#sleeping on it 'verse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hippielittlemetalhead · 5 months

Text

So... I lied about getting a full fix-it to This → Part 1. Y'all get parts focusing on different characters for now as Hop traverses his guilt trip. I won't say it gets worse before it gets better but... kinda in places? I promise it's a happy ending though!!

What do you want from me I'm stressed and depressed and I like making my blorbos suffer (a.k.a projecting my trauma instead of doing the healthy shit my shrink tells me to)

You've been warned... But I do hope you like it.

So here we have Part 2 (Pride and Prejudices: Joyce Edition)

He goes to Joyce about it first. Thinks about her gentle herding of the trio that has become the Hopper-Byers brood. Thinks about how she put everything he was feeling about Mike and El and their giggling and the fucking door into words that kept him from looking like an imbecile (if he'd have ever used them instead of fucking it up 'winging it'). Thinks about the way her voice stays soft and kind of quiet even when she's spitting in his face about listening to her (and every time she's been right) and how that's translated to talking down government goons and wrangling the army of children that seems to get bigger each time they have to fight interdimensional terrors. So he goes to Joyce about what Murray said, the noise Steve made with That Look in his eyes and his bandages peeking out from under a shirt that looks like one of the Henleys he's been missing since coming 'back from the dead' and they dug out his clothes from storage. (El wouldn't let her throw anything out, not until she was ready to say goodbye. Thank whatever god[s] there may be she never needed to)

He doesn't expect Joyce to make a face like he suggested inviting Owens to family dinner. He doesn't expect the scoff and eye roll as her shoulders tense and her hands flex at her sides like she's about to let loose her (honestly really attractive) righteous fury. About the Harrington kid.

Maybe he should have asked when the kids weren't home. Before El quietly told them the bullying wasn't as bad as it was in California but some people still made fun of how she spoke and how all of her friends were boys (and just as quietly asked they not do anything. Asked that they let her and The Party handle it until they couldn't). Before Will came home sulking about something idiotic Mike said or did or something the kid missed (though lately the latest Wheeler mistake is followed by bashful mention of the Emerson kid doing something specifically to make Will feel better in the moment). Before Jonathan came home from 'job hunting' or 'volunteering at the school's relief center' reeking of weed and his long-haired friend in tow (less than usual but still enough to make Joyce feel guilty for missing it for so long, for making the boy grow up so fast that he spends his days out of his mind instead of the weekend bender like when they were kids). Before The Party had come by with what homework the school was still giving out and talking over each other about all the latest small-town gossip a teenager can get their hands on (Eddie's name has been cleared but he's still laid up at the hospital. Susan Mayfield has been noticeably absent according to every nosy housewife in Hawkins considering her daughter is in a coma. The Hagans, Carvers, Perkins and a handful of other 'well to do' families have skipped town taking most of the sports population with them. Steve has been letting people displaced by the damage crash at the Harrington mansion. Steve has kept up hours at Family Video somehow and is a regular volunteer at the various relief centers in town. Steve has been giving all of them rides and may have told Dustin he's thinking of trading in the Beemer for a bigger vehicle for all the kids and people he chauffeurs about. Steve keeps a room empty and waiting for when Max wakes up before her mother makes an appearance. Steve. Steve. Steve.)

He doesn't expect the way she spits his name like she's talking about Dick and Margaret under the bleachers over a smoke before the yard teacher catches them. The rant about bullies and broken cameras and trashed kitchens and dead monsters in her fridge. The crack in her voice when she crosses her arms to stop their shaking as she lays sin upon sin at this boy's feet.

And maybe before that would have been enough.

He doesn't expect the stone in his stomach or the burning in his chest as he looks the woman he loves in the eye and says "So I guess we should tell Nancy to break up with Jonathan before he pulls a Lonnie, huh?" It's a low blow. He knows from the hurt anger on her face and on the purse of her lips. He knows that's why he said it. "That kid is lucky to be alive let alone walking and have we ever even thanked him for keeping the fucking kids alive each time they pull their dumb shit when the world goes to hell? Does that sound like anything his folks would have ever done for us? Hell for their own fucking kid they practically signed over to ME of all people?"

He's shaking now too and Joyce has her hands fluttering between them like she wants to reach out. To touch, comfort. Pull him close and tell him to take a breath.

"He called me 'His Hop', Joyce" He barely has enough breath on him to squeeze the words past his tight throat. "Called me His Hop and watched Ellie and the kids when I just couldn't and you were at work. I don't think I've seen his folks in town since the mall was opened and all the donors had that big party. Don't think I've spoken to them since '83 and they made me the kid's guardian when they aren't around cause they didn't want to fly down for a government sized concussion."

By now he knows El and Will are peeking around the corner, their eyes wide and worried. Jonathan has his door cracked and Angus (is that the hippie's name? He can't remember) is whispering something about heavy auras. Joyce is staring somewhere off in the distance, wringing her hands and biting her lips like she's facing an interdimensional portal shaped problem.

"The kids are planning to have one of their games in a few days." Her voice is brittle in a way he's not used to anymore. Not since she pulled her youngest out of hell and faced down a demon clawing through her walls. "He always drives them over and- and disappears until they need to head home. I can make sure he stays for dinner. Like the rest of the kids. I know Claudia has been having him over so I- I can get some recipes from her that he likes."

Something in his shoulders shakes loose and he reaches out to pull her practically shaking from into his chest.

"I don't know what to say to him Hop. He's not Mike and he's not like either of my boys. In my head he's just always been..."

"Dick and Margaret's brat." He sighs out and rests his cheek on the top of her head as she nods and presses herself in closer.

He's aware of eyes on them. Confused and worried and judgemental and he'll pay that piper next. These kids taught him how to be a dad again once, they can do it again, right?

Part 3

@thelittleclare @jackiemonroe5512 @0body0disphoria0 @strangersteddierthings @lingeringmirth

If I missed you in the tag list I'm sorry I tried 🙃🫡 Tell me what you think? 🫣🥲

#nttttf verse #Never Took The Time (To Forget)#yeah the ramblings of a madperson #rambler writes #hopper adopts steve #but make it sad #not fic #i need sleep #stranger things thoughts #hopper pov #hopper byers family #I swear I love Joyce #I just need her to realize she canonically dislikes Steve for VERY stupid reasons #jopper #fic writing #fic wip #stranger things wip

535 notes · View notes

hobiebrownismygod · 6 months

Text

I know Hobie's supposed to be super confident and everything, especially in himself and I know that's probably the most accurate characterization of him considering how he acts in the movies

But can you imagine overthinker!Hobie?

Hobie with abandonment issues?

He sees someone else talking to his S/O and he tries to act like he doesn't care, like he feels confident in his relationship and everything but on the inside he's overthinking like hell.

He's thinking to himself, Shit what do I do? Do I say something? Do I just let them be? Would I seem clingy? What if they like this other person more? What if they don't think im attractive anymore? What if I'm coming on too strong? What if I'm not enough?

And then eventually, once he gets really comfortable with his S/O, he starts showing them how he feels.

Sometimes, late at night when you're holding him and the conversations turn from fluffy to deep and sensitive, he'll murmur to you about how much he loves you and how he's so scared of losing you. He'll hold you a little tighter and bury his face in his neck while he whispers to you about how much you mean to him.

And he'll tear up a little bit while he waits for your response, his eyes shut tightly while he holds onto you cause he's so scared that you'll leave him alone and he doesn't want to be alone because he's been lonely for so so long. He's been by himself for so long that the idea of losing you physically hurts him.

But the moment you whisper to him that you love him too, even though he already knows that, even thought you've said it countless times before, he'll still feel this flash of warmth spreading through his body and he'll look up at you with the most loving eyes and give you the softest kiss as a thank you for putting up with him, and for being his one and only.

And then he's falling asleep in your arms as you gently caress his face, watching his eyes flutter shut and his breathing slow down because he's just so pretty when he's content.

He's so soft 🥺

Maitreyi would hold him

Tags:

@therealloopylupin2099 @daydreaming-en-pointe @s6onder @spiderrinn @l0starl @itsparis-07 @vileviale @Bubble787635 @puff-hugs

411 notes · View notes

thewordfortheday · 2 months

Text

When worry and deep concerns plague us, we toss and turn all night long. Sleep eludes us, and we feel miserable the next day. But, when King David was surrounded by troubles and threats, he sang, "In peace I will both lie down and sleep, For You alone, O Lord, make me to dwell in safety." Psalm 4:8

What is causing you sleepless nights? Place those concerns and worries at the feet of Jesus. Rest in His arms, knowing that He is well capable of dealing with every single problem you are facing today.

#bible verse #daily devotional #christian quotes #bible quotes #inspiration #daily devotion #christian quote #christian life #scripture #bible #good sleep

233 notes · View notes

lotus-pear · 3 months

Text

bsd fic authors i understand yalls pain SO well right now why is it so fucking HARD to write dazai. like i have a whole fucking spreadsheet dedicated to tireless analysis i have done on my part so i can accurately characterize him but he is such an unpredictable and morally gray character that it's hard knowing his limits and boundaries and where he draws the line for himself.

#i hate when ppl make him out to be a sadistic villain with no remorse. like did we read the same manga 💀#but at the same time he is NOT crying abt all the ppl he sent to the grave. he sleeps just fine at night knowing he committed atrocities #yes he feels remorse? but he isn't like kunikida to weep at someone's grave for failing to save them #and then we have his emotions themselves #dazai isn't emotionless. far from it. he has difficulty expressing affection but yk he finds someone endearing when he trusts them #trust is very important to dazai and is one of the aspects of human emotion that he can fully grasp #but like everything else is in a hazy gray area that he does not feel like exploring. he feels alienated from his humanity bc of this #AUUUGHH can someone help me with character analysis PLEASE #I WASNT PAYING ATTENTION TO THIS MF UNTIL RECENTLY SO I MISSED OUT ON A LOT OF IMPORTANT DETAILS #see i would go and reread a few light novels but like i don't have time for that #and this is for dazai specifically. i am very well versed on his relationships w other charcaters #but just like asigiri himself said: it's very difficult to write dazai and write him WELL #so yeaaa i have a lot of smart ppl following me pls help #bsd #ALSO MY FRIEND STILL HAS NO LONGER HUMAN UUUUGHHHHHH I NEED THAT BACK BC I TABBED IT A SHIT TON #FOR LIKE CONNECTIONS TO YOZO AND BSD DAZAI AND WHERE ASIGIRI DREW INSPIRATION FROM YOZOS CHARACTER FOR DAZAI #THAT WOULD BE SUCH A VALUABLE FUCKING RESOURCE BC I DID SOME ANNOTATIONS IN THEM TOO BUT MY BOOK IS ANOTHER FUCKING STATE #I HATE IT HERE FML

291 notes · View notes

sillyravenpassingby · 10 months

Text

You know what makes me fall on my knees???

The way Gwen very clearly said, "what i always think..."

She could've just said "Miles, ur amazing" and be done with that but NO.

She said "what I always think... you're amazing". Not just this one time, not just at this moment. ALWAYS.

And it's crazy because they haven't seen eo for a year -iamsobbing and who knows to what extent did she actually miss Miles. And yet there she was, for a moment, her emotions just out in the open like that. The delivery was so good plsss

#it's like she slipped Miles a hint right there of how she actlly feels about him #does this make sense?? it's 2am and i just thought of it again arrGh they're so precious #makes me want to fly to the moon and just scream #gwiles #ghostflower #atsv #miles x gwen #gwen x miles #gwen stacy #miles morales #across the spider verse #spiderverse #aight self back to sleep

951 notes · View notes

flowercrowngods · 11 months

Text

@steddieas-shegoes hoped for some sexytimes for this wonderful hurt/comfort piece, and i will jump at the chance to practice my smut so uhh!! explicit: quiet sex, trying not to get caught

Eddie’s touch leaves goosebumps on Steve’s skin where he’s slowly, gently trailing his hand along his sides, his back, up all the way to the nape of his neck. It’s an innocent touch — soothing at first, calming him and his frayed nerves, smoothing out the edges of his sharp and cutting thoughts.

But then, somewhere between love and touch and silence, the air in the tent has shifted into something else. Something that comes with goosebumps and hitching breath and racing heart.

Something that makes Steve’s dick twitch against Eddie’s thigh when on his next stroke, Eddie lightly tugs on his hair. Steve turns his face to bury it in his boyfriend’s chest and hides a sigh in the fabric of his shirt.

He can feel the vibrations of Eddie’s hum as they travel all across his body, and he can no longer bear it not to kiss him.

In one swift motion, Steve rolls on top of Eddie and connects their lips in a hungry kiss that in turn serves to swallow their moans, because Eddie is hard beneath him. Steve rolls his hips in a slow, teasing motion as he deliberately sucks Eddie’s tongue into his own mouth, leaving his love with a breathless sigh of his own — just short of a moan that he breathes right into Steve’s mouth.

“Stevie,” Eddie whispers, whimpers, keens, his hands tangled in Steve’s hair and applying the sweetest kind of pressure as he tugs just so. “Baby, we— they’re gonna hear.”

“Hear what?” Steve asks innocently, nipping on Eddie’s bottom lip before delving back in for another deep, breathless kiss.

In lieu of an answer, Eddie just rolls his hips, meeting Steve’s absentminded movements in a torturous manner that has Steve whispering Fuck! into the kiss. And again, when Eddie’s free hand comes up to control the slow gyrations of Steve’s hips.

“Eddie,” he breathes, and it almost sounds like a prayer. A plea. Begging. For what, he doesn’t know. Release, maybe.

“Shhh,” Eddie quiets him, rolling them over so he’s on top now, hovering over Steve. He brushes the hair away from his forehead that has begun to stick there as the air in the tent has grown hotter and hotter. “Quiet, baby.”

“Make me.” It’s a whisper, not nearly as defiant or challenging as either of them are used to, but it still makes Eddie growl, then exhale deeply as he tries not to laugh.

“Menace,” he says, kissing Steve deeply.

“Look who’s talking,” Steve bites back, winding his arms around Eddie’s shoulders to hold him for a second, to feel the matching pace of his racing heart, and hide his own breathless laughter.

They’re really doing this. They shouldn’t. The kids are only a few feet away, every movement in the tent can be heard easily, and the heavy breathing of two horny boys doesn’t really blend well with the sounds of the forest at night.

He’s just about to say something, when Eddie takes off his own shirt and then slowly, almost reverently, pulls Steve’s own shirt up and over his head, leaving them both breathing heavily. Steve lets him, keeps his eyes on Eddie the whole time — a glorious sight even in the dark, the way he straddles Steve’s thighs like that’s where he belongs.

And it is. He does.

“I love you,” Steve whispers. And again, when Eddie lies back down on top of him, their skin finally touching, their hands finding each other easily, their grip secure and tight and loving.

He bites Steve’s earlobe gently before murmuring with hot breath, “I’m gonna make you feel good, Stevie. Do you want that?” The question is accompanied by another roll of his hips, their clothed dicks rubbing against each other just this side of perfect, and Steve needs more. Wants more. Wants Eddie.

“Uh-huh,” he breathes, and it’s almost a whimper, almost a moan, and almost too loud. It makes Eddie grin, makes him bite his ear again as he chuckles darkly, leaving Steve with goosebumps all over.

“Quiet baby. You don’t want them to hear, do you? Don’t want them to know just how good you can be for me, hm? And I for you. They don’t get to know, angel. And do you know why?”

Steve shakes his head, already dazed and heady and a little desperate for more of Eddie’s touch.

“Because I’m yours. And you’re mine. And you gotta be quiet.”

With that, he catches Steve’s lips again just in time to swallow his heady whimper, because Eddie’s hips are moving again and he doesn’t stop this time.

And Steve can’t make a sound about it.

The thrill of being forced to silence turns him on in a way he never anticipated, and his dick twitches in its confines.

“Eddie,” he breathes again, and it means, Yes. It means, Make me feel good. It means, Please. It means, Anything. Everything. Please, baby.

Another chuckle against his skin, and then one of Eddie’s hands begins to travel downwards, leaving him to shiver in anticipation — even more so when Eddie sucks on his tongue the very second he wraps his hand around Steve’s dick.

It’s torture, trying to stay quiet. Trying to breathe just right — not too loud, not too heavy. It’s torture and it’s thrilling and it’s perfect, and it makes Steve arch his back even on the uncomfortable, hard ground beneath him.

Eddie grins against his lips, still busy devouring his mouth with everything he has, and finally, beautifully, wonderfully begins to stroke Steve’s dick inside the boxers he decided to wear to sleep.

“Yes,” Steve breathes, closing his eyes at the perfect sensation tingling up his spine, ridding him of any conscious and coherent thought that isn’t Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

“Yeah?” Eddie sounds both smug and encouraging, tightening his fist around Steve’s cock, and it has Steve burying both of his hands in Eddie’s hair, tugging and pulling until he has to swallow a moan himself.

“Ye— God, yes.”

“Good,” Eddie whispers, trailing his lips down the side of Steve’s face who tries to chase him, tries to get Eddie to come back.

But he won’t budge, attacking Steve’s ear instead, sucking at the soft skin just below it, fully aware of how sensitive Steve is there. It has him keening, bucking his hips further into Eddie’s touch, going crazy when Eddie breathes a laugh right into his ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, Stevie. Pretty boy, my pretty boy, looking so beautiful when you feel good. Am I, Stevie? Am I making you feel so good? Are you gonna come like this?”

“Uh-huh,” Steve moans, trying so desperately to keep it down. But how can he, when Eddie is humping his leg, when Eddie is breathless himself, when Eddie touches him like that and makes him feel so, so good. “Uh, I’m— Fuck, Eddie.”

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Steve comes — and how hard. His legs buck when after two, three, four more perfect, mean, heavenly strokes, he comes in his boxers with a stuttering breath that turns into a king, drawn-out moan.

“God, angel, that was— You’re so— Fuck, I’m—”

And Steve can’t even think about reciprocating; because Eddie’s hips stutter against him before he, too, stills with a blissed-out expression.

Steve, breathless and a little giddy, asks, “Did you just…”

“Yup.”

There’s a moment of silence before they both break into giggles. Eddie buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, who immediately winds his arms and legs around his boyfriend to hold him, dazed and happy and so, so giddy. It’s ridiculous. Eddie is ridiculous.

Steve loves him so much.

“I love you, too,” Eddie hums against his skin, smacking kisses to his shoulder and his neck.

“But next time I wanna hear you again,” Steve says eventually.

Eddie grins against his skin, nipping at the soft skin until Steve playfully shoves his face away. “Deal.”

Steve’s heart is light when he falls asleep not long after.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie smut #nsft #nsft steddie #uhm. so. this is like my second time writing smut for these two? i hope it’s okay? i am not well versed in The Sexies #dio words #hi mickala i hope this is fine lmaoo #THE WORDS ARE REPETITIVE and my vocabulary is small but we deal with that now #i wrote this instead of sleeping whoops?

303 notes · View notes

fauustic · 10 months

Text

something new, something that scares me

gender non-confirming reader (implied afab due to pregnancy) x miguel "spider-man 2099" o'hara

angst. comfort. with a secret hanging over the complicated relationship the both of you have, miguel is faced with his rot.

warnings: pregnant reader, discussion of sickness (throwing up, fatigue), discussion of loss of child, miscommunication, allusion to (reader's) past relationship trauma, heavy angst. not beta-read.

words: 5644

Your apartment echoed with your choked gags, the bathroom lit aflame with artificial light soon after the hurried stumbling of yours trailing from your bed. Sleep blurred your gaze, gross and sticky yet you couldn’t bring yourself to wipe the gunk. Your bones felt heavy as your pajama shirt slipped up your belly, exposing the soft flesh to the coldness of your home. The sensation made you suck a sharp breath through your teeth, as miserable and alone as ever.

This great big universe of yours was quaint and quiet, only ever needing to go out on your patrols at night. Sleep was gratefully given during the day, only ever interrupted by the gruff–staticy voices seeping into your apartment from the walkie-talkie that leaked codes and warnings of crime– you’ve never been the one to get sick. Not until this absolutely beautiful morning at the ripe time of 4:27AM.

The entire week leading up to today was filled with waves of nausea, interrupting the time you spent to yourself when months grew dull and delicate. Work was never really needed, graciously, as you lived off your success in the medical field. This allowed you to wallow in the comfort of your duvet, bedridden and hungry and moody. As another pitiful cough wracked your form and bile strayed on your tongue, the watch you kept hidden away in the bedside drawer began to illuminate the corner of your room in an orange hue. The warm sweat against your forehead almost stung painfully when the blood from your face drained in anxiety. The warm color and murmur of muffled words that would normally fill your lungs with a crash of adrenaline and mild irritation instead left your palms slipping off the toilet in panic.

You haven't been beckoned to join alongside a mission with another member of the Spider Society in a while. And you would accept one in a moment's notice if you weren't slumped against the cold tile floor of the bathroom.

There's never been a moment where you didn't answer Miguel's check-ins, whether he was asking for your presence for affection or actual help.

The relationship between you and Miguel, to say the very least, was complicated.

You were like the calm before the storm; the soft tide of an ocean meeting the shore with a gentle embrace. Your voice came out like raindrops meeting the morning dew of grass, yet when met with dire situations– it is as if someone brought forth a lighter to your skin and burnt you aflame. You knew how to hold your own, something others didn't expect of your quaint, observant temperament.

Miguel, was– an enigma within himself. He was a shadow of what he once was, you had learned through the stories he had told you during the nights where your watch felt too heavy on your wrist, drowned away in the bedsheets of your lover that held you as if you were going to leave at the mention of another universe– gone without any evidence that you even existed in the first place.

Ever since you learned, the insecurities that plagued his words in the darkness of the room you crashed in every now and then held greater weight. The white headband and blue wrapping bow resting upon the nightstand, gathering dust by each passing day, caught your eye more than it did not. As Miguel met your lips with his own in sleepy desperation, wrapping his arms around your waist to bring you even closer– the trauma haunting his gaze whenever he recollected his thoughts flashed behind your eyelids.

Your first mistake is that you grew to love the shadow of what he once was, grew too attached to a man that wasn't under your protection of a universe that was your own.

The babble of sentences seeping through the cracks of your bedside cabinet had your heart lurching, an all-too-familiar voice passing through the silence like a knife striking through air. His voice was tentative, an exhausted repeat of your name before he heaved another "voice-mail" (or whatever is equivalent to such a thing on a universe-hopping device) into the technological watch. You can already imagine the dark bags right underneath his eyes, framed by definition of his features and wrinkles conjured through stress and age. His hair would be swept back with his claws, you're sure of it. Around this time in your universe it was roughly the same to his, perhaps an hour or two before him. But time didn't matter to the man who put himself in charge of a society full of clones of the same guy, give or take an infinite amount of variations alongside said-same-guy.

As your chin pressed down on the toilet seat, skin damp with sweat from the constant cycle of insomnia and sickness– you allowed yourself the indulging selfishness of imagining Miguel comforting you. But you were afraid of how he'd react to the secret you've kept under the wraps for a couple weeks now, skillfully and hopefully subtly avoiding him. Now you've been homebound, and letting him see you in this state would surely encourage him to come through that apartment door himself.

The problem was, you and Miguel were not officially together. It was complicated, with him dancing into his life and hooking up with you– spending nights wrapped in your embrace as soft huffs of his breath would meet the shell of your ear. And then he'd disappear for a month and fade back onto nothing more than a coworker, a person you'd nod to in the offices because Miguel was not one to wave.

And to tell him you were most, no– definitely pregnant, you were unsure on how he'd respond.

Miguel has never bared his teeth towards you unless in bed, his fangs grazing the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder in the soft lull of a long day– but you knew he was not one necessarily subject to change. Something out of order. A situation abrupt and unexpected that would change the future and possibly everything that followed.

His past was never foreign, he'd let bits and pieces of himself slip past that guarded exterior of his in the safety of your blankets and pillows and kisses– but that's why fear shot up your spine and settled back down into the pit of your stomach. Miguel has tried more than once to create his own reality of what a family should be– and lost the only thing that has ever truly been important to him twice. Your baby would never be Gabriella, and you couldn't allow your future bundle of love to be put under that expectation.

And, and plus, you weren't even sure if you wanted to keep it. The idea of parenthood had you swallowing back spit like you'd just been dunked into freezing water, the circumstances unknown and dangerous. A father from a whole entire universe? That was stupid. Miguel would call you stupid, too. You knew it. Just like the one who treated you before.

Wetness blurred your vision before you even had a chance to get up, stumbling into the kitchen for a glass of water. You knew you looked like shit, eyes puffy and lips chapped as you pulled at your pajamas to get more comfortable. As you down half a water, a knock vibrates your apartment. It must be a neighbor, you thought. You were probably too loud with these fits you’ve been having, slumped over a toilet and being miserable.

Opening the door, your blood runs cold and the sweat that was finally beginning to stay away after wiping your face came back worse. It was the man that’s been haunting your every living moment, both in wake and in dreams. He looked absolutely wrecked beyond the facade he tried to put up– sunken eyes and unruly hair. “You’ve ignored another call of mine.” Was all he said, pointed and brooding.

“Miguel,” you began as you brought yourself inviting him in before you could even catch yourself. He had that stoic yet bothered look on his face, one that’s almost permanently etched within the few expressions he can muster.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" Miguel's voice, confused and raising ever so slightly as his muddled gaze scanned over your pacing form. No hellos, how are you doing, direct as always. When your nails met your teeth in a nervous habit, Miguel exhaled heavily as if he was trying to calm himself down. "No reason, no call– just pure radio silence! I came here because I thought something happened– Dios mío–" He sounded pained, accent growing ever thicker as he shuffled a long-sleeved, futuristic athletic shirt off. The top part of his suit met your eyes, and you had to rip your guilty stare off his form as you remembered who the both of you are; two lines on a graph, who should have simply stayed parallel to one another. Intersecting with a man who has flipped your world upside down and spawned so many opportunities just to disappear the next night– you couldn't take it anymore.

His sweatpant-clad ankles met your downcast attention as Miguel came closer, his touch contrasting that irritated voice of his. Index meeting the skin of your jaw just right to your chin, he guided your eyes to his own. A frown tugged at his features, winning the war when he so desperately tried to be stoic. Without a word, Miguel scanned the splotches on your face and dried wetness coating your cheeks. He knew you had been crying, he always does.

His touch is so inviting, so welcoming that you just want to surrender your entire being to him. To crawl right into the ribcage you were level with and to create a home, nestled as close to his heart that he tried to keep at bay.

People who aren't lovers shouldn't be holding one another like this, you thought as his thumb met the corner of your lip and his index rested upon your chin. Miguel's lips carved themselves into a deeper scowl as a choked sob erupted the silence following his question, his own hardness beyond that gaze of his shattering like an unlucky mirror.

Miguel has never had to put up with you in such an emotional atmosphere. You thought you were scaring him away, but he only took your hands in his and rubbed the flesh of your knuckles as you cried.

Guilt struck your lungs and constricted your breathing, "we shouldn't be doing this." You were full on crying now, you felt the tears rolling down the hot shame igniting your cheeks. You heard your voice crack under the pressure of avoiding him, of depriving your life of the one you loved the most. You snatched your hands away from his grasp, and the moment he let you, you regretted it.

"I shouldn't love you."

"You love me?"

The question tumbling from his agape lips was nothing less than sincere as you snapped your neck towards his shell-shocked expression. You didn't mean to say that– too caught up in emotions and memories and it just came out–

So instead you covered your mouth and shook your head rapidly, stepping away yet never turning away from him. Your sobs wracked your body for the millionth time that night, reminding you of the emptiness you felt on your knees, slumped against the toilet and fending off sickness. A flash of hurt made itself apparent in his gaze, but Miguel knew you were lying.

He stood there like a statue in the middle of your cozy living room, looking like he was sculpted to be here. To be at home, with you.

If you were two other people, the both of you would be snuggled on the couch that cost way too much at a furniture store going out of business, buttery fingers accidentally intertwining in a bowl of chile-lime seasoned popcorn– having pointless debates on whether or not the next character to die in a B-listed horror film would be the clueless jock or stereotypical book-nerd. Miguel would be complaining "Why are we watching this, anyways? Película de mierda, should have listened to my recommendations from the start."

"I do not want to be stuck at home on a Friday night watching documentaries with you."

And he'd give you a side-eye with a scowl he truly didn't mean, before hitting you in the forehead with a piece of seasoned popcorn.

But this was not another universe where the two of you were intertwined, birthed on the same Earth and time that had you sharing classes and awkward, immature conversations. You would never be granted the experience of that pining phase, dancing around one another under sweet circumstances that consisted of healthy households and loving parents. You were you, holding your stomach in anticipated nausea. And he was Miguel, clenching the claws into his palms with his grey streak hovering uncharacteristically over his eyebrow.

The couch was empty, the television was not on. It was cold.

"We can't continue doing this." You sighed, daring to keep your darting eyes from that rare, broken expression painting his features and daring him to look older. "I'm tired." You fumbled with your hands, bruised and battered from the anxious picking and nights you stayed glued to the toilet. Miguel's eyes met the marks lining the flesh, and he challenged the empty space between the both of you. You knew that he knew he preached to never interfere with what's bound to happen in one another's worlds, that everything is supposed to keep itself flowing without the interference of even one, single organism from another universe. Yet here he was, fighting to keep this situation in the palms of his shaky hands. To hold onto you and never let go. "I'm sorry l, I'm sorry." He whispered into your hair, ruffled from the rough evening you've had. "Perdóname, por favor."

The mention of cutting this, whatever this was, had him crumbling into your frame that hugged the wall that met your back. His hands snaked themselves around your waist before tiredly settling on the softness peeking from your rumpled pajama shirt. His forehead met your shoulder, hunching into the warmth you omitted like he was a freezing man starved from fire. Miguel shifted so his nose met the crook of your neck, dampness meeting the tendons there as he inhaled deeply. "I'm, I'm sorry." He chanted like a broken vinyl, voice breaking into barely above a whisper.

Miguel thought it was because of all those times he had left you hours after he kissed the bruises littering your skin, the marks he branded into your flesh like a possessive sigil. And he wasn't wrong, Miguel was absolutely terrible for that.

But the pain that tore open your heart and festered into the valves was the aching lit aflame from the nights ruined from sick, never soothed from the one who loved like he was starved and accepted affection like he was desperate, but never given the opportunity of you seeing the morning rays meet the stress dotting his relaxed forehead in the peacefulness of slumber. That was the breaking point.

"Miguel," a sigh escapes your lips before you could contain it. "Please leave." A desperate plea that you didn't fully believe in. All that you gained in response was his hold growing tighter, no words exchanged.

"No, no, no." He breathed into your being, mixing himself into you until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. "I can't go, not until I know this is back to right again."

You shook your head, cheek grazing further into the curls that threatened to tickle you with each motion. "It can't be, Miguel. Just go back home."

"And why is that," Miguel says your name, fumbling slightly as he almost murmurs a pet name in the vulnerability of the moment. "This, what's happening– we can fix this as long as you tell me what's going on, angel. Just tell me and I'll fix this." It almost came out as a whine, the urge to keep everything in order oozing out from the ulterior of his words. "Nosotros podemos salvar esto. Please, please, please." He was at a loss, anxious and scared and trying his best to keep as calm as he possibly can– Miguel's native tongue always slipped into conversations at his most emotional, trying to convey his feelings as easily as possible.

Miguel's body pulled away only so he could grab your face gently, as if you were the most fragile thing in all the universes despite your life of busting noses and cleaning up the scum off every city, his suited palms met your skin and it was a bittersweet reminder of the lives you both had. The reason you two were never able to have that happy ending of yours.

"I can't bring myself to tell you," you mumbled, the furrow of his sharp eyebrows accompanied with the squint of disbelief had you wishing you could just scoop him up in your arms and tell him that this was just one big joke. He wouldn't talk to you for months, cold shoulder and all.

"You can tell me anything. Siempre." The last came out as hushed, a promise you've never heard from him before. Miguel has never truly given you more to work with other than physicality. It hurt knowing you could have had this all along.

Nightlife bled into your apartment, the vibrant lights fighting against the blinds you drew closed. A soft glare of yellow met a mole just below his lip and traced his nose before disappearing as if it was never there at all. A honk flooded the taut tension, almost making you jump in the light grasp he held onto you. You were wondering if he thought you were going to wash away the moment he let go of you, as if you were a sailor lost at sea and he was the broken anchor trying its best to keep you grounded.

Your teeth met your lip, rolling it around before metal met your tongue. The pain kept you in the moment, the soft echo of “tell him, tell him, tell him,” sounding throughout your head like an urgent emergency alarm. It was all too much. You couldn’t do it anymore.

One breath. Holding it, your confession came out a bit choked and ashamed. “I’m pregnant.” The second it left the confinement of your mind and left your tongue, you just wanted to go back into your room and dig a hole from your bed into the ground. The hold on your cheeks fell slack in shock, before Miguel’s claws that threatened to peak from his fingers trailed down the flesh of your collarbone and settled on your shoulders.

His habit of keeping eye-contact slipped, failing to keep up with your ever-changing gaze. Instead, he stared at you as if he was just something that defied both life and science itself, staring off into nothingness until finally knocking his forehead in the junction right above your heart– nose brushing your armpit. “¿Qué?” Was all he could bring himself to say, and you misconstrued his disbelief with disappointment.

You brought yourself to repeat what you had held back, tears falling from your puffy eyes. “I’m, I’m pregnant.”

“That’s–” A loss of words, must be trying to fabricate his anger into words. You had messed up, right? Maybe you deserved this–

“I’m sorry, Miguel. I’m sorry–” You cut him off, panic setting into your skin and wiring your brain to go into flight mode. “I was on the pill, and I made sure–”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say another word because the next thing you know is that Miguel’s surrounding you, hands wrapping around the back of your head in a messy tangle of curls wrapped around large fingers as your teeth clashed with his, lips intertwined with your own– your slightly chapped skin meeting his plush mouth. Spit and tears became one until you couldn’t tell anymore, and when the both of you separated a string of saliva was left in its wake. You were dazed from the abrupt need of touch, as Miguel huffed and stammered into your mouth over things he didn’t know how to express.

“No, stop. None of that, none of that matters.” He heaved, and you weren’t sure if the shine glazing his eyes were tears because the wetness clouding your gaze almost had you seeing double.

Confusion set in, replacing the prepared rambling you had of excuses. “You don’t?” You felt stupid for questioning him, but he only hissed an exhale through his teeth and shook his head as if the tension within him began deflating like a balloon.

“Never.” He assured, forehead meeting yours. “We’ve just never spoken about this before.” It almost came out sheepishly, a light shrug bumping your shoulders before his eyes drifted off. But they rested back on you within a blink.

Miguel breathed in deeply, as if he was having to take in oxygen and breathe out manually. His muscles within the constrictions of his suit rolled as he held himself hunched over you, trying his best not to be drafted away in thought. Something he found himself doing frequently whenever met with his computer panels.

A laugh couldn’t help but leave your throat as you bit back a sob. “Because you never wanted to.”

Nothing was said in response, and as you surveyed his darting gaze from your stomach to your lips, and finally your eyes– you felt as if you said something wrong. But he only sighed, nodding ever so slowly against your flesh.

“I was..” He fumbled with what he wanted to say, before finally screwing his eyes shut and hissing out; “scared.”

You stayed quiet for him to organize his thoughts, in which he slid his forearms around your back in gratitude and wrapped you in a hold that felt as safe as a weighted blanket.

“You, you are something else entirely. Me recuerdas al aire que respiro, algo sin lo que no puedo vivir. The rapture in my veins, the photo I find myself staring at often as if somehow you’ll jump right from the screen and engulf me with that warmth I cannot ever get enough of.” It was cheesy, but you knew he was trying his best in describing even a fraction of the amount he cared for you. “I just never knew how to go about it.”

“But you got me pregnant,” You teased weakly into his shoulder as you slid away from his forehead, the eye-contact he craved to contain grew overwhelming with the newfound emotion he had for you locked away.

“Christ,” he mumbled as he mirrored your actions, fangs finding their way to graze the skin just within the crook of your neck. “I heard you, you said you love me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

His movements still, embrace going rigid until you were the one to spill your feelings.

“We, we were never even supposed to meet. We’re from completely different worlds, the people are different and the places don’t add up–” You tripped over the thoughts you finally revealed as well, desperately trying to claw your worries out from the lump in your throat. “What about everything you said, are you willing to risk it all just for this? I don’t want you to stay awake at night when it comes to contemplating the idea that what had once happened before could happen again.”

Give yourself this, you wanted to say. You’ve worked so hard, just give yourself this.

Miguel stares at you, back and forth– each eye and giving it the same attention when his lip curls downward into a genuine wobble. He shakes his head, whether it be in incredulity over his final decision.

“I’m in love with you, too. Love you so much it hurts. Was just too afraid to let myself have you. Eres lo más preciado que tengo en el mundo, no matter where the Arachno Humanoid Poly Multiverse puts us.

“You are such a hidden nerd it hurts.” You find yourself joking with him, and you feel the smile against your skin.

“Only for you, I think.”

Silence enveloped the living room, an exhale of relief allowing itself to escape from your lips. A yawn followed, tiredness seeping into your muscles. “You’re stuck with me if you really do stay.”

The both of you get lost in the embrace of one another, Miguel hunched over into your form until your snores finally fill his ears and he scoops you up as gently as he’s ever handled you. “Te amo, mi lucero.”

“Te amo más,” you had mumbled sleepily as your arms found security around his neck.

And when you wake that morning, your face is met with his chest and your legs are tangled with his. His breath, stifling and hot, tickles the sleepy furrowed brow that creases your forehead. One of Miguel’s arms had found its way to become one with the pillow while the other presses you further into his chest on the small of your back. When he stirs, he blinks away sleep and takes your face into his calloused fingers, sweetly locking his lips with yours in a brief kiss. “Buenos días, mi cielo.” He whispered into the softness of your duvet. Your heart melts at the sight of it all.

He finally stayed.

You make him breakfast that morning and he makes sure your hair stays out of the way when you need to empty your stomach out of morning sickness.

He was a beautiful thing, you knew it from the first peek into his crying eyes. Auburn with a hint of crimson, Miguel's former genes trying its best to win a losing fight.

“Thank you,” you whispered into the delicate moment, watching your son wail softly in your tired embrace.

Miguel’s lips met your cheek bone, fluttering and sweet and different. His hand shakily cupped yours cradling your baby’s head. He was quiet for a long time, no huff of attitude that would meet your off-handed sweetness that secretly melted his heart ten-times over. You peered up at him, an exhausted yet bashful grin ebbing your features as each babble sounded throughout the hospital room. Miguel’s hair had gotten longer throughout the last eight months, curling at the end of his neck and almost brushing his shoulders. Glasses adorned the curvature of his nose, a twinkle that’s accompanied his crimson gaze ever since you cried out “I’m pregnant,” snot and tears and all. He hasn’t let go of himself perse, just more adamant to take care of himself for the sake of you and his family.

His family. If you had told him such a thing merely two years ago, he would have thrown a computer panel aiming straight for the nose and chased you around Nueva York like a rabid animal for such a cruel joke. Miguel almost winced, the baby fawn-like expression of his newborn son almost reminding him of the boy he did the exact thing he just described. After gaining a consciousness, he’s almost apologized in every possible way (not verbally, mainly by giving him an easier time) to that kid and his mom that almost beat his ass back on Earth-1610B.

As his gaze carved into his son’s own, it was like everything felt right. It was like every obstacle that got in the way of the both of you was worth the struggle.

“Gabri. Gabriel.” He breathed, nodding as if it made the most sense in the world.

Your laugh, airy and heavy but lighthearted all the same. “What?” Miguel couldn’t help himself when his hand moved on its own accord, swiping through your unruly and unwashed hair. You had been through it these past couple days, but to him you were nothing less than an angel. Had your hands not been occupied with the newfound bundle of joy the both of you had just welcomed into the world, you would have done the same to his curls. Down the same path, tugging on the grey streak that he stopped dying after months of your persistence.

The baby had Miguel’s eyes, but he had your lips. Your son had Miguel’s nose, but he had your chin. He coughed and snorted and did everything a baby would do, but with every little motion his hands could muster the energy for– had you forgetting every worry that had clouded your mind once before.

“Gabriel,” he repeated as he brought the tip of his index to tickle the palm of his, your son. “Gabri for short.”

“Miguel,” you sighed, with just as much weariness as you had when you asked him to leave your apartment that night. “You know it’s okay that you’re thinking about her–”

Miguel cut you off with a kiss, abrupt and short and sweet. It shut you up right away, a squeak coming out in surprise. His lashes were on full display as his gaze traced your lips before dipping back down to his baby in your loving hold. “Gabriel after my brother. I was going to name Gabriella after him had it been that way.” His brow furrowed faintly at the mention of his late daughter, yet a tiny turn of his mouth contrasted the subtle sorrow. “Namesake sort of thing, I think my mother would have liked it.” He confessed, a mellow fluster brushing his cheeks. Miguel was never one to talk about his parents, too much baggage that was locked away in the late nights of fluttering kisses and achingly tight holds. “Esto es importante para mí, por favor. Please, mi corazón.”

A little giggle of sorts interrupted the heartfelt communication, ripping your scanning, concerned gaze from your husband’s face. “Sé que es importante.” You murmured as a response, settling further into the near-uncomfortable fabric of the hospital bed. After complaining just a little to Miguel though, he had demanded you had the utmost care. He had brought you pillows from your own shared bed, alongside a new duvet from the hospital staff. You didn’t care to make another comment, knowing he’d break down the entire building in search of any aid to soothe your needs.

After a moment of contemplation and mainly just building suspense to get more of a reaction out of Miguel, you shook your head yes and grinned lazily. “Gabri. Lovely, baby.” You echoed your son’s name, hearing an intake of breath right next to your ear in a mixture of rare excitement and contentment that tickled the angle of your jaw and brushed hair upon your nose. Miguel must had seen the scrunch of your nose, as he had grazed where the hair had rested before.

Downright fatigue plagued your movements, wanting to celebrate this moment with Miguel but you had used all your energy in the process. So you leaned up only for him to usher you back down, using no words like he usually did. Quiet thing, he was– just a different atmosphere around his very soul nowadays.

“What can I do for you, my love?” He whispered into your hair, leaning down and getting on his knees to level himself with your exhausted expression. “Just say the word.”

“I need some sleep,” you huffed happily, wanting to trace the skin on his cheek as if he was the night sky and you were pointing out constellations. But you kept your fingers tucked safely around Gabriel until he reached out, allowing you to daintily place him in his own hold before another word between the both of you was uttered.

The dark hue of midnight black bled into the array of purple and pink, blessing the sunset with another hour of rest. It was fairly late already, judging by the amount of coffee cups Miguel had collected on the bedside desk like some kind of coffee connoisseur. When you had teased him about it earlier, he brushed you off with a faux frown and side-eye before laying his head back down on your thighs, giving into another nap before the baby was due.

“Get some rest then, cariño. Me and Gabri will be here, won’t we?” He practically cooed into the space of the newborn, where he was just met with a series of spit-filled babbles and prattle.

You couldn’t help but just nod, overtaken by the lull of sleep and comfort. Here Miguel was, sitting not even a foot away and practically spilling into the bed. He was a clingy thing whether he admitted or not, basking in the warmth your skin brought like a cat drawn to sunlight.

He was quiet as your breathing even out, watching his son like it was a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

It wasn’t until you began snoring that he spoke to his son like an imagineer telling stories, light and fluttery yet raising in octaves to bring forth a squeal of tired excitement that Gabriel couldn’t grasp. And soon enough, Gabri was consumed with sleep in the embrace of his father who couldn’t stop shaking.

Was it nervousness? Disbelief? Fear? Miguel thought it was a scary concoction of all three filling his veins and causing his palms to grow clammy. But as a light gurgle escaped the small little thing in his hands and begged to be patted on the back, every insecurity that plagued his mind and consumed him washed away without a second thought.

A small, selfish part of him wished Gabriella was here to bask in the shared excitement between the both of you– but he knew she was gone. And you were here, and Gabri has come along too.

And that’s more than he ever thought he deserved.

#i had to write something before i exploded i missed writing so much .. please GIVE ME REQUESTS RAHH #ive been so busy and my sleep schedule SUCKS because i finally got a job #forgive me for no fics!! i feel so bad #into the spider verse #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara comfort #x gender neutral reader #spiderman 2099 #x comfort #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #comfort #x angst #angst #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara angst

353 notes · View notes