Miguel O'Hara x Reader [one-shots]

STALKER [M/MS] (P.I)

I'VE BEEN LOVED before. Difference is, I am the one who's never loved. I've never been interested someone, never had a physical reaction towards anyone, and definitely have never been head over heels for someone.

Or, at least, that used to be my case.

Now, I have loved. Now I've been interested in someone, now I have the most enormous physical reaction whenever I'm around that someone, and I am completely and utterly head over heels for this specific person who won't leave me alone.

He is the bane of my existence.

But, at the same time, he is the center of it.

I don't think I have been able to come to terms with that fact. Ever since he pinned me against the wall two weeks ago and wrapped his hand around my throat as if it were something as simple as a door handle, I've been unable to think of anyone but him.

And it's driving me completely crazy.

Crazy because some of the thoughts that invade my brain are of disgusting, horrible things. Like, for example, holding hands— or going out on dates. Or dancing in the rain.

It's like fucking cliché's are all I crave now.

I shudder in disgust, though in reality, I want all of that. Eugh. Give me a break.

Of course, the cliché and fluff isn't all that I've been thinking of. I've been imagining what it would feel like to have him squeeze my neck a little tighter, tear off my clothes, and do terrible, horrible things to me that should and would be considered a crime if not for my consent.

I shouldn't want those things. I shouldn't want him to whisper in my ear and tell me to run before he catches me and does bad things to me.

Really fucked up things.

Fuck. I need him.

Too bad he probably hates my guts.

To be honest, the reason why he hates my guts is completely my fault. I am a villain after all. And, of course, the universal rule of being a superhero is to never, ever fall in love with the villain.

Too bad I fell for him that night he got fed up with me watching him. I had found out his secret identity, the famous Spider-Man, and I'd been keeping him in my watchful gaze.

I hadn't even come up with a plan, yet I still had an unwelcoming and overwhelming urge to follow him—to stalk him and to watch him every moment of the day.

It's what I'm doing right now, of course.

He doesn't know I'm here this time. I made sure to carefully articulate my moves so he was completely unaware of my whereabouts.

I'm walking behind him— more like stalking behind him— watching as he walks home to his apartment. He could swing there if he wanted, but I've learned a while ago that he likes to do normal things every once in a while. Like walking home at night with his own two feet.

I continue to stalk behind him, watching as he turns a corner. I furrow my eyebrows as he turns into an alley. I'd never seen him use it as a shortcut, but he's unpredictable like that sometimes.

So after a few seconds, I make my way inside. It's dark, so I walk slowly and quietly, careful not to make any noise.

When my eyes finally focus, I'm met with a dead end. I huff, thinking he had climbed up the building. I start to walk away, but as I take one step backward, my back collides with another wall.

No, not wall. Muscles.

My breath hitches, and it's the only inhale I get before a hand is clasped over my mouth and the other around my throat. My hand immediately comes to his wrist, but he tightens his old on my throat, causing me to gasp for any air I could get.

I hear him tut in my ear. "What are you doing, my darling?"

I shudder against him. My response is muffled and strained, and his chuckle sends a more powerful shudder throughout my body.

"You think you can follow me and not get caught? Haven't you learn your lesson, love?" He keeps his hand in my throat, but loosens the grip and takes his other hand away from my mouth.

"Miguel," His name is the first breath I breathe when the hand is gone. "Let me go."

"Mm-mm," he shakes his head, humming in my ear from behind. "Answer my question: what are you doing?"

"Walking home," I lie through my teeth, my gaze pinned on the wall in front of me, but my attention focused on the man behind me.

"You don't live around here," he states the fact easily. "I'm going to ask you again, love, and this time, you won't lie to me. What are you doing?"

I swallow harshly, and I'm 100% positive he felt the gulp beneath the palm of his hand. "Following you."

"Because?" He whispers, trailing his fingers over my cheekbones, down to my bottom lip that he runs his thumb over.

"I can't stop thinking about you," I admit, my breathing becoming heavier by the second with every touch.

"You can't?" He questions rhetorically, he voice a deep, low grumble. "And why's that? Let me guess, when I wrapped my hand around your pretty little throat and told you to stop following me?"

I remain silent.

"Hm..." he nods, taking a deep breath as he inhales the scent of my skin completely. He closed his hand around my throat tight once again, and my eyes widen. I strain and gasp, trying to claw his hand away.

He doesn't let up.

A part of me doesn't want him to.

"Stalker..." he whispers, his mouth right by my ear. I hold back the moan that bubbles up in my throat.

He then moves his face down, rubbing his nose against my neck, taking me in. His lips ghost against the thin skin on my neck, and he squeezes my throat harder before clamping his teeth down on my neck.

I wince and cry out. I hate that he does that.

But not as much as I hate myself for loving it.

"You're sneaky," he says once he lets up his iron-clad grip and my flesh from in-between his teeth. "I've thought about it before, and you know what's better than fighting you?"

I take deep breaths, and tilt my head up until I'm met with dark, dilated eyes. I know what's coming for me will be way worse than every wish I had spoken out into the air. I bite my lip, a nervous habit I developed a while ago.

"Keeping you."