Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the most generous of standards, you were a spider person. Really, truly, you nailed the main two prerequisites.
Get bit by a radioactive spider. Check.
Develop new abilities. Check.
Become an incredible superhero with those new abilities… not so check.

You yelp as you trip over a rug, the large stack of paper coffee cups you were holding tips out of your grasp and scatters on the floor. Groaning embarrassed you kneel down trying to corral the biodegradable drink holders to your grasp. It's moments like these that you feel the envy for your coworkers creep up again, longing for the agility, super strength, just… wanting. Wanting to be a real spider person.

It's not that you don’t appreciate your gift, it is cool you suppose, in an artsy fartsy way. It just pales in comparison to those who surrounded you, watching in the corner as Peter Parker’s bench press busses, scale walls, and create near indestructible webbing from thin air, all while you… knit.

Well, in all fairness, it was more than knitting. Sewing, macrame, crochet, embroidery anything having to do with textiles you had mastery over. You could create ornate rugs one handed, gossamer gowns with your eyes closed, so so so many blankets. (You went through a phase when you started experimenting with your 'powers'.)

You have actually been able to contribute to your cause you allow yourself to admit, redesigning your spider brother and sisters suits. - all of who give you glowing reviews. “It perfectly suited their needs in battle." “They didn't know what they were missing.” “Couldn't fight without it now.”

It did feel nice to be helpful, to be so good at something, but it didn't change the pitying looks you got when you were winded on the second flight of stairs. The awkward pauses after being asked to grab something on the ceiling. It didn't stop that ever-present nagging voice whispering ‘imposter’ over and over again.

You bend down and stuff the first sleeve of cups into the water cooler. Checking the paper products and wiping down the counter before you leave, while suit design was your main job at HQ, you had some spare time in between mending tears and liked to make yourself useful. Someone had to help keep this place running, remember to rotate the weekend kitchen staff, give the cleaning crew up-to-date key codes, and order more toilet paper. It helped you feel useful.

It also helped stall you from your other unofficial official job, director duty, Miguel manhandling, dancing with el diablo. Spider sitting. You were in charge of trying to make sure Miguel O’Hara didn't kill himself trying to preserve the cosmic threads of the multiverse, even if it killed you.

“Hey Silkworm!”

Swiveling your head around you search the cafeteria for which Spiderman was using the moniker Lyla gave you. (No matter how many times you tried changing it nothing else stuck.)

Peter B swings down in line, baby carrier devoid of a little red-headed spider baby, you startle when she falls from the ceiling into her father's waiting arms.

“Silky, my girl,” He slips an arm over your shoulders while using the other to slip May back into her seat, “ Someone may have set Mr.uzzyfay on irefay.” He clumsily reaches into the diaper bag while trying to cover Mays's face, pulling out the singed tarantula stuffy you have seen many times before. Ripped, stained, chewed, half vaporized, and now burnt. You push the mutilated stuffed animal in your bag while May claws her dad's hand off of her eyes.

“Is there any way he can be done before,” he covers May's ears and yet still mouths the words, “nap time.“ She chews on the strap of her carrier, oblivious.

“Yeah no problem,” you duck when May webs a pudding to her, pinching the baby's chubby cheek as you mentally reschedule your suit repairs.

You reach to grab a water and check the calories on the chicken salad, before ordering one, no super metabolism to keep you in shape.

Peter starts to walk away before yelling, “Also Jess said Miguelhasnteatenallday. Okay, thanks bye.” He is out of the cafeteria before you even process what he said. It sinks in.

You groan and thunk your head against the Glass partition before ordering two more salads, and a Reuben, he is a big man after all.

It was hard to admit you knew why you were tasked with pestering Miguel day and night, but you did, you were... expendable. While no one wanted to voice their concerns for the stoic director, there was the chance that the man who kept the weight of the world's on his shoulders would one day snap, and they couldn't risk the casualty being someone important.

Jess hadn't worded it like that when she asked you to ‘keep an eye on director O’Hara,’ but the circles under her eyes and slash mark on her suit made it clear he wasn't in the best head space, she ruffled your hair and placated that you were ‘just too cute to mess with.”

Cute, weak, what’s the difference, it didn't matter, you owed Jess. She was the reason you were here. The reason you had any semblance of purpose, this pseudo-family.

Hesitating before the doors you work up your courage, he had been more… Miguel these last few weeks, anomaly after anomaly cropping up giving him no chance to breathe. Sometimes webbing the food tray up to himself and digging in voraciously- ignoring the utensils, others refusing to acknowledge you concentrating on the computer screens until you left. Some days, the bad days you've taken to calling them, he just roars “leave.” loud enough to stop your heart, hand faltering mid-air outside his door.

You take a deep breath and wave your wrist in front of the menacing black scanner that opens the menacing black doors, menacingly… Leave it to that man to find the most dramatic way to decorate. (All he was missing was some fog and thunder.) It did the job though, you swallow the spit suddenly thick in your mouth. Breathe in. Breathe out.

You walk into the dark cavernous office, “Knock, knock,” you say and immediately regret it. Doors swishing closed behind you.

Silence.

“Lunch delivery, for a Mr. O’hara.” you cringe again and look around eyes trying to focus on the big dumb platform, screens glowing on top.

Silence.

Your hands sweat on the plastic tray, “Come get it while its hot, or - cold. Theres really a- a- mixture here so come get the food at its best… respective… temperature,’ you trail off your last word echoing in the cavernous chamber.

You hear a click and the screens up top turn off, plunging the room into darkness, well almost darkness, two twin flames peering down at you, scorching you.

You don't brake eye contact as you start backing up, “Not a good time, huh, ill’ your voice cracks and you clear your throat, “ ll come back later.”
You blink and hes gone.

Your heartbeat picks up, still stumbling backward tray shaking. Your brain tells you he's a good guy, saved millions, but your gut churns with something akin to fear.

The silverware clatters off as your hand begins to shake, as your ears pick up on the shrieking sound of slicing metal, then, once again that dreaded silence.

You take a deep breath you must be feet from the door, the moment you're out there in the artificial light of the hallway you'll realize how ridiculous this panic is. You just need to get out there.

Breathe in. Step. Breath out. Step. Breath-

Smack. Your back hits the wall and you sigh in relief, rebalancing the tray in one arm as you swing your hand backward for the panel to open the door.

You don't remember the door being warm, rippling under your palm, breathing on your neck, or smelling like cinnamon and campfires.

You lurch forward tray slipping from your hand and clattering to the floor, feet tangling as you follow suit, that is until an iron band wraps around your midsection. Jerking you backward and up against Miguel's chest, heart stuttering, his breathing grows ragged.

Slowly craning your head backwards wide eyes meeting his bloody ones. You count one, two, three heartbeats.

Silence.

“I.. I.. brought you lunch.”

Silence

“It’s on- on the floor now”

He makes a noncommittal noise and leans closer, you freeze.

Heart leaping into your throat as he leans in and… inhales?

Your brain short circuits and you gasp for air, trying to figure out how to tread water in this unfamiliar ocean. Statue still for what feels like lifetimes but could only be a handful of seconds. He just keeps huffing you in, trapped in arms of iron you can do little to resist. A beeping noise comes from above and he stills. The distraction is enough to catch your breath, fortify yourself, count to three before you speak-

“I guess ill go and”

He makes a noise between a growl and a whine and pulls you closer, you feel something sharp graze the skin above your navel, the breath ghosting the top of your head migrates down as he pulls you up, feeling near weightless, you stop moving as hot air wets the junction of your shoulder and neck.

He leans down mouth open and you swear you feel something wet and soft lathe at your shoulder, when-

“Boss? Category 5 anomaly-"

Lyla's warning blurs together as you move at a speed you didn't even know was humanely possible, then again the man you were dealing with wasn't technically human. Lurching into the air you're thrown through the now open doors out into the hallway and your stomach churns- bile pushes up your throat- it's over in a second you stumble slightly forward before falling on your ass a bright red web on your chest doing little to slow your fall. (It's the thought that counts though, right?) You stare wide-eyed as Miguel disappears in a flash, catching only the tail end of hissed cuss words echoing around you.

Your ass hurts as you sit there slack-jawed on the floor. The only proof that wasn't a dream a pink blotch on your neck and an odd feeling swirling in your chest.

Chapter Text

It had been three days since you had seen Miguel and the ‘incident’ had occurred, that's what you were calling it because you were a mature adult and this was a workplace, and workplace incident sounded better than feral boss groping.

In the three days you had been free of director duty, you had been working overtime. An anomaly on Earth-383 keeping him almost suspiciously busy, if he was capable of embarrassment you would have thought him avoiding you. (but you digress...)

Why had you been working harder?

You could feel ‘it’ coming on, one of your… episodes. The ‘it’ in question was your one ability that truly defined your thread weaving as subhuman. You had taken to mentally calling it your Fiber feeling, (although you would never admit it) it was as close as you were ever gonna have to a spider-sense.

The first time it happened was hours after you got bit, sweaty, and nauseous you laid in your bed as you feverishly dreamt of knotted twine and an infinite web of silk spanning the universe. You woke from your dreams with a choked gasp frantically searching your apartment for something half delirious. The last thing you remember before blacking out was an overwhelming sense of relief as you found the dusty sewing kit in the back of your junk drawer.

You roused the next day, horribly late for work, fingers sore and raw in your haste to make… something. Confusion turned to apprehension as you glanced down at the pile of cloth in your lap. ( One of your curtains you later discovered. )

With shaking fingers you unraveled your creation, the first thing you noticed were the perfect red drops of blood from where you must have pricked yourself over and over again. It takes a second for you to realize what you made, the jagged tapestry of lines a confusing blend for your tired eyes and pounding head. Then it finally clicked.

It was a man.

A man with a hole between his eyes standing at a podium, blood haloing out around him, pieces of bone and brain etched in thread, the detail was sickening. You let it fall to the floor tears pricking the corners of your eyes horrified at what you created.

You made sure to stuff it in the bottom of the trash can. (You also bought all new curtains.)

When the CEO of Oscorp was assassinated the next week you tried to convince yourself he didn't look anything like your grisly portrait.

However, it was also one of these moments that led you to Jess and subsequently your new life at HQ.
You had embroidered her, heavily pregnant with child, fighting a DocOc at the bank across from the grocery store you were working at. It was just as confusing for her as it was for you when the woman from your weaving walked into your store -stomach still flat- expecting to leave with a lemonade and leaving with a dazed you instead. Still gripping the tapestry you had been compelled to put in your bag for some unknown reason that morning.

(All you remember from that day aside from having your concept of space-time ripped apart was listening to Jess plead with Miguel from outside his office,

“She has potential I know it.”

“She passed out. Twice.”

“Cut her some slack it was a long day”

“Every day is long here.”

“Miguel…”

“What can she even do? Her blood mutation points to no heightened physical prowess.”

“She will find her place I know it, besides if not she can be our mascot or something.”

He only sighed in response.

Just like that you never left, feeling more accomplished in the one week you spent at HQ than you ever felt back at your dead-end job. No family or friends calling you home)

Your Fugue states only came to you a handful of times, each incident allowing you to better hone in on the indicators before you zoned out. (Electricity on your skin, prickling behind your eyes, skin feeling just a little too tight.)

You had learned in the hours before to drink a bottle of water, wrap your fingers, take some Advil, and hope you would come back to yourself in a reasonable amount of time.

(The Miles Morales debacle stole 36 hours and you still shudder at the hand cramps.)

While most times this ability felt like nothing more than a curse. (what good was knowing a future you couldn't change or sometimes even decipher.) Other moments shown to you were beautiful, MayDay’s first steps, Jess holding a bright-eyed baby boy, soft gentle moments that filled you with warmth.

You hoped this time would be one of the latter moments.

You sigh and finish closing the rips on the suit you were working on, moving it to hang in the ‘pick up’ area, outside of the room that had been converted to your studio. The brightly painted walls lined with fabrics and threads everything you needed to be the official HQ seamstress, and a few personal hobby items you didn't feel guilty charging to the company card. (Art supplies were Damn expensive!)

You stretch your back and then lay out an assorted pile of embroidery threads on your table rifling through your drawers before finding a sheet of canvas, the right materials tended to help speed up the process you learned.

You decide to use the bathroom and put in some eye drops before sitting down at your workbench and waiting for the fog to consume you.

---------
You rouse suddenly fingers spasming, body starling awake out of your dream state, blinking confused it takes a few moments to remember where you are and what happened.

You hesitate before looking down at the piece in your lap, steeling yourself for whatever you were gonna see.

Here goes nothing-

The blood drains from your face and you set down the project and pick it back up twice before beginning to accept what you see.

You sit there staring blankly at the weaving minutes tick by and you don't move just trying to process.

What the f-

-shcwk- the doors of your room spring open.

You look up so fast you tip your chair backward only catching yourself with a hard thwack of your knee to the underside of your desk. You hiss in pain while frantically opening a drawer to stuff the omen deep inside.

Your panicked actions keep you from processing who it is outside your door.

Until he clears his throat, and your stomach falls.

Miguel O’Hara, Director O’Hara, is looming at your doorway looking as unimpressed as ever, quirking an eyebrow down at your frazzled state. You hope you don't look as guilty as you feel.

You keep eye contact raking in the details that slowly trickle into your brain. The first of which is that he isn't in his suit, instead he wears grey joggers and a white t-shirt stretched to the limits. (It compliments his physique so well that it makes you wonder if he also has some sort of mastery over thread.)

It dawns on you that you have never seen him like this looking so normal, so … human. Something about it makes your cheeks heat. (How is he still so imposing standing behind a bead curtain? )

He opens his mouth and your last encounter rushes back to you in agonizing detail, he must be here to address the elephant in the room, alright adult conversation time-
3
2
1

“It's oka-”

“Jess said you could make me a temporary suit?”

Oh.
Not about your last encounter then, you try to ignore the odd wave of disappointment. You suppose it is better to just move on, business as usual and it would be forgotten in no time.

You must just be staring at him dumbly because his gaze flits behind you, trying to see if there was anyone else that could help him.

You lick your lips and try not to notice the way his fist clench and unclench.

“Ye-” voice cracking, “Yeah I can help, whats- what's up?”

He points to the cuff on one of his wrists- “Nanotech is unstable after my last anomaly encounter, it’ll take me longer than I’d like to troubleshoot.” He pauses for a second as if expecting you to reply when you don't say anything he adds, “My suits offline.”

“Oh okay,’ you drum your fingers across the desk trying not the glance down at the drawer you stashed your latest premonition in. “I have some old suits from some of the other spider guys, You can try one out if you'd like?”

He scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Orrr- um- I can custom fit you for something ...now?” you glance to the curtain that led to your fitting area gnawing the inside of your cheek.

He shoulders past you rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath, “Ya acabemos con esto.”

You think you should be offended.

It’s strange at first,being so close to the boss you've had such an awkward- bordering on toxic- working relationship with these past few months. This is the first time you think you've seen him in more than just the light from his computer screen. It softens his features and lets you notice the subtleties in his complexion, the way his stubble grazes the angles of his jaw. You sigh at the charcoal smudges under his eyes. He was working himself to the bone, he spent more hours after work in the gym than asleep these days.

You experience some bumps, hesitant to touch the man that's shown no qualms in voicing his cutting opinion. He hisses out as your nail scratches the skin of his neck when you attempt to measure the width. You freeze waiting for the verbal lashing you've heard him give so many others, but he simply grits his teeth and looks up. You soon fall into an easy rhythm hands measuring and brain buzzing with ideas- textures and stitches overlapping into a cohesive design in your mind's eye.

You take your last measurements. (Attempting not to notice the firm curve of his pecs or just how much of your tape measurer it takes to wrap around his thighs. (Be professional.))

You take out your sketch pad, and try to decide which suit pattern you will adapt- your gonna need to account for those ridiculous shoulders. You hum and let your mind fill with the pattern, noting the stitching and threads you'll need to reinforce points of high tension. You will also have to decide on the embellishments you’ll ad on for that signature spider flare.

You are interrupted by the sound of a roll of nylon thunking on the floor. Miguel turns looking as sheepish as you think is possible for him as he reaches down to put the fabric roll back into place.

You flush realizing you completely zoned out on him he’s never been here and doesn't know your routine. This is as new for him as it is for you.

“Sit, if you want to,” You point to the overstuffed green loveseat you forced the Spideys to drag up for you. “I'll need your input for a few more minutes then I’ll let you go. I just want to make sure we are on the same page before I get into the knitty gritty- get it knitty.” You chuckle at your own joke and tune back into the work in front of you.

You’re already well into the design when you glance back at him and can't contain your giggle. He is perched on the very edge, spine straight as an arrow, looking at the worn pleather like an anomaly might leap through it at him. It was the most uncomfortable you had ever seen someone next to a chunky knit pastel blanket, still laughing you walk over to him and push his shoulders back into the couch.

Wait. What.

Frozen bent over his prone form, you process what you just did. He stays pushed back into the couch no doubt more from the shock of your actions than any real strength on your part. His pupils blow out and narrow like a cat's, slowly sliding over to the hand still on his shoulder.

You snatch it back holding it to your chest like it burns.

“Oh God, Sorry I shouldn't of touched you so casually, well we might actually be past that, with the whole lunch debacle, not that I really think about that, well more than once a day- haha,” please stop talking. Now would be the perfect time for an anomaly. “You Just looked uncomfortable, and I thought this shouldn't be awkward like our last interaction, not that it was awkward, just different-”

He shakes his head violently and holds up one hand finally breaking your mindless ramble, “It’s fine.”

You deliberate saying more, hands swinging by your sides, but instead decide on a firm nod, cheeks flaming you spin on your heel. You can't help but note he doesn't move from his reclined position at least one victory from that flaming train wreck.

You flick on your radio humming quietly to the lo-fi station you liked to work to. Asking Miguel questions occasionally, receiving soft mmmhmms or grunts as replies until you ask him about the shade of dark blue and you don't receive an answer.

Annoyance flashes through you at being so blatantly ignored until you swivel back and see him slouched back on the couch mouth slightly agape, chuffing softly in his sleep, looking decades younger. Your heart pangs again for the stress he wrestles with daily.

His hand clenches and unclenches in his sleep and you spot talons flicking in and out of his nail beds- sighing you erase your glove design and start again.

If you take more time than necessary- maybe even hours more- designing Miguel’s suit. (Choosing to cancel your other appointments for the day. ) You blame it on the need for the director's suit to be top-notch. You didn't disturb him because he is the best endorsement your skills could ask for, not because the idea of waking up the exhausted man-made your heart hurt.

When you can no longer drag out your work it's well into the night and well past when you usually retreat to your cozy apartment on the fringe of Nueva York.

You aren’t proud of how you wake Miguel up, but you've seen enough startled spider people to know it's not a good idea to scare them. Grabbing a yardstick nearby you gingerly poke him on the bicep. The effect is instantaneous the ruler burns your palm as it’s yanked from your grasp and splinters in half. He's on his feet in a blink, eyes wild and fangs extended.
You pause at the sight eyes darting back to the desk before turning your attention to him- he's breathing heavy eyes hazy, until he zeros in on you.

Your heartbeat picks up.

He reaches out for you ever so slightly, eyes just this side of soft, your breath quickens. His fingertips are inches from yours when he inhales and his eyes narrow. The shutters come back over his expression, hand wrenching down to his side.

“Hey," you feel more breathless than you should "Did ya sleep well?”

He stares at you breathing softly through his mouth.

When the silence grows too loud you add on, “I’m sorry to wake you up but it's pretty late. “ You nod your head to the clock on the wall.

He Glances at the time and turns back to you, stretching his arms up and behind his back with a satisfying crack. His shirt rides up revealing an unfairly toned stomach and it takes you longer than is decent to look away heat dusting your cheeks.

You both stand there the only thing to puncture the silence is the heavy tik tik tik of the clock.

“Well, I better pack up for the night.” You reach for your purse (made of granny squares) to illustrate your point.

He watches your movement eyes tracking in a way you don't want to call predatory, you ruffle some things around in your bag to try and dispel the tension in your chest.

“Oh,” you swivel back to him. “I'm gonna need you to come back for a final fitting tomorrow morning.”

He nods again, hair splayed around his head at different angles from his unexpected nap, it was almost endearing. Turning to leave he smoothes his hand through his har and down his rumpled shirt, Before walking out the door he turns on his heel to fix you with an even stare.

He looks long enough for you to begin to fidget, touching the corner of your mouth- probing for an invisible blemish.

“Thank you.” He states, simply, firmly, and then turns on his heel and strides away.

You keep staring long after he's left, it takes your automatic lights shutting off to rouse you. A Smile is firmly planted on your lips. It only falters when you turn back to your desk eyes mulling down to where you know the tapestry is hidden. On wobbly legs you walk back to it, your hand trembling as you pull the drawer open, eyes clamped shut like not seeing it right away would change it.

You peel them open.

It didn't.

The image was still the same displayed in perfect detail, colored thread gleaming and layering into a crisp scene.

Miguel O’Hara in all his glory spread across his office chair, thighs spread wide sitting with all the pomp of an emperor at the games. Muscled legs clad in the bottom half of his spider suit, the top half sinfully bare, faint pink lines decorating his pectorals.

While embroidering your boss half-naked was bad enough it wasn't what caused your pulse to thrum in your ears.

Laid across Miguel O’Hara’s lap - the Miguel O’Hara- was a woman. His hand fisted in her hair turning her face outwards allowing him to sink sharp teeth into her neck. His eyes stared down at her, casting the skin of her cheek into a soft red apple. Her face stared up into the great unknown, mouth cast into a wide ‘O’ shape, eyes prickling with unshed tears.

Eyes you saw in the mirror every day.

Chapter Text

Your feet drag the last few steps to your apartment door. The past week catching up to you all at once. You barely remember to brush your teeth and take off your shoes before crashing into your bed dead asleep.

------------

You are in a forest tree branches weaved into a dense wall, never quite in focus no matter how long you stare. The wind picks up, and the air that smacks your face is hot and humid and tastes faintly of cinnamon. A branch snaps behind you and the confusion morphs into fear, you turn seeing nothing in the thick foliage. You try to take a deep breath but the hot air - heavy and wet - chokes you. More branches break. The switch finally flips to full panic and your feet pump forward before you tell them to. The branches keep snapping behind you, and you don't have to look behind you to know you’re being pursued. Chased.

You run fast but whatevers behind you is faster. Lungs burning you push forward, and the trees around you begin to sprout leaves- glowing red leaves. Your foot is yanked backwards and you hit the ground knocking the little oxygen in your lungs out.

The thing behind you draws closer, steps slow - daring you to try and run again. You ignore the veiled threat- scrambling to your knees trying to crawl forward.

You Finally struggle to your feet falling twice before remaining upright. Trying to suck in the air your lungs need your eyes filling with spots. The thing behind you laughs… except- it’s not behind you anymore. You slowly raised your head up and don't have time to scream when a clawed hand wraps around your throat.

------------ 

You wake with a gasp hands rushing to your neck, eyes blurred, your sheets are wrapped around your legs and you struggle against them before the room focuses. Your room. Heartbeat slowing you drop back against your bed breath ragged. It takes a few minutes but the terror drains- trying to sleep again though, that proves fruitless. You toss and turn a few minutes before huffing and grabbing for your phone from the nightstand.

You squint as the screen blinds you, turning down the brightness you check the time- 4:13. You worry your lip a minute before sighing and pulling yourself out of bed. You hoped an early morning gym session would chase away any lingering tension and the phantom taste of cinnamon on your tongue.

-------

The trip to work is quiet, sun barely over the horizon. You pop an earbud in and use the train ride to watch the few other commuters with mild interest.

-------

You press your eye against the retinal scanner and try not to blink as the light confirms your employee status door unlocking.

HQ is barren when you enter, it's not surprising most spider people slept in their own universes and came in only after making sure their New Yorks weren’t facing any grave threats.

You dredge up the three flights of stairs to the gym, and seriously consider if you should even work out after this. The damn place had 30 floors and one elevator... that was under repair and would be for the next two weeks. It wasn't a problem for those who could web their way around the open-concept building. Meaning it wasn't a problem for anyone but you.

Opening the gym doors, you are surprised to find the lights already on and the telltale sound of the battle sim. running. You drop your bag onto a bench, interest piqued, and walk towards the elaborate system set into the corner of the gym.

( You had spent a fair amount of time in your first weeks here observing in awe as the various different spider people pushed themselves to the limit.

You watched for hours as your supposed peers fought armed robbers, defused bombs, and navigated burning buildings to save the innocents inside.

It was incredible but you had to stop coming so frequently, it left you feeling lacking. All these spider people training to protect their worlds, while you could only assist from the sidelines, hoping to not be more burden than help. (Your New York had been placed on rotation to be monitored by whatever spider person was available at the time.))

You slip across the gym trying not to disturb whoever was training, yet too curious to stay away. When the training area slips into view you have to muffle the noise of surprise you make with a hand over your mouth, eyes bulging.

Miguel stands in the simulator, chest heaving while ten faceless humanoid holographic figures surround him, each armed. Choosing to attack first, -Which doesn't surprise you- he twists the knife out the hand of one and into the stomach of another who fades out. That seems to spur the rest into action, two of which pull out guns.

You don't have time to finish wincing before he has them both unarmed and shot through the heart.

The others meet the same fate, Miguel's perfectly timed strikes and dodges. He moves with far too much grace for a man his size. He Dances around like this until one lands a blow, and his fighting style morphs into something jagged. He drops the holographic knife he was holding, instead choosing to grip his faceless attacker's throat, clawed hands ripping through with a burst of light. Another he guts with a swipe of his free hand.

Even with no gore, the brutality of it makes you grimace.

He is down to the last one and you watch on curious as he circles the holo. The ‘man’ throws a punch and he ducks out of the way, pushing his shoulder and sending it off balance. It crashes to the floor and you wait for him to deal the final blow, but he doesn't instead choosing to back away again.

You watch confused as it goes on like this for several minutes, the attacker getting up and knocked down over and over again. It was odd, Miguel pacing around not being able to finish the job even as his rival got up slower and weaker every time. It was limping now favoring the leg that had been rather savagely kicked out from under him. Miguel just watched on, walking in a lazy circle steps almost comically slow.

In a sick realization, it hit you what was going on he was... toying with it.

A few moments later fed up with his game Miguel slinks behind his victim and in one swift movement snaps it's neck.

You stand staring as the simulation powers down around him. You feel quite at odds, both impressed and appalled at his savagery.

He pulls his shirt off and mops his brow with it. When you see the muscled plains of his back you can't contain the strangled noise that leaves your throat.

No longer having the fight to conceal your presence, he wheels around locking eyes with you. His chest heaving he drags his eyes up and down your form, and instead of saying anything he walks over to the control console and starts it back up.

You take the hint and on slightly shaky legs make your way over to the treadmills.

Your workout goes well running on the treads for thirty minutes before switching to the weights. Trying to not be bothered that your dumbells (Lyla ordered them for you) were so much lighter than all the others in the gym. You push yourself hard, music blaring in your headphones, and decide to end your workout at the punching bags.

You hadn't tried them before. (Despite buying your own gloves one night after watching rocky and two glasses of wine.) You just felt self-conscious about your form. The gym busy in the evenings when you usually went after work didn't feel like the ideal environment to experiment.

You strap on your (purple) gloves and step up to the bag, trying to size it up while you roll your shoulders. You throw a punch, frowning when your gloved hand slips off the face. You huff and aim again this attempt is not much better. Sighing you give the bag a hard shove, your cheeks burn when the bags swinging reveals O’Hara watching you. The embarrassment doubles when the bag hits you on its way back.

Trying to save some face you half call half laugh, “Have any tips?”

Not expecting a reply, you turn back to the bag and try to position yourself to throw a solid punch.

“You need to widen your stance- keep your balance, watch where you hit, not rest so long in between blows-”

You spin on your heel and are chest to chest with Miguel his hands firmly on his hips as he looks down at you. God he moves fast. He's still talking but you can't hear him over the fact he's still shirtless towel resting over his broad shoulders. He spauses and raises a dark eyebrow at you.

“Wha- what.”

He shakes his head, placing a warm tanned hand on your hip and moving it slightly. (You try to ignore the heat that radiates out from the contact.)

“You need to center yourself,” he kicks your feet a little further apart, “Widen your stance, watch where you’re hitting.”

You look back at him, and he nods to the bag. You hope you don't embarrass yourself and let loose another punch.

Huh.

It felt good, not perfect, but good. You try it a few more times, each punch feeling better than the last.

“That’s so cool!” You swivel back to Miguel, beaming. “I'll be fighting like you in no time!” You throw a few air punches and freeze when you notice the corner of his lip curved. Your fist hovering in front of you. He clears his throat and rakes a hand over his face taking the almost smile with it.

“Better.” He nods once, “You need to rest a few seconds max between each hit. It doesn’t matter how hard you hit if you can't keep it up.” With that, he nods again to the bag.

You spend the rest of your time in the gym like that, hitting the bag, trying to apply the advice Miguel occasionally supplied. When you finally stop you are covered in sweat and the gym has a few more spider people milling about.

You turn to Miguel and try to say ‘thank you’ while also attempting to catch your breath and loosen the velcro of your glove with your teeth.

Miguel must take pity on you because he pulls your gloved hand from your mouth and loosens the strap for you, the glove falling to the ground.

You look up at him and it kind of just sinks in then that you spent the last hour getting personal trainered by your boss, Your half-dressed boss. Suddenly self conscious you attempt to wipe the sweat off your brow and push your stray hair back behind your ear. (It’s futile.) Towing the ground you take a quick breath before speaking again, “Thank you.”

He nod’s before turning to leave.

“Wait,” You reach forward grabbing his wrist, he freezes turning back to stare at you brow furrowed.

“I mean, really, thank you. I’ve spent the last few months at the gym wanting to fit in and at least -start- to learn how to fight… and I know this” you gesture to the bag, “Isn't even close to what you guys do but it felt good… so yeah... Thanks.”

He nods again starting to walk away, and you feel like hitting yourself for saying all that when he stops and calls over his shoulder.

“Tomorrow. 6 AM.”

Chapter Text

Your skin buzzes in the shower playing the last hour over and over in your mind like a movie. When your soaped hands run across your hips, you shiver, the memory of how rough and hot his palms had been filling your mind. How you had felt his callouses even through the spandex of your leggings. The way his breath brushed across your neck when his gruff voice offered corrections and even the occasional praise.

“No, harder.”

“Try to keep a steady rhythm.”

“Good, right there, just like that.”

You are mortified when you realize your hand has dipped in between your legs. You check the empty shower stall, making sure you were still alone. (Of course you were) When you have assured yourself that nobody saw that little scene, you take a deep breath and thunk your head against the cool tiled wall, yanking the shower to as cold as possible.

This was a workplace, you needed to be a goddamn professional.

-----------

Before you make your way to your little workshop you head to the cafe grabbing something hot and heavily caffeinated. You know the lack of sleep, morning work out, and out-of-order elevator was gonna hit you like a truck. You just hoped a steady stream of caffeine would slow the impact.

Inhaling the steam you sigh into your cup, excited for the coming cold months. The wind this morning had carried a chill that hinted at sweater season and of course matching mittens, hats, and scarves.

You spend the trek up the ten flights of stairs imagining new patterns, only stopping twice to catch your breath, and curse the elevator repair people.

When you make it up to your level your coffee cup is mostly empty rounding the corner to your door you toss it into the trash can that sits in the hall.

Or where the trash can should have been- instead you watch in horror as the cup flies through the air at... Miguel.

He is doing something on his watch and doesn't look up instead snatching the projectile mid air. Those spider reflexes never stop amazing you.

“Sorry about that.” You blush.

“It’s fine,” he crushes the cup and tosses it over his shoulder. You feel mildly annoyed when it swishes in not even touching the rim. He finishes up whatever he was doing on his watch, and turns to face you.

“Suits ready?”

Business like usual, you don't know why it's disappointing- this morning flashing back into your mind.

You nod pushing back any hurt feelings, one workout wasn't gonna change your whole dynamic. “Yeah, well almost, just need you to try it on, make sure it feels right.”

He grunts a yes, pushing off the wall, and walking ahead of you into the room. He swipes the suit off the table and isn't even behind the changing curtain when his shirt hits the floor.

You are sorting your fabric scraps when Miguel comes out.

He opens the curtain and your heart drops to your feet because he is smiling. Not a full toothy grin and maybe a little strained but it’s definitely a smile.

It hits you like a truck- you always knew you were attracted to him (who wouldn't be) but it was easy enough to label it as an artistic appreciation for his features, but now seeing him with that ovary-shattering smile, wearing something -you- made it was impossible to ignore. You liked him- like liked him.

“Jess was right, you are talented,” He brings up a gloved hand and flexes his claws through the slits you had left specifically for them. “This is impressive.”

And that did it -cemented the crush in.

You had been complimented before but hearing -him- affirm your talents, now that made your knees weak.

“Thank you,” You blush tucking a nonexistent hair behind your ear, “I’m happy you like it.”

He nods and runs a hand over his chest tracing the red spider that sits there.

You go over your checklist, full limb extension, web shooters fit in place, no uncomfortable seems. Check, check, check. It isn’t until he tries on the mask that you hit a snag.

“Eye holes lined up?” you ask while circling around him, noting improvements you would make in the future.

“Yeah,” He replies voice slightly muffled, “But this isn't gonna work.” He tugs off the cowl.

You are on him before he has a chance to speak, going over your work, critical eyes searching for the perceived flaw.

“Is it too tight I was worried about that but didn't want it to lose integrity” You grab the mask from his hands checking the stitching.

“No-”

“Hmmm, the breathabilty then,-” you smoosh the mask up to your face inhaling through it, ”Seems fine to me, bu-”

“It’s not-”

You wheel around to your sketch pad pencil already in hand “Not scary enough then- ill start the redesign-”

“¡Oye!” He waves a hand in front of your face breaking your single-minded focus. You turn looking wide-eyed up at him.

“The mask is plenty scary.”

“It is?”

“Yes, it’s terrifying.” He deadpans, “Wha-

“Then what's wrong with it?” You interject, cowering slightly at the look he gives you, if you'd just stop interrupting he’d explain.

“¡Dios Mio!” He Pinches the bridge of his nose taking a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t have this material over my mouth.”

Your confusion must be written all over your face because he rolls his eyes, leans in close, and then opens his mouth wide.

Your confusion multiplies until you notice them.

Fangs.

Mother fucking fangs.

He must see it in your eyes when it sinks in because he snaps his mouth shut and stares you down. His eyes are steely daring you to say something.

You resist the urge to slap a hand over your neck. Your breath freezes in your throat and you can't help but glance at the drawer you stashed the omen in the very back of. (It hadn't felt right bringing that energy home and yet you also couldn't bring yourself to throw it away.)

The image bleeds into your mind and you shake your head hoping to manually reset your brain. Head fuzzy and body hot- you need to pull it together, stop short-circuiting.

Workplace.

Be professional.

You hope you haven't offended him when you’re finally able to choke out a sentence.

“Oh okay- c-cool, give me 15 minutes.”

He rakes his gaze over your face brow furrowed, lingering on the pink of your cheeks a second longer than comfortable. Whatever he finds must be acceptable because he makes his way to the couch without a word.

You make the alterations in record time hands working on autopilot as your mind keeps wandering back to the fact that Miguel O’Hara has fangs and apparently -used- them. You rub your legs together trying to chase away the tension that builds when you think a little too long about the way his tongue ran over the sharp tips. Trying to push out the image of him holding you down and running them over your neck.

You needed help.

When he tries on the mask slowly tilting his head from side to side- you worry your cheek, suddenly nervous he won't like it. You feel a little concerned at the amount of elation that fills you when he nods his approval.

He stares at your bright smile with an unreadable expression.

The silence is broken by none other than Peter B. shouting outside your door.

“Silky, it’s bad! I don't know if he’s gonna make it this time!”

Miguel crosses his arms over his chest clearly familiar with Peter’s special brand of drama.

You sigh opening the door as he rushes in clutching the torn body of Mr. Fluffy. He pauses for a second taking in Miguel’s presence before turning his attention back to you.

“Let me see.” You hold your hands out and he deposits the well-loved spider plush into them. Three of his eight legs hanging on by a thread.

“Is he gonna make it doc? We can’t lose him, May will never forgive me.” He grabs for his heart.

You can't resist a small smile at his theatrics, still turning the toy over in your hands.

Miguel on the other hand rubs a hand over his face. You hear him mutter under his breath picking out, ‘So this is what my money is being used for’ and ‘Tonto.” He shoots a glare that Peter deftly ignores, instead choosing to peer over your shoulder with bated breath.

“Soo-”

“I’ll fix him after I get my fabric shipment from the lobby-”

He lets out a long sigh of relief. That man did love his baby.

You pull your phone out and wince at the time, “Shoot, it should be here any minute.” You make your way to the hall grimacing at the stairs, it was gonna be a nightmare carrying all those rolls of spandex up and down.

Peter must notice your frown, “Elevator out of order?”

“Yeah, and it's a big shipment.” You bemoan.

“Want a lift?” He offers. “I can help you bring it up too, least I can do for all the times you've helped with May?"

You hesitate, weighing your pride against your sore legs. It was a lot of steps and he would save you so much time.

“Sure,” You say nodding as you anchor in your choice, and flash peter a grateful smile. “that would be a big help, thanks!”

You twist around when Miguel makes a noise low in his throat, his jaw is flexed, eyes staring straight ahead, fists balled at his side. You begin to feel self-conscious about accepting Peter’s offer -teeth gnawing at your bottom lip- you contemplate changing your mind.

Peter looks between the two of you and a devious smile rakes across his face.

He steps over to Miguel insolently tapping him on the chest, “I’m sure the boss man has to get back to work, right Miguel? Universes to monitor, candy to steal from small children…”

Peter steps back when Miguel swats his hand away and instead slings an arm over your shoulder “Don't worry Jefe, She’s in good hands.” He mimes a salute.

Miguel’s nostrils flare and you swear for a second his eyes flash red.

Before you can react Peter is ushering you down the hallway to one of the skywalks and assisting you over the safety railing.

Peter is the perfect gentleman asking before he wraps an arm around your waist, careful with his hand placement- and before you guys jump he warns you to ‘keep all hands arms and legs near the Spiderman and to enjoy your ride.’

You nod absently too distracted to really hear his jokes because Miguel is staring.

His eyes locked on you, chest heaving at a near-painful rate.

You don't have time to process what it means, because the wind is whistling in your ears as you drop the several floors to the lobby.

When you come in the next morning, the elevator is working.

Chapter Text

When your alarm blares at 4:30 you get out of bed in record time. You use the time you usually spend hitting snooze trying to decide on your outfit. (When fifteen minutes pass your room is a disaster, you have emptied half your closet, and you still haven't picked anything.)

You force yourself to stop overthinking- it didn’t matter what you wear this wasn't a date.

you make yourself grab the first shirt you see and a pair of shorts (if they made your butt look nice that was purely accidental.) Trying not to psyche yourself out you repeat that this was not a big deal.

Just gonna have a workout sesh with your boss, your super hot boss.

That you may have had a thing for.

No big deal.

--------------

You decide you have time for some coffee from your favorite little shop.

You pop in and order your usual, making small talk with your favorite barista, Natalie.

(You had become fast friends when she complimented your bag, and you came in the next morning with one for her.)

You are commiserating with her as she complains about finals when you are interrupted by one of her coworkers.

He hands you your drink cheeks flaming red, and thanks you for your patronage. He pauses for a beat after your thanks, fiddling with a pastry bag before shoving it into your hands and saying it was ‘complimentary.’ You try to thank him again as he scurries back to the counter.

You huff out a laugh turning back to Nat. “That was nice. Free pastry!”

“Nice?" She looks at you expectantly, and when you just stare she continues, "The new guy totally has a thing for you.” She waggles an eyebrow seductivly.

“What, no?” You look back at him and he is staring. When you make eye contact he quickly snaps his gaze back to the drink he's supposed to be making. “Ya think?”

“Duh! We don't do 'free pastries', " She mimes air quotes. "That's totally coming out of his paycheck. Plus he keeps checking you out…”

“Huh,” Is all you manage to say.

She is called back to help restock and you wave your goodbyes.

You spare another glance at your admirer as you leave the shop.

He’s objectively good-looking, thin, and tall. It occurs to you that in your previous life, you would have been attracted to him - all curly blonde hair and easy smiles. Looking at him now you can't help but be critical, his features are too soft. The freckles you would have melted over before just look childish now. You feel guilty when you judge his scrawny physique, not everyone could live at the gym.

--------------

When you make it to HQ all memory of the coffee shop is wiped from your mind. You try to contain the nervous energy welling up in you. The ride up in the elevator is somehow both excruciatingly long and over way too fast.

Taking a deep breath you -try- to get a grip.

This -wasn’t- a big deal.

It’s 5:57 when you step foot into the gym. You congratulate yourself on your timing, not late but not appearing over eager either. Cool, casual.

Not a big deal.

You spy Miguel over at the weight section and sheepishly meander over. As you grow closer the sheen of sweat indicates he has already been here for a while.

Figures.

The tensing of his shoulders mid-rep indicates that he has sensed your looming presence. Instead of stopping he finishes the set before racking. (The metal creaks under the added weight of the fully loaded bar. Just how heavy was that?) He assures that it’s not going to fall before sitting up and finally giving you his attention.

He opens his mouth to speak, then abruptly pauses eyes narrowing on you, more specifically your chest.

“What are you wearing?” He gestures to your shirt before planting his hands on his hips, clearly exasperated.

You look down at your shirt, stretching the material to see which tee you grabbed from your getting-ready mess and what could of possibly offended him.

The light blue shirt boldly supported the words,

‘My favorite Holiday is Mayday.’

The text bracketed a picture of the bright-eyed baby herself hanging upside down from a web, hair fluffed into a halo around her head.

“My shirt? Peter gave them out when she turned one.”

He is still staring, face incredulous.

Defensive you cross your arms over your chest, “What, it's a cute picture! Also, who doesn't love a good Pun? Your just jealous you didn't get one.”

He shakes his head, muttering ‘Por Dios’ as he walks over to the training mats. You would be offended if you didn't spy the ghost of a smile across his lips. A wins a win, but the victory is short-lived.

“¡Oye! You waiting for an invitation?” He calls stretching his shoulders.

You hurry over red-faced.

-----------

He makes you warm up. Hard.

High knees, burpees, and jumping jacks, until you are out of breath, and questioning if you were cut out of this.

He gives you a break and you greedily chug down your water. You send him a glare when instead of taking a break he starts doing one-armed push-ups.

God damn show off.

By the time you catch your breath, he has evened out his reps and has turned his attention back to you looking pensive.

“You really want to learn how to fight?”

You nod, and when he doesn't say anything you feel the need to elaborate.

“Yes, no, I don’t know,” His eyes are intense and you can’t stop the words from tumbling out. “I just want to stop feeling so defenseless all the time. To not be such a… liability.” Your shoulders slouch, “It’s just hard not to feel weak when you're constantly surrounded by-” You gesture to him trailing off, “such strong people.”

You wring your hands together, feeling dumb and vulnerable. Leave it to you to overshare with your boss first thing in the morning.

To Miguel's credit, he doesn't balk at your little tirade. Instead, he just nods expression thoughtful. When he finally replies you release the breath you didn't know you were holding.

“We’ll start with the basics.”

Your excitement morphs to confusion when he leads you over to the battle Sim keying something into the machine. The confusion turns to horror when he beckons you inside.

“You can’t possibly think I should use that thing.”

“One of its main functions is to assess new spiders' innate fighting skills.”

“I don’t have any fighting skills.”

He keeps typing away.

When he notices you haven't moved he sighs and adds- “You’ll be fine. It hasn't killed anyone.”

You resign yourself to your fate with a sigh stepping onto the mat.

-Shhk-

Your sneaker slips and you barely catch yourself before you fall with clumsy windmilling arms and a mortifying shriek.

“Yet, It hasn’t killed anyone yet.”

You shoot him a glare and when he turns back to finish queuing in the settings you stick your tongue out for good measure.

He presses the final button and the machine whirs on, a grid of lasers scans over your form followed by rapid blinking. You squint at the bright light and when your eyes adjust the scene around you has transformed.

You were now standing in a bank, complete with ‘tellers’, clients, and chained pens. All of it made out of light and some sort of technology you couldn't understand. You place a hand on the glowing counter next to you. You're amazed that the transparent surface is firm to the touch. You go as far as testing your weight on it, solid as a rock.

Incredible.

“Everyone on the ground!”

You wheel around in terror as a group of masked men appear out of thin air each armed with a very, very large Gun. Heart hammering you peer around trying to find Miguel through the shimmering walls, he's watching placidly hands on his hips, showing no signs that he's gonna interfere.

Okay, guess you're on your own.

You are snapped back into the moment when one of the men turns his attention to you. You watch slack-jawed as he stomps over and shouts ‘Down!’. Noting abstractly that his mouth doesn't move and the sounds comes from above. When you don’t move to comply he takes the butt of his gun and jams it into your shoulder blade.

You crumble to your knees half from shock and half from pain. It didn't hurt as much as you imagined a real gun to the shoulder would of, but it definitely smarted.

Like slapping a fresh sunburn.

You stare, pulse in your ears, as he walks back to his accomplices, all of who already hold bags of cash. He picks up a duffle of his own, shoots a round into the air and makes his way to the exit. You wince as he savagely kicks a prostrate hostage on his way by.
When he reaches the exit he disappears.

The rest follow suit phasing from existence when they cross the door's threshold. You are still on the floor when the bank disappears from around you and a voice from above rings out,

“Simulation Failed. Calculating response. Initiating next test.”

Before you can process, the space around you morphs again.

You now stand aside a busy road cars whizzing by. A long honk has you turning your attention up the road. A sedan veers in and out of traffic drawing closer to you by the second. You watch in horror as a semi-truck pulls into the intersection, weight slowing his acceleration to a crawl.

The car is still barreling forward and all you can manage is a strained shout before they collide.

The street disappears as the disembodied voice repeats,

“Simulation Failed. Calculating response. Initiating next test.”

It goes on like that for the next several minutes, crisis after crisis, failure after failure. It’s not until you fail to stop a carjacker, that the voice says something different.

“Simulation Failed. Calculating response. Initiating final test.”

Final test.

You take a deep breath. You could do this. Focus.

The tests had been getting easier. (From a superhero perspective.) If you buckled down you had a chance of maybe, just maybe, of succeeding.

The world around you shifts and you find yourself in a park. The streetlights are on and looking up you see stars glittering. An odd juxtaposition to the industrial ceiling above. You spy a figure walking towards you and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. The gut feeling solidifies when he is a few feet away and brandishes a knife.

Shit okay. Stay calm.

You stand your ground as he approaches. He is only a few feet away when he gestures at you with the blade.

Mugging okay.

Breathe.

Taking a page from Miguel’s book you strike first. The moment he is in reach you throw a punch. Trying to remember the tips from the day before. To your surprise it lands, knuckles bouncing off a featureless face. It hurt more without a glove, and you must have bent your wrist because it aches, but it doesn't really matter because you just landed a friggin’ punch.

Your attacker careens back thrown off balance, but you wait too long to advance and he remains upright. He slashes at you and you manage to avoid being cut purely by sheer luck. You strike out at him again, but you’re panicked and off balance and he easily blocks with a forearm.

You watch in slow motion as his other hand brings the knife down into your gut.

The simulation ends, your attacker disappears, and your heartbeat begins to gradually slow. You rub the unbroken flesh of your stomach. You may have not been stabbed but that still really did sting.

“Simulation over calculating results.”

The machine beeps and whirs for a moment.

“Zero percent success rate. Conclusion: Not equipped for fieldwork. Additional training mandatory.”

You throw your hands up at the voice, embarrassed and fed up with the robotic criticism. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Miguel enters and you turn to him still a little peeved.

“Enjoy the show?” You huff.

“Yes, actually.”

Huh. Didn't anticipate that.

“Especially when you tried to put out that fire by blowing on it. Don’t know why nobody else has thought of that. Very effective.”

His dry humor is unexpected but not unappreciated and it relieves some of your underlying tension. You allow yourself a weak chuckle, “What can I say, I’m great under pressure.”

He quirks a lip at you and all is forgiven, yet you still don't get why you did all that so you ask as much.

“So was there a reason I did all of... that" You gesture widely around you. "Other than to bruise my ego that is?”

“The best way to figure out where your fighting skills and defensive instincts are at is to see them applied in real-world scenarios, as you heard the test concluded you have none.”

Annnnd the frustration is back.

He moves and begins keying something into one of the glowing panels on the wall,

You scoff, the adrenaline in your system turning off common sense 101- aka don’t yell at your boss.

“All of that insanity just to learn that I don't know how to fight?! Not like I could have told you that...Oh wait I did! Great system. Perfect. ”

He ignores your little rant instead reaching to grab something off the wall. When he turns around he’s holding a holo gun.

Jumping at the sight you hold your arms up in a plaintive gesture and begin to backpedal. “Wait sorry it’s a great system. Perfect, really, not ridiculous and terrifying at all.”

He rolls his eyes, “I’m not gonna shoot you.”

“Your… your not?’’

He drags a hand over his mouth, “¿Por que acepte esto?”

“Sorry, sorry, my bad. Listening ears on, " You mime flipping a switch, "Ready to learn Miguel... er I mean sir.”

He snaps his eyes at you expression unreadable. When he begins to speak his voice is rough and deep, you try to ignore the way you can feel it in your chest.

“Your first priority should always be neutralizing any weapons, and only -after that- should you focus on your attacker.”

He hands you the gun. You take it fingers awkward around the glowing weapon.

“Now shoot me.”

You pause for a moment, then shrug. It wasn't a real gun and he was in charge. You raise the gun level to his chest but before your fingers can even twitch he strikes.

He snaps your wrist one direction and the barrel in another, ripping it from your grasp. He then yanks you forward and you collide into his chest. (It’s just as firm as you remember. No stop. Bad memories.)

You feel the pseudo gun bite into your back, but that’s not what makes you shiver.

Miguel leans in and whispers into your ear, “See. Weapon first then you subdue.”

When he steps back your knees are jelly and it takes a good long second to get a handle on yourself.

"All-right, weapon then subdue."

He nods and levels the Gun at you, “Now you try.”

Later he demonstrates the steps to disarm someone with a knife, and you spend the rest of your time practicing both.

Before you leave he makes you run that final simulation again.

You still get mugged but it takes longer than last time and you can’t help but feel proud.

Chapter Text

You fall into an easy rhythm in the days that follow- gym, work, home, and in that time a pseudo-friendship starts to bloom.

It’s subtle the shift between you and Miguel, but the ice, or distance, or, wall- (whatever you want to call the miasma that surrounds him) - starts to lessen, ever so slowly.

It begins halfway through the first week of your training, on an impulse you buy a second cup of coffee. It’s sweet and seasonal and you immediately start doubting your choice, spending the whole drive over debating just downing the second drink as well.

( You fiddle with the sleeve so much that the coffee place's stamped logo is all but a smudge.)

When you step foot into the gym you are all nerves. Your hand shakes when you hold up your caffeinated offering to Miguel.

“They made an extra, (Lie), so I thought you might want it.”

He just stares and under his scrutiny, all your anxieties are confirmed this was a bad idea.

“Ya know what I'll just toss it, free anyway so no harm no fowl.” (Lie again.)

You turn towards the nearest trash can and his hand shoots out snatching it from you to take a sip. His expression is inscrutable as he drinks, you must be watching him a little too intently, your need for him to like it plastered on your face, because he quirks a half eyebrow and you blush.

He takes another sip

“It’s very good… thank you." He pauses and your heart drops to your feet when out of nowhere he reaches out and tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

You look up at him but he turns and starts walking deeper into the gym.

-------

He takes his coffee black with a dash of cinnamon.

-------

When his nanotech gets fixed you fully expect him to go back to his old suit.

He knocks on your door one afternoon suit in hand, the tell-tale red glow of his idle suit illuminating his forearms

You try not to look too disappointed as you reach out to put the ensemble in your recycling bin, seeing him in your suit design had stoked your ego. (and maybe also that little fire in your stomach that had steadily been growing.)

“Solved your tech problem I see,” you grab the draped fabric, “ If you ever need another one these antiques ya know where to find me.”

When he doesn’t loosen his grip you peer up at him.

He clears his throat before speaking, “Will you upgrade it to work with the nanotech?” He pauses before adding “I’ve gotten used to its… conveniences.”

-------

When deep in thought he drums his fingers. Usually on his thighs, but sometimes his clawed nails rhythmically click on the hard surface of a nearby tabletop.

-------

He begins to tease you, the sarcastic remarks softened by the glint in his eyes and the occasional quirk of his mouth.

“Perfect form… you were trying to get stabbed, No?”

“And here I thought it wasn’t possible for the punching bag to win.”

Lots of dramatic sighs and eye rolls. He really did have a flare for the dramatic.

In turn, you just glare and blush and double down never quite knowing how to respond.

It’s not until you’re 10 minutes late one morning, having slept terribly, and waking up in a funk that you finally snap back at him.

He is pacing the gym when you enter his head snapping in your direction when the doors slams shut behind you.

“Look who decided to show up." He comments making his way over to you.

You send him an annoyed look which he ignores, instead circling around you scrutinizing your bedraggled appearance.

"Needed your beauty sleep this morning, huh, Princessa?” His tone is light but you're tired and sore and you snap back.

“Yes actually, Dracula, some of us actually need rest to function not just the blood of our victims.” You blanche brain catching up with your mouth.

His eyes narrow, and he makes his way towards you steps slow and measured.

Your heart is in your throat when he leans in making a point to ever so casually run his tongue over the sharpened tip of a canine. His breath tickles the shell of your ear, “Careful, Chiquita, or you’ll be next.” He drags the clawed tip of his index gently down the junction of your shoulder, as he leans back.

“No, wait, I, I..I, sorry, I didn’t-” Your panicked mutterings are interrupted by a short deep rusty laugh.

You turn cheeks aflame as you watch Miguel attempt to contain his amusemeant at your embarrassment.

Prick.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” you cross your arms over your chest in order to keep your hands from tracing the path his nail traveled.

You try to keep a stony glare leveled at him, but his wide smile and the sound of his laughter ringing in your ears makes it hard.

--------

He broke his left arm in two places during a fight with Green Goblin five years ago and it still bothers him on rainy days.

---------

It’s been two months since you started working out, you are in the best shape of your life, can run an 8 minute mile, and are so close to successfully disarming and subduing the virtual mugger.

You are a little peeved at Miguel for coding such an amazing AI, whenever you think you are about to succeed it adapts and throws another curveball. (Faster attacker, a second gun, rain slicking the sidewalk.)

Your complaints to Miguel are always met with some version of- “The real world isn’t predictable.” or “It isn’t supposed to be easy.”

You are considering what you’re gonna try to tweak tomorrow, (maybe more weight on your back leg), While you carry a lunch up to Miguel.

You can’t imagine what the you of last year would think about you right now, no trepidation, instead happily trotting food up to his office.

Not just one tray but two.

Why?

A week ago you had brought Miguel lunch, and while it was a much more positive polite experience his eating habits were still... irregular to say the least.

The three days prior he had canceled your morning workouts being caught up in a wave of anomaly.

While that was a bummer, the real issue was he hadn't taken any lunch the last three days either, eyes glued to the influx of information being sent to him, sending out teams to deal with the problems as they raised. You knew in your gut he was being an idiot and not making time for breakfast or dinner either, apparently when you were saving the world little things like food took the back seat.

The charcoal smudges darkening under his eyes proof of just how far he was pushing himself to the edge.

You might not have been able to make him sleep but you were determined to feed him.

You entered with one loud thump to the door frame hoping for him to web down and collect his food, with no struggle.

You groan when you see him still bent over his monitors, struggle it was. He is furiously swiveling between screens and it takes you loudly ‘ehemming’ a third time before he notices.

“Can’t today, another anomaly spotted.”

You reply with an irritated sigh.

He takes a brief pause and tacks on a- “Sorry.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Busy.” From here you can see the furrow between his brows deepen.

“You need to eat.”

“Later.” He starts to type something in.

“It’s been three days Miguel.”

He half shrugs and flicks his attention to another monitor.

"I doubt the universe will implode if you stop for five minutes to eat a God damn sandwich."

"You'd be surprised." He mutters, before ignoring you again.

You wait for a minute hoping for him to see common sense before huffing out, “Fine.”

Your easy acceptance has him stopping and turning to give you his full attention, expression guarded. You had spent twenty minutes yesterday trying to get him to buckle before you ultimately had to give up and go back to work. “-but-”

He groans loudly as you continue on unfazed.

“I’m not eating either, not until I’ve seen you eat with my own eyes-.”

“Chiquita…” He interrupts a hint of warning in his voice, which you ignore. (You also try to ignore the way the nickname rattles around in your head.) You set your shoulders before continuing.

“I’m serious Miguel- Not. A. Bite.” You punctuate your words with an aggressive tap on the plastic tray.

He finally descends with a jump that makes you wince from the impact. He of course is unfazed.

“No. Your. Not.” He mimics- punctuating his words with predatory steps forward.

You don't know if it’s your misplaced sense of duty or the fact he has to ever so minutely steady himself that gives you the courage to stand up to the behemoth of a man, red eyes and all.

“So what’s it gonna be?”

He glares down at you, eyes ablaze, jaw muscle taunt, hands clenched.

“Fine.” You shrug, turning on your heel. “If you don’t need food, I must not either.”

He wanted to be dumb and stubborn so could you, two could play that game.

You take half a step before he grumbles something under his breath, you try to contain your smile. No need to gloat.

“What did you say?” You turn batting your eyes up at him, the picture of innocence.

He doesn’t grace you with a response instead glaring as he snatches the sandwich off the tray, ripping it in half, waving one piece in your face, as he tears into his.

You gingerly grab it taking a victorious bite from the corner, relieved to watch him scarf down more food, his annoyance gone as his appetite hits him.

He finishes up and the change in him is all but instant, the furrow between his brow lessens, and more alert he glances back to the screens. Ready to solve all the problems of the universe.

“Same time tomorrow?”

He grumbles a bit before muttering a clipped, “fine.”

The anomalies soon died down, your morning workouts resumed and you had been eating lunch together ever since.

He may have complained at first more than annoyed at being guilted into taking some semblance of care of himself by you of all people but when you show up the third time with food for both of you and see that he has cleared off a table and dragged up two chairs - (the day before you had made a passing comment about not liking to eat standing up)- you know he must not hate it as much as he is trying to let on.

You guys mostly eat in silence and it’s odd that the quiet with him feels so comfortable. When you do speak it’s about a smattering of topics, the morning workout, anomalies, which spider person is causing him extra annoyance. (You're just glad it’s not you anymore.)

Occasionally he bounces tech ideas off of you, and you nod along enjoying the timber of his voice as he debates which alloy to use and the pros and cons of changing the scienceometer to the thingamjig. (Probably not the exact words he used, but all the scientific jargon was hard to keep track of.)

When he notices a furrow in your brow he asks what's wrong. You complain to him about a suit upgrade or redesign that you can’t quite nail down. Somehow when you finish voicing your concerns, even with his lack of sewing knowledge, you always seem to come up with an even better idea in the hours that follow.

------

He has a sweet tooth. He adamantly denies it, and pointing out the frosting on the corners of his mouth only annoys him.

------

You knew the time you spent with Miguel was important to you but just how much isn’t clear until you show up one morning, and he's gone.

You walk in, swinging the doors open with gusto, announcing that today was the day you were gonna kick some holographic butt.

When you aren't greeted with a flippant comment or even an aggressive sigh you peer around the gym confirming you're alone.

You were gonna give him so much crap for being late.

When five minutes turns to ten you begin to pace.

At the fifteen-minute mark you sigh and make your way over the treadmill might as well start. He must be caught up with something.

You have just hit your stride, legs pumping, sweat beginning to dot your hairline when a flash of light in front of you almost sends you crashing to the ground.

You smack your elbow and nearly twist an ankle in order to remain upright.

You slam the stop button, attempting to catch your breath and your wits again, as Lyla floats in front of you.

“Yikes.”

You shoot her an exasperated look and she continues.

“Ummm anyways, I’m supposed to inform you that Miguel’s gonna be gone.” She rolls her eyes, "I know liter-uh-lly everything, co-founded this place, and he has me passing notes to his girlfriend.”

“Wait, Miguels gone?” You blush slightly before sheepishly adding, “And I’m not his girlfriend.”

She raises an eyebrow, disbelief evident, “Sureeeeee you aren't, and yep he gone.” She punctuates with a little poof of her hands.

“Do you know where he is? When he’ll be back”

“Yeah, You -totally- don’t sound like his girlfriend.”

“Lyla, please.”

She sighs and takes pity on you, or maybe she's just getting bored, “Earth-367 is becoming increasingly unstable, anomalies have been appearing at an alarming frequency. Miguel and an elite team have gone to try to locate the source of the crisis and rectify it before complete collapse. Mission time unspecified, expected upwards of two weeks.”

You can only stutter slightly before Lyla fades away with a blown kiss and a giggled ‘toodles.’

You go through the motions of your work out head buzzing. You knew he could take care of himself, hell he took care of every spider-person in the universe, but the churning worry that something could happen won’t leave your mind.

------

When he's tired, exhausted really, he has just the slightest of lisps. Too sleep deprived to exert the needed focus to keep his tongue from tangling around his fangs. You have yet to hear it with anyone else in the room.

------

It’s been 4 days since Miguel left and it’s frankly embarrassing just how much you miss him.

If someone performed the Bechdel test on your brain you know you'd fail… Horribly… it’s just three months- three months of daily interactions with the man - three months of learning the subtle curve of his smile, the gravel of his voice, being cut off cold turkey just felt cruel.

You knew there were more important things in life than the hour of attention your emotionally unavailable boss gave you every day… you just had to remember what.

Halfway through the second week things are almost back to how they were Pre-Miguel.

You started working out in the evenings again. You've forgotten how good those extra few hours of sleep feel, it almost makes it worth it. Almost.

Your worry has been kept in check by some not-so-subtle nosing around, the mission is going as well as can be expected. Anomalies are being contained, repairs made, and civilian casualties are minimal.

You take lunch in your office taking bites in between scribbling down new suit ideas. A spider woman from an arctic New-York had been inducted, balancing warmth and lightweight was proving tricky. You were toying around with the idea of a fleece inner layer.

You pause when your lines start to become sloppy, looking down you notice your hand is trembling.

Damn it.

A gentle buzzing gradually fills your head and it's confirmed your gonna have a vision. You push your pencil and paper to the side and grab your lunch to fully dig in not wanting to sew the future on an empty stomach.

------

He doesn't touch you all the time, but whenever he does he always carefully retracts his claws, making sure they are fully sheathed before laying a finger on you.

------

The automated lights in your room are off when you rouse. The slight movement of your hands not enough to keep the sensors on.

You toss your work down. Standing up you turn the lights on, stretching in the process. Noting with relief only three hours had passed. You eyeball the crumpled material, choosing to wait a beat before discovering whatever it was you had been compelled to make. What's seen can never be unseen.

A glance at your desk drawer drives that point home.

You use the bathroom, down a bottle of water, and crack your knuckles - twice- Before your curiosity outweighs your apprehension.

You hold your breath as you flatten the cloth out. The weaving- mostly in tones of greys- is a touch out of focus. It takes a few headshakes and blinks before you realize it's the image itself that's blurred.

No not blur, smoke, or as close as needle and thread can approximate. The background is littered with buildings in various states of destruction, the orange glow of fire in the windows of some, others with chunks missing, wires and piping exposed, the worst are just piles of rubble.

The subject of the piece has your stomach churning, coated in dust but still identifiable as ever are Miguel's broad shoulders. A wide cut bisects his back and you wince- just what was he against that was able to slice through two layers of such high-quality protection?

He's in the debris of a collapsed building, kneeling over something.

You peer closer trying to decipher just what has his attention but between the jagged concrete slabs and his wide body you can’t make anything out.

Your palms begin to sweat as the worry you had been keeping in check comes swelling back up full force.

Seeing Miguel - stoic, strong, Miguel- in such an obvious state of disrepair made you almost nauseous.

Try to focus on the positive-
He’s alive.

He’s a Spider-Man- a real Spider-Man.

He is built to face these things.

He’s no doubt seen worse.

Just another day at the office.

While your work hazards were scissor cuts and ladder falls. His were being crushed in the rubble of a burning city, and being responsible for the lives of thousands.

You knew the danger he and all your other friends/ coworkers faced on the daily, but it had felt so- so abstract. Sure you’d seen some scrapes and bruises here and there, the occasional arm in a sling, but an easy smile or dumb joke erased all worry.

Just how close to death had they been then?

You rake a hand through your hair trying to keep yourself from spiraling further into the sinkhole of your thoughts.

They were superheroes. He was a superhero with superstrength and endurance and probably 100 other skills you didn't know about attuned to keeping him alive. It would take more than whatever you glimpsed to take him down. He was Miguel freaking O'Hara. You didn't need to worry about him.

You did, however, need to focus on finishing this suit design so Petra Parkenov didn't freeze her tits off.

You force yourself back to work, pushing down any of the anxiety that bubbles up.

If you start asking about the mission twice as much in the days that follow, who's to blame you.

He is your boss after all. If he dies how will you get paid?

---------

His eyes glow red and sometimes, in the soft silent moments you share, they fill with something else, and it almost looks like desire.

--------

Chapter Text

You try to keep calm as the days tick by, and to your surprise, you succeed.

Well… mostly.

You keep yourself from looking at the tapestry again, it would do you no good. Instead, you keep your ear even closer to the ground for any tidbit of information about this infernal mission.

You throw yourself into your work. Even Miguel would disapprove of the workaholic you were becoming, but it was for the best. When you weren’t working your mind was wandering and seemed to always end up in a spiral of worst-case scenarios. Your preoccupation had you even clumsier than usual, dropping things, messing up your self-defense moves, and bumping into everything.

The anxiety was only made worse by how utterly ridiculous you felt for worrying at all. This was the Miguel O’Hara super-skilled superhuman director of the metaverse, he had been doing this- handling this lifestyle well before little old you worried after him.

And the worrying. Did you even have the right to fear for his safety? What claim did your feelings have on him? If something were to happen you wouldn't be next of kin, probably not even told firsthand, a corporate email in your inbox would be how you found out. Your grief would be a small private festering thing.

One evening while your mind created new scenarios of Miguel meeting an untimely end, each one worse than the last, you fail to notice a broken glass in your sink and gashed open your palm.

The thick bandage around your hand a physical symbol of the toll this stress was taking on you.

Its presence was a real inconvenience, the bulk messing with your more detailed work. You had no choice then to just muscle through the annoyance, working was the only thing keeping you sane.

When working, creating, it all slips away, your world narrowed down to the steady hum of a sewing machine or the clicking of knitting needles. Your only worry pinning down the curves of a mask so it properly lays.

You sit in your studio taking a very late dinner, a lukewarm cup of chicken noodle, and a day-old baguette. You gnaw at the bread with one hand while sketching with another.

The clock tick tick ticks on the wall. When you glance up, your neck lets you know you’ve been concentrating on one thing for too long and the clock reads a little after 10:30.

The headquarters was as quiet as it ever gets, with only a few spider people milling around. Leaving you alone on your floor, the gentle music playing from your little radio doing its best to cut through the almost eerie quiet.

You stand up stretching out your abused body letting out a contented ‘mmph’ when you pop that spot between your shoulder blades that always seems to catch.

You take one last look at the suit design you have mocked up, pleased, you begin to peruse your fabric wall.

You let your fingers dance over the different bolts. While you weigh the pros and cons of different fabric blends, and color schemes, your hand zeros in on one swath of fabric rubbing it between your thumb and fore-finger rhythmically. It isn’t until you look down you realize the material you had been fondling was the same one you used to make Miguel's suit.

Your cheeks flame and you snatch your hand away ashamed at your subconscious for being so damn needy. Clearing your throat, you push away your private embarrassment, snatch two bolts down, and heft them over to your sewing station.

--------------------------

It’s well past midnight, and you have your patterns cut and pinned when you are interrupted from your flow by a muffled thump.

You turn your radio down waiting for a beat and when you don't hear anything else you shake your head and decide that it’s time to call it a night. Auditory hallucinations were surely a clear warning sign of sleep deprivation.

Standing, you freeze, hair standing on end when the noise from before comes back louder. You hardly have a second to think before what is just a muffled noise turns into the distinct sound of something very large running very fast towards you.

Your heart is in your throat and you scramble to grab up your wickedly sharp fabric shears. Your hands shake and you curse yourself for putting the panic button behind boxes of packed materiel.

The crashing grows louder, now maybe 30-40 feet away, you slowly back up your body feels far away and useless, but your brain is more then happy to supply you with a list of horrors that are about to enter your little space.

An escaped anomaly, some sort of scientific experiment gone wrong, an eldritch abomination.

Any confidence in your self-defense skills is gone, in fact any ability you do have feels laughable.

There’s a tell-tale sound of screeching as whatever it is rounds the corner to your hallway way too fast.

Fuck Fuck Fuckity fuck.

Your back is now plastered to the wall, scissors held out defensively as your free hand scrambles for something else on the shelf nearby.

You can’t tear your eyes away from your doorway.

Thud, thud, thud. Ten feet away.

Your hand grasps something soft and squishy. A fucking ball of yarn, great.

Thud, thud, thud. Five feet.

Whatever ball of yarn it is.

You cock your arm back and launch the soft pink projectile as this beast rounds into your doorway.

The ball, of course, bounces harmlessly off the intruder.

A heaving, hulking, very dirty Miguel O’Hara.

----------------------

Miguels Back.

All your anxiety and fear from the last 15 seconds, and the weeks of that God-forsaken mission leaves you in one gasping relieved breath.

You don't realize you've stood up, much less that you're moving, until you are a few feet away from him.

You stand in silence brain trying to absorb every change that has taken place in his weeks away as he stands there, heaving in your doorway, eyes wild. One hand clawed into the top end of the frame, his strength and speed leaving large divots in the metal where he anchors himself onto it.

The most notable is that he's a wreck, like massively, he's covered in a thin layer of dust and debris, face streaked with sweat and mud. His suit has numerous tears and rips, on one side a nasty bruise peaks through a massive hole, leaving his tanned skin a mottled purple.

You try not to think about how much blood the dark of his suit must be hiding.

Once you take in all the dishevelment you are able to see the more subtle changes. He has a month’s worth of growth on his chin and cheeks that makes for the start of a rather impressive beard. His lips are chapped and raw, the bottom one is busted. The split is small and red adding a slight swell to his already plush lower lip.

As you take stock of him he catalogues you as well. His appraisal isn’t gentle, those eyes, those lovely, hard, red eyes, take you in meticulously from top to bottom. You watch as he starts at the crown of your head and makes his way downward inch by inch. His ragged breathing grows slower by the second.

You feel pinned. His gaze is suffocating. His eyes have a wildness that you haven't seen before

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. All you have wanted for weeks was to see him again, speak to him, say something witty and perfect, but now that he's here, standing in front of you, the words won’t come.

So you just stand still and quiet waiting for him to break the tension.

When his eyes fall on your bandaged hand his brows furrow. He pauses on it for a beat before dragging his gaze back up to meet yours.

“You’re hurt.”

Just like that the spell is broken.

The laugh that racks out of you can only be described as hysterical.

You don’t mean to, this isn't at all how you’ve envisioned your grand reunion it's just-

The absurdity of him standing there looking like that worrying about you , hits you like a truck.

He just watches frown etching his brow- limbs coiled with tension.

It takes a moment until your laughing subsides enough you are able to breathe out a few words-

“I’m- “ you clear your throat and wipe moisture from your waterline, “ I’m sorry I just…”

The words that tumble out are simple and small and the complete truth.

“I just missed you.”

His grip on the door releases with a schhk of his talons the frame groaning in the absence of the pressure. He closes the gap between you with one long stride and has you wrapped up in his arms before you can blink.

The suprise renders you stiff for a moment before you melt against him, he smells of battle. The scent of blood, dirt, and smoke cling to him, but under that is him, pure and unadulterated, and it’s perfect.

As you stand there cradled in his arms you are transported back to that first interaction all those months ago. Here you are again in his hold, more aware of the damage he is capable of than ever, yet not an ounce of trepidation.

He molds himself around you, trying to encase you in his arms completely. He keeps adjusting his grasp seemingly unsatisfied, attempting to pull you closer and closer.

You're about to wheeze out you can't breathe when he huffs a short irritated noise and scoops you up into his arms. Neatly balling you up and tucking you into his chest.

You squawk twisting and turning ready to protest- you can't just be hoisted around like you- a fully formed healthy woman- weigh nothing. (God he was so strong)

“Put m-” Your words are cut short with a look. He tilts his head down and raises an imperious eyebrow. Leave it to him to make you feel like the crazy one right now.

You settle on grumbling under your breath and place a palm on his chest for some semblance of balance, and not at all to feel his pecs with impunity.

He turns and walks the short distance to the over-stuffed couch. He sits down gingerly leaning back into the cushions wincing slightly with the change of position before relaxing. With a groan he drops his head onto the back of the couch. His Adam's apple bobs made apparent in the smooth line of his neck as he stares up at the ceiling. The moments tick by and he doesn't make a move to let you go. His strong sure arms stay wrapped around you, chaining you two together.

Now that you have gotten over the whirlwind of his appearance you can feel just how frazzled he is. You know when something is about to fall apart at the seams and Miguel’s stitching is pulled far to taunt.

His hands keep moving and you can tell its mindless. Poking and prodding you at random. You do notice however that they keep coming back to touch the bandage on your palm. Fingers light and so gentle you can hardly notice them.

You don't begrudge him this moment, you know what it is to need to hold onto something, anything else to keep from losing yourself.

The minutes tick by and his hands finally slow, the twitchy tension in his body begins to ease. You would think he was asleep with how still he is if it wasn't for the drumming of his fingers on your outer thigh.

“Miguel?” Your voice is small even in your own ears.

He doesn't respond with more than a soft grunt, but you take it as an invitation to continue.

You want to be gentle but it's no use beating around the bush, “Wha-” you clear your throat, “What happened?”

He takes a moment, and you see his mind working. He keeps his head tilted back eyes still closed, yet there is now a distinct furrow between his brows. His fingers still and his jaw clenches and unclenches like he's willing his mouth to work, when it does he utters only a single word.

“Anomalies.”

You don't want to push him too hard, but you still feel the need to ask, to give him the choice. When you speak your voice is gentle, patient.

“Do you want to talk about it.”

His hands tighten, and you watch him think for a moment before shaking his head. He resumes drumming his fingers, faster.

You begin to relax into his hold little by little. Pretty soon you're all but boneless, head tucked into the junction of his shoulder and neck, Eyes beginning to grow heavy. The emotions of the past month coupled by the late hour and your sleepless nights creates a losing battle against your self respect. There is always tomorrow to be mortified,

“Miguel?” You murmur eyes closed.

“Mmm” is all he mumbles back.

“Ev’ryths gon-“ you interrupt yourself with a yawn, “ -na be okay.” You snuggle in closer the pull of sleep clearly leaving your *boundaries* while it takes you. “Okay?”

You’re asleep before he can respond, the kiss he presses to your crown only felt in your dreams.

---------------------------------

You awake confused and hot, so so hot, sweat dampening your flushed skin. You clumsily peel your face up off the couch and try to move away from the furnace that surrounds you.

A grumble stops your sluggish movements, your brain finally waking enough to process your predicament.

You freeze as Miguel crowds your space even further, pushing you deeper into the back of the couch. His arms chain around you and when he flexes his fingers slightly you stiffen at the sensation.

One of his hands is curved up under your shirt spanning your stomach and lower ribs. The other seatbelts against you. Forearm pressed firm across your chest hand bracketing the base of your throat.

He shifts removing the hand from your neck to scratch at his chest. No longer enveloping you completely there's enough space for some blessed air to circulate.

Once you begin to cool down the absurdity of the situation starts to creep up on you. Miguel O’Hara, the aloof frightening all-powerful leader of an interdimensional world protection agency, was sleeping next to you. Not just sleeping, cuddling- hand on your midriff face nuzzled into your neck -cuddling.

You should feel indignant at the fact that he is using you as the equivalent of an overgrown teddy bear, but you don’t.

Miguel so rarely indulges.

Even the necessities of life, like food, and sleep, he seemed to consider luxuries I mean he solely used a standing desk for Christ’s sake... So having him break his iron resolve and indulge in the simple pleasure of another person's touch, your touch, taking comfort in you- was damn flattering.

And maybe just a tad bit arousing.

Which was not at all good to help you stamp out this crush.

He was tired, overwhelmed, drained in every capacity, its hard to not let his vunerability feed the hope that this attraction wasnt completly one sided.

You needed to compartmentalize this like now.

With a few experimental tugs you realize you aren't getting out of this, so instead you try to relax hoping to fall back asleep.

Through herculean effort you manage to ignore the gentle flicks of his twitching fingers on your abdomen, deafen your ears to his soft somnial moans, fend off the lascivious thoughts that keep trying to corrupt your mind, and finally begin to drift off.

Which of course makes it the perfect time for him to bury his face in the crook of your neck and in one swift motion push his hand up under the band of your bra to engulf your left breast.

The speed at which you bolt up, dislodging his rough palm in the process, is nothing short of heroic. Maybe that spider did give you some superpowers.

Getting superpowers that only show up when getting sleep fondled by your boss/crush, would be just your luck.

Your super abilities leave just as soon as you get them, flailing with little grace you begin to careen off the couch.

Still asleep his reflexes were as sharp as ever, using only a hand he saves you from your tumble to the floor, and pulls you back down to his chest, muscled arms entrapping you once again.

His exhaustion must truly be bone deep to not have roused from that. You know the spider-sense (as cliche as that was) never really turned off. It took being light sleeper to another level, a pin drop could have any Spider-man from sleep to awake and ready to fight in .5 seconds.

Even you, the pitiful excuse of a Spidey you were, found yourself a much lighter sleeper after the bite. So for Miguel to not wake up at that commotion, was nothing short of alarming.

Or maybe you were just so benign that his spider-sense didn't even register you as a threat, for the sake of your pride you choose to believe its the former.

Back to square one, you take a deep breath reassessing. Your exhale syncs with Miguels and you take a moment to enjoy the steady proof of his life. It's better than focusing on your hardened nipple, and the phantom touch still lingering there.

Breath in, he’s here.

Breathe out, he’s alive.

In, Here. Out, Alive.

The lullaby of his breathing paired with the solid warmth radiating off his strong broad chest has you drifting back to sleep, before you know it.

Chapter Text

Control.

It’s such a simple word, seven little letters, that his life revolved around. It was up to him to keep everything in order, tight-fisted, knuckles splitting.

Keeping the spiderverse-safe under control despite everyone else's best efforts.

(Stupid ass name but it stuck.)

He keeps himself, grounded, tethered with his absolute self-control. As worlds change, rise and fall he alone stands unmovable. A stark point of pride- his iron will, ruler taped to his back, rigid composure.

So when he wakes up next to your small sleeping form, rock hard, hands shaking, he knows he's fucked.

-------------------

The mission hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, His ordinary that is.

It was messy and frustrating. A variant of the sandman had appeared during a new Spider-man’s bite event, fucking up the canon beyond belief.

Creating a months-long headache, patching the crumbling holes of the world. Nudging the canon in the right direction as anomalies popped up in mass.

A nuisance for sure but he had managed- begrudged himself the help of a few of his ‘teammates.’ Their talents just marginally outweighing the corny jokes.

His time spent in this New York was drawing to an end. This fight just needed to play out the canon would be fixed and he could go home.

(He doesn’t have time to ponder why when he thinks of home an image of you is first to mind. )

Green Goblin flies overhead planting charges around the city blocks. He cackles grinding his hovercraft against some metal railing sending out a halo of sparks. Just as irritating and flamboyant as every other variation.

He keeps ranting about seeing if the rats of this city can swim- or something- Miguel is only half listening. When you’ve heard one Villain Monologue you’ve heard them all.

The power grid here was directly connected to the Cities Dam, and of course, the genius in charge of city planning decided that if the power grid failed so would the dam wall, because why the hell not?

The idiocy of it caused the headache brewing behind his eyes to pound with renewed vigor.

Stopping Goblin was this world's Spider-mans problem, his canon to complete. Some frizzy red-haired-wide-eyed kid that might get himself killed, in between taking hits of an inhaler and picking food out of his braces.

Jess and Hobie were somewhere corralling the rest of the civilians away from the danger.

Miguel was here to make sure if this kid did die it was to one of this world's villains, much to the chagrin of the anomalized scimitar-wielding Doc Oc in front of him.

He presses a palm to his aching left eye while diving out of the path of an arcing sword.

One of eight arcing swords.

He springs forward grabbing one arm above the blade. Using the machine's momentum he swings up into the air and down onto the concrete with a brutal thud, taking the opportunity to remove two of the blades with his clawed hands.

Flash.

His head whips around and he locates the source of light.

A small family of tourists stand watching shell-shocked mouths agape, all wearing matching “I Heart the Big Orange” T-shirts. The one holding the disposable camera presumably the father, makes eye contact and flops his mouth open and shut.

Miguel Shoots them an incredulous look, as the man/machine beside him begins to stir again.

“Yes, Now is the perfect time to get some photos.” He shouts, ripping one arm off from the socket.

The hydraulic sound of metal plates clicking together alerts him as a sword rears back up. This time aiming at the rubbernecking family.

He heaves a sigh and launches himself back at the machine gripping two arms one of which slices a nasty cut into his forearm and palm.

“R-r- really?” The father asks still stuck in place, stupidly clutching the camera despite the literal swords flailing in their direction.

“What?” Miguel asks so incredulous that his grip slackens for a second allowing the octoman to lurch a few more inches towards the family. He gets a grip of himself and the machine. Muttering curses under his breath as he yanks DocOc back again before addressing the family.-
“No! Not really--”

The arm without a blade escapes his grip, blood slippery and smacks him across the chin splitting his lip. Still not moving, Miguel meets his wits end,

“Estas enserio!” Nothing, Fucking idiots, he gets to the point. ”Run!”

That does the trick ungluing them from their terror-stricken spot. His head throbs as he focuses on the villain at hand.

Seven arms left five of which still had swords. He breaks another with a savage kick to the joint, six.

He spares a glance at the battle taking place overhead. Green goblin is webbed to the side of a building, it looks like the new kid is holding his own.

Good, one less thing to worry about.

He sees something out of the corner of his eye and his heart stops.

Doc Oc takes advantage slicing deep and hot across his back. He doesn't feel it, not really, he begins to run.

The villain sputters behind him confused at the choreography change to this routine song and dance.

The new spider kid loses control of the goblin for a moment and the villain takes advantage. Reaching into a belt he pulls out a small cylindrical charge. The kid wrestles him back into submission and the explosive goes sailing.

It arcs through the air, small and unassuming, towards a little form huddled behind a trash can.

He's running, his body moving at breakneck speed.

The bomb goes off- still mid-air taking a large chunk out of the side of a high rise.

He's too far away to do anything, even as he uses webs, and claws anything to propel himself closer, faster, muscles screaming under the force.

Too far to help but close enough to see every agonizing detail.

He’s close enough to see every single line of fear etch itself onto your face as the rubble falls.

(No no no no. Not you, not here.)

He's pulling large chunks of concrete out of the way, the tips of his fingers bleed, nails breaking under the force he uses to toss concrete and metal slabs away.

With a heave and a grunt he uncovers you, well not -you- you.

He rips his mask off, needing to confirm with his own naked eyes.

This universe's version is at least a decade older, her hair dyed a different shade than yours, and under the dust and ash she's wearing a smart business casual pantsuit he's sure you’d never don.

As much as he tries to find comfort in this, that this isn't really you, his you, that is- those are still your eyes, panicked and sick.

Something sharp and jagged sticks out of your- no her- soft belly. A large gleaming tooth plunged deep into her -your- soft organs.

Her hands flutter around the intrusions eyes confused and so panicked. His breathing hitches before offering some low soothing words as he cups one hand under your head, hair already matted and sticky with blood.

His other he smooths over her own hands moving them out of the way before applying pressure to the area.

(Pressure was good, if he just kept enough pressure, if he could keep control of the situation paramedics would come and she’d be alright- you would be alright. )

She makes a whimpered gasping noise, and he swears at that moment that he’ll never hear that sound again.

He must be speaking because she weakly nods and offers a crooked half smile- your little half smile, and he feels bile well up in the back of his throat.

(Not you. Not you. Not you.)

“Evr-thing-” a weak wet cough interrupts, red blood stark against blue lips, “sgonna be oka-” The tail end is cut off with a gurgled choke.

An everlasting beacon of hope and comfort even like this. He’d laugh if his lungs hadn’t been ripped out.

Her breathing becomes shallow and he begins pleading.

(“No te preocupes, todo va acer bien… Lo siento,” His hands push harder, if he was just a little stronger he could keep you here.)

With a shuddering half gasped gurgled noise she dies, and he has to watch as the life leaves your eyes.

Jesse has to pull him off of her.

(His chest compressions already broke ribs, he wouldn’t have stopped until your heart was in his hands, he would have stayed there - hunched over her, and squeezing- if it meant your heart was beating once more.)

He lunges against her strong grip, until her words cut through the fog.

“It’s not her Miguel, not really- and you-” He still, and she takes a breath before releasing him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “You know that.”

He does- but it doesn’t change the fact he was never supposed to see this, something like this was never supposed to happen, not in any universe.

You were meant to be safely tucked away, surrounded by soft colorful things of your own making, quietly singing when you thought no one could hear, not in the middle of a battle, and never… like this.

“I’m s-s-sorry sir,” the red-headed spider kid stutters, a little worse for wear, but still alive. Green-Goblin behind him in cuffs is being pushed into a cop car.

He turns to look at him and all he feels is white-hot rage. Why couldn’t he do his job properly- One fucking little world to protect, keep safe. Miguel kept the entire fucking spiderverse safe not because it was easy but because he had to. He didn't have the luxury to be sorry.

He shrugs off Jess’s kindness and stalks towards the kid hands clenching and unclenchhing ready to rip him apart, maybe he'd shove something sharp and lethal into his guts - let him know what his failure felt like.

The kid backs up, eyes widening, he has a slight limp and all Miguel feels is satisfaction.

Jess moves quick on her feet and as observant as ever, putting herself between him and the boy.

“Miguel go home. “ He opens his mouth to interject- and she cuts him off, “We can wrap it up here, your job here is done,” He spies Hobie transporting Doc back to HQ but it feels lightyears away, “and honestly you look horrible.”

He wants to say no, he didn’t let others finish his work, but Jess silences him before he can speak, with a pointed nod to the spider kid behind her.

His eyes are watering as he wipes his nose on his torn sleeve.

Miguel's anger deflates, and all that’s left is his pulse pounding in his ears, as he sees him for what he is- a scared kid who did his best.

Miguel transports home without a word.

Despite his brain telling him that you- his you- was still alive and well he couldn’t get your lifeless eyes out of his mind. He runs through HQ like a man possessed.

When he lays eyes on you, holding your scissors wide-eyed in your soft little blue sweater a weight is lifted, but it’s not until he has you wrapped up in his arms that he finally can breathe again.

--------------------

The clock reads a little after 6 am when he rouses. It’s the longest he's slept since- he doesn’t know when, maybe the last time he was on this couch. It’s strange waking up refreshed, despite the aches and bruises still littering his body.

He does need a shower though, grimacing as he catches a whiff of himself

He groans trying to remove himself from you with the least amount of friction between your ass and his groin.

He’s halfway off the sofa when you rouse looking at him with bleary eyes, still half asleep.

“Mmm, mig’l- Whatime’” You yawn mashing the word together, lifting your head slightly, “ isssit?”

“Still early, go back to sleep.” He rasps voice rough from disuse.

You nod acquiescing easily as you flop over snoring softly within moments, soft and completely vulnerable. Something hums in his chest, he rubs a balled fist against his sternum until it dissipates.

He knows when the fog of sleep leaves you you'll be mortified. All stuttered blushed apologies, and later a petulant mumble under your breath about professionalism. You’d Justify his actions, explain away his behavior as an inevitable consequence of his job. Not giving yourself any credit as the true root of his problems

He pulls a blanket off the back of the couch, tucking it up and around your curled form. His fingers linger on your neck, reassuring himself of your pulse strong and rhythmic under his fingers, as he finishes tucking the blanket up and under your chin.

He cements this image into his mind slowly mapping over yesterday's horrors. Cold blue lips replaced with softly parted pink ones, Blood matted hair now just messy with sleep, he lets the tension fade from his shoulders as he anchors the sight of you alive and safe to the forefront of his mind.

He spares you one more charged look before he stalks off to a much-needed shower

-------------------------------

As the shower heats, he takes a moment to reflect on how things with you got this far.

He supposes it was a long time in the making.

Even before you his restraint had been slipping, claws longer, teeth sharper.

Then you fell into his world soft and so sweet -all colorful little, sweaters and easy smiles. He couldn’t understand why you tempted him so.

Perhaps the same appeal a small fluttering bird had to a large fanged creature.

An unease had filled him every time you entered his sanctuary. The part of him that he kept under lock and key- (And sometimes chain and whip if necessary) - stirred in your presence.

He wanted to stalk and claim. Sink his teeth in to something supple and tender. Your panicked little eyes, and nervous chatter, stirring the sordid parts of him.

For months, he grit his teeth and furrowed his brow as your presence chipped away at his resolve.

Then one day he cracks, the hand he keeps clamped around the ruinous maw of the snarling gluttonous thing inside his head slips. He pounces on you, little rabbit in predator's teeth, and you know what they say about a dog once it tastes blood.

He decides maybe he just needs to increase his exposure to you.

That upping his intake of your presence would increase his resistance to your specific strain of sickness. Dull whatever it was about you that caused his teeth to ache.

Chase the vivd images out from behind his eyelids. The ones of you under him while he ruts you like an animal. Your little wrist, bound behind your back, red glow illuminating your round glossy eyes peering back at him, pouty mouth open, talented little hands grasping at the air while he molds you to him.

The conditioner bottle in his hand begins to leak, claws lacerating the bottle he sighs scooping product from the sides of the bottle before applying it.

He was wrong. The exposure therapy didn't work. You just burrowed deeper under his skin. The taste of you always in the back of his throat, egging him on for just a little bit more.

Real details now colored his lurid fantasies.

The taste of those sour fruity candies you liked on your tongue. The little moans you make when eating something particularly delicious. The movement of your hips when throwing a punch. Discovering the undernotes in your scent ripe berries, and so milk sweet.

He couldn’t tell himself anymore that it was just baseless lust, created from the highest-stress job and being a bit pent up.

The curve of your smile, the awkward gasp of your real laugh, the twinkle in your eye when you were about to match him wit for wit.

He could handle his carnal desires push them down, gnash his pointed teeth together until his gums ached and bled. Keep his clawed hands fisted, work and fight until his body was to exhausted for anything else.

He knew the familiar open cavern of wanting, taking, how to ignore the ever-present hunger that churned bone deep. What concerned him- (concerned- not scared, never scared) -was this warm glowing thing made of spider silk. Open conversations and your lilting laugh making his skin buzz in a way that even the heat of battle didn't.

Veins thrumming and fingers tapping with the need to keep you warm, safe, and happy. Wrapped up in a red cocoon all for him.

Instead, he does the next best thing stays close and shows you how to defend yourself. Learns your likes and dislikes. Tries to let this be enough, while he salivates at the thought of more.

He has always known how to take, but with you he wants to learn how to give.

He sees you seated on his desk, head tipped back cheeks rosy mouth agape, as he feasts. (He isn’t one to savor his meals but he knows if given the chance he'd spend hours dining at your alter.) Little hands fisted in his hair, thighs vice tight.

He can all but taste you now. His hand is rough around his cock, hot water steaming. He allows himself a slow stroke imagining a much smaller hand, chipped nail polish, and soft palm.

He's felt the furtive glances you sneak after he's worked up a sweat. Catalogs the blush that colors your cheeks under the heat of his stare, hears the staccato of your pulse when he crowds your personal space.

He has never been one to feign humility, so he won't, you want him and he could have you.

( No need to hunt down little Rabbits when they come crawling, open up your canined jaw and lay themselves across the tongue.)

He cranks the handle all the way down, allowing icy water to cascade around him. He thunks his head against the tiled walls, hands clenching and unclenching as the cold water fights the fire in his veins. As his cock softens he reclaims his control.

(Beast nuzzling on its own muzzle, clamping down padlock, and trying to forget it holds the key.)

If he was a better man he’d let you go. Snarl and gnash his teeth until the lovesick film left your eyes, and you scrambled out of his den.

Instead, he’ll satiate himself on the air around you. Sink his teeth into his own flesh while keeping you close.

You can’t break something you never lay hands on.

He’ll keep himself under control.

It was what he was good at after all.