Chapter Text
Time seems to tick painfully slowly until his lunch break. Every evening, Miguel likes to think you will greet him at this damn door. But you don't. You're never fucking there.
Understandably.
There's no need to be. You're not his assistant. You do not make his lunch. You don't even work directly with him. You're just... you.
You. He fucking hates you. He hates how easily you've clawed yourself up his walls and pushed yourself into the forefront of his mind.
You've taken this steely, angry man and made him far worse, your gaze tantalizing. How your eyes caught him for a second almost drove him mad. Miguel hates it. Sometimes the tension makes him want to force you back into your universe so that he wasn't so damn tense all the time.
He feels hostage to his thoughts.
He was going insane, plagued with questions. Why? Why were you doing this to him?
Would you let him do the same to you?
Could he feel you?
Would you allow him the honor- no. The pleasure of tearing your heart apart, like you've ravaged his?
You must know. Surely you've noticed the way his furious eyes burned into your body. The way his fingers twitched. He sees you walking around the headquarters occasionally, but you pay him no attention. It's almost like you do it on purpose. Like you want him to crave it.
Do you?
Fuck. Maybe he's just making it up. He's merely obscured by a ravenous hunger to push you against his desk. God, he wants to sink himself into your warmth. He wants you to scream beneath him, writhing as thoughts melt into frantic eros.
Miguel shakes your picture from his mind, pushing himself out of his desk. Clawed fingers scrape across it as he tries to vent his frustrations on the way out. Damnit... Why are you so fucking wretched?
Even as he leaves his private office, his mind is filled with the image of your delicate fingers tracing your wrist. When hands touch your dimensional travel watch, and adjust it for frail comfort, Miguel cannot stop himself. He wants to see what you look like with his hands gripping you like that.
Heavy feet thud against the ground as he makes his way to the cafeteria. Miguel gives up on even trying to stop thinking about it. He lets his mind run rampant as he collects a meal, tossing it into the microwave. The sound of anxious fingers thudding against the table silenced the area. His very aura was tainted with frustration and anger.
Nobody wanted to be nearby right now. Not with him like that.
But you, clueless and stupid, came to the line of fire in a haste to make coffee before your own break ended. "Oops. 'Scuse me," you hummed, brushing past Miguel. Your hand brushed against his bicep, and Miguel glared down at you. "Have some fucking manners."
You turn, frowning back at him. His claws slowly pushed from furious fingers, serving as a quiet warning. He was the boss. Your boss.
And he was crazy enough to make good on idle threats.
"Sorry," you muttered, quickly stepping backward. Miguel rolled his eyes and took his lunch. "Good." With that, he left the room.
His heart thrummed against his ribcage, and his bicep felt like it was set ablaze by your gentle touch. A tightness in his chest threatened to suffocate the man as he walked back towards his office.
God, why'd you have to touch him? Even in passing. You just threw off his whole fucking day. How insensitive could you be?
How sensitive could he make you?
Fury filled his veins as his body dropped against his chair. It groaned under his weight, complaining while Miguel pushed a fork into his lunch. Curious fingers touched where yours had, heat blooming under his cheeks. Then pain.
His claws dipped into the flesh, as he nervously gripped onto himself. "What the hell are you doing to me?" he whispered, furious with himself for allowing such debauchery.
This is no way for a professional to act. For Miguel O'Hara to act. The fuck was this? Some club for him to get his rocks off in? No. This is a place of professionalism. At least to some degree. He couldn't keep acting like a horny teenager with a stupid crush. It would cause nothing but trouble.
Still, Miguel felt the heat between his legs rise. Fuck. He can't focus.
Would it be okay to relieve himself? Here? Would it be alright to imagine himself, bucking up into wet walls? Does it even fucking matter?
Does it matter that frantic fingers are reaching down?
Does it matter that his nanosuit is pulling back, just enough to let himself free of the material?
Fuck it.
Miguel couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't. He wouldn't. The arousal pressing itself against his groin busied his hands pushing the thin fabric of maroon boxers down his hips. His dick pushed the last of the fabric back, kissing his stomach.
Automatically, he rolls his hips up as if you were sitting in his lap. "Fuck," he hisses, taking his hardness into a greedy hand.
He hates you. He does. With every fiber of his being, he wants you gone. Out of his fucking life. You ruin him in passing. Your brief moments of interaction turned to the rest of his day. But in your eyes, he remains unnoticed. It doesn't matter. The mere thought of your hands replacing his makes his mind spin.
Eager fingers glide along the head down to his base. "Damnit," Miguel breathed, leaning his head back. A frustrated moan climbs up his throat as he squeezes, pushing a drop of two of pearlescent precum from himself.
Aren't you ashamed? Women like you ruin men. You've ruined his perfectly matured mind and broken him down into a masterpiece of your creation. A breath too sensual. A crooned phrase. A smile too inviting. You do it all so fucking easily.
He wants those same eager fingers on you. Not himself. He needs you. Your body. Your gasps. Moans. Cries. He wants to break you down and build you up, just to do it all again. Your allure has him bucking into his fist like a poorly-trained mutt, whispers of your sweet name brushing past desperate lips.
Half-lidded eyes picture your body, riding and writhing atop his dick. Image after image shoves its way into the limelight, all of you. Your body. He wants to see you squirm. Cry. Scream. Moan. All of it. Tell him you want it. All of it. Let him ravage your body and fuck you into a shell of yourself.
He drags his fist up and down the length, giving a slight twist at the top; coaxing more rivulets of arousal from his sobbing tip. Miguel's body shuddered, feeling hot spend dribbling down his hand. He couldn't help himself. The poor man had been reduced to a teenage boy's libido.
His hips bucked up in frantic motions, his chest rising and falling just as fast. Every thrust was coupled with some new, sickeningly sinful fantasy.
No amount of fantasy would satisfy his desires. Nothing could pull his eyes from his eyelids, allowing him to picture every single one of his ideas.
Miguel tilted his head to the side, his core tightening as arousal drove him mad. "Fucks sake, fuck me, oh god," he stutters out, fanged teeth biting down on his lips. Every motion was sloppy, his other hand grabbing onto his desk with vitriolic hatred. Scratches marked the desk as feral thrusting jostled his iron-clad grip, shattering Miguel's only hopes of ever getting over you.
Not even his local priest could save him from this. Hell is hot, but you're hotter. The inviting warmth of your cunt could make any blaze worth bearing.
Before he knows it, his chest constricts as his grip tightens with the shuddering orgasm of your making.
His spend spatters along the underside of his desk, coating his thighs in disgusting affection. Miguel's breaths come hot and heavy as he relaxes, slumping into the chair as it creaks unceremoniously. "Damnit," he breathed out, closing his eyes.
Miguel's hand rested limply beside his slowly softening dick, but he finally pulled his boxers back up. The nanosuit covered him fully, and he snatched the napkin from his lunch with clawed fingers. He wiped himself off, thankful the semen was merely wiped off the surface.
Once gathered, Miguel is finally able to keep working. Finally. You'd ruined his evening. It's about time he got something done after your little stunt in the cafeteria. He could still feel that festering hatred boiling in his throat, but he managed to keep it to a semi-normal level.
If any level was normal for this.
His day concluded with another brief encounter with colleagues, which he brushed off in a matter of moments. He didn't even stop walking. Miguel pushed his way out of the HQ and briskly made his way to his home. He practically bullied his way through the other people who resided within this same building.
He pushed open the door of his penthouse apartment with an exasperated sigh, slamming it shut behind him. Miguel pushed the lock into place. Finally.
An end to this shitty day.
"LYLA." Her small frame appeared before him. "Pull up my private system, and shut down for the next twelve hours."