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moondirti · 8 months

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DOUBLE RAPTURE

MIGUEL O'HARA x F!READER x ALT! MIGUEL

「 Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other repeatedly. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge.

And tonight – stuck between two men who don’t look, but are, each other – nothing can tamp your flame. 」

summary: after apprehending an anomaly who turns out to be an alternate version of your husband, you indulge in your filthiest fantasy.

explicit (18+) | 6.3k words | part two warnings: pure smut, pwp, THREESOME, cunnilingus, squirting, throat-fucking, blowjobs, unprotected p-in-v, anal, double penetration, tummy/throat bulge, younger miguel is submissive, spitting, cum swallowing, hair pulling, mild degradation, possessiveness, tooth-rotting fluff, every kink under the moon tbh

In truth, it comes naturally.

Your Miguel – older, blunt around once serrated edges, wisps of grey streaking dark tresses – sits to the side. He fosters a tumbler in one grip, half-full with amber liquid. Scotch whiskey, neat; you’d poured the drink to give yourself something to do while waiting. It’ll help, you insisted. An outlet to sip on, or a loud-enough warning when set on the adjacent tea table.

Now, you see that it was more for your sake than his.

He’s entirely collected for someone watching another man’s hands run along his wife’s body. They pushed your shirt off a while ago, hurried to behold your covered form. You’re laying in your bra, breasts heaving while kisses trail down your stomach, nipping the sensitive skin there – and still, all you can focus on is him. Your Miguel, scrutinising the rush the man is in with disapproval glimmering on carmine eyes. If this whole thing hadn’t been his suggestion, you would’ve sworn the look was meant to kill.

Because he likes to take his time with you. It hasn’t always been that way. Ages ago, following your premiere date, you fucked for the first time in a motel he rented, both your apartments’ farther than he would’ve liked to drive. But, again, he’s older now. Seasoned. There’s a heavy ring decorating your finger that winks reassuringly at him, three carats for the three year anniversary he proposed on. It amplifies the truth each hour you wear it – he is yours, you are his, and you’ve all the time in the world to do with each other as you please.

Your third for the night is unfamiliar with the dynamic.

(Though of course, it makes sense for him to be.)

You have to remind yourself of the fluid lines that mark each component of this little fantasy. They waver and wobble, bleeding into one another sometimes like wet ink on parchment. It’s hard to decipher the words they spell out when trapped in thick, indulgent lust – your legs spread to allow the man room as he moves down your body. But it’s even harder to ignore the way your skin burns with the intensity of your husband’s careful contemplation. It singes, redefining those exact perimeters for you:

One, and the most important given your suggestion, is that this will never leave your room. It’s not distrust that keeps it rigid – rather, a shared concern for the integrity of the multiverse. Your Miguel is all too aware of the dire consequences it could face should the rule be broken. You are too. It only narrows down to the partner occupying your bed and his naivete to it all.

Two; to use the safewords established beforehand. You’re infamous for losing yourself to pleasure, the habit bordering on a dangerous degree. It’s why Miguel is watching, to ensure things start correctly. He’s piqued and ready to stop it should the man not understand your limits.

(However unlikely. Currently, you’re the one establishing them.)

The third – the one you have a particularly complicated time grasping – is that ‘the man’ in question is no stranger at all. In fact, it’s instinct to touch him in the same way you’re used to, your mind adequately fooled everytime you look at him. A full head of brown hair – albeit, cropped shorter than your voyeur’s, a fade in at his ears. Young skin, which you strain to notice is devoid of the crows’ feet you adore. Yes, he’s smoother, like time had taken sandpaper to your model and buffed out all his worn edges, but he’s still…

Miguel.

(Though he urged you to call him Mig, entirely oblivious to the subtle cringe that’d crossed your husbands expression. That nickname is one you hardly resort to. He’s revealed a hatred for it.

Another cue, then, that they are not one in the same).

So, it comes naturally because you’ve spent so long in this exact space. Dusk flooding your home in plum hues, the colour of a berry ripe with rot. Overhead lights off, golden lamps projecting sensual shadows on white sheets. Your face warm with alcohol and your panties pushed to the side by a hero named O’Hara, whose palms are large and dry but a burning furnace on gooseflesh.

The younger one, Mig, is not yet a hardened vigilante. He’s new to the game – DNA spliced with spider essence only seven months ago. In that time, he worked out his own method of inter-dimensional travel, tortured genius that he is. Hopped between worlds until, eventually, he blipped on your radar. You’d been sent to process the anomaly whose personhood you were unaware of, only to come face to face with a twenty-something version of your beloved.

There’s no room for bias in the delicate scale of the universe. He’d found himself locked with other transgressors of his pedigree. Miguel – yours – was vehemently opposed to the notion of him joining spider society, uncomfortably affluent in his past recklessness. He knows, better than everyone else; it’s a security risk, letting in a spider-man so inexperienced.

You think that it’s projection. That, and a recognition of the way his mirror couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you.

(A flattering notion for all you refused to believe it. You’re about ten years his senior – surely, he’d have better prospects on his Earth. But you asked, perhaps to hearten any overprotectiveness that could manifest itself as risk.

Something wrong, Mig?

He only looked at you behind the red laser field entrapping him, a small smile on his face. No. Nothing. You’re just different back home.)

That was before. Before he embodied the exact enthusiasm Miguel had been afraid of, spearing your cunt with his tongue, his scalp no doubt aching under your relentless hold. He hums his encouragement despite it, begging you to direct him the way you please. At least he acknowledges his cluelessness – you can almost hear from the other side of the bedroom, acumen pulsing amidst heady air. Most men wouldn’t, their egos great fragile beasts. To have gotten around before might embellish their history with competent, but no one’s ever truly an expert on someone new.

Mig doesn’t pretend otherwise. He’s keen to learn.

That is the difference that encouraged this whole tryst.

“Unfurl your tongue, Mig. You’re focusing too much on– Oh.” Your hips buck, shoving closer to the mouth that does just as you say. He laps your heated core with spittle-drenched dexterity, combing between puffy lips. “That’s it. F-fuck… Just. Just don’t stop.”

The praise does well for him. He looks up at you, reverent – pupils not red, but black with the shadows his long lashes cast. You brush back locks that fall upon his forehead, affording him a better view of the effects he’s wrought. A thin layer of sweat clings to your flesh, gleaming with the fading sun outside. In your peripheral – framed gorgeously by the wall-wide window – it dips below the horizon, nebulous. Blurry on orange clouds.

Pinned under observation and a feverish assault, you feel much the same. Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other with novel speed. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge.

And tonight – bouncing between two men who don’t look like, but are, each other – the feeding of the flame goes untamed.

You find that’s the cause for it. There’s nothing to cling onto for purchase, the one anchor in this equation seated on his leather armchair, ankle on knee, content in watching you soar to uncharted skies on the chin of another. Your head flops uselessly to the side, scanning him once more.

There’s a tricky look to him, suspended on two lines of equal measure. You can tell he wants to join, to take control of the exploit and direct it how he sees fit. Perhaps it’s regret. Yet the pronounced mass in his trousers speaks to the contrary. Miguel palms it, testing his endurance by keeping his touch above cloth, rounding back once his heel presses its end. The sight catalyses your delirium; the knowledge that he, your dedicated husband, is tender with rushed blood and idle about it. Waiting for an opportune moment.

When you reach out an arm in his direction, you hope he takes it as one. Mig sucks your weeping cunt in a symphony of lewd noises, as though he’s trying to push the grace he’s been granting. Slurp. Tracing the perimeter of your slit, revelling in the way it clicks at his ministrations. Squelch. Nose driving into your clit, so hard you suspect he’s trying to bury himself there.

It only calls to your lips, how dry they feel. You’re parched of the one thing he chose to forgo, marking it as off-limits based on some arbitrary ideal. You don’t assume you understand it, instead wiggling your fingers – come here – at your husband. He skips over the grabby hands, devouring your bitten pout and droopy lashes, weighing them in his head.

“Mi vida.” You plea, voice pitched high and winded. The glass’s bottom glints with the last swill of his drink. He knocks it back before rising – sweeping towards you, tantalisingly slow.

Mig shoves your knees higher, practically folding you in half. Your hamstrings stretch with the motions, sending molten spasms to your core – that which he continues to eat out. He’s now doubtlessly coated with your juices, but he doesn’t relent, tracing messy patterns on the sweet spot he managed to pinpoint without your help. You’re reduced to a sore bruise, egged on with every poke and prod. Pleasure swells with blood, clogging burst capillaries. Delicate. Inflamed; deliciously so. You give him a validating pat on the head while a free hand wraps around your Miguel, ironing his waist as he ducks down to your lips.

All three of you are on the bed now. You can’t begin to process the depravity of it all, the way things suddenly become hot and bursting and real. No – you’re much too enthralled by the rough kiss you’re pulled into. It’s dominating and tastes like smoked oak. Honey and faint vanilla where his tongue traces your fauces. The flavours batters you into something vapid, stupid, until the older man has to cup the back of your neck to keep you from sinking.

Intoxicated – you thought you’d be familiar with it by now, how wholly he consumes you, but there’s a power imbued in his approach that has you struggling to keep up. It’s all you can do to keep moving your mouth against his, gathering the material of his shirt to pinion yourself.

He’s got a stubble that colours his jaw in grey, the stalks of it grazing your nose and flaying you raw. It leaves you feeling sunburnt, dazed yet still pushing forward, like the balm for relief can be found at the back of his throat. That’s something else, you note, flicking your observation over to the face between your thighs. Mig keeps himself clean shaven, a youthful shine to his complexion, no peppered hair to obstruct it. Without it, you can clearly see the way his high cheekbones curve inward, hollowing out as they lead down to a pronounced chin. Charming, especially as it shoves between the globes of your ass to make room for his continued efforts.

You’re close, so close. A dam about to burst with centuries worth of water and–

“Need help, corazón?” Miguel whispers, nudging your nose so you can look back at him. Your response comes in the form of a stuffy whimper, nodding minutely. What exactly he means by help, you’re not sure, but his double seems to understand, breaking the smallest bit away to whine a protest.

“That’s offens–”

“Get back to licking her cunt before I change my mind about you being here.” Your husband orders, glowering when the reprimand seems to create the opposite of its intended effect. Mig grins wickedly, a cocky aura about him as he obeys. Just as he’s about to make contact again, his gaze catches yours. The subsequent wink he gives is a warning – loud and bleary and smug – preparing you for when he dives back in with a vengeance, plunging into your hole with that cursed muscle that runs like velvet.

The air pinches from your lungs, squealing on its way out. Your toes curl and your muscles tense and then Miguel directs your face back down with thick fingers, steering you by your cheeks. Your lips pucker, mouth unhinging at the silent command the action echoes. Tongue flattening, you prepare yourself for the little dance you’ve trekked a hundred times before – thankful, in some part, that he’s doing it to ground you.

When he spits – hawking, a dense glob concentrated with scotch – onto an expectant palette, you suppress the devilish narrowing of your eyes. It’s almost habit to reflect his countenance, looking down with fondness and pride at the control you exhibit. Because you don’t swallow, not immediately. You wait for him to kiss you again, to gather the slaver and push it behind your molars with reinforced passion. And he does. Of course he does – that and so much more as he places claim to the hole that is solely his for tonight. You hardly notice when his clutch leaves you, skimming down to unclasp your bra.

Not when your breasts jerk free, nipples pocking at the shift in temperature.

Not as he squeezes each, tugging at their peaks until they’re fully erect.

Or even while he tickles the line of your abdomen, following the same path his counterpart did, smoothing over aggressive bite marks.

It’s only when you break away for great, gluttonous breaths of air – your vision blurring with hypoxia – and Miguel reaches two digits to your fattened clit, do you finally run up to speed. It’s a little too late, though, because he presses down and escalates your delight to unprecedented heights. Enough to see stars – enough to scream the loudest you have in a long while, so that all your appeals are fully unintelligible but available for the world to hear.

“FUCK! Oh my– Fuck, s-shit, shit…” You cry, tears finally breaking the tension at your waterline and running in an unending sequence. “B-both of y-yo– Ah! So good. I’m–”

Mig moans, sending vibrations right to the tightening ball of pressure in your gut. He’s snowballed his efforts, drinking you in with a sincerity. Specifically targeted is the spongy wall of tissue on the upside of your mound, suffering his battery and singing for it. String-plucked and pedal-pressed symphonies, composing a viscosity within you that sloshes behind your orgasm. Yes, he adds to it, but the fingertips rubbing you with bullish ferocity are going to break what’s holding it all back. You feel– know it.

Using your hair to hold your head in place, Miguel utters a string of debauched nothings onto your lower lip, face pressed close to yours. They’re quiet enough that even you have trouble catching them, your ears ringing with rising alarm. But you sense the way his breath blows, what shapes it creates, how it twines – and that fills in every gap for you. The intimacy manages to speak to the truth, despite all the degrading dirty talk.

“You like that, you filthy fucking thing?” Groaning, your husband increases his speed, goading you faster. There are crushing hands on your hips, and another wound into your scalp, pulling it taut. “So insatiable that you need two men to help make you cum, huh? Do you think you can?”

“Yes, yes, yes please. Please,” The very implication that he might stop before you do inspires unruly desperation. Your hips, arms, head – they all thrash in unison. “I wanna– I want to cum, Miguel, for the love of everything! Please!”

He slaps your clit in warning. The blow sends you reeling into a hush, so much so that you stop moving immediately, secretly wishing he’d do it again. To divert your energy, you stare right into his pupils, which shine with burgeoning playfulness. “You will, dirty girl. You’ll wish you didn’t though.”

“W–”

“Oye, wide eyes.” He turns to Mig, who's been curiously watching the display, jaw still moving against you. He unhooks under the attention, blinking rapidly. “Mouth wide open. You’ll want to catch every drop.”

He returns to strokes you in circles – furious, fervent. It’s a screw to the cork, twisting forcefully to combat the tension it’s working to release. You squeal, screech, do just about anything except contract your body like you’re compelled to do. You leave yourself loose, watching as Mig registers what’s about to happen, following orders and transforming into a receptacle for it. His fangs peak from behind swollen lips.

All you’re able to think about, plastered to this pane of double rapture, is how they don’t seem to retract. Permanent, unlike your Miguel – a fixture in his gums.

And then the dam shatters. Implodes, actually – collapsing into itself until it’s a small particle floating out with the deluge. You can hear it, the rush of fluid squirting from you. Consistently, pouring into the puddle the younger man happily gathers. He beams with satisfaction and looks so much like your husband, who does the same, brushing tears off your wrecked face.

With a core still convulsing, caught in the reverberant throes of pleasure, you’re mentally spent. Drained for every dime you’re worth and still wholly aware of the promise he made, flipping it over in your head. Again, and again, until it loses impact and dissolves from the impending future. For all you try, though, he holds power over you – even in memory.

You’ll wish you didn’t.

Mig sits up, crouched on his haunches. Chest bare of everything – including the curls that span your husbands’ – and in just his boxers, you can’t help but focus on either one of two things. His maw, pulled in a downward smile and soaked with clear slick, a concoction of saliva and your fluid dripping from where his canines poke out. But you find that it fills you with unwieldy humiliation to behold, so you fall onto the next.

Which just so happens to be his erection, trapped and throbbing from behind navy cotton confines. The head of it peaks above his waistband, purple and dribbling with pre-spend. It’s created a wet spot that grows larger by the second, and your humility is replaced by guilt for the poor thing.

Miguel, cooing in faux sympathy, swoops to caress the shell of your ear with his sinful proposal.

“What do you say, cariño? Want us to fuck you silly?”

Your hole squeezes around nothing, empty, speaking with a will of its own. He hears it, because of course he does – he’s in tune with everything about you – and manoeuvres you onto your stomach. By mere muscle memory alone, you get on wobbly knees, presenting your rear to the ecstatic man behind you.

And, your husband… Well–

He squeezes between your face and the headboard, tree-trunk thighs stretching out on either side of you. There’s a huge wedge in his pants, not at full size yet but stiff regardless, suffocated by time and space. Your mouth waters, appetite returning far too rapidly for how distant it seemed mere seconds ago.

“Beautiful, hermosa.” Mig groans, spreading your ass to get a proper view of the way your pussy drips for him. A quick glance back provides you with a lovely picture. Him, positively captivated with your holes – both of them, it appears, based on the way his thumb grazes over your tighter clench. “Can’t wait to feel you on me.”

His cock is out, too, briefs shoved under the sack at the end of his length. You take it all in like it’s the first time – despite the many traits he shares with Miguel. Fat, darker than the rest of him that gleams bronze even at night. Though rooted on a crop of tangled hair, whereas his alternate self prefers it trimmed short. When he strokes himself, anticipative, you note the mushroomed head. Circumcised.

An impish idea suddenly crosses your mind. Succumbing to it, you arch your back, knocking your behind on him. The action traps the appendage between you and his pelvis, and to add insult to injury, you wiggle around until it slots between your cheeks. Mig’s face screws up, close-knit, his hands scrambling for purchase on your rolling hips.

Something slaps your cheek. Grinning, you turn back to Miguel, his dick now extricated from its prison. The heft of it sways, tapping your nose and fluttering eyelids, so damn heavy that you cringe when it approaches. Two veins pop up from the smooth skin stretched along him, branching down to his frenulum, the spot you choose to start.

Your tongue runs along it, lathering the plump seams on your journey to the top. His nerve endings are mainly reduced to his head – unlike Mig, who’s still moaning as you grind across his length – so you stay there, particularly concentrated on the edge and the valley it creates. Your temples warm with the gentle cradle of two large hands, piloting you on your trip around his cock.

He smells like home – an ambrosial mix of leather and sweat, the backseat of his car where he fucked you on valentines. It’d been raining, windows made misty by passing fog, city colours painted on the grey wash. You’d teased him all day with a lack of panties and suffered for it, practically choked on pleasure, nothing on but a new pendant necklace.

Right now, you’re stuck in a parallel state. You can’t breath under the leaden attention of both him and his mirror, doing your best to keep sucking and grinding regardless of your dwindling strength. It’s difficult, difficult to divide yourself and satisfy them both, but fuck do you want to. More than anything, you’d kill to see them come undone in your holes – simultaneously, in some unlikely reverie. Pumped full of cum and praise by double the man you love most. Your tummy lurches with nauseous desire, teeth separating as you take Miguel into your mouth.

Peering up at him, if only to experience the way he loses control. But creases fold between his brow, reading your expression just as well. Without rush or need for brawn, he pulls the responsibility from under you, assigning it to himself by propelling into your trap, all in one go. He grates along the texture of your palette, cleaving your tonsils, and finally settling deep in your throat, triggering a series of ugly gags. To quiet down, you grip your thumb in a fist, focusing not on your lack of air but on contracting your throat around his tip.

“Are you going to fuck her or continue to rut like a dog in heat?” Your husband bites at Mig, ever self-critical. The latter man sucks in a challenging huff, patting your waist as he withdraws to centre his cock between your folds. He wags it until it catches on the divet of your cunt, hot and surging with natural slick.

Then, just when you think you can’t bear it any longer, he pushes in.

“Ghmmngf!” You cry, forced forward onto Miguel’s breadth, coughing out the saliva and pre-spend that threaten to smother you. Nose smooshing to his groyne as the other bottoms out, sheathed fully within you. You swear you can feel him in your guts, silently praising whatever taught him how to make most of your narrow space.

Like they’ve practised telepathy their whole life, both men dip to feel themselves through your body. Mig presses a sturdy hand to your stomach, positioned right at your mound where he protrudes outwards, admiring the visible bulge he creates in you. Similarly, his older counterpart cradles your neck, pinching the sides that expand and retract with the pistoning of his hips. He fucks your gullet slow, fast, and back to slow again – amused with the pace he can discern in more ways than one.

If your eyes hadn’t been rolled to the back of your head, you’d be blinded instead by a pool of blissful tears. They bubble up uncontrollably, wetting the cheeks already glazed with almost every other bodily fluid. You’re ravished, cock dumb times two. Your cunt is stretched to its limits, sucking your paramour in with vacuum-like violence, the gravity of it equatable to the sun.

Or, no–

Not the sun.

Something a hundred times larger, nearing the end of its life. With every rock of your body, it runs out of hydrogen, draining the last dregs of fuel before eventually caving in on itself, transforming into an infinitely dense mass. It happens in your core, Mig’s bruising pace only exacerbating the strain, contracting smaller and smaller. Boundlessly so, enough to brush off as you snake a hand down to your clit, tapping the sensitive bud, testing its reactivity.

When you flick it, though, you’re drawn back into the dip of spacetime. It’s inescapable, the one fixed point in all this mess, imminent for all your ragdoll self tries to delay it. The room pounds with sex, the scent of it accompanying every particle, reducing air to balmy filth that acts as a catalyst in your undoing.

Impossible. You know it’s impossible to acquaint yourself with the sensation of being filled on both ends. Despite it, you try. You claw onto what little authority you have, pushing past your clit to graze your nails on a pair of swinging balls. They’re full and drooping, slapping your thighs as their owner humps your cunt.

“Keep doing that. Fuck, fuc– mierda, feels so good. Yersotight. Soft. Soft and… ah, small.” Mig babbles, bowing over your form to kiss the dip between your shoulder blades. Your teeth graze the cock ramming your craw, an unconscious tick that has your husband tugging your hair in admonishment. “Hermosa– s’okay if I? Gonna… gonna cum.”

“Mmnmgh–”

“Not so fast.” Miguel says, tugging you off him at once. It causes the both of you teetering over the edge, to groan, something overtaking all executive functions and compelling you to listen. The lull finds Mig slipping out, unable to hold himself back should he spend another moment filling your pussy.

You’re carried upward, manhandled off elbows and knees, to straddle your husband’s lap, facing a wide chest with pecs as comforting as pillows. When did he take off his shirt? Your vision swims, crossing, oscillating with the unexpected motion – until, well, it doesn’t, stopping as your forehead finds solace on the dip beneath Miguel’s clavicle. It’s a reassuring change, your brain rewiring into safety mode given the fact that, when you cum again – however overstimulating – you’ll be within the arms that have always expertly navigated it before.

And he’s warm, an ever-raging bonfire that licks your breasts and pebbled nipples, heat penetrating your bones to seep into your heart. Your marrow follows soon after, melting into a potion of desire and relief, especially when his far more familiar cock replaces the void left by Mig.

“Wide eyes.” The older one calls.

“Did–” Said man stutters, shuffling closer. “Hope I didn’t hurt you, pretty.”

“Hngh… ‘Course n-not, Miggy. We’ve safeee– words, rmmbr?” You grunt, reaching a hand behind you to hold onto his bigger one, squeezing it for added reassurance. “My ass, tho-eahh. Please.”

“You’re– You’re being for real. Seriously?” He asks, rising hope evident in his tone. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Of course she has.” Miguel interrupts, rolling his hips instead of bouncing your tired body on him. “First drawer on your right.”

You laugh when the mattress wobbles, sheets tangling beneath his hurried scramble. The bottle of lube is almost empty, bought spontaneously during your honeymoon to Cabo. Your then newly-wed wanted to indulge your fantasy of anal on the beach, tucked away on a private cove he’d found just for the occasion. It’s been a vice ever since, just like all things with him. You’re addicted to the man, flat-out, scratching to get your fix whenever possible. However possible.

And, of course – due to a devastating soft spot that makes it hard for him to begrudge you anything – you now have two.

Mig spurts a substantial amount onto his hand, rubbing it on his dick and the ring of muscle it faces. Two digits thrust into you, exploring your elasticity, scissoring to make room for a much larger insertion. The man seated balls deep in your cunt kneads your flesh; obsessed with the chub around your waist, thighs, your cheeks especially, pulling them apart to make this whole ordeal easier.

Not that you necessarily need it, being used to it by now – though you preen under the attentiveness regardless. Your ego is a drowsy cat, tucked under a patch of sunlight, purring as its heavily pet all over. Muscles lax, borderline liquid as you moan with the training your rear clench receives. More lube is added when the previous pour dries up, shoved into the spasming sphincter, accompanying every lewd ministration used to loosen it.

You gasp, loosening and wet. When fingers exchange for a dick that’s packed, solid as steel, Miguel captures you into another teeming kiss. It’s to occupy you through the temporary pain, you know, suckling your tongue into his mouth with a gentleness unbecoming of your current lechery. The pressure soon subsides, ebbing and waning to an easier to manage fullness.

Fuck. You’re plugged on both ends, twin lengths driving into you, stroking each other through the thin wall separating your rectum from your vagina. Initially, they keep the same pace, working in tandem to strike and pull out at similar times – but the task is demanding. It prevents them from fully forfeiting to euphoria. Their nature soon takes over, a novel motley of priorities wrenching you apart.

Miguel goes unrushed, sybaritic, fucking you in waves of doughy passion. He knocks against your g-spot, groaning at the way you flounder. The system unspools a little emotional well, tugging heartstrings until you bite his collar to quell your wails. He’s dedicated, a professional in the trade of you; his cielita – the term of endearment mumbled on your temple, lips pressed there in a perpetual kiss.

And Mig–

Bless him.

He’s unhinged, ravished by the feeling of your gummy walls flexing around him. Consistently refreshing the lube that makes it possible, petrified at the notion that this could perhaps stop, doing all he can to counter it. His method is rough, fast, pelvis smacking your plush behind – of which Miguel has long since let go of. There’s emotion in the way he behaves too; a wild, unspoken, behemoth thing, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. Not the anal, but you, specifically, panting in his embrace.

(‘You’re just different back home.’)

Your husband might’ve been too quick to judge. If what you suspect is true – which it likely is, an assumption based on an inextricable fondness you’d felt when you first saw the younger man, like you were made to love every version him, in every timeline – then his haste is not innocent clumsiness, but a more dangerous prospect. Desperation. Crestfallen, degenerate desperation. He hadn't the chance to feel any of you before tonight, for one melancholic reason or another.

“M’not… w-won’t last long, beautiful.” He whispers between pecks, peppering them across your nape.

“N-No, me neither.” Whimpering, you twist to scrutinise his tousled appearance. “Want you to cum in me. Fill me so I sp-spend days scooping you out. D-Don’t wanna fo… Need to remember this.”

“Fuck… you can’t talk like that and– and expect me not to embarrass m-myself.”

“Isn’t she something,” Miguel joins, smoothing the stray baby hairs away from your sticky forehead, callused fingers grazing deliciously across sweaty skin. It’s now that you choose to regard their voices, the subtle variations between the two. One deeper than the other – smoked with a prominent accent that jumps at the end of every syllable. “Filthy, dirty little girl. We could stay like this ‘till tomorrow and she’d have no problem. Would bounce on our cocks until she milks us dry.”

“Y’probably need it to keep you in shape– Hmnff!” Is how Mig strangles, cut off as you convulse around his thrusting length. The mass returns, settled in your cunt – a star verging on supernovae level catastrophe, about to implode while they participate in a literal dick measuring contest.

“Watch it, wide eyes.”

“Shuuu… shutup, shtp!” You keen, falling back on the chest of your paramour while Miguel fondles – slaps – your tits, mesmerised by the way they jiggle, your entire body jostled as their fat cocks jam you full.

“Is my girl going to cum?” One says. You can’t tell which, eyes squeezed shut, though you don’t think Mig would dare use that pronoun. My. Not in good conscience, not when he didn’t kiss you for fear that it’d be crossing a boundary.

“I swear I’ll burst if you squirt again.”

“Don’t expect too much from her in this state.” The trigger to it all, that aching bundle of nerves mashed against your husband’s pubes, starts buzzing with electric urgency. You brace yourself for the lightning, the shock. “Silly thing, can’t begin to form words let alone ideas. Look at me, corazón. What do we say?”

You don’t know. You can’t care. No flying fucks exist outside the devastating wreck that’s about to transform you, squalling loud and shrill from every organ that still retains its function. Heart fluttering like a baby bird’s wings. Lungs depressing into shrivelled cavities. Soreness gnaws on your cervix, abused by successive thrusts. Your bones feel like mush, macerated under mortar and pestle and dissolved in blood.

It’s coming, that celestial calamity.

Mig agrees, gasping. “I’m gonna–”

“Oye. What do we say?” Miguel exhorts, catching your glassy-eyed stare with his.

The former man barks your name, completely winded. Your asshole jerks on his cock, which twitches inside of you, ready to blow. Sopping with lube and pre-spend, spit and your own slick, you can’t control the syphoning noises your holes make, blubbering on the cocks that split you apart.

It’s then the words finally find you – manners that your husband insists on.

“Pleeaase.” You cry.

“Fuck!”

Thick spurts of fluid coat your insides, wrung from the man behind you. His cum is blistering, burning the thin layer between him and Miguel – who surprisingly, given the control he’s exhibited thus far, follows suit, pumping you full of his seed. Your womb and rectum, the puffy folds and rim that try to keep it all in – are all frosted with pearlescent spend. Heady and dripping, staining a depraved mess on every crevice between your legs. Gross globs of it caking you, your skin barely visible anymore.

The thought alone – of two men’s essence, beckoned and bled out by you, mixing something disgusting on your most intimate parts – is enough to kick you off the edge. Flailing off that cliff, plummeting into an outburst that lets nothing escape. Not smell, or taste, or light – spinning a black hole of groundbreaking proportions.

You orgasm, again and again – or maybe the whole thing is all just one prolonged, feral, exhausting endeavour. Cumming until your muscles physically give out, going paraplegic with the strain of constant contractions. You crumple, sandwiched between two sturdy chests, stuffed with cotton and sex and pure endorphins, flying with no sign of ever coming down.

A siren's song – sleep, calling to you from the depths of consciousness – almost pulls you under. That is, until your husband manoeuvres you onto your back again, spreading your legs in a near split to expose your sloppy holes to your paramour. His expression is doused with reverence. Supple, soft, the tiniest bit guilty at the sight of you, desecrated by their combined efforts.

“Well?” Miguel prods, fanning your leaking cunt and asshole out wider. “Are you waiting for her to absorb it all? Clean it up.”

And – for the last time that night – Mig does as he’s told, ducking to gather every last bit of proof with his tongue.

Much later, you watch him pull his shirt over his head, snuggled close to your husband. The sky has deepened to its darkest form – midnight, a gibbous moon cushioned amidst glimmering stars.

“Well, it’s been fun.” The man sighs, brushing imaginary lint off his abdomen. He winks at you before turning to leave, testing his luck now that it can’t backfire on him. “If you ever want to trade him in for a newer model, you know where to find me.”

Miguel just grumbles beneath you, displeasure rumbling the hollows of his hairy sternum. You, on the other hand, smile gently, giving the parting gift of your humour.

Only for something better to occur to you. When his grasp closes around your bedroom door knob, you call out – voice a faint, hoarse thing.

“Mig.” You say.

“Yeah?” He replies, blinking back at you.

“I think you should go for it.”

And all your mild musings are confirmed when he nods, sheepish, like a child caught with a fist in the cookie jar. It’s okay – you mouth, because you know. Whoever you are on his Earth, with whatever cosmic odds stacked against you, you’ll fall. If only because it’s Miguel. Mig. Your O’Hara – such truth woven into the fabric of every conceivable reality.

Your husband catches on quickly, patting your sleepy head. It’s the first time he talks to himself with a tone that isn’t condescending, laying a sentiment you recognise as meaning more to his younger counterpart than anything you could say. Perhaps because it’s kind, a bit of proper advice made mushy by an echoed devotion to you. Or, perhaps because he’s witnessed the evidence to it consistently, all night long. Wide eyes.

“It’ll be the best thing you’ll ever do for yourself.”

part two

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yzzart · 10 months

Text

— 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

★ 𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐎'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 + 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫. ★

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: At all times, someone needs you, but there was one in particular.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: +18!, smut, riding, size difference, unprotected sex, teasing, dirty talk, praise kink, p in v, mention of bulge, explicit content, explicit words, sexual content.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.164!

You should be in your universe.

Fighting a criminal, or even pulling a kitten out of a tree. — Or also, tidy up your mediocre apartment that was in the purest mess along with some of Gwen's things, since she had spent the night there.

And you wondered, and prayed, if she had locked the door and closed all the windows. — God, you hope she hasn't left everything out in the open.

You knew, like no one else, that you needed to assume one of your greatest responsibilities and not be distracted by anything from another universe or another canon line. — Your New York needed you; they needed Spider Woman.

At any moment, minute or even second, some villain or a piece from another universe could appear in your city. — Well, it's not hard to admit that you were used to it.

Your duty, loyalty and dignity to protect all citizens of your city was at stake. — But, you could at least take a few hours off, right?

But in such a selfishly cheeky way, there was one person in particular who needed you more than anything; this may sound dramatic or even exaggerated but it didn't matter to you. — This is way out of your worry zone.

"¿Qué está pensando mi princesa, eh?" — Your vague and irrelevant thoughts disappeared in a matter of seconds, like a tiny, soft feather in the winds; that voice so deep, tense and a little breathless landed in your ears, perfectly.

That voice that made your body tremble, and made your mind so clouded and out of control, even you didn't know what to do at certain times. — It seemed that voice had some kind of magic, or even a poison that you loved to mortally quench; a poison you were addicted to.

Opening your eyes, you slowly come back to your reality; the only one that mattered to you. — Your heavy eyes, with the vision a little blurred but clear enough to admire the presence that was in front of you, or rather, below you.

The image of Miguel, devoting all his attention and concentration to you, while you were straddling him. — His big, strong, fearsome body next to the purest white silk pillows, along with the small scratches caused by your fingernails and weak bites scattered across the exposed regions; a sight you could kneel at so blessed it was.

His hair, totally messy and unruly, made his presence even more magnificent; not to mention his red face, not because of some embarrassment or anything like that, but because of the intense pleasure he was feeling for you. — Miguel could feel the burning sensation in his chest.

But, nothing could compare or explain the feeling of your pussy squeezing his dick; Miguel felt, in fact, disoriented and lost when he felt and admired your little pussy swallowing his big fat cock; not to mention the bulge that had grown in your belly, it wasn't all that visible, but Miguel watched with desire, temptation and pride.

O'Hara knew perfectly well that your sweet, hot, wet pussy was made for him. — And if he could spend all that time buried in your pussy without thinking about spider society, the multiverse or his responsibilities as spider man, he would.

Waiting for your answer, or anything to come out of your mouth, one of Miguel's large, rough hands ran up your bare thigh; a long, strong squeeze was directed at the region. — In a matter of seconds, his finger prints would be there.

A simple finger print was nothing compared to all the bite marks and hickeys the dreaded man had left on every possible region of your body. — You bit your lip, not so radically or brutally, and proceeded to direct your hand over Miguel's hand; the size comparison was captivating.

"I was thinking of you." — Your confession came out as a near-whisper, as if it were a secret. — No matter what was going on in your city or the multiverse, you needed Miguel, just like he needed you.

A triumphant, satisfied smile formed on Miguel's desirable lips, and let his fangs stand out, at least a little. — Fangs that have already passed through your entire body, without leaving even a part out; but this is far from being a complaint.

Miguel's reddish eyes, which mesmerized and held you, roamed over your body without haste or impatience. — As much as O'Hara was an extremely impatient man. — He couldn't help but be proud of the marks he'd left on your body, signaling that you belonged to him and only him.

He admires your boobs, which moved slowly according to your movements in his lap, and how your nipples were red from grabbing and sucking them so much. — And he knew how sensitive they were; and Miguel made a point of directing his other hand on one of your sensitive nipples and squeezing it.

"Miguel." — You whimpered, closing your eyes to the painful yet pleasurable touch. — The feel of Miguel's cock pulsing inside you, slaking your desire and the teasing, torturous touch he was getting on your nipple was freaking your head out.

"Te ves tan hermosa así, mami." — The comforting words uttered in his deep tone made you squeeze him tighter, Miguel closed his eyes, quickly, as he felt the tight, delicious sensation. — "Riding me like this."

Removing his hand from your nipple, ending the teasing, torturous action, Miguel places it on your hip; a gentle caress was left on the region, then he signaled and encouraged you to increase the luscious and pleasurable movements in his lap. — In a matter of seconds, you understood and fulfilled your man's request.

The drastic and quick movement of your hips against Miguel's brought moans and grunts from both of your mouths; your thin, needy, melancholy moans against Miguel's deep, rough moans was the enchanted combination.

O'Hara refused to close his hungry red eyes and miss any miserable second of the scene before him; no matter how good he felt or how hard your pussy was squeezing his cock, he wanted to witness everything. — He wanted to see his good girl riding him.

"Mi Dios del cielo." — He moaned, louder this time, and biting his lips deeply, making his own fangs ravage him. — "Vas a ser mi jodida muerte, bebé."

You mutter something incoherent, incomprehensible, but it was probably some word of agreement directly to Miguel. — Not even he tried to decipher what you had actually said. — But, the noise of wet skin hitting and your needy and excited moans ran through the man's head.

"Miggy..." — It was pathetic how Miguel watched his nickname come out of your mouth in such a delightful and whiny way; you decided to place your hands under Miguel's muscular chest, gently running your fingernails over the area.

"¿Qué pasa, mi princesita?" — Miguel knew you wouldn't be able to answer him properly, but he didn't miss another opportunity to tease you. — He looked at your mouth, and mentally repudiated you for hurting your beautiful lips with your teeth. — "Ven aquí, mi corazón, por favor."

His needy words didn't go unnoticed by you, even though you weren't aware of much at that moment, and of course, you didn't fail to fulfill another request from Miguel. — Then, bending down a little more, slowing down the movements, your breasts press against Miguel's and you feel a shiver run through your body at the contact; your hands come up a notch, landing on o'Hara's neck.

Your face was only an inch away from Miguel's, and you could feel his sharp, deep breathing against yours. — Your lips almost struggled against his, and your eyes managed to admire his sharp fangs.

O'Hara felt your eyes fixed on his fangs, admiring and gazing, he knew you were obsessed with them and that turned him on even more. — The fact and the way he was so desperate, so needy for your lips melted every last neuron you had.

"Bésame, mi reina." — Miguel whispered against your lips, tickling you; he didn't even have to say twice for you to heed his warm attention.

In a quick moment, like the blink of an eye, you joined your lips with Miguel's; an action you were desperate to commit. Your soft lips, so soft and silky against Miguel's silky, rough but so desirable lips brought you comfort, in addition to excitement. — You molded yourselves, became one, fully fitted into each other.

Miguel's rough tongue explored your mouth, it seemed like it was the first time the man had kissed you. Your tongue lashed, intensely, against O'Hara's; it looked like they were dancing, fighting for space. — Not to mention the obscene and wet sounds that were running through the dimly lit room.

Sometimes, your tongue touched Miguel's sharp fangs, and it's possible to tell that you did it on purpose and he knew it.

Suddenly, Miguel's hand that was on your hip, helping you move, along with the other, were directed to your thighs; grabbing them tightly, and taking control of the movements. — An unexpected action and surprising you.

A surprised moan came out of your mouth during the kiss, and you even pulled your lips away from Miguel's; but he made a point of biting your lips at the very moment you decided to do so. — The sharp feel of his fangs on your lips caused you to shiver again.

Not distracted, but keeping his attention on you, Miguel gripped your thighs tightly and forced your hips against his, making a real impact on you; from that moment on, Miguel was in control of the movements and in you. — You were completely filled by Miguel's cock, and you could actually feel his heavy balls bumping against you.

O'Hara moved your hips down and up with ease, and modesty, reminding you of the rhythm you were practicing before; but, it was for a little while. — Feeling a pressure, a weight on the bed, which was in a mess, you couldn't see Miguel lifting his legs a little, then bending them; you tried to look back but were stopped.

"No, no, ojos en mí, cariño." — He ordered precisely, and you didn't dare disobey him.

O'Hara couldn't contain the impatience, which in this man was stronger than he was, and he moved your hips harder, with more fervor; he recognized how needy he was for you, and how desperate to fill your luscious pussy with his seed. — You whimpered loud and clear in his ears, which glorified the noises that came out of your mouth.

In the dark room, with both clothes scattered on the floor, the noise of skins clashing, your loud and so excited moans and certain grunts of Miguel controlling the environment. — And your and Miguel's scent mingled with the strong, intense scent of sex.

Miguel felt a thin and a little burning stitch on his neck, he had the notion that it was your nails scratching him again and he had the perspective that you were close to your orgasm; besides your moans started to get louder and your pussy was squeezing him even more. — You didn't have to warn him that you were close to your climax, Miguel recognized it even in your smell; that man knew your body better than you.

"I got you, my love." — He grumbles, and making a little effort, to leave small, wet kisses in the region of your neck. Miguel's lips moved up to your chin, then rested on your lips, leaving a long, promiscuous kiss. — "I got you, my pretty little girl."

As Miguel accelerated the pace of his thrusts, frantically, the noise of the bed moving, thrashing against the wall began to travel through the room and into your ears.

With his big, strong arms, Miguel hugs your waist; and besides feeling the pleasure completely dominating your body, you felt safe and comfortable with him. — It wasn't just the pleasure that was there, of course, the passion, protection and security you felt for each other.

A grunt, easily seen as a groan, brusque and deep but so liberating, exclaimed from Miguel's lips; At the same time, he dug his fangs into his lips and bit down hard, and he could already taste the bitter, metallic taste. — He had reached his peak.

Miguel had filled you in; the warm, sticky, delicious feel of his release against your walls was a blessed thing. — A majestic thing, and one that held O'Hara's mind. — He didn't want to get out of you, and he really didn't. — But, O'Hara didn't stop moving his hips, he wanted you to take every last drop of his cum.

With your face pressed against Miguel's neck, he could feel your labored breathing and low moans along with whimpers. — It tickled the older man's sensitive area and brought a triumphant smile to his lips.

"You did good, Mami." — Miguel moved his head so that his lips were brushing against your ear. — "And mi dios..." — He drew in a long breath, then a hearty but deep-pitched laugh exclaimed in your ears. — "Tu serás mi muerte."

#miguel o'hara #spiderman #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara x spiderwoman!reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader smut #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o’hara smut #spiderman x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 smut #across the spiderverse

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miguelsslvt · 6 months

Text

miguel o’hara x fem! reader shower sex

word count: 796

TW: smut, nsfw, fingering, miguel is a little cutie

A/N: happy kinktober my loves, enjoy the smut, welcome to the club;)

Miguel had been quite busy recently. And when I say quite, I mean very. You two used to have sex at least once every day, but now you’re lucky if you guys can even see each other during the week. You understood it was his duty to protect the multiverse and keep it in order, but damn you’re starting to think Lyla might be more important then you.

Thats why, on one night, Miguel finally got back after being out for 4 days. You two had barely even spoken. He looked tired, as you walked up to him, hugging him softly. ‘God you look shattered.’ You said, pointing at his eyeballs. ‘Didn’t you sleep in the spare room at HQ?’ You asked, he nodded. ‘Yeah, but you know what the beds like.’ He reminded, as you nodded. ‘yeah.. pretty bad. Cmon, lets get you cleaned up. You smell like crap’ you teased, as he chuckled softly, holding your hips as you both went into the bathroom.

this had been the first time in exactly 2 weeks and 5 days you had seen Miguel naked. And god, it was like a bottle of fresh water. His tan kissed skin, his abs and muscles flexing in just the right way, his v-line looking delicious as always. it was like he was sculpted by a god. You both got into the shower, the hot water going on both of your heads, as Miguel pulled you right on top of the shower head, as you gasped and giggled in surprise. He laughed softly, kissing you passionately.

You kissed back of course, missing this sweet side of him. Its quite uncommon to see Miguel be human for once.

Things got heated pretty quickly. He had picked you up by your thighs, pinning you onto the shower wall. your hands gripped around his thick neck, as your tongues danced together. He let go soon enough, panting. ‘We haven’t.. in so long..’ He said between pants, you nodded. ‘If you don’t want to-‘ ‘I’ve been craving you for weeks, love.’ He whispered, the water still hot on Miguels back.

He kissed you again passionately, placing a finger inside you. ‘Missed this sweet pussy..’ He growled, lacing another finger inside as you gasped in pleasure. Sure you’ve fingered yourself this week thinking about Miguel, but nothing can compare to his long, huge fingers.

‘god.. mig..’ You moaned breathlessly, as he just shut you up by kissing you once again. ‘..you ready, mi amor?’ He cooed, taking out his fingers and putting his tip just on your hole. You nodded desperately. ‘please.. you don’t understand how much I’ve needed this..’ You confess, as he plunged all 8 and a half inches inside you. You moaned out loudly, gasping as you felt the same usual heat as you always do when miguel is filling you up.

‘You okay..?’ He asked, groaning. You nodded, leaning your head on the cold shower wall. ‘y..you can move..’ You said, as he nodded.

He started thrusting into your slowly, as his pace soon sped up. You moaned in ecstasy, eyes glued onto Miguel. he was a panting mess, his hands grabbing anything of you as he could. Your waist, your thighs, your tits, your neck, your hands, everything.

‘fuck.. you feel so good, sweetheart.. could stay stuck with you like this forever..’ He whispered in your er, as your lower stomach felt hot as he thrusted deeper. harder. Your mind was foggy and clouded in lust, all you could think about was Miguel and how good he ws making you feel. ‘M..Miguel.. gd feels so good..’ You whispered, whining a little. He chuckled slowly, lifting you chin to look up at him. ‘Its okay, keep your eyes on me. i’ll always be here, okay?’ He said, kissing you sloppily. ‘Always gonna be here to fuck my girl the way she deserves.’ He said between the kiss, as you moaned softly, hands trailing up and down his abs, feeling the same familiar hot coil down your stomach.

‘g..gonna.. Miguel..’ You whined, as he nodded. ‘I know. I know..’ He whispered, as he got faster and harder with the thrusts, so hard you swore you started seeing stars. You let out a loud moan of Miguel’s name, as your eyes rolled back, cumming on his cock.

miguel kept going, biting his lower lip, grunting as he groaned loudly beside you ear, mumbling something in Spanish as he came deep inside you.

You both panted together, the sound of the shower still there. You could worry about the water bill later.

You looked up at Miguel, as he kissed you passionately.

‘We’re not done yet, my love.’ He said, his voice husky and deep. god, you knew you were in for it now.

#miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel spiderman #across the spiderverse #miguel smut #miguel spiderverse #fem reader #smut #shower scene #shower miguel #i need him so badly oh my god #miguel ohara smut

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jellybeans2099 · 10 months

Text

Release

Pairing: Miguel x Spiderwoman!reader

Summary: Miguel loves the way you taught him and you love the way he keeps coming back for more

Warnings: 18+ NSFW MDNI, oral (f receiving) , p in v, unprotected sex, cumming untouched, cum eating, dom/sub dynamics (if you squint), smothering, pure filth, reader is mean and Miguel likes it, this is a consensual exchange its just a bit fucked

Work Count: 1.5K

A/N: Not beta read. This is my first time posting something this smutty and I'm honestly very nervous to post it. If you have any questions or critiques please feel free to reach out!

Miguel, the leader of the spider society and the piece holding the multiverse together, had a lot on his shoulders. The stress of this job and the expectations that went with it had a major toll on him and his wellbeing. You however were never intimidated by him and his stature, often cracking jokes and lightly poking fun at him. He enjoyed it, he genuinely enjoyed feeling like he could indulge in being a little less in control with you. You didn't hold him up on a pedestal and you most certainly had no issues giving him orders when you worked on missions together. You met only once before your first mission together and from then he was hooked. Your easy going nature drew him in and suddenly you were all he could think about. He didn't mean for it to make him so turned on but it did and when you found out you had no problem letting him indulge his fantasies with you. You secretly wanted to have him under your full control, just to see how much he could keep under control.

Now it was months later and he found himself with both your legs wrapped around his head as he takes a long deep breath to take in your scent. The smell of your wet pussy, wet just for him, went straight to his already rock hard dick. The tip surely was angerly red and dripping precum all over his thighs. He could care less as you wail out his name hoping desperately to feel his tongue lick you out. And so he did, moaning and muttering like a mad man. His tongue licking slow long strokes from your dripping hole to your swollen puffy clit. You bite back a moan as you writhe your hips over him. He reaches up to hold your hips still.

"F-faster, I need you to go faster."

He then darts his tongue into you and you throw your head back. His swollen lips latch onto your clit and you're seeing stars. He savors you on his tongue, the familiar taste of you sending shock waves through his body. He will never get tired of the way you taste. Your hands instantly slinked into his hair and gave a hard pull. He groans, loving how rough you treat him while you chased your own high.

"B-be still Miguel, I'm gonna fuck your face."

Without an ounce of hesitation he lets go your hips and sticks out his tongue and lets you go to town. You start at a brutal pace, smothering him with your thick thighs as he struggles to breathe. You grind your wet mound into his face without care. Your eyes are screwed shut as his name spills out your lips like a prayer. He'd gladly die right now; pussy drunk with his face slathered in your juices listening to you moaning and muttering his name. The temptation to melt his suit away and give his hard on the much needed attention it craves is ever present. Maybe he will just to see how deliciously you'd punish him for it. He throbs as you begin to clench around his tongue.

"Mhm just like that. Fuck I'm gonna cum."

He can't handle it. The death grip on his hair plus the feeling of your oncoming climax on his tongue has him cumming untouched underneath his suit. Hot ribbons of cum hit the front of his suit as he groans into you. He's careful not to make too much noise so you hopefully won't notice. Times like this he's thankful for not making a more traditional suit. Sticky cum begins to drip down his thighs as your hips studder and you release right onto his face. He chases every single drop of you as he whines through both yours and his orgasm. You continue to grind your face into him to finish out your high. He feels so pathetic and he can't seem to get enough. He loves how small you make him feel. He's still hard as you slowly begin to disconnect from him and lay flat on the mattress. He continues to kneel at the foot of the bed while you begin to collect yourself and come back to your senses. You sit up on the bed and look down at him.

"Stand up and let me see. You honestly didn't think I didn't feel that shutter when you came. Dissolve the suit and let me see."

His face begins to burn in embarrassment as his suit slowly begins to dissolve. His dick is once again hard as a rock as he stands before you naked covered in his own cum. It was a game to him, do something small enough to make you just that little bit meaner and he's hard and leaking. You look at him with those cold, laser focused eyes and he feels himself twitch. You size up the mess he made in total silence making him even more desperate to touch himself.

"You really made a mess didn't you. It honestly turns me on seeing you covered in cum before I've even touched you. It almost makes me want to take care of you, almost."

He groans softly as you size him up. His mind begins to race at the possibilities of what you have in store.

"What do you have in mind?"

His throat going dry in anticipation for your denial. What he would give to sink his dick deep inside you and paint your walls white with his seed and watch as it leaked out of you mixed with your own juices. He knows you'll never let him cum inside you, but the thought that one day you might keeps this twisted little game of his going. You knew exactly what he wanted and yet the fun part for you was watching his eyes as he's denied countless times. You both now are locked in the heat of your twisted little game, both waiting for the other to give in.

"You look so delicious right now, I really want to fuck you. But you came before me and I'm sad you did that."

You slide up onto the bed and he quickly follows suit with you underneath him. You reach up to bring his face closer to yours and pull him in for a hot passionate kiss. You love the way you tasted on his mouth as your tongue licks his. His hands are on your waist holding you close to him as he trails his kisses down your face toward your jaw. Even in this moment he was overwhelming and your lust for him only made keeping control harder for you.

"But otherwise you've been so delightful to me. I feel like being a little nice."

You whisper in his ear as his fangs graze your throat and a shiver runs through his body. You can feel his dick lightly graze your clit as you bite down on your bottom lip to not loose your composure. While you were in charge in all of these interactions you wanted so deeply to give into your desires and let him ravish your body to his heart's content and you're a moaning writing mess.

"Whatever you want, just say the word."

You could hardly breathe as he continued to trail kisses down your chest, taking one of your nipples in his mouth and swirling it with his tongue. Your willpower was at it's last straw as you pull his face back up to yours. You reach down and take his dick into your hand and lightly begin to stroke him. His face is buried in your neck as he moans your name. He slides one of his fingers through your soaked folds and your grip on him tightens.

"Please fuck me. Cum on me."

Without another word he lines himself up with your entrance and carefully thrusts in. The warmth of you around him was already too much and he knew his orgasm was not far off and from how tight you were you weren't far behind. His pace was agonizingly slow, trying to savor this for the both of you. Your nails were digging deep into his biceps as you tried to hold off as long as you could. Both of you too addicted to the feeling of being on the edge to push it any further. His pace begins to pick up as you wrap your legs around his waist. The lewd sounds of your wetness filled the room, You could hold on no longer as you felt yourself begin to clench around him.

"I'm cumming. Oh fuck I'm cumming. "

H quickly pulls out and pumps his hot load on your stomach and chest all the while growling out your name. The feeling of it hitting your body was enough to make your orgasm feels like ages. You collapse onto the mattress utterly spent. You swipe a finger in his cum and lift the finger to your mouth, as always he tastes delicious.

"Careful now, I can pull another round outta me if you keep that up."

He watched you through hooded eyes as he catches his breath at the foot of the bed. You tried to laugh but your body was exhausted beyond all measure, You fall asleep shortly after he leaves the room to go get a rag to clean you up. When you finally come to the spot next to you is empty, the only sign the night has happened was the ache in your lower body.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara smut #miguel x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #miguel x y/n #spider man 2099 #miguel smut #miguel atsv #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x spiderwoman!reader #miguel o’hara fic #miguel o’hara fanfiction

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diejager · 6 months

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Hi I adored Bittersweet Devotion and it gave me this thought. By no means am I requesting anything out of you since the series is complete but I just thought I could share the thought I had.

Miguel (2099) goes to fix an anomaly in Earth -YYY thinking that it will be normal. Get the anomaly and just get out. But it turns out that he just gets sucker punched in a still bleeding emotional wound of reader leaving him for good, because in Earth-YYY there's another version of the reader who is just a regular civilian. This one has no idea who Miguel is and just lives a happy and normal life. And Miguel wants to use this version of the reader to fix his broken heart, but he doesn't want to risk the danger that could bring, but more importantly he fears that he'll just hurt this one as bad as he hurt the you he originally was with. To him, this version of you is innocent and untouched by everything about, well, who he is and how he is. Not to mention that this isn't his earth, so you aren't HIS in the first place.

Anyways thanks for your time and listening. Have a good day and or night. :)))

hmmmm that’s an interesting thought, he’s still heartbroken and smitten.

He’s out again, heart still bleeding with pain and sorrow, but he has to work, he has a responsibility towards every Spider and the multiverse. Fresh from your rejection for someone better, for someone that could love you wholeheartedly, he had to face the multiverse and his dying heart at the same time. It’s a painful process, but he has to do it.

He was only here for the anomaly, but when he saw you from Earth-YYY, he couldn’t help stop the painful beat in his heart, the soft pulse in his blood that reminded him of every good memory you shared with him. You, however, from Earth-YYY was a simply civilian, not someone with powers or someone who knew Spider-Woman from your world, you were normal and innocent.

He saw it as a second chance, to have you again without actually hurting the person he loved, but there was a risk. He hadn’t seen the Miguel O’Hara from Earth-YYY, but he couldn’t risk letting his alternate see him. Hé felt like the universe was taunting him, Earth-YYY’s Miguel was still a mystery to him and was as much a stranger as Miguel YYY was for him.

It was a mercy and a cruelty at the same time, being so close to you yet so far. If he was selfish he would’ve crawled down, walking up to you and reel you in with smooth words and a hot smirk, but he was selfless and giving, learning from his mistakes. So he kept his distance, protecting your innocence, your untouched heart from his cruel hands and poisonous mind.

Miguel would protect any version of you that he came across, preventing any disaster from taking you away from him, as long as he didn’t disturb the canon events, he would intervene. You weren’t his in this world either, promised to another who would deserve you, who would make you smile and laugh, who would love you better than him.

It hurt, it shattered his already broken heart, threatening to bring him to his knees and wrack his body with sobs. He would have to stand strong for the people who needed him, for the people who looked to him for guidance and for the innocence in the multiverse. He would continue even if it hurt.

Taglist: @yas-v @elliewilliamsbae @rinieloliver

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froggoon · 9 months

Text

˚₊‧꒰ა Under Her Spell Pt. 1 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

A powerful Witch lands herself in the middle of the Spider Society and Miguel is completely smitten.

★ pairing: Miguel x witch! reader

★ ratings: slow burn, eventual smut

★ wc: 1.33k

At Spider Society Headquarters. . .

It’s not that Miguel didn’t want to find love. Everyone wants to find their happiness, someone to go home to sleep with at night, hear their troubles, share their feelings, and find comfort in. Miguel just didn’t have the time. Between managing the multiverse, catching anomalies, and battling the trauma of losing his daughter Gabby, he couldn’t even look at a Woman never mind being able to keep a relationship. That was until a blue portal opened up above the main entrance at headquarters. It was a light blue that swirled around leaving a trail of stars in its path. The spiders around were mesmerized by it, no one had ever seen anything like that, it gave a completely different aurora than the portals they create with their watches. A woman shot out of it with a beaming light and landed with a loud thud.

She was dressed in a skin-tight black suit that had a deep V and a corset around the waist. Her dark hair fell into a halo around her head. Jewelry decorated her wrists and hands and glistened in the light. Her long lashes flattened against her cheeks and her lips parted with each breath. The portal subsided with a quick whoosh leaving the stranger stranded.

“Outa my way everyone move, clear back. I SAID BACK.” Miguel demanded as he pushed his body forward. The woman’s eyes fluttered open meeting Miguel’s. A small heat bloomed in them as she whispered “Help me.” Before falling unconscious. “Get her to the infirmary. Lyla, update me on her condition and when she wakes up.” Miguel didn’t have time to stare at her, he had a multiverse to take care of.

The beeping of the machines and the blinding lights of the room were all you could notice. Still feeling groggy after waking up, your memories slowly started connecting one after another. The last thing you remembered was attempting a new spell you learned from an older book in your Master's Library. It was supposed to be a simple transportation spell, you meant for it to send you to another room, not another dimension. Ripping out the wires attached to your body you stumbled your way to the door only to be met with another door. Rubbing your nose slightly you looked up only to realize it was not a door behind a door but a sexy hot man in a blue and red suit.

“You awake,” Miguel commented. “Yes… where…where exactly am I? And who are you” you questioned while backing up away from the handsome figure. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You did make a scene crashing in the middle of my headquarters.” His face could only be described as a permanent glare with eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. Readjusting your posture in an attempt to seem confident you state “ I am (y/n), I come from Earth-94721, I was practicing a new transportation spell and accidentally landed myself here.” As you looked at his stoic face you felt nervous as you continued “I won’t be here too long, I just need to recreate the spell and I shall be out of your hair.” Miguel looked away slightly, you were cute, he hadn’t found any other women interesting but here you were standing in front of him, making him feel things in his body that he shouldn’t. “Good. I got enough things to worry about here. I don’t need another thing distracting me.” He never even introduced himself.

Little did Miguel know you were about to be the biggest distraction he had in a long time.

Nothing worked. You tried to recreate the spell but couldn’t get it just right. Was it another phrase you had to say? Had you said it too slowly? Did you need to be sitting? Standing? Even trying Miguel’s machine to send it home didn’t work. After stepping into the pod all the machine did was malfunction and frazzled out. It was almost as if your Earth didn’t exist. But nether the less you kept trying.

You’ve been at the spider society headquarters for about 5 days. You’ve met Gwen, Hobie, and Miles they were an interesting bunch. A little younger than you but you couldn’t help but feel energized when they came around. Gwen reminded you of your little sister Grace who was also a bit shy but had a big heart. Miles and Hobie’s antics remixed you of your friends at home who always were outgoing and fun. You had met Peter B Parker and Mayday in the cafeteria when you both reached for the last donut. Mayday was a sweet girl and so cute, you had loved kids since you raised your sister. Looking after Mayday felt like second nature. You met Jessica after giving her advice on yoga poses and stretches to do to help her before giving birth. You seem to be getting along with everyone, everyone except Miguel. That guy was always holed up in his office on the stupid platform in his stupid costume with his stupid hair. You thought he was annoyed with you, annoyed you couldn’t find your way home.

In reality, he wasn’t annoyed but consumed with you. He would watch you from the security cameras, inhale your scent every time you passed, and think about all the way he would take you on every surface of the headquarters. Miguel wasn’t just infatuated with you because of your looks, but over the course of the few days, he learned a lot about you. Although he seems like a hardass, Miguel cared about people. He knew what flavor of ice cream Peter B Parker liked, he knew that Gwen’s favorite Barbie movie was Swan Lake, and he knew that Miles loved to draw and make art. What about you? He knew that you liked your coffee with 3 sugars and 2 creams, that your favorite color was green, you had 1 sister Grace, and that you admired people with dreams.

In your eyes Miguel was a protector. You saw him as someone with high guards around his heart but ultimate did what he thought was best. His attitude didn’t stop you from making small interactions with him. Every morning you had greeted him with a friendly smile and a simple hello. You offered help with missions and fixing his equipment. You healed his wounds with magic and talked about your home.

Days passed and you two seemed to fall into a comfortable pattern. The other spiders began to notice that Miguel was less irritable and it was all because of you. Even the trio and Peter had an ongoing bet to see when you guys would make a move.

You were in a small workspace Miguel gave you to practice your magic and find a way back home. You were sweating, it was taking all your energy conjoining spells, taking notes, and gathering ingredients. Layer by layer your clothes came off until you were left in a simple sports bra and biking shorts. Miguel had just finished his mission catching a Green Goblin variant when he swiftly dismissed his team and made his way over to your lab.

He swore he was going to burst. The sight of your sweltering form in little to no clothing running all over the room was enough to make his suit feel tight. Hearing the door open you turned to look at him with a big smile. “Miggy! Your back! I missed you!”

I missed you.

Such a small sentence but it swelled his heart. It made him feel needed and wanted, and there was nothing more than you that he wanted right now. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath he replied “I missed you too, I see you're working hard. Meet me in my office in 10 to discuss your process.” And with that, he closed the door walking away quickly to take care of his problem.

Pt2?

#spiderman #across the spiderverse #spiververse #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel smut #smut #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #atsv x reader #atsv x you #spiderman into the spiderverse #2099 #miguel spiderman #spider man 2099 #miguel o hara

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 11 months

Text

Show Me What You're Hiding

Summary: Y/N gets a glimpse of Dean, and is desperate to see even more.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut. Nothing too crazy. Nakedness, lustful thoughts, Dean objectification, and a smidge of dirty talk (from the reader.) Adorable!Dean being adorable, while simultaneously being the hottest fucker around. You know, that thing he's really good at.

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Y/N

Word Count: 685

A/N: Just a smutty little drabble brought on by @myloversgone and this hot af pic she sent me. It's obviously Jensen in the picture and not Dean, but after reblogging this post, and having these discussions with @eevvvaa, I've had this idea floating in my head, and combined with that picture, it just made this story happen in my brain. 😁 Hope you enjoy! 😊

Then earlier today, the beautiful @myloversgone sent me the INCREDIBLE pic above and this story pretty much materialized in my brain instantly. It turned out to be a bit more smut based than fluff based, but there's definitely fluff at the end. Hope you all enjoy it! 😊

A/N 2: As always, this is a different version of Jensen from within the Multiverse who is single. Absolute and complete fiction, of course.

The beautiful divider below and at the bottom was created by @talesmaniac89

Masterlist || Tag Lists

You're trying desperately not to stare, but you simply can't help following the path taken by the drops of water that fall down from Dean's soaking wet hair and over his wide, thick shoulders. The droplets continue on over his bare chest, skirting around his nipples and then over his flat stomach. A couple of them spill into the groove of muscle that ripples down from his hips on both sides, creating a perfect V shape that leads to a patch of reddish blonde hair.

And just below that hair, you catch a glimpse of what is being obscured by the giant hand that Dean has placed in front of his most intimate body parts. You can't stop the loud gasp that escapes you when you realize that you can still see a glimpse of him because his one big hand isn't quite enough to cover all of him.

When he realizes that, he drops the toiletry bag he was carrying in his left hand, and it lands on top of the towel that had fallen from his hips as you'd bumped into him coming out of the shower room, just as you were heading in. With his other hand now empty, he uses them both to sort of cup everything and hide himself away.

"Ah…shit, f-f-fuck, Y/N." Dean splutters. "I'm so sorry. I didn't, uh…didn't see you there."

The heat you can see crawling up his neck, and turning the tips of his ears pink is so unbelievably adorable. Given his Casanova reputation, you would have expected some smooth flirtation from him in a moment like this, or a few dirty-minded suggestions. But no, he's flushed and stuttering, and ridiculously adorable in his awkwardness.

All the dirty thoughts are definitely coming from your direction.

Given his massive strength, so blatantly on display right in front of you, and the obvious, god-given endowments he'd been blessed with (that are now hidden behind his two massive hands) his little blush is so out of place and unexpected that it makes you desperate to kiss him. Hard.

You take a step closer to him and he swallows convulsively, his eyes wide. He bites into his bottom lip and you groan and place your hands on his bare chest. His freckled skin is cool and pebbled with goosebumps, whether from the cold air or your touch, you aren't sure. But you can feel his heart hammering beneath your palm and you know you need to check with him before you go any further.

"It's okay, Dean. I was the clumsy one, I should have paid closer attention." Your voice is rough with want and you lick your lips. Dean's eyes drop to your mouth and his breath becomes a bit ragged. You can see that the embarrassment and trepidation in his gorgeous, mossy green eyes are starting to be replaced with a kind of simmering heat.

You feel your core muscles clench around nothing and an ache begins to pulse in your pussy. You look up at him and decide to just go for it, praying for a yes.

"I wanna kiss you, Dean. No, I wanna do more than kiss you. I wanna lick you, I wanna taste you, bite you. I wanna ride you, fuck you."

Dean's eyes are round with shock once again, but you can see the desire still pooling there in the deep black of his expanding pupils.

"Do you wanna fuck me, Dean?"

Dean takes a second to breathe deeply through his nose, but then clears his throat and answers.

"From the second I laid eyes on you, sweetheart."

His voice is deep and dark, and filled with overwhelming lust. You can see the shock beginning to leave him, and a smirk starts to form that tells you you're in for a long, wild night.

Determined to stay on even footing with the sexy bastard, you grab his thick wrists, and yank his hands away from where they're shielding himself. You hear his breath hitch and you smile up at him coyly.

"Then show me what you're hiding there, big boy."

Tags under the cut:

1 - Jensen RPF + Any/All characters Jensen plays. @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @impalaslytherin @maggiegirl17 @akshi8278 @candy-coated-misery0731 @nt-multi-fandom @deanswaywardgirl @slytherinlyn314 @globetrotter28 @jensensgirl @perpetualabsurdity @tristanrosspada-ackles @djs8891 @muhahaha303 @kayyay1219 @emily-winchester @recoveringpastaaddict @maximumkillshot @mimaria420 @sacriceria @envyaurora95 @lacilou @jc-winchester

2 - Dean Winchester Fics Only. @saikosheadcanons @lgranger67 @carryonwaywardgirl

3 - Any/All Fics (regardless of fandom/character.) @sunshineandwings86 @kazsrm67 @sexyvixen7 @alexxavicry @nancymcl @spalady26

4 - Everything (includes fan vid/DOOL edits as well) @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @awkward-and-indecisive @maliburenee @supernatural4life2022 @spn730015 @b3autyfuldisast3r @kickingitwithkirk @waywardbaby @foxyjwls007 @deanwanddamons @deandreamernp @deanwithscissors @myloversgone @snowlovespie @leigh70 @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @charred-angelwings @hopefuldreamers-world @mysherlock221b @jensensgotyoudean @stixnstripesworld @thoughts-and-funnies @magssteenkamp @norman1967 @princessmisery666 @eevvvaa @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @deepsketchsupernaturalcowboy @b-i-t-c-h-i-e @twirpbunwarrior @mysweetlittledesire @waynes-multiverse @mrsjenniferwinchester @bernasaurus @jensenslady79 @courtn92 @avanatural @ellie-andthemachine @this-is-me19 @roseblue373 @katbratsupernaturalwhore @fanfic-n-tabulous

#dean x y/n #dean x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester drabble

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lucyandthepen · 2 years

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a lesson on style - iv . [ ljn | njm ]

pt. i, pt. ii, pt. iii, pt. iv., pt. v, pt. vi

you’ve always been content with being associated with one word and one word only: average. average in looks, academics and social skills, you’re just looking to graduate high school without causing disasters you’ll have to live with until you kick the bucket. when you’re paired with school king lee jeno for the semester-long physics thesis, you can’t help but think the entire situation has pretty much set itself up for failure. that is, until you strike a deal with your partner. alternatively: an au tale involving lessons in popularity, eleven consecutive B minuses, a secretly sensitive, chess-loving jock, and an amateur sex tape.

pairing: jeno x fem!reader, jaemin x fem!reader verse: high school au { jocks!nomin ft. a super cute whiny ap physics genius renjun } rating: M for sexual themes ( there are allusions to sex but no explicit smut! ) chapter warnings: word count: 7.6k

author’s note: i went quiet for a hot minute because a ton of nice things ate up all my weekends and a ton of terrible things ate up all my weekdays but im BACK with gremlin energy stronger than ever !!!!

tagging @justalildumpling

Renjun, being the quintessential all-around nerd that he is, has told you a lot about what they talk about in his advanced placement physics classes. A huge part of their class’ previous term had to do with theoretical physics; it had been basically months of him trying to enthusiastically explain something wildly abstract to you, and you laying your head on his fairly tall pile of books checked out from the library, humming in agreement at opportune times, like when he’d catch his breath, to make it sound like you weren’t falling asleep on him. He’d told you about the uncertainty principle, the multiverse theories, the difference between loop quantum gravity and string theory — both of which, he’d said, had their merits, but he was ultimately a stringy universe kind of guy. A lot of the stuff he’d said hadn’t made much sense, and they mostly seemed impossible, which is why you’d stopped trying to pay attention by the end of the first month.

With all of that information in mind, however, you have to say that this is the most absurd thing you’ve heard thus far.

“That’s physically impossible,” you say without even thinking. Jeno, who has been grinning for the last two minutes leading up to his proposition, suddenly shifts mood, looking a little taken aback.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this,” you gesture to yourself as a whole, trying to ignore the inappropriately timed wave of tingles that arises when his eyes follow your hand. “Is not a shapeless slab of stone you’re going to be able to sculpt into something magical. I’m… I’m as good as it’s going to get. Which is fine, by the way.”

“Not really sure about the analogy,” he muses. “But I’ll go with it. I’m not going to try to re-mold you, or anything. We can just spruce it up. Kind of like putting Calvin Klein boxer briefs on that ripped naked guy by Michelangelo.”

“Wh — okay, I’m not even going to bother asking about the underwear brand choice.” You wave the analogy away. “You know that… getting a good, stardom-esque reputation like yours isn’t easy in high school, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s not impossible,” Vaguely, you note that he doesn’t reject the idea that he’s a high school superstar. “Remember Park Jisung?”

“The guy that stands behind you in games?”

“The running back, yes,” he confirms. “Two years ago, that kid was a total loner. He ate lunch under that big tree next to the teacher’s parking lot. Now he’s running for captain next year, and everyone in his level is friends with him. And he’s wearing contact lenses instead of glasses now. See?”

“I’m not sure how that last one fits in, but I’m also going to let it go for now. I don’t have two years,” you remind him. “We graduate this term. Well — hopefully.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “You don’t need two years. I’m just saying. You’re always with that friend of yours, but you could stand to widen your circle, and there are a lot of our classmates I know you’d get along with. You could get into some cool new things, meet new people, share new interests. Plus, we’d get to hang out a lot more instead of just, you know, doing,” he points disdainfully at the list of topics. “That.”

You stare down at the paper, but your eyes just stick to it blankly without reading, your mind trying to process everything instead. You don’t really care about climbing up the proverbial social ladder; average is pretty fine with you, and you’re not even sure what a better reputation is going to achieve at this point. Still, the most appealing part of this conversation is getting to hang out with Jeno — the one thing you’ve craved since puberty, probably. Honestly, it seems like a win-win; it’s not like you weren’t planning on doing the project, anyway.

For some reason, it just feels too good to be true, though; you think there might be a snag, but you also can’t figure out what it might possibly be. You look up at Jeno for any sign of him faltering, but he’s just staring back at you a little expectantly, and it suddenly dawns on you that he’s worried you’ll say no.

Which is, frankly, laughable.

“Yeah, okay,” you say slowly, setting aside any hesitation you have. He lights up, that grin making a comeback on his face. “Yeah — why not?”

“Why not,” he echoes, looking exceptionally pleased. “For sure. Okay, well — awesome. So, I was thinking we could probably get some more headway with the project this week. You know, get it over with, rip the bandaid off quick and early, that sort of thing.”

“I’m free any time,” you say almost immediately, not only because it’s true but because even if it weren’t, you’d happily cancel all of your schedules for this. Luckily for you, your eagerness comes off as a simple fact, and Jeno clearly takes it as such.

“Cool. I have practice after school, though, so can we do it over the weekend?” You nod, and he takes back the piece of paper, flipping it over while uncapping his pen with his teeth. “Here’s my number; text me on Saturday morning or whenever and just remind me about it. If I don’t reply in ten minutes, call me. I oversleep sometimes, or sometimes I let my battery die out because I forget to charge my phone. In that case, you can call my sister to wake me up. We don’t have a landline at home because, well… obviously.”

“Uh,” you’re not sure what to do with this sudden onslaught of information about his daily life, and it’s almost hilariously surreal that he’s writing down his sister’s phone number under his own. “That — okay.”

“Also, is it okay with your parents if I park in your driveway?”

“You know where I live?” You don’t even bother masking the tone of surprise.

“Well, yeah.” He looks amusedly perplexed. “You’re Jaemin’s neighbor. You’ve played Winner’s Really Really almost everyday since it came out. I can hear it from his bathroom.”

Right. Your lapse in memory makes you want to punch something — preferably yourself. “Oh. yeah. I should probably keep it down.”

“Nah. It’s a good song. Pretty sure that’s why Jaemin won’t stop asking me to play it in the car now.”

“Anyway,” you try to shift the topic back on track. “Usually, on weekends, my parents take the cars so the driveway’s empty, but their schedule’s kind of messy. They have, like, alpaca enthusiast functions sometimes, and sometimes they just stay home, so I can’t really promise a parking spot right now.”

“It’s cool. I can just park in front of Jaemin’s house, if that’s the case.”

“Is that okay with his family when you’re not even in their house?”

“Are you kidding? His mom invites me to their Seollal celebration like every year. I join their family for jesa like I don’t have my own family to do it with. She even calls me adeul. I could strangle Jaemin in his sleep, and she’d come in and ask me if I needed more heavy duty rope. It’s totally fine.”

You feel like a part of what he’s saying is a huge exaggeration, but it’s almost endearing that he and Jaemin have this kind of friendship. Briefly, your mind shifts to Renjun, and you wonder if you have the same kind of confidence in your relationship — then you remember you’re furious at him and shake the idea off before you start thinking about strangling him with some heavy duty rope.

“I’ll let you know if they leave anyway.” You take the paper back, index finger running idly over the dents in the paper that his writing his number had made. “Just in case.”

“Cool, just —“ He stops for a second as the teacher walks in, looking as disgruntled as ever. Jeno lowers his voice to a whisper. “Just text me.”

You nod, and he drops the conversation, turning his attention to the board where your teacher is trying to graph out a parabola. You try to focus on it too, opening your notebook to copy it down quickly alongside the equation he’s written to its right, except you have no clue where that figure came from and why he’s drawing it.

It also doesn’t help that you’re trying really hard not to stare at Jeno, who’s obviously not paying attention and is, inexplicably, smiling to himself, which is just giving you the worst (or best) kind of butterflies.

You don’t know why you’d expected things to change immediately, but whether or not they were supposed to, they don’t. The assumption was that because you’d be hanging out with Jeno, you wouldn’t need to worry about where to sit during lunch time, but he’s hardly in school for the last two days of the week; the crowd he’s with is still at their regular spot, and you understand that they’re probably friendly enough to accommodate you, but it seems like a stupid idea to approach them and say that you want to sit there because Jeno is supposed to be there.

It gets worse when you see Renjun at your usual table, eating his donkatsu, and you make eye contact. His expression is unreadable, and you suddenly feel the overwhelming need to either cry or throw miso soup at his face, so you deduce that you’re still not ready to approach him. It doesn’t help that his backpack and a stack of three, unbelievably thick books is on the chair where you frequently sit next to him, like he’s doing all he can to shun you. In the end, you take a cue from Park Jisung of two years ago and make your way to the big tree near the teacher’s parking lot, settling down under its shade.

It’s actually not as bad as it had sounded when Jeno had talked about it; the cell service is surprisingly great, so you get to wedge your phone between your legs while you’re Indian sitting and watch more Facebook videos featuring samoyeds and rescued kittens on mute. You spend maybe five minutes in between to check Jeno’s profile, but you’re unsurprised to find that the last time he’d been active was almost three days ago; the most recent post was a picture from last month that he’d been tagged in by who you assumed was his sister.

Halfway through the hour, a shadow grows over you, blocking out the sun. You look up, expecting that it’s Renjun, seeking you out after more than thirty-six hours of stony silence, but it isn’t; it’s Jaemin, looking a little sweaty and breathless. From your position, you notice that he’s in muddied cleats instead of the traditional casual sneakers that almost everyone wears, and there’s a little ring of darkness around the neckline of his navy blue shirt.

“Hey,” he sounds as breathless as he looks. “Can I sit here for a sec?”

You nod wordlessly, still in the middle of chewing your donkatsu, and he busies himself with tossing his backpack down against the tree before following suit, collapsing next to you with a huff. He even smells a little sweaty, like he’s been out in the sun for long; even if it isn’t exactly repellent, you inch away slightly. Thankfully, he doesn’t really notice, with him so busy trying to find the right place on his scalp where his hairline cuts evenly. When he speaks up again, his voice is exceptionally casual.

“You know this tree is infested with wooly caterpillars, right?”

“What?” Your mouth is half-full, though, so it just comes out as a garbled hnwaf?, and you jerk away quickly, precious bento box in hand. When you look back at Jaemin, though, he’s chuckling, back still pressed against the tree trunk.

“Kidding. Obviously.”

“Not funny.” You shift back in place, swallowing your food so that he can more clearly understand how unamusing that was.

“Sorry.” There’s a light twinkle in his eyes that says he isn’t though. “I didn’t have a better conversation opener. Anyway — why are you out here? This is literally the second least desirable place to have lunch.”

“What’s the first?”

“The boys’ bathroom on the third floor.”

You snort softly, putting the lid back on your bento box to avoid spillage just in case he decided to trigger panic again. “I’m just… enjoying the breeze and sunshine. Nature is such a thing for me. I also hear looking at greenery speeds up your metabolism.”

“Bullshit,” he laughs, and you’re amusedly taken aback by how comfortably he’s speaking around you. Then again, he doesn’t seem the type to talk any differently around anyone else. “Nice straight-faced lie, though. I would have believed you if I knew that definitely wasn’t true. I do hear it relaxes you, though — the looking at greenery thing.”

You laugh softly, leaning back (a little gingerly) against the tree, your bento box balanced on your knee; you can feel Jaemin’s gaze burning into the side of your face, clearly expecting an answer to his question, but the ideas of elaborating on petty fights with your only consistent friend or on petty desires involving his best friend both feel weird, so you just avoid the topic altogether, throwing your own question at him instead in an attempt to curveball the conversation into your favor.

“Do you know why Jeno isn’t in school today?”

Jaemin doesn’t answer immediately; you can tell he’s noticed you weaseling away from such a basic question, but, thankfully, he doesn’t push it after a brief moment of silence, simply reaching into his bag to extract a sandwich and an energy drink bottle. He takes his time popping open the bottle but doesn’t drink, twirling the cap between his fingers.

“He just does that sometimes, Jeno.” It’s clear in the tone of his voice that he’s choosing his words carefully. "He’s got… other stuff to do outside of school, so he suddenly ghosts. I’m sure he’ll be back on Monday, though. He usually shows up after the weekend, in my experience.”

“Other stuff?”

“It’s not really something I can explain or — you know. I don’t know how to, anyway. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Plus, it’s technically none of my business —“

“No — no, I get it. You don’t have to tell me.” It feels uncomfortable, anyway, suddenly prying into Jeno’s business, no matter how much a substantial part of your consciousness wanted to.

“But you want to know,” he takes a sip of his energy drink. “Because you’re nosy.”

“I’m not!” You want to cringe at how defensive your voice sounds, but it would just give you away more. “It’s just that, you know, he wasn’t around for class yesterday, and I haven’t seen him around today, so, I just…”

“I’m kidding, ________________. I know you’re not nosy. You’re worried about him because you like him.”

Horror creeps into your expression; you watch, frozen, as Jaemin takes a large bite out of his sandwich. You can see the spam between the slices slipping down at the bottom, threatening to fall into the plastic bag. You lock eyes with him; he stares at you, but you can’t tell if he’s smiling because his cheeks are puffed out by all of that bread and filling he’s munching so diligently on. Denial is the first thing that pops into your head; it seems so easy just to say no, I don’t!, but you can’t bring yourself to. In the end, you just sigh in defeat.

“Does he know?”

“Jeno? I don’t know. Maybe, but he also has this talent for not paying attention to stuff that seems obvious, so there’s the possibility that he doesn’t. We don’t really have a very in-depth feelings are valid relationship, so it’s not like we talk about it.”

“Is it that obvious, though?”

“Is Dongbangshinki’s Here I Am the best song in history?”

“Debatable,” you snort half-heartedly. “But I get what you’re trying to say.”

“I know you think Winner’s Really Really is the best song, but,” he pauses, swallowing down his food and taking another enormous bite. “You should really expand your horizons more. For both our sakes.”

“Really Really is a great song. Besides, Jeno says you’ve been playing it in his car these days.”

“It is an earworm kind of jam,” he admits. “But it doesn’t beat out the classics by a mile.”

“Here I Am was released in 2010!” You argue. “That was like ten years ago!”

“No, it was released in 2012.” He says as-a-matter-of-factly. “And Really Really should be thankful for all Here I Am sunbaenim has done for it.”

You don’t know why the sound of your laugh is so foreign until you realize you don’t really remember having laughed genuinely over the last week; between panicking over the strangely massive amount of attention Jeno had bestowed upon you and Renjun’s childish and, therefore, frustrating behavior, you haven’t found much humor in anything, and humor hasn’t really found you until now. It feels nice to just carry out a conversation without worrying it’s going to turn into a disaster or an argument, and you kind of like how Jaemin laughs even louder and a lot more obnoxiously than you do; some freshmen crossing the field in front of you actually turn when he starts guffawing.

The silence that you both lapse into is a little less strange; you get to resume finishing off your donkatsu, and Jaemin enthusiastically inhales the rest of his sandwich. He’s flicking the bread crumbs off his fingers into the grass when he starts talking again.

“So you and Renjun still aren’t talking?”

“Wh — now who’s being nosy?”

“Technically, it’s not hard to deduce,” he crumples the plastic bag and smushes it into his backpack again. “You’re not in the cafeteria with him like you usually are. Plus, he punctured three holes into his quiz a couple of days back because of how hard he was digging his pen into his paper. I had to give him a new sheet.”

“Yeah, well,” you blow out air in a sharp, annoyed huff. “I hope he failed.”

“He didn’t, but for the sake of my curiosity, why would you hope that?”

“Because he’s just — he’s being a pain in the ass. He has been, for a while. Also, he has this really bad problem of talking too much even though it’s obvious you want him to shut up. And he thinks he’s hilarious when he’s just being mean.”

“To Jeno, you mean?”

“You heard about that?” You raise your eyebrows. “I thought you guys weren’t into talking about feelings or whatever.”

“We aren’t. Jeno literally said you know that Renjun guy? What’s his problem?, and I just naturally put the pieces together.” He shrugs.

“Yeah, well, I wonder that sometimes too.” You pluck out blades of grass aggressively, feeling your face heat up with residual fury from the thought of Renjun.

“Haven’t you guys been friends for years?”

“Yeah? So? He can’t be a jerk to me after all these years?” Your snippy tone cuts through your trance of anger, and you look back at Jaemin, who’s surprisingly not at all taken aback. He’s just looking at the dirty blades of grass in your fist with some mild form of interest. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s not like I know what you really fought about. Although,” he adds as an afterthought. “If it’s about Jeno, I really don’t think he’s worth losing a friendship over. Don’t get me wrong; I mean, Jeno’s great. He’s my best friend.”

“Your mom loves him,” you interject helpfully, and he hums in agreement.

“But it’s not like you have only one position for a male friend in your life. You don’t have to trade Renjun for Jeno, or anything like that. Maybe you guys can just talk it out.”

Jaemin’s fingers are idly playing with the grass as well; instead of pulling them out, though, he’s just brushing his fingers through them like they’re the fur on his sleeping cat. It strikes you that Jaemin and Jeno are weirdly nothing alike; Jeno’s substantial physique totally eclipses Jaemin’s fairly leaner one, and they even talk differently, not to mention the fact that the latter is clearly lightyears ahead of the former academically. Still, they’re close — kind of like you and Renjun were. Are? Should be?

“Yeah — I guess,” you let go of the grass, watching them fall, crumpled, back into the dirt. “I guess you’re right.”

“Besides, if anyone were to replace Renjun as your best friend and confidant, it would obviously be me.” The light humor creeps back into his voice, and you smile slightly.

“Obviously.” It’s weird to think of Jaemin as coming close to the level of a best friend, but it’s also starting to hit you that he’s talking more like a friend than a casual neighborhood acquaintance, a particular relationship development that you didn’t think would be possible at the start of this school year — or, well, two weeks ago, actually.

You can see streams of people walking out of the cafeteria back into the main building; lunch time is nearly over, and this fact is confirmed by Jaemin suddenly tilting his head back along with his energy drink, downing its contents in swift, audible gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing rhythmically. He lets out a refreshed exhale once he’s done, popping the cap back on.

“I have to get the class’s quizzes back from the faculty before I go in. Want to walk back together?”

“No, that’s okay,” you watch him shrug on his backpack, reaching out to fix the zipper that leaves it half-opened. He mumbles a thanks. “I’m going to sit here and finish watching this samoyed ASMR video until the bell rings.”

“Cool,” he stands, brushing off the grass and dirt from his jeans. “Well, see you around, _______________.”

You give him a wave, and he starts trekking across the field; you almost turn back to your video, which has been on pause since he’d arrived, but he calls out to you, walking backwards now instead of stopping like a normal person.

“By the way, you should know that ownership of my jacket comes with great responsibilities. More information to follow,” he calls out.

“Oh, shit,” you mumble to yourself; you’d forgotten about it, even if it’s been sitting on the chair by the front door for the majority of the week. You raise your voice to respond to him. “I’ll drop by later and give it back!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he waves away your words. “Whenever you remember.”

“I’ll do it after school,” you’re practically shouting now because he refuses to stay still. He gives you a thumbs up that looks minuscule from the distance between the two of you.

“I’ll hold you to it!” He gives one last wave, turning back around and jogging towards the main building.

You can see the little sweat patterns that are almost dried up on the back of his shirt, even if he’s so far away now; weirdly enough, they remind you of tiny angel wings.

This is the first Saturday in your life on which you wake up really early; you’re actually up to see the sunrise, which is something you haven’t seen since a Thursday during your second grade when you’d woken up, startled, to a stray cat making a mess of the trash cans in front of your house. You’re already oddly feverish and more than a little jittery from the moment you roll out of bed, which leads to you taking an hour-long shower that you use to create multiple scenarios involving Jeno’s visit. None of them end particularly well, especially the one where he drives up to your house only to tell you that he’s found a better partner before driving away. It’s at that point — as well as the point where you notice that the tips of your fingers have significantly pruned up — that you decide you’ve wasted enough time and water.

Still, even with the hour above you’ve killed, it seems way too early on a weekend to call someone, much less expect them. Now is actually one of the rarer times in your house that it’s fairly quiet, with only a few footsteps in adjacent rooms breaking the silence, so you take advantage of the opportunity to prepare. In this case, preparation really means taking out the piece of paper that had Jeno’s number, adding Jeno’s number, adding Jeno’s sister’s number, taking note of the project Jeno wants to do very briefly before deciding you have no tools to prepare for it, and then contemplating whether or not you should call Jeno or his sister now.

Your final decision is to head down for breakfast and attempt to stop obsessing too much over the Jeno situation, and you’re surprised to see Jisoo at the table, a bowl of cereal in front of him that looks only a fraction of a percentage touched. His eyes are glued to his phone, and he’s scrolling madly away. He doesn’t even notice you as you open the refrigerator and let out a small noise of defeat as you learn he’s taken the last of the milk.

“Hey,” you finally speak up, setting down your glass of grape juice way too hard on the table so he snaps out of it; he fumbles with his phone, almost dropping it into his bowl of cereal. “Who are you talking to this early in the morning?”

“None of your business,” he mumbles, locking his screen.

“Okay. Well, it’s also none of my business, but your cereal milk is curdling.”

He looks down at the bowl, like he’s shocked to see that it’s somehow materialized in front of him, but he doesn’t respond, opting to shovel soggy cereal into his mouth to avoid having to speak. You both consume your food in silence for the most part, until he’s only got the last dregs of milk and some cereal he didn’t manage to stuff into his face swimming at the bottom of the bowl.

“You can’t tell Sooyeon noona,” he starts suddenly, and you put down your half-empty glass of juice.

“That’s a promise I cannot make without knowing what you’re hiding.”

“It’s not bad. I swear. It’s just… if you tell her, she might do something about it, and I will literally never come out of my room again if she does.”

You wrap your fingers around the glass, condensation sticking to your skin. “Fine. I won’t tell her. For now.”

“I’ve been… I’ve been talking to Kim Minjeong.”

Your mouth forms a tiny ‘o’, finally cottoning on to why he doesn’t want you blabbing to your sister; Kim Minjeong is in the same year as your sister, and she comes over sometimes after cheerleading practice. You like her, mostly because she’s undeniably nice and also because sometimes she brings egg custard tarts for the family, but you do know both of your brothers tend to avoid going down when your sister invites any of her friends over. You’d always naturally assumed that neither of them enjoyed the awkwardness that comes along with hanging around older girls you don’t know but have no choice to play host to (which is a specific and odd type of awkwardness, but a real one just the same), but that seems to be true for only one of your brothers now.

“Since when?”

“For a couple of months now. She — I don’t know,” Jisoo’s hands squeeze around his phone. “She’s so nice. She doesn’t treat me like a kid. Plus, I found out she watches Battlestar Galactica. The original and the remake.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a keeper. So what’s the big deal?”

“I mean, I like her, but I think she just… you know, she’s just nice to me because she has to be — because she’s friends with Sooyeon noona? And I don’t know if I should tell her I like her. And if I do, how should I tell her? And what am I going to do if she says she doesn’t like me back? And what do I do if Sooyeon noona finds out?”

He lifts his eyes, looking at you expectantly, but you’ve been operating under the assumption that these questions are all rhetorical, and you have no response to offer. All you can do is shrug helplessly, which is extremely lame, and Jisoo looks even more devastated now.

“Well, how would you go about it?”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” you snort. “My signature move is stare and stutter. You having a conversation about Battlestar Galactica with a hot cheerleader is a lot, lot farther than I’ve gone.”

“Well, how did Jaemin hyung ask you out?”

“He — hang on — what?”

“How did. Jaemin hyung. Ask you out?” He chops up his sentence like you’re a baby, and you smack his forearm. He doesn’t even flinch.

“He didn’t ask me out because we’re not together, as I repeatedly told you guys earlier this week.”

“Yeah, but some girls from my level saw the two of you near the teacher’s parking lot making out. Which reminds me — I think you have a couple of new… enemies from my year level. You should probably know that.”

“We weren’t making out! We were just talking. I’m —“ You almost want to say you’re loyal to Lee Jeno, but even in your head, it sounds a little pathetic. “I’m not into him. At all. Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Fine,” he sighs in frustration, as if it’s your fault that you’re single and therefore useless as a source of advice. “Well, what do you think I should do? If you were her — would you be creeped out by me asking you out?”

“Yeah. Because you’re my brother.”

“I mean if I weren’t.”

“Look, I can’t predict what she’s going to do; even if I were her closest friend, I wouldn’t know what the future was. Why can’t you just ask her out? If you’ve been thinking about it this much, then you’re obviously ready to try, right?”

“What if she says no? I’m going to have to live with Sooyeon noona knowing about it.”

“You’re going to have to live with her regardless, because she’s your sister,” you remind him. “And sooner or later, she’s going to find out. Personally, I think you should tell her. Sooyeon, I mean. She might be able to help you.”

“She might blab and ruin me. Sooyeon noona gossips so much.”

“Hey, watch it. I accept you looking down on me, but I will not have you have any negative opinions on our precious sister.”

“But it’s true,” he groans. You smack his arm again. This time, a tiny ow escapes him.

“I know it is, but it’s her one and only flaw, anyway, and she’d never gossip if she knew it would affect you negatively. Talk. To. Her.”

“Fine,” he picks up his spoon, scraping off the soggy cereal that’s adhered to the bottom of the bowl. You flinch at the loud noise. “Fine, I will. But if this goes horribly, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” you say, raising your glass to your lips and finishing the last of your juice while your brother washes his bowl and retreats back into his room.

You can hear the rest of your family slowly waking up, and your mom is the next one to come down, announcing that she’s on her way to go to some quilt-making class that she’s been itching to go to for months. She asks you what you’re going to do today, and you talk about your project in as vague a way as possible so that she doesn’t continuously pry; luckily, she’s so excited about making a quilt today that she doesn’t even try to push it, simply promising to buy more milk on her way home from the class before heading out.

It still seems too early to expect Jeno, so you end up going up the stairs way too slowly, consequently annoying your youngest brother, who’s waiting to go down; he blows past you once you’ve reached the top of the stairs, muttering something about how girls always take their time. The end result of you trying to kill more time is you booting up the Sims on your laptop, making a new household and cheating your way into free real estate and a ton of money so you can move them into the fancier neighborhood. In the end, though, the yipping of the new dogs they’ve adopted gets to you, and you pause the game, finally picking up your phone.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t even ring; the operator voice just tells you the number is unreachable at this time. It takes another five minutes for you to muster up the courage to call Jeno’s sister, who, to your relief, picks up after the third ring with a sleepy ‘hello?’

“Um… I’m sorry to wake you,” you don’t know why you’re whispering, but it just seems appropriate. “I’m… well, Jeno told me to call you if his phone isn’t ringing, so I just… sorry.”

“Oh,” there’s a pregnant pause that makes you wonder if she’s hung up the phone for a short, scary moment. “Oh, right; you’re probably ______________, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Jeno told me you might call. He’s probably got his phone turned off. I’ll go wake him up and tell him to contact you.”

“Thank you,” you’re still whispering when you hang up, and all the extra air escapes you in the form of a relieved sigh once the call drops. You return to your sims with a significantly lighter heart thereafter, and you even get them into cool new jobs before your youngest brother sticks his head into your room without knocking.

“______________ noona, Renjun hyung’s downstairs.”

You press the pause button so hard it actually sounds like the key has cracked, swiveling around in your study chair.

“Renjun? Huang Renjun?”

“Who else?” He sounds annoyed, but that’s how he usually sounds anyway, so you just brush it off. You think about telling your brother to tell him to go away, but your brother is already gone before you can finish deciding if you really want to do this, leaving your door ajar. With a groan, you slip off your chair, only momentarily distracted by your text message alert going off.

[ from; Lee Jeno ] hry sorry. 4got to charge my phone. Battery died. omw to u.

You don’t take the luxury of cooing over how cute his text sounds in your head, running down the stairs instead to see Renjun standing by the front door, twiddling his thumbs. He hears you charging down, looking up as you do so, and you can tell he’s swallowing hard because his Adam’s apple bobs dangerously in his throat. It’d be kind of funny if you weren’t equally as nervous.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice sounding a little choked up, like he hasn’t spoken for days — which, you know, is physically impossible for him.

“Uh. Hey. Why are you — what… are you doing here?” So maybe it comes out a little more accusatory than you’d initially intended, and you see that Renjun recoils a little. You feel bad about it. Kind of.

“I… um… we haven’t spoken for a few days.”

“I know that.”

“Right. Sorry. I was just hoping to talk to you.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m… I… you know.”

“Here to make fun of me? Like you’re so used to doing?” This time, his cringing brings about the slightest wave of pleasure in you, followed immediately by a larger, much more all-consuming attack of guilt.

“No, no. I came here to, you know. Apologize.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly. “I see.”

You wait for him to say something, but he’s just watching you, like he’s waiting for some kind of bigger reaction, except there’s absolutely nothing to react to, so you just give him a look that urges him to keep going.

“Right. Sorry. I mean — I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said back then.” He sighs, and it’s clear he thinks he’s digging his dignity’s grave deeper and deeper as he talks. “I have my reasons for not really liking Jeno. I don’t really know how much that’s going to change in the span of a few days. But I do know that I embarrassed you in front of him, and I don’t want to do that to you, ever. I’m sorry for that.”

“It was kind of embarrassing,” you agree.

“And, more importantly, I… I want to support you. I mean, I really don’t think you guys should get together, if I’m being honest,” he notices you bristling and hastens to add to his sentiments. “But I also know it’s not really about what I think. If you like him, and you’re happy around him, then… I’ll be okay with it. As long as he makes you happy.”

“We’re not together, Renjun,” you reply quietly. “I just like him. One-way crush — that’s it. It’s really, really not that big of a deal. I don’t want to fight just because I have a crush. If you liked someone, just liked them, I wouldn’t stop you from having feelings.”

“I know. I know you wouldn’t because that’s what good friends should be like. I should’ve been a better friend to you.” He takes in a shaky breath. “_______________, I’m really, really sorry. I hate fighting with you like this. Eating donkatsu alone without anyone to complain to about the moistness of the breading was torture.”

You choke out a laugh, and it’s only then that you realize that you’ve been slowly tearing up. Even Renjun looks a little misty-eyed, which is weird for the both of you, considering that you only ever cry watching Ma Dongseok movies.

“It really was kind of soggy.” You agree, and he laughs loudly.

“So this is good, right? I mean… we’re good?”

“We’re good.” You and Renjun rarely hug, since there’s never any cause for it, but it seems appropriate to do so now; luckily, he must be on the same train of thought, because he envelops you in a tighter-than-usual hug. You spend a couple of seconds just standing in your living room, trying not to sniffle too loudly into each other’s ears.

“Anyway,” he starts up again when he pulls away, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “I have to go home and help my mom with her garage sale today, but I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Definitely.”

“Cool. Oh — one more thing. Do you… think you can tell Jeno I’m sorry, too?”

“No,” you laugh. “No way. You tell him you’re sorry yourself.”

“Aw, come on,” Renjun whines, emphasizing his reluctance to do so by stamping his foot childishly. “There’s no context in which I’d be able to get to talk to him alone, anyway.”

“He’s coming over here in a few minutes to start on the project with me,” you inform him, and he actually looks a little crestfallen at this new information. “You can tell him you’re sorry then.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, sitting himself down on the chair near the front door only to sit back up, looking up at you in mild disbelief.

“You still haven’t given Jaemin’s jacket back?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah. Well, I keep forgetting!” You defend yourself.

“He lives right next to you! You could even ask your brothers to do it if you promised to pay them 10,000 won!”

“Yeah, but giving it back through someone else when I could just do it myself just seems so rude, you know?”

“And keeping it even though you have no reason to is polite in your head?”

“Shu— oh, oh, he’s here,” you cut yourself off as you hear the crunch of tires on your driveway, signaling that Jeno had parked in the spot your mom had left behind when she’d gone for her quilting class. Renjun flies off the chair and presses his back against the door before you can fling it open. “Hey!”

“Can you relax for one second? He’s getting out of his car. If you open the door now, you’ll look crazy.”

“Oh,” you pause, considering his words. “Good catch.”

A few moments later, the doorbell rings, and you shoo Renjun away from the door to open it. Jeno’s form is literally blocking the view of the outside, and you briefly wonder if this is more of a testament of his physique or proof that your family is just made up of small people. Or both.

“Hey, sorry,” he pulls off his baseball cap, which leaves his hair adorably flat and messy. “I overslept a little. Also, just in case, I brought my g — oh.”

Jeno stops when his eyes land on Renjun, who’s now miraculously standing behind you, looking like he wants to disappear. The look on Jeno’s face is stony, but he tears his gaze back to you anyway.

“Is this a bad time? I can come back. I’m sure Jaemin’s awake by now.”

“No, it’s cool. Renjun just… dropped by.” You step back so that Renjun is in the forefront, and he shoots you a withering glare. “He actually has something to say to you.”

“Does he?” Jeno doesn’t even sound interested, but he focuses on Renjun again anyway. “What’s that?”

“Look, dude,” you’ve never heard Renjun call anyone dude before, and it makes you snort, a noise which the both of them ignore. “I’m sorry about the other day. It was totally uncool of me, and I shouldn’t have said what I did. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Oh,” Jeno clearly wasn’t expecting an apology, but he looks pleased anyway. “Okay. Well, apology accepted.”

“Thanks,” even though it’s what he’d wanted, Renjun doesn’t sound too enthusiastic about receiving forgiveness. “And I mean it. I give you both my blessing. You can… pursue this relationship without any more active, explicit judgment from me. Good feelings for everyone, and all that.”

“Okay,” you cut in, not missing the fact that he’d gone out of his way to add active and explicit to allow himself the sneaky sliver of opportunity to judge Jeno in silence. The latter is looking at him, befuddled again. “That’s all you wanted to say, isn’t it, Renjun?”

“I’m not even sure if all of it was what I really wanted to say,” he sighs defeatedly at you. "But yes; I’m good.”

“Cool,” you push him towards the door; Jeno steps aside to let him through, and Renjun walks out, looking a little dazed, like his body can’t handle the idea that he’d just apologized to Jeno and is in the process of going into total shock. “Bye, Renjun. See you on Monday.”

You hear him mumble something as he trudges away, and Jeno follows his movements in silence until he disappears down the sidewalk.

“Was that weird, or—?”

“Yeah, it was kind of weird,” you admit, ushering him in. “But he means well. Anyway, putting that aside, should we get started on the actual proposal?”

“Did he say he gave us his blessing?” Jeno suddenly starts echoing Renjun’s words like they’re only starting to sink in now.

“Oh. Yeah — I wouldn’t really think too much of it,” you wave it away as Jeno settles down on your couch. “Smart people tend to say crazy things. So, I was thinking about the topic you picked, and I think the physics lab has a digital multimeter. We can check if it has that option for measuring sound frequency.”

“Uh huh,” he still looks like he’s not latching onto the topic change, whacking his baseball hat onto his thigh idly. “Sounds good.”

“You know… I’m going to go and get my laptop first,” you announce. Jeno makes a sound of assent, and you run upstairs into your room again. Your Sims game is still going on, and your laptop’s fan is working on overdrive. You press quit a good ten times, not bothering to save the game and open up Facebook, typing out an angry message to Renjun.

You: WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU

Na Jaemin: ??????

You: oops sorry wrong send !

Na Jaemin: lol good morning to u too

You leave Jaemin on read, focusing on your mission to chastise Renjun and opening the right chat.

You: WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Huang Renjun: IDK WHAT HAPPENED THAT WAS SO WEIRD

Huang Renjun: I SAID BLESSING JDGJSSJSF

You: I KNOW I WAS THERE

Huang Renjun: I KNOW IM SORRYRIJSPJG

You: DOSIJGSJG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You almost make it out of your room before having to double back, realizing you’re leaving behind the laptop you came up to get, and run back down, finding Jeno in the same position with the same perplexed look on his face. He, thankfully, doesn’t notice how red your face is when you sit down.

“Okay. Sorry. Should we start?”

“What? Oh, yeah of course,” he shakes his head as through trying to break himself from a trance.

“So I was saying, we could probably borrow one of those multimeters from the lab, but we’d need a written request for that. Also, I think we need to figure out—”

“Sorry, I just really need to ask,” Jeno interrupts you, and your voice dies in your throat. “That thing Huang Renjun said —”

“I’m really sorry.” You sigh, realizing the topic is unavoidable. “It was weird. I’d say he’s not usually like that, but…”

Jeno nods, staring at the inside of his cap, which is now settled on his lap. His long fingers are playing with the backstrap idly, and you wonder if what you’ve said is enough to make him drop the conversation. Unfortunately, you can tell he’s still on it when he looks up at you seriously, leading you to a sharp, uncomfortable inhale.

“You… didn’t tell him we were dating, did you?”

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