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shadebloopnik · 2 months

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Unrequited/One-sided Radioapple but it isn't treated like an angsty end of the world thing.

Imagine they slowly get closer after all the banters, and eventually becoming close friends. Lucifer ends up catching feelings for him, and after a long while, decides to confess and ask Alastor if he felt the same.

Alastor admittedly does not feel the same.

He's getting uncomfortable, struggling to keep his composure because he's DONE this before. He KNOWS how this ends. He remembers Vox and all his insistent declarations of affection and desperate pleas for Alastor to reciprocate; the possessive entitlement. He remembers how all those sickly sweet words morphed into something venomous when he didn't give the lowlife what he wanted. He remembers the anger, the ridiculous notion that it was Alastor's fault why he was so mad, that Alastor led him on and that he obviously deserved something in payment for it all-

So yes, Alastor knows how this ends.

It doesn't mean he isn't disappointed though, because he actually LIKES Lucifer, far more than he ever did Vox. Perhaps not in the way the king might have wanted, but he did. He treasured their little talks, their drinking sessions, their shared love for their instruments, Lucifers singing, their little duets, the banter, the playful jabs, the sparring.

He'd even slowly grown accustomed to the other's touches, not feeling the same surge of disgust and discomfort whenever the shorter man would grab at his arm in excitement, forgetting his usual thoughtfulness of Alastor's touch aversion for the short moment of whatever distracted him. Alastor even enjoyed it at times, relaxing at the feel of soft feathers beneath his claws, or the sensation of gentle scratches against his ears.

Difficult as it was to admit, Alastor had grown to care for the angel, the same way he had for Rosie orv Mimzy.

But no matter how fond Alastor was of Lucifer, it didn't change the fact that he didn't feel the same way romantically, or even sexually. No way in the 7 rings of Hell was he going to lie to Lucifer about either, not going to even entertain the idea of pretending he reciprocated for Lucifer's sake. He respected his friend too much for that.

So a clear, direct rejection it is. It was a shame, but nothing could be done. He said his piece concisely, and waited, shoulders set, back straight, smile and eyes a careful blank canvas as he prepared for the inevitable.

Lucifer nodded, a normal soft smile still in place, "Thank you for your answer, it means a lot."

Which......what? Alastor expected an outburst, or at the very least sharp words.

What he did NOT expect was....acceptance? And not just that but, a happy one? Contentment?????

"You're....alright with that?", he had to ask, he had to. Lucifer was clearly just very good at masking his upset.

But the damn angel just smiled?? And it didn't even look fake, just as bright and soft as his normal smiles, albeit a little confused?? Lucifer smiled at him, his brows furrowing in a bit of confused disbelief, as though Alastor is being the weird one here.

"Uhh, yeah??? Why wouldn't I be??? Yeah I may have some feelings for you but its not like you're obligated to feel the same. Above anything else, we're friends first and foremost and i'm alright with that..."

Then he seemed to have reached his own little conclusion as his words trailed off, because suddenly Lucifer's eyes widened in realization of something, and his words picking up with a sense of panicked urgency.

Alastor would really like to know what Lucifer's supposed realization was about himself because he had absolutely no clue.

"I mean, we ARE still friends right?? I don't- I- I hope this doesn't like- change your opinion of me. You're not- oh gosh I'm not making you uncomfortable am I? I- I won't mention it! You can even forget this whole confession ever happened! We can just go on as before! I don't feel any different or would act any different! Honest! I mean, I don't regret confessing because you deserve to know and I'm not ashamed of my feelings, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable! It doesn't change the way i'll treat you! Or change any aspect of our relationship! I don't even think I like you more as a lover than as a friend! I really, really do love our friendship, it matters more to me than any thoughts of being in a romantic relationship with you! So please just forget it all-"

Alastor let the word vomit wash over him, every word leaving him more confused by the minute.

Because yes, there's the desperation he expected, but...it was more about, convincing Alastor to remain friends?? Reassuring Alastor that nothing has to change?? That their friendship is the most important thing here??

(If anyone asks, no Alastor's heart didn't swell. Only lesser beings would have had the urge to cry, and Alastor is anything but.)

Lucifer is unknowingly reassuring Alastor of every single one of his insecurities about the situation. Because Alastor DID want to remain friends, he cared too much about the man to let it go so easily. It was rare to find people who treasure friendships above romantic relationships.

"I don't tend to forget easily, nor will I forget this one in particular.", he spoke, finally finding his voice. At Lucifer's defeated, pained expression( is their friendship really that important to him?), he continued. "But....yes. I'd like that.. To remain...friends."

He didn't often say the word out loud, being comfortable enough with each other that it need not be reassured with the label. But with Lucifer brightening up like his namesake, relief and happiness palpable, Alastor felt no qualms at declaring their friendship out loud.

So life went on as usual. True to his word, Lucifer remained basically the same. The following weeks were a bit stilted for Alastor, as he put some rather painful distance between him and the angel; limiting their interactions, their usual touches.

Anytime now, Lucifer would break and show his true colors, Alastor would think, waiting for the boot to drop. Lucifer would end up angry, and dissatisfied, and that was that.

But it never happened. Lucifer never expressed discomfort when Alastor avoided him, seeming to be understanding of the others need for space. He was just as affectionate as before, though initially a bit held back, as though gauging Alastor's comfort.

Months would pass, and the king never faltered. Their friendship remained strong, if not growing ever closer than before. Alastor found himself even growing more comfortable with the man. Affectionate touches were becoming common, hugs and head pats and cuddles being a welcome thing, with the reassurance that the shorter king would never disrespect his boundaries.

Lucifer seemed genuinely happy about it, despite being clearly told that none of Alastor's actions hinted at anything romantic. In fact, he seemed ecstatic that Alastor was getting more affectionate towards him as a friend. The embarrassment the radio demon felt at having Lucifer basically tear up (no really, he was crying so hard, full on drama sobbing) with joy in front of him was intertwined with the sheer incredulous fondness he felt for the man at that moment.

They were sitting at a couch one night, more than a year passing since that confession. Lucifer was leaning back, resting against the cushions, while Alastor had his head on the smaller one's shoulder, nuzzling at the crook of his neck, legs tucked close to his body. Both had a book in hand, two nearly empty cups of tea on the table in front of them. Every so often, Lucifer would flex his fingers that rested on Alastor's head, running a digit against the other's ear, often prompting the demon to lean into the touch. White wings enveloped the two, blanketing them against the chill of the night.

As Alastor turned the page of his own book, relaxing into the touch of his dearest friend, he wondered how he ever got so lucky in hell.

#this may have gotten away from me lmao #this was supposed to be a rlly short prompt of 'Unrequited love but overbrimming friendship' but instead i typed out this word vomit-#i don't know if im labeling things right here??? this may not look platonic tk others but ig im sort of projecting here #bc i want friendships like this soo badd. i mean this is still platonic right??? this is normal friendship behavior like come onnn #I've been teased about being ace bc of this mindset but i always just go RIGHT this is how friendship works y'all blind😭😭😭#bloopnik writing #bloopnik rambles #radioapple #appleradio #platonic radioapple #platonic relationships #aroace alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor #duckiedeer #unrequited feelings #BUT NOT UNREQUITED LOVE HELL YEA #one sided radiostatic #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel #THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH AND ITS BEAUTIFUL #queerplatonic #i think #fic #fanfic #radiosilence

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pompomegranate · 1 year

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bite me

⇢ miguel o'hara x f!reader

⇢ warnings | 18+. very explicit smut. i will block you if your age isn’t anywhere on your blog. slight blood drinking/blood kink, injury, and again, smut. more extensive n/s/f/w tags on ao3.

⇢ a/n | ok look i know gwen called miguel a vampire as a joke but what if. WHAT IF. miguel is a vampire here but i don’t waste time talking about logistics, this is all about the biting lmao also the title is absolutely ripped from enhypen’s new ep

⇢ ao3

Miguel never loses control unless you plead for it.

His hands gripping your hips, he splays his fingers as wide as he can – digging the pads of them into your flesh – because he can never get enough of you.

You can’t stop the moan that spills from your mouth but he happily swallows your whines with parted lips while he finally touches you where you need him to.

Where he lacks experience he makes up for with zeal – the same determination behind the mask – and it’s all for you.

It’s not as if Miguel wasn’t pursued (he was, heavily and annoyingly so); he just didn’t care to let anyone catch him until you came along.

Confident strokes of the rough pads of his fingers draw another whimper out of you. He smiles against your lips and laughs, low and deep.

“Please – Miguel, please –” You know you look pathetic begging for his touch, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Lust takes precedent over embarrassment and Miguel is acutely aware of this. He pulls back, eyes flashing a bright crimson – his smile morphs into a smirk as his fingers still work your clit slowly, gently.

“Impatient. I’ll get you there.”

There’s a finality inside of his promise and it makes you ache for more of him. You grind against his hand, desperate for a steadier rhythm –

“Ah, ah – let me savor this.”

“I need you now,” you breathe, greedy and wanting. Your palm cups his cock, hard and pulsing beneath your hand.

Miguel lets out a deliciously gravelly sigh of his own, lids fluttering shut as you rub him through the fabric of his pants. When you stop, his gaze flickers across your face – he’s considering his options.

He could tease you, could draw this out until you’re a writhing mess beneath him. Or he could fuck you now, fast, heated, hasty.

In a perfect world, he could exercise restraint every time and devote hours to worshiping every inch of you.

Instead, he caves, folding to your collective desire.

He tears his shirt off from between his shoulder blades, thoughtlessly throwing it aside before flicking the clasp of your bra, slipping the straps off of you with more care than he afforded himself.

You take in the sight. Thick dark hair lines his pecs, trailing down through the ridge of his abs, convening in a dense patch of hair beneath his belly button that disappears into the waistband of his bottoms.

He brushes his lips the dip where your shoulder and neck meet, peppering kisses up your throat towards your jaw.

God, you’re already a shaky mess and he’s barely touched you. The anticipation is always your least favorite part – you want him – no, you need him now.

He kisses you again, sloppy and open mouthed, easing you backwards towards the bed.

Your knees hit the mattress and you fall back, face to face with his waist. The outline of his cock is visible, straining against the cloth.

He watches you, brows lifted ever so slightly, a silent question in his expression.

What will you do next? Suck his cock or demand that he fuck you – now?

You tug his shorts down and take his tip in your mouth, a clear answer.

There’s something so invigorating about the ability to make a stoic man whimper.

Miguel’s are your favorite – they start out gruff and low, the bass of his voice ricocheting against the walls, like they’re too big to contain him, but they evolve into desperate sounds that egg you on, inflate your ego.

His shaft, wide and velvety smooth, slides in and out of your mouth – his hand snakes to the back of your head, cupping it with a featherlight touch.

You nod up at him, cheeks hollowed around his cock, fluttering your eyelashes to feign coyness as if to teasingly say, Fuck my throat, Miguel. You know you want to.

His pupils are blown, tinged with red, teeth sinking deep into his bottom lip as he bucks into your throat. Strokes long and precise, fingers tangled into your hair, Miguel O’Hara fucks your mouth relentlessly.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the sight – Miguel panting, gasping, groaning, lips forming praises followed by your name. You can barely bring yourself to blink – you don’t want to miss any of this.

Spit bubbles and drips down your chin onto your chest, gasping breaths around his length but you’re more than happy to oblige because you know it’s just a matter of minutes before you’re spread open for him and he’s fucking your cunt just like this.

His chest heaves, muscles rippling down his front as he pants expletives – he’s close, and you can feel him pulsing against your lips.

When you pull away for the last time, you trace your tongue along his prominent underside vein, eyes fully trained on him.

He’s out of words when you do that, resorting to growls as he eases you down onto the bed. Tugging your underwear off, he flings them across the room unceremoniously, the wet fabric disappearing into the shadows.

You’re laid bare on the bed, spread open, mouth curled around pleas.

“Bite me.”

His sharp canines glint in the faint moonlight, extending fully on command.

“You’re insatiable,” Miguel says with a grin, before flipping into the perfect position to drive the both of you wild.

He’s sat on the edge of the bed, you on his lap, arms wrapped around your back – you’re completely at his mercy.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath shaky as he snakes a hand between your bodies, teasing your cunt with his tip. Sliding it through your folds, bottom to top, lingering right on your bud of nerves –

Your legs squeeze around him, trembling as you do so. All you want is him. His cock, his mouth, his fingers, any part of him that’s fucked you thoroughly before – any way he’ll have you, you don’t care.

“I can’t wait, Miguel, please, now –” you beg.

He sinks into you, stretching you out deliciously slow, half-lidded gaze focused on your reaction.

Your head lolls to the side as you relax into it, lids fluttering shut until he sucks his teeth at you.

“Don’t look away, my love,” he instructs you, firm but tender. “I want to see you – I want to hear you.”

He inches deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out, your flesh meeting his.

And then you move.

He’s so strong that you’re weightless in his arms, being trained up and down on his cock like a whimpering fleshlight. One arm around your waist to keep the pace, he uses the other to touch you.

Teases your nipples between pinched fingers, palms your tits roughly, before finally settling on thumbing your clit. You don’t know what to focus on more – the sensation of him inside of you, building up the pace to a steady rhythm that’s driving you wild – or the feeling of his calloused digit, messily rubbing and flicking, his attention spread thin (not on his hands, or his cock, but on your expression).

You instead focus on his broken sentences, a mix of curses and praises. They sound all the same to you.

“Shit, you feel so – good – so fucking – tight –”

If that weren’t enough, he finally looks away from you, finding yet another patch of your body to worship.

His fangs, razor-sharp, drag across the skin of your shoulder. They press just enough into your skin to sting, but it doesn’t hurt quite yet – it’s like lightly touching a fresh bruise, but followed by his soft lips, rough stubble.

You can’t do much else but lock your arms around his neck and pull him close. Miguel smells smoky and sweet, like luxury cologne and a celebratory cigar – he feels even better.

He trails his teeth to the base of your neck before going higher, smiling against your skin when you gulp beneath his lips.

It’s not because you’re scared; the complete opposite, really. You’re excited.

He’s still fucking you, but his pace slows to a crawl, hips rolling to keep the slightest friction. Even though he’s comfortable with biting you, he’d never want to hurt you. There’s a precision required to achieve both pain and pleasure and Miguel has it down to a science.

Mortality is vulnerability as far as he’s concerned, and the fact that you share your life with him is something he never takes lightly.

“Ready?” He asks, widening his bite in preparation. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“I’m ready.”

He chuckles. “That’s my girl.”

You suck in a sharp breath when he finally punctures you, the pain as mouth watering as his cock stretching you, filling you.

He’s everywhere – inside of you in two different ways, body flush against yours, but you can’t get enough. Unintentionally, you pull him closer, grip him tighter, bury him deeper in you.

You cry out. Your neck burns, every nerve on edge as the pleasure zaps throughout your body, from your fingertips to your toes.

A heat blazes through the area underneath his mouth, a rumbling grunt coming somewhere from the back of his throat, chasing the electricity of his bite.

This is pure fucking bliss.

The sensation of his fangs and his cock have you so pathetically eager; slack jawed and jellied bones, you focus on your hips, fucking him back with no remorse, uncaring about whether or not the wound in your neck rips open – nothing matters more right now than cumming on Miguel’s cock.

You lean back and Miguel tilts with you, your clit pressed against his thick patch of neatly trimmed pubic hair, the last stimulant to shove you over the edge.

He pulls back, retracting his teeth but laps up the stray drops of blood eagerly.

“You taste – like heaven, my love – shit –” He pants, eyebrows pulled inward. “Are you – fuck – are you alright?”

He always asks you this after he bites you without fail, and every time you’re enveloped in pleasure. You nod, unable to form words as he drives into you, picking up his speed.

The bedroom is obscenely symphonic, all loud moans and slapping skin.

“Lay back,” you say instinctually, barely registering the glint of lust in his eye when you push him down.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbles, hands settling at the bend of your hips, thumbs caressing you.

“Just talk to me – I’m almost there –”

It’s true. You’ve been on the cusp of an orgasm and you want to come with Miguel moaning underneath you.

“Fuck, you feel so good around me –”

Miguel’s hands slide up from the base of your stomach to your tits, cupping, squeezing as he does so.

“You take it so well, my love – no one does it like you –”

You sway your hips front to back, elongating your strokes, and his lids are threatening to close all the way.

“Open your eyes.”

They flash open, Miguel’s gaze salacious and fiery as he obeys your command. He loves when you take charge.

Your palms, flat on his muscled chest, give you the right amount of leverage to bounce, and he meets you halfway, curling his hips underneath you at an angle that has you nearly weeping – it’s so perfect – he’s so perfect for you.

“Are you –” he moans “– are you close?” “Yeah, baby, I’m close,” you manage through pants.

“Good – I don’t know how much longer I can hold out,” he says, then draws you close till you’re chest to chest.

And then he picks up the pace, really driving into you – harder, harder, until you’re biting down on his bare skin to cope with the sensation. You’re nearly overstimulated, so close that you can taste the orgasm that’s about to flood through you.

“That’s it, yeah,” he purrs into your ear, palms lifting and settling you on his dick with no effort on your part.

“Come for me – fuck – I wanna feel you squeeze my cock with your –” he’s pulled you all the way up to his tip and back down again. “God, I can’t even think straight you’re so good –”

Miguel comes, a mix of expletives and whines, and keeps fucking you, teasing your clit, your nipples, anything to get you there and you –

You say his name, broken and desperate like a prayer – gratitude laced in your tone because fuck, this is the best it’s ever going to be and you’re on top of the world, with him, with Miguel O’Hara.

The both of you finally come down. You crash on the mattress next to him, curling against his side, slotting against the taut ridges of his muscles perfectly.

The first thing he does is run a featherlight over your neck and the wound he’d left there.

“How was it? Was I too rough?” He’s concerned, the foggy afterglow disappearing as soon as he remembers that you bled because of him.

He’s always been afraid of pushing the limits to the point of losing his composure – and hurting you because of it.

“No, no,” you reassure him with a kiss on the jaw. “It was perfect, Miguel.”

You kiss away the rest of the dreamlike haze, floating back down to Earth with a view of the city bathed in moonlight outside your open window.

You’re right – it is perfect.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara fic #atsv fic #spiderman 2099 #across the spider-verse #atsv #across the spiderverse #n*fw #nsft #my fic #this is pure smut w/o plot bc i cannot stop thinking about him #also i don't know how to change community labels i am so sorry this is NOT for everyone

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