Miguel O'Hara
You could always tell when Miguel had gone through a particularly rough evening at work because it always played out the same.
Your roommate had been someone you had met in college. He was going for that biochemist degree while you were settling on the literature degree necessary to help put your name out in the field for the editing work you so wanted to do. It was a comfortable enough profession, even if you had to work a second job for a while until you managed to climb and gain enough attention to do nearly all of your work from home. Miguel wasn’t a man of many words and he found that sharing an apartment with his brother, who you swore up and down was a nice enough man, wasn’t preferred to apparently picking up your ad in the paper and calling you at an awkward hour. Surprisingly, you found that living with Miguel wasn’t terrible. The two of you had enough in common that on the evenings the both of you were in the living room at the same time you could keep conversation going, even spend time chatting over a show or movie the two of you agreed to watch.
When he graduated and you shortly followed, you had assumed he would eventually move out on his own. Especially once he had started dating this nice woman that you enjoyed having over for dinner. Dana, you think her name was. Honestly you had been rooting for them until the day Miguel came home with such a solemn look you thought it was time he would be leaving when it was opposite. They had broken apart and you were there to hold his hand. Not that he would admit to squeezing it as tight as he had when you started to pull it away, nor would he admit to being the one who leaned in first to kiss you when the hour grew late.
You would admit you were the first to pursue something from it. When his heartbreak had eased up and he threw himself completely in work, you took notice of the stress it was putting on him. How he came home later and later, missed more and more important meals as he kept forgetting his lunches at home. You had even tried to pack him a lunch or dinner before and found it forgotten on the counter. When the pressure began to build and you found that talking to him when he got like this was like navigating a mind field, you snapped first and it led to a very rough argument. You two weren’t often prone to them considering if either of you got frustrated enough you could just walk away and talk another time, but this was a blow up and you eventually settled on one conclusion.
He needed an outlet.
Well, you had told him he had needed to get laid, and he had barked at you something and you made that move, that first moment of pursuit, when you kissed him in the heat of it. But in your defense he was the one who encouraged taking you against the kitchen counter and making you moan loud enough you were surprised you didn’t receive a noise complain the next day. Then the fear of things being awkward sat in and you thought briefly of avoiding him. Despite how childish it seemed you weren’t prepare to not only lose the man as a roommate over this but possibly as a friend.
That fear went out the window when he bent you over and fucked you against the couch the next morning.
The two of you talked that evening about boundaries. About whatever the two of you were and how to navigate this new field as it was obvious neither of you were going back to just being roommates and friends. What was also obvious was how much more relaxed Miguel was, meaning your statement of him needing to get laid had held up. But your earlier statement also rang true; he needed an outlet. When you jokingly told him that he could just use you for his stress anytime he felt like it since you were always around, you hadn’t expected to see how his eyes darkened and he looked at you like you were actual food.
“¿Es eso una promesa entonces?”
It’s why you knew when he had a bad day at work because he would come through the door silently. Often he returned to you making dinner, a new habit that came from him spending late nights at work. Really the late hours should have been a give away from the beginning. You were in the kitchen and, considering the new developments in your relationship, you didn’t see a reason to wear anything more than just a loose robe. Your skin still smelled of the expensive soaps you had dabbled on for your recently passed birthday, soft and pliant from the extra long shower you had taken. Your hair was still a little damp when Miguel approached you from behind making you jump when you were suddenly aware of him.
“Oh, Miggy, geeze, wear a bell or something.” You teased him as you returned to looking at the slow bubbling sauce. “Spaghetti sounds good, right? Nothing fancy, to-“
His hands came up and cupped your breasts with enough force to wind you, jerking you back and into his chest as he released a very low, rumbling sound against the back of your head.
“Later.”
“It’ll burn!” He let you at least reach out to turn it to a low heat before he jerked you back further and away from the kitchen.
“Later.” This time he spoke in a firm voice. A low serious tone you could associate with the lines of stress marring his face and cupping the sharp frown. His eyes were molten and dark when you were whirled to manipulate you just how he wanted, guiding you until you fell with your knees catching the edge of the couch to drop. One of his hands was wrenching through your hair, fingers lacing and knotting to hold you in place as the other was fighting to undo his belt and the dress pants he wore to work. He hadn’t even shrugged off his lab coat he must have worn home, entirely focused on one thing only.
Your mouth was open to meet him without him having to tell you, the tip of his cock dripping pre right into the dip of your extended tongue when he rested the fat head on it. You’ve seen his cock enough times to know just the length and thickness of him, you knew it wouldn’t be too easy to fit him without working up to it. Yet you’ve gotten enough experience with said cock that when he began to slowly push past your lips and along the length of your tongue and to the curve of your throat you didn’t gag. You didn’t choke. Both of his hands cupped your head and pushed your hair back as he pressed and pressed and pressed, his head falling forward so he could keep staring at you with his mouth opening.
The smell of him was musky when your nose was pressed right into the curls of untrimmed pubic hair nestled at the base. Seated with the entire length nestled deep you became acutely aware of every pulse from his cock. It twitched and jerked at the noises you made. Soft, gagging sounds that mingled into the desperate little moans you knew he loved because he could feel them along the length of him. His thighs, what was exposed of them to your greedy eyes, flexed when you moaned again and tried to wiggle your tongue on the underside of him.
“Ahí tienes.” You loved his Spanish, loved when the words fell naturally from his lips and rolled as he gasped. His hair was already messed up when he had started to fuck your mouth, careful when he pulled out and pushed back in, but it was even more so when he jerked his head down to watch his cock disappear and reappear. Miguel was a watcher. You learned that in the way he manipulated your position so no matter what he could always watch his cock filling you. Moments like that often brought with him a slack-jawed open mouth expression with half-lidded eyes as the grip of his hands softened a little. Then it redoubled in the fever and his hips began to roll, heavy sack pressing against your chin with every thrust.
“Going to, ah, you’re going to be mine.” He muttered, his hips immediately picking back up the pace until all that filled your ears was the beating of your own heart, the rush of blood, and the slurping that accompanied how you drooled around his cock as he began to set a more brutal pace of using your mouth. Both of your hands settled with gripping and holding tight to your robe as you let him use you, let him ravage your mouth. He gasped and brought one leg up to brace against the edge of the crouch next to your leg and the new angle let him go deeper. “Mine, all night. Not letting you go. Need to- fuck, ah, need this. Need you.”
Must have been a very bad day at work.