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ghouljams · 3 months

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Sin Summer (Ghost) Rating: E (MDNI) Words: 3.8k Tags: Ghost x f!reader, tinder au, oral (f!receiving), piv sex, fingering, dirty talk, meet and fuck, pwp, reader sleeps around and no one blames them Summary: You finally meet up with your faceless tinder guy and he quickly takes the number 1 spot on your hookup list. a/n: When I say nothing is abandoned I mean NOTHING. Part 1, Part 3

You're a little nervous when Saturday rolls around, but not any more nervous than you usually are. You're meeting in a public place, and if things break bad you can always scream. Hell if things break good Ghost promised to have you screaming. So one way or the other you get to be loud.

You don't even know who you're looking for, standing outside the bar and waiting for someone to... grab you? Usually you have a photo and can look around but Ghost was insistent that wasn't going to happen. You stare at your phone, at the open tinder dm and the promise from Ghost that he'd find you. He better not be a catfish or you're going to have to do some serious soul searching on your ability to be fooled on this app.

A large firm hand touches your shoulder and you quiet your startle response to something more reasonable for someone camped outside a bar.

"Easy love," his voice is so deep and rough, you pray this is Ghost, because you have to hear this voice dirty talk you. You have to look up to meet his eye. Which is just about the only thing you can meet since he's wearing a mask. You recognize the bottom of it, sort of, from one of his pictures. If nothing else the skeletal jaw print sort of lends itself to a name like Ghost.

"Ghost?" You ask hesitantly, if it's not him you'll sound like an idiot but the way his brows raise at your question give the same answer his voice does.

"The one and only."

"Faceless in person too, huh?" You really don't know what to say, never know what to say at the initial meeting. You both know what you're here for, but it's not like you can really say it.

"Try to be. Still got a mouth under here though, don't you worry." You feel the heat bloom over your cheeks at the same time you notice his eyes crease at the corners. You think he might be teasing you.

"You pull it up to drink I guess," you fish for something to say. Ghost shakes his head.

"Only comes off for one thing tonight sweetheart, and it's not drinking." His voice, God his voice, you think he could read the ingredients on a shampoo bottle and you'd get off on it. Your stomach clenches, eyes darting to his army fatigues. You really hope those are just for fashion.

"What the fuck are we at a bar for then?" You ask a little breathless. Ghost stares up at the bar sign.

"Gotta at least pretend I'm a gentleman," he tells you, "you said we were near your hotel, yeah?"

You grab his hand and very nearly drag him back to your hotel. Fuck it. If he is army you're not getting fucked in a barrack when you've got a perfectly good mattress at the hotel. You're sure he'd appreciate a shower with just the two of you in it as well. If he even wants to spend the night... do you want him to spend the night? If it means morning sex then absolutely.

It turns out Ghost's mask goes up for more than one thing, though you're given very strict instructions to keep your eyes closed for at least half of them.

Eyes closed when he kisses you. His hands are so big, rough with scars and callouses when they cup your face and tip your head back. You think you feel scars on his lips too, the softness of them cut with a raised lines of something, but you can't bother paying too much attention to them. His kissing leads you to believe some very promising things about his head. Lips sliding against yours firm and hungry before you try to get a breath in and he doesn't let you, deepening the kiss with an insistent tongue that makes your head spin from more than just lack of oxygen.

You love a confidant man. A man who kisses you like you're all that he wants, that he needs. You both know you're more than willing, but he still kisses you like you need convincing. His tongue slides against yours, licks into your mouth; he groans when you suck on the wet muscle. Ghost makes a quiet noise into the kiss, soft and a little desperate. You don't know if you'd considered how much he might want you when you'd started this.

"Ghost," you sigh when his lips leave yours and attach themselves to your neck. He hesitates, like it's the first time he's heard his name said like that, before diving in to bite you, hard. You tip your head back further with a gasp, the ache of his teeth against your skin makes you squirm, makes heat pool between your legs. You shiver as his tongue rolls over the bruise, his hands tugging at the bottom of your tee. You're careful to keep your eyes closed when he lifts it over your head. "Pants too," you hum.

"Don't gotta remind me," he tells you, fingers already skimming your belt. He barely gets it undone before he pushes his hand into your pants. His tongue clicks admonishingly, fingers skimming your wet panties. You do your best not to follow the firm strokes. "You're really desperate for me, aren't you?" His low tone hits you right where his fingers do. You're glad you're looking at the ceiling and not him, the way he makes your skin heat.

"You're my type," you tell him honestly, hips following the rub of his fingers. Screw it, if he's going to tease you, you're going to enjoy it.

"You should get better taste." You wish you could argue with that, but considering who you brought home he's probably right. You settle on humming, not willing to make a solid noise of agreement or disagreement when he's got his hand down your pants.

You close your eyes when he moves, when he hauls you up to position on the bed. His hand covers your eyes, warm and calloused, and big. It's firm, steadfast, you're almost enjoying the makeshift blindfold situation. Ghost's lips latch onto one of your nipples, sucking and rolling his tongue over the hardening bud. The heat of his mouth makes you squirm, the bite of his teeth just at the edge of too hard. He sucks and laves his tongue over you like he can't get enough of the feeling. You let a whine slip free and he moves his attention to the other one.

His fingers rub you through your underwear, working you up to soaking with practiced precision. Three firm fingers dragging up and down your slit, stopping to circle your clit with each stroke. It's warm pressure that makes your hips cant, chasing the movement. He's teasing you, keeping you just at the edge of eager while he enjoys himself with your breasts. You squirm a little and his touch slides further up to occupy itself with the waistband of your panties. You pull your legs up to help him get them off.

Ghost seems to switch gears as soon as they're gone. His hand leaving your eyes to grip under your knees, settling your legs on either side of him and pushing them up towards your chest. He trails his mouth down your stomach, nipping and licking at the soft skin, leaving his mark against your hip before he slips between your legs.

Keeping your eyes closed makes it hard not to flinch when his tongue drags over your slit. Broad strokes as he tastes you, his fingers spread you open so he can wiggle it between your folds and you press your hips into his touch. The hot drag of his tongue as it circles your hole makes you squirm, which makes him chuckle, deep and dark.

"You want me to hold you down?" He offers, the sound of his voice making heat rush over your skin. You shake your head and feel his broad shoulders shrug, you slide your legs over them and squeeze your thighs around his head. You feel him turn and bury his teeth in the soft flesh of your thigh.

It distracts him, you think, when he releases his teeth he runs his tongue along your skin, kissing and sucking at your thigh. His lips are appreciative, even when you squeeze him again. He's teasing you, he's so close to where you want him, working you up without ever touching your pussy. Your stomach jumps, warmth from his breath ghosting against your wet cunt. "I know baby," He groans, "gorgeous-" He cuts himself off, his lips pressing against your leg again before they leave you.

You almost open your eyes again when he fastens his mouth over your clit. You're so on edge waiting for him to touch you that you curl into his mouth, your fingers gripping his short cropped hair. His tongue rolls over your clit sending shocks up your spine. Your stomach jumps and you gasp as he sucks at your cunt, tugging at your clit and kissing your slit. He stirs heat in the pit of your stomach with each stroke of his tongue. Ghost's mouth is like a furnace, one that seems desperate to avoid parting from you. You hardly get a break from his insistent tongue, the sucking kisses, and the groans of deep satisfaction.

Ghost doesn't stop for a second, and the constant attention winds itself tight in the pit of your stomach. You whine, tug at his hair to pull his mouth closer, to keep that delicious suction that makes you want to writhe. He hums around your clit as you feel pressure build quick, before you can even warn him. Your whining grows more insistent as everything goes tight then spasms against his tongue as you come. Ghost doesn't give you a break, tongue stroking your clit as you clench and shake under him.

You jerk your hips when you feel his thick finger circling your hole, and his mouth leaves you. Only long enough to click his tongue and settle a hand on your stomach. He pushes your hips down against the bed, and eases his finger into your still fluttering cunt. "Gotta open you up love, relax." He tells you.

His finger is thick, thicker than some of the guys you've slept with, and you let out a soft noise at the gentle stretch. Ghost hums his encouragement, pumping his finger in and out of your cunt. He kisses your thigh again; you tip your head ever so slightly down and he clicks his tongue again. "Eyes up," He reminds you. You tip your head back, though you ache to get a look at the mouth that so expertly took you apart. The mouth that seems to still be trying to take you apart, because as soon as your head is back he's licking your clit again.

Your too sensitive, you have to force yourself to stay still, though his hand holding you down helps. You can hear the wetness between your legs, from his mouth, from his fingers, from your drooling cunt. Ghost hardly gives you a moment to adjust to the feeling, crooking his finger to stroke against your walls while he sucks. You clench around his finger and feel his tongue lap a broad stroke over your cunt in return. He waits for you to relax again before easing a second finger into you.

The burn of the stretch, just a bit too soon, is perfect. His fingers tug at your hole, sliding slickly in and out of you. It's just enough to make you feel full without filling you. Fuck it's good. Ghost strokes your walls, his fingers easing the stretch with gentle movements. He presses up against your soft spot and you let out a breath. You can hear the smile in his voice when he mumbles,

"There she is."

It's the only warning you get before his fingers are thrusting into you with a purpose. Short, quick, and precise, hitting your sweet spot with every stroke. Your stomach jumps and you clench around his fingers. He sits back, his hand leaving your stomach to hold your legs up, keep you from gaining any leverage as your back arches and you moan. He seems to have a direct line to your pleasure center. Each stroke of his fingers tightens in the pit of your stomach and makes your hips squirm to try and get away from the unrelenting jab of his hand. He's quick and experienced, and your legs shake over his shoulders.

You suppose it should be a relief when he removes his fingers just before you come a second time, and settles your feet on the bed. "Wanna watch you squirm," Ghost's voice is rough, deeper than you've heard it before. His fingers are the same, only this time when you try to get away from them he follows you. You were already on edge but this pushes you over. You buck and squirm, forcing him to fuck his fingers into you harder and faster until you shake apart with a shout and a flood of wetness. It coats your thighs, you know it coats his hand. It makes him groan. It doesn't make him stop. "Again," He tells you, his fingers still working you up quick. You don't have time to recover, your legs only pull up against your chest, desperate to curl in on yourself as the pleasure turns to pain and then pleasure again.

You come with your head thrown back and your fingers gripping the sheets. You shudder as it rips through you without warning, and once again coats Ghost's hand. He draws his fingers from you, and you hear him suck them clean. Somehow the sound makes you shiver.

Catching your breath takes priority over trying to sneak another peak at your partner for the night. You're sticky with sweat, three orgasms in, and you haven't even been fucked yet. You're buzzing just at the edge of enough. A good dick would make your night. To your side you hear the rustle of fabric being discarded. Ghost getting undressed you assume.

"Can look if you want," Ghost's voice is ever so slightly muffled, and when you do tip your head to find him he has his mask on again. You must look confused, because he shakes his head with a chuckle, and glances down to unclasp his belt. "Wanna look you in the eye," He explains, "Hard to do that with your eyes closed."

It's hard to look him in the eye anyway when he looks like that. Your eyes scour over the swell of well maintained muscle and the soft layer of fat that covers it. There are scars too, a whole host of them. They cover every inch of him, slashed over his chest, stabbed in his side, bullet holes in his shoulder and thick biceps. If you had any doubt this man saw combat it was gone now. He must be military, maybe special forces, it explains the mask.

Ghost pushes his pants down and you... well you need to rethink some things.

In your experience men who are criminally good at giving head are making up for something. Men who know how to "open you up" even more so. You swallow looking at the cock hanging between his legs, so long and heavy that it didn't spring up when he shucked his boxers. His fingers wrap around it, giving it a few good strokes with your slick as lube, and you watch the motion hungrily. He's not compensating for anything, he's just a great lay.

"How do you want me," You ask, eyes focused on the movement of his cock as he bends to grab a box from his discarded pants. He hums, tugging a length of condoms out and ripping one off.

"I'll move ya," He responds, rolling the rubber over his dick. A little shiver rushes down your spine, you like a man who knows what he's doing.

Ghost does, in fact, move you. He grabs your hips and drags you to the edge of the bed, the movement so quick and self assured it makes you giggle. His eyes crease at the edges, he's smiling you think, and he keeps smiling as he settles a knee on the bed next to you. You're quick to wrap your legs around his hips, and he's just as quick to pull them off and settle them over his arms. His big hands knead at your thighs, the extra leverage lining you up perfectly with his cock. Despite the angle, you're not using any muscles to hold yourself up, that's kind of him. Less kind when he positions himself at your entrance and tells you,

"Need you to be a good girl and take it," You gasp as he pushes into you, splitting you open more than his fingers could ever hope to, "Think you can do that?" You nod quickly, warmth dripping like honey to pool in the pit of your stomach. He didn't stretch you enough, but you think that might be the point. The ache of his cock stretching you open lets you feel every fat inch of it, every vein that drags against your walls, eased by the slick of your orgasms. Your eyes roll a little when he stops and pulls out a little. You whine, clenching to try and keep him inside, to keep that delicious stretch. Ghost groans, swears under his breath and shakes his head.

You should have anticipated him thrusting the last few inches inside. The hard thrust slapping his hips against yours forces a moan out of you. You arch in his hold, shivery, and glance between your legs as he gives you just a moment to adjust. The thick curls around his cock brush against your overworked clit and you do your best not to squirm. Not that you have much opportunity to squirm when Ghost fucks his weight down onto you. Each deep thrust hitting something achingly good inside you that makes you moan and claw at the arms holding you.

Your brows draw together looking at Ghost, he holds your gaze, his eyes piercing, dark and hungry. He's almost daring you to look away as he pounds into you. You're pinned under him, your legs forced back as he leans over you and treats you to a fountain of praise: "squeezin' me so good," "takin' it so well," "pretty little whore," "made for my cock." Your eyes roll back, the hot punch of his cock against your cervix almost too much for you. He told you to take it, you can be good for him, let him use you after he got you off so many times. That doesn't stop your legs from shaking or your voice from screaming.

There's something covetous in his eyes, something animalistic in the way he fucks you. This round is just for him, and you can take it. You tip your head back, trying to arch your back. Ghost releases his hold on your thighs and grabs you by the back of the neck, folding you back onto his cock. "No, no, sweetheart," He rumbles, leaning to press his forehead against yours, "told you, you gotta take it. Show me how a proper slag gets fucked."

Somehow this angle makes his thrusts more precise, and you truly cannot move to try and escape. You can hardly breathe, his cock fucking all the air out of your lungs. His pace just keeps getting faster, and you can see the way sweat sticks to his brow. You dig your fingers into his biceps, his thighs, anywhere you can try to get a grip as everything starts to hurt too good. You let out a squeak as the heat compounding in your stomach drips out of you. A slow trickle of orgasm that breaks into a flood on the next stroke of his cock.

It's worth it the way he growls when you clench and flutter around his cock. Ghost's thrusts becoming sharp and uncoordinated as he groans out his own orgasm. He rocks his cock into you more gently, letting your greedy pussy milk him before he lets you go to pull out. You feel like a rag doll, the way you drop and splay on the bed to shiver.

You turn over onto your stomach in an attempt not to slide off the bed as you get your bearings. Ghost is quick to scoop you up and deposit you against the pillows, the condom tied off and tossed towards the trash. You're once again moved, positioned how he likes so Ghost can pull you against his chest. You sling a leg over him and cuddle close. He smells like sweat, musky in a way that makes you want to drag your tongue along his collar.

"Twenty minutes," He tells you roughly, "I'll talk about anything but work." You hum, occupied with dragging your fingers over his squishy pecs. He flexes a little and you tip your head to look up at him.

"What?"

"We still got a dozen condoms, no sense takin' 'em home." He raises a brow. You think you're getting better at reading him, you think he's smiling. The offer is light, but sincere.

"Long as I can walk in the morning," You smile. He tips his head, like he's thinking about it.

"We'll see."

When you wake up in the morning it's to a pounding at the door. You grumble and sit up to check the time. You're alone in bed, but the shower is running. Good, he hasn't left yet. Around round six you decided you were getting Ghost's number in the morning, maybe asking him out to breakfast, perhaps even dinner. The clock says six but your brain says it's ass o'clock and whoever is banging on the door needs to gtfo.

You drag yourself out of bed and swipe Ghost's tee from the floor. A souvenir, and a nasty habit you've picked up. You root around for a pair of panties and manage to tug them on as the shower shuts off. You're making your way for the door when Ghost pops out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. You don't have time to admire the way drops of water trace over his back, or the way his hair sticks up at odd angles. He opens the door and leans against the jam.

"Dinnae dae that," Another low voice fills the room, there's something familiar about the accent, "Ya ask for a wakeup call, ya dinnae get ta glare at me."

"You're early," Ghost grumbles.

"Aye, was just so eager to see yer face LT." You pad behind Ghost and peak around his shoulder at the man in fatigues and an army green tee. You could recognize those eyes even if you didn't still feel his smile like an arrow through the heart. Icy blue in a way that makes you think he's from a different planet. Though you know it from your time in Glasgow.

"John?"

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moondirti · 11 months

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animalic (3)

← chapter two // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: he's got a plan that neither of you like warnings: enemies to lovers, predator/prey dynamics, biting, bondage, temporary paralysis, concussions, miguel is not nice, no use of y/n notes: this was supposed to be longer but the cut off at the original point was super awkward. this chapter is super exciting for all you fang lovers out there

You really can’t catch a break.

The city bustles with a verve rivalling your own, a kaleidoscope of luminescence dancing upon the glass facades of its skyscrapers. Their spires pierce the ink-dark cloak of night, and if you weren’t so busy running for your life, you’d stop to admire the way their aviation obstruction lights mimic the stars back home.

(Everything has a trade off, you suppose. You remember what it was like as light pollution gave away to reveal the cosmos above, the beauty of it lost upon your own grief.)

Now, it’s fear – clinging like a shadowy spectre to your heels. The pavement is unforgiving beneath you, each step sending a jolt of energy through your bones. Despite it, you can’t go any faster. Sidewalks crowd with the humdrum of everyday life – people filtering out from work and bodegas, dressed in a slightly odd fashion, their clothes a reminder of your unfamiliar landscape. Car horns blend into one another, providing an unsteady tempo to the race of your heart.

It’s disorienting, all of it. Times like these, you wish you’d been given the opportunity to hone your abilities. Stamina, flexibility. Web shooters in particular would have proved handy in avoiding the bustle of the ground.

Of course, he has that advantage on you too.

You can’t see Miguel, but you sense his proximity. It prods you, nipping at your flesh in a constant assault, intensifying goosebumps and raising hairs. Your spider sense usually doesn’t last this long, solely serving as a warning for immediate danger. Yet that’s just what he is, immediate. Dangerous. Predatory eyes track your every move, sourced from all directions. He’s everywhere; atop buildings, within alleys. Neon signs morph into twisted apparitions; serrated talons, red skulls.

How did he track you down so fast?

The day pass?

You wonder if he’d brought back-up – whether there are other spider-heroes here who trust in his noble cause. Your anxiety triples, and passerby’s begin to warp too. Their hurried footsteps now strike discordant notes, amplifying your isolation. You think you see some tense their wrists, or unbutton their coats, ready to reveal their tailored suits and ensure the capture you’ve managed to evade thus far.

It’s luck. It’s only ever been luck, and that fact changes depending on who you ask. You’ve never outsmarted him, never disabled him. You just so happen to have the power of being a pain in his ass.

Something itches at you, though. A nagging sense of foreboding. His presence in the past has spurred chagrin, annoyance, and – admittedly – arousal. But the genuine terror that lights your nerves now is new. Perhaps because you understand him, are far more familiar with his pride than most. The logical part of you can predict that he won’t let you off so easily, not after your stunt with the kiss. You won’t – can’t – get away this time, even if it damn well nearly kills him.

Any hope you had of a bargain dissipates, rolling back from shore and into the depths of an elusive sea. You jerk the rubber band off your wrist, throwing it into some undisclosed corner.

In a then desperate bid to throw him off, your path loses cohesion. Like a leaf seized by a tempest, you turn based on split-second instinct, weaving through the labyrinth of New York’s grid. Your body sways in frenzy, bolstered by pure adrenaline, which works to dim everything else. Your ribs haven’t fully healed yet – they’d taken a pretty bad beating upon your last fight with Miguel – but you can barely feel the ache as you focus purely on the task at hand.

Your determination surges, recklessness taking hold of your rationale. Veering abruptly, you just about collide with the racing line of cars that flow at a green light. In fact, you think you do. Your skin prickles, and a taxi runs straight through you, blearing a loud honk all the while. Some vehicles break off, drifting around your form at the last minute. In your peripheral, you can see the glowing red of your pursuers web, stretched across the gap between two apartment complexes.

Chest tightening, your breathing loses depth at the sight, shallowing to leave room for the distress that torrents up your system. You clamber up on the hoods of parked cars, using a mast arm pole to propel yourself forward. It’s a fruitless effort. You know it’s too late – have known it since he walked into that convenience, prowling in search of one thing.

(A lion only catches its prey a quarter of the time. But that twenty-five percent?)

Your ankle is the first victim to his hardwearing web, wrapped in the silk and pulled out from underneath you. The back of your head smacks into the concrete below, a high pitched ring reverberating through your skull upon impact. The collision sends a shock wave of pain throughout your being, and in that harrowing moment, everything stutters to a crawl. Spots speckle behind your clenched eyelids, metallic warmth flooding your mouth.

Well, fuck.

To add insult to injury, your atoms rip apart and splice into one another, a consequence of your abandoned day pass. The glitch aggravates the headache that begins to pound at you. You’d allowed yourself to forget how bad it could be.

The willpower that had just played a forefront in your mind steadily starts to trickle out, absorbed by your humiliation and the ground below.

“You really gonna give up that easily?”

Yes.

You make a point to never lie to yourself. In truth, you won’t ever get enough of Miguel’s cadence. Deep and resonant – it smoulders with a charred ruggedness. Commanding attention, rumbling like distant thunder, an unmistakable authority woven into each word. Yet, even amidst the rough contours, there lingers a softness, a subtle grace that soothes the edges of his threats.

(Sharp claws, sharp teeth, sharp cheekbones. Soft voice.)

More webs bind you, erupting from an unclear point to circle your legs, chest, and secure your arms behind your back. You’re diminished to little more than an aggravated caterpillar, ensnared in a spider’s web. And, just as his little game of bondage draws to a close, said spider stalks within view, splitting through the crowd that quickly forms around the commotion.

With his mask on, he stands as completely impenetrable. You, on the other hand, try to reduce your quivering the best you can, afraid of relaying how truly pathetic you feel.

“Maybe I’m biding my time.” You bite back, calling on a complete bluff. “I’m sure you know how good I am at that?” It’s a low blow. Even if you could control when and where to phase out, you wouldn’t get very far before he catches up to you again.

But Miguel doesn’t waver in his closing in – not until he towers over you, looking down at your incapacitated state. Space buckles under the gravity of his existence; you, too, can feel yourself sinking, drawn in closer by the credence that bubbles off him in flares. You wish you had a cover – your pair of makeshift goggles, a face mask, anything that could elevate you to a degree relative to his. But you’re bare, figuratively naked, and you’ve never hated him more.

He lingers, assessing you, weighing his options. The moment he turns to survey the mass of people who look on inquisitively, you wiggle upward into a sitting position, then throw your head forwards, aiming for his crotch. His wrist gets in the way, though, blocking your pitiful attack on his only defenceless area. Your forehead cracks against his dimensional travel watch, shattering its screen.

“Tu puta madre!” Miguel hisses, snapping back to survey the gadget while you begin to slink away. He seems to have an eye on you, however, because you’re tugged back just as soon as you make the effort.

Like a naughty cat. You shift uncomfortably at the thought.

“Are you gonna spend all night deciding what to do with me, then? I have plans, even if you don’t.”

“Plans. I have plans alright.” The low timbre of his threat slices you where it hurts.

With a calculated flex of his shoulders, he crouches down, gathering the webs around your arms. They serve as leverage when he hauls you upward, exercising his muscles – of which you’d suspected had been padding up to this point – with one swift motion. The world upends on itself, nausea enveloping your senses with its oppressive weight. It allows space for little else; not the uncertainty, not the trepidation. You divert all your efforts on keeping your scarce lunch down, accepting the possibility of a concussion by product of his less-than-refined manhandling.

The journey to wherever he takes you is not at all long enough for you to recover. Before you know it, he’s busting through the creaky door of an empty storelot, carelessly tossing you to the floor. Your vision doubles.

Yeah. Definitely a concussion.

Like you could afford one right now.

“You’ll stay, and you’ll listen.” He points an accusatory finger.

“Sure. Until I’ve had enough, that is.”

“And where would you go, exactly?”

“Nice try, O’hara. Like I’d tell you,” Snickering, you let your head roll to face the ceiling. The action sends you back to earlier, to the robbery you’ve been seeking to suppress. How careless you’d been, letting your fortune to date trick you into thinking that any collateral was safe too. You’d killed that woman. You. “Maybe I’ll fall right through the floor. That way, you’ll never have to worry about seeing me again.”

The notion makes him pause mid-pace, hands on his hips, tilting his head to look at you with what you imagine is the most earnest glare. The air bobs, suspended in static tension, a crackling constant that only unravels once he seems to make up his mind.

Marching forward, he drags you along with him to a nearby wall, upon which he then pushes you upward until you have to look down to meet his eyeline. Your bound legs kick forward, but the struggle hardly affects him.

“I didn’t want to resort to this.”

You assume he means treating you like a toddler does its shiny new toy, hurling you across this playpen of a city. “You really didn’t have to, then.”

He stays quiet, fists clenching tighter around you.

“I suppose we’re past the courtesy of letting the other recover from the last fight before starting a new one? My forearm is still fucked, thanks to you. Maybe if you’d given it some time, I would’ve proved more of a challenge today.” Your words, whilst never your most steadfast allies, betray you in lieu of this restlessness, tumbling forth with unruly incoherence.

Miguel's mask pulls back, the nanotech collapsing to just above his adams apple. Your mouth moves faster.

“Okay, I get it. The fate of the multiverse and all that. I’ll listen, whatever you want, but at least try and make the lecture original.”

His hand cups your jaw, tightening around your chin to firmly guide it upwards. Your throat stretches taut at the motion, its smooth expanse spread across the wall – an evening repast for a party of one. The imagery breaks down an all too sobering realisation into fragments small enough for you to register. His talons rest against your cheek, bordering perilously close to your waterline.

Traces of that patchouli aftershave hit you. His skin looks especially bronzed in the dark, highlighted at the edges from the phosphorescence outside. His curls droop where they’re plastered to a sweat slicked hairline.

You can’t help it. Your gaze flickers down to those plush lips.

Fuck. Fuck. It’d felt so good to kiss them.

Please let this just be a kiss.

“O-Or go with the… the usual, y’know. I don’t–”

Miguel lunges, sinking his fangs into the fleshy sinew of your neck.

Christ.

Your jaw hangs open, but no breaths filter in. Shock wedges itself at the site of his bite, implacable, steadfast as a barrier between logic and uninhibited emotion. Your reasoning plays no part in this, provides absolutely no valuable contribution to the series of reactions you undergo.

It’s physical, first. The cold slither of paralytic venom distends through your nerves, neurotoxins striking their functions, rendering them useless beyond the point of sensation. Which, you’d say, is the cruellest part. Miguel’s poison doesn’t stop you from feeling anything; not the puncture, nor the burn. You can truly feel it, trekking its graceful path to all muscles in your body, taking hold of the tissue, suppressing their vitality. Your back arches, your body doing its very best to fight what it cannot prevent. It cracks up your bone, down your spine. Your toes unfurl, fingers loosening to hang lamely at your side.

And, when you lose all executive authority over yourself, you’re pulled in to centre on his mouth again. His canines slowly retract, tongue taking their place. It’s warm – so fucking warm – and dextrous, covertly lathering the blood that beads down your nape.

Your last proper breath is wasted on a whine; a loud, keening, absolutely wanton whine. After it, you can do nothing but hold your flat inhales to cycle in as much oxygen as possible – diaphragm weak, your resolve weaker.

Miguel draws away, letting you slump to the floor, heavy and just as useless as a sack of flour. He wipes the excess carmine from his chin, kneeling to regard your glassy eyed stare.

“Fall through now, and you’re as good as dead.”

(You might as well already be.)

chapter four →

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 9 months

Text

Infected

Miguel O'Hara X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info

Summary: An accident at one of Alchemax’s labs has led to Miguel being briefly contaminated with cA1m - a prototype drug that is meant to calm animals. However it seems to have a very different effect in humans.

A/N: A massive thank you to @midgardian-witch for reading the beginning of this (catching a hilarious typo), making some excellent suggestions, and reassuring me that I hadn’t just lost my mind completely (yet).

Reader doesn’t know Miguel’s spiderman.

Warnings: dubious consent - it’s basically a sex pollen fic, blood, hair pulling (can I write a fic without an Oscar Isaac character getting their hair pulled?), so much cum, hand job, oral (both m and f receiving), things get a little rough, face fucking, cum eating, biting, scratching, p in v sex, typos, please let me know if I’ve missed a warning!

Word Count: 5433

________________________________

“It’s mainly preliminary.” You said with a smile. “You weren’t in the room, but the filtration system links four of the labs.”

You check over Miguel’s notes, so far, he didn’t have any symptoms.

There had been an ‘accident’ in Lab B2, an accident that was being rapidly looked into. Lab B1, and B4 had been empty, but Miguel had been in B3.

Miguel was currently in a rapidly repurposed testing room, sitting on the bed with his shirt rolled up his forearms. His specific request for somewhere with reinforced walls, doors and windows had been… unusual. But he was a big guy, couldn’t hurt to be too careful.

“How are the others doing?” He asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Okay,” you nodded. There had been eight people in Lab B2 when the container had broken. Two people, like Miguel, weren’t showing any symptoms.

The chemical compound, nicknamed cA1m, while liquid in its storage unit, turned to a gas at above zero degrees. Luckily it also denatured quickly, and there was a good chance that those who still weren’t showing symptoms were unaffected.

The chemical’s intention was for a more humane way to calm wild animals and livestock during veterinary checks. That way the animal in question didn’t need potentially dangerous anaesthetic for basic to mild level medical care.

It also wore off in 24 hours.

However, it still needed some work. And while early tests had gone well, apparently it did not have the desired effect in humans.

Four of the six infected had gone feral, absolutely crazy with rage, trying to kill and destroy everything and everyone within their reach.

Luckily no one had been severely injured before they had been tranquilised.

The other two were different, they had… other urges.

“Have you found any links as to why Doctor Guerrero and Doctor Vaughan didn’t react like the others?” Miguel asks. His voice was calm and controlled, like it always was. Politely interested, like he was listening to a presentation about your latest control data.

“Well, I have an idea. Though I haven’t fully proven it yet.”

He tilted his head to the side in a silent question. The action was endearing, it made your heart flutter and heat rise to your skin. And you hated it so, so much.

You smiled quickly and looked down, trying to cover the fact you’d been staring at him for a second too long.

“So,” you continued, drawing the word out a little to give you a pause of breathing room. “Both Guerrero and Vaughan are in relationships, both of them wanted to,” you pause for a moment, trying to find the most professional way to phrase it. “get to their partners. Unlike the others they also had a massively increased level of oxytocin.”

“Your theory is that that cA1m causes a berserk level of rage unless the subject is in love?” There was the smallest smirk on his lips.

It sounded stupid when he put it like that.

“Well… yes.” You fold your arms. “Look, Miguel,” he grinned when you said his name and you fought, and lost, the urge to smile back. “I’ve had fourteen hours and six people to base this off, plus three who are showing no symptoms. Give me a break, yeah?”

He held up his hands playfully. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You gave me a look.”

“What look?” He teased.

“I know you want to be trying to figure this out yourself, but you’re the one who insisted on not being allowed any breakable, or expensive, equipment while you’re in here.”

He smiled. “It’s true.” His gaze was heavy, crushing almost.

You shook your head and turned to the side table. “Anyway, are you gonna let me draw some blood or what?”

He nodded and held his arm out to you.

You know why you had been ‘nominated’ (begged) to be the one to see Miguel. He wasn’t the easiest CEO to work for in the sense that he was both physically and mentally intimidating, but what usually threw most people was that he was quiet, tended to watch and listen.

And he had a bit of resting bitch face.

But he was actually pretty pleasant to talk to when you got to know him.

You brushed your arm against his as you moved to get your equipment. Miguel audibly gasped.

A flash of worry pinched at your mind, you turned to look at him. “You okay?”

Miguel nodded; he was staring straight ahead at the wall. Obviously in distress.

“Miguel?” This wasn’t the same as those who had suddenly developed into a full-blown rage, but still you couldn’t help the sense of apprehension that crawled along your skin. You glanced at the sedative on the side table and shook your head.

“Miguel?” You spoke again, a little softer and moved a step closer towards him.

He shuddered at your voice, screwing his eyes up tightly. Sweat was beading on his forehead, heat rolling off him in waves.

“Miguel, I’m gonna-”

He moved faster than you could comprehend, one second he was sitting on the bed and the next he was looming over you, his hands clenched tightly around your biceps, and forcing you back.

You yelped as he pressed you into the wall, grabbing hold of his forearms.

His eyes were dark and wild, brimming with a terrifying energy.

“Miguel, wh-”

He crashed his lips into yours, swallowing down your words and slipping his tongue into your mouth frantically. It took you a fragment of a second to react, surprise freezing your limbs solid.

Miguel took your delay to his advantage, pushing his knee between your legs and pressing close. Not leaving a fraction of space between you as he devoured your mouth. Stealing your breath and igniting heat along your veins.

“Miguel,” you managed to push him back, the heels of your hands in his chest. This was the cA1m affecting him, it was the only explanation. Maybe the filtration system had diluted the chemical and caused a delayed reaction. “You need to-”

He snarled, his eyes pinpoint focused on you as he leaned forward and kissed you, hard. All tongue and sharp teeth as he wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck and gripped your thigh bruisingly tight, hitching it high on his hip.

You’d had dreams like this, fantasies, where he pinned you to the wall and kissed you until you couldn’t breathe. But you couldn’t do this, you couldn’t take advantage of him like this-

There was a sharp pinch of pain as Miguel sank his teeth into your bottom lip. You let out a small squeak of surprise, pulling away from him. And raised your hand to your mouth, your fingers coming back red.

Miguel, however, seemed unphased as he trailed kisses along your neck, smearing your blood along your skin. He ground his hips into yours, rocking back and forth and- oh god, he was big, just like the rest of him.

“Miguel, you need to,” you swallowed down a whimper as he sucked at your pulse point, just managing to resist the urge to hold him closer, to run your hands through his hair. “It’s the cA1m, you’re not thinking straight.”

He murmured something into your neck, his mouth not leaving your skin far enough for the words to be intelligible.

“Miguel-” You gasped as he nipped at your throat, not enough to break the skin this time.

Heat was burning from his skin, scorching into your body like you were too close to a flame.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back a fraction too forcefully. You thought the brief pain might snap him out of it, give him a second of clarity. But as his chin tilted upwards, exposing his neck, he let out a long groan, his eyes squeezed shut.

It went straight to your core, your thighs clenching at the sound.

“Need you so bad, shit,” he rocked against you harder, pressing his length right up against your centre. “Always need you, you don’t understand,” he moaned and buried his head back into your neck, despite your grip on his hair, and sucked a love bite into your skin.

This time you couldn’t resist the urge. You sunk your fingers deeper, scratching your nails along his scalp and pulled him closer, pushing his face in your neck.

Miguel groaned appreciatively, digging his sharp nails into your shoulders. He nipped just below your ear, the keen, yet sweet little sting of pain blended with the slow and steady roll of his hips was simply tortuous. Almost enough to make you lose all common sense.

Almost.

You couldn’t do this, you couldn’t do this, you just couldn’t do this.

“Miguel-”

He whined as you said his name.

And you had to bite your lips together in order to hold onto your fading self respect.

“On the table,” you swallowed, trying to get your words out quickly, “there’s a sedative. It’ll help, it’ll-”

“You’ll help, being near you helps.” He mumbles, the words barely audible. He snakes his fingers along your ribs, just teasing the hem of your shirt.

“We just need to-oh!”

Miguel grabs hold of your shirt and pulls, ripping it open, buttons pinging off and going flying. Honestly, there’s less resistance from the material than you expected.

And then he's everywhere, his face buried in your chest, kissing the tops of your breasts as his fingers pinch at your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra.

You can't stop the moan of surprise that escapes your lips as you arch into his touch.

You had to stop this, now. Before he did something you'd very much enjoy and he'd very much regret.

"Fuck," you hiss under your breath and act quickly, trying not to overthink and get yourself caught up.

Maybe if he… had some relief you could grab the sedative in the afterglow. Hell, maybe he wouldn't even need the sedative if he came once.

Before you can lose your nerve you quickly unbuckled his trousers and managed to squeeze your hand under the material despite Miguel's frenzied mind trying to keep the physical space separating you both to a minimum.

He gasps as you touch him, letting out a choked sob that your brain was already committing to memory and filing under 'for use later'.

The velvety soft skin was rock hard and burning hot against your hand. So big that you couldn't even get your fingers fully round his girth.

"Please." He muttered, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands resting tightly on your waist.

His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth slightly open and when you moved your hand, the smallest upwards movement. He let out the sweetest sigh.

You bite your lip and wince as you catch the broken skin, but it doesn’t stop you from tracing your thumb over the tip of him, smearing precome along the head. You were trying to be quick, methodical, clinical, as you began to stroke him, setting an even pace. This was just a problem to solve. You should not be enjoying this.

But every glide of your hand, every touch, made Miguel gasp and moan as if it was the first time he’d ever experienced such sensations, made him bite his lip with his sharp (had they always been that sharp?) teeth, and it was intoxicating.

He pistoned his hips into your touch, thrusting faster and faster, and practically growling as he grew closer to his release.

You couldn’t help but watch him, enraptured, as heat pooled in your lower stomach, your own need growing. But this wasn’t about you.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself rocking back and forth against his leg ever so slightly to just take the edge off.

Miguel grunted, his eyes rolling back in his head, and there was a sharp pinch of pain as he tightened his grip on your waist, his nails digging in much harder than they surely should have been able to.

He swore under his breath as he cums, twitching under your touch, and coating your hand and stomach with his release.

There’s so much of it, far more than there should be as he cums and cums, gasping for air. Another side effect of the cA1m - perhaps you’d be annoyed as his release soaks into your ruined shirt if the sight of him reaching his peak wasn’t exhilarating.

You let go of him quickly, managing to disentangle yourself from him, despite Miguel low, exhausted whine of protest.

God, how were you going to get a new shirt without running into someone? And, you realised, probably a new pair of trousers too. Miguel’s spend had run down and soaked into the left side.

You grabbed the sedative from the side table. Your mind already racing, it wasn’t Miguel’s fault but would he remember? Would he be awkward with you now? Would your little chats and jokes stop? You swallowed down a pang of fear and turned. Now wasn’t the time for what ifs you-

Miguel grabbed your arms and you squeaked in surprise. How could he move so silently? His eyes were dark, hooded with lust, his trousers just hanging from his hips and… well, obviously so much for the idea that him cumming once would be enough.

“I need you.” He growled, his voice so low that you almost felt light headed. “I know you want me too, I can smell it.” He leaned forward scraping his teeth over your pulse point, and for a shameful moment you let yourself get caught up again, allowed yourself to revel in the sensation for the smallest second.

While he was distracted you pushed the needle into his upper arm, through his shirt, and injected the sedative.

It shouldn't take long.

He growled, pulling his mouth away from your neck to stare dangerously into your eyes.

You swallowed. A spike of fear dug into the base of your skull, some ancient urge telling you to run.

“It’s okay,” you said soothingly, unsure if you were really talking to Miguel or yourself. “It’s just the sedative.” You pulled the needle out of his arm. “You’ll be fine, let’s lay you down so-”

He kissed you hungrily, harsh and demanding as he forced his tongue into your mouth.

You allowed yourself to kiss him back the smallest amount as you waited for the sedative to work.

And waited… And waited…

Oh, no, just no, this wasn’t right, this couldn’t be right. There was more than enough in the injection to knock him out and yet he didn’t show any signs of slowing down.

Okay, so, this definitely wasn’t how it went with the others.

You side step, trying to twist past him and break his hold all in one movement. Maybe you could get to the door, maybe you could do… something. Your mind raced, there had to be a way to fix this, to help him, to be useful.

The side step didn’t work, Miguel’s grip was too tight, and you stumbled, skidding around and to your knees. The edge of the bed thumped into your back.

You gasp, gulp and stare up at him. That spike of fear dragging itself down your spine.

He growls and moves closer, his length bobbing and perfectly at your eye level. His gaze is dark and desperate, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth. You could see his pulse thundering in his neck, echoing along the length of his dick.

Rapid heartbeat was one of the side effects all the others had experienced, the sedative being the only thing that had managed to return it to a normaler level.

Maybe there was only one way you could be useful.

Miguel shifts his weight, preparing to move, but you lean forward first and run your tongue along the length of him.

A deep moan rumbles in his chest as you touch him, a gasp of breath. The sound floods heat to your core.

You wrap your lips around the tip, grabbing hold of his hips to pull him closer as you swallow as much of him as you can. You bob your head, encouraging him to move with you and there is a moment where you can feel the tension in his muscles, the strain in his thighs as he tries to hold back, to keep himself in check.

It doesn’t last long.

He snarls and thrusts forward, snapping his hips and nearly choking you. You splutter, trying to breathe through your nose but Miguel doesn’t give you a second to recover. He pushes forward, the back of your head slamming against the edge of the bed as he plunges deeper and deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with ease and still not even half way in.

Your grip on his hips tightens and you don’t know if you’re trying to pull him away or urging him on.

It burns, the size of him makes your jaw ache, tears roll down the sides of your cheeks from the force of his relentless thrusts.

His hands dig into the mattress by the side of you head, tearing into the fabric as he pounds into you, fucking your mouth with everything he’s got.

He groans, “yes, baby, yes,” his voice low and barely distinguishable as words.

You do your best to just hold on, to breathe and take as much as you can. The sounds of his moans filling your ears and mind, and god, how you wished you didn’t have a gag reflex and could take him deeper.

He keeps ramming into your mouth, snapping his hips against you with a frenzied energy and you push against his lower back, silently begging him to keep going.

Your neck throbs from discomfort, bruising forming where the skin is repeatedly hitting against the hard outline of the bed frame. Your knees burn from where they continuously rub against the floor with every buck and thrust.

Miguel lets out a short, animalistic cry as he cums down your throat suddenly. You moan against him, trying to swallow all of it but there’s just so, so much. It spills out of the side of your mouth and down your chin despite your best efforts.

He leans forward, breathing hard, his cock still in your mouth. And for a second you think this is it, the sedative will take hold or maybe this mindless lust has come to an end.

But he’s still hard when he pulls himself out of your mouth, his eyes still glazed over with the same madness when he looks down at you. He runs his hand over your chin, the pads of his fingers slightly sharp, and collects some of his spend that hasn’t trickled down your neck and onto your torn shirt and bra. Another item of clothing you’d need to change.

He smears his cum along your cheek, the movement possessive, like he was marking his territory.

There’s a pause, the lull in the eye of the storm before he pulls you up from the ground with a shocking display of strength, moving as if you were no heavier than a glass of water he was eager to drink down.

You can’t help the little yelp of surprise that escapes you as he practically throws you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress and momentarily knocking the air out of your lungs.

But then he’s on top of you, pressing himself firmly between your legs as he growls and snaps his teeth close to your neck. He bites at your throat, hard enough to break the skin and you cry out as the pain quickly disappears into pleasure.

Your mewls only make his actions more frenzied as he tears your clothes completely off you with a speed that makes your head spin, before removing his own. The material rips so easily, as if he used a blade.

He runs his tongue along your chest, messily cleaning up the cum he’d spilt along you just moments before.

“Miguel-” You try to start, but then his mouth is back on yours, tasting like salt and iron as he drinks down your words to leave you breathless.

You gasp as he breaks away, trailing sloppy kisses down your body, his fingers running over your skin and leaving scratches. He bites your hip partially deeply and you keen, arching up into him as he moans.

“Your so fucking sweet.” He mutters before kissing lower and lower and, oh god. You nearly scream as his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks hard. Pleasure coils tight in your belly as a new wave of wetness leaks out and soaks into the torn up sheets beneath you.

His fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes his face into you, only breaking away so that he can lick through your folds hungrily, devouring you like a starving animal.

“Miguel!” You whine, letting out a series of high pitch moans that sound alien even to your own ears.

He sucks your clit once more, his teeth just grazing across it before he snarls and pulls away, pushing the back of your thighs and pressing them against your chest with a crushing strength.

You struggle to take a breath, barely filling your lungs before he’s thrusting into you with a guttural groan and a sharp snap of his hips.

The size of him hurts, it’s too much, too fast and you gasp in pain. You clench your jaw, your eyes screwing up as your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to push him back even though you know it’s no use against his strength.

But he stops instantly, stilling his movements.

You stare up at him in surprise. His eyes are still dark but there’s something else there, something pushing through that lust haze.

“Pain?” He whispers, sounding the most like his old self that he has since this ordeal began.

You swallow and nod, tears building at the corners of your eyes.

He slowly loosens his grip around your thighs, letting go shakily as if it is taking a lot of self control to do so. And while he doesn’t pull out, he doesn’t thrust in deeper either.

Carefully, he manoeuvres your legs down onto the bed either side of him, watching your face for any sign of increased discomfort. It’s only then that he looks down to where you’re joined, completely split open with only a quarter of his length inside.

He groans lows and you brace yourself for a brutal thrust that never comes. Instead he keeps his hips still as he slowly trails his sharp nails down your stomach, teasing the very edge of your clit before pressing his thumb against it fully.

A small moan escapes you and you clench down instinctively. Miguel hums in approval and starts to slowly circle the bundle of nerves, the touch light and soft as he just borders on the edge of losing control.

The pain starts to dissipate quickly, replaced with a steady continuous build of that deep need from before. You start to squirm. The pressure of his thumb isn’t enough and you rock your hips ever so slightly, your breathing hitching in your throat.

"More?" He whispers.

You nod your head rapidly.

“Thank god.” Miguel sighs, the words mumbled like a prayer almost too quietly for you to hear, and lets some of his weakening control slip.

Slowly he pushes further in, the tension shaking in his thighs as he fights with every instinct to pound you into the mattress and turn you into a crying mess beneath him.

He keeps circling your clit, groaning as feels a fresh wave of wetness leaking out of you.

You moan, grabbing hold of his shoulders. But this time you pull him towards you, urging him deeper. God, he’s big. Already it’s like you can feel him in your throat.

The stretch burns, but it’s good, it feels right. Like he is going to reach a whole new devastating part of you. Make you cum so hard that he’ll ruin any other sexual partner for good.

You hook your left leg on his hip and squeeze your calf over his lower back, encouraging him closer, deeper. While you plant your right foot firmly against the bed to rock up against him.

Miguel groans, his eyes closed. His movements on your clit falter as he slides further in.

There’s a sharp pain in your hip where his left hand holds you tight, his nails (it had to be his nails) dug in so deep that they broke your skin.

You let out a soft whine, clenching around his girth as he presses up against you perfectly and still pushes further in. The pleasure in your stomach tightening and starting to completely overwhelm all other thoughts, urging you to just chase your release.

Tears prick again at the corners of your eyes, a soft emotion beating hard in your chest. And you can’t help yourself, you grab hold of the back of Miguel’s neck, pulling him down towards you and arching up at the same time to kiss him hungrily.

He moans into your mouth, pushing back against you and forcing you into the mattress. His hips snap forward, finally sheathing himself completely in your tight, wet heat.

For a moment it’s like you can’t breathe, so completely full that not even air can enter.

Miguel stills, giving you a moment to adjust as he licks into your mouth and groans as your walls squeeze around his length. His pubis bone presses firmly against your clit, and you can feel the echo of his racing heart beat along his skin.

He breaks the kiss to breathe hard, his eyes closed and forehead pressed against yours. “I can’t… I need to…”

“Please,” you answer desperately, kissing him softly as you start to rock your hips ever so slightly.

Miguel lets out a whine, his eyebrows pinched together in bliss and the expression alone is nearly enough to make you cum on the spot.

“Can’t stop,” he mutters and you're not even sure if he’s aware of what he’s saying anymore as he grabs your wrists in either of his hands and pins them to the bed. “Feels so…” He ruts into you, pulling out so that just the tip of his cock stays inside before slamming back into you. “Fuck. So. Fucking. Tight.”

You wail under him as pleasure runs up your spine and down your legs as he punctuates every thrust with an upwards rock of his hips, continuously rubbing against your clit and pressing the head of his length to that perfect spot inside.

“So. Fucking. Wet.” He growls. His nails are slicing into your wrists, but you don’t care. Can’t care, you’ve lost all ability to feel anything but the glide of his cock and the heady build of your orgasm.

“So. Mine.” He growls and bites down hard on your neck. You cry out, the brutal pace of his hips only increasing, bringing you closer and closer and-

You gasp, his name catching in your throat as you finally cum. Every muscle shaking as it crashes over you in waves.

Miguel tears his mouth away from your neck, blood shining on his lips as he watches you come undone. He moans, his thrusts not faltering for a second.

“That’s it, cum all over me,” he glances down for a moment watching himself disappearing into you, amazed at how well you’re taking him, how tightly your walls are griping him, trying to milk him for all he’s worth. “Squeezing me so tight, oh shit-”

He cums loudly, still pistoning in and out of you as he fills you up with his release. There’s still so much of it, some leaks out, spilling out of your abused hole and sticking to your thighs.

You breathe deeply, your mind foggy from how hard you came. Your legs ache from being stretched so wide, your pussy throbs from overstimulation.

Miguel doesn’t stop, still rock hard and trusting. Pushing his cum deeper into you.

“Miguel,” you whine, your throat raw.

“I can’t-” he bites his lip, “I can’t stop, I need to, fuck, please, I need to-”

You kiss his neck, biting harder than you normally would at his jugular. He whines, the sound going straight to your core. Heat starts to build again.

“Keep going,” you mutter against his skin. “Keep going as long as you need to.”

You wake up sore and sticky. Aching and in pain. Even the slightest movement brings out an array of discomfort. Every muscle throbs, like you had done a year's worth of exercise in one day, and all the bites and scratches sting as you shift, the scrapes making you feel like someone had tossed you naked into a bush of brambles and thorns.

It takes you a moment to remember where you are, the tiredness in your bones trying to coax you back to sleep.

“I’m sorry.”

Miguel’s voice makes you jump. He’s still close to you, laying on his side with his chest pressed up against your back. One arm around your waist. There’s tension there, you know he wants to move away but is scared to move at the same time.

His cock is pressed against your backside, soft and sated.

You turn to look at him, too tired to worry about your nakedness. Besides, he had seen plenty of it anyway.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

He scoffs. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he looks down.

It’s only then as you turn around completely to look at him that you see tears in his eyes. “Miguel?”

You softly touch his cheek but he flinches away from you. The action spikes through your heart. He can’t even look at you now.

“I’ve got everything to be sorry for, I, I took advantage of you, I rap-”

“No, no, no, no,” you can’t help but touch him again, putting your hand back on his cheek and rubbing your thumb soothingly across his skin.

This time he leans into it, letting out the smallest, shaky breath.

“You were infected, Miguel, you couldn’t control yourself. I don’t know how much you remember but the sedative didn’t work, and your heart rate was just, I mean, it was crazy high. And, if anything, I was the one that took advantage of you and-”

His eyes snap open. “You? You took advantage of me?” He says disbelievingly. “Look at you.” He touches the bite marks on your neck gently.

You give him a little smile. “I don’t mind.”

He breathes out another shaky breath, but there’s a hint of a smile. “You don’t mind?”

You shake your head. “Happy to help.”

He chuckles a little at that and nods as he runs a hand through his hair.

There’s a pause, a silence that you can’t stand.

“I guess I was wrong.”

Miguel frowns a little, confused.

“My theory, about people having that reaction if they’re in love, I mean.”

There’s a pause, the only sound a little gulp as Miguel swallows. Something passes over his face for a second, a faint trace of heat rising to his skin.

Oh. Maybe you weren’t wrong.

“Miguel?”

He breathes deeply, looking down. “I-”

You don’t give him a chance to finish, letting your adrenaline overwhelm you as you quickly lean forward and press your lips to his. Hoping against hope that you weren’t misreading the situation.

He’s caught by surprise for a moment, but moans happily and softly kisses you back as his arm wraps around you and pulls you close.

The kiss is slow and gentle, languid and sweet. It makes your stomach drop like you were falling from a great height. His embrace the only thing keeping you safe.

He runs his tongue over your bottom lip lightly, careful of the cuts, but licks into your mouth hungrily the second you part your lips. It’s not the same lustful need from before, this is deeper, sharper and desperate in a different way. As if after devouring your body he now needed to devour your soul.

He kisses you again, lightly before you both pull back for a second. He grins at you, a little shyly and you smile as you stroke his cheek.

“You weren’t wrong.” He muttered.

You frown and shake your head, confused.

He chuckles and kisses you again. “Your theory about love.”

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Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @whatthefishh @mbakubabe @solobagginses @romanarose @saturn-rings-writes

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rensukei · 1 year

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nsfw utc (m!masturbation, lovesick kei :( poor baby. wc ~900)

roommate!tsukishima who slowly but surely gets comfortable around his pretty new roomie, gaining a small sense of security in the little apartment that you had so meticulously decorated into a cozy home.

roommate!tsukishima who gets home after a long practice, lazily throwing out an "i'm home", hoisting his volleyball bag onto the hardwood as you race to greet him at the door, a smile adorning your beaming face as you welcome him back.

roommate!tsukishima who tries to ignore the comfortableness and intimacy the domesticity you've kindled into his life brings, never admitting out loud how much he loves the idea of being able to come home and not be alone—something he's missed so much during his time in college.

roommate!tsukishima who pined over you for so. long. months went by as his feelings started to develop—the very feelings he so fervently ignored in an effort to keep things the way they are—until he reached a breaking point.

roommate!tsukishima who tried his best to hide it, but with the way you looked so cozy in your loungewear around the shared space every night—he swears you'll be the death of him one day. as easy as it is to relax for someone in your presence, it's not easy being your roommate. at least not for kei. he'll be sitting on the couch across from you, catching himself wondering if your skin would feel as soft as it looks underneath his calloused palms.

the slightest movement of you against him is enough to leave him a mess. the nape of his neck rages a violent red as he attempts to gulp his excitement down as he curses himself in his head. c'mon, man; all she did was bump your legs. fuckin' pervert. get your shit together. he may be scolding himself through the process, but he can't stop the way his mind wanders to a place where he finally confesses to you and takes you just the way he likes it, you being such a good girl sittin' pretty on your knees for him.

he'd make you feel so good, have you reeling in pleasure just off his fingers. he can't help but wonder how you'd feel under his grasp, the sheer presence of him on top of you enough to render you speechless.

"tsuki," you wave you hands in front of his face, "hello~? you okay?"

the innocent and genuine look of concern on your face is almost embarrassing considering the situation. if only you knew.

"y.. yeah, i'm alright," he huffs out, "i'm going to my room."

and he we are again, the blonde stuck alone with only his thoughts and pants that are way too tight for comfort. he wonders why he continues to torture himself like this—is he into this or something? or does he genuinely not want to ruin the dynamic that you've worked so hard to cultivate over the time of your shared residency? whatever it may be, the situation is still the same. tsukishima kei is hard from his pretty little roommate who sits right outside his door, unknowing as to why he left the communal space.

sitting back on his bed, he carefully undoes the zipper of his jeans as his cock twitches at the thought of you—you who carries on with your life like nothing's happening with just a thin wall separating you from the profanities going on.

god, what he'd give to just kiss your stupidly attractive face. as much as he act like he isn't, he's a sucker for some soft romantics. he'd probably melt at the feeling of your hands coming up behind him, sliding from the back of his hips and up under his shirt. the thought alone is enough for his dick to be painfully hard.

the pink tip leaks precum as he caresses the head, sighing in relief at the feeling. thoughts of you flood his mind, guiltily fisting his cock with the most salacious images of you playing like a picture show in his mind.

he hisses as he picks up his pace. the sharp exhale that follows causes his head to fly back onto the pillows behind him, his glasses long forgotten on the sheets next to him.

he's a sight to see. a gorgeous one, at that—he may be an asshole, but he's a pretty asshole. his hair is unkempt and messy as his eyes squeeze shut while movies of you play behind shut eyes, impatiently stroking his length as his high gets closer and closer.

maybe you know whats going on. maybe your head is flush up against his unlocked door as you listen to him jack off while strangled whispers of your name fill the room like a prayer. maybe you're just as desperate as he is. he'd never know, though—not until you finally open that door.

his climax finally reaches him as cum shoots out onto his bare chest, toned abs tensing under the hot slick. the post-high guilt catches up to him soon after.

i really should stop doing this, he sighs, rubbing his eyes in annoyance as he gets up to clean his mess.

one day, it'll be your hands on his pretty cock, pumping your hands as you look up at him with all the adoration in the world. one day, that'll be reality. only time will tell.

#tsukishima kei #tsukishima smut #tsukishima x reader #x reader #x f!reader #hq #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #tsukishima headcannons #tsukishima hcs

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dxmoness · 2 months

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─────── MY DRUG IS MY BABY. . .

━━━━ izek van omerta. manhwa. how to get my husband on my side.

‣ yandere. mentions of blood, chained up reader, threats! . ୨:୧

‣ masterlist . recent works . how to get my husband on my side. ━━━━

“See? the more you comply to my wishes, you receive good things.”

Izek's words could only make you shudder now that you are at his mercy and his alone. No one can save you from him. They tried, but they couldn't. How could they anyway? Izek is greatly known for terrifying even the elder nobles.

You shudder as his fingers move to a caress against your bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His crimson eyes remain on yours, the corner of his lips tugging into a smirk

"Come now, darling. Can't you humor me with a conversation for once?" His fingers move to your chin as he tightly grasps it. "Speak."

Your continuous silence makes him frown. But then he realizes the reason and chuckles. "Silly me, of course you can't speak. You're gagged." He grins as he lifts the cloth that was in your mouth.

Finally, you could breathe even if it's only for a second. "Don't you have something you want to tell me?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

You'd look up and mumble. "Thank you.." He smiles triumphantly at the sound of your voice thanking him. Well done.

"Good girl." He lets go of your chin as his form moves away from yours and to your side. His arm slithers around your waist as he holds you close protectively, or rather possessively.

Your eyes frantically look to the floor, crimson painted those walls. You remember the reason vividly. Earlier today Izek had not been pleased by a maid's attempt to give her some kind of later, he was furious and flew into a rage so much so that he killed the poor girl.

And you were there, chained and helpless. Your eyes shut and you could still see the body that lay in that exact spot, the maid's lifeless eyes and her bleeding body.

The memory makes you disgusted with yourself. You couldn't do anything and that made you inferior. She was reliant on you to make her feel safe, and now she's dead.

Your husband leans over and buried his face in your neck as he caresses your waist. "What's on your mind, sweet thing?" He asks softly, acting as though his behavior earlier never happened.

"Nothing.." You're obligated to respond, otherwise he'll find it suspicious.

"Hm." He only says as he continues to do what he'd previously been doing and that was clinging to you like there was no tomorrow.

In the morning, you writhe out of his grasp and go to the bathroom, this wakes him quickly and he frowns. "Sweet thing?" He was anxious now, thinking you'd escape. You wouldn't do that, would you?

He is relieved when he finds you coming out of the bathroom. "C'mere." He wraps hie arms around you. "Do not do that again, you understand? Wake me up and ask permission before doing so."

You know better than to argue so you only nod. He knows what's best for you. You must be reminded of that. This is normal. Your eyes shut and you fall into a deep slumber in the arms of your psychopathic husband.

#{ ♡ heartstrings — fics }#manhwa #manhwa x reader #how to get my husband on my side #how to get my husband on my side x reader #htgmhoms #htgmhoms x reader #izek van omerta #izek van omerta x reader #izek x reader #x reader #x female reader #x fem!reader #x f!reader #x y/n #male yandere x reader

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hanasnx · 10 months

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MINORS DNI 18+

Sitting on HOBIE BROWN's lap, facing him, while he’s pawing your hips. The force behind them shifting you marginally back and forth. An invisible pull exists between the two of you, a magnetism you can’t deny. Your dampened panties gliding over the raise in his jeans.

“Can feel your heartbeat.” he informs you, a little too pridefully for your tastes. Dark eyes glancing from your seat on his crotch to meet your own gaze. It’s as if he’s gloating his power over you, his surreal physical affect on you.

It didn’t occur to you that your heartbeat is something he’d care to listen in on— didn’t realize it’s within his capabilities. Does that mean he’s heard how it pounds in your chest every time he looks at you? “What? Like, with your spider sense?” Now that he mentions it, your entire body feels the rippling affect of your blood pumping, rushing to where your bodies connect. Nerves combusting at the sight of him sizing you up.

Hobie’s taunting and maddening smile widens, biting down onto his glinting silver piercing to stifle his own excitement. He shakes his head. “Nope.”

#indy: drabbles #ch: hobie #hobie brown drabble #hobie brown smut #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x f!reader #hobie brown x reader smut #x f!reader #reader insert #spider punk smut #1k #2k #3k #4k

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ghouljams · 4 months

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Regency AU with Price (as always the gif does not represent the reader, only the vibe)

Tags: first meetings, social faux pas, love at first sight, British imperialism mention, classism, a little period typical misogyny, Price keep your hands to yourself please

You've never deluded yourself into thinking you're marriage material, never concerned yourself with your lack of marriage prospects. The child of a doctor with no title to his name, and a midwife with even less. You're in good standing, but you know well enough that among the delicate fingers of the noble ladies, you're a sore thumb.

A captain is certainly out of reach for someone like you. You don't mind, of course, you're perfectly content to remain single and eventually take over your father's practice. Still, you do look up with the rest of the crowd when the announcement is made. Captain John Price. He's young. Too young to have made such a commission, but his eyes are old and the stern set of his brow, the tight lipped smile, speak to a man who has seen more in his short life than most men will by 80. His eyes meet yours and you look away, snap your fan open to distract yourself from the boiling heat of the greenhouse the party is being held in. That must be what makes your skin prickle.

You bemoan the fact that your friends have lost all interest in conversation in favor of tittering over the new arrival.

"Fresh from the colonies, I hear," one of your friends whispers, "he hasn't been home in a good few years."

"I heard he's going to be made a baron," your other friend whispers back.

"I hear he's rot his dick clean off from scurvy," you grumble.

"Did you now?" A voice rumbles with amusement behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut for a brief second and curse yourself before plastering on a smile and turning to face the man of the hour. You flutter your fan in front of your face and hope it looks more demure than your mouth would suggest.

He's better looking up close. His eyes sparkle, and his smile seems less forced, more open. It's the hint of teeth that break up his lips, different from the tightness he'd given upon announcement. You curtsey, as is proper when meet a man above your station, which is just about every man here. Money can buy you an invitation but not the good will other women may have.

"Captain," you have no follow up for that, so you attempt to mean it as a greeting, "I meant no harm."

His fingers tighten around yours when you try to pull them away, but he does straighten up, apparently unbothered by the surrounding crowd's murmurs. He must have hit his head and been sent home due to madness. You're sure that's the only explanation for the heat in his eyes and the smirk on his lips. A man who's lived a life of violence and still holds himself so tall shouldn't bow his head to you.

"Of course not," he holds his hand out, and like a fool you place your fingers against his. He doesn't raise your hand to his lips like so many other men, he bows to it. Bows to meet your knuckles with his lips. Bows with his arm tight behind his back and his eyes lowered. As if you were the queen, and not some doctor's daughter. Your face bursts with heat and you glance around to be sure there aren't any eyes on you.

"Please don't do that," you tell him quietly, whispering it furtively to try and stem the murmurs. His grip on your hand shifts, drops your fingers to hold your wrist.

"Perhaps you'd prefer something else?" He pulls your arm up, turns your hand over to press his lips against the thrumming pulse in your wrist, his gaze holds yours all the while. Your stomach flips pleasantly. The tips of your fingers brush against his dark hair, and you imagine you can feel it through your gloves. "A dance? Or an apology?" He kisses further past your wrist, pulling you closer, "Or perhaps I should be asking for one from you." Another kiss, just below the bend of your elbow.

Was there a crowd? You can't imagine there's anything but you and the captain? No one in the world but the two of you standing in front of each other as his lips skate the top edge of your glove. The feeling of his skin against yours is like touching the inside of an oven, a short shock that makes you want to pull away, a heat that lingers long after the touch is gone. Have you ever wanted to put your hand in a fire so badly?

"Would you like me to apologize?" You ask him, pushing your voice out even past the breathless bubble in your chest. He closes his eyes, tips his head to run his nose against your skin with a sigh.

"Never."

It's so simple a word and yet it drops like a heavy weight into your stomach. It roots you, binds you, when his hand touches the small of your back to pull you closer you go without a second thought. Spellbound.

"God," he breathes, "I'd have come home sooner if I knew you were waitin' for me."

"You don't even know me," You smile, feeling like you've been let in on a joke only the two of you know.

"Oh sweetheart," something in his voice is cloying sweet, something in his eyes -so stormy blue you'd think he bottled the ocean tides just to see through their colored glass- that speaks to a promise you never hoped for, "I've got a lifetime to learn."

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moondirti · 11 months

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animalic (4)

← chapter three // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k summary: things don't go according to plan warnings: enemies to lovers, light bondage, sexual tension, arousal, choking, canon-typical violence, dub-con elements, paralysis, suicidal ideation, self-hatred, angst, miguel o'hara is not nice, no use of y/n notes: y'all. i promise we are getting somewhere. i promise. lmk what you think tho cuz i thrive off comments

“Lyla?”

While you’re – regrettably – unable to make good on your promise to phase through the floor, you catch yourself hoping it splits to swallow you whole instead. It certainly would be a better alternative to the purgatory you currently face.

“Lyla? Come in, Lyla.”

Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly growing as night surrenders to the wakings of dawn. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty store-lot, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design.

“¡Ay, coño–”

Slowly, you let yourself scrutinise other things, too. The scent of neglect that permeates the stale air, particularly pungent around the entryway. You trace the yellow-brown mass that runs along the door’s hinge edge, and attribute the vaguely muddy smell to rot. Then, it’s the glint of shattered glass, winking at you from lost corner’s of the room. They look narrow, far too inconvenient to clean out with a standard broom. You revel in the understanding that whoever had been in charge of scouring the wreckage appears to share your habit of quick quitting.

It’s only when your vision begins to water do you divert your attention to the situation at hand. Last you needed to blink, it took half a minute for the command to register, and even longer for the motor neurons in your eyelids to act. By the time you eventually got them closed, you’d already started contemplating whether his venom would be the death of you.

(Lame end to a lame life.)

It didn’t take a genius to figure out, though. You know that, if he wanted to, he could’ve kept imbuing you with the substance until your body was no longer able to perform the basic mechanisms necessary to sustain life. He could have kept his fangs lodged deep into your neck – encroached upon your stuttering veins, bathing in the ichor that flowed – until he felt you go limp, concentrated with his poison. It would have been a denouement to his problems – right there, easy, sandwiched between him and the wall – but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t.

Just like he didn’t let you plummet to your death that day at the quarry, or strangle you while you were unconscious back at HQ.

So, no. It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that Miguel O’Hara doesn’t want you dead. As he fiddles with his malfunctioning watch, you endeavour to come up with a divisive list as to why that is.

One: you’ve charmed him. The notion is almost funny enough to elicit a snort, given that you weren’t cast in an immovable anathema.

Two: he’s a good guy. Somehow, this option seems less viable to you than the first.

You find your third prospect slinging from the threads of a fraying memory.

You’d been a student, before – attending college at a reputable institute close to home. It’s easy to forget what it was like most nights: cramped in that two hundred square foot dorm, borderline losing it as you tried to validate your claims on matter-antimatter rockets and their potential contribution to interstellar travel. There were concerns of total annihilation, and sourcing, and an array of other limitations – that which you’d dedicated your academic career to drawing up proposals for. It’s laughable now; the stress and theories blurring together to form a vague picture of your long-lost ambition.

You have a hard time conjuring what exact future you were so hopeful for, but the lamp by your roommate’s bed remains clear in your mind’s eye. Warm-white, comforting. For as long as you were awake, tapping away at a never-ending thesis, she’d work through the latest volume of her beloved murder mystery anthology.

It was the night before your start at an internship with Alchemax that the series came to a close. Her aggravated screams still ring fresh behind the clouded pane of time. You had thrown your pillow at her in a belligerent plea.

(You wanna elaborate?

The suspect behind every case was shot!

So? Isn’t that a good thing?

No, dumbass. It means the detectives fucking lost! They’ll never be able to prove how right they were.)

Admittedly, you know very little about Miguel, but you have an idea of what matters most to him. It’s entirely possible, then, that he refuses to kill you for what your death would do to negate his efforts thus far.

“Oye,”

Your mental traipse is reeled in when the devil himself snaps at you. Steadily, your pupils roll up to look at him.

“I need your day pass.”

You continue to stare. His jaw clenches.

“Because of your little headbutt outside, my watch is busted. My only hope of fixing it is by using the parts of your day pass.”

Is he asking? Does he expect you to respond?

You can’t fool yourself into believing he’s that ignorant.

But Miguel stays on standby, scanning your lax form. He takes in the webs that wrap around your waist, branching out to your thighs and shoulders, restraining your arms behind your back. When his eyes meet yours again, the reluctant question you see glaze over them pushes the recognition to the forefront of your mind.

He is asking.

Or, notifying – making sure you’re aware of what he’s about to do.

God, you wish you could speak. You’ve never come up with so much to say without promptly blurting it out before. Irritation and amusement rip at one another within you, locked in a brutal dogfight fated to have no real winner. How hypocritical of him to pick and choose when your treatment takes priority over his mission; you’re littered in marks that all point to his prior negligence of such subtle humanity. Four stabs above your wrist, a pounding migraine at your temple. If it weren’t for your paralysed stomach, you’re certain you would have regurgitated your innards as consequence to the concussion he’s given you.

But, oh.

How funny would it be if you agreed. To let him discover the harrowing truth for himself.

Deliberately, you muster an affirming blink.

Miguel's weariness escapes him in a heavy sigh, the weight of it etched upon his expression. Thick brows furrow, evidence to his age creasing between them, before he sinks down with a purposeful grace and carefully flips you over. Despite the resentment that festers in your gut, you can’t help but hiss a mental sigh of relief at the service it does to your elbows, which had begun throbbing in response to the pressure that the hardwood floor exerted.

From that point onward, it becomes a guessing game of sorts; you can’t see him, nor are you able to tilt your head and confirm your assumptions as to what he’s doing. Deprived of your most reliable sense, the others strain to fill the gaps in your knowledge, drawing upon every available cue; the sound of his miniscule grunts, the warmth of his skin – that which penetrates through his gloves. You’re alarmed into attempted action when the characteristic rip of his claws equipping pierces the strained air – your body powerless in addressing the adrenaline it secretes – until the spider-man touches his forefinger to your palm.

“Relax.” He all but commands. “I’m just cutting the webs off.”

You’ve no reason to trust him, of course, but you can’t exactly pitch a complaint right now.

(Perhaps it’s in your best interests to ignore how easy he’d been able to read you.)

A few moments of jostling ensue, before he withdraws with a curse. Your arms remain ensnared in the tight restraints, the ache that smarts your skin all too real for the continued predicament to be illusory. An assortment of jokes occur to you.

Can’t get it up?

In your peripheral, you catch him weighing his options. The pause is laden with a sticky indecision – this change in placement, you realise, exacerbates the already difficult task of breathing for you.

While you fixate on that fact, he seems to come to a conclusion. With one swift manoeuvre, he positions himself astride your thighs, straddling the deadened extremities, and reaches forward to push your wrists apart. You’re quick to catch on to his intention, how the arrangement gives him better leverage, yet–

His groyne presses into the swell of your ass, worsening with every bid to sever the webbing. It’s impossible not to notice, especially not when the seam of your jeans start to shift in tandem, smoothing over your clothed core. It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last roused like this. Enough for it to feel brand new, a wrapped curse in a prim little bow, eager for all that you shouldn’t be.

And… Christ–

And then he unfastens the lines around your arms, and runs his hands up your skin. It’s not gentle, nor is it brutish, but you can feel his desperation escalating. His touches grow progressively antagonistic, kneading your palms up to your shoulders, patting down to the shallow pockets of your pants. You’re searched like you hold the key to his success – you suppose that, in some oddly comical way, you do. And it should be upsetting, blasphemous.

But you’re no sacred thing. You’d laid down that possibility a long time ago.

No. You’re foul, questionable at your best, and erupt into goosebumps over the ruthless grip of a man who hates your very soul. You’re a deeply detestable spirit, truly, but a detestable spirit who has just managed to get one up on Miguel O’Hara.

He throws you back around, wrapping his hands around your throat. His snarl is primal, maturated in acrid anger.

“Where is it?”

You’re sure that, in some alternate reality, your face is stretched in a shit-eating grin.

“Where’s the fucking day pass?”

Your satisfaction is short-lived.

You’ve never been one to notably detest humiliation. It’s productive – healthy, even – in smaller doses; a fitting consequence for those who you deem deserve it. Yet, as you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over Miguel’s shoulder, forced into a meandering parade through the streets of New York, you breach into uncharted territory – a threshold where your tolerance encounters its breaking point.

He makes no effort to soften his strides, unmoved by the idea of providing even a shred of respite for your susceptible self. If anything, it feels as though he deliberately seeks out the harshest terrain, silently chastising your earlier defiance in the most passive aggressive manner known to man. He’d reinforced your constraints before marching out on this fruitless venture, and now you bobble uselessly, backside pointed upward, anchored solely by the meaty arm around your knees.

At least you’ve regained control of your mouth.

“D’stroyed it. Gone. Dearly d’parted–”

“If you’re going to run that little mouth, then make it helpful.”

“M’bein’ helpfoo,” you start, straining your weakened vocal cords in an effort to mock him. The grip of paralysis may have slackened its hold, but neurotransmission remains at an all time, sluggish low. In all actuality, it astounds you that he can even begin to decipher your words from the tangled murmurs they become.

“You had it on at the convenience, and a little bit afterward. You can’t expect me to believe that you dealt with it while running for your life.”

Running for your life. Sure.

Displeasure sparks at the confidence he imbues in his assumption.

“Escoos m– hnngh–” A sudden jump of stress robs you of breath, your stomach plummeting alongside the rapidly distancing ground. As Miguel propels himself above the city skyline, effortlessly evading the crowded streets via a web he’d grappled to an adjacent building, you’re confronted with a stark reality – that this is the very first time you have ever, and likely will ever, experience what it’s like to swing.

It’s exhilarating and nauseating all at once, gravity relinquishing its command as you transcend the confines of the physical, soaring through some reality where law loses significance. If it had been you, your arms and skill and jurisdiction, you’d never come down. But maybe that’s why it isn’t; maybe your life was meant to lead up to this, and only ever this.

(Not antimatter technologies or heroic conquest. Yeah, this feels more fitting.)

Your skin prickles. You phase through the sturdy frame that’s held you up so far, and plummet from its grasp.

Slicing through the boundless sky, you’re accompanied by a profound tranquillity. It isn’t absolute – fear still gnaws at your core, its presence undeniable. But, amidst the churning horror, your instincts are fainter than they ought to be. They whisper in a subdued tone, overshadowed by conflicting conceptions. One, being the inference you’d drawn earlier about how – whether you like it or not – Miguel would not let you die.

Another, quieter suspicion hints toward the full reality of your… relief.

Though, of course, you’re right about the former. Tree-trunk biceps wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he slingshots off to a nearby rooftop. You flop into him, a ragdoll to the overwhelming force of his agitation, and squeeze your eyes shut at the hints of patchouli permeating from under his mask.

You don’t have to face the gospel just yet.

“¿Qué mierda? Eh?” He shouts, propping you up against a ledge. “What the fuck was that?”

You don’t have an answer for him. Your heart lurches, catching up to the urgency at hand, striking on the hollow bars of your ribcage to some reckless tune. It’s only amplified by the torrent of blood distending through your system, throbbing at your temple, rushing by your ears.

What the fuck, indeed.

He damns you, it seems, with a fervour that breaches the heavens, as if willing God Himself to commit his plea to eternal memory. Or not; truthfully, you can’t tell. With the roar of your own snowballing thrill, it becomes impossible to discern the sequence of interrogations that explode from him. The world around you fades to the background, your preoccupancy consumed by the disquietude it leaves in its wake.

Your sense is only validated a minute later when, two blocks away, an ear-piercing shriek ruptures your dissociation.

Miguel stiffens, slowly turning to face its source.

𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘕𝘖-𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘐𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘓𝘠-𝘔𝘜𝘓𝘛𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘛𝘈𝘉𝘈𝘚𝘌:

Earth-15 – analysed, marked as closed.

Spider-totem – The Spider: soon after being bit by his radioactive spider, convicted felon Peter Parker merged with Earth-15’s variation of the carnage Symbiote.

Notes – do not engage, at any cost.

chapter five →

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 3 months

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What You Like

Marc Spector x F!Reader x Steven Grant • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist • ko-fi •

Summary: Marc gets in his head about being with you, Steven talks him through it.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: There was a post about Marc talking Steven through his first time with reader, which I adored and couldn't stop thinking about. And then my brain went... but what if... the other way around? (I'm so sure I reblogged the post, or maybe it's in my queue, but I cannot for the life of me find it. Please if you know the one I'm talking about, let me know! I really would like to link it here. Also I'm so sorry I forgot who wrote it as well.)

Warnings: oral, fingering, so much swearing, some self loathing from Marc, I have used 'mate' far too much, as well as 'yeah?', kind of Marc being sort of into Steven talking to him, typos, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 2213

“She doesn’t like it so much like that, if you tilt your head to the side a little and-”

Marc snaps his eyes open and glares at Steven in the far-off mirror. “Fuck off.” He thinks hard, and Steven doesn’t have to hear him to read his expression.

“I’m just trying to help, mate.” He holds up his hands like all he had done is hold the door open for him or something.

Marc glares harder, about to flip him off when you pull back from the kiss.

“You okay?”

Marc swallows, “Sorry, I, erm…” He hadn’t realised you’d noticed his distraction.

You smile at him and stroke his cheek. "You know, we don’t have to do anything,” you shift a little on the bed, giving him a fraction more space.

“No, no, that wasn’t…” he gives you a small smile in return and leans forward again to kiss you. “Steven, I need you to be quiet now, okay?”

“I was just-”

“Steven.”

He tuts. “Okay, okay, I promise.”

Marc inches a little closer, recovering the space you’d previously offered up. His thigh nudges against yours and you let out a little moan into his mouth as he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip.

He didn’t know why he felt so nervous, anxiety like eels swimming in his belly, you were Steven’s girlfriend (and technically, his now? Or was that too forward?) you’d been in this bed, with this body before. And strictly speaking, Marc had looked in on you and Steven a few times in more… intimate moments. Accidentally, of course.

This should be fine. Practically second nature.

He tries to clear his head, to be more in the moment, and runs his hands down your back as he presses closer, leaning into you slightly to urge you to lay back onto the mattress.

You move with him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him against you. Parting your legs slightly so that he can situate himself between them.

He nips lightly at your lip, licking softly but confidently into your mouth as he just grinds his hardening cock against your core. Oh, and your barely muffled moan is delicious, the way you dig your fingers into his shoulders makes his head spin, if-

“Oh, that’s a good move. She definitely likes that.”

“Steven! For fuck’s sake! I trusted you to be quiet!”

“Sorry!”

Marc tries not to let the interruption show, but he jumps a little when Steven speaks and it’s impossible for you to have missed it. A small thorn of anxiety settles in his chest, piercing between his ribs.

“Kiss her neck, she really likes that.”

“Steven-”

“I’m just giving helpful tips!” He can feel more than see Steven shrug his shoulders. “You’re the one without any game.”

“Without any game? I’ve got more game than you.”

Steven sorts. “Unlikely. When’s the last time you got laid? God only knows. I, however, had sex this morning.”

“Steven.”

“Just saying.”

“Yeah, well, I'm gonna be having sex in a minute, so shut up.”

There was a moment of blissful silence and Marc let out a breath of relief.

You hooked your legs over his hips, urging him closer and bucking up so that you could grind against him. The heavy drag of his jeans sending sparks of pleasure along your spine.

He slips his left hand down, sneaking the tips of his warm fingers under your top and stroking at the soft skin of your side.

“She’s ticklish there.”

“Steven-”

You can’t help but giggle a little, squirming away from his touch and breaking the kiss. “Sorry,” you bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“You’re ticklish.” Marc finishes and you nod smiling.

“Sorry.” You mouth again.

Marc shakes his head and smiles as he leans back down. “It’s fine, don’t worry.” He moves his hand away from your side.

He’s barely pressed his lips against you for a second before Steven speaks again. “Told you.”

Marc inwardly grunts, rolling his eyes as he kisses along your jaw to your neck. He nips lightly at your skin, before sucking gently.

“Bit lower mate, that’s the spot.”

Marc scowled but followed the instruction, hatching onto the spot Steven suggested and you moan loudly, arching your back off the mattress.

“See, she really likes that. Now if you just move your hand down and-”

Marc clenches his jaw instinctively, letting his frustration bubble over. Unfortunately, your neck is still between his teeth when they snap shut.

You let out a little gasp of pain and Marc nearly blacks out from panic, instinctively moving to jerk backwards and away from you. But your arms tighten on his shoulders, your thighs clenching around his hips.

You whimper and buck against him instantly. “Marc, fuck, please do that again.”

He relaxes, tension easing out of his limbs as he growls faintly and does as you ask.

“It’s okay mate, really. She’s not made of glass.”

“Steven. I’m fucking gonna-”

“Hey,” Steven protested, “look, I don’t mind when you’re watching us go at it all the time, yeah?”

Marc flushed. “I do not.”

“Yes, you do. And don’t think you’re being sneaky about it either. I can tell.”

“I don’t mean to, it’s just…”

“Just what mate?”

“It just… happens.”

“Yeah, right.”

Marc stays quiet, knowing that whatever he says won’t make him look good. He tries to ignore Steven, to just focus on you. To grind against you just right. But he could feel Steven hovering just in the background.

You run your hands through Marc’s hair, pulling highly as you writhe under him and he can’t help but risk a sneaky look up at you, at how your eyebrows are pinched together, eyes closed in pleasure and…

Was it real? Or was it just for show? Did you always look like that when Steven…? He thinks back trying to recall the memories of watching in as much detail as possible.

“Marc.” Steven’s voice is soft.

But he doesn’t answer.

“Stop getting in your head about it, yeah? She’s here with you. She likes you. She wouldn’t pretend to be into something she doesn’t, ‘kay?”

Marc swallows, trying to take Steven’s words on board and calm his quickly spiralling thoughts.

But it doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right, it’s all stiff and unsettled. Like his joints are just a fraction out of place.

You can tell. He’s so sure that you can tell. Even if you are moaning and writhing against him, you must know. Must sense it. How out of alignment he is. How much of a failure.

“Steven?"

There’s a fraction of a pause before he answers. “Hmm?”

“What does she like?”

He can feel Steven’s frown.

“What does she like? What should I do? You were full of tips a second ago, don’t lea-”

“Move your hand down,” his voice is a little softer than before. Compassionate. And Marc knows his emotions have bled through. “Slower.”

Marc slowly runs his hand down your body, careful not to tickle your side, stopping just short of the top button of your trousers.

“Kiss lower on her neck, just above her collarbone... that’s it.”

Marc feels a little warm at the praise, giddy even.

“And just start to undo her trousers, yeah?”

He flicks the top button open and you whine, bucking up against him. You urge his face up with your hands so you can kiss his lips and slide your tongue into his mouth. A deep shiver runs along Marc’s spine, forcing his hips to buck mindlessly.

You pull back for a second, just to lift your top up and over your head before dropping it to the side and his breath catches in his throat.

“Trousers.”

Marc all but jumps despite the soft tone of Steven’s voice and he quickly snaps his eyes away from your skin to focus on undoing your pants.

You grin at his eagerness and help him by wiggling out of your trousers and kicking them off your feet. You kiss Marc’s neck, your hands moving desperately to his jeans.

“Touch her.”

Marc lets out a little moan as you suck on his pulse point. “Wha-”

Marc’s left hand moves under Steven’s control, slipping his fingers under the elastic of your panties and pressing two thick fingers inside of your heat.

You gasp in surprise, your thighs twitching at the sudden intrusion, shifting wider to allow him easier access.

Steven strokes two fingers languidly against your walls for a second, enjoying the little tremors and flutters before placing his thumb on your clit. “Can you feel that?”

Marc nods inwardly, “fuck.”

“See how wet she is?”

“So fucking wet.”

Steven smiles, continuing the long, slow strokes for a second before retreating back and leaving their hand once more completely under Marc’s control. He falters for half a second before he quickly resumes the tortuous pace set up by Steven.

You gasp and whine, flinging your head back against the pillow as you arch up your hips towards him, trying to buck and urge him to move faster.

“Go nice and slow… yeah… like that…” Steven whispers in his ear and there’s something strangely comforting about it, something exciting at having him there, right with him.

Marc bites his bottom lips between his teeth, watching your face with rapt attention.

“Nice slow circles and nice slow strokes.”

“Slow circles.” He mutters under his breath, almost inaudible. He glides his fingers back and forth, barely leaving you before pushing back in, revelling in the sound of your wetness.

You buck and whine, grabbing hold of his forearm like you were hanging onto a lifesaver. “Marc- ah, please!” Your words are cut off by desperate half choked sobs.

He continues to circle your clit gently, barely allowing any pressure so that you can only just feel the slightly calloused glide of his thumb. Your thighs started to shake, your movements becoming sloppy.

“Take her panties off completely, yeah? She’s gonna cum in a second, you’re gonna want to see.”

Marc obeyed without thinking, using his free hand to pull them down and groaning softly when you lifted your hips as best you could to help him.

Fuck you looked so pretty laid out all before him- before them.

You moaned particularly needily, already looking fucked out of your head and Marc hissed, unable to stop himself as he hurriedly leant down and flicked his tongue along your clit.

Your little high-pitched cry made him go light-headed.

“Fuck, god yeah, give it to her.” Steven’s arousal bled into his own, making him dizzyingly high. “God, make her cum, make her cum in our mouth Marc, please.”

“Marc, oh god, please!” You whine at almost the same moment, your and Steven’s voice blending together in a harmony that made Marc’s dick throb.

He sucked your clit into his mouth for a moment before running board, flat licks over it, continuing his fingers slow pump as he brought you maddeningly close to the edge.

Steven moaned loudly, “fuck Marc, please, please, need to taste her cum. Then we can fuck her together, yeah? She feels so good, she makes the best little noises,” he groaned again, “she tastes so sweet doesn’t she?”

“So sweet,” Marc mumbled against your pussy as he kept moving, kept sucking and licking and practically humping the mattress with his eyes pinched tight in pleasure.

“Marc,” you whimper and pull on his hair with your free hand, urging him on, “you’re so good at this, so good, ‘m gonna cum-”

“Fuck, Marc, yes.”

He couldn’t help himself, simply couldn’t. Found himself opening his mouth and letting the words spill out before he had even registered them. “Steven’s here too.”

“Oh shit!” You gasp, your voice raising in pitch as your orgasm crashes into you, seizing your limbs in pleasure and whiting out your vision, before leaving you boneless and breathless.

Marc stops moving slowly, trying to prolong your bliss for as long as possible. He bites his lip nervously as he sits up, your release and his spit covering the lower half of his face. Fuck, why had he said that, why had he gone and fucked this all up-

You smile up at him, still trailing your fingers through his thick curls. “Steven’s here too?”

He nods as heat rises to his face. He stares down at your knee.

“Look at her, mate.”

He doesn’t move until you gently tilt his chin up with your hand.

Your soft smile makes his heart ache.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers. “Is that… okay? That he’s here?”

You nod, your grin widening as you sit up and kiss him. It’s messy and deep, and Marc just melts into it. He whines against your lips as you wrap your arms around him, stroking your tongue with his own as you lick into his mouth.

“Now, how about,” you say between kisses, your fingers tugging at the bottom of his t-shirt. “I get you out of these clothes and suck both of your dick.” You pause and pull a silly face at the odd-sounding, but technically correct singular use.

Marc giggles and nuzzles into your neck.

“Say yes mate!”

“Yes please.” He mumbles as he sucks a love bite into your skin.

____________________________________

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facelesssbirds · 6 months

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Dancing In The Rain || Genshin

A.N. I found that some of these were longer than others, which I'm so sorry for <33 Enjoy! You dance in the rain, with, or without them. Implied F!Reader, Neuvillette, Dottore, Kaveh, Arlecchino Warning: None, though the Harbinger sections makes allusions to their "work,"

Neuvillette had never liked the rain, it was a reminder of his duty, a sick, twisted sign of his failures. He was the reason for the rain today, a court trial having just been finished when you had burst in, long after everyone else had left. Only he remained, standing in the centre of the room almost dramatically.

"Neuvillette," You spoke softly, setting down the umbrella you had been carrying to look at him.

He may've looked calm, composed even, but you could tell he was a mess, his face set in a firm frown, but his eyes softened when they met yours. You took his hand, quiet, intimate.

"Dance with me." You murmured, coming to rest your hand on his shoulder.

He frowned, looking around the court room, askew with chairs, desks and other obstacles, "We can't dance here," he said, a hint or remorse peaking into his voice, it was was hoarse from speaking all day.

You nodded in agreement, listening to the rain outside grow louder, a crack of thunder in the far off distance. Smiling, almost hesitantly you lead him out the doors, through the large, grandiose halls of the opera and out into the pouring rain, your umbrella long forgotten.

"We'll simply dance in the rain," You said, ignoring his protests, and forcing him into a ballroom waltz.

His hand slipped to your waist with little resistance, the harsh droplets of rain softening, wetting both of you to the bone. You should be miserable, standing here, dancing in the rain, and yet, a smile comes to your face, and maybe, just maybe, a hint of sunshine peaks through those dark, looming clouds.

Dottore was a man of science, cold and cynical, but the seemingly unending rain of the Sumeru Jungles bothered him more than he cared to admit. Omega had gotten some water in through his eye sockets, normally this wouldn't be an issue that he would deal with, and Omega could've just taken care of it himself, but naturally the idiot (himself) had ignored every sign of malfunction to work on the god project.

The one bright side was that he got to visit you, you oh, beautiful, perfect, you who stayed in Sumeru as a street dancer, and a scholar, despite the akademiya's terrible treatment of someone as perfect as you. That truly, was the only reason he was out in the rain, watching as you, despite being drenched in the warm rain, preformed a beautiful dance, your aerial dance had long been discarded, you hadn't wanted to ruin the silks, he assumed.

Truly, though, he was your only spectator. The only watcher of your fruitless efforts. The market had long since closed down, but you had barely seemed to notice, your eyes focused solely on completing your routine. He smirked from under his mask, watching as finally, your dance ended, your chest heaved as he offered you his umbrella, shielding you from the rain.

"Are you finished already, darling?" He questioned, watching as you glanced up at him, surprised.

"Zandik!" You gasped, your eyes widening, though you grinned, "I didn't know you were in town-"

He chuckled, "I had... matters, to attend to, and of course, I had to stop by and see you, my darling."

You giggled, giving him a look, "Well, then, I suppose you owe me a dance for being gone for so long."

"In the rain?" He mused, "Darling, perhaps we should wait, you could catch a cold--"

You hush him, patting his shoulder, "Oh it'll be fine~"

He huffs, but complies, his hands coming to your waist, watching as you revel in the feeling of water hitting your face, soaking you to the bone. He'll be there to nurse you back to help after you get sick, either way.

Kaveh was a hard worker, you knew, and sometimes, he worked a little too hard. You had stopped by his and Al haitham's house, looking for Kaveh, who had promised to go on a date with you, only to learn he had been in the library since yesterday.

Naturally, you were worried, thanking Al Haitham before running off to go look for your beloved. The rain hardly stopped you, running into the library drenched, your rain jacket soaked, and your hair a mess. The Library was empty, the lights shut off as you perused, looking for your darling little blonde.

"Kaveh," You mumbled when you saw him, rushing over to his sleeping form.

He was hunched over books and a intricate blueprint of some architectural design, it was beautiful, almost as breathtaking as him, even sleeping with ink smudged on his cheek he looked perfect. You knew he thought the same about you, his eyes lighting up when he saw you, rubbing the sleepiness away from his eyes in an instant to sit up, nuzzling into your arms for a hug.

"Darling!" He said into your arms, not minding the cold wet water drenching you, only for him to quickly turn sad, "I forgot-- shit-- I'm so sorry--"

You cut him off patting his back, "Kaveh, it's fine really, just-- rest." You said firmly, giving him a stern stare.

He grinned, looking out at the glass balcony behind him, before deviously turning to you, "Say... do you like dancing?"

You raised an unamused-- slightly confused-- brow, "It's fun, yes, but really--"

You were cut off by him practically dragging you towards the balcony, opening the door, not minding as rain wetted his clothes, his hair, his face, smudging his makeup and washing off the ink stuck to his cheek.

"Dance with me." He muttered, breathlessly, looking out at the rain, the air surrounding him, at you.

And, god, those eyes. You couldn't help but comply, spinning out as you waltzed, a night to remember for you both.

Arlecchino had always enjoyed ballroom dancing, the elegant refinery of performance. She had taught the children how to dance when they were young, cultivating dance into an art form of itself, a show that must always go on. And now, the performance they had made Fontaine was finished, only the epilogue to be enacted.

"Father." Lyney said, bowing slightly, "This performance has been finished."

Arlecchino smiled, restrained in elegance, sharp as a knife and hard as an edge, "Very good. Fetch your Mother for me, Lynette."

Lynette nodded, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared, a flurry of wind replacing her, sleight of hand at its finest. Arlecchino directed her eyes towards Fontaine, unaware of the hours that would soon await it as the sun set.

"Arlecchino, darling-" You came to stand beside her, smiling, "You called?"

She nodded, looking over at you, tracing your shoulder, "Yes, walk with me one. One last performance."

You glanced up surprised, "Of course."

And so, it was. Arlecchino's hands gripped yours as you walked through the garden, marveling at the sunset, and the looming clouds in the distance.

"Arle..." You murmured softly, "It's going to rain soon. We should head back inside."

Arlecchino's grip on your hand tightened, "Nonsense. Dance with me," She smirked, her free hand coming to play with your hair, before trailing down to your waist in slow, languid movements. You couldn't ever resist this woman.

"I suppose I must," You say, sighing through a smile, watching as rain hits the pavement around you. Soon, you too will be drenched, but happier than before, after all, dancing with your darling was something everyone wishes for.

#neuvillette x reader #zandik x reader #dottore x reader #genshin impact #x reader #fanfic #arlecchino #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #dottore x you #kaveh x reader #genshin impact kaveh #genshin kaveh #x fem!reader #x female y/n #x f!reader

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munsster · 1 year

Note

hi! could u please do smut on billy hargrove where the reader and him are very close friends and she wants him to take her virginity please 🥰🫣

nightingale

A/N: sometimes all u need is a very attractive close friend to take your virginity (gif cred: @julie-thefatones) IT ENDS SO CHEESY. DONT BOTHER ME

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader

Summary: Billy can’t resist when you beg him to take your virginity. 2.5k words.

Warnings: smut, mdni, 18+, billy hargrove, mild slut shaming, virginity/loss of virginity, possessiveness/jealousy, pet names (doll, babydoll), cursing, sex talk!teasing, fingers in mouths, gagging, discussion of his penis

In all honesty, Billy didn't think you were a virgin. He wouldn't have bet a cent on it. Not that he thought you were a slut or especially promiscuous or anything like that. He just figured you'd done it before. You're self-assured as Hell, and that's typically not a characteristic of someone who's never fucked or been fucked. At least, not in his experience. And Lord knows he's got plenty of it. So, in all honesty, when you beg him to take your virginity, it comes as a surprise.

"I'm sorry—what?"

So much of a surprise that it rouses a hearty laugh from the thick of his chest. It doesn't register that that 'please' was as genuine and whiny as a bitch in heat. It doesn't register that you've got your palms wrapped around his wrists and that you frown at his patronizing sense of humor.

"Well, if you don't want to, I'll find someone else to do it."

"No," and that contemptuous laughter stops hard in its tracks, "Never said I wouldn't do it." Because—and he'd die before admitting it, but—the thought of your legs wrapped around someone else's waist, your nails raking down someone else's back makes him physically ill. You're his girl. Have been since the day you pitched a dead-on fastball to the Hawkins dunk tank target just to see him flounder into the shallow pool.

Billy crosses his arms over his chest, still trying to swallow the fact that he would be the first one to ever lay hands on you like that and to that degree. He sizes you up with those steely blues just to make you feel small. But it doesn't work; it never works on you. Hence the whole virgin debacle. It's gotta be celibacy, right? There's no way you've never done it. Sure, you're a pain in the ass, but who doesn't love a good lookin' challenge?

Your eyes light up, and you're back to bouncing onto the balls of your feet—"So you'll do it? You'll fuck me?"

"Jesus Christ, sounds so vulgar comin' outta your mouth."

"Yeah, yeah, but you'll do it, right?"

"Sure, yeah, whatever. I'll do it."

"'Whatever.' You can say no—"

"Yeah, and I suggest you zip it before I leave you to some pervert with sweaty hands and a fuckin' combover," he grumbles, and you know he's joking, but you also know Billy's mean enough to mean it. You stick your tongue out at him and grin when he copies you and all is right with the world. Except for the fact that you're walking around with your virginity in tact.

"So what, you want me to take you out to dinner first or somethin'?

"Nah, nah, just... yunno... the dirty work—"

He shakes his head. "Alright—"

"Lay it on me, Billy, gimme that weak-in-the-knees treatment—"

"You're so fuckin' weird."

"I can't hear you, Billy Hargrove's gonna pop my cherry—"

"Gross." He shoves his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket, scraping his boots along the concrete towards his car, ignoring the annoyed looks from a what looks like a group of sophomore girls.

"Wait—!" You jog a few feet in front of him and stop him before he can reach for the shiny silver door handle. His cold eyes swoop across your cheek with a determined flicker in them that contests your own. "Gonna ask me when I'm free?"

He scoffs. "When are you free?"

"I dunno—"

"I don't think I've ever worked this hard for a piece of ass—"

"Shh! Just... would you play along? We're literally discussing the well-being of my sex life here," you jab, dramatic as ever leaning back against his car door with your arms crossed and your brows raised.

"Fine," he huffs, "How 'bout I swing by around... seven? The sun'll be set, and—"

"That sounds perfect. I'll see you at eight!"

You flit away with a grin, seemingly satisfied to have secured one more part of your future. Meanwhile, Billy's ducking into his car, flipping his zippo open-shut-open-shut compulsively to distract himself. Heart racing a mile a minute like he's the one with the pretty laugh and the soft hands and the virginity. How the Hell are you still a virgin?

Billy sat outside your house in his Camaro for half an hour, too stressed to smoke but too eager to go back home and take it out on some dumbbells. By the time he makes it to your front door, he's dripping sweat like he's fresh off the racetrack, and you ask him if he's okay like you care. Like he's here for anything more than a quick fuck.

He waits in his boxers for you to change in the bathroom, standing at the end of your bed and glancing over all of your posters. And the unlit candle on your desk. And the stacks of books in the corner. The trinkets and jewelry and stuffed animals and personality. The sun sinks lower and lower until the room is dark blue, the only source of indoor light a small, warm bulb plugged into the wall socket.

You come up behind him and scare him half to death with a cold hand on his shoulder. Only cold because he's overheating because he's in your bedroom because he's about to do the thing he's drooled and schemed over since the first time he saw you in a bikini.

"Don't go tellin' people about this, alright? Could be bad for business."

"Okay."

You're standing in front of him, batting your eyelashes in the dark, settling into the floor wearing little to nothing. Just a thin white bra and old panties. And for the first time, you seem small. Like you're trying to shrink in on yourself. And his nerves dissipate just enough for him to smirk to himself. He never thought he'd be able to make you nervous. That's one less bullet on his bucket list.

He can see your catty eyes flicking across the bare expanse of his chest like a bowl of warm milk. Like you'd dip your tongue in and lap at his ivory surface until the dish was clean. For the first time, he feels exposed. And he thinks he'd like to get used to it.

He also never thought your silence would fill him with such unease. You shift weight from right to left slowly, breathing deep and chewing the inside of your cheek. And your entire body goes stiff when he shuffles closer in the darkness.

"Feelin' okay?"

You nod.

"Hmm. One to ten?" he murmurs.

You mull it over and blow a puff of hot air up against your forehead.

"Considering I'm about to have mind-blowing sex, I feel like I should be at a ten."

He cocks a brow. "But?"

"But..."—you wring your palms, nervously feeling over the tendons and knuckles, like you're gauging their existence one more time—"I'm really fuckin' nervous," you huff.

He remembers that feeling. Not because he felt it at the same moment or for the same reason, but because it's the exact way you feel at the crest of a rollercoaster just before you plummet. The weightlessness of your stomach, the way your brain sort of short-circuits regardless of how great it is to fall. It's easy to forget the drop was the whole reason you got in line in the first place.

"No need to be nervous, babydoll. I'll be nice. Won't even bite," he says with a taunting shrug, "Unless you ask me to."

You cast your eyes down and drop your arms to your sides. He tilts his head, desperate for you to look back at him, for you to devour him with a look like that's all he's good for.

"What now?"

You take a deep breath.

"Thing is... I think I'd be okay if you weren't so nice this time around. If that makes sense," you sigh, shoulders slumping just a little further, "Just... treat me like one of your other hookups, you know? I mean, I'm not askin' to be slapped around or anything, but I'm not exactly made of glass."

Billy chuckles and his heart is beating so fast and all he can grumble out is: "I can work with that."

You beam up at him, catching the spark of the nightlight and reaching for his hand. It gives you a golden halo and sheds soft amber across the angles of his face. The slop of his nose and the tops of his cheeks a burnt yellow.

"Ready?" he hums.

You nod. "'M ready."

He dips down with all the sweet intentions in the world, only for you to tilt away. His lips meet your cheek, and even then, you feel the curve of a grin. He presses another to your temple, and you weave your fingers through the wild locks at the back of his head.

His nose nudges the soft shell of your ear as he whispers, "Still want me to take your virginity?"

You nod and he pulls away, curling his fingers into the back of your neck like a mother to its disobedient kitten. You coo and rest both hands on his chest, blinking hard when he grits his teeth into a smile.

"Say it."

"I—Billy," you say, shivering when his pinky brushes along the top of your spine.

"C'mon, don't go all quiet on me now. We're just gettin' started."

"Billy, please, I want—"

"Ah-ah."

"I need—I need you to fuck me, Billy, please take my virginity."

"That's my girl."

My girl, my girl, that's my girl. Billy. It’s only a whisper but it sends you both reeling; only his reeling is gritted teeth and yours is fluttering lashes. Sweet versus sour with his hand patting your hip and your fingertips ghosting over his skin.

"Knees."

"Billy—?"

"On your knees. Won't ask again."

"But I've never—"

"Shh, I know, just... trust me," he whispers. And as you lower to the floor, he realizes it's more than he's asked of anyone. It's more than anyone's offered. He's been violent and unkind—untrustworthy. And that kind of reputation makes people like you untrusting. Except, not people like you. Just people. Not you.

Admiration and lovesickness clouds the logical part of his brain, and in a panic, he slots his fingertips between your soft lips. You hold his wrist when he leers down at you like a cat. He coos softly above you when your tongue wets the pads of his fingers without a word more. If only your mouth was the problem. If only shutting you up would release your talons from his heart. No, you're locked in and you don't even know it yet.

"Billy," you cry, peeling his spit-slick fingers from your mouth and wiping at your cheek when you gag. He's ill over you, filled with thick and sugary warmth, forgetting how hard he is and how close your mouth is to his thighs.

"Sorry. 'M sorry, come to the bed." His thumb swipes across your jaw when you stand and settle into your mattress. Oh, and the way the moonlight washes over you is sinful. The way you're so close to being two bodies in baby blue. Instead of you and Billy and your virginity, you'll be together and defiled. Debauched and unwound.

You can't understand his sudden tenderness when he pushes the crotch of your panties aside and palms at himself. Why he leans down to nip at the soft and wet of your labia. Then glances up at you like heaven.

He rears back when you squeal, shocked at your awkwardness and sensitivity in his hands. And before that, it had felt natural. Like he had wanted to and was urged to. But you'd been none the wiser. And now you're tensing up at his touch simply because he couldn't keep his teeth to himself.

"Feelin' shy?" he says.

You let out a harsh breath that might've been a laugh if you hadn't gripped his shoulder and cooed. "Quit bein' mean, Billy. Skip to the good part."

He chortles and shakes his head, rubbing his thumb around your clit while shuffling out of his boxers.

"The good part, huh?" he huffs. He'd crack another joke if he could—if he wasn't distracted by the desire glistening over his fingers and your supple inner thighs. Wet and tempting especially because it's you.

He feels bad when you hiss but can't help himself from nudging deeper and closer in your tight warmth. You whine and whine about how thick and full and good it feels, and each little mewl beckons him closer until he's pressed to your chest, mindlessly drooling down your neck. If you'd let him, he'd lay this close for hours. With your hand on his neck and holding his waist while he drives his hips against yours.

The way you whisper his name against his ear makes him shudder, drill into you deeper, roll his hips wider. He'd foam at the mouth if it weren't for his ideals. Though, now, even those were slipping from him by the minute.

Love had never crossed his mind before. Maybe if his mother wasn't such a distant memory, it'd be a more prominent factor in his life. Maybe if he had someone to look after. Someone to look after him. Love was never a question of choice before, but now, while you're holding him in your careful arms and peppering kisses like freckles to his cheeks, maybe it could be. He could choose to stay this close forever and promise to be yours. His hard won reputation disintegrates when you lay your fingertips on him.

It all starts to feel a little raw. A little hotter and wetter and harder. Soft collisions turn to thuds, snaps, jolts. To keep him grounded in his ways, to keep him keen and wild. Your mouth hangs open at his cheek, your arms draped over his shoulders. You lie limp in his taut arms like he'll take care of you. Like he has any semblance of bedside manners. The rawness turns to tenderness, and you whine about the searing pain with a hand in his wet curls.

"Burns a little, Billy," you chirp, tilting your head back with a gritted smile.

"Drippin' down my leg, babydoll. Just a little longer," he grumbles. You nod. His back curls almost unnaturally. Animalistic and seemingly impervious, he cracks his hips against yours until the wet slapping fills the room and your headboard threatens to snap from the foundation. Your back arches, and you yelp when he slaps your thigh and groans in your ear.

"Atta girl," he sighs, pulling away and giving a few solid thrusts, as a makeshift goodbye kiss. Still licking his lips, but this time with the marks to show for it. He wears the hot pink from your nails down his back like armor, slowly pulling his soft cock from your cunt and rucking his boxers up to his hips.

"Jesus Christ," you huff, throwing your arms above your head. "You're fucking insane."

"And you're fucking tight. Poor guy's gonna need a couple'a days to recover."

"Oh, boohoo."

Billy slips back into his shirt and winks, "Don't worry, babydoll, he'll be ready for round two in no time.”

"Fuck you."

"Just did."

masterlist

#stranger things #x reader #stranger things x y/n #stranger things x reader #x fem!reader #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove smut #stranger things smut #billy hargrove x f!reader #x f!reader #stranger things x fem!reader #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x reader #18+#mdni

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