Injury

My comfort character with an autistic S/O

A/n: This is coming from issues I have as an autistic person. Not everyone with autism will experience everything bellow. This is mostly just me coping with a very negative mind space right now.

Genre: Sfw headcanon?

Pairing: multifandom! Toga (BNHA), Sesshomaru (Inuyasha), Hinata (Haikyuu!!), Saiki (the disastrous life of saiki k), Bakugou (BNHA), Leviathan (Obey me)

Tw: Stimming (Positive), sensory overload, over all a pretty soft fluffy piece.

Toga watching you stim from excitement over something you love, not understanding why but is happy that you're having fun. Joins in because Toga's drunk on your happy energy and now stims subconsciously without realising whenever she thinks of you.

Sesshomaru, who lets you run your fingers through the fabric of his kimono, the soft fur of his mokomoko-sama, the spikes adorning his Pauldron, and on the rare occasion he lets you softly seep your hand into his silver hair. He wears a variety of pleasant textures that, when gently touched, can release stress in large mounds.

Hinata becoming confused when you won't look him in the eye and then shows up the next day with his hands over his eyes when he talks to you because he thinks that will make you more comfortable. He becomes upset because he can't look at you anymore and asks if it's ok to remove his hands after a week.

When the world becomes too loud for you, and there's so much going on all at once, and you just want it all to go away, Saiki grabs your shoulder lightly and teleports you to the most isolated, peaceful spot he can find and allows you a moment of reprieve from the world. A wordless way of saying he cares.

Bakugou listens to you rant for hours and hours on end about the one thing that you're brain obsesses with every day. He has such a blank face while listening that you think he's bored of you, but the next day or even just a few hours later, Bakugou's asking you to pick up where you left off because he's angry that he's been thinking about it all day.

Leviathan has adapted his room to be less overwhelming because he wants you to play games more often. He's changed the lights to be dimmer, he got the walls painted, furniture has been bought specifically to your sensory tastes, and now Leviathan waits for you to come over and give him approval because he just wants you to tell him he is doing a good job.

One time when I worked at the Dollar Tree a man came in with a little boy and he said to me, “This is my adopted son. He’s autistic.”

He told me this story. “When he got to be about 4 years old his mother realized he was growing up autistic and she didn’t want to raise him any more. So she drove out to the middle of nowhere and pulled over on the side of the highway and put him out of the car. On her way back in to town she was driving behind a van with a two story ladder tied on top. The ladder got loose and slid through her windshield, killing her instantly. They found her head in the backseat.”

I was like 😶 “your total is 13.95”

the fact that we only have “herculean task” and “sisyphean task” feels so limiting. so here’s a few more tasks for your repertoire

icarian task: when you have a task you know you’re going to fail at anyways, so why not have some fun with it before it all comes crashing down

cassandrean task: when you have to deal with people you KNOW won’t listen to you, despite having accurate information, and having to watch them fumble about when you told them the solution from the start (most often witnessed in customer service)

feel free to chime in i ran out of ideas much faster than i anticipated

i thought of this at 3am and its canon now

It's Always Been You

Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

Summary: Jealous? Jealous? No, absolutely not. (Or the one where Miguel can't admit he's jealous)

Word Count: 5.8k+

Warnings: Failed attempt at plot. Language. Bad attempt at writing British slang. A lil' Angst. A lil' fluff. Smut. Nipple play, oral (m receiving), p in v. Not beta read.

I feel this is kinda corny. Ya'll let me know.

Minors DNI.

...

Twenty minutes.

It's been twenty minutes since you've gotten wrapped up in a conversation with…that guy. A Spider-Man from a universe perpetually stuck in the era of 1950s greasers. His slicked-back pompadour hairstyle gleamed in the fluorescent lighting of the cafeteria, an unlit cigarette hanging stupidly from his mouth (no smoking allowed on the premises, of course). It shifted this way and that, dancing along with the movement of his lips as he talked and talked and fucking talked. 

And what were you even laughing at? 

Your head was thrown back, exposing your delicate neck, a delicious strip of glowing skin not hidden away by your fitted suit (it should be illegal, really, you wearing that all the time). He wanted to tear it off you—wondered what your skin tasted like, what it’d feel like to sink his teeth into you—make you gasp and cry for him, begging for his touch.

You'd probably sound so pretty begging.

Miguel grunted, shaking his head as if to physically rid himself of his thoughts. They came all too frequently recently.

He watched the exchange, arms crossed over his broad chest as he gnawed at his bottom lip, leaning his large body against a white column in the distance.

"What’s with the face?" Hobie appeared above him, hanging by a web with baby Mayday glued to his back like a spider monkey. The redheaded baby cried in glee, crawling out of her carrier and quickly falling into Miguel's waiting arms. 

“What do you want?” Miguel snapped as he held the squirming baby in his large hands, finally getting her to calm down when he set her comfortably on his shoulder. She settled down, leaning her tiny head against Miguel's.

"Oi," Hobie tutted, landing on his boot-covered feet, "what's got your knickers in a bunch, aye, bossman?" He followed Miguel's line of vision, the two of them now observing your interaction with Spider-Grease (a stupid fucking name as far as Miguel was concerned).

"It's the new bloke that s'got you livid, innit?" Hobie chuckled, watching Miguel's thick brows progressively furrow in irritation, "Plays mean guitar, that one. What’d he do to you?"

"Nothing."

"It's never nothin’ with you, man," Hobbie snatched Mayday back, placing her snuggly in her carrier backpack and slinging her over his shoulder, "bet s’got somethin’ to do with her.” He jerked his head in your direction. 

Miguel grunted, his eyes shifting to glare at Hobie. His intimidation tactic, while usually very effective on others, did nothing but amuse Hobie. He knew he struck a nerve. Talking about you always did.

“Ahh, bingo.”

“What do you want?” Miguel snapped.

“Right,” Hobie dug in his pocket, delighting Mayday with a sweet treat, “Babysittin’ the little one for Peter. Taking the rest of the day off, yeah?” 

“Lárgate.” Miguel waved him off.

“Thanks, bossman.” He was gone almost instantly, swinging away with baby Mayday’s snorting laughter echoing down the hall.

When Miguel's eyes fell back on you, his jaw clenched hard enough to shatter bone. The greaser’s hand was on you, fingers curling around your shoulder. Miguel could read you well enough by now. You didn’t really like it, but you smiled politely, eyebrows tense and nose wrinkled just a bit. You could handle yourself, he knew—he’d seen you take down opponents three times your size (with his help)—but it was a face you’ve rarely made since he’s known you. 

He didn't like it.

It was enough to send Miguel charging in your direction in a heartbeat, towering over where you both were seated. 

“Miguel!” You looked up at him with a grin, and he swore your pretty eyes lit up at the sight of him. 

“How you doin’, Mr. O’Hara?” the greaser smiled, hand falling from your shoulder immediately. Miguel regarded him carefully, eyeing him from head to toe. He couldn’t even remember how this guy got into the Spider Society (he blamed Jessica). He couldn’t even remember his fucking real name. Kevin? Keith? 

“Kenneth Conner, if ya don’t remember, sir.”

Right. Kenneth. 

Miguel remained quiet, eyes narrowing before turning his attention toward you. 

“I need you in the office. Now.” He grunted, walking away before getting a response. He heard you apologize profusely for his atrocious behavior before scurrying to catch up with him.

“You’re rude.” You said when you caught up to him, legs struggling to keep up with Miguel’s much longer strides. He was half expecting you to have that grouchy look on your face—the one you’d make when he added more work to your already large pile of responsibilities. It was cute. But when Miguel looked you over to gauge your reaction, you were hiding a smile behind your fingertips.

Insufferably cute, Lord help him.

“Whaddaya need from me?” You asked, watching him settle on the platform, already getting straight to work. The yellow holographic screens buzzed to life, illuminating his tanned skin as he swiped through them, almost on autopilot.

“Nothing,” he said, his back facing you. 

"Hm, that's strange considering you like to work me overtime, O'Hara." He wasn't looking at you but he knew you'd have your hands on your hips.

"Looked like you needed some help," Miguel muttered, absentmindedly switching between holo screens, viewing them but not really focusing on the information presented to him.

"Needed help from who? Ken?" You laughed—a pretty sound that only amplified his irritation. 

Ken? You were on a nickname basis now? 

"Do you like him or somethin'?" Miguel asked with a scowl as he looked over his shoulder, his red eyes bleeding into yours. You did indeed have your hands on your hips as he assumed, sporting a humorless twist of your lips.

"Pfft, why? You jealous or somethin'?" You mimicked him with a snort. His hands turned to fists at his sides, claws digging into his palms. 

Jealous? Jealous? No, absolutely not. 

"Shut up," he barked, turning away from the system before hopping off the platform, suddenly needing to be anywhere else but there, "Go report to Sector 8." Your jaw dropped, and he almost smiled cruelly at how comedic it was, but he had a reputation to uphold, so he schooled his features, putting on a stoic face.

"What for?" You demanded.

"I like to work you overtime, remember?" Miguel said, breezing past you.

"Mig," you whined, and he nearly stopped in his tracks at the sultry tone of your voice, "I was just about to go home!"

"Not anymore," he called over his shoulder with a sneer, "ask Lyla for the details. Get to work, Chiquita.” 

...

You were bare-skinned and glowing, waiting for him in the safety of his soft sheets.

You looked so small propped up on his pillows—just a pretty little speck in an ocean of dark satin.

Whining. You were always whining for him— impatient—your obscene noises making his blood sing and his cock throb with need. But he denied you, patiently watching from a distance. He smiled, fangs out as you begged, and pleaded for him.

"Touch yourself." He demanded. 

And you did, immediately swirling the pads of your fingers over your swollen clit before impatiently stuffing them into your glistening cunt. In and out they went, coating them in your slick till your pussy gleamed in the moonlight, ready for his thick cock to slide right in.

And that's when Miguel would be on the prowl, approaching slowly like a beast on the hunt, salivating, ready to dive right in.

He loomed over you, taking in the sight of your flushed face, your swollen lips, and your glossy eyes filled with unshed tears. Your legs were spread wide for him, bent at the knees to accommodate him. He lowered his hips, cock perfectly aligned with your opening, slowly pushing his fat head in to split you in half and—

Miguel gasped in the quietness of his bedroom, eyes shooting open, gazing straight into pitch darkness. He was cocooned in his sweaty sheets, chest heaving and cock standing at attention. He groaned, turning to look at the holographic clock on his bedside table. The digital image blinded him for a few moments before he focused on the yellow numbers:

4:00 AM.

He huffed, hands running down the length of his sweaty face in frustration. As if his waking life wasn't bad enough, he couldn't even catch a break in his dreams.

They came just as frequently as the daydreams, usually with the same conclusion: Miguel balls deep in your slippery heat, his hips slapping against your ass—fangs sinking into your pretty neck while you withered under him, scratching angry red lines down his back.

Some nights he'd wake up with his cum soaked into the sheets, a large wet spot blooming where his cock once tented the fabric. On other nights he had to finish himself off before he could even think about going back to sleep.

That night had been no different.

He spits in his hand and palmed himself, tugging and tugging on his cock, hair a mess and head buried in his pillow, till he came. It was hot and moist, his cum leaking through the cracks of his fingers, dripping over his abdomen.

It was messy and it was quick, but he'd do it again and again for as long as you were on his mind. 

And lately, you were always on his mind. 

...

"A date?"

Miguel scrutinized your profile with narrowed red eyes, processing the information like one of his high-tech computers. He blinked slowly, flaring his nose. He felt his skin rise in temperature, his blood steadily reaching a boiling point.

"Mhm," you confirmed, popping a small green grape into your mouth, "he asked me yesterday. Wants to go out tomorrow." Your legs swung back and forth against the ledge of the rooftop of HQ, cradling a white ceramic bowl in your lap filled with the sweet fruit.

"And you're….entertaining it?" Miguel snorted with a shake of his head, keeping his eyes trained on the city below. Cars whizzed by late into the night, lights beaming into the dark sky to the point where not a single star was visible. 

"Why not?" You shrugged, offering him the bowl. He grunted, declining it with a push of his hand, ignoring your frown. Grapes were his favorite but he’d lost his appetite suddenly. "He seems harmless, no?" 

Miguel shrugged in return, "It interferes with protocol."

"Oh please," you sucked your teeth, "didn't you go out with one of the spider-women? Jenna?"

"Eso no cuenta. It was brief." 

"What? Of course, it counts! You dated her for like four months!"

"You kept track?" He shot back, effectively silencing you, your lips forming a tight line.

"That's beside the point." You pouted.

"Like I said," Miguel waved his hand about, dismissing the comment, "brief." 

“I dunno, she seemed really into you.”

“Hm.”

It was a waste of time really. Jenna was nice enough, a smart girl—decent in bed. She knew his coffee order and was almost as serious in her demeanor as he was. But there was one little issue. She wasn’t you. 

She didn't have your smile or your stupid humor. She didn't do that cute little thing you do when you poke your tongue out in thought. She didn't stay up late with him at HQ as you did, needlessly pouring over work just so he wouldn't feel alone. 

When he fucked her all he’d see was your face, imagining what it’d be like having you under him, how your features would twist in the throes of pleasure, back arched, and tight pussy soaking his cock. He’d be drunk on the thought, cumming inside someone who couldn’t give him what he truly wanted. Just a body in his bed. 

His standards were all fucked because of you. You with your pretty eyes and blinding smile. And what did he ever do about it? Nothing. He did nothing but watch you slip farther from his grasp. 

“Well, anyway,” you interrupted his thoughts, popping another grape in your mouth, “What could go wrong? He seems nice enough.”

What could go wrong? What could go wrong? Miguel could think of various ways it could go wrong. He hadn’t even had the time to do a proper background check on the guy (lies—Lyla did an initial background check when Jessica first brought him in, but still, Miguel preferred to do it himself this time around). He didn’t trust him, and he sure as hell didn’t trust him being around you.

"He's a fucking dork." Miguel reasoned stupidly. 

You let out the tiniest huff of amusement. "And you're not?" 

"His mind is literally stuck in the 1950s." 

"Not all of us were lucky enough to be born in the future, Mig," You threw a grape at him, giggling when it bounced off his forehead, "besides, aren't men from the 1950s supposed to be more…chivalrous?" Miguel was unimpressed.

"So you want him to open doors for you? Is that it? Because they open automatically now."

"That's not what I meant!" You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly.

“What do you even see in him?” He challenged, watching you ponder for a moment, biting your lip in hesitation.

“I dunno. Something to fill the loneliness, I guess.” You mumbled, fiddling with the bowl in your lap. Miguel whipped his head to regard your somber features, an ache blooming in his chest at your words. The wind picked up and played with your hair, and he had half a mind of tucking a piece of it behind your ear. He shifted his hand quicker than he could process but stopped himself short, deciding to place it over your kneecap to give it a squeeze as if to say I'm here, I'm here, I'm always here.

“It comes with the job, Chiquita,” he said instead, voice soft, “You know this.” 

“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” you countered, “we deserve to be happy.” 

Miguel didn't believe that, not really, anyway. He made a noise of acknowledgment, letting his thumb brush over your knee a final time before removing his hand altogether.

“And you think you’ll be happy with that guy?” He finally asked. 

You shook your head, “I didn’t say that. Just something to…pass the time."

Miguel ran a hand through his hair, “So then why are you even trying? Don’t you see that he’s not—” Good enough. He stopped suddenly, a growl brewing in his throat. Kenneth Conner was definitely not good enough. 

But maybe Miguel O'Hara wasn't either.

He remained eerily quiet, his claws digging into the concrete of the roof ledge, the tips strong enough to penetrate. If you noticed, you didn't mention it, your wide eyes pinned to his face in search of answers he wouldn't give you.

"He's not what, Mig?" You questioned softly, bumping your shoulder against his thick arm.

“Nada. Olvidalo.” He grunted when the silence stretched longer than necessary, the sounds of the street occupying the emptiness between them. “Have fun.” Miguel stood, feet planted firmly on the thin ledge. He walked a few paces along it, testing his balance.

“Wait,” you grabbed his calloused hand, your fingers cold against his boiling skin, “you okay?” Your eyes reflected the colors of the scene in front of them, your face shadowed in purples and yellows from the digital billboards as you seemed to plead with him for something he wasn’t entirely sure of. 

“M’fine.” He said curtly, snatching his hand from your grip. He hopped back down, landing on the rooftop ground gracefully, “I’ll see you later, Chiquita.”

“You’re a bad liar, Miguel O’Hara!” You called after him, following his form as he reached the emergency exit. You turned back to face the city, head dipping low and shoulders sagging in defeat when you thought he wasn’t looking.

He was. And his heart ached.

...

"You've been making that face all day," Lyla commented, hovering over Miguel's shoulder as he leaned back against his swivel chair. 

"Why is everyone always commenting on my face?" He muttered, "Can't help the way I look."

"Nope," Lyla shook her little digital head, "according to my data on human emotions, I calculate that you're feeling melancholic. Am I correct?"

"Melancholic is a bit of a dramatic word." Miguel rubbed his tired eyes, plopping his chin on his hand. Annoyed maybe. Lonely maybe. But not melancholic. That would imply he'd given the date you were currently on too much thought, proving your joking claim earlier that week that he was jealous, which he was not—

"Miguel," Lyla danced around his head before settling in front of him like a little forest sprite, hand on her hips and face bent toward him, "Get up, you're done for the day."

"What are you talking about, I still—"

"Go home. All of this will still be here in the morning." She insisted, shutting down the holographic computers one by one.

"Look, I make the rules here." Miguel pointed a threatening finger at his AI as if that would compel her to stop. 

"Yeah, yeah, and I'm telling you that nothing serious is happening right now. The multiverse can wait a few hours while you sleep. You weren't working on much anyway. Go on, shoo." 

Miguel regretted the day he programmed Lyla to control most aspects of HQ, including electrical circuits. The large ceiling lights turned off one at a time, shrouding him in darkness save for Lyla's bright yellow glow.

"Fine." He sighed heavily, making one final attempt to snatch Lyla as if she even had a physical form.

“Goodnight, Miguel.” Lyla grinned before vanishing.

Miguel had no intention of leaving HQ. He had too much pent-up frustration, and too many circulating thoughts in his mind. What good was going home when the stillness and isolation of the rooftop were calling his name?

He took the easy route, ignoring the emergency stairs in favor of scaling the sides of the building till he reached the very top of it. The view was always breathtaking, the bright colors of the city at night stealing his attention. But not this time. Within seconds of reaching the top, he immediately sensed your presence across the rooftop, your figure sitting at the usual spot on the ledge. 

"Chiquita?” He called out, and you turned to look over your shoulder at him. 

Miguel paused, his heart progressively picking up speed. You looked so stunning it was almost like a slap to the face.

He raked his eyes over you, taking in every little detail he could. Your eyes were rimmed in black, lashes darkened, cheeks rouged and lips plumped with color. Your shoulders were exposed, the rest of you covered in a vibrant red dress, fitted to the contours of your body.

Stunning wouldn’t even begin to describe you.

Miguel swallowed thickly, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he stood beside you, choosing to stay below the ledge.

“I was wondering when you'd get here,” you sniffled, letting your nude heels click against one of the metal railings. Upon closer inspection, he noticed your wet eyes, pink nose, and mascara bits dotting under your eyes. 

You've been crying.

Miguel's chest tightened, jaw tensing. His eyes glowed blood red in the moonlight.

"What happened?" He demanded, "Where is he? Did he do something to you?" He began pacing the rooftop, muttering to himself, "I'll kill him, I swear I'll kill him—"

"Miguel—"

"Where is he?" He repeated slowly, nose flared and fangs bared for you to see. You paused, your eyes wide as you watched him transform. You rarely saw him that way, the claws and fangs coming out whenever he was truly in a rage, usually when dealing with troublemakers and anomalies.

"Back home, probably." You quietly answered.

Miguel knew exactly where home was. Earth 5068. He could get there easily, just a few taps of his watch could open a portal and he'd be there in no time. He'd find him, beat his fucking ass—

"Mig, please," you pleaded, watching him pace a hole into the ground, "It's fine, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. This guy made you fucking cry and I'm supposed to be okay with that?" Miguel's suit rippled in the darkness, the blues, and reds glowing over his toned body as if in tune with his chaotic emotions.

"Ugh, just drop it please," you whined, rubbing at your nose, "s'not a big deal."

Miguel stopped his pacing, stomping over with a grunt. Without hesitation he pinched your chin between his large fingers in a tight hold, forcing you to look at him. You sitting on the ledge allowed him to have direct eye contact with you, the railing giving you a boost. You tried to hide away, embarrassed. He was having none of that.

"Chiquita," He tried again, his tone shifting significantly as he searched your face, mapping out every detail he could, "tell me what happened. Please." You closed your eyes, your tongue darting out to lick your lips.

"You were right," you took a breath and paused, waiting for a snarky remark but when none came you continued, "his mind is literally stuck in the 1950s, Mig. Said spider-women aren't normal, that we need to stay at home and leave it to the…men." You scoffed, and Miguel could almost feel your skin burn with rage at the sheer lunacy of the retelling. "Said I'm too pretty to be in the streets saving anyone." Miguel remained quiet, letting you simmer out your emotions. He so desperately wanted to cradle your face in his hand— to brush his thumb over your cheekbone and swipe off the tacky streak of tears. His words were useless now more than ever.

"He's a fucking asshole," you continued, ripping yourself away from his hold just to pinch the bridge of your nose—a habit you definitely picked up from Miguel.

"I could've told you that," he grunted, crossing his arms. Not the best thing to offer. You turned to glare viciously at him, something akin to a spicy kitten.

"Shut up," you hissed, "you're an asshole, too," you pushed him out of the way with a hand to his chest, shifting your body to hop off the ledge. He watched you pace this time, your pencil heels clicking against the ground so loudly he thought you'd crack the cement in your fury. “Had some things to say about you, too, ya know.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“He doesn’t like you.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” 

“Said you’re a giant control freak with a big mouth and an annoying voice."

Miguel pursed his lips before grunting. "That...might have some validity—"

"—So I punched him." You interjected. Miguel blinked, cocking his head to the side curiously.

“...You punched him?” It came out more like a statement rather than a question. You stopped your anxious pacing and nodded, awkwardly standing there, unable to look at him.

“Broke his nose," you were fuming, absentmindedly rubbing your sore knuckles. Miguel’s keen eyes briefly caught a glimpse of the bruise forming over your skin, swirls of purple and blue indicating it was a hell of a punch. Pride bloomed within him, his skin prickling with arousal at the thought of you socking Spider-Grease in the face.

"No one gets to talk shit about you but me.” You mumbled with a certain possessiveness in your inflection, eyes downcast, your exposed pedicured toes robbing him of your full attention. You were pensive, fingers twitching at your sides.

“Oh yeah?” Miguel couldn't help the grin tugging on his lips, taking a tentative step forward as if worried he’d frighten you away. You looked at him, sizing him up with a twitch of your brow before stomping over, the little thing you were.

"You're an idiot, y’know that?" You jammed your finger into his hard chest with every word, a cute pout forming over your lips without you even realizing it. "A stupid fuckin' idiot!" Miguel stopped you before you could stab him with your finger again (why was that painful?), holding your wrist in a loose grip in complete panic, watching how your face fell apart, fresh tears ready to pour from your troubled eyes. “Y-you think I really wanted to go on that date?”

"Hey—hey, what are you talking about?"

You struggled in his grip, successfully yanking your wrist away to drag your fingers under your eyes in a pathetic way of salvaging your makeup. You sighed, shoulders caving in and hands covering your face before you took a pitiful breath. 

"For a genius...you’re pretty stupid." You eventually said, your eyes fluttering when Miguel finally took your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him while his thumbs wiped at the tears spilling over your cheeks. 

“Chiquita…”

“Miguel,” you began, holding on to each of his wrists, “I’ve always wanted you. It’s always been you.” Taken aback by your confession, he shifted a hand from your face to the nape of your neck, his fingertips gliding over your pulse point.

“So you were trying to get me jealous?” Miguel murmured, slowly backing you up until your back hit the ledge, his hands snaking down to grip your hips.

“Mhm,” you breathed, gasping when he lifted you up with ease, setting you on the ledge carefully so that you were eye to eye with him once again. He pushed your knees apart, situating himself between them snuggly. His face hovered so close to yours that he could feel your breath come out in small puffs over his skin, “did it work?” 

“Yeah,” he admitted, his large hands stabilizing you, caging you in, “yeah, it fuckin' did.” He let his lips skim over yours, teasing you a bit before pressing forward to kiss you gently. It was better than he could’ve ever imagined. Your lips were soft and malleable, pushing against his eagerly—wantonly, even. You tasted like peaches, the fruity lip balm you wore overwhelming his senses. Your hands moved up his toned chest before wrapping around his shoulders as he pressed his lips harder against yours, desperate to devour you whole. 

You moaned when he nipped your bottom lip, your fingers tangling through the dark waves of his hair, scratching his scalp. A groan rumbled in his chest, brewing as you continued, lightly tugging at the strands. Your hands felt like fire over his suit, as if hot enough to sear through to his skin. Miguel held you close, your chest flushed against his as he littered you with kisses.

“It’s always been you, too.” He professed quietly into your hair, mumbling as he smoothed down the unruly strands tossed around by the wind. 

“Hm?” You breathed, your nose pressed into his neck, inhaling deeply to secure his scent.

“I said,” he pulled back, tipping your head up by the chin, “It’s always been you, Chiquita.” 

...

He could’ve taken you on the rooftop of HQ. Would’ve. 

You had begged him for it, demanded it of him, even. But he didn’t. He took you home, his home, pressing you into his dark satin sheets like he’d always wanted.

You were pliable, like putty in his hands. 

Miguel wasted no time, seating you on the edge of his bed and getting on his knees in front of you. 

He pulled down the neckline of your red dress, pulling it off completely with your help. Your skin prickled immediately, nipples hardening like tiny pebbles once exposed to the chill air of his bedroom. His mouth watered, dipping his head to mouth at your breasts. You moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair as he nipped and sucked on each pert nipple, lapping at them and covering the sensitive flesh with his warm spit.

“I can suck on these all day,” he muttered over your flesh, “would you let me, Chiquita?” You squealed and sighed under his touch, his lips curling over a bud again to give it a noisy suck.

“Damn, Miguel,” you whispered, head thrown back as he continued to worship your nipples, sucking and tugging on each one till you were a withering mess in his hands, “fuuuuck, that feels amazing.” You held his head to your chest, letting him slurp over each bud, tugging them gently with his teeth.

You pulled his head away by his hair, surging forward to give him a sloppy kiss. His bare chest rubbed against your erect nipples, making you gasp into his mouth.

“Lemme taste you,” you begged over his lips, your hands smoothing over his shoulders and down his toned arms, “please, wanna taste you so bad.” 

“Fuck,” Miguel grunted, nodding his head, “yeah, you wanna taste? Go ahead, it’s yours.” There was a gleam in your eyes, a grin stretching over your swollen lips. You grabbed hold of his cock as soon as you both switched positions. You stared at it for a bit, intimidated. It made Miguel flush with arousal—the thought of you worried from the mere size of him. The large tip was wet, precome already beading at the slit, slowly leaving a sticky trail down the length. 

“Chiquita,” he said, bringing you out of whatever daze you had fallen into, “you gonna have a taste?” His cock twitched in your hand and with a determination he’d never seen before, you nodded wordlessly, slowly taking him in your mouth.

Miguel choked, gripping his sheets in a tight fist, the other fighting the urge to weave his fingers into your hair. 

You took as much as you could, letting your spit coat his length before swirling your tongue over the tip and giving it a nice, long suck. His head lolled to the side, his heavy eyes watching you work over him, jerking the part where your mouth couldn’t quite reach. You had tears in your eyes, the tip jamming against the back of your throat making you gag. It was too much. You pulled away with a pop, coughing, and sputtering over the tip.

“Spit on it,” he growled, and you obeyed, letting saliva pool in your mouth before draping it over his extremely hard length. You both watched it run along the shaft, allowing it to soak him completely before you jerked his cock with both hands. “Goodamn,” he groaned, tossing his head back. You grinned, your watery eyes watching how he fought to control himself.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop—” he panted, slapping your hands away as you giggled, lifting you up from under your arms, forcing you over his lap. “Almost made me cum with your hands.” He pressed his brow on yours, holding you close as he fought to catch his breath. 

“You okay?” you whispered, pushing back his sweaty hair, jutting your hips slightly to let his cock glide over slippery folds. You gasped, biting your lip at how hot his length was against your sensitive core. Miguel nodded, capturing your lips in a messy kiss while gripping your hips.

“Ride me.” He grunted, fingers digging into your skin so hard he knew he’d leave marks. Sweat began to build on his hairline, and it only increased when you mewled, lifting yourself to notch his tip at your entrance. You paused, hips in the air, brow still pressed against his, and dick notched in your cunt.

“Miguel,” your voice wavered, your hands gripping his shoulder in a death grip. You pleaded with your eyes when you looked at him, the silent worry etched all over your face. 

“Go, slow,” He cooed, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “Despasito más rico, hm?” You huffed out a tiny laugh, taking in a breath before slowly sinking onto his cock.

You were fucking tight. Unbelievably so. 

“Fucking shit,” Miguel hissed, feeling your walls flutter over his cock as you fought to take him in. You were whining—too big, you’re too fuckin’ big, Miguel—your pussy stretching to its limit. 

“Mmm,” you mewled, sliding down inch by agonizing inch, the heat of your cunt making his cock impossibly harder, “shit.”

You both whined and moaned until you were fully seated, filled to the brim. When you began to slowly bounce on his cock, he snapped his eyes shut immediately, absolute filth flying out of his mouth.

So fuckin’ tight, preciosa—you’re swallowing my cock so good—knew you could do it—goddamn—

He didn’t know what the fuck he was saying. All he knew was that he never wanted you to stop. You covered his cock in your creamy essence, every bounce making an obscene wet noise in the quietness of his bedroom, your juices flowing like a river over his thighs and down to his sheets.

Miguel fell back against the bed, his hands helping you lift off and slam back down.

“Ohhh f-” you whimpered, your pussy getting wetter by the minute. Your breasts bounced, giving him a show as he looked up at you working over him, mesmerized, your faces of pleasure completely etched into his mind.  

“That’s it, Chiquita, doin’ so good for me,” he panted, letting a large hand wander up your sweat-slicked torso, fondling each breast, pinching the nipples. Your mouth parted to release a broken sob. He knew he was hitting deep—so deep in fact that he had you coming thirty seconds later with tears running down your face and eyes screwed shut as your body shook from the pleasure. You clamped down on him, pussy squeezing so tight that it triggered his own orgasm, thrusting as deep as he could while he filled you with cum. 

But that wasn’t the end of it.

He pulled orgasm after orgasm from you, sob after sob, plead after plead.

He had you under him, hips slamming against yours unforgivingly. He had you from behind (he couldn’t wait to spread your ass to watch his cock disappear into your swollen hole). He had you on the floor, your body cushioned by his fluffy carpet.

“I-I’ve wanted this for so long,” Miguel panted over you, your legs draped over his shoulders, folding you in half to rip the sweetest sounds from you, “wanted you for so long—Jesus—you're so wet.” He pulled out his cock, holding it at the base in a fist and slapping it over your puffy cunt. You moaned, stretched under him, sobbing when he put his cock back inside.

“I cant, s’too much,” you whined, holding on to him firmly by the arms. You were painted in his cum, skin covered with his spend, your juices, and spit, a concoction that drove him to the edge over and over and over.

“Yes, you can, baby.” He leaned down to kiss your shoulder and up to your neck before carefully sinking his teeth, just enough to break skin. And that was enough. Your eyes rolled back and your back arched off his mattress as you cried out your pleasure.

He loved seeing you that way, loved how your face twisted and your body withered under his ministrations. It was better than those fucking dreams—better than anything he could have ever conjured up.

When he came for the fifth time that night, he held your limp body close, emptying himself into you, making sure that you took every last drop of him.

And after he cleaned you up and settled with you in his soil sheets, he held you close, your eyes fluttering and your lips quirking into a smile when he whispered in your ear: I'm still gonna kill him.

Tag yourself, I’m the Classic.

Anyway adults saying “I don’t know isn’t an answer” is part of the reason I learned to lie and bluff so well.

SO SOMEHOW MY YAOI SHIRT ENDED UP IN MY DAD’S LAUNDRY BASKET HELP I CAN’T BREATHE