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I'M BACK! I'm currently obsessing over an idea for a popstar!reader x Miguel O'Hara AU. I want to write it sooo bad.

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hey babes! writing requests are still open 💕

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Hi there! I saw you had open requests so I was a bit excited to ask for fluff requests👉🏼👈🏼 I’ve been a little overwhelmed and overstimulated with everything so I was hoping I could ask for Miguel helping reader with their feelings.

Comforting them with like a nest of blankets and pillows｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡ i sometimes get super anxious and agitated that I feel like I snap at others and I like the thought of Miguel knowing how to fix that because he’s a workaholic and often burns out. Just a fluff, a little angst since it’s not a nice kind of burn out, it’s like a snappish and mean kind, any scenario works:) thank you!!

「 ✦ Burnout ✦ 」 ⤷ summary: Miguel comforts his partner after a hard day at work ⤷ word count: 1,103 ☆ ⤷ content warning: fluff, hurt/comfort ⤷ pairing: GN!Reader x Miguel ⤷ A/N: Oh! My first request! I'm so excited ♡ I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for sending in the request, lovely anon ♡ ↳ Masterlist ☆ Rules ☆ Prompt Lists ☆ AO3

You don’t know exactly what set it off.

It might have been the incessant buzzing of your phone, signalling far too many messages in your inbox that you didn’t want to respond to. Or perhaps it was the way your mind kept circling back to all the tasks you hadn’t completed today—the chores you promised yourself you’d finally get around to but kept on the back burner regardless. Those unfinished tasks buzzed in the back of your mind, taunting you for being unable to manage something as simple as laundry. Or perhaps it’s the way that work seemed to drag today.

 Every little thing that could’ve possibly gone wrong just piling up on your plate, your responsibility, offering you an unfortunate little taste of Murphy’s law.

You have just enough energy left to drag yourself back home, your patience already running thin by the time you arrive at the apartment you shared with your partner. Miguel being home at all was a bit of a gamble, lately—  he had always been a busy man, an unfortunate side effect of his brilliance, and his itch to constantly be doing something, but in recent months the worrying state of the multiverse is what has been keeping your lover away from you far more often.

You spot him right as you walk into the apartment, sitting at the dining table, hunched over his gizmo with a screwdriver in hand. The soft glow of the device cast shadows on his sharp features, highlighting the furrow of his brow. You vaguely remember him mentioning something about upgrades he wanted to make for durability. That man was always working. Always tense, always focused

“Hey, you’re home.” 

Miguel greeted from across the room, his voice low and calm. He didn’t look up right away, too engrossed in his work, but the warmth in his tone was unmistakable.

“Yeah.” 

You muttered, kicking off your shoes with more force than necessary. Your shoulders were hunched, every muscle wound tight with a tension you couldn’t shake.

Miguel glanced up, sharp eyes immediately noticing your agitation.

He didn’t say anything right away, just observed quietly.

“Rough day?” he asked after a moment, his voice carefully neutral.

“You could say that,” you replied, a little sharper than you meant to. You wince at your own tone— you notice right away how harsh you sound, and you really don’t mean to.

Miguel didn’t react to your tone.

Instead, he set down his project and stood, crossing the room slowly, unsure of whether to give you space or push the subject.

When he’s snappy and overwhelmed you often try to talk him through it— you always insisted on communication being key to a successful relationship, despite both of you being terrible at it.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really…” you said, your voice tight. The overstimulation was getting to you, every little sound and sensation grating on your nerves. You wanted to scream or cry or both, but none of it would help. 

You’re not even sure you can muster up the strength to properly explain what happened, even if you wanted to.

Miguel nodded as if he understood — and maybe he did. You knew how often he pushed himself past his limits, how he carried the weight of his responsibilities until it crushed him.

He never quite got used to how sensitive his senses became after his mutation, how even small things could overwhelm him when he was worn down. He’d never admit it outright, but you could see it in the lines of his face, in those rare moments when exhaustion slipped through his carefully composed exterior. 

“Okay. You don’t have to talk. But… let me help?”

His voice was softer now, as gentle as he could be.

You opened your mouth to argue, to insist you didn’t need help, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you just stood there, silent and tense, until Miguel took it as a yes. He didn’t ask for permission before taking your hand, and leading you toward the couch.

“Sit,” he said, and you obeyed, too tired to fight it. He disappeared for a moment, and you heard him moving around in the other room. When he returned, he had an armful of blankets and pillows.

“Miguel, what are you…?” you started, but he cut you off with a small, knowing smile.

“Just trust me. I know what burnout looks like, and I know what helps.” He set the blankets down and began arranging them around you, creating a soft, warm nest. “Sometimes, you don’t need to talk or solve anything. You just need a safe place to land.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how thoughtful he was. The tension in your chest didn’t vanish, but it eased a little as Miguel draped a particularly fluffy blanket over your shoulders and dimmed the lights before settling beside you, close but not too close, giving you space to breathe but staying close just in case.

You close your eyes, taking deep breaths, taking in the quiet and the comfort of your home, or your couch and the nest of blankets around you.

You’re safe. No one can harm you as long as you’re here— next to your loving partner, buried in the softest fabrics you own. Your body is still tense as you allow your body to sink into the cushions, trying to will your body to relax now that you’re safe and comfortable.

“Better?” he asked after a while, his voice is low, comforting, and he makes an effort to speak quietly as to not to set you off further.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. A little.”

“Good.” He didn’t press you to say more, didn’t demand explanations or offer more solutions. Instead, he sat quietly, a steady, anchoring presence beside you. It was exactly what you needed.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, the weight of the blankets grounding you, Miguel’s calm presence easing the storm in your mind. Eventually, you found yourself leaning against him, too tired to fight.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Miguel rested a hand on your back, gentle and reassuring. “Anytime. You do the same for me, even if you don’t realize it.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words sink in. You didn’t have to face things alone— not when you had people by your side to anchor you when the world felt too overwhelming.

You can worry about fixing your problems tomorrow. For now, it was enough to rest, wrapped in warmth and comfort, knowing Miguel would be there when you were ready to face the world again.

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Hapoy new year!!! ❤️❤️😁😁✨️✨️

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

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「 ✦ new year's day ✦ 」 ⤷ summary: Deadpool and Miguel spend New year's together ⤷ word count: 2,484 ☆ ⤷ content warning: fluff, new year's kiss ⤷ pairing: Fem!Deadpool reader x Miguel ⤷ A/N: It's not midnight for me yet! I'm totally on time. Happy 2025, guys ☆ ↳ Masterlist ☆ Rules ☆ Prompt Lists ☆ AO3

[01]

As it turns out, actions have consequences.

Tonight they found themselves, like on many nights before, lounging on a rooftop of the highest building they could find (and Deadpool could scale without falling below).

The rooftop stretched beneath them, its edges illuminated by the faint glow of the city below. The skyline glittered with lights as far as the eyes could see, a backdrop that felt surreal in its stillness compared to the chaos Miguel was used to. Something about the New Year and the seemingly endless potential contained in the next twelve months filled the air with excitement—with a static-y energy one could drown in.

The wind at this height was relentless, but neither Deadpool nor Miguel particularly minded.

Deadpool sat cross-legged on the ledge, her posture casual, almost languid as if the dizzying height didn’t faze her in the slightest. The soft hum of fireworks popping in the distance added to the strange serenity of the moment. On her lap teetered a greasy, half-empty fast-food bag, balanced so precariously that Miguel half-expected it to tumble into the abyss at any moment.

Miguel sat next to her, having long left his place a few feet away by the roof’s-access door. He was long past the point in the evening where he pretended to be annoyed or displeased by her presence. 

Miguel wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to this. Scratch that—he did know. She’d shown up uninvited (as usual) and refused to leave until he said yes, dangling the promise of anonymity and “a break from all that multiverse-saving stress” like a carrot on a stick.

Her recent gestures, small, unexpected, but undeniably thoughtful, had convinced him that this wasn’t one of her usual pranks.

Not that he had much else to turn to.

The idea of a company party had been an immediate non-starter, the thought alone filled him with dread. 

Visiting his mother wasn’t much better. An exhausting emotional roller coaster he wasn’t ready to face tonight.

So here he was, trading solitude for dubious company.

At least with Deadpool, he could count on the chaos being distracting enough to keep his thoughts at bay.

“You know,” Deadpool began, swirling the last of her champagne in a flimsy plastic cup, her mask pushed up just enough to leave her lips and half of her nose bare to the cold night air. He doesn’t know why she still bothers with masks when their faces haven’t been a mystery to each other in so long “This would’ve been so much cooler if you’d let me bring sparklers. Or, I don’t know, a mini flamethrower. Really lean into the whole ‘start the New Year with a bang’  thing. The end of one garbage fire and the start of another!”

Miguel raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to hide his scepticism. “Flamethrowers? On a rooftop? Because that’s a great idea.”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” she said, grinning beneath her mask. “But noooo, Señor Responsible had to veto all my fun plans. Honestly, I’m shocked you even showed up.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” he muttered, leaning back against the ledge. “You wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed.”

She gasped dramatically, clutching her chest as if he’d wounded her. 

“You make it sound like I dragged you here against your will! This is a gift, Webs. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend New Year’s with yours truly. You should be thanking me.”

Miguel sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying the hint of a smile. 

“Thanks. Truly.”

“You’re welcome,”

she replied smugly, raising her plastic flute in an exaggerated toast, as if she were some kind of fancy aristocrat instead of a mercenary sipping cheap champagne on a rooftop.

He took a sip of his own drink, his nose wrinkling slightly at the taste. It was flat, sickly sweet, and undoubtedly the cheapest bottle she could get her hands on.

“This is terrible.”

“You know,” she began, nudging the fast-food bag with her boot, “I could’ve gone all out for you. Booked us a Michelin-star reservation, ordered champagne that doesn’t taste like flat soda... but noooo, you insisted on keeping things low-key.”

Miguel raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. He didn’t doubt her ability to make good on that promise, absurd as it sounded. With her money, connections, and general disregard for rules, she’d probably get them into some five-star restaurant without batting an eye. He could practically picture it: her barging through the door, dragging him by the wrist, both of them woefully underdressed: 

her in her red-and-black suit, and him in his usual attire.

Or worse, she’d actually make an effort to “dress up,” throwing a silk evening gown over her Deadpool costume, complete with combat boots. The mental image alone was enough to make him roll his eyes.

“I didn’t insist on anything,” he countered, his gaze fixed on the skyline. “You’re the one who said, and I quote, ‘Champagne tastes better when you’re sitting on a death trap.’”

“And I stand by that,” she said cheerfully, reaching for the cheap champagne once more, filling her plastic flute. “What’s the point of ringing in the New Year if there’s no sense of danger? Makes the champagne fizzier.”

He sighed, shaking his head, but didn’t argue. He drinks the terrible champagne anyway. The truth was, he didn’t mind the makeshift celebration as much as he thought he would. The solitude of this rooftop was a welcome reprieve from the cacophony of alarms and alerts that usually defined his days. And Deadpool, for all her chaos, had a way of making the isolation feel less... heavy.

“Regardless. Yes, the champagne is horrible, but you shouldn’t be such a snob!” she retorted, nudging his shoulder with hers. “It’s not about the champagne. It’s about the vibes.”

“What vibes?”

“The vibes of two emotionally unavailable hotties bonding over cheap booze and greasy fries. It’s poetic, really.”

He rolled his eyes, but something about her words stuck with him. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, taking in the way she leaned back, her mask tilted toward the sky as though searching for stars.

Of course, Nueva York’s light pollution made it impossible to see any celestial bodies, but she stared upward anyway, as if willing the stars to appear for her, only for her.

It struck him then, that he’d always assumed she had people. Her life seemed so wild, so untethered, when watching from a distance, that it was hard to imagine she wasn’t surrounded by others just as unpredictable. Allies, rivals, and enemies too numerous to count. Compared to his carefully controlled solitude, her existence felt messy and vibrant, bursting at the seams.

But the way she’d clung to their strange, mismatched camaraderie told a much different story. Perhaps, she clung to him because she was just as lonely.

“Do you do this a lot?” he asked suddenly.

Deadpool tilted her head toward him, curious.

 “Do what? Drag broody vigilantes up to rooftops and ply them with bad champagne?”

“Spend New Year’s like this,” he clarified. “Alone.”

She paused, her cup halfway to her lips before she lowered it again, gloved fingers fiddling with the flimsy plastic rim. It was subtle, but Miguel noticed the shift. The discomfort she rarely let show, the evidence that he hit a nerve.

Her silences were always uncanny, unsettling in their rarity.

He was so used to her filling every pause with noise—endless chatter, jokes, and quips that deflected any hint of sincerity, always moving, always talking, as if the quiet might swallow her whole if she stopped.

Even with all the words she freely gave to the world, she rarely offered anything real about herself. What little he knew was surface-level, the kind of details she would’ve graced any acquaintance with. He’d learned early on not to ask too many questions.

 “Most years, I’m working. Other years, I’m, uh… between gigs.” She paused, then added with a forced laugh “Translation: I’m eating cold pizza and watching bad TV alone.”

Her tone was light, but there was a vulnerability there that caught him off guard. She was embarrassed to admit it.

“No friends to bother on New Year’s?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

She turned her head to look at him, and even with the mask, he could feel the weight of her gaze. 

“Not really,” she said simply. “People like me… we’re not exactly great at the whole ‘friendship’ thing. ‘Too risky.”

The admission settled heavily between them. Miguel didn’t know what to say, and didn’t trust himself to say the right thing.

Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she turned back toward the skyline, lifting her cup again in a half-hearted toast. Miguel watched her, the weight of her admission settling heavily in his chest. He’d always thought of her as someone who thrived in chaos, surrounded by people: friends, enemies, anyone who could match her unpredictable energy.

But now, watching her in this unguarded moment, he realized how wrong he’d been.

And how much they had in common.

“...Me neither.” he admitted finally, his voice quiet.

Deadpool blinked, then let out a soft laugh. 

“Wow. Look at us! A couple of loners on a rooftop. How romantic.”

The timer on his communicator vibrated softly against his wrist before they could linger on the thought. A tiny projection of Lyla emerging to announce the time, clad in a sparkly digital dress and carrying her very own champagne flute. “Eleven fifty-nine.”

“Here we go,” Deadpool said, sitting up straighter. She reached for the second plastic cup she’d filled earlier and handed it to him. “C’mon, Webs. Don’t leave me hanging.”

He took the cup, their fingers brushing briefly. “You really care about this countdown, huh?”

“Of course!” she said, her voice bright. “It’s tradition! Midnight countdowns, champagne toasts, a little self-reflection about all the dumb stuff you did last year… it’s the full package.”

As the final seconds ticked away, she turned to him, her mask crinkling slightly in a way that made him think she was smiling.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

For a moment, everything else faded away. The city, the fireworks, even the buzz of champagne dulling his usually sharp mind. It was just her, sitting there like she belonged next to him, among the chaos of fireworks and city lights, and Miguel hated how much that thought settled warmly in his chest.

He knew it was a bad idea. Knew it was reckless, stupid, impulsive—the exact opposite of what he prided himself on. But tonight, with the champagne clouding his judgment and the sharp edge of loneliness pressing deeper than usual, he couldn’t care.

She made him feel something other than regret.

She made him feel lighter.

So before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned in and kissed her.

The touch was soft and tentative, just enough for him to taste the faint tang of champagne on her lips. He started to pull away, already bracing himself for her inevitable barrage of jokes or sarcastic commentary.

But then her hand shot out, her fingers curling around his wrist with a force that read more like desperation than an actual attempt to hurt him, keeping him close.

“Whoa there, Webs,” she murmured, her voice low and warm, the teasing edge softened into something almost intimate. She softened her grip. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

And then she kissed him back.

It was nothing like his initial, hesitant touch. Her lips pressed firmly against his, her gloved hand sliding up to cradle his face, her thumb brushing lightly along his jawline. The kiss was deliberate, confident—so unapologetically her.

Miguel froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the sincerity of her actions, by her boldness. But then his hands found their way to her waist, steadying her as he deepened the kiss. She leaned into him, her body warm in the cold, winter air, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, the ache of loneliness began to ebb.

The fireworks continued to crackle above them, distant and inconsequential compared to the intensity of the moment. Her touch, her warmth, the sheer audacity of her kissing him back like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

It was overwhelming, grounding, and terrifying all at once.

His feelings filled with implications he didn’t wish to unpack.

When they finally broke apart, her breath came out in a soft puff of air, fogging slightly in the cold. She was leaning toward him still, her hand lingering on his cheek as if reluctant to let go.

He had to be the one to pull back first, untangling himself from her warmth with a sense of hesitation he didn’t fully understand. It takes her a bit to understand what’s going on, like her brain just blue-screened and it took a second for her to reboot. She moves quickly, then. Sitting up and putting just a little space in between them. If he asked, he’s sure she’d quip about not trusting herself to kiss him again.

The air between them felt charged. Heavy in a way that it never had before.

Deadpool let out a breathless laugh, the sound bright and tinged with disbelief. Her mask was slightly askew, and she tugged it back into place almost absently, her hands fidgeting in a way that betrayed her usual bravado. He notices she still doesn’t pull it all the way down, leaving her lips still exposed.

“Midnight kisses are so predictable,” she teased, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. Beneath the playful tone, there was a softness, a vulnerability she was desperately trying to hide. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Webs. Otherwise, this would be so awkward.”

Miguel groaned, dragging a hand over his face. 

“Forget it.”

“Too late,” she shot back, her grin audible. “Etched in my memory forever. Gonna be thinking about this every New Year’s from now on…”

“You’re insufferable.” 

“And yet you keep coming back for more,” she quipped, nudging his shoulder lightly. But there was something different in her posture now. Her usual air of invincibility seemed softer, quieter, as if the kiss had affected her more than she wanted to admit.

The silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t awkward. It was warm, comfortable, even as Miguel’s mind churned with questions and doubts. He wanted to say something, to address what had just happened, but every word felt inadequate.

“Happy New Year, Miguel.”

She said softly, breaking the quiet.

He glanced at her, taking in the way her mask tilted toward him, the faint vulnerability still lingering in her voice. 

“Happy New Year…” he replied, his tone just as quiet.

And as the fireworks began to fade, he realized, with horror,  that he wasn’t sure if he regretted the kiss at all.

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Hello! I'm opening writing requests for Miguel O'Hara ♥

And by that I mean please send me requests. I am DYING to answer a few and have an excuse to indulge in my hyperfixation! Here are my request rules if you're interested!

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「 ✦ sweet dreams of holly and ribbon ✦ 」 ⤷ summary: Deadpool visits Miguel on Christmas eve ⤷ word count: 2,989 ☆ ⤷ content warning: grieving, fluff ⤷ pairing: Fem!Deadpool reader x Miguel ⤷ A/N: Me posting a Christmas fic during new year's? It's more likely than you think! ↳ Masterlist ☆ Rules ☆ Prompt Lists ☆ AO3

[01]

As it turns out, actions have consequences.

Miguel knows this truth intimately. His entire existence is shaped by a series of bad decisions—most regretful, all irreversible, and the ensuing consequences that come back to haunt him later. He’s older, now, not much wiser, and yet, somewhere beneath the rubble of regret, he still hopes, absurdly, for a break.

True to her word, Deadpool continues to visit him.

It’s not unpleasant, most of the time. She arrives unannounced, making an over-the-top show of bypassing his security updates, “by skill alone,” she insists. He pretends to be irritated by her antics, her innuendo-laden quips, and the terrible puns that he’s sure she rehearses nightly in front of her mirror. And she’s gone just as quickly as she appears, flashing a grin and sashaying out the door, searching for another hapless victim or a greener pastures to poison.

Like a hurricane, leaving chaos in her wake.

A force of nature, unstoppable and unpredictable.

Miguel tells himself he’s sturdy enough to weather her storms.

It occurs to him, though, that Deadpool’s presence is partially his fault.

Vampires, he’s heard, can only enter a household if invited, before being able to come and go as they please. Not that he thinks Deadpool is a vampire (though, honestly, with her, who knows?), but the principle feels the same: By allowing her in, tolerating her mischief and offering even the barest hint of a welcome, he’s given the merc a permanent free pass into his life, handing her permission to disrupt it as she pleases.

Now, she’s everywhere.

Popping up during Miguel’s rare patrols to fling terrible jokes and snacks his way or sprawling across his office floor to colour disturbing doodles while he works, which she proudly dubs “masterpieces of modern art.” At first, he assumed Deadpool’s only sporadic appearances meant she was moving on, her chaotic energy drawn to new, more interesting prey. But then he realized her visits always happened between her jobs. 

When she wasn’t busy with her brand of mercenary madness, she found her way back to him.

She was around often enough that her absence felt like a tangible weight on the days she didn’t come.

He calls it Stockholm syndrome. Lyla, adjusting her heart-shaped glasses, cheerfully, helpfully informs him that Stockholm syndrome isn’t real.

He clings to the term anyway.

Things don’t really get easier, even with (or despite) Deadpool’s more frequent visits. They ease Miguel’s loneliness, sure, but it doesn’t heal his wounds and make the ache in his chest disappear like magic. 

Grief doesn’t fade.  It burrows under the skin, a wound that festers no matter how many bandages you wrap it in, a constant ache that lingers, no matter how much time passes. 

Day by day, he copes. 

Miguel returns home a little more often. His kitchen countertops remain dusty, but his office slowly recovers from the worst of his depression-fueled chaos.

Abandoned projects are shoved into corners, ignored but not forgotten. He learns to grow around the gaping hole in his heart, even when it threatens to swallow him whole.

His office shows faint signs of life. Baby steps, Lyla calls them.

(He doesn’t let her judge the nights he spends rewatching home videos. The ones where a version of himself, happier and whole, laughs as Gabriella runs barefoot through his living room on Christmas morning, slipping over wrapping paper when he attempts to show him a new trick she had learned. )

The holidays bring with them a specific ache. An emptiness that swallows the progress he’s made. Christmas was supposed to be a time for joy, for family, for moments that Miguel never got to have. He never saw Gabriella’s face light up at the sight of her presents or heard her complain about itchy sweaters. He had so little time with her, and what he has now are scraps of a life that doesn’t exist anymore.

It’s Christmas Eve, and he’s buried in work.

The others are long gone, celebrating with the loved ones they’re fortunate enough to have. It leaves the Spider Society’s headquarters eerily quiet, for once. Even Peter’s off playing family man.

Miguel’s only company is the dull glow of his screens, filling his vision, different responsibilities all competing for his attention as he multitasks. To his right, there’s raw data to analyse for his day job, to his left are the files of potential spider-people to recruit into his growing collective. Centre stage, a home video playing on loop. 

Deadpool’s entrance is startlingly subdued this time. She slips in so quietly, she might as well have strolled through the front door with a welcome mat under her arm. For someone so loud and larger-than-life, it’s easy to forget that she’s also disturbingly good at her job, stealth, included when it suits her.

Miguel notices her leaning casually against the desk behind him, the crooked angle of her Santa hat adding an odd whimsy to her usual leather-clad figure. Her gaze lingers, unapologetically, shamelessly, on his broad shoulders before flicking to the home video looping on his screen. She doesn’t comment, though the tension in her posture suggests she’s actively fighting the impulse. Instead, the merc picks up an empty takeout container, inspects it with a grimace, and shakes it like it might suddenly produce something edible.

Miguel doesn’t turn to look at her. He doesn’t have to. He knows she’s there, waiting for him to react, to acknowledge her presence. But he waits. Waits for her to say something cutting or inappropriate, for her to pry into the life he keeps locked behind layers of stone and silence. To tease him for falling apart again—or worse, to pity him.

He braces for the inevitable.

But she doesn’t do any of that.

“Your taste in takeout is abysmal!” she says instead, her voice dripping with mock disapproval. The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself  “Where’s the spice? The thrill? The flavour, Miguelito?” 

She drops the container back onto the desk with an exaggerated sigh, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

When she glances back at him, her mask doesn’t hide the sharpness in her gaze, like she’s peeling back the layers he keeps so carefully guarded. Like she’s trying to assemble all the little broken pieces of him into something she can understand. Something whole. Trying to understand the whole story based solely on the little glimpses he allowed her to see.

“Better bland than expired.”

She doesn’t take the bait, which is unusual for her. He eyes the screens in front of him, already getting overwhelmed by all the responsibilities he needs to return to. He can already feel a headache starting to form, and he knows, that Deadpool’s presence will only serve to make matters worse.

But somehow, despite himself, he didn’t tell her to leave. He did tell her to do as she pleased, after all, he knew, deep down, it wasn’t something he could ever take back.

Like a vampire, Miguel’s mind supplies. In his weakest moment, he’d let her in. He hadn’t even tried to stop her, too tired, too resigned, and too drawn in by the light she carried with her. He’d bared his neck, and she’d sunk her teeth in. Her presence became a mark he couldn’t erase, a tether he couldn’t sever. 

He’d let her in, foolishly, willingly, and now she was everywhere.

Deadpool steps closer, her presence as loud as her voice is soft.

“I always thought you’d go big for the holidays,” she says, a thread of wistfulness threading through her usual bravado. “Big feast, tamales, flan, the works. Maybe even some singing. You have a deep, dramatic voice. I bet you’d kill at carols.”

Miguel snorts, barely glancing her way. “I don’t sing.”

“Not yet,” she quips, lightning-quick, her tone regaining its usual teasing edge. “Give me time.”

His lips twitch, but the moment flickers and dies as his eyes return to the screen. With a flick of his wrist, he minimizes the video of Gabriella. He doesn’t need her catching sight of it, doesn’t need her insight slicing him open when he’s already frayed at the edges.

She leans in closer, hands on her hips, and inspects his workspace with the exaggerated scrutiny of someone who knows it’ll get under his skin. He doesn’t miss the flash of her eyes: sharp, always searching, as though she’s piecing together a puzzle he didn’t even realize he was giving her.

“You know...” she murmurs, her voice deceptively soft, “I always figured you’d be good at this kind of thing. Cooking, hosting. You give off big, ‘don’t get in my kitchen’ energy.” She waves vaguely at the mess of his desk. “I figured, at least once a year, you’d make some grand feast. Surprise the whole Spider Society. Show everyone you’re not just an emotionally constipated vampire.”

Miguel doesn’t rise to the bait. Not immediately. But her words linger, brushing against memories he tries to bury. Family dinners he’ll never have again. Voices that won’t ever echo through his halls. He minimizes another screen, obscuring data reports and his daughter’s ghost alike.

“I came here with expectations, man!” The woman adds, leaning back against the desk now, her head cocked and her posture lazy, though her eyes gleam with something sharper. “You’re supposed to be brooding, not boring.”

She’s joking, but her voice lands flat against the weight of his silence. When he doesn’t respond, she sighs, her theatrics dialled up to mask her displeasure.

“Come on, Spidey. Even big, scary, emotionally stunted vampire-dudes need to unwind sometimes.” She gestures dramatically, like she’s pitching a rom-com. “You know what you need? To find yourself stranded in a small town in the middle of nowhere during the holidays. Maybe meet a single mom and her precocious kid who teaches you the true meaning of Christmas. Hallmark loves that stuff, and I could definitely pull a few strings—”

Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, his frustration evident even in the smallest motion. “I’m not a vampire. And I don’t need to unwind.”

The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him, though, and she caught it. She always did.

"Of course not. You're Miguel O'Hara. A man with the emotional depth of a teaspoon—"

"Can you get to the point?" he interrupted, glaring at her.

Deadpool pushed off the desk and started pacing dramatically, arms spread wide. "The point, dear Miguel, is that it's the holidays, and while I'm not exactly what you'd call 'festive'— I mean, unless you count stringing someone up in Christmas lights as festive. I thought you might appreciate a little...cheer."

Miguel snorted, leaning back in his chair. 

"Breaking into my office to annoy me is your idea of holiday cheer?"

"Well, duh.” She stopped mid-step, turning on her heel with a grin that Miguel could hear even through her mask. "And, because I’m such a benevolent holiday spirit, I even brought a gift!"

With a flourish, she whipped out a brightly wrapped package from one of her hammerspace pockets. It hit the desk with a muffled thunk, the sheer volume of tape on the underside suggesting that the wrapping process had been nothing short of a battle. A crooked red bow perched on top, that at the very least, suggested a genuine effort. The wrapping paper, of course, was adorned with her unmistakable logo, turning the whole thing into a self-promoting eyesore.

Miguel eyed the package with the wariness of a man who had been burned one too many times—literally, in some cases. He could never quite tell when Deadpool was being genuine, and the twinkle in her voice only heightened his suspicion.

"If this explodes—"

"Relax, it's not a bomb." Deadpool crosses her chest solemnly. He can tell by the way her mask moves that she’s trying hard to keep a smile off her face. "Swear on my questionable moral compass."

Miguel hesitated before picking the package up, his talons grazing the edges of the poorly wrapped package to cut through the layers of excessive tape and garish paper, revealing...a scarf. It was lumpy, uneven in all the wrong places, and unmistakably handmade. The navy and red stitches, his signature colours, he notices, are woven with more enthusiasm than skill.

His gaze caught on the uneven blobs of red yarn near the middle. Blobs of red yarn created a pattern that vaguely resembled his mask—an earnest effort, even if imperfect. As chaotic as the woman who made it.

"I made it myself!" she declared, her voice bubbling with pride. That much is obvious, but Miguel is kind enough not to voice the thought. Her gloved hands clapped together, and she leaned forward just enough to invade his space, her masked face tilted as if daring him to be unimpressed by her efforts.

He stared at the scarf for a long moment, then shifted his eyes to her. Then back at the mask, then back at her. The hardened lines of his face softened, a flicker of something tender breaking through his usual cold expression.  

"...Why?"

Her bravado faltered, just for a second, before she recovered with a playful shrug. 

“Because you’re always brooding up here, and I figured you could use something warm. Not just, you know, emotionally—but literally. It’s freezing in this place!”

Miguel turned the scarf over in his hands, his thumb brushing the uneven stitches. He could feel the effort in every imperfection, the way each loop of yarn reflected intense trial and error, intense persistence on her part for a gift she didn’t have any obligation to give him. It was ridiculous, clumsy, and...incredibly thoughtful.

“You realize I have enhanced thermoregulation,” he said quietly, his fingers lingering on the rough yarn. “I don’t get cold.”

She let out an exaggerated groan, throwing her hands in the air. Half frustrated at him for breaking the delicate, sweet moment they had built, and undeniably charmed by… By how weird and nerdy he could be. Of course, he’d say something like this.

“Wow, buzzkill. Do you always have to ruin the moment, or is that just a holiday special?” Despite her words, her voice was warm, almost affectionate. “Just take the stupid scarf, okay? Humour me for once.”

Miguel didn’t respond right away, his fingers lingering on the uneven loops of red yarn, tracing the clumsy pattern that tried so earnestly to copy the sharp, angular shapes of his mask. There was something disarming about the imperfections, something that softened the edges of his thoughts. Slowly, he wrapped the scarf around his neck, the knitted scarf bunching awkwardly against his collar. It wasn’t comfortable, not in the traditional sense, but it radiated a warmth that had nothing to do with the yarn and everything to do with her.

Deadpool stepped back, her arms crossed, but the usual sharpness of her posture had melted into something softer. Her head tilted slightly, her masked face angled as if she were waiting for something. Not thanks—She knew him better than that. 

Something deeper, quieter.

"...It’s not bad,” Miguel murmured at last, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. Barely there, but real.

Her laugh came softer this time, stripped of its usual bravado. It lingered in the air between them, warm and genuine. “High praise from you, Spidey. Careful, or I might start thinking you like me.”

Before he could respond, she stepped closer, closing the space between them in a way that made his breath hitch. Deadpool’s gloved fingers brushed the edge of the scarf, adjusting it with care as she tugged it into place so it would sit just right. The touch was light, fleeting, but deliberate—lingering longer in its meaning than its physicality.

"You should wear red more often," she murmured, her voice softer now, almost contemplative. “Brings out your eyes.”

Her words hung in the air, heavier than her usual quips, settling in the small space between them like a secret shared too closely. She didn’t step back right away. Her presence, unyielding and grounding, wrapped around him as surely as the scarf she’d so carefully fixed. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that kind of weight until she was standing there, filling the empty spaces he usually drowned in.

For a moment, it was as though time itself paused, the sharp edges of his grief and guilt dulled by the unexpected softness of her gesture. Her gaze, hidden beneath the mask, felt unspoken but palpable— something uncharacteristically vulnerable, like she wasn’t sure if she’d stepped too far or not far enough.

Then the moment broke, so quick and fragile he might as well have imagined it. She patted the hero’s chest twice, the motion forcefully casual but hurried, as though trying to shake off the intimacy of the moment.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Webs,” Deadpool said, slipping back into her familiar mask of faux cheerfulness, trying to inject levity back into their conversation. “I just wanted an excuse to touch all this prime real estate. Who could resist?”

Miguel raised a brow, smirking faintly despite himself. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it,” she shot back with a grin in her voice, but there was something just a little off about it—something a little too forced. Her actions had the faintest edge of hesitance, her usual confidence tempered by something closer to uncertainty.

Before he could parse it, she was already retreating, slipping back into the flurry of movement and action that defined her. A whirlwind in and out of his space, gone just as quickly as she’d arrived. Her absence left the air around him feeling quieter. Much, much emptier.

Miguel let out a quiet sigh, his fingers brushing the edge of the scarf again. Lumpy, uneven, and utterly ridiculous. But it was also, without question, the warmest thing he’d worn in years.

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「 ✦ for once, you let go ✦ 」 ⤷ summary: Amid his grief and responsibility, Miguel learns that the one person he’s always dismissed, his universe’s Deadpool, might be the only one stubborn enough to care for him anyway. or what do you do when your deadpool stages an intervention? ⤷ word count: 2,876 ☆ ⤷ content warning: Angst/comfort, grieving, fluff ⤷ pairing: Fem!Deadpool reader x Miguel ⤷ A/N: I see a lot of black cat x miguel and spidersona x miguel but hadn't seen any deadpool fics, so I figured I might as well write it myself! ↳ Masterlist ☆ Rules ☆ Prompt Lists ☆ AO3 [next]

Miguel wasn’t sure how long it had been since he last left the Spider Society’s headquarters. He knew it had to be a long time, because he couldn’t quite remember how many weeks it had been since he last went home (and last time he was there, there was already a thin layer of dust gathering on his kitchen’s countertop) and his office at the HQ was quickly filling up with empty takeout boxes and old, discarded notes.

It was just natural for Miguel to not leave. There wasn’t exactly anything to go home to in this dimension, and if he was going to be lonely , he would much rather spend that time doing something useful by protecting the multiverse and atoning for his many costly mistakes.

Lately, he rarely even left for patrol.

Lyla was tasked with keeping an eye on the happenings of his universe, and if anything major showed up, he’d deal with it swiftly, effectively. Being back at HQ just in time to finish his paperwork.

After all, Nueva York could survive a few weeks without him patrolling every night, but the multiverse couldn’t survive the anomalies being left unchecked.

And Miguel couldn’t let another universe be destroyed.

But then again, he didn’t think anyone would notice, or even care about his absence. Aside from Lyla’s teasing about him becoming a hermit (he had long since blocked her from being able to recommend him to a grief counsellor), it’s not like he had any close friends or family looking out for him anymore. 

Not in his universe, at the very least.

It’s what made his swift escape to another universe so easy in the first place. It was a clean break—he made sure it’d be.

Until one particularly mundane day. Peter B. was off on the closest thing the Spider Society had to paternity leave, giving Miguel peace for once, and he had just returned from a solo mission and recruited a new, promising Spider-Man. By all accounts, Miguel was in a good mood.

There was only one problem, though.

He felt observed.

He didn’t need a spider sense to be familiar with the feeling, although it felt similar to how it was described to him. A tingling in the back of his skull, raising all the little hairs on the back of his neck, screaming “danger, danger!”, begging for him to turn around and search for the source.

Miguel remained calm, however. If an anomaly had escaped its enclosure, Lyla would have warned him about it. If someone was inside his office, it would be someone his AI knew and was in cahoots with, which means—

“Webs!”

A figure drops from the ceiling behind him, the sound of bones breaking makes Miguel cringe. There’s a grappling hook on her gloved hands, and he doesn’t need to deduce much at all to know that she attempted to use her grappling hook to swing around like he does with his webs. It wouldn't be a first.

“Deadpool.”

He sighs, not having enough energy to fight the merc’s presence.

Ever since the Deadpool variant showed up in Nueva York a little more than three years ago, she had been a constant, annoying presence in his life.

It started with little things. She would follow him around during his patrols, rambling on and on about nonsense and only giggling in response to his threats, making a sly comment about his bloodlust being attractive or something similarly unhinged.

Regretfully, her presence was sometimes useful. Her disregard for the law and skewed moral code meant she was more than willing to do things he was reticent about, and more than that, it meant that he was always assured of having help for the right price, if he knew how to ask.

(He tried not to think about how she never cashed his checks or how her mask scrunched up when she smiled and said his company was rewarding enough.)

As much as he loathed to admit it, Miguel grew used to her constant presence.

It was sometimes nice to sit on a rooftop with her, eating whatever dubious street food she insisted on buying and listening to the merc’s inane chatter. It was okay if he didn’t feel like talking— Deadpool would happily entertain herself by talking for both of them.

After he established the HQ, it was only a matter of time before she broke in. No matter how many security measures he put in place specifically to keep his Deadpool, and other Deadpool variants, out , she always managed to find a way inside, sitting in his office and cackling like a maniac when she was caught.

And worst of all, she managed to form a friendship with Lyla.

(It would have been something easy to fix, but for whatever reason, Miguel could never bring himself to do it.)

“What are you doing here?”

“I missed you!” Deadpool sat up, folding her legs beneath her gracelessly. The grotesque sound of her previously broken bones snapping back into place filled the room. A disturbing, crackling symphony that she didn’t so much as flinch at, accustomed as she was to shrug off injuries that would incapacitate anyone else. “My man, my dude, my bro, my little ray of perfect sunshine, the fire in my loins—”

“Do you want to get kicked out?”

His sharp tone cut through her rambling, but it only made her laugh harder. It wasn’t just laughter: it was that full-bodied, head-thrown-back cackle she did whenever she knew she’d gotten under his skin. The sheer joy she seemed to derive from his discomfort was almost impressive as it was annoying.

As her laughter subsided, she leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees, cheek resting in her gloved palms. Even through the mask, Miguel could feel the weight of her gaze— sharp, teasing, and utterly shameless .

He didn’t need to see her eyes to know she was batting her lashes at him in mock flirtation

“I’d love to get manhandled by you if that’s what you’re suggesting,” she drawls in a sing-song voice, sweet as honey.

He groans in annoyance, turning back towards his screens to review the details Lyla gathered about the worrying influx of Green Goblin variants they had managed to capture recently.

“I’m busy .”

“That wasn’t a no.” The smile in her voice is less annoying than it should be “And besides— you’re never too busy for me.”

“Even if that was the case, which it isn’t, I don’t want to deal with you right now”

“You wound me, Spidey.” Deadpool’s hand goes to her chest, gasping over dramatically and gripping at the leather of her costume, “I can’t believe you’d say such a thing to a poor, innocent, young maiden. Can you hear the sound of my heart breaking? Is that pleasurable to you? I should have known that was your kink, you sick, sick man.”

He rolls his eyes so hard he can almost see the back of his skull.

“Why are you really here?” 

“I told you already. I missed you.” She replies, easily. She stands up to her full height, leaning against one of his desks, inspecting one of the takeout boxes he left on top of it with distaste. “I haven’t seen you in forever . I thought you croaked or something. I needed to make sure someone would find your dead body and put it to rest. I was even arranging a lovely funeral service in your honour.”

As annoying as she could be, there was a sense of familiarity in their banter. 

Deadpool tilted her head, eyes crinkling behind her mask in that way that told Miguel she was smiling — that too-wide, too-pleased smile that always preceded something ridiculous. She tapped a finger to the side of her head.

“You can’t get rid of me, big guy.” She announced, her tone still annoyingly sing-songy, there’s an edge of softness to it he’s desperate to ignore. “I’m like glitter. You’ll be vacuuming me out of your carpets for years .”

“I don’t have carpets.”

She only scoffed in response.

“Of course, you wouldn’t have carpets. Mr. Practical over here, huh?” She waggled her fingers at him like she was performing some kind of spell. “No carpets, no comfort, no love, no heart. Just spreadsheets and multiverse monitors. No wonder I’m your only friend.”

Miguel's jaw clenched at that, his eyes narrowing at the screen in front of him. He scrolled down a report he wasn't really reading, if only to keep from having to look at her.

“I have friends,” he muttered.

“Oh, yeah?” She leaned in, hands on her hips like she’d caught him in a lie. “Name one.”

His fingers froze over the keyboard.

“Peter”

She scoffs

“That doesn’t count. There are like, three hundred Peters working for you.”

He could hear her trying to suppress a giggle behind him, and it only made him press the keys harder, typing in absolute nonsense. He heard the soft creak of leather as she shifted, leaning against his desk like she owned the place.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, smug as ever. Her fingers drummed on the surface. “Don’t worry, baby . I’ll always be your Number One.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay, mi amor .”

He let out a long, slow breath, staring at the screen like he could bore a hole through it with his eyes alone.

Then, the tapping stopped. The silence that followed wasn’t like her usual silence, the kind where she was building up something stupid to say. It was quieter, heavier. She shifted again, but this time it sounded like she was sitting down on his desk, legs probably swinging like a kid at a playground.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a little quieter. “I meant it, you know. I was worried.”

His fingers stopped typing. There’s a beat of hesitation— but Deadpool pushes through it. It’s strange, in a way. He can tell she’s being serious for once, that she’s mustering all her care and worry for a proto intervention.

Miguel doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about it. 

What are you supposed to do when your Deadpool stages an intervention?

“You’ve been locked up in here for weeks. Not eating, not sleeping. Well, eating, but takeout doesn’t count. And I get it, I do. You’re doing that broody, self-flagellating guilt thing you love so much. Very Catholic of you, by the way. But…” She hesitated. “It’s different this time. I just know it is.”

Miguel turned his chair slowly, eyes sharp as ever, pinning her with a look that had made villains far scarier than her cower. But she wasn’t scared of him. She never had been, he can’t kill her in a way that matters.

“What do you mean by different?” 

Miguel asked, his voice low and dangerously even. He’s trying to keep calm, trying to stop himself from blowing up at her like he seemed to be doing so often lately— it’s a warning sign, in the way a cowering dog growls before they bite. He doesn’t want to get into this. Doesn’t want Deadpool from all people to speak to him softly and beg him to look for help. 

She isn’t deterred, shrugging, swinging her legs in lazy arcs. 

“Usually, you have a plan. This time you’re just… drowning.” She speaks, pausing, a little uncertain of how she’s wording things. “No direction. No light at the end of the tunnel. Just endless dark. I should know. I live there rent-free, baby.”

His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften. But she wasn’t trying to break him down. Not really.

She glanced at him then, tilting her head back far enough that her mask caught just enough light to show the faint outline of her grin. “You don’t have to say anything. I know how you are. Tough guy, big shoulders, all that.” She gestured vaguely in his direction. “But I’m annoying enough to stick around, so, yeah. I’m sticking around.”

He stared at her for a moment too long, eyes shifting to her hands — her fingers curled just barely on the edge of his desk. He wondered if she realized she was gripping it like an anchor, as uncomfortable as he was, but more willing to push through the discomfort.

He let out a slow breath, feeling the weight settle on his shoulders again. Heavier, every day.

“...What do you want me to say?” he muttered. His talons flexed at his sides, curling into fists. “That I’m tired? That I’m angry? Do you want me to say I’m grieving , too? Will that satisfy you?” 

He bit out the words harsher than he intended.

Silence followed.

Then, slowly, the faint sound of a thump as her boots met the ground and she stood.

“Y’know…” she said quietly, her voice oddly steady, “Grieving isn’t something you just power through like it’s another mission objective. You can’t… ‘Complete’ it. It’s… messy.”

Her footsteps were light as she approached him. She had that predator's grace, the one she never seemed to realize she had. Her gloved hand brushed lightly over his arm, hesitant, like she was testing the waters.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered.

“I think you do know that. I think you know it too well , and that’s why you’re drowning in it.” Her grip tightened, firm and grounding. Not pulling him away. Just… anchoring him. “I don’t know what happened to you, ‘Webs. You don’t tell me stuff like that, and I’m not about to go digging where I’m not wanted. But…” She squeezed his arm. “I’m here. Not to fix you. Not to ‘help’ you. Just to be here.”

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and raw in a way that took him off-guard. This was the last think Miguel ever expected from a Deadpool visit. Miguel didn’t speak, didn’t move— he couldn’t, paralysed like he had been afflicted by his own venom.

He could hear the hum of the monitors, the faint, distant chatter of the Spider Society far beyond the walls of his office. And her voice. So painfully earnest it cut through all of it, demanding to be heard.

It was strange to hear her like this. Deadpool , who was chaos incarnate, who made it her mission to annoy him at every opportunity, now stood still, solid, and steady .

A constant in his mess of a life.

He’d always dismissed her as a pest, a distraction he tolerated for reasons he didn’t like to dwell on. She was loud, unpredictable, utterly ridiculous , and yet somehow, beneath the layers of absurdity and deflection, she had always been there.

She wore her heart on her sleeve, but it was wrapped in layers of irony and humour so thick that even he, with all his brilliance, had missed the weight of it. She cared fiercely while pretending not to care at all, a paradox wrapped in tight leather and awful innuendo.

And now, here she was, standing before him with no armour at all. 

“I don’t…” he started, then stopped. Words failed him. What could he even say? Should he thank her? Apologize for underestimating her? Admit that her presence, chaotic, relentless, infuriating as it was, had become something he didn’t want to lose?

He felt… unmoored, vulnerable in a way he hated to be.

But not alone.

“I’m here,” she repeated softly, breaking the silence. “Whether you like it or not.”

Her voice carried a quiet strength, a promise. It was a simple truth wrapped in a joke, a quick route to denial if he ever brushed off her sincerity.

And it was that honesty, more than anything, that unravelled him. He didn’t realize how much he’d needed to hear it, from anyone , until now.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. 

“You’re annoying,” he muttered, his tone more tired than sharp.

Her laugh was soft, almost fond. 

“Yeah, well. You’re no picnic either, Webs.”

He turned back to his screens, his gaze unfocused as his mind replayed her words.

The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t the heavy, agonizing kind he’d grown used to. It was… easier, much lighter.

The realization settled over him slowly. She cared. Truly, deeply cared. And she didn’t ask for anything in return. Not gratitude, not acknowledgement. Just the chance to be there, to care and be cared about in return.

It was more than he deserved. More than he’d ever allowed himself to hope for, after everything he’d done.

“…Do what you want,” he muttered, turning back to his screen. His voice is softer than he intended it to be. “You always do.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she snorted a laugh, loud and unrestrained.

“ For fuck’s sake , that was practically an invitation , Spidey. Don’t you know what happens when you invite Deadpool in?” She leaned in close, her mask practically next to his face. “I never leave.”

Her words hung in the air, warmer than they should have been.

He didn’t answer this time, but she didn’t need him to.

Deadpool stayed where she was, quiet for once, her presence like static on an old TV— ever-present, a little fuzzy, but not unwelcome.

And Miguel let her stay.

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Hi love your blog! i think it’s so aesthetic 🥰 could i request some spider-man dividers? with the aesthetic of the movie “spiderman across the spider verse” thank you!! ☺️

(if you are not taking requests sorry for bothering you 🙇🏻‍♀️🩷)

Thank you so much! 💖💕 you are too sweet! I actually haven’t seen Across the Spider-Verse yet (but I want to!!). I made these based on the poster and trailer colors/aesthetics - hope you like them!

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

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btw a group of mutuals is called the circus

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───── ❝ Prompt Lists ❞ ─────

These are some of my favourite prompt lists! If you ever want to request something from one of them, please specify which list you're picking from ♡ Feel free to tag me in any prompt lists you think I might like.

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───── ❝ request guidelines + information ❞ ─────

↳ I am a uni student and have another writing blog, so it might take a while until I get to your request! Please be patient;

↳ Unfortunately, I have never written smut. I'm willing to try if you really want a specific scenario. I can promise enthusiasm, not quality;

↳ I am not a native English speaker, therefore my fics might contain grammatical errors or awkward phrasing occasionally;

↳ I don't mind writing about dark or disturbing subject matter, but will reserve the right to deny any requests that I think I'm not equipped to handle.

↳ If I ever end up writing something potentially triggering, I will try my best to tag it accordingly;

↳ At the moment I'm taking requests for Across the Spiderverse!

↳ I will default to they/them pronouns in my writing unless the request specifies pronouns;

↳ As a rule, I'll always avoid being descriptive about reader-insert character appearances unless traits are SPECIFICALLY requested. I don't tend to use "y/n" either;

↳ I'll also take requests for headcanons!

last updated: 31/12/24

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───── ❝ Masterlist ❞ ─────

↳ ◂ ❚ Last update: 30. 12. 24 ❚ ▸ ↳ ◂ ❚ ♡ Fluff . ✦ Angst ❚ ▸ Miguel O'hara ↳ x Deadpool!Reader

✩ for once, you let go ♡ ⤷ summary: what do you do when your deadpool stages an intervention? ↳ 2,8k words ✧ AO3 ✧ tumblr ✩ sweet dreams of holly and ribbon ♡

⤷ summary: Deadpool visits Miguel on Christmas eve ↳ 2,9k words ✧ AO3 ✧ tumblr

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