#miguel ohara fanfic

[miggyyyyohara]

AY PAPI- I MEAN DADDY please- i mEAN SIR!

Follow this artist on Instagram @ narutoss.ramen 🫶🏻🤌🏻

[polakina]

que maravilla, que bonita

pairing: miguel o'hara x reader

rating: explicit

outline: too busy with keeping everything and everyone in order, Miguel had neglected the person closest to him, and decided to show you how sorry he was

warnings: smut, fluff, oral (fem recieving), squirting, rough sex, you get fucked on the desk, fingering, blood, biting, scratching, blood kink

requests are open! hope you enjoy, petals <3

masterlist

II

A bad temper was an understatement for this man. Since Miles had come and thrown a wrench in Miguel’s life, it had been harder on everyone. You, not so much. But when Miguel came home every night, you could see it was taking a toll on him. Watching the kid, making sure Miles didn’t fuck anything up. Preserving the timeline and canon events made him frustrated, irritated. You wanted to help, but could not think of the right approach. 

He was sat at the desk, mumbling to himself incoherently. You walked up behind him, placing your hands on his shoulders. He tensed up almost immediately, not realising you were even there. The lack of spidey sense really messed with him sometimes.

“Mi corazon,” he grumbled, turning his head slightly towards you, placing a hand over yours and allowing his body to relax. “You’re up late. What are you doing here?” He spun his seat around and you stood between his legs, his hands resting on your waist, drifting down to your thighs.

“You’ve been busy working. I missed you, that’s all,” you whispered, looking down as his thumbs circled patterns into your skin. “Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

He sighed, knowing he’d been neglectful these past few days. He pulled you closer, resting his head on your stomach. “Lo siento, mi amor.” He looked up at you with red eyes, a flicker of brown still amongst them. You just smiled down, shaking your head.

“It’s alright, Miguel,” you assured, running your hands through his hair, along the back of his neck. You kissed the top of his head, and his arms wrapped tighter around you, pulling you closer into his body.

Before you knew it, he had lifted you up in one swift movement. You instinctively wrapped your legs around him as he kicked the chair out of the way and set you on the desk gently. “What are you doing?” You asked, speaking nothing above a whisper. He did not speak at first, caressing your cheek, before slowly letting his hand fall to your shoulder, pushing the strap of your shirt down your arm.

“I have neglected you too long, my love,” he said, his fingers drifting down your sternum slowly, feeling your heart race a little faster with each subtle movement. “I must make up for lost time, should I not?” He looked down at you, a glint of mischief in his eye. His nails were like claws, dragging down your clothes and seamlessly splitting them in two, letting the fabric fall to the floor below. He took you in with his eyes, irises flashing red and brown and everything in between. “Que maravilla. Que bonita.”

He knelt before you, kissing your lower abdomen while looking up at you with lustful eyes. Then he dove in, gently at first. His tongue dragging along your pussy slowly, mouth watering at your taste he had craved for so long. Retracting his talons as to not injure you, he wrapped his hands around your thighs, caging his head between them. 

Your head fell back, your mouth dropping open as you felt him grow more forceful, more passionate. You let yourself lie back against the cool glass of the desk, back arching from the magic he was working between your legs. He sucked and licked your clit, sending shockwaves through your entire body.

“Miguel,” you breathed, back arching as he teased your clit.

“Sí, amor?” He smiled coyly, looking back up at you with wicked intent. “What is it?” He rested his cheek against your inner thigh, his finger teasing your slit and making you shudder.

“Please,” you whimpered. “I need you. Now.”

But he didn’t move. He just smirked. “No, honey. I’m taking my time with you. Don’t want your enjoyment ending too quickly now, do we? We both know I don’t falter like that.” His fingers travelled south towards your dripping entrance, teasing lightly before pushing one of his fingers inside you. You gasped softly at how just his finger could fill you, God only knows how you’d handle his dick.

He put his mouth back to work, simultaneously pleasuring you with his fingers to draw you to your inevitable high. You loved that it always felt the exact same. Just as perfect, just as mind bending and toe curling as every time before. Your mind went foggy and your eyes rolled back as you melted into his touch. 

Your hand wrapped through his hair, gripping him tightly as a second finger pumped in and out of your dripping hole. Your wetness smeared the glass you were laid on, staining the translucent surface.

Miguel could feel you getting close. He didn’t need spidey senses to know that. Your shortness in breath, your grip on his hair growing ever so tight, your legs tensing around him, you were on the edge. Just where he liked you to be.

Feeling your legs begin to shake, and your body tense, you were on the precipice of a feeling only Miguel could ever give you. You moaned out his name, his name continuously falling from your lips as you felt your stomach coil in the most incredible way possible. Until he stopped, removing his fingers from you and standing up straight. Your head lifted off the table, hair strewn across your face and eyes slightly glossed over. “What-what are you doing?”

He smirked, his hands moving to his belt, swiftly unbuckling it in an easy motion. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe the glistening residue of you from his chin. “You think I’m just using my fingers on you, mi vida? You know me better than that,” he wrapped a hand around your waist and pulled you to your feet, spinning you around so that the fronts of your thighs were pressed against the desk. “And I’ve missed you. And I know you’ve missed me,” his hand pushed gently on your lower back until you bent over for him slightly. You felt him press up behind you, your breath faltering as you felt his cock brush against your ass. “You’re frustrated from me being distant, and I’m frustrated with all this work. But…fuck,” he teased the tip of his cock into your dripping pussy, words failing him as he realised how much he had missed this. “We both need this. I need you.”

You nodded and moaned loudly as he pushed in further, filling you up entirely. He felt so good inside you that your head started to spin. You gripped the edge of the desk, holding yourself up with the strength you had left while he gripped onto your waist. Starting slow, Miguel tried to control himself and his urges as he fucked you softly, watching as his cock moved in and out of you. But the sounds of your moans and the way you were calling out his name in your soft voice made him want to pound you into this desk until the glass shattered.

Feeling his thrusts begin to quicken, pushing harder and faster into you, you felt your high coming all too quickly. The desk shook with Miguel’s force, and if not for him gripping your waist to keep you still, you would have been launched over this desk in a matter of seconds.

Miguel gritted his teeth, the pleasure he felt of your pussy tightening around his dick, your juices flooding him as he pounded in and out of you. He began to lose control, his fangs slipping out, his talons protruding and pushing against your skin. Blood was drawn and you hissed, but it didn’t feel nearly as bad as you expected. It actually felt kind of good. But he slowed his movements for a moment, realising his talons cut into your skin and immediately retracted them. “Mierda,” he cursed. “I’m sorry, mi amor.”

You shook your head, craving that feeling once more. “No, don’t apologise, Miguel. And don’t put your talons away, or your fangs,” you breathed out, pushing yourself back against him. His eyebrows raised in surprise, but he smiled, his fangs showing and his talons sharp and long as they dug back into your skin. He thrusted into you once more, hard, passionate. You felt the sting as they penetrated your skin, blood dripping down your thighs to the floor. You let your body fall against the glass, breasts pressing against the desk as the cool surface felt so nice against your warm skin. 

But you didnt stay pressed against the glass for long, as Miguel’s hand wrapped in your hair, gently, but firmly. You pushed yourself up with your hands, and he held you hair, tilting your head to the sky, feeling his breath on your neck. “Darling, if I’d have known you wanted me to use my talons, I would have started this a long time ago,” he grinned, kissing your shoulder, the tips of his fangs brushing against your skin.

He continued to fuck you hard, your nails pressing hard against the glass as you cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. His fangs continued to graze your shoulder as he gritted his teeth. You mustered up all strength for words to come out of your mouth. 

“Miguel, mi amor,” you breathed out. His ears perked as he listened. “I didn’t say you should use just your talons.”

Then something switched inside Miguel. It’s as though he almost went feral. His hand gripped your hair tighter, almost to the point it was painful. But you saw it through, a knot tightening within you, sure to snap at any moment. Miguel panted in your ear, it almost sounded as though he was growling. An animalistic urge took over him. 

His thrusts slowed to a steady pace, but they were more powerful, hitting deeper inside you than before. Your mouth fell open and all you could do was moan his name to the open empty room, your voice echoing off the walls. You felt his fangs dig into the skin of your shoulder, digging deeper and deeper until they drew blood. You felt the warm liquid run down your chest and your back, but you never stopped him. His grip loosened on your hair and you could look down to see the bite in your shoulder, and the accumulation of blood that had stained your naked body. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on a little.

“Come on, bonita,” Miguel groaned in your ear. “I know you’re close. Come for me, baby.” And you were close. So close. Your fingers curled into a fist as you clenched it tight, nails digging into your palms.

“Fuck, Miguel,” you breathed quietly, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you felt yourself clench around his cock. The knot within you tightened mroe and more until you felt a sharp snap inside your abdomen. But it felt different to the previous times, a different sensation taking over you. It grew even stronger when Miguel’s free hand wrapped around the front of you, toying with your clit, circling it in just the perfect motion to send you over the edge, practically screaming his name. He didn’t let up with his fingers, continuing to play with your pussy while still fucking you from behind, just as forcefully as he had been the whole time. The man had stamina like you’d never seen, and sometimes you could barely keep up. 

Your orgasm washed over you, powerfully overtaking your body, igniting flames in your veins until your vision blurred. But something else washed over you too. It felt strange, nothing you’d felt before. You cried out, entirely overwhelmed in pleasure as liquid hit the table, gushing out in a spray. It took you a moment to realise where they came from.

Miguel’s orgasm came not moments later after yours, coating your insides, leaking out of your pussy and dripping down his cock. He panted heavily, resting his forehead on your shoulder and wrapping his arm around your waist, his hand soaked from you. “I didn’t know you could do that, mi amor,” he chuckled, kissing your neck softly.

Your eyes were wide once you realised what you’d done. “Neither did I, love. Neither did I.” He could tell by the tone of your voice that you seemed slightly embarrassed of yourself, noting the rosiness of your cheeks and the heated flush on your ears. It was something he’d picked up over the years, mentally noting your tells.

“It’s fine, darling. It’s actually pretty amazing,” he smiled against your neck. “I definitely want to see you do it again.”

You turned to face him, leaning against the desk and feeling how wet the glass actually was as it touched your thighs. “Well, use your talons and fangs again, and you just might.” You leaned up, kissing him softly and his hand cradled your cheek, the other on your waist, holding you close. 

“Round two?” He whispered, smirking as he pressed his forehead against yours.

You could only laugh. “As long as it’s somewhere dryer.”

“Deal.”

[moondirti]

animalic (3)

← chapter two // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: he's got a plan that neither of you like warnings: enemies to lovers, predator/prey dynamics, biting, bondage, temporary paralysis, concussions, miguel is not nice, no use of y/n notes: this was supposed to be longer but the cut off at the original point was super awkward. this chapter is super exciting for all you fang lovers out there

You really can’t catch a break. 

The city bustles with a verve rivalling your own, a kaleidoscope of luminescence dancing upon the glass facades of its skyscrapers. Their spires pierce the ink-dark cloak of night, and if you weren’t so busy running for your life, you’d stop to admire the way their aviation obstruction lights mimic the stars back home. 

(Everything has a trade off, you suppose. You remember what it was like as light pollution gave away to reveal the cosmos above, the beauty of it lost upon your own grief.)

Now, it’s fear – clinging like a shadowy spectre to your heels. The pavement is unforgiving beneath you, each step sending a jolt of energy through your bones. Despite it, you can’t go any faster. Sidewalks crowd with the humdrum of everyday life – people filtering out from work and bodegas, dressed in a slightly odd fashion, their clothes a reminder of your unfamiliar landscape. Car horns blend into one another, providing an unsteady tempo to the race of your heart. 

It’s disorienting, all of it. Times like these, you wish you’d been given the opportunity to hone your abilities. Stamina, flexibility. Web shooters in particular would have proved handy in avoiding the bustle of the ground. 

Of course, he has that advantage on you too. 

You can’t see Miguel, but you sense his proximity. It prods you, nipping at your flesh in a constant assault, intensifying goosebumps and raising hairs. Your spider sense usually doesn’t last this long, solely serving as a warning for immediate danger. Yet that’s just what he is, immediate. Dangerous. Predatory eyes track your every move, sourced from all directions. He’s everywhere; atop buildings, within alleys. Neon signs morph into twisted apparitions; serrated talons, red skulls. 

How did he track you down so fast? 

The day pass? 

You wonder if he’d brought back-up – whether there are other spider-heroes here who trust in his noble cause. Your anxiety triples, and passerby’s begin to warp too. Their hurried footsteps now strike discordant notes, amplifying your isolation. You think you see some tense their wrists, or unbutton their coats, ready to reveal their tailored suits and ensure the capture you’ve managed to evade thus far. 

It’s luck. It’s only ever been luck, and that fact changes depending on who you ask. You’ve never outsmarted him, never disabled him. You just so happen to have the power of being a pain in his ass. 

Something itches at you, though. A nagging sense of foreboding. His presence in the past has spurred chagrin, annoyance, and – admittedly – arousal. But the genuine terror that lights your nerves now is new. Perhaps because you understand him, are far more familiar with his pride than most. The logical part of you can predict that he won’t let you off so easily, not after your stunt with the kiss. You won’t – can’t – get away this time, even if it damn well nearly kills him. 

Any hope you had of a bargain dissipates, rolling back from shore and into the depths of an elusive sea. You jerk the rubber band off your wrist, throwing it into some undisclosed corner.

In a then desperate bid to throw him off, your path loses cohesion. Like a leaf seized by a tempest, you turn based on split-second instinct, weaving through the labyrinth of New York’s grid. Your body sways in frenzy, bolstered by pure adrenaline, which works to dim everything else. Your ribs haven’t fully healed yet – they’d taken a pretty bad beating upon your last fight with Miguel – but you can barely feel the ache as you focus purely on the task at hand. 

Your determination surges, recklessness taking hold of your rationale. Veering abruptly, you just about collide with the racing line of cars that flow at a green light. In fact, you think you do. Your skin prickles, and a taxi runs straight through you, blearing a loud honk all the while. Some vehicles break off, drifting around your form at the last minute. In your peripheral, you can see the glowing red of your pursuers web, stretched across the gap between two apartment complexes. 

Chest tightening, your breathing loses depth at the sight, shallowing to leave room for the distress that torrents up your system. You clamber up on the hoods of parked cars, using a mast arm pole to propel yourself forward. It’s a fruitless effort. You know it’s too late – have known it since he walked into that convenience, prowling in search of one thing. 

(A lion only catches its prey a quarter of the time. But that twenty-five percent?)

Your ankle is the first victim to his hardwearing web, wrapped in the silk and pulled out from underneath you. The back of your head smacks into the concrete below, a high pitched ring reverberating through your skull upon impact. The collision sends a shock wave of pain throughout your being, and in that harrowing moment, everything stutters to a crawl. Spots speckle behind your clenched eyelids, metallic warmth flooding your mouth.

Well, fuck. 

To add insult to injury, your atoms rip apart and splice into one another, a consequence of your abandoned day pass. The glitch aggravates the headache that begins to pound at you. You’d allowed yourself to forget how bad it could be. 

The willpower that had just played a forefront in your mind steadily starts to trickle out, absorbed by your humiliation and the ground below. 

“You really gonna give up that easily?” 

Yes. 

You make a point to never lie to yourself. In truth, you won’t ever get enough of Miguel’s cadence. Deep and resonant – it smoulders with a charred ruggedness. Commanding attention, rumbling like distant thunder, an unmistakable authority woven into each word. Yet, even amidst the rough contours, there lingers a softness, a subtle grace that soothes the edges of his threats. 

(Sharp claws, sharp teeth, sharp cheekbones. Soft voice.)

More webs bind you, erupting from an unclear point to circle your legs, chest, and secure your arms behind your back. You’re diminished to little more than an aggravated caterpillar, ensnared in a spider’s web. And, just as his little game of bondage draws to a close, said spider stalks within view, splitting through the crowd that quickly forms around the commotion. 

With his mask on, he stands as completely impenetrable. You, on the other hand, try to reduce your quivering the best you can, afraid of relaying how truly pathetic you feel. 

“Maybe I’m biding my time.” You bite back, calling on a complete bluff. “I’m sure you know how good I am at that?” It’s a low blow. Even if you could control when and where to phase out, you wouldn’t get very far before he catches up to you again. 

But Miguel doesn’t waver in his closing in – not until he towers over you, looking down at your incapacitated state. Space buckles under the gravity of his existence; you, too, can feel yourself sinking, drawn in closer by the credence that bubbles off him in flares. You wish you had a cover – your pair of makeshift goggles, a face mask, anything that could elevate you to a degree relative to his. But you’re bare, figuratively naked, and you’ve never hated him more. 

He lingers, assessing you, weighing his options. The moment he turns to survey the mass of people who look on inquisitively, you wiggle upward into a sitting position, then throw your head forwards, aiming for his crotch. His wrist gets in the way, though, blocking your pitiful attack on his only defenceless area. Your forehead cracks against his dimensional travel watch, shattering its screen. 

“Tu puta madre!” Miguel hisses, snapping back to survey the gadget while you begin to slink away. He seems to have an eye on you, however, because you’re tugged back just as soon as you make the effort.

Like a naughty cat. You shift uncomfortably at the thought. 

“Are you gonna spend all night deciding what to do with me, then? I have plans, even if you don’t.” 

“Plans. I have plans alright.” The low timbre of his threat slices you where it hurts.

With a calculated flex of his shoulders, he crouches down, gathering the webs around your arms. They serve as leverage when he hauls you upward, exercising his muscles – of which you’d suspected had been padding up to this point – with one swift motion. The world upends on itself, nausea enveloping your senses with its oppressive weight. It allows space for little else; not the uncertainty, not the trepidation. You divert all your efforts on keeping your scarce lunch down, accepting the possibility of a concussion by product of his less-than-refined manhandling. 

The journey to wherever he takes you is not at all long enough for you to recover. Before you know it, he’s busting through the creaky door of an empty storelot, carelessly tossing you to the floor. Your vision doubles. 

Yeah. Definitely a concussion. 

Like you could afford one right now. 

“You’ll stay, and you’ll listen.” He points an accusatory finger. 

“Sure. Until I’ve had enough, that is.” 

“And where would you go, exactly?” 

“Nice try, O’hara. Like I’d tell you,” Snickering, you let your head roll to face the ceiling. The action sends you back to earlier, to the robbery you’ve been seeking to suppress. How careless you’d been, letting your fortune to date trick you into thinking that any collateral was safe too. You’d killed that woman. You. “Maybe I’ll fall right through the floor. That way, you’ll never have to worry about seeing me again.” 

The notion makes him pause mid-pace, hands on his hips, tilting his head to look at you with what you imagine is the most earnest glare. The air bobs, suspended in static tension, a crackling constant that only unravels once he seems to make up his mind. 

Marching forward, he drags you along with him to a nearby wall, upon which he then pushes you upward until you have to look down to meet his eyeline. Your bound legs kick forward, but the struggle hardly affects him. 

“I didn’t want to resort to this.” 

You assume he means treating you like a toddler does its shiny new toy, hurling you across this playpen of a city. “You really didn’t have to, then.” 

He stays quiet, fists clenching tighter around you. 

“I suppose we’re past the courtesy of letting the other recover from the last fight before starting a new one? My forearm is still fucked, thanks to you. Maybe if you’d given it some time, I would’ve proved more of a challenge today.” Your words, whilst never your most steadfast allies, betray you in lieu of this restlessness, tumbling forth with unruly incoherence.

Miguel's mask pulls back, the nanotech collapsing to just above his adams apple. Your mouth moves faster. 

“Okay, I get it. The fate of the multiverse and all that. I’ll listen, whatever you want, but at least try and make the lecture original.” 

His hand cups your jaw, tightening around your chin to firmly guide it upwards. Your throat stretches taut at the motion, its smooth expanse spread across the wall – an evening repast for a party of one. The imagery breaks down an all too sobering realisation into fragments small enough for you to register. His talons rest against your cheek, bordering perilously close to your waterline. 

Traces of that patchouli aftershave hit you. His skin looks especially bronzed in the dark, highlighted at the edges from the phosphorescence outside. His curls droop where they’re plastered to a sweat slicked hairline. 

You can’t help it. Your gaze flickers down to those plush lips.

Fuck. Fuck. It’d felt so good to kiss them. 

Please let this just be a kiss. 

“O-Or go with the… the usual, y’know. I don’t–” 

Miguel lunges, sinking his fangs into the fleshy sinew of your neck.

Christ.

Your jaw hangs open, but no breaths filter in. Shock wedges itself at the site of his bite, implacable, steadfast as a barrier between logic and uninhibited emotion. Your reasoning plays no part in this, provides absolutely no valuable contribution to the series of reactions you undergo. 

It’s physical, first. The cold slither of paralytic venom distends through your nerves, neurotoxins striking their functions, rendering them useless beyond the point of sensation. Which, you’d say, is the cruellest part. Miguel’s poison doesn’t stop you from feeling anything; not the puncture, nor the burn. You can truly feel it, trekking its graceful path to all muscles in your body, taking hold of the tissue, suppressing their vitality. Your back arches, your body doing its very best to fight what it cannot prevent. It cracks up your bone, down your spine. Your toes unfurl, fingers loosening to hang lamely at your side. 

And, when you lose all executive authority over yourself, you’re pulled in to centre on his mouth again. His canines slowly retract, tongue taking their place. It’s warm – so fucking warm – and dextrous, covertly lathering the blood that beads down your nape. 

Your last proper breath is wasted on a whine; a loud, keening, absolutely wanton whine. After it, you can do nothing but hold your flat inhales to cycle in as much oxygen as possible – diaphragm weak, your resolve weaker.

Miguel draws away, letting you slump to the floor, heavy and just as useless as a sack of flour. He wipes the excess carmine from his chin, kneeling to regard your glassy eyed stare. 

“Fall through now, and you’re as good as dead.” 

(You might as well already be.)

chapter four →

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[luveline]

could I get some miguel aftercare pls 🙏🙏🙏

cw suggestive content mdni !! I actually loved writing this it was the highlight of my day, thank you for requesting. fem, 1k

“You’re doing that thing,” Miguel says. 

You’re breathless where he’s fine, voice lost as you ask, “What thing?” 

He smooths his hands across either side of your face briefly. “Locking up. Relax, sweetheart. Catch your breath.” 

You cover your face with your hands but end up too hot, the back of your neck wet with sweat and your face glowing with heat. Miguel laughs softly, blowing cool air up and down your face where he lays beside you. 

He’d usually call you cariño or some other pet name in his native tongue, so sweetheart is out of the blue but no less affectionate. You close your eyes against his cold breath and slouch toward him, where you’re quickly held in his arms again, his voice quieter as he asks, “You okay?” 

“Mm.”

“Yeah?” He works the soft cup of your bra back down over your chest, pressing a kiss to the hill of your breast. “You sure?” he asks, your skin warmed by his breath. 

You curl down around him, trying to keep him there, your face in his hair and your knee sliding up his thigh as you turn onto your side. 

You’re hot all over and aching, but not unhappy. You walk a careful path up his chest and shoulder to his neck, your fingers brushing over the soft surface of his skin one centimetre at a time, not dragging, just touching, searching for his face. You hold his cheek in your hand and kiss his hair, not caring if it’s slightly ineffectual. He’ll know what you’re trying to convey either way. 

Sex with Miguel nearly always leaves you like this. More than satisfied, desperate to be hugged, and desperate to impress upon him how much he means to you if the sex hadn’t already. Your hand moves with him as he lifts his head to yours, eyes aligned, the familiar hint of a smile playing on his lips. 

“You want me to open a window?” 

“I love you,” you say, because what you want is reassurance that it felt the same for him. 

His voice is velvet. “I love you. Te adoro. When I look at you… me dejas sin aliento.”

“Tell me,” you mumble. 

“I can’t breathe.” 

You tip your head back with a laugh, “That’s ironic,” you say. 

He chases you there, his nose down the curve of your throat and his hands pressing behind your back, wrapping you in, hugging you and kissing under your ear, bridging the gap again. It’s weird to be so together, to feel like one person and to have that end, but he hugs you and it’s nearly the same. It’s a different kind of connection. It eases your heart, calms your hot flush. 

“You are beautiful,” he affirms. “I just have better stamina.” 

“Don’t say stamina.” 

“You’re jealous of my stamina, and that’s okay.” He smiles into your neck before kissing it tenderly. 

Moments of this Miguel are rare. He’s so happy, you only get to see him as uninhibited in moments of intense connection, though that can be anything with him. A teasing remark as he helps you up the short step of the tram or a shared smile when you lean back into his chest for no reason at all, knowing he’ll take your weight. 

You savour it. He’s got a good heart. 

And a great physique. “Doesn’t count. You got it all from a bottle.” 

His lips part. “Oh?” he says, the slight scratch of his teeth sending shivers down your arms. 

His lips close in a soft, soft kiss. Miguel pulls away from you to sit up a touch, and then he’s caressing your hip and your knee like he can sense the ache, his face pensive. “Do you want to shower, or should I bring you a towel?” 

“Whatever you want to do.” 

“I want to take care of you,” he says earnestly, hand back up, resting on the strip of fat between hip and ass. “But…” 

You look at him. Unbeknownst to you, Miguel’s taking you in, and thinking you might be the most lovely thing he’s ever seen, not just because he’s fucked you and you took it beautifully, or the sounds you made, or the feeling of your arm wrapped behind his head as you kissed him, but everything about you. He loves you and you know that, but he can’t convey it right. And he thinks if he cleans you up he might spend an hour just looking at you, because you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen, all your marks and wrinkles and softness. He’d lose half the night. 

“You want to fuck me again?” you ask gently. 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” he denies, leaning down over you. You close your eyes and allow him another kiss. “It’s late, we can’t stay up all night. You’re tired.” 

You hum regretfully. “Yes.” 

“Was it everything you wanted?” he asks. “I can…” His hand trails down to your stomach. 

You laugh under your breath. “I don’t think I can anymore,” you mumble, half flirtation and half aching fondness. “Thank you.” 

“Thank you?” He brings his hand up and squeezes your face, taking another kiss, so many now you can’t count them. 

You smile into his mouth. You’re thinking thank you for being caring enough to think about it, and he’s thinking you’re crazy for not expecting it. Regardless, he doesn’t touch any lower, only dropping his hand and rubbing a sweeping, soothing line over your tummy and your side. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers. 

You peek at him through threaded lashes. “Your eyes are closed,” you whisper back. 

“I knew before I closed them, and I know it now.” He sighs. “Sorry,” he says, kissing your cheek, “forgive me. I’ll get a towel.” 

“It’s my fault, being so enchanting n’ all.” 

Miguel kisses you again. “Exactly.” 

[buckys-lover]

Again

miguel o’hara x fem!reader

nsfw masterlist | main masterlist

word count: 0.7k

summary: miguel finds out you can squirt, and he wants to make you do it again

warnings: SMUT (18+), minors DNI, miguel being kinda needy, unprotected sex (pls be safe irl), a bit of praise and degrading :), creampie (bc i have a breeding kink), a lot of italics bc how else would y’all know what I mean?, also Spanish (translation at the end)

A/N: this thought would not leave my head, so this happened. also, I know there’s a lot of debate ab squirting and how it happens/what it is…I don’t have time to get into all that, just enjoy the short little fic // as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, reblog and lmk what you think! <333

Thinking about how Miguel would react the first time he makes you squirt

You two have been going at it for a while now, and he’s made you come twice already

He switches up positions, and you swear you can feel him deeper this time, hitting a spot inside you that no one ever has before

And, by God, you’re seeing stars. You can’t think straight, not when he’s pounding into you with an intensity that makes your soul leave your body; it’s a completely otherworldly experience

He just keeps going, keeps hitting that spot, and oh no, again, a-fucking-gain.

You didn’t think you could reach your orgasm so fast, but he feels so good, and you just can’t hold on any longer

You gasp, gripping onto him tightly, “Miguel, please, I’m…ay dios, I’m gonna-”

You squirt.

Miguel stops completely, staring down at where your bodies meet. Eyes wide, taking in what just happened before looking back at you to meet your shocked gaze.

You swear your breath catches in your throat. That look he gives, one of pure hunger and lust, feral even.

“Do that again.” His voice comes out as a growl, a command. Fuck, he needs you to do that again. The way you squeezed tighter around him, the way you sounded when you squirted, the dazed look you had…he needs it again.

He starts up again, trying desperately to mimic what he had been doing earlier to ensure that you would squirt at least one more time.

“Por favor querida, hágalo otra vez” You’ve never seen him so needy, and you can’t help but whine at his words.

He brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves, trying to bring you closer to the edge. “C’mon baby, please, I know you have it in you, just one more time, that’s all I’m asking. Solo una vez más.”

You don’t know what comes over you. Maybe it’s his intensity, how badly he wants it, the way that he’s begging you, the way his cock hits that spot inside you just right.

You’re squirting…again.

And the moan Miguel lets out? Absolutely heavenly, you assume that’s what the angels must sound like when you reach the pearly gates. Although, they could never truly sound as good as he does.

And he’s thanking you, praising you, telling you, “Así cariño- such a good girl, squirting all over my cock like a fucking whore.”

You can’t take it anymore, you’re so overwhelmed, so strung out, so overstimulated - but you need more. Need Miguel to give you exactly what you want, and you know he’s close.

“Por favor amor, sé que quieres-” You whimper, barely able to get the words out. Your mind is foggy, unable to string together a coherent thought other than the desire to be wrecked and filled by the man before you.

“Mm, you want me to cum? Want me to fill up your pretty little pussy? Want me to breed you?”

You don’t have to say anything, the way you tighten around him and dig your nails deeper into his skin is enough of an answer.

And he can’t hold out any longer, not that he wants to anyways. 

With a deep groan, he’s cumming inside. Twitching and rutting against you, keeping himself buried to the hilt, making sure that not a single drop escapes.

He leans down, still staying inside your soaked and pulsing heat, placing gentle kisses and bites on your tits and neck.

He’s muttering praises into your skin, telling you how good you were for him.

“Siempre eres tan buena para mí.” He whispers beside your ear before turning to kiss you, passion and desire and appreciation all mixing together in an intoxicating kiss.

Anyways

I think it would become a regular occurrence for Miguel to try and make you squirt at least once every time you have sex from that day forward.

—

Translation:

ay dios - oh god

Por favor querida, hágalo otra vez - please darling, do it again

Solo una vez más - just one more time

Así cariño - like that sweetheart

Por favor amor, sé que quieres - please, love, I know you want to

Siempre eres tan buena para mí - you’re always so good for me

—

tagging some mutuals and ppl who might enjoy this <3

@zstrn // @joaquinwhorres // @dilfsfordinner // @chshiresins // @1800-fight-me // @thelmis // @harlekin6 // @banana-cheese-cake // @freeshavocadoooo // @fandoms-writings // @slocalari // @tarjapearce // @solesurvivorjen // @cozykali // @sunflowersteves // @cowb00t // @mothdruid // @inklore // @golden-barnes​ // @yourmommaissofine​ // @miggyyyohara // @hargroveandco​ //

[musingmeaninglessly]

Shouldering the multiverse through space and time,

Fighting off bad guys with laser webs and claws.

Yet, I wonder, when it’s all on the line,

After having their backs, who will have yours?

--

Don't mind me, just felt like destroying myself today...🥺

[thelovelylolly]

Hello! Would you be interested in writing a Miguel x reader fic with a reader who doesn’t want children? I don’t see any of them around so I’d love to see one, and that it’s angstyy and the reader is in love with him and wished they wanted kids but they don’t and is already so heartbroken and assumes he would want them because he loved being a dad. The reader thinks that their relationship will be as good as over. And maybe they could be engaged at this point.

Also the reader keeps thinking ‘what if he finds another variant of Gabriella who needs a father?’ lots of angstttt please but then hurt/comfort 🙇‍♀️ but if you don’t want to write it that’s ok. thank you!

Family

Summary: You don't want kids, but your soon-to-be husband loved being a dad and having a family. Warnings: hurt/comfort, negative thoughts, self doubt, angsty, google translated spanish (let me know if i missed anything) Notes: yesss!!!! i love this idea! i only see miguel x reader fics where reader is ready for a family/has a family already and as much as i enjoy those, sometimes i wish it wasn't the majority of fics :) thank you for your request!

You always knew you didn't want kids. When you were little, you never wanted to be a parent when you played house with your friends. As a teenager, your friends were off doing babysitting jobs, but you never felt cut out for it. In your adult years, all your friends were getting baby-fever or actually having babies. It never really clicked with you, so you just decided that having kids wasn't for you.

When you determined you didn't want kids, you wanted to make sure whoever you spent the rest of your life with understood that. Miguel was perfect, but after a while of dating, he opened up about his daughter and how he loved being a dad. You brushed it off as him remembering his daughter and still coping with what happened to her, which he always avoided talking about.

Then, shortly after you two were engaged, he started talking about kids more and more. You had mentioned, once things started to get serious between you two, that you didn't intend on having kids and he seemed to be perfectly fine with it. Did something change?

You loved Miguel and wanted to give him everything you had, but kids? You knew Miguel wouldn't force you to do anything that you didn't want to do, but would he leave you to find someone who did want a family? You didn't want him to leave, you two were getting married soon, but what if this was the one big thing that could end your engagement? What if you let this simmer for years and when he eventually brings up starting a family, your decision causes a divorce? What if he left you for another universe where he could have a family?

You let your doubtful thoughts eat at you for a while, and without knowing, you started to close yourself off from Miguel. He noticed it though.

You were sitting on your couch one day, enjoying one of your current reads and a cup of tea, when Miguel came in and sat next to you.

"Are you doing okay?" He asked, draping his arm across the back of the couch behind you.

"Mhm," you hummed, leaning down to place your tea and book down before turning to face him. "Why do you ask?"

"You've been...off, amor," he answered, gently tracing patterns on your shoulder. "You can tell me anything, you know that, right?"

"I do, but...I don't know, it feels stupid."

"Hey, just talk to me, okay? I want to help you with whatever's going on, because something is clearly going on."

You sighed, looking away for a second to gather your thoughts then turning and meeting his gaze again.

"I don't want kids. At all," you wanted to give him a second to reply, but you kept going to get it off your chest. "I don't think I've ever wanted kids. When I was little, I never wanted to play with baby dolls or anything like that. I never wanted to babysit for neighbors, I never got baby fever and whenever I held a baby, nothing clicked in me to make me want one of my own. It just...it's not for me, I guess. And I know you loved your daughter and loved being a dad, but I'm not going to budge on my choice. If you want to leave me and find someone else who wants kids, I don't blame you. I want to give you everything I can, Miguel, just not a family."

Silence sat between you two as you both took a deep breath, letting your words sink in. You felt a lump form in your throat and tears pool in your eyes, but you held it back. You could see the pain in Miguel's eyes, and you guessed it was from your words. You were ready for him to get up and leave, or for him to try to convince you to give it a chance, but you would just stand your ground.

Miguel gently cupped your cheek, almost making you break.

"Did...did I make you feel that way?" He asked weakly. "Did I make you feel like you're not good enough for me?"

The dam broke and you started to sob. Miguel wrapped his arms tightly around you, pressing kisses to the top of your head. He let you sob into his chest, letting you get it all out. When you pulled away to look at him, he wiped away any stray tears that were left.

"You never made me feel like this, Miguel. It was all me and my stupid thoughts. I'm sorry-"

"Stop, you don't have anything to be sorry about, cariño. As much as I want another chance to be a dad, I'm not going to throw away what we have and leave you just to get it. I love you, and if you don't want kids, then we won't have kids."

You smiled at him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

"I love you so much, Miguel."

"I love you, too."

You laid your head against his chest and melted into his touch, his finger trailing up and down your back.

"You know," he started, "we could get a dog instead."

"How about a cat?"

Miguel smiled. "A cat it is."

[bloomingdog]

𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 ; 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

data: reader starts bringing Miguel homemade empanadas for a change from the ones at the cafeteria. 1.8k words, no use of Y/N, spanish-speaker reader.

an: this is the first fanfic i've written in years lol also i'm a foodie and love cooking for people so that's why

Miguel O’Hara has chosen to abstain from most of life’s pleasures, choosing to stay up working instead of oversleeping, refraining from making meaningful friendships and instead spending his days fixing the multiverse. At least he has Layla, and the empanadas from the cafeteria, of course. They’re okay you suppose, okay for a morning or maybe afternoon snack, a little soggier and a little emptier than you would like, which is why you made them today.

After almost a year of working for the Spider Society you’ve found that the majority of them are truly nice, probably due to bonding over similar, if not exact, experiences. The most notorious exception is Miguel, you’ve tried, and you’re not the first to try, to get on his good side. He doesn’t dislike you, you don’t think, but while your relationship with the others varies from friendly co-workers to actual friends you wouldn’t put it past him to not give you the time if you asked. You’re here to report about the latest anomaly you captured—a Rhino who seemed more confused than angry—the fact that you made empanadas last night is just a coincidence, mostly. A looming figure stands on the platform that starts lowering once you call for him.

“Hello Miguel, I finished the report you asked for, it should be in your inbox.” You start.

“Good. Thank you.” His tone feels similar to saying this could’ve been an email.

“And, uh, I brought you this.” You say, handing him the tupperware. “They’re homemade”.

His eyebrows furrow before taking the container and peeking inside.

“¿De qué son?” What’s their filling?.

“Uh, de pollo.” Chicken. It feels rather silly to speak in Spanish with him, although you two speak it natively you’ve always stuck with the lingua franca of the society.

“Gracias.” His face looks more relaxed, maybe it’s the previous step to getting a smile.

You’d call that a success, even if you left far too quickly to see if he liked them.

After two weeks you got around to making them again, being a local hero and working to keep the multiverse intact didn’t leave all the time you’d want for cooking. They’re simple this time, tuna with peppers, onion and tomato sauce, much like your first ones. The closer you got to his headroom the louder the voices coming from inside them got, you recognized them without problem, Peter Parker from Earth-616B and Jessica Drew, they were kinda notorious around the headquarters. You took a deep breath before entering the room, chat falling into silence and heads turning to you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” You walked fast until reaching Miguel and handed him the tupperware. “I made some more, I thought I could bring you a couple.”

“You made these?” Asked Peter Parker after nimbly taking the container from him and opening it. He tried to reach one but was stopped by Miguel’s own fast hands.

“Yes, and they’re mine. Gracias, de nuevo.” Thank you, again.

“No hay de que.” Don’t mention it. Was your reply before leaving as quickly as you’d come.

This was stupid. Bringing your boss empanadas like an apple to a teacher you’re trying to impress, and yet, you’re so proud of yourself. Proud of the softness in his face as he thanked you, proud of how he defended your gift from Peter, not that you wouldn’t have let him take one if he had asked. At the very least, having a schoolgirl crush on him would make work the slightest more interesting.

The next attempt came almost a week later, this time they were filled with potatoes, peppers and ground chili. And without a good excuse you march to his office.

“Miguel?” You called and held the container up as he turned to look at you. “Papas, pimentón y ají”

“Thank God someone is feeding him something other than cafeteria sandwiches!” Spoke a voice from his shoulder before being swatted away, Layla, she’s always been awesome. “Hey!” She said, seemingly insulted, from his other shoulder.

“Thank you. You don’t need to.”

“Yes you do.” Interrupted Layla, you’re glad someone worried about him.

“It’s okay, I made them for dinner, it’s not a bother to save you some, they’re a bit better than the ones at the cafeteria I hope.” You beamed, whatever love language making food fell into, it was yours.

“They are, much better.” He replied before an awkward silence engulfed the two of you.

“You know,” oh God, you’re going to regret this. “If you’re not eating well, I could bring you lunch? I already pack it for myself, it’s no biggie to make it double.”

“No-” “He would love that actually! You’re sweet.” The words between Miguel and his assistant being opposite leaves you waiting for a clear answer. Miguel sighs before replying.

“You shouldn’t, but if you want to it would be eaten and appreciated.”

“Okay! Yeah sure, I’ll bring it to you at lunchtime and we can eat together if you’d like, or not, whatever you prefer. Goodbye.” You waved before disappearing.

Great, this is great. Awesome, really. Now you’ll be cooking double meals, which from now on must look good while still looking effortless, all because of a stupid, silly, in reality dumb, work crush.

The next attempts at getting on his good side were done over the course of a month. Bringing him lunch almost every day was making the two of you closer, that’s a positive. It started out slow and awkward, eating in silence and questioning your decision and it grew into compliments of your culinary skills, cooking tips and dipping toes into the waters of your personal lives, more on your side even if he would share titbits of his past, before the whole Spider-Man thing, with you. One thing about Miguel was that he ate fast and everything down to the last bite, his mother, Conchata, had scolded him for not finishing his plate more than often as a child was what he told you. You wondered when was the last time he had warm, regular, homemade meals.

Fifty-three days from your first bach of empanadas came your last attempt and his first one.

“I would like to cook for you.” Was all he said, and it was enough to stop you from taking another bite of the arroz chaufa you had brought.

“What?” That’s all you could mutter, eyeing Layla for some kind of reassurance or to make sure that he had really said that and all those hits to the head—occupational hazards—hadn’t started affecting you, the A.I. just nodded her head in your direction.

“Venga…I want to pay you back for bringing me lunch for the past month.”

“Okay.” You answered, sounding more like a question than as a definitive answer.

“Good, I’ll see you here tomorrow night, at nine. I have to get back to work.” He said as he got up and back onto his elevator. Layla gave you a thumbs up to compliment his response. A man of few words, you thought while finishing your own lunch.

His second attempt on getting on your good side came the following night at nine on the dot. He looked nice, out of his suit, much more comfortable and casual.

“Come.” He called for you to follow. You honestly thought you were going to have dinner sat on a bench and from a bento box as that was the way you usually shared lunch, as if sensing the incognito of where he was taking you roaming around in your head he added. “We’re going to my place.”

His place! Had anyone ever been to his place? For sure Layla, but she doesn’t count, maybe Jessica Drew? They were close, weren’t they? His place was rather small, it was comforting to know that Nueva York had the same housing problems as its other variants. The first thing you spotted was the table that seated just two people having been set with a matching set of towels and cutlery, as well as two wine cups and an unopened wine bottle. Thank God there weren’t candles, this was much more romantic than you had anticipated, honestly you thought this was only a dinner between colleagues, this wasn’t a date, was it? The second thing you noticed were your three tupperwares, clean and stacked one above the other and wrapped in a plastic bag, you wondered where those had gone, you didn’t peg Miguel for a tupperware thief and were sure he had forgotten all about them, not wanting to ask for him to return them.

“Are you okay?” Oh, you’ve been silent for a minute, he must have catched onto that.

“Yes, yeah, everything’s fine.” You were quick to answer. “But, Miguel, Dios.” That little blasphemy was more of a whisper than a word. “What kind of dinner is this?”

If he was only a little bit more expressive you would’ve caught the way his eyes widened.

“¡A huevo!” He said in a yelled whisper, you couldn’t hold back a small laugh from escaping your lips. “I should’ve made my intentions clearer, disculpa. It’s not a date date, not unless you want to, just a dinner, to get to know each other better, outside of work.” He spoke with a twinge of nervousness, it was so out of character for him. You nodded in answer.

“What did you make?” It’s a good resource to change the topic in fear of embarrassing the both of you further.

“Chiles rellenos.” Back to one-worded answers, that’s good. “Take a seat.” He offered after hanging your jacket by the entrance.

The dinner was normal, and that made it strange, the food was good, if he was a good cook why would he not cook for himself? Oh yeah, overworking, you almost forgot. He talked, quite a lot in comparison to what you’ve grown accustomed to, he joked too. He’s quite charming in actuality. Not only that, but he even made dessert, a small dish of arroz con leche. You talked for long after having eaten, while he carried the dirty dishes to the sink, in the sofa, when he got up to get you a glass of water, you didn’t stop talking. The end of the night was marked by the opening of a portal to your own dimension and your goodbyes.

“I had fun.” You started.

“Me too. You don’t have to bring lunch anymore, I will try to take better care of myself, I’m sure Layla will tell you if I don’t.”

“It’s okay, I like eating with you.”

“We’ll take turns, then.” Words were turning soft from the previous excitement in which the two of you conversed.

“Okay. Buenas noches Miguel.”

“Buenas noches.”

You turned to enter the portal, not without pausing midway and taking a step back to him.

“I hope we can do this again.” Raising on your tiptoes and planting a nervous kiss on his cheek was your way of sealing yours as the last words. You left hurriedly, much too quickly to know if he had liked your courageous act.

🕷 thank you for reading !

[itsmoonweaver]

One Kiss is all it takes

My spiderverse canon x oc ship - Miguel O’Hara x Celina Luna

Celina does this thing when she scolds Miguel, she stands on a milk crate to meet him at eye level. Through trial and error, he found that affection works best to make her feel better. Kisses (no matter where) work best.

{DO NOT REPOST, STEAL, OR EDIT - REBLOG AND SHARE LINK ONLY - PF ICON W/ PROPER CREDIT IS OKAY}

[deskgoblin]

Her Cold Hands (NerdMiguel! x BullyReader!) Part 2

Unfortunately have to split this up because Tumblr is scared of a wall of text.

NSFW Warnings: Degradation, teasing, forced orgasm, edging, manipulation.

MNDI

“God.. Been holding out on me, my precious boy.” His breath hitches as you kiss the tip of his sopping wet length, twitching under your grasp, his hands meet yours softly. Your tongue swirls him into knots and pants of pleasure, taking him in with every inch like it’ll be the last time you breathe air. His legs tighten and his moans become hard to suppress while the swirls of your tongue and the sucking from your cheeks condemns him into pleasure inexperienced. Your pace quickens around his length, stroking it like the cock sleeve of his dreams which dwindle him into a mindspace he could never dream of having alone. “Y/N, please.. Slow down. Can’t last for much longer..” You pull his length from your mouth with a pop and glare into his eyes, “If you cum inside my throat, we’re done.” “Oh Y/N you know I can’t do tha-'' His gasp fills the room as you take him down to the base, tears cornering your eyes but not faltering your speed and efforts around his pulsating dick. His hands meet your hair and cheeks, caressing and thanking you through tightened lips and whimpers. “Hah.. Okay. I’m getting close, let's stop.” But your lips keep to his base and don’t move as your eyes find his own. His worried expression strikes your body to shiver out a concoction of juices and excitement down your previously soaked panties, down to your thighs. You feel your head being pushed on as he tries to get you to unlatch, his moans turn into whimpers and cries, begging you to let go. “Please, I can’t just lose you.. Stop playing with me for now I can’t hold-” Your tongue begins to move around his tip and your hands find his upper thighs to caress him with your cold hands. “Y/N!” His hands grip the headrest of your chair, claws protruding from his fingertips and his cum spilling into your throat in thick ropes and filling you up. His hips tremble against your lips and he pulls out of your mouth, collapsing to the floor sobbing. His voice shaky from the worthless effort of his prevails to spill his seed, he covers his face and tries to wipe the hot tears spilling down his face. You smirk at his fear and get down on the floor with him, perking up his chin to look into your eyes as you swallow and push your tongue out to show youve swallowed every drop. “You drank the pineapple juice I gave you, good..” He sniffles before pulling his shirt down to cover his shrinking length, “You’re not mad at me?” “Oh I am, but it was cute to watch you crumble darling.” You cup his face in your hands and kiss him softly, caressing his face.

[miggyyyyohara]

Mhm...okay and? WhAT ABOUT IT???

Also my mind 24 fucking 7:

[lixxen]

Miguel O'Hara Headcannons

Specifically, how I think he would deal with the trauma of loosing his kid twice, being experimented on, and having an addiction forced onto him 🥰🥰

Written by someone who has PTSD and is always in a constant state of anxiety attacks 😎👍

Warnings: Anxiety attacks, PSTD, grieving of loved ones, nightmares

--

This is written mostly in Miguel's POV, you will see what I mean towards the end. Please keep that in mind

It starts with nightmares. It almost always starts with nightmares.

They first started after he lost his daughter the first time. Right before the events of him being tested on. They started off with him simply turning and seeing his daughter. Reuniting with her.

Then they turned into reliving her dying.

At first, Miguel didn't leave his house. He couldn't see kids Gabriella's age. It hurt too much. But he had a job, so he had to

Then, the testing started.

The testing sent Miguel into a spiral. He hated what they did to him and it kept him up for hours upon hours. He couldn't sleep for a week afterwards.

His powers came with the gut wrenching feeling of not being himself anymore. He couldn't handle his own skin, the surface didn't feel correct. Too course. Too rough. Too sticky. He couldn't handle the feeling of sticking to surfaces

He would spend hours in the shower, sitting under the water. He would sit in the tub, knees pulled up to his chest as he stared at the wall. The hot water somewhat keeping him grounded as his skin felt like sandpaper against itself

Everything was too loud. Too bright. His eating habits fluctuated from eating too much to too little

He hated his powers. He hated what they did to him. He hated himself for how white his walls were, reminding him of the lab that they held him in

It took Miguel four months to be able to not see the walls and tubes that haunted behind his eye lids

Miguel broke all of his mirrors six months in.

Lyla was an easy distraction. He knew this as he developed her more. It was the most basic coping mechanism of escaping reality

Work on Lyla, work on the suit. Become Spider-Man. Throw yourself into a distraction. Justify your existence. Consume your whole life until the shell that you are is overflowing

Lyla and the job made him feel better ever so slightly.

It almost helped dull the burning of when he's gone too long without injections.

Almost.

Things like that tend to fade once their use wears off, though. They always wear off. Then the memories and the flashes would come back.

Finding out the multiverse existed felt like getting shocked with a defibrillator.

It gave Miguel a new shock to keep going. His sleepless nights were once filled with sitting in his workshop, pouring his whole brain into creating his watch

Another project, another mess to clean up, another distraction. This time universes relied on him.

Miguel met the other Spiders and felt a sense of connection. They all held similar grievances, but all dealt with it differently

Some ran. Some had therapy. Some were just unbothered.

Miguel made sure the therapist one was readily available for everyone.

When Miguel found out that there was a universe where he still had Gabriella, he became just as obsessed

Whenever he wasn't working, he would watch the universe

When he died in that universe, he knew he was meant to go

Replacing himself had made him feel alive and like he could actually be a person again. He had everything he needed. He had love. He could manage the Spiders from here

He was wrong

The world broke apart as him and he ran as fast as he could away from the breaking streets. Gabriella screamed and cried in his arms, just like before

He could see Peter B in the distance trying to help people, but it was just as fruitless. Miguel could see them dissolve under Peter's touch

Miguel's eyes widened as his daughter disappeared from his arms. He stopped in his tracks and stared at them

Again.

Againagainagainagainagain

Not again.

It took a week for Miguel to speak to the others.

He bolted up from his sleep, screams ripping from his throat and hands shaking. He watched her die, again

And again.

And again.

Again.

Holding Mayday for the first time almost made Miguel throw up.

Peter B didn't know any better. But he quickly recognized his younger leadwr was struggling with holding his baby

It took Miguel a good bit to get used to her presence

Looking down at Miles, who was only a few years older than his daughter, he felt the twisting pain in his chest.

He didn't want Miles to loose his father. He genuinely didn't. He didn't want to think about how the other Spiders had no idea about the canon when it happened, and that Miles knowingly letting his father die would be as great as a burden on Miles as holding Gabriella in his arms as she died again

Miguel didn't always like what he did, but he felt like his reason was greater than everything else

Miles not listening and putting the whole multiverse in danger had snapped something inside of him

His brain registered the risk of it all happening again. Everyone loosing everything.

Another father holding his daughter, someone who was never to hold his daughter as she died, as their universe destroyed itself. Whole civilizations destroyed over a single person and the weight of that world's demise on shoulders

For a split second, Miguel felt automated as he was suddenly back in that universe. His daughter screaming and crying in his ears. His hands flexed as his mouth moved. He'd only hold Miles for two or three days, his mouth said it to Peter B and Gwen.

Then Miles ran. His world snapped and he couldn't think. He didn't bare his teeth, but his claws had come out. Contain, do not maim.

It wasn't until Miles had placed his hands onto Miguel's suit and sapped the energy did he briefly realize what he was doing. The fall had Miguel scrambling.

Then everything blurred again.

[moondirti]

animalic (6)

← chapter five // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 4k summary: misery makes good company warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, angst, i mean it guys, miguel o'hara is really not nice in this one, fighting, death/extinction, morally questionable characters, weapons of mass destruction, implied drug withdrawal, reader is given a backstory notes: apologies for what's to come. it's okay if you hate me after

“Don’t move. You’ll make it worse.” 

There’s a warm hand cupping the back of your head, callused fingers spread to steady the junction between it and your shoulder. It’s the first thing you notice when you wake; that, and the breath fanning across your face.

You think it odd. Signs of life pound beneath you like the febrile concoction of a dream, burning hot in emphasis that you’d survived. A heavy pulse behind your brow, the headache pinching at every sense until they all dim to conductive static. Your tongue, pasty on the roof of your mouth. The hind of your arm itches, the urge running bone-deep, humming from flesh gracelessly torn apart by a gutter. When you shift to examine it, a fire roars up your neck, the smouldering pain robbing you of any effort. 

(The only other time you’d been this uncomfortable, you were bitten by a spider the third month of your internship with Alchemax. The puncture site didn’t burn so much as the delirium that followed.)

“What did I just say?” 

And, there’s that voice. You find it difficult to discern its more unique attributes, words muffled from behind the wavering pane of your lucidity – yet, even still, it stands as the most tangible thing present. Deep, resonant. Smoked with a ruggedness you can feel in your teeth. It doesn’t occur to you why it seems so unfamiliar; perhaps it’s the fact that you catch it through its source, your ear pressed to a muscled chest. Or, that’s it’s whispering. 

You’ve never heard him whisper. Not to you. 

The need to retaliate swells once you realise who holds you. It’s nothing productive, not the string of questions you should be asking – what’s happening, where are we; but it’s the only natural instinct that overcomes you. When you attempt to make good on it, though, the clutter of jokes, gripes, and snubs tangle in your throat, emerging as little more than a groan. 

And the act wears you more than it probably should, exhausted tremors wracking your frame. A tender ache ripples from a point on your ribcage – separate from the area you’d fractured at the quarry. The pressure here is more centralised, a focused bruise you locate the source of with a wriggle of your elbow, when a rock comes loose and clatters to settle underneath you. It joins a mound of similar rubble, a pseudo-cushion of chalky cement broken off the larger slabs surrounding you.

You assume they do, at least – based on what you can tell of the terrain behind your back. In reality, you have no means to confirm your circumstances. The space around you swims in ink-blot darkness, the type that is almost material, where sheer absence of light could be considered an element of its own. You squeeze your eyes shut, then widen them, and find that there’s no difference between the two. 

So – dark, dusty and… cramped. You’re positioned across Miguel’s lap, his legs running under and perpendicular to yours. Neither of you can stretch them to their full extent, however, forced to cross and bend in unwieldy ways, tangling further in each other's limbs. Your clothes are worn out enough to allow you to detect when any surface of his body – tense abdomen and thick thighs – twitches, thrumming with a molasses-slow tension that starts to diffuse through you. 

Not a scenario of his own choosing, then. 

But the turn of events that might’ve converged to this are lost on you, white noise fluffing the space they’d evacuated. Last you recall, you were staring down a cop car, the lingering comfort of a child’s trust filling you with a remarkable sort of purpose, that which you cannot place. Had you acted against that convict? Or left it up to the man cradling you? 

As if on cue, he speaks. 

“You’re trapped under a collapsed building.”

He says you like he’s not a confounding variable in this equation. You know it’s meant to single your blame in this, stranding it somewhere where you can brood without cross-examining him or why he’s here too. It nests on a well of guilt you keep suppressed for good reason, irking you in a particularly special way. 

“Figured that out for myself, thanks.” Despite the trouble you put into getting the retort out undisturbed, it ends up sounding more unconvincing than not. Miguel waits for the coughing fit you have afterwards to subside before pitching in his acknowledgment. 

“Did you, now?” 

Little shit isn’t even trying to hide his sarcasm. 

You ignore him, continuing with your scepticism. “I’m just wondering why we’re still here.” 

Because it’s a genuine conjecture. While you’re not a part of the educated camp in spider-hero abilities – being so clueless to the extent of your own – you’re far too familiar with that infamous super strength. You’d sensed the difference for yourself; your increasing aptness in carrying hefty weights, the fluidity with which you cruise through life, physically unperturbed. And you’ve been on the receiving end of the spectrum too, your skin littered with scars that point to the sheer power of your companion. 

A few tonnes of demolished concrete should be a walk in the park for him.

He clicks his tongue like it’s obvious. “I pulled under a steel arc in time for the debris not to crush us. If I disturb this pocket, or try to rearrange a tunnel, then I run the risk again.” 

The logic makes sense, as much as you hate to admit it. Of course, that doesn’t stop you from picking at the contrivances in his language. It was you when discussing what went wrong, and now it’s I when it comes to the out. You realise it’s probably unintentional. Somehow, that makes it worse. He must truly believe you’re nothing beyond a malevolent fuck-up; some villain willing to sacrifice herself for the greater demise.

(The latter might have its validity. It’s the former you hold issue with.) 

Likewise, you also ascertain an easy fix to all this – on account of your spectral properties. And, if you were a better woman, it would’ve been feasible. Phase out, crawl through until you breach the open, get help.

It’s long since been established that you’re not that person, though – and you’ve come to accept your own incompetence. You don’t mean to die here; you’re not sure if you want him too either, for all your ire. But your immateriality is a fickle thing, recurring at the most inopportune times, in the smallest increments – a potential problem for the doubtlessly long crawl it’d take to escape. You don’t want to imagine what would happen should you solidify within the walls. 

Resignation seems easier than tempting it. 

Miguel must recognise the option as well. As it stands for him, he can’t afford to let you go, nor is he desperate enough to trust you yet despite it. You don’t bring it up then, maintaining the upper-hand by his misunderstanding of your capacity. 

(Maybe you are evil.

Or, just tired.)

“That’s okay. I think it would be funny if we passed like this.” You pitch, nudging your cheek to urge the smile clearly lacking in your tone. There’s no humour behind your choice of phrase, and it’s a jarring step back from where he’d been, expounding himself. You suppose it might be a clumsy distraction from the exact gravity of your predicament, yet even that rolls over in your brain, not quite satisfactory to dissolve as truth. “It’ll make a nice story for the people who dig us up.” 

His chest puffs, filling with an irritated inhale. In the same movement, his fingers constrict onto your cranial base; it has the adverse effect of bracing your neck for the sudden shift, minimising the soreness triggered by any activity. You decide to take it as the warning it’s meant to be instead. 

“Eres patética.” He murmurs, sinking back down. You wince when his clutch weakens, pain flaring. “And whiplashed.” 

You purse your lips, critical. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Sure.” 

“My arm–” 

“Will be fine.” As if to punctuate, he reaches for the wound. A clink sounds when he taps it. “Used the nanotech off my suit as a bandage.” 

You should have caught that it doesn’t sting like it would’ve if exposed. Similarly, his hands are gloveless. Bare – while the rest of him isn’t. You’d felt the dry surface of his palm, the fixed warmth it emanated, but for some oversight, you hadn’t considered that he was touching you. Skin-to-skin, the simple size of his fists dwarfing you in every measure. 

A stone lodges in your throat. 

“Did– How’d you know?” You pry, referencing the perpetual tenebrosity you’re suspended in. 

What he replies with shouldn't shock you, not as much as it does. But the air’s shifted to a nuanced degree, a hesitation substituting loud anger. It's the awareness that he's just as tuned in to you as you are him, sympathetic to try and redirect you off the brink of death. Or, more likely, it’s the poignant impression of his fangs, wedged in your flesh, his tongue lapping up the very same path. 

(And the wanton moan it’d triggered.)

“I could smell the blood.” 

Oh. 

Truthfully, you’ve no clue whether you respond aloud or keep your contemplation close to your psyche. He admits it almost… awkwardly, like it’s a condition he’s not so fond of himself. Yet it’s one that reverberates in the strained silence, plucking at taut strings that stretch with every passing second. You play it on repeat, stewing over the way in which he spoke; the diction, the stressors, the slight roll of his accent. 

I could smell it. I could smell you. The blood. 

Your life on the run hardly ever allows for moments like these. Over the past year, stress has anchored itself by the dock of your being, streamlining a flow of cortisol to every major organ. Continuity hinges on an alertness to the forces propelling you, and while the occasional wisecrack can alleviate some effects it has on your health, you don’t have the luxury of sinking into whatever fear bolsters it all. 

It’s with him, though – hanging from a crane, or cornered in a pen of his own design. Only ever with him are you slapped with the resounding, festering distress of your own weakness. It consumes you, gnawing on your gut with its brutal teeth, tearing away the indifference you’d built around your systems. How dissimilar the two of you are; a girl unwilling to fight for even herself, and a man capable of wrapping a slash in the dark. 

(He could smell it. And he can probably see, too. 

By just how much does he outmatch you?)

“You’re welcome.” Miguel growls. You scold yourself for your elongated reticence, the pace of your heart overtaking the anxious torrent of thoughts that pump through you. It’s good practice to thank the man who’d saved your life four times over. Be that as it may, does it really count if he’s the reason it was necessary to begin with? He’d dropped you off that crane, he’d swung you a hundred feet high. Him, him, him. 

You curl your tongue, desperate to quell the barrage of resentment that escalates at his prodding. Despite it pulling you from your rapid dissociation, your fight-or-flight peaks, forcing you to face a confrontation you don’t need. There’s nowhere to run – presently, you’re moored into place, his physicality and unique provocation blocking the possibility all together. 

You scoff to placate the spiralling desire to argue. 

It doesn’t work. 

“For what?” You hiss.

All too quickly, his legs spread, creating a trough for you to slide down into. When your ass hits the unforgiving floor, you involuntarily cringe at the contrast it poses to his leg. A calculated effect, you’re sure – so too is the newfound freedom of his grip releasing your head, the crossing of his forearms pushing you away from the post his pecs provided. 

It’s what you wanted, to distance yourself from his overbearing stature. And he manipulates it to his own favour; you’re made to bear your burden, the agony of your injured state tripling as if to exclaim: ‘see?’

Touché.

Nevertheless, it palliates your memory. The chill of the earth under you spikes your nerves, clearing the brume overcasting your day previous. You’d driven a car into that symbiote based on a groundless hypothesis; bold, any scientist would tell you. Yet, as far as your perception extends, it worked. 

“Selfish.” He announces, far from discrete. It’s so unlike him that it smites the ego beginning to coagulate at your remembered success.

Your eyes snap to where you assume his face is, squinting like your glare makes any difference. “Excuse me?” 

Undeterred by the threat inherent in your tone – that which is all talk – he persists. “Who do you think you are exactly, Wraith?” 

The interrogation holds a dangerous quality; again, it feels out of place, a spirit tugging at the strings of his hollow self. 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Why? What would you prefer? Anomaly, banshee? You drag death behind you like it’s a curse, only you’ve opted into it. I told you it wasn’t our place to interfere, and you had to push it–” 

He can be jaded, or subtle. Oftentimes, he’s dismissive and passively rude. 

But Miguel O’Hara is never heedlessly hostile. Not like this. 

“That wasn’t my fault, asshole. I fucking glitched!” 

“¡Órale, estás bien pendeja! Nothing ever is, of course! Has it never occurred to you to take a good look in the mirror?” 

The irregularity scares you. Your voice breaks with it.

“O’Hara–” 

“Because I’ll tell you what I see; a girl who can’t face what she’s done.”

“You don’t know me.” You shake your head, tamping the stiffness in your shoulder. It does nothing to exercise the sharp unease that flays you alive. 

“A self-serving criminal who refuses to listen.” 

“I d– I tried.” Hiccupping, the edge worsens.

“You’d have gone back home–” 

“There’s nothing left for me there!” 

“Like there is anywhere else? You’ve devastated them!” 

“Stop it–” 

“Wrecked entire worlds! I’ve been the only one holding it all together,” He yells, pushing his knees closer to one another. You’re slowly crushed in the process, thighs drawing up to press against your torso. “You’re no victim. You’re no hero.” 

“Stop it!” 

“Tell me I’m wrong!” 

Feverish tears slice down your cheeks, spouting to escape the pressure that balloons within you. Your lungs tighten alongside it, heart aching. It’s progressed past the point of prevention – no longer do you retain control of how this turns out. All you can do is drift; a feather, seized in this tempest, stirred by a disembodied man.

When you don’t respond, preferring to preserve your energy for the sobs that rip from you, he inches closer. You sense it when he repeats himself, his hot breath lining the shell of your ear.

“Well,” His claws sharpen, grazing the small of your back. “Am I?” 

His lisp is more pronounced like this, fangs extended to affect the natural position of his mouth. It warps the undertone, like a pool does light, and sends it back more viscous than ever. He’s uninhibited – an addict missing his fix.

It’s almost impossible to choke the admission out against the hatred churning your stomach. When you unhinge your jaw, it’s a credible wager that you retch all over yourself instead.

“No.” You manage to warble, a mixture of snot and wet misery streaking down your chin. Your wrists stay plastered, allowing the mess to mask your countenance, tucking between your legs in a childlike attempt at comfort. Cruelty crackles – self-propagated now – assaulting your faux-confidence until it plummets to a fraction of what it was. 

Cursed. A wraith – haunting the multiverse with her unfinished business. 

There’s nothing left to declare as his impressions are confirmed. You both mark it, this changed, spoken into existence by your divulgence. By some miracle, if you were to slip his capture, it’d be no more of a victory than the gore crusting your fingernails. Proof for his belittlement; that you truly are so inconsiderate as to further endanger the lives of millions. 

(Would you be able to live with yourself?)

You relapse, agonising over the past week. Not a victim – you’d taken advantage of him with a kiss for an unsure opportunity. Not a hero – you’d punched a robber and gotten a civilian killed in the process. You’d run over a murderer and buried several under an early grave. 

(Can you live with yourself?)

And home–

Trapped, you boil in a pond of your transgressions. It’d been a long time coming – your fault, in fact. You should’ve noticed the water was gradually heating. 

There’d been a dam of careful construction at this bank, stacked tirelessly over the several nights you’d been given to think on what you’ve done. To prevent your clear culpability from catching up to you, to blind others to it too. He’s right, but not about all things. You’ve memorised your reflection at this point. Put it in a line up, and you’ll point your place in hell with facile certainty. 

So, there’s no need to admit anything else. Regardless, his sabotage compels you to. Here, loitering purgatory with the one person who’d never understand; what harm could confession do? His opinion of you skims rock bottom, and you’ve no hope at seeing a priest before you rot. 

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

“I’m not innocent.” You start. “Never have been.”

Alpha Centauri, that was the goal. 

Located only four light years away, it’s the closest star system to Earth; with suns Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman and Proxima Centauri forming a trinary network. All main sequence stars – like humanity’s very own Sol – orbited by suspected habitable exoplanets. With the average chemical rocket, it’d take upwards of six thousand years to get there. 

There lay alternatives, of course. Nuclear fission, with an energy yield of almost zero from its original mass. Fusion, ten times as efficient – still, not nearly enough. Ion accelerators, sunlight capture. Interstellar arks were of no interest; no, you’d wanted to achieve extrasolar travel within your lifetime. Warp drives and hyperspace – all theoretical. 

As an undergrad, you’d settled on matter-antimatter collision. 

The latter, antimatter, exists as an inverted twin to ordinary subatomic particles, with flipped states on every front. Antiprotons – negative protons with oppositely directed magnetism, and positrons – positively charged electrons. When the two meet their counterparts, their entire mass is converted into energy. And, when such annihilation is modelled within engines, a ship can accelerate to ninety percent the speed of light. 

Therein subsisted your only chance to touch the stars. 

Of course, like all hypotheticals, it came with its own array of issues. No natural reservoir of the substance is known, and producing at least one tonne would take more power than mankind has used in all its history. Moreover, it’s near nonviable to store. Any container that has ever touched regular matter would only cause preemptive decimation.

You wrote papers and studied computer-generated prototypes. You argued with professors, and attended pro-conferences. Months worth of minimum wage were blown on trips to Argentina,  where the neighbouring system can be spotted through a telescope, winking above the horizon. When it all started to appear fruitless, you caught wind of Alchemex’s exploits within the field.

It was a young company, hobbling on its feet after a rocky merger with Oscorp. But they were daring, and rich, endeavouring into categories that most deemed nonprofit. You’d applied for an internship, waited months to hear back. By some cosmic karma, it turned out to be good news when you eventually did.

They were already working on manufacturing the antimatter. It was your suggestion that encouraged them to use magnets to store it within a vacuum. 

It looked auspicious. It had been. 

Then, you were bit. 

The spider was from another division – radiation, you suppose. By some breach on account of a more negligent temp, the critter had found its way into your improvised cubicle. And so the story goes; it’d champed down on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger, before promptly suffocating under the cup you’d snared it in. The area stung for a while, venom having directly found your veins. Yet, by the time you’d returned to your dorm, your immunity seemed to have diluted its effects. 

Until, you’d gotten sick. The hysteria was slow to consolidate, starting as a sore throat. You’d used your one day off then, ignorant to just how bad it could get; because the fever only deepened, lesions on the lining of your oesophagus oozing ichor into bile. Your doctor waived the possibility of tuberculosis, mistrusting the notes your instructors sent with you, complaining of in-class fainting bouts. 

You couldn’t miss work, though. Never. Not when you were so close. 

So you stuffed sheets of pills in your pockets and braved each shift with trembling joints. You’d no friends to notice your suffering, and for such an ambitious company, overtime was expected. Sweating through multiple layers of clothing, you kept an eye on your poster of the galaxy and lagged on those long nights. At the rate you were going, you genuinely dreaded a life cut short before you could realise your objective. 

If nothing else, it urged you to work harder. 

Your first milestone came at the one kilogram mark. A party was hosted to celebrate, billionaires invited to gather around the vessel which held such a revolutionary feat. Despite your interloper status, you’d been summoned too, to play big girl scientist and present Alchemex’s future course of action. Your affliction was improving, and you were the inspiration behind the project’s advance. It felt like the biggest night of your career. 

(‘Magnets! What a genius solution.’ From a nobel prize runner up.

‘That ambition will get you far, mark my words.’ The CEO’s cousin.)

In truth, it was the last. 

Because the antimatter had taken centre stage, security slackening with its continued stability. So long as the magnetism wasn’t tampered with, so long as the vacuumed vessel remained airtight, things looked to be fine for your speech. You’d cycled through every known variable, staring down the container, a champagne flute tucked in your sweaty palms. 

Your skin prickled.

The glass smashed to the floor. In your embarrassment, you’d brushed it off as clumsiness prompted by the perspiration – notwithstanding your recount, having seen the drink fall through your mass. Did it matter, though? You couldn’t put it past your illness to cause such hallucinations. It was impossible, a trick of sight.

The festivities progressed, yet the tingle of your nerves didn’t subside. Anxiety – you chalked it up to common apprehension. So, when your boss announced your name for all to hear, and the agitation flared, it wasn’t alarming. You could think of nothing else anyway, honed in to the address you’d practised all morning. 

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

Your gut flipped. Your vision blackened. 

The steps lost depth; you stumbled up them with all the grace of a hunted fawn. 

Today–

Your skin prickled once more, and you collapsed. Through the antimatter’s vessel, through the floor. 

There’s nothing to recall after that. Not for a long while. 

“I don’t become intangible.” Your brow bone rests on the curve of your knee, body curled in a foetal position. “My particles merely… find the best way through something.” 

Miguel has remained eerily quiet throughout your chronicle. You try not to let it dissuade you. 

“So–” 

“Some came in contact with the antimatter.”

“Yeah.” You murmur, moved by an unnamed emotion. “It detonated, naturally, with a force roughly equivalent to a nuclear bomb. Wiped out everyone in the city upon discharge, then everyone in the state with its impact. Or– maybe, I don’t know. I was discarnate for weeks – the explosion had no effect on my immaterial self, and the radiation couldn’t hurt me when that spider damn well sought and failed at it already.” 

You hug yourself tighter. 

“I only witnessed the winter that followed. The blast was large-scale enough to trigger firestorms and a global climate cooling – similar to the one they scare you with when talking about nuclear warfare. Crop failure, famine. Millions died and my home devolved into cataclysm. It was mass extinction,” You school yourself, waving the snivel crawling up your nose. “Because of me.” 

An end by starvation or infection, confined to this tomb, seems a perfectly fitting penance. 

“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?”

chapter seven →

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[luveline]

hiii could I please request miguel walking in on reader crying in secret?? ty!! :)))

thank you for requesting! fem!reader, 1.2k

It takes Miguel half an hour to fix your spider suit, but when he picks his head up from his work desk with a brag waiting on his lips, you aren’t there. He hadn’t noticed you slinking away. Perhaps he should’ve, given his fantastic sixth sense and his habit of awarding you special attention, just you’re quiet when you want to be. 

He sends you a short message through his wristwatch. Where are you? delivered 7:58PM. 

No response. Miguel folds your suit into a square and holds it under his arm, flicking off his workbench light as he rolls his neck from one side to the other. He wanted to finish the repairs before nightfall so as not to disrupt your routine. He quite likes your routine together. In a stressful life, time spent with you is peace he doesn’t deserve. You aren’t a peaceful girl, of course, you’re his idiot, but he knows the stark difference of having you versus not having you. 

He can’t track you without your suit on and your watch doesn’t have that capability, but he can ping your phone. 

You’re in the building still, at least. 

He texts you. Where did you go? I fixed your suit. It’s dinner time soon. 

Loosely translated, it means, Why did you leave? We always eat dinner together. 

Miguel sighs and decides to check the most obvious places first. The alcove of the hallway leading to the laboratory where you like to hide, the arts lounge, the atrium where your friends hang out, and the outdoor area right at the surface of the society. By 8:30PM he’s agitated wondering where you’ve gone, because he should probably know, but he’s not a great boyfriend and you’re not always as honest as you claim. You could be anywhere. You could be with someone nicer. 

He’s pissed. With no choice but to admit defeat, he decides he’ll head up to bed (he’s not going to bed, he’s gonna find you, because you can go wherever you like whenever you like but it’s been a long time since you disappeared without telling him). He cares about you too much, even if he wishes sometimes he didn’t. Not because of you. 

He sulks into the apartment (his apartment, your apartment, you were never supposed to live with him but here you tend to stay), throwing his phone and command pod onto the made sheets of the bed. 

The shower drips in the bathroom. He can hear the plink of water dripping onto the floor, a slow, dysrhythmic pattering. Two seconds, a drop. Three seconds, your breathing. 

He startles. You’re shuddering, a sharp inhalation, that strange sound you make when you’re overwhelmed without being smothered by his shoulder. “Stop,” you say under your breath. Another harsh breath, and a pained whine to follow. 

Miguel has never crossed a room so quickly. For a moment he thinks there must be someone else there, not a fully realised theory but an instinct —you’re telling someone else to stop, because someone is hurting you, because you aren’t alone. But he can hear only your heart, and your breath. So he stops cold by the door without bursting in and forces himself to knock. 

“Mi cielo?” he asks, aiming for tenderness, roughness seeping through. He knocks the door. “I’m coming in, okay?” 

Miguel doesn’t realise the door is locked until he’s cracked the doorframe. 

You stare at him in shock. Tears fall fast but quiet down your cheeks, thick streams of them, the kind to accompany gutted sobbing. 

“What’s wrong?” he says, his chest falling. “What’s wrong? Y/N, tell me. Tell me,” he prompts, secretly terrified at your tears and your quiet. He sounds demanding instead. 

“I’m fine,” you say.

“No you’re not.” He speaks before you can deny it again, not sure what to make of your teary voice or the way you’re smiling; trying to hide. 

“It’s okay–”

“It’s not okay, mi cielo,” —he takes your hand if only to be touching you— “you're crying.” 

“You weren’t supposed to see,” you say, closing your eyes. 

Tears squeeze their way out unbidden. Miguel reaches to his right for the toilet paper and pulls off a few sheets, bundling them in his palm. Careful, hesitant, he brings the corner to your face and begins to dry your tears from your cheeks, your chin, the wet line running down to your t-shirt and then back to your eyes. He shushes you as you shudder, “Shh, lovely. Everything will be fine. Everything… Todo va a estar bien.” 

“It’s fine,” you whisper tightly. 

“It’s fine,” he echoes, much more kindly, though he’s no closer to understanding why you’d locked yourself away to cry so intensely. “Tell me what’s wrong, yes? You tell me what’s upset you.” 

“It’s nothing–”

You try to persuade him but end up sounding even more upset than you had, shaking your head from his touch, receding backward toward the sink. 

“Why won’t you talk to me?” he asks gently. 

“It’s so stupid, Miguel, you weren’t supposed to know.” 

He’d say it was unlike you to be secretive with your feelings. You love loudly, tease louder. You’re spirited and petulant when you feel like it and you’re constantly barraging him with cheerfulness he doesn’t deserve, so why doesn’t your unwillingness to share this with him surprise him? 

“But I know now,” he says, bending to be your height, to meet your tired eyes, “and I want to know what’s wrong so I can make you feel better. Can you let me do that?” 

“I don’t feel very well.” 

Miguel can only handle so much. He uses some of his added strength to wrap you up in a full body hug, your toes struggling to stay on tiptoes and then completely off the ground as he leans back under your weight. “I know,” he says, though he hadn’t, “it’s okay, cariño, I’m here. I’m gonna take care of you.” 

You’re all softness in your off-duty clothes. The rolled neck of a worn t-shirt, your naked arm curling behind his neck and your thighs to his. He doesn’t keep you up for more than a few seconds, just enough to take your weight and hopefully save you the energy it’s taking to stay upright. You sag against him as your socks touch down again. He’s the one thing keeping you standing, and he doesn’t mind. You should know that already. 

“Please,” he says emphatically, “don’t cry by yourself. You have to let me know.” 

“Sorry.” 

He moves his head from one side to another slowly, his nose rubbing along your hairline. “Don’t be sorry. But if I don’t know, how am I supposed to fix it for you?” 

“You shouldn’t have to.” 

“Are you kidding?” He encourages your head back tenderly to meet your eyes. “That’s what we do, hmm? What do you think?” 

You smile. Still sad, still watery-eyed, but a real smile. “Yeah.” 

“Alright. Let’s go sit down, okay? I’ll get you a drink.” 

“So weird,” you murmur. 

“I’m weird?” 

“You’re being really nice to me.” 

Miguel squeezes your arm. “Don’t get used to it, Spider-Girl.” 

[elfwoodfae]

A little sneak peak of something I’m working on for Miguel x reader 🥹

It’s been a little too long since the last time any resemblance of emotion other than hatred or pain has crossed his mind. A mind so broken over time in a race he knows he will never win no matter how much he tries to fool himself with the idea that he will. He won’t, deep down he knows this, he has prepared himself for the inevitable outcome, and yet here he is, knotting the rope that will ultimately hang him, he is a dead man walking and he knows it, its a fate he accepted even as he lives through it, playing all the chess pieces the way they are supposed to be played, even if he now knows what moves he could have done differently. Some days, when he is in the mood he likes to write them down, make a list if you will of how he could have prevented the tragedy, his ending. How he could have saved her.

Or so he tries to convince himself, trying to silence the voices of the dead that weight on what’s left of his mind. The past coming to haunt him once again through what’s left of him, telling him how he knows he would do it all over again and again and again, how he would relive every second of the agony and suffering those past few months have been for him, locked in his mind, in the memories of a life time stole from him, with the constant reminder of his failure dancing through his vision. Is not like he has made it any easier to deal with; videos and pictures he tortures himself with just serve to pick on the wounds that will never heal, living in a constant state of rawness.

He tries every night to forget, to close his eyes and pretend he doesn’t see her, he doesn’t see the ghost of his daughter looking back at him, her eyes void of life, he swears he can smell the destruction to this day, that he can feel his body burning from the speed, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the weight of her body as he held it, still warm, still there, her eyes still open but no life left in them.

[haradasaya]

I know I alr posted this to AO3 but apparently there is a Miguel following here on tumblr and I will be delving into it as much as possible ☺️

Once again thank you to @ashs-stars for the idea and for letting me steal her character, mwah mwah mwah ily girl

CW: explosions, swearing, physcho villain, smoke, reader er gets blown away by an explosion, mild hurt but not bad, talk of bombs/explosives—Miguel being smitten for you, Lyla being the best wing woman, confession, kissing, comfort after hurt, Miguel speaking Spanish (Le amo mucho), SFW fic

••• As much as you hadn't wanted him to come, Miguel had insisted he accompany you on this mission. It reminded you of when you had first been recruited to the group, and Miguel had come along to your first many missions so he could see if you were really trustworthy to be a part of the team. You hated that he felt the need to helicopter monitor you, as you were more than capable to take care of a few bad guys. Besides, you were your universes one and only Spiderperson, and your world wasn't like any others that you'd been to. You could handle yourself just well, and you were annoyed that Miguel felt the need to make you prove that again and again.

When you got to the location of the anomaly, Miguel had sent Jess and a few others in the opposite direction as you and he had gone, planning on having someone at every possible escape route.

"Tell me again why you felt the need to come along?"

You couldn't see his expression through his mask, but you watched the way the lines of it moved as he furrowed his brows. "Did you forget that this anomaly apparently has the power to unravel your DNA with a singular touch? I'm here to make sure none of my agents get killed." He pauses, looking over his shoulder at the alleyway beyond him. "Cute that you think I'd come here just for you though, brat."

You mock a sweet tone. "Awe, big bad Miguel thinks I'm cute? That's so sweeeeeeeeet."

He huffed, annoyed with you. "Keep dreaming, cariño."

"Stop calling me that." You said with a scowl. "You know I don't know what that means."

He smirks. "I know. That's why I do it."

You open your mouth to reply, but hear a sound from down the alleyway, and Miguel motions for you to follow him towards it. You ran with him, hiding behind random objects as you went. Miguel gestures for you to move towards the opposite end of the alley, and he'd follow you from behind. You don't get three steps from behind your cover when an explosion rings through the alley, blasting you from where you were standing, and down the alley where you had come from.

"Kid!" Miguel yells, running to you, dropping to his knees at your side, his mask coming off his face quickly. "Are you alright?"

You cough, trying to catch your breath. "Yeah, I'm fine—just caught me off guard is all."

Miguel helps you sit up, looking around to make sure that you weren't going to get hurt. "Gracias a Dios."

You look up at him, but he doesn't hold your gaze. Instead, his mask phases back onto his face, and he helps you stand. "You're okay to go on?"

You nod, taking a deep breath, and wiping some dust from your suit. "Yeah, let's catch this bastard."

The two of you run down the alley, towards where the dust is settling from the explosion. The closer the two of you get, the louder the sounds of a fight sound. You can't see much through the dust, but your senses tell you to duck, and so you do, pulling Miguel down with you as a fridge or door or something of that size goes flying over your head. He nods at you, before taking back off into the fray.

You hear Jess' motorcycle over to your right, and see the headlights shining through the dust. You head towards it, webs at the ready for whatever you need to do to help, but you realize quickly that Jess is spinning webs around whatever is in the center of her turns, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see another set of webs added into the mix.

Jess' donuts in the center of the alley helped to clear away some of the dust around all of you, and you sense Miguel walking up behind you, watching the scene unfold before him, a pace behind you. When Jess finally stops, catching the gaze of you and Miguel, she dismounts the bike. "He set off the explosion as a diversion. Luckily we had someone at every possible exit point. Was able to get a web on his hands before he could use his power."

The person wrapped up in webs behind her started to yell something, but a web thwips over his mouth, silencing his words and muffling his yelling.

"Great job Jess." Miguel says, walking towards the anomaly. He looked like a fly, wrapped completely up in webs like that, his arms pulled out beyond his sides by webs stuck to the edges of the two buildings beside them, keeping him from using his powers on anyone or anything.

Miguel faces the anomaly, and looks him over. "Doesn't look like much. He didn't cause too much harm to this universe while he was here?"

Lyla appears over his shoulder, analyzing data. "If my info is correct, he's placed more explosives in his time here, but he's somehow kept them from being traced. It probably has something to do with the fact that he's able to take native material and convert it into new stuff—and I can't easily trace native material."

Miguel huffs. "So we found a toughie." He looks over at you. "That's why I needed to come along."

You scoff, switching balance between your legs. "Still could have handled it myself."

Miguel turns back towards the anomaly, slicing the web off his mouth with one of his clawed fingers. "Where are the rest of your explosives hidden?" He says with malice, his claws dangerously close to the neck of the anomaly.

The man only smiles, his eyes wild and his words wilder. "FUCK YOU SPIDERMAN, FUCK ALL OF YOU SPIDERMANS—" He laughs, the most insane and maniacal laugh you'd ever heard. He sounded like some of the heroes from your world, where everything they said and did was laced with feelings of what Miguel had called "uncanny valley". That was normal for you to experience—but here, fighting this anomaly, you sort of understood what he meant.

Miguel turns to Jess. "Shut him up." He summoned Lyla right after. "Do whatever you can to trace his path since he got here. We'll send someone to check everywhere he went if we have to, just do your best.

Lyla chuckles. "What's the magic word?" She teases him. You couldn't help but laugh at that, and Lyla laughs with you. "You know Miggy, I like them. They don't take your shit either."

Miguel frowns. "Please, Lyla. Just do the damn job."

She giggles at him. "Alright, alright, I'm on it."

Miguel turns to you then. "Alright Kid, since you think you could have done such a great job all on your own: why don't you track down the rest of the explosives for us?"

You cross your arms over your chest. "What, and risk getting blown up? How do we know this guy doesn't have some type of resuscitate button?"

Everyone stops and looks at you then. "You mean a suicide button?" Lyla says, likely only being able to translate your words because she was coded to interpret information from other dimensions.

"Sure, if that's what you guys call it here. That thing people hold down when they activate a bomb and if they let go it'll detonate?" You gesture your point with your hands to get your point across.

Miguel rubs the bridge of his nose. "We'll get him back to HQ, and then you can begin your hunt." He reaches into his watch, and throws down one of his cages, the one made of light cells that was impossible to break through. The anomaly wriggles against his restraints, though none of us expected him to get out of either set of cages.

You walk over to Jess, who was also calibrating her bike to the new information that Lyla was interpreting, and Miguel was working with a few of the other agents to secure the anomaly before taking him through the portal.

You look over at him, taking in all that you could about his outfit and demeanor. You couldn't tell if he was trying to say something or if he was still just being insane, but something in your spider sense told you to pay attention to whatever it was—that it wasn’t normal.

You try to tell Miguel to hold on for a moment, but before you can open your mouth, the portal that would take him back to Earth-2099 opens, and the anomaly looks you right in the eyes, giving you a look that says that taking him away from here would be a good thing for him and a very bad thing for us.

"Miguel, wait!" You try to yell, but he doesn't hear you, and by the time he sees you telling him to stop, the anomaly has completely passed through the portal, setting off a series of bombs in the distance, going off in five to seven second intervals, and getting closer by the second.

The Spiderman of this world looks off into the distance. "SHIT! Miguel, what do we do? It doesn’t sound like they're stopping!"

Miguel turns to you and Jess, pointing towards the city where the explosions were coming from. "Go assess the damage, but stay away from the blasts! Save as many civilians as you can but don't get hurt. And Kid!" He says, pointing to you in particular, "See if you can find the source of the rest of the explosives." He turns back towards the group, though it somehow felt like he was still only addressing you. "I'll join you as soon as I can."

You weren't sure, because of the mask and all that, if he had actually looked over at you, or if he was just moving his head in your general direction—but you couldn’t help the twinge in your chest that hoped that he had. You immediately shake off that feeling, cause why did you feel like you wanted him to look at you? He was just your “boss”, the guy you reported to at the end of your missions. There was no reason for you to want that from him, and you scold yourself for even feeling it.

You take off after Jess, a few other agents behind you, forcing yourself not to look over your shoulder at him as you swing away, and he enters the portal with the anomaly. You thwip up to the building above you, following Jess as you swing from building to building. You can hear her talking in your ear, telling you the locations of the bombs and the general direction you were headed, but you were barely listening. You were following the puffs of smoke and dust as they appeared along the skyline. You take a moment to assess the world around you, another dimension that was so different from the one you came from. It was so much brighter, so full of color. You didn’t particularly hate it, but the bright lights weren’t exactly your taste.

Another explosion rang off towards your right, and the pattern clicked into place immediately. “Jess.” You buzz her on your comms. “The explosions are headed for that tall tower in the distance. If I had to guess, they’re headed towards an—”

“Oscorp building. Good call Kid.” Lyla says over the intercom, taking over her thoughts.

“What are you doing here?” You ask her, looking over at her floating form in the corner of your vision. “I thought you were Miguel’s assistant?”

Lyla changes positions, as if she was reclining on a chair with her legs propped above her. “Oh, I am. That should tell you all you need to know about why I’m here.”

“Kid, who are you talking to?” Jess asks over the comms.

Your heart thumps in your chest. “Miguel sent Lyla to watch over us. She’s helping me figure out where we need to go.”

“Already done! You need to head to that Oscorp building before the explosions get there. There is a chance that you and your power will be able to stop it before the bomb detonates and sends the whole city up in an acid raid.”

Your heart beats faster. “You catch all that, Jess?”

“Loud and clear. See you there Spidey.”

You look over at Lyla. “Alright, what’s the real reason he sent you over? He knows I’m capable, and he also knows that I hate it when he questions my capability. So spill it, he must have said something to you.”

Lyla smiles. “Oh come on Kiddo, you know why he sent me. And trust me, he doesn’t question how capable you are. In fact, I would argue that the reason he tags along so much isn’t because he doesn’t know how good you are in the field, but rather that he wants to see it in action himself.”

Your heart pounds harder in your chest, and you were glad that you had on a mask, so that Lyla couldn’t see the red in your cheeks. “What, so he sent you to watch me and report back to him? To show him my abilities because he likes them?”

“Wait, are you actually this dense, or are you joking with me right now? He obviously wants to make sure you’re safe. And since he can’t do that himself right now, he sent me to make sure that happens.”

You look over at her, trying to assess the validity of her statement. I mean, what she was saying was absolutely backwards to what you had been feeling about him all this time. And wasn’t that a weird statement to say, since all you’d learned since Miguel pulled you out of your world was that you were always opposite to what everyone else understood. Damn, you were learning a lot about yourself today.

“Heads up, Oscorp building approaching.” Lyla says, gesturing to the building before you. It was a huge building, the tallest one in the city by far, and couldn’t be missed. “Miguel says he’ll be here in 6 minutes. Don’t die in the meantime, okay?” Lyla says with a wink, and vanishes.

You exhale forcefully out of your nose. Damn them both for taking your head out of the work right now. You shook your head, clearing it. Jess pings you on your comm. “Just pulled up. What’s your 20?”

You huff, latching onto a new building and landing on the roof of the apartment complex in front of the Oscorp building. “Look up.”

Jess doesn’t, but revs her bike to acknowledge you. “We gotta get in there. Can you tell where the explosive is from here?”

You look at all the civilians surrounding the building, workers and tourists walking in and out of the building. “Nothing yet, I need to get closer.”

Lyla pops up at your shoulder again. “There is an entrance on the side of the building that should fit your bike, Jess. Us and the rest of the team will go in the front.”

Jess revs her bike again. “Time is of the essence. Let’s find that bomb before us and this whole city goes up in smoke.”

You glance over at Lyla, who winks, sending you a confident smile. “You got this. Go show ‘em why you’re the best Spiderperson here.”

You smile, filling with confidence, before Jess pings your comms. “We all heard that Lyla.”

The little hologram woman on your shoulder laughs. “Sorry Jess!” And then she vanishes again. You are the last agent to swing towards the building, still using your sense to find the best possible location to enter. You mulled over Miguel’s words from earlier. I’ll join you as soon as I can. Why were those words stuck in your head? And more importantly, why did you want him to get here even sooner?

You don’t have time to think too much about it, and swing into the building through a window on the fourth floor, away from the eyes of any onlookers below. You swing into an empty conference room, grateful that there wasn’t anyone inside of it. You sneak your way out and down through empty halls. There were surprisingly fewer people in here than you expected, seeing how many people were entering it from the outside.

Your senses pull you towards the bottom of the building, somewhere near the base of the structure. After all, if you could take out the foundation, you could take out the whole building. The explosions from outside were moving ever closer, and you knew that you needed to find this bomb, and fast.

“Lyla, anything yet?” You ask her, pulling her from her imaginary hidey hole.

She appears instantly. “Nothing. I have a feeling that you’re closer to figuring this out than I am.”

You focus your sense into where the presence of an object that didn’t belong could be hiding. It wasn’t exactly the intended use of your power, but it was the closest thing that you had to finding it, and if your internal clock was right, you only had two minutes or so to find the bomb here and deactivate it before it took out everyone in the building and possibly the whole of the city.

“Oh, and Miguel says he’ll be here in 90 seconds.” Lyla adds, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Oh, wonderful,” you retort, and Lyla giggles. You take off down another flight of stairs, flinging yourself down the stairwell in order to get down to the bottom as quickly as possible.

“Jess, you here?”

The comms are silent for a moment, before the sound of static fills your earpiece. You only catch bits and pieces of what she’s saying, but it sounds like she’s moving fast. That was a good sign.

You enter the maintenance floor of the building, as low as you could get. Workers are spread out periodically on the floor, all performing random tasks to keep the machinery down here working. You wonder how that anomaly from before was able to hide a bomb down here that hadn’t been seen from where the workers were.

You look over and across the room, trying to figure out where your senses were taking you, even as Lyla scanned the room with her sensors.

“I’m tracing his path now that I know he was here, but you still need to hurry. My indicators say that this bomb is going to detonate in less than a minute.” She pauses for a second. “Also Miguel is going to appear at any second—”

“I got it!” You said, jumping over the railing of the catwalk and landing on the surface below. “The reason that no one saw it—it’s because it’s completely out of sight.” You looked up at the bottom of the catwalk, noticing the rows of cylinders lining the bottom of the walkway. Shit, there was so much of it.

“Lyla, find me the power source of the detonator!” You yell, following the line of explosives in one direction, down the stairs and along the floor. You could tell that the workers were starting to take notice of you, but you didn’t care. It’s only after someone tries to stop you that you finally snap.

“You all need to get out of here! Look, there are explosives here. Get as far away from here as you can!” You yell, still looking for a power source. In the distance, you think you hear Miguel’s voice as he helps usher out the workers, calling for you and Lyla at the same time. She alerts him to our location, but you can’t help but swirl with anxiety and adrenaline. Your internal clock says that these bombs are seconds from going off, with the two of you and everyone else still inside.

Lyla yells for you that she found the source, and you web your way to her location instantly.

You find a small box attached to the end of the line of explosives, a timer set to count down, only 12 seconds left on the clock.

“Fuck!” You yell, trying your best to separate the box from the wires of the bombs, but it seems securely attached to the machine it was bolted to. If only Miguel was here, he’d be able to use his claws or his blades to tear the thing off the—

“Cariño, I got it.” Miguel says from over your shoulder, forcing you to step aside as he grips the box and yanks with all his might.

“No, idiot, you have to cut it!”

Your eyes dart to the timer on the counter: 4 seconds remaining. “Now!”

Miguel’s claws find the wires protruding from the box, and you see him snip the wire of the box with his claws before he wraps you up in his arms, using himself as a shield to protect you from what comes next. You don’t feel the blast yourself, but you feel the way that it blasts you from where you had been, making you fly in the air towards the wall, which Miguel is able to brace you from hitting. The two of you grunt when you collide with the other, waiting for the rest of the explosives to go off around you, but it seems that initial blast is the only thing that happens.

The two of you wait for one, two, three—five, maybe even ten seconds before even daring to move, afraid that something could still happen. But nothing else does.

It’s you who moves first, your head moving to look up at Miguel, who had tucked your head into his chin to brace you in the fall. When he feels you move, he looks down to meet your eyes, expectantly staring into his as if to ask him why he was so close.

“Why did you do that?” You ask, once your voice comes back to you. “Why did you use yourself as a shield for me?”

Miguel huffs, likely taking his first breath since being hit by that blast. “Well, you took the first one earlier. Just thought I’d repay the favor.”

You scoff. “Yeah right O’Hara. Tell me the truth. Tell me what you told Lyla earlier.”

Miguel’s head drops, embarrassed to be caught in the act. “I told that brat not to say anything.”

The brat in question was nowhere to be found, but you were able to find Miguel’s eyes. You maintain your expectant look at him, wanting him to go on.

He stutters his words out. “You’re–well, you’re the best… agent that we’ve had in a long time. And… in these few months that we’ve gotten to… know each other…”

He looks into your eyes, and sees you wearing the most shit-eating grin you can muster. He scoffs, turning his head and letting his arms fall from your sides. “Whatever kid, fucking brat.”

You only laugh at him. “Oh, come on O’Hara, did you really think I’d make it that easy for you?”

He notices the way that you don’t let go of him, and places his hands back around you. You notice, subtly, the way his claws are still extended, as if in a dangerous situation. And maybe he thought he was. You were asking him to admit to liking you after all, which you know is somewhat of a tender spot for him.

“No. I didn’t.” He wrinkles his nose at you. “But that never really bothered me anyway.”

You force down a smile, trying to maintain a serious look. “So. What is it you want to say?”

Miguel can’t look you in the eye, and beyond the tan skin and red eyes, you think you see a blush on his face.

“Oh my God, is the mighty Miguel O’Hara blushing? I can’t believe my eyes!” You joke, teasing him for being so bashful. At this rate, you were going to have to force the words out of him.

“Cállete, you know what I’m trying to say.”

You shake your head. “Nah, I don’t think so Mr. Scary spider. I wanna hear you say it.”

Miguel forces his gaze to find yours again, maintaining eye contact long enough to get the words out.

“Te quiero. Desde el primer momento que te vi, te he amado.” He lowers his head, looking at you through his lashes. “I like you, okay brat?”

Your mouth moves before you can stop yourself, before you can think through the idiotic thing that you’re saying even as you’re saying it. “Kiss me.”

He blinks, rising to his full height. “What?”

“Kiss me,” and before he can get a word in against you, you rise up on your toes, and press your lips to his, lifting one of your hands to twist into the back of his hair. Miguel doesn’t even hesitate, pulling your hips towards his, one of his hands pressing into the small of your back, pressing you into him further. The two of you stay like that, lips locked against each other for some time, before his breath hitches in his throat, and he deepens the kiss, tilting heads to avoid crashing noses as he brings you towards him the way a starving man would bring sustenance to his body. You feel his need, both the physical kind as well as the emotional one, building up within him at the closeness of your body. Miguel had needed this, in the same way that you needed this: in that neither of you knew that you truly did until you had it.

“About damn time,” came a voice from behind them. The two of you split apart to find Jess on the edge of her bike, holding what looked to be a long wire of explosives in her hand.

“How did you—”

“Stop the rest of these from going off? Great question; while you decided to play hero and save your little crush, I was able to grab a section of dynamite, cut it away from its siblings, and ride it far enough away that it didn’t detonate by association.”

Miguel laughed, turning towards Jess—but keeping a hand on your back. “Jess, you’ve saved us again. What does that make now? Eleven?”

“Twelve.” She corrects. “I’m counting it twice since I saved both your asses this time.”

The both of you share a laugh at her comment, still reeling from the events of the last few minutes. Miguel had confessed, and you had kissed. You weren’t dead, and you’d get to go home. What a great mission this had been.

.

.

.

When the rest of the team had been sent home to their dimensions, and all had been righted in the world that mission had taken place in, all that remained was you and Miguel, sitting side by side on the balcony of HQ tower, watching the sun set over universe-2099. He wasn’t quite holding your hand, but his was placed over the top of yours, which was all you could ask for then.

“Thank you for coming on this mission today. You saved my life.”

Miguel turns to you, his turn to wear the shit-eating grin that seemed to be a commonality among the two of you. “Oh, finally going to trust me now, are you?”

You shake your head. “Never.”

He smiles at that, but leans in anyway, asking for a kiss. You accept, kissing him back wholeheartedly. This was right, as Miguel would say—though the word for this in your world was technically “wrong”—but that isn’t a battle that needs to be fought right then. You’d have plenty of time to do that, into the future that you two would carve with each other from that day on. And you would make that future together, canon event or not.