Atsv Fic - Tumblr Posts
Ugh just watched the movie and this man had me giggling and twirling my hair
your undivided attention
im so normal about this cringefail, wet paperbag man haha :)) Idk what this is i just had to let it out, but i hope you find some joy in it <;3 warnings: the spot/johnathon ohnn being incredibly pathetic
He thinks about it hard. How he had failed so badly.
Okay, so he’s failed in a lot of things, he had failed that morning in stealing some cash from an old lady.
But this time, he’s thinking specifically about how he failed with you. At getting your attention.
He tried everything.
He left fresh donuts on your desk (without a single note or name), he stared at you from across the room (never actually spoke to you and tried to act indifferent every single time you looked even remotely his way).
He even sent that information you requested once for the science article you were writing and added a smiling face at the end of his email. God thats pathetic.
To be fair, getting noticed in a megacorporation such as Alchemax was highly unlikely.
Not when you’re getting hit in the head with a bagel by Spiderman though.
The memory sinks in again, each time more painful than the last. How embarrassing.
He remembers your stifling giggles and how they burned in his head for days after. Of course thats the one time he managed to get your attention.
The sound of your laugh is so vivid and mocking, yet its somehow addicting to him. He keeps coming back to it, for some reason?
Oh, that cant be good.
He thinks about it so hard, it swallows him whole.
No really, it does. A hole opens up from under him and he’s being engulfed by the black void of it.
There I go again. He thinks, not really surprised or alarmed at this point.
He lands face down, ass up in your apartment.
Not that he realizes at first.
Not until he picks up a framed picture from the coffee table and sees the image of you smiling with your friends. Oh shit.
He’s filled with dread almost immediately, he never dared to speak to you back when he was "normal"/before the incident and now he’s inside your living space without your consent.
He tumbles back in panic and drops a few books, accidentally opens up a hole on the ground while trying to salvage them only for them to land on his head, one by one with a hard thump.
Ow. Fuck. Ow. Guess I deserve that. Ow.
“Are you kidding me?!!!“ He exclaims in outrage at the other accidental hole that stays put on the ceiling, not really bothering with being silent anymore.
But when he hears your steps the panic rises up again. Oh my god, they're gonna scream bloody murder. He thinks. They're gonna scream and run like a crazy person.
Or worse. They'll laugh.
Again.
Just like everyone else did.
In a matter of seconds you stand before him and he holds his hands up in defense and starts speaking on impulse like he always does.
“Okay so, weirdest thing just happened. Dont freak out-“
And you gasp, a hand to your chest. Mouth hanging open but no sound coming out.
“Please dont freak out. See i have these holes. And somehow my holes guided me to you. I’m still figuring out how-“
And then the sound of his name feels as if it rips the sound barrier to him. It almost sounds foreign at this point.
“Johnathon” You say it, with a tint of excitement.
Wait, what?
“Huh? You know who I am?” He asks, dumbfounded. A blank expression on his face (figuratively and literally).
And there it is again, in its full volume. Your giggles.
But this time, they burn in a different kind of way. The quality of them so impish he swears it might turn his whole body a bright red.
“Of course i do, silly” You say, sweet and a maybe even a bit mischevious.
And he doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed it before. The large mounted board on the wall of your make-shift office he currently stands in.
Dozens of blurry pictures of him, post-it notes, connecting dots, scribbles and newspaper clippings all of sightings of him.
He puts it all together in seconds, yet it only makes his nervous aura worsen. You were trying to figure out what happened to him, you were investigating him. Writing about him.
When he turns to face you again he finds a knowing smile and glimmering eyes staring back at him.
Oh.
He’s had your undivided attention for a while.
I got you dw 🤞🏻Hope you like it
Hobie x reader
You guys walked into the shop together but eventually splitted up to go search for different things. You were doing fine searching for whatever you came in for. But then you were disturbed by a voice "Hi" it said.
You turned your head to face the voice and it was an employee. You said said and quickly looked away acting uninterested and looked down the aisle. The worker didn't seem to get the hint though and leaned against the shelf. He kept on talking to you and getting even more flirty as time went on. You were frozen in place and your heart rapidly beat.
You didn't know what to do if you could do anything. Your discomfort was clear but the employee ignored it. "Are you not going to speak to me? Not even tell me how your day is going?" the worker leaned into you ear and whispered
Your eyes widened and your heart skipped a beat and you broke out in a cold sweat. How you wish Hobie was har right now. "Is everything alright love?" A familiar voice was behind you and wraps and arm around your waist and glares down at the worker.
The worker freezes and grumbles before walking away. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and relaxed. You turned around to meet your boyfriend's gaze. "Thank you Hobie" you said and gave a small smile "Of course" he placed a kiss to your head
"I got my stuff what 'bout you?" He says "I think I got everything, honestly I just wanna get out of here.." you say and look away. Hobie nods and guides you to the check out and you guys pay for your stuff and exit the building.
I was walking with my mom into a store and a guy seen me and decided to say hi and I acted uninterested so he kept trying to ask how my day was
IT WAS A WORKER so I couldn’t do nothing 😞
I thought of Hobie after. because I feel like he’d be protective typa boyfriend to just be looking at something, hear the partner get catcalled/flirted with and the partner is obviously uncomfortable and he just walks up like “what’s up love?” And leans staring down the guy
But the point is now I really wanna fic with that 😭 so if any of my followers will write or know someone who can please tell me 🙏🙏
my heart <3
Ayo can I request a platonic 1610 miles x older fem reader. Like she acts like an older sister to him and she visits him in his dimension. Bonus if his parents love her.
Dynamic Duo
1610 Miles x Platonic fem! reader
Synopsis! Miles never really cared for having another sibling until he met you
MASTERLIST
Genre: fluff, just fluff.
Warnings: mentions of dead sibling, foul language
Word count: .7k
Authors comment: THIS WAS THE CUTEST THING EVER IM CRYING. Two posts about Miles in one cause why not? ENJOY <3
Do not copy! All rights reserved to ©axeoverblade
•when you first met Miles you two clicked immediately
•He reminded you of your late little brother
•even though it made you sad at first to be around Miles cause of the nostalgia of it, you grew extremely fond of him over time and vise versa
• Bad habit of calling him youngin and he gets SO PISSED
• “what’s good youngin” “I’m not even that young shut the hell up”
• would get in trouble often with Miguel because you two “weren’t using your watches properly”
•apparently traveling dimensions to have ice cream together was against the rules
•still did it anyway
• he tells his mom about his friend “who left town” who was like his big sister and indirectly how much he admired you
•he would never ever tell a soul he looked up to you even though it was very obvious
•like bro legit mimics half the things you do unconsciously
•You notice it but don’t say anything
• you are so unconsciously over protective
• like you sometimes forget he’s a spiderman too
• he does the most stupidest things to impress you like a younger sibling does
• “Hey y/n look!” *cue Miles hanging upside down from a bridge doing stupid dangerous poses* “Miles! Get the hell down before you kill yourself” “But ’s cool right?” “…that’s besides the point”
•INSIDE JOKES!!!!
•or just those understanding looks you two give each other when you both see something stupid
• randomly pop up in his dimension to surprise him
• you two swing around the city together for the fun of it
•He rants to you constantly about his home life, finally feels safe enough to speak about everything that’s going on and how he feels to someone
•calls you when he has anxiety attacks. even though he would never outright say he’s having them, you know
• call it big sister senses
• always change the subject to something you know calms him and suddenly he’s laughing telling you about something that happened a couple of days ago when he was on duty
•Makes you happy he has an outlet he feels safe talking to because you know he can't do that with anyone else.
•HE STEALS ALL YOUR THINGS
• “yah so then-is that my jacket?” “…noooo?” “Miles I swear I'll kill you that’s like the fifth one this month”
• Always wants to be around you
•like lil bro is always just around trying to hang out with you or go on your missions when he can cause he thinks it’s cool to see you in action
• he even copies your moves for when he fights villains
• You finally met his parents
• at first they were very skeptical of you but after seeing how you two interact they grow very fond of you
•asks you to visit more often and cook for you whenever you do come
•you three talk about Miles whenever you think he’s not listening (he is) and how proud you are
•both you and his parents get on his ass about random stupid things he does
•legit tag team him all the time and there’s nothing he can do
•you visit so much you have a little bag of things in his room for when you come over
• you have your own personal relationship with his parents. They see you as one of their own and you see them like a second pair of parents
• they have their own nickname for you
• you are so close they add you to the family gc
• you and Miles bicker all the time about the stupidest things
• “shut up that’s why I’m the favorite kid” “you’re not even their kid!” “Your just proving my point further”
•you act like a real siblings. Like you would give your kidney for him but if he asks to borrow your charger? Hell nah
• overall he genuinely loves you and really appreciates you and you can say for the same for him
•will always be there for each other just like real siblings because in a way, you two are and always will be
©axeoverblade
amaretto
Miguel/Reader | Explicit | Chapter 1/?
a/n: I brought this blog back from the dead to post this so I hope y’all enjoy. Gonna be a few chapters but not sure how many yet. Femdom reader, Bartender Miguel basically. Horny and angsty modern NYC AU, no powers. Bit of a slow burn (ish). Enjoy lol
***
The Basilica is, for all intents and purposes, a mediocre bar.
There’s a pothole steps away from the bar’s entrance that customers have to maneuver past in kitten heels and designer sneakers, and the embossed metal sign at the front of the door is almost completely covered in rust. It’s clearly an establishment that’s too pretentious to be a dive bar, but not exactly up to code enough to be an upscale cocktail bar either.
Recent attempts to rebrand the place as a hole-in-the-wall speakeasy have been successful, meaning that it’s now the common haunt for every art history graduate student, Bauhaus enthusiast, and unattainably gorgeous bisexual poet in lower Manhattan who’s willing to spend 17 dollars on a drink.
You stumble across the small chipped navy blue door after a brutal day at work. The patrons at the luxury handbag store you have the distinct displeasure of interacting with were particularly snippy today, and your pair of not-yet-broken-in oxfords feel more like a prison than a fashion statement at the moment. You need a drink to help forget the past ten hours ever happened just so you can do it all over again tomorrow. You’ve never heard of this place, but you don’t feel like getting on the subway just yet and looking for a bar that’s closer to home. This vaguely sketchy place will have to do.
The cozy interior of The Basicilia smells of cigar smoke and melting wax. Lit partially by candlelight, the brick walls and small antique cherrywood tables feel distant, yet homey. There are large gothic-style lanterns hanging from the low ceiling, and servers expertly move through the crowd carrying stainless steel trays full of thick-cut fries and bowls of green olives.
Despite the bar being relatively full, only one other person is sitting at the actual bar when you approach it—everyone else appears to be relegated to the various tables and benches strewn about the space, or hugging the walls holding glasses of craft beer.
With all of the fuss that sitting down on a stool, pulling off your winter coat, and hanging your things on a hook underneath the bar causes, it takes you a moment for you to see him.
But you do.
There’s a blur of movement in the corner of your vision as a tall man in a black button-down with rolled-up sleeves vaults over the bar wall and stalks over to the other end of the restaurant before knocking on a solid black door with the sole of his boot.
“Hey! You awake in there? They need help running food!” The man shouts, not waiting for a response before rushing back across the room and climbing back into the bar.
The sound draws a few eyes, but no one appears to be shocked—it seems to be a common occurrence here, judging by the way the person who appears to be the manager steps out of the previously kicked door looking bleary-eyed and sheepish, a pair of noise-canceling headphones around his neck and a set of keys jangling at his belt.
But your attention has been drawn elsewhere.
The man is tall enough to reach for a bottle of Belvedere vodka on the top shelf to hand to a nearby barback without straining. You notice his hands first—broad, veiny, with nails cut down to the bone. There’s a bandage wrapped around the middle finger on his left hand. A smattering of hair on his triceps, which are all muscle and sinew. And two tattoos—-a fang on his right bicep, and a bundle of marigolds on his left forearm. He leans onto the bar table to address you, his button-down snug around his chest.
Jesus fucking christ. If you had a drink you would certainly spill it.
“What are you getting,” he says—his voice raw from shouting, you assume—and his voice trends downward at the end of the sentence, as if he doesn’t want to ask you, as if it isn’t a question. You can’t even pretend to be offended—working in the service industry is a thankless task, and you know that well enough. But even you can admit that the level of tension in his jaw and the shuttered look in his eyes is disconcerting in a way that has to do with more than the fact that he presumably hates his job.
“A mojito, please,” you say, with less confidence than you’d normally have. You’re used to sitting at bars alone and making conversation with the bartenders, but tonight doesn’t seem to be going in that direction.
“A mojito?” The man repeats, and you know it’s the wrong choice somehow. Other than an almost imperceptible eye roll, he nods, turning his back to you to grab the right ingredients.
Still. It makes you curious.
“What’s wrong with a mojito?” you ask, watching the way his shoulders stiffen. It’s like his entire being is on constant guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop–you can see it in the way he turns back to look at you, his jaw set as he sets down a collins glass and starts picking damp mint sprigs out of a chilled metal container.
“First time here?” he says, and again, it isn’t a question. He places the mint leaves on a paper towel to dry before rubbing them on the rim of the collins glass and putting them in a separate pint glass.
“Yeah. What’s wrong with a mojito?” Normally you’d take your cue from the bartender and quit trying to make conversation, but something about him makes you want to poke and meddle, like touching a live wire with the tip of your finger.
“Nothing.”
“I won’t get offended. Is this one of those ‘what your drink of choice says about you’ things?” you probe, leaning onto the bar top. The other conversations seem to fade to a lull in the background of your mind, your sights set on tormented brown eyes and tense, broad shoulders.
“No.”
“Because that kind of seems like what this is—”
“No.”
“Then what is it? If you don’t mind me asking. I hope I’m not committing a major bar crime, or something.” He clearly minds, and the sigh he lets out is nothing short of torturous sounding, but he seems to indulge you anyway. You briefly register his hands reaching for various cups and bottles at an even tempo, his movements intentional as he makes your cocktail. He crushes mint and lime and sugar together with a blunt tool before opening a carafe of ice. A shiver runs through you, completely against your will, as you watch him work. You’ve always had a soft spot for competence.
“It’s more of a practical thing,” he explains, and you settle onto your stool, sensing a tangent incoming. “Mojitos aren’t complicated to make, but they take time. They have a lot of moving parts. And then once one person orders it, I get ten more people who saw me making it asking for it too, and I have to start the process over again. And then more people order it, and next thing you know I’m making mojitos for the rest of the night.”
“So when I ask for mojitos at other bars and they say they’re out of mint, are they lying?” you tease. He places your drink in front of you then, topping it off with a mint spring and a lime wedge at the rim of the glass.
“...Every bartender hates you,” he says in response, leaning in, and you give him a soft smile, sipping from the glass. It’s one of the best drinks you’ve ever had.
There isn’t an ounce of enjoyment to be seen in his eyes, or in the shadows of his face. But you swear you see a flicker of something there, like something that has long since lain dormant coming back to life—if only for a second–before it dissipates.
“What’s your name?” you ask, pushing your luck. Any spark that had once been lit is extinguished. He backs away, the lanterns from overhead casting shadows across his features that make him look like a stranger again. You silently curse yourself.
“I don’t do that,” he shakes his head, before venturing to the other end of the bar to help a seemingly new bartender whip up a martini. You wait patiently, watching the way his mouth moves and his hands gesture as he corrects the bartender on their…technique, or something. You have no idea. From afar, he looks equally as intimidating, if not more so. The lines of his body don’t indicate any kind of softness, and his shoulders are slightly hunched as if he’s ashamed of himself. You wonder if he does bicep curls in a concrete room for hours until he sweats out all of the vulnerability. Or maybe he runs from it, in the early morning, breath labored and lungs aching until his sneakers are worn out.
“You don’t do names?” you ask him as soon as he returns, and his time he doesn’t even pretend to hide his exasperation, rolling his eyes again before resting his elbows on the bar so that his face is inches away from yours. Your heart lurches. A quick glance around rewards you with a few of the patrons regarding you with a vague amount of interest—and concern.
“Listen. I’m not a therapy session bartender,” he says with enough disdain to cause your eyebrows to raise in surprise. “I like the theory of it. The drink making. That’s it. Talk to that guy,” he continues, gesturing to a fellow bartender with a man bun and gauges who’s currently chatting up the only other person sitting on the other end of the bar. “He’s chatty.”
This close-up, you can see the dark circles around his eyes, his slightly chapped lips. You get a brief urge to trace the wrinkles across his forehead with the pads of your fingertips, but you hold off, of course. The man seems like he’s too old for anyone. He’s lived a million lifetimes.
“I don’t want to talk to that guy,” you say, feeling emboldened. I want to talk to you. “No offense.”
Something in his expression flickers back to life once more, like a butterfly trying to fly without one of its wings.
“Miguel,” he says after a while, sounding pained. You tell him your name, and he gives no indication that he’s registered it.
“Do you wanna open a tab, or close it?” Miguel asks then, and his voice sounds weightier.
“...Keep it open.”
***
The bar is sweltering, but the cold, sour tang of the mojito keeps you cool as you watch Miguel make his way across the bar to help mix drinks for other patrons. You feel pinned to your stool somehow, like a bug under a microscope, even though Miguel doesn’t spare another glance in your direction. The music in here is alright, but not noteworthy. You wish you had someone to dance with.
The bartender with the man bun makes you another mojito before you can say otherwise, but it tastes different somehow. Too much mint maybe. Not enough bitterness. Miguel’s theory seems to be wrong; you scan the bar for other tall glasses with sprigs of bright green mint and find none. After brief consideration, you decide not to bother him any further by informing him of this fact.
The bar gets increasingly more crowded as the night goes on, and it becomes abundantly clear that Miguel isn’t going to check on you again. You want to believe it’s because he’s too busy, but you wonder if you made the wrong impression somehow. You wonder why you care. You hate that you do.
You settle your tab and gather your things before buttoning your coat and setting off into the night. Your two drinks have muddled your senses just so, but not enough to be completely disorienting. On the precipice of happy, maybe.
As you zip your coat up to your chin and walk down the sidewalk, you think about going home to your studio apartment and cuddling with your cat Cinnamon. You think about hopefully getting a few hours of sleep before the workday comes back around in the morning to swallow you whole once again. You think about the harsh line of Miguel’s jaw, about the fact that he’ll likely forget about you come morning.
“Every bartender hates me,” you repeat to yourself—a truly harrowing fact—before shaking your head and walking down the steps into the subway.
a/n: lmk if you enjoyed/if you wanna see more—mwah x