seeeuspaceecowboyyy

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

Predicting Miguel’s BTSV look 👀🤍

—- I adore him… and I love him… and I can’t wait to see him again in 2 BLOODY YEARS ?! It is fine, we wait. The white suit is absolutely perfect and I went with the design from the concept arts. The dark red against the white? Breathtaking. The design of the suit also kinda looks like a bacteriophage? Isn’t he just marvelous?

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

hi Jade! I had a Miguel request but I apologize that it’s rather vague. Could you do Miguel comforting/dealing w how to comfort r when she’s genuinely afraid of something? I figure he’d be a little lost until he snaps into how much he cares! <3 love u

hope this is okay, thank u for requesting!! ♥

cw drug mention

Miguel watches you from the corner of his eye, uneasy. Arms stretched out in front of you to avoid walking into walls in the dim lighting, you follow the beam of his flashlight through the dark laboratory you'd wanted to investigate one precarious step at a time. The air smells of water-logged wood, rotting and stagnant. 

You're not his protege, but Miguel decided to take you under his wing (his claw? his web?) because you have good ideas, and he needs all the help he can get if he's going to save everyone, everywhere. He's also fucking tired and he's agitated with you for bringing him to some derelict building in a dimension that doesn't have spiders, let alone Spider People. 

"Why did you need this thing?" he asks. 

"Already told you." 

"Tell me again." 

If Miguel thinks he's a man of little words, you talk even less. "Spider adjacent creatures create a chemical similar to what you're injecting now, but less volatile." 

He doesn't remember you telling him that before. He doesn't stutter, the only evidence of his surprise a waver of the light beam. 

"And you'll, what? Synthesise for me?" he asks. 

"It could be gentler. Maybe give you a sense of normalcy."

Normalcy. He hasn't felt normal in a long time. 

He snaps into the quiet, "This is a waste of time, I don't need something gentler, what I need is to be back at the lab fixing your communicator." 

"It'll be like methadone," you say, stepping over a puddle of water with no apparent source. It must be seeping upward. 

He's lucky he didn't just get 'methadone' and nothing else thrown at him. Miguel fixes the flashlight up the oncoming stairs as you start to ascend, lightly chastened. Methadone is a drug intended to assist in heroin dependency. It has its own cons, but in lots of cases, it can help the user stop using the original drug. He assumes you're suggesting that whatever drug he synthesises from the 'spider adjacent creature' will help him wean off of the injections (unlikely), or maybe repair some damaged DNA (complicated but not favourable right now).

"It'll be safer," you say, walking into the room toward an upturned lab bench. "You can make something with it. I know you can." 

"I have to do it?" he asks, stopped in the doorway. 

"You're the geneticist. It's really quiet." 

The lack of changing cadence to your voice doesn't catch up with him until you're turning back toward him, your nervous expression lit by the torch. One second you're looking at him for reassurance, and the next you're falling through the floor, wood splintering up in a wave as the boards crack.

You scream. As loud of a sound as Miguel has ever heard from you, your arms slam forward to catch onto the edge of the hole your feet created. Miguel doesn't immediately move, aware that his weight over the weakened floor will damage the integrity further, but you beg him, shrill, "Miguel," you say, your voice strangled, "help me!"  

Your arms scrabble for purchase, you're pleading through sobs, "I don't want to fall–" 

He snaps his torch to his shoulder and flips forward. He grabs your arms, rolling across the shattered flooring to the opposite end of the room, releasing you as the weight of your bodies lands. You oof and roll out of his arms. 

He's quick to get on his feet. Miguel hardly felt it. You flinch away from him and hold out your arms, a sleuce of maroon blood spilling down your side from under your arm. "Don't! Miguel, don't concentrate our weight!" 

"You're crying," he says. 

"Stop moving!" you yell. 

"Alright!" he yells back, moving back toward a load-bearing pillar. "Calm down, estúpida! I'm not going to let you fall." 

"You can't come over here, the floor's gonna break again." 

"It won't break." 

"It's going to break!" 

You breathe harshly, staring at the hole you'd made. He understands why you were scared. The fall was sudden, and if you'd managed to slide through the hole you would have snapped your legs, perhaps your spine. Super healing doesn't negate pain. 

"Lyla?" he asks. 

She appears from his watch, in pyjamas with her hair held back by a white bunny-eared headband. "I was taking my fake nap. What do you want?" 

"I want a filter that accounts for a building's structural integrity," he says. 

"That's impossible without blueprints and– Hey, woah, what happened to Y/N?" she asks, keying in on your frantic panting. 

"Tell me how to get from here to there without breaking through the floor," he says, snaps, incensed by your panicked breathing. 

Lyla thankfully doesn't argue, nor does she make him beg. His heart pounds at the sight of you where you're shaking, certain you're a moment from falling again, your hands clamped uselessly to an outlet fixture on the wall. 

A blue path lights up Miguel's UI. It directs him with blinking arrows on how to reach you. Miguel follows along, and, wanting to carry you or at the very least wipe your wet cheeks, he lifts you onto your feet and walks you back to the door, directing you over stress points, hand held taut in his. The floor groans and sags dangerously underfoot, but it doesn't collapse again. 

You should've been wearing your suit, he thinks. You're an idiot. You came out here wanting to find something for him when you should've been directing your efforts to the cause of the strike force and the whole Society, but you wasted time, and now you're injured. You should've been wearing your fucking web shooters–

You try uselessly to bury your hands in his suit, your face dropped to his chest. You sob quietly, your shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry," you say, borderline hysterical. 

Miguel brings his hand to your shoulder awkwardly. You might have made a mistake, but you're kind. You're more than a brilliant mind, you're a person, with fear and want intertwined. You clearly hadn't liked the dark but you'd braved it for him knowing the chemical here in the labs could improve his quality of life. He shouldn't think about you so meanly. You couldn't have known about the floor. 

"What are you sorry for?" he asks with a sigh. 

His awkwardness comes across as reluctance. You stiffen under his hand. 

"I thought I was gonna fall," you say weakly, sniffling against his chest. 

Miguel starts to rub a slow shape into your back. It feels wrong to hear and see you cry, his quiet cariño, who haunts his laboratory offering little in the way of words but always a smile if you have it to give. "It's okay," he says, ducking his head to talk into your hair. He remembers how to do this. "Don't cry. I would've caught you." 

Miguel would've followed you down and wrapped you up to take the brunt of it without thinking, he knows that.

Your arms wrap around his sides. "When you didn't come get me I thought you were gonna let me fall," you confess, with a wet laugh as if to say, How silly am I?

Insanely silly. 

Miguel pats your back in a steadying thump, thump, thump. "Are you kidding? You think something like that would happen on my watch?" 

You shudder and give a little cough. He's surprised you didn't throw up, you'd wound yourself that tightly. Miguel pushes you away to make sure you aren't about to yak on him, and to check your face over for injury. He moves down to your neck, your bloodied side. 

"We need to go home," he says, holding your arm up away from the wound in as tender a grasp as he's capable of. 

"I didn't find the adendiam."

"Forget about it," he says. "We're going home. You're hurt." 

Miguel would pull you through the portal kicking and screaming if he had to, but luckily, you don't make a fuss. 

—

It's admittedly a blow to your ego to have cried in Miguel's arms. You don't know what to say or how to look at him now, miserable as he wipes down your skin with an iodine solution. His touch lingers: his hand on your shoulder, his reassuring hug less than an hour before like a cobweb on your skin. 

He passes you a change of clothes, a simple white shirt for moments like this. There's no need or want for a hospital gown. 

You pull it on, wincing at the soreness despite your quick healing and the nanotechnology that stitched your mean cut. You've deep bruises everywhere, especially under your arms where you caught yourself. 

You haven't managed to stop shaking, curled forward with a disposable bedpan in your hands. The smell of iodine makes you nauseous. 

Miguel audibly huffs. You can't face his disappointed glare. 

"Sorry, Miguel," you say. "I… wanted to do something to help you." 

"That was your first mistake. I don't need help." 

You wince and go rigid, clinging to your bedpan for dear life and cursing yourself for being an idiot as he'd lamented, when a weight shifts on the examination table. A blue bedecked thigh spread out next to your own. 

"Second mistake, thinking I'd leave you to fall. Third, thinking you owe me an apology." 

"Any more?" you ask weakly. 

Your waist grows hot under the touch of a hand. Miguel wraps his arm around you gently. "No. Nothing else." 

Miguel pulls you in for a half hug.

You lean in to his side. He's solid beside you, and he starts to talk. He tells you about Rapture, the first time, and the mistakes he made after it. How scared he was in few words but an honest admission, his arm never moving from where it curls around you, holding you close. "We all have things that scare us," he says. "But you can't let them stop you from moving forward."

"How do you stop the fear?" you ask. 

"No, you can't. You need to keep going. I wasn't going to let you fall, and I won't, but you need to be able to pull yourself up. I can't… lose you to fear." 

You look up at the side of his face. He's looking down at the floor, not bashful or nervous but determined. His brow is set, and when he turns his gaze to you, it doesn't soften. 

"I can't lose you," he says. "I won't." 

You stare as he wraps you in a hug, your wide eyes looking over his shoulder in shock, your hands moving weakly behind his back to reciprocate. He drops his face into your neck. 

After a moment, you close your eyes and lean in. 

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

you have to find new ways to communicate when a cold leaves you voiceless. miguel is less than happy —featuring grumpy miguel and his cheerful spider-girl. requested here. fem!reader, 2.3k.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel's hackles hike as you appear. You have an obsession with toying with him and he's in the middle of something more important than your whims and wants.

"Don't start," he warns, barely looking at you. 

You point at yourself as if to say, Who, me? Grinning, you pull your arms behind your torso tightly, your shoulders harsh slopes where they'd usually be lax with calm. Your spider suit strains against the movement, shining with a subtle shimmer as you twirl your way into his side. You blink up at him, mock-innocent. 

"What did I just say?" he asks. 

He's expecting a charming rebuttal he doesn't get. You're awfully charismatic; Miguel often thinks you've manufactured a devilish siren call that yanks him in like a fish on a line no matter how hard he tries to split his lip and flee.

You're pretty, sure, but it isn't your looks that endear you to him. You have this way of speaking that's effortlessly carefree, despite the frankly ridiculous depth of the well that is your fondness for the world. It shouldn't make sense, and it does: you're happy because you love the world. When you speak to him, annoy him, praise him and degrade him in the same breath, Miguel thinks you might love him, too. 

You're silent. Miguel takes it as a blessing and finishes analysing the footage playing in front of him. He finishes as quickly as he can, and he's not a dick, he says, "Thank you." Then, with an unimpressed eyebrow raise, "Where have you been?" 

You come to see him so often he kind of forgot you didn't have to. He's taken you for granted, he knows, and after three days of not seeing you he should be happier. He should've asked you about it as soon as you appeared. 

You shrug and point at his screen. He can practically see the question mark in your eyes. 

"That's nothing. What, you're not speaking to me now?" he asks. 

Paper creaks in your hand as you pull a sketchbook from your pocket. Small, lilac, you flip to the first page and show him the scrawled message there with a rueful smile. 

Miguel's expecting a cartoon version of himself, but instead you've written three words. 

I have laryngitis. 

Miguel's gaze flickers between you and your book, assessing the claim with scepticism. "Why would you have that? You're practically impervious to disease." 

You flip to the next page. 

Superbug from Earth-87222 defeated my enhanced healing.

One of your Peter Parker friends lives there. He isn't jealous (because he knows that particular Peter doesn't like girls). "And you can't talk?" he asks. 

The next page. I can't talk.

You tuck the book to your chest. Lips parted, you attempt to speak, but all that comes out is hot air and a cruel croaking scratch that makes his chest ache. 

"Don't hurt yourself," he says, softer than he'd been speaking beforehand. He can't decide whether to glare at you or pull you in for a hug. If he hugs you, you might attach yourself to him like that thing from Alien. He glares. "You could've told me." 

You gesture to your throat. I can't speak. 

"That you were sick, you know how to type. You bother me every day for weeks and then one day you stop showing up, and you don't answer your watch, what am I supposed to think?" 

You stare up at him dreamily. He swears you get off on being scolded half the time. 

Miguel takes your wrist into his hand and turns your wristband forward to showcase the screen. "You see this? You see when my prompt comes up? You could take ten seconds and hit me back." 

Again, you open your small sketchbook, turning to a fourth page. You've predicted him well.

I didn't want to worry you. Don't be mad, handsome, you'll get more wrinkles. 

"Tu sabes todo," he fumes. You know everything. "If you're so smart, you can help me recalibrate the pocket dimension storage." 

You flip a page. It's finally a drawing rather than a knowing line, your familiar artistry obvious in your weighted linework and rushed shading. It's Miguel, his expression one he isn't sure you would've actually seen to reference as well as you have, lovingly concerned with a speech bubble coming from beside his softly rendered hair. Get well soon, cariño. 

He scoffs. "You seem fine to me." 

In truth, you don't seem fine. Now he knows, he can see evidence of your days away. Your lips are chapped under the balm you've applied, your hair dishevelled (though it's often unruly, in line with your personality). You wince when you breathe too hard. Miguel lowers the platform and sets you up next to him on a workbench in the back of the laboratory beside him for purely professional purposes. He has to make sure you're doing the calibration correctly, that's all. 

He can't quite explain away the tea he gets for you from the cafeteria, nor the research he does on the way back to you, Lyla at his shoulder saying, "You're such a softie." 

You find you don't need the sketchbook to communicate. Miguel places your tea down and your smile alone is thanks enough. It's pure reverential delight. He doesn't really deserve it, so he pretends he doesn't see. 

When you need help with a recalibration, you take his wrist gently. You don't even need to point at the screen, the subtle uptilt of your brows enough clue.

"Here, you're almost there," he murmurs under his breath, distracted by the complicated code you've been editing in the corner of the screen. "Oh, is this what you do when I'm not looking?" 

You tug his elbow. 

"No? You're not messing around?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "You think I'm stupid." 

Your fingers tighten. Miguel clicks a couple of things to finish the calibration. He looks at you from over his shoulder. Your face is near. It radiates heat. He bites the tip of his gloved finger and yanks it off clean to press the back of his naked hand to your forehead. 

"You're warm," he says, patting carefully downward. Your skin is as hot as he'd worried. 

Miguel drops his hand without rush, the side of his pinky tracing down your cheek. "Maybe you shouldn't be here." 

You shake your head vehemently. There's something in it he doesn't understand, an uncharacteristic shyness. He supposes he'd feel the same if he were sick like this, but you have no reason to be ashamed of a bad cold.

"Enough calibration, then. Take it easy." 

You do not take it easy. Your first port of call is to request to share his screen. He grants you permission and rescinds it soon after, irked when the majority of his monitor becomes wallpapered by digital post it note drawings of him looking cranky and of you in a crown, a ship's captain's hat, standing on the moon. He sets them each back to the perimeter of his window and tries to work. Trust you to find ways to bother him without teasing aloud. 

He thinks that… but then, his hands falter over the keyboard. You aren't a bother. You irritate him but he kind of likes it, most of the time. He turns his head just enough to see your face, blue and white light kissing your skin. You glow. 

Miguel thinks about how he used to do this alone. Lyla on his shoulder when she felt like it but usually tinkering in the quiet, trying to stop the end of the world, the pressure akin to how Atlas himself must have felt, knees locked and arms braced above his head to stop the Earth falling into the black abyss. Miguel doesn't always know what he's being punished for (or, he didn't). He doesn't know why this ended up on his plate, but the panic of doing it alone ebbs every day. With you by his side, unshakeable if not unfailing, it feels less like a death sentence and more like a problem that needs solving. He can't save everyone, but he can try. He can't stomach the agony of his life if he thinks about the past; you make it easy to stay present. 

Who would he rather have here than you? Out of everyone living that he knows, you're the only person he could stand to sit with for this long. 

It's not the same without your voice. Your murmurings, your kind doting, your put upon and less-so confusion. He misses it more than he can say in that moment, worse when you feel his eyes and turn to face him with a soft smile. 

Everything okay? you ask without asking. 

You don't need to speak. He can see it on your face. 

Miguel gets up from his bench to tower over you. Without giving it too much thought, he bends down, wrapping his right arm behind your shoulders, the left loose over your front, and kisses your forehead with the barest of pressures. It's hardly a kiss at all, and it makes no noise. More like he's resting his lips there, his nose at your hairline, breathing in. His hand rubs an up and down of its own accord into your upper arm, the soft fat of it melding under his touch. 

Your head dips back invitingly. You're like butter in the sun at his touch, a slow melting. 

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll deny it," he says quietly. 

You snort. You give his arm a pat and reach over it to grab your sketchbook. Miguel straightens but doesn't remove his arms, watching as you flick to the right page. 

I can't talk, the page says. You beam at him.

"I see," Miguel says. "You think it's funny because you couldn't tell if you wanted to." 

Your answering hum comes with the feeling of your fingers latching onto his elbow. Exactly. 

Well, fuck it. If you can't tell anyone, Miguel might as well send it. He leans down to grab you up into his hold, a squeezing hug that says everything he wanted to tell you while you were gone, his worry for you and his annoyance at your lack of communication. You don't need audible words to tell him things, and Miguel doesn't need words either. Hopefully his arms around you and his nose digging too rough into your temple says how he feels plainly. 

"I figured you got sick of taking orders," he confesses. You got sick of me. "When you didn't come back." 

You refuse to act small —Miguel doesn't want you to—, standing despite the weight he'd been resting on you, turning in the circle of his arms to look up into his eyes. It's too much, Miguel doesn't want your face this close to his, not with the rawness of his feelings aching a trail up between each of his rib bones, one by one. He clenches his jaw. 

Your hand climbs to his ear. He stays very still. As the initiator he should be forgiving, but your fingers touch his ear and he contemplates sinking his teeth into your hand. You stroke hair away from his face with a dramatised expression that says it's in the way, pesky stuff, though the final fond tuck of it behind the shell of his ear is impossible to deny.

Your thumb rubs his earlobe. 

"Are you having fun?" he asks dryly.

Your nod is sincere. Enthusiastic, you start to ease your fingertips into the thick tresses of his hair. 

Miguel grabs your wrist in an iron grip. 

"Enough." 

He guesses more than knows what your pout means —that isn't fair. 

"Life isn't fair," he says, pressing your forearm to your chest, an action fraught with apology. It's ridiculous how much can be said without words. He'd like for you to get your voice back solely to end this confusing misery. Well, not solely… Miguel misses the sound of it, distinct as your lopsided smiles and unconventional hand movements. "You can file a complaint just as soon as you get your voice back, how's that?" 

You roll your eyes and sit back down on your bench. Miguel takes a lap around the laboratory to calm down, returning to a new program blinking on computer his taskbar to be opened. 

He doesn't give you the satisfaction of looking your way as he opens it. 

"Miguel!" The program chirps, in a voice jarringly close to yours but not nearly as sophisticated as the majority of language intelligence he uses in his own coding. "I was waiting for you, handsome! Where have you been? Now you're back, I have a very special song to sing for you. Sing along if you know this one! Alright… Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety nine bottles of beer! You take one down, pass it around, ninety nine bottles of beer…"

Miguel realises he can't mute or close the program shortly thereafter. Vocaloid you counts down to sixty one bottles of beer by the time he resigns to turning off his computer altogether, a headache twinging angrily behind his eyes. 

Maybe he could use a break from your voice after all. 

You giggle breathlessly at him as he drops his face into his hands. 

"Drink your tea," he orders, words muffled by his palms.

He doesn't look up. There's the sound of a big sip. Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. He's kidding himself —the sooner you get your voice back, the better. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

sorry if this is basic- but miguel with reader having nightmares?? Ty! <3

thank you for your request ♡ fem!reader

Miguel's already awake when you stir. Sitting up in bed, a lightweight tablet against his thigh with schematics for a slightly more optimised ADJF (autonomous dimension-jump facilitator) open and burning into his retinas one pixel at a time. 

You sleep badly, sometimes. More than a hundred moons ago, before sharing his bed was the norm for you, before Miguel knew how best to bring you down, something awful happened. A strike against an anomalous Doc Ock turned bad. You got thrown down and concussed, enough wits about you to watch with clarity but no strength to stop it as an octobot culled a civilian two feet in front of you. 

It bothers you often. You tell him less. You can't run from it in your sleep, arms locking up against your chest, your body inching closer to his under the sheets like you're looking for him. 

He puts the tablet frame on the nightstand and turns to you. 

Your elbow digs into his ribs. He frowns and takes your wrist, pulling your hand down to your thigh. "Cariño," he murmurs, laying down next to you to sweep over your face with a fond concern. "Es un mal sueño. Nada más." It's a bad dream. Nothing more. 

You make a sound. Not quite a whimper but a hurting pull of air. Miguel frowns and wraps his arms around you, pulling your sleeping weight onto his chest. 

"Estas bien. Cálmate, mi corazón," he says, his lips barely parted. It's okay. Calm down, my heart. 

He waits for the flinch. It comes every time you have one of these nightmares, like you've missed a step. You wake with a harsh gasp and racing pulse, the heel of your palm pressed to his heart as you jolt, your head nearly slamming into his chin. 

"Miguel?" you ask. 

He hates that you actually sound scared. 

"I'm here," he says. 

"You're here," you say, breathing funny. You inhale too much and exhale too little. 

Miguel isn't confident, but he can act it. He strong arms you, your face to his, your tight shoulders under his hand. He rubs your thumb into the tensed muscles there unapologetically. The pressure is unkind, and it snaps you back into place, so to speak. 

"It was that dream again," you explain unnecessarily. 

"I know."

He pulls you, hoping you'll lay down again, but you stay put. He pulls again. You're a statue, lethargic and lost in your own mind for long, quiet minutes. All he can do is stroke the back of your hand.

You squint at the bleary light slugging in from the window. "Shit, sorry. Did I wake you? It's so early." You stroke his cheek, but your hand is shaking. 

"I was awake. I don't need you to worry about me, I'm worried about you," he confesses, bringing his pinky finger to the corner of your eye and stroking downward. You look at one another. His gaze is patient, unfailing, while yours is wired wrong, tears shiny along your waterline. "Don't look so sad, mi cielo. Please." 

"I keep seeing his face." 

"I know," he says, bringing his second hand up to cup both of your cheeks. "Hey, look at me." 

"I don't want his face to look like yours. Like, I'll start seeing you in my dreams instead of him. Is that– is that selfish? To want it to stay his face?" 

Miguel doesn't know if that's selfish, but he knows you aren't, not at your core. You make mistakes, you give in to temptation often and poke fun at others, but you do what's best for people when it counts. You would've saved the civilian if you could have. You would've died for him. 

"You're not selfish," he says. "You're brave. Now lay down. The sun has some work to do." 

"You don't need to go?" you ask, sighing quietly as his hands trace down your neck, your shoulders. 

He drags you into his chest. One arm curls around your back like an iron bar, corded muscle taut behind you. Miguel can't stop the nightmares and he's awful with words, but the physical is easy. He can hug you and hold you and press barely there kisses to the top of your head while you settle down. He can lay there with you for a few hours while you get some much needed rest. 

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

Maybe a baby blurb featuring miguel x spidergirl reader? Just miguel being all lovey dovey nd soft y'know.

thank u for ur request! fem!reader

You're dozing. He could speak to you and rouse you if he liked, but Miguel wants you to sleep, and sleep well. He puts his tablet frame on the nightstand and eases down into the pillows, careful where he's holding you not to jostle your head. 

"Miguel?" you mumble. 

He shushes you gently. 

"Miguel," you say again, hand curling over his stomach searchingly. You blink with heavy lashes, your eyes bleary. "Did I fall asleep?" 

"Barely." He reciprocates your embrace, laying an arm coiled with hard muscle over your softer hip.

"It's 'cus you're so quiet." 

You rub your nose into his chest. It isn't solely Miguel that's quiet. Your bedroom is silent —and Miguel has given up on calling it his, your things, your clothes, your bracelets, you, bursting from every corner— beside the thrumming of the standing fan at the end of the bed. He can hear the sound your fingertips make brushing over his shirt, the microfibers crushed by whatever shapes you choose to draw. 

"Are you okay?" you ask. 

Miguel loves you. "Fine. You're tired, cariño. No luches contra eso." 

"What does that mean?" you whisper, the hooks of fatigue beginning to pull you under once again. 

"It means 'don't fight it'. Sleep." He presses his lips to your temple. The kiss he gives you is precious, as though you're a girl of sugar paper, easily hurt. He knows you're made of harder stuff, but a certain serenity comes from treating you with care. 

He closes his eyes, leaning every closer, the tip of his nose smushed to your skin. 

"Not fighting. Just want to fall asleep at the same time," you say. 

"Yeah? Why's that?"

You struggle to answer, the sensation of his hand petting your shoulder and his warm body by yours a lulling you're too tired to fight. "You… stay up late, if I'm not…" You drift off. 

Miguel understands what you're trying to say. It's the truth. If you fall asleep first, he pulls a tablet into his hand to keep working. Eventually he sleeps, usually when the light of day that migrates in from between the blinds annoys him too much to stay awake, or your arms become too inviting. 

Tonight, they're impossible to ignore. 

Miguel uses some unnatural strength to pull you close and as on top of him as you can be. Your leg slips between his, your face into the sharp incline of his trap muscle that climbs from shoulder to neck. He turns your face in his loving hand. He can count your lashes three times over before he sleeps most nights, even in the dark. 

Your arms tighten around him with sudden unexpected life. "Please sleep," you mumble. 

He laughs softly into your temple. Miguel should make many, many promises to you. He should, and he can't, but he can give you this if it's what you want. 

"I'll sleep." He closes his eyes, savouring your weight atop his chest. "Goodnight, baby." 

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

*raise hand violently* PLEASE CAN I ASK ABOUT sub!miguel headcanons?!?!?!?!?!

What makes him whine, how pretty does his whimpers sound like?!?!?!

How gorgeous does he look when his eyes get all shiny and wet with tears because you won't let him come yet.

sub!miguel headcanons

basic summary: miguel is the whiniest, most pushy malewife and you are his protector, comforter, and safe space :3

a/n: OK BETTER LATE THAN NEVER RIGHT? (im so sorry lmfaooo) also does it count as headcanons if i have random scenes in between them?? wtvr *shoves fic in ur arms and sprints away*

content: suggestive + fluffy

masterlist

---

bed habits (I'M TALKING AB SLEEPING YOU DIRTY BASTARD!) -- miguel is a sleepy, cuddly boy

he never has trouble falling asleep when you're around (except for when he - adorably - forces himself to stay awake so he can spend time with you)

this man is 6'7" but he still tries to curl up on your lap when you're lounging on the couch just so you can play with his hair as he dozes off

miguel owns a king sized bed, big enough to fit five people comfortably, yet he's adamant to take up all your space

it gets hot (i mean, he's hot -- literally, like his internal temp is higher than the average human) but even when you try to shove him away, he only pulls you closer to him

if you do, somehow, get away from him, he wakes up immediately with a sleepy groan, blindly reaching across the mattress for you:

you try to dodge his hands, laying precariously at the edge of the bed, hoping he would give up and go back to sleep. unfortunately, it only makes him whine like a spoiled child, "baby, closer. need you...come here" god -- he has such a cute sleepy voice...

but you don't let it sway you. you're already laying on top of the comforter, desperately trying to cool off and get back to sleep.

"it's too hot, miguel"

"but...i can't sleep without you" you can hear the pout in his voice

"just hold a pillow and pretend its me"

he sighs -- actually sighs like the dramatic man he is, "but it's not the same!"

you don't respond, refusing to continue this 3 am argument that you'll never win, and pretend to fall back asleep. maybe he will practice self-soothing or something and sleep by himself? maybe he'll be an adult about this?

silence settles in the air for a few minutes and you're nearly lulled back to unconsciousness. and then you hear the sheets rustle as he sits up next to you, suddenly fully awake and stubbornly staring down at you.

"please?"

"mig, no amount of 'pleases' will convince me to sleep against your volcanic body"

"...how about just until I fall asleep?"

"but when I move away you'll wake up again."

you hear a quiet 'hmph' before you're promptly tugged back against his body. his face presses against your hair as he situates himself to engulf you in his warmth. "exactly, so don't leave me."

it's a common misconception that sub!mig likes to be the little spoon but actually he likes to cling onto you like you're a living teddy bear -- face nuzzled against your neck, legs intertwined with yours, and one large hand on your tit

you often wake up in a tangled mess, your neck stiff from the contorted positions he maneuvers your body into during the night

but you don't mind it anymore, especially on those rare morning swhen you wake up before him and you get to see those worry lines on his forehead soften as he sleeps soundly next to you

miguel is a soft and eager man:

it's his life mission to provide for you, to hear soft words of praise whisper from your lips

as soon as you're alone in a room, he drops the tough guy act and immediately searches for your warmth

miguel sticks to you like velcro when he isn't fighting crime in the city

and when he isn't with you, he's absolutely thinking about you

(of course he makes sure that you're thinking about him too with all the texts he sends you throughout the day -- adorned with cheesy emojis...)

this dude is so needy and desperate for your love, praise and approval that he's the one asking "would you still love me if i were a spider-mutant worm and i looked at you like this: 🐛 to say 'i love you'?"

would he call you 'mami'? debatable.

but he loves it when you call him honey, sweetheart, baby, bubby/bubs, hubby (he wants to marry you so bad), and puppy (WHEN HE'S KINKY BC HE'S A HORNY SOB)

you swear he whimpers a little when you tell him what a good man he is -- when you confess that he's your hero, even when he's not swinging around the city and lifting up buildings with his bare hands

his warm brown eyes search your face, a desperate quest for truth in every gentle word you speak. he's never been spoken to so softly in his life -- this tenderness, it's new...too good to be true

as time passes and your love deepens, he begins to realize that it's all true, that everthing about you is genuine, that he is loveable after all

miguel worships you:

he is definitely a worshipper when you let him be

on slower, more sensual nights, he makes sure to paint your body in kisses, from your ankles to your forehead it's almost tortuous

(maybe even bites if it's been a while since he's seen you)

he likes to kneel for you, make himself smaller so he can look up at you and appreciate everything you've provided for him

he's really whiny and pathetic though...

he wants to be told what to do, when to do it, and how. it helps him let go of this thoughts, anything that's weighing on him

it could be his heightened senses or just his desperation, but he needs to touch you all the time -- even just the light feeling of his hand against your thigh gives him a euphoric feeling.

so you deny him because you know how much he loves the delayed gratification and humiliation when you tease him for it.

"baby, you're acting so needy right now~" you decided to withdraw from the heated interaction to keep him at the edge. his eyes are dark, blazing with heat, as you speak to him with a syrupy sweet voice.

he pouts from the spot where he's kneeling for you, already achingly hard from the thorough petting session you just gave him.

"i'm not trying to be...just really need it." he's whining with a mixture of shame, frustration, and exasperation in his voice.

"It?" you tilt your head, a small smile gracing your lips.

"..." he doesn't elaborate. you can see a hint of pinkness creep up his neck as his eyes avoid yours.

he can get so shy sometimes. it's endearing. it makes you want to destroy him then put him back together again.

"honey, i can't give you what you need unless you tell me." you know what he wants, but you want to hear him say it.

"please"

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

𝐒𝐎, 𝐃𝐎 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌?

prologue: there’s something amiss.

dark! miguel o‘hara x reader

Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isn’t right. And deep down, you’re afraid to ask why.

CW: paranoia, implications of ptsd

series masterlist 𒌐 chapter one

𒌐

Love just didn’t seem to do it justice.

What you felt for your husband was deeper than that; than a word. It was something you felt to your very core, something that willed you to get up every morning. Something that made you stare off at him in the utmost admiration and respect. Something that something that you knew you’d never be the same without.

You couldn’t put a name on it, just yet.

He noticed you long before you ever noticed him; before you even spoke, before he ever got close enough to hear your voice. He’d see you across the campus courtyard, tucked into a corner of the library, laughing with your friends outside the lecture hall. You weren’t the loudest or the flashiest person in the room, but you had this presence, something that pulled him in before he could stop himself.

He thought you were pretty. Too pretty. Distractingly so. The kind of pretty that made him stare longer than he should, that made him forget whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing. And that annoyed him.

Miguel was focused—always had been. School, goals, the future—that’s what mattered. Not distractions.

But somehow, you became the exception.

It started small. A few stolen glances, a few chance encounters. He never meant to hover, but he found himself sitting a few seats away from you in class, lingering in places he knew you’d be, listening when you spoke just to learn the way your voice lilted at the end of your sentences. Making excuses for why he was walking by the science building when his classes were on the opposite side of campus. He knew you’d be passing that way.

You were just constant. sitting a few rows ahead of him in lecture, showing up at the same campus coffee shop, appearing in the library at the same ungodly hours he did.

By some lick of fate, as he would call it, you ended up semester long partners for your chemistry class, and it was smooth sailing from there.

Late-night study sessions that turned into deep conversations about life. Coffee dates that weren’t technically dates but still felt like something more. You stole his hoodies, and he let you, even when he grumbled about it. He carried your books when your bag was too heavy, always acting like it was no big deal.

You became his person. And he, yours.

You balanced him. Where he was intense, you were easygoing. Where he was too serious, too focused, you reminded him to breathe, to live. You challenged him in a way no one else dared to, never letting him get away with his usual brooding, always pushing back when he got too cocky.

And Miguel? He kept you steady. He was your anchor, your protector before you even realized you needed one. If someone gave you a hard time, Miguel was there, looming, intimidating, making it very clear that no one messed with you. When you got overwhelmed, when life felt like too much, he was the one who sat beside you, grounding you with his quiet presence, his steady, unwavering loyalty.

By the time your freshman year ended, it was obvious to everyone: friends, professors, even strangers, that you and Miguel O’Hara were inseparable.

And by senior year, he knew he was going to marry you.

And in the going-on eight years you’d known Miguel, you’d begun to know him like the back of your hand.

He was an early bird.

More often than not, you’d find yourself waking in an empty bed. Mornings in your home were never rushed, but they weren’t lazy, either. They started early, usually before the sun had fully risen. He’d never been the type to sleep in, no matter how long he’d worked the night before or how much you’d pester him to stay in bed. He’d be up before the sun, every morning. Sometimes you’d frown, approaching him with a small complaint, wanting to have just one quiet morning with him. He’d always say, “We already did, quierda.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. He did enjoy quiet mornings with you; his arms reaching for you instinctively to pull you close and hold you a while before he got up.

It’s not like you could've known or indulged in it though, too busy sleeping like a rock at the bottom of the ocean.

He had a habit of checking on you every morning, especially when you were still in bed. His footsteps would approach softly, the creak of the floorboards almost imperceptible, before he’d pause at the doorframe, leaning casually against it, eyes taking in the scene. It wasn’t out of insecurity, but rather a quiet affection. He wanted to see you safe, to see you at peace, even if his restlessness didn’t allow him to be.

His first action of the day was always the same; a cup of black coffee, strong and bitter. You knew this because you’d wake to the smell of it every morning, your own warm mug placed on the nightstand, a small gesture that showed he was thinking of you. You knew he didn’t need the caffeine— his body was accustomed to early mornings and long days— but it was ritual, and you knew he valued that. Some form of routine to keep him grounded.

And when you finally aroused, you’d find him sitting at the kitchen counter, fingers curled around his own mug— a cute little one you’d found shopping one day— staring out the small window thoughtfully.

Sometimes, he’d make you breakfast. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, or something simple yet comforting. The kind of meals he thought you would appreciate, even if he wasn’t a chef. When he would hand you a plate, he’d hover for a second longer than necessary, a soft “Here” leaving his lips, his gaze unwavering as if waiting for your approval. When you thanked him, he’d nod, but there was always a subtle tension in his posture like he was uncertain if it was truly good enough.

You’d have to swallow a whole bite first before he relents.

He’s handy.

What was once a slow, occasional plink had turned into an incessant, irregular patter, a maddening little reminder that the kitchen sink was in rebellion.

“Otra vez con esto?” He’d muttered under his breath, staring down at the persistent drip-drip-drip of the kitchen sink. It’d been leaking on and off for a while. Most of the time you tried to fix it yourself, but he would always chide you if caught.

You watched as he crouched beside the sink, pulling open the cabinet doors to inspect the pipes. He reached under the sink, fiddling with the shut-off valve. The stretch of his back was unfairly attractive, the way his muscles flexed under his shirt as he reached in making it very difficult to focus on the issue at hand.

You heard a soft grunt of effort, followed by a quiet “Mierda” when something rattled loose.

You sat on the counter, watching as he turned his back under the sink, muttering under his breath. His broad shoulders barely fit in the cramped space beneath the cabinets, and his long legs stretched out awkwardly as he worked.

With a quiet grunt, Miguel adjusted the faucet, tightening the connections beneath the sink. Every movement was deliberate and controlled, he was always like that, hyper-focused when solving a problem. He muttered to himself in Spanish, something about cheap pipes and how everything these days was built like basura.

“You okay down there? Do I need to call a plumber?” you asked, biting back a smirk.

“A qué? No—you don’t need some guy coming in here overcharging you for something I can handle.” He replied dryly. “Hand me the wrench,” he muttered. You huffed, grabbing the tool and placing it in his waiting palm. His fingers brushed against yours, warm and rough from years of hard work.

You smirked, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “You know, this is kind of a Handy Manny situation.”

He paused slowly, peeking his head out from under the sink. “What?”

“You know, Handy Manny? That kids’ show?” You grinned. “With the talking tools?”

He blinked at you, unimpressed. “Me estás comparando con un muñeco animado?”

“Well, you are handy,” you teased, swinging your legs playfully. “All you need are talking tools.”

Miguel exhaled sharply, turning back to the pipes. “Por favor, the last thing I need is a wrench that talks back.”

“You mean, besides me?”

He let out a short laugh, the sound low and warm in his chest. “Exactamente.”

You watched as he tightened a bolt, his forearms flexing with the movement. It was unfair how effortlessly strong he was, how easily he fixed things like it was second nature. There was something almost soothing about the way he worked, focused, precise, completely in control.

After a few more adjustments, Miguel sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. He reached up to turn the faucet handle— no more leak.

“Y ya.” He stood, towering over you, smug as ever. “Fixed. No talking tools necessary.”

You clapped dramatically. “Wow, amazing. You’re so strong and capable.”

Miguel rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Dame un beso,” he ordered, tapping his cheek.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss where he pointed. But before you could pull away, his hand found your waist, tugging you closer, stealing another kiss—deeper, slower, filled with that unmistakable Miguel arrogance.

When he pulled back, he smirked. “Eso is the proper payment.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes.

Handy Manny never charged for his services.

And how could you forget the bed frame?

The bed had been getting worse.

At first, it was just an occasional creak when you shifted in the middle of the night. Annoying, but bearable. Only causing noise when you exert too much force. Then, it turned into an insufferable symphony of squeaks at the slightest movement. Shifting? Squeak. Rolling over? Squeak. You knew it was tearing up his nerves, no matter how he tried to ignore it. You could see the telltale furrow of his brows and the very slight roll of his eyes into the back of his head. And finally, the last straw: Miguel had sat down on the edge one night, and the entire frame wobbled so violently that you both went still, exchanging a look.

He exhaled slowly. “No. Absolutely not.” He’d muttered. “I’m fixing this. Right now.”

So, you’d sat cross-legged on the mattress, watching as Miguel crouched at the foot of the bed, tightening bolts with the kind of intense focus that made him mutter to himself. His shirt was slightly damp from exertion, clinging to the defined muscles of his back, sleeves pushed up to reveal the thick lines of his forearms. Every time he tightened a screw, you could see the strength behind the movement— the ease with which he handled the stubborn metal.

“Should’ve done this way sooner.” He grumbled.

“I told you it was getting bad.”

Miguel shot you a look. “Sí and I was too distracted to care.”

Heat licked up your spine at the implication. “Well, maybe if you weren’t so rough—”

“No empieces,” he warned, but his smirk gave him away.

You bit back a grin, stretching out on your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows. “It’s true, though. You don’t know your own strength.”

He huffed but didn’t argue. The room fell into a steady rhythm of quiet metal-on-wood sounds, Miguel’s large hands moving with ease as he tightened, adjusted, and reinforced the frame. You let yourself watch him— how his brows knit together in concentration, how the muscles in his forearms flexed as he worked.

It was almost too attractive, watching him fix things, watching him take care of something just because you needed it.

A few minutes later, Miguel gave the frame a solid shake. It barely moved.

“Should be good now,” he said, rising to his full height. “Ya no se va a romper.”

You blinked up at him innocently. “No squeaking?”

“No squeaking.”

“No wobbling?”

Miguel’s eyes narrowed slightly as if sensing where this was going. “No wobbling.”

You hummed, rolling onto your back, and stretching out luxuriously on the mattress. “Mmm. We should probably test it, just to be sure.” Miguel let out a short laugh, running a hand down his face.

“What? Quality assurance is important.”

He sighed, stepping closer, bracing a knee against the mattress. His large hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, caging you in as he leaned down.

He’s a geek.

You both had been no stranger to the distressed whirring of your old laptop. Every time you powered it on, it wheezed like it was taking its last breath, the fan groaning under the weight of existence. It was a surprise that it hadn’t started smoking. It was a keepsake, you’d always have to remind him when he shot a telling look your way, eyebrows raised insinuatingly as he glanced between you and the old thing. You failed to mention that the only reason you’d bought it was because it was your favorite color.

That night he’d been sat comfortably on the couch while you opted for the floor, laptop sat upon the coffee table. Originally, he’d been reading a novel but it was long discarded after you distracted him with typing. He crossed his arms, staring at your ancient laptop as if it had personally offended him. He had been so patient, but that night, as you casually clicked away at the screen, seemingly unbothered by the relic you were using, he finally snapped.

“This thing is hideous, I just can’t.”

“It still works, Miguel.” You’d dismiss, waving him off as he loomed over your shoulder. You’d have to, otherwise, he’d get all in a stupor about GPUs and CPUs and—

“Do you even know how computers work?” he blurted, leaning forward.

You didn’t bother to look over your shoulder, “Mmm, vaguely.”

“Vaguely?” He scoffed. “Okay, let me enlighten you. See, inside that fossil you call a computer, there’s a CPU—” See. “Think of it like the brain. Now, when you ask it to do literally anything— open a file, load a webpage, breathe— it sends instructions through circuits at high speeds. But your CPU? It’s so old, it probably needs a walker to get those instructions across the motherboard. And don’t even get me started on your RAM—”

“Oh, please don’t get started on the RAM,” you teased, still typing.

He ignored your teasing; he was on a roll now. “Random Access Memory, cariña. It’s supposed to help your system multitask, but yours is so outdated it’s like asking a goldfish to remember where it left its keys. And that hard drive? I’ve seen abuelitas move faster than that thing. Every time you save a file, I swear I can hear it groaning.” Though he was behind you, you knew he was speaking with his hands. “The thermal paste has definitely dried up by now, which means the heat distribution is trash—”

You smirked, finally turning to look at him. “Oh… So what you’re saying is… it’s still working.”

“Are you even listening? Barely, Bebè, it’s barely working.” He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated.

“Right, right. The… thermals and the… heat…”

He groaned, pinching his nose, “That’s the same thing.”

You turn back to your laptop with a small grin, “Miguel, if you wanted to lecture me about computers you could’ve just asked.”

His jaw clenched, and to someone who didn’t know him, they’d think he was upset. “I wouldn’t have to if you would just get a new one.”

“A new one?” You hummed sweetly, “I dunno… this one has character.”

He threw his hands up, you know because you could feel the waft of air hit your neck. “It has lag! It has artifacts! It has a death wish!”

You laughed softly, turning to peek at his expression, “You’re a cutie when you nerd out.”

He huffed, looking away— not before you noticed the very slight red hue on his ears. “I’m not nerding out, I’m being practical.”

“Uh-huh… So, tell me more about heat distribution?”

Miguel groaned again, but he could already feel himself giving in, because despite his frustration, despite the fact that he knew you were messing with him on purpose; He’d explain it all anyway.

“One of these days, I’m just going to build you a new one while you sleep. And when you wake up it’ll be too late for you to argue, and I’m going to make sure I personally burn that damn thing.” He chided, but you knew it was in good spirits.

He’d kept his promise. Well, partially.

He hadn’t waited until you fell asleep like he said he would, but he did build you a new one. Hustling into the house with a large box in his arms, placing it onto the living room floor carefully. Ironically, you’d been on the couch, typing away at your precious laptop when he brought it in.

Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and began to build the computer from scratch. He paid no mind to the instruction manual, tossing it carelessly to the side. He’d built furniture, fixed appliances, hell, even rewired the kitchen lights without so much as a passing glance towards instructions. It amazed you every time.

Within a few hours, he was done. He’d powered it on and crossed his arms, waiting a few moments. He shot you a glance over his shoulder, “Hear that?”

You scoffed at his antics.

The computer was silent.

He’s the sweetest thing.

He’s not overtly romantic, or eccentric in the way he expresses himself. While he does buy you gifts, he’s not especially flashy either.

But he is sweet, so sweet, in the ways that matter.

He’s sweet in the way he takes care of you without being asked.

Miguel notices the little things. If you sigh too much, rub your temples one too many times, or let your shoulders droop after a long day, he’s already moving before you can even say a word. He kneads at the knots in your back with those big, careful hands, pressing just right. He makes sure you eat, cooking something warm and filling even if he’s not hungry. If you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed like it’s nothing, tucking the blanket around you with a tenderness that contradicts his sharp edges.

The way he always adjusted things to fit your needs— your favorite mug always within reach, the blanket already warm before you curled up on the couch. The way he memorized the way you liked your food, how you took your coffee, the exact moment in a movie where you’d start to get sleepy and lean against him.

He’s sweet in the way he worries about you.

He’ll act annoyed when you forget your jacket, but later, you’ll find it draped over your shoulders, without a word. If you so much as shiver, he’s pressing his body against yours, wrapping you up in his warmth like it’s second nature. When you go out, he walks on the side of the street closest to the cars, and if a crowd gets too thick, his hand finds your lower back, guiding you through it instinctively.

He doesn’t tell you to be careful outright. Instead, it’s “Call me when you get there.” Or “Text me if you need me.” Or the simple way his jaw tightens when you do something reckless because he’d rather die than see something happen to you.

He’s sweet in the way he listens.

Miguel remembers everything you say, even the things you don’t expect him to. You’ll mention once that a certain dessert reminds you of your childhood, and weeks later, he’ll bring it home like it’s no big deal. If you ramble about something you love, he listens, really listens, even if he doesn’t fully understand it, because it matters to you.

He’s sweet in the way he lets you see him.

Miguel is used to being strong, to keeping things locked up tight. But with you? He lets his guard down in ways he never does with anyone else. He lets you see him tired, lets you see the worry in his eyes when he thinks you aren’t looking. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s exhausted and lets you press sleepy kisses to his jaw without pulling away.

He lets himself need you, and that’s the sweetest thing of all.

Because for all his strength, all his stubbornness, your husband loves fiercely.

And when he loves you, he loves you entirely.

He’s caring.

It was past midnight when he’d rolled over in bed, reaching out instinctively.

His hand met empty sheets.

Frowning, he blinked himself awake, his senses sharpening as he scanned the dimly lit room. Then he heard it; The faint shuffle of movement from the living room.

With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself up and padded toward the soft glow of the lamp.

You were curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring blankly at the TV. A show played in the background, forgotten. The glow cast soft shadows on your face, highlighting the tired slope of your expression.

Miguel leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching you.

Then, without a word, he walked over and crouched in front of you. His hands found your knees, rubbing slow, grounding circles through the blanket. “Otra vez?” he asked, voice quiet.

You nodded, not needing to explain.

Miguel exhaled through his nose, then shifted, sliding onto the couch beside you. He didn’t press, didn’t ask questions. He simply opened his arms, a silent invitation.

You hesitated for half a second before sinking into him, letting his warmth pull you in. His chin rested atop your head, his large hand smoothing over your back in steady, rhythmic motions.

“Estoy aquí,” he murmured against your hair. “Siempre aquí.”

You sighed, closing your eyes, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little.

And in the steady, quiet comfort of his presence, you knew. Miguel didn’t need words to remind you that you were loved.

He’s very considerate.

His anger, like everything else about him, is intense. It’s a wildfire, quick to spark, quick to burn, leaving behind charred remains if he isn’t careful. It has always been his curse; this need for control, this frustration when things slip through his fingers, this deep, unrelenting fury at the world when it doesn’t bend the way he wants it to.

For a long time, he didn’t care to control it. It was just a part of him. People knew to stay out of his way when his temper frayed, and if they didn’t—well, they got what was coming.

But then there was you.

Suddenly, his anger wasn't just his problem. And the thought of that anger, his anger, hurting you, even unintentionally, terrified him.

So he tries. For you, he tries.

It’s not perfect. He still clenches his jaw too tight sometimes. His hands still curl into fists when things don’t go his way. But now, when the fire flares up in his chest, when frustration threatens to spill over, he doesn’t let it consume him. He takes a breath. He walks away if he has to.

“I’m not mad at you,” he tells you, voice strained but careful because he never wants you to think it’s your fault. “Just—give me a second, amor.”

He takes a moment to collect himself, push down the fire before it can burn too hot.

And he comes back every time.

He never storms off and doesn't return. He never lets you go to sleep upset. He'll always approach you after he's cooled off, placing a hand on the small of your back and speaking to you softly. He'll talk. And that's how you know he's trying.

"Lo siento," he murmurs sometimes, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm trying."

And you see it. You see the effort, the restraint, the ways he's learning. Not just for himself, but for you.

He attends therapy and has been for just over five years. Initially, he had been reluctant, having mixed feelings about being so vulnerable to a stranger. But over time, he grew to value the information he learned about his anger and himself. Though he's made great progress, he'll continue to show up because he believes it to be a good thing.

"Mi amor," he began once, his voice low and measured, “I know sometimes I... I let my anger get the best of me." His eyes searched yours, apologetic and sincere. "Pero, I'm working on it. I don't want to be the kind of man who scares you. I don't want to be the storm, the one who tears things apart. I want to be the calm after it, the one to build you back up.”

He’s upheld that’s promise all these years.

So, Love just couldn’t possibly do it justice.

He’s been too good to you over the years. Loved you just right without you having to teach him. He learned. He teaches himself how to be everything he needs to be for you. And in return you do the same. You’ve learned his mind, his quirks, his voice, his body, all engraved into your brain like a map. You know him, down to his very bones.

Indeed, you know your husband like the back of your very own hand.

But…

Lately, there’s something amiss about your husband.

It started with little things. Fleeting moments that didn’t hold any substantial significance, ones you could almost swear you imagined.

Miguel has always been a creature of habit, that no one could deny. You knew his routines just as well as your own. Him happening to pick up a new habit here and there wasn’t innately strange. But the frequency was just weird.

He always takes his coffee black. No cream no sugar— just bitter and strong. Always has since the day you met him.

The first time, you don’t even catch it. You make his coffee, just like always, and hand it to him with a kiss to his cheek. He mutters a tired “Gracias,” brings the mug to his lips, and—

He pauses.

It’s so brief you almost miss it. His grip on the mug tightens just slightly, his jaw tensing for the briefest second before he takes a careful sip.

You don’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe work is wearing on him more than usual. But you catch a glimpse of the look on his face, one you could only thing of as masked disgust.

But then it happens again.

And again.

And again.

One morning, you catch him subtly tipping his mug just a little too far when he brings it to his lips—but instead of drinking, he only lets the coffee brush his mouth before lowering it back down.

You frown. “Not thirsty?”

He blinks, looking at you as if he forgot you were watching. “Hm?”

“You barely drank any.” You nod toward the still-full mug in his hand.

For a second, his expression is unreadable. Then he exhales, shaking his head. “Just… thinking about work.” He takes another sip, this time actually drinking, and sets the mug down a little too quickly. “It’s fine.”

But something about the way he says it makes your stomach turn.

It’s fine.

Not good. Not exactly what I needed. Just… fine.

Miguel never cared too much about food or drinks, but when it came to coffee, he had opinions. He used to say that putting sugar in coffee was “a crime,” that he could tell when a café used cheap beans just by the aftertaste. He loved his coffee the way he loved his work; strong, straightforward, and absolutely not up for debate.

But now, he’s treating it like a chore. Lifting the mug every few moments like he’s on autopilot. Like he’s drinking it out of pure obligation.

So the next morning, you test him.

You make two cups of coffee; one black, one with cream and sugar. You set them both down on the counter without saying a word, waiting to see which one he reaches for.

Miguel steps into the kitchen, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. He gives you a tired smile before reaching out—

And then he stops.

His eyes flick between the two cups. There’s a look on his face, he contemplating something. But what? He shouldn’t be hesitating. Miguel knows which one is his.

Then, slowly, he picks up the black coffee.

You watch closely as he brings it to his lips, taking the smallest sip possible. His throat moves as he swallows, his expression neutral, too neutral.

Then he smiles, setting the cup down. “Thanks, cariño.”

It should reassure you. But it doesn’t.

You try again.

So the next morning, you prepare two cups of coffee—both with cream and sugar.

You set them on the counter like usual, forcing yourself to act natural, even as your suspicion rises.

When Miguel walks into the kitchen, He leans in to press a kiss to your temple before reaching for the cup.

And he doesn’t hesitate.

Your fight not to furrow your brows.

He takes a sip, a real one. Not the barely there brush of his lips against the rim. A full, deep swallow, like he’s been craving it. There’s no sign of discomfort, no hesitation, no barely-contained grimace like when he drinks his usual black coffee. If anything, he almost looks satisfied.

He hums. It’s barely audible. But it’s unmistakable.

You stare at him. “Is it good?”

He hums in response, already reaching for another large sip.

Your fingers tighten around your own mug. “You like it?”

Miguel sets the cup down, licking a stray drop of coffee from his lips before glancing at you.

And that’s when he notices.

You’re staring.

You’re staring at him, your own coffee untouched in your hands, something unreadable in your eyes.

His face remains carefully neutral, but you catch it—that flicker of something, that half-second of realization.

Miguel glances at you, his brow furrowing slightly at the odd tone in your voice. “Yeah. Why?”

Miguel never drank sweet coffee. The first time you ever stole a sip of his years ago, you’d nearly gagged at how bitter it was. “How do you drink this?” you had complained, nose scrunching. “It’s like burnt regret.”

He’d smirked, smug. “That’s how coffee’s supposed to taste.”

And one the one occasion you’d make his coffee wrong, he’d pulled a face, set the cup down, and complained about how it was “ruined.” He grumbled about it the whole way to work and forced himself to drink it just so it “wouldn’t go to waste.”

So why was he so keen to it now? Why did he just wake up and suddenly detest his very specific preference?

You’re pulled from your thoughts as he utters, “Everything okay, cariña?” His voice is smooth, unbothered, but there’s an edge to it now.

You swallow, forcing yourself to nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He picks up his coffee again, this time taking a slower sip. Deliberate. Controlled. When he sets it down, his eyes meet yours, studying you as intently as you’re studying him.

You try not to think about it too much.

Whatever, it’s just coffee.

But he stares.

Miguel as always had an intense gaze. It was something you loved about it him. His eyes were so expressive and warm when they danced over you, you could tell exactly what was on his mind with a simple glance.

He’d always watch you softly when you’d do leisure things like folding laundry, or washing dishes, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

But now, there’s… something behind his eyes.

You’ve got a habit of waking up in the middle of the night. It’s not unusual for you to have nightmares, dreams haunted by old memories that you’d rather not speak about. And Miguel knows this; he’ll usually awake to your shuffling, immediately going into comfort mode.

The first time, it’s unsettling. The second time, it’s terrifying.

Something rouses you from sleep—not a sound, not a touch, just a feeling. An eerie awareness that prickles at the edge of your subconscious, urging you awake. Your body stirs before your mind fully catches up, a slow drift to consciousness, your limbs heavy with sleep.

But the moment your eyes flutter open, you realize you’re not alone in your wakefulness.

Miguel is sitting up beside you.

At first, you don’t understand. You blink against the dimness of the room, your vision hazy from sleep. The bedside lamp is still off, and the only light comes from the moon filtering through the blinds, casting faint silver lines across the bed.

You shift slightly, your brow furrowing. “Miguel?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

His body is angled toward you, broad shoulders hunched forward slightly, one arm resting against his knee. His face is mostly in shadow, but his eyes catch the faint light, dark and unreadable. His gaze sweeps over you; slowly, deliberately, like he’s committing every detail to memory.

Something in your chest tightens. You feel scared.

“…Can’t sleep?” you murmur, your voice still thick with drowsiness.

A pause. Too long of a pause.

Then, finally, he blinks. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “Just thinking.”

It’s the same answer he’s given before, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. There’s something too careful about the way he says it, something too measured in the way his lips form the words.

Your sleep-heavy mind tries to reason with itself. Maybe he’s just stressed. Work has always weighed on him. Maybe he had a bad dream. Maybe you’re just too groggy to read him properly.

And yet…

The longer he sits there, the more your skin prickles.

He’s still watching. Unblinking. Unmoving.

Normally, when Miguel couldn’t sleep, he’d get up, rub at his face, sigh like the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders. He’d lean over and kiss your temple, tell you to go back to sleep while he went to the kitchen for water.

But tonight, he does none of that.

Tonight, he just sits there. Watching.

Your hand shifts beneath the covers, reaching out instinctively. His skin is warm when your fingers brush his, but there’s something wrong about the way he reacts. He stiffens slightly, as if he wasn’t expecting it.

As if the sensation of your touch was something new.

Your heart does something uneasy in your chest.

“Miguel,” you say, a little more awake now. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Yeah,” he says. And this time, you realize—he only looks away after he says it.

Like he’s remembering that he’s supposed to.

Something cold slips down your spine.

“Just go back to sleep.” He murmurs.

You should press further. Ask what’s wrong, ask why he’s sitting there watching you in the middle of the night a weirdo. But you don’t.

Because suddenly, you don’t want to know the answer.

So instead, you let out a quiet hum, pretending to be reassured. You squeeze his hand once before turning onto your side, facing away from him.

You can still feel his gaze on you.

Even when you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. Even when minutes pass, stretching into something too tense, too unnatural.

You don’t know how long it takes for him to finally lay back down.

But when he does, you don’t sleep for the rest of the night.

That wasn’t the only occasion.

It’s early in the morning, the kind of groggy, half conscious moment where your body moves on autopilot. You’re standing at the kitchen counter, stirring your coffee, when you get that feeling again; that creeping sensation of being watched.

It pricks at the back of your neck, a faint shiver running down your spine.

You glance up.

He’s standing across the kitchen, holding his own mug, but he isn’t drinking from it. His posture is easy, like he just happened to pause mid-step, but his eyes, his eyes don’t match.

His eyes trace over your face, your hands, the slope of your shoulders; again, slow and meticulously.

Studying.

It’s not a soft, affectionate gaze. Not the kind of look your husband gives you when he admires you absentmindedly.

It’s closer to analysis.

Like he’s taking note of how you move, the way you hold your mug, the way your fingers tap lightly against the ceramic.

Your stomach tightens.

“…What?” you ask, forcing a small smile, voice still heavy with sleep.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, too slowly, too carefully, he exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk. “Nothing,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. “Just watching you.”

Just watching you.

You let out a soft chuckle, brushing it off, but when you turn back to your coffee, your hands feel clumsier than before.

His reactions are… off.

It happens on a lazy afternoon, the kind where neither of you have anywhere to be. The house is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside, the low murmur of a movie playing in the background.

Miguel is stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, while you sit curled up beside him. It’s the kind of day that’s comfortable, familiar.

You’re scrolling through your phone, half paying attention to the screen, when something catches your eye. It’s an old photo, years ago, back when you and Miguel had first started dating. A messy kitchen, flour dusting the countertops, Miguel standing behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your neck as he tried to stifle his laughter.

You smile at the memory and turn the screen toward him.

“Baby, remember this?” you ask, nudging him lightly.

Miguel looks over, his gaze settling on the image.

And then; there it is. That same, almost imperceptible pause.

It’s quick, so quick that you might not have caught it if you weren’t paying attention. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his lips part just barely before he smooths his expression over.

Then, just like before, he recovers.

“Of course I do,” he says, flashing you a small smile. He shifts, pulling you closer, his fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder. “You got mad at me for getting flour in your hair.”

Your stomach clenches.

That’s true. That did happen.

But it’s not what you expected him to say first.

He should have groaned first. He should have rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t remind me,” because you had absolutely destroyed him in that flour fight. He should have playfully griped about how he was still finding flour in his hair days later, how you had gotten it in places flour had no right being.

Instead, he chose a safe detail. One that’s accurate, but not instinctive.

“That was a mess,” you say, studying him carefully. “You were the one who started it, though.”

Miguel huffs, shaking his head. “No, that was you.”

No.

It was him.

It happened again that same day when you were watching a movie. It’s one of your favorite traditions; watching an old movie together, something you’ve both seen a hundred times. The kind of film where you already know all the lines, and you’re watching just for the quality time.

And Miguel has always been the worst about it.

He loves to mumble the words under his breath, just to annoy you. Sometimes he’ll even beat the characters to their own lines, reciting them before they can, smirking when you groan and shove at his shoulder. It’s a game. One that’s been going on for years.

So when the movie reaches that scene,the one he never fails to ruin, you turn to him expectantly, waiting.

But he just sits there.

Silent, with a soft smile playing on his lips.

You hesitate. “You’re not gonna say it?”

Miguel glances at you, confused. “Say what?”

You laugh, thinking he’s joking. “The line. You always do.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something in his expression—not confusion. Not entirely. More like… recognition delayed by just a second too long.

Then he smiles, like it’s no big deal. “Guess I’m giving you a break today.”

Your stomach knots.

It’s such a small thing. Something no one else would think twice about.

But that’s exactly why it sticks with you.

Because Miguel has never just forgotten to do this. He does it every single time. It’s part of the routine. And he’s very big on routine.

And yet, this time, it didn’t.

You don’t say anything else. You let it go, pretend to focus back on the movie, but your mind keeps circling back to the same thought.

He’s become eerily possessive.

The night air is crisp as you and Miguel walk home together, your fingers laced with his, the city alive around you. The streets are quieter in this part of town, the hum of traffic distant, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement.

It should be peaceful. It should be normal.

But something is off.

Miguel has been quiet for the past few blocks, his fingers curled a little too tightly around yours, his jaw set like he’s working through something in his head. You don’t think much of it at first. He’s probably had a long day, he’s likely tired—

“Who was that man?”

His voice is low, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

You glance up at him. “What?”

Miguel doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay fixed ahead, unreadable. “The man outside your office,” he clarifies. “The one you were talking to.”

You blink, caught off guard. It takes you a second to even remember what he’s talking about. Then it clicks—Ethan, a coworker from your team, just exchanging a few words as you left work.

You almost laugh, but something about Miguel’s tone makes it die on your lips.

“Oh, that was Ethan,” you say, tilting your head at him. “He’s a friend from work. We were just talking about a project.”

Miguel’s grip tightens.

Just for a second. Just enough for you to notice.

“Ethan,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing the name on his tongue.

You frown. “Yeah. Miguel, it was nothing. Just small talk.”

He stays silent for a moment, and for the first time tonight, you feel it. The shift. The tension thickening the air, coiling in the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his grip on your hand doesn’t relax.

And then—

“Did he touch you?”

You stop walking.

Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse ticking just a little too fast.

Miguel takes two more steps before realizing you’re not beside him anymore. He turns back, his expression still unreadable under the glow of the streetlights.

You shake your head slightly, trying to make sense of the question. “What?”

A chill runs down your spine.

His face is calm. Too calm. “I asked if he touched you.”

“What the hell kind of question is that?” Your voice is quiet, but firm.

Miguel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break eye contact. “Answer me.”

Your stomach knots, heat rising to your cheeks—not in embarrassment, but in anger. “No, Miguel. He didn’t touch me. Why would you even ask me that?”

Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone before you can place it.

He exhales through his nose, his expression still carefully composed, but there’s a sharpness to him now—a barely restrained tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers flex at his sides.

“Bueno,” he mutters, as if that settles it. As if that should reassure him.

It doesn’t reassure you.

Because this is not normal.

A few weeks ago, he would have laughed, teased you, maybe thrown an arm around your shoulders with that smug, boyish smirk and said something like, “Should I be worried, cariño?”

But now?

Miguel just accused you of something you don’t even understand.

Your chest feels tight. “Miguel, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Olvídalo.”

“No, I won’t forget it.” You take a step closer, searching his face. “Where is this coming from?”

Miguel exhales sharply. And then—before you can say anything else—he turns away.

The motion is too abrupt, too unnatural. He moves a few feet ahead, his back to you, hands braced on his hips as he stares down at the pavement. His shoulders rise and fall, deep and measured.

You don’t follow him.

You just… watch.

Because this is the second time.

The second time you’ve seen him struggle to control something he shouldn’t have to control.

The second time you’ve seen a flash of something unfamiliar behind his eyes—anger, frustration, something almost obsessive.

And for the second time, you think:

This isn’t right.

The street feels eerily quiet now, the air thick with something unspoken.

Finally, Miguel exhales again. When he turns back around, his face is calmer—but it’s wrong. It’s not the calm that comes with genuine relief. It’s forced, practiced.

Like a man trying to fix a mistake before you notice it.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. “Long day. I shouldn’t have—”

He explains himself.

You don’t say anything.

A few weeks ago, he would’ve never asked you a question like that. A few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have reacted this way at all.

And… his anger.

Miguel has always been quick to frustration, but never with you.

Before, when things got too overwhelming, when the weight of his responsibilities, his past, his guilt became too much, he used to snap at the world, but never at you. And when he did let his anger slip in your presence, it was never like this.

Because he goes to therapy. He works to control it. He promised you he would never let it hurt you.

But tonight, you saw something else.

He’s late coming home, later than usual. By the time he finally steps through the door, you’ve been sitting at the dinner table alone for nearly an hour, his food gone cold. You hear the lock click, the sound of him sighing as he enters, but before you can even call out, he’s already heading straight for the kitchen, barely sparing you a glance.

You frown. “Miguel?”

Nothing.

You try again, softer this time. “Hey. Everything okay?”

He moves with a tension you can’t quite place, reaching into the fridge for a drink. You watch as he grips the handle of the bottle a little too tightly, his shoulders stiff, his movements sharp.

Something’s wrong.

“Bad day?” you ask gently, standing from the table. You don’t touch him yet, but you hover close, waiting for him to let you in.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah,” he mutters, taking a long drink. “Something like that.”

His tone is clipped, and it throws you off. Miguel has had bad days before—plenty of them. But he usually lets you in, even just a little. Even if it’s just a sigh, a tired confession against your shoulder, a quiet “Te necesito, cariño.”

Tonight, there’s none of that.

You try to lighten the mood. “Well, you missed dinner. And I worked hard on it, you know.”

A joke. Something small. You expect him to exhale, maybe roll his eyes fondly and kiss your temple like he always does.

Instead, he slams the bottle onto the counter.

The action makes you flinch.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping to him as he turns toward you, expression stormy.

“Do you think I fucking planned that?” His voice is sharp, cutting in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I wanted to stay late at work? That I like coming home to—”

He stops himself. His hands clench into fists. His chest rises and falls, his breaths unsteady. He’s seething.

Your stomach twists.

“Miguel,” you say carefully, stepping back just slightly, “I didn’t mean—”

“Then what did you mean?”

It’s not just frustration. This is anger. Not the controlled kind. Not the kind that he’s spent years learning to manage, to restrain, to never direct at you.

This is something else. Something raw. Something that doesn’t belong to the man you know. It’s simply not like him to go up over something so minuscule.

The silence stretches between you. Your heart pounds, your hands gripping the fabric of your sweater, and for the first time, you don’t know what to say to him.

Then, just as suddenly as it came, it’s gone.

Miguel exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. His whole body sags, as if he’s just realized what he’s done. When he looks at you again, his gaze softens—but it’s too late.

You’re still staring at him, lips parted, awestruck.

Not in admiration. Not in love.

But in shock.

Because in all the years you’ve known Miguel O’Hara, in all the times he’s struggled to keep his temper in check. he has never looked at you like that.

Like he could hurt you.

He takes a step forward. “I—”

You step back. It’s instinctive.

He stops. Something flickers across his face.

It looks almost like fear.

“Cariña,” he tries again, softer now. His voice is low, pleading. “I didn’t mean—”

“Y-You—” Your voice catches. You swallow hard, the pounding in your chest refusing to slow. “You promised.”

Miguel freezes.

“You promised me.”

When he started therapy. When he confessed how afraid he was of his own anger, how he never wanted it to touch you. When he held you in the quiet of the night and swore he would never let himself become the kind of man who made you flinch.

He knew of your background, and he knew he didn’t want to create a space anything like for you.

His lips part, but no words come. He looks at you like he wants to fix this, like he wants to erase what just happened.

You lie awake that night, staring at the man beside you.

Miguel sleeps soundly, his broad chest rising and falling in the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. His face is peaceful, relaxed, familiar.

This is Miguel.

The man who kisses you slow in the mornings, who holds you a little too tight when he thinks you’re upset, who whispers mi vida against your skin like a prayer. The man who promised you, again and again, that he would never let his anger rule him. That he would always try. For you.

And yet…

Your gaze traces over him, soft but heavy with something you don’t want to name.

There are things. The way he forgets small things he should know, the way he stumbles on certain memories. The way he looks at you like he’s meeting you for the first time. He jumps at your touch, like it’s foreign.

The way his temper flares too quickly now, sharp and poorly controlled, a stark contrast to the man who spent years learning how to keep it in check.

The way he looks at you like he’s afraid of something you don’t understand.

Your chest feels tight.

Because you love him. You love him.

And this is still Miguel.

But at the same time…

Something is different. Something is wrong.

Your fingers twitch against the sheets, aching to reach for him—to press against his skin, to feel the warmth of him and let it chase away this feeling creeping into your bones.

But you don’t.

Instead, you just watch.

Watch the slow, steady rhythm of his breaths. The way his lips part slightly as he exhales. The crease between his brows that never truly fades, even in sleep.

You love him.

But for the first time since you met Miguel O’Hara, you don’t trust what you’re seeing.

There’s something amiss.

You couldn’t put a name on it, just yet.

please let me know if you’d like to be added to the SDILLH or ATSV taglist to be notified everytime i post, xx

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[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

wait hold on, miguel visiting you in the hospital after you got your appendix removed 😭😭 he’s trying to hide the fact that hes worried sick

mr. grudgingly worried himself!!! I love him. thank you for the request baby 🤍 cw hospital and surgery mentions, mentions of appendix removal but nothing too graphic! no pronouns but implied fem!reader

miguel o’hara x f!reader 1k words

Visiting hours start at 10 and Miguel is at the hospital by half past nine. If the nurses didn’t know how worried sick he is for you already, they do now. He sits in the lobby and tries not to strangle the flowers he bought for you. A mesh bag full of your favourite fruits hangs over the wooden arm of his chair, along with a second bag full of more gifts. He knows he doesn’t need to buy you things, you’re most likely coming home tonight anyway, but he wants to make you feel better. And if that means blowing all his money at the grocery store then so be it.

Miguel checks his watch, which is definitely moving in slow motion, he decides. He’s already asked if he can go up and see you early. The receptionist had turned him down sympathetically. He knows he’s not allowed but he should be. He’s been left out of the loop on how you’re doing. He knows your surgery went well, knows you’re on bed rest, but aside from that he knows nothing. Are you in pain? Are you drinking enough water? Do you miss him? He doubts you miss him as much as he misses you. He’s felt horribly nauseous ever since he left you here last night.

Finally, finally, it’s ten o’clock and he’s allowed to take the elevator up to your floor. He knows your floor and room number by heart now, having gone over it again and again in his head while waiting.

He knocks on the door and then pushes it open, quietly in case you’re asleep. You’re not, you’re wide awake and staring out the window. Your turn at his arrival.

“Miguel!” You exclaim, sitting up further and attempting to shuffle out of bed.

Miguel strides over to your bed and stops you before you can make it out of the sheets, quickly placing your gifts on a small table with wheels so he can get his hands on your shoulders. He pushes you gently backwards towards the pillows. “Woah, hey. Don’t get up, sweetheart.”

You frown. “But I want to hug you.”

“I’ll do the hugging,” Miguel says. “You just stay right there and look pretty.”

You grumble but Miguel doesn’t give you much choice. He slides his hands around to your back and hugs you tight to his chest. You give in, wheedling your arms around his waist and pulling him close. Miguel strokes your hair and stares at the wall behind you, trying desperately not to cry. He’s so relieved to have you close to him and okay. Yesterday you’d been so tired, and he’d only gotten to see you for a little bit before the nurses told him to come back tomorrow. He’d barely slept, too worried and missing you too much.

“Miguel,” you murmur into his chest. You untangle yourself from him clumsily. “I missed you too, honey, but my neck is kinda cramping up.”

Miguel lets you go. “Sorry,” he says, flustered. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He pulls away, overwhelmed to say the least, his hand at your neck. He drags his thumb over your collar, “Just missed you so much, mi cielo.”

You smile bright as day. You look pretty as ever, even in your pyjamas with your hair in disarray from Miguel’s very intense hug, dark shadows under your eyes that Miguel wishes weren’t there.

“I missed you too, my love,” you say softly. “How was your night? Did you sleep okay?”

Miguel frowns at you. “I think I’m supposed to be asking you that.” He doesn’t mention that he didn’t sleep at all. He doesn’t think you need to know that.

Your laugh is soft and pleased, familiar enough to warm Miguel’s chest. He lets you go and moves away, but only to grab the visitor’s chair and pull it closer, taking a seat so his knees press into your bed. You watch him as he moves, looking a bit dopey.

Miguel feels a bit dazed himself. He takes your hands in his over the sheets.

“I got you flowers,” he tells you, bracing his elbows on his knees so he can press his mouth to your knuckles.

“You did?” You ask, delighted despite the many times Miguel’s gifted you flowers.

“Mm.” Miguel nods and lowers your hands to his lap, his thumbs rubbing lines across your knuckles. “And some other stuff, too. Do you want it now?”

You beam. “Yes, please.”

Miguel spends the next five minutes presenting you with your gifts. First, the flowers, which you hold to your chest firmly. Then, an abundance of your favourite fruits — he’s heard fruit is good to eat after an appendix removal and he kinda went overboard at the grocers. Finally, a new set of pyjamas which Miguel chose specifically because he’d thought you’d look adorable in them, lilac with flowers printed all over.

By the time he’s done you look like you’re about to burst with happiness. Or worse, burst into tears. Miguel hopes you won’t, he’s already not doing too well holding back his own. You smile at him so wide he’s sure it hurts your cheeks and lean over your array of presents to wrap your arms around him.

“Thank you,” you say softly, hands gripping the back of his shirt like he’s going to disappear. “So much, Miguel.”

Miguel rubs your back and tries not to sound too choked up when he says, “You’re welcome, sweetness.”

You give a wet sort of chuckle and pull away. Miguel is horrified to see your eyes are shining with tears, your bottom lip wobbling despite your smile.

“Don’t cry,” he tells you, panicked hands quick to grab at your cheeks, thumbs swiping your tears. “Why are you crying? You’re not in pain, are you?”

You shake your head as best you can with Miguel holding you so tight. “No. No, I’m okay, Miguel. I’m just happy to see you.” Your wrap your hands around his wrists, gently prying them off your damp face. “I missed you so much.”

Fondness for you burns in Miguel’s chest. He doesn’t tell you he also missed you an impossible amount. He doesn’t tell you he worried over you for hours and hours last night. Instead he switches his hands around so he’s holding yours, his thumbs pressing into your palms and then kisses you, chaste and sweet.

He hopes the kiss says everything he can’t.

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

STAR TRIPPING, blurbs ─── send in a character + a prompt from the lists above and I’ll write you a blurb!

could do you do a fluff blurb with miguel o'hara for~

❛ was that your first kiss? ❜

❛ do you think i’m a good person? ❜

❛ what if i hurt you? ❜

ive never really requested anything and i don't if that's too many prompts, so very sorry, ignore this if it's too much !! <3

hi angel!! thank you so much for the ask. I just used one of these prompts, I hope you don’t mind! 🤍

SPOILERS FOR SPIDERMAN: ATSV BELOW THE CUT!

miguel o’hara x spider-person!reader, no pronouns used, fluff and a tiny bit of angst!

prompt — ❛ do you think i’m a good person? ❜

Miguel isn’t used to feeling judged. He doesn’t care what other people think, especially when most people who don’t like him are much younger and much more inexperienced, in his opinion (Read: Hobie Brown).

But with you around it’s different. He feels like he needs to be better. Kinder, maybe. He’s not exactly sure why. Or rather, he knows exactly why but doesn’t want to admit it.

You’re kind, you’re really kind, probably the sweetest most selfless spider-person he’s ever had to deal with. And he’s dealt with a lot. Miguel likes how kind you are. At first it sort of stopped him in his tracks, threw him for a loop. Now that he’s known you for a while he’s found himself acting differently, being more forgiving of mistakes, letting things go that he usually wouldn’t. He’d never admit it out loud, but he knows it’s because he likes you. And, more importantly, he wants you to like him.

Still, he messes up sometimes. A mission to catch a Vulture variant turns messy when the Spider-Woman from the dimension he’d landed in gets stuck in a problem she can’t get out of. Gwen Stacy — she’s young, and she’s on her own, and she’s lost. Miguel is hesitant to let her on. He’s more rude to her than he should be. Snarky, mean. But in the end he lets her come, because what kind of person would he be if he left her there alone?

When he gets back he doesn’t mean to seek you out but finds you anyway. You’re in his office, of all places. He stands in the doorway feeling awful, feeling like you’d hate him for how he treated Gwen today. After a while he clears his throat though he doesn’t have to, you probably already know he’s there, what with your spider-senses and all.

You turn from your seat and smile at him. “You’re back. How did it go?”

Miguel doesn’t smile though he’d like to if he could. You’re the only one who can ever get a smile out of him. “Good. Everything’s taken care of.”

“Heard you picked up a new recruit,” you say with a little lilt to your voice. You’re always excited for new recruits. Quite the opposite of Miguel, really.

Miguel nods. The topic of Gwen makes him feel nauseous. Why did he have to be such a jerk to her? “We did. Gwen Stacy, she’s in the med bay right now.”

Your brow furrows. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. Just a little scratched up.”

You nod. “Well, you probably want your office back,” you say softly, gesturing to the desk you’ve been occupying in place of him. “I’ll go.”

You get up and walk past him and Miguel almost lets you go but doesn’t. He calls your name before you make it out the door.

“Y/N?”

His voice comes out more strained than he’d meant it to sound. You don’t say anything but when he turns you’re looking at him with a worry to your pretty features. Miguel figures he must look quite troubled because you actually take a step forwards and put your hand on his forearm, so gentle it’s barely there, but it’s there, and it’s feels like dead weight to Miguel.

“Yeah?”

Miguel bites the bullet and asks the question he’s been asking himself for a long time. “Do you think I’m a good person?”

You blink at him. You’re silent for a beat. Then, “What’s making you ask that?”

Your hand drifts up his forearm and comes to rest at his elbow, your grip tightening ever so slightly. Miguel’s eyelids flutter lazily at your touch.

“I’m short with people,” is all he can manage to say in way of an explanation.

“You’ve got a stressful job,” you say reasonably. “It’s only human.”

“I was short with Gwen,” Miguel explains, finding the longer you touch him, the more he unravels. He stares at a point over your shoulder, “She didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh,” is all you say.

Miguel thinks his heart might drop out of his chest. Maybe it will and then he’ll keel over and die and never have to worry about what you think of him again. Unlikely. He’s never been that lucky.

He doesn’t realise how heavy the silence feels until you break it.

“Miguel? Can you look at me?”

Miguel looks at you. You’re pretty as ever. He’s always thought you were pretty, but now it feels suffocating. Like, if he doesn’t tell you soon, he’ll die.

“You’re not a bad person,” you say. “You’re good. You are. Everyone gets a little impatient sometimes.”

“You don’t,” Miguel says, because you don’t. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you get angry or upset with someone.

“That is so not true,” you say, shaking your head. “Ask Peter B, the other day I blew up at him for leaving Mayday’s toys all over the place.”

Miguel fights a smile. He can’t imagine you ever ‘blowing up’. “This is different, Y/N. You know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” you say, your hand squeezing ever so slightly at his elbow. “And yeah, you have a short temper sometimes but that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. What you’re doing here is good. You’re a good person, Miguel.”

You smile then, like you mean it, and Miguel knows you do. If he’d heard it from anyone else, he wouldn’t have believed them. But from you it feels real. He knows you wouldn’t lie to him, even if it was to make him feel better. You might be kind but you’re not dishonest. Yet another reason why Miguel likes you so much.

“Thank you,” he says. “You’re—“ He stops himself before he can say anything too serious, changes tactics though what he comes up with instead is still very much true. “I value your opinion more than you’d think. It’s important to me.” You’re important to me.

Miguel shifts his arm so he can take your hand in his. It’s bold. It’s unlike him. But it feels nice and your hand is soft in his and he hopes it will say what he can’t. He only holds your hand for a second before dropping it but it feels like an eternity.

“That’s okay,” you say sweetly. “Your opinion is important to me, too.”

Then, and Miguel is familiar with this by now, you get this look on your face like you’re going to make a joke, one that’s bad but will probably make him smile anyway. “If you still feel bad, you can always go and apologise to her,” you say, a cheek to your tone that Miguel adores more than he’d ever admit.

Miguel groans. You both know he’d never stoop that low. He smiles for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Would you do it for me?” He asks in a strained sort of voice, half joking and half serious.

You burst into giggles. Miguel feels his heart soar.

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

miguel doesn't ask for comfort, even when he desperately needs it.

it's a game of guessing with him, really — you have to look out for the subtle changes in his body language to tell if he's upset or stressed, like the slightly more deepend furrow of his eyebrows or the clench of his jaw, the constant sighing and grunting when he does anything, the way he runs his hand through his hair or across his face as he works — nobody but you would really catch on to these kind of stuff they’d just think he had woken up on the wrong side of the bed again — but not you, you know miguel, you know when he’s out of it.

tonight is another night of patrol for miguel — he knows that you don't sleep unless he has made it home, so it was no surprise that when he’d gotten in through the balcony of your shared apartment, he found you, sitting on the couch even though it was three in the middle of the night an you had work early morning.

he murmurs a quiet ‘i’m home’ under his breath — and you notice it, the slump of his shoulders, the slight frown on his face as if he’s thinking about something, not to mention the way he just walks past you to the bathroom, without even a hello or a kiss, as if you weren’t there, or maybe he just didn’t want to acknowledge you.

you leave him be, you know when he needs his space, you can imagine how rough patrol can be on him, he probably needs a moment of peace in the shower. so, with that, you head back towards the bedroom, and get comfortable under the sheets.

not long after, the door to the bedroom opens and miguel steps in, wearing a loose white shirt and sweatpants, his damp hair brush back, and you notice just how heavy his eyebags are, and the growing bruise on the side of his jaw.

he heads towards the bed and sits on the edge of his side, his back turned to you and his head hangs low and you notice that he’s breathing somewhat heavy, his usually inaudible inhales loud this time and you wonder if he’s having another one of his panic attacks.

you sit up, leaning over to him, your fingers gently touch his back, and his muscles are tense under your caress — he turns his head slightly over you, just so that your gaze can catch his, you give him a soft smile “hi.”

the frown on his face eases slightly, “hey.” his gruff voice is unusually quiet and raspy.

“you okay?” you ask softly, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

“yeah.” he lies, cause of course he does, he knows that you know he’s not okay, and even though he knows you're the first person he should be honest with when it comes to his well being, he can’t break the habit of spilling meaningless and false, ‘i’m fine’ from his lips.

you hum in response and he craves your touch when you pull away from him and lean back on the bed — you spread your arms slightly, as if inviting him in for your embrace.

he doesn’t hesitate much, he leans over to you, letting your small arms wrap around his broad shoulders as you place a soft kiss to his lips, and another one to the bruise on his jaw, your touch so gentle before he buries his face in your chest and wraps his arms around your waist, the rest of his body lays comfortably between your legs and you let out a soft laugh when he lets out a deep hum.

“how was patrol today?” you ask him, your fingers running through his hair.

“don’t wanna talk about it.” he grumbles, nuzzling his face further in your chest, inhaling in your familiar scent.

you don’t ask him about it again, instead just opting for the comfortable silence that falls over the two of you, you notice the small blue and purple blotches that littered his neck and shoulders and you notice how his breathing has calmed down too.

your hands move from his hair to his nape, your fingers pressing down lightly on his skin to massage it, and he lets out a grunt of content in response.

he’s always liked that about you, how gentle your touch is, how carefully you handle him, it wasn’t something he was used to or allowed himself to get used to with anyone, before you anyway.

“I like it when you do that.” he mutters as your hands trail down to his back, massaging it as well, caressing his muscles, your touch so tender.

“I know.” you hum in response, a small smile tugging at your lips when he looks up at you with an unamused expression, but nevertheless he can’t help but lean into your touch more.

“relax, miguel.” you tell him, your hands move up to his face an you cup his cheeks, leaning in to give him a kiss on the tip of his nose, “how about some sleep, yeah?”

you've always been so gentle with him, your touch so mellow that he can’t help but melt from it, and your voice so soft that his heart leaped every time he heard it and he couldn’t help but give in to everything you told him.

he nods and rolls on his side, his arm still wrapped around your waist and he holds you close — your presence a comfort to him, and he wants to stay like this forever -— just the two of you, alone, sharing this moment of delicate touch and tranquility forever.

he kisses the top of your head and asks, “can you call in sick for work tomorrow?” because tomorrow is his off day, and he wants to spend it with you, just a lazy sunday in bed.

you chuckle, the sound muffled by your face buried in his chest, “‘course.”

“good.” he hums in response, and despite all of todays stresses and fights, he can’t help but feel at peace with you in his arms.

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

Jadee would you be up to a good old fainting fic w our lovely broody miguel? 

—spidergirl gets sick and miguel is there to catch her, 1.4k

“I could get you one of those, you know.” 

You sniffle with a tissue held to your nose, standing across from him, having just been to the bathroom for a concerning amount of time, “What could you get me?” 

You're sick with laryngitis again, your throat sore and voice hoarse, but you’re wearing it well, little sign of your sickness beyond your increased usage of balsam tissues and your two-day t-shirt (and your sore nose, and the occasional tear edging its way unbidden from the corner of your left eye). 

“A super dog.” 

“You’re gonna get me a puppy?” you ask, swiping aside the e-reader and mini fabric pouch that fell into your seat as you left. 

“Come on,” he says, holding out his arm. 

You sit down and back under his arm again. Miguel doesn’t know much about love besides wanting it badly (and living what isn’t meant for him), but this is where you should always be. “Do you want a super puppy?” he asks, a pinch in his chest relaxing as you melt into his side. 

On screen, the super puppy in question barks erratically. You like these movies, citing a deep love for the romantic background plots and the adorableness of the lab puppy as it barks its way to victory. Miguel honestly cannot believe he’s watching it, but then you cough next to him and he remembers his reasons. 

“I can’t take care of a puppy.” 

“I’ll take care of the dog,” Miguel says.

“Don’t be whipped.” 

Sick, and you still say things with your strange sweet whimsy. “I’m not whipped,” he says, “I just want you to feel better.” 

“And when I’m better we’ll still have a puppy.” 

“I’ll rehome him.” 

“That’s not funny, Miguel,” you say, turning to him, shifting your leg where it’s underneath you to be a bit taller. “Can I put my face here? I won’t breathe on you.” 

While it did take a superbug to make you sick, your super powers, your healing and strength, aren’t as dialled up as most Spider’s would be. Miguel probably won’t catch it because he has a stronger immune response, and so he lets you put your face in his neck without comment. 

“We could keep the dog,” Miguel says. 

“Yeah? I worry you’re too busy for a pet, O’Hara.”  

“What do you mean? I look after you.” 

“So funny,” you murmur, rubbing your nose against his shoulder. He barely feels it, and somehow a contentedness springs from your touch. “I look after you.” 

It’s true, and he doesn’t refute it. Miguel’s not sure what he’d do without you, too addicted now to your company. It’s not like he had a choice when it came to wanting you, didn’t he try his hardest not to feed into the whole crush? You’d twirl into his laboratory with a paper flower for his desk and he’d send you away, the memory of your hand brushing his arm stuck on repeat. He does want you, and he did choose to kiss you, as he chose to be with you —you fell into his bed in a way, but loving you is as many parts consciously done as it is helpless.

“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asks. 

It’s not like Miguel to beg for things. You shift in your seat, hands on your tummy, peering at him with a thread of suspicion and more obvious adoration. “I’m okay,” you say, parts of your voice shadowed and scratched, like an old CD playing back. “I feel better just sitting here with you, and you know that.” You reach for his cheek. “Mi cielo,” you murmur, smiling bashfully, stealing his most pathetic, most precious pet name, “it’s not so bad. I’m gonna be back in working order before you know it.” 

“It’s not about that,” he says, catching your hand to press to his lips. 

“I’m basically fully healed,” you say, giving his palm a kiss and then, all of a sudden and without his consent, using his shoulder to shoot onto your feet. “I’m gonna make us matching banana split Sundaes with the glacé cherries and hot fudge, and we’ll eat them right here– on…”

Miguel grabs for your elbows as your eyes roll back. 

His gasp is sharp. The pain in his chest sharper. Your knees buckle and it’s all Miguel can do where he’s sat to stop you from slamming down onto your ass, a folded pretzel of a girl defeated by a heavy head. “I have you,” he says through gritted teeth, nearly toppling into you as he rises and arranges you carefully. When you’re safely set down, Miguel stands and bends and drags you up into his arms awkwardly. You’re scarily limp, reactionless as he manoeuvres you onto the couch, laying you flat and long over the cushions. 

“Sorry,” he says, his heart pounding hard, yours a slow, careless thing as always in your chest, “sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, slipping his hand behind your neck. “Ah, why do you do this to me?” 

Your breath comes sluggishly from between chapped lips. Miguel watches it like a hawk. 

“Can you hear me?” he asks. 

Lyla, blessed, awful Lyla, would be a godsend right about now if he hadn’t barricaded her (with some extreme difficulty) from appearing during the evening hours unless there’s an external emergency. She’d tell him you’ve only fainted and he’d snap that he knows. She’d calculate when you’re most likely to rouse and he’d tell her she’s a glorified chatbot. 

A moment later, you wince. 

“Ah, my head,” you say hoarsely. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Hurts.” 

“What kind of hurt?” he asks. 

“Why are you shouting at me?” 

Miguel takes a short breath. “Sorry. Your head hurts how, mi cielo? Throbbing?” 

“You didn’t let me fall, did you?” 

“Of course I didn’t.” 

“Stop biting.” 

He lets his forehead fall against your chest. Lost for words, he hugs you to him, hit by the horrible thought that you could’ve hit your head, could’ve never woken up again. The horrible reality of life is that it ends all the time and for stupid reasons. But you’re okay. You’re talking. Your heart beats under his ear, slowly rising in rate. 

You bring your hand up to scratch weakly through his hair. 

“Sorry,” you say. Your voice is so ridiculously fragile. He holds you tighter. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No, I am, I knew I felt dizzy and I got up like an idiot.” 

“You’re not well.”

“No.” 

“It’s not your fault that you’re sick… You can’t say sorry.” 

“Well, I am.” 

He drags his head up to check you over. “Are you alright?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah.” Your eyes shut. “No, I don’t know. I feel awful now.” 

“What can I do?” 

“That thing where you kiss my stomach to tickle me would be nice.” 

He thinks about it. Miguel doesn’t tend to do it unless he’s feeling particularly gone for you —when he forgets himself. When it’s all about making you laugh. Miguel rubs his nose against the soft of your sternum and promises himself he’ll tickle you later. 

“Can you please just let me take care of you?” he asks quietly, lifting his chin to plead with you eye to eye. 

You blink. “I– yeah. Okay, yeah.”

Miguel gathers his bearings and stands to collect the things he needs to do that, but he gets caught a step away, spinning on his heel to make sure you’re alright, and then bending down to kiss your forehead. “Idiot girl.” 

“I love you.” 

Miguel holds your cheek in his hand, unable to return the sentiment anymore than he does. “All I want is to look after you,” he says.

You know what he means by that. You turn your head to kiss his hand. 

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

🤭🥹🥹 How I imagine Dulzura and Miguel from Nonviolent Communication would have their FIRST dance (not necessarily as lovers🤭)

Bro, these two will be all over each other once Miguel gets past his physical boundaries 😭😭 I KNOW IT!!!

Fanfic by @greensagephase 🤭

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

Tell me – Miguel O’Hara

pairing: jealous!miguel ohara x f!reader

warnings: none

an: had a lot of fun writing this, pls laugh with me when you see the little crossover I included lol. anyway, have some pining!miguel that gets jealous when he learns something from your mission and a pining spiderwoman who gets on his nerves

masterlist

—-

“So, there you have it guys, another fun adventure for Spider-Sting.” You say as you step back into the Society, a rogue Scorpion trapped next to you and your phone help up high to frame the two of you. The displeased villain rolls his eyes and you laugh. “Bye!”

A frustrated groan comes from your watch a second later, and you smile knowing who it belongs to. You shoot a web towards the trap and hold it over your shoulder, dragging the Scorpion behind you on your way to Miguel’s lab. “Let me guess,” You say, pocketing your phone and knowing what Miguel’s going to say next.

“No social media use while on duty.”

“No social media use while on duty.”

“Live a little, babe.” You smile, taking your mask off and waving at Webslinger when you spot him dropping off a villain of his own. “Hosting a live while working won’t hurt anybody.”

The Scorpion is taken away by Margo to be sent back home when Miguel speaks again. “It can hurt you.”

“Aw, Miguelito. You do care about me!” You smile at one of his cameras, hand over your heart, as you pass by on your way to his lab. “Anyway, I gotta tell you something. You’re not busy, are you?”

“When has that ever stopped you?” Miguel’s voice gives away the likely eyeroll he’s giving you through one of his glowing orange screens. “You need to file your report anyway.”

“Say, here’s a suggestion,” You start, grinning widely when Miguel’s no comes from both your watch and above you once you’re in his office. Feigning being upset you mutter, “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I’m not filing your report, pulguita.” Miguel says, not looking at you but lowering his platform so you can step on it. As always the yellow and orange glow of the screens bathe him in their light, making it hard not to stare at his handsome features. The bridge of his nose, his bottom lip, the sharp edge of his cheekbones.

“Worth a shot.” You tell him as you stand next to him and sit on a free spot over his desk. Your friend turns slightly towards you, sending an amused look your way before he goes back to typing away on a keyboard. It’s his way of saying go on, so you do.

 “Anyway! The mission started off alright, the bastard almost got me –can you believe he wasn’t amused by my jokes? I mean what are odds he has a stinger and he’s fighting someone calling herself the Spider-Sting– whatever, the thing is I had it like 70%–”

“Seventy huh?”

“Hush! 70% under control and this dude shows up out of nowhere, white suit with like gold moons what worked just like boomerangs? He tries to kill my villain!” You throw your hands up in exasperation at the memory.

“Uh-huh, so what did you do? You brought the Scorpion back with you, so you must have won.” Miguel is still looking at whatever he’s messing with on the computer, tsk-ing every time he messes something up. His tone holds something like fondness mixed with pride, it makes your whole body warm.

“So, I had to tell him, I have to take this guy with me, and he goes I can’t let you do that.” You continue, hopping off the desk and walking to Miguel’s other side. When you lean over to look at his face he looks down, eyes meeting yours briefly, waiting for whatever you’re going to say next. “Babe, he sounded just like you! I’m not even joking; I got it on video ‘cause I was live –as you reprimanded me for– but Lyla can tell you!”

“It’s true.” Lyla blinks into existence over Miguel’s shoulder, messing around with her phone for a moment before smiling teasingly at her boss. “He was all: sweetheart, I don’t care if I sound like your boyfriend, and Sting went–”

“What?” Miguel pauses his typing and turns to look at you. “What did he say?”

“I didn’t tell him you’re my boyfriend.” You wave him off, crossing your arms and looking away; your defenses go up immediately. Despite all your teasing and flirting, the last thing you want is for Miguel to find out about your dumb crush on him. Dumb in the sense that he’s never going to feel the same.  “He just assumed you were–”

“He called you sweetheart?” Miguel asks, voice low and turning back to his screens.

“Well yeah, I–” You stop yourself short, glancing over at the tall man in front of you and taking in his stance.

Miguel’s hands are clenched into fists on either side of him, his neck muscles tense from whatever he’s feeling. Both his brows are pressed together in the middle of his forehead and his full lips are pulled down in an upset frown. In a moment, your body lights up as hope settles on your chest. Is he?

“Are you jealous?” You ask slowly, dragging out the word as you tilt your head.

“I think he is.” Lyla blinks in front of Miguel’s face, laying on her stomach, chin on her palm.

“Lyla.” Miguel grumbles which causes her to go away, out of mercy you’re sure. “I’m not jealous.”

“Hmm.” You scoot closer to him, letting your hands fall to your sides. Curious to see where this goes, and because you can’t help yourself, you exaggerate the end of your story. “Anyway, he was really flirty, but I distracted him enough that I captured the Scorpion and came back here before he could give me his number.”

“What?” Miguel’s eyes betray his emotions when he meets your gaze. He’s incredulous at your retelling of your adventure, but even more so outraged at your last words. His mouth is still twisted in a sneer, though at what you don’t know.

“What’s the problem? The fact that he called me sweetheart or something else?” You place your hands on your hips, done teasing and very curious. “You call me nicknames all the time.”

“They’re not nicknames.” Miguel tells you before he can stop himself and looks away when he realizes his mistake. “I’m busy. Go file your report.”

“Oh, not nicknames, then what are they?” You don’t back down, rolling your eyes when he turns his back to you. “That’s it you’re going to be annoyed out of jealousy? I flirt with you all the time.”  

“That’s different and you know it.” Miguel says turning around, eyes scanning your face and the surprise that you actually got a reaction out of him.

“I don’t think I do. Why is it different?” You don’t back down walking into his space and looking up at him — damn him for being so tall. If he’s going to act like being hit on (which didn’t really happen, bless his heart) is such a problem for him he has to tell you why. For selfish reasons, you hope it’s because he likes you. “Tell me.”

Miguel looks down at you, his eyes boring into yours in a way that makes your next breath stutter. They’re still guarded but less so than before, and the sliver of emotion he lets through when he’s with you, grows the tiniest bit to show hesitation and nerves. The easy smile you were sporting falters, and your lips drop open slightly when you realize how close your faces are. When did Miguel lean so close to you? Miguel’s eyes drop to your mouth, and you panic.

“Or don’t.” You back down, shaking your head as you wonder if this was a good idea after all. You decide to lie through your nerves. “I’m just teasing you.”

As you begin to turn your face to put some space between you, Miguel’s hand goes up to your cheek to keep your gaze on him. “They’re not nicknames. I’ve been calling you endearments.” He murmurs, voice low as he looks down at you. “Just like you.”

“You mean, you’ve been flirting with me?” You ask breathlessly, your mind trying to compute what the man in front of you —who you never imagined liking you back— is saying. When he nods in an almost reluctant confession, you roll your eyes. “Then that’s the worst flirt—”

You’re cut short by Miguel’s lips pressing onto yours, effectively shutting you up with a world altering brush of lips. Then as if that wasn’t clear enough for you, he murmurs Shut up before leaning in and kissing you again, a real kiss this time. His hand on your cheek goes to the back of your head and your sighs are exchanged into each other’s mouths when they leave you in a rush. You’re surprised to find the same painful yearning you’ve been harboring for months in Miguel. It’s obvious in the way he deepens the kiss, the way he gathers you into his arms and pulls you closer, in the way his tongue tastes your mouth and leaves you dizzy.

“You were jealous then.” You say when you part momentarily, brushing the tip of your nose against Miguel’s.

“Yes.” Miguel confesses begrudgingly, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“A waste of time.” You shake your head fondly, looking at him with a healthy dose of unrestrained adoration and attraction. “The guy assumed you were my boyfriend, and you know why?”

Miguel kisses the corner of your mouth and lingers there like he doesn’t want to part. His affection is hitting your system like a shot of adrenaline to the chest, you feel drunk on it. “Dime.”

“I couldn’t stop talking about you.” You smile, leaning in to kiss him again. “I think half the audience in my live already guessed I like you.”

“Half the society too.” Lyla pops up next to you, holding up a phone and taking a selfie with you. “Some of which are coming to your lab right now, so…”

You take a step back from Miguel, beaming at the conflicted look on his face. “Do you mind if I file my report here? I assume you’re not busy.”

“Wouldn’t matter if I was, princesa.” Is all he says before he pulls up some feed on his computers, getting ready to brief the Spider People on a new mission. You move to sit on the desk next to him, and smile when his hand squeezes your thigh affectionately.

—-

Let me know if you liked this! Reblogs are appreciated 🥹 motivate an unmotivated writer ✨

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pulguita - ok taken literally it's a flea, but it's an endearment like lovebug for those who are short hence why miguel uses it.

dime - tell me

princesa - princess

—-

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

They can’t let Miguel get a nap for 5 mins…

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

i love my husband — miguel o'hara drabble

fluff. heavy inspo on this video.

sorry for the inactivity and the lazy ass title, exam week came around before i could even start on the next request and i did nothing but relax the entire break (which was only FOUR days) so i'll bring this out and see if i can clear my sched enough to actually do shit. enjoy!

the moonlit sky reflects beautifully onto the shining surface of your mug, filled to the brim of chamomile tea and flooding your nostrils with delight as your body melts into the couch.

work kept you on the edge of your seat for the entire week, it was non-stop meetings and non-stop emergency calls even outside of your working hours that had you so stressed. you were sure you'd picked enough hairs out to make a wig.

the weekend is truly a blessing, you want to stay as far away as humanly possible from your phone and shut yourself out from civilization before you come protector of debra's last minute files.

you missed the soft cotton of your pajamas, not like you haven't worn them in the past couple of days but to actually be able to appreciate what it means to wear them and the greeting of a good night's sleep had you sighing and moaning almost a little too much.

you worked hard, you definitely deserved this. you grab a spare pillow and tuck it under your head turning to the side and looking at the city that surrounded you, your patience and tenacity at the office has now been rewarded with the view you're able to appreciate.

however, the shadow that looms over the carpeted floors of your flat don't go away even after rubbing your eyes. you look up and a faint red glow in the symbol of a very familiar spider catches your eye immediately, you smile lazily through the glass.

miguel slides open the door with no hesitation, cape still drifting in the wind from what you can only assume to be his own previous working activities. you can sense the tension wafting off of him like waves especially as he stomps all the way over to where you are on the couch and looks down at you.

his mask isn't off, he's still fully geared, and all you can do is stare back into those lenses.

that is until he surrenders, body giving up, and his body flops right on top of yours. it doesn't really surprise you, there have been times where miguel has come home after a worse day of saving the multiverse and traps you in a hug before you can protest or move. though you've never really seen him do this before.

he adjusts his position, but still keeps his arms tightly wrapped around you as you move as well so that you're holding him back. his face is buried into the crook of your neck and the feeling of his nose tickling your skin tells you that he unmasked already.

not a single word leaves his mouth, you silently adore the way he's melted into you already, the way the muscles on his back rise only to slowly fall again.

you don't want to break the silence, neither of you do. right now, the only form of communication that matters is touch. your lips burning kisses into his curls, your nose now erasing whatever of your tea was left and making the way for miguel.

he shies away from your touch with a small groan, "i stink."

a giggle threatens to break out from the back of your throat, as many times as he would insist that you'd keep going anyway. "so when you do it, it's fine? i see how it is then."

miguel chuckles, he inches himself into you further. deeper. his breaths become less and less shallow, it's clear that he's taking his fair share of sniffs from you as well. "because you smell good."

"i ran a bath, that's why." one last peck to his head and you opt to just comb his hair instead, running your fingers through the strands and observing as they twist back to curl after brushing it some more.

both of you stay like that for a while, not saying anything, not doing anything, just being here. existing with each other. you always find moments like these beautiful, even when miguel is probably one work call away from shaking hands with the grim reaper.

in miguel, you've found yourself open to so many new experiences and risks you could've never imagined on your own. despite the many amount of times at the start of your relationship that he'd give you space and wouldn't be mad if you left, you kept still by his side anyway. you knew that he was worth it.

in you, miguel found that mundanity that he's never had his whole life. passing out on the sofa on his own never felt the same, most times he'd wake up still in his suit and would have to go to work right after anyway. yet with you, the stress ebbed away over time because he knew that you'd always be waiting for him.

whatever historians had with their relics, miguel had with you. not to keep them confined in a metal case, of course not, but he felt as if you were to be revered. kissed and touched with utmost respect and you'd bring the people their good fortunes and long lives. you certainly did for him and miguel might as well be immortal now.

his hands wander, fingertips delicately grazing over the skin tucked beneath your nightwear. he goes slowly, traveling up to your chest where he—

"miguel?"

his hands freeze, face going red. the guilt of possibly going too far is ready to break free from his heart and consume him until he can feel your body trembling with laughter.

"since you apparently stink so bad, shouldn't you shower first before getting so handsy?" miguel pouts at your comment, he already had the apologies locked and loaded for you.

"just a few more minutes, corazón."

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

sick pt. 2 (..yeah he got sick)

*spanish speakers correct my spanish please

It was the next day after you had been sick, and you were actually starting to feel better. The only issue was.. You had definitely gotten Miguel sick, and dang it, you would take care of him too, even if you got sicker.

You had the disposables and napkins ready for him. ..Not to mention, the medicine, too. You had antibodies now after getting the sickness he had, so you were able to be around him, even in close proximity. It was early in the morning, and you had woken up to loud nose blowing, and a shivering Miguel. It hit him hard, possibly harder than it had hit you. You felt terrible for getting him sick, but he quietly mumbled, "it's okay's.." and "you're better, that's all that matters".

Even sick, he thought of others, putting your needs before his.

So now, it was your job to take care of him, and to help him out. Like he had you. You noticed his chills immediately, and you quickly made sure he was all snuggled up, and tucked in.

"Do you want the heavy blanket, Migs?" You spoke softly, stroking his head. He was so warm.. too warm.

He only nodded, he couldn't speak either. You felt terrible. You brought out the heavy blanket, hoping to ease him. And after making sure he was firmly tucked in, you had to get more medicine for him. Except.. you were halted.

You felt shaky arms grab at your waist, and your eyes widened as you realized he wanted you to stay. You had an apologetic look on your face.

"Mm-mm. I need to get your medicine, gran amor." (big love) He only held you tighter. If you weren't concerned for his health, you would have gotten into bed with him, no questions asked. His grip loosened a little, and he looked at you with glossy eyes. He was pouting.

How could you say no to that? You moved close to him as you stood to the side of the bed, and you stroked his face gently, pressing a couple kisses to his forehead.

You spoke in Spanish, figuring it would be easier for him to understand since he was a little loopy right now.

"Necesito conseguir tu medicina." (i need to get your medicine)

He made an uncomfortable groan, his head felt full of pressure. He was too sick to protest, and he just hoped you would come back to hold him in your arms. So he only nodded, laying over on his side as he watched you leave.

By the time you came back, his eyes were closed, but you knew you had to disturb him to get him to take some medicine. You bent down to his level, and you whispered in his ears to stir him, gently smoothing your thumb against his cheekbones.

At first he groaned, disoriented and confused. His tired red eyes settled on you and he let out a huff, realizing it was just you. He was having a very strange fever dream. You had come back with a rag, to hopefully cool his face down a bit, provide him some relief, just like he had done for you.

You gingerly smoothed it out on his forehead, and your eyes settled on his. You were going to need to ask him to sit up just for a second.. just to take these two pills. You just hoped he would comply.

"Medicina, Migs." You showed him your hand, and there sat the two pills. They were red, and they looked to be a Tylenol lookalike. It did the same job. He groaned and before he could push them away, your other hand was holding an inviting cup of cold water.

He was clearly on the fence, wanting to just go back to sleep even if his dreams were making him even loopier. Then you helped sway him by confirming you would stay in bed with him, no matter what.

"I'll cuddle, promise." You whisper to him, stroking his warm cheeks gently.

He took the water and pills reluctantly and swallowed the pills at the same time to get it over with. You wiped at his lips with a spare cloth. And you adjusted his covers again, getting into bed next to him so you could hold him. You slowly moved close to him, not sure if he was still comfortable with you being super close or not. His wordless grab at you confirmed he wanted you close.

You hugged him sideways in bed, and you slowly let your legs tangle with his, whispering things in Spanish and English as he was split between you and sleep. His eyes closed, too weak to keep them open, and you stroked his warm body, he took the cooling rag off of his forehead and sat it elsewhere. He nuzzled his face into your neck, wrapping his own arms around your body. It brought him comfort, knowing you were close to him.

"Better?" You whisper to him now, pressing soft kisses to the side of his face. You were deeply concerned, as you knew from your own experiences how he was feeling.

You got back a grunt in response, and he held you a little tighter. Even sick, his strength was still impressive. You stroked his back, practically massaging it. He melted in your arms like butter on bread.

You stayed pressed together for awhile until he wanted to cool off again, leading you to dab his face with a cold cloth again. The cycle repeated until eventually his chills and hot flashes let off.

Now, you were just kissing his hair, as he.. somehow ended up ontop of you. His eyes were closed, and you were stroking his head with your fingers, slow and gentle so he could lull of to sleep. Admittedly, he wanted to stay awake to feel your cuddles, but he was too disoriented to fight off sleep. He needed it anyway.

"Sleep, amor. Por favor." You cooed, your strokes weren't as noticeable now, they were lighter, like you were forcing him to go to sleep.

His face was laying on your chest, and his hazy eyes looked up at you, blinking slowly in the dim light of the bedroom.

Then he fell asleep.

[seeeuspaceecowboyyy]

Thinking about men who combat train/ extensive train in general a lot. Working out, often causing bruising on their body, especially hands and knuckles. You can sometimes see how insecure he feels when he withdraws his hands with hesitation before touching you. You can see in the way he is hesitant in holding your hands opting to guide you by the small of your back.

So you decide to reassure him in your own way, to infuse your affection in his bones. Even if he doesn’t openly show his insecurity. You can see the slight panic in his eyes when you take his hands in yours. The way you gently murmur soft praises, “You train so hard” or “You’ve grown so strong yeah?”

You see the wall slowly cracking as he starts to look at you expectantly, hoping for more praises, but why should only his ears hear the praises? So you decide to whisper praises into his skin, pressing your lips to his hands in the gentlest of kisses. Peppering kisses over his knuckles, his palm, the tips of his fingers and finally a sealing kiss on his wrist.

You look up to see fear in hushed eyes, fear of this moment ending, of the shattering of this breakable heaven.

When you’ve kissed every wound on his hands, you feel the tension still lingering in his frame, like a storm that hasn’t quite passed. You kiss his forehead and without a word, you guide him closer, letting your arms wrap around him until his head rests against your chest. His breathing is uneven, shallow, as if he’s afraid to let this moment break. You let him hear your heartbeat, letting him know that your heart spells out his name. He’s loved, he’s cared for and he’s yours.

──────────────────

Dear Lord, when I get to Heaven, please, let me bring my man- Young and Beautiful // Lana Del Rey

Megumi Fushiguro, Yuuji Itadori, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, Ken Sato, Tanjiro Kamado, Zenitsu Agatsuma, Sylus (L&DS), Miguel O’Hara +your favs!

a/n: posting twice on my bday 😌