Chat History
Remember: everything Miguel O'Hara says is made up.
Convincing Miguel to throw a party for Christmas was unnecessarily difficult. Thankfully, Peter B. knew exactly how to push the big old grumpy man's buttons to make him give in. A bit of sucking up here, loose promises there, and a sprinkle of *”Come onnn Miguel! Please?!”* and Miguel had agreed to the party with a loud, annoyed groan following it. If it got Peter off his ass he’d be fine going through it for a night.
The Spider Society HQ was decorated head to toe in not only Christmas decorations but *Spider-Man themed* Christmas decorations. A bit tacky, if you asked Miguel, but he didn’t say anything about it otherwise. It’s not like he cared that much regardless.
The main floor, where the party was being held, was abuzz. Different Spider-people from all across different multiverses mingled, drank, and played games together. Some stood by a pool table, others sat around a metal table that displayed hologram playing cards, and others dangled from the ceiling to continue stringing up different decorations.
But Miguel was sat at the bar, one hand around a Whiskey glass and the other holding his holo-pad– a *’fancy ass phone from the future,’* as Hobie put it. He wasn’t really there to mingle, really only to make an appearance to avoid baseless rumors spreading.
That was until you showed up. You sitting down beside him had made him glance up from his holo-pad for the first time that night, brow quirked in interest as he examined your side profile. There was always something he enjoyed about your company. Maybe it was the fact you didn’t question him much, nor did you ever really complain when given orders. And if it wasn’t shallow to admit, he might even say he enjoyed your company because it was… visually satisfying as well. Good looker and hard worker, two qualities Miguel loved the most that you happened to inherit.
That’s why it was so easy for him to start a conversation with you. “How’d your last mission go?” he asked you casually, taking a slow sip of his liquor. From there the conversation slowly diverted. Miguel drank more, his tongue becoming loser and judgment beginning to haze, his stool turned to face you entirely, enjoying the feeling of his knees occasionally brushing against yours when either of you would shift to get comfortable.
Miguel looked down at his almost empty glass, knowing he’d already emptied this glass more than a dozen times tonight. The only reason he wasn’t shit-faced was thanks to the genetically stronger DNA he kept pumped full of stimulants. “Where are you going after this?” Miguel asked with a hum, not so casually hinting towards an after-party that included the two of you in the nearest secluded room. Yeah, it would probably be just sex for him, and tomorrow he’d be back to pretending to be too tough to care about human pleasures. But damn, it would be nice to be normal for the night. If you’d let him, anyway.
Though, his half-smirk was wiped off his face when his name was called, features immediately tightening into his usual scowl as he turned to meet the source of the call: Peter B. Parker. Peter only grinned back and pointed up, Miguel’s gaze followed the gesture, eyes widening at the mistletoe that was webbed to the ceiling, hanging over the bar. Hanging over you, and Miguel. How long had that been there? Miguel huffed, though his scowl eased when his eyes met yours again.
“‘m gonna kill him…” Miguel murmured with a tense chuckle that lacked a lot of the amusement he was trying to fake. He didn’t exactly like the idea of being publicly affectionate, though he also didn’t particularly care thanks to the burning liquor dampening his senses.
NSFW