the-archxr

[the-archxr]

posts marked with ! are most popular, and posts marked with ! are my favourites.

STATUS: ongoing

•

FULL FICS

Forever is the Sweetest Con (18+)

you and bucky might not have forever, but at least you have each other.

[the-archxr]

forever is the sweetest con

bucky barnes x afab!reader

summary: you and bucky might not have forever, but at least you have each other.

content: 18+, mdni. porn with plot; implied slow-burn, will they/won’t they/right-person-wrong-time bullshit; avoidant attachment behaviour (jumpscare, I know); angst; coworkers/friends to…something more…?; mutual yearning/pining; fingering; semi-public sex—an attempted quickie; love confessions—this shit is very romantic.

a/n: *gif isn’t mine, its from pinterest* reputation, specifically dress, was on repeat when I wrote this. take from that what you will.

word count: 4.6k

main m.list

•••

It had been three years since you last saw him.

Three years, almost down to the day, since you decided that your days as an Avenger were coming to an end.

Sam had donned the shield, and somehow, that was enough for you to officially head into retirement. A final closing of the chapter on your bygone era. For good, this time. No more owed favours or defences left to join.

It was the first time in your life you had ever felt so certain.

Until he asked you to stay.

Three years ago, Bucky—shrouded in smoke and strobing ambulance lights, smelling of diesel and earth—asked you if there was any harm in staying.

His timing was a bit odd, having waited until you were in your car before finally laying it all out on the line.

Or maybe it was perfect.

Because ever since then, you’ve thought about his question—about him.

If your seatbelt hadn’t been fastened, you might not have driven away. You just might have actually stayed.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because of this, you always told yourself that if you ever saw him again, it would be different. He would be different. You told yourself he would not be the same Bucky you traded for a life of peace.

But with the way he’s looking at you now—across the gilded room, eyes finding yours around every moving body—you can’t help but be unnerved.

This isn’t what you planned for.

Bucky looks at you in the exact same way he did all those years ago. Tender. Raw.

A small circle of oblivious partygoers beside you attracts your attention. Their laughter and clinking glasses bubble, becoming one with the rest of the crowd as they stumble off.

With the distraction gone, you finally braved looking back across the room.

Needing to find his gaze, if only one more time, was instinctual at this point. Something you couldn’t suppress, even if you tried.

And fuck, have you tried.

You scan the room, looking at faces and exposed hands, drinks and smiles. But Bucky is nowhere to be found.

He disappeared just as quickly as he had come, and you know that it’s because of you.

Propped up in the corner alone, entirely too sober, and visibly uncomfortable, you become painfully aware of yourself.

But maybe this is your karma. Maybe this is why your circumstances are so unfortunate—you weren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. Technically, the gala invitation had been meant for your boss. But you were eager to impress. Like, somehow you had to ‘prove’ your normalcy.

But you didn’t have to. You had it.

You just became too overzealous.

Icarus flew too close to the sun, and you accepted filling in for your boss on a networking gig that you really should’ve asked more questions about.

And now you have to face the consequences.

“It’s kind of you to hold up the wall.”

Your body goes cold. Erratic fingers now remain frozen in place.

When you turn, you see that Bucky is already smiling at you, two flutes of champagne in hand. “Hi, —.”

You take a shaky breath. “Hi, Bucky.”

Up close, you can confirm that he really looks no different than when you left. You figured that your eyes were just playing tricks on you earlier, imagining things. For your sake, you hoped that if you saw him again—face to face, wandering eye to wandering eye—he’d be unrecognizable.

But, no. He just looks like Bucky—your Bucky.

That fact feels more like a curse than a blessing right now.

The two of you stand in silence, unsure of what to say or if you should even say anything at all. You opt to busy yourself with the lines on the parkade floor instead.

“Thought you’d never be caught dead at one of these again.” He says the words like they’re an inside joke. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

“It’s a work thing”, you respond flatly. “I honestly didn’t know it was for you guys.”

Bucky sips at his drink, warily maintaining eye contact with you. “I’m glad you’re here, though,” Bucky eventually says. The shyness in his voice surprises you. “It’s really…really good to see you, —.”

You don’t respond, but you manage to force a little smile. Measured. Pleasant. Evidence of you being on your best behaviour. Besides your roaming eyes, at least.

Unfortunately, they’re not as controlled as you’d like them to be.

But, if push comes to shove, you could always blame tradition.

You and Bucky have an unspoken agreement. A ritual, of sorts, that you rely on during moments like this. Observe and pretend.

If your years in SHIELD taught you anything, it was how to watch and how to see with the briefest of passing glances.

Visual study is light work for trained government agents.

But when it comes to this—when it involves the two of you, and whatever it is that you guys are—it’s not so simple. It’s more than just observing how time passed shows on each other’s skin.

It’s about taking the time to commit everything you see to memory.

To document it all—the slick-backed hair curling behind his ear, the flecks of grey in his beard, the eyes that darken in the moody amber light—and lock it away. Keep it safe for some lonely night in the future where all you can do is ruminate, and the only thing you can think about is ‘what if’.

“…You look good,” you say wistfully. A mindless and stupid act on your part. Heat floods your face, forcing your eyes down. “I-I meant, you look like you’re doing good.”

Bucky chuckles. The sound of it makes you ache.

“Thanks. I’ve, uh, actually been getting some sleep, so I’ve been feeling a lot better.” You nod and take a drink. “You look good, too, by the way. …Beautiful, actually.”

The champagne in your stomach threatens to come back up. Bucky, though, is none the wiser—still looking at you, soft and fond.

With rolled back shoulders and a straightened spine, you clamour to change the subject. “You’ve, uh, been busy, too—lately, it seems.”

Mindless. Stupid.

Bucky clears his throat. “Who knew, right? …One minute I’m wanted by the state, then the next—“

“You’re an Avenger,” you continue. “And a Congressman.”

A sly grin forms on his face. One, he doesn’t even try to hold back. “Have you been stalking me, Ms. —?”

You roll your eyes and bite back a familiar grin. “You wish, Barnes. I just have a strong internet connection and a knack for boredom-fuelled curiosity.”

“A deadly combination,” Bucky hums into his glass.

In trying to suppress the wide smile breaking free, you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. The sting is a good stabilizer.

“So, what about you?”

When you look up to meet his eyes, you realize that the two of you have been gradually getting closer. Another annoyingly instinctual response.

You try not to give the sparking in your chest too much attention.

“—How’s retirement been treating you?” Bucky asks.

You hesitate for a moment, unaware of how to sum up the past three years of your life.

“Um…good.” The word feels wrong immediately. “Quiet,” is your correction.

“Quiet, huh?” Bucky looks away briefly, over to a boisterous group in the centre of the room. From the slight fondness in his features, you assume they’re likely his new team. “Well, that’s—I’m glad. That’s what you always wanted, right?”

You nod despite him not looking your way.

Bucky shifts his weight from one foot to another, still lost in thought. Then, slowly, they travel back to you and settle on your hands. “And, is it…just…you?”

“…You mean, am I seeing someone?”

Bucky’s shoulders fall back against the wall. He gulps, too, although he tries to hide that more. “I’m just…curious,” he says a bit defensively. “I didn’t—I don’t see a ring. That’s why I’m asking.”

“You were looking for a ring? Congressman…” you tease.

Bucky’s smile is genuine, but it still doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just happened to notice. Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

The nickname—a simple word that, at the end of the day, you’d hate if it came out of anybody else’s mouth—hits you hard. It makes your stomach twist, and your hands shake, and your mouth go dry.

It also makes you want to beg him to say it again.

You polish off the rest of your drink, which at this point has gone flat. Then, quietly, you say, “No, I’m not seeing anyone—not right now. …Not anymore.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Bucky stiffen. A fist clenches at his side, and his eyes shut for a few seconds before he seemingly releases himself. Guilt cramps in your stomach at the sight.

A guilt for what? You’re not entirely sure.

You don’t even know if you should be telling him this. If it even matters. If at this point it’s morally right to do so, or just plain cruel.

All you know is that you’ve never been able to hide anything from Bucky. Even when your insides scream at you to turn away, to run and hide, to forget you ever saw him.

“…His name was Connor. We, um, dated for two years.”

Bucky’s silent. You wait. It’s painful. Your lungs can’t hold onto air for the life of you, and your fingers are sore from being constantly picked at.

“Was he…” Bucky takes a harsh breath. “Was he good to you?”

His words force you to pause and collect yourself. “Yeah. He was. Actually, Connor was kind of perfect, in a way. He was kind, a-and attractive, and funny, and he always tried to bring me breakfast in bed on Sundays. …He just…he had a wonderfully quiet life.”

Bucky hardly makes a sound, but you know that he’s listening. You know that he’s just taking the time to digest all that you’ve said.

Out loud, speaking of Connor feels like admitting to a long-kept secret. And the thought makes you sick. He was the longest relationship you’ve ever had—by no means a secret. You lived together. You had a life together.

But it was a life that Bucky didn’t get to witness. A life you made sure he wasn’t a part of—in any capacity.

That fact alone nearly disables you.

Bucky has his bottom lip tucked behind his teeth, gnawing on the flesh nervously. His voice cracks when he goes to speak. “Why’d you break up? If you don’t mind me asking…”

“We stopped understanding each other, I guess. He wanted to do more with his career, and…after everything I’ve seen and done, the plans he had, they just… Like I said, we didn’t understand each other anymore.” Your voice trails off. You unintentionally end up mimicking Bucky’s slumped figure.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers.

You shrug plainly. “It is what it is.”

A waiter comes by, collecting both of your empty glasses before hurrying off into the party. You end up going back to spinning the gold ring around your finger. “What about you, Barnes—are you seeing anyone special?”

You offer Bucky a friendly smile, even though the thought of him with someone else makes you physically ill.

“No.”

Your heart leaps. Shame immediately crawls in from behind your ribs.

“No one?” The shock in your voice is evident. “…Not even dating?”

Bucky shakes his head gently. “I think in the past three years, I’ve been on a total of…two dates? Neither one got very far.” Your jaw falls open just enough to grab his attention. “…Is something wrong?”

“N-no! No, I just…I’m surprised, that’s all. Surprised that no one would…you know…”

He turns against the wall on his shoulder, closing whatever distance was left. The air was thinning; muddled with all the nagging thoughts and feelings you keep stifling.

“I never said I didn’t date because no one has been interested in me,” Bucky says simply. “I don’t date because I don’t want to.”

You can’t help yourself from asking ‘why’. And, at this point, you’re convinced your curiosity has a mind of its own. Like it’s completely set on orchestrating your downfall.

Bucky hesitates, gears visibly turning in his head. Until his eyes flash to yours, something sure and smouldering within them. “I guess I’ve just been too busy holding on.”

“Holding on to what?” You echo.

“Hope.”

Your mind skips—a broken record, a preemptive warning.

Turn away. Stop. Go back. Turn away.

“Hope is a dangerous thing to have,” you find yourself saying.

“It’s a damning thing to have,” Bucky concludes. Between you, a calloused hand attempts to reach out; fingers brushing your knuckles without any hesitation. “It’s hard to want someone else when I’m hoping for you.”

It’s not that time slows down or speeds up in that moment. You just become more aware of it.

As if, suddenly, your body is completely and wholly cognizant of everything. Of where you are, of what you’re wearing, of the blood pounding in your ears, of the pinky touching yours, of the earthy scent that makes your chest contract.

You’re exposed, and it’s because of him.

It’s all because of him.

When you first became friends, you found it kind of funny that you got along so well, that you guys just clicked. He understood you better than anyone else had before, and he’s been the only one to truly know you like that ever since.

Hope is a damning thing—his words.

The light refracting from the chandelier above is dimmed by Bucky’s shadow. It looms over you, but never cages you. He’s still giving you the chance to run.

The freedom only makes it that much harder on you.

Blinking back an onslaught of tears, you will yourself to look him in the eye. “Do you…remember what I said to you—that night, wh-when you asked me to stay?”

A pause.

“You, uh…you said we were ‘too smart’ for ideas like that,” Bucky answers quietly. So quiet that you’re surprised you can still hear him.

You’re nodding before you speak. “Well…that’s what I’m saying to you now.”

A loud roaring laugh passes by your sheltered corner. It kills you a little to see people so elated while you stand here and break the love of your life’s heart all over again.

Bucky holds his breath. You see it in his chest—the expansion, the stillness.

“—…”

“No—Bucky, please.” You wince. “…It doesn’t work out for people like us. Right? You—you know that…”

The man in question frowns, a sad acceptance.

You always swore you had a strong resolve. A thick backbone. You had to in order to be a SHIELD agent-turned-Avenger.

Whether your time out of the game had turned you soft, or if it was just Bucky’s presence, you’re not sure. But as you acknowledge yours and Bucky’s hurt, your resolve crumbles.

It hurts to encourage the pain. But you reason now—as you have had to many times before—that it’s for the best. That this is the right thing to do.

The responsible thing.

“Because of what we do, who we are, this—this would never work. It has never ended well. …We’d only be hurting ourselves in the end, Buck. It’s—it’s not worth it.”

“…Connor was worth it, though, right?” Bucky’s words are sharp, cutting. They scar you right where you stand.

“Bucky—“

“I’m just saying, —. You sit here and talk about being smart a-and how distance and all that is good. You know, sounding exactly like how I used to—“ At this point, the man is gasping for air. “But…but you fall in love with someone else? Two years of your life, —; was that not worth it?”

“It was worth it! Because at least I knew that every time he left the house, he was coming back,” you snap.

Silence.

Bucky’s eyes are a marvel: big and watery and as wildly blue as a stormy ocean. “What makes you think I wouldn’t come back home to you?”

The sound you make then is agonizing. “You can’t guarantee that.”

Without warning, Bucky places a soft kiss on your forehead. “You’re right,” Bucky whispers into your hairline. Your eyes involuntarily flutter, as if doing so could allow you to feel the gesture tenfold. “But I can promise you that I would try.”

You want to tell him that it’s not enough. Being an Avenger doesn’t allow for the same liberties as everyone else. Death and loss, and irrevocable change are all part and parcel. Commitment, partnership, love—they don’t belong in that lifestyle.

At least you and Connor had the luxury of stability, of reassurance. But with Bucky, the act of being in love is a terrifying one.

Loving Bucky is easy, despite what he says. But being in love with him, consciously choosing to love him, takes a lot of inner strength.

But you’re selfish.

You’re selfish to fall in love with someone while they’re falling in love with you. You’re selfish to test the waters, only to run in the other direction at the first sight of a rippling wave. You’re selfish to hope, even slightly, that Bucky would wait for you after all this time.

“If I allow myself to love you, I won’t be able to let you go.” Your lowly confession successfully slips through the chinks in your armour. It hangs heavy in the air once it’s free, and you’re entirely too tired to rein it back in.

Bucky hands still on your shoulders, holding you as he tries to meet your eyes.

“I don’t want you to.”

He looks at you like you’re everything. You look back at him because you know he is.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Since when did you become good at having emotional conversations?”

“Since you became so damn bad at it," he replies without missing a beat.

Bucky’s smile almost triggers yours. Almost. You’re still terrified of the reality that stands before you.

It’s a scary thing to care about something this much that you innately anticipate losing it.

Because those two things—love and loss—go hand-in-hand. They’re inseparable. One can’t exist without the other.

“…Will we regret this?”

Bucky sighs. “Maybe.” Hands delicately cradle your face. Careful, yet unafraid. “…But not right now.”

His face is so very close to yours, champagne lingering on his breath. You expect to move, to cross that line. But he doesn’t.

He waits.

Your mind fires off reservations, fears, worries, unaddressed concerns and technicalities that you’re sure you’ll feel tomorrow.

Not right now.

The first kiss is soft. A feather-light touch; skin on skin. It’s hesitant, not scared. An effort of held-back anticipation rather than apprehension.

Bucky, the old-fashioned gentleman that he is, is the first to pull away. He keeps a safe distance: far enough where he gets to measure your reaction, yet still satisfy whatever desire he has to be as close to you as possible.

It’s you who pulls him back in.

The second kiss is firm. It exhibits a hunger, a desperation that could only be triggered by starvation. With a few nips to his lower lip and your hand clawing at his chest, you hope to tell him just how badly you need this.

Bucky backs you up into the wall, both hands—hot flesh and cold metal—holding your face still as he prods at your mouth. You scratch at his face, letting the thin skin of your palms become familiar with the feel of his scruff.

You want to feel more. You need to feel more.

But you’re also acutely aware that your environment isn’t ideal.

“Buck,” you kiss the warning into his upper lip. He chases you with his mouth. Another kiss. “Congressman, we’re in public.”

Bucky groans. It’s hearty, it reverberates. It instantly shoots down to your core. “‘M not waiting. Don’t think you want to either, doll—not with how you’re kissin’ me.” Teeth nip at the edge of your ear.

The whole thing is disorienting. Enough to make you rip his clothes off then and there, without a second thought.

Except, fucking like rabbits in the middle of a government-funded gala wasn’t a responsible thing to do.

That didn’t mean fucking was completely off the table, though.

“You have any other ideas, Barnes…?”

•

In a matter of minutes, after a balancing act of evading his team, Valentina, and a few mostly sober government officials, you and Bucky find yourselves in a bathroom on the other side of the building.

The area had been roped off, guarded by two golden posts corded together, with a sign that read “entry prohibited”. And, based on the sight of the oddly lavish bathroom alone—forest-green walls, dark gold faucets, and glittering black tile—you expect the sign was up for good reason.

Not that it really mattered to either of you.

Bucky had half a mind to lock the door, but he took far too long for your liking. He shakes the handle—just to make sure—while your mouth wanders.

“Looks who’s impatient now.” Lips slot against yours, teeth clacking and noses squished.

You huff. “Shut up, Barnes.”

Bucky takes a turn mapping your neck with his slick, open mouth. “I’d like to make it known, by the way, that this”—a kiss under your ear—“isn’t”—another to the hollow of your throat—“how I imagined our first time to be.”

Intrigue, and maybe a bit of pride, pull at your face like puppet strings. “You’ve thought about this before?” You hum as Bucky kisses the hyper-sensitive junction of your neck. “You’ve got a dirty mind, Congressman.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” is Bucky’s gruff reply.

Without warning, thick arms come up under your thighs and lift you onto the sink. Bucky acts like it’s nothing, manhandling you like that. You, however, aren’t so nonchalant. What once felt like molten lava in your veins had now become a raging fire.

It was a trigger for your more feral desires. Resurfaced thoughts and primitive sensations that only cared about what else he could do to you.

God, you wanted him to do it all.

Impatient fingers start to work at his clothes—peeling off his jacket, loosening his tie, undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. You then yank on his belt and pull him towards you.

Except Bucky is quick to cover your hands with his. “Doll, I need to make sure you want this,” he whispers. “—That you want this as much as I do.”

He gives you the chance to take his request to heart, but you know you don’t even have to think twice about it.

Realized by the weight of him between your legs, you have the sense that you two are freakishly and inexplicably right. After all this time, it honestly feels silly to have imagined the two of you as anything other than inevitable.

“Need you, Bucky. Need you so, so bad,” you whine and kiss the tip of his nose.

He’s back on you in an instant.

As his tongue explores your mouth, his fingers begin to toy with the thin straps of your dress. “Want this off.”

You help him out a bit and slide the satin down your torso. As your bra is revealed, Bucky’s stare intensifies, carefully tracing every curve and clean line.

“There are no straps,” he mumbles eventually.

You shift under his gaze. “Um…what?”

“The straps,” he says. An inquisitive metal finger comes up to the edge of the garment, right where the cup ends and the rounded flesh begins. “Where are they?”

“You—you’ve never seen a strapless bra before?” You giggle as he shakes his head. “It didn’t come with any, Buck. That’s the point.”

“I don’t understand—“

You laugh some more, lazily carding your fingers through his hair. “I’ll tell you more about it later, yeah?” Bucky, although still stumped, nods and lets you guide his head forward.

When you kiss him, he lets out a puff of air. The reaction forces you to smile into his mouth. You try to deepen the kiss, to take charge and move his limbs around you as you please—but you don’t get very far.

The second he picks up on your plan, he becomes committed to leaving you breathless. Even when he abandons your mouth and makes his way down to your chest, you’re practically gasping for air.

With your back arched, desperate for a slight reprieve, you angle your hips forward. The slight movement has you firmly pressing into him.

Bucky groans.

Even between the too-many-layers of fabric, you feel him. All of him. It’s a promise that makes your mouth water and your toes curl.

You roll your hips then—an experiment that has you whining and Bucky going rigid.

“Don’t”—his teeth gritted—“start. We don’t have the time for that, doll.”

Against the arm that aims to keep you still, you move your pelvis over his bulge again. Bucky growls.

“Doll,” he warns.

“God, Buck, just—shit—just do something.”

Upon your command, one hand grabs a fistful of your dress. The fabric is roughly lifted until it’s pooling around your thighs.

Your eyes curiously travel down your contorted body, stopping right where Bucky’s arm—taut flesh over strained veins—disappears.

And then you feel it: thick fingers pulling aside the drenched seam of your underwear.

The man’s forehead rams into yours. “Fuck, you want me dead, don’t you…”

You don’t respond, but not for lack of trying.

He’s just so…warm…and he’s everywhere.

He’s all muscle, and weight, and languid pressure—and god, your heart feels like it’s swelling beyond capacity.

You gasp when he slides a finger through your folds.

Your brain urges you to do something. Tease him; spit out a smart quip. Hell, even slide off the counter and get on your knees.

But you can’t.

Two fingers slip into you then, curling just at the knuckle before partially pulling out, and you go limp. A pliable mess of his doing.

It’s embarrassing how close you already are.

It only becomes more embarrassing when the pad of his thumb starts rubbing tight circles on your clit.

The entire lower half of your body tightens, almost instantly. You’re shaking, panting, and desperate for more.

More Bucky. More friction.

More.

You’re so consumed with needing more, your hips start rocking back and forth on their own accord.

“Buck,” you whimper.

The man in question looks up from the mess he’s made of your chest, and you nearly come on the spot.

Swollen lips, glossy with his own spit. Hazy eyes that are nearly black from blown-out pupils. A cherry-red flush paints the rest of his face.

Fucked out—that’s how he looks.

Content. Blissful. Like he’s somehow enjoying himself more than you.

A muscle in his arm twitches then. What quickly follows is a new pace, a new force in his thrusting fingers that has the knot in your stomach contracting.

“Take whatever you need, doll. Whatever you need, it’s yours,” he says, finally adding a third finger. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream. “Let go, —. I got you.”

Everything within you seizes.

For a moment, it feels like you’re floating. Entirely weightless, as Bucky’s hands help you ride out your orgasm.

As you come to—aching hips stuttering to a stop, vision slowly clearing—Bucky wipes the sweat from your forehead. He keeps his metal hand there like a cold compress, all the while planting delicate kisses into your cheekbone.

“Are you okay?”

You nod despite a frown beginning to brood. “You…you didn’t—“

“Wasn’t the point, doll,” he lets out a breathy chuckle. His nose affectionately bumps yours.

You shake your head. “Want you to feel good, though.”

Bucky just smiles—all dopey and light. “I do feel good. …Really, really good.”

“But—“

“Why don’t we make it up later? Can show each other just how good we feel…” his voice lowers, returning to that gravelly tone that makes you ache all over again.

Your first instinct is to fight him on this. But, instead, you bite your tongue.

“Fine,” you say. “As long as I get to make it up to you first.”

[the-archxr]

*in the middle of a debrief…*

John: can I ask a dumb question?

Bucky: better than anyone I know.

[the-archxr]

Dear readers,

Holy shit it’s been a long time—three years, I think, or something like that. I don’t know, I could be wrong; I was never good at math (the curse of having ADHD and Dyscalculia is a great one).

Anyways, how have you guys been? Taking care of yourselves, I hope!

I wanted to take the time and space here to give all of you an update:

I’m coming back. Well, sort of.

This year, on top of school and general life shit, I’ve started a personal project. It’s reignited my love of writing, and while I am very excited to share it with everyone, it’s still in the very early stages, so, as of right now, I won’t divulge too much.

But I will say, this project has sort of given new life to my once-inanimate pen. As I continue to move forward with this and further develop my skills, methods and practices as a writer, I will be returning to this blog. Sort of like an interim palate cleanser to keep me writing and motivated and not falling down the ADHD paralysis slump (more than I already do, at least).

While I will be writing here once again, please understand that it will certainly not be as much as I’ve done in the past. Though, I’lll still try to maintain a rather consistent(-ish) schedule, considering that’s kind of the whole point.

To get back into the swing of things, I will be accepting requests for imagines/drabbles, headcanons, and the like. However, I won’t be accepting requests for full-length fics.

Before I continue rambling, I do have a quick disclaimer:

When I first left, I wasn’t too sure if and when I’d be coming back, so I ended up deleting all the remaining asks in my inbox. I apologize to everyone who sent something in—they were all wonderful, and I deeply appreciate/ed the engagement. I was just becoming incredibly burnt out and couldn’t keep up with all of them. So again, thank you, and I’m really sorry that I didn’t respond.

Likewise, I’d like to mention that while my current masterlists won’t be going anywhere, I am not updating the Moonknight one. Meaning, I will no longer be writing for or accepting requests regarding him. But, I am still accepting asks for Steve Harrington (if you’ve been here for a while, you already know what’s up) and Din Djarin. I’m also into writing for a certain mcu, metal-armed super soldier, if that’s something you guys would be into…

(Oh my god, I’m so sorry for the massive fucking info-dump. My brain kept adding things to mention mid-ramble, so if this post is all over the place, please pretend that it isn’t, for my sake.)

And finally, all of this to say: I’ve missed our little community so very, very much, and I’m so very, very excited to be back.

Stay tuned.

Faith 🏹

[the-archxr]

he’s not real.

(down bad barking at the gym, or whatever it is taylor swift said)

i’ve died

[the-archxr]

im a lover by profession but i am also a recreational hater. these two things can coexist

[the-archxr]

[the-archxr]

[the-archxr]

THIS WAS SO FYCKING PRECIOUS ADVHRSVNJG

Enchanted

i wrote this with such speed i thought i was gonna pass out. a long one, my magnum opus as far as writing for Miguel goes. semi-proof-read?

in which Miguel is in love with you but you’re in love with Spider-Man.

Spider-Man. An illusive figure who arrived with the wind, retreating upon the stars. You couldn’t help your infatuation, couldn’t stand the way he had your stomach flipping at the mere mention of his name — jumbotrons displaying his well-built definition, detailing the lengths of his most recent brush with malice.

Clawed hands running along the sides of buildings, thick crimson webs entrapping unsuspecting offenders. Everything from the seemingly mundane to the exceptionally exemplary. Not a detail scurried past you, infatuated to your core, and the moment where you finally encountered him — flesh to spandex — was a moment you’d yet to forget.

A trip to the bank gone wrong. Mismatched militia of men in crude ski masks training their guns upon the various tellers performing dreadfully dull monetary tasks. They instructed —no — demanded cash be deposited within boringly beige burlap sacks. In an effort to conceal yourself once the gunfight began, you ducked behind a trio of seats, body shaking, praying you’d be spared from the influence of evil.

You’d damn near conceded to the universe right then and there, tears streaming across your cheeks. Then, as though the world had opened up, heeding your call:

Spider-Man.

He’d arrived upon seemingly thin air, just as you fantasized, defeating with the men in a flash — the onslaught of action leaving you frozen in place. Seconds, minutes had passed following Spider-Man’s victory, yet you stayed frozen. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

“You alright?”

The voice hadn’t registered, hands still covering your ears, gunfire playing out like a demented film in your mind.

Warmth. A hand pressed against your shoulder, tears ceasing their onslaught, the stray liquid hitting the floor. Eyes slick with moisture, burning from how tightly you’d shut up them looking up to find not a face, but a mask.

“Spider-Man…?”

“You’re not hurt, are you?”

It hadn’t even been something you’d considered, surveying yourself in tandem with Spider-Man, finding nothing out of the ordinary.

Besides, perhaps, your heartbeat.

“I’m… I’m fine, thank you.”

He nodded his head, holding out a hand to you, your own enveloped by his palm alone. “Let’s get you out of here. Where do you live?”

He wanted to take you — escort you — home.

In typical circumstance you would’ve scoffed at the question, removing yourself from the situation, mace coating their face as you made a daring escape.

But here, now, enveloped in everything Spider-Man, you couldn’t help your compliance, couldn’t help the way your stomach flipped at his proximity.

His touch had lingered somewhere along your frame the entire journey back to your apartment — hand, back, shoulder — he moved in an effort to extend safety, yet you couldn’t resist the blush that unfurled against your cheeks when he’d remove himself only to return.

“This is me,” You’d spoken hoarsely, praying Spider-Man believed your nerves stemmed from a place of perpetuating fear. Fiddling with your thumbs, practically unable to look him in the eyes — mask?

He seemed in tune with your movement, hand returning to encase your own, ceasing your fidget. The man hesitated, a deafening silence, “Stay safe, okay?”

That was that. You’d returned to your apartment dazed and discombobulated, calling your boss to explain what had happened — you wouldn’t be able to attend today, perhaps not tomorrow, either. There you stayed within the safety of your apartment, reflecting on the day’s events, and yet only one thing reigned consistent in your mind.

Spider-Man.

You knew him — Spider-Man, even if you hadn’t known it. Miguel despised it, despised the way you spoke of him without even realizing it. Friends from work, the best of friends. But everyday he yearned for the threshold between platonic and romantic to blur, itching to feel his skin against yours.

Miguel’s heart sank when you called out, kicking himself for not realizing how deeply this morning’s debacle might have affected you. At the first sign of mental relief, he’d taken the opportunity to call you, fiddling with the picture of you and his daughter — the day you’d taken her out for her birthday — displayed neatly on his desk for everyone to see.

Everyone except you, of course.

You hadn’t the faintest idea it was there, Miguel coincidentally moving it aside, perhaps blocking it with his bulbous stature whenever you’d enter his office.

But he knew, his daughter knew, every other co-worker that had entered inquiring upon advice knew.

How his daughter adored you, and it only made him all the more enchanted with you.

Yet those feelings he’d extended towards his daughter in the midst of exhausted delirium, admitting — yes — he like-liked you were forced to remain hidden.

Those feelings that bubbled inside his chest whenever you smiled up at him, or brushed his shoulder during your trek to the office, were forced to remain hidden

The sound of the line connecting had Miguel sitting up straighter in his swivel chair, hesitant to respond, cursing you for answering your phone while you weren’t in the best shape.

Why would you just take of yourself? Why wouldn’t you just let him take care of you?

“Miguel,” Your meager voice upon pick-up echoed as though you had been asleep, a drawl to your voice, hopelessly drowsy — confused.

Or perhaps you’d been in tears?

The thought alone left Miguel’s heart clenching for relief.

“Hey,” He picked at loose skin surrounding his nail bed, “I uh… You called out?”

You hummed in response, Miguel doing the same. In truth, he hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond. He didn’t believe he’d get this far, didn’t realize how the mere tingle of the phone against his ear — displaying your contact photo of the night out where he was seconds away from confessing his feelings — would have his stomach flipping in circles.

“You’re not feeling well? Not… What’s wrong?”

He could hear you shift on the other line, a sniffle.

You were crying.

“Just… Something happened before work and I…” He heard the way your throat clenched, fighting the urge to cry, “I didn’t think I’d be able to go, y’know, do my job — not with that on my mind.” You forced a laugh, Miguel’s chest only clenching tighter.

He loathed himself for not being there sooner, beat himself up for not delivering you from the clutches of those fucked men. If you’d been home, his home that he’d gladly make yours, this wouldn’t have happened.

He didn’t want to ever allow it to happen again.

Miguel knew he should’ve killed those pathetic excuses for men then and there, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not with you present.

Perhaps the evening called for a targeted patrolling session.

“Want me to stop by? I could…” Miguel hesitated, “I could bring something to eat if you don’t feel well enough to cook, maybe…”

“No, Mig.” He could hear your hesitance, your voice quaking, distressed. “I just wanna be alone…”

Your sobs could be heard as the line disconnected, Miguel ridden with overwhelming grief.

He didn’t want to leave you alone, leave you to suffer in the silence of your apartment. Not when he could be there to hold you close, not when his daughter could braid your hair and ramble about classroom activities and playground gossip.

He was simply meant for you, meant to adore you with everything that encompassed his being.

Why wouldn’t you just let him?

Of course, you’d returned to work eventually, life seeming to resume as intended. You hadn’t been away long, something that simultaneously relieved and upset Miguel.

Relief from seeing your personified perfection in the flesh.

Upset because you shouldn’t have to push yourself to heal before you're ready.

You fell back into your daily habits with relative ease. Returning to work, an overwhelming project at your call upon your return, which precedented a late evening — crumpled papers, glasses hanging low on the tip of your nose. You simply couldn't get this right no matter how incessantly you tried, no matter how much effort you put into it. You were out of your zone, mind plagued with images of Spider-Man and everything that encompassed him.

“You’re not going home?” Miguel’s voice was laced with concern, leaning against the doorway to your office — adjacent rooms, right beside each other whenever the other yearned for moral support; confirmation in the midst of their work.

Sometimes you caught that the mere vibration of his melodic tone filled you with a sense of enchantment, legs weak and mind fogged with his essence.

The two of you couldn't afford to travel down that rabbit-hole, not again. Lingering touches, lovesick stares. Your lives were far too hectic, too different to allow yourselves such vulnerability.

You couldn't do that to him, to his daughter.

“Huh?” You snapped out of your academic stupor upon realizing you had, in fact, registered his voice amongst your onslaught of thoughts. “Oh, no. I already ate.”

Miguel laughed at you then. Relishing in your inattentiveness, the way your mind wandered to the simplest trivialities, the way you became entrapped within your work, forfeiting your very existence in favor of a breakthrough. Ripping the paper from your hands, your pout making Miguel see stars. “Miguel, I need that.”

Yet he couldn't help the way he felt wondering if it wasn't thoughts of frustration that plagued your mind, but thoughts of him.

“No,” The man tucked the paper neatly into one of the drawers attached to your desk, holding it closed with his calf, “You need to go home.”

“I’m not playing around, this is important.”

“Neither am I.”

You were stubborn, Miguel knew that, despised it. That didn’t deter him from extending a hand, working to convince you. Back and forth you shot excuses upon excuses, explanations piling upon others.

However, in the end, he had a daughter he adored to return home to. If you didn’t want to listen to a friend’s concerns…

Friend.

The word alone left a fowl taste in his mouth.

He couldn’t do anything to deter you from your decision.

His journey home was one he’d taken in complete silence, Nueva York’s hustle and bustle nothing more than insignificant background noise. His daughter was home waiting, one of his neighbors whose child attended the same school gracious enough to walk her home when he was unable to. The two had dinner, watched sparkly cartoons, and retired for an evening’s rest — all while you hunched over your desk, pencils coming and going, frustrations taken out on countless crumpled papers desecrating your office floor.

When you’d finally emerged, dazed and exhausted, a voice called out to you above, rain pouring against the sidewalk, and of course you’d neglected to check the weather — not an umbrella in sight.

Just your luck.

“Late evening?” Spider-Man was crouched on the lamppost above you, soaking wet, looking down with an unreadable expression due to the mask obscuring his face.

Just your luck.

“You don’t have any idea.” You responded, holding your face, fighting the blush that pushed forward. His voice was like honey, smooth as he spoke every word. “Shit.”

“No umbrella?”

You nodded your head with hesitance, embarrassed. Spider-Man hopped down from his height ways above you, standing before you in all his glory. Proximity practically nonexistent, and you wouldn’t have it any other way, soothed by the prospect of his presence alone. “I don’t really have anywhere to keep one with the suit but…” He contemplated what he’d say next very carefully, “Want a ride?”

“You have a spider-car?”

“Well, no.” Spider-Man gestured to his wrists with a silent laugh, web-shooters fashioned there, encasing his wrists beautifully. “But if you close your eyes, it’s kinda the same.”

“Oh.” You were hesitant, unsure if it would be a wise idea. Yet, in the end, you’d opted to accept. It would be much quicker, you convinced yourself, and that was definitely the only reason you’d taken the extended invitation.

No other reason.

Nueva York was beautiful this time of night, windows from above glittering like flecks of gold, quaint as silence began to make its home. The cars speckled the asphalt like stars against the inky darkness of an evening sky. The sight unparalleled by anything that encompassed the human experience.

Of course, you’d been unable to witness everything, eyes shut as you held onto Spider-Man’s neck like your life was dependent on it.

It very well might’ve been, but you knew he wouldn’t allow you to fall.

And if by some off-chance you had, he would surely be there to catch you.

“We really need to stop meeting like this, unfavorable situations.” You joked as he produced you at the window to your apartment, the two of you standing on the fire escape, rain still fluttering around you. By now, you were soaked, looking up at Spider-Man through a hand held high-above your eyes, shielding your gaze from the rain.

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

You hadn’t an idea what he could’ve meant, but that didn’t deter your mind from coming to unreasonable conclusions. Was he flirting? Did he mean his words in a romantic sense? Certainly not. People like Spider-Man didn’t have time for relationships, not trivial ones, anyways. And if he did, you convinced yourself he certainly wouldn’t extended his affections towards someone as seemingly insignificant as yourself.

Spider-Man took hold of your face, your body tensing, a million thoughts running rampant in your mind. “You should get inside,” He finally spoke, “Wouldn’t wanna catch a cold, miss another day of work.”

Just like that, he was gone, off into the evening. The rain had ceased, your body soaked, hopping into your apartment through your window. Your nightly routined had gone as typical, but when it came to rest...

You simply couldn’t sleep that evening, thoughts overrun with thoughts of your arachnid savior.

And somewhere down the way, Miguel was just the same.

“I was wondering if you’d wanna go out tonight? I got uh… Well my neighbor is…”

You weren’t paying attention, head in your hand, picking at your lunch with the other.

No, your mind was entirely absorbed by thoughts of Spider-Man, your meeting him once again all you’d been able to conjure to your mind. For once, work went undone without apprehension, and you allowed it. You were one of the best Geneticists alongside Miguel, they wouldn’t dream of replacing you, not for something as trivial as today’s agenda.

Miguel was still rambling beside you, “But yeah, so if you want, we should definitely—“

“Huh?” Miguel’s heart seemed to deflate. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

“No, yeah.” He pushed the tickets back into his pants pocket, clenching them in frustration, “I gathered that.”

“Did you… Were you asking me something?”

“No, no. Nothing important, just a theory I came across while working earlier.”

“Oh,” You mumbled an apology, “You can discuss it, if you want.”

He shook his head, rising from your shared table in the cafeteria, retreating to who-knows-where. Guilt plagued you, chest tightening, Miguel seeming particularly perturbed by your lack of attention.

You decided you would try to make it up to him, take him out somewhere, perhaps the three of you — himself, his daughter, you — could hang out like you’d done previously. Time dwindling as work piled higher. as thoughts of another took you away from where Miguel had once remained, nestled in your heart.

You couldn’t wait for him forever, realizing he hadn’t any feelings for you all those months ago.

Right?

Miguel felt nothing but pain.

An overwhelming clench of his chest as he was forced to watch you fall for someone else.

Granted, it was still him. He could still have you, if he wanted to, under the guise of Spider-Man.

But Miguel didn’t want that. He wanted you all to himself, everything that encompassed you. Fleeting glances, late nights, domesticity. All Miguel yearned for in this world was the prospect of your love, everything to himself.

Miguel wanted to worship you, wanted you to adore him, just as he did you. He didn’t want you to love Spider-Man, didn’t want this persona of himself to be the one you fell for.

And yet you had.

He fucking loathed it.

It pained him to think he was losing you to none other than himself. Pained him to think the only way he’d ever be able to love you was from behind a mask.

So when you approached him, heart on your sleeve, bright smile on your face as you inquired about an evening together, he hadn’t the faintest idea why he’d responded in the fashion he had.

“It’s a beautiful place,” You fawned, walking beside Miguel to your adjacent offices. A habit you’d built together, breakfast in each other’s company, “I heard Spider-Man dined there once. Or, rescued someone who was dining there? I really can’t remember.”

Miguel was thoroughly frustrated, fists balled at his sides. The entire journey you'd found someway to bring Spider-Man into the conversation. He didn't want that. He yearned for his name to fall from your lips as easily as his title. “Is that all you know how to talk about?”

“Excuse me?” You were unsure whether he meant his words with malice.

“I mean,” Miguel scoffed. Why was he doing this? He was losing all sense of reason the further you fell for Spider-Man, the further you strayed from his open arms. “It seems like lately all you want to discuss is Spider-Man! His suit, the way he speaks, the way he holds you.”

Maybe you'd gotten far too caught up in everything, more than you'd realized. In truth, you didn't believe the extent of your fawning had sauntered on insufferable, but perhaps it had been a flaw in your lapse of judgement.

Miguel made it seem as much.

“Does that… Does that bother you, Miguel?”

“Y-“ He paused, taking a deep breath, confused as to what his answer truly was. “Not at all. It’s an observation.”

You nodded in understanding, thumbs twidling in front of you, Miguel ceasing the movement with a squeeze of his hand, absentminded. He didn’t look to you, gaze still trained to the pavement before you.

So familiar, yet.

"Are you jealous?" You'd blurted the question without thinking, without considering what effect your — ill-thought — words would have on the man. His posture grew rigid, pupils dilated, scowl forming upon his angular features.

You didn't believe there to be a day in your life where Miguel scowled, extending an expression of such unadulterated malice. It was your own, you reasoned. His expression, this change seeming to occur before your eyes was nothing more than the consequences of your own actions.

But as his silence festered, continued, you found yourself growing increasingly insecure. After all, what had you anticipated his answer to be? Did you have a hope for how he would respond?

Did you yearn for Miguel to express the innermost working of his mind, the truth?

“We’re just work friends,” He spoke coldly, your heart clenching, burning. "Why on Earth would I have any reason to be jealous of what you do outside office hours?"

Work friends. A distinction between reality and augmentation. Perhaps, this entire time, you’d truly been imagining the magnetism that existed between the both of you — lingering hands, soft smiles, whispered affirmations — nothing more than figment.

A laugh fell from your lips — dry, overrun with regret. There was a point in time you wouldn't have believed him. Then, you would've bumped his shoulder, looking up at him with an expression of unfiltered joy, entirely joyous with your banter. He would be joking, a jester in his own right, and you’d be conscious of it.

Now…

Now you weren’t sure where you stood, and Miguel had made it his mission to make it abundantly clear, drawing that line you’d believed a blur.

Another byproduct of imagination, you supposed.

“Of course,” You conceded in an instant, the energy to refute his words, beg him for clarity long gone in a matter of seconds. “I shouldn’t have… I wasn’t thinking.”

“I can tell.”

Why had Miguel spoke to you like that?

Pain? Jealously? All that stemmed from his own actions?

You hadn’t visited him during your conveniently joint break, Miguel eating a lunch packed by his darling daughter in the dim lighting of his office — your voice echoing from down the hall, engaged in conversation with one of your coworkers, and while he hadn’t made it a habit to extend his Spider-abilities outside of his costume, he simply couldn’t resist.

An invitation for drinks, to spend time outside of work.

Work relationship transitioning from professional to platonic. Just as yours had months prior, perhaps a little too well.

Fuck.

Miguel returned home to his daughter that evening in shambles, doing his best to put on a smile for the young girl, repeating their nightly activities effortlessly — Friday evening, no need to worry about work or school the next morning.

Unless, of course, they called him in for some ridiculous reason, but it seemed unlikely given the trajectory of their progress.

He’d have his world — vida — entirely to himself. Nothing could take that right away from him, not this universe nor the one that followed. If he couldn’t have you, at least his daughter would be there to pick up the pieces of her father’s broken heart. Mending a man shattered without even realizing it.

But, in this life you were always the singular constant he could never take into proper consideration, entropic in nature.

When life threw a curveball, it was always you extending your arm in offense.

Miguel hadn't the faintest idea how to go about what had transpired between the two of you, helpless to your influence, hopeless in facing his feeling. A pile of putty between your fingers.

But as his darling child had him watching a sappy sparkly-princess movie, the two love interests defying the prospects of space and time in their journey towards true love — their love story rewritten in their favor, Miguel couldn't help the tears he shed. Couldn’t help the way his oblivious daughter teased her father, running tiny thumbs across his cheeks to wipe away his tears.

Couldn’t help the way his thoughts drifted to you.

Missed call following missed call. Miguel had been attempting to contact you since early evening yesterday, continuing into this morning. By now, Saturday, the sun had begun its descent from the sky, disappearing along the horizon.

You'd yet to return his call, didn't know if you ever intended on doing so.

Surely he'd be seen bright and early Monday morning, punctuality his vice and simultaneous virtue. But whether or not he'd have a bagged bagel in hand, extended for your pleasure, was unclear.

Either way, you wouldn't blame him, you supposed.

Another call, his contact on display — an image of him you'd taken at the perfect opportunity, a breakthrough stemming from his work — and you couldn't help but clench your eyes in refusal.

It took a lot of convincing, far too much convincing for you to produce yourself from your bedsheets, having been invited out for a round of drinks by your co-workers. Initially, you'd refused, but their incessant attempt at convincing you had finally broke through.

So there you stood in the mirror, dressed to the nines in the best outfits you could've produced from your closet.

It wasn't particularly enchanting by any means, something you'd thrown together in the spur of the moment, simultaneously texting your coworker to inform them you'd be attending while dressing yourself, their excitement shimmering through text bubbles.

It had been a beautiful evening, the location a tavern-like establishment embellished with plants that rained down from the ceiling as though extending themselves to you, whispering your name and enveloping you in their embrace.

Jokes were exchanged, far too many beverages tossed about, but you maintained a decent level of sobriety despite everything. But even as you enjoyed your time, you couldn't help the thought that plagued your mind. Singular, the possibility of anything else replacing the thought inconceivable.

Miguel would adore it here.

He's a simple man, always was and always would be. He indulged in what was required, everything else simply a bonus stemming from his diligent educational prowess. An intelligent man, and he knew that in his entirety, never doubting himself.

Yet you made him feel so dumb, lost. Not a single textbook, equation or lecture could bring him any further into the depths of your mind than he'd began.

Did he like it that way?

Perhaps.

You bid your goodbyes as the evening hours fell into morning, the hustle and bustle of the city still at ease. But that didn't mean crime wasn't lurking at every corner, keen on corrupting the innocent, extending insecurities and fear upon the most unsuspecting of victims.

And that's exactly what occurred.

Hands enveloped you, not the welcomed kind like Spider-Man's or Miguel's, but ones that were laced with genuine discontent. Someone was making an attempt at your head. But for what?

"You seem well-off," The raspy voice was laced in alcohol, the corner of your eyes revealing a man with a stature that was nearly rat-like in nature. "Have anyone at home? A husband? Wife?"

You didn't know how to respond, didn't know if you should. The feeling of a chilled blade changed your confusion, morphing it into compliance.

You shook your head, nobody was waiting for you at home. Not that you wouldn’t like to change that, it simply wasn’t in the cards, divined by the universe.

"Good, good." His head peered around the corner, not a soul in sight, and suddenly you realized how dangerous it was to be here entirely on your lonesome. "You're gonna take me to your house, I'm gonna take whatever I want, and when I'm done you're not gonna tell a soul — not unless you intend on keeping this pretty little neck intact."

He slid the blade along your throat, your body physically rejecting it, bile seeping up your esophagus.

Suppose if you just complied, perhaps stalled for time, maybe he...

You couldn't rely on Spider-Man.

After all, he was a person too, someone with his own life and own aspirations. It was entirely possible he was well beyond asleep at this time, curled up in his bedsheets, unaware of the silent altercation occurring in some insignificant alley. While he was the city’s protector, that didn’t mean he had the divine ability to zero-in on the ins and outs of crime’s occurrences.

Spider-Man can’t save everyone.

You were entirely alone.

The man's grip was unrelenting as he led you down the sidewalk, head buzzing from the evening that'd just concluded, simultaneously palpitating at the prospect of your demise. He dug his unkempt nails into your biceps, forearms, anywhere you could sink himself into — a groan ripping from your clothed mouth with every unwelcome extension of discomfort — hadn't a single soul been out? This was such an active city at all times of day, only a few moments of leeway at any given time.

Suppose you were grossly unlucky.

The stroll hadn't taken much time, finding yourself a few feet away from your apartment building, the man's grip tightening, drawing blood every time you approached somewhere remotely populated. "Not a sound, not if you wanna make it to see the sunrise."

How tempted you were to call fate out on its bullshit, wanting to scream, bite down on his hand and sprint away. But there was so much unfinished business, so much you'd yet to live through. If you simply cooperated, did as you were told, perhaps you'd find the fruits of your suffering weren't as sour as they seemed.

Just as you'd conceded, leading him towards the fire escape that would produce you outside your window — convincing yourself there was nothing left except compliance, a weight was lifted from your shoulders.

Some shuffles, groans and noises of struggle. But when all was said and done, Spider-Man stepped into the light of a flickering streetlight. He appeared distressed, frantic as he approached you with hesitant movements. His hands hovered your shoulders, looking you over, wordless in his late-night examination.

And then you cried.

You cried because you were alone. Cried because you’d nearly died, and what would you have had to show for it? You’ve been so enthralled by a man bathed in red and blue hues that you’d neglected the happenings of life you’d worked so tirelessly to achieve — your career, friendships, relationships — all because you were scared, all because you couldn’t get some fantasy off your mind.

You’d been rescued by the very man you prayed would come to your aid, looking to the heavens as you begged the universe to send him to you.

But that wasn’t who your mind wandered to when you thought of Spider-Man, was it?

No. When you rationalized your death, convinced yourself Spider-Man wouldn’t be there for your rescue, you weren’t truly thinking of the midnight crusader.

Your mind had wandered to Miguel.

“Let’s get you home,” Spider-Man spoke as though his throat were clenched, merely holding out a hand, unable to take you into his embrace. “You shouldn’t be out at this time, not alone.”

And all you could think of was Miguel, how he wouldn’t have hesitated to envelop you then and there, previous quarrel be damned.

Miguel who always seemed acutely in-tune with your emotions, who would bend the heavens and the earth to ensure your happiness. Your lives previous had been hopefully, expectant. Friends and families wondering when things would become official, when your ever-obvious feelings would be unveiled to one another — relief falling upon all those who stood by helplessly, watching with indignant compliance.

But that never happened.

“I don’t… Please don’t take me home.” You were practically begging, holding onto yourself with an unrelenting grip, imagining another in its place. You couldn’t go home, not after everything you’d experienced, not with the thoughts that plagued your mind. You feared if you were to return home, the man would be there awaiting your arrival, even as his body lay numb in the alleyway opposite yourself.

Spider-Man didn’t hesitate, hadn’t argued. “Where can I take you?”

Then you pondered, truly pondered his inquiry. Where could he take you? Certainly your co-workers would have long-since fallen asleep following their intoxicated stupors. Not that it would be particularly professional of you to appear at the doorstep of newly-formed acquaintances. Family? You had none, all having fled Nueva York in the midst of the crime that plagued the city, the dangers that lurked prior to Spider-Man’s self-anointed inauguration — protector of the city, defender of the innocent.

“Miguel.” His name fell from your lips like second-nature, muscle memory. You hadn’t even been aware you’d spoken such until the deed was done, Spider-Man’s clothed eyes widening beside you.

The Spider was hesitant. “Do you trust him?” And you found it endearing how he was concerned with your decision-making skills.

Anyone would be, considering you’d been able to convince yourself a midnight stroll was wise.

“With my entire life,” And if it weren’t for your shivering frame still overtaken with the memory of near-death, you would’ve smiled, warmth seeping into your chest. Because in your heart, unconsciously, you knew your words were as factual as the nucleic acids that made up your genetic code.

“I’ll take you to him.” He spoke it like a final decision, the defining factor.

And so he had. This journey was entirely different than ones taken previously. Your head didn’t hammer with the prospect of sharing secrets, didn’t yearn to discover who lurked behind the mask. Your mind entirely belonged to Miguel, that darling man, and how he might react to your presence.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

You’d arrived at the man’s windowsill, Spider-Man insisting it was a better alternative, easy-access to ensure safety. You crept through the window, turning to thank your savior, only to find Spider-Man long gone — nothing to indicate he’d ever been there, an anomaly in his own right.

Furniture stirred somewhere in the other room as you crouch to enter Miguel’s home, a curse under someone’s breath — someone you couldn’t see. “Miguel…?” There was no response, your hands moving to shut the window, transitioning to wrap around your center.

No, you shouldn’t be here.

Miguel had a daughter, he had priorities apart from you. You couldn’t just barge into his home because you had a fucked evening, tears in your eyes and bruises littering your body. He didn’t deserve this, not after the fight you’d had just hours prior to this moment.

Miguel didn’t see you like that, he’d never seen you like that, never could — and even if he was the person your mind wandered to, glued to, in your most vulnerable moments, that didn’t mean he felt the same of you.

You were just friends from work, right?

You turned on your heels, retreating quickly to his window from whence you came, wondering why it was unlocked in the first place if Miguel and his daughter were sound asleep. Surely he wasn’t that careless, not the Miguel you knew.

Then you wondered if it was safe for you to be out right now.

Granted, it seemed it wasn’t safe anywhere, but tonight in particular seemed foreboding, a call to which you didn’t know the answer.

The call of your name from behind you, Miguel standing in his pajamas, chest heaving as though he’d just ran a marathon. He was frazzled, hair unkempt, eyes filled with something — exhaustion, perhaps — but you couldn’t quite pinpoint what.

He called your name again upon your silence, unsure whether he was hallucinating in the midst of exhaustion, and you swear you saw stars.

“Miguel… Miguel I’m…”

He approached you slowly, your frame illuminated by the moonlight, appearing ethereal. You were everything he’d ever dreamed of, what his heart yearned for. Here you were, standing in his apartment, and he couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe out of everyone you’d gone to him for consolation, whispering his name into his suit-clad arms. “You’re hurt…” He spoke in a whisper — as though he hadn’t noticed prior, and while he hadn’t been oblivious to your injuries, he'd only come to realize the extent in this very moment.

“Who did this, Amor? What happened”

“I dont…” You were choking on your words, looking away from him. But upon his approach to close the burning distance between you, he tilted you to face him ever-so delicately. “I don’t know, but Spider-Man...”

Miguel was frantic in his speaking, “Was he there?”

You could only respond through a sob, better than nothing. “Of course he was, Miguel.” Another hitch of your breath, "He brought me here... To you."

He thanked Spider-Man, thanked himself. If he hadn’t shouldered the burden, taken this god-forsaken job, he would’ve been unable to save you.

Who knows what would’ve happened then.

"Didn't know the Spider-Man knew where I lived." A joke to himself, knowing you hadn't the faintest idea it was a joke to begin with. How he adored the expression that fanned across your puffed eyes, looking up to him as though he'd hung the moon and the stars before you. Enchanted by his presence.

"I'm the one that—"

He shushed you quietly, enveloping you in his warm embrace, the smell of his cologne wafting around you, grounding you.

It'd been forever since you'd been in such close proximity to Miguel, felt as though you hadn't experienced his warmth in centuries. There was a point in time where moments like this, extended vulnerabilty, were entirely common. Of course, they were quiet moments exclusively between the two of you, instances where you were certain nobody would be there to witness them — reserved only for the both of you, your own memories, untainted by the outside world.

Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to dwell on the past, and yet you couldn't help yourself, insecurity taking shape.

“I should go, I…” You turned to his door, foregoing any attempts at clambering out the window, Miguel’s firm grip faltering from around your shoulders, sliding around your wrist as he simultaneously pulled you into his chest, fighting tears as he listened to sobs muffled by his cotton white tee.

“Don’t go,” He was crying now, one hand playing with the ends of your hair while the other rubbed circles against your back. “Don’t leave, not tonight.”

“I can’t, your daughter—“

“Will understand that the person I love is in distress. She’s a smart kid, reminds me of you.”

“Miguel?”

He loved how his name fell from your lips. Through giggles, through spouts of frustration, even through tears. “Mi Vida?”

“Did you just say… Did you say you…”

Miguel laughed at your hesitance, palm caressing your cheek, “Take your time, I’m listening.”

“Did you just say you love me?”

“Did I?” Miguel chuckled, a kiss feathering the top of your head, “I can’t seem to remember.”

[the-archxr]

Barbie + text posts

[the-archxr]

Dear Readers,

I know I’ve been MIA for a while and I feel like I should’ve done this a couple months ago, but for the foreseeable future I’m not going to be writing or interacting with this page anymore. I might in the future, however, I find that within my first year of university my time has had to be allocated to other things. Within this, I feel as though I’ve grown past writing and no longer find as much enjoyment as I used to.

However, as I know that so many people have been so incredibly supportive and thoroughly enjoy my works I will not deactivate my account (I personally know how much it sucks to want to go back to a fic and have it be unavailable because the account was deactivated/deleted). So I wouldn’t want to take that away from you guys, especially considering how so many of you have been so wonderful and have expressed so much appreciation for my works (and continue to do so, which is absolutely mind-boggling!!).

I love and appreciate you all so much, for everything you’ve done—for all the influence, interest and recognition.

As always, take care of yourselves, you all deserve the best.

Thank you,

Faith <3

[the-archxr]

Have you deleted 'The Flower and The Sailor'? I can't find it anywhere on your page :(

Love your writing <3

Hello!!

Yes, I did delete some of my fics (particularly the ones I personally wasn’t a huge fan of) :(

I’m glad you enjoy my writing tho <3

[the-archxr]

i will admit i have looked upon men with a lustful gaze in my time

[the-archxr]

Women in France are fighting to wear the hijab while women in Iran are fighting to not wear the hijab

This is not a fight about Islam this is not a fight about religion this is a fight about women not having the right to do whatever they want with their bodies and being killed and persecuted for it

[the-archxr]

BROOOO

the way that Ser Harwin fought the entire dancefloor and carried Rhaenyra to safety gave me strong Din Djarin vibes like I NEED HIM TO CARRY ME LIKE THAT

[the-archxr]

JUST READ YOUR 'just like the movies' STEVE FIC IM OBSESSED WITH IT AND HJGFDHJK I HAD TO TAKE BREAKS BECAUSE I'D GET SO WORKED UP I ADORED IT

✨the-archxr asks✨

[the-archxr]

THANK YOU 🥹💗

do you think you could suggest some steve fics or good steve writers? wanna look for more to read!

I’m terrible at remembering urls and who wrote what! But off the top of my head my faves are:

@luveline @1986harrington @hellfirewhores @familyvideostevie @lurkymurker @sinclaiirs @rosemaremembrance @s-brant @the-archxr @indouloureux

There’s plenty more but I’m just home from work and I’m v hungry and brain isn’t working I’m sorry! 🥲