#spider bastard

[writefightandflightclub]

Monster: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader blurb

Warnings: dub-con / non-con (it’s not actually, and you will see why but it will definitely, 100% read that way so the warning needs to be here.) smut / filth. size kink. use of venom in sexual contexts (worth a substance-use warning as similar effects). bondage. blood kink. pain kink. reader has powers. unreality.

MINORS INTERACTING WILL BE BLOCKED.

Reader descriptions: Miguel’s POV. Reader described heavily as “small” and other related terms. This comparison is relative to him and could therefore apply to a range of body types, but letting you know that it will be less inclusive than my usual fics aim to be and so I’m suggesting it’s (more) geared to a petite!reader.

Author’s note: DO NOT LOOK AT ME. This is a relatively short blurb. It fell out of my head. Pls forgive me.

You hold out your hand, and Miguel swears that he is losing his mind.

It’s so… small. Small like the rest of you. Tiny, even. Compared to him.

“Miguel?” you prompt impatiently, and he finally hands you the apple he’s holding, trying not to black out when your little fingers curl tightly around it.

“Thank you,” you huff, insolently, and the hot fire which slides down his spine when he thinks about checking your tone is almost intolerable. Almost.

There’s definitely something wrong with him. Yeah - something besides the more obvious spider-y shit that’s wrong with him. This is something else; because he definitely should not be almost passing out in the cafeteria. Not while thinking about how your hand is so small and strong and how huge his cock would look if only you curled your palm tightly around it.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this at all - and especially not in the cafeteria queue. His suit does not leave a lot of manoeuvre room to successfully obscure the fact that his blood is rushing south. Dangerously fast.

“Miguel!” You wave your palm in front of his vacant face, and he attempts -vaguely- to regain some composure. “Are you even listening to me?”

He’s not. Not listening, but he’s looking.

Fuck. Look at you in that skintight suit. Look at you.

He could pick you up so easily. String you up so easily in his webbing until you were spread open for him, your limbs groaning with the stretch of it. Breasts jiggling as you struggle against your restraints, the reverberating tension in the rope causing your flesh to ripple and bounce.

God. You would look so tiny if he forced his huge throbbing arousal inside of you. So fragile.

He wants that. To split you on his cock. To fuck you so hard that he breaks you.

Anywhere that he considers putting his dick appeals to him. Stuffing it into your mouth. Making you spit on him and grip him in both of your stupid little hands.

Fuck. You would hug him so fucking tight. It would make him feel so powerful to watch you struggling with the size of him. To know he could do whatever he wanted to you.

He wonders. Wonders if it would feel better to have you squirming and screaming on his ropes…or, whether he’d prefer you a different way.

Whether he’d prefer to graze his fangs down the column of your throat. To inject just enough venom into your neck to keep you perfectly still. Still enough, that he could do whatever he wanted to you without even needing to care whether you liked it.

Without hearing your protests.

Without anything else to focus on except his own pleasure. Of the feeling of him filling you up with more than you can take and pushing your juices out of you until they drip down to coat his balls. Of him fucking you while thinking about how sore you would be by the time he was done with you. By the time he’d finally had enough of you spasming around his length, your face tear-stained and eyes -finally- all glazed and vacant.

God, you’re so fucking small. Small enough that he wonders if he could grab up your whole ass cheek in one handful, his talons biting into your firm yet forgiving flesh. If he could cup you whole cunt and feel it warm against him.

Small enough, that maybe he could wrap you up completely in his webbing. Like a cocoon, almost. Leaving nothing but your face and your tits and your wet holes exposed for him.

Maybe he’d leave you venom-free while he did that. Would let you protest. Would give you plenty to protest about. Would let himself get off to the sound of you sobbing that it’s too much. That it’s too big. That you need him to stop.

Fuck - he doesn’t know if he could. Doesn’t know if he could ever stop once he was finally inside you. Not until your little cunt had squeezed every last drop from him - and even then. Even then, maybe he’d keep going until you were fucked open and dripping several of his loads out of you. Until he was maybe even getting bored of the way he’d feel you clamp down around him again and again, gushing with your release - regardless of whether you wanted to.

Hell. Maybe he’d even leave you there strung up for later. Maybe he’d keep you all for himself and never let you go.

“Miguel?” you ask, this time with concern, and the innocence in your eyes as you look up at him - look up at him because you’re so small, so tiny - makes his balls ache. Makes him think about the ways he could make you gag on him, two of him, three of him, so full of him everywhere over and over and over. “You alright?”

“I need you to meet me later,” he husks. “Alone.”

“Okay…” you place your tiny, pathetic hand on his forearm and god; he can’t take it.

All of his senses are so entirely focussed in on you until you’re practically a pinprick. Until his vision of you is so sharp he thinks he must be looking at you with ten eyes. Until there is nothing else in the room.

Wait…

There…

is no room.

His hands…

His hands are bound, not yours. He’s the one who…

Oh God…

He looks down at his naked, sweat-sheened, love-bitten body, his thick arms pulling back and bound behind his head. His cock is out, huge and hard and glistening - flushed a deep crimson with need. Throbbing so hard it hurts.

“Miguel!” you say again, and this time your voice feels far more… real. “Come back to me, love,” Suddenly he remembers. Remembers where he is.

Remembers what you’re doing to him.

Remembers your venom and the power it holds. Remembers your hallucinogen, pumping in his veins.

“Oh Miguel,” you sing-song, squeezing his aching cock in your hands - your small, perfect hands. “Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

You straddle him now, nude and perfect and so petite you can barely touch your knees to the floor to either side of him as you spread your cunt over his body. Your own arousal is leaking from you. Shining his length as you glide your folds over the girth of him until his cock jerks up, begging to fill you.

He looks down at the red scratches on his bare chest, and he remembers, a dark, crooked smile bedding down over his features as he delights in you. In the combination of reality and fantasy. In the haze only you can induce. The pleasures only you can draw out of him.

“Do you have a little bit of a size kink, baby?”

“Uh. Uh huh. Yes, ma’am.”

“I can taste it. Tastes good.” He wants to taste you. Wants to kiss you. Thank you - but he cranes his mouth up towards yours - thrusts his hips up to shove against your cunt - and you scold him with a sharp tut of your tongue.

Not yet.

“Alright then, love. Let me indulge you.” You drag your claw down his bared, sweat-sheened chest, over the meat of his pec, leaving a shallow trail of seeping red - like you’re trying to bleed him a new suit. He winces - a sharp intake of air - baring his fangs and straining against his restraints once more to no avail.

“Mmmm,” you hum, the sound fragmenting into multiple echoes of sweet, honeyed syllables as your sugary venom takes effect on him all over again. “Okay, sweetie. Let’s see how big I can make your cock look while it’s inside of me. How about that?”

You sink. Hinge at the hips on top of him to lick along the red stripe of iron tang on his chest. And then… Then you sink down on his length, spearing yourself on him, pushing yourself off his chest -palms smearing red. Throwing your head back and writhing your walls around him as he groans for you.

He knows you’ll be able to taste it. Taste his fantasies on the tip of your tongue, in his blood - and he knows too, that you’ll give him exactly what he wants.

He remembers now. Understands. Remembers how this works; and, just like that - he’s back there. He’s back in the cafeteria.

Your voice is all the way in his head, just like he’s shoved all the way in your cunt. Your voice is in his ear, like a devil’s whisper from over his shoulder, even as he could swear that, at the same time, he’s standing here in the cafeteria. Watching you play the angel in front of him. “Show me your fantasy, Miguel,” you whisper, hot and sweet against the shell of him, and so he does.

He’s here. Standing. Towering over you with his stature. Towering over you, and his mouth curls into a devilish snarl as he looks down at your stupid, small hand on his arm. Oh - he remembers. He remembers how it works now.

Here, he can do exactly what he wants to you. Exactly what he wants without repercussion… and he’d already had some exceptionally good ideas on how to make the most of that.

He tongues a single fang as you look up at him. As you look up, so innocent. “You know what?” he asks, turning you abruptly around and folding you right over the table. Shoving your face into its surface with one hand. Tearing the ass right out of your suit with the other, splitting it open like he’s about to do with you. “Why wait until later, little one?”

It is more fun this way, he decides.

It’s much more fun when you struggle.

It’s okay though.

It’s okay.

He shushes you, even as you scream.

Here; in this space, he is free to be a monster. Doesn’t have to hold it back or push it down any longer. Doesn’t need to feel ashamed.

Here, he gets to make his fantasies come true - and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

When you cry out in pain, Miguel feels monstrous; and he likes it. And, even as you squirm beneath him, he knows, that in reality -in the real reality- you like it too.

After all, you’re even more monstrous than he is.

Speaking of… Miguel feels another sharp, blazing, delicious sting across the expanse of his chest - and he remembers.

Remembers that he’d be happy if you kept him in your web, toying with him like this forever. Or, at least, until he begs you to stop - and maybe not even then.

[killerpancakeburger]

Me as a member of the Spider Society:

*risking my life daily* no problem!

*saving people* love it!

*Miguel raises his voice at me* I go home bawling my eyes out

[writefightandflightclub]

Omg this is perfect though bc imagine!

If he started getting all these tattoos of his daughter’s fave things?! Bows?! Disney characters?! Butterflies?

And he just loves her so much and wants to support her in everything to the point where he will wear his love on his body because it makes her giggle and smile.

Then, when she’s gone, he can’t even bear to look at himself in the mirror because of all the reminders of her 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

What Miguel looks like under the suit

[mothmothwoth]

Eat your Heart out.

[winterpower98]

These were originally meant for Valentine's day, but oh well

[ghostface-knight]

"average hatchetfield citizen dies horribly in three timelines" factoid is actually just a statistical error. average citizen dies horribly in zero timelines. "doomed-by-the-narrative Ted", who works at CCRP Technical and dies in every fucking timeline is an outlier and should not be counted

[romanisweird]

Hell yeah brother!

Because of recent news I drew this

It is very much inspired by this!

[13ag21k]

Ah yes the good old "I can't remove my boyfriend's mask" trope.

[katsumiiii]

hobie brown x fem! reader

i feel like hobie is such an unjealous person (which technically isn’t a word but idrc!). like he’s so secure within himself and his partner to where he knows and that he’s as good as it gets. and usually when someone says that it’s such a turn off, but with hobie it’s a subtle cockiness, like a “leave and see what you’ll get” type thing which is irritating and attractive at the same time.

like if someone were to flirt with you I can’t see him getting riled up and starting something. I feel like if anything he’d agree with them ?? and you’re always like wtf bc he’s sitting there chatting with someone who wants to take you away from him, literally urging them to keep ranting about your character.

the only reason he’d get pissed is if they try to touch you. one thing hobie values is personal space, and in his opinion, he’s the only one whose allowed to breach your bubble (he’d always back off if you wanted him too ofc, he’s big on consent!).

soo imagine this, hobie and you Vinyl shopping, searching through the stacks of product for nothing specific, but itching to find a gem among the various piles. hobie had noticed a scrawny guy peaking glances at your figure more often than not and chuckled at the sight.

“‘s guy on your left, been makin’ eyes at ya.” hobie muttered, placing his chin on your shoulder blade.

“mhm really?” you patted the side of his cheek, fingers still sifting through the records below you.

“yeah, prolly thinks you’re cute huh? lil peng ting.” he tickled the sides of your hips, nibbling at the back of your ear.

“shut up hobie, help me find this vinyl. I swear I saw it somewhere….”

“e-excuse me!” a meek voice made both your heads turn, eyes settling on a short male to the left of you.

“yes?” you replied, patting the tops of hobie’s ringed fingers with your own.

“I just wanted to say that you’re very beautiful! and..” he trailed off, fiddling with the dirt underneath his fingernails.

“eh? beautiful!“ hobie left the comfort of your figure to circle around the poor man, clasping his hands on his shoulders, softly shaking them, “she’s fit ain’t she?”

“yeah…” the male shuffled.

“oh ‘m sorry mate, didn’t mean to cut ya off. go on and tell her what you’re thinking, hm?” hobie chuckled, urging the man to continue.

“bee, let’s just go.” you sighed, gently shaking your head.

“wha’, don’t wanna be rude love. let ‘im finish.”

“nevermind, I’ll just get going…” the man awkwardly shuffled away at the sight of your bickering.

“why do you have to be such an asshole?”

“jus’ thought you should accept the man’s compliment.”

“oh fuck off.”

[izunias-meme-hole]

Doc Ock Appreciation Post

[writefightandflightclub]

Hanging by a thread: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader (NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI)

Summary:

First there was you - and you were alone.

Then, there was Miguel - and you were still alone.

Next, there was you and Miguel.

And you were more alone than ever.

Genre: pure angst really

Author's note: idek, okay. I saw the movie and thought oh hey, here's a spider-bastard blorbo I must soften and then I.... wrote horrible angst for him, LOL. This is part 1 of 3 parts (part 2 here, part 3 in progress), but can absolutely be read as a standalone. It's written in a style which is a bit different from my usual and maybe I haven't pulled it off. See if you like it! (If you don't let's forget it ever happened. No hard feelings. If you do, I can totally be influenced into posting more if you'd like it.) The other parts are in progress, I'm just hideously impatient.

READ THE WARNINGS: arachnophobia folks stay away, obvs. Lots of angst: loneliness, loss, very mild / brief suicidal ideation. Quite a lot of smut references including some kinky / monster-fucker-adjacent shit. References to web bondage, and also to Miguel using his venom on you (consensually) in sexual scenarios (his venom is supposedly a non-toxic paralytic, so obviously don't read if that is likely to be uncomfortable for you). Also warning for dub-con just because of some of the themes, but there's no dub-con itself in the fic. Lmk if I missed any.

First there was you - and you were alone.

Then, there was Miguel - and you were still alone.

Next, there was you and Miguel.

And you were more alone than ever.

***

There is something about him. There must be, or you wouldn’t keep doing this to yourself, would you?

There is something.

Something more than the captivating pool of shadow which collects in the hollows of his eye sockets, his cheekbones. Something more than the spider-eye gloss of his shiny, black hair. Something more than the swell of his impossibly broad form, his network of muscles connected like a web, writhing beneath his skin-tight suit as he hunches over his desk. Something else, other than the darkness spinning in his blood-brown eyes.

There has to be; something.

Or why would you keep doing this to yourself?

There must be some feeling, no? Some feeling greater. Greater than the whisper of his hot, wet kiss trailing down your abdomen. The pink meadow of his tongue blooming in the dark parts of you. Some feeling, greater than the spit trails - like spider strands - which link his mouth to your cunt when he

stops licking

just

to make

you writhe.

Something greater. Deeper. Greater than the mass of him covering you. Deeper than the fill of him splitting you. Sharper than the press of his fangs

at your pulse point

piercing

your skin:

paralysis.

Temporary. Partial.

Frozen; but rushing blood. Numb; sort of. Sensitive; where it counts.

A black hole, briefly. A sanctuary; infinite, for a fleeting moment.

Bound; strung up in his webbing. Bound to him. Spread for him.

Feeling.

For the first time in a long time.

Is that why you keep doing this to yourself?

You’re under already. Buried in the plunge pool darkness of him, and he’s thundering down on you, spinning you like a fly in his sprung trap; but it has to count for something, right?

Because why else would you keep doing this to yourself?

You take a deep breath. A small step. A step closer to being alone, being fragmented, like you’re far from where you belong and the universe wants to split you back to atoms. Like you are segments - triangles of a web Miguel has spun. You are patterns, repeating. Always repeating. Always turning to him even when he is turning away. Counter-clockwise. Counter-clockwise, moving backwards. Spinning his web.

You step closer to him; and once again, you are alone.

You draw a mask down - figuratively - tugging it down over your eyes so that you don't show it. So that you don't let him know that you are alone.

“Hey, Big Boy. I brought you lunch.” You are floating outside of yourself now, like sky-swinging through the city; but your feet are planted firmly on his platform all the same.

He can hear your pulse, remember. He can smell you. See you without looking, and he doesn’t.

He doesn’t look.

He just hunches. Hunches in front of the screen. Wringing his hands. Looking. Staring. Monitoring. Clicking. Thinking. His blood-brown eyes bloodshot and bleary. He blinks; but he doesn’t move. Hasn’t moved in hours, save for the repetitive coil of his taut muscles and the knitting of his brows and the flex of his fingers kneading into his own meaty thigh and the way you move and are moved; for him, to him, by him.

You swallow.

He hears it.

You place the bag of food down beside him and he doesn’t look. Doesn’t acknowledge you with so much as a thank you, his thick fingers tenting on the desk. The spot on the desk where he's had you folded over for him and you wait.

You wait for him to bark at you to leave him alone and he doesn’t and that’s something, isn’t it? But it’s not the “something” you are searching for - no. Not at all, but you pull up a chair all the same. Your eyes scouring the screen now too, looking not seeing; not like him, seeing not looking - and he could look at you but he fucking doesn’t.

And here you are alone.

You pull up a chair. Pull that invisible mask further down over your eyes, your mouth, your voice, your tone, until you’re wearing a suit of it. Skin-tight and covering all of you. Dressed-up in how okay you are and you guess he believes it, if he even thinks of it at all.

“You know there are alerts for this shit?” you stab, and yet, still nothing from him. Nothing but brooding and harsh beauty, his being a sharp fish hook slipped under your skin. “Sirens, even. Huge fuck-off flashing beacons. A pop-up on your little wrist watch. Quite hard to miss actually, Miguel.” His name rolls off your tongue like the spinning of a reel, his line dragging you in.

“You’re funny.” He says it like you're not.

Are you, though? You wouldn’t know it. You wouldn’t know it because his exoskeleton face barely ever cracks into a smile. His shoulders never shake with mirth and you don’t feel very funny any more these days,

not now,

not anymore,

not ever actually.

You think about smoothing his barbs - how’s that for a fucking joke? Rifling your fingers through the black night of his hair. Getting lost in it like it’s an abyss Spot left behind. Like you could disappear in it. Like you might want to.

But you don’t.

No.

Instead, you simply shoot your web. Use it to drop the packet of food from the console shelf into his sturdy lap. “Eat something, Miguel,” you scold tiredly, and he looks down at the plonked packet and he still hasn’t fucking looked at you.

Hasn’t looked at you since last night, actually. Hasn't looked at you since he couldn’t look away. Since he had you full. Full of him. Full of feeling. Warm up against you.

Warm.

Just imagine that from him.

It's funny. Funny because he doesn’t miss a thing. Doesn’t miss a single hitch in your breath; contraction of a muscle in your face; broken sound dying in your throat; droplet of sweat on your skin. Not a scent, sensation or shiver of skin.

It's funny because he doesn’t miss a thing - and he’s oblivious.

Both of these things are true.

“Why do you like these empanadas so much anyway?” you ask, because you notice what he misses. Because you pay attention to the fact they’re his favourite even if he doesn’t bat an eye that you've noticed - out of all the offerings in the HQ cafeteria they make his face twist least. That if you serve them up with coffee that’s joyless and dark and cold - like him - that he won’t thank you, but his shoulders will hunch just a little less. That some of the tension crawls away.

You struggle to remember though, as he continues to ignore you. To recall why you keep doing this to yourself, and so you ask your next question only because you know you shouldn’t.

“Do they remind you of home or something?”

Miguel finally turns to you - and it’s what you wanted until you get it. His eyes are blackened beneath his thick, drawn-down brows. His face contorted as you talk about the one place he can’t go in a room full of fucking doors.

Home.

You went there - the place he can't - and now his blood moon eyes hang like portals, dragging you into a dimension where you don’t even exist anymore as he tells you. Tells you no. He doesn’t like them. They’re dry, he says, his voice gruff - as frayed as thinned webbing. Bland, he says. Not even filling - and it's almost funny that he sounds so angry about cafeteria food; but you know fine well that his anger is a mask.

Still - you wear a mask long enough and hey... at some point it stops being pretend, doesn’t it?

“Okay. Well, then you’re welcome, I guess,” you spit sarcastically, words rising from your throat like venom. Pushing your chair back abruptly. Coming to standing.

After all.

Miguel is only tolerable

in short bursts,

except for when he’s dragging

your orgasm out

into a tightrope

and he's not

so

that’s just about enough

of him

for today.

“You know…” he begins as you turn away, and you’re a fool when your heart rises into your throat, hanging on to a spider thread of hope that he might. That he might finally. Might finally say something which means anything good. “I never asked you to do any of this. If it bothers you? You can go right ahead and stop.”

Oh. Okay.

Wow.

You don’t feel it, actually. Don’t even feel his words until later. Don’t feel them until you are alone. Don’t feel anything anymore until you are alone but then again, aren’t you always? Who can even tell the difference anymore anyway.

You don’t say anything, then. Not in this moment. You don’t ask if you’ll see him tonight, like you want. You don’t even tell him to go right ahead and stop, like you should.

Instead - fool - you slide your thumb up his back like a knife, cutting the tension in his shoulder blades and parsing it out into segments. Instead, you say “Eat, Miguel,” even as he shrugs you off. “You’re cranky.” Cranky doesn't even begin to cover it.

Still... There must be something though? Something that keeps you coming back.

Unless… Unless, of course, you never left. Unless you’re simply falling deeper and deeper into that very same black hole. Falling inside of yourself. Getting lost.

Miguel finally looks at you.

Looks at you as the pad of your thumb rubs pathetic circles into the nape of his neck.

Cranes his neck. Turns his head. Swivels his chair. Fucking looks at you - and as you stare back into his abyss he softens. Softens, as he grips the packet of shitty empanadas in his huge, stupidly broad palm and there it is.

Ah. The reason you keep doing this to yourself.

There is something.

Something so fleeting that it scurries away like an uncovered spider, lost again quickly to some dark, cobwebbed corner. Lost, before you can hope to trap it beneath a glass for further examination.

There is something that keeps you hanging on; but you're hanging by a thread.

He catches your hand in his and you feel small. "Will I see you tonight?"

Ah. Thank goodness you're wearing a figurative mask. Thank goodness he's oblivious.

You don't answer. Don't acknowledge his touch even as the hairs on the backs of your arms stand on end. Instead, you simply look down at the bundle in his other palm.

The food you brought him is cold now; but it doesn’t matter.

Warmth can’t touch him any longer.

You’ve tried that.

Oh, how you’ve tried.

There was you - and you were alone.

Then there was Miguel - and you were still alone.

"Yeah," you finally sound out. "I'll see you tonight."

Next, there was you and Miguel.

And now, you are more alone than ever.

[reallyunluckyrunaway]

[ryukisgod]

[demigod-of-the-agni]

no one knows my true pain. i wear black to mourn the feelings that could never be set free. what you see is a masjk, a shell of my former self.

[onenicebugperday]

The "aggressive spider" post made me think of my favorite, most specialist, sweetest little bugs of all time, Sunspiders. (Who are not even spiders)

They are very much attracted to shade since they like to borrow under, like plants and stuff, but as a result, are often seen chasing people through the desert, which sounds goofy but ppl really hate it for them.

Ive noticed that solifugae in general are for some reason, incredibly vilified? (There are actually people who believe they kill and eat camels,,, how?) There are like countless misconceptions about these little guys :( but i love them forever and am kissing them in my heart

I deeply love solifuges! Unfortunately my first introduction to them was a chain email when I was in high school circa the early 2000s, maybe 2004 or so, that was some sort of weird pro-war-in-Iraq propaganda about "what our troops are dealing with over there." It included the below photo and a whole bunch of made up "facts" about camel spiders that made them sound absolutely terrifying.

For those who are unfamiliar, this photo uses false perspective and these two lil babes are each only about two inches long. Claims that they're venomous and somehow kill camels or chew their stomachs out are obviously not even close to reality. In fact, solifuges don't have venom at all. They look a little scary and alien if you're unfamiliar with them but they're fairly harmless!

Also they have adorable little faces...

An angel :') Photo by laurenzarate

[adhdbisexualramblings]

‘The average person traps one guy in a torture cube every year’ is actually a statistical error. The average person traps zero guys in a torture cube. Bastards Goerg who traps his favorite guy in his torture cube across thousands of timelines is an outlier adn should not have been counted