#and Vegas is head of the minor family

[peachym00]

A crack of thunder interrupted Pete’s thoughts, making him jump out of his skin.

“Fuck me, that was loud,” Pete flinched, his heart nearly beating out of his ribcage.

“Not out here; the pavement will be far too uncomfortable,” Vegas quipped, getting up from the floor and holding out a hand for Pete to take.

“You’re hilarious, you know that,” Pete said sarcastically, holding onto Vegas’s hand, which helped him up with far more force than Pete expected, pulling him straight into his chest.

“So I’ve been told.”

Vegas looked at Pete like he wanted to crack him open and see what was inside. It made him feel good and wanted. Brave.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Pete questioned quietly, not wanting to disturb the charged atmosphere that had built up around them.

“I don’t know, there’s just something about you, Pete,” Vegas says unhurriedly, his eyes gazing all over Pete’s face like he’s searching for something, anything that will give him an answer, “every time I think I’ve figured you out, you do something else to surprise me.”

Vegas brings his hand up to the side of Pete’s cheek, the tips of his fingers grazing it just so, not bearing any weight but somehow burning their mark onto Pete’s skin.  

It was then, as he was wondering what it would be like to feel Vegas’s lips upon his own, that an extraordinarily untimely and out-of-place thought came to mind, blurting out of his mouth as he couldn’t believe he didn’t catch on at the time.

“Oh my god,” Pete exclaims, horrified, “Porsche and Kinn are fucking; they’re one hundred per cent fucking.”

That would explain everything that Pete had been so far confused about. The reason Porsche was so coy about answering questions about working for the main family, the reason he had nothing wrong to say about him. It would also explain the reason why Porsche wasn’t shot onsite for injuring Macau, why out of every single gun pointed at him, Kinn chose to choke Porsche into unconsciousness instead.

“You’ve only just figured it out?” Vegas asks incredulously, dropping his hand from Pete’s face.

“He didn’t tell me anything!” Pete was slightly miffed that he had been interrogated so brutally on life at the minor compound when they could have talked about how Porsche was hooking up with his boss.

Unbelievable.

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now, Pete, about Kinn and Porsche and their sex life?”

“Yes, it is,” Pete says, his thoughts coming to a standstill as he realises the moment he has deprived himself of, the sinking feeling of coming to the realisation that he is his own cock-block, “why, what should I be thinking about?”

Vegas’s gaze darkens, the corners of his mouth turning up into a brilliantly evil smile, the sharp edges of it leaving no room for mercy. They’re still standing close together, yet he tries to bring Pete even closer, their proximity giving him no choice but to rest his hand on Vegas’s chest. His other hand is still enclosed in Vegas’s own, getting increasingly sweaty the more nervous he gets.

“Me,” he whispers, turning his head to the side to speak directly into Pete’s ear, his voice hot and tingly, “You should be thinking about me.”

Pete gulps.

They didn’t cover this in training.

[paldogangsaan]

i’m soooo normal abt theerapanyakul family dynamics. totally not chewing glass

[khunvegas]

korn's words "history is written by the victor", how he killed gun before he could say anything else and the way porsche's mom was all confused and uncomfortable with him and chay. something was up. like they left it like that for a season 2 and that's not me being optimistic. it felt like there was more to it and it was on purpose

[dramaism]

"until we meet again, vegas"

🥺😩😭

[mikuni14]

Ok, but what if Gun killed Porsche's parents

and Porsche kills him in revenge in final ep?

[taystawan]

.

[mossaffiliate]

Might be an unpopular opinion but I feel like the finale tried to do a little™ bit too much all at once

[jeffysatur]

i think im satisfied to this degree only because i stopped caring about the plot a few episodes ago lmao. they really killed it that ep w the genre incorporation and it had such a good amout of action sequences i really wish every ep had managed to pace itself as well as this one did (even if there were still a few jarring scene changes). i really only still need to see kimchays story from here so hope there is s2 at least for them lol

[peachym00]

Prying his eyes open to the light flooding in from the unclosed curtains in his room was not the worst way Pete could have woken up. Once, years ago, he’d woken up in the back of a car, the left side of his face throbbing from where his father had punched him for losing a match; it was still dark. He didn’t know where he was going or who was driving the car, and it scared him. He was only eleven.

As the grogginess faded to something more manageable, his head was pounding; a glass of water was on his bedside table, and he was only wearing one sock. Sitting up was a struggle; the pain in his head worsened when he moved, making him feel nauseous. Reaching out for the glass of water, he realised some paracetamol was sitting there too.

Huh. 

After giving some time for the painkillers to kick in and his brain to restart, he gets out of bed and into the shower. Standing under the hot water gives him clarity, so much so that the memories from the night before start flooding in. He was drunk. So drunk. In front of Vegas.

Fuck.

The thought renders him useless, and he drops a near-full bottle of shower gel onto his foot, yelping in pain, then wincing when the echo of his own shout hurts his head.

Vague flashbacks of Vegas walking into their conversation in the bar, saving him from face-planting and helping him to bed surface from the shallow depths of his brain.

“God, Pete, you could give me a hand,” Vegas struggled to take all of Pete’s weight as they walked towards his bed.

“Here,” he holds his hand in front of Vegas’s face, chuckling to himself while he does it.

“What are you doing?” 

“Giving you a hand,” Pete bursts into hysterical laughter as Vegas shoves him onto the bed.

“You’re fucking hilarious, Pete, really,” Vegas sighs, pulling off Pete’s shoes for him, “your comedic talents are wasted in the mafia. Do you need help getting undressed, or can you do that yourself?”

“You just want to see me n a k e d,” Pete teasingly spelt out, watching as Vegas stood up straight and put his hands on his hips. Pete tried to sit up but found he couldn’t manage it; instead, he settled for leaning back on his arms, slightly propped up.

Before he knew it, Vegas was leaning over him on the bed; Pete felt like he was going cross-eyed, trying to look up at him, “And what if I do?” Vegas murmured, far too close for comfort.  

Well. 

Suddenly everything wasn’t so funny anymore.

“You’ll have to use your imagination because the only place you’ll be seeing me naked is in your dreams,” Pete whispered back, proud of himself for being able to sound coherent. 

“And what sweet, sweet dreams they’ll be,” Vegas said lowly, his tongue poking out between his lips, wetting them slightly so they glistened in the room’s low light.

Pete gulped loudly. 

He was fucked. And that was putting it lightly.

How was Pete supposed to face him now?

[paldogangsaan]

writing a macau-centric au where vegas dies during the coup and macau has to deal with it and at this point i feel like i’m never gonna finish it. like why do i have an 11.6k word outline

[formulaforza]

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. the beauty of winter, the second time. minors dni. nsfw warning under the cut. 7.7k part one part two part three part four part five

18+ because: hate sex, rough sex, spanking, hand job, biting, choking, orgasm denial (m to f), unprotected sex, brat taming, name calling (slut), oral (m receiving), angst, angst, more angst.

Arthur turns the corner into the kitchen, swinging around the wide, arched door frame. You’re stood at the island, the chilly edge of the granite countertops pressed against the exposed line of skin between your shorts and your top. A plate of toast sits on the heavy ceramic plate in front of you, and you make a shaky-handed attempt at spreading mashed avocado over the dry, cool bread. Charles clears his throat a few feet away, pulling his coffee mug off the machine shelf. It’s not even steaming.

“Ciao Arturo,” you speak. Even your voice sounds sweaty. “Dimenticare la testa?” Forget your head?

Arthur’s eyes dart between the two of you. Charles, you, and then back again. Charles is lucky, his back is turned to the whole thing. You’re the one who has to deal with his questioning glances. He stirs sugar into his cold coffee, and the spoon clinks against the sides of the mug painfully loud. 

Arthur smiles. “Occhiali da sole,” sunglasses, he says, reaching for the plastic frames on the counter, pointing them between you and charles. “sto interrompendo qualcosa?” Am I interrupting something? 

You glance at Charles, still stirring his cream and sugar, and you realize he won’t be turning around, not while his brother is in the room, not while he’s still got a bulge in his shorts. You almost laugh. “Nope. I’m making breakfast, he’s being a bitch.”

“Ah, so, the usual?” Arthur jokes and you nod, try to stifle a laugh so you don’t get an earful later. You fail, and Charles is flipping both of you off over his shoulder. You raise your brows knowingly towards Arthur—See? What did I tell you? “Ok, well. I’ll see you guys out there?”

“Yup,” you nod. “Probably in like an hour-ish? For me, at least.”

You watch, butter knife in hand, as Arthur trudges out of the house, the shuffling of his nylon snow pants and the thud of his heavy boots across the floor. He slams the door shut behind him, a quirk of the old house—the refusal of the heavy door to latch shut unless you threaten to pull your shoulder out of its socket when you close it. You’d spent half your childhood trying to shut it properly.

“A bitch?” Charles is teasing as soon as his brother is gone, abandoning the coffee he won’t be drinking and slotting comfortably behind you. He pokes your sides, has you curling in giggles as he continues through his own laughter, “I’m a bitch?”

“You are!” You laugh out, escaping his grip and pointing the avocado covered butter knife at him. “I’ll cut you.”

“Sure you will, baby,” he smiles, and then he kisses you because you’re alone and he can. There’s been lots of kissing just because you’re alone—just because you can—as of late. Since that one date you’d agreed to a few weeks ago, and all the subsequent basically-almost-half-dates-half-hookups you’d experienced since. Officially, though, there has been no second date. Unofficially, you’re dreading knowing he’s going to ask any time now. 

It’s not that you don’t want to date him, you’re just not sure you want to be dating him. It’s the difference between what you’re doing now, or having fun and being happy and keeping it all to yourself, or making it into something, turning up to joint-family parties in the same car with an overpriced bottle of wine and listening to your grandma talk about your kids having his hair. It’s belonging to yourself or belonging to him, and you just aren’t sure you’re ready to belong to anyone. 

He’s ready, you know. You know, because he all but wrote it down for you in Vegas. Your agreeing to go out on a single date was the consolation prize, the taunting, the holding what might be over his head like a carrot on a string. 

“We have to be more careful,” you say, wiping the last of the green fruit onto the practically stale toast. It’s been twenty minutes, at least, since you’d put it in the toaster. “Arthur’s silly, but he isn't a fucking idiot. None of them are.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “I’m not worried.”

“Well, I am.”

“Why?” He laughs. The two of you are on such different wavelengths right now it isn’t even funny. “I mean, would it really be that bad if they found out we were seeing each other?”

You bite down hard on your toast, you have to because it’s so stale. “It would, actually,” you say around the dry bread. Crumbs fall to the counter below you. You sweep them off with your palm onto the floor, and then under the edge of the counter with your sock-covered foot. 

“Oh, come on,” he says, all nonchalant. He takes a sip of his cold coffee and winces, cradles it in his hands like it’s going to provide him any warmth. You don’t laugh, don’t even want to. “They’re going to find out eventually.”

“Says who?”

“We aren’t going to keep it a secret forever.”

You nod. Slow and intentional. “Keep what a secret?”

“Us.” You hate the casualty of it, of the label, of the grouping you two together. You hate that he can just say it like that, let it fall from his lips like it’s nothing. 

“There isn’t an us.” You choke on it—us—like it’s a swallowing sword. It’s not that you’re… opposed to the idea of us, so much as this is the last way you wanted to start referring to the two of you as a unit. 

“I mean,” he dumps the coffee into the sink. “We’ve been fucking for a year, dating for a few weeks.” The coffee gurgles in the drain, echoes through the kitchen. He flips the sink faucet on. “I think there’s an us to be talked about.”

“We aren’t dating, Charles,” you’re quick to correct, because, well—you aren’t dating. “We’re seeing each other,” you take another bite. It’s not good, beyond just the toast, you think maybe the avocado was a day from being perfectly ripe. “It’s different.”

He fills the mug to the top with water and dumps it again. “Okay.”

“I’m serious,” you insist, but your inflection betrays you. 

“Okay.” He repeats the action, drops a dollop of dish soap into the bottom of the mug and swirls it around so fast the water spins out over the edge of the mug. Fill it, dump it, swirl a sponge around angrily, fill it again. 

“Dating is like, dating is like a label.” Dump it again. “We don’t have a label. We’re free to see other people if we wanted to.” You drop the toast onto the plate, three notes taken from it, each progressively worse. 

“Okay.” Fill it, dump it—until the water isn’t soapy anymore. He leaves the mug face down on the dish strainer, carefully, without making a sound. It’s impressive, his silent, brooding, angry act. You know he’s full of it, that he wants to scream at you so bad. It annoys you, almost—that he won’t shout.

“Is that all you’re going to say to me?” You say, because you don’t like the implications of him refusing to yell at you. That’s like. It’s almost. You can’t even face it. 

“What is it that you would like for me to say?” He spits, slams the faucet off. You almost flinch. Almost. “That I don’t want to see anyone else? That I think you’re full of shit and feel the same way I do!?”

He’s never—he’s never yelled at you before, not really. Sure, he raised his voice in Vegas, he did. But he’s never yelled at you. Your dynamic has always been sharp, yes, but it was never loud. It’s always been grounded in the smart-ass comments, in the quick wit, the silence of arrogance and annoyance and frustration. It’s never been loud. It throws you off balance, completely off kilter. You don’t know why you wished for it, why you were annoyed with his previous refusal. You—you don’t like it. Not at all. 

You can’t think straight, much less speak straight. “I don’t know, like… I don’t know.”

“Like, like, like,” he mocks you. His words are like venom. He’s such a fucking child. “Like, what!?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!?” You yell right back, aren’t even hurt by the mocking so much as annoyed it’s the best he could come up with. He’s better—smarter—than playground insults. You expect more from him at this point. “Are you fucking seven years old!?”

“Maybe!” He slams his hand on the edge of the counter. You hope it hurts as bad as it sounds like it does. “Maybe I fucking am!” You scowl. This is an ugly look on him. You don’t know what you ever fucking saw. 

“Fuck you!”

“No, fuck you!” He wags a finger at you, he actually fucking does it, points a finger at you like he’s scolding you. 

You smack his stupid fucking finger out of the air and when you do, he grabs your arm, pulls you crashing into him, into his lips. He kisses you, and you kiss him back, but there’s nothing romantic about any of it. No, no. This might be the angriest you’ve ever seen him, all teeth clacking, tongues fighting, hands groping. 

It’s reminiscent, almost. Of the time that really wasn’t all that long ago, even if it feels like half a lifetime. To the time where his only goal was to shut you the fuck up, when the only reason he fucked you was because he thought someone needed to put you in your place. 

He’s not taking his time with you. Not today, not this time. No, he’s pulling your shorts down fast, grabbing at your bare ass and pulling you flush against him.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, pulling the short locks, pulling his mouth to yours. Everything is so greedy and selfish and a fight—a fight to win the unwinnable game. 

He’s crude with it, crass almost—the way his fingers move against your cunt. Quick, hard, mean. You hate yourself for how wet you are, how easy you make it for him to slide in a finger, and then another, to fuck into you with a burning curl. 

When you settle into it, just as your breath picks up and your hips start to move against his hands with some semblance of rhythm, he’s pulling his hand away with a guttural fuck, moving back to your ass, giving it a hard smack. 

Two can play at that game, you think, hand diving into his shorts. You take his cock and stroke him, impatiently thumbing pre-cum over his head and fucking him with your hand. He’s hard before you have to do any work, had spent the morning half-way there already. 

He bites on your bottom lip so hard you think it might bleed. “I fucking hate you,” he says into your neck, biting the skin there, too. 

“Good,” you say, lips curling into a naughty smirk. “I like it like that.”

He’s rough when he moves you around, almost shoves you, turns you and bends you over the countertop. It’s cold, even through your shirt, it’s cold. You push the plate away, the half eaten toast relegated to the other end of the kitchen island. 

There’s no teasing, no warning. Just him, fucking right into you, leaving you grabbing at the smooth granite for any sort of stability, to brace for all of him. You can feel the fabric of his shorts; he’s got them pulled down just enough to have his cock out, and it reminds you of the fucking sauna this summer. 

In the same way you were given no warning, you’re given no time to adjust. He’s already fucking into you with hard, measured thrusts that slam you against the edge of the counter. You think he might fucking break you, split you right down the middle. It hurts so good. 

He’s quiet, lets the sounds of your skin smacking against him do all the fucking talking, tell the story the both of you already know. You can’t find the words. You’re just there, against the cool granite, full. Full. So fucking full. 

It’s unlike him to be so quiet, but, you don’t mind it. You don’t think you can hear another sentence out of his mouth without wanting to walk clear off a cliff. 

Gibberish moans are forced from your lips before you can even process them. “Fuck—fuck you,” you manage to sputter out, and then he’s reaching around to cover your mouth with a flat palm, leaning over you and whispering in your ear all husky. 

“Shut the fuck up, or I stop,” he says, and you nod. You nod, but his hand holds steady, moves slowly down around your throat, applies just enough pressure around your neck to make everything that little bit hazier. You choke on your words, bite back moans until you taste copper. 

When he’s had his fill, he’s turning you back around to lick into your mouth and hoisting you up onto the counter, taking you like that instead. Harder, harder. Impossibly fucking harder. You’re scratching lines over his back, dragging your nails over his skin and whining against his shoulder. When you toss your head back in a last-ditch effort to keep yourself quiet, he laughs—and then you’re looking at him.

The eye contact goes on for what feels like a decade, him fucking into you with reckless abandon while maintaining a steady, furious glare. He pushes his forehead against yours, lips just out of reach, ghosting over yours with every thrust of his thick cock. 

You open your mouth to moan, feel the threat of your orgasm in your core, in the way he perfectly fucks you. 

“Fuck you,” he breathes into your mouth, and the anticipation of the kiss that never comes burns. He breaks his glare, can’t look at you any longer, can’t kiss you, either. His eyes fall to your body, to the space where he disappears into you. He’s captivated by it, watches with a hard stare as he fucks you senseless. 

You could see his denial of your orgasm coming before you started fucking, so when your leg starts to shake and your cunt clenches around him so nicely, you’re unsurprised by his, “don’t you fucking dare.”

The problem for him is, he forgets that you’re just as pissed, that you don’t give a fuck what he says. No, you know that he’s all fucking talk, could never actually bite what he barks, not with you. He’s all talk, and he’s just as close as you are. Nothing short of your families walking through the door right now would get him to stop railing against you. 

So, you come around him, feel a special kind of satisfaction at the way his face contorts, at his canding, “God,” and the way he comes tumbling after you with a groan and a fuck. 

(four hours later) 

“Qu'est-ce qui a rampé dans son cul et est mort?” What the hell crawled up his ass and died? Lorenzo asks in the ski lodge. Both of your families are eating lunch at one of the restaurants on the mountain, and Charles, in his ever ending broodiness, opted to sit at the farthest possible end of the table from you and his brothers. Mostly, from you. He sits silently in a conversation with your father and brother-in-law, ever the entertainer. 

“Il est dans une de ses humeurs,” he’s in one of his moods, you reply. “J'ai râlé toute la matinée à la maison,” bitched all morning back at the house.

“Ouais,” yeah, Arthur adds. “Quand je suis retourné chercher mes lunettes, il ne s'est même pas retourné pour me parler,” when I came back for my sunglasses he wouldn’t even turn to talk to me.

“Je parie que sa copine lui manque,” I bet he misses his girl, Lorenzo settles, rocks back on the legs of his chair. A pang of green runs through you, gross and envious. 

“Sa copine?” His girl? You ask. 

“Ouais. Chaque fois que je l'appelle, il me dit "j'ai quelqu'un chez moi" ou "je suis chez un ami,” Yeah, everytime I call him he’s talking about “I’ve got someone over,” or “I’m at a friend’s house,”” Lorenzo reasons. Your jealousy is replaced with mortification as you realize Charles not only has a girl, but that the girl is you. 

“Someone should call her,” you say. “Get him laid so he isn’t so fucking annoying.” Lorenzo laughs and Arthur offers up a half-hearted smile, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Your phone rings on the tabletop. “Arthur!” You scowl. “Gross! I can't stand Charles.”

“Je dis juste que pour deux personnes qui prétendent se détester, vous passez beaucoup de temps ensemble,” I’m just saying, Arthur defends, for two people who claim to hate each other, you two spend a lot of time together. 

We don’t—you want to tell him—we don’t spend a lot of time together, but then you think of all the times they don’t know about, all the nights and all the hours and all the days. “Cela aurait effectivement beaucoup de sens,” It would actually make a lot of sense, Lorenzo laughs. “He likes pulling pigtails.”

“I know you love me boys, but I wouldn’t touch your brother with a ten foot pole,” you insist, and it sounds convincing—at least in your own head. Only time will tell, you suppose, if you managed to convince them of the lie. 

You enter the family room seven and a half minutes before Charles does. Where he is for those seven and a half minutes, you don’t care, as long as it’s not anywhere near you. Your families have always done this a couple days after the New Year, your own little joint Christmas celebration. Over the years, you’ve found it to be varying levels of both endearing and infuriating. 

“It’s hot in here,” you say, plopping yourself down onto the sofa, fanning yourself with a magazine from your mother’s coffee table. 

“Really?” Your sister peruses, eyes unmoving from her phone screen. “I was about to put on a sweater.”

“Yeah,” you continue, abandoning the magazine and instead opting to gather your hair into a messy, half-twisted knot off the nape of your neck. “I’m on fire.” You secure it with the thin black band from around your wrist, look to your sister as you pull loose pieces out to frame your face. “What’s the damage?”

She assesses the situation, pulls a few more hairs out of the knot and twirls one around her finger. “Has your hair always been so shit as holding a curl?” She asks. You nod, tucking all of the loose strands behind your ears in a swift movement. 

Charles is here now, lingering in the archway between the family room and the kitchen, his hand leaving indistinguishable fingerprints on the trim above his head while he nurses a beer, nurses a conversation with your brother-in-law. His hair is a fucking mess and you’re going to kill him, something you become so, so certain of when you notice the buttons on his shirt are mis-aligned, that just above his waistband, a single piece of plastic is missing, loose threads left in the wake of the long lost button. 

As if second nature, your fingers trail over your own, down the linen shirt that clings to your figure. A missing button. He has a missing fucking button. Your eyes don’t stop at the torn threads; all the way down to his sneakers, all the way back up to his messy hair. 

He brings the glass beer bottle to his lips gently, parting them ever so slightly to allow the smooth brew to cool his throat. When he pulls it back, his lips are damp with condensation and ale, tongue swiping the pink skin clean. 

“I need a drink,” you announce, standing from your seat and moving to the kitchen. He doesn’t move out of your way when you approach the doorway, has this stupid, satisfied smirk on his face as he takes another swig of beer. It’s the look he only gets after he has you. 

“You broke a fucking button,” you mutter as you squeeze through, finger grazing the loose fabric strands that hand above his waistband. He stiffens at your contact and now you’re the one with the rotten, pleased smile. 

“Leave a gap,” he says, looks past you and into the family room. You haven’t wanted to punch him this bad in at least a week, maybe two. You longed for the days when it was all you worried about: finding the next opportunity to hit him. Things were so much simpler then, so black and white. Now it’s wild colors and they’re all bleeding into each other to create a particularly shit-toned shade of brown. 

Given the opportunity, you’d go back. Back to the Ski Lodge and Vegas and the sauna. Back to Monaco and the yacht and that one chilly winter night. All the way back to last year, to the club, to right before the club. You’d stop yourself if you could. But you can’t, can you? No, the best you can go back is ten minutes. 

(Ten minutes earlier)

“Fuck you,” he groans, hushed and gravely, rutting up into you.

The closet is hot and humid with the air that pours in through the attic entrance. Dark, too: smells like fabric softener and lemon furniture polish–not that you’re smelling any of it now. No, right now all you can smell is him, raspberry and incense and a summer hike through a forest. 

All you can feel is him, the stretch of his dick as it fucks deep into you. You moan against his hand, the calloused palm muffling your whimpers, cheek flush against the drywall. “Show up with your fucking ass out,” he says, hand forcing the hem of your skirt up higher, higher than your hips, slipping under the fabric of your shirt to cup your breast.

He’s fucking up your hair. You’d spent half the morning curling it and here he is, running his rough fingers through the hairsprayed strands like he owns them, like he has any right to knot them into a messy ponytail. You swat his hand away from your hair, and it snakes around your neck. “Don’t be a fucking brat,” he goads, the heavy weight of his fingers leaving you white and fuzzy with pleasure. 

You shake your head, free your mouth from his palm and pant, “Fuck you,” you spit. “Fuck–ah,” he ruts up into you with all the force he can muster, pulling you off the wall, bringing  your back flush against his chest. “–fuck you.”

He laughs, buries it in the skin of your shoulder, biting a purple bruise into the space there. “Bab–God, so fucking tight.” Your back arches against him, body moving, craving, begging to feel more of him, all of him. Every last inch. 

You can feel him in every nerve ending and it still isn’t enough. You know he can give you more, that he can leave you sweaty and sleepy and monolingual if he really wants to. You know, because he had you sprawled out on his bed last weekend, dried tears crusting on the corner of your eyes, muscles weak and chest heaving against his sheets. 

Tears prickle your eyes when his grip on your throat tightens, when he pushes to see how far you’d let him go. You move a hand to wipe them before they fall. You still have to face the family after this, can’t walk out there with black streaks running down your cheeks. The tangled hair is more than enough to get them asking questions. 

His hand moves up your jaw, locking into your hair again and turning your head to face him. Look at me, he says, pulling you into a hard kiss. His long, measured thrusts fuck you open. His dick makes you drunk; floaty and dizzy and off balance and so, so fucking needy. You’re close, he states, knows your subtle breathing changes well enough that it doesn’t even have to be a question anymore. You nod against his lips, lick into his mouth, across the scrape of his sharp teeth. “I’m gonna. I’m coming,” you choke, breathing shallow and rapid. 

“No,” he whispers, hard and gravelly into your ear, biting on the lobe. A hand moves between your legs, dips into your slick and sends a jolt through your entire body. You don’t even know which hand he moved, can’t feel anything but his two fingers circling your clit, his dick fucking into you. “Not yet.”

His instructions are thinly veiled, but you’ll follow them anyway. Your body writhes against his hand, hips fighting your mind, moving in any rhythm that might make you finish harder, faster, even a second sooner. 

Your leg shakes under you, muscles weak and strung out. “Give it to me, Charles,” you beg. You know he’ll let you come as soon as he does. “Want you–fuck–want it so bad.”

“Ouais? Putain, such a slut for me.”

You nod eagerly, try to shake away the thoughts of release with it. He makes it so fucking hard. “I am, I am,” you insist. You are, you are. For him, every fucking time. 

You know he’s close the same way he knows, the micro-changes in his movements, his breathing, his words. You know he’s fucking close when he loses his rhythm, tries to bury himself impossibly deep inside you, to actually rip you fucking open. 

“Where?” He asks, offers you the option only because you aren’t in the privacy of an apartment. As of late, he’d been having his way with you, getting you messy and marked with him. Clean up is significantly harder in a fucking linen closet. My mouth, you mumble. Let me taste you.

He nods, picks up the steady pace of his fingers. You first, he instructs. “I want you to come for me, baby.” The pet name, always the pet name. Even when you’re this pissed at each other, it’s the only word your brain holds onto when you come around him, clench tight and quiver on his dick, muffling your own cries with your hand.

He pulls out of you with a whine and a mumbled fuck, a hand on your shoulder, turning you, pushing you down to your knees swiftly. There’s nothing careful about the way he fucks into your mouth, bruises the back of your throat as you muffle your gags around him. “Your fucking mouth,” he groans. “Makes me fucking crazy.” Your eyes meet his and you roll them, hollow your cheeks and swirl your tongue and watch, like it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever seen–watch his face contort when he comes undone, thick stripes of him painting the back of your throat. 

You swallow. Clean, no mess, wipe the spit with the back of your hand and flatten your hair, twist what’s left of the curls into some semblance of what they were before he pulled you into the closet by your wrist. 

You hurriedly re-button your shirt and flatten your skirt over your thighs. You’ve been gone too long, both of you have. Your families are going to catch on if you keep it up like this, all horny rendezvous in humid closests because he can’t keep his hands to himself. 

His hair is pointing in every which direction, and when he runs his hands through it he misses a chunk. You reach to fix it and he swats your hand away. 

You scoff. “Stay here, leave a gap,” you tell him and he rolls his eyes. You’re the brat, though, right? You turn the doorknob slowly, peek your head out into the empty hallway. He laughs behind you, what the fuck are you doing? “I’m going to the bathroom,” you quip.

He reaches over your head, wraps his fingers around the edge of the door and pulls it all the way open, moving forward until he’s flush against your back. “No UTI’s on your watch,” he mumbles. 

You elbow his chest. “I said to wait here.”

“Fuck that,” he says, squeezes out behind you and the door. His feet are heavy on the hallway floor as he dips into the kitchen. You scurry in the other direction towards the bathroom.  

It’s your parents anniversary party where it all comes to a messy boiling point. Thirty years of love, twenty-something years of parentage, and still. Still, you surprise them when you knock on the apartment door with a boy on your arm. A boy who, you assume to the surprise of Arthur and Lorenzo, is not their brother. The person perhaps most surprised by your bold decision making, however, is Charles. He’s glaring holes into you all night. 

You try to take it as a compliment. You look good tonight, took careful consideration of your hair and makeup and clothes—your best black cocktail dress, all silk and long sleeves and exposed back, and your highest nude heels. You look good, and you like to think he notices, even if you’re nearly certain he’s watching your date more than you.

Your date, Jean, the friend of a friend and a blind date two weeks ago, hovers behind you like a lost puppy in his crisp white shirt and freshly pressed black slacks. He’s French, as french as they come—spends his evenings smoking cigarettes on the balcony and drinking wine with a careful pallet, distinguishing between the sweetness and the high notes and the low notes and all the wine terms you don’t understand. He’s a bit hushed and likes to make fun of your pronunciation and loves, loves, loves sex. 

You don’t know how you get separated from him, where he disappears off to, You don’t know what compels you to follow the sightline of the stare that burns into you, to follow Charles out onto your parent’s balcony, but you do. You do, and the air is chilly and you shudder, skin prickled with goosebumps. You can hear the music playing through the glass door. If it wasn’t so terribly cliche, you’d swear la vie en rose is filling the air. 

“Hey,” you nod, and he acknowledges you with nothing more than the raise of his brows. He leans against the balustrade, the cold metal of the railing clinking against his rings. You stare into the bottom of your wine glass, swirl the liquor round and round.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” He asks, and you look up to him. He’s not looking back, smirking down at the ground at nothing in particular. 

You roll your eyes, swallow down on the pit knotting in your stomach. “Oh, please,” you scoff, halfhearted and lackluster. “Like that would ever work on you,” you reply. 

He chuckles, cranes his neck to look at you. “Maybe not,” he says, “but your games are always so fun.” His voice is low, unplayful. Horridly serious, despite the laugh. 

“I don’t play games,” you replied, step closer to him, to the edge of the balcony. You lean against the railing, gather your hair and pull it over one shoulder. Everything is so weird now. 

He quirks a brow, lets a genuine laugh slip and looks at you again. “What’s Jean, then?”

Your cheeks burn red but you refuse to let him get the upper hand. “Why do you care? It’s none of your business,” you shoot back, all spite and venom and irritation. You knew he’d be here and yet, still. Still, you hoped it wouldn’t be like this. 

It was naive. Moronic, even. You should have known better. 

He leans in closer, your faces no more than inches away. “Oh, but, it is my business when you’re trying to make me jealous,” he says, voice hushed, almost disappearing into the sound of the street below you. 

Your eyes drift away from him, back into the apartment, into the dynamics of your families, into the way Jean hides in a corner nursing a drink. He’s so nervous, needs constant babysitting. You turn back to Charles, to his pink cotton shirt, top two buttons undone. It’s begging to be ironed. “And what if I am?” you challenge, and your voice threatens to betray you, to expose the vulnerability you try so hard to conceal. 

A flicker of something, something you’re too scared to properly identify, flashes across his face. “Then you’re wasting your time,” he replied, voice tinged with the same something his expression is. 

Your frustration bubbles. He makes you mad in a young way, in a fiery sixteen year old girl way. Pissed at the drop of a pin over nothing in particular. “You think you know me so well?” You ask, and he smiles down onto the street. It makes you angrier. “Well guess what? You don’t.”

There’s an air of arrogance about him. He drips with it. “I know more than you think,” he says, dips his head in the direction of the party, or your date. “And he is not your type.”

You couldn’t hold back your retort if you wanted to. “Oh? Tell me then, Charles, what is my type?”

“That guy is a bitch,” he says, stupid, satisfied smirk on his face, digging dimples into his cheek because he thinks that he’s so, so funny. “So, for starters, your type is someone with the confidence to make you come.”

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment, with anger. His words cut through you like a hot blade, the lack of decency, of basic respect. He gives more to a stranger than he does you, at this moment. You’d come to expect a lot of things from him over the years, but never, never, was blatant disrespect one of those things. He’s been raised better, you knew he had been, that Pascale would be red with fury if she heard him speak to anyone—much less you—like that.  “Go to Hell, Charles,” you say, quiet, steady, without a single crack of betrayal, and then you’re turning to head back inside.

The sliding door is cracked, and you almost literally run into your date, standing just out of view from your previous spot on the balcony. You’re even more embarrassed at his eavesdropping, but it’s not like you can blame him, not with the show you and Charles always manage to put on.

Jean is visibly uncomfortable, all flushed cheeks and red ears. “Est-ce que ça va?” Are you okay? He asks, and the concern in his voice is evident, even through the embarrassment. 

You force a smile, hope he hasn’t heard most of the conversation with Charles and attempt not to burden him with the emotional complexities that come with your past, with your present. “Je vais bien,” I’m fine, you reply, downplay the whole event. “C'est juste un truc de famille,” It’s just a family thing. 

Jean nods, and it’s so uncertain you know he heard what you hoped he didn’t. “Je l'ai écouté,” I heard him, he admits, and your stomach churns. “J'espère ne pas avoir aggravé les choses,” I hope I didn’t make things worse.

You wonder how that would be possible—how things could get any worse than they already are. 

“Ce n'est pas de ta faute,” It’s not your fault, you say, half-apologetic, half-hushed. “Charles et moi avons une histoire compliquée. C'est juste... difficile à expliquer,” Charles and I have a complicated history. It’s just… difficult to explain.

It’s not that difficult to explain. You and he hooked up a year ago. Since then, you’ve hooked up a lot. The feelings have been felt, the emotions turned, the hearts dropped. But you’re past it all now. You’re past it, both of you. It’s history now. It’s history. It’s history. 

Jean gives you a half-hearted smile, and you know then that it’s as good as done between the two of you. He clears his throat, looks past you onto the balcony, onto where you assume Charles is still preparing more salt for your wounds. “Je devrais rentrer chez moi,” I should go home, he says, “Réunion anticipée demain,” Early meeting tomorrow. You know it’s a lie because you know he doesn’t work on Sundays, but you’re not in the place to call his bluff, not when you’ve got a full hand behind your back. 

You offer to walk him out to his car, but he turns you down. You don’t give him the option to avoid your company on the walk to the elevator. It’s silent, the sound of your feet on the floor, the elevator moving up through the shaft, the dinging of the doors. 

He steps inside, presses the ground level button and when the doors close between you two, you know it’s the last time you’ll see him intentionally. You wait five minutes before you’re pushing the elevator button, too, stepping in and heading down to the floor level. You need air. You desperately need air, and the balcony of the apartment is no longer a safe place for you. 

You cut into an alleyway between your parents’ building and the neighboring one, lean against the chilly brick wall and close your eyes. 

Breathe in, breathe out. It was never supposed to turn into this. The whole fucking point was that you didn’t want it turning into this, all messy and boundariless and bleeding over into the rest of your family’s dynamics. That was the whole point, it was. Your whole reasoning in Vegas, on the trail, after his best win. The whole point was to keep the damage minimal. 

In. Out. You don’t know what the point of it all is, anymore. Why you’re still playing this game when it’s clear the rules are so long broken they can’t be remembered. You need to just. You need to just let it be. Let it be what it’s supposed to be. 

In. Out. You know that it would work with Charles, you know it like you know your own hand. You know it would be good, and you used to be able to rationalize why the tiny little chance you were wrong outweighed any potential. You can’t rationalize it anymore, you can’t. You want to, because it’s easier to keep on, keeping on. But you can’t. It just doesn’t make sense anymore, not even to you. 

Breath in, breathe out—until you hear his feet scuffing on the sidewalk. 

They’re hurried, and you figure they’re making their way to you. You listen to them walk past the alleyway three times before you open your eyes. He’s pacing, typing away rapidly at his phone screen, brows furrowed, hard lines running through his face. He’s typing and pacing and muttering about something under his breath. 

“Charles,” you speak, and he jumps, completely and utterly startled by your presence. He sighs out your name softly, like he’s going to startle you back, and then he’s approaching slowly, cautiously, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Who are you texting?” You ask. 

“Who do you think?” He says, offers up a weak chuckle, and then, before you can say another word, “I’m sorry.” His voice is ridiculously sincere, all drowned in guilt and regret. His eyes are soft, his lips pursed. “I shouldn’t have said that, It was stupid and immature and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You sigh. “Yeah, it was,” you admit, voice half tinged with resignation. 

He takes another step. His posture is so docile, lacks any kind of defense. He knows he fucked up. “I can be a real fucking idiot, sometimes,’ he continues, a rare example of self-awareness. 

Despite your frustration, you nod. “Yes, you definitely are.”

He leans against the bricks next to you and you look up to the sky again, close your eyes and breathe the air again. Anything to keep your resolve, to keep your wits about you. 

“But, you have to admit. I was right about one thing.”

Even closed, your eyes tell the whole store, scrunch and wince before rolling open to look back at him, certain that nothing you invite to come from his lips is going to make any of this better. You frown because curiosity always kills the cat. “And what was that, Charles?”

“I know you,” he huffs, pushes air past his lips like he knows better than to do what he’s about to do. “Well enough to know you know he isn’t a match for you, that you only brought him around to make me jealous.”

Honest, honest, it wasn’t your intention. It was an added benefit, sure, but it wasn’t the intention. No, the intention was to move past Charles, to finally, finally move on from what the two of you had. The problem with that, though, is that somewhere over the course of the last year, your type had become Charles. You’d tried to force the attraction with anyone who was opposite, to the antithesis of Charles, and that’s how you wound up with Jean. He was different, in every category, and the line between hate has always been very thin, you reasoned with yourself. Very thin. Very thin, you knew, because you walked it with Charles for twelve months. For all of the seasons. 

“It hurt,” he admits. “It really bothered me seeing you with someone else and that’s not an excuse for what I said,” he continues, and you drop your head to look at him. He’s looking at the sky, too. Like he’s trying to rationalize his own words with even himself. “it’s not, but it’s the only explanation I can give you.”

Somewhere on the street, an overhead light clicks on, fills the street with orange, cuts harshly around the buildings and into the alleyway where you both stand. It casts hard shadows on everything, on everything but him. It lights him softly, somehow, apologetically soft like the universe itself wants to apologize for his actions. 

You think maybe you should be the one who’s sorry, the echoes of your spat still hanging in the air, heavy in the darkness just a few steps away. 

Your voice trembles when you speak. “I didn’t know it would hurt you that much,” you admit. “I was just trying to move on, to prove that I could.” Prove to him, or prove to you—you aren’t sure. 

The pretense falls between you, almost suddenly, all at once, and the air is different. It’s not angry and it’s not apologetic. It’s just. The air is just shared. Shared pain, shared sadness and hope and understanding. 

“You know,” he says. “You know you don’t have to pretend with me.” His voice is soft, but it’s firm, unwavering. “I never wanted you to.”

Your breath catches in your chest, heart pounding fast. Fast. Faster than you can think. You can feel it in your toes, in your temples, in your fingertips. He looks to you, your eyes meeting and your heart jumping that much more. “I can’t pretend anymore,” you admit, below even a whisper. It’s a miracle he hears you. “I can’t pretend I don’t care about you, Charles.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing against the skin of your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t even noticed had slipped. He murmurs your name, half-pain, half-hope, and you finally recognize it, the something about the way he looks at you, the way he talks to you. The something, you finally see it. It’s been looking you in the eyes this whole time and you’d been so blind to it all.

He was wrong in Vegas, you could be this smart and that dumb all at once, because here he is, looking at you and speaking to you the same way he always does, and for the first time you see it for what it is: tender, candid, and utterly consuming love. 

"I've been so scared," you confess, voice quivering. "Scared of losing what we have, scared of ruining everything if I let myself fall."

He holds your gaze, a comforting anchor in the midst of the uncertainties. “I’m scared, too,” he admits, and you find solace in it. That even him, who’s known for how long now—you can’t remember, even he feels scared. You don’t even care if he’s lying, if he’s just saying it because he knows it will make you feel better. You don’t care, because it does. It makes you feel so much better. “But, I’m more scared of not trying.”

The truth hangs in the air between you, fragile but undeniable, a connection that has endured far more than it should have. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” you say, voice finding steady ground now, your eyes locked on his. “But I’m done denying what’s been here all along.”

He cups your face with both hands, a sweet smile on his face, a stutter to the way his Adam's apple bobs. His thumbs brush your tears, and he says your name so sure. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he says. “Through all of the painful silences and the complicated, unspoken shit.”

Tears stream down your face now, a mixture of everything overwhelming you in the best way. You place your hands over his, hold them against your face like it’s going to ground you to the reality of his words. 

“I’ve loved you, too,” you whisper, voice riddled with quiet intensity. “I have,” you laugh. He smiles. “Even when I didn’t fully understand it, even when I pushed it away.”

Charles leans in, forehead resting against yours, breaths sharing the little space between your lips. “I want to be with you,” he says, a plea. “I want to be with you, even if it’s messy and uncertain.”

Your face is half as bare as your heart, now, and you’re sure he’s got mascara all over his thumbs, that you’re a real sight for sore eyes. But when you kiss him, he kisses you back.

He kisses you back, despite it all, despite how long you made him wait. He kisses you back and somewhere in the space between the kiss and the tears, you both find the space to laugh and you know you’ve made the right decision. The decision to leap. 

For him, you don’t know why you ever hesitated. 

[lu-sn]

In the foyer of the minor family mansion, looming large and ominous against dark paneled wood, is a floor-to-ceiling portrait of Gun.

This is Pete’s first time seeing it. He must have walked by it earlier without realizing; he wouldn’t have noticed it on their way out either if Macau hadn’t come to a screeching halt in front of it.

In the portrait, Gun sits tall in an ornate chair, smoldering cigar hanging from his fingertips, expression brimming with arrogance. The narcissism of it — the centering of this house’s power on its patriarch, with his sons nowhere to be seen — is not unusual for a mafia mogul like Gun. Pete loathes him for it anyway.

Pete glances at Macau, whose gaze is fixed on his father’s face, and then down at where Macau is thumbing restlessly at the lighter in his palm. The gesture is familiar; the lighter is Vegas’s. It was the only item the doctors found tucked away in the tatters of Vegas’s clothing, and Macau has not relinquished it since. Pete has numbed himself to the sight and sound of it flicking open and shut, matching time with the beeping of Vegas’s heart monitor as he and Macau keep vigil on opposite sides of Vegas’s hospital bed.

The click of the lighter echoes in the cavernous foyer, now, sharp and eerie.

“Macau,” Pete blurts out. He hefts the box cradled in his arms. “I’ll go put your things in the car.” And when that earns him no response, he mumbles, “I’ll be back.”

He staggers out of the foyer and down the front steps to the car, leaving Macau to his thoughts.

Pete’s own mind, fractured and worn from weeks of poor sleep, swirls with thoughts of dead fathers. They leave themselves behind in empty houses and littered beer bottles, in stacks of yellowed photos and stacks of debt, in bruises, old and new. Their specters are impossible to shake, even without massive portraits to contend with.

Pete hopes Vegas won’t keep the portrait if he… when he wakes up. The love sons have for their bastard fathers is a curse, but Vegas will not see it that way, not for a long time. Vegas will want to keep the shadow of his father close. He will not be able to help himself after a lifetime of chasing Gun’s approval.

Better the shadow of his father than the real thing, Pete thinks darkly.

He slams the trunk of the car shut, turns back towards the mansion and then, even through his daze, the scent of it is thick enough to choke — smoke.

Fire.

“Macau?” Pete yells, sprinting up the steps and rushing back into the foyer. Alarms blare in his head: Macau is in danger. He has to keep Macau safe for Vegas. “Something’s wrong, we have to get out—”

He skids to a stop.

Macau looks over his shoulder at Pete, face inscrutable, silhouetted as he is by the burning, blazing portrait behind him. The lighter glints as he flips it round and round between his fingers.

The flames crawl up the portrait, eating away at its domineering presence, incinerating Gun into worthless ashes at his son’s feet.

-

#kpanniversary2024 episode 14 + prompt 14: legacy

[lazyjellyfish300]

Only we know 💭💥🕷️

Miguel O'Hara x gn! Spider Reader

Synopsis: a request for my lovely @swiftyangx12 🖤🖤🖤 TY FOR REQUESTING and your patience 😩😩" How about Miguel and Spider![Reader] attend at a Comic Con back in [Reader]’s world?

The plot for this one is [Reader] signed up to participate in a cosplay competition and they invited Miguel as their moral support (and he took that opportunity since he has a huge crush on them and they also like him back so they can show off their work). I’m thinking of them dressed up as Jinx from LOL Arcane series."

Word count: 2.6k whoops

CW: SLIGHT SUGGESTIVE, MINORS DNI, FLUFFY FRIENDS TO LOVERS

@1-900-venusluvs @thatone-writer

-----

You documented your location, voice recording your mission notes as you drew up an orange portal back to Earth 928, tossing the bound anomaly through it like a sack of potatoes before you followed shortly afterwards, leaving the senior citizens at the retirement home with higher blood pressure and jaws on the floor.

Another day on the job complete.

Few things kept you motivated like having a big event marked on your calendar. This summer's item was going to be Comic Con, held in your dimension Earth 108-13. You were particularly looking forward to this one since you took a leap of faith and signed up for a cosplay competition. Also, you and your friends splurged a little bit and got tickets to the one in Las Vegas, meaning there would be a whole weekend of partying and things to do besides just the Con.

As a gamer, one of your favorite series recently came out, Arcane, which was based on a game called League of Legends you had been a long time player of, and the fandom at this time was buzzing. You had planned out your costume to coincide with the trending media and cosplay as Jinx, one of the main characters of Arcane and a playable champion in the game.

No offense to your two friends you were going with, but they had recently crossed over into dating territory, and you weren't exactly all over the idea of third wheeling for an entire weekend, especially in a place as fun as Vegas.

You had someone in mind you were going to invite. And if you weren't misreading the banter and subtle signs you were holding onto like an oath for several months, then you were quite certain he was going to say yes.

---

Spider Society HQ, Earth-928

Miguel doesn't turn much from his monitors that he's locked onto in a dead pan stare, watching the same Vulture sniffing candles at a TJ Maxx for the millionth time in a row. But his neck nearly breaks when he hears the familiar and most welcome sound of your voice.

"Hey, Migs."

"H-Hey! *Cough* I mean....hi."

His face morphs back into all business, but with just a hint of pleasantness that he only seemed to allow to bubble underneath the surface with just you. And it made your heart stop every time.

You smile at him, removing your mask, your face glistening with the sweat of a successful mission. Miguel feels his heart leap in his chest.

The afterglow sure suited you and he felt it a little bit more difficult than usual to be in your presence. Nevertheless, he didn't crack.

"Mysterio has been stowed successfully in sector 4." You say proudly, lightly panting as your breath caught up to you.

"Good, good." Miguel's lips pulled into a smile of admiration and gratitude. "I appreciate you doing that despite it being such a moment's notice."

"Ah, well it was a Moose-sterio, actually. So he went down easier than a normal Mysterio." You chuckle, casually perching yourself on Miguel's desk.

Miguel can't help but crack a smile at that. "How did he find himself at the retirement home anyway?"

"Beats me." You hum. "Maybe one of the residents hunted his family when he was younger and was out for long, overdue, revenge served cold."

Miguel shakes his head. "Now, that's a dark thought." He pauses. "But I'm afraid the moose vendetta pales in comparison to the need for multiverse stability. How do you say that plural anyway, is it mooses? Meese?"

"Nah, moose." You chuckle, kicking your legs. "One of those weird ones where the singular is the same as the plural."

"An anomaly." Miguel quips.

"Is it ever not possible for you to talk about work?" You give him an incredulous look, but still keeping the same air of playfulness.

"Old habits die hard." Miguel hums.

You notice he's gradually made his way closer to you, a little off guard when you raise your head to look at him and he's less than a foot away. Your lips part and Miguel clears his throat, turning his attention to the monitor behind you.

You slowly breathe out, that was the closest he's probably been to you the whole time you've known him. You could've sworn if the tension hung in the air any longer than it would've resulted in a kiss that finally unmasked the elephant that sure was doing its best to draw attention away from itself in the room. How you wanted him and, (unknown to you) how much he wanted you just as badly.

You figure now is a good time to ask.

"You have any plans next month the weekend of the 22nd?"

Miguel raises an eyebrow. "I don't, same Spider business as usual, why?"

"Come to the Vegas Comic Con with me. My other two friends are going but they're a couple and I'm not trying to be the odd one out all weekend."

"Vegas?" Miguel feels his pulse steadily increase. He had been to Vegas only once, and that was when he was recruiting Ben Reilly, not really having any time to pause and sightsee.

Partying and going out in public spaces wasn't exactly his thing, but the freeing feeling of being out in the city at night did kind of make him curious. He thought gambling was for chumps but he enjoyed a good card game. Maybe Vegas could be one of those "one and done" things. Just to say he had the experience.

"Yeah." You smile. "I mean, not to make it weird or anything. I just figure you need a break and I'm supposed to be cosplaying and I'm used to having at least one person tag along for moral support but-."

"I'll come."

"You....really?" You smile brightly at him, trying to make sure you weren't dreaming.

Miguel sighs. "Yeah I'll come to this... convention, as you put it."

"You don't know how excited I am right now. It's going to be fun! And you gotta dress up with me too." You smirk, your mind suddenly coming alight with all these fun ideas you and Miguel could try out.

But, Miguel is already eagerly waiting to pop that bubble, "I don't wear costumes."

You raise your eyebrows, "You wear one every day!"

"It's a suit, not a costume." He crosses his arms."There's a difference. Who are you dressing up as anyway?"

"Jinx from Arcane." You answer proudly.

"What's a Jinx?"

"Jinx is a person, silly. She's from a TV show called Arcane which is based off this game I play called League of Legends."

"Never heard of it."

"Just watch it on Netflix! There's only one season, nine episodes. It's one of those you can binge really quick."

Miguel huffs a little in amusement at that. "Okay I might watch this show, but I'm still not putting on a damn costume."

"Alright, wise guy." You cross your arms. "If you're not gonna dress up, you'll still at least come with me, right?"

Miguel smirks at you, leaning in a little closer. "Wouldn't miss this weirdo convention with you for the world."

----

Miguel's bloodshot eyes blinked with a heavy stare as the final episode of Arcane concluded, leaving his eye bag expression reflecting back to him on his dark TV.

He was definitely not beating the down bad allegations for you anytime soon, which Peter, Hobie, and Pav loved to so graciously point out every time they could.

-----

The down badness raised to another degree entirely though at the sight of you in your Jinx cosplay in your Vegas hotel room.

Blue wig with the two long braids true to the character running down your shoulders, body art design on your midriff and right arm to mimic Jinx's tattoos, some ripped up purplish-maroon capris, a black crop top and leather accessories to accent the look on your arms, reminiscent of a sort of edgy steampunk vibe, with combat boots and some magenta colored contacts on your eyes, making you seem even more otherworldly and ethereal.

Miguel can't stop gawking, his feelings ranging from awe, to admiration, to pure want, to sudden jealousy at the realization that other people, (most likely hundreds since you were a contestant after all) will get to lay eyes on you all day like this.

Luckily, you're too anxious and proud of yourself to notice, examining yourself in the mirror for any details that might be off, but you could see none, turning and giving him that signature smile of yours that makes the tops of his ears turn red.

"Y-you look great." He manages to say, in a tone that he only hopes disguises his obvious affection and wordless effect you have on him.

His disguise is completely transparent, however, but you try and mask your obvious flattery and slight giddiness at his reaction. "Thanks, Mig."

But, you're horrible at pretending, too, a fact that he mentally seizes with both hands, stuffing in his back pocket for later with a dizzy look of admiration when your back is turned.

Once you're wholly satisfied with the look, and both ready to go, you and Miguel and your friends hit the Vegas strip, Miguel trying to keep his cool as neck after neck turns as you walk by.

Once at Comic Con, you end up losing your friends, off in a world of their own as a newly formed couple, leaving just you and Miguel alone.

Miguel's eyes soften when you take a picture of your passes hanging from matching lanyards side by side angled at the ground with both pairs of your shoes in the shot and post it to your social media stories, realizing you have every intention of showing him off.

You feel fuzzy on the inside when you get stopped for pictures with fellow attendees, giving you numerous compliments at how good you look and chatting about how much they love Jinx and they're so stoked to see such a well done cosplay. (That $500 charge to the arts and crafts store was Soo worth it)

Your favorite photo op was meeting someone with an equally wicked Vi cosplay, standing side by side in a way that looked like you both were copy pasted from the show itself.

Miguel gets mistaken for your boyfriend dozens of times, but he doesn't correct them once, just a little smile on his face as he plays photographer, butterflies in your stomach as he walks a little closer next to you, halfway shielding you in a chivalristic manner from all the extra attention as though he was your personal bodyguard.

You stop by booth after booth, politely conversing with the various artists, actors, and writers, collecting more stickers for your laptop, buying a t shirt, some adorable pins here and there. Like a kid in a candy shop, you take in and gravitate towards every one of your interests and medias you adore like a moth to a flame. Miguel endears himself even more to you with your little Oohs and Aaahs.

You notice Miguel's a little starstruck when he sees one of his favorite comic book writers as a kid, letting him know he can go for a photo op if he wants since you both have the all access tickets, smiling at how cute and nervous he looks as he approaches the writer, scooting a little closer and popping a little awkward thumbs up at the camera. Still, he comes out looking just as photogenic and gorgeous as ever. You shake your head with a smile.

Soon, it's time for the competition. You bounce your leg nervously as you sit in your chair on the stage, feeling what seems like a millions pairs of eyes boring into you, but then you catch Miguel in the audience, both of you the only two people in the room as your gaze stays anchored on him the whole time, nearly missing the announcement from the host that you were awarded first place. Miguel stands and claps loudly as he uses his fingers to whistle, leaving you with a smile that could break your cheeks.

After a successful Con and maybe a couple more bags of merch than you should have indulged in (Miguel being responsible for at least 2 of those, getting you a couple stuffies and t shirts as his congratulations for sweeping the competition away), it was time to have some fun on the town and see what Vegas had to offer.

You got matching drinks from the Hello Kitty cafe, went to the M&M's world (Miguel nearly had a stroke from being surrounded by so much sugar), and the shark reef aquarium. You could have sworn his finger brushed against yours a couple of times when you both were zoned out in the shark tunnel, completely lost in an oceanic world together with no plans to return, until a group of over-zealous and unsupervised 7 year olds nearly knocked him over.

You even convinced him to just try the slot machines once, not even waiting for his cash out coupon for 40 cents to print out before he was yanking you by the arm out of there while you were wheezing with laughter.

Sharing a 12 pack of cheeseburger sliders at White Castle (Miguel had like 8 of them), and some freshly cooked french fries, dashed with the tiniest bit of salt.

Now, you were watching the fountains at the Bellagio, both of your hands creeping closer and closer together as the show went on, until both of your arms were wrapped around each other. Your head was against his chest as the fanfare blasted in the speakers and the gorgeous aqua, teal and fuschia lights of the water lit up the Vegas sky overhead in a spectacular display like a starry watercolor painting.

The mood of the night suddenly felt extremely peaceful, and sensual, a tranquil moment between you and Miguel. Honest feelings underneath the surface that were begging to be released at long last.

You turned your head to find him already staring,

"Miguel, I...."

Before his lips already met yours in the sweetest first kiss, the water splashing behind you in front of the well lit Bellagio, the shooting colors akin to the fireworks bursting inside your heart, before you both gently break it, foreheads still pressed against the other.

"I'm-"

"In love with you?" He asks softly as he brings a thumb to your cheek, tracing the tiniest circle before he kisses you again.

"I absolutely am."

You both get lost inside this out of world experience, kissing each other underneath the warm, nighttime lights of Vegas, still dressed in your Jinx costume, both pairs of arms locked around the other, hearts stirring in your chest as you cement this moment permanently into memory.

You Uber back to your hotel, no longer staying in separate rooms with evening plans of all-night snuggles, binging another series together that you've been meaning to show him, and, if you are both still awake, maybe convincing him to run down to the lobby together for late night snacks from the 24 hour food court in your hotel, and room service waffles in the morning.

Two lovebirds brought together at last by the nighttime lights of Vegas, and all because of a little Comic Con.

A special love rooted in friendship with a sacred meaning only the two of you know about, that playful look in each other's eyes as you open the door to his hotel room, another portal to a cozy world for you two to get lost in as it softly clicks behind you.

---

[chalkrevelations]

Proposed:

Vegas and Porsche spend a whole bunch of time plotting to kill Korn, only for Macau and Chay to get there first.

Some intense questioning and emotional manipulation by his Hia finally get out of Macau that he lied when he initially told everyone that he stumbled into Korn and accidentally knocked him down the stairs when Korn grabbed his wrist during an argument, but he wanted to protect Chay. He says that the two of them didn't think people would believe Korn fell accidentally when Chay tried to push him away from Macau, after Korn grabbed Macau's wrist during an argument.

Some emotional manipulation by Porsche does not get anything out of Chay, who just looks at Porsche with big wet eyes from under his bangs and doesn't uncurl from the corner of the couch in Tankhun's rooms.

Some intense questioning by Kim does not get anything more than a "fuck off" out of Chay when Kim 1) calls bullshit on Macau's confession to Vegas and 2) accuses Chay of now taking the rap for Macau because they all know that no one would ever believe it was an accident when the displaced second son of the minor family pushed Korn Theerapanyakul down the stairs during an argument.

(Kim is not ... entirely correct. He's not entirely wrong, either, for all the good it does him.)

Kinn gets nothing out of anyone, because neither of these kids trusts him as far as they could spit. If Kinn was the least bit trustworthy, Vegas would be head of the minor family and Porsche would not - this is something both Macau and Chay have been in agreement on for a long time.

Tankhun takes one look at both of them in tears, Macau practically hyperventilating, just after they're pulled away from Korn's body in the stairwell - these two boys who previously have always been protected in one way or another from the dirty work of this family - and he KNOWS there was nothing accidental about it. He's just not sure who actually did the pushing, so he keeps his mouth shut because he doesn't really care about Vegas's brother, but no one is going to do anything to his baby chick Chay if he has anything to say - or not say - about it. (Pa shouldn't have given him a kid, if he didn't want something more important than Pa in Tankhun's life.)

Tankhun's right about one thing - it wasn't an accident.

Macau never - ever - admits to anyone that they did it together, 1-2-3-go, when Korn made the mistake of turning his back to them while he was at the top of the stairs to Nampheung's garret. Occasionally, Macau will catch Pete looking at him speculatively, head tilted just a bit, and Macau just stares back with the blandest look he can manage until Pete shakes his head and looks away. (These are, in fact, the only times Macau can manage to win a staredown against P'Pete. He doesn't realize how suspicious that is, in and of itself.)

(Macau never, ever, wants Vegas to know that their family - who Vegas tried so hard to protect him from - stained him enough that he could commit murder, even if it was in order to protect his Hia.)

Chay tells Porsche three years later during an argument right before Chay packs his things and moves out of the main family compound for the last time. He doesn't tell Porsche that Macau was the one to first send a significant look Chay's way when Korn dismissively turned his back on them at the top of the stairs. He does tell Porsche that he's the one who gave the final go-ahead nod to Macau.

(Chay absolutely wants Porsche to know that the Theerapanyakul family - who Porsche exposed him to - stained him enough that he could commit murder in order to protect his Hia.)

Working title: Nobody Talks, Everybody Walks

[ultfreakme]

It is so frustrating rewatching KinnPorsche because Tankhun always gets things exactly right but nobody ever listens to him. He predicted the entire Tawan thing from the second Tawan arrived.

- Don't trust Tawan and immediately kill him otherwise he'll bring huge trouble ✅️

- Tawan is working for the minor family- specifically Vegas ✅️

- Porsche can be trusted ✅️

- Something is seriously wrong with Pete and everyone needs needs be a lot more concerned ✅️

Meant to be the head of the family indeed.

[peachym00]

"No pools."

kpanniversary2024 - prompt: haunting

(post-canon, post-hospital)

When the smell hit his nose, it stopped Pete in his tracks. It was enough to tear him away from the present and take him back to the dark and painful memory that hid in the shadows of his very being—lurking there, waiting.

Haunting him.

He was only there for a favour. It wasn’t like he needed the money; for once in his life, he had more of the stuff than he knew what to do with. But he wanted to get out of the house, to feel like he had more of a purpose, to feel like he still had a friend. Porsche needed help. That much was clear to anyone within six feet of him and his attempts at being the new head of the minor family. And Pete, being Pete, couldn’t help but hold onto the hand that reached out for him.

They weren’t even in the minor family compound. Pete didn’t make a habit of returning there very often, and Vegas and Macau even less. For obvious reasons, it wasn’t somewhere that any of them wanted to spend their time.

But Pete hadn’t smelt that smell since it happened. And when it hit him as he walked past the outdoor pool in the gentle warmth of the late afternoon sun, his body went cold with immediate dread.  

One whiff of chlorine and he was back to that night, the pain shooting through his knees as he dropped to the floor, the sight of Vegas’s skin losing its colour as the life drained from his body—the sound of his own screams as he mourned what was in front of him.

It was…visceral. The image of the scene of his worst living nightmare playing before him like he had a front seat at the theatre. And it wouldn’t stop. Why was there a ringing in his ears? Just playing over and over and over and over–

Pete.

and over and over and over and over–

“Pete!”

The ringing stopped, and he was wrenched out of the past and back into the present.

“Huh?” He asked dumbly, emotionally distraught and hoping desperately no one had noticed.

“You okay, man?” Porsche looked concerned as he pulled down his sunglasses and perched them on the end of his nose so he could peer down at him.

He blinked. “I’m fine,” he plastered on a smile, breathing in and out slowly in a bid to stave off the ever-building panic.

Porsche frowned, though he slowly pushed his glasses back up his nose, maintaining his immaculate play-pretend persona. “All right, man, if you say so. Anyway, so if I send over those files–”

Most things after that fly straight over his head. His body goes on autopilot, almost as if he blacks out. It's not until he somehow drives back home and sits in the driveway of his new house, tucked deep into a fancy gated neighbourhood, that he comes back to his senses. His hands shake as he takes the keys out of the ignition, stiffly getting out of the car and making his way into the house.

It’s quiet when he walks inside, yet his mind is anything but. The sudden need to find Vegas, to see him with his own eyes just to prove he’s still alive, takes over him. He barely remembers to take off his shoes before he rushes further inside, searching through every room until he finds who he’s looking for.

By the time he finds Vegas, who is tucked into the corner of the couch in the spare room, his heart is palpitating out of his chest. The window was perfectly positioned to let in the afternoon sun, so he could frequently be found napping there. Fatigue plagued him in his recovery, and it was not uncommon to come across him asleep. But today, the sight of him passed out does not make him smile. It makes Pete want to scream and howl and wish he would never close his eyes again (for as long as he lives).

He hardly makes a sound as he tiptoes across the room, but he manages to disturb Vegas anyway, his eyes squinting open before Pete has a chance to sit down. “You’re back,” he croaks, eyes brightening as his gaze lands on him. “how’d it go?” He yawns as Pete sits down next to him.

The answer to the question escapes him; in fact, most thoughts escape him. The black cloud of the past still looms over his brain, flooding his memories.

“Pete?” A hand on his knee makes him jump slightly, “what’s wrong?”

“Let’s not get a pool,” he manages, forcing down the need to scream.

“What?” Vegas laughs incredulously, pulling Pete’s arm so he sinks into his side.

“I don’t want to get a pool; let’s not build one,” he repeats, closing his eyes in relief when he can hear the beat of Vegas’s heart underneath his ear.

“Okay. Whatever you want,” Vegas speaks quietly, confused, almost as if trying not to scare away a spooked animal.

A kiss is pressed to his forehead, and the need to scream dissipates.

“No pools.”