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honestsycrets · 5 months

Note

hi sy! first things first, you’re a fantastic writer. i am in LOVE with your western series! second, may i request an idea? it’s the 1920s, and miguel is one of the top mobsters in nueva york, while the reader is his mob wife. after an attempted hit from one of miguel’s rivals that nearly kills her and gabriella, the reader decides it’s time to her and little girl to skip town, but miguel will be damned if his family tries to leave him. cueeeee angst, drama, the whole shabang!

canary I: a threat | [miguel o'hara x reader x gabriel o'hara]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader, gabriel o'hara x reader

❛ type | double shot; 5k

❛ tags | non-monogamy, some angst, 1920s inspired piece, irish clan inspired piece, bootlegging and mention of hits, explicit, a depiction of killings, some jealousy, some trad-roles elements, f!reader, 1920s slang and Spanish not translated, time period birth control (cervical cap).

❛ sy’s notes | i have spent weeks staring at this piece. it's a bit longer than my usual works and for that reason i decided to split it up into two chapters. this piece takes on a little bit more of a generalized irish mob approach rather than italian. this chapter is more domestic than the subsequent one will be.

Miguel O’Hara hated it when his kills ran. No matter how many alleyways they ducked into, shoddily constructed fences they tumbled over, or crappy cars they tried to hitch a ride in, he always found them.

His fingers were blisteringly tight around his kill’s throat, sure to leave certain bruising if the man made it out alive. He wouldn’t. Not based on the blood that seeped over Miguel’s tanned hand. He gurgled underneath Miguel’s hand, the kill messier than he imagined. Any number of his hitmen could have carried out this contract but instead, his crisp white top was slathered in the contract kill of the week. He recalled the sudden memory of his hand on your slight waist, the kiss on the top of your head with the promise of his night. He snarled the memory away.

Should’ve just shot him, Miguel thought. Mierda.

With the fading of the man’s life, his choked grunts drifted into silence. Miguel allowed the man to slump over. Silence fractured, his world bursting with sound. The salt-laden wind whistled past his hair as ships sailed into the pier, carrying cargo, and his latest shipments. Bootlegged booze had its own benefits-- poor training and numbers among agents, for example. A crackle of an engine sped down the road was followed by the bright beams of an electric headlamp.

“¡Oye, Miguel!”

Of course. Under the bright moon that shone arrogantly in the dark sky, the figure came into focus. His polished suit was just a tad too big for his toned, but hardly muscular frame. Even in the darkness, he had the kind of smile that made people feel like they were the special ones. It matched the gentleness in his eyes behind that swoop of chestnut brown hair. If the feds published men of their color on army recruitment posters, he’d certainly make the cut. Handsome, but not too handsome. Strong, but not too strong.

“Gabe,” he breathed. “The lights.”

“Lights? The lights!” Gabriel looked back at his shiny black car. He bounced back toward the car, bellowing. “This a Spot boy? You did a number on him.”

“You sap. Could you be any louder?” Miguel threw aside. “Why are you here?”

“Thought you could use me tonight, big shot,” Gabriel said in that sugar-dipped tongue of his. It works less on Miguel than it had on you. It was oddly discomforting. As the days wore on, he loathed his brother’s silver tongue.

“I could use someone watching my girls.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I was. They're sleeping." Gabriel booted the man, more than minced meat when Miguel was done with him. “You had some beef with him, huh?”

“No.” Miguel mumbled, looking at the man’s body rather than his own, something sharp hovering there. There was nothing he wanted less than to stand in the biting cold listening to his baby brother prattle on a moment longer. He wiped his blade on his once-was-crisp slacks and slid it back into its sheathe. “Let’s hit it.”

“Jake,” Gabriel said, an annoying rendition of an okay. Gabriel was full of shitty terms from his stint in the big house. Almost as many as he picked up at Miguel’s speakeasy.

“Say. Miguel?”

Gabriel’s voice was soft, almost strained. Miguel caught his eyes, knowing subconsciously what his brother would say. He sucked in a breath to calm himself from a reaction to thin, sharp words. They balanced on the point of a knife as Gabriel spoke them into existence.

“They're our girls.”

This setup wasn't going to last. One day, you'd probably settle with Gabe. Miguel jerked up to the sensation of your fingers ghosting his chest, twiddling around his inky black chest hair, gliding across scars. He senses the source of his disquiet, your small frame draped over his side, watching him with a foreign curiosity.

“Muñeca?” he murmured sleepfully, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. “What's it? Did Gabriel sleep in?”

He finds it hard to believe that his chirpy brother would do such a thing. Mornings were notoriously his favourite part of the day. Unlike Miguel, who shunned the light that streamed in from your thin curtains.

“Coppers took him in for questioning,” you murmured, leaning in to lay a small peckish kiss on his lips. That was quick. His eyes swept down to your lips, lingering there as you spoke. “Gabi said you’d come with me to iglesia.”

“Chingado. He passed the buck onto me.” Miguel groaned, dropping his head back onto the pillow, weighed down by such a stupid request. You thumbed the golden necklace he’d forgotten to take off, gliding one of your legs up his hirsute thighs. He finds himself hiking your leg higher up his thigh. “That’s what you woke me up for?”

“‘Course not,” you muttered. “I missed you last night. Where’d you go off to?”

“To finish intake.”

You didn’t believe that.

“Promise it didn’t have nothing to do with what Gabi got carted off for?” He holds you in a working gaze, something that tells you he isn’t about to answer something like that. You are his woman. Yet, some secrets aren’t ones that he’s willing to disclose. It could put you in a compromised position. Most men, namely the Italian boys, had enough sense not to drag a man’s family into problems between the mob and the clan but in this world, not everyone had sense.

“Miguelito, you’re scaring me.” Your breath quickened, palpable with your chest against his. His large hand encompassed the middle of your back, guiding small, consolatory circles.

“Some things you’re better off not knowing,” Miguel worked at an explanation. Some things like the amount of hits he was getting for Spot boys. The booze going missing from the speakeasy. Some of his girls licked off the street. Just-- some things. “Got it?”

“Long as it’s not another dame,” you mumbled, fisting his necklace around your fist, dragging him forward for emphasis. A smile tugged at his lips, somehow pleased with your response. “What? You been out the house more times than not.”

“I share you with my brother,” Miguel worked the back of his neck. “Better that I skip town than hear you moaning for him. Might hem him up one of these days.”

You laugh-- but Miguel doesn’t find a lick of it funny.

“You got me now,” your hands drifted up to Miguel’s massive shoulders. “How ‘bout this. You fill me all up for church, wear that spiffy dark blue suit. Then we take Lyla out to get her some cherry coke at the apothecary’s. Maybe I’ll even sing you a whole song today if you’re lucky.”

Church, again. Miguel rattled a groan. Of course, he couldn’t have one day off from frateurinizing with people who hated the fuck outta him. Church folk. He didn’t know why you insisted on going with people who openly called you loose.

“Can do without one of those things.”

“If you want me, you go to iglesia, Miguelito.”

West-Side Violence at All-Time High! Italian Enforcer found dead! The West clan’s Gabriel O’Hara facing added charges on suspicion of--

Tch. You interrupted the scowl on his face with a well-placed kiss to his cheekbone, sliding a piping hot mug of Joe before him. Wafts of steam warmed his cheeks. You set down his morning’s breakfast, a plate loaded with fats. No tamales today, but baked beans from a few well-established Irish wives in the area. You wiped your greasy fingers off on a dirtied apron. Miguel stabbed a hunk of sausage as you spoke.

“Gabi’d never do that. They’re trying to hem him up like that capo last month,” your voice quaked, strutting back toward the cabinets. “It’s too personal. He’d… fill ‘em up with lead sure, but a stabbing? It just don’t make sense.”

Sure didn't. Miguel dropped the paper to the side of the oak table, tracing lines of worry that grew into spiderwebs of panic across your forehead. You spoke so feverishly in defense of Gabriel, whose absence was palpable. He often talked about the latest hired singer, sneaking behind your waist for kisses on your nape when Miguel could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning after pulling all-nighters.

“I have someone on it.”

“I bet Papa did it.” His daughter-- or Gabriel’s-- they were never quite sure. He glanced to his foot where Lyla sat. A full seven-year-old, Lyla was a spitfire of a thing, her hair in a bouncy bob topped by a silky ribbon. She glanced up from the dreidel she was spinning around and around. His lips pulled into a minced smile. “What? He’s a liar.”

“Miguel.”

Couldn’t even eat in peace.

“Lyla,” Miguel gestured toward the door. “Go wake up Maeve. Go on kid, get.”

That kid had a smart mouth. He watches her roll her eyes, only budging when you supply her with a hunk of pan dulce. She takes a mean bite, eyes locked on Miguel as she hopped out, somehow less bothered than she was a few seconds ago. You closed the metal door behind your daughter, a hand balled up on the bend in your waist as you watched her skip down the stairs and out of view.

“Most girls don’t talk like that about their papas,” you mumbled. Your arms crossed one over the other for support. “Does she hate him that much?”

“Most girls don’t grow up in the life.”

“Mi culpa.”

With his breakfast all but spoiled, Miguel pushed the plate away. His hand was soft on your waist, nose burrowed into your hair, tracing the notes of jasmine and rose, vanilla and sandalwood. The scent was unmarred by the stench of speakeasy smoke so early in the morning. Your hand came over his, steadying yourself from the rushing thoughts by leaning into his touch.

“I need a girl at the speakeasy tonight.”

Unlike his brother, Miguel’s requests rarely offer a tone of choice. It rolls off his tongue dry and hits your ear like a spike. Nothing about your relationship with Miguel was easy-- it was marred by the rivalry among the brothers-- and as you suspected-- interloping from your grandfather.

“Y Lyla?”

“Maeve is her nanny.”

“How can I step in there without Gabi?”

“He’d want you to. And I want to see you out of this dumb apron.”

“It isn’t dumb,” you pursed your lips, somehow more convinced despite your reservations. Most days, you spend the day in the house-- isolated from any life you came to Nueva York for. Any half-formed excuse that was on your tongue flopped. He nearly has you. “It is right dumb, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. What happened to my canary?”

“She met a pair of terrible brothers who don’t care for pulling out.”

“Don’t blame me.”

He pushed himself against your back, twiddling your fingers against the pantyhose that clothed your thighs. A smile tugged on your lips as Miguel leaned over to kick the front door shut, dipping onto his knees. It wasn’t often that he allowed you to ruin his perfect face before work. Today is a special treat.

But… if you thought back, you really should have.

Took a long time to get any mail from the island. Almost impossible.

In your hands is a sloppily penned letter-- You should be married to one of those boys-- your grandfather. He isn’t stupid enough to think that you’re opening this for the first time tonight, here and now, right in front of him. If you’re ‘reading’ it, you must be wanting him to take a hint. Miguel bent down, placed a kiss on your temple, gliding his hands over your own to place the letter onto the vanity.

He used those very same hands that were meant for maiming against the clasp of a set of pearls around your neck with gentle precision. His fingers coursed along the curls at your nape as he clasped them together.

“How long before your set?”

“Half an hour… maybe.” You stood to face him, pursing ruby-red lips, whispering in his mother’s tongue. He never liked it when his mother barked at him in Spanish, but when it's off your tongue, he knows how sweet it could be. Your hand inched its way over his chest, tracing the fat knot against his throat.

“What’s the issue?”

“I don’t-- feel very perfect. You have all these shebas out there--” women who not only knew how to sing but weren’t terribly mottled by stretchmarks or burdened by the eviscerating effect of motherhood. They’re beautiful, free canaries when they sing in his speakeasy. As much as you loved singing-- you felt shy on that ruby-red stage lately, before a dozen ruby tables and the hopping band.

“They’re to bring in the sugar.”

“Uh-huh, bring in the sugar until they take you away.”

“I’m satisfied.” Miguel took a step up, communicating the way he knew how, by settling his large hand over your jaw. His strong hand glided to your chin, urging you to look him in the eye. “I’m not going anywhere. Tied me down with Lyla as it is.”

“Words are just words. Why buy the…”

“Cow if you can get the milk for free, sí, I know what your grandfather says.” He slips into your chair. “Què quieres?”

“I don’t know, Miguelito. A promise. A marriage. Algo.”

“You want me to wife you up? Don’t remember ever talking about this.” He gestured you to come closer. You stepped up, knocking between his legs. Miguel’s gaze falters, chasing the glint of your tassels as they come to a stop.

“What’s the issue?”

“Nothing. I thought you’d ask Gabe.”

“Gabe gets around.”

“You believe those rumors.” You slap his large hands groping up your thighs, climbing over his lap like it was your throne. His massive frame eclipses the chair, suppressing your comparatively smaller frame. “And don’t think I do?”

“Do you?”

“No,” he laughs. Or, not recently. It’s hard being a father-- harder when he has a whole ass business to keep on top of. Most women wanted those things: jewels, a new pair of silk knickers, and a home. “If that’s what you want, you got it.”

“Oh Miguelito,” he suckled your neck, drawing horrendous marks to the surface. Marks of his ownership in the absence of a ring. He hears the pleased hum of your voice, low and sweet, and knows that’s exactly what you wanted to hear.

“I haven’t put in my cap,” his fingers danced across the outside of your thighs, slipping past your stockings to your silken shorts. He slotted his fingers underneath the fabric, grazing his fingers through your neatly kept curls. Your breath came in deeper bursts as he melded his hand over your vulva, expecting you to grind back on him. You did, ever so eager for him.

“Don’t bother me with that,” he said in a low, husked voice. “You know how I feel about your birth control.”

It was your idea, primarily. Gabe was ever too content to simply be with you-- he didn’t need a large family like the rest of Miguel’s Irish clan. Four, six, sometimes more. Unlike Gabe, Miguel wanted the exact opposite. You shifted over his thigh, obeying his desire to have you ride him. Miguel urged your hips down, working his thumb over the precious button as you did. Miguel’s leg trembled up against your slit, bursts of warm friction warming your hungry body. With his slacks freshly cleaned, you worry about soaking them, soaked in lubricant as you were.

“Come here,” you surrendered a soft moan to him, leaning forward now, less to ride his thigh than the bulge in his slacks. He does not quite care for the idea of ruining himself inside the confines of his pants, but if you want to feel him, he has no reason to deny you. You’re wonderfully spoiled, juddering your hips over him like any whore walking the streets in exchange for a coin or two. What he’d give to have this to himself.

It donned on him-- he could have it to himself. This time, he’d be certain of who the child belonged to. He adored his Lyla, though his irritation with her quips was ever palpable, this-- right here, the ability to fill you and be certain filled him with fat hunger and possessive need to burst into his slacks.

“Stop-- Muñeca-- stop,” Miguel tipped his head back, gathering his focus by digging his hand into your hair, stopping you immediately. His harsh grip loosened, followed up by loosening the button of his slacks and shoving them below the curve of his ass. His cock slapped your silken shorts, beads of his desire dripping from his cockhead. “Take those off. I’m finishing inside.”

“Miguelito,” you slipped onto shaky feet, enough that Miguel could force the shorts underneath your dress to the floor. “We agreed that babies would be--”

“You asked to be my wife. Ain’t this what wives do?”

“I know bu-- not there, deja, let me,” you stopped. His cockhead clumsily poked here and there, until finally, your hand guided him properly. Your mouth fell into a hazy moan when Miguel’s cock shoved forward, breaching your cunt with a snap of his hips. You seated yourself back onto his fat cock, reminded of the absence of your cervical cap in your cunt.

For all your talk, you ached for him, dipping your intertwined hands down to your mound. The rhythm was as sloppy as whatever singer was on stage right now, her voice giving way into a distinct crack. Whatever-- if it bought him more time to properly seed you, he didn’t mind.

He buckled forward as you clenched down upon him, holding him prisoner deep in your body. Liquid soaked his slacks-- and Miguel huffed, puffs of hot air warming your back. That was going to be fun to walk out in. His wife’s cum soaking his crotch.

“Hold still. It’s almost showtime,” Miguel’s voice was thin, his hand splayed on your waist as he used you less like his woman and more like a toy for his pleasure. It didn’t take long for Miguel to find a proper rhythm, his muscles flexing against your back. You were preoccupied as it were with the pain of Miguel’s teeth sinking on your shoulder, spiking hot as his pleasure crested. Soon enough, you felt his warmth fill your core, your head lulling back against him only after his thrusts ebbed.

“Don’t clean up, go on stage leaking.” Miguel held out his hand for you to take, allowing you to pull your shorts back up your ass, nestling his leaking cum in the fabric. It helped ease the anxiety of having you on stage, somehow, to see you in such a state.

“When you knock me up, you’re telling Gabi. I... can't.” You told Miguel, smoothing your dress over your shorts. There was a nervous flush in your eyes-- shame, he placed the emotion. He scrubbed the smile from his face. He had at least a few weeks.

“Sure thing.”

There was a certain delight in seeing you dressed up in that little black dress, all bright red lips, and sultry song. Not that you didn’t look tasty in that stupid apron you wore not to dirty any one of the pretty dresses you wore to church-- like you weren’t a heathen for warming the bed of two O’Hara boys. The people knew it. The church knew it. Damn well, the town knew it.

“Pal, that’s her on stage,” went an Italian boy. An allied family through nothing but contract killing and coin, he was safe here for the time being. One little lapse in a contract could shake it all. “That’s their kitten.”

“She married?”

Miguel turned his gaze back to you for a long moment. Your warm, sweetly lidded words slipping off your tongue, making his mind sluggish and relaxed after a long day. He captured your eyes, minding how your hands fell to the tasseled ends of an already short skirt, daring to expose your skin obscured by pantyhose to the crowd. You knew the game, how far you could lift your skirt without your would-be husband jumping his cage.

“Don’t be goofy. Miguel’d get sore if Gabe tried. She has ‘em both around her finger. Has a kid by one of them. No one knows whose. I got my money on--”

Stupid kids.

“Kid, I’m gunning for another.” Miguel cut the boy off, eyes crinkling at the edges. Something in the way you moved on stage reminded him of Lyla’s pregnancy, perhaps the glitter in your eyes when you met him at his table, instead of backstage, holding his large hands in your own. Some sparkle in your eye, a ginger announcement in his ear. Half elation, half… something else. Something, not quite fear, swirled in the boy’s eyes. Miguel watched with a keen interest as the boy flushed.

“Right on, big shot.”

Miguel brought his cigarette to his lips, letting his eyes flutter closed and his mind wander to the past. He should have known you were hands-off from the moment Gabriel wouldn’t beat it with the idea of adding another girl to their speakeasy.

The best time to tell Miguel about his new girl in the speakeasy was when he was in a good mood: catching any bootleg thief put him in a good mood. Not that he was particularly partial to grey matter and blood spraying him like a fresh pinata, but… he was more partial to money in his pocket and a good reputation. His boys cared for much of the violence in the West of this shitty little town.

“You hired a new girl?” Miguel repeated, drawing a long hit of his cigarette with blood-smattered fingers.

“Spanish girl. Like us. We don’t have a Spanish girl in this joint.”

“Gabe. Most of our clients are Irish. They don’t speak Spanish.”

“You should see her Miggy. She’s got this angelic little face,” Gabe whacked his elder brother, his grin growing ear to ear. There it was, his baby brother got blinded by his dick again. “When she sings you-- well, you get all twisted up.”

“Angelic face,” Miguel mumbled under his breath, tapping excess off of his cigarette. For the price he paid his girls, she had better have the face of Mary herself. The last few Gabe had pulled were mistakes. Some drug-addicted. Others whose husbands always caused a mean stir. He drags his hand down his face, weighing the costs. “She another dumb--”

“She’s Daniel’s littlin’. You remember Daniel? Taught you how to use a kn--”

The sigh that sat in his chest dissipated like vapor, perfusing into his tissue. Miguel looked at the paper Gabriel set in his blood-tinged fingers. He rotated it, gave it a look with his tired eyes. Talk to Gabriel. That old man knew just what Miguel would have said: get your ass back on a boat and go home to whatever rinky-dink island you foolishly sailed off of for this shitty city.

“Lemme see her sing.”

He doesn’t pay attention when Gabriel introduces you onstage for the first time, focusing on the paper ledgers Peter arranged for a review. Unlike his Italian connections, he don’t mind mixing it up with the Jewish boys. They’re twice as smart on the books and twice less likely to be hauling in trouble. Bootleg booze was one thing— the opium, the heroin, the cocaine, and morphine another. It packed too much heat from the coppers.

He hadn’t meant to look up.

It didn’t occur to him that you could have a sickly sweet voice, tempered by the rich Spanish on your tongue, only rivaled by those beautiful looks. His abandoned ciggy threw smoke into the air. He slumped back into the chair with a heavy thud, unclenched his tense jaw, and listened to a siren’s song that felt both familiar and distant all the same.

You had the sort of eyes he swore he’d met before, despite knowing he’d never seen a face like yours around. He’d remember sinking his teeth in that delicate neck that sat under pearls that he supplied most of his singers for their performances. His eyes hungrily cantering down your tassel dress. Not one he provided, no, he knew most to all the pieces in the back. There was a simple beauty in the gown.

You were trouble. He caught your eyes with an intent expression and expected you to blush and look away. You smiled. He wasn’t sure if it was for him or Gabriel, who flicked a grade-A smile, and a twiddling wave of your little fingers. He wants to feel them scratching down his back.

“--anyone home? Miggy? Miguel. Don’t tell me you’re already stuck on her.” Gabriel teased, elbowing Miguel in the arm. “You are! Told you she could sing.”

“Pipe down.” He jammed his ciggy in the dish.

“Sorry.”

He watches you a moment more, the slide of your legs to the tune of the band. The way your laugh resonated through the speakeasy when a patron stumbled onto the stage for his take on some stiff-legged swing. Most women would push them off, look to him for help in the swing, but you ran with the twirl the drunk led you into. He hated to admit that Gabriel was right. Among all the girls in his speakeasy, you brought a lightness to the life of a drunkard he’d not seen in a while.

“Gabe,” he mumbled, standing up and whirling his suit jacket over his broad shoulders.

“Yeah?”

I told’ja so, Gabriel’s voice sounded in his head. He could already feel the stiff annoyance that would be Gabriel’s fist connecting with his shoulder. Why did Gabriel have to know him so well? Miguel spoke with an undercurrent of annoyance.

“Let’s keep her.”

“You don’t gotta tell me twice.”

A hail of loud pops ruptured his sweet, distant memories. He reaches out to snatch his gun from the table, settled between the fresh flowers he plucked for your show. For an instant, his world wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t sounded out by the deafening assuredness of a kill, but very real panic under the singled out by the shrill of your scream.

They're going to push up on us, Miguel told Gabe. He never did take anything outside the speakeasy seriously.

Except tonight, there was no Gabriel. Miguel clasped his hand around his gun, whirling for the source of the flame. The barrage of gunfire is put down as quickly as it began. With a host of Irishmen in the bar, he should be so unsurprised. One of the Italian kids slumped over on his table.

There’s blood-- a lot of blood. Hysterics bound all around, some soothed by their partners or friends. The other Italian boy just stares-- lips slightly apart-- jarred by whatever horror was before him. Miguel finds it hard to believe that he hasn’t seen worse. Others burning his ears like the morning sun in his eyeballs every day you forgot to pull the curtains closed.

“God damn it, Peter.” Standing there is the scrawny little devil of a bookmaker himself, smiling cheesily.

“Hope that’s a good god damn it.”

He shoved his way from the tables, numbing out the complaint of the Italian boy. You were long since gone, probably a good thing that you weren’t here, that’s for fucking sure. It’d been the first time since Gabe’s incarceration he managed to drag you out of there and now… you were somewhere, undoubtedly frightened. Maybe even hurt.

“Boy, wonder who this kid crossed. Say, about Gabe, I got good news--”

He seized a chair, flicking it past Peter, a sure hiss for him to shut the fuck up about his baby brother in the can. Peter put his hands up reflexively, tracing Miguel’s rising shoulders.

“She ran to the back.”

The slender hallway down to his office is cold, only illuminated by the occasional pull-pin light bulb swinging overhead. He came here most days that he wasn’t on shift, taking a hit, or caring for his boys. Keeping track of everything was the best way to stay ahead. And even still-- he missed something from one of Spot’s boys.

You didn’t bother to close the door, balled up in a corner of his small office. He has a glorified cot for a bed in a corner, a heavy desk that nearly killed Gabe trying to hike it down the stairs years ago, and a rack stuffed with any number of books.

“It’s me,” his voice filled the room. You peered up from behind your arms, wrapped around your knees. What a stupid oversight, he thought, whoever was in charge of the damn door let someone in that was… going to be a problem. He was good with Lucky’s crew. Now he was gonna have to pick up that wired phone and tell him some kid was dead.

Your heels scratched across the ground, scooting back to the cool wall. You weren’t hurt-- just, sort of shocked. Maybe being conned into church with you panned out somehow.

“Muñeca.”

“That ain’t… ever happened with Gabe before.”

Gabe. Dy by day that he heard his brother’s voice, it became more of an annoyance. It wasn’t fair to make the comparison-- Gabe caring for most things that went on in the speakeasy, Miguel caring for interpersonal deals and security. With Gabe away, he’d not… it didn’t matter.

“It won’t happen again.”

“If Lyla were here--” You’re a shark-- going after the one thing you knew would hurt. The little girl back at home who he went to great lengths to make sure was safe. She was… his, even if he felt was his brother’s, putting more salt into an ever widening sinkhole that was his irritation.

“She wasn’t.”

“But what if she was?”

“Cállate,” he barked.

“Fine, I’ll beat it. You can holed up all alone down here like you like to be, you-- you-- big lug.” You recoiled for an instant, before forcing yourself up, rubbing at heavily fallen tears in your pursuit of the door. Your cheeks were kissed by raw agitation, all pink and in any other situation, beautiful. Miguel swayed to catch your elbow.

“Discúlpame,” he murmured, a rare apology if you could even call it one to begin with. There was a long pause, and he wondered if you would be upset with him for the rest of the day. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

He knew he made it damn hard not to.

That was the thing about Miguel. He made it hard to get close, but even harder to leave. No matter what he did, you wanted to stay there right by him-- because he was the complicated brother. The one who… well, hell, you wanted to be about. Gabe was good and easy, your Miguelito was…

“Dios mio, Miguelito. This hinky stuff ain’t happening again. Or-- Or I’ll leave you both. Take Lyla right back to the island I came from and marry a man who isn’t in wrong with the police.”

You should have known the day that you gave birth to his daughter that something like that wasn’t going to happen.

#miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #atsv imagines #atsv imagine #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara imagine #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara x reader

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rivetingrosie4 · 29 days

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What a Life (Morgan & Family: A Fluff Dump, Pt. 2)

credit to @foundynnel i believe for 2 of the edits above

𑁦𐂂𑁦

Summary: Part of a modern au (and post gang) fluff dump work. Just a scene in which Arthur and reader enjoy secluded family life with their very young son. Arthur is a cute and loving dad and is adored by reader.

Tags: fluff without plot, family fluff, romantic fluff, domestic setting, parenthood

Word count: 2,660

In the cool shadow of the cabin, thrown long by the late morning sun, you sit with your little son, watching him play in the sandbox. The mourning dove’s rounded, plaintive hoots are parried by the sharp, tinkling warbles of goldfinches in the nearby pine branches, and the fragrances of crisp mist and thick sod linger in the mountain air.

You watch the faint glimmer of day paint the crests of Gabriel’s cupid’s bow with light, his plump lips resting between his two rotund cheeks as he concentrates on the toys before him. The wispy feathers of his splayed lashes bow and rise with each blink. His beautiful, shimmering eyes inspect each toy, each color, each shape. Out of all the blocks, large puzzle pieces, rings, balls, and animal toys half-buried in the sand, he has landed on one. You watch the bulbous pads and segments of each tiny, clumsy finger curl to a strong, stable grasp around the edge of the object of his aim—a large block with an Appaloosa sketched and painted lovingly on the side.

“Just like your daddy,” you whisper to yourself.

Dipping your fingers into the sand and feeling its chill envelop your skin, you look up with a smile to gaze in the direction of the stables. In the distance, you catch sight of Arthur hauling a huge saddle and its accompanying tack, a moment before he disappears through the door and into the shaded interior.

You recall the quiet rustling of his rising this morning when he’d been up before the sun, as he often is. And the way he’d kept from waking the baby in his room, intentionally leaving you to reap the reward of your son’s customary gleeful smile, his bounce in his crib, and his lifting of his arms for you.

You turn back to your eleven-month-old with a burgeoning smirk. “Wanna come help Mama make some sourdough?”

“Yeah,” he immediately chirps, recognizing nothing but the lilt of a question in your voice. But he doesn’t look up at you, still captured by the blocks and puzzle pieces.

You stand and take a few steps away to prompt him. “Well let’s go!” you call.

He braces himself on the sand with his palms, a moment later lifting his tush into the air. When he straightens, his brows knot, and his lips dangle from between his cheeks as he gazes down confoundedly at the discomfort of sand stuck to his flesh.

You snort a laugh as you cover the sandbox behind him. “Just go like this, Gabe Baby.”

You show him your flattened hands and slowly brush them together.

His brows don’t budge as he looks back and forth from your hands to his own, unable to fully brush them.

“Like this,” you whisper, gently taking his wrists and swiftly brushing his palms back and forth over each other.

When the sand is removed, he toddles to follow you up towards the cabin, and you carry him when you reach the oak staircase to the back door.

As you turn onto the wraparound porch, you notice Arthur now hefting a huge bale of hay by its cords into the stable, his black leather hat shading most of his face in the distance. But you like to imagine he wears a subconscious smile, now enjoying a life of simplicity, filled with nature and horses and art and family and love, tucked away from the gnarled heartache that gang life had left in its wake.

“Sandy baby,” you mumble when you arrive inside and close the back door behind you.

You promptly remove both your shoes and strip Gabriel to his diaper, tossing his sandy clothes into the hamper.

“Are you dry?” you ask vainly as he starts to toddle away. “Wait, are you dry?” You deftly hook a finger down his back and into his diaper before he can fully get away.

Peering into his diaper, you find no present. You carefully squeeze his bottom to discover no liquid deposit.

When you release him, he immediately darts down the hall. You follow and walk into the kitchen, beckoning him to join you. When he does and you bend to pick him up, he whines to be allowed to remain standing on his own.

“Well how’re you gonna see from down there?” you lightly ask.

When he shakes his head, you half-frown. It was just a couple weeks ago that eleven-month-old Gabriel began walking. Since then, he’s always wriggling out of your arms and dashing across rooms, seemingly already excited to be as independent as he can be.

At first, it stung. With the love and special intimacy of mother and son—and with even the chemistry and well-being of your bodies both dependent on the other—the two of you had been closer than peas in a pod, glued at the hip for so long. It’s always been and still is a precious bond to you, though its daily aspects continue to gradually change. And it was hard to so suddenly feel a little unneeded. But Arthur has helped you find a comfort in the balance of realizing that your feelings are only natural, and that you’ve been raising a wonderful and healthy little boy, with this change as just another bit of proof.

As well as the fact that Gabriel still likes to cherry-pick when he’s carried and when he walks on his own. You suspect that like any human, his adamant desire for independence doesn’t do one thing to hinder his deep enjoyment and fierce need of being held.

So you turn and begin pulling ingredients and dishes from the cupboard, at last going to the fridge to retrieve your sourdough starter. You begin mixing ingredients in your big bowl atop the counter, when you hear a whimper and feel a few hard tugs at your palazzos. And you smirk.

You glance down to find him with arms outstretched and upheld for you, bouncing on his tiptoes with longing. You stoop and lift him to you, hugging him to your hip and pressing a few kisses soundly to his smooth cheek.

Describing each action aloud to him, you finish mixing, dust the countertop with copious amounts of flour, and turn the bowl with your free hand to dump the dough.

“Now we knead,” you almost sing, in hushed tones.

Perched on your hip, his plump little arm drapes with familiarity and utmost contentedness over the back of your shoulder. He watches your every gesture with a mixture of restful curiosity and heightened interest.

You push the dough away and pull it towards you again and again, tucking the edges underneath as you do, to form a smooth, rounded surface on top.

“You wanna feel it? You wanna knead?” you ask.

Leaning forward, you let him reach and press his tiny hand into the supple surface of the cool dough.

“Gentle,” you say, showing him the way you keep your fingers outstretched and softly brush and pat the surface of the dough with the pads of your fingertips. “No squeezing.”

The two of you watch his little fingers delve into the pliant mass of dough, leaving a mark of small craters. When they begin to slowly bounce back, you watch his face instead of the dough.

He releases a single cooed sigh of delight as he looks at you with a bright smile, which you heartily return.

How you love, you love, you love him.

You sprinkle the dough with flour and rest it in a basket for its turn to prove. After fetching a dough you’d left proving hours before, you carefully score it with one long slice for expansion, and several small strokes for a quaint wheat kernel design on the other side.

“Mama.” Gabriel pats your sternum and rests a couple fingers past his lips.

“You hungry?” you ask.

When he nods, you brush a hand down the slope of the back of his head and kiss his temple. You add as you set him to his feet, “Let me get this in the oven, then I’ll feed you.”

After setting the parchment-papered sourdough in its cast iron dutch oven and pouring a bain marie past the paper, you place the whole thing in the oven and set a timer. You glance at the oven window with a small smile, eager to see the crispy crust on your extra-sour boule. Since you first noticed its resemblance to Gabriel’s tummy, you’ve made a tradition of kissing the top of the boule, then indelicately turning Gabriel sideways in your arms and blowing a raspberry on his bare belly, making him cackle hysterically. These days, he’s even begun giggling when you turn him in your arms and before you ever kiss his belly, already tickled by the anticipation alone.

With Gabriel in tow, you walk to the couch in the living room. Gabriel rests both arms over the seat cushion and tries to lift one leg up over the edge, but you reach your hands under his arms and pull him into your lap.

Just before you unhook your bra from its strap to nurse, the two of you hear the back door open.

Gabriel’s eyes widen, and a grin begins to pull on the corners of his mouth. “Da,” he says.

He wiggles down off the couch, and as he toddles down the hall, you listen to his bare little feet patting quietly along the hardwood floor. You smile to yourself at the precious sound, so deeply dear to you.

As you hear Arthur’s rustling, jingling presence in the doorway and the naturally firm, heavy footfalls of his work boots, you imagine him resting his black hat on the wall as his small son comes around the corner in only his diaper, bared rounded belly and all.

When you hear the playful growl and the resultant squeal and cackle, your grin splits wider.

“You’re in your nethers, baby boah!”

You can detect the pinch of a smile in Arthur’s voice and the breath of laughter with the last couple words.

More little pads of bare feet as Gabriel comes running back around the corner and down the hall. He hesitates as he toddles, turning back to ensure Arthur’s tailing, eager to play this game with his father.

Still, when Arthur leans around the corner and pulls an exaggeratedly silly face with an outright grunt, Gabriel’s little body gives a tiny jump. His squeal and adorable laughter ring out into the air. He clumsily darts into the kitchen.

When his father follows with a few long strides and the sturdy clops of his boots, he brings with him the musty scents of alfalfa hay and tanned rawhide, of trail dust and undiluted sunshine. And the two subsequently begin an elaborate game of peek-a-boo, back and forth around the island. You can’t help but laugh along at the purest sound of undiluted joy—the beauty and innocence of your own child so easily tickled and contented by life and love—as you turn on the couch and watch the pair. No matter how many times Arthur jumps out to stop him with a silly face and a low hoot or growl, Gabriel instantly screams and squeals, his body utterly racked with tightly coiled cackles.

Arthur wheezes and snickers every time.

“Oh my God, listen to him!” you laugh.

It’s always another several seconds before Gabriel totally recovers and manages to catch his breath, his laughter smoothing with each heave of air.

With the next turn of their game, Arthur lingers behind the island when Gabriel rounds it, not jumping out even when his son takes reticent steps forward, looking for him. Arthur continues to linger, even quietly backing up to hide himself, watching his son for the right moment to strike.

Finally Arthur leaps out, and Gabriel jumps with the highest squeal and loudest cackles you’ve heard yet.

You and Arthur both burst with your own laughter at his reaction.

When your son’s breathing finally evens, you call, “Gabriel, I thought you were hungry?”

“Oh, were you about to eat, son?” Arthur asks in his deep timbre. “You hungry?”

Gabriel nods and pats a hand to his belly above the rim of his diaper.

“Well, better go see Mama,” Arthur quietly grunts as he picks his son up by the underarms and sets him on his hip out of habit. Arthur lifts him over the couch back and sets him down into your lap, then remains behind the couch himself, watching over your shoulder.

After cushioning your back and adjusting him in your arms, you reach beneath your tee, unhook the front of your bra, and gently bring Gabriel to your breast to nurse. He latches on immediately, very well accustomed to your routine. A certain profound peace washes over you as you watch him. His lips flange around you as he suckles; his quiet breaths through his nose briefly pause each time he swallows; and his plump little arm rests wistfully over your chest.

Many people may look away, abashed and discomfited, unable to fit something at once both so innocent and intimate into their world. But it’s always made perfect sense to you. And maybe motherhood was a dream too quaint, one not rebellious or modern enough, seemingly not daring or adventurous enough. But it was your dream.

When Gabriel spots Arthur’s face over your shoulder, he pulls away from your breast with a growingly wry grin, clearly expecting to continue the game from moments ago. Droplets of your milk spill between you and his mouth as he voices a syllable and lifts his arm, attempting to goad Arthur into another silly face.

Arthur silently complies with cross-eyes and a sideways tongue.

Gabriel promptly giggles, and the two of you smile and chuckle at the sound.

“Don’t while he’s nursing, he’ll choke,” you lightly say.

After softly cooing and corralling Gabriel back to his feeding, you continue watching him with a contented smile. You brush your hand down over the back of his head, into the growing downy hair that curls funnily at the base of his neck. As he closes his eyes, you brush the backs of your curled fingers down over his temple, and gently trail your fingertips across the velvet flower-petal skin of his plump baby cheek.

You hear the long, relaxed sound of Arthur’s husky breath over your shoulder, a sound you know very well, especially these days.

“What a life, huh?” he quietly says.

He means to facetiously point out Gabriel’s current lot—nursing at his mother’s breast with his father at the ready to make him smile and laugh. That is, a life full of love and joy, well taken care of, and absent of a care in the world. Just as he should be for now.

It doesn’t take you a few moments, and you’re turning to look into Arthur’s cerulean-sage eyes. A knowingness resides in your gaze. Because you yourself, as well as your husband, have been given all you’d so deeply and totally longed for—and longed, a word too weak—more than you could’ve ever imagined you’d actually live to get.

“Yeah,” you quietly, pensively respond. “What a life.”

The love of your life holds your gaze, and understands.

Your love and gratefulness are immeasurable and uncontainable, filling you and stretching past the bounds of your body and being, like fragmented granules of glittering dust floating from a burst star.

Strangely enough, even with all the joy and contentment and peace, the words and the shared gaze are not without a mingling of loss and ache.

They are not gone entirely. But you both have someone now, to join you in weathering them.

You are not alone.

Arthur leans to you, and you share a few kisses, soft as breath. You turn and close your eyes a moment as he rests his forehead to your temple. And you both gaze down at your son with contented smiles.

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bumpkinspice0 · 9 months

Text

Miguel O'Hara x Spider!FemReader

No use of y/n

Rating: explicit (MINORS DNI!!!!!)

Word Count: 5285

Summary: There's a massive breach to Spider Tower, Miguel needs the help of the entire spiderverse to contain it.

Warnings: Previous traumatic accident (Wound and pain from such but nothing too descriptive), I don't know how healing works it's the future shut up, angst, pining, protective!Miguel SMUT! Sexy shower time, fingering, praise kink, kinda body worship, Miguel takes GOOD care of you, don't look at me

A/N: Sorry this took longer to update than usual, life really started lifin' there. Also I didn't know how to write the shift in relationship dynamic good so you'll gotta deal with that too. ENJOY

Previous. Next

Series Masterlist

AO3

_______________

Chapter 10

Let Me Take Care of You

You drift lazily on the waves of consciousness for what felt like hours, your eye’s only forming blurry images as you attempt to force yourself to wake up. The smell is the first thing you notice. Fresh, clean linens and something else you recognize but can’t put your finger on. It wasn’t quite sterile , like a hospital, but not completely welcoming like a home either. When you finally burst fully from the veil of sleep, it’s a room you’ve never seen before. Smooth and sleek futuristic architecture like the tower. All accented in crisp white and grays, almost no color— but it’s not a hospital room like you suspected. You’d been to the infirmary in the tower a handful of times, and this wasn’t it

It takes all your effort to simply turn your head to the side, and there on the nightstand is your answer. A framed photograph of Miguel and Gabe. They look younger than you know them. Maybe ten years ago. This was his room.

You were in Miguel's house.

You take another deep breath, bringing the sheets to your nose and finally recognize his scent amongst the clean white linens— like rich red wine. The smell of Miguel.

Why on earth were you here? You move to roll out of the massive bed, but a sharp pain in your side stops you. And in your shoulder— and your head— pretty much all of you.

You look down at your hands for the first time and see several bandages scattered up your arms. You had a particularly big one you recognized on your hand— you’d had an IV in at some point. Your clunky multiverse watch had been replaced with a day pass. Your suit had been replace with a cotton tee and shorts.

Ever so slowly you come up to a seated position. The worst pain was coming from your right side. You lift your plain gray cotton shirt to reveal more bandages wrapped around your abdomen and several ugly purple bruises peeking out from beneath.

“What the hell happened?” you whisper to yourself.

“You got blown up,” a familiar cheeky voice informs you. Lyla materializes at the end of the bed. She’s not a small little hovering woman though. She’s a full-sized person. You never seen her appear larger than a soda can and now she looked like you could practically touch her. “Well, the nanotech took most of the blow. You’re lucky.”

“Nanotech? The suit?” You run your hand over your face, feeling a few other bandaids taped down. One on your eyebrow and another on the cheek. Was there any part of you that wasn’t hurt?

You squeeze your eye’s shut trying to recall anything. There was a fight— I big one. You were called into the tower. It was a blur but you know you made it out. You remember laughing with Jess and Gwen afterward. You’d won. You even found Miguel afterward and he told you to… ah, there it was. Some freak explosion from the rubble by his room. Wrong place at the wrong time. This was gonna be embarrassing to come back from.

Any normal person would be in shock right now. You hadn’t been a normal person for nearly a decade. If you had a dime for every near-death experience you’d had since starting this job, you’d be able to buy the entirety of New York City. This wasn’t your first time waking up bruised and battered and it certainly won’t be the last.

All in all, not the worst you’d been banged up on the job, but still not great it landed you bedridden for god knows how long. You felt sluggish and tired but knew if you didn’t try to move around at least a little, you’d regret it later. Get the blood pumping, that always helped.

You’d really been in this situation too many times.

You slowly move the edge of the bed again. Lyla glitches in front of you.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, where do you think you’re going?” She places her hands on her hips.

“To get some water. I’m thirsty,” You shakily stand and walk right through her pixelated form. Your legs might as well be jello but you make it work.

“This is a fully automated house!” She forms back in front of you when you're just at the door, “I’ll get you the water.”

“I’m a big girl, I can get my own drink,” You sigh and walk/ limp through her again.

“Oh! You just wanna snoop!” she accuses.

Ah, she got you. Yeah, you wanted to move a little, yes, but this was a rare opportunity you weren’t going to pass up. You were in his house. His house! Alone!

“And so what if I do?”

She raises her hands in defeat. “Hey, I’m not stopping ya then.”

You slide the foggy glass door out of the way and leave Miguel’s bedroom. You walk out onto a lofted balcony overlooking the rest of his home. It matched the bedroom with its sleek white glossy and gray tones— and it was massive. Twenty-foot ceilings, Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, overlooking the city. Wherever you were, you were very high up. A modest living room sat in the center with sleek charcoal furniture. The floors were a glossy deep black. The second-floor balcony lined the entirety of the living space, with several doors and hallways leading to other parts of the house along its path. You make your way across the second level and down the sleek glass stairs— gripping the railing for dear life.

“How long was I out?” You ask Lyla, noticing the weakness in your legs again.

“Three days,” She answers, glitching to the bottom of the stairs. “You were in the infirmary until the swelling went down then the big guy brought you here.”

“What swelling?” You ask, almost afraid of the answer.

“In your brain. Minor. Should be fine now with all the drugs and advanced healing,” She says so nonchalantly it almost puts you at ease— almost.

Sounds like you had a concussion. Awesome. That explains the pulsing headache that was on the rise and your less-than-stellar vision. Your advanced healing can only do so much. You have brain fog to look forward to for the next 2 weeks. Even more awesome, “Might wanna take a week off after this.”

You made it to the bottom floor, spotting the kitchen underneath the stairs. It was sleek and clean like the rest of the house.

“Me? Take a week off? Nah, I’m unstoppable.” You joke as you round the kitchen island with the speed of a tortoise. A cabinet automatically opens for you, revealing the glasses. You grab one and fill it up at the sink. You chug the liquid down in a very unladylike way, immediately refilling the glass. Damn, you were actually extremely thirsty.

“Miggy’s gonna force you to take a month off with the way he’s been hovering over you.”

Your cheeks instantly heat up at her casual statement. She takes notice, a smirk pulling at her pixelated mouth.

“Where is Miguel?” You ask sheepishly.

“Called into the tower,” she casually glances down at her nails, “Had to go do something only he could do , I don’t know. He’s been at your bedside every day and night. He’s gonna be pissed when he gets back to see you finally awake when he wasn’t here. In fact, you should get back to bed.”

“How long ‘til he’s back?” You ask, completely disregarding her suggestion.

“No idea,” She shrugs, her expression still smug. She was having fun seeing your schoolgirl crush. Lyla knew everything from the beginning. She knew all the rules of the agreement too. Miguel brought you to his home. You’d slept in his bed. You’d stayed in this dimension well past the 48-hour limit. He was breaking rules for you— Miguel didn’t break rules.

You take your water and head to the massive windows. There was a large balcony just beyond the apartment. Lyla, seemingly reading your mind, opened the door for you— well not exactly a door. A rectangle of glass dissipates right next to you, leading outside. Guess they don’t do doors the same way in 2099.

The air is fresher than you expected for a city balcony, you attribute it to being so high up. This view was easily head and shoulders above any of the surrounding buildings. It was cold and a little windy, but it felt nice on your arching, bedridden body.

The view was spectacular. You’d been to Nueva York dozens of times before, technically, but you spent all your time in spider tower. You’d caught glimpses of the city, of course, but you never really took the time to appreciate it.

New York in 2099. A futuristic version of your home. It looked nothing like your New York. Everything was so sleek and rounded— taller than your world's cities. There are a few things you can recognize from this height. The green of Central Park is still cut out in the center of the towering Skyscrapers. You’re in Manhattan, not far from the park. The rivers converging around the islands— okay maybe you only recognize a few things. The buildings and streets you know were likely engulfed amongst the behemoth futuristic towers that now make up this New York.

No, this wasn’t your New York. This was Nueva York, and it was incredible.

“Lyla,” You ask and she automatically blips to your side, “Where are we? Like, where is his apartment?”

“You’re still in the tower,” She confirms, “The penthouse suite.”

She confirms your suspicions. You may not have seen much of the city, but you were certain Spider Tower was one of the tallest buildings in it.

Miguel lived and worked here. You wonder if he ever left the grounds in anything other than a portal. Did he have friends? Did he like to go out to dinner? What silly little life did he live outside of being Spider-Man? You suspect he doesn’t have one. You want to ask Lyla but you feel like you’ve already invaded enough of his personal life simply by being here. Then again… he apparently brought you here.

“Why am I here, Lyla?”

She raises her eyebrows over lidded, unamused eyes, “Do you really need an advanced AI to tell you that, girl?”

You don’t, but you also don’t want to dwell on the deeper implications of this unholy shit show.

“What do you think of… this? Of us?”

“Try being a little less vague if you can.” The AI rolls her eyes.

“Fair enough.” you mull over your next words, “But just… why would Miguel bring me here? He’s broken almost every rule.”

“Ya know, it amazes me how dense you humans can be,” She leans against the railing next to you, “Before you came along, Gabe and I were his only close friends. Though, I’m not sure I count.”

“You count.” You inform her immediately.

“Well, thank you,” Some comical blush circles pop up on her face and disappear in an instant, “Miguel cares a lot, despite trying to make people think he’s made of stone. You’re the only other person that’s… been in his life this way. He looks out for his own. Something bad happened to you— and he got scared. And he took control like he always does. Humans aren't always rational. That’s something you all need to accept.”

For a programmed interface, she was a really good therapist. It was all things you already knew but just didn’t want to admit to. You were just human. Miguel cared. You both cared— and that made everything more complicated.

“Was he really with me the whole time?” You ask Lyla, suddenly feeling like a tween gushing over a crush again.

She peeks her eyes over her obnoxious heart-shaped glasses and rolls her head to the side, “Why don’t you ask him yourself.” and in a flash, she’s gone.

As soon as she vanishes, you feel the spider-sense ring in your head, and butterflies instantly rise in your stomach. You turn around to see Miguel standing at the door, still in his spider suit with an almost heartbreaking look on his face.

“What are you doing out here?” it takes him only four long strides to stand at your side, “Lyla shouldn’t have let you out of bed.”

“To Lyla’s credit, she did try,” You smile at him. He doesn’t smile back, worry painted over his features.

“Stubborn woman.” He reaches out to you but quickly pauses his movements as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. “Please, come back inside. It’s freezing out here.”

You nod and head back towards the door. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how slow and awkward your walking is. He slowly walks at your side the whole time, hovering a hand behind you as if you’ll fall at any second. You catch a glimpse of your full body in the reflection of the windows and you can see why he’s so cautious around you. You looked like a minefield of bandages and bruises. It was jarring to see all at once.

The door closes behind you with a sleek ring as the glass reforms in an instant. You’ll never get used to that.

Miguel’s in front of you again, ghosting his hands over your body, “I can’t believe you’re up and walking. How are you feeling? How’s your vision? They stopped the internal bleeding right away but there still might be—”

He shuts up when he meets your eyes. His were wide but still soft somehow. Caring in a way you hadn’t seen before— deep, lustful red eyes.

“Hi,” you simply say.

“Hi,” he responds with the faintest of smiles. You’d seen his face flash through a series of emotions since he saw you, but he seems to have finally settled on relief.

“I… Like your house.”

“Uh, Thanks,” He stands up straight again, scratching the back of his head, “Will you— I need to— Can you just sit in the living room for me?”

“Um, sure, yeah,” you make your way to the living room just in front of you, he hovers next to you the entire way. He helps you to a seated position on the couch. You swear he holds himself back from fluffing the pillows too.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect you to be–” He slowly sits down next to you, taking a deep breath. Shouldn’t you be the one freaking out? Today, apparently not, “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” You say with slightly forced cheerfulness, “I mean… good considering…” you look down at the bandages scattering your body.

His gaze drops away from yours, “Yeah.”

You weren’t lying. Sure, you were achy and groggy with some bad scrapes and bruises, but overall… not bad. You’d likely experienced a critical accident just days ago. Even with advanced healing, you shouldn’t be as chipper as you are.

“I mean… how am I feeling this good ?” You ask, simultaneously questioning yourself and Miguel. “Lyla said it’s only been 3 days.”

“Four days now.” Miguel’s eyes shoot back to yours, “Partially because of your suit. The nanotech acted as a shield for the most part, preventing any burns and such. You’re also in the twenty-second century with access to the multiverse. We can heal anything.”

That’s… a fair point. Well, future medicine fucking rocked.

He scoots closer to you, reaching out his hand toward your wrist. He pauses, waiting for your permission and you simply place your arm in his hand.

“For example. Here…” He gently runs his thumb along a faint silvery line on your forearm, “You had stitches. I removed them this morning. The rest of these,” He runs a thumb over one of your bandages, “Are cautionary until this evening.”

“That’s amazing,” You look down at your other arm with scattered marks and bandages. Just a matter of hours and you’d be back to normal—for the most part. Like nothing ever happened at all.

“Still,” Miguel’s gaze drops again, “I don’t change the fact that you shouldn’t have been—”

“Don’t,” You cut him off, already knowing where this is going. “Shit happens. Shit always just happens with this job. I’m a big girl, I’ve been through this before. If you turn my freak accident into self-loathing man pain I’m gonna fucking kick your ass, O’Hara.”

You don’t want to focus on the gravity of it all. You don’t want some protective speech, you don’t want assurances that everything will be okay when you know it will be. His actions have spoken louder than his words ever could. You just… want him to stop looking at you like that— Like you’re helpless.

He says nothing. Shock briefly pulls at his stern features until he settles into a smile. You smile back.

“You’re probably hungry.” He says.

Right on cue, your stomach growls like a beast and you’re suddenly fully aware of the aching hollowness inside you.

“Starving.”

____________

Thank god Thai food still tasted the same in the future. You made the request and Lyla had it delivered in less than thirty minutes. It was Miguel’s favorite place in the city, apparently. He had a favorite restaurant, just more proof to you that he wasn’t completely a workaholic robot. There was a regular human underneath that rugged persona, just like you’d always suspected.

You heartily enjoy a red curry and a few dumplings, Miguel has some noodle dish he sets aside for later.

As you finish your meal Miguel returns with a kit of medical supplies, graciously asking if he could check your progress. You agree, not turning away from your dinner for a second. He scans your body with a small tool you’d never seen before.

“Inflammation down 20 percent, vitals normal, advanced healing progressing as expected,” Lyla’s ambient voice announces, “She’s doing great, despite not listening.”

“I’m a rebel, what can I say,” you chuckle lightly. The scan finishes and several small projections hover around Miguel.

“Okay, yeah, this is all good. Really good,” He says, reading over the results. He’d changed out of his suit, opting for a loose pair of sweats and a shirt with a band you don’t recognize. Strangely enough, he looked more attractive in normal clothes than in a skintight suit. He was comfortable. He wasn’t Spider-Man or a leader he was just— Miguel. You liked just Miguel.

He rummages around back in the kit and pulls out a syringe with pale blue liquid.

Oh hell no.

“What’s that?” You ask with apprehension.

“Painkiller and something that’ll speed up your healing,” He scoots closer to you at the dinner table, “This is your last round of it.”

“I don’t think—”

He jabs it into your shoulder before you can properly protest. Despite the pain from the needle, you swear you can feel relief instantly once it’s injected.

“Ouch.” You grumble, taking the last bite of your rich curry.

“Oh, do you need a lollipop?” he tuts, packing away the kit— infuriating man.

“No, but maybe something else to suck on,” You joke. His cheeks flush in an instant. Victory. “Actually what I’d like most is a shower,” you admit.

After four days of stewing motionless in a bed, you can practically smell yourself— which means Miguel could definitely smell you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re still a fainting risk and I don’t want to leave you—”

“Okay, then come with me.” You counter instantly. His protective nature is not going to keep you from a hot shower. And well… It felt nice to have him close.

He pauses, raising his eyebrows at you. His cheeks are still faintly red, “I mean, I guess I—”

“Great,” You stand and make your way to the stairs, “Let’s go.”

You pause at the foot of the stairs, remembering what a slow challenge they were earlier. Sure, you were feeling better than earlier— you’d had a meal and whatever was in that needle was fucking magic— but your legs still felt like compacted jelly.

Before you can take the first step you feel Miguel behind you, his hands caressing down the back of your legs and up your back. He gently scoops you into his arms with ease and strides up the steps without missing a beat. Your spider-sense sighs in gratitude.

“Sure. Let’s go.” He grins, glancing down at you.

He walks you both back through his bedroom and into the master bath. A sleek glossy room that matched the rest of the penthouse, every inch of it covered in black marble. The massive shower was on your left and the counter with a ceiling-height mirror was to your right. He seats you on the counter next to the sink. The rainfall shower starts up behind him.

“Okay, let’s get these off you,” he says as he kneels down and gently pulls off one of the bandages from your leg. The flesh underneath is practically healed. You start to remove the ones from your arms, grazing your fingers over the already faint pink marks underneath them. Some were faint scabs and cuts, others were almost entirely healed over. Just four days and this is what was left.

He stands, finished with your legs. He grabs the hem of your shirt and gingerly pulls it off of you. All that remained was the bandages wrapping your abdomen. He slowly starts to unroll them. You wince slightly. He pauses but you nod for him to continue. This was the worst area. The bruises you saw peaking out earlier were already fading away from their previous deep purple. A faint wound still remained on your left side, red tendrils from it reaching over your stomach. You notice small pricks lining the larger portions of the wound. You’d had stitches here too— and now it looked like it’d been healing for weeks.

You shake your head, not wanting to stare at the damage any longer. Later. You’d think about it all later. You had a beautiful man and a shower that were calling your name.

You slide off the counter and pull at the hem of Miguel's shirt. He leans down and you pull it off his body, revealing that gorgeous toned torso. He runs his fingers along the elastic of your shorts and shimmies them off your hips. You do the same with his sweats. A silent ballet you both were deeply familiar with at this point. He cradles your hands as he guides you both backward into the waiting shower.

The steaming water feels like heaven as soon as it hits your body, the rainfall drenching you both in an instant. Your sore limbs instantly feel relief. Your buzzing mind was put at ease. All the anxieties of the day melted away and spiraled down the drain.

You pause there, just letting the sensation consume you. Time slows down and the crackling sound of water hitting stone fades away. You feel like you can properly think for the first time since you woke up hours ago— and it all hits you at once.

You fought. You almost died— and Miguel saved you. If he wasn’t right there when it happened, who knows what would have happened to you. You wouldn’t be here in his house, that’s for sure. He’d stayed by your side, he exhausted every resource to heal you. And he was still by your side right now.

He looks out for his own. Something bad happened to you— and he got scared.

Lyla’s words from earlier echo in your head. He was scared to lose you. You were scared to ever lose him. Not just as a fellow spider but as… something more maybe. You’d felt the feelings pulling at you when you hunted him down in the multiverse those weeks ago. Terrified you’d find him injured or even dead. It was more than a spider-sense. More than this forced proximity you’d both had… well, it wasn’t so forced anymore, was it.

You feel your weakened legs start to wobble and Miguel's hands are instantly on you, pulling you close to him.

“Easy, arañita,” he coos ever so softly.

You look up at him, watching the water cascade over his stern face. His fluffy hair was now drenched down over his forehead. Those crimson eyes filled with concern.

You sigh and rest your head on his chest. “Thank you… for everything.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” He runs a hand over your head and down your back. “Consider us even for saving me… if that helps.”

And there it is, the Miguel you knew. Trying to step away from the gravity of the situation. From feelings becoming too real. This was all supposed to be temporary after all, maybe you should take a page from his book.

Still, you were both here in each other's arms— and that meant something.

“ Déjame cuidarte .” He says just above a whisper.

Miguel trails his hands down your arms, his touch somehow hotter than the water. You close your eyes at the combined sensation. You feel him reach overhead, grabbing something. His hands come back to you, now trailing through your hair. You feel a foamy lather as he does so and the faint smell of flowers hits your nose.

Miguel was washing your hair.

His fingers move slowly and with purpose as they crawl along your scalp. This wasn’t about getting you clean, this was about making you feel good. He was trying to comfort you. To make you forget about… well, everything.

You melt into him, trailing your hands along his stomach. One of his hands trails down your back while the other works the shampoo through your hair. He holds you close. He takes care of you.

He leans your head to the side, the soap rinsing from your hair. He walks you both further into the stream of water and turns you around. Your back is flush with his torso as his hands ever so gently trail over your healing body.

You feel suds foaming from his touch. When had he grabbed that soap? You decide you don’t really care.

He leans down, lips caressing your temples. “Do you feel good, little spider?”

“Yes,” You sigh.

“Do you want to feel better?” you feel one of his hands trail down your stomach and gently ghost over your waiting cunt. A pulse of arousal surges through your whole body.

“Please,” You moan, pulling his head further down. You lean back and pull him into a kiss. His fingers plunge down and run through your folds. You gasp for air at the sensation.

His fingers come up and circle lazily around your clit, already wet and wanting for his touch. He holds you. He plays with you.

Something’s missing this time. Something that was always there when you were both in the most intimate of positions— The spider-sense. You felt its presents, as you always did with Miguel, but you didn’t feel its pull. It’s seemingly innate nature to make you and Miguel go at each other like animals.

He wasn’t doing any of this because he felt like he had to, he was doing this because wanted to. He wanted to make you feel good. He wanted to see you squirm and come undone by his hands.

Later— Think about it later. Just enjoy this. Enjoy him.

He slowly pushes his middle finger inside you. You grind yourself into his palm as he slowly works in and out of you. His free hand comes up to cradle your breasts. He backs you both into the closest wall, the water still cascading over you. His knee comes up between your legs, spreading you wider.

“I’ve got you, arañita. Te tengo, está bien .” He moans against you. You're completely leaning against him as he holds you close. As he works you faster.

You see a glimpse of the both of you in the mirror past the quickly fogging glass— it’s absolutely filthy and you love it. His massive hulking form curled around you wantonly. Your serine, blissed-out face. You adored this man.

“I want you,” You moan, “W-want more.”

“No,” He says just a little too quickly, “Not yet.”

“Please.” You beg breathlessly.

“Not yet, sweet girl,” He sighs, pressing a kiss against your temple. “Finish healing. Get better for me, then you can have whatever you want.”

You don’t entirely dislike the sound of that. You're suddenly aware of your aching body again after being so caught up in the moment. With how fast you were healing it wouldn’t be long at all.

“P-promise?” you barely gasp out.

“I promise.” He curls his finger inside you, grinding his palm against your clit. You gasp, arching further into his touch. “Good girl.”

He was playing you like a fiddle. Familiar with every part of you like the back of his hand. He holds you there against him for what felt like hours, slowly working you. Letting the pressure build and fade as he saw fit— making you feel good.

You eventually come with a shaky sigh, your mind completely melting away. He holds you up, letting the warm water wash over you a few minutes more. You were spent, you were tired. The shower stops. Miguel wraps you in a towel and carries you to the bed.

He sets you on the mattress and gently runs the towel over your body. He cradles your leg, kissing down the length of it as the towel wicks away the beads of moisture. He does the same with your other leg and your arms. He takes his time, giving attention to every part of you. You watch him as he does so, feeling your heart race faster with every gentle touch.

He said he would take care of you. He said he wanted you to feel good.

When he finishes you hold each other's gaze for a moment. Both still completely naked, you now dry and him still sopping wet. It was a little ridiculous, but you’d never felt more comfortable around someone in your life than with this lumbering man kneeling at your feet.

He stands eventually, running the now useless towel over his damp hair. “I should—”

“Stay,” you reach out to him, grabbing his wrist. “Stay with me tonight. Please.”

He pauses, looking down at you. You can’t help but feel so small and meek under his gaze. He’d just unspokenly catered to your every need and now you were begging him to sleep with you. Pathetic, maybe, but you don’t fucking care. You just didn’t want him to leave— and you don’t think he does either.

He closes his eyes with a small smile, “Alright. One moment, please.”

He disappears back into the bathroom to grab a fresh towel and comes back out dry with a pair of black briefs on. You curl under the crisp white covers as he rounds the other side of his massive bed. The lights dim as he crawls in next to you. You roll onto your side and he pulls you into him. You feel his steady breathing against your back and it sends a wave of comfort over the normally buzzing spider-sense. He was so close. You were in his bed— with him.

“Miguel—”

“Shhhh,” he hums, resting his chin just above your head, “Duerme querida.”

You close your mouth, opting just to enjoy the rare moment with him. The feel of his body completely engulfing yours. His thumb tenderly rubbing comforting circles against your stomach. His alluring, amazing scent. Everything— just everything about him right now. You commit it to memory and lock it away.

You were in deep shit.

__________

Déjame cuidarte: Let me take care of you Te tengo, está bien: I’ve got you, it’s okay. Duerme, querida: Sleep, my dear.

And of course, do correct me if any of this is wrong!

I could think of literally no other way to get our Arañita in his house other than some dramatic near death experience, okay

_________

Taglist:

@ineedgarlicbread @pinkiemme @thesilenthill @bontensbabygirl @fallenangelsongwolf @raerorigel @littlefreakymunson @viriexo

@w33ni3

#miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x spiderwoman!reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #across the spiderverse #miguel x reader #parallels fic

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angelcactus · 11 months

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Enjoy pain :)

Darlin was sitting in a chair, hands nervously rubbing together, thumbs digging into palms. They fucked up, majorly fucked up.

They were waiting for David, for him to scold them for this. Their major fuck up? Getting into a fight with another pack, they won but it was a shallow victory.

"...Thank you" they heard David's voice, crisp and tone-deaf. The creaking on the door made their skin so itchy.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" His voice boomed.

But then they were a kid again.

A young teen, preteen. They were a angry and tired preteen. Yet in this moment they felt like a little kid.

Gabe said those exact words.

He pulled them aside at a solstice party, into another room where the music was dim and the voices were muffled.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" He said, gripping their elbow, thick globs of tears ran down their cheeks. They didn't know.

They punched one of the other pack kids in the nose, their hand still stinging from the swing. Gabe was looking in their face for an answer but all he got was hiccups and small gasps.

Gabe never yelled at anyone, he was respected yet intimidating. And he just yelled at a 13 year old for getting into a fight.

Then they were back as an adult, sitting in a room, on a chair in front of David, not Gabe.

But they felt like a kid again.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted david #redacted darlin #redacted gabe

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jacks347 · 2 months

Note

i feel like there actually is an extreme difference between milo and darlin’s situations which caused the different reactions. I mean for all we know milo and sweetheart could’ve never told the pack about the real story of how they met. But anyways- regarding the situation with milo, yes he did throw himself into a dangerous situation, but he wasn’t alone, he was with a trained professional (sweetheart) that knew exactly how to deal with it. And we both know that this pair don’t let rules dictate how they keep everyone safe (milo & the inversion), so maybe telling everyone about the circumstances of their meeting could get them in trouble with the department rather than just david and the pack and/or gabe.

i feel like this is the main difference between their situations, because milo and sweetheart not telling the pack doesn’t put the pack in danger. However, darlin’s situation included lying about quinn’s arrest, fighting his minions (lol i don’t know a better word for this), all while not telling the pack/david about it. The weight of both of their situations is extremely different, because quinn was still an imminent threat to the pack, whereas for milo and sweetheart, the one shade was already dealt with.

i do agree with you that david handled the situation wrong, but i feel like milo and darlin’s situations are so different that they don’t deserve to have the same reaction.

I love the amount of people getting in on this argument, it's honestly a lot of fun to read.

Anyway, yes you make some very good points. The situations are very different and don't deserve the exact same treatment, that wouldn't be fair. But it more so comes down to the principle of the situation.

Both threw themselves at a life or death situation that they didn't necessarily have to be in with no regard for their own life or safety. The big difference is Darlin went solo while Milo had help, yes, but it was with someone who maybe wasn't totally prepared for the situation at hand. Which is why he had to go in the first place.

Yes, the real story of Milo and Sweetheart probably stays under wraps. One of those stories you only tell when you're drunk and someone starts prodding. But considering the circumstances, I think they told Gabe. Like, legally, they had to. Because it was a Department investigation that involved the pack. I know Sweetheart didn't talk to him about the event but I know for damn sure there was probably some legal stipulation that they had to tell him about the pack involvement in the investigation. Therefore, Gabe probably had to know the real story and Milo definitely got his ass handed to him about it.

Yes, Darlin's situation was far more dangerous and posed far more of an actual threat to the pack, I understand that. But it misses the point. I'm not saying Millo deserves the same level of getting ripped into by the pack that Darlin did, but I am saying he deserves to have some level of getting ripped into by the pack. He went into an extremely dangerous situation with no backup other than a brand new investigator who was definitely under qualified for the job they were trying to do. He could've died and no one would've known. Would Sweetheart tell the Department? Would they have to? And if they did, would the Department have to tell the pack? Or would they simply cover it all up and act like nothing happened? If it was covered up, would Sweetheart feel too guilty and tell the pack themself? The legalities of the situation get very complicated very quickly.

I'm not saying he should go full social pariah like Darlin was. But he does deserve just a little bit of it. He deserves for someone else to know and call him stupid. Preferably his mother since I know she would do it best. He deserves judgement for his actions. Maybe it would've caused him to take at least a little bit of pause before nearly frying his core to a crisp at the Inversion.

#keep the points coming #i will defend this all day #calling sweetheart a “trained professional” in this is situation is maybe a tad bit of an overstatment #he deserves Marie's wrath #asmr roleplay #redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted milo #redacted darlin #redacted sweetheart #redacted shaw pack

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sheawritesstuff · 2 months

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Cover-Up

[A longwinded ramble / theory about Gabe's death]

[Angst - 569 words]

[TW: Character Death, Alcoholism, Drunk Driving, Grief]

It was already dark when Gabe finished up his security gig and drove toward home. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just a crisp autumn night in early September. He had the radio on in his truck, listening to whatever songs came up without a worry in the world. He came to a green light, quickly checked both ways and progressed.

Colm was also on his way home after a night of relapse at the bar. He was leaning over to the passenger’s seat to grab another beer - one hand on the wheel, lead foot on the gas pedal, no eyes on the road. He sped through the intersection, oblivious to the red light and Gabe’s truck passing through the center.

The alpha had tried to avoid it, but what could he do? By the time he saw the little black car charging toward the driver’s side door, it was already too late. His truck slid sideways across the street, smashing the other side of the truck against the traffic light pole. Gabe was dead on impact, never knowing a member of his pack had been the one to kill him.

It was just past midnight when the police came knocking on David’s door. He was still half asleep, barely conscious as the police tried explaining what happened. He almost thought he was still dreaming, stuck in some fucked up nightmare. But it wasn’t. His dad was dead, and some drunk driver killed him.

He didn’t feel the need to ask who this mystery driver was, he honestly had no desire to know. It was easier to think of the driver as more of a concept than a person. Drunk driving killed Gabe Shaw. It was more palatable than the crushing reality that another living, breathing person had been the sole reason that his dad was dead and his pack was without an alpha. Knowing Colm had been that unnamed driver would not have helped anything, and it certainly wouldn’t have made stepping up into his father’s role any easier.

David lost all the family he’d ever had and, on top of that, the entirety of his pack looked to him for guidance and leadership in his father’s stead. There was no space to worry about the poor sonofabitch who ran that red light with everything else he had to shoulder. So he didn’t know any better, and neither did the pack. DUMP made sure of that.

The department made sure no one knew one of their ex-investigators had driven drunk and killed the alpha of his pack. They knew it would not have helped their already strained relationship with the general empowered public, so they kept it under wraps. They got him into AA and made him pay a fine that was nowhere close to punishment enough and sent him on his way.

Colm had already made a great deal of progress with his gambling before the accident, but the crash really set him straight. He quit drinking, he stopped going out to the casino, and he tried being a better man. The guilt ate at him and served as the ultimate encouragement to fix himself and get in line. He was given a second chance, he wasn’t gonna waste it. He lives with the shame of what he did, keeping it buried in his chest where it will stay with him until the day he dies.

#This idea wouldn't leave my head #I know it's absolutely not canon #...but what if??#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted gabe #redacted david #redacted colm #redacted shaw pack #shaw pack #redacted theories #shea writes

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gothsugarbunnidisco · 5 months

Text

guys from bands if they were bath and body works fragrances. btw. if you even care. /ref

ryan ross: sweet pea (described as a “super-cheerful blend of sweet pea, watery pear and luscious raspberry” on bath and body works dot com)

pete wentz: winter candy apple (“sweet blend of candied apples, crisp pears and oranges”)

william beckett: strawberry pound cake (“sweet, airy blend of fresh strawberries, golden shortcake and whipped cream”)

mikey way: whipped berry meringue (“fresh berries, whipped sugar and fluffy vanilla”)

trent reznor: sapphire moon (“sparkling pear, sheer freesia and moonlit musk”)

gabe saporta: watermelon lemonade (“watermelon ice, sparkling water and sugared lemon”)

frank iero: japanese cherry blossom (“a sensual blend of crystallized amber kissed with raspberry champagne”)

okay that’s all for now. ask for a part 2 and throw in any band guys (or other people) you’d like to see love you bye

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romirola · 1 year

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Headcanons for Who Brings What to a Packsgiving

David and Angel: The Turkey The main event! David prides himself in being able to roast the turkey to perfection. He has the routine down pat and times it so that the turkey comes out of the oven at the very minute the last guests arrive to the party. Angel, of course, oversees and helps David ensure that the turkey is properly prepared for baking. Additionally, Angel reveals themself to be quite a skilled carver, so they take care of that task, plating the light meat and dark meat separately and ensuring that not one bit of meat is left on the carcass (which David will use to make soup the next day.)

Asher and Babe: Peanut Butter Pie, Apple Pie, and Pumpkin Pie Asher’s favorite part of the day is dessert, and he always insists on providing many choices for the pack, even if David grumbles when Asher claims he’ll be bringing “a pie” and shows up with three. Babe defends their mate, pointing out that they did bring a pie… and two others. As Beta, Asher knows the tastes of everyone in the pack. He wants everyone to have a favorite something on the table, so he makes it a point to bring a few options. Besides, it’s not like he’s making the pies himself. He unabashedly pre-orders from the bakery down the street from his place. No one complains.

Milo and Sweetheart: The Dressing (even though Milo insists that it’s “stuffing,” not dressing. The fact that it is not physically stuffed into the turkey is moot.) Milo and Sweetheart make sure that the dish is seasoned perfectly and properly baked without drying out at all. The two spend the morning chopping the onions and celery as they watch the parade together.

Darling and Sam: Sauteed Brussel Sprouts Darling opts for this simple dish because they know exactly how to cook brussel sprouts so that they are crisp and tasty without turning them into steamed mush. They season them with garlic and olive oil. Sam also approves of the dish because he knows that green vegetables are typically high in iron, not to mention he loves a good sprout.

Gabe and His Mate: Crescent Rolls In his day, different pack members would often volunteer to host the dinner, so the alpha and his mate were often told to “sit back and relax for once,” especially once David was born. Still, the Shaws never felt comfortable showing up to an event empty-handed, so they opted to offer a simple contribution of crescent rolls.

Ciaran and Aíne O’Connell (Asher’s parents): Champ. These two humanborn wolves arrived in Dahlia as packless newlyweds straight from Ireland. They made it their mission to learn about their powers, shifter culture, and life in America, but that doesn’t mean they leave behind the traditions of their homeland. When it comes to Packsgiving, Ciaran and Aíne know they can handle the potatoes better than anyone else could ever hope to do. They contribute champ, a delicious dish made with mashed potatoes, butter, scallions, and milk, that is inevitably a hit with the other wolves.

Marie and Colm Greer: Macaroni and Cheese It’s the stuff of legends. Everyone in the pack looks forward to Marie’s mac and cheese. She makes it with only the freshest cheeses that she blends herself, whole milk, handmade macaroni, all bubbling underneath a thick layer of breadcrumbs.

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cringemesstickles · 7 months

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Werewolf Shenanigans

(TickleTober Day 12: Nibbles)

Summary: Gabriel decides to pull a spooky stunt on Sam

Pairing: Sabriel

Word Count: 572

A/N: This isn’t as good as I would’ve liked it to be, but I was short on time and had to get it out before 12:00. I’m probably gonna write another fic similar to this because I’m in love with the concept but I had a hard time putting it into words in the amount of time that I had. :’)

I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

———————————————————

It was a crisp October evening, and the bunker was adorned with pumpkins, cobwebs, and skeletons.

Gabriel, ever the trickster, was planning a little Halloween surprise for his beloved boyfriend.

Seeing the youngest Winchester cozied up on the couch reading a book, completely submerged in the writing and unaware of his surroundings.

“It’s show time…” He muttered to himself, starting to creep up behind his unsuspecting boyfriend.

When he was just close enough, he leaped over the back of the couch and pounced on Sam with a loud “BOO!”

Sam yelped, his book flying from his hands and landing on the floor.

“AH! Gabe?!”

Gabriel let out a low growl, burying his face in Sam’s neck.

He theatrically sniffed the sensitive skin, sending shivers up Sam’s spine.

“Hmm.. I’m starving, Sammy.. and you smell just scrumptious!”

With no further explanation, he began to nibble Sam’s neck, making exaggerated eating noises.

“OmNomNom! Just the treat this hungry werewolf was after!” He teased.

Sam squealed, thrown into a fit of laughter.

“EEK!! GAHAHABE, T-THAT TICKLES!!”

Gabriel chuckled lowly, growling against the skin, only seeming to make Sam laugh louder.

“Why, that’s the point, my dear~”

Taking in a deep breath, he blew a loud messy raspberry against the crook of his boyfriends neck, earning a cute snort from the youngest Winchester.

“NOO!! GAHAHABE, QUIT IHIHIT!”

Gabriel pulled away, looking Sam in the eye, his own eyes sparkling with mischief.

“As tasty as your neck is, I’m craving something a little more… delicate~”

He slowly started to roll Sam’s shirt up, exposing the his ultimate tickle spot.

Sam’s eyes widened as he caught on to his boyfriends plans, cheeks flushing a bright red.

“D-Don’t you dahahare…” He giggled nervously.

The archangel merely smirked.

“Sorry, Sammy. Werewolf’s gotta eat!”

With that, he dove down and began nibbling at the soft flesh of Sam’s tummy, eliciting a shrill shriek from the ticklish victim.

“EEK! GAHAHABE, YOU ARE RIDICULOHOHOUS!”

Sam was lost in fits of ticklish laughter, tickly sparks shooting through his stomach as his eyes began to water.

Gabriel’s teeth continued to scrape and nip at the delicate skin, delighting in every squeak and snort, even noticing the way Sam’s belly seemed to turn rosy.

“Mm, scrumptious! I think it’s about time for dessert, don’t you?”

Sam tried to catch his breath, giggles still falling from his lips.

“What are you plahahanning, Gabe?” He gave his boyfriend a nervous look, almost not wanting to know the answer.

“Hmm, how about… Raspberries!”

Taking a quick and deep breath, he blew a loud sloppy raspberry on Sam’s belly, earning an honest scream from the Winchester.

“GAHAHABE! I-I CAHAHAHANT!”

Sam’s laughter echoed throughout the bunker, creating a sense of joy.

His sides started to ache from laughing and his cheeks were warm.

When Sam started wheezing, Gabriel gave a couple wet kisses to his tummy and pulled away, admiring the blushing mess that was his lover.

“Thanks for satisfying my hunger, Sam-a-lam!”

He let out a chuckle of his own and leaned in to give the hunter a loving kiss, which Sam returned, giggling through the kiss.

“You’re an idiot…” He muttered, looking at the archangel with warmth and love.

“An idiot who knows how to celebrate Halloween the right way!”

Sam rolled his eyes.

Sam wasn’t fond of Halloween, that’s for sure. But he would be lying if he said that Gabriel didn’t make it a million times better.

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moosemonstrous · 5 months

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Ghost Rider Pacific Rim AU

I was taking notes while rewatching the movie bc why not. Extremely random thoughts below:

Wanda and Pietro Maximoff pilot Cherno Alpha

Kaijiu are demons

The Charger suffered tons of corruption damage before Beto died and Eli went off the rails?

Amadeus would 100% try to drift with his only access to a corrupted tissue are you kidding me sorry Robbie as soon as he gets a wind of this he's plugging into your brain

Stark (rokhal's idea for the other scientist accepted as canon here) is much more hell yeah than Herman but still. Hell doesn't exist what next does an angelic host come down to help with the fight? Wait what do you mean a guy was found frozen in the ice after the last attack

Charlie Hunnam has Strong Johnny Blaze vibes

This AU would obvs run on a different timeline and I want a PR person (Kate Bishop?) to try and make Robbie into a celebrity because come on. He's young enough to appeal to all demographics without it being weird and cleans up well enough if you can get him to stop scowling for two seconds.

Hannibal Chau is just himself no notes. Although... No, Deadpool couldn't run a business if his life depended on it.

Ivanov has a Deal with Chau to give him access to demon remains.

Mako's backstory explains what happened to Juliana after she fled with the boys

Johnny was the pilot who saved Robbie and Gabe? Only Roxanne died in that fight and he left the program rather than sticking around to adopt random orphans.

I'm just really into the idea that one of the rangers getting damaged/killed is pretty typical, but once you get the hang of a drift it's easier to do it with someone else. So you always have a few potential candidates in your back pocket, and some pretty odd pilot mixes. They all need so much therapy.

Demons learn to knock out the jaegers' circuits? The Charger doesn't run on nuclear, but it sure seems to run anyway. With a whole lot of fire coming from the reactor. Stark has kittens about it this is not how physics work.

Why isn't Reyes burnt to a crisp? Amadeus put the neural interface down right now or so help him

Robbie has the worst rates of colateral property damage out of any ranger. He reckons 'would it be better if I murdered civilians' won't go well as an excuse.

The Charger seems to have an infinite arsenal of melee weapons that just. Form. Again, Stark has kittens about it.

I completely forgot about the Kaiju baby oh my god

Seriously Guillermo would make such a good Ghost Rider movie can you imagine

Eli's immediate goal would be to kill Ivanov, but what happens after that? Going through the Breach to shake down his patron seems like a good idea right. And Roberto is down! For the wrong reasons but he'll come around.

#Ghost Rider Pacific Rim AU

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oumaheroes · 1 year

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Does France ever get back at England after the events of An Unfortunate Reminder? Did he give him hickeys as well? Lol what was France's revenge?

He did indeed! This is part 2 of @needcake's wonderful prompts: '2) Engportfra - platonic foot-holding'

A Social Mishap

Characters: England, France, Portugal/ EngPortFra

Part two of An Unfortunate Reminder

--------

When Gabriel finds Arthur, sat alone in the middle of the restaurant by the window, he sees that he's about to leave.

The restaurant is full- packed on a Friday night with people dressed to the nines- and there’s even a live band playing discreetly in the corner. Something light, something old. Gabriel’s coat is taken from him smoothly as soon as he steps properly through the door and, he thinks as he smooths back his hair and wipes away the damp feel of rain from it, this is probably one of the nicest places he’s been to in years. Reminiscent of something he didn’t realise was falling out of fashion until it was far too late to appreciate it properly.

Arthur has his back to entrance so Gabriel can’t see his face but he knows, from knowing Arthur as long as he has, that by the tense, back set of his shoulders and the flush on his ears he is furious. He can almost hear his feet tapping under the table.

Smiling at the seating staff- sim, he is quite alright, thank you- Gabriel winds his way through the other tables and patrons to get to him quickly and lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it through his blazer to calm him when he starts in surprise.

‘Is this seat free?’

Arthur turns to stare up at him. He’s well dressed like everyone else here: smart navy suit and tie with a crisp white shirt that looks newly ironed. The outfit is well-tailored to him, blazer nipped in at the waist to show him slender. Gabriel misses the eras when Arthur would cloak himself in the deepest of reds, the greediest of magpies loose on the seas, but he cleans up well in these modern calm blues. And there, quietly glinting in low yellow light, are still studs in his ear, little hints to personality cresting under the etiquette.

‘Gabe?‘ Arthur blinks, ‘What are you doing here?’ Surprise washes away his anger entirely, leaving only confusion and the briefest, tiniest, flash of relief that is very quickly hidden away.

‘I’m here for dinner.’ Gabriel slides himself into the chair opposite and smiles around at the people on the nearest tables to them, who glance their way curiously out of the corner of their eyes. When Gabriel speaks, he speaks more for their benefit than for Arthur’s, ‘Sorry that I’m so late; have you been here long?’

Arthur frowns and the press of his lips grows tighter, ‘What’s going on.’

‘I’m here for dinner, of course.’

‘Gabe.’

‘Am I not allowed to join you for dinner?’

‘Gabe.’

Gabriel lowers his voice and leans in closer, ‘I overheard Antonio earlier, talking to Francis on the phone.’

Arthur’s expression darkens, ‘Ah.’

‘Hmm.’ Gabriel hooks an ankle around Arthur’s under the table. Arthur doesn’t move. ‘Something about you two supposed to be going for a meal together this evening?’

‘That was the plan.’ Arthur takes a stiff drink of what looks to be wine, the bottle opened and kept cool in ice which hides the label- it is generous of him. The menu shows some very nice rums that Gabriel knows Arthur would have much preferred and the wine now only serves as a slowly warming olive branch. ‘I was supposed to meet him here.’

‘That’s what I heard. The trouble is, I caught Antonio discussing this with Francis not too long ago. He seemed to find something about that funny.’

Arthur nods once, his expression sour, ‘I see. So, you’re only here-’

‘I’m here to have dinner.’ Gabriel takes Arthur’s hand, his thumb running over the dry skin of his knuckles, ‘With you. I had been disappointed that we might not get the chance before either of us go back home, and thought that this was a wonderful opportunity that Francis has given us.’

A small smile lifts the corners of Arthur’s mouth. He snorts and the tightness of his shoulders loosens, ‘He does have his rare moments.’

‘Did he pre-book with his card?’

‘He’s not that foolish.’

‘Shame.’

‘I know. It’s French this place, too.’ Arthur wrinkles his nose and Gabriel chuckles.

A waiter hovers nearby, obviously pleased, or at least interested, that someone else has finally joined the table and Gabriel shakes his head for him to wait a moment. Picking up a menu, he taps the table with the edge, ‘I suppose you’ve done something recently that explains this?’

‘Explain what.’

‘This.’ Dining alone, Francis nowhere to be seen. Overtly catty for them, this decade at least.

‘No.’ Arthur says immediately. Then- ‘Maybe. But not intentionally.’

Gabriel looks at him.

Arthur takes another sip of wine. He has the grace to look somewhat abashed, ‘Maybe intentionally.’

Gabriel snorts and decides that he is better off not knowing.

The restaurant chatters around them. Arthur shifts and runs his fingers along his collar, smooths down his suit- a repetitive calming gesture that Gabriel imagines he’s done many times this evening under curious or pitying stares. This trick was particularly cruel of Francis. Of all the tortures, of all the ways to make him suffer, to make Arthur feel small and unwanted whilst the rest of the world watches is still the way to hurt him the most.

‘It’s Francis’ loss,’ Gabriel says with his eyes on the menu, tallying up the prices to the promised meal, ‘It looks exactly like what he’d actually enjoy.’

‘Rather than just enjoy slagging it off the whole time, you mean?’

Gabriel pouts, ‘He’s so loud.’

Arthur laughs. He leans across the table and pulls down Gabriel’s menu to point out what he’s having and Gabriel catches a hint of the aftershave he’s wearing. Arthur has tried this evening- the signs of a guilty conscience or a hopeful heart- and this makes Gabriel both sad and annoyed to realise. Exactly why, he chooses not to explore.

They just finish placing their order when Gabriel notices movement approach their table, someone focused on specifically them as soon as they step through the door.

‘What a nice surprise.’ Francis’ voice is low, warm silk. He appears from behind Arthur’s shoulder, also very well dressed for the occasion, and presses a kiss to his cheek before moving to greet Gabriel similarly, ‘I find two friends instead of one.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Arthur, darling, not in public.’ Francis raises an eyebrow at a waiter after catching her attention and indicates with his head to their table. A chair materialises in seconds and Francis settles into it, shrugging off his coat all smiles to be hung away in a flutter of quick professional hands.

‘Oh, have you ordered?’ He looks disappointed.

Arthur scowls and drags the poor wine out from its bucket. Away from Francis, Gabriel notes, ‘Go away.’

‘That’s not very nice.’

Francis yelps suddenly, his polite veneer cracking to a hiss as he leans to press a hand to his, presumably, recently abused shin. Gabriel delicately rearranges the table.

‘Why must you be this way?’

‘Why are you here.’

‘We had a dinner date, did we not?’

‘Yes,’ Arthur’s cheeks flush red once again, ‘An hour ago.’

Francis tuts and smooths some hair back behind his ears, ‘Yes, I did think you were dragging on a bit.’

Arthur stops, ‘What?’

‘Rather desperate of you to wait so long. I thought you had more self-respect than-‘

Arthur stands up in a screech of chair on tile, ‘Fuck you. Bastard.’

‘Arthur, wait,’ Francis grabs his arm and Gabriel begins to feel, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that he’s been caught up in this intentionally somehow. As if he’s fallen into the role of unseen observer to their ongoing dance, ‘We’re even.’

Arthur hesitates.

Francis clears his throat and brushes his hand lightly somewhere around his collarbone, as if a hair has caught there or his clothes are irritating him. He pats it.

Arthur sits down. His cheeks are red, ‘We’re even.’

‘Good!’ Francis claps his hands together, looking smug, and scoots his chair in closer, ‘Now, let me recommend you-‘

‘No.’

Francis looks to Gabriel from Arthur in exasperation. Gabriel chuckles and gives him a one-armed shrug, ‘We’ve already ordered.’

‘Alas. It will be to your loss.’

A pregnant silence. Gabriel looks to Arthur, who shoots him a look in return that Gabriel could read several different ways and half of them suggest something illegal.

‘I was always going to come, you know.’ Francis offers to the table from behind his menu, ‘I was in the coffee shop over the road, keeping an eye on you.’

‘Stalker.’

Francis swats Arthur lightly on the arm without looking up, ‘It’s true, I-‘

Gabriel pushes his chair back an inch gently. They both stop to look at him, Francis still holding the menu with a page half turned. Gabriel smiles, ‘I think that I’m going to head back.’

‘What?’ Arthur sits up straighter, ‘Whatever for?’

There are many things that Gabriel could say. He doesn’t know which emotion to use to help him: that he feels foolish, suddenly, here dressed up and uninvited. That he feels embarrassed to have become entangled in this, in them, in what is and has always been their way of things. Even feeling unneeded and redundant, his initial goal now fulfilled. There were always too many rules when Francis got near Arthur, unwritten expectations that extended outwards and around them both.

‘I’m tired,’ he settles on, which is still partly true. Together they are always tiring.

Arthur eyes him, looking between each of Gabriel’s eyes and then down to his hands. One is a fist on the table. He relaxes it, places it on his lap.

‘I’m not allowing you to, I’m afraid,’ Francis hooks Gabriel’s ankle under the table, ‘You’re too good of company to lose and there is far too much I want to talk to you about.’

‘Oh really?’

Francis heaves a dramatic sigh and drops his menu, ‘Yes. My God, Lovino has been driving me insane. It’s something to do with Lars which of course I’m never going to learn about from him.’

Francis plucks the wine bottle from the bucket and tops up Gabriel’s drink continuing to reveal whatever drama he suspects to be brewing. As he talks, Gabriel feels Arthur’s foot wind around the one Francis hasn’t already taken, the tip of his shoe smoothing over the bone in his ankle. Gabriel catches his eye and Arthur moves to deliberately pin his toes in place.

He raises an eyebrow at him. Arthur smiles back, something warm and hopeful in his expression.

‘You owe me,’ he says, pushing his chair closer, and Arthur chuckles.

‘I’m sure you must owe me for something.’

‘Hmm, not after last mont-‘

‘Excuse me. Please do pay attention, the both of you. I loathe to repeat myself.’

‘I loathe you.’

‘The feeling is mutual. Anyway…’

------

AN:

Anon, you cannot know how happy this ask made me. An Unfortunate Reminder was the first ever fic I wrote for Tumblr and the first oneshot in years, so I am overjoyed that it has been remembered.

Thanks for the ask!

#aph england #aph france #aph portugal #hws england #hws france #hws portugal #fruk #engport #engfraport #engportfra #aph #hetalia #heroes writes #hws

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