Miguel O'Hara x reader ♱✮♱ Vampire Next Door (ch. 11) prev part
You’re on top of Miguel, drunk, vision hazy, giggling at everything he says, lowly, drunk, practically purring into your neck. He smiles up at you, his nose brushing against your neck.
You pull at the roots of his hair, as he groans at the pressure beneath you. You’re the right amount of drunk. You’ll remember this, you hope to god you’ll remember it clearly. You note every movement he makes, how his eyebrows scrunch when you slow down, every groan that escapes his plump, wet lips, remember how he sounds, how the low vibrations leave his mouth and go straight to the space between your thighs.
You move your hips slowly, his hands guiding your rhythm. He groans into your neck, breathing you in deeply; he’s trying to control himself, “Y/N… god.”
You feel his nails digging into your pajamas, sharp, painful, but the pleasure outweighs the pain. You ignore it.
You moan into his hair, “Mig… please, keep going,” the pressure is perfect, building up at your core, as the soft plush of your pajama pants pushes against his hard-on. Your hips begin to stutter, a sign of your end, he squeezes your hips tighter, steadying you, as he murmurs, “Like that, chula? Look at you, such a pretty mess for me,” he groans, then shuts his eyes tightly as he winces in your neck, like watching you get off will bring him to ruins.
The heat spreads across your thighs, relaxing your muscles, your hips slow down. You moan into his mouth, breathing in his air.
“Fuck, Mig,” you exhale, pausing suddenly, looking down at the rise and fall of his chest.
You take in what just happened. Your cheeks are already flushed, but now somehow a shade darker.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, looking up at you, brushing the hair out of your face.
You lean into his touch, sighing. You put your hand on his hand, feeling how big his hand is under yours.
He leans out, looking over your shoulder at the clock resting on his vinyl-stuffed cabinets.
“11:59” he whispers, looking back at you, his cheeks flushed.
“Haven’t had enough, hm?”
“One more, to start the new year off right,” he shrugs, arms still resting around your hips, fingers tapping at your lower back, eyes lowly looking at your lips.
He puts his hand to your cheek, looks into your eyes then back down at your lips. So gentle.
You lean down and meet the warm embrace of his lips. You hear the fireworks going off somewhere in the distance, and you feel the fireworks. Your nerves are sparked, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach drop.
It’s officially a new year, new you, new start. And Miguel is right there with you at the start. It’s like you’re staring at your future; you want him to stay.
You grab your glass and sip a generous amount; you offer Miguel. He accepts, keeping his eyes on yours as you hold the glass to his lips.
You kiss again, and his lips are cold, wet, tasting of the maraschino cherries that have sunk to the bottom of your glass.
You look in the mirror, turning to view the sides of your plush pajamas. They’re ripped, right along your hips, right where he was holding you. Four small tears on both sides.
You quickly lower them, looking at the skin that’s barely been broken, a tinge of purple spreading from the tears.
“Screams, fangs, claws. He’s a… a vampire,” you exclaim.
You throw yourself on your bed, watching your best friend’s reaction through the screen.
“I’m just surprised it’s taken you this long to figure that out. I mean there’s Spider-Man, there’s Velvet Vigilante; a vampire isn’t so far-fetched.”
“Ash, what the hell am I supposed to do about that? I still like him, I still want him. If anything, this just makes him… hotter.”
“Oh my god… this just makes him hotter. To be fair, you haven’t seen any bodies, he hasn’t threatened to suck the blood out of you, is it bad that I want to see how this plays out? No wait, he’s probably murdered people, Y/N. Let’s not romanticize murder.”
“You just agreed it made him hotter, hypocrite. Let’s say he has… hurt people. He’s my friend, I can’t tell anyone, can’t call anyone, it’s Mig. I mean I can’t–”
There’s a knock at your door.
“What? Who?... Maybe Dracula heard you talking shit.”
You look through the peep hole. It’s a woman.
“Hiiii, I’m a friend of Mig’s,” she says, sing-songy, her nails tapping rhythmically on your door.
“Wow. It’s you. I’m Vel. V-E-L. Tell him I stopped by, will you?” She points at Miguel’s door. Her voice is rich, heavy, hot.
She looks you up and down, smirking.
She reaches a hand out to you, you shake it. Her nails are long, flawlessly painted a grayish pink.
“Hi, Vel. How do you… know him?”
“Wow, you’re his neighbor, huh. I didn’t like the last guy… kicked the bucket, I hope, thank god,” she jokes, crossing her fingers in front of her face.
“I mean… I got a pretty sick apartment out of it?” you attempt to match her energy.
She’s gorgeous. You could feel threatened at the fact that she knows Miguel, but you’re too in awe. She’s gorgeous: platinum blonde hair, sharp cat eyeliner, and a velvet choker adorning her neck.
“What’s your name, babe?”
“Y/N,” you answer, nodding, as she looks you up and down.
“That’s it. Knew it, knew it. Mig’s mentioned you,” she grins, resembling the cheshire cat.
“All good things, better than good, really.”
“Wow, better than good. What can I say?”
“Not much more. Gotta go, babe,” she winks then walks away, the sound of her heels noisily echoing down the hall.
She’s flirty, shutting you up, single-handedly confusing the shit out of you, leaving you in your doorway, dumbfounded. You could see how her and Miguel would be friends.
