#spiderverse implied

[auroramoon-draws16]

Circling back to my Crossover Bar AU

Because I’m just like that

I rewatched the Underverse series and other undertale au comic dubs, and I can’t help but think about how the bar is an outlier of the multiverse and that would definitely catch the attention of multiversal beings, right?

Just- any being, anywhere, who know and can travel between universes just randomly stumbles upon this weird ass bar. While yes that’s mainly god-level beings, sorcerers, and eldritch creatures, there are certain tech savvy mortals who can do it too. Cough cough, spider-people, cough.

They’re so confused, but intrigued. Come on in, we got alcohol and bad ideas! And Game night; We’re playing Cards Against Humanity!!

Idk, I think that’s fun.

As for more lore shit for my AU:

It’s semi-sentient, and responds only to the Host, the bartender, the one and only: Desmond Miles.

The Crossover Bar is his domain, you can’t do shit without his express permission, bitches can’t even die!

Yeah, that one happened by mistake, how was Desmond supposed to know one of the kids were gonna yoink a lightsaber from a visiting jedi? Shit happens, man. That’s why there’s a no stealing rule in the first place. But thankfully, Desmond figured out he can just say “uh, no, stop that” and literally bonk a bitch back to life.

Lmao

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice. 

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window. 

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman. 

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment. 

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara? 

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning. 

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach. 

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was… 

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying . 

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist. 

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!" 

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring. 

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask. 

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him. 

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep. 

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him. 

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class.  She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely. 

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day. 

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it. 

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo. 

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it. 

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course. 

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself. 

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall. 

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure. 

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself. 

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here. 

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video. 

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen. 

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all. 

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners. 

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you. 

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs. 

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-" 

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please." 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers. 

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall. 

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home. 

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions. 

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night. 

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy?? 

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water. 

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there. 

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway. 

You wince."...F-Fine?" 

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?" 

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further. 

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together. 

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand. 

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"You look… wet." 

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze. 

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed. 

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression.  His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds. 

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?" 

He's got a hand on your arm now,  The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details. 

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy. 

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside. 

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word. 

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?" 

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too." 

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same. 

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way. 

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost. 

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand. 

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza? 

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal. 

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy. 

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats. 

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought. 

"Yeah?" 

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-" 

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!" 

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-" 

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips. 

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you. 

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand. 

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close. 

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile. 

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side. 

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular. 

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?" 

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it. 

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty. 

"Huh. I guess they do." 

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums. 

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name. 

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch. 

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ." 

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest. 

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-" 

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own. 

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name." 

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing. 

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-" 

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together. 

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest. 

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts. 

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck. 

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum. 

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth. 

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin. 

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt.. 

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara. 

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?" 

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?" 

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction. 

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach. 

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel." 

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth. 

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue. 

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole. 

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue. 

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off. 

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily. 

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him. 

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him. 

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs. 

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck. 

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should. 

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head. 

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily. 

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

_

edit: the full fic xx

[lyriumsings]

No but like the biggest thing that Miguel is missing about this whole “you need to understand that you can’t save everyone” is like yes that is true! that IS an important lesson every spider person learns BUT here’s where miguel lost the plot: you should still try. Spiderman ALWAYS tries. Like Pavitr literally said “i can do both” and whether or not he actually could doesn’t fucking matter. what matters is he tried!!! gwen actively stopping miles and miguel trying to enforce these “canon” moments is so just outside of the like spiderman philosophy of “can you always get back up/can you keep CHOOSING to try/to be a hero!!”. Even as far back as toby miguire whenever spiderman was forced by villains to try and choose mj or the children, the people on the train etc he ALWAYS chose both!! he tried!! when miguel stopped trying is when he stopped being spiderman tbh. But also the spider society arguably inherently breaks the “canon” as well like yeah Pav might have failed if he was alone but he wasn’t. Like y’all are in a situation to do good, to prevent a death and if you have the power to do that then you have a responsibility to try!! Like i’m really hoping this is where beyond the spiderverse is going!! that miguel could’ve done so much good with what he created if he just tried!!

[2kiran]

࿐.𖥔 ݁ ˖ caught by spider-man noir, the man who has mercilessly aimed for your throat for beyond a decade. it was decisively humiliating for your ego, uncomfortable ropes binding your frame. “say... i was expecting for you to put up a bigger fight.”

he comically raises both of his gloved hands, forming them into fists to throw a punch to the air as if to draw out a pained reaction from you. “this is goin’ta’ go down history. that is, if anyone tries to remember ya.” you aren’t amused. he drops his arms to his sides, awkwardly coughing into his hand to try and ease the tension.

“right. let’s work something out.” check tags for warnings.

your hands grasp spider-man noir’s thick thighs, his walls dragging up and down your wet cock. “mnngh, this, ah, this is not what i had in mind.” he barely manages to let the words out, a ragged gasp pulling the fabric of his mask backwards.

“i’m not the one who started it.” you grunt, and he squeezes around you to keep you in, the rhythmic pulse practically hypnotizing you to continue fucking his tight hole. “ya should feel lucky, you - you—” he strains, cut off by his own breathy moan, your tip grazing against his sweet spot. the grip spider-man noir had on your shoulders tightened, a futile attempt to ground himself to reality.

the years, the pining, the lingering touches, the lasting glances, all coming to crash down onto this moment that encapsulated both of your beings. the mere sensation of him and promise for release practically possessed you, repeatedly guiding him up and down to take in the entirety of your aching dick. the skin of his thighs delicate beneath your touch, jolting with every thrust. the warmth radiating from him unfamiliar - a stark contrast to the coldness of your heart - yet so fucking good.

you’ve stretched the longing unnecessarily more than you should’ve, tension burrowing into your shoulders with his secure hold. “we should’ve done this - hnghh, sooner.” he lets out a groan that’s more of a whimper, pressing his masked forehead against yours. spider-man noir takes charge, gratefully so, rolling his hips forward to rightfully chase after what he’s been so deprived of.

“you were trying to, mmf, kill me.” it was a reminder that bubbles a chuckle from his chest. you were able to faintly tell that his goggles were fogging up from how harsh he was panting, his fedora noticeably tipping towards you.

if anyone were to enter this room, they would initially think that you two had a romantic bond. “so were you.” he gasps out, abruptly constricting when a particular harsh bounce causes you to slide all the way into him. your climax hits you like a train, being ripped from you unexpectedly, his ears catching onto a low groan of yours. fuck, did that make him clench on you harder.

“fair.” you huff, your clothing unbearably sticking to your sweaty skin. trying to lift him off, he tuts. spider-man noir forces himself back down. “who said we were done, pretty boy?”

2kiran © 2023. don’t steal. ── masterlist

[24-7fandombrain]

Pavitr: *makes Hobie a cup of tea but puts salt in it*

Hobie: *sips tea*

Pavitr:

Hobie: *finishes tea*

Pavitr: Didn't it taste bad?

Hobie: Yeah, but I didn't want to hurt your feelings, so I drank it all.

Pavitr, tearing up: Oh, okay.

[lvnesart]

Spiderverse x Genshin for a collab on instgram!

[brown-spider]

Do you see my vision

[igucci]

what if they met...

[angelyuji]

the fanged man

yandere miguel o'hara x reader :)

you bumped into the wrong guy on your way to work :(

warnings! kidnapping! stalking! kinda implied noncon? breeding kink if you look super duper closely! miguel is scary! and i'm in love with his fangs! (you will definitely be able to tell) fem pet names for reader!

i'm in love with him and i need him in a way that is too graphic to describe!

you slam your apartment door shut in a hurry, “fuck, shit, fuck.” you rush down the steps, already late. ‘god, he’s definitely going to fire me now.’ your fuckass boss had told you if you were late one more time, you’re done. you feel angry tears well up, but by god’s grace, your bus was still at your stop. however, as you sprint down the street, eyes only on the bus, you slam right into someone. you’re on the ground just as fast and you see your bus speed away. you groan and look up, getting ready to cuss the person out. a man towers over you and you inch away. he was dressed in a tight shirt and baggy sweatpants, and usually you’re drooling over a guy like him, but something about him rubbed you the wrong way. maybe it was the way his hands were clenched into fists. or maybe the way he looked at you like he was going to eat you. “sorry.” you remember the horror stories you’ve heard from your friends about guys like him, and you decide to just let it go. figuring your safety is better than giving the guy a piece of your mind. he doesn’t say anything to you, scanning your face. he smiles and your eyes go wide. “do you have fangs?” he holds out a hand for you and you gingerly grab it. he helps you up.

“yeah, i do.” you quickly let go of his hand, a twinge of fear running through you. “sorry about getting in your way, sweetheart.” a smirk rests on his face and you back away.

“ha, it’s-it’s my fault.” you muster up a smile and take off, sprinting down the street. you can still feel his eyes on you as you run. you weave between the crowds of people and, somehow, made it on time. you burst in right a minute before your shift starts. your manager looks at you with an eyebrow raised before sighing.

“you’re technically not late.” you smile, proud and incredibly sweaty. “just go wash your face and clock in.” they sigh once more, exasperated. as your shift goes on, you can still feel the lingering feeling of his eyes on you. you look out the window when your shift was at a lull and see the shadow of someone standing near the windows. you look closer and the shadow smiles, fangs appearing, shining bright and white. you feel your body go numb and you couldn’t breathe, your coworker calls your name and you tear your eyes away from the window. when you look back, the figure was gone. you furrow your eyebrows and shake your head. as the shift comes to a close, you and your coworker close up.

“you okay?” they lean on the counter as you wipe down with a rag. you shrug, scrubbing off a hard spot. “come onnn, (y/n). you’ve been off all night.” they look at you, concerned.

you stop wiping and turn to them, “well… i bumped into this tall, creepy-looking dude on my way here. he had like fangs and he was like… 7 feet tall? and… i don’t know…. it feels like he’s watching me. you know?”

“you feel like you’re being stalked?” their face twists in horror.

“exactly!” you widen your eyes, feeling validated.

“oh my gosh, you have to go to the cops or something. that’s fucking scary.” they grab the rag from your hand.

“it’s probably in my head, plus what are they gonna do? they’ll laugh at me.” you groan, throwing your head back.

“at least let me walk you home or something.” you look back at your coworker, seeing their worry. you purse your lips.

“that’d be nice, but you live in the opposite direction.” you laugh, resigned. they look down, clearly in distress about your situation. “hey, don’t worry. it’s probably fine. i get creeped out by every grown man i meet.” you smile. they laugh and relent, telling you to call them when you get home. you close up and go your separate ways. you walk back home on edge, careful to avoid creepy alleyways. you hear the quiet noises of the city: cars, dogs, people talking. you pray that if anything happens, spiderman will save you. you swallow as you speedwalk back to your house. you quickly get back to your apartment, breathing out a sigh in relief. you lock the door and lean back, feeling the tension seep out of you.

“god, i was acting so insane for no reason.” you laugh to yourself. you feel around the walls for a light, but just as you flip the switch, something slams against you. a body corners you against the wall. you couldn’t scream, their hand covering your mouth. one hand presses against the door. as your eyes adjust to the light, you realize who it is, his mouth widens in a twisted grin. you can see his fangs peeking through and you feel your stomach drop.

“the fact… that you are absolutely no one in this universe,” he chuckles, “is truly my luck.” he breathes heavy. he leans his head on to your shoulder and you feel his teeth graze your shoulder, and your breath hitches. your eyes drift down and you see a costume almost similar to spiderman’s. he takes his hand off your mouth and wraps it around your waist, pulling you close.

“please, please, i don’t know who you are. i’ve never hurt anyone, please leave me alone.” you plead, tears pouring down your face. he chuckles and you can feel the vibrations with his chest pressed against yours. his face pressed deeper into the crook of your neck and you can feel his teeth digging into you, almost breaking skin. he takes a deep breath and moves away, still keeping you pressed against the wall.

“oh, pretty girl, beg.” he licks his teeth, as if taunting you.

you can feel yourself panicking, you couldn’t breathe, “what?” you choke out. the hand on your waist, moves up to your throat. he tightens his hand around your throat and you widen your eyes, you can feel his claws dig into the back of your neck and black spots dance in your vision. you struggle to breathe, clawing at the hand tightening around your throat.

“beg for your life.” he growls. he releases a little bit of pressure for you to take a breath.

“please, please, let me go. i’m begging you. please,” you sob and he chuckles again.

“god, you’re even cuter than i thought.” he murmurs. he lets go of your throat and pulls you into a tight hug. you try to push him off, but his claws dig into your back and you sag into him.

“please,” you whisper, “i have a family. i don’t know what you want with me.” you lean on his wide chest.

he pulls away, holding you by the waist, he pouts at you mockingly. “sweetheart, they’re not your family anymore. we’ll be starting a family.” your heart starts racing as you understand what he’s trying to say.

“no no no, please i’m not- i don’t-” he cups your face, rubbing your cheek with a thumb.

“you’ll grow to love me, you’ll give me the family i want.” before you could blink, the man digs his fangs into your shoulder. you scream as the pain hits and you can feel something flowing into you. he holds you as your legs collapse from underneath you. he holds you as your vision swims. “i’ll make you a good mother, pretty girl. everything will be alright, (y/n).” his voice carries you into the dark.

part 2

[t1koy-roll]

An angel would grow their wings if I chose to post more about these two being the messiest ever but I'm worried people can't handle the melodrama of it all Original panel:

[defenestratedair]

Spider-Butz, thank you for your service 🫡

[clementine-thedestroyer]

Purls for my love - Miguel O’Hara x reader

Warnings/tags: Fem!reader, Miguel struggling to knit. Miguel still implied to be rich and to enjoy spoiling his partner. (going say they’re engaged by now) Reader is not pregnant but Miguel kinda wants her to be soon/one day. Very domestic, very fluffy.

This is a loosely connected sequel to Sew cute, and this idea came from @reverieblondie in the comments of that post. I’ve been wanting to write this since their comment! But I’ve only just now managed to-

You sneak up behind Miguel, peeking over his shoulder and trying to see what had him so frustrated. You can’t help but feel a bit shocked when you find Miguel angrily hunched over a pair of knitting needles, a skein of soft light gray yarn sitting in his lap and a determined look set on his face as he struggles with a set of messily knit rows.

You grin, standing up from your desk and happily checking over the seams of the skirt you had just finished: a simple ankle length circle skirt- flowy and pretty with a thick waist band that you knew would cinch your waist nicely. It had turned out nice, you already had most of the fabric you needed, and the project had given you a convenient excuse to try out the rolled hem presser foot Miguel had bought for you a few weeks ago. You had been meaning to add some more formal pieces to your wardrobe recently, and this skirt was a simple piece- hardly even needed a pattern- that you figured you could dress up or down easily depending on the occasion.

You poked your head out of your sewing room, grinning when you saw Miguel’s state of unawareness. He’s sitting on the couch and staring intently downwards at his phone or laptop- likely sorting out some ill-timed work issue. You bundle up the skirt and hold it tight against your chest, unable to stifle a quiet laugh as you run behind the couch- making a beeline for the stairs.

You’re sure Miguel heard you. He must have- with the way your bare feet thump loudly against the hardwood floors as you run. But he doesn’t call out for you or even look up from his phone.

You worry about it for a moment- Miguel was always quick to spot you trying to be sneaky. It was almost like he’d notice you faster when you tried to sneak up behind him or surprise him with something.

Miguel found it funny to tease you when you were trying to be sneaky. He wouldn’t try to figure out what you were planning- or at least, wouldn’t tell you if he did find out- but you could always expect to hear Miguel’s amused, rumbling laugh and some mild teasing over your failed attempts at subtlety.

He was probably just focused on dealing with a work thing- and you push his silence to the back of your mind as you continue up the stairs, going into your and Miguel’s shared bedroom and locking the door behind you.

You quickly start kicking off your pants- stumbling over the fabric in your haste and nearly falling flat on your rear. After untangling the pants from your feet- opting to leave them out for you to change back into later- you step into the skirt and pull it up.

The waistband sits perfectly at your waist- drawing in the otherwise loose and flowy fabric in a way that emphasizes your curves. You switch out the shirt you’d been wearing around the house for a simple loose white blouse, and when you get it all tucked in and situated you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you do a little twirl.

The fabric flutters prettily around you as your spin comes to a stop- settling as you smooth it out and look up to the mirror. It really does look nice.

You wet your hands in the bathroom sink- running them through your hair to smooth down any frizziness. Once you’re satisfied with your results, you smile wide and clamber down the stairs- excited to show Miguel your new skirt.

You reach the bottom of the stairs, but pause when you notice Miguel still engrossed in his phone with a rather frustrated look on his face. You walk up behind him, peeking over his shoulder and trying to see what had him so frustrated. You can’t help but be a bit shocked when you realize it’s not his phone or even laptop in his lap.

Instead, you find a skein of soft light gray yarn and Miguel angrily hunched over a pair of knitting needles- a determined look set on his face as he struggles with a set of messily knit rows.

Miguel groans and runs a hand through his hair. “¡No mames! ¿Por qué es tan difícil?” He growls, dropping the knitting needles and leaning back against the couch- flinching when the back of his head fell on your arm where it rested along the back of the couch. He looked back at you, the remnants of a startle on his face as he reached a hand back to brush a wayward strand of hair out of your face. “I didn’t see you there, love. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

You nod, not really processing his words- instead focusing on the absolute mess of yarn in Miguel’s lap that you think is supposed to be knitting.

“Miguel… what are you doing?” You ask, your brow furrowed.

You’re a bit confused, frankly. Before this, Miguel had never shown any interest in doing any sewing, knitting, or needlework. Unless, of course, throwing money at patterns and fabrics he wanted to see you use and leaving them stacked by your sewing machine as a silent way to say “I want to see you in this” counted as sewing. (You weren’t complaining- he never chose anything horribly extravagant or labor intensive, and the way he’d puff his chest in pride and hold you close constantly anytime you wore something you made outside the house filled you with a warm fuzzy feeling that practically washed all your worries away… although you do currently have a bunch of baby clothes patterns from him that you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do with, considering you aren’t even pregnant). But, in general, Miguel had just always seemed like he preferred watching you sew over trying to do any projects of his own.

Miguel sighed, and you were pulled out of your thoughts as he nudged his open laptop towards you, watching your face with apprehension.

The laptop has a knitting guide pulled up. You squint at the small print, leaning closer over the back of the couch until your feet come off the ground, then picking them up and holding them against your rear as you balance on a part of the couch you probably shouldn’t be putting your full weight on. One of your arms is clinging tightly to the cushion, keeping you from sliding backwards as you stretch your other arm to reach the trackpad of Miguel’s laptop.

You start to scroll to the top of the web page- at least until Miguel pulls the laptop away from you, setting it on the ottoman before pushing the knitting stuff to the side and pulling you the rest of the way over the couch with a sigh.

“You shouldn’t be doing that. It’s not good for the furniture, and you could get hurt.” He says, looking down at you with his best attempt at a stern expression.

You huff, rolling your eyes and making a bit of a show of pouting (because you’re not going to hurt yourself, and the couch had a metal frame, it would be fine! But mostly because Miguel’s scolding reminds you of being told to not do the same thing by your parents). But it’s quickly forgotten once you get the computer back into your lap and scroll to the top of the webpage.

It’s a very simple tutorial over knitting hats, but what catches your attention is the very prominent note of “including child and infant sizing”. Before you can say anything, Miguel quickly buts in- speaking a bit hurriedly. “For a coworker- she’s expecting. The office is having a baby shower tomorrow… her kid’s due in December, so- um- baby hats.”

You hum in acknowledgment, looking down at the mess of a knitting project in Miguel’s lap and scooting closer to him. “You could’ve asked me for help, you know.”

Miguel turns to you, his tone questioning. “You know how to knit?”

“I’ve dabbled. I know enough to be able to help you with this- but only if you want me too, of course.” You say, shrugging as you take the needles and work attached to them and starting to look over the stitches.

“Yes. Please.” Miguel replies, immediately leaning closer to you and watching as you go over the stitches- ready for any advice you’d be able to give him.

You look between the rows of stitches and the pictures on the website, frowning as you spot a rather immediate issue. You turn to Miguel, holding up the work and giving him a questioning look. “Miguel, did you mean to do a garter stitch here? The pattern you’re using calls for stockinette.”

Miguel’s face freezes, then falls, and he lets out a deep sigh dropping his head on to your shoulder defeatedly. “I give up.”

You frown, nudging Miguel. “You said the baby showers in a couple days?”

Miguel grumbles, snaking his hands around your waist and hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “I’ll just pick up a gift card on my way to work.”

“Miguel- don’t just give up- this was a good start” You say, trying to get him out of his mope, only to be cut off by a tight squeeze of your waist and Miguel nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck as he grumbles. “Nope. I give up.”

You frown, nudging him again and giving him a worried look- a bit of guilt building in your chest at the thought of your words being the reason Miguel gives up on his project. “Why are you so discouraged all of a sudden?”

“It’s not all of a sudden. I’ve been trying to do this for four hours- I’m frustrated and tired and confused- and I’ve missed you.” Miguel says, smushing his face deeper into the crook of your neck.

You ruffle Miguel’s hair, wrapping one of your arms around him and giving him a hug of your own. “Sorry… I bet me coming out here and telling you that you may have been using the wrong stitch the entire time wasn’t very helpful.”

Miguel shrugs, looking defeated and taking his face out of your neck. Instead, he pulls you closer, fitting you into his lap like he was your suit of armor against the world. “Don’t feel too bad, I’d pretty much gotten too frustrated by that point to make any more progress.”

You squirm in his arms, tilting your head backwards and looking up at him expectantly.

“Let me try and help you? Please?”

Miguel smiles softly, the tension pent up from struggling all afternoon with this project melting out of him at your request. “If you want, love. I’ll try, but only because it’s you.”

You grin wildly, sitting up and grabbing the knitting needles and yarn as you squirm in Miguel’s lap, getting yourself comfortable. You take the small, oddly shaped and slightly butchered set of stitches off the needles, then pulling at the working strand of yarn still connected to the skein and unraveling the rows of stitches.

You wind the yarn loosely around the skein, just to keep it out of you and Miguel’s way before turning back to him, still grinning.

“Ready?” You ask, placing the needles and length of yarn into Miguel’s hands. “Ready” Miguel says, his face brightened by a happy, loving smile.

“Do you know what casting on means?” You can’t help the bubbly boost in confidence that comes with seeing Miguel smile like that, especially given how down he’d seemed before. Knowing that he was happy to be doing this, and not just going along with you for your sake made you feel a bit lighter and keeps you comfortable and relaxed in his arms as you start with your instructions.

Miguel huffs lightly- a bit of pride in his voice as he starts working the yarn around one of the needles. “Actually, I do know what that one means. It’s how you start, right?”

“Yep! Just cast on a couple of loops and do one row of knit stitches.” You say, watching closely as Miguel casts on, wanting to catch any mistakes or slips of the yarn before they cause an issue or result in a weird looking stitch later.

To your pleasant surprise, Miguel’s knit stitches are… good. Not perfect, but aside from the occasional reminder to come from the correct side, he does the row completely on his own. Once he finishes, he looks down at you, waiting for you to continue.

“Those are really good, Mig. I told you that you shouldn’t give up!” You tease, poking at his bicep before leaning forward and taking his hands as they hold the knitting needles, placing your hands over his in order to guide him through the first couple purls.

“That’s a knit stitch, it’s what you’ve been doing the whole time. Doing a section with only knit stitches gets you a garter stitched knit.” You pause, moving Miguel’s hands how you want them before continuing. “But there’s also the purl stitch- which is just a knit stitch but…” you trail off as you- slightly clumsily- guide Miguel into doing a purl stitch. “But backwards! And a stockinette stitch is just where you do one row knit, one row purled, another row knit, another purled- etcetera, etcetera.”

You pause, taking a deep breath before looking over to gauge Miguel’s expression. He looks a bit lost- his eyes narrowed and jaw set as he stares intensely at the purl stitch you just guided him in doing- so you take his hands again, doing the next stitch in the row and making sure to go slow so Miguel can see what you’re doing.

“See? Just a knit stitch in reverse.”

Miguel nods, slowly starting to do the third purl stitch on his own.

“Yeah! Yeah, just like that! Once you’ve got this down, I can go get my circular needles and you can start practicing knitting in the round!” You say, excitedly cheering him on as he keeps working through the row.

Miguel is quiet when he’s focused- and the two of you quickly fall into a rhythm of him working silently, and you pointing out whenever you catch him coming in from the wrong direction or notice his stitches getting a bit too tight or loose. You find yourself not minding the silence, content to simply guide his knitting and enjoy the warmth of his lap as he sits cross legged and hunched over you on the couch, his chin resting on your shoulder as he works.

It doesn't take long for you to start drifting off. It’s not that late, only about 9:30. But still late enough for it to be dark outside. Miguel’s doing so well at this point that you hardly even have to watch his stitches for slip ups, and sitting in Miguel’s lap means being subjected to how he practically radiates warmth- a blessing in the winter and curse in the summer. The combination of warmth, the absence of sunlight, and Miguel’s lack of need for assistance leaves you drifting through various levels of awakeness.

At one point, you close your eyes- promising to yourself that you’re only resting them and that you’ll open them right back up in just a second- only to startle awake at being lifted off the couch.

“M-Miguel? You’re done? Sorry, ‘m awake.” You mutter, still mostly asleep as you squirm in his arms.

Miguel has one arm under your knees and the other under your back, holding you close to his chest as he walks the two of you towards the stairs. When you start to wake up, the arm supporting your back tightens, keeping you from wiggling too much, and Miguel leans his head down, murmuring sweetly to you.

“Vuélvete a dormir, amor. I’m just taking you to bed, no need to wake up.” He says, starting to climb the stairs.

Miguel’s words have the opposite of the intended effect, and you merely wiggle and whine more.

“Noooo- We gotta’ finish this! I just gotta get my circle needles!”

Miguel pauses, looking down at you with an amused yet adoring smirk. “Circle needles?

You nod hazily. “Mhm. Circular needles- for knitting hats ‘n stuff. We gotta finish- you said you only have a couple’a days.” You say, still only really half awake- at best.

“And stuff?” Miguel asks with a soft chuckle- clearly very entertained by your half asleep ramblings.

“….yeah.” You mutter, your eyes fluttering shut as you curl towards Miguel- who smiles to himself before once again starting to climb the stairs, pressing a soothing kiss to your forehead. “I have more than one day, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t let you keep yourself up all night trying to have us finish this. We can work on it more tomorrow.”

“But-“

“Nope. Time for bed. No more knitting.” Miguel says sternly, reaching the top of the stairs and pushing the half open bedroom door fully open.

Taking you to your side of the bed, Miguel steps over your discarded pants and shirt from when you changed earlier, laughing as he easily stepped over the tripping hazards and lakes you down on the bed. “Are these from when you changed into this skirt you wanted to show me? I never got a chance to tell you how much I like it, it’s very pretty, love.” He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead before helping you out of your clothes and into pajamas.

Even half asleep, you can’t help the gooey mushy feeling buzzing in your chest at Miguel’s praise, (and the rush of affection that runs through you as you realize that he noticed your new skirt) but even that’s not quite enough to fully distract you from your insistence on staying up.

“I’m not tired- I still wanna help…” You mutter, automatically rolling towards and curling up beside Miguel when you feel the mattress dip as he climbs into bed beside you.

You quickly find yourself held tight by Miguel- his hand stroking your hair as he reassures you. “You were very helpful. You’re my amazing girl- who’s sweet and somehow amazing at everything to do with fabric and needles. I know you fell asleep towards the end and didn’t see, but I did a lot of rows- lots of practice, got my stitches looking good and everything. I wouldn’t have been able to do that without you.”

Miguel’s words send what you’re sure is a dopey smile to your face. “Can we do more tomorrow?” You ask, yawning wide and pulling your knees up so you’re curled against Miguel’s chest. “It was fun.”

Miguel smiles, running his hand through your hair lovingly before turning the bedside light off. “Of course, love. I enjoyed it too. But it’s time for you to get some sleep, okay?”

[k1ara-rains]

ASTV ANNIVERSARY!!

To celebrate my birthday, I DECIDED TO DRAW AN ANNIVERSARY GIFT FOR ASTV RELEASING IN THIS DAY!!!

I luv these lil sillies sm, and expect more drawings of them for pride month 🎉🎉

[grizzgotmilk]

scott pilgrim reference !!!!!! oh yeah

[beeheevs]

sometimes, I'll be reading an atsv fic and come across one word or way of phrasing or encounter, and all of a sudden just know the author is black. on the flipside, sometimes writers will write in a certain way that makes it obvious they're decidedly not 💀

[punkfloweranarchy]

Hobie and Miles on a mission/fighting a baddie together. Shit goes wrong. Really, really wrong. Like, building collapses on top of them and there’s no way out kind of wrong.

And, of course, Miles is impaled on some rebarb or something; bleeding out slowly but also way too fast, with Hobie pinned on top of him (with a few cracked ribs and other various injuries of his own, of course) and very little wiggle room to work with.

They think they’re going to die there, trapped and bruised and bleeding, but hey — at least they’re together.

And, of course, Miles thinks this is the best time to confess all the feelings he’s been bottling up for the past couple years and Hobie has to lay there and listen to Miles wax poetry about him in the round about way he’s so good at, avoiding the three words Hobie most desperately wants needs hopes to hear; all the while coughing up blood and wheezing for breath and Hobie is sure that his heart tearing itself to shreds is going to kill him before his injuries or the lack of oxygen will because this can’t be happening. They’ve wasted so much time waiting for the right moment and pushing down their feelings when they could have been happy and together the whole damn time and it’s too much for Hobie to comprehend.

So he almost refuses to confess himself. He almost convinces himself that, yet again, now is not the time. That as soon as they get out, when they’re healed up and away from this nightmare, then he’ll tell Miles how much he’s loved him for the past two years and they’ll get their time to be happy and in love and together.

But Miles is fading, his breaths becoming more shallow with every passing moment and Hobie knows they’re out of time. There will be no ‘later’. He only has now. And he refuses to spend their last moments with the words lingering heavy at the back of his throat, choking him. So he lets them out, finally. And finally, he can breathe for the first time in two years.

“I love you, Miles.” His voice is wrecked and his throat is so so tight with the repressed ache to sob or scream or choke or or or…

Miles smiles: beautiful, brilliant, heart-wrenchingly happy. It fills Hobie up with such a violent vortex of emotions he feels like the one who’s bleeding out, guts and heart so raw and exposed he can barely breathe.

“I love you too, Hobie. Thank you.”

Hobie sputters out a laugh because of course Miles would be the type to say ‘thank you’ after a love confession. The laugh turns into a breaking sob when he realizes again where they are and what Miles is really thanking him for: not waiting, not letting him go without saying it. For making his last moments ones filled with love and tenderness. Hobie wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. He wants something tangible to fight, to blame, to make feel all the pain that he’s feeling right now.

But all he can do is hold Miles and tell him over and over again how much he loves him so Miles doesn’t have to spend a second longer wondering.