Can I Get A Miguel Whatever His Last Name Is From The Spider Verse Movie X Either Gn Or Fem Reader (whichever

Tumblr Top 5: Hottest Horror Movie Characters

Enter the sick and twisted minds of @wearewatcher's Shane Madej and Ryan Bergara as they countdown their top five hottest, steamiest, most sopping wet horror movie characters, with a little help from unofficial official Tumblr mascot, Coppy.

Deadpool: So… I’ve seen you’ve been spending a lot of time with Peter recently. Y/N: No, Deadpool, it's not what it looks like, I swear. Deadpool: Oh really? So no reason for me to be jealous? Y/N: No! You’re the only one for me. Deadpool: Is that so? Y/N: I promise! Peter and I are just dating, okay? He's my boyfriend. Deadpool: So there are no best-friends-feelings involved? Y/N: You are still my one and only best friend! he's just the love of my life, nothing more! Deadpool: But I’m still the platonic love of your life, right? Y/N: Of course bro! Deadpool: Bro... Peter: What the-

(you need to view the image or you'll just like the post)

Well. Look at that. Anyways, I wrote this last night while I was drunk.

Peter looks at you from across the room, disgusted by ur gayness.

“Ew. How could u be gay. That’s so gross and totally wrong.” He says.

You look at him like he’s the numbest bitch in the planet. “Peter. Ur literally so stupid. Even frogs r gay.” You counter, still being gay as ever.

Peter narrows his eyes at you, “yeah well those frogs are going to like hell.”

YOu let out a loud laugh and simply counting r to stare at him. “You wanna get fucked by a gay grl.” You tease, beckoning him to come to the bathroom with you.

Peter’s eyes go very wide, but he is intrigued. Even if ur very very gay. So he stands up and goes to the bathroom with you.

You look him in the eyes and smile again. “So what u ganna do for me baby girl?” He asks, a big ass smirk when j his face.

“I’m ganna fuck u until you can’t walk” u say, pulling down his pants.

“Oh god please” peter moans, grabbing your hips and pulling you close. “I want u to tick me so hard please” he begs. Kissing your very soft juicy lips.

You let out a moan, kissing him back very passionately. “Mmm Parker” you grunt, despite not even liking men.

You finish stripping him from all his cloths, then you take off your own. “Wow Peter ur so sexy. I can’t wait to fuck your fat cock”

You push him onto the sink and slowly begin to sink onto his big ginormous fat cock. It feels so good inside you which makes you leg out a loud moan. You grip his hair tight, tugging his brow curls. “Mmmm sexy.”

You groan.

His hands grip ur hips ahead he leads ur hips up and down on his big man

Ohhhhhhh” he cries, kissing ur neck sloppily. “Gosh ur so hot baby” he cries, feeling u on his cock.

You let out another moan before hopping off his big dick, flipping him around, and bumming in his big juicy asshole.

Peter cute too, squirting all over the sink. “Ohhhh shit that felt so good” he moans.

+++

Peter found out he was probate about three months later. He couldn’t. Be more scared of having a gay bitches baby. How could he possibly have the bay of a gay Bo. Like what. Anyways, he was so very pregnant and Tony was so upset because his son is so young and so very pregnant.

But Steve thinks that it’s a miracle from the gays that he’s pregnant with your gay baby.

So Peter is told he has to has it because it’s a gay blessing from a hot sexy woman who got him prhegnage

So he keeps being very very primate u Gil it’s time to deliver. And he had the hunky ads baby and feels so proud cause he’s a mommy now.

But ur a mommy too.

Peter reali3/ he’s so gay because he’s a mommy a fan yoruens a mommy so you’re hay.

Peter is ashamed of his gay self and decides to tie. The baby to bucket because his one hand will be a better mummy them him.

The end.

+++

I’m so so so sorry. Also, if you commented on the OG 🤨 I tagged you

Taglist

@saltistic-dumbassss @t-hollanderrerr @crumpets-are-better-with-jam @clairebearfr @superficial-saturnrings @innieblogg @thetallscorpiobee @spider-biter

House x m!reader

mostly angst , house isnt allowed happiness

You were the case he shouldn’t have taken.

Not because it wasn’t interesting—God no, you were fascinating. A rapid, degenerative decline with no clear cause, organs failing like dominoes, bloodwork that didn’t make sense. A real puzzle.

But you were also charming. Razor-sharp. Witty in a way that felt intentional—like you were sparring with him, not trying to impress. You didn’t flinch at his sarcasm, didn’t soften around the edges like most patients did. You met him eye to eye and made him feel seen, which was worse than being ignored.

And now you were dying.

No diagnosis. No answers. Just a firm deadline hanging over you like a guillotine.

House stood at the foot of your hospital bed, watching the slow, mechanical rise and fall of your chest. The monitors beeped softly—too softly. The air felt wrong without your usual quips, your dry smile, your “what do you want now, more blood?”

You hadn’t woken up all day.

Wilson entered quietly. “You know you can’t fix this one.”

House didn’t look at him. “People said the same about cancer. Then someone invented chemo. Maybe I’ll invent something in the next twenty-four hours.”

Wilson was quiet a moment, watching him. “You’re not angry because you can’t solve the case.”

House’s shoulders stiffened.

“You’re angry because it’s him.”

House finally turned, expression cold. “I’m angry because I’m surrounded by idiots who can’t figure out what’s killing a man in front of them.”

“You can’t figure it out.”

The silence between them stretched. Wilson, as always, wasn’t afraid to twist the knife.

House swallowed thickly and turned back to you. “He was making jokes about death three days ago. Asked me if I’d write his eulogy and call everyone at the funeral idiots.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He said he’d haunt me. Said he’d rattle my cane at night just to piss me off.”

House's voice caught at the end, almost imperceptibly. He cleared his throat like he could swallow the grief.

“You cared about him.”

“I don’t care.” The words came too fast. Too loud. “He’s a patient. A dying patient. Dying patients die. That’s what they do.”

“Greg—”

“He’s going to die, and I’m not going to cry over someone I’ve only known two weeks.”

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, then sighed and left.

House stood alone at your bedside, silence pressing down on him like gravity. His hand hovered above yours but never touched.

“I hate you for being smart,” he said quietly. “I hate you for being funnier than me. I hate you for looking at me like you saw right through all of it.”

Your breathing hitched in your sleep. Just slightly.

House leaned in, the tiniest crack in his voice:

“I hate that it's going to suck when you die.”

The room smells like antiseptic and late afternoon sun. You’re propped up in bed, barely able to sit upright without your lungs burning like you’ve run a marathon. Every breath feels like it takes negotiation. The beeping monitors have become your ambient soundtrack.

Then the door creaks open, and Thirteen walks in with something big cradled in a to-go box, grinning like she’s just broken the rules. Because she has.

You raise an eyebrow. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

She plops it down on the tray table with ceremony. “Bacon double cheeseburger. Extra onion rings. Triple patty. I threw in a milkshake just to make nurses yell at me later.”

You let out a weak, hoarse laugh. “This is gonna kill my cholesterol.”

She doesn’t laugh back right away. Just smiles. Softly. The kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You both know what this is. Not recovery. Not hope. It’s a parting gift. Something indulgent and alive, for someone who's already fading. It means: you mattered. It means: we’re saying goodbye, but not with tears just yet.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for a fry, and Thirteen gently helps you bring it to your lips. It tastes like everything you’ve been denied—grease, heat, life.

You chew slowly. “Tell House he still owes me a better eulogy.”

Thirteen nods, her voice thick. “He’ll pretend he doesn’t care.”

You manage a smirk. “He’ll write it anyway.”

And you both sit in the fading sunlight, sharing the best worst meal of your life.

God, this is such a soft, aching scene. The slow procession of goodbye, disguised in humor and shared memories. Here's how that might look:

You're not sure who sends out the signal, but somehow, one by one, they all come.

Foreman is first. Ever the professional, even now. He checks your chart, updates your IV with practiced hands. You pretend not to notice the way he lingers, as if fixing the machines might fix you too. He doesn’t say much—never really did—but his hand rests on your shoulder longer than necessary when he leaves.

Taub sneaks in next, looking like he’s trying not to be caught. He sits at your bedside, cracks a joke about how *you* should’ve been the one cheating death, not him cheating on his wife. It’s dark, but you both laugh. You knew way too much about that man's love life by now. He leaves behind a sudoku book you can’t focus on, but it smells faintly of his cologne and cigarette smoke. Comforting, in a weird way.

Chase comes just after sunset, sunlight haloing his golden hair. He grins as he flops into the chair beside you, casual as ever.

“You’re my favorite dying guy, you know,” he says.

You grin, weakly. “You’re my favorite Aussie. Don’t tell Hugh Jackman.”

He chuckles, and the sound almost breaks you. “You don’t get many people like you. Smart, sharp. Didn’t let House get away with shit.”

“He’s still gonna win.”

“Maybe.” Chase’s smile falters a little. “But you made it hard for him. He liked you.”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”

He squeezes your hand before leaving, thumb tracing a slow arc across your knuckles. “Get some rest.”

The room is quiet when Wilson finally steps in.

No dramatic entrance. No clipboard. No comforting lie.

Just Wilson, clutching a coffee he hasn’t touched, standing in the doorway like he’s afraid crossing the threshold will make it real.

You manage a small smile. “Didn’t think you’d come. Thought you hated watching people die.”

“I do,” he says softly, closing the door behind him. “But I hate missing the chance to say goodbye more.”

He walks over, sits down where Chase sat before him. His eyes are tired. Red-rimmed. You don’t mention it.

There’s a long silence.

Then, his voice cracks like something inside him finally gave way. “I really wish it was cancer.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t laugh. You just nod, slow and steady, because you do understand.

Cancer, at least, comes with a playbook. Chemo. Radiation. Clinical trials. Wilson’s entire life has been about fighting it, taming it, coaxing one more month, one more year, out of the cruel beast.

But you—your body’s unraveling in ways no one can name. There’s no script. No treatment. Just time, and not much of it.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He puts the coffee down. Takes your hand like it’s glass.

“You’re not alone,” he says, voice thick. “Even if you want to be. You’re not.”

You nod again. It’s all you can do.

And for a long time, neither of you speaks. He just holds your hand, thumb brushing over your pulse, as if willing it to stay.

You’re barely there when he comes.

Not that you weren’t expecting it—House was always late from what you've heard. To consults, to court, to apologies. You weren’t sure he’d show at all.

The door creaks open. A moment passes. Then the telltale thump of his cane on tile. Steady. Slow.

You don’t bother opening your eyes.

“Thought you were done with the case,” you rasp, voice more breath than sound. The words tug at your cracked lips, forming a crooked smile.

There’s a pause. Then—

“I don’t like unfinished puzzles.”

He says it like it’s a joke. Like it’s still just another day, another file. But the pause that follows is heavy.

He walks closer, and when he sits, the leather of the chair creaks under his weight. You hear him breathe out, shaky. Like he’s been holding it the whole way here.

Your breath rattles in your chest. You manage to crack one eye open—just enough to see the gray in his stubble, the pinch in his brow.

“You look like hell,” he mutters.

“Mirror,” you wheeze, “must be broken.”

House huffs a breath that might’ve been a laugh. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.

“I ran your bloodwork again,” he says, almost absently. “Still nothing. No 'miracle.' No screw-up. You’re… you’re really dying.”

There’s something unspoken at the end of that sentence. And I can’t stop it.

You let your head roll slightly toward him. “You mad at me for it?”

“No,” he says. Too quickly. Then quieter, “Yes.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, then down the back of his neck. He looks at you like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll get better just to spite him.

Then, finally, he says the thing that’s been clogging his throat the whole time:

“I don’t want you to go.”

And God, it’s not romantic. It’s not tender. It’s raw and bitter and laced with all the things House can’t say right. But it’s real.

You cough, and it hurts like hell, but you manage to smile again. “You’ll have to… find a new favorite terminal case.”

“Already told the others,” he says. “You’re irreplaceable. You bastard.”

You close your eyes, and for a moment, the pain slips beneath the surface. House stays. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

And for once, he doesn’t try to fix it.

He just stays.

Your grip is barely there, papery and trembling in his palm, but House doesn't let go.

He never does things like this. Never lingers. Never touches unless it's necessary—or cruel. But here he is. Sitting at your bedside with his calloused fingers wrapped around yours, thumb brushing idly over your knuckles.

You’re more shadow than substance now. Skin yellowed with jaundice, eyes glassy, voice a thin, rasping ghost of what it was. But when you smile, he feels it like a punch to the gut.

“I should get you a hooker,” he says, voice rough, grating. Still House. Still a dick.

You wheeze a laugh that dissolves into a wet, painful cough. “Only… if it’s one of the expensive ones.”

“Oh, naturally,” he says, faux-casual. “None of that street corner crap for you. I’m talking… a high-end escort. Ivy League education. Can quote Tolstoy while choking on your—”

You squeeze his hand. Barely. But it’s there.

“God, I’m gonna miss your mouth.”

House swallows hard. Looks away.

“Don’t,” he says.

You smile again, smaller this time. Sleepier. It’s all slipping now. Moments draining like sand in the glass.

“You were an asshole from the moment I got admitted.”

“Consistent branding,” he murmurs.

“But you held my hand.”

He looks down at where your fingers are intertwined. Doesn’t answer right away. Then, softly:

“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.”

Your breath hitches, not from emotion but exhaustion. He can hear it. Feels it. The end’s so close now it buzzes in the air like static.

Still, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays. Holding on for as long as he can.

Your chest hurts more now, a pressure that suffocates rather than aches. It’s sharp, like a thousand needles, each breath a ragged gasp you can’t quite catch. The monitors beside you beep in a steady, heartless rhythm, their sound growing louder and more frantic with each passing moment.

House’s face has morphed into something you didn’t think was possible. His usual cocky, sarcastic demeanor has melted into something raw. Something… afraid. His eyes flick to the monitor, then to you, back and forth, as though willing it all to stop, willing time to go backward, for you to just wake up from this.

You can see it in the twitch of his fingers, the flex of his jaw. He wants to save you. He wants to break every rule, every order, and fight for your life as if it’s one more case to solve. But he can’t. Not this time.

You can’t hold back a weak cough, the sound of it pathetic and wet, escaping your lips in a desperate attempt to make it better—but there’s nothing left to save.

“I—” He stops. His breath catches. “I could—”

“House…” Your voice is barely a rasp, a shadow of sound. It’s hard to form the words, hard to make them come together in your failing throat.

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

You know what he wants to say. I could break the rules. I could fight for you. I could save you.

But you signed a DNR. A part of you—the part that really knew it all along—is grateful for that. Grateful that you won’t have to endure any more pain. That you’ll be allowed to go. To leave this behind. Without being hooked to machines or held hostage by the life you’ve outlived.

You squeeze his hand—weakly, pathetically, but you do it. The touch is almost nothing. But it’s everything.

“I’m here,” he says, voice thick with something—grief, regret, tenderness—maybe all of it. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, something like a prayer.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. A whisper. Too quiet. But you hear it.

You blink slowly, feeling your body grow heavier, the world dimming at the edges. It’s time. You know it is. But you want him to know, somehow, that you’re okay with this. That it’s okay for him to let you go.

With a final, shaky breath, you exhale the words you’ve never said before, not like this.

“I’m not scared.”

His hand tightens around yours in the final moments. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. There’s nothing left to say as the heart monitor flatlines and the machines scream in silence.

But he stays there, holding your hand, because that's the only thing he knows to do when the one person he couldn’t save slips away from him.

canon garrett

oh my god...

so the first screenshot is trying to look this up on tiktok normally, "donald trump rigged election" and it says that search violates community guidelines.

the second screenshot is looking up the same exact thing, but with a (australian) vpn on. canadian vpn didn't fix it fyi.

THIS is exactly the type of censorship to be looking out for on tiktok. this actually is crazy.

Y/N, in line at a coffee shop: Can I get a venti vanilla latte with uhh, seven espresso shots?

Wade, right behind them: Jesus Christ, just do cocaine.