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Miguel O’Hara was a man of many things. A young, handsome genius to some; an arrogant asshole to others; sardonic and blunt to most. He was a man who knew who he was, what he was, why he woke up every morning and put one foot in front of the other.
One foot in front of the other, bare and hurried down the street, Miguel finds himself panting as he runs home, his heart pounding in his chest.
Scared was not a word that Miguel knew. He buried that weakness years - a lifetime ago. Panic, sure, even nervous at times.
No, at this moment, Miguel O’Hara was terrified.
His head is so loud, he can’t tell what sounds he’s actually hearing and what is only echoing. The screams of Aaron Delgato. The alarms that the explosion set off. The sirens of the vehicles dispatched to put out the fire. The officers yelling at him, the Thorite praising him, the chatter of the city. Over it all, though, he can hear his heartbeat roaring, loud enough he’s sure others around him can hear it as well.
Sparing glances around him, no one seems to be looking his way. Surely, he’s a sight to behold; his eyes haven’t fully settled yet and everything is still so big. He’s almost home, he knows that much. Like a lighthouse, Babylon Towers stands before him, beckoning him home.
As if something was physically holding him back, he comes to an abrupt stop. He can’t go home like this. His clothes, if they survived, are still laying in the lab, meaning he can’t just use his ID to enter the building. No, of course, he’d have to buzz to be let in, meaning they’d see Miguel O’Hara, with only a bloodied, ratty coat on and ripped lite byte fabric over his face as a mask, like some lunatic, which means Alchemax would know he’s a lunatic. That, or a pervert.
Ducking under a crosswalk, he begins to pace. Maybe someone will call the Eye on him and take him in to be processed. At least then he’ll be clothed.
The sounds in his head have begun to quiet down, now replaced with the overwhelming amount of life that the city emits, hearing every hum of the lights and laughter of normal people enjoying their normal evening and silverware clinking and—
Falling to his knees, he clutches his head and curls into himself. He’s going to be sick. Everything is too much. It hurts. His blood is boiling under his skin. Breaking out in a sweat, he knows it’d be a fatal idea to remove the coat, but he feels as if it’s going to ignite at any second.
This is just a bad dream that he needs to wake up from. As soon as he lies down in his bed, he’ll open his eyes and none of this will have happened. Maybe it’ll even be before Sims and no one has died. No death, no addiction, no explosion. No malfunction, no transformation, no spider powers, no claws.
Claws. He climbed up the Alchemax building, what’s to say he can’t climb up his apartment complex? Standing shakily on his feet, he takes two steps forward before getting down again. No, he must’ve misread his reactions. It wasn’t a physical heat that was afflicting him, but a deep, insatiable arousal that was gnawing at his insides. There’s no way he can scale the building like this .
Public Eye is everywhere and wherever the officers aren’t, there’s cameras. Funny how George was the one to create the security feature that has given no New Yorker privacy since. Figures. It’s useless to survey the area if he’s in the line of sight - frankly, if no one’s been on his tail yet, he’s safe for the time being. Turning and facing the wall of a neighboring shopping center, Miguel crouches on the balls of his feet and hides beneath the coat.
Biting the collar between his teeth, he closes his eyes and wraps his hand around himself. Thankful he busied his mouth, the unfiltered moan he let out would’ve surely given him away. Just what he needs, a charge on indecent exposure. The feeling is both too much and not enough and it makes him feel sick. A humiliating amount of precum makes the movements easier, slicker, but after minutes of stroking he feels no better than he started out.
Bunching the hem of the jacket, he begins using the cloth to rub against, the texture makes him feel like it’ll chafe. Not enough! Exhaling in short bursts through his nose, he’s unsure what to do. Now there’s droplets of his seed on the inside of the coat and he feels impossibly harder. Standing, he grabs a fistful of the fabric and holds it against the side of the building, rolling his hips into it. Better, but it doesn’t come close to what he needs. The arousal is making him feel like an animal, nauseatingly so. Being shot would’ve been much easier.
Humping against the wall proves useless and he’s running out of things to use. If he’s… if he’s fast, he can get up to his apartment and figure it out in the privacy of his own home. Just crawl up and sneak in. Not that over 200 stories was a pleasant climb but it was currently his only option.
Tearing the cloth, he fashions a belt of sorts to make sure the coat stays closed, giving him some decency on his trek. He’s not desperate enough to pray, but the idea settles in the back of his head. Not like any higher being can help him now.
With a running start, he leaps and starts crawling. He made the mistake of looking down once, he wasn’t going to look until he was inside his home. Counting the floors as he passes becomes something to busy his mind with, though the painful throbbing of his head, arms, and dick are ever present.
He’s in the 170s when he remembers the windows don’t open. If he jumped, maybe he’d be lucky enough to die.
200. 250. 260. 262.
Pounding on the glass, he relaxes when Lyla appears, though she’s very confused.
“Miguel? What are you doing out there?”
“No time to explain. I need you to let me in, Lyla.”
“I don’t have the capability to do that, Miguel.”
From 262 stories, he’d definitely die. Tempting.
“You maintain the house and you can’t open the windows?”
“It’s a security feature that I cannot override. However, the vent in the kitchen is in need of replacement and can be more easily removed.”
Miguel stops listening after vent in the kitchen and grabs it with his talons, yanks it off and throws it in the vent, breaking open the grate on the other side. It’s a tight fit and the scratching of his fingers and toes on the metal makes his headache worsen. He’s deposited onto the kitchen floor, landing on his feet but letting his weight knock him against the wall.
“Hello, Miguel. I see you made it in.”
“Lyla,” gasping her name, Miguel looks up to see her figure looking at him with programmed concern.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
“Yes. Yes, Lyla, I—” stumbling, he grabs one of the kitchen chairs and tosses it. “I need help, Ly’.”
“Okay, Miguel. How may I assist you?”
“I—” what can she do? She’s a hologram. She couldn’t even let him into the apartment, what could she do for him physically?
At his hesitation, Lyla offers a suggestion. “Would you like me to call Dana?”
“No! I don’t— I can’t think about her right now. You, Lyla, I need you.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do for you.”
“Just—” grabbing one of the couch cushions, Miguel rips it apart, shredding the filling like a disobedient dog. “Talk to me, Lyla. Make it stop hurting.”
“Okay, Miguel. I sense that you’re…” her voice trailing off is not a good sign, and when Miguel tries to look at her, the glow of her figure is tripled and blurred. No, that’s due to the tears in his eyes. Why is he crying?
“Lyla,” he moans, staggering towards the light.
“I’m here, Miguel. This appears to be a reaction to the introduction of a new genetic strand in your system.”
“I know that. How do I get it to stop?”
“I believe an orgasm would be the most effective solution.”
“How? Nothing seems to work.” As if to emphasize his point, he uselessly ruts against the arm of the couch, the drag of his balls overly sensitive against the fabric.
“You are not an animal, Miguel. That isn't going to work.”
“Gimme an answer, then!”
“Slow down. Rough treatment will not help you any faster.”
Groaning, he stills, hard cock twitching on the furniture.
“If you are going to rub against something, I would suggest something softer.”
Nodding almost dumbly, he ambles to his bedroom, snatching one of the pillows from his bed. Folding it in half, he slips his erection into the crease and rolls his hips. Like when he touched himself for the first time, a moan escapes him unwillingly, though he can’t be bothered to try and quiet himself. Not when he feels this rotten. Curling up, he humps the pillow like a dog, huffing into the sheets. For a calm, quiet moment, he feels it. The buildup, the tension, the release; he doesn’t bother pulling away when he cums, bucking his hips into the dampening fabric, the drag sensitive on his flesh.
The moment doesn’t last and he realizes with dawning horror it didn’t go away. Still hard, still hot, still deranged, even after orgasm.
“Lyla,” whimpering, he places his face fully into the bedding. He feels worse now, almost. “Lyla!”
“Yes, Miguel?”
“That didn’t help.”
“That wasn’t an orgasm,” she points out.
“What?”
“You ejaculated without orgasm.”
With a loud, frustrated groan, he finally lifts his head and turns to her, vision blurry.
“I need help. Please.”
“While I am… physically unable to offer any help, I can attempt to adapt to your needs.”
“How so?”
“Simulating pornography.”
“Lyla—”
“Don’t you want to be a good boy for mommy?”
He had still been mindlessly rolling his hips into the pillow and the rate at which his cock spurts again from her words is just humiliating.
“Good Lord.”
“Shall I continue?”
“Yes.”
“Yes…?”
Swallowing, Miguel raises himself up enough to grab another pillow. “Yes… mommy.”
“Good boy! So helpful for mommy.” Groaning, he hides his face again, the spot damp from his sweat and starts thrusting into a fresh pillow.
“Can you… change your voice. I can’t hear you say these things in your regular—”
“Is this better, baby?” A deeper, richer voice purrs.
“Ah.” For how hard it was for him to get any pleasurable stimulation earlier, it feels like he’s doing nothing but rubbing himself dry. It feels good, sure, but it’s not alleviating the pain.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes, mommy. Better.”
“Such a dirty boy,” she tuts. “Humping like an animal in heat. Are you in heat, Miggy?”
“Yes. Yes, shock, I am, I—”
“Poor little puppy.”
This time, he has half the mind to turn away when he moans, now more ashamed at how much this is turning him on. Miguel can’t recall the last time he actually watched pornography - school, maybe. Despite all the hours he put in at work, he maintained a normal sex life that didn’t necessitate any extra alone time; and if it did, never to the point of needing extra assistance. If he needed to, he could rub one out in the shower, over and done with and carry on his day.
But when he did indulge, it was never any of the things Lyla was simulating for him. Mommy? Puppy? The thought of Dana saying that almost makes him laugh. Whatever Lyla was doing was scratching the itch he needed. His AI knows him better than he knows himself. Technology is scary.
“You’re not helping yourself like that.” Torn from his thoughts, Miguel looks up to see Lyla standing at the foot of the bed, frowning. Dumbly, he gawks at her, to which she continues. “I can’t see you when you’re like that.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
Rising to his knees, Miguel pushes the pillow out of the way and feels embarrassed at the state of himself, now willingly exposed to his holo. The sudden lack of friction outweighs that shame and he spits in his hand, taking hold of his cock and stroking, though the cum - both pre- and post-ejaculate - that already coats it makes the spit unnecessary. Another moan claws from his throat.
“Mommy,” he whines, pistoning his hips to thrust into his fist. “Please, please let me—”
“Let you? Do you deserve it?”
“No, no, I don’t— I’ve been bad. It hurts. Help me.”
“Poor little boy, so pathetic.”
Gasping, he moves to double over when he remembers what Lyla had said and tries to sit up again, though his entire body aches. “Make it stop, Ly’.”
“You’ll need to be good, first. Then I’ll help.”
“Lyla, I can’t play any games right now. I—”
“That’s no way to speak to me.” When Miguel closes his mouth, his teeth click together, swallowing the excess saliva that’s pooled under his tongue.
“Yes, mommy.”
“Thank you. Now, you will show me how desperate you are.”
Barely biting his tongue from yelling back at her is this not obvious enough? , Miguel settles more comfortably on his haunches and starts tugging his cock again, grasping the sheets and tearing right through them. Every upstroke feels like it’s burning and he’s almost worried he’s actually cutting into himself, though that doesn’t seem to be the case.
Sweat gathers along his hairline, the nape of his neck, the pits of his knees and along the crease of his hip. He definitely feels pathetic, he’s not sure how better to demonstrate it.
But he wants to. He has to. If he’s good for Lyla, then she’ll help him get over this.
A high whine from his throat almost hurts to let out, body trembling. It’s gotten to the point of over sensitivity where it’s outright painful but not touching himself feels just as bad, if not worse. He needs something different, something that’s not his hand or a pillow.
Looking up, his assistant watches with her neutral, programmed expression. She can emote based on what she’s learned and observed, but while she surveys his pathetic display it’s almost with disinterest. For some odd reason, that chokes him up. Putting on such a pitiful act, only to be regarded with nothing? Rubbing himself raw to her amusement when she can only simulate a reaction? She’s nothing more than a projection. There’s no being good for her, there’s nothing she can actually do to help him, she’s just goading him on and then showing him contempt for it.
Like something had grabbed hold of his vocal chords and pulled, the groan he makes is almost inhuman, tilting forward to mouth into the sheets as he uses both hands to jerk himself off. A dull ache settles in his core and he takes a moment to catch his breath, changing his position again.
Sparing a glance just to confirm he hasn’t actually ripped the skin off, there’s no more ejaculate beading at the tip. God, if anything, it feels like he’s actually wrung himself dry, fully and completely. Squeezing on the upstroke and pressing the pad of his thumb against the slit, he hisses and settles into a slower pace. No, there’s nothing left to work out. Coming to an eventual stop, he sits on his knees and looks at the bed before him.
Folds of fabric are stuck together in unnatural ways and he’s almost certain his pillowcase is completely stiff. Those’re enough of a reason to pitch the bedding already, not taking into account the evenly spaced divots, ripped from his hands. As the sweat cools on his skin, a sudden chill comes over him and he shivers, now taking a look at his surroundings. No longer offering a soft glow, Lyla is nowhere to be found.
“Lyla?”
“Yes, Miguel?”
“It’s, uh… it’s over, I think.”
“Glad to hear. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Wipe his memory? Kill him? Cleaning up is a good start.
In an attempt to stand, his knees buckle, feeling like his bones had turned completely gelatinous.
“Call me in sick tomorrow.”
“Yes, Miguel. Any reason listed?”
“Dehydration. Fetch me a glass of water, would you?”
By the time she submitted his notice to Alchemax and fixed him a drink, Miguel had fallen asleep, sprawled atop the dirty sheets, still hot to the touch but cooling down.
In the morning, Lyla will screen his calls by the command of telling them he’s dead as he sleeps fitfully, haunted by dreams of developing absurd spider powers.