you and miguel have different definitions of the same word. he finally gives in to temptation —featuring a cranky but lovesick miguel and a flirty, head-in-the-clouds spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested here. fem!reader, 3k
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
This has to be your favourite song in the whole world.
You sit in the hall beside the entrance to Miguel's office (this week, you're thinking you might call it The Bedroom, on account of all the magic happening inside), headphones on, a bottle of lemonade beside you.
Today has the makings of a great day. You're at the Spider Society headquarters and not at home, for starters, and one of the Peter Parkers you'd made friends with in the med-wing saw you this morning and recognised you, which is brilliant because he looked super similar to every other Peter Parker you've met. He offered to help you fix your rinky-dink headphones, and now they're working again and loud enough to cover the sound of Spider Chatter, even with your enhanced senses.
What's more, Miguel has finally emerged from his dormitory, and he's walking toward you looking confused. That's a step up from unhappy.
He asks you something.
"What? I can't hear you."
He says something else. You shake your head, music too loud to catch even a hint of what he's saying, and Miguel eventually crouches down to push your headphones around your neck. He's surprisingly gentle.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"Waiting for you, what did you think I was doing?"
"Why are you sitting on the ground?" He gestures backward to a red-lit control panel. "Chair right there."
"I think that's someone's desk."
"It's really not."
Miguel stands up and doesn't hesitate to grab your arms and help you up too. It means more to you than it should, because it's not necessary and a few months ago he wouldn't have bothered. Which isn't to imply that Miguel is a mean guy, Lyla says he used to be a loser (code for sweetheart), and you get flashes of it every now and then in chivalry and kind smiles.
He's not mean, he's cranky.
"Don't sit on the floor," he says. "Just– just go inside if I'm not here."
"Well, The Bedroom doesn't come when I call."
Miguel's lips part in confusion for a second. Lyla appears at his shoulder, and says, "She can't get the platform to come down without you, genius."
"Put her name on the command list," Miguel says.
Your eyes widen. Lyla flashes to his other side, closer to you, and smiles playfully. "Done."
"Stop sitting on the floor," Miguel says, turning around. He walks a few steps and pauses when he realises you're not following. "Are you coming with me?"
You jog to catch up with him. Music plays against your collar, a slinking, indie sound that makes Miguel wrinkle his nose. You turn it up a little bit and smile when he glares at you.
You enter the atrium that houses The Bedroom. Miguel hops up onto the platform because he's too tall to see sense while you struggle, but you're pleased when he takes your hand and pulls you up properly. All these familiar touches today, anyone might think Miguel liked you.
He definitely does.
You sit down in the spinning chair near what you've decided is your desk but certainly isn't, again pleased beyond words when you find your sketchbook from last time still there, cleaned away carefully, pencils in a pot and a brand new pencil sharpener by the side of it. It matches your spider suit. You look over your shoulder, your face lit up with thanks, and Miguel swiftly looks away from you.
"It's electric. Tell me when the battery's dead, I'll charge it."
"Thank you," you say, flipping your sketchbook open to the last entry.
You aren't Picasso, but most members of the Spider Society are somewhat artistically inclined, considering the suit-making rite of passage they must all endure —if you don't know how to sew before you start, you will by the end.
Or like Miguel, you could cheat and make the suit out of nanotechnology.
You haven't really been designing any suits lately. Spidering is tiring, you need to relax, and your reluctant friends are the easiest subjects, though Miguel's face is painstakingly difficult to get right. He's very angular, high cheekbones with that divot that needs kissing stat, and his nose… He's really pretty, but you almost wish he wasn't so your sketches of him held a better likeness.
He's the only one of the regular crew that stands still long enough to be drawn. Jessica doesn't like you (or maybe she does, it's hard to tell, but she hasn't forgiven you for asking if her baby was like a maraca bead when she fights) so she doesn't let you draw her. Lyla will stand very still if you request it, but after a few portraits she got bored and started changing her hair or glasses, and after a few more she gave up. Margo is hard to focus on because her blue light makes everything else seem super orange, though she does stand in one place usually. She takes up a lot of pages, but it's Miguel you've drawn most of all.
You go around the Spider Society sometimes asking people if they'll sit for you, but again your skills aren't impressive, so it's awkward when they want to see how you've done. There are drawings of all kinds of Spiders, including yourself, between Miguel, and Miguel, and Miguel.
His back, the side of his face, his hands ungloved. His pointy bottom teeth mid fight. The naked stretch of his arm and his Rapture injector positioned over it. He might not appreciate that one. You rip it out and toss it in the waste paper basket under your desk, where it incinerates, paper smoke curling up toward the extractor fan on the atrium ceiling.
"What are you doing?" he asks without looking at you, his gaze on one of his marigold coloured monitors.
"Drawing." You're not drawing so much as sitting there with a coloured pencil in hand, trying to think of conversation starters. "What are you upto?"
"According to the program, there are no Canon events today at risk of disruption," Lyla chimes in, "so Miguel's doing chores."
"What, not one bad thing is gonna happen today?" you ask.
"Nothing we can predict," Miguel says.
You swap your pencil for your drink, unscrewing the lid of your lemonade to sip at it leisurely. Today is your favourite kind of day. No fighting, lots of time with Miguel, and music to go with it. You're so happy you could melt.
Miguel turns to you and sees your stickying smile.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just happy to be here with you," you say.
"Don't say stuff like that," he says, turning back to his screen.
"Lyla," he warns, as though Lyla might be afraid of any consequence he had the power to inflict.
"Sorry," you say, not very sorry, but not wanting him to be uncomfortable, "it's just nice, being friends with you."
"We aren't friends."
You're not quick to take offence with Miguel. He can be cruel. He's hurting, he's unhappy, he has a lot on his plate. Oftentimes he's so tense with apprehension his neck locks up and you hear it clicking as he turns one way or another, or if he isn't apprehensive he's disappointed, furious, upset. You give him the benefit of the doubt because you know him, but you don't know the tone of voice he uses now. It's like he's offended at the insinuation. Like he would never, ever be friends with you.
You put your lemonade on the desk and don't know what to do. His insipid floating platform is too high now to leave without causing a scene. Maybe when he's busy you can web down and go home. All you know is that you desperately don't want to be near him. But home sucks, and the dormitories are worse. You're stuck.
"You can be so mean," you say softly, turning back to your sketchbook and pencils.
You're thinking you might draw him with a bunch of bee stings, or find a previous sketch and cross his eyes out.
"What?" he asks.
Your hackles rise. "You're mean. Don't talk to me."
"What?" Miguel stands very still. "Y/N, what?"
"What do you mean, what? I said something nice and you said something cruel. I get it, okay, we aren't friends, so don't talk to me."
"I've upset you."
You stare at your blank page. "It doesn't matter."
"No, I've said the wrong thing."
"Miguel, don't bother. What else could you mean by that?" You laugh with little humour. Crestfallen doesn't begin to describe how you feel. "I'll be quiet. I just don't want to be at home."
"What's wrong with home?"
"Is there ever much right?"
"Did something happen?"
"We aren't friends, so why ask me?"
You bite the inside of your lip as Miguel approaches, his footfall hushed over the lightweight metal flooring. You turn to him in your chair, head tilted back to meet his eyes, arms crossed over your stomach defensively.
"That's not what I meant when I said that." He speaks slowly, firmly, to avoid any misunderstanding. "What's wrong with home, mi cielo?"
You tap his ankle with your shoe, looking away from his gaze. You don't want to tell him, and if he keeps looking at you like that, you will.
"¿Qué pasó?" He bends at the waist slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, dark hair falling into his eyes.
"I don't know what that means," you murmur.
"Did something happen?" he asks.
"Nothing happened, it's just– it's lonely there," you say, squirming under the weight of his gaze, his sudden caring. "What's with you? One minute you're not my friend, the next you're worrying about me? You're giving me whiplash."
He stands up, and his face falls back into a more typical emotionlessness. He's clearly feeling something, but he's wiping the slate clean.
"When I said we aren't friends, it didn't mean–" He grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you were staying in the women's dormitory?" he asks, frustrated.
"I am, but I'm useless, and they don't really respect me because I'm–"
"Eccentric?"
"–not as experienced," you finish, eyes flaring.
"Oh, my god," Lyla says, appearing in front of him to make sure he sees her delight at his slip up.
Miguel bats her hologram with an annoyed grunt. She disappears again, her tinkling laughter cut short.
"It's a good thing," Miguel says quickly.
You stand up. "It's not the point."
"You should feel at home in the dormitory, and if you don't, I'll find you somewhere else to stay here, you don't have to be in there if you don't feel welcome."
"Miguel, you're sounding awfully friendly right now."
"We aren't friends," he says again, stepping closer to you. "What's so hard to understand about that?"
"But we spend time together. We have fun. You like me, Miguel, you do, you tell me jokes sometimes, you make me things for me. You… you do like me, right?"
"You know that I do," he says, his eyebrows pinching together.
"You like me, like, you want me," you say, just to make sure.
His fist clenches hard enough to make an audible sound. Miguel's voice is fraught, and through barely parted lips, "If you know that, what's the problem?"
You don't know. Maybe it was silly to worry about how he sees you, because you do know that Miguel likes you, but you also know he hadn't wanted to like you. His attraction to you was reluctant, you're not stupid enough to miss that, and it was important to you that whatever tension sexual or otherwise lingering between you had bloomed into mutual affection.
"I want us to be friends, too," you say.
"I thought we were more than that."
It's such a quiet admission. He isn't afraid to say it, and he isn't reluctant like you feared.
"Miguel," you say. "I want you to like me. I know I can be off-putting, I know I tease too much, but I don't want you to like me despite those things, I just want you to like me. So, when you say we aren't friends…"
"I've never heard you say three serious sentences in a row," Miguel says, reaching out for your hand. He pulls you toward him slowly, his fingertips gliding up the length of your arm. "Then again, it's the same nonsense as usual."
"Miguel–"
"Of course I like you. How else do you need me to say it? I like you and I want to kiss you, I like you and I like that you're irregular. You want us to be friends? Then let's be friends." Miguel's hand closes around your bicep. His thumb presses against soft fat and muscle alike. "But not just friends."
Relieved, you sigh. "So you're saying we really weren't friends?"
Miguel leans down until his face is the only thing you can see. His smooth skin, his dark eyes, their darker flush of too-long lashes; it's unfair how pretty his eyelashes are, how they curl, how they bunch in triangles you have to fight to resist touching. His eyebrows so often slightly set, giving him an unhappy expression even now.
He brings the hand that isn't clasped at your bicep to the hill of your waist. It's hot as a brand, and it pulls you closer, your neck craning with every inch he steals from between you.
"We can be friends," he says.
His fingers twitch against your arm, and his hand begins to climb. It's not as slow as it feels, conquering the curve of your shoulder, your neck. His hand is big, his thumb pressing into the column of your throat gently.
He looks at you for a measured lapse of time, and you know, finally, that you're on the same page.
"What you said before, 'mi cielo?'" You hold his elbow. "What does that mean?"
"My sky," he says. "My… my heavens. It's saccharine. It's something teenagers say, when they're," —his voice dips, the hand at your waist squeezing tight like you might slip through his hold— "infatuated."
"Just teenagers say that?" you ask.
"No," he allows. "I always thought it was too much."
"But you–"
"Yeah. I did."
The first kiss is surprisingly sweet. On the tail end of words, Miguel presses his lips half-parted to yours, slowly, softly, like the brush of a downy feather. He lingers, and it's your own movement that spurs him on —you shudder up into his lips and he loses control.
The sound he makes is a shock. You try to pull back to check he isn't hurting, and he lets you until he realises why it is you're pulling away. "It's fine, it's okay," he says quickly.
Assuaged of your concern, he pulls you back in and he kisses you, he kisses you, his hand squeezing too tight and his nose bridge sliding up against yours from the force of it all. Your chest feels like a pit and you need Miguel closer if you're ever going to fill it, your hands snapping up to his face like magnets. There's no need to pull him down to you, he's already wading in, not wading —crashing, kissing you so hard your lips burn.
You make a sound that says, hopefully, This is really fun, but don't give me a bruise.
His tongue is a heat at the seam of your lips. Your weight bends, your chest leaning into his front. He doesn't hesitate to ease his hand behind your back and prop you up against him as things get heady, and the only thing you can feel is him.
All those times he almost kissed you, all those times he couldn't cross the gap. He poked and prodded and provoked you into getting into his space and each time you called his bluff. You wanted Miguel to give in, and now he has, it's the meltiest, most stickying warmth you've ever felt.
Voices sound far away, off the platform and down the hall. Jessica and someone else, approaching fast.
Something sharp snags your bottom lip as Miguel pulls away. You press your finger to your sore lip. When you pull it away, blood spots your skin.
Miguel takes your face into his hand and angles your face to a glowing screen carefully, in total juxtaposition of the grip he'd had on your waist.
"Sorry," he mumbles, the tip of his fangs catching the light. His adrenaline must be high.
"Excited?" you ask him breathily.
He wipes your lip with his thumb. The other hand pet's your cheek. You feel suddenly and smotheringly adored, all his attention on your pinprick wound.
"Everything okay up there?" Jessica calls.
Miguel drops your face like he's remembered himself. You turn to your newfound company, Jessica Drew and an unhappy looking Gwen Stacy. This high up, there's no way they can see the state of either of you, mussed hair and Miguel's blushy cheeks, but they'll see you eventually. And Miguel might like you, might want you, might be your more-than-friend, but he's a stickler for appearances, and being found kissing your subordinate dizzy when you're supposed to be working would mortify him.
"I cut my lip on a lemonade bottle," you call cheerily, waving at grumpy Gwen. Her lips perk up. "Miguel's trying to tell me it's my fault. Is lemonade usually sharp?"
His hand flattens subtly at the small of your pack.
"Thanks," he murmurs.
"Welcome, handsome. Is it bad?" you ask, turning back to hip with your lip pouted.
His eyes visibly soften at the sight of you. "Not that bad."
"Alright, good. You'll have to let the platform down, I need to go."
"What? Where are you going?" he asks.
"If we're friends now," you say, lilting, performing a half spin in front of him just to watch his eyes narrow, "I'm going to have to make us bracelets. Friendship bracelets." He clearly doesn't like the idea of being friends still, so you amend with a softer tone, "Friends and whatever that was. Come on, you'll love it. I'll make it match your suit."
He rubs the space between his eyebrows.
"Will you bring your stuff here?" he asks, the platform beginning to lower under your feet.
"Duh. I need to take lots of measurements. I'll be in your hair all day, you'll hate it."
He nods like he agrees. "I'll hate it," he says, deadpan. When he's sure Jessica and Gwen aren't looking, he gives you a smile you've never seen before.
You and I have a secret, it says.
Lyla appears by your shoulder to instantly tell him otherwise. It goes without saying that she's mildly disgusted and extremely smug. "Don't match it to his suit, Y/N. Mr. Heartthrob here needs something soft. How about some baby pinks, hm?"
Miguel sighs, but you barely hear him over your excited gasp. "Yes! Pink and white, for sure, that would be so nice."
"Great," Miguel says. "Perfect. Thanks for that, Lyla."
"You're so welcome!"
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :D please reblog if you have the time ♡
AN: I feel like I should apologize for my Miguel O'Hara thirst but...I don't wanna.
(Un-beta’d)
PWP in which Miguel makes you come over and over and—
Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?)
Words: 749
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader
Warnings: PWP, p in v, kissing, cockwarming, mild biting, soft!Miguel, overstimulation, praise kink, mild blood, established relationship, multiple orgasms, creampie
AO3
———
“Again, mi vida, give me another.”
You whine, limbs shaking, as each push of his hips sends another jolt of pleasure through your body. He’s been at this for what seems like hours, slowly bringing you to the edge and flinging you over it, only to pull you right back up again and again. He feels so good, his thick cock dragging against every sweet spot inside you, splitting you open, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises—
Your back bows when he changes the angle slightly, the tip of his cock bumping against your cervix. The pleasure rolls through you in waves, seemingly never ending, as he slowly pushes and pulls himself in and out of you. He still hasn’t come, is still rock hard inside you; he’s holding himself back, you know, waiting for you to reach a certain level of pleasure before he allows himself to experience it himself. If you weren’t so cock drunk right now, you’d probably say something, tell him that you want him to feel good too, that you want to see him lose the control he fights so hard to keep over himself.
The stirrings of your…fifth (or is it the sixth?) orgasm begin in your belly, the tendrils coiling, about to snap. You moan weakly as your cunt flutters, breath backing up in your lungs. Miguel grunts, jaw clenching as he maintains the same slow pace, his hand sliding from your hip to your sex. His thumb barely circles your clit when the tension inside you breaks, soft waves of bliss rippling from your core, alighting every nerve in your body as you gasp, mouth falling open in a silent moan. Your eyes roll back in your head and your body trembles, fingers twisting loosely in the sheets beneath you.
Miguel’s groan is broken as you convulse around him, his body moving forward to cover yours, to cage you in as he continues to rut into you, prolonging your pleasure. He presses his face into your neck, murmuring his praises into your skin (“Such a good girl for me, squeezing me so tight.”). His groans increase as your orgasm recedes, his steady pace faltering slightly as he (finally) chases his own pleasure. You moan softly in his ear, your arms heavy as you sluggishly wrap them around his waist, hands resting on his lower back. He mouths at your skin, tongue laving sloppily at the little nicks his fangs leave behind.
When he comes, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, almost growling as he fills you to the brim with his seed. You gasp in surprise, the sharp pain immediately melting into pleasure. His cock is soft and spent, but you whimper nonetheless when he continues to lazily fuck into you, his cum spilling out with every press of his hips. Despite how tired you feel, you don’t want him to stop, instead slipping your hands low enough to grasp his backside. He pulls his mouth off of your shoulder with a hum, nose dragging up the column of your neck until he meets your lips in a slow, languid kiss. The taste of your own blood on your tongue sends a shiver through you, arousal once more pooling in your gut.
He must sense it, because he keeps going, keeps pumping his softened cock into you, his mouth swallowing every sweet little noise that escapes from between your lips. When you come this time, it’s less intense, the euphoria cresting softly as you bask in the pleasure. He groans brokenly as you squeeze him again, his forehead pressed against yours, half-lidded eyes glued to your face. His hips finally still as you both come down, and he kisses you again, soft and slow, his hand smoothing gently down the side of your face.
“Okay?” he asks, pulling back a little to study your face.
You hum, smiling drowsily at him, your hands running up and down his back.
He smiles back at you, a suspicious glint in his eyes as he churns his hips a little. “Can you give me another one?”
You whine, shaking your head, your nails digging into his back. “Miguel, no, please. I can’t—”
“I know, baby,” he chuckles, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I’m just teasing.”
You fall asleep like that—his body draped over yours, his cock still inside you—his solid warmth lulling you into a pleasant sleep.
If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖
🌟 Masterlist 🌟
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Eddie Munson making bank on being a 'Rent a weirdo to piss off your parents' guy. He shows up, behaves exactly like himself sometimes, and other times if himself isnt working he'll up the ante and get creative, but he earns his money.
and Steve Harrington who's sick of his parents trying to throw people at him, both women and men, he's in desperate need of a break from it all/
His parents were horrifically supportive when he in a fit of desperation to stop them from throwing more awful women at him, came out as bi, okay, he said he was gay but when they were supportive he adjusted to Bisexual because he actually was bisexual and there was no point lying if his parents were just going to switch it up and throw men at him instead.
John the tennis club owners son was lovely but no.
So he hires Eddie for a 'week long chalet get away', it's Dustin's idea. Eddie's his friend and Dustin vouches for him.
"Just. Pretend to be my boyfriend for the week. You get a free rich people vacation out of it."
"Usually i'm more of a one and done kinda guy, Harrington, you think i'm not up to freakin them out in one go?"
"Freaking them-- no, i need a week of them not trying to set me up with someone, they wont if they think i'm dating, is that okay?"
"... Not my usual schtik but what's the worst that could happen?"
me, for many hours, every single day: gonna write now. any minute, i am going to close out all distractions and focus. i'm gonna focus so hard and put all the stories i have in my head on paper. here i go. here it comes. heeeeere it comes.
Playing with Steve's hair like he's a puppy <3 letting him just melt into your touch, you pull at his knotted curls, lightly scratch the back of his neck and he just can't hear anything you say, he doesn't mean to not listen but he's just so comfortable in your touch that he's practically falling asleep in your lap, it's the attention you're giving him, it's almost too much, it's something so small but physical touch is his love language and he's can't help but just completely relax in your hands <3
steve who pulls the hem of your skirt down when it rises up for you when your hands are busy. steve who pulls the strap of your top up your shoulder when it falls. steve who delicately pushes your glasses up your nose when they slide down. steve who insists on tying your shoelaces for you. steve who gently tucks your hair behind your ears while you talk. steve who wipes chocolate with his thumb from the corner of your mouth. steve who bops your nose when he teases you. steve who adjusts the beanie you wear when you’re cold to make sure you’re covered properly. steve who drags the clasp and pendant of your necklaces to the right places. steve who plays with the rings on your fingers while he talks. steve who puts small flowers he picks on the streets behind your ears to see you blush. steve who brings you closer to him by the loops in your jeans.
steve harrington who is completely obsessed with you and devoted to you, and isn’t afraid of showing it… even if you two are not together yet.
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