Work Text:
You were at your wit's end by the time the door to your shared dorm room opened. You heard the creak of the somewhat rusted hinges and his boots hitting the wood panel flooring. Your roommate was back from the gym, right when you needed him.
“Miguel! Miguel!”
The panicked hike in your voice sent his pace quickening. You heard his gym bag hitting the ground and his hurried footsteps approaching your shared bathroom.
Miguel found you in the position you had been in for almost a half hour. Perched on the edge of the bath, hands trembling, syringe clutched in your fingers. Your medication was strewn out across the lower cabinets, your boxers hiked up to expose your thigh - the right thigh, for some reason, was the one that took most easily to the injections.
Your roommate stood in the bathroom doorway, the curls of his dark brown hair nearly brushing the top of the doorframe. His soft brown skin sheened with sweat, strands of hair plastered to his forehead. A white towel was draped over his shoulders with which he dabbed at the back of his neck. His grey sweatpants rode snugly on his hips, the V-lines of muscle leading to his groin below the waistband. His workout shirt had ridden up slightly, and you noticed the dark curls of hair leading down from his belly button. The sweatpants held a thick outline that you had to tear your eyes away from, or else you wouldn't stop staring.
Miguel was a biochemistry student, the scientific side of the student apartment in contrast to your arts degree. His specialism was in genetics. You were told by friends that he was a genius, practically a prodigal student in the field, which made sense given how often you'd found him up late. Hunched over dense scientific tomes, burning the midnight oil, his bespectacled gaze drinking in the words. And while he didn't particularly look like your stereotypical impression of a science student - built more like a linebacker with a face that belonged on a magazine cover - his great intelligence more than made up for it.
Miguel took in the sight of you, sympathy overtaking his expression as he stepped in. He pulled his glasses case out of his pocket and slipped his square black-rimmed glasses onto his face.
“You need help?”
“Guess I'm not super used to it yet,” you admitted sheepishly with a pang of shame, placing the needle delicately on the rim of the bath. Making the shift from doctor’s treatment to self-injection was not the smooth transition you were expecting - but neither was the actual transition itself.
Dropping to one knee on the bathroom tile, Miguel's hands found your thigh, rubbing his thumb over the area you attempted to inject. You chewed your bottom lip, trying to will the coiling arousal in your core to subside. You were just in your boxers, which were liable to betray you if you weren't careful. Having feelings for your roommate was messy, but especially so soon after a break-up.
Miguel picked up the syringe with practised ease, the viscous testosterone drawn from the vial silvery and transparent within.
“Alright, first off, you need to make sure you hold it at a 90 degree angle from your skin,” Miguel demonstrated, hovering the sharp end over your thigh and splaying his fingers into a V formation over the injection site. “It's intramuscular, so if you don't use this angle you're not going to properly administer it into your vastus lateralis. It also needs to go in far enough to pass by your subcutaneous tissue and reach the muscle.”
You would be lying if you said his intellectual speech didn't provoke a reaction in you. Subtly pressing your knees together, you attempted to mask the stirring that had begun in your core. Instead, you nodded along with his words and tried to take it in.
He smiled as he saw the vaguely vacant look in your eyes, hitching his glasses up his nose as he gazed at you.
“You want me to do it?” Miguel offered, his tone reassuring. The pad of this thumb rubbed over the side of your thigh, a comforting caress most often reserved for a significant other.
There had always been a spark between you two, forbidden and suppressed given the relationship you'd been in since you moved into your dorm. Although you had caught his longing glances in your direction, the captivated scan of his eyes over your latest work for class, the soft tone he reserved just for you… perhaps this was all wishful thinking. Maybe you just saw what you wanted to see. Either way, stoking the flames was a no-go, with Miguel being so popular, and you being in a relationship. Until recently, of course.
“Just this once?” you pleaded. “I'm sorry, I know you just got in from the gym, you need a shower, I'm in the way-”
Your rambling was cut off by Miguel slowly raising a finger to your lips to calm you. His fingertip pressed the plush of your lips and you wanted nothing more than to kiss it. He shook his head, wordlessly telling you that he didn't mind.
Miguel's gaze moved from you to your thigh, above which the needle still hovered. “Sharp scratch. I'll be as quick as I can.”
You huffed out a sigh of relief, mouthing an inaudible 'thank you' to him. Squeezing your eyes shut, your breath shuddered as you felt his palm press tightly onto your thigh, index and middle finger stretching the skin on your thigh. The now-familiar feeling of the testosterone entering your system made you grit your teeth, the burning slow tension as it was administered slowly. You let out an involuntary hiss of pain. Miguel responded by caressing your thigh again as he continued injecting you. Soft pads of fingers stroked your supple flesh, a stark contrast to the jabbing intrusion of the needle. You focused on the feeling of him touching you, clinging to it. Your whole leg tensed from the administration of the hormone replacement.
“Good boy. Qué maravilla.”
The words of praise from Miguel struck your warmth like lightning. Good boy. Eyes still closed, you felt the cool touch of an alcohol pad, followed by the press of an adhesive bandage against the site.
Calm washed over you with the realisation that the pain was over for now. The hormone was in your system and that was the most you needed to think about it for another week, thanks to Miguel. You opened your eyes finally and caught him staring at you, palm pressed to your thigh still. The bandage was fixed to your leg, but he seemed unwilling to let go.
He opened his mouth to speak, but your phone beat him to it. The sound of your text tone was like a dagger in your heart. You knew full well who the sender would be. Regardless, like a glutton for punishment, you grabbed your phone up from the rim of the tub and turned on the screen. Your attempts to keep your distress from your face were in vain.
“Is that him?” Miguel spoke, an edge of ice to his tone.
He stood up from your side, bracing his hands on the lip of the sink and looking into the bathroom mirror.
“Who?” you asked, feigning ignorance.
“You know who.”
Another text came through, pulling your gaze back towards the screen. More false promises. More guilt tripping. Not a single shred of self awareness.
“Thought you were ignoring him,” Miguel grumbled into the mirror, raking a hand through his dark brown locks.
“I am ignoring him.”
“You're looking at his texts.”
“Listen-”
“So you're not ignoring him.”
Each word was like a period, stamping over your half-hearted excuses. He was right, of course.
“Miguel…” you sighed, palming your phone from one hand to the next as you looked up at him. Your leg ached, so you couldn't stand right now even if you wanted to.
“He cheated on you,” Miguel growled, his jaw clenched. “Multiple times.”
“I know, I know.” You glanced at your phone again. A third text came through, then a fourth. “He keeps saying it was a mistake. That he's changed.”
Miguel barked out a humourless laugh. “Trust me, men like that never change.”
Where he gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles were turning an alabaster shade of white. He was fixated on his own reflection, unmoving - trying to regulate an impending outburst of emotion.
“Miguel, chill. It's okay.”
“It's not. It's not okay,” Miguel shook his head, turning to face you. “And I'll chill when you realise you're better off without him. And that he never deserved you in the first place.”
The sudden wildfire of ardour from him threw you. You looked up at him, stretching your leg out, bending the knee back, and repeating the motion to get feeling back.
“You… you might be right. It wasn’t just the cheating, like, we were always kinda doing what he wanted to do. He acted like I was stupid sometimes. And-”
You stopped, wary of oversharing. Miguel spun his wrist as an indicator that he wanted you to continue.
“And he never really, I dunno, engaged with me physically. We’d have sex, but it never really felt like he knew what he was doing. Can’t blame him, though. Before me, he’d only ever been with re-”
“Juro por Dios, if you say ‘real men’, I’m going to slap the shit out of you. Respectfully.”
You often didn’t notice the transphobia you had internalised over many years of verbal osmosis. Miguel always made sure to nip it in the bud. He wouldn’t have you spouting the same learned bigotry that already made it difficult for you to be yourself.
“Fine. Cis men,” you corrected yourself, which drew an approving nod from Miguel.
“Thank you.”
Your phone buzzed again, and you uttered a scoff of disdain, letting your phone fall to the towel-covered floor below. Hands clasped, you leaned forward with your elbows pressed to your knees. Miguel watched your movements, not taking his eyes off you for a second.
“You must think me pretty pathetic, huh?” you murmured, laughing dryly.
“No,” Miguel was, as always, quick to cut deep into your self-deprecation. He crouched to your level again. His warm hands enveloped yours, and the tenderness of the gesture drew your gaze to his face. “No, far from it. I think you deserve someone who can really see you. Treat you like you deserve to be treated.”
Your throat dried up. Gazing into these soft auburn eyes, sharp and knowing, you began to replay every moment you had spent together, picking apart and analysing every detail, as he would a genetic sample. Draping your legs casually across his lap when you watched movies together, your hands brushing together when you reached for something at the same time, escorting each other to classes across campus, his strong hands catching you when your clumsiness inevitably caused you to trip on nothing. Much like your heart in this moment, stumbling over itself, desperately trying to keep a steady rhythm. Maybe all it took was a little risk.
“I think I know someone like that,” you offered shyly, hesitating before moving your face closer to his.
“I think I do too, mi vida.”
With that, your lips were on his, his entire self encapsulating you with a single touch. The feeling of Miguel kissing you confirmed any inkling of romantic interest between you. He inclined his head and kissed you fervently, sinking into your arms with ease. You pushed your fingers into his hair, feeling the natural curls run through your fingers. This drew a hum of approval from him. His arms moved to scoop you from your seated posture, holding you in his arms as you wrapped your legs around his waist to support yourself. He mitigated even the need for you to walk, mindful of your recent treatment. You were melting into each other, a sense of ineffability with each touch. This was always meant to happen, it was just a matter of when.
Moving into your bedroom, Miguel placed you down onto your bed, laying you out like a precious work of art. He leaned down and claimed your lips again, hair hanging over his face and brushing against yours. Your hand pushed down on the nape of his neck, trying to pull him ever closer. Your tongue slid along his lower teeth while his explored your mouth.
Miguel's palms pushed down on your hipbones, biceps flexing from the strain. He broke the kiss. Fingers trailed down to the elastic binding your boxers to your lower half. A glance up to you for consent, which you gave with an eager nod.
"Let me show you how I worship a real man like you, cariño," Miguel whispered, breath hot against your thighs. He pressed a kiss to the hemline of your underwear before he slid the fabric down past your knees.
Cool air hit your exposed crotch as you were unclothed. Instinctually, you wanted to hide yourself from your roommate - as if he had just walked in on you changing. But no, Miguel was more than your roommate now; and perhaps he always had been. You felt a rivulet of arousal drip forth from you, already falling apart under Miguel's touch. Looking down at him, his expression sang with adoration as he beheld you, all that you were. He trailed chaste kisses up your inner thigh, his knees braced against his own excitement which you could see building behind the veil of his sweatpants.
"Tell me if this feels good, okay?"
Miguel leaned down and adjusted the position of his trousers to accommodate his growing thickness before diving into you. You didn't need to tell him with words - the breathy moans that the stimulation pulled from you was more than enough. His tongue drew a beautiful sliding line between your sodden entrance and throbbing clit. Your fingers found his hair again, tangling yourself up in the dark brown waves. Miguel took your clit into his mouth, salivating over the tip and pulsing his lips along its firmness. You stuttered out a groan, unable to stop the bucking of your hips in response. Lubricated with your slick, his tongue rolled between your folds and sunk into its deep valleys. You keened greedily under his mouth. Your ex never once made you feel this complete, delving into your warmth and savouring it like his favourite meal.
"Miguel…" you sighed contentedly, chest heaving and heart fluttering.
"Fuck," he gasped out a laugh, stopping momentarily. Your clit twitched from the warmth of his breath.
You smiled, hand moving from his hair to caress his cheek. Miguel propped his chin up on the side of your thigh, gazing up at you.
"What?" you asked, thumb tracing the sharp edge of his cheekbone.
Miguel pressed a kiss to the skin around your bandaged injection site for a long moment. "You're just so fucking gorgeous."
You could barely believe what you were hearing. Thoughts that you’ve had about him countless times, reciprocated and then some. He looked up at you like you were a starscape, unknowable and glimmering in your vastness. The pet name comes naturally, rolling as easily off your tongue as if you were saying his name. "Baby…"
Colour rose on Miguel's cheeks, a light rose tint against the brown. "Now I could get used to that."
Incensed, his mouth collided with your intimacy once more. Never before had you felt your needs attended to so completely, which was further reinforced as you felt a thick finger, dampened by your arousal, sink into your hole. With passionate efficiency, Miguel added another, watching as you squirmed in ecstasy at the welcome breach. Your cunt twitched needily around his fingers as they stroked along your walls, pumping into you with rhythmic grace.
"Fuck, yes-" you moaned, chewing on your lower lip and panting out halting breaths. Your core rolled with heat. You knew you wouldn't last much longer if he kept this up.
"God, if you only knew how long I've wanted to do this…"
Miguel knew what he was doing, more so than even you expected. He curled his fingers inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate him. The heel of his hand grazed your clit beautifully, and your peak approached like a pot boiling over. The pads of his fingers pushed and stroked down on your g-spot in a beckoning motion, the pressure causing a deliciously unfamiliar pulsing in your pelvis. There was something different about the feeling, a surge of the abnormal. It was all you could do to not go spiralling over your peak with each pump of his fingers.
Again, the moment was shattered. And again, it was by him.
The vibrations were repetitive, regular rumbling on the towel your phone still lay upon. Miguel watched your face change, from heavenly pleasure to a wash of melancholy. Your body tensed, the build-up of warmth receding like low tide.
His jaw locked in place as he glanced towards the bathroom, and the glowing screen illuminating the tilework. The vibrations persisted. A call.
“Miguel-”
You made a feeble attempt to stop him, but your efforts were fruitless. He removed his hands from you, walking backwards while still taking in the sight of you, presented for him and him alone. Miguel opened his mouth, dragging his fingers across his tongue to taste your liquid pleasure, transcendent. The sight made you squeeze your thighs together, desperate to reestablish the stimulation that had left you.
“This motherfucker…” Miguel bent down to pick up your phone, looking at the caller ID on screen. If you wanted to, you could easily have told him no. To stop, to let it lie. But a devious part of you that reared its head wanted to see how this would go. The protectiveness your roommate demonstrated did things to you that you didn’t yet fully understand.
Miguel answered the call.
You waited.
Garbled speech from the other end. Miguel’s nostrils flared, tilting his head up to the ceiling.
Miguel hadn’t said a word. Your ex was talking, assuming he was talking directly to you. And Miguel did not like what he heard.
“Let me stop you right there, cabrón,” snarled Miguel, a dangerous reverberation to his tone as he forced the words through grit teeth. A dry grin flicked across his expression for a split second before fading. “Yeah, you weren’t expecting to hear me, huh? That’s right, it’s O’Hara. His roommate.”
The shameful act which followed as you watched wasn’t something you were particularly proud of. Your hand tracked down your abdomen, finding your clit and massaging it in small circles as you listened. His defensiveness of you was hot, especially against someone who had caused you so much strife. Your teeth covered your lower lip, eyelids fluttering as you smiled hazily towards him. Miguel’s gaze returned to you, tracking the spread of your body with his eyes and finding you pleasuring yourself. This time, his smile stayed. He wet his lips with his tongue, suppressing a groan. Eventually, he had to turn his back to you, lest he lose concentration on what was important in this moment; your ex’s half-hearted excuses and empty apologies.
“Ah, so you understand Spanish?” Miguel interrupted your ex again, cutting off the slew of muffled words on the other end of the call. “Good.”
His expression darkened, a flash of danger passing over his features.
“Mira, maldito estupido. Déjalo jodidamente solo. Deja de llamar a este hombre, y si no lo haces te voy a tratar como el pedazo de mierda que eres, hijo de puta.”
Miguel practically spat the last words. Punctuated his tirade with a swift click of the ‘end call’ button. You quivered with need, your own hand doing next to nothing to satisfy you. You needed him. Only him.
“You liked that, huh?” Miguel smirked, placing your phone down on your dresser and watching the languid loops you drew over your heat. “That’ll hopefully get him to fuck off.”
“Miguel, please- come back now,” you mewled, lifting your hand off your clit in the hopes that he would replace it.
To your elation, he obliged, taking the room in two short strides and pushing himself down on your bed again. Three fingers now plunged into your pussy, his eyes half-lidded, drinking in your arousal with slurping laps of his tongue across your bud. You pushed your head back, sinking into your pillows as you sang his name in ravening moans.
That feeling was there again, the pressure building from two spots. Miguel’s tongue roving on your clit, interspersed with purrs of encouragement. His thick fingers, curled at just the right angle and pulsing against your g-spot with aching abandon. It was different, erotic in its exoticism. The yearning expression on Miguel’s pussydrunk face as he gazed up at you was searing your core, turning it white-hot.
“Feels- feels different, Miguel-” you babbled, unsure how to verbalise the sensation. The fluttering in your hole, the tightness building in your extremities, told you that your limit was close.
“Give in to it, mi rey. Cum for me.”
The bassy husk to his already deep voice rumbled against your clit. Miguel quickened the pace of his fingers, obscene squelching accompanying your pleasured cries. He brought your clit into his mouth once more, burying his face between your legs and savouring the quaking tremor in your thighs and the tangy head of your slick. You rake your fingers into claws, digging into his scalp and rutting feverishly against his oh-so-perfect mouth.
The strange sensation builds, and all at once, releases, like a wave crashing against rock. Your bed shakes, your spine arches clean off the mattress and your throat hurts with the force of projecting your howl as you reach the summit. A dam has broken. You’d never climaxed quite like this. You didn’t know if you ever would again. Your fluids coated Miguel’s fingers and gushed down his wrist, trickling through the dark hair that covered his robust forearm. A wet patch developed on the blanket, dribbling down from your squirting entrance. Miguel instinctually moved back in surprise, but a smile pulled his mouth upwards. His lips were red and slightly swollen from how thoroughly he had worked you over. Even more kissable. His thick hair stood on end, partially stuck to his sweat-slick forehead, the flush risen on his cheeks as he teetered on the edge of his own climax. Untouched, you realised he could cum just from ferrying you through the throes of pleasure.
“Good boy,” he gasped, trying to regulate his breathing. “Wasn’t expecting you to cum like that.”
“Y-Yeah-” you stutter, “Neither was I.”
You gather the fabric of his workout shirt at his chest, tugging him upwards towards you and press your lips to his. Your tongue slipped into his mouth, tasting the heady tang of yourself on him. Acutely aware of your cunt clenching with your wet release, you made it your mission for Miguel to reach such heights. Your roommate whimpered as you clawed at his sweatpants, his erection tenting the fabric as he grinded against your thigh. You divided your efforts, kissing every inch of his face, while your fingers slithered below his waistband and wrapped around the base of his impressive length. The allure of not even having seen it incited you to pump harder, precum sending your fingertips sliding from base to tip.
“Don’t hold out on me, baby,” you whispered between frantic kisses to his handsome face. “Not after how well you treated me.”
Miguel, dominant in every other aspect as you’d seen, was putty for your moulding. You angled your wrist, stroking his slickened cock as you kissed and nipped along his neck. It didn’t take long for his cock to twitch against your hand, desperation sending him keeling over the edge. His orgasm came with a groan of your name, slick ropes of cum coating the inside of his workout pants. His legs gave out from underneath him and he caught himself on his elbows, the only thing preventing him from flopping over on top of you with his full weight.
A laugh brought an expression of blissful levity to Miguel’s face. He kissed you sweetly. You couldn’t help also dissolving into giggles.
“You should help me take my shot more often, Miguel,” you muttered into his mouth, drawing more chuckles from him.
Miguel stroked a thumb adoringly over your cheek, suspended above you as both your chests heaved. He glanced at his other hand, glazed with the veneer of your squirt, and further down at the damp mess in his tracksuit pants.
“Okay, now I really need a shower.”
You nudged his shoulder playfully, indicating the drenched state of your lower half. “Yeah, and so do I,” You placed a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose. “You first?”
Miguel raised his eyebrows. After what you had just done together, after the boundary of ‘roommate’ had been not just crossed, but crushed beneath the heels of your attraction, the question seemed ludicrous even as you said it.
“Oh no, mi alma. We’re going together.”
As Miguel led you by the hand towards the shower, you hazarded a glance towards your phone on the dresser. The screen was dim, empty. No new texts.