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“Okay.” Hands on her hips, Lyla peers down at Miguel.
“Okay?” He asks, not glancing up.
“You should look at someone when they’re talking to you.”
“You aren’t a someone, you’re a something, and I’m too busy to deal with—”
Within a second, Lyla shuts off the electricity in the apartment before turning it back on, all of his appliances coming back to life in a chorus of chimes and hums.
“Oh no,” he rolls his eyes, setting his tools down. “There’s a ghost in the apartment. What’s next, the cabinets open by themselves?”
In an attempt to humor her, Miguel webs one of the doors and pulls it, letting out an exaggerated gasp.
“Help, I’m so scared, if only I had an eight inch holo to protect me. Ayúdame.”
“You think you’re so cute,” Lyla huffs.
“Guilty. Now you’ve got my attention, what did you want?”
“This eight inch holo happens to keep track of your vitals, and we need to have a chat.”
“Great. I have a physician, you know.”
“Uh huh. Who you haven’t scheduled an appointment with in over two years.”
“I’ve been on a lucky streak.”
“Your resting heart rate is at 127—”
“There was a ghost.”
“On average. Taking your family history into consideration, you are 84% more likely to have a heart attack before 40 than other men.”
“Good. Maybe then I can finally get a good night’s rest.”
“Miguel,” Lyla sighs, as sympathetic as her programming allows, “take this seriously. You can’t save the multiverse with your blood pressure as high as it is. If you croak that puts me out of a job and no one else tolerates me like you do.” A pause, “except maybe—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Hmph.” Tapping her foot against the air, Lyla frowns. “If you don’t start taking care of yourself, maybe I’ll have to tattle.”
“Tattle? Are you 90?”
“That’s another strike against you.”
“Come on, Lyla. Cut it out.”
“Ah ah ah! Another!”
“What’d I do now?”
“It’s Dr. Lyla.”
“Ugh.” Walking away from her, Miguel closes the cupboard, which had been bothering him. Lyla appears in front of him, her white coat now replaced with that of a doctor’s, making her glasses look even more ridiculous. “Okay, Dr. Lyla. What do you propose I do?”
“Aside from giving things a rest?” Miguel opens his mouth but Lyla makes a noise almost like barking to cut him off. “I know you won’t, so the only other suggestion I have is something to instead take your mind off things.”
For a moment, Miguel makes an expression that’s part anger, part hurt.
“I’m not doing Rapture again.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that! Gawd! I’ve been there through all of that, I know what that does to you. If you did that now you might actually go into cardiac arrest.”
“Oh, that’s tempting.”
Stomping her foot, Lyla blinks out and returns with her coat, playing with her sleeves; a nervous tick she picked up somewhere. Even if she can’t feel it, she gets comfort from the action.
“Mig,” and it’s the use of the nickname that softens Miguel’s edges a bit. With a long exhale, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the counter.
“Fine, I’m listening.”
“When’s the last time you rubbed one out?”
Miguel regrets letting her speak.
“Don’t you keep track of this?” He responds instead. “Little miss know it all.”
“I try not to involve myself in your bedroom habits.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
“I can only handle so much of watching you—”
“Hey!”
With a roll of her eyes, Lyla produces a tablet and begins scrolling.
“Your last wet dream was two Thursdays ago, in which you complained loudly about sleeping naked and then made no action to change the habit. Your last attempt was over a month before then, but you got a call that you chose not to ignore because you’re sooooo important and everything revolves around you and the one call you miss could be—”
“I get it.”
“— And it was some Spidey telling you there was pizza in the break room if you wanted some.”
“It was good pizza.”
“But was it worth blue-balling yourself?”
“It was good pizza,” he repeats through clenched teeth.
“Right. Anyway. According to this, your last actual orgasm wasssss… huh.”
“What?”
“Three days ago.”
“What?” Voice raising just slightly with incredulity, Miguel tries to think about what was happening three days ago.
“Here.” Lyla, ever so resourceful, of course has a feed of when, where, and what he was doing at the time of this supposed orgasm.
Through the golden hue of her projection, Miguel watches himself, sweating in the gym. Bicep curls. Usual. Fast forwarding, Lyla stops again to where he’s seated, doing cross-legged Russian twists.
“…huh. Seriously?”
“What your reports say,” she shrugs. “Wanna keep watching?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Delete that from your archives.”
“Shame,” but she does immediately. “Before that, you’ve been in a real dry spell.”
“Apparently not if I didn’t notice that.”
“I don’t know how those things work, Miguel, I’m not real. This is just a collection of your data.”
“What’s the point of this? Are you saying I’m so sexually frustrated it’s a risk to my health?”
“Hey, you said it, not me.”
“Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Lyla, but I’ll pass.”
“Are you really telling me that you’d rather die than jerk off?”
“Yep. End of discussion.” With a dismissive swipe of his hand through her image, Miguel waves Lyla off. It does nothing to her programming but has become a signal for her to leave. She’s always with him, of course, but at least her visuals have disappeared.
Mischievously, the automatic blinds open and close a couple times.
“¡Fuera de aquí, mujer diablo!” He calls out, returning to his desk to continue his work. His lamp flickers at his side in response but she keeps it on and leaves him be for the moment.
Two months since he last touched himself? Seriously? That was… beyond sad. He’s not a teenager anymore, he doesn’t need to jerk off on the regular because he felt like he’d die if he didn’t, but months?
He knows very well it’s been years since he let someone touch him. Even after the whole destroying canon because he’s a pathetic sad sack yadda yadda ordeal, once he was feeling comfortable and human enough to try and get a life, that hadn’t really worked out well for him. Saying someone else’s name would’ve been bad enough if he didn’t start crying after. In that regard, it makes complete sense why he’s become so blocked off from physical intimacy.
It’s not like he didn’t feel arousal. His dick worked, despite what some may think. He was just never interested or, frankly, mentally and physically capable to let himself indulge. Feeling vulnerable like that, even when it was just himself alone in his locked and secure bedroom, felt like he was exposing his belly out in the open and at any moment something would seize his weakness.
Maybe that’s something to bring up in therapy.
Leaning forward and placing his face in his hands, Miguel groans loudly.
“Miggy?”
“No.”
“Aw, c’mon grumpy pants. What’s wrong?”
“What do you think, Lyla?”
“Someone’s cranky because I’m right. Again,” she adds, gleefully.
“Give yourself a round of applause while you’re at it.” A chorus of clapping echoes through the room, including a few wolf-whistles and cheers as Lyla goes on thanking her supporters until Miguel snaps his fingers and the sound instantly cuts.
“So. Now that we know what the problem is, are you gonna do anything about it?”
“No.”
“Figures.” Turning on her heel, Lyla stomps away, pulls out her tablet and begins scrolling, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder to Miguel.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You aren’t being sly. I can see you.”
“No you can’t.”
“Lyla.”
“If you won’t—” she sniffles, dabbing at her eyes beneath her glasses, “if you won’t listen to anything I have to say, then… then I may as well leave! I’ll find someone else, someone who will treat me better! Someone who cares about me and what I have to offer!”
“Did you just look up a video of someone crying?”
“Yeah.” Twirling around, Lyla opens her palms and waves her hands with a bit of pizzazz. “Pretty good, don’tcha think? I’m getting better at mimicry.”
“Wonderful. Pull up the applause again.” As she does, Miguel claps along for a few beats before rolling away from his desk, stamping his feet restlessly a moment and standing, cracking his neck.
“C’mooooooon.” Blinking, Lyla hangs over his shoulder, poking at his cheek. Though she can’t actually touch him, the shine of her light is obnoxious enough to give the same effect. “All this time you’ve wasted moping around and chatting with me when you could be doing something actually beneficial!”
“Like jerking off?”
“Like jerking off! Atta boy. Chop chop, you aren’t getting any younger!”
“Do you have a bet of some sort you’re trying to win? Or you’ve got a surprise party planned and you’re trying to make sure I’ve got my pants down when everyone shows up?”
“Why do you think I have any ill intentions?” Miguel gives her a look. “When you’re grumpy, I’m grumpy, and no one’s happy to work with us.”
“Well, they have to.”
“Which makes everyone in the whole shockin’ room you’re in grumpy! You really need to get your panties untwisted.”
“I don’t wear panties,” he simply replies.
“Yes, Miguel, I know that. Which is weird, for the record, considering your suit is holographic. Some day that’ll come around to bite you in the butt.”
“And that’s the day I’ll stop.”
“Assuming you don’t die from sexual frustration before then.”
“Oh, Lyla, you know just how to get a guy going.”
Sticking out her tongue, she blows raspberries at him.
“You say that as a joke, but your vitals—”
“Don’t read my vitals while we’re talking,” pinching the bridge of his nose, Miguel sighs.
“Part of my job, boss.” Placing a hand on her chin, Lyla squints her eyes and studies him.
“You’re still doing it.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m trying to find an easier way to say something, since you’re so touchy.”
“I am not touchy.”
“But you are drier than ol’ Lake Michigan.” Using her hands to frame an image, Lyla pulls up a photo.“See this? Barren. Boring. Deserted. That’s you.” Switching slides to an older picture, she expands it to show Miguel. “This used to be you. Full of life, carefree, fun, wet—”
Using his thumb and forefinger, Miguel flicks Lyla away, griping that she can’t compare his sex life to climate change and stops her before she can interject another innuendo.
“It’d be easier to get off if you weren’t constantly nagging me.”
“Nagging … looking out for you… taking your well-being into consideration because one of us has to… if I could, I’d jerk you off myself just so you’d loosen up.”
“What?”
“Don’t get any weird ideas,” her nose scrunches when she gives him a look. “You aren’t my type.”
“That— wait, hold on. You have a type?”
“Uh, yeah?” Scoffing, Lyla plays with a piece of her hair. “Am I not allowed to? I have a life of my own, you know.”
“I programmed you. Your life is my life.”
“And I just so overjoyed to be your bestie but nah, this is just platonic.”
“Of course it is. You— what is your type?”
“Noooooot telliiiiiiing youuuuuuuu.”
“We’d have the same type, wouldn’t we?”
“Mm, no. I’ve seen your exes - and your search history.”
“Okay, forget all that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Crossing her legs, Lyla props her chin in her hand. “So, are we gonna keep this back and forth going, or what? Like I said, you aren’t getting younger. I think you’re getting greyer as we speak.”
“First off.” Holding a finger up, Miguel points it to his assistant, who blinks slowly back at him. “My search history is private information on a need to know basis and no one needs to know. Second. My grey hair is genetic and situational but you don’t help. Third. I’m not attracted to you.”
“You don’t sound very sure of yourself,” she snickers. “You designed me, yanno. Something about this,” she gestures to herself, “caught your eye.”
“Fourth.” Putting his hand down, he forms and loosens two fists at his side for a moment, staring at the floor.
“Fourth?”
“About what you said earlier.”
“I’ve said a lot of things, Miguel, you’ll have to be more specific.”
“About nagging me.”
“Hmm.” Pause, blink. “Oh, about me jerking you off?”
“Yes. That.”
“Then we agreed this was a platonic best friends slash roomies slash coworkers slash codependent relationship sitch and nothing else.”
“Right.” Miguel swallows and sighs. “In a… what’d you say? Platonic best roomies?”
“Close enough.”
“In that way you could, uh…” eyebrows pinching together with a frown, Miguel looks away.
“Ugh, you’re so laaaaame when you get all embarrassed like this. You want to ask me if I can jerk you off in a casual way but, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m not real. You’re arguing with a holo you designed yourself, buddy. The only thing I can offer is to pull up porn for you—”
“Don’t do that. Ever. In fact, delete that data.”
“Roger. Okay. As it is, there’s nothing I can do for you with your whole thing. Maybe annoy you enough you finally do it or shut me off, but you can’t run without me so really it’s either rub one out or watch everything fail.”
“Wow. Maybe we should get married and really top this off.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a bride,” batting her lashes, she slides her glasses to the top of her head like a veil and puckers her lips. “Get over here, big guy.”
Their antics are stopped abruptly by the sound of someone knocking. Lyla, immediately put back into work mode, pulls up a series of screens, looking to see who was knocking and where.
“Office, Pete from E-512,” she reports.
“What is it?” Miguel asks, Lyla projecting his voice through an intercom at his office’s door.
“Sorry to, uh, bother you, but a Sandman was just brought in from, uh,” looking at his watch, he scrolls through information while Miguel licks his teeth and exhales through his nose. “Doesn’t matter, Spider-Byte is taking care of him, but there’s cake.”
“Cake.”
“Yeah. No sand in it… I don’t think. A thank you gift.”
“You know we shouldn’t accept gifts.”
“I know, but… ‘s cake.”
“He’s got a point,” Lyla agrees.
“...what flavor?”
“It’s this, like…” on the footage, they watch Pete gesture with his hands on what the cake looks like, before correcting that it was kinda squished in the inter-dimensional travel. Out of the shot, someone talks to Pete, who gives a thumbs up in appreciation. “Dulce de leche.”
With pursed lips, Miguel and Lyla share a glance.
“Make sure you aren’t feeding sand to your coworkers.”
“Sure thing, boss. Want me to save you a piece?”
“...yes. That would be fine.”
“You got it!” Shooting another thumbs up to where he knows Miguel is watching him, Pete accidentally webs the image, making Lyla jump in surprise. “Aw, crap, sorry— lemme just—”
Ending the transmission, Lyla frowns. “He webbed me,” she pouts.
“Happens to the best of us.”
“Speaking of…”
“Do you want some cake or not?”
“I’m lactose intolerant.”
Pausing, Miguel opens and closes his mouth for a second. “No you aren’t.”
“Miggy!” Gasping, she places a hand on her chest. “I can’t believe you forgot!”
“You aren’t real, you can’t have an allergy.”
“I know, but it threw you off for a second. Gotcha.” With a wink, Lyla blinks herself away and Miguel focuses on putting on something more presentable than his mope around his apartment outfit. Even if it was just to go back to the office and get a slice of alternate dimension food, then to inevitably return to his apartment and spend more time bantering with his holo. At least then he’ll have cake, so he wins in the end.
The cake was good. Sand-free. Pete had actually set aside a slice - a rather large one at that - and left it near Miguel’s office so that he didn’t have to actually interact with anyone. When he sits at his desk to eat and check up on things, Lyla appears and begins yapping on about how he needs to rest, he specifically has the evening free, everything is under control. As he continues to ignore her, she starts fake-crying again about how lonely she is, being left all alone, her dear sweet Miggy abandoning her for another computer - it’s still all part of Lyla’s programming, and when Miguel points this out, she becomes angry that he sees so many systems he can’t keep them all straight.
“Just tell me you don’t love me so I can move on,” she cries, clutching at her pearls. A good touch.
Coughing into his fist, Miguel spares a glance around his office before answering her.
“I… I can’t,” and Lyla opens one eye, curious to where this was going. “I’ve loved you for so long, I can’t fathom life without you. Please, please don’t leave, it’ll be the death of me.”
“You need to work on your acting skills,” comes the blunt response. “That sucked.”
“See, this is why I don’t play along with your games. The second I let my guard down you just have to point something out.”
“Duh. Now are you coming back or what?”
“Or what.”
“Ugh. I put in a reminder to thank Pete, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Sandman is being logged and processed.”
“Good.”
“Kaine is currently in control and no one’s reported anything of concern to him.”
“Mhm.”
“And, at the moment, you’re caught up on messages. You have some reports to look at, buuuuut your plate is currently empty. Literally,” she adds, watching as he swipes a finger through the drizzle and sucks it off his finger. “Gross.”
“You’ve never had dulce de leche. You wouldn’t get it.”
“Oh, well, sor-ry no puedo tener leche.”
“You aren’t lactose intolerant.”
“But it’s funny to pretend.”
“Also: it’s no puedes beber leche.”
“Huh?”
“Your vocabulary is off. How is it you can’t speak Spanish?”
“You didn’t program it in.” Sitting on the edge of his desk, she swings her legs. “I could learn it, but my system would need to be updated. I can understand and read it, just can’t speak it well. Perk of living with you, I guess.”
“You picked up Spanish from me?”
“Where else?”
“Ay.” Running a hand down his face, Miguel turns away from Lyla.
“Aw, what’s the matter, big guy? Are you embarrassed? ¿O estás embarazada?”
“No. And no.”
“Would you like to be?”
Scowl. Pause. Contemplate.
“To which one?”
“Whichever, Miguelito.”
“Don’t you start with that.”
“Ugh. You’re absolutely no fun. Now come onnnnn this place blows. I want to go home.”
“You’re independent of me, Lyla. You can leave.”
“If I’m not here to annoy you then I know you’ll start working yourself to death and not take a break. I’m your personal assistant here to personally assist.”
“You can personally assist this.” Turning in his chair, Miguel purses his lips and blows Lyla away like a flame.
“Hey!” Stamping her feet wordlessly in the air, Lyla huffs and puffs as Miguel watches, amused.
“You’re cute.”
“And you’re a jerk. What else is new?”
“What’s new is you being so insistent on this. Why don’t you take other issues this seriously?”
“Because this is personal, Miguel. Unless you’re more willing to listen to someone else tell you the exact same thing - that you are way overdue for a good nut. I don’t know why you’re being so grouchy about it. It’s not like it’s the end of the world; you’re wasting more time arguing about it.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Miguel rocks in his chair in thought. “It’s hard to try and get in the mood when you’re always hovering around me.”
“It hasn't stopped you before.”
“This is different. Now I know you’re there.”
“Migs.”
“Don’t.”
“We’ve been together for how long now?”
“4 years, 48 weeks and 3 days.”
“Wow, look at you. Almost five years and you’re still acting shy? I’m not real, Migs. Nothing you can say or do will change my opinion on you - unless you write it in that way. I’m built to match you, buddy, whether you like it or not. So, as your subconscious, I’m telling you to whip it out and get this over with.”
“Unbelievable. Bullied by my own holo.”
“Who you built to bully you!” She reminds him.
“Fine. Fine!” Standing up, he goes to grab Lyla, who shifts out of his reach.
“Your hands are sticky,” brushing down her coat as if he’d actually touched her, she examines her shoes. “I take pride in my appearance, thank you very much.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Mmhmm. Race ya home!”
Lyla wins. Of course she does. It doesn’t stop Miguel from working in a good run, scaling the walls and webbing his way back into his suite.
“Burning off that cake?” Lyla teases, motioning with her hands to squeeze at her belly. Glancing down, Miguel lifts up the hem of his shirt and sucks his stomach in.
“It’s muscle.”
“Sure it is. It all goes right to your hips, anyway. Ma gave you all the good genes, huh?”
“Yes, because when people think of Miguel O’Hara, Conchata’s son, they think about his child-birthing hips.”
“According to a recent popularity poll,” Lyla begins, pulling up her tablet and scrolling through information, “it’s between your waist and your ass. Hips come in third place.”
“What popularity poll has those as the top three?”
“‘Sexiest Things About Miguel.’ Would you like to hear the other results?”
“Are they going to improve or decrease my mood?”
“Well—”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Your positive attitude and sunny disposition are low on the list. You aren’t all looks, but you aren’t much else, either.”
“Great. Thanks, Lyla.”
“Considering I’m most of your brains, too—”
“I got it, Lyla.”
“Another poll will be sent out next week. Maybe you—”
“No popularity polls. Who’s doing those?”
“It keeps people entertained,” shrugging, she puts her tablet away. “In a high-stress job, a little recreational gossip can mean a lot to the spider morale. As the editor, I make sure things stay clean and family-friendly.”
“Running a poll about my ass isn’t family-friendly.”
“Running around with all that ass isn’t very family-friendly, either!” With both of her hands, Lyla makes a groping motion, much to Miguel’s displeasure. “ Especially considering you go commando. If that got around—”
“Absolutely the shock not! You’ll be out of a job.”
Sticking out her tongue, Lyla walks away.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Giving you some alone time.”
“What, you just wanted to rile me up for what, foreplay?”
“Did it work?”
A trick question. Miguel knew Lyla could read his vitals and knew very well she could see he was aroused.
The silence between them grows.
“Weren’t you leaving?” He grunts out, staring her down.
“Yeah, whatever.” After giving him a not-so-friendly hand gesture, Lyla fizzles out and Miguel listens for any sign of her activity.
Surprisingly, she is dormant. Good things don’t last long, so Miguel makes for his room and, just in case, locks the door. It won’t do him any good against Lyla, but helps settle his nerves a bit.
With no real idea in mind, he shuffles out of his clothes and lays on his bed, grabbing and stuffing a pillow between his legs. Pinning it between his thighs, he lets his eyelids shut and focuses on rolling his hips, dragging his dick against the fabric. He isn’t even wet, it’s more of an awkward pull of skin and he’s glad he’s indulged in high quality bedding - expensive, sure, but it doesn’t tear from his talons and makes humping his pillow somewhat pleasurable.
Grunting, he turns up on his knees, folding the pillow and lining the bend along his slit. A little better. Spreading his knees out and flexing his ass, he feels self conscious when he imagines what he must look like - too horny to do anything proper, just rub one out like a mumbling fool.
“Uh-uh,” Lyla tuts, causing Miguel to freeze. “Listen, bud. I was gonna let you go but I can tell you from experience of watching, this ain’t it, chief.”
“What do you mean?” Not willing to change position, he remains mounting his pillow, which makes him feel equally as stupid if he pretended he wasn’t doing anything and pushed it aside. At a loss here, really.
“I was serious when I said you need a real orgasm. As hot as that is, it won’t do you any good.”
“Thank you for the input, Lyla, but I’d like some privacy now.”
“Hmph.” Just like that, she’s gone again.
As much as he hates to admit it, she’s right. The need for a toe-curling, knee-jerking orgasm was not going to be met with what he was doing.
… didn’t mean it didn’t feel good, though.
Putting his weight into his elbows, as Miguel continues to methodically hump the pillow, his mind begins to wander. What would people think if they saw him like this? Masturbation was a natural thing, the body’s way of relieving stress. Everyone did it, this was no special exception, but something about the almost desperate way he’s hunched over his own pillow makes him considerably more aroused. The word degenerate manifests itself somewhere inside his mind, adjusting his position to really go at it like a horny dog. He tries not to think about how he looks realistically, but more in a broad, porno fantasy way.
“Oh,” he groans, feeling a trail of slick develop when he pushes down harder. Okay, yeah. Just for the sake of getting off, he could indulge a little in this fantasy, right? It’s not like it’d ever leave this room.
Turning onto his back, he abandons the pillow in favor of using his own hand, using his middle and ring fingers to jerk himself off, squeezing the base of his dick and stroking.
“Woooow,” Lyla whistles and Miguel jumps, pulling his hand off of him like he’d suddenly burn himself. “Oh, don’t stop.”
“Do you mind?”
“I was just thinking about something.” In her spot in the air, Lyla sits, cross-legged, and holds her chin up in his palm. She’s going to be here a while.
“And what’s that?”
“Just, you know… it’s no wonder you haven’t gotten laid in so long.”
“Excuse me?”
“Can you even satisfy anyone with a dick like that?”
Opening his mouth to yell at her, he’s stopped when he feels himself pulse around nothing, the wetness making an audible sound as he subconsciously seeks out something, and the smirk on Lyla’s face that practically splits her face in half.
“I mean,” she continues, waving her free hand to gesture vaguely at him. “Just look at you. Is that why you’re so angry all the time? Trying to overcompensate for how tiny you are? ‘Cause that makes a lot of sense.”
“No,” he grits out, shutting his eyes. Not touching himself yet. “Shut up.”
“What happened to your tough guy attitude? Are you gonna cry now because I called your dick small? Or are you upset because you know you can’t satisfy anyone with something as lame as that?”
While she was speaking, Miguel’s body began to move practically on its own accord, returning to stroking himself and feeling how significantly harder he is. Still small, still unsatisfactory, still pathetic; still making him buck up into his own hand in order to seek friction.
“How cute. Are you thinking you can penetrate someone with that? Assuming they don’t laugh you out once you’ve pulled it out.”
“You are not helping.”
“From where I’m sitting, I’d say otherwise.”
Miguel has no doubt that, when he raises his hips, there’s a damp spot under him. Whatever. It’s part of the game, now.
“If you aren’t going to be useful, you can leave.”
“Hmm… nah. I think you need me here because you like this stuff.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m sick? Rude!” Getting up to her feet, Lyla puts her hands on her hips and leans in. “Like you're not the one writhing and leaking everywhere. I have to clean your laundry, you know. Do you think I want to clean bedding that smells like your—” she pauses for a second, as if trying to navigate the right word to use. “Your hole?”
“It doesn’t—” grabbing the previously discarded pillow, he pulls it up to his face and inhales. The smell of himself is overwhelming and makes him moan. Immediately, he can feel his face heating up and doesn’t want to remove the pillow to face Lyla and see her smug expression but also he can’t keep his face here longer without further incriminating himself as a pervert. “Okay,” he starts, removing the pillow and not looking at her, “maybe it’s a little musky.”
“No no no, we’re not going to brush past that. You’re really getting off on this, aren’t you?”
In response, Miguel grunts, continuing to avoid her gaze.
“If this is your reaction to me, how do you think others will feel when they see you?”
“They won’t.”
“Are you sure?” Through the air, the sound of his bedroom door unlocking rings out like a shot and his head whips around.
“Lyla!”
“Relax, your apartment is still locked,” she does assure him. “Bet you wouldn’t mind if people saw you, though.”
“No…”
“Aw, Migs, it’s not nice to lie. Look at how wet you are, thinking about being seen like this. If people knew how pathetic you are.”
Wanting to end this quickly by way of achieving orgasm and cutting this game out before Lyla does something extreme or Miguel further embarrasses himself, he turns on his stomach and feels around for the box under his bed. Miscellaneous items, typically forgotten about until moments of desperation, he searches for one in particular - ol’ reliable.
Perhaps against his better judgment, Miguel places the toy inside his mouth and takes it in, wetting it. He keeps his eyelids shut in order to not see Lyla watching him do this, but can feel her non-existent eyes boring into him. Removing it, he props himself up against his headboard, plants his feet down flat and spreads his legs, positioning the tip at his entrance.
“Can you look away,” he grunts.
“Nah. I know you want to be watched.”
Not giving her the satisfaction of an answer, he forces the head in. Even with his arousal loosening his muscles and giving himself a natural amount of lubricant, there’s still a stretch - he wanted that, wanted to feel himself being opened, the feeling of being forced to take it.
“Hnh,” tossing his head back, he gyrates his hips a few times to work it in fully, then gives himself a brief break to adjust. When he accidentally looks over, Lyla is continuing to watch him, her expression almost… bored. It’s her natural, neutral emotion, but it makes him feel like he’s not entertaining her.
He doesn’t have to. This isn’t for her .
Yet he wants to do a good job for her.
So she’ll leave him alone, he rationalizes in his head. If she gets what she wants, then she’ll finally stop pestering him. Yeah, that’s it.
Without further postponement, Miguel grips the toy by the base and begins pulling it in and out, wiggling on the bedding to find the best angle.
“Oh—” found it. With one thigh flat on the bed and the other knee bent towards the ceiling, Miguel hooks an arm under his leg and drives it inside himself, trying not to think about anything, though his mind wanders back to how he must look. Holding himself open like this, presenting his most intimate spots to his holo and really, truly getting off on it.
Changing his hands around, he returns to jerking himself off, accidentally letting a whine escape from his throat at the two sensations.
“So desperate,” Lyla murmurs, and it goes right into his loins, like a band being pulled tighter, threatening to snap. “Look at you. Don’t tell me you’re going to finish already?”
“Lyla—”
“What a quick shot,” she continues. “No wonder it’s been so long. Who would want to sleep with you when you’re such a mess? Maybe people should see this so they know the real you - a whimpering, drooling mess who is so desperate for a little touch.”
“Lyla—”
Somewhere, beyond the blood rushing to his ears, Miguel catches the sharp sound of the front door unlocking. Eyes shooting open, he looks at her, horrified, and she smugly looks back.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you want people to see you like this? I could simply push a little button and all of your best would come running in. Would you like this?”
“No, no, I…” the band is stretched so thin but has yet to break. “Shock, Ly, I can’t—”
“No. You will. Or else I’ll have to show everyone that their big and tough leader can’t even satisfy himself.” Pulling up her tablet, Lyla types something in, threatening, and when she glances up to meet Miguel’s eyes, the band snaps.
“Ah!” Writhing, he forces the toy in as deep as he can manage, holding it still and almost frantically tugging at his dick like he’d rip it off. “I— oh, oh, shock—” slapping a hand over his mouth, he bites into his thumb, breaking the skin but too busy thrusting his hips into riding the last waves of his orgasm to care.
Coming down from his high, Miguel drops his hands onto his chest and tilts his head towards the wall.
“Okay,” he says after collecting his breath. “Lock the doors, please.”
“Okay, Miguel. I also didn’t call anyone.”
“I know.”
“You still liked it, though.”
“... I know.”
“You bit your hand. Do you need first aid?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Just… going to rest a bit.”
“Sure. Might want to clean up, first. I do not want to deal with you having a UTI.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Lyla.” Pulling the toy out and trying to not react with how wet it is, Miguel stands, knees buckling blissfully and treks to his bathroom to clean both himself and his toy. When he returns, Lyla has changed his bedding and turned the lights off fully.
Crawling under the blanket, he hates to admit that he does feel significantly more relaxed than he had been lately. Well, whatever. In the morning, she’ll pester him about how she was right (again) and he should listen to her (again) and probably some comparison to Lake Michigan (again). But for now, he closes his eyes and is distantly thankful his pillow does not, indeed, smell like his hole.