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lazuruspit · 11 months

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Dog Days Are Over — (m)

pairing: miguel o’hara/afab!reader content warnings: unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional baggage, established relationship, angst and smut in the form of cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex wc: 3.9k summary: Feeling broken following a particularly perilous mission, you find yourself hanging on by tendrils. Lucky for you, Miguel’s always there to pick your pieces back up. a/n: its come to this..... cant believe its come to this. i was debating posting this on my dc tumblr blog since this is comic centric but... whatever. enjoyyyy

ao3

Miguel’s muscles are tense. Rigid, tight, like a disciplined dancer. He’s hunched over his console, shoulders square and eyebrows taut. His jaw is tense, tongue rounded into the corner of his cheek, hair falling like spun-thread sable over his hooded eyes.

His fingers—dry, jaded, thick—curl around the lip of his instrument panel. His forearm flexes beneath the spandex of his suit, veins popping with the strength in which he grasps the dashboard. He grunts, eyes tired, and speaks without turning.

“I can feel you thinking over there,” Miguel rasps.

You flush, a little embarrassed to be caught but– not surprised. Miguel’s constantly heedful; a predator perpetually stalking its prey.

“Sorry,” you hum, resting your shoulder against the metal door of Miguel’s private room, jamming your hands in the pockets of your casualwear.

He slightly turns. “What are you doing, standing there? Come in, don’t act modest.”

Then the thick sensation of soiled cotton balls seems to fill your nose: you're here for a specific reason, and the very thought of letting Miguel in on that secret seems to seize your every thought.

“What is it, mi alma?” Miguel asks, gaze centred on a labyrinth of holograms of different Spider-People in different universes. Despite that, his focus—each of his five heightened senses—are attuned to you.

So, after blindly sweeping the holograms away, Miguel turns to you, resting himself and his hands against the edge of his console. His body language reads of vulnerability—something he hopes you’ll do for him, as well. He can tell something is off.

You inhale, loiter your eyes across his body, then exhale. It’s rare to see Miguel in casual clothing at headquarters—rarer to others, but not so much to you.

(Miguel always shows you a different side of him. Both figuratively and literally. You’re the only one he’ll bare himself to, let you see him jaded and threadbare after he was hit a little too hard.)

Miguel tilts his head, his band tee riding over his navel garnished with a brown scruff that disappears into his sweatpants, hanging low on his hips.

He slowly reaches out and traces your cheek. Miguel’s hands are rough—a testament to his decades of Spider-Man discipline—but the whispering caress with which he cups your cheek offsets that fact. He curls his lower lip out, pinches his eyebrows.

“ ¿Qué pasa? ” He asks, tucking a wisp of hair behind your ear.

He’s gentle, so gentle with you, and you hate it. It makes it so much harder for you to say what you need to.

Asphalt thickens and settles in your throat. You look away, and flinch at the cold absence of Miguel’s comforting stare. So you chance a glance back, and bite your lip as you study his concerned mien.

“You’re making me a bit nervous,” Miguel mirthlessly chuckles, struggling to fill the pregnant air.

“No, don’t worry,” you hurry, moving to hold Miguel’s cheeks, trace the streamlines of his numerous scars, “last thing I need is you worrying.”

“Well, with a little shit like you, I do a lot of worrying,” Miguel says, crossing his eyes to twirl a strand of hair around a finger, “I’ve already got grey hairs, mierda .”

His words carry no real malice, but still, Miguel’s words are only the shell of a joke. His eyes fog over as he says it. He’s referring to last month's injury: a deep slash running like a scythe of death against your thigh—something that almost was death—if it wasn’t for Hobie swooping in and tackling Earth-95’s Doc Ock to the ground before you bled out.

“Well…” you start, straightening– then wincing, upon being gravely reminded of your fresh wound that stretches and pulls, “you won’t have to worry for a little while… I’ll be out of your hair.”

Miguel’s eyes marginally widen. He pushes himself off the console, blinking a few times.

“Your grey hair,” you belatedly decide to tack on.

“No,” Miguel shakes his head, brushing past your lame attempt at a joke. His pinched features sober into something a little more soft, and you’re regretful that you won’t get to enjoy it much considering the news you’re about to break to him, “What are you talking about?”

You inhale sharply. “I’m… I’m going home for a bit, Miggy–”

And that’s the moment panic seizes him. Miguel stands up straight, his sheer body mass and height eclipsing your vision, and places his hands on your waist.

“No, you’re not, what are you–?”

“But I am, Miggy. I’m going home. Just for a little bit, okay?” It’s hard to keep the warble out of your voice. It’s hard to miss it, too.

(It’s not the warble Miguel has come to love. Not the one that billiards past your lips and into the shell of his ear, as his fingers are knuckle-deep nestled inside of you and crooked. It’s not the tight whimper he bullies out of you as he sinks his cock past your cunt’s first ring of muscle. It isn’t one of your kitten moans, when you puckishly curl into Miguel’s arm late at night, resting on his chest as you muse about everything and nothing. This is a new cadence—one he doesn’t like—one like the little cry of anguish that wafted past your lips as Hobie lay dead, a spot that should’ve been yours.)

“Mi alma…” Miguel peters off.

You clear your throat. “I talked to Jess… well, we talked to each other…”

Miguel hates where this is going. He also hates that the diablo on his shoulders asks, “why couldn’t she come to me?” instead of being glad you confided in someone at all. He furrows his brows, listening.

“We think– we think it’s best I just go home for a while,” you cough out a bland chuckle, “maybe she just wants me gone—and I can’t blame her—but… I think… I don’t know. Maybe you can give me some of Margo’s tech.”

“... Why not stay here?” Miguel says, with me, he so desperately wants to tack on, but he reminds himself that this isn’t about him. This is about you, and the slow supernova to your eyes.

(He made the deaths of his fiancée and daughter about him. Miguel’s learned that moving on is finding a new flower to nurture, standing an arms length away to let it bloom.)

“... Okay,” Miguel whispers, “how… how long will you be gone?”

You shrug, and Miguel’s face pains.

“That’s okay,” he hurries, trying a smile, “as long as you need, mi alma.”

Miguel steps closer, pulling you into his arms. Strong, protective, warm… you’re inclined to slip into a dream, leave all your problems behind.

“Just close your eyes,” Miguel whispers, running his fingers through your hair.

You bury your face in Miguel’s chest, choking back a tight, tiny whimper.

“Can’t,” you murmur, “I still see him.”

Pain physically throttles Miguel’s heart at that. He wishes he could take away your pain, just as you had taken away his, and his breath, and all forms of cognition. But… he doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know how to say the right thing, let alone what the right thing is. So Miguel opts to plant a kiss to the crown of your head, where your unwashed face and brittle hair meet.

You pull back after that, just scarcely enough to stare into Miguel’s eyes, wishing you could fall into them.

“Miggy…” you breathlessly utter, like a prayer, an olive branch of atonement, “I need…”

Miguel rests his forehead against yours. “What is it that you need? Tell me. Tell me everything.”

You don’t tell, you show. Timidly. You rake your shaky palms lower, shucking Miguel’s crop top over your hands, placing a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

“Mi alma…” he lightly scolds, catching your wrist within his big palm, “not now.”

“Why not?” You croon, wrapping your arms over Miguel’s shoulders and behind his thick neck.

“We can’t,” he tells himself, more than you, “you’re…”

“Needy–”

“Not thinking straight–”

“Wet.”

Miguel’s breath hitches. Right in the middle of his throat, it catches, tripping and tumbling out of his mouth as a tight cough.

"Mierda..."

You lean in close, brushing your lips against his collarbone. “It’s what I need right now, Miggy, won’t you give me what I need?”

Miguel’s lips wrap around your name as he quietly whispers it. “I want to give you everything.”

“So?” You say, forlorn, “Will you make me feel good?”

“I’ll do anything,” Miguel whispers. It’s a promise; it’s atonement.

Miguel spins you around with his hands on your hips and bullies you backwards, trapping you against the lip of the console. He slides his palms on either side of your neck, cranes your head up, and plants a smooch to your lips.

“Mi alma…” he mumbles into the kiss, slotting his thick thigh between your legs.

Miguel kneads your hips and tugs you down on his leg, flexing it, guiding you back and forth as you grind your pussy over the strong sinews of his muscled thigh. You whine, clutching his shirt, and beg for more, a little sniffle crossing your swollen lips.

Miguel runs his hands down, fingers biting into the fat of your thighs as he lifts you up, plopping you atop the control panel. From there, he nestles himself between your legs, and shucks your shirt (his shirt) over and around your head, moving to suck your neck.

You shiver as his fangs graze your pulse point. You dig your fingers into his tousled hair and pull, mired in the sweet cacophony of Miguel’s moans, softened by the way his lips are pressed into your collarbone. He ruts his cock against the supple skin of your inner-thigh, baring his fangs as the cotton of his sweatpants reduces friction.

Miguel comes up for air just as you sink your fingers beneath the hem of his sweatpants. You drag them down with sparse tugs, revelling at the sight of his cock that strains against the taut fabric of his boxer-briefs as his sweats pool at his feet.

You sprawl your hand atop his dick and palm him softly, squeezing the fat mass of muscle that tents from his boxer-briefs. You peer up at him, doe eyes pleading, and Miguel sinks to his knees.

He cranes his neck up at you, musing a corporeal prayer to the altar that is your body, and kisses a trail up your flesh. Miguel latches onto your shorts and pulls them down, puckering his mouth before kissing your clothed clit. The excited bud pulses under the plush of Miguel’s lips, swelling, slick as your arousal oozes out of your cunt, sticking to your panties, outlining the barest hint of your soft pussy.

After the kiss, Miguel shifts upward, and sinks his fangs into the gauzy material of your panties. He hooks it with his teeth, dragging the soiled fabric down your legs and off your ankles before lowering again, kneeling eye-level to the winking of your dewy cunt. You quiver and raise your legs, placing your feet onto the counter, baring your sticky pussy to Miguel, spreading yourself open with careful fingers.

“So pretty, my love,” he mumbles, popping drunken smooches onto the buttery inside of your trembling legs, “ todo mío .”

Miguel paints your thighs in a mosaic of love bites, inching towards the pulsing beat of your cunt as he settles in front of it, unfurls his tongue, and lays it flat against your folds.

He licks a fat, warm stripe up your slit, growling as you coil your thighs around his full shoulders and thick neck and hasp him closer. You twist a fistful of Miguel’s dark hair between your fingers, pulling him closer, meagrely grinding your sweet clit against his cracked lips and the bump on his nose.

(You always did tell him he lacked vitamin D, needed to eat more oranges. Miguel thought it was fruitless—that you kissing him, having your chapstick smear against his lips, would be ample moisturiser for his dry mouth.

You had to force the serums on him. Miguel gets too caught up in his web of responsibilities and thawed regrets, oftentimes neglecting himself. So you clutch him by the jaw, the rough flesh of his half-sunken cheeks from empanadas in the cafeteria spilling over your fingers, and smooth some of your chapstick onto his lips. It’s cute, he gets nervous; reverting his stare to the ostentatious ceiling of HQ and sticking it there, too shy to meet your gaze as you get too close.)

Miguel pulls away for air, a wash of your precum glistening his chin. He darts his tongue out to clean it up—a fang peeking out in the process—winking under the lustre as it catches the light. You whine at the loss of Miguel’s tongue buried between your folds, inclined to use your web shooter to stick him back in place.

But Miguel’s quicker. “Patience,” he says, placating you with a kiss, letting your taste percolate into your mouth as he cards his tongue past your teeth.

“We’ve got to stretch you open first, don’t we? Hm?”

You loosely nod, breathless.

“That’s right,” he says, “it’s always quite the tight fit.”

Miguel stands between your legs and eclipses your world, readying his thick fingers by running them between your folds, lubing them up.

“Ready for me?” He asks, looking through your eyes and into your soul.

You answer with a kiss—one that says so much more than yes . It’s a barter, where you hand your life over to Miguel, and a promise to find him in every universe.

Miguel’s lips tilt up in a fickle smile as he sinks a large finger in, followed by another, moving to rest his forehead against yours.

“I hate you,” he whispers, pumping his fingers in-and-out, “for making me weak, making me break my promise.”

(As Miguel’s inflexion weakens, he hides his face in the crook of your neck. It’s obvious what promise he’s talking about: the vow made to the corpses of his child and fiancée. That he wouldn’t move on, that he’d turn black and blue in the name of penance.

But then you came along; crashing into his world like the luminous death of a star.

And just like it, albeit destructive, powerful and bright, he couldn’t look away.)

Miguel continues, blindly sweeping at your clit, rolling his jaded thumb over it as he scissors you open.

“I hate you for leaving me,” he finishes, crooking his fingers a little deeper, a little meaner , into the warmth of your pussy.

“I– I’m not…” you pant, too caught up in Miguel fucking you with his fingers to form a better defence.

“I know,” he nods, his forehead still pressed against yours—a tender blip in the streamline of his fingers’ thrusts, “you’ll come back when you’re better, and things will go back to normal.”

Miguel buries his fingers knuckle-deep, pawing and circling at the sticky walls of your pussy.

He rolls your clit with a deft thumb and latches onto your neck, biting and kissing.

(The nipping is a sign of defiance from Miguel, the reluctance of letting you go, and the kissing… because he’s seen the catatonic look in your eyes. Your face—usually sweet, albeit scarred—leaden with guilt as you broke the news to the Spider-Society.

Guilt doesn’t look good on you, Miguel decided. Only puckish smiles. Only sheepish glances.)

Just your face, moulded into extreme pleasure as your orgasm draws close, eyes squeezed shut and nails digging into his flexing forearm. That’s what looked good on you.

Miguel doesn’t fasten his pace as you tail your orgasm. Just keeps thrusting his fingers, thumb pressing into your clit, lips sweetly trailing your jaw.

He curls them once more, pushing the pads of his fingers deeper, into the squishy-spot inside you that has your jaw slacking, head tipped back, baring your neck, and your orgasm cresting to new heights.

Miguel’s keenly aware, pouncing onto your pulse-point and licking the sheet of sweat off of your skin as he keeps finger-fucking you, walking you through your orgasm.

“That’s it,” Miguel praised, lending you his broad shoulder as you quivered.

(The two of you have been in this position before—vulnerable, trembling, except those times you were bonding over the rigours of vigilantism and regret and baring the skeleton’s in your closet to each other, not panting from the tremors of your orgasm.)

“More,” you whined, cupping Miguel’s face, acutely aware of the absence of his cheeks—sullen, instead.

Miguel tries a smile and slides his hands under your thighs, picking you up, carrying you over to a low table, setting you down.

He bullies you onto your back and nudges your legs open with his knee, brushing his knuckles over your clit. The bud is still sensitive, so you flinch under Miguel’s touch.

(A part of you always thought he was bad for you. Miguel was your becoming, but…

he also was your eventual doing.)

“My girl,” he mumbles, “my pretty, pretty girl. Te amo.”

(You ask yourself… why does your response get stuck in your throat?)

Miguel pulls away, only marginally enough to tug down his boxer-briefs. The fabric stretches against his thighs as his cock springs out, softly slapping his navel, red and leaking precum, solid, angry , standing tall.

He holds your gaze as he gives his dick a few jerks, heavy balls lightly bouncing as Miguel steps out of his boxer-briefs, sets your calves atop his shoulders, and cuts his fingers into your thighs.

“Do you need me? As bad as I need you, mi alma?” He asks, and it’s obvious he isn’t just talking about sex.

But you nod, silently because you don’t trust yourself—you don’t think you ever have—and edge yourself closer to the lip of the table, egging Miguel on.

He expels a breathless chuckle, and slips his heavy dick between the fat of your cunt, rubbing himself with your dewy folds.

“ Mierda… ” he grunts, slapping his cock against the velvet of your inner thighs, “you drive me fucking crazy.”

You smile lazily, wrapping your legs around Miguel’s lithe waist, beseeching him with rolling hips and pleading eyes for him to just fuck you already .

Miguel smiles as he sinks the fat head of his cock past your tight ring of muscle, his face squeezing into pleasure.

He keeps going—slowly, filling out your every ridge—until he kisses your pelvis and almost folds you in half. You’ve never felt so full . Miguel makes a home in your tummy, pressing down on your navel as he feels for his cock, feels it pulse and throb in your pussy.

Miguel pulls his hips away, and you throw your head back as his cock drags along your walls, his fingers toying your clit. He lowers over you, folding you in half and into a press, leaning down to catch you in a kiss.

This way, Miguel eclipses your entire world. Your lips, your sex, your every inch; he’s your body’s beginning and end.

Miguel slams himself back inside of you and you squeal. It’s jarring—how gravely different Miguel’s fast-paced, desperate thrusts are to the gentle way he holds your face to his, peppering kisses on your cheeks.

He presses so close, as if trying to mould your souls into one. His mutated DNA comes out at this time—like clockwork—and he loses composure, clawing you close, hips snapping into you as he growls into your neck.

His thick brows furrow, full lips tightening, beads of sweat running down his sinewy back that you scrabble at as an outlet for the sharp thrusts Miguel drives into your wet cunt. Your walls flutter around him and you swoon, his hands sneaking under your shirt, running over your pebbled nipples, tweaking them between his jaded fingers.

“Miggy–” you whine, twisting tufts of his hair in your hands, digging your nails into his muscly shoulders, “I want it all, please. Please give it to me.”

Miguel feels himself tiptoeing the edge of sanity. Yes, a thousand times yes, he’d give you anything you ask. His life, if you wanted it; his heart served on a silver platter; his skin, his bones, his cartilage.

But Miguel knows what you mean. Because he wants it too. That primal little scratch at the back of his head kindles to life just as Miguel feels his balls tightening. When he feels you clench down on him, back arching, he can tell you’re close too.

(Miguel knows you well. A little bit more than he’d like to, because he could see the exact day the light left your eyes. How they didn’t light up again upon seeing him.

And Miguel chose to ignore it.)

He holds you a little closer, weaving his fingers with yours, grunting against your lips.

Your orgasm washes over you as the sea extends into the sand. It’s all at once cold, blistering, and envelopes you whole, leaving no room for thought of anything else. You squeeze your eyes closed as you gush over Miguel’s cock, panting, rutting your hips up and meeting him halfway as he empties his balls inside of you.

“There we go,” Miguel breathes, pushing his cock into you a few more times until it can’t possibly go any deeper, filling you with his seed, “that’s it.”

You stare at each other as his cock softens inside you. It’s left to marinate a bit, still lightly pulsing, throbbing within your sensitive cunt. Then, Miguel shoves his face into your clavicle, noses your sweaty flesh, and deeply inhales.

He wants to remember your scent, the last moment you shared before you returned to your universe for however long you needed to be there.

(Your scent isn’t your usual one, though. Usually it’s sweet. Salty if it’s after training. But today it’s tangy—bitter. Miguel doesn’t like it, but he inhales nonetheless, damned if he’d let you go before committing this moment to memory.)

Miguel pulls away, an unstable smile gracing his lips. He works himself back into his sweatpants and helps you get dressed, nerves coiling in his stomach.

When you turn to look at him, fully dressed, eyes dark, he gulps.

Miguel walks closer, sets his hands on your waist.

“When will I see you again?” He asks.

“Before you can say the word S-Man .”

Miguel folds his lips, but nods.

You look down at the watch secured to your wrist, fighting the scowl that betrays your emotions. It looks like a house arrest brace, and you suppose it's not that far off, either, holding you down in place. Constantly.

But you key in your Earth and stare as it projects a kaleidoscopic threshold before you, twirling with golds and greens and whites.

You turn to Miguel and step closer, eyes welling up as you set a palm to his cheek, kissing him.

(It’s cursory, Miguel thinks. Because you’ll come back one day, finish what you started; finish the kiss, Miguel tells himself.)

You turn around and walk into the egress, a weight lifted off of your shoulders; the weight transferred to Miguel.

The portal closes, and your smell hangs thickly in the air.

With you, you had taken the rest of Miguel’s heart.

And he hasn’t gotten it back.

That was the last time he ever saw you.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara x reader smut #marvel x reader #miguel o hara x reader #across the spidervse x reader

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