#spiderman: across the spider verse | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

asimplearchivist · 9 months ago

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𝑪𝑯. 𝑽𝑰𝑰 — 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪��𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'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.

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