#phyrestartr

[phyrestartr]

The Intern | Miguel O'hara x M!Reader

#NSFW, Age Gap (mid 20s and mid 30s), reader's a homewrecker, Miguel's a cheater, mentions of toxic marriage, male!reader, bussy loading, porn with feelings, Miguel's a bit of a dickhead, top Miguel (for now), bottom reader (for now)

Note: I can't write anything without making it into a series lol I'm writing another part right now leave me alone!!!

-- The Intern --

[ How it Started: 1/2 ] [2/2]

Miguel didn't take interns. He hated them, actually; the way they'd needle him with too many annoying questions, the times they tried flexing their unimpressive knowledge of genetics, the way they'd fail to flirt and catch his eye–all of it ticked him off, made him snap and snuff out their bright, curious flames. He didn't mean to. He didn't want to make future scientists lose steam. But he had a limit, and these day, it was hit way too fucking often.

That didn't change when the tours came through. Actually, between his wife pushing his buttons and the young, bright-eyed scientists eyeing him over, everything just pissed him off more, shortened the limit exponentially. 

And he saw you there, listening to someone with a better temper talk. You didn't look all too impressed. You were maybe a little bored, actually. Your eyes swept across the room in wide arcs, looking for something interesting to land on. That was a feeling Miguel could relate to all too well. 

But your eyes eventually landed on him, somehow. You pursed your lips slowly, like it'd make too much noise otherwise, while your cheeks lifted in amusement. You glanced back to the speaker and back to Miguel, eyebrows gesturing too perfectly: get a load of this guy, eh? 

Miguel's expressionless mask slipped for a moment, and he twitched a smirk. He shook his head and looked back to his work. 

He did, however, glance at you on your way out. You didn't look back at him. 

–

He and Dana agreed to separate. It'd be a momentary thing, a way to work out the kinks in their marriage without more random accusations and hurtful words being thrown at each other on the daily. Miguel didn't want that. He didn't want Gabi to be subject to it, most of all. 

The separation calmed things down quite a bit, down to the point where Miguel wondered why they were arguing so much in the first place; until Dana did a very Dana thing and decided, for some reason, she couldn't take care of Gabi by herself while they were separated. Probably a ploy to get them back together under the same roof. Probably a scheme to manipulate the situation. 

But Miguel could play hardball, too. 

He'd pick Gabi up every day after school, and take her to the lab, but sequestered off in the cafeteria where a security guard was always present. She'd get to snack, she'd do her homework, and Miguel could work knowing she was safe. Not ideal, and maybe a little lonely for her, but easy. 

Checking up on her was another good excuse to walk away from his work, too. And one of the times he passed by, in desperate need of a cup of coffee and boost from his little girl's warm smile, he saw someone sitting with her. 

He watched for a moment as he stirred his coffee. Then, he realized it was you, that random intern from the tour a few months back. You were sat across from her, munching on whatever your late lunch was, and nodding emphatically to whatever his little girl was going on about. Her arms gestured wide and her giggle resonated brightly in the room, drawing some annoyed glances and cooing comments, but you didn't miss a beat, matching her laughter and big gestures. It was nice. 

Miguel's shoulders relaxed a little for once. 

He saw you there more days than not. And the days you weren't there, he often spied Gabi looking around, no doubt wondering where you were. It hurt his heart a bit to see her pout, truth be told, and he started to realize he should probably get to know you if you were inadvertently babysitting his kid. 

So, the next time he found you there, he walked over. 

You were beside her this time, both hunched over her usual tablet full of homework. You were the one gesturing wildly this time, talking too much with your hands as you explained fractions and common denominations and the sort in a way that truly only kids could tolerate and understand. Miguel had to put an end to it if he wanted to talk with you. 

"So, for this one, the little bitch on the bottom is–" 

"Sorry, 'little bitch'?" Miguel interjected, smirking when you jumped and Gabi gasped in delight. "Don't think that's proper terminology. Just a hunch." 

"Daddy!" Gabi called, happily turning in her seat to hug her father. Miguel's mean smile softened into something kinder and gentler.

"Hey, mija. Doing your homework, huh?" He asked as he brushed back his girl's hair. "He's not giving you all the answers, is he?" 

You balked before interrupting yourself. "Woah, hey, no, no, no, I'm makin' her do the stuff 'n the things, don’t worry 'bout it." Woah. Okay. That was a heavy Nueva York accent. Not what Miguel expected. 

"Yeah! I'm doing all the work! Mr.(Name)'s just helping when I get stuck 'n stuff!" Gabi's brows knitted together in concern. "Don't get mad at him!" 

"Yeah, don't get mad at me, Doc–she’s a smart kid, she don’t even need me to do this stuff for her, y’know?” 

“Well, I already knew that.” Miguel smirked as you huffed. He sat down on the other side of Gabriella and peered across her tablet at you. “You’re an intern, right? You were at the–”

“The tour, yeah.” You nodded a bit and propped your elbow up on the table before resting your cheek against your palm to watch Gabi solve her equations. “Saw you, too. You looked pretty pissed.”

“Intern day isn’t my favourite day,” Miguel offered with an unbothered shrug. 

“Yeah, I figured. You looked like you wanted to light ‘em on fire." 

"I could've, but then I'd be out a free part-time babysitter."

You laughed lightly, and Miguel caught the charming dip of dimples light up your face. "Oh, so that's how it is, huh? Guess I ain't mad at that. Gabi's a good kid, reminds me of my niece." 

Miguel raised his brows a bit. A niece. "Huh. Guess that explains a lot." 

"Dunno what you mean by that, but I'm gonna hope it's a good thing." 

Miguel smiled a bit. "It's a good thing." 

You smiled, too, though a bit more smug and proud. "Yeah? Good." You glanced up at the clock on the wall and sighed, the cute tilt to your lips suddenly vanishing. 

Gabi caught on and sent a powerful pout your way. "Already?" 

"Yeah, sorry, chica. Gotta get back to work." You stood up and offered your hand to Miguel. "Didn't introduce myself. I'm (Name)." 

Hm. Miguel liked how that sounded. 

"Miguel. Miguel O'hara." But you probably already knew that, though you had the decency not to point it out. 

"Nice to meetcha, Doc." 

You shook his hand and ruffled up Gabi's hair before seeing yourself out, a sudden haste in your scrambling steps as you checked the time again. Hah. You must've been late for something. 

"He's nice," Gabi said. Miguel's eyes fell back to her. 

"You think so?" He's not bad-looking, either. "You're okay with him? You feel safe?" 

"Ah-huh, ah-huh. He's not mean." Her big brown eyes sparkled up at Miguel, then. "I like 'im! Are you gonna be friends with him?" 

Miguel glanced back your way, surprised to see you standing by the elevators and glancing back at him. You looked away when you got caught, but turned back again with a little wave, like you’d realized turning away looked awkward and suspicious and had to rectify it. 

A light smirk tugged at Miguel’s lips. “Yeah, maybe.”

–

It started with chatting at lunch. Then, it turned into light touches on the shoulder and your thieving hands plucking whatever sort of drink or snack Miguel held in tired hands. And then, well, it just got worse. 

Miguel growled into your ear as he held you pinned against the wall, his hips slamming up against yours, driving himself deep into your core. To your credit, you held your voice well, only letting the slightest peeps and squeaks out when the older man happened to hit your soft spot in his wild momentum. It’s not that it would’ve mattered, though; the Halloween party’s music blared too loudly in the cafeteria for anyone to hear you getting fucked braindead in Miguel’s office. 

“Mmmmnnn–Doc, wait, wait, ow, ow, ow–” Your thighs constricted around his waist in a panic as you hissed and dug your blunt nails into his massive shoulders. 

Miguel paused his cruel tempo and finally took a second to breathe. “I–what? You okay?” He asked, brushing some of your messy hair from your face. The corner of his mouth quirked with amusement as he was reminded of the dried fake blood trailing down your mouth, and the glue-on fangs you had set to your canines. You looked quite cute as a fucked-out vampire intern, he had to admit. 

You nodded weakly as you panted. “Y-Yeah, ‘m good, you’re good.” You tilted your head back and bonked it on the wall behind you, no doubt influenced by the alcohol in your veins. “This wall sucks. Hurts my back.” 

Ah. Miguel probably shouldn’t care. This was just a fling, some stress-relief from his frustrating marriage.

But he was too weak, apparently. “Tch. Picky,” Miguel scolded into your ear before pulling you off the wall. 

“Picky?” You repeated, clinging to him desperately. 

“Incredibly picky.” He walked a few steps, carrying you with his cock still buried deep inside of you, and rested you on his pristine desk instead. “Better?” 

You sighed and pulled your shirt down more while you both got situated. “Yuh-huh.” You looked at him with that infuriating, lazy smile and wriggled your hips against him. “Continue.” 

Miguel’s eye twitched. He couldn’t help but feel like he was accidentally subservient to you for that split second. He was supposed to be in control, not you. 

“Smug brat,” Miguel scoffed before hoisting your legs over his shoulders and pistoning into you cruelly. 

His core ached with want as you arched beautifully off his desk, and through the buzz of booze, he admired you; your own heavy cock wept against your stomach as your diaphragm stuttered with each needy dive into your messy heat. Your face flushed a captivating crimson while your eyes fluttered and shone with unspent tears clinging to your lash line. Then, your stupid costume teeth bit into your lower lip as your voice started to break free from its restraints and pushed by your bobbing Adam’s apple, letting new whimpers and clipped moans fill his office. 

“Doc,” you whined, screwing your eyes closed and fisting your hand around your length. “Doc–” 

Oh. Oh no. You were cute. Really cute in the way you started letting out bubbling praise and babbled wants, in the way your free hand clawed at his arm to just touch him and hold him while your high threatened to push you off the edge and into that endless spiral. Miguel hadn’t felt this wanted in a long, long time. He hadn’t been showered in praise, told how good he was, given someone’s full attention for even longer. 

He couldn’t remember the first time he came first, either. 

Because he did, with his teeth clenching, his thrusts breaking down into something erratic and out of tempo, he spilled inside of you. Electricity pulsed through every synapse of his nerves, bringing a wash of cool, prickling energy to his palms and curling fingers as he gripped on you harder, tighter, jamming himself inside of you with a reckless abandon. 

“D-Did you–?” You asked. Miguel caught your gaze, and another gush emptied out of him–your eyes, wide and doe-like in surprised amazement, were too captivating, too endearing. And when you realized that, yes, you’d made him cum first, you were quick to reach the same peak. 

Miguel was the one to moan this time. Your body clenched down around him in desperation to hold him still while your own white-hot bliss ripped through you. Pearly strands of white roped across your trembling hand and your stomach, one after the other, until there was nothing left to give. But with a sharp slap to your ass, Miguel found there was just a little more you could both give. 

“Good boy,” Miguel mumbled, voice thick and full where it trilled. He gave you another good spank. “Good boy.” 

Miguel slowed his hips gradually, slowly catching his breath in tandem with your wild panting as the afterglow stayed where the too-hot sear faded. His nerves relaxed with his body. His mind soon followed suit, too, which was a problem and a relief; a problem because he didn’t feel a shred of guilt, but relief in the realization of how simple this exchange was. Just sex. With someone he could tolerate.

“Shit,” you breathed. You glanced down at the mess you’d become, and grimaced. “C-Can a good boy get a, uh, a tissue or, like, five?” 

Miguel rolled his eyes. He popped open one of the drawers to his desk and pulled out a tissue box and set it beside you before, like the bastard he was, he pulled out of you without warning and watched your hole clench around nothing before glossy whiteness oozed out of you. He ignored your sharp complaints in favour of enjoying the show and meanly stuffing his cum back into you before, for a third time, giving you a slap on the rear like you were a good ol’ used truck. 

Miguel snatched the first tissue to clean himself up and tossed it away, tucking himself back into his pants and straightening his clothes out like nothing happened, before turning and walking away. 

“Hey, wh–seriously?!” You cried (or whined, or complained) at his back. 

Miguel smirked to himself before calling over his shoulder, “Make sure you clean my desk up, too. I’ll get you kicked out of the program if it’s not in perfect condition tomorrow morning.” 

But he almost crumbled under your sweet, cooing pleas for him to come back, to stay a little longer, but thankfully, a whirlwind of petty insults were thrown at his back when he reached the door. And he found the strength to keep going, to subject you to his little game. 

A cruel game of torturing his favourite intern.

[miguel-owhora]

About you GN readers post

I totally agree, despite it saying "GN reader", it's either like a 6th sense or just a knowing that it's still, directed towards fem readers because it's so eerily similar to fem writing.

Take example how they even portray us as the reader

In Phyrestartr (the person that made 'the intern') series where is y/n x Miguel (solely male reader but like even then?)

The way they write us as the user is unique and just, you know it's more open because even masc seeming women for some posts is just.. a mean girl.

Like, some woman who pushes around Miguel just to get dicked down then an actual masculine woman who isn't like a norm, isn't the overall "ooh look at me I'm more mature for doing this"

Or having gn readers seem so disgustingly similar to fem you might as well make it fem reader

And when they go "gn reader but with a cunt." Like - hello? You just want a woman by that point..

🌙 anon

my brain doesnt work rn n im slow so im havinf a hard time deciphering this but idk, imo i actually like their series lol mostly bc i think its written pretty well 🫠

[phyrestartr]

The Intern [2] | Miguel O'hara x M!Reader

#NSFW, Age Gap (mid 20s and mid 30s), reader's a homewrecker, Miguel's a cheater, mentions of toxic marriage, male!reader, bussy loading, porn with feelings, Miguel's a bit of a dickhead, top Miguel (for now), bottom reader (for now), blowjob, reader gets lectured and likes it, reader has daddy issues

Note: heheheheh

-- The Intern --

[ How it Started: 1/2 ] [2/2]

Miguel had to admit, he was surprised–he didn’t expect you to carry on like nothing happened.

Most people he’d fucked around with in the past, be it in school or during his tenacious dating life, would stomp their feet and quit whatever club, sport, or job they’d joined just to get close to Miguel, just to get a shot with him. He couldn’t blame them. He saw himself as a pretty good-looking guy, a smart man, one that took care of himself and could turn on the charm without even trying; he got what he wanted more often than not, and that included the people who threw themselves at him. He always wondered why they thought they’d somehow cement themselves into his life after just one night. 

But then there was you. You, who still sat with Gabi when you had the time. You, who still helped her with her homework, who still listened to her long-winded rants about whatever movie she obsessed over that week, who still got the shy little thing to talk and smile and laugh. It made something weird and thick weigh down Miguel’s chest, like molasses found a way to suffocate him from the outside. Maybe you didn’t deserve to be fucked and forgotten like the rest. 

And he found you there, still, on a day where Gabi was busy with a playdate at the Parker’s household. Maybe this was the best chance he’d get to talk to you again. 

“Alone, huh?” Miguel asked before sitting across from you, a cup of coffee warming his hands. “Kinda sad.”

You sighed and looked out the window, filled to the brim with drama. “You’re tellin’ me. I got abandoned by a kid. This is worse than bein’ stood up, let me tell ya.” 

Yikes. Was what Miguel did the same as standing you up? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to think about it too much. 

"Right, right." Miguel cleared his throat and leaned in a little. "About the other night–" 

"What?" You asked, looking a little too dumb for your internship spot suddenly. 

"Halloween." Miguel looked at you meaningfully and your lips pursed slowly, just like the day he first saw you. Miguel gave a tight-lipped smile. 

You leaned back in your seat and crossed your arms. "I, uh, dunno if this is the right place to talk about that. Dunno if there is a right place to talk about that, if 'm bein' honest." 

"Let's talk in my office," Miguel said, not offering room for argument or questions as he stood and started walking. 

"Wh–now?" 

"Yes, now." 

–

Well, you were supposed to be talking, not blowing him under the desk. Thank god the department heads got their own private spaces. 

One of Miguel's big hands fisted in your hair, holding back your soft locks so he could get a good look at your face as it twisted in concentration. You took him too easily for how big he was, each languid dip of your head welcoming him down your tight, hot throat until–until–

"Mierda–" Miguel pushed your head down to his base, forcing your nose flush up against his well-trimmed hair and blushing skin. You groaned and gagged as he bucked into your mouth and unloaded thick, sticky strands of cum down your throat. You swallowed around him, doing your best to take it all down. 

A harsh bite from you had Miguel letting go and leaning back in his seat. He panted and rubbed his face, but his eyes snapped back to you as you took your time getting off of him. He expected you to pull off and make a mess while you snapped and scolded him, but you went slowly, not rushing. 

Your tongue worked him through the aftershocks, rubbing under his length and thoughtfully tracing the thick veins and sensitive muscle still pulsing from your pampering. Miguel's fingers carded through your hair again as he watched you work; your hand slipped up and gripped his base once enough was out of your mouth to hold. You ran your tongue around him once, twice, thrice, before sucking on that thick, darkened head for much longer than necessary. Maybe you just wanted to be thorough. Maybe you just couldn't get enough of him. 

"Gonna get me worked up again, 'f you keep doing shit like that," Miguel warned, something of an excited laugh fluttering through this soft panting. 

You took a second to swallow (Oh, God, you were torturing him) before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Do you want me to get you all worked up again, Doc?" 

That pesky hand around his shaft tightened before stroking him firmly and fully. Miguel sighed and melted into his chair. He could probably let you pamper him for hours, if his sex drive were to be trusted. Maybe he could–

"Kidding," you said with a mean wink. You kissed the tip of his cock before letting go and parking your ass on his desk. "So. About Halloween?" 

Miguel blinked away the whiplash and scrambled to tuck himself away. "I, uh–yeah. Halloween." He nodded to himself in thought, definitely remembering what he wanted to discuss. 

You stared at him, so expectant, before leaning in and resting your elbows on your knees. "N'awe, did I suck the brain cells right outta your pretty head, Doc?" You fake pouted, and Miguel scowled. 

And he blushed. Just a little. "I just–I was just–y'know what? Maybe you deserved it."

"Pft. I deserved what?" You asked, leaning back onto your palms then. “Bein’ hit then quit?” 

Miguel frowned. His brows drew together and his jaw set uncomfortably while he looked away. It seemed to make you a little uncomfortable by the way you moved to reach toward him before deciding against it. Your hand combed through your hair instead and you sighed, surrendering. 

“Look, I–if I seriously expected the royal treatment from a guy totin’ a wedding band on his pretty lil’ finger, I’d be a shockin’ moron, alright?" You sighed and rubbed your face with both hands. "I mean--it's just s'pposed to be sex, man. Sex ain't complicated like that." 

Miguel narrowed his eyes at you. "I’m–what are you–sex is complicated." His palms landed on your thighs as he leaned in. “You don’t actually think–”

"Sex is busting and moving on with life,” You interrupted sharply. You grew tense for a moment, but forced a relaxed laugh. “I'm kinda surprised you didn't get me fired, if I'm being real."  

The realization hit Miguel fast and hard, knocking the goddamn wind out of his stupid lungs--you were the type of guy left in the dust, the sort that shit heads like Miguel hit and quit, fucked and forgot. The sorry dregs of an exciting sex life filled with names he didn't care about and some he couldn't bother to remember. But Miguel knew your name. But did that even matter to you?

"But, uh…I should get goin', so. Yeah. Good talk." You made your move to shuffle off the desk, but Miguel's hands on your thighs didn't budge. "Oy, I gotta go, old man. You hard of hearing already? Should I call the nursing home or–" 

"Santa Muerte, do you ever stop talking?" Miguel sighed and shook his head. "I haven't said my piece yet, kid." 

You pursed your lips, probably holding back some cursed joke about giving him a blowie, and nodded. "Okay. Say your piece." 

"I will. And you're gonna shut up while I talk, got it?" 

"Got it." 

"Good." Miguel took a deep breath to calm the storm in his chest. "First of all, you've got the wrong idea about sex. It matters. Even if you're just sleeping around, it's because you're looking for that connection. It's a good thing. A beautiful thing. So, I don't want to hear you say all this shit about sex not mattering. Especially when you're talking about sex with me." He looked you up and down, and the fond feeling curled up his chest stretched and lazed like a cat sunbathing. "Got it?" 

You nodded, a vibrant dusting of red saturating your skin. That doe-eyed look was back on your face, just like the first time you'd hooked up with him in his office. He really did adore it. He maybe kinda adored you. 

"Good." He fidgeted with your slacks, pulling on the crisp material with busy fingers as he thought about sentence structure and syntax and connotation and–and– 

Just say it, Miguel. "I shouldn't have left you on Halloween." 

You laughed shyly. "I--what?" He watched you rub your cheek like you were trying to rid yourself of the scarlet blush staining your skin. Miguel had to admit, your reactions were doing wonders for his ego. 

"I said," He started, leaning in a little, lowering his voice. "I shouldn't have left you on Halloween." After a pause, a beat to get you to say something, he continued, "I'm sorry, alright? It's not happening again." 

Another laugh (more like a giggle) bubbled out of you, just as nervous and shy as the last. Your hands fussed with your hair and your tie, your lab coat and your cuffs, until your nerves calmed a bit, the slow circles rubbed into your thighs helping to ease you down from hysteria. It was embarrassing. You were embarrassed. But you were happy.

"Y-yeah, alright. Cool. Neat." You coughed. "Awesome. Uh, I just–you–I have to–" and you leaned down, almost tumbling off the desk, and kissed him. 

Miguel hummed deep in his chest–a heartfelt welcome to your needs and wants. His chair shifted slightly as you haphazardly slipped off the desk and into his lap, expertly never breaking the kiss, and getting comfortable; your arms looped around his shoulders, your hands fisted and carded through his hair, your thighs rested on either side of his slim waist. 

“You’re shockin’ hot when you’re bein’ nice t’ me,” you mumbled against his lips, maybe a bit into his mouth. “But in that, y’know, authoritative dad kinda way.” Your breath stuttered when a mischievous hand slipped into your slacks and cupped your toned ass with a firm squeeze. 

Miguel smirked. “Daddy issues, huh?” Your small scoff and the firm tug of his hair answered him. His smirk warped into a grin. “Want me to scold you more, huh? You get off on that?” 

“You keep talkin’ shit and I’m calling you papi in public, dickhead,” you mumbled as you fumbled with the zipper of his pants. You paused though, and looked up in thought. “But you could help me with my taxes. That’d be really sexy of you.” 

Miguel blinked stupidly for a moment before chuckling and shaking his head. “Why am I not surprised you’re shit at taxes?” God, you were cute. 

“Hey, hey, I’m not shit at them, I just hate them.” You shrugged before very casually slipping his hard-on out of his pants and giving it a few preparatory strokes. “Could use some tips.”

“Or an accountant,” Miguel offered. It was your turn to blink dumbly. “You think I handle my own money? I pay someone to do it.” 

“Huh. You’re seriously in a different tax bracket.” You squeaked when Miguel somehow managed to rip down your slacks down to your mid-thigh. “Hey–” 

“I’ll buy you a new pair.” He helped the pants off of you while you half-stood to get the damn things off, letting them hang off one leg in your haste to get the party started. “And I’ll get my accountant to take care of your taxes.” 

That had you beaming. “I think we’re entering sugar daddy territory, Doc.” You grinned between the sweet kisses you dotted along his jawline. Miguel felt the barest scraping of teeth against his skin, and his cock swelled more. What he wouldn’t give to let you bite and marr him as you wanted. 

But he couldn’t, not with Dana’s skeptical eyes and Gabi’s naive glances watching him from every angle. 

“It’s our little secret,” Miguel whispered with a kiss left against your cheek. 

Your lips found his again, letting your  impish smile sear his skin with sanguine intent, like a contract signed with the devil. 

Miguel would do anything to keep extending that contract. 

[phyrestartr]

Vampire | Miguel x M!Reader

Vampire!Miguel x Reader W/C: 5.9k

#NSFW, vampires, blood, gore, violence, bottom!reader, top!Miguel, mentions of sex work, mentions of assault, it's kinda cute idk, posessive behaviour, questionable relationship, reader is morally grey, reader is lowkey a criminal though lol, Johnny Blaze = Nic Cage 5ever sorry not sorry

Note: I FINISHED IT! Lost steam with editing so some bits may be kinda weird and word-y, but I really enjoyed writing this honestly :clap: ty guys for voting for me to finish this o(--( I actually finished it so quickly wtf--

--

Vampires. Blood-sucking, man-killing, devil-calling creatures. Many feared them, even now, even after the legends of Dracula faded into obscurity and out of the minds of mortal men. But there were some who kept weary watch on the old castle looming before your meager town: older folks, the ones with bleached scars and haunted voices, with quivering hands and a phobia of the dark. 

You thought they all spun tales, convinced themselves of a time that never happened thanks to whatever their parents hushedly told them come the waning of the sun. “Don't leave the house after dark,” “be wary of the man you know not,” “pray to God for his protection,” is what you figured they'd been told. You couldn't blame them. Not really. Mass hysteria, mass lies told to the young had a penchant for warping their minds, destroying their futures. 

But still, you'd listen. Face alight with a smile, one ear turned their way as you poured drinks for whatever patron came bumbling your way that night. There was one man, one who claimed to have been touched by the devil himself, momentarily transformed into something wicked and unholy, who frequented the establishment. 

“Come on now, Johnny,” you chided with a laugh, “you don't really believe all that rubbish. Touched by the devil? You Americans really are the dramatic sort, aren't you?” 

“You don't need to believe all of it,” Johnny said mildly. “You just need to believe a sliver of it. It'll do you some good. Keep you safe.” 

You smiled to yourself as you busily made a drink for a new customer. “Yeah? Keep me safe from what, exactly?” Your eyes met his, then, and you found your blood stood in place for a moment. 

“You know what.” The devil. He'd said it too many times to count without uttering his name. “Just be smart.”

“I'm always smart,” you said with a phony laugh, the sort you used to lull women and men into some cheap sense of comfort. 

“Smart people do dumb things, too.” He took a swig of his drink before peering down at the amber pooling against crystal. “Like sneaking around old, unhallowed castles.” 

You pursed your lips. “I'm just curious, old man, you don't need to worry. I've not been inside, yeah? Just looked ‘round the outside of the old place.” That's probably filled with loads of goods. 

But Johnny only stared at you, calculating, thinking. It almost unnerved you. 

“Just be careful.” 

And in that moment, a man whose name you didn’t know, but whose body you knew too well, walked into the bar. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his frame unnaturally tall, and from the glimpses you were allowed of his face hidden away under the brim of that hat, you remembered strong lines and proud cheekbones. His eyes, a bizarre colour, always glimmered ruby in the firelight thanks to some strange disease you never quite remembered the name of, and his hair, a dark oaken hue, wisped like tendrils of shadow rolling off his strong neck. 

He didn’t look at you, but you couldn’t look away. Your gaze followed him to where he found a quiet seat off to the side by a small table. He wouldn’t order anything. He never did. He only ever waited for your shift to end. 

“Kid?” Johnny prodded, freeing you from your momentary curse.

You blinked and sputtered, nodding in earnest to whatever Johnny had said. “I–right. Careful. I’m always careful.” 

–

Just be careful.

But that was impossible with this otherworldly spirit around you, waiting for you every other night just for the sake of bedding you, and leaving before morning with nothing but a stack of bills (or sometimes some jewelry, if you were lucky) to remember him by. Your favourite client by far. Your only client, per his request.

Your fists twisted into the bedsheets as you gasped with every brutal crashing of the man’s hips against yours as he took you from behind. He was in a bad mood tonight, it seemed. Normally, he liked to take it slow, he liked to savour his meal, but for some reason–

His hand clasped over your mouth when his teeth tore into your neck again. The cry that left you was hoarse and tired, but not so surprised, no; the man had his kinks, and one just so happened to be biting. He did quite the number on you, too, always breaking skin and leaving scars and scabs in his wake. But it felt good. It felt right to be claimed. The greedy, ugly little part of your heart wanted people to know you were taken and owned by this strange, captivating man.

“Fuck, I–” You buried your face into the mattress as another orgasm hit, striking your dull nerves like hammer on hot iron thrust after thrust. Soon enough, you felt his body stutter against yours just before an uncanny, liquid gold filled your guts and seeped into your core–he was finally done. Finally. Though part of you wished it didn’t have to end. 

His teeth, the pointed, feral things, dislodged from your neck before he ran the flat of his tongue against the weeping wound. Somehow, that always staunched the bleeding. You didn’t quite understand it, but you weren’t exactly well-versed in medicine.

“Tired already?” He mocked in that smokey, American accent. “Thought the young had more than that to offer.” The purr of his voice soothed the pulsing start of a headache as you came down from your high. Yet another strange effect he had on you. 

You took a good handful of moments to catch your breath before you tried to hazard an answer. “I’m–you’re in some kind of mood, darling; can’t blame me for your brutality.” You turned your head to rest your cheek against the scratchy sheets, and the beast took the opportunity to leave nips and kisses along your jaw. 

“Tch. I’m just reminding you who you belong to. Where you belong.” Sharp teeth grazed your skin again, and you shuddered. “No one likes to see theirs fawning over another man.” 

You strained to look back at him. “You–you mean Johnny? He’s not–I wouldn’t let him bed me, are you mad?” A rough push of his hips against yours reprimanded you. “H-He’s a mate, love, that’s all.”

The man twitched. “A mate?” 

“A friend, you bloody idiot.”

He relaxed, but still sought confirmation. “A friend.”

“A friend, indeed. Father-figure, maybe.” With a bit of effort, you managed to wriggle free from the strength of the man pinning you in place, and laid on your back to gaze up at him. “I’m not interested in him, he’s not interested in men, so you needn’t worry a thing.” One of your worn hands reached up and smoothed over the curve of his sharp cheekbone, drawing a pleased hum from the chamber of the beast’s chest. 

“Fine.” He rested his weight on you, and you sighed, content and warmed. But that bony chin digging into your chest was a tad bit fucking irritating. “Then if he’s not trying to fuck you, what makes you listen to him for hours on end, hm?” Hah. Annoyed. Jealous. Quite endearing. 

“He has stories to tell,” you offered. “Words about the devil and the curse of the undead. About Dracula and that old castle.” 

The man’s brows raised in interest. “Oh? And you like ghost stories, is that it? Here I figured I'd be enough to keep your mind entertained,” he said with a taunting smirk, like he thought your suggested belief in those spooky tales was laughable. 

Heat washed over your face. “I–you–shut up, I just like me a good story, is that so wrong? Tch, stupid American.”

He laughed, a sound you adored to hell and back. “I’ll keep it in mind. Might have a few good stories up my sleeve, too.” His head tilted the slightest bit. “Maybe then your eyes won’t wander.”

“Terribly jealous one, aren’t you? I never would’ve guessed it.” You raked your hands through his hair and he sighed, deep and ancient. But your words were true–this man, your mysterious client-turned-lover, he captivated all wherever he traveled. With so many eyes on him, why did he want you to look nowhere else but to him? 

Greedy man. That’s what you decided. He wanted everything and more. 

“Other men don't get to look at what's mine,” he mumbled after a time of you pampering him with pets and scritches. “And you're mine, for the record.” 

“Hm. I quite like the sound of that.” 

“Then marry me.” 

“I'm not sure I can,” you lamented. “I find myself in trouble too often. It puts me on the run, jumping from town to city and back again.” 

“You'd never have to run again if you let me have you.” He picked himself up and loomed over you, brushing his nose against yours as he spoke against your lips. “You'd be safe, cared for, never want for anything. None of those sacks of shit would would lay a finger on you again.” His lips trailed down, brushing against the thick vein in your neck. “I think it's for the best if you agree.” 

You almost argued back, but the large hand engulfing your throat gave you pause. He didn't hurt you, no, but gave you a silent warning. The power that man held over you contradicted his weakness to your wants and desires, and twisted your thoughts into unorganized knots. 

“I'll think on it,” you breathed, not wanting to say yes but unwilling to say no. You didn't want marriage, but commitment was a tantalizing idea. You'd just never thought it'd happen to you. 

His eyes came back to yours again. Your heart fluttered at the glints of carmine shimmering in candle-lit eyes. God, he was beautiful. 

“I better like your answer.” 

–

You left. You hated doing it, you hated running from your problems and whatever seemed to haunt you day to day, but too much happened in too short a time. 

For one, the landlord demanded more and more rent money from you when he noticed your gifted jewelry and newly tailored coat, and then, when you didn't give it to him, he took to trying to get payment another way. You shot him, obviously. 

Which led to your second reason for leaving–you'd shot a man and fled the scene, unknowing if he was alive or not, and uncaring of the outcome, quite frankly. You figured the lowlife would be more pressed about the money than dying, anyway. 

And third, the bar you worked at found out you'd been swindling and stealing on the job, pocketing tips and taking home near-empty bottles to refill with something of your own design to sell on the streets. Admittedly, it was fine work, but you'd long abandoned that method of money-making once that stranger wandered into your life and offered you more cash than you could imagine.

But you liked that bar. You liked those patrons. No strings attached.

And that's why you were back. Not with the intention to stay, no; you were back to scout out the castle after getting confirmation from some university lads about how valuable the old place was. You figured you could find enough in there with the scoundrels you'd come with, and maybe you could pay the old owner back before leaving for good. 

You'd never have to run again if you'd let me have you. 

Maybe you should've just said yes.

– 

The castle stood beautifully, even with the screams of the slaughtered ringing through the halls. It was big, too, eagerly letting you get lost in its enchanting halls and inviting rooms as you tried in vain to remember the way out. 

That's when you crashed into one of the uni snobs you'd come with, Harry. He was a mess, clothes and hair out of place for once, with a spray of sticky blood coating his face and white shirt. Osborn must've seen their tormentor. 

He grabbed your shoulders as you grabbed his arms. “We have to go, we have to go–” he chanted, pulling and pushing you in undecided directions. 

“Osborn, where did you see it? Where–” Another scream gave you a hint. Your eyes snapped down the hallway, staring deep into the torchlit halls and finding nothing but the unknown staring back. 

Then, there were footsteps. Slow, methodical things that rung to a tune hidden in your memories.

“We have to go,” you whispered, like that'd help. “Osborn, we have to–” a splitting pain electrocuted your senses and sent you stumbling backwards. The world spun. Your head ached. Funeral bells shrieked. Worst of all, that dress shirt and that fancy jacket you loved so much were stained suddenly, a foul colour of darkness that reeked of pennies and iron. It took you too long to look back to the student, and to see the smoking pistol held out in his shaky hand. 

“I had to,” Osborn whispered, so, so haunted. “I had to. You understand.” And quite frankly, you did understand; wounding a lamb to leave behind for a wolf to indulge in was a sure way to let a farmer escape. 

Harry took off. You grasped your stomach and leaned hard against the wall, trying to pull yourself together to make some kind of run for it before those languid steps found you and cut your story short. But you felt so tired, so dizzy. The red weeping under your hand and the bewildered pants leaving you left you colder and colder. You wondered if Osborn had shot himself in the foot with this one (hah), killing the sacrificial lamb, rendering it useless to what was believed to be a vampire of all things. They devoured the living, not the dead. 

Clack, clack, clack. The haunting echo of fine shoes on wooden slats passed you by, then vanished all together. You collapsed to your knees and heaved in the burning air just as a deafening screech ricocheted through the halls with the echo of frantic gunfire, and the slosh of viscera. You fought back the burn of bile in your throat when you braved a look; there laid a body on the floor, and a corpse standing above it, illuminated just barely by torchlight. 

His shoulders were impossibly broad, his frame unnaturally tall–

“We could have avoided all of this,” the creature growled. 

–from the glimpses you were allowed of his face hidden in the swath of darkness around him, you remembered strong lines and proud cheekbones–

“But you didn’t listen.”

–his eyes, a bizarre colour, glimmered ruby in the firelight thanks to some strange disease you never quite remembered the name of– 

“Why couldn’t you just listen?”

–and his hair, a dark oaken hue, wisped like tendrils of shadows rolling off his strong neck.

He appeared beside you so suddenly, so soundlessly, you wouldn’t have known he approached if it weren’t for the strength of your fluttering eyelids seeking the truth. You stared hard at the tips of his leather shoes. Perhaps you should’ve known it was him all along. Perhaps you had known. 

He knelt before you and forced your chin up, making your eyes meet his as he stared down through you. Blood marred his face, matching the wine-red hue of his furious, gem-cut eyes; even like this, teeth bared, about to kill you, he was beautiful. 

“Look what you’ve done. This is your fault–”

But that beauty was wasted on such a foul-mouthed monster. 

“My fault?” You spat. “Fuck you.” You tore your chin from his grip, but his hand sought out your throat instead. “Don’t fucking touch me–”

He smiled, bitter but so wholly and infuriatingly amused before he chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll do whatever I want with you.” And before you could lash out, before you could throw a fist at his stupid face, he yanked you in and bit.

A winter breeze rippled through you. Cold. Piercing. And you gradually froze like water dripping from the gutters, no longer able to fight back, too sluggishly slow to do anything about your fate. You breathed hard, feeling the hole in your stomach and ache of your heart weep and worsen with every shattering breath you took. Your hands, gentle in their weakness, pawed at his chest and sought a spot to dig in and hold on to for dear life as the waking world turned its back to you.

But despite the bitterness, and despite words exchanged, he held the side of your face as you faded in and out of consciousness. He called something, and a flurry of orange wisps appeared above you. 

–

You awoke to the echoes of a dream, one you hadn’t had for a while. A cloudless night where you’d been caught in bed by a taken woman’s man and beaten half to death; in return, you shredded through the man's chest with a knife from the kitchen while the wife watched on in silence. You'd been ready to kill her, too, slit her throat in one easy motion, but she never screamed, never looked at the wild animal with fear. 

Tell the police he attacked you, miss. 

Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

You fumbled through the alleys after leaving the scene, but others, foul things that roamed the streets where not even rats lingered, found you, threatened to use up the last of what you had to offer this pitiful world. It seemed as though they disappeared in the time it took you to blink, though, and a man was left, standing in their wake. He looked somewhat disheveled, like he’d just finished some grand task, but he was just so put together, too. You struggled to make sense of it, but you didn’t really care to. 

“Well, isn't that impressive,” you said with a breathless laugh. “Not a shred of blood on you. Are you the ripper the paper’s gone on and on about?”

The being glanced over his shoulder, eyes alight in curious mirth. He turned your way and stepped closer. You saw it then, the slightest bit of dark smears on his face.

“Is that what they're calling me?” He adjusted his cuffs, and rolled his shoulders. “Huh.” 

Adrenaline poured into your heart. “You're quite the dangerous man, aren't you, sir?” you swallowed thickly as you looked him over: fine shoes, expensive coat, luxurious rings. “And, ah, well-off. You wouldn't happen to be interested in spreading the wealth, hm?” 

His hand cupped your jaw, sticky with freezing blood, and he leaned in. The pungent scent of iron curled your gut as he breathed you in, making up his mind with what to do with you. Then, with the dry, warm back of his gloved hand, he caressed the side of your face and watched your eyelids flutter, devouring the simple gesture. 

“Let's see if you can convince me to.”

-

“I know you’re awake,” he mumbled.

Curiosity willed your eyes open, and you gazed down at the hollow tube connecting you to the walking corpse. You fought to ease the jump of your heart, but it became impossible when a dark red raced from the vampire's arm down into yours. 

“Is that going to make me like you?” You whispered, nerves twitching and burning with the bite of restless fire ants. 

Crimson eyes found yours and looked deep. “It won't. You can relax.” But you weren't convinced, and your lover could tell. “You'd have to drink my blood.” 

“Why're you giving me your blood, then?” 

“You'll die without it.” He pumped something, you now noticed, and realized it was what drew the blood from his veins and drained it into yours. 

Curious. “Were you a man of medicine?” 

He scoffed. “Still am.” He threw you a wary look, one brow raised. “How many more questions are you–” 

“Your name?” That was something you'd requested before, but always through a veil of uncertainty. You didn't like to ask much of him. He didn't ask much of you. But you didn't know him, yet he knew you. 

Your vampire frowned, unapproving. “What difference will it make?” 

“You asked me to fucking marry you,” you bit out. “And yet you keep so many secrets from me, still. I've given you more than I have, and you can't even–” 

“Miguel.” You both paused–him to gauge your reaction, and you out of shock. “Miguel O'hara.” 

The cracks in your chest mended, just slightly. Miguel O'hara. What a name that was. Formidable and wholly suiting the beast of a man you'd known and craved for far too many years. 

“Miguel O'hara,” you whispered, staring tiredly at the red thread connecting the two of you. The name felt good on your tongue. 

Nothing more was said, then. He must've still felt the tension in the air, or maybe the coil of apprehension in your body, for he worked on in silence, quietly saving your life for no reason. 

It was when he pulled free the needle that you found the will to break the silence on your own. 

“Why didn't you tell me?” It came out a pathetic whisper, sounding as broken as your mind felt. 

He paused before pulling the needle from his own arm. “Tell you what?” 

It was a good question. You didn't know what to ask him to elaborate on. You didn't know if you wanted him to elaborate on anything, actually, because it'd make it too real, too tangible. 

“Everything.” And when he stayed silent, you narrowed it down to just, “all of…you.” 

Miguel licked his thumb and stroked it soothingly against the pinprick of a wound while his brows furrowed and his lips twisted into something of a frown. “How could I?” You both watched the tiny dot of red cease weeping. “If you'd moved on and you knew, it could put everything at risk.” 

If I'd moved on. It felt wrong. It felt uncomfortable to know he felt that somewhere between his ribs and his heart. And for how long? How long had he not trusted you? Did he even trust you in that moment, knowing what and who he truly was? Or were you now doomed to this castle just as he was? 

“I'll let you rest,” Miguel said as he clasped his medical case shut and stood. “Lyla'll bring you food.” 

Thump, thump, thump, echoed his footsteps, those fine shoes muffled by old carpet; but the sharp clack, clack, clack in the hollow echoes of your memories, just before the truth revealed itself to you, swallowed up your thoughts.

“(Name),” Miguel said, and your eyes opened to find the tall, proud back of his silhouette stood at the door, one hand clutching the knob. “Don’t leave this room.” 

And he left you there, heart aching, mind melting, soul shattering. 

–

Solitude reminded you of what else happened. The lads you'd come here with, nothing more than acquaintances, were missing, or perhaps dead. It ate at your mind. Could you have done something different? Could you have convinced him to let them go?

More importantly, would Miguel let you leave? He claimed he wanted to marry you, but words were just words if not put to use with actions. Staying by his side would mean stomaching the fact he'd consume countless other people, wouldn't it? How were you expected to watch your partner(?), your groom-to-be(?), hold and pierce others the way he promised to you and only you?

But could you let him stay here alone, hunted and hated by believers, laughed at by the average skeptic? If you were not here, how many more would walk in on a dare, and meet a terrible end? They didn’t matter, no, but the legend of a vampire would turn more and more true, summoning devil-hunters to his doorstep, stake and flames in-hand.

The thoughts plagued you, filling your head with the terrible buzzing of bees. You couldn't fathom why you cared so much; most of your life you'd lived for your own sake, doing what needed to be done to get by, to have a better tomorrow. You hated other people. A few of them you'd personally buried six feet under, whether they were dead or lived still, and you never batted an eye. You had no patience for those who'd oppose you. 

You would have killed Osborn yourself if O’hara hadn't. And that was the truth. That'd been the truth the whole time, ever since you saw just how expensively he and the others lived; gold dripped from their tongues, silver ran through their veins, diamonds fell from their eyes. You wanted to claim a bit of that for yourself. 

And Miguel had shared his wealth with you, just in exchange for a bit of blood and your body for the night. Surely you could look past what he did to survive, even if it put your heart into a spiral. 

Lost in thought, you found your way to his chambers, freely disobeying his orders

He lounged in a clawfoot bath. Stuffy heat lulled you into a daze, something like a carefree summer evening wherein the sun took too long to vanish. Though when he noticed you approach, shedding clothes the entire way, the heat grew near unbearable.

Miguel's claws creaked against the enamel in anticipation when you stepped into the water. You watched him with the same delicate intrigue as prey investigating something that could be a threat as you found your place between his spread legs, getting close enough to feel the pounding of his undead heart. You'd only seen his body in dim candlelight or withering rays of the moon, never truly illuminated by the glow of floating chandeliers nor the collection of sconces arching from the wall.

Slowly, your fingertips dragged along muscle, warm and firm under your calloused touch. The scars littering your hands and knuckles shone so stark against his perfect complexion. He really did seem too perfect. It would have sparked jealousy in your gut if he didn't apparently belong to you, and you to him. No one else got to touch. No one else got to see. 

Now, you were built finely yourself, but the man before you was something entirely different. You didn't know if it was thanks to his supernatural existence, but his body was built in a near-animalistic way that screamed power and speed, not similar enough to a human. Though, looking back, you did always think his manners in bed were more beast than man. The growling, the clawing, the marks of claim on the nape of your neck, it all clicked and made sense in the whirlwind of your mind. 

“I think a werewolf would suit you better,” you admitted. “What with the claws and biting and general uncouth behaviour.” 

Miguel huffed. “You must be talking about yourself.” His voice rang low and quiet, too aware he might scare off his prized hare if he put too much into his words. “You're the one acting like a rabid animal.” 

“No, you.” 

“Don't think so.” 

“You're difficult.” 

“You're one to talk.” 

“How long have you been like this?” Your fingers combed through his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut. “A vampire. Or whatever you are.” 

“Lost track,” he said, sounding too honest. “I have records. Notes. From experiments. The dates on those are close to when it happened.” Experiments? Colour you intrigued.

“So you weren't exactly practicing white medicine?” You tilted your head in thought. “You were doing something more–” 

“It wasn't black magic,” Miguel scoffed. “It was science. Genetics. Studying how other organisms function, learning about them.” His expression darkened just the slightest bit. “Trying to…recreate them.” 

Your head spun a little trying to fill in the blanks. It wasn’t too hard, but it was hard to accept as reality. But if anyone were to unlock the damned secrets of immortality, of course it'd be this man. This cocky, genius, charming man. God really did have favourites, though they always did seem to disappoint him.

“I see. So you're telling me you're a genius who rebirthed vampires,” you summed up, letting your hands melt down his body, below the water's surface. “How is it you only get more and more impressive, Mr.O'hara?” 

A smug smirk bloomed across his lips. “It's just in my nature.” His head tilted back with a pleased sigh when your touch finally landed on that annoying thing prodding your thigh. “I have no choice but to succeed.” 

“Tch. Americans are so arrogant.” You hummed and leaned in, ghosting kisses along his vulnerable neck while your hand pleased him slowly, teasingly. His talons screeched against the tub again. “But maybe you have reason to be, hm? Given how accomplished you are.” 

A dark, scarlet haze like the sky of the blood moon illuminated Miguel's eyes in the few moments they slipped open to catch a glimpse of you. You wondered if he needed a reality check. Maybe he thought he was hallucinating, maybe he thought that you weren't really there despite being pressed up against him and murmuring useless quips into his skin. You'd be sure to leave an impression on him; your hand quickened, gripping tighter and pulling the way he directed you to far too many years ago, but his barbed hand caught your wrist. 

“Stop,” he gasped. His chest rose and fell with his light panting as he stared you down. Want radiated off of him like an animal starved. You knew what was rattling around in his mind before he even spoke. 

“You want to fuck me, is that it?” 

Miguel's breath hitched. 

–

You made him ravenous. You were the only thing he wanted to feast on, delicacies and sanguine temptations be damned. 

One of his large hands held your waist in a death grip while his other hand held your head down, forcing your incoherent ramblings into the soft, silken sheets as he rammed you from behind like a beast in heat. You took it well, too, not that you hadn't before–he always held back, appeared to you as human when he fucked you previously. But now that you knew the truth, now that you knew what lay hidden in the dark nooks of his bones’ marrow, he felt complete. And that meant he could completely lay claim to you, too. 

He matched the curve of your back with his chest when he leaned over you, burying his nose into your neck and shoulder to indulge in your scent. Your vampire's desire to breed slowed and steadied into deep, thoughtful rolls of his hips. Perhaps his mind had caught up with him and ushered him to slow down, to abandon some of that reckless excitement. 

Miguel heard the slightest mumble of his name on your lips and leaned down further to touch his own to your cheekbone. One arm looped underneath your throat in a benign chokehold of sorts, while his other hand threaded through your hair–if he wasn't fucking you like an animal before, this makeshift mating lock he had on you sealed the deal. 

“You feel good,” Miguel murmured, voice tickling the shell of your ear. 

“Hah. I, ah, always feel good,” you tried to quip back, but your expression betrayed the fraying threads of whatever self-control you still desperately clung to. “You’re, uh…unhinged, hey?” Miguel scoffed. “Like a…a wild beast.” 

“Oh?” A purr hummed through his chest, piercing your body and rattling through your own lungs in seismic pulses. “A wild beast? Flattering.”

“Really, darling, you don't have to be such a sarcastic asshole when you're–” a hard snap of his hips sent you spiraling for a moment, “--in my ass.” 

“Maybe you should watch your mouth,” he suggested. 

“Maybe you could watch it for me,” you countered. 

The warmth of his laugh sent chills scattering across your skin. He pulled out of you and turned you over, dragging your hips back against him before his powerful body engulfed yours again. Miguel liked this more. He liked the feeling of your hands grabbing and clawing at him, the way your thighs attached to his waist, how you bit your bottom lip while your eyes screwed shut from the overwhelming feeling of your partner destroying you.

And of course, his lips could meet yours like this. The sweet tang of copper and berries, a taste so familiar and so you, was shared between tongues, kept secret in the crevices of teeth. It amazed Miguel how much one little kiss could push him over the edge and make the bed creak and groan with you as he loved on you and made sure to send the message straight to your core. 

Your hands fisted in his hair when you came undone. That lovely voice of yours poured into Miguel's eager mouth, and you tightened, pulling him to the edge and pushing him over with the might of a wild stampede. Claws nipped your skin, fangs pierced deeper, yet his rutting hit deepest, and burned you alive with unbearable, liquid heat.

–

“Why me?” You asked into the stillness of the room. 

Calm silence answered you for a long moment. The sun bloomed beyond the thick curtains, you noticed in your wait, and you wondered if you would ever miss the sight. England never truly had bright, sunny days from what you recalled; stretches of smokey, grey overcast clouded the skies and your memories more often than not. Could your vampire walk amongst the living like this?

Miguel sighed, leaning into the hand carding through his hair. “Figured you’d understand.” 

“I’d understand what?”

“Killing to survive.” 

“How long have you known?” You wondered, unsurprised. 

“Blood tells stories,” he whispered. Long, dark eyelashes fluttered a moment before crimson eyes peered open the slightest bit. “Your story’s long. Complicated. You’re too young for it.” 

A smile twitched onto your face. You adjusted in the bed, getting more comfortable on your side in those pooling, satin sheets. “So you thought I’d be an easy target for sex, then? Desperate and young as I was.”

He found your eyes, his gaze earnest and bleeding. “I–you–fine, at first it was like you said. Maybe. But after enough time, I decided you weren’t like the rest. You’re as supernatural as I am.”

“Supernaturally handsome? I agree.”

“Stop.”

“You didn’t think I’d be afraid of you.”

“I’d hoped as much.” 

“And you still didn’t tell me.” Your fingertips danced along the arch of his cheekbone, leaving pleasant sparks against his skin in their wake, unbeknownst to you. “Were you scared?”

“I’d rather have you as a man for whatever time we had together than to lose you to a beast,” he explained, cryptic as one would expect an old legend to be. “I’ve lost too much already because of…this. Because of me. I didn’t want to lose more.” Miguel’s dark brows furrowed. “If you ended up fearing me to, I–”

You silenced him with a hand over his mouth. “Enough. I understand.” You palm smoothed back up to cup his face. “You needn’t be afraid of me–well, being afraid, I suppose. I’ll stay.” You took a deep breath and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “This bed’s too comfortable to give up, after all.”

His breath fanned against your skin as he chuckled, tired and perhaps tinted with disbelief. “Well, you can stay here as long as you want.”

“Brilliant. Would you even let me drink your blood?”

The rumble of a growl, or perhaps a purr, rolled through his chest into yours. You searched his eyes, wondering, hoping, and found mere slices of ruby peeking out from behind eclipsing pupils. 

“We’ll see.”

[phyrestartr]

Easy Prey (An Underestimation) | Miguel x M!Reader

Brother's BFF Miguel! x Male!Reader W/C: 3.2k

#NSFW, college party, cringe dirty talk, butt plugs, bussy loading, alcohol usage, pot usage, vaping, reader is a little shit, miguel gets got, fluff, it's kinda cute tho, consensual sex, car sex

--

"Who is that?" Miguel asked over the howl of party-goers and blasted music. He held his shitty beer in one hand, and a weird concoction of juice, something and…something suspicious in his other hand. Lyla really knew how to embody college in her get-togethers. 

Sebastian glanced at who Miguel gestured to with the tilt of a chin, and he burst into drunken laughter. 

"Dude. No. Nooo no no, nope. That's–nope," he answered, very helpfully. "Just very no." 

Miguel rolled his eyes as his best friend's girl kissed her man, and stole away Miguel's chance of learning just who the alt weirdo lounging on the couch was. Christ, people in love were so fucking annoying. 

"Why, what's his baggage? Drug dealer? Academic dishonesty?" Miguel took a deep drink from the red solo cup and grimaced. "Fuck, what the hell is in this?" 

Sebastian let his girlfriend kiss his neck as he finally gave Miguel an answer. "That's my little brother, dipshit. You remember (Name)? I've only mentioned him like a thousand billion times." 

"Huh." Miguel sipped his beer this time. 

(Name). 

Yeah. Through the haze of booze and the boom of the bass, Miguel did recognize that name. He didn't know you had such a pretty face, though. 

Seb smacked his friend's shoulder. "He's sooo off-limits, dude, so off-limits." 

Miguel scoffed, brandishing an arrogant smirk on his handsome face. "Says who?" 

"Says me, you fucking whore–you're not going to stick your horse dick in my baby brother, you got that?" And he sounded serious, but Miguel didn't really care much. "Hey, hey, if you fuck him, I'm gonna rip your cock off and shove it up your ass and then light you on fire, Miguel. I'm so fucking serious."

"Baby," Seb's girl cooed, "why don't we go wind down a little, huh? I think you need to lay down and cool off." 

"Yeah, go lay down, Sebby," Miguel chided.

"I–but I–okay, I'm gonna go do a 'lil nappy nap," he started, letting his girl drag him away from his arch nemesis, "but when I come back, you better've not cum in my brother, you hear me, O'hara?" 

"Bye bye, sweet dreams," Miguel called instead of answering. He downed the cursed solo drink as soon as Sebastian was spirited away and made his way over to you. 

Miguel more or less brute forced his spot on the couch next to you, pushing between you and some other guy that was getting too handsy with his prey. The other guy threw half-assed complaints and curses at Miguel, but one simple condescending glance had him backing off. Hah. So weak. 

"Woah, you really just–just made a spot for yourself, hey?" You said, earning his attention back. "Kinda hot. Really hot. You're hot." 

Miguel smirked as he looked you over. He liked the sound of your voice, and the lazy, relaxed gaze you met him with. Normally, he didn't go for the softcore scene type, but the black nails suited you, as did the ring showcasing your septum. 

"Couldn't ignore a damsel in distress," Miguel leaned in to say before he slipped his arm along the back of the couch. "I'm Miguel. Miguel O'hara." 

"Cool. You fuck guys?" You licked your lips and, oh god, was that the gleam of a tongue stud he saw?

Excitement bubbled in Miguel's gut. "Straight to the point, huh? I like that." He finished off his beer and set the can down to focus on you. "I fuck anyone with a pretty face."

"Oh. Wow. Damn." He watched your leisurely fingers touch all up and down his body. The firm pushes and soft pinches were left in the right places, like you'd done this before to other men. Miguel figured he was probably the best specimen you'd ever laid eyes on.

And then you kissed him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, it did feel natural, like you'd been dating for years and had done this a million times before, but still drowned in the excitement of one another. 

Miguel anchored one hand to your waist while the other freely travelled from your shoulder to your neck to the side of your face. He jolted when your fidgety hand slid down to his clothed cock and gave a hearty squeeze. Damn, you really were straight to the point. 

But the way you kissed was another story--you took your time, licking deep into his mouth and prodding behind every tooth to commit Miguel's mouth to memory. You made the sweetest noises, too, reacting to however Miguel decided to taste along the top of your mouth, how he bit your tongue lightly to stop it from leaving him. It'd been so long since Miguel had a partner like you. 

"Let's take this somewhere else," Miguel whispered into your skin while his hands started to wander to your hips, your waist, your legs. "Unless you're an exhibitionist freak." 

"Woooah, you'd fuck me right here if I wanted? And they say chivalry is dead." Miguel laughed something genuine, only cutting off when you kissed him. "But no, no, I like gettin' messy in privacy." 

"Then let's get messy."

Miguel picked you up and hoisted you over his shoulder. The choked half-laugh, half-squawk you let out earned you a sharp slap on the ass as he stole you away to eat you whole, like a jaguar dragging its kill up into a tree for a little privacy. 

He could navigate Lyla's house easily, expertly dodging the flailing limbs and spilling drinks of party-goers as he searched for somewhere quiet to take his prize. But every room he checked had its own lust-crazed college students busy fucking or about to get things started. 

You piped up from your spot on Miguel's shoulder, though, suggesting the perfect place to fuck: your truck. 

"Pretty big," Miguel commented as you both rushed to fold down the back seats to make more room for playtime. 

"Mmmn, I like big." You slammed the boot closed before shuffling back to him. "Bigger is better." 

Miguel grinned wolfishly before pinning you down. "Glad you understand." 

You helped him pull everything off of you from the waist down before you yanked him back in for another sloppy, drunken kiss. His hands, broad and calloused from years of lifting weights, felt up every inch of exposed skin, from your waist, to your thighs, to the powerful curve of your calves, and back up again. Admittedly, he didn't expect you to be in-shape. You weren't built like your brother, a buff, tall meathead; you were built more like a runner: slim, toned, agile.

"Wait, wait, wait," you gasped when Miguel's kisses started migrating lower and lower. The man looked up at you, brow quirked, impatience tugging down the corner of his mouth. "I wanna–" 

"Nope," Miguel cut in.

"Whaaat? I just–'M not allowed to feel you up–? I wanna see your muscles," you whined.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Don't care."

Miguel ignored your drunken complaints while he focused on getting you prepped and ready for his own satisfaction. Sure, he liked letting his prizes fawn over him, obsess over his muscles and leave feverish touches on his tawny skin, but time was of the essence; who knew when your brother would roll up and ruin things? 

He leaned back up and stuck his fingers into your mouth for a few, rude thrusts before yanking them out and easing your legs open so–oh. 

A twinkling, pink, heart-cut gem winked at him in greeting, and a jolt of excitement went straight to Miguel's straining cock. He swallowed as he watched it flicker and gleam with every little shift of your impatient hips. Part of him wanted to leave it in. But the worse side of him wanted to yank it out, and give it something to hold in. 

"What's this?" He asked, patronizingly as he gave the plug a bit of a tug. "Guess you are a freak, huh?" Miguel asked in a rich, smokey tone. 

But instead of getting embarrassed and shrinking away like he expected, you just wiggled your ass tauntingly. 

"'S a buttplug," you said matter-of-factly. "Wanted to get laid t'night." You reached your mischievous hand down between your legs and drummed two fingers against the crystalline base. "Stuffed lube in first. Makes hookin' up fast 'n easy," you explained as you gripped the heart and started to tease the plug free. Miguel's hand caught your wrist before you could get very far. 

"And people call me a degenerate," he laughed. Miguel pulled your hand away and took over, watching with rapt attention as the silvered metal plug started to emerge. "But you're just…somethin' else." 

You mewled softly and your thighs tensed the slightest bit when the plug slipped out before a generous amount of lube oozed from your emptied hole. Miguel eagerly scooped it up with his fingers and pushed it back inside. Knowing him and his size, he'd need every last drop. 

"People call you a degenerate?" You said through a snorted laugh. "Why? You're like–you're so–" you gasped in the same way a 90's horror final girl would when you caught sight of The Thing being pulled from Miguel's pants, "--b-big. Wow. Big. Can I take a pic?" 

"What? What do you–can you–no, Christ." He sighed as he stroked himself with your slick and didn't waste much time with foreplay or warming up before mounting you again. "Think you might be worse than me after all, you know that?" 

"Probably am." You squirmed a little under his body as he caged you in, his thick arms bracing on either side of your head, and his hard, heavy chest looming above you as he got his massive frame comfortable in the trunk of your truck. It was insane to think that, even with the seats down and nothing in the way, Miguel still almost didn't fit. Part of you kind of thought he might weigh more than the car, too. Hm. 

But finally, finally, Miguel dragged the hot tip of his cock against your soft, pliant entrance before jamming himself inside with a blissed-out sigh. 

"Fuck," he breathed before pulling out the slightest bit and pressing in deeper again, and again, and again, until he bottomed out. His nerves flared when your hand slipped down to your own weeping length and stroked yourself, selfishly chasing your high with no regard for Miguel. 

He scoffed, and bitterly refused to hold back. The pace started off brutal and fast, Miguel using you the same way you were using him. Annoyance fuelled his tempo. He didn't know why your lack of giving a shit aggravated him, but it did. And he didn't like it. 

But when he finally got a breathy, thin gasp out of you, he smirked. 

"Oh? Finally something out of you. Tch." He folded you in half and hiked your legs over his solid shoulders to drill into you harder. Another small sigh fuelled his ego. "You like that, huh? You like being bent up, outta sorts, fucked by a stranger at a party, huh? That get you off?" 

The ladies always crumpled under his heinous words and dirty talking; their expressions warped into something pathetic and embarrassed, they'd make the worst discount pornstar noises, or they'd cum right on the spot. It was a great thing, a beautiful thing, something that Miguel prided himself with quite a bit. 

So why were you shaking with bottled laughter? 

Miguel's eye twitched. "What's so funny?" 

"Y-you just–you talk like you watch too much porn–! I'm just s-saying, man, this is kinda wild." A confusing mix of laughs and gasps punched out of your lungs as your back started to arch. "I-It's making it hard to cum–" 

"Shut up, just shut up–you're making me regret this," Miguel bit out, trying to hasten his pace to finish up and leave you in the dust. "I didn't know you were so fucking annoying." 

You moaned sweetly as he nailed that sweet spot of yours perfectly, before never hitting it again. "Awe, boo hoo, gonna cry 'cause I think your dirty talk's cringe? Life is sooo hard–" you squeaked as he pulled back and out abruptly. Your legs clattered to the ground and you barked out another hyena laugh as Miguel moved to tuck himself away with the most unreal sour expression you'd ever seen. 

"Hey, hey, hey, don't give up," you cooed. "Come on, you know you wanna finish the job. I'm so submissive." 

"I fucking can't with that fucking annoying fucking mouth of yours," Miguel grumbled before spitting bars of Spanish at you. 

Feeling a rush of energy, you tackled him as well as you could in your truck, and managed to wrestle that hulk onto his back. He was glaring at you when you finally managed to straddle him, but in a sort of embarrassed-mad way, not a real pissed off look. Still, you had to test the waters. 

"Off," Miguel said. 

"Woah, woah, woah, I can do the whole dirty talk thing if you want," you bartered. 

"No. Off." 

"Come on," you whined before leaning down to his ear and dropping your voice down into a dripping dark chocolate, "you're such a good boy, Miguel, let me treat you right." 

And with a greedy little wriggle of your hips against his stiffy, Miguel was doomed. 

"Fucking–fine, you little–" but he couldn't finish that thought, not when he suddenly found himself plunged back into your tight heat. 

"Bah, come on," you prodded as you rocked your hips at a selfish, primal pace. "Say it if it gets you off." 

With a mind of their own, Miguel's hips jolted up to meet your downwards momentum, and a near animalistic cry hoarsely tore through your throat. And once again, Miguel couldn't help the jerk of his pelvis grinding up against you–you were proving to be too much. 

"Fuck," you gasped. You stroked yourself again, now faster and with the broken tempo of your chaotic coupling. "You like being dominated? That it? Told what to do 'n then get some praise for being so, so good?" The laugh you let out could only be labelled evil. "Mmmn, that's hot." 

But Miguel couldn't speak, not through his mind blanking bright white every time your bodies crashed together. Even when he tried to speak, only gasps and pathetic moans and pleas slipped out of him, suddenly begging you to fuck him harder, to make him finish, to let him cum inside of you and mark you as taken for the night. Reality felt so far away and numb, even when he knocked his head against the ground as he came.

You felt his nails bite your sides as liquid heat filled in the space where Miguel couldn't reach. Miguel's teeth clenched together with an audible clack as you laughed at him, riding him for all he was worth, using him past the point of over stimulation without a care in the world. 

"Shit," you moaned quietly, then chanted it over and over, breathing faster and harder as you pushed yourself towards the edge. But you were a little shit, so of course you scrambled to push up Miguel's shirt just before you finished, just in time to streak sticky white webs of cum onto those well-defined abs of his. 

Miguel finally caught a break. He held you in a vice grip, not trusting you to behave while you both calmed down and fought to steady your breathing. Your fingers trailed across his stomach and abdomen, tracing the dips and curves of hardwork and dedication, and also smearing trails of your spend on him. 

"I've decided. I hate you. So, so much," Miguel said. He let his eyes fall closed again as he accepted his fate. 

You laughed, more amused and playful than mean and mocking this time, and drummed your fingers against his sticky skin. "Yeah. Fair. Kudos to you for being a good sport, though." You paused for a moment. "Wanna get high?" 

"Yes." 

Shockingly, you were quite good with the aftercare; you took it upon yourself to clean the both of you up with a plethora of wet wipes, paying special attention to the mess you'd made on Miguel's stomach and leaving no trace behind on him. As for yourself, you stuffed the silver plug back into your ass and called it a day, only really needing to clean up any sin that'd escaped your insides. 

You both more or less got dressed, and then you hit the vape. Miguel wasn't a stranger to Mary J, but he didn't often vape. He was used to messy blunts rolled by idiots like your brother, but admittedly, he kind of liked this more. 

"It's not bad," Miguel remarked as he examined the silvery pen. "Lot less…y’know." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get what you mean." You stretched languidly across Miguel's lap, and plucked the pen from his fingers. You took a deep, lazy drag while your newfound friend exhaled a cloud of vapor. "Smoke works better for hot boxing, though. Blunts do, I mean." 

Miguel hummed, lost in the haze of his thoughts, warmed by the buzzing in the back of his skull and your weight across his lap. His fingertips dipped beneath your clothes, absent-mindedly seeking comfort in the heat of your body in his lap. His broad palm pressed flat against your stomach, and you rested your smaller hand over his. 

"You think the, uh, the chick who owns this place is gonna freak if I crash here?" You asked before crafting a few smoke rings. "'M toootally fucked up. Driving's a no-no." 

"Lyla won't care," Miguel said with a yawn. "She's a witch, but not a psycho bitch." 

"Hah. You know her?" 

"She's basically my sister. Unfortunately." Miguel huffed and shook his head.

"Oh, cool, cool. She's fire. Like her. Really chill, but in, like, a smart way," you rambled. 

"Pretty good way to put it." Miguel smiled. 

"Yeah? Yeah. I'm kinda smart sometimes, too. Not super smart, but, y'know, selectively smart." You nodded and stretched again with a yawn. "That's how I bag hot guys. Like you, I guess. But this was more fun. You're more fun 'n a better sport than most guys I mess with." 

Miguel stared at the foggy windows. Fun. That's what he was thinking, too. He never had the chance to smoke a joint or indulge in aftercare with most of his one night stands, but it's not like he'd gone out of his way to make that happen, either. He'd never really had a partner mock him either, though. You were kinda weird. But in a good, fun way. 

"Yeah. I had fun," Miguel admitted. When his eyes slid back to you, you were grinning, and a sweet dusting of strawberry powder lit up your soft cheeks. Miguel couldn't help his own smile. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

"Oh. Cool, cool." 

"Wanna go out with me?" The question caught Miguel by surprise, too. He didn't really commit to people. He didn't really become exclusive with people. But hey, people changed. 

You fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "Mmn, what's in it for me?" 

"Bragging rights." Miguel smirked. "You know how many people want me?" 

"Hmm." 

He huffed, now, your skepticism doing a number on his ego. "I–well what do–you'd get dick, big dick, get chauffeured around, I'd pay for dates–" 

"Would you go see a musical with me if I asked?" 

Ah. The ultimate test. 

"...Yes." 

"'Kay. We're gonna go see Grease tomorrow night–uh, tonight. Technically." 

A grin split Miguel's face and ached his cheeks. "Alright." 

You smiled back. "Alright." 

"Just don't tell your brother." 

"Lame."

[phyrestartr]

Till Death Do Us Part (Miguel x Reader)

Miguel x Husband!Reader W/C: 9.5k

#NSFW, exhibitionist kink, praise kink, hurt/comfort, infidelity, toxic relationships, brief verbal abuse, mending relationships, mentions of medication, mentions of mental illness, difficult/complex feelings and emotions, things work out in the end, nobody dies, the zombies aren't that important, old men just really going through it

Note: I cried a lot writing this lol please also cry and enjoy! (I also tried my best with the Spanish and tried to reference good sources, but I apologize if it sounds whack lol I only know EN and JP o(--( )

-- Till Death Do Us Part --

"(Name), where the fuck are you?" Miguel ran his hand through his hair as he watched the news, as he stared outside at the cascade of chaos. He waited for you to pick up the phone. He'd already called so many times, but you weren't picking up. Why weren't you fucking picking up? 

"Miguel, he's probably fine," Dana cooed as her arms looped around him from behind. "You need to worry about what we're gonna do." 

Miguel shook his head and shoved Dana's arms off of him. "Our daughter–Gabriella–" 

"You mean our daughter?" Her tone was vile. So, so fucking vile.

"Shut up," Miguel barked before ripping the phone from his ear when your voicemail picked up again. He shot you another text, asking where you were before his fidgety fingers scrolled the log up and down, cruelly reminding himself of the messages he'd ignored from you just a few days ago. 

November 18th 7:04am babe come home 7:04am please 12:19pm we can talk about it  12:20pm we'll figure it out 12:46pm gabi misses you 9:34pm call me tomorrow

November 19th 7:35am you still ignoring me? 7:40am gabi wants to call you 7:41am you gonna answer if it's her? 8:05am i'll tell her you're busy with work 9:50pm i miss you

November 21st  9:56pm call me

November 23rd 12:01am i shot someone  12:01am i had to 12:01am but i can't stop thinking about it  12:32am i need you  1:12am please 2:07am miguel

November 30th 7:16am miggs shit's crazy outside 7:17am lock the doors, don't let anyone inside 7:17am maybe stock up on food first idk this might take a while  7:18am but DON'T help anyone who's bit or injured 7:19am they evacuated gabi's school but i don't fucking know where they're going 7:19am i'm gonna find her, i promise 7:20am i love you. stay safe.

December 2nd  3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Miguel rubbed his eyes. He sped past his own wall of text starting from that day, December 3rd, and sent another plea, another wish that you'd respond back sooner than a week from now.

"Oh my God, just give it up–" 

"Dana, shut the fuck up, just shut up." 

He called you again. 

And this time, you answered. 

Miguel's heart jumped. "(Name)?" 

"Babe?" You sounded like you were panting, like you were straining against something. "Are–are you okay? Where are you?" A string of coughs punched out of your lungs in rough staccato, pinching Miguel's nerves with every ghastly beat. He was scared. He was so fucking scared. 

"I--I'm," Miguel stammered, still unable to have that conversation, still too much of a coward in the end. "Does it matter?" 

"Just keep the doors locked," you continued. "Keep 'em locked, and…and I dunno if you're in a tower or a house or fucking whatever, but don't leave until things get quiet." You picked yourself up from the ground, Miguel could tell by the scratch of gravel echoing wherever you were. "Don't get bit. Don't help anyone who is bit. Put yourselves first." 

"But, I–you–do you have Gabi?" Panic gripped his throat as jets flew overhead, high above the city. The engines roared a gruesome apology, a sound Ouranos himself must have made when his own children slew him, so filled with godly enmity. 

Then, molten death rained on the city. Miguel stared at roaring explosions dotting the cityscape, watching pillars of flame feed into the world's chaos. His hands trembled when the same carnage screeched through your phone. 

"I'll find her. I-I promise, Miguel, I'll find her and--and I'll–shit."  

There was gunfire. Gunfire encased in wild snarling. It devoured the crack of plastic hitting concrete, the noises you gasped out, the–

Silence.

Miguel hated his mind. He hated how it remembered that one moment so clearly, like it'd happened just a minute before the present. Sometimes, when he felt like torturing himself more, he wondered what your face looked like in those last moments. He wondered where your life flickered out. He wondered when he'd see you stumbling through the streets and have to put a bullet in your head. 

But he'd force good memories to the surface when he found the light growing too dim; that confession and first kiss, starry nights spent lazing on the hood of your jeep, the look on your face when you finally held little Gabriella for the first time–it all chased away the darkness. It all made him feel whole again, it let him see clearly again. But with clarity came the difficulty of accepting what he'd lost.

He found a way to do it. He found a way to talk about you, too. It was hard not to–your old colleagues, other officers of the lost world, were an integral part of the Alchemax colony. Jeff Morales and George Stacy, amongst a few others, had known you, and by proxy they knew Miguel.

"He was a good guy," Jeff had mentioned when the moment felt right. "Bragged about having the best-looking and smartest partner around. Now, I ain't gonna say he was right, but he wasn't wrong." That brought warmth to Miguel's chest, but guilt smothered it too quickly. 

"Never stopped talking about your daughter either." George smiled when he recalled it, but it was something small and morose. "Gabriella, right? Yeah, he said she was a smart cookie. Kind of a brat, apparently, but hey, with that guy as her father? Hah! I'm not surprised." 

Miguel liked having them around. He liked the happy memories they brought to your name.

But on bad days, vulnerable days, Miguel wanted to break their necks and watch them turn so he could kill them again in their undeath; they still had their children, their families. How could they bring up what he'd lost while they still had everything? 

Today was one of those days, too, one where your memory hurt just a little more than usual. Maybe it came with the snow whirling in the blue-drenched outdoors, or the sudden darkness the world lost itself in. But he knew the frostbite decaying his heart came from the eternal proof of your lost existence:

December 2nd  3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Why did you apologize? Miguel sighed, and carded a hand through his hair as he paced Alchemax's halls. Enough of that, Miguel. You need to focus. Focus. 

And once he stepped foot in the control room, the routine morning check commenced: doors remained sealed with no record of tampering, security cameras still functioned, the solar panels still collected more than enough light to keep things rolling. Good. Perfect. 

"Hey, hey, how's it lookin'?" Peter asked, a cup of coffee in one hand and his little girl tucked in the other arm. It would've been a wholesome sight, if Peter hadn't ruined it with a too-loud slurp from his mug. Ugh. 

"Fine," Miguel grumbled. "Everything's in the green. Nothing to worry about." He ran a hand over his face with a sigh. "Just have to clear the snow off the solar panels later today." 

"Oooh, snow! It is that time of the year, huh? December already! Who woulda thought. Time goes by pretty quick when you're not worried about getting eaten all the time." Peter looked at his little May and cooed. "Isn't that right, Mayday?" 

Miguel rolled his eyes fondly and shook his head. "If you're that excited about snow, I'll put you on shovelling duty, Parker." 

"Oh, wow, I'm suddenly deaf and can't hear you." Peter shuffled away in his stupid slippers and stupid bathrobe. "Oh, right, right, MJ made bread! Can you believe it? I feel like I haven't had a bread-carb in forever! We really gotta do another supply run or we're eating canned beans all winter long. Y'know what? I'll put it on the 'to-do' list!" 

Miguel threw a glare at Peter over his shoulder. He was annoying, but he wasn't wrong. They did need more food, more supplies, more ways to sustain themselves. Scavenging the dregs of supermarkets and convenience stores wasn't cutting it anymore; there were too many mouths to feed, and shitty, packaged foods wouldn't suffice much longer.

Miguel braced his hands on the centre console after pulling up a satellite map of the surrounding area. The lab they called home laid nestled away from prying eyes of citizens, making it a safer place to start to rebuild the semblance of a normal life. Though, at the same time, it made it more difficult to get in and out of the city in good time. They had to pick their destination on the map, calculate the time it'd take to get there, and then execute the plan with little to no hiccups. It was hard. It was a pain in the ass. But it had to be done.

Miguel took his time scanning through the map, trying to spot any buildings they hadn't already marked off as empty and not worth the trip. These days, they had to get creative, they had to think of places that'd have food where people wouldn't expect, where the average scavenger wouldn't think to look and–

"Shit," Miguel breathed before rushing to move the map. "How could I forget?"

He spotted a small building on the map, one they'd never ventured to, one they never thought to go to. A chain link fence surrounded the perimeter, giving about five metres worth of breathing room around the building. Clusters of huge garden pots dotted the area randomly, along with whatever outdoor trees and shrubs that'd survived all these years on their own.

Miguel covered his mouth as he smiled.

"You might've just saved us, viejo." 

Because you were a country boy. A farmer's son. 

You convinced (begged) him to pull over, to go to the new garden store that'd appeared not too long ago. Miguel, far too smitten with you, couldn't find the heart to say 'no' to the excitement buzzing in your voice. 

The store was filled with beautiful plants, ranging from common houseplants, to tropical rarities that Miguel never knew existed. All sorts of bushy plants, tall single-leafers, and vining beauties lined the displays and bathed in the gentle, constant mist raining down on them. It really felt like a tropical jungle landed in New York. 

You'd sauntered over to the seed section while Miguel wandered through all the store had to offer before finding you again. You had several sachets in your hands and scanned the shelves for anything else that piqued your interest; they were all vegetable seeds, stuff like corn and green beans, tomatoes and onions, but the occasional herb showed itself as well. 

To Miguel, raising vegetables seemed like a cute hobby. But to you, raising crops meant revisiting your childhood. 

"You wanna get some?" Miguel asked. He looped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as he read all the different seed names on display. 

"Yeah. I mean…maybe. Dunno if a vegetable garden'll go with the house." You laughed softly, a little self-deprecatingly, before you reached to put the packets back. "I just–I don't know." 

"I think it'll work." A smile warmed Miguel's face as pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. "We can make a greenhouse. A big one. In the backyard." He kissed your neck next. "You can show me the farmboy fantasy." 

You laughed, turned in his arms, and kissed him. "Done."

Miguel crept up to the garden centre with Hobie and Gwen in tow. Travelling anywhere from the safe confines of Alchemax was something of a nightmare, but Miguel was used to it–despite being the man who knew how to run the building, he too often volunteered to head out on supply runs himself. He needed the space to think, to feel the darkness they’d found themselves in, and to feel the light of the sun on his skin to remind himself it wasn’t over. Because it was far from over. 

The garden centre was surrounded by chain link fences encircling the entirety of the building, the very same ones Miguel had seen from the satellite’s view. Honestly, he found himself surprised to see just how good the place looked–the windows were mostly intact, the fences hadn’t been torn through, the doors were still sealed, and a row of crippled undead and frozen re-deads dotted the perimeter, but none were inside. It didn’t seem like any had ever been inside, actually.

“That’s…kinda weird, right?” Gwen murmured as she adjusted her toque. “This place feels like…like it never went under, or something.” 

“Damn near stuck in the past, I’d say,” Hobie agreed. He looked to Miguel. “Fishy’s an understatement, yeah? Might be some not-so-dead-yets in there.” 

Miguel took a deep breath as he thought. “It’s a plant store. Not the highest priority for scavengers like us.” He headed forward, grip tight on his hunting knife. “Try not to shoot. Not unless there’s a runner.” 

“Better not be any runners,” Gwen grumbled. “It’s December. Hopefully they’re all freezing to double-death right now.” 

Hobie scoffed a smile. “If not, we just give ‘em an early Christmas present, hey?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure they’d love their brains blown out.” 

“Eh. I would.” 

Miguel rolled his eyes as the youngins bickered softly behind him. There was no point stopping them–trying to dad them out in the wilds of New York just gave Miguel a bigger headache, and too often ended in a louder match of bickering and scolding, which then often resulted in the undead stumbling their way. It was always a mess. Maybe he should stop bringing the dynamic duo with him. 

But you’d known them. You were fond of them, too, always letting them off the hook with a slap on the wrist when they were caught vandalizing buildings or stealing from stores when they were teenagers. You laughed when you told Miguel stories about them, about how Hobie’d call you “officer tall, sunny and handsome” to get on your good side (which worked), and how Gwen would try to bribe you with car-washings and babysitting to get you to not tell her dad what happened. You knew they were good kids, just bored and too smart for their own good. Miguel knew that, too; the two of you were thick as thieves back in the day, total petty-crime masterminds. Maybe Hobie and Gwen were your dark apprentices, in a way. 

Miguel smiled faintly. He missed the days where you both broke into abandoned buildings, haunted houses and everything else inbetween to fool around and fuck. It’d always be filmed, much to Miguel’s embarrassment, but watching the videos back always made him feel…wanted. Appreciated. Like a rare piece of art. 

You’d always cheese it up and make it sound like some sort of bad porno or found-footage film, like you didn't just break into Chuck E. Cheese to fuck in front of the creepy animatronics. Breaking the law got you excited, as ironic as that was for a future cop. Miguel thought you were a freak. Miguel was kind of a freak too, though. 

“Fucking God,” Miguel moaned, somehow louder than the squeak of the table hosting your feverish coupling. His hips bucked and rolled against yours in a desperate attempt to keep up with your brutal, delicious pace, and his thighs dug into your sides with his hands clutching to your shoulders for dear life. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you mumbled into his ear. Miguel’s body gave a sharp, involuntary jolt, kickstarting the sudden crescendo of his well-earned euphoria. He let his voice be heard as he arched off that shitty table and up against your solid frame, his hips still rutting and moving in sync with your own. You groaned too, letting yourself be just as loud in the midst of him tightening around your heavy, thick cock pummeling into him. 

“God, lookit that pretty face,” you growled when you pulled back to see how fucked out he was. “You feel good, huh? ‘M I makin’ you cum hard?” Your hand slapped the side of his ass, and Miguel whimpered sharply. “You’re so good, baby, so fucking good. I’ll make you cum again, yeah? Make you cum while you–while you take everything I got.” 

You were terrible. Horrible. A monster in the sack, and apparently in front of powered-down robots. You did what you promised, and ripped another orgasm from his exhausted, over-stimulated body before reaching your own blissful undoing with a rude grin on your stupid, annoying face. 

It made for good content, though.

They reached the front gate without problem, only to find it locked with hefty chains and thick padlocks. If there were people in there, then breaking through the first line of defence wasn’t their favoured option–they didn’t like other survivors, no, and they didn’t work with them without good reason, but they weren’t in the business of sabotaging them, either. 

“Hobie,” Miguel beckoned, muffling the chains’ clanking while holding up one of the locks. 

The young man smirked and flicked his old lock picking set from his pocket. “Don’t mind if I do, coz.” 

He unlocked everything in record time. Miguel thought of you for a moment, and wondered if you’d taught the young man a few nefarious tricks since you, too, were an expert sneak. But Miguel pushed the thought aside as they all carefully, slowly, painstakingly unwrapped the linked metal from the fence, and pushed it open with just as much care to keep the noise to a minimum. It’d be a shame to ring the dinner bell in such an untouched place. 

They relocked one of the padlocks for peace of mind before wandering towards the front entrance. The doors’ windows were boarded neatly and meticulously, Miguel noticed first. He crouched down and noted something blocking the small gap between the ground and the door, but the faintest reach of light still reached through the few cracks that remained. 

“Lights’re on. Front’s boarded,” he sighed before backing up. “Might be a different way inside. Looks like there might be people in–” 

“Miguel!” Gwen whispered. He looked her way, and saw her point to a decrepit shed nestled up against the side of the building, right underneath a large window. Shoved against it laid a single, heavy pot flipped on its end, serving as a sort of stool to get up on. But the lack of snow on the newfound path gave Miguel pause.

“I’ll check it out,” Gwen said before nimbly scampering up the side of the shed. 

Miguel frowned. “Gwen–”

“Relax, I’m just gonna look.” But Miguel did not relax, especially not when she rose on her tiptoes on that shitty, rickety shed roof and peered through the window before her eyes grew wide with a soft woah. 

“Whatcha got, Gwendy?” Hobie asked, approaching the shed himself. 

“You two–” Miguel warned. He looked around cautiously, his body aching with primal instinct–they weren’t alone. There had to be someone else here. Gwen and Hobie had to realize that. They were smarter than this. They wouldn’t do anything stupid. They wouldn’t be hypnotized by whatever was in there and throw caution to the wind to get it. Right? Right. 

…Right?

Excited, Gwen smiled and glanced at the two before looking back at whatever she saw. “There’re–there’s…trees? And bushes with veggies and–and wow, you were right, Miguel.” 

“Well, I say we hop in there and snag a few to bring back, yeah?” Hobie suggested. “Reckon they grew on their own?”

“No,” Miguel scolded. “They didn’t. Come down, right now. We need more people for this.” 

“I’m juuust gonna...” Gwen reached for the window, and Miguel’s anxiety peaked.

“Gwen.” 

“Just a little–” The window groaned as it popped open. 

They froze. They died as statues for a single, long moment, rejecting the need to breathe, letting their eyes freeze solid in winter’s mercy while their ears pricked, searching like the alert deer suspecting death stalking nearby after a misstep on a brittle branch. 

One minute passed. 

Then two minutes. 

Three minutes.

But the birds kept chirping, the world kept spinning, and Ares didn’t come to collect their battle-worn souls.

Gwen looked at her group with a nervous smile, a guilty thing that said, “oops?” 

Miguel was furious. But now was not the time to argue or yell. He could let her father handle that back at Alchemax.

But someone grabbed her, and yanked her inside.

Hobie didn’t hesitate. He jumped up to where Gwen once stood and took the plunge after her, scrambling up into the window, but that same someone shoved him, sending him plummeting down to the frigid concrete. Miguel rushed to his side when he hit the pavement with a choked-back groan. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Miguel rolled him on his back. “Hobie, you fucking idiot.” Miguel’s panic ebbed just the slightest bit when he saw the punk blinking away stars instead of losing consciousness. 

Click. 

Electricity burst through him. Miguel ripped his revolver free of its holster and returned aim up at the shadow in the window. The tired winter sun illuminated a barrel of black metal, and the small, tawny hand holding it steady. A child. A kid. He was pointing a gun at a kid.

“We don’t want any problems, kid,” Miguel called up. He tried to relax, but he couldn’t; children who grew up in this world were ruthless. They were cruel, unrelenting, and unapologetic towards  their targets. He couldn’t blame them. It was all they’d known, all they’d been taught. But they were only as cruel as their teachers made them. Some of them still held on to shreds of humanity. 

And judging by that unwavering hand, Miguel feared their adversary was at least a confident shot if not a full-blooded monster.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Hobie groaned. “We just–we just want some seeds ‘n shit, ‘at’s all.” 

The small hand faltered a bit. Seems she still possessed sympathy. But a voice, deep and thread-bare, called to her. She looked over her shoulder for a second, before pulling the window closed and locking the latch behind her. 

Panic lanced through Miguel as anger possessed Hobie. “I’m gonna snap that kid in half–” but the creaky hinges of the front door opening cut him off. Miguel aimed toward it, and Hobie did the same once he got himself together, but then–then Gwen peeked out. 

“Guys!” Her hand fluttered and ushered them to come. “You’re not gonna believe this! It’s–” 

“Daddy?” A young, gentle voice asked, and Miguel’s gaze snapped to her. To her. To the little girl peeking out from around Gwen. To his baby, to his tiny world, long lost but never forgotten. To–

“Gabriella,” Miguel breathed. 

“Ho-ly shit,” Hobie commented.

Gabi’s eyes flooded with emotion. She sprinted to him, nearly slipping and tripping in the snow before jumping into his arms and holding on tight. She was so much older now, so much bigger; her tiny face used to bury into his stomach, but now she had her head tucked up against his chest, staining his jacket with heavy tears. 

“It’s okay, mija, it’s okay. I’m here, Daddy’s got you.” Miguel kissed the top of her head. He fought back tears of his own, but did so so pitifully with broken, bewildered laughs and shaking breaths. He pulled back and looked down at her face, her beautiful, beautiful face, and carefully wiped away the wet trails freezing on her cheeks. “I–you–L-Look at you. How’d you get so big?” 

Gabi smiled and sniffled as she wiped her eyes. “I-I, um, finally ate my veggies.” She took a breath to try and still the quiver in her lungs between thoughts. “Y-You have so much grey in your hair now!”

A few beats of warm laughter left Miguel. “Yeah, no thanks to you. Spent all this time worrying about you, kid.” His hand, so used to killing and defending, trembled as he brushed flyaways out of her face. "Listen, I–I'm gonna take you somewhere safe, okay? You won't be alone anymore." 

Gabriella blinked. Her small hands clutched his jacket. "What? But–"

"She's not alone." 

Miguel almost didn’t look. He didn’t really believe what he just heard. But when he risked it, when he managed to wrench his gaze away from his daughter and back to the heavenly light of the front entrance, he saw you. The man who'd been haunting him for years. The man who'd been keeping him warm at night. You, his lover. You, his husband. 

(You, the man he betrayed.)

"She hasn't been alone," you said, the words punctuated by hazy clouds of warmth–proof you were alive, that you weren't an illusion, not this time. "I promise." 

You looked so, so tired.

But Gwen was grinning, and even Hobie smiled with a lack of irony as he walked to you and gave you a hug. 

"My man! Officer tall, sunny and handsome in the flesh!" He clapped his hand hard against your back but you hardly wavered. You offered a smile, and hugged him back, short and sweet. 

"Hey, Hobie. Behaving?" 

"Eh. Sometimes." 

"Good enough for me." You let him go and scanned over all the survivors, your eyes not lingering on anyone for too long. "Head inside. It's warm, there's food. We'll talk. Gabs?" 

"Okay!" She hurried to corral everyone inside. "In, in, in, we gotta lock up for the night." Her gaze turned to Miguel as he hesitated, still watching you with glazed eyes. "Daddy, are you–?" 

"I'll be there in a second, mija." And, thankfully, his baby girl read the room better than he could have at that age, and let you two be. 

You looked over your shoulder, so like a predator making sure his cubs were inside and safe before prowling through the night. A man enchanted, Miguel followed you, watching you re-lock the gates they'd slipped through, and lagging behind while you checked the perimeter with thorough hands. Miguel would give anything to have those hands on him right now. 

He didn’t know where to start. "(Name), I–" 

"You said you could take her somewhere safe, right?" You asked before you turned that timid, unsure gaze back to him. "You meant that?" 

The words took too long to register. "I–yeah, I meant it. I mean it." Miguel forged courage out of trepidation and used it to fuel his journey to you. "We have a colony. The old Alchemax building, you remember?" 

"The one that was supposed to get torn down?" You wondered. 

Miguel nodded. "Yeah, that one." 

You kept walking. "Didn't we fuck in your office there?" 

A smile threatened Miguel as he followed like a lost puppy. "We did." 

"Ah. Always liked that building. Liked that desk, too." You shrugged. "Comfy, all things considered." 

Miguel hooked his finger into your belt loop and pulled you closer to him. "Then you'll be happy to hear it hasn't changed." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

You almost laughed, Miguel heard it. But you pulled away from him, and wordlessly finished up the perimeter sweep. 

"You should stay the night," you mumbled on the way back. "Pretty sure it's gonna snow." 

"Might make it harder to get back tomorrow," Miguel said, following you inside and watching you bar the door again. "We came here by foot." 

"No truck?" 

"None." 

"I'll take you back, then. I got a truck." 

"You make it sound like you're not coming." Anxiety gripped Miguel. "I'm not losing you again." He held onto your arm tightly.

You looked troubled, glancing between the hand on your arm and Miguel's eyes. "Did Dana die?" You asked. 

Sickness coiled in Miguel's stomach. "What?" But his tone was too deep, too dark. 

You shook your head. "No, I–I'm sorry I don't know why I said that, I'm just–" 

"We both know why you said that," Miguel said through clenched teeth. 

The way you looked at him, eyes full of bristling hatred for the woman who'd stolen away everything from you, set alight an ancient sort of fear in Miguel’s core. It was so like that night, the one where you'd found out. 

Gabi was still at daycare. You were at work. Miguel was supposed to be at work, too. It could have been the perfect crime, one full of sinful lust and infinite rapture. 

But you came home early. 

You didn't even say a word when you walked into the bedroom and found him tangled in the sheets with Dana, with the woman he'd convinced you to think was a surrogate, not someone he was fooling around with and just so happened to knock up. You had that same stare, rotting with hatred, infested with betrayal, all for the woman underneath your husband. Miguel loathed that look, but he found some sick joy in hurting you, too. Because he hated you, for some reason. 

 Dana laughed when you walked out, some smart comment about how pathetic you were dancing off her plush, scarlet-stained lips. Miguel scoffed a laugh, too. You really were a coward, weren't you? 

(But you weren't.)

Miguel finished with Dana, and she left. He heard her say something to you, something light and playful and damn hurtful, but Miguel didn't say anything. Nor did you. 

He found you in the living room after he'd pulled some clothes on like it mattered. He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, staring hard at your profile while you graced the ground with an empty gaze. Your hands clasped and unclasped slowly. Your head nodded shallowly. 

"You're really not gonna say anything?" Miguel goaded. 

"What am I supposed to say?" You offered. 

Something. Anything. 

Miguel laughed, mocking, and sat down across from you, on a mirrored couch, across the glass coffee table you'd picked out together. 

"How long?" You managed. 

Miguel hummed in thought. "How old's Gabi?" 

That got a reaction out of you, something Miguel craved so deeply; your eyelids fluttered in disbelief, and your lips parted to suck in a sharp breath. You looked hurt. You looked like you were feeling something.

"The prenup says you keep what's yours, I keep what's mine, yeah?" 

Miguel's smile faded. "What?"

"Gifts fall into that category. I’m keeping the Jeep." 

"Wait–" 

"I'll find a lawyer in the morning." You got up, and Miguel snapped. 

"You're not even going to fucking ask why?" He yelled, pursuing you into the bedroom. "You don't wanna know why I'm fucking someone else? What the fuck is wrong with you?" 

You ignored him. Miguel's temper flared. 

"Fine! Fine, fuck it, I'll tell you. You don't excite me anymore. You don't try, you don't wanna fuck me, you don't wanna do anything anymore–" 

"Miguel–" 

"You're not the same man I married. What happened to you? When'd you get so–so pathetic and weak?" He took a pause to breathe. Or maybe gasp, more like, as the stabs of panic started to overtake him. "I hate you. You can't leave me." 

He braced on the door, trying to get his bearings on his own, but you were quick to his side. With a strength Miguel loved and adored, you eased him down and fell in slow-motion with his shaky frame secured in your arms. 

“It’s okay, Miggs. You’re okay.” Your fingers combed through his hair slowly. You held him tight,  and convinced him to breathe with you. In and out. In and out. In and out. He breathed to the rhythm of your heart, as it turned out. Slow and steady. Hurt and bleeding. 

“We’ll figure this out, I promise.” 

And he believed you. 

That’s why he took off the ring, and left first thing in the morning. 

Hobie and Gwen passed out after eating their fill of stew. Miguel was beyond annoyed, but couldn't find it in himself to wake them up and leave, not when you were undecided about going with them, but very much wanting him to take Gabi. 

Honestly, he didn't think you'd still be hurting after all this time. Dana was something of the past, a succubus that followed the steps of opportunity and wealth wherever it may go. That's why she wasn't with the group anymore. That's why she left him when he needed her most, and jumped in a truck with strangers while he bled out, alone, in the solitude of an abandoned pet store. 

Chills raked his spine, breaking off chunks of bone when he thought about it. He'd never been so fucking scared in his life. He wished he could have called you to come save him. He wanted you to be the one to walk in there and find him, crying and dying, because you would have stuck by his side through all of those moments; if he hadn't let his emotions get the best of him, if he hadn't made so many stupid decisions, he would've been with you. If he died that day, it would have been in your arms. 

"Hey," you murmured with a gentle touch to his shoulder. Miguel jumped, and your eyes softened. "You okay?" 

Miguel swallowed thickly as he nodded. He looked around, grounding his mind through the touch of your hand, the duo snoring and slumped against bags of soil, and the gentle flickering of the propane campfire keeping the space warm. You taking a seat beside him helped, too. 

Copper eyes took a moment to pace around the old garden centre; true to the outside, it was more or less untouched on the inside, just more cluttered with haphazard barricades and half-done projects. Miguel watched his ghost walk through the isles, once filled with tropical plants, but now replaced with beautiful, healthy trees raised by your hand. It was no wonder Gabi grew up so strong. 

Speaking of--"Where's Gabi?" 

"She's in the next room. Watering some seedlings." You smiled for a fraction of a second. "Putting her green thumb to the test. Tryna show her old man up, I guess." 

Miguel smiled though his eyes stung. "Sounds like an O'hara." 

"Yeah, I thought so, too." 

You shared a few broken beats of laughter before silence fell, just like the snow beyond the door. Then, shyly, like you'd never done it before, your arm reached around his waist. Miguel didn't hesitate to lean his weight into you, though, and that arm didn't wait to pull him in closer right after. 

"So. You still hate me?" Miguel dared to ask before the dancing cinders.

Your hand smoothed up and down his side thoughtfully, soothingly. Miguel melted against you more with a sweet, content sigh. 

"I never hated you," you whispered in return. "Never." 

Miguel made a little sound, something caught between surprise and relief, while your words sunk deep into his thoughts. You didn’t hate him. You didn’t hate him. 

“Then come back with us.” 

“Miguel–”

“There’s no reason to stay here,” Miguel bit out, frustration egging him on. “We have shelter, we have water, showers, rooms, beds–we have everything.” 

“What about food?” You asked quietly.

But Miguel didn’t have an answer; food was the reason they were coming out here, to find more ways to create sustainable living, to try and make life work again. He couldn’t help but look at the trees and bushes bursting with colourful fruits and vegetables, showing off years of dedication and hard work through the literal fruits of your labour. Miguel didn’t know how hard it was to get there. He didn’t think he wanted to know. 

“...It’s a work in progress,” he grumbled instead of admitting the truth. “But we could use your help.”

Your warm fingers dipped under layers of clothes to find the searing skin of your past lover. To Miguel, it almost ached. He hadn't been touched in so long. He hadn't felt your hands on his bare skin for even longer. It intoxicated him, filled his mind and blood with wants and needs–things only you could fulfil for him. 

"I won't leave you hangin', promise that. I just–I need to figure out how this is all gonna work." You looked around the room, taking stock. "Lots of gear we'll need, lots of shit to move. I'll send you back with whatever's already picked. Not worried about the cold with those. The trees are another story, don't want 'em to go dormant while–" 

Miguel kissed you. Sloppily, and wantonly, but with genuinity. Your hands scrambled to hold onto his massive frame when he leaned into you and almost knocked you off the discounted garden bench. This time, you were the one who made a cute, surprised noise. 

And you were the one who kissed him the second time, but it was smaller and shier coming from you, not so eager to consume like Miguel. Your calloused hand held the side of his neck, and your thumb ran along his jawline thoughtfully when you parted, noses bumping and nudging together in a weak nuzzle. 

"I guess you don't hate me anymore?" Your whisper ached Miguel's heart. 

"I never did," he confessed. 

"Then why did you say it?" 

"I don't know." He traced the curve of your lips with tired, weighted eyes. Your cupid's bow had a nice shape to it, so soft and pillowy, meant just for him. "But I didn't mean it." 

"I need a better answer than that." You swallowed down what Miguel could only guess to be a tincture of fear and sorrow, or maybe rage and betrayal. "I've lived with–with that for a long, long time." Your eyes glistened with unspent grief, suddenly. "I need more than 'I don't know.'" 

Miguel's heart lurched. He hadn't bore witness to the consequences of his selfishness before, not with you, not during his affair with Dana. He'd only seen you grow distant across that coffee table far before that god-awful night. And back then, he wanted a reaction. He wanted something like this out of you, but now, he couldn't fathom why.

"Mi amor, I–it's hard to put into words, and I was a stupid kid, and–hey, hey, don't--don't cry." He wiped away the bravest tear to fall first before you turned away, back to the flickering blaze, and rubbed your face roughly. 

"Here's my guess," you muttered. "You wanted to fuck, and I couldn’t–I just–it was hard for me. Or maybe it wasn’t hard, maybe that’s a better way to put it.” You rubbed your face, and held your head in your hands. "The, ah, the medication, the anti-depressants or whatever, they were fucking me up. I didn’t wanna fuck you. I didn’t wanna do anything. Then I was in training to join the force. Wasn't home, and when I was, I was too tired to take care of you and Gabi, so I focused on her. And that made you go back to Dana. Again." 

Bile scorched the back of Miguel’s throat. "You knew." A realisation, not a question. "You knew we–that she and I–" 

"Yeah, that she wasn't a surrogate.” You picked your head up from your hands and stared at the fire, unseeing. “Because she was dating Gabe at the time, and you were with me." You sighed and let a deep, venomous grief finally escape from the space between your lungs, from the spot where that thing had festered like a disease for too many years. 

"I could let it go the first time, turn a blind eye because she gave me–gave us–our daughter, but–the second time? With all the shit you two said?" You shook your head. "I just--I couldn't–I wish you'd just told me what was wrong. I wish I'd told you what was going on with me, too, 'cause I know all the shit that happened is my fault, too.”

"Dad?” Gabi's small, hollow voice rang. The both of you turned to her, but you were the one who got up. 

“Baby,” You said with a hushed tone, somehow so comforting but so afraid. “Hey, you done with the watering?” 

“Uh, yeah, but…um, is everything okay?” Her gaze flicked between you and Miguel. He could almost hear her little mind firing on all cylinders as she tried to parse what they were talking about. “You look sad.”

You crouched before her and took her hands in yours. “We’re talking through some things, honey, it’s alright. We’re figuring things out.”

A light of worried realization illuminated Gabriella’s gaze. Miguel fidgeted and futzed with his clothes as he looked away, unsure of how to deal with her accusatory revelation. How much did she know? Did you tell her anything? No, no, you wouldn’t do that, you wouldn’t dirty her memory of her father like that. You were a good man. You were a better man than Miguel. 

“Oh,” she whispered. 

You nodded and brushed some hair free from her freckled face. "We’ll be alright, baby. You just get some sleep, alright? Tomorrow's gonna be a busy day. Lots of loading up to do." 

Gabi whispered the softest okay before giving you a hug. She paused for a moment, before running to Miguel and throwing her arms around him for a few precious seconds before running off to the loft to sleep. 

You sighed, then, and Miguel did too.

You turned to him. “Look, you–I don’t know why I’m starting shit right after you…you wander back into my life,” you murmured, going back to Miguel and straddling the bench before taking his hand and squeezing. “I’m sorry. And I love you. You know that, right?”

That pang came back in Miguel’s chest, but this time, it was warmer.

December 2nd  3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Miguel squeezed your hand back and this time, he was the one tearing up. “Mi amor, you don’t need to–you’ve done enough apologizing already.” 

"Miggs, don't say that. I–" 

"Stop. Stop it." Your husband straddled the bench, too, and scooted closer to you until he was more or less in your lap, his heavy thighs draped over your own. 

"But–" you started, and stopped as Miguel cupped your face with both hands and squished your cheeks. You sighed and leaned into his touch when it eased up. "Baby–" 

"Me arrepiento de lo que hice," he whispered to you, "espero algún día puedas perdonarme." He let go of your face, and found your hand to kiss its back. "Te amo." 

You smiled. Something real, something happy. Something that stayed around for more than a few seconds, and made the corners of your eyes crinkle with the beautiful way you'd aged. Then, you kissed him. 

"Te amo," you murmured back, your lips still touching his. "We'll figure this out. Work it out. We have the time." Your lips pressed against his again. "I'm not giving up on us." 

This time, Miguel cried.

It took some time to transport everything to Alchemax. It took a little bit longer to get you there, too. 

But you got there eventually, ready to stay for good, and ready to put Miguel's mind at ease. 

Your old friends and coworkers greeted you, clasping their hands on your back and hugging you tight until you couldn't breathe anymore. You smiled, too, and asked them how they were holding up, if your husband was keeping things in line. You couldn't help but remind them that you in fact hand the handsomest and smartest partner in the world, too. 

They let you get acquainted with the building pretty quickly, probably seeing the haggard, exhausted state you'd lived in for five years and wanting to let you unwind for the first time in a long time. And that called for a hot shower, food, and some sleep. 

"I'll take you to your room," Miguel told you as you both left the common area. 

"My room?" You retorted, sounding mighty confused and damn near insulted. 

Miguel blinked and looked at you. "Yeah. There's enough for–" Oh. 

"What's yours is mine, yeah?" You said, stern and a little bit spicy. "Then your room is mine. And your ass is–"

"Câllate," Miguel cut you off with a smile. "I'll take you to our room." 

He led you there with a bit of a spring to his step, and you kept up with as much enthusiasm. The room was nothing special, featuring nothing more beyond a mediocre bed, uninspired furnishings, and random knick knacks Miguel had left here over the years. But it was home. Your shared home. 

"Huh." You looked around the room. "I think that coffee table woulda looked nice here." 

Miguel scoffed a laugh and rested his hand on the small of your back. "You think so? I think it'd clash." 

"Yeah, well, you have bad taste, hun." 

"Oh, wow, you're really gonna say that when I'm married to you?" 

"I'm the one who confessed first. I'm the one who proposed. Pretty sure it's safe to say I picked you." You leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “And I have good taste.”

Miguel felt his face get hot. "Shut up and take a shower." 

"Your wish is my command." You set your pack down by the bed before sliding open the door to the ensuite. Miguel watched you like a hawk, his prey drive skyrocketing when he caught swaths of your bare skin peeking out from the washroom. He wanted to watch more, but you deserved a little privacy. 

"Oh," you said, peeking out from the doorway. "I, uh, kept my phone through everything. There're some photos of Gabi, if you wanna check it out." You vanished back into the bathroom and Miguel heard the water turn on. "It's in my pack! In the shitty little phone pocket thing." 

"Yeah, I–okay, I'll take a look, thanks." Miguel smiled, and rummaged through what you'd brought with you before pulling out that beat up phone with the charger still plugged into it and kept together with bandages of tape. Colour him impressed. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and went straight for the camera roll. There were loads of new pictures ranging from Gabriella when she was littler, to pictures of animals that Miguel guessed Gabi had a hand in.

There were old pictures, too. Mostly of Miguel, as embarrassing as that was, but the baby photos took over his reign once that perfect little girl entered your life. It made Miguel wish he’d taken more photos, that he hadn’t thought it was too cliche and embarrassing to capture every moment. He used to say shit like, “Do you have to take a photo? Can’t you just live in the moment?” but you’d stick your tongue out, give him a pinch or a bite on his cheek or something else in retribution. Because you didn’t care, you wanted to look back on little memories. 

He scanned through photos until he caught one that sent a rush of red to his features; it was of him, on his back, eyes teary and face alight with a fierce blush as you, well, obviously fucked him stupid. It was the only one of its kind. Maybe you forgot to delete it? Maybe–

The videos. Oooh, now that had Miguel excited. Miguel scanned through the other folders, but found nothing, much to his dismay and relief, seeing as Gabi probably had free access to your phone. 

But then, he spied a locked folder. 

The first password he tried worked (your anniversary because duh. You were such a sap), and a whole catalogue of videos and pictures were unleashed. 

Miguel glanced up at the washroom door before he skimmed through. He remembered all of these places (but the geo tags helped, too. Christ, you were so organised with your exhibitionist porn), ranging from IKEA after closing, to an abandoned amusement park. He still didn’t know how you picked out these places, or how you knew how to get into them without getting in heaps of trouble with the authorities. 

He tapped on a video and bumped the volume up a couple notches, just so he could barely hear; it was him on his knees, on a rusty old ferris wheel, staring up at you like you were God himself as he gripped your thighs and did his damndest to give you the blowie of a lifetime. Your sighs and soft moans rippled through the speakers like waves lapping at the shoreline. Present Miguel rubbed his mouth, worrying at his bottom lip before licking the dryness away. 

“Good boy,” You whispered on the other side of the camera. Your hand came into view and carded through dark locks before cupping his cheek. Miguel of the past turned into your touch and took your thumb into his mouth while his hand took over stroking your length from base to tip over, and over again. 

Miguel swiped to the next video. He was on his back this time, in your shared bedroom, if that duvet cover was to be trusted, while your fingers plunged deep inside of his heat and tore loud moans and gasps from him. He remembered this; you called it an experiment before you bullied his prostate with three, thick digits.  

"How's that feel, gorgeous?" You purred. Miguel swallowed thickly, both in the video and in the now. His hesitant hand crept down his thigh slowly, like he was trying to hide it from himself and call it an accident as he reached to palm himself through his jeans while he watched. He almost felt guilty. But that's what made it better. 

"Good. Really fucking good." His past self rocked down against your fingers, choking on a needy whine as his eyes slid open, and found you. "I need you, mi amor. Please–" 

"I know, babe, I know. I'm almost done here," you promised. You tilted the camera down to his stretched hole to catch what you did next. "Then you can have whatever you want from me." 

You pressed your pinky in, then, and Miguel of the present bit his lip as his shocked gasp and shaky cry pierced through the speakers. Miguel still couldn't describe the deranged pleasure he got from having half your hand in his ass, nearly to the point of fisting him. 

Miguel switched to a different video quickly. The next one was in the Jeep you loved so much. You were both out camping for the weekend, something you loved and Miguel had learned to love; that stupid red truck became home for so many long weekends, it became host to long hours of napping and intimacy, it turned into one of Miguel's favourite places. 

The video started with you adjusting the camera and squinting at it while Miguel’s younger self bitched and moaned in the background. 

"I'm just making sure the tripod's working 'n shit, babe, just gimme a sec!" You whined back. 

"My dick's getting soft," Miguel threatened, so blasé but annoyed at the same time. "Come on, viejo." 

You pulled away from the camera, grinning smug as a fox, and scooted back to your lover. His past self was lounging, hair and clothes already a mess from the prologue to this movie, as he watched you.  

"I'm here, I'm here." You kissed him, and Miguel could almost taste the s’mores on your tongue, the coffee on your lips. "Sorry, just wanna make sure it's perfect." 

"Oh, yeah, 'course. Gotta make sure your indie porno looks good." 

"Hey, one day we're gonna look back on this! It's worth it, baby, trust me." 

"Whatever. Just kiss me," Miguel demanded with a laugh. And you did as you were told, kissing his lips, then down his chest, then–

"Knew you'd like watching 'em back." 

Miguel jumped, nearly dropping the phone as he jerked his hand away from his clothed bulge. "I, uh–what?" he asked dumbly as he stared at your built frame leaning against the doorframe. God, you were still an impressive specimen. He wished that loose towel would just drop from your hips already.

"Our, ah, home videos." You grinned, so much like that fox from the past, and paced to Miguel. "Nice looking back, ain't it?" You cupped the underside of his jaw and tilted his face up. "Got you a lil' excited, yeah?" 

You weren't wrong. With a hammering heart, burning skin, and tingling nerves, he couldn't deny he was stuck deep in a pool of desire and need. And now with you handling him like this–fuck. He was in trouble. 

Miguel nodded weakly. "Yeah." He took a deep breath. "Just a little." 

“I’ll help.” You eased onto the bed and took great care in settling behind him. "Let the video play," you whispered against his neck before leaving a possessive kiss. 

Miguel leaned back into you. He watched you pop open his jeans and slip a hand down, down, down, until your warm palm met his aching length. A shuddered breath escaped him when you felt him up, pulled him free, squeezing and stroking in all the right spots; it'd been so long since anyone touched him. It'd been so long since he touched himself. 

"I, ah, don’t think we–did we lock the door?" Miguel heard himself moan in the video, and he dared another look; your head bobbed between his thighs while fingers pistoned into him. He wondered if you would do that to him again. Maybe tonight. 

"Nope.”

“Shit.”

"Mmmh. You want me to stop jerking you off so you can lock it?" 

"No." 

You chuckled. "Okay." 

Your hand still worked him slowly and thoughtfully while lovers of the past filled in the rest of the silence. Miguel's hips bucked, and you hummed, so pleased with yourself. Pleased with yourself for pleasing him. Something Miguel found self-value in.

"I think I, uh, I think you mighta been right," he murmured to the air, trying to control his voice. Your gentle hum of intrigue spurred him on. "I think I need you to fuck me more than I realized. Need you to want me, ‘n…take me." 

“Yeah?” You asked before sinking a bite into his neck. “Figured you had somethin’ of a praise kink. Makes sense, in hindsight.”

Miguel gasped when you picked up the pace. “Fuck–I’d call it…mmmmn, I’d call it a-a love language–”

“Huh, didn’t know there were six love languages–”

“Sh-shut up, shut up, you know what I–what I mean–!” Miguel bit down hard on the inside of his mouth as his hips rocked up into your cruel, talented hand. He was close. How embarrassing. “I, uh…physical touch. Words of affirmation.”

“‘Needing my husband to fuck me and tell me I’m sexy.’” Miguel moaned and dug his head back into your shoulder as you chuckled. “That sound about right?”

“Viejo,” he whined, setting the phone aside to be forgotten. “I–”

“I know, baby; show me how hard this love language makes you cum.” 

It only took a few more strokes for Miguel to come undone. His teeth clattered together as he strained to keep his voice on lock as a forgotten rapture ripped the air from his lungs and electrocuted every vessel in his body. He clung to the other arm that’d come to wrap around his chest and hold him against you while you worked him through the motions, slowing down, accommodating the way his body reacted to the blinding pleasure. There were words said, probably encouraging ones muttered into his shoulder, but Miguel didn’t have the mind to parse the meaning of what you’d said. 

“Y’know,” you tried again when Miguel’s mind levelled out, “I think I have a praise kink, too. But a complimentary one. One where I like praising you.” You rested your chin on his shoulder and hummed. “Hm. Who woulda thought.”

“Hah. Good to know you’re still annoying,” Miguel said with a chuckle. He scrunched his nose up when you licked the side of his face. “(Name)--” 

“No.” You bit his cheek this time, and he sighed. You did, however, feel his softening cock start to come back to life again. “Want me to lock the door now, old man?” 

“Yeah,” he breathed. You got off the bed, letting the towel fall where it may, and Miguel finally gazed upon his lost treasure. “And set up your phone. We need to update the archives.”

You grinned when you turned back to him, and Miguel felt so at ease. 

There were still things to work out: the mental illness you hid from him, the cheating Miguel tried to hide from you, the little secrets you both kept wedged in the darkest cracks of your minds. But with you with him, the man who refused to give up on their bond and their love, Miguel felt safe indulging in mindless pleasure you so generously gave to him. Neither of you were about to seal away the past again, but if you could share in the good of your relationship while acknowledging the bad, then hope wasn’t lost; it was found in the moment you’d pulled his old wedding band from your pack, and slipped it back on Miguel’s finger that night, murmuring the words you said in a church so long ago:

“Till death do us part.”

[phyrestartr]

Baby Crazy | Miguel x F!Reader

Miguel x Symbiote Host!Reader W/C: 1.8k

#SFW, mentions of trauma, mentions of past miscarriage, new beginnings, Miguel has baby fever, established relationship, fluff, comfort

Note: I'm trying to finish up and move on from a bunch of WIPs I have cluttering up my docs, so that's why I'm rapid-fire posting LOL. I have so many that are nearly done bro it's driving me insane!!!

--

Something changed.

This hadn't happened before, the way he was acting, the way he was feeling. Everything around him, anything that even slightly hinted at kids, triggered the frenzy in Miguel’s brain; if Peter showed up at HQ with May in his arms, Miguel had a hard time leaving the room and ignoring them because–yes he wanted to hold her, god dammit, hand her over already, Parker.

Then there were the instances with Jess on missions; any time she got whipped around, Miguel flew to her in an instant, asking if the baby was okay before asking if Jess was okay. He knew they were both fine, but–but still.

And, Christ, when you held a baby, and that stoicism lifted from your beautiful face? It killed Miguel, made him fall even more in love with you if that was even possible. 

Fuck. He was so, so doomed. 

He'd never seen you so soft before. Just that little glimpse of your maternal instincts, your quiet gentility, dyed your partner’s blood in bright hues of hope and wonder. Because you were a hardened woman, someone the universe took great pleasure in beating on time after time. It was a wonder love could still find a home inside your bruised heart. Miguel had been there to see you before it all, and held you through most of the downfall, and when he’d missed things, you filled in the gaps for him; you were his greatest confidant, ranking high in Miguel’s mind with Lyla and Gabriel. 

You'd been there since the beginning as a cool, calm, collected reporter that'd do just about anything to get the next story for the papers. Miguel found you incredibly aggravating, and he would have had much less patience for you if he hadn't wanted to get in bed with you so much. And as it turned out, your insatiable curiosities would come to bite you in the ass as much as it would foster your bond to the scientist; you would become host to the symbiote, and he would become spliced with spider genetics. 

Spiderman. Venom. 

Who else could you turn to but each other? Who else would understand what it felt like to change in a split second, to endure what it meant to change? 

You'd both done your damndest to take it in stride, and now here you were, too many years later, stuck to each other like glue and hardened off into something hurt and impenetrable that just now started to ease into something soft and malleable. Miguel found he loved it. He loved you. 

And, shit, he wanted a goddamn baby with you. 

He watched you from the couch while you loitered in the kitchen, hair a mess and oversized sleep shirt hanging lazily off one shoulder as you willed yourself to get a pot of coffee going. Rosy eyes glanced down to your stomach. How tight would that shirt get when you were nine months? And what if you had twins? Miguel had confidence in himself, he figured he had the power to put two babies in you at once. Easy. No problem. Definitely doable and–

"Miguel?" You called from the kitchen with a croaky, groggy voice.

"Baby?" He blurted, the fever in his mind overtaking his mouth and sabotaging what he tried to say. 

You stared at Miguel as heat rose to his face. He didn't call you "baby." You didn't call him "baby." You had a right to be suspicious. And because you were you, you continued to stare, and stare, and stare like it was some kind of punishment done to make Miguel squirm in his seat (which succeeded). 

"I–uh, shit, sorry. You–say again?" 

You stared at him. 

"(Name), for the love of–stop, just stop. Please," he more or less begged as he rubbed his face. Maybe he could rub away the red staining his cheeks if he tried hard enough. 

"Hm." You collected the two mugs of coffee you'd prepared during Miguel's daydream, and brought them to the couch. "You've been thinking about babies a lot." 

Miguel took the mug with a soft thanks. "Well, it's hard not to with Jess and Peter around," Miguel deflected. 

You slipped your legs across his lap and leaned against the arm of the couch. "Mh." You sipped your coffee and held it with both hands to warm your chilled fingers. "Do you want–" 

"I think so." He looked at you, eyes big with a maelstrom of nerves and excitement dancing behind them as sparks fluttered in his chest. "Do you?" 

Your head tilted just slightly as you looked him over. "Mhm. Wanna do it now?" 

Miguel's palm magnetized to your thigh and squeezed. "Well, I think we've got time."

“Okay.” Miguel smirked and started to feel up your leg, his fingers dipping into the sleep shorts you wore. But then, you took out your phone, and paid no mind to his lustful touches. “What do you want?”

Miguel blinked. “What?” 

You stared at him again. “For breakfast.” 

“Oh.” 

“Mh.” You fidgeted with your phone between your fingers for a moment. “Oh. Did you…think I was talking about–?”

“No,” Miguel interjected. “I–I just thought you–maybe just–I, well. Maybe?” He swallowed and drummed his fingers against your leg. “Have you…thought about it?” 

The question held weight; he knew you’d thought about it, knew you lamented over it, even, because you lost a child just as he had. The memories swirling in your mind never rose to the surface, never burned into the history of the outside world, but Miguel knew they were there. He knew a late-term miscarriage could never be forgotten. 

“Mmh…” You slipped your legs off his lap and made slow work of tucking them into your sleepshirt, making yourself a blob. A very cute, sleepy blob. “We’ve thought about it,” you admitted, but didn’t expand. It gave Miguel hope, though. Clearly you’d mulled it over with your other half. 

“Yeah?” He asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded. 

Your partner nodded. His hand found its way onto the bump of your knee, and his thumb rubbed curious circles against you as he exercised patience, like a puppy sitting and waiting for a treat. You watched his hand on you, quietly admiring the veins and tendons proudly pushing against his skin, and the shift of muscle dancing under his movements as he soothed you.

“Are you ready?” You wondered softly. One of your hands slipped from your mug in favour of resting over his. “For a baby.” 

Miguel chewed his cheek for a moment and watched your hand, too, like avoiding each other’s gaze would somehow quash the trepidation, make it easier to admit what you both wanted and what you both feared. But Miguel, the man who didn’t always like what he had to do but knew what he had to do, bit the bullet and found your eyes. Your beautiful, perfect eyes. Maybe your shared joy would have them, too. 

“Yeah.” He scooted into your space and caressed your warm cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “If it’s with you,” he said, and turned his hand to cup your cheek with his palm, “I’m sure.”

The still, placid look of you melted, just the slightest bit, under the incalescence of your lover’s touch. Your lovely lips twitched a fraction, but the true smile, the one Miguel craved to see day after day, glowed in the colour of your eyes. 

“Hm.” You hummed softly as you nodded, thinking and deliberating with your other half. Your gaze wandered away from Miguel and to the side slowly, to the side she whispered in the most. Your eyes fluttered, then, gaze recentering and focusing on Miguel in front of you again. 

“Well?” He tucked some hair behind your ear only for you to un-tuck that same piece. Miguel tucked it back again, and this time, you let him. “What’s the jury say?”

You took a deep breath, and nodded. “We think we’re ready,” you murmured. You caught his hand and pressed a light kiss to his knuckles, treating him like the princess you knew he was. “If it’s with you, we’re sure.” And this time, you gave him a smile. 

Miguel’s heart erupted. His boyish grin hit you with the concentrated power of the sun before he all but dove into you, crushing you with a hug, and spilling coffee everywhere. You made some sort of strange noise, something between laughter and panic, as you fumbled with the mugs and set them down wherever you could while Miguel peppered you with affection. He kissed your de-blobbed body, first your collarbone and then between your breasts. He nuzzled there before taking a deep, deep breath of your scent and sighing, content.

“You’re weird,” you said as you carded your hands through his hair while he basked in the glory of your chest. 

He pulled his face out of heaven and rested his chin between the girls as he gazed up at you, eyes bleeding adoration and excitement. “Oh, what, I’m not allowed to be excited for a baby?” 

You pinched his nose and watched him scrunch up his face and suffer. “You’re just weird.” Your mean fingers found his eyebrows and pulled them. “I’m excited, too. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.” You let go of the hairs and smoothed them over with your thumbs. “About trying again.” 

That had Miguel’s attention. “You never mentioned it.” He tilted his head, resting his cheek against one plushy mound as he listened. 

“I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t know if I should.” You dragged your nails against Miguel’s scalp, and he closed his eyes with a pleased sigh. “I’m glad you did.”

Miguel hummed warmly. “Guess we were both a little scared, huh? Hah. Venom and Spiderman, afraid to talk about the future. Who woulda thought.” He picked his head up to look you in the eyes. “But at least that’s out of the way now.” 

“Mh. Now you can stop complaining about using condoms,” You said, deadpan. 

“I–you–look, you don’t get it–”

“Hm.”

“It feels different. Better. Like a real connection–”

“Hmm.” 

“And–okay, fine, I’d rather not have a shitty layer of rubber between me and you. What’s so wrong with that?” 

“Hmmm.”

“Vieja,” Miguel pleaded. 

You smiled, soft and quiet like drifting petals. “Like I said, you won’t need to complain about them anymore. Not for a while, anyway.”

Miguel bit your tit lightly, and you flicked his forehead. “Why don’t we not-complain right now?” 

“Hm.” 

“We have time to start round one of baby-making, yeah?” His smile, dangerous and hungry, split across his features again as his hands wandered up and under your shirt teasingly. “If we knock you up now, we’ll have a kid born in…what, February? Good start to a new year.” 

You thought about it more seriously than Miguel thought you would, if the narrowing of your brows and a sudden prolonged silence told him anything. You were probably mulling over the zodiacs for that month, though, deciding if you liked them enough to go for it. Even with your serious take on things, you still loved your astrology. 

“Hm. Okay.” But you plucked your phone off the ground and turned the menu you’d pulled up to Miguel. “Food first. Baby-making after.” 

He nodded. “Deal.”

[phyrestartr]

Simple Things [3] - Miguel O'hara x Male!Reader

# Mild NSFW, fluff, comfort, flirting, light angst, male!reader, dad!reader, spider!reader, implied depression, mentions of trauma, mentions of past relationships, mentions of manipulation, old men just doing their best, miguel is a sweetheart and a nerd, multi-part drabble collection

[ 1 ] Smoke Break | [ 2 ] We Change Like the Seasons | [ 3 ] Meet the Kids

Notes: Covid is still kicking my ass but I wanted to finish this part off so I can make the reader and Miguel fuck in the next part wahoo \o/

-- Meet The Kids --

A girl walked into the lab. Miguel thought maybe Gwen or another spider had come to ask something of him or to steal one of the cookies from his desk console (wouldn't be the first time), but the lazy scuff of shoes on polished floors sounded too clumsy to be one of his agents. She wasn't wearing a suit either, Miguel realized after sparing a glance over his shoulder; she did, however, sport a day pass on a small wrist. 

"And you are?" Miguel asked before turning back to his screens. He wasn't really in the mood for conversation while he tracked the next anomaly, but he couldn't say he wanted some random kid to be touching his stuff in his lab. 

"I dunno. Who're you?" Ugh. 

The clattering of something hitting the floor made Miguel's eye twitch. He took a breath. "I'm the guy running the show here." He closed screens with gruesome scenes of destruction, hiding them from the prying eyes of the innocent in the room with him. "And I'm the one who's about to call your guardian." 

She scoffed. "My guardian?" 

"Whichever spider dragged you into HQ and let you off your leash with a day pass." Miguel spied her out of the corner of his eye, but didn't have the decency to face her. "Lyla. Scan her." 

"You got it, buddy." 

"Woah, wait–!" The girl gasped as a warm orange light washed over her, flickering across her entirety before vanishing. "Dude." Despite the attitude, her voice trembled faintly. Miguel almost felt bad. But she touched his stuff. Not his fault. 

Lyla whistled and adjusted her sunnies as she leaned into a tiny screen of her own. "Oooh, you're gonna love this, Miguel–" 

"Miguel?" The girl repeated. "Like…the guy Dad talks about?" 

A clairvoyant feeling overwhelmed the spider, probably the same way spidey senses hit the normal spider-people around him. Somehow, he knew who she was, who her dad was before Lyla even said it. 

"Yep, that's (Name)'s kiddo," Lyla chirped. 

Miguel looked at the girl. He really looked at her this time, feeling some sort of stupid with how much she looked like you; her hair was fluffy and unkempt in the same shade yours was, the shape of her nose was like a smaller, cuter version of yours, too. Then there were her eyes. That same hazy hue of uncut gems, a colour of protective dullness that hid something brilliant and effervescent from the outside world. 

"(Name)'s kid," Miguel repeated. Your name felt comfortable on his tongue these days. "Kid, I–what're you doing here? Where's your dad, huh?" 

The girl, very clearly looking around the room to try and spot the elusive Lyla, shrugged. "I 'unno." 

Colour Miguel unimpressed. "Oh, you don't know. Good. Great." He tutted before running a hand through his hair. "Lyla, call the kid's dad–" 

"He's sleeping!" She blurted. "You can't just, like, wake him up; Dad never gets to sleep." Her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her cheeks puffed. "And my name's Isabella, y'know." 

Miguel's dark brow raised in question. "Isabella." Said with a Latin accent. Interesting. Miguel's chest felt tighter. "If your dad's asleep then he probably left you with someone." He looked at her expectantly. 

Isa shrugged again and scuffed her worn soles against the floor. "Mr.Parker didn't notice. He's watching Natalie and Nico and May 'n whatever. So. Yeah." 

Mr.Parker? Oh. "Hm. He babysit you a lot?" God, Miguel should stop asking questions, but curiosity and that damn attention deficit had him by the throat. He turned around and folded his arms over one another, too, before leaning back against the stage console to speak with Isabella properly. 

"Ugh, why are old people so–so freaking annoying? I'm not a baby, I don't need anyone to watch me." Ah. Of course. 

"Oh, wow, ah-huh, yeah. Sure. I'm sure your dad agrees." Her amateur glare wrought a smirk out of him. Would he have argued with Gabi like this? 

Miguel cleared his throat and turned back to the console, reaching for another cookie absent-mindedly. "Look, you can stay here until your father comes to get you, but you have to stop touching things. Got it?" But Isa only grumbled and scuffed her feet again. "Isabella." 

"Uuugh. Fiiine." The girl plopped down into an old rolling chair. Miguel tried not to twitch. He would not snap at a child for breaking his chair, he would not do that. Absolutely not. 

Not even one minute of silence passed before the kid rolled closer to the centre stage Miguel stood at. "Sooo you're, like, my dad's boss or something?" 

"Guess that's the easiest way to put it." Miguel peered at the girl from the corner of his eye. 

"Okay, but what's the hardest way to put it?" Isabella wiggled and sat backwards on the chair, hugging the backrest as she scooted around the lab. "Are yooou…friends?"

Miguel shrugged. "I'd say so." 

"Hmmmm. Are you more than friends?" 

His eye twitched again. "Do you interrogate every adult like this?" 

Isabella huffed. "Uh, he made you cookies. It's sooo not weird to ask if you're, like, a thing." 

"A thing." 

"Like boyfriends–" 

"Santa Muerte, I know what you mean, kid." 

"Okay." Silence fell for all of ten seconds. "I'm just saying–" 

Miguel groaned. "Can you stop talking for five minutes–" 

"--you'd be waaay cooler to have for a step dad than all the people Dad's been dating." 

"Yeah, well, I'm hard to beat." Oh, wow, did he just say that about himself? Christ. Miguel took a deep breath and tried to relax his shoulders with all his might. "That came out wrong. I–look, you need to just–he's dating?" Miguel cringed. It's not that he was interested in you like that, just…he was nosy, that's all. But he was incredibly aware of how that must have sounded to an equally nosy tween. 

Isabella perked up. "Uh, yeah. But everyone he dates ends up being suuuper crazy and weird. Like, it's reaaally bad." 

He shouldn't pry. He really shouldn't. "...Bad how?" Ay, Miguel. 

"Like, they're always super clingy or don't like kids or something. And, like, Nico and Nat had moms who had dads who super hated dad, so they gave him money to make him go away." Isabella nodded matter of factly. "That's what Dad said. He's super sure he's cursed or something. Granny was a bruja y'know." 

Miguel shouldn't be listening to this. He shouldn't be prying into your life through the conduit of a chatty kid. Asking you would be the better option, but this way was so much easier. It felt like he could finally get a grasp of what you'd been through, and maybe catch a glimpse of who you were behind the scenes. 

"Then what about your mom?" Miguel asked, crossing his arms and flicking his gaze back to the monitors. "That didn't happen with her?" 

An offended gasp burst from the young lady. "No! My mom was so not like that. She was Dad's girl!" 

"No kidding." Miguel hummed. He wasn't about to ask what happened to her. Spiderman never had an easy romance, never had an easy life. 

"Yeah! They fought in the war together, and her name's–" 

"Isabella." Your voice cut through the air like winter rain. Miguel almost got chills, and Isa squeaked before hopping off her chair and scrambling on the stage to hide behind Miguel. 

"Oh, look at that. Someone's in trouble," Miguel mumbled, mean smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. 

Isa glared up at Miguel. "Jerk."

"Isabella, quit bothering the boss," You groaned tiredly. Miguel's ears perked as the coo of a little one fluttered through the air. He turned and found you holding the littlest baby in one arm, and a toddler in the other, both incredibly K.Oed.

"M'not bothering him!" She protested. "I'm just hanging out!" 

"Cut the crap, you're probably complaining about school or about my love life or how I wouldn't get you a new phone or some shit." Miguel had to fight back a laugh. He'd never heard you so exasperated nor animated before. "And why the hell did you run off, huh? You had Pete freaking the fuck out." 

"I got bored! I just wanted to go look around!" Isabella pleaded with a puppy-level whine.

"Isa, this place, it's–it's not meant for people without powers. You could get hurt, alright?" You adjusted your grip on the two little ones in your arms. "And the lab is a whole 'nother story, Christ–" 

"It's fine, (Name)," Miguel cut in, turning to you. "She was fine." 

But the worry lines creasing your forehead didn't smooth quite as much as he wanted. "'Ppreciate it, Boss. But, I…" you trailed off, sighing softly. "Yeah. Just. Thanks. I'll, ah, get her out of your hair. Bet you've got work to do." 

Mija, let's go is what Miguel swore he heard come out of your mouth before Isa pouted and ran after you.

Mija. That word brought a world of hurt and comfort to his chest–the coincidence of Spanish on your tongue felt too…perfect, like you'd learned it just to shove it in his face. But Miguel knew better. 

Isabella. 

Mija. 

Your girl, Isa's mother, must have taught you. He liked that, for some reason. The idea of learning something new for a partner. What would you teach him if you were– 

Woah, woah, stop, Miguel. Stop. His ears turned hot. He worried at his bottom lip with fidgety hands before shaking his head free from such dangerous thoughts. 

Focus, he chanted to himself, you've got work to do. 

--

You decided you were sick that day. No, you weren’t really, but the headache chipping away at your skull suggested that, hey, maybe staying home for a day wouldn’t be a bad thing. You could use a break from dragging yourself around New York, searching for the next big scoop, the next tragedy to document and earn a living off of, too. 

So, there you were, in bed, with the tv in the front room playing some sort of movie that you’d heard a thousand times but never learned the name of, while your littlest, newest addition to the family starfished in a laze, his tiny tummy pressed to your broad chest. Your fingers lazily rubbed circles against his little back as he snoozed and drooled on your shirt. Somehow, the giggling and chattering of his sisters didn’t wake him up. Maybe the drumming of your heart, or the safety of a warmth he hadn’t known until now, drowned all of it out. 

He didn’t even stir when his sisters screeched.

You closed your eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. God, please just let it be a spider, please just let it be a spider. You sat up, holding your baby to your chest as you plucked a gun from the side table. You carefully set Nico down into the warmth of where you were laying before stalking to the door and whipping it open, gun poised and ready for–oh. A big spider.

“What the fuck, Miguel,” you hissed, beyond exasperated as you lowered the gun. “Why the–what–I could’ve shot you.” 

Miguel looked beyond bewildered, though some would say entirely bamboozled. He had his hands up like the police had them in his sights, his face was a combination of embarrassed, shocked and annoyed, and his claws had popped out in his flustered panic. His spiderman suit was still on, but he had that white hoodie thrown on top like it’d hide the fact he was spiderman. Hopefully it did. 

“I–” Miguel started.

“Ah-ah.” You cut him off like a dog misbehaving. “Girls?” Their heads popped up from behind the couch and you sighed in relief. “It’s alright, he’s a friend. From work.”

One of your daughters gasped. “It’s the weirdo that’s suuuper into dad!” Isabella cried, jumping out from behind the couch and pointing an accusatory finger at a very unamused-looking Miguel. 

“For the last time, I’m not–”

“You so are!”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Yeah!” Natalie joined in, hopping up and down by her sister excitedly and pointing at the man they deemed guilty. “You are, you are!”

Miguel, probably halfway to an early grave, looked to you for help. But you flashed him a tight-lipped smile that said more than words could offer: perish. 

You let the girls hound him while you turned on your heel, heading back into the bedroom to sooth your stirring little boy. The gun found itself back in the drawer, safety on, magazine removed, before you scooped the tiny being into your arms and smooshed up against your chest. Your son quieted and clung to you. You left a kiss on the top of his head to welcome him.

"So," you started as you came back to the scene of the crime, "the hell're you here for, Boss?" You asked, completely unfazed by how the girls had corralled him onto the couch and had his hands in their own, their curious fingers pushing on his tendons and making his claws pop in and out. Honestly, you were pretty tempted to do the same. 

Miguel pursed his lips and ignored the gremlins on him as he looked at you again, something distant softening his features. 

"I, uh. I heard you were sick," he confessed with a small shrug. "Just thought…y’know." 

You hummed as you rubbed your son's back. "Huh. How'd you find that out?" 

"Peter mentioned it." 

"Pete doesn't know I'm sick." 

"Must've been Jess, then." 

"Jessie doesn't know either." 

Miguel was caught. His ears grew red before his cheeks did, and you smirked. Cute. Way too cute. 

"Lyla told me," Miguel grumbled, finally. 

"Ah. There it is. Not so hard to tell the truth now is it, Miggs?" You said with a Cheshire smile and a wink. "Good to know you've got your confidant spying on me." 

Miguel freed himself from the children and stood up quickly. "It's not--I'm not spying on you, I–you–" Miguel pursed his lips. "I don't need to explain myself." 

That made you laugh. "Relax, tough guy. I don't mind ya swinging by. Or, hm, guess I don't mind ya portal-ing in." Miguel didn't seem to think you were that funny, but thankfully Nico, in his haze of dreams, giggled at the right moment. "Nicky thinks I'm funny. You should take notes."

It didn't take much convincing to get Miguel to stay for dinner. You made him take a shower, though, and leant him some clothes to lounge in while you cooked everything from scratch. From scratch. Miguel couldn't remember the last time he had a home cooked meal. 

"Yeah? That's sad as shit," you remarked nonchalantly as you diced vegetables. "Tell ya what, you make it a habit of coming around, and I'll make sure I make extra for you, yeah? It's important to have that home cooked goodness for your soul 'n what not." 

Miguel felt his chest fill with something fluffy and warm. "Good point." But it wasn't, really. "Guess I'll have to make it a habit." He leaned back against the counter as he watched you prep everything. "Wouldn't want you putting in all that extra effort for nothing."

You twitched a bit of a smile and nodded. "My thoughts exactly." 

You spared a glance at Miguel. He looked calm, at ease, like the threat of the dimensions collapsing wasn't at the forefront of his mind for once. You thought, maybe, this might be the first time in a long time that he had his mind off work. Maybe he was doing that whole human thing and enjoying the present for a change. Jumping to conclusions wasn't really your style, though. 

Crimson eyes flickered, then, gazing towards the crib settled in your bedroom. He must've heard your little man stir. He must've wanted to do something about it, if his sudden shiftiness told you anything. 

"You mind checking on him?" You asked softly, knowing that, maybe, this was a big ask for a man who only had a phantom to tuck in at night. "He's fussy. Likes to be held." 

"You're sure?" The other man asked, brows furrowed in concern. 

"You kidding? If there's any guy I'd trust with my kid, it's you." You fiddled with the wrapper of the packaged chicken meat before ultimately stabbing it with a knife. "Go on. Before he starts crying." 

And Miguel wandered off to the little one. His voice had that sound to it when he spotted him, that kind of gentleness a man unlocked when he felt what it meant to be a father, a protector of a smaller soul. You listened hard for Miguel's smile, and felt your heart throb when you heard, "Hey, mijo. ¿Estas bien?" leave his lips. Your little boy cooed, and Miguel made a noise that sounded so frightfully domestic and dad-like, you thought you might perish on the spot, or fall in love in a second. 

Get it together, get it together. A deep breath steadied your blitzing nerves when Miguel came back to the kitchen, Nico in his arms, smooshed up against his chest. You stole a glance, smiling to yourself when you caught Miguel mooning over the lazy bundle of joy. 

You worked fast, feeling a weird, undeniable desire to talk after you had your army of children fed and sent to bed. Miguel didn’t leave your side, nor did he deign to put Nico down, not through soup and sandwiches, not through 20 questions hosted by Isabella and Natalie, and not through the moments alone where you herded the young ladies off to wash up before getting them to bed for the night. 

“Y’know, you’re gonna spoil that kid,” you said with a smile when you came back to find Miguel on the couch with your son. You sat down by him with a dad-like sigh and peered at the little one snoozing away. “He’s gonna demand you hold him every time you come around.”

Miguel huffed a laugh. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

“Hey, with arms ‘n pecs like that?” You pat one of Miguel’s impressive biceps to prove a point. “I get where he’s coming from. Lots of free real estate with good foundations.”

“Oh? You want me to hold you too?” Miguel offered, some sort of impish lilt lifting his voice as he looked over at you.

You fought back the urge to swallow. “Sure. If you’re offering.” But Miguel looked a little caught again, a little unsure of how much to tease and how hard to press, so you let him off the hook with a laugh. 

“Man, you really remind me of her.” You rested your head against the couch, maybe a little bit on Miguel’s shoulder, as you watched your boy sleep. “Liliana,” you amended, “Isabella’s mom.” 

Scarlet eyes flickered to you. Seems you caught his attention. “Liliana,” Miguel tested the name on his tongue slowly, thoughtfully. “Isabella’s mom.” And after another pause, he asked, “I guess she’s gone?”

“Gone. Yeah.” You blinked slowly, and let the words rotting in your lungs breach the surface: “I killed her.” Ah, maybe you said that with too much nonchalance, you worried, but Miguel’s low hum seemed to suggest otherwise. 

It felt good. You couldn't stop yourself from talking. “It was an accident, I guess. She was a scientist. Geneticist, I think. Made me into, well, whatever I am now.” You flexed your hand and looked it over, like the blueprints of your design were still hidden under tired skin. “‘Cause, y’know, I was a soldier, she said I was gonna be the next Captain America, but… that doesn’t matter. Anyway, side effects were bad, really bad. I freaked out, then--then, y'know.” You took a breath. “Killed my little girl’s mom.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you stared at nothing, sucked back into a daze and a trance you’d long forgotten about. But you remembered the blood, the screaming, the way you and those webs ignited and how the white lab coats all howled and screamed and popped. The scent of roasted flesh should have disgusted you, it should have knocked some sense into you and dragged you out of whatever episode you were having, but instead–

Your stomach growled, and you cleared your throat. 

“Yeah. That was a bad day.” 

“I get it,” Miguel said, and sounded like he meant it. “Guess something like that happened to me.” 

You peered up at him, glimpsing his conflicted, troubled look. 

“Yeah?” Thought Spiderman had a boring, normal story. Because, in totality, you were something more demented than just Spiderman, so your story was more fucked up than the rest. Maybe you were wrong.

“Yeah. I was–my research killed someone when I was trying to make them into, well, Spiderman.” Miguel sighed and shook his head, admonishing himself from the past. “I didn’t want to. I got pressured into it. Drugged when I wanted to quit. It was a mess.

“Tried to rewrite my DNA, and then a colleague shocked that up for me, and I ended up with the claws, the fangs, the–the everything. Slashed his throat by accident, got some other people killed when they tried to help me, killed some baddies when I didn’t mean to.” 

Miguel’s gaze turned to you. “So don’t think you’re alone.” 

“Huh,” you said astutely. “Guess you really meant it when you called us ‘miserable bastards.’”

“Takes one to know one, I guess.” Miguel’s shoulder shifted slightly, easing down so your head could rest more comfortably against him. Your chest swirled with errant embers, but you tried not to think too hard about it. 

“You said I reminded you of her. Of Liliana?” Miguel asked, quiet and tentative. 

You hummed. “Yeah. The good parts.” You smiled (when had that gotten so easy?) and reached over to brush some dark hair from Nico’s tiny forehead. “She was smokin’ hot.” 

“...Huh.”

“Way too smart for her own good,” you continued. “It's always the smart ones that get me, y'know? Anyway, she was sly 'n funny in a mean way, but hey, I like that shit. Maybe I'm a masochist." 

"So," Miguel started, shifting slightly to face you more, "let me get this straight. You think I'm 'smoking hot,' 'too smart for my own good,' and 'funny in a mean way'?" The grin on his face was too much for you to handle. Why did you feel so hot suddenly? Why was he so close suddenly?

"I think that sums it up." 

"Huh. Anyone ever tell you you're an asshole?" 

"Ouch. Okay, what if I throw in 'she was born to be a bangin' mom','' you offered, feeling a long-forgotten rush of excitement as you sat up and leaned in close, so close, your hand coming up to cup the side of his strong neck as you kept talking, "and that she made me feel somethin' for the first time in a long time?" 

You could feel Miguel's breath hitch in his throat as he measured the gap between you two, his eyes flicking down to your lips and back to your eyes in debate. You wanted to close it. With every inch of your being you wanted to take the plunge and crash your lips against his. 

But, with every fibre of your soul, you didn't want to fuck this up. You didn't have words for what this even was, but you cherished it. Sauntering down this line of friendship, of companionship, was better than taking the dive back into that world of icy yearning and wilting roses–this type of love, the platonic sort shared between brothers and men, was meaningful in and of itself. It was good enough.

Wasn't it?

You looked over his face, in disbelief with yourself. "Who am I kidding?" You whispered, letting your hand fall from his neck like a glacier shearing away from its home. 

A small, tired laugh crawled from your chest, and you rubbed your face. "I, uh, think I oughta call it a night. I'm gonna–I gotta tuck Nicky into his crib." And carefully, gently, you scooped up your monkey and whispered quiet thanks into his hair–your little man was the perfect scapegoat. 

What're you thinking? Careful hands pulled up the banana-patterned blanket over Nico's tiny form after you'd set him down in the cozy crib that he loathed so much. You thought it was nice and comfy. Hell, if you could fit, you'd probably snooze in there all day. 

"Good work today, Nicky. I think you made the big guy relax a little, y'know?" Your son cooed sweetly in his sleep, and your spirit lifted just slightly. It almost gave you the strength to go face Miguel after coming onto him so hard. 

Finding the last bit of courage yourself, you gave your boy one last kiss on the noggin and quietly snuck out, closing the door with utmost caution behind you, only to be pressed up against it a moment later, and smothered with a kiss. 

A bolt of lightning kicked your pulse into triple time as you kissed Miguel back. His hands caught you by your hips, and your arms hooked around his shoulders and pulled him in closer. The simple thing was exhilarating. He was exhilarating. The embodiment of strength and resilience, of power and intelligence, was crushing you up against a door and taking the air from your lungs with such ease. 

"Fuck," you gasped when you parted with a wet noise that sounded far too Hollywood. "You're not half bad." 

"You've got a talent for ruining the mood." Miguel scoffed and tilted your chin up. His half-lidded eyes drank you in as soft breaths left his parted lips. You wanted nothing more than to be eaten whole by him (was that weird?). 

"I got a few other talents, too," you purred, voice swirling with velvety dark chocolate. "But that might be too much for an old man like–" 

Your squawked indignantly when he scooped you up and hoisted you over his shoulder like you were nothing but a petulant child. Your hands scrabbled against his back, and a shocked bout of laughter bubbled up from your core as he slapped you on the ass hard. Was this real? Were you seriously getting manhandled and spanked by Miguel O'hara? 

Miguel almost threw you onto the couch, but you guessed the children snoozing in the next room over hampered that decision. 

"If there's one thing I'm never too old for," Miguel murmured lightly, almost condescendingly as he set you down on the couch and got on top of you, "it's sex." 

Your eager hands flitted across his taut muscles, too excited and undecided as to where to land first. "Thought you were too old to sleep around?" 

"I don't sleep around," Miguel corrected, letting you fill in the blanks. 

That helped you relax a little. "Yeah?" 

He looked so conflicted, a little embarrassed, too. But that was becoming more and more common these days, thanks to you. "Yeah." 

You nodded and reached a hand up to his cheek, and he leaned in graciously as a needy cat might. "Okay. Then I don't either." 

Miguel hummed, and turned to mark your palm with a little kiss. "Alright." 

"And maybe…we don't fuck tonight." His sleepy gaze found you again with one dark brow raised, surprised. "I'm, uh, I think I'm down pretty bad for you, Boss. I don't wanna fuck this up." 

And, truth be told, you wanted to give him some respite. Maybe you wanted to give some to yourself, too; Liliana and Dahlia danced through your mind so much these days, no thanks to the burgeoning fondness growing for Miguel. He reminded you of both of them, of Winter and Summer, of snow and flowers. But it wasn't fair, not to you or him, to compare him to the epitome of cold and the apex of warmth. You needed time, too. Time to learn how to compare him to no one.

Miguel smiled, small and sincere. You admired the fine lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looked so handsome when he smiled. You wanted him to do it more. Were you enough to make him smile more?

"Yeah. I don't want you to shock this up either," he said, and your brows raised, incredulous. 

"This is what I get for trying to be mature ‘n romantic, huh?” Your fingers drummed against the arms caging you in. You thought about chancing a finger-taser to his ribs, but with those damn claws of his, you were a little too worried about your couch cushions getting demolished.

His handsome smile turned into a punchable smirk. “What? I’m agreeing with you.” 

“Ah-huh, ah-huh, that’s all, hey?” You leaned up and kissed Miguel again, slower and tamer this time, but still burning with want. Ugh. Why did you have to try to be all mature and romantic? “You’re just being a good boy?”

Miguel’s hips twitched at that, and it was your turn to smirk. Oh, how the tables turn. 

“Lay down,” you ordered, sitting up to get out from under him. “Come on.”

“I–what?” He grumbled, looking a little befuddled and frustrated. Cute, cute cute. “Thought we agreed on–”

“Heavy petting’s not off the table, right?” You cut him off. Miguel perked a little bit at the suggestion and did as he was ordered, his hands finding your hips again as you took your turn straddling him. “Luckily for you, I’m an expert at the clothes-on experience.” You winked and Miguel sucked in a breath. 

“Show me.” He ordered, voice deep and gravelly.

And you did.

[phyrestartr]

HOUND | Miguel x M!Reader

Geneticist!Miguel x Guard!Reader Part 1 W/C: 2.5K | Part 1 of 2

Slight NSFW, zombie AU, apocalypse AU, mentions of exploitation and abuse, body horror, gore, immoral research and experiments, power imbalance, reader is a criminal, miguel is a scientist, dark themes, part 2 ends on a positive note, reader is morally grey, bottom!miguel, top!reader, sorry there's lore lol

Note: Wanted to post this bad boy in full, but the second half sorely needs some revising T-T It should be finished and up fairly soon, though! I hope this is ~intriguing~ for those who like darker stuff! Also I did a light edit on this part, but I really just want to get it out so lol sorry if things sound stupid/don't make sense asdjkf;l

--

There exists a cure.

That's what Alchemax declared. And it was the truth, just not the full truth. Not something the public would be happy with, anyway. 

The so-called "cure" was…unreliable, only recoding the RNA of select individuals for a reason that Alchemax's geneticists struggled to identify for the longest time. But after combing through the files of each expendable inmate and finding similarities, it became clear: those who'd been in the presence of nuclear energy, or high amounts of radiation, were suitable candidates for the vaccine. 

"Guess it's a good thing we didn't shut down those mines," Aaron had sneered at the board meeting. "Otherwise we wouldn't have the army of immune mutants running around for us." 

Miguel rolled his eyes. Sure, the idiot wasn't wrong, but he was taking it too far; plenty had died because of their experiments, and plenty more of the "immune" were sure to die with the unknown side effects of whatever the vaccine was bound to show in a matter of years (or in mere months, if they were unlucky). 

"It's a start," Miguel begrudgingly added. "But intentionally damaging civilian RNA with radiation, and then repairing it with S-2099, especially when we're not aware of any side effects yet? The UN won't have it. Can't imagine civilians would love it either." 

"Well, it's either get bit and die, stay afraid and die, or get painlessly exposed to a blast of radiation and then maybe die if 2099 doesn't fix them like we think," Liv offered with a shrug. "I, for one, would be honoured to die in the name of science." 

Miguel coolly looked over at her. "Thanks for volunteering." 

Liv's expression twisted. The energy in the room would've exploded if it hadn't been for Stone's interjection. 

"We will not be commencing civilian trials. Not until success rates increase with approved subjects provided by the state." The man spoke so steadily, so reasonably, like sacrificing the lives of orange jumpsuits meant nothing. 

They were dismissed soon after. Screens flickered out, holograms faded, and Miguel found himself alone with the other few scientists left at their Nueva York location. 

He stayed seated, vaguely aware of the others filtering out and murmuring amongst themselves, but his thoughts demanded his attention–he knew, even if the government didn't approve of essentially soft-nuking colonies of survivors, that Tyler Stone would find a way to do it, and would label it an accident. The man, his birth father, was ruthless, cold, calculated– 

"Sir?" A voice, your voice, cut through the silence. Miguel looked over his shoulder and found you still waiting, standing perfectly still by the door. 

"Sorry, I was just…" Miguel sighed and rubbed his face before standing. "Nevermind. Don't worry about it." 

Of course, you didn't say anything, instead nodding wordlessly and following your ward out of the room. Each step you took was punctuated by the shifting of your firearm against your thigh and the heavy thumps of your boots against the polished floors. Miguel used to hate your presence, think it unnecessary, but soon he grew to feel comfortable with you as his shadow. 

You, his powerful, mutant guard dog. 

"I can't fucking believe what this is turning into," Miguel muttered on the way to his quarters. "Too many unanswered questions, too many risks. And they don't care? We haven't even run further simulations yet–and we can run simulations with different alpha rays and different subject samples. It'd be harmless." The door hissed open and Miguel walked in, sorely wishing he could slam the door for once. Why did everything have to be automated? 

"In. Now," Miguel called when you stopped short of his residence. You obeyed, wandering inside before the door slid to a close behind you, and locked. 

You had reason to be nervous, Miguel knew that, too. Each key scientist in the building was assigned one of your kind, one of the immune mutants, and were free to do what they wanted with them. Sex, torture, chores–all of it was on the table. All of it had been asked of your kind. Done by your kind. Miguel figured that was why you kept a wall up. You hardly spoke, didn't request anything, never complained–all in an effort to keep the peace between you and your owner.

Miguel threw his white coat aside before stalking up to you. "Let me see," he mumbled as he held your jaw and tilted your head as he shone the light from his phone into your eye. 

Your pupils reacted at twice the speed of a normal human's, growing into the tiniest of pin pricks when the bright white flare assaulted your senses. Your eye twitched the slightest bit, but you remained still for Miguel. 

"Reactive. Not dead. That's good." He put his phone away, and examined the scarlet blotches contrasting against the natural hue of your iris. It was a relatively new side effect experienced by most of your batch, but you were amongst the more severe cases, if not the most severe case. Most of his peers didn't seem concerned by it, and Miguel could understand, seeing as it appeared to only be cosmetic, but the increased reactivity of your pupil accompanied with the bloody colour intrigued Miguel enough to keep tabs on it. 

"Any changes lately? To appetite, sleep, anything?" He asked as he let go of your jaw, nearly smiling as you tried to follow his touch for a moment longer like a sleepy cat. "Maybe neediness?" Miguel teased. 

You huffed lightly through your nose and looked around the main room of Miguel's living space. "Tired, I guess." 

Miguel's nerves smoothed with the sandpaper scratch of your voice. "Tired. Might be the anemia again. We'll draw blood tomorrow, see if you need supplements or another infusion." Miguel found himself mumbling now, going on about your health and your changes, wondering out loud what the best course of action would be to help you adjust to whatever was happening to your body, but you didn't say anything. You never did unless provoked. 

Miguel decided to provoke. He needed to speak, to be spoken to, to hear someone else’s voice right now. "What do you think about all this?" He called from the bathroom after washing up for the night. He poked his head out a moment later when you didn’t comment. 

“I know you were listening,” he prodded again over the toothbrush jammed into the side of his mouth. “The other ones don’t, but you do. I can tell by that look you get.” he waited for you to respond while he brushed his teeth, but you didn’t. You hadn’t moved from your post by his front door, actually, stood against the wall, arms crossed and staring forward like you were listening to everything beyond the door. Miguel wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen you sit down. He didn’t know if you’d ever laid down before. 

After he finished washing up for the night, he decided to try again. 

“You really gonna keep me in the dark?” Miguel asked as he walked up to you, arms crossed as well. He couldn’t help but feel smaller and smaller the longer he waited in silence, waited to hear your gravelled voice. He couldn’t grasp why he was so desperate for a friend suddenly, but he was. He really was, and he wasn’t finding it in you. 

“Forget it. Doesn’t matter anyway,” Miguel mumbled, turning away from you and rubbing his face tiredly. 

“Don't have much of an opinion.”

“What?” Miguel turned back around, brows raised as he waited for you to continue. Your gaze peeled from the ceiling and fell to him, like you were waiting for a reprimand of sorts, but Miguel wouldn’t, not when he tried so hard to get a peep out of you.

You shrugged and looked elsewhere. “Don't care what happens to civilians. Not my problem.” 

“It's the world's problem,” Miguel suggested. He didn't want to start an argument, but he didn't want you to feel so blasé about the fate of everything. “The more civilians that get infected, the more the world loses.” 

“Thought that was a good thing. Last I heard, the world was pretty overpopulated.” You said it so easily. Miguel would have shrugged it off if he didn't know about the blood on your hands, the crimes you'd committed, the evidence that you really, truly, did not give a shit about humanity. 

Miguel scoffed, a bitter, bewildered sort of thing. “Y'know, I used to pity you for this,” he started, gesturing to the soldiered-out state of yourself, “but you might be less human than those things out there.” 

“Probably.” 

“You don't even care,” Miguel laughed again. “Did you care when you killed that family?” 

“An eye for an eye,” you replied. 

“Right, right. Then what about your daughter? Did you care when–” the world spun before his back cracked against the wall. He grabbed your wrist and squeezed when your hands fisted in his shirt, ready to trigger your kill switch with one click of a button on his ring, but he didn't need to; you simply held him there, boring holes into his skull with your diamond-tipped stare. 

“You jokers don't know when to quit,” you said. “Always have to drag a kid into the equation, ‘n then act so fucking shocked when you end up dead ‘cause of it.” A sigh slipped past your lips as you leaned in. Miguel wanted to meet you halfway. “Fuckers like you make murderers out of men like me.”

Oh. The violence rippling through your crackling voice went straight down, into the pit below Miguel's stomach and coiled into something frightfully decadent. He wanted your hands around his neck. He wanted you to mutter more threats into his ear. He wanted–

He wanted you. 

“Let me touch you,” Miguel blurted. “Your skin.” You gave a reaction then, eyes blinking away shock and throat clearing with a strangled grunt, but you didn’t say no. You didn’t reject him. In fact, you looked him up and down in question, curiosity peeking through piercing eyes. 

“You're a deranged fuck, aren't you? Getting all hot ‘n bothered from a threat.” You reached for the straps of your kevlar vest, then, and Miguel’s nerves jolted with the sound of the buckles clicking loose. 

He scrambled to you and held your hands. He wanted to do it himself, to unwrap your bindings and see what laid beneath. Your hands fell, and Miguel took over. 

The warmth bleeding from your clothes intoxicated him. He fumbled with your gear, eager to get to the base of your tight, black shirt and rip it off, but you didn’t try to take over for him–you watched, patient like a dog, letting your master doff your armour at his leisure (or, rather, his frantic, desperate pace). Miguel appreciated it. He wondered if you knew he'd snap if you tried to interfere. 

Soon, your chest was bare. Exposed for him, dotted with memories of cruel bites, bullets, knives and surgical scars all over taught, humming skin. Man shouldn’t be allowed to touch you, Miguel thought. The imperfections were so gloriously human. You were so perfectly alive, standing here with him, breathing, emanating heat, allowing him to do what he pleased–he was the luckiest man on Earth. 

Miguel couldn’t look you in the eyes as his broad palm pressed against your chest, right over the rhythm of your soul. His pants strained and tightened more as his touch wandered through the valleys of firm muscle; what did the rest of you look like? What did you look like when you fought, or when you fucked? 

His hand slipped down to the tight adonis belt cinching your waist, and then lower, following the trail of fine hair disappearing beneath the waistband peeking above your cargos. The bunching and folding of thick material melted Miguel's mind in a vat of suggestion and insatiability–were you really that big, or was that fabric just making it an illusion? 

He didn't need to wait to find out, though, not when you guided his hand down over the very real curve of your goods packed away. And, yes, you were big. Miguel's eyes snapped up to yours. A smug look greeted him.

“Looked like you needed some encouragement.”

Miguel might have laughed if his heart weren't suffocating him, climbing up his throat. Your clothed cock under his hand was ruining his cognitive functions too, to be fair. 

His fingers, long, clumsy things, hurried at your buttons and the zipper keeping everything in check. Miguel's ears filled with the rhythmic drumming of desire when he finally got the damn thing undone, but you grabbed his wrist. You stopped him. 

Miguel scoffed out a held breath and tried to wrench free, but your grip held firm. “You can't back out after–” But when he looked at you, he froze still; your expression electrified the senses, the slightest narrowing and shifting of uneasy eyes freezing Miguel colder and colder by the second. 

“Bathroom. Now.” You popped just one of those buttons back into place before turning to the door. 

“Wh–” But you shoved him, hard, and sent him stumbling into the sterile white space as explosive carnage rippled through the room in his wake. The thing collided into you seconds after you'd gotten your charge out of the blast zone. 

It was big. A mass of human features and flesh and maybe something else weighing on a hulking frame. You barked a name, maybe the name of one of your fellow watch dogs, but it didn't change the thing's trajectory as it tore towards Miguel on all fours like a hound out of hell.

But you were quicker. You grabbed it by the nape and ripped it off its warpath with too much effort, just narrowly avoiding it barreling into the attached room by seconds. Its momentum, forced toward the wall, threw it into a dizzied tantrum; limbs flailed, mouths gnashed, and a symphony of mismatched voices wailed from their putrid prison. 

Miguel's body locked. What ifs plagued him, suddenly. If it got him. If it bit him. If you hadn't been there. What if–

“Close the damn door,” you demanded, and your voice sounded a bit shaky, too. Miguel looked at your broad back as you stood bravely in the way of the beast and its target. “Doctor–” 

“I–but you–?” Miguel stumbled and choked on his words and his reasoning. He didn't want you to fight. He didn't want to die. He didn't want you to die. Miguel hit the button to make it closed, but the door stalled halfway.

“Fuck it.” Barbs burst from your fingertips and dug into the door, forcing it to bend to your will and close. Miguel didn't like how you disappeared inch by inch. He didn't like seeing that thing behind you get up. He didn't like that look you gave him just before the door snapped shut. 

The next few minutes passed like years.

[phyrestartr]

The Starved King [Miguel x M!Reader]

(King!Miguel x Knight!Reader)

Note: Just a drabble that I want to throw out into the universe while I consider how to continue it lol I like the idea, I just don't want to dwell on it too much and get stuck in analysis paralysis 🫠 lmk if you'd like to see me continue this!!

Miguel found you. Amidst the plethora of flashy royals, he somehow managed to pick you out of the crowd–that handsome face, a fox-like smile, dragon-fire eyes all rang true in his memories of dying and bleeding on the battlefield until a young knight from a cursed kingdom chose to spare him instead of spear. 

Memories curled around him in the same way your fingers once did, buzzing with something rich and sinful that'd mend his wounds over the coming weeks left in that war-wrecked cottage. Miguel, the enemy king, was so close to death, yet you, injured and exhausted yourself, kept him breathing.

“Why do this?” Miguel asked one night while you busied with the fire, working whatever magics you had to make the flame dance. 

“Why do what?” You wondered, not looking away from the glow. 

“Keep me alive.” Miguel coughed and winced. Still, he forced himself to sit, and earned the sharp snap of your gaze on him. 

“You shouldn't–”

“I'll keep what dignity I have left,” Miguel scoffed. Then, sitting back against the wall, he got a good look at you; it seemed you’d run into some trouble with a knife, so suggested the long streaks of red tearing across your young face. A sword would have taken your head clean off. You wore typical armour of a knight from your kingdom, yet the flash of a muddied brooch caught his attention a moment before you looked away from him and back at the fire. 

“Where are you from?” The tired king asked. 

“Does it matter where I hail from? Right now, we’re two men simply trying to survive, yes?” You jabbed at the fire with a half-burnt stick. “I’m not interested in being a king-killer, so you needn’t worry; in fact, be glad it was I who found you and not one of my beastly brothers. They’d have had your head strapped to their horse in a second.” Your accent was foreign, not one that he could say was even a bit familiar. It struck his nerves as much as it piqued his interest further. 

“Then you come from a damned kingdom.” 

“A rightfully damned one, yes. Small. Unremarkable. Yet still hated, or perhaps just feared.”

“Most wouldn’t say that about their home.” Miguel adjusted his posture and took a moment to take a look at his wounds: bandaged torso, splinted leg, a splinted arm. Fantastic. “Unless you despise your people.”

“Oh please, I don’t despise my people,” you spat, eyes growing fierce and venomous. “They’re just people. Peasants. Workers. The poor, the hungry, the needy–the people are subjected to the idiocy of greedy elders and mislead ways. The queen wants to change things, and yet–” You took a deep breath and rubbed your face. “And yet things cannot change as they are. More time is needed. Until then, we participate in useless battles with your ilk. To, what, prove something? To show our might?”

“Killing a king would turn the tide,” Miguel said. He really shouldn’t have. That one statement might have changed your mind, might have ended his life and shirked the responsibility of a kingdom to his daughter. 

“Do you want me to kill you?”

“No, I–”

“Then shut up. Your blabbering isn’t useful.” 

“I just–if your kingdom is in such a state, then why–”

“I don’t want to.” 

Ah. 

“Kill-shy?” Miguel asked with a slight smirk. “Doesn’t seem very righteous of you.” 

“Excuse me?” Your face, suddenly animated and brimming with heat, turned to him again. You moved closer, half-crawling, half-scooting on the dusty stone floor to his bedside. “Look at you. You should be glad I’m more interested in healing than I am killing, you prick.” You sat up on your knees and leaned into his space. Miguel’s mind swirled in a way it used to when a pretty woman leaned into him during his courting days.

“I still don’t see a point in mercy,” Miguel whispered, his voice caught between his mouth and his heart. 

“Because I’m gifted. An asset. A good pick for an ally.” You tilted your head and gazed up at the older man through your lashes. Your hand, bare, pressed against Miguel’s skin, smoothing over the gauze wrapping around his chest. “Perhaps once I’ve secured my place as king myself, you’ll remember me, and what I can do for you.” 

What I can do for you. Ah. That sent blood rushing south and ideas flooding north. 

Miguel’s hand grasped one of your wrists, and he too leaned in the slightest bit. “And what is it you can do for me, exactly?”

“Everything,” you whispered. “Anything.” 

A wave of warmth pulsed through his chest, radiating from your palm. It came in one wave, but so suddenly like an explosion easing into the steady comfort of his chamber hearth, glowing quietly throughout the night. The stiff warnings in his chest melted and eased, and suddenly, he could move freely again. His arm and leg still ached terribly, but his chest seemed to have been…healed? 

“Magic,” he breathed. 

“Magic,” you whispered.

He closed the gap and kissed you. You whimpered something soft and sweet into his mouth as he took the lead, his one good hand digging into the space connecting your neck to your shoulder, not allowing you to run away. But he learned quickly you’d no desire to leave with how you clambered onto the bed and shed just enough of your clothes to take him. 

[phyrestartr]

Fic List

Miguel O'hara x Reader

Multi-Part Fics

Simple Things [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ]

The Intern [ 1 ] [ 2 ]

Baby Crazy [ 1 ]

HOUND [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ]

One-Shots

Till Death Do Us Part

Easy Prey (An Underestimation)

Your Godly Path Leads Back to Him

Our Quiet Beginning

Vampire

Simply You

Ryoumen Sukuna x Reader

Icarus, I Am Devoted | Drabbles Pt.2 |

Divine Favour

[phyrestartr]

HOUND pt.2 | Miguel x M!Reader

Geneticist!Miguel x Guard!Reader Part 2 W/C: 2.7k | Part 2 of 2

#NSFW, zombie AU, apocalypse AU, mentions of exploitation and abuse, body horror, gore, immoral research and experiments, power imbalance, reader is a criminal, miguel is a scientist, dark themes, part 2 ends on a positive note, reader is morally grey, bottom!miguel, top!reader, sorry there's lore lol

Note: AAAAH ok it's done and now I can struggle to finish my other fics instead asjdkf;weiafjf

--

Miguel couldn’t recall what happened after that. The noises outside the door, the wet sloshing of viscera and pained outcries echoed faintly in the black corners of his mind, but nothing else. Nothing about how he got out of that room. Nothing about what had attacked him. Nothing about where you had gone. 

The mystery led him to reviewing the footage. The security cameras were set in each room, only to be accessed in times where someone was suspected to be infected and other suspicious situations. He found the moments leading up to everything, the moment you pushed him against the wall, when you started taking off the vest, when you threw Miguel into the bathroom and forced the door closed with brute strength. 

What followed was unbearable. The thing, now confirmed to have been one of your kind, rippled with overwhelming, excruciating power. You couldn’t square up with it fairly, but you were smart and fast, hitting when it really counted and pulling the trigger only when you knew it’d strike true. But the problem was its objective; the entire fight, Miguel realized, was a contest for the bathroom door. The monster didn’t care about you. You weren’t its target. It was going for him.

But it didn’t show you any mercy. It tore chunks out of you, shattered your ribs, broke whatever part of you it touched until you’d put it down for good with a full mag into its soft, melted skull. You staggered backwards, feeling behind you for the cool touch of the door before you collapsed against it, trying to stay standing despite it all. It was hard to watch. To see someone suffering and still fighting the good fight even though they’d already lost in order to win. 

You eventually crumbled and held what was left of your stomach and chest as you heaved in air. Loud sounds, like a wooden train whistle, hissed through the gaps left between your exposed ribs and the holes in your tattered lungs time after time, breath after breath, up until the EMTs arrived; you scrambled to get up, nearly spilling your guts and breaking off a leg before a tranquilizer hit you, and put you down. 

After that, you’d been carted off, and Miguel stepped out of the bathroom moments later, shaken and confused. Gabe showed up, thank God, and the thing that’d started all the bullshit was dead, but he couldn’t help the lingering tendrils of paranoia stitching the muscles taut in his shoulders. Then, and now. 

He needed to see you for himself. 

“Listen, listen, it’s suuuper nice that you suddenly have a weak spot for the guy, it’s really cute, but we haveta set you up with a different one for now–”

“What?” Miguel cut in while Lyla spun in her chair and fixed her obnoxious sunnies. “Why do–they heal. I don’t want any other–”

“Yep, yep, yep, I totally get it, but he’s reaaal messed up. He’s gonna take some time to fix ‘n heal and everything, yenno?” Lyla spun around again in a full 360 before coming back to face Miguel and point her pen at him. “If he’s too hard to fix, then they were thinking of scrapping him for parts and testing and everything.” 

Scrapped. For parts. 

“They won’t scrap him.” Miguel frowned. “He’s the best host we have. The most successful specimen the whole fucking project's made.” 

“Uh, yeah, and that's why they're gonna do their best to save him.” She tilted her head, curious. “No one wants to kill a good dog, y'know.” 

It was true. No one wanted to rid Alchemax of one who was dedicated enough to put their life in jeopardy for the sake of protecting their charge. He didn't expect you to go this far. No one did. 

–

It took weeks for you to be reinstated as Miguel's watchdog. In the interim, he was appointed a new guard, but life didn’t feel right. He supposed that bonds and trust played into the feeling more than he'd like to admit. Sure, the two of you hadn't really spoken before that day, but you'd been with each other for years. Silently learning about one another, measuring each other's capacity to be trustworthy. 

So with a new dog, Miguel felt unnerved, maybe even a bit unsteady. It had been one of them who'd snapped, after all. One of them lost their minds and went on a rampage–which was exactly what the current meeting was about. 

“No one saw it coming,” one said. “We didn't think it would happen, and that's the problem, isn't it?” 

“Weeell, things are bound to go awry here and there.” Olivia shrugged and crossed her arms. “It's part of science! I'd say this whole drama has given us some pretty good results on the extremes; one imploded and started eating people, and the other one exploded trying to save one of us.” 

“Still think we should scrap O'hara's mutt for parts,” Aaron interjected, unhelpful and annoying as ever. “Who knows when that one'll blow too, hey?” 

Miguel ignored Aaron. He wouldn’t feed into his prodding and pushing. “He's mine. I decide when he's too dangerous.”

“You sure you're not gonna be blinded by feelings, O'hara?” Aaron spat with an ugly smile. “I saw the footage. You–” 

“Oh my God, don't act like you don't try to fuck everyone else's guards,” another scientist groaned. “You're probably why one snapped.” 

Aaron's face blistered red. Miguel smirked, enjoying the show, enjoying the fact that no one was on the idiot's side. It was the apocalypse. Fucking mutants was the least of their worries. 

Stone, exasperated, called it there, and everyone dispersed. Miguel took his time with his thoughts in the silence of the room. The lack of people around him sparked a jolt of adrenaline, or maybe fear, and sent his train of thought off the rails and into something ungodly. He hated being alone these days. He couldn't bear the thought of being the last man standing, of having to fend for himself after everything. Not that he would have to, no, not unless your replacement did him in, or–

“Sir?” 

Miguel turned and nearly knocked his chair off its wheels. He clutched the desk in a panic just before his eyes landed on you. 

You looked different. Streaks of faint scars painted the side of your face where an eyepatch hid away whatever wreckage laid beneath. A metal brace hugged one of your knees and dripped down into a glittering, high-tech prosthetic limb that told a story Miguel didn't want to indulge in. And you looked tired. So tired. Your voice, once something rough like sandpaper, now sounded like shattered glass grinding underfoot.

But you still had that placid, somewhat judgemental stare that told him, I'm alright.

Your brows raised expectantly, like your return didn't need to be celebrated and you'd much rather like to get on with your day of following Miguel around like a lost puppy. He could relate, and he could comply. 

–

Acting normal until getting you into his new quarters was tough; Miguel had the inexplicable urge to touch you, see your skin, feel your heat singe his palms, but he wouldn't do it in the eye of the others, no. Not for his own decency, but because they didn't deserve it. You were all his. 

Miguel was sure to lock the doors and initiate an armoured lockdown to ease his paranoia before he turned to you with a demand on his tongue: “Strip.” 

You quirked a brow. “This didn't go so well last time.” But you complied, clearly trying to hide away your amusement.

“It's fine. We're fine.” He helped you pull the vest and the shirt off just like he did all those weeks ago, but now with more finesse and determination; he wanted his do-over, and he was going to get it. “I need to see for myself.” 

“Whatever.” You rolled your shoulders once your bare skin hit the air and prickled with goosebumps. Even the lifeless spots with angry reddened scars recoiled from the sharp nip, and then the heat of Miguel's touch.

He dragged his gaze all over you, drinking in the ruined expanses of skin with hungry eyes. Every new mark was examined, every stitch and bandage touched and committed to memory, every bruise earned the softest graze of fingertips. It was hard not to be enticed with one another in that tense, long silence. 

Miguel's eyes lingered on your split lip before meeting your eyes, reading whatever he could from you. But he didn't expect what you said. 

“You get hurt?” You grumbled. 

Miguel shook his head lightly, his attention unwavering as his hands made themselves useful and plucked loose the buttons on your cargos again. “I'm fine.” He pulled the zipper down next. The muscles of your abdomen rippled against the palm keeping you still. “Sore from you throwing me, but fine.” 

The corner of your mouth twitched. “If you'd listened and moved–” your next words dissolved against the brutish lips colliding with yours. Miguel's hands slipped further below and palmed your soft cock through the thin material of your undergarments; apparently you weren't surprised by the candid dick grab, but the kiss of all things threw you for a loop. Miguel moved to leaving marks along your neck while your brain scrambled to make sense of the random affection. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” You breathed, unsure of where to touch or what to do with your hands.

“Picking up where we left off.” Miguel squeezed your filling bulge again, eagerly massaging you in encouragement to get things going. His ego swelled when your hand found his shoulder after a particularly weak spot was found.

“Hah. I shouldn't be–” 

“You'll manage,” he insisted, watching you like prey trying to woo its predator. “You probably haven't been touched like this in a while, si, guapo?” Your hips jolted against his hand while his husky voice drew you in. “Bed. Now.” 

You didn't have much of a choice, not when Miguel's needy hands guided you to the soft sheets and forced you to lay down. You were just in the middle of a sore groan when Miguel pulled your waistband down just enough to free your hardened cock, and give you a fierce dose of whiplash between the pain of healing wounds and the bliss of hands on you.

For all of Miguel’s want, now that he was this far, he wasn’t sure where to take it. He was going to make you cum, obviously, but how would he go about it? Handjob, blowjob, actually taking it up the ass? Some were obviously more impactful than others, so–

“Christ, alright, now that you’ve played with my dick, we can put it away for today, Doc,” you grouched, sitting up to pull Miguel’s hand away. “I’m too tired for this shit.”

“Wh–no.” He swatted your hand away like a petulant child and shot you an equally childish glare. “You have to obey my orders, as far as I recall.”

Something akin to a deadpan hit your face. “You’re fucking joking. You’re gonna pull that shit now?”

“You’re my subordinate,” Miguel reminded, not bothering to hide his smug demeanor and faux innocence. “Act like it.” 

Before you could bitch back, he started stroking you firmly and slowly, squeezing harder near the tip and base with every motion. You stopped complaining surprisingly fast–Miguel almost wanted you to fight him more, but, maybe for a first run, your utter compliance would serve him. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hold you down or fend off your grabby hands while, at the same time, trying to get a handle on how to properly please another man. 

Just when you sounded like you were about to object again, he took you into his mouth, and shut you up. At that moment, Miguel was glad you were touch-starved. Otherwise, the inexperienced gags and hefty strings of saliva connecting his lush lips to your throbbing length would’ve surely shortened Miguel’s lifespan. He was supposed to be good in bed. He was good in bed. And he’d make damn sure to continue being good in bed with another man. 

Your hand fisting in his well-kempt hair had him growling with warning, thinking you were going to try to make him stop, but one glance up at you through teary lashes washed that thought away; your eyes were shut, bottom lip caught between your lip and welling with the faintest bit of blood from those elongated canines of yours. A kinder shade of crimson painted your cheeks and the bridge of your nose a sweet summer colour that seemed to darken more when Miguel bravely slipped you down his throat and up again. 

“Shit. Fuck. Shit.” You let go of his hair with a pathetic whimper and collapsed onto your back, hands reaching back to claw into the wall and headboard to try and expel your rattling energy someway, somehow. The grating of metal and long, deep marks left in your claws’ wake would piss Miguel off any other day, but right now, your destructive praise fed his ego until it threatened to burst. 

But a slight shift from the scientist and a misplaced hand on the convergence of flesh and metal shook up the easy rhythm. You hissed and sat up, reflexively snatching his hand away from your leg with barbed fingers. Miguel pulled off of you with a choked yelp rattling in his throat as your hold drew blood, and like a dog who'd bit another too hard, you let go. 

“Shit, I didn't mean to–” you stopped yourself, though, and instead took Miguel's hand with a less-lethal touch. You looked at the wound before leaning down and running the flat of your tongue against the wound once, twice, thrice. The pain subsided quickly after, leaving behind a tingly, sparking feeling. “Doesn’t look too bad.” Miguel watched your nostrils flare and pupils dilate–clearly, his blood was having an effect on you. And that fact was having an effect on Miguel, in turn. 

The apology for hurting you was long forgotten by the time Miguel leaned up and kissed you, holding the side of your face with his wounded hand. He pushed hard against the tip of your fang until spongy flesh gave way, and the vile tang of blood pooled in his mouth, and now in yours. 

You moaned, or maybe growled, and Miguel’s hips jerked. He worked on slipping his weeping tongue around your mouth while his good hand continued his work on your stiffy, eager to finish you off while you were distracted. Your hands clutched at him again, claws still nipping into his skin and clothes, but more like a cat kneading its owner rather than a lion latching onto prey. 

But those barbs sunk deep into him when you came. Your hold on him tightened, and the low growls reverberating through your body crescendoed into a few, cherished moans when your lips left his as rapture hit you. Miguel spared a look down at the mess you’d made, but too quickly his gaze returned to the bobs of your Adam’s apple, the muscles pulsing and tensing in the aftershocks, the sheen of red coating your cracked lips. It was enough to make him come undone, untouched by you, only fulfilled by the rub of cotton on his hardened cock.

And of course, you noticed it right away. Ugh. “You’re a freak,” you scoffed out between breaths. “Fucking–cumming from, what? Getting your pet off?” 

Miguel rolled his eyes to betray his embarrassment, and squeezed you hard at the base to pull one last mean, choked groan out of you. “Callate. You could try being grateful, hm?”

“Don’t think that’s in my programming.” You leaned back and looked down at the mess. “Who’s gonna clean this up, Doc?” You prodded looking up at him through your lashes. 

Miguel’s intrigue piqued. “Here I thought you were too tired,” he mocked. 

“Might change your mind tomorrow. Oughta cash in while I can.” 

“Hm.” Miguel let go and leaned back, shaky fingers working on his own clothes. “Guess I can give you another treat.”

But, as fate would have it, one more go of it turned into five, and left him half-alive come the morning.

[phyrestartr]

Happy Place (HOUND) (Miguel x M!Reader)

Geneticist!Miguel x Guard!Reader Part 3 of HOUND | w/c 3.8k

#NSFW, zombie AU, apocalypse AU, mentions of exploitation and abuse, body horror, gore, immoral research and experiments, power imbalance, reader is a criminal, miguel is a scientist, dark themes, reader is morally grey, bottom!miguel, top!reader, hurt and comfort, it's fluffy in the end, bussy loading lmao

Note: Genuinely had a really fun time writing this!! Was not really planned, but I cannot resist the idea of reader being a big softie towards people he kind of gives a shit about :sob: some angst, some miscommunication, and some good ol' FUCKIN'. Hope you like it! I have an idea for another part, but idk when/if I write it u-u we shall see.

--

You started behaving differently around him. Miguel rationalized it was just because of the sex–you’d suddenly found a new resource in your “owner,” and so started looking to him to find it, to get a piece of something you’d been without for a long, long time. 

But primal instincts suggested something else; you didn’t just look at him like a fuck doll, you looked at him with soft eyes, slow blinks, and gentle patience. Normally, in those hellish meetings you were dragged to, you would stare straight ahead, listening to everything, but not giving away thoughts or opinions. And now?

Whenever Miguel glanced your way, he found you watching him, eyes half-lidded and lovey. The scientist forced himself to look away. He rubbed his mouth, trying to pet away the embarrassment (and will away any uncouth thoughts). Miguel liked the change, of course, but it had to be investigated. 

He brought you to Lyla to get some tests done. She was all too happy to see you, calling you a “good dog” and her “best boy” to which you merely huffed and smirked smugly because, yeah, you knew you were the best mutant puppy they had. 

“So? To what do I owe the honour of seeing my favourite guy?” Lyla asked as she reached up to fluff up your hair. You bowed your head like a dire wolf leaning in to let a chihuahua preen. 

Miguel crossed his arms, equally enamored with your gentility as he was perplexed by it. “He’s different. Less strict and serious, more…” Miguel pursed his lips when a faint grunt of approval boomed in your chest as Lyla scritched a particularly good spot. “That. This. Whatever this is.” 

“Awe, come on, he’s just a big puppy. That’s what we made them to be, right? Not a big deal.” But Miguel didn’t buy it. Still, he knew Lyla wouldn’t so easily dismiss his claims, either. “Anything change with you, big guy?”

“Sex,” You answered.

Miguel rubbed his face with a groan. “I–you–”

“Wow, getting in the freak seat, huh, Miguel?” Lyla teased. “Sex puts anyone in a good mood.”

“This isn’t just a good mood. It’s a complete 180.” His hand dropped from his face to gesture towards the teddy bear. “Look at him. He doesn’t do this. What if it becomes a problem?”

“Actually, his cortisol levels’ve been down since he got back to watching you,” Lyla argued, suddenly a tinge more serious. She glanced your way, and her expression shifted just the slightest bit before returning to Miguel. “Really don’t think it’s a big deal.”

“You don’t think?” 

“Pal, buddy, come on–”

“Please, just–just run tests. Just check.” Echoes of snarling mouths rippled to the forefront of his mind. His palms began to sweat. “I need you to check.” 

She must have understood.

Lyla agreed, and assigned Miguel with a temporary HOUND escort. While it was humiliating to need a babysitter around the clock, Miguel couldn’t go without one–every blind corner, every door sitting sealed sent his heart into a panic, made him want to curl into himself and disappear. Having a superhuman by his side was the only thing that gave him some sense of comfort. 

Miguel paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. He glimpsed your back turned to him as Lyla dutifully prepared for the examination. 

“When do I get him back?” Miguel asked, like he didn’t just demand Lyla take him. 

The woman in question shrugged. “Eh. Dunno. Shouldn’t be more than an hour. Probably less than that. If there’s a problem, I’ll keep him longer.” 

Oh. Miguel didn’t like that. 

–

You came back about an hour later, tagging out your substitute and finally, finally, taking up your spot by the door. Miguel’s shoulders relaxed with the buzzing in his mind. Things were okay again. 

“So?” Miguel asked, pulling himself up from his desk to saunter towards you. “Anything?”

You glanced his way with a familiar, stony set to your stare. “Not much.”

“Really.” He could tell you’d snapped out of whatever lovey dovey daze you’d gotten stuck in, though. Your body wasn’t so open anymore, what with your arms crossed and eyes simmered down into burnt-out coal. “You expect me to believe that?”

You didn’t answer. But your silence said enough. 

–

Things went back to normal. You remained distant and far off, but attentive and responsive to Miguel’s needs and wants; you stood closer to him if his stress peaked, you never left his line of sight, you fucked him if he beckoned you to the bed. You reset back into the dog you used to be.

Miguel didn’t like it. He’d taken you to Lyla to see if something was wrong with you, if you were going to break and snap, turning into the thing that’d tried to kill the both of you. He didn’t want you to reset. He didn’t want you pulling away.

–

The undead were slowing down. Another winter had hit, and it hit hard, knocking out the city’s electricity and tearing down power lines. But it’d frozen the dead, rendered their bodies useless and slow in the frigid streets of New York. 

It made capturing specimens easier and faster for the HOUNDs, just as it made extermination easier for the military as they scrambled to secure a quadrant of the city before winter passed into spring. All reports suggested the reclamation efforts were going well with few accidents and even less resistance from each point of interest hit. The amount of hideaways and survivor camps were astonishing as well, all tucked away into the tops of skyscrapers or underground in the darkness of parking lots. Civilians were truly incredible. 

But the HOUNDs were working double time, hardly having ample opportunity to shut their eyes before being requested again and again and again–there was always a building that needed to be cleared, a squadron that needed to be found, civilian colonies that needed to be relocated, and your sort was best suited for it all. 

Thankfully for you, retrieval efforts took a brief pause after a 99% clearance was announced, and the military began construction for official sector lockdown. Finally, there would be a safe space for the public to exist in, sealed off from the rest of the decaying, hungry world. 

And you would get a break. A chance to let the frostbite heal, to get shot up with painkillers, and bask in the synthetic warmth of Alchemax. Or, they’d kill you and let you rest forever if your test results came back as troublesome or unpromising. God, you hoped you were still promising. 

You’d done your best, shoved away the shreds of affection you felt for your keeper to maintain focus and keep worried eyes away from you. Your mind was clear. You felt fine. You really did. But they were human, and they were scared of what they created (what else is new), even though they depended on you and your ilk so heavily for safety, and for the most dangerous of missions. 

The sort of missions that had some of your kind put down after abnormalities, consistent with the incident several months ago, were detected in their DNA. The sort of missions that gave some of your kind the chance to make a run for it out in the field, daring the outside world in favour of living as a slave to Alchemax. You could understand it. You could sympathize, even; freedom was a beautiful idea, but with the world in such a state, the confines of your prison promised more freedom than the wildlands of the old world. 

Idiots. Every single one of them. 

The truck jostled you back to consciousness. The pounding in your head worsened, the pressure in your sinuses amplified, and your will to go on slowly withered away. But, thank whatever was left of God, you were almost back to Alchemax. Almost home. 

You wished you could collapse into Miguel’s bed beside him and sleep it all off, but that uncomfortable panic your soft side threw him into wasn’t acceptable. You didn’t understand it, but you weren’t going to fight it. There wasn’t any point. 

–

Miguel awoke to you standing by his door, arms crossed, back against the wall, and head bowed as you quietly snoozed. Normally, you didn't sleep on the job. Normally, you didn't look like shit either, though; you had a mask of sorts covering the bottom half of your face, probably one equipped with an air purifier to keep illness away from the rest of the building, and your skin lost its natural light to it, accentuating the deep crescents of shadows under your eyes.

He needs rest. That was the first thought in his mind, and the one that got him up and out of bed to get you. He expected a fight, honestly, but you were easily guided to where Miguel led you in your hardly-conscious state. 

“‘M fine,” you grumbled, brows furrowing and weak hands lamely trying to free yourself from Miguel's touch. 

“You need to lay down.” And somehow, he made it happen. Miguel got you in the bed and pulled off your boots before settling back down himself. It was strange, he realized, how he felt safe with you simply sleeping beside him, and sharing your warmth with him. Maybe he didn't need you to stand guard and sacrifice sleep for his sake anymore. 

–

Miguel didn't know when he'd fallen asleep, but waking up pressed into the warmth of your too-big frame was a welcome surprise. Your limbs were tangled all around him, your legs threading through his, your arms draped around him, your nose pressed into his mess of chestnut hair while deep, rumbly purrs rolled against his back. Your claws were out, too, every now and again gently kneading against his chest and stomach when happy dreams danced through your mind. 

It was when you let out a grumpy growl that Miguel smiled. He couldn’t stop himself from trying to carefully, slowly, turn in your arms, avoiding getting nicked and waking you up just to catch a glimpse of your sleeping face. Miguel settled back in, feeling you adjust and watching your brows furrow the slightest bit while you unknowingly made accommodations for him. 

“What’re you dreaming about, huh?” Miguel murmured when your expression slackened again and the drone of purring resumed. He reached towards your face carefully, running his thumb against the mess of scars intersecting with your bum eye; you never let him touch your face, always shying away or wincing in a recoil whenever he so tried. He never knew if he hurt you, or if you didn’t want to be reminded. It’s not like he ever knew what was going on in your head, anyway. 

Maybe I should. A thought that plagued him far too often. As far as he knew, the others didn’t bond too well with their guards, at least not to this level. But maybe they should have taken the time to. Maybe they should have matched you based on personality compatibility, or something similar to make sure you’d get along, to ensure nothing like that abomination could have happened in the first place. Maybe then they’d care about the HOUND division more. Maybe then you wouldn’t be seen as expendable. 

Your good eye opened when Miguel’s thumb dipped down into the scar resting flush against the bone of your damaged eye socket. You recoiled with a wince and sat up in a hurry, looking around the room in confusion and running a hand through your hair. 

“What the fuck,” you grumbled, voice hoarse. You coughed into your arm, but the mask caught it for you “Didn’t mean to–”

“I made you lay down,” Miguel said, firm. 

You looked at him, confused for a moment before relaxing into your plain, uncaring state. You rolled your shoulders a few times before reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it up bit by bit; Miguel was almost too distraught by the bandages and marks marring your body for him to realize what you thought he wanted. 

“Wh–hey, no, no.” He sat up and stopped you, grabbing your arm to give you pause. “Just–stop. Relax.” 

“You’re giving me mixed signals.” Your brows furrowed. “Don’t like me lookin’ at you, don’t want me getting too comfortable–”

Miguel’s gut twisted. “I didn’t know if something was wrong–”

“You that scared of me?”

“I’m not–”

“Then what is it.” 

Miguel didn’t have the words. He didn’t know. He couldn’t straighten out his thoughts enough to give you a succinct, reasonable answer that’d make sense and cover everything. He didn’t know what he was thinking or feeling during those blurred days of the apocalypse. 

“I don’t know.” Miguel stared hard at your arm. His fidgety hands fussed with the bandages. 

You waited for a beat for him to continue, but he didn’t. You leaned in the slightest bit like it’d encourage him before you prodded further. “You don’t know?”

“Anything. About all of this–everything. Everything’s ending.” Ah. How optimistic of him, one of the men tasked with giving the world a fighting chance, to save humanity. “Nothing good happens anymore.” Right?

You stayed quiet for a long while. Miguel didn't know how to read that look on your face. He could only imagine what someone like you, someone hardened and fucked over by the world, was thinking, what you were judging by his words and– 

“Some dinosaurs got fucked by volcanic ash,” you interrupted, “but some changed, and turned into birds. Like chickens ‘n shit. Some things turned into us, too. Somehow.” You cleared your throat and rubbed at the mask covering your mouth. “Don’t like the idea that we evolved from a fucking dolphin or whatever, but it happened. We're here, too, like those fucking chickens. Despite the world ending.” You spared him a look this time. “Things still lived, even if they changed.”

Miguel was dumbstruck. And he understood what you were saying. So much more than what you tried to convey. You were starting to make sense to him. 

“Huh. That was almost optimistic. Profound, even,” he offered with a soft smile. “Didn’t know you knew so much about chickens.” 

You scoffed. “My kid loved that stupid fun fact. Loved dinosaurs. Told me about them all the time…fuckin’ chickens and dinosaurs.” You were smiling, too. He heard it in your voice, saw the creases by your eyes. 

“Sounds like a smart kid.” 

You nodded. “She was.” 

–

He convinced you to keep him company for the day, the night, and the morning. It was a relief, waking up next to you again, feeling just a little less hopeless as the hours passed in your presence while chicken fun facts echoed in his thoughts. Hell, he was even starting to like being the little spoon, especially when he felt stiff, morning excitement pressing up against his ass. 

You weren’t that shy about it. You pulled his hips closer and ground up against him, grumbling and sighing through that stupid mask into his ear. Maybe you were still asleep, indulging in your body’s wants as dreams carried your subconscious into similar territory. Miguel only hoped you were dreaming about him. 

He jumped when your large hand groped his hardening cock through his joggers. He started scrambling and reaching for the side table for the bottle of oil he kept on hand for the nights he had you in his bed (and for his own personal time), nearly dropping the damn thing when you started pulling and tearing at his pants, suddenly deciding you were beyond impatient to have him. 

“Wait–hey, just–wait a second–” Miguel scrambled to shove his sweats down before you could do anymore damage. You huffed a laugh in his ear when you finally groped his hot skin. The sound lit an inferno in his chest. “Impatient pendejo.” 

“Lube.” 

“I'm working on it.” He lathered two fingers with oil and reached back, prodding before pushing in as you spread him wide. Your impatience had his fingers pumping in and out quicker, hastily convincing his tight ring to relax and loosen for the main event. Your hand gripped his cock and tugged firmly, making his hips buck back against you and lodge his digits in deeper with an embarrassing squelch. That, in your mind, meant he was ready to go. 

You pulled his hand away rudely before yanking down your waistband and jamming yourself into him. Miguel gasped and struggled against you before you thrust forward, simultaneously pulling his hips back, and fully seating him. Your arms snaked around him to cage him in and stop him from wriggling away if it got to be too much–you wouldn't have it. Miguel liked it that way. 

“Mierda, you–” he choked down a whine when your hand curled around his throat and held firm. “D-Don't get too carried away.” But thorny barbs pushed at his skin, teasing and kneading while Miguel's core melted and eased around you. His hand felt down, jolting a little at the bump jutting out from his flat stomach. Sometimes he forgot how big you were. 

You pushed two fingers into his mouth when you started moving, rutting into him lazily and sloppily, dragging rugged moans out of his chest with every draw of your bodies together. He bit down on your fingers hard and grasped your hand at his neck to find some kind of anchor point. Another breathy laugh had Miguel opening his legs wider, his back arching off of your chest. You wrenched your fingers from his mouth and pulled him back in, adjusting yourself to make use of his compliance and fuck him better. 

“Such a good little thing,” you grumbled, voice roiling with dark thorns. “You like being manhandled, huh?” And you squeezed his thigh and his throat hard, digging in your barbs just enough to threaten injury. “Like bein’ a whore?” 

Miguel wanted to snap at you, to tell you to shut the fuck up and stop teasing (bullying) him, but you hit him where it counted and freed his mind from the concept of speech. One of his hands balled into the sheets while the other clawed back at you, trying to sink further into his set anchors.

“Hm? You tryna say somethin’?” You asked with such condescending mirth in your words. “You wanna tell me how good it feels?” 

The hand around his throat was joined by the one leaving his thigh, and you squeezed harder. Delicious sparks of blackness muddied his vision, the near-death feeling accentuating the hard cracks of your hips into his, the white-hot blaze curling his toes and shaking his thighs. 

“Tell me,” you demanded again, a little louder, a little more annoyed. But how was Miguel expected to speak when he was so close to the edge of life, death and pleasure? He was nearly there, so close, just a little more–

But you pulled out.

Miguel heaved in breaths and blinked away the fog shrouding his sight. He wondered if old wounds gave you pause, or if fatigue had finally gripped you and extinguished your desire. And it concerned him, the idea you weren't ready for this, that you might've felt pressured or–

“Tell me.”

–oh, no, you were just being a cocky asshole. Figures. 

Miguel scoffed and reached back, weakly pawing for your slick cock rubbing against the curve of his ass, trying to guide it back to where he needed it. You should've known well enough how good you were, and yet–

“Words.” 

“I-It’s good,” Miguel croaked, cringing at his stuttering. “I–can’t you just–” Your charge choked on a mangled cry when your claws broke skin and sunk deep. But the afterburn fuelled the explosion boiling in Miguel’s gut. God, what was wrong with him? 

“Please,” he finally whined. 

A pleased purr vibrated against Miguel’s back. “Please?” 

Miguel screwed his eyes shut to ward off the wave of embarrassment crashing down him. “Fuck me. I have to–I need to–” 

You slammed back in, and Miguel almost shattered. He half-turned out of your grip, chest brushing the sheets while his abdomen twisted to still give you his ass; but you were a benevolent menace, and rose to your knees, guiding his hips up with you while he buried his pleas into the mattress. 

“Good. I'll give you what you want. I can do that.” 

And after a few bullseye hits, Miguel came undone. His hips jittered and stuttered, overwhelmed and ecstatic with the electricity shooting through his body and burning him alive. You held him tightly, moaning lowly as you plowed into his stifling heat, determined to plunge off the edge yourself while torturing your partner with wave after wave of tumultuous ecstasy. You really were too good at this. It was almost unfair. 

“Por favour,” Miguel gasped. He was breaking. It was too much. Too much–

“Shut up,” you grunted, but the plea must've done the trick; your hips jolted to a stop once flush up against Miguel's ass, and a familiar flood of heat filled his guts. Miguel pulled on fistfuls of his hair and bit down on his other hand's knuckles. He probably would have passed right out if he hadn't grounded his soul with a little bit of pain. 

You slumped on top of him unceremoniously, like a dog flopping back onto its owner. You grumbled and wheezed in a way that sounded far too dad-like, in a way that almost made Miguel laugh and did indeed bring a tired smile to his face. As much as you were an insufferable asshole, you were just as cute and silly. Miguel quite possibly loved that about you. 

“What? All that shit-talking tire you out?” Miguel asked. 

You huffed. “Still sore.” Ah. Maybe your earlier torture was to disguise your need for a break after all. “You got me going too much.” 

“Sorry? You're the one who started it.” 

“You're the one who begged to get fucked,” you retorted like an annoying teenager. “Like a bitch in heat.”

Miguel sighed. He knew he wasn't about to win this one, but he had to try. His stubbornness wouldn't let him back down. 

“You're the one who woke up hard. Grinding against my ass to–” he stuttered when you pulled out suddenly before flopping down beside him in bed, “--t-to get off.” Christ he hated you. You were so fucking annoying. 

“You liked it.” You watched him grab some tissues from the side table and clean up as much as he could before rolling on his back to stare at the ceiling. “You're horny as fuck.” 

Miguel lamely slapped a hand at your chest, and you caught it, pinning it against your warmth. Miguel didn't mind. It felt nice. 

“Yeah. Well. It's the apocalypse.” 

“It's the apocalypse,” you agreed.

[phyrestartr]

Simple Things [2] - Miguel O'hara x Male!Reader

# SFW, fluff, comfort, flirting, light angst, male!reader, dad!reader, spider!reader, implied depression, mentions of trauma, mentions of past relationships, mentions of manipulation, old men just doing their best, miguel is a sweetheart and a nerd, multi-part drabble collection

[ 1 ] Smoke Break | [ 2 ] We Change Like the Seasons | [ 3 ] Meet The Kids

Notes: WOW I DID IT?? AN UPDATE AYO!! No promises, but I might try to update this drabble collection every Saturday or smth 🤔 The thought for this was to make it a sorta prelude to establish the reader's relationship with Miguel, and to cement him into the universe a little bit before closing up this sequential collection and delving into shite that's more random and based off rando prompts or smth. Dunno, but we'll see!

--We Change Like the Seasons--

After your candid smoke break with Miguel, the universe apparently thought it'd be funny to throw Mercury into retrograde and absolutely wreak havoc within HQ.

Miguel, the man deciding he was responsible for all,  got affected the most: on bad days, comms exploded with barked commands and a plethora of scoffs; on worse days, a twisted frustration would fray his voice and heat his stare; on the worst days, he grit his teeth and flexed his claws whenever anyone so much as thought to come near him. Miguel didn't scare you, though. His temperament paled in comparison to what you'd faced in the military.

But you would hear the whispers sometimes, discussions about your leader going unhinged or feral. You knew how bad people moved, though, and you'd decided too long ago that Miguel was anything but a bad person. Prickly, sure, hot-headed and temperamental at times, too, but he cared. If he didn’t, then he never would have thought of funding and organizing an entire HQ and society for spider-people. He wouldn’t work towards saving everyone’s everything, either. You couldn’t help but appreciate his strong leadership, even if he did lose his temper every now and then. 

But still, you ended up keeping your distance for a time. Life had gotten busier, and you couldn’t bring yourself around HQ as often suddenly. You weren’t part of the “elite strike force” that Miguel had going, so it didn’t really matter in the end; you weren’t one of the best, you weren’t special. All you wanted was to help where you could, as much as you could. The important shit could be left to those more ingrained in all of this.

–--

Miguel felt your absence around HQ. It was like noticing the sun setting a little earlier on its way to autumn, the realization that the world would have a little less time in the light each day. A small thing. A simple pleasure one didn’t realize they basked in until too much time had passed since it disappeared. 

His mind wandered to the times he saw you before the small talk, the way you always gave little nods in greeting, whether you were passing by or coming for a meeting, and the way you sought out the younger spiders to check on them. And how could he forget about that pie you brought him? He wasn’t used to someone doing something thoughtful for him just because they wanted to. He told people where to go, what anomaly to fetch, but he never expected anyone to be so…you. 

"Heeey, Miguel? Head stuck in the clouds?" Lyla asked. 

"I–what?" Miguel blinked, suddenly feeling how dry and tired his eyes were from staring blankly at orange screens. "Santa Muerte. How long was I–" 

"Liiike ten minutes?" She smiled as Miguel sighed and rubbed at his face, willing the fatigue away. "But you got a special delivery." 

Miguel squinted over his shoulder. His expression relaxed when he saw it–a familiar, lone tupperware container. It sat near the very back, where the elevator doors were, hidden somewhere in the shadows. Last time it'd appeared on his centre console. Why so far away this time? 

"Thanks, Lyla," Miguel mumbled. He padded to the box and popped the lid open, indulging in the sweet scent of sugar cookies. A pleased purr rumbled in his chest as he peered inside, first spying an incredibly misshapen, large cookie that sat on top. Words in red scrawled across the creamy white layer of frosting, reading something to the effect of, "for Pa's frend Meegull." 

Meegull.

His hand rubbed over his mouth. Warmth bloomed in his chest, curling into an emptiness he’d long acknowledged, but refused to fill. Did he have a right to? After everything he’s done–

But those thoughts could be set aside for a moment, carefully and tenderly, acknowledging the state of his own fragility. This moment, this little thing, was a gift from someone else. Time and care spent into forging that spark in his chest for just a moment.

He could see ripples of the past: the messy chaos of the kitchen, smiles shared between father and daughter, a little girl refusing her father’s help and wanting to write the message all on her own. 

Miguel had been there too, once. In the sun and the rain, playing goalie for a little sports star, teaching her to dribble and pass and play nice with the other girls on her team. His little one was so like him–competitive, snarky, bright. She burned so bright she turned his heart to ash.

“You okay?” Lyla peeped, peering over Miguel’s shoulder. 

Miguel took a deep breath. He nodded. “Yeah. I’m–I’m fine. Just…yeah.” 

His confidant nodded. “Yeah. I get it.” Lyla adjusted her sunnies before flickering down to the box and reading the garbled message. “Awe, that’s cute.” 

Miguel huffed a laugh and nodded. “Yeah. It is.” 

“You think he’ll bring his daughters around?” Was that hope he heard in his little AI’s voice?

“Well, if he does,” Miguel started as he snapped the container closed, “I’ll have to make sure I thank them.”

–-

You laid on your back, one leg crossed over the other. Your wakefulness ebbed and flowed to the rhythm of whatever song buzzed through those old headphones of yours. They were beaten up things, artifacts that should have been replaced three times over already, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it; your girl loaned them to you on base all those years ago, and whenever you picked them up and felt the soft, crackled leather against your fingers, you'd be reminded of easier times, simpler days–a past where you were blissfully unaware. 

The memories hurt, sure, but the little bit of peace she brought you soothed your heart, while at the same time breaking it into two jagged parts. You wished she still stood by you, that you might find yourself whole again if she were still there. Maybe your serenity would have lasted, turned into marriage, evolved into something unreal, but that's not what happened.

Sometimes, you'd feel the icy prick of needles when you reached for the decrepit Sonys. They'd pierce all over, from your temples down to your ankles, and they hurt. God, did it ever hurt. Just like whatever they injected you with–whatever she injected you with–that bonded to your DNA, that made you more than human, and less than human. 

God. It hurt.

You remembered her so vividly. Behind the veil of black obscuring the vision of closed eyes, you saw her standing there, the spitting image of what your little Isabella would look like when she grew up. Only, you hoped she'd have the good parts of Liliana, leaving behind the frigid woman who lured you into an experiment. 

"You're gonna be fine, honey, just trust me. Your DNA's a perfect match. You're the only suitor for the test--you'll be the next Captain America."

Honeyed words, simple lies, sweet nothings–she did everything to trap you, but you would have bent a knee at "please."

"I trust you." 

But you really shouldn't have. 

Your hand curled tightly around the phone on your chest as you recalled the pain: the acidity eating your eyes, the boiling in your veins, the snapping of rearranging bones. It wasn't normal, not in the grand scheme of Spiderman and how his powers felt when they manifested. But you weren't exactly normal, either, considering you once coexisted with another in your body. 

Heat washed up your face. Your eyes slid open slowly, and you stared up at a perfectly clear, azure expanse of sky, blurred through molten, crystalline grief. Christ, why was this happening now? You'd done so well for so long, kept it all together. Why–

The door to the balcony hissed open. You rubbed your face, willing the pear-cut diamonds away, not letting them rest on haggard skin. Losing it in front of somebody wasn’t allowed. You weren’t sure if you could come back from it. 

“Good to know I'm not the only one who sleeps on the job," Miguel remarked, voice warm and latent with snark. 

You couldn’t help a huff of amusement yourself. "Great minds think alike, hey?"  You yawned and sat up, letting your headphones slip down to your neck while you messed with your nest of fluffy hair. "This is the only place I–uh, I…" 

You blinked dumbly in the face of a to-go cup held out to you. The roasted scent of fresh coffee wholly distracted you from whatever the hell you were trying to say, but you didn't reach for it. Was it even for you? You wanted it, but–

"This is the part where you take it," Miguel teased, reaching it slightly closer to you.

You grasped it with both hands, feeling a weird, pleasant, happy boom pulse through your chest and down your arms, rushing a dusting of rose to your nose and cheeks while your mind flailed helplessly. What the fuck was this? The hell were you supposed to do with this? Well, drink it, duh, but…

"I, uh…yeah, thanks." You held the drink close and let it warm your cold hands. It felt nice. "But, uh, why–?" 

"That's a stupid question." Miguel didn't even look your way. He leaned against the wall, though, and sipped from his own cup.

You were the one left fidgeting this time. You picked at the cardboard sleeve, tearing tiny rips into it before finally letting yourself indulge and take a sip. It was sweet, slightly too sweet, but in a very…well, Miguel kind of way: expected to be bitter, but decidedly the opposite.

"Didn't know how you take it," Miguel grumbled, hints of (oh?) embarrassment in his voice. Hah. Cute. 

"Hey, tastes fine to me. Better sweet than bitter, yeah?" You hummed as the tiniest of smiles fought its way to the surface. "'Ppreciate it, Boss. Seriously." 

Miguel's shoulders lost their tense edge. "Well. Least I could do, since you keep feeding me." 

"That's just my fatherly instinct kicking in; I got a mighty strong urge to take care of any reckless kiddos that run amok. Y’know, the ones who leap before they think, the ones who forget to eat, yadda yadda." You sipped your coffee again and intentionally ignored the indignant look sent your way. 

"Good to know you see me as a reckless punk," Miguel huffed. 

"Mh. Feel free to call me 'daddy.'" 

That got a laugh out of him, just a few breathy beats. "Oh, wow, I think I'll forget you just said that, actually." 

"Your loss." You smiled slightly against the rim of your cup as you stared out at Nueva York. "Can’t say daddy is much of a turn-on in bed these days, though. Not when you have little ones," you mumbled to yourself more than to Miguel. But the man had enhanced hearing, so of course he heard. 

"You're joking," Miguel said, exasperated. 

Your gaze met his and you quirked a brow. "Hm?" 

"You really had people call you that in bed?" The distasteful sour expression Miguel wore reminded you so much of your littlest one when she ate something she hated. You had to rush to swallow your coffee before you laughed.

"Yeah. Not my favourite thing, but it happens. Besides, I'm not about to tell them to knock it off in the middle of things." You shrugged and picked at the plastic lid. "Men 'n women 'n everyone in-between think it's sexy to call a guy that these days, y'know?" You shook your head and sighed softly, but still amused.

"These days," Miguel repeated. "How often are you–?" 

"A man's gotta eat, Boss." You smiled at him, letting that atrocious playboy slip out to say hello with the sort of smirk you gave him. You almost thought Miguel's ears turned a bit red, but it was probably just from the cold. 

"You can't tell me you're not getting any," you half-asked, half-remarked. “A guy like you?”

Miguel cleared his throat and sipped from his cup. "Guess I just haven't found anyone in a while." 

"Yeah?" You tilted your head back against the wall as you stared up at the clouds. "Huh. Not even any of the spiders?" 

"It's just–what's the point?" He burst. "At the end of this shitshow, all of us are going back to our dimensions, back to our lives and we won't get to–" his breath hitched, "we don't always get what we want." 

You dragged yourself up from the ground, being careful not to drop your drink, headphones or phone as you stood by your fellow Spiderman. You ditched your phone in your pocket before clasping a warm, heavy hand on Miguel's unyielding shoulder. 

"Miguel," you started, looking at him earnestly while he stared forward, eyes hard, but softening with the murmur of his name, "you can't think like that. Everything ends. It has to." 

"Not comforting." 

"Hey, hey, I'm not done." You gave him a small, friendly shake and felt his muscles almost relax under your touch. "Listen, if everything lasted forever, nothing would be special, yeah? Life would be meaningless, love wouldn't matter. But you get a chance to have that happiness–" 

Memories of roses in her hair came with a gentle gust of peculiar warm wind, so out of place in the playful nip of autumn. If you took a moment, if you closed your eyes and breathed deep, you might've caught the whisper of white jasmine riding the coattails of summer nights long since passed. That was your happy place. Somewhere you wished you could have stayed longer. Somewhere you were glad you could wander back to moments of quiet loneliness.

"--and it'd be a real shame to give up on that." 

Maybe it was the vibrato in your voice, or maybe it was the words you spoke resonating with him, but something sparked in whirling carmine irises, painting them a colour so like Dahlia's favourite red roses. You couldn't help but stare. You couldn't stop the thorned buds blooming in your chest, either. 

Miguel smiled, then. Light and sweet, with a sweep of those eyes, half-lidded and thoughtful, gazing back to the city. More flowers bloomed. 

"And here I thought you were a soldier. Where'd all that come from?" He asked quietly. His brows furrowed, though, worrying over something. 

"Eh. Lots of therapy." You pat his shoulder a few gentle times. "But I'm serious, y'know? Good things come to an end. And, y'know, if it really hurts ya, you can just use your fancy gizmo to go visit, yeah? Or, I mean, you can just find someone to fuck." 

Miguel gave you a look and the mood shifted away from genuinity back into clownery (thank God). "To fuck?" He balked. You nodded wisely. "You-- I'm too old to be sleeping around."

"Hey, hey, I sleep around. You're never too old." You almost managed a glare at him. "Sometimes I just wanna mess around, get laid, maybe accidentally find The One–" 

"Oh, you’re hoping to find 'the one,' huh?" Miguel remarked, definitely believing you. “How’s that going for you?”

You sighed dramatically and leaned into him like your will to live was running out. "Oh, It’s brutal. Lots of trial and error. Such a shame." 

"Mmh, I'm sure." 

[phyrestartr]

Hi there! I am unsure if you have requests open or not, but if you do, could I request a Miguel x F!Reader where reader wants to tell Miguel that she identifies as non-binary, but struggles to do so out of fear of Miguel breaking up with her.

There is one scene I have in mind for this in particular is that while having sex, Miguel tells the reader that he loves her, and the Reader has to hold in her/their tears because she/they truly believes he won't anymore when he finds out.

If this request is uncomfortable, please feel free to ignore!

Simply You | Miguel O'hara x F/NB!Reader

Miguel x F/NB!Reader W/C: 2.5k

#NSFW, hurt/comfort, fluff, fem-presenting reader, pre-established relationship, miguel is Spiderman, set before ATSV, adults talking like adults, healthy relationship ayo

Note: Tysm for this request! As a NB girlie, I really relate to this sort of struggle with coming out/explaining my identity to people close to me, so, in a weird way, I really enjoyed writing the reader fumbling with the explanation lol?? Idk but this was kinda sweet and therapeutic to write! I hope you enjoy :')

--

Miguel loved you. You loved him. It was simple. 

Only, it wasn’t. Not for you.

Shame ate at you every time you felt his embrace, every time he filled you with a searing heat only he could control in your tumultuous, all-feeling heart. That self-condemnation didn’t come because of who you were, no, but because of what you couldn’t tell him, what you were too afraid to tell him. 

But you could cope, you always had. Did it really even matter, anyway? Did you need to bring that out into the world, to declare you were someone more nuanced than the snarky, kind woman he fell for? Was it worth it to walk and breathe, to sing and smile, to love and dance in the truth of your ipseity if it meant losing your one and only, your partner for life?

You didn’t know. You didn’t know if love would welcome the truth. 

You didn’t think the ceiling would hold the answers either, as much as you stared up at it that morning, hoping for an epiphany. The heels of your palms dug into your eyes while you sighed a shaky, weak sigh, and found the strength to roll out of bed. Or, well, at least sit up. 

“Heeey,” Lyla chirped as she flickered into being beside you. “Everything cool, buddy?” 

You tried a smile and nodded. “Yeah. Everything’s cool. I’m cool. It’s just one of those days, I guess.” 

“Yeah, I get that. It happens, so don’t sweat it, alright?” The digital Tinkerbelle gave you a reassuring, glitchy smile as she made a show of patting your arm. “Is it ‘cause of last night?” 

You grimaced, and Lyla nodded judiciously. 

God, you didn’t want to remember that. Bursting into tears just because he said he loved you was just–it wasn’t exactly how you wanted it to go. 

You’d been here so many times, his chest pressed to your plush breasts, his words whispering softly into your ear in a tone both sinful and endearing, but it always felt like the first, somehow. 

Each easy push into your heat pulled a dreamy sigh from between your soft lips time and time again. Each drag of your nails against his back, every fistful of hair tugged gave you the lightest of moans, the softest sweetness you’d never imagined you’d find in a man like Miguel O’hara. But you did. And you cherished it. You cherished him. 

“That good?” He mumbled against your neck as his pace quickened subtly with the grip holding onto your waist. Your thighs cozied up against his sides harder as your partner dove deeper and deeper to your centre, rubbing up just right against your velvety walls. 

“Always,” you mumbled back. And he smiled against your skin, a small laugh joining the gesture. You smiled, too, and gasped when he snapped his hips against yours harder, faster, delivering you pulse after pulse of hot pleasure without breaking a sweat.

He kissed your throat before finding your mouth again, and murmuring against your lips, “even better?” 

You convinced your eyes open to catch a glimpse of his snarky, punchable smile. You rolled your eyes and raked your nails against the nape of his neck to feel him shudder and stutter from the pleasant tingles crashing down on him. Sure, you had your weak spot, but he had his, too. 

“You’re a brat.” But you kissed him anyway, that grown-up brat you were so smitten with. 

“You love it,” he said as he nipped your bottom lip. “Almost as much as you love me, I bet.” 

“Oh, is this gonna be a trend? You flirting with yourself on my behalf?” You chuckled and looped both arms around his neck while you kissed him again, and again, and again. “But, yeah. I love you, whether you’re being a little shit or a tough guy.” 

Bright fondness turned crimson eyes into glittering rubies. It fuelled your ego, knowing your praise and love could get your man so excited and full of himself. You didn’t mind it–you encouraged it, actually. He deserved all the recognition and worship humanity could offer. 

“And I love you,” he offered back.

You shifted, eyes widening a bit as the delicate balance in your heart started to waver. Maybe he’d stop there. Maybe he wouldn’t keep talking.

“No matter what.” He buried his face into your neck and inhaled your scent. “Te amo, mi amor.” 

And you cracked. You cried. Because he might only love the shell of you.

You hung your head and rubbed your face with an embarrassed groan. “Was it…bad? Like, secondhand embarrassment bad?” 

“Eh, nah, not really. You covered it up pretty well with ‘I’m just really happy, that’s all.’” Lyla sighed and shook her head. “You’re good, I’ll tell ya that. But you might just wanna be, I dunno, honest?” 

You stared at her blankly. “...No, thanks.” 

“Wooow.”

“I–it’s just not easy. I don’t know how to–to put it into words, or how to really just, y’know, sum it all up.” You ran your hands through your hair and made it into a nest fit for a family of crows to live in before you got up and wandered to the kitchen in search of coffee (because that would definitely help your anxiety). 

Lyla reappeared in the kitchen by your side. “Okay, well, how do you sum it up for yourself?” She adjusted her sunnies a bit as she watched you. 

You paused mid-scoop, and stared down into the tin of grounds, brows furrowed. “It’s complicated.”

“Great!”

“How is that great? It doesn’t solve anything.” 

“Nah, but it’s a start.” 

You blinked, dumbstruck. Because damn. She was right. 

–

You mulled it over in your head and in your heart, thinking hard about how to bring it up to him now that you'd decided, yes, you were in fact going to bring it up to him, to be honest with him. Your nerves recoiled and your stomach roiled when you tried to recite that unwritten script festering in the back of your throat:

“Hey, babe, I need to talk to you about something. It’s nothing bad. It’s just, uh, y’know. I, uh…” 

“Hey, Miggs? Can we talk? It’s nothing serious or anything, but–well, okay, maybe it is serious, just not to you–I mean, no, no, I don’t mean you don’t care or–shit.” 

“Hey, so, there’s something kinda complicated that I wanna talk about, and, uh…just don’t freak out, okay?”

“Okay,” Miguel said. You let out an ugly noise, something between a gasp and a squawk, as you whirled around to see Spiderman himself sitting in your open window with a bag of takeout in his stupid hands.

“Miguel,” you wheezed. “I, uh.” You wiped your palms on your pants and willed the shock away. God, he was so annoying. So goddamn annoying. Why’d he have to show up now? “I thought you–don’t you have work? Wait, come inside first, what’re you doing? Jeeze.” 

He waited for you to come over to him and pull him inside instead of getting up himself. A very Miguel thing to do. He just liked you to worry over him, to get all exasperated and tell him he was being a brat because, well, he thought it was cute. Miguel was a very simple man with simple pleasures. 

“Technically still at work,” he remarked, very blase as you dragged him inside the apartment before closing the window. He set down the take out and rummaged through it. “Lunch break. That turned into a ‘saving Nueva York’ break.”

You nodded and crossed your arms to shield your hammering heart from him. “And now you’re here because–?” 

Miguel shrugged and deactivated his mask as he turned to you, handing you a box of pad thai. “Sorry, didn’t know coming to feed my girl was a punishable offence. How many years do I get?” 

You smiled, and the wild thumping in your chest ebbed. “Dunno yet. I’ll consult the jury.” You took the box from him with a soft “thank you” on your lips, and you sat at the kitchen counter beside him. 

“I await the verdict with bated breath.” Miguel chuckled and shook his head before peeking over at you to catch a glimpse of your fond smile. But he stared a little too long, and you could feel pointed rubies pressing against the side of your face. 

“What?” You asked when you met his gaze. 

He shook his head the slightest bit. “Nothing, just…glad you’re smiling.” Ah, damn. That tone of voice was so soft and gentle. Why was he so sweet? “After last night, I just–I was still kinda worried, I guess.” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you reassured him, fighting through the heat staining your cheeks. “I promise. I don’t really know why I, y’know, got so…so…y’know.” 

“You sure?” Miguel asked. His gloved fingers tucked some hair behind your ear, fanning the flames hiding under your skin. “Sounded like you were rehearsing somethin’ before I crashed the party.”

You opened your mouth to refute, to argue against him, to run away from the issue at hand and save it for another day because why ruin the mood? But the words wouldn’t come up. Excuses didn’t come to mind, either, but bubbling bravery filled your chest and squared off your shoulders as you held Miguel’s gaze with burgeoning confidence. Maybe you could do this. Maybe you could fucking do this. The scariest part was the first step, just like when you said “yes” when he asked you out that first time. 

You could do this. 

“Yeah,” You managed out. 

You cleared your throat while your mind raced. You could fucking do this.

“I, um, it’s not—it’s not serious-serious, like, it’s nothing, uh…well, maybe it is something game-changing, I don’t really know what you’ll think, but…but yeah, I wanted to talk to you about…stuff? An important stuff–thing. Something important. To me.”

Miguel’s expression glowed with fond amusement, and he nodded, turning his attention to you squarely and resting his arm on the countertop. “Alright. Shoot. Important-thing me.” 

You nodded and took a few seconds to collect yourself. “Okay. Alright. Yeah, I got this. I’ll, uh, just get on with it. But I need this first,” you said before snatching the free hand off Miguel’s lap and holding it, fiddling with his thick, strong, gloved digits and making those claws pop in and out; he was the best fidget spinner, turns out. 

“Okay. So, uh. I don’t really know how to start, so this might be bumpy, but bare with me.” You glanced to the side in thought for a moment, and took a deep breath before ranting. “I just—I feel like I’m kind of…in limbo.”

Miguel raised his brows. “Limbo?”

“Yeah. But, like, not in a bad way? I just–it’s just something that’s me, I guess?” Your brows furrowed, wondering if you were confusing him too much with your vagueness. “When you call me a woman, it doesn’t feel–I mean, it’s not wrong, it’s just not the whole story. The whole truth. 

“It’s like being caught in the middle of, uh, man and woman, but being neither at the same time? I don’t–I think I’m still figuring it all out, but I don’t feel like I’m just your woman.” You looked up from Miguel’s hand and caught his patient gaze. Your face heated to a sporty, cherry red when he stayed silent. “I–maybe this was a bad time, sorry, you–”

“Ah-ah, no no no, don’t–don’t shut me out, mi amor,” Miguel rushed to say as he slipped his arm from the counter and held your one hand with both of his. “I have all the time in the world for you, alright?”

You pursed your lips and nodded. “Yeah, of course! Totally, yeah, okay.” 

Miguel chuckled and shook his head, too smitten with you and your antics. “But, alright, let me get this right, make sure I’m understanding things–you’re not necessarily wholly a woman, not wholly a man, somewhere in the middle, but nowhere on that scale at the same time?” 

Death coiled in your gut as embarrassment killed your will to go on. “...Yeah, wow, that sounds pretty stupid in hindsight.” 

“Ay, stop it,” your partner scolded. “It makes sense. I’m serious, I get what you’re saying.” 

“I don’t even know if I know what I’m saying, Miggs,” you sighed. 

“What I’m hearing is that you,” he started, reaching one hand over to tilt your chin up and meet his eyes, “are just you.” His scarlet eyes scanned over your features, admiring his beautiful girl–no, his beautiful partner, the one he was lucky enough to wake up with every morning, and go to sleep beside every night. “Undefined. Not one way or the other. Unlike the rest. Just perfectly you, yeah?” 

Your shoulders relaxed. “Just me,” you repeated quietly. That anxious half-smile bloomed into an honest, content look. “That’s a pretty good way to sum it up, yeah. I’m just me.” 

“And I love ‘just you.’ You know that, right?” He kissed the back of your hand when you laughed and nodded, tears nowhere to be found this time. “Good. So, should I call you something else? Not ‘girlfriend’ or anything?” 

“I think I’m okay with it, I just–I don’t know, I’m happy with ‘she’ as long as you know I’m kind of a ‘they,’ too. If that tracks.” 

“Tracks with me.”

“Alright. Good. Cool. I’ll, uh, let you know if I change my mind?”

“You better,” Miguel huffed. “I don’t want you to cry again–”

“Miguel O’hara,” you scolded, pinching his hand through the suit. “That was so embarrassing–don’t ever ever mention it again, okay? I was in a state last night and I’m trying real hard to pretend it never happened.” 

“Oh, wow, ah-huh. Maybe we should rewrite that night then, hey?” His mischievous smirk perked your intrigue. 

“Oh. Oh. Yeah. I think I’d like that.” You wiggled in your seat, that chaotic mix of old nerves and new excitement making you a fidgety mess of energy. “Right now? Wait, don’t you have work–”

“Eh, they’ll survive,” he said before getting up and scooping you into his arms easily. “Sure they can manage without me for an hour.”

“An hour? What, are we gonna watch a movie after?” Miguel looked at you, eyes so full of embarrassment and betrayal. You tried not to laugh. “I’m just saying. Based on precedent…” 

“I’ll never talk about you crying during sex if you never talk about me cumming too fast that one time.” 

“Pft. One time–” 

“Okay, alright, now you’re really gonna get it, you and that smart mouth of yours.” 

Memories of last night’s heartache and shame crumbled away as he held you, and threw you onto the bed with a smug smirk. Those dark remnants that once encased your heart fluttered away with the exorcism of sharing your aching truth with Miguel, with the sanctity of his unwavering love for you, his family, his partner for life. 

Miguel loved you. You loved him. It really was that simple.