character(s): spider-man / peter parker x fem!reader (can be any spider-man you imagine like tasm)
word count: 5k
warnings: explicit sex, spidey being very impatient, mask kink mask kink mask kink & suit kink <3, VERY SLIGHT dub con because there was no explicit ask for consent— things were implied, no capitalization i apologize if it bothers u
notes: this is my first smut fic that’s been finished. ive been writing for a long time but this is the first time i’ve put it on anything :) i imagine spider-man from the 2018 insomniac game on ps4 “marvel’s spider-man” his voice actor and his character design is my favorite but you can imagine any spider-man u want, holland, garfield, maguire hehe
the droplets of rain pitter pattered onto peter’s suit and he shivered from the biting cold. the combination of water and fifty two degrees. he sniffed and rubbed his nose. “wish i had read the weather report before i went out.” he thought aloud to himself. early in the game he realized no one could hear him when he was perched on the corner of rooftops. it was safe to let that little voice inside become vocal. everyone had one. everyone talks to themselves. he likes to think it helps him organize. realistically, it’s less lonely.
ah, aloneness. he used to covet it. the isolation. it was quiet and safe, and he knew himself best. he didn’t have to talk to anyone. no one talked to him.
“god, i’m gonna go crazy.” peter aimed and swung away, looking for trouble.
he dialed. he waited. she picked up. “yuri? tell me you have something,”
“uh… no. not right now anyway. you’ve pretty much cleared up the last of the loose ends, spider-man. nice work.” her tone was refreshingly grateful, but his heart sunk with disappointment. he needed some action, itching for it. if he had ever been addicted before, he would recognize this as a need for a fix. something had to get his adrenaline pumping. yuri realized the silence. “what? you only answer to ‘spider-cop’ now?” she taunted. peter didn’t take the bait unusually. “hey, is there something wro—?”
“thanks anyway, yuri. gotta go.”
“um, ok—“
he hung up and landed on an edge. he groaned to the sky, as if he needed to tell it his frustrations. he should be happy to go home, have a night off. but he just felt stuck. and restless. he raised his arms, level to his shoulders, stretching out his chest. “breathe, spidey, breathe.” he closed his eyes. inhale, hold, exhale. he tipped backward, falling. inhale, hold, exhale. in perfect form, he flipped. over and over again. when did i get used to this much g-force? how has my head not been bashed in by a ledge? how many times can i flip before i forget which way is up? inhale, hold, exhale.
you.
peter’s eyes opened. he saw the world familiarly, zipping by him. it was too much. he shut them again. and in the comforting darkness, you returned, like a dream. you were an imprint on his brain.
“peter,” you cooed lovingly, “why don’t you come over, peter? you never visit me anymore.”
he opened his eyes. the ground was growing increasingly nearer, faster than he remembered it could. oh, but he couldn’t let go of you now. not yet. he squeezed them closed, desperately grasping onto the cusp of this new fantasy.
“i’m getting tired of waiting for you, peter~” you growled, disguised as a humble murmur, and you sank deeper into the cushions of the bed. your impatience poisoned him. he wanted to please you.
but you were just so irresistible, pouting or not. he took notice of how he pictured you. wearing a lavender silk nightgown that ended high on your thigh, with dangling strings of bows and dainty mesh.
god her nipples are hard.
your eyebrows raised as if you heard his thoughts and he felt blush heat up his cheeks. embarrassed, until your eyes wandered down his abdomen, landing on his clothed sex. “guess they’re not the only ones that are hard, huh?” you got on her hands and knees, and his pants tightened; frozen in place as you crawled towards him. he knew he’d start stuttering by now if this was real. blubbering as he helplessly watched you undo the buckle of his pants. “but you know what’s even harder, peter?” you asked him in a whisper, raising yourself properly on your knees so you could ghost your lips over his.
he leaned into you, chasing your mouth. “what?” he replied in a murmur, determined to silence you with his kiss.
you lingered a moment, gaze flickering from his eyes to his lips. your hand grasped his length and peter’s breath hitched in his throat. “the ground when you don’t pull up.” you lulled. he hesitated, drawing back.
“what?”
your voice rang clear, resounding in his skull like a bell. “pull up, peter. pull up!”
“woah!” he opened his eyes just in time, webbing an edge at the last second before he flattened on the pavement like a real bug. his fingers curled around the ledge and he pulled himself up to sit, breathing hard. he pushed the air from his lungs in a huff, going limp and laying on his back on the rooftop. he picked up his phone.
there was nothing on your snapchat story besides your cat. instagram too. you weren’t busy.
yea, you weren’t busy. not really. you were watching the second princess diaries movie because you felt like getting your heart squeezed by chris pine. however, it wasn’t occupying your thoughts like you hoped it would.
a ding from your phone alerted you to a text from a friend.
i left my dress at your house :,(
you furrowed your eyebrows, responding promptly.
your dress honey? which one?
it’s black. goes down to the thigh i think
you stood up from your lazy boy and took a look around.
where’d you leave it babe?
im guessing bathroom?? it was last saturday. i crashed at your place after My Night Out On The Town™ & borrowed some of your clothes to sleep in
you stepped in and turned the bathroom light on. you didn’t see it.
oh right ! the simpsons tshirt i was wondering where that got off to
i think im gonna keep it
you keep that i keep the dress
fair enough sugar plum. we make the trade at midnight. deal?
deal. i’ll see u at midnight, im sure i’ll find your dress by then
thank you my dear!!
you smiled. she’s sweet. you pocketed your phone and kept an eye out. sure enough, the dress was thrown haphazardly over a chair. you almost didn’t recognize it blending in with your clothes but this was definitely something she’d wear. you held it out in front of you by the straps, examining it for stains when you noticed how cute it looked.
damn. well i’m sure she won’t mind i try it on a second. you thought.
so you peeled off your pajamas and shimmied on that dress. it really was cute. spaghetti straps and a deep v-neck. made your girls pop too. you turned around and stretched the material taut over your ass. “shit, girl, you look good.” you remarked.
a moment passed of admiring yourself. “well, i have to complete the look.” before i have to give it up. your fingers hooked into the bands of your stilettos and you grabbed a shawl with melodramatic potential from your closet. it added but it didn’t complete. so you tapped the palette with your brush and dusted your eyes, “god, forgive me for wasting good makeup on a night in.” you said through a funny, concentrating expression.
it was a worthy sacrifice. you shouldered the shawl and checked yourself out in the mirror. you were nearly there. what was missing? you discarded the shawl, it was no longer working. your eyes trailed from your painted toenails over your shaved legs and good boob day to your hair.
my hair…
so you pulled and twisted and bobby pinned but it just wasn’t right. undoing what you had done, your hair unraveled into accidental perfect little curls. if you kept still, you could keep those perfect little curls around a while longer…
no. better use hairspray.
to get the proper experience, you rushed over to your full length mirror in the living room. safe to assume, you were stunning. you hardly recognized you. “oh, my god. oh, my god!” you strutted, posed. “yes.” you stuck another one. “oh, yes.” and another. “really feel it, babe, look at you!” you twirled, pretending to be your own photographer, praising your modeling.
you tried to sit in your lazy boy in an intimidating, temptress sort of way. claws placed purposefully on the arm rests, your legs crossed over one another. you embodied seductive villainy. you felt hot like one. bad. it felt so… good. “you’re killing it.” you flattered yourself, but it was hard to take yourself seriously when you were sitting in cushioned leather. you needed a real throne. in the meantime, you didn’t think twice about having more fun.
“ah! spider-man, baby, i’ve been expecting you.” you cooed. you pursed your lips in thought; that was way too cliché.
you spun on your heel, “spider-man?” you gasped dramatically, a hand over your chest in shock, the other, pretending to fashion an opera length cigarette holder, “in my living room? get out of town!”
your hand rested on the edge of a table, letting you lean on it for support as you twirled your glass in your hand, mixing it as if it was alcohol like brandy or something villainous like that. it was just sweet tea. “oh, spider-man. you’re here early.” you lulled, and took a seductive sip of your tea. slowly, letting your lips kiss the glass, and the smooth liquid to glide past them. you lowered it, leaving a red stain of lipstick. “care for a drink?”
you couldn’t help but smile as you checked yourself out one last time. your friend should be picking up the dress soon, so it was time to hang up the villain version of you and go back to sweatpants. maybe treat yourself to a little ice cream as a reward for looking so good. as a last hurrah, you winked at your reflection, “baby, you’re so hot i might just fuck you senseless myself.” you joked.
“i think that’s my job tonight.” a voice coming from behind you brutally awakened you from your trance and you yelped in surprise. you spun around and your arms wrapped around yourself on instinct, as if you were nude.
the blue and red of a friendly neighborhood superhero caught your eye. attached to the ceiling, the webhead hung, lightly swaying as he watched you with tempered anticipation. praying for a positive reaction. “hey, (y/n).” he tilted his head. “cute outfit. what’s the occasion? prom?”
“oh, shut up, perv.” you fisted the fabric of a pillow in anger, tossing it at him haphazardly, which he didn’t dodge.
“i deserve that.”
“how long were you watching? how long were you in my house?” you demanded, blush heating your cheeks. it was embarrassing, being caught red headed. you were just messing around, everybody does that. spider-man seemed to take notice of your blush, and crept toward you on the wall, stalking closer in a stance that reminded you of a cat readying to pounce… or more appropriately, a spider.
your skin tingled with anticipation, side eyeing him crawl closer. he faced the floor and picked up his legs keeping his fingers glued to the wall. in a model of peak human condition, he flipped over and skillfully lowered himself onto the floor. you gulped. he was so hot in that suit. he strode towards you but you didn’t back down. instead of stopping to tower over you, establish his dominance, he passed by you, saying, “i thought you liked me watching you.” which somehow made you feel even smaller. you swallowed again, staring at his back. those corded muscles rippling underneath that skin tight suit was enough to make you salivate. he was toying with you.
“that‘s not the point here and you know it.” you started again, feigning strength in your voice but it was failing you. he could hear that. you know he could.
he halted to gaze out of the open window to your balcony. “have you been waiting for me? you left the window open, i assumed it was an invitation.” he glanced over his shoulder. you couldn’t see the smile on his face. you felt the need to explain yourself, sheepish from the interruption of your dress-up game. “and in this outfit too? you didn’t want me to ruin it?” the question was laced with disbelief, as if it wasn’t a ploy you put on in order to lure him.
it was so hard to think when he talked like this. you swallowed thickly and set your drink down, unable to tear your eyes away from him. “it’s not my dress.” come to think of it, your friend was coming at midnight, you should stay vigilant for that. spider-man wasn’t bothered at all, offering a solution as easy as breathing.
“take the dress off then.” heat pooled in between your legs at the statement. when you couldn’t speak, he added something else, “the rest is yours right.” he bowed his head as he generously looked you up and down, “i recognize those heels,” he reminisced knowingly, surfacing the memory within you of wearing these during one of your escapades with him in the past. “the makeup is yours.” as he spoke, he sauntered closer, taking note of how your eyes were glued to the way his hips moved. his gloved hand came up to tangle in your hair, “this hair…” yanking downwards to force you to look up at his towering form. even in your black heels he was taller than you. lengthy, toned, and lean. this suit made you want to lick stuff off of him. “obviously yours. the jewelry— i was there when you picked this choker out.” his hand came up to hook his finger in the necklace, drawing a line underneath it absentmindedly. he resisted the urge to remind her his hands were her favorite choker. “you gonna take the dress off or should i? because baby, i’m getting tired of waiting.”
it had been so long since this scene was played out with you two, where he desired you enough to take the control away from you. it was invigorating, and lit a fire in your chest that drove you to listen. your hand reached behind you to grasp the base of the zipper, dragging it down in order to reach the zip, and tugging it slowly and smoothly, until you were able to push the straps off your shoulders. this has happened so many times, that the look of spider-man no longer bothered you. blank eyes only hid the brown ones underneath that held so much lust for you. it was exciting, not being able to see his face. the dress pooled around your legs, and you stepped out of it, kicking it to the side. because of your lack of planning, you didn’t pick out a cute set of lingerie. you were simply bare. naked and hot. at the sight of you, you heard spider-man exhale sharply. now it was your turn to move things along, “well? what are you waiting for?” it was breathless. vulnerable. a plea. in minutes, the hero had you begging for him all over again.
his hand came up to pinch the hem of his mask, about to lift it up over his lips. your hand halted his, fisting his suit after to get him closer as you told him quickly, “leave the mask on, dear god, leave it on.” without wasting a second, he stooped to pick you up by your thighs, bringing you over to your kitchen table to set your back onto it. one of your chairs was kicked out of the way causing it to skid. the spider was gearing up to eat you out like he’s been thinking about for hours. have you writhing and coming on his tongue over and over— but you were explicit. leave the mask on. his hand squeezed your thigh involuntarily at the thought, his other one running down from your clit over the opening of your sex causing you to whine. being patient was painful, so you curled towards him to guide his movements but he wouldn’t have it. snatching your wrist and pinning it next to your head. in a skilled maneuver he webbed it to the table, trapping that arm above your head. “hey!” you called, but he ignored you, smacking your pussy to cause you to keen. “baby, i need your fingers, i need you, i need something,” you were desperate, surprised at yourself that he could goad such a response from you with nothing but a few words and a dry spell. he granted you friction, circling your clit with his finger.
“oh, you need something, alright,” he told you, alternating giving your clit attention, and plunging a finger inside of you to tease you further. frustrating you was in order, after everything you’ve done to him since the last time you two got together. “all those pictures, and those texts,” he groaned. images of your new bikinis, new bras and panties in red, your perfect tits in candlelight or your toys playing with your wet pussy. “you need a good, hard fuck, don’t you?” he added another finger, and another, feeling you loosen like putty in his hands. you nodded feverishly, filthy sounds pouring from your mouth now that he was curling his fingers inside of you. “oh, c’mon, angel, say it. you’ve been waiting for me so impatiently, now that i’m here, you can’t even tell me you missed me? that you wanted me here?” you cried at this words, unable to open your eyes when they were rolled so far back in your head as he abused that spongy spot inside of you. it was so sudden, no prep, and he was expecting you to have coherent thoughts, and then speak them. it was too much.
you tried. you tried really hard. “yes. yes,” you agreed, “please don’t stop.” his pace didn’t falter, he liked that you were responding, and he loved knowing how hard it was for you to respond. his teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he eyed yours, parted in sinful pleasure, awaiting a kiss to swallow your moans. this mask thing was so hard, but so enticing. “c’mon, spidey, i wanna come on your fingers.”
“no way.” he told you, enthralled at the idea of denying you for all of your terrible teasings while you two were apart. at the words, you picked your head up to look at him with such a delicious, crestfallen countenance. he wished to savor it a little longer, but he couldn’t pass up another chance to bully you, “i’m gonna edge you like you wouldn’t believe,” you whined in protest, but he was busy, paying attention to your clit, and when you tried to close your legs, his hand pushed your thighs apart harshly, “oh no no no,” he said with a malicious laugh, “don’t give up now, sweetheart, don’t you wanna make me proud?” it was such a mean thing to say, and it made the coil in your belly tighten regardless. he had you where he wanted you, “can you believe this is only two fingers?” he snickered, and your only free hand reached for him lazily. “don’t make me tie down this one too.” his wanting was punctuated by adding another finger inside you, and you cried out at the feverish pace.
“god, peter, please!” there it was. his name. he didn’t even have to tell you to say it this time. he wondered if that sullied the illusion of the spider-man roleplay, but you didn’t seem to mind too much. your back arching off the table. he could feel you clenching around him like a vice, but you were so wet he was able to maintain his cadence.
his voice dripped with false sympathy, “you gonna come, baby? c’mon, angel, are you?” he demands your answer, and you can only nod, your face contorted in rapture. that was his cue to slow down, which made your frustrated noises all the more satisfying, attempting to grab at his wrist in order to fuck yourself. that earned you complete denial, and he slipped his hand out from you, leaving your pussy throbbing, dripping all over your kitchen table.
“you’re being so mean,”
“you like it.” he rounded the table and drew your free arm to him, successfully webbing it down to match your other restraint. like a bitch in heat, you reflexively moved to dip your head over the edge of the table, opening your mouth as you eyed his pants. you were asking to suck him off. the act was so devious, he gave in immediately, hooking his thumb in the hem of his pants and freeing himself, his other hand tangling in your hair to help guide his leaking cock to your mouth. he would never admit how much he loves this position. watching your straining throat, the vibrations of your grateful hum around his cock, your tits bouncing with each of his movements that made him lean over to clutch one of them, earning another one of your moans. he exhaled, finding it much harder to compose himself, “you are so damn good at that,” he crooned as your tongue swirled around him just how you knew he liked. when you gagged he pulled out to let you catch your breath, a string of his precum mixed with your saliva connecting your mouth and his cock. as soon as you reached for him again, he obliged, and to show his appreciation, his fingers returned to your neglected sex, filthy sounds pouring from the both of you. it was music to his ears.
you needed more, and once he noticed your change in pace, he took it as his hint to move on. panting, you looked up at him with such a drunken content face, once perfect makeup smudged, he felt like coming all over it. your tongue came out to lick your lips and he wished he could kiss you. a second he lingered, but got a hold of himself, ripping apart his webbing entrapping your arms like string. his hand at the back of your head aided in helping you up. “i know you said you would edge me more but can we do that after we—“ you started, stepping onto a chair while he circled the table, pulling you up from the surface so you could safely walk down. immediately, you were in his arms again.
“after we fuck? yes.” he finished for you, and by his tone it seems your little ploy of getting his dick in your mouth again worked its endless wonders once more in getting what you wanted. you grinned, and kissed him over his mask to his surprise. he felt your lips mold into his through the thin fabric, and he figured this was good enough, his fingers digging into the plush of your ass in desperation. thinking of everything he could do to you on his day off. out of instinct, he began to part his lips to play your tongue with his but had to stop himself when there was a barrier.
once your lips detached, you were free to say, “where do you want me?” but you already had an idea. it was confirmed when he whipped you around, bending you over the table again. you laughed breathlessly, your tits squished underneath you, feeling the coldness of the wood. it was obvious this was one of his favorites when you wore heels because now your entrance lined up perfectly with his—
“i’ve missed you so fucking much,” he confessed, unable to wait any longer to plunge his aching cock into your silken folds. it was too much to bear, causing you to clutch onto the table in delicious pain. he was so big it hurt in all the right ways, sliding against every inch of the inside of you. you were so wet, it allowed him freedom in his pace, your hole loosening in order to accommodate him. you rocked back into him with his thrusts to meet him, his hands on your hips providing a support. you moaned his name, causing him to reach forward and push your head down onto the table, your cheek resting against it. you whimpered as he continued fucking into you with reckless abandon. clearly, he did miss you. and you missed him so dearly. your fingers weren’t as long as his, your dildo was nothing compared to him. this scene he’s created as been so enjoyably rare, you loved every second of him taking control this time, taking what he wanted.
you couldn’t answer him, instead greedily taking what he was giving you, he praised you, “i love this pussy, baby, you’re taking me so good. i love filling you. you’re so hot bouncing on my cock like this,” it made you work harder, fucking yourself back onto him, and getting more force from him in return. the pace was unimaginable, you were screaming with his thrust. his tip repeatedly kissing your cervix in a way that made your toes curl and your legs shake. that coil in your core was back and worse than ever, making you beg.
“don’t stop, please, whatever you do, peter, don’t stop,” you ordered, tears seeping from your eyes onto the table as you closed in on finishing. he couldn’t help but squeeze one more position out of you before that happened, guiding your back to him by your hair, sending pleasant tingles shooting down your spine as he blew your back out. his hand enclosed itself around your throat as the new angle reinvented your idea of pleasure, a chain of screams emitting from you. everytime he did this to you, he made sure you could never close your mouth.
“you like that, baby? how do i feel?” holding the ability to speak over your head would be cruel, if you couldn’t hear how close he really was in his voice. his movements were becoming more erratic, and he couldn’t keep himself quiet either. the position he had you in gave you a front row seat to his breath on your ear, and gift wrapping his whines in perfect packaging that had you reeling.
“so good, spider-man, you feel so fucking good.” he had such an exploitable kink for his superhero name, keening himself in a way that caused you to moan loudly, “i love hearing you, baby,” he listened to you, letting every sound spill from his lips.
“you close? i can feel you. i can hear your heartbeat, smell you. tell me.” he spoke over the sopping sounds of your pussy and the snapping of his hips against your ass.
“i am, yes i am, i’m gonna come,” you admitted, the last word resounding in a pitchy whimper, making him groan.
“do it, c’mon, baby, come all over me,” his hand attached to the arm around your middle moved down in order to rub circles into your clit that made you tremble in his arms. you didn’t have to be told twice to let go, feeling the warmth of you drip down your thighs. to get him to stop putting too much pressure on your clit, you had to put his hand over his, waiting for him to follow your lead and come inside you. he fucked your wetness back into you with fervor, tensing up and no longer keeping pace. his eyes squeezed shut behind his mask, and you felt his seed flood inside of you as he let it go, moaning in relief. it trailed down your thighs along with your own. his forehead fell onto your shoulder as he moved until he was too sensitive.
“spider-man,” you say in surprise, “you’re so dirty for a super-hero,” he chuckled at that, pulling himself out of you and ripping his mask up off his face, revealing his familiar face and his grin. he was so happy to see you, and when you faced him fully he took you up in his arms. you were at a loss to how he still had energy to pick you up, and you squealed.
“c’mon, let’s go take a shower,” he threw you over his shoulder and you cried out again.
“peter!”
“what? we should really clean up so i can get started on that edging i promised you.” he told you, your hands at the base of his torso to keep yourself up. you eyed the back of his head.
“my friend is going to be here any minute, and i have to return that dress.”
your friend knocked, and after a second, you opened it wearing an oversized t-shirt. “hey, hon!” you greeted, and she took note of your appearance. disheveled hair, frizzy with knots in your curls. black makeup smudged under your eyes, running down your cheeks. if you had thought to fix it before opening the door, you would’ve.
“rough night?” she asked slyly, her meaning shining through with her mischievous glance.
your eyes widened, and you sheepishly muttered, “you could say that.” you handed her the dress. “thanks again.” she handed you your simpson’s t-shirt.
“no problem, sweets.” your friend replied, tossing the dress onto her shoulder like dishrag and waved good-bye. you closed the door, pressing your back against it with a sigh of relief. you heard the shower running, and pete’s voice calling for you.
cw: smut (18+), fwb relationship, PWP, face sitting, mutual-pining but their idiots so..., 69, cumming untouched, cum eating.
w/c: 3.4k of SMUT AHHH
a/n: ignore how this is suddenly typed with capital letters :0. THIS ONE IS FOR MY FAVORITE STEVEN ANON WITH THE 69 REQUEST FROM A MONTH AGO -- i'm sorry it took so long 🫠
also special shout out for @whatthefishh for reading over it like half-a-month ago 😭🙏🏻 i was going through a major writers block :^)
masterlist
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“Are you sure about this?” You watch him warily from a few feet away, shifting from side to side.
Steven is laid back on the bed patiently waiting for you, hair fluffy and soft under him. You can tell he’s been thinking about this for a while now, eager to start.
His voice is soft as he appraises the timid energy surrounding you, “I’m sure. I want it–you. I promise.” For once, Steven seems to be the least nervous between the two of you. You're not used to him being in charge or even initiating anything remotely affectionate, let alone sexual. “Do…you?”
You can already see the prominent outline of his erection pressing sweetly against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. No matter how loose and comfortable he dresses, he can never manage to hide his need for you.
“I do, but I just… don’t want to accidentally hurt you.” You wring your hands together, still unsure if you should approach him.
Steven looks at you with trusting eyes, “You won’t hurt me, darling.” His comforting words help you relax a little, almost making you forget what you agreed to, what you’re so apprehensive to attempt. He offers you a hand and you take it, letting him pull you closer and guide you onto his lap.
His voice lowers as desire drips from his lips, “Though, even if you did,” His dark eyes look up to meet yours, pure need bleeding through the gaze. You eagerly drink it in, body buzzing on top of him with flustered energy. “I think I’d be okay with it…” Your breath hitches.
You know it’s true. Steven has never shied away from pain; he even invites it in the heat of the moment. He likes to be under your control, letting you use his body to drive him crazy, even if it means teasing and denying him until he’s sobbing under you.
He loves seeing the possessive marks you leave when he wakes up in the morning, fingers ghosting over them as the night before replays in his mind, or feeling the residual sting of scratches down his torso when he takes a shower, letting the warm water draw out the sensations until he’s hard and aching for you again, and he has to seek you out, hoping you'll notice him.
You regularly get carried away, so desperate to have all of him, that you don’t even realize how intensely you devour his eagerness to please you. But Steven is more than happy to indulge your hungry advances.
He especially loves it when you soothe him after, lightly kissing each bruise and mark as you whisper sweet words, apologizing for how rough you got.
He takes it with a shy smile, basking in your affections and your gentle touch, sighing as he’s surrounded by your energy, by your undivided attention.
Sometimes he likes to pretend like you're his, like you're doing this because you love him, not because you think you're being a good friend.
It's not hard for him to imagine it when he closes his eyes, especially when you're moaning around his cock or grabbing his neck to pull him into a desperate kiss.
But when it's all over, when he's pulling his jeans back on -- still thrumming with heat -- the spell breaks and you go back to being just friends.
Now, he's going to pleasure you. Make you feel the euphoria of his mouth, so you'll want him just as much as he wants you. This is his form of reciprocation for all the favors you've given him. And he hopes it will convince you that he'd be a good lover for you. That you could be more than just friends with him.
He lets out a hushed, “Please,” as he leans into you, enticing you to follow him and capture his lips hungrily.
Steven knows exactly what he’s doing when he uses that tone, that soft shade of himself that can bring you to your knees even when he’s falling apart harder and faster than you are.
You moan against his pouty lips, feeling the softness, his gentle press, you pull him closer, eager to deepen the kiss. He lets you have control over him, merely following you as you slide your tongue against his, delicately tasting you, tenderly holding you by your waist.
Steven is always gentle with you, no matter how clouded his mind gets during these heated moments, no matter how lost in pleasure he gets or how desperately he needs you, he always handles you with delicate care.
You nip at his bottom lip, drinking in his soft mewl as you start to roll your hips against him. His grip on your waist tightens, holding you more insistently against him, letting you feel how desperately he needs you.
His lips are pink and plump when you pull away, parted ever so slightly as he stares between your bodies, working your body over him. His eyes are glazed as he cants his hips to chase the exquisite feeling of your soft center against him.
You tease him, lifting yourself just enough that he can’t grind himself against you. He whines when he can’t feel you anymore, gripping your waist with frustration.
“Love, please!”
You break the kiss and climb off of him, appreciating how ruined he looks from a few kisses and light grinding. He huffs out a breath in frustration, hands fisting with the need to touch you. To have you close.
You stand next to the bed, hair in disarray, fiddling with the hem of your large shirt to garner his attention. His bronze gaze soaks over you, flashing dark when it meets the short hem of your pajama bottoms.
“Your shorts, p-please, take them off.” It’s not a demand, Steven doesn’t make demands, it’s a request, a plea, one that you’ve heard time and time again, and have seldom refused.
Your fingers find the waistband of your shorts and drag them down until they’re pulled the rest of the way off with the help of gravity. A breathy sigh can be heard under you when you step away from the pooled clothing, leaving you in an oversized t-shirt that barely brushes at the top of your thighs.
It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time – he’s always like this.
His eyes sparkle as you shuffle closer to the bed. “Come’ere, darling.” He pats his chest, “Right here.” You timidly crawl over him, delicately straddling his chest, legs parted just above his ribs. Your knees pull in towards each other, trying to hide what your shirt can’t cover, but you don’t get far before warm fingers pry you apart.
“Show me.” It’s a bare whisper, as light as his touch gliding over the outer sides of your legs.
You reluctantly let yourself relax on him, hands gripping his soft shirt, wrinkling the fabric. Heat prickles under your skin as he cranes his neck to look at you, lashes nearly brushing the tops of his cheeks with how lustfully heavy his eyelids are. He takes that moment to breathe you in, devouring every inch of what you’re offering.
His touch disappears from your thighs, and you hear quiet ruffling behind you, then a broken groan under you. You look over your shoulder and spot his hand pressing desperately against his covered hardness.
“S-Steven…” He doesn’t stop his actions when he meets your eyes, utterly shameless with his need for you.
“Beautiful.”
His breaths become heavy, and his chest moves deliciously under you, right against your hot center. You attempt to squeeze your legs together, hoping to abate the intensifying sensations, but you can’t, his chest keeps you spread, open, and quivering just for his eyes.
Steven is barely touching you, but even the slightest hint of pleasure has you craving him.
You can’t help but close your eyes as you subtly shift over him, drinking in his soft grunts as he continues to touch himself under you. It makes you throb with heat.
Steven watches you suck your lip into your mouth to hold in wanton moans as you experimentally slide against his firm chest, hands pressing into him to support your movements.
Your initial timidness crumbles as you roll your hips over him again and your head tilts back as you begin to lose yourself in the way your clit presses so perfectly against him.
Steven’s gentle voice cuts through the carnal fog infesting your brain and pulls you back to reality. “Sit up higher for me.” His hands are back on you, urging you to scoot up. “Let me taste you – L-let me fuck you with my tongue.” You press your dripping center to his shirt-covered torso with a soft moan, feeling the small spot right in between his ribs where you’ve soaked through. “Please, baby?”
You nod wordlessly, letting him guide your body until you’re hovering over his face. Your body shivers as you feel his warm breath brush against your center.
It’s a bit daunting looking at Steven from here. His face is nestled right in between your thighs – which is not an unusual sight – but this time you are on top. You can barely see his eyes since your shirt is so big it practically drapes over half of his face. What if you suffocate him or break his neck?
“Maybe… we should rethi-” A gasp falls from your lips as strong arms pull you down to his face. “Steven!-” Without hesitation, wet heat laps at the seam of your cunt, greedily dragging over any slick that threatens to drip down your inner thigh.
Your words are effectively stuck in your throat as Steven begins to eagerly nip and suck at your softness, drawing out deep whines instead of coherent sentences. You can only hold on to the headboard to support yourself, holding back your urge to grind against his supple lips.
You moan as Steven tentatively nudges against your entrance, laving his tongue over the sensitive opening just to tease you. When he finally pushes into you, you have to hold yourself back from grinding against him like you’re riding his cock. He licks and thrusts his tongue into you, humming at your taste as you drip over his lips, down his chin.
Your hips uncontrollably buck against him as his tongue flicks at your clit. A hand drops into his hair, tugging frantically at the ends before pushing him further against you, begging – no, demanding for more. He gets the memo and focuses on your most sensitive bud, delicately suckling it until your thighs are trembling by his ears.
A ball of heat quickly blooms in your lower stomach and flushes under your skin. Familiar sparks of energy thrum up your spine, enticing you to clench around nothingness with promises of unspoken bliss and ecstasy.
Calloused fingers lift you away from the molten heat of his mouth just as you were reaching your climax. You’re gasping for a breath as Steven holds you back from toppling off the edge.
You can feel it, his breath, barely ghosting a sigh over your center, and somehow, even that slightest brush of air has you pulsing helplessly over him. He’s breathing as hard as you are, mouth glossy and plump as he stares back up at you, face flushed, and eyes glazed.
Utterly pussy-drunk.
Your grip on the headboard tightens intensely and your eyes roll shut. You can’t stop it.
A stilted cry rips from your throat as your orgasm suddenly rushes over you in full force, crashing over you like a wave. Steven can only watch, lips parted in awe, as you shatter completely untouched right above him.
His fingers grip harsh bruises into the skin of your thighs as he feels himself throb dangerously close to his own euphoric end. You moan harder at the tender marks he paints on your trembling legs. The sharp feeling travels up your legs and straight to your center.
His hands rub your thighs comfortingly, apologetically, before he starts to drag his tongue over your messy center with a hum, doting on you with kitten licks that make you shiver.
He cleans you up slowly and methodically, making sure to avoid your most sensitive area. Your body still thrums from your unexpected and intense orgasm, and his soft licks quickly become too much, even with how light and sweet he is being.
You lift yourself away from his tongue, “S-steven…no more. It’s too much!”
“You can do it again, darling…” He coos, trying to pull you back down onto his mouth. “Just one more. For me, please?”
You're head is fuzzy as you steady yourself on top of him, gripping the headboard tightly to ground yourself from the lingering sparks of mind-numbing pleasure.
Steven groans as he watches you struggle to get a grip.
“C-can’t. It’s too much…” You get off of his face and sit next to him on the bed, squeezing your legs together to suppress the bout of overstimulation that almost overtook your senses.
You look down at him when one of his hands wraps around your thigh and squeezes, a simple act indulgence that drives you crazy. Your lips part as you take in the view.
Puffy lips and glassy eyes, blown out with lust, meet your stare, begging you to climb back on, but you're still shaking where you sit. He's drenched in your slick from his chin to his neck and the collar of his shirt is soaked through, sticking sweetly to his chest.
Your eyes drift down to his sweatpants, to the prominent bulge that throbs under your gaze. He palms himself, whining lightly at the feeling of his neediness and desperation. He's so hard, begging for your touch without even saying a word.
“Okay, now it's your turn.”
His shakes his head, “No, I want more.”
“Steven…”
“Please, I want to taste more of you."
"But--" Your eyes dip down to his covered erection that you've been neglecting all night.
"Just...come back, we can do it at the same time if you want.”
Your face heats at the implication. You don’t know why you’re so coy, you just came right above his fact. You've just never seen Steven like this: so insistent and hungry.
“S-sure, ok.”
You whimper when he eagerly tugs you closer, urging you to straddle his face again. Careful to not knock your knee into his cheek, you swing your leg back over his body, but this time you situate yourself so you can take care of him at the same time.
He immediately dives back in, tongue thrusting into your sensitive channel before you're even settled on top of him. You falter and almost collapse over him, hand grasping at the bottom of his shirt for support.
"Steven! Gentle, please!" You groan out, eyes already threatening to roll back as he continues to drink you in. He hums in response, but doesn't actually let up, if anything, he becomes more insatiable, suckling every stimulus point until you're shaking above him.
You struggle against your pleasure to pull his sweats down, freeing his cock from the restraining fabric. Your mouth waters as his tip weeps for you, spilling silky precum with every breath he takes.
You've always loved Steven's cock. How responsive it is when your breath ghosts over it and how it desperately throbs for you as you swallow around him. How perfectly it fits in your mouth and how deep it can fuck your throat when he allows himself to let go.
Sucking his cock was the furthest you allowed yourself to go. You convinced yourself that these one-sided interactions would keep you from revealing your feelings, that you could deal with the friends-with-benefits bit if you didn't have an actual 'relationship'.
So you deemed actual sex as too intimate and barred letting him touch you (you just weren't sure you could handle it).
But then one thing led to another...
You failed to reject his soft kisses and couldn't resist marking him up like he's yours. And now here you are barely able to handle it as he fucks you with his tongue, hands gripping marks into your thighs as his nose nudges against your wet center.
You don't know if you could go back to just being friends when he's given you unfathomable pleasure. When he talked to you like this. Looked at you like this.
You're a mess and you're struggling to hold on to your original plan.
You try to block these thoughts from your mind as your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing it gently just to get a reaction out of him. He groans against your cunt, movements stuttered as your touch distracts him away from his task.
You unconsciously sit up on your knees and lift your hips off of his mouth to get closer to his cock. Steven barely notices, too focused on holding his orgasm off as you diligently taste him, one lick at a time.
You drag your tongue up his shaft, licking the precum that slowly cascades over his silken skin. You feel his body quake as you lave and kitten lick against his tip, gently coaxing shortened breaths and whimpers with every touch.
You dip down to engulf him into your hot mouth, enjoying the slick feeling of his cock gliding easily against your tongue and the top of your mouth.
His hands frantically latch onto your upper thighs, unintentionally pulling you back onto his mouth as he squeezes at the softness, desperately attempting to control himself.
He has to actively keep his hips from snapping against your face, you just feel so sublime, so soft and hot.
Steven cries against your cunt when he reaches the back of your throat. He can't help it when he feels you struggle to swallow around him, so tight, wet, and hot. He's just so sensitive -- especially when it comes to you.
You keep laving your tongue against the underside of his cock as you suck him in, ignoring the your jaw begins to ache as you open wide for him.
"Uhh!" His stomach tenses under you and he twitches against your tongue.
He can't be cumming already...right?
Fingers grip into your hair and you're suddenly pushed down, forced to take him down your throat. You choke slightly, eyes watering, before letting yourself relax against him.
He's lost in pleasure, grinding and thrusting his cock into your mouth like it's your cunt, shoving it deeper than you're usually comfortable with and you let him.
Steven spurts warmth at the back of your throat. You try your best to swallow it down before it dribbles from your mouth and makes a mess. He whimpers as he fully lets go, thighs tense and trembling under your touch.
He's still cumming when he tugs you back onto his mouth, feverishly lapping through your center before taking your clit between his lips. You orgasm explosively as he avidly sucks you in, already half-way there from the mere feeling of him spilling in your mouth.
Even after he has emptied himself, he continues to gently fuck your face, not yet ready to leave your warmth. His hips stutter and his breaths become uneven but he ignores the overstimulation, too attached to this closeness, to this illusion of mutual affection.
He also continues to lick you clean, despite your whines of discomfort. He lovingly places gentle kisses against your inner thigh, wishing he could stay in this position forever.
He huffs out disappointedly when you climb off of him, even tries to lock his arms around your legs to keep you there, but you were adamant to get away from his insatiable mouth.
"One more?"
You gape at him, "Steven, we already did 'one more'." You shiver, suddenly cold without his body against yours. "What has gotten into you? I've never seen you so...horny before."
He looks at you sheepishly, "I dunno. I guess, once I got a taste I wanted more." He sits up, hand wiping your slick off his face. "How 'bout later?"
"You're already thinking about later?"
He nods, "I'm always thinking about you."
Your heart thumps painfully in your chest as blood heats your face. You try to ignore it. Try not to look directly at him. Try to pretend like he didn't just say that because he probably doesn't even understand the impact that his words have on you.
He's always thinking about your favors. That's it.
It's possible I might have a few so freakin' many, 'nonny, you don't even know...
List Notes:
Fics are Sorted by type of pairing, then alphabetically by Title
Uses AO3 Ratings: General audiences - Teen & up - Mature - Explicit
Check your Content Settings if you're 18+ and want to be able to see mature content (Settings -> scroll down to Content You See -> Community Labels -> Mature -> show)
Graphics: MK header is mine; adorable moon & stars divider by @straywords
Links sometimes misbehave on desktop–If none of the links are working, try opening in dashboard mode (click the eye-shaped button in the far top right)
— MK System x Reader —
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B-Roll by @heybluechild
[ Marc x F reader, 2.2k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: You and Marc make a sex tape. (smut, humor)
Chocolate by @bits-and-babs
[ Steven x F reader, 6.1k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: After weeks of pining for your coworker Steven Grant, sharing chocolate over a late shift causes sparks to fly. (pining, soft smut)
Disaster [ao3] by @softlyspector
[ Marc-centric MK system x F reader, 6k, T, oneshot ]
Summary: Marc's mental health takes a turn for the worse when you give him some news. After chasing him to Chicago, you, Steven, and Jake are left to pick up the pieces. (heavy angst--mind the warnings!, angst with a hopeful ending)
The First Time by @youvebeenlivingfictional
[ Marc x F reader, 3.2k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: The first time you and Marc catch one another in a tight spot, you both make it out by the skin of your teeth. You’re both wounded; you’re both riled up as all hell. (violence, angry smut, feeeeeeelings)
Gift of Min & Redux [ao3] by @astroboots
[ Steven x F reader x Marc (x Jake), 21k, E, twoshot ]
Summary: Marc brings back a trinket from his trip that may or may not contain an ancient sex god/aphrodisiac. Either way, Marc’s not telling, and it’s for you and Steven to find out. (Smut, sex pollen)
Idling by @juneknight
[ Jake-centric MK system x F reader, 10k, E, in progress as of 7/6/23 ]
Summary: Jake keeps having to front for Marc and Steven's new girlfriend. (angst--mind the warnings!, promises of future smut)
keep your vigils on the road [ao3] by @charnelhouse
[ Steven x F reader x Marc (x Jake), 4.2k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: They’re on the run. It’s kind of a vacation. (smut, violence)
Killing me by @astroboots
[ Jake x F reader (x Steven/Marc), 2.4k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: Jake takes it “easy” on you after a long night with Steven. (smut)
Moon Struck [ao3] by @softlyspector
[ MK system x dancer F reader, 43.3k, E, series ]
Summary: Steven asks you out, Marc falls in love (slowburn, some angst with a happy ending, eventual smut)
No fish were harmed in the making of this meet-cute by @writefightandflightclub
[ Marc Spector x F reader, 2.1k, G, oneshot ]
Summary: You have a dilemma. You don’t want to sell the man any more fish. But you do want him to keep coming back to your shop 👀 (fluff, humor, angry meet cute)
Obsessed by @juneknight
[ Marc x F reader, college AU, 7.2k, E, twoshot in an ongoing series ]
Summary: Marc likes eating pussy and offers to eat yours.
(smut, college roommates AU) ...Honestly, I probably could have listed ALL of Dorm Room Marc here. Other Favs: The Thing About Marc Spector, Pushing Buttons, Sweet Requitement
Pornstar MK Boys: Marc, Steven, Jake by @runa-falls
[ MK system x F reader, porn star AU, 3.0k, E, threeshot ]
Summary: as a fluffer, it’s your job to know how to keep the boys interested. each alter has their own preferences (porn star AU, smut)
Shadow of a Doubt by @writefightandflightclub
[ Marc x F reader x Steven (x Jake), 7.1k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: Marc was first. Steven was second. Khonshu’s never going to love you. …And you’re wondering if Jake will ever get there at all. (relationship/character exploration, some smut, angst with a hopeful ending)
Sting by @bits-and-babs
[ Marc x F reader, 3.5k,E, oneshot ]
Summary: Marc relies on your amateur skills to patch him up following a brutal fight. (blood, smut, pain kink)
Stone Heart by @magpie-to-the-morning
[ Steven x demisexual F reader, 1.5k, T, twoshot ]
Summary: Maybe Steven’s one-sided friendship isn’t so one-sided after all... AKA a Moon Knight Pygmalion AU (fluff, romance)
Take Care of You by @tropes-and-tales
[ Steven x F reader x Marc, 3.8k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: For Steven, it was love at first sight. For Marc, it was a slower thing. (smut, feeeeeeelings)
Where To, Miss? by @foxilayde
[ Jake x F reader, E, 7.5k, oneshot ]
Summary: Jake Lockley is your driver, escorting you safely in your nighttime travels. There’s something about him. Tonight, you’re going to find out what that something is. (violence, blood, and surprisingly soft smut)
— Intra-MK System Pairings —
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All this time I was just waiting for you by @nakimochiku
[ Steven x Marc, E, 20.6k, complete ]
Summary: Layla isn't Steven's first kiss, but things keep going wrong for him romantically. Marc helps him work on that. (pining, smut with feeeeeeelings)
in the aftermath by queenie
[ Steven x Marc x Jake, E, 37.5k, complete ]
Summary: Having his own body is strange (separated into their own bodies after the show AU, slow burn, eventual smut)
last night i watched myself sleep by sweaterlou
[ Steven x Marc, E, 19.4k, complete ]
Summary: A look into Marc and Steven's relationship progression; from sharing a body to sharing a bed. (pining, smut)
the loneliest number by unstuckintime
[ Steven x Marc, 9.6k, E, complete ]
Summary: The problem with Steven is that he wants so much and he’s so lonely. He’s so lonely and he asks Marc for it all the time. (smut, feeeeeeelings)
making two reflections into one by marin27
[ Steven x Marc, 101k (as of 9/22/22) , M , incomplete ]
Summary: After falling into the sands of Duat, Steven is sent back in time to fix things. He may or may not end up fixing the wrong, but no less important, things. (TL;DR: The fic where Steven fixes his relationship with Marc as the Moon Knight plot happens in the background.)
(back in time redo AU, slowburn, pining, feeeeeeelings)
Our Body by apartment
[ Marc x Steven, 1.4k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: There are benefits to sharing a body, Steven realizes, especially when getting kidnapped is commonplace these days. Or: the "you don't have him; he has you" meme, plus marc's attempts at being a boyfriend (violence, smut)
paths diverted by solarzenith
[ Steven x Marc, separate bodies, 6.8k, E, oneshot ]
Summary: Khonshu reanimates them, with an ultimatum: come back as one, or come back separate. Marc makes the decision readily, too easily, and Steven had no idea Marc wanted him out of their head so badly. (pining, angst with a happy ending, smut)
see through my act, tell me I'm wrong by snapdragonpop007
[ Marc/Jake x Steven, 31k, T, complete ]
Summary: “Leave him alone,” Marc scowled up at Jake from the reflection on the tiled floor. Jake ignored Marc and made a beeline right towards the gift shop as The Man In The Gift Shop Named Steven got back to his feet and went back to the register. “Jake if you go in there I swear to god—” (Steven gets a separate body AU, slow burn, feeeeeeelings)
— Canon / MK System x Layla El Faouly —
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do not enter is written on the doorway (but you can stay) by FlowerCitti
[ incidental Marc x Layla x Steven, 19.8k, M, complete ]
Summary: When it came to heroes and other vigilantes, Marc didn’t have any interest in interacting with them. He travels with Khonshu’s will, continuing to protect those under the moon and following through with Khonshu’s severe judgments. He kills and keeps Khonshu content and fed, shielded under the darkness of night and the flickers of the moon. (Or, Marc meets the Avengers. And then gets shot in the head.)
(plot-centric MCU crossover)
Marc/Layla Ficlet by @writefightandflightclub
[ Marc x Layla, 0.3k, T, oneshot ]
Summary: How did Marc tie the knot with Layla? (mild angst)
not quite a meet-cute by notmadderred
[ MK system-centric, Marc x Layla x Steven, 8.3k, T, complete ]
Summary: Layla meets Jake and things get complicated for both of them. (character exploration & bonding)
so this could be the death of me (or maybe just a better me) by @quinnathy
[ MK system, Marc x Layla mention, 25k, T, complete ]
Summary: One time Marc saves Steven, one time Jake saves Marc, and one time Steven saves Jake. (And so forth.) (character exploration and bonding, some angst)
To Sleep by @radiowallet
[ Steven/Marc x Layla, 1.2k, T, drabble series, ongoing ]
Summary: Sometimes Steven dreams. For Marc it's a nightmare. Layla El-Faouly does not sleep. (angst, yearning, mentions of canon-typical violence)
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— Canon / Gen (no Pairing) —
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Jake's not very good, very bad day. No worse than that by Beyney
[ Jake-centric, gen (no pairing), 6k, T, oneshot ]
Summary: The Avengers think Moon Knight just has no marbles left to lose. The system is not amused. Khonshu is gleeful, and Jake just doesn't want to deal with this shit anymore. At least the god will keep bringing him back if this mission goes way more sideways than it already has, right? ...Right? (MCU crossover, Jake whump, violence/death mention, does some of the MCU crew a little bit dirty for the sake of the story)
That's all I've got for you for now, 'nonny, but this is definitely a non-exhaustive list. I've read so many wonderful MK fics, I'm sure I've missed some that should've been on here and will no doubt discover even more amazing stories in the future. Chances are I'll wind up coming back to add to the list, and you all should feel free to reblog/reply/send me an ask with your fav MK fics!!
Thank you for the ask, dear anon friend! And thank you for being patient with me—it turns out I have a lot more fav MK fics than I originally thought, and it took me a little while to get this list together. Hopefully they'll be something new-to-you here for you to enjoy! 💕
🧡 twp
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Want more to read?
Check out my other Author, Fic, & Fanwork Recs
warnings: mutual pining, steven is a shy babygirl, marc playing wingman (but he's kinda terrible at it cause he's also falling in love), no jake (the crowd is booing), no khonshu, steven still works at the museum, post mk s1, no use of y/n
an: rewatched the whole of mk last night and needed to write about my dearest stevie, would love to plan out some future chaps if you guys want :)) pls comment i'd love to hear what y'all think and don't forget to repost to support your fav writers
summary: Steven's apartment has become overrun with more bouquets of flowers than any one man could ever find use for, but they would continue to pile up as long as the pretty girl at the flower shop continued to melt him with that syrupy smile each time he walked in.
Steven Grant had never given much thought to flowers.
Sure, he could offer a momentary appreciation for a flicker of yellow growing out the cracks in London sidewalks or maybe if he passed a house with a particularly impressive rose bush he could smile, but beyond that flowers remained mostly inconsequential.
Steven never had girlfriends in high school, or - to be frank - thereafter either.
He’d never had to pick out a bouquet, one that he would need to consider: does this match her eyes? will it match her dress? how does it smell?
In the face of discovering that he was unalone in the occupancy of his five foot nine frame and fighting in the name of an Egyptian moon-god, Steven had less time than ever to consider his frighteningly barren love life or the lack of interest in flowers on account of it.
Isn’t life funny? In the way that we look so far beyond ourselves for answers, when sometimes they’re just around the corner.
Specifically the corner one street over from the museum.
Steven had walked the path to work plenty of times. A designated route. In the days when he still worked at the gift shop, the same route now that he’d been bumped up to tour guide.
Until one otherwise unimportant morning when construction bound his usual way, forcing him a walk further around the block: adding another four minutes to his trip and a view of the quaint shops down Little Russel street.
He hadn’t been down there in months. His last venture had been in search of a pharmacy for sleeping tablets, when Khonshu was still a nightmare and Marc nothing more than a migraine.
Steven noticed first that the pharmacy no longer stood. In fact, the previously white brick face of it’s stand had been painted a lush lemonade-pink. The Petal Parlour.
Almost immediately, in just about the same breath, Steven’s eyes found a woman leaned over a broom and sweeping the edge of the shop step. She was humming, he could just make out a Stevie Wonder tune.
The morning light flickered off your hair as if off the face of a pond out in a beautiful garden. An elderly man passed your work, uttering a greeting, and you'd perked up with a melodic: "good morning Mr B!"
Steven's footfalls stalled down the sidewalk. A man crashed into his back, strewing the contents of his messenger bag around him. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" He'd seethed at him.
By the time Steven had looked up, you'd already retreated back into the shop. He could make out your outline through the stained glass front.
There hadn't been a day since that Steven had taken his normal, considerably shorter, route to work. He got up five minutes earlier each day, brushed his teeth, made a cup of tea and let the memory of you swim behind his eyes. He could hear Marc's sighs every time.
Most mornings you were inside. Steven would deflate when he rounded the block to an empty corner, but he refused to consider it a total loss because - more often than not - he could make out your figure beyond the window fiddling with petunias on a shelf or smiling at a customer.
Some mornings, when he found himself most lucky, you'd be outside the shop. Usually clipping stray leaves off the rows of bouquets that glimmered happily at the people passing down the street. When it rained, Steven was privy to the way your hair clung to your forehead and the smudge of black mascara beneath your eyes. In the sunlight your arms were exposed from under a pink work shirt and a soil-stained apron.
It went like that for nearly a month. Between Steven and Marc's alternating schedules, he learned to appreciate the slim sightings of you he could manage. Marc didn't make it any easier, mind you, with the way he would whine and complain into Steven's ear.
"Jesus, Steven, just go up to her and say hi!"
Once or twice, Marc had managed to gain control of Steven's legs: teetering him drunkenly in your direction.
The fright would rise quickly up in Steven's chest, steering his legs back in the direction he was walking. You'd looked up one of those times, meeting his eye and spilling out a soft laugh that dissolved into a syrupy smile, but he'd rushed off before you could say anything.
Steven's face stayed red that whole day. "See. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Marc jeered.
"That was mortifying." He muttered back.
The bus rocked beneath his feet and his palm was growing sweaty around the pole he was using to steady himself. Frost was creeping up at the edge of the window he was watching out of.
"Okay, so all you're going to do is go in there and ask for ... help with something." Marc clarified again, his voice echoing around Steven's head.
He'd been bugging Steven since he was brushing his teeth before bed the previous night, something about how "I can't handle any more of this, please Steven. Put me out of my misery."
"Help with what?" Steven whispered. A woman looked up at him from her seat. He smiled shyly, turning away from her.
"I don't know ... tell her you're looking to buy some roses. Tell her it's someone's birthday."
Steven nodded slowly to himself. "Okay ... okay."
Marc had worked hard over the last twelve hours at convincing him. The endeavour was initially futile, but after Marc threatened to go in there and ask her out himself with a - frankly insulting - cockney accent, Steven was left with limited options.
He rounded the corner with wobbly legs and The Petal Parlour loomed in the distance. A bunch of sunflowers taunted him with swaying faces.
It drew ever closer and Steven's heart was beating loudly in his throat. The pink brick was crossing his vision now, his footsteps growing heavier, faster, past the floral print on the window--
"Steven don't even think about it--"
Against Steven's will, his legs knotted around each other: collapsing his body in the direction of the white painted door. It crashed open and Marc, more than Steven, caught his body before it hit the tiled floor inside the shop.
"Oh my god, are you alright?"
The shop was cramped now that he'd gotten his first glimpse inside and the three people crowding the space had their eyes on him.
As if appearing from a mirage, you pressed past the people towards him. He nodded frantically, the scalding touch of embarrassment burned his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah ... I'm fine."
Your earrings jingled from where your head was tilted to inspect him. Ringed fingers pressed down over your soil-covered apron. "Okay then, if you're sure."
Your concerned brow dissolved slowly and that syrupy smile he'd seen pointed in other's directions was suddenly overwhelming him with it's warmth. "Well then, can I help you find anything? Are you looking for some arrangement in particular?"
Steven nodded dumbly, he was fidgeting with the edge of his coat. "Yeah ... I'm looking for, uhm..."
"Birthday!" Marc called from somewhere deep in his mind.
"Birthday!" Steven spluttered loudly. There followed a quiet moment of confusion dripping between you and him.
"Jesus, Steven."
Your giggles crumbled into the space before Steven had the ability to conjure more words.
"I-- I'm sorry, I'm being rude ..." Laugher spilt between your words and your cheeks were turning a soft pink, "you want something for a birthday?"
An embarrassed smile had reached up into the corners of Steven's mouth. He liked the tinkle of your laughter, half convinced he could get drunk off the sound. A molecule of pride floated in his chest knowing that he was responsible for it.
"Uh, yes. Sorry, yes." Steven nodded, fidgeting with the bag strap over his shoulder. "Someone's birthday."
"Well, we just gotten some new arrangements in this morning ..." You turned on him, steering across the little shop to a orange, yellow and pink stacked shelf. He followed you tentatively, trying to pretend that he didn't smell perfume where you moved past him. Pretend that it wasn't making his knees buckle.
"They're pretty." He said quietly. You smiled again. You're pretty, he thought.
"Focus!" Marc's sharp voice sliced through his thoughts.
"Who's birthday is it?"
Steven's tongue lodged back into his airways. "Uhm--"
"Oh shit ... uh, say--!"
"My girlfriend's."
"Not girlfriend, you idiot!"
"Oh, alright--" Your hands fidgeted with your necklace, eyes wide.
"My sister." Steven interrupted you again, the argument in his brain between his thoughts and Marc’s voice was rattling his resolve. "I ... not my girlfriend, I don't have ... I don't have a girlfriend."
"You don't have a sister either." Marc quipped.
Steven ignored him. You were watching him with another smile flirting at your lips. "Okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes? Or have an idea of what you want?"
Steven shrugged, head wobbling into a shake. "Uh no ... what kind do you like?"
You seemed taken back by his question. "Oh. Well, I like the tulips. The yellow ones, especially, but they're tough to find around here ... they have tons in Netherlands and Turkey, which not many people know because everyone thinks of them--"
Steven was sure you could see the little birds floating around his head, and how his pupils turned to tiny black hearts: maybe that's why you stopped.
You blushed a velvety red.
"I'm sorry ..." you turned back, hiding your warm face to wave your hand over the shelf of stacked bouquets. "We have some orchids and some irises if you think she might like them?"
"Yes." Steven nodded, hands folding over each other. His eyes were trailing the outline of your profile, savouring the closeness he'd finally been granted. "Those ... they're beautiful. She'll like them."
Your eyes twinkled where you nodded and it made his stomach churn. "Great."
He lingered patiently by the register while you wrapped the flowers with careful hands.
"Say," your gaze flickered up between him and the brown paper. "Do you work around here? I'm sure I've seen you passing in the morning sometimes."
Steven's breath tripped in his throat. She noticed me?
"Yes, now answer her." Marc's voice rung again.
"I-- yeah, I work by the museum actually." His voice stumbled nervously from the back of his throat.
"Oh really? That's so cool!" Your voice lilted with a pitch of interest. "I really like their exhibit on the liberation of India from English colonial regimes. I've only been once or twice though."
Chest buzzing delightfully, Steven nodded. He knew the one you were referencing, it was a couple corridors down from the Egyptian exhibits.
"Well, you should definitely come see the Ancient Egyptian section. The exhibit is huge and we have hundred year old pieces, sarcophaguses and vases and slabs of cave walls with carved hieroglyphics. I work there and it's really the most fascinating--"
"Let her respond, Steven."
But you seemed content to allow him to continue his splurge, your eyes warm and gentle where it caressed over Steven's face. He stopped talking, winding off embarrassed.
"So, uh, yeah."
"You've made a very good case. Maybe I will come visit." You nodded, fingers stroking absently at the edge of the counter. "If you promise me a tour?"
Warm blood rose up from his chest and pooled in his cheeks. "Of course. Anytime."
You handed him the flowers over the stretch of counter. "I never caught your name?"
"Steven." He said quickly, dejection gathering in his throat at the fact that your interaction was nearing a close. "G-Grant. Steven Grant."
You nodded. "Nice name. It's very James Bond."
"Thanks."
"Ask her name!" Marc poked at the back of his brain.
"Uh-- and you are?"
"Oh!" your eyes fell down to your chest where the corner of your stained apron was obscuring the sharpened edge of your name-tag. You shifted it for him to see.
Steven's eyes followed over the letters, he tried your name out on his tongue. It tasted sweeter than he thought a name ever could, rolling off his lips like a song or a bird whistling on a summer evening.
"It's ... it's a beautiful name."
You blushed, eyes moving back to the keyboard for momentary solace before paralysing him with your warm gaze again. "Thank you. I guess I'll see you 'round Stevie."
His mind whirred with how casually the little nickname slipped from you. "Yeah, yeah you will ..."
Leaving the store, Marc called from between the sludge of Steven's muddy mind.
"Good job, Stevie."
-
Steven was consumed by the interaction the whole rest of the day and when then next morning loomed overhead, he could hardly believe his luck when you were pinching together some lilacs out on the front step where he passed.
Half convinced by the nauseating twist in his stomach to just march quietly past, the decision was made for him when you glanced up from the flowers and offered him a friendly wave: “good morning, Stevie!”
His brain dissolved into a warm, gloopy mess. “… Morning.”
-
In the coming weeks, Steven’s apartment had become a botanical garden of epic proportions.
Vases and cups and pots, and whatever he could fit a flower into, lined his kitchen counters and his shelves and his bathroom sink with every possible kind of flower that The Petal Parlour had to offer.
Marc grumbled most days, in search of a coffee mug or apartment keys between what he described the “Amazon jungle in here.”
But Steven paid him little mind. It was a harmless jab and Steven noticed in the reflection of the shop’s stained glass window how Marc watched you too, eyes glazed with a soft affection. He mentioned nothing of it to Marc.
Steven had begun frequenting the shop when he could, on mornings he got up early enough or afternoons when the day’s work brought soil stains across your ruddy, tired cheeks.
He’d bought flowers for every possible celebration to be had in London, seemingly nabbing an invite to each one. Bat mitzvahs, birthdays, weddings, farewells, funerals: he’d bought bouquets for one of each kind.
Each visit would play out similarly. He’d step into the shop, maybe once a week or every other week - with Marc muttering somewhere in his mind, we’re hardly gonna be able afford groceries at this rate - and you’d beam at him from behind the counter or from beneath a brightly coloured shelf.
“What’s up, Stevie?”
The nickname made him shiver every time.
“Let me guess … Christmas in July?” You’d tease.
When he’d find you behind the counter, that was his favourite, because you’d lean lazily over it. It blessed him with the view down the slope of your nose, the smell of your fading perfume, the jingle of your clinking earrings.
“Baby shower.” It comes out almost as a question, curling upward at the end.
You’d giggle softly. “Right. Boy or girl?”
It had been long enough that Steven could just about draw out your work schedule.
Fridays you didn’t work, Sundays and Tuesdays you only clocked in the afternoon. He tracked it with the little greetings he got, or didn’t get, as he passed on the way to or from the museum.
“You know,” Marc was fronting an early morning in August, subjecting Steven to a cup of coffee. He hated the stale taste it left in his mouth. “We’re quickly approaching, if not already long surpassed, the point where you need to actually ask her on a date. You know that right?”
Steven remained quiet in the depths of Marc’s mind.
He stayed like that until Marc had cleaned out the mug and stuck a wet toothbrush into his mouth.
“Can I please just get ready for work now?” Steven muttered after nearly twenty minutes of silence.
Marc huffed, letting his eyes roll back and the toothbrush dangle from his lips.
Steven shook out his shoulders, Marc was always so tense. “Thank you.”
It was only when he’d passed the flower shop that he remembered that it was Friday. A group of school kids were expected at the museum around nine that morning.
He was almost grateful for your absence, it allowed him to wallow in Marc’s words for at least one more day. He should ask you out, god does he want to.
The day passed like most of them do.
The school children were rowdy and mostly impartial to the magnificent feats of Ancient Egyptian architecture, but he took another tour around two o’ clock with three couples and a family who were significantly, thankfully, more engaging.
Steven had just wrapped up the hour, on the tail end of explaining how do we know what hieroglyphics mean? to the man who’d asked, when a flitter of shifting fabric floated past the back of his head.
Emerging like a bottle-green wet dream, Steven's gaze found you drifting under the arch between rooms. Your eyes alight in searching, they caressed momentarily over each framed painting and encased ornate vase.
He'd never seen you in anything more than your tight pink work shirt, which - don't get it mistaken - did enough damage to his psyche on it's own, but he immediately knew he'd never recover from the little green dress that clung to your frame.
A square neckline reached past clinking necklaces, long sleeves brushed along your palm - a job Steven desperately wished was his own - and a ruffled edge that teased an upper expanse of thigh which he'd never before been gifted a view of ... and if you shifted just a little, bent just slightly over--
"Hey, thanks a lot. The tour was great."
The middle aged man's face reappeared into Steven's view: dirtied spectacles pressing down the edge of his sweating red nose.
Steven stuttered, eyes flickering between the man's face and your figure in the distance. "Y-Yeah, of course ... anytime, mate."
Your eyes found him, waving a hand.
Uninterested in letting the American tourists keep him from you any longer, Steven slipped past them towards your nearing frame.
"Stevie, hey." You beamed up at his face, hands playing with the strap of your bag: clearly unsure. "You-- well, it was my day off and I thought maybe I could take you up on that tour, but I just saw the board and it says you'd already finished your last one--"
"Hey, hey," Steven shook his head. "No, I'm ... I'm glad you came. I can take you if you'd still like, I'd love to show you around? It will be like a private tour."
He swore he could dissolve under the shine of the smile you gave him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Oh—“ you started digging into the bag draped down over your shoulder. “That reminds me …”
Your hand emerged with a single white flower. It’s petals were wide with a barely there yellow dot in the centre.
“I thought it would match the jacket you always wear.” A hand reached out, tugging gently on the corner pocket of his grey trench coat and slipping the flower in so it stuck half out happily. “It’s a white daffodil. Nicked it last night before I closed up.”
Steven’s chest was clenching up with a tightness that felt like his last remaining decisions in this life were to either immediately faint, or kiss you until the oxygen deprivation lead him to faint anyways.
“I—“ His fingers caressed gently at the edge of it’s petal. “Thank you.”
“Give her a compliment, Steven.” Marc’s voice startled him. He was a rare presence when Steven was at work.
The idea prodded at Steven that maybe it was the sound of your voice that had drawn him out.
“You … you look beautiful, by the way.” Steven pressed out, “the dress, it’s — it’s very nice.”
With nervous hands at the edge of the skirt, your looked quickly between the dress and Steven's face. "Ugh, this old thing. Just thought it would be a good idea to get out of my work uniform for a bit."
"I agree ... a great idea." He nodded, "You wanna ... get started?"
"Of course."
Steven lead you over the same route that he walked three times a day, four times on weekends, but somehow still felt itchy between the rooms. He figured it had to do with you gaze pressing curiously over his face, it made his neck hot and he prayed you couldn't see it.
When he spoke, you leaned close into his frame: eyes flickering between his trembling lips and the artefacts he was describing.
"That's so cool ..." you'd whisper to yourself at different points, sometimes a "that's crazy" or a "that's kinda gross", and Steven was drinking in your reactions like a man parched.
The tour closed off at the spot it usually does, with the replica of the Rosetta's Stone near the West Exit. By then, the sun had already sunk behind the backdrop of summer London and Steven's nerves were downright shot.
Your perfume was sending him on a chemical high and he's sure Marc heard every one of his desperate thoughts about the way your fingers tightened around his arm when they'd bump past other visitors moving room to room.
With the dress swaying merrily at your sides, you recounted points of the tour with animated hands flying ahead of you.
"And the way they managed to get those tombs so far underground? Not to even mention the complex tunnelling systems, how much work that would actually take to figure out--"
The tiny birds had returned to flying in circles over Steven's head, Isn't She Lovely was playing absently from somewhere in the depths of his mind.
Your excited hands came to find your sides and you huffed yourself into silence.
Following beside him, Steven lead you two out under the arched gates towards the steps of the museum. The moon twinkled between streetlights, and Steven avoided its gaze. Like he could feel Khonshu’s presence over his shoulder.
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He smiled at you, a smile that just about suffocated him.
“Enjoyed it?” You laughed. “It was amazing, I mean, you were amazing.”
He laughed softly too, but didn’t respond.
The silence was beginning to turn stale.
“Now is as good a time as it’s gonna get.” Marc pestered.
“Well I should—“ you pointed obviously over your shoulder, before finding the face of your wrist watch. “My train will be leaving soon.”
Steven nodded. “Yeah … yeah of course. I had fun, you should come by more often.”
“It was … it was very sweet. Taking me on the tour when you probably had better things to do.” Your hand curled over his forearm again, “You’re very sweet, Steven.”
“And you’re very beautiful.”
The words found the air between them before Steven even knew what he’d said.
Your lips parted slightly in surprise, cheeks brushed with a warm pink: “I— thank you, Stevie.”
Steven nodded, not looking at you and suffocating on his own embarrassment. “I’m gonna— need to go finish up inside.”
An unmistakably wounded look passed over your face. It dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.
“Sure.” It was curt. “I’ll see you round the shop.”
“Steven, if you do not stop her so help me God—“
A flurry of hot and cold feelings were chasing up and down his chest: he watched your figure turn and worked to do the same.
The outline of the museum had barely returned to his frame of vision when the cold hand of his subconscious reached out and dragged him down into it’s icy black depths: now watching the view of his eyes as if from a foggy tape recorder.
Marc stiffened his shoulders, turning to where you were bounding down the steps of the museum, heels clicking on each jump.
He chased down after you, skipping two steps at a time.
“Marc, don’t! You’re gonna scare her!” Steven was shouting now, rattling his already shaky consciousness.
He called your name where you’d just reached the sidewalk. You turned up to meet his face.
In barely fractions of a moment, Marc was able to find some sympathy for dear Steven.
Now that he was faced with you himself, as opposed to the blurry lens he’d been cursed to only peer through before, he wondered how Steven ever conjured up the courage to say more than three words to you.
“Steven?”
The light of the street-lamp was flickering in little circles off your eyes in the dim street and Marc was half convinced to abandon Steven in the darkness.
He didn’t.
Rather, he slipped back down into the shadows where he felt Steven surpass him again.
Your brow bent deeper in confusion, “Are you alright?”
If he had time, Steven might have taken a moment to huff at Marc for not even bothering to turn away when he forced himself back to the front, spared you from the sight of his eyes rolling back in their head. But no, you probably thought he was possessed.
“I, yes, that doesn’t matter—“
He could feel ice cold adrenaline pumping down from his brain. Like he did in the seconds before a fight, when the suit would crawl up over his skin.
“Your eyes,” your hand came close up to his face, hesitant enough to just float in its orbit. “They rolled—“
“Will you go on a date with me?”
You blinked up at him. Once, twice.
The silence was reaching far past the limits that it did in all the romance movies Steven had seen and his palms were growing itchy with the passing seconds.
“When?”
Steven’s head was reeling. He hadn’t thought that far, but why quit while he’s ahead?
“Now. Right now, tonight.”
The surprise was fading from your face, replaced with eyes that were glowing around the corners and a smile that made his heart skip every second beat.
“Don’t you have work?”
“You haven’t answered my question yet.”
“If you promise to still come visit the shop ... I would love to go on a date with you, Stevie. Right now.”
Warmth was flooding back into Steven’s hands. “I’ll set up a tent outside on the sidewalk …” he breathed, “you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Steven nodded. Almost tripping on the step up behind him, “I’m going to tell them that I’m leaving. Just wait right here …“
He’d already moved up two steps, legs buzzing with untamed exhilaration.
“Steven, hold on just one sec—“ when he turned, you’d surpassed the small steps separating you.
He’d barely a chance to turn all the way back around when your index finger hooked between his neck and the collar of his shirt and your lips were on his.
They were warm and soft and Steven had no idea what he was doing.
With his experience being limited to the pool of:
A. The girl he’d pecked in first grade on the swings in the playground.
B. A drunken make-out at a college party for a college he didn’t even attend and,
C. His (mostly Marc’s) ex-wife,
It was nothing short of a miracle when his hand came up to find the side of your neck. When he pulled your waist flush against his.
“Atta’ boy.” He ignored Marc.
You pulled back, Steven was pleased to notice your reddened, wet lips.
“Sorry,” you whispered close against him, voice half-drowned out by the rumbling of taxis in the street and people passing by. “Been itching to do that for a while.”
Summary: Reader gets stuck aloft in one of the Kom’rik’s cargo nets and has to call out to Mando for help. Filthy Mando smut ensues.
Warnings: explicit language, swearing, explicit sexual content, porn without plot, well, maybe a tiny little hint of plot, oral- f receiving, PiV, squirting, cum play(?), it’s messy- nuff said, Kom’rik sex, improper use of a cargo net, reader is an idiot who should think things through, Mando is an opportunist, no use of Y/N, maybe? bondage - Mando doesn’t help her out of the net like- immediately, but reader ain’t complainin’
(N/A: The brain fog has FINALLY lifted, and I wanted to write about my most recent random filthy thot. This is the result. It’s a long-ish, smutty one shot. Reader & Mando are in a situationship - friends-with-benefits type deal. I’m picturing like a live-in nanny/housekeeper kind of thing, but I don’t think I ever specified. This is post-season 3, and Mando’s living his best life on Nevarro. He and reader are in a Kom’rik, because I need room for my smut flourish, and I didn’t want to resurrect the poor old Razor Crest from the ashes. If I missed any tags, let me know. And I hope you enjoy.)
summary: he’s just too pretty for somebody so stoic. thankfully he’s able to show off for you, knowing just how much you like it. he’s just so easy on the eyes
warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, teasing from miguel, not proofread so sorry for any typos
there’s just something irresistible about miguel o’hara. he knows it. it’s a fact so sure as day that a part of his own hidden cockiness comes from the fact that he feels the eyes travel across the large span of his body, taking in his sheer size as they dart away when he catches them staring.
but despite the fact that his enormous ego (and his even bigger attitude) derive from some of this attention, there’s really only one person who he cares for to seal the deal.
you were so nice to him, a large smile greeting him whenever he came into work. it was off putting at first; how somebody could be so cheerful in the morning when everybody seemed to move as though awoken from the dead.
but slowly you warmed up to him, and he doesn’t know why, but he knows that he treats you differently than the rest of them.
his words were softer when they were directed at you, a rare and honestly almost non-existent smile on his face whenever you told him about what you had planned for the rest of his week with such excitement that he almost forgot what his job was.
and he’d be lying if he didn’t say that the way you looked up at him with so much admiration and care in your eyes didn’t do anything to him. he’d also be a blind man if the way you gnawed on your lip, cheeks puffing out in jealously when one of the assistants blatantly flirted with him didn’t send blood rushing straight to his dick.
so it was no surprise that “meetings” in his office became more and more frequent, his paperwork skewed to the side as he made room for you on his desk, your legs wrapping around his waist as you hungrily kissed him like you hadn’t seen him in weeks (it’s been days since you last saw him).
“missed you,” you murmured against his skin, tugging his suit down as he made quick work at throwing your blouse to the side, expertly opening up your bra clasp with one hand as he moved back up to press a sloppy and wet kiss to your lips, nodding feverishly in agreement.
it didn’t take long for him to tug your pants and underwear off, groaning at the slick that connected to your panties, the smell almost knocking him to his knees as you waited (somewhat impatiently given your stance) for him to do what he wanted with you.
“f-fuck,” you whimper into his skin, tears filling up your waterline as he slowly and in a calculated manner drags his arms down your torso, his claws drawing out goosebumps in their wake, “hurry up.” you groan, impatient at the obvious way he’s edging you.
Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)
ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!
College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons
(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist
pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader
summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.
warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI
a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!
wc: 6k
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice.
Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window.
So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman.
When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.
Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment.
You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.
You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara?
Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning.
On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach.
"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was…
You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying .
The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist.
"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!"
~~~
He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring.
The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.
As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask.
It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him.
The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep.
Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him.
This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class. She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.
"Where's he gone?" She asks politely.
You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."
"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day.
You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.
"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."
Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it.
"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo.
"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.
You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."
A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
~~~
You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it.
After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course.
Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself.
You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall.
It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure.
It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself.
Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here.
On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video.
" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen.
What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all.
Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners.
He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you.
All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs.
" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-"
He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-
" H-Harder, Miguel, please."
He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers.
" Fuck, Miguel…"
He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall.
~~~
He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.
A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home.
And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.
Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions.
You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night.
He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy??
You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.
After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water.
With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there.
"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway.
You wince."...F-Fine?"
You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?"
You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."
Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice.
"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further.
Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together.
You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand.
" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee.
"You look… wet."
"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze.
"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed.
There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression. His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds.
Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?"
He's got a hand on your arm now, The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details.
" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy.
It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside.
"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."
"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word.
"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?"
"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."
"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"
"...I'd like that, to be honest."
"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."
"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too."
~~~
You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same.
You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way.
There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost.
It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.
Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand.
What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza?
Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal.
So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy.
“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"
You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats.
All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought.
"Yeah?"
"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-"
"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"
There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…
"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!"
With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway.
"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "
"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"
"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-"
"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.
He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips.
You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.
"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you.
His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand.
"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close.
You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.
"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile.
"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side.
"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."
His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.
"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular.
He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?"
"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it.
He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty.
"Huh. I guess they do."
"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"
"Katie." He hums.
"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name.
You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch.
"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ."
Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest.
"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-"
"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."
Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own.
"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.
Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?
"...and I heard you say my name."
"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing.
"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-"
He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"
A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."
"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."
He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together.
He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest.
It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts.
"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."
You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck.
He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum.
Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth.
Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin.
"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt..
"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara.
"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.
He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"
Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"
He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?"
You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."
"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?"
It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction.
"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach.
You mumble something begrudgingly.
"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."
Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel."
Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."
Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth.
He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.
And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue.
And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole.
"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue.
You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off.
"Right there, fuck… "
Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily.
You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him.
"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him.
"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs.
Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck.
"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."
His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."
You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should.
"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head.
"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."
summary: Miguel's acting weird, and you make it your mission to find out exactly what's going on.
warnings: no warnings for this chap, pg-13, swearing and canon level violence. smut next chapter xoxo
a/n: this is a combination of 2 asks and this post I saw on here a while ago: flirty/ snarky fem reader, Miguel during a ""rut"" (I don't know if it counts as a rut really, but its to do with his animal instincts/DNA) and Lyla playing matchmaker. I had so much fun writing this, enjoy :D
(i wrote this pre seeing spiderverse 2, so i think characterisation is a little off, esp for Lyla, apologies! I'll fix it in my upcoming fics)
wc: 3.6k
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You think Miguel is avoiding you.
One of your closest friends, giving you the runaround for months, it seems. Calling the two of you close friends is a little extreme, sure. You've only known O'Hara for two years, and been in love with him for slightly less than that, thank you very much. And yes, he refuses to call you by anything but your last name. And the last time you saw him he wouldn't so much as look at you, but that was besides the point.
"..the point," You tell Lyla, in between exasperated bites of cereal, "... is that aren't elite forces of spiderpeople supposed to, you know, have some spiderpeople kick ass once in a while? And where exactly is our fearless leader? I haven't seen O'Hara's scary ass in weeks, and I'm starting to miss it."
She gives you a look, one that says this isn't what I'm programmed for , but you pointedly ignore it.
"His ass, by the way." You clarify. "I very specifically miss his ass. Remind me to get his routine. I know girls that would kill for…"
"How the fuck did you get in here?" A voice croaks. You turn behind you and see Miguel, not in his suit, but wrapped up in a blanket like he's just woken up. And he looks rough, like a train ran him over on the way here: puffy eyes, splotchy skin, tension kneaded into his brow.
"Wow." Your spoon drops into the milk. "You look like shit.."
He furrows his brow even deeper, if that was possible. " Mierda. You shouldn't be here."
"This isn't quite the welcome party I was expecting, man. I'm the only one to actually turn up to one of your meetings, and this is what I get?"
"I thought I told Lyla to cancel," He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Cancel? Since when do you miss a chance to talk about rules and protocol?"
"I don't have time for this-"
"-and I'm not leaving without a proper explanation. Is everything okay?"
"It's actually way worse now you're here." He deadpans.
"Haha ." You turn to Lyla. "You drop everything to travel halfway across the multiverse and this asshole won't even say thanks."
"Thanks, but this asshole needs you to leave. Now."
This is the most he's spoken to you in forever, and you hate that you like it. You just want his attention, however it comes. If that means dragging this out so maybe he acknowledges you, touches you, looks at you - then so be it. Squinting, you get closer to him. You scan his face for anything to latch onto. You put a hand on his shoulder, still searching.
"You sure you're alright? You know you can tell me if-"
"Si, si." He grits his teeth, looking away. "M'just fine. I'll explain…. later."
"...because I'm your right hand man?" You grin, poking at his brow. "Stop frowning so much Miguel, you're gonna ruin that pretty face of yours."
He flushes, nervous, and swats you away. "-what? N-No. You're not my right hand man and I like my face just the way it is. Now, leave. "
Making your way to the door, you tap your nose teasingly. "You know where to find me!"
When the door closes with a click, you make your way down the corridor, and stop in your tracks when you hear it. It's muffled, but with the strain of your supersenses you can make out Miguel's voice just beyond the wall.
"I just…. don't want her to see me like this… Lyla, it's not happening… I can't tell her…." Tell her what, exactly?
Resolutely, you make up your mind. Miguel O'Hara's got a secret. And before you leave for home, you're gonna do everything in your God given power to wear him down and find out.
~~~
Despite his insistence otherwise, you liked to think of yourself as O'Hara's right hand man - and most of the other spiderpeople thought so too. You were one of the very first he recruited, after crash landing onto your earth like a spiderman-shaped meteor; the two of you were inseparable. Miguel was stubborn and headstrong and thought he was right all the time. Infuriatingly, he was, but that didn't stop you from telling him to get his head out of his own ass when his ego grew too big.
He was different around you, you think. Softer, sometimes. Harsher, other times. He told you what you needed to hear whether you wanted to or not; the result of mutual respect and agonising persistence. Slowly, you had chipped away his hard exterior; the one he built because he thought he needed to push people away. In that regard, you were similar, but this need manifested in you like a weed - an awful, awful compulsion to joke and laugh at your own expense, to keep others at an arm's length. You had spent your whole life picking and pruning away at yourself, looking for perfection. Even after all this, multiverse-hopping and fighting alongside people who were the closest things you had to friends , it wasn't enough. There was still something missing.
Ironically, Miguel had told you something similar the one of the last times you had spoken. You had fucked up a mission, well and truly. In the aftermath, all you can remember is coming back to base, limping on Jessica's arm.
"She's hurt!" She cries out. Lyla materialises and leads you both to the med bay, inspecting any visible wounds. There's a deep laceration, sticky with blood, at the base of your stomach. You shift onto the bed and hiss with pain.
Miguel is quick to follow, face twisted with confusion, pain, sadness. Even in your haze, you feel the tension radiating off of him as he drags over a cart of supplies.
"What happened?" He strains.
"I don't even… it happened so fast. We got ambushed, and all of a sudden I'm on the ground. I wasn't thinking straight and… " She sobs. "...she jumped in front of me. God, she saved my life-"
"-wasn't your fault, Jess." You croak, trying to sit up. "And I'm fine. Just need to walk it off…"
"Sit, bichita ," His nickname makes you frown, despite yourself, and you settle back down. "Lyla, what's the damage?"
Your vision goes spotty, and Lyla's voice barely registers. All you can feel is searing pain in your side, but Miguel is warm, oh so warm. You clutch his arms, and force him to look you in the eye.
"M'ready, Miguel." He nods weakly, but you don't think he understands. "I mean it . I can lead, j-just need another chance and I won't let you down… Jess, tell him that I can-"
"It's okay. I believe you. You just need to relax for me, hmm?" He clutches at your hand, tight, and it's like you're the only two people in the world. "You did good. I promise."
Faintly, you nod. You feel a pinch at your arm, and Jessica's there, with an empty vial of something in her hands. The pain washes over you, and you fight to keep your eyes open. In those last few moments of light, you swear you feel a shaky kiss pressed to your temple.
"Sleep, mi bichito amoroso. Sleep."
When you come to, you're still in the medbay, moonlight streaming through. Well, artificial moonlight. Time worked a little differently here, something Miguel explained to you a while ago - God knows what about dilation and quantum interference. It makes you smile now, remembering his frustration as he tried to explain to no avail. You were the only spiderman this side of the multiverse without a degree in quantum tech, you had said with a lopsided smile.
You move to sit, and pain shoots up your side. Groaning, you push through it, determined to get out of this bed and find the others. As if on cue, Miguel walks in, almost leaping towards you.
"You should… mierda ! You should be resting in bed."
You pout as you stumble into his chest. He hooks an arm around you and leads you back. You clamber in, sighing. "M'fine, O'Hara."
"Your guts were halfway out of your body less than 24 hours ago. So stay put, or you might give me another heart attack."
You scoff, incredulous. "You were worried?"
He shrugs. " 'Course I was."
"Why? You know I'm practically indestructible." You give him a shit eating grin, and poke the frown appearing at his brow. He doesn't bat you away like he usually does.
"Famous last words, bichita ." He sighs. You can't speak a lick of Spanish, but you know he only calls you that word when you've frustrated him to his limit. So you take it as a win, for now.
He drops into the chair next to you. "How are you feeling?"
"Just peachy, dollface." You wink, and he doesn't so much as groan.
"I'm being serious. You went through something pretty traumatic…"
"You want me to tell you it hurts, so, so bad, daddy? " You pout and flutter your eyelashes mockingly. Miguel shifts in his seat, unable to make eye contact.
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean, O'Hara? I feel fine. And in a couple of days, I'll feel even better, and I'll be up and about. I can finish what we started and-"
"-no, absolutely not." He frowns. "A couple of days? I'm sending you home-"
"You can't do that! On whose fucking authority?"
"On the authority of you almost fucking died ! Keeping you safe is our priority right now-"
"God, is this my punishment? This is a low blow, O'Hara. You know how hard I've worked for this: months of surveillance and intel a-and I did everything by the book, just like you told me to." You croak. "I fucked up . I know that, and I feel terrible. Give me a chance to make things right; that's all I'm asking. I can do it, I know it. "
He looks at you for a moment, something heavy in his expression. His face contorted, he strips you down to the bone with just his gaze. His voice is so quiet, you almost miss it.
"....you're still trying to prove yourself, aren't you?"
Honestly, it catches you off guard. You don't even know what the fuck that means, let alone why he said it.
"I don't… I d-don't…?"
"They all love you. Respect you. More than me I think, sometimes." He chuckles at that. "You're good at what you do. The best . What else are you trying to prove? What else do you need ?"
Your throat goes dry. You couldn't speak if you wanted to.
"I'm not punishing you. You made a mistake, but you don't need to be crucified for it. I just want to keep you safe. I can't… we can't lose you."
"Miguel-"
"-this isn't a discussion. And I'm not trying to argue, although I know how much you like to argue." He inches closer, cupping your face gently. You try to move away, blinking back tears. But his hands are steady and he strokes your jaw with so much tenderness you think you hear your heart break. He's pretty, so pretty. You don't deserve him, you think. "There'll be time to fight, bichita. Rest. That's your mission right now."
"C-can't sleep." You breathe. "It hurts."
Miguel pauses, head tilted like he's thinking. He taps your shoulder. "Scoot over."
You do as he says, and he slips into the bed with you. It's a tight fit, but he manages, placing you on his chest with an arm gently around your shoulders. You bury your face in his hoodie, sniffling and hoping he doesn't notice you choking back sobs. Absentmindedly, he settles into a rhythm, gentle breathing and playing with your hair, soothing you softly. He pretends he can't hear the tears.
"M'gonna stay here until you're asleep. For as long as you need."
You nod, unable to speak for fear of breaking down.
~~~
The days after felt like a blur. You woke up to Miguel gone, and an ache in your heart. Jess visits as much as she can, and Ben calls you a couple times, to see if you're okay. Peter B brings Mayday, and she clambers all over your bed, bringing some life into the room. Miguel doesn't visit per se - you hear whispers of him, Lyla visiting in his stead for comprehensive status updates. Once, you wake up in the night to see him on the adjacent chair, head lolling in deep sleep. He looks peaceful, calm - one of the first times you haven't seen his brow furrowed with worry. Of course, he's gone by the morning.
The very last time you saw him, he opened the portal home. It was weird, after everything, but if Miguel felt the same you wouldn't know. Talking at a thousand miles a minute, he alternates between assuring you they'll be fine without you and situation reports from spider people all across the multiverse. Things you'd missed whilst bedbound, asking for advice before you left. He trusted your judgement and the thought warmed your heart, almost making you forget that he completely brushed past the previous nights before.
You still remember the last thing he had said to you, which would've been weeks ago, now.
"...and if you need anything, and I mean anything, you call me directly. Not Jess, not Ben, and certainly not Peter B. Call me, and I'll answer, I promise. You need help, you need advice, you just need someone to talk to, then-"
"-I call you. I get it, O'Hara. Will do." He opens the portal, watching as you walk towards it. He can't take his eyes off of you, even though you can't see him. At the last moment you turn, and run towards him. You almost knock him over with a hug. Burying his head in the crook of your shoulder, he hugs you back, ever careful of your injury. Separating, your smile almost knocks him over again. Weakly, he smiles back as you head through the portal, back home.
You're left with that feeling, of his arms around your body - warm, so warm - as you putter about by the switchboard. After careful deliberation (you were really, really bored ) you'd taken to manage the Multi Modal Multiversal Switchboard - as aptly named by Miguel. Everyone else called it the Big Red Phone of course, but he had insisted on calling it by its proper name . Every. Time.
The thought makes you chuckle as you call up Peter B. His icon flashes on the screen in front of you. With a click, he picks up the call, his face materialising holographically in front you. A little hand reaches up and tugs at his ear.
"Ow… ouch … Dad's on the phone, honey."
"Aww! How's my favourite Parker doing?"
"Not bad, actually! MJ just made us probably the best burger this side of New York-"
"-sorry, Peter? Me and May are trying to have a conversation." You hear her giggle in the background. Her gap toothed grin pops into frame and she babbles excitedly. "...yeah, exactly May. That's literally what I said."
"Okay, okay, that's enough." He puts the toddler down and watches her scurry away. "You're feeling better, I see."
"Yeah, back in action. Thought I'd check in."
"All good here." He squints, trying to take in your surroundings. "You're at HQ?"
You hum.
"Could've sworn Lyla cancelled…"
"Yeah, didn't get the memo. But I think something's wrong with O'Hara."
He gives you a weird look. "Uhhh, what makes you think that?"
"He won't even look at me. Was it something I said? Something I did?" Your eyes narrow. "...what do you know, Peter?"
"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He scoffs, a little too quickly, clutching his chest like you've offended him. He's stared down some of the scariest villains around, but the look you give him is truly chilling. "Just… uhhh. You didn't hear this from me."
"Naturally…"
"We tracked 'em down, the guys that ambushed you and Jessica."
"The Sinister Six? From Earth-215?"
"Yeah, but by the time we got there, it was just Kraven and some of his goons. Miguel got there first, and…." He gulps. "He was pissed. Trashed the whole place looking for the rest of 'em. Beat Kraven half to death and we had to pull him off."
"Shit."
"Yeah, it was pretty rough. Never seen him like that before. And just generally? He'd been weirdly quiet, a little grumpy, more aggressive on missions. I don't know what's gotten into him."
"Hmmm. Thanks, Pete."
"No problem, sweetheart. And if the big guy asks… "
"...this didn't come from you, I know." Weakly, you smile. "Say hi to my favourite Parkers, for me."
" 'Course I will. We should celebrate, if you're back officially. Mine and MJ's is always open."
"Good to know. I'll see you around."
He waves goodbye, and the hologram clicks off. Sighing, you try to piece together what you've just heard.
Miguel: acting weird. Well, you knew that already. Aggressive was new. And Lyla? She had canceled, but not for you, for some reason. An honest mistake, perhaps. But Lyla doesn't make mistakes…
You stew for a couple of hours, puttering about the switchboard, twiddling your thumbs. Something's wrong, and for some reason you're afraid to see him. To have him look straight through you, again, when you ask to do the same. Show me where it hurts. Tell me how to make it better.
On the way there, you chew your lip in anticipation. In the corridor, you're outside the door to his place, hand hovering above the door. To knock, to call. In the harsh fluorescent light, you hesitate.
"Lyla?" Nervously, you sink down onto the floor. It's hard to explain, but you don't expect her to actually come; to materialise in front of you.
"How can I assist you?" She says with a ding.
"Uhh… hi. Just wanted to talk." You pause, clicking your tongue. "Can you be honest with me?"
"I can only be honest with you. It is not in my programming to lie, unless specified by my owner."
"Sure. Cool. It's about him, actually. Is Miguel okay?"
She tilts her head, as if processing your request. "Okay is a subjective term. Is Mr O'Hara alive? Yes. Is Mr O'Hara physically well? Yes. By those terms, he is okay ."
Too vague for your own liking. "I guess I meant more… his emotional state. To the best of your knowledge… in your opinion , Lyla: is Miguel okay?"
"...I believe Mr O'Hara is experiencing some emotional turmoil."
You frown. "Oh. Do you know why?"
"Mr O'Hara has instructed me not to disclose that information with you."
"Fair enough. But you don't have to tell me… I could just ask questions?"
She nods. "There is nothing in my programming that prevents me from answering some questions within certain parameters."
"Did I do something? Not just today but… last time I was here. Did I say something to hurt or upset him? Is that why he's acting weird?"
"No." She says blankly. "And yes. I suppose it is… complicated." She gestures around that word.
"I'm a little confused, Lyla."
She sits next to you, on the cool tile. Not that she could feel it, but it feels more intimate - like two friends talking. The extent of Lyla's consciousness, you weren't sure of. Was she alive? To you, she might as well be. Could she think, feel, emote? Maybe, maybe not. You weren't smart enough to understand the nuances of her programming. But you were human enough to see it in her - something glittering beyond the surface.
It could be projection, but you swear her voice is softer. "He has a name for you. When he speaks about you, and to you. I have it logged in my memory database. Do you know what that is?" You shake your head.
Lyla opens up her palm and projects videos and images - little Miguel's popping up in her palm, tinny and gruff voices ringing through the hallway. They say your name, shout your name, whisper it. Some say other things in Spanish. Curse words had always been your assumption, and he had given you no reason to think otherwise. Now, having it played back to you, you hear a tenderness in his voice you would've missed. Words and phrases that come up again and again…
"Bichita." She repeats. "Bichito del amor. Mi bichito amoroso. "
You shake your head, still confounded. "...I don't speak Spanish, Lyla."
"Little bug. Sweetheart. Lovebug. My little lovebug." She clears her throat. "I believe they are terms of endearment."
Steadfast, she directs you towards her palm. Another small Miguel appears, and you think it's him from this morning.
"I thought I told you not to let anyone in, Lyla?"
"I did not let her in. She let herself in using the code you previously gave her, Mr O'Hara."
"Yeah, for emergencies. Fuck. Mi bichita, too smart for her own good."
"...If you are in distress, I believe she would understand, Mr O'Hara."
"I just think it's too much. I don't want her to see me like this."
"According to Alchemax files, previous subjects showing this kind of aggression benefitted from-"
"Lyla, it's not happening, no chance. I can't tell her."
The figure blinks out of her palm. "Mr O'Hara has forbid me from telling you about certain things."
"...but not from showing me." Your eyes meet hers. You give her a watery smile. "Thank you."
With a hint of a smile, she nods and is gone from the corridor. You are left alone, with nothing but your thoughts of little lovebugs rattling around in your brain.
“la vo’a romper como en billar, ella sabe que es sexo y ya.”
｡･* +18. dom!miguel. afab!reader. hate sex. biting k. size k. dirty talk.
you were fighting the urge to grind your hips harder into miguel’s cock, his hands on your hips keeping your balance and pace as you bounced in top of him while he only watched your every move.
it was already humiliating that you felt this way about him, you hated him, that’s what you would tell everyone; he was arrogant, and thought that he was better and smarter because he was the boss, and maybe sometimes, when he was balls deep into your cunt, you would agree with him.
“quién habría dicho que eras tan fácil, huh?” his smirk against your heated skin had you scowling at the ceiling, your walls tightening around his soaked cock and nails digging into his shoulders only making his expression deepen and bare his teeth to nip at your neck, his fangs bruising your skin, marking you, making your body shudder against his. (t: who would’ve thought you were so easy?)
one of his arms goes around your waist as his hips buck up into yours, making your legs shudder as you lost your pace.
you would think that in this position; you on top of him, taking all of his cock with a hand in his hair and the other digging into his shoulders, and your tits —that he loves to suck and tease— bouncing against his face and chest, you’d have some sort of control over him, a way to show him that you are using him, that you can take what you want from him, but as everything he does; miguel is in total control, playing with your body like a fiddle he knows too well, knows how to touch in just the right spot to have you like puddy in his hands, knows exactly where is that little spot that makes you come harder than you thought you could.
and, begrudgingly to you, his words knew how to fall from his mouth and land on the core of your want that had you rolling your eyes in pleasure instead of annoyance, praise and degradation in spanish making your pussy clench and gush around him.
and doesn’t he love it.
you don't need to try to hide it. even if you did, around the base, telling everybody how much you despised your boss, you could never hide it from him; everything you felt for him dripped from your body like a plentiful stream of moans, and whimpers.
this little dynamic the two of you had was entertaining and teasing on the outside for those looking in, fights and discussions over anything, but when there were only the two of you there was nothing but raw sexual tension and lust, ‘why of all the variants did you chose him?”
an answer simply answered by his thumb pressing itself onto your clit, the slow-hard circles he rubs into it making your moans come out more weak, more frequent and loud moan, he made you feel so good, too good to stop it.
“ay, princesa…,” you don’t have to open your eyes, you can feel the wattage of his cocky smirk through your lids, “you always say you hate me but this pussy loooves me.” he drags the word as you clench around him once again, his teeth nip at your chin, leaving a kiss that is too soft for the situation. “why don’t you thank me for letting you have my cock, huh?,” he pulled your hair, exposing your neck for more marks and bites. “say gracias, papi.” he ordered.
you’ve been fucking for so long you’ve dropped titles, in moments like this he wasn’t your boss, nor miguel, he was just papi.
“jódete.” you moaned in the farthest thing from indignation. (t: fuck you)
he chuckled cockily, his hot breath against your skin as the assertion from his hold on you and the stamina of him having the strength to continue the steady thrusts of his cock in your cunt, makes the fluttering around his length turn into that vice like clenching; you’re so close again.
“that’s why you are here for, baby,” he chuckled. “you think you have everyone fooled, walking around base callin’ me names, diciendo que me odias, when they all know how much of a slut you are for me.” he grunts against your lips, “we both know you love me, but if you’d like to keep pretending that you don’t, that you don’t love coming on this cock, then we can just,” he moves his thumb from your clit and stops his thrusts, grinning, “stop.” (t: saying that you hate me)
“fuck, miguel.” you whined in frustration, the tears in your eyes as you look down at him making his grin grow into that frustratingly smug stretch, that you hate to love so much.
his brown eyes filled with a desire hot enough to burn through you, his hands massaging the skin of your hips with such delicacy that it made your stomach churn.
you fucking hated him.
“si quieres correrte ya sabes que hacer,” his hand moved to the back of your neck to close the distance between your lips, as he pulls you down on his girth once again. “solo dime lo que quieres,” he smirked. (t: if you wanna cum you know what to do, just ask me nicely.)
you’d really really want to just grind your hips against him and tell him to shut up, but he’s fuckng you so excruciatingly slow that you need him to go faster, and just with that thought, you moan for him in the weakest whimper, so he can finally please you. “please make me cum, miggy. te necesito.” you nearly cried, he kissed you harder. (t: i need you)
when he pulled apart, his pleased chuckle makes your spine tingle, “buena niña.” he presses one last kiss to your lips before you’re breaking the seal of his lips with a moan from his thumb returning to your clit, “no era difícil, verdad?, come around me, bonita, scream my name so everyone can know who’s cock you love so much.” he said before diving his mouth into your tits, biting on them while you fucked yourself around him. (t: good girl, it wasn’t difficult right?”
Hello! Could you please write a stubborn, jealous hc for Miguel o'hara? Thank you!!
I had the brainworms, so I hope this is what you were looking for! Thanks for the ask <3
Jealous!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons
(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist
pairing: jealous!Miguel O'Hara x reader
summary: stubborn HCs for jealous!Miguel O'Hara.
a/n: this was meant to be a drabble and i basically wrote a full fic. i have zero self control lmfao
warnings: smut (fingering, f receiving oral, slight brat taming, etc) right at the very end, 18+ from then onwards, the rest is more pg-13
wc: 3.5k ish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Long story short: he's a stubborn little shit.
Pig-headed as fuck and it shows up in little things.
Let's say you first met as coworkers, and you were a lab technician at Alchemax.
Think: unstoppable force meets immovable object. He likes his labs just so, with very specific equipment in a very specific configuration.
It drives you crazy, regularly having tiffs outside the labs; much to the chagrin of your coworkers.
"Jesus." Your coworker mutters, wincing at the seemingly heated argument by the water cooler.
"Ignore it, Maeve." Another coworker rolls their eyes, nudging Mave with a snort. "They're at it again . S'pose they'll tire each other out by the end of the day."
Not that they were wrong. But this time, it wasn't your fault: dealing with O'Hara's bullshit had really taken it's toll. He was insufferable, prone to nitpicking and just plain mean. You could hardly be blamed if you gave him some of your own choice words.
"My notes were basically paint-by-fucking-numbers! How could you mess up a simple distillation? When I specify precision glassware , you don't think that's fucking important?"
"Your notes ," You draw air quotes pointedly at him. "-are illegible, you fucking cretin! Maybe if you didn't write like a goddamn pre-schooler-"
"- preschooler? Oh , fuck you!"
"Get your nose out of that highschool Chem textbook, O'Hara, this is a fucking job."
"Yeah? Stop using it to wipe your ass and you might learn a thing or two."
"Oh , so that's what we're doing?" You laugh in his face, so angry your hand curls into tight fists. You get close, staring him down as you look upwards through your lashes. His own face is contorted into a grimace; bushy eyebrows furrowed into deep shadows around his eyes. You can feel his steady breathing before he speaks, low and rumbling.
"I could do this all day, princesa. "
You scoff, ignoring the way his words weaken your knees. The one time you asked for a break during a long lab and he won't stop calling you a spoilt princess. His laughter then stings in your ears now, the ghost of a smirk on his face as you storm off. Miguel O'Hara: smug bastard. He would be the death of you, you're sure.
~~~
You spend many a late night with him, unwittingly, and find out he's more than a stubborn little shit.
You find out he's funny, and shares the same anti-Alchemax tendencies you do: both preyed upon by the company immediately after graduation, young and naive.
He's kind, even though he'd never admit it, often finishing up the lab notes and doing more than his fair share of work so you can go home at a reasonable time.
You both still butt heads, but it turns into a tentative friendship - coffees in the morning hidden as blaise convenience, covering for each other at work, and defending the other when office gossip goes too far.
That's why when he comes back to work after a week-long stint away - something about a blow up with the boss, an issue described as 'miscommunication, promptly smoothed over' by anyone official - you notice… something's different about him.
You first noticed something was off when he walked in without a snide remark. You left a mug overnight at the counter, something that would usually draw a sarcastic comment at the least , but he gives you… nothing. Blank, glassy eyes as he opens up his workstation - clicking away at the keys without so much as a glance.
"O'Hara?" You call, but he doesn't even look up. You walk to his workstation and knock at the desk. He jumps. God, he looks worse for the wear. Heavy bags under his eyes and a bruise blossoming under his collar.
"You okay?"
He rubs his temples, eyes flitting up at you. "Yeah, just…. just a long week, s'all."
You put a hand on his shoulder, and you swear he leans into your touch. "We can reschedule, tonight. The calculations can wait, Miguel."
He gives you a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. "S'okay. Need to make sure you don't fuck it up."
"Don't push your luck, O'Hara."
~~~
As you get closer, you notice just how stubborn he is to admit the growing tension between you two.
Late nights at the lab turn into takeout at your place, morning coffee turns into a pleasant 20 minutes on the rooftop away from the hustle and bustle - just you and Miguel, talking and joking with a cup of shitty coffee in hand.
Wholly, he seems more assertive at work, not as quick to roll over.
It's hot, you have to admit; watching him fight with someone else other than you.
You're at work drinks with the other technicians and engineers, nursing a watery beer when another colleague makes small talk with you at the bar.
You’ve never been that close to him, and the conversation is amicable enough, but you’re almost bowled over when you see Miguel, in the corner, staring straight at you with a stormy look.
You suppose it's a little pathetic, getting all dressed up for a casual drink. Lips shiny with gloss and gently powdered with makeup, you feel a little out of place. For all your talk at work, actually being here was another thing. Suddenly, your blouse is too tight and your skirt too short. With a manicured finger, you trace the lip of your glass filled with watery beer. You sigh. You don't want to admit it, but you were only here because of Miguel. He said he would come, and now you're sitting on a barstool counting the chips in your glass.
It was probably for the best. You sink into the absentminded chatter of your colleagues around you, until there's a tap at your shoulder.
"Is someone-" He clears his throat; a tall man dressed in a sharp suit nodding gracefully towards the empty chair. "-is this seat taken?"
You shake your head, grateful for the company. He's handsome, sharp features curving into a wry grin as he calls for a drink.
"...and something other than shitty beer for the pretty girl, too." It makes you laugh, light and lilting in the bustle of the bar.
He stretches out his hand, and you take it.
"Eddie Crouch. I work in marketing."
Eddie…. as in… head of the most profitable division of Alchemax? Your eyes widen involuntarily and you try to clamp down your immediate shock, somewhat unsuccessfully. He narrows his eyes as you tumble over your words.
"Y-Yeah, same! I mean, not same , I just work in the l-labs and I thought it was just for us guys, working behind the curtain, y'know? Not that we're not thrilled to have you here, because we a-are." You spill out, wincing. "....Is this about the performance reviews? Because I know output was down this quarter but our projections are-"
"I'm not here to talk about work." He chuckles. You squint, not convinced. As if to alleviate your concerns, he loosens his tie and undoes his top buttons with a flourish.
"Can I tell you a secret?" He leans in, and the air becomes thick with expensive perfume. He twirls the signet ring on his finger, a ring probably worth more than your monthly paycheck.
"Your boss invited me," Discreetly, he stretches a finger at your boss; a man ruddy cheeked and red-faced with alcohol. "Guess he thought it would boost morale. He's a fucking idiot if he thinks having me, the one guy that could fire your entire department without recourse, exchange empty platitudes would boost morale. But, I digress. So here I am, dragging my feet to this bar, thinking I'm gonna get in, read the lines and get out. But then, " He pauses with dramatic effect. "I see the most beautiful person I've ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on, just sitting by the bar. Like everyone isn't already falling over themselves to talk to you."
The irony is palpable. It's sickly sweet, and a line that wouldn't usually work on you. But usually, you weren't pining over a man so prickly and stubborn, you shouldn't have feelings for. Here you were, bright cocktail in front of you and a moderately attractive man by your side. He wasn't quite Miguel, but in the words of one of the greatest thinkers of the past age: country girls make do.
And so you make lazy conversation with the man. So lost in a tipsy haze, you barely notice Miguel walk in; dark jacket on his shoulders and deliciously loose slacks. You're drawn to him, his eyes seemingly searching the room, and you sigh into your drink. Technically, he looks like shit: eyes dark-rimmed and sunken, a cut at his brow. You think he is gorgeous, eyes tracing the slope of his nose and plush lips. Like he can sense it, he glances over in your direction and you look away hastily. He's watching , you can feel its burn as you turn, pretending to listen to the man besides you. A little cruelly, you lean into him, not breaking eye contact and curling a hand around his arm to laugh at a stupid joke. Eddie laughs with you, oblivious, as you glance behind him.
Miguel stands with a drink thrust into his hands, looking straight through him, eyes low and gazing at you.
~~~
He insists on walking you home, a steady hand on the small of your back as you stumble through the streets of Nueva York.
You make light conversation, tipsy and giggly from the alcohol. Miguel seems a little more put together, but his chest still creaks with rumbling laughter.
He definitely walks on the side of the pavement nearest the street, because he thinks it keeps you safer.
He walks you up the stairs and by the door of your apartment, like a gentleman. You watch him get nervous suddenly, and he hesitates, stubbornly digging in his heels and pausing you from opening the door and coming in.
You don't want it to end, opting to take the walk up the stairs as opposed to the lift. It's one of your more questionable decisions as you stumble up the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet. Miguel is quick to catch you even though he was just as drunk. Arm around your waist, he leaves searing touches to your hip. You giggle despite yourself, and he can't help but smile at your clumsiness.
"If you break your legs I won't carry you, princesa ." A lie and you both know it. He would carry you to the ends of the earth like a blushing bride, if you asked him.
You both stagger to up the stairs and through the corridor until you reach your front door. You rummage around your bag for your keycard, it's contents click-clacking in the quiet of the hallway. Miguel watches, quieter than he was in the journey. If you looked up now, you would see something else behind his eyes - a storm of apprehension and tension.
You find your keycard, and look up to find Miguel placing a careful palm on the door. He's surprisingly still, eyes on your lips as he steps closer. You look everywhere but to meet his eyes, tracing the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his exposed forearm, and the tempting juncture of his strong jaw. You watch it tense, as he brings a gentle hand to your chin. His thumb swipes over the fat of your lip.
"Got somethin' right… there." He mumbles, before tucking his hand away. You can barely breathe. Without thinking you take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together like a gentle hug. You bring his hand to your waist, and he squeezes, ever so gently. Your hand drops and he moves his slowly, knuckles dragging along the smooth silk of your blouse, and then sending shivers when he reaches your bare neck.
He has to bite down the plethora of things running through his head - his drunken brain threatening to spill all his thoughts. You are so beautiful and soft it makes him short-circuit, desperate to pull you close. Instead, you do: hand inching up his chest and laying to rest on his shoulders.
He kisses you, finally ; a little messy and impossibly soft. Like his lips on yours would shatter you both. You deepen the kiss and wrap his arm tighter around you, angling your chin to drink up even more of you. You both come up for air, panting in the heat of one another. Miguel's eyes are full of lust and blown out.
"Do…do you want to come in?" You whisper.
Something catches in his throat and his expression changes, like he just woke up from a dream. Do you just want to sleep with him? He's not built for one night stands, can't do just sex, especially if it's you. No matter how much he wants to, he can't, he won't, "....I shouldn't."
The disappointment on your face is palpable. You want to ask why - after he kissed you like that - why doesn't he want you? Instead you nod dejectedly. He gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead, lingering, and a shaky smile.
You open your door with a buzz, and slam it in his face.
~~~
It takes Miguel some time to properly put a name to what you two have: not knowing if the kiss was a drunken mistake, animal attraction or something more.
He's not a grand gestures kind of person, he believes in action rather than words.
Which is why it takes so long for him to admit just how in love with you he is.
He steals glances at you all the time at the office, and tries to anticipate all your needs.
When you stretch and yawn in the morning, he happens to pass by your favourite coffee place and happens to buy one too many cups of your go-to order.
So imagine his shock when he arrives from his lunch break, churros and coffee in hand, and there's one of the top brass from the night at the bar perched on your desk - 2 polystyrene cupfuls of something half drunk on the desk.
He's never been insecure, but he can't help but feel possessive, something tense and tight growing at the base of his stomach.
"What was it you wanted to talk about?" You step into the equipment cupboard, Miguel close behind you. You rub your temples, anticipating an argument. "O'Hara, if this is about my calibration tests this morning, I swear to God -"
"No, no , nothing like that." He's quick to say. "They were… okay." He strains.
You raise an eyebrow. Okay? Since when did Miguel pass up an opportunity for a mindless fight? Your mind races with his actions of the past few days. He has been different since the night at the bar, a little nicer, sure, but nothing this out of the ordinary.
"That guy you were talking to. I saw him at the bar, and now here. Who is he?"
Your eyebrows shoot up. "You do not have the right to ask me th-"
"Are fucking him?" A pause, and you study his expression, deducing that he is completely fucking serious .
"Are you insane? You definitely don't have the right to ask me that." You make for the door, and he steps in front of it, blocking it with his body.
"I need to know. Tell me and then I'll leave you alone, I promise." His voice is low and thick with something.
You step closer and he wraps his hands around your waist absentmindedly. The pressure feels good, and makes your brain fog up.
He repeats himself, softer. "Are you fucking him?"
You look at him for a moment, before shaking your head. His facial expression is steady, just as unreadable.
"Do you want to?"
You hesitate, wanting to be cruel and say yes, just to see his reaction. Perceptive, he sees your hesitance and says something that almost knocks you over.
"I could fuck you better than he ever could," He kneads your thigh now, lips close to the shell of your ear in the tight space of the cupboard. " Princesa , look at me."
You look at him, almost whimpering and putty in his hands. He's like a siren and you are lost in the pull of his gaze. It may be the proximity, but you swear you see a tinge of red in his eyes, like deep pools of lust.
"Will you let me fuck you?" He pulls you closer so the meat of his thigh presses against your clothed cunt. Your stretchy pencil skirt rides up suggestively, and you rock your clit against him, searching for sweet pressure. You nod.
Miguel titters softly, a hand on your chin pulling your lips to his. You moan into his kiss, body aching. It's hot and heavy like the kiss outside your door, but he swirls his tongue around yours and expertly nips at your lower lip. He guides your hips to rock against his thigh, tensing to make sure it's corded muscle hits the right places. He wants to break you apart, leave you so cock-drunk, you wouldn't think of even glancing at another man.
You separate and he dips a hand under your skirt. He pulls it up and places a big palm at your pussy, with a well timed slap. You bite into his neck with the pressure. You definitely don't expect it when he rips open your stockings like they were paper.
"Fuck, Miguel."
"It's okay, baby, I'll get you new ones." Your eyes roll back as he slips aside the gusset to run a finger through your lower lips. Shamelessly, he slips a finger in, then two, basking in the wet squelch of your heat. You claw at his forearm, as he curls them into that sweet spot.
You press your forehead to his shoulder, chasing his fingers with your hips. His sharp eyes watch every movement, every stutter and start that his fingers pull from you. He's practical, a man of action, and he is desperate to show you how much he cares.
"I've thought about you… about this." He hisses as you cover your mouth to dampen your moans.
"Wanted you for so long, princesa. Want to know how you taste, what this beautiful pussy feels like. What you look like when you cum."
His wrist aches with the back and forth motion but his pace barely faulters.
" M-Miguel …"
He applies pressure to your clit, and watches in awe as you spasm, nails digging into his forearm.
" Oh, there it is. Right there, hmm? Does that feel good?"
You nod frantically with a stifled sob.
"Not quite, baby. Need to hear you say it. Or I won't let you cum."
"...fuuck you."
" Oh, you'd like that. Still not what I want to hear. Tell me how much you like it when I fuck you with my fingers."
"F-Feels good." You stutter. He stops, wrenching his hand out of your pussy to leave you clenching around nothing.You almost scream.
"You're being a brat, not my princesa , hmm? Only good girls get to cum."
" Miguel , please. I'll do anything." He guides you along his thigh, still lodged between your legs, and licks up your wetness on his other hand. "You m-make me feel so good. So good. And I want you so much it hurts, sometimes. I just want to cum, don't even need your cock. Fuck me with something , please."
"Miguel? Not asshole? Or fucking idiot, this time?"
"Please, Miguel ." Your pleas go straight to his cock. He throbs with need, cock rock hard under his slacks.
He relents, not able to bear your dopey puppy-dog eyes for much longer. He slips three fingers in, without bothering to prep you. He hisses at the tightness of your heat, pounding into you and knuckle deep with his fingers. Shamelessly, you fuck yourself back on them, hips rolling over his thigh. He can't tear himself away from the sight, palming himself through tented trousers.
You kiss and nip at his neck, as he whispers obscenities at you under his breath.
"Can you cum for me, princesa? Cum f'me, and I'll take care of you, I promise."
You clamp down on his fingers and moan into a kiss as you ride out your orgasm. It's intense: leg-shaking and leaves you shuddering in the aftermath. You were rusty, sure, hadn't had sex with someone in a while. But Miguel made you cum so hard you saw stars, with only his fingers. Your chest heaves with the thought.
You thought he would leave you, torn stockings and all, in the little cupboard. But he stays, to sink down to his knees and lap at your folds. You rest a hand on a shelf for purchase, head back in bliss. You cunt is still sensitive, throbbing at the orgasm he's just given you, as you licks you clean. He's taking care of you. You card your hands into his hair, tugging gently as he moans into your pussy.
He gives your clit a gentle kiss, and swipes up a trailing tear that rolls down your inner thigh. You watch as he pops his fingers into your mouth, cleaning off the cum. Your cum.
Miguel gives you a lazy grin in the bare bulb of the equipment closet. He seems completely unfazed by the fact his fingers were in you not a moment ago.
"Are you free after work?" He asks, and it takes a moment for you to process.
"Uhhh… s-sure. Probably?"
"Let me take you for dinner, somewhere nice."
All you can do is nod, dumbly, ripped stockings still around your ankles.
Ghost x afab!F Reader (non-descriptive, no y/n)
Words: 6.7k
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Read on Ao3
Rating: 18+/Explicit
Summary: You learn just how blurred Simon's lines for business and pleasure really are.
Tags for the Chapter: Voice Kink, Strength Kink, Size Difference, Praise Kink, Oral sex, Vaginal Fingering, Phone Sex, and Teasing.
Something wasn’t right.
It wasn’t one thing, but a bunch of small ones. You were hearing more noise in the hallway than normal. The boys didn’t usually linger outside your door. Your sheets felt different. You don’t normally sleep completely naked on base.
Then you took a deep breath and you smelled him. Then a realization hit you like a bus. That woke you up faster than having cold water dumped on you.
This was Simon’s bed. You slept with Ghost. You groaned and pressed your hands against your face. You couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol, you were barely tipsy by the time he confronted you.
Fuck, it was also amazing. Of course he wouldn’t be just ‘ok’ and make last night easy to move past. You let out a groan as memories came flooding back. The things he said reverberated in your ear. Your body was still sore because of the sheer size of all of him. Everything remarkable about last night also mixed with the terrifying reality of sleeping with your L.t. How were you even going to start a conversation with him about this?
You realized Ghost wasn’t here. Why would he leave you alone in his room?
You heard footsteps outside. You ducked under the covers.
“Fucking hungover, mate,” Soap complained. He still sounded groggy.
“Any word on Ghost or Peaches?” Gaz asked. You started to panic.
‘Please don’t check my room. Please, God almighty, do not let them check my room.’
“I heard Ghost up bright and early. No word on Peaches though,” Soap replied. “Hold on, I’ll just shoot her a text.”
Fuck, where was your phone? Was it on silent? You scrambled to look for it before the message went through. If the moment Soap sends it there is your text tone in fucking Ghost’s room you’ll just have combust. You’d never be able to face them ever again.
You had no idea where your pants even ended up, let alone if your phone still had any battery. But, you heard a soft vibration on the bedside table. Your phone was charging and thankfully didn’t make a noise. You took a deep breath before you unlocked it and saw a message from Soap:
“💀?”
Your eyes went wide. How the fuck did he know?! This has to be a joke. You’re fucked. You’re so fucked. You were contemplating how quickly you could jump out this window. Shit you’d do it naked if it got you away from base faster. Then another message came in:
“You alive?”
Thank Christ, he wasn’t asking if you were with Ghost or with Ghost. He just thought you were hungover. You quickly wrote out something that hopefully wasn’t suspicious.
“🍺💀 Don’t wait up.”
You heard his phone chime. “She’s hungover too,” Soap told Gaz. Then you heard more footsteps. “There he is! Up at the crack of dawn as per usual.”
“I’m the only one not hungover.” That familiar, low voice was back. You started to blush, just hearing him again was making you remember more of last night.
“Even Peaches got it bad.” Gaz added. “Strange, she didn’t seem to drink that much.”
“Ah, she’s probably a lightweight compared to any of us. Especially this mountain of a man.” Soap was clearly ribbing Ghost at the moment.
“Go get some food you two. It’ll help.” Ghost seemed to be ushering them out of the hallway.
“Never thought I’d live to see the day when Ghost gets all maternal,” Gaz joked.
Soap mused, “it must be that ‘holiday cheer’ Price was talking about.”
You really didn’t like the emphasis he put on that phrase, but your heart was racing. Two sets of footsteps faded and the door to Ghost’s room opened. You hid under his blanket.
“Coast is clear,” he said. “I’ll keep a look out. Just head around the long way and you shouldn't run into anyone.” You pulled the blanket down and got a good look at him. Casual balaclava, hoodie, and comfy sweatpants. You remembered that you never even saw him naked last night.
“Ok,” you replied nervously as you started to get out of the bed.
“Wait,” he held up a hand and left the room while you were still covered. Did he not want to see you? No, he said he would keep an eye out. When you stood up you realized your clothes from last night were neatly folded on a chair. He must have found your phone and got it charged when he woke up earlier.
Shit, this is the most considerate walk of shame you’ve ever heard of. Your shirt, bra, pants, and socks were neatly stacked on a chair. With your boots on the floor nearby. The only thing missing was your underwear. You shrugged. You did not have time to worry about that now. He tossed them somewhere last night and probably couldn’t find them without waking you up.
You quickly and quietly closed his door and made your way back to your room. Despite your clothes being folded, it was very obvious they were what you wore last night. There would only be one explanation for that. Thankfully you didn’t run into anyone. You quickly pulled them off and got ready for a long, hot shower. Before you left your room, you sent a message to Simon.
“Mission accomplished.”
You pondered if you should say anything else. You needed to talk about last night at some point, right? You bit your lip as you contemplated if you should even say something over text. Would it be better to talk in person?
Nah.
“Thanks”
“For everything”
In the bathroom you inspected the damage. Hair was practically a bird’s nest and you needed to wash your face, but nothing some basic grooming wouldn’t fix. Then you looked down and saw a few bruises littered around your breasts.
“You bruise easy”
You could not think about that right now. Was it too late to change your call sign?
When you got back from your shower you had no new messages. You tossed it to the side and picked out your clothes for the day. As you were pulling up your pants your phone vibrated and you bolted over to it. You got a message from Soap:
“🍳🥓?”
You scolded yourself for acting like this. You weren’t a teenager anymore. This wasn’t some cute, harmless crush or a fun one-night stand. You slept with your goddamn L.T. The best case scenario was getting fired without the rest of the team knowing.
Ghost wasn’t eating breakfast with the rest of the team. Thankfully, everyone else was actually hungover and barely making conversation.
“Ay Peaches,” Soap said to get your attention. “You’re faring better than the rest of us. What’s your secret?” He had a suspicious smile on his face. It made you worry.
A night of deep sleep with an incredible cuddler after some unforgettable sex.
“An effective skincare routine. Have you ever heard of moisturizer?” you spoke as seriously as you could. You need to keep your cool, you couldn’t handle any kind of interrogation right now. You’d break in an instant.
You reached over the table to grab some salt and you froze. There were bite marks all over the back of your hand. And, they were on full display in the middle of the goddamn table. Even Price was there too. You were so fucked.
“You alright?” asked Gaz.
You quickly swiped the salt shaker and dosed your food with it.
“Just tired,” you mumbled. You tried to do as much as you could with your other hand for the rest of the meal. You bolted back to your room to put on gloves before you ran into anyone else. You made an effort to avoid everyone as much as you could that day.
*********
The next day everyone was called in to be briefed for the latest mission.
You were honestly surprised you weren’t dragged out of base yet. Did no one find out? Did Ghost keep quiet? Of course he would; he’s Ghost. He was always tight lipped. So tight lipped that he never said a word or sent a single text to you.
A million questions were buzzing through your mind: does he regret it? Did he enjoy it? Does he want to do it again? Does he even want to be in the same room with you? Do you want to do it again?
You tried to not look at him during that meeting. You would not be able to keep your face straight. You focused as much as you could on the information being presented. You were not going to mess up a mission because you missed something vital over some selfish swooning.
“Ah ha! Sorry I fucked up the mission, Captain. I got distracted thinking about Ghost’s dick,” would probably not go over well.
You shook your head to clear your stupid thoughts. You saw Ghost’s head turn in your direction for a moment. You wanted to melt into the floor. How in the hell were you supposed to keep working with him?
You were starting to miss the staring. Now he wasn’t looking at you at all.
The next mission was back with Los Vaqueros. Price decided to split up the team, have some in lookout and sniping positions while the rest were led by Alejandro on the ground. you knew Ghost preferred to be a look out, so you eagerly volunteered for the ground team. You must have been a bit too eager, because everyone was taken back by it.
“Ah, mi durazno, you must have missed me,” Alejandro said with that satisfied look on his face. You welcomed his carefree flirting over the endless overthinking that was going on in your head. You really should have played it cool, it would be less suspicious. it made more sense for you to be on the ground anyway.
It was you, Alejandro, Soap, Rudy, and Price on the ground. Gaz and Ghost were on overwatch.
Everytime Ghost spoke you jumped. It was pathetic. They were just basic observations. He was being professional, you were the mess. You were the idiot being distracted by sex. It could get you or a teammate killed.
“Eyes on two up ahead.” His voice was right in your ear. You were grateful he wasn’t directly talking to you. Sometimes you’d hear him take a deep breath to steady his aim. It sent a shiver down your spine.
"Copy that."
You tried to shake your unwanted thoughts out of your brain by force, but then you’d look at your bruised hand. The shame would come flooding back.
You must have been a visible mess. Everyone kept checking in on you.
“¿Estás bien, durazno?”
“Eyes forward.”
“Ay Peaches, You’re with me.”
“Contact front. Two heading to Soap and Peaches. Three towards Price and the others,” said Ghost.
“Copy that,” Soap replied. Both of you readied suppressed rifles to take them out nice and quiet. “Locked and loaded. What about you, Price?”
“We’re ready too. On my signal we take them out, nice and quiet.”
"Copy that."
You aimed down your sights and tried to breathe. You actually had a moment to collect yourself because Ghost wasn’t talking in your ea—
You were so in your own head that you hesitated and lost your aim. Soap’s target fell in an instant, you fucked up your shot and missed. You tried to immediately cover your mistake and fire again. Before you even started to recover, another bullet that wasn’t yours took out the poor man.
“Clean takedown, everyone. Keep moving,” said Price.
“Copy that,” everyone replied.
Fuck, Ghost was covering you. He was waiting for you to fuck up. You fell even further in your self-doubt and loathing. You almost royally fucked up.
The rest of the mission was a breeze, but you were still a wreck. You were probably going to have to face hell for your poor performance. The 141 deserves better.
You don’t deserve to be in it.
That was all you could think as the mission wrapped up. It became obvious that no one found out about your torrid rendezvous. But, you still couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t right to stay here and constantly jeopardize the 141. You shut down. You hardly spoke on the way back to base, you spent most of that trip staring at your own feet.
You decided that if you weren’t going to be discharged you needed to quit.
Your door was open as you started to pack up your room. Too many emotions were welling up in your gut. You were a mess as you tried to come up with a reason to quit. You were going to miss those fools so much. You were such a mess that you didn’t hear anyone approaching.
You didn’t even realize fucking Ghost was standing in your door way. He barely dressed down from his gear and he was wearing his favorite skull balaclava. He scared the shit out of you when you looked up from your bag.
“Fucking hell, Ghost!” You clutched your clothes against your chest.
“What are you doing, Peaches?” Hearing him say that name made your stomach sink.
“I’m leaving.” You motioned your hands to your half-packed bag.
“Why?” Ghost asked like it wasn’t obvious. There was concern in his voice, but it was nothing like how he sounded two nights ago.
“You know exactly why,” you scoffed. “You’re too smart to play dumb, Simon.”
He didn’t say anything in return, but he still wasn’t going to let you simply walk away. This wasn’t an interrogation, it was a war of attrition. And, Ghost had more patience and stubbornness than you.
“Fine! I’m pissed that I almost really fucked up. My brothers in arms, my friends, could have died because I couldn’t get my head out of my own ass. I couldn’t get you out of my head.” You pressed your palm against your forehead. “You had sights on my guy because it was obvious I was off my game. You were expecting me to fail and I did.”
He didn’t respond.
“I don’t deserve to be here. If I’m not going to be fired for fraternization then I’m just going to quit. I want to get this over with and be off base before the rest of the team learns why.” You threw the last of your things in your duffle bags. “Please leave, you can’t change my mind.”
He didn’t move as you zipped up your bags.
“Do you think you’re the first person on this team to make a mistake?” His voice cut through your self-loathing. He crossed his arms and leaned against your door frame. He wasn’t going to budge.
“No, but I—”
“You think you’re the first person in the 141 to ever get a mate killed? Fucking hell, Peaches. We’re all human, we make mistakes.”
You let out a laugh. “That’s almost funny coming from someone who’s called ‘Ghost’.” You crossed your arms.
“I’ve made plenty of mistakes, catastrophic and small. If they don’t kill you, learn from it.” He let those words hang in the air. He’s almost 40, still active in special forces, and he hides everything behind a mask. Of course he’s made mistakes and he would have regrets.
Were you one of them?
“Do you regret it?” You bit the inside of your cheek as you waited for his answer.
“Do you, love?”
You scoffed, “Don’t answer my question with another question. I won’t fall for it. I need to know if—.” Wait, he called you ‘love’ again. It’s just a simple pet name, but that can only mean one thing, right?
“Fuck, Simon.” You started to laugh to yourself. Nothing with him was ever going to be easy. He’d rather pry your opinion out of you inch by inch before he admits to a fraction of anything. You had to accept it, because you really didn’t regret last night. You wanted more.
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes darted away. If you were really misreading this again at least your bag was already packed.
“Close the door,” you said. He followed orders. You stepped closer and reached up to his face. Then you planted a kiss over his mask before you reached behind him to turn off the lights.
You placed your palms against his chest. It was time to come clean. “I don’t regret what happened. I want it to happen again.” You gripped his shirt tighter. “But, I can’t risk jeopardizing a mission. I couldn’t live with myself if—” You were rambling, so he cut you off.
When you weren’t looking he pulled the mask up so he could kiss you. The first thing you noticed was his stubble was a bit longer. But, it was still him. You tried to memorize that feeling the other night. You wrapped your arms behind his back and tried to embrace him.
“Please say it,” you said into his chest.
“Say what, Peaches?”
"I need to hear—”
He surprises you as he quickly pulls up your shirt. You’re shocked as just fucking fast he can be. He doesn’t pull it off completely. He stops pulling the second the shirt is halfway over your face. Your arms are stuck in the sleeves, your eyes are covered.
“I guess you don’t want me to quit,” you remarked. He didn’t say anything back, he just stole your breath with a kiss.
********
The dam had burst and there was no going back. Both of you were really doing this.
You were not prepared at all for how enthusiastic he would be about everything. Even with the mask thing he was confident and hardly had any hang-ups. He liked to get down and dirty. He was constantly testing the waters to see if you expressed interest or enthusiasm.
Both of you were each other’s dirty, forbidden secret. It was thrilling. You expected someone as stoic and professional as him to have a hard line between business and pleasure.
Before the mission he was a perfect soldier who only had eyes on the mission. If he ever helped you with gear his hands never lingered. If he needed to speak with you it was his usual curt pattern of speech. He treated you just like any other member of the team and you were grateful for it. Grateful, because you would never be able to keep your cool like him.
After a mission? Nope. Not at all.
He got off on everyone being oblivious of what he was doing to you. On the trips back to base he would signal you to switch to a quiet comms channel and whisper filthy things deep into your ear. Those stripes on the bottom of his balaclava barely moved as he spoke. Fucking covert ops training.
“You did good today, Peaches.” It sounded like he was right next to you. You could remember his breath on your neck. He was far enough away that he could read all of your body language too. There was nothing you could hide from him like this. The only way to stop it was just to simply change channels or turn it off.
You never did.
“Everyone says you’re a model soldier. They say I’m too hard on you.”
Your cheeks were starting to burn. Maybe you should start wearing a fucking mask too.
“I think you like it when I’m hard on you. It makes the praise all the better.”
You shifted in your seat on the plane.
“You’d rather hear that you’re my good girl while you’re on your knees, right love?”
You crossed your legs and tried to not look at him. Occasionally the muscles in your legs clenched and it turned you on more. He would wind you up tighter and tighter until he found a way to get you alone.
He’d pull you into dark rooms and lock them behind you.
“Simon!” You squeal before he silences you with a kiss. You never stopped being amazed and just how quickly he could get your pants unzipped enough for his hands to slide in.
“Not to worry, love,” he whispered. “Already checked the room.” This man’s never left a stone unturned, he thinks of everything, checks them, and checks them again. There’s never an excuse to not be doing the most unprofessional things imaginable until it was time for the next mission.
It became a game to see how far he could wind you up and how quickly he could make a mess out of you.
You leaned against the wall when he finally started to touch you. He had been teasing you for an ungodly amount of time to ‘celebrate’ a job well done. Your fingers were buried into the tac gear covering his shoulders.
“My dirty girl,” he cooed into your ear. He really leaned into his accent when he had to be quiet, he knew it drove you crazy. You tried to keep your sobs quiet. He locked the door, but that wouldn’t stop someone from getting in if they were really suspicious.
It was maddening.
“Keep quiet, Peaches, Price is calling.” His hand between your legs slowed down, but he didn’t stop. There’s no way, right? Right?! “Ghost,” he said in his usual, gruff voice. His fingers still moved and you slapped a hand over your mouth. Fuck, he was really doing this.
“I’m just attending to some personal matters.”
His hand was speeding up and your legs were trembling. You could only stare at him with wide eyes. He was so fucking brazen when he knew he could get away with it. You heard Price’s muffled voice, but you couldn’t make out any words.
“I don’t know where Peaches ran off to. I think she said something about the bathroom.”
His fingers started to speed up. You could tell he was smiling based on the look in his eyes. He was a cocky motherfucker. Every sensation was adding up. The teasing, the thrill, and just the everything about him. Your legs were trembling.
“If I see her I’ll send her your way. I’ll be done in a few minutes.” He shot you a look and twisted his fingers just a certain way. He fucking knew. Despite how much you wanted to prove him wrong, your body chased its own pleasure. You had to bite down hard on his vest to keep yourself quiet.
“Just a minute actually." He made his voice even lower and while you couldn’t see his full face you knew exactly what expression was plastered all over it.
Your only form of retaliation is to bite down harder and dig your nails into his jacket. It only spurs him on more. One more thrust as you came around his fingers.
Christ, you weren’t going to be able to look Price in the eye for the rest of the day.
********
Once he showed up unplanned at your door. He was dressed in basically all of his gear.
“Are we heading out or something?” You asked. Normally he wasn’t this obvious, he always snuck in much more carefully. It was almost noon and here he was waltzing into your room like he owned the goddamn place.
“Can’t a man make a social call?” He shut the door behind him. He was finally getting comfortable to not always need the lights on.
“Depends on how sociable he’s feeling.” You crossed your arms and tapped your foot.
“I thought you’d be happy to see me, Peaches.” He stepped forward until you were dangerously close to being pushed onto your bed.
“I’m just curious about your intentions, L.t.”
“I think my intentions are pretty obvious.” With a simple tap he pushed you down onto your bed. He was being shockingly bold as he climbed over you. Usually he’s a bit of a tease. He lifts the bottom of his mask before pinning your wrists to the bed. You sigh and softly moan into his kiss. He maneuvers one knee between your thighs and it allows you to rock against him.
He holds you there until you are starting to be overwhelmed by need. You’re only allowed to desperately grin against him. He doesn’t give you an inch to actually beg until he chooses.
You were writhing under him, trying to show just how desperate you were. The kissing was dizzying and it only brought out a desire that you didn’t expect to bring out right now. When he finally pulled away you desperately gasped.
“Simon, please.”
He leaned down to speak right into your ear. “Please what, love?”
“Whatever you fucking want.”
He chuckles low right into your ear. “And what if I want to keep teasing you?”
“You won’t,” you spoke right into his ear.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because, you’re not as patient as you think.” You started grinding yourself against the leg between your thighs, making sure to let out a few more desperate sounds. He acted so tough, but you knew he craved you as much as you craved him.
Your gamble worked. He groans before he lets go of your wrists. You quickly moved to unbutton your pants. He moves down just low enough that his hand can slip underneath the waistband. They are lying next to each other while Simon’s hands pull out soft, sweet noises out of your mouth. When he’s this close you don't have to hold back as much as long as your tone stays low.
Simon doesn’t hold back either. “Look at you, such a filthy little thing.” When he speaks like this it makes you tremble. That voice is more dangerous than any weapon he carries. “Do you think about this when we’re out in the field? How I make you feel?”
You nod with a whimper.
“Say it out loud,” he demands.
“I think about it fuck whenever you look at me.”
“I look at you a lot, Peaches.” His fingers get faster. You’re hopeless when this man decides to play with you.
“I know,” your voice is soft but cuts off with a wine.
He coaxes an orgasm out of you slowly and steady. Your hips rock against his hand and he tilts your chin so you have to look up at him. Your eyes trace the scar that crosses over his lip, he’s hiding less in the dark and it brings out feelings you aren’t prepared for.
“Look at me,” he orders. You struggle to obey him as your body gets rocked by tremors of pleasure. “Good girl.”
‘Good girl.’ Those words make your mind melt. You sink into his body as you try to get as physically close to him as possible.
“Fucking hell, love,” he says as he marvel at the sight. ‘You needed this didn’t you?”
You nod while you bite your lip.
“Do you want more?” He slowly removes his hand before adjusting his position on the bed. “Who am I kidding? You’re always so greedy.” Somehow he effortlessly moves down your bed that’s far too small for both of you.
“I’m greedy?” You ask. “You’re the one that can’t wait until we’re back at base.” He pulls your pants down with him, he doesn’t take them completely off before he starts kissing up your thighs.
He’s not taking his time. The moment his mouth gets a taste of you he goes all in. You arch your back and tilt up your hips into his face. Your usual instinct is to reach down and grasp at the back of his head.
Honestly, your only disappointment with the mask is that you can’t run your hands through his hair. You try to picture how it might feel between your fingers, but it’s not the same. It’s part of him you desperately want to touch and cling to, but it’s one of his limits.
You’re trying to stay quiet as he never relents, but he gets off on how much you struggle to keep your cool like him. It shocks you just how well he can keep his composure during everything the two of you do. Your mind wanders to what he would be like if you truly got him alone.
If this is how many times he could make you cum while you need to stay quiet, you’re a bit worried about what he’d do without limits.
He eagerly hums and moans against your sensitive skin as you cum. His fingers reach for you sensitive spots that make your vision blur. Maybe two tremors later you’re finally tapping out. He slowly pulls out and you sink back down into the mattress.
“Eyes on me, Peaches.”
Simon looked you in the eyes as he licked his fingers clean. He didn’t even wipe his mouth before pulling the balaclava back down. You were stunned watching his bold brazen actions.
“Oh, right,” he said as he stood up and checked his watch. You could hear the amusement in his voice. “Get ready, Peaches. Wheels up in 30 minutes.”
“What?!” You scrambled to get out of bed, but your pants were still around one of your ankles.
“Well, it was an hour when I stopped by to tell you.” You hear his smirk as he turns to leave your room. “But, I got distracted, love.”
You slapped your forehead with your palm. That’s why he was so bold in the hallway. Everyone else was getting fucking ready. You didn’t have to fume, you needed to get ready. You did not want to get scolded, or worse, explain why you were late.
“Get out!” You scrambled to get ready. He laughed as he went back out to the hallway. This man was going to be the death of you. Everytime you looked at his mask your eyes focused on where his mouth would be. You’d blush whenever you were curious if the taste of you clung to that mask.
********
You bought something on leave.
Your face felt bright red as you entered the base in your civvies with your duffle bag. You felt like the gift bag was going to burn a hole through the canvas and spread out your purchase on the floor for all to see. It wasn’t contraband, it was just a few scraps of fabric. You could easily say you just bought them for yourself. To embrace your femininity, or whatever. But, you bought them for him.
You were walking down the street and a little boutique caught your attention. You’ve been around so much testosterone that the idea of an indulgent, girly shopping experience seemed like a breath of fresh air. That’s what you told yourself at least. This was just a treat, a change of pace. You also splurged because those pay checks were adding up in your bank account. You could afford to be foolish.
When you were checking out you saw a certain accessory for sale. And it gave you so many ideas. You swallowed your nerves before asking, ‘how much for that?’
When you got back you learned that Ghost was out on a mission. That was almost a relief, you needed some time before you could actually show off what you bought. And, if you just tried to have a normal reunion he would know that something was off.
He would eventually pull a confession out of you. The man was so dangerous in so many ways. You felt bad for everyone he's ever interrogated. You could barely handle him playing nice.
Later that night you got a call. The name “Ghost” lit up your phone and immediately your mind went to the worst places it could picture. You hastily picked it up.
“Simon! What’s wrong?”
You heard that familiar laugh. “Nothing’s wrong, Peaches. This is a social call.”
You felt relief. Of course if something went wrong you would not be the first to hear about it.
“I missed you,” he said. His voice was low, like he was trying to stay quiet. “Did you have fun out on the town?”
“I did, I just got back today.” You laid down on the bed and got comfortable. None of the beds on this base were big, but now it felt huge without that man next to you. “Why didn't you tell me you had a mission?”
“I wanted you to enjoy your leave. I didn’t want you running back here to say goodbye just to be alone and stuck on base.”
“You still could have warned me. I got so excited to see you.” You tried to make it sound like you were pouting. He wasn’t here to overwhelm you so easily, you could have a bit more fun.
“We’ll be back in less than two days. Can you survive without me?”
“I think so,” you said. Your word trailed off into a groan. You got so used to the plush hotel beds that you needed to stretch and readjust. There was silence on the other end as you finished twisting your back.
“What are you wearing?” The pitch of his voice changed.
Oh. This probably wasn’t the most professional thing to do over an encrypted line of communication, but why draw the line here?.
“Tank top and underwear,” you replied. With just that one question started to wind you up. Even with just a handful of trysts this man knew you so well.
“Anything under your top?”
“No, I just showered.” You quietly stood up to push that used towel against the bottom of your door to attempt to muffle the sounds you were probably about to make.
“What color underwear?”
“White. Standard Issue.”
“My good, little soldier,” he hummed. Soap and Price were starting to call him out on being a hardass. In private, praise flowed out his mouth, he was vocal about every little thing you’d do. Honestly, whenever he purposely scolded you in public it turned you on so much.
“Push those panties to the side,” he ordered. You murmured that you did just as he asked. “Are you wet?”
“Yes,” you said with a sigh. You idly caressed between your thighs with your fingers. You knew if you started to really touch yourself without permission you’d be in deep trouble. He didn’t say it, but you knew. That’s the kind of man he is.
“Were you before I called?”
“No,” your answer was sharp. You started to rub your thighs together because, technically, that wasn’t touching yourself.
“Such a dirty girl, getting off to my voice.” He let out a low laugh. You replied with a whimper.
“Oh, don’t act like it doesn’t get you off too,” you replied.
His laugh is low again, he’s proving both of your points. “Are you touching yourself?”
“No,” you squirmed a bit. “You didn’t say I could yet.”
“You’re so obedient, Peaches.”
“I love to be a model soldier,” you really, really want to give in. “Please.”
“Please what, love?”
“I need to touch myself, please.”
“You can play with your tits and that’s it.”
You hand immediately squeezed on breast and you let out a moan.
“Not so loud, love. People might hear on my side of the line.”
Oh fuck, was he talking to you like this around other people? You imagined him looking stone faced in a room full of other soldiers, subordinates, and commanding officers. None the wiser that he was whispering filthy things into your ear. He would stare down someone that would dare interrupt him listening to you. The thought made you let out a sharp gasp.
“Oh, you like that don’t you? You want people to hear what I do to you?”
“Maybe,” you pinched your nipple and did a sharp inhale in response. “Please, I need more.”
“Did you buy any toys on leave, love?” There was a hint of curiosity in his voice.
“No,” you whimpered. “I chickened out.” You barely could barely keep a straight face when you smuggled in your other purchase. “Besides, you said I didn’t need any when I had you.”
He hummed. That made heat bloom in your stomach. “Shame, I was curious about what you’d pick out.”
“I need more, plea—!”
“Go on, love. Go slow,” he cut you off. You let out a sigh of relief as you started to circle around your clit. “I want to hear you, but keep it soft for me.”
“Yes, sir,” you moaned. You made sure your mouth was right next to the receiver as you let out soft, keen noises. The entire time he was humming with his gravelly voice and whispering encouraging words. “Sir, fuck, please.”
“Use your words, Peaches.”
“I need more, please. I need my fingers,” you gasped, “inside.”
“Granted,” he answered quickly. “You just have to compare your fingers to mine.” A high-pitch moan escaped your lips when two fingers slipped inside. Your other hand took over circling your clit.
“Not as thick, but more nimble.” You breath hitched. “Fuck, your fingers are so big.”
“All of me is big, love,” he replied quickly.
“I know, I love it. Fuck, I need it.” Just thinking about how he fills you makes your body tighten. “Your fingers can touch that spot that mine can’t get to.”
“Shame you didn’t get a toy then.”
You let out a shaking whimper as you nodded.
“I’m due for leave soon. I could pick you out something quite nice.”. He was stone faced. He could walk back in base with the inventory of a sex store without batting an eye. No one would dare try to stop him. Different ideas of what he would possibly choose flashed through your mind.
“W—what would you choose?”
“That would ruin the surprise, love.”
“Please, I’m close!” Your hands were speeding up as you rocked your hips against them.
“What’s in it for me?” You could hear he was smirking under that mask.
“Y—you get to hear.”
“Not good enough. I could make you wait until I’m there. You’re a good girl, you’d follow a direct order, right love?” He could do it and you’d obey him without question. You let out a pathetic, frustrated whimper. Then you realized you did have something up your sleeve.
“I bought something else. It's for you.” You slowed your fingers down a bit to keep your cool.
“Oh?” You got his attention. “What would that be?”
“It’s a surprise, fuck.” You really needed this ace in the hole. Biting the side of your cheek wasn’t helping anymore.
“Look at you, keeping secrets.” He chastised you.
“If you let me cum I’ll show you the minute you’re back.”
“Can’t even wait until I get the sand out of my boots?” He chuckled and it sent a jolt down your spine.
“Fuck, please! Anything!” You were so close.
“Cum for me, love. Don’t be too loud.” Those words were fucking music to your ears. You turned your head to press your face into your pillow. Muffled moans and cries were hopefully still loud enough for him to hear. This is one of the many times you were grateful your room was separated from the rest of the team. Your head wasn’t close to the phone anymore so you couldn’t hear whatever Ghost might be saying. Moans turned into gasps and gasps turned into whimpers as you pulled your fingers out.
“Fucking hell, Peaches.” He was finally starting to sound affected by this call. All it took was you crumbling completely because of him and his voice.
“Was I too loud?” You tried to calm your breathing.
“Maybe, Alejandro might have heard something.”
“Really?” Your panic must have been evident.
“Easy love, I’ve been alone in a room this entire time,” he replied with his dry sense of humor. “No one else gets to hear what’s mine.” His voice got lower again. Almost possessive.
Mine. That word echoes in your head. It makes you dizzy, the thought of being his and his alone. You really liked the thought of it. Your eyelids started to feel heavy. You started to mumble content words in agreement.
“Am I losing you, Peaches?” His voice went back to his usual tone.
You mumbled into the phone, “Are you going to hang up?”
“No,” he replied softly. His voice almost sounds gentle. You drifted off before you realized he wanted to listen to you sleep.
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