#miguel o'hara/reader
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mío | baby-fever!miguel o'hara x wifey!reader
❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x wifey!reader, starved prequel
❛ type | oneshot, explicit
❛ summary | after watching mayday, miguel develops a bad case of baby fever, longing for a family of his own.
❛ tags | explicit, miguel has baby fever, babysitting, talk of family planning and contraception, f!reader, breeding, pregnancy kink, much fluff, some angst, starved!reader, miguel being frustrated and cute, clean that kitchen, one stereotype of latina women, Spanish is not translated, best friend!peter, self edited.
❛ request fulfilled | could you possibly write an imagine in which Miguel and his wife take care of mayday? + multiple requests for more starved reader/miguel.
❛ sy's notes | written to fulfill some requests. i do have another daddy miguel blurb to fulfill, but my future works should be nice and angsty.
Peter has it out for him.
It’s the only logical reason why he’d do this shit to him.
Miguel stood in his dark room in a pair of scratchy jeans, dragging a belt loop to loop when he heard the door to his room draw open. A resonant schwap, schwap, schwap.
“Mi reina?” Miguel cocked his eyebrow up, extending his claws.
“¿Sí?” you called back from the bathroom, the distant scent of his favorite perfume wafting into the air. Miguel threw a look to the bathroom, reaching for the bedroom door. It burst open before he could open it.
“Hi, Miguel! Where’s your wife?”
Peter dragged his feet into the room, whirling around with a sloppily put-together backpack that leaked diapers onto the floor. An exasperated breath left his lips, dripping in the way he looked at Peter.
Unfortunately, his little wife liked Peter a bit too much for his taste.
“I should have known.” Miguel ran his hand through his hair, strands of mocha brown flyaways wisping along his tawny forehead. “Why are you here?”
His normally disheveled appearance was a little more disheveled. It wasn’t his appearance that bothered him but how it reached his eyes. Shocked, confused, tired. Peter pat his deltoid, awkward laughter choking in his throat. It bubbled on the edge of an overwhelmed sob.
“Well, you see, your wife said she’d watch Mayday because I have a date, and I haven’t had a date in a really, really long time. Like, a really long time—”
“Is Peter here?”
His head snapped to your bathroom where you came out, threading a golden hoop earring. You probably already knew the fight that was heading your way-- but for your part, you couldn’t be bothered to care any less.
“Got it, you need this date.” Miguel cut Peter off, standing behind you with his massive arms crossed. “¿Por qué no me dijiste?”
“¡Mi nena! Muévete Miguel,” you giggled, shoving your way past Miguel to Peter’s child carrier, sneaking your hands underneath her little armpits and whirling her around. She cackled, a glittering warmth to her mischievous eyes. You came to a stop, settling Mayday against your chest, nuzzling your foreheads together in some secret pact that the two of you shared.
Oh no, no, no, no. Not this. It hits him at once.
The sight of his wife— beautiful and cuddly with a very young baby in her arms. The only sight more beautiful was at the altar on his wedding day, your shy smile behind a sheer veil. It had been a long time, too long, since he had someone to call him father. He can still picture her glimmering eyes, the way she looked at him in nothing short of admiration, looking past the things that he’d done to see him and only him. Glimpsing at Mayday, remembering Gabriella’s soft, small face, it took him a moment to snap free.
He's so fucked.
“You would have said no, amado mío.”
You’re a natural at this, scooting by both men to set Mayday on the bed. Your tiny fingers spiraled out from her belly to change her diaper. Peter jittered uncomfortably, looking as though he wanted to jump in himself. You cleaned her, replacing the dirty diaper with a clean one. “We’re going to a market with Tío Miguel--”
“Don’t bring me into this.”
“Are you sure it's okay? I’ll be back at five, it's just a few hours, really--”
“¡Vete! A ratty house robe and a dirty spider suit aren’t sexy. Look at mi Miggy,” now you’re just buttering him up. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, inspecting the ground. “Wear something nice.”
They’re sexy to her, he might have murmured. Not on a date, you bopped him. Mayday’s bright eyes tracked the space between you and Peter before you broke away to wash your hands. Peter’s clammy hands cupped Mayday’s sweet face, littering at least a dozen sickly daddy kisses over her tiny face. But Miguel what if--
“Adiós, Peter!” You returned to force Peter out of your room. Miguel peered at Mayday whose head snapped to the side, cheek against her fiery hair as the door clicked shut. He braced himself for the shrill that would inevitably come with her realization that her daddy was gone. She whined, grabbing her toes and tipping nearly off the side of the bed. Miguel begrudgingly hovered at her feet, blocking her from rolling off the bed. He could do this, he told himself, he could resist those giant baby eyes staring up at him.
He didn't need a baby, he didn't.
He blames Peter for having such a good baby.
She doesn’t ask for much other than requiring chest-to-chest contact with Miguel. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hold her, he finds himself aggravated by how much he likes to be around her. In a market full of things to look at food trinkets such as necklaces, body scrubs, and empanadas, it’s all her. Miguel props her up with an arm just under her bum, her tiny finger peeking curiously into his fangs. He snapped his teeth playfully at her, a nip, nip, nip, missing playfully every time. It rips ping a toothy grin across her face.
“No biting Miguelito,” you called out, sliding your fingers in a teasing ring around his muscled back to chest. You leaned up on your tippy toes, placing a small little kiss on his lips. You ran off to go get her a pineapple whip after her tiny fist yanked your hair over and over again. You relented, staring at what she was cooing at. Sweets-- obviously, sweets. All the little ones loved sweets.
“She likes it.”
“Ya sé,” you said, “But we don’t need anyone noticing you’ve grown fangs.”
“Tch,” he clicks his teeth in protest. She does too, throwing you a mean look for interrupting her fun. You plucked up a bit of the whip on your spoon, cutting through her displeasure through the power of sugar.
"There's a lot of people here, Miggy, let's go to the park." You point toward the park, pointing away from the mounds of fresh produce and locally sourced goods toward a healthy patch of green grass. Miguel is glad-- he’s sick of being stared at for his huge frame. Despite the ring on his finger, people still seem to try their luck. He couldn't be more disinterested.
You lay a picnic blanket as Miguel holds Mayday's treat. Mayday sprawls across his chest, trying to take just one more bite-- then another-- Miguel looks down, chin level, eyebrow raised. She offers a bit on her tiny index finger to Miguel. A peace offering. “She’s not going to wait.”
“Give her to me.” You kicked off your sandals on the edge of the blanket, dropping your things on another corner. You pluck Mayday from Miguel’s arms and set her down on the blanket in a way that is too easy. As though you wouldn’t have much of a learning curve in becoming a mother. No, no— you never mentioned anything about kids. Did you even want kids? He couldn't bring his heart to ask, to hope again.
“I didn’t know you were so experienced with kids.”
“Mami had six,” you noted, plopping down with the whip by Mayday’s side. She sat with a small slant, reaching out toward the sweet treat again with those chunky, adorable hands. You brought her into your lap, at last relenting. “When you’re the oldest, you have to learn a little something to help out. Can you imagine-- being pregnant six times? Ay no.”
“How many times do you want to be pregnant?” he blurts out. Usually timed and precise, the question causes him to pinch his brow as he sits beside you. “Si quieres,”
Your other hand comes on top of his and shifts it away from his face.
“As many as will make you happy.”
Shock. He chews on that response, his eyes glued to Mayday lapping at the last spoon of sweets you are willing to give her. She falls into a fit of complaints, a conniving look at the sweets, just as you lift her onto your shoulder.
"I never thought about it."
"No more, your papa won't forgive me if I bring you home all sugared up," you tsked your tongue at her. You patted along her back in small, tight circles until her angry huffs faded away. He reaches for the baby bag, slipping free a soft yellow blanket with white spiders strewn across the front. Miguel slides the blanket on top of Mayday’s small body, her groggy eyes sliding closed.
The more he watches you with Mayday, holding her so close, swaying as you held her, the deeper this ache burrowed in his chest. You would look beautiful all swollen with his child. Never mind Mayday or Peter, he can nearly see it, feel it under his fingers, the feeling of your taut belly under his skin, or the kick of tiny feet against his palm.
“We’ll see, Miggy.”
We’ll see-- the answer seems too noncommittal, too distant to be a satisfactory answer. With Mayday sound asleep, you settle her between your plush thighs. She expelled bursts of energy that milked her energy dry.
A little old woman passed by, her cane pierced soft grass as she moved closer with a bag of tomatoes and green beans. Her face, aged by time, pulls into a wide smile. He doesn't like her smile.
“You two are doing a great job. How old is she?”
You blink, looking up into the woman’s cool blue eyes, her dark hair peppered with thick grey and white strands. You tuck Mayday in her soft blanket, sparing the woman a kind smile that Miguel doesn’t quite have the patience for.
“Oh, oh. Thank you-- um, a couple of months,” you recount, perhaps thinking of Peter’s anxious pacing or his delighted shouts about becoming a father.
“Adopting is a great option. Back in the day, my husband was a bodybuilder too. Had a low sperm count don’t you know. Steroids shrink things. Oh, but these days you can do all sorts of things like IV--”
A what-- Miguel’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull at the suggestion. Was this old bitch’s suggestion that he couldn’t do it-- couldn’t get you pregnant? He could easily do that. If he wanted you pregnant, you would be shocking pregnant. He’d be damned if some old woman put it in your mind that he couldn’t.
“We’re babysitting for a friend,” he blurts out. “I have--” had, “a daughter.”
“Oh, do you? I’m sorry. I thought-- well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, have a good day."
She’s saying that, but it comes out slanted. You don’t bother correcting Miguel, not on this. Rather, your hand inched toward his, picking up on the energy that was pluming from his body in waves. Irritation-- annoyance-- the little old lady hobbles off. You’re in your mind well enough to bid her goodbye. But you know better than to say anything more, slumping your cheek on Miguel’s firm chest. It makes the ache of Gabriella's memory a little more bearable.
Low sperm count his ass.
It bothers him long after Mayday is gone. Peter, for his part, looks refreshed. He supposes that’s what happens with a full day of opportunity to empty your balls after weeks of no relief. It bothers him long after you come back from the kitchen, his favorite dark red slip plastered to your perfect body. It would look beautiful, full of his children— he just knows it.
“I may have hijacked the kitchen a little bit,” you teased, the waft of warm chicken and brewed spices filled his nose. He had no appetite. “But I made you some pollo guisado.”
“Hm,” he grunts into a pillow. “Later.”
Beside the bed, he has a bowl of brightly colored condoms. With your sensitivity to birth control, it is the best option available. It wasn’t, however, something he was ever happy about. He should be able to feel your body. Not once had he felt your body pure and unadulterated, warm and perfect for him. He was your husband. He wanted that moment— to fill you up just once, watch his cum dribble out of your cunt. It would be perfect. You set the food away, bowl and spoon clinking together.
“Miguel.”
Forget your warm body. This room is too quiet. It is almost stifling in its silence. Mayday’s sweet huffs, the memory of Gabriella’s laughter. A proper home full of a child's giggles. He’s going crazy-- he has to be-- this isn’t normal. This isn’t Miguel.
“Mi vida, don’t pout,” you reach out, rolling your fingers through his long brown hair. Your fingers tease along his scalp, turning around his ear. Your fingers tickle his lobe, your voice cemented in a concern that he wanted nothing more but to fix if it were anything other than this. “Miggy. Miggy, what is wrong? You look sad.”
“I’m not sad,” he says with a whine on his pillow. How silly he must look with his broad arms wound around the body pillow, squeezing its fluff for life. If he said the words well enough, you might believe them.
“I know you are,” you nudge the pillow loose. He takes you instead, the air thickening with the closeness. You fed off the tension, sliding your leg over the sheet that covers his naked hip. “Tell me why.”
He turns his hands over your thighs, traveling past your hips to ghost along your belly.
“Sí, Miggy?”
“I need…” he trailed off, finding the words nearly impossible to admit. They grow into a ball and cement in his throat, present but stubborn. Rather than break the words free, he swallows a bolus of desire and frustration. “It’s nothing. Let it go.”
The issue was— you loved him enough to let it do so.
Miguel doesn’t want to press the issue. He knows you. All you want is Miguel’s happiness. Sometimes, he worries it is at the price of your own. The distance he places between you and him is intolerable. It bothers him every time he finds you babysitting Mayday.
Today, while Peter goes on a small date, you and Mayday make his favorite empanadas. She’s covered in a dusting of flour from head to toe. Peter would have fun with that.
“Miggy you’re back?” you called as Mayday’s chubby hands shot out, nearly plopping off the counter if not for Miguel’s quick reflexes, setting her back in place.
“Empanadas?” he settles the words in a small kiss to your lips. You glance at him over your shoulder.
“It's... it's Gabi's birthday, isn't it?"
You’re too good for him. Despite the day coming and going, no one else notices his grief today. Not even Peter who came in alongside him, reading the room, and snatching up Mayday off the countertop. He’s babbling something, a thank you, see you later— you kiss Mayday with only the sweetness a mother could know.
“Peter! Mayday made these for you,” you reach out to a box of uncooked empanadas. “Take them home!”
Her first empanadas— the delight is palpable. Peter may have snapped a photo, or ten, of his little flour girl on the way out, empanadas in hand. Then there’s silence. Miguel returns the nearly forgotten bundle of empanada dough and filling to the fridge in the space of unspoken tension. Miguel dips down to your neck, caramelized perfume warm on your neck. His lips trace the warm pulse of your neck.
“Mami,” his voice mesmeric, warm like the filling you used to make him happy when no one else could. Your doting attention, even in the face of real issues like work and babies, was always on him.
"Sí, mi vida?"
His hands coast around your waist, using his strength to gently turn you around. It isn’t important right now. What is important is how he lifts you up onto the floury surface, purring his need into your slight ear. “I want a baby.”
“¿Qué?”
“Una niña,” Miguel leans his fingers along your collarbone.
“Oh, Miggy.” You puff the words. They come out almost wounded. You know him so well, the vulnerability of the words causing him to look down. Your warm palms cradle his cheeks, forcing him to look into your eyes. “You miss being a father, don't you?”
You’re not stupid. Neither is he. He thought he could wait— watch Mayday grow up and not feel this sundering longing. As though he could stomach never feeling a child in his arms again. The ghosts of the past that came with Mayday’s longing haunt him day by day.
You devour his insecurity, winding your legs around his waist and forcing him forward. He stumbles into your embrace, as though he were not a man who could decimate villains and spiders alike. When he was here, in your arms, he barely felt like the weapon of a man that he is.
“Miguel. Speak to me.”
“You’re right,” he can’t lie— can’t hide the longing that comes with the thought of his own child on his chest. Not Mayday, no matter how many times she cuddled up to his chest. At the end of the day, she would never be his. You drew your lip into your mouth, nipping it fat and red, a bob in your head. His heart beats faster, strumming as though it would break free from his chest. Whatever it is you’re thinking he’s not sure. Only that it’s been so long.
“I just want to make you happy, will this make you happy?” you nearly whisper, knowing that there’s no one but him to hear the words. It’s what he wants for you, too. As he stands there, coursing his fingers along your thighs and hiking your dress up your hips, he can’t help but feel the foggy discomfort of forcing you into parenthood before you were ready.
“It will.”
As well as it could. It would never erase Gabriella-- and, in the vulnerability of begging his wife for another child, came the guilt. Not only the guilt of failing to be a proper father or to protect her but moving on without her in his life to a beautiful family she would have loved. The feelings surge in his chest, a well of uncomfortable emotions in his eyes, threatening to fall.
“Miguel,” you’re whispering, your fingers cutting across his sharp cheekbones. You cup his face, drawing your lips together in a commanding kiss. You never liked being ignored or forgotten. He’s not sure how he could now, with your tongue flicking between his lips, begging him to come back with a sugary sweet whine. “Stay with me, Miguel.”
“I am,” he says, gripping either side of the counter by your hips. He feels your eyes on him, soft and careful, pressuring him to meet your gaze. He searches for an inkling of an answer in your gaze. "¿Qué piensas?"
“We can try,” you bite your lip, sliding it free between your teeth. “If you don’t have a low sperm count,” you tease. “Maybe it’ll take.”
“¡Por dios!” He throws a curse to the side as if he believed in such a being, throwing a look back at you. “You don’t actually believe that vieja.”
“Ay Miggy, of course not.” His lips work into a budding smile. You leaned up against his stubbly jaw, setting soft kisses there. Your lipstick stains his neck, dragging down to his prominent adam’s apple. He looks down at you with heady eyes, tracing the way you suckled a mark on his throat. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like them a little more when others noticed them, little marks of possession. Miguel’s fingers come up to the straps of your dress, easing them over and down your slight shoulders. You pull back, words forming puff against his neck.
“Not right here,” you inhale a soft breath. “Someone could come in.”
Miguel eases his finger over the small bud of your breast, rolling his thumb along the silken skin, His hand comes up, encompassing your neck and shoving you back into the cabinets. It isn’t comfortable, not by far. He works the nub to its peak before turning his attention to the other. His mouth covers your breast, fangs grazing your nub as he suckled and tugged gently. Miggy, you pull him back up, stripped of your touch. Your hand slide across Miguel’s chest, tracing the taut muscles of his chest.
“Who would come in?”
“Peter,” you answer.
It’s always Peter. He supposes that you wouldn’t want your friend to see you here, cunt stuffed with Miguel on the very same counter you earlier made him empanadas on. Miguel snatched the dress that fell along your hips laxly, utilizing it to yank you off the counter. You fell forward into Miguel, a heavy wall of muscle, your lips failing to form anything of use. You looked at him, cheeks flush and eyes doting, he’s the only one you see.
“The balcony, then.”
“Dianche, Miguel! Do you want all of Nueva York to see me?”
“Maybe.”
No, but see Miguel breeding you? Undoubtedly yes.
He couldn’t simply choose the bed, that would be too easy. Miguel set a kiss on your forehead, soft and scratchy with his stubble. You return it by dragging him down for another kiss, a wave of warmth coming over him as you force your hips back onto him, rolling your hips against his, teasing him. Miguel doesn’t appreciate the tease and gently pushes on your hips, motioning you to face the counter.
“Bend over.”
"Can't we go to my room?" you complain but comply all the same. Miguel’s palm ghosts your spine, dragging his fingers smoothly over the middle of your back and past the dress that gathered around your hips, He strips you of the little cover the dress gave, eager to have you bare and rid of the thin clothing that served as a veil from prying eyes. Miguel can cover you from the prying eyes of others if necessary. Not that he cared if others saw him fucking-- he’s all the more eager to have you all to himself, here and now.
“No panties,” he notes, his warm hands on your inner thighs. “It’s almost like you knew.”
“I might have,” you return, spreading your legs obediently for him. He palms your vulva, your hips shifting down over his hand. Sticky and wet, he wonders if his need to breed you has rubbed off on you too. His fingers shift, sliding over your soft hole. “Apúrate Miguel, you’re so slow.”
“Can’t you be be good for once.”
You were always bossy. He likes it, most the time, being led around by what his pretty little wife wants. Today he wants to take his time, curving his broad fingers into your glistening cunt. Your wetness drips over his knuckles, fingers teasing the velvety soft walls he has never felt without a condom. A pleasured cry wracks in your chest, turning your head over your shoulder to watch Miguel’s fingers stretching you out. No matter how much your walls gave under his fingers, you would still ache when he penetrated you. It was the favourite part, the rich pull of his dick into your hole, bottoming out as best he could in your stomach. He soothes your complaints by grazing his other hand against your perky clitoral hood, finding the soft nub there for relief. You settle your arms on the floured surface.
“I never-- ah-- am,” you threw back.
Miguel slipped his fingers free, cupping your cunt with his palm for a teasing slap. You want to be good-- it’s just so hard, your cunt pulsing in the abswnce of his touch. He drags his sodden fingers to your lips, glazing them in taste of your lubricant. You suckle your tongue around his thick digits, savoring your own taste, his soft grunt of approval spurring you on. You feel like such a good girl with his fingers crooked in your mouth.
“Are you ready?” Miguel stands fully upright, dragging your hips to his. He’s hard as the counter you were pathetically clinging onto. His hipbones ground into your plush ass, dick pulsing in his immediate ache to feel your cunt. He backs up, fiddling with something at the waist. You don’t need to ask to know that it was his big cock grinding between your cheeks, smearing fluid over your slit.
“No condom?”
“No condom,” he affirms. You bow your head, nodding gently over the countertop. The head of his cock drove into your wetness, pushing past bundles of nerves. It’s impossibly different without the bag over his dick. It’s been so long. His world blinks out, savoring the feeling like he was an inexperienced teenager again.
“Carajo, you’re so good,” he finds himself cursing, leaning over your back.
“Now he says I’m good."
“Shh,” Miguel clips with a mean nip at your nape, lining it with soft kisses, encouraging you on to take him. Warm and wet, Miguel can only describe the slide into your cunt as untethered delight. Released from the bondage of his usual condom, he’s a mess against your soaked cunt, gripping you for a semblance of stability.
I just want to make you happy. For all your needy complaints and little quips, he knows you do. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, with your hands cupped on top of his, squeezing for more closeness. Miguel laces your fingers together in a needy weave, drawing back to stroke his cock right back into your wet body. You lead one of his hands between your legs, urging him on to stroke your clit. Your walls clamp down on him, teasing out bursts of pleasure with how deeply he was buried. Miguel’s lips part into a whine of his name, skin slapping against skin. He sets a kiss in the crook of your neck, breath nearly unbearable.
“Mami,” he gasps, the word coming out between his unstable thrusts. Your eyes shut hard, sparks of pleasure winding and building in your core. “Give me a baby.”
“Sí papi,” you heave, “I”m trying to.”
Miguel knows what you like-- and you like him desperate. His voice so low and rich that you gush around his swollen length, falling apart below him. He catches your body from dropping in an instant, his thighs shaking as he works you through the fibers of gentle pleasure. Hot pressure builds low in his stomach.
“Qué bella eres. I’m going to finish, fill you and knock you up,” he whispers, drawing himself free and admiring the hazy space of pleasure and reality. Miguel turns you back to face him. You think you may complain-- you didn’t cum, or something of the sort. He shifts you to sit on the counter, spreading your vulva for inspection. Miguel spat on your cunt, rolling his fingers over the swollen folds to spread you apart. He slipped into the space between your shaking legs. You felt him thrust into your body hard and sharp. Your hands reached out, dragging Miguel’s shoulders forward, clinging onto his body.
It comes all at once, Miguel’s stuttering thrust forward, a deep groan filling the kitchen, his hand clasped onto your thigh so hard you know he’ll bruise it. You catch his moan in a kiss he doesn’t reciprocate, buried so deep in your body that all he can think to do is to force you to take all of it. He shakes himself free of the web of pleasure that he’s enveloped in, looking at you past the thin rivulets of sweat you wiped away with your loving thumbs.
“I think there are better positions for baby making,” you lean in, kissing him gently. He returns the kiss this time, eyes light of the strain and stress of the last few days. “Like… not this.”
Miguel pulls back, his soft cock slipping free from your warm entrance. Miguel watches as his seed dribbles from your hole, grunting in acknowledgement. He swipes your mixed fluids and rolls it between his fingers.
“I’m open to suggestions.”
He loves his wife. More than anything. What he doesn’t love is how Peter seems to know that you’re trying for a baby.
The thing about having a woman from his same cultura was this: you loved to talk with your best friend. Who, just so happened to be Peter. He doesn’t even have to say anything, just staring at him with a quirk on his lip and a terrible glitter in his eye after he’s resolved another meeting.
“Hey, Miguel.”
“Don’t start.”
He’s crowded with work at his desk-- he has no time for Mayday’s curious little eyes to glitter at him, Peter to be doing that shit he did when he wanted to be helpful. He offered his hands up, shrugging.
“I’m just saying! I’m a man, you’re a man,” he mumbles, inching a little closer and closer. “If you want a baby--”
“Let me guess. She told you.”
“Mayday could use a spider buddy,” he held Mayday up, out of her carrier. Miguel glanced down at her wild hair, exhaling air out of his nose with a little huff. “Sooner than later?”
“I’ve done it before,” Miguel throws back. “I know how to knock up my own wife, Peter. I don’t need help.”
Peter is offering help as if Miguel hadn’t tasted the changes in your body when he ate you out. Never mind that he saw you nauseated this morning, too sick to handle a call that Miguel promptly answered. He knew his seed had stuck-- you wouldn’t feel so miserable otherwise. It doesn’t matter, he’d answer them all if it meant another little one in his arms at the end of it all. Just so long as you and the baby were safe.
“Are you sure? I know--”
“I’m damn sure.” Miguel turned around, his head in his hand. “I’ve had enough of you. Why don’t you do something useful? Bring her something for her morning sickness.”
“Oh,” realization fell over Peter like a hammer, looking down to Mayday who looked right back up to her father. For all that Peter knew about his love life, he was shocked that you hadn’t told him how awful the smell of breakfast meat made you feel. His hand fell away, a film of pride slipping from his practiced features when Peter spoke. “But... She’s already pregnant?”
He leers. Peter scuttles away.
Privacy is important to Miguel. You knew the damn rule. No telling Peter about the inner workings of your bedroom. For that, you were going to fucking get it. You likely knew you were going to get it-- even if you were likely already pregnant.
He can’t wait.
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I saw on your masterlist that you have requests open for headcanons? Do you have any you're dying to share? :3c
oh ho anon do I ever, most of these ones are based on the fact that Miguel has spider DNA and based on spider behaviors/quirks
Miguel likes to hum tunes. Tunes he comes up with, songs he knows, notes he likes, anything. When he's alone he'll hum quietly to himself, and if you hum back at him he'll start humming a song for you both.
Miguel has glowing patches that show under black light. This was first discovered when he went to a universe that had a high level of UV light from their sun. He has false eye spots on his face as well as stripes on his cheeks. Peter B. has photos.
On rare occasions, when he's totally content, you can catch Miguel purring. Usually its when he's half asleep or getting his hair played with, he'll purr. It's a deep rumble from his chest and its almost imperceptible unless you're right next to him or touching him. He doesn't like when its brought up.
When Miguel snores his fangs come out. Something about having his mouth open allows the muscles that keep his fangs retracted to relax (This one is based on this amazing fanart from Guruan pls go appreciate her)
Miguel is very mouthy. He loves to kiss and nip at your shoulders and neck and sometimes bites when he's too worked up and his instincts start to take over.
Miguel loves loves loves having his hair played with. But only by people he deeply trusts.
I have more if anyone wants to hear them, some NSFW too 👀👀
Miguel O'Hara Masterlist
#for real tho please I wanna share the feral ideas I have for this man#love writes#miguel ohara#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara headcanons#miguel o'hara headcanon#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara/reader#miguel o'hara x male reader#love answers#anon asks#miguel o'hara fanfiction
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Boiling Point 1: Rabbit Season - Miguel O'Hara/Reader (NSFW)
Next - M.list - Ao3
A/N: hi I'm very normal about miguel o'hara. come be normal with me.
Summary: You are determined to put an end to the onslaught of your toy collection. In your quest, you set out to re-train yourself into some discipline.
Warnings: smut, vibrator use, masturbation. reader is afab and a sub.
Word count: ~3000 words
You are really starting to hate Miguel O'Hara.
Oh, sure, you’d follow him to the ends of every earth, Earth-47 notwithstanding—fuck Earth-47 and its migraine-inducing everything—and you will never thank him enough for everything he’s done, for you and all the other dimensions saved by him, directly or otherwise. He’s brilliant, he’s a genius, he’s easy on the eyes, his leadership is instrumental to holding together All of Everything, all that which you can comprehend and conceive, all that which you cannot. He does not always have all the information, but you trust him to do as much good as he can with the information he has. He is fundamentally good to a fault, and while he can be abrasive at times—perhaps more often than not—we can’t all be winners all the time.
No, your issue with him has nothing to do with any of that.
Your head is more than a little fuzzy right now, given your current circumstances, so I’ll be nice and put this in a way you can understand:
Miguel O'Hara keeps breaking your fucking sex toys.
Like I said, he’s easy on the eyes. Maybe too easy. Maybe, more than once, you’ve fought at his side and had an entirely separate fight in your head just to keep your mind on the matter at hand. Maybe, one time too many, you’ve seen his fangs flash during a flare of the temper or a slip of his guard and not quite forgotten the sight. Maybe you’ll need to be lobotomized if you want to forget that time you’d gone on a mission with him and he’d leapt directly at you, claws out, fangs bared, eyes vermilion, to tackle you out of the way of some particularly dangerous debris and stayed on top of you for a full eternity after that to make sure you were okay.
If that final image was the one seared behind your eyes as you sighed and pressed your vibe into yourself this fine afternoon, that’s between you and no one. And, in fact, it wasn’t, because you are never admitting to getting off to the general thought of your—boss?—your boss, not today or ever, under oath or the threat of death.
That being said, it had started as a bit of a coping mechanism.
He was stupid hot, and he walked towards you like you were quarry he had hunted, and the first time he’d done it, your brain had gone completely offline for a full five seconds. Getting off that night had been unrelated, you tell yourself—you didn’t think while pumping two fingers into your cunt, let alone about him, let alone when you’d added the third because you were certainly not imagining something thicker plunging into your heat. Fingers hadn’t been enough, not for a job like that, and by the time you overheard him finish a playful spat with Lyla with the words “good girl”, you’d given in and broke open the vibrator collection, a relic of a much more impulsive time, before you were fucking yourself on toys definitely not to the thought of your boss.
The first casualty had been your green rabbit vibe. It was a mainstay, and your oldest toy—a thruster, thick, good insertable length, great battery life, not so loud you struggled to get off for fear of your next-door neighbor hearing its buzz. Miguel had bitten someone during a mission that day, just held them and sunk his teeth in and set them down as they slumped, paralyzed, and wiped his mouth of the blood afterward like it wasn’t the hottest thing known to man.
Monsterfucking porn had been your saving grace. You’d turned to werewolves and tried not to overthink the image in your head when you pictured their teeth scraping your flesh, and then your old reliable rabbit vibe had made an odd noise between your writhing that tore you out of the image entirely. Seconds later, it stopped thrusting whether you wanted it to or not. When you hit the button, it made a pathetic noise like a spent lover, wriggled a moment, and went right back to motionless.
You’d groaned in frustration, pulled it out, told yourself it had just died, except it was still making that buzzing noise and the clitoral stimulator was still working fine. You pulled the third orgasm of the night out of the clit stimulator and your wrist work alone—it had been a bit better, because the ruined orgasm 2.5 had ultimately turned out to be an edge, and a name that no one would ever be able to prove was Miguel’s ghosted your lips by then. A good cleaning, a good charge, and some cooldown time, and you determined that the thruster of your poor little green rabbit would never work again.
Miguel O'Hara’s second casualty among your collection was nearly as tragic. You’d come to see him at the wrong time that day—walked in, said his name, and he’d turned to you with red eyes and actually growled at you, and holy shit, you couldn’t calm down for the next hour or the rest of the night.
Your green rabbit had been relegated to a glorified dildo and clit vibe, and as you thrashed on your bed, desperately chasing just an echo of the things that ran through your head when he growled at you, pressing the vibe into yourself as far as it would go and nearly there nearly there nearly there, it buzzed oddly and its power suddenly fell away.
You’d choked back a sob at that one. Again, you assumed it’d been a case of poor battery life, though you hadn’t charged it all that long ago. When you reluctantly pulled out the dripping vibe and saw its indicator lights flashing and flickering in the dark room, you did sob, and then, because you were still thinking about the growl in his voice and the flash of his fangs, you dragged yourself out of bed, dumped your old friend in the trash, and found your backup vibrator to finish the job.
The next casualty of your collection had been your pink vibe—she was an upgrade in every way to the green one. More speed options, rotating beads in the shaft, an attempt to imitate “tongues” on the clit, however the hell that was supposed to work, and more money to have discreetly shipped to your apartment.
This time, Miguel hadn’t even done anything in particular to catch you in his toy-breaking throes. He’d just been existing. Vibing, if you will. And your horny ass—by that point you were starting to suspect yourself some kind of nymphomaniac, and that was before casualty number three—saw him just sitting there and eating food like a normal-ass person, had some really fucking horny thoughts (first about just cooking for him, nice, domestic, sweet) (second about him pulling up the apron you’d wear for him in the first scenario and splitting you in half over the kitchen counter), and that was it for your evening post-shenanigans.
So, naturally, when you got home, you took off the bracelet, stashed it in another room, leaned over your kitchen counter, and revved up that rotating-beads-in-the-shaft thruster, pistoning it into your cunt with obscene squelches like your life depended on it. You’d kept it up, free hand clasped over your mouth, until you were forced to finish on the couch lest your legs give out, and the poor thing overheated from the strain of trying to keep up with the image you had in your head of Miguel and the thruster never moved again. Great investment, that one.
It was at this point in time that you had two options:
First, seek therapy to help you through the excruciating condition of being sex-crazed for one Miguel O'Hara.
Or, secondly, you could funnel those feelings through a surrogate and fuck someone else’s brains out so you didn’t have to think about him.
You, in all your overwhelming genius, decided that the city’s superhero could not retain the services of a therapist in any way that mattered, let alone any of the Spider-Therapists abound at HQ, and instead found your way into a myriad of fuck-buddy relationships with perfect strangers.
You found your pool of eligible fuck-buddies wanting, to say the least. You never used to be all that picky—I mean, sure, you were never exactly all that attracted to anyone before the whole Spider thing, and then you were a little too busy to worry about it, but you still probably would have slept with someone if they were decently pretty enough and nice to you—but then you tried to find someone and filtered out half of them on looks alone.
Hair too light. Too waifish. I could snap this one in half.
Some were just generally not great candidates as you swiped through: weird thoughts about domming, one whose bio mentioned how he would expect you to throw out your toys once you were “dedicated” to him (those were expensive and you’d been forced to throw out one too many already), misaligned kinks, one guy who literally said “I don’t believe in safewords” and didn’t see how that was the biggest red flag in the universe.
It took too long, once you’d settled on a few choice matches, to figure out what they all had in common beyond making profiles on a hookup app and claiming to be dominants:
They all reminded you of Miguel.
This, admittedly, did not become clear until later, when you slept with the first one for the second time and it wasn’t all that bad and while he had you blindfolded on the bed, you forgot yourself and moaned a name.
Not ‘sir’, like had been discussed in your initial meeting.
At first, you’d frozen because you’d forgotten to use his title, and that meant you were due for punishment. Then, it was because you realized the real mistake:
That hadn’t been his name you’d moaned.
You broke it off shortly after that. When the second guy went the way of the first, you gave yourself one last shot with this whole diversion idea, and that went pretty well. You lasted three whole months with this one—he was sweet, he was funny, and when it came time for you to be tied down and have your brains fucked out, he respected your hard stops and made your head fuzzy by the time he was done with you.
He bit you in the heat of the moment, and you moaned the wrong name again, and this time, you gave up on having any sort of sex life, even though he tried to be understanding of the misstep.
His teeth weren’t sharp enough to live up to who you wanted him to be, anyway.
How many casualties had Miguel O'Hara racked up in your bedroom, now? Three partners, two thrusting mechanisms, one vibrator, and now, as you sit on your knees on your bed and ride the half-defunct pink rabbit, the still-functioning vibrator buzzing in the night, you give in and admit to yourself that what you need more than anything is for him to break you in half. To chase you down, clamp his teeth on your throat, and have his way with you.
Riding this stupid toy isn’t enough. You slump face-first onto the bed, ass in the air, and try to imagine how his hand would feel on the back of your neck as you reach a hand back to pump the toy into your weeping pussy.
This, too, is not enough—you resort to full-power vibrator, nearly spasming as you try to reach the heights you need to feel satisfied tonight. And you even nearly get there, before Miguel O'Hara’s stupid everything claims its seventh casualty and the vibrator sputters out with a noise that you’ve come to associate with a profound sort of grief.
You throw the broken vibrator aside, reach for the shitty purple bullet vibe that had come as a free gift with one of your collection. In your haste and with the strength that comes with being a Spider, the fucking thing snaps in your hands. Another casualty of his. At least you didn’t pay a hundred dollars for that one.
It’s little consolation. Tears slip down your cheeks as you reach back to do the job manually, but no amount of fingering yourself or frantically rubbing at your clit is going to be enough, and fuck it, you know that by now, but that was your last toy and now there’s nothing left and his stupid pretty face is still in your head and you have to do something!
It’s no good.
Nothing you’ve tried has ever quite been good enough, and you know that.
Short of buying yourself a fucking machine, too expensive and noisy and hefty to even really consider, you’ve got nothing.
After fifteen frustrated minutes of crying and trying to bring yourself up to that climax you so desperately need, you throw yourself down fully onto the bed and actively cry into your pillow.
He’s stupid.
He’s burned through every sex toy in your collection, every vibrator and thruster, every partner you’ve tried to lay with since meeting him.
You are really, really starting to hate Miguel O'Hara.
~
Okay, so that’s one unhealthy coping mechanism lost to your complete inability to be chill. Luckily, you’re not just a sex-crazed simp for him, you’re also an adrenaline junkie, and if your substitute for all the lost sexual outlets happens to be taking some bigger risks than you normally would when caught up in some fight or another, that’s between you and the wall you went through.
Keep telling yourself it’s sustainable, and maybe you won’t have to worry about the weird look from one of the many various Peters running around or the stern look on the face of Miguel when you report back in. Which Peter? Fuck if you know. You were faceblind before joining the society comprised of 95% the same guy in different flavors. They don’t take it personally. At least you almost always get the name right.
And really, it is! It is completely sustainable! Bruises are a thing you wear with pride, and you’re beyond the worry for broken bones and serious injury by now. If anything, the dull ache in your back could be a useful grounding point to keep yourself from thinking about things you shouldn’t, a skill you probably should have been practicing well before you broke the first vibe.
Nothing you try works, of course, not when he’s standing in front of you looking an awful lot like he has something to say.
“I should head back, too,” you say when your backup Peter has moved to leave. A perfect segue to heading back to your home dimension and—
“[name]. Stay back a moment.”
He doesn’t word things like requests. You’ve learned, over time, that he is requesting, in a way, but his voice is forever just a bit too deep and rumbly for your body to interpret it as anything but an order, and god you’re useless. So much for not thinking about the things you’re trying not to think about.
You have to remember that you can’t stay here and chat, so you remember that you can’t stay here and chat, and so you turn to leave anyway. “I can’t really stay and chat—“
“That was stupid,” he interrupts.
Ah. He was watching you fight today.
He raises a single eyebrow as he studies you. (You hate his stupid face you hate his stupid face you hate—)
“You could have moved out of the way.”
You snort, brush it off. “He was just some villain of the week type. I thought it’d be cool if I could get him before he hit me.”
“You let him hit you because you thought it would be cool?”
“No, I waited too long to move the way I wanted to, because I thought it would be cool. It’s not like I really got hurt, anyway.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh, muttering something in Spanish you don’t quite catch.
“What was that?”
“I can’t decide whether you’re stupid or just need discipline.”
That is decidedly not what he said. You caught enough shreds of his muttering to know that much. And anyway, it doesn’t matter, because it takes all your willpower not to reply with discipline me yourself then, coward and you’re so focused on that thought that it clicks.
Oh.
What you need is not to get over your monumental attraction to him.
It’s discipline.
Before you fucked the life out of every vibrator you owned, you had discipline.
Before you met him, you had discipline.
It was something you’d given over to sexual partners to handle—to tell you when to masturbate, when to cum, when to pull your toys away regardless of how needy you were.
And, in the absence of any such partners between your newly exacting standards and inability to sleep with anyone without thinking of someone else, it’s once again going to have to come from you.
You meet his eyes, a new fire within you. “I’ll do better.”
He holds your haze a long moment, his expression one of those enigmas you could spend centuries trying to crack and still turn out to be wrong in the end.
He breaks it off first, turns away from you.
“Then do it. I’ll be waiting.”
You slip out of the room and clear out of the dimension.
You’ll get your discipline back if it kills you.
Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet
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Bloody nose part 3 // Miguel O' Hara
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Female Reader
Summary: You integrate the Spider Society, not without a couple of twists and turns.
Warnings: Swearing.
Tags: Comedy, action, BAMF! Reader, Reader has super powers, slow burn.
Words: 2570 words.
A/N: Some Hobie in this chapter! Can you blame me, he's so cool and funny. It's completely platonic in regards to the Reader of course.
Part 1. Part 2.
The interdimensional portal in your living-room and yourself are looking at each other defiantly. At least if that thing had eyes you imagine it would do that.
You don’t like portals. Not that you ever used one before, but the little you know from fiction inspires you absolutely zero confidence. Whether they come from magic or technology, crossing through time or space like so feels unnatural and incredibly dangerous. What if you end up in an endless void? What if one half of you get stuck on the other side? What if you end up a thousand feet up in the air and fall ineluctably to your death? Your powers cannot protect you from this.
Your niece isn’t here to reassure or guide you, since today’s a school day. You could have waited after school but the sooner you cut all her ties to the Spider Club, the better in your opinion.
You’re doing this for Naomi, you remind yourself, and, with a deep inspiration, you go through the pulsating hexagon.
The whole trip is a torture. You force yourself to let go, just let the current, or whatever is the mysterious force moving your body, carry you to your destination. I hate this, I hate this, I HATE THIS, you mumble to yourself.
Eventually the red and orange surrounding you turn to blue, then to a blinding white light, and the mysterious force transporting you suddenly cease to exist so you… drop like a stone. And crash miserably on the platform coming to meet you. Thankfully, there’s not a soul around to witness your pathetic entrance. You quickly get up, unharmed, except for your pride.
The elevator you’re in happens to be in glass and your attention is immediately monopolized by the views offered to you. Green stretches and futuristic white buildings spread as far as the eye can see. You’re definitely not in Kansas – ahrem, not in New York anymore. You’re so subjugated, you almost miss the elevator coming to a stop and the door behind you opening.
The room in front of you is sizeable, even if its deep whiteness and neon lights give it an hospital like aspect, and full of Spidermen. Women. Teenagers? They’re all wearing their suits and you suddenly feel, at the same time, like a sore thumb standing out, and like you just arrived to a fucking comic con. You start walking, torn between trying to pass unnoticed, and hurting your neck trying to take it all in. You never imagined this place would be so big and have so many people. You may be forced to take those guys seriously after all. All the Spiders walking on ceiling will certainly take you some time to get used to it.
You���re distracted by a cow-boy spiderman whose horse is apparently ALSO Spiderman – Spiderhorse? – since it can walk on the ceiling and wear a mask too, starting to wonder in what kind of mess full of weirdos you got yourself in, when the inevitable happen: you bump into someone.
“My bad”, you apologize immediately.
“No worries, mate”, replies a voice with a thick British accent.
You look up – because, once again, this is someone who’s towering over you – and take in the teenager facing you with an easy smile. Your gaze lingers on his numerous piercings then take note of the spikes on the shoulders of his leather jacket. There’s a punk spiderman? You think to yourself, before taking the good resolution to stop wondering what kind of spidermen exist – obviously the list never ends.
Thankfully the kid doesn’t seem to take offense to your staring as he addresses you in a joking manner:
“Forgot your suit at home? Happens to the best of us. Or maybe you’re Spider-Hoodie?”
It’s your day off and your tracksuit, sport shoes and zip-up hoodie could never pass for a superhero costume.
“I… I’m a new recruit”, you answer with less confidence that you would have liked. What if they consider you an intruder? Sound the alarm and send a thousand spidermen after you to throw you in an interdimensional jail?
“You don’t sound so sure about that”, he raises an eyebrow, eyeing your watch. “You know what you’re getting into?”
It’s your turn to raise an eyebrow.
“I’ll manage, kiddo, but thanks for the concern.”
He raises his hands in surrender.
“Just checkin’, that’s all. Name’s Hobie Brown, by the way.”
You give your own name in answer, but as you go to shake his hand, you stop dead in your tracks.
“You… change colours? You change colours. That’s a thing. Ok.”
You stupidly stare at him as he goes from the traditional blue and red of spiderman to just red to pink to settle on black and white. He chuckles at your confusion.
“You’ll get used to it. So, you know where you’re going, Newbie?”
“I’m supposed to meet with Miguel, I guess.”
Hobie doesn’t even try to hide the antipathy that name seems to evoke for him.
“The big boss man, ‘course. You in a hurry? Cause if you’re not, we could take the scenic route.”
You can’t stop the smile that spreads your lips.
“You’re always looking to make new recruits desert and stand up the boss?”
“Always. Antagonizing the authorities is one of my favourite hobby.”
You laugh frankly.
“That’s terrific. I think we’re gonna get along great. Scenic route it is!”
Along Hobie, you pass through the Spider Society’s jails, or at least the room where they stock what they call “Anomalies” before sending them to their original dimension. You have a look at their “Strength and Conditioning Centre”, which is really just a fancy and stupidly complicated way to say “gym”, but you can’t help feeling eager upon seeing their state of the art weight machines. You meet Hobie’s friends, Gwen, a melancholic yet resolute teenage girl, and Pavitr, a psyched-up teenage boy for who becoming spiderman sounds to be the best thing that ever happened to him. His enthusiasm momently makes you feel weird, reminding you of the not so long ago times where you only saw your powers as a curse, but you keep your mouth shut. Your own experiences aren’t universal and you have accepted years ago that your opinion isn’t prevailing. Not to mention that ruining a kid’s fun would be quite shitty of you.
You also don’t say anything about the alarming number of teenagers that appears to compose the ranks of the Spider Society. Naomi is the only kid who’s your responsibility, and therefore the only one you have any rights or authority over. Thinking back about your own youth, which was the period when you got your powers, you know from experience that stopping a 15 years old with superpowers to do whatever they want is, for ordinary humans, close to impossible.
Eventually your new acquaintances guide you to Miguel’s… – you can’t possibly call that an office – crypt? Mancave? At first you don’t understand why they stopped since there is nothing in front of you, but then you hear a sound of machinery running and follow the others’ gazes, somewhere much higher than where you were legitimately looking, and finally see the man. He’s standing on a descending platform equipped of a myriad of orange screens, so many that you can’t imagine how he manages to get his bearings between them all, back turned to you.
This is all good and well, except for the fact that his platform is going down at a painfully slow pace that makes you cringe just watching it happen.
“What’s happening?”, you ask the others. You find it hard to believe that with how advanced the technology here seems to be, there’s no way to make this stupid platform go faster.
“That’s his… thing.”, says Gwen. “Don’t mind him.”
You let escape a nervous laugh, the kind you have when you start feeling yourself go crazy.
“Is this a joke? It has to be a joke. Are you guys hazing me? I’m too old for this bullshit.”
The profound silence and the awkward grimaces that greet your remark makes you realize that, no, this isn’t a joke. You don’t know whether to pinch the bridge of your nose or roll your eyes. You want to tell them that they’re all a bunch of crazy freaks in costume and that you never should have come here. Then you grasp that this problem is actually very easy to solve and you leap on the platform. Like you’re in a fucking Mario game.
“What’s up, Miggy?” you force out, with the most insincere smile you can muster, not bothering to hide your irritation.
“Oh, you’re there. Great. Let’s get this over with”, he says with a deadpan voice and an even more deadpan face. That’s when you realize he didn’t even notice your presence until now, too absorbed in his screens. Add to that the fact that he looks like he just pulled an all-nighter. “And don’t call me that”, he adds afterwards, like an afterthought, frowning.
You restrain yourself from telling him he looks like a zombie, and decides to be proactive. The truth is, you learned teamwork the hard way – in the line of fire –, because it never came to you naturally, and you honestly despise it. Nonetheless you know when to put your feelings aside when the situation calls for it.
“Sure”, you start, slowly, testing the waters. ”How about finding some place with chairs and maybe even a table and some coffee? I was sooo excited to join you guys I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
That last sentence is an obvious bootlicking lie that Miguel doesn’t buy, and he looks like he’s about to refuse, so you pout at the best of your abilities, trying to make him understand that you’re more stubborn than him, and he relents in a sigh.
“Alright. Follow me. And you three – he looks severely at the teenagers nearby – I’m sure you have better things to do.”
You bid farewell to the spider kids who obey Miguel with more or less reluctance.
“Lyla”, he calls out, “Can you tell Jess and Peter to meet us in the conference room?”
You open your mouth to ask who the hell is Lyla, because to your limited knowledge there is no one of that name in the room with you, and leave it open in incredulity when a light in the shape of a woman appears over Miguel’s shoulder and answers him.
“On it!”
“What the fuck is that?”
Alright, that may have been kind of rude, but you’ve had it with all the weird shit around here. You’ve been holding in your comments pretty good until now.
“Lyla’s my personal assistant.” Even if Miguel deigns to answer you, it sounds more like he did it automatically rather than anything else. He keeps walking without sparing you a glance and you follow.
“I’m an holographic AI software“, adds Lyla, who sounds glad to show off.
“You have holograms? That’s so cool… wait. So you’re from the future or something?”
“In my dimension the year is 2099. I’ll explain in details when we get there.”
And so your little trip continues in silence, one which is neither awkward nor comfortable. You think about how Lyla seemed way more chattier than Miguel, so you try your luck.
“Lyla?” There really is something particular about calling the name of someone – something – who you know isn’t there but who you expect to answer nonetheless.
“Yeah?” she replies, materializing in front of you, laying on her back with her hands crossed behind her neck, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Which you supposed should be expected from a computer program.
“You don’t answer only to Miguel?”
“I am available to assist all members of the Spider Society in protecting the multiverse, but Miguel’s requests take priority.”
“What can you do exactly?”
“Sooo many things… I transfer calls between Spider Society’s members, I detect and track anomalies all over the multiverse, I check the state of the canon, I predict the appearance of canon events, I help Miguel create gizmos and goobers…”
You understood half of that but assume Miguel will explain soon the jargon. You chat amicably with the AI while being careful to not lose Mr Dark And Brooding because you know you will get lost.
***
“Did you get all that?”
After listening religiously to Spiderman 2099 for close to an hour and being bombarded with information, you need a moment to get your act together. You feel like you accidentally tore open the fourth wall of reality itself when you shouldn’t have and what you saw on the other side changed you forever. Alternatives dimensions are real and infinites. You are currently in another dimension where the year is 2099 and New York is named Nueva York. The possibilities are endless. Somewhere out there, there are worlds where your sister is still alive. Where you died instead of her in the accident. Where you don’t have powers.
Miguel’s question brings you back on earth, however. To yearn for another existence can only leads to death and destruction.
“Yep.”
Bad answer. He puts his hands on his hips and raises a sceptical eyebrow.
“Did you now?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm and you want to punch him again.
“Yeah I got it. The multiverse exists. Don’t stay in another dimension for too long or everyone dies. Do not interfere with fixed events or everyone dies. Do not let people from other dimensions linger in one that’s not theirs or everyone dies. This is pretty basic sci-fi time travel’s rules. I just compacted your lecture in three sentences, you’re welcome.”
“Che maravilla. Then you can be in charge of giving my “lecture” to the new recruits.”
“I’d say I don’t make a good pedagogue but at least I’ve never thrown a desk at a kid.” You retort without missing a beat, crossing your arms, a sneering smile spreading your lips, staring back at Miguel.
You can’t really be mad at him for the sarcasm, it’s your favourite form of humour after all. But if he wants to play, you’ll give as good as you get.
Once again, Peter plays the peacemaker.
“Heyyy Miguel, didn’t you want to ask about her powers?”
The aforenamed sits for the first time since you arrived in the room, in the chair facing you.
“Lyla, can you take notes of this?”
Lyla makes a military salute.
“From what I’ve gathered firsthand – he rubs his jaw where you punched him – you have enhanced strength. Is your skin completely impenetrable? What about the rest of your body?”
“Enhanced speed, enhanced stamina. I’m almost unbreakable. My muscles and my bones included. My eyes are not.”
“Define “almost”. ”
“The most damage I’ve ever sustained was when I took a shotgun to the head and it knocked me out for a couple days. Otherwise I’m usually bulletproof.”
“What about fire? Are you also immune? Electric shocks? Explosives?”
“Yes, yes and yes.”
It’s like having a conversation with your doctor.
Peter lets out an enthusiastic “wow” and Jessica considers you more attentively. As for Miguel, you can’t tell if he’s impressed or satisfied to have a promising recruit. However you’re quickly interrupted in your analysis of his expression as he stands up.
“Get up. Time to show what you’re capable of.”
#miguel o'hara#atsv miguel#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o'hara x you#spiderman 2099 x reader#mine#miguel o'hara/reader#atsv fanfiction#atsv fic#miguel o'hara fanfiction#miguel ohara fanfiction#miguel o'hara fic#atsv miguel x reader#miguel o'hara x y/n#miguel ohara x you
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Punishment
Miguel has been an ass lately. Luckily Reader knows what to do to get him to behave.
AO3
tags: established relationship | D/s dynamics | sub!Miguel | Dom!Reader | gn!Reader | bondage | masturbation
ships: Miguel O'Hara/Reader
AN: I have now cross-published this on my AO3 account too and added the link to it here 💙
Miguel has been such an asshole lately.
Watching over the Multiverse was hard work and of course it was stressful. That doesn't mean he just gets to take it out on you or any of the Spider-People currently residing at the Head Quarters.
He knew he fucked up when you brought the chains, cuffs and gag. Luckily Miguel was reasonable (sometimes) and didn't fight you too much. You had him undress and then proceeded to tie him up in a kneeling position, his sharp teeth wrapped around the metal bit gag fastened around his head. Then you left him, naked, bound and alone in the darkness of your bedroom so he could think about his recent behavior.
That had been hours ago.
Of course you didn’t leave him completely alone. With the help of Lyla you had your eyes on him constantly - just in case.
He had been perfectly still for the first few hours but now he started to grow agitated, shifting on his knees, aggressively chewing on the metal bit in his mouth.
It was time to grace Miguel with your presence again.
As you open the door all you can hear is frantic panting and the sound of metal straining under Miguel's superhuman strength. You're not worried about any of the gear you had used on him breaking - Miguel had designed it himself after all.
You push the door open further, the light of the hallway illuminating the source of those noises. The sight in front of you nearly took your breath away.
Miguel O'Hara on his knees, arms tied behind his back, desperately trying to find any friction for his painfully erect cock, the tip an angry red color as a steady stream of precum trickled down his shaft onto the floor below. As you look up you see his chest glistening with sweat and saliva as he is drooling around the bit in his mouth. He squints as the sudden light hits his face, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead.
Miguel is a sight to behold.
"Have you learned your lesson yet? Or do I need to keep you here for a few more hours?"
At the sound of your voice his head snaps up and Miguel lets out the most pathetic whimper you have ever heard. Frantically he nods his head, anything he tries to tell you is muffled and distorted by the gag.
You tell Lyla to turn on the lights and close the door. As you step into the room his eyes follow you as he's adjusting to the brightness. You stop right in front of him and look down, admiring your handiwork from up close. Miguel strains his neck, his head fully tilted upwards to look at you pleadingly.
You reach out towards him and as soon as your hand makes contact with his cheek he is nuzzling into it like a touch-starved puppy, whining and whimpering for his owner that left him alone for so long. His red eyes never leave your face, begging for you to free him. And you would once he has learned his lesson.
You lean down, skilled fingers loosening the strap holding the bit in place and then taking it off completely. Once you've removed the gag safely you are flooded by a cacophony of half-formed sentences spilling out of him like a broken faucet. You try to calm him down, hushed whispers followed by gentle touches; one hand pushing the wet hair out of his face, the other returning to his cheek.
"Thank you! Thank you! I-I'll be good. I'll be so good. Thank you for punishing me, amor," he mumbles against your hand as he resumes nuzzling into it, his voice rough from disuse.
Miguel like this was a rare sight. For you to be able to experience it, for him to let you see him like this, to let you do this to him, is such an honor. And such a turn on. But you could take care of that last part later. This isn't about you, it's about Miguel.
"You're welcome. And you'll really be good this time? No snapping at me or any of the innocent Spiders working with you?"
He shakes his head, his cheek still pressed into the palm of your hand.
"No, I'll be good. I promise. I'll be so good for you."
You can't help but smile. Miguel doesn't want to be mean. But only like this was it easy for him to admit just how badly he wanted to be good.
"Good boy. That's all I wanted to hear, Miguel."
You remove your hands and he whines at the loss. Quickly you get your hands on the metal chains and cuffs you had affixed to his hands and feet. You tell him to stay still and keep his position and only when he affirms that he understood your order do you remove any parts that hold him down.
After you put away the bondage gear you return to your place in front of Miguel. He is still kneeling obediently, his red eyes following your every movement. You pull yourself to your full height, looking down on him.
"Since you've learned your lesson I've decided to let you do something about this," you say with a haughty smile as you point to his weeping erection. Miguel's whole body shudders in anticipation, a grateful whimper escaping his lips.
You place your hands on your hips, watching as Miguel still makes no move to relieve himself. With a raised eyebrow you tease: "Do you need me to spell it out for you? Go on! Get yourself off."
You swear you see him blush at your meaner tone. Quickly he wraps a hand around his thick cock and starts stroking, the inhuman amount of precum he had spilled previously working as lubricant. Just by the desperate groans and brutal speed of his hand alone do you know that Miguel won't last long. Poor man. Maybe you should have given him at least something to take the edge off for the time spent alone. You keep that in mind to discuss with him later.
He shudders, his head tipped back in pleasure as he starts to fuck his own hand, his grip tight, almost too tight, around his length. With a few snaps of his hips a growl rips out of his lungs as he comes, his seed spilling over his hand and a few splatters painting his abdomen.
He is shaking, desperately forcing heavy lungfuls of air into his body. Once his breathing has calmed down he looks at you through hooded eyes and mumbles a slurred thank you.
Your smile is radiant as you bow down to kiss the crown of his head. "Thank you. You've been very good. Now let me take care of you."
#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara/reader#spiderman atsv#spiderman 2099#spiderman across the spiderverse#across the spiderverse#atsv#fran-writes
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Nombres
Miguel O'Hara/reader
Find the rest of chapters here!
Notes:
Nombres (names). A bit of touched starved attitude in a closer interaction for the characters, that's all. And a reminder that is not suggestive. Reblogs are appreciated. 🐀🪴
ᬼᬃ᭄ᭃᬼ᭄᭄ᬽ ⃢🥀
The 2099 got used to your presence in his 'office', resulting in more frequent chats, reaching a point of mutual comfortability where not-about-the-multiverse topics could come to the surface and be discussed once in a while.
That time you were talking with the big man about some of the Petters' work while sitting on a wall, your head a bit higher than his. When he asked something unexpected.
–Do you actually know the name of any of us?– It genuinely sounded like a serious question.
You blinked, making a pause for thinking.
–Uh…yeah. Kinda, or maybe not.–
–Those are way too different answers.–
–I am not the best with names.–
–So that's why you call everyone by stupid nicknames.–
–You could say so.–
–Do you even know my name?– The 2099 placed his hands on his hips, not expecting much.
–I remember it is a name way too common between spanish speakers…Juan, maybe?– You raised your shoulders helplessly, faking of course, but this guy didn't get the joke.
–No, try again. But I guess you can say it is common indeed.– His severe eyes were deeply nailed on your whole face or specific pupils, you couldn't tell.
–You have no idea how many Josés I've heard of.– A smirk was visible on your lips, while your gaze slowly fell to the floor. You were playing with him at this point.
–Starts with "M". Try harder.–
You lifted your head back up to his face. Asking in a gasp. –¿Te llamas José María?–
–¿Qué? ¡No!– The 2099 covered his face with a hand in disappointment. –¡Miguel, it's Miguel!–
–Ah…sí, I already knew. I know everyone's names.– Despite keeping a serious voice tone all along, you couldn't avoid the feeling of an inner nervous giggle.
–Do you expect me to believe th–
–Miguel O'Hara, Spiderman 2099 from the Earth-928.– Cutting him off, the rush for clearing up the situation was notable. It wasn't figurative, you did know the names, wanting to use them was a whole different story.
O'Hara remained silent for a moment.
Crossing your arms across yourself, you strongly wished for him to say something.
He cleared his throat.
–If you know it so well, then call me by my name just like everyone else.– The sentence was spoken while looking into your eyes. This man seemed somehow…softer than usual.
–Okay, Miguel.– It came out as a weak mutter from your mouth.
After a few seconds of flying thoughts, you caught yourself meticulously scanning Miguel's whole face, when you found a hair out of place on his forehead.
–Even though it's common, I've always liked that name,– While automatically talking, your hand raised to brush Miguel's hair backwards. He flinched in confusion at first, then paralyzed when you actually touched him. Only a blurred "Ahhm" was audible from his throat. –Miguel…– Your fingers innocently followed the movement through his locks until meeting the back of his head, when O'Hara took a step back, freeing himself from the touch. Too invasive, you didn't think it through. Idiot.
–Your hair was out of place, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Fixing people's hair or clothes was a normal gesture to me. Sorry.– Good thing that you knew how to keep your tone calm and steady, because the over-explanation was enough to made you look pathetic already.
–Está bien, está bien.– Miguel nervously cleared his throat and rapidly put himself together.
–Como decía,– He made a short pause so he could switch back to english. –As I was telling you, [...]– The conversation took the course it originally had, with the little difference of your leg discreetly shaking while the rest of his explanation.
ᬼᬃ᭄ᭃᬼ᭄᭄ᬽ ⃢🥀
Note: Little nerdy detail, the narration never uses "Miguel" before he asked you to call him by his name. This applies to the rest of the chapters and this is an actual narrative resource to make a chronological development between how the reader comes emotionally closer to Miguel? Yes it is, or at least that's what I want to do. Am I overexplaining? Yes of course.
#atsv fanfiction#atsv miguel#atsv#spiderman atsv#spider man 2099#spiderman across the spiderverse#miguel o'hara#miguel ohara#miguel x reader#miguel ohara x y/n#miguel ohara x reader#miguel ohara x you#miguel o'hara/reader#miguel o'hara/gn reader#miguel spiderman#miguel spiderverse#miguel o'hara x gender neutral reader#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara x y/n#miguel o'hara fanfiction#writing pacefully
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𝑪𝑯. 𝑰𝑽 — 𝑭𝑼𝑳𝑳 𝑶𝑭 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬.
𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.
[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽]
AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST
summary 🕷️
⤏ spider-woman of earth 928c has a painfully short adjustment period to her new predicament. she isn’t the only one.
pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader
word count 🕷️ 4.0k
a/n 🕷️ [gif credit]
⤏ this chapter was originally planned to be entirely passive, just to catch up on reader’s feelings through the last couple of chapters. however, jess (or should I say miguel) had other plans. they took it from me and I had to run with it. next chapter we’ll see a little more progress in reader and miguel’s dynamic, hopefully.
🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️
🕷️ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER 🕷️
The infamous, so-called Spider-Society wasn’t nearly as…prestigious as you’d initially anticipated, after all the buildup that the alternate Miguel had laid down convincing you to join. Meeting so many other Spider-People was certainly as elating as it was stressful (honestly, you never thought that you would see as many of the same person at one time, multiverse theory be damned, much less the stark differences between the lot of them—it was a good thing that you weren’t allergic to rocks, because there sure was a lot of Peter). The majority of them seemed to come and go as they pleased, only turning up to HQ to report in occasionally or to share information about any new anomalies that may have cropped up in their dimension.
Oh, yeah, and the whole anomaly thing…combined with the canon events theory…there was a reason you’d focused on robotics and nanotech rather than physics during university. Being told that because of your involvement in the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse (and Christ, Miguel needed to get a new name for that, it was just too damn big of a mouthful) you were basically guaranteed to undergo negative experiences that would drive most people into depression or madness didn’t…sit well. Although it was a slight comfort to know that virtually every other Spider-Person had gone through something similar to you in regards to grief, it still didn’t sit quite right with you—but perhaps that was the hero complex in you speaking. If I had just tried harder, been faster, put my life further out on the line…
Nevertheless, it did help you to relax slightly. Peter B. was infectious with his easy affection and lighthearted demeanor, cracking jokes and knowing just what to say to help you circumnavigate your awkward interactions with the others. His wife was about five months along, expecting their first child—a little girl they’d already decided to name Mayday after his deceased aunt. He introduced you to Jessica Drew, who herself was due to have a baby in seven months—she was cool and calm but had a lot of heart and humor, and you appreciated her honestly as much as her sincerity.
Some of the others were…quite a handful. You weren’t quite sure what to think of Hobie Brown, besides the fact that he was hilarious. You had the distinct impression that he was always watching you, though, dark eyes as scrutinous as your trigonometry teacher back in high school. You didn’t really want to think that he was waiting for you to mess up or something, but…he always seemed to know something more than you at all times and it made you just a tad uncomfortable. The quiet, observant sort like him often were the greatest troublemakers—his standing track record in his universe, which he claimed with no small amount of pride, notwithstanding. You liked him, you really did—he’d been nothing but kind to you during your brief introduction—but you couldn’t help but feel like he had something up his sleeve.
The rest were just as, if not more, colorful characters. The mind-boggling quantity of alternate Spider-People overwhelmed you after Peter B.’s tour, so after he herded you back to the cafeteria and helped you to unload your cart, he showed you the basics on opening the portals.
“Try not to use them in crowded areas—you don’t want a bunch of junk getting in the way. Or, you know, splicing into your body like a redshirt being beamed up. Type in the universe number here, enter the coordinates—looks like Miguel already saved your previous location as the default, so you can teleport directly from there to HQ whenever you need to—then tap this, and…voila! There’s a communications tab here, so you can contact LYLA or call any one of us if you ever need backup, or to report an anomaly.”
You nodded along, squinting in hopes that you could commit the motions to memory rather than have to ask multiple times how the damn thing worked—you were a roboticist, yes, and you could probably whip up a circuit out of cardboard, gum, and a lemon—but even this level of technology was beyond your paygrade. Miguel’s work was truly phenomenal, you had to give him that. (And…well. You didn’t want to wind up like a redshirt, either.)
You imparted him with another half-dozen cupcakes to take home to the missus as thanks for taking his time with you, dragged your cart through the portal back into the kitchen of your bakery, and as the maelstrom of mindfuck physics disintegrated into thin air within the blink of an eye as though it had never been there to start with…you sank against the countertop and buried your face in your hands.
This Miguel was different from your late husband, in countless ways that you’d been doing your best not to take notice of too closely. (Would it be considered rude to compare them? They were inherently the same person, just…under different circumstances.) But, at the same time, they behaved so similarly: that same low, even, soft-spoken cadence; those half-lidded eyes feigning disinterest but to hide the exact opposite after years of having any enthusiasm beat out of him as a child; the tension he always carried in his shoulders to hold them back, his chin angled up, his hands always ready at his sides, always ready to move at a moment’s notice (and those shoulders…you hadn’t been joking, asking Peter B. about the man’s dieting habits—he easily dwarfed your husband twice over, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was intentional or whether it was due to whatever sort of spider abilities he’d inherited).
Even still, that was only the start of the differences. This Miguel was snippier, shorter-tempered, and mumbled as though he had a mouthful of something packed under his bottom lip all the time. He had a clipped walk like a panther, a long, stalking stride that made far too little noise for a man of his bulk. He kept his hair slicked back rather than allowing his curls freedom. His mildly unsettling carmine eyes were tired, and you were half-convinced that if he were to sit too long he’d likely pass out based on the way he hyper-focused on everything around him as though to compensate. His exhaustion was obvious, but maybe that only had to do with your familiarity of the canvas rather than the difference in hues and brushstrokes.
They said your name the same way, however. You weren’t sure how to feel about that.
By the time you pulled yourself together (because you had wept enough the night before and didn’t want a repeat incident—you’d probably tripled your water bill hunkering down in the shower to muffle your misery and you were not going to cry again, thank you very much) and made it back upstairs, the night had set in and plunged your apartment in total darkness. It was a bit odd, as in Earth 928B it had been about noon when you left, but you supposed that temporal unalignment was the least of your concerns.
Your cat, a silver tabby your husband had named Alba upon finding her abandoned as a kitten in the park, greeted you at the door letting you know exactly how late you were for serving her evening meal. You long-sufferingly doled out the kibble in the kitchen and watched her inhale it in less than a minute before coiling around your legs in a figure-eight once and retreating to her bed set in the windowsill overlooking the street below.
You shook your head with a sigh, trudging around to feed your other pet Horchata before retreating into your bedroom, stripping off your clothes as you went. You tossed them all into the overflowing hamper, stored the compact belt containing the technology housing your suit in your nightstand drawer, and slipped into the bathroom to wash away the flour and confectioner’s sugar. You carefully removed the not-watch (as Peter B. had been so kind to inform you that Miguel hated them to refer to it as a watch) and set it on the counter alongside the ring you wore on a delicate chain around your neck.
You wondered what this new Miguel saw in you, to want you on his top-secret strike team so badly. You weren’t exactly perky yourself. You’d laid out all your flaws for him, and yet he hadn’t even flinched. He’d only seemed agitated at your immediate refusal, if nothing else.
The next day passed in relative normalcy—you woke early to start work on your stock, had coffee with your aunt (who spent more time daydreaming about her doctor than actually sharing the report of her yearly physical, although everything seemed normal, fortunately), and opened up shop all before the sun rose. You dealt with all the catering and pickup orders as they came in and kept tabs on everything baking in the back while Maya dealt with the storefront. You dipped out at noon to get lunch for the both of you, listened to the police reports on the way, and breathed a sigh of relief that Nueva York managed to retain its peace for another day.
The afternoon crept by far more slowly, and by the time closing rolled around you got to share the news with your business partner.
“I’ve made a deal with a company to sell out our stock at the end of every day,” you told her while you swept and she dusted the countertops. It was ten ‘til but it helped to clean up before since she always went straight home once the sign was turned off. “It’s, uh…an all-day type-thing, and they needed extra stock in their cafeteria. I think it’ll help with keeping up.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Maya exclaimed, smiling broadly with glittering eyes. “I always did hate seeing it go to waste since the donation centers never took all of it. Do you need any help packing it all up?”
“No, I’ve got it. It’ll only take a few minutes, and I can be the only one to deliver it. Kind of a hush-hush type thing.”
She quirked a brow, glancing over your shoulder as the bell over the door jangled. “So long as it’s not for the mafia.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m not working for the mafia. I’m not pretty enough to work for the mafia.”
“You don’t have to be pretty to work for the mafia.”
You turned to find Jess standing there with a lazy smile, dressed in sleek civvies. You swallowed. “Hey. I thought I was dropping all this off?”
“I’m in a bit of a time crunch,” she said with a smile, but you didn’t miss the subtle urgency in her eyes. “I’ll help you pack it up and get it there.” She nodded to your aunt. “How’re you doing today?”
“I’m just fine,” Maya beamed, coming around the counter. “Thank you for your business. What’s your name?”
“Jessica Drew,” the other Spider-Woman introduced smoothly, extending a hand. Maya shook it. “Your niece told me good things about you.”
“Oh, as she should!” Maya laughed, eyes twinkling. “I’ve been taking care of her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper!”
“And I think it’s about time for you to head home to take your meds,” you interjected, face warming as you set the broom to the side and moved towards the back to get her things for her. “Want me to call you an Uber?”
Maya scoffed quietly, casting Jess a look that screamed, ‘can you believe the nerve?’ “I’ll walk. I didn’t get all my steps in this morning.”
“Be careful, then.” You dipped into the kitchen, grabbed her purse, and reemerged to find them chatting about children—your aunt had a sixth-sense when it came to babies, and evidently she’d picked up on Jess’ glow. “I’ll see you tomorrow for supper.”
“Don’t forget to bring the pickled beets,” she reminded you, slipping into her jacket despite the sun still shining bright upon the pavement outside.
“Believe me, I won’t. They’ll never get eaten if I don’t deliver them.”
“They’re good for you.”
“I’m sure they are. But my tongue says otherwise.”
You waved her out, locked the door behind her, and flicked off the neon sign. You turned back to Jess, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”
“Under normal circumstances, we’d introduce you to anomaly-catching a little more gradually,” she responded, face schooling into business-mode, “but Peter B.’s out and Miguel thought he could handle it on his own. Again. I need backup.”
You nodded, already moving to shed your apron and the unnecessary outer layers that would interfere with the UMF. You slipped back into the kitchen to toss them into the hamper and, this time, she followed. “Do I need to be concerned about his evident tendency to jump in head-first without looking?”
“He’s been like this for as long as I’ve known him.” Jess began to type into her (not) watch. “He’s one of the most headstrong people I’ve ever met.”
“You’ll meet few others that are more stubborn,” you muttered without really thinking. You tried to hide your wince by tapping your belt to activate your suit. “Where to?”
The portal blossomed open, and Jess gestured towards it. “After you.”
You swallowed, eyed it for just a moment, then moved through the vortex.
It spat you out on top of a brick office building in a version of New York only slightly less futuristic than your own. The sheer noise of screaming in the streets below, both from humans and vehicle brakes alike, precluded the rumble of an explosion that rocked the infrastructure beneath your feet. You whipped around to the cloud of smoke that arched up into the dusky sky, the lenses in your mask automatically adjusting to locate the heat signatures of two individuals caught in a grapple amongst the flames.
“I’ve got a visual,” you told Jess as she emerged next to you. “Over there.”
“Let’s go. Looks like it’s already gotten out of control.”
The pair of you leapt off the rooftop, swinging out into open air. You watched a rapidly moving shape bulleted from the plume off to the left, and you could hear maniacal laughter even with the wind battering your ears.
“Oh, great,” you muttered, “we love the crazy-ass grenade enthusiast.” You jerked your head towards the crumbling building—the other heat signature had yet to move. “Go check on Miguel, I’ll track our escapee.”
Jess looked like she wanted to argue, but she only released a sigh. When it came to split-second decisions like this, there was never enough time to deliberate. “Be careful. Don’t get in over your head.”
“You got it.” You diverted to swing wide around a warehouse, setting a waypoint on the villain-of-the-week rocketing through the buildings. He was a fast bastard, but fortunately he had yet to start dropping bombs on the bewildered population below—that’s when things with the Goblins always got tricky.
Soon enough, you managed to pick up speed to catch up, and with a well-timed turn and tight swing you lunged for the glorified hoverboard. You connected, latched on to the edge, and the added weight caused the entire platform to dip and sway dangerously.
“Another little spider!” crooned the Goblin, banking sharply to the right in an attempt to knock you off with a light pole. The reverberating collision with your hip hurt like a bitch. “How lucky am I to have as many new friends with which to play?”
“Save it, Osborn!” you growled, using the momentum of his next whirl to get a knee up over the edge. You grabbed his ankle and dislodged his foot from the hook, cooling a loop of webbing around it and securing it out of place to hinder his balance. “If you’ll just make this easier on every one of us, that would be appreci—”
You should have expected him to slam his heel into your elbow, but in hindsight you’d thought him not nimble enough to outspeed you.
“But that would take all the fun out of the game,” he crowed, stooping down and planting a fist into your temple. Your vision swam and your grip loosened. “And teaming up two against one is hardly fair to start with!”
You gritted your teeth and grabbed the nape of his neck, wrenching him down towards you and flipping the board in the process. You managed to yank his other foot out of the stirrup and then the both of you were freefalling. You snatched the board with a web before he could reach it, slinging it at the nearest building and embedding it into the side.
Unfortunately, he decided to latch onto you, instead. With the talons built into his gloves, no less. Sharp pain pricked your thigh and side, respectively, and when you landed on a terrace all the wind was knocked from your lungs. The Goblin dug in deep, hefting you up and over his shoulder to throw you bodily over into the street below.
The next impact was softer than you expected. You blinked the tears from your eyes only to find that Miguel was the reason for it, the lenses of his mask narrowed dangerously at you.
“You shouldn’t have gone after him alone,” he growled, reaching out with his free hand to pierce the mortar with his claws and suspend you against the wall. You struggled to catch your breath, especially with his tight, unyielding grip around your waist. “That was stupid. This one could easily do a lot of damage, and—”
The squawk of the Goblin over your heads caused both of your gazes to snap upwards, watching through the bars as Jess kicked him down. Within seconds she had him webbed in place, face pressed against the iron, glaring down at you. His wrists were bound together over his head, and you caught the subtle movement of his fingertips against the device coiled around his wrist. The grind of stone, the hum of fission, and the flash of light all activated your senses.
“Mig—!” you started, head whipping to the other side. You grappled at his rigid form to wedge yourself into his side, blocking him from the glider that launched itself at him at full speed. You absorbed the blow, but the force of it knocked both of you from the wall and tumbled down to the street. Your vision blacked out briefly when you landed roughly on your side.
“Por los clavos de Cristo!” Miguel snarled, breathing harshly even as he scrambled up from the concrete. “Idiota!*”
“Imagine cussing someone out for keeping your ribs from getting caved in,” you wheezed, hearing the glider sputter. You twisted to squint up at Jess decommissioning the damned thing. “De nada, cabrón.**”
Miguel’s silhouette shaded your eyes as he kneeled next to you, lenses narrowed to slits, but the quiver in his hands as he reached out to you caught you by surprise. He carefully prodded your bruised side, retracting his touch instantly when you hissed.
“I’m fine,” you said, slowly sitting up with a low groan. “Just a scratch.”
“Hey!” Jess called, hauling the goblin over her shoulder. “Do you have the field?”
He didn’t move an itch, save to hover his hands over you as you clambered back to your feet. There was scarcely half a foot of space between you, his hunkered, hulking form blocking your view of much else beyond the glowing nanites highlighting his contours.
“Miguel!” Jess tried again, jumping nimbly down near you. “You all right?”
That finally seemed to break him out of whatever trance he’d been caught in, and you watched the tension return in full force to his body as he straightened to his full height once more. “Here.” He snatched the device from his hip and tossed it on the ground. She unceremoniously dumped the Goblin into the field, then moved over to pick up the glider. He didn’t look away from you, finally croaking, “That was reckless.”
“You don’t seem to have the Spidey-Sense,” you pointed out wryly, rubbing your ribs gingerly. “And it could’ve been worse.”
He brandished a pointed finger in your face, the hook of his claw gleaming with the UMF stretched over its surface. “Don’t,” he growled, “do it again. I mean it.”
You quirked a brow at him, despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to see it. You folded your arms over your chest so he’d get the message. “Don’t jump in by yourself again,” you returned evenly. “You’re not invincible either, Miguel.”
And he did look worse for wear. Now that your vision had cleared, you could see that he was favoring his left leg, the UMF along his shoulders was glittering as the nanobots attempted to stitch themselves back together, and the lens over his right eye was cracked.
“This isn’t about me,” he started curtly.
“It is, because you came here without backup.” You smacked his hand away and returned his previous gesture, fingertip centimeters away from his nose under the mask. “Don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to think that you could handle all this by yourself.”
His extended silence, grating and aggravated, was answer enough.
You rubbed your forehead and let out a heavy sigh. “Let’s just…finish this up, shall we? You need to get checked out.”
He tilted his head, and you had the distinct impression that he was scowling at you. “Since when did you become team leader?”
“Since when did you become so damned irresponsible?” you shot back.
Jess’ face slackened into shock, her eyes cutting away as she pursed her lips. She looked on the verge between laughter and wanting to leave immediately. “Opening a portal back to base,” she offered mildly, turning her back on the both of you for some illusion of privacy.
“Look,” you hissed, gesturing towards Jess and the Goblin, who was chuckling quietly to himself despite being caught in a rather humiliating predicament of being tied ass-over-head. “I understand that you’re the head honcho and that you seem to have your bluff in on everybody else in the Society. Most of them are terrified of you, from what I gathered yesterday. And I don’t know to what extent that you’re familiar with me, like you said, but I know you, too, Miguel. I know that you’d sooner eat drywall than admit you’re wrong, and that your head is harder than vibranium. I know that you always take on too damn much on your shoulders because you feel like no one else could or should have to handle it. But I swear to God, I am not going to let you run yourself into the ground. You’re just like…” You stopped abruptly, swallowed, then dropped your head to shake it in frustration. “...look. The whole reason you have these dozens of Spider-People recruited in the first place is to help you manage all this, not to pick you back up when you inevitably fall apart trying to carry it all by yourself. You’re not fucking Atlas. And if you’re going to be like this all the time, I’m not going to have any part of it. Comprendes?***”
He glowered at you for a long moment before his low, gritted tone reached you. “Comprendo.****”
“Great.” You thumped him in the sternum for good measure. “Now I’m sure there’s a long, drawn-out, laborious process of paperwork following this, so the sooner I can get it done and deliver the heaping pile of croissants I had leftover today, the better.”
You turned as the portal blossomed open once more, waving Jess off and slinging the Goblin over your shoulder, and marched right on through back to HQ, feeling Miguel’s eyes burning into your back the entire way.
#fisara's codices#fanfiction#reader insert#miguel o’hara#miguel o'hara#miguel o’hara/reader#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara/reader#miguel o’hara/you#miguel o'hara x you#atsv#spiderverse#across the spiderverse#spider man: across the spiderverse#spider man: across the spider verse#across the spider verse#spiderman: across the spiderverse#spiderman: across the spider verse#spider verse
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Talking Shit
Miguel, remember that saying about assuming?
The reader doesn't speak Spanish, and Miguel (understandably) assumes they're completely monolingual. They're not.
Spoiler free, nothing romantic, and SFW (unless you count arguing and being petty as flirting). Brought on by several posts about properly writing Spanish for Miguel fanfics and my own limited speaking ability.
Spiderman 2099 was cool to watch if you were a fan of Spawn, Blade or Ghost Rider minus the bike. That's Jess's department. As a colleague, you think you've met alcoholics with more social tact and less anger issues than this guy. He respects few, likes even fewer, and not once have you seen him smile, even when Peter B. started to bring his daughter to work.
Are you in this small, elite group of people Miguel doesn't treat like a public nuisance? No, no you aren't.
Do you want to be? Not particularly but it would be nice to be told a genuine "nice work" every once in a while.
As a matter of fact, it would be even nicer if he didn't go out of his way to insult you. You aren't so conceited as to think it was more personal than it is, except he clearly thinks you're dumber than you actually are. The language barrier was a huge part of that.
Gone were the days of assuming that someone speaking a different language in the same room as you were doing it to insult you, but with Miguel O'Hara? Not unlikely. That asshole probably does talk shit when he thinks no one else in the room can understand him.
"Sooo, how's the nursery coming along, Jess?" Jess lit up and started talking about the various color and design setups she and her husband had been brainstorming– most of them on the gender neutral side to account for the baby's gender being a surprise. That and it would be easier to adjust according to said baby's gender once they arrived. Jess's adoration for her spouse during her pregnancy was palpable and it made you a little jealous. You hoped to find someone as open-minded and supportive as him if you decided you're ready to start a family. The cafeteria was quieter tonight and you glance by the empanada stand. Miguel hasn't been by yet. Great! Maybe you could snag one and try to see why he liked them so much.
By the time you got around to getting one, there were only three left. Wonderful. Just as you reached for one, your hand brushed against Miguel's. "Excuse me," you mumble on reflex and go for another one. Trying to quell the immediate tense air, you turn back to Jess. "Jess, you want an empanada?" Jess glanced at you, then to Miguel with a small, cat-like grin.
"Nah, I'm alright. I don't want Miguel trying to kill me." In response, Miguel scoffed and rolled his eyes.
"And risk destroying your universe, not to mention losing one of the most competent agents here? I'd be stupid to." They banter back and forth for a bit, with Jess joking that she was still not certain he wouldn't leave her to face a tough villain alone for 50¢. He didn't deny it completely. He would, but for way more than 50¢. Gotta have some sort of standards.
"Damn, boss. That's cold." You lightly commented after sitting back down, to which Miguel shrugged and proceeded to eat his empanada. One bite in and he immediately frowned up, dropping the empanada back on his plate and grumbling in Spanish.
"Claro que la maldita empanada está fría..."¹ You were no Spanish expert, but something tells you the empanadas were cold. To test your theory, you asked him about it and got a glare and a dry response for asking. Really? Now, you don't like when hot foods are cold as much as the next person, but it wasn't your fault they weren't fresh.
"Why don't you just heat it back up? The microwaves are free." Miguel looked at you like you had just accused him of doing something completely out of character, like smile unprompted. Clicking his tongue, he sort of scoffed.
"¿Qué eres, un idiota?"² Oh. Oh, so it's like that, huh?
"What?"
"Never mind. I'll just find something else." Once Miguel started scouring the cafeteria for a passable substitute, you could still hear him complaining. You didn't catch on to everything, but you could make out a few key phrases. He mumbled something including multiverso³, caliente o fresca⁴, niño⁵, éstupido⁶ and vacaciones⁷. Ha! As if Miguel O'Hara, lord of workaholics, would actually consider a vacation.
Once he left, you turned to Jess with the most grave expression on your face.
"That man was just talking shit."
"Uhn-uh, we are not doing the whole 'Mexicans only talk shit in Spanish' thing-"
"No, no. What he said before he left? Not entirely, but he did call me stupid- twice, actually. I think he's just grumpy the empanadas are cold." Jess blinked slowly, as if you had cracked the code to a difficult algorithm.
"He's always grumpy- you speak Spanish?!" You made a gesture to convey your limited understanding and explained what little you did know. Growing up around a lot of Latino people, it would be a little odd if you didn't pick up a few words over the years. Before Jess could make any sort of plan to tell Miguel, you begged her not to. The next time he talked shit to you to your face, you wanted to surprise him. She shrugged and went back to talking about the nursery she and her husband were making. Maybe it's funnier that way.
A week later, you got the chance to display your somewhat elementary understanding of Spanish when he started grousing about something you and Hobie did in Spanish.
"Cállate, you... viejo vaca!"⁸ Miguel looked up from your reports and slowly turned his head to you with incredulity and confusion and just a bit of annoyance.
"...You speak Spanish?"
"Not really-"
"Clearly." He tossed the papers aside and looked at you fully. You roll your eyes.
"BUT, I understand enough. And if you're going to call me stupid, don't pick words most English speakers can guess. You actually called me stupid over empanadas! Do you ever have anything nice to say?" Miguel chuckled humorlessly, said nothing for some time and then dismissed you. If you were foolish, you'd swear he was surprised enough to stop. But you know better. Miguel has never been one to throw a rock and hide his hand. And once he got an idea in his head about anything, it was easier to climb Mt. Everest than to change his mind.
When he gave you a huge stack of paperwork a few days later, right as you were getting ready to have lunch, you knew that he hadn't let it go. That was only made more obvious when the stack of paper came with a sticky note, a English-Spanish dictionary and a Spanish language workbook for kids. The sticky note read:
Es '¡cállate, vaca vieja!' NO 'viejo vaca'.⁹ Buen intento, cariño¹⁰ :)
Well. Maybe he can say something nice. Even if it was petty.
~ Key
"Of course the damn empanada is cold..."
"What are you, an idiot?"
Multiverse
Hot or fresh
Kid
Stupid
Vacation
A poor attempt to say "shut up, you old cow!"
"It's (the correct form of ^) NOT...
"Nice try, sweetheart" :)
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Reader/Miguel O'Hara:
🍑As Compensation
Explicit | 1k+
Reader's Gender Is Unspecified, Rimming, Dubious Consent, Power Bottom Miguel O'Hara
"Don't think I didn't catch you staring earlier today! Or yesterday… Por Dios, you're always like this!" Miguel scowls at you, still holding your chin.
Suddenly something changes in his hard eyes. He doesn't smile, but his tone is smoother when he asks you:
"Would you like to take a closer look?"
He doesn't wait for your response.
#miguel o'hara/reader#spider man: across the spider verse#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara fanfiction#miguel o'hara x reader
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Chapter 10 of "Incantation Like An Anti-Curse", "The Hum of our Contact (pt. 1)"
Weaver and Miguel share a bottle of wine, and they might both live to regret that.
New chapter of my Miguel O'Hara x Reader fic, enjoy!!
#atsv#spider man#atsv lyla#across the spiderverse#astv miguel#spiderman 2099#comic fanfic#superheroes#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara/you#miguel o'hara/reader#spiderman 2099/you#spiderman 2099/reader#miguel o'hara fanfiction
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starved | [miguel o'hara x reader]
❛ pairing | new papi!miguel x new mami!reader
❛ type | oneshot: explicit content
❛ summary | peter says he's sex-starved. he isn't. he's just... adjusting to less time with his wife.
❛ tags | breastfeeding miguel, lactation kink, slight pregnancy kink, touch starved, pissy miguel, spanish is not translated, mention of violence, some cursing, f!reader.
❛ sy’s notes | written as per poll request! thank you everyone who voted.
Miguel likes to work.
Or, he thinks he likes to work.
The fate of the multiverse and all that boring ass bullshit. Peter has heard it all, twice, thrice over. What he knows is what he sees. What he sees is an overworked man running through anomaly files, sending out orders, and not spending time where it really mattered.
“Is that who I think it is?” Peter’s annoying ass house slippers flapped over the ground by Miguel’s feet. Peter’s hands rubbed together, sparking little bursts of heat between his palms. “It is! Mireya!”
Mireya, the newest addition to his small family. She was nestled comfortably in the crook of one of Miguel’s muscular arms as if it were the safest place in the entire world, suckling on what was left of a bottle of breastmilk. Miguel turned to place the empty bottle down on his desk. Peter followed, peeping over Miguel’s arm at her. Despite Miguel’s reservations, her bright brown eyes bored Peter with interest. She cooed at him. “Can I hold her? Let me hold her, it’ll be great! Aw look, she has curls.”
“My daughter isn’t your doll.”
“Look how pretty, she’s just like her mami. All sunshine and dimples and--,” Peter reached forward, easing his scrawny hands under her plush little arms and picking her up. Miguel’s hands fell onto his hips, shifting weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at his feet expectantly. “You know, for a new dad, you’re grumpier than usual.”
“Peter.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he bobbed back and forth, spinning in a circle. She giggled the kind of laugh that was all sugar, making Peter grin even harder. “I mean, wasn’t Mireya your idea? Are you-- y’know?”
“Y’know?”
“Sex starved,” Peter whispered like it was a great, terrible secret. As if in this vast space of silence, someone might catch his words and convict him because of them. Miguel’s half-lidded eyes slid against one another, held for a second, then spread open in an annoyed flick. He fluttered his gloved fingers at Peter to hand Mireya over.
“I’m just saying if you need a night alo--”
“I don’t. I’m not sex-starved.”
He waved him off. His eyes fell on his daughter, boring back up at him with those beautiful eyes he had waited so long to see. He shifted his weight from one leg to another, lulling her back into her late-night slumber, cradled against his chest.
Sex starved, he said. What a shocking joke.
His room was no place for a child. It was perpetually dark, dimmed for his sensitive eyes. So, at the end of the day, Miguel had your room to return to. A real home, one with more than a ratty run-down chair and a lifetime of regrets. A home that he couldn't make alone. Miguel pressed past the bedroom door where he found you overcome by sleep. Just like Mireya in his arms.
He turned his gaze down to Mireya once more, her soft and squishy body a vision of peace. Tiny fists balled up over her belly as she slept in her soft velvet onesie. The whole world in his hands: the start of a happy little family. Only right now, it didn’t feel so happy. Those were the cycles, the push and pull of life.
Tonight would prove to be another silent night with his thoughts. His chest swelled with a rush of air, bunching up his shoulders as he moved to the adjoining room to set Mireya into her warm crib. Torn from his warmth, her palms stretched out, ready to wail. Miguel placed his hand along the wooden rail, his stomach flopping into throbbing anxiety in his stomach. She could wake you up.
"Shh," he set his finger in her tiny palm. Mireya’s small hands rested listlessly around her head. The wail never came.
“Mi vida,” your sleepy voice fell over his ears, a gentle caress. He longed to hear it from your lips again. “Is she already asleep?”
“Sí--” he glanced over his shoulder, catching just a sight of one of his favourite little slips. Dusty rose with delicate lace details. He studied the edge of the gown, flowing over your thick thighs as you walked. Shock.
“You look beautiful." You looked down at your soft belly, a mincing smile pulling at your lips. He knew you were nervous, the way your hands obscured your plush belly. Mesmerized, his finger fell away from Mireya's soft grip. Peter's words echoed in his mind, a deep annoyance. It made his skin crawl, this growing annoyance in the acknowledgment that he had no sex in weeks, months. He took a step forward.
“I hope she doesn’t sleep through the night. My breasts are full,” Your fingers skimmed the taut skin. The glint of your wedding band invited him forward as if… you should be his tonight. You were his wife-- and though he didn't expect you to give him relief, he missed you. Miguel dipped his head, stroking the sore muscles of his neck.
Are you, y'know, sex-starved?
“When does she ever..." he couldn't help from saying. He grazed his fingertips over the swollen skin of your breasts, glancing from the skin to your deep, shy eyes. His breath thinned, realizing that you were disengaging, too scared to look him in the eye.
“She does, Miggy,” you breathed. His jaw worked, annoyed. “Lately. You’d know if you came home at night.”
If it was lately, he had no knowledge of it. Every lab screen he pulled up, every status report from Lyla, and every silent night in the lab, obsessing over how his little girl was doing-- he missed it. He should be coming in more often, crossing the threshold of work to family life. His hand cupped the underside of your breast. You winced, embarrassment working on your face. You pushed his hand away, likely feeling exposed by his touch on your tender skin.
“Does it hurt?” He leaned down, mingling his smoky, musky scent with your delicate one. He leaned in to place a soft, open-mouthed kiss along your neck, the warm pulse of your skin against his plump lips.
“Miggy, you’ll wake her up.”
Your fingers laced in his before you pulled him out of the room with a click of the door. He settled his hand on the middle of the door, sliding his hand up your waist, the soft fabric crinkling over the movement. He glimpsed a look at your soft panties cupping your round ass. “Miggy, I… I can’t. I’m tired.”
Of course, you were tired-- He underestimated how much work you took on in her care. He willed the wisps of his desire to snuff out. The distant flicker of hope followed promptly after. Maybe, one day, you would want him again. It wasn't today.
“Ya veo,” he suppressed his frustrated growl, wrinkling his forehead. “Another time.”
It wasn't the next day. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.
The anomaly whirled along a cobblestone street, exploding in a cloud of dust and stone. Its many black dipped hands flickered, dulling into little more than a negligible tremor of their limbs. Everyone else noticed the complacency that came with loss of consciousness. Miguel did not.
Miguel sauntered forward, dragged it by its muddy boots out from the crumbly remnants of the wall, and whirled it into another. It wasn't moving. It was done, tired, exhausted. He didn't care, his large hand encompassing its tendril hair and smashing it over the dusty floor. A violent crack, crack, crack of its head scratched his inert need to destroy something, anything, anyone. It fell from his hands with a slump. Miguel spat a bit of blood to the side, his cheek chewed raw under the tension of the moment.
“You need to take Peter up on that offer.”
Miguel stretched his neck one way. Then the other.
“We’ve been over this,” Miguel grumbled, hiking the pummeled body over his shoulder. It gushed blood, streaming into a diluted pink with the downpour of rain. A simple contusion, Miguel said. It was just a contusion. And a concussion. Maybe a gash or two. It would heal if the thing woke up. “I don’t need help.”
“You thrashed it, whatever it was,” Jess said pointedly. Miguel’s finger ran across his watch. The air was stale without an acknowledgment of Miguel’s churning temper, growing into a churning tempest by the passing minute. He stared long and hard through his mask. She drew out the silence as she waited for his response.
“It’s a contusion.”
The portal whirled to life before them in a slurry of vivid color, an unforgiving abyss. Jess slumped her bike with weight on one thigh, hand on her belly. The longer Miguel stared at her, so full and pregnant, the more he was reminded of you. He pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no use-- he saw visages of you everywhere he looked.
“Doesn’t look like any head contusion I’ve seen,” Gwen slid into the portal. His lip curled, annoyed by the obvious objection to what he was saying. If they would let it go-- he could go on about his life, wait for this obsession with his sex life to abate. Wait for you to come back to him.
“You can’t keep taking out your—“
“I am not sex-starved!”
“Convincing.” Jess sped into the portal.
Miguel soothed the stress out of his forehead, opening and closing his palm, a current of energy coursing through his palms. They picked— and they picked— and they picked at him. At some point, he was bound to explode. He only hoped you wouldn't be in his way when it happened. He whipped the anomaly through the portal and followed after.
On the other side of the portal, there was Peter— again. Cooing with his hands on his daughter— again. His dark mask faded away, his suit wicking water off his frame. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he located you beside Jess and Gwen. You nudged its crumpled body with your shoe. He didn’t often feel ashamed of his actions. Usually, they were necessary. Something was wrong, your face pinched and curled in disgust. He felt the string of your disapproval pulling through his arms, a slight, incriminating tremor flickering through his finger. He willed it away.
“What did you do to this poor thing?” you turned to Jess, a click-click-click off your tongue. He’d hardly call it poor. “It’s overkill.”
“Girl, ask your husband,” Jess folded her arms, reclining on her bike.
“Mi Miggy?” you went to him. You leaned over, pecking his cheek with a terribly insulting kiss, tickling his jawline. He swallowed. Blinked. Then frowned and brushed off your fingers, finding the care misplaced. You could care for an anomaly but didn't care to ask him how he felt. What he needed. Your voice wilted that sunshine quality, dropping almost to a whisper. “¿Qué te pasa, Miggy?”
“Nothing.”
“Miguel--"
“I said nothing!” He knelt down, grasping its ankle and dragging it down the long, drab hall that stored a variety of anomalies. A line of blood soaked the floor, swerving after his rumbling steps. You took a step forward, snatching his wrist between your fingers. He whirled around, a tremble on his lips firmed out into an unforgiving glare. You let up the pressure on his wrist, allowing him to spin his hand free. “Déjame en paz! There is nothing shocking wrong!”
Mireya cried. So did you.
The admittance that Peter was right wasn’t one that Miguel was about to make openly.
Although he showed up that night, as you informally requested, the night proceeded awkwardly. There was no talk over dinner, not as he watched you feed his little girl, swaying by the window of the enormous city below. As you gazed into the sea of twinkling lights, Miguel came up behind you. His palms encompassed your slight shoulders, moist against your exposed shoulders. His naked chest grazed your back.
"Are you going to apologize?"
Why should he have to? If anyone listened to what he was saying-- he wouldn't be in this mess. Still, Miguel steeled his face. He placed a mincing kiss on the top of your head. His voice thinned out, barely a feather on his lips.
"I snapped."
"You did a lot more than that. You scared her."
You let him sit with his regret until you fell asleep. He debated returning to the lab or his room to try again tomorrow. But he knew his wife. You were attentive to everything that he did. You might take it as a sign of his disinterest. After minutes turned to hours, he breached the door and slid into your bed when he was sure you were asleep.
When his eyes coursed over your figure, he realized all he missed. It was too long since he felt the warmth of a real kiss. Not the brief pecks on his lips as he rushed out the door to help Jess or Gwen or any other number of spiders demanding his attention. He missed the warmth in your eyes, the way they turn into crescents with a happy smile or jaunty laugh. He longed for that sensation of your fingers combing through his hair, taking your time and curling his fluffy hair behind his ear, eyes trained on his alone in a sea of spiders. That… sensation of being the only one that you wanted.
Mireya was that for you now. He longed for it every time he came into the room, seeing you sway with his child in your arms, cradled against your breast, feeding her into a restful sleep. What he thought was a mere seed of jealousy turned out to be a terrible beast, tendrils of resentment that you can’t see what he needs. He needs you. And it isn’t his beautiful Mireya’s fault, no. It’s his.
Instead, he lay there with his palm wretched around his cock, soaked in the artificial lubricant, throbbing into his hand. He remembered his words that night. A begrudging -- Mami, give me a baby-- and how well you took him. Your body seemed to know what he wanted, swelling with his child after a few weeks. He buckled into his palm, cranking around the base and swirling up to his leaking tip, bubbling with his need. He circled his finger over the head, swiping the fluid away.
“What are you thinking about?”
Miguel paused, sweat crept down his thick throat over his broad chest. He shuddered under the weight of your silken words. His hand coiled around his cock in one more jerk, somehow accepting that he had been caught.
“Are you thinking about me? Or is there someone else?”
"Someone else?" he breathed. His lips dropped into a frown, agitation simmering to a boil. It cooled when you looked at him-- but really looked at him. The bed shifted under your weight, ruffling pillows aside. You hoisted your legs over his body, pushing his cock against your soft vulva and his stomach, breasts pushing into his face. So close that Miguel inhaled the uniquely sweet smell of your milk obscured by thin lace.
“Why would I have anyone else?” he asked, his chest distantly aching. His gaze tracked from one breast to the other. He stole a glimpse at your face, stricken with shyness. The slight pout of your lips, eyes refusing contact. “Do you even want me?”
Undoubtedly yes.
“You don’t come to see me. You don't fuck me. You don't even--"
"You're always tired."
"But you could wake me.”
“Could I? To deny me again?” It hadn’t meant to come out so passive-aggressive, but with the natural inflections in his voice, he knew you could read him like a book.
“Oh, papi," not that soft voice. He might hope again. "I always want you.“
Hmpf. Debatable.
“Even when you’re jerking off in my bed. Or couch.” You slid your pink tongue along your lower lip, guiding your body against his. The wet draw of your juices over his dick drew his sharp scarlet eyes to the sight, knocking your stiff clit with his dick. For a moment, his words failed. He should have known you would watch him.
“Is that why you're so... angry? Because of me?" He made a small noise, barely a huff. You drew his hands to your full breasts, obscured by a thin layer of fabric. This time, he smothered a groan in his chest. How pathetic, he thought, to be moaning from something as simple as your firm breasts back in his hands. What was he-- twelve? "Have I been neglecting you, Miguel O’Hara?”
“Yes-- you've neglected me,” he murmured, dragging the lace underneath each breast, knocked together by the straps of the fabric. He melded your breasts again between his hands, massaging the sore skin. His thumps flickered over your nipples, stiffening them into peaks. With a small pinch to your breasts, milk dribbled over his fingertips.
"I won't do it again," he wondered if you missed his touch by the full, grateful hum of your lips, your palms disappearing into his dark hair. You coursed along his dick again, eliciting another piteous noise of longing from his throat. "I promise."
“Hm," was the only agreement. "What a mess,” he teased, not bothering to look at you. It had the desired effect, your shoulders shyly bunching up, the cute pout of your lips, warmth in your cheeks, quivering eyes. He loved it when you looked so fucking shy, so vulnerable, and all for him. "You're leaking all over my hand."
“I’m-- sorry,” you flushed, “It… happens.”
“Mhm, you're full,” Miguel flicked his pink tongue along your stiff, fat nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a suckle. Sweet milk soothed his tongue. He hungrily drank it up, shifting his other hand back to angle his cock at the entrance of your core. A hand left his thick locks and jerked to his broad shoulder, stabilizing your hips down to sink onto him. Blood welled to the surface with your claws scratching piteously along his sunkissed skin. With a bit of resistance, he slid perfectly into your body, just like he always did. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips against your breast. It was somehow different-- the tug and stretch of his cock-- as he fucked the mother of his child. Maybe it was all in his head. “Shock, you’re gorgeous on my dick.”
“Miggy--”
He shifted to the other breast, his hands nearly stapled on your hips, encouraging you to do the work. Your warm milk slid into his mouth, down his starved throat. The pleasure of knowing he was draining you of your milk was tempered with the ever-present fact that soon, you’d have his spunk in your belly again. Your hips flushed, drawing around in quick circles, flushed with his pelvis. Small waves of pleasure grew in your belly. Your stiff clit glided against his skin, again, and again with the undulations of his hips. You felt pinned between his mouth and dick, restricted in movement, but all his, devoured by his need.
“Come here, mi hermosura,” Miguel released your breast from those lush lips, sliding his tongue along his lips to catch the remnants of your sweet milk. He slid down along the pillows, flushing your chest to his, and propped his legs slightly for a better angle. His muscular arms wound around your back, cock pumping into you with renewed vigor. He knocked against your cervix in this position, holding you fast and tight in his arms. You nestled against his sweaty chest, accepting his thrusts so well.
“Miggy-- I’m not-- on anything.”
“You're breastfeeding, close enough,” he mused in your ear as though it were a joke.
You might have argued with him if you weren’t so blinded by that fantastic juddering of his hips. As it were, pleasure rocked all thoughts of birth control out of your mind. Miggy, an ever-present lover, groaned as he held out through your orgasm milking and soaking his swollen dick in your cum. Not a moment later, Miguel forced a long stroke of his dick inside your cunt, reaching his climax buried deep in your tremoring walls. You squeezed him tight, milking him dry of his orgasm until it all faded into fuzzy pleasure. You sighed as his arms loosened, warm and full of Miguel after so long. His soft dick slipped free, cum oozing onto his thighs, but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the mess.
He set a kiss on the top of your head, then your forehead, and eventually snatched your lips in a warm kiss. You could taste the sweetness of your milk on his tongue and flushed. Your head dropped down on his chest, listening for the gentle whining of your daughter. It was silent but for the intermingling of your heaving breaths.
After all the issues: the disappointment, the fighting with Peter and Jess, Miguel couldn’t help but chuckle. All it took was jerking off in your bed. He should have known-- you never did like to be left out on his fun. You were always a jealous lover, even at the threat of his own hand.
“Hm? Why are you laughing?”
“Peter said I was sex-starved."
“Well," you glistened a smile, kissing along his jaw. He huffed. "He wasn't wrong."
#miguel o'hara oneshot#miguel o'hara x you#miguel x reader#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o'hara/reader#miguel ohara oneshot#miguel o'hara x reader#atsv imagine#atsv imagines#atsv x reader#atsv x you#across the spiderverse imagines#across the spiderverse imagine#miguel o'hara smut#spiderman 2099 smut#miguel ohara smut#miguel x y/n#miguel o’hara smut#miguel/reader#miguel x you#miguel o'hara imagine
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Love ... u write for Miguel???? If you're feeling up to it - and you're one of my favorite writers - can you write headcanons for Miguel if he hurts girlfriend's feelings/ignores her? What he does to make up for it? <3 your writing! Take care!
Yes I do write for Miguel! I love him so much actually lol, also you're so sweet and I'm glad you enjoy my writing, you take care as well! I hope this is what you were looking for, it got a little longer than I intended
Masterlist | Requests!
Warnings: none! just Miguel being a little bit of a jerk at first
- He hadn't always been dismissive, Miguel was actually a very attentive partner. Before the spider society.
- He used to be sweet and listen to your stories from work or spend time watching shows and making dinner with you
- But after, it was like he forgot about everything except "the fate of the multiverse." He forgot to eat, forgot to rest, forgot about his birthday, your anniversary.
- You'd been understanding before but him forgetting your anniversary was the last straw for you. You decided to be just as cold and detached as he was and you knew it wasn't the right way to handle conflict but it made you feel better.
- He caught onto that fairly quickly, and he was angry. How dare you give him the cold shoulder when he had so much responsibility.
- He started snapping at you whenever he was around. Spent more time at headquarters, spending more time holed up in his office ignoring your calls.
- Then Pavitr of all people knocked some sense into him.
- "You can't just ignore her and expect her to be happy!" He'd exclaimed when he'd overheard Miguel venting to Jessica. "She's your partner you need to give as much as you expect." He'd finished before storming out of the room.
- So it started with flowers. You walked into the apartment one day to see a vase of your favorite flowers on the counter with a note accompanying it in Miguel's scrawling handwriting saying he loved you.
- It wasn't enough, but it was a start.
- The flowers became regular, a new bouquet the second the old ones started to drop petals, each one with a written note. The notes became more common too, little ones around the house for no particular reason. You felt your heart starting to thaw.
- Then it was dinner. You walked into the apartment one night after work fully prepared to order takeout to be greeted by the smell of your favorite dish and Miguel cooking in the kitchen with his music playing.
- He didn't realize you'd walked in until you ran your hand down his back gently. He jumped slightly and quickly paused his music.
- "What's this for?" You asked, gesturing to the meal he was cooking.
"I missed our anniversary, I'm sorry." He lowered his head. You sighed.
"Yes you did." You muttered.
"I'm trying to make it up to you," He continued. You opened your mouth and he cut you off, "not just for our anniversary, for ignoring you too." You paused and nodded, lightly scratching his back.
"How can I make it up to you?"
- He listened to everything you said. He made it a point to be home before eleven every night. He didn't leave without kissing you goodbye or leaving you a note on your bedside table.
- If he had to be gone for a mission, he called you whenever he could, just to check in, so you knew he was safe and he knew you were safe.
- He also made sure that no matter how busy he got he set time aside to have dinner with you at least once a week. Whether you cooked together or ordered takeout he would sit down with you and listen to your stories from work, tell you some of his own, and you would watch one of your shows together.
- It's more than a start, and it's more than enough.
#love writes#anon asks#love answers#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x fem!reader#miguel ohara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara/reader#miguel o'hara/fem!reader#fem!reader#miguel o'hara is a shit boyfriend#but only for a little bit#miguel o'hara fluff#sfw
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Boiling Point 4: Finale - Miguel O'Hara x Reader (NSFW)
First - Prev - M.list - Ao3
A/N: by the power of banana pudding rum we got there. thanks for waiting and please enjoy!
Summary: We reach the part where you get what you want.
Notes: smut. this is the part with actual sex for real. uh biting mentions, blood drawn, etc.
Word Count: 2800
None of this has exactly been how you expected this night to go.
At any turn, you were expecting something else. Not eating sandwiches atop the Empire State building and sipping fountain drinks while you floated, quite frankly thinking you were out of your damn mind and dreaming some truly deranged shit, as Miguel acted exactly like normal in response to having discovered that your sex drive is basically controlled by whether or not he breathes in the same room as you on a given day.
By the time you've nearly finished your drink and near pulling off the lid to crunch the ice, mostly to have something to do with your mouth other than fuck up, Miguel lets out a heavy sigh.
Honestly, you're still stuck on the part where he knows. Clearly he's somewhere miles past you, speaking frankly, as though this is a normal conversation to be having. Just a Spiderman and the Spider belonging to this version of New York, far above the ground. You stare at the stars while he stares at the streets below.
"Are you understanding anything I've said to you? I'm starting to think you're not."
The ice cube cracks in your teeth. You spit it back into your cup to respond. "It's more like I think I'm being punked right now."
"Punked?" he repeats back. You wonder if that's because that's not a thing in Nueva York, or if it's because the idea is so stupid that he can't believe you've put it into the world in the first place. (It is, in fact, a little bit of both.)
You double down, because that is your best quality. "Yeah. Like, tricked? Pranked? You're sitting here having taken me out for chicken sandwiches in response to—hell, I don't think I can make myself say it out loud, but anyways you are Miguel O'Hara and it takes all the work in the world to not think of you by your full name every time because you're just that fucking amazing."
He lets you go on, watches you as you watch the stars. You pause to crunch another ice cube before continuing. "Like, I'm not sorry for thinking you're the hottest thing to walk any Earth. I am sorry you found out, because I can see how that would be uncomfortable to discover, but like. You are hot. I could go into excruciating detail, if you'd like, but I think that's a bit too much, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm trying to be, like, normal?"
"You're not any less normal than anyone else we’ve brought into the multiverse," he says. "I am now completely convinced that you haven't been listening to anything I've said, though."
“I haven’t… not been listening?”
“Okay. Then, what have I been telling you?”
You thoughtfully crunch another ice cube.
“…shit.”
He sighs. “Okay, let’s take it from the top. I was hoping you would figure out you were being an idiot before you sent yourself spiraling directly into sub drop, but that clearly didn’t happen. As fun as it’s been watching you drive yourself insane, this isn’t how I wanted to see you fall apart.”
“…okay.” He’s watching your every movement, and you, in turn, are trying to control each one, down to whatever microexpressions you can. Part of you wants to cry from the embarrassment of it all. But dammit, you are not sitting at the top of this building to cry for once. “So… how did you want to see me fall apart?”
“I can show you.”
Please hold. Buffering.
“Okay!” It comes out a squeak, but this is not a man who has the time to let you cringe, apparently, because you’re suddenly being bodily lifted from your perch, your trash nearly forgotten except your quick thinking to web it to you. Responsible superheroes don’t leave their trash on skyscrapers.
“Limits?” he says as he carries you, so easily for a man only using one hand.
“What?”
“What are your limits? Dirty talk, biting…”
Oh. Your face flares hot. I think you’re finally starting to get it. Good for you. “Um. I don’t… like… assplay?”
He nods, not even looking down at you. That’s fair. He’s a little occupied with the web-swinging right now. Actually, it’s kind of fun to be carried like this, rather than being the one doing all the work. You should find some way to con him into carrying you around like this again sometime.
“I can work with that. Anything else?”
“Um… normally I like degradation, but maybe not right now?”
“Makes sense. Safeword?”
You’ve suddenly forgotten every semblance of a safeword you’ve ever known. Good going. 10/10.
“Pumpkin,” you blurt.
“Pumpkin?”
“Pumpkin.”
“You didn’t just make that up on the spot, did you?”
“Not that you can prove.”
He lets out a soft huff, more felt than heard, and lands on the roof of your building. “Not sure I want your neighbor listening in.”
Ah. Yeah. That… huh.
(You are so fucking eloquent.)
You flash a grin. “Yeah, uh, I think he’s been doing that for a while. I might move, actually. When I can afford it. Do you think this is… better?”
He sighs. “No. But I need a moment.”
“Oh, okay, I can—“
His lips crash down on yours, and fuck it, this clearly isn’t real, so of course you’re going to moan against his lips and kiss him right back. He’s so much bigger than you—all muscles and hard lines and, when he pulls back and you open your eyes, deep red eyes and sharp teeth.
He must like something he sees in the way his eyes roam over you, because he groans and drops his head a bit. “Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been to not think about taking you like this?”
“Like what?” You do your best to sound innocent. It does something, a fact you’re proud to state you know from the way his clawed fingertips suddenly flex into your flesh.
…he is going to completely destroy you.
You, for one, are fully prepared for that outcome.
…probably.
Making out on the rooftop becomes making out in your bedroom becomes Miguel getting you out of your Spider suit in record time. (Maybe you’ll ask him for pointers after this, all things considered.) At least you’re not the only one getting surprised today—when he gets your top half bare and finds your tits bouncing free, not a bra in sight, there’s a growl passing his lips that leaves you shuddering.
“No bra?” His hand hovers over your breasts, as though waiting for permission.
You press your chest forward, right into his waiting hands. “Built into the suit.”
“That’s… dangerous.” His eyes are dark as they fixate on you, on the way your soft curves squish in his hands. “Have you ever worn a bra under the suit?”
You laugh, wrap your arms around his shoulders. “No, sir, I haven’t. You find me a stretchy spandex that doesn’t show every line underneath and then we’ll talk about bras and underwear.”
Without another word, he grabs at the rest of the suit bunched around your waist and yanks down. You yelp as you move with the suit, as you go from “superhero” to “ass-naked” in one fell swoop. That’s just unfair.
Dark eyes search your face, just a moment, just long enough for him to take in wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Whatever he’s looking for, clearly it satisfies him, because his next step is to jerk your hips up and hook your legs over his shoulders.
“So why don’t you tell me a bit about why you thought a contract like that was a good idea?”
You refuse to meet his eyes. Large hands dig into the flesh of your thighs—not painful, not enough to bruise, but enough that you feel the tiniest pricks of his claws threatening to press in.
“Come on, cariño. I wasn’t asking.”
You throw your arms over your face, hide your eyes so you don’t have to look at him when you admit it. “…I kept overheating the motors in my vibrators.”
He startles you with a real, genuine laugh. “Really.”
“Yes!” You jerk to try to face him, which leaves you in a weird half-crunch position. “You’re… a lot, okay? And I’m not, like, constantly constantly thinking about sex, with you or anyone else, but you do shit that gets me started and then I can’t stop and—“
“There you go,” he purrs. “That’s a good girl.”
Your rambling cuts off into a low moan as he buries his face between your thighs at last. His tongue enters your core, his fingers toy with your clit, and he works you up just to the point that you actually contemplate murder when he pulls away.
“Miguel, I can’t keep doing this,” you whine, tears already springing to your eyes in response to yet another denial.
He shushes you, gentle. You do not want gentle.
If we’re being completely honest, if this man does not break you tonight, your body is going to completely atomize itself on the spot.
“Please,” you whine.
He quirks a brow you-ways. Tilts his head. “What are you asking me for?”
“Anything. Need to cum. Please.”
A soft laugh. “You need it?”
“Need it.”
His fingers brush against your core, and you whine out.
“Okay.”
You nearly cry—first at the feeling of his fingers entering you, the promise that this is finally over, you’re finally done breaking toys and breaking yourself just to do something right, now someone else gets to break you—then at how expertly he manages to bring you back to the brim with two thick fingers pumping into your heat.
“There you go. You’re doing so well. So, so well, cariño.”
You smile through your moans, meet his blazing eyes as he works your walls and your clit. You cum hard and fast, writhing around him until he has to put a firm hand down on your stomach to keep you still, and this time, you do cry—from release, from overstimulation, from the fact that you got here and you did it and you did so well.
He doesn’t stop when you stop to catch your breath. The swift removal of his fingers is replaced once again by his mouth, and you cry as he laps up the fluttering remains of your first orgasm in so, so long. A jerk of your hips from the contact has just the barest brush of his fangs teasing against your pussy, just enough to remind you that they’re there and you’re finally, finally getting what you need.
“miguel,” you breathe out in lowercase.
He groans against you, grips your thighs again, and this time he does leave thin red lines behind as he loses himself in your pussy.
The second time you cum, you haven’t quite stopped with the tears from the first. It’s almost everything you’ve dreamed of. You’ve dreamed of some weird shit, though, so basically it’s everything worth dreaming of.
And again he barely stops. He pulls away, yes, when your walls stop spasming around his tongue and your whining drops to low keens, and he repositions himself to fondle your flesh, to smooth a large hand over the plush of your tits and thumb lazily at a single nipple, and when he kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips. But he isn’t done, and he makes quite clear he isn’t done quite quickly.
Lips trail from yours to your neck, and when you reach down in hopes of finding the truth of his cock, he grabs your wrist and nips at your throat.
You do not bother trying to repress the shudder as his teeth graze you.
He sighs, nearly laughs. “You’re seriously turned on by these?” he asks, pulling away to look you in the eye.
“M-mhm. All of you.” Oh dear. You didn’t think you could get stupider, but somewhere between edges, you must have found a shovel and started digging. Poor you. “But I really like teeth. Used to be so into vampires. Werewolves. Anything with big teeth that could wreck me.” Okay, that’s enough. You can stop talking now.
Oh, thank fuck, he took his turn in the conversation. That was getting bad. “Guess you’re lucky, then.”
“So lucky.” You nod.
Another graze of his teeth, and then again he pulls away. Bastard. Like you haven’t been edged enough these past few weeks, through no fault or decision of your own. “You know I can’t bite you, right? Paralytic venom?”
“Like I can move after what you just did to me anyway?”
He raises an eyebrow. “We’ll think about it.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”
“I can tell.” He leaves you there on the bed, a bit limp from the double orgasm action, and removes his own suit, slow and careful. “Lucky for you, I wasn’t done yet. That was just the prep work.”
“Prep?”
Ah. He’s big. Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Maybe you should have trained for this. He climbs right back on top of you, cock weighty where it rests on your stomach, and kisses you slowly. Almost loving, if you hadn’t known any better.
When he presses into you, it’s a stretch, big and sore and dragging out yet another whine from you. He shushes you gently, like this is something you’re supposed to be able to just push through, but he does and you do and when he bottoms out you’re honestly surprised he fits.
“There you go. There’s a good girl. Still doing good?”
No one here is completely sure whether you’re whimpering because his cock is finally inside of you or because of the pet name, but we’ll just say it was overstimulation and call it a day. You manage a nod, which has him arching his brow and holding very carefully still.
“I need a verbal answer, [name].”
“Still… still doing good. You’re good.”
“Okay.”
One slow, careful thrust turns into two turns into three turns into another, and you have to cling to him and claw just to find some sort of purchase before very long at all. By the time you’ve lost count, it’s more because you’ve lost your mind than anything. The overstim-sore gives way to a delicious stretch, and you’re sure you’re babbling something, though you’re pretty sure it’s just his name. That’s all that’s in your head, anyway.
What you know is this: his grip and his pace become bruising, at your enthusiastic pleading, and he fucks you until you don’t remember whether you came once or twice or stopped until he was done. You know that he pulls out, that he cums across your stomach in thick ropes. You know that he cleans you with a warm, damp cloth, tends carefully to the cuts on your thighs where his claws dug just a touch too deep. When you can sit up, you blearily take the kit from him and dab at the bits on his back where you managed to draw blood. Marks of your own left on his skin.
“You did good. Better than I was expecting, honestly.”
“You’re rude,” you shoot back with a sleepy-sounding laugh. “And big. And good.”
You’re not sure the etiquette here. In the light of no longer being mid-fuck, you cringe at the dance that socialization inevitably becomes. He’ll go back to his universe, and leave you here, and probably send Lyla to let you know of new assignments, but what do you do now except begrudgingly accept the chocolate he shoves in your mouth and make sure the cuts on his back are disinfected?
“Sorry about your thighs. That’ll sting for a while,” he says as you’re busily trying to memorize the muscles on his back.
“I’ll be fine. Quick healing and all that. Um…”
“I’ll do some work to figure out the venom thing, if you were serious about wanting me to bite you.”
“Of course I’m serious!” You squeak. “Your damned fangs were at least two of my casualties that started this whole thing!”
“Casualties?”
You fluster, turn away. “Yeah. Casualties.” A brief pause where it sinks in. “Wait. So you want to… do this again…?”
“Was that not clear? You’re a bright spot in the multiverse. If you’d just stop throwing yourself into stupid shit…”
“Don’t kid yourself. I’m already perfect.”
“You are. I’m still not biting you without being absolutely sure I won’t kill you in the process.”
“Aw, that’s half the fun!”
He gives you a sharp look, and you cringe.
“Right. Yeah, I get it. Feel free to surprise me when you figure it out, though.”
He pulls you into his arms, and in his warmth you feel yourself finally relax a little bit.
“I think I’ll take you up on that one.”
Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory @yohoe-hoe @ambientcryptidsounds @roxannarichie @vegas-writing-den @cooch1ecruncher @bluepeanutharmony @instanttragedyfire @thesilenthill @topreice @rhae-blackqueen
If you'd like to be tagged, shoot me a message or an ask, or ask here in the replies, tags, or reblogs and let me know what you'd like to be tagged in (all works, all works specific to a character, all smut works, etc.). If your name appears on this list but is not underlined and you didn't get a notification, please check to make sure that your blog is NOT set to not appear in search results in your blog settings! If you've got that set that way for a particular reason, consider subscribing to the fic on ao3 for an equivalent update notification, as I always crosspost simultaneously! After three unsuccessful tagging attempts, you will be removed from the list.
As always, thanks for reading! <3
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Summary: A 42 year old retired teacher falls for his 27 year old ex-student while facing his past and relearning many things.
Author: @tarjapearce
Note from submitter: Smut at first
#official fic poll#haveyoureadthisfic#pollblr#tumblr polls#fanfiction#fandom poll#fanfic#fandom culture#internet culture#Bad Teachings#Spiderman: Across The Spider-Verse#miguel o'hara/reader#spiderman
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Thanks to TikTok (and apparently the movie The Book Of Life) I have a new inspiration for a sub!Miguel smut ficlet
I mean just listen to this and tell me it wouldn't sound good from Oscar Isaac's Miguel's mouth:
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Entre la rosa y la gardenia (random name while I think in smth cool)
A Miguel O'Hara/ reader fic
I'm posting everything in Tumblr. The number (n.) is the order I've been posting the chapters. And from upside down (↓) is the chronological order. I'll edit the list everytime I post a new chapter.
The list
1. Eating schedules
2. Nombres
I'd recommend to read it according to the number, since I thought the dinamic in that way, like Beyond Two Souls but is a Tumblr fanfic fr.
Please read the notes from this chapter.
#miguel o'hara#miguel x reader#miguel ohara#atsv miguel#miguel spiderverse#miguel spiderman#miguel o'hara/reader#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara x you#miguel o'hara x y/n#miguel o'hara x gender neutral reader#miguel o'hara fanfiction#miguel o'hara fic#atsv fanfiction#atsv#spiderman atsv#spider man 2099#spiderman across the spiderverse#across the spiderverse#writing pacefully
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