𝐀/𝐍: This was actually supposed to be a short Drabble but turned out to be just over 2k words. So it’s a small one shot now. Also inspired by @bluesidez fic here, from her Trending Couples series
𝐂𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐖: Wife!Reader, teasing from reader, Miguel getting slightly annoyed, smut, overstimulation
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A single word— ‘boyfriend’— is all it takes to unsettle Miguel after a long day. But when his wife’s teasing refuses to let up, his irritation brews into something deeper.
If there was one thing that Miguel had learnt from married life, it was to expect the unexpected— especially being married to you. Still, tonight had him thrown off in a way he couldn’t shake.
At first, everything seemed ordinary. He swung across the city, the night wind tugging at his suit before he slipped quietly through the bedroom window.
Exhaustion seeped into his bones after a gruelling day, maintaining another canon event, handling repairs at HQ. All he wanted now was a moment of peace with you.
He found you propped against the headboard, phone pressed to your ear. Your voice was light and familiar. From the warmth of your tone, he guessed you were talking to a friend. When you noticed him, you offered a smile before returning to your call.
It wasn’t your smile that got his attention. It was what you said next.
“Oh, speaking of. My boyfriend just came home. I’ll talk to you soon.”
The words lodged itself in Miguel’s chest, sharp and jagged. For a moment, he thought his exhaustion was making him hear things.
But no, he heard you. His muscles tense and his tired body was suddenly on alert as though he’d been jolted back into a fight.
“What did you just call me?” his voice was edged with disbelief as he stepped closer, trying to process your odd choice of words.
You ended your call and set the phone aside with feigned ignorance. “What are you talking about?”
“You just called me your… boyfriend,” he repeated. The word tasted wrong on his tongue, almost insulting. He leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest.
“Oh, boyfriend!” You grinned, as if you hadn’t just upended his evening. “Well, technically you are, right? But lawfully—”
“Husband,” Miguel cut in, frowning. “Legally, I’m your husband. Which means something more than ‘technically.’”
“I think boyfriend has a better ring to it,” you teased, slipping out of bed with a careless shrug.
Miguel scoffed, the sound sharp but restrained. He could see exactly what you were doing— baiting him, needling at his pride. And yet, irritation simmered beneath him anyways.
“Seriously? Boyfriend? We’re married. That’s a commitment you can’t just downplay with semantics.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you say,” you sang lightly, brushing past him on your way out.
Miguel could only watch you leave, his expression hardened. Normally, he wouldn’t let something like this get to him. But your nonchalant attitude and the way you’d dismissed it— after smiling so brightly at someone else on the phone— didn’t sit right with him.
The word felt heavier than they should and he didn’t know why.
Of all the things he expected to come home to, this was not one of them. He couldn’t fathom where it came from— or why you were so adamant on calling him your boyfriend of all things.
The more he thought about it, the more agitated he became. It seemed like an intentional jab to undermine your marriage.
Still, he forced himself to let it go. At least for now. Maybe by the morning you’d forget about it. Maybe it was a dare, some joke your friend put you up to. He wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of overreacting.
Instead, he focused on his usual routine— disengaging his suit and changing it in his sweatpants. Though, his mood was still sulky.
By the time he slid under the covers, his body language was rigid. His arms were at his sides, his back refused to curve toward yours. The bed beside him dipped as you climbed into bed. He expected nothing and he made no move to pull you closer.
But then, just before he could seeth any further, you leaned over and kissed his nose before nestling down with a soft sigh. As though nothing in the world could bother you.
Your gesture instantly melted his annoyance like sunlight cutting fog. He turned his head, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breathing. Despite the lingering irritation, he still felt a wave of affection for you.
Rolling to his side, he let his gaze linger on you. The word boyfriend still echoed like a nagging burr caught in fabric. But beyond that was the aching love that washed over him.
He let out a sigh, and let everything fade enough until he fell asleep.
~
The following morning began quietly enough, the events from last night were far at the back of Miguel’s mind. He padded into the kitchen, still half groggy from sleep but alert enough to notice you in the kitchen making breakfast.
“Morning…” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he yawned.
“Good morning, boyfriend.”
The word hit harder in the morning light. Blood thrummed hot in his ears, his jaws tightened. Without the haze of exhaustion dulling him, the sound felt sharper.
“Are you still on this boyfriend thing?” he asked flatly.
He reached for the coffee pot and poured himself a much-needed cup of caffeine. The soft clink of the mug against the counter was the only sign of his restraint as he sat at the table, fixing you with a narrowed gaze.
“What’s the deal here, anyways? Why are you milking this?”
He waited for your explanation but all he got was a look of innocence from you, sliding a plate into his place. “Hmm… nothing.”
Miguel arched an eyebrow, unamused by your response. He knew you well enough to tell that there was definitely something.
He opened his mouth to press again—
“Eat up,” you said simply.
As always.
He scowled at the timing, at how easily you disarmed him, but still picked up his fork.
“Don’t try to distract me from the topic,” he muttered before taking a bite. And damn it, it tasted good!
The rest of the morning passed and you didn’t bring up the boyfriend stunt again. Though the word still lingered in his head. By the time he engaged his suit, adjusted his watch, and stepped through the portal to HQ, he carried it with him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
Later that day, while on duty, his thoughts naturally drifted back to you. He pulled out his communicator and typed a quick message.
'Hey, I've got a parcel coming in today, just a heads-up.
- Your husband, Miguel O'Hara, your legal spouse. Remember him?'
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he read his own message. He knew you were likely rolling your eyes. Or even muttering about how dramatic he was. The thought amused him enough to keep the message as-is.
A few minutes later, he received a reply from you. And he couldn’t help but be amused by your response, purposefully avoiding his ‘husband’ comment.
‘Your package arrived’
Miguel perched back in his chair, his mask retracting as a low chuckle escaped him. If anyone else were around, he wouldn’t have let himself smile or indulge in the warmth that seated his chest at the thought of you.
‘Good. I’m assuming you haven't opened it,’ he typed back.
Your reply came through a moment later.
‘Package is safe. Don’t worry about it’
~
That evening, you didn’t make dinner since the fridge was still packed with leftovers. Miguel opened the door, already halfway pulling out a container when part of him wondered if the whole boyfriend thing had died with the morning.
He thought too soon.
“There should be some extra food on the top shelf,” you called lightly from the counter. “For my boyfriend.”
Miguel’s hand froze around the Tupperware. His grip tightened around on the fridge door until the hinges creaked. Slowly, he turned his head.
“You mean me?”
You tilted your head. “Hmm… do I?”
“Amor…” his voice was a warning, low and rough, “don’t start.”
You casually leaned on the counter, watching him with that mischievous expression. He could feel his patience fraying, the thin thread of his restraint wearing down to nothing. With a heavy sigh, he shut the fridge door and turned to face you fully.
“I’m your husband,” he said firmly. “We file taxes together. We had a whole wedding ceremony. How much more proof do you want?”
“You were a really cute boyfriend,” you countered with a shrug. “I miss him.”
That landed harder than he wanted to admit. His chest tightened, a cocktail of offense and something else he couldn’t put his finger on— insecurity? Jealousy? Were you trying to say you preferred what he used to be?
“He didn’t go anywhere,” Miguel muttered defensively.
You crossed your arms over yourself. “I dunno. My husband is kind of serious. No spontaneous kisses at my desk. No sneaking me pastries anymore. The boyfriend was more fun."
Miguel could only stare. Something sharp twisted inside him, and for a moment, he didn’t know if he wanted to argue or drag you into his arms right now. His jaws flexed as he turned away, muttered under his breath.
And that was when he decided— later tonight, he was going to remind you why husband was the upgrade.
~
Your hands twisted tighter into the sheets as his chest pressed firmly against your back, caging you in. Being on all fours meant you were completely helpless under his mercy. Every shift of his weight showed how much bigger, stronger, more unyielding he was.
“Still thinking about your boyfriend?” His voice rumbled low, dark— so close to your ear, it vibrated down your spine. His words came in hot and deliberate.
Your back arched as he drove into you from behind— slow and deep thrusts that made it impossible to think of anything else but him. Your thoughts scattered and your world narrowed to the way he filled you.
He had been quiet for too long, holding his restraint until it finally snapped. Now, every thrust carried with intent— to remind you exactly why you married him.
He made sure you felt every inch of him, dragging it out, grinding it in, watching how your body shivered and clenched around him.
A gasp tore from your lips when his hand suddenly wrapped around your jaw— not cruel, but enough to tilt your face until your eyes caught his. His pace sharpened, his hips slammed harder, his eyes burnt with intensity.
“¿Quién soy, entonces?” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath scorching.
“M-my husband,” you breathed out.
“Otra vez.”
Again.
And again.
Each repetition was broken by the rhythm of his thrusts, until your voice shook and your arms gave out, collapsing onto the mattress.
But Miguel didn’t stop. His pace became relentless, pounding deeper, grinding the words into your head. His chest pressed harder against your back until you were reduced to nothing but gasps, moans and broken fragments of his name.
“Mirame, baby,” he groaned, voice rough with satisfaction. “No boy ever fucked you like this. Only your husband. Say it.”
You barely manage to get it out. “My husband— fuck, Miguel— my husband…”
“Louder.”
“Ah— Husband-!” you squealed.
Miguel adjusted his knees, angling himself deeper and dragging another raw cry from you. His hands gripped your sides tighter as your body quivered beneath him.
Finally, after a few more rolls from his hips, his climax tore through him in heavy, pulsing waves until your walls were stained with him. His body shuddered as he pressed into you.
For a long moment he stayed there, chest pressed hot against your back, heartbeat pounding against your spine. His touch softened, his grip easing until his hand slid down and interlaced with yours as you both trembled through the aftershock.
“That’s better,” he whispered, voice calmer now but still tough around the edges. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”
He kept himself inside you, feeling himself soften with your walls still snug around him. One of his hands released from the grip on your side and reached for your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours.
You whimpered his name, soft and aching, and he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“I got you, amor,” he breathed. “Always.”
Cross-posting fics on tumblr feels like a humiliation ritual now
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒… Two months of sleepless nights, spit-up, crying and zero sex. You and Miguel are running on caffeine, love, and pent-up sexual frustration… until Peter B. and MJ show up to babysit. When you and Miguel are given two hours to be alone, that’s all you need to break the dry spell in your marriage.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓… Explicit! Mature audiences only! ᝰ porn w/ plot, fem!reader, domestic, mom!reader and dad!Miguel, first-time parents, grumpy!Miguel, Spiderman!Miguel, established relationship [marriage]; rough sex [backshots & p in v], oral sex [fem!receiving], allusions to blowjob, allusions to shower sex, implied lactation kink, hair pulling, cum eating, choking, tit play, multiple orgasms, squirting…
𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍… 5.5k words
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑… Day One of Kinktober is posted! This was such a fun and smutty fic to write for Miguel. Writing domestic/dilf!Miguel is one of my favorite versions of him to write! As always feel free to comment and reblog, I love reading y’all reactions! I hope you enjoy!!
𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒… event m.list・main m.list・event taglist
It starts like every other day. You’re half-asleep on the couch, nursing your three-month old baby for the second time this morning, one breast sore, while the other leaks through your shirt. Miguel’s pacing in the kitchen, cradling a lukewarm mug of coffee and muttering something in Spanish under his breath as he walks over and sits down next to you, rubbing slow circles into your hip.
His hands have been creeping lower for days now; palming your ass when you pass each other in the hallway, trailing his fingers up your thigh when you collapse into bed beside him, even the simple act of pulling you by the hip so he can be closer to you.
For weeks he's been walking around stiff and grumpy, whispering things like, “I don’t even remember what your pussy feels like,” while glaring at the baby monitor like it’s cursed.
You get it. You’re just as frustrated. Every time you try to get close, to rekindle your fire, it’s like she knows. She’s hungry the moment Miguel’s tongue is in your mouth.
She’s crying in her crib the second he palms your breast with that growl in his throat. Any time you two attempt to initiate something it feels like she’s purposely needing you and Miguel’s attention.
It’s been almost two months now since you had full-on sex. That time on the couch during her nap, humping like horny teenagers? That doesn’t count. Especially not when your neighbor fired up the lawnmower mid-thrust and woke her up.
Or when she was having some tummy time, entertaining herself with her toys, Miguel was two seconds away from swiping his tongue across your sex but before he could, she started crying.
You and Miguel have officially made it to the “Dry Spell” part of your relationship, something neither of you thought you’d ever experience. Not after years of being practically inseparable, not after all those late nights when you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.
Your marriage is experiencing the kind of drought that makes you both restless. Touch-starved. So desperate that the smallest things feel like forms of foreplay: his hand brushing the small of your back when he passes by, your bare legs tangling under the blanket at night, the way he sighs when he sees you nursing, nipples sensitive and soft in your palm, wishing his lips were wrapped around them.
Despite your home being filled with sexual tension, Miguel makes sure your taking care of. He makes sure you eat before he does, runs to the store in the middle of the night for diaper when you run out, holds the baby against his chest and hums softly when you’re too tired to move.
It’s the smallest things that make your heart melt, like when he whispers “descansa, mami” [rest, mommy] while you drift off, his hand brushing yours as you trade the baby between shifts.
Even though you’re both running on maybe three hours of sleep, he still finds the energy to press his lips to your temple every morning before muttering about needing coffee.
You love that about him, how he always makes time for you. But love doesn’t do much to soothe the ache that’s been building between you both, a quiet frustration that grows heavier with every missed chance.
At this point you feel like your going to die from blue ovaries if you don’t get Miguel’s cock shoved inside you until you're seeing stars. No matter how many times you and Miguel try to carve out “adult time” during the day, something always comes up and squashes your plans.
Once you finish breastfeeding, you shift baby girl in your arms, gently wiping the milk from the corner of her mouth before putting her over your shoulder and patting her back, waiting for that small burp that signals a few minutes of peace. Miguel’s staring down into his mug of coffee, feeling himself about to dose off.
He’s been running on fumes for days now: dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up like he’s been through a wind tunnel, and that permanent grumpy frown that’s become his new expression. You hear him mutter something low in Spanish under his breath, the words slipping out like a prayer or a warning, before he takes another sip, looking over at you and the baby, the two people that bring him the most happiness in life.
When your about to ask Miguel what he wants for breakfast, the doorbell rings. You both freeze, exchanging wary looks. It’s too early for visitors and you aren’t in the mood to entertain anyone. For a second, you wonder if it’s someone selling something, and you swear you’ll cry if it means you have to put on real clothes.
Miguel sets down his mug with a heavy sigh and goes to answer, ready to tell whoever it is at the door to go away. When he opens the door, his tired confusion turns into mild disbelief. Standing there are your closest friends, Peter B. Parker and MJ with their daughter Mayday perched happily on Peter’s shoulders, babbling to herself like the picture of toddler joy. Peter raises a hand, gesturing to the treats he’s holding. “We come bearing donuts and moral support.”
You manage a laugh, the sound more like a squeak, before walking over to greet them, still cradling the baby in one arm and a burp rag in the other. You’re sure you look like you’ve been through war; mascara from three days ago smudged under your eyes, bags underneath your eyes to represent how tired you are, and shirt spotted with milk from your leaking nipples.
MJ takes one look at you and her expression softens, knowing that new mom exhaustedness all too well. “Oh, honey,” she says gently, “you haven’t slept in days, have you?” You open your mouth to answer, but only a tired sigh escapes, answering MJ’s question for you. You just nod, the motion small and slow, as if even that takes effort.
Her gaze shifts to Miguel, who’s standing beside you now; shirtless, unshaven, looking like the personification of ‘don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.’ He squints at the sunlight coming through the window like it’s personally offended him.
MJ huffs a soft laugh, remembering when Peter B. used to wear that same look after many sleepless nights and no physical contact. “And you look like you’re five seconds away from exploding.”
“Damn sure feels like it,” Miguel mutters, rubbing a hand down his face before stepping aside and motioning for them to come in. They enter your home, the familiar squeak of the front door echoing through the living room, the same one that always wakes the baby. Your heart stops for a moment, waiting for the inevitable wail, but miraculously, she stays calm. Her tiny hand grips your shirt, eyelids fluttering sleepily.
Peter smiles, his voice soft, looking down at your daughter, remembering when Mayday was that small. “Guess she’s giving you a break today, huh?”
You give him a look that’s half a laugh, half disbelief, surprised she isn’t crying. “Don’t jinx it.”
Peter glances between the two of you: your stained clothes, Miguel’s death glare aimed at the baby monitor like it wronged his bloodline, before setting Mayday down on her feet, allowing her to roam. The toddler immediately starts climbing the walls of your home, her curly hair bouncing with every step. But none of you try to stop her, since your home is fully spider-baby proof since you have a hybrid baby of your own.
“We came to make an offer,” Peter says, placing the box of donuts on the counter before clapping his hands together once, like he’s unveiling a business deal. “Free babysitting. Right now. One hour. Two if she sleeps through it.”
You blink at him. Your body twitches with hope, but your brain refuses to believe that you’re actually about to get a break to just relax. “We’ve been there. The no-sleep, no-sex, no-time-to-shower hellscape. You both look like you’re on the brink of snapping. So we’re here to help.” MJ says, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder while giving you a warm, epathetic smile.
Miguel slowly turns his head toward her, his hair a mess and his eyes bloodshot from staying up all last night with your baby girl who screamed her lungs out, wanting to give you a chance to get some quality sleep. “You're serious?”
“As a diaper blowout,” Peter says, already moving to take the baby from your arms. She whines softly in protest, face scrunching, but MJ swoops in, offering a pacifier from the diaper bag on the floor that you keep stocked at all times before a full cry can form.
You and Miguel just stand there for a moment, frozen, not knowing whether to scream for joy or just pass out from exhaustion. Miguel looks over at you, slipping his hand into yours, squeezing it firmly, helping you snap out of your daze. “Did he just say we have an hour?”
“I think so,” you whisper back, trying to still wrap your head around the gracious offer.
“Like, sixty full minutes? Without interruptions? No baby? No neighbor mowing the damn lawn?” Miguel asks, rolling his eyes at the thought of being interrupted for the hundredth time.
You nod slowly, looking at how your daughter is content in Peter’s arms, making you sigh in relief that she’s doing good with him, knowing how fussy she can get. “It’s a miracle.”
Peter walks over and settles onto the couch with your baby nestled easily into the crook of his arm, happily sucking on the pacifier, allowing her to stay occupied and content. “Go,” he says, shooing you and Miguel away, wanting you to take full advantage of him and MJ’s offer. “Before she realizes you're gone.”
Hearing that gives you and your husband a newfound burst of energy. Miguel doesn’t need to hear another word of what Peter has to say. While your in the middle of thanking your friends for their thoughtful offer for babysitting, he immediately drags you up the stairs and towards your bedroom, his grip on your wrist firm but not painful, acting as a silent warning of what’s to come once your within the confinement of your bedroom.
His long strides make it hard for you to keep up, your heart pounding not just from the rush but from the look in his eyes: dark, hungry, and fixed solely on you. Each step makes your pulse hammer faster, the air between you charged with a hungry tension. His hand slides from your wrist to the small of your back, pushing you forward as if he can’t get you there fast enough.
The second you two are in the room, he kicks the door shut behind him. There’s no hesitation, no pause for words, just the sound of his breath as he backs you against the wall and his hands cusping your face before his mouth crashes onto yours.
The kiss is rough, almost desperate, and it steals every bit of air from your lungs. His fangs scrape lightly against your bottom lip, enough to make you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen it, his tongue sliding against yours with heated insistence.
When you try to speak, he shakes his head against your mouth, murmuring in that low, gravelly voice, “No talking, mamì. Not yet.” As much as Miguel loves to hear your sweet voice, he needs to dive between the sweetness of your thighs before he can hold a conversation. His hands move down, gripping your thighs hard enough to make you shiver, and then he lifts you effortlessly.
You hook your legs around his waist, feeling the solid heat of him pressed right between your thighs. He carries you to the bed like you weigh nothing, dropping you down onto the mattress with a bounce before climbing over you, caging you in with his muscular frame.
His intoxicating scent surrounds you: warm, masculine, and faintly musky, while his gaze never leaves your face as his fingers find the hem of your shirt, pushing up the cotton material to quickly to reveal one of his favorite parts of your body, while savoring every inch of skin he uncovers.
Miguel’s breath hitches when your breasts spill free from their restraints, soft and swollen from feeding, nipples already peaked. He’s already turned on simply from the sight of you but when he sees small beads of your breastmilk cascading down your areola, his pupils dilate and hunger becomes written all over his face.
He palms one gently, thumb stroking over the tender bud, while his mouth descends on the other, hot and wet, his tongue circling before he sucks hard enough to make you arch off the bed, and allow your breastmilk to settle on his tastebuds.
“Miguel—” you whine out of pleasure, not expecting that from him but you definitely aren’t fighting it, if anything you want to encourage it. You wrap your hand around him and place it on the base of his neck, keeping him buried in the valley of your breasts.
Soon, Miguel starts desperately humping you like a dog, needing to create some sort of friction to soothe the erection in his pants. The harder he sucks your nipple, the harder his thrusts become. Seeing him act so wild and erratic, like his body will die if he doesn’t get an opportunity to to spill his seed inside you, creates a puddle of slick in your underwear.
Miguel shifts his attention and trails a slow path of kisses down your stomach, his fangs lightly grazing your skin when his tongue presses against you, making you jolt with each scrape. When he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he hooks his fingers in and tugs them down, underwear and all, leaving you bare beneath him.
He pauses for just a moment, eyes dark and fixed between your thighs, before he spreads you open with his hands. His mouth is still wet from your breastmilk, droplets of it still dripping from his lips. Miguel doesn’t wipe it away, he wants it there. By the time he’s done caressing your body he wants a variety of your juices on his face, not just your milk.
You’re already wet, painfully throbbing from many weeks of frustration. When his mouth finally makes contact with your pussy, and the tip of his tongue swirls around your clit, you immediately let out a loud gasp. His tongue is everywhere at once. He presses broad licks against your folds, teasing flicks against your clit, and gives long strokes that make your legs tremble.
He groans into you, the vibration making your hips jerk while you fist the sheets. You’re trying so hard to stay quiet, knowing that Peter and MJ are downstairs but with Miguel eating you out this good it’s hard to not be vocal. “Miguel, we have to be—”
“They’ll be fine,” he mutters into your cunt before sucking your clit between his lips, hard, pulling a sharp cry out of you right away. If it’s not clear already, Miguel doesn’t give a fuck about who can hear him. His main focus is his wife and making sure you cum at least three times today.
He tightens his grip on your thighs, pushing your legs upward and pinning you open while he devours you like a starving man, tongue thrusting into your sopping hole at a rapid pace, his nose nudging your clit until you’re writhing, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from sheer pleasure.
With your body still being sensitive from the baby, it doesn’t take long for your orgasm to crash over you, allowing weeks of pent-up tension to break all at once. You clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle the scream, body shaking under his hold. Miguel doesn’t stop his movements, he only groans into your core while lapping up everything your body gives him until you’re twitching from overstimulation.
Once you come down from your high, Miguel comes up for air and towers his large physique over your body, leaning in and kissing you deeply so you’ll be able to taste yourself. Tasting your own sweetness on his tongue, makes you moan into his mouth.
Miguel’s cock is thick and hard against your stomach, straining inside his sweats, begging to be released and buried inside your wetness. His lips make his way to your ear, practically kissing your earlobe, causing his husky voice to flood your ear canal. “You ready for me, mi vida [my life]? Because once I’m in you, I’m not stopping.”
You cup his jaw, running your thumb over the stubble he’s allowed to grow out, not having a chance to shave it while trying to help you take care of household responsibilities and the baby. “I don’t want you to stop,” you whisper, voice softly breaking as the words leave your lips, wanting nothing more than feel the delicious stretch of his cock filling your walls.
Something in Miguel’s eyes softens when he hears that. His eyes are still dark with need, but now there’s a tint of tenderness that makes your heart lurch. He kisses you again, slower this time, pouring everything into it: weeks of longing, sleepless nights, and a fierce love that never leaves, even when exhaustion and frustration does its best to tear at the seams.
After the kiss it isn’t long before Miguel is barking out orders, not only telling, but demanding you to get into position. “Turn around.” He says, voice ragged, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants. “Face down, ass up.” Miguel pulls down his sweatpants with a harsh tug, then his boxers, and once of the cotton material his cock springs free. It’s veiny, thick, and so heavy it hangs alongside his thigh, small beads of pre-cum oozing from his tip.
You obey instantly, turning onto your stomach and placing a deep arch in your back, making sure your ass is positioned perfectly just the way he likes. When you feel his hands roughly grip your hips, you brace yourself on shaky elbows as he positions himself behind you, lining himself with your entrance.
When Miguel gets this way, sex-deprived and needy, you don’t ever question him, because you love this side of him. When he gets all rough and just throws you around like a ragdoll, filling your ears with filthy words and stuffing you with his cock until you cry from being overstimulated. Times like this are the reason you have a baby in the first place.
The stretch when he pushes inside your spongy walls makes your eyes roll to the back of your bed. You’ve been dying to feel the delicious sensation of your husband’s cock filling your pussy until he bottoms out. “God—yes—I missed this, missed you.” You groan, trying to get adjusted to Miguel’s inhuman size. His spider DNA blessed him in many ways and his cock was one of them. All ten and a half inches of cock forces his way inside your sex, Miguel’s length filling you so perfectly that you let out moan, followed by a harsh “fuck…”.
Your husband wraps his arms around your body and pulls you close to him, forcing his full length inside you while wrapping his hand to your throat. Once your body acclimated with his monster size, Miguel starts with a slow tempo before steadily increasing his speed, your ass flush against his pelvis while your breasts freely moving with the rhythm of his thrusts, and his cock reaching the depths of your cunt until it probs the opening of your womb.
Miguel’s thrusts are harsh and unforgiving. He’s using your own body as leverage to dig you out, chasing his high while making sure you reach maximum pleasure. With the position you're in, it allows Miguel to reach the depths of your cervix, allowing him to repeatedly pound into your wetness until you snap.
The rougher his thrusts get, the louder your moans become. You’re trying so hard to stay silent but it’s hard when your husband is literally rearranging your insides. Miguel’s hand comes up to your mouth, uses his palm as a shield to muffle your sweet sounds so they can’t travel downstairs. “Gotta keep you quiet, cariño [sweetheart]. Can’t let Peter and MJ hear those pretty moans.”
All you can do as a response is moan even louder while throwing your ass back against him, making him let out a sharp groan, one that he’s sure could’ve been heard from downstairs but he really doesn’t care, as long as they don’t hear you.
This goes on for minutes, the spicy tango between two people who are completely enthralled with one another, you and him releasing all of the pent up sexual energy while finding your way back to each at the same time outside of being parents.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, rhythmic and desperate while you and him chase the euphoric high that flows through your body when you cum. His pace and thrusts are so relentless that you begin to try and run from him, not being able to take the overwhelming pleasure flowing through your veins.
When Miguel notices you trying to escape his relentless thoughts, he laughs, thinking it’s funny that you think he’s gonna let you run from his dick. “No, baby…” he mutters, wrapping your hair around his hand until he gets a good grip, allowing him to pull it just enough to keep you in place without causing you any pain. “You're gonna take this dick like a good girl.” With Miguel pulling your body close to him, your both upright, your back against his chest, your breasts bouncing up and down, and the tip of his cock pushing directly against your g-spot.
Watching you attempt to run only adds fire to Miguel’s lust. It just makes him thrust harder, dig deeper inside your walls, silently begging for that coil inside you to snap. Your moans grow more wild and carefree as tears pool in your eyes from how good it feels after going so long without. “Mig—fuck— I- I- can’t –ugh– take it, please!” You whine, blindly putting your hand behind you, placing your palm against Miguel’s pelvis as a sign of surrender, wanting him to slow down a bit before you pass out.
Miguel knows you can take it, you’ve been doing it for years. He knows that your body just needs some help remembering how to take his girthy cock. “Yes, you can. I know you can take it. Don’t get all shy on me now.” Your husband grabs at your arm, getting a nice hold on your forearm and now using this position to give him more leverage and control with his strokes.
With your head and arm being pulled back, Miguel’s cock continuously reaches the soft part of your pussy, and his filthy groans and dirty compliments, all lead to your second orgasm to build much quicker than the last, allowing it to sneak up on you.
Your walls clench around him so hard he hisses like he’s in pain, when he’s really just overwhelmed by the feeling your pussy provides. “Shit—shit—I’m gonna cum—fuck!—” You spew out curses a mile a minute, digging your free hand into the scrunched up blanket beneath you, feeling your mind become fuzzy as your eyes roll to back of head.
Your body trembles, legs quiver, you would’ve probably collapsed if Miguel wasn’t holding your body in position. You aren’t able to control the sounds or fluids that come from your body next. Your creamy fluids coat Miguel’s shaft while your juices spray against the sheets, and a little splashing on his chiseled thighs.
While your pussy clenches around Miguel’s cock like a vice, trapping him inside your velvety walls, he can feel his abs tense, his balls tighten, and a flutter in his lower stomach. He continues his thrusts inside your warmth, tightening his grip on your hair and arm when he feels himself about to release.
Miguel sharp fangs coming out again when he spills inside you with a sharp gasp, hips stuttering, cock twitching as he fucks you through his nut and your orgasm. His warm seed flows through your pussy, filling your canal to the brim until it overflows, dripping out of you and onto the bed beneath you.
Your husband's beautiful moans hit your ears while he cums, making that flutter in your stomach grow as he continues fucking you. You love how vocal he is, how he isn’t scared to hold back in any capacity.
You and Miguel ride through your euphoric highs, allowing the endorphins to flood your senses, your bodies slapping together until you and him have had enough. Moments later, Miguel loosens his grip on you, pulling out of your wetness, and once your bodies are no longer together as one, your body slumps onto the mattress.
You turn yourself over on your back, looking up at your husband who’s towering over you, completely covering you with his long shadow. The two of you are breathing hard with smiles on your faces, happy that you were finally able to have sex after being deprived of the luxury.
“I think I blacked out for a sec,” you whisper, your voice still shaky with leftover adrenaline. Your body feels like it’s floating, all loose and warm, muscles humming with that dizzy sort of high that comes after one glass too many of wine. Every inch of you feels alive, thrumming with relief and the faint ache of finally being able to indulge in the martial act.
Miguel leans over, pressing a soft kiss against your lips before placing another on your collarbone. His breath is still a little uneven, his body warm and heavy beside you. For the first time in weeks, there’s no tension in his voice when he speaks, that grumpy expression on his face has disappeared.
Miguel chuckles low in his throat, still catching his breath as he looks down at you. His hair is a wild mess from when your hands were running through it, his body glistening with sweat, and there’s a boyish glint in his tired eyes you haven’t seen in a while. “I thought I broke you.”
You laugh, the sound weak but genuine, and he grins at the sight. His thumb traces lazy circles along your skin, his tone warm and teasing, loving how after all these years he can still wear you out. “Guess we still got it, huh?”
You nod, still dizzy, feeling like your legs are turning to mush. “Of course, we do.”
Before Miguel can respond, a burst of static crackles through the baby monitor on the nightstand, making both of you jump. You turn your heads at the same time, eyes snapping toward the little screen, wanting to make sure your baby girl is doing good under the care of your friends. A second later, Peter B’s voice comes through, cheerful as usual. “She’s smiling! Look at that—MJ, did you see that? She’s all gums!”
MJ laughs in the background, her voice soft and amused, shaking her head at her husband. “She’s probably just gassy, Pete.”
“Still counts!” Peter insists, clearly delighted at your daughter's gummy little smile. The sound of Mayday giggling joins in as she climbs her mother, a happy little chaos that fills the monitor with warmth instead of worry.
You and Miguel both stare for a moment, watching your baby girl as she lies on her back, kicking her tiny feet while Peter makes silly faces beside her. MJ sits nearby, watching the babies with that calm, maternal look that makes everything feel safe, allowing you and Miguel’s worry to evaporate knowing your baby girl is in good hands.
Miguel lets out a deep breath, his body relaxing against yours. “She’s good,” he murmurs, almost in disbelief that your daughter is happy and smiley, instead of being in one of her cranky and crying fits. “She’s… really good.”
You smile softly, feeling your heart swell as you watch the scene unfold, loving the adorable expression on her precious little face. “She’s perfect,”
Miguel hums, his gaze shifting back down to you. A spark returns in his eyes, that teasing glint that always comes right before he does something reckless. “You know,” his voice drops to a low murmur, brushing his lips against your jaw. “Peter and MJ look… busy.”
You glance at the monitor again, seeing that Peter is now pretending to juggle baby toys while Mayday claps in the background, then you look back at Miguel, already seeing the thought that’s forming in his head.
“Miguel…” you start, giving him a warning tone but the smirk curling at your lips tells him that you want him to act out whatever dirty thought that’s forming in his mind.
He smiles softly, that sharp, boyish grin that melts every ounce of resistance in you every time he flashes it your way. “We said we’d take advantage of the time, didn’t we?”
Before you can argue, his arms slides under you, wrapping around your body, and lifting you with effortless strength. When you feel his palms wrap around your thighs, pulling you against his chest, you yelp softly, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, causing your breasts to press against him. “Miguel!”
He chuckles, already carrying you toward the bathroom, his bare feet walking against the cool tile floor. “You ready for round two?” he asks, pushing the door open with his shoulder. Steam from the earlier shower still lingers in the air, the scent of soap and his cologne flooding your senses, making things feel more intimate than before.
You grin up at him, heartbeat still fluttering from everything that’s happened and the anticipation building for what’s to come. “More than ready,” Miguel’s eyes flicker with amusement as he sets you down gently, one hand lingering at your waist even as he reaches to turn on the shower.
The water hums to life, filling the room with the soft rush of sound and a cloud of steam that wraps around you both. You finish your sentence with a teasing smile, running your hand down his happy trail and palming his cock that’s still wet with your slick. “As long as I get to go first.”
He arches a brow, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips as he bites back a moan, enjoying this side of you. “Oh, so now you’re calling the shots?”
“Somebody has to,” you tease back, rising on your toes to press a kiss to his mouth. The kiss is slower this time, less frantic than before but somehow more lustful, especially when Miguel slips his tongue in your mouth, amplifying the lingering sexual affection that says more than words ever could.
When you pull away, his hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb tracing small, absent circles against your skin. While you place your pointer and index finger in your mouth, tasting the mixture of his cum and your cream on your tongue, making Miguel bite his lip, wondering how he was able to find a woman who can match his freak in every way possible.
The shower fills the room with a gentle hiss, droplets dotting Miguel’s shoulders as he steps inside the marble tile shower before reaching his out a hand to you. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice soft but full of lust, feeling his cock harden at the sight of his cum smeared on your lips. “Let’s wash the morning off, mi vida.”
You step in beside him, the water instantly soothing against your skin. Once your inside and both of your bodies are wet, Miguel stands in front of the shower head, allowing the water to splash against his back, not wanting the water to reach you because he knows you don’t want to get your hair wet since you don’t have it wrapped up.
Once your feet are grounded against the shower floor, you kneel down in front of your husband, gripping onto his thighs to help stabilize yourself. Once your eye level with his lengthy cock, watching how the veins along his shaft throb, causing your mouth to water, wanting nothing more than to feel his girth stretch your pretty mouth so wide that you choke.
You dig your hand into Miguel’s thigh while you use the other to stroke his cock, giving him a few good pumps before twirling your wet tongue against his prominent veins, all the way up to his aching tip that’s begging to hit the back of your throat.
While teasing your husband’s cock, you look up at him, eyes filled with nothing but love and lust, enjoying the screwed expression on his face, knowing that by the time your done you’ll either have his seed deep inside your throat or painted on your face and you’re honestly happy with either outcome.
Before twelve o’clock, you and Miguel will be on round three, your back pressed against the shower while his cock presses against the opening of your womb, attempting to put another baby inside you.
Hopefully Peter and MJ can’t hear you and Miguel acting like a couple of horny teenagers because things are to the point where neither of you care if they can hear your moans or skin slapping together.
The only things that you and Miguel care about is making the other person cum until the image of your naked bodies are burned into each other’s mind.
Now that the Dry Spell has been lifted, you and Miguel can now walk around with a smile on your faces.
.ᐟ cw: cock riding, ear licking, shift in power dynamics, reader removes condom at the end, miguel and reader are third year college students, oh and its your first time having sex together :)
a/n: this has been in my drafts for about a week now. I wrote this at three in the morning while I was ovulating ok. art by hamburgerald
Masterlist
You remember the times when Miguel would be so hesitant and awkward to even brush his fingertips on your arm, how he would be so embarrassed, trying to hide his boner when he received a hug from you. It was evident that he didn't have much experience; most of his time was allotted to studies and other college organizations he's a part of. Sure, he's had a few kisses and some action, but it wasn't enough to be bold.
The once shy lover boy is now being ridden, under your mercy. Your hips roll in rhythm with his groans and moans, the grip on your ass tightens as you smile—milking him as much as you can. The bed creaks, and the headboard bangs harder at each thrust you make.
You chuckle softly, the sound mixing with your moans. "Yeah? You like that?" Your lips curl into a teasing smile as you watch his gaze travel from your wet cunt to your pretty face.
His eyes plead in pleasure, his nose scrunching for a split second before gathering the energy to reply. "You feel so—" His sentence gets cut off as you lower yourself to suck on his neck. He grunts, almost drooling. "So fucking good."
Your breathless laugh against his neck goes straight to his cock. You insisted that he doesn't need to wear a condom, but he refused—wanting to last longer, to stay inside you for as long as he can.
"How about we do this… let's say once a week?" Lips graze against his cheek, your nose going up and down—his words finding a way out of his gritted teeth. Your thumb is rubbing circles on the other side of his cheek.
He would've said something like "Why just once a week?" But you're both students chasing that degree. His logical and intuitive brain never turns off, even when he's drunk from sex.
“Whatever you want, ma.” Translation: use me however you want.
"We could also…" Your lips don't lift off from his cheek; they glide to his ear. "Try different things."
"Yeah?"
"Every week, we try something new."
His rich, soft laugh overlaps with the wet sounds of intimacy. "Like what?"
"Like this." His half-lidded eyes turn into full moons when you work your tongue on his earlobe, wetting the concha and stopping the tip of your tongue at the entrance. You lick his ear in a pattern, almost in a freeform shape—however you desire. Not only filling his outer ear with physical pleasure, but also his senses with your moans.
His hips lift upward, and a grunt escapes his lips without his permission, chasing his end. The tip of his cock hits your spot over and over, faster and faster. At this point, you're not the one riding him anymore; you're just on top of him as he uses you.
This makes you grip his shoulders, bitching and moaning like the little slut you are against his clavicle. "M- Miguel—I'm supposed to be—"
He doesn't bother to listen to what you have to say; he lifts you just by a few inches to give him leverage to properly fuck you hard and how you deserve.
"Cum on my dick the way you came on my tongue." Alcohol isn't the only thing that could make your subconscious confident. Turns out libido does the same.
Your body's overwhelmed with ecstasy, reflecting in your teary eyes.
"Can you do that for me, mi amor? I would be the happiest man alive," he says breathlessly, resting his cheek on your head, while you just accept your control being taken away from you.
Your breasts rub against his pecs. The hours you put into yourself before meeting with him have become nothing but a waste of time, as he enjoys the mess you are right now.
"Miguel—"
"Again."
"Miguel!"
Your bodies intertwine as your orgasms hit, his thick cum seeming like such a waste for being inside a condom instead of painting your walls that are wet and always ready for him. Your pussy pulses and tightens around his cock—your body trembling from the overwhelming, best orgasm you’ve ever had.
"So fucking tight and needy," he says as you both catch your breaths. His still-hard cock slips out of you as you rest on his chest—his arms wrapping around you.
Once your mind finally clears out the clouds, you notice his hand wrapping around your waist and his other reaching for the box of condoms on the nightstand. You lift yourself enough to look at him and stop him.
"No."
He looks at you, confused—but understanding. "Do you… want to stop?"
"No. I want you to fill me up," you say almost immediately, reaching out for his length to set him free from the plastic—a waste.
Your desperate and needy state rewards you with his smirk and condescending stare.
"I'll fill you up so much it leaks out of that pretty pussy of yours."
Valko has very sharp teef, yes and it does not seem like he can hide those chompers. But you know who also had sharp teeth/fangs and couldn’t hide them MIGUEL O’HARA—more specifically the Miguel O’hara from the 90’s.
And these two are both CEO’s AND SCIENCE NERDS AND HAVE RED HAIR
7th december | miguel o’hara | kitchen fight proposal | a broken mug
“fine! then marry me, if you think you can handle me forever!”
tags: mix of angst and fluff.
notes: not beta read. this is written in advance to make sure i can get it posted on time. hope you like it. i grabbed the divider from @saradika-graphics 💛 ty ty ty
miguel is pacing around the kitchen like a storm. one hand clutching his datapad, the other stabbing buttons on the microwave because apparently one more protein bar will fix whatever crisis he’s drowning in. you tried, for the third time, to get his attention. not to fight. to talk. to plan. to be partners.
“miguel.”
nothing.
“miguel, listen to me.”
still nothing but the yellow glow of the microwave and the hum of his clenched jaw.
you finally snapped, the words flying out of you like pressure cracking a seam. “can you stop burying yourself in work for five minutes and actually look at me?”
miguel whirls, his tired eyes sharp with frustration, he’s been pretending for weeks he doesn’t feel. “i am trying to keep everything from falling apart,” he bites out. “forgive me for not having time for some—”
he sweeped his hand in a careless arc, meaning to gesture, to push air between them, to release something… but his fingers caught the rim of the mug you gave him months ago. yhe one he uses every morning without fail.
it hit the floor with a sharp crack, ceramic exploded across the tiles.
thenn there was silence, just the microwave beeping like an idiot in the background.
miguel stares at the broken pieces as if they’re the first thing all day he’s actually seen. something inside him just… folds. his shoulders slump, mouth opens, closes, and opens again.
and when he finally speaks, his voice comes out ragged and raw, like the words have been breaking against him for longer than he will ever admit.
“fine,” he breathes. “then marry me, if you think you can handle me forever.”
it’s not a declaration nor a plea, but an offering, a surrender from a man who doesn’t know how to ask to be loved… so he demands it instead.
for a beat, you can’t speak, can’t find the words, everything inside you is still rattling from the sound of the mug hitting the tiles. miguel’s words hang in the air, heavy and so unreal, like a gunshot still echoing in a walls.
“marry you?” it was barely a whisper, more like you’re afraid the moment will vanish if you say it wrong.
he drags a hand through his hair, half defeated, half daring you to challenge him. his breathing is uneven, his pupils blown wide from adrenaline and the sudden collapse of all the walls he usually hides behind.
“if that’s what it takes to prove i’m not going anywhere,” he mutters. “if that’s what shuts you up long enough for me to breathe.”
you should be furious. you should tell him he doesn’t get to propose between a protein bar and a fucking meltdown. you should remind him that he can’t fix a relationship the same way he fixes a multiverse anomaly.
instead… something inside you goes quiet.
because there is no bravado in him now, no armor, just this exhausted, stubborn man offering her everything in the only language he knows–intensity, surrender, and… bad timing.
you step towards him, he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. His chest rises, like he’s bracing for impact.
you poke your finger into his sternum, sharp enough to make him flinch. “that is not how you propose to someone, you dummy.”
his jaw tightens. “i’m aware.”
“you broke my mug.”
he glances at the shattered pieces. “i’ll glue it.”
“you absolutely will not glue it.” you sigh.
the corner of his mouth twitched and you pretended not to see.
you exhaled, slow and shaky, more honest than you meant to be. “you can’t just throw your work at me, then throw a marriage proposal at me, and assume i’m going to—”
he grabs your wrist, gently but firmly, not to restrain, but to anchor.
“i’m trying,” he says and this time his voice is quiet, almost painfully human. “i’m trying to choose you. i just… i don’t always know how.”
that line cracked you.
you dropped your forehead against his chest, the anger leaking out of you in a long breath. he went still, as if your touch overwhelmed him more than any threat ever could. slowly, his hand moved to the back of you head, fingers slid into your hair.
neither of you said anything for a long moment.
then you murmured, “ask me again. when you’re not angry. when you’re not panicking. when you actually mean it.”
his chest rose under your cheek, a deep inhale that sounds suspiciously like relief.
“mi amor,” he murmured, “i’ve meant it for a long time.”
you smacked his ribs. “too bad, you wasted it on a tantrum.”
miguel huffed or something that sounded like a laugh, as he buried his face in your hair.
“and you’ll still say yes,” he said softly, like a promise he can’t help but make.
tears stung your eyes, but you laughed through them, shaky and disbelieving.
“you’re a disaster,” you whispered.
“you make me one,” he fired back, but it’s soft around the edges, almost… pleading.
you grabbed his face with both hands so he can’t look away this time. “yes,” you breathed. “of course it’s yes.”
he pulled you into him, forehead pressed againts yours, arms wrapped too tight like he’s terrified you’ll change your mind. they stood there in the warm hum of the kitchen, surrounded by broken ceramic and a half melted protein bar still spinning in the microwave.
