Alice

“𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑚.” - 𝑉𝑎𝑛 𝐺𝑜𝑔ℎ Requests are open!!

[polarislovesspidey]

Me when spiderman

[bbyviolakayworks]

HEY QUEEN!!! just wanted to say i love your work !!! and i wanted to see if you would do more dad! joel x eldest daughter, i dont really know how your requests work but maybe like she’s feeling extra neglected cause sarah takes up all the attention and they fight and he makes actual changes at the end ? if that’s too specific or similar to what you have, anything you want is fine too !! just really loved the whole concept 😁♥️♥️♥️

i'll damn sure try | dad j.m.

contains: joel trying his damndest to fix your relationship, hurt, feeling neglected, angst, joel cursing, comfort, fatherly love!

pairing: dad joel miller x eldest daughter reader

wc: 3.1k

an: im actually so sad, my dear anon. im so sorry its taken this long to get this out. i was working on it before my accident last month and completely forgot about it until today. i hope it is at least close to what you were expecting. sorry for any grammar mistakes, my brain is non-existent lately. 😃 i will definitely be adding onto this with little blurbs of ways joel tries to connect with reader more. anyway, i apologize once more, and hope you like it! <3

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” you chanted, twirling around the couch in a continuous circle as your daddy changed baby Sarah’s diaper.

“I told you to hang on a minute, baby,” he said firmly, in a voice too calm, with a deep frown set on his face as he tried to fasten the diaper tabs while she kicked.

“No, I want it now! Now, Daddy! Now!”

“Go to your room,” he plainly said, not yet losing his patience, but this close to losing it. He was at his wits’ end, mind buzzing and spiraling a mile a minute, while you demanded he put together your pink plastic castle. You were craving attention, excited that he’d spend time with you to build it.

“No, you said you’d do it soon! It’s been hours!” You stopped and began to tug on his shirt, his pants, his arm—anything of his you could grab and pull at. It hadn’t been hours, as you exaggerated; it had only been thirty minutes since he told you he would put your castle together, after a long day of playing outside in the warm sun. Time had gotten away from him, just as it does with any parent. Sarah had become fussy, her tummy aching, and she was refusing to eat.

It was supposed to be a relaxing Saturday with you girls—a day with no expectations, no heads bossing him around about where this or that goes, or what the client wants. But you had other plans.

He had surprised you with your castle in the middle of the week after picking you and baby Sarah up from your great-grandparents’ house on his way home from work, and he had promised you he would put it together on the weekend.

“Please, Daddy! Please!” You reached out and fisted the sleeve of his T-shirt, yanking the neck of it off his shoulder, audibly stretching the cotton.

He’d had enough then. Between your demands and circles around him, Sarah’s kicking and squirming, and her cries from her tummy ache, he was dazed, done. He let out a deep, frustrated groan from his chest, squeezed his eyes closed, and slid his hands across his thighs over his denim to try to ground himself. 

“It won’t take long!” you insisted in a whiny voice. 

His eyes shot open, his head snapping in your direction, and his finger shooting up in the direction of the stairs. “I said, go to your room. Now!”

His voice boomed—nothing as you’d ever heard from your daddy—making you gasp as tears flooded your eyes. It even made little Sarah stop crying and look at him with wide eyes as she gnawed on her fist, still kicking.

You were six years old then. It was the first time he ever yelled at you like that. It was also the first time he ever caused you to stay in your room until the next afternoon. He felt so disgusted and angry with himself that night as he tried to get you to come out, knocking gently on your door and offering soft apologies. Long after Sarah finally gave in to sleep and your tiny, broken cries softened into even breaths as you drifted off, he spent the night putting your castle together for you. 

“Don't you walk away from me!” he stomps after you as you storm past him toward the stairs, running upstairs to your bedroom as your now-melted slushie sloshes around in the lidless cup.  

“I said, don’t you walk away from me!” 

You pause halfway up and whip around to him. “Or what?! You gonna ground me?! Go ahead!” You belt down at him. 

“No, I ain’t gonna ground you,” he scoffs and sets his slipper-clad foot on the first step, looking up at you with anger and disbelief set deep in his eyebrows. “I wanna know where the hell you’ve been! It’s damn near ten o’clock!

“Out!” 

“Out where? You’ve goddamn worried me to death!” 

“What’s it to you?! Not like you care, anyway! You probably love it when I’m gone! Bet you and Sarah had a grand time!” 

That made your dad stop—really stop—and clutch his hand over his mouth as tears rimmed his eyes. He searched your eyes for a moment, seeking any regret, for any notion you had of what you just said. He couldn’t find either, only the same hard-set eyes and scowl as his were plastered upon your face, unwavering.

He didn't see you in this moment; he saw himself sixteen years back, fourteen years old and angry, defiant. Already overwhelmed with life. 

“Don’t you…” He mutters, running his hand down his jaw before placing it on his denim-clad thigh as the other one continuously grips and ungrips the railing. “Don’t you say that ever again.” 

“Well, it’s true!” 

“No, it ain’t,” he immediately says. “I came back, baby.” He blatantly motions with his hands as his lip turns into a snarl. “I dropped Sarah off at my grandparents’. I was gonna take you out. Just us. For once. But you know what I came back to?” 

You stay silent, scowling at him as you defiantly cross your arms over your chest.

“Answer me.” 

“Me gone! So what?! How was I supposed to know you were coming back?!” Your voice breaks at the end, crumbling into bits as tears fill your eyes, more from frustration and anger rather than sadness. “Saturdays are for you and her! I always go out on my own!” 

“Yeah, well, not this long! I called you a hundred fuckin’ times! Not once did you pick up!” 

“I left it here! Not like I needed it anyway!” 

“I told you the rules when I bought the fuckin’ thing for you; to keep it on you at all times, no matter what! And what do ya do? Fuckin’ disobey that, too! I’m your father, I care about you!” 

“And I’m your daughter! Or did you forget?! I bet you always wanted to forget me! That’s why you had all those girls!” 

“You…” he takes a step forward before planting himself once more and pointing up at you with a shaky finger. “You don’t ever talk like that!” 

“Why?! Because you know it’s true?!” 

“Go to your room!” 

“Oh, real smart, Dad.” You keep your arms boldly crossed over your chest as you roll your eyes. “Tellin’ me not to walk away from you, then the next second tellin’ me to go to my room.” You spit before turning and stomping your way up the rest of the stairs. 

“Y’know, you got some attitude on you! You think you got it hard? Maybe I should ground you! So I don’t have to keep wonderin’ where the hell you are all the damn time!” He places his hands on his hips and catches his breath for a beat or two until continuing, “Yeah… that’s what I’ll do! You’re grounded for a week!” 

You reach the top step before purposely chucking your cup down the stairs, the liquid sloshing on the legs of his jeans, along the wall and steps, and across the floor. You stampede through the hallway to your bedroom, not allowing a chance for him to catch you up. “I hate you!”

“Yeah?” He calls up the stairwell, looking at the mess you made in disgust. “Well, I ain’t too keen on you either right now! And you get your ass back down here and clean this up!”

Slam!

He stares at the wall at the top of the stairs in disbelief for a few moments as he breathes heavily before raising his hands to the railing, gripping it, and then lowering his head onto them. He exhales loudly through his nose, repeatedly tightening and loosening his grip. The moment his slipper touches the floor as he backs down, he realizes he messed up.

Terribly. Guilt hits his chest like a ton of bricks, so hard he actually clutches it. 

The last time you fought, he couldn't sleep that night, too burdened by his hurtful—not cruel, just self-projecting—words to you. He had promised himself he would try to work on his communication. To make you talk to him rather than jump on you. He promised himself the next inevitable fight between the two of you would be different. 

He broke all of them tonight. Horribly.

He trudges his way into the living room and plops down onto the couch, body going limp as he stares up at the ceiling. Pant legs damp from melted slush, heartbeat rapid, and that certain little pang in his chest that cruelly reminded him of just how he fought with you. His fourteen-year-old daughter. 

How he pushed you away, further and further, then walked away from you. 

Just as his old man did. The very man he promised himself he would never be. Even before fatherhood at sixteen, he had mentally noted and promised his non-existent children. He would kneel beside his bed late at night after the storm passed and pray to god–beg him–to not let him end up like his father. 

He's never really put any thought into your behavior or actions. He's never put two and two together because he’s never thought he needed to. 

You’re a girl, a teenager, still trying to sort yourself out. It’s normal, he thought. 

Even back then, when you were just a tiny thing, running around and getting into things you weren’t supposed to or acting out, he thought it was normal. You were small, learning, and an older sibling to a baby who would inevitably need more attention. 

But then he reaches into a deeper, dangerous, and vulnerable territory: his. 

He thinks back to when he was a teenager. All he knew was loss, pain, and confusion, taking on things that nobody his age shouldn’t have had to.

Nobody to talk to. He had to keep his emotions bottled up. Restricted. 

His father’s haunting words creep into his mind, unshakeable.

“You wanna look weak, boy?”

“Hm? You wanna show just how much of a pussy you are?” 

Now, as he sits, arms limp on his lap and head fallen back, he realizes that’s exactly how you are: closed off. He was the one who caused it, who pushed you to those lengths. 

“Fuck me…” He mutters, dragging his hands down his face as he leans forward and rests his elbows upon his knees. 

You’re a good girl. You stay to yourself. Speak when spoken to. Do things on your own. These things were all a different form of how he and your uncle were as children, from emotional neglect. 

And when that thought hit his mind, he'd had enough. 

“Nuh-uh…” He pushes himself up without a second thought and heads upstairs to your bedroom, ignoring the strewn liquid across the floor and steps, his mind only set on how he couldn’t let this be. 

Hell if he was gonna turn into his old man. 

Once he reaches your bedroom door, he tries it, gently landing a few raps against it with his knuckles before softly speaking. “Can I come in, baby?”

“No, go away, Daddy,” you yell into your pillow, curled into yourself. 

“C’mon, baby. Jus’ wanna talk.” 

“I said no!” 

Your dad huffs through his nose before pushing his way in through your door, taking in the sight of you curled up with your back turned to him. “Oh, babygirl,” he softly mutters through an exhale, closing the door behind himself before walking over to you. 

Your bed dips behind you, and his warm hand lands on your bicep, just beneath the sleeve of your Bobby Jack t-shirt, before you harshly shake him off. 

“C’mon, honey, talk to me.” 

“No,” you bite, scooting further away from him. “I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Well, I don’t hate you.” 

“Yes, you do. You said it earlier.” 

“No, I-“ he cuts himself off, not wanting to argue with you once more. Instead, he leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and hanging his head as he lets out a frustrated sigh. 

The silence weighs in on you both, thick, bitter, and heavy, until you bite once more. “Get out.” 

“Sorry, ain’t gonna happen, Darlin’.” 

You snap upwards and grab your shark stuffy, chucking it at his back, then swing your Pillowpet against him before dropping back into your bed.

His face twists, and his eyebrows furrow. “Hey-hey! What’s all this, huh?” 

“To make you go away!” You grasp and hold onto your Pillowpet. 

“Well, I'm sorry, but it ain't happenin’. I'm done walkin’ away. I admit that I ain’t been there for you, baby. I do. But I’m gonna change that no matter what. So I’ll leave, let you be tonight. But in the morning, we’re workin’ through this. Up to you, Darlin’.” 

From what he could see from the side of your face, you remain with your eyebrows scrunched stubbornly and a pout across your lips, but you're unmoving. He takes that as a stubborn fine.

“Baby, I know I've made a lot of mistakes with you–hell, more than I can count–but do you really think I hate you?” 

Still no movement from you. 

“Hm? Talk to me, now.” 

You raise your shoulder and drop it. He sighs and firmly rests his hand upon your arm once more, softly tugging you backward, making you lie on your back. You keep your Pillowpet in your arms and reluctantly let him, tucking your face into the fuzz of the ladybug. The same one he gifted you when you were seven, because you were his little bug. 

“Look’a me.” He gently tugs your ladybug away from you, and your hands fall limp on your stomach. “Can’t hide from me forever.” 

Your eyebrows remain knit together as you look down at nothing, as long as it's not him. He takes your hands in his big one as he looks at the ladybug in his other, reminiscing. 

“I remember when I got you this. Lord, you went crazy over it, girl. Remember? Bouncin’ around everywhere. Almost drove uncle Tommy crazy.” 

That makes you turn your head away from him as you feel a small smile daring to creep up on your lips. 

“I sure do remember. Got it for you ‘cause you were my little bug, Darlin’. Still are. Only bigger.” He sets the ladybug aside, pulling your hands into his and holding them. 

“I ain’t been the best at this whole workin’ through your feelin’s thing, I know that,” he begins, head stooping low and his warm hands gently, absentmindedly petting yours. “Me ‘n’ your uncle Tommy… we didn’t have the whole support thing… had to work out what was goin’ on in my head myself, and had to help Tommy work through his stuff. Guess our father rubbed off on me more than I'd like to admit. But I'm willin’ to try tonight, tomorrow, the next day, and however much longer it takes to get where we need to be. If you’re willin’ to let me, I’ll gladly do it.” His warm eyes glisten at the thought of losing you, his baby girl, as he finally looks up at you, a tight-lipped pout on his lips, and tears rimming his eyes.  “I don't wanna lose you, baby. Please.”

Hearing your dad’s broken voice and sincere pleas made tears escape your already raw and wet eyes again, slipping into your hairline. You let out a strangled breath and finally turn your head and look up at him, pulling one of your hands away from his to push yourself up. You look down at your lap and wipe your tears away with the back of your hand. 

“Whaddya say?” 

After a moment of watching you stare at your lap, he begins to think you'll shrink back, erase all the progress, all until you give a small nod and look up into his eyes. He lets out a breath of relief and clutches your arms, pulling you up into his arms in a bear hug. You instantly melt into him and break into a fit of tears, sitting on your knees beside him and burying your head into his chest, and he cradles the back of your head. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy! Ididn’tmeanitIdon'thateyou!” You blurt out all in one breath, drenching his t-shirt with tears as you grasp and tug it. 

“I know, baby,” he warmly mutters into your hair, rocking you back and forth. “I know you didn't.” 

He plants kisses along your hair, rubbing circles into the back of it with his thumb as his other hand runs up and down your back, soothing you just as he used to when you’d soak in his attention as a little thing.

“I don't ever want you thinkin’ that I hate you, ‘kay?”

You nod into his chest through a jagged cry. 

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, ‘n’ i mean it. You’re the one who made me a daddy, you little fart.” 

You giggle at that, gripping his t-shirt harder.

“Aint nobody ever gonna take your spot. I was stupid back then with those girls. Wasn't thinkin’ straight. You ‘n’ Sarah, you both are who I really needed, just couldn't accept it. You hear me?” 

You nod against his chest one more time, and he pats you gently on the back, releasing his bear hug and pulling you back to look you in the eyes as he softly grips your chin. “You come to me when you need somethin’... no more runnin’ away, no more stayin’ out like that. You feel like you're alone? You come to me… I may not know what to say or do, and I know I'm at work all the time,  but I'll damn sure try, baby. Alright?”

You grin and nod.

“Alright, c’mere, baby. Quit cryin’.” he pulls you into his thick, warm arms once more and kisses your forehead. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, daddy.” 

He lets go of you and takes your face in his hands, wiping your tears away. “You’re gonna help clean that mess you made, then…” he trails off, teasing you as he stands and walks over to your door, pauses, and turns to you with a mischievous smirk. “We’re gonna have us a movie night.” 

“Dad!” You complain through a tough facade, a grin creeping up on your lips anyway. You know when he says ‘movie night’, he means ‘make you sit there for painful hours on end and have a Jurassic Park marathon’.

“C’mon, Jurassic Park ‘n’ junk food ain't gonna wait on us.” 

You absolutely cheese at that and slip off your bed to join him. 

Because no matter how things are between the two of you, you love him till death, and boy does he love you something fiercely too.

taglist: @the-tr0ublemaker @taniamiller @marisemonteiroo (a few of you aren’t popping up 🫣😬)

[writingdose]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[babydoll-4444]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[iovedfy]

i freaking love MUSIC, i got a playlist i swear for everything.

[last-angel-on-earth]

────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────────

[thebestandrealestever]

i think about you every day miles morales

[ditsylatte]

Admiration

Pairing: Miles Morales x Artist Reader

Summary: Miles sketches you in the middle of Spanish class and is unfortunately caught. To his surprise, he's not alone.

The lines flow carefully on the blank page as Miles makes precise and slow strokes.

They slowly start to form shapes and become a figure piece by piece. With additional strokes, the blob becomes more detailed.

He lifts his head to look at you once more, just to make sure he gets each intricacy right, even though he has you ingrained in his head.

He notices the slight dip in your left cheek while you bite the inside of your mouth, the concentration in your eyes and furrowed brows while you’re reading, and your delicate hand resting on the side of your right cheek.

He pours all of that into the page along with the soft feeling that stirs inside from just thinking about you.

Ms. Llorente—your Spanish teacher—takes notice of Miles not paying attention. While you have told her you finished all your work early at home, Miles has failed to do anything this whole class.

He's usually a good kid who tries to get his work done while still trying to balance saving the city, but it’s just the first time he felt this affinity towards someone. Sure, he's had‌ little crushes in the past—everyone has—however, this was something new.

That excuse definitely won’t slide when he has to explain to his parents why he has a ‘D’ in his Spanish class.

“Miles,” Ms. Llorente says.

He’s still drawing—still adding onto the piece.

“Miles,” she says again.

When he's still unresponsive, she walks to his desk.

The entire class is watching at this point, even you. You notice his strong fixation on whatever he’s drawing, and you can’t help but be a little curious.

Ms. Llorente grabs Miles' sketchbook from him. “Hm.”

He jumps slightly.

He feels the heat rushing to his face, his hands hopelessly reaching out for his notebook. “Wait, I was, uhm—it’s just—”

She turns her back to him and takes a moment to look at the sketches on the pages. One, two, three times he has drawn you on one page alone. Her eyebrows visibly rise.

“Hmm.” She flips to another page. “Mhm.”

She sits there, nodding her head, going through the notebook.

Miles has no choice but to sit and watch. He can feel the beads of sweat roll down his forehead, eyes on him. He fixes his tie, trying to do something about the itchy feeling of embarrassment, but it does little.

The teacher finally turns back to him. “You know, Mr. Morales, if this is so much more interesting and important than my lesson, why don’t I show the class?”

“Wait! Ms. Llorente, that is really not necessary,” he awkwardly laughs. “You really don’t need to—”

She holds up the sketch.

It was the one he was still working on, and she was showing the entire class.

Miles immediately sinks into his chair, covering his face with his hands.

“Look at what Miles has to share with the class,” she says.

You look at the drawing, noticing it’s a girl sitting at a desk reading a book with AirPods in, wearing—

One kid says your name, asking if that's you.

“Looks like it,” someone replies.

The attention is no longer only on Miles as you sit awkwardly in your chair, feeling like your face is about to burn off because of how hot it is.

Miles looks between his fingers to peek at your reaction, and he immediately feels worse.

You’re just sitting with a tight-lipped smile. He has clearly embarrassed you, and you probably don’t know how to react.

He sees the girl in the desk in front of you lean in to whisper something in your ear, and in response, you shrug.

He heard it, though: ‘I think he likes you.’

“Alright, that's enough. I hope you’ve learned a lesson, Morales,” Ms. Llorente says.

She rests the notebook on his desk, smiling, and gets back to her desk.

He sighs, opening the book to a new page and begins writing notes.

The rest of the class goes by pretty quickly, and before you know it, the bell rings.

Miles is putting away his notebook when you come up to him.

“Hey… I, uhm, liked your drawing,” you say.

“Oh, thanks.” Miles scratches the back of his neck.

“Could I perhaps see it again?” You ask.

He’s slightly hesitant. “You sure you want to?”

You nod. The smile on your face is shy, but your eyes are inquiring.

“Okay,” he responds.

He takes out his notebook to find the page of the drawing he had just made.

You stand patiently, hands at your sides, and that look of curiosity still on your face. Everyone else is leaving the classroom for lunch, including Ms. Llorente, so it’s just the two of you now.

“It’s not finished yet, but…” He puts it on the table.

It takes a moment for you to just look at it closely, appreciating the detail that went into this unfinished piece. It really looks just like you.

“Did you draw this just now?” you ask. “At the start of class?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

He watches you smile at the drawing, faintly tracing over it with your finger.

“You’re very talented,” you say.

“Thanks,” he says as his face heats up again, but this time it's not from embarrassment.

“Wait, I actually have something to show you,” you say.

You place your backpack on another empty desk. Miles sees you looking through it before you pull out a small black notebook. He assumes it’s a notebook, but it’s clearly a sketchbook.

You look through the pages, taking your time to find the right one.

When you do, you put the open sketchbook to your chest.

“Okay, now you have to promise not to judge,” you whisper.

Miles can see the hesitation and unease in your posture and your face, but you were making direct eye contact with him.

So, not wanting you to feel that way around him, he sits up and nods.

“I promise,” he says firmly.

You turn it around.

It was him sitting during lunch. There was a faint outline of Ganke, but most of the focus was on him.

He had a serene smile on his face as his eyes crinkled. His nose, his lips, and his eyebrows were all so very accurate. You had even used colored pencils.

You mess with your hair—still using one hand to hold the sketchbook—as you watch his eyes light up and eyebrows raise.

“Wow, I–”

“Thanks, gotta go.” You quickly close the sketchbook and put your backpack on. “Nice talking to you.”

“Hold up—”

You’re already walking to the door, though.

“You’re very talented too!” he says.

You falter in your steps and come to a stop. The corners of your mouth slightly lift upward.

“That's a lot coming from you, Morales,” you respond, glancing at him.

You walk out the door, leaving Miles to freak out. Wow, that just for real happened.

He packs up his stuff, knowing this was going to be the only thing he was thinking about for the rest of the day.

[thebestandrealestever]

i think about you every day miles morales

[not-right-wof]

[cherrycolapepsi4u]

There is no inbetween

[xoxoivy13]

STOP MAKING MILES 1610 A SMOOTH TALKER!!! that’s my akward stupid genius baby… he is NOT a playboy.. do what u want with earth 42 miles but not 1610 miles 🫩 he’s is quite literally lost. “who’s morales?” and ur telling me he’s a smooth talker who doesn’t sweat like crazy???? ok..

also even when he tries he somehow fails so 😪