#miguel o’hara/reader

[asimplearchivist]

𝑪𝑯. 𝑽𝑰𝑰 — 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ to prove a point, you take advantage of miguel’s lack of spider-sense. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 4.9k a/n 🕷️ [gif credit] ⤏ surprise update! sorry for the wait, my life has been busy lately, and the ending of this chapter finally clicked into place. finally some fucking levity—am I right, guys? ⤏ this was inspired partly by this post and this art edit on insta! 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER [TBA] 🕷️

You…were uncertain how you ended up in this situation to begin with.

It had started innocently enough. Peter B. had made an off-handed remark about needing to hit the gym while inhaling a burger as tall as the breadth of his hand from the cafeteria like a ravenous vacuum. Jess had called him out on his bullshit, as she was oft wont to do—she didn’t cut anyone extra slack when it came to business or their personal wellbeing, after all—and she pointed out that he’d been saying that for weeks at this point. You’d offered some defense on Peter’s behalf, citing all the time he was spending helping MJ with preparing for the baby, and he’d eaten up your support like candy—until you’d teased him about being grateful for the excuse to hide his growing dadbod. Such a man was he that, in order to avoid having his ego bruised, he challenged you to meet him in the Society’s sprawling recreation center afterwards.

That’s how you got there, anyway. Peter wasn’t out of shape, necessarily—not out of practice, either, by any means—but he was puffing a bit as he lingered in the corner of the sparring ring with his forearms bracketing his head. You danced back and forth lightly on the balls of your feet, mirroring his defense, your mask concealing your face and thus your eyes like his. You were prone to giving away your inner thoughts, and thus you had always been utterly shit at poker because of it, so you were grateful to have that advantage, at least. Plus relying on your spider-sense to determine your opponent’s next move kept it honed and sharp.

The lenses of Peter’s mask narrowed as he eased to the side for more maneuvering room, shoulders hunched and stance narrowed to make himself as small of a target as possible. You took an experimental lunge towards him to see how he’d react—a twist towards his left with your lead leg. You feigned in that direction with a quick strike before sweeping under his reciprocal swing and landing a firm smack with your open palm against his ribcage.

“Nicely played,” Peter huffed, shuffling quickly back to put a full pace between himself and you. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.”

“This is just my warmup,” you joked, then surged forward.

A quick volley of jabs had him inching back, contorting this way and that to block you. Then he swept out one of his arms while striking you in the diaphragm with the other. The blow knocked the wind from your lungs in a guttural whoosh. You folded, staggering back and holding up a hand.

“Play nice, you two,” Jess chided from the sidelines. She already seemed to have had enough of your shenanigans if her turning and walking away with a smirk towards her usual haunt of the yoga/pilates/body weight corner was any indication. “I’d rather not have to explain any wayward injuries to the big boss, if that means all the same to you.”

“Weren’t expecting that one, were you?” Peter teased. “Sorry if I hit you too hard.”

You waved the same hand and shook your head with a breathless laugh. After a long moment, you were able to straighten back up and return to your original stance. “Now you’ve asked for it,” you rasped.

You and Peter worked up a sweat exchanging hits and parries. The longer that time dragged on, the larger of a crowd gathered together to watch. A veritable sea of shiny, rounded lenses watched as the pair of you—now warmed up, limber and loose, and thrumming with anticipation—locked into a precarious dance of striking and dodging. Peter’s playfulness bled into his fight style—trying to stay within his own reach while keeping out of yours, laughing.

You’d used to enjoy this sort of exchange, you remembered; once you’d worked through the early days of finding your footing apprehending petty thieves, the give and take of banter and fists in equal measure had become almost second nature. It had delighted you to get under the crooks’ skins, and it had the added benefit of throwing them off their rhythm so you could work your magic before the cops arrived on the scene.

Nevermind the fact that it had served as an integral outlet while you’d struggled through the brunt of your grief; you’d had no other way to expel all the negative emotions you kept under lock and key while enduring the major upheavals of moving out of your old condo and away from all of the memories buried there, buying the building that would become your new home and business with the money Alchemax had (reluctantly) paid for your husband’s policy, and keeping up appearances around your friends and family…who had mostly faded to the wayside by now due to your insistence on closing yourself off from their pitying expressions and unintentionally condescending words of empty, meaningless comfort. Only Maya had stayed, as stalwart and stubborn as she was, and you were grateful now that she had been able to see through your bravado, even if you’d protested it vehemently for a long time.

You’d had to accept that your life would never be the same, no matter what. There wasn’t any way that you could turn back time nor change anything that brought you to this point in your life. While it had seemed an insurmountable wall for a considerable amount of time (several years, in fact), you now found solace in the fact that you had learned new joys you wouldn’t have been able to experience had none of that happened. You would still trade your position as Spider-Woman 2099 to get your husband back in a heartbeat, but…it was easier to bear the load.

Discovering kinship with others in such a fantastical entity as the Spider Society helped in many ways. And meeting another version of your husband, no matter how complicated, gave you an unexpected sort of peace, as well—even if he was prickly and gruff and…and…wearing virtually nothing in an entirely public setting, holy mother of—

Some of the Spiders had shifted, the taller ones letting some shorter ones approach the front of the group. Miguel was in the middle of a set of glute drives, the bars loaded to the clamped ends with forty-five pound disc weights. The machine was set at the end of a row focused on lower body workouts, adjacent to the wrestling mat, and it provided the ideal angle of observation for his reclined position. His profile, terse and tense as he measured his breath through his gritted teeth, remained as regal as always. Even with his face darkened with the exertion, sweat dotting his forehead and clinging thin strands of his unkempt hair to his skin, he seemed barely put-upon. He had full control of the bar and his movements, measured and mighty, without a sign nor sound of strain. He had the machine completely maxed out and still wasn’t struggling, not even in the slightest.

You should have stayed focused. Peter was closing in—visibly, at that—and you’d dropped your guard in your shock.

…But the fact that Miguel’s—

Your opponent clocked you in the cheek, sending you careening to the floor in a boneless heap upon the mat with a startled yelp.

“Oh, shit!” the older man exclaimed, kneeling quickly at your side to help you back up. “Are you okay? I thought you were going to miss that one!”

You blinked rapidly, vision swimming as you struggled to regain your bearings for a few seconds. Your neck felt funny, loose and weak, but you seemed okay otherwise. Once most of the dark spots dissipated from your eyesight, you realized that there were three identical silhouettes of the notoriously intimidating leader of the Spider Society standing at the edge of the mat with his massively bulky arms folded over his partially exposed chest as he frowned down at you. You dug the heels of your palms into your eyes to fully clear them with a shaky breath.

“You allowed yourself to get distracted,” the veritable athleisure-wear model surmised.

“Miguel! Come on, you scared off our audience!” Peter complained. “I was going to win that betting pool to pay my bills!”

“Half of their currencies wouldn’t be compatible for the exchange system.” Miguel tilted his head once you lifted your gaze once more. “He didn’t give you a concussion, did he?”

Coming from anyone else, such a question would have indicated concern for the recipient. Coming from Miguel, however, it sounded more like an interrogation for an insurance claim. Of course, you suspected that workplace accidents were no easy affair with which to contend in a place like this, so you didn’t exactly blame him for his resigned, stern tone.

“No. Just shook me up a bit.” You hobbled back to your feet and mock-saluted him. “All good, jefe.”

Miguel rolled his eyes with a quiet grunt of disapproval. “You shouldn’t let yourself be prone to unnecessary injuries. I thought you had a Spider-Sense.”

“I do, but it doesn’t always trip in cases like this,” you protested. You were thankful both for your mask concealing the heat blooming under your cheeks out of embarrassment and for the fact that your exertions would disguise the shortness of breath that looking at him was giving you. “And are you really telling me not to have any accidents?”

The tank top he wore was baggy and loose; the kind that gaped around his arms and ended up showing off some of his sides and the edges of his torso in the process. His shorts were mid-thigh, clingy in the legs but not overtly so. It was doing wonders for his figure, and if he hadn’t voluntarily walked out onto the sprawling floor packed full of specialized gym equipment, mats, and free weights you would almost feel guilty for looking at him. (You still did, just a little. Had you blinked in the last minute or so? You couldn’t remember.) He had a sheen of light perspiration all over, dampening his clothes. His musculature was more pronounced than normal—that pump was phenomenal, indubitably. You tried, dutifully, to ignore it all.

“Minimizing them would be optimal,” he responded dryly. “Do you know just how big of a pain in the ass it is to file all the paperwork involved?”

You gave him a flat look. “Do you know how silly it is to try to avoid them happening with one of the most accident-prone groups of heroes in the multiverse?”

“She has a point,” Peter agreed wryly.

Miguel scoffed. “It would help if you weren’t so slow.”

Your brows rose. “Me? Slow? Remind me who, exactly, manages to consistently outpace most of the other Spiders?”

Miguel didn’t look impressed. “You were dancing around like a performance fighter.”

“Have you ever heard of a relaxed spar?” you retorted.

“Not much value in sparring if you’re not treating it like a real-life scenario,” Miguel told you severely. “You’ll get too relaxed and you’ll slip up in the field.”

“Hey, hey,” Peter interjected, holding his hands up with an awkward laugh, “it’s fine to have a bit of fun every now and then! We were just messing around, really, not trying to take each other out.”

“You think this is all I’m capable of?” you questioned dubiously, ignoring Peter’s attempts to negate Miguel’s…whatever this was. Was he goading you? Because like hell you were going to lay down and take such a thing as proud as you were of your hard-won hand-to-hand skills. “I could take you down without breaking a sweat.”

Miguel raised a brow. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“It’s supposed to be a warning.” You disengaged your mask to glare at him properly, now thoroughly displeased enough that his appearance wasn’t even enough to fluster you anymore. “I’ve handled villains of the week twice your size, cabrón.”

The man regarded you for a long moment, sizing you up. He didn’t look irked in any way, shape, or form. He really had no reason to come over and talk trash. Conversing with him had gotten a little easier after your unexpected heart-to-heart, but he hadn’t seemed particularly interested in casual discussions outside of business regarding anomaly hunting or your daily deliveries since then. Why on earth would he go out of his way just to try to ruffle your feathers?

“You could be a liability,” he said slowly. “I had to help you with one of those villains, after all.”

Was he…wanting you to prove yourself? That Rhino was a special case, you were certain, as you were quite capable of handling your villains of the week. You had, in fact—quite successfully, at any rate. No prison escapes, few civilian casualties…overall a clean track record.

You scowled. “Fine. Come here and let me kick your ass if you’re so worried about mine getting handed to me.”

Peter watched the exchange warily, removing his mask, as well. “I’m…not so sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”

And…wow. You really weren’t sure how to interpret the scathing glare Miguel sent him.

“There’s nothing he can do that I can’t take,” you retorted, “considering my Sandman was an absolute abomination of a sentient sandstorm that tried to infiltrate my respiratory system so he could suffocate me from the inside. Or the fact that my Lizard transformed more into more of a mutant Utahraptor than a…well, lizard. My point is—”

“Prove it.” Miguel kicked off his trainers and stepped onto the mat, beckoning expectantly. “Bring it on, fresa.”

Anger was a valuable asset, although extremely difficult to hone. If one allowed it to get out of hand, to develop into unmitigated fury, then control would inevitably be lost. You’d encountered that issue before, and it had cost you—some of the lingering scars on your person boasted of that. You’d gone through hell with grief, and wrath had been one of your defaults for a long time—especially when dealing with delinquents who seemed to know no better than to tread upon your every last nerve. Taking care of criminals had been your lone outlet since you’d no longer had time to go to the gym, and you remembered every single time it had gotten the better of you; in the aftermath, especially if you unintentionally hurt someone, you’d have to face the consequences of your instability. Now, after years of exercising self-discipline and healing your emotional wounds, agitation was an old friend. It kept you motivated, vigilant, and safe.

And as complicated as your feelings for this Miguel were, you would not tolerate him calling you incompetent in front of all the other Spider-People lingering on the fringes doing a rather poor job of disguising their eavesdropping by milling about and conversing in low tones. (Gossips, the lot of them.)

You stepped back into your corner, gesturing at him to start. You barely crooked your fingers in challenge before he lunged.

He was quick—quicker than any man his size had a right to be. You feigned left and rolled to the right, ducking under his arm as he tried to snag you. You felt the displaced air of his swing tickle the nape of your neck. You barely had the chance to recover, scrabbling onto your feet in a crouch as he wheeled around to grapple for you. It was a near thing to throw your palms up under his elbows to knock his arms out of the way, but you managed it and slipped past him. You managed to stay at his back for a moment, dancing around his blind spots, as you shuffled back to gain some distance.

Your heart pounded when he turned, then, his pupils dilated like a predator in the heat of the hunt—borderline feline, if you didn’t already know the lot of you were influenced by arachnoid genetics in one way or another. While his claws weren’t extended, seeing his bare palms held out almost like a wrestler’s would was foreign. Considering this was the first time you’d seen him out of his suit since he’d recruited you, and you hadn’t had much time nor wherewithal to absorb his appearance given the circumstances that were, you reeled a bit to notice the paler, tougher places on his fingertips where the dangerous weapons resided. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think they looked like tarsus pads.

“Shit!” you squeaked, leaping out of the way once more as he grabbed at you. His size lended him the upper hand of extended reach, but fortunately it seemed you had more flexibility. Your limberness, combined with your accustomability in having to navigate narrow routes of escape since so many of your bad guys often had similar advantages over you, kept you just on the edge of his victory for several more minutes of carefully dodging his increasingly irritated attempts to pin you.

His reverberating growls and gritted grunts of frustration had your heart pounding beneath your ribs, his teeth flashing every time you wiggled your way past him. You were slick with sweat all over, and never were you more grateful that the UMF was wicking, as well, than in that moment. You were breathing hard, constantly having to remain on your toes—figuratively and literally—and it wasn’t long before you were starting to get tired.

And with that came an inevitable slip-up.

As you once again tucked and tried to miss him, you stumbled—whether he intentionally placed his foot there for you to trip over or not, you did not know—and it pitched you forward long enough that you instinctively tried to recapture your balance rather than get away. Miguel scooped you up with a forearm tucked under your middle and hauled you, flailing wildly and squealing from shock, against his chest. He held you there, suspended at least half a foot off the ground. His massive hands clamped you in place, his arms crossed over you to anchor your shoulder and opposite hip, respectively. No matter how hard you tried to hit or kick or even bite him, you couldn’t catch any flank—he’d positioned you in such a way that there was no possibility of you fighting back.

You felt his heart thrumming against your shoulder blade, his breath heavy and hot on the back of your head. He straightened to his full height, and being so close to his eye-level made you realize just how far he towered over everyone else. You were tiny by comparison, no matter how you compared to the other Spider-People. You were insignificant, and perhaps it had been foolish to assume that you could stand a chance against him.

He had outplayed you, plain and simple.

…But you would only allow him to win that easily over your dead body.

“You done?” he growled into your ear.

“Like hell!” you hissed back, then swung your legs out and back under with as much momentum as you could muster. Since Miguel was leaning back to accommodate your mass, that put him high-center—and thus more prone to imbalance. As you planned, his torso swung forward to compensate for the sudden and unexpected shift in weight.

It gave you just enough room to get your footing back. You broke your unrestrained arm free and wrapped it around the back of his neck at the same time you slipped a foot behind his. You pulled down and buckled his knee by digging yours into the bend of his leg, and—in one fell swoop—Miguel came crashing down with a thundering thump and a deep wheeze as all the air rushed out of his lungs.

A cacophony of uproarious surprise from the observing Spider-People was only vague background noise compared to your pulse roaring in your ears as you stared down at the man supine below you. His eyes were round, mouth gaping as he struggled to suck in even a single breath. To say that he seemed speechless was quite the understatement.

“You good?” you panted, bracing your hands on your knees and trying not to let your satisfaction leak into your tone. “You didn’t hit your head, right?”

“Fine,” he croaked, his voice naught but a whisper as it cracked on that single word. He shut his eyes briefly, pressing his hand against his diaphragm as he coaxed a breath into his lungs once more. He then braced an elbow beneath him and leveraged himself upright, his back to you as he eased back onto his feet. “I’m fine.”

You straightened and placed your fists on your hips, cocking a brow as he snatched the rag from the waistband of his shorts to pat his forehead dry. “Well?” you prompted. “Do I pass?”

He turned just enough to level you with an unreadable side-eye, critical and lingering. “Yeah,” he finally admitted, a low grumble. “You’re all right.”

And with that, he stalked away towards the locker room.

When you found Peter in the crowd, he was in the middle of accepting his winnings from a group of rather put-upon and reluctant spectators, beaming and laughing all the while. They made themselves scarce as you approached, a little shaky on your feet but otherwise no worse for wear. (You could’ve stood to take a killer nap, though.) Peter greeted you with an infectious smile, tucking the wad of myriad types of cash under his waistband and patting your shoulder. “You should have seen his face!” he chortled, wiping a tear from his eye. “That was priceless—I should have recorded that!”

“And here you were worried about me,” you teased, nudging him in the ribs, but your eyes caught on the retreating man as he traipsed past the others with a rather impressive glower. It effectively intimidated them enough that they wouldn’t meet his eyes, and they all returned their attention to their respective workouts. “You don’t think I hurt his ego too much, do you? I don’t need him developing a chronic case of macho-man around me.”

“Nah!” Peter responded lightly. “Miguel’s proud, sure, but he doesn’t have much of an ego anymore. He’ll lick his wounds and comb his feathers back down and be back to normal in no time. I think it’ll do him some good to remind him that he’s not the baddest Spider around.”

Your lips thinned, skeptical, but you wouldn’t press the issue. “If you say so.”

“I’ll go talk him down. It’s his temper you have to worry about, and I’ll see if I can bust some of the air out of his lungs so he doesn’t blow up later.” He patted you again and made his way in the wake of his stormy colleague. “Great job, by the way!”

“Thanks!” you returned, feeling the cool air of the gym seeping in through your suit and raising goosebumps in its wake. Just as quickly as the place had condensed with noise, it had descended back into a mild background ambience of music and weight sounds.

“Not many people can match his prowess, you know.”

You looked over at Jess, who sat on a bench with a bottle of water in her hand. She quirked a brow at you as you approached and settled next to her. “I’ve had to learn how to be as quick on my feet as I am in my head,” you sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “That’s all.”

“He’s smart, though, and even though he doesn’t have a Spider-Sense like most of us, he’s…more in tune with his body, shall we say. It takes a lot to catch him off-guard like that. He’s had to rely on ambush tactics more than entrapment like others do.” She sipped thoughtfully, then gave you an appraising once-over. “You know he spends almost all his free time here.”

You didn’t, but you nodded anyway. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“He doesn’t do a whole lot more than work or lift weights. LYLA’s been getting him to stop for food and nap breaks lately, but I haven’t seen much of an improvement yet, honestly.” She paused, contemplative, for a moment. “He wasn’t always like this, though.”

You had a feeling as to what might have caused such a change in temperament, since you’d endured it yourself. “It’s hard,” you murmured, dropping your head to peer at the rubbery floor under your feet, “to deal with all this. It’s worse when you go through the things we do.”

“To say the least,” she agreed. “His case is a special one.”

“I’ve gathered that.” You sighed heavily. “I won’t pry, since he hasn’t talked much about it, but…I’m guessing he’s still grieving?”

“Definitely. I’m not sure finding you is helping any, but…” She pursed her lips. “...I think you’ve been good for him as a reminder that he’s not the only one in his position. He gets self-absorbed, sometimes, too caught up in his own losses to remember that others go through the same things—or at least similar ones.” She glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. “He’s been more focused lately, at least—not quite as mopey.”

“I hate to think of how mopey he was before, then,” you laughed under your breath.

“He’s been depressed since I’ve known him, and probably longer than that. I’ve spent a lot of time piddling in his lab to keep an eye on him.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the cafeteria. “But I have noticed that he’s eating better now that he calls dibs on your orders every day. Those sandwiches you make are better than the empanadas he’s been binging for the last couple of months, anyway.”

Your brows rose in surprise. “I…didn’t know. He always seems kind of irritated when I take him snacks.”

“Probably more at himself for forgetting than at you specifically, but I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen him sit down and eat a full meal.” Jess hesitated. “Maybe I’m wrong for saying this, but…maybe he misses your counterpart’s cooking—assuming yours is similar, of course. I think there’s a reason he’s so lean, and not necessarily because he’s on a cut.” Her expression softened. “If that’s going too far, I apologize. It’s probably a touchy subject.”

You…hadn’t thought about that, honestly. He hadn’t really reacted outwardly to the various things you’d made a point to take him, as stoic as his default setting seemed to be. 

“No,” you responded quietly but earnestly, “it’s fine. I…never really gave it a second thought. I know I—” You swallowed, cleared your throat, and took a steadying breath. “—miss my husband’s cooking, too. Even when I follow the recipes, it’s never quite the same.” She laid a hand on your arm, and you patted it gratefully. “I don’t mind talking about it. My family makes it weird, you know, being all sympathetic and saccharine and supportive. None of that sugar-coating doesn’t take away the fact that he’s gone. I just want to remember him at this point.”

“I can understand that,” Jess replied gently, matching your register. “If you ever need an ear, I’m here.”

“Thank you.” You were a little surprised by her offer, given how busy and business-like she tended to be around most, but perhaps you shouldn’t have been. “I appreciate that.” You let out a wry little chuckle. “I guess you’d have a unique point of view knowing that version, huh?”

“I don’t know how different he is from yours,” she began carefully, “but he’s mentioned his version of you only a couple of times. Usually if he managed to get himself drunk enough.”

You tilted your head in curiosity. It took a lot to get drunk anymore, so you couldn’t imagine how much a man as tanky as Miguel would have to put away before even getting tipsy, much less fully intoxicated. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Little things—details that most people would forget. I could tell he was head over heels.” She rolled the bottle between her hands. “But based on what he’s mentioned, you sound an awful lot like her.”

You frowned. “You think that’s why he doesn’t like being around me much?”

“Probably.” And that’s what you liked about Jess—she was frank about things, didn’t see any need to dance around a problem. It was extremely refreshing. “But he’s not at the same point you are, either. I think it’ll take him some time to get readjusted to having you here.”

“He said he didn’t want me to leave, so there’s that, I suppose,” you told her. “I just…I’d like to help, if I can.”

“That’s admirable, considering he’s been an ass to you.” She bumped her shoulder into yours. “If he gives you too hard of a time, let me know. I can take him down a peg or two.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you chuckled, “but I think he’ll think twice before calling bluff on me again.”

“Definitely.” She stood and rolled her shoulders. “Just keep doing your thing, girl. You being so kind isn’t worthless, even if it seems like it.” She winked. “He doesn’t take the time to check on everyone’s field capabilities to make sure they can take care of themselves, after all.”

You watched her go, dumbstruck. Maybe Peter had hit you harder than you’d thought.

[k1tk4ttt]

How it feel to finally accept and embrace the cringe of reading x reader fics

[l0velysmut]

family: “why are you just sitting in ur room smiling at ur phone?”

me who’s been reading smut about fictional characters for the past 6 hours:

[fromduck]

Me with you guys simping over hot men

[cindy-ella]

Introducing the yearly summer men!

2023

2024

2025

also…. might be making a jinu x reader x kenji fic. but you didn’t hear that from me. reqs open for kpop dh

[ctrlzirl]

me when I reach the angst part of the angsty fic that I specifically chose for the angst

[vinamari]

How it feels going to bed after reading some words

It was angst

[cigarettesandcoffeex]

When I’m finally reading a good fanfiction, but then they call you Princess, Doll or Sweet girl…

GTFO YOU AINT MY DAD.

[mymoonsight]

Reposting a comment I made on a post and adding to it

x Reader fics need to handle writing “reader” better sometimes

As a 6ft afab person who’s built like a man and has never been super feminine and has a more unique haircut that’s shorter I hate to read about “readers” petite, small, pale body and her “long flowy straight hair”, etc.

Reader is meant to be ambiguous!! And if it’s important to the plot please mention it at the beginning!!! If it’s not important to the plot why is it being included???

Some people who are reading may be tall, fat, skinny, short, or even somewhere in between. The readers could have a hijab, 4c hair, locks, braids, long hair, short hair, wavy, no hair and even more.

Stop making all readers so sweet and innocent, I want a reader who’s petty and sassy sometimes. I’ve noticed also that so many readers are either too baby to do anything or over powered.

Personally I also hate reading about obviously toxic men and relationships that the reader goes back to because they are “so in love”, like no please let me deck that sucker and leave them in the dust and be happier.

Also, if you label your post with the tag “___ x reader” or titled with “___ x reader” and then make descriptions and then ADD A NAME!!! It’s not an x reader fic and I heavily want to block you.

Edit:

Hey hello! I just wanted to add that I heavily respect and love fic writers! So many have a talent that I will never reach or have and I appreciate your content being put out at all! I made this post as a 5 am ramble and was half delirious lol

People can write as they please and I’ll ignore it if I’m not interested or I’ll make slight internal edits to fit me if I am

[ultraviolet-rayblogz]

THE WANK BANK— miguel edition!

╰┈➤ a list of some of vi's fav smutty fics!! (mostly me dick riding my moots)

— "Earth 703” (+ the sex pollen drabble) BY @xbellaxcarolinax

— “Mystery Girl” series BY @fairlyang

— “Lunch Break” (and literally EVERY scientist hubby!miguel fic she’s written) BY @improbable-outset

— “Nerd!Miguel starts an OF” and it’s sequel BY @cheonstapes

— “69ing w/ Miguel” BY @mybvalentine

— “Sticky-Icky" BY @bluesidez

— "Dad Bod!Miguel ft. breeding kink" BY @cupcakeinat0r

— Literally any of their "sweet thoughts", but this one especially BY @sweetimpurity

— Every single fic she writes is phenomenal, but my favourite is the "Curvy!Reader x Miguel" headcanons BY @cherryredstars

— “Let's Make Up" and "Don't Push It" BY @monarchberrysblog

— Every "The Quiet Storm on 209.9" oneshot BY @risararelywrites

— "Miguel Knows How to..." BY @lacedinweb22

— "My Husband Has A Symbiote!" BY @slushycoookie

— "Study Night" BY @pxtched

— "Mi Valentín" BY @xxsugarbonesxx

— "Present time with baby daddy!" (specifically pt.6) BY @yougavemeyourheartyouknow

— "Devil's Advocate" BY @st4rymoon

— "Pretty in Pink" BY @miguelhugger2099

— Literally ANYTHING BY @lazyjellyfish300

— "Miguel x Wife!Reader (Lactation Kink)" BY @exhaslo

obviously there are many many more amazingly sexy fics and extremely talented writers on this app, so I might have to make a part 2!

[asimplearchivist]

𝑪𝑯. 𝑽𝑰 — 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑹.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ you reflect on your history with miguel—both your husband and your new…colleague. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 5.8k a/n 🕷️ [gif credit] ⤏ the chapter I had planned previously just didn’t fit right yet, plus my poll ruled that so I decided to go a different direction since my muse was being a capricious bitch like usual. we’ll hit the levity another day boys.⤏ I sprinkled in the little bit of comic lore that I’ve absorbed through fanfics and the wiki while tweaking it all to fit the timeline of my fanon for this fic, but I tried not to go into too much detail bc ATSV!Miguel’s history is still so vague. please correct me if there are any glaring mistakes.⤏ please mind the tags in the masterpost linked below. here be stupid (albeit lore accurate) decisions. 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER 🕷️

Considering how odd your life had proven to be until present, you shouldn’t really have been surprised by how quickly you were able to adapt to your new circumstances.

Receiving high enough marks in your earliest years that you were hand-selected to be sent to Alchemax’s glorified drone factory of a school, steadily ascending through the ranks of your peers as your intellect was honed and sharpened with heavy instruction and endless study, and working your ass off through the highest levels of education in hopes of becoming successful enough to live comfortably all culminating in you meeting the love of your life in the process was only the start.

Your Miguel had been an undesirable individual, one to whom you hadn’t initially been attracted due to the history that preceded him (mostly because you had roomed with Xina for a time). He’d been a cocksure player with mommy and daddy issues, as well as an arrogant attitude and smart mouth in equal measure—playing himself off as the typical bad boy to hide all the scarred wounds he nursed underneath his standoffish exterior.

You hadn’t been able to stand him at first. The first time you’d met him, when he’d stopped by the dorm to pick Xina up for a date very early on in their relationship, you’d waited up apprehensively until she got home that night. You’d told her that he was bad news, that you only saw trouble branded across that massive forehead of his, and that she should drop him like a hot potato.

“But I like hot potatoes,” she’d said, eyes twinkling as she’d undressed for bed. “I’ve known him for a long time—since we were kids. He’s really a sweetheart once you get to know him. He’s standoffish to everyone he meets at first, but once he warms up to you, he’s really nice. Just wait, you’ll see. Let him get used to you.”

The first time he’d hung out at the dorm, you’d waited until Xina had slipped into the restroom before leveling him with a glare full of hellfire.

“You break her heart and I’ll break that stupidly fucking perfect nose of yours,” you’d growled, jabbing a finger in his slackened face. “Don’t think you’re fooling me, O’Hara. I know your type, I’ve read your mail—you think you can get away with everything you set your mind to just because you feel like you’re entitled. But I’m warning you right now—don’t test me. She deserves someone who will treat her right. I will not hesitate to wreck your shit, tú hijo de puta*.”

He’d only stared at you, jaw slack as he’d continued to lounge on the couch—taking up nearly half its width with his wide wingspan and those ridiculously long legs he’d sprattled out as though he owned the place. He hadn’t had the chance to respond before Xina had trotted back into the main room. You’d set down the drink on the coffee table that you’d used a guise to get closer and had moved back over to the kitchenette to resume cooking supper as though not a word had been uttered. He hadn’t said another thing to you the rest of the night save a mumbled, “Good night,” when he’d left, averting his eyes from yours the entire time.

Xina had given you a suspicious look once she’d shut and locked the door behind him, but hadn’t brought anything about it up until days later.

“Mig said he really liked your tacos,” she’d remarked casually while the pair of you’d worked on your assignments, sprawled on the floor in the warm afternoon sunshine spilling through the window. “He hasn’t had his mother’s cooking in a while, but he said it reminded him of home. He wanted me to thank you.”

You’d hummed noncommittally, scribbling away at your notes. “Is that all?”

“And he said you threatened him within an inch of his life.”

You’d tipped your head, casting her a glance through your lashes. You’d expected her to get irritated about it, but instead she’d looked…amused. “And…?”

“He also said,” she’d continued, lowering her tablet and folding her arms to prop herself up, “that he’s glad I’ve got someone loyal like you to look after me.”

“Someone has to,” you’d responded evenly, returning your attention to your handwriting. “You’d be up a creek with no paddle without me.”

“He wanted to know if you’d be okay with him coming over again.”

You’d looked back up to her, raising an incredulous brow. “I’m not your keeper, Xi. You can do whatever the hell you want with him.”

She’d mirrored your expression. “I think he’d just like some assurance that you won’t gnaw on his ankles the next time he hits the door.”

Rolling your eyes, you’d shaken your head. “I’m fine. I got my bluff in. I’ll even make him churros if it’ll get him to crack just one smile.”

“Careful, he’ll probably hold you to that. That man has a sweet tooth worse than anyone I’ve ever met.”

He’d orbited you like a small child would a large dog (despite the size comparison being the exact opposite) for a long time after that, only daring to venture closer when you had brandished food at him like peace offerings. How you had managed to actually intimidate him was beyond you (and a part of you had always wondered if he had only acted like it for your benefit), but you had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth—so to have had all six foot five of Miguel O’Hara give you as wide of a berth as one would a bear when you so much as stepped into the room was a power trip you’d tried not to let get to your head.

He wasn’t as bad as you’d first anticipated. He did warm up to you over time, and you’d discovered that his curt demeanor stemmed primarily from his awkwardness. He didn’t talk much because he didn’t know how to talk. He had a difficult time parsing his true meanings and feelings, often stumbling over words or being unintentionally blunt or misleading in the process—if he got frustrated enough, he’d even stutter a bit. He was still an asshole sometimes, certainly—especially around other people he didn’t know or just plainly didn't like, as well as when he’d been in a foul mood after a bad day—but he was, admittedly, pleasant enough company to keep around.

He’d inhale any food you’d set down in front of him, anyway, and cooking had always been your biggest love language, so that had made you feel a bit better about him, at least. A complete dickbag would have complained about your heavy-handedness for powdered thyme and salt, but Miguel had only ever asked for seconds (and sometimes thirds) and had expressed his gratitude by bullying his way in front of the sink to help clean up the dishes.

“He’s like that,” Xina had laughed when you’d griped at her about it. “Can’t thank anyone to save his life, but he’ll be damned if he lets you do anything yourself. Very much an ‘acts of service’ type of guy.”

He had a really dumb sense of humor, unexpectedly simple for one as intelligent as he was—and you knew he’d had to have been keen of mind in order to catch Xina’s eye in the first place, as she didn’t tolerate ignorance in the slightest—but the plainness of his puns and quips and jokes always caught you by surprise. You hadn’t ever been able to bestow a name upon the glitter of mirth in his eyes when he’d managed to make you laugh until Xina had pointed it out.

“He likes you, you know,” she’d said casually over coffee somewhere near the university. “He asks about you all the time, wants to know more about you. I think it would help if you’d give him a little more than the time of day.”

You’d given her a wry smirk. “You want me to be chatty with your boyfriend?”

“Just enough to convince him that you’re not some weird cryptid that lives in my pantry,” she’d sighed, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know how many times he’s asked me how we never met you growing up in school.”

“I’m younger than both of you by a couple of years,” you’d reminded her longsufferingly. “I got bumped up to graduate early. I’m lucky I qualified.”

“No luck about it. You’re a smart cookie, cupcake.” She’d sipped her coffee, eyes cutting out to the street on the other side of the glass, then had pursed her lips. “You know, he…didn’t have a great childhood. He’s been through a lot.” She hadn’t met your puzzled expression. “Just…cut him some slack, will you? He’s a good guy.”

“I don’t have anything against him,” you’d assured her. “He’s just not really the type of person I usually gravitate towards.”

“Oh, yeah, and you’re all about those mousy little nerds who can’t pick up a sack of flour,” she’d laughed, rolling her eyes. “I mean it. He likes you. I can’t say that for a whole lot of people, you know. It takes a lot for him to open up as it is, and he’s really making an effort to try. I don’t know what it is about you, but I’ve never seen him so invested in getting to know someone new—he’s got his little posse and that’s about the extent of his centrism.”

You’d frowned. “You’re not worried about that?”

“Nah.” She’d shaken her head. “Mig’s a lot of things, but duplicitous isn’t one of them. I think you just made a really strong impression on him. Maybe all that bad bitch energy you’ve got oozing off of you is actually toning him down some.”

Eventually, he’d offered to help you cook, too. He’d helped Xina pick up around the dorm when you were out. He’d even helped you study for the biochemistry exam you’d convinced yourself that you’d fail, and you’d ended up making an A. He’d interwoven himself inextricably into your lives and daily routine, resulting in those orbiting your immediate social circle referring to you as the ‘dumbass trio’. Wherever Miguel and Xina went, you often weren’t far behind—not of your own volition, of course, as they often roped you into whatever they were doing unless it was strictly a couple’s thing. Xina had sworn up and down that they had mutually agreed to include you on most things so you wouldn’t feel left out, which you’d appreciated a bit more than you’d ever have readily admitted.

You did make him churros for Christmas, and he had, indeed, smiled—so sincere and sweet in the tight, enveloping hug that he’d given you in lieu of thanks with Xina’s laughter tittering over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You’d patted him awkwardly on the back as he’d released you, turning to the tray to pluck up one of the sweets while you’d been too busy resisting the urge to watch his thick fingers disappear past those impossibly plush lips for his tongue to collect the sugar crystals lingering there—you’d managed it (barely), but you’d spent a little too long that night huffing the collar of your sweater while stripping in the bathroom to shower because his cologne had seeped into the chunky knit and you had never before smelled anything so divine.

Eventually, you met Gabriel, too, who had flirted so shamelessly with you that first time Miguel’d had his face buried in his hands throughout the entire ordeal, muttering curses to himself in Spanish that you hadn’t been able to quite catch (but hadn’t necessarily had to—the mortification in his eyes had been clear).

You and Miguel had spent time together, too. Sometimes he’d come to the dorm when Xina was busy elsewhere just to catch a break. He’d told you that he enjoyed the quiet, and that you were relaxing to be around. Having gradually gathered bits and pieces of his past through the various off-handed remarks that Xina had made about his parents, you’d taken that as an utmost compliment. He was, truly, a sweetheart beneath all those bristles he brandished to most. He trusted next to no one, but was loyal to a fault to those select few that he did.

Your best friend’s boyfriend had weaseled his way into your heart, you’d had to admit, and had wormed into your good graces. Over time, you’d learned his eccentricities and mannerisms and colloquialisms. You’d gotten used to him. You’d grown comfortable around him. You’d go so far as to say that you’d liked him, too.

Then he’d cheated with his brother’s girl, a stunt just like you’d initially feared.

You kept your promise. When he’d stopped by the dorm (while Xina was out—the point of which had been clearly made to assure lack of contact on both of their parts) to exchange the meager few belongings of hers that had ended up at his place with his own, you’d broken his nose with a solid jab that he hadn’t even had a chance to block due to his surprise. Luckily, he had set the box down first, and your rage had delayed just long enough to make sure nothing of Xina’s was broken in the process.

He’d bled all over the front of his shirt. You’d shoved a wad of toilet tissue into his sticky, crimson-stained hands, and with stinging eyes and a tight throat you’d slammed the door shut in his teary, crestfallen face.

You didn’t see him for a long time after that. Xina had buckled down and nearly worked herself to death to finish her classes and graduated early. You’d followed the year after her, transitioning into Alchemax’s robotics department, specializing in nanotech, but flexible enough that you ended up working all over the department when the various teams needed an extra set of hands. You’d secured a lease on a nice apartment thanks to your wages, had caught your future by the tail, and had settled in to enjoy your newfound independence and freedom.

Miguel had shown up on your doorstep a couple of years later holding a box brimming with tamales and a bottle of your favorite wine a couple of years later, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, overall looking like the definition—the epitome—of shattered.

You’d almost turned him away—had almost laughed about how karma was a bitch—but the half-circle bruises under his eyes, the welling split in his lip, and the tears gathering on his lash line as he’d croaked out a hoarse and utterly pitiful, “I really fucked up, pastelita**,” had stayed your instinctual cruelty.

So, with an exasperated sigh, you’d stepped away from the doorpost to gesture him inside. Within minutes, he’d set himself down on the very edge of the end of the couch, shoulders hunched in and downwards, knees clamped together to take up as little space as possible while you’d brought a couple of chipped coffee mugs from your cabinet into which to pour the borderline cloyingly sweet strawberry wine. He hadn’t touched any of the tamales until you’d demolished three, but you’d been able to tell that he was only eating to have something on his stomach. He’d looked ill, and if it weren’t for his confession you’d have been pressing the back of your palm to that massive forehead of his.

Dana had flipped the script on him—had grown bored of the lack of thrill for the affair once Gabriel had caught wind and cut all ties to leave her with his older brother in favor of pursuing an older, richer man further up the hierarchy at Alchemax—and Miguel had no one else to whom he could turn to wallow in his sorrows.

You hadn’t given him an inch. You’d told him just what he’d done to Xina, how you hadn’t had a full conversation with her beyond a handful of texts in the last six months because she’d buried herself so deeply in her work so she wouldn’t have to think about how she felt. You’d told him how big of a dick he’d been to ruin the trust not only for his childhood best friend and girlfriend, but also his brother. You’d told him that you were still pissed enough now, a couple of years later, that he was lucky he wasn’t getting a full sixteen ounces of fermented fruit juice in the eyes. You’d told him that he’d hurt you, too, because you’d ended up losing both of the only friends you’d ever managed to make that had tolerated you enough to keep you around in the process.

He’d taken it all with a lowered gaze but in good faith. He’d admitted that he’d done wrong, and that he’d never be able to truly forgive himself for it. He’d said that he deserved every bit of misfortunate that had riddled his life ever since he’d made that irreparable mistake. He’d also told you that he’d reached out to Xina in attempts to make amends, and had at least convinced her to talk for a few minutes to let her know how sorry he was, that he didn’t expect her to forgive him, and that he would like to make it up to her by remaining friends on somewhat good terms if she wanted.

That had surprised you. Miguel didn’t admit he was wrong. Ever. That he’d go so far as to give someone room to think that indefinitely had proven to you then and there and he had actually realized how badly he’d made a mess of things and had genuinely wanted to change his trajectory.

So you’d shared your homemade salsa with him, had watched at least seven more tamales disappear down his ravenous gullet, and had told him that you could make them better with an arm tied behind your back and blindfolded. You’d managed to leverage a wet, quiet chuckle out of him when you’d told him how ugly he was when he cried—which was really a complete, bald-faced lie. You’d never seen a man look more gorgeous than Miguel O’Hara sobbing into a mug comically small clutched in his mitt of a hand stating proudly in gold calligraphy on a turquoise glaze that, ‘I’m too cute to compute,’ about how uncertain he was that he’d ever be able to fix everything good in his life that he’d broken with his stupidity and recklessness.

You’d bundled him up in your favorite, heaviest blanket after three mugs of wine and had tipped him over to stretch across the woefully ill-fitting length of your couch well past midnight. You’d shoved a pillow under his head, had pulled off his shoes (with his feet dangling off the opposite arm, it only made him look twice as tall), and had slept in the armchair next to him so he wouldn’t wake up alone.

Perhaps you’d been too easy on him. Perhaps you shouldn’t have entertained him after everything he’d done, much less forgive him after one sob story. But you’d missed him, too—like crazy, like hell. You’d missed his sullen pouts at being teased about his forehead and his stupid jokes about mitochondria and the way his smile was just a bit too wide and lopsided, like he didn’t know how to measure it once someone did manage to crack his solemn facade.

You’d called Xina the next morning to explain your end of the story (whatever details Miguel had elected to share with you, even while intoxicated, you held in strict confidence—just like hers were secrets you’d carry to your grave). She’d sighed and said she knew everything, and that she didn’t want to have drama. It would take a long time for them to salvage their relationship and reconcile, but she’d admitted that she’d missed him, too, and just wanted him back as one of her best friends.

Miguel had spent significantly more time with you after that. He came over with food after work once he’d made sure you were home, fussing you right out of the kitchen and letting you pick whatever the pair of you would watch—even if he sighed when you would, inevitably, pick another romcom from a century prior.

It had been a slow process, patching those wounds. Miguel had changed a lot in the time you’d lost, had matured more than you’d ever imagined he would. He cleared the air with Gabriel, and that Christmas all four of you spent the holidays comfortably together eating too many sweets and exchanging gifts. You baked him pan dulce and he brought you cinnamon rolls that he’d made all by himself—although they had been a bit gooey, not quite baked long enough, you’d eaten half the pan yourself.

A year passed. Things got easier. You had no longer felt anxious, hurt, or resentful upon seeing him walk through the door—excitement, affection, and fondness took their places instead. He had made amends as best as he was able, working endlessly to patch up the wounds he’d so carelessly inflicted while also fixing his own issues to prevent it from happening again.

…He’d confessed his feelings for you entirely by accident. It had just slipped one night, after a few too many drinks and continuous bumping into each other while washing and drying and storing the dishes, that he’d liked you for a long time—since he’d met you, really—and he wouldn’t have added the fact that him seeking your company had long since slipped from avoiding loneliness into wanting to stay close to you if you hadn’t nearly pried the words from his clenched jaw with increasingly creative and outlandish threats of nonviolence.

He had intended to never say a word, you’d learned. After everything he’d done and gone through, he’d convinced himself that he was undeserving of love and utterly incapable of nurturing it into anything remotely palpable, healthy, and long-term. He was terrified of losing for good what little bit of love that he’d managed to salvage from the only people he’d had in his life that genuinely cared for him unconditionally, having already ruined his first serious relationship with a night of foolhardy negligence. Despite his ardent adoration of you and how you had changed his flaws into virtues, he had resigned himself to remaining your friend for the rest of his list so he would never risk fucking up his chances at happiness again—he would have taken that to the grave, had his restraint not wavered with your nonchalant, half-teasing confession of him being the most important—and favorite—person in your life.

(Except it hadn’t been a joke. You’d realized, in the span of a breath after you’d uttered those baring words, that it was entirely true—even your close friendship with Xina paled in comparison for the bond that you and Miguel had painstakingly built throughout the trials and crises you’d faced together. Despite his grievous errors, he’d remained steadfast in the face of resolving them—a trait so rarely seen that you’d stood by his side in support without question.)

In a blind panic at your prolonged, shocked silence, he’d thus fallen into a continuous spiel that contained more words than he’d ever spoken throughout your entire acquaintance combined. He vomited his childhood traumas and adolescent hardships and formative follies up as if he were lancing an infected wound, and the underlying explanations behind his personality, behavior, and insecurities became all too apparent in that moment. It didn’t excuse any of his actions, by any means—he’d acknowledged that much vehemently without you even having to open your mouth—and he’d known that he would never truly be able to reconcile all the shit he’d brought upon himself, which had resulted, in turn, in him inflicting misery and heartache upon others entirely undeserving of it. He’d apologized profusely for every slight he’d made at you, had begged that you disregard him ever having said those three damning words in order for everything to stay as it was, to go back to normal, so he wouldn’t lose you, too, for a second time.

…He had never been anyone’s favorite in his entire life. That idea had broken your heart.

But it had been a lot to swallow all at once, too. You’d shoved an ice cube into his mouth to calm his hammering heart and to stifle his anxious rambling, as well as to give yourself a couple of minutes to regather your bearings. You hadn’t been able to form a coherent thought, much to your chagrin—too caught up in the all-to-recent memory of him gazing down at you with such softness and reverence that one would have thought that you had strung up the constellations before murmuring with as much conviction as one would a benediction, “I love you,” emblazoned onto the backs of your eyelids and ringing in your ears.

Once the ice cube had melted, he’d tried to start talking again. You’d hushed him by placing your fingertips over his chapped, chewed lips and saying softly, “I love you, too, tonto.* I have for a while, I just…didn’t know how I felt about it, and wasn’t sure about bringing it up.” You’d cupped his jaw, then, and had stroked the pad of your thumb along the crease of his gaping mouth.

The wake of his relief had crashed over him so hard that he’d cried. You’d armed him up as best as you were able, given your size difference, and had held him until he’d soaked your shoulder, rubbing his back in soothing circles all the while. You’d never felt more at ease in someone’s embrace as you had with him, despite the emotional turmoil involved and the uncertainties the pair of you now faced.

But, as before, you’d worked through the complications together. Xina and Gabe had both supported you, after a bit of surprise (and exchanging money not-so-subtly under the table the next time you all had gotten together for dinner—Gabriel complaining about being out fifty dollars falling short of Xina’s smug, knowing look had not gone unnoticed). Dating felt no different from the comfortable, borderline domestic rhythm you’d already—unwittingly—fallen into that past year since his plea for mercy, except that he now had no holds barred around you.

While you’d suspected that he’d never be big on PDA or sweet nothings, Miguel had shown his ardency for you in other ways. All the issues with your apartment magically resolved themselves whenever you’d complain about them. Your closets, cabinets, and pantry had stayed stocked even when you ran out of time to make grocery runs after grueling nights at the lab. He’d insisted on paying for everything, had hardly ever let you lift a finger, and had spoiled you absolutely rotten. He’d done his damnedest to redeem the second chance that you’d granted him, and you’d been a little amazed at how seriously he had taken the whole affair.

Xina hadn’t been miffed about it in the slightest. “He’s a different man, now—a better man,” she’d told you, “and you’re to thank for that. I never could get through to him like you can, and that’s okay. It’s wonderful, actually. I’m so proud of him and I’m so, so very happy for you. You deserve the world and I think he’s doing his best to give it to you…if you’ll let him try.”

Your strict intolerance for his vices had polished off his roughened edges with friction. Your high expectations had driven up the standards he’d long since set for himself. Your hopes had helped him to accept what he had thought were his weaker qualities, but were, in fact, what you had considered his greatest strengths. You’d mended his aching soul and he had given you everything that you could ever have asked for in return.

The wedding had been a cozy, intimate affair. The honeymoon, despite the lavish PTO and cushiony funds you’d both accrued over the course of your shared workaholic employment, hadn’t lasted nearly long enough, in your opinion. Finding a penthouse to lease together with your joint salaries afforded you a breathtaking view of Nueva York in the mornings and evenings, and after a short time it had become a home.

You were thankful to have experienced all the good times, as well as the bad. You would’ve endured those tragedies all over again to experience that devoted love once more.

You still missed your husband like hell some days, though. Much of your life now had grown around the grief that used to suffocate you, gently laying over tender roots for new experiences, but there were still times that you had to spritz his old pillow with his slowly diminishing bottle of cologne and recluse yourself inside your bedroom until the ache loosened enough for you to rise and greet the life you now had to live without him. You no longer felt the urge to visit his grave anymore, except for his birthday and your anniversary, however, knowing that he wasn’t truly there, but in your heart—and you considered that the ultimate step forward.

You wondered at the odd twist of fate, though, to be tossed by sheer chance into a league of multidimensional Spider-People like yourself, led by a copy of the man whom you’d have sacrificed your own life in exchange for his (and still would without question nor consideration). You saw much of that initially wounded, derisive man in this new Miguel—but instead of ever finding healing and bettering himself, he had seemingly gotten worse. (Or something had made him worse. You were uncertain of which was the case.)

You couldn’t entirely blame him for it. While he hadn’t revealed the details (and was under no obligations to do so whatsoever), you’d gotten enough of the gist that he’d struggled through some horrific circumstances…and had just barely made it out the other side, if your perception of his underlying misery was to be believed.

He softened up somewhat after that raw, quiet conversation in his lab, at least with you. He no longer acted as though he walked on eggshells around you—no longer rigid and on edge when you were remotely close to his proximity. He wasn’t as guarded, either, relaxing just enough to reveal his calmer, quieter nature. Being the leader of the Society was tedious, stressful, endless work, and having to wrangle so many odds and ends ranging from mischievous to volatile would render anyone’s nerves to short fuses. You figured out that he’d whittled himself down to the bone, yet refused to accept any help from the likes of his most valued associates, despite Jess and Peter B.’s prodding and insistence otherwise.

So, since you hadn’t been around long enough to even know where to start making headway in the mountain of anomalous analytics or projection reports with which he had to deal with every day, you opted to try to help him in the few areas where you confidently could.

You coaxed him out to grab meals in the cafeteria when LYLA told you he’d been cooped up in his lab alone for too long, you organized his tools and things when he did happen to be out so he’d have a clean and tidy workspace to come back to, and you continued your accidentally established tradition of bringing him a sweet upon your daily deliveries of leftover baked goods from your shop every evening. He’d started to grumble at you about the lattermost habit, remarking that he had a strict diet that he’d maximized for his metabolism and physical activity, but you’d told him that the treats wouldn’t stay on his physique as busy as he stayed.

“In fact,” you’d argued playfully, “I think it’s been doing wonders for improving your mood. The newbies aren’t running for the hills whenever you walk through the foyer anymore.”

He’d stopped bringing it up after that, didn’t quibble with you about it anymore, and you’d noticed that the corner of his mouth had started to pinch when you’d press the crinkling sack into his not-so-reluctantly awaiting palm. You hoped that it was a restricted smile and not a grimace, like you had feared initially.

(…Had he ever smiled around you? You couldn’t recall a single instance of it happening. You’d have to work on rectifying that.)

You enjoyed learning about the other Spiders, too. Nothing fascinated you more than to delve into deep discussions about the state of their respective universes—the time periods, technology, and history all relative to yours—as well as their personal differences. To all be the same type of hero, you were amazed by how vastly different each and every single one was. All were bound, however, by a common story, punctuated by tragedies that defined every purpose.

You still hadn’t been able to figure out this Miguel, though. You would never intentionally pry into his story, even though he had consented to his bio to be uploaded to the Society’s network for transparency’s sake—you felt that it was something he would tell you personally if it was that important, or if he trusted you enough to be inclined to do so. You were vastly curious about his physiological characteristics, however, so you’d spent an entire afternoon mentally compiling a comparison and contrast between your late husband and what you had gathered about his multidimensional counterpart.

Taller, bulkier, with all the added traits of spider-abilities overwhelmingly evident, but the same features otherwise. Red eyes with perfect vision that seemed extremely sensitive to light (the only explanation for why he kept his lab so damned dark all the time, and also how he could read with perfect clarity from so far away). Fangs and talons that could tear through just about anything. Same frown when concentrating on something, same sullen pout when teased. More soft-spoken, significantly shorter in patience and temper, extremely antisocial…that lattermost fact, at least, remained exactly the same. In so many ways, he was still the person you had known best, even if he wasn’t yours.

You decided soon enough that, despite the rocky start of your acquaintance, that if no one else would get through to him, you’d do your damnedest to try breaking down the walls he’d so meticulously built up around himself. It was the least you could do, by helping to mend another version of him back together again, to repay your husband—the man you’d loved most—for giving you the best years of your comparatively drab and lonely life, even if this Miguel were to fight you tooth and nail every step of the way. He deserved to be safe and sound just like everyone else ever did.

[k1tk4ttt]

Me searching x reader fics after gaining a new fictional crush after watching a movie/serie

[lovesicklovermia]

normalise making a list of character x readers u like to read so you can spin a wheel every night before bed to decide ur bedtime story xx

[that-sounds-stupid]

Why is this man fictional😭I need him so badly

Nonviolent Communication - Part 15

Pairings: Miguel O'Hara x SpideyFemReader Summary: You get sick and then get hit with your period at the same time. Word Count: 15k (most reasonable word count this story has had in months 🤣) Warnings: Sickness; menstruation; Miguel just wants to look after you!!; Short A/N: I'm ready to read the comments on this one, you guys better not disappoint Previous Part Masterlist Music Inspo (You can find the official Spotify playlist for the fanfic here) "Corazón de Poeta" - Jeanette "Sparks" - Coldplay, Acoustic Guitar Revival (guitar version)

Enjoy and thank you for reading! ❤️

Part 15

The moment you wake up, you feel it. The worst thing to wake up to.

A sore throat.

You sit up, blinking a few times as you adjust to the lighting. The sound of rain reaches your ears as it hits the penthouse’s windows. Glancing around, Miguel is nowhere in sight, though the pillow he used last night is still on the floor near you.

You swallow saliva, finding it hard to do so. Yep, you’re definitely sick. You sigh and push the blanket off you, only then realizing it’s been covering you.

Memories of last night come to mind. The power went out just as Miguel and you were going to have dinner, which led to lit candles and flashlights, and music from cassettes while lightning and thunder filled the sky. You eventually moved to the living room, where you continued to listen to music. You showed Miguel new ideas for his place and talked before you fell asleep next to him. And did you offer Miguel your pinky finger?

Staring at the rain, you remember you did and not only that, Miguel accepted it as you gaze into his eyes before you drifted off, too tired to bother with a blanket, which means Miguel covered you at some point after you fell asleep.

For a few seconds, you think about how you’ve slept on Miguel’s living room floor twice now. With him, Miguel. You never imagined such thing but the thought brings a soft smile to your face despite the ache in your throat.

You look around again, wondering where Miguel is before you stand up, your body feeling off, fatigued.

You still have it in you to fold the blanket before you realize you need to wash it considering you’re sick now. You sigh quietly in disbelief. For the first time in a few years, you’re sick. Your thoughts are interrupted by Miguel’s footsteps coming down the stairs, which makes you realize it must be sometime after 6am.

“Hey, good morning,” Miguel says, stepping into the living room, hair damp from his morning shower. Traces of Miguel’s hygiene products, scents you’re all too familiar with these days, immediately reach your nose when he approaches you, already in his suit. It doesn’t take long for Miguel to sense that something is off. “Are you alright?” Miguel asks, immediately taking in your appearance now that you’re awake.

You nod but then shake your head. “My throat hurts. It feels sore,” you reply, wincing slightly as even talking seems to make the ache worse.

Miguel’s eyes soften as he hears your voice for the first time today, taking notice of the way you wince and how your voice sounds different.

“Mierda [shit],” Miguel says gently, taking several steps closer to you. “Sore throat. Do you have a fever?” he asks.

You lift your hand to your face, unable to tell right now. Are you warm because you just woke up, or are you warm because you have a fever? You wonder to yourself, hand on your cheek, trying to figure it out when you suddenly feel fingers pressed to your forehead. They feel cool against your skin, though not cold.

You blink, realizing.

“Tienes fiebre [you have a fever],” Miguel says, his tone being one of concern while the back of his fingers are still pressed softly on your forehead. His fingers are bare despite the fact that his suit is already activated, making the contact skin to skin. “Your face is burning.” Miguel lowers his hand at last, not even thinking about what he just did, concern for you being the only thing present in his mind.

“You shouldn’t be this close to me then,” you say, stepping back. “I might get you sick.”

“Nonsense,” Miguel replies. “I won’t get sick, don’t worry.” Miguel steps forward again until he’s the same distance he was just seconds ago. “I’ll have one of the doctors at HQ check you.”

“That’s not… necessary, but thank you. I”ll be okay,” you reply, touched by Miguel’s offer and his concern nonetheless.

Your response instantly makes Miguel frown. What do you mean you’ll be okay with a sore throat and fever?

“You’re sick,” he says gently, despite his frown.

Holding on to the blanket, you look away from Miguel. You know you’re sick, you can feel the ache in your throat and how your body feels off, but a part of you doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this. A part of you simply wants to take some over the counter medicine and go on about the day, pushing through your symptoms. It’s what you did in the past the few times you were sick before joining the Spider Society, and after Peter’s death. You learned to take care of yourself since then and now, you’re no longer used to the concern or attention from someone.

“Do you want to go to your universe, or do you want to go HQ?” Miguel offers. “One of the doctors can check you, give you medicine.”

Your gaze meets Miguel’s at last. He’s staring at you, intently, waiting for a response. You nod at last. “HQ. Let me put my suit and get ready.”

“No suit,” Miguel says. “It’s raining and you’re sick. I’m driving us there, no swinging to HQ today. So just… put some regular clothes on, okay?” he adds softly. “Go ahead and get ready, I’ll let my team know we’re going.”

“Alright… thank you,” you say, agreeing with Miguel. You have a feeling that if you were to decline both of his options, he’d probably bring a doctor here to the penthouse to get you checked.

You get ready and change into regular clothes before you meet Miguel downstairs. He’s now wearing regular clothes, too, his suit disengaged to blend in, though that’s not his priority. His priority is to get you treated by a doctor and make you feel better.

The two of you leave the penthouse and head down to the car garage. He unlocks the vehicle and is quick to open and hold the door for you before he gets in the driver’s side. Despite feeling sick, you’re still somewhat aware of how strange it is to watch Miguel drive. It’s like you’ve unlocked another side of him.

The drive to HQ is a short one with Miguel knowing shortcuts around the city. You’re soon walking into the building under an umbrella that Miguel holds to shield you from the rain, walking near you as if he’s your bodyguard.

You head straight to the infirmary sector where a doctor is already waiting for you. Thankfully, the paperwork is short and soon, you’re in a room ready to get checked.

Miguel watches the process, standing by the door as the doctor does basic procedures such as getting your throat swapped and blood work.

“Lab results should take a few minutes. I’ll be back then,” the doctor says before they step out of the room.

You turn to Miguel as he walks over to you, a soft look on his face. He’s already making plans.

“Don’t,” you tell him softly.

Miguel raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me… You’re going home, right?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You’re not working today, so you’re going home, yes?”

“You don’t want me here?” you ask softly.

Miguel steps closer, placing a hand on the patient’s bed, a few inches from your body, and looks down at you, his gaze gentle. “I’m not telling you what to do, but you need to rest properly on a bed where you’ll be comfortable, cozy. Not here at HQ.”

You nod. “I know, I was just… I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve been sick,” you admit, feeling fatigue. You turn away and yawn, covering your mouth.

Miguel watches you, hating that you feel unwell. He has little time to think about what you’ve said, about it being a while since you’ve been sick, but a quick thought comes to mind. Have you been sick before joining the Spider Society? The door to the room opens, interrupting his thoughts. Miguel turns back to look, removing his hand from the patient’s bed and stepping back to give you and the doctor some space.

“Blood work looks good and the throat swap is negative. It seems to be a simple cold, but I’ll give you medicine. Would you like a shot as well?”

You nod. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll take care of that, let me just write down the prescriptions I’m giving you - record keeping,” she explains looking up at you and then at Miguel for a second before turning back to their paperwork. They scribble quickly, thinking it’s not strange to see the owner of the building, the boss, with you. Not anymore.

They recall when he was here a year ago, injured. You stayed by his side the whole time and it had been briefly discussed by the other infirmary staff that you had taken care of Mr. O’Hara at his home. Clearly, the two of you are close friends, or something like that.

Now, Mr. O’Hara is here with you for less serious reasons, a cold, to show up for you like you did for him.

They finish up and excuse themselves.

“While you get the shot, I’ll be stepping out. I need to take care of something,” Miguel tells you, both to give you privacy since the shot will likely go on your upper buttock, and also because he needs to talk to Jess about today, maybe even about tomorrow.

“Alright, everything okay?” you ask him.

“Yes, don’t worry. I just need to talk to Jess about something,” Miguel reassures you.

You give him a nod, not probing for more information just as the doctor returns. Miguel gives you a small smile, that being his cue to exit the room. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?” he says softly.

“I’ll be out shortly,” you reply giving him a small, reassuring smile.

With that, Miguel steps out of the room to give you privacy. He calls Jess through his gizmo, standing outside the infirmary room. A second later, she answers.

“Miguel.”

“Jess,” Miguel says. “Morning. It’s very sudden, but I want to ask if it’s possible for you to take care of things around here today?”

“I can. Is everything alright?” Jess asks, watching as Miguel turns away.

“Y/N is sick. It’s only a cold, according to the doctors here at the infirmary, but she has a fever…”

“It’s always good for someone to be around when dealing with a fever. It may change,” Jess tells him, knowing already that Miguel doesn’t want to leave you alone.

“Yes,” Miguel replies, turning back to face her. “I’m going to look after her, make sure it goes down.”

“Let me know if you guys need anything. I’d be more than happy to help.”

“Thank you, Jess,” Miguel responds. “I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll tell Y/N about it. Thank you for today.”

“If you need to, take off tomorrow, too. It might just be a cold, but it can take a toll on the body for days.”

Miguel gives her a nod, relieved that Jess is making such offer so he can look after you. He had already planned for that, if he was honest. “Thank you. I appreciate it, Jess. I hope it doesn’t get worse, but we’ll see. I’ll keep you updated if I do take off tomorrow just to give you a heads up.”

“No need. I’ll know. Just look after her, alright? And tell her I hope she feels better soon. I’ll be sending her a message in a bit but either way.”

“I will,” Miguel replies softly. “I’ll tell her. Thank you again. Do let me know if I’m needed for backup.”

“Alright, take care.”

“You, too,” Miguel says before he ends the call. He gazes down the hallway leading to the infirmary lobby, lowering his arm to the side. Thankfully the floor is empty save for the medical staff, you, and him. No serious injury or someone on the verge of death. He sighs deeply as he remembers the few days he spent on this floor, injured, before he was allowed to go home. It feels like a lifetime since then.

He decides to wait a bit more to give the doctor and you time, so he stands there, just looking around. It’s so silent. He wonders if this is what it was for you, spending so many hours next to him with no one around to talk with. He thinks about you, waiting in the lonely lobby while his injuries were treated that rainy night.

You stuck by his side, like glue. You could’ve easily gone home at some point to rest, asked someone else to take a shift, but no. You stayed by his side every day. Miguel has a suspicion you would’ve stuck by him every second if you had it your way. He believes that especially when he remembers you offering to sleep on his bedroom floor to look after him that first night.

Miguel shakes his head now, still in disbelief. He would never allow such thing. He would’ve shared the bed with you before letting your body lay on the ground while he rested on the mattress. Of course, he didn’t make that offer because it was too personal for either of you back then, but now…

Miguel’s thoughts are interrupted when he hears the door open. He turns and finds the doctor wishing you a speedy recovery before she exits.

“I’ve given Miss Y/N medications and the shot, she’ll be feeling better soon but in any case that she doesn’t, bring her back in and we can give her other treatments,” she tells him. “Also, she’ll need to rest.”

“I understand, I’ll make sure she does. Thank you,” Miguel responds with a nod.

“You guys take care.”

Miguel nods again before he knocks on the door, entering when he hears your voice. He finds you halfway across the room, heading for the door already. You’re carrying a prescription bag just given to you by the doctor.

“You okay?” he asks softly, holding the door open for you as you keep walking.

“Yeah, I got the shot. It’s kind of hurting a bit,” you admit, feeling it sting as you walk. “But hopefully that means I’ll feel better shortly. Along with the medicine.”

“I hope so,” Miguel says genuinely as you walk out, falling in step with you. The two of you walk down the hallway, side by side, towards the lobby. “We can go home now. I’ll cook you some breakfast, something warm to ease the ache in your throat. And you’ll need to rest so you can get better, let the medicine do its job - let your body recover.”

“Rest? I don’t think I need to.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Miguel replies gazing at you, a hint of a smile on his face, wondering if you’ll be stubborn about this.

“She told me the same thing,” you say with a sigh as you both enter the lobby and head for the elevators.

“You’re not going to ignore doctor’s orders, right?” he asks.

“I guess not… What are you cooking?” you ask softly.

Miguel smirks softly to himself as he presses the button, the doors opening in seconds. He gestures for you to enter before he steps in.

“Don’t worry about it. You just rest and get better.”

The doors close and the lobby is once again empty, or so it seems. A nurse and the doctor turn to look at each other after listening to the little snippet of conversation, the interaction between the boss and you catching their attention. They turn to the elevator again, not recognizing the man that just walked by. He’s a different man from the one they met many years ago, one that was distant and stoic.

“To love and be loved, is to be changed,” the doctor mutters before turning to look at a medical chart, smiling to themselves.

-♥︎-

Miguel and you leave HQ, and drive home. You said you didn’t need to rest but the entire drive back to the penthouse suggested otherwise to Miguel. He glanced at you a few times while driving, finding your sleepy gaze each time as you stared out the window.

Upon arriving home, he ushers you upstairs to change into more comfortable clothing, which you obey without question before heading back downstairs, feeling tired.

You find Miguel moving around the kitchen. Pans are already on the stove. He’s changed into sweatpants and a dark t-shirt now that you’re both home, ready to look after you for the day, tomorrow, or however long it takes for you to be back to your healthy self.

You sit down on the counter and grab the medicine bag, taking everything out so you can read the directions and side effects, seeing that you’ll need to eat before taking some of them.

“Breakfast will be ready in just a few minutes, okay? Do you want coffee?” Miguel asks softly, walking up to the counter and standing across from you now.

“I can make-”

“Sit tight,” he says firmly but gently. “I’ll make it.”

“It…” you finish but Miguel has already turned around. A few seconds later, he starts on the coffee. He moves quickly around the kitchen, his moves careful yet determined.

Just as he’s placed two cups on the counter, he turns to the stove and checks on the food.

You lean back and close your eyes, feeling drowsy. You wrap your arms around yourself, glad you’re in cozy pajamas and wearing one of your favorite sweatshirts, the one Miguel gifted you for Christmas. You could actually go to sleep now without eating but knowing Miguel, he’ll probably refuse to let you sleep on an empty stomach and besides, you don’t want to decline his kind gesture when he’s already halfway done. So, you sit back and wait, listening to Miguel’s movement with your eyes closed. It brings you comfort and a sense of home, something not unusual to you in Miguel's presence.

“Café [coffee],” Miguel says gently a few minutes later, careful not to startle you.

Upon opening your eyes, you find Miguel in front of you. You glance down and find a mug of fresh coffee on the counter, steam coming from it. You can already imagine how great the coffee will feel against your throat, soothing the ache.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the medicine bottles. He picks them up and reads the labels once you gesture that you don’t. He nods to himself, noticing that they’ll likely make you feel drowsy and dizzy on top of the fact that two of them need to be taken with food. He also memorizes how many times a day you’ll need certain medicines and the hours between to make sure you don’t miss them.

As he reads, you reach for the mug and softly blow on it to cool it off before grabbing the spoon and stirring it. You yawn just as Miguel places the medicine back on the counter, pretty much all the directions locked into his head. He’s going to make sure that you’re taking the medicines the way they need to be taken, his priority is for you to feel better soon.

“Let me get you breakfast,” he says turning away and walking to the stove. He fixes your plate first, doing it with affection and hope that you’ll find it suitable despite your sickness. He grabs the appropriate utensil before walking over to you, plate in hand, and gently places it in front of you, his gaze soft. “Please eat, it’ll help you,” Miguel says as he puts the utensil on the side of your plate.

With a sleepy smile, you nod. “I am, thank you, Miguel,” you say softly, your tone tired. You pick up the utensil, eating because he’s asked you to. You try to cool off the food a bit before taking a bite. Of course, your throat hurts even to eat but it doesn’t take away from Miguel’s amazing cooking, and you feel like it even awakens your appetite. “So good, as always,” you comment before taking another bite.

Miguel smiles, watching you eat and enjoy the food despite being sick. His chest flutters at the sight of your sleepy smile, unable to not find it endearing.

“Are you not eating?” you ask softly, an eyebrow raised.

Miguel blinks, distracted. He nods. “Si [yes], yes, of course. I was just… Making sure your breakfast is okay.” He turns away to fix himself a plate before joining your side. He glances at you every few seconds, wanting to make sure that you’re alright and not in need of something, but you eat silently and peacefully, at least as much as you can while being sick.

You both finish eating and continue to drink your coffees. The rain has not let up since yesterday and so, you both hear the soft pit pat on the penthouse’s windows, filling the silence in a very cozy way. A few minutes later, Miguel watches as you place your empty mug down. He downs the last bit of his and stands up, picking up both mugs to take to the sink.

You watch as he retrieves a glass and fills it with water before he approaches you. He places it on the counter gently and then places the medicines in front of you. “For your medicine. Then, rest.”

You thank him for the water and take your medicine, hoping the ache in your throat will disappear soon. “Hopefully I feel better soon.”

“You’ll feel better soon,” Miguel says, reassuringly. “You just need some rest. Why don’t you go to bed?”

You shake your head. “I’m not sleepy,” you say even though your eyes say another story.

Miguel tilts his head to the side. “Really?”

You nod but end up yawning at the same time, causing Miguel to raise an eyebrow. You give him a sheepish look. “Okay, maybe I am…” you glance at the medicine bottles, thinking about laying down and Miguel heading back to HQ. “Be careful, okay?”

Miguel blinks in confusion. “Be careful? Of what?”

“If you go out on missions. Just - be careful, okay? If you need backup, call for backup. Please.”

He shakes his head, brows knitted as he stares directly at you. He waits until you look back at him to respond. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re not…?” you reply, looking up at him, now confused.

“Nowhere. I’m staying here. At the penthouse. With you…”

“Oh.” You look down at the glass with water and take another sip. “I thought…” you trail off, not finishing your sentence. You thought Miguel would head back to HQ after breakfast to work, especially since it’s a work day. You look up at him again, finding a gentle and reassuring look on his face.

“No, I’m staying here… I’m looking after you. I’m not leaving you alone,” Miguel responds softly.

Holding his gaze, you nod, for some reason feeling relieved you won’t be alone, yet you don't want to keep Miguel away from work. “Thank you… Are you sure though? I’ll probably just sleep, so you probably don’t want to waste-” you start, wanting to let Miguel know he doesn’t have to stay at the penthouse all day, that he can go on about his day.

“Por favor [please],” Miguel says, lowering himself on the counter, resting his arms on it to be eye level with you. “Don’t say waste. You’re starting to sound like the old me,” he says gently, internally feeling frustration that you’re thinking like that, as if you don’t matter to him. “The one that didn’t want you to spend an entire day in the infirmary room with me a year ago.”

“That was different, though, you were injured. Seriously injured… Close to death. I’m just sick with a common cold.”

“Thankfully,” Miguel states. “It’s just a common cold and nothing more serious, but that doesn’t make it less important. It doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you all alone here to fend for yourself. I wish to do this, okay?” Miguel pauses and clears his throat quietly. “You’re my best friend.” Miguel's gaze is unwavering, leaving no room for questioning nor arguing with him. He's going to stay home and look after you today, tomorrow, or however long, until you're well. Period. “Déjate cuidar [let yourself be taken care of],” he adds gently.

You hum softly. “I wanted to say that to you a year ago.”

Miguel grins, eyes softening. He knows a year ago your friendship was still unofficial, neither of you had addressed it, so you held on to many of your thoughts, keeping them to yourself with the purpose of not pushing his boundaries. It’s a year later and things are different, at last. Progress has been made and Miguel can say what you are to him without the fear of what it means. He can now say those words you weren’t able to say to him a year ago. “Then, you understand… I ask the same of you now. Let me look after you. Please. It’s what friends do.”

Hearing Miguel’s soft tone and words, not missing the fact that he’s used the same words you said to him a year ago, you nod after several seconds of silence. “I understand,” you say, nodding. You know that feeling too well, of wanting to take care of someone. It was exactly how you felt with him when he was hurt. You just wanted to look after him and make him feel better as best as you could. You wanted him to be back to full health because you hated seeing him hurting and unwell. “Okay,” you add softly, accepting.

“Good,” Miguel replies, happy and relieved you’re not being stubborn about him staying at the penthouse to look after you. “I’ll stay here, if you need anything - anything at all - please let me know, okay?”

“I will, thank you, Miguel.”

“Always,” Miguel says, a hint of a smile on his face.

You give him a smile and nod, really accepting the fact that Miguel is going to look after you today. You understand where he’s coming from but a part of you feels off. It’s not because of Miguel, of course, but rather because it’s been a long time since someone has looked after you when you get sick. You’ve grown used to taking care of yourself ever since Peter died. Now, Miguel wishes to do so, and a part of you is trying to remember what that feels like - trying to accept that it’s something normal for you to experience, to receive, as well. You sigh softly as you feel drowsiness, thinking it’ll take you a moment to get used to receiving this kind of care after so long. You yawn again, covering your mouth. You already felt fatigued after the doctor’s appointment, and now the food and medicines seem to be taking effect, adding to it. “I’ll go upstairs and rest a bit,” you tell Miguel, your voice showing signs of sleepiness.

“You need all the rest you can get,” Miguel says nodding. “I’ll be here, go on and take a nap.”

You finally stand up and give him a nod, thanking him for breakfast before you head upstairs to your room. You quickly find yourself in bed, under the sheets. Snuggling into the pillows and covers, you can definitely feel the medicines kicking in.

Your eyes flutter and you feel yourself slowly falling into a slumber when you hear footsteps - Miguel’s footsteps. You raise your head to see just as he walks in.

“Shh, rest. Duerme [sleep],” he says softly, carrying a blanket.

You lay back down as he comes to a halt next to the bed, your brain trying to process what he’s up to. He gently throws the blanket over you, tucking it in around your feet and legs. The rest, he carefully pulls up your body, just below your shoulders.

“There,” Miguel says quietly, watching your sleepy face, one he’s memorized by now but still beholds with keenness.

You hum softly, half-asleep and half-awake, his scent reaching your drowsy senses. “It smells like you,” you say sleepily, a soft smile grazing your lips, content and comforted by Miguel’s warm and cozy scent.

Miguel grins softly, gazing down at you. He can’t deny that he’s equally surprised and delighted by the fact that you even recognize his scent on the blanket. “Sometimes I sleep with it, so I guess it makes sense it smells like me,” he shares, his fingers still holding on to the edge of the blanket.

“I like it,” you say before you blindly reach for the blanket, your fingers curling around warmness before you tug it towards your face, wanting the scent closer.

Miguel’s brows raise in surprise when he feels your fingers wrap around his, tugging them, and the blanket, closer to you. “You like it?” he repeats gently, something in his chest stirring as he keeps gazing at you, slowly drifting off.

You nod sleepily. “I love it,” you whisper with a soft sigh, still holding on to Miguel’s fingers and the blanket before you let go, unaware that you were even holding them or of what you’ve admitted in your sleepy state.

Miguel exhales softly when you release his fingers, feeling the loss of touch immediately. Your words echo in his mind. You love his scent. A few seconds later, Miguel notices that you’ve surrendered to sleep, the sound of your even breathing reaches his ears in the quietness of your bedroom. “I’m happy you… love it,” he whispers back even though you’re asleep now. He lets go of the blanket, his knuckles brushing under your chin softly, tenderly, before he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger for about four seconds, the gesture so instinctive - so right - Miguel doesn’t realize nor questions it in the moment.

He lets go and steps back, watching for a few minutes as you sleep, listening to your soft breathing. He tells himself it’s time to step out of the bedroom and let you rest, so he does. He leaves your door halfway open and returns downstairs to the kitchen to clean up after breakfast.

Once he’s done, he works from home, checking on a few things that he can do from the penthouse to help the team but unlike previous years, Miguel doesn’t drown himself in work. He doesn’t feel the need nor want to check everything, to ensure that everyone is doing what they’re supposed to.

His focus is you, everything else is secondary.

He checks on you every thirty minutes to make sure you’re okay and resting well. Each time, he checks you to make sure the fever has gone down, pressing the back of his hand to your face, keeping track of how warm your face feels. He also fixes the blanket around you when he notices it’s shifted in your sleep, wanting you to feel the most comfort possible. Miguel watches your face, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort in your sleep before he exits the bedroom, his steps deliberately gentle to avoid disturbing you each time he’s in the bedroom.

On the two-hour mark, Miguel is pleased when he touches your face once again and finds a normal warmth, no longer burning hot.

“Normal,” he whispers to himself with a relieved smile.

Despite your fever going down, Miguel continues to check on you throughout the day. He cooks lunch and gently wakes you up at midday so you’ll eat and take your medicine again, making sure you hydrate yourself, too.

After lunch with some food and medicine in your system, you decide to stick around in the living room, not wanting to be in bed all day despite Miguel’s gentle comment about you resting more comfortably on a bed rather than the couch.

You fight off sleep as much as you can but you eventually doze off once again after replying to the spider gang chat, who sent you messages stating they hope you feel better soon, even asking if they can send you something.

Upon seeing you fall asleep again, Miguel brings his blanket downstairs and once again, covers you with it before settling on the couch, across from you, to keep watch.

He continues to work from a tablet, spending some time reading about mission updates and replying to questions from spider members, though he still doesn’t spend much time with work related tasks. He reads for a while, too, but even that doesn’t hold his attention. His eyes find their way to you more than he realizes, as if he finds the sight of you much more intriguing than any word in his book.

At some point, Miguel gets up to make dinner while you sleep and as always, he moves around the kitchen with ease. He’s a man that knows his way around such space, the kind that makes cooking look easy as he gathers everything he needs on one counter from the fridge and pantry. He has two goals in mind with the meal he’s cooking for dinner. One, to give you some comfort and make you feel better.

And two, to please you with his food. For months, he’s found happiness seeing that look you always get of pure delight when you take a bite of the food he makes. It used to be twice a month with the weekend dinners at each other’s place but ever since you moved in, temporarily, Miguel has the opportunity to cook more often for the two of you.

He always looks forward to it, wondering what your thoughts will be when he cooks something he hasn’t before. Either way, whether it’s something new or something he’s cooked before, Miguel always cooks with love.

He peels and dices vegetables, each one with precision. He washes the rice and keeps an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t burn once he pours it on a pan before applying some oil. Despite his concentration with the food, Miguel takes a few seconds to check on you, finding you still passed out on the couch, the TV playing quietly in the background.

Some time later, you wake up. You blink the sleep away and sit up slowly, feeling disoriented for a few seconds before you realize you’re in the living room. You breathe in, only to find your nose stuffy, which immediately dampens your mood. You sigh and look for Miguel, finding his usual seat empty. His tablet is on the spot next to his seat along with the TV’s remote, left alone. Glancing around, you hear subtle noise from the kitchen, giving you an idea of where Miguel is. You look down at yourself, finding his blanket over you once again before you tug it close to your face. It’s so soft and you can smell just a bit of his scent on it, unable to truly smell it due to your stuffy nose. Despite thinking about Miguel’s scent, you don’t remember your confession from earlier.

You stand up from the couch and stretch at last. This has to be the most you’ve slept in a while during the day but you feel rested. You follow the scent of food to the kitchen where you find Miguel stirring a spoon in a medium size pot. He’s still in his sweatpants and t-shirt, gizmo on his wrist. He turns suddenly, as if sensing you.

“You’re awake,” he says softly, a smile immediately forming on his face, happy to see you up. “How do you feel?” Miguel asks walking around the counter to meet you, he pats the chair you always sit on, silently gesturing for you to take a seat.

“Better. I can still feel a light ache in my throat but it’s not as bad as it was this morning. It’s doable,” you reply as you move to the chair, Miguel pulling it out for you.

“Is your nose stuffy?” he asks, with a slightly raised eyebrow, making note of how your voice sounds now.

“And my nose is stuffy, yes,” you reply with a sigh.

“Hopefully dinner will help with the discomfort of your throat. It might help a bit with the stuffiness, too. I have something that’ll help for sure, if you’re open to it - after dinner,” Miguel says with a frown on his face, wishing you hadn’t grown sick.

“I’ll accept anything if I can breath properly again,” you state, now sitting.

“I feel that,” he replies leaning on the counter, eye level. His body is pretty close, seemingly not worried about catching a cold from you. He observes your face, his gaze landing on your chin. He suddenly remembers what happened earlier, realizing he brushed his knuckles against your skin, and how he then held your chin for a few seconds. He clears his throat. “Let me check the food, so you can go ahead and eat. I hope you like it,” he says softly, pushing himself off the counter. He flexes his hand, the same one he caressed you with earlier, having the sensation on his skin still.

“What did you cook?” you ask softly, sniffling.

Miguel smiles a bit at the sound of you sniffling before he thinks of something. Instead of walking back to the stove, he walks to the laundry room. “Hold on, just a sec.” You watch as he disappears into the laundry room, before he steps out several seconds later, carrying a small box. He approaches you, reaching you in no time, and offers it to you, which you realize is a tissue box. “For your nose,” Miguel says. “So you don’t hurt your skin with something else, like a napkin, if you need to blow your nose.”

You accept the box with a soft smile and thank him.

“Always,” Miguel says with a little nod and gentle smile. “Now, let me get you some food. I feel certain it’s going to make you feel good. My mom made it for Gabriel and I when we got sick sometimes. It’s caldito de pollo [chicken soup] with vegetables,” he says. “I made some rice, too.”

You lean back on the chair.

“That sounds really good. I think I’m actually hungry.”

“You think?” Miguel asks, amused as he grabs some bowls.

“Okay, I am hungry,” you say, fixing it. You give him a soft smile. “I think I’m still drowsy from the medicine.”

“That’s to be expected. The dosage on one of them is pretty high. If I remember correctly, it’s the same one you have to do double the dosage for bedtime,” Miguel replies as he recalls the instructions. “But maybe you’re also sleepy from hunger. I noticed you didn’t eat much for lunch. You haven’t had much fluids either.” Remembering that, Miguel stirs the pot before he gets you a glass with water. He takes it to you and of course, you catch the message.

Hydrate.

You oblige and drink, making Miguel satisfied. He turns back around and fixes a plate with food for you.

“So Gabriel and you used to eat this sometimes when you were sick?”

“Yes, we always loved eating this. It gave some relief to our sore throats. And well, we both enjoyed it overall, so it was also a comfort food.”

You nod, thinking about a young Miguel and Gabriel, sick and eating caldito de pollo as children. The image painted in your head brings a smile to your face.

Miguel finishes fixing you a plate and his own, so he brings both to the counter, placing yours in front of you with delicacy. He’s quick to get utensils and napkins along with some warm corn tortillas, and refilling your glass with water before he sits next to you.

“Eat,” he says gazing at you. “It’ll help you recover sooner.”

You nod with a small smile before you begin eating, the warmth of the liquid soothing your throat immediately. It’s like easing an itch. You sigh softly in content before you eat more, the flavors hitting you all at once in the most delightful way possible thanks to the rice and vegetables.

“That feels and tastes amazing,” you mumble as you bring another spoonful to your mouth.

Miguel smiles, feeling pleased with himself. You didn’t eat much during lunch but now, he’s hopeful you’ll eat the serving he gave you and that you’ll feel much more nourished.

“Tortilla?” Miguel offers as he grabs one from the tortillero [container used to keep tortillas warm]. “Gabriel and I used to roll it like this before dipping it in the caldo [broth], and then ate it.” Miguel demonstrates as he lays the tortilla flat on his palm, looking smaller than it actually is against his large hand before he rolls it outwardly. The tortilla is now a thin roll. He dips it in his caldo before taking a bite from it, clearly enjoying it.

You grab one yourself, craving it. “I’m very familiar with that,” you say with a little smile as you do the same, dipping it into the warm liquid. “Childhood memories,” you say before taking a bite.

Miguel smiles once more at the sight, watching you eagerly eat. There’s definitely a difference now. You’ve got more of an appetite than you did earlier and your tone sounds less tired.

“Did I miss out on something today? Missions?” you ask, looking at Miguel.

Surprisingly, the man that once used to bury himself in work with data reports on anomalies and missions, the fate of the multiverse, playfully rolls his eyes. “No work talk on a sick day. You worry about resting, and that’s all… but I will say, the spiderlings went on a mission today and their team flow was amazing, well planned out,” Miguel says, a hint of admiration and pride in his voice, like that of a proud mentor, or parent.

You smile. “They’ve grown and learned, so much. Sometimes I forget they’re growing up, but it’s happening.” You look down at your plate. Time is passing, whether you realize it or not. The years have gone by, and maybe it was the loss and grief, but when you lost Peter, it never occurred to you that the years would go by so quickly after his death. You almost feel that a part of you doubted you’d even make it this far without him by your side, but you did.

You have.

Despite the tearful days and nights you spent alone grieving, you made it. You silently hope you’ve made Peter proud, wherever he’s now.

“I forget, too,” Miguel says after a few moments, thinking. “It’s strange. They’re still these kids but much more mature, more experienced in their roles than when I first met them. I’m - proud of them.”

“I am, too,” you reply softly, putting your thoughts on Peter to rest. “Though sometimes…”

Miguel chuckles. “Sometimes they say the craziest things, and it reminds you they’re still kids.”

“Right? They keep us on our toes, for sure,” you say chuckling, feeling a sudden discomfort in your stomach, a cramp. The sudden shot of discomfort reminds you that you’ll be having your period soon.

“Trust me, I know,” Miguel replies, still smiling and talking about the spiderlings.

You both chuckle at that and keep eating, with you deciding to ignore the thought of your period. You ask Miguel what he’s been up to all day and he tells you about it, how he’s worked on some things regarding the society, read, and other miscellaneous things. Of course, he mentions checking up on you, accidentally informing you of how often he did it. You find the fact endearing, that he checked on you every thirty minutes.

Eventually, you both finish eating. You feel better than you have all day, so much that you feel like taking a shower. You offer to help Miguel clean up but of course, he politely declines, telling you to go and rest, and then to go shower once you mention wanting to do that.

After your shower, you come back downstairs, planning to just hang out in the living room. After sleeping for the majority of the day, you don’t feel like being in bed any more. You find Miguel fixing something in his bookcase before he turns, glad to see you again. He takes in your appearance and sees you seem to feel better. You sniffle as you approach the couch, which reminds him about the thing he said he’d give you for your stuffy nose, but before he heads to get it, he notices your little pout when you look at the couch.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, walking over to you, standing just a few inches away.

You look up, surprised he noticed you pouting over the fact that his blanket is gone from where you left it. “I… Nothing,” you say softly, causing Miguel’s head to tilt to the side, thinking. It takes him a few seconds before he realizes. The blanket, which he threw in the wash along with yours from earlier.

“Go ahead and lie down, rest. I’ll be right back,” he says gently, itching to place his hand on your shoulder and give you a soft squeeze to reassure you, to comfort you. Once he sees you lay down, he heads upstairs, a plan in action.

He collects what he needs and heads back downstairs, walking through the living room before you even notice him entering the kitchen and dining area of the penthouse. Silently, you wonder what he’s up to. You try to into the kitchen from the couch, curious. He appears a few seconds later, your face softening at the sight.

There’s Miguel, a 6’9” tall man, walking towards you with a blanket draped over his shoulder and on the other one, what seems to be a sweatshirt. On his hand, there’s a saucer plate with a cup on top, steam rising from it. And in the other, a familiar small blue and green tub. He walks towards you, with purpose, a man on a mission.

He reaches you in no time with his long strides and begins to work, placing the saucer and cup on the coffee table, along with the small container before turning to you.

“Miguel?” you say, gazing up at him from the couch.

“Yes?” he responds as he unfolds the blanket.

You don’t even know what to say as he spreads the blanket over your body. You simply gaze at him with wide eyes and awe as you watch him towering over you while he tucks the blanket around your feet and legs once more, leaving it loose above your knees and pulling it up to your tummy.

The sight stirs something in you, something stronger than endearment and appreciation that grows stronger as Miguel carries on with his pampering.

“Is your nose still stuffy?” he asks and for a moment, you don’t even comprehend his question, still awestruck.

“Ye-yes,” you stutter softly, sniffling once more.

Miguel nods and grabs the small blue and green container from the coffee table before he gets down on his knees, next to you. He’s now more eye level with you, though he still towers over you easily. He opens the tub, a familiar scent hitting his nostrils right away.

“Put some on your chest and rub it in gently,” he instructs softly.

You nod and pick some up from the tub once he holds it out to you. You slip your hand under your top and do as he said, pushing past your undergarment to apply it properly. Once done, Miguel nods.

“Good. It also helps putting some on your back,” he says gently, still holding it out for you.

You nod, knowing that, too. You pick up more and lean forward, reaching behind you and under your top once more. You apply the product as best as possible, it being a bit of a struggle with your undergarment, which Miguel notices.

He looks down at the tub and then back up at you. “Do you need help?” he asks quietly, making you pause.

Shaking your head, you reply. “Thank you but it’s alright, I got it.” You lie. You’re struggling but you’re not about to accept Miguel’s help with something so… Personal. Intimate. Especially when it involves Miguel and physical contact.

For a moment, Miguel wonders if you’re simply uncomfortable with the idea of him, as a man, touching you, a woman. He wonders if he’s pushing boundaries just by merely offering.

You stare at him, noticing the look on his face. He’s questioning his offer. You frown and regret your words instantly, thinking that you might have made Miguel feel rejected.

“It involves physical contact,” you say softly. “I don’t want to push your boundaries, Miguel.”

He glances up at you, listening to your words before he nods. He gives you a reassuring smile, feeling relieved. You’re not rejecting his offer, his gesture, for the reasons he was thinking. You’re as always, looking out to respect him and his boundaries.

“Even when you’re sick, nose stuffy and feeling fatigued, you’re still so considerate… so sweet, you know that?” Miguel says staring right into your eyes, without fear or embarrassment from stating those words. “I don’t mind, at all,” he continues as he looks at the container and collects some of the ointment with his fingers. “If you allow me, I’ll help you.”

You smile and facepalm, chuckling. It’s been so long since someone has looked after you like this. The last person was Peter, of course. You used to look after each other when the other got sick, just like Miguel has done for you today. Still smiling, you nod, accepting his help. You remind yourself to accepting the fact that Miguel is looking after you, that this is normal. That friends look after each other.

“Lean forward for me, please,” Miguel says, giving you a smile back.

You do so and lift your top slightly, just enough to let him slip his hand underneath it. “My - I’m wearing my-” you start, trying to tell him you’re wearing an undergarment to support your chest.

“I know,” Miguel says gently. “I could tell you were struggling because of it. Is it okay if I shift it slightly?” he asks carefully before he even makes a move, being a gentleman as always.

“… Yes, that’s alright,” you reply softly.

Miguel nods. “I’m going to slide my hand under your top now,” he says, letting you know what he’s doing as a way to avoid making you uncomfortable, and aware of his actions. As soon as he slips his hand under your shirt, your warmth radiates off your skin, greeting his own.

You stare right ahead, sensing the warmth from his hand even though he hasn’t even touched you yet. You wait as he moves his hand further up.

“I’m going to apply it now,” Miguel says softly, waiting to see your reaction. Once you nod, he nods back. He presses his fingers to your bare flesh, a second later, he begins to rub the ointment onto your soft skin. His fingers move gently but efficiently, making sure he’s applying the product appropriately so it does what it’s supposed to do.

Your eyes move to your lap as you feel Miguel’s fingers on you. They’re warm, but you’re not surprised. The man always seems to be warm, so it’s not unusual. What’s unusual is his actual touch. From pinky hugs to him touching your forehead and now your back, this is a lot of progress on Miguel’s end. It’s a lot for one day and yet, he’s doing it.

Then, there’s your own progress, you suppose. You haven’t had someone look after you in a long time, haven’t had someone touch your bare skin like this. You try to remember the last time someone, Peter, touched your back when you were sick like this. You find that you can’t remember it. It’s been that long.

Miguel rubs his fingers gently over your skin, unable to ignore how soft your skin feels. “I’m going to move your underwear a side. Is that okay?” he asks again, withdrawing his hand to grab more of the ointment.

“Yes, that’s okay,” you reply softly, returning your attention to the moment.

With permission, Miguel slips his hand once again under your top. He shifts the undergarment aside, gently and respectfully, before pressing his fingers to your skin again. With more space now, he moves his fingers more freely, rubbing in the ointment until he feels it’s been applied properly.

Neither of you truly notice that his fingers have gone still against your skin once he’s done. His fingers remain there, pressed to your soft skin, your warmth marrying his.

It’s seconds later that Miguel realizes, leading him to withdraw his hand in a way that would seem hesitant to anyone watching. He exhales softly and collects more ointment, just a little, not as much as before while you both silently miss the touch and warmth from each other, like the moon misses its stars on a starless night sky.

“And then, for the stuffy nose,” Miguel says, gaining your attention. “Just a little right here.” With you facing him, he reaches with his index finger and gently rubs the ointment on your nose. “It’ll help you breathe a little better,” he whispers, staring at your nose to be precise with the application. “There.” He slowly lowers his hand and meets your gaze. You seem surprise, so Miguel gives you a small and sweet smile. “We need to cover these arms,” he says, pointing at them. “The AC has been turning on, you’ll get cold. Here, you can put this on if you’d like.” Miguel tugs at the cloth still draped over his shoulder. A sweatshirt.

Wordlessly, you accept it. You recognize it as his, Miguel’s. Sometimes he wears it around the penthouse in the evening. You remember him wearing it yesterday, which means it’ll smell like him. You put it on, careful not to rub off the ointment from your nose. The sleeves are a bit long for you but you don’t mind, if anything, that makes it feel even more cozy. You sniffle quietly, noticing how warm and soft it is, and despite the ointment’s fragrance on your nose, you still catch Miguel’s scent on it. You smile as you fix it around your waist before Miguel pulls the blanket higher up your body.

“Thank you,” you say softly, gazing at Miguel who is still on his knees next to you.

He’s still smiling, giving you that sweet and gentle smile, even when he reaches behind him. He offers you the saucer plate with the cup.

“I made you a tea, it’s supposed to help with colds,” he says while you accept it. “Be careful not to burn yourself.”

You take a small drink, the flavor settling well with you and rushing soothingly down your throat and chest.

“Thank you, Miguel. That's really soothing and it tastes great.”

Seeing your smile, Miguel continues to smile back. “Me allegra [I’m happy], I'm glad you like it. Are you comfortable?”

You begin to nod but Miguel gets up. “I should get you a pillow. Hold on.”

“Wait, that's not-” you start but Miguel is already up the stairs. A few seconds later, you hear his approaching footsteps.

“Lean forward, please,” he says gently, so you do. Miguel slides the pillow behind you, fixing it so it'll be positioned just right for your head to rest on. “There.” He steps back and looks at you, trying to think if he’s forgetting something, or if there’s anything else he can do to make you feel better and comfortable.

“I… Thank you, Miguel,” you say, looking up at him, holding your tea. You briefly notice that he didn’t bring a pillow from your bedroom, but one of his own since the pillowcase is grey, just like his bedding set.

Miguel smiles softly at you and nods. “Always,” he says softly. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

You nod once more, giving him a smile. “I will, thank you. You’ve done so much… Thank you, truly.”

Miguel crouches, grabbing the ointment container and closing it. “I’m looking out for you, just the way you looked after me,” he says, turning to look at you. “I don’t like seeing you like this, you know. So rest properly, so you’ll be back to your usual self. Please.”

“I will… I am,” you reply, sounding like you’re making him a promise.

“Good, thank you,” he says, as if you’re doing him a great favor by resting and getting better.

“You should rest, too.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you’ve been - looking after me all day. You’re probably tired, too.”

“I’m good,” Miguel reassures you. “Not tired at all. Promise.”

“Alright… will you at least sit down?”

Miguel smirks softly. “That I can do,” he says before he settles on the couch across from you once more. “TV?”

You nod. “Yes, please.”

With a soft smile, Miguel asks what you want to watch before you both decide on something, settling for a movie. You spend the rest of the evening in the living room together, Miguel watching over you like a loyal knight to his queen, both when you’re awake and when you doze off due to the medicines’ effects.

He makes sure you have everything you need and even notices when your face shows signs of discomfort, your hand pressed to your tummy.

“Is your stomach hurting?” Miguel asks, worried that your cold is turning into something else.

Noticing his concern, you ease his worries by telling him the truth. “It’s my period. It’s coming up soon, probably a few days. Or even tomorrow,” you say, trying to remember what day it is. With running into Harry and then your lunch with him, and now sick, you can’t even remember. “It’s cramps. They’re not bad, thankfully.”

Miguel almost scoffs. They’re not “bad” and yet, your face shows clear discomfort. “I can make you another tea - canelita.”

“No, no, it’s alright. I’ll just take some medicine in a bit,” you reassure him before you ask him a question about the movie, distracting him from the topic for the rest of the night, or so you think.

-♥︎-

The next morning you wake up without an alarm. Miguel and you decided last night to take off today again, for your sake, and yet, you’ve waken up just past 7:30 by the need to use the bathroom.

There, you’re met with the lovely (not) news that your period has begun.

“Yay,” you say, grumpily. “Sick and now on my period.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in bed with brushed teeth and different clothes on. You fall asleep again for some time. Only waking up when you hear Miguel’s gentle voice, coaxing you from your sleep.

You blink softly, your gaze finding his warm gaze and sweet face.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers, gazing back at you. He notices you look better today, back to yourself.

“Better,” you reply in a whisper, eyes fluttering for a few seconds to blink the sleep away.

“I’m relieved to hear that,” he says, crouching next to the bed. “How are you feeling… your period?” he asks softly, worried you’re feeling unwell from it. Last night you may have succeeded in changing the topic but not in erasing the worry and thought from Miguel’s mind. It reminded him of the first time he went to your apartment, how unwell you were. You haven’t missed any days at HQ because of your period since then, he knows that. Ever since that time, you’ve added more self-care steps to your period routine but Miguel hasn’t forgotten how unwell you were.

Over the months, he’s silently, and discreetly, made sure you don’t push yourself too much when he guesses you’re on your period. Thankfully, the new things you’ve been doing has helped you a lot, which include drinking canelita ever since he made it for you the first time. Either way, Miguel still tries his best to figure out if you’re pushing yourself too much because he worries about you.

“You don’t have to tell me… I just - you’re okay?” Miguel adds.

“Yes, I- I started today. I’m feeling alright right now. No cramps, or headaches,” you share, feeling comfortable to talk about your period with Miguel.

He seems relieved to hear that. “Good, I’m glad.” He sighs softly. “I bought you medicine either way, if you’re interested.”

You sit up slowly, fixing the covers. His blanket is sprawled over your bed and you’re still wearing the sweatshirt, the one he gave you last night. “You did? When?” you say, shifting slightly and patting the edge of the mattress, offering Miguel a seat.

He stands up and sits, keeping some distance to avoid disrupting how comfortable you look on the bed right now. “After you went to sleep last night, I ordered some. I got it delivered this morning,” he replies. “I figured I could help and offer you another option just in case what you’re taking now is not working. Plus, I remembered that medicine from this universe might be more effective than what you’re taking from your universe.”

“You think so?” you ask, looking hopeful.

Miguel smiles, his gaze softening because of your face. “I think so. Lyla has done some research and comparisons. Medicines are more effective in some universes than others, from prescriptions for colds to menstruation pain, even birth control pills. Apparently this universe is one of them, so this menstruation medicine might be better than yours.” Miguel pulls out a box from his pocket and offers it to you, the package sealed. “So, if you want, try this out. See if it works better. If it does, I can buy it, or if you’d prefer, I can have the infirmary supply it to you, whatever you wish to do. If you’d like to try another prescription in the future, just let me know, too, and we can look for an alternative,” Miguel offers as he watches you look at the box with hope.

“I’m going to give it a try if the need arises, thank you,” you tell him softly, looking up at him with a smile. “If it does, I’ll definitely be asking you or the infirmary to supply it to me. I’ve been trying new ones but they seem to stop being efficient after some time, so I’m hopeful about this one. Thank you so much, Miguel.” You gaze at him happily, feeling hopeful about this medicine. You’ve been using a different kind ever since the day Miguel showed up to your apartment, realizing the former one only seemed to make you drowsy and since then, you’ve been trying out new ones, hoping to find something more stable. You have hope this new medication will help after what Miguel said.

“Always,” Miguel replies, returning the smile. “Just let me know what you want to do, okay? I’ll happily do either. Do you want breakfast yet?”

You place the medication on the nightstand, considering Miguel’s question for a few seconds before realizing your stomach feels empty. It’s as if the moment he brought up food, your body recognizes it’s hungry.

“I myself, do,” Miguel says. “My stomach feels empty. I didn’t eat anything else after the chicken soup.” He pats his stomach, a bit of a frown on his face. “And neither did you,” he adds.

You chuckle. “So does mine, so I could definitely go for breakfast,” you reply. “What are we making?”

“I’m making something I’m certain you’ll like.”

You grin, hearing him emphasize that it’s him that’ll be doing the cooking. “Alright, alright. I’ll just…”

“Sit on the counter and give me cooking advice,” Miguel says, remembering the first time you cooked for him here at the penthouse when he was injured in the spring. He wanted to help you make food but you declined and told him he could offer conversation and advice, but no physical help considering his injuries. Despite you being capable to use your arms and the rest of your body, Miguel refuses to let you do any kind of work. He wants you to keep resting so you’ll fully recover soon.

“I see how it is,” you reply, shaking your head slightly in amusement. “But I can do that… I have no choice.”

Miguel smiles and stands up from the bed. “You’re still recovering, so take it easy. I’ll wait for you downstairs, okay? I’m going to start on the coffee.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit. I’m going to make the bed.”

He nods with a small smile and heads back downstairs, giving you your time to start your morning routine in peace. He’s relieved to see you feeling so much better this morning, even smiling and playing along with him. You’re almost back to your usual self, the way he likes to see you. If he could, Miguel would take away your sickness for himself. Hell, he’d take the period cramps, too, if it meant you wouldn’t experience pain and discomfort.

As Miguel starts on the coffee and waits for you to come downstairs, he wonders to himself for the first time why you got sick. He wonders if it was the rain, or maybe sleeping on the living room floor, even over the rug. Growing up, he was told that such thing can make someone sick among other things, like walking barefoot, or sleeping with wet hair. He was always warned by his Mexican mother about it but he brushed it off, even when he got sick after doing one of those very things he was warned about.

Miguel sighs softly. Maybe it was sleeping on the ground.

Then, he wonders if it was stress from your encounter with Harry Osborn, a thought that brings a frown to Miguel’s face. The encounter with Osborn left you tense and nervous, and he hated seeing you like that. He doesn’t like how Osborn caused you such stress and is now wanting to be back in your life after years of ghosting you when you needed someone after Peter’s death.

Miguel still doesn’t know what your decision on that is. He hasn’t asked, though he won’t deny he’s curious. At the end of the day, it’ll be your decision.

However, that doesn’t mean that Miguel will let go of the grudge he has for the man. Miguel can’t help it, knowing what Osborn did to you. It does more than upset him.

He clears his mind from Osborn when he hears you approaching the kitchen, deciding to not give a moment of his time to the man when you’re here with him. What matters right now, is you, so he carries on with breakfast.

Miguel gives you a cup of coffee and continues to cooks, filling the penthouse with lovely scents of food. You sit at the counter, drinking coffee and talking with him. At some point music starts playing, surprising both Miguel and you.

“Lyla,” he says, remembering. He hardly saw her yesterday since he stayed home and she was busy helping Jess at HQ.

Both of you wait for her to pop up but she doesn’t.

“I guess she’s busy,” you say softly when she doesn’t show up.

Miguel nods with a grin. “Seems like it. I’m sure she’ll make an appearance later today.”

The two of you continue on and have breakfast, with soft music playing in the background. You take your medicine afterwards, which prompts Miguel to ask you to go and lay down. Even when you offer to help clean the kitchen with him, he declines and gently asks you to rest.

So you do. Feeling better than you did the day before, you think about yesterday and everything Miguel did to help you get better, even pushing his own boundaries regarding physical touch. You softly touch the top of your nose, remembering the way he gently applied the ointment yesterday. That leads you to the fact that he applied some on your back, too. That seems surreal but it did happen.

You smile at the thought, thankful for Miguel, who eventually joins you in the living room where you both watch some TV for a while. He’s truly glad to see you in a better mood today, taking notice that you don’t seem as sleepy as yesterday and that your nose isn’t stuffy either. It seems that you’re recovering quickly, which makes Miguel feel relieved. He still feels some worry about your period, though, but he really hopes that the new medication will at least help lessened your symptoms if you experience any.

He watches you for a few seconds after taking a seat, noticing that you’re still wearing his sweatshirt. With looking after you and making sure you have everything you need, he suddenly remembers yesterday, when you told him in your sleepy state that you “like” and then “love” his scent. The thought brings a warmth to his cheeks.

Did you really mean it? Or, was it just words being said in such sleepy state? He almost wants to ask you now but he stops himself, thinking the topic might embarrass you, and maybe, you really didn’t mean them.

He shakes his head at himself, turning to look at the TV instead. You both watch it for a while and spend the morning together. You manage to stay awake all the way up until after lunch time when you excuse yourself to your room, telling Miguel you’re going to take a nap because the medicines prescribed by the doctor at HQ are making you sleepy.

A few hours later, you wake up to your name being called. Miguel is crouched next to you, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. You’ve been sleeping for a few hours and he’s decided to finally wake you up to ask if you’re feeling unwell due to the cold, your period, or both.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks quietly, trying not to startle you too much with his voice.

You nod and stretch your legs under the covers. “Mhm, I’m okay,” you reply sleepily, making Miguel smile softly. He ends up sitting on the floor, next to your bed, and leans back on the nightstand, his body covering most of it. He stays quiet for a few minutes, looking at the ceiling in silence, thinking about something while waiting for you to fully wake up. Ever since you’ve been sick, he’s had this on his mind but every time he’s about to really think about it, something interrupts his thoughts. He’s wondered about it before but he’s never asked about it. Part of the reason why he hasn’t asked is because the timing was not right. The other part, the main reason, is that Miguel didn’t want to know the answer.

He still doesn’t because if the answer is yes, Miguel knows that it will hurt him. The time has come though. With you being sick and Harry Osborn trying to come back into your life, Miguel finds that this is the best time to ask. Sensing that you’re fully awake now, Miguel decides to ask what’s been on his mind.

“Did you ever - get sick? Before joining the society?” Miguel asks, still staring at the ceiling. “Between Peter’s death and you joining the society?” he continues, quietly, softly.

On your side, facing him, you stare at the wall thinking about his question.

“Yes. I got a few colds here and there but nothing more serious like the flu, thankfully,” you reply a few seconds later after thinking about it, thinking of the few times it happened. “And then a few times because of my period.”

Miguel nods, gulping softly. He turns to face you, remembering when he went to your apartment the first time ever because you were unwell due to your menstruation. You were all alone in pain and discomfort. That was one time alone - one month in many years of solitude. He silently wonders for how many of them did you experience a similar situation? How many times did you lay alone on your bed in an empty apartment while the rest of the world went on about its day?

How many times did you lay half-unconscious, half-awake squirming in pain and clutching your stomach?

It kills Miguel to think about it.

“Hey,” you whisper softly, catching his attention. For several seconds, his eyes have a distant and pained look in them. “What’s wrong?”

“I”m sorry,” he whispers back, blinking and coming back to the present - to you.

“For what?”

Miguel sighs and looks away, leaning his head back. Eyes closed, he wonders if he should tell you.

“Miguel?” you whisper. “What is it? You look upset.”

Miguel’s head snaps back to face you, eyes open. “Not with you.” He shakes his head, making it clear he’s not upset because of you or at you. “Never with you, I’m sorry. I just - you being sick - I’ve thought about it before and now that I’m here to see it, it’s brought back thoughts - questions,” Miguel says in a whisper, eyes meeting yours.

“Questions… About what?” You prop yourself up with one arm, wondering what’s going on inside Miguel’s mind. Whatever it is, is bothering him deeply. You wonder if it has to do with his question about you being sick in the past while alone.

“It hurts me,” Miguel admits softly.

“What hurts?” you ask, brows knitted, concerned.

“To think about you, alone for so long all those years. Especially when I think about you feeling sick, with no one to care for you - to make sure you ate, someone to ease your discomfort. To think that you were on your own,” he whispers.

You inhale deeply, your heart’s strings pulled by how bothered Miguel is by this. It feels as if Miguel really is in pain.

“Don’t think about that, Miguel,” you tell him softly. “It’s in the past now. Those days are over.”

“But you shouldn’t have been alone. Someone should’ve been there with you.”

“It was my fault. I pushed everyone away after Peter died.”

“No,” Miguel says, shaking his head. His tone is somewhat stern. “None of your friends should’ve ever accepted you parting from them. They should’ve kept reaching out. Kept showing up to look for you - to make sure you were okay. You had just lost Peter - you shouldn’t have been alone,” Miguel insists, his voice gentle. “Harry… He should’ve been there for you, especially.”

Surprise rushes to you. You weren’t expecting Miguel to talk about this, for this to be what’s been bothering him so deeply, as if it pains him in a physical way. “I was going to cut ties with him, too,” you reply, trying to lessen his hurt by stating a truth. “I was planning on it.”

“Planning,” Miguel states. “But you didn’t. Maybe you would’ve gone through with it but you didn’t actually do it because he disappeared before you could. He just - left you,” he says softly, shaking his head in disbelief. Ever since he learned about Harry Osborn and the fact that he abandoned you right after Peter’s funeral, it’s been impossible for Miguel to not hold a grudge against him but now, knowing that there were times when you were sick and alone, it only makes that grudge grow. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry you were alone all those years, with no one to look after you.”

“You have no reason to apologize. You didn’t do anything,” you reply gently, wishing that you could lay a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

“No one deserves to be alone,” Miguel says.

You slowly sit up when he says that. “No, no one does. Including you,” you say softly, remembering the time Miguel told you he used to think he was meant to be alone, to live a lonely life.

Miguel’s gaze softens. He nods. “Including me.”

Smiling, you pull the covers higher as Miguel watches you. He returns the smile, feeling some calmness despite his negative emotions about this topic.

“I’m sorry if I’m… Overstepping.”

“You’re not,” you respond, gently.

He gives you a nod. “I just - I hate thinking about it. I wish…” Miguel trails off. “I wish you hadn’t been alone for so many years. If I,” Miguel pauses. “If I was there… I would’ve never left you alone. I would’ve gone to your place, every day, and knocked on your door until you opened up.”

You smile softly, your eyes slowly filling up with tears because of Miguel’s words. You blink them away, trying not to cry in front of him. With a sigh, you nod.

“I have no doubt you would’ve,” you tell him, believing this in your heart.

Miguel smiles, his own eyes glistening while thinking about the past. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he says, sincerely.

You shake your head, sniffling a bit. “Don’t be, Miguel. In the past, I’ve wished I had been here sooner, that I could’ve been here for you when you needed someone, too. Even if you pushed me away, I would’ve kept trying, the same way I did when I first started organizing the lab for you. Knowing what I know now about your life, I’ve wished for that many times. Too many,” you admit. “But you know what? I’m just thankful we’re in each other’s lives now. I wish it had been sooner but the fact that we’re even here now, that makes feel so grateful.”

You sniffle softly, thinking about your past.

“Those years I spent on my own… They’re in the past. Behind me. And although there were many lonely days and nights - days that I can’t even remember anymore because they all blended into one - it makes me appreciate the now so much more. I’m thankful for our friends, the spider gang. This,” you say gesturing to Miguel and yourself. “I’m so - so thankful for it. For all of it. For you,” you answer softly, smiling sweetly at Miguel despite your eyes threatening to spill your tears.

Miguel smiles again and leans forward. He reaches with his hand, placing it on top of the bed. He offers his pinky finger, which you notice immediately. You smile warmly at the offer and take it, wrapping your own pinky around his. Gently, you give it a squeeze, one Miguel returns.

His feelings of hurt regarding this conversation have calmed more. A part of him will always wish he had met you earlier, that he had found you sooner so you could’ve been in his life earlier, but your words and smile - your sweetness - replaces his hurt with pure ternura [endearment], so much the next words simply spilled from his mouth like stardust.

“I’m grateful for you, too, dulzura [sweetness],” Miguel whispers, still smiling. “I have been, for a long time now.”

You stare at each other, smiling, your chests stirring with affection, appreciation, and love. For several minutes, you simply enjoy the moment of such vulnerability with Miguel, calming each other.

You think about the little nickname Miguel gave you. Despite all the feelings you’re experiencing right now, that doesn’t mean you missed that part. You chuckle, still holding his pinky finger.

“Does this mean I can call you ‘Miggle?’” you ask.

Miguel rolls his eyes, playfully, of course. “Only when we’re alone. The spider gang would have a field day with that nickname. Peter B. especially,” he says gently.

You snort softly. “Fair enough.”

Miguel stares at your joined pinky fingers. “You may call me something else.”

Humming softly, you give Miguel’s pinky finger a hug with your own, smiling. “I’m going to think about it, then.”

“I look forward to hearing your ideas,” Miguel replies, amused.

You stare at the wall, beginning to think of a nickname you’d like to give Miguel.

Mig.

Migs.

Miggy.

Fangs.

You feel a cramp in your stomach, interrupting your thoughts. With your free hand, you press your stomach slightly, something that catches Miguel’s attention.

“Does your tummy hurt?” he asks, worried.

“Just a cramp,” you reply. “I’m going to take some of the medicine you gave me.”

He nods. “I can get you a heating pad. I have one.”

“I have… the socks with rice.”

Miguel’s brows raise in surprise. “The ones I made you?” he asks. “From back then?”

You nod, looking away, embarrassed. “Uh, yes, they’re quite efficient, so I… Kept them. They’re in the dresser,” you say nodding at them.

He turns to look, still surprised, only to find them laying next to a clean stack of clothes. He didn’t notice them before until now. He nods after a few seconds, gently squeezing your pinky finger. He doesn’t want to let go, even if he doesn’t voice that, but he also wants to look after you.

“How about I make dinner and then you take the medication? I’ll heat up the rice socks for you, if that’s what you want to use.”

You nod after a few seconds. “I like that plan, but I can help-”

“By resting,” Miguel finishes, somehow standing up without letting go of your pinky finger. “I got it. You rest, alright?”

“Alright,” you say with a sigh, still not used to someone looking after you like this after so long.

“Good. I’ll cook and you can rest. I’ll tell you when dinner is ready.” Miguel stares at your joined fingers once again. He frowns for a second before squeezing your finger one last time for today.

You understand, so you squeeze back before letting go. “I’m going to take a shower while you cook. A hot shower always helps me.”

He nods, smiling softly. “If that helps, then go ahead and take your time. We have unlimited hot water.”

“Trust me, I know,” you say standing up at last from the bed. “I’ve become quite spoiled with the shower here, I feel like I forgot what my shower even looks like.”

Miguel chuckles despite the fact that he remembers that soon you’ll be returning to your universe. Your building will be livable once again and you’ll be gone. He fights the urge to tell you that you can come use the shower whenever you wish to. That you can use all the hot water.

That you can stay here longer, even if your building is ready.

But Miguel doesn’t.

“It hasn’t been that long, has it?” he asks, personally feeling that it hasn’t. Weeks have gone by, but for Miguel, it feels like you moved in just yesterday. “You just got here.”

You laugh softly as you grab something you’ll need for your shower. “It feels like that sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Miguel nods. Always. “Yes, sometimes,” he replies instead, looking away from you and around the bedroom. It looks so homey, so cozy. So you. He wishes the bedroom would look like this for longer. He sighs quietly, shaking his head as you gather what you need. He needs to let it go. He clears his throat. “I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen, alright? Take your time with the shower, no rush.”

You nod with a smile. “Alright. I’ll be downstairs shortly.”

Miguel gives you a little nod and smile, wondering what you’d think about his thoughts. If only he voiced them. He finally steps out of the bedroom and leaves you to get ready for your shower, pushing his thoughts aside and focusing on cooking dinner and making you feel better, even though his mind is whirling with thoughts about you moving back to your universe, about your expressed gratitude for him, his nickname for you, which slipped from his mouth without a thought, and of your joined pinkies.

Two hours later, you lay on the couch. You’re in clean pajamas, wrapped up in Miguel’s blanket. You’re still wearing his sweatshirt, something that pleases Miguel for some reason. The socks with rice are under your clothes, pressed to your tummy. As soon as you came downstairs after your shower, he heated them up for you since he remembered to get them while you were showering.

You also took your medication for your cold and the new medicine Miguel got you for your period, which seems to have helped with the cramping.

And of course, Miguel made canelita for you. Your empty cup is now on the coffee table thanks to Miguel, who noticed you falling asleep still holding on to it.

As you sleep, Miguel sits across from you. The TV is on since you both decided to watch the telenovela again but you fell asleep halfway through it, which is no surprise to him due to the medication, and the fact that you got hit with a cold and your period at once. Definitely too much in a few days.

Miguel sighs softly. At least you’re feeling better. The worse of the cold is over now, at least it seems so, and you have new medicine for your period, so hopefully it’ll be better this month.

“She’s sleeping?”

Miguel blinks in surprise, finding Lyla over you. “Yes,” he says softly.

Lyla nods, watching you. “She always looks very peaceful in her sleep.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow but nods. “She does.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Miguel replies.

“I’m surprised you’re awake.”

“Why?”

Lyla snorts and disappears for a second before appearing over the coffee table. “You fall asleep on the couch sometimes, especially recently.”

“Okay, and?”

“I’m just saying.”

Miguel rolls his eyes, not annoyed but just wondering why Lyla is even bringing that up. “How are things at HQ?” he asks.

“Good. Everything is running just fine. Don’t worry.” Lyla stares off to the side, arms crossed over her chest now. “I learned about a theory the other day.”

“What’s the theory?” he asks.

“Humans sleep better when people they love are around. Sometimes even small things that remind the human of their loved ones help, like the sight of their jewelry, or the smell of their perfume…”

Miguel hums. “That’s interesting. What piqued your interest in that?”

Lyla shrugs. “Nothing, just came across the article. Interesting stuff,” she says looking at Miguel and then at your sleeping form. “Well, I’m glad to see she’s doing well.”

“She is. She was better today. I’m sure the worst is over now,” Miguel says, his tone one of relief.

“I’m glad,” she says, turning to face Miguel again. “Well… I’m going back to HQ. I have some stuff to do.”

Miguel turns to her, nodding. “Okay, that’s alright. Thank you.”

Lyla smiles and nods. “You got it, boss. Take care of Y/N.”

“I will,” he says before Lyla gives him a peace sign and disappears.

He turns to look at you, finding your sleeping face. You truly do look so peaceful when you sleep.

“Always.”

A/N: MIGUEL GAVE US A NICKNAME!!!!! Sorry for screaming but - it was necessary!! You guys... Miguel... 🥺😭 HE WAS SO SWEET AND TENDER AND JSJIDJ why is he not real??? I want to marry him. AND WHEN HE TOUCHED OUR CHIN ??? AND APPLIED VAPORUB ON OUR BACKS AND NOSE????!!!! (Not me screaming about my own fic) Miguel really said f them physical contact boundaries today 😌 for real!!

I really hope you guys enjoyed this update!! Thank you for the support as always, guys 🥺 it really does mean a lot to me!! THANK YOU!!!!

-Alondra ❤️

Also, this was Miguel fr but with a smile and tenderness because it's reader obviously:

taglist: (text block limit sucks) @loverlorn @saturnknows @d1lf-loverrr @eddiestitmiguelsbigdick @freehentai @arithestrawberry @scaleniusrm @haradasaya @spidermanismyfav @bitchykittenconnoisseur @thecraziestcrayon @obi-mom-kenobi @natsury-kazuki @coraline750 @edgycatx @safixiovi @sunnyx07 @nxrdamp

@rorel1a @oceanstar19 @happishark @carmilla01 @somebodyelsethanyouthink @adora-but-ginger @angie2274 @vampi-amora @tired-writer04 @plzfeedmebread @shadow-pancake9 @tynakub @faretheeoscar @giulscomix @luvstuffies @coffeeauthorvibing @lauraolar14 @bl0osclues @pinkiemme @lil-cinn @mashiromochi @loveletterfrommwah @muzansucker @theleftkittycollection @kikookii @www-interludeshadow-com @holographicang3l @aisyakirmann @bucky-to-my-barnes @geraskier-thots @l3laze @yujyujj @taylorsmakingfuckingmacandcheese @damhanallagorm @heyohalie @kaliuea @moonsua1 @darksidescorner @geminis93 @1800-get-alife @hrrtkreuz @oharasfilipinawife @dropyoursocksandgrabyourcrocss @may4ri @t4naiis @f1-hoff @llumetrii

[aesthetic-bbyg]

I hate when I get excited to search a ‘character x reader’ and only find a dead fandom with a sprinkle of crumbs. LIKE HELLO? GET TO WORK.

[ctrlzirl]

I need someone to explain to me WHY y/n picks outfits like we are playing EPISODE and RAN OUT OF GEMS!?!!?