wirsdi

[wirsdi]

It starts with the hoodie.

Well — technically, it starts with you being cold and stealing his hoodie three days ago and refusing to give it back, but Miles starts it tonight.

You’re curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves dangling way past your fingers, fuzzy socks on your feet, and a smug little blanket burrito thing going on. Miles comes in from his makeshift office, arms crossed, eyebrows already halfway up his forehead when he sees you all cozy.. and in his clothes.

“That’s mine,” he says, gesturing at you.

You blink at him, expression blank and innocent. “No, it’s mine now.”

“That’s my investigative journalist hoodie. I need it for—”

“What, sneaking around police departments and ruining your spine?”

He gives you the look — the “you’re technically right, but I don’t appreciate it” look.

“Give it back,” he groans, reaching for you half-heartedly.

You shrink deeper into the blanket. “I live here now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“That’s not how the law works.”

“I’m cozier than the law.”

“Unbelievable.”

You narrow your eyes dramatically. “Say that again and I’ll take your sweatpants too.”

Miles narrows his eyes right back. “You already did. Those are mine.”

You glance down. “…Well then maybe you should take better care of your clothes.”

He sighs, but he’s smiling now — barely, but it’s there. That little twitch at the corner of his mouth, making a foxy smirk. It looks like he’s trying not to grin because he loves this. He loves arguing with you over laundry theft. He loves the game of it. The normalcy.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters.

You smile innocently. “And yet, here you are. Madly in love with me anyway.”

He flops onto the couch next to you and dramatically tosses the corner of your blanket over his lap. “Stockholm syndrome,” he grumbles.

“Please. If anyone here has Stockholm syndrome, it’s me.”

He snorts and pulls you into his chest, hoodie thief and all, blanket now tangled between the both of you. His hand sneaks under the hoodie, cold fingers on your side.

You jolt. “Ack-! Miles!”

“Give me back my hoodie.”

“Never!”

“Eh, you brought it on yourself,” he whispers, smug.

It ends in a wrestling match, kisses and both of you breathless on the couch, limbs tangled and laughter echoing in the small apartment in Washington.

And he lets you keep the hoodie.

Of course he does.

[wirsdi]

You wake up with a jolt.

The room is dark — barely lit by the gray spill of moonlight slipping through the curtains — and the low rumble of thunder rolls through your chest like a distant growl. It shakes the window, sinks in your ribs.

The rain’s coming down hard. You can hear it hitting the roof, the windows, the glass like it’s trying to get in. It makes you sit up. Heart racing.

Your skin’s clammy. Cold. Your breath’s too quick. Your fingers tremble where they twist in the blanket.

Another crack of thunder. Closer this time. Too loud.

You pull your knees to your chest.

You hate this. Hate the way storms always crawl under your skin like old memories. Like phantom hands reaching through time — grabbing, strangling, dragging. You’re trying to be rational. It’s just rain! Just noise!

But your body remembers fear in a language your mind can’t always translate. You wipe at your face, not even realizing you’re silently crying.

The bed creaks beside you. A groggy voice, low and rough with sleep:

“Love?”

You freeze.

Miles.

He shifts behind you, warm hand finding your waist. “You okay?”

You try to speak. Can’t.

The thunder cracks again, louder. You flinch.

Miles’ hand stills. Then slides slowly up your spine. “Hey. Hey, c’mere.”

He gently coaxes you back, until your forehead pokes his chest and his arms wrap fully around you. The heat of him, the weight of his body — both grounding.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “Been crying?”

You nod, pressing your face into his chest. You feel so small and embarrassed. Like a child afraid of a bad dream.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” you whisper.

He pulls you tighter. “Don’t be.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Not stupid,” he says, voice steady. “You’re scared. That’s not stupid.”

His thumb starts rubbing slow circles over your lower back. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t rush you.

Just stays.

“I didn’t wanna wake you.. You have to get up early for a reportage tomorrow, and here I am, waking you up because I'm afraid of some.. noise,” you murmur bitterly.

“I want you to wake me when you feel like this,” he says firmly. “That’s the deal, right? You carry me through all my ghosts, and I do the same for you.”

You let out a shaky breath. A tiny, tearful laugh.

“Lately, I have a bad feeling when I hear thunder. It's like there's going to be a day when something bad happens, in a severe thunderstorm,” you say, vulnerable.

His arms around you never loosen. “It’s just a feeling, maybe you just overthought. Right now, you’re here. With me. Four walls, solid roof. Nothing getting through that window but noise.”

You close your eyes, listening to the sound of the storm, buffered by his chest.

“You want something to help ground you?” he asks. “A trick?”

You nod.

“Alright. Focus on my voice.” Miles moves his hand, slowly guiding your palm to his chest, over his heart. “Feel that?”

You nod again. His heart is slow. Steady. The opposite of yours.

“Count the beats. Breathe with me, we’ll ride it out together.”

So you do.

One breath in. One breath out. You count. You listen. You feel.

Miles keeps talking.

Tells you dumb stories from his job — how he once found a bear in his tent in the forest, how he almost got bit by a horse, trying to get a shot for his article.

You giggle into his chest.

“There she is,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “My brave girl.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Bravery isn’t for not letting yourself be scared. It’s feeling scared and facing it anyway. You woke me up. That’s brave.”

Another rumble shakes the sky.

But you don’t flinch this time. Not with Miles’ arms around you. Not with his heartbeat under your hand. Not with his lips brushing your temple like a promise.

You fall asleep that way — held, safe, warm, wrapped in his voice.

And when you wake, hours later, the storm has passed.

But his arms are still around you.

Just like he promised.

[wirsdi]

You never thought being a symbiote host would come with a science project. Yet here you were, sprawled on the couch with a book in your hands, trying to hold still while Venom’s black tendrils teased around your ribs and sides. You were caught somewhere between giggles and pleas as the gooey tendrils danced expertly, searching, probing.

“Why do humans laugh?” Venom’s voice rumbled deep and low inside your head, a hint of fascination threading through the growl. “Explain this… reaction.”

You squirmed, laughter bubbling over despite yourself. “I-I don’t know! It’s just… reflex. It’s ticklish!”

Venom paused, the tendrils freezing mid-wriggle. “Ticklish? Define this sensation.”

You exhaled, breathless. “It’s a.. funny, sensitive feeling. Like… when something touches your skin in a way that makes you laugh but you also kinda want it to stop.”

A moment of silence. Then: “Fascinating.”

Venom’s dark mass pooled around your sides, gently yet persistently tracing invisible lines, barely vibrating to make your nerve endings tingle. You tried to keep your composure but failed, bursts of laughter escaping before you could catch them.

“Subject is showing signs of anticipation. Increased heart rate,” Venom mused, voice a mix of amusement and scientific curiosity. “Observation: laughter is involuntary, yet desired by host.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed. “I do like laughing, but you’re killing me with these!”

Venom’s tendrils snaked up to your ribs, curling and flicking. “This is… data. Crucial data. Hypothesis: laughter strengthens bond between host and symbiote.”

You bit your index finger with a smile, “You’re ridiculous.”

He chuckled, a deep, vibrating sound that made you shiver. Then - unexpectedly - Venom shifted, wrapping a warm, gooey limb around your waist and pulling you close.

“You are my favorite… subject.”

You melted into the “embrace”, breath still shaky from laughter and the weird warmth of Venom’s affection.

Suddenly, you felt something softer pressed over your belly, gentle and slow. ���Venom?” you asked, surprised.

“Exploring,” he said, voice playful now.

Before you could react, his tongue flicked teasingly against your skin and you squealed, squirming away with a grin.

“Not fair!” you laughed.

Venom grinned back, the goo shaping into a cheeky smile. “All experiments require control. I am… scientist.”

You gave him a mock glare. “You’re a dork!”

He nuzzled your side.

“And you… are adorable.”

[wirsdi]

You weren’t supposed to be in the building.

You definitely weren’t supposed to be in the building with Miles Upshur.

“Remind me again,” you hissed as the two of you crouched behind a rusted-out filing cabinet in what used to be an office space, “how this was your brilliant idea of a date?”

Miles grinned in the dim glow of his camera’s night vision. “I told you it’d be memorable.”

“Breaking into a mental health records facility with no power and no backup is not a date, Miles!” you gritted through your teeth, desperately wanting to choke him right here and now.

“Sure it is. There’s mystery. Adventure. Low lighting and intimate danger.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You’d miss me.”

You stared at him and clicked your tongue. “Would not.”

He flicked the camera off and gave you that lazy, unfairly handsome little smirk that made you hate how much you loved him. “You totally would.”

You exhaled hard through your nose but didn’t argue. Mostly because he was right. Infuriatingly, Miles Upshur was almost always right — a fact he wore like a second skin.

And God help you, it was kind of hot.

Even now, crouched in a moldy corner with your thighs cramping and your nerves frayed, he looked calm, cool, and somehow pleased, like this was the best fun he’d had all week.

“You know,” you whispered, squeezing the flashlight, “most couples do dinner.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “We had tacos before this.”

“We argued over tacos.”

He shrugged. “Still counts.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. You knew what you were getting into when you started dating Miles. He was trouble in a leather jacket. Trouble with a press badge, with high handsome cheekbones and a brain that never slowed down.

But he made you feel alive. Even when he was seconds away from getting you both arrested or murdered.

Like right now.

You both went still at the sound of a door creaking open down the hall.

Miles didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe.

Then, slowly, he lifted the camera again and pressed record, making you take a deep breath, so as not to grab his camera and throw it in the nearest wall.

“You’re gonna get us killed,” you muttered.

“Mhmm,” he hummed back, not even looking at you. “But imagine the story..” his voice got all dreamy and soft, definitely imagining the possible scenario and articles about you.

Your eyes were already sore from rolling them so many times.

He moved, smooth and low to the ground, signaling you with a flick of his fingers. You followed, you always did, and crept through the crumbling corridor behind him. The place smelled like rot and mildew, the air thick with dust.

“Tell me again what we’re looking for?” you whispered, ducking beneath a shattered beam.

“Evidence,” he said. “There was a lawsuit in ninety second — patients experimented on, families paid off. Murkoff covered the whole crap up.”

“So your plan is to waltz into a building that even Murkoff abandoned, all alone, without telling anyone, even your family, where you are?”

“I told you.”

“I’m not a safety plan, Miles. I’m your very pissed off girlfriend.”

He smirked and gently pinched your cheek. “Even better.”

You gave him a harmless swat on the shoulder. He just kept walking.

⸻

Eventually you both ended up in what used to be a record room, stacks of files collapsed into heaps. The shelves looked like they might fall if you breathed wrong.

“This is it,” Miles said, eyes glittering behind his camera lens. “Patient files. Maybe logs from the orderlies.”

He started digging, careful and practiced, flipping through papers with an expert’s eye. You knew that look — laser-focused, efficient, a journalist in the wild. He wasn’t just handsome when he was like this — he was magnetic. Unstoppable.

You, on the other hand, coughed quietly as you stirred up three decades of dust. Taking the collar of your shirt, you covered your nose, feeling your eyes starting to sting from the dust.

“Should’ve brought a mask,” you muttered.

“I’m a risk-taker.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He snorted. “You love idiots.”

“Just one.”

He paused, looked up, and gave you that look — the one that made your knees soft and your mouth go dry.

“Lucky me,” he said, and, moving the fabric of your shirt to the side, pressed his lips against yours. A quick, confident peck. Like he didn’t care if the ghosts in the walls saw.

You were still frowning when he turned back to the files like nothing had happened.

“Asshole,” you whispered. But your heart wasn’t in it.

⸻

Unfortunately, it didn’t stay quiet for long.

Ten minutes later, you heard it — a metallic clatter from deeper in the building. Something moving.

You froze. Miles, of course, did not.

“Rats,” he said casually.

You swallowed. “That didn’t sound like a rat.”

“Might’ve been a really ambitious one.”

“Miles—” you were about to start scolding him like a child, who ate the whole plate of candies, but he didn’t let you.

“C’mon.”

You should’ve said no when he took your cool hand in his bigger, warmer one. Should’ve dragged him out of there by his smug leather jacket and driven away.

But instead, you followed him down the hall — heart pounding, adrenaline humming.

You were so in love with this idiot.

⸻

The sound led you to a sub-basement stairwell. Miles hesitated at the top.

“I go first,” he said, serious for once.

You raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since always. You’re the reckless one, remember?”

You snorted. “That’s you, actually.”

He grinned. “Fine. We’re both reckless. But I’m more charming,” with these foxy eyes, he went down first, holding the railing like it might fall off. The steps groaned under your weight, and every breath you took felt like it echoed.

At the bottom was a door. Closed. Rusted. Miles tried the handle — it gave way with a reluctant screech. Inside: another hallway. Flickering emergency lights barely lit the path.

And then — something moved. You both froze.

Not a rat.

Not a pipe.

Something human-sized.

You turned to Miles, not wanting to know what that was. “We leave. Now.”

He hesitated.

You grabbed his arm. “I’m serious, Upshur. Whatever you’re chasing isn’t worth this. Not now.”

He looked at you. And for once, the smugness faded.

“You’re scared,” he said softly.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“…Okay.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t push. Miles just took your hand and started backing away. And only then the thing at the end of the hallway stepped into view. It was not a ghost, not a monster. It was much worse.

A human. A man.

Big. Dirty. Armed. And definitely crazy.

Miles didn’t think — he pulled you, fast, and you ran.

⸻

You didn’t stop until you were back at the car, lungs burning, hands shaking. Miles shoved the camera into the passenger seat and started the engine without a word.

The silence stretched.

Then, finally, he said, driving away from the abandoned building: “Okay, maybe that was a bad idea.”

You let out a choked nervous laugh. “Maybe?”

Upshur looked over at you, sheepish. “You’re not gonna break up with me, are you?”

You stared at him. Tried to think if you wanted to strangle him, yell at him, or kiss him. Then sighed, shook your head and leaned over to kiss him, even though this brat didn’t deserve the last option, starting with him leading you both to this place, and ending with him being too smug for his own good.

When you pulled back, he was dazed. “…So no?”

You shook your head, smiling. “You’re a moron. A big one.”

He grinned. “Still the best date you’ve ever had.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“I knew it.”