miguel o’hara x reader || “te amo”
cw: heavy sexual content (no sex actually happens but miguel has thoughts), mention and depictions of panic attacks.
(minors/ageless/blank blogs, do not interact!! if your age is not on your page, you will be blocked!!!)
“¿míguel, mi amor?” you start, “have you gotten…bigger?”
your husband lets out a stifled laugh upon realizing you hadn’t meant that he’d gained fat, instead offering a snarky response.
“why? do you want my new nickname to be gordo?”
you roll your eyes and pretend not to laugh as you walk away from your tiny daughter’s crib and down the hall to your bedroom where he swiftly follows as you continue.
“i didn’t say fatter, papí - i said bigger. look.”
you stop in front of the mirror and point as he removes his white shirt - too stained from gabriela’s babyish drooling to wear any longer. he runs his large hand through his mess of dark curls and stares.
miguel had only caught glimpses of the version of himself that originated on this earth - but dead or alive he can see that you’re correct.
he’s not just taller than that miguel was but he’s much broader - his arms thicker. his bulkier frame stretches the elastic of his costume more when he’s on duty as spider-man - compared to you and your daughter? he’s monstrous.
“being spider-man making you work out more, eh papí?”
you tease, as your soft lips trailing his neck from behind.
you had not brought it up - presumably because he seemed to have had a traumatic weekend fighting the vulture - but miguel had been acting different sexually too.
meaning, he hasn’t acted at all.
you’d had chaste kisses and tight holds, but his brain cannot let him do more than that. the idea of taking you like that when he’s partially a pretender - it would feel dubious, dishonest, a borderline breach of consent.
he has you all to himself and the idea of touching you - even when you seem so willing and ready to be touched - it drives him insane.
and here you are; hands on his bare chest, smiling up at him in front of a mirror, skin so tightly hugged by your nightgown especially your breasts - full of milk for your daughter.
and he so desperately wants to. he wants to let his hands slide downs your thighs and grope your curves. he wants his mouth to sink against yours until his tongue has memorized the taste of your own. and the the taste of your neck and your collar and your breasts, down and down and down.
he wants to know if you squeal, if you pant and moan when his tongue dips inside that most sensitive area. would it there be a hairy bush or clean-shaven sweet skin awaiting him? are you more of a silent type or would you curse and whimper and beg, hands gripping his hair like a lifeline?
you said he was bigger - you were right.
his hazy memory of this earth’s miguel was smaller - not unfit but thinner and had likely spent less time as spider-man considering his life with you. that size difference… did it apply to down there too? would you notice visually or would it take him entering you - making you squirm and whine about it being “too much” as he pounds it in.
he wants to know. he so desperately wants to know…
he’s the bigger man; he’s spider-man. he has the great power but the fact the allure of a lacy nightgown and sweet skin made him even contemplate betraying the great responsibility? he’s supposed to be the good guy.
the fact he even so much as contemplate taking you like that, on the basis of a lie, makes a feeling of sickness and cold grip his stomach.
“míguel-” you start to purr, in between dashing your lips across his neck. you pause sharply seeing his face in the mirror.
it’s not the usual look of arousal, or the teasing smirk, or even amusement. it’s a look of conflict, lips and eyes expressing sheer unadulterated horror that makes you pull away from him immediately voice almost breaking in concern.
“¿míguel?!” you almost yell out, overwhelmed with surprise and concern, hands the only part of your body that stays in contact with his broad form. you cup his chin and pull down to look him in the eyes.
now you’re worried. god, that makes him feel even worse. it’s clear you’ve been worried for a while - that you’ve observed difference in him; the way he pauses at foods he used to love, the way he seems just a little bit more animalistic as spider-man whenever you catch a glimpse of him on the news, and now his growth and sheer paralysis at the notion of touching you.
his heart is beating faster.
“¿qué te ocurre?” you say not in an accusatory tone but one of concern. “te ves enfermo, estás actuando extraño y no me estás hablando.” your strokes his face and he doesn’t flinch nor lean into your touch he just stays still.
your words aren’t reaching his ears except a small, so pitifully exhausted - “miguel. have i done something wrong?”
his breathing starts to become unsteady.
he knows he is the one doing something wrong. and to see you - motherly, beautiful and stubborn you - even for a second, doubt all the happiness you and gabriela have given him in this small time on this earth? he pulls away, absolutely shattered.
there is an internal battle: a devil and an angel on his shoulder yelling at him to tell you, tell you, tell you.
it is just another thing he can’t do.
first, he thinks it’s his regular spider-like secretion. then, he notices it’s everywhere, his hairs are standing on edge. it is a feeling he only gets as a warning — the spider sense affecting every one of his nerves to tell him something is wrong, and that he should be afraid.
there is danger in telling you that he’s not who you think he is.
you say his name one more time and his eyes flicker red and he realizes - the stoic, tall, ever-serious spider-man 2099 realizes:
he’s having a panic attack.