislikes being called “mi sol.”

He understands.

It was her nickname, after all.

And there must be a reason why his Variant chose it over other pet names. Maybe it was because he liked the sound of it, or the imagery suited his wife, or it came from a personal memory which the two of you could never replicate.

With that being said, old habits die hard.

Once or twice, Miguel accidentally calls you mi sol, and it is difficult to recover from that. Your demeanor stiffens, he mentally curses himself, then he or LYLA must awkwardly continue the conversation. It’s impossible to forget her, really.

To some extent, he will always be haunted by his lost family. But it’s better now that he has one to call his own.

As it turns out, picking the right endearment takes time. There aren’t enough words in Spanish, English, or any other language to encapsulate Miguel’s feelings for you.

So far, he has gone through a few terms—mi luz, mi vida, and so on—with little variation in reception. They don’t do justice to the subtleties he has fallen in love with, all of which belong to his own version of ______.

He likes the color of your lipstick. The darker shade suits your aesthetic, your shy smiles, the movements of your lips, the occasional kiss marks left on his skin.

He likes hearing your personal stories. It’s your way of opening up to him, of telling him every aspect of your life which deviated from hers and brought you to him.

He likes your speech patterns. The languages you speak, your rudimentary Spanish, even a simple “Welcome home” can become poetry in your voice.

His own name, especially. It has never sounded more intimate, spoken with a wider range of emotions. Shyness, confusion, fear, anger, resignation, affection, happiness…it is a manner of speaking reserved for him, your Miguel.

You don’t sound like her at all. But nowadays, he doesn’t mind.

If anything, he has begun to prefer your voice.

167. ______ changed my nickname in her Contacts.

“You have a text from ______!”

The update prompts both Spider-Men to face LYLA. Miguel glances at his coworker, but their mask hides their expression.

A smile flickers on LYLA’s face. “No further Anomalies, by the way. The Canon remains intact.”

Thank god.

His attention returns to the Anomaly—Earth-26496’s Vulture, more tech-savvy than his Renaissance-Era counterpart, an equally shocking mess to deal with.

“Peter, bring him back to HQ. And try not to cause any more commotion.”

“Sure, boss!” With that, his coworker picks up the unconscious Vulture and swings back to HQ, avoiding the damaged Nueva York buildings.

Of all places, it had to appear in his dimension.

Left alone, Miguel checks his phone and opens a holographic screen.

Office desktop, webcam view. The CCTV shows you in the middle of work, examining video records and analytics. Five screens are in simultaneous use.

You look pretty, perfectly polished, your love bites and dark eye circles concealed with makeup. Maybe a bit anxious due to the news alert of the Anomaly.

He reads your texts, sends a reply, and watches the CCTV. Your eyes light up at first sight of the notification, and you immediately pick up your phone.

-

______: Are you okay?

Miguel ♡: the anomaly is being brought to hq

Miguel ♡: stay in your sector until it’s detained

______: Congratulations on saving another universe! <3

______: Did you get any injuries?

Miguel ♡: i’m fine. you can stop worrying

______: That’s good to know. But a checkup wouldn’t hurt.

______: Are we still going out later?

Miguel ♡: an anomaly literally just showed up in earth-928

Miguel ♡: right outside the cinema we were supposed to be at

______: Which you just captured!!

______: And before you say anything, we have zero records of Anomalies getting sent to the same place in a dimension.

______: Have you forgotten the Doc Ock who appeared in the lobby of HQ?

Miguel ♡: we can always reschedule our date

______: Can’t we go to another cinema?

______: It’s been a month since I’ve last gone out.

______: And no, working in HQ doesn’t count.

Miguel ♡: it’s safer to have our movie night at home

______: All right -_-

______: What do you want for dinner later?

Miguel ♡: anything is fine

-

Your expressions match your words. Relief followed by disappointment, the conflicted awareness in your gaze, a resigned shake of your head.

LYLA flickers in front of the screen. “The CCTV is a bit much if you ask me. Be honest, are you really checking if she’s being genuine or do you just want to see her?”

His gaze shifts to his phone. “First answer.”

She hums, unconvinced. “I’ll download the digital version of the movie. But don’t get too excited, Miguel—you’re missing out on her date outfit.”

“You can always show me the CCTV records.”

“Nah, where’s the fun in that?”

Three dots, a full minute. What exactly are you typing?

Miguel faces the CCTV. You’re still on your phone, an indecisive look on your face, so he opens another holographic screen.

And that is when he sees it.

On your phone screen is a short, unsent message.

A mere second after he rereads it, you delete the text and type the same phrase in Spanish. Only to replace it with your mother tongue’s version. Then in English again.

“LYLA, turn on the volume.”

“Sure thing!”

From the CCTV, you mutter the message to yourself, trying out all three variations. Your tone is soft, uncertain, hopeful and uneasy in equal parts. Your thumb hovers above your phone screen, close to the Send button…

Then you hit backspace and respond with “See you later” instead.

“Too bad,” says LYLA. She shoots him a mischievous look. “Better luck next time. Why don’t you say it first more often?” 

“We’ll see,” he mumbles, viewing the text on his phone. “I can hardly say it right now.”

“Sure you can! I bet she’ll be happy to have it saved on her device.”

Instead, Miguel opens another holographic screen, a personal file this time. He types in the password, scrolls to the last line, and adds a new observation.

168. ______ is still figuring out how to say “I love you.”

♡

Prologue ๑ Epilogue ๑ Miguel’s Darling Files

*gasp wheeze* First Mary Howitt, now Franz Kafka……..istg if another author inspires me to write smth for Miguel O’Hara, I’m losing it.

This is officially my most difficult fic to write, and I hope you all enjoyed it. Your feedback means a lot to me, so pls don’t feel shy to share your thoughts and comments >:’3

Once again, thank you so much to @diodellet for beta-reading this fic and @yanmaresu for helping me with the Spanish phrases!! My Miguel O’Hara fics wouldn’t be the same without your assistance and tolerance for my brainrot, and I truly appreciate it (´-ω-`)

Tag a Miguel O’Hara enjoyer!! @yandere-romanticaa @bweoo @kocherry @oofasleep @h2o2-and-baking-soda @yandere-wishes @hisachuu @weebsinstash @letskidaddle @handsomeunderwear-art @literaree @pumpkin-toffee @miggyyyyohara @qiaipia @abyssalrot @miguelswifey04 @skeleton-on-wheels0 @dilfartist @spiderscavenger @saharadesertaj @iamfakeu @angelplummie @obsessedwithromance @robindere