There must be something in the air, because clearly you’ve caught a case of feral man fever. Ever since you were kidnapped - sorry, forcibly relocated - you haven’t been right in the head. You’d call it a problem, a trauma response maybe, if it didn’t make you stupidly wet.
Because really have you actually thought through what it would mean to kiss Miguel O’Hara?
Not in the safety of your fantasies, where he cups your jaw real sweet and tells you he’d die for you. No, in real life. With the full force of six-foot-nine worth of raw muscle, bioengineered hunger, and fangs. You know he had a wife and kid once, in some other timeline, but you’re not convinced he’s kissed anyone since. Not with that attitude.
So when it finally happens, when you (absolutely not being held hostage, totally here on your own volition, despite the mild ankle restraint situation) press your mouth to his - it’s carnage.
Your lips barely brush his before he devours you.
It’s sharp. Messy. All heat and teeth and way too much tongue. His fangs nip your bottom lip hard enough to draw a squeak from your throat, and he doesn’t stop. Just groans into the kiss like he’s tasting something he’s been starving for. His claws tighten on your waist, possessive, twitching like he’s trying to decide whether to peel your clothes off or just tear straight through them.
Because on the one hand - holy shit, he’s kissing you like he wants to ruin you for anyone else. Like your mouth is the last sweet thing on this earth.
But on the other hand - he could literally eat you.
Like, not in a fun, between-the-thighs way. In a real predator with retractable fangs and no impulse control way. One wrong move, one nervous giggle, and he might snap your neck before realizing it.
And god help you - your thighs press together. Tighter than ever before.
Because yes, you’re terrified. He’s massive and cold and terrifyingly intense. He growls when he kisses. His pupils shrink to slits when you squirm. He looms when he’s turned on, shadow swallowing you whole, hands too big and touch too rough and -
Oh dear god, you're into this.
You try to pull away, breathless, but he just follows you, head tilting, tongue chasing yours. The bastard moans, savoring you completely, like the taste of your fear is something decadent. His hand slides up your spine, claws grazing your skin, and you don’t know whether to cry or crawl into his lap.
And somewhere, deep in the recesses of your horny little lizard brain, a thought shrieks:
But also, he can split me in half and I’d say thank you.
When he finally breaks the kiss, panting, pupils blown wide, he murmurs something low and soft in Spanish - hot breath brushing your damp, kiss-swollen lips - and you just nod. Wide-eyed. Speechless. Slick.
Because Miguel O’Hara might think he’s being romantic, but you’re fighting for your life. And losing. Horribly.
