29 y/o nerdy gal || mainly into Miguel OâHara/Marvel/Love and Deepspace with a sprinkle of other fandoms || mostly reblogs || content here may or may not be 18+ or NSFW so likeâŠbe warned.
Requested by: Anon!
Request: That would be so good if there would be kink series(some aren't tho)! Good thing someone asked for it l'm shy I have a list on mind Imao: Roleplay, breeding kink, Exhibitionism, scene play, age play or ddig, praise kink?, cockwarm?, threesome with peter b parker prob, lactation kink, phone sex?, mirror sex?, dacryphilia, oh maybe like an au where the reader is pregnant n Miguel just get turned on by that LMAO
A/N: I completely adore this request, it's literally the inspiration for the kink series so thank you so much anon! I hope you enjoy the first one! â€đ§Ą
đ§Ąstaring: Deity!Miguel OâHara x Fem!Maiden Reader
      đșpreview: Â
âI must keep the balance in Nueva Yorkhaven or chaos would go rampant upon our lands.â He said, keeping his crimson eyes on you. âSo if I take a lifeâŠ
 I must replace itâŠâ
âïžsummary: After being coerced by your mother into a marriage with a man you didn't love, who treated you poorly, you believed your life was over. It wasn't until you remembered one last divine solution that could possibly help alleviate your wretched situation.
đ„tw/cw: Big Dick Miguel, Breeding Kink, Clit Stimulation, Doggystyle, Grinding, Historical Era, Mythology-Based, Orgasms, P in V, Power Difference, Praising, Unprotected Sex, etcâŠ
(I do not own any of the photos used! All credit goes to the original artist!)
(*All rights reserved. DO NOT repost/translate/copy any of my work.*)
(This oneshot contains Breeding do not read, if you are not comfortable)
Breeding kink - The sexual desire to be impregnated or to impregnant another.
**YOU'VE BEEN WARNED**
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the beautiful village of Nueva Yorkhaven and bringing upon the covering of night, you, a fair maiden of the town, traversed during the dark hours down the cobblestone pathways. The gentle glow of lanterns that adorned every trail served as a guide towards your desired destination.
You clenched your black cloak tightly to your body, attempting to hide all traces of your being and the basket that you carried. With frantic, cautious eyes, you swiftly flicked them around, trying to detect any lingering presence in your path; but upon finding none, you quickened your pace.
On your covert journey, you passed cottages with ivy-covered walls and huge trees with dew-kissed leaves that danced in the moonlight, welcoming the night.
Your feet, adorned in black Astrids, carried you through the winding routes of the village, leading out into the quiet meadow that surrounded it. You left behind the dreamscape facade of your village to tread warily into the forest.
Following a dirt path that looked to be used before by countless others, it led you deeper into the meadow. Fireflies wove trails of light along the dark road, while the distant hooting of an owl echoed through the woods, making you jump. Your hand landed on your chest, feeling how harshly your heart was pounding.
You knew the consequences if you were caught, but it didnât matter.
Things had gone too far, and you needed assistance.-
Divine assistance.
The forest was painstakingly quiet. Every rustling of leaves, cracking of wood, along with your timid footsteps, seemed to reverberate through the trees. A gentle breeze brushed past you, filled with the scent of pine and wildflowers, yet a subtle unease clung to the air like sticky sap on tree bark.
With every step, a voice in your mind told you to turn back, to stop.
You soon realized it to be your motherâs.
Her pestering and nagging words clouded your head the deeper you entered the woods.
âYou know traversing the forest in the dead of night isnât fit for a young lady. Turn back now!â
âWhat would Sir Hawthorne think of you?â
âTurn back now or you would be seen as a disgrace to your father!!â
Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, a shaky exhale passing your lips. Even though it was your own head, your motherâs pestering sounded almost too real; it shook you to your very core and even had you contemplating returning back the way you came when the silhouette of an ancient structure emerged in the distance, causing your worried thoughts to halt.
With a soft gasp, the idea of leaving left you as you hurried along, a sense of relief washing over you. You left behind the unsettling forest and looked upon the worn, yet sturdy stones that held up the quiet sanctuary of your townâs guardian. The large entrance was framed by weathered gray columns, adorned with two flickering torches that casted a soft glow of red-orange into the dark space. The air carried a new sense of otherworldly, different from the feeling of unease you felt before.
You gazed up at the olden engraving of letters, etched into the stone above the massive doors, reading under your breath:
Sanctuary Of Miguel OâHara Guardian of Nueva Yorkhaven
Just uttering the deityâs name felt ancient and heavy upon your tongue. A huge grin spread across your lips, reading the name of the divine structure once more.
You did it. You actually did it.
You were hereâŠ
The harsh grip you had on your basket loosened; anxiety and fear that clung to your being like leeches faded away. You felt an overwhelming sensation of safety and security as you approached the ancient doors.
Despite the feeling of disbelief at your success, you set down your basket and placed both hands onto the ringed doorknobs. The doors were heavy, and it took all of your strength to hear the satisfying creak and soon feel the stone doors move out of their rooted place. You were only able to open them a little, but it was big enough for you to slip through, entering into the sanctuary of your village's infamous guardian.
Instantly a rush of cool air brushed along your body, making you hug your black cloak closer to you. The room was dimly lit with torches and candles as your feet walked along cool ancient stone, guiding you to the heart of the shrine. Respectfully, you drew down the hood of your black cloak, your eyes unable to take in the magnificent sights before you due to astonishment.
You had always heard stories and legends about the great Miguel OâHara. How he saved your village from many horrific storms, dreadful winters, and blazing droughts. How, with his divine might, he crumbled armies and men who dared to harm his people.
Miguel protected your town and watched over every villager. He was there to pick you and your people up when you fell, whether that was with love, wealth, or glory.
The villagers of Nueva Yorkhaven looked to Miguel for needed support, and he was known to answer your calls of need every timeâŠ
Standing and gazing upon your protector's sanctuary, it resembled the great deity perfectly.
The room was styled lavishly in warm reds and muted yellows and oranges, granting a sense of protection to those who entered. Tall pillars rose at each corner, stabilizing the grand building, and the walls were decorated with sacred symbolsâimages of laurel leaves and celestial patterns that showed Miguelâs guardianship and lasting connection between the divine and mortal realm.
As you move further into the sanctuary, your eyes instantly are drawn to what lies in the center. On an elevated platform adorned with laurel wreaths and symbols of protection was your Guardianâs majestic stone throne, and in front of the throne was an intricately designed altar. The sacred surface was covered with offerings of fruits, flowers, prepared dishes, and tokens of gratitude that were carefully arranged. Candles flickered softly around the tributes as your feet led you towards it.
Nervously, you bit your lip.
You couldn't remember the last time youâd done this.
Before, your family would visit your great deityâs sanctuary once a month, dress his altar with beautiful gifts, and pray for protection until the next month when youâd return once more.
After your arranged marriage to Alden Hawthorne, a man who traveled to your village in search of a wife to betroth, your family stopped visiting.
Sir Hawthorne lacked all youthfulness in his appearance. His facial features showed his age, and he wasnât a suitor who set hearts aflutter either; instead of his looks doing the speaking for him, his wealth did.
His stature and wealth led many fair maidens of your village to toss themselves at the older male in his late 40s in an attempt to get a grab at his riches.
Of course, without seeking consent, your mother had already given your hand to the salt and pepper-haired male, who, with one glance at you, agreed almost immediately.
You were the most beautiful in your village. A rose that bloomed gloriously amongst ordinary flowers. Due to the poor conditions of your household, your mother sought for more. After your fatherâs death, she became adamant on finding a living, so she used you to do so.
With the betrothal to Sir Hawthorne in place, from then on, only pesters and nags left the lips of your mother, demanding perfection and a great image. âYou will be the wife of Sir Hawthorne, after all. Youâll have to act like it as well, dear," she'll tell you countless times until that dreadful day.
Vows that werenât written by your hand and said by your heart were read aloud, expensive, lavish rings were exchanged, and the most atrocious kiss was shared.
You didnât think your life could get any worse until after your wedding when your mother pulled you to the side. With a huge grin and beaming face, she told you what was to occur during your honeymoon.
Something so very abysmal it almost made you retch.
âDuring that time, the breeding of children will be had. You remember the drawings Iâve done for youâthat is to occur.â She said with a smile. âAll you must worry about is laying back, spreading your legs, and not being a little pest to him. Got it!?â She spat harshly, proceeding to speak of being a grandmother and having grandchildren to take care of and fill her day, not at all concerned for her daughter who was real and right before her.
And as you anticipated, that night was horrific and excruciatingâŠ
It was laden with weeps of sorrow and agony. The booming voice of your mother, that told you repeatedly to not be a pest and to not protest, filled your head while a pain that struck you like a hammer upon a nail hit you over and over againâŠ
Itâs a memory you try to efface from your mind.
After the dreadful honeymoon, you, sadly, had to live with him. Sir Hawthorne had a house built in your village, Nueva Yorkhaven, one so grand and modernized that it contrasted greatly with the usual dreamscape cottages.
You hated your life there as every day in the lavish halls of your new home, you were worried about only one thing.
Did Aldenâs advances work?Â
Would you bear him a child?
You would weep every time the idea crossed your mind. After two months had passed, Sir Hawthorne hired doctors to come to your home. You weren't showing any signs of pregnancy and that worried your âhusbandâ to death.
Finally, after what felt like forever, you breathed a sigh of relief for the first time in your marriage when the doctors told the two of you about the failure of Sir Hawthorne's advances. It appeared to have been a failed impregnation, but one on Sir Hawthorneâs part.
Your âhusband'sâ inability to produce an heir angered him immensely.
After the doctor visit, the facade of your marriage crumbled, and Sir Hawthorne revealed a side of himself that you had fearedâhe turned abusiveâmentally and emotionally.
Every word that left your mouth was seen as an irritation. He demeaned and belittled you and constantly criticized your appearance.
Sir Hawthorne isolated you from villagers, housekeepers, your mother, and forbade you from having friends. He even halted your use and access to his richesâalthough it wasn't like you used it anyway.
As a sign of punishment, he forced you to assist in keeping up the house. He had housekeepers that worked alongside you, but he purposely gave you higher expectations than the normal help.
Despite the stress of your new job, you found solace in it.
It reminded you of the peaceful times back in your home cottage when things were right.
A time when your father and mother were together, your mother wasn't so cruel, and where you were loved.
It was a memory that always came when hanging clothes to dry or harvesting produce.
It wasn't until Sir Hawthorne discovered your contentment with your punishment that he made things even worse for you. He gave you harsher tasks, such as washing every window of his grand house to sparkle in the sun, redecorating rooms over and over again to his liking, and being made to work even in the dead of night.
The physical labor had become too much as he even denied you access to necessities like food and proper clothing.
You felt trapped.
Stuck in this cycle of degrading and forced labor that felt endless.
Many times you thought of running away, but to where? You didnât have anywhere to go.
You didnât have friends; he forbade it.
Your neighbors in Nueva Yorkhaven adored Alden. Theyâll think you were the crazy one if you came to them with your troubles.
And you definitely couldn't go back to your mother; sheâll send you back.
It felt hopelessâŠ
Like a blossomed well-kept garden, suddenly, an idea came to mind. One that after all these years, you've completely forgotten was the solution to any villager of Nueva Yorkhaven's debacles.
Miguel OâHara.
The protector of your village, the guardian of every mortal being born and raised in Nueva Yorkhaven.
He was your refuge, your solution to this mess.
But standing before his altar, inside of his sanctuary, youâve never felt so disconnected from him.
With shaky hands, you set your basket down upon the stone tiles and untied the black cloak from around your body, laying it down gently onto the stone floor to create a small cushion. You descended upon your knees, a neutral-colored bodice with short sleeves adorning your figure. Aimlessly, your eyes wandered the altar, trying to remember how your family did it before.
When you were all togetherâŠÂ
Father, Mother, and youâŠ
It felt so long ago.
You pushed back the urge to cry as your gaze landed on the throne, a feeling of strength overwhelming you. You lowered your head, closed your eyes, and began to speak and recollect the words your father uttered all those years ago.
ââOâ Mighty deity of protector and strength. IâŠI call upon you on this night to ask for your presence.â
You declared with a shaky voice. After a moment, only silence followed and filled the quiet sanctuary.
Fear and worry filled your being. After your father said those words, you remembered feeling a warmth, a rush, a feeling, something!
The only thing you felt was the heat from the candles and the excruciating silence that seemed to span on forever. Your lips trembled, tears beginning to slide down your cheeks.
Did your deity turn his back on you?
Was that why he wasnât listening?
The thought only made you sob even harder. You lowered your head to the ground, placing your forehead against your cloak.
P-PleaseâŠMiguel. I-I need you.â
You cried, the sound of your weeping being the only thing heard after your desperate words.
It felt hopelessâŠÂ
It felt like you could feel his presence, but he just wasnât answering.
Like he was justâŠ
ThereâŠ
WatchingâŠ
In the midst of your sobs, a strong hand cupped your chin, lifting it up.
In alarm, your eyes snapped open coming face-to-face with what you deemed utterly impossible.
âLift your head mortal. You have shed enough tears.â
The booming voice of your deity said, his crimson eyes holding its divine blend of stoicness and softness as he gazed down at you.
You were unable to speak, only capable of staring back in shock.
Your mighty protector smirked, stroking your tear-stained cheek with his thumb before pulling away. The mere action sent a wave of heat throughout your body, the urge to cry and the sensation of sadness melted from your being.
Unable to keep your eyes off his mighty figure, you watched him walk away from you, his majestic scarlet robe trailing behind him whilst he walked up the steps of the stone platform to take a seat in his throne.
You still couldnât believe he was here, blinking once, twice, thrice to make sure you weren't mistaking the sight.
Miguel OâHara, your townâs powerful and divine guardian was, indeed, before you. Your eyes traveled to his seated being, taking in every part of him.
In the dimly lit sanctuary, the great deity sat on his throne. His tanned muscular frame exuded strength, a declaration of his divine might. His dark hair cascaded in waves, framed a chiseled face of stoicness. Crimson eyes stared down at you, the dancing fire of candles and torches reflecting off his red orbs.
Draped in celestial attire, Miguel wore a flowing robe of deep scarlet, adorned with intricate golden patterns. Atop his head, a circlet of gold laurel leaves styled his thick brow and around his neck hung a pendant, both signifying guardianship. To complete the divine being's attire, golden sandals that were crafted with celestial elegance dressed his feet.
Despite the times you came here with your family, Miguelâs appearance was a first.
There were legends and rumors that drifted through the village of his presence gracing the eyes of mortals, but many believed it untrueâbut here he was, before you, sitting in his throne with a posture so perfectly regal and straight it was astonishing.
You didnât know what to do or what to say; his previous touch seemed to be burned into your cheek. With a stunned expression, you stared up at the mighty deity who returned your shocked look with a stern gaze that shook you to your very core.
He then raised a thick eyebrow, his eyes still locked on you. âYou appear surprised, yet you summoned me, mortal.â His deep voice seemed to echo inside the small space. You exhaled, breathing out the breath you didnât know you were holding.
âY-Yes, mighty deity. I-I did call upon you.â You stammered, not knowing what to do and hastily lowering your head in a bow while remaining in your kneeled position.
You thought you were dreaming. That this was all just a moment occurring in your time of slumber, but the thunderous voice heard before you said otherwise.
âLift your head and state your reasoning for summoning me, mortal.â He said in a gravelly tone, one that contrasted greatly with his previous touch and soft gaze.
Like the mighty being ordered, you lifted your head, meeting eyes with the deity once more, and instantly you lost the ability to speak. All thoughts escaped your mind as you gazed up at him.
He was majestic just like he was described, painted, and sculpted by mortals; yet, standing before him in the flesh surpassed every interpretation drawn by man.
His tanned skin seemed so radiant and flawless, and his body looked taut and perfect. It didnât help your stunned state that he was very attractive, despite his face being completely hardened and cold.
âHuman. State your reason.â
He repeated, knocking you from your trance. Your lips quivered, trying to find the words, and when you did, you held onto them tightly, not letting them go.
âM-My name is Y/N. Iâve resided in Nueva Yorkhaven since my birth and I-I need your divine assistance, great deity.â You muttered with a voice of little confidence. Deep down, you were still shaken up at the fact that he was here before you, in all of his greatness.
Although the belief of him making an appearance to villagers was thought to be untrue in Nueva Yorkhaven, it was said if he did appear, you were special.
So were youâŠ
Special?
You didnât feel like it.
The celestial being grunted in disapproval at your words. âY/NâŠitâs been ages since Iâve seen you here at my sanctuary, yet you ask for my assistance.â He stated in a rumbling voice that unsettled you like an earthquake.
Your lips trembled, shame visible upon your facial features. âY-Yes. I-Itâs, indeed, been a while since Iâve come to g-glorify you, mighty protector.â You said, tears beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes due to worry about how this interaction would go.
âI seeâŠâ He uttered, his piercing crimson eyes still trained on your small being before his altar and throne. âI hope you have brought a tribute along with your presence, Pequeñita.â
Hastily you nodded, opening the case of your basket and taking out the many offerings you had brought for your divine protectorâ apples picked from Sir Hawthorneâs garden, a woven beaded necklace made by your mother from your youth, cooked empanadas that you knew were the deityâs favorite, and something that you cherished deeplyâ the last letter written by your deceased father.
You placed each item in a neat arrangement upon the surface of the altar. âI hope you accept my offerings, âOâ great one.â You whispered, your voice carrying a blend of hope and reverence.
Miguelâs eyes lingered upon the sacred surface, taking in your tributes from his throne to settle his gaze upon the cooked meal. âHmm, empanadas.â He uttered, his voice holding satisfaction at the sight of the delicacies. âYou know your deity.â He chuckled, giving you a brief glimpse of his sharp fangs that gave a formidable aura before he turned his gaze back onto you.
âWonderful choice of offerings, Cariño. I'm deeply pleased.â The great being said, filling you with relief. âAs well, I am happy that you have come back to me after all this time.â He said, a comforting smile spreading across his tanned lips that brought a sense of warmth inside.
You placed a hand on your heart, giving your deity a deep bow once more. âI am grateful for your comforting words, mighty deity.â You said, a satisfied grunt leaving your protectorâs lips at your appreciation.
âNow, tell me, mortal. How can I assist you?â He asked, his crimson eyes seeming to draw you in as well as his fanged smirk. You gulped, apprehension filling your being at his anticipated question.
You were aware of the reason you sought the great deity, but you didnât know what other way for your life to be fixed if not for the dreadful request you were about to utter.
âGreat deity, IâŠI need you toâŠ
Get rid of my husband.â
You said in a trembling voice. A deafening silence filled the sanctuary after your shocking request, one that even seemed to surprise the great being.
His thick eyebrows rose on his face, his regal posture faltering upon his seat. âYou want me toâŠget rid of your husband?â He inquired, his powerful voice demanding clarification and certainty, bringing you to nod.
Youâve heard of the great being ridding your village of bad people, of individuals like murderers, thieves, and outlawed criminals who came to seek refuge, but heâd done it of his own free will.
There wasnât a story where a villager asked for the assistance of the protector to eradicate anyone, so it felt odd and a little scary to be the first.
Miguel hummed, his crimson eyes roaming over your being before returning to your face. âPequeñita, I cannot lie - your request surprises me.â He said, studying you as he spoke. âYour husband is Alden Hawthorne, is that correct?â
Your eyes widened at your mighty protectorâs knowledge of your husband, but you should have known - he watched over the villagers of Nueva Yorkhaven, after all.
âY-Yes, protector. Alden Hawthorne is myâŠhusband.â You replied, finding it hard to prevent yourself from speaking in disdain at the role the horrible male had in your life. While you spoke you kept your head lowered in a way that still showed respect but attentiveness to your great deity.
Miguel hummed at your agreement, shifting to rest his elbow on the armrest of his stone throne and placing his chin onto the knuckles of his divine hand that was covered with golden bands. The change caused his scarlet robe to ripple with his movement and the light to bounce off his circlet golden laurel leaves that sat upon his head.
âAlden Hawthorne.â He scoffed. âThe foreigner who has entered my lands and who hasnât even come to meet me?â He asked in disdainâit seemed Sir Hawthorne hasnât made a good impression with your villagerâs mighty guardian.
âGreat deity, y-you are correct. Sir Hawthorne, i-isnât from Nueva Yorkhaven. He comes from New England.â You said. âSir Hawthorne also doesn't know of your divine presence upon our lands.â You explained to him in a shaky voice. A surprising fanged smirk spread across his tanned lips at your explanation. âYou do not have to be formal when it comes to him, Pequeñita.
Itâs just you and me.â
His words made your heart flutter. At your guardianâs request, you realized what youâve been saying. Alden and your mother had taught you to always speak of your âhusbandâ in such a wayâto always address him formally. It had become such a normal thing for you that despite despising your husband, you still did it.
Even now before your great deity, you were speaking such a foul name.
You bowed your head once more in appreciation. âO-Of course. I-I will not be formal when addressing him, âOâ great one.â You said, a little too delighted at the thought of deserting such a name that gave you a sense of freedom from your dreadful husband.
âAs well as me.â
The divine being added with a small smile. Your eyebrows furrowed, not believing what your great deity just said. You looked up at him to see his crimson eyes gazing back at you, still holding their sternness but now a hint of tenderness was found.
It felt odd for him to ask you, a mere mortal, to abandon the formal names that were meant to be used to glorify and show his divinity. It was hard to abide by such a surprising request, but for your great protector, you would attempt to.
âI-I will try my best, M-Miguel.â You whispered, his name still holding the same weight when you read it upon the sanctuary entrance.
Miguel smirked proudly, leaning back in his seat and resting both of his hands on the armrests, using his thick finger to trace patterns into the stone of his throne as his scarlet eyes never left you. âGood mortal. Now, thisâŠAlden.â The divine being said, returning back to your request at hand.
âI knew of him to be a problem when he first stepped into the village of Nueva Yorkhaven.â He said with a disapproving head shake. âNo good comes from mortals who think of themselves as gods.â He growled, his lips turning up into a scowl. He looked at you once more, his crimson eyes settling on your kneeled being before him. âTell me, what problems has this mortal caused in my lands?â Miguel inquired, his face hardening.
You wetted your lips, preparing the words that you were to tell to your mighty guardian. âAlden Hawthorne shows little interest in knowing your divine greatness upon our lands.â You began. âHeâŠbuilt a home by taking down the sacred trees of the village, and he uses others to serve him⊠l-like a deity.â At your words, Miguelâs thick eyebrows narrowed, his crimson eyes seeming to darken. âThis mortal is living off the backs of people - My people?â
âY-Yes, Miguel.â You confirmed causing him to snarl, his eyes wandering the room in rage before settling on you.
He looked to be sensing something, his crimson orbs glowing for a second, while his finger tapped the armrest of his throne in steady, thunderous beats, all the while keeping his intense gaze on you.
It was rather unnervingâŠ
âBut that isnât why you want him goneâŠIs that right, Y/N?â
His surprising question struck you right in the heart. Every cutthroat word, demand, and task that Alden had given to you came rushing back in an instant.
âY-You are right. T-The words I previously spoke i-isnât the reason I want Alden gone.â You sniffled, trying to hold back tears that threatened to fall down your cheeks. Miguelâs eyes softened, his attention drawn to your trembling being. âSpeak to me, pequeñita. What has thisâŠforeigner done to you?â
His question only made the harsh memories flood back to you like a tidal wave. You shakingly exhaled, blinking back tears. âFrankly, if I were to recollect every wrongdoing that Alden has ever done to me, Iâm afraid, youâll be here forever, Miguel.â You confessed sadly, just remembering everything Alden had done to you was like an endless web of thorns, each holding a prickling reminder of the pain he has caused; some greater than others.
âThen forever, I shall be.â
Miguelâs deep voice filled your ears, brimming with comfort and warmth that instantly soothed your broken heart. Meeting his eyes, you found his enchanting red orbs holding love. âTell me, Cariño,â he urged. âI might already know what you will say, but I want to hear it from your beautiful lipsâif you may, my dear.â Your heart fluttered at your deityâs compliments and endearing names.
You knew speaking of this would only make you more emotional, but you knew you must.
For your deity youâll do anythingâŠ
Before you spoke, Miguel gave you a small smile. âAnd if you may, will you come closer? I want to see you before me.â He asked, his request leaving you stunned once again. No one was ever to transverse further than the altar, but at your divine protectorâs wishes, you rose to your feet.
Your bodice trailed behind you as you walked up the stone steps of his platform to step directly in front of him. His divinity seemed to radiate from him. One could instantly feel Miguelâs superiority and it made you want to kneel and glorify him.
You kept your eyes on your feet as even when he was sitting, Miguel still towered over you. A small chuckle passed his lips when you felt his divine fingers take hold of your chin, lifting it up to meet his gaze.
âAre you ready to begin, pequeñita?â He inquired, his intense gaze causing your legs to tremble slightly. You wet your lips, nodding slowly. âY-Yes, Miguel.â You whispered. He gave you a fanged smile and released you to settle his hands on his armrest, giving you a nod to begin. You took a deep breath before starting from the beginning.
âM-My mother married me off t-to Alden two years ago.â You said, trying to hold back the agonizing desire to burst into tears. âI never liked Alden, ever since I casted my eyes upon him for the first time - he was prideful, egotistical, and a womanizer.â You explained.
âO-Our marriage wasnât consensual from the start and as time passed I felt like I was losing control of everything. M-My mother led my life like it was her own, driving me to seal my dreadful fate with Alden in the spring.â You said in a trembling voice, a tear beginning to stream down your cheek at the recollection.
You couldnât meet your great deityâs eyes, certain youâll break down into a fit of tears; so you pressed on without casting him a glance. âA-After the wedding, t-the honeymoon occurredâŠâ You trailed off, that horrific night coming back to you. A shaky exhale passed your lips, the trembling of your body only intensifying.
A large, rough hand was placed on your waist, the tremors instantly coming to a halt. âYou do not have to dwell on details if it pains you so.â Miguel voiced calmly, stroking your waist with his mighty thumb.
With a small sniffle, you nodded slowly, deciding to continue, bypassing that painful night. âI-I was forced to live with him afterward, a-and he was hoping that I would bear a child for him.â Your voice quivering as you spoke. Miguelâs face remained unshaken, but the subtle tightening of his fingers against your waist revealed his inner turmoil.
Once you caught your bearings you continued. âI-I couldnât help but be a little relieved when I discovered that I-I wouldnât. T-The doctors were trying to be modest when they spoke to us, but we discovered that Alden couldnât bear himself a child even if tried.â You said.
âH-His body couldnât will it.â
To your surprise, a small smirk spread across Miguelâs lips at your words. âAh, you see everything must be balanced, Cariño.â Miguel uttered. âAlden constantly took from the world, in turn, his ability to reproduce was taken from him.â He said so wisely with a voice of might. A greater burst of relief and satisfaction filled your being at your deityâs words.
âI-Iâm grateful for that occurrence, Miguel. Very much.â You said very appreciative, recalling the many days and nights you spent stressing and worrying. Miguel caressed your skin through your beige and black bodice, the mere touch making your body burn up. âYou are welcome, pequeñita, and you may continue.â
With a nod, you proceeded. âBecause of his inability to create, Alden became angry at everyone and everything, but especially me.â You sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. âHe began to treat me unwell, such as demeaning and speaking vulgarly to me in such a ridiculing manner.â You tried to explain in a stable voice, but failed miserably. Miguel listened intently, his mythical eyes never leaving your being as you spoke.
âAlden Hawthorne made me into his personal servant, and when he saw that wasnât a harsh enough punishment; h-he made things worse by giving me impossible tasks to complete and dehumanizing me.â Your lips trembling horribly as you recalled the terrible memories. âA-And for two years, I've lived this horrific cycle of degradation a-and harsh labor andâŠ
 I just wish to be freeâŠâÂ
You said sadly, allowing your final words to fill the air. When you looked up at your great protector, he was fuming. Miguelâs eyes were darkened and anger could clearly be seen in his facial features despite his attempt to keep a hardened face.Â
Youâve never seen your deity so furious, even the flames upon the candles and torches inside of the sanctuary seemed to intensify with his growing rage. âHeâs really done these things to you, pequeñita?â He inquired through gritted teeth and sadly, you nodded.Â
He growled, baring his fangs in fury. âSo this useless leech believes he can come to my lands, live upon it and use and hurt my people?â Miguel hissed, his hand continuing to caress your waist in a soothing manner despite his palpable rage.Â
You didnât know if to be scared or appreciative of his shared disdain for Alden. Your divine protectorâs anger was causing the entire room to heat up, the flames of the lights to burn larger with his rising fury. His narrowed crimson eyes moved in thought, his large hand lifting from your waist to settle on the armrest of his stone chair.Â
Miguel's stern gaze landed on you, a deep exhale passing his tanned lips, causing the raging fire of the torches to settle.
âAllow me to consider your requestâŠâÂ
He said as you hastily lowered to your knees before him, casting your eyes to the ground.Â
During judgment, the great being would go into a state of complete thought. Like you've read in your youth, during this time, he'll become knowledgeable of the outcomes of his choices and if the human before him is worthy to be graced with their requestâŠ
And depending on their request, they could be struck down by Miguel himself in the place they standâŠ
You chewed your shaky lip, anxiety overwhelming you like an overflowing well. Being the first villager with the request of eradicating a human, it could be seen as murder, a disruption in the land of Nueva Yorkhaven.Â
Your mind raced of what would occur.Â
Would Miguel deny you your request, send you back to your life of torment and anguish by Alden, or strike you dead where you stand?
But there could be a possibility he does neitherâŠ
That he'll grant your request and you could finally be graced with the peace and freedom that you've yearned forâŠ
However, you didn't want to get your hopes upâŠ
If living by your mother's cruel words and residing with Alden Hawthrone has taught you anything is that hope strikes the heart deeper than any weapon when used carelessly.
And right now, you couldn't be careless to believe you'll reach the light at the end of the dark path.Â
It'll only wound you even more if you doâŠ
So, with a pounding heart, you awaited your great deity's next words, chewing your bottom lip raw and clenching your bodice so tightly that your knuckles turned white as you waitedâŠ
âŠ
..
.
âI've come to a decision, mortal.â Â
Your heart dropped, harshly gulping. Shakingly, you looked up to meet your deity's piercing crimson eyes, his face completely devoid of emotion. Giving him a curt nod to show your attentiveness, you prepared yourself for the worseâthat he would reject your request and even worse, punish you for asking him such a thing.Â
You were shaking in fear, full of anxiousness of what he decided that your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
âWith the request that you've traveled to ask me Y/N, I've come to the decision toâŠ
Complete itâŠâÂ
Your eyes widened, everything seeming to have come to a stop. You were certain you had stopped breathing. âW-what?â You stammered breathlessly, looking up at Miguelâs stoic face in surprise. âIâll rid the world of your husband, like you asked.â He said, your heart skipping a beat at his clarification.Â
But before you can utter your astonished appreciation, his next words made you freeze.
âBut, you must do something for me in return.âÂ
With furrowed eyebrows, your shock face turned into full of worry as you gazed up at your deity. You wanted Alden gone, but you were a little concerned at what the price youâll have to pay to do so;Â
However, your desire outweighed your fear.Â
Hastily, you bowed your head once more, pressing your forehead onto the stone tile before his mighty feet. âW-whatever you need, Miguel. I-Iâll satisfy it.â You declared in a voice full of desperation.Â
A hum left Miguelâs lips, before he ran his fingers through your hair, the action causing you to look at him. His piercing crimson eyes instantly meeting your poignant ones.Â
âDonât agree until you know my terms, Cariño.âÂ
He uttered mysteriously causing a knot of anxiety to build inside of your belly. You nodded slowly, chewing your bottom lip. Miguel leaned back in his seat, his eyes still on your kneeled being before him. âI spoke previously about a balance. You do remember that, right pequeñita?â He inquired, causing you to nod. âY-Yes, I remember.â You told him, a little worried about how the balance of life was important when it came to your request; it didnât help that Miguelâs face gave no hints on what he could possibly mean, making you even more nervous.
âIâve never had one of my people request to take the life of the living. Due to this wish being from a mortal, I must demand something in return.â He explained, tapping his finger against his stone armrest. You wet your lips, looking from his large hands that were decorated with gold rings to up at his mighty tanned face. âAndâŠw-what do you require, Miguel?â You asked, feeling your heart quicken. Your great deityâs eyes narrowed, his face turning completely stern.Â
âI must keep the balance in Nueva Yorkhaven or chaos would go rampant upon our lands.â He said, keeping his crimson eyes on you. âSo if I take a lifeâŠ
 I must replace itâŠâ
Miguel trailed off, his words repeating themselves over and over in your mind, yet you were still puzzled about what he needed in return. âMiguelâŠI-I do not understand.â You honestly said to your great deity, and Miguel didnât hesitate to tell you.Â
âIf I am to kill Alden Hawthorne, you must bear me a child to replace the life taken, Y/N.âÂ
His voice seemed to echo and bounce off the walls of your mind, repeating itself for eternity, but you still couldn't believe what your great deity needed from you.
âY-you want me to bear a child for you? In return for Alden beingâŠgone?â You asked in astonishment. Miguel grunted in agreement, only making you even more baffled.
âButâŠa-a deity mating with a human is forbidden.â You reminded the great being even though you already knew his knowledge of the ancient laws. Miguel nodded at your words. âIndeed, but when it comes toâŠcircumstances such as this, the laws are allowed to be bent.â He stated, his words causing a wave of heat to fill your being.
âSo, Y/NâŠwill you accept my terms in exchange for Alden Hawthorne to be eradicated or leave my sanctuary without my divine assistance?â The great deity inquired, his crimson eyes trained on your kneeled being before him. You could feel his gaze traveling along your body as you pondered your decision.
âIf I agree, Alden will be gone, things can go back to the way they were before his appearance into my lifeâŠbut I'll have to bear the child of my great protector â and not just any child, a demigod!â You thought in disbelief, chewing your bottom lip.
âBut if I do not, I'll return back to my dreadful life of sorrow being a mere servant to a man who I'm to call my âhusband.ââ You pondered, trying to discover which choice would be better.
The thought of returning back to Alden was a nightmare, but you couldn't help the uncertainty that was bubbling inside your stomach like a potion being brewed by the village doctor at the thought of bearing such a mighty being. It felt like a huge responsibility, one that you weren't confident you would be able to handle.
You lowered your head in respect, gripping the fabric of your neutral-colored bodice in your fists. âM-Miguel, IâŠdo not believe I-Iâm the right person for this task.â Sincerely you told him in a trembling voice. âI-I want A-Alden gone, but Iâm afraid of disappointing you.â Your words of ambiguity reverberating off the walls of the ancient sanctuary before fading into silence.
The feeling of Miguelâs piercing gaze upon you was intense as he grunted in understanding. âI comprehend your reluctance to agree to my terms, but without me, your fate will be jeopardized, my dear.â The divine being said, his deep voice causing you to lift your head and meet his perfectly chiseled facial features once more. His face still held its stoicness, but his eyes, like before, held a look of tenderness that made you warm inside.
Miguel leaned towards you, the scarlet robe shifting slightly to give you a glimpse of his toned pec underneath as he cupped your face in his mighty hand. âWith my child, you would grow stronger.â He said, his eyes wandering your face whilst his fingers held your cheek with such gentleness. âThis child shall heal all the wounds of your heart and return the joy youâve lost back into your life, Cariño.â He explained, his expressions full of love and compassion, the most emotion youâve seen since his appearance.
âThis baby is your refugeâ your solution if you wish to live in peace and happiness once more, Y/N.â He cajoled, the more he spoke, the more enticing his deal wasâŠ
Miguel, of course, was rightâŠ
The thought of having a demigod, a mighty being, a child would, indeed, help everythingâŠ
Before departing from your dreadful mother, she spoke heavily about you bearing a childâone that she could care for and love.
During that time, you didnât understand her reasoning, only seeing it as her not loving you anymore and wishing to replace you, but it wasnât that at all.Â
Your mother was wishing for something to fill the hole in her heart that was created when her husband, your father, passed away. She yearned for a grandchild that could help her mend her sadness and grief, which her desires blinded her from the pain she was causing you. This revelation changed your view of your mother. Over the years, youâve grown to despise her when really, she was broken just like you.
Perhaps, like your great protector has said, this child could fix everything. With their mere divine presence, they can restore the good in your life and return it to how it was beforeâŠ
Your mother, back to her happy and loving self.
Alden Hawthorne gone.
And lastly, peace and joy being restored to your life.
If this child was to impact your life this greatly, you couldnât help but want to agree to these terms.
It seemed as if it was your last hope.
Your last chance to make things rightâŠ
Miguel stroked your cheek with his thumb, drawing you from your thoughts and back to the grand decision beforehand. âSo what will it be, Cariño?â The divine being asked, his eyes seemed to glow with hope and reverence, the look rather foreign on the great protector. After thinking it over, you knew your answer, causing you to give him a hesitant nod.
âI-I agreeâŠâ You uttered sincerely. âIâll bear your child and bestow upon it the love that I could only have wished for in my years of being with Alden.â You affirmed, keeping your eyes on the deity and holding the confidence in your voice.
At your declaration, Miguel gave you a warm, fanged smile. âIâm delighted to hear your acceptance of my terms, querida.â He said, caressing your cheek with his mighty fingers before pulling away.
"But may I confess something in return?"Â
He inquired, returning to his regal posture with his arms positioning themselves upon the stoned rests of his throne. You were intrigued, yet worried about what his confession could be.
Was it about the child?Â
Your fate?Â
What secrets could possibly be shared from a divine being to a mere mortal?Â
It was a troubling thought...
Giving him your approval with a nod, you shifted on your knees into a comfortable position, awaiting the deityâs confession.
Miguel smiled, keeping his crimson eyes on you. "Iâm known as a being of protection, a divinity that is to guard the people of Nueva Yorkhaven, but that is my only roleâ itâs what I was created to do." His deep voice echoed off the walls of the sanctuary and blended well with the flickering of candles and torches inside; but to your surprise, the deityâs usual stern expression suddenly saddened.
"But recently Iâve grown to want moreâŠ"
He uttered, silence following his words. You were stunned at his confession, never wondering from the great protectorâs perspective that possibly he could desire something other than being a guardian.
You felt sympathy for himâŠ
"What is it that you want?" You asked with a compassionate voice, one that seemed to be new to the great being. His thick eyebrows furrowed and his posture faltered. Miguel tilted his head at you, confusion found in his usually stoic facial features. "IâveâŠnever had someone ask me such a thing." Miguel admitted, a soft and uncertain chuckle passing his lips. The mere question of his desires seemed to cause him to be unsettled.
"M-My apologies." You began. "Itâs justâŠhumans always come to you with requests and desires, and you consult them each and every time." The words being pulled from your being as your mouth continued to move. "Yes, we bring you offerings and tributes to thank you, but what is it that you truly want, Miguel? What is it that you seek but believe itâs too far away that even you cannot seem to grasp?" You sincerely asked.Â
Miguelâs crimson eyes widened, his defined Adam's apple moving with a hesitant gulp "What I desire sounds rather silly, but itâs a mortal want, something as a deity I find to be impossible to obtain." He said with a small laugh, the riddle troubling you. Miguel smirked, taking in your confused expression.
"I desire love, little one."
Your heart skipped a beat at his confession. You werenât expecting that to be what he wanted from the world. Like he had stated, it sounded like a human desire rather than from a great being that has lived upon the world for many, many years.
Miguel took in your face as he shook his head, a snicker passing his tanned lips. "I know, a silly desire from a great being as myself, but I want to love like you, humans." He said once more, his expression turning into one of deep thought.
"I do not mean love as in worship, but intimacy and connectionâŠI want to experience what it is that causes mortals, such as your mother, to not be able to live on without the presence of their loved one." Miguel said, looking off whilst he spoke.
"I want to feel the beating of the heart and the flutter of the stomach that you humans write of in stories and tales. I desire a love that drives and strengthens me; one that courses through my being and is the reason I breathe." He admitted so vividly that it could be seen as he turned his red orbs back to you. His eyes seemed to slightly glow a bright red hue.
"But that isnât what I wish to confess to you, Cariño."
You were even more surprised than you were before at his words. "W-What is it that you'll l-like to share, Miguel?" You muttered with a voice stained with anxiousness. You were nervous to ask what he really wished to reveal that was even more shocking than what he stated before.
Miguelâs entire face hardened, his stern eyes trailing along your being, taking in every part of youâthe aged bodice that framed your figure perfectly, the dark circles under your beautiful eyes, and the failed effort of taming the unkempt hair upon your head.
Even in this state, something was happening and it troubled the great being immensely.
"YouâveâŠdone something to me."
He simply stated, causing your breath to become stuck in your throat. "W-what?" You asked in confusion and fear, not understanding what he could mean. "Youâve done something to me, human." He repeated, his piercing gaze never faltering from your kneeled being.
Your eyebrows furrowed in perplexity, his statement leaving you completely bewildered. Despite how troubled you were by his words, you kept silent, looking down at your lap as Miguel's thunderous voice filled the sanctuary once more.
"When you arrived and called out to me in tears, I couldnât stop myself from appearing before you," he stated. "When you told me your request of wanting your husband gone and your reasoning, it made my heart behaveâŠoddly, especially when you did what no human has ever done and asked me what I desired." He tried to explain; however, his gravelly voice was laced with rigor and disarray.
Your heart dropped at his explanation of these "odd" feelings he was experiencing.
âHeâs not feeling what I think heâs feeling, is he?â
You pondered, biting your lip and rising slowly to your feet. âM-Miguel, I do not wish to speak out of turn or assume incorrectly, but is it perhaps that you are experiencing what you desireâŠ?Â
Love?â
As if a lantern was sparked inside of a dark forest, Miguelâs eyes widened. âItâŠItâs possible.â He replied in a suspicious voice while his gaze roamed along your figure once more before settling on your face. âTo be honest, Iâve found you captivating since I first saw you in my sanctuary, Y/N.â He confessed with a small smile. âBut it did sadden me to hear the debacles in your life.Â
I wouldâve eradicated Alden sooner to prevent them.â
His tone was completely cold and serious as he looked at you, but your heart fluttered at his natural protectiveness, something you wished you had alongside you in the years of being Aldenâs wife-servant. âButâŠwith your help, we can fix them now.â You whispered, remembering the terms of your agreement with the great being that brought a smile to his lips.
âIndeedâŠâ He replied in a tone that he, perhaps, didnât mean to sound erotic but made your cheeks burn nonetheless. You gulped, trying to regain your composure. âAndâŠhow would this be done?â You inquired, believing it to be a divine touch of his hands upon your belly would magically create a baby into your womb.
But this was far from a fairy taleâŠ
âTo seal our terms, we must perform it in connection to one another.â He explained.
âAs one.â
You suddenly felt like fainting. The thought of experiencing that, with the great protector, shocked you more than anything youâve heard in your time in the sanctuary.
Completely stunned, you could only look at him with an agape mouth and widened eyes. Miguel laughed. âDonât be so surprised, human.â He chuckled, suddenly taking your hand and pulling you onto his lap.
With a gasp, you found yourself upon his thick thighs, your legs resting upon the taut muscles. Your cheeks reddened as instantly you were aware of how close the two of you wereâthe divine silk of his scarlet robe and your bodice being the only obstacles between the two of you.
You gulped, the action not helping your rapidly beating heart like you hoped. Snapping you out of your thoughts, Miguel cupped your cheek in his large hand, caressing your skin with his thumb as his crimson eyes roamed along your face.
âI know your first time wasâŠpainful,â He said sympathetically, continuing to stroke your cheek soothingly.
âBut Iâll be sure to replace that memory to be something truly wonderful.â
He promised, his other hand moving along your side, feeling your body through your bodice. A shaky exhale passed your lips, eyes fluttering at the sudden intensity of sensations that were coursing through your being. You believed that due to his divinity, it was causing everything to be more heightened, every touch seeming to linger and burn into the surface of your skin despite fabric blocking his bare touch.
You couldnât help but nod in approval, craving his divine touch. Miguel smiled, drifting his hands down to run along your legs, disappearing under your bodice to bring your housekeeper dress up and over your head. He dropped the neutral colored bodice on the ground beside his throne, revealing the white chemise that covered your bare body underneath.
He sucked in a breath at the sight, caressing your thighs and rear. âSo beautiful, little one.â He purred, placing a hand to the back of your head and pulling you in for a kiss. You instantly gasped as he kissed you passionately, massaging your chewed lips with his tongue before entering your mouth to taste you.
Youâve never experienced intimacy in this manner, allowing him to take the lead and bashfully returning the kiss. Miguelâs arms wrapped around your body, pulling you flush against him whilst he continued to kiss you. Every part of his being wasn't left unnoticed.Â
It was impossible.
It was hard to ignore how his pecs pressed into your peaked chest through both of your clothing, his burly arms and muscles that held you snug against him, and his thick thighs that flexed underneath your legs; even the intensity of his body heat was causing your core to throb in desire, a feeling youâve never felt before. Everything about your deity was slowly blinding you, like a heavy fog was briskly clouding your mind with the only light source being him.
You wanted him, needed him to be able to see clearly again, and Miguel, like always, was there to cure your debacle.
He pulled away from your lips, the lingering buzz and taste of him still on your tongue and mouth. âAre you ready?â He asked, caressing your bare thighs soothingly, his suggestive question causing a pit of uncertainty and fear to fill your being. The memory of your dreadful honeymoon with Alden rushed to the surface along with the excruciating pain, sorrow, and the suffocating feeling of helplessness that followed.
Miguel instantly saw the fear that grew upon your face, bringing him to take your chin in his powerful fingers, his eye contact with you, unshakeable. âWhat occurred with Alden will never happen again,â he sternly said, his crimson eyes roaming your face, taking in every expression.
âIf you are worried, the pain will not exist with me; your body will be too consumed withâŠother feelings that it will not allow it.â Miguel reassured, stroking your cheek. âAnd if, by chance, the pain does occur, donât hesitate to speakâto tell me to cease, and I will. Do you understand me, querida?â The great protector inquired.
With trembling lips, you couldnât help but nod, wholeheartedly believing his words of assurance. In Miguelâs arms, youâve never felt safer, and you trusted that he would make this intimate experience with you enjoyable.
The deity gave you a smile, reaching down to undo his robe and drawing back the scarlet fabric to reveal his perfectly defined olive pecs, abs, stomach, and thighs; but what instantly got your attention was the enormity that sprung up from the red fabric to rest against your belly.
In all of your life, youâve only seen the maleâs intimate part once, and it was with Alden; but his was nothing compared to the great beingâs.
Miguelâs tanned member was large and thick with a bulging vein and an angry mahogany tip. It pointed up to the ceiling, perfectly erect and hard. The sight intimidated and aroused you as you looked up at Miguel with stunned eyes. Miguel chuckled at your astonished expression, running his fingers through your hair. âWe will take it slow,â he said, consoling you once more.
You bit your lip, looking back down at the size of his length, trying to imagine how itâll possibly fit.
It seemed incredulous.
Your eyes snapped up at Miguel at the feeling of his hand beginning to draw your white chemise up, revealing your bare rear underneath. A heavy blush spread across your cheeks at being exposed in front of your mighty protector, drawing a laugh to rumble from his chest at your flustered state.
His crimson eyes looked down at your exposed crotch and up at you. âDo you mind if I touch it?â He asked, his tone sweet and not wanting to overstep. âI just need to see if you areâŠ
Ready.â
Miguel explained, but you didnât understand what he meant. Your mother had never gone into thorough detail when it came to intimacy, only stating this was how babies were born and what occurred, other than that, you were lost.
Nevertheless, you placed your trust into your mighty protector, giving him a nod. You assisted him by lifting your chemise to your stomach, allowing him more access to your sensitive area whilst you nervously awaited for his touch.
Miguel looked pleased at your approval, moving his ringed fingers between your thighs to run the pads of them along your folds. You sucked in a breath, eyes instantly becoming hazy at his divine touch. Miguel clicked his tongue at your lack of saturation before pulling away. He looked up at you, meeting your flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes. âYou arenâtâŠwet enough.â He stated, causing your eyebrows to furrow as he continued. âWeâll have to get there before we begin.â
Despite your perplexity, you followed his every word absentmindedly. Miguel placed his hands on your waist and slightly lifted you upon the girth of his cock. He groaned softly, his length laying against his stomach while your folds rested on the base of it. You moaned softly at the feeling of his warmth and hardness in between your folds.
Miguel looked up at you, a fanged smirk on his lips as he rocked you against him. The most unlady-like sounds began to be pulled from your throat at the sudden bursts of pleasure; his cock sliding between your folds and pressing into your sensitive bud with each push and pull of your hips upon him.
The great being grunted and groaned, his crimson eyes looking between the grinding of your pussy along his cock and up at you. âHow does it feel?â He inquired, but you were unable to speak.
The pleasure was so intense and foreign, a tingling sensation seeming to sprout from your core and throughout your body. With clouded ears and dazed eyes, you noticed the divine being snicker softly, satisfied that you were enjoying it.
He gripped your hips tightly with his large hands, grinding your body along his cock with much force and speed causing your heavy gasps to change to loud moans in an instant. A wetness began to spill from your core, coating your thighs and his cock with each nudge of his base and tip into your swollen bud.
In all of your life, youâve never felt this blissful. Naturally, you overheard the many housekeepers at Aldenâs mansion speak of this type of intimacy with their husbands and loversâof euphoric feelings that were so addicting, one could become entranced by the activity.
At the time, you couldnât understandâŠ
Your time with Alden Hawthorne was anything but enjoyable and euphoric as the ladies spoke of, but nowâŠ
You understood what they meantâŠ
Everything about this moment was what they describedâeuphoric, blissful, and most of all, addicting.
Your hands landed upon his broad shoulders, a heat pooling at your stomach as you took control, sliding your hips forward and pressing your core along his base with each grind. Miguelâs large hand held your lower back to steady you, but his attempt in holding in his groans was intensifying the feeling.Â
âJust like that, pequeñita.â Miguel moaned softly, meeting your dazed gaze. âYou know how to please me.â He chuckled between his heavy breathing, the praise only making your stomach tighten like the thread of a spinning wheel about to snap.
âM-MiguelâŠâ His name fell from your lips in a whine as your thighs began to tremble and still. You were feeling like you were about to burst with each ongoing friction upon your sensitive bud.Â
âI canâtâŠSomethingâs c-coming.â You whimpered, gripping his shoulders tightly, blunt nails piercing the skin, but it didnât seem to bother the divine being. At your words, you felt Miguelâs massive length twitch against your core, and a soft groan to escape his lips. âCan you hold it for me, pequeñita?â He inquired in a stable voice, despite being so aroused. The tension in your belly only heightened at his request, however, you bit your lip, nodding.Â
Miguel grinned at your willingness and obedience, soon effortlessly lifting your body and standing from his throne. You gasped at his suddenness, his large hands holding your bare thighs and pressing you closely to his muscular body. Your arms wrapped around his neck as your white chemise fell down your body to cover his large hands that rested upon your legs.Â
When you met the great beingâs face, the look he held was different and very unexpected. His crimson eyes were brimming with love and affection, but something that youâve only hoped your true lover would cast upon you. The sight made your heart skip a beat and your stomach flutter.Â
The thought of a great being such as him feeling this way towards you, despite all that youâve been through, made you feel profoundly grateful and touched. Everything about him felt heavenly, like this moment was the world apologizing for what it had put you through, and you couldnât have been more thankfulâŠ
He walked to the side of his throne, lowering you to the floor without breaking eye contact with you. Your white chemise covered your figure once more, whilst Miguelâs hands were placed upon your waist to turn you around. You followed along with his wishes, giving him full control. He gently laid you across the armrest of his stone throne and pulled your chemise up to rest on your hips once more, revealing your bare bottom.
You bit your lip in anticipation, feeling a wetness sliding down your thighs at the longing for the addicting pleasure he could bestow upon you. A contented groan left the lips of your protector at the sight of your rear, his massive, ringed hands moving to roam the soft skin of your bottom. You moaned softly, the need to release was still evident in your belly, but only intensified with every divine touch of his hands upon your body.
You suddenly became aware of how massive and close the deity of protection was. His body heat was like a furnace on a cold winter night, his mere presence being able to warm you in an instant. His toned pecs and abs were palpable against your back through your chemise as he leaned over your body. The great protectorâs hard cock poked against the back of your thigh causing your wet core to drip along your legs. Miguelâs lips grazed along your ear, the feeling sending a wave of heat to sprout through your body.Â
âAre you ready for me, Querida?âÂ
He asked, seeking clarification in case of you regretting your decision; but you could sense he hoped you didnât.
The many fearful and anxious thoughts overwhelmed your senses once more, but his sweet kisses along your ear and cheek were causing them to fade. âY-Yes.â You replied hesitantly, still nervous about performing such intimacy that always terrified you after Alden.Â
Miguel was relieved but still sensed your hesitance. His large hand caressed your stomach through your white chemise and continued his soothing kisses in hopes of calming you. âTrust me.â He whispered into your ear. âI promise, it would not feel how it was with Alden. Itâll be better.
Iâll make sure of itâŠâÂ
You always found the traits of the great beings fascinating, one of them being their inability to deceive. The deities could only speak the truth which only made you believe his words even more.Â
âO-Okay.â You replied, taking the hem of your chemise in your hands to cope with your anxiousness but to also grant him better access. The sight only made Miguel smile, thankful that his words were able to settle your troubled thoughts. He pressed a final kiss to your cheek before pulling away.Â
Your heart was beating rapidly against your chest as you felt him slide his tip along your soppy folds, the squelching filling the room. âTake a deep breath for me,â Miguel told you, stroking your hips.Â
You took a deep breath, inhaling deeply, and upon exhaling, he pushed his length inside. A loud moan erupted from your throat, fingers gripping the chair at the intensity of your stretched core.Â
âG-Goodness, you areâŠso tight.â Miguel groaned into your ear, his grip tightening on your waist. His enormity filled you up completely, and to your surprise, you didnât feel pain as you thought, only pleasure that only heightened when he bottomed out. He groaned, kissing along your neck. âHow do you feel?â He asked, his voice full of lust and desire, his hips stilled to allow you to adjust to his massive length.Â
You could only frantically nod, your stuffed core quivering in delight at how wonderful the sensations felt. Miguel smirked, pulling out to the tip before slamming back in, causing you to release a choked moan. It was as if an avalanche of pleasure crashed into you and overwhelmed your every sense with the suffocating emotion. At your wonderous response, the great deity began to slowly thrust into you, dragging his massive length into you and sliding out.Â
In all of your life, youâve never felt something so good and addicting. Your unkempt hair spilled over his throne whilst the most unladylike sounds were pulled from your lips with every smack of his hips against your rear. âSuch pretty sounds you are making for me, Cariño.â Miguel cooed behind you, wrapping an arm around your stomach to hold you close.Â
The great protector kissed along your neck, nipping softly and grazing his fangs along the skin. It wasnât long before the tension in your stomach returned. You whimpered and moaned, the improper sounds of skin and squelching bouncing off the walls of his sanctuary as the divine being took you to your blissful end.Â
âM-Miguel, I- somethingâs coming.â You whined through body tremors and the clenching of your walls. âYou may let go, querida. Give it to me.â Miguel moaned breathlessly into your ear, aiming his rhythmic thrusts to attack your sensitive spot over and over.Â
Unable to hold it any longer, with a loud cry, you released the pent-up pleasure that was building in your stomach. Your eyes rolled, body shaking horribly in Miguelâs arms. Suddenly a rush of euphoria overcame you, making you weightless, like a feather being drifted off into the wind.
Miguelâs hips never ceased their movement, rutting into you as his grunts louden against your ear. "Are you ready to be mine, querida? To bear our child?" He asked, his pace quickening.Â
The blood rushing to your ears and the pounding of your own heart made his words faint, but nevertheless, you heard him. Frantically you nodded. "Y-Yes. I'm...ready." You told him through breathless gasps and the slapping of his hips against your rear.Â
At your final approval, a guttural groan escaped his lips as he burrowed his length deep inside you and released his warm, hot essence into your womb. You could feel his thighs tensing up against your legs and his toned chest heaving on your back whilst he filled you; granting you a child and fulfilling the terms...
The sanctuary was now laden with both of your heavy pants and the small flickering of fire upon the torches and candles. A comfortable silence fell upon the two of you as Miguel slowly pulled out, leaving you empty and longing for him once more.Â
The great being kept you in his arms, seeming to not be able to let you goâŠ
Not like you wanted him to anyway.Â
It felt like forever since you were loved, and in Miguelâs arms was where you were cherished.Â
But like all good things, they must come to an endâŠ
âYour request will be completed, Y/N,â Miguel promised against your backside, caressing your stomach through your white chemise. In your moment of pure bliss, youâve forgotten the reasoning behind the shared passion between the great being and yourself.Â
His words brought you back to the harsh reality that youâll have to eventually leave himâŠ
He pulled away, fixing the scarlet robe upon his mighty, chiseled body whilst you also got dressed, drawing down your chemise and adorning your neutral-colored bodice once more. When you were finished, you turned to look at Miguel to see he was already staring back at you, his crimson eyes holding adoration in them.
He walked up to you, his divine body towering over your form. âY/NâŠâ He said your name upon his mighty tongue, making your heart flutter. You looked up at him, trying to calm the desire to avert your eyes due to how intense his gaze was. âY-Yes?â The inquiry leaves your lips in a timid voice. Miguel gave you a small smile, cupping your face in his large hand and stroking your cheek with his thumb. âI need you to promise me something.â The great being uttered, his words greatly intriguing you. âW-what is it?â You asked, willing to do anything for him.Â
The divine beingâs eyes roamed over your face, taking in your every facial feature. âIn all of my years that Iâve traversed this world, Iâve never experienced something like this.â He confessed, tracing his fingers along your jaw. âYouâve done something that no human has ever done, Cariño.â He whispered, leaning closer to you, so close that his breath fanned against your lips.Â
âYouâve fulfilled the wish of a deity and have set my heart ablaze.âÂ
You sharply inhaled, staring at the great being with widened eyes. You wanted to believe that his words were false, that the great protector of Nueva Yorkhaven had mistaken his feelings of love for you as something else; but the truth of the most alluring trait about the deities continuously filled your head.Â
He couldnât lie.Â
He was created unable toâŠ
His words of adoration and affection were all real. The great being loved you out of all mortals and that thought only made you even more confounded.Â
You wet your lips, meeting the red-eyed protector, and taking in everything about him: his morals, values, greatness, natural will to protect his people, and even his physical appearance with his perfectly sculpted body, chiseled face, dark wavy hair, and beautiful, scarlet eyes.Â
In all your life, youâve never fallen deeply in love, you were never given the chance toâbeing forced into marriage with Alden severed your ability to find love for yourself, however, after all this time, you believed youâve succeeded.Â
Youâve fallen in love with your divine protector...
âIâŠlove you too.â You said, the words leaving your mouth before you could even think about it. Miguelâs thick eyebrows rose briefly in shock to soon settle once more. He hastily pulled you into a kiss, his plush lips interlocking with your own in a passionate entanglement that seemed to go on forever.Â
When he finally pulled away, he kept you snug against him, his arms protectively wrapped around your body. âI want you to promise me youâll never love anotherâthat your heart will always burn for me as mine does for you,â he uttered, his deep voice filling the small space between you and adding to the tender moment even more.Â
Unbeknownst to him, his promise was an easy one...
In the pit of your stomach, you knew from this moment onward, things would never be the same, and you were content with that.Â
When you first pressed your lips against the great protectorâs, it was as if you were being reborn, your wretched life leaving you as a new one welcomed you.Â
Once you leave this sanctuary, Alden Hawthorne would be like a terrible nightmare that never occurred. Your mother and yourself could mend the relationship between the two of you, and you would always have a piece of Miguel with you even if he wasnât there physically, holding you in his mighty arms.Â
And you were satisfied with thatâŠ
Like the sun emerging to dispel away the shadows from a long, dark night and bring light across the lands, goodness was being revived into your life all because of the might of Nueva Yorkhavenâs great protectorâMiguel O'Hara.Â
Looking up at Miguel with glossy eyes, you smiled at him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him into a loving embrace.Â
âI promise.Â
Iâll love you till my last breath.âÂ
A/N: Thanks so much for reading my oneshot! Shoutout to the wonderful anon who gave me the request, there is still more to come for you, but I hope you enjoyed it!
Make sure to like, comment, reblog and follow! If you would like to add a request to the kink series or have an idea in general, just message me or submit an ask! â€ïž
The tiger blankets are so freaking warm already, so can you imagine sleeping with it and then having Miguel there? It'd get so hot đ but I'd still take it, though!!
You've always known just how big Miguel is. No, not in that way; just big in general. There are short people, average people, tall people, and then thereâs Miguel. Big and heavy. Heâs reluctant when you ask him to be your âweighted blanketâ because he always feels like he might seriously hurt you. Nonetheless, you always tell him how much you love the feeling. You love everything about his size and all the benefits it comes with. You wouldnât change Miguel in the slightest. No way. . . But thereâs this one thing.
 Itâll be super late into the night, and letâs say itâs Winter to make things worse.Â
Well, you thought you started the night wrapped and bundled up in yâallâs down-feathered comforter, whipped out from the closet for frigid nights like these. You even wore your thermal pajamas, thatâs how cold it was, so you definitely know you fell asleep extra cozy and toasty for the night. To go even further, Miguel always wraps an arm around you before drifting off, pulling the distinct aroma of your clothes and skin closer to his face. . . So why do still you feel cold?Â
You remain asleep until your skin can no longer bear the invasive crisp of the air. Dejected, your eyes open, your gaze leading from the wall down to the bed around you.
You twist your head to see behind you, your eyes following along the bed until you find the culprit.
So thatâs why Iâm cold. Sucker took all of the blanket to his side.Â
Your expression is a mix of reproach and borderline laughter. You hold it in so as to not wake him, of course. You did have to admit, despite it costing your comfort and warmth, the sight next to you was just too darn cute. You almost wanna take a picture of the precious crime scene.Â
You reckon that, deep in his sleep, Miguel had turned over, and in doing so, brought all of the blanket with him. With tired eyes, you turn your whole body now to face him, his back facing you. You lay there, looking on with a soft smile. Your eyes scan all the shapes and edges; how the mountain of his figure rises and falls. You hold in a chuckle whenever he snores significantly louder.Â
When youâve had enough, you turn back around, and as quietly as possible, you get up to grab another blanket. The other move wouldâve been to pull back your portion of the blanket, but there was the risk of waking him, so you settled for grabbing another one.
You come back, snuggled in your assigned spot on the mattress and allow sleep to take you for the second time that night.Â
Itâs not long before you feel shuffling in the bed. Your eyes crack open when you feel a different, more familiar warmth. You see that the throw blanket you grabbed from one of the lounge chairs is no longer on you, but on the floor. Instead, on your body is all of the comforter that had been stolen from you, in addition to the arm that initially took it.Â
âMmsorry, beba,â with eyes still closed, he smacks his licks, mumbling through his half-awake state, âIâll buy us a bigger blanketâ.Â
Your lips curl in your slumber, the feeling of Miguelâs body cocooning yours conquering any blanket or comforter in the world.
You didnât expect it. You didnât expect Miguel to always seek your touch. Always holding your hand or resting his hand gently on the small of your back or sitting so close that his leg is pressed against yours. You didnât expect it but you loved it.
Especially since he was trying so hard to not make it to obvious since funnily enough, he hated PDA. So he always did it in a not too in other peopleâs faces way and almost in a shy manner. You could feel how his pulse would be crazy fast the first second he takes your hand until he slowly relaxes and gets all relieved and happy. It was so adorable. You loved it. You really did.
Thatâs what you keep telling yourself now. With his arms wrapped around you and his face buried in the nook of your neck as he sleeps. He looks so so soft and peaceful and normally you would take him in and admire his soft breathing and how his lashes rest delicately on the tops of his cheeks. But you feel like youâre going to burst into flames with his body-heat wrapped all around you in the middle of the hottest night in this god forsaken heatwave.
You can feel sweat trickling down your back and down your forehead and truly how does he not feel this unbearable, disgusting heat when he himself is like a weighted heat blanket.
Slowly you move your head and wiggle out of his grasp. Before you can enjoy the soft breeze on your arms, he pulls you closer and mumbles softly against your neck. Holding onto you like a child would hold onto their teddy bear. And actually, thatâs exactly how it is. He told you multiple times that he can only sleep if he has got you in his embrace. And you know how little and badly he used to sleep before you appeared in his life. You want him to sleep and rest but you also feel like youâre going to die of the heat.
So you try again. Slowly and carefully you roll a bit on your side and wiggle out and then finally youâre on your side of the bed. Itâs cold and you immediately feel like your skin can breathe. You feel your eyes get heavier and about to close, about to fall asleep, now that you arenât wrapped up in pure fire when you feel his arms wrap around you again. A soft grumble against your shoulder.
âWhatâre you doin?â
âMigs Iâm going to burst into flames.â You sigh softly as you wriggle out again. This time he slowly blinks open his eyes.
âButâŠI canât sleep without you..â He actually pouts. Full on disbelief written all over his face that you would do such an unbelievable cruel thing.
You sigh again. A bit dramatic for effect and then scoot closer again.
But he doesnât wrap his arms around you. He is thinking. A slight frown in between his eyebrows.
âYou wonât be able to sleep the whole night..â He says more to himself than you before he sighs softly. Now more awake.
âIâm sorry cariño. I didnât realize how warm I am.â He sounds so apologetic like he did something horrendous. His worried expression makes your heart melt but that frown gets more pronounced and it feels like something is crumbling your heart. Heâs only been awake for a few seconds and already he worries about the grave mistake of robbing you of your sleep.
You scoot closer and wrap your arms around him. He is about to protest and tell you that you need your sleep and that that wonât he possible with him wrapped around you but you stop him. Gently shaking your head. âWe only have four more hours for sleep.â You mumble and he knows what youâre doing. He knows that youâd rather be burning up than have him not sleep. He wants to protest. Everything in him is telling him that youâre more important and you should sleep but youâre breathing softly and pulling his arms around you and before he can overthink heâs falling asleep.
The next day you hear clanking and rumpling as Miguel installs an AC in the bedroom. You canât help but grin when he blasts it right before he lays down later that night and wraps his arms around you tightly. Sighing in relief against your neck.
Lay All Your Love On Me ~Miguel O'Hara x Reader fluff~
Warnings: jealous!Miguel, kinda angsty. I think that's it.
Being in the Spider Society, you didn't often have days off. There was always some Earth in a crisis that needed saving. So when your friends came to you with the idea of a karaoke night at Headquarters, you were overjoyed with the thought. "Great! Soooo you ask Miguel." Gwen said, causing your smile to drop. "Hang on, why do I have to ask Miguel?" You questioned, the idea of going to your super scary (yet super hot) boss to ask if you could set up a karaoke night was terrifying. "C'mon Y/N! Everyone knows Miguel will say yes if you ask him. You're his favorite!" Pav exclaimed. You felt your cheeks heat and you scoffed. "Miguel doesn't have favorites, Pav. And even if he did, I definitely would not be one of them. I annoy him all the time."
"Pav's right, girly." Hobie interjected, hanging from the ceiling in front of you. "Boss man definitely fancies you. He's just too broody to say anything." You felt your face heat up more and your heart thudded in your chest at your friends' teasing. Sure you liked Miguel, but there was no way he thought of you like that. He always seemed so serious with you.
"You guys are absolutely crazy if you think Miguel would ever..." Your voice trailed off as your senses tingled and you felt a looming presence behind you.
"If Miguel would ever what?"
The deep voice of your boss rumbled in your ear. Startled, you spun quickly on your heels and you could feel your hands getting sweaty like you were just caught stealing or something.
"Oh! Umm, h-hi Miguel! We were just talking about a fun activity for the Spiders. You know, for...morale?" You answered, sheepishly. Miguel sighed and looked at you with an unamused look. "What did you have in mind?" He asked, though his tone didn't have much enthusiasm to it. Encouraged by him not saying no outright, you launched into your pitch. "We want to do a karaoke night here at HQ. Nothing crazy! But some food, music, it'll be fun!" You assured. Miguel's eyes narrowed and you could tell he was about to say no. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm and looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. "Pleeeease Miguel! I promise we'll clean everything up when we're done, it'll be like we were never here."
Miguel's eyes softened and he sighed again, knowing he was gonna cave as soon as you looked at him with those eyes. Your hands on his bicep had his heart racing but he had to keep it cool in front of the other Spiders with you.
".....fine. But nothing crazy and EVERYTHING better be spotless by the next morning." He relented. You let out a squeal of excitement and threw your arms around his neck, forgetting yourself for a minute. "Oh thank you so much Miguel!" Suddenly remembering where you were, you quickly let go of him and backed up. "Sorry boss." You laughed, nervously. Miguel didn't say anything as you turned back to your friends and walked away, making plans excitedly. You were so focused on that you didn't see Miguel's face turn red or Hobie throwing him a knowing smirk...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spreading the word and getting other Spiders to agree to the karaoke night was easier than expected. The response was very enthusiastic and turnout was amazing. You watched happily as your friends sang and danced on the stage. You stayed off to the side with a drink in your hand, listening to your friends. You didn't notice Miguel appearing at your side. "You're not up there with them." His voice in your ear making you jump. "Miguel! I didn't know you were coming." You replied, grinning. Miguel shrugged. "Figured I'd come by and see how it was going. I can see the response was very positive." You flashed him another excited smile. "Definitely! Thank you again for letting us do this. I think everyone is really having a good time." Miguel hummed into his drink. You nudged him playfully with your elbow. "You sure you didn't come by to show us all your singing talents?" You teased. Miguel scoffed. "Absolutely not. I'm just here to make sure you guys don't destroy the place. What about you? Why aren't you up there, arañita?"
You laughed, your face heating up at the nickname. "Oh no. I, uh, don't sing." You were half telling the truth. You often sang to yourself, sometimes while swinging through the city or making dinner for yourself in your apartment. Before you were bitten by that spider, you were in drama school. But you can't exactly save the city and make it to rehearsals and auditions. So you sadly had to give up your Broadway dreams and settle. But that never stopped you from living out your Grizabella fantasy by belting Memory from the top of the Chrysler Building at midnight.
Disappointment flashed across Miguel's face before he could stop himself. He knew you were lying. He had background files on every Spider Person that was a member of the Spider Society. He knew about your musical talent and most of his reason for agreeing to this karaoke thing was so he could hear you sing in person. Before he could say anything, Gwen and Hobie rushed over to you and dragged you towards the stage. Miguel smiled softly to himself as your protests were ignored by your friends. In truth, you did want to sing, it just reminded you of your lost dream when you did so you kept it to yourself, only singing when you were alone. But tonight, your friends weren't going to allow any of that. Ben Reilly met you on stage with more of the Spiders and your friends joined you. You recognized the intro to one of your favorite Mamma Mia songs and giggled as you began dancing with Ben.
Miguel felt his joy in seeing you so happy twist into jealousy as he watched Ben take your hand and spin you around as you both sang together. You sounded so beautiful as you sang into your mic and it seemed almost rehearsed as the other Spiders danced and sang their parts behind you.
Don't go wasting your emotion
Lay all your love on me
Don't go sharing your devotion
Lay all your love on me
The lyrics echoed exactly how Miguel felt. He knew you weren't into Ben or any of the other Spiders, he knew that. But seeing you up there enjoying yourself with another man while he stayed back, hiding his feelings for you like a coward, filled his chest with envy and anger. The green monster inside him began to grow bigger and he knew he had to appease it soon.
Your voice brought him out of his thoughts as you started your second verse. He stared at you, shamelessly enthralled at the way you commanded the stage, even for a silly karaoke night. The way you moved and danced had him hooked even deeper. You danced past Hobie and for a second, Miguel glanced at him. Noticing that Hobie was watching him, he did a double take and brought his gaze back to the sly grin of the Spider. Hobie smirked as he made eye contact with Miguel and jerked his head in your direction. Miguel frowned, silently telling Hobie to shut it. Hobie shrugged at him and started to dance with you. Miguel's heart thudded in his chest as he watched Hobie spin you. He knew Hobie was trying to rile him up and it was absolutely working. He couldn't take much more of this...
A web attached to his chest and he was yanked towards the stage before it could even register in his mind. You were still dancing with Hobie, facing away from him, and he saw the web belonged to Peter B., who was gesturing towards you. Miguel glared and shook his head. He turned to leave but found his path blocked by Gwen and Ben, giving him knowing grins while Noir made a "turn around" motion. Miguel turned back and looked at you nervously, still oblivious to him being there.
Suddenly, he felt a shove on his back, launching him forward. At the same time, Hobie spun you right into Miguel's arms. The other spiders erupted into cheers and you noticed Miguel's face reddening quickly. You felt your own face heat up but you noticed your friends cheering you behind him. You could hear shouts of "Kiss! Kiss!" and Miguel seemed embarrassed but didn't make any motion to move away from you. In fact, his eyes were searching yours as if he was unsure of what to do next. Emboldened by your friends and your own feelings, you grinned at him and pulled his face towards yours. He gasped in surprise against your lips but quickly held you tighter as he deepened the kiss. You felt him groan softly, the vibrations of his voice humming in his throat against your hands.
The whole crowd exploded with cheers and applause, your friends the loudest of all. The song played behind you, the other spiders dancing the choreography around you and Miguel. You pulled away just enough to smile at him. He sighed and grinned back at you, a real, soft, genuine smile on his face. Still holding you, he pulled you closer and leaned down to whisper in your ear. "You wanna get out of here?" He asked, his nerves returning for a moment. You smiled and nodded, taking his hand. Your friends cheered as the two of you shot a web to the ceiling and swung out of there, hand in hand.
You didn't see it of course but Gwen, Hobie, Peter B, Pav, and Miles all high fived each other watching you swing off with Miguel.
Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isnât right. And deep down, youâre afraid to ask why.
CW: murder, stalking, general obsessive behaviors, self-deprecating ideologies, implied masturbation and voyeurism
series masterlist đ prologue đ chapter two
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Mornings were always the same.
Miguel arrived at the lab just past six. Earlier, if he couldnât sleep, which was often. He preferred the quiet. The hum of the generators, the faint blue glow of the monitors, the sterile chill of air that hadnât yet been touched by anyone else.
The lab recognized his retinal scan before the door finished sliding open. Lights blinked awake in waves as he stepped inside. One of the most advanced research facilities in the known multiverse, and still, it reeked of disinfectant and artificial air.
Screens lit up along the walls as he approached; dim blue holograms pulsing with quantum reads, dimensional overlays, real-time feeds from dozens of Earthsâ he no longer cared to memorize. Routine had become second nature. Badge swipe. System diagnostics. Field report reviews. His fingers moved on instinct, pulling up simulations, patching glitches, recalibrating tech. He didnât speak much during the day unless necessary, and no one questioned it. They knew better.
It was a comfortable rhythm. Efficient. Controlled.
On paper, his life was structured. Honorable, even. He was doing good work. Important work.
But he was growing tired.
He swiped through reports with short, impatient flicks of his fingers. Another ripple in Earth-142âs continuity. Another code collapse in 615. Another breech warning from 217 that someone else could deal with.
Lyla chimed, interrupting his spiral.
âYouâve been awake for forty-two hours, Miguel.â
He ignored it, continue to flic through the countless tabs. Sheâd said that yesterday too. There were no windows in his lab. He found it to be too much of a distraction, all the hustle and bustle of the city. He never noticed when the morning turned into the afternoon. Or the afternoon into the evening.
It started the way most anomalies did; quiet, buried in the noise.
Miguel scanned through a cluster of new dimensional activity flagged overnight. Dozens of variants popped up across the system: some familiar, some barely registering on baseline parameters. Most of them were garbage. Nothing threatening, nothing useful.
He pulled up a map of the multiversal stream, tabbing through familiar patterns, reconfirming clean pockets, filtering red zones. His fingers hesitated over a blip; Earth 529-B.
Not flagged. Not marked. Just a clean little speck, sitting between threads. Stable. Normal. He tapped into it out of habbit more than interest.
The static cleared, the screen refreshed.
And there he was.
It wasnât unusual, but it was uncommon. It wasnât everyday he strolled across variants of himself, and he could never swallow the curiosity the bubbled inside him when he did.
Miguel stared, unblinking, at the version of himself that looked, at first glance, completely unremarkable.
No suit. No enhancements. No visible signs of trauma. He looked⊠rested. A few years softer in the face. A slower gait. Comfortable.
He didnât even notice her at first. The angle was offâone of the auxiliary spider-bots had perched too far back, catching a wide-angle view of a small living room. Evening light spilling through gauzy curtains, a girlish coffee mug left out. Slippers by the couch. The hum of a world too still to be dangerous.
Then the door opened.
She stepped into frame like a breath he hadnât realized he was holding. Laughing at something off-screen. Hair damp from a shower. No makeup. Soft. Barefoot. She carried a bowl of popcorn and sat beside the other Miguel like sheâd done it a thousand times. Like her body knew exactly how to fit against his.
Miguel blinked.
She reached up without looking, fingers sliding into his alternates hair. Lazy affection. Thoughtless, practiced tenderness. She murmured something, and he smiledâthis slow, sleepy kind of grinâand kissed the side of her head like it was second nature.
Miguel sat there, stone-still in the flickering dark of his lab, watching as this version of himself leaned back on the couch with the woman wrapped around him like gravity. They didnât do anything extraordinary. They talked, teased each other. She stole a bite of his food, and he let her.
They looked happy.
Not that fragile, pretend kind of happiness people chase with noise and distraction. But the real kind. The quiet kind. The kind you build in slow, uneven steps until one day you look around and realize youâre home.
He shut the feed.
Forcefully.
The screen blinked black, and he sat back in the chair like the screen had burned him.
It doesnât matter.
Itâs not his life. Not his problem.
There were reports to file. Patrol routes to coordinate. A dimensional rift opening up three sectors down. And of course; his very own city that needs him.
He suited up without looking at his reflection. The suit gripped his spine, sealed across his ribs. A perfect fit. Calibrated to his exact vitals, responding to every breath and shift of weight. It felt like a second skinâone he hadnât taken off in years, even when he wasnât wearing it.
The lab faded behind him. The city opened up.
Night hadnât fully settled yet. The sky above Nueva York was still bleeding orange and violet, city lights flickering to life like neurons firing across metal bones. Below, the world moved. Hovercars speeding between towers, neon bleeding across concrete, every surface alive with motion.
Miguel moved through it all like a ghost.
One webline shot clean across the gap between buildingsâhis body followed, weightless for half a second before momentum caught him and flung him forward again. He landed in a crouch on a vertical wall, pushed off, flipped into a dive.
The wind tore past him.
It always felt like this; violent, cold, almost too loud to think.
Perfect.
Because thinking meant remembering.
And tonight, he didnât want to remember her face.
So he buried himself in the cityâs demands.
A robbery in Sector 4. He took down four armed thieves in under thirty seconds. Disarmed, webbed, dropped them off for enforcement to collect without a word. One tried to run. He didnât get far.
A dimensional disturbance near the lower marketâjust a flicker, a pressure glitch from a collapsing pocketverse. Miguel stabilized it with two drones and a pulse anchor. The rift spat static and tried to pull him in. It failed.
He helped clear a mag-lift derailment after that. A family had been trapped in the last car, one kid clutching a holographic plush and shaking so hard her fingers were white. Miguel ripped the door off with one hand, pulled them out with the other. The parents thanked him. The child cried.
He didnât say a word.
Didnât stay long enough to make it awkward.
He was gone before theyâd stopped blinking.
It went like that for hours.
Problem after problem. Crisis after crisis.
And through all of it, the same feeling followed him like a shadow.
Emptiness.
It had been easy before. Easier, at least. You could survive anything if you gave enough of yourself to the work. You could build armor out of purpose. Convince yourself that saving the world meant more than having one of your own.
But now heâd seen it.
What his world couldâve been.
Miguel landed hard on the edge of a rooftop. The ledge cracked beneath his boots. His heart thudded behind his ribs. Not from exertion, but from something else. Something bitter.
The sky had gone dark. The city pulsed below. The wind was sharp, stinging across his exposed jaw.
He stayed there a while.
Looking.
But there was nothing to see.
Just lights. Just noise. Just another night in the city that never looked up.
He didnât want to look out at the city anymore. He knew every corner of it. Knew how the people screamed when they were afraid and smiled when they thought someone else would save them.
He was always saving them.
The world called him a hero. But in every version of the world that mattered, he was alone. He knew what it meant to save a city. But not what it felt like to be missed when he was late for dinner.
Eventually, he made his way home.
He disengaged his suit and it peeled off like skin, slow and mechanical, then stepped into the low light of the adjoining room. The walls were bare. The furniture was functional. The kind of space meant to be lived in by someone too busy to live at all.
He ate standing at the kitchen counterâa protein bar, coffee, silence. No music. No laughter. No one calling from the next room asking if he remembered the groceries. No messages waiting on his communicator unless they were urgent.
They always were.
It crossed his mind then; that this wasnât a home. It was a holding cell.
A place to sleep, to recharge. To rot.
He exhaled through his nose.
He told himself it would be the last time.
Just a quick look and heâd forget all about it entirely.
Just some⊠surveillance for work.
Miguel tapped in the stream manually again; Earth-529-B. He let the image unfold across his home monitor. No spider activity. No anomaly. Just an ambient feed. Quiet, domestic, uneventful.
She was in the kitchen this time. Hair pulled back. Pink slippers. Humming under her breath as she moved between cupboards, making something warm. The spider-botâs proximity sensors recognized cinnamon and he could almost imagine it. The weight of it in the air. The heat. Her presence.
His other self walked in halfway through. Said something low. She grinned.
It was so small. So stupid. But it pulled at something sharp inside his chest.
The sound of her voice softened when she spoke to him.
The way she leaned into him without thinking. The way he knew where the mugs were without looking. The way she filled the silence, and the silence welcomed it.
Miguel watched his variant press a kiss to the back of her neck before settling at the table with a datapad. Her hand rested briefly on his shoulder as she passed.
Natural.
Unremarkable.
Unfair.
It hit him in the chest like a falling building.
Because this Miguelâthe one on the screenâwasnât saving the world. Wasnât wearing a mask. He wasnât even tired. He was just loved. Fully. Softly. Without having to earn it.
And worse?
He looked like he deserved it.
Miguel scrubbed a hand down his face, throat tight. He shouldâve looked away, closed the feed and labeled it as irrelevant. But his fingers hovered over the controls, frozen.
Her laugh looped back. The way she nudged the other Miguelâs knee. The way her eyes lit up when she teased him. She said his name, not just like it was familiar, but like it was sacred.
She was laughing at something his alternate said. Miguel replayed the footage ten times before he realized what it was that unsettled himâhe wasnât trying to be funny. She just loved him that way.
He sat back in his chair, the glow of the feed washing pale across his face. His apartment around him was still. Stark. Quiet. No warmth. No scent. Just glass, metal, and silence. The screens on the far wall dimmed automatically, sensing his stillness.
There was a moment where he couldâve shut it off again.
But he didnât.
He leaned forward instead.
Zoomed the image slightly. Enhanced the audio.
She was talking about her day, rambling about something she read. Her mug clinked softly on the counter as she turned to lean on it, still facing her Miguel. Still smiling.
He doesnât deserve that.
The thought came sudden. Fierce.
Miguel frowned.
He pulled up another data set beside the stream, basic file info on the variant. Not a Spider-Man. No mutations. Same genetic base, but untouched. Unchanged. The kind of man who never clawed his way through blood and glass to survive.
So why does he get this?
He wasnât extraordinary. And yet everything around him felt like it had meaning. Including her.
His jaw tensed. He watched them a moment longer, then minimized the screen.
Didnât close it. Just⊠minimized.
Heâd definitely seen it.
A life he couldâve had. A version of himself that hadnât burned everything down to be a hero. A woman who loved him for reasons he couldnât understand; because this Miguel didnât need to be impressive. He was just hers.
And Miguel wanted that.
He just didnât know what to do about it yet.
đ
He didnât mean to make it a habit.
It just happened.
Miguel started waking up earlier than usual. Not because of alarms or patrol rotations. Not because the city needed saving.
Because she was making breakfast at 6:12 a.m. on Earth 529-B and he wanted to be more than prepared to eat with her.
He memorized the time. Memorized the robe she wore. The way her hair was always half-wet from the shower. The color of her socks, mismatched. The soft rasp of her voice when she asked the other Miguel what he wanted in his coffee, even though she already knew.
She knew everything about him. All his tells. His rhythms. His moods. And Miguel watched it all.
The moment he stepped into the labâbefore diagnostics, before reports, before even Lylaâs first dry-witted greetingâhe pulled up the feed. Habitual now, like muscle memory.
The screen blinked to life in the quiet, low light of the lab. No one else around yet. Just him. Her. Him.
He was sitting at the breakfast table reading something on a tablet. She was making eggs. Plain, domestic.
Miguel stared.
She always cooked the eggs the same way. Over medium, yolk just barely soft. Heâd watched her flip them with a practiced hand, adding a pinch of seasoning, sliding them onto a ceramic plate that didnât match the rest of the dishes. His alternate liked toast with honey, no butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar.
He made note of it without meaning to.
She watched with fond eyes as he began to dig in.
Miguel sat at his console, empty stomach curled in on itself, and watched the version of himself eat breakfast with a woman who would never look at him like that.
Except⊠she did. Didnât she?
In the feed. She smiled at him.
Just⊠not him.
He realized heâd been leaning forward, chin balanced in one hand, watching like it was a memory. Something half-remembered. Something his.
When Lyla flickered into view, mid-sentence, he shut the feed off too fast.
ââŠYou good?â she blinked, cocking her digital head, a pixelated brow lifting. âYou didnât even run the scans. Thatâs unlike you.â
âI was thinking,â he said.
âUh-huh. About what?â
He didnât answer.
Just turned away, pulled up system diagnostics, and dove headfirst into the next distraction.
He had started telling himself it was observation. Research. That he needed to understand the variables. How a version of himself had ended up like that. Soft. Loved. Whole.
But the truth was ugly. And it sat heavy under his skin.
He watched because he was starving.
He didnât stop thinking about it.
Later that night, after patrol, after another series of city-saving acts that left him more bruised and empty than fulfilled, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror. His hair was still damp from the rain. He looked at himself for a long time.
Then he shrugged into an old t-shirt.
Not his usual black compression gear. Not the suit. Just a soft, worn thing he hadnât touched in years. Something heâd seen the other Miguel wear. Something sheâd smiled at once and said looked âcomfy.â
He didnât even remember owning it until he tore through storage earlier that week.
Now it was the only thing he wanted to wear.
He stood there for a while, studying his reflection. Adjusting the way he held his shoulders. Softening his mouth. Lowering his chin. Trying to remember exactly how the other him looked when she kissed his cheek that morning.
He tried it.
Tilted his head the same way. Smiled.
It felt wrong. Mechanical... hollow. Like wearing someone elseâs skin.
But somehow, it felt right.
He didnât know which one scared him more.
Eventually, he moved to the kitchen. Made himself toast with honey. No butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar. Just to know what it tasted like. Just to feel what he felt.
He sat at the counter, chewing slowly.
It tasted like nothing.
He finished it anyway.
đ
It was late when he watched again.
She was sitting on the floor this time, curled up beside the coffee table, scribbling notes in a book with a pencil tucked behind one ear. Her hair was messy, pulled up lazily. She was in socks and an oversized hoodie. One of his old onesâhis variantâs, technically.
Miguel stared at her for a long time.
She didnât do anything special. She scratched her head. Took a sip of tea. Pushed some stray hairs out of her eyes.
But for a moment, he could pretend. Pretend that she was just⊠there. With him. That he was in that apartment instead. That he could walk over and kneel beside her and ask what she was working on. That her soft expression was meant for him.
Miguel didnât blink.
He could watch her like this for hours. No performance. No pretense. Just her in the quiet. Her existing. Breathing. It made him feel like there was still time to change everything. Like he could still be good.
But then, he heard the door.
Saw it swing open in the background.
And just like that; she smiled.
Her eyes lit up. Her entire posture changed.
The other Miguel walked in, pulling his jacket off. Tossed keys in a bowl by the wall. Said something that made her smile sweetlyâhe couldnât hear what it was. But Miguel didnât need it.
He saw it. Felt it. That subtle shift. That warmth.
The moment shattered.
It was no longer hers. No longer theirs.
The man, his alternate, walked up behind her and bent down to kiss her cheek. She tilted her head into the touch without thinking. She reached back and pulled him down beside her.
It was his again. His doubleâs. The man who walked through the door and made her smile like nothing else mattered. Who dropped a kiss to her cheek without thinking. Who made it look so easy. Effortless.
Like it wasnât a miracle every time she looked up and smiled at him.
Miguelâs jaw clenched.
He watched them settle into the couch together, side by side like puzzle pieces. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he curled his fingers into hers.
It shouldâve felt romantic. Instead, it felt like a knife.
Miguel leaned closer to the screen.
He watched the way the other him touched her; easy, like it came naturally. The kind of ease that was earned over years. That couldnât be duplicated or hacked or built.
That kind of intimacy had to be lived.
It made something sharp twist in his chest.
Miguel sat back slowly in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes never leaving the screen.
In that moment, he stopped watching like an admirer.
He started studying like a thief.
đ
Miguel stood at the edge of his console, fingers resting on the metal rim, eyes locked on the monitor like it was a lifeline.
The man on the screen was getting dressed.
Simple button-down. Rolled sleeves. Loose slacks. He adjusted the collar, checked his watch. Normal. Human. Soft in all the ways Miguel had learned not to be.
He took a mental note. Third time this week heâd seen him choose light blue. Casual neutrals. No sharp edges, no commanding presence. Just⊠approachable. Like he never had to prove anything to anyone.
Miguel pulled the video feed back ten minutes. Watched it again.
And again.
Watched how he brushed his hair back with one hand while balancing a cup of coffee in the other. How he kissed her forehead in passing like it was nothing. How he laughedâreal, full, and easy.
He didnât just observe anymore. He documented. He had files now. Data folders.
âM. OâHara â Earth 529-Bâ
Subcategories: Daily Routine. Speech Patterns. Work Habits. Dietary Preferences. Social Relationships.
He took note of everything.
His walk; slower, more relaxed.
His voice; slightly lower, but warmer in tone.
The way he always paused before answering a question, like he cared about getting it right. Like he was thinking not just about what to say, but how it would make her feel.
It infuriated Miguel.
And still, he watched.
He studied the manâs commute.
Mapped his route through the city. The exact time he left the house. The bakery he stopped at every Thursday. The woman who waved at him from the florist shop on Main. The coworkers he chatted with at the office. Their names. Faces. Jokes.
Every relationship cataloged. Every line of familiarity between them recorded.
There was a man named Elias he seemed close with. Taller. Sharp sense of humor. They got lunch together sometimes. Miguel watched himself make him laugh once. Saw the alternate Miguel bump his shoulder and mouth something like, âdonât even try it.â
He paused the feed there. Rewatched it.
That face he made. That casual confidence.
Miguel tilted his head. Tried to replicate it in the dark, reflection faint in the black of the monitor.
It didnât look the same.
Then there were his hobbies.
Books he bought. Music he listened to. Shows she made him watch and he actually didâand liked. He remembered one night watching the variant clean the kitchen while humming something quiet, something old and half-Spanish. Something Miguel hadnât heard since he was a boy.
It hurt more than it should have.
He made a note of it anyway.
Food preferences. His caffeine intake. The way he always took off his shoes before stepping inside the door. The way he sat with her on the couch, never on the other end, always close, always touching.
He memorized it. Not because he wanted to be like him. Because he wanted to be better.
Most disturbing of all was how naturally he slipped into it. The mimicry. The daily rehearsals.
He started adjusting his posture. Relaxing the tension in his shoulders. Practicing speech inflections alone in his apartment. Saying the same phrases over and over until he could say them like him.
He hated how easily it came to him. Like heâd always been waiting for an excuse.
The only thing he couldnât replicate was the light in his eyes.Because that man, his alternate, had never seen what heâd seen.
He hadnât lived in blood. He hadnât watched whole worlds collapse. He hadnât woken up every morning with no one.
For months heâd been trapped behind glass and glowing screens, a ghost tethered to a life he only observed from a distance. Watching her laugh, watching her moveânever close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, never close enough to breathe the same air.
This isnât enough. The thought clenched his chest like a vice.
He wanted to reach out. Not just through pixels, not just through data feedsâbut to actually see her. To witness the small, unguarded moments. The way sunlight caught in her hair, the curve of her smile when she thought no one was watching, the softness in her eyes when she looked at the world with quiet hope.
So he came here.
A quiet observer cloaked in the mundane. A man in a hoodie and mask, drifting like a shadow through her world.
Later, the grocery aisles became his sanctuary and his prison. He moved beside her, unseen, his eyes tracing the gentle arc of her movements, the way she paused to read a label, the faint glimmer in her eye when she caught sight of something familiar. Every small detail seared into his memory.
On the train, he shifted his stance, changed his coat, lowered his cap. Every time she boarded, his pulse quickened. Her presence was a balm and a torment all at once. He watched her lose herself in thought, the faintest crease of worry lining her brow, the delicate sigh she let out when the train rattled on.
And then; the collision.
Sudden and raw.
Their bodies met in a careless stumble. Papers scattered like startled birds. She looked up, eyes wide, catching his gaze through the dark mask.
For a heartbeat, the world fell away.
Her voice, soft and real, broke through the haze.
âIâm so sorry!â
His voice was a rasp, barely more than a whisper.
âSorry.â
Her eyes searched his, a flicker of recognition maybeâor just curiosityâbefore she stepped back, melting into the crowd. He stood frozen, heart pounding, breath shallow, the ache of longing crashing over him like a wave.
But she was already gone.
And he was left with nothing but the hollow echo of a moment that almost was.
Miguel told himself he wouldnât do it again.
One time. Just once. Just to see her in real life, to breathe the same air. That was the lie he fed himself the first time he crossed over.
But he did it again.
And again.
And again.
He told himself it was harmless. A passing shadow, a phantom in the periphery of her day. No interaction. No interference. Just⊠presence. Just proximity. Just proof that she was real.
The next time was at the park.
She sat alone beneath a canopy of trees, the late afternoon sun catching in the strands of her hair, turning them gold. A book rested in her lap, pages fluttering gently in the breeze. Every few minutes she looked up. At the sky, at passing strangers, at the world as if she was quietly falling in love with it all over again.
Miguel sat across the path, half-hidden by shadows and the angle of his hood. Every breath he took felt like a sin.
She looked beautiful. Unbearably so. In a way that made his ribs ache. The kind of beauty that asked for nothing and gave everything. She wasnât performing for anyone. She was just being. And it devastated him.
He couldnât look away.
Her expression shifted with the story she read; smiling faintly at one page, frowning at another. She bit her lip absently, unaware she was being watched. And Miguel, who had seen thousands of worlds, who had bent time and science to his will, who had saved entire citiesâfelt like a boy with his face pressed to glass, begging for something he never had the courage to ask for.
Why, when he was the better one. Smarter. Stronger. Sharper. He had built everything from nothing. Sacrificed. Bled. Lost. He deservedâ
No.
He didnât deserve her.
No one did.
But he wanted her. In the deepest, most ruinous way a man could want someone. Not just her smile. Not just her voice. But the quiet of her presence. The safety. The soft understanding in her eyes when she looked at him like she saw the real version of himâeven if it wasnât him at all.
Later that week, he followed her through a bookstore. She drifted between shelves, fingers dancing across spines like they were sacred. She stopped in front of a display and tilted her head, studying a cover, her lips moving softly as she read the blurb.
He imagined walking up beside her, leaning in close, asking if sheâd recommend it. He could almost feel the warmth of her shoulder beside his.
But he didnât move.
He just watched.
And when she left, he followed her out into the dusk, vanishing into the crowd like a secret.
Each time, it became harder to leave. Harder to remind himself that this wasnât his life.
But each time, he told himself the same thing.
Just one more glimpse. Just one more moment.
Just one more lie.
And still, it was never enough.
đ
He holds the door open for an old man, says something with a soft smile, just loud enough for the man to hear, quiet enough not to draw attention. The man laughs. Claps him on the back. Says something else as they part ways.
Of course. Of course heâs friendly.
Miguel watches from the edge of the sidewalk, tucked behind a half-wall of vines and brick. Close enough to hear the echo of the exchange, even if not the words.
The alternate walks with unhurried steps, shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of a worn jacket. Not stiff. Not guarded. Not anxious.
Just comfortable.
At ease in his body. In his place in the world.
Miguelâs mouth is dry. He stares, unblinking.
Thereâs nothing performative about the way the man greets people. No need to impress. No show.
Heâs just⊠good.
And itâs not the loud kind of good. Itâs not grand or noble or remarkable. Itâs quiet. In the way he stops to help a kid reattach a fallen shoelace. In the way he slows his pace to walk beside someone older. In the way he speaks; low and steady, with warmth in his voice like thereâs never any rush.
Heâs the kind of person people relax around.
The kind who makes the world feel safer just by existing in it.
And Miguel hates him for it.
He canât even explain why, not in a way that makes sense.
Because how do you hate a man whoâs done nothing wrong?
Whoâs never hurt you, never lied, never cheated his way ahead?
You donât.
You resent him. Quietly. Fiercely.
The man hasnât done anything wrong. Thatâs what makes it worse. Heâs just⊠good at being himself.
Good in the ways Miguel never was.
He doesnât talk too much, but people listen when he does. He doesnât demand space, but people make room for him anyway. He doesnât need to be loud, because people lean in when he speaks.
He connects. Effortlessly.
Miguel watches him pause to greet someone across the street. A familiar face. A light laugh. A hand briefly on the other manâs shoulder. Friendly. Natural. Thereâs nothing guarded in his eyes, no second-guessing behind his expressions.
Itâs like he was made to be liked.
He is softness. And that softness is winning.
People smile at him on instinct. Dogs trail him with their tails wagging. Children glance up and then donât look away. He doesnât have to try.
And Miguel? He has spent his whole life trying.
Trying to be better. Trying to be enough. Trying to keep from slipping into the part of himself that sees everything as threat or strategy or obligation.
And still, this man⊠this version of him⊠lives with ease. With love. With connection.
Like it was simple.
Miguel turns away, heat crawling up the back of his neck.
Itâs not fair. Itâs not fair. Itâs not fair.
Itâs not fair that this man gets to be seen as kind, as safe, as goodâ
When heâs done nothing to earn it.
Heâs not pretending. Thatâs the problem.
Heâs not some polished mask Miguel can tear off. Heâs real. And every inch of that truth burns. Because it means Miguel is not the best version of himself. Not the one that got it right.
Heâs just the one whoâs watching.
Wanting.
And waiting.
đ
The lights in the lab were low.
Too low for work.
But this wasnât work.
The feed played silently. No sound, no alerts, no Lyla. Just her, wrapped in steam, behind fogged glass that barely concealed anything. She moved with ease, arms raised as she dragged wet fingers through her hair, and he watchedâstaring like a man starved.
She was showering.
It was mundane. Private, normal. But God, that made it worse. Her movements were slow, absentminded. She was massaging conditioner into her scalp, neck tilted just slightly as the water ran down her back in rivulets.
âGod, youâre beautiful.â
It wasnât the first time heâd seen her like this. It wasnât even the first time today. Heâd memorized the curves of her spine, the tilt of her neck, the little breaths she took when the water got too hot and made her shiver. It was a ritual now. One he had no right to, but couldnât stop repeating.
Miguel sat back in his chair, legs spread wide, hands resting on his thighs like anchors holding him in place. The screen before him glowed dimlyâ soft, intimate. A warm yellow hue spilled across the feed, and steam drifted along the lens like a curtain being drawn.
And she had no idea she was being watched.
He knew it was wrong. Knew it with the kind of clarity that should have stopped him.
But his hand hovered near his waistband anyway.
His breath had started to deepen, not quite heavy yet, but close. Like something was pulling at the edge of him. Drawing him in. The intimacy of it. The innocence. The quiet of her movements. She was humming and he could almost feel it vibrating in his chest like something secret, something not meant for him but taken anyway.
He watched the water slide down her collarbone, the way her lips parted as she sighed. His breathing slowed, then hitched. The warmth in his gut bloomed into something heavier. Hungrier. His hand twitched at his thigh.
Iâd treat you so well.
The thought struck him suddenly. Loud. Undeniable.
He shuddered as he palmed himself through his pants.
âHey, Miguel?â Lylaâs voice snapped into the room like a live wire.
Miguel flinched.
Hard.
He sat bolt upright, breath caught, the moment shattered like glass beneath a boot. His screen scrambled. The feed cut out. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like heâd just been caught mid-crime.
Lylaâs projection hovered in the air beside him, glitching slightly as if sensing the tension. She paused, blinking at his sudden shift.
âUh⊠you okay?â Her voice was light, but her tone was cautious.
Miguel didnât move. His eyes stayed forward, cold, burning.
âSystem flagged some unauthorized data feeds. From an untracked Earth,â she added, slower this time. âMiguel, youâre pulling visual from a domestic node⊠in a private residence. Thatâsââ
âTurn off.â His voice cracked out like a gunshot.
Lyla hesitated. âMiguel⊠just tell me what youâreââ
âI said turn the fuck off.â His head whipped toward her, eyes blazing.
Lyla disappeared. No protest. No glitchy sign-off.
Silence returned to the room.
Miguel sat back slowly, breath still jagged, shame licking at the edge of his consciousness but unable to cut deep enough to matter. Not anymore. Not when it came to her.
His screen stayed dark for a long time.
But not forever.
Never forever.
đ
It had been months.
Too many, maybe. But he stopped keeping track a long time ago. Somewhere along the line, slipping into her world became less like a trespass and more like⊠returning. Like syncing with something he was always meant to be part of.
Heâd perfected it; watching her from just far enough, never close enough to distort the image. She didnât know he was there, and that made it easier to pretend she could know him. That if things were different, if everything hadnât splintered when it did, sheâd look at him the same way she looked at the man she thought was Miguel.
The man who wasnât him.
At first, he hated that version of himself in a dull, detached kind of way. A quiet ache in his chest that flared whenever he saw her kiss him goodbye. It was envy, sure. But something more complicated. Something like curiosity.
What made that version of him worthy of her? What did he have that Miguel didnât?
It gnawed at him.
The variant laughed more. Talked softer. He didnât drag ghosts around behind his eyes. He didnât flinch when she touched him. He didnât correct her absentmindedly or talk over her when he got excited. He was steady. Gentle in the ways that mattered.
Good, in the ways Miguel wasnât.
It didnât hit him all at once. No, realizations like that rarely do. They come slowly, like water seeping into a cracked foundation. A week ago, he watched her fall asleep on the couch with her head in her Miguelâs lap. And instead of anger, he felt⊠small.
Like he was the shadow in the doorway. The leftover.
It felt unjust.
He was the one who had sacrificed. Who had bled, and lost, and clawed his way through timeline after timeline trying to make something right. He was the one who saw the truth, who understood how fragile it all was. He earned respect the hard way. Through grief. Through discipline. Through control.
The question kept circulating in his mind. Why did this version of him, this soft, sunny, undeserving echo, get her? Get this life?
Tonight, it crystallized.
He hadnât meant to follow them. Or maybe he did. He was just⊠there. The rain was light, barely misting, but it clung to his skin and like static. They were just returning home. Grocery bags in hand. Her hair tucked under a hood. She bumped her shoulder against him and said something that made him smile.
He smiled.
Not the tired, closed-lipped version Miguel practiced in glass reflections. No, this one beamed. It stretched his face into something warm. Familiar. Easy.
And she looked at him like the sun lived in his chest. Like there was nothing else in the world she trusted more.
Miguelâs hands curled into fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms.
He hated him.
He hated him.
But not for the obvious reasons. Not just because he had her. Not just because he was living the life Miguel couldnât touch.
He hated him because⊠he was better. Not stronger. Not smarter. Not braver.
Better.
There was ease in him. Softness. A gentleness Miguel had long since ground out of himself.
He doesnât even know what he has.
He wanted to believe that. Desperately.
But deep down, in the part of himself he never looked too closely at⊠he knew that wasnât true.
His variant did know. He did deserve her.
He had spent all this time hating the other man. Cursing him. Fantasizing about tearing the life out from under him.
But he had never once stopped to ask why.
He watched her lean into his chest, soaked hair falling over her cheeks. She said something low, and his alternate laughed. A full laugh, unguarded. Miguel flinched.
Now he knew.
He stared at them, frozen in place as they climbed the steps to her building, their building, he had started calling it in his head. His throat felt dry, as if the air had thinned out around him. The moment kept going, and he didnât move. Couldnât.
Because suddenly it wasnât him he was looking at anymore.
He saw the version of himself he could never become.
Everything he had tried so hard to become.
And she loved him. Because of it.
She clung to him.
Because he wasnât Miguel. Not really.
How could she know that the broken thing watching from across the street ever even existed?
The thought cracked something open in his chest.
That was the moment it shifted.
No more pretending it didnât matter. No more half-truths and fragile fantasies. This wasnât just some stolen life. It wasnât just about love.
It was about being seen. Being chosen. Being enough.
And he never would be, not while that man existed.
He felt it settle in his bones, cold and final.
There was no room for two of them.
Only one could have her.
And now, at last, Miguel knew who deserved that life.
He let out a breath through his nose. Slow. Shaky.
Heâd been living in the illusion that he could wait this out. That the universe would hand him a door. But the universe didnât owe him a goddamn thing.
If he wanted that life, his life, heâd have to take it.
And it wouldnât be easy. Wouldnât be clean. But it would be final.
He looked up, eyes locked on the window where theyâd just disappeared inside. The light flickered on. Shadows moved across curtains.
There could only be one Miguel OâHara.
And it would not be the better one.
It would be the one who wanted it more.
đ
It happens on a late Wednesday night.
The kind of late where the worldâs gone soft at the edges. Where streetlights buzz quietly, casting long, amber shadows that stretch out like reaching hands. Everythingâs hushed. Still. Like the night is holding its breath.
Miguelâs been following him for three blocks now.
No mask. No tech. Just himself. Plain clothes and silent, drifting through the shadows like he belongs there. He knows the route, the tempo. His alternate always walks home alone on Wednesdays. Always takes the scenic streets. A small indulgence. He likes the trees, the quiet. Always did.
His alternate walks with a relaxed posture, one hand in his coat pocket, the other clutching a thermos. That same stupid thermos she bought himâgreen, dented at the rim. Heâd complained about the color when she gave it to him. She laughed, told him it matched his soul. He doesnât know heâs being followed. Of course he doesnât.
Heâs never had to look over his shoulder.
Miguel keeps his distance.
Heâs not rushing. Not yet. He doesnât want to rush this.
He wants to see him.
Miguel watches the way his head tilts when he passes by the bakery, the way his eyes flick up to the apartment windows above, like heâs checking on something he loves.
Someone.
He watches the way his alternate looks up at the leaves above him, lets the wind touch his face. Thereâs something unguarded about him. Open. Like he doesnât believe anything bad could ever happen to him.
Miguel trails him down the long sidewalk, past the park, toward the alley shortcut. Heâs calm. Focused. No nerves. No panic. That ugly truth was beginning to rise up, something awful and gut wrenching. The decision was made long ago. Long before heâd ever admit. Tonight is only the execution.
Miguelâs steps are slower now. Heavy with purpose. Measured.
He waits until the alternate steps into the alley across their apartment. The shortcut he always takes on nights like this.
Miguel closes the distance.
Heâs silent as he approaches. Precise. Controlled.
When he grabs him, itâs with full forceâone arm around the neck, the other locking down his shoulders, pinning his arms before he can react.
Itâs not elegant. Itâs brutal. Quick and decisive. A real, human chokehold.
The alternate jerks hard, but Miguelâs already behind him, taller, stronger, prepared. His legs kick against the sidewalk. He drops the thermos. Miguel kicks it away without looking.
Thereâs no weapon. No blade. No blood.
Just pressure and silence.
The struggle is fast and ugly. Miguelâs breathing stays even, arms locked in place as the alternate thrashes, confused, panicked. His body fights before his mind catches up. It always happens that way.
Then it shifts.
Then he starts to understand.
He makes a low sound, a choked-off, hurt question.
The alternateâs hand reaches up weakly, fingers brushing Miguelâs coat like he wants to hold onto something, anything.
Miguel tightens his grip.
Deliberately.
Thereâs no rush. No anger. Just the inevitable coming home.
The logical conclusion to a flawed equation.
âI know,â he mutters against the back of his ear. âI know.â
The alternateâs legs weaken. One arm flails, then fails. He collapses slowly in Miguelâs hold, knees buckling under him. His mouth is open but no sound comes out. His chest heaves. And then, at last: he drops.
Miguel lowers him to the pavement gently. Not because he cares. But because itâs his body now. His life. His clothes. His name.
The alternate gasps once, still conscious. His head rests against the concrete, eyes fluttering open. Trying to focus. He sees Miguel, really sees him, for the first time.
âYouâŠâ he breathes, voice cracked and small.
Miguel crouches beside him. Doesnât answer right away.
He just looks at him.
Itâs strange, how much they really do look alike. Same face. Same frame. But his alternate feels smaller now. Softer. Even dying, thereâs kindness in his eyes.
That makes it worse.
âIâve watched you,â he says, low. âFor months.â A small shudder runs through the alternateâs body. âI used to think I hated you,â Miguel says quietly. âBut thatâs not it.â
The alternate coughs, the motion barely registering. His hand twitches against the pavement. Miguel leans a knee into his larynx, just hard enough to keep him from breathing.
He leans in closer. Their shadows overlapping.
âYou were good. Better. You made it look so easy. Loving her. Letting her love you. You didnât have to earn it. You just breathed and it was enough.â
The alternate blinks slowly. The light in his eyes starts to dim.
âYou donât deserve this. But I need it.â
Thereâs a beat of stillness.
And for the briefest second, he feels the ache of something worse than rage: pity.
âShe wonât even know,â he whispers. âSheâll never have to.â
Miguel sits there for a long moment. Still crouched beside him, hands pressed to the ground like heâs anchoring himself to the scene.
âIâm sorry,â he whispers.
Itâs not sarcasm. Itâs not bitter.
Itâs genuine.
But thenâitâs done.
The last breath slips from his lips. The eyes go still.
Itâs almost poetic, he thinks. Heâs died to himself.
But the thought is flitting, and itâs not long before he moves.
Quickly and efficient. He drags the body deeper into the alley across the complex, props it up just long enough to strip the jacket, the undershirt, the boots. The alternate had been wearing a clean layer underneath: thermals, fresh.
Miguel pulls them on.
They fit. Of course they do.
He wipes down his own prints. Folds his old clothes. Shoves them into a canvas bag heâs already packed with the portal device. Thumbs open a thin, glowing portal: unstable, temporary, tethered to coordinates he picked at random weeks ago. An empty stretch of barren wasteland on a dead Earth. No civilization. No life. No trace.
He drags the body into the open mouth of the portal. Careful not to leave marks.
He stares at the body one last time. At the man who had everything. Who was everything.
Then he closes the portal.
Gone like he never existed.
He died believing he mattered, and that was more than Miguel ever had.
He's always been good at cleanup. At control.
All that was left, was to go home.
đ
The walk up to the door feels longer than it should.
His legs move, but the rest of him stays caught in the moment before. The scrape of the pavement under his knees, the weight of the body going still beneath his hands, the faint sound his duplicate made as the last breath rattled in his throat. Miguel keeps replaying it in his head, trying to hold onto the clarity that pushed him this far.
But now?
Now thereâs just silence. And the dull thump of his heart in his ears.
Heâs climbing stairs that have never belonged to him but somehow feel familiar under his boots. He knows the chipped edge on the third step. He knows the loose tile by the door. Heâs memorized them. Watched them. He lived outside this life so long he started believing it was already his.
But it wasnât.
Not until now.
His hand lingers on the doorframe. Itâs painted white, slightly scuffed near the bottom from careless shoes. His other hand drifts to the keys in his pocket, warm from the heat of his body. His keys now. The ones he pulled from a coat that still smelled like detergent and clean skin and comfort.
He pulls it out slowly, stares at it for a second. A stupid little piece of metal. But this is the final gate. The last threshold.
He can barely breathe.
His fingers tremble as he fits it into the lock.
The sound it makes as it turnsâsoft, familiar, welcomingânearly undoes him. His stomach flips. His skin prickles. Thereâs sweat at the nape of his neck and on the backs of his knees. He feels like heâs about to walk into a dream, or a memory he was never allowed to have.
The scent hits first. Itâs warm. Domestic. Like detergent, candle wax, and the faintest trace of something cooked earlier in the evening and now gone cold. Itâs not just a smell, itâs a feeling. Familiar. Intimate. It curls around him like steam off a hot plate, sinking under his skin.
And sheâs there.
His heart almost stops.
Sheâs in the kitchen, back turned, curls tied up in a messy knot, sleeves pushed above her elbows as she rinses a glass in the sink. Sheâs wearing one of his shirtsâhis shirt nowâand humming softly to herself. The sound is quiet. The kind of sound you make when you trust the walls around you. When you believe youâre safe.
His eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and his breath catches when he sees her.
She turns at the sound of the door shutting.
âOhâhey,â she says, blinking in surprise, but it melts into a smile thatâs so natural, so casual it almost knocks the air from his lungs. âYouâre home late.â
His mouth goes dry.
He canât move. Canât speak. He just stares.
Up close, sheâs more than he imagined. More real. Her skin has texture. Her eyes arenât perfect, theyâre tired, a little puffy from the day. Her shirt is wrinkled. Her nails chipped. She is breathtaking.
Sheâs a person.
Not a fantasy. Not a memory. Not a silhouette behind glass. She is here. Breathing. Blinking at him. Waiting.
She sets the glass down, drying her hands on a towel without taking her eyes off him. Her expression softens, concern flashing briefly across her face. âEverything okay?â
Miguel just stands there.
His jaw works, but no words come out.
Sheâs looking at him. Not through him, not across the street, not behind a pair of sunglasses. At him. Like he belongs there. Like she knows him.
And he realizes thenâthis is the first time sheâs ever really looked him in the eye.
He nods, stiffly.
âIâyeah,â he says, voice a fraction too low. Itâs thick. Dry. It doesnât sound like him.
Not yet.
Her brow furrows. She tilts her head the way she always does when sheâs trying to read someone, and it terrifies him for a momentâbecause what if she sees it? What if she sees him?
But she doesnât.
She crosses the room and wraps her arms around his waist like itâs second nature, like sheâs done it a thousand times. Her body presses into his and he freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, breath caught in his chest.
He gasps, quiet, involuntary, and stands stiff as her cheek presses against his chest. Her skin is so soft he almost flinches. Her body is warm, heavy, trusting. She smells like lotion and shampoo and sleep.
Thereâs a giddy feeling that bubbles in his chest.
This is it. This is what he stole. What he earned. The life he fought for, crawled toward, tore open with his bare hands.
And now sheâs in his arms.
A soft sound leaves his throat. He doesnât know what it is. Relief. Shock. Joy. It almost sounds like laughter, but itâs broken at the edges.
She hums lightly, content against him. Like this is just another Wednesday night. Like nothingâs changed. Like she doesnât have any idea that the man sheâs wrapped around isnât the man she married.
âI missed you,â she murmurs into his shirt.
He closes his eyes.
Heâs dizzy.
âI know,â he says, quietly.
His arms move on instinct now, wrapping around her slowly, pulling her in closer. He feels her melt into it, sighing softly as she relaxes into his chest. Her fingers curl against his back.
He almost says I missed you too, but the words wonât come.
Itâs too much.
Heâs never felt anything this close before. This real. The giddiness in his chest shifts into something else entirelyâsomething messier, sharper. Not desire. Not quite love. Something like belonging, but sick at the edges.
Her home is his now.
Her arms, her voice, the quiet of her body against hisâitâs all his.
Finally.
She hugged him like nothing changed, and he smiled.
Because she didnât know it had.
âIâm home now,â he whispers.
And he means it.
please let me know if youâd like to be added to the SDILLH or ATSV taglist to be notified everytime i post, xx
Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isnât right. And deep down, youâre afraid to ask why.
SERIES WARNINGS: sexual content, non/dubcon, abuse, toxic relationships, abuse of power, manipulation, mentions of violence, mentions of murder, mental health, stalking, perverted behaviors, trauma bonds, baby trapping, etc. you are responsible for your own media consumption. heed warnings, be safe!
Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isnât right. And deep down, youâre afraid to ask why.
CW: paranoia, implications of ptsd
series masterlist đ chapter one
đ
Love just didnât seem to do it justice.
What you felt for your husband was deeper than that; than a word. It was something you felt to your very core, something that willed you to get up every morning. Something that made you stare off at him in the utmost admiration and respect. Something that something that you knew youâd never be the same without.
You couldnât put a name on it, just yet.
He noticed you long before you ever noticed him; before you even spoke, before he ever got close enough to hear your voice. Heâd see you across the campus courtyard, tucked into a corner of the library, laughing with your friends outside the lecture hall. You werenât the loudest or the flashiest person in the room, but you had this presence, something that pulled him in before he could stop himself.
He thought you were pretty. Too pretty. Distractingly so. The kind of pretty that made him stare longer than he should, that made him forget whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing. And that annoyed him.
Miguel was focusedâalways had been. School, goals, the futureâthatâs what mattered. Not distractions.
But somehow, you became the exception.
It started small. A few stolen glances, a few chance encounters. He never meant to hover, but he found himself sitting a few seats away from you in class, lingering in places he knew youâd be, listening when you spoke just to learn the way your voice lilted at the end of your sentences. Making excuses for why he was walking by the science building when his classes were on the opposite side of campus. He knew youâd be passing that way.
You were just constant. sitting a few rows ahead of him in lecture, showing up at the same campus coffee shop, appearing in the library at the same ungodly hours he did.
By some lick of fate, as he would call it, you ended up semester long partners for your chemistry class, and it was smooth sailing from there.
Late-night study sessions that turned into deep conversations about life. Coffee dates that werenât technically dates but still felt like something more. You stole his hoodies, and he let you, even when he grumbled about it. He carried your books when your bag was too heavy, always acting like it was no big deal.
You became his person. And he, yours.
You balanced him. Where he was intense, you were easygoing. Where he was too serious, too focused, you reminded him to breathe, to live. You challenged him in a way no one else dared to, never letting him get away with his usual brooding, always pushing back when he got too cocky.
And Miguel? He kept you steady. He was your anchor, your protector before you even realized you needed one. If someone gave you a hard time, Miguel was there, looming, intimidating, making it very clear that no one messed with you. When you got overwhelmed, when life felt like too much, he was the one who sat beside you, grounding you with his quiet presence, his steady, unwavering loyalty.
By the time your freshman year ended, it was obvious to everyone: friends, professors, even strangers, that you and Miguel OâHara were inseparable.
And by senior year, he knew he was going to marry you.
And in the going-on eight years youâd known Miguel, youâd begun to know him like the back of your hand.
He was an early bird.
More often than not, youâd find yourself waking in an empty bed. Mornings in your home were never rushed, but they werenât lazy, either. They started early, usually before the sun had fully risen. Heâd never been the type to sleep in, no matter how long heâd worked the night before or how much youâd pester him to stay in bed. Heâd be up before the sun, every morning. Sometimes youâd frown, approaching him with a small complaint, wanting to have just one quiet morning with him. Heâd always say, âWe already did, quierda.â Which wasnât exactly a lie. He did enjoy quiet mornings with you; his arms reaching for you instinctively to pull you close and hold you a while before he got up.
Itâs not like you could've known or indulged in it though, too busy sleeping like a rock at the bottom of the ocean.
He had a habit of checking on you every morning, especially when you were still in bed. His footsteps would approach softly, the creak of the floorboards almost imperceptible, before heâd pause at the doorframe, leaning casually against it, eyes taking in the scene. It wasnât out of insecurity, but rather a quiet affection. He wanted to see you safe, to see you at peace, even if his restlessness didnât allow him to be.
His first action of the day was always the same; a cup of black coffee, strong and bitter. You knew this because youâd wake to the smell of it every morning, your own warm mug placed on the nightstand, a small gesture that showed he was thinking of you. You knew he didnât need the caffeineâ his body was accustomed to early mornings and long daysâ but it was ritual, and you knew he valued that. Some form of routine to keep him grounded.
And when you finally aroused, youâd find him sitting at the kitchen counter, fingers curled around his own mugâ a cute little one youâd found shopping one dayâ staring out the small window thoughtfully.
Sometimes, heâd make you breakfast. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, or something simple yet comforting. The kind of meals he thought you would appreciate, even if he wasnât a chef. When he would hand you a plate, heâd hover for a second longer than necessary, a soft âHereâ leaving his lips, his gaze unwavering as if waiting for your approval. When you thanked him, heâd nod, but there was always a subtle tension in his posture like he was uncertain if it was truly good enough.
Youâd have to swallow a whole bite first before he relents.
Heâs handy.
What was once a slow, occasional plink had turned into an incessant, irregular patter, a maddening little reminder that the kitchen sink was in rebellion.
âOtra vez con esto?â Heâd muttered under his breath, staring down at the persistent drip-drip-drip of the kitchen sink. Itâd been leaking on and off for a while. Most of the time you tried to fix it yourself, but he would always chide you if caught.
You watched as he crouched beside the sink, pulling open the cabinet doors to inspect the pipes. He reached under the sink, fiddling with the shut-off valve. The stretch of his back was unfairly attractive, the way his muscles flexed under his shirt as he reached in making it very difficult to focus on the issue at hand.
You heard a soft grunt of effort, followed by a quiet âMierdaâ when something rattled loose.
You sat on the counter, watching as he turned his back under the sink, muttering under his breath. His broad shoulders barely fit in the cramped space beneath the cabinets, and his long legs stretched out awkwardly as he worked.
With a quiet grunt, Miguel adjusted the faucet, tightening the connections beneath the sink. Every movement was deliberate and controlled, he was always like that, hyper-focused when solving a problem. He muttered to himself in Spanish, something about cheap pipes and how everything these days was built like basura.
âYou okay down there? Do I need to call a plumber?â you asked, biting back a smirk.
You smirked, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. âYou know, this is kind of a Handy Manny situation.â
He paused slowly, peeking his head out from under the sink. âWhat?â
âYou know, Handy Manny? That kidsâ show?â You grinned. âWith the talking tools?â
He blinked at you, unimpressed. âMe estĂĄs comparando con un muñeco animado?â
âWell, you are handy,â you teased, swinging your legs playfully. âAll you need are talking tools.â
Miguel exhaled sharply, turning back to the pipes. âPor favor, the last thing I need is a wrench that talks back.â
âYou mean, besides me?â
He let out a short laugh, the sound low and warm in his chest. âExactamente.â
You watched as he tightened a bolt, his forearms flexing with the movement. It was unfair how effortlessly strong he was, how easily he fixed things like it was second nature. There was something almost soothing about the way he worked, focused, precise, completely in control.
After a few more adjustments, Miguel sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. He reached up to turn the faucet handleâ no more leak.
âY ya.â He stood, towering over you, smug as ever. âFixed. No talking tools necessary.â
You clapped dramatically. âWow, amazing. Youâre so strong and capable.â
Miguel rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. âDame un beso,â he ordered, tapping his cheek.
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss where he pointed. But before you could pull away, his hand found your waist, tugging you closer, stealing another kissâdeeper, slower, filled with that unmistakable Miguel arrogance.
When he pulled back, he smirked. âEso is the proper payment.â
You huffed, rolling your eyes.
Handy Manny never charged for his services.
And how could you forget the bed frame?
The bed had been getting worse.
At first, it was just an occasional creak when you shifted in the middle of the night. Annoying, but bearable. Only causing noise when you exert too much force. Then, it turned into an insufferable symphony of squeaks at the slightest movement. Shifting? Squeak. Rolling over? Squeak. You knew it was tearing up his nerves, no matter how he tried to ignore it. You could see the telltale furrow of his brows and the very slight roll of his eyes into the back of his head. And finally, the last straw: Miguel had sat down on the edge one night, and the entire frame wobbled so violently that you both went still, exchanging a look.
He exhaled slowly. âNo. Absolutely not.â Heâd muttered. âIâm fixing this. Right now.â
So, youâd sat cross-legged on the mattress, watching as Miguel crouched at the foot of the bed, tightening bolts with the kind of intense focus that made him mutter to himself. His shirt was slightly damp from exertion, clinging to the defined muscles of his back, sleeves pushed up to reveal the thick lines of his forearms. Every time he tightened a screw, you could see the strength behind the movementâ the ease with which he handled the stubborn metal.
âShouldâve done this way sooner.â He grumbled.
âI told you it was getting bad.â
Miguel shot you a look. âSĂ and I was too distracted to care.â
Heat licked up your spine at the implication. âWell, maybe if you werenât so roughââ
âNo empieces,â he warned, but his smirk gave him away.
You bit back a grin, stretching out on your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows. âItâs true, though. You donât know your own strength.â
He huffed but didnât argue. The room fell into a steady rhythm of quiet metal-on-wood sounds, Miguelâs large hands moving with ease as he tightened, adjusted, and reinforced the frame. You let yourself watch himâ how his brows knit together in concentration, how the muscles in his forearms flexed as he worked.
It was almost too attractive, watching him fix things, watching him take care of something just because you needed it.
A few minutes later, Miguel gave the frame a solid shake. It barely moved.
âShould be good now,â he said, rising to his full height. âYa no se va a romper.â
You blinked up at him innocently. âNo squeaking?â
âNo squeaking.â
âNo wobbling?â
Miguelâs eyes narrowed slightly as if sensing where this was going. âNo wobbling.â
You hummed, rolling onto your back, and stretching out luxuriously on the mattress. âMmm. We should probably test it, just to be sure.â Miguel let out a short laugh, running a hand down his face.
âWhat? Quality assurance is important.â
He sighed, stepping closer, bracing a knee against the mattress. His large hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, caging you in as he leaned down.
Heâs a geek.
You both had been no stranger to the distressed whirring of your old laptop. Every time you powered it on, it wheezed like it was taking its last breath, the fan groaning under the weight of existence. It was a surprise that it hadnât started smoking. It was a keepsake, youâd always have to remind him when he shot a telling look your way, eyebrows raised insinuatingly as he glanced between you and the old thing. You failed to mention that the only reason youâd bought it was because it was your favorite color.
That night heâd been sat comfortably on the couch while you opted for the floor, laptop sat upon the coffee table. Originally, heâd been reading a novel but it was long discarded after you distracted him with typing. He crossed his arms, staring at your ancient laptop as if it had personally offended him. He had been so patient, but that night, as you casually clicked away at the screen, seemingly unbothered by the relic you were using, he finally snapped.
âThis thing is hideous, I just canât.â
âIt still works, Miguel.â Youâd dismiss, waving him off as he loomed over your shoulder. Youâd have to, otherwise, heâd get all in a stupor about GPUs and CPUs andâ
âDo you even know how computers work?â he blurted, leaning forward.
You didnât bother to look over your shoulder, âMmm, vaguely.â
âVaguely?â He scoffed. âOkay, let me enlighten you. See, inside that fossil you call a computer, thereâs a CPUââ See. âThink of it like the brain. Now, when you ask it to do literally anythingâ open a file, load a webpage, breatheâ it sends instructions through circuits at high speeds. But your CPU? Itâs so old, it probably needs a walker to get those instructions across the motherboard. And donât even get me started on your RAMââ
âOh, please donât get started on the RAM,â you teased, still typing.
He ignored your teasing; he was on a roll now. âRandom Access Memory, cariña. Itâs supposed to help your system multitask, but yours is so outdated itâs like asking a goldfish to remember where it left its keys. And that hard drive? Iâve seen abuelitas move faster than that thing. Every time you save a file, I swear I can hear it groaning.â Though he was behind you, you knew he was speaking with his hands. âThe thermal paste has definitely dried up by now, which means the heat distribution is trashââ
You smirked, finally turning to look at him. âOh⊠So what youâre saying is⊠itâs still working.â
âAre you even listening? Barely, BebĂš, itâs barely working.â He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated.
âRight, right. The⊠thermals and the⊠heatâŠâ
He groaned, pinching his nose, âThatâs the same thing.â
You turn back to your laptop with a small grin, âMiguel, if you wanted to lecture me about computers you couldâve just asked.â
His jaw clenched, and to someone who didnât know him, theyâd think he was upset. âI wouldnât have to if you would just get a new one.â
âA new one?â You hummed sweetly, âI dunno⊠this one has character.â
He threw his hands up, you know because you could feel the waft of air hit your neck. âIt has lag! It has artifacts! It has a death wish!â
You laughed softly, turning to peek at his expression, âYouâre a cutie when you nerd out.â
He huffed, looking awayâ not before you noticed the very slight red hue on his ears. âIâm not nerding out, Iâm being practical.â
âUh-huh⊠So, tell me more about heat distribution?â
Miguel groaned again, but he could already feel himself giving in, because despite his frustration, despite the fact that he knew you were messing with him on purpose; Heâd explain it all anyway.
âOne of these days, Iâm just going to build you a new one while you sleep. And when you wake up itâll be too late for you to argue, and Iâm going to make sure I personally burn that damn thing.â He chided, but you knew it was in good spirits.
Heâd kept his promise. Well, partially.
He hadnât waited until you fell asleep like he said he would, but he did build you a new one. Hustling into the house with a large box in his arms, placing it onto the living room floor carefully. Ironically, youâd been on the couch, typing away at your precious laptop when he brought it in.
Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and began to build the computer from scratch. He paid no mind to the instruction manual, tossing it carelessly to the side. Heâd built furniture, fixed appliances, hell, even rewired the kitchen lights without so much as a passing glance towards instructions. It amazed you every time.
Within a few hours, he was done. Heâd powered it on and crossed his arms, waiting a few moments. He shot you a glance over his shoulder, âHear that?â
You scoffed at his antics.
The computer was silent.
Heâs the sweetest thing.
Heâs not overtly romantic, or eccentric in the way he expresses himself. While he does buy you gifts, heâs not especially flashy either.
But he is sweet, so sweet, in the ways that matter.
Heâs sweet in the way he takes care of you without being asked.
Miguel notices the little things. If you sigh too much, rub your temples one too many times, or let your shoulders droop after a long day, heâs already moving before you can even say a word. He kneads at the knots in your back with those big, careful hands, pressing just right. He makes sure you eat, cooking something warm and filling even if heâs not hungry. If you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed like itâs nothing, tucking the blanket around you with a tenderness that contradicts his sharp edges.
The way he always adjusted things to fit your needsâ your favorite mug always within reach, the blanket already warm before you curled up on the couch. The way he memorized the way you liked your food, how you took your coffee, the exact moment in a movie where youâd start to get sleepy and lean against him.
Heâs sweet in the way he worries about you.
Heâll act annoyed when you forget your jacket, but later, youâll find it draped over your shoulders, without a word. If you so much as shiver, heâs pressing his body against yours, wrapping you up in his warmth like itâs second nature. When you go out, he walks on the side of the street closest to the cars, and if a crowd gets too thick, his hand finds your lower back, guiding you through it instinctively.
He doesnât tell you to be careful outright. Instead, itâs âCall me when you get there.â Or âText me if you need me.â Or the simple way his jaw tightens when you do something reckless because heâd rather die than see something happen to you.
Heâs sweet in the way he listens.
Miguel remembers everything you say, even the things you donât expect him to. Youâll mention once that a certain dessert reminds you of your childhood, and weeks later, heâll bring it home like itâs no big deal. If you ramble about something you love, he listens, really listens, even if he doesnât fully understand it, because it matters to you.
Heâs sweet in the way he lets you see him.
Miguel is used to being strong, to keeping things locked up tight. But with you? He lets his guard down in ways he never does with anyone else. He lets you see him tired, lets you see the worry in his eyes when he thinks you arenât looking. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when heâs exhausted and lets you press sleepy kisses to his jaw without pulling away.
He lets himself need you, and thatâs the sweetest thing of all.
Because for all his strength, all his stubbornness, your husband loves fiercely.
And when he loves you, he loves you entirely.
Heâs caring.
It was past midnight when heâd rolled over in bed, reaching out instinctively.
His hand met empty sheets.
Frowning, he blinked himself awake, his senses sharpening as he scanned the dimly lit room. Then he heard it; The faint shuffle of movement from the living room.
With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself up and padded toward the soft glow of the lamp.
You were curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring blankly at the TV. A show played in the background, forgotten. The glow cast soft shadows on your face, highlighting the tired slope of your expression.
Miguel leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching you.
Then, without a word, he walked over and crouched in front of you. His hands found your knees, rubbing slow, grounding circles through the blanket. âOtra vez?â he asked, voice quiet.
You nodded, not needing to explain.
Miguel exhaled through his nose, then shifted, sliding onto the couch beside you. He didnât press, didnât ask questions. He simply opened his arms, a silent invitation.
You hesitated for half a second before sinking into him, letting his warmth pull you in. His chin rested atop your head, his large hand smoothing over your back in steady, rhythmic motions.
âEstoy aquĂ,â he murmured against your hair. âSiempre aquĂ.â
You sighed, closing your eyes, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little.
And in the steady, quiet comfort of his presence, you knew. Miguel didnât need words to remind you that you were loved.
Heâs very considerate.
His anger, like everything else about him, is intense. Itâs a wildfire, quick to spark, quick to burn, leaving behind charred remains if he isnât careful. It has always been his curse; this need for control, this frustration when things slip through his fingers, this deep, unrelenting fury at the world when it doesnât bend the way he wants it to.
For a long time, he didnât care to control it. It was just a part of him. People knew to stay out of his way when his temper frayed, and if they didnâtâwell, they got what was coming.
But then there was you.
Suddenly, his anger wasn't just his problem. And the thought of that anger, his anger, hurting you, even unintentionally, terrified him.
So he tries. For you, he tries.
Itâs not perfect. He still clenches his jaw too tight sometimes. His hands still curl into fists when things donât go his way. But now, when the fire flares up in his chest, when frustration threatens to spill over, he doesnât let it consume him. He takes a breath. He walks away if he has to.
âIâm not mad at you,â he tells you, voice strained but careful because he never wants you to think itâs your fault. âJustâgive me a second, amor.â
He takes a moment to collect himself, push down the fire before it can burn too hot.
And he comes back every time.
He never storms off and doesn't return. He never lets you go to sleep upset. He'll always approach you after he's cooled off, placing a hand on the small of your back and speaking to you softly. He'll talk. And that's how you know he's trying.
"Lo siento," he murmurs sometimes, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm trying."
And you see it. You see the effort, the restraint, the ways he's learning. Not just for himself, but for you.
He attends therapy and has been for just over five years. Initially, he had been reluctant, having mixed feelings about being so vulnerable to a stranger. But over time, he grew to value the information he learned about his anger and himself. Though he's made great progress, he'll continue to show up because he believes it to be a good thing.
"Mi amor," he began once, his voice low and measured, âI know sometimes I... I let my anger get the best of me." His eyes searched yours, apologetic and sincere. "Pero, I'm working on it. I don't want to be the kind of man who scares you. I don't want to be the storm, the one who tears things apart. I want to be the calm after it, the one to build you back up.â
Heâs upheld thatâs promise all these years.
So, Love just couldnât possibly do it justice.
Heâs been too good to you over the years. Loved you just right without you having to teach him. He learned. He teaches himself how to be everything he needs to be for you. And in return you do the same. Youâve learned his mind, his quirks, his voice, his body, all engraved into your brain like a map. You know him, down to his very bones.
Indeed, you know your husband like the back of your very own hand.
ButâŠ
Lately, thereâs something amiss about your husband.
It started with little things. Fleeting moments that didnât hold any substantial significance, ones you could almost swear you imagined.
Miguel has always been a creature of habit, that no one could deny. You knew his routines just as well as your own. Him happening to pick up a new habit here and there wasnât innately strange. But the frequency was just weird.
He always takes his coffee black. No cream no sugarâ just bitter and strong. Always has since the day you met him.
The first time, you donât even catch it. You make his coffee, just like always, and hand it to him with a kiss to his cheek. He mutters a tired âGracias,â brings the mug to his lips, andâ
He pauses.
Itâs so brief you almost miss it. His grip on the mug tightens just slightly, his jaw tensing for the briefest second before he takes a careful sip.
You donât think much of it. Maybe heâs just tired. Maybe work is wearing on him more than usual. But you catch a glimpse of the look on his face, one you could only thing of as masked disgust.
But then it happens again.
And again.
And again.
One morning, you catch him subtly tipping his mug just a little too far when he brings it to his lipsâbut instead of drinking, he only lets the coffee brush his mouth before lowering it back down.
You frown. âNot thirsty?â
He blinks, looking at you as if he forgot you were watching. âHm?â
âYou barely drank any.â You nod toward the still-full mug in his hand.
For a second, his expression is unreadable. Then he exhales, shaking his head. âJust⊠thinking about work.â He takes another sip, this time actually drinking, and sets the mug down a little too quickly. âItâs fine.â
But something about the way he says it makes your stomach turn.
Itâs fine.
Not good. Not exactly what I needed. Just⊠fine.
But now, heâs treating it like a chore. Lifting the mug every few moments like heâs on autopilot. Like heâs drinking it out of pure obligation.
So the next morning, you test him.
You make two cups of coffee; one black, one with cream and sugar. You set them both down on the counter without saying a word, waiting to see which one he reaches for.
Miguel steps into the kitchen, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. He gives you a tired smile before reaching outâ
And then he stops.
His eyes flick between the two cups. Thereâs a look on his face, he contemplating something. But what? He shouldnât be hesitating. Miguel knows which one is his.
Then, slowly, he picks up the black coffee.
You watch closely as he brings it to his lips, taking the smallest sip possible. His throat moves as he swallows, his expression neutral, too neutral.
Then he smiles, setting the cup down. âThanks, cariño.â
It should reassure you. But it doesnât.
You try again.
So the next morning, you prepare two cups of coffeeâboth with cream and sugar.
You set them on the counter like usual, forcing yourself to act natural, even as your suspicion rises.
When Miguel walks into the kitchen, He leans in to press a kiss to your temple before reaching for the cup.
And he doesnât hesitate.
Your fight not to furrow your brows.
He takes a sip, a real one. Not the barely there brush of his lips against the rim. A full, deep swallow, like heâs been craving it. Thereâs no sign of discomfort, no hesitation, no barely-contained grimace like when he drinks his usual black coffee. If anything, he almost looks satisfied.
He hums. Itâs barely audible. But itâs unmistakable.
You stare at him. âIs it good?â
He hums in response, already reaching for another large sip.
Your fingers tighten around your own mug. âYou like it?â
Miguel sets the cup down, licking a stray drop of coffee from his lips before glancing at you.
And thatâs when he notices.
Youâre staring.
Youâre staring at him, your own coffee untouched in your hands, something unreadable in your eyes.
His face remains carefully neutral, but you catch itâthat flicker of something, that half-second of realization.
Miguel glances at you, his brow furrowing slightly at the odd tone in your voice. âYeah. Why?â
Miguel never drank sweet coffee. The first time you ever stole a sip of his years ago, youâd nearly gagged at how bitter it was. âHow do you drink this?â you had complained, nose scrunching. âItâs like burnt regret.â
Heâd smirked, smug. âThatâs how coffeeâs supposed to taste.â
And one the one occasion youâd make his coffee wrong, heâd pulled a face, set the cup down, and complained about how it was âruined.â He grumbled about it the whole way to work and forced himself to drink it just so it âwouldnât go to waste.â
So why was he so keen to it now? Why did he just wake up and suddenly detest his very specific preference?
Youâre pulled from your thoughts as he utters, âEverything okay, cariña?â His voice is smooth, unbothered, but thereâs an edge to it now.
You swallow, forcing yourself to nod. âYeah.â
âGood.â He picks up his coffee again, this time taking a slower sip. Deliberate. Controlled. When he sets it down, his eyes meet yours, studying you as intently as youâre studying him.
You try not to think about it too much.
Whatever, itâs just coffee.
But he stares.
Miguel as always had an intense gaze. It was something you loved about it him. His eyes were so expressive and warm when they danced over you, you could tell exactly what was on his mind with a simple glance.
Heâd always watch you softly when youâd do leisure things like folding laundry, or washing dishes, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
But now, thereâs⊠something behind his eyes.
Youâve got a habit of waking up in the middle of the night. Itâs not unusual for you to have nightmares, dreams haunted by old memories that youâd rather not speak about. And Miguel knows this; heâll usually awake to your shuffling, immediately going into comfort mode.
The first time, itâs unsettling. The second time, itâs terrifying.
Something rouses you from sleepânot a sound, not a touch, just a feeling. An eerie awareness that prickles at the edge of your subconscious, urging you awake. Your body stirs before your mind fully catches up, a slow drift to consciousness, your limbs heavy with sleep.
But the moment your eyes flutter open, you realize youâre not alone in your wakefulness.
Miguel is sitting up beside you.
At first, you donât understand. You blink against the dimness of the room, your vision hazy from sleep. The bedside lamp is still off, and the only light comes from the moon filtering through the blinds, casting faint silver lines across the bed.
You shift slightly, your brow furrowing. âMiguel?â
He doesnât answer immediately.
His body is angled toward you, broad shoulders hunched forward slightly, one arm resting against his knee. His face is mostly in shadow, but his eyes catch the faint light, dark and unreadable. His gaze sweeps over you; slowly, deliberately, like heâs committing every detail to memory.
Something in your chest tightens. You feel scared.
ââŠCanât sleep?â you murmur, your voice still thick with drowsiness.
A pause. Too long of a pause.
Then, finally, he blinks. âYeah,â he says, his voice low. âJust thinking.â
Itâs the same answer heâs given before, but this time, it doesnât feel right. Thereâs something too careful about the way he says it, something too measured in the way his lips form the words.
Your sleep-heavy mind tries to reason with itself. Maybe heâs just stressed. Work has always weighed on him. Maybe he had a bad dream. Maybe youâre just too groggy to read him properly.
And yetâŠ
The longer he sits there, the more your skin prickles.
Heâs still watching. Unblinking. Unmoving.
Normally, when Miguel couldnât sleep, heâd get up, rub at his face, sigh like the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders. Heâd lean over and kiss your temple, tell you to go back to sleep while he went to the kitchen for water.
But tonight, he does none of that.
Tonight, he just sits there. Watching.
Your hand shifts beneath the covers, reaching out instinctively. His skin is warm when your fingers brush his, but thereâs something wrong about the way he reacts. He stiffens slightly, as if he wasnât expecting it.
As if the sensation of your touch was something new.
Your heart does something uneasy in your chest.
âMiguel,â you say, a little more awake now. âAre you sure youâre okay?â
Yeah,â he says. And this time, you realizeâhe only looks away after he says it.
Like heâs remembering that heâs supposed to.
Something cold slips down your spine.
âJust go back to sleep.â He murmurs.
You should press further. Ask whatâs wrong, ask why heâs sitting there watching you in the middle of the night a weirdo. But you donât.
Because suddenly, you donât want to know the answer.
So instead, you let out a quiet hum, pretending to be reassured. You squeeze his hand once before turning onto your side, facing away from him.
You can still feel his gaze on you.
Even when you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. Even when minutes pass, stretching into something too tense, too unnatural.
You donât know how long it takes for him to finally lay back down.
But when he does, you donât sleep for the rest of the night.
That wasnât the only occasion.
Itâs early in the morning, the kind of groggy, half conscious moment where your body moves on autopilot. Youâre standing at the kitchen counter, stirring your coffee, when you get that feeling again; that creeping sensation of being watched.
It pricks at the back of your neck, a faint shiver running down your spine.
You glance up.
Heâs standing across the kitchen, holding his own mug, but he isnât drinking from it. His posture is easy, like he just happened to pause mid-step, but his eyes, his eyes donât match.
His eyes trace over your face, your hands, the slope of your shoulders; again, slow and meticulously.
Studying.
Itâs not a soft, affectionate gaze. Not the kind of look your husband gives you when he admires you absentmindedly.
Itâs closer to analysis.
Like heâs taking note of how you move, the way you hold your mug, the way your fingers tap lightly against the ceramic.
Your stomach tightens.
ââŠWhat?â you ask, forcing a small smile, voice still heavy with sleep.
He doesnât answer right away.
Then, too slowly, too carefully, he exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk. âNothing,â he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. âJust watching you.â
Just watching you.
You let out a soft chuckle, brushing it off, but when you turn back to your coffee, your hands feel clumsier than before.
His reactions are⊠off.
It happens on a lazy afternoon, the kind where neither of you have anywhere to be. The house is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside, the low murmur of a movie playing in the background.
Miguel is stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, while you sit curled up beside him. Itâs the kind of day thatâs comfortable, familiar.
Youâre scrolling through your phone, half paying attention to the screen, when something catches your eye. Itâs an old photo, years ago, back when you and Miguel had first started dating. A messy kitchen, flour dusting the countertops, Miguel standing behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your neck as he tried to stifle his laughter.
You smile at the memory and turn the screen toward him.
âBaby, remember this?â you ask, nudging him lightly.
Miguel looks over, his gaze settling on the image.
And then; there it is. That same, almost imperceptible pause.
Itâs quick, so quick that you might not have caught it if you werenât paying attention. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his lips part just barely before he smooths his expression over.
Then, just like before, he recovers.
âOf course I do,â he says, flashing you a small smile. He shifts, pulling you closer, his fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder. âYou got mad at me for getting flour in your hair.â
Your stomach clenches.
Thatâs true. That did happen.
But itâs not what you expected him to say first.
He should have groaned first. He should have rolled his eyes and said, âDonât remind me,â because you had absolutely destroyed him in that flour fight. He should have playfully griped about how he was still finding flour in his hair days later, how you had gotten it in places flour had no right being.
Instead, he chose a safe detail. One thatâs accurate, but not instinctive.
âThat was a mess,â you say, studying him carefully. âYou were the one who started it, though.â
Miguel huffs, shaking his head. âNo, that was you.â
No.
It was him.
It happened again that same day when you were watching a movie. Itâs one of your favorite traditions; watching an old movie together, something youâve both seen a hundred times. The kind of film where you already know all the lines, and youâre watching just for the quality time.
And Miguel has always been the worst about it.
He loves to mumble the words under his breath, just to annoy you. Sometimes heâll even beat the characters to their own lines, reciting them before they can, smirking when you groan and shove at his shoulder. Itâs a game. One thatâs been going on for years.
So when the movie reaches that scene,the one he never fails to ruin, you turn to him expectantly, waiting.
But he just sits there.
Silent, with a soft smile playing on his lips.
You hesitate. âYouâre not gonna say it?â
Miguel glances at you, confused. âSay what?â
You laugh, thinking heâs joking. âThe line. You always do.â
Thereâs a pause. A flicker of something in his expressionânot confusion. Not entirely. More like⊠recognition delayed by just a second too long.
Then he smiles, like itâs no big deal. âGuess Iâm giving you a break today.â
Your stomach knots.
Itâs such a small thing. Something no one else would think twice about.
But thatâs exactly why it sticks with you.
Because Miguel has never just forgotten to do this. He does it every single time. Itâs part of the routine. And heâs very big on routine.
And yet, this time, it didnât.
You donât say anything else. You let it go, pretend to focus back on the movie, but your mind keeps circling back to the same thought.
Heâs become eerily possessive.
The night air is crisp as you and Miguel walk home together, your fingers laced with his, the city alive around you. The streets are quieter in this part of town, the hum of traffic distant, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement.
It should be peaceful. It should be normal.
But something is off.
Miguel has been quiet for the past few blocks, his fingers curled a little too tightly around yours, his jaw set like heâs working through something in his head. You donât think much of it at first. Heâs probably had a long day, heâs likely tiredâ
âWho was that man?â
His voice is low, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
You glance up at him. âWhat?â
Miguel doesnât look at you. His eyes stay fixed ahead, unreadable. âThe man outside your office,â he clarifies. âThe one you were talking to.â
You blink, caught off guard. It takes you a second to even remember what heâs talking about. Then it clicksâEthan, a coworker from your team, just exchanging a few words as you left work.
You almost laugh, but something about Miguelâs tone makes it die on your lips.
âOh, that was Ethan,â you say, tilting your head at him. âHeâs a friend from work. We were just talking about a project.â
Miguelâs grip tightens.
Just for a second. Just enough for you to notice.
âEthan,â he repeats slowly, like heâs testing the name on his tongue.
You frown. âYeah. Miguel, it was nothing. Just small talk.â
He stays silent for a moment, and for the first time tonight, you feel it. The shift. The tension thickening the air, coiling in the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his grip on your hand doesnât relax.
And thenâ
âDid he touch you?â
You stop walking.
Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse ticking just a little too fast.
Miguel takes two more steps before realizing youâre not beside him anymore. He turns back, his expression still unreadable under the glow of the streetlights.
You shake your head slightly, trying to make sense of the question. âWhat?â
A chill runs down your spine.
His face is calm. Too calm. âI asked if he touched you.â
âWhat the hell kind of question is that?â Your voice is quiet, but firm.
Miguel doesnât flinch. Doesnât break eye contact. âAnswer me.â
Your stomach knots, heat rising to your cheeksânot in embarrassment, but in anger. âNo, Miguel. He didnât touch me. Why would you even ask me that?â
Something flickers in his eyes, but itâs gone before you can place it.
He exhales through his nose, his expression still carefully composed, but thereâs a sharpness to him nowâa barely restrained tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers flex at his sides.
âBueno,â he mutters, as if that settles it. As if that should reassure him.
It doesnât reassure you.
Because this is not normal.
A few weeks ago, he would have laughed, teased you, maybe thrown an arm around your shoulders with that smug, boyish smirk and said something like, âShould I be worried, cariño?â
But now?
Miguel just accused you of something you donât even understand.
Your chest feels tight. âMiguel, whatâs going on with you?â
âNothing,â he mutters, shaking his head. âOlvĂdalo.â
âNo, I wonât forget it.â You take a step closer, searching his face. âWhere is this coming from?â
Miguel exhales sharply. And thenâbefore you can say anything elseâhe turns away.
The motion is too abrupt, too unnatural. He moves a few feet ahead, his back to you, hands braced on his hips as he stares down at the pavement. His shoulders rise and fall, deep and measured.
You donât follow him.
You just⊠watch.
Because this is the second time.
The second time youâve seen him struggle to control something he shouldnât have to control.
The second time youâve seen a flash of something unfamiliar behind his eyesâanger, frustration, something almost obsessive.
And for the second time, you think:
This isnât right.
The street feels eerily quiet now, the air thick with something unspoken.
Finally, Miguel exhales again. When he turns back around, his face is calmerâbut itâs wrong. Itâs not the calm that comes with genuine relief. Itâs forced, practiced.
Like a man trying to fix a mistake before you notice it.
âSorry,â he mutters, rolling his shoulders like heâs shaking something off. âLong day. I shouldnât haveââ
He explains himself.
You donât say anything.
A few weeks ago, he wouldâve never asked you a question like that. A few weeks ago, he wouldnât have reacted this way at all.
And⊠his anger.
Miguel has always been quick to frustration, but never with you.
Before, when things got too overwhelming, when the weight of his responsibilities, his past, his guilt became too much, he used to snap at the world, but never at you. And when he did let his anger slip in your presence, it was never like this.
Because he goes to therapy. He works to control it. He promised you he would never let it hurt you.
But tonight, you saw something else.
Heâs late coming home, later than usual. By the time he finally steps through the door, youâve been sitting at the dinner table alone for nearly an hour, his food gone cold. You hear the lock click, the sound of him sighing as he enters, but before you can even call out, heâs already heading straight for the kitchen, barely sparing you a glance.
You frown. âMiguel?â
Nothing.
You try again, softer this time. âHey. Everything okay?â
He moves with a tension you canât quite place, reaching into the fridge for a drink. You watch as he grips the handle of the bottle a little too tightly, his shoulders stiff, his movements sharp.
Somethingâs wrong.
âBad day?â you ask gently, standing from the table. You donât touch him yet, but you hover close, waiting for him to let you in.
For a moment, he doesnât say anything.
âYeah,â he mutters, taking a long drink. âSomething like that.â
His tone is clipped, and it throws you off. Miguel has had bad days beforeâplenty of them. But he usually lets you in, even just a little. Even if itâs just a sigh, a tired confession against your shoulder, a quiet âTe necesito, cariño.â
Tonight, thereâs none of that.
You try to lighten the mood. âWell, you missed dinner. And I worked hard on it, you know.â
A joke. Something small. You expect him to exhale, maybe roll his eyes fondly and kiss your temple like he always does.
Instead, he slams the bottle onto the counter.
The action makes you flinch.
Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping to him as he turns toward you, expression stormy.
âDo you think I fucking planned that?â His voice is sharp, cutting in a way youâve never heard before. âYou think I wanted to stay late at work? That I like coming home toââ
He stops himself. His hands clench into fists. His chest rises and falls, his breaths unsteady. Heâs seething.
Your stomach twists.
âMiguel,â you say carefully, stepping back just slightly, âI didnât meanââ
âThen what did you mean?â
Itâs not just frustration. This is anger. Not the controlled kind. Not the kind that heâs spent years learning to manage, to restrain, to never direct at you.
This is something else. Something raw. Something that doesnât belong to the man you know. Itâs simply not like him to go up over something so minuscule.
The silence stretches between you. Your heart pounds, your hands gripping the fabric of your sweater, and for the first time, you donât know what to say to him.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, itâs gone.
Miguel exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. His whole body sags, as if heâs just realized what heâs done. When he looks at you again, his gaze softensâbut itâs too late.
Youâre still staring at him, lips parted, awestruck.
Not in admiration. Not in love.
But in shock.
Because in all the years youâve known Miguel OâHara, in all the times heâs struggled to keep his temper in check. he has never looked at you like that.
Like he could hurt you.
He takes a step forward. âIââ
You step back. Itâs instinctive.
He stops. Something flickers across his face.
It looks almost like fear.
âCariña,â he tries again, softer now. His voice is low, pleading. âI didnât meanââ
âY-Youââ Your voice catches. You swallow hard, the pounding in your chest refusing to slow. âYou promised.â
Miguel freezes.
âYou promised me.â
When he started therapy. When he confessed how afraid he was of his own anger, how he never wanted it to touch you. When he held you in the quiet of the night and swore he would never let himself become the kind of man who made you flinch.
He knew of your background, and he knew he didnât want to create a space anything like for you.
His lips part, but no words come. He looks at you like he wants to fix this, like he wants to erase what just happened.
You lie awake that night, staring at the man beside you.
Miguel sleeps soundly, his broad chest rising and falling in the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. His face is peaceful, relaxed, familiar.
This is Miguel.
The man who kisses you slow in the mornings, who holds you a little too tight when he thinks youâre upset, who whispers mi vida against your skin like a prayer. The man who promised you, again and again, that he would never let his anger rule him. That he would always try. For you.
And yetâŠ
Your gaze traces over him, soft but heavy with something you donât want to name.
There are things. The way he forgets small things he should know, the way he stumbles on certain memories. The way he looks at you like heâs meeting you for the first time. He jumps at your touch, like itâs foreign.
The way his temper flares too quickly now, sharp and poorly controlled, a stark contrast to the man who spent years learning how to keep it in check.
The way he looks at you like heâs afraid of something you donât understand.
Your chest feels tight.
Because you love him. You love him.
And this is still Miguel.
But at the same timeâŠ
Something is different. Something is wrong.
Your fingers twitch against the sheets, aching to reach for himâto press against his skin, to feel the warmth of him and let it chase away this feeling creeping into your bones.
But you donât.
Instead, you just watch.
Watch the slow, steady rhythm of his breaths. The way his lips part slightly as he exhales. The crease between his brows that never truly fades, even in sleep.
You love him.
But for the first time since you met Miguel OâHara, you donât trust what youâre seeing.
Thereâs something amiss.
You couldnât put a name on it, just yet.
please let me know if youâd like to be added to the SDILLH or ATSV taglist to be notified everytime i post, xx
pairing: f!oc (kind of, I have an idea of a character in mind but this is more about Miguel being lovesick) x Miguel Oâ Hara
(This could also totally be Steven Grant, my beloved but I was feeling Miguel today)
_____
He never expected this. Never allowed himself to think it could ever happen. Never even dared to hope.
He was happy to claw out his heart and offer it on a silver platter. Thrilled to know that it hadnât completely frozen over. So grateful that it started singing along to the tune of her voice, that he wouldnât ever dare to think of being greedy and imagining more. Truly, it never crossed his mind to allow himself to think for a second, that there was a possibility.
Just the knowledge that he was ready, unbelievably happy even, to kneel before everything she was and offer everything he had to give again after having felt dull and broken, like a used up, long forgotten pencil. To be reminded of what it felt like to be eager to crack open his chest if it meant she could find warmth in the remains, it was enough. It was more than enough.
Yet, here she stands with a soft, smile that spreads on her lips like a tentative wave. A brush of her lips so soft, even feathers would seem coarse in comparison.
It shocks him to his deepest core.
She kissed me. She kissed ME.
His mind canât catch up. Canât fathom it. And seemingly so canât his body because suddenly everything goes black.
âMigs?!â Her hands fly up to her mouth as she yelps in surprise. She quickly reaches down, making sure his head doesnât hit the floor.
âMigs..â She repeats. Not sure what to say or do. Worry dripping from her voice.
Slowly he opens his eyes. They flutter open and focus on her.
âYou fainted.â She whispers in worry. Looking over him, gently brushing some hair from his forehead. His head resting on her lap.
âYou kissed meâŠâ He whispers to himself. He can see how she averts her gaze, flustered. And the realization settles, floods his veins.
âYou kissed me..â He whispers to himself with a dopey, love sick smile.
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