#i think he’s really got this! he’s gone from fifth to third to second! he can do it!

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

since season 5 is probably shortly on the horizon, i thought this could be fun! to be clear, don’t vote for who you WANT to win, but who you think is most likely. i might make a “who you want to win” poll later idk.

i didn’t include any past winners, of course, nor mumbo or lizzie because i don’t expect them to return. i am operating under the assumption ren is gonna return because i miss him.

[poppyseed799]

You don’t need to have actually done any of these things it’s just whichever one you vibe with the most. I’m bored and hyperspecific polls are boring but look fun so I made this.

[fangirl-dot-com]

🏎Track 9 - Getaway Car

*for the people who voted an update for reputations first, here you go! we can all say thank you to George for getting me in a writing move and inspiring this chapter! sorry for all the lando lovers...he's not redeemed. thank you for reading and I hope this is what you've been waiting for!*

TAG LIST IS CLOSED

“Oh shit. I think I had contact with Leclerc,” you said over the radio as you felt a bump to your back right tyre. In one of your mirrors, you could see a flash of red trailing behind you. Your heart dropped at the thought of ruining Charles’s race, but you kept on going. 

There wasn’t much space for you to go any wider. And Checo had been on the other side of the Monegasque. It would have to be dubbed a racing incident, hopefully. 

“How’s the car?” your race engineer asked. 

You sucked in a deep breath. “It feels fine.” 

“Ok. Just keep your head down. There might be a podium if we stay on course.” 

Your head gave the slightest nod, even if no one would see it. You still didn’t want to be sole reason that Charles had yet another bad race. 

It seemed like the Monegasque’s luck ran out after Monaco. Someone must have sacrificed the rest of the Ferrari season just so that Monaco could be theirs, and it showed. A double DNF in Canada was downright awful, and Spain wasn’t anything to write home about. 

He had managed to pick up a couple of points in the sprint race, but that was it. 

Canada for you and Logan was a thing of the past. A similar double DNF wasn’t something that you would have liked on your record, but what was done was done. You and Logan were still P1 and P2 in the drivers championship and Lamborghini was leading comfortably. 

Spain was a bit better. 

The Spanish Grand Prix saw you and Logan on the podium, but Max took the first step. It was a tricky race with you, Logan, and Lando swapping places lap after lap. At one point, Logan had tapped Lando when the British driver tried to barrel down into a turn. 

Once it was over, you felt ready to be done with over the top races. You missed the beginning races when your car was able to finish the race with big gaps in front and behind you. The triple header had been grueling, and you were ready for a break. Silverstone didn’t exactly start up any excitement. The media and the atmosphere didn’t seem pleasant.

Your race had been predictable until the very end. You had just gone back into turn 3 when your engineer turned the radio back on. 

“Sargeant and Verstappen made contact, virtual safety car. Sargeant needs to retire, Verstappen has dropped down to fifth.” 

You wanted to groan. There’s no way that you and Logan had accidentally ruined races for two of your really good friends. 

“Who’s the leader and what’s the gap?” 

“Norris is currently P1. Piastri is P2. You’re running P3.” 

If you could hit your helmet on the steering wheel, you would. 

You pressed the radio button again. “And the gap?” 

“It is 4.201 seconds. But tyre degradation is bad. Don’t push as hard, just bring it over the line.” 

With a huff, you turned your radio off and kept going. When you crossed the checkered flag, you finally felt like you could breathe. There really was no competition who could have taken third from you, but your anxiety was already rising. 

Although there wasn’t any tension like there had been, your anxiety grew as you got out of your car. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of bright orange run into his team’s arms. Not wanting to get involved, you leisurely walked over to the Lamborghini team. 

Your race engineer gave you a quick hug, and many pats came down on your helmet. However, the person you wanted to be there was nowhere to be seen. As you locked eyes with many of the crew, none were the blue you were looking for. 

With a sigh, you took your helmet off and went over to the weighing station. You kept your head down, looking at the numbers so you wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. As you made your way to the cooldown room, George was able to congratulate you.

“Thanks,” you muttered, still not looking him in the eyes. 

The Briton sighed. He knew that when he saw Charles pull up in P11 and Max in P5, you and Logan were going to start closing in on yourselves again. It was his job, plus the others, to make sure that you two knew that it was just racing. 

Hell, Max was at fault for the tangle with Logan. However, the two of you seemed to take all fault on yourselves. If George ever met the people who had made you and Logan like this, they wouldn’t see the light of day. 

George put his hands on your shoulders, finally making you look up at him. His kind, blue eyes melted at the sight of tears in yours. 

“It wasn’t yours or Logan’s fault, ok? Max and Charles both know.” 

You shrugged. “Sure. That’s what they all say.” 

Not wanting to delay getting to the cooldown room, you turned on your heel, out of George’s hands and into the little room. You quietly sat down in the P3 chair, right next to Lando. Your eyes fixated on the screen when they showed what had happened between Logan and Max. 

“Aha, thank you Sargeant for that.” 

Your eyes widened at the sound of Lando’s laugh and voice. You quicky glanced over, just to see Oscar looking at him the same way. 

The Aussie let out a small scoff. “Mate, Max turned into him.” 

Lando rolled his eyes. “He shouldn’t have gone up against Max in the first place. If he can’t keep P1 then he doesn’t deserve it. Max did the right thing.” 

Was he being for real. You wanted to say something, but you were baffled. Lando’s win was definitely gifted. He couldn’t even hold P1 into turn 1 back in Spain when he was on pole. You just sat still, picking at your fingernails until the official called the three of you back. 

Lando jumped out of his chair and sauntered away. Oscar waited until you got close to wrap an arm around you. As the two of you walked, the Aussie’s head dipped down next to your ear. 

“It was all Max. Logan had nowhere to go.” 

You only nodded in response. The McLaren driver could sense that something was very off. He hoped that Logan was fairing a bit better. 

Back at the Lamborghini garage, Logan had locked himself in his drivers room after he got out of his car in the pit lane. His eyes were red as he continuously wiped at the tears that kept falling. Deep down, he knew that it was Max who turned a bit deep, but his head liked to say the opposite. 

A knock interrupted his down spiral. 

Logan sniffed loudly. “Yeah?” 

The door opened slightly and Benny popped his head in. “We’re going to the podium; do you want to come with us to watch your girl?” 

Logan sucked in a deep breath. How dare he come in and cry while you probably wanted to celebrate. He quickly shook his head. 

“She probably doesn’t need me there.” 

Benny sighed as he recalled what George had said on his way back to the Mercedes. When the trainer caught Logan’s eyes, he smiled. 

“I don’t think she’s feeling like celebrating at all. How about this: I’ll call for a car so that you and Y/n can get out of here when you’re done with your interviews. I’ll let Michael know that you two need some time.” 

Logan didn’t say anything, but he stood up and brought Benny into a hug. He choked on a sob as his friend’s arms wrapped around him. 

“It’s going to be just fine kid.” 

Logan wiped his eyes one more time as he followed Benny out of his room. He could feel the sad pairs of eyes on him, reminding him of Canada after his DNF. It kind of reminded him about his time at Williams, but the smiles made it better. At the other team, all he got where sighs of disappointment and frustrations.  

When he made it to the media pen, he kept his cap low on his face. What he didn’t realize was that Max was standing next to him while he gave his interview. 

The Dutchman has seen Logan come up to stand next to him, so he kept one ear open. Logan shuffled on his feet as the lady asked the first question. 

“Logan, you were having a fantastic race. What happened?” 

A sigh escaped before he answered. “Well, Max and I went for a battle and we both went a bit wide. There really wasn’t room for me to go anywhere, but I should have gone a bit wider to have tried to not cause the collision.” 

Max wanted to smack him for thinking that he could have avoided it. 

The lady pressed on. “So do you think that Verstappen is at fault.” 

The American shrugged. “At the end of the day, we’re both drivers that want a win. When you go wheel to wheel, you need to expect some hard moves and be ready for them. I just wasn’t ready and I dealt with the consequences.” 

“Your teammate was able to score a podium. Is that a positive you can take from today?” 

A smile rose on his face at the thought of you. “Yes. I can speak for the team when I say I’m very proud of what Y/n accomplished today. Even with the bit of bumping into turn 1 at the beginning with Charles, she managed well.” 

The interview wrapped up quickly after that, making Logan turn to leave. Once he was out of the pen, he felt a hand land on his shoulder. He slowly turned around and was faced with a concerned Max. 

The Dutchman asked, “Are you ok, Logan?” 

The blond had a sheepish grin, almost borderline uncomfortable. “Yeah, I’m ok.” 

Max wasn’t convinced. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Logan. You need to know that.” 

“Oh look, Y/n is texting me. Better check out what she needs. Bye Max.” 

“Logan.” 

“I have to get going! See you at Silverstone.” 

“You’re being unfair.” 

Max’s last sentence died out as he watched the younger round the corner out of sight. He let out a groan as he rubbed his hand down his face. If Logan wasn’t going to listen, he’d have to corner him again. 

The Dutchman didn’t want to do that, but Logan left him with no choice. He had to call the big guns. 

You were currently rushing to lot 2 where Logan had said he would be. Your eyes landed on a convertible, navy Porsche. Logan’s blond hair shone in the lighting of the late evening. When you saw him wave, you quickly made your way over. 

As you got closer, Logan leaned over the passenger seat and opened your door. You rolled your eyes as you sat down. 

“What a gentleman.” 

He smirked. “Only for you darlin’.” 

Your arm reached out and turned up the radio as Logan put the car into gear. It didn’t take long before you two were out of the lot and on the main road. Your hair whipped around you as you sang along to the radio. Logan would glance at you often, just glad to see a smile on your face. He even tried to hit a high note, which made you burst into giggles.

You didn’t know where Logan was headed, but it seemed like he knew as he turned off the road and onto a back one. It didn’t take long before he parked the car in front of a park. The lake behind the grass reflected the reds and yellows of the sunset. 

Logan took this opportunity to place his arm behind you and gently pull you in. You let out a content sigh as your head rested on his chest. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there at the podium,” he apologized as his fingers twirled your hair around them. He wasn’t looking at you as his eyes were cast at the steering wheel. Your fingers began to draw shapes on his chest. 

“You don’t have to be sorry. I’m glad you weren’t there. Lando was insufferable. He said some things.” 

Logan sat up slightly. “Like what?” 

You chewed on your lip, not wanting to say. “He said thank you for hitting Max, and that you shouldn’t have tried to fight for P1 if you couldn’t keep it.” 

The blond was silent for a moment. 

“At least he said thank you.” 

You sat up all the way and turned to look at him. “Logan Hunter Sargeant!” 

“What?” a smile was on his face, letting you know that he was teasing. “I’m just going to team up with Max, and we’re going to win at Silverstone.” 

Your eyes looked down and landed on your phone which was blowing up with messages from your group chat. 

“Speaking of Max.” 

You and Logan read through the messages quickly before replying.

You put your phone back down before turning to face him. 

“Think we should head back?” 

“Yeah, or your ice cream might melt.” 

Before Logan went to shift the gear, you pulled on his shirt and brought him into a kiss. Behind your lips, he sighed as he leaned in a bit more. Your hands drifted to his shoulders while his rested on your hips. 

You would have leaned in more if it weren’t for the stick shift in the middle. When it pressed against your side, you disconnected your lips from his. Logan let out a soft whine and tried to lean back in. You put your finger up to his lips to press him back. 

“Nothing good starts in a get away car baby.” 

Logan turned and thumped his head on the steering wheel. “You did not just quote Taylor Swift at me for wanting to kiss you a bit more.” 

You smirked. “Ice cream is waiting.” 

“You and your ice cream woman.” 

Logan quickly backed out and whipped the car around. The drive to the hotel wasn’t as far as you thought it was as. Logan pulled up to the front, got out, and rounded to your side to open your door. This time you didn’t tease him and gladly took his hand. 

Logan went over the details with the chauffer before he was back at your side, leading you through the entrance. 

You two thought you would have a bit more time before Max and Charles showed up. However, when the elevator opened to your floor, you weren’t expecting them, Lewis, George, and Oscar to be sitting by your door. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Uh, you guys are here early.” 

At the sound of your voice, the five of them sat up, eye wide at being caught. George scratched his head, Lewis looked at the ground, and Oscar smiled sheepishly. 

Charles bit his lip before holding a bag out. “Ice cream?” 

You took the bag from him as Logan swiped his card. “Ice cream.” 

Logan shouted from inside the room. “How long have you been here?” 

Max rubbed his face. “Maybe thirty minutes?” 

“My ice cream better not be melted Verstappen.” 

“Your ice cream? I think Charles brough enough for me too.” 

“Get your own Sargeant.” 

“Are they always like this?” 

“Welcome to the club Oscar.” 

lamborghini_racing has posted

liked by sargeantgirlie, venus2, presidentlogan, and 2,038,567 others

lamborghini_racing wasn't the result we thought we'd get, but it's better than nothing. the bees are ready for Silverstone 💪🐝

see all comments

lambo_duo logan, you did nothing wrong! I hope you know that we're still cheering for you!!

sargstappen I hope this isn't the end of Logan and max's friendship :(

leclercsdaughter I don't think it it

venus2 sorry team, we'll get it next time

phoenix95 OH YEAHHHH LET'S GO TEAM - THE BRITISH BETTER BE SCARED BEFORE WE RECREATE 1776 RAWWRRRR 🦅

lewishamilton I actually am scared now

georgerussell63 same.

usaf1 let's get Norris on his home turf 😤

ln4fan this team has som incompetent drivers who need to be replaced (I'm looking at sargeant)

logan&co literally who asked you

lestappenlove bring it on 😈

phoenix95 has posted

liked by charles_leclerc, y/n.nation, LEC, and 1,403,286 others

phoenix95 totally destroyed them at mario kart 😈

tagged: charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, georgerussell63, lewishamilton, oscarpiastri, and venus2

see all comments

loscarland glad to see Oscar has been adopted by this group ☺️

y/n.nation nothing but a girl, her friends, and some lec ice cream

americanf1duo can't wait to obliterate them in England

maxverstappen1 I WANT A REMATCH

venus2 I think you're just a sore loser

maxverstappen1 how was I supposed to know that George is awful at mario kart

georgerussell63 HEY 🤨

sargstappen233 I'm glad to see that nothing has changed 😮‍💨

TAG LIST: @fionaschicken @myxticmoon @cherry-piee @blueberry64857959 @glitterquadricorn @lizzypiastri @sam-is-lost @spilled-coffee-cup @ilove-tswizzle @the-untamed-soul @allenajade-ite @starssfall @torchbearerkyle @judespoision @halfdeadsage @juniper-july19 @severewobblerlightdragon @thatgirlm @gods-menace @ineedafictionalman @namgification @dark-night-sky-99 @samantha-chicago @2pagenumb @treehouse-mouse @fangirl125reader @megatrilss1885 @kagatinkita @itsjustkhaos @nikfigueiredo @awekbachira @vellicore @skepvids @sunrizef1 @stan-josie @fanficweasley @hiireadstuff @barcelonaloverf1life @c-losur3 @graciewrote @bruhhhhhhhhehhhhhhh @tallrock35 @ashy-kit @kat-su @minkyungseokie @lozzamez3 @leslieis-crying @adventuresofrose @lighttsoutlewis

[its-your-mind]

ORV as textposts 35/???

[Photo ID - seven images from the ORV manhwa with text pasted upon them.

The first image shows Han Sooyoung gesturing toward Kim Dokja while she talks at him angrily. A Tumblr post by user thefunniesttags is pasted upon her. It shows an AO3 tag that reads, "insults: the sixth love language."

The second image shows Kim Dokja looking at his reflection in a subway door with blood on it. Some blood is positioned to appear to be placed on Kim Dokja's cheek. The text post is by Tumblr user sometimes-love-is-enough and reads, "yeah i turned your boyfriend into an unreliable narrator. sorry. yeah, he's exaggerating aspects of the story to cast himself in a better light. he's obscuring the narrative he doesn't want to think about. he's misrepresenting others to further his own ends. yeah, i think he's doing it as some sort of emotional defence mechanism. his story cannot be trusted. sorry."

The third image shows Yoo Joonghyuk and Kim Dokja looking toward each other with the rest of their body facing the viewer. The visible part of the speech bubble pointing toward Yoo Joonghyuk reads, "something you wanted to tell me." The speech bubble pointing toward Kim Dokja reads, "No, I was just admiring that ugly mug of yours." The text post is by Twitter user @/AZIRACROWS and reads, "the BEST ships always include someone who is clearly on the spectrum and the most depressed man you'll ever meet"

The fourth image shows Kim Dokja looking at a transparent wall of papers with typed text on them. The text post is by Twitter user clit "the spook" buttowski (@/BIGVICEE) and reads, "Men really be having little ass waists for what. WHAT YOU NEED THAT FOR WHORE"

The fifth image is a close-up of Yoo Joonghyuk with a pained expression and yellow and blue lighting around him as he looks at his left hand. The text post is by Tumblr user blazevillain and reads, "YES he is a MASSIVE BITCH but hes also BISEXUAL and a PUNCHING BAG and ALMOST DIES AT LEAST ONCE A WEEK. AND hes my little meow meow."

The sixth image is a close-up of Kim Dokja adjusting the collar of his white cloak while looking over his right shoulder at the viewer. A thought bubble above him reads, "I forgot that he was right here." Two speech bubbles are below him with the first one covered by a Tumblr post by user greelin that reads, "he lived. served cunt. died. got resurrected. served even more cunt." The second original bubble reads, "If I die again, I'II die for good."

The seventh image shows Yoo Joonghyuk panting and sweating while holding two swords with blood dripping on his swords and hands. A quiz result is pasted near the bottom of the image. It reads as follows:

Your Result:

Ancient Fauna

crocodiles are hundreds of millions years old or whatever. mooses are remnants of the ice age. creatures that are young and yet have seen more of this earth than man ever will. who are flesh and blood and alive and yet move as if they exist on a different plane to us. and yet are so real and a part of things. you and these strange liminal creatures confound, sometimes you're being hit by cars or turned into purses and then sometimes giving a look that speaks of aeons gone and aeons to come

/End ID]

ID by @incorrect-web-novels once again 💙💙💙 my deepest appreciation!!!

[box-of-roses]

'*•.¸♡ Machine Heart♡¸.•*'

Characters: Sakusa, Y/N

Synopsis: Sakusa is going to learn why you don’t take things for granted in the most brutal way possible

Warnings: Vomiting, Blood, CHARACTER DEATH, Crying, Regret

Words: 2k

A/N: I was listening to music and found this song. It really sets the vibes if you listen while you read

Valentine’s Day. How funny it all sounded to you now. You’ve been with the same person for five years. The first year was wonderful, he got you a bouquet of flowers and wrote you a wonderful heartfelt letter. The second year was okay, he still gave you flowers but ones you had already told him made your nose itchy. The third year is when it started going downhill and going fast. He worked, you can’t be too mad at him for doing his job…but he forgot. He had forgotten a lot that year. Your birthday, your anniversary. He hadn’t forgotten his teammates' birthdays. He hadn’t forgotten the anniversary of joining his team. He had forgotten you though.

The fourth year is when you started getting angry. Your lovesick eyes scanning the posts from friends of their significant others. The rings gleaming around their fingers. Why couldn’t he care again? What made him stop caring? You made a dinner and waited up for him to get home. When you awoke the next morning though you found his shoes by the door, the bedroom door closed and yourself still asleep at the table. Food ice cold and candles gone out. Light coming from the bathroom along with the sounds of running water.

The fifth year was when you started rethinking everything. You hadn’t prepared anything this year, too tired of being cast aside. So what if the flame of his love went out? You still had someone. It was when he posted a message for his friends telling them Happy Valentine’s Day. He couldn’t do something that simple for you? You started thinking of what you had done.

Your eyes kept staring at the simple post. Photos of him smiling with his friends. Telling them he cares about them even though he doesn’t say it much. That he didn’t know where he’d be without them and that he couldn’t live without them. You didn’t want to be upset at his friends. You’re not entirely sure that you existed. There weren’t any posts of you with him on either social media account.

He decided early in the relationship that it would be better if the public didn’t know. You just didn’t realize that also meant his friends. His family. You felt like you had wasted five years of your life. You couldn’t stop loving him though. He was still the light of your life. Even if you weren’t the light of his. That’s when you felt a tickle at the back of your throat.

You grabbed a glass of water and took a few sips. That didn’t help, it was a grainy feeling like you were swallowing sand. You rushed to the bathroom as the feeling went up your throat. Making it just in time you leaned over the toilet. As your body heaved flower petals came out of your mouth. So did blood. You had heard about this before. Hanahaki. You were going to die. You had been trying for years to get Sakusa to love you again. This was just the final nail in the coffin. Ha, coffin. You’d be in one of those soon.

Your body heaved again. More petals filled up the water. Blood splattered against the sides of the pristine white seat and walls. You knew you were going to have to clean it up before Sakusa got home. You wondered to yourself when he had become Sakusa again. When did he stop being Kiyoomi? Was he ever really anything other than Sakusa to you? More petals fell out of your mouth. It was getting hard to breathe and your vision went black.

You’re awoken again by the door opening. Your eyes fluttered to life. He was finally home. On Valentine’s Day. The day you realized you weren’t going to be alive for much longer. What a sick joke everything seemed to be. You flushed the toilet and began to clean up the mess you made. You heard a knock at the door. Checking your appearance in the mirror you took a paper towel and wiped away at the blood coating your lips and edges of your mouth. Opening the door you’re met with the man who caused this demise.

“I’m going out with my friends tonight. I trust you’ll be safe while I’m gone.” You nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Go have fun with your friends!”

“I wasn’t asking permission. I just found out you were home and didn’t want to be questioned first thing after stepping through the door.” He turned around and you closed the door. Maybe this was for the best. He talked to you so coldly that you actually shivered. You didn’t want to just give up on life but you didn’t want to subject anyone else to your problems. Perhaps any proof of your existence was already wiped from the house.

There was one photo of the two of you in your bedroom. Not his bedroom. Your bedroom. You had been okay with having separate rooms in the beginning. You had a lot of things and so did he. What was so bad about having separate spaces and spaces where you were able to be together. Except you were never together anymore. There wasn’t a shared space. The house might as well be yours because of how little he was there.

You knew he wouldn’t be there often. I mean he had away games all the time before you moved in together. But it was different. You felt your eyes well up with tears as you reminisced about the past. At how sweet he used to be. The apartment seemed much colder than it had been before he came home. You didn’t dare leave your bathroom though. You didn’t want to run into him. He was about to go out and seeing you would ruin his day.

The pricking in your throat started again. At this rate you were going to be dead before the day's end. It was harder to breathe than before. You rushed to sit back down. You didn’t want to hurt yourself more than you were already. You should have left him. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened. But, you couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him no matter how much it hurt to stay. It hurt more to think about leaving. As flowers came out of your mouth you wondered who would be at your funeral. Tears ran down your face as you realized he would show up. But maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would pretend he didn’t know you.

What was he going to do when he found your body. It would be limp and grey, blood lost and flowers around your lips. They began sticking as the blood dried. You wondered if the flowers at your funeral would be the same ones you were currently choking on. This disease is poetic in a way. Love and flowers were both beautiful if taken care of properly. Love could sprout and blossom and cause more things to grow. Love could also hurt. It could grow thorns and you could bleed and choke and cry. Love could be just as deadly as it is life giving.

You knew that the next part was the thorns. The stems and sharp edges scraping your throat as they would come up. You couldn’t stop crying. Why you? What had you done to deserve this besides being unloved. Is it really your fault that he didn’t love you anymore. You felt it was unfair. Why didn’t he throw up flowers? Why couldn’t he feel what you were feeling? You were back to anger. The tears were hot as they rolled down your cheeks.

You picked up one of the flower blossoms. They were beautiful. Blue. White in the center. The disturbing factor was the blood that got caught in the folds and tears of the petals. The way it dripped onto your hand. The contrast of the blue and red. It made you think of the contrast between the two of you. Your vision started going in and out again. You grabbed the water you brought with you and drank more of it.

You tried to clean yourself up as you picked yourself off the floor. You looked terrible already. Because you knew what was going to end you left the bathroom and picked up your phone. The object that started this mess.

That observation wasn’t fair to your phone. It wasn’t the phone’s fault he didn’t love you anymore. You wrote messages to your parents and friends wishing them well. You set it up to send in a couple of hours. With how quickly this was developing you figured you’d be gone by then. Funny. The universe didn’t even try to give you a chance to fix this. It had as little faith in someone loving you as you did yourself. Your eyes no longer welled up with tears. You were coming to terms with what was going to happen. You wrote your last note and went back to the bathroom.

The letter was sat by the door. On the little table where you put your keys. You silently secluded yourself as you felt your lungs fill up with flowers that wouldn’t come out.

It was a few hours later when Sakusa finally returned home. As he set his keys down he noticed a note. He picked it up and began reading it.

‘I’m not doing this to make you feel guilty. I would like my funeral to be a small affair. Please let my family know this wasn’t their fault. I loved you. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you, you’ll find me in the bathroom. I wanted the least amount of mess cleanup for you because I know you hate blood. Thank you for caring about me in the beginning. I love you, take care of yourself.’

The paper fell through his fingers. What did you mean he would find you in the bathroom? His feet carried them to your bathroom. He was scared to open the door. When he did his fears came true. There you were flowers growing out of your mouth. Blood plastered around your mouth. And skin, your skin was grey and you laid there lifeless.

What had he done. He could have prevented this if he continued loving you. He should’ve continued loving you. He does love you. He loves you now that he can’t have you. He misses the things you would do for him. He misses you.

He sits in the bathroom for hours. Just holding your hand. Wishing he realized this would happen. He feels so stupid for requesting the things he did. He regrets not showing you off when he could. He regrets not loving you like he should. He wishes he could kiss you and you would wake up. He wishes he could wake up and that it was a dream.

He wishes he could love you like he used to. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he hears a knock at the door. His stomach growls and his throat feels dry. His eyes are red and puffy as he swings the door open. Atsumu is standing there. He hadn’t heard from his friend for two days. Seeing his state he comes in and hugs him.

Sakusa pushes him off. “It’s my fault. I’m the reason they’re dead.”

“Who’s dead Omi?”

“Y/N.” Atsumu doesn’t ask who that is, he can tell that Sakusa cared for you. He’s curious why he had never heard of you before. He doesn’t want to push him right now though. They sit there for the rest of the night. In the couch in your home, surrounded by the things that reminded him of you. Atsumu only gets up to make them food. Considering Sakusa’s state he figured he hasn’t eaten. He wishes he could do more.

Sakusa tells him not to go into the bathroom in the master bedroom. Atsumu doesn’t ask why. Atsumu just hugs him and lets him cry.

I hope you guys enjoyed! I got this request and thought it was perfect to post for Valentine’s Day. My askbox is open if you want to send in a request. Like this was, you can find that here. If you liked this consider checking out my other works! Love you guys!!! <3

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated

Masterlist

[yertle-the-turtle6678]

IM BACK AND I HAVE PERCIVER HEAD CANONS TO SHARE!!!

They meet in first year on the Hogwarts express. Percy's holding a giant book on third year divination. While this makes him a less attractive friend in the eyes of others', it's what brings Oliver Wood to the same train car as him. They introduce themselves and shake hands.

In second year, Oliver makes the Quidditch team as their keeper. Percy still spends the majority of his time indoors, but he goes to Ollie's practices and games every once in a while. After one specific game, Oliver comes back to the dorm with his breath cut short and with tears in his eyes. He stops breathing and the world goes spinning between each of his eyes; a panic attack, madame Pomphrey later describes it. The crowd triggered it.

Percy comforts him, sits on the same floor as him, rubbing the boy's back, repeating reassurance: "you're safe here,"

"You were good out there, really."

"I'll sit with you for as long as it takes."

Oliver comes to with his head on Percy's shoulder.

In third year, Percy goes to every practice and every game. He rubs Oliver's back when he returns to the dorm. When he loses for the first time, Percy has to chase him to stop him from running away, never to be found again.

"Hey, listen," Percy says, out of breath from the running. He doesn't understand how Oliver's barely breaking a sweat. "Tell me, okay? What went wrong out there?"

He gives Oliver a minute to pause and think.

Oliver gathers his thoughts and his breath. The sweat dripping down his neck fuels him, gives him energy. It clouds his head. He needs to calm down.

"I slipped on my broom." He says finally. "I wasn't planted on it properly."

"Good. What are you gonna do to fix it?" Percy replies, breathing better.

"I'll improve my grip."

"Good."

The two of them stand there, just breathing.

"Thanks."

In fourth year, they have the Yule Ball. Both of them are fifteen. Their year mates are out and about minging, asking each other out. The two of them stay where they are. They don't speak of the ball.

They go to the dance together, as friends of course. Percy keeps adjusting the collar to his hand-me-down dress robes. Oliver assures him that his attire is charming.

He sighs.

"If you had to wear these, I guarantee you'd understand me." Percy says. Over the summer his voice has changed. It's deeper and richer. Oliver loves it. Wishes he could taste it. Wishes these thoughts would go away. He grins and laughs Percy off.

When it's time to dance, they run away to a balcony that Percy didn't even know existed. They laugh and chat, making jokes at the dancers' expenses. Percy's had a bit to drink, (had he known the punch was alcoholic, he wouldn't have gone near it) and his face is flushed deep red.

"AND- and then when the-" he howls laughter. Oliver has to stop him from falling over himself.

Oliver thinks... He can't think at all. Suddenly. The two of them are so close together. He's got his arm around Percy's back and Percy's leaning against him, hands on Oliver's chest, still laughing. When he stops and catches his breath, though, the two of them seem to freeze. Oliver's heart skips a beat when he can physically feel Percy tensing up.

He kisses him.

Very awkwardly.

He made little action with his lips, just gently brushing his against the other boy's. The boy in question grins. Now it's Oliver's turn to flush deep red.

"ha-HA! No, wait, no, Oliver, wait."

Percy pulls Oliver back towards him by the arm. They're tangled with each other again, Oliver giving in to the urge to smile, just a bit, even after being embarrassed.

They kiss. Properly this time. It's the best thing Oliver's felt in his life. When they pull away, he whispers,

"Are you my boyfriend now?"

Percy smiles.

"Yes."

In fifth year, nightmares attack. O.W.Ls. Percy never sleeps anymore.

Oliver has to drag him away from his work table and force him onto his bed. When that bed later becomes repurposed for more studies, Oliver forces him onto his own bed. They sleep together and their dorm mates start getting suspicious.

Oliver sleeps in pajama bottoms and nothing else. Percy sleeps in a sweater and boxers. They spoon and Oliver rests his arm in front of Percy's only exit to stop him from crawling out of bed to study. Little does he know, Percy would never dare leave.

During the waking hours, Oliver drags Percy to other important places, such as breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The outdoors. Interaction with other human beings. It's a tough life out here for him.

When the exams finally start approaching, they do not stop making out. It's the only thing that gets Percy's mind off things. Only because there's nothing more distracting than Oliver's mouth.

To his own surprise and nobody else's, Percy passes his O.W.Ls with flying colours. Oliver passes alright despite not studying.

In sixth year it's the same for their N.E.W.Ts.

Something changes in the relationship between Percy and the rest of the student body, especially the girls. Oliver knows he's gotten taller. And his freckles have cleared enough for his gorgeous face to be visible. His voice is still as beautiful as it was in fourth year. He's started rolling up the sleeves of his sweaters, and the halls seem to swoon rapidly when they spot his forearms. Oliver always knew that Percy could have this power over people; he'd been subject to it himself. But it annoys him. And what's even worse is that Percy doesnt seem to notice when he's being flirted with.

He gets into the habit of writing on Oliver with pens, a strange Muggle device that's actually pretty nifty. Some mornings, Oliver wakes up with markings he doesn't even remember. Percy writes on his chest a lot. Draws on his collarbone. The most repeated word is Percy's name.

Oliver looks in the mirror one day, at his shirtless body.

PROPERTY OF PERCIVAL IGNATIUS WEASLEY

It says this all over his torso.

He grins. No one's stealing Percy from him anytime soon.

They pass their N.E.W.Ts.

The Summer Before Seventh Year

France is a gorgeous place, Oliver realises. Filled with gorgeous girls, too. He's lounging at the beach when one of them asks him out. He's put on the spot and exposed, wearing nothing but his swimming shorts and sunglasses. He fumbles over his words.

"Err, I mean, no..." The girl frowns. She has gorgeous eyes. "I mean, yes, sure. Is Friday at 7 PM okay with you?"

It doesn't even occur to him that she's a Muggle.

Immediately after he's uttered these words, he regrets it. But he can't stand her up. And she's already walking away. Merlin, Percy's gonna kill him.

It's just one date and Oliver doesn't even enjoy. They don't touch each other at all; they don't even hold hands. But Oliver knows what he's done, and he knows what he has to do.

He writes a letter.

I love you. I'm sorry. I couldn't live with myself if I kept it secret.

He sends it away with his black owl.

At the Burrow, Percy receives two letters back to back on his birthday. The first is from Hogwarts, confirmation that he's this year's Head Boy. He jumps around the kitchen, all dignity forgotten, and hugs his mother with an enormous grin on his face.

The second is from Oliver.

How quickly Percy's face turns sour. Mrs Weasley asks if he's okay.

Tears sting his eyes. Outside, he tells his mother everything.

One day before the start of the school year, the Weasley's are staying at the Leakey Cauldron overnight. Percy hears pebbles being thrown at his window and goes to see who it is.

Oliver Wood. Merlin.

Percy goes downstairs, striding towards his partner. Punches him in the face and immediately feels bad, but doesn't let that stop him. His voice is somewhere between a whisper and a yell and a sob,

"How could you?"

"I'm so sorry, Percy."

"Why did you do it?"

"We didn't do anything. Didn't touch her. I remember what you wrote on me."

Percy breathes in deep.

"I wasn't talking about just your body, Oliver. I was talking about you. All of you." He exhales, trying to hold himself together.

"I wouldn't think twice about rejecting some Muggle girl for you. You think I didn't notice when the whole female population at school suddenly wanted to date me? Just because of my body? I resisted them for you, Oliver. Because I love you. Why couldn't you do that for me?"

"I don't know. I'm so, so sorry."

They decide to take a break from their relationship. When they start attending school again, their dorm mates wonder why they've stopped sleeping together.

[intheticklecloset]

Hiccups (Bungo Stray Dogs)

One Shot

Summary: Akutagawa gets the hiccups. Atsushi helps him get rid of them with tickles. ^^

Word Count: 894

~~~

A tiny noise like a squeak came from the direction of the kitchen, and even though they’d been living together for a few months now, Atsushi’s first thought was – huh, do I have a mouse in here?

Until the second squeak came. Then a third, all evenly spaced out. By the fourth, the weretiger was on his feet and heading to investigate.

The fifth squeak came at the same moment he saw Akutagawa’s body jolt slightly from where he stood leaning against the counter with a glass of water in his hands.

Their eyes met.

“Akutagwa—”

“Shut up.”

A few months ago Atsushi would have been offended. Now he just laughed. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

“I said shut - *hic* - up.” Akutagawa took a quick sip of water, attempted a deep breath, and was thwarted again. “Everyone gets hiccups. Don’t act like I’m some kind of anomaly.”

“I’m not! It’s just…that’s really cute, actually,” Atsushi replied, moving further into the space despite his partner’s cold glare.

“What have I told you about calling me that?”

“Oh, please. You know you love it.”

Akutagawa put his glass down on the counter so hard the water sloshed, pushing up to his full height – a whole two centimeters taller than Atsushi – and growling, “If you say one teasing word to me right now, Atsushi Nakajima, I will - *hic* - have Rashomon slice you into a thousand pieces.”

Atsushi giggled, wrapping his arms around Aku’s neck, though he knew that his boyfriend was entirely serious given the use of his full name. “I promise I won’t tease you. But I do think it’s cute.” He kissed him before he could protest again, gazing lovingly up at him in such a way that he got to witness Akutagawa visibly falter, any angry retorts dying on his tongue, replaced with another hiccup instead. “Want me to help you get rid of them?”

“You have some kind of cure-all for hiccups? If you’re hoping to - *hic* - scare me, I’m sorry to inform you that won’t work on me.”

“We’ve known each other for years. You think I don’t know I can’t scare you? I’ve tried a million times.”

“Then what - *hic* - do you propose?”

Atsushi cupped Aku’s cheeks with the palms of his hands, brushing his thumbs along his cheekbones, smiling at the way it made the usually serious man melt a little. Then he curled his fingers inward and gently scribbled along his neck.

Akutagawa fell right into the trap.

“Weretiger!” he snapped, lifting his arms to grasp at the empty air where Atsushi’s wrists had just been, leaving his torso open for the real attack aimed at his ribs. He let out a yelp and shot his arms right back down, lips turned upward in a traitorous smile. “No! S-Stohohohop - *hic* - thihihihis at once! I’m wahahaharning - *hic* - you! Weretiger!”

“Seems it’s not working quite yet,” Atsushi said with a smile, quickly moving to stand behind Aku and pull him against his chest, wrapping his arms around him in a tickly death trap that worked every time. He grinned into his boyfriend’s back as he screeched and began flailing in earnest, the giggles he’d been trying to hold back turning into loud, raspy laughter as Atsushi found the bottoms of his ribs and dug in mercilessly.

“Stahahahahahahahap! Ahahahahahatsushi!” Akutagawa clawed desperately at his arms to no avail, twisting and writhing in his grip. Luckily for the weretiger he wasn’t wearing his coat right now, which meant he had to rely on his own strength to get out of this situation.

There wasn’t much to begin with, nor was there practically any left now.

“Dahahahahammit weretiger, cut it ohohohohohout! They’re gohohohone! My hihihihihiccups are gone now stahahahahahap it!”

Atsushi hummed in contentment, smiling as he hugged him closer and tickled even more, leaning forward to plant little tickle bites along his neck and make Akutagawa go absolutely crazy.

“Ahahahahahahaha! Stahahahahahahap!” The older man cried, changing tactics from trying to pull his partner away to slapping his hand against his arm instead. “I gihihihihihihive! Please!”

“Aww, so soon?” Atsushi pouted but stopped anyway, knowing he couldn’t push too far if he wanted to be able to keep getting away with tickling him at all. He kissed the back of Aku’s neck, relishing the shudder that went through him in response. “You good?”

“Shut up,” Aku muttered, turning in Atsushi’s loosened grip so they were facing each other. This way, Atsushi got to see all of him right up close – his blushing face, his bright eyes, the ghosts of dimples in his cheeks. The aftermath of what a little tickle now and then could do for his boyfriend’s spirits.

Atsushi smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Akutagawa scoffed. “See what I do to you next time you get hiccups.”

“Joke’s on you. I can shift into my weretiger form to get rid of them.”

“Fine. Then I’ll take my revenge now.”

Akutagawa’s eyes suddenly lit up with a different kind of light, and Atsushi had only barely processed it before he was squealing with his own round of giggles as his boyfriend squeezed up and down his sides. He didn’t mind – it was beyond worth it to have a little bit of playful fun with the Port Mafia’s Hellhound.

[undead-supernova]

If It’s Right…You Know / Masterlist

plot: they say that if it's right...you know...nothing has ever felt so wrong (so maybe you’ll just drunkenly wander the streets until you figure out somewhere to go)

warnings: alcohol consumption, arguments, cigarettes, I frowed up, hurt/comfort

pairings: steve harrington x fem!reader

wc: 2.8k

song inspiration: Hits Different by Taylor Swift (I've listened to this on repeat for like an entire year now)

note: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY to everyone who actually does NOT have a Valentine and would rather read about fictional characters because you're a real one out there.

“Can someone call her a cab?”

“No!’’ you exclaim, wiping the tears under your eyes. You’re staring up at the bartender, trying to silently plead him to take pity on you despite how embarrassed you feel. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll just go.”

He eyes you, shoving his plaid shirtsleeve up to his elbow as he walks over to the small computer. His eyes flicker towards you every few seconds, the buttons on the screen seemingly nothing compared to the state of you. It’s like you’re a car wreck, isn’t it? Just too hard to look away from despite the carnage.

“Are you sure?” he asks as he slaps your receipt down. You’re starting to scribble a tip with the shitty pen he’s provided when he decides to add, “This is the third time you’ve done this.”

You look back up, mortified. “Really?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Oh, god,” you groan, desperately wanting to curl up into a ball and die. “That’s mortifying. I’ll do better next time.”

“Maybe lay off the booze until you feel better,” he suggests. “Or, you know, you talk to whoever that Steve guy is. Maybe try that.”

Before you can say anything in return, he’s grabbing your receipt, saluting you, and moving on to the next person in line.

And that’s it.

Tab closed.

Moment gone.

Sighing, you stand and grab your purse and jacket. Dip back whatever’s left of your shitty glass of a Screwdriver, the watered-down vodka tasting like absolutely nothing on your tongue. Suppressing your groan, you push through the growing crowd as you try to escape.

As soon as you emerge from the shitty little dive bar, you’re nearly blinded by the fresh midnight air. It nips at your skin, the September of it all begging for a chance to release its worst. And you’re wearing a short dress with high heels that aren’t covering your feet. It’s your own damn fault for not checking the weather before you came. Now look where you are.

Now it’s time to wander the streets, to try and find somewhere reasonable to go. 

Because why go back home? Why risk sitting by yourself in the dark, nursing a bottle of wine that certainly won’t mix well with orange juice and vodka before spending the whole night by the toilet?

Why leave when the streets are perfect for a heartbroken woman like you, crowded with the hordes of others experiencing some form, no matter how miniscule, of melancholia? 

A part of you finds it funny, fucking hilarious, that no one around you knows what you’re feeling. What you’re thinking. 

If only they knew about the self-loathing, the devouring loneliness. How this is eating at the lining of your stomach, a kind of hunger that feels so different than any that has come to pass. 

It always happens after a vacation, doesn’t it?

See, just a month ago, Steve had taken you on vacation to some beach in California. Said it was to get away from work. To get away from the stress. The late nights. The fuckery that lied in office buildings and smushed cubicles. 

The beach felt like a perfect fit, thick with the scent of sunscreen and a couple of beers in a melting cooler. The sun itself felt like a form of freedom, cascading through the tie-dye umbrella desperately trying to stay put in the sand. 

But it just kept slipping, kept trying to escape whenever the breeze rolled in. You sat closest to it, trying to hold it down whenever it popped up. 

After maybe the fifth, sixth time, Steve had had enough.

“I got it, I got it,” he said with a sigh, trying to push the umbrella further into the sand. But every time he tested its stability, the pole seemed to shoot out of the damn hole.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed.

“Maybe we should just call it and put it down,” you suggested.

Steve raised an eyebrow at you. “What, and risk getting sunburnt?”

“So?”

He waved his hand around. “So, it’ll hurt. Like, a lot. And then neither of us will have any fun.”

“I think you’re just overreacting.”

But that was before you got burned.

And then you were the one losing it.

“This fucking hurts!” you nearly screeched, the sheets of the hotel bed scratching up against your inflamed skin.

“I told you that it was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, I know, Steve,” you grumbled. “I got that the first ten times you said it.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Steve, the one who had been worried about getting burned, hadn’t. In fact, his skin was glowing. Practically radiating with the most perfect tan you’d ever seen. Just a fucking daydream of golden skin and honey hair.

Despite your scowl, Steve seemed to let go, the crease between his eyebrows smoothing out. 

“Come here,” he whispered, squeezing the green aloe vera gel into his palm. “You can be grumpy, but you’ll have to let me play doctor.”

“Don’t you dare,” you nearly seethed.

But you weren’t scary enough for Steve. He took a small glob and rubbed it along your shoulder. You yelped at the cold sting, but that was before it settled in and left you at a comfortable ease.

“Oh, fuck,” you sighed, letting your head finally rest against the pillow.

“Oh, look at that. I’ve already got my license.”

That pulled a giggle out of you, finally, the irritation seeming to dissipate the longer you let it out. Steve joined in with you, probably just happy that you weren’t acting like a complete asshole.

The rest of your trip was spent smearing aloe vera over your body and lounging on the balcony. Eating seafood at little restaurants along the coast. Walked the piers at night, taking flashlights to look for little crabs. You even brought home a whole bag of seashells. 

Despite the pain, you had the best time of your life with Steve.

But that was the heart of summer.

And now it’s coming to a close.

A few more blocks over, your mind starts to stray away from the present, the liquor reaching the corners of your mind that you’d rather leave darkened. The parts that have always been an issue, even when you were secure enough in your relationship.

Where’s Steve tonight? you wonder. Who is he with?

Because there are so many women out there, so so many, who would lose their minds if they met someone like Steve. He’s something more than just a man, more than just a pretty face or a quick fuck. No, he’s got something about him that transcends what you have always comprehended about the male species. Something that feels almost…magical. 

He’s something of a dreamboat, an absolute firework show with that hair and those eyes and that smile and— 

Well.

He’s not yours right now, is he?

He doesn’t have a girlfriend waiting for him anymore. In fact, he could be with some other girl. Some girl with a better smile and a better laugh and a better body and better lips, holding onto his arm as they walk down the cobblestones of a street you used to stroll down. Steve helping her walk in her heels through the cracks, guiding her like a fucking gentleman.

And maybe he’s kissing her right now, whispering to her that she’s much, much better than his ex, some crazy fucked up mess who doesn’t know what she’s missing. How you’re just too hard to handle, too soft and sensitive for him. How you never gave him any chance at peace. How it was so much better now that you’re gone. 

What if he’s kissing some other girl right now?

Leaning up against a streetlamp, you can’t help it when your stomach makes the decision for you. You can’t think properly, can barely see through your tears as you lean over and throw up on the street.

“You good?” a female voice asks, putting a hand on your shoulder.

You turn to her, registering her hesitance at your appearance most likely, and nod. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

She looks relatively around your age, with a perfect manicure and a cigarette in her fingers, mauve lipstick wrapped around the filter. Her dark chestnut strands waves around her face, eyelids sparkling with pink glitter.

“Do you have anyone with you?” she asks, looking around.

“Yeah,” you lie immediately, pointing at the crowded bar across the street. “I’ve got some girls waiting for me inside. Just went a little heavy on the liquor tonight.”

“Is this about some guy?” she presses. You can’t help but nod. “Take my advice. Lay off the alcohol for a little bit and get yourself some sleep. You’ll wake up and think to yourself, ‘Wow, that random stranger was right. Thank you, random stranger.’” That makes you chuckle. “I’m sure your friends will understand.”

“Yeah,” you say before you slip in a lie. “I’ll try to do that.”

“Godspeed, my new friend,” she responds with a smile. She salutes you, pats your shoulder, and walks away. 

You watch her as she goes, stunned that a mere stranger could see right through you.

Maybe people do know that you’re experiencing heartbreak. Maybe it’s written all over your face, some typical sad woman with smudged mascara and lipstick. A desperate girl stumbling down the street, destined for catastrophic failure. Or maybe you’re just shit at keeping yourself together in public. 

But you’ve come too far now to turn back. It’s time to keep moving.

You knew you fucked up the moment it was all said and done. 

See, when you broke up with Steve, you really, really didn’t want to. You thought you needed space, that there was shit the two of you needed to figure out. Separately. If your jealousy and his indifference were to collide, well, maybe you shouldn’t be together. 

And maybe it was better if you sabotaged yourself instead of trying to actually work on yourself. What’s the point of trying to fix the problem instead of running away and convincing yourself that you weren’t supposed to be this happy? That you weren’t supposed to be this at ease. That you didn’t deserve to be with Steve.

It didn’t even really matter the reasoning if you even had one at all. The details were insignificant, the excuses piss poor. All you can hear now is Steve’s voice, all crackly and strained as he asked you question after question.

“I don’t understand.”

“So, what, now you’re just gonna leave? Leave us behind?”

“Do you still love me?”

To that, you had an answer. 

“Yes.”

“So why are you doing this?”

To that, you had none.

Steve left his spare key that night when your inevitable fight led to an outburst and a slamming of the door. You didn’t notice for days, hoping that you’d hear the key turn in the door, and he’d stumble down the hallway with a hug and a promise that you’d fix this.

But he didn’t.

And you said nothing.

So, you spent your nights going out to bars for some kind of companionship with the other strangers haunting the sticky, stingy rooms. You became a blubbery fool, desperate for a conversation that you refused to initiate. Desperate to get over Steve. Desperate to let him be like all the rest, insignificant and easy to forget. 

But Steve is different. 

And you are really starting to fucking hate these heels.

How did you end up here?

You pause, staring up at the sign above the door.

Penguin & The Whale.

It was, you guessed it, a neon image of a penguin standing in the mouth of a whale. 

This…is the bar you and Steve go the most. The one you met in years ago, just two stupid college students without any clue as to what the future held. Him working on some finance presentation and you finding any chance not to read the book you were supposed to. 

That night started with a “You go to college around here?” and ended with his number on a scrap of paper that you still keep in your wallet.

And somehow…you’re here after weeks of avoidance.

Staring at that damn penguin.

That damn whale.

Despite your confusion, your aching feet and chilled legs pull you in, using some of the last of your physical energy to push open the door. You’re hit with the thick smell of tobacco, the whole room seemingly drenched in smoke.

For nearly one in the morning, the place is still relatively crowded. There’s college students (mainly frat bros) and two separate bachelorette parties, all congregated along the length of the bar itself. You do your usual shimmy through moving figures, desperate to get to your spot.

God, it’s stuffy and you’re tired and your fucking feet are killing you and— 

There at your favorite table, next to your favorite seat, is Steve.

He’s running his hand through his hair, scribbling something on a napkin. Mouthing along to whatever he’s writing, like he’s still figuring out what he’s trying to say. He strikes through something rapidly before letting out a sigh.

Steve isn’t his usual self, you realize. His hair doesn’t hold the same volume or shine. There’s a bit more acne than usual, all picked at and scabbed. His outfit is more casual than usual, a Hall & Oats t-shirt and…were those a pair of sweatpants? 

He never goes outside with sweats on…

“Steve?”

He looks up, nearly startled. Like he’s shocked to see you here.

“Hey,” he says, standing. Runs a hand through his hair and adjusts his shirt. “What, uh, what’re you doing here?”

You don’t miss it when he turns over the napkin.

“Just kinda wound up here,” you say. “What are you doing here?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, well, you know.” He takes a deep breath. “Just kinda wanted to get a quick drink, you know, ‘cause…” He stops himself, tapping himself on the head before waving his hand in the air. Puts his hand on his hips. “Yeah, uh, forget it. I’m lying. I was waiting for you. I’ve been waiting here for you for the past week.”

“For me?”

“Yeah,” he responds, nodding. “Not like living here, obviously, ‘cause that would be insane. But I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to you if you ever came. Oh, and I think the bartender might be sick of me.” You open your mouth to say something, but Steve rattles on. “And it’s actually crazy because I started thinking fifteen minutes ago, ‘You know, the probability of her showing up is actually quite dismal’, but here you are, proving myself wrong—"  

Without hesitation, you pull him into a hug. It’s maybe the most tender hug you’ve ever had, with his arms wrapping around you immediately. Giving a soft squeeze, running his fingers through your hair. His face is nuzzling into your neck, his breath sending shivers down your back. He’s melting you, wearing down the shell you’d forced yourself into. For too long you’ve been coasting by, letting your pride and jealousy get the best of you. Convincing yourself that he’d walk away and leave you shattered on the floor before running off into the arms of some other girl that only exists in your head. 

But here Steve is, waiting for you. Choosing you. 

There never was any competition, was there?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Just needed some time, I get it.”

You pull him tighter against you. “I don’t want to keep pretending that this isn’t the absolute worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“That’s okay,” he says, pulling back. Wipes some of your smudged lipstick and mascara out of the way. Leaves a peck on the tip of your nose. “How about we fix that mistake together?”

“Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

“Me, too.” His lips meet your forehead before he dips down to meet your eyes. “Want me to get you a drink?”

“Water.” He raises an eyebrow at you. “I think I’m going to lay off the booze for a while.”

This gets a laugh out of him, the first you’ve heard in weeks. 

It’s bliss.

“Okay, hun. Sit down here,” he says as he pulls out your favorite chair, helps to push it in once you sit. “You look good but, Jesus, your feet must be killing you.”

You smile. And this is your first smile today. The first time you’re feeling a release of every nasty, negative feeling you’ve had for the last two weeks. 

Steve walks towards the bar, fiddling with his hair again and you even see him check his breath. 

Looking over, you see the napkin resting on the edge of the table.

You glance back over, making sure Steve’s back is still turned before you turn it over. 

There’s just something about you

I just can’t stop thinking about you

I don’t know.

I fucking miss you!!!!

I love you. I’m sorry.

I’m an idiot. This is stupid.

Can we please talk through this?

I can’t move on because of you.

Because I love you.

Because it’s you.

[qqueenofhades]

would you ever write a modern/no-powers au for dreamling/sandman?

"Look, Mee," Hob says, for the fourth or fifth time that conversation. "I'm sure your brother is, uh, great, but I'm not sure -- "

"Come on," his best friend says, also for the fourth or fifth time that conversation. "Honestly, you'd be doing me a massive favor. I can barely get him out of the house most days, so I figured that at least the two of you could faff off and be really pathetic together?"

"Thanks." Hob switches the phone to his other ear and glares suspiciously out at the garden; when you've got two small children and it's quiet, you figure something's gone terribly amiss. Robyn and Alison haven't burnt the place down or gotten run over in traffic, but they're playing with something small, muddy and possibly still alive, and Hob debates whether he has to sprint out and save them from certain death. "You're a great friend, truly."

"I know," Morticia says airily. That does, bewilderingly, seem to be her actual name (were her parents massive Addams Family fans or something?) but with Hob and the rest of her friends, she generally goes by Mors, or Mee for short. He looked it up once. Ancient Roman god(dess) of death, which made him laugh, at least when it didn't kick him in the teeth. "You can thank me later."

"And I want to spend time with your brother... why?"

"Because." Oh God, here it comes. He can hear her trying not to say it, the same way everyone's tried not to say it in the going-on-eighteen months since his wife went into an ordinary central-London NHS hospital to give birth to their second child and didn't come back out. "You know it would be good for you, Robbie."

"Right." Hob's voice turns wry. "Can't have me wallowing alone in my misery? You know I've got the kids to look after, and they're talking about extending my contract at Birkbeck. I'm keeping busy."

Keeping busy. It always sounds stupid, even if it's the truth. Like you can chase overwhelming, soul-crushing grief away just by getting out of bed and making breakfast for the kids, holding Robyn's hand as you trundle off on the school run and tell him to have a good day, the thousand and one ways you think you're massively arsing this up and Ellie would have been so much better. Every time the doorbell rings or someone comes up the walk, he thinks -- for a stupid moment he thinks -- and then of course it isn't. You think about women dying in childbirth like it's something out of medieval times, or some third-world country. Not in England in the twenty-first century. Not in London. Not as if your daughter is beautiful and bright and alive, and every time you look at her, you remember that her mother isn't, and the happiness you feel is poisoned by grief again, cold and blue and endless as the ocean. You laugh with the kids at some Disney cartoon one moment, and the next, you're crying alone in the kitchen, in bed, in the silent darkness. And no matter how much you ask, she doesn't answer. You think she does, sometimes. You're just fooling yourself.

You know, Hob thinks. Maybe it would be good for him. At least it would let him spend time with (if Mee's account is anything to go by) the one man in all of London more pathetic than him. It doesn't have to be anything more than that. Even if she is trying to set him up, she wouldn't admit it. She isn't, surely? Trying to match her brother off with her best friend, widowed-single-dad-part-time-lecturer who's clinging onto sanity by the bare edge of his fingernails? Right? Fuck. Should never have told her that he's bi. Doubled her meddling possibilities at a stroke. And yet. He's so lonely, he almost doesn't care.

"Fine," Hob says resignedly. "I'll see if I can get a sitter for the kids. And it better not be that grotty brewery in Shepherd's Bush you dragged me to last time."

"No." Mee sounds like she's laughing at him. She probably is laughing at him, or else she thinks he's become such a pathologically undatable freak that his only chance for happiness ever again is with her equally pathetic little brother. "Nice new Asian-fusion place. Hammersmith. Fifteen minutes from you on the Tube. Don't chicken out, Robert."

And with that, well --

There's pretty much no choice.

Hob finds a sitter for the kids, promises to pay her twenty quid an hour (it's London, after all), and grumblingly picks out some clothes. He's not good at this. It's been almost ten years since he was dating anyone, and Eleanor was from a rich enough family that there was no chance of ever impressing her parents; he could have turned up in anything from Savile Row to a bloody dishcloth and they still would have hated him. Then he finds himself fucking around to the point where he's going to be late, the Tube will be a nightmare anyway, and panics again and rushes out the door with barely a word about what to feed the kids and when to put them to bed. Is nice Olivia from down the street judging him? She almost surely is.

Hob grimly toddles off to Hammersmith, exits into a light rain, and spends an inordinate amount of time searching for the restaurant. When he finally steps inside, he's not quite sure who he's looking for. Mee texted him a picture of her brother, but Hob has trouble believing that such a pale, pasty, and terminally uncharismatic twink could ever be related to her. One of them has to be adopted, and he's laying money on this one, whose name is -- no, seriously -- Morpheus. Morticia and Morpheus. What is wrong with their parents? Determined to doom their children to an eternity of primary-school torment?

Hob contemplates turning around and leaving, but now he's come this far, Olivia will definitely judge him if he returns within the hour, and frankly, he's judging himself. Even worse, he's fairly sure he's just spotted his man. Morpheus (come on, really?) is sitting by himself at a corner table, looking appropriately dark and broody, in his emo-goth dark coat and toilet-brush hair. Just like the photo. He's admittedly not bad-looking in person; he's got a pale, chiseled beauty that is briefly arresting, almost unearthly. Still, though. Definitely a wanker.

"Hello," Hob says, deciding to bite the bullet. He strides over, hand outstretched. "I'm Robert Gadling, and I think you're the bloke I'm supposed to be meeting? I know your sister."

Morpheus's mouth makes a small lemon-sucking motion. He rises to his feet, regards Hob's hand as if not certain what to do with it and/or wondering if he can get away with not touching it, and finally shakes it, brief and cold and dry. "I am," he says curtly. "You may sit."

Well, good. Glad they got His Majesty's permission. No unauthorized sitting happening here, no sir. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Hob puts his bag on the floor and slides into the chair across from Morpheus. Like every Londoner at a loss for a better opening line, he reaches for the weather. "Shame about this piss, isn't it? And it was all the way up to twenty degrees last week. Did you have to come far?"

"No," Morpheus says, still not displaying any particular delight in being forced to spend this evening in the presence of another human being and looking as if he is very much hoping the floor will suddenly open up and swallow him. "Not far."

Hob waits, in vain, on the chance that Morpheus might elaborate. He does not. Well. This is going swimmingly. Are they on a date? Did Mee tell him that they were on a date? Is Hob sure this isn't an extremely elaborate prank, and she just plucked one of her single friends from the vast and bewildering mystery of her acquaintances? Truly, it is no wonder that Morpheus is, in fact, unattached. He's got the personality of a soggy rag and the face of -- well, not that. He is pretty. But Hob is not that shallow. Thanks very much.

Conversation suffers badly until they order drinks and food; or rather Hob orders, and Morpheus says that he'll take just a glass of wine. He does loosen up slightly as they talk; Hob does most of that, but Morpheus listens with cool, intent attention. From time to time he asks a question, but he doesn't interrupt, and finally Hob, trying to make it as light-hearted as "my wife died eighteen months ago and this is the first not-date I've been on ever since" can possibly be, admits it. He braces for Morpheus to get up, to run, to fire off an indignant text to Morticia or anything else, but he doesn't. He just nods once. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I know that it is... difficult."

All of a sudden, Hob is forced to consider the startling and unsettling possibility that Morpheus himself knows something about this. He can't say why or how that might be, but life is full of mysteries. "I -- yeah." It's an abject relief to say it and to have someone acknowledge it simply and matter-of-factly, not smother him with sympathy or cluck about how hard it is. "So if I'm off my game, that, uh. That's why."

Morpheus thinks about that for a long moment. Then all at once, out of nowhere, he smiles. It completely transforms his face, it twists like a fishhook in Hob's gut, and all of a sudden, he wonders in alarm if he is, in fact, entirely that shallow after all. "Believe me, Hob Gadling," Morpheus says. "It has very much been my pleasure."

[alicerosejensen]

Please tell us you’ll do a part 2 for your head canon about Leon’s girlfriend finding out about Ada and Claire. Surely he wouldn’t just let her run off like that if he loves her.

All you need to know is that while I was writing this part, I listened to "I Love How You Lie" - Eminem feat. Rihanna. At least twenty times. Maybe more.

There is no physical violence here, but you can see a broken Lеon when his girlfriend left for TWO months without explanation. Fuck knows why Tumbler gave me some character restrictions in the last post, but out of fear I shortened some part of the text. (And this time there were no such gifts)

Tornado meets volcano.

So, a few people asked for the second part and I translated it as far as I could into English. Enjoy it if you can.

I like this text. I consider this one of my best works (I think it looks much better on the original).

If you need a translation of the third part, then let me know. Because of the fucking restriction, I'm not sure it's worth putting this whole story out.

As Cersei Lannister once said, "Love is poison. Yes, it is sweet, but it kills no worse than any other".

Because of one man, you have no desire to go out into the daylight, there is no reason to smile or laugh. The realization that for Leon you were nothing more than a beautiful doll still makes the heart bleed and quietly cry into the pillow looking for salvation in the night while everyone is sleeping.

It seems that there will be no end to this pain, and your hero turned out to be the main villain in your story, because of which you suffer. You allowed yourself to be deceived, you allowed yourself to be played with. You're the one who let a stranger become someone close. You're the one who let Leon rip out his heart, leaving a gaping wound that's slowly rotting away.

Nevertheless, you still miss his warm, slightly rough hands at night, who hugged you tightly, hugging you on cool nights. Now this whole stupid story reminds of how the moth flew into the light and eventually burned to the ground, so that only ashes remained of it. The truth is that the fire is Leon, and you are a stupid moth that has gone out. Although now, looking at the night sky, pressing your knees to your stomach, hugging yourself tightly, despite the great loss, you hope one day to start shining brighter than comets again.

Carey called last week, telling the latest news and gossip, not forgetting to mention your boyfriend who came to college looking for you, but she lied to him saying she didn't know where you were and where you disappeared. Leon hardly believed it, but he was not a man who beat the truth out of others. At least not from stupid students. But your happiness is that he did not know where your parents' house was, which means that in any case his search will not be successful.

You're very happy about it. Here you allow yourself to walk through the fields, remembering your youth and go with your father to the forest, just like in childhood jumping on the biggest stones. In the evening, the old man plays guitar to you and your mother while you and her clean up the dishes after a hearty dinner. Here at home, your wounds don't ache so much from the pain, and you look with laughter at the childhood photos taken by your mother in Calcutta, when you wrapped yourself in someone's sari trying to repeat the movements of Indian dancers. Flipping through the pages, you came across a photo with your fifth birthday, where you joyfully got dirty with a birthday cake.

And while your parents were laughing, you suddenly remembered that for some reason Leon didn't have more than one child's photo. Then, for some reason, he still said that his parents died quite early, but it was a sore subject that the two of you never touched on with him again. But he really liked to hear about your childhood adventures.

So you thought…

You so wanted to escape from the noisy city, away from Leon, and now involuntarily the soul is drawn to him. Although it doesn't make sense to dream about a summer together anymore. You had a wonderful, romantic love. You left Leon your dream of living together, but he never touched on the topic of future family with you.

It was really funny. Your father still doesn't like your first high school crush, even though you were fifteen and there was nothing between you and this guy but a chaste kiss on the cheek, this guy was forever blacklisted by your father. To make him think about Leon, who was twelve years older? Most likely, he would have tried to shoot him with his hunting rifle.

All the things, books, clothes, cosmetics, even the phone - everything is left with Leon and you will have to come back for them anyway. However, the mere thought of the collision of these sapphire eyes makes, the body goosebumps. You can lick your wounds at home, but there…all the scabs will open up again if only he touches you. If he suddenly says that Ada does not matter to him, however, by that smile and the compact in his bedside table, you realized that she would always be in the first place for him.

I wonder how long he's been looking for you? You called your friend because you wanted to clarify (and once again slash at the heart with a sharp knife of truth) whether Leon appeared in college or tried to reach you through friends, but the truth is cruel: he wasn't looking for you. Of course, it was probably stupid to worry, but you hoped that you meant something to him at least a little.

Leon has become your sweet poison.

Somehow, all thoughts returned to him alone. You are ready to fall into the abyss after him, get a hundred bullets instead of him, but it was his bullet that killed you.

Therefore, no matter how much you love him, the mind, and not the remnants of feelings, tells you a reasonable "Let him go." This is what needs to be done, and it will be the right thing to do.

Unfortunately, Leon is not the hero of Tolkien's beautiful story. He is not Beren, and you are not his Luthien. Funny comparison… But this is an analgesic balm, so you can stand firmly at the door of the apartment from which you escaped a little more than two months ago.

However, uncertainty again knocked down your legs at the very last minute, turning you into a mess with swollen red eyes, drowning in a puddle of your own tears. But to hell with it! You weren't tempted to listen to his voice or reread old messages, so why the hell are all these fucking feelings coming back out?! The cleaner handed you the keys and you exhaled with relief, hoping that you would have time to pick up all the things before Leon returned and then the need for an explanation would disappear by itself.

You will simply disappear from his life. He will cherish his love for Ada Wong or find someone who will not mind being a replacement for this irreplaceable woman.

But you cross the threshold of the house, leaving the keys on the bedside table, intending to finish it as soon as possible. This person is not capable of loving you, and by and large your days together are numbered. This is what you repeat to yourself, pulling out of the closet a large suitcase and a bag, alternately putting your things there.

Yes, you notice a few bottles of alcohol in the kitchen, a mess and your phone. Leon unlocked it, and you think that maybe he decided to check your correspondence or recent calls, but he definitely didn't find anything "criminal". Because Ada Wong didn't write to you.

Without wasting precious time, you continue packing, still taking the phone and putting it in your coat pocket. Your blouses, dresses, underwear…actually, you wouldn't mind quickly changing into more comfortable clothes than the one you took from home. But still discarding the thought of changing clothes, you zipped up suitcase, grabbing an empty bag with her free hand to put all the cosmetics there. You turn around to go to the dressing table and…freeze.

Leon.

He tricked you. He wasn't on your side. Burn it with fire, but he will not see you in tears. You won't stay with him and let him tear you to pieces. You are not the heroine of Lana Del Rey's music video…

But Leon was just silently watching your hurried movements. With those deep bruises under his eyes and a faraway look. He looked so exhausted that you wanted to go up to him and kiss him almost on a reflex level, but your brain was still saying "let him go! Save the remnants of your poor heart!"

You thought one thing, and Leon did not understand why you poured caustic poison on him in this way, running away without explaining anything. Smouldering like a coal, he was still just glad to see you alive and unharmed. And yet the sandcastle that he was building with you was now being destroyed on his hands.

The only thing Leon knows is that if he loses you, he will lose his only home.

"I can't…I'm leaving you," you whispered, still fiddling with the strap of the bag, watching the light blue eyes darken in an instant.

"What do you mean?" - Leon takes the bag out of your hands, throwing it on the bed at the same time looking strangely at the already packed suitcase. - "Baby, if you've been wanting to tell me something for a long time, then you should have done it, and not run the devil knows where without money and a phone. What was I supposed to think? Where have you been? You haven't been to college for two months!"

My God, your body is screaming again, as it did then: "Run." Although it was a lie. Leon's voice remains even, calm… and gentle. Just don't run away from him. His hand gently grabs your palm, warming it, forcing the blood to circulate through your veins. He's been so damn worried, missed you so much, that he seriously thinks he'd rather tie you to a bed and set the fucking house on fire than let you leave.

"I'm not her. But I'm not a fucking piece of cake that you can take whenever you see fit. I loved you, but I don't want to see you anymore. I don't want to talk to you and know you."

The good question is, who is going to hurt who now? Some part of you wants to cause him at least a fraction of the pain that you experienced, while Leon becomes a shadow of his former self in front of your eyes from these words. You fucking promised him! Be with him!

"I'm not Ada Wong. I'm not a mysterious spy. But I'm not your toy either, Leon. I'm the fucking person whose feelings you played with! When I loved you so much that it went beyond sanity, you loved a completely different woman!"

You're crying, turning away from him to grab the remnants of things and throw them into a fucking bag and run far, far away to start all over again. Away from Leon and his woman in red. The main thing is that he does not look at you with that sad, tired look, otherwise you will not stand it and burst into tears out loud. Do you want to yell at him when he asks one simple question, "Is it because of Ada? Is she the reason you left?"

But you turn around abruptly.

"No. The reason is you, not her. You hurt me. Not Ada. She's the part of you that you'll never let go of. "

This quote and the compact should be enough for him to understand. But it drives to lose your mind. Your love melts when you look at him and listen to his tacit consent. He would never let this woman go. And you still have some remnants of pride. "Maybe you're right." - This is what finally breaks your love. Next to him, you become quieter, smaller…Leon won another round, and you lost to him. Your heartbeat slows down, but his words finally force you not to let him touch you.

"Good" - Your lips whispered it so simply. As if it doesn't hurt at all. "I'm leaving."

"Don't!" - Almost a plea, but you jump away from Leon when he grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you to him. Despite how much you missed him, now in order to save yourself, your brain began to make a monster out of him. "I won't let you go. I love you, you know that! That should be enough!"

"But it's not enough! You love her and you will always choose her from the two of us. I'm not coming back to you anymore. I'm NOT her replacement! I won't fall into these nets anymore!

This is your end.

The last point. You don't know how to continue to believe in better days, but it's time to part. It's time to leave and forget this feeling. You resist when Leon tries to hold you to him. This is what tears apart. You just loved him. Your emotions are in a mess, you don't even realize right away that you are choking on the howl of that same beaten dog. How can you love and hate him at the same time?

That's all. Leave. Run. But you fall to your knees because you can't do anything against him! You love him so much! Whether he's a monster or a scoundrel. What should you do? It shouldn't be like that at all.

"Angel, believe me! It has not been as important as it used to be for a long time. I love you. That message doesn't mean anything!" - His hands hold you tightly by the waist, not allowing you to leave. He also loves you no less than you love him. Why didn't you just tell him what was bothering you? - "You are my love."

He's fucking lying. He wasn't even looking for you.

"Let me go!" - You scream, remembering all the nights with him without sleep, when everything was fine. You want to believe in this fucking lie, but in order to escape, you grab the very last thread, strike a fatal blow: "I don't love you anymore!"

It was painful. Leon feels a ringing in his ears and wants to loosen his grip at the last second, but for some reason he leans against the top of your head, still hoping that you are lying.

"It is not true." You both knew that. You heard only a pulse pounding and one boundless silence. You would be ashamed to look at yourself in the mirror, but Leon turns you over to face him, wiping the wet tracks of tears on his swollen cheeks with his thumbs. - "I don't believe it. Princess, if you would tell me…I was going crazy. You ran away without even explaining anything. Do you really believe that I could hurt you? I love you, not her. That's all you need to know. I will always choose you."

"I want to leave." Leon nods negatively, feeling a lump in his throat, but you want to leave him. You've already decided everything. Even for the first time, only now he continues to deprive you of strength, being your biggest weakness. Even if you feel calm right now, burying your nose in his neck, you have to do it.

"Please don't say that…"

"But it's true!"

Leon's hands close around your waist as he kisses your temple. He has found you and right now he is holding you in his arms not so that you will leave. Not so that everything that you both have been building for so long will collapse. He doesn't need tears to hurt. He needs you.

And again a single tear falls from your eyelashes. Why is he lying to your face? Why did you become his victim? But you can't order your heart and you can't lie to your soul - you want your love for him to disappear like a bird in the sky, what a pity that miracles don't happen.

You are bound by these hands and absolutely unarmed. Hell, you can't even leave as beautifully as Ada always does.

"You don't want that, I know. Please baby…We can talk about it. Look at me." - You're doing it. Idiot. You look at him when his gentle touches become rough, as long as you just don't look away. Unlikely you could have turned your head even a couple of degrees. - "It's all good."

It would be better if you died now. There is no doubt in your sincere love… he will always come back to her. Therefore, not a damn thing is all right! You're not okay! It's you who are suffering from agony, while he just needs the warmth of a young body.

This is what you shout at him, pushing him away from you, getting to your feet, grabbing a suitcase. You don't care about anything anymore! You're running away forever. Leon's reaction, however, is faster than yours, and he manages to intercept you faster than you get to the open door, throwing the damn suitcase aside.

You are probably the unluckiest girl.

A familiar record of Leon's promises that he loves you. He pinned you against the wall, hanging like a mighty rock, cutting off escape routes. At this moment, you do not have enough air, as if the breathing taps have been blocked.

"Princess…" - You smile bitterly. A princess who was banished from her own kingdom and from his heart. You turn from a princess into a prisoner. It was he who left you a deep crater instead of a heart. -"You're not her, but that's why I'm with you. I don't love you for your body. If I wanted a beautiful girl for the night, then this relationship would never have happened."

"Please go" - The request hidden from the lips responds with a dull pain inside Leon. Taking a step towards you, he bumps into an obstacle from your hands that have fallen on his chest. - "I don't want to be second place anymore."

All Leon is thinking about at this very second, while you are tearing his skin and flesh getting to his heart in shreds, which bastard drove this thought into your head?

You're the reason he's still alive. How can you want to leave him after he has allowed you to become a part of his life? He's been looking for you these fucking two months! Sometimes, in a frenzy, I rushed after every passerby thinking that it was you. You are his most beloved person, so how can you leave him?

Why has everything changed so much? Because of that stupid message from Ada and the compact, which he hadn't thought about for a long time. He just threw it away and forgot, not thinking that you can find it, but if you find it…Why didn't you just ask him about it?! He would have gotten rid of this item in front of you!

You have to stay. But you had different points of view on the situation.

He couldn't fucking sleep in a shared bed, thinking about where you were and who you were with. What if you had actually been killed in an alley somewhere? But the way your friend calmly said that he allegedly knew nothing about your whereabouts made him calm down, because he was sure that this girl was not one of those who are in the dark. So you were either with her or at least safe.

The thought of another man who could touch you the way he touched you turned him inside out. You couldn't run off to another guy to hurt him even more. That's not your style.

"You always came first." - It's true, but why the hell do you think it's a lie? How can you think that he has someone else?! What the fuck is wrong with you? - "Since came into my life. All I ever wanted was you."

Leon wants this whole two-month performance to be a fucking manipulation. God, he'll forgive you for your stupidity. He will strip you naked, hold you close and tell you that he loves you very much. The main thing is not to leave. He'll take you wherever you want, just stay with him. Don't lie to him that you don't love him!

"I don't believe you." - The end. - "You're right, my heart is full of blind love for you, but enough of this torment. My biggest mistake is to think that you loved me too. I'm tired of this pain, and if I stay here, it will kill me once. I want to be happy. But to become one of them, you don't have to be in my life! Аlthough I love the way you lie."

"Don't say that!" - Leon grabbed you, hugging you to him, which is why the familiar smell of cologne hit you in the nose, which made you want to close your eyes, enjoying it. You become a disassembled puzzle in his hands again. - "I've never lied to you! Not a single day. Princess, Ada was an important part of my life. However, what I feel for her is nothing compared to what I felt for you. Believe in it."

And that's what you want. It seems that only one step separates you from the possibility of leaving. You pressed against his shoulder-so strong, warm, safe, while his palm covered the back of your head.

So weak. Grabbed him by the back, giving a spark of hope that you will stay. Instilling in him the hope that now he will calm you down and you will put on these shackles again when he puts you on the bed and makes love sex to you.

You thought it would be easier to do.

"That's it. It's all good. I'm here with you. You're with me." - Leon's voice is shaking. If you believe him now… remember the compact in his bedside table. Push him away! Save yourself! - "I love you."

He is the one who kisses your tears from your cheeks and nose. He holds your neck, so it seems he can squeeze it until it crunches in order to end your life, but Leon just strokes the skin with his thumb.

Leon's heartbeat slows down, returning to a normal rhythm. And you are his little favorite toy, which he takes away from the door, confident that everything is in the past. Sure he convinced you. And you take six whole steps forward with him, glancing at the suitcase he threw.

Your pulse is pounding in your temples. If you stay, then only God will know how much loneliness you can endure. Leon may not be cheating on you physically, but his thoughts will always be with the woman in red. With Ada. He will always come back to her.

If you stay, you will lose yourself forever. You suddenly thought that one day you would want children, but Leon's work does not imply their presence. Then even they won't be your outlet. And one day, the best solution would be to just kill yourself. Poison, knife, rope… you will be so broken by him that you will absolutely not care.

You're leaving. Point.

Don't forget about all the happy moments that he gave you, but don't you dare let him destroy you!

If you can't leave like Ada, then do it your way. Even if it looks ugly and pathetic. You may look like a beaten dog, but you will be ALIVE.

Someday this day will be just a nightmare from which you could wake up. Just find a little strength in yourself to take the handle of the suitcase and… leave.

Then you bend down, grab the handle and lift your luggage off the floor as Leon takes a few small steps away from you, intending to remove the empty bottles and finally throw Ada's compact away. He knows that you picked up the suitcase and for ten whole seconds was sure that you just want to put things back in their places.

So scary.

Both him and you.

"Sorry." - You exhale. It's so complicated. Either God is such a masochist, or you yourself. Leon looks at you and doesn't believe you. Some strange smile appears on his lips mixed with despair.

"Sweetheart, wait."

"Goodbye Leon"

And you're really leaving him.

You run out of the apartment like the first time, leaving him alone. But you won't come back.

Your days together were numbered.

[philtstone]

16 (nose kisses), Anne/Gilbert!

The unspoken laws and loyalties of bosom friendship notwithstanding, Anne has been inching nearer and nearer to the edge of her patience with every subsequent Post-Date Diana who enters their humble apartment.

"Oh, Anne," she says the first time, admittedly Diana-ish in the rosy, stalwart flush of her cheeks. "I just had the best time. We got spaghetti, and he held my purse, and I think I laughed all night long."

Fred Wright is nowhere near funny enough for Anne to believe this a sustainable laughter, but Diana is happy, and if one isn't expecting a date to go anywhere -- which Anne is not -- the best outcome of the whole thing would be an enjoyable old time. Anne says, "A grand old success, then," while Diana goes, smiling, to the bathroom to get unready, and that is that.

So Anne thinks, anyhow.

"Anne," says Diana after the second date. "Oh, I keep thinking about him. He's got such nice eyes, and such lovely hair --" (It's so very flat and straight, which Anne has never found alluring, but she holds her tongue) "-- and gosh, Anne, all I could think of was how desperately I wanted to kiss his nose. I felt like a heroine from a romance, Anne, I really did!"

This is less like the Di Anne knows, but she allows that years of being exposed to Anne might have predicted such behaviour -- his nose, really! No one has so alluring a nose that you'd want to kiss it, let alone Fred's flat and snub one -- Diana's is so much more aristocratic -- but Anne manages to smile and nod. She has twelve readings due tomorrow, so she decides -- whilst on a semi-regular video call with recent chum Gil Blythe -- that she'll deal with it later.

"Diana's sensible," Anne tells him, stoutly, while she braids her hair for bed and he squints at his Anatomy 412 flashcards by the sink with a toothbrush in his mouth. "Not like I am, Gil -- she'll grow out of this Fred thing. I mean, she has dreams, for God's sake, and Fred is so -- so -- Fred."

"Fred's a nice enough guy," Gilbert says, muffled around his toothbrush. He spits. "Accounting's got steady income. And, you know, Diana's mom's got to like him -- not like the last few guys."

It's true, of course, that Fred Wright goes to the same Korean Church the Barrys have patronized for years, but Anne sees this as immaterial to Diana's dreams of becoming a self-made creative marketing director in the modern age of womankind.

"We've got exams in a week," Anne says with confidence. "I'm sure she'll be back to herself in no time."

The third date comes and goes, and Diana admits -- after a whole two days of secretive private sighing -- to a make-out session of the most agreeable kind. There was over the clothes action. Anne howls with such violent shock that her prized 2014 MacBook almost flies across the room.

"And it took you two days to tell me?" she shrieks.

Diana is only a very little bit repentant.

Anne becomes convinced. She is losing her closest friend in the world -- to a man.

To Fred Wright. And his perfectly average nose!

Oh, calamity!

"Anne," says Gilbert, for the tenth time, a week after Diana's gone on her fifth date. Well -- they're not really dates anymore. Anne's been informed that her best friend is in a whole relationship with the dreaded Fred. After three days of a stiff upper lip (she had two papers due for women's studies) she has broken down in tears in Gilbert's dorm. Thank God Josie and Moody left an hour ago, because Anne doesn't think she could've borne the humiliation of Losing It in front of them.

Gilbert, somehow, is different.

"Anne," he says once more, gently. She can feel his hands rubbing carefully against her back, and it is helping, really. She hiccups a few times.

"I'm just -- we had these dreams together, Gil. What if she goes off and gets married before me and never becomes duchess of digital marketing, and I'm left alone and friendless and -- and -- alone -- and, oh, I haven't even started my third term paper. Alone!"

At this, Gilbert sighs fully and pulls her into a hug. Anne hiccups weepily for a while longer against his chest, which is surprisingly solid. She supposes she ought to have expected this -- just as she ought to have expected Diana's romantic escapades -- because, as evidenced by the old football jersey he's currently wearing, Gilbert the pre-med student was until very recently something of an athlete. Anne tripped over her own feet the last time she tried running, and so has long since given up the stuff. This noted contrast is suddenly and inconveniently allowing a queer feeling to enter her stomach.

"Anne," Gilbert says a third time, somewhere around the vicinity of her forehead. "You're not alone. You goose. As if Diana would ever forget about you."

"But things might change," Anne says.

It comes out in a far smaller voice than she intends it to. And then, as if inspired, she looks up.

She doesn't mean to, and perhaps she is compelled by some greater force; in that moment, she comes the closest she ever has to Gilbert's own nose. It is far nicer than Fred Wright's, Anne's mind manages to notice. Long and straight and brown, and -- well, there is a freckle or two there, from the sun, but they're much sweeter than Anne's own and something about their proximity is making her stomach flip. His arm is warm against her side.

She could kiss his nose, pops the thought into her head, so very unwanted.

"Not all change is a bad thing, Anne," Gilbert says, his low voice scattering that awful intrusion to the four winds. He is as quiet as she had been, but more steady, somehow. Gilbert is often steady, these days, and steadiness is something Anne has never thought, actively, to crave before, but she has -- well, she has.

Anne takes a deep, querulous breath and pretends her head isn't spinning. Gilbert's expression shifts; she stops staring at his nose. A very small part of her, perceptive in spite of herself, thinks that he is about to take pity on her.

He does.

"C'mon," Gil says, untangling them and helping Anne to her feet with a decidedly chummy arm up. "You've got your paper and I've got this bellringer. I'll put on some tea, we'll focus, and then I can come with you tomorrow to stage a Diana Intervention."

And it won't really be that -- Anne loves Diana too much to want anything but the best and happiest for her -- but she is comforted, all the same.

[the-final-sif]

I still REALLY WANT dsmp s2 ;-;

I'll be honest, as much as I enjoy the thought of DSMP S2, I'm actually a lot happier that Dream is putting it down for now, with the idea that it might happen at some point in the distant future.

Like, there's a lot of things at play here.

First and foremost, just on a motivation and mental health perspective, it was pretty clear that DSMP was a really big drain for Dream. After Techno passed away, Dream was essentially carrying all of the major plotlines in some fashion or another. It was obviously really hard for him to do and keep up with, and I'm glad he's putting that down for now.

Second, it's really hard to not take into account how Techno's passing influenced how all of them see the SMP. Lots of different lore SMPs have gone through player changes, but the DSMP is the only one I know where a streamer actually died during it. That can make it really hard to go back to on an emotional level. And I absolutely get why that would play a part in demotivating/making a S2 difficult.

Third, the DSMP was kind of stopping Dream from being able to do other things. It was eating up a lot of his time, and if he tried to work on another major project, join another SMP run by someone else, etc, he was gonna get hounded about why he wasn't working on x plotline on the SMP. Putting it down lets him go do other things without that pressure. And honestly I'm really excited to see the other things he wants to do.

Fourth, I'm going to be entirely honest, I think the DSMP was due for a culling even if there was a S2. There are a number of people on there who got invited at various points that didn't really fit in with the server anymore. Dream moving onto other projects, possibly starting or joining other SMPs, etc. All of that means he can pick and chose who he invites to stuff, bring in new friends and not invite people who he isn't close to and who don't seem to want to spend time with him. I think that's much healthier, and it's something I'm excited for. I want Dream to be able to go back to just playing with his friends.

Fifth, kind of as a cumulative...

The amount of pressure and weight that the DSMP put on Dream in particular, what with how much of the story revolved around him, how other streamers would constantly need him for storylines but wouldn't go start ones without him, how people blamed him for everything that they didn't like, etc, etc. Particularly when Dream didn't even stream or make videos for the SMP. He was doing a shit ton of work for other people, and getting a ton of shit thrown his way for anything people didn't like. And for what?

It was honestly kind of an unfair set up. Particularly with how much people loved to blame Dream for things, or act like he was the only one who had any say in anything. When things go weird/not how fans wanted in the Last Life SMPs, you don't see everyone blaming Grian for it as if he's the only person who has any say. But somehow with the DSMP, Dream took a ton of shit for things that were clearly outside of his control or relying on other people.

All of this accumulated in Dream being very trapped in what he did. Something that's really bad for people with ADHD who tend to do best when we can have several different projects to move between. And who don't tend to do well when there's a lot of pressure for them to work on one specific thing that they may not want to work on.

Dream and the others putting down DSMP S2 for now means that Dream gets to work on stuff he'll actually enjoy. It means he'll get to focus on spending time and energy on people he actually enjoys spending time with. People who are his friends, and not people he hasn't talked to in over a year. He'll get to create brand new things, new SMPs, new characters. And hopefully he'll get to join in other people's projects too! Where less of the workload is on him!

I'm excited for that. I'm excited for Dream to get to do stuff he's always wanted to do, and get to move on to new projects.

I know some people are gonna be really sad about that, but honestly, I'm not. I'm excited to see where Dream ends up going, and what sort of stuff he creates. You might even find that it fills a similar space in your heart to what DSMP S2 might've. Who knows?

[suzdin]

Mad Max Phillips

(Vampire!Max Phillips x f!reader)

Summary: When trying to deliver a message to Max Phillips doesn’t go according to plan.

Warnings: no use of y/n but use of a nickname/pet name, violence/gore, blood kink, fingering, unprotected p in v (he’s dead it doesn’t matter), squirting, biting (obviously), kind of soft Max at one point

Notes: Basically wanted an excuse to write something about vampires to exercise my knowledge of vampire lore, that’s all really. Enjoy!

18+ MDNI

——

You aren’t sure what compels you to knock on the door to Max’s office. It’s after hours and you should be sitting in traffic by now, chugging down your third or fourth iced coffee of the day, mentally preparing yourself to go to the bar for St. Patrick’s Day celebrations with Alice and Tristan later. Not standing on the fifth floor, where you definitely don’t belong, with some name and phone number scrawled on a post-it note because asshole Max Phillips wouldn’t answer his goddamn phone.

You got the call right as you were about to clock out—a client called ManeGain that sells hair growth products for men. Needed to talk Max Phillips about their account. Fine, you thought. Last one of the day.

Let me direct your call, you’d told the voice on the phone. One moment.

You thought you were home free after that. That is until another call rolled through right as you were slinking into your purse and jacket, fingers hovering over the keyboard to log your hours for the day.

He isn’t answering and I need to talk to him immediately. Please see to it he gets my message, the voice said.

You’re under no obligation to hand deliver messages. Your job is to man the front desk, answer and route phone calls to the appropriate recipients. Direct visitors to the bathroom down the hall. Be a smiling face—or not—as people you barely recognize wash past you and into the building for a long and exhausting 9 to 5 in corporate America.

You had a vague idea of what Max looked like. By and large, he ignored you. As if you weren’t really there. Which was fine by you; the less interaction you had to endure throughout the day, the better.

So you aren’t sure why you’re here, on this empty floor crammed full of cubicles by yourself, hand delivering a message to a man you couldn’t care less about right now. Especially after hearing what sounded like screams as you stepped off the elevator into the hall; and especially after said screams had fallen stagnant and the only other noise audible to you is the crescendo of your own breath as it warbles out of your chest.

You rap your knuckles softly against the door, a lingering sense of dread snaking its way up your spine. “Mr. Phillips? I’m from downstairs. From the lobby? I have a message for you from a Jim Hicks with ManeGain?“

You wait patiently and you’re met with silence so heavy your ears ring. Not even the creak of an office chair or the tapping of fingers on a keyboard can be heard. Perhaps Max has already gone home for the day? You don’t recall seeing him, but it’s possible you missed him in the rush to complete your end of day tasks.

Now that you think about it, you don’t remember seeing him much at all lately.

You could just stick the note to his door and be done with it. After all, it isn’t your job to play delivery person. You’ve done more than is necessary already.

But there’s a persistent intuition rising in your throat that something is off. That something is wrong—you’re sure you’d heard screams. What if Max is hurt? What if you could help him?

The smart thing to do would be to call 911 and vacate yourself back to the safety of the lobby while you wait for emergency services to arrive. But if Max or someone else is injured, they may only have precious few seconds to live, so if you could just check that everything is alright first for your own peace of mind…

As you raise your hand to knock a second time, the door abruptly whooshes open in front of you, an arm shooting forward to hook around your neck and snatch you into the confines of the office, a second hand clapping over your mouth to dampen the horrified yelp that works its way up from your lungs. Your back collides harshly into the door as someone you can’t see spins you, pinning you between themselves and the wood. This all happens within fractions of a second.

At first you think you’ve lost your vision; the room is black as pitch and you can’t even make out the edges of the space around you, much less whoever is inches from your face. Once your vision adjusts, you pick up on the faint blinking glow of a modem against the wall; aside from that, you’re completely blind, your other senses going into overtime.

The first thing you notice is the smell. A thick coppery tang, it almost seems to cake the inside of your nasal passage, overburdening your senses. You think you know what it is—it can’t be though, right? Why would it be?—but you can’t be sure without your sight.

And then you hear something…dripping. Whatever it is, it isn’t far. Few feet, maybe. It seems to be low, which means the source of the sound isn’t coming from the ceiling, where you would suspect. Possibly a desk. Perhaps someone spilled a drink?

Everything happens quickly, within split seconds of one another, and it’s only then you’re acutely aware you’re still being pinned by a faceless assailant, and that whoever it is is breathing against your neck, their breath rife with the same copper stench of the surrounding room. You make a pathetic, mewling sound, your muscles pulled tighter than a snare drum over your trembling frame.

“I can hear the blood coursing through your veins,” murmurs the phantom voice. Then, a dark chuckle. “Fear makes it taste better. Lucky for you, I just fed.”

You feel a shift in your bodies as he manipulates you into a position more advantageous for him, lining his pelvis up with yours. You feel the hard pressure of his erection prodding at your center, dragging your seam through your thin leggings. You relinquish a small sound, one that sounds more gratuitous than you intend it to be, your core throbbing at the sensation in spite of—or perhaps as a consequence of—the spikes of fear and adrenaline currently threading their way through you.

“Did someone like that?” the voice chuckles. You feel the sharp hook of his nose press against the flesh of your neck, skimming along your pulse point. He groans salaciously and rolls his hips against yours, your own utterance of pleasure reverberating your lungs and dying in the meat of the palm still clamped over your mouth. Fuck, this shouldn’t feel good, it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t, but it does—

—it’s the fear, you think. Your mind is trying to help you cope by flooding your body with endorphins. That has to be it. It must be…

“I can smell your blood, sweetheart. Smells so fucking sweet and intoxicating,” he asserts, his tone heady and full of longing. “Never smelled any like yours before. What is your blood type?”

His hand moves away from your mouth, sliding down to circle the underside of your jaw. “Make a sound and I’ll snap your neck like a toothpick,” he warns. Max knows he isn’t above fucking a corpse. Hell, he is a corpse.

You could scream now if you wanted, and you most definitely should. But in spite of yourself, you don’t. You know as well as anyone there’s no one in the building who can save you. And even if there were, they’d never make it in time; the firm press of his hand against your jawbone confirms your suspicion that his threat is anything but idle. You vaguely remember your crisis training and know that compliance is key to survival in hostage situations, if that’s what this is.

“AB negative,” you answer, your voice quavering. Hot tears collecting along the rims of your eyes. “R-rarest… rarest blood type,” you finish.

Max grins and pulls back to study your face. Unlike you, he doesn’t need light to see, his supernatural senses honed now that he’s grown accustomed to using them. He recognizes you as the pretty face from downstairs, the first and last he used to see every work day. Although not so much lately; not since the shift and that pesky allergy to sunlight that would render him to a pile of ash if he tempted it.

“Excellent,” he croons, licking a slow stripe along your neck, simultaneously drunk on the blood in his belly that is making his head swim, and the way he can feel your artery pulsing under his tongue.

“Maybe I’ll have a taste anyway. Always room for dessert, right?” His hand travels from your jaw to the curve of your waist, then to your thigh, where he grabs your leg to hitch it up against him, slinking you around himself so he can deepen the angle of his erection against your core. He needs to be inside you sooner than later, the high of his recent kill making him insatiable.

You let out a sob. It isn’t exactly loud and you hope it isn’t enough to get you killed, but you can’t help it, panic now taking the wheel. A taste of what? Your blood? Does he think he’s a fucking vampire?

You’re definitely the kind of weird girl to believe such things—vampires, aliens, ghosts and the lot. But now that it actually appears to be happening, you’re paralyzed with disbelief, your heart telling you there’s no other logical explanation, but your brain not wanting to accept.

“Shhhh, shhh. Quiet now. I’m going to turn on the light so you can see. And again, you will not make a sound. Right?” he implores.

“R-right,” you mumble, your tongue feeling like a dead lump of flesh in your mouth. “W-won’t make a sound,” you promise.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, flicking on the switch that you discover is only inches from where your head meets the door, reminding you that you could have turned it on at any point yourself.

You bring a hand up to shield your eyes from the onslaught of luminescence and Max does the same, his eyes far more sensitive than your own. You adjust faster than he does, your gaze already pointed at his chest as your hand lowers, and the first thing you notice is the smattering of blood adorning his suit, staining his white dress shirt. He’s wearing a green tie for Saint Patrick’s Day and you can’t help but think grimly that it looks like some sort of macabre version of Christmas.

Only after you gather your bearings do you allow yourself to look around fully and what you’re met with is nothing short of a horror show. A lifeless man is draped across Max’s desk, both arms displaced from his body, tendrils of sinew dangling gracelessly from the sockets where his arms should be. A gaping chasm decorates his chest which is devoid of a heart as far as you can tell. A smaller but similar impression is found in the stem of the man’s neck, which you deduce is the source of the dripping you heard, the shape and jagged edges of the wound indicative that Max took more than a generous bite out of him.

Rivulets of blood stream down the sides of the desk, collecting in a puddle which is still slowly spreading dark vermillion across the tiled floor. You inhale sharply, your tears flowing freely, thinking to yourself how you’ve never seen this much blood in your entire life. How you may be next.

You will yourself to look at the man’s face. You recognize him from earlier when he’d come up to you in the lobby to ask for directions to Max’s office. His eyes are glazed open in a perpetual loop of his final moments, his jaw slack, mouth ajar in a silent scream. Your stomach turns and you release another sob that you’ve been holding in your chest, but you don’t dare make any other sounds lest Max rips you asunder.

You find one arm on the floor next to the desk, your gaze pulling directly to it. Your eyes search with urgency for the second one, as there are very few places it could possibly be, but you don’t find it on visual inspection alone.

Max forces your visage back to his, black and endless as they scrutinize you. His face is streaked in blood, a goatee of red flowing down from his curved lips, which is splayed into a tilted smirk. You sniffle, your chest shuddering with effort as you attempt to collect your breath and your faculties.

“He wanted to pull his account from our company,” Max explains with a shrug, waving a hand dismissively. “There were some…choice words exchanged. Things escalated. I was hungry. It worked out.”

Max drags you backwards, twirling you toward the wall opposite the door as he releases you, turning the lock behind him. You swallow, dread hammering hard in your chest, doing all you can to regulate your pulse rate but easily failing, pinpricks of sweat breaking out on your skin.

You’ll make it through this. You’ll make it out alive. You won’t end up another meal for this… vampire, incubus, deranged cannibal. Whatever he is.

He steps forward, slipping out of his jacket and waistcoat, discarding them in the bin in the corner. They’re ruined, anyway.

“Fear makes…everything better,” Max intones, giving you a cursory once over as he licks his lips. “On both sides.”

He begins rolling up his sleeves on each arm, pinning them at the elbow, revealing a twin set of thick, toned forearms. His tie is last, which he removes deftly, stepping closer to you to loop it around your neck. You shrink away, or try to, your backside bumping against a cabinet. Max laughs when he effectively corners you again, your mingled scents driving him to madness, threatening to turn him into some sort of savage beast; he can smell the fear being excreted from your adrenal gland, the heady arousal pooling amid your thighs, the invigorating scent of blood pulsing in your veins. It’s enough to make any vampire crazy.

He cinches the tie around your neck, wrapping the other end around his fist. He knows he could use his mind control powers to will you into submission, but there’s no sport in that. No challenge. He prefers when it feels more like a game of cat and mouse and so far, you were being plenty acquiescent, stunned into submission like a timid little dormouse. He can’t help but wonder what you’d let him do to you. How far you would go.

He pulls you against him using the necktie for leverage, causing you to stumble into his chest. He can feel how hard your nipples are underneath your green blouse. You hate how much your body is betraying you right now.

“Taste,” Max quietly commands, lifting his fingers to your lips, the digits still slick with the drying blood of his victim. You whimper and shake your head, tilting away from him.

“N-no, please,” you beg. “Anything but that.”

“Anything? That’s a dangerous proposition, dollface,” Max tuts, smirking crookedly.

“I don’t think I c-can,” you reiterate, shaking like a leaf in his grasp. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can. It’s easy. And it tastes fucking amazing.” He places his fingers against your soft lips. “Open. Now.”

You ultimately resign yourself, knowing you shouldn’t fight him. You’ve seen what he can do—did do—the last thing you need is to antagonize him further. Your lips part softly for him and his fingers delve into your mouth, pressing down against your tongue.

You note the distinct coppery tang of blood right away and it makes you gag, sending you into an inadvertent coughing fit, your own hands pushing Max’s away before you’re aware you’re even doing so, more tears crowding your eyes. If it was your own blood or Max’s, you’re sure you could handle it. But knowing where it came from is enough to make you want to wretch. And you almost do.

Max chuckles, shaking his head at how easily you succumb to your pathetic human morals. “Not good?” he asks.

“Tastes like…rusty pennies,” you spit, swiping at your tongue in anguish to get the taste out of your mouth. In your peripheral, you can almost see the dead man’s eyes watching you. Rightfully judging you.

Max grins, musing over how easily he can make you fall apart, but satisfied that he got you to try, which is good enough for him. For now, at least. “Suit yourself. More for me,” he says with a flourish of his shoulders, licking the remnants of blood from his fingers. “Tastes like the best fucking drink I’ve ever had. I bet you taste even better, though.”

He’s pushing into you again, tightening the tie a few more inches until it’s just barely flush against your throat. His words go straight to your core, his nostrils flaring when he smells more arousal creeping into your panties.

His hand coils tighter around the other end of the necktie, a wry grin playing on his features. He studies you, memorizing all the different shades of your eyes; the curvature of your lips, of your soft cheeks. “I should make you my pet. Would you like that? Being a pet for a vampire?” he asks, his free hand cupping your cheek. “I would like that.”

You attempt a nod. You don’t dare say no. Part of you thinks you would like it, though. But the killing? The constant slew of bodies? You aren’t sure you could get used to that.

“That’s what I thought,” Max muses with a small puff of air from his lips, his opposite hand traversing the curves of your body at a agonizingly leisurely pace.

His hand finds your sex, fingers stroking along your folds through the cloth of your leggings. He can feel you’re soaked through already. His mouth dips to your neck, tongue trailing your pulse point, eager to taste you, but allotting you ample time to get used to the feeling of him there. His teeth tease across your pebbled skin, but he doesn’t clamp down yet, his vampire canines still tucked away for now.

He notices the way your muscles tense and your heart flutters each time his teeth graze, anticipating being bitten, being fed on. He wishes he hadn’t already gorged himself on some jerkoff right before you showed yourself at his door—you would have made a far more delicious meal than this guy. Not that he would have given you the same treatment. Unlike the corpse still cooling on his desk, he’d rather keep you around for future feedings and other forays.

“My pet likes this, doesn’t she?” he coos, nipping at the delicate intersection of your neck and shoulder with his human teeth, causing you to jump. He chuckles. “Relax, baby.”

There’s a sudden tight pull in your lungs, an inexplicable rush of air, and you start to panic when it feels like you can’t breathe, the oxygen punched out of your lungs. Everything goes static and you almost black out, the edges of the room slowly blotting away but then quickly coming back into focus, and you feel an inexplicable chill roll up your spine as a blast of cold air stings your skin.

There are two fingers tapping at your entrance and you look down in time to see Max’s thick digits sinking deep into you, all the way down to the meat of his hand. It occurs to you that you’re completely naked, your clothes discarded into a hasty pile on the floor. You look at Max with a quizzical expression, but before he can answer, your head is rolling back to brush the wall as he furls said fingers inside of you, slowly pumping, a moan departing your lips.

“Super speed. Comes in handy sometimes,” Max explains with a low chortle. “You get used to it.”

If there were any doubts before that Max could be a vampire, you definitely have none now. Unless you’re going insane, which is a very real possibility at this point, there is no other logical explanation for how expeditiously he was able to get you undressed.

He continues to fuck you slowly with his fingers, watching the way your expression transitions from horror to pleasure, your mouth dropping open in a small “O”.

He can tell by your scent that you haven’t been with any other men recently, indicating that you most likely don’t have a regular suitor in your life. He would be right, your last boyfriend out of the picture for several months now. That’s a good thing, because Max doesn’t do competition.

“Would you like to know the other ways it’s useful? My super speed?” Max questions, curving his fingers into a spot that makes your body roll into an arch against him.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter. “Please.”

It’s fucked that you’re enjoying this. Max is a killer who’s cloaked in another man’s blood. Said man wasn’t particularly kind to you—was in fact, curt and rude—but that doesn’t mean he deserved such a fate.

Whatever conflict you’re currently having over the whole ordeal hastily disperses when it’s almost like Max switches on a vibrator between your legs, the edges of his arm blurring away, an exquisite tingle pooling amid your thighs, spreading through your abdomen.

Max doesn’t use his advanced speed often as it takes a lot out of him to do so. Vampires were not as invulnerable as everyone perceived them to be, so he only used it when it was its most advantageous, such as now.

Your head droops forward to rest on his shoulder, blood and all, biting back a moan between your teeth. You think he’s probably even better than your vibrator back home, as you can’t recall something ever making you feel this good.

He lifts your eyes back to him and bites down against the side of your neck—once again only human teeth, which still hurt by all accounts—your muscles clamping down around him with a whimper. You feel the familiar stirring growing low in your core, and you know your orgasm is not far off.

“Max—“

“That’s it, sweetheart. Quiet now. Cum for me. Cum for me, but don’t make a sound.”

His eyes are dark, brow pushed down into a stern line. They bore holes straight through your soul, unmoving from your face as he watches you. You close your eyes to concentrate on the impending orgasm and he snaps the tie against your neck, making you gasp, bringing you back to the present.

“Don’t take your eyes off of me.”

His thumb finds your clit, anchoring itself there and that does it, the coil inside of you unfurling, euphoria peaking as you struggle to keep your sounds to a lower pitch.

And then a not-so-recognizable sensation overtakes you and you’re suddenly gushing around his fingers, your eyes going wide with shock as you realize what is happening, knowing you’ve never done that before, you never knew it was something you could do.

“Messy little thing,” Max muses, fingers slipping free with another rush of fluids that trickle down your inner thigh.

Mind somewhat foggy now with over exertion, he can’t help but think how much it was worth it as he tastes you on his fingers.

He hikes your leg up once more, wrapping it around his waist like a belt as he undoes his pants, pulling himself free. His cock springs forward, rock hard and twitching eagerly, flaring red at the tip, more than ready to bury himself in your depths.

You can’t stop your eyes from wandering and you marvel at his size, swallowing in anticipation of it, but your gaze quickly whips back to his when he tugs harshly on the tie.

“Eyes stay up here, dollface.”

He swipes the head of his shaft through your folds, gathering your slick. He admires the cluster of stars you have tattooed on your inner thigh, dragging a thumb over it. An impulsive thing you did as soon as you turned eighteen simply because you could.

You notice as you watch him that Max also has a tattoo—a small bullseye no bigger than a dime on the side of his left hand.

“My pet needs a new name,” he hums as he aligns himself with your entrance. “How about Star? Would you like that?”

You nod in affirmation. “S-star, yes. I like it.”

Max grins. That wide, self-important grin retained from his former self, blood still staining his lips and chin. “Good. Because if you’re a good little pet, that is what you will be. My Star.”

He starts to push into you, slow at first so you get used to the stretch of him, and then snapping forward the last inch or so, sinking until his hips slot against yours. He lets out a groan that sounds almost demonic in its ardor, causing your heart to skip a beat or several.

“I can…hear your blood…moving. Fucking hot,” he growls.

The first thing you notice about Max as he begins thrusting inside of you is how cold he feels. Not ice cold, but for sure not the warm bodies you’re used to sharing yourself with. Oddly enough, you kind of like it.

You wrap one hand around his neck to steady yourself as he ruts into you. He isn’t going any faster than you’re used to, but that’s probably for the best. If he went even half as fast as he did with his arm, he might actually rip you in half.

You’re the first human Max has been with since the change. He missed it, the warmth of it. Sex with other vampires was too cold, both physically and psychologically, too cunning and dispassionate. He much prefers this, the warmth of your skin sinking into his, making him feel almost like his mortal self again; your little moans and mewls of passion bringing out the monster in him.

You have to hide your face in his chest to muffle all the various sounds of being fucked you’re making, which he surprisingly lets you do without retribution this time, each thrust of his hips jerking you halfway up the wall, the cloth of his nice dress shirt damp from blood, not sweat. Strangely enough, there is no sweat aside from your own, his skin smooth as porcelain.

He slants his hips to deepen the angle inside of you, causing you to whimper louder than intended, his hand tightening around your hip, bruising. If not for the previous expenditure of his energy and the fact he was going easier on you than usual, he could do this all night and then some. You’re making him absolutely ravenous and his self-control not to taste you is waning by the minute.

He pins you in place with the span of his body, increasing the speed and power of his thrusts, and within seconds your walls start to clamp around him, another orgasm building low in your belly.

“That’s it, Star. Cum for me. Cum on my cock,” he beckons.

His face tilts to your neck, aquiline nose nuzzling in the small hollow at the back of your jaw, the soft area that bridges your neck and throat. Grazing his teeth over the warmth of your skin, the heat of your pulsating artery.

The feel of his teeth dragging your skin, teasing, testing, making you clench, and then you’re cumming again with a muted whimper lost in the wide breadth of his chest. You feel his mouth part against your skin as you come undone, a sharp pain suddenly blooming hot in the muscle of your neck.

You feel liquid pooling in the dip of your collarbone, and you realize that Max is feeding on you, sharp canines sinking deep into your neck, tongue laving across your skin with a deep, guttural groan as he feasts upon you. The sounds he’s making are lascivious and lewd, sending a fresh new wave of arousal through you despite your panic, amplifying your orgasm.

Lips still locked to your neck as he feeds, Max’s hips stutter and then draw to a halt when he begins to spill himself inside of you, unable to fully contain himself now that he’s gotten a taste, an unholy, inhuman roar erupting from him so terrifying in its potency that you nearly scream.

Max pulls his face away, lips dark and shiny with a fresh coat of blood as he looks down at you, half-cocked grin playing there. There’s something unsettlingly alluring about it.

You begin to sob softly, you can’t help it, your adrenaline and endorphins dwindling now that all is said and done.

“Shhhh, my Star. It’s okay. You’re okay. You did so well for me,” he consoles, tracing your cheek with the back of his hand.

You see his fangs now, which you’re positive weren’t there before, sharp and pointed and slicked in red. He pricks a finger on one of them and squeezes it, blood beading at the end of his fingertip. He smears it over the punctures in your neck, and you feel a small tickle as they close up almost instantaneously.

And then you see his teeth retract, not dissimilar to a cat’s claws. There one second and gone the next.

He leans forward to clean up any remaining traces of blood, gently pulling you off of him. “See? Good as new,” he says with a wink.

“W-what do I do now?” you ask with a tremble in your voice. You start fidgeting with the tie to see if he’ll let you take it off. He cocks his head curiously.

“You stay with me,” he explains. “You’ll live with me. I’ll take fabulous care of you, my pet, don’t worry.”

“C-can I take this off?”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

You take it off and hand it to him, although it’s stained beyond usefulness, so he tosses it to the floor. He bends to gather your clothes, meticulously redressing you, placing a small kiss to your neck where he fed.

“You taste so fucking good, Star,” he pines with a stretch, sucking air through his teeth. “Best I’ve ever tasted. Now that I’ve had you, I’ll never be sated.”

He wraps his arms around your torso in an uncharacteristically tender embrace, skimming his lips along the shell of your ear. “Sleep, now,” he whispers, and you slip away just like that, Max lowering your now-limp body to the floor as he tucks his discarded jacket under your neck.

——

When you wake up—you don’t know how many minutes or hours later—Max is standing over you. Your eyes dart about the room and the man’s body and every trace of him is gone, as if he never existed. Max offers you a hand to help you up and you take it.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Just before sunrise. It’s too late to leave. You can call in today and I’ll keep you hidden in my office.”

You frown. Calling in after St. Paddy’s Day isn’t a good look, but what other choice do you have? You just hope you don’t lose your job.

“Okay,” you reply, nodding your head in confirmation. “And at the end of the day?”

“We wait until sun down,” Max begins with a grin, “and then we go home.”

[tommosgun]

Thank you to @kingsofeverything for tagging me 😘

Rules: give us the links to your fics with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the fewest words.

1. Most hits: Rise up like the sun

My actor Harry Dr Louis fic. I found this one the easiest to write by far. I’m not sure why it’s got 71,300 hits but I’m super proud of it. Love the characters in this one.

2. Second most kudos: King of wishful thinking.

My ‘Pretty Woman’ story. Harry the hooker, Louis the businessman. Written around Leeds, my home city. It has 1584 kudos. I’d love for more people to read it.

3. Third most comments: (so king of wishful thinking was third so I’ve cheated and gone to the second most comments which is) We are timeless

Harry is minor Royalty, Louis is in a band. They’d met years before in Ibiza and had this sweet but very brief encounter. Fast forward a few years and they meet again…

I love these characters and this story. My last fic written 🥺

4. Fourth most bookmarks: The light to guide me home.

My Vegas/instant attraction fic. Louis runs a bar, Harry is on holiday with the others and they stumble into Louis’ bar… it’s fun and smutty, yet feelings do develop.

5. Fifth most words: Can I lay by your side

Louis a Uni student and barman bumps into Harry in his local shop buying Vodka and looking lost. They bond over Harry’s weekend bucket list of getting drunk, getting laid and getting stoned. It’s quite angsty as they part ways, only to meet up six months later under very different circumstances.

My first proper fic and I do adore the characters.

6. Fewest words: Sugarpie honeybunch. (500 words)

We had to use keywords which were, Ice crystals, cooking and candle and use exactly 500 words.

Louis cooks mince pies for Christmas and gets in a bit of a mess...

7. ( there isn’t a 7 but I’m cheeky and want to add this one) Can I just be the same?

I agreed to be a pinch hitter and when I got my prompt I was scared shitless! It was vampire-y and totally NOT what I’m used to reading or writing. But the pics for the post were so gorgeous I just had to give it a go. It’s set in present times, Harry is the Vampire (of which we don’t really see much of this going on, only how it happened 🫣) Louis is in Law. They meet outside of a pub as Harry walks home from work and Louis is outside having a cig. There are flashbacks to Harry navigating his life around never getting older and therefore never putting down roots or having anyone in the world for him. He runs away as things become more difficult in his life and he starts again. Can Louis be the one to give him roots and a reason to stop running?

I’m going to tag @reminiscingintherain @allwaswell16 @disgruntledkittenface @indiaalphawhiskey @jacaranda-bloom @twopoppies

And absolutely anyone else. If you’ve already done it, sorry x

[bengiyo]

The Miracle of Teddy Bear Ep 2 Stray Thoughts

Last week, a teddy bear named Tofu, who belonged to a likely-gay screenwriter named Nut, came to life suddenly as a very hot doppelganger of a senior Nut once had a crush on named Neung. Nut's mom wanted Tofu to stay with them after Nut thought he was a thief and chased him, ending in Nut accidentally hitting him with his car. With the help of all the other sentient furniture, Tofu is determined to figure out why he's come to life, what's his connection to a possibly-comatose man, and how he can go back to being a bear. Nut's friend Gen seems to be on a romance track with a younger motorcycle rider, and there's a female colleague in unrequited love with Nut. Nut's mom is seemingly mentally unwell, and this stresses Nut. Nut's dog Khunchai also has huge mutual beef with Tofu.

Oh wow. How often does mom see her dead husband hanging around?

Ah yes. It's time for the nosy neighbors to get involved with their wild speculation.

Okay, so I did finish this on a plane, but taking notes was not really doable, so I'll just muse on some things.

First, Saen. What the fuck??? Is he alive? Is this the same dude? Why does Nut think he's dead, and the mom refuses to accept that he's gone?

Second, the neighbor lady. That was mean as fuck??? She helped Tofu just to be rude, and then got all her feelings hurt when she got her ass handed to her.

Third, Tarn. What a diabolical play from the company he's protesting to pay his medical expenses to hurt his image, and is he actually Saen's nephew?

Fourth, the pitch plotline. Very unsubtle commentary about BL avoiding serious storytelling in favor of maximizing bubbly feelings. I like that Nut pushed back on the idea that first love is purely joyous and sweet, but don't know how I feel about his boss clocking him for it.

Fifth, Tofu. It bothers me that he has gotten hurt in both episodes so far but doesn't seem to feel much about it. I am also curious if being dizzy from seeing a spinning solution is going to wake Tarn up again. He tried this week, but he has no idea what's going on.

Sixth, Neung. It seems like Nut maybe didn't get very far with Neung before and that's why he's being cagey about Tofu's resemblance? I do like that Inn is playing Neung differently from Tofu. They have completely different demeanors.

Seventh, Na. Girl, what do you know that you've refused to process all these years?

Eighth, the two guy neighbors. They feel married. I hope they won't be problems like the other lady.

That's all for now!

[bloodiedrogue]

IS THE MEMORY REALLY MINE? (6)

SUMMARY: After all the begging and pleading, Miguel finally shows you who he is. And more importantly, how you fit into all of this.

PAIRING: Miguel O'Hara & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 12,261

WARNINGS: Angst, dual POV, SMUT (I know, fucking finally), oral sex (fem receiving), vaginal sex, switch Miguel, inappropriate use of webbing, orgasm denial, major character death, canon typical violence, depictions of depression and dissociation.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Holy fuck, okay this chapter got so out of hand but I'm so proud of it so please for the love of god if you decide to reblog any of the chapters let it be this one.

CHAPTER LIST / LAST CHAPTER / MASTERLIST

-

“Who’s that?”

Miguel averts his gaze, moving from the woman in the corner to the edge of his glass. It’s the first one he’s had all night —the only one he’ll have because he thinks beer is gross and didn’t have the heart to tell Gabriel he’s more of a scotch guy. Disgustingly, it stares back at him as he lifts it up, sniffing the contents before shrugging his shoulders and taking a sip. 

“She’s cute.” 

He’s in his face now, grinning from ear to ear and sipping a drink Miguel’s lost count on. He’s had to have had at least six by now. Miguel remembers the third and the fourth —vaguely the fifth as well— so most likely it’s a number above that. Six or even seven, he guesses. 

“Go talk to her.” 

He lets out a sigh, giving his brother the look. The one that says fuck off, I’m not doing that. Not in a million years. Not even if I’m drunk. 

An hour later he’s drunk enough to walk over, scotch in hand, eyes half-lidded. There’s not an ounce of nervous energy inside of him. Everything’s been drowned out by the onslaught of shots his brother ordered him, telling him to drink up because it’s Saturday night and neither of them have work in the morning. 

You’re sitting in the booth by yourself. All of your friends have gone out for what he assumes is a smoke, and you’re on your phone, narrowing your eyes at the screen with a topped-up glass in your hand. 

“Hi.” He clears his throat —awkwardly smiles when you look his way and slide into the booth across.

“Hi?” 

Thankfully, you look a bit drunk yourself. Your eyes are tired like his but a bit more bloodshot; the whites of your eyes peeking through the pinks and reds that dart around like lightning. 

“I, uh, thought you could use some company. Y’know, while your friends are…” 

“Gone?”

“Yeah.” 

You’re skeptical now. You drop your phone on the table face down before leaning back in your booth. Slowly, you move your arms to cross over your chest, prompting him to look down just for a second, noticing the low neckline you’re sporting. It’s nice. Classy, even. 

“I don’t know if we have enough room for anyone else,” you tell him, taking a moment to look across the bar to the window where a group of people are smoking cigarettes and doubling over in laughter. “There’s quite a few of us.” 

“Oh, so they won’t mind if I steal you for a bit.” 

He has no idea where this confidence is coming from. Maybe it’s the never-ending feeling of loneliness finally giving him a good kick in the ass or simply just the alcohol. Either way, he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he just raises his brow and takes a long sip, watching the way your mouth falls open and your tongue tucks its way into the edge of your cheek. 

“Let me buy you a drink?” 

“Uh—“

He sees that you’re thinking about it. Mulling it over in the form of pressed lips and avoided glances. Even on the surface, he can tell that you’re intrigued —that he’s somehow impressed you, but that you’re afraid he’s the kind of guy that’ll take an inch when given a mile. 

“I promise that’s all I’m offering,” he assures, dropping the glass in his hands onto the table before raising his hands innocently.

“I don’t know.”

He smiles, half to try and convince you he’s harmless, half out of discomfort. “C’mon, I promise—“

He’s interrupted by the voices of your friends. All of them are huddled in a group, still giggling to themselves until they’re in front of you, staring at him with raised brows that slowly glance your way. Almost immediately, one of them asks who he is to which you say just a friend, causing them all to look at him who has no idea what to say. He didn’t plan on having to lie.

“Yeah, we uh, we work together.” He nods and looks at you, watching the way your mouth closes in a tight-lipped grin. 

Your friends nod back and redirect their attention to you, telling you that they’re going to head to some club in the underbelly of the city. The new one that’s owned by Fisk. 

“That sounds fun but uh, I have an early morning tomorrow. Got that new job interview and everything.” You stare at him as you say that last part, a smirk pulling across your lips that have your friends in stitches before they’re pouting and accepting defeat. 

After that, they all take turns hugging you before they go, patting your back through disappointed slurs that have Miguel looking towards Gabriel who’s throwing darts with one of his buddies.

“Don’t have too much fun!” 

When your friends are out of sight, Miguel lets out a heavy breath and throws his head back against the booth, looking at you with narrowed eyes. “I guess the coworker excuse was pretty weak.” 

“A bit, yeah.” 

“Next time I’ll try and come up with something more believable. Maybe something like, we met at the gym or something.” 

You scrunch your face.

“What? You don’t go?”

“If it were life or death, you still wouldn’t find me there.” 

He snorts —shakes his head and takes a sip, watching from the corner of his eye as you do the same. Subtly, your lips grin against the glass as you take a pull, making it hard for him to focus on anything else because, truth be told, you’ve got amazing lips. Beautiful eyes and pretty skin. 

He likes the way you look. It’s why he’s been staring at you all night. Why, even when you were drunkenly yelling with your friends, demanding the kind of attention he usually avoids, he found himself giving in. 

Now that he’s sitting across from you, he understands why he chose to come over. It’s because there’s something warm about you. Comforting. He can’t quite place it, but regardless there’s this magnetized feeling in his chest that refuses to go away as he sits across from you; forcing him to continue this conversation until he’s certain there’s an end. 

Because so far you haven’t given him a reason to leave. You haven’t outright denied him that drink or thrown the one in your hand at his face. All you’ve done is sit there and stare. 

Oh, and smiled, he points out, watching you practically choke on your drink with upturned lips. 

“Is this how you pick up all the girls?” you ask, amused. 

“What do you mean?”

Despite his often bitter-looking expression, at this point, he’s grinning like a madman —eating up the attention you give him like a starving man, desperate for joy. 

It’s been so long since he’s done this. Since he’s tried to pick up a pretty girl at the bar just because. With this new gig as Nueva’s Spider-Man piling on top of his already heavy workload at Alchemex, lately, it feels like the only time he has to himself is when he’s sleeping. So, it feels nice to do this. To sit across from a stranger and pretend like things are normal. 

“I don’t know how to explain it.” 

You cock your head to the side, watching the way he shrugs as he takes the final sip of his drink. 

“Maybe you could explain it over another one,” he says, motioning to your glass that’s managed to almost empty in the short time you’ve been sitting together. 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe?”

His brow twitches with excitement. You’re thinking about it again. More so, because now instead of an I don’t know it’s a maybe, which means progress. 

“Depends on the drink.”

“Take your pick, sweetheart.”

You shake your head and lean forward, pressing your chest against the edge of the table. “How about we play a game?”

He hates games, especially ones like this where the stakes are embarrassingly high. He likes you. Thinks you're charming, even though he doesn’t know you at all, and because of this, the last thing he wants is for some stupid, flirtatious game to ruin everything. 

“What kind of game?”

“Pick a drink,” you say with a shrug. Acting as if this is the most nonchalant thing even though it isn’t. It’s high stakes —too high if you ask him. “If you pick one I like I’ll let you buy it for me.” 

“Seems a bit one sided.”

“Says the guy who slid into my booth without asking.” 

You’re right. He’s annoyed, but you’re right, so instead of arguing he agrees to your terms. “So, am I guessing like, mixed drinks or—“

“I’ll throw you a bone and settle for the type of liquor.” 

“Appreciate it.” 

“I know.”

If he weren’t trying to impress you he’d comment about how smug you’re being. But since he is, he merely presses his hands together in the form of a prayer, thanking you. It makes you laugh, which instantly gives him the motivation to focus, prompting him to slide toward the edge of the booth and narrow his eyes at the bar, scanning all the bottles on the shelf. 

He isn’t sure why but his eyes immediately draw to the vodka. Maybe it’s a bias but every woman he’s ever met has drank it. That or gin, so his mind starts scanning all the clear liquids, reading and rereading the brand names like a script he’s been asked to memorize. 

“Can I phone a friend?” 

“No.”

“Ask the audience maybe?” He smirks, peaking over his shoulder to see you roll your eyes. 

“That’s cheating.”

“How?”

“I’m the only one here.” 

He clicks his tongue and looks back, looking at everything all over again. Vodka, gin, bourbon, whiskey, tequila —all of them morph together in his mind, their labels layering over each other until all he can see are blotches of colour and random letters. 

He has no idea what you like. The only thing he’s seen you drink is beer so there’s no statistics to back his answer. No matter what he’s going in blind and it makes his stomach feel sick, knowing that this is the end. That the potential night he imagined with you will walk away thanks to some stupid fucking guessing game. 

“I—“ 

He shifts his jaw in annoyance as he slides back into the booth, facing your proud face in defeat. You knew this would happen —that he’d be sitting here, sweating while trying to figure this out. It was your plan all along. A revenge plot for showing up unannounced. 

Despite the humiliation of it all, it somehow makes him more interested. Something about a woman being able to fight back always makes him a bit stupid.

“Would you like a scotch?” 

It’s the only alcohol he can think of on the spot. He can see the bottle clearly in his mind, the amber liquid sloshing about as it’s poured into a tulip-shaped glass. Clearer than anything, he can smell the smoke —the citrus-filled bites that sting his nose every time he takes a sip. 

He can taste it on his tongue, and immediately he knows after this is over he’s going to walk over to the bar and order a double to numb the pain. 

“Wow, didn’t think you’d get it.” 

Okay, so apparently he’s ordering two doubles.

“Really? You like scotch?”

You nod. 

At that moment, he thinks he might be in love. You’re pretty, mean, and have good taste —a trifecta of traits that has him practically jumping from his seat to order your drinks. 

At the bar, he constantly glances back to make sure you’re still there. To ensure he didn’t just imagine you in his inebriated state. Every time he looks back you’re awkwardly staring at him, your chin resting against your open hands. 

When the bartender asks him what he wants, he orders two doubles, offering him cash once they’re slid onto the counter in front of him. Then, he tells the man to keep the change, offering him a curt nod that’s so out of character he knows if Gabriel’s watching he’ll probably never hear the end of it.

“Well, uh, here you go.” He places the drink in front of you and slides back into the booth, watching as you take it in your hands and raise it into the air. 

“Cheers, uh…”

“Miguel.” 

When you say your name in response his heart skips a beat. 

-

He’s muttering that same name against your lips a few hours later, pushing you further into your apartment. Hastily, his hands move along the hem of your shirt, the fabric feeling soft against his fingers as he slides them underneath to grip your waist. In response, you nip his lower lip and grin, both of you chuckling through heavy breaths that have him kicking your door closed and pulling you close. 

So close that he’s worried he’s overstepped once he feels you start to pull away, his hands stiffening until he hears you say the word bedroom. 

Normally when women invite him over like this they offer up the location —say the word bedroom like it’s a question he has to answer. Usually, they’ll play with his shirt and bat their eyes. Make it seem like the idea was his all along so that they don’t have to feel like they’re acting too desperate. It’s cute, sometimes. If Miguel’s honest though, the way you say it —the way you tell him where he’s going by gripping the collar of his shirt, instead of asking him if it’s okay— makes him want to fuck you right then and there. To ditch the prospect of the bedroom in favour of the dusty, old hardwood.

Which makes maneuvering through your furniture a gruelling task. Because he’s so distracted by your lips and hands and hips, he manages to slam his shin against the edge of your coffee table before hitting his elbow against the wall. Both times he ignores the pain, groaning into your mouth as you open another door behind you, fumbling for the handle through your mutual fixation. 

As you do, he can practically feel your mind speeding through the inevitable —the panicked moments where you’re reaching for his shirt to pull it off. The one where you then playfully toy with the loops of his jeans while he kisses down the edge of your mouth to your chest. 

When you’re inside the room, everything plays out exactly like this. The fabric of your respective shirts are discarded in haste, both sets of pants lingering as Miguel stares at the curvature of your chest inside your bra. Reaching forward, you tease the zipper of his jeans with slow-moving fingers and in that moment he feels like he’s dying because all he wants to do is touch you. To taste you. He wants every inch of you wrapped around him like a heated blanket made of flesh and bone. He wants to trail his fingers across every curve and divot, lick long languid streaks across your most sensitive spots so that he can hear that pretty mouth of yours call out his name.

Before he can even resist temptation he’s pushing your hands away and gripping the base of your neck. Hungrily, he shoves you into his chest, enveloping you in thick muscle that twitches every time you move against him, especially when his mouth takes hold of yours. His lips feel heavy then, moving with more force as he pushes them down along your chin, stopping to expose your throat and hum in approval. 

“Was this what you expected when I said hi?”

Both of you laugh. He can feel the reverb of it in your throat, dancing across his fingers before it hits his mouth; feeling too impatient to await an answer before latching on. 

“Not really, no.”

  Your voice is all breath, pushing from your lungs to hit his ears in a way that motivates him to skim your throat with his teeth.

“Don’t tell me you’re a biter.” 

Almost instantly, his lips encase around a particularly supple-looking portion of your neck. In the process, he discards the idea of teeth, remembering the fact that he’s venomous now. He can’t bite like he used to, even if the thought’s intriguing. 

“Mm, no. Too old fashioned for that.”

“You, old fashioned? I never would hav— oh, my god.”

His lips move lower, decorating your skin in marks he’ll later admire. “Shh, you talk too much.” 

“You shh.” 

He’s certain you expect him to laugh. But considering how much he needs this he merely pulls away and stands, suddenly towering over you in a way that has you visibly swallowing and backing up, your hands quickly ghosting down the edges of his arms until they’re locking onto his wrists. At that point your calves are pressed against the edge of your bed, threatening to topple over. Miguel knows this because the second you’re there and he steps forward, he notices you fumble and grip his hands. 

“Careful there.”

It sounds so condescending that when the words slip from his mouth they end up sounding more like an insult rather than a moment of care. So much so that it makes you roll your eyes and swat his hands away before falling backwards onto the bed, spreading your arms out wide. 

“Okay, bye, I guess.” 

Jokingly he turns on his heel, hearing you shift before you’re wrapping yourself around his lower back, placing a chaste kiss against his hip. “Get back here.”

This time he does laugh, reaching around to run his fingers through the roots of your hair. “Why should I?”

You respond by turning him around and undoing his pants, this time making quick work of the zipper as you stare up at him. Not a moment goes by where you break eye contact. Even when your hands awkwardly fail to push the fabric past his thighs and he’s forced to help you, do you even think of looking away. It’s admirable, Miguel thinks, watching the dedication of your features. The way they pick him apart piece by piece as he kicks away the remaining fabric before peeling off his socks. 

When he’s finally free he slowly kneels in front of you, following silent orders by taking the rest of your clothes off. First, he starts with your pants, slowly but surely pulling them off your hips and thighs, following the newly exposed skin with open-mouth kisses that have you throwing your head back. Then, after he’s placed a few pecks to your knees, he swiftly darts up to your mouth, distracting you with an eager tongue as he reaches around to unhook your bra.

A mutual sigh rings out between you as he darts down, moving to survey the newly exposed flesh. Hovering for a moment, he cocks his head to look at your form and how it curves into these shapes that have him acting instead of thinking. Moving instead of asking as he continues his descent, placing damp kisses across your skin until his hands are on the band of your underwear and he’s looking up. 

It’s the only time he’s asked for permission all night. Resting his chest against the lower half of your stomach, he raises a brow at you, watching the way you breathe in and out and stare back. Your pupils are blown out of proportion, the colour of your irises hidden by a darkened lust that Miguel prays you’ll act on. 

“Please.” He mutters it through open-mouth kisses that move lower until they’re ghosting your clothed entrance, sending a series of shivers down your spine so intense, Miguel can’t help but grin against you. 

“Go ahead.” 

There’s a mix of excitement and confusion as he slips the fabric off your hips. A tinge of something foreign in his chest once everything’s gone and you’re lying there bare, squirming under his touch. As his arms curl underneath your thighs, dragging your form towards the edge of the bed for better access, he feels it rattle against his ribs. 

You’re already wet when his mouth latches onto your clit. Soaking against his tongue as he runs it along that sweet spot that has you sighing out his name. When he hears it, he somehow pulls himself closer, nudging his nose against the space above your cunt as his fingers fan across your stomach, applying a bit of pressure to keep you still. Beneath them, he can feel the spasms of every breath. Each time his mouth sucks a little harder or his tongue changes pace, he can feel the shift of every movement and he can’t help but lose focus. 

There’s something about you that demands his attention in ways he never thought possible. Maybe it’s the way you carry yourself whenever his aggressive side slips through or the way you’re roughly reaching down to grip his hair, pushing him further in regardless of his need to breathe. Either way, it perplexes him —leaves him with inquiries that mould to the sections of your body he can feel against him. 

How come this feels different? 

As he unhooks one arm from your stomach, he can hear a quiet whimper leave your throat. Desperation sinking in from the lack of support as he hooks one leg and begins to trail through your folds. 

Is she lonely?

Quickly, the whimper transitions to a groan, followed by a breathy fuck that has him slipping two fingers inside of you, slowly pumping in and out. 

Am I lonely?

For a second he pulls away to breathe, feeling your slick tingle against his lips. Feeling you shake against his fingers that begin to curl in place of his absent tongue.

What if together we were less lonely?

There’s a weird sense of relief when he looks up and notices you staring back. All overwhelmed and half-lidded, your eyes look at him with a fondness he’s never felt before. A fondness that makes him wish that this moment could last forever as he slowly dips back down, refusing to break eye contact.

“Don’t stop.”

There’s no politeness in your words. Just aggression and desperation as you lift your hips, and in that moment, every question in Miguel’s mind is answered. Every reluctant thought of why you feel so different in his hands that pushes to the surface is lost through the distracted movements of him navigating through your pleasure. 

Picking up the pace, his unused knuckles ghost the outside of your entrance, providing an overwhelming amount of friction when paired with what’s already happening. As they brush against your folds, Miguel can feel you tipping over the edge. Your breathing is hard and trembling against the hand that creeps up to rub your sides. 

Your face is fully hidden behind the rising of your spine as it curls in tandem with the fingers inside your cunt and Miguel can’t help but imagine what you look like. How your eyes are screwed up tight and your mouth's all open, letting out sound after sound as he finally hits that spot that has you shaking uncontrollably and reaching to pull him off.

He doesn’t budge. Refusing to even consider it, even when you’re practically crying into the air, begging for him to stop, because all he can think about is giving you more. More stimulation, more movement, more push to counteract the desperate pull you have against his head that refuses to lift the anchor. 

Miguel feels within himself that you need this. This over-the-top decoration of worship that has him holding you down with a heavy hand as he readjusts his position. On the bed, you’re a sight meant only for him —a goddess, listening to the prayers of praise he mumbles under his breath and he pulls down the fabric covering his cock, lining himself up.

He doesn’t ask this time when he pushes into you. He doesn’t hesitate or wonder why the feeling of you wrapped around him instantly becomes too much. All he does is continue to please you. To cage you in against his chest with greedy hands that grip your hip and face, pulling you in. 

When he kisses you there’s nothing else. Every feeling and sound is muted behind the backdrop of his mind. As his body moves against yours —pushing further into a space that feels so familiar he feels almost breathless— all he can think about is fate. If those moments at the bar that somehow led to these moments in your bedroom were meant to happen.

It feels like you were made for him. Moulded from his rib like Eve from Adam. You’re a connection he’s never felt before. An unfamiliar body surrounding a soul he’s always known. 

It makes his movements all the more frantic as he kisses your mouth —your cheek, your chin, your neck. Anywhere he can latch onto to make this moment last as presses your hip and juts further in, feeling the fluttering of your walls begin to take hold of his orgasm. 

As he burrows his face against your neck, breathing harder than he ever has before he can feel everything building. The presence of your hands coaxing goosebumps across his back; the heavy breaths against his ear as you let out a blissed-out laugh before you gently nibble the shell of his ear.  

All of it becomes too much, and in an instant he’s coming inside you, twitching against your hips with a groan that has you humming as you kiss his cheek.

-

The morning after feels a bit too bittersweet. 

When Miguel wakes up, still wrapped around your frame, his chest pressed firmly against your back as both of you simultaneously stir, there’s an inkling of reality that sets in. A reminder that it’s an entirely new day as the sun outside beams through the window near your legs, coating the blanket overtop with morning light. 

While blinking, he nudges his nose against your head, feeling his chest swell at the arrival of his thoughts. The night has ended and it’s time to go home now and despite knowing that’s true, there's something that prevents him. 

“What time is it?” you ask.

Grumbling, you try to peel from his grasp but fail when he tightens further around you, groaning in response because, as weird as it might be that he’s still here, he doesn’t want whatever this is to end yet. Instead, he wants to be a bit selfish. To lay in a moment that feels unreal he finds himself smiling against the back of your head.

“Don’t care.”

“I do.” 

Reluctantly, he lets you roll over to face him; your eyes fluttering open for a second before they quickly close, realizing how bright it is. “Then check your phone.” 

“I can’t,” you groan and shove your forehead into his chest, letting out a yawn.

“How come?”

“I have a hot guy holding me.” 

Miguel lets out a single ha as he runs his fingers along the base of your spine, feeling you jump beneath his touch. “That’s disgusting.” 

“What is?” 

“Your compliment.” 

You don’t know this, but he’s never taken to compliments. Something about them always feels cheap —tacky even. Considering they’re almost exclusively about appearances, it always feels weird when someone offers him one, saying things like you have nice arms or beautiful cheekbones or the classic you have an incredible ass. 

Over the years, he’s concluded it's all manipulation. Words of affirmation to get you to like whoever’s saying them. If you compliment someone, it’s pretty much proven that after it’s said a deeper connection will develop in the form thanks to a biased opinion. And because of this, he finds them deeply uncomfortable hear; often opting to brush them off or outright change the subject. 

Somehow when you say it though, it’s different. Honest. As if you’re offering him a truth he’s always needed to hear. 

It sounds weird given the lack of time spent together. He’s known you for seven hours tops. Eleven maybe if count the time spent sleeping in the same bed, but something about you feels genuine. To him, you feel like a no-bullshit kind of gal and he likes it. Enjoys it in a way that —even though he knows that these moments spent lingering under the covers are nothing more than delays to the inevitable— he can’t help but long for something more. Something real and tangible and— 

“It’s nine, by the way.”

He regrets telling you the moment you’re swearing under your breath and pushing him away, your naked frame bounding out of the bed. Blinking in confusion, he watches as you rush across the room to open your closet and sift through its contents with a frown. 

It’s sudden, seeing you go from so relaxed to stressed, and guilty it makes him laugh even though it’s obvious that you’re late for something important. 

“You good over there?” 

Your body is tense as you throw on a fresh pair of underwear, practically tripping on the fabric as you attempt to pull it up over your ankles. “My job interview is in thirty minutes,” you tell him, and he nods. 

You mentioned that last night. Something about a journalism gig with the Bugle. If he’s honest, the details on what exactly you were applying for are still fuzzy —a half-remembered phrase lost to the events of last night. He remembers you talking about school, for sure. You took classes at one of the local colleges before getting a gig at some magazine you absolutely hated, so you quit.  

Or maybe you got fired?

As he attempts to recount these details, he watches you quickly pull together an outfit that looks professional enough. At first, you grab a pencil skirt and a nice top, holding it up to inspect before shaking your head and choosing a dark blue blouse tucked into a pair of black slacks. Then you move to stand in front of the mirror and roll up your sleeves, examining everything together before rushing to grab a pair of socks. 

“You okay?”

“Yup, never better.” 

The sarcasm that clings to your words is apparent. In this moment you’re anything but okay. You panicked and confused and even though Miguel knows he shouldn’t care he finds his sympathy level rising. 

“Do you need a ride?”

“What?”

He repeats the question before he can even suppress it, realizing he’s made a mistake. A moment of uncharacteristic weakness that has him biting his tongue, watching the way you stare at him like he’s just lost his mind.

“You want to give me a ride?”

“Sure. If you need one.” 

Miguel wonders if maybe he’s lost his mind because normally he doesn’t do things like this for people. Normally, instead of getting roped into the affairs of others he just coasts through life by his lonesome evading favours of any kind. 

For example, at work, he single-handedly avoids everyone who comes within a certain radius with any sort of question. With women he’s nice, but not too nice, knowing that if he steps over that threshold he’ll be roped into something he wants nothing to do with. Hell, even at home, Gabriel has a hard time convincing him to do anything without him questioning his motives. So, all of these details combined with the fact that he just met you make his offering all the more strange. Maybe even creepy based on the way you’re awkwardly grinning and avoiding his gaze as you pull on your socks. 

“Or I could just, uh —go?”

When you don’t respond right away he sits up in your bed, tearing away the sheets to stand and grab his clothes, trying to forget the fact that he’s naked and nervous and suddenly overthinking everything about your time together. Something that’s so unlike him that he has to really think about what you’re doing to him. How someone like you —someone so normal— has suddenly developed this ability to turn him into a blundering idiot who has no sense of mental direction.  

“No, no, I’ll take the ride,” you tell him then, ripping him from his thoughts in an instant. “I’m just surprised.”

He finds his underwear by the edge of your bed and pulls them on. “Why?” 

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy that offers to chauffeur girls around.” 

He’s not. Not even in the slightest. Sure, he’s nice. Charming, even, but unless there’s something in it for him (like there was last night) he could care less. He should care less.

“Wouldn’t want you losing out on a good opportunity.”

Did he seriously just say that? Jesus.

You smile and nod, but regardless, he can still tell that you take his answer at face value. He would too if the roles were reversed because no one in this day and age does anything without some underlying motive. Every favour comes at a price, so for him to just offer to help without anything in return is questionable. 

And even after you’re both dressed and sliding into the front seats of his car, he can’t help but focus on how out of character he feels. How instead of doing all this extra work on the off chance he impresses you, he should’ve just left. When he was still awake, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, he should’ve just gotten up and left without saying goodbye. 

It would’ve been easier that way. Less jarring and awkward than waking up to him gripping your chest like it’s something he does every day. If he’d done that, he wouldn’t be in this position: driving you to an interview he knows you’ll inevitably be late to. 

“I don’t mean to sound like an asshole but could you, uh, maybe speed it up a bit?” 

The traffic is already too thick for him to race through. Up ahead, the light flashes red and he’s about fifteen cars behind. There’s no way you’re making it in time and it’s apparent that you know based on the desperation of your voice.

“You obviously know that I can’t.” 

“I know —I just— fuck, I really need this job.” Your leg is bouncing as you lean an elbow against the edge of the window, using it as a resting place for your chin. “God, I should’ve set an alarm.”

“Probably, yeah.”

He’s never seen a head turn so quickly. Your eyes, which were filled with worry just a second ago, instantly narrow to a point, causing him to swallow hard. 

“Don’t chastise me.” 

“I’m not chastising you!” His hands fly off the steering wheel in defense for a moment before they land back down, realizing that the light’s turned green. “I’m just agreeing with you.”

“Yeah, but you said it like you were better than me.”

“How?” 

He’s confused but weirdly entertained. Like most of the time he’s spent with you, everything feels brand new. As if he’s experiencing a different way to interact with a person. Everything you do has him second-guessing his responses —sitting with the words inside his head before releasing them into the air, and it’s weirdly refreshing.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s your voice.”

“My voice?” He laughs. “What’s wrong with my voice?”

“I don’t know, it's just aggressive sounding —judge-y.” 

“My voice isn’t judge-y. If anything your’s is for assuming that mine is.” 

This time you laugh. “You know what, I actually don’t have time for this.”

“Neither do I!”

“Then why did you offer?” 

When Miguel doesn’t make the light you let out a groan and reach for the door handle, fiddling with it angrily until he rolls his eyes and presses unlock. After he does, you shoot him an angered look and throw open the door.

“Hey, wait a minute, where are you—“

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. Instead, he’s just met with more confusion as you flip him off and weave through the cars, holding out your hands cautiously until you make it to the sidewalk and start to bolt.

-

He hasn’t stopped thinking about you. Not since you left him on the street about a week ago, never to be heard from again. No matter how hard he tries to distract himself with work or missions or even Gabriel, he can’t seem to get rid of the image of you tearing down the street without looking back.

As he swings onto a nearby building, landing on the edge with ease, he can still clearly see the anger in your eyes at that moment. The knitted brows formed over half-closed eyes honing in on your destination. He’s never seen anyone look so motivated. 

It makes him wonder if you made it. If by some divine intervention, the person interviewing you was also late. As ridiculous as it sounds, he hopes they were. That they turned up, out of breath and panicked long after you settled into a waiting room chair; your bearings already in check. Secretly, he hopes you impressed their socks off —that they offered you the job and now, eight days later on the dot, you’re happily employed. 

It’d make the guilt he feels for not even trying to get your number less intense. If he could just get some confirmation that that argument you had in the car wasn’t an introduction to an equally, if not worse, ending day, maybe then he could just stop thinking about you. 

Deep inside he knows that’s not how it works. Connections like that don’t just evaporate overnight —they linger. Fester and boil underneath flesh that rises in a wave of goosebumps every time he thinks of your voice and how it felt fighting against his own. 

As he surveys the city below, crouching down to sit on the building’s ledge, he wishes he could forget you. Wishes that those moments he felt in bed with you were nothing more than urges. 

Miguel’s been in love before. More times than he cares to admit, but he’s always been able to push past it. To pin it as another weak moment of infatuation that just got out of hand. Normally, with time he can shake himself out of it. A couple more days without seeing you will probably do the trick, he thinks, and if not, he can always find someone else to keep his mind off of you.

“Fuck.” 

He can tell you’ve really gotten under his skin when he finds himself palming the sockets of his eyes, trying to come up with a plan, knowing the longer he spends away from you the better he’ll feel. That maybe if calls up Gabriel after he stops a couple of robberies or something he can find someone else to fill the void. 

Yeah, that could work, he decides. If he can find someone else to fuck for a while maybe then he can erase the memory of you entirely. 

Specifically the memory of you that night. The one where your hands against his head while his mouth’s on your pussy. Thinking about it now, Miguel’s certain that’s the memory that solidified all this. The one that made him realize that maybe he’d be willing to force through the barrier of intimacy he so often fears. 

He’s not sure why that moment specifically sticks out in his mind. Maybe it’s the lead-up —the intimate conversations had between you at the bar before you left or the insatiable way you took your own pleasure rather than the other way around. 

Regardless, as Lyla appears in his peripherals, signalling him of an incident near 4th Ave, he can’t stop thinking about it. How every little sound and movement sends his mind into a mess of thoughts, realizing that he doesn’t want to remember it. Nor does he necessarily want to forget it either. No, he wants to experience it first hand, the moments that you shared. The soul that you willingly bared for him. 

When he arrives at the Daily Bugle, there’s an inkling of fear that rises throughout his chest. He’s not sure why when Lyla mentioned the address he didn’t think clue into where he was going. Most likely he was just too distracted, but now that he’s here, sailing through the window of an already crashed party, he’s panicking —looking through the crowd of people being antagonized by a handful of gunmen. 

It’s a mix of dread and relief when he doesn’t see you right away. The Bugle doesn’t often throw parties but based on the decorations that flash through his vision as one of them bounds across the floor to meet him, that it’s for someone’s retirement. Meaning that, if you didn’t get hired, you might be at home. 

Because for some reason he doesn’t see you attending a retirement party for someone you just met a week ago. You seem too reserved for that. 

“Spider-Man!”

There’s about half a dozen people that cheer for his presence, calling out in excitement before they’re silenced by the barrels of guns. 

Miguel sighs and gets to work then, shoving all the thoughts of you to the back of his mind to throw himself into the line of fire; quickly, shooting webs at hands and faces while maneuvering his body through the air to dodge what blows come his way. 

It all feels so seamless now that he’s had enough practice. Every motion easily flows into the next, pushing him around the room to focus on every gunman. Under his breath he calculates the timing of all his shots, making sure the webs wrap around his targets at the exact moment he needs them to, suppressing all their shots as he works to disengage.

On the ground beneath him, a handful of the men are trying to dislodge the webbing from their guns, grunting and groaning as they dig their fingers into the silk. Grinning under his mask, Miguel takes this opportunity to knock some of them out; kicking and punching until they’re weak enough for him to web as well.

He repeats the process a few more times until every gunman is tied together in the corner of the room, struggling to break free. At that point, everyone in the room begins to cheer again, rushing to each other to check that nobody got hurt. 

As this happens, Miguel awkwardly moves towards the already broken window, glancing around the room until he notices a middle-aged woman looking at him with wide, nervous eyes. 

It’s obvious she needs some kind of help. Hidden between the legs of the crowd, she’s looking at him like she’s just seen a ghost, her bottom lip quivering as she turns to her side, reaching out her hands to grab someone prone. As soon as he sees this Miguel’s over there in an instant, brushing past bodies that willingly move as the woman looks back up.

When their eyes meet he’s met with the realization that someone’s hurt. And unfortunately, that someone is you. 

Almost immediately his entire body goes into shock. His breath picks up and his knees give out, but somehow through the stressful haze, he manages to play it off. As if his dramatic movements are nothing more than feelings of urgency at the sight of an injured civilian.

“What happened?” His voice sounds distorted —lost through the crowding of his pounding heart and racing thoughts as you work to sit up.

“I got shot, genius,” you groan. Then you motion to the pooling of blood that stains the fabric of your sweater.

“Thank you for clarifying.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Every word spoken between you feels like it’s nipping at the edges of his heart. As he watches you struggle to sit up, it aches for you —because of you, knowing that you’re in pain and somehow he was too distracted by outside forces to prevent it. 

“Stop moving.” 

He sighs in annoyance and forces you back down to press his hand against your wound, causing you to cry out and attempt to push against him. “We have to stop the bleeding, okay? Stop.” 

You’re defensive for a moment, looking at him with those rage-filled eyes that make him swallow hard and divert his attention, commanding the room to give him something to wrap you with. Immediately, a man nearby rips off his jacket, handing it to Miguel who tells you to apply pressure to the wound while he fashions you a bandage. 

“I thought you’d be nicer,” you mutter breathlessly, watching closely as he wraps the fabric around your shoulder, tying it as tight as he can before taking you into his arms. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

He’s out of the building and in the air in less than a minute, holding onto you for dear life. Against him, he can feel you flinching at every movement, breathing so heavy he can feel the heat of your breath against his ear. 

“We have to get you to a hospital.” 

Your fingers tighten around the blade of his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as you shake your head. 

“You could die—“

“I don’t have insurance.”

It’s the most insane thing he’s ever heard. So insane that he actually scoffs in your face, earning himself quite arguably the angriest look you’ve ever given him. 

“Quit judging me. Not all of us are rich.” 

“I know, I just—“

“Just drop me off at home, okay? I’ll call my uncle.”

“Your uncle?” 

He can’t believe you’re willing to risk your life to avoid a hospital bill. Miguel’s well aware that the cost of medical care is high —always has been, but surely you could make an acception this once considering there’s a bullet wedged inside your flesh. 

“He was an army medic. He’ll know what to do.”

As much as he wants to continue this argument he can feel the changing of your breath. How it goes from continuous and heavy to an even set of gasps that have him rushing towards your apartment. Weaving through the city skyline, he makes quick work of the journey, whizzing past windows that flash across his vision. Against his chest, he can feel you squirming impatiently, your voice hoarse as you tell him to stop taking the corners so roughly right before he takes another one, spotting your building.

When he arrives at your fire escape there’s a sense of relief that floods over him, making you groan. “The window’s locked just, uh, bust it open.” 

He holds you tight, lifting his leg to kick out the window. “You’ll pay to get a window replaced but refuse to go to the hospital?”

“I was planning on billing you.” 

It’s almost comical how consistent your speech is. How, even though he’s literally saving your life right now you manage to be an impenetrable force of sarcastic wit. It makes him laugh as he breaks away the edges of the glass and crawls in, making sure the hold that he has on you is tight. Then when you’re fully inside, he rushes you to the bed, asking you about your phone so that he can personally call your uncle to explain the urgency. 

This time without argument you hand it over, motioning to the pocket of your jeans, making him realize it’s too hard for you to get it. 

“Don’t even think about getting handsy with me right now.” 

He nearly chokes as he reaches into the back pocket of your pants, his fingers brushing lightly against your ass before they quickly retreat. 

“Don’t worry. You’re not my type.”

“You mean I wasn’t your type last night?” 

He can almost feel the curling of your smirk. The way it pulls across your face in such a devious way he has to really focus on going through your contacts instead of overthinking what you just said. 

Because you said it, right? Without context, you mentioned last night. Without clues, you made a simple call back to him and you and all the things that happened over the course of a few hours. 

Feeling overwhelmed, he turns his back to you and calls your uncle, ignoring absolutely everything but the task at hand, knowing what’s at stake. If he doesn’t focus you could die. And if you die he’ll never be able to ask you how the fuck you know he’s Spider-Man. 

So instead of giving in to his racing thoughts he just explains the situation. Cool and calm as possible, he tells your uncle everything before hanging up the phone, promising to take you to the hospital if things start to go south. Upon hearing this, you clear your throat, prompting him to turn back around.

“What?”

“If you take me to the hospital I’ll kill you.”

Your threat is anything but convincing, but Miguel doesn’t argue, knowing the stress of it all is the last thing you need. 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know.” 

“I know you know. I’m just… reiterating.” 

Your voice is beginning to strain so instead of responding he merely just sits on the edge of your bed, watching the way you clench your teeth around a sudden burst of pain he wishes he could get rid of. 

If only he’d gotten healing powers instead of retractable claws and venomous teeth. It’d make the situation you find yourself in a whole lot easier. If he could just take your pain away he’d do it in a second. He wouldn’t even think about it.  

“Stop looking at me like I’m dying, Miguel.”

The way you say his name is evil. The way it makes him feel is full of sin and as much as he hates you for it, he finds himself releasing a heavy breath and letting his mask disintegrate into dying pixels that show the annoyance on his face. 

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

Despite the pain you’re in you manage to grin again. “I know, but you like it, so shut up and kiss me. I need a distraction.”

It’s the most surprised he thinks he’s ever been. Hearing the bluntness of your words mixed through the struggle of your voice. It’s off-putting in a way that has him leaning without question, pressing a shaky hand to your cheek; knowing that if this is what you need to feel like yourself again he’ll give it to you.

No questions asked, he’ll give you anything you ask for. Anything you want, even if it feels unattainable because in this moment you could ask for the sun and he’d throw himself into space to get it. 

And that scares him.

-

It’s terrifying seeing this side of him. The side that's disgustingly sweet and stubborn. The one that forces you to rest —to let him cook and clean and replace the bandages of your healing shoulder. It’s nice, you tell yourself, even though the more you experience it, the more you fear it. The ever-growing pit in your stomach blooming against your insides; curling around your organs in tendrils of vine that will someday wither away and die. 

You don't know how long it will last. You expect the moment you’re better, he’ll leave. That once you're back to the swing of things he'll tell you some bullshit excuse like it’s been fun, but I have other things going on before he walks out into the hall never to be seen again.

In the grand scheme of things, you've known Miguel for a few seconds. A minuscule amount of time compared to the rest of your days spent on this earth. At this point, you’re nothing more than a pair of people waving to each other on the street before parting ways. Two individual bodies meeting in the middle only to separate.

As you lay in bed, stretching out your shoulder two weeks after the incident, you can feel him staring. His eyes burning holes into the side of your head as peeks one eye open. 

“You okay?”

You tell him you’re fine. That you’re just stretching and that he shouldn’t worry but immediately he defies you. Stares at you with worry in his eyes as he sits up, watching you strain to sit at the edge of the bed and gently roll your shoulder. 

“Do you need—“

“I said I’m fine.” 

You don’t mean for it to sound so harsh but ever since that night at the Bugle he’s been glued to your side. Lingering like a fly on the wall, watching your every move. 

It’s nice, but you know it won’t last. So, instead of dwelling on it, you force yourself to stand and move towards the bathroom, groaning under your breath at the pulsing pain as you open your medicine cabinet and pop two painkillers into your mouth.

“Here.” 

Miguel’s behind you before you can even tell him to stay put, offering you a glass of water that you begrudgingly take, feeling your chest ache, wondering if you’ll be able to cope if he vanishes. 

It sounds crazy but despite the annoyance you feel every time he forces you to rest or do your required stretching, you enjoy his presence. The way he takes charge regardless of the fight you put up. The way he’s always there when you need him. 

“You know you can chill out.” You take another sip of water, peering at him over the edge of the glass with a raised brow, watching the way he rolls his eyes and leans against the doorframe. 

“I know.” 

“I’m better now. I can do things. You don't have to hover.” 

“I’m not.”

You snort. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m not,” he repeats, and suddenly it feels like you’re crumbling. Falling beneath the rubble of your heavy thoughts, watching the way his eyebrows knit together, looking at you like you’ve just insulted him. 

Maybe if you did that it’d make the end come faster. Maybe if you were meaner he’d get tired of you and call it. Leave without saying goodbye in the middle of the night, or something. 

If he did, you’re certain you’d get over it. Just like the wound that spreads across the edge of your shoulder, it’d heal and, over time, you’d be fine.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

Your declaration confuses him. Makes him open his mouth and cock his head as he watches you hand over the glass and turn on your heel. He can tell you’re being weird but, because he doesn’t know you well enough, he probably isn’t sure how to handle it. How to navigate the upheaval of your emotions as you struggle to strip down in front of him and turn on the water. 

Uncharacteristically he leaves you alone without arguing, closing the door behind him so quietly that as you step under the warm water, you can tell it’s already happening. The calm before the storm is developing and you're stuck inside the centre of it, watching the rain and wind waft together in the form of miscommunication and passive aggression. 

God, this sucks. 

As you peel off the bandage, wincing and shaking at the way it sticks to the edges of your skin, you can feel the pinprick of tears. You’ve never been a crier. Reserving your tears for moments where they’re actually deserved, the feeling is foreign. Overwhelming in a way that has you pursing your lips and heavily breathing, trying to force it away. 

To distract yourself you toss your bandage into the trash beside the toilet then close the shower curtain, shielding yourself from Miguel and the rest of the world as you slowly lower yourself into the bowl of the bathtub. 

Everything hurts at that moment. Your shoulder, your head —your heart. All of it pounds with a ferocious bang, echoing throughout the rest of your body as you curl into the fetal position, hugging your legs with your good arm, wishing you could go back to that night. The one where things were easy and simple. The one where Miguel was nothing more than a guy trying to pick up a girl for some fun. Everything seemed so perfect then. So picturesque and dreamy; both of you filled with the kind of anticipation you wish you could use to replace the kind you feel now. 

Back then, it felt like you had something to look forward to. An unknown where the expectations were built but not yet solidified. Now though, it feels like there’s standards. Assumptions that the both of you secretly have now that your time together has grown. You’re not sure what his are but yours are needy. Desperate and embarrassing to the point where you’re certain once he realizes he’ll grow tired. 

And then he’ll leave. 

And then this toxic, fast-growing support system you’ve come to care about will be gone forever and you’ll be left to pick up the pieces like you always do. 

You know you sound crazy, thinking like this. Thinking that this guy is worth the effort of your tears. You barely know him. Sure, over the last few weeks, he’s told you about his life —about his brother and his mom and in detail, the incident at Alchemex that earned him his powers, but he’s still a stranger. A body of water that’s washing over your shores, attempting to pull back the sand. To roughly erode the walls of an already decaying structure too tired to continue. 

You want to reciprocate. To tell him all about your life and why you are the way you are, assuming that if you did, he’d understand why you’re so defensive. Why, instead of accepting him and all his help, you’re quick to push him away. 

Moving your palm to gently rub the dry skin of your wound, you give in to the tears, feeling a sob rip through your chest —feeling the shame of your own emotions take over. 

You hate crying more than most things. It’s a useless emotion meant only for the weak. Since you were a kid crying was always the last resort in the list of reactions when something bad happened, and to this day, that still rings true. It’s why your first response is to get angry —to lash out with hostile remarks or combative body language.

It's why you’re so broken, you think. Why, you can only count on your fingers the handful of times you've shattered under the pressure.

You’re gasping through the stream, then. Moving your hand from your shoulder to your face to suppress the cries because the last thing you want is for Miguel to hear you. For him to witness you in your lowest state. 

At this point, Ben’s the only one that’s seen you cry and that was on the day that Peter died. The day that everything became messy and confusing and your emotions turned into this burden you constantly have to carry. 

You don’t want Miguel to have to see this side of you. The side that’s so irreversibly weak and careless and unable to cope with time and how, at the end of it all, it’s just you. Just the thought is too much for you to bear. Especially now that you’ve had a taste of what it feels like for someone to care again. For someone to look at you like you’re a person deserving of the bare minimum, despite the effort you put in to avoid it. Despite the way you constantly berate him for coming so quickly into your life without the prospect of knowing if he'll leave again. 

Another sob escapes, shaking you to your core. Erupting from the confines of your shattered bone and blistering flesh, it takes the wind right out of you. Leaves you gasping for air under the heat that wraps a hand around your throat. 

The tears in combination with the steam have made your eyes virtually unusable. Everything around you is so blurry that when you turn your head at the sound of the creaking door, you don’t see Miguel come in. You just see the outline of his body and the colours of his clothes disappear before he’s rushing into the storm and holding on for dear life. 

He’s the gentlest he’s ever been, wrapping himself around your back. One of his arms wraps around your stomach for support while the other reaches to shut off the water, making sure not to bump your shoulder in the process, then it skims across your scalp. 

His fingertips ghost your tired head. His mouth presses kisses in their wake, whispering affirmations in between. His other hand thumbs the edge of your torso. 

Every movement is intimate. A combination of sensations you’ve never experienced. Somehow instead of freaking you out they calm you down. Pulling you back to a place of reality where your thoughts become memories and Miguel is present and willing to stay. 

Under your breath, you apologize. Under his, he says it's okay. 

“I like you, I think.”

His body shifts. A sigh of relief is released and it’s the first time in your life you’ve felt okay about being vulnerable. “Yeah?”

“But I’m not good at this.”

“Okay.”

“I don't know how to be there for other people.”

“That’s okay.” He kisses your face. 

You close your eyes at the impact of his lips, feeling your stomach flip. “You say that but what if I fuck it up?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t open his mouth to tell you that everything’s going to be fine. Nor does he agree. All he does is sit, tighten his grip and let out a sigh, letting you figure it out on your own.

-

You figure out his coffee order by week four. 

Now that you’re healed and able to do more things on your own he’s started working in the lab again, opting to give you more space after a conversation about smothering just days prior. 

You like having him around —love it, if you're honest, but sometimes you miss the solitude of your own space. The moments at night when the air is cool and you’ve just finished making dinner. 

Before there was you and him, you used to eat out on the fire escape. Grab a beer from your fridge and carefully crawl through the window to watch all the people down below. You’d play music from your phone and just exist, lingering in a space where your mind could go completely blank for a while. 

When you told him this he understood completely. Kissed your face and told you to let him know when you wanted him back. 

Now that the weekend has passed you miss his presence. His tall, looming yet loving figure napping soundly on your couch or following you around the kitchen, arguing about which spices should go in whatever dish you’re making. 

As you finish up some work for the Bugle, you shoot him a text, telling him you have a surprise for him. He responds with a question mark that makes you roll your eyes and stand from the table you’ve been using at the coffee shop nearest to his office. Then, you walk up to the till and order something you hope he’ll like, waiting patiently at the hand-off plane. 

While waiting, you text back and forth for a bit, arguing about the surprise reveal even after the cup is in your hand and you’re walking through the Alchemex entrance, telling the receptionist up front you here to see Miguel O’Hara. 

When you’re offered clearance and then given directions you practically race to his office, trying to suppress the ever-present grin that pulls across your face once you’re at his door and tapping your knuckles against it. 

It takes a few moments for him to open the door. On the other side, you hear shuffling, followed by silence and then eventually slow-moving footsteps that have your heart pounding in your chest. 

When he opens the door he narrows his eyes, confused at how you’ve suddenly appeared in front of him. “How’d you—“

You lean in to kiss him, lingering there for a moment before shoving the coffee into his hand. “Surprised?"

“Very.” 

“Good.” You grin triumphantly as he sidesteps to let you inside.

“How did you get here so fast? Your apartment’s across town.” 

“I did some work at that cafe across the street,” you tell him, watching him pause to look down at the cup in his hand before taking a sip. “Thought since we haven’t seen each other all weekend I'd pop by. Bring you some energy.”

He hums around the lip of the cup.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked so I kind of just guessed.”

He smiles then, moving to wrap his arm around and pull you in, placing a kiss to your head. It’s the kind of kiss that’s full of warmth. As if he’s grateful for the gesture. As if this kiss is his way of telling you you did a good job. 

-

By week twenty, you discover he likes being put in his place. 

After an argument about not calling you after one of his missions, you tell him to fuck off when he shows up at your window the next day, holding a bottle of apology wine. It’s the middle of the night and you tell him you have work tomorrow, but all he does is move behind you, reaching around to close the lid of your laptop with a satisfying smack.

“Miguel, I'm serious. Go home. I have shit to do.” 

Ignoring you, he pulls your desk chair out, using the wheels to spin you around before letting his mask disappear, revealing the tiniest inkling of a smirk. “But I brought you wine,” he says, acting like it means something. As if bringing you wine is the all-encompassing apology for bad behaviour. 

“Okay, and?”

“And I thought maybe we could pop it open. Hang out a bit.” 

You know that hanging out is code for sex. That his adrenaline is pumping from a good night out and now he wants to fuck you so that he can get his energy out and sleep. It’s what he always does.

Normally you’d be fine with it, but tonight you’re honestly exhausted. Barely hanging on as you fight the onslaught of fatigue trying to take over your mind the longer you sit at your desk, attempting to write. 

“Miguel, I can’t do this right now. I have an article to finish and another one to edit—“

 He leans down to kiss you but before he can you shove him off, rising from the chair in heated anger, listening to the way he laughs.

“Seriously Miguel, stop.”

In an instant it's like he’s switched his tactics, moving from one extreme to the other. Gently, he grabs your face in his hands, looking down with false innocence that has you rolling your eyes. “Please?”

“I’m busy.”

“Please.” 

“Miguel—“

He drops to his knees, bracing your hips in his hands as he lowers his face to your cunt, resting his cheek against it. “I’ll be good, I promise.” 

You don’t know what's gotten into him. Maybe during his mission, he bumped his head a little too hard or some goon injected him with some sort of aphrodisiac. Whatever it is, there’s something different about him. Something so desperately adorable that when he kisses the fabric of your shorts, lingering for a moment as he plays with your waistband, you partially give in.

Huffing, you glance around the room feeling your face begin to warm. “Okay but, we’re doing it my way.” 

“Course.” 

He quickly realizes your way involves him being strapped to the bed, unable to touch while you take your pleasure. 

After agreeing you made him web himself to the headboard of your bed, both of his hands tightly wound in layers of silk that you touch with curiosity, sitting naked across his chest. 

You can tell he hates whatever it is that you're planning. Whatever sick revenge plot is brewing inside your head as you run your hands along his wrists and lean forward to ghost your lips across his. 

“This is nice.” 

“Is it?”

You hum, watching his eyes narrow once your hands hit the ditches of his elbows and swirl around, decorating his skin in spiralled goosebumps. 

“I’d argue it’s rude but—“

“My rules?”  

“Your rules.”

You give him a kiss for good behaviour. A quick peck that has him chasing after you as you continue to move lower, making sure to never break eye contact.

“You know, I never get as needy as this when you work late.” 

His lips firmly press together when your fingers begin to move up his arm, sliding up the edges until they stop atop his shoulders and you squeeze. 

“I never interrupt your work asking you to fuck me.” 

He swallows hard when you raise your hips into the air, moving both hands towards his chest as you line yourself up over him. 

“I’m nice to you. I respect you.” 

“I respect—“

You slide his cock inside of you agonizingly slow, mockingly matching the way his mouth falls open and he throws his head back. As you do this, you can feel his chest rise and fall, quickly twitching as you take him in, suppressing a moan of your own. 

It never fails to feel this good. The way he fills you up always has this calming quality that empties your mind. When he’s with you, the entirety of the world is erased, the feeling of comfort immediately replacing it once you feel those first few inches slip inside and eventually settle against your base. 

Gently, you lift yourself off, moving at a pace you knows he hates with a drunken grin. 

“Nice and slow, right baby?” 

His hands pull against his webs, threatening to break free before you reach up a hand, lacing your fingers in his. 

“Be good.” 

You can feel him fighting off the urge to defy. The way he tightens his grip around your hand. The way his hips push up every time you rise away. All of it proves just how much he truly hates this and how he wishes that you’d hurry up and let him go so that he could fuck you properly. 

A small chuckle escapes your lips as you lower yourself down again, moving your hand from his grasp to follow the trail of his arm again. This time though, instead of resting it against his chest you let it skim across his skin, lowering past his torso until it’s sweeping through your folds for him to see. 

“If you’d just listened…” You shake your head and click your tongue, chastising him in such a humiliating way he’s forced to close your eyes and just breathe. 

You don’t give him the satisfaction though, pausing the movements of your hand to snap your fingers and scold him, telling him that if he wants to come he has to watch. 

-

When week forty-two hits, he tells you he loves you. 

After a mission goes wrong and he loses the police captain to a fatal gunshot wound at the hands of one of Kingpin’s goons, he crawls into bed and holds you so tight you end up coughing at the impact.

“Sorry,” he says. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “Are you okay?”

When he doesn’t respond right away you know he’s not, so you grip him just as tight, pushing his face toward your chest so that you can kiss the top of his head. 

“I love you,” he says then. 

He doesn’t ask for you to say it back —just snuggles closer, letting the increased rate of your heart lull him to sleep. 

-

On week forty-four, you say it back, telling him you wanted to say it that night but didn’t know how to. You’ve never loved anyone before —not like this.

He tells you he understands and that he’s glad you feel the same before kissing you.

When he pulls away both of you smile and continue cooking dinner. 

-

In between week sixty and week sixty-one, there’s a moment where Miguel looks at you strangely. It’s subtle —a simple widening of the eyes paired with his usual grin— but there’s something different. Something mischievous that has you raising your brows and reaching to grab his hand as you walk along the sidewalk.

“What's that look for?” you ask.  

“What look?” 

You know he knows. The way he awkwardly laughs almost immediately after, turning to hide the blush that develops across his cheeks, tells you everything you need to know and more.

He’s up to something. 

“I know you think you’re good at lying but you’re not.” 

“Says who.” 

Before you can answer, there’s an explosion in the building beside you. Enveloping your skin in a hot burst of flame, your body soars through the air after impact, landing you near the centre of the street where oncoming cars screech to a halt as Miguel pushes through the pain to make sure you’re still alive. To make sure that he’s there when you open your eyes and smile at him and tell him everything’s okay, even though it’s not because, instead of in the street, he’s standing on a platform years later, knowing how this ends. Watching how it ends for the hundredth time alongside a version of you that sits there in shock, realizing why he’s been so reluctant to let you in.

-

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