“Take your time,” he whispers. It’s out of breath, shallow from the bottom of his lungs. You’re on top of him; he’s stuffed between tight, wet walls, one hand gripping your hip, the other hand holding yours as you cling onto his shoulder. He looks up at you, trying to read your face, feeling which angle, how much pressure to push into you, calculating what brings you closer to the edge. He grips you harder, his hands now wrapped around your ankles tightly.
You can feel it, the beginning of your end, it comes and goes. You grind slowly against him, trying to find which angle lets him in the deepest. He’s so patient, letting you use him until you cum.
Eyebrows furrowed, you speed up then down, cursing, impatient. “Don’t rush, baby. Find it. We have all night,” he pants, brushing your hair out of your face.
You lean down, your tits pressed up against his chest, spilling onto him. That’s when you find it.
Lips to his jaw, then to his neck, then back up to his lips, you breathe in his breath. You moan into each other’s mouths.
“Did you find it, baby? Does it feel good?” he asks, between kisses. You groan in response, “Just like that,” you manage, “Gonna make me cum, Mig,” you whine. He hums in response, “Mhmm baby, good girl, god, you’re so good. You’re almost there.”
He pushes and pulls you on his length, the angle is perfect. Slowly, his groans grow, breathing louder. He throws his head back, “Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” He’s pushing against your walls, his tip rubbing into the tightest corner of you. He squeezes your thighs, hands traveling up and down your body, he tries to hold it for you—doesn’t want to finish until your walls are fluttering around him.
“I’m gonna—” you whimper, “I know, I know,” he pants, pushing and pulling your hips. “Fuck, fuck, baby. You’re gonna make me—” you moan. You start to lose strength, rhythm, control over your body. He takes over as you begin to unravel. “You found it, baby, it’s all yours. Keep going, it’s yours.” Your thighs tighten around him, “Come on, angel. Just like that,” he groans, looking up at you. This glance pushes him over the edge. You’ve collapsed on him, his fingers dig into pudge, he releases into you as you throb around him. You’re full of him, it makes you want to keep grinding despite utter exhaustion, to just feel him fill you up, as deeply as possible. He smiles at your shallow movements, he knows what you’re doing.
You groan, kissing his cheek. He hums, brushing your hair to the side. “Kiss me,” he whispers. You kiss him, then bite his lip. He sucks your bottom lip before fangs nip you right back.
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
MIGUEL O'HARA | full nelson + size difference (25, oct)
fem!reader. 581 words. mdni
WARNINGS. 18+ only! full nelson (kinda) pinv sex, size difference mentions
KINKTOBER MASTERLIST
Miguel's stamina is one thing, his strength is another. Both of which beyond any human capacity, each exceeding anything of the norm. He's a man made purely of muscle, sheer brawn, unwavering mass capable of lifting most things. And you of course, are no exception.
He makes you feel weightless, handling you like you're a ragdoll; manoeuvring you like it costs nothing to him. Which of course, is nothing to him.
The position he has you in is awkward, fiddly: he's laid on his back with his knees bent and you're on top, facing away — feet on the bed besides his thighs, hands secured on his broad shoulders. Quite like a crab, body contorted in a way that leaves you fairly vulnerable.
You're open and susceptible, body held in place by his massively large hands; either one on either side of your waist, supporting you through the jutting motion of his own hips below. There's no rush behind the fucking up movement, no haste at all. Just slow, long, consistent strides up into your cunt above, pushing his thick, fat cock up into you.
He's teasing with it, controlled even: slowly easing out only to shove himself back in, each one earning him a surprised, blissed gasp from you. He does that over and over, rather, has done that over and over — toying with you as you teeter between states.
It's messy, and he doesn't seem to mind. Like he prefers it. A combination of it all leaks out of your cunt, juices and arousal spilling down his cock and off his balls, all of it pooling in a puddle on the sheets between his thighs. It's noisy, gross. It's vulgar: wet clicking of him fucking up into you forming a lewd symphony between the grunts from Miguel and the moans from you.
You feel your strength dwindle, stability in your arms growing weary, and so you lower yourself down onto his body, believing him not to mind the weight. He doesn't of course. You adjust yourself and lay flat atop him, body limp and pliable against his. As if you've melted on top of him, head resting on his shoulder.
His hold on your waist moves with you, arms fully encompassing your body — grip secure as he keeps you in place. One hand slides up to cup the underneath one of your tits, while the other slips lower, holding onto some squish on your stomach.
"Querida," (darling) he utters beside your ear, voice low and laboured. Strained.
Bringing your hands up from their sprawled out placement on the bed, you place them atop the back of Miguel's, slotting your fingers between his large ones beneath. It's sort of weirdly, accidentally beautiful — holding the hands of the ones that love you.
He twists his head further and presses a kiss into your fully exposed neck beside him. He plants another kiss and another, each one just as gentle as the one before — every one carefully timed with this thrusts so as to created a fully immersive experience for you.
"Feel's really good," you whisper, voice staggered and airy with the bumping of his cock.
He sears another kiss into the side of your throat and pulses your body with a squeeze. He keeps his lips there for a moment, letting the feel of your flesh linger against them as he nuzzles his nose into you.
"You feel good," he says, gruff voice gentle in a way that's reserved for you only.
