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tired-but-willing · 2 years

Note

So are you taking requests for first?

Could you do one for Star Wars TCW where Anakin and Rex end up on a deserted planet and either A) Rex is kidnapped by a vampire and Anakin has to save him or B) a sort of Fountain of Youth thing where they're both de-aged by ten years but that means Anakin is a kid and Rex is a baby?

Just one or the other. You can do whatever you want with the prompts.

Of course! I don't know if you want platonic or romantic Rex and Anakin, so I just played it safe and wrote with platonic in mind. You can interpret it however you want, though

The more I started writing, the more I was tempted to make full blown chapters. It almost feels a little anticlimactic in the way I wrapped it up. But either way, I hope I managed to do your prompt justice :]

Content Warnings

- Medical abuse

- Excessive cursing

- Needles

It was a simple mission.

That was what they always started off as, in Rex’s experience. Technically, he hadn’t been around long at all. But each of his generals' plans went awry so often that he felt like he had enough experience to say they almost always went poorly to begin with. Skywalker would say something along the lines of piece of cake, and everything would almost instantly go to shit. Just like it was now.

Anakin, Ahsoka, and Rex had embarked on a simple mission to run supplies to General Kenobi’s assault on the Ryloth system. With the rations dropped off and the general confirmed to be okay, the three turned back and prepared to return to Coruscant. That was when their ship was surrounded by some sort of strange… creature. Large whale-like things that swarmed them in seconds, knocking The Twilight around like it was merely a child's toy. Ahsoka was quick to leap from her seat. She was even quicker to fall to the ground when one of the creatures jostled the ship. Rex wasn’t fast enough to catch her, too busy being thrown back himself. Both of them had neglected to buckle their seatbelts. A fatal mistake when flying with Skywalker, Rex thought ruefully.

“What are those things?” Ahsoka asked, her eyes comically wide. She got back to her feet, slipping into her chair and dutifully fastening her seat belt around her waist. Rex was quick to copy her in his own chair behind Anakin. His hand was itching to grab for his blaster- not that it’d do any good when he was in the ship and they were outside of it.

He’d prefer to keep it that way.

“Doesn’t matter.” Anakin reached across the dash, his fingers brushing against the hyperdrive controls. He pushed forward. Once. Twice. His brows drew together in an expression of anger that Rex was far too familiar with. Judging by the way Ahsoka tensed, he knew she was feeling the same apprehension he was. “Kriff, I can’t break free.”

“With all due respect, General.” Rex leaned forward in his seat. “Maybe we ought to blast them instead.”

“I was getting to that.” Anakin jerked his head to Ahsoka, who nodded and gripped the controls to the ship's front canon. Her fingers squeezed the trigger. Instantly, Rex’s stomach dropped. The ship rocked again.

“Ahsoka.” Anakin’s voice began to rise.

“I’m trying!” Again and again, she tightened her grip on the controls. Outside the ship, something blotted out the window. Seconds later a massive eye opened, peering inside. Rex lurched backwards in his seat at the same time that Ahsoka shrieked. Anakin fired off a string of curses as the lights began to flicker.

“Rex!” He shouted. “Check the power circuits now.”

Barely a beat later Rex was already out of his seat and dashing from the cockpit. He was nearly knocked off his feet by another forceful rock of the ship. The lights above his head flickered on repeat before they shut off. The ship was suddenly too warm. “Kriff,” he muttered under his breath. He supported himself on the ship's wall while his legs continued to carry him swiftly. The ship rocked again as he passed through the engine room door, knocking him into the wall. “Shit.”

One look at the diagnostics, and he could tell things were going downhill fast. He activated his comm, rushing to get his words out. “Those things are eating at the fuel tank,” he said. “From the outside.”

Anakin's voice carried to him, distorted. “How is that possible? They’re-”

Interference broke out across the comm. Rex was so startled he dropped it, quick to catch it before it could hit the ground. The ship suddenly lurched forward like it was entering hyperspace. Rex lurched with it, thrown forward before he had a chance to brace himself. His head slammed into a wall, and the room went dark.

-+-+-| Rex |-+-+-

Fingers against his neck. A hand on his forehead. Whispers. Too hot. Too cold.

Rex groaned when he began to regain consciousness, sitting up slowly. That proved to be a mistake. The moment he moved, his head began to pound like a Coruscanti band hammering on their drums within his brain. Something pushed him back down. He was laying on a surface that wasn’t soft, but notably wasn’t the hard floor of the engine room. He’d been moved. He cracked his eyes open, met with two faces taking up his field of vision. With another groan, he allowed his eyes to slip shut again. If he was lucky, no one noticed he’d woken up.

“Rex!”

He was unlucky, then. Ahsoka’s voice caused a sharp pain to resonate throughout his head. She must’ve sensed it (who was he kidding, of course she had), because she immediately quieted down, repeating his name in a whisper. “Rex.”

“‘Soka.” After giving himself time to process that his pain wasn’t going to go away just because he was keeping his eyes closed, he fixed her and his general with a squint. “What happened?”

“You hit your head.” Ever so blunt, Anakin took over the conversation. “We had to land on an uncharted planet.”

“Land?” Ahsoka demanded incredulously. “You crashed.”

“I don’t crash, Snips.” He crossed his arms, appearing a bit smug. “The ship’s still flyable. We just need to find more fuel. Which is why Ahsoka and I will go out on a scouting mission- see if there’s anyone living around here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Rex. “We just… crashed. What happened to those whales?”

“Gone.” Ahsoka shuddered. “And I hope it stays that way. Those things were creepy. They got into hyperspace. How is that possible?”

“Anything’s possible in a galaxy this big.” Anakin stood, giving Rex a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “Not to worry. We’ll be off this planet in no time. R2 will watch over you.”

That didn’t make Rex feel safe in the slightest, but he decided it was in his best interest to not insult the droid Skywalker seemed so fond of. “Of course,” he said. “Best of luck, General. Commander. Stay safe out there.”

“When are we not?” Anakin tossed him a toothy grin.

Rex wisely chose not to answer that question.

-+-+-| Ahsoka |-+-+-

They’d been walking for hours without any sign of civilization. Hours spent on what seemed to be a simple desert planet. Ahsoka could safely say she’d seen enough of those to last her a lifetime- between Tatooine and Geonosis, she felt no need to add another dustball to the list. There wasn’t a single building in sight. Not even a cave. Yet Anakin insisted they kept walking. He was determined to get off this planet. She was, too! She just wasn’t willing to die trying.

“Master,” she began, jogging to catch up with his long strides. “At this rate, we’re going to find the Twilight again- from the other side.”

“Just a little further,” he insisted. “There has to be someone out here. I can feel it.”

“What exactly are you feeling?” She wrinkled her nose. “There’s just sand everywhere.”

Anakin abruptly stopped walking and turned, causing her to crash face-first into his arm. He reached out to steady her. “You mean you can’t sense it?” He asked. When she shook her head, he frowned. “That’s impossible. The Force around this planet. It feels off.”

Her blood froze. There was no better way to describe the feeling. It felt as though her heart stopped, and she certainly wasn’t breathing. “Dark?”

“No. No, it’s- it’s something else.” His frown deepened. He was looking back in the direction of the Twilight. “It feels stale.”

She laughed off her nervousness. “I don’t think the Force can expire, Master.” She said, “Maybe we should get back to the ship now. I’m sure Rex is a bit worried by this point.”

“Back to the ship,” he echoed. She could see a spark of clarity in his vision. “Right. We’ll go back to the ship. Then, we can check on Rex.” He brushed past her and left Ahsoka standing there, staring at him in disbelief. With a sigh, she trudged after him. “Must be an echo on this blasted rock,” she grumbled.

The Force must have been on their side. The walk back to the ship felt much shorter than the walk away from it. It seemed as though they were back in minutes when it should have taken hours. Instantly, her spine prickled with something she hadn’t felt since… Mortis. Yet, the feeling wasn’t the exact same. Anakin was right. The Force around the planet was stale. How she hadn’t noticed it sooner, she had no idea, but she did know there was no good reason for the horrible feeling to be surrounding the Twilight. Her hands drifted towards her lightsabers, Anakin mimicking her action and going a step further, igniting his blade.

“Rex?” He called, beginning his slow walk up the ramp. He held his hand out to stop Ahsoka in her tracks, peering down the dark hall of the ship. Nothing. No reply. Ahsoka reasoned that Rex could just be sleeping. But somehow, she didn’t believe that. Everything was starting to feel wrong.

“Master,” she whispered. Anakin didn’t reply verbally, but she felt his acknowledgment ripple across their bond. Together, the two inched further into the ship. Anakin leapt into the medbay, and Ahsoka was hoping the worst that he would discover was a startled Rex. But of course, the Force changed allegiances very quickly, because Rex wasn’t there at all. A quick sweep of the ship showed he wasn’t anywhere.

“That’s impossible,” Anakin said once they were back in the cockpit. “We didn’t find anything. No trace, nothing. The planet’s abandoned.”

“We only traveled in one direction,” Ahsoka pointed out. “We could have missed something. Are the ship's scanners still online?”

Anakin fumbled for a moment to find the controls she was talking about. Soon, the scanner lit up, bright green radar reaching out for any heat signatures. Ahsoka couldn’t help but hold her breath while she watched it. Anakin stared intently as well. As much as Rex’s disappearance ate at her, she knew it grated on him even worse. He gave the order for Rex to stay along with only R2 for protection. She couldn’t help but exhale in relief when a red dot appeared on the radar. “There,” she breathed. “North.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed. She could feel something dangerous radiating from him that she didn’t dare to name. Ignorance was bliss, and right now, she needed something positive to hold onto. Her master turned on his heel and stalked to the cockpit doors. He stopped only long enough to instruct her.

“Try to contact Obi-wan,” he said. “Or anyone. Stay here. Report to me on comms if anything appears.”

“Shouldn’t we stay together?” She asked. “Splitting up got us into this mess in the first place.”

“Ahsoka.” Right away, she knew it was the wrong move to bring up what had just happened. “I know what I’m doing. Stay with the ship.” Then, he was gone. Ahsoka settled into the co-pilot's seat with a heavy sigh.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she muttered to herself.

-+-+-| Rex |-+-+-

Rex was beginning to form a nasty habit of falling unconscious in dangerous situations.

He woke up on a flat surface. When he tried to sit up and take in his surroundings, he realized he couldn’t move his arms or legs. They were tied down. He hadn’t just passed out. He’d been captured. Quickly, he turned his head from side to side, attempting to catch his bearings. He was in a room crafted entirely of stone. Tubes lined the walls, some filled with liquid, others empty. The most notable was one large enough to hold an adult male. An adult male human. That revelation filled him with unease. The tank was filled with a strange luminescent blue liquid. Rex couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” He was jolted out of his thoughts, scanning the room once more. Laughter filled his ears. “You can’t see me,” the voice said. “I am behind you, clone. I don’t believe you can twist your head that far.”

“Where are we?” Rex tried to keep his calm, but he couldn’t keep sharpness from rising into his voice. The person tsked. Abruptly, an arm reached around his head, fingers digging into his jaw whilst a hand seized his face.

“A lab, if you couldn’t tell. One could assume you’d be familiar with them.” His head was jerked from side to side. This thing was studying him. “I suppose not.”

“What do you want?” His voice came out slurred. It was hard to talk with your cheeks being pressed to your tongue. At last, the thing released him.

“The pursuit of science.” Finally, it made its way into his line of sight. The first thing Rex noted was that the thing holding him captive was quite… small. Maybe only five feet. Ahsoka would be taller than it. It wore a long set of robes that brushed the floor when it walked. It was humanoid, but looking at it filled him with a sense of dread. Whatever it was, it wasn’t truly human. Only a poor imitation. Something wearing another being's skin. He shuddered. It laughed.

“You see,” it said. “I’m quite interested in cloning myself. Not for the reasons your army is, though. I’m afraid I have no wars for you to fight, little soldier.” It took something off one of the room's many shelves. A syringe. Rex struggled to scoot away from it to no avail; his bonds were tight enough to keep him held down. It had no regard for his fear, continuing on its monologue while waving the syringe around like it was something harmless. “Are you aware that clones are an unending source of energy? You never run out, and you’re not real, so of course you won’t be missed.”

“I’m real.” His voice was raw. This thing talked about him the same way some citizens of the Republic did. It left a sour taste in his mouth to know that clones were regarded as subhuman everywhere; even on little dust balls so far out of the inner rim they were uncharted. “You’re insane.”

“I’m innovative.” The tip of the syringe tapped against his leg. “And when I figure out how to clone you again, I will live forever. You can’t begin to imagine the blessing you’ve given me. I simply need to-”

It never got to finish its sentence. A boom behind Rex sounded, loud enough that a few bottles fell off their shelves and shattered on the floor. A second sound followed, this time right behind him. It sounded like a metal door falling off its hinges and slamming against the ground. The scientist- the thing was dragged through the air, screaming once more before it was silenced. Then Anakin entered Rex’s field of vision again, undoing the bonds that held him down against the table.

“General Skywalker. I’m glad to see you.” He sat up, rubbing his wrists. He hadn’t been tied down for long, but already, his skin was raw. He winced in displeasure. It wasn’t important enough to waste bacta on, and he didn’t exactly have access to regular lotion.

“Rex.” Anakin offered him a hand, helping him up from the table. “Are you alright? Did anything happen?”

“No idea, sir.” He dropped his hands to his side, ignoring the itching in his wrists. Whatever metal had been used to bind him was awful. His ankles hurt too; though not nearly as badly. “I know as much as you do.”

“Not good.” Anakin shook his head. “We have to get you back to the ship. Ahsoka's contacting Obi-wan.”

“General Kenobi’s here?”

“He’s on his way.” Anakin grinned. “He’ll be able to help us out of this mess.”

“Glad to hear it, general.” Rex sighed, relief crashing over him. “I can’t wait to get off this planet.” Anakin laughed, and Rex couldn’t help but laugh as well, albeit a little strained. Skywalker turned to leave the room, and Rex moved to follow him. He made it one step before his world was pitching sideways.

Again.

-+-+-| Anakin |-+-+-

The med-bay on the Negotiator was far too bright for Anakin's tastes. He’d barely been in there for a few minutes after Rex’s exam, and already he felt a migraine coming on. He seated himself in a chair by the captain's bedside. Moments later, his padawan joined him.

“How’s he doing?” She asked tentatively. Anakin glanced up at her, surprised when he found guilt on her face. It was hidden well, but he could read her better than anyone else. They had a bond, after all. The Force flowing between them practically made them siblings in every way that mattered.

“He’ll be alright.” Anakin turned his attention back to Rex. Already, his face was less pale, regaining some of its color. He didn’t know what that doctor had given him, but the sight of his friend suffering made him want to bring the madman back just so he could kill it again.

Maybe madman wasn’t the right term. Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t human in any way. The moment it was dead, the wrongness that had been plaguing Anakin since he arrived on that planet disappeared.

“Right.” Awkwardly, Ahsoka crossed her arms. Anakin shut his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out.

“Snips,” he said. “You know- I’m not mad at you for anything that you said.”

She perked up at that. “Really?” She asked. “Because I really- I didn’t mean to imply you got him kidnapped,” she said. “I just didn’t want to lose both of you.”

“I know.” He stood up, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “But you have to let go of that fear for the sake of the mission.”

Some of the relief faded from Ahsoka’s face. For a moment, she seemed conflicted. The words like you did were heavy on her tongue. Yet, she didn’t say them. Instead she nodded, her smile returning.

“I’m just glad,” she began. “That everything turned out alright.”

He smiled back at her. "Me too, Snips," he said. "Me too."

#star wars #clone wars #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #rex #ahsoka tano #the twilight #vampire guy??#hes not confirmed to be one but its #very implied

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loganlermanstanaccount · 11 months

Note

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice.

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window.

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman.

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment.

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara?

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning.

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach.

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was…

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying .

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist.

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!"

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring.

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask.

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep.

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him.

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class. She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely.

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day.

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it.

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo.

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it.

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course.

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself.

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall.

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure.

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself.

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here.

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video.

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen.

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all.

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners.

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you.

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs.

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-"

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please."

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers.

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall.

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home.

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions.

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night.

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy??

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water.

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there.

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway.

You wince."...F-Fine?"

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?"

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further.

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together.

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand.

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee.

"You look… wet."

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze.

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed.

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression. His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds.

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?"

He's got a hand on your arm now, The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details.

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy.

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside.

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word.

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?"

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too."

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same.

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way.

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost.

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand.

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza?

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal.

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy.

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats.

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought.

"Yeah?"

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-"

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!"

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway.

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-"

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips.

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you.

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand.

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close.

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile.

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side.

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular.

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?"

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it.

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty.

"Huh. I guess they do."

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums.

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name.

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch.

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ."

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest.

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-"

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own.

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name."

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing.

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-"

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together.

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest.

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts.

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck.

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum.

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth.

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin.

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt..

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara.

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?"

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?"

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction.

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach.

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel."

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth.

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue.

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole.

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue.

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off.

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily.

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him.

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him.

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs.

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck.

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should.

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head.

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily.

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

edit: the full fic xx

#i am very very close to making this a full fic #(implying that this isn't alr basically a full fic lmfao)#miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #kat_writes😼#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara headcanons #spiderman 2099 masterlist #spiderman 2099 x reader

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