NSFW 18+ NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK - absolutely not appropriate or suitable for minors or PEOPLE I PERSONALLY KNOW to read this please YOU HAVE BEEN so WARNED!
I'm backkkkk <3 -G☽˚
*ੈ♱‧₊˚
It's going to take a while for you to get used to your neighbor being... different, to get used to the images that have been burnt into your brain.
You're at a super obscure coffee shop Miguel insisted he bring you to; the beginning of him "making it up to you."
Before you take a sip, you subtly let it slip, muttering the invasive question,
"So have you... killed anyone?" like you don't know the answer.
"Jesus, Y/N, not— god, not here."
"Okay, damn. I never know when the right time is with you. Sorry, sorry," you exhale before taking a sip.
"Well not in a fucking coffee shop on a Sunday morning, let's start there,"
You roll your eyes and conceal your laugh.
He shrugs, "Yes. Obviously. I mean... obviously," putting it a bit too lightly.
You gulp, letting your superstitions get the best of you, "Jesus, where? Not at the apartment, right? Ghosts are real— Really Miguel, I mean seriously, that's not okay."
"I didn't invite them! You think I prefer they come to my home? Yeah, 'Hey guys, if you could come over to 502, shed some blood there, yeah that would be great,' Dios mío, Y/N. You're something else,"
You stare at him, waiting for him to finish. He takes a sip of his coffee, then looks back up at you. You laugh, then he chuckles, the kind of laugh that rumbles at the bottom of his lungs, and sends warmth to your chest.
"Yeah, yeah. That's what I thought," you shrug, nudging his leg.
"You irritate me," he mutters, before taking a lengthy sip. You smile, flattered.
****
"Let me cook for you," he mutters as you pick out the best bunch of broccoli. The butterflies in your stomach wake up. You look back at him, the mist from the veggie misters lightly coating his navy knit sweater. You instinctually swipe your hand over his chest, taking the moisture off of him, and spreading it onto your own jeans. You look up at him, and regret this random, little stupid thing, cheeks growing flushed, feels too soon. He's already looking down at you, smiling at this little stupid thing you cringe at, then takes a deep breath, takes the broccoli from out of your hands, and places it into the cart. "Okay. To the cooking," you mutter, as you turn your back to him and move on to the next section of produce. He follows behind you, pushing the cart.
It's domestic, makes you feel warm, protected, much needed after yesterday's events. He watches, admiring you, no cares in the world, all of his attention on you.
****
You arrive back at your apartment.
You note how he slips his shoes off, how his eyes follow you as you slip off yours and approach the kitchen counter. He joins you shortly after.
You face him, catch him off guard when you reach up to pull the tote bags from off of his shoulders, offloading the burden; he's not used to someone lifting some of the weight off. You sit the bags down on the counter, the bags full of groceries he fought to carry for you, and the groceries he also fought to pay for, both battles he won.
Once you're done putting everything away, you grab his hand and drag him to your couch. He sits and you lay down. He lifts your feet and places them on his lap.
You close your eyes, feel the warmth of his big hand wrap around your ankle, and you drift away.
****
You open your eyes, look up at the window behind you, it's dark out.
You sit up, look at Miguel, whose eyes are closed, his head thrown back against the couch, and his hand still around your ankle. Your eyes trail from his hand, up to the curls above his forehead, back down to his jaw, his neck, his chest, rising and falling with every breath.
"I can feel you staring," he exhales.
You sit up, "Do you?" you whisper, slowly lifting a leg across him, now sitting on top of him. He rests both hands on your hips, as he opens his eyes to you. He nods, head still thrown back against the couch.
"Can feel you even better now," he shrugs, smiling up at you. You shiver when both of his big hands wrap around your ankles, squeezing gently. His hands then trace up to your lower back, fingertips massaging into warm flesh. He buries his face into your neck, and you dig your face into his hair, drinking up his scent.
"Do you still like me?" he asks, muffled in your neck. You comb your fingers through his hair, you hesitate, not meaning to. You sigh into his hair.
"Mig, of course I do, it's just... it's hard to erase, you know..."
He nods, then draws his thumb to your cheek, stroking your flushed skin.
"I'm not scary. I'm more than just that moment." He puts your hand to his face. "Feel me. Do I feel scary?"
You sigh, then look down at the rise and fall of his chest, the way his warmth feels under your thighs, the way his arms are wrapped around you, how he makes you feel now, in this moment. He's so big, so strong, but you're the one on top of him.
"I mean you feel like you could do scary things," you mutter, squeezing the flesh of his bicep. That's true.
"Oh yeah? Like what? You want me to do scary things to you?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"I can show you if you'd like," he mutters, lips dragging slowly across yours, teasing you. You push your lips against his, pulling the roots of his hair as his fingers grip your hips.
Before you know it, his hands are guiding your hips as you grind against him. He's breathless at the sight of you like this, looking up at you like you're his reason for breathing, and it's all hazy, dreamlike.
You close your eyes, cheeks pink as you dig your face into his messy hair, savoring the pleasure you feel through clothes, imagining what the real thing would feel like, wondering if now is the right time. But for now, you take in the moment, listening to the way your whispers and moans intertwine, music to your ears.
His hand moves up and down your calf and ankle, then drags up to the top of your pants, you nod down at him, putting your hands on his as he slowly dips his fingers into the waist band, bringing them down your thighs, achingly slow, as you kiss passionately. Finally, he slips your pants off your ankles, throwing them to the side as you brush hips, aching at the pressure underneath your underwear, wet against his sweatpants. He lifts himself under you for a second, lowering his sweatpants, allowing pressure through just undergarments now, so close, feeling each other, feeling almost everything, both desperately ready for the real thing.
Drunk off pleasure, you whisper, breathlessly,
"I want you... so bad."
He combs his fingers through your hair, his other hand fiddling with the waistband of your underwear, "You can have me," he nods up at you, looking at you defenselessly really, like he's giving up complete control, like he trusts you with everything, all of him. You pull his hair, looking down at his lips, "Can I really, Mig? Are you mine?" you whisper, before sucking playfully on his bottom lip.
"Y/N... I'm all yours, if you want me to be. Do you want me to be?" he whispers, squeezing your thigh. "You know you're all I want," you admit, then his lips are back moving passionately against yours. You start to pull your sweater off; he's quick to help you, lifting your sweater above you, then you help him pull off his. You look down at each other; his eyes drink you up, your hands feel him up, his hands squeeze at the flesh filling your bra, your fingertips trace his skin, his abundance of muscle. His lips latch to your collar bones, marking you as his, all over, then trail down to your breasts. You know what he's doing. You're his now.
Then it's your turn, and you're claiming him as yours, kissing and bruising his neck, as he pulls your hair gently.
You bring your lips back to his, palming him through his boxers, as he slowly draws a hand to your heat, feeling how wet you are through the cotton. He breaks the kiss, "Can I?" he asks, fingertips fiddling with the trim between your thighs. You nod, ready for him to feel you, feel all of you.
His fingertips glide across you, "God, you're wet," he whispers, looking up at you as you exhale at the sudden sensation. He slowly inserts a digit, watching your face, encouraging you, "Is that okay, chula? Can you handle another?" he asks, his words making your stomach flip. You nod, moaning at the pressure his lengthy fingers bring. His thumb grazes your bud, perfect pressure, you moan into his hair.
"You like that, Y/N? So pretty, god, look at you," he groans, begging for the eye contact you deny him.
"More, need more," you whine, squeezing his hard-on gently underneath you.
He kisses you, before standing up, your legs wrapped around him as he carries you to his bedroom.
Suddenly, you're in between his sheets, his head buried in your neck, hard-on flush against your heat. Your underwear are gone, and your hand is wrapped around him, feeling his flesh, familiarizing yourself with him before you collide.
You imagined he'd be like this, not one to rush these kinds of things, imagined he'd tease you, take his time, and you were so right.
He teases you, widening the distance between you two when he crawls down, face now between your thighs. You realize how much of a giver he is. Your fingers comb through his hair as he gently sucks on you, so easily making you weak, pleasing you like he's been between your legs, this close to you, a million times before. You're a moaning mess, spewing out words of encouragement to your neighbor, the best neighbor ever really.
"Mig," you exhale, he looks up at you, "hm?" he hums against you, your fingers tangled in his hair, "Come back, kiss me." And just like that, your words are law he follows, eager to make you happy, to reunite with your lips. His lips trail from your lips down to your jaw, then neck, marking you up even more, hard-on pushing against your heat. The self-control is admirable.
You pull his hips closer, he smirks against your lips, "You want me?" he whispers, "Don't act like you can't feel it," you exhale. He nods, then reaches down, your hands touch as you guide his occupied hand to you.
He presses against you, then finally, you're both letting out sighs of relief, feeling each other, completely as he slowly, fully feels all of you, and you him.
"Beautiful, so beautiful, god... you feel so good," he groans, moving slowly against you.
You wrap your legs around him, as his hands explore you, tracing the curve of your waist, the fullness of your chest, then your flushed face. He takes slow, deep, satisfying thrusts, allowing both of you to feel just how full you can be with him.
"Does it feel good?" he whispers, breathy. You nod, moaning his name, exhaling it over and over in between spews of vulgarities, savoring how deep he is.
You feel him restraining himself, body tense as he suddenly digs his fists into the sheets beside you; you hear fabric being torn.
You notice: his claws are unsheathed, fangs sharp and visible between moans, and the tinge of crimson in his eyes has grown darker. He moans your name into your neck. Who knew heaven was just next door?
****
You both catch your breath; Miguel's collapsed on top of you. You smile against his shoulder, suppressing laughter at his groans from twenty seconds ago, processing what's just happened.
Your fingertips lightly brush Miguel's scratched up back, apologizing for the damage you've done, and Miguel's hips slowly retreat from yours. You whine at the loss of contact, he chuckles before leaning into your face, kissing your cheek, before leaving the bed to use the restroom.
"Hurry up," you groan from across the room. He comes back with a wet towel, and crawls back on top of you, kissing you, distracting you as his hand cleans up the mess between your thighs.
He throws the towel to the side, "I'm back, see," he says between kisses. He's back beside you, laying on his side, lips pressed against yours, hands in your hair. It's messy and natural, even though it's all so so new.
In between kisses, you whisper, teasingly, "what a good neighbor,"
He pulls back; you can see you've struck a nerve.
"Neighbor, huh. Thought we settled this, thought after all that, I'd be more than just your neighbor," he rolls his eyes, hovering over you, surrounding you with biceps. You read him, he's joking, but he's not.
You act unfazed, and mutter sarcastically, "Is this you asking for a promotion or...?"
"Maybe... Do you want to promote me?" he asks, gently, looking down at your lips, then back up to your eyes. "Will you be my girl? Think you can handle me?" he whispers, brushing his lips against yours. He sounds genuine, cheeks flushed; he means it. "I'll be your girl," you nod, stroking his waves. He digs his face back into your neck, inhaling your scent. You stay like that for a while.
****
Now you eat, cheeks still flushed from what happened an hour ago.
"Very nice damage control," you mutter, taking another bite of the meal he's made you.
"I wanted this before any of that, but I'm 1glad you don't hate me."
"Hate you? Think I made it clear back there just how much I don't hate you."
He puts his hand under the table and grabs the leg of your chair, effortlessly pulling yours closer to him.
"That's better," he nods, before taking a sip of wine.
He pours you more wine, "We have so much to celebrate," he says, before kissing your cheek, and when he pulls away, you lean into him, kissing his cheek right back. He smiles, shyly turning away, then gets up for more wine; the night calls for just a bit more...