#miguel o’hara/reader

[asimplearchivist]

𝑪𝑯. 𝑰 — 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑶𝑵 𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑻𝒀.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ spider-woman of earth 928c is introduced to some unexpected visitors. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 3.1k a/n 🕷️ ⤏ don't mind me, I'm just chasing a plot bunny. ⤏ this version of the rhino is from the spectacular spider-man universe because I’m self-indulgent and that’s still one of my favorite iterations of the character. I am also adlibbing this version of the 2099-verse because I only know what the wiki told me…and it wasn’t a whole lot. 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER 🕷️

Let’s review all this one last time, shall we?

“Hey, Rhino! You’ll have to try a bit harder than that to catch me!”

My name is—well, you already know that, don’t you?

A furious bellow set every hair on your body on edge. You hooked your feet on the lamppost and curled around it just in time to avoid the crushed taxi launched at your direction. The loan office it embedded itself into had been vacated when the scuffle started, thank God, as had the rest of the street’s occupants. You could hear police sirens several blocks over, trying to navigate the destruction the brute beast had left in his wake. You’d been trying to tire him out in the harsh summer sunlight—just as you had a couple of years prior.

I got bitten by an enhanced radioactive spider, and for the last five years, I’ve been the one—and only—Spider-Woman.

“You’ve really got to work on your aim, O’Hirn, I don’t know what to tell you,” you chided lightly, webbing the taxi and jumping down to swing it back at him. The metal husk caught him right in the chest, managing to knock him flat on his armored ass. “You’ve gotten a bit rusty since I last saw you.”

I’m sure you know the rest—I’ve saved countless people in Nueva York and have kept it intact. (Mostly.)

“I—don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” he snarled, peeling himself out of the vehicle. “I never seen you before—d’you replace Spider-Man or somethin’?”

I lost my husband in a freak accident, I barely manage to keep my small business open, and sometimes I want for nothing more than to burn this suit and walk away from it all.

You raised a brow under your mask. “I’m afraid I’m the only resident web-slinger in this neck of the woods. Did you get your head bashed a little too hard while in the slammer?”

But I’ve learned that no matter how many times I get knocked down, shot at, blown up, stabbed, punched, kicked—you name it—I have to get up. Always.

The Rhino roared instead of opting to give a comprehensive answer to further the conversation, and you narrowly avoided getting impaled on his horn when he lunged. Latching onto the awning of the hotel across the street, you swung wide and squinted down at the mercenary as his momentum carried him directly into the rubble of the obliterated loan office.

I genuinely thought that I had seen it all: science experiments gone horribly wrong, villains of the week that would give horror writers a run for their money...weird-ass situations all around, and I’m weird.

Something…wasn’t right. Your spider sense had been ringing off the chart since he’d first galloped through the wall of your pharmacy demanding a fight—it was persistent and loud enough that it had given you a splitting headache by now. It hadn’t reacted this badly in several years, and you’d care not to think about the circumstances surrounding the last occasion.

But this…certainly took the cake.

This guy…wasn’t the Rhino you’d fought. You hadn’t even heard anything about the prison he’d been sent to being destroyed, or any of the inmates having made a miraculous escape, for that matter. He sounded different, acted different, looked different…not to mention the fact that this…imposter, or whoever he was, had a far more rudimentary armor than that of the first. It looked like a solid compound of some sort bound to his skin, rather than faulty nano-particles that had malfunctioned and locked themselves out of control at the time of its first reckless experimentation.

You’d know that better than anyone. Alchemax had been nothing but a source of perpetual pains in your ass ever since your husband died, the higher-ups far too hungry for imitation superhumans from a century prior to exercise caution or reason. They’d stop at nothing to get what they wanted, the common people they inevitably harmed be damned.

As the crumbling cinderblocks settled, you slipped down and landed lightly on the cracked sidewalk. You lamented the property damage of the entire block just as much as the fact that you were going to have to use your preferred pharmacy’s sister branch, all the way on the other side of the Hudson, and they always took days to refill your prescriptions even after you received the automated alert.

Computers. Damned with them, damned without them.

“Hey, O’Hirn?” you called into the cloud of dust slowly clearing in the mild breeze. “I don’t suppose you did my job for me and knocked yourself out, huh?”

This time, he charged without a sound. You tried to jump away with a yelp, your instincts screeching like a banshee, but his massive fist caught your ankle and slammed you down into the asphalt hard enough to crater around your frame. Winded, you only just caught his heel with both hands before he drove it directly into your chest cavity—you groaned with the strain of keeping his weight at bay, arms trembling with effort. You gasped for breath, eyes searching out his face despite the tears welling in your eyes (because damn that hurt), and twisted your wrist just enough to utilize the spinneret on the top of your wrist instead of in the bottom. The sickly sweet-smelling web nailed him right in the eye.

He stumbled back with a muffled shout, the silk having netted his entire head from the impact. You rolled out of the asphalt angel memorializing your clumsiness and away from his stomping feet, coughing and doing your best to ignore the pain lingering in your back and ribs.

“Got me there,” you wheezed, struggling to your feet. “Now I’m not going to play nice.”

“The hell is this stuff?” he shouted, finally tearing the object of offense free. “It reeks!”

“Something to help put you down for a nap,” you sighed, already threading the nearest dislodged fire hydrant. You waited in a tense crouch until he whirled on you and lowered his head to clock him in the knee.

He shook the ground when he dropped, howling while clutching the dislocated joint. Letting the hydrant loop over your head, you brought it harshly down on the opposite shoulder to incapacitate him further.

The ground swayed abruptly, and you staggered sidewise to keep from stumbling. The Rhino, despite his obvious agony, flashed you a shit-eating grin.

“Didn’t think about that, did’ya?” he goaded, before rearing his good fist back and driving it into the gaping crack in the concrete.

That entire section of the street caved into the sewer system below, and O’Hirn grabbed your ankle once more to drag you with him.

Rubble and unstable brickwork separated the pair of you, and you struggled to get your bearings even as it pinned you in place under running water (rather than actual sewage, thank God—it had taken months for the smell to leave your suit, even if the UMF had decontamination processes preprogrammed) like the odd little bug you really were.

Heart pounding, you clenched your jaw and shoved at the boulders blocking you in, fruitlessly at first—finally, finally they gave, and you surfaced with a ragged inhale.

Your entire body ached. You were going to have to deal with Alchemax soon, you really were, because your health insurance was definitely not going to cover a visit to the ER—your improved healing would still take a while to fix it, even if you were to gorge yourself like usual.

“Just be glad for no broken bones,” you muttered, peering up into the hazy sunlight streaming into the chasm Rhino had created. “Those hurt like a bitch.”

“I think I can help with that.”

You whipped around. “Oh, for the love of—”

Rhino’s fist nearly took your jaw clean off your skull with a dizzying roundhouse that sent you flying into what remained of the sewer’s wall. You collapsed on the service walk, biting your lip fiercely to keep the bubbling whimper firmly lodged in your chest. “Fuck, man, you couldn’t stand to be a gentleman, could you? That’s my good si—”

He cut off your tirade by clamping his fist around the back of your neck, dragging you into open air and glaring down his crooked nose at you.

Were you imagining things or was he…shaped differently than a normal person? Not even being a supervillain, he just…looked weird. Like, really weird.

Or…maybe it had to do with the fact that his fingers easily reached around to the front of your throat and were now squeezing hard enough to block your airway.

“I’ve about had enough of you,” he growled, grimacing as you grappled his arm in an attempt to release his grip. “You superheroes and your smart mouths. If the Big Man ever caught wind of another Spider hangin’ around, he’d blow a gasket.”

You had enough wherewithal to utilize your specialized webs once again, but even though you managed to cover his face again, he snatched your wrists and twisted them to the side to cut off the flow. He snarled and squeezed harder, though a small trickle of relief bypassed the growing panic of suffocating when he stumbled a little. His eyes were going crossed, it was working…

…but not quickly enough. You were fading fast, losing feeling in your fingers and toes, your hands and feet, your arms and legs…your heartbeat thrummed in your ears like a torn war drum, the only sound that followed the dizziness creeping into your consciousness.

Well…you supposed this was it. Definitely not the way you’d imagined going, but…your aunt would feed your cat. There were worse ways to go, certainly—you’d witnessed them firsthand. You just wish that you didn’t feel like such a failure, despite all your countless accomplishments and victories. None of it felt substantial. Not when you had failed to protect those most important to you.

Not when you’d lost your husband. Not when it should have been you.

Your body fell limp. You made one last effort to turn your head and bite the heel of the Rhino’s palm, but he only knocked the back of your head against the wall. You hardly felt it, really, only hearing your tapering pulse and the wailing ring of your spider sense.

“Fuck you,” you tried to rasp, but with no air to speak you only mouthed the words.

The Rhino had the audacity to laugh at that, glittering dark eyes eagerly watching yours steadily glaze over. He reached towards your chin, where he would find the seam of your mask.

Through darkening, blurry vision, you watched a maelstrom of crimson and gold bloom like an aurora over the Rhino’s massive shoulder, illuminating the damp maze of broken rock like neon on a rainy night. Your eyes drifted shut of their own accord as a shape sprinted forth from the vortex at breakneck speed. You hadn’t figured the afterlife would herald a six-foot bodybuilder in blue spandex, but, hey—who were you to complain about witnessing the epitome of masculinity at the time of death?

Listless, you barely recognized being dropped. You didn’t even realize the pressure had been released from your windpipe until your instincts kicked into overdrive. You inhaled so suddenly and so harshly, the burn was what startled you back into lucidity.

Sucking in precious oxygen, you propped your arms beneath your chest and lifted your impossibly heavy, throbbing head to stare in utter rapture as you witnessed what you’d accepted as a hallucination of the peak male figure proceed to kick Alexander O’Hirn’s ass into next week.

“What the hell?” you croaked, sagging into the floor.

The stranger was…lethal, really. Every punch and kick was delivered with frightening force and deadly accuracy. It wasn’t until he backflipped to avoid impalement into the sunlight that you saw the cross between a spider and skull motif caressing his rippling physique. Him then twisting his hands down and launching luminescent red threads to trip the beast mid-lunge only confused you further.

“You ready for the containment field?” called a second stranger—a woman this time—standing propped against an honest-to-God motorcycle in the mouth of the vortex.

The Rhino grabbed the webs and yanked hard. The man, to his credit, didn’t yelp as he was pulled off his feet and towards O’Hirn’s brandished horn.

You reacted before you could think.

Your web coiled around his midsection, and your braking pull slowed his momentum just enough to give him time to lift his foot and dig his heel into the Rhino’s left eye. They both careened into the heap of rubble and under the water.

You scrambled onto your feet, limping to the edge of the walk to peer into the murky depths. You were about to speak to the woman on the opposite side because you wanted to know exactly what in the actual hell that thing was, who they were, and why the hell were they both copying your design when the surface broke into a shower of droplets that speckled your suit. The man tumbled into a heap at your feet, dripping and coughing.

“I’d thank you for your help,” you panted in spite of your sore throat, “but I don’t think he’s down for the count quite yet.”

His head snapped towards you, and you saw the crimson frames surrounding the lenses of his own mask widen. He lurched upright, taking a full step away from you as though you’d tried to bite him. He towered over you easily, well over six foot (even past half?), and his musculature more than emphasized it.

“Hey, no hard feelings or anything, I appreciate the hand,” you said, raising placating palms to him. “I almost kicked the bucket back there, so I owe you—”

He whirled just as the Rhino surfaced from the deep, roaring in fury. His nose was bleeding profusely, but not from his nostrils—was that a bite mark across the bridge?

“Get back and let us handle it!” the man in the midnight suit snarled suddenly, and your heart stuttered.

Your mouth fell open as he launched himself forward, leaving gauges in the concrete where his feet had been planted. You watched, frozen and speechless, as he latched onto O’Hirn’s shoulders and spun him into a glowing red shibari presentation in less than ten seconds. The Rhino lost his footing and collapsed back into the water, though into the shallows. The woman tossed the man a device, and it bloomed into a forcefield that swallowed their fallen prey in a humming yellow cocoon.

“Oh.” You blinked, shut your mouth, and swallowed. “Wow. I need one of those.”

The stranger ignored you, stooping down and hefting the Rhino over his shoulder like he weighed a sack of potatoes.

You blinked rapidly before following his sloshing lumber across the canal. “Wait, wait a second, aren’t you going to—”

“We’ll take it from here, baby,” said the woman lightly, gesturing to the beast who had, oddly enough, fallen into a stiff stasis. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I am worried about it,” you responded tersely, “because that is definitely not the Rhino of my world, you two are just as out of place as he is, and that looks an awful lot like a wormhole that is somehow not causing the known universe to collapse in on itself. Can I please get an explanation, since you both seem perfectly calm?”

The man growled under his breath, shaking his head, while the woman arched an appraising brow at him.

“That’s classified,” he ground out through gritted teeth, and your heart squeezed once more.

“Do either of you work for Alchemax?” you demanded hotly, skin pricking with agitation. “Because if this is another one of their freakshow experiments gone wrong, I am going to blow that place sky high, I swear—”

“We don’t work for Alchemax,” she soothed. She cast another glance at her cohort, eyes narrowing, before she refocused on you with a much kinder expression. “And we definitely have no other intention than getting this big guy back to where he belongs. We’re not your enemies.”

“Just leave it alone, Jess,” hissed the man in blue, resuming his steady pace towards the glowing, shifting maw of raw power. “We need to get back before the toxin wheres off.”

You couldn’t take that nagging feeling anymore.

“Tell me what the hell is going on!” you snapped, hoping the indignation in your voice disguised the fact that your throat was unbearably tight and a persistent sting blurred your sight. “You can’t just—”

He didn’t stop moving, didn’t even turn to face you—not really—just tilted his head to the side enough to regard you with disdain from the edge of his peripheral. You couldn’t see it, of course, nor his expression, but the disapproving drawl of his single-worded reply was enough—more than enough, and you realized that it sounded familiar. “No.”

“Wait, please!” you tried, (begged, more like, much to your chagrin—you hated it when your voice cracked), taking a step forward and trying to decide whether it was worth the risk to web him immobile after his rather impressive (and aggressive) display. “Miguel?”

The imposing figure went stock-still mid-step.

Your breath caught, your suddenly buoyant heart lodging itself firmly in the pit of your throat. He sagged in on himself for a moment, a deep, shaky inhale emphasizing the sheer mass of him—easily thrice your mass—and his ragged exhale was the only indication of weariness you’d observed thus far.

“It would be best,” he enunciated thickly, almost garbled, as though he spoke around a mouthful of gravel, “if you forgot about this encounter altogether, in the long run.”

All you were able to absorb in that split second before he stepped through the contorting portal and disappeared were the splashes of golden light accenting the sharp angle of his cheek and jawline, as well as the subtlest suggestion of a deeply furrowed brow beneath the glimmering material comprising his mask and suit alike—just like yours.

The other woman regarded you for a long moment, something like sympathy clear on her unguarded, unconcealed face. You opened your mouth to entreat her, likewise, desperate for answers when the former stranger had so blatantly refused explanation, but she merely shook her head slowly, reminding you of a gentle, maternal refusal. She, too, wheeled her bike into the portal and flickered out of view.

Then, inevitably, the portal itself dissipated into nothingness within the blink of an eye, as though you’d been hallucinating the entire thing. The tunnel was plunged into total darkness, save the wall of sunlight behind you.

You dropped to your knees, your chin sank into your sternum, and the particles of your mask receded so you could cradle your face in your hands. Hot, embittered tears dripped from your nose and splattered against the concrete, only the faintest suggestions of discoloration in your distorted vision.

Just like that, he was gone.

Again.

[kiribaabe]

Table For Two

Miguel O’ Hara/ Reader

Rating: NSFW

Tags: semi public sex, hand jobs, blow jobs. You get Miguel off under the table at a fancy dinner, that’s it, that’s the whole fic.

Words: 2.4k

Read full thing on ao3

"Miguel, this is your one night off in weeks, can’t you try a little harder to relax and enjoy it?" You sigh when you notice the vein in your lover's forehead start to visibly twitch with his impatience.

Miguel wanted to take you out tonight—something nice to compensate for the excessive amount of time he’s spent at work here recently. It’s supposed to be a laid back evening with delicious food and wine, and time to catch up on things you haven’t had the opportunity to talk about here lately.

Instead, Miguel seems intent on stressing himself out about the service. Or more accurately, the absence thereof.

It was less than ideal, you had to admit. When you first arrived, they couldn’t even find your reservation, and after you were seated it took forever just for someone to swing by to ask for your drink order.

Now it was taking even longer for them to get back to your table.

It was a little aggravating, sure, but not nearly enough to get as worked up as Miguel is.

"I know, I know. I’m sorry. But there’s no reason I should have to hunt down a waiter just to get our glass of wine. Wine that's nearly two-hundred dollars a bottle, I might add. Ridiculous." He huffs, his tone tinged with displeasure.

You sigh again, quick to roll your eyes at the man in your company. He desperately needed to learn how to stop sweating the small stuff. He was far too pretty to be constantly stressed out all the time, especially over a trivial matter like this.

As sexy as you feel like he’d be with gray hair, you didn’t fancy seeing him with it so soon.

If only you could distract him.

You try making conversation, asking him about his day among other topics you felt may lighten his mood. When that doesn’t really seem to work, something more devious appears in your smile as a sudden idea comes to mind.

There are a few ways you know how to get Miguel Miguel to relax a little.

None of which you’ve done in public, though.

Well, there’s a first for everything, right?

Sneakily, you let Miguel continue his complaining and brush your hand against your fork, causing it to fall with a clink onto the floor. "Oops. Gosh, clumsy me." You laugh, not at all suspicious.

You catch the moment that Miguel lifts a curious brow your way, before you dip out of your seat and onto the floor. You glance around to make sure no one is looking at you, then crawl right under the table. It’s one of those big round ones with white cloth that drapes over it, long enough that it touches the floor. No one should be able to see you, so you’re quick to find a place to kneel between Miguel’s legs.

>> Ao3 <<

[mcntsee]

me when I reach the angst part of the angsty fic that I specifically chose for the angst

[l0velysmut]

family: “why are you just sitting in ur room smiling at ur phone?”

me who’s been reading smut about fictional characters for the past 6 hours:

[asimplearchivist]

You posted this last night and I didn’t see it until I was already in bed but I knew I wouldn’t get any sleep bc I was too excited to wait to read it so! I stayed up late lol

Miguel only continues to agitate in the most infuriatingly smexy way. (I also want him to rant at me in his mother tongue until he’s blue in the face. Which is funny bc I can’t stand it when people raise their voices🤷🏻‍♀️) His sweet tooth gets him every time though. He really hasn’t told us his name yet, has he? Smug bastard.

And the entire coffee cake bit—I can absolutely see that in my mind’s eye like canon. Your personification of his body language and voice is spot-on! I had no idea about that factoid, either, I just knew that spiders hate peppermint (so you’re supposed to spray that oil in your garage/etc to keep them out of your house)! That’s hilarious lol

And sssshhhh you didn’t need to know that weepy, vulnerable, emotionally compromised stoic, grumpy men are my Achilles’ heel. (“Nena, don’t leave me,” about murdered me on the spot.🥺)

Also. The implication of what he’s saying, combined with the context of canon events from atsv…please don’t break our hearts with this fic cici. You gave Red Flags a happy ending (which is another one of my faves of yours btw), so please don’t slaughter us. Please. Let Miguel be happy he’s been through too much already. I’m already attached to that dumb soft face😭

EVERY YOU EVERY ME: ISSUE #4

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel O'Hara saves you from falling off the Chrysler building for a second time, and he's not very happy about it.

Word count: 4,400 words.

Content: Slow burn so slow we're getting a reverse speeding ticket, Spidey-boy has a lot of emotions and really needs therapy, he also swears a lot, tiny speck of angst.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

[Previous] [TBC]

It's shocking how fast the ground approaches from a height of 72 stories. You always imagined it would take longer given the distance. In movies, the freefall is always captured in a hypnotizing slow motion, but real gravity is brutal and unforgiving.

This time, as you fall through the sky, you don’t see the New York concrete grow wider or nearer. All you see is the vast gap between you and the crystal blue sky rapidly pulling away from you. The buildings looming higher with every second. The blinding sun reflected in the thousands and thousands of glaring windows towering above.

You can't feel your heartbeat or the wind beating against your face. There should be panic. But at the sight of familiar inky-blue piercing through your view, an eerie calm takes over until a comforting numb spreads through your limbs.

Call it misguided naivety. No one should ever place this much trust with their life on a stranger they don't even know to come and save them.

But misguided or not, there's no fear in you this time around. You don't think about how you are plummeting down to your death. Not when you see him speeding after you. Diving head-first into the vast empty space as he closes the distance between you, hand outstretched, reaching for you.

His hand catches around your wrist in mid-air. It's a firm grip like he never means to let go. He reels you in until you're defying gravity, gliding up through the air to meet him until he can wrap his arms around you.

Everything decelerates. The reflection of the rows and rows of windows no longer flashing by. It's a gentle descent as the breeze flows pleasantly through your hair, and if you don't think too hard about how you can't control the direction of movement, you can almost believe you’re flying.

The landing is gentle. He sets you on your feet with such great care that it takes you a second to adjust to the feeling of firm concrete beneath your soles.

Once again, you find yourself standing face to face with the masked superhero who has saved your life more times than you can count on both hands.

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, head tilting upwards until your neck strains, and it strikes you that you've forgotten how tall he was. His head tips down, the dark outline of his masked eyes staring down at you, and it makes the hair on the nape of your neck prickle.

Say something. 

You rack your brain, trying to remember all the questions you had meticulously written down in the notepad hidden in your desk as you planned for this very moment. But they’re missing, wiped cleanly from your mind now that he's here in front of you. Your mouth parts, trying to remember how to use your vocal cords again.

Before you find it, the blue fabric recedes until it reveals his face again. You're met with cutting eyes that glow an otherworldly crimson and the bared sharp canine teeth of a predator as he growls at you. 

"What the hell were you thinking?!" 

The low rumble of his words scrapes down your spine and locks you in a fight or flight response. Except you're doing neither. Fixed in place, unable to move.

One of his hands reaches up to pull at his hair in frustration, as he starts to mumble to himself. He's tugging it so hard you think he's going to yank them out by the roots.

"I can’t believe you! Me estás matando. Casi me da un ataque cardíaco–"

You blink up at him dimly, confused until you realize that he's broken into Spanish. But he's speaking too low and too fast. You can only make out about half of it.

"–No puedo más! I am dying of stress. You're impossible! I turn away for one second…” 

One sentence flows directly into the next without stopping for a single breath, and you're surprised he doesn't go lightheaded from lack of oxygen with how long he goes on.

You raise your hand slightly, reminiscent of a gesture you used to pull in school when you wanted to get the teacher's attention to ask a question. But he doesn't notice. Doesn’t even throw a glance in your direction.

“... and you go Anna Karenina on me. I can't with you, I can't, I can't–"

You try to follow along, looking for an appropriate break in his rant to get a word in edgewise. But like the line of tourists lining up for the Statue of liberty, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. As rude as it is, the only thing you can think of is clearing your throat, loudly, trying to draw attention to yourself, but that's soundly ignored as well.

"Me vas a sacar canas verdes–-"

One broad hand covers his face as if he's trying to scrub away the beginnings of a migraine, and he keeps going.

Listening to him makes you feel like a child on the receiving end of a scolding by an exasperated parent. Any lingering thread of fear or intimidation gives way to irritation at this man who is so subsumed by his tirade that he doesn't even seem to be aware of your presence, not three feet away from him.

"–Siempre haces esto, una y otra y otra vez–"

You don't know exactly how long he’s been going on for by now, but you know that it's long. You could even swear the shadow by your feet has shifted to the opposite end of the patch of concrete at your feet in the time he’s been talking.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he asks, apparently finally done. He stands there, arms crossed, with a condescending set to his jaw as he looks down on you.

And god, where to even start with this man? You have enough material about his difficult and avoidant behavior to make a powerpoint presentation out of it. You should block out the boardroom for three whole hours and hold a Q&A after.

How, if he had just spoken to you after you left him not one, not two, but several requests to meet with him, then things could have ended up a lot more civilized.

How, if he hadn't been hiding from you this whole time—gaslighting you— you wouldn't have had to spend over $200 on budget DIY spy crap (in this economy!) on an utterly wasted attempt to catch him. And, to add insult to injury, you’re sure you are never going to use any of that stuff ever again!

How, if he hadn't been talking non-stop and had the self-awareness to take a second to observe others, he'd have realized that you had plenty of things to say to him, if only he had paused long enough to let you.

But somehow in the face of his expectant expression, all that comes out of your mouth is, "I don't know what you want me to say."

His face falls. There's a split second of disappointment, raw and anguished, that flitters across his face. Then it's gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turns away from you. Whatever he was expecting from you, that was obviously not it.

When he speaks again, his voice has turned calm and quiet. He almost sounds resigned.

"Yeah. I don't know either." 

There's a sluggish, awkward silence that lingers on the three feet of concrete stretched between the two of you. The echo of traffic below, the cab horns and chatter swarms the space. After everything that’s happened, it all feels very anti-climatic somehow.

"Can you take me back to my apartment and we can talk? I have coffee. Cake too," you say, trying to break the silence.

"I don't drink coffee." His tone is curt, severing the olive branch you were trying to extend with a sharp snap, and your shoulders sag in defeat and disappointment. But then his face tips back in your direction and meets your eyes. The line of his mouth twitches as if he’s war with himself. 

"But I'll have some cake," he concedes. 

Had you known that a superhero was coming over for a visit, you'd probably have done a better job of cleaning up and making the place presentable.

You would have put away the heap of unfolded, wrinkly laundry that's piled up on your bed, granny panties in full sight. Would have washed the dirty dishes stacked up in your sink like a dangerous game of porcelain Jenga. Or at least cleared out the sad looking take out box where your half-eaten pizza is still resting in a greased up spot on the table.

Still, you're not sure how impressed he would be even if you had. Your studio apartment is a standard size for NYC, meaning in most other places it would be classified as a closet. With his height, he has to duck to make it through the threshold of your door and can barely stand upright without banging his head against the ceiling. It’s ironic that the window entrance is probably less hazardous for him.

You get him a plate of cake and set it on the table in front of him, delicately placing the dessert fork on the side.

"Sorry, I don't have any cookies for you today, just coffee cake."

The sight of him sitting hunched over your Ingatorp IKEA dining table is slightly comical. The table looks like a miniature doll set against his broad frame, and as he picks up the small dessert fork in his large hand, that only adds to the absurdity of the situation. He looks like he’s playing at having a tea party with a child’s play tea set. 

You sit down across from him, watching him intently, trying to gather the nerve to ask the questions you've been dying to ask since this all started. But you're hesitant and fumbling, stumbling on your words like an idiot, "Uhm, so I wanted to ask if you– if you knew why all of this is happening to–"

"No."

You frown at his interruption. "You didn't let me finish," you protest.

He leans back against his chair, waving away your protests dismissively into the air. "I didn't need you to. The answer is no. Next question."

You bite down on your lip to stave off the curse stuck in your throat, trying to force its way out. You hold it. Stemming the tide, as you focus on the task at hand.

"Who are you?"

His head tilts to the side at your question, as his hand draws up and gestures vaguely over the spider emblem of his costume draped over his chest. "Isn't it obvious?" he snarkily responds, "I'm Spiderman"

Great, he's a rude and sassy superhero. You narrow your eyes at him

"You're not the Spiderman I know of."

He doesn't respond to that. Just glares down at the cake as he pierces it with a sharp stab of the fork, making the porcelain underneath clank. Then he scoops a large spoonful and shovels it into his mouth.

God, who eats cake so angrily?

"Why did you save–" you start, but he holds up one finger, motioning for you to pause. 

He cleaves off another piece of cake and shoves it into his mouth, chewing slowly. You watch as he beats the Guinness record of slowest chewer across the table from you, before you finally get to repeat your question.

"Why do you keep saving me?"

"I'm a superhero. I save people. It's what I do."

Bright irritation pings through you at his sarcastic attitude. 

This is like playing the world's shittiest game of 20 Questions, except here the whole goal of the game is to see whose sanity cracks first.

Naively, you had thought that being able to sit down with him in person would mean you could finally start getting some answers. You hadn't been expecting the need to deploy strategic maneuvers, and you pause, taking your time before you speak. 

You need to pick a question he won't be able to evade. You think back at the footage of the nanny-cam, that time he carried you to bed. The worry when you weren't where he expected you to be. The over-familiarity that seeps out of his every action with you as if he already knows you and that the last thing you heard as you fell off the ledge was his voice calling out your name.

"How did you know my name?" you finally ask him.

His back stiffens at the question, jaw grinding down until the small muscle there flexes with irritation.

"I don't."

Liar.

"You called my name when I fell," you remind him.

This time instead of answering, he slides the now empty plate at you across the table.

"Can I have another slice?"

You frown. It's an obvious ploy to buy himself some time to avoid answering your question. But you can't deny his request either.

With a sigh, you push away your chair to bring the plate to the counter. You cut up an obscenely big slice so that he won't be able to use this as an excuse a second time.

Turning back around, you find that the gluttonous self-proclaimed Spiderman is pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks a little worse for wear, a pained expression etched into those tightly knitted brows.

"Are you okay?" you ask, concerned.

"No. I–" He breaks off, his broad palm gripping the back of the chair, and you notice a slight tremor in his fingers. "Something’s wrong." 

He pushes the chair back, trying to get to his feet, but to your surprise, he stumbles and sways. 

He seems just as surprised as you are at his newfound lack of coordination. 

"What the–" He looks down on his feet with concentrated effort. Then he takes another step. It's wobblier than the one before, his knee giving way, and his arm shoots out to grip at the edge of your table for balance.

Alarm bells start to go off in your head. You don't understand what's happening, but he's definitely right, something is wrong. A man that can gracefully scale down the Chrysler building from 72 floors down shouldn't be struggling this much just to take two steps back in your living room.

"Maybe you should sit back down," you suggest, looking up at him. There’s a slight sheen of perspiration that's settled on his forehead. The beginnings of a rosy flush tinting his cheeks. "Do you have any food allergies?"

"No. I don't. No. Super metabolism kind of cuts down on that sort of–” he’s stumbling over his words, each syllable slurred on his tongue, as he shakes his head at you. “No, no allergies. No food sensitivities of any kind except...."

He glares around wildly and his eyes land on the remaining slice of cake perched on your kitchen counter. 

"Did you put fucking coffee in that cake?!?!"

“"Yes?” You whip around, and look at the cake on your counter, not understanding the relevance of his question. “I mean... It's a coffee cake? I told you that!" 

You push aside your growing panic as you try to remember if the EpiPen stored away in your kitchen cupboard is past its expiration.

"You didn't tell me there was coffee in it!"

Is he serious?

"I said ‘coffee cake’! What else would be in there? It's in the name," you snap. 

And god, you can't believe this is what you're arguing with him about at this moment.

"Okay, yeah," he concedes testily, "but coffee cake is its own thing too! Isn’t coffee cake just… cake... that you, like... serve with coffee? It doesn't have coffee in it! Why the fuck does it have coffee in it?"

Does the man even hear himself? You're trying to figure out if you need to call an ambulance, and he is arguing with you on the technicalities of what constitutes coffee cake.

"Okay, wait, but are you dying?" you ask, trying to stay calm despite the pandemonium of panic ringing in your head. 

"No! I'm just intoxitac– intocita– intoshica– I'm just fucking drunk okay!?" he spits out.

Your brain stalls at his statement. Intoxicated!? When did he have time to drink? He seemed fine just a few minutes ago, but now he's slurring and about to topple over.

"You're drunk? How–"

"Spiders get drunk on coffee," he interrupts, and the flush on his cheek deepens to a deep alarming red. If you didn't know better, you'd almost think he was blushing.

"Okay, let's sit you down." You rush over, rounding your dining table as you reach for him.

At the sight of your extended hands, his eyes widen in alarm, He steps back from you, eyeing you like you're something dangerous.

"No. No, I'm–" he takes another step backwards, flinging himself away from your touch, but loses his footing in the process. He tilts over, hand grappling for the edge of the table as he goes, but instead of the edge he manages to take the cake plate with him on the way down.

There's a clank of shattered porcelain, followed by the loud thud of his body hitting the ground.

With the large size of him in your tiny studio apartment and the breaking of porcelain left and right, this feels like the idiom of a bull running wild in a China shop, come to life.

You reach out your hand to help him get up, but he doesn't acknowledge it, anchoring his elbow to the floor for leverage, only to wobble and fall flat against his back again with an angry curse.

Why is he so goddamned stubborn? 

You glance down at him, this gigantic man that is lying sprawled out on the floor with the gravitas of a turtle trapped on its back. He's so huge that he's eating up half of the floor space of your entire home. If he doesn’t get up, you won't be able to take two steps without accidentally stepping on him.

Shaking your head in disbelief at the ridiculousness of the situation, you hunch down on your knees beside him.

There's hesitation etched in those otherworldly crimson eyes as you come near. But as much as he's scowling at you, baring his fangs and trying to look scary, there isn't much he can do from the floor.

"Let me help you," you insist, "let's get you in bed until it wears off. I can't have you passed out on my floor like this."

He takes your outstretched hand, and you pull backwards, trying to bring him up with you. Between the two of you, you manage to get him on his feet again. Barely. 

Whoa.

You crane your head up, up, up til you meet his eyes. Yup, the man is still huge. Must be damn near 7 feet tall and heavy, and you quickly realize there's not much you can do but try to steer so that he falls in the direction of your bed.

Somehow you manage to shepherd him in the right direction, until his knees hit the edges of your bed. He lands with a dramatic thud and you hear your bed frame groan in protest. 

“Do you need anything?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer you. His broad arm drapes over his eyes, blocking you out. 

You sigh, turning on your heels to clean up the mess of coffee cake and broken plates off your floor.

You barely manage to finish sweeping up the floor before you hear soft snoring filling your home.

Knock-off Spiderman is sound asleep, his large shape curled up on your mattress, entirely still.

You settle yourself back at the dining table, eating the leftover coffee cake as you pull up a book on your phone and wait for him to wake.

This was not how you had imagined your first extended interaction would turn out.

Honestly, you can't make sense of any of your interactions with him. How he's constantly avoiding you, yet can't seem to stay away and routinely checks in on you.

How he acts overly familiar in one instance and excessively rude and put off by you the next.

Maybe you remind him of someone else... Maybe even an ex? It feels weird to speculate, but it would explain a lot of things. His belligerent attitude towards you. The way he looks at you with eyes full of resentment, even as he's saving you from certain death. That look in his eyes like he knows you, even though you've never met him.

It doesn't explain how he knows your name though.

From the bed, you can hear him stir, shifting against the mattress with a quiet groan muffled into your pillow. He's softly murmuring something that you can't quite make out, and then he turns in his sleep again, making a pained noise that makes worry squeeze tight in your chest.

Maybe letting him sleep it off wasn't the brightest idea you've had. You probably should've called for the ambulance as soon as he showed physical signs of distress.

You're not a biologist. You don't know how a hybrid spider-human’s physiology works.

What if he's not just drunk? Whoever heard of coffee making someone drunk! And how could it affect him so quickly? There was barely a minute between him stuffing his face and falling all over the place. Some quick, panicked googling confirms that coffee makes spiders a kind of drunk, but it doesn’t say if it’s outright toxic to them.

Oh fuck, what if he's dying!? Oh god, what if a superhero dies in your bed? How will you explain this to your landlord? Or the police! “I fed him coffee cake, and it killed him, officer.” Right, that’s going to go over like a lead balloon! It’ll probably look like you poisoned him. TMZ will be swarming the place. You'll be classified as a supervillain.

Setting down the book, you make your way over to sit on the edge of your bed. You lean over his sleeping form and peer down at him, checking for any signs of physical distress.

That red flush from earlier is still riding high on his cheeks, looking like the beginnings of a fever. You reach out your hand to rest it on his forehead to check his temperature.

Warm.

He stirs at the touch, turning his face and practically nuzzles into your palm. It’s almost endearing as he buries his sharp nose into your wrist.

You hold your breath, worried that exhaling would be loud enough to wake him as you gaze down on him. Up close like this, when he's not being rude, and stubborn and defensive, he's... quite attractive.

He has the kind of sculpted face that Hollywood dreams are made of, angular jaw and a prominent nose that makes him look regal. Not to mention those chiselled cheeks of his are a fucking marvel to look at. But more than that, curled up asleep in your bed, there’s a gentle softness to his features that hadn’t been noticeable when he was awake.  

Now that  he’s not frowning down at you and the line of his mouth isn’t pulled into an angry snarl, you can see that his lips are full and luscious, delicate even. His heavy brows look less intimidating now that his face has relaxed from its perpetual scowl. 

He looks... soft, somehow.

There's a spark of something heated in your veins that has you feeling flushed and warm. You have to turn your eyes, shaking your head and tutting at yourself, because you’re creeping on the drunk guy passed out on your bed, and it’s not a good look on you. 

The commotion makes him stir, his eyes blink softly open. He looks up at you, with half-lidded eyes, and it's different from how he's looked at you up until now. His gaze is still so…. soft.

"Nena," he says quietly.

Your cheeks warm at the warmth in his voice , and you gently pull your hand away from his forehead.

"Sorry, I was just checking if you were okay," you explain awkwardly as you start to back away from him, sliding your knee along the mattress to climb off the bed.

At your movement, he darts upright into a seated position and pulls you to him, clinging onto every inch of you as he buries his face to your side. 

“Don't go,” he murmurs into your neck. His voice is trembling, and you can feel the panic radiating from him as the grip he has on you tightens until it’s bruising.  

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he says, keeps repeating it. You don’t know what he’s apologizing for but the guilt and sadness in his voice tugs at something deep inside your chest. 

Nena, he said, and you realize that even though you're the one he's holding in this moment, he's not talking to you. He thinks you're someone else.

"Please don't leave me again. I-I can't–" he chokes out the words into the hollow of your throat where he's pressed his face tight into your skin. You can't help but notice the damp wetness that gathers there. "I'm trying, but I can't– I don't know how to do this without you."

The words are raw in his throat, and despite your confusion, your chest squeezes tight with a sympathetic ache at the man's obvious heartbreak.

You don't know what's going on here or who he thinks you are. The only thing you know is that you want to make him feel better. To make his hurt a little less painful. To make the consuming guilt you can hear in his voice a little bit smaller. 

"It's okay," you say. 

What the it refers to, you have no idea. But the least you can do is to give the man who has saved your life over and over, a tiny crumb of comfort.

You return his embrace, circling an arm around his shoulder, matching the tightness with which he’s holding you. Your other hand slides into his hair and he shivers at the touch, face burying deeper into your neck.

"I'll protect you,” he murmurs into your skin, “I can do better this time. Keep you safe. I promise.”

"It's okay. It’s okay. I’m already safe," you reassure him, giving him the only truth you know for sure in this moment, "You saved me."

Dedication & Credits: as always to my collaborator on this series, who helps me brainstorm, write, edit and beta-read and everything in between and over with this series. This exists because of her, and I am so grateful to her. The hours I spend shouting into her DMs and bother her on the daily since this series infected my mind. You guys don't know what I put poor @thirstworldproblemss through.

Also to @guruan who was kind enough to read through this and steer me in the right way with the spanish, but also for giving me porn that has kept my brain buzzing for days!!!

Please follow both of these insanely lovely, kind and talented people.

Author's note: the Spanish in this chapter has been left untranslated on purpose, so that it's left ambiguous whether reader speak/understand Spanish. The idea is that if you as a reader understand it, then so does the reader, and vice versa 🥰

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[vinamari]

How it feels going to bed after reading some words

It was angst

[beautysamour]

miguel accidentally overstimulating himself not realizing that his breeding kink kicked in 🤲🧎‍♀️

overstimulation with miguel o’hara ❤︎

— a/n: oh my

warnings ﾟ𐦍༘⋆: some vulgar language, mentions of having kids during sex

“Mi—Miguel,” you gasp out, wrapping your arms around his neck as he fucks you into the mattress, “‘s—‘s too much? Ah—are you oh—okay?”

You shudder in unison as he pumps another load of his cum into your drenched pussy.

“I’m fi—fine,” he stutters as his dick twitches. It hurts—he’s sensitive—but it’s not enough. He hasn’t given you enough.

A broken mewl escapes you as your head hits the headboard, Miguel tightens his grip around your waist to keep you from slipping off his cock as his hips stutter through his thrusts.

His visions blurs as you clench around his dick—he was surprised he was still able to move.

He chokes when your pussy flutters—the way you clamp down on his dick makes his body go slack and his eyes roll back.

You’re both covered in sweat, and cum, and saliva. You feel hot, the silk bedsheets Miguel bought does nothing to cool you down, and your head is spinning. Your heart pounds in your chest as your body tenses—you were about to cum again, and your pussy wanted to cry.

“Miguel,” you whimper, “‘m close, Miguel, ‘m close,” you whine. His dick deliciously rubs against your walls as he sticks his thumb into your mouth—your head hits the headboard.

“I know mami—me too.” Your head hits the headboard again, “Gotta fill you up again, don’t you want that? Gonna make you feel good, I promise mami, I promise.”

“Mig—“ he pushes his thumb down on your tongue.

“‘m gonna make you feel so good, mami,” he starts to babble, “Gonna feel so good.”

Somehow every movement he made was even more intense, you could feel every vein, every twitch, every—everything. He became more precise, every thrust ended with him hitting your g—spot, you were never sure if that was going to be the moment you came.

“Miguel—,” you babble, sucking his thumb. “‘m gonna cum, right there Miguel, I’m gonna—“

His thrusts became erratic, the feeling of your warm pussy engrains itself in his memory.

He’d definitely be going back to this memory.

“Wait for me mami, I’m almost there too,” he grabs one of your hands, bringing it close to his mouth, and he presses his lips against your wrist. “Gonna make you a mother, yeah?”

You bite his thumb.

He presses a hand against your stomach as the bed creaks, “Make me a father?”

His hips stutter as you moan around his thumb.

You avoid eye contact as he leans over you, the pure devotion in his eyes makes you feel tingles in your stomach—and make you feel even more of that in your pussy.

“Look at me when you come mami, pl—please. Need you too.”

You didn’t expect it to happen that quickly when you looked at him.

Miguel looks down at you with lust blown eyes, his hair drops down from his face, and his mouth hangs open—the hand holding your wrist shaking. He slowly thrusts into you as he came inside you—your own cum mixed with his leaking around his dick.

His chest goes up and down as he heavily breathes—fuck was he beautiful as always.

He dips his head pressing a quick sloppy kiss onto your lips, “You’re leaking.”

You laugh, “It’s your fault.”

You expect him to laugh, to take it as a joke and then pick you up to go take a relaxing bath and cuddle for the rest of night—but he doesn’t.

“Oh,” he purrs, “Well, I should fix my mistake, shouldn’t I?”

He drops your wrist and focuses on your left boob, he pinches your nipple—you moan softly.

You wince in unison when he starts to move his hips again, his free hand trailing down to your waist from your stomach, “Ha—have to make sure none of my cum goes to waste, right mami? Can’t risk you not getting pregnant.”

Tears weld in his eyes, your pussy hurts as you pulse around him. He lets out a weak breath, “You want me to cum in you again, right?”

Your head hits the headboard once more as he thrusts get stronger.

It hurts, you’re too sensitive, and you’re positive he is too—yet he’s right. You do want that, you want him.

With a broken, hoarse voice, you say “Yes.”

[will0waesthetic]

“her lovely hazel eyes”

“her breasts and perky rosy, pink nipples”

“for her petite physique”

Well damn , give her a name and we’re good to go ��� the reader having a backstory , yeah no problem it’s cool but why do you have to describe the physical traits ? Just make an OC

Back story + physical description = OC

Back story + no physical description = reader insert

[that-sounds-stupid]

Why is this man fictional😭I need him so badly

Nonviolent Communication - Part 15

Pairings: Miguel O'Hara x SpideyFemReader Summary: You get sick and then get hit with your period at the same time. Word Count: 15k (most reasonable word count this story has had in months 🤣) Warnings: Sickness; menstruation; Miguel just wants to look after you!!; Short A/N: I'm ready to read the comments on this one, you guys better not disappoint Previous Part Masterlist Music Inspo (You can find the official Spotify playlist for the fanfic here) "Corazón de Poeta" - Jeanette "Sparks" - Coldplay, Acoustic Guitar Revival (guitar version)

Enjoy and thank you for reading! ❤️

Part 15

The moment you wake up, you feel it. The worst thing to wake up to.

A sore throat.

You sit up, blinking a few times as you adjust to the lighting. The sound of rain reaches your ears as it hits the penthouse’s windows. Glancing around, Miguel is nowhere in sight, though the pillow he used last night is still on the floor near you.

You swallow saliva, finding it hard to do so. Yep, you’re definitely sick. You sigh and push the blanket off you, only then realizing it’s been covering you.

Memories of last night come to mind. The power went out just as Miguel and you were going to have dinner, which led to lit candles and flashlights, and music from cassettes while lightning and thunder filled the sky. You eventually moved to the living room, where you continued to listen to music. You showed Miguel new ideas for his place and talked before you fell asleep next to him. And did you offer Miguel your pinky finger?

Staring at the rain, you remember you did and not only that, Miguel accepted it as you gaze into his eyes before you drifted off, too tired to bother with a blanket, which means Miguel covered you at some point after you fell asleep.

For a few seconds, you think about how you’ve slept on Miguel’s living room floor twice now. With him, Miguel. You never imagined such thing but the thought brings a soft smile to your face despite the ache in your throat.

You look around again, wondering where Miguel is before you stand up, your body feeling off, fatigued.

You still have it in you to fold the blanket before you realize you need to wash it considering you’re sick now. You sigh quietly in disbelief. For the first time in a few years, you’re sick. Your thoughts are interrupted by Miguel’s footsteps coming down the stairs, which makes you realize it must be sometime after 6am.

“Hey, good morning,” Miguel says, stepping into the living room, hair damp from his morning shower. Traces of Miguel’s hygiene products, scents you’re all too familiar with these days, immediately reach your nose when he approaches you, already in his suit. It doesn’t take long for Miguel to sense that something is off. “Are you alright?” Miguel asks, immediately taking in your appearance now that you’re awake.

You nod but then shake your head. “My throat hurts. It feels sore,” you reply, wincing slightly as even talking seems to make the ache worse.

Miguel’s eyes soften as he hears your voice for the first time today, taking notice of the way you wince and how your voice sounds different.

“Mierda [shit],” Miguel says gently, taking several steps closer to you. “Sore throat. Do you have a fever?” he asks.

You lift your hand to your face, unable to tell right now. Are you warm because you just woke up, or are you warm because you have a fever? You wonder to yourself, hand on your cheek, trying to figure it out when you suddenly feel fingers pressed to your forehead. They feel cool against your skin, though not cold.

You blink, realizing.

“Tienes fiebre [you have a fever],” Miguel says, his tone being one of concern while the back of his fingers are still pressed softly on your forehead. His fingers are bare despite the fact that his suit is already activated, making the contact skin to skin. “Your face is burning.” Miguel lowers his hand at last, not even thinking about what he just did, concern for you being the only thing present in his mind.

“You shouldn’t be this close to me then,” you say, stepping back. “I might get you sick.”

“Nonsense,” Miguel replies. “I won’t get sick, don’t worry.” Miguel steps forward again until he’s the same distance he was just seconds ago. “I’ll have one of the doctors at HQ check you.”

“That’s not… necessary, but thank you. I”ll be okay,” you reply, touched by Miguel’s offer and his concern nonetheless.

Your response instantly makes Miguel frown. What do you mean you’ll be okay with a sore throat and fever?

“You’re sick,” he says gently, despite his frown.

Holding on to the blanket, you look away from Miguel. You know you’re sick, you can feel the ache in your throat and how your body feels off, but a part of you doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this. A part of you simply wants to take some over the counter medicine and go on about the day, pushing through your symptoms. It’s what you did in the past the few times you were sick before joining the Spider Society, and after Peter’s death. You learned to take care of yourself since then and now, you’re no longer used to the concern or attention from someone.

“Do you want to go to your universe, or do you want to go HQ?” Miguel offers. “One of the doctors can check you, give you medicine.”

Your gaze meets Miguel’s at last. He’s staring at you, intently, waiting for a response. You nod at last. “HQ. Let me put my suit and get ready.”

“No suit,” Miguel says. “It’s raining and you’re sick. I’m driving us there, no swinging to HQ today. So just… put some regular clothes on, okay?” he adds softly. “Go ahead and get ready, I’ll let my team know we’re going.”

“Alright… thank you,” you say, agreeing with Miguel. You have a feeling that if you were to decline both of his options, he’d probably bring a doctor here to the penthouse to get you checked.

You get ready and change into regular clothes before you meet Miguel downstairs. He’s now wearing regular clothes, too, his suit disengaged to blend in, though that’s not his priority. His priority is to get you treated by a doctor and make you feel better.

The two of you leave the penthouse and head down to the car garage. He unlocks the vehicle and is quick to open and hold the door for you before he gets in the driver’s side. Despite feeling sick, you’re still somewhat aware of how strange it is to watch Miguel drive. It’s like you’ve unlocked another side of him.

The drive to HQ is a short one with Miguel knowing shortcuts around the city. You’re soon walking into the building under an umbrella that Miguel holds to shield you from the rain, walking near you as if he’s your bodyguard.

You head straight to the infirmary sector where a doctor is already waiting for you. Thankfully, the paperwork is short and soon, you’re in a room ready to get checked.

Miguel watches the process, standing by the door as the doctor does basic procedures such as getting your throat swapped and blood work.

“Lab results should take a few minutes. I’ll be back then,” the doctor says before they step out of the room.

You turn to Miguel as he walks over to you, a soft look on his face. He’s already making plans.

“Don’t,” you tell him softly.

Miguel raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me… You’re going home, right?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You’re not working today, so you’re going home, yes?”

“You don’t want me here?” you ask softly.

Miguel steps closer, placing a hand on the patient’s bed, a few inches from your body, and looks down at you, his gaze gentle. “I’m not telling you what to do, but you need to rest properly on a bed where you’ll be comfortable, cozy. Not here at HQ.”

You nod. “I know, I was just… I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve been sick,” you admit, feeling fatigue. You turn away and yawn, covering your mouth.

Miguel watches you, hating that you feel unwell. He has little time to think about what you’ve said, about it being a while since you’ve been sick, but a quick thought comes to mind. Have you been sick before joining the Spider Society? The door to the room opens, interrupting his thoughts. Miguel turns back to look, removing his hand from the patient’s bed and stepping back to give you and the doctor some space.

“Blood work looks good and the throat swap is negative. It seems to be a simple cold, but I’ll give you medicine. Would you like a shot as well?”

You nod. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll take care of that, let me just write down the prescriptions I’m giving you - record keeping,” she explains looking up at you and then at Miguel for a second before turning back to their paperwork. They scribble quickly, thinking it’s not strange to see the owner of the building, the boss, with you. Not anymore.

They recall when he was here a year ago, injured. You stayed by his side the whole time and it had been briefly discussed by the other infirmary staff that you had taken care of Mr. O’Hara at his home. Clearly, the two of you are close friends, or something like that.

Now, Mr. O’Hara is here with you for less serious reasons, a cold, to show up for you like you did for him.

They finish up and excuse themselves.

“While you get the shot, I’ll be stepping out. I need to take care of something,” Miguel tells you, both to give you privacy since the shot will likely go on your upper buttock, and also because he needs to talk to Jess about today, maybe even about tomorrow.

“Alright, everything okay?” you ask him.

“Yes, don’t worry. I just need to talk to Jess about something,” Miguel reassures you.

You give him a nod, not probing for more information just as the doctor returns. Miguel gives you a small smile, that being his cue to exit the room. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?” he says softly.

“I’ll be out shortly,” you reply giving him a small, reassuring smile.

With that, Miguel steps out of the room to give you privacy. He calls Jess through his gizmo, standing outside the infirmary room. A second later, she answers.

“Miguel.”

“Jess,” Miguel says. “Morning. It’s very sudden, but I want to ask if it’s possible for you to take care of things around here today?”

“I can. Is everything alright?” Jess asks, watching as Miguel turns away.

“Y/N is sick. It’s only a cold, according to the doctors here at the infirmary, but she has a fever…”

“It’s always good for someone to be around when dealing with a fever. It may change,” Jess tells him, knowing already that Miguel doesn’t want to leave you alone.

“Yes,” Miguel replies, turning back to face her. “I’m going to look after her, make sure it goes down.”

“Let me know if you guys need anything. I’d be more than happy to help.”

“Thank you, Jess,” Miguel responds. “I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll tell Y/N about it. Thank you for today.”

“If you need to, take off tomorrow, too. It might just be a cold, but it can take a toll on the body for days.”

Miguel gives her a nod, relieved that Jess is making such offer so he can look after you. He had already planned for that, if he was honest. “Thank you. I appreciate it, Jess. I hope it doesn’t get worse, but we’ll see. I’ll keep you updated if I do take off tomorrow just to give you a heads up.”

“No need. I’ll know. Just look after her, alright? And tell her I hope she feels better soon. I’ll be sending her a message in a bit but either way.”

“I will,” Miguel replies softly. “I’ll tell her. Thank you again. Do let me know if I’m needed for backup.”

“Alright, take care.”

“You, too,” Miguel says before he ends the call. He gazes down the hallway leading to the infirmary lobby, lowering his arm to the side. Thankfully the floor is empty save for the medical staff, you, and him. No serious injury or someone on the verge of death. He sighs deeply as he remembers the few days he spent on this floor, injured, before he was allowed to go home. It feels like a lifetime since then.

He decides to wait a bit more to give the doctor and you time, so he stands there, just looking around. It’s so silent. He wonders if this is what it was for you, spending so many hours next to him with no one around to talk with. He thinks about you, waiting in the lonely lobby while his injuries were treated that rainy night.

You stuck by his side, like glue. You could’ve easily gone home at some point to rest, asked someone else to take a shift, but no. You stayed by his side every day. Miguel has a suspicion you would’ve stuck by him every second if you had it your way. He believes that especially when he remembers you offering to sleep on his bedroom floor to look after him that first night.

Miguel shakes his head now, still in disbelief. He would never allow such thing. He would’ve shared the bed with you before letting your body lay on the ground while he rested on the mattress. Of course, he didn’t make that offer because it was too personal for either of you back then, but now…

Miguel’s thoughts are interrupted when he hears the door open. He turns and finds the doctor wishing you a speedy recovery before she exits.

“I’ve given Miss Y/N medications and the shot, she’ll be feeling better soon but in any case that she doesn’t, bring her back in and we can give her other treatments,” she tells him. “Also, she’ll need to rest.”

“I understand, I’ll make sure she does. Thank you,” Miguel responds with a nod.

“You guys take care.”

Miguel nods again before he knocks on the door, entering when he hears your voice. He finds you halfway across the room, heading for the door already. You’re carrying a prescription bag just given to you by the doctor.

“You okay?” he asks softly, holding the door open for you as you keep walking.

“Yeah, I got the shot. It’s kind of hurting a bit,” you admit, feeling it sting as you walk. “But hopefully that means I’ll feel better shortly. Along with the medicine.”

“I hope so,” Miguel says genuinely as you walk out, falling in step with you. The two of you walk down the hallway, side by side, towards the lobby. “We can go home now. I’ll cook you some breakfast, something warm to ease the ache in your throat. And you’ll need to rest so you can get better, let the medicine do its job - let your body recover.”

“Rest? I don’t think I need to.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Miguel replies gazing at you, a hint of a smile on his face, wondering if you’ll be stubborn about this.

“She told me the same thing,” you say with a sigh as you both enter the lobby and head for the elevators.

“You’re not going to ignore doctor’s orders, right?” he asks.

“I guess not… What are you cooking?” you ask softly.

Miguel smirks softly to himself as he presses the button, the doors opening in seconds. He gestures for you to enter before he steps in.

“Don’t worry about it. You just rest and get better.”

The doors close and the lobby is once again empty, or so it seems. A nurse and the doctor turn to look at each other after listening to the little snippet of conversation, the interaction between the boss and you catching their attention. They turn to the elevator again, not recognizing the man that just walked by. He’s a different man from the one they met many years ago, one that was distant and stoic.

“To love and be loved, is to be changed,” the doctor mutters before turning to look at a medical chart, smiling to themselves.

-♥︎-

Miguel and you leave HQ, and drive home. You said you didn’t need to rest but the entire drive back to the penthouse suggested otherwise to Miguel. He glanced at you a few times while driving, finding your sleepy gaze each time as you stared out the window.

Upon arriving home, he ushers you upstairs to change into more comfortable clothing, which you obey without question before heading back downstairs, feeling tired.

You find Miguel moving around the kitchen. Pans are already on the stove. He’s changed into sweatpants and a dark t-shirt now that you’re both home, ready to look after you for the day, tomorrow, or however long it takes for you to be back to your healthy self.

You sit down on the counter and grab the medicine bag, taking everything out so you can read the directions and side effects, seeing that you’ll need to eat before taking some of them.

“Breakfast will be ready in just a few minutes, okay? Do you want coffee?” Miguel asks softly, walking up to the counter and standing across from you now.

“I can make-”

“Sit tight,” he says firmly but gently. “I’ll make it.”

“It…” you finish but Miguel has already turned around. A few seconds later, he starts on the coffee. He moves quickly around the kitchen, his moves careful yet determined.

Just as he’s placed two cups on the counter, he turns to the stove and checks on the food.

You lean back and close your eyes, feeling drowsy. You wrap your arms around yourself, glad you’re in cozy pajamas and wearing one of your favorite sweatshirts, the one Miguel gifted you for Christmas. You could actually go to sleep now without eating but knowing Miguel, he’ll probably refuse to let you sleep on an empty stomach and besides, you don’t want to decline his kind gesture when he’s already halfway done. So, you sit back and wait, listening to Miguel’s movement with your eyes closed. It brings you comfort and a sense of home, something not unusual to you in Miguel's presence.

“Café [coffee],” Miguel says gently a few minutes later, careful not to startle you.

Upon opening your eyes, you find Miguel in front of you. You glance down and find a mug of fresh coffee on the counter, steam coming from it. You can already imagine how great the coffee will feel against your throat, soothing the ache.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the medicine bottles. He picks them up and reads the labels once you gesture that you don’t. He nods to himself, noticing that they’ll likely make you feel drowsy and dizzy on top of the fact that two of them need to be taken with food. He also memorizes how many times a day you’ll need certain medicines and the hours between to make sure you don’t miss them.

As he reads, you reach for the mug and softly blow on it to cool it off before grabbing the spoon and stirring it. You yawn just as Miguel places the medicine back on the counter, pretty much all the directions locked into his head. He’s going to make sure that you’re taking the medicines the way they need to be taken, his priority is for you to feel better soon.

“Let me get you breakfast,” he says turning away and walking to the stove. He fixes your plate first, doing it with affection and hope that you’ll find it suitable despite your sickness. He grabs the appropriate utensil before walking over to you, plate in hand, and gently places it in front of you, his gaze soft. “Please eat, it’ll help you,” Miguel says as he puts the utensil on the side of your plate.

With a sleepy smile, you nod. “I am, thank you, Miguel,” you say softly, your tone tired. You pick up the utensil, eating because he’s asked you to. You try to cool off the food a bit before taking a bite. Of course, your throat hurts even to eat but it doesn’t take away from Miguel’s amazing cooking, and you feel like it even awakens your appetite. “So good, as always,” you comment before taking another bite.

Miguel smiles, watching you eat and enjoy the food despite being sick. His chest flutters at the sight of your sleepy smile, unable to not find it endearing.

“Are you not eating?” you ask softly, an eyebrow raised.

Miguel blinks, distracted. He nods. “Si [yes], yes, of course. I was just… Making sure your breakfast is okay.” He turns away to fix himself a plate before joining your side. He glances at you every few seconds, wanting to make sure that you’re alright and not in need of something, but you eat silently and peacefully, at least as much as you can while being sick.

You both finish eating and continue to drink your coffees. The rain has not let up since yesterday and so, you both hear the soft pit pat on the penthouse’s windows, filling the silence in a very cozy way. A few minutes later, Miguel watches as you place your empty mug down. He downs the last bit of his and stands up, picking up both mugs to take to the sink.

You watch as he retrieves a glass and fills it with water before he approaches you. He places it on the counter gently and then places the medicines in front of you. “For your medicine. Then, rest.”

You thank him for the water and take your medicine, hoping the ache in your throat will disappear soon. “Hopefully I feel better soon.”

“You’ll feel better soon,” Miguel says, reassuringly. “You just need some rest. Why don’t you go to bed?”

You shake your head. “I’m not sleepy,” you say even though your eyes say another story.

Miguel tilts his head to the side. “Really?”

You nod but end up yawning at the same time, causing Miguel to raise an eyebrow. You give him a sheepish look. “Okay, maybe I am…” you glance at the medicine bottles, thinking about laying down and Miguel heading back to HQ. “Be careful, okay?”

Miguel blinks in confusion. “Be careful? Of what?”

“If you go out on missions. Just - be careful, okay? If you need backup, call for backup. Please.”

He shakes his head, brows knitted as he stares directly at you. He waits until you look back at him to respond. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re not…?” you reply, looking up at him, now confused.

“Nowhere. I’m staying here. At the penthouse. With you…”

“Oh.” You look down at the glass with water and take another sip. “I thought…” you trail off, not finishing your sentence. You thought Miguel would head back to HQ after breakfast to work, especially since it’s a work day. You look up at him again, finding a gentle and reassuring look on his face.

“No, I’m staying here… I’m looking after you. I’m not leaving you alone,” Miguel responds softly.

Holding his gaze, you nod, for some reason feeling relieved you won’t be alone, yet you don't want to keep Miguel away from work. “Thank you… Are you sure though? I’ll probably just sleep, so you probably don’t want to waste-” you start, wanting to let Miguel know he doesn’t have to stay at the penthouse all day, that he can go on about his day.

“Por favor [please],” Miguel says, lowering himself on the counter, resting his arms on it to be eye level with you. “Don’t say waste. You’re starting to sound like the old me,” he says gently, internally feeling frustration that you’re thinking like that, as if you don’t matter to him. “The one that didn’t want you to spend an entire day in the infirmary room with me a year ago.”

“That was different, though, you were injured. Seriously injured… Close to death. I’m just sick with a common cold.”

“Thankfully,” Miguel states. “It’s just a common cold and nothing more serious, but that doesn’t make it less important. It doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you all alone here to fend for yourself. I wish to do this, okay?” Miguel pauses and clears his throat quietly. “You’re my best friend.” Miguel's gaze is unwavering, leaving no room for questioning nor arguing with him. He's going to stay home and look after you today, tomorrow, or however long, until you're well. Period. “Déjate cuidar [let yourself be taken care of],” he adds gently.

You hum softly. “I wanted to say that to you a year ago.”

Miguel grins, eyes softening. He knows a year ago your friendship was still unofficial, neither of you had addressed it, so you held on to many of your thoughts, keeping them to yourself with the purpose of not pushing his boundaries. It’s a year later and things are different, at last. Progress has been made and Miguel can say what you are to him without the fear of what it means. He can now say those words you weren’t able to say to him a year ago. “Then, you understand… I ask the same of you now. Let me look after you. Please. It’s what friends do.”

Hearing Miguel’s soft tone and words, not missing the fact that he’s used the same words you said to him a year ago, you nod after several seconds of silence. “I understand,” you say, nodding. You know that feeling too well, of wanting to take care of someone. It was exactly how you felt with him when he was hurt. You just wanted to look after him and make him feel better as best as you could. You wanted him to be back to full health because you hated seeing him hurting and unwell. “Okay,” you add softly, accepting.

“Good,” Miguel replies, happy and relieved you’re not being stubborn about him staying at the penthouse to look after you. “I’ll stay here, if you need anything - anything at all - please let me know, okay?”

“I will, thank you, Miguel.”

“Always,” Miguel says, a hint of a smile on his face.

You give him a smile and nod, really accepting the fact that Miguel is going to look after you today. You understand where he’s coming from but a part of you feels off. It’s not because of Miguel, of course, but rather because it’s been a long time since someone has looked after you when you get sick. You’ve grown used to taking care of yourself ever since Peter died. Now, Miguel wishes to do so, and a part of you is trying to remember what that feels like - trying to accept that it’s something normal for you to experience, to receive, as well. You sigh softly as you feel drowsiness, thinking it’ll take you a moment to get used to receiving this kind of care after so long. You yawn again, covering your mouth. You already felt fatigued after the doctor’s appointment, and now the food and medicines seem to be taking effect, adding to it. “I’ll go upstairs and rest a bit,” you tell Miguel, your voice showing signs of sleepiness.

“You need all the rest you can get,” Miguel says nodding. “I’ll be here, go on and take a nap.”

You finally stand up and give him a nod, thanking him for breakfast before you head upstairs to your room. You quickly find yourself in bed, under the sheets. Snuggling into the pillows and covers, you can definitely feel the medicines kicking in.

Your eyes flutter and you feel yourself slowly falling into a slumber when you hear footsteps - Miguel’s footsteps. You raise your head to see just as he walks in.

“Shh, rest. Duerme [sleep],” he says softly, carrying a blanket.

You lay back down as he comes to a halt next to the bed, your brain trying to process what he’s up to. He gently throws the blanket over you, tucking it in around your feet and legs. The rest, he carefully pulls up your body, just below your shoulders.

“There,” Miguel says quietly, watching your sleepy face, one he’s memorized by now but still beholds with keenness.

You hum softly, half-asleep and half-awake, his scent reaching your drowsy senses. “It smells like you,” you say sleepily, a soft smile grazing your lips, content and comforted by Miguel’s warm and cozy scent.

Miguel grins softly, gazing down at you. He can’t deny that he’s equally surprised and delighted by the fact that you even recognize his scent on the blanket. “Sometimes I sleep with it, so I guess it makes sense it smells like me,” he shares, his fingers still holding on to the edge of the blanket.

“I like it,” you say before you blindly reach for the blanket, your fingers curling around warmness before you tug it towards your face, wanting the scent closer.

Miguel’s brows raise in surprise when he feels your fingers wrap around his, tugging them, and the blanket, closer to you. “You like it?” he repeats gently, something in his chest stirring as he keeps gazing at you, slowly drifting off.

You nod sleepily. “I love it,” you whisper with a soft sigh, still holding on to Miguel’s fingers and the blanket before you let go, unaware that you were even holding them or of what you’ve admitted in your sleepy state.

Miguel exhales softly when you release his fingers, feeling the loss of touch immediately. Your words echo in his mind. You love his scent. A few seconds later, Miguel notices that you’ve surrendered to sleep, the sound of your even breathing reaches his ears in the quietness of your bedroom. “I’m happy you… love it,” he whispers back even though you’re asleep now. He lets go of the blanket, his knuckles brushing under your chin softly, tenderly, before he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger for about four seconds, the gesture so instinctive - so right - Miguel doesn’t realize nor questions it in the moment.

He lets go and steps back, watching for a few minutes as you sleep, listening to your soft breathing. He tells himself it’s time to step out of the bedroom and let you rest, so he does. He leaves your door halfway open and returns downstairs to the kitchen to clean up after breakfast.

Once he’s done, he works from home, checking on a few things that he can do from the penthouse to help the team but unlike previous years, Miguel doesn’t drown himself in work. He doesn’t feel the need nor want to check everything, to ensure that everyone is doing what they’re supposed to.

His focus is you, everything else is secondary.

He checks on you every thirty minutes to make sure you’re okay and resting well. Each time, he checks you to make sure the fever has gone down, pressing the back of his hand to your face, keeping track of how warm your face feels. He also fixes the blanket around you when he notices it’s shifted in your sleep, wanting you to feel the most comfort possible. Miguel watches your face, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort in your sleep before he exits the bedroom, his steps deliberately gentle to avoid disturbing you each time he’s in the bedroom.

On the two-hour mark, Miguel is pleased when he touches your face once again and finds a normal warmth, no longer burning hot.

“Normal,” he whispers to himself with a relieved smile.

Despite your fever going down, Miguel continues to check on you throughout the day. He cooks lunch and gently wakes you up at midday so you’ll eat and take your medicine again, making sure you hydrate yourself, too.

After lunch with some food and medicine in your system, you decide to stick around in the living room, not wanting to be in bed all day despite Miguel’s gentle comment about you resting more comfortably on a bed rather than the couch.

You fight off sleep as much as you can but you eventually doze off once again after replying to the spider gang chat, who sent you messages stating they hope you feel better soon, even asking if they can send you something.

Upon seeing you fall asleep again, Miguel brings his blanket downstairs and once again, covers you with it before settling on the couch, across from you, to keep watch.

He continues to work from a tablet, spending some time reading about mission updates and replying to questions from spider members, though he still doesn’t spend much time with work related tasks. He reads for a while, too, but even that doesn’t hold his attention. His eyes find their way to you more than he realizes, as if he finds the sight of you much more intriguing than any word in his book.

At some point, Miguel gets up to make dinner while you sleep and as always, he moves around the kitchen with ease. He’s a man that knows his way around such space, the kind that makes cooking look easy as he gathers everything he needs on one counter from the fridge and pantry. He has two goals in mind with the meal he’s cooking for dinner. One, to give you some comfort and make you feel better.

And two, to please you with his food. For months, he’s found happiness seeing that look you always get of pure delight when you take a bite of the food he makes. It used to be twice a month with the weekend dinners at each other’s place but ever since you moved in, temporarily, Miguel has the opportunity to cook more often for the two of you.

He always looks forward to it, wondering what your thoughts will be when he cooks something he hasn’t before. Either way, whether it’s something new or something he’s cooked before, Miguel always cooks with love.

He peels and dices vegetables, each one with precision. He washes the rice and keeps an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t burn once he pours it on a pan before applying some oil. Despite his concentration with the food, Miguel takes a few seconds to check on you, finding you still passed out on the couch, the TV playing quietly in the background.

Some time later, you wake up. You blink the sleep away and sit up slowly, feeling disoriented for a few seconds before you realize you’re in the living room. You breathe in, only to find your nose stuffy, which immediately dampens your mood. You sigh and look for Miguel, finding his usual seat empty. His tablet is on the spot next to his seat along with the TV’s remote, left alone. Glancing around, you hear subtle noise from the kitchen, giving you an idea of where Miguel is. You look down at yourself, finding his blanket over you once again before you tug it close to your face. It’s so soft and you can smell just a bit of his scent on it, unable to truly smell it due to your stuffy nose. Despite thinking about Miguel’s scent, you don’t remember your confession from earlier.

You stand up from the couch and stretch at last. This has to be the most you’ve slept in a while during the day but you feel rested. You follow the scent of food to the kitchen where you find Miguel stirring a spoon in a medium size pot. He’s still in his sweatpants and t-shirt, gizmo on his wrist. He turns suddenly, as if sensing you.

“You’re awake,” he says softly, a smile immediately forming on his face, happy to see you up. “How do you feel?” Miguel asks walking around the counter to meet you, he pats the chair you always sit on, silently gesturing for you to take a seat.

“Better. I can still feel a light ache in my throat but it’s not as bad as it was this morning. It’s doable,” you reply as you move to the chair, Miguel pulling it out for you.

“Is your nose stuffy?” he asks, with a slightly raised eyebrow, making note of how your voice sounds now.

“And my nose is stuffy, yes,” you reply with a sigh.

“Hopefully dinner will help with the discomfort of your throat. It might help a bit with the stuffiness, too. I have something that’ll help for sure, if you’re open to it - after dinner,” Miguel says with a frown on his face, wishing you hadn’t grown sick.

“I’ll accept anything if I can breath properly again,” you state, now sitting.

“I feel that,” he replies leaning on the counter, eye level. His body is pretty close, seemingly not worried about catching a cold from you. He observes your face, his gaze landing on your chin. He suddenly remembers what happened earlier, realizing he brushed his knuckles against your skin, and how he then held your chin for a few seconds. He clears his throat. “Let me check the food, so you can go ahead and eat. I hope you like it,” he says softly, pushing himself off the counter. He flexes his hand, the same one he caressed you with earlier, having the sensation on his skin still.

“What did you cook?” you ask softly, sniffling.

Miguel smiles a bit at the sound of you sniffling before he thinks of something. Instead of walking back to the stove, he walks to the laundry room. “Hold on, just a sec.” You watch as he disappears into the laundry room, before he steps out several seconds later, carrying a small box. He approaches you, reaching you in no time, and offers it to you, which you realize is a tissue box. “For your nose,” Miguel says. “So you don’t hurt your skin with something else, like a napkin, if you need to blow your nose.”

You accept the box with a soft smile and thank him.

“Always,” Miguel says with a little nod and gentle smile. “Now, let me get you some food. I feel certain it’s going to make you feel good. My mom made it for Gabriel and I when we got sick sometimes. It’s caldito de pollo [chicken soup] with vegetables,” he says. “I made some rice, too.”

You lean back on the chair.

“That sounds really good. I think I’m actually hungry.”

“You think?” Miguel asks, amused as he grabs some bowls.

“Okay, I am hungry,” you say, fixing it. You give him a soft smile. “I think I’m still drowsy from the medicine.”

“That’s to be expected. The dosage on one of them is pretty high. If I remember correctly, it’s the same one you have to do double the dosage for bedtime,” Miguel replies as he recalls the instructions. “But maybe you’re also sleepy from hunger. I noticed you didn’t eat much for lunch. You haven’t had much fluids either.” Remembering that, Miguel stirs the pot before he gets you a glass with water. He takes it to you and of course, you catch the message.

Hydrate.

You oblige and drink, making Miguel satisfied. He turns back around and fixes a plate with food for you.

“So Gabriel and you used to eat this sometimes when you were sick?”

“Yes, we always loved eating this. It gave some relief to our sore throats. And well, we both enjoyed it overall, so it was also a comfort food.”

You nod, thinking about a young Miguel and Gabriel, sick and eating caldito de pollo as children. The image painted in your head brings a smile to your face.

Miguel finishes fixing you a plate and his own, so he brings both to the counter, placing yours in front of you with delicacy. He’s quick to get utensils and napkins along with some warm corn tortillas, and refilling your glass with water before he sits next to you.

“Eat,” he says gazing at you. “It’ll help you recover sooner.”

You nod with a small smile before you begin eating, the warmth of the liquid soothing your throat immediately. It’s like easing an itch. You sigh softly in content before you eat more, the flavors hitting you all at once in the most delightful way possible thanks to the rice and vegetables.

“That feels and tastes amazing,” you mumble as you bring another spoonful to your mouth.

Miguel smiles, feeling pleased with himself. You didn’t eat much during lunch but now, he’s hopeful you’ll eat the serving he gave you and that you’ll feel much more nourished.

“Tortilla?” Miguel offers as he grabs one from the tortillero [container used to keep tortillas warm]. “Gabriel and I used to roll it like this before dipping it in the caldo [broth], and then ate it.” Miguel demonstrates as he lays the tortilla flat on his palm, looking smaller than it actually is against his large hand before he rolls it outwardly. The tortilla is now a thin roll. He dips it in his caldo before taking a bite from it, clearly enjoying it.

You grab one yourself, craving it. “I’m very familiar with that,” you say with a little smile as you do the same, dipping it into the warm liquid. “Childhood memories,” you say before taking a bite.

Miguel smiles once more at the sight, watching you eagerly eat. There’s definitely a difference now. You’ve got more of an appetite than you did earlier and your tone sounds less tired.

“Did I miss out on something today? Missions?” you ask, looking at Miguel.

Surprisingly, the man that once used to bury himself in work with data reports on anomalies and missions, the fate of the multiverse, playfully rolls his eyes. “No work talk on a sick day. You worry about resting, and that’s all… but I will say, the spiderlings went on a mission today and their team flow was amazing, well planned out,” Miguel says, a hint of admiration and pride in his voice, like that of a proud mentor, or parent.

You smile. “They’ve grown and learned, so much. Sometimes I forget they’re growing up, but it’s happening.” You look down at your plate. Time is passing, whether you realize it or not. The years have gone by, and maybe it was the loss and grief, but when you lost Peter, it never occurred to you that the years would go by so quickly after his death. You almost feel that a part of you doubted you’d even make it this far without him by your side, but you did.

You have.

Despite the tearful days and nights you spent alone grieving, you made it. You silently hope you’ve made Peter proud, wherever he’s now.

“I forget, too,” Miguel says after a few moments, thinking. “It’s strange. They’re still these kids but much more mature, more experienced in their roles than when I first met them. I’m - proud of them.”

“I am, too,” you reply softly, putting your thoughts on Peter to rest. “Though sometimes…”

Miguel chuckles. “Sometimes they say the craziest things, and it reminds you they’re still kids.”

“Right? They keep us on our toes, for sure,” you say chuckling, feeling a sudden discomfort in your stomach, a cramp. The sudden shot of discomfort reminds you that you’ll be having your period soon.

“Trust me, I know,” Miguel replies, still smiling and talking about the spiderlings.

You both chuckle at that and keep eating, with you deciding to ignore the thought of your period. You ask Miguel what he’s been up to all day and he tells you about it, how he’s worked on some things regarding the society, read, and other miscellaneous things. Of course, he mentions checking up on you, accidentally informing you of how often he did it. You find the fact endearing, that he checked on you every thirty minutes.

Eventually, you both finish eating. You feel better than you have all day, so much that you feel like taking a shower. You offer to help Miguel clean up but of course, he politely declines, telling you to go and rest, and then to go shower once you mention wanting to do that.

After your shower, you come back downstairs, planning to just hang out in the living room. After sleeping for the majority of the day, you don’t feel like being in bed any more. You find Miguel fixing something in his bookcase before he turns, glad to see you again. He takes in your appearance and sees you seem to feel better. You sniffle as you approach the couch, which reminds him about the thing he said he’d give you for your stuffy nose, but before he heads to get it, he notices your little pout when you look at the couch.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, walking over to you, standing just a few inches away.

You look up, surprised he noticed you pouting over the fact that his blanket is gone from where you left it. “I… Nothing,” you say softly, causing Miguel’s head to tilt to the side, thinking. It takes him a few seconds before he realizes. The blanket, which he threw in the wash along with yours from earlier.

“Go ahead and lie down, rest. I’ll be right back,” he says gently, itching to place his hand on your shoulder and give you a soft squeeze to reassure you, to comfort you. Once he sees you lay down, he heads upstairs, a plan in action.

He collects what he needs and heads back downstairs, walking through the living room before you even notice him entering the kitchen and dining area of the penthouse. Silently, you wonder what he’s up to. You try to into the kitchen from the couch, curious. He appears a few seconds later, your face softening at the sight.

There’s Miguel, a 6’9” tall man, walking towards you with a blanket draped over his shoulder and on the other one, what seems to be a sweatshirt. On his hand, there’s a saucer plate with a cup on top, steam rising from it. And in the other, a familiar small blue and green tub. He walks towards you, with purpose, a man on a mission.

He reaches you in no time with his long strides and begins to work, placing the saucer and cup on the coffee table, along with the small container before turning to you.

“Miguel?” you say, gazing up at him from the couch.

“Yes?” he responds as he unfolds the blanket.

You don’t even know what to say as he spreads the blanket over your body. You simply gaze at him with wide eyes and awe as you watch him towering over you while he tucks the blanket around your feet and legs once more, leaving it loose above your knees and pulling it up to your tummy.

The sight stirs something in you, something stronger than endearment and appreciation that grows stronger as Miguel carries on with his pampering.

“Is your nose still stuffy?” he asks and for a moment, you don’t even comprehend his question, still awestruck.

“Ye-yes,” you stutter softly, sniffling once more.

Miguel nods and grabs the small blue and green container from the coffee table before he gets down on his knees, next to you. He’s now more eye level with you, though he still towers over you easily. He opens the tub, a familiar scent hitting his nostrils right away.

“Put some on your chest and rub it in gently,” he instructs softly.

You nod and pick some up from the tub once he holds it out to you. You slip your hand under your top and do as he said, pushing past your undergarment to apply it properly. Once done, Miguel nods.

“Good. It also helps putting some on your back,” he says gently, still holding it out for you.

You nod, knowing that, too. You pick up more and lean forward, reaching behind you and under your top once more. You apply the product as best as possible, it being a bit of a struggle with your undergarment, which Miguel notices.

He looks down at the tub and then back up at you. “Do you need help?” he asks quietly, making you pause.

Shaking your head, you reply. “Thank you but it’s alright, I got it.” You lie. You’re struggling but you’re not about to accept Miguel’s help with something so… Personal. Intimate. Especially when it involves Miguel and physical contact.

For a moment, Miguel wonders if you’re simply uncomfortable with the idea of him, as a man, touching you, a woman. He wonders if he’s pushing boundaries just by merely offering.

You stare at him, noticing the look on his face. He’s questioning his offer. You frown and regret your words instantly, thinking that you might have made Miguel feel rejected.

“It involves physical contact,” you say softly. “I don’t want to push your boundaries, Miguel.”

He glances up at you, listening to your words before he nods. He gives you a reassuring smile, feeling relieved. You’re not rejecting his offer, his gesture, for the reasons he was thinking. You’re as always, looking out to respect him and his boundaries.

“Even when you’re sick, nose stuffy and feeling fatigued, you’re still so considerate… so sweet, you know that?” Miguel says staring right into your eyes, without fear or embarrassment from stating those words. “I don’t mind, at all,” he continues as he looks at the container and collects some of the ointment with his fingers. “If you allow me, I’ll help you.”

You smile and facepalm, chuckling. It’s been so long since someone has looked after you like this. The last person was Peter, of course. You used to look after each other when the other got sick, just like Miguel has done for you today. Still smiling, you nod, accepting his help. You remind yourself to accepting the fact that Miguel is looking after you, that this is normal. That friends look after each other.

“Lean forward for me, please,” Miguel says, giving you a smile back.

You do so and lift your top slightly, just enough to let him slip his hand underneath it. “My - I’m wearing my-” you start, trying to tell him you’re wearing an undergarment to support your chest.

“I know,” Miguel says gently. “I could tell you were struggling because of it. Is it okay if I shift it slightly?” he asks carefully before he even makes a move, being a gentleman as always.

“… Yes, that’s alright,” you reply softly.

Miguel nods. “I’m going to slide my hand under your top now,” he says, letting you know what he’s doing as a way to avoid making you uncomfortable, and aware of his actions. As soon as he slips his hand under your shirt, your warmth radiates off your skin, greeting his own.

You stare right ahead, sensing the warmth from his hand even though he hasn’t even touched you yet. You wait as he moves his hand further up.

“I’m going to apply it now,” Miguel says softly, waiting to see your reaction. Once you nod, he nods back. He presses his fingers to your bare flesh, a second later, he begins to rub the ointment onto your soft skin. His fingers move gently but efficiently, making sure he’s applying the product appropriately so it does what it’s supposed to do.

Your eyes move to your lap as you feel Miguel’s fingers on you. They’re warm, but you’re not surprised. The man always seems to be warm, so it’s not unusual. What’s unusual is his actual touch. From pinky hugs to him touching your forehead and now your back, this is a lot of progress on Miguel’s end. It’s a lot for one day and yet, he’s doing it.

Then, there’s your own progress, you suppose. You haven’t had someone look after you in a long time, haven’t had someone touch your bare skin like this. You try to remember the last time someone, Peter, touched your back when you were sick like this. You find that you can’t remember it. It’s been that long.

Miguel rubs his fingers gently over your skin, unable to ignore how soft your skin feels. “I’m going to move your underwear a side. Is that okay?” he asks again, withdrawing his hand to grab more of the ointment.

“Yes, that’s okay,” you reply softly, returning your attention to the moment.

With permission, Miguel slips his hand once again under your top. He shifts the undergarment aside, gently and respectfully, before pressing his fingers to your skin again. With more space now, he moves his fingers more freely, rubbing in the ointment until he feels it’s been applied properly.

Neither of you truly notice that his fingers have gone still against your skin once he’s done. His fingers remain there, pressed to your soft skin, your warmth marrying his.

It’s seconds later that Miguel realizes, leading him to withdraw his hand in a way that would seem hesitant to anyone watching. He exhales softly and collects more ointment, just a little, not as much as before while you both silently miss the touch and warmth from each other, like the moon misses its stars on a starless night sky.

“And then, for the stuffy nose,” Miguel says, gaining your attention. “Just a little right here.” With you facing him, he reaches with his index finger and gently rubs the ointment on your nose. “It’ll help you breathe a little better,” he whispers, staring at your nose to be precise with the application. “There.” He slowly lowers his hand and meets your gaze. You seem surprise, so Miguel gives you a small and sweet smile. “We need to cover these arms,” he says, pointing at them. “The AC has been turning on, you’ll get cold. Here, you can put this on if you’d like.” Miguel tugs at the cloth still draped over his shoulder. A sweatshirt.

Wordlessly, you accept it. You recognize it as his, Miguel’s. Sometimes he wears it around the penthouse in the evening. You remember him wearing it yesterday, which means it’ll smell like him. You put it on, careful not to rub off the ointment from your nose. The sleeves are a bit long for you but you don’t mind, if anything, that makes it feel even more cozy. You sniffle quietly, noticing how warm and soft it is, and despite the ointment’s fragrance on your nose, you still catch Miguel’s scent on it. You smile as you fix it around your waist before Miguel pulls the blanket higher up your body.

“Thank you,” you say softly, gazing at Miguel who is still on his knees next to you.

He’s still smiling, giving you that sweet and gentle smile, even when he reaches behind him. He offers you the saucer plate with the cup.

“I made you a tea, it’s supposed to help with colds,” he says while you accept it. “Be careful not to burn yourself.”

You take a small drink, the flavor settling well with you and rushing soothingly down your throat and chest.

“Thank you, Miguel. That's really soothing and it tastes great.”

Seeing your smile, Miguel continues to smile back. “Me allegra [I’m happy], I'm glad you like it. Are you comfortable?”

You begin to nod but Miguel gets up. “I should get you a pillow. Hold on.”

“Wait, that's not-” you start but Miguel is already up the stairs. A few seconds later, you hear his approaching footsteps.

“Lean forward, please,” he says gently, so you do. Miguel slides the pillow behind you, fixing it so it'll be positioned just right for your head to rest on. “There.” He steps back and looks at you, trying to think if he’s forgetting something, or if there’s anything else he can do to make you feel better and comfortable.

“I… Thank you, Miguel,” you say, looking up at him, holding your tea. You briefly notice that he didn’t bring a pillow from your bedroom, but one of his own since the pillowcase is grey, just like his bedding set.

Miguel smiles softly at you and nods. “Always,” he says softly. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

You nod once more, giving him a smile. “I will, thank you. You’ve done so much… Thank you, truly.”

Miguel crouches, grabbing the ointment container and closing it. “I’m looking out for you, just the way you looked after me,” he says, turning to look at you. “I don’t like seeing you like this, you know. So rest properly, so you’ll be back to your usual self. Please.”

“I will… I am,” you reply, sounding like you’re making him a promise.

“Good, thank you,” he says, as if you’re doing him a great favor by resting and getting better.

“You should rest, too.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you’ve been - looking after me all day. You’re probably tired, too.”

“I’m good,” Miguel reassures you. “Not tired at all. Promise.”

“Alright… will you at least sit down?”

Miguel smirks softly. “That I can do,” he says before he settles on the couch across from you once more. “TV?”

You nod. “Yes, please.”

With a soft smile, Miguel asks what you want to watch before you both decide on something, settling for a movie. You spend the rest of the evening in the living room together, Miguel watching over you like a loyal knight to his queen, both when you’re awake and when you doze off due to the medicines’ effects.

He makes sure you have everything you need and even notices when your face shows signs of discomfort, your hand pressed to your tummy.

“Is your stomach hurting?” Miguel asks, worried that your cold is turning into something else.

Noticing his concern, you ease his worries by telling him the truth. “It’s my period. It’s coming up soon, probably a few days. Or even tomorrow,” you say, trying to remember what day it is. With running into Harry and then your lunch with him, and now sick, you can’t even remember. “It’s cramps. They’re not bad, thankfully.”

Miguel almost scoffs. They’re not “bad” and yet, your face shows clear discomfort. “I can make you another tea - canelita.”

“No, no, it’s alright. I’ll just take some medicine in a bit,” you reassure him before you ask him a question about the movie, distracting him from the topic for the rest of the night, or so you think.

-♥︎-

The next morning you wake up without an alarm. Miguel and you decided last night to take off today again, for your sake, and yet, you’ve waken up just past 7:30 by the need to use the bathroom.

There, you’re met with the lovely (not) news that your period has begun.

“Yay,” you say, grumpily. “Sick and now on my period.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in bed with brushed teeth and different clothes on. You fall asleep again for some time. Only waking up when you hear Miguel’s gentle voice, coaxing you from your sleep.

You blink softly, your gaze finding his warm gaze and sweet face.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers, gazing back at you. He notices you look better today, back to yourself.

“Better,” you reply in a whisper, eyes fluttering for a few seconds to blink the sleep away.

“I’m relieved to hear that,” he says, crouching next to the bed. “How are you feeling… your period?” he asks softly, worried you’re feeling unwell from it. Last night you may have succeeded in changing the topic but not in erasing the worry and thought from Miguel’s mind. It reminded him of the first time he went to your apartment, how unwell you were. You haven’t missed any days at HQ because of your period since then, he knows that. Ever since that time, you’ve added more self-care steps to your period routine but Miguel hasn’t forgotten how unwell you were.

Over the months, he’s silently, and discreetly, made sure you don’t push yourself too much when he guesses you’re on your period. Thankfully, the new things you’ve been doing has helped you a lot, which include drinking canelita ever since he made it for you the first time. Either way, Miguel still tries his best to figure out if you’re pushing yourself too much because he worries about you.

“You don’t have to tell me… I just - you’re okay?” Miguel adds.

“Yes, I- I started today. I’m feeling alright right now. No cramps, or headaches,” you share, feeling comfortable to talk about your period with Miguel.

He seems relieved to hear that. “Good, I’m glad.” He sighs softly. “I bought you medicine either way, if you’re interested.”

You sit up slowly, fixing the covers. His blanket is sprawled over your bed and you’re still wearing the sweatshirt, the one he gave you last night. “You did? When?” you say, shifting slightly and patting the edge of the mattress, offering Miguel a seat.

He stands up and sits, keeping some distance to avoid disrupting how comfortable you look on the bed right now. “After you went to sleep last night, I ordered some. I got it delivered this morning,” he replies. “I figured I could help and offer you another option just in case what you’re taking now is not working. Plus, I remembered that medicine from this universe might be more effective than what you’re taking from your universe.”

“You think so?” you ask, looking hopeful.

Miguel smiles, his gaze softening because of your face. “I think so. Lyla has done some research and comparisons. Medicines are more effective in some universes than others, from prescriptions for colds to menstruation pain, even birth control pills. Apparently this universe is one of them, so this menstruation medicine might be better than yours.” Miguel pulls out a box from his pocket and offers it to you, the package sealed. “So, if you want, try this out. See if it works better. If it does, I can buy it, or if you’d prefer, I can have the infirmary supply it to you, whatever you wish to do. If you’d like to try another prescription in the future, just let me know, too, and we can look for an alternative,” Miguel offers as he watches you look at the box with hope.

“I’m going to give it a try if the need arises, thank you,” you tell him softly, looking up at him with a smile. “If it does, I’ll definitely be asking you or the infirmary to supply it to me. I’ve been trying new ones but they seem to stop being efficient after some time, so I’m hopeful about this one. Thank you so much, Miguel.” You gaze at him happily, feeling hopeful about this medicine. You’ve been using a different kind ever since the day Miguel showed up to your apartment, realizing the former one only seemed to make you drowsy and since then, you’ve been trying out new ones, hoping to find something more stable. You have hope this new medication will help after what Miguel said.

“Always,” Miguel replies, returning the smile. “Just let me know what you want to do, okay? I’ll happily do either. Do you want breakfast yet?”

You place the medication on the nightstand, considering Miguel’s question for a few seconds before realizing your stomach feels empty. It’s as if the moment he brought up food, your body recognizes it’s hungry.

“I myself, do,” Miguel says. “My stomach feels empty. I didn’t eat anything else after the chicken soup.” He pats his stomach, a bit of a frown on his face. “And neither did you,” he adds.

You chuckle. “So does mine, so I could definitely go for breakfast,” you reply. “What are we making?”

“I’m making something I’m certain you’ll like.”

You grin, hearing him emphasize that it’s him that’ll be doing the cooking. “Alright, alright. I’ll just…”

“Sit on the counter and give me cooking advice,” Miguel says, remembering the first time you cooked for him here at the penthouse when he was injured in the spring. He wanted to help you make food but you declined and told him he could offer conversation and advice, but no physical help considering his injuries. Despite you being capable to use your arms and the rest of your body, Miguel refuses to let you do any kind of work. He wants you to keep resting so you’ll fully recover soon.

“I see how it is,” you reply, shaking your head slightly in amusement. “But I can do that… I have no choice.”

Miguel smiles and stands up from the bed. “You’re still recovering, so take it easy. I’ll wait for you downstairs, okay? I’m going to start on the coffee.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit. I’m going to make the bed.”

He nods with a small smile and heads back downstairs, giving you your time to start your morning routine in peace. He’s relieved to see you feeling so much better this morning, even smiling and playing along with him. You’re almost back to your usual self, the way he likes to see you. If he could, Miguel would take away your sickness for himself. Hell, he’d take the period cramps, too, if it meant you wouldn’t experience pain and discomfort.

As Miguel starts on the coffee and waits for you to come downstairs, he wonders to himself for the first time why you got sick. He wonders if it was the rain, or maybe sleeping on the living room floor, even over the rug. Growing up, he was told that such thing can make someone sick among other things, like walking barefoot, or sleeping with wet hair. He was always warned by his Mexican mother about it but he brushed it off, even when he got sick after doing one of those very things he was warned about.

Miguel sighs softly. Maybe it was sleeping on the ground.

Then, he wonders if it was stress from your encounter with Harry Osborn, a thought that brings a frown to Miguel’s face. The encounter with Osborn left you tense and nervous, and he hated seeing you like that. He doesn’t like how Osborn caused you such stress and is now wanting to be back in your life after years of ghosting you when you needed someone after Peter’s death.

Miguel still doesn’t know what your decision on that is. He hasn’t asked, though he won’t deny he’s curious. At the end of the day, it’ll be your decision.

However, that doesn’t mean that Miguel will let go of the grudge he has for the man. Miguel can’t help it, knowing what Osborn did to you. It does more than upset him.

He clears his mind from Osborn when he hears you approaching the kitchen, deciding to not give a moment of his time to the man when you’re here with him. What matters right now, is you, so he carries on with breakfast.

Miguel gives you a cup of coffee and continues to cooks, filling the penthouse with lovely scents of food. You sit at the counter, drinking coffee and talking with him. At some point music starts playing, surprising both Miguel and you.

“Lyla,” he says, remembering. He hardly saw her yesterday since he stayed home and she was busy helping Jess at HQ.

Both of you wait for her to pop up but she doesn’t.

“I guess she’s busy,” you say softly when she doesn’t show up.

Miguel nods with a grin. “Seems like it. I’m sure she’ll make an appearance later today.”

The two of you continue on and have breakfast, with soft music playing in the background. You take your medicine afterwards, which prompts Miguel to ask you to go and lay down. Even when you offer to help clean the kitchen with him, he declines and gently asks you to rest.

So you do. Feeling better than you did the day before, you think about yesterday and everything Miguel did to help you get better, even pushing his own boundaries regarding physical touch. You softly touch the top of your nose, remembering the way he gently applied the ointment yesterday. That leads you to the fact that he applied some on your back, too. That seems surreal but it did happen.

You smile at the thought, thankful for Miguel, who eventually joins you in the living room where you both watch some TV for a while. He’s truly glad to see you in a better mood today, taking notice that you don’t seem as sleepy as yesterday and that your nose isn’t stuffy either. It seems that you’re recovering quickly, which makes Miguel feel relieved. He still feels some worry about your period, though, but he really hopes that the new medication will at least help lessened your symptoms if you experience any.

He watches you for a few seconds after taking a seat, noticing that you’re still wearing his sweatshirt. With looking after you and making sure you have everything you need, he suddenly remembers yesterday, when you told him in your sleepy state that you “like” and then “love” his scent. The thought brings a warmth to his cheeks.

Did you really mean it? Or, was it just words being said in such sleepy state? He almost wants to ask you now but he stops himself, thinking the topic might embarrass you, and maybe, you really didn’t mean them.

He shakes his head at himself, turning to look at the TV instead. You both watch it for a while and spend the morning together. You manage to stay awake all the way up until after lunch time when you excuse yourself to your room, telling Miguel you’re going to take a nap because the medicines prescribed by the doctor at HQ are making you sleepy.

A few hours later, you wake up to your name being called. Miguel is crouched next to you, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. You’ve been sleeping for a few hours and he’s decided to finally wake you up to ask if you’re feeling unwell due to the cold, your period, or both.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks quietly, trying not to startle you too much with his voice.

You nod and stretch your legs under the covers. “Mhm, I’m okay,” you reply sleepily, making Miguel smile softly. He ends up sitting on the floor, next to your bed, and leans back on the nightstand, his body covering most of it. He stays quiet for a few minutes, looking at the ceiling in silence, thinking about something while waiting for you to fully wake up. Ever since you’ve been sick, he’s had this on his mind but every time he’s about to really think about it, something interrupts his thoughts. He’s wondered about it before but he’s never asked about it. Part of the reason why he hasn’t asked is because the timing was not right. The other part, the main reason, is that Miguel didn’t want to know the answer.

He still doesn’t because if the answer is yes, Miguel knows that it will hurt him. The time has come though. With you being sick and Harry Osborn trying to come back into your life, Miguel finds that this is the best time to ask. Sensing that you’re fully awake now, Miguel decides to ask what’s been on his mind.

“Did you ever - get sick? Before joining the society?” Miguel asks, still staring at the ceiling. “Between Peter’s death and you joining the society?” he continues, quietly, softly.

On your side, facing him, you stare at the wall thinking about his question.

“Yes. I got a few colds here and there but nothing more serious like the flu, thankfully,” you reply a few seconds later after thinking about it, thinking of the few times it happened. “And then a few times because of my period.”

Miguel nods, gulping softly. He turns to face you, remembering when he went to your apartment the first time ever because you were unwell due to your menstruation. You were all alone in pain and discomfort. That was one time alone - one month in many years of solitude. He silently wonders for how many of them did you experience a similar situation? How many times did you lay alone on your bed in an empty apartment while the rest of the world went on about its day?

How many times did you lay half-unconscious, half-awake squirming in pain and clutching your stomach?

It kills Miguel to think about it.

“Hey,” you whisper softly, catching his attention. For several seconds, his eyes have a distant and pained look in them. “What’s wrong?”

“I”m sorry,” he whispers back, blinking and coming back to the present - to you.

“For what?”

Miguel sighs and looks away, leaning his head back. Eyes closed, he wonders if he should tell you.

“Miguel?” you whisper. “What is it? You look upset.”

Miguel’s head snaps back to face you, eyes open. “Not with you.” He shakes his head, making it clear he’s not upset because of you or at you. “Never with you, I’m sorry. I just - you being sick - I’ve thought about it before and now that I’m here to see it, it’s brought back thoughts - questions,” Miguel says in a whisper, eyes meeting yours.

“Questions… About what?” You prop yourself up with one arm, wondering what’s going on inside Miguel’s mind. Whatever it is, is bothering him deeply. You wonder if it has to do with his question about you being sick in the past while alone.

“It hurts me,” Miguel admits softly.

“What hurts?” you ask, brows knitted, concerned.

“To think about you, alone for so long all those years. Especially when I think about you feeling sick, with no one to care for you - to make sure you ate, someone to ease your discomfort. To think that you were on your own,” he whispers.

You inhale deeply, your heart’s strings pulled by how bothered Miguel is by this. It feels as if Miguel really is in pain.

“Don’t think about that, Miguel,” you tell him softly. “It’s in the past now. Those days are over.”

“But you shouldn’t have been alone. Someone should’ve been there with you.”

“It was my fault. I pushed everyone away after Peter died.”

“No,” Miguel says, shaking his head. His tone is somewhat stern. “None of your friends should’ve ever accepted you parting from them. They should’ve kept reaching out. Kept showing up to look for you - to make sure you were okay. You had just lost Peter - you shouldn’t have been alone,” Miguel insists, his voice gentle. “Harry… He should’ve been there for you, especially.”

Surprise rushes to you. You weren’t expecting Miguel to talk about this, for this to be what’s been bothering him so deeply, as if it pains him in a physical way. “I was going to cut ties with him, too,” you reply, trying to lessen his hurt by stating a truth. “I was planning on it.”

“Planning,” Miguel states. “But you didn’t. Maybe you would’ve gone through with it but you didn’t actually do it because he disappeared before you could. He just - left you,” he says softly, shaking his head in disbelief. Ever since he learned about Harry Osborn and the fact that he abandoned you right after Peter’s funeral, it’s been impossible for Miguel to not hold a grudge against him but now, knowing that there were times when you were sick and alone, it only makes that grudge grow. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry you were alone all those years, with no one to look after you.”

“You have no reason to apologize. You didn’t do anything,” you reply gently, wishing that you could lay a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

“No one deserves to be alone,” Miguel says.

You slowly sit up when he says that. “No, no one does. Including you,” you say softly, remembering the time Miguel told you he used to think he was meant to be alone, to live a lonely life.

Miguel’s gaze softens. He nods. “Including me.”

Smiling, you pull the covers higher as Miguel watches you. He returns the smile, feeling some calmness despite his negative emotions about this topic.

“I’m sorry if I’m… Overstepping.”

“You’re not,” you respond, gently.

He gives you a nod. “I just - I hate thinking about it. I wish…” Miguel trails off. “I wish you hadn’t been alone for so many years. If I,” Miguel pauses. “If I was there… I would’ve never left you alone. I would’ve gone to your place, every day, and knocked on your door until you opened up.”

You smile softly, your eyes slowly filling up with tears because of Miguel’s words. You blink them away, trying not to cry in front of him. With a sigh, you nod.

“I have no doubt you would’ve,” you tell him, believing this in your heart.

Miguel smiles, his own eyes glistening while thinking about the past. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he says, sincerely.

You shake your head, sniffling a bit. “Don’t be, Miguel. In the past, I’ve wished I had been here sooner, that I could’ve been here for you when you needed someone, too. Even if you pushed me away, I would’ve kept trying, the same way I did when I first started organizing the lab for you. Knowing what I know now about your life, I’ve wished for that many times. Too many,” you admit. “But you know what? I’m just thankful we’re in each other’s lives now. I wish it had been sooner but the fact that we’re even here now, that makes feel so grateful.”

You sniffle softly, thinking about your past.

“Those years I spent on my own… They’re in the past. Behind me. And although there were many lonely days and nights - days that I can’t even remember anymore because they all blended into one - it makes me appreciate the now so much more. I’m thankful for our friends, the spider gang. This,” you say gesturing to Miguel and yourself. “I’m so - so thankful for it. For all of it. For you,” you answer softly, smiling sweetly at Miguel despite your eyes threatening to spill your tears.

Miguel smiles again and leans forward. He reaches with his hand, placing it on top of the bed. He offers his pinky finger, which you notice immediately. You smile warmly at the offer and take it, wrapping your own pinky around his. Gently, you give it a squeeze, one Miguel returns.

His feelings of hurt regarding this conversation have calmed more. A part of him will always wish he had met you earlier, that he had found you sooner so you could’ve been in his life earlier, but your words and smile - your sweetness - replaces his hurt with pure ternura [endearment], so much the next words simply spilled from his mouth like stardust.

“I’m grateful for you, too, dulzura [sweetness],” Miguel whispers, still smiling. “I have been, for a long time now.”

You stare at each other, smiling, your chests stirring with affection, appreciation, and love. For several minutes, you simply enjoy the moment of such vulnerability with Miguel, calming each other.

You think about the little nickname Miguel gave you. Despite all the feelings you’re experiencing right now, that doesn’t mean you missed that part. You chuckle, still holding his pinky finger.

“Does this mean I can call you ‘Miggle?’” you ask.

Miguel rolls his eyes, playfully, of course. “Only when we’re alone. The spider gang would have a field day with that nickname. Peter B. especially,” he says gently.

You snort softly. “Fair enough.”

Miguel stares at your joined pinky fingers. “You may call me something else.”

Humming softly, you give Miguel’s pinky finger a hug with your own, smiling. “I’m going to think about it, then.”

“I look forward to hearing your ideas,” Miguel replies, amused.

You stare at the wall, beginning to think of a nickname you’d like to give Miguel.

Mig.

Migs.

Miggy.

Fangs.

You feel a cramp in your stomach, interrupting your thoughts. With your free hand, you press your stomach slightly, something that catches Miguel’s attention.

“Does your tummy hurt?” he asks, worried.

“Just a cramp,” you reply. “I’m going to take some of the medicine you gave me.”

He nods. “I can get you a heating pad. I have one.”

“I have… the socks with rice.”

Miguel’s brows raise in surprise. “The ones I made you?” he asks. “From back then?”

You nod, looking away, embarrassed. “Uh, yes, they’re quite efficient, so I… Kept them. They’re in the dresser,” you say nodding at them.

He turns to look, still surprised, only to find them laying next to a clean stack of clothes. He didn’t notice them before until now. He nods after a few seconds, gently squeezing your pinky finger. He doesn’t want to let go, even if he doesn’t voice that, but he also wants to look after you.

“How about I make dinner and then you take the medication? I’ll heat up the rice socks for you, if that’s what you want to use.”

You nod after a few seconds. “I like that plan, but I can help-”

“By resting,” Miguel finishes, somehow standing up without letting go of your pinky finger. “I got it. You rest, alright?”

“Alright,” you say with a sigh, still not used to someone looking after you like this after so long.

“Good. I’ll cook and you can rest. I’ll tell you when dinner is ready.” Miguel stares at your joined fingers once again. He frowns for a second before squeezing your finger one last time for today.

You understand, so you squeeze back before letting go. “I’m going to take a shower while you cook. A hot shower always helps me.”

He nods, smiling softly. “If that helps, then go ahead and take your time. We have unlimited hot water.”

“Trust me, I know,” you say standing up at last from the bed. “I’ve become quite spoiled with the shower here, I feel like I forgot what my shower even looks like.”

Miguel chuckles despite the fact that he remembers that soon you’ll be returning to your universe. Your building will be livable once again and you’ll be gone. He fights the urge to tell you that you can come use the shower whenever you wish to. That you can use all the hot water.

That you can stay here longer, even if your building is ready.

But Miguel doesn’t.

“It hasn’t been that long, has it?” he asks, personally feeling that it hasn’t. Weeks have gone by, but for Miguel, it feels like you moved in just yesterday. “You just got here.”

You laugh softly as you grab something you’ll need for your shower. “It feels like that sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Miguel nods. Always. “Yes, sometimes,” he replies instead, looking away from you and around the bedroom. It looks so homey, so cozy. So you. He wishes the bedroom would look like this for longer. He sighs quietly, shaking his head as you gather what you need. He needs to let it go. He clears his throat. “I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen, alright? Take your time with the shower, no rush.”

You nod with a smile. “Alright. I’ll be downstairs shortly.”

Miguel gives you a little nod and smile, wondering what you’d think about his thoughts. If only he voiced them. He finally steps out of the bedroom and leaves you to get ready for your shower, pushing his thoughts aside and focusing on cooking dinner and making you feel better, even though his mind is whirling with thoughts about you moving back to your universe, about your expressed gratitude for him, his nickname for you, which slipped from his mouth without a thought, and of your joined pinkies.

Two hours later, you lay on the couch. You’re in clean pajamas, wrapped up in Miguel’s blanket. You’re still wearing his sweatshirt, something that pleases Miguel for some reason. The socks with rice are under your clothes, pressed to your tummy. As soon as you came downstairs after your shower, he heated them up for you since he remembered to get them while you were showering.

You also took your medication for your cold and the new medicine Miguel got you for your period, which seems to have helped with the cramping.

And of course, Miguel made canelita for you. Your empty cup is now on the coffee table thanks to Miguel, who noticed you falling asleep still holding on to it.

As you sleep, Miguel sits across from you. The TV is on since you both decided to watch the telenovela again but you fell asleep halfway through it, which is no surprise to him due to the medication, and the fact that you got hit with a cold and your period at once. Definitely too much in a few days.

Miguel sighs softly. At least you’re feeling better. The worse of the cold is over now, at least it seems so, and you have new medicine for your period, so hopefully it’ll be better this month.

“She’s sleeping?”

Miguel blinks in surprise, finding Lyla over you. “Yes,” he says softly.

Lyla nods, watching you. “She always looks very peaceful in her sleep.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow but nods. “She does.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Miguel replies.

“I’m surprised you’re awake.”

“Why?”

Lyla snorts and disappears for a second before appearing over the coffee table. “You fall asleep on the couch sometimes, especially recently.”

“Okay, and?”

“I’m just saying.”

Miguel rolls his eyes, not annoyed but just wondering why Lyla is even bringing that up. “How are things at HQ?” he asks.

“Good. Everything is running just fine. Don’t worry.” Lyla stares off to the side, arms crossed over her chest now. “I learned about a theory the other day.”

“What’s the theory?” he asks.

“Humans sleep better when people they love are around. Sometimes even small things that remind the human of their loved ones help, like the sight of their jewelry, or the smell of their perfume…”

Miguel hums. “That’s interesting. What piqued your interest in that?”

Lyla shrugs. “Nothing, just came across the article. Interesting stuff,” she says looking at Miguel and then at your sleeping form. “Well, I’m glad to see she’s doing well.”

“She is. She was better today. I’m sure the worst is over now,” Miguel says, his tone one of relief.

“I’m glad,” she says, turning to face Miguel again. “Well… I’m going back to HQ. I have some stuff to do.”

Miguel turns to her, nodding. “Okay, that’s alright. Thank you.”

Lyla smiles and nods. “You got it, boss. Take care of Y/N.”

“I will,” he says before Lyla gives him a peace sign and disappears.

He turns to look at you, finding your sleeping face. You truly do look so peaceful when you sleep.

“Always.”

A/N: MIGUEL GAVE US A NICKNAME!!!!! Sorry for screaming but - it was necessary!! You guys... Miguel... 🥺😭 HE WAS SO SWEET AND TENDER AND JSJIDJ why is he not real??? I want to marry him. AND WHEN HE TOUCHED OUR CHIN ??? AND APPLIED VAPORUB ON OUR BACKS AND NOSE????!!!! (Not me screaming about my own fic) Miguel really said f them physical contact boundaries today 😌 for real!!

I really hope you guys enjoyed this update!! Thank you for the support as always, guys 🥺 it really does mean a lot to me!! THANK YOU!!!!

-Alondra ❤️

Also, this was Miguel fr but with a smile and tenderness because it's reader obviously:

taglist: (text block limit sucks) @loverlorn @saturnknows @d1lf-loverrr @eddiestitmiguelsbigdick @freehentai @arithestrawberry @scaleniusrm @haradasaya @spidermanismyfav @bitchykittenconnoisseur @thecraziestcrayon @obi-mom-kenobi @natsury-kazuki @coraline750 @edgycatx @safixiovi @sunnyx07 @nxrdamp

@rorel1a @oceanstar19 @happishark @carmilla01 @somebodyelsethanyouthink @adora-but-ginger @angie2274 @vampi-amora @tired-writer04 @plzfeedmebread @shadow-pancake9 @tynakub @faretheeoscar @giulscomix @luvstuffies @coffeeauthorvibing @lauraolar14 @bl0osclues @pinkiemme @lil-cinn @mashiromochi @loveletterfrommwah @muzansucker @theleftkittycollection @kikookii @www-interludeshadow-com @holographicang3l @aisyakirmann @bucky-to-my-barnes @geraskier-thots @l3laze @yujyujj @taylorsmakingfuckingmacandcheese @damhanallagorm @heyohalie @kaliuea @moonsua1 @darksidescorner @geminis93 @1800-get-alife @hrrtkreuz @oharasfilipinawife @dropyoursocksandgrabyourcrocss @may4ri @t4naiis @f1-hoff @llumetrii

[miggyyyyohara]

AY PAPI- I MEAN DADDY please- i mEAN SIR!

Follow this artist on Instagram @ narutoss.ramen 🫶🏻🤌🏻

[ghost-with-a-teacup]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader

Summary: Everyone at HQ was convinced there was something going on between you and Miguel. Just...no one knew what. But one group of spiders were determined to figure it out.

Warnings: None! Just a lot of goofiness and a whole lot of fluff :3

When you have a superhuman with superior senses, they’re bound to be perceptive to their surroundings. Now when you have an entire lobby the size of multiple football fields filled with superhumans with superior senses, very few things will go unnoticed.

It’s why people very quickly realize that you and Miguel have…something between the two of you. It’s just that no one is quite sure what.

Camaraderie? Maybe, you were one of the first spiders to join the society.

Friendship? Perhaps, but it was known that Miguel wasn’t one to do friends. Not with the amount of loss he has gone through.

A relationship? This one seemed the most unplausible. Miguel was, well, Miguel. Stoick, cold and calculating. Meanwhile, you were you.

You had a light that drew people in, kindness that knew no bounds and warmth like a fire on a cold winter’s day.

Everyone knew the saying ‘opposites attract’, but it was like comparing night and day with the two of you. Regardless, a small little group within the society were set on trying to figure the two of you out.

~

“Ain’t no way the two are together, she’s too good for him!” Hobie argues, his legs kicked up on the table in front of him.

“I don’t know, maybe that’s why they work together. Because she makes him better?” Miles says, but his tone of voice failed to hide his skepticism.

“I think you should just leave the two of them be. Besides, what happens if you figure it out or not anyway?” Peter says, feeding Mayday as he does. Immediately a chorus of arguments breaks out from the group.

“OKAY! Okay, forget I asked,” he says with a shake of his head, while Mayday just laughs at the commotion.

They spot the two of you walking into the cafeteria making conversation none of them could make out.

“Look at them,” Gwen says, “have you ever seen the guy happier than he is with her?” she asks, and Hobie snorts.

“C’mon mate, you call that happy? Mans got that frown tattooed on his face, can he even be happy?” he says, but they all continue watching intently.

You glance over to the table they were surrounding, and they all brush off your gaze pretending as though they weren’t just studying the two of you like specimens under a microscope.

You wave your hand, a bright smile on your face while Miguel only glances over for a moment before continuing to walk. You jog to catch up to him, grabbing a tray and picking up things you wanted for lunch.

They watch as they see Miguel pick up the empanada, the last one left. He pauses for a split second, holding it before turning to place it on your tray. Almost as though they were straight out of a cartoon, they freeze at the interaction.

You seem to be slightly surprised as you, saying something to him but he only brushes you off before continuing on.

“Did…that just happen?” Pavitr asks. Everyone at HQ was aware of Miguel’s fondness for the food (even if he did hurl one right at Miles when they first met), there was no way he would give one away so easily for just anyone, right?

“Somebody pinch me,” Gwen says, and Hobie jumps at the request.

“OW!”

~

Miguel never lets anyone help him out when he’s injured. That was just a known fact. He could walk into HQ battered and bruised and wouldn’t even look in the infirmary’s direction once. After depending on himself for so long, he wasn’t going to stop now. Besides, what were First Aid kits for after all?

The only way he was going to the infirmary was if someone dragged his unconscious body there themselves.

Well, unless you were there.

“Miguel O’Hara I swear to god, you better get your ass to the infirmary or so help me I will tie you up and drag you through the halls myself,” you say sternly as you both reemerge in the Lobby. The rest of the Spiders there continued with what they were doing, but their attention was zeroed in on you both.

“I’m fine,” he says, glaring at you as if trying to say ‘Just try’. Had you been anyone else, you would have backed down by now but you didn’t.

“You wanna test me right now? That was a nasty hit, I will not be letting it get infected under my watch,” you retort, and he puffs.

“This is nothing, I’ve dealt with worse,” he scoffs, and in an instant your finger shoots out, making contact with the side that got hit with the anomaly’s flames. Miguel can’t help the sharp intake of breath as the pain from the impact hits him.

Your eyebrow raises, an expression of disbelief on your face before it softens. Murmuring softly, you say something that only he can hear.

For a moment he studies your face before sighing, finally relenting. With a triumphant smile, you place a hand on the man’s broad back, leading him towards the infirmary with a gentle but firm hand.

There, Pavitr is laying in bed recovering from an awry mission of his own. The doctors had ordered bedrest for the next 2 hours at least. Superior healing or not, they were not going to risk it. So there he lay, slinging his golden bangles up and down bored before he hears the two of you come in.

“Mr. O’Hara-" a doctor’s voice can be heard, but he is quickly interrupted.

“She’s got it from here,” he says, Miguel’s tone final. A small “yes, sir” can be heard before footsteps fade away, the doctor’s office door closing once more.

“You know, you should really let the professionals help you,” your voice can be heard.

“You dragged me here, you can deal with the consequences,” he says, and you just laugh fondly before your voices quieten, murmuring too quietly for Pavitr to hear.

Curiosity builds as he recalls the conversation he and his friends had, and before he can stop himself he shifts silently to the side, just enough to be able to catch a glimpse of you both from the small gap between the hospital curtain and the wall.

There, Miguel sat on the bed, a disgruntled expression on his face but his eyes were soft as he watched you fuss over his side.

He only watches for a few seconds before pulling away, this being a clear invasion of privacy, and his boss’ privacy no less.

It wasn’t going to stop him from telling everyone else though.

~

“This is a bad idea. This is a really, really bad idea,” Miles says, grasping onto the ceiling like his life depended on it.

“It’s only a bad idea if we get caught, so Shut. Up,” Gwen says sharply, hanging from her place on the ceiling as they watched the fight from above.

Gwen had come up with the mighty fine idea of sneaking into a mission between the two of you. It wasn’t often that it happened, Miguel more often than not only went on missions with only Lyla by his side. But when he needed a partner, it was always you.

“Why did you have to bring me with you,” he whispers, “Miguel already doesn’t like me. He doesn’t need more of a reason to.”

“Because I needed backup and you can turn invisible. And let’s be real, Hobie would be laughing his ass off getting us caught, Peter would bring Mayday which would get us caught, and Pavitr is already on a mission, now shhh,” she whispers, turning back to watching the scene below.

You swung from pillar to pillar in the abandoned factory with practiced ease, a carefree laugh escaping your lips as Miguel stands on the ground fiddling with his watch.

“The anomaly’s last known location was here,” Lyla’s voice echoes out, and you let out a sigh.

“Why can’t villains have easy powers. Maybe a giant blob that is easy to take down? Why do they have to be so complicated? What’s this one again, a freaky shadow monster?” you think out loud.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Miguel retorts, glancing up toward you for a moment before turning back to Lyla. “Do a scan of the place, will you?”

“What do we say~” Lyla responds, and you giggle softly while Miguel huffs.

“Please,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

“Please, Lyla,” he says a little louder now, irritation growing in his voice.

“Already done,” the AI snickers, and he groans out loud as your laughter bounces off of the walls, a fist held out for Lyla to bump.

“The two of you will be the death of me,” he says lowly.

“Oh, don’t be like that, grumps. You’d be too stubborn to die,” you retort before tensing up, the hairs on the back of your neck rising with the familiar feeling of your heightened senses at work. The moment you sling yourself up is the moment a loud thud sounds out from where you once stood.

“Oh, I forgot to mention that the anomaly was in the far right corner,” Lyla says before disappearing.

“I really need to do a rewrite of her code,” Miguel mutters to himself.

In your previous spot emerges a dark figure, plumes of smoke emerging and dissipating from its form and allowing it to disappear into the shadows with ease.

With a simple nod, you get to work. Like a well-oiled machine, you work in practiced synchrony, bounding across the walls and slinging webs.

And just like that the anomaly is captured, the force field around it effectively trapping it for the ride back to HQ so it can be sent back to its own universe.

“That was…kinda lame,” you snicker, pulling off your mask

“Told you so,” Miguel says as he opens up a portal for you both, dragging the anomaly behind him.

“Don’t say that to me,” you pout.

“What, can’t handle the truth?” he retorts, a smirk playing across his lips as your bickering voices fade through the portal.

“…was that a smile,” Gwen asks as she watches the spot where they both had stood.

“Was that what it was?” Miles asks, a shudder racking through his body.

~

It was late at night at the HQ, and at this time everyone else had already gone back to their own universes. The few that lingered were the ones finishing up after a late-night mission.

Or, you were Peter B. Parker frantically searching through the kitchen for a bottle of milk for Mayday after a playdate with a select few spiders that went on for way longer than expected.

Mayday was an easy baby. Always happy and smiling, but that all disappears when she was hungry and you did not want a spider baby on a rampage.

“Alright, alright, give Daddy a few seconds to warm up your milk please?” Peter pleads as Mayday continues to babble angrily, crawling all over him.

She pauses for a moment, attention drawn elsewhere as she hangs off of her father’s back before leaping.

“Hey, lil spider!” You say with a laugh, catching her in your arms. “What are you doing here so late?” you ask.

“Playdate with Miles, Gwen and Hobie. Time really flew and she refused to leave until now,” Peter sighs tiredly, and you pat him on the back before putting her up onto your shoulders. “What are you doing here so late?”

You shrug, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard.

“Working late. Like you said, time really flew,” you say, but Peter knew that wasn’t the full truth.

“Working so hard that you need two cups of coffee?” he asks, holding out the bottle for Mayday to take, which is what she does happily as she snuggles up in her father’s arms.

“What can I say, caffeine doesn’t really work on me,” you grin, pouring the coffee from the machine. “Goodnight, Peter, Mayday,” you say, ruffling her red hair fondly.

And as quickly as you appeared, you disappear.

~

People didn’t often disturb the big boss man Miguel when he was working. Not if you wanted to stay on his good side.

It was even less often that someone barges into his room full of screens as he monitors the Archno-Humanoid Polymultiverse, let alone a group of them.

“We heard you talking to someone! And laughing,” Gwen says hesitantly as if she couldn’t even believe it herself. But she was invested in figuring out what the deal was between the two of you now.

“Well, do you see anyone around?” Miguel deadpans, his arms wide and gesturing around broadly. You could barely stifle the giggle as you sat on a beam high up on the ceiling, going unnoticed.

“W-well, no…But!” she says, and Miguel raises an eyebrow which makes Gwen shrink in her spot slightly before recovering. “But we heard you. There was someone here, wasn’t there?”

Hobie, ever the perceptive one tracks his eyes along the ceiling before spotting you swinging your legs with an amused look on your face. It seemed as though no one else had noticed though.

Miguel watches Hobie spot you and his eyes narrow in his direction, as if saying ‘I dare you to say anything’ to which the spider only raises his hands in mock surrender.

“No. There wasn't." He says, his tone final. "If that’s all you’re here for, I have important work to get to. So why don’t you go bother someone else, yeah?”

~

“I give up,” Gwen says, slumping in her chair. “We’re never going to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Jess asks, walking up to the group.

“Whether or not there is something going on between those two,” Miles says, nodding towards you and Miguel talking over in the corner of the room.

Jessica only hums, a knowing look in her eyes but she doesn’t say anything. Only asks a simple question.

“What makes you think so?”

“Everyone here knows that there’s something there, even if they want to admit it or not. She’s one of the few people he tolerates, they’re together almost all the time and he actually seems happy around her,” Gwen reasons.

“You could have just asked, you know,” you say, coming up on their conversation with an amused look on your face.

Their expressions range from flustered to simply amused and you can’t help the laughter that bubbles up as you make eye contact with Jess.

“And to answer the question,” you reach down your suit, pulling out a simple chain with a ring dangling off of the end.

“We’re actually married.”

The group goes silent for a moment, eyes wide as they stare at the necklace in your hands, trying to process your words.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

A/N: Hehe, I'm quite happy with this one :3 This is my first attempt at writing Miguel, sorry if I butchered him but I am absolutely hyperfixating on him after seeing ATSV in theatres yesterday.

Based on the prompt by @imslightlycreative though slightly changed :)) I hope you all enjoyed <3

Part two out now!! Read it here.

[asimplearchivist]

𝑪𝑯. 𝑽𝑰𝑰 — 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ to prove a point, you take advantage of miguel’s lack of spider-sense. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 4.9k a/n 🕷️ [gif credit] ⤏ surprise update! sorry for the wait, my life has been busy lately, and the ending of this chapter finally clicked into place. finally some fucking levity—am I right, guys? ⤏ this was inspired partly by this post and this art edit on insta! 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER [TBA] 🕷️

You…were uncertain how you ended up in this situation to begin with.

It had started innocently enough. Peter B. had made an off-handed remark about needing to hit the gym while inhaling a burger as tall as the breadth of his hand from the cafeteria like a ravenous vacuum. Jess had called him out on his bullshit, as she was oft wont to do—she didn’t cut anyone extra slack when it came to business or their personal wellbeing, after all—and she pointed out that he’d been saying that for weeks at this point. You’d offered some defense on Peter’s behalf, citing all the time he was spending helping MJ with preparing for the baby, and he’d eaten up your support like candy—until you’d teased him about being grateful for the excuse to hide his growing dadbod. Such a man was he that, in order to avoid having his ego bruised, he challenged you to meet him in the Society’s sprawling recreation center afterwards.

That’s how you got there, anyway. Peter wasn’t out of shape, necessarily—not out of practice, either, by any means—but he was puffing a bit as he lingered in the corner of the sparring ring with his forearms bracketing his head. You danced back and forth lightly on the balls of your feet, mirroring his defense, your mask concealing your face and thus your eyes like his. You were prone to giving away your inner thoughts, and thus you had always been utterly shit at poker because of it, so you were grateful to have that advantage, at least. Plus relying on your spider-sense to determine your opponent’s next move kept it honed and sharp.

The lenses of Peter’s mask narrowed as he eased to the side for more maneuvering room, shoulders hunched and stance narrowed to make himself as small of a target as possible. You took an experimental lunge towards him to see how he’d react—a twist towards his left with your lead leg. You feigned in that direction with a quick strike before sweeping under his reciprocal swing and landing a firm smack with your open palm against his ribcage.

“Nicely played,” Peter huffed, shuffling quickly back to put a full pace between himself and you. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.”

“This is just my warmup,” you joked, then surged forward.

A quick volley of jabs had him inching back, contorting this way and that to block you. Then he swept out one of his arms while striking you in the diaphragm with the other. The blow knocked the wind from your lungs in a guttural whoosh. You folded, staggering back and holding up a hand.

“Play nice, you two,” Jess chided from the sidelines. She already seemed to have had enough of your shenanigans if her turning and walking away with a smirk towards her usual haunt of the yoga/pilates/body weight corner was any indication. “I’d rather not have to explain any wayward injuries to the big boss, if that means all the same to you.”

“Weren’t expecting that one, were you?” Peter teased. “Sorry if I hit you too hard.”

You waved the same hand and shook your head with a breathless laugh. After a long moment, you were able to straighten back up and return to your original stance. “Now you’ve asked for it,” you rasped.

You and Peter worked up a sweat exchanging hits and parries. The longer that time dragged on, the larger of a crowd gathered together to watch. A veritable sea of shiny, rounded lenses watched as the pair of you—now warmed up, limber and loose, and thrumming with anticipation—locked into a precarious dance of striking and dodging. Peter’s playfulness bled into his fight style—trying to stay within his own reach while keeping out of yours, laughing.

You’d used to enjoy this sort of exchange, you remembered; once you’d worked through the early days of finding your footing apprehending petty thieves, the give and take of banter and fists in equal measure had become almost second nature. It had delighted you to get under the crooks’ skins, and it had the added benefit of throwing them off their rhythm so you could work your magic before the cops arrived on the scene.

Nevermind the fact that it had served as an integral outlet while you’d struggled through the brunt of your grief; you’d had no other way to expel all the negative emotions you kept under lock and key while enduring the major upheavals of moving out of your old condo and away from all of the memories buried there, buying the building that would become your new home and business with the money Alchemax had (reluctantly) paid for your husband’s policy, and keeping up appearances around your friends and family…who had mostly faded to the wayside by now due to your insistence on closing yourself off from their pitying expressions and unintentionally condescending words of empty, meaningless comfort. Only Maya had stayed, as stalwart and stubborn as she was, and you were grateful now that she had been able to see through your bravado, even if you’d protested it vehemently for a long time.

You’d had to accept that your life would never be the same, no matter what. There wasn’t any way that you could turn back time nor change anything that brought you to this point in your life. While it had seemed an insurmountable wall for a considerable amount of time (several years, in fact), you now found solace in the fact that you had learned new joys you wouldn’t have been able to experience had none of that happened. You would still trade your position as Spider-Woman 2099 to get your husband back in a heartbeat, but…it was easier to bear the load.

Discovering kinship with others in such a fantastical entity as the Spider Society helped in many ways. And meeting another version of your husband, no matter how complicated, gave you an unexpected sort of peace, as well—even if he was prickly and gruff and…and…wearing virtually nothing in an entirely public setting, holy mother of—

Some of the Spiders had shifted, the taller ones letting some shorter ones approach the front of the group. Miguel was in the middle of a set of glute drives, the bars loaded to the clamped ends with forty-five pound disc weights. The machine was set at the end of a row focused on lower body workouts, adjacent to the wrestling mat, and it provided the ideal angle of observation for his reclined position. His profile, terse and tense as he measured his breath through his gritted teeth, remained as regal as always. Even with his face darkened with the exertion, sweat dotting his forehead and clinging thin strands of his unkempt hair to his skin, he seemed barely put-upon. He had full control of the bar and his movements, measured and mighty, without a sign nor sound of strain. He had the machine completely maxed out and still wasn’t struggling, not even in the slightest.

You should have stayed focused. Peter was closing in—visibly, at that—and you’d dropped your guard in your shock.

…But the fact that Miguel’s—

Your opponent clocked you in the cheek, sending you careening to the floor in a boneless heap upon the mat with a startled yelp.

“Oh, shit!” the older man exclaimed, kneeling quickly at your side to help you back up. “Are you okay? I thought you were going to miss that one!”

You blinked rapidly, vision swimming as you struggled to regain your bearings for a few seconds. Your neck felt funny, loose and weak, but you seemed okay otherwise. Once most of the dark spots dissipated from your eyesight, you realized that there were three identical silhouettes of the notoriously intimidating leader of the Spider Society standing at the edge of the mat with his massively bulky arms folded over his partially exposed chest as he frowned down at you. You dug the heels of your palms into your eyes to fully clear them with a shaky breath.

“You allowed yourself to get distracted,” the veritable athleisure-wear model surmised.

“Miguel! Come on, you scared off our audience!” Peter complained. “I was going to win that betting pool to pay my bills!”

“Half of their currencies wouldn’t be compatible for the exchange system.” Miguel tilted his head once you lifted your gaze once more. “He didn’t give you a concussion, did he?”

Coming from anyone else, such a question would have indicated concern for the recipient. Coming from Miguel, however, it sounded more like an interrogation for an insurance claim. Of course, you suspected that workplace accidents were no easy affair with which to contend in a place like this, so you didn’t exactly blame him for his resigned, stern tone.

“No. Just shook me up a bit.” You hobbled back to your feet and mock-saluted him. “All good, jefe.”

Miguel rolled his eyes with a quiet grunt of disapproval. “You shouldn’t let yourself be prone to unnecessary injuries. I thought you had a Spider-Sense.”

“I do, but it doesn’t always trip in cases like this,” you protested. You were thankful both for your mask concealing the heat blooming under your cheeks out of embarrassment and for the fact that your exertions would disguise the shortness of breath that looking at him was giving you. “And are you really telling me not to have any accidents?”

The tank top he wore was baggy and loose; the kind that gaped around his arms and ended up showing off some of his sides and the edges of his torso in the process. His shorts were mid-thigh, clingy in the legs but not overtly so. It was doing wonders for his figure, and if he hadn’t voluntarily walked out onto the sprawling floor packed full of specialized gym equipment, mats, and free weights you would almost feel guilty for looking at him. (You still did, just a little. Had you blinked in the last minute or so? You couldn’t remember.) He had a sheen of light perspiration all over, dampening his clothes. His musculature was more pronounced than normal—that pump was phenomenal, indubitably. You tried, dutifully, to ignore it all.

“Minimizing them would be optimal,” he responded dryly. “Do you know just how big of a pain in the ass it is to file all the paperwork involved?”

You gave him a flat look. “Do you know how silly it is to try to avoid them happening with one of the most accident-prone groups of heroes in the multiverse?”

“She has a point,” Peter agreed wryly.

Miguel scoffed. “It would help if you weren’t so slow.”

Your brows rose. “Me? Slow? Remind me who, exactly, manages to consistently outpace most of the other Spiders?”

Miguel didn’t look impressed. “You were dancing around like a performance fighter.”

“Have you ever heard of a relaxed spar?” you retorted.

“Not much value in sparring if you’re not treating it like a real-life scenario,” Miguel told you severely. “You’ll get too relaxed and you’ll slip up in the field.”

“Hey, hey,” Peter interjected, holding his hands up with an awkward laugh, “it’s fine to have a bit of fun every now and then! We were just messing around, really, not trying to take each other out.”

“You think this is all I’m capable of?” you questioned dubiously, ignoring Peter’s attempts to negate Miguel’s…whatever this was. Was he goading you? Because like hell you were going to lay down and take such a thing as proud as you were of your hard-won hand-to-hand skills. “I could take you down without breaking a sweat.”

Miguel raised a brow. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“It’s supposed to be a warning.” You disengaged your mask to glare at him properly, now thoroughly displeased enough that his appearance wasn’t even enough to fluster you anymore. “I’ve handled villains of the week twice your size, cabrón.”

The man regarded you for a long moment, sizing you up. He didn’t look irked in any way, shape, or form. He really had no reason to come over and talk trash. Conversing with him had gotten a little easier after your unexpected heart-to-heart, but he hadn’t seemed particularly interested in casual discussions outside of business regarding anomaly hunting or your daily deliveries since then. Why on earth would he go out of his way just to try to ruffle your feathers?

“You could be a liability,” he said slowly. “I had to help you with one of those villains, after all.”

Was he…wanting you to prove yourself? That Rhino was a special case, you were certain, as you were quite capable of handling your villains of the week. You had, in fact—quite successfully, at any rate. No prison escapes, few civilian casualties…overall a clean track record.

You scowled. “Fine. Come here and let me kick your ass if you’re so worried about mine getting handed to me.”

Peter watched the exchange warily, removing his mask, as well. “I’m…not so sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”

And…wow. You really weren’t sure how to interpret the scathing glare Miguel sent him.

“There’s nothing he can do that I can’t take,” you retorted, “considering my Sandman was an absolute abomination of a sentient sandstorm that tried to infiltrate my respiratory system so he could suffocate me from the inside. Or the fact that my Lizard transformed more into more of a mutant Utahraptor than a…well, lizard. My point is—”

“Prove it.” Miguel kicked off his trainers and stepped onto the mat, beckoning expectantly. “Bring it on, fresa.”

Anger was a valuable asset, although extremely difficult to hone. If one allowed it to get out of hand, to develop into unmitigated fury, then control would inevitably be lost. You’d encountered that issue before, and it had cost you—some of the lingering scars on your person boasted of that. You’d gone through hell with grief, and wrath had been one of your defaults for a long time—especially when dealing with delinquents who seemed to know no better than to tread upon your every last nerve. Taking care of criminals had been your lone outlet since you’d no longer had time to go to the gym, and you remembered every single time it had gotten the better of you; in the aftermath, especially if you unintentionally hurt someone, you’d have to face the consequences of your instability. Now, after years of exercising self-discipline and healing your emotional wounds, agitation was an old friend. It kept you motivated, vigilant, and safe.

And as complicated as your feelings for this Miguel were, you would not tolerate him calling you incompetent in front of all the other Spider-People lingering on the fringes doing a rather poor job of disguising their eavesdropping by milling about and conversing in low tones. (Gossips, the lot of them.)

You stepped back into your corner, gesturing at him to start. You barely crooked your fingers in challenge before he lunged.

He was quick—quicker than any man his size had a right to be. You feigned left and rolled to the right, ducking under his arm as he tried to snag you. You felt the displaced air of his swing tickle the nape of your neck. You barely had the chance to recover, scrabbling onto your feet in a crouch as he wheeled around to grapple for you. It was a near thing to throw your palms up under his elbows to knock his arms out of the way, but you managed it and slipped past him. You managed to stay at his back for a moment, dancing around his blind spots, as you shuffled back to gain some distance.

Your heart pounded when he turned, then, his pupils dilated like a predator in the heat of the hunt—borderline feline, if you didn’t already know the lot of you were influenced by arachnoid genetics in one way or another. While his claws weren’t extended, seeing his bare palms held out almost like a wrestler’s would was foreign. Considering this was the first time you’d seen him out of his suit since he’d recruited you, and you hadn’t had much time nor wherewithal to absorb his appearance given the circumstances that were, you reeled a bit to notice the paler, tougher places on his fingertips where the dangerous weapons resided. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think they looked like tarsus pads.

“Shit!” you squeaked, leaping out of the way once more as he grabbed at you. His size lended him the upper hand of extended reach, but fortunately it seemed you had more flexibility. Your limberness, combined with your accustomability in having to navigate narrow routes of escape since so many of your bad guys often had similar advantages over you, kept you just on the edge of his victory for several more minutes of carefully dodging his increasingly irritated attempts to pin you.

His reverberating growls and gritted grunts of frustration had your heart pounding beneath your ribs, his teeth flashing every time you wiggled your way past him. You were slick with sweat all over, and never were you more grateful that the UMF was wicking, as well, than in that moment. You were breathing hard, constantly having to remain on your toes—figuratively and literally—and it wasn’t long before you were starting to get tired.

And with that came an inevitable slip-up.

As you once again tucked and tried to miss him, you stumbled��whether he intentionally placed his foot there for you to trip over or not, you did not know—and it pitched you forward long enough that you instinctively tried to recapture your balance rather than get away. Miguel scooped you up with a forearm tucked under your middle and hauled you, flailing wildly and squealing from shock, against his chest. He held you there, suspended at least half a foot off the ground. His massive hands clamped you in place, his arms crossed over you to anchor your shoulder and opposite hip, respectively. No matter how hard you tried to hit or kick or even bite him, you couldn’t catch any flank—he’d positioned you in such a way that there was no possibility of you fighting back.

You felt his heart thrumming against your shoulder blade, his breath heavy and hot on the back of your head. He straightened to his full height, and being so close to his eye-level made you realize just how far he towered over everyone else. You were tiny by comparison, no matter how you compared to the other Spider-People. You were insignificant, and perhaps it had been foolish to assume that you could stand a chance against him.

He had outplayed you, plain and simple.

…But you would only allow him to win that easily over your dead body.

“You done?” he growled into your ear.

“Like hell!” you hissed back, then swung your legs out and back under with as much momentum as you could muster. Since Miguel was leaning back to accommodate your mass, that put him high-center—and thus more prone to imbalance. As you planned, his torso swung forward to compensate for the sudden and unexpected shift in weight.

It gave you just enough room to get your footing back. You broke your unrestrained arm free and wrapped it around the back of his neck at the same time you slipped a foot behind his. You pulled down and buckled his knee by digging yours into the bend of his leg, and—in one fell swoop—Miguel came crashing down with a thundering thump and a deep wheeze as all the air rushed out of his lungs.

A cacophony of uproarious surprise from the observing Spider-People was only vague background noise compared to your pulse roaring in your ears as you stared down at the man supine below you. His eyes were round, mouth gaping as he struggled to suck in even a single breath. To say that he seemed speechless was quite the understatement.

“You good?” you panted, bracing your hands on your knees and trying not to let your satisfaction leak into your tone. “You didn’t hit your head, right?”

“Fine,” he croaked, his voice naught but a whisper as it cracked on that single word. He shut his eyes briefly, pressing his hand against his diaphragm as he coaxed a breath into his lungs once more. He then braced an elbow beneath him and leveraged himself upright, his back to you as he eased back onto his feet. “I’m fine.”

You straightened and placed your fists on your hips, cocking a brow as he snatched the rag from the waistband of his shorts to pat his forehead dry. “Well?” you prompted. “Do I pass?”

He turned just enough to level you with an unreadable side-eye, critical and lingering. “Yeah,” he finally admitted, a low grumble. “You’re all right.”

And with that, he stalked away towards the locker room.

When you found Peter in the crowd, he was in the middle of accepting his winnings from a group of rather put-upon and reluctant spectators, beaming and laughing all the while. They made themselves scarce as you approached, a little shaky on your feet but otherwise no worse for wear. (You could’ve stood to take a killer nap, though.) Peter greeted you with an infectious smile, tucking the wad of myriad types of cash under his waistband and patting your shoulder. “You should have seen his face!” he chortled, wiping a tear from his eye. “That was priceless—I should have recorded that!”

“And here you were worried about me,” you teased, nudging him in the ribs, but your eyes caught on the retreating man as he traipsed past the others with a rather impressive glower. It effectively intimidated them enough that they wouldn’t meet his eyes, and they all returned their attention to their respective workouts. “You don’t think I hurt his ego too much, do you? I don’t need him developing a chronic case of macho-man around me.”

“Nah!” Peter responded lightly. “Miguel’s proud, sure, but he doesn’t have much of an ego anymore. He’ll lick his wounds and comb his feathers back down and be back to normal in no time. I think it’ll do him some good to remind him that he’s not the baddest Spider around.”

Your lips thinned, skeptical, but you wouldn’t press the issue. “If you say so.”

“I’ll go talk him down. It’s his temper you have to worry about, and I’ll see if I can bust some of the air out of his lungs so he doesn’t blow up later.” He patted you again and made his way in the wake of his stormy colleague. “Great job, by the way!”

“Thanks!” you returned, feeling the cool air of the gym seeping in through your suit and raising goosebumps in its wake. Just as quickly as the place had condensed with noise, it had descended back into a mild background ambience of music and weight sounds.

“Not many people can match his prowess, you know.”

You looked over at Jess, who sat on a bench with a bottle of water in her hand. She quirked a brow at you as you approached and settled next to her. “I’ve had to learn how to be as quick on my feet as I am in my head,” you sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “That’s all.”

“He’s smart, though, and even though he doesn’t have a Spider-Sense like most of us, he’s…more in tune with his body, shall we say. It takes a lot to catch him off-guard like that. He’s had to rely on ambush tactics more than entrapment like others do.” She sipped thoughtfully, then gave you an appraising once-over. “You know he spends almost all his free time here.”

You didn’t, but you nodded anyway. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“He doesn’t do a whole lot more than work or lift weights. LYLA’s been getting him to stop for food and nap breaks lately, but I haven’t seen much of an improvement yet, honestly.” She paused, contemplative, for a moment. “He wasn’t always like this, though.”

You had a feeling as to what might have caused such a change in temperament, since you’d endured it yourself. “It’s hard,” you murmured, dropping your head to peer at the rubbery floor under your feet, “to deal with all this. It’s worse when you go through the things we do.”

“To say the least,” she agreed. “His case is a special one.”

“I’ve gathered that.” You sighed heavily. “I won’t pry, since he hasn’t talked much about it, but…I’m guessing he’s still grieving?”

“Definitely. I’m not sure finding you is helping any, but…” She pursed her lips. “...I think you’ve been good for him as a reminder that he’s not the only one in his position. He gets self-absorbed, sometimes, too caught up in his own losses to remember that others go through the same things—or at least similar ones.” She glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. “He’s been more focused lately, at least—not quite as mopey.”

“I hate to think of how mopey he was before, then,” you laughed under your breath.

“He’s been depressed since I’ve known him, and probably longer than that. I’ve spent a lot of time piddling in his lab to keep an eye on him.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the cafeteria. “But I have noticed that he’s eating better now that he calls dibs on your orders every day. Those sandwiches you make are better than the empanadas he’s been binging for the last couple of months, anyway.”

Your brows rose in surprise. “I…didn’t know. He always seems kind of irritated when I take him snacks.”

“Probably more at himself for forgetting than at you specifically, but I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen him sit down and eat a full meal.” Jess hesitated. “Maybe I’m wrong for saying this, but…maybe he misses your counterpart’s cooking—assuming yours is similar, of course. I think there’s a reason he’s so lean, and not necessarily because he’s on a cut.” Her expression softened. “If that’s going too far, I apologize. It’s probably a touchy subject.”

You…hadn’t thought about that, honestly. He hadn’t really reacted outwardly to the various things you’d made a point to take him, as stoic as his default setting seemed to be. 

“No,” you responded quietly but earnestly, “it’s fine. I…never really gave it a second thought. I know I—” You swallowed, cleared your throat, and took a steadying breath. “—miss my husband’s cooking, too. Even when I follow the recipes, it’s never quite the same.” She laid a hand on your arm, and you patted it gratefully. “I don’t mind talking about it. My family makes it weird, you know, being all sympathetic and saccharine and supportive. None of that sugar-coating doesn’t take away the fact that he’s gone. I just want to remember him at this point.”

“I can understand that,” Jess replied gently, matching your register. “If you ever need an ear, I’m here.”

“Thank you.” You were a little surprised by her offer, given how busy and business-like she tended to be around most, but perhaps you shouldn’t have been. “I appreciate that.” You let out a wry little chuckle. “I guess you’d have a unique point of view knowing that version, huh?”

“I don’t know how different he is from yours,” she began carefully, “but he’s mentioned his version of you only a couple of times. Usually if he managed to get himself drunk enough.”

You tilted your head in curiosity. It took a lot to get drunk anymore, so you couldn’t imagine how much a man as tanky as Miguel would have to put away before even getting tipsy, much less fully intoxicated. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Little things—details that most people would forget. I could tell he was head over heels.” She rolled the bottle between her hands. “But based on what he’s mentioned, you sound an awful lot like her.”

You frowned. “You think that’s why he doesn’t like being around me much?”

“Probably.” And that’s what you liked about Jess—she was frank about things, didn’t see any need to dance around a problem. It was extremely refreshing. “But he’s not at the same point you are, either. I think it’ll take him some time to get readjusted to having you here.”

“He said he didn’t want me to leave, so there’s that, I suppose,” you told her. “I just…I’d like to help, if I can.”

“That’s admirable, considering he’s been an ass to you.” She bumped her shoulder into yours. “If he gives you too hard of a time, let me know. I can take him down a peg or two.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you chuckled, “but I think he’ll think twice before calling bluff on me again.”

“Definitely.” She stood and rolled her shoulders. “Just keep doing your thing, girl. You being so kind isn’t worthless, even if it seems like it.” She winked. “He doesn’t take the time to check on everyone’s field capabilities to make sure they can take care of themselves, after all.”

You watched her go, dumbstruck. Maybe Peter had hit you harder than you’d thought.

[mymoonsight]

Reposting a comment I made on a post and adding to it

x Reader fics need to handle writing “reader” better sometimes

As a 6ft afab person who’s built like a man and has never been super feminine and has a more unique haircut that’s shorter I hate to read about “readers” petite, small, pale body and her “long flowy straight hair”, etc.

Reader is meant to be ambiguous!! And if it’s important to the plot please mention it at the beginning!!! If it’s not important to the plot why is it being included???

Some people who are reading may be tall, fat, skinny, short, or even somewhere in between. The readers could have a hijab, 4c hair, locks, braids, long hair, short hair, wavy, no hair and even more.

Stop making all readers so sweet and innocent, I want a reader who’s petty and sassy sometimes. I’ve noticed also that so many readers are either too baby to do anything or over powered.

Personally I also hate reading about obviously toxic men and relationships that the reader goes back to because they are “so in love”, like no please let me deck that sucker and leave them in the dust and be happier.

Also, if you label your post with the tag “___ x reader” or titled with “___ x reader” and then make descriptions and then ADD A NAME!!! It’s not an x reader fic and I heavily want to block you.

Edit:

Hey hello! I just wanted to add that I heavily respect and love fic writers! So many have a talent that I will never reach or have and I appreciate your content being put out at all! I made this post as a 5 am ramble and was half delirious lol

People can write as they please and I’ll ignore it if I’m not interested or I’ll make slight internal edits to fit me if I am

[mcntsee]

I need someone to explain to me WHY y/n picks outfits like we are playing EPISODE and RAN OUT OF GEMS!?!!?

[natashowlet]

Miguel O’Hara icons

[asimplearchivist]

*me, staring blankly from behind steepled fingers*: *inhales deeply*

CICIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHAT ARE YOU D O I N G ?!!?!!??!!!??????!?!!??!?!?!?

WHAT THE F U C K

I JUST WANT TO L O V E HIM WHAT THE F U C K

WHY ARE YOU D O I N G THIS!!!?!?!!??!!?!?

W H Y

(Anywho! I’m glad to know that my suspicion of that being 928B Miguel was accurate! His tenderness with Cielo talking about his Nena just added depth to him in ATSV. Even he couldn’t tell Cielo no—but his determination to save her even by attempting to destroy another version of himself, whom he would sympathize with above all else, is just *chef’s kiss*! All that brutality packed into one beat down when our Miggy was already wounded just hurt so good in a way—recognizing that same guilt and grief in ATSV Miguel and knowing he’d never lay a finger on us just…..uunnff. And helping ours to limp down the hall, holding him…him cutting us off bc he knows that if he hears us saying we love him back it’ll be too hard to leave us behind [again wtf cici why u hurt me dis way >:(] and thinking that it’s somehow better even though we’d choose to stay with him over and over again. I just…uuughh your shock factor is so impactful and I’m never going to emotionally recover from this☹️)

EYEM #13

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You meet another version of the man you love and finally find out why the Universe is trying to kill you.

Word count: 5,800

Warning: violence, pain hurt and angst. Be prepared.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [TBC]

Everything hurts. You don’t know where you are, you’re disorientated and queasy.

The first sight that greets you is the glow of scarlet eyes so piercing they cut through the blurriness of your vision.

They're familiar, but also different. Even though they’re identical to his, you know this is not your Miguel.

It takes you a while to make sense of your surroundings. Long moments for the nausea to dissipate enough that you can take in the dark moody blues of the space and recognize that you’re in the same sparse room as before.

Takes a few longer moments still before you register that your wrists and arms are restrained by strange threads made of an unknown material that glow up in an alarming neon red and you’re strung up and suspended in an intricate web from the ceiling.

You try to pull against your restraints, but it’s useless, your body won’t listen to you. You can’t even get your little finger to budge. You can’t fucking move.

“You’re alright,” The man who looks exactly like your Miguel says. “Try not to move. It’ll be better that way.”

You don’t listen to him, because why the hell would you. This is not your Miguel. You try again and pain sears through your muscles.

Shit! He bit you and now you’re paralyzed.

Panic races through your spine. You need to get out of this situation, now. Need to get out. Need to get to Miguel. Even if you can’t move, there has to be a solution somehow.

Lyla is meant to protect you right? She was built for that purpose. If you summon her then surely, “Ly–”

You can't get the second syllable out. Sharp pain stings inside your throat as you try to speak.

“Lyla’s not going to attack me," he says as if he can read your mind and knows what you were planning to do. "It’s a safety feature built in to make sure she doesn’t go rogue. The only time that gets overridden is if I’m a threat to your life."

Irritation crawls under your skin.

Fuck’s sake Lyla. Does this not count as a threat? Do fangs poised against your throat and taking a chomp out of you not qualify? The man bit and paralyzed you!

Despite two failed attempts, you try to move again, straining against the impossible heaviness of your numb limbs. Another jolt of pain shoots through your limbs as you do.

Miguel flinches at the sight of you as if there was an invisible thread connecting your body to his and he was able to feel every ounce of your pain.

His hand reaches up to cup your cheek to stop you.

“Don’t move,” he tells you again. “My toxins have paralyzed you and it will hurt you if you try to move. Stay still, nena. Please. You’re safe.”

If this was your Miguel, he would have been curt and snappy with you for being so stupid to move when it hurts. But this Miguel says it like a plea. Soft and gentle all at once.

His other hand comes to your collarbone, thumb gently wiping away the dried blood that’s pooled there. There’s an unreadable expression on his face as he stares at the dark stain of red on his fingers.

“This is the last time you’ll be hurt. You’re not going to die this time. I know how to fix this so you won’t die ever again."

Fix...it? What does he mean? Like make the universe stop trying to kill you for good?

You blink up at the man, unsure of what to make of his words. You don't trust this version of Miguel any further than you can throw him. The man knocked you out and tied you up...

But if he can fix it, even if the chance is small and far-fetched, what would be the harm in listening?

Your tongue is heavy and dry in your mouth and it feels like you’ve swallowed fistfuls of sand when you try to speak again. “Ho-how?”

“I just have to eliminate the root cause of why the Universe keeps trying to kill you.”

You prepare yourself for the pain that’s going to come again to ask him what he means. But luckily you don’t have to, this Miguel spares you of that.

“You’ve encountered another me in your dimension, right?” he asks.

You don’t answer him. But it doesn't seem to matter, because he already seems to have decided on the answer as he continues.

“It’s his fault,” he says with anger, his red eyes burn with an unnatural glow that sets your teeth on edge. “It’s his fault that this keeps happening to you. He’s the reason the universe keeps trying to kill you.”

No. No that’s not– You don’t know what he’s getting at. Don’t know what has happened to this version of Miguel that makes him believe this.

But you do know one thing. You don't need to listen to the rest of it to know. He is wrong.

Your Miguel has saved you. Protected you again and again. Put himself in harm’s way and nearly died to keep you safe. He would never hurt you.

“No,” you ignore the spasm of pain across your diaphragm as you speak. “He s-saved me.”

His mouth furls into a feral snarl, flashing the corner of his fangs. “You wouldn’t need to be saved if it wasn’t for him.”

“That’s not–”

“He’s an anomaly! Every Miguel O’Hara is!”

You blink up at him at loss for words. You don’t understand what he’s trying to tell you.

In front of you, this Miguel visibly grits his teeth, grinding down on his jaw, as he continues to speak in that low tone that simmers with fury.

“Humans are not meant to travel between dimensions. When I invented inter-dimensional travel, I violated that natural order without knowing it. Everyone I come across, everyone I saved, I’ve doomed, because that event was never supposed to take place.”

“You– you don’t know–”

He cuts you off before you can finish, “I’ve seen it!” he shouts. His hands curl into agitated fists at his sides. “After I lost you, I–I...”

He looks back at you and the words seem to die on his tongue.

As you hold his gaze you begin to see what you missed before. You were too focused on this Miguel’s anger to notice the grief pouring out of every inch of him.

“I lost myself,” he says, quieter now. “Lyla showed me a version of us in another dimension and it was the only thing that kept me going. We had a life together there. A daughter. You were happy there... Then that version of me died.”

He pauses again, lost in some memory that you are not a part of. Shame sinks into the hollowness of his sunken eyes and he looks away from you again.

“... And I replaced him. I thought it was harmless, that I was just replacing a version of me and the universe wouldn’t know any better. But I was wrong. He was never supposed to be in that dimension either. That whole universe collapsed because of me and our daughter and you died with it.”

Making a broad gesture through the empty air, amber light brightens up the space.

From behind him, a myriad of holographic screens flicker into existence, and you see images of yourself repeated and illuminated in all of them. You with pink hair. Another you with piercings. A you with tattoos and shaved cuts. Hundreds of variants of you wearing pieces of clothing that you’ve never owned. All of them, a different you, living their everyday life.

“Since then I’ve observed hundreds and thousands of versions of you in every dimension,” this Miguel tells you, as he gazes longingly at the screens that float above.

“All of them get to live full and healthy long lives. Do you know what every one of those versions of you have in common?”

He turns back towards you, closing the distance between you. “We never met. The reason you keep dying is because you meet me.”

His face is so close that a lock of his curl falls on your temple. Had this been your Miguel, you’d been tingling with warmth and excitement, now all you feel is a cold shiver.

“Every time we meet is because something I did inadvertently puts you in danger, and then I save you from it, starting the chain of events.”

Your mind flashes to that first moment you fell out of the Chrysler building. The blur of blue and red that came crashing into your life in pursuit of a villain and knocked you out of a skyscraper window.

“The universe is trying to erase your existence because of me. To try to correct the balance.”

Your face feels numb. Your mind is reeling from the revelation.

The question that you’ve had since this all began has finally been answered. Why this universe seemingly has it out for you. Why it has repeatedly tried to kill you. Why your world literally was about to end after you kissed him… It all makes a tragic sense now.

It’s because of Miguel.

You don’t know how long you remain frozen, crushed under the weight of the realization, before the sound of footfall joins the room, echoing in this empty space.

You hear him before you see him. Your Miguel. He calls your name and the familiar tone of it sends warm shivers through your spine.

Searching the space, your eyes land on his familiar silhouette in the dim light.

Miguel is struggling to walk, hunched over and limping forward despite his injuries. He looks so much smaller than what you are used to. There's blood dripping down his face and ugly red gashes ripping into his protective suit where one arm is clutching to the gaping raw wound.

Parting your mouth, you desperately try to warn him and scream that he needs to run. But the noise is garbled and choked. Nothing remotely close to a word comes out of your mouth. Even if it did, it wouldn’t have helped.

Miguel is too distracted by the sight of you. Too focused on reaching you that he barely registers the sight of his other self standing beside you, and then it’s too late.

It happens so fast, your eyes aren’t able to register it. One second his cosmic Doppelgänger is beside you. The next he is gone.

He leaps into the air with a ferocity that chills your bones. His claws slashes through the air and he pounces on Miguel with the entirety of his body weight.

Miguel doesn’t stand a chance. He’s already wounded and weakened. There’s been no time to heal. He’s still heavily bleeding from his abdomen and the bone-deep wounds where the damage meant for you had torn through him instead.

His body lands on the floor with a painful heavy thud. Even from this distance, you can hear the air rush out of his lungs with a pained and choked wheeze.

“Do you know what you have done?” His voice drips with venom as he fists his hand into Miguel’s hair, yanking his head upwards, level with his. “Why couldn’t you just have left her alone?”

Miguel snarls with an ugly grimace as he tries to wrangle himself free to no avail, pinned as he is on the ground. He meets the man’s stare without cowering even as he is unable to stand upright, wounded and bleeding out.

“The fuck are you on about?” Miguel spits out. He surges forward, ramming his forehead into the other man.

The blow of it sends the Doppelgänger reeling back. But it doesn’t last. He snarls in anger before he lunges forward, grabbing for Miguel’s head to slam it back down into the ground.

All you can do is helplessly watch the scene unfold before you.

“You still don’t get it do you?” he growls, raising his arm in the air to deliver another forceful blow.

There’s a nauseating bone-crushing sound that makes you sick to your stomach when his fist connects to Miguel’s jaw.

“You should never have gone to her world. You didn’t belong!”

He clasps around Miguel’s throat in a painfully hard hold, pinning him there against the ground.

Miguel’s tanned skin bleeds white around the dented imprints of that talon grip, cutting off blood circulation until you’re sure he can no longer breathe.

“She died because of you!”

The words make Miguel freeze. The whole of his back stiffening.

A fisted hand hammers down on Miguel’s face and you squeeze your eyes shut before you see it connect. All you hear behind your closed eyelids is a sickening crack that you know means something is broken.

Silence follows, and you barely dare to squint your eyes open, terrified of what you will see. Even though you’re bracing yourself, you’re still not prepared at the sight that greets you.

Miguel's body is slumped and motionless on the ground. The other him towers over his defeated form. There’s an eerie calm to his movements as he gets up and steps back.

On the ground, Miguel looks so much smaller than when he's lying in bed next to you under the covers and your heart beats painfully fast in your chest, unable to intervene.

The other man raises one leg above Miguel’s still form, poised like a sledge-hammer and holds there.

His foot comes down, delivering a shattering stomp that reverberates through the space. You swear you can feel the suspended webs holding you, shake and tremble against your skin from the after shock.

The air thins in your lungs. Hot, wet tears spill down your cheeks. For a long and dreadful second, you’re not sure if Miguel is still alive.

Then you hear a tiny, pained whimper, from the ground.

You don’t know what you feel anymore. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Relief. Everything inside you is drawn in a tight knot and aches at the pitiful sound of how much pain Miguel must be in. But there’s also the tiniest of hope, because as doomed as this all may seem, at the very least he’s still alive.

That's all you care about right now.

In front of you, his other self cocks his head to the side. He narrows his eyes as he looks down at the defenseless body on the ground with a disdain that you've never seen on those features before.

“You intervened with the canon when you jumped into her dimension. Do you understand?” he says with a quiet barely contained anger. “The universe keeps trying to kill her, because you, an anomaly, entered into the picture and altered the course of her life."

Something sharp protrudes from the back of his arms, as he speaks.

"But I can make it right," he says and you see the sharp long appendages extend from both sides of his upper arms.

You stare at them with a growing fear, as they grow sharp and menacing, into blades that glow ominously red.

No. Nononono.

This can't be happening. This can't be real.

You wrench against the restraints around your limbs and pain sears through every single cell of your body. But right now it doesn't matter. You have to move. Because you know what’s going to happen if you don’t.

"I can save her. If you die, she gets to live. All you need to do is stay down,” he says.

To your horror Miguel does. Miguel doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Doesn’t fight back. The tight tension in his muscles go slack, and his arms drop at his sides.

The most stubborn man in the universe has stopped fighting. He’s given up.

That man is going to kill Miguel. You can’t stay still and let it happen. You have to move. God, please please, you need to–

“I have to do this to keep her safe,” the Doppelgänger says, “You want that too. It’s all we ever wanted.”

Pain tears at the seams of your skin, sharp and fractured like broken shards and glass splitting through your skull until you’re sure you are going to vomit. You ignore it.

In front of you, he raises his arm above Miguel’s head until it looms over him like a reaper's scythe.

Ripping through the last of the hindrance holding you down, adrenaline and pain mix into a sickening concoction until you lose sense of your surroundings.

It's only a few feet away.

You can’t stop, even if it hurts. Can’t stop even though your vision flickers white with bright dotted spots. Can’t stop, because if you do– you’ll lose him.

You leap, throwing yourself in front of Miguel's slumped form on the floor.

Everything hurts. Pain sears through your insides, scraping every inch of our flesh. It burns and crackles in the marrow of your bones.

You spread your arms out in an attempt to make yourself bigger, trying to shield as much of your Miguel as you are physically capable of.

“Nena…” the man above stares down at you, wide-eyed and frozen.

He's stopped, the sharp blade protruding from his arm suspended inches from your face.

“Cielo! Move,” Miguel barks from under you.

“No!”

There’s no fear in this moment as you say the word. Even with the honed blade looming over your head. Even though all it’d take is one swift downward movement to end it all, you’ve never felt surer of your safety.

Because this close, you can see it now.

This other Miguel, different as he may be, is still Miguel. If there’s one thing you learnt in these last few months it's that more than anything, no matter how hard-headed and wrong he might go about it in his methods. This man will always choose your safety over everything else. Your survival. Your life.

That’s why Lyla still hasn’t overridden her safety protocol. Because your life is not in danger, not by his hands.

If he has to go through you to get to Miguel… He wouldn’t. You can tell that much.

And if your life is the only shield you have to offer the man you love, then you’d gladly lay it down under the guillotine.

“I won’t let you lay another finger on him,” you say as you stare up at the other Miguel defiantly. “Not as long as I’m alive.”

The man narrows his eyes, seething with an anger that radiates from every inch of his body as he spits out the syllables.

“He is killing you.”

His lips quiver, hands trembling as he looks down at you. You recognize that expression. It's the same one Miguel held when he was looming over you, vowing to eliminate the Avengers in order to protect you.

The same pain in his eyes, whenever he fears for your survival... because he's already lost you once.

That's what this is...

You see this for what it is now.

Despite the fact that he’s a stranger, in spite of all the differences, you see him for who he is. The anger, the blame on his own other self, on your Miguel. The haunting guilt he has towards himself.

When he says, ‘he,’ he's not just referring to the man behind you. He's talking about himself.

Kneeling upwards, you move towards this man, ignoring the burning pain that shudders through your trembling arms as you reach up to cup those all too familiar sharp cheeks. He flinches at the touch, as if he didn’t expect it.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. You didn’t kill me,” you tell him.

His eyes widen and he turns his face the tiniest fraction into the palm of your hand, chasing after your touch.

“Maybe you and him are the reason the universe tries to kill me. But I’m still glad I was able to meet you."

At your words, you can see the determination in his eyes waver. The way something in him cracks open and falls apart at your words.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the words bleed with guilt. "I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

“It's not your fault," you tell him again. "It’s okay, Miguel, I don't blame you. Even with all the near deaths and the end of the world, meeting you is the best thing that happened to me."

He’s not your Miguel. You know that. But despite everything that preceded this moment, your heart still hurts for this man.

All you know is that you want to make him feel better. You just want to make his hurt a little bit less painful.

“If it was my choice. If it were for me to decide. I would still want us to meet. I’m going to choose that every time. And I think that’s what she would’ve done too."

A glossy wetness shines over his scarlet eyes that threatens to spill and you ache for him.

Even if the man in front of you is not your Miguel. He’s still Miguel.

You will always recognize him, not in the identical physical features of his face. Not the stubborn angle of his ridiculously sharp jaw. Nor his obscenely large build.

No. It’s in the sadness of his eyes. The longing that he holds for you whenever he looks at you. The love you can plainly see there, no matter how hard he tries to hide it from you.

You are the woman he loves above all else. In every universe.

You can see that now.

“I think that’s what I’d always choose, Miguel. There are many versions of me but I know that every me will love every you in every universe if given the chance.”

His shoulders slump, the burning anger in him dims as his chest visibly deflates in front of you. Then he stands there, staring down at you with that aching defeat etched into the corners of his weary eyes.

“If I let you go,” he starts, voice so quiet it almost sounds like a whisper. “Where would you go from here?”

You stop to consider his question.

If you leave here with Miguel, your life as you know it is never going to be the same.

The comforts of your everyday life in New York will be lost. No more Netflix, or fancy lemony cupcakes, or the barista that knows your order before you open your mouth.

You will never know what your life will look like from one day to the next. What the world itself is going to be, jumping from one foreign universe to another. That should be terrifying to you.

But somehow it isn't.

What's scary is the thought of going back to the life you had without Miguel there. The life that was so painfully mundane and ordinary that you had no moments of importance worth remembering seconds before falling to your death. The life you spent that was trapped in the machinery of habit, without a speck of color and excitement in your life.

As confusing and downright scary every day has been since you met him, you’ve never felt more alive. Never felt safer than when Miguel is by your side. You wouldn't give it up for anything.

In your mind, there’s only one choice you want to make.

“I am going to leave my dimension with him,” you say. “The world won't have to end and we’d be together.”

He shakes his head, disbelieving. Those sad eyes, still pinned on yours.

“No matter where you run to, it would start up all over again," he says, biting down on his bottom lip with worry. "The universe will eventually try to erase you because it thinks you're an anomaly. That would be the rest of your life, running from dimension to dimension.”

He throws a look behind you where Miguel is lying on the ground, the disdain and anger coming to life again, before he continues. “If he dies, if I kill him, then that connection is severed, you could go back to your normal life.”

You turn behind to look at your Miguel. He has an expression on his face that mirrors his other self. One of defeat and sadness and disbelief.

“I don’t want that. I don’t want a life he’s not a part of.” You turn back to the other him, squarely meeting his eyes. “Please.”

Other Miguel looks like his world is ending as he looks at you. For the longest moment he doesn't say anything, and you aren't sure what his answer is going to be or what he is going to do. If he's going to hold you here against your will and kill Miguel despite your pleas.

Then he drops his gaze to the floor and you can see that he’s holding back tears.

“Go,” he whispers.

He steps back from you, retreating step by step to widen the physical distance between yourself and him, and turns away with his back towards you.

You immediately scramble towards your Miguel, arms reaching for him. It’s not graceful, your limbs still hurt and your movements are clumsy. But you try to ignore it so you can loop Miguel’s arm over your shoulder and try to haul him up on his feet.

Predictably, Miguel is already starting to protest and scold you, “Cielo, you can’t–”

“Not now, Miguel,” you cut him off, and for once he listens.

His mouth presses into a firm line as he strains to stand upright, trying not to lean on you for support to get up, but failing to do so, leg buckling under his own weight.

Your hand shoots out around his waist to hold him steady, the slick blood from his wounds painting your fingers a bright red. You swallow down the worry, prioritizing getting away above all else for now.

“Let’s go,” you tell him, and he gives you a curt, almost compliant nod as the two of you move together with clumsy steps and rely on each other for support.

Behind you, the other Miguel is still standing turned away from you. You stare at his wide back as you walk away.

With each step that broadness looks smaller and smaller in the distance. The lonely and grief-struck silhouette of another version of the man that you love, that so clearly loves you, disappears out of sight as you leave him behind.

Miguel is quiet. He won’t look you in the eye as both of you try to hobble your way to the corridor you had landed in when you first came to this dimension.

It takes you both an eternity. It's nothing short of a miracle Miguel is still alive and even though the toxin is wearing off in your system, you still feel sore. Every muscle in your body is cramping, worse than any time of the month you’ve had to endure so far in your life.

You gain an entirely new appreciation of what Wong must’ve gone through and if there is a way to send interdimensional gift baskets, you remind yourself you should get one for him as an apology.

“This should be safe enough,” Miguel tells you as you reach the secluded space.

You both slump down to the ground, catching your breath with your backs leaning against the wall behind to hold you upright.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, which is a silly question for a man that probably has at least half a dozen broken ribs, internal bleeding, and a fractured jaw from the looks of it.

Despite all those bodily injuries though, Miguel is acting unbothered.

“Yeah, give me a minute and I’ll get us out of here.”

He wastes no time as he reaches over for your wrist and fiddles with the dials on your watch,

A hologram appears above, but there’s no sighting of Lyla. He hasn’t summoned her and as far as you can see it’s all just gibberish coding that he’s inputting. You have no idea what he’s doing but if you had to take a guess, it looks like he’s manually inserting the programming of the next jump to ensure it’s the right location this time.

He’s quiet and concentrated like always, eyebrows furrowed, as he works. Then out of nowhere, without looking up from what he’s doing, he speaks.

“What do you want to do once you get out of here?”

"Sleep,” is your immediate answer and Miguel laughs quietly at that as you continue. “Recover, just... rest, for a while, I guess"

"Sounds nice.” He shuts down the illuminated screen, presumably already done.

Then he’s quiet for a long moment, just sitting there next to you.

“...and after that?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“I guess since I’m going to be traveling different dimensions now for the rest of my life, I’d want to go to all the cool places? Like one where there’s talking raccoons. Or a dimension where we all have sausages for fingers, or one where all life forms are rock based.”

He pays close attention to you, face resting in the palm of his hand, as you tell him of these made up otherworldly dimensions.

“If we happen to jump into another dimension that’s similar to my old one I wouldn’t turn down Beyoncé tickets, provided Lyla could get them or we could just have her hack into restaurant booking systems and get us into all the exclusive places.”

There’s a small smile on his face as you speak, and your chest feels warm at the sight of it. Somehow after the day you have had, barely escaping the end of the world, going through an assassination attempt by the Avengers, being ambushed by another version of Miguel, you both made it through.

That tiny smile of his feels like a prize at the finishing line.

You slide your fingers across the space between you, until you find his knuckles, interlacing his fingers with yours.

"Anything would be okay, really. As long as I get to be with you," you tell him.

His smile turns wistful, as he nods back at you, squeezing your fingers back between his. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

There’s a lingering moment that you share in the comfortable silence. It’s unlike him. The Miguel you know would have wanted to make the jump five minutes ago, but you figure he must be tired.

He’s been shot at, thrown off buildings and beaten half to death by his own Doppelgänger today. He’s more than earned a minute or two of rest.

His head tips up staring into the moody blue ceiling above. “I love you,” he says.

It’s sudden and a bit out of nowhere but your face tingles. Warmth fills your chest until there's so much of it you're not sure you can contain it inside you. Then he continues.

“If there was any doubt. I love you, this you. Even if I find you to be absolutely batshit insane sometimes.”

You can’t help the silly grin tugging at your lips. The dopey feeling that buzzes bright in your veins. You feel slightly lightheaded and you aren’t sure if it’s a side effect of the toxins or just his words.

“Miguel, I lov–” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I know,” he says, turning his gaze to you, as he squeezes your hand gently in his. “You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just stay here for a while. Just like this.”

He doesn’t say anything after that.

The two of you stay like that in the moody darkness, his thumb smoothing over the front of your hand in soothing motions, as he looks down at you like he doesn’t want to take his eyes off of you. It’s a while longer still, before finally Miguel seems ready. He takes your hand that he’s holding and brings it close.

“Lyla,” he summons. “Take us to the next location.”

At the command, there's a bright burst of strobed colored lights surrounding you. It’s blinding your vision as it throws you into motion even as you’re sitting still.

Then before you know it they fade into a bright sterile whiteness. You wait for your surroundings to reform. To see a skyline and buildings and city lights.

But there’s nothing.

“Wait, where are we?” you ask.

Everything is blank and white and endless here. Empty space as far as the eye can see. Dread seizes you. You’re in the void again.

Why are you here?

How… Is the watch broken? Did the two of you fail? But it worked before. You shouldn’t be here, how–fuck, your vision starts to flatten. The ground underneath you is unsteady. Everything blurs. You can’t breathe.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Miguel says, taking your hand in his as he squeezes down. “I sent us here.”

He says it so casually, your brain doesn't quite register the meaning. What does he mean he sent you here? On purpose, why would he–

“What do you mean? I don’t understand, Miguel, why would you–”

He hushes you soothingly. One hand comes to cup the back of your head, stopping you mid-sentence. “You’re not going to stay here. We’re just doing a drop off.”

“Miguel, what–”

He leans down, forehead pressing intimately against yours, there’s a sad smile on his face as he meets your eyes. They’re soft and gentle, and your chest squeezes painfully tight just looking at him.

“I already told you, didn't I?” he tells you, both hands coming to cup your cheeks. “I’m not going to let you die.”

Without missing a beat, he’s already moving on before you even have a chance to retort.

“Lyla,” he calls, and you hear the ping from your wrist. Can feel the slight vibration as the hologram takes form. “Run the updated protocol."

There’s a bright glow that forms all around you. Bright light crackles at the edges of your vision and there’s a delayed reaction in your brain as you try to process everything that’s happening around you.

He lets you go, taking a step back. “I love you, Cielito. I will always love you.”

Shit! He wouldn’t. Why?

“Take her home for me,” he orders.

You step forward trying to grab hold of him but it’s already too late. Your fingers grasp for him, but it sinks into nothingness, Miguel is already gone and so are you.

You find yourself inside a small studio apartment.

There’s no one besides you.

There’s a sole window sill where the view of New York City is entirely obscured by the neighboring building and its ugly brick wall. Not an inch of the skyline is visible.

You’re surrounded by clutter and second hand furniture that is all too familiar. A cheap IKEA Ingatorp dining table. Laundry still piled up on the bed. Dirty dishes stacked up in a tower over the sink.

You know this place.

You’re home.

Dedication & Credits: To my favorite moose @thirstworldproblemss. Thank you as always for listen to my insane ramblings and machinations, even though you literally do not even go here.

To @guruan who I have been dying to share this chapter with for so long! Thank you for all the amazing art, thank you for your help looking through dialogues to make sure the Spanish used reads right. Thank you for crying about this man with me.

And last but not least big hug loves and smooches to @djarinsbeskar who gave this a second pair of eyes in the eleventh minute when I was freaking out about the copious use of Doppelganger, her advice was invaluable to me and without her I probably would've put this on ice over the weekend. Please send her all the loves! cause she is amazing and beautiful and gorgeous. Also do you know that she has her DEBUT NOVEL SENSUAL SUMMONING coming out soon? please check it out and sign up to her newsletter.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!