#across the spiderverse
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katoninefandoms · 1 day ago
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There is a cutout at the top of the cowl for their hair. They hate having cowl hair.
YURRRRRRR SPIDERVERSE PICREW OUT NEOWWWWWWWWWWWWW
PLEASE TRY IT AND SHOW ME CUZ I WANNA SEE YOUR SPIDERSONAS!!
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fairlyang · 2 days ago
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thinking of stranger!miguel accidentally catching pornstar!reader masturbating in her car
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you had been meaning to film this type of video for a long while now but never able to get one of your sex worker friends to help you be a stranger that helps you out due to different schedules.
alas you decided to do it and risk an actual person finding you and secretly hoping that they do help you.
your camera was already set and rolling with you in the driver's seat, right leg over the center console and right hand rubbing your clit. you were looking right at the camera as you moaned and played with your tits with your other hand.
the dress you were wearing was above your stomach and you teasingly would bring the fabric from your tits down, just to barely see your nipples only to leave it as is.
you could feel a slight breeze since you left the tinted window a bit down in case any perv had the urge to take a peek inside. you were already playing for a good ten minutes, edging yourself just praying someone would not only walk by but also help.
a couple people have walked past, not seeing or hearing you but it did bring some excitement as you watched them. you were starting to grow impatient so maybe it’d be a shorter video for the channel.
meanwhile, miguel was coming back from taking a jog at his usual trail and was on his way back home. he did more than usual so he just walked back when he suddenly walked past a car and heard a moan.
he stopped in his tracks and couldn’t help but look into the small opening just to see you fingering yourself with your eyes closed. his eyes were wide and he couldn’t believe the sight.
this was something straight out of a porno and although you didn’t see him, the camera sure did.
his head was out of frame and the black wife beater was stuck to his skin. his arms were out and that was all the camera would be able to see of him.
his breath shortened and he gulped, absolutely shocked he’d be able to witness something so dirty but also hot. and by a gorgeous girl too?
he’d have to get a lottery ticket after this.
he straightened up and thought of what he should do. realistically he knew what he wanted to do but he was a complete stranger, maybe it was too much.
but then again there wouldn’t be another opportunity like this.
he watched you for a few more seconds, admiring the way your tits bounced while you fucked yourself harder. finally he made his move. he cleared his throat and lightly tapped on the window making you gasp and turn your head to the left to see a handsome man looking at you.
hopefully it was your lucky day.
“are you alright?” he asks and you quickly nod, “i am now..”
his cheeks grow warm and he’s not sure what to do next. you give him a smile and decide to go for it, “i’m filming a video and was hoping i’d get lucky enough to get some help…”
“do you wanna help me?” you ask, looking directly into his eyes as he just nods.
you pushed the button and made the window go all the way down then reach for his right arm. he reaches inside, getting as close to your car while you guide his hand to your tits. you pulled the top of the dress down, exposing your tits to him then made him touch them.
he squeezed the right one first making you moan because another persons hand would always be better than your own. he went to the other one and squeezed your nipple gently, you spread your legs a bit more just so he could have enough space.
he was too busy groping your tits to notice, at least that was until you pulled his arm up to your face. you grabbed his wrist and slipped two fingers into your mouth, sucking on them with your eyes boring into his while you made sure they were nice and wet.
you pulled them out with a plop and quickly brought his arm down between your legs and he slipped them inside without hesitation. he moved slowly, giving you time to get use to it while you you moaned and held onto his arm to urge him to do more. he took notice and went deeper, your slippery walls entrapping them while he set a fast pace for you.
“oh f-fuck- yes!” you moaned and bucked your hips up. his fingers were much thicker than yours, actually able to stretch you out unlike your own. it was just what you needed.
miguel was watching the way your pussy just took his fingers in, your wetness already dripping down when he’s only just started. what he didn’t know was you’ve been edging and just having a complete stranger do this could make you cum at any second.
you held onto his arm, holding on tightly as he pumped them faster and harder making you a moaning mess for him. he felt his shorts become tighter and he knew he was done for.
“you like that baby?” he murmurs and you quickly nod with a slight pout on your lips.
your brain was already mush, not actually thinking one of your fantasies would come true but happy they did with someone so fine. and the fact that he knew what he was doing was the cherry on top.
“such a dirty girl huh? playing with yourself in public like this?” he murmured and you clenched against his fingers.
you whimpered and laid your head to the side by the seatbelt while he continued, “so fucking wet too, you really wanted this to happen didnt you, baby?”
you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak as you felt a knot form in your stomach. you let go of his arm and brought your right hand to quickly rub your clit, feeling the strong urge to squirt, knowing you should stop but it’d feel so good.
“that’s it baby, such a good girl. gonna cum for me? just gonna cum for a stranger?” he murmured lowly, able to feel you squeeze and just watching your body contort in pleasure.
“fuck- p-please don’t stop-“ you whimpered out and felt your legs start to shake.
“i’ve got you gorgeous, come on give it to me.” he purred and that did it for you.
you cried out as your juices quickly came out of you, he slipped his fingers out and replaced yours on your clit so he could make sure every drop comes out. you whimpered and moaned as he went from rubbing your clit fast as you reached your climax to suddenly slow when nothing else came out.
he stopped and left his hand on your thigh, murmuring sweet praises as you calmed yourself down and closed your legs. you closed your eyes, deciding that if you didn’t look at the disaster then it simply wasn’t there. not only are you too tired to clean it all up, you were in absolute shock that actually happened.
your breathing was steady again and you opened your eyes, turning to look out the window and at him. he really was gorgeous and if you weren’t so beat you’d offer to suck him off in the backseat but you were exhausted.
“thank you, stranger. gonna have to make a rain check on when i can make it up to you…” you say and he chuckles.
he shrugs and gives you a smile, “there’s really no need. can’t deny a pretty girl when she needs help.”
you grinned and shrugged, turning to open your center console, grabbing a business card and then handing it to him, “well if you change your mind…”
he grabbed it and nodding as he put it in his pocket, “i’ll let you know.”
he gave you one final smile before walking the way he was going before he stopped, now having to do the walk of shame with a hard on and wet fingers.
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stitchedspider · 2 days ago
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manofbeskar · 3 days ago
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bookmark i designed for the spiderverse zine @thespiderversezine
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nan0-sp1der · 1 day ago
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"..............."
The centipedes squirm and wriggle about on her outstretched palms, beginning to crawl about along the lines etched into her synthetic skin, between her fingers, along the backs of her hands. She isn't sure what confused her more: the fact that she was given centipedes without explanation, the fact that there were exactly four, or that the individual had left so suddenly after leaving their little... 'Gift' behind.
Does she keep them? Absolutely she does. They end up crawling up into her sleeves, up into whatever mysterious method of storage she kept in her coat. Probably hammerspace.
Give my muse an item and see how they react!
Things may or may not be added to their official inventory
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qirarey123 · 3 days ago
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Some fake movie screenshots of Josie I did for fun, I'd like it to be 2d animated and still have the comic book style 🩰✨️
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loganlermanstanaccount · 2 days ago
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Rigor Mortis (part 11)
College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader
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(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 10, Part 12
summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)
a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈
Join my taglists here
wc: 7.2k
Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
cracks in clay, poured over
Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room. 
She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans. 
There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe. 
Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.
It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand. 
Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.
The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say. 
He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue. 
He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…
Cold.
You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.
“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.
He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours. 
“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”
When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.
“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.
“Nothin’” 
His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.
“You're a fat fucking liar.” 
Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it. 
There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…? 
Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.
Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.
He frowns. 
“I think I'm happy.” 
…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.
“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.
“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead. 
“Different?”
You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth. 
In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.
“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–
“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.
His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances. 
He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.
You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.
“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.” 
Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.
Maybe we could've been more.
~~~
He’s an idiot, you think.
“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples. 
“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”
For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up. 
“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.
“You look like shit–”
You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”
“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”
“I do not.”
“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”
You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.
Wait. How did he know you had—
“Took you long enough.” 
He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.
Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely. 
There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.
[Sent: 15:32]
Are you guys still on for tonight?
[Received: 15:32]
👍👍
[Sent: 15:3]
Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?
[Sent: 15:32]
👍👍
“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”
“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”
You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.
His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.
“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”
When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile. 
“You hungry?” He asks.
“Starving.” You say with a grin.
~~~
You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.
Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?
You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.
“It’s– Pete, it’s–”
More jumbled words from the phone.
“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”
He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood  after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet? 
A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun. 
You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door. 
“Come in!”
Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.
“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”
You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.
“Did you want something?”
When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.
“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”
“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.
“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”
“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile
“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.” 
Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...” 
“But?”
“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”
“I can keep you company.”
“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”
“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”
He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw - 
“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.
“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.
With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over. 
“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”
~~~
The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…
The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.
The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.
“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”
Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights. 
“It's okay, Em.” 
Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname. 
“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”
Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.
“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.
“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.
“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.
“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour. 
Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think. 
She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.
“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”
“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.
She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.
“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.
“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl. 
You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”
“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?
“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”
And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere. 
There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.
She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again. 
Clatter.
“One more time, sweetheart,”
Clang. 
“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”
Thunk. You've got an idea.
“She’s not going to eat, Mig.” 
He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater. 
“Let’s go for a walk.”
~~~
It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.
“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.
“What do you mean, you know a place?”
You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.
“The park on 10th?”
“Nope.”
“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”
“Nope.”
“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.
“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”
Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.
“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”
“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”
~~~ 
The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.
But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub. 
He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint. 
There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big. 
Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.
“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed. 
May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.
You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.
The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.
May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.
He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.
“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck. 
“How do you have access to this place?”
“I know a guy.”
“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?
“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”
Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.
You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket. 
We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own. 
“Mig?” 
Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes. 
“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.
“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.
“Just fine, sweetheart.”
“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”
You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.
“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”
Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.
Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines. 
“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”
Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.
“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.
“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.
“I was only a janitor, Mig.”
“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”
You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look. 
“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires. 
“Her name's May.” He grunts.
“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”
“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”
Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.
A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?” 
She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.
“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”
“Sure, but what about–”
“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”
Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.
But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore. 
“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”
He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.
The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.
“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.
“I… I know.”
“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”
He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”
“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”
“Something like that.” He grunts.
“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.
“I was 17 - so, no.”
“Ouch.”
Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.
“Do you still work with them?”
“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”
“I meant Alchemax.”
They snort. “We went our separate ways.” 
Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…
Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.
Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.
“What exactly do you do?”
“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”
Liv gives him a blank expression.
“So you're young.”
“I guess.”
“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”
His jaw shifts.
“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.” 
They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.
“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”
Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on. 
“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights. 
“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”
“I–We are saving the world.”
He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.
He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.
Hypothesis.
“If this a personal gripe–” 
“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”
“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis. 
Observation.
A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.
“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”
And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.
Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.
Analysis.
He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones: 
Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara. 
Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara. 
We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.  
But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?
A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.
And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?
You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.
“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably. 
“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.
“Come look, come look!”
He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.
“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”
“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”
He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.
Pity.
_
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blankknsfww · 2 days ago
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my thighs shake and my cunt quivers at the mere thought of softdom!miguel 🩷
you'd never expect someone so massive and muscular to be so gentle and tender in the bedroom. even when he's having a bad day he treats you like an angel. he makes sure to prep you well so you're nice and stretched out for him. he's so worried he'll do something wrong, and he just can't bear the thought of hurting you he lets out a low groan when he first slides in, his grip tightening on your waist. he has to remind himself multiple times to be gentle with you.. but it's so hard when your tight cunt is practically pushing out his throbbing cock.
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frostbitten-writer · 3 days ago
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He looks so good 👀
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faeriekit · 1 day ago
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I don't care how fat Miguel's ass is. If I see a grown man beating up a fifteen year old black kid because of his own personal problems, it's my ethical duty to beat that man's face in with a baseball bat.
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subject-to-antagonism · 2 days ago
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Gwen's ran into glass doors, multiple times. One time she did it in front of Miles and said she doesn't have glass doors in her universe (they do. She just panicked n was embarrassed)
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tinidor-theodore · 2 days ago
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guys why r there 1,000+ notes. why am i still getting notes daily... you guys lowkey scare me
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Being trans is part of the spiderverse fan canon event. (stolen off of pinterest, not mine :]])
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oswaldthehero · 3 days ago
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astrogea · 2 days ago
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I made another Hobie sketch, actually turned out kinda good
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spiderman2-99 · 2 days ago
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Hypothetically speaking if you did get pregnant would you lay like spider eggs bc ya know or would it be a normal pregnancy- this is for science and I expect a man of science to also be interested in this as well
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