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#spiderman: into the spiderverse
spidernoirs-cigar · 8 months
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Isn't he dreamy 🥴
Art by deprived_freak on twitter
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demigoddessqueens · 10 months
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soft headcanons
Based off these concept art expressions that the crew posted on Twitter
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a soft Miguel is a rarity but you would know firsthand how he can get. Despite all his bark and bite, Miguel can also be pain-stakingly quiet and apprehensively seeks you out sometimes
ABSOLUTELY pouts and broods, so much so that when you look at him with a concerned expression (“are you ok?”), he feels guilty for worrying you
It’s the self-loathing that can eat away at him, thinking a good thing is going to slip away fast from him
a WHINY cuddler who lays on top on you, likes to bury his head into/under you neck. Also play with his hair!
Is the EPITOME of the touch-starved cheetah meme
he knows the size difference between you two (if there is one), which makes him feel protective as well towards you
If you’re a fellow comrade, he feels a bit of relief because you’re still within reach of him
EDIT: if Miguel ever has nightmares, he talks in his sleep and even gasping awake makes you wake up as well. Don’t blame him though, he’ll hide his face in your neck in the most bone-crushing hug, and only then it dawns on you what happened when your shoulder feels wet
also likes to stay close to you a bunch of times, nickname “Shadow” that he groans at when you say it
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pedro-pascal · 10 months
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SPIDER-MAN: ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE (2023) + reddit text posts
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redwuds · 2 months
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old art
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marveldaily · 10 months
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Spider-Man 3 | 2007 Bryce Dallas Howard as Gwen Stacy
The Amazing Spider-Man | 2012 Emma Stone as Gwen Stacy
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse | 2018 Hailee Steinfeld as Gwen Stacy
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lustrnaaa · 2 months
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found this one in the vault (i miss them)
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moondirti · 10 months
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animalic (1)
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series masterlist
pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader rating: mature word count: 1.9k summary: he won't stop until he gets you warnings: enemies to lovers, injuries, kissing, minor ATSV spoilers, size kink (?), mentions of gore and death, not spell checked nor edited, honestly not my best work but the horny is all that matters notes: stayed up all night for this because i had to get it out of my system before finals. there'll be a few more parts, i promise i'm not this cruel haha
“I thought grace was a prerequisite for your little spider-club.” 
Your quip sounds disjointed – even to your own ears – entwined with wheezes that rattle your splintered rib cage. In all honesty, the circumstances don’t seem to be favouring you; he’s got you confined upon the wreckage of your own fight, hanging off the remnants of a crane that dangerously tips over a quarry. And though this isn’t the worst you’ve faced, Miguel’s presence always seems to make things more complicated than they need to be.
You’d had a stable hold on the beam, ready to pull yourself up and dematerialise to wherever he wasn’t. Until, of course, the asshole kicked your elbows off. Now, your fingers remain as your only attachment to the structure, shaking violently with their diminishing strength. Your torso isn’t faring any better, either – the bleeding both internal and trickling from the gashes in your hoodie. 
(You wonder if he’s toying with you, like a panther with its food. Of the rare times he’s assigned another spiderman to pursue you, they didn’t tend to drag it out for this long. 
But, you suppose, Miguel’s different.) 
He takes a small step forward, lifting his foot over your digits. He could crush them like this, turn the bone to powder and keep pressing until it macerates in the gore. You can’t put it past him, really, not if you utter one more self-sabotaging word. You’ve seen him rip through steel and silk alike, fueled on the resentment that simmers deep within his very essence. Yours is merely the same fate that’s befallen every other obstacle that’s dared to come his way. 
But the tension buzzes between you two, thickening until it’s palpable enough to taste. Miguel is quiet as ever, completely still save for the flickering light of his dimensional travel watch. You envy his position – that resolute stature, brimful of power as his shoulders square, his calf rippling with subdued strength, still stretched over your hand. You blame that, or the mask, slick with sweat and humid as it sticks to your nose. Or the glasses that slowly slip to reveal your squinting eyes. You blame anything apart from what it is; that fear that steadily begins to flood your senses, numbing it all into one, cohesive panic. 
You’ve never been good at life or death scenarios. 
“Or, maybe, the big boss thinks he can break his own rules?” 
The air snaps. With an infuriated roar, he lunges at you, razor-sharp talons swiping at your face. In your frenzied dunk to avoid them, your fingers drop. 
You plunge to the bottomless chasm below.
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Okay. Let’s try to get this right, one last time. 
Your name doesn’t matter. It hasn’t, not for a while now. 
For the past year, you’ve been on the run from the Spider Society. You don’t exactly blame them for it, either. Every world you’ve crashed has gone to shit, despite serious lack of trying. Food-barren wastelands, borderless warzones. Truthfully, after the mantle of Earth 7BB-1 convected in on itself, you were inclined to turn yourself in. 
Independant of the fact that Nueva York seems to be the only place you can’t fuck up. Regardless of the relatability you have with the residents of its lobby. You were bitten by a radioactive spider just the same, and for all the good you’ve tried to do, you’ve never been a spider-hero. If it meant that no one else got hurt, you really would have been able to cope with lifetime confinement.
(Greater good and all that.)
Would’ve. Could’ve. If it weren’t for Miguel O’Hara’s interjection, and his goddamn alternative solution, things just might have turned out that way. 
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You’re not dead. 
The realisation whips your consciousness into high alert, eyes snapping open to survey your surroundings. You process the light first, its brilliance piercing through the bromine-doused cotton that stuffs your skull. Then, it’s the pain that, up until this point, had been thrumming in the background. It crackles, marrow-deep, tearing down the tendons in your shoulders to the throbbing area around your ribs. They’re in doubtlessly worse shape than they had been at the quarry, the ache searing across to engulf your spine too. 
He had let you fall on your back, that dickhead. 
But– 
You’re not dead. 
It doesn’t take you long to figure out why that is. 
A red forcefield entraps you, droning its monotonous hum, partially obscuring everything beyond your own reflection. You can see the faint impression of a silhouette – no, multiple – stalking you on the other end, a great shadow court. They warp and grow with every passing second, gorging on your offered vulnerability, awaiting some wordless signal from the harbinger of death, to execute justice upon the one who’s been causing them so much trouble. Jess Drew. Hobie Brown. Ben Reilly. 
(They’d been more forgiving, once. Willing to negotiate peace, to treat you more than the screw up you’ve proven to be. 
His voice overrode theirs. Always.)
It’s easier to make out the devil himself – more so than the others. You’ve come to memorise the slope of those shoulders, how his fists clench at his sides as he circles you. You imagine the smug set of his jaw and those eyes, just as luminous as the cage you curl within. The puck at the base is recognisable, akin to the capture weapons he’s thrown at you previously. He’d saved your life, then.
On a technicality. You’ll bury that thought to rage over later. 
“How–”
The question hardly forms before you’re ripped in two, the atoms of all but your spirit splicing into one another in a defect of blue and orange. The glitch exacerbates the fractures that threaten to knock you out, racking through your system as it rearranges your matter into amorphous forms. It’s only when something is thrown into the enclosure do you snap back to. A bracelet clatters to the floor. 
“Didn’t know whether you’d be used to the glitching yet.” A disembodied voice remarks. It’s at a particularly whiny pitch – you assign it to Ben. 
“We… tried to get it on you, kid. But you–” A feminine inflection crops up. Jess sounds the same since the last you spoke. 
You glower at them from the corner of your eye – unsure if they can actually see you – and snap the day pass on. Your spectral abilities were handy at the best of times; to shift from the corporeal, coming into immateriality, makes the most complicated situations evadeable. You credit it for your continued survival, if nothing else. Yet to speak like you could control it, especially while unconscious, was pushing it. You clearly weren’t able to activate it when you needed it the most.
And now you’re here. 
“I’m not going to ask what you want, so let’s keep this short– y-yeah? Either you let me go, or this Earth’ll be the next to unravel.” Despite your intentions, the demand escapes you in a long-winded croak. You hear Hobie snicker, the laugh teetering the edge of approval. Anyone can tell the promise has no foundation.
“That won’t be happ–” 
“Leave us.” 
The room clips into white noise. You fail to focus on anything but that echoing order. 
His voice comes across clearer than all else, too, cadence resonating past any natural boundary, tugging your heart right where it’s tender. There’s that fear again, that singular dread, only ever triggered by his indifference. Perhaps more potent than fury, his patience gives away an all-assured determination. Deadly. 
You bite your cheek, steeling your expression into one of similar apathy. It feels like a child’s attempt at dress up, grubby hands clutched around mother’s lipstick, painting on a clown’s complexion. Crackling apprehension brushes across your most vulnerable parts; layer by layer, you’re skinned as the group files out. Bare nerves are all that’s left for your faceoff with the hulking man.
He throws another puck to the floor. His own forcefield conjoins to yours. 
His cheeks have gotten hollower, you notice, emphasising the cheekbones that are just as keen as everything else about him. He offers no smile, no grand boast of victory. Instead, he breathes – calmly, fixedly, and lets you absorb the overwhelming magnitude of his size once more. He’s aware of what it strikes in you, can see it in the way you falter upon every reintroduction. Miguel is colossal, a reality that has never been more apparent than in this cramped enclosure. 
You know that if you stop to ponder it, it’ll ruin you. 
Rearing on your heels, you bounce from your place on the ground, making a grab for his watch. He anticipates it, having caught the decision blaze in your pupils, and side steps, pivoting to gain the upper hand while your back is still turned. You rebound off the field wall, stumbling back when he yanks you by your hoodie. Your shoulder presses into his chest, and he moves to wrap himself around your form.
Your skin prickles. His body passes right through you. 
His recovery time is nearly nonexistent relative to your last fight – quick learner – but you’re still swift on your feet, bolting to his watch again. It’s a millisecond too slow, for his talons sink into your forearm when you start to pull away. 
Your pained yelp loses momentum as he slams your back against the wall, using a knee to pin your other arm in place, his free hand wrapping around your neck. 
He’s close. Too close. Your stomach flips, pushing up on your oesophagus until you choke with the bile that sears its lining. Your breaths are as deep enough as his clutch will allow, index and thumb cutting off the circulation on both sides of your neck.
Ichor blooms from the puncture points at your wrist, the warmth puddling at your palm, not yet heavy enough to drip down onto the floor. You don’t think he realises how deep his claws are, how near he is to scratching bone. You don’t think you do, either. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, and while you’re sure you’ll regret not prioritising it sooner, you don’t think– Don’t think–
“I-I’m not goi…going home,” You gasp. 
“It’s not up to you, Wraith.” Miguel growls, chokehold loosening.
It hits you, then. Animalic. He smells addictingly animalic. Like musk, a blend of brine and hot air and hints of a patchouli aftershave that still clings to his jaw. Your eyes flutter, seeking all you can get of the latter. Unwittingly, you move in closer. 
You haven’t been this close to anyone in a long time. 
His expression oscillates between a sneer and a grimace, nose pulling up to reveal the very pointed ends of his two canines. Set side by side with plush lips, you zero in on the thought of experiencing the contrast with your own. 
He’s huge. 
Closer. 
Completely overwhelms you, in size and presence and–
Closer. 
Your ribs ache. Your back groans. You’re quickly losing feeling in your fingers, and movement – soon – if you don’t do something. 
Your breath weaves with his. He doesn’t reciprocate when your lips brush, but he doesn’t pull away, either. 
You kiss him for longer than you should. Longer than you need to. It’s firm, and not unlike what you expected. 
(World-shattering, all the same.) 
Your skin prickles. It takes all of your rationale to pull away – dematerializing out of his grasp, and into the portal you’d activated from his wrist.
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chapter 2 →
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fakeeldestdaughter · 10 months
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BREAKING NEWS
Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse Best Movie Ever!!!!
also
Miles Morales Best Spiderman Ever!!!!
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animations-daily · 8 months
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Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018) / Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse (2023)
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xjdkg89q · 7 months
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You're kinda cute and I would say all of this But I don't wanna ruin the moment Lovely to sit between comfort and chaos.
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motionpicturesource · 3 months
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SPIDER-MAN: INTO THE SPIDER-VERSE (2018) - Directed by Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman
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dailyflicks · 1 year
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That’s all it is, Miles. A leap of faith.
SPIDER-MAN: INTO THE SPIDER-VERSE (2018)  dir. Peter Ramsey, Bob Persichetti, Rodney Rothman
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demigoddessqueens · 10 months
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y/n “it’s just affection!” meets Miguel “….do it again” O’Hara
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binariesuns · 7 months
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@pscentral event 18: adaptations ↳ SOME OF THE FEMALE SPIDERPEOPLE IN SPIDERVERSE
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redwuds · 2 months
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my char cluster pages
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renrapp · 9 months
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SPIDER-MAN: INTO THE SPIDER-VERSE (2018) dir. Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman
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