#reader is pining

Wrote this one for @prinzevyn

Thump. 

Ahriman’s cane thumps the ground once more. Behind him, were carved wooden shutters, allowing daylight to seep through the gaps. It kisses the polished marble flooring, dancing like ribbons of gold. Day had blended into night, following the crescent hanging from the sky melting into the deep blush of dawn once more.  

You haven’t opened your mouth once after getting captured. A supposedly easy mission in EARTH-505F turned sour soon when the villain decided to secure an alliance with a group of freelance assassins; and now, you were hostage. Or that’s what they think. The pen drive virus you stuck on their operation base goes unnoticed still. 

A rivulet of blood dares slide down your brow to block half your vision. Your hands burn where they’ve managed to bind you with ropes, but a steady buzz hidden in your right shoe reassures you. The signal for backup went through. 

“I will ask only once, fräulein, where are your superiors?” Your tormentor croons, his steady grip on your chin tightening to a painful pressure. You grit your teeth, refusing to allow pain to show on your face. 

The resounding explosion is a melody to your ears. The thunderous bangs are a ballad to your weary ears, a mellifluous tune. 

Ahriman startles, leaping away from you— a gun already in his arm. He yells down the corridor, “Impossible. Men! What seems to be the problem!” 

There is no verbal reply, but a man clad entirely in black smashes through the mahogany door, landing heavily on Ahriman. A blue-fitted fist follows, revealing a muscular looming figure that is akin to a cavernous being, broad shoulders cutting into a leanly muscled frame. 

“There,” Your voice is dry, cracking from lack of use. “That’s my superior.” 

The last thing Ahriman sees is Spider-Man 2099 in a tight spandex suit before he’s punched to a few centuries in the past.  

—

“How many times,” Miguel O’Hara’s voice is barely above a hiss, anger tightening his brows and rage coating his words as he expresses his displeasure. “This is the third hostage situation this month.” He angrily dabs the cloth in tincture, yet his movements are gentle when they settle above the light flesh wound in your brow; already halfway healed. 

“I wasn’t involved in the first two. This one was required.” You point out, amused at his reactions. “We got the information we needed. I admit I didn’t anticipate the ground attack, but we managed to get more information and track down Ahriman’s base. I consider that a win.” 

“Besides,” You continue, stretching yourself like a cat once he was done with his ministrations. “I wasn’t even in real trouble, I could’ve gotten out of those bonds anytime. Besides, I needed the money. How else do you think I will fund my Amazon wishlist?”

“Money?” His fangs peek out from under the cusp of his lips, you can’t prevent your eyes from darting to them. “You’re risking your life for money?” 

“My Amazon cart.” You correct him, pulling up your phone and scrolling through the app. There’s a frightening amount of items. “I’m a bit of an obsessive window shopper.” 

“Clearly” He snorts, grabbing the phone from your hand and restraining your face with the other as you windmill against his powerful arms to get it back. His muscles flex deliciously as he leans away from you. In the black tight figure-hugging shirt, there was no excuse for your wandering eyes. You were simply admiring his powerful physique, that’s all. “—see what you’ve got in here—“ His biceps ripple, shirt barely restraining his powerful arms as he held you back without an ounce of his spider strength, “—a lot in here huh—“, your eyes fixate on his strong jaw, a bead of sweat making its way down his throat into his shirt and— 

“—Hello?” 

“Oh,” You snap out of the trance and go bright red. Your voice is shaky and flustered. “Sorry, were you telling me something?”  

“You’re out of it.” He observed, a pinch of scorn in his tone “And yet you claim you’re perfectly fine.”

You were not out of it because of the injury but rather because of him. Obviously, you couldn’t tell him that. 

“Yeah, I guess.” You clear your throat. “I’m going to shower now.”

“All right,” Miguel shrugged and made himself more comfortable on your couch and stretched, his shirt riding up revealing a toned, muscled lower body. 

Make that a cold shower.  

—————————————————————————————————

A grunt leaves your lips as the target kicks your stomach, sending you flying across the garden. You catch yourself at the last second, leg panning out mid-manoeuvre for balance, and using the momentum to spin around in a smooth arc, you launch at him with an accelerated motion. Your aim lies true and with a single hit, the target goes down like a rock. 

A second later, you go down on one knee too, the leg too damaged to support your weight. A filthy curse leaves your lips. 

Another mission gone wrong: the target had bombed a building full of civilians in a desperate last attempt to get away. You’d broken your leg, skidding past to save a little girl from being crushed to death. It had been worth it at that moment, for the admiration and the gratitude that the girl had shining in her eyes— after all, part of why you got into this job was to save people— but now? Not so much. 

All this for a goddamned Amazon wishlist. A fancy astrolabe would soon lie on your desk with the money you get for this mission. Whoever said money doesn’t buy you happiness was dead wrong. Deliriously, you wondered where you went so wrong as to put the list above your life. 

The once beautiful garden, leaden with throes of roses and yellow marigolds now lay torn and jagged with a trench dug out where the target had crashed unceremoniously. 

You felt your vision spin. Your arms felt like iron weights and your head was cottony.  Maybe a nap wouldn’t hurt? 

You took a step and your vision blacked out, carrying you in the sweet embrace to the divine deep dark. 

A nap it is. 

It was night when you came to, and you were blessed with a vision of a god. 

Or it felt like a god. 

There he stood, Miguel O’Hara, between the gardens in the trench, between slews of roses that blush prettily in shades of red. A moonlit night sighs from the lashes of thin clouds, and the stars twinkle shyly amongst heavy clouds, counting the seconds following the path of the silver moon melting into the golden of the sun.

Under the trepid silver moonlight, the man was a vision. Skin glowing ethereally under the floaty moonlight, so like the smooth, red-brown ochre of the most beautiful palaeolithic murals, richened to perfection by the sun. He was a sight for sore eyes. 

And then he turns to you, and the relief you felt at seeing him extinguished into guilt and a bit of fear. 

His eyes are murderous. He has one hand roughly restraining the target with almost no effort as he focuses entirely on you. He doesn’t break the eye-contact as he crushes the hand of the man when an attempted punch fails to land. The target screams in pain. Miguel throws him down and shoots a tranquilliser in the same motion. 

Oh. You realise. The target was awake and probably would’ve killed you if he hadn’t arrived. You’ve fucked up. 

Your head still spins. Vaguely you register him calling Lyla for a retrieval. You feel Miguel’s footsteps nearing you but you don’t register it until he sweeps you into his arms, carrying you bridal style. His veins are sinewy against tanned flesh, forearms taut beside your softer ones. He leans closer, enough for you to feel his lips at your earlobe. “We’re talking about the missions you take when we get back.” 

Stunned to speechlessness by the hot breath ghosting across your ears and the tight hold in your body, you can do little more than nod rapidly. 

He doesn’t let you down until you get back to base and you’re so used to the warmth and tightness of his arms that you find yourself left wanting more when he finally lets you down. 

All through the doctor’s checkup you’re out of it. But once again, it wasn’t because of the target but rather due to Miguel. The feel of his arms around yours, lifting you up like you weighed nothing more than a feather, clutching you close as he swung you to safety. His hot breath ghosting across your neck when he jumped, the sight of the one lone strand of hair threading bashfully across his cheek, Oh what you would give to replace that strand of hair with your lips—

 You gulp. You may have a problem on your hands. 

———————————————————————

The door tears off its hinges— unfortunately on the way of a certain Spiderman’s warpath, what a waste of wood— and Miguel O’Hara storms into your room in the middle of his rampage. Briefly, you notice a panicked intern reach inside— possibly to try to appease Miguel’s wrath— but he slams the torn door back into its place and it cracks into the wall, embedding itself deeply. 

You breathed low, “Did you really have to do all that? Excessively dramatic.” 

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice slices the air, baritone richly gravelled in dirt and wrapped in velvet. You shiver slightly but focus on the papers he’s shoving in your face. “You’re transferring from my unit? Are you fucking with me?” 

The previous rage, annoyance and anger you felt returns full force. “Me? Fucking with you?” The lackadaisical attitude drops from your tone and the room significantly gets hotter with all the fury mingling with the charged atmosphere. “You barred me from field missions. What were you thinking?!” 

Miguel leans closer to you, rage contorting his handsome chiselled features to sharp edges akin to towering mountain peaks. His vexation with you cuts across sharply through the fog of haze you fall into whenever he’s this close to you, the fury fuelling your motives. 

He glares at you, and you glare back defiantly Both of you are worked up— Miguel’s anger is much more visible, however. You keep your emotions under a tight wrap, concealing them and replacing any speck of expression with a fabricated mask. 

His sharp laugh cuts through the air, slicing better than a rapier ever could hope to. “You were reckless. You threw yourself into missions fully ready never to return. You…” He bends down to level his face with yours, you were both panting— from the uncontrollable emotions and the distinct flavour of irritation permeating the air— “…are a liability” 

The mask cracks and shatters. 

You shove him away, snarling. “Take that back. I have better mission completion rates than most of the people here! How dare you undermine my work!” 

He shoves you right back, pinning you against the wall. He’s close enough that you can count the flecks of colour in the bottomless abyss of his eyes. His breath ghosts across your lips. You wonder if they’d be chapped or as full as they looked. His gaze looks ready to devour you alive and perhaps you want to be devoured by him. 

“Arrogant.” He breathes lowly. “I took you off field missions since you clearly lack the strength to take them on.” A mocking scoff leaves his throat, “How many times have I come to save you, yet again? Fifty, was it?” 

“Asshole,” Your tone is vitriolic, yet you push yourself closer to him. Your tone turns into something… else, “Maybe I take the missions because I know you’re always there to save me. Are you too weak to, anymore?” 

You don’t know how you gathered up the courage to say that to him. You’re well aware that you’re taunting a beast but it is a cocktail of endorphins and rushing blood that makes you cockier as you push yourself even closer to him. His lips are a hairsbreadth away from yours. His pupils dilate, consuming his eye and your pulse whirs with a rush. 

He slams you into the wall once again and you let out a yelp of surprise. He brings his lips close to your earlobe and you stiffen, all the earlier courage evaporating into thin air now that the situations were reversed, His hot breath is what hits you first and you shiver. “Ah,” He says, no inflection of whatever he’s feeling in his tone; but the atmosphere— charged previously with anger now tinged with something else— is too much to ignore. “I see now.”  He hums, a low contemplating tone that vibrates through your entire body. You resist the urge to shudder.    

“Your motivation might be money, but since you don’t value your life, I’ll simply have to value it for you.” A pink tongue darts out to lick the tip of your ear and you jerk in surprise. He makes a tch noise. “Your request is denied, you’ll stay with my unit.” 

He steps back, giving you a once over and rips the door out, setting it neatly on his way out. The intern waiting outside shoots you a frightened yet confused look. You relate to her expression. 

What the fuck just happened. 

——————————————————————

Everything ties up together when you wake up one day and struggle to open your door. A mound of Amazon packages clatter to the ground as you push the door open with your spidey-strength— the packages rammed you in— and you have to gape for a full minute. 

Your neighbour walks out of his home— probably from the amount of noise you’re making— and promptly trips on a Smart Standard Multi-Purpose Table. 

You crush the mile-long bill under your shoe in anger. 

———————————————————————

“Miguel O’Hara!” Your voice resonates through the compound, magnified by anger and people scurry out of your warpath as you force your way up to Miguel’s office. The owner of the compound, however, does not seem to share the panic of his recruits. You bang open his door and he simply raises an eyebrow, like you’re nothing more than a kitten batting away a few fingers.

He battles my unperturbed glare, a smile curving his lips. He steps towards the sprawling lounge, sinking into the plush cushions lining the low bedding, and addresses you while you stay rooted, shaking. 

“What seems to be the situation?” 

“You goddamn— What seems to be the situation?” You’re flabbergasted at his question, the anger melting away to reveal incredulity left underneath. “You bought me half my Amazon wishlist!” 

He frowns, “Is that not what you wanted?”

“Well, yes— but you don’t understand!” Your hands move involuntarily as you try to make your point. He watches on amused. You beg and hope that some of your anger will return but it seems far out of reach now that you’ve witnessed his face, that sharp jawline that can cut through stone, the crooked dark eyes that could swallow you right up—

“You told me you took on rough jobs for money. For your… frivolous Amazon wishlist—” “Frivolous?! I swear I’m going to bury you—“ “—And I’ve simply solved the problem.” 

He leans forward to face you, infinitely amused now. That cocky asshole. His forehead brushes the waterfall of curls cascading, and he whispers, “I’ve done you a favour. Don’t you think you’re being an ungrateful brat now?”

A shiver passes through your spine. You push him back and he leans back, like the cat that got the canary. You scowl. “I wanted to buy it with my own money. But, thank you.” 

“It is your money,” He comments offhandedly. 

“What.” 

“The money for your astrolabe was taken from your last mission. I paid for some of the rest, but consider it a gift.” 

“A gift? For what?” 

“For all the times you’ve saved me too,” He was decidedly not looking at me, focusing on the papers in his hands. 

You squint at him, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes. “God, you’re as thick as it gets, aren’t you?” Before I could explode in outrage about what it is he exactly means by that, we’re… kissing. 

At first, it was soft, gentle and light— a bird attempting to learn flight, testing out the waters— Miguel pressed you against him, mouth encouraging you to be reciprocative. The shock you feel is secondary now, the world felt blurred, and the only one who was clear— was Miguel. His presence overwhelmed yet appeased you. Your hand slid up his neck to pull him closer.

He grabbed your hair to level your face to his. Something changed immediately. 

The kiss turned open-mouthed. It could barely be called a kiss, You were being devoured was more like it. The revelation of what he’d just said hit you like a truck and your brain buffered like a Windows Vista as you pulled away from the kiss. You were gasping as you both broke apart, gazing at one another wide-eyed, breathing laboured.

“You like me too?” You asked dumbly. 

Miguel snorted and the corners of his mouth quirked up. “Yeah. If that wasn’t obvious.”

“So, it’s not just me?” You continue on and immediately flush bright red from embarrassment. You regret every word that comes out of your mouth.