#a testament to how much i talk

[clingyduoapologist]

See the problem is I can acknowledge that Ezio is probably a better written character than Altair and his interactions with other characters like Leonardo and Rosa are all handled fairly well but also there’s just something about Altair being such a fucking idiot that he basically has to run around the Holy Lands sulking while Malik calls him a little bitch that I don’t think any other ac protagonist has ever matched

[arashi-no-saxlphone]

Something funny I’ve noticed between Axl and Bridget enjoyers (or at least between me and you):

You write a lot of long thought out posts about Axl(and other characters you like) that go deep into their characterization, why they are how they are, what about them you think makes them wonderful, really going into deep discussion about why Axl is a wonderfully thought out character

And Bridget fans just kinda go “OMG SAME, I wish I could look like her and make out sloppy style with (Insert second favorite character that you ship with Bridget, normally May)”

And both of these ways of engaging with them are based and valid 🤝

Honestly all that matters is the feeling - you don't need a ton of words to articulate what's in your heart when it comes to these characters; the resonance is just there and that's why this game's good.

Frankly I feel similarly about Testament in that yeah, I could talk about then forever, but at the end of the day it can also be easily boiled down to "Wow I wish I looked like them and was confident and comfortable in the world the way they are, I wish I could just be there Like a Weed, Naturally, as a Matter of Course."

So I totally get it - whether you write a bunch of words or just go tee hee OMG SAAAME the feelings possess the same level of earnest substance to me if that makes sense haha

Thanks for the ask!

[pipiezexal]

I think it's really important that soon after the reveal that Toshiro hated Laios the entire time they were adventuring together and just never said so, Kabru makes clear, in a way that Laois understands, that he intends to meet Laios again. He's crafting his words very carefully (in the English "I'm glad that we met. I got so much out of talking to you.") but by god he means them and he's not just being polite.

Laios has just learned someone he thought was a dear friend couldn't stand him, which is painful to watch and has resonated with lots of neurodivergent viewers, but that realization is followed with proof that there are and will be people that care about Laios as he is: here's another character, one who's great with people, making the effort to know Laios and establishing that he wants to continue knowing Laios.

[wikagirl]

A visitor aboard the vessel

Note: ummmmm head up this is really shit probably, I wrote this in like an hour and just kinda ran it through a spellcheck because I am dyslecix so proofreading is useless if I do it. Anyways have fun.

His bare feet were cold against the creaking floorboards, she allowed no shoes inside her cabin space and as it was her home, he would respect it.

The old galleons' interior was worn down by the ages and yet undeniably loved and cared for. Stains and marks covered the recently waxed and polished table of the small kitchen corner connected to the crammed space filled with bunks and hammocks one room over, only separated by a torn and tattered curtain which had been delicately stitched together with thread of various colours and strength.

He found himself at her table more often with the decline of humanity, and could you blame him? She was the most supreme of her kind, always in the know about what the other lesser ones were up to, always watching and taking note of their whims and woes. Sometimes she'd even allow one of them aboard, to mend their broken oars and stitch their cloth, all for the right price, of course. So who better to come to when you wish to inquire about their wellbeing?

Out of all her peers, she seemed to be the least affected by the fall of mankind. Where the others wandered the starless sea, seeking new purpose and fighting each other for power, she simply sailed. Sailed as far as the storms would carry her vessel, simply enjoying the peace.

She had always been a curious one, so much unlike the others. Her ship has not seen any improvements in centuries in terms of practicality; instead, she chose to decorate it, make it a home rather than a tool.

Her decks weren't empty either; others of her kind were very territorial over their vessels, murdering without thought to keep away anyone that wasn't paying for the crossing upon their decks, yet she had a companion.

A smaller one of her kind, the smallest in fact, the little ones holy cloth stitched just as carefully as the curtains to hold onto their tiny body as the wind desperately tried to tear it away from them while they kept watch in the crow's nest, their very own little gondola safely attached to the side of the ship in place of a lifeboat.

But the thing that set her apart the most from the others, at least to him, was that unlike the others, she was still undeniably human.

Sure, just like the others, she had torn off her skin and flesh, disfigured herself to distance herself from the life she walked before, to become something different. And yet, she was still....her. The others all took on the mantle of ferryman, stripping themselves of individuality as they became one of many others, working in heaven's service to repent for their sins in life.

And here she was, declaring herself something other than the mass. Ferrymother is what the others call her, and she carries the name with pride. A mother. Something undeniably human. But still, when asked, she denies still being human at all. So...

"...why?"

"Why what, dear?" she spoke, lazy amusement lacing her tone as she passed a little golden coin between her bony fingers as she sat relaxed, her head lazily resting on her other hand and her legs crossed in a somewhat slumped, almost bored, position. Her holy cloth veiled her face, but yet he could tell from just the smallest incline of her head that she had turned her attention from the coin to her visitor. "Has the mighty Father never taught you to speak in full sentences?"

“Why insist on calling yourself a mother when you hate what you were when you were human so much?"

The coin briefly stopped in its ever looping journey across her knuckles but quickly resumed with it's stoft clacking noise as it traveled over the old bones of the womans hand. She laughed and sent the coin skyward with a flip of her thumb, letting it clatter to the table where it danced until it eventually fell flat.

"Because unlike the other ferrymen, I do not regret the life I lived and I chose to be here." she said, her head turning to the entry way to the small room. the wall around the doorway was plastered with picture frames, some contained old and yellowed maps of places on the once so green and beautiful earth, others contained paintings of landscapes, some few ones had handwritten letters with faded ink in them, and hidden amonst these yellowed parchments and cracked canvases, a piece of heavenly scripture.

She pointed towards the frame containing the noticably less withered piece of text, the parchment still shone white and bright, the black ink had a soft golden shimmer to its colour and, at the very bottom, a familiar looking big swirly signature and a seal in red wax.

"A written confirmation that I cast myself into hell, choosing to forego the privelage of serving heaven as a virtue. Your brother Michael was the one who signed it." she explained "It simply seemed unfair to me that I should be allowed in heaven for slaying a flase prophet who abused the fear of god in others to oppress and abuse them while others were cast into hell for the same reason, the only difference being that the false prophet they slayed was turning his absue against those who believed in different gods. So I came down here, to give comfort to those that I feel have been sent here unjustifed and give guidence to the ones that are yet to come...or at least that's what I used to do until..." She flapped her hand around the air, a broad guesture towards the complete chaos that had spread through gods creation since the father had left and humanity had fallen.

The lost virtue was a legend in both heaven and hell alike. There are many romours about what she had been in life, some say she had been a heathen warmother who turned to god, others claim her to be a generous nun filled with devotion to her lord and nobody else, many tales had been told about her to various degrees of credibility. The only thing they all had in common was her kindess and love for the people, and her fearless pursuit of justice towards those who dared turn against their brethren for self-enrichment.

Her guest had heard many variantons of the tales about her but never would he have thought that she would have laid down her heavenly body along side her descent into hell.

The chair under her creaked as she leaned back, her gaze resting longingly on those owrn out paintings and papers "Surely you remember it well, the battle it took for heaven to let everyone in that lived a true and honest life, regardless of belief or status.....after all you were the one who fought it." An amused chuff is all her visitor gave in response.

She picked up the coin once more, returning to passing it between her fingers "I think your time is up. It seems they have gotten impatient with your absence.“ she said, pointing out the small milky window behind her visitor out the back end of the ship while holding the coin between her bony knuckles. A small blue orb wrapped in a golden chain could be seen fluttering through the rain, zipping about like a disoriented hummingbird, undoubltedly searching for the womans visitor.

"I guess it is." he answered as he rose up from his seat.

The hostess led her guest through the hallways of the ship, up to the little door just one level below her captain's cabin, connecting the ship's belly to the upper deck.

"I once again have to thank you for your hospitality. Fare well on your travels." the guest said as he bowed to the woman, bidding her goodbye.

"And it was a pleasure having you." she simply answered, her head tilting a little bit to the left as she did, a mannerism that her visitor has learned to understand as her smiling. "Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes, Ferrymother?"

"Please don't forget your boots again, Gabriel."

[writerfae]

The Avatar is master of the elements, I am master of the AUs

[alagaisia]

I’m reminded of that post about how goths and people who wear only lots of pink are actually the same because “wearing only one color” is a specific choice in opposition to just looking Normal

I’m flying to a friend’s wedding today, and I recently acquired from my neighborhood free page a very pretty vintage suitcase in like a brocade upholstery texture in all of my good colors, so of course I needed a coordinated airport outfit à la Midge Maisel. You guys don’t know me, but I usually dress very put together, in what my sister calls Outfits, with a capital O to distinguish it from just wearing clothes. And since getting a full time job I’ve been slowly adding to my collection of vintage and 50’s-vibes clothes, because I just really like that aesthetic (my bridesmaid dress for the wedding is a vintage tea dress I got from Etsy. The fabric is in great condition but I had to reinforce pretty much every seam with my sewing machine, because the structural integrity of the original thread was breaking down, so that was an interesting learning experience).

All of which is to say that I Dressed Up for the airport in a vintage-y outfit that coordinates perfectly with some of the colors of my suitcase, and my hair is curled, and I have a vintage leather purse that my grandma gave me that matches her watch that I’m wearing and the shoes she bought me last summer at the same vintage store that my skirt came from, and a teenage-ish girl with whatever you call the 2023 teenage equivalent of emo/punk vibes, like the dark maroon mullet and not a lot of makeup and dark comfy clothes but like, very on purpose, told me I look cool when I walked past on the way to security

And like, she Gets It! We have different fashion goals but I think we put a similar degree of intention into the way we look compared to just wearing regular clothes. Which is cool! It’s validating. Not that I really need validation, but it’s always nice to get compliments, of course. And the way I dress is really not terribly distinctive most of the time, other than being Outfits and a little dressier than maybe the norm is, like I think most people who see me one time in passing would see that I look Nice but not necessarily see it as a cultivated Look. But punk mullet girl gets it.

[dreameasel]

yall i have 112 drafts and 95 asks and i'm terrified to find out how much of this is actual rp shit and not just my normal hording

[daydreamingoncloud9]

[sheepie-self-ships]

honest to god i think the next person I date irl is just gonna have to deal with the fact that All M-ght is gonna take precedence over them for a long time 💀 he has been there long before them and most likely will be long after they're gone so they better know their place in my mental hierarchy,,,,

[kkoct-ik]

ello! i just realized that YOU are the person behind that one fanart i always see in the 3rd life tag that i love to bits, every time i see it i have to stop everything i was doing and admire it for at least 10 minutes. i also realized that i already followed you so just wanted to say that i absolutely LOVE your art style and especially the way you choose colors and shade! it makes the art look strangely soft and just perfect /gen

hope you have a nice day/night! -w

yes its me! waaah thank you for the praise that makes me so happy :) i do my best!

[vivistarlight]

I love Bridget Guiltygear. I love Bridget mechanically, narratively, and also in the cultural context of their character arc over the past 20 years. I’m thriving, I’m jiving, and I am eating so fucking good this weekend.

[literary-heights]

something something very hot take i wish. more characters got to do crazy perception shattering things of their own free will without either 1. something else manipulating the situation or 2. something random getting in the way

[saikitsu]

nearly at 3000 words and only 1 1/2 parts of junie’s relationship analyses r done [explodes]

[backtodecembertv]

me thinking about him every time i listened to the lyrics "i can't say that i can make you feel complete or free from your worry, but believe me when i tell you, babe, you'll never be lonely" vs him saying we had no emotional connection at all lmaoooo

[bonnievoyage]

wearing a girl(TM) cosplay now that i'm a guy was weirdly empowering actually?

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Show me where it hurts (part 1)

Miguel O'Hara x spiderwoman!reader

(AO3 Mirror), Part 2, Main Masterlist

summary: Miguel's acting weird, and you make it your mission to find out exactly what's going on.

warnings: no warnings for this chap, pg-13, swearing and canon level violence. smut next chapter xoxo

a/n: this is a combination of 2 asks and this post I saw on here a while ago: flirty/ snarky fem reader, Miguel during a ""rut"" (I don't know if it counts as a rut really, but its to do with his animal instincts/DNA) and Lyla playing matchmaker.  I had so much fun writing this, enjoy :D

(i wrote this pre seeing spiderverse 2, so i think characterisation is a little off, esp for Lyla, apologies! I'll fix it in my upcoming fics)

edit: I use the term "bichita" which I have been informed can be read not as I intended in Spanish. I'm not a native speaker so I want to apologise in advance. I'm doing more research for my future fics and leaving this up as a testament to my stupidity. Spanish speakers, feel free to correct me / clown my ass in the comments. My bad guys :(

wc: 3.6k

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

You think Miguel is avoiding you. 

One of your closest friends, giving you the runaround for months, it seems. Calling the two of you close friends is a little extreme, sure. You've only known O'Hara for two years, and been in love with him for slightly less than that, thank you very much. And yes, he refuses to call you by anything but your last name. And the last time you saw him he wouldn't so much as look at you, but that was besides the point. 

"..the point," You tell Lyla, in between exasperated bites of cereal, "... is that aren't elite forces of spiderpeople supposed to, you know, have some spiderpeople kick ass once in a while? And where exactly is our fearless leader? I haven't seen O'Hara's scary ass in weeks, and I'm starting to miss it."

She gives you a look, one that says this isn't what I'm programmed for , but you pointedly ignore it. 

"His ass, by the way." You clarify. "I very specifically miss his ass. Remind me to get his routine. I know girls that would kill for…"

"How the fuck did you get in here?" A voice croaks. You turn behind you and see Miguel, not in his suit, but wrapped up in a blanket like he's just woken up. And he looks rough, like a train ran him over on the way here: puffy eyes, splotchy skin, tension kneaded into his brow. 

"Wow." Your spoon drops into the milk. "You look like shit.." 

He furrows his brow even deeper, if that was possible. " Mierda. You shouldn't be here." 

"This isn't quite the welcome party I was expecting, man. I'm the only one to actually turn up to one of your meetings, and this is what I get?" 

"I thought I told Lyla to cancel," He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Cancel? Since when do you miss a chance to talk about rules and protocol?" 

"I don't have time for this-" 

"-and I'm not leaving without a proper explanation. Is everything okay?" 

"It's actually way worse now you're here." He deadpans. 

"Haha ." You turn to Lyla. "You drop everything to travel halfway across the multiverse and this asshole won't even say thanks." 

"Thanks, but this asshole needs you to leave. Now." 

This is the most he's spoken to you in forever, and you hate that you like it. You just want his attention, however it comes. If that means dragging this out so maybe he acknowledges you, touches you, looks at you - then so be it. Squinting, you get closer to him. You scan his face for anything to latch onto. You put a hand on his shoulder, still searching. 

"You sure you're alright? You know you can tell me if-" 

"Si, si." He grits his teeth, looking away. "M'just fine. I'll explain…. later."

"...because I'm your right hand man?" You grin, poking at his brow. "Stop frowning so much Miguel, you're gonna ruin that pretty face of yours."

He flushes, nervous, and swats you away. "-what? N-No. You're not my right hand man and I like my face just the way it is. Now, leave. "

Making your way to the door, you tap your nose teasingly. "You know where to find me!" 

When the door closes with a click, you make your way down the corridor, and stop in your tracks when you hear it. It's muffled, but with the strain of your supersenses you can make out Miguel's voice just beyond the wall. 

"I just…. don't want her to see me like this… Lyla, it's not happening… I can't tell her…." Tell her what, exactly? 

Resolutely, you make up your mind. Miguel O'Hara's got a secret. And before you leave for home, you're gonna do everything in your God given power to wear him down and find out. 

~~~

Despite his insistence otherwise, you liked to think of yourself as O'Hara's right hand man - and most of the other spiderpeople thought so too. You were one of the very first he recruited, after crash landing onto your earth like a spiderman-shaped meteor; the two of you were inseparable. Miguel was stubborn and headstrong and thought he was right all the time. Infuriatingly, he was, but that didn't stop you from telling him to get his head out of his own ass when his ego grew too big. 

He was different around you, you think. Softer, sometimes. Harsher, other times. He told you what you needed to hear whether you wanted to or not; the result of mutual respect and agonising persistence. Slowly, you had chipped away his hard exterior; the one he built because he thought he needed to push people away. In that regard, you were similar, but this need manifested in you like a weed - an awful, awful compulsion to joke and laugh at your own expense, to keep others at an arm's length. You had spent your whole life picking and pruning away at yourself, looking for perfection. Even after all this, multiverse-hopping and fighting alongside people who were the closest things you had to friends , it wasn't enough. There was still something missing. 

Ironically, Miguel had told you something similar the one of the last times you had spoken. You had fucked up a mission, well and truly. In the aftermath, all you can remember is coming back to base, limping on Jessica's arm. 

"She's hurt!" She cries out. Lyla materialises and leads you both to the med bay, inspecting any visible wounds. There's a deep laceration, sticky with blood, at the base of your stomach. You shift onto the bed and hiss with pain. 

Miguel is quick to follow, face twisted with confusion, pain, sadness. Even in your haze, you feel the tension radiating off of him as he drags over a cart of supplies. 

"What happened?" He strains. 

"I don't even… it happened so fast. We got ambushed, and all of a sudden I'm on the ground. I wasn't thinking straight and… " She sobs. "...she jumped in front of me. God, she saved my life-" 

"-wasn't your fault, Jess." You croak, trying to sit up. "And I'm fine. Just need to walk it off…"

"Sit, bichita," His nickname makes you frown, despite yourself, and you settle back down. "Lyla, what's the damage?"

Your vision goes spotty, and Lyla's voice barely registers. All you can feel is searing pain in your side, but Miguel is warm, oh so warm. You clutch his arms, and force him to look you in the eye. 

"M'ready, Miguel." He nods weakly, but you don't think he understands. "I mean it . I can lead, j-just need another chance and I won't let you down… Jess, tell him that I can-" 

"It's okay. I believe you. You just need to relax for me, hmm?" He clutches at your hand, tight, and it's like you're the only two people in the world. "You did good. I promise."

Faintly, you nod. You feel a pinch at your arm, and Jessica's there, with an empty vial of something in her hands. The pain washes over you, and you fight to keep your eyes open. In those last few moments of light, you swear you feel a shaky kiss pressed to your temple. 

"Sleep, mi bichito amoroso. Sleep."

When you come to, you're still in the medbay, moonlight streaming through. Well, artificial moonlight. Time worked a little differently here, something Miguel explained to you a while ago - God knows what about dilation and quantum interference. It makes you smile now, remembering his frustration as he tried to explain to no avail. You were the only spiderman this side of the multiverse without a degree in quantum tech, you had said with a lopsided smile. 

You move to sit, and pain shoots up your side. Groaning, you push through it, determined to get out of this bed and find the others. As if on cue, Miguel walks in, almost leaping towards you. 

"You should… mierda ! You should be resting in bed."

You pout as you stumble into his chest. He hooks an arm around you and leads you back. You clamber in, sighing. "M'fine, O'Hara."

"Your guts were halfway out of your body less than 24 hours ago. So stay put, or you might give me another heart attack."

You scoff, incredulous. "You were worried?" 

He shrugs. " 'Course I was."

"Why? You know I'm practically indestructible." You give him a shit eating grin, and poke the frown appearing at his brow. He doesn't bat you away like he usually does. 

"Famous last words, bichita." He sighs. You can't speak a lick of Spanish, but you know he only calls you that word when you've frustrated him to his limit. So you take it as a win, for now. 

He drops into the chair next to you. "How are you feeling?" 

"Just peachy, dollface." You wink, and he doesn't so much as groan. 

"I'm being serious. You went through something pretty traumatic…"

"You want me to tell you it hurts, so, so bad, daddy? " You pout and flutter your eyelashes mockingly. Miguel shifts in his seat, unable to make eye contact. 

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, O'Hara? I feel fine. And in a couple of days, I'll feel even better, and I'll be up and about. I can finish what we started and-" 

"-no, absolutely not." He frowns. "A couple of days? I'm sending you home-" 

"You can't do that! On whose fucking authority?"

"On the authority of you almost fucking died ! Keeping you safe is our priority right now-" 

"God, is this my punishment? This is a low blow, O'Hara. You know how hard I've worked for this: months of surveillance and intel a-and I did everything by the book, just like you told me to." You croak. "I fucked up . I know that, and I feel terrible. Give me a chance to make things right; that's all I'm asking. I can do it, I know it. "

He looks at you for a moment, something heavy in his expression. His face contorted, he strips you down to the bone with just his gaze. His voice is so quiet, you almost miss it. 

"....you're still trying to prove yourself, aren't you?"

Honestly, it catches you off guard. You don't even know what the fuck that means, let alone why he said it.

"I don't… I d-don't…?" 

"They all love you. Respect you. More than me I think, sometimes." He chuckles at that. "You're good at what you do. The best . What else are you trying to prove? What else do you need ?" 

Your throat goes dry. You couldn't speak if you wanted to. 

"I'm not punishing you. You made a mistake, but you don't need to be crucified for it. I just want to keep you safe. I can't… we can't lose you."

"Miguel-"

"-this isn't a discussion. And I'm not trying to argue, although I know how much you like to argue." He inches closer, cupping your face gently. You try to move away, blinking back tears. But his hands are steady and he strokes your jaw with so much tenderness you think you hear your heart break. He's pretty, so pretty. You don't deserve him, you think. "There'll be time to fight, bichita. Rest. That's your mission right now."

"C-can't sleep." You breathe. "It hurts." 

Miguel pauses, head tilted like he's thinking. He taps your shoulder. "Scoot over."

You do as he says, and he slips into the bed with you. It's a tight fit, but he manages, placing you on his chest with an arm gently around your shoulders. You bury your face in his hoodie, sniffling and hoping he doesn't notice you choking back sobs. Absentmindedly, he settles into a rhythm, gentle breathing and playing with your hair, soothing you softly. He pretends he can't hear the tears. 

"M'gonna stay here until you're asleep. For as long as you need."

You nod, unable to speak for fear of breaking down. 

~~~

The days after felt like a blur. You woke up to Miguel gone, and an ache in your heart. Jess visits as much as she can, and Ben calls you a couple times, to see if you're okay. Peter B brings Mayday, and she clambers all over your bed, bringing some life into the room. Miguel doesn't visit per se - you hear whispers of him, Lyla visiting in his stead for comprehensive status updates. Once, you wake up in the night to see him on the adjacent chair, head lolling in deep sleep. He looks peaceful, calm - one of the first times you haven't seen his brow furrowed with worry. Of course, he's gone by the morning. 

The very last time you saw him, he opened the portal home. It was weird, after everything, but if Miguel felt the same you wouldn't know. Talking at a thousand miles a minute, he alternates between assuring you they'll be fine without you and situation reports from spider people all across the multiverse. Things you'd missed whilst bedbound, asking for advice before you left. He trusted your judgement and the thought warmed your heart, almost making you forget that he completely brushed past the previous nights before. 

You still remember the last thing he had said to you, which would've been weeks ago, now. 

"...and if you need anything, and I mean anything, you call me directly. Not Jess, not Ben, and certainly not Peter B. Call me, and I'll answer, I promise. You need help, you need advice, you just need someone to talk to, then-"

"-I call you. I get it, O'Hara. Will do." He opens the portal, watching as you walk towards it. He can't take his eyes off of you, even though you can't see him. At the last moment you turn, and run towards him. You almost knock him over with a hug. Burying his head in the crook of your shoulder, he hugs you back, ever careful of your injury. Separating, your smile almost knocks him over again. Weakly, he smiles back as you head through the portal, back home. 

You're left with that feeling, of his arms around your body - warm, so warm - as you putter about by the switchboard. After careful deliberation (you were really, really bored ) you'd taken to manage the Multi Modal Multiversal Switchboard - as aptly named by Miguel. Everyone else called it the Big Red Phone of course, but he had insisted on calling it by its proper name . Every. Time. 

The thought makes you chuckle as you call up Peter B. His icon flashes on the screen in front of you. With a click, he picks up the call, his face materialising holographically in front you. A little hand reaches up and tugs at his ear. 

"Ow… ouch … Dad's on the phone, honey."

"Aww! How's my favourite Parker doing?" 

"Not bad, actually! MJ just made us probably the best burger this side of New York-"

"-sorry, Peter? Me and May are trying to have a conversation." You hear her giggle in the background. Her gap toothed grin pops into frame and she babbles excitedly. "...yeah, exactly May. That's literally what I said."

"Okay, okay, that's enough." He puts the toddler down and watches her scurry away. "You're feeling better, I see."

"Yeah, back in action. Thought I'd check in."

"All good here." He squints, trying to take in your surroundings. "You're at HQ?" 

You hum.

"Could've sworn Lyla cancelled…"

"Yeah, didn't get the memo. But I think something's wrong with O'Hara."

He gives you a weird look. "Uhhh, what makes you think that?" 

"He won't even look at me. Was it something I said? Something I did?" Your eyes narrow. "...what do you know, Peter?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He scoffs, a little too quickly, clutching his chest like you've offended him. He's stared down some of the scariest villains around, but the look you give him is truly chilling. "Just… uhhh. You didn't hear this from me." 

"Naturally…"

"We tracked 'em down, the guys that ambushed you and Jessica."

"The Sinister Six? From Earth-215?"

"Yeah, but by the time we got there, it was just Kraven and some of his goons. Miguel got there first, and…." He gulps. "He was pissed. Trashed the whole place looking for the rest of 'em. Beat Kraven half to death and we had to pull him off."

"Shit."

"Yeah, it was pretty rough. Never seen him like that before. And just generally? He'd been weirdly quiet, a little grumpy, more aggressive on missions. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"Hmmm. Thanks, Pete."

"No problem, sweetheart. And if the big guy asks… "

"...this didn't come from you, I know." Weakly, you smile. "Say hi to my favourite Parkers, for me." 

" 'Course I will. We should celebrate, if you're back officially. Mine and MJ's is always open."

"Good to know. I'll see you around."

He waves goodbye, and the hologram clicks off. Sighing, you try to piece together what you've just heard. 

Miguel: acting weird. Well, you knew that already. Aggressive was new. And Lyla? She had canceled, but not for you, for some reason. An honest mistake, perhaps. But Lyla doesn't make mistakes… 

You stew for a couple of hours, puttering about the switchboard, twiddling your thumbs. Something's wrong, and for some reason you're afraid to see him. To have him look straight through you, again, when you ask to do the same. Show me where it hurts. Tell me how to make it better.  

On the way there, you chew your lip in anticipation. In the corridor, you're outside the door to his place, hand hovering above the door. To knock, to call. In the harsh fluorescent light, you hesitate. 

"Lyla?" Nervously, you sink down onto the floor. It's hard to explain, but you don't expect her to actually come; to materialise in front of you. 

"How can I assist you?" She says with a ding. 

"Uhh… hi. Just wanted to talk." You pause, clicking your tongue. "Can you be honest with me?" 

"I can only be honest with you. It is not in my programming to lie, unless specified by my owner."

"Sure. Cool. It's about him, actually. Is Miguel okay?" 

She tilts her head, as if processing your request. "Okay is a subjective term. Is Mr O'Hara alive? Yes. Is Mr O'Hara physically well? Yes. By those terms, he is okay ."

Too vague for your own liking. "I guess I meant more… his emotional state. To the best of your knowledge… in your opinion , Lyla: is Miguel okay?" 

"...I believe Mr O'Hara is experiencing some emotional turmoil."

You frown. "Oh. Do you know why?" 

"Mr O'Hara has instructed me not to disclose that information with you."

"Fair enough. But you don't have to tell me… I could just ask questions?" 

She nods. "There is nothing in my programming that prevents me from answering some questions within certain parameters." 

"Did I do something? Not just today but… last time I was here. Did I say something to hurt or upset him? Is that why he's acting weird?"

"No." She says blankly. "And yes. I suppose it is… complicated." She gestures around that word. 

"I'm a little confused, Lyla."

She sits next to you, on the cool tile. Not that she could feel it, but it feels more intimate - like two friends talking. The extent of Lyla's consciousness, you weren't sure of. Was she alive? To you, she might as well be. Could she think, feel, emote? Maybe, maybe not. You weren't smart enough to understand the nuances of her programming. But you were human enough to see it in her - something glittering beyond the surface. 

It could be projection, but you swear her voice is softer. "He has a name for you. When he speaks about you, and to you. I have it logged in my memory database. Do you know what that is?" You shake your head. 

Lyla opens up her palm and projects videos and images - little Miguel's popping up in her palm, tinny and gruff voices ringing through the hallway. They say your name, shout your name, whisper it. Some say other things in Spanish. Curse words had always been your assumption, and he had given you no reason to think otherwise. Now, having it played back to you, you hear a tenderness in his voice you would've missed. Words and phrases that come up again and again…

"Bichita." She repeats. "Bichito del amor. Mi bichito amoroso. "

You shake your head, still confounded. "...I don't speak Spanish, Lyla." 

"Little bug. Sweetheart. Lovebug. My little lovebug." She clears her throat. "I believe they are terms of endearment."

Steadfast, she directs you towards her palm. Another small Miguel appears, and you think it's him from this morning. 

"I thought I told you not to let anyone in, Lyla?" 

"I did not let her in. She let herself in using the code you previously gave her, Mr O'Hara."

"Yeah, for emergencies. Fuck. Mi bichita, too smart for her own good."

"...If you are in distress, I believe she would understand, Mr O'Hara."

"I just think it's too much. I don't want her to see me like this." 

"According to Alchemax files, previous subjects showing this kind of aggression benefitted from-"

"Lyla, it's not happening, no chance. I can't tell her."

The figure blinks out of her palm. "Mr O'Hara has forbid me from telling you about certain things."

"...but not from showing me." Your eyes meet hers. You give her a watery smile. "Thank you." 

With a hint of a smile, she nods and is gone from the corridor. You are left alone, with nothing but your thoughts of little lovebugs rattling around in your brain.

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