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🪖(5) 𝙃𝙚𝙡𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙃𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨

ᴄᴏʟᴏɴᴇʟ!ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ x ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:

ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏʟᴏɴᴇʟ ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ'ʜᴀʀᴀ'ꜱ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɴᴏᴡ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴏ ꜰᴀʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɪᴍᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ɪᴛ ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀꜱꜱɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏɴᴇʟ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏʟ ɪꜱ ʜᴇʟᴘꜰᴜʟ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛᴇʀɴ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴏɪɴᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱQᴜᴀᴅ. ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴀɪʟᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ, ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇꜱᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪɴᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀᴛɪꜱꜰʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ɴᴇᴇᴅꜱ. ʙᴜᴛ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟꜱᴇ…

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏɴᴇʟ ɪꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ.

𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓗𝓮𝓻𝓮

🐴(6) ʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴏɴ ꜰɪʀᴇ

ʙᴏᴜɴᴛʏʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ!ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ’ʜᴀʀᴀ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ꜱᴀꜱꜱʏᴠᴀQᴜᴇʀᴀ

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:

ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ’ʜᴀʀᴀ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʀᴜᴛʜʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ʙᴏᴜɴᴛʏ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟᴅ ᴡᴇꜱᴛ, ʀᴇɴᴏᴡɴᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪꜱ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ᴡɪᴛ, ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ᴀɪᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴘʀᴇᴄᴇᴅᴇɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋɪɴɢ ꜱᴋɪʟʟꜱ. ʜᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴜᴛʟᴀᴡꜱ ʜᴇ ᴀʀʀᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴍᴇʀᴇʟʏ ʙᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱꜱ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴇʏᴇꜱ, ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ.

ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴏᴜᴛʟᴀᴡ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟᴅ ᴡᴇꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ꜱᴍɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴏʀɢᴇᴏᴜꜱ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ, ʀᴀᴠɪꜱʜɪɴɢ ʙᴏᴅʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴛᴇᴅ.

ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴ ᴏᴜᴛʟᴀᴡ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ, ᴀ ʙᴏᴜɴᴛʏ ʜᴜɴᴛᴇʀ.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɪʟ.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴍɪx…

ᴏʀ ꜱᴏ ɪᴛ ꜱᴇᴇᴍᴇᴅ…

𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟣

🥃(7) ᗪᖇᑌᑎᛕᗴᑎ ᒪᗝᐯᗴ

ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀʙᴇꜱᴛꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ!ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ’ʜᴀʀᴀ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:

ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜʀ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛᴜᴅʏɪɴɢ ᴀʙʀᴏᴀᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀ 'ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ' ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ʜᴏꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜ Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴀꜱ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ—ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ʀᴜᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʟꜰɪꜱʜ ᴍᴀɴ, ꜱᴏʟᴇʟʏ ꜰᴏᴄᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴍᴏɴᴇʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱꜱ. ᴀꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛʀɪᴄᴛ ʀᴜʟᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜꜰᴜʟ ᴇʏᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ’ʜᴀʀᴀ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ’ꜱ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ, ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴏᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴛɪᴄɪɴɢ ᴇꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇ…

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ…

𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓗𝓮𝓻𝓮

⚗️ (8) 𝔗𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔚𝔢𝔟𝔰 

ꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛɪꜱᴛ!ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ’ʜᴀʀᴀ x ᴛʜᴇʀᴀᴘɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:

ᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴀʟᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴀᴘɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴛ ɴᴜᴇᴠᴀ ʏᴏʀᴋ’ꜱ ꜱᴀɴᴄᴛᴜᴀʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀꜱꜱɪɢɴᴇᴅ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴛ—ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇx, ᴄᴀᴘᴛɪᴠᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴅʀᴀᴡɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ.

𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟣: 

👑 (𝟫) 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓈 𝐸𝓉 𝐿𝒾𝒷𝑒𝓇

ᴋɪɴɢꜱɢᴜᴀʀᴅ!ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ x ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:

ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴀʟᴏʀɪᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀ, ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛꜰᴜʟ, ᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ, ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴀʟʟ, ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇ ɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇᴛᴇꜱᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ᴇꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴀᴅᴏᴡ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ʏᴇᴛ ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴘᴀꜱᴛɪᴍᴇ—ꜱᴡᴏʀᴅꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ—ᴀ ʜᴏʙʙʏ ʏᴏᴜ ɢʀᴇᴡ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴏʙꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴋɪɴɢꜱɢᴜᴀʀᴅ, ꜱɪʀ ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ’ʜᴀʀᴀ, ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ʏᴀʀᴅ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ, ɴᴇᴠᴇʀᴛʜᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴀʙᴏᴏ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀꜰᴇɢᴜᴀʀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴅᴀʏꜱ.

ꜱɪʀ ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴏ’ʜᴀʀᴀ, ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ʜɪꜱ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ, ʜᴀꜱ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴅᴜᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʟᴏᴀᴋ ᴜɴꜱᴜʟʟɪᴇᴅ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʀᴀɢɪɴɢ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇʀ, ʙʀᴏᴏᴅɪɴɢ ᴀᴜʀᴀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴅᴇꜰᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴɢꜱɢᴜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴅᴜᴛʏ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇꜱ ᴀɴʏ ᴍɪꜱᴅᴇᴇᴅꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ɪʀᴏɴ ꜰɪꜱᴛ. ʏᴇᴛ, ʜᴇ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀꜱ ɪᴍᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴀʟᴏʀɪᴀ. ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴠᴇʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ɢʟᴀᴅᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀʙʏ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴛ, ꜱɪʀ ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴛᴏʀɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴅᴜᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇꜱ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ.

𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟣: 𝐹𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝑒:

💋 (10) ♛ 𝕃𝔞𝕡∂όg 2 ♢

ɴᴇʀᴅ!ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ x Qᴜᴇᴇɴʙᴇᴇ ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:

ᴀ ᴍᴏɴᴛʜ ʜᴀꜱ ᴘᴀꜱꜱᴇᴅ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴀᴍᴀ’ꜱ ᴅɪɴᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴇᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜɪᴅɪɴɢ. ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ.

𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟣: 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟤: 𝐹𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝑒:

🦇Hαʅʅσɯҽҽɳ Sρҽƈιαʅʂ:

😈 (2023) ᛕᗴᗴᑭ Ꭵ丅 Ꭵᑎ ᑕᒪᗝᔕᗴ丅

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:

𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐎'𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝, 𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁. 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐥𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐞'𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞…

𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 1: 𝓕𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓮:

🖤💜 (2024) ᐯᎥᑕᗴ丅ᗝᗷᗴᖇ - Event

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂:

𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 - 𝐍𝐨 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬, 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬!

ᑭᖇᎥᗪᗴ - 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓦𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷 ~ 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟣   𝐹𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝑒

ᒪᑌᔕ丅 - 𝓨𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓜𝔂 𝓗𝓾𝓼𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓭 ~ 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝐻𝑒𝓇𝑒

ᗪᗴᔕᑭᗩᎥᖇ - 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓜𝔂 𝓑𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓭 ~ 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟣   𝐹𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝑒

Ǥᖇᗴᗴᗪ - 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓪𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓗𝓲𝓼 𝓢𝓹𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓻 ~ 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝐻𝑒𝓇𝑒

#🤓naeverse asks!🤓

#🙃naeverse posts🙃

#🖤💜 Vicetober 2024

#🩷Lapdog Series

The restroom was cold. 

Echoey. 

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds like they were struggling to stay alive. 

The sharp tang of bleach clung to the air, almost metallic on Miguel’s tongue. 

He stepped inside and checked each stall—empty. 

All of them. 

A rough exhale tore out of him. 

His bag hit the tiles with a loud thud as he tossed it against the porcelain walls. 

Miguel’s hands gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles whitening, head hanging low as he fought for breath. 

‘What the fuck am I doing?’ He raised his head slowly, meeting his own reflection. 

Flushed caramel skin. 

Tensed shoulders. 

Chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted across campus. 

Lips parted.

Glasses fogged. 

He looked wrecked. 

But not from exhaustion. 

From you. 

His hand moved almost without permission. Slow, shaky fingers unbuckled his belt, unzipping his pants just enough to free the throbbing outline aching beneath. 

You did this to him. 

You ruined his morning. 

Entered his class like a storm in silk. 

Hijacked every single thought he tried to have. 

Reduced his notes to meaningless scribbles. 

You forced him into humiliating, reckless, expulsion-worthy things—and yet his cock throbbed at the idea of doing it all again tomorrow. 

Maybe even later today. 

Miguel hated this. 

He loved this

He palmed himself through his khakis, a low hiss escaping his throat as the pressure finally eased the unbearable ache. 

‘Fuck…what is she doing to me?’ The question hit him again, harder this time, as he stared at himself in the mirror. 

He didn’t see the outcast. The quiet, overlooked nerd who avoided eye contact and kept his head down. 

Miguel saw a man flushed and trembling, rutting into his own palm like a dog in heat.

In a public restroom. 

Because you told him to. 

How had things come to this? 

The door creaked and Miguel’s heart plummeted. 

His hand jerked away from his body instantly, and his head snapped toward the sound—the unmistakable click-click-click of pink heels striking tile. 

And then you. 

The entire atmosphere shifted the moment you stepped inside. Like a match had been struck, the heat bloomed into the cold air. 

Bold. 

Effortless. 

Unbothered. 

You walked in as if the restroom belonged to you. 

As if he belonged to you. 

Pink purse swinging at your side, eyes already on him, your presence filling the room like sweet perfume and danger. 

Like ownership. 

Like you owned the place. 

Like you owned him. 

Miguel turned away from you, shoulders tight, fists clenched at his sides like he was bracing for impact. 

He didn’t speak at first—he didn’t have to. 

His shame spoke for him, burning bright on the tips of his ears, flushing down his neck like spilled wine sliding over warm skin.

But when he finally turned his head back toward you, there it was—

That spark. 

That bite. 

That stubborn flicker of defiance still fighting under all the obedience you’d wrung out of him. 

“Took you long enough,” he uttered, voice low, rough—like he’d swallowed his pride whole and was still choking on it. 

His breath hitched when your hips swayed closer, when your heels echoed lightly on the tile. 

But he didn’t step back. 

Not an inch. 

His legs felt bolted to the floor, heavy with the weight of every command he had followed today. 

Every surrender. 

Every humiliating photo. 

You stepped closer. 

He held his ground. 

You tilted your head, dragging your gaze down him slow enough to make him swallow hard. 

And Miguel knew. 

He knew you were replaying that image in your head—the one he sent. 

The one where he tugged his pants low enough to reveal the thick, desperate outline pulsing beneath dark gray cotton. 

The one where the wet spot shone faintly, giving him away completely. 

You didn’t speak. 

Didn’t tease. 

Didn’t scold. 

You leaned back against the cold tile wall, crossing your arms, your rose-colored crop top hugging your body perfectly as you watched him. 

Waiting. 

It was worse than anything you could have said. 

Miguel exhaled sharply through his nose, head tipping down for breath. “This is fucking crazy,” he mumbled, like he was trying to talk himself down, trying to convince himself he still had control. 

But his body had already betrayed him the moment you walked in. 

He stepped toward you, slow and deliberate. His hand slipped under his blue cardigan. 

Then—without a word—he unbuttoned and unzipped the rest of his khakis. 

His fingers trembled. Not from fear. 

But from the weight of what this meant. 

He still had a bite—a scowl pulling at his mouth, the tension in his jaw, the thick frustration simmering under his skin. 

But this? 

This was surrender. 

For now. 

Miguel eased his waistband down just enough. Then his boxers followed, elastic catching for a moment before giving way. 

And there he was. 

Thick. 

Heavy. 

Flushed dark at the tip. 

Still glistening faintly from the leak you mocked him for. 

Twitching at the cold air touching skin that clearly only wanted you. 

Miguel didn’t look at you right away. 

He couldn’t. 

Because even he knew this was crossing something.

Breaking something.

Becoming something he couldn’t walk back from. 

But you…

You stared. 

And you knew this image would seat itself into your memory forever. 

Miguel O’Hara. 

The quiet loner. 

The campus nobody. 

Standing in front of you like a defiant, trembling pup—wanting your touch, wanting your approval, wanting relief only you could give. 

A sight you’d absolutely touch yourself to later. 

Your teeth caught on your lower lip as your eyes traced him. From the dip of his pelvis to the thick, needy length hanging between his thighs, pulsing for no one but you. 

It made you smirk. 

“You are a good boy,” you chuckled, pushing off the wall and gliding closer, step by step, until the heat between your bodies tightened into something suffocating. “You followed all my directions.” 

Miguel’s nostrils flared. “I…was merely following them since I’m being blackmailed.” 

“Oh?” You tilted your head, mock-innocence dripping off your voice. “And here I thought you were enjoying yourself. You could’ve stopped messaging me at any time.” 

Your eyes slid down deliberately, landing on his throbbing cock. “Plus…you are hard.” 

Whatever comeback Miguel had died instantly when you reached out and touched him. 

His breath ripped from him in a sharp gasp as your fingers ghosted along the dip of his hip, dragging slowly across the sharp veins of his pelvis, tickling the soft hair of his happy trail. 

It wasn’t enough. 

But it was too much. 

“Ay coño…” he choked, chest stuttering. The sound trembled in the air between you. 

You didn’t realize how much you missed this—his whimpers, broken breaths, the way he unraveled the moment your nails grazed his skin. 

It was music. 

Your sharp pink nails trailed up again, teasing, playful, cruel. “You said what?” you laughed, knowing perfectly well you were stealing the words from his throat. 

Knowing he could never form full sentences when you touched him like this. 

Miguel’s large hand shot out, gripping you wrist to steady himself as he fought the rush of sensation coursing through him. 

“I should stop you,” he managed to force out, voice strained, cracking at the edges. 

But he didn’t move. 

You lifted your gaze to him, smug and certain, because you already knew he wasn’t going to do a damn thing. 

You leaned in, standing on your tiptops, your glossy lips brushing his ear. “Then stop me.” 

But Miguel didn’t. 

Didn’t even try. 

Instead, he let you cup him. 

The moment your palm wrapped around him, his knees nearly buckled. 

“Fuck…” he breathed, hips jerking forward in a desperate, involuntary sputter. His cock twitched eagerly in your hand, seeking more friction, more warmth, more you. 

Your grin spread slowly across your lips as you stroked him—slow, deliberate, devastating. “Doesn’t this feel familiar, hmm?” you teased. “Reminds you of a diner, doesn’t it?” 

Miguel tensed, his body going rigid at the memory—and the reaction only made you giggle softly.

His eyes were hooded, lips parted, cheeks flushed, glasses fogging with every pant.

And goodness, wasn’t he a looker when he fell apart. 

But today wasn’t about him nor about recreating your little exhibitionist show in Mama’s diner. 

So just as quickly as you took him into your hand—you let him go.

Miguel’s breath hitched violently, his chest rising too quickly as the heat and friction vanished from his throbbing shaft. His brows furrowed, body lurching at the loss of contact. 

Then, rage flickered across his face. 

“You really…are a bitch,” he spat, breathless and furious, anger rising for what had to be the millionth time—as if speaking the word in your direction was the only dignity he had left. 

“Spoken like a true mutt.” Your smirk was sharp and merciless. “But you still haven’t apologized for running off.” 

Miguel’s eyes widened. “That’s what this is about?! Me ditching your sorry ass?!” he snapped, voice louder than he intended—probably because the ache in his cock made every emotion ten times hotter. 

Your eyes narrowed at his tone. “Ditch me? You repeated, disgust dripping from every letter. “No, sweetheart. I wasn’t ditched. I was deserted and left waiting like a fool.” 

You swept your gaze up and down his trembling, exposed body, wondering for the hundredth time why you were even bothering with this nonsense. 

You could ruin him. 

End him. 

Drop him like the throbbing migraine he was. 

And yet…something kept you rooted in place. 

Your eyes drifted down to the heavy, flushed cock still twitching for you. 'Oh yeah…that.'

A growl vibrated low in your throat, annoyed, furious even, at how some lowlife, cardigan-wearing nerd had this much effect on you. 

Or perhaps it wasn’t just his body? 

The thought rattled through your mind like a loose windowpane in a storm. 

“You are my pup.” You spat the word out, shoving that horrid little thought to the back of your mind before it could root itself. 

Stepping closer to him, you jabbed a pink nail into his chest, watching his scowl twist deeper. 

“You are my mutt. My damn dog. My lapdog until I say otherwise. And if you ever need a little reminder—” 

You snickered as you pulled your phone from your skirt pocket, waving it in the air like a death sentence. 

“I’ll gladly start by sending those photos you took today straight to MJ. Maybe start a few rumors about the mystery guy with abs for days, pecs for pillows, and a killer cock wandering around Nueva York Uni—” 

“Damnit! I get it!” He shouted, voice raw with rage and panic.

The walls were closing in on him again, and you didn’t care. 

“Then prove you understand!” Shoving your phone back into your pocket, you stormed toward the sinks, heels thudding like the beginning of an execution. 

“Show me you understand, pup.” 

You bent forward, thrusting your rear up, slowly bunching your skirt around your waist. Pink lace hugged your ass in ways that made grown men stupid. 

You glanced over your shoulder, locking eyes with him—cold, furious.

 “Get over here.” A commanding jerk of your head. 

 “On your knees.” 

Miguel felt cornered again—cornered by choices that all led to ruin. 

His reputation, his degree, his internship prospects, librarian job—everything could be destroyed with a single post from you. 

You, the Queen Bee. 

Judge, jury, executioner of anyone beneath your tax bracket… 

He was furious, frustrated, trapped, but he’d be lying if he said that was the core of what ran through his veins. 

The truth? 

Miguel felt shame. 

Shame for wondering if you’d jerk him off again. 

Shame for wanting to fuck that attitude out of you until you forgot that damn video recording. 

Shame for still wanting to be your lapdog. 

And worse—far worse—shame for how many times he’d stroked himself stupid these few days imagining himself knocking on your sorority house door just to beg you to take him back. 

Only his pride kept him from doing it. 

So why you? 

Why did he crave you? 

Bitchy snobs like you weren’t his type. Never had been. 

Also, Miguel loathed people who waved wealth around like crumbs to starving ducks. 

Yet, here he was. 

However, his spinning thoughts were cut short the instant you lifted your skirt. His breath left him. 

Those commands—”Get over there. On your knees.”— triggered something deep and involuntary. 

Like a damn dog. 

A part of him wanted to drop. 

To bury his face between your cheeks and beg forgiveness with his tongue. 

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t. 

His jaw tightened, knuckled paling as he clenched his fists. 

Miguel stayed frozen—not because he didn’t want you—but because his pride was hanging on by a single fraying thread.

You must’ve seen it in his eyes: that storm of humiliation, rage, arousal…and something animalistic coiling beneath. 

Then he really saw you. 

Bent over the sink like a sin. Spine arched beautifully, pink lace framing the ass that had been haunting him for weeks. Smooth skin practically glowing under the harsh lights. 

His heart slammed like a fist against his ribs. 

Blood rushed south with dizzying force. 

Miguel was panting before he realized it. 

“I’m not…” he swallowed hard, dazed eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “I’m not your fucking pet.” 

His legs trembled. 

His bare cock completely flushed, his blue cardigan hanging open, pants and boxers pooled helplessly at his ankles. 

Chest heaving. 

Fists clenched. 

Jaw ticking. 

He looked like a man trying to physically swallow his shame. 

You didn’t flinch. 

Didn’t react at all. 

You just watched him through the mirror, every ounce of his inner turmoil on display. 

It almost made you pity him. 

Almost. 

“Then leave,” you said simply, tilting your head—mocking him with your ease. 

The freedom you offered meant nothing, and you both knew it.  

Miguel didn’t leave.

Of course, he didn’t. 

His nostrils flared. 

His fists tightened. 

But, he still didn’t move. 

“You’re already mine, Miguel.” Your voice was a low, lethal hum. “You have been since I caught you in your office. Since Mama’s diner.” Your eyes sharpened to his in the mirror. 

“You just don’t want to admit how good it feels to be kept by me.” 

The truth spilled from your lips like poison. 

Because he was yours until you said otherwise. It became true the moment you pressed the record that morning. 

And another truth lay beneath it—one he couldn’t outrun: 

Every command, every touch, every humiliating act…felt euphoric. 

And the second you said it aloud—something in him snapped. 

Broke. 

Bent. 

Obeyed. 

With no words, he walked toward you and sank to his knees. 

It was clumsy. 

Resentful. 

And absolutely intoxicating. 

A tall, brillant, broad-shouldered man—cock out, pride in ruins—kneeling for you like he wanted to bite and beg at the same time. 

It was rapturous. 

The cold tile kissed his skin first, snapping Miguel out of the spiral of shame and straight into reality in front of him. 

The only thing he could see—hell, the only thing he could see—was the curve of your ass. 

The perfect pink thong barely hiding anything, clinging to your damp center like it was guarding buried treasure meant only for him. 

You didn’t look at him directly. 

You didn’t need to. 

You watched him in the mirror instead—watched the flicker of surprise, awe, and hunger cross his face. 

It made everything worse. 

For him. 

For you. 

“You’re lucky I’m hard,” he grumbled, eyes narrowing up at you in a feeble attempt to reclaim control. “Otherwise, I’d be out that door.” 

A pathetic lie. 

You heard it.

He heard it. 

You laughed—soft, smug, cruel.  “Oh baby…you were hard before we even entered the bathroom. I have the proof.” 

You rested both hands on the edge of the sink and pushed your ass out a little more, a silent invitation. A taunt. 

And that’s when he saw it. 

The lace shifted.

Delicate. 

Wet. 

But the part that stole the fucking breath from his lungs was the glint of metal nestled right between your folds. 

Miguel froze. 

“What the—” He blinked hard, brows snapping together. “Are you kidding me?” 

His breath shook as his hands rose, almost without permission, resting on the backs of your thighs. 

Carefully—too carefully—he spread your right cheek to see more. 

The tiny piercing winked back at him, catching the fluorescent light like it was mocking him. 

A soft pink gem shimmered wickedly above your swollen clit—pretty and dangerous, like it existed solely to ruin a man. 

To ruin him. 

“You got that…pierced?” he rasped, voice cracking. “That’s real?” 

Miguel watched porn—plenty of it. But he’d never seen anything like this. 

Never seen something so obscene and appealing that it almost made him cum untouched. 

You laughed at his expression, turning your head just enough to see him over your shoulder. “What? Never seen that while jerking off to your little websites?” you teased, catching the glare he tried—and failed—to hide. 

“But yes, it’s real, dweeb…You like?” You didn’t know why you cared, but that was the least of your concern as his response to such a question was even better. 

Miguel’s brows rose, lips parting helplessly. “I—shit.” He raked a shaky hand through his brown hair, swallowing a groan he couldn’t fully contain. 

What was he supposed to say? “Hell yeah, I like it—I want nothing more than to suck it into my mouth until you cum.”

But Miguel’s pride had taken enough hits today. 

He'd rather lick the damn bathroom floor than compliment you. 

“It’s…insane. And very unexpected,” he muttered, clearing his throat. 

You chuckled, shifting your hips back, closer to his face. “Well…Mr. Never-Seen-A-Clit-Piercing…” Your voice dropped to a seductive lilt. “Get to work.” 

Despite the defiance in his eyes, Miguel leaned forward. His large hands braced your thighs. 

His breath hitched as he hovered—too close—over the thin fabric covering your pussy. 

“You’re not even gonna take your panties off?” He asked, still clinging to scraps of rebellion and obviously stalling. 

“No.” You sighed, your reply sharp and impatient. “You have to work for it.” 

“You’re such a damn brat.” 

“And you’re on your knees for me.” 

That shut him up. 

His jaw clenched, grip tightening on your thighs. 

Miguel dipped forward, your scent hitting him full force, something sweet and warm, a dizzying punch straight to his cock. Precum dripped onto the tiles. 

He stilled, overwhelmed, mouth hovering over the soft swell of your right cheek. 

He’d never done anything like this. 

Sex once in highschool and endless porn-watching didn’t exactly prepare you for this. 

For you. 

But then his lips found your skin. 

A gentle kiss. 

Tentative.

Worshipful. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, humming in approval. “Good…but you’re trembling. Terribly.” You laughed between soft sighs as he kissed again, trailing your ass with slow, shaky reverence. 

Miguel was trembling. 

Hands quivering. 

Heart hammering. 

Yet he kept going—giving in to the hunger he’d tried so hard to deny. 

His teeth grazed your skin in a sudden bite, making you yelp. A deep and involuntary groan escaped him, his cock jumping in response. 

“Fuck, I hate you.” Miguel sighed into your skin, frustrated at you, at himself, at how easily you unraveled him. 

His lips moved lower, bolder now, edging toward your center. Then his tongue flicked out once to taste you through the delicate pink thong. 

“Mmm…said by the guy…whose face is buried between my thighs.” You arched back against him, grinding just enough to make him whine under his breath. 

“So the question is…” Your voice dripping tauntingly, breathlessly, and sweetly. 

“Is it truly hate?” 

Miguel didn’t answer. 

Not with words. 

Cursing under his breath, Miguel pressed in deeper, unable to stop himself.

Every lick, every desperate drag of his tongue only drove him wilder until he wasn’t just eating you through your thong—he was smothering his face between your cheeks. 

Tongue and lips lashed at the pink fabric, now drenched in his saliva and your slick. He devoured you like he needed it to breathe. 

“F—fuck,” you moaned, gripping the porcelain sink tightly. 

It startled you how good he was becoming. 

How quickly he learned. 

How eager he was to please. 

But you’d sooner surrender your black card to MJ before admitting that. 

“You…can do better than tha—” 

A loud, broken moan ripped out of your throat, cutting your own taunt short. 

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering as you glared down at him from over your shoulder. “F-fuck, dweeb…you’re finally starting to get it.” 

Your legs trembled as his tongue found your clit piercing, a sharp jolt of electricity shooting straight through your spine each time the metal clicked against his tongue. 

Soon it was too much. 

Too much teasing. 

Too much fabric. 

You needed his mouth—really needed it. 

“Stop.” Your palm nudged his forehead, chest rising and falling in heavy pants. 

Miguel lifted his head, breath hot, lips slick. Annoyance flickered over his fogged glasses, but the moment you said, “Take them off,” everything in him shifted. 

The eagerness was pathetic. 

He wished he wasn’t so obedient. 

Wished he’d said something snarky instead—something sharp enough to protect whatever was left of his pride. 

But he didn’t. 

Miguel hooked his fingers beneath the strings of your thong, and slid it down your legs slowly…reverently. Kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed, right down to your ankles. 

You parted your thighs just barely, inviting him back in. It made Miguel’s breath stutter. 

Among your perfectly shaven, dripping pussy, the curve of your clit piercing gleamed. A small pink gem sat above your swollen bud, matching your lipstick, your heels, your entire cruel aesthetic. 

A deliberate choice. 

Something pretty. 

Something dangerous. 

“Estás jodiéndome…” he whispered, stunned. His cock throbbed at the sight—so hard it was painful, swollen, leaking again onto the tile beneath him. 

“Cat got your tongue?” you smirked, catching his entranced gaze in the mirror. 

Miguel gulped, unable to speak. 

His brain was a mess, static buzzing from lust and disbelief. 

You—Queen Bee, untouchable tyrant of campus—had a piercing like…that. 

He couldn’t think. 

He could barely breathe. 

And his cock spilled another bead on the floor. 

“Use your words, puppy,” you teased. 

“Or better yet…Use that tongue.” 

Miguel scrambled closer—actually scrambled—hands gripping your thighs again as he pressed his mouth to your skin. 

He kissed the inside of your thighs first. 

Slowly. 

Tasting.

Marveling…

You were warm. 

You were trembling. 

Miguel inhaled deeply, like he wanted your scent burned into his memory. Then finally—finally—his mouth closed around your piercing. 

You gasped. 

He moaned. 

Loudly. 

The metal was cooler than your heat, a tiny spark of sensation that shot through you each time he flicked it. 

He tested what pressure made you jolt. 

What pace made you breathe harder. 

What angle made your knees shake.

His tongue flattened, curled, circled—deep, wet strokes that left you babbling. 

Your manicured fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him deeper between your cheeks. 

For once, your entire world narrowed down to this: 

The buzz of fluorescent lights.

The cold sink under your palm.

Miguel’s tongue and lips learning you like a language he was born to speak. 

Miguel growled into your cunt, chin slick, lips swollen, tongue desperate and relentless. 

His free hand left your thigh to wrap his cock. Thick fingers slid along his length, matching the rhythm of his mouth as he groaned into you. 

“Te gusto así, no?” His words slurred against your folds, feverish. “Desesperado… patético…”

Every pump of his fist made his precum spill faster, coating his hand. Every lick of his tongue made your thighs tremble harder. 

‘This is what you do to me,’ he thought savagely. ‘This is what you make me become.’ 

His mind flashed with fantasies he’d never confessed—

Taking you from behind. 

Fucking you until you screamed his name. 

Feeling your walls squeeze the life out of him. 

“Oh fuck…Miguel!” His name left your lips before you could catch it. 

Any other time you would’ve swallowed that weakness. But right now? 

Right now you were close. 

So damn close. 

“Miguel—don’t you dare f-fucking stop.” Your voice cracked, breath hitching as your back arched hard enough to pop. 

Hearing his name in your mouth made his balls tighten dangerously. 

Miguel cursed into your cunt, doubling down. His tongue flattened, dragging, curling, licking you like he needed to earn forgiveness he’d never asked for. 

Your thighs began to shake violently. 

Your grip on his hair tightened. 

Your breath shook. 

“Right there—fuck right there—Miguel!” 

When your release hit— it hit hard. 

Your hips jerked into his mouth, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm tore through you. 

You whimpered his name while shaking, shuddering, and spilling onto his tongue. 

Miguel moaned into you, swallowing everything you gave him. Your slick coated his lips, dripped down his chin, and smeared across his cardigan. But he didn’t stop. 

Not while your clit pulsed against his tongue.

Not while you trembled and gasped and sagged forward. 

He licked you clean until your knees almost buckled. 

Then he pulled back, panting, wrecked, pupils blown wide and he reached for himself again. 

Miguel’s hand worked fast, desperate. His hips bucked, heavy balls drawing up tight as he spiraled toward release. 

“Gonna—fuck…” he grunted, head falling back. 

He came hard, thick ropes spilling onto the tile and splattering beneath him. 

His fist pumped through it, milking every drop. His chest heaved, veins bulging along his pelvis as he rode it out. 

Then the restroom fell silent—except for two ragged sets of breathing. 

Your chest rose and fell, hair sticking to your forehead, thighs still quivering faintly. Brushing your hair aside, you looked over your shoulder. 

And there he was. 

Miguel. 

On his knees. 

Wrecked. 

Glasses fogged. 

Chin shiny with your slick.

His spent cock still twitching as cum pooled under him. 

The sight surprised and satisfied you. 

Deeply. 

A victorious smile curled your lips. “Still think you’re not mine?” 

Miguel’s breath came hard and uneven, chest rising like he’d been fighting for more than just air. He glared up at you through those fogged lenses, irritation resurfacing now that clarity was setting in. 

“Fuck you,” he breathed. “That wasn’t for you. That was for me.”

“Oh, really?” Your smirk sharpened as you adjusted your skirt with casual elegance. “Be careful what you say, Miguel. I might take you up on that offer.”

You let your gaze drag slowly down his wrecked body. “And your moans and the mess all over your lips—tell me otherwise.”

Miguel stayed on his knees, knowing damn well every word he’d just said was a lie.

Complete and utter bullshit. 

“Get up.”  Your command cracked through the restroom like a whip. 

Miguel’s brows narrowed, disbelief flickering across his flushed face. ‘You serious?’ he huffed internally. 

For a man who could deadlift half the gym and jog across campus without breaking a sweat, it was humiliating how breathless he felt now—how weak his legs were after what you’d just done to him…or better yet, what he’d done for you. 

Still kneeling, he watched you saunter toward your purse. 

The sway of your hips.

The intentional angle of your lean as you bent over. 

Your skirt lifted just enough to flash a pink lace again—

A reminder. 

A warning. 

A promise. 

His throat tightened. He remembered that piercing. 

That wicked little jewel sitting pretty between your folds. 

The one he’d just had his tongue on. 

The one he now wanted between his lips again. 

His face burned hotter as he pushed himself upright onto unsteady legs, shamefully aware he was still staring at your ass like a starving man denied a final meal. 

Miguel cleared his throat—too rough, too shaky. 

He reached down and grabbed for his boxers and khakis still pooled around his ankles, tugging them up with stiff, embarrassing movements. 

“D-Don’t expect this to…be a daily thing,” he muttered, fumbling with his zipper. His voice tried for icy defiance, but landed somewhere between flustered and wrecked. “I actually care about my education.” 

His hands shook just enough to betray him. 

His breath still came too fast. 

His cock hadn’t fully softened. 

And despite the glare he tried to throw your way, he looked every bit the lapdog you’d made him. 

He hated you. 

He wanted you. 

He was yours. 

And he knew it. 

“Whatever.” You barely spared him a glance, rifling through your purse. 

You had a snarky comeback on the tip of your tongue, but honestly? You weren’t listening. 

You were too busy searching for that one particular item. 

‘There it is.’ Your fingers curled around the tub. 

Turning back toward him with a mischievous glint in your eye. You twirled the peony pink lipstick between your manicured fingers. 

Miguel stilled. 

Eyebrows raised. 

Hands pausing halfway up his belt. 

He assumed you were about to fix your makeup until you walked right up to him and stopped dangerously close. 

“What do you want now?” he sighed, looking down at you with that weary frustration of someone who already knew that spark in your eyes meant trouble. 

You silenced him instantly with a single manicured finger pressed to his lips. “Hush. And hold still.” 

Miguel swallowed hard as you slowly crouched down in front of him. 

His heart thudded loudly—too loudly—against his ribs. 

His cock stiffened in his pants again, shamefully eager at the thought of your mouth being on him next. 

But instead of giving him that hopeful BJ, you lifted his cardigan and tugged his waistband down just a little. 

Just enough to reveal the lightly shaven dip of his pelvis, the curve of his hipbones, the trail of hair disappearing into his boxers, the visible veins across his lower abdomen, and the growing bulge beneath it all. 

Looking up at him, lips curled, you popped the cap off your lipstick and twisted the base. 

“Sorry to ruin your little fantasy, mutt,” you teased with that sultry tone. “But you haven’t earned a blowjob. Not yet.” 

His breath stuttered as you dragged your fingertips across the perfect spot—right above his V-line. Where his skin was hot, taut, and undeniably sensitive. 

Then you raised the lipstick. 

Miguel’s brain short-circuited. 

“W-What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, though he didn’t move. Couldn’t. 

He winced at the cold, creamy glide of the lipstick against his skin. 

“Fuck… what are you—” 

He felt the strokes. 

Felt each letter forming. 

Felt the anxiousness crawling up his throat. 

But he didn’t breathe again until you sat back on your heels, grinning wickedly. “Hmm…it’s missing something…” 

“Missing what?” Miguel snapped through clenched teeth. 

Your answer was a loud, unapologetic smooch pressed right to his pelvis. 

He moaned—low, startled, involuntary. 

“There,” you murmured, standing. “Now you’re mine.” 

Miguel stared at you, stunned. 

‘Now you are mine.’ 

What the actual hell? 

He twisted around to the mirror, lifting his shirt and froze. 

Because there it was:

Your name.

In bold, pink lipstick. 

Written across his tan skin. 

Right over his— 

Miguel swallowed hard. 

The lipstick glowed against him—marking him, claiming him, branding him.

Beside it, your kiss print bloomed like a signature further showing ownership. 

His jaw flexed. His chest rose and fell like he was overheating from the inside. 

“You’re—insane,” he finally growled. 

“And you’re hard. Again,” you shot back, watching him in the mirror as you touched up your lips with the same lipstick that now marked him. 

He was going to blow another load. 

You plucked your purse from atop his bookbag—no way were you letting it touch the dirty restroom floor—and tucked the lipstick inside. 

“Peter B’s throwing a party after the homecoming game,” you said casually, adjusting your top. “I’m expected to be there.” 

Miguel scoffed, buckling his pants, and pulling himself back together. He removed his glasses to wipe them clean, trying to erase the evidence of everything that just happened. 

“So?” he mumbled, slipping them back on. 

You caught his gaze. He quickly looked away. 

“So,” you repeated, stepping closer. “I’m picking you up,” 

Miguel’s heartbeat stumbled. “Maybe I have plans,” he lied horribly. 

He had no plans. 

Ever. 

His boss at the library practically begged him to get a life. 

You snorted. “You don’t. I checked your schedule.” Slowly and unexpectedly, you reached up and smoothed down his hair. Your nails grazed his scalp, making him shiver. 

“And if I say no?” he muttered, cheeks hot, breath catching. 

You tucked a strand behind his ear. Your smile was cruel and pretty—a thing he didn’t believe was possible until he met you. 

“I’ll send that picture of you leaking all over yourself to MJ. And maybe the dean.” 

Miguel glared, but you giggled—soft, smug, and annoyingly…cute. 

“And how do you even know where I live? How do you know my schedule?” He asked, voice tight. 

“I have my ways.” Which was the polite and short version of saying you spiraled when he ghosted you and did FBI-level search. 

Not that he needed to know that. 

You leaned in, lips brushing his. “Next Friday,” you whispered. “Be ready.” Your smile twisted. “And if you ditch me again? Same rules apply.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he groaned. “You’re leaking the fucking pictures and video.” 

“Good,” you murmured before you kissed him. 

A soft gasp slipped from Miguel’s lips before he could stop it—and worse, a low, traitorous hum of satisfaction followed right behind it. 

The kiss was brief. Nothing like the deep, hungry, breath-stealing one you’d given him in the diner. 

But it didn’t matter. 

It still rocked him.

Left him breathless. 

Left something blazing under his ribs that he’d never admit out loud. 

‘Damn you,’ he thought hazily. ‘Damn you for kissing like that.’  

The thought drifted through his fogged brain as you pulled away, leaving his lips tingling, his pulse stumbling. 

Dazed, wrecked, and entirely too pliant, Miguel watched you saunter toward the door—hips swaying, perfume lingering, everything about you spelling trouble he couldn’t walk away from. 

He almost thought that was it. 

That you’d leave him in ruins again. 

But then you stopped. 

“Oh!” you chirped, mischief sparkling in your eyes as you reached underneath your skirt. 

Miguel’s brows pinched together just a second before your pink thong slid down your legs and into your hands. 

Then—you tossed it. 

Instinct alone made him catch it one-handed. 

Warm. 

Still damp. 

The scent of your release clinging to the fabric like a brand. 

His breath hitched, pupils blowing wide behind his frames. 

“You’re keeping those,” you said with a smile that could slice through steel. Adjusting your skirt, you turned with a flick of your hair. 

“See you around, pup.” 

You blew him a kiss and walked out—heels clicking, hips swaying like you owned the whole damn world. 

Miguel stood frozen, clutching your panties, heart pounding and cock stirring like he hadn’t just spent himself all over the floor. 

You left him wanting again. 

Needing again. 

Obeying again. 

And as you stepped into the hallway, a soft breeze kissed the heat between your thighs, coaxing an even deeper, more triumphant smirk onto your lips.

Your lapdog was back. 

And this time, you planned to keep him on a much tighter leash. 

A/N: This is the end of Lapdog 2! I hope you enjoyed it, because I ADORREEE this series so much, yes, there will be a third. That said, please bear with me, as I can’t promise it’ll be coming soon… but it will definitely be a future work.

Thank you all so much for the love you’ve shown the Lapdog series. I’ll do my best to post more in the new year!

Make sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! If you’d like to add a request to the kink series Entangled Desire, or if you have an idea in general, feel free to message me or submit an ask. Don’t be nervous—your idea could be really good!

I hope you all have a wonderful day and stay safe!! 🩷💛

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“And Miguel,” he added, gesturing down the row, “go ahead and move a few seats over, please. Let’s give the new student some space to be engaged. Four down should do.” 

Your smile froze. 

The audacity. 

The absolute gall of this clearance-rack scholar. 

Miguel looked like he wanted to melt through the floor—not from embarrassment, but from relief. 

And that relief pissed you off. 

Before he could stand, you leaned in, voice a velvet blade against his ear. 

“Yes…run along and obey. Good boy~” 

His hand tightened so hard around his satchel you swore you heard the fabric squeak. 

A soft sound escaped him, barely audible, as he shifted in his seat, thighs pressing together, trying to hide the growing bulge you’d awakened. 

Then, with a stiff swallow, he stood and moved exactly four seats down. 

You watched every step he took. 

Miguel clearly thought he’d gotten away from you. 

Cute. 

You had more than enough time to turn this class into a personal nightmare for him. 

Time seemed to slow. 

The clock ticked, but never fast enough. 

10:13 AM…

10:14 AM…

10:15 AM…

Class ended at 11:00 AM, and at this pace, even the father of time seemed hellbent on joining in the torment of the outcast of NYU. 

You had gone quiet. 

Which, Miguel knew, was never a good thing. 

If anything…he found himself wanting your threats and venom-laced jabs.

At least those gave him something solid to brace for. 

Your silence? Even four seats away?

That was deadly. 

His anxiety gnawed at him. 

The tap of your heel was like a needle puncturing his eardrum. 

The wet snap of your glossy pink lips as you chewed bubble gum made him flinch with every pop. 

He realized quickly that everything you did—every moment, every sound, every inhale—was engineered to terrorize him. 

Miguel’s jaw clenched. 

His hand tightened around his wooden pencil until he swore he felt it crack. 

‘Fuck, I gotta get out of here.’ The thought looped in his mind like a mantra, his leg bouncing against the floorboards, nerves on full display. 

“Well, that concludes my lecture for today,” Dr. Octavius announced, and for a brief, delusional instant, Miguel hoped that meant freedom. 

But no. 

He knew this class like the back of his hand. 

He wasn’t escaping the she-devil in Prada that easily.

“We still have…” the doctor checked his wristwatch, “forty-five to fifty minutes left in class. More than enough time to start on questions in your textbook on pages 142 to 146.” 

Dr. Octavius plopped into his desk chair with a tired, world-ending sigh—the kind a man makes when he’s one bad day away from sprouting mechanical arms and terrorizing Nueva York.

Miguel understood the feeling.

‘Feels like the Puta Queen drained everyone’s lifespan the moment she walked in…’ he thought, scanning the room. 

The slumped shoulders. 

The empty stares. 

The palpable exhaustion. 

Then, he cautiously glanced in your direction. 

You sat with the immaculate composure of royalty, back straight, legs crossed, phone glowing in your manicured hand. 

Chair desk completely empty. Not a single textbook or paper in sight. 

Like you weren’t even in class. 

Like you were above it. 

And of course…you were. 

Miguel’s hand snapped his pencil in half. A quiet curse escaped him. ‘Mierda. This is what she wants. She wants me wound up. She wants me to lose it. I can’t let her win.’ 

Miguel loosened his constricting tie around his thick throat, breathing fractionally easier. He reached down into his satchel to grab another pencil—

But the buzz from his pocket froze him in place. 

Miguel never checked his phone in class. 

Never. 

But something in him—curiosity, dread, inevitability—made him pull it out. 

The moment he saw the notification, he regretted looking at it all. 

Puta Queen 🐝: Puppy, I'm bored as hell. Play with me. 💋

Read   10:18 AM

Miguel’s heart dropped straight to the pit of his stomach. 

His head snapped to you—and there you were, already watching him. 

Perfectly waxed brows wiggling. 

A wicked grin playing on your glossy lips. 

A growl nearly tore out of his throat. 

‘What more do you want from me?!’ he wanted to shout. ‘You’ve threatened me, cornered me, invaded my space. You can ruin everything I’ve strived for, so what more is left!?’ 

To Miguel, you were a ravaging fire—consuming, relentless, impossible to satisfy. 

Every time he thought he had escaped, your flames licked up his heels again. 

Hunching over in a tiny corner he’d carved for himself in the back row, he typed out a reply with frantic, shaky thumbs. 

Puta Queen 🐝: Puppy, I’m bored as hell. Play with me. 💋

Read 10:18 AM

My Lapdog 🦴: No. Stop this.

Read 10:19 AM 

My Lapdog 🦴: We are literally in class for goodness sake.

Read 10:M

Puta Queen 🐝: Do u seriously think I give a shit  that we’re in class, pup? Don’t tell me u forgot about the diner already?

Read 10:19 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: And why? It’s fun, don’t u think so, pet?

Read 10:19 AM

My Lapdog 🦴: The only person who finds this fun is a controlling, psychotic bitch. 

Read 10:20 AM

My Lapdog 🦴: And would you stop calling me that?  I’m not your fucking anything

Read 10:20 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Me? A bitch? I think we know who the real bitch is. 

Read 10:21 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: I heard he even barks if  u stroke his cock real nice, lmao

Read 10:21 AM

Miguel’s face ignited. 

Heat burned across his cheeks. 

The memory slammed into him with humiliating clarity and shame twisted deep in his stomach like a cyclone. 

But beneath the shame…something hotter throbbed at the base of his spine. 

And then he heard it—your soft giggle. 

Reveling in his torment. 

Feeding off it. 

Fucking bitch. 

Puta Queen 🐝: Me? A bitch? I think we know  who the real bitch is. 

Read 10:21 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: I heard he even barks if  u stroke his cock real nice, lmao.

Read 10:21 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Good. I’m happy to freshen ur memory, bitch. 

Read 10:22 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: So unless u want everyone to see that absolutely heinous video of their favorite mutt and his big cock...agree u will play a game with me.

Read 10:22 AM

My Lapdog 🦴: Fine…

Read 10:25 AM

My Lapdog 🦴: I’ll play your fucked-up game.

Read 10:25 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Always a good boy. 

Read 10:26 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: First part of the game is for u to raise ur shirt. Send a pic of that pathetic stomach. 

Read 10:26 AM

Miguel sucked in a breath. 

He stared at the message like it might disappear if he blinked hard enough. 

Like maybe—just maybe—you’d lose interest, forget about him, decide he wasn’t worth the trouble. 

But he’d told himself that lie too many times already, and reality always came swinging back hard. 

His hand moved before he realized it, nerves firing in every direction. 

You were forcing him to do something so…

Scandalous. 

Dangerous. 

Humiliating. 

So utterly not him. 

He glanced around cautiously. Under the guise of rummaging in his backpack, he lifted his shirt and vest just a few inches—just enough. 

Miguel wasn’t subtle. He was sweating bullets—red-faced and trembling. 

But the picture was snapped anyway. 

A shot of his bare abdomen: soft in places from stress and sleepless nights, but still cut and strong from years of 2 A.M. workouts in his apartment gym. 

A moment later he heard the buzz from your phone. 

My Lapdog 🦴: Image

Read 10:30 AM

Your phone buzzed. 

You didn’t look up at first. 

You let it sit in your lap like you weren’t already anticipating it—like your pulse hadn’t quickened the moment the little photo icon popped up under his name. 

Then you peeked. 

Clicked. 

And snorted. 

Fucking hell…

You tilted your phone under your chair desk, rolling your eyes dramatically. 

So what if his body looked like it had been carved out of stress, pent-up rage, and cheap protein powder? 

So what if that faint V-line and the trail of dark hair dipping below the waistband only made your thighs instinctively squeeze together. 

Big deal. 

You’d seen better. 

Probably. 

Definitely. 

...Maybe not. 

Not that he needed to know that. 

You wrinkled your nose at the picture, pretending it offended you personally—like you were the one being punished just for looking at it. 

“Yawn. Mid,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. 

His annoyed scoff? 

Exquisite. 

With the perfect mask of false irritation, your manicured fingers began to type. 

My Lapdog 🦴: Image

Read 10:30 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Well, fuck me…  u rly r obedient, aren’t u?

Read 10:32 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Only a four-pack?  Tsk tsk, I thought u worked out. U rly r a nerd. 🙄

Read 10:32 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: But don’t think our game is done. It's just getting started.

Read 10:32 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Second part of the game:  Undo one button. Just one. Let me see ur chest, big boy.

Read 10:32 AM

Miguel bit the inside of his cheek, knuckles whitening around his phone. 

‘I’m playing right into her fucking hands, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.’ His breath shuddered out of him in frustration. 

But still—with trembling fingers—he reached up and popped the top button of his collared shirt. 

Just one. 

Like you asked. 

He didn’t need to look at you to know you felt the shift. His shame burned hot enough to radiate across the row. 

A shaky exhale slipped from his parted lips. The squeak of his chair when he adjusted only made you grin wider. 

Oh yes. 

You had him. 

Puta Queen 🐝: Well, fuck me… u rly r obedient, aren’t u?

Read 10:32 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Only a four-pack?  Tsk tsk, I thought u worked out. U rly r a nerd. 🙄

Read 10:32 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: But don’t think our game is done. It's just getting started.

Read 10:32 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Second part of the game: Undo one button. Just one.  Let me see ur chest, big boy.

Read 10:32 AM

My Lapdog 🦴: Image

Read 10:35 AM

My Lapdog 🦴: This is the last thing I’m doing.

Read 10:35 AM

My Lapdog 🦴: You are pushing it.

Read 10:35 AM

His message made your eyes roll so hard they nearly rattled. 

It was laughable that he still believed he had control here—that he thought he could draw a line in the sand. 

‘This better be good with how much shit he’s talking,’ you thought, tapping the new image open. 

And you swore your eyes widened before you caught yourself. 

The photo was slightly blurred from his shaky, sweaty fingers—but the important parts were perfect. 

Through the parted flap of his collared shirt peeked the tight crease of his pec. 

Honey-warm skin.

Smooth, cleanly shaven. 

A faint shadow of definition. 

And the barely-hidden glimpse of a dark nipple tucked inside. 

The dweeb almost had you. 

Almost. 

Yet the more you toyed with him, the more you realized just how magnificent you truly were. 

You, who discovered this nerd in the worst way imaginable. 

You, who blackmailed him into becoming your lapdog. 

You, who found beneath the layers of cardigan and anxiety to uncover something…unexpectedly attractive beneath. 

You really were magnificent. 

Grinning to yourself, you returned to your phone to see another message from your panting lapdog waiting for you. 

My Lapdog 🦴: I’m serious. 

Read 10:38 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Aww, but that wasn’t the safe word, pup

Read 10:39 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Plus, I think u r enjoying it. Don’t lie to me. I know an erection when I see one. 😂

Read 10:39 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: And u're being so obedient for me already…

Read 10:39 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: So speaking of erection…

Read 10:40 AM

“Mierda.” 

The curse slipped out under Miguel’s breath as his eyes squeezed shut. 

He wanted you asking such a thing to be a hallucination. 

A nightmare. 

A trick of the mind. 

But the stirring in his khakis said otherwise. 

He forced his eyes open, looking down at your message…then over at you. 

You sat four seats away, the picture of smug serenity. 

Legs crossed. 

Chin in hand. 

Cunning smile on your pink lips.

Like you hadn’t just smashed the remainder of his dignity with a sledgehammer.

Like you hadn’t just told him to take a damn dick pic in the middle of class. 

Heat burned up his neck as he looked back at the screen. As if his cock understood it was the topic of the conversation, the damn thing twitched in agreement. 

Puta Queen 🐝: And you’re being so obedient for me already…

Read 10:39 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: So speaking of erection…

Read 10:40 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Tug those hideous khakis down.  Just enough.  I want to see exactly what’s got u squirming in ur seat. 

Read 10:41 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Be a good boy and don’t get caught. 💋

Read 10:41 AM

Miguel’s disbelief didn’t even begin to cover what he felt. 

‘She wants me to take a photo of…that.’ His jaw flexed. 

He knew he shouldn’t do this. 

Shouldn’t let it go on. 

Shouldn’t keep playing this sick, humiliating game. 

But then  something that sank claws into his gut: 

Obedient. 

A command wrapped in velvet and poison. 

Not just an order. 

A test. 

A lure. 

And deep under all his pride and indignation, an ugly truth uncurled: 

He wanted to pass. 

Not because you demanded it. 

But because some pathetic, needy, low-burning part of him wanted to please you. 

Not for affection. 

Not for approval. 

Just for that smirk. 

That gleam of triumph in your eyes when he obeyed. 

That was what made him slide a hand under his chair desk and quietly unbuckle his belt. 

His pulse thundered in his ears. 

His face burned.

But he didn’t stop. 

He couldn’t. 

The soft clink of metal made him wince, praying no one heard—but a timely cough from a classmate masked the sound. 

He slid a notebook to the edge of his desk for cover, breath tight and shaky as he popped open the button of his khakis. 

Carefully. 

Silently. 

His eyes darted across the room to make sure no one was watching, before he pushed his pants down just enough to rest on the muscle of his thighs. 

He nearly groaned. 

Miguel was… painfully hard.

His cock strained against his thin dark-gray boxers, the front already damp. 

The outline was obscence—thick, heavy, angled slightly left, pulsing with every beat of his traitorous heart. 

You’d done this to him. 

Again. 

Even worse, he was letting you. 

‘Just a photo. Hurry the fuck up,’ he told himself. With a shaky exhale, Miguel angled his phone downward, hovering it over his lap. 

‘This is insane. Unthinkable. Reckless!’ The nerd in him panicked, running frantic circles in his mind. 

But the other side—the one he kept locked away in the dim quiet of the library office—grinned wide. 

That part of him was always there, under his skin, waiting for something exactly like this. 

Without giving himself time to think, he snapped the photo. 

Close. 

Hot. 

Dirty. 

The fabric of his boxers hid nothing. 

If anything, it made it worse—more suggestive. 

More shameful. 

The kind of photo that screamed: “He didn’t even have to show skin to be utterly filthy.”

And before rationality could stop him—he hit send. 

Miguel shoved his phone face down on the desk, scrambling to fix himself. Buttoning up his shirt, buckling his belt, yanking his khakis back into place. 

Trying to look normal, but feeling anything but. 

My Lapdog 🦴: Image

Read 10:45 AM

Your phone pinged. 

The moment you saw the image preview pop up under his name, you knew it was bad. 

Bad in the kind of way that made your mouth go dry, your thighs clench, and your breath skip—long before you even tapped the picture open. 

Still, you took your time. 

Like a cat batting its prey around just because it can. 

Then you finally clicked it—

And the air in your lungs dissolved. 

‘...Holy shit.’ 

Your breath hitched. 

Barely. 

The tiniest slip of composure, and your smirk? 

It deepened. 

Darked. 

Curled sweetly at the edges. 

‘I’ll be damned.’ 

You sat back in your seat, teeth sinking into your glossy bottom lip. 

Your gaze stayed glued to your phone hidden beneath your chair desk. 

The sight of him, the proof of your control, the evidence of your pet accepting the role you carved for him—there it was:

That arrogant, infuriating, maddeningly attractive bulge pressed tight against damp cotton, framed perfectly by the waistband of his pants. 

A faint line of dark hair disappeared into the swell beneath. And the strain—goodness, the strain—it was so obvious it echoed low in your stomach. 

He was hard. 

For you. 

You blinked once. 

Twice. 

Glancing over at your obedient mutt, you caught the trembling wreck of him desperately pretending to do schoolwork. 

No doubt, Miguel was scribbling nonsense in his notebook, glasses fogged, cheeks flushed, even his ears turning red. 

He looked like a man one wrong breath away from snapping. 

His cock still throbbing inside those boxers, practically begging to be acknowledged—and he knew you knew it too. 

The thought alone made your thighs clamp together, heat blooming beneath your skirt, your panties soakening with need. 

And then that thought returned. That same thought you had at Mama’s diner—

Grabbing him. 

Dragging him somewhere dark and private. 

Taking what you wanted from the trembling mess.

Seeing if his smart mouth stays slick when your tongue is in it. 

Seeing if his cock feels as big inside you as it felt in your hand. 

You exhaled the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

Your gaze fell to the picture again—gosh, that picture—and something snapped delightfully, dangerously inside you. 

This wasn’t teasing anymore. 

You wanted to ruin him. 

With fingers steady in a way your pulse wasn’t, you started typing. 

Puta Queen 🐝: Well, well…someone’s leaking for me already.  Tell me, pup, how long have u been this needy?

Read 10:44 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: All class?

Read 10:44 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Ever since u saw me walk in?

Read 10:44 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Since the diner perhaps?

Read 10:44 AM

Miguel no longer pretended to work on the questions from pages 142-146. 

The moment your texts came through, his eyes snapped down to the screen, each message hitting harder than the last—sharp little knives digging into his pride and slicing open whatever resistance he’d been clinging to. 

But fuck…you made it so damn easy. 

So natural. 

“Well, well…someone’s leaking for me already.” 

He nearly flinched at that message. 

His thigh jerked under the desk, fingers clenching around the corners of his phone. 

The word leaking made his jaw flex; his pulse thumped visibly at his neck. 

You weren’t even next to him, yet somehow he felt your breath in his ear. 

“Tell me, pup…how long have you been this needy?” 

He blinked. 

Scoffed. 

A low, bitter sound. 

“Maldita sea…” he muttered. 

His body was burning. 

His cock throbbed, painfully confined, and you knew it. 

You were picturing it. 

You were reveling in it. 

And that made him even harder. 

Miguel turned his head just slightly, just enough to see you through the corner of his fogged glasses.

Sitting there like sin wrapped in silk. 

Typing with the same fingers he’d imagined around his cock. 

Lip caught between your teeth, a smug grin just barely tugging at the corners. 

His ears went bright red. 

You were enjoying this. 

And worse, he was, too. 

He read your messages again and again. 

Your words were on his screen and your voice? It was tattooed into his mind. 

He clenched his phone harder to stop his hands from trembling, preparing to type something to end this, to at least push back—

But then your next message came through, and it knocked the breath out of him. 

Puta Queen 🐝: Ever since u saw me walk in?

Read 10:44 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Since the diner perhaps?

Read 10:44 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Good, bc I’m done playing. Fourth part of the game:  Raise ur hand.  Ask to go to the big boys’ room

Read 10:47 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: It’s near the end of class, so bring ur things. U won’t be coming back.

Read 10:47 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: U’re going to take a field trip.

Read 10:47 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Left wing restrooms. The ones no one checks until 

after the day’s over. U know the ones, naughty boy.

Read 10:47 AM

Puta Queen 🐝: Don’t make me repeat myself, Miguel. 

Be a good boy 

Hurry. 

Run even. 

Before I change my mind. 

Read 10:48 AM

Miguel’s throat bobbed hard. 

He’d been trying to breathe—slow, steady, controlled—anything to fight the tight, throbbing pressure inside his pants. 

But those restrooms? 

The left wing restrooms? 

His whole spine locked. 

His cock jerked in his boxers. 

‘Of course, you’d pick those.’ The tucked-away ones near the art wing. 

Quiet, cold, barely used. Too far from any active classrooms around this time to be considered relevant. 

Most importantly, secluded. 

A place meant for secrets, not students. 

A place someone like Miguel had no business being unless he was hiding something too. 

And now you were sending him there.

Like a mutt told to go to sit and wait. 

He stared at your final message, emotions knotting together—anger, lust, humiliation, need. 

His lips twitched into something close to a sneer, but weaker. 

Shakier. 

He hated this. 

Hated you. 

Hated how his body listened to you before his pride could argue. 

His cock throbbed again—hot, insistent, pressing, pulsing. 

He shifted, biting back a groan as fabric grazed the sensitive head. 

Miguel should say no.

Should shut it down. 

Should draw a line. 

But your words—

”Be a good boy.” 

“Run.” 

“Naughty boy.” 

They were engraved into his head. 

And he couldn’t stop. 

Not anymore. 

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper. “Mierda…” Miguel breathed, dragging a hand down his flushed face. 

You wanted a field trip. 

Fine… 

He raised his hand. “Bathroom,” he muttered, voice dry, clipped strained. Dr. Octavius barely glanced up before nodding. 

Miguel stuffed his notebook, textbook, and airpods into his bag. 

Stood. 

Adjusted his vest. 

Straightened his pants. 

Every move stiff with barely-contained tension. 

As he passed your seat, he didn’t look at you directly, but under his breath, low and dangerous, he rasped: 

“You better pray no one walks in there.” 

Your smirk bloomed instantly as he walked out. 

Of course he listened. 

Of course, he did. 

Your mutt was back on his leash. 

Checkmate. 

A/N: I wonderrr what's going to happen in the bathroom? 🤔😏 Stay tuned for the next part! 😏🐶💋

Make sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! If you’d like to add a request to the kink series Entangled Desire, or if you have an idea in general, feel free to message me or submit an ask. Don’t be nervous—your idea could be really good!

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‘Tell me you’re my little puppy and sweeten the deal with a cute little bark…’ 

‘I-I’m your… l-little… puppy…’ 

‘Woof…woof…’ 

“Mierda!” 

The curse tore out of Miguel before he could stop it, the sound echoing through his tiny on-campus apartment just as his pencil smacked against the desk. 

The poor thing didn’t deserve it, but neither did his brain for tormenting him like this. 

Ever since he got home, his mind had been stuck in a damn loop—replaying every single thing that happened back at the library, and then at Mama’s diner. 

Over and over again. 

Like a broken record that refused to shut up. 

It still didn’t feel real. 

It still felt like a dream that any of it happened… 

From him being caught pleasuring himself in the library that morning, to being dragged to Mama’s diner and dropped into a situation he never in his life thought he’d be in—sitting at a booth with Peter B. Parker, the university’s golden poster boy, and MJ, the voice of the student body and campus media. 

Honestly? Miguel could at least rationalize that part. 

Popular people hang out with nobodies all the time. Doing their homework, being used as a stepstool. Whatever. 

But you? 

You were the one thing Miguel couldn’t wrap his damn head around. 

Miguel still couldn’t figure out how the hell he’d ended up breathing in the Queen Bee’s proximity—close enough to smell your jarringly sweet perfume, close enough to hear your laugh, close enough to feel your hand wrapped around his—

“Fuck,” he uttered again, the word heavy and tired as he slid off his black glasses to drag a frustrated hand down his tanned face. 

His fingers pressed into the deepening lines at the corners of his eyes, trying, but failing, to soothe the stress etched there. 

He was only twenty-six, but with the weight he carried? He looked like a man in his late thirties, worn at the edges by everything he refused to talk about. 

Miguel groaned, letting his tired eyes drift toward the digital clock on his wooden desk. The blue neon numbers blinked back at him: 9:00 PM. 

‘Dammnit… she wanted me at her sorority house tonight.’ 

The thought of seeing you again sent a whole damn tidal wave crashing through him—lust, anger, anxiety, anticipation. Every emotion seeking dominance all at once.  

He hated it. 

Hated how turbulent it all felt. 

Hated the way these emotions pressed on his chest like they were trying to choke the air right out of him. 

He never planned on getting wrapped up in college drama—never planned on orbiting your life in any way. 

Miguel just wanted to survive his years at Nueva York University, get his degree, keep his head down, and go home to his quaint apartment each day. 

But this morning had been a breaking point. 

He'd been drowning in work—classes, assignments, projects, presentations, labs, shifts at the campus library—everything piling up with no room to breathe. 

He was stretched so thin he could hear himself cracking. 

Normally, Miguel would cope just fine. Listening to music. Reading research articles. A late-night workout. Those things always grounded him. 

Except lately? 

None of it worked. 

And he’d been…hornier than usual, which wasn’t helping his situation in the slightest. 

The mix of anxiety and pent-up desire pushed him into doing the unthinkable. 

But why—why— did it have to be you who caught him!? 

It’s not like he wanted to be seen. But of all people—of everyone on campus—why the hell did it have to be the most snobbish, narcissistic mean girl in the entire study body who found him with his pants down? 

Literally. 

Before this, Miguel had never actually met you. 

He had only heard the rumors—whispers drifting through classrooms, hallways, dining areas. And from everything he’d heard, you were exactly what he assumed:

A bitch. 

You bad-mouthed and insulted anyone who lived in a lower tax bracket than you. 

Which, let’s be real, was basically everyone. 

You treated people like peasants put on this earth solely to cater to you. 

You used your wealth, your last name, and your immaculate reputation to bend situations in your favor. 

And with that paired with your bitchy attitude, you climbed your way straight to the top of the university hierarchy. 

Now? 

Everyone walked on eggshells around you because of how ruthless and unpredictable you were. 

Miguel once overheard a student complaining about how you snapped at them for being an “ass-kisser”...simply because they picked up the pink lip gloss you dropped. 

Before coming to Nueva York University, the term “Queen Bee” felt like some cheesy movie trope. 

But now? 

It was the only title anyone used for you. 

The only one he ever heard. 

You were everywhere. 

On every bulletin board, every poster, every campus advertisement. Your glossy smile plastered across every hallway. 

And always—always—flanked by your so-called friends: Peter B. Parker and Mary Jane Watson. 

There wasn’t a single day on this campus when you couldn’t look up and see your trio plastered across a poster—smiling sweetly, beaming down at the student body, chirping “Have a great day!”

Only for the real you to stroll by minutes later and splash your Stanley cup water all over some poor kid who had the nerve to step in your way. With Peter and MJ laughing right beside you.

Like everyone else, Miguel assumed the three of you were inseparable—three peas in a perfectly curated pod. But from what he witnessed at Mama’s diner? 

Your sunshine-and-smiles brand image cracked fast. 

You clearly dislike MJ. 

Peter seemed way more interested in the mighty Queen Bee than his girlfriend hanging off his arm. 

And MJ, she looked downright envious—maybe wanting to be you. 

Her and every other girl on campus. 

Just today alone, Miguel had seen multiple fractures splintering through the supposed “elite” clique of NYU. 

On the outside, the three of you painted a flawless portrait of upper-class friendship—picture-perfect, glossy, untouchable. 

But on the inside? It was chaos brewing. 

‘And it looks like I’ve somehow become a part of it…’ Miguel thought, shaking his head in disbelief and disgust. 

If he were to be your lapdog, Miguel knew exactly what that meant—you’d want him around constantly. 

Which meant he’d be seeing the other elitists on campus, too. 

But he wasn’t even sure he wanted to be your lapdog. 

Yes, what happened at Mama’s diner… was steamy. 

Thrilling. 

Easily the riskiest thing he’d ever done—besides jerking off in the library, of course. 

But Miguel didn’t like the man he became sitting in that booth. 

He was honestly recognizable. 

Saying the most bizarre shit. 

Barking. 

With his cock out. 

Coming home afterward, he’d never felt so ashamed. The idea that he might have to go through something similar again made something cold and heavy settle in his stomach. 

He still couldn’t believe the terms he’d agree to. Being your lapdog, or by your words: 

Fetching things. 

Doing your work.

And, most of all, satisfying your every need. 

Miguel felt his cheeks heat just thinking about it. 

His cock pressed against his shorts, growing harder with every memory of your voice. 

It was moments like this that made him question himself. 

Did he…like the idea of being this thing to you? 

Any sane person wouldn’t…right? 

He swallowed hard, placing a large hand over the bulge straining his shorts, hiding half his face with the other as a shaky sigh slipped out. 

Miguel was conflicted about everything—every emotion, every thought—but there was one thing he was sure of: 

He didn’t want to be enslaved to a bratty girl like you. 

You were the most cunning, devious, wicked, cruel, and unapologetically bitchy person he had ever encountered. 

And worst of all—you held Miguel’s reputation and education in the palm of your perfectly manicured hands. 

All because he’d lost control and jerked off in the library… 

A tired breath pushed past his lips as he glanced back at the clock. 

Twenty-five minutes had passed. 

His heart sunk. 

Miguel didn’t want to see you. 

He didn’t want to feel the anxiety, the anger, the overwhelming, foreign, addictive lust that came with being near you. 

Miguel didn’t want to be your lapdog. 

He’d made a mistake…

His phone buzzed from where it lay on the desk beside your calculus packet. Miguel’s stomach twisted violently, heart tripping over itself when he saw your name. 

Puta Queen 🐝: Puppy, I expect you here at 10.  Don’t be late!  You don’t want to upset me. 😡🎥📤

Read    9:28 PM

Miguel’s breath hitched the second he saw your message. 

Not only did it crush the tiny, desperate hope that this was all a dream or that you’d somehow forgotten he existed—it slammed him with the reminder of the leverage you held over him. 

That damn video. 

“What am I going to do?” he muttered aloud, frustration knotting in his chest. 

He hated how trapped he felt—caged, cornered, owned.  

All Miguel wanted was for everything to go back to normal.

Back to the way life was before this morning—just him shelving books in the campus library, going to class, dodging the jocks who picked on him and girls who kept trying to flirt with him, to bury himself in coursework until the world faded out. 

That was the life he wanted. 

That was the life he missed. 

Then, suddenly, an idea flickered to life. Risky. 

Stupidly risky, but Miguel was past the point of caring. 

He didn’t like this new reality he’d been pulled into. 

He didn’t want to be your plaything, your entertainment, your lapdog. 

He wanted out. 

Miguel glanced at your message one more time, then powered off his phone, letting the screen go dark. 

A long breath left him as he leaned back in his rolling chair, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him a way out. 

‘Tomorrow will be like nothing happened…’ 

‘Everything will return to how it was before…’  

He was avoiding you… 

That fucking dweeb was avoiding you like the damn plague. 

It had been a month since you caught Miguel—the outcast of campus, the loser in khakis—jerking off in the library, and then offering himself up to you at Mama’s diner. 

But now? It was like the man evaporated. 

You couldn’t find his ass anywhere! 

The last time you saw or heard from him was that day. And after that? 

Poof. 

Gone. 

But what really sat at the core of your anger—what made your blood boil every time you thought about it—was the fact that your puppy had the audacity to stand you up. 

He never showed at your sorority house. 

You had slipped into your sexiest pink dress, fully prepared to let the lowlife bask in exactly who he’d submitted himself to…and you waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

Until it got pathetic. 

You had never felt so stupid, so weak, in your entire life. 

Sitting there like some princess locked in a tower, waiting on him, as if you needed him or something. 

The only proof he came anywhere near your place was the sight of your homework packet—finished, perfectly completed—tucked neatly inside the sorority mailbox. 

And from that day forward? 

He ghosted you. 

No replies. 

No call answered. 

No sightings of him anywhere on campus. 

You didn’t want to make it a big deal. 

Honestly, your first instinct was to just post the damn video and watch his entire life crumble in real time for thinking he could drop you like some nobody. 

But for some reason…you couldn’t do it. 

Instead, you become a detective. 

A dangerous one. 

Using your power, your influence, your money and reputation—you hunted for your massive mutt who dared to run away. 

And unsurprisingly? 

It was easy. 

Being the Queen Bee of Nueva York University meant doors opened when you flicked your wrist. 

A few words here, a subtle threat there, a flash of cash—and suddenly, you had everything. 

His class schedule. 

His perfect grades. 

His on-campus apartment number. 

His work hours. 

Hell, you were pretty sure his social security number was buried somewhere in the stack of documents you’ve collected. 

But one thing stood out: 

His library schedule had changed. 

The nerd worked afternoons or evenings now instead of mornings—the time the two of you “met.” 

The discovery only confirmed what you already knew. 

The missed calls. 

The silence. 

The scheduling switch. 

The sudden disappearance. 

Miguel was trying to vanish from your radar. 

And honestly? 

He might have succeeded…

If there wasn’t one giant flaw in his entire plan: 

You being the fucking Queen of Nueva York University. 

The fact that his lame ass thought you wouldn’t find him made you angerier than anything else. 

So you decided your little runaway puppy needed to be punished. 

And what better punishment than paying him a visit when he least expected it? 

It was 9:30 in the morning when your pink heels began their sharp, authoritative clicking down the pristine floors of Reilly Science Hall at NYU. Each strike slicing straight through the murmur of students crowding the hallway. 

Every step earned attention. 

Eyes flicked toward you—some with envy, others with shameless adoration. 

And the rest? 

They didn’t matter. 

They were planets meant to orbit you, never the other way around. 

The day that happens is the day the world officially ends. 

You don’t slow down nor manuever your way through the crowd. 

Why would you? 

People move out of your way before you even reach them—some stepping aside instinctively, others thinking for a split second they might challenge you…until one look sends them scattering like the seas parting.  

As always, you’d be a fool to challenge the Queen. 

You swept past the ogling peasants with ease, adjusting the strap of your purse—your sleek designer bag that cost more than most of these students’ entire wardrobes. 

It sat perfectly against your side, because expensive things always knew their place. 

The soft rose silk of your long-sleeved crop top hugged your figure just right, the oversized bow framing your chest like it was tied there by the gods of couture. 

Paired with the crisp pleats of your white skirt and the height of your pink heels? 

You didn’t look untouchable. 

No, you were untouchable. 

The hallway reeked of old textbooks and cheap coffee, but the scent never reached you. 

Your perfume, something floral, expensive, impossible to imitate, trailed behind you like a signature. 

A few students whispered. 

Someone glanced down at their outfit as if suddenly realizing how plain they were in comparison. You smirked. 

Just another day being Queen. 

However, today this Queen had a lost pup to track down, and apparently a Genetic Engineering and Biotechnology class to grace with her presence. 

At the end of the hall, the lecture room door awaited. You already knew what was inside: 

Students who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, a professor who could be bought with what you spent on makeup, and your burly mutt who seemed convinced he’d slipped his leash. 

Let’s see about that… 

You pushed open the door, and the room fell quiet—just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to confirm what you already knew. 

They saw you. 

They always did. 

Your gaze cut through the room like a blade, narrowing when it found the mutt in the very back row. 

Miguel O'Hara. 

He looked up, met your eyes—and went pale, like he’d seen a ghost crawl straight out of his nightmares. 

‘Aww…isn’t someone looking a little ill today,’ you thought, a wicked grin tugging at your glossy pink lips. 

Didn’t expect this, did you, big boy? 

Miguel O’Hara always enjoyed genetics. Hell, it was his major—he hoped he enjoyed it. 

Gene splicing, mutations, mitosis, meiosis…anything involving genetics, and the Latino could ramble for hours in pure joy. 

Of course, no one ever asked, so he kept that information to himself. 

Genetic Engineering and Biotechnology, one of his required courses, was something he adored deeply. 

Miguel was always fascinated by CRISPR, gene therapy, and synthetic biology—constantly wondering how far the field can go. 

Human enhancement. 

Evolution. 

The endless possibilities. 

It was his scientific dream. 

So every day, without fail, he would walk into Dr. Octavius’ lecture with his head a little higher, a tiny pep in his step, ready to expand his mind in his favorite subject. 

But lately, like everything else… 

It had come crashing down. 

Miguel didn’t notice the sudden hush in the lecture hall, nor the way the air shifted. 

He was too busy studying his textbook, airpods in, zoning out to his favorite band. 

His amber eyes, framed behind black square glasses, moved quickly over the printed words. The world around him was muted, softened, distant—the way he liked. 

The only thing he ever paid attention to was Dr. Octavius’ muffled voice signaling the start of class. 

So when Miguel heard the familiar tone, he reached up, removed his airpod, and lifted his gaze toward the front—only to meet eyes with the she-devil dressed head-to-toe in Prada standing beside his professor. 

In that instant, his world shattered. 

His heart slammed into his throat. 

His blue cardigan suddenly felt suffocating. 

He tugged at his tie, loosening it, but it didn’t stop the room from closing in on him. 

‘What the hell is she doing here!? In my lecture!?’ 

The rush of emotions was immediate—anger, frustration, and that unwelcome, humiliating burn of desire. 

When he left your homework packet in the sorority mailbox, he swore it was it. 

He’d never see you again. 

He’d vanish. 

You’d get bored and move on. 

Changing his work schedule, avoiding campus hotspots, ghosting you—all of it was supposed to work. 

For once, it appears Miguel miscalculated. 

Clearing his throat, he forced his expression into something neutral, something controlled, even though his pulse was hammering and he felt anything but unrattled. 

He lowered his gaze back to his textbook, pretending to read, trying to ignore the way your stare was boring a hole through his skull. 

“Ms. Y/L/N,” The professor, Dr. Octavius, you believe his name was,  greeted with a hopeful smile, “what a lovely surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

You barely acknowledged the man. 

Anyone who willingly lectured a room full of horny young adults about DNA replication as a job was already beneath you. 

He was not worth your attention. 

You hummed dismissively, eyes locked on your trembling mutt in the back row. “I’ll be joining your class today,” you said, blunt and absolute.

Dr. Octavius blinked behind his circular frames, startled. “W-With all due respect, miss, it’s the middle of the semester. A-and you can't just join a class today. You can’t simply—” 

Your head snapped toward him in a single, lethal motion. His words died instantly. 

“O-Of course,” he corrected himself quickly. “I-I think I can fit you somewhere.” 

A slow, glossy smile curled your lips. “Thanks, doc. I knew you’d understand.” The seductive lilt in your voice hit him like a tranquilizer dart. 

You watched the man sway slightly, dazed, enchanted for one humiliating moment. “Mhm…o-of course,” he stammered. “Take a seat wherever you’d like.” 

Your attention slid back to Miguel—the loner, the mutt, the runaway pup. 

He was hunched over his textbook, shoulders tense beneath that tragic excuse of a blue cardigan. The navy-and-beige outfit did nothing to hide the sheer size of him—the large, imposing body of the so-called nerd who had dared avoid you. 

A familiar spark of anger flared beneath your skin. 

You strode toward him, savoring the way he stiffened with each step. 

His jaw tightened. His glasses slipped a fraction down his nose. His exhale was deep, bracing—a man preparing for impact. 

His large hands reached up to adjust his tie, a desperate attempt to ground himself. 

Not once did he look up at you. 

Smart boy. 

Each click of your heels on the stairs boomed like thunder in his ears. His jaw clenched. 

Your perfume arrived a second before you did—sweet, expensive, hypnotic. 

Then—

“You,” you commanded, voice sharp enough to slice steel. “Move.” 

Miguel’s stomach twisted painfully at the sound of your authority—a reaction he despised. 

He didn’t miss this.

He didn’t miss you. 

Not. One. Damn. Bit. 

The student beside him scrambled out of the chair like he’d been set on fire. 

You wrinkled your nose at the seat, pulled out your sanitizer mist, and sprayed it thoroughly—because of course you did. 

Only then did you sit, lowering yourself with the effortless grace of a queen settling onto her throne. 

You crossed your legs, set your hands neatly in your lap, and basked in the anxiety radiating from Miguel’s body like heat off asphalt. 

Down at the front, Dr. Octavius began his lecture, but his voice blurred into meaningless noise. 

You reached into your purse, deciding it was a great time to touch up your makeup. ‘Peony pink…yes, that was the shade.’ 

You popped open your compact with practiced ease and began applying your lipstick—slow, deliberate strokes dripping with confidence and ego. 

No one dared say a word. 

Not with you here. 

Not if they knew what was good for them. 

Miguel had never felt this tense. 

He needed to focus on the lecture—goodness, he needed to—but how could he when you were right next to him? 

You, the one person who could ruin everything he’d worked for. 

You, sitting close enough for him to smell your perfume and make his chest tighten. 

He took a slow breath and straightened, trying to pull himself together. 

“Didn’t think you took genetics,” he muttered, voice low and clipped. 

No greeting. 

No softness. 

He refused to give you more than that. 

He already knew the truth—Queens like you didn’t give a damn about CRISPR or gene sequencing. Miguel just needed something to say to prove your hold on him was nonexistent. 

Your hand stilled on your lips. 

Your eyes slid to him—sharp, amused, predatory. 

“Well, well…so he speaks.” A smirk curved your mouth as you tucked your lipstick away. 

You gave him your full attention, settling into your seat like a cat sitting back to observe a toy. 

“Why not take a different class for once?” you purred. “Might help me understand my new pup a little better.” You rested your chin in your palm, studying him like he was something you might dissect later. 

Tilting your head, your smile deepened—sweet on the surface, venomous underneath. 

“You really didn’t think you could avoid me forever…did you, mutt?” 

The title sent a chill tearing down his spine. 

Miguel inhaled sharply through his nose. His fists curled in his lap, tension rolling off him in waves. 

But his face stayed controlled. 

Blank. 

Neutral. 

I’ve been busy,” he muttered, jaw tight. 

“You’ve been hiding.” Your reply came instantly, sharp as a blade. 

His jaw ticked, just once and then finally—finally—he looked at you, dark eyes narrowing behind his square glasses. 

For all his nerdy exterior, there was nothing timid in that stare. 

He looked like a storm forced into polite clothing—coiled tension, restrained fury, a lion shoved into a sweater vest. 

“And if I was?” he asked quietly, voice edged with danger. 

Oh, you liked that. 

You leaned in slightly, watching his throat bob, watching his muscles tighten beneath that ridiculous cardigan. 

He hated this. 

Hated you. 

But he wouldn’t dare lash out. 

Not when you could destroy him with one tap of your screen. 

“Then you’re not as smart as I thought you were,” you murmured, your voice syrup-sweet, your smile deadly. “And it seems you’ve forgotten the power I hold and the shit I have on you.” 

Your pink manicured finger tapped lightly against the phone in your lap—a soft sound, but the threat behind it hung in the air like a noose tightening. 

Miguel’s breathing slowed. Controlled. 

For a moment he just stared at you, something unreadable flickering across his features. 

Of course, you’d bring up the video. 

It was only a matter of time. 

With a sharp inhale, he leaned back, head tilting slightly as he carefully chose his next words. 

“And here I thought,” he said evenly. “You had better things to do than chase after people you claim are beneath you.”

A clean hit. 

A checkmate—if you were anyone else. 

Your glossy lips parted, a razor-sharp retort forming on your tongue—

But— 

“Ahem.” 

Dr. Octavius’ voice cracked through the tension, louder and more pointed this time, demanding attention. 

Demanding your attention. 

“Y/N, dear.” 

Dr. Octavius’ voice rolled across the room—rich, authoritative, slicing through the thick tension that had settled over the two of you.  

“Since today is your first day of Genetics Engineering and Biotechnology, may I ask what all the… chit-chat is about?” 

You caught it. 

That tiny twitch of Miguel’s lips. 

Not a full smirk—just enough to say, ha, finally someone calls her out. 

The little shit. 

Your manicured hand tightened around the armrest, but your expression remained pristine, perfectly polished. 

Both of you turned your attention to the professor standing at the front, arms crossed, unimpressed brow arched like he actually thought he could put you in your place. 

‘None of your business, dipshit,’ you thought, even as you placed a sweet, easy smile onto your lips. 

“Oh, nothing of importance, Professor,” you said smoothly. “Just getting acquainted with my new…classmate.” 

Miguel didn’t flinch. 

Didn’t move. 

Didn’t dare breathe too loudly. 

But you felt it—the subtle shift in his posture, the tap of his fingers against his textbook, that restrained irritation he tried so hard to hide. 

He hated being associated with you. 

Absolutely despised it. 

And the fact that he didn’t correct you? 

Delicious.

Dr. Octavius hummed, unconvinced. “Well, if you’re so eager to socalize…perhaps, you’d like to demonstrate what you know thus far in genetics?” 

For the briefest moment, your smile faltered.  

Barely.

But Miguel saw it—his head tilting, amusement flashing across his eyes like a spark. 

Your nails dug into the fabric of the armrest. 

‘Oh, he thinks this is funny? The nerve of this lowlife.’ 

But you refused to crack. 

You were the Queen Bee of NYU— and no overgrown nerd would ever put wrinkles in your flawless skin. 

With a practiced breath, you straightened, flipping your hair back over your shoulder. 

“I’d love to,” you began pleasantly, “but I’d hate to overshadow my peers on my first day.” 

Then, with a venomous smile: "I'm sure Miguel would be more than happy to answer.” 

The smug twitch in Miguel’s expression vanished instantly, replaced by a hard scowl. His entire body tensed. 

The damn professor even smiled. 

The idiot. 

“Excellent idea, Y/N. Miguel, please explain the role of CRISPR-Cas9 in genome editing.” 

You reclined in your seat, folding your hands in your lap as you watched the dread pool behind his eyes. 

He knew the answer. 

Of course he did. 

But he hated this—hated being watched, hated the attention, hated being put on the display. 

He hated most that he was sure you knew that. 

With a slow exhale through his nose, he adjusted his glasses and began: “CRISPR-Cas9 is a gene-editing tool derived from bacterial immune systems. It allows for precise modifications of DNA by using a guide of RNA to direct the Cas9 enzyme to a specific sequence, where it makes a cut, enabling insertion or deletion of a genetic material.”. 

Steady. 

Restrained. 

Professional. 

Nothing like the chaos tearing him apart inside. 

“Well done, Miguel,” Dr. Octavius praised. “Now, Y/N, I expect you to be just as engaged as your…classmate.” 

You opened your mouth to reply, but the professor continued before you could. 

“And Miguel,” he added, gesturing down the row, “go ahead and move a few seats over, please. Let’s give the new student some space to be engaged. Four down should do.” 

Your smile froze. 

The audacity. 

The absolute gall of this clearance-rack scholar. 

Miguel looked like he wanted to melt through the floor—not from embarrassment, but from relief. 

And that relief pissed you off. 

Before he could stand, you leaned in, voice a velvet blade against his ear. 

“Yes…run along and obey. Good boy~” 

His hand tightened so hard around his satchel you swore you heard the fabric squeak. 

A soft sound escaped him, barely audible, as he shifted in his seat, thighs pressing together, trying to hide the growing bulge you’d awakened. 

Then, with a stiff swallow, he stood and moved exactly four seats down. 

You watched every step he took. 

Miguel clearly thought he’d gotten away from you. 

Cute. 

You had more than enough time to turn this class into a personal nightmare for him. 

A/N: Lapdog 2, is here!!! 🐶💋 I hope this Christmas gift was to your liking and worth the wait! I worked really hard on this, and I apologize again for how long it took. Like I’ve said before, I did not expect Lapdog to get this much hype, so I definitely became a bit of a perfectionist with the second one. I really hope you enjoy it just as much.

Andddd—good news! There will be more coming soon, so stay tuned for more of Nerd Miguel and Queen Bee 😏

Make sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! If you’d like to add a request to the kink series Entangled Desire, or if you have an idea in general, feel free to message me or submit an ask. Don’t be nervous—your idea could be really good!

I hope you all have a wonderful day and stay safe!! 🩷💛

<3 Taglist:

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One hand gripped the concrete ledge while the other rested on your knee, tapping rhythmically as you listened intently to the police radio scanner for any nearby crimes.

It felt like a lifetime waiting for a siren, a call for help, or a sign that needed your intervention. But tonight, the only thing calling seemed to be your bed, beckoning from your apartment building.

‘It's so quiet. That's a first,’ you thought, pressing a gloved finger to the earpiece of your mask to heighten the scanner's volume.

You didn’t want to miss a thing.

Returning to the rare calmness of the city, you gazed at the horizon. A soft breeze tugged at the edges of your skin-tight suit, its design and craftsmanship entirely your own.

Your mind wandered to your double life—the life of Y/N. You thought of the responsibilities, obstacles, and challenges that awaited you, still struggling to balance your personas despite being a hero for nearly two years.

A crackling static from your earpiece cut through your thoughts. Your ears perked up as the voice of a male officer broke through, reporting to his fellow comrades—and, unknowingly, to you.

"Dispatch, we’ve got a report of a robbery in progress at the Fifth Avenue jewelry store. Suspect is believed to be armed. Proceed with caution."

"A robbery?" you muttered. It wasn’t unusual—midnight was a common hour for petty theft.

Upon reaching out to shoot a web in preparation for slinging your way to the destination of the robbery, another officer's voice came through—more urgent and frantic than the previous one.

"Dispatch, we have visual confirmation—it's Black Cat! Repeat, Black Cat is on the scene!"

At the mention of the cunning and very familiar villain, you couldn’t help but smirk. “Looks like Miguel is up to his old tricks again,” you muttered to yourself with a small smile.

You and the mischievous feline had some history—history full of many conflicting encounters, where you faced the villain’s relentless seduction, crafty words, and, goodness, his touches alone were enough to leave you questioning whether you should even capture the thief at all.

Your face warmed underneath your mask at the thought of him.

You always adored Black Cat’s honeyed and towering form. Every part of his body was encased in muscles that bulged and moved beneath the fabric of his black and white villain attire.

However, the feline was most famous for his black fur coat. The jacket had a wild, untamed look, with white furry trimmings along the collar and lapels. He always wore the notorious piece unbuttoned, letting his defined 8-pack and taut pecs remain exposed—only further emphasizing the cat’s unfortunate mutations.

Though, he didn’t see them as such.

But it wasn’t his attire that made your judgment falter when you were in his presence. Miguel, simply being himself, was what, secretly, allured you.

Miguel O’Hara wielded his mutation like it had always been a part of him, despite the genetic manipulation he endured as a scientist at the notorious laboratory, Alchemax being what caused him to become what he was now.

Though using such powers for unethical things like theft wasn’t admirable, his confidence in himself still impressed you... 

More than you expected.

With a motion of grace and fluidity, you pushed off the ledge to dive into the open air, racing to the scene. 

The wind whipped past you, as you spun mid-flight to extend an arm, shooting a web towards a nearby building. The webline caught hold and you held on tight, swinging your weight through the bustling streets of New York. 

The city, remaining true to it being a place of unrest, showcased individuals still roaming the sidewalks and visiting establishments in search of fun despite the lateness. 

You swung past shocked and awe-struck citizens, the many lights from the passing towers bouncing off your mask lenses. Your eyes scanned the streets before finally landing on the reported jewelers. 

‘This is the place.’ You thought, circling the perimeter for the naughty feline to find the sidewalks completely empty. “Typical.” The murmur escapes you at the discovery. 

Quietly and discreetly, you lowered yourself onto the exterior of the store, using your ability to cling onto walls to your advantage. You stuck to the shadows, peering in through the windows of the store to find an unusual sight. 

Nothing was disturbed…

Your eyebrows furrowed at the revelation. 

The glass cases of jewelry held all their stored gems and accessories, the alarm hadn’t been triggered and neither was there any sign of a break-in. 

Something was off…

“Weird…” You whispered, shooting a webline to a nearby streetlight to pull your weight to the designated position. 

Landing perched on the hood of the pole, your eyes surveyed the area, a sense of uncertainty clinging to your being. 

Suddenly, an intense, yet familar tingle shot through you like an electric current. 

Your head snapped in the direction that was drawing every nerve of your body towards, overhearing a loud crash and scratch from a nearby alley, one similar to metal and claws. 

Swiftly, you followed the sound. 

Leaping from your spot, you swung, landing lightly on your feet in the foot of the alleyway next to the shop. 

The alley was eerily quiet, the scurrying of critters and a dripping of a leaky pipe being the only sounds that filled your ears. Cautiously, you stepped further into the dark aisle, your senses on high alert for any unusual noises or signs of the villain’s presence.

Glancing to your left, you spotted a vent, torn from its hinges that led out of the jewelry shop and a few claw marks surrounding the brick walling. 

“He was certainly here, only his claws could cause such damage.” You acknowledged to yourself, running a gloved finger along the deep indentation of his talon along the exterior. But, your suspension of the cat’s presence was further confirmed when your scanners picked up on an item that belonged to the feline, and him alone. 

White hair from his mane. 

You scoffed, crouching down to inspect the piece closer. Picking up the coarse strand in your gloved fingers, your eyes trailed along it, the screens in your mask lenses identifying it to, indeed, be his. 

“You are becoming sloppy, kitty.” You uttered, removing a small circular gadget from the strap of your waist, tucking the loose loc inside for safekeeping for the police. 

Before you could further examine the alley, that intense tingle shot through your being once more, accompanied by a deep, confident voice echoing from behind you, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Still listening to police scanners, arañita? It makes you predictable."

Miguel O'Hara—the Black Cat himself—spoke from behind you, emerging from the shadows of the alley.

A playful smirk adorned his lips as the moonlight highlighted his mischievous red eyes, piercing fangs, and the scar etched along his right eye. His presence brought on a sense of uneasiness and, dare you say…

Excitement.

You rolled your eyes, hastily attaching the disk back to your waist before rising to face him. "Me? Predictable? Says the villain who gets his kicks robbing jewelry stores. Isn’t this your fourth one this week?" you retorted, trying to ignore how he always seemed to make your heart skip a beat.

Miguel chuckled, the sound rumbling through the night. "I see someone’s keeping a close eye on me. Should I be flattered or worried?"

"You wish," you replied, thankful for the steadiness in your voice despite the fluttering in your chest.

Your gaze traveled along his body, noting his massive build and bulging arms that hinted at his evident strength. But you knew better than to underestimate him—his immense agility made him even more dangerous.

His scarlet eyes swept over your face, studying you intently. A hum of disapproval escaped him. "Why lie, muñeca?" he teased, stepping closer. His movements were graceful, almost feline, as his gaze never left yours.

"I can hear your heart, you know. Keen hearing and all," Miguel murmured, gesturing to his furry, white cat ears with a clawed finger.

You stood your ground as he approached, his towering frame closing the space between you. His presence engulfed you, the faint scent of his expensive cologne—likely stolen—lingering in the air.

"I can hear your little heart beating against your ribcage, Spiderwoman. It’s quite loud, amor. Very loud," he said, a sly smile revealing his sharp canines. The sight stirred a mix of discomfort and… something else entirely.

When Black Cat spoke, his voice carried a sultry, husky tone designed to seduce. Like a siren’s call, it was nearly impossible to ignore, no matter how hard you tried.

You swallowed hard, shaking off your embarrassment. "We’re not here to talk about me, Miguel. We’re here for you," you said sternly, grateful your mask concealed the flush spreading across your cheeks. "So either come willingly, or I’ll take you to the police by force."

At your words, a deep, rumbling laugh erupted from him, his broad chest shaking beneath his black fur coat. The sound echoed through the quiet alley, catching you off guard.

"Arañita, I thought you were smart. You disappoint me," he said mockingly, tapping a finger against your forehead. The gesture earned him a sharp glare from you.

"Use your eyes, chica. What jewels have I stolen? What bags am I carrying?" he asked, a fanged grin spreading across his face, as though he held a secret only he understood.

Your brows furrowed as you realized the truth in his words. Black Cat carried no bags, no evidence of a robbery. But why would you trust a cunning thief like him?

You wouldn’t…

Never…

You scoffed, your eyes narrowing from under your spider mask.. “Nice try, kitty, but I'm not falling for your games.” 

“Ahh, pero no hay juego.” He stated, holding his white gloved hands up defensively, and shaking his head, his white mane swaying with the motion. “I tell the honest truth, arañita. I've stolen nothing.” 

Despite his 'honesty,' you couldn't bring yourself to believe him. The thought of priceless jewels stashed away somewhere he knew about filled your mind, leaving his words hard to trust.

“You may claim innocence, cat, but I’m certain I heard reports of you committing a robbery here,” you said, your tone laced with annoyance. “So let’s skip the theatrics.”

Miguel snickered, leaning closer. His overwhelming presence and air of dominance made it hard to think clearly. “My little Spiderwoman, you wear confusion and irritation quite well. They’re striking looks on you,” he teased before sighing dramatically. “But it seems, idiota, you’re more predictable than I thought.”

“I am n-not predictable, and do not call me that!” You snapped, not going to take such name-calling from a man who spent his time committing petty theft for entertainment. 

Black Cat laughed, tracing a gloved finger along your jaw. The sensation of his claw through your suit sent a shiver down your spine. “I’m just being honest, amor. Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Your breath hitched at the stroke his fingers made along your face, his touch enticing. Miguel smirked, taking notice of how you lingered in his palm, neither accepting nor pulling away. “If you did, you’ll know if I was truly stealing something, I wouldn't have stuck around to be found.” 

The feline chuckled when you finally pulled away, regaining your senses. “And you’ve said it yourself, bebé,” he continued, grabbing your chin roughly and pulling you back toward him, making you yelp. “Robbing jewelry stores gets boring after a while. I crave the fun—the thrill—you give me that, arañita.” His voice was low, almost a purr, his scarlet eyes roaming you like prey.

You found yourself speechless at his admission. Wetting your lips and swallowing to cleanse your dry throat, the gears in your head started to spin. 

‘This can't be what I think it is… right!?’  

You gulped, forcing yourself to maintain a stern gaze behind your mask and not allow fear nor his grip on your chin to deter you. “So…this was a trap? And I fell for it?” 

“Like prey wandering into the jaws of the beast.” Miguel clarified with a snicker. 

As you feared, your suspicions proved true. Your eyes widened behind your lenses, preparing to fire a web to blind him, but he was faster.

A startled yelp escaped you as his massive hands seized your wrists, slamming you against the alley wall. “Too slow, muñeca,” he rasped darkly, pinning your arms above your head. Without hesitation, he trailed his nose along your sensitive throat, inhaling your scent.

“Fuck, you’re something else, Spiderwoman. Really something.”

You gasped when his hand slid lower, delivering a sudden, shameless squeeze to your rear. Your body jolted in his grip, heat flooding your face at the intensity of his touch.

His large hand lingered, gripping you firmly, sending a shiver down your spine. He hummed in satisfaction, leaning closer, his chest trapping you against the cold brick wall of the jewelry store. He inhaled deeply, savoring your scent like a patron indulging in the scent of freshly baked bread.

Miguel’s body boxed you in against the cold brick wall of the jewelry store, his solid chest pressing firmly against your form, the stark contrast enough to make your knees weak.

“Even though… y-you may have tricked me, the cops are still on their way,” you spat, finally finding your voice. Your eyes narrowed in defiance as they locked onto his.

Miguel's wandering hand stilled, his face lifting from your neck to meet your gaze.

The corner of his lips curved into a wicked smirk, a soft snicker escaping him. “Arañita, are you high under that mask? Drunk?” he teased, tugging tauntingly at the edge of your face covering.

You jerked your head away from his hand, determined to keep your identity hidden, though his words left you utterly confused. “N-no, I’m not—”

“Then tell me why it didn’t register in that cute, little head of yours that when I said this was a trap... it was a trap.” He chuckled, and your heart plummeted.

Miguel’s gloved palm slid over the taut fabric of your suit, his touch sending a jolt through your body. “So no, no cops will be coming to save you, Cariño,” he affirmed, his sharp eyes locking onto yours, glowing with amusement.

Your mind struggled to make sense of it. ‘Even the cops were a trap!? But I always listen to the police scanner... how could it be fake? This can’t be true.’ You panicked, shaking your head.

“B-But the police officers, I-I heard them,” you stammered. “T-they sounded real.” You tried to ignore the way your body burned with unwanted ecstasy at his sensual touches, how a treacherous part of you craved more.

The cat villain hummed in amusement. “Oh, they did sound real, didn’t they? But you’re not the only one with exceptional technology, baby.” He teased, tapping a claw against one of your mask’s lenses. The sudden gesture made you jump in his arms.

Your breathing quickened, fear flooding your mind as the pieces finally fell into place.

The unscathed shop. The evident signs of his presence. His ‘sloppy’ escape. His sudden appearance. Every detail screamed trap, and you had walked right into it.

Like an idiot, you’d served yourself up to the cat on a silver platter. You’d never felt so foolish.

“Why did you do this!? W-what do you want from me!?” you shouted, thrashing beneath him, desperately trying to free your arms from his vice-like grip. But it was useless—he was too strong.

“Relax, cálmate, little Spider,” Black Cat murmured soothingly, his voice a low purr meant to lull you into submission. “I just wanted a little time with you. You’re a hard woman to find, after all. A guy has to get creative.” His gloved hand slid to your hip, squeezing it firmly under his fingers.

You bit your lip, trying to swallow your irritation—and the betraying sounds of pleasure threatening to escape.

You couldn’t let him think you were enjoying this.

Even though you were.

“O-Okay… you have my time and my attention. Now, what do you want?” you asked through gritted teeth, your hands clenched into fists where they were pinned above your head.

“Now?” the cat echoed, his piercing scarlet eyes locking onto yours. “Now, you give me what I want, Cariño.” His tone was low, commanding, as though you’d stolen something precious, and he was here to claim it back.

Your face twisted in confusion, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “I… I don’t know what you want.”

A deep growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through you. “Hmm, but you do,” he said, his voice dark and heavy with meaning. “And I’ll get it out of you, one way or another.” His jaw tightened, and his grip on your wrists became more unyielding, a glint of satisfaction flashing in his eyes as you winced.

Your heart pounded erratically, torn between fear and an unsettling arousal. You didn’t know what he was after, couldn’t even fathom where to begin unraveling his intentions.

“Nngh… I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miguel. Truly,” you admitted breathlessly, the thought of escape slipping further and further from your mind.

Because as much as you wanted to break free, there was a part of you—one you desperately wanted to ignore—that didn’t want to leave him at all.

Miguel’s predatory gaze roamed over your masked face, his white, furred ears twitching slightly atop his head. “I didn’t think I’d need to spell it out for you, Arañita,” he murmured, a smug smirk tugging at his lips.

Before you could process his words, his free hand cupped your chin, forcing you to meet his burning gaze. He pulled you closer, his grip firm but not harsh, his presence overwhelming.

“Spiderwoman,” he purred, his voice dripping with intent, “I want you.”

The cat confessed with a toothy grin, chuckling as your shock was evident, even through the mask. “What can I say? A cat gets bored playing with the same toys,” he groaned, his voice heavy with a mix of weariness and desire.

Burying his face in your neck, he nuzzled the sensitive skin of your throat, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he inhaled your scent again. “Rob enough stores, steal too many jewels, and money starts to lose its value—its reason,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

“I need more—something challenging, something new. Something no one else would think to acquire—or to claim.” His admission was laced with raw hunger, and the low timbre of his voice drew an involuntary moan from your lips. Mortified, you squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, “but I don’t want you in return, Miguel.”

“Lies, muñeca,” Black Cat snarled, his sharp canines nipping at your throat through your suit, the pressure just enough to draw a startled whimper from you.

He pulled back to meet your eyes, his expression dark with frustration and unrestrained longing. “All you do is lie—to me, to yourself, to every citizen in New York,” he growled, his voice tinged with both scorn and sympathy. “I pity you, Spiderwoman.”

His gloved finger traced your lips through the mask, your breath hitching at the intimacy of the gesture.

Black Cat smirked, his confidence unwavering as he released your wrists and cupped your face with both hands. His palms were surprisingly gentle, cradling your head like you were a precious prize he’d won.

“Come on, bebé,” he coaxed, his lips curling into a sly grin. “Let go with me. Let’s have some fun.”

His scarlet eyes raked over your form, lingering on every curve and detail of your suit, which clung to you like a perfectly wrapped gift. His lip caught between his teeth, his expression one of deliberate, unapologetic desire.

You breathed heavily, the air beneath your mask growing thin. The choice before you felt impossible, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on your chest. This wasn’t simple. Whatever you decided now would be life-changing—one wrong move, and everything could crumble.

Turning your head, you tried to deny him once more, no matter how difficult it was. “N-no. I can't.”

“But you can,” Black Cat purred, his voice smooth and tempting. “And what a delight you’d be when you finally let go, little Spider.” His hands traced along your body, every movement deliberate, as he whispered his words of temptation into your ear.

“Just imagine it for a moment,” he enticed, his breath warm against your skin. “Just you and me, with no distractions, no outsiders to stop us.” His white tail thumped softly against the pavement, a steady rhythm that seemed to soothe your racing thoughts.

You swallowed hard, your hands instinctively gripping his bulging forearms—something, anything, to ground you. You opened your mouth to protest again, but Miguel halted you with a low chuckle.

“It’ll simply be me and the pretty lady under the mask,” he said, his voice low and intoxicating. “Together, experiencing the passions that normal humans feel. Except we’ll be the upgrades.” He smirked, his fingers intertwined with yours, and pinning them to the wall once more.

His large hands engulfed yours, and Miguel’s lips began to wander. He kissed along your jaw and throat, his touch coaxing the response he desired from you.

Soft moans escaped your lips, your gloved hands squeezing his in return. Your body leaned into his, betraying the denial in your mind.

No matter how much you wanted to resist, you couldn’t.

You’d fantasized about this—about Black Cat, about Miguel doing this to you—so many times. You wanted to feel his hands on you, his mouth, his claws, and sharp teeth against your skin.

You longed for everything about him, craving him as you craved air in your lungs. Yet, deep down, a part of you wondered: would giving in, just this once, ruin you completely?

Would this moment—this indulgence—strip you of your worth as a hero? Would it make you unworthy to protect the citizens who relied on you day after day?

Could one moment of weakness destroy everything you had worked for?

But Miguel’s words echoed in your mind, replaying over and over like a broken record.

“It’ll simply be me and the pretty lady under the mask... together, experiencing the natural passions that normal humans feel.”

You might be a mutant, a being gifted with the powers of a spider, but at your core, you were human.

Humans make mistakes. Humans desire things—even things that are deemed wrong.

And if humans can be forgiven for their mistakes, then maybe this one indulgence, this one moment of weakness, could be seen for what it truly was:

A human making a mistake…

An evident moan, meant for Miguel’s ears, escaped you, his responding groan enough to soak your suit. “O-okay…” you agreed, giving his large hands another squeeze with your own.

You watched Miguel’s white, pointy ears perk up and his red eyes snap to yours. The surprise on his face was fleeting, replaced quickly by a fanged grin.

“Ahí está mi pequeña araña traviesa,” Miguel mewled, not wasting a moment before slipping a hand from yours, seeking to remove your mask.

Your hand hastily covered his, halting his movement. Meeting his gaze, you looked pleadingly at him, never before feeling so vulnerable before a villain. “Promise me that this stays between us.” You said, trying to hide the desperation in your voice.

“Of course, bebè—”

“I’m serious, Miguel O’Hara,” you sternly said, gripping his wrist with both of your hands. The size difference was evident as his one, larger arm made your two hands look miniature.

For once, the usually playful and seductive feline mirrored your stoicism. He gave your hands a squeeze as they rested on his forearm. “Whatever happens here stays between us, Cariño,” he replied sincerely, stroking your jaw with his thumb. A sigh escaped him, his eyes hardening at the wavering trust in your voice. “I swear it…

On my deceased daughter.”

Your eyes widened briefly at his words. You knew Miguel’s past well, having read his files more than was probably healthy.

Gabriella O’Hara, Black Cat's only daughter, had passed away from an illness—an illness that could have been prevented had Miguel had the means to afford the necessary treatments at the time.

His files spoke of their father-daughter bond being something impermeable, unlike anything else. It was clear that Gabriella’s tragic passing had pushed him down a dark road, a life of crime fueled by the desire to find joy in the misery of others, in hopes of brightening his own life, however briefly.

Your heart tugged at the thought of such devastation shaping the man before you.

Sneaking a hand up, you cupped his jaw, the tingles that coursed through your body at the contact enough to power a lighthouse. “I… trust you, Miguel,” you whispered, seeing the pain in his red orbs, despite his efforts to conceal it.

With your other hand, your gloved fingers slowly moved to the edge of your mask. Hesitating, you watched the cat villain’s expression shift from stern to anticipation as you removed the head covering of your hero suit, revealing your face—and, with it, your identity.

Tugging the loose fabric free, you felt your hair fall down and the cold breeze gently stroke your face, almost as if it were welcoming you with a kind gesture.

Now fully visible, you felt a surge of nervousness. Swallowing to ease the tightness in your throat, you met the cat villain’s gaze, trying to keep your embarrassment in check.

Miguel’s crimson eyes roamed over your face and body, glancing once, twice, even thrice, as if this moment were a dream that might vanish if he blinked. He hummed, letting out a low whistle of approval. “I knew I had taste, but damn, aren’t you a sight, arañita.” He complimented, brushing a stray hair behind your ear.

Black Cat examined you once more, his hidden fascination with you still rattling him. He flicked his tongue along his fangs, his gaze growing ravenous, hungry…

You blushed at his words, trying to maintain a steady expression, but with the absence of your mask, you’d never felt so exposed. “I cannot say the same,” you replied, your voice faltering. “I wouldn’t think my taste would be…” You averted your gaze from him, regretting voicing your inner thoughts about being a hero and feeling drawn to a villain like him.

At your flustered reaction, Black Cat chuckled, cupping your chin to gently turn your face back to him. “Don’t be ashamed, arañita. Everyone has their guilty pleasures.” He purred, pressing your body further into the wall and slipping a hand along your stomach, lower, to tease your clothed pelvis. “Pleasures I can surely satisfy.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, distracted by his touches and enticing words, your usual sense of strategic thinking lost in the haze. You’d always planned your next move, carefully considering every possibility, but right now, logic was the last thing on your mind.

His teasing touches along your inner thighs only fueled your desire, leaving you frantically nodding, pleading for more. “P-Please,” you stammered, the desperation in your voice undeniable, no longer hiding it.

A sultry smirk spread across Miguel’s lips, clearly delighted with your response. He cradled your face in his large, gloved palm, pulling you a hair’s breadth away from his lips.

“Hmm… Now, how could I deny such a sweet thing like you, arañita?”

The cat villain purred, his scarlet eyes gleaming with anticipation and desire for what he had in store for his little spider.

Through dazed eyes, you could only stare at the horizon—the same horizon that had entranced you only hours ago, touching your heart like never before.

With trembling limbs and a foggy mind, you wondered if the horizon would have returned your gaze, even for a moment, if it had known what you'd do later…

Would the starry night have glimmered brightly for you if it had known the slurred words you'd speak and the unashamed pleasure you'd feel shortly after?

Would the darkened sky still radiate in its purple and blue hues, like brushstrokes on a canvas, if it had known the lewd thoughts now plaguing your mind?

Worst of all, would the moon have graced you with its beautiful presence tonight if it had known how you would allow such a man—a villain—to take you in ways you never thought possible, all under its watchful gaze?

One would never know the answers, but you hoped it would have…

A broken whine escaped your lips as the cat’s thick cock touched the blissful spot inside of your pussy. Your back arched on the ledge. Unable to remember when the two of you had climbed onto the rooftop of a building adjacent to the jeweler’s shop and alley, to finally soothe the burning itch that had resonated in both of you for far too long."

The cat’s massive body, a frame of honeyed muscles and tantalizing scars were stripped bare, laid atop your chest, fucking you over the roof's ledge. His body engulfed your nude one in its musculature whilst his hands gripped you tightly—holding you close between each and every rut of his hips. 

“Sì, sì… fuck. So tight for me, muñeca.” He purred, sinking his sharp canines into the soft skin of your neck, biting and sucking dark spots onto your skin before lapping at the tender spot.

You yelped, nails clawing into his burly back. Your legs tightened around his waist as your vision crossed for the fourth time since he'd begun fucking you like he was in heat. 

“M-Miguel!” You moaned loudly when his merciless mouth lowered to mark your collarbone and breasts, his thrusting never ceasing. 

A dark chuckle escaped the large feline at your loud moans, his tongue tracing patterns along the skin of your breasts. “Might want to keep it down, amor, wouldn't want to draw attention.” He snickered breathlessly against your skin, his drooling cock continuing its slow grind in and out your sensitive walls.

The thought of a possible neighboring apartment, full of residents, hearing your wails and cries of pleasure made your face burn in shame. 

‘Gosh, how humiliating would it be if I were found like this—their hero, willingly being taken by Black Cat, a villain, right before their eyes?’

The thought made your heart skip a beat before they were instantly shattered when Miguel's cock slipped out of you, leaving you gasping for air. 

Your eyes snapped up to him, his body towering over you as the usual cunning smirk played upon his lips. “Thinking again, arañita?” he asked, tracing his bare talons, free from his gloves, along your jaw.

Your eyes fluttered at his touch, feeling an intense heat that even the chilling breeze brushing against your skin couldn't quell.

Shaking your head in his palm, you replied breathlessly, “I—I can’t help it.” You panted, biting your lip, while his tempting touch never ceased.

The cat hummed, resuming his descent, his sharp claws trailing along your throat, over your collarbones, and toward your chest. “That’s a shame, Spiderwoman. It seems you want me to fuck you senseless—help you forget all your little problems,” the villain uttered with a snicker, his sharp eyes locking onto yours. “You’re quite the naughty one.”

Your cheeks flushed at his words, and you hastily denied him. “N-no, it’s not like that—” you tried to say, but your words were cut off as the cat pulled you to your feet, turning you to face the horizon and the towering buildings before you.

His hardened chest pressed against the expanse of your back, aligning perfectly with you. Miguel’s arm wrapped around your waist, his hand stroking your thighs and stomach. “You aren’t a naughty one as you claim, Miss Spider, but let me know if this sounds familiar,” he said huskily into your ear, his rumbling tone vibrating through his chest

A soft whine escaped you when he cupped a breast, rolling the stiff nub underneath his thumb. “You fight tirelessly every day, defending this… wretched city from potential dangers, bad guys, and such,” he muttered. “It sounds… exhausting, hmm?” The feline inquired, his touch blinding, and the reasoning behind his words rattling you further.

“Y-yes… it is,” you could only muster, whimpering when both of his massive, calloused hands grasped your breasts, squeezing them like stress balls under his palms. He purred, swiping his tongue along the shell of your ear, enjoying how you shuddered.

“And how does my Spiderwoman handle her stress?” Black Cat hummed, your cheeks burning at such a question. You gulped, opening your mouth to speak and answer, but no sound was produced—too embarrassed to respond.

Miguel’s fingers pinched your perky nipples, humming in satisfaction when you mewled in pleasure. “No answer, I see? I’ll guess then,” he said. Despite being behind you, you could tell he was smirking.

“After returning home and… shimmying yourself out of that sexy suit,” he said, giving your breasts a smack that made you gasp. His hands returned to engulf them tightly once more. “You’ll probably shower, have a meal, watch a little television before curling up in bed. Alone, I hope…” He trailed off, the wish he voiced carrying a hint of warning.

However, he sighed, releasing your chest and allowing you to breathe again. “But when the lights turn off, and your room becomes dark, that’s when your stress becomes prominent, doesn’t it, bebè?” The cat asked, brushing your hair aside to expose your throat, already marked with growing hickeys from his previous bites.

A shaky exhale escaped you as his sharp nails ran along your neck, tracing your pulse point. You hesitated, unwilling to answer him.

Miguel nodded slowly, taking your silence as a response. “That’s a shame, arañita,” the feline murmured with a tsk, brushing his rough palms down your arms, goosebumps rising on your skin.

“When you’re alone, you begin to desire, Spiderwoman. Is that your deep secret?” Black Cat asked, your heart pounding so loudly against your chest that you were certain he could hear it.

“But simply desire? That couldn’t be. Humans desire—we desire,” the feline snickered, gripping your waist, his lips brushing against your ear. “What dark secret does my little Spider have?” he chuckled darkly.

“I think we both know what that is.”

Your entire body tensed, unable to believe how accurate he was. You bit your lip, his white tail coiling around your leg, coaxing you into replying—confirming his suspicions.

You turned your head away, unwilling to voice such a thing—not that. Agreeing was one thing, but speaking aloud your darkest secrets was too much.

Miguel laughed, gripping your chin to pull you back toward him, wanting you to hear his words clearly.

“You began to desire me, arañita. That’s your dark secret.”

Your heart dropped at his knowledge of your hidden truth. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing to hide under his stern gaze, neither wanting to agree nor disagree with him.

A growl rumbled from the male as his hand slithered up to grasp your throat, gripping it just softly enough to intimidate. He tugged you harshly back against him, his chest pressing against your backside like a thorn. “You still lie, arañita. Even after everything, you continue to lie,” he snarled into your ear, feeling his cock throb against the curve of your rear - heavy, thick, and very, very hard. 

You shook your head, denying his claims of deceit, earning a tight squeeze on your throat that stopped your breathing for a moment. Despite the fear his action provoked, ecstasy coursed through your veins as your eyes rolled, beyond your control.

“M-Miguel—”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, Spiderwoman,” he silenced you with a dark purr, running his other hand along your thighs. “You want me to work for your admission—your acceptance.” The cat cackled into your ear.

“Well, challenge accepted…”

With a gasp, you were pushed forward, collapsing across the ledge, your hands pressing against the concrete, your rear thrusted upward. Confused, you looked over your shoulder to find red eyes—full of determination and lust—staring back.

Miguel’s large palms gripped your hips, his throat rumbling with a snarl. “I'm going to fuck you until I hear what I want from you, Spiderwoman.” He replied and before you could speak, his girthy shaft was plunged inside of you again, filling you up in an instance. 

Your eyes squeezed shut in bliss and agony, fingers gripping the edge of the ledge tightly. The cat didn't hesitate to begin thrusting into you, his hips slamming into your rear in deafening slaps that could be compared to thunderclaps. 

“Mierda, you are mine, Spiderwoman. You may hesitate and deny it all you want, but this fucking pussy is telling me all that I need.” He spat breathlessly, leaning over to grasp your chin roughly. “Now I just need your lips to speak the same.” He growled, turning your head to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, not seeking your comfort and continuing to pound into your sloppy cunt. 

Miguel sought to draw out his desired words from your mouth and break your resolve with his cock, willing to do so until you both were sore and burnt out if need be. 

Your mind felt hazy, slowly becoming drunk on the feeling of his fat member rearranging your insides. The rough kiss left you further dazed as you tighten your grip on the ledge, feeling it crack under your enhanced strength. 

Black Cat huffed, pulling away to grab a fistful of your hair, tugging you back. The feline's tip touched deeper inside you, his brutal pace, never slowing. 

You whimpered, euphoric tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. “Say it, bebè. Say you want me—fuck,” he began to babble, his white furry tail tightening around your leg, keeping you rooted in place.

Your back arched into a bow, seeking more of his shaft. The need for him was growing more intense by the minute, your mind becoming filled with Miguel and his girthy cock.

You moaned and mewled in his grip, but no longer could you deny that this very moment was one of your fantasies turned into reality.

Black Cat read your life to you as if he had lived it, every detail so accurate it was a little unsettling.

After your work as Spiderwoman, you returned home and settled for the night, thoughts of him creeping into your mind.

His white mane, furry tail, red eyes, sharp fangs, towering height, scars, muscles, spiked choker, fur jacket, and all-black-and-white attire filled your head in the seclusion of your bedroom.

You tossed and turned, tormented by his tempting yet forbidden features—things you couldn’t have, things you shouldn’t have.

But each night you found your hands roaming your body, touching yourself and imagining it was him. Using toys with the thought of his cock being what drove your movements, even going as far to moan his name upon release, knowing every orgasm you made that night was for him and him alone.

Black Cat was your guilty pleasure—a taboo fantasy that only took form inside the safety of your mind and bedroom. But now, standing before you, experiencing everything you had ever wanted, you found yourself uttering the words the feline villain had long sought from you.

“I—I want you… Miguel.”

You confessed aloud, your chest heaving from the intense pleasure and the mix of difficulty and relief in finally revealing your deep, dark secret

You felt Miguel’s arm tighten around your waist, a curse following with purrs of approval and ecstasy escaping him at your admission. “Hmm… there you go, Miss Spider. It feels good accepting your fate, giving in to your desires, doesn’t it?” he hummed, untangling his fingers from your hair to place his other hand on your waist. “I’m pleased, Spiderwoman, but I don’t trust it. Not yet.” The cat practically hissed, his claws digging enticingly into the soft skin of your hips, marking you with his talons.

His thrusts halted as he trailed open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, up your neck and to your ear, tugging at the lobe with his teeth. “I want you to prove it to me.” The villain instructed, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

A soft smack upon your rear made you jump that only left the feline chuckling. “I want you to show me your eagerness, arañita, and if I must spell it out.” He mockingly replied, his cock still inside you but completely still due to his lack of motion.

“Move your hips.” The cat directed, taking the flesh of your hips into his palms and tugging you forward and back along his shaft. It wasn't long that your whimpers began to fill the night sky again.

Understanding what he was asking of you, you began to take control. You wanted the cat villain to know how you truly felt about him, despite how shameful your feelings were.

You began to rock back onto his fat cock, slowing your movements to relish in every vein and ridge of his shaft as it traveled in and out of your sensitive walls.

The cat cursed, giving your ass another smack. “Fuck—yes, that's my good girl.”He praised, his moans only encouraged you and filled you more with confidence. 

Slurred confessions began to spill from your mouth like a leaky faucet, your pace quickening whilst your high rose simultaneously. “Y-yes... I’ve wanted you... M-Miguel, f-for a while now.”You admitted with a moan, eyes fluttering at how he twitched inside of you with your every word. 

"I-I’m sorry it took... so long," you gasped, your chest heaving."I was... afraid." You paused, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before continuing, your voice shaky. "But now... I know..." Another deep inhale, your body trembling with the intensity. "My desire for you... is more than my fear." You stammered between mewls, your ass colliding with his hips with a loud slap each time. 

The Black Cat growled, aroused further. Wrapping a forearm around your throat and gripping your waist, he pulled you to his chest, breathing into your ear. “Tell me more, spiderwoman. What else did you seek from me?” He inquired, his voice more slurred and raspy than before as he took control once more, pounding his shaft into you.

The bulgy muscle of his arm was pressed just right into your throat, engulfing you in his sweaty scent and musk that only made you drip puddles along his rapid shaft. “I-I wanted your touch…” you gasped, struggling to get the words out as your body trembled. “Y-your mark... from your fangs... and your…” You paused to catch your breath, heart racing, the weight of your confession sinking in… “A-and your c-cock!” You wailed out, feeling a harsh burn in the pit of your stomach beginning to grow. 

Black Cat hummed, holding you to him, practically gluing your backside to his chest. His dick pounded into you, his shaft drenched in your combined juices. “I knew you were my… naughty, naughty girl.” He snickered breathlessly, his tail tightening around your calf. 

“Ay Coño.” The curse escaped him. “Going to claim you, arañita. Going to fill this pretty pussy up, and you are going to enjoy it, sí?” The cat villain promised, his voice airy

You frantically nodded, moaning loudly as the pleasurable tears you tried to hold back began to stream down your cheeks. “P-please, please, please,” you chanted upon reaching your limit.

At your pleas, the feline rested his chest flat against your back, covering his large hands with yours to rest upon the concrete ledge before you. His movements became more purposeful and precise for the last time, slamming into you at an angle that touched that spot inside you repeatedly. 

Your eyes rolled into your skull, fingers squeezing his so harshly you'd believe his digits would snap any moment. 

With a final thrust, you released. Seeing white, you were overwhelmed by a wave of tingles and euphoric bliss, the feeling of your juices trickling down your hot skin going unnoticed.

Your tightness led Miguel to follow you over the edge. A guttural groan erupted from the Latino villain, his load filling up your inners and leaving you warm and full.

A peaceful silence settled upon the rooftop, broken only by your panting breaths and the occasional honking of cars down below.

Breathing heavily, the feline wrapped an arm around your midsection, stroking your stomach and nuzzling your hair. “Spiderwoman, you do not disappoint,” he chuckled breathlessly, inhaling the scent of your shampoo and enjoying the feeling of you in his arms.

The cat villain purred in contentment, the wind rustling his white mane and kissing the tips of his furry ears. “I never thought I'd find thrill in something else that didn’t leave my pockets filled with riches,” he confessed with a laugh, lapping his tongue along your neck to clean up the sweat there.

“So, let’s not make this our only playtime, hmm? I don’t believe I can simply leave here today, knowing how good you feel and unable to experience it again,” he admitted, resting his chin on your shoulder. His tail swished, and a purr rumbled from his throat when he was around you.

“So, what do you say? Want to have more fun with me—” Miguel’s words halted as he noticed the sleeping hero in his arms. The villain chuckled, not believing how long he’d rambled on, only to discover that he had been speaking to himself the whole time.

“A question for another time, then,” he trailed off with a sigh, pressing a kiss to your throat.

“Goodnight, arañita. Dream of me, would you?”

You groaned in annoyance at the beaming sun shining onto your closed eyelids. You shifted, feeling a blanket covering your body, which you didn’t hesitate to tug closer to your form.

Lying between a state of consciousness and unconsciousness, the recollections of last night began to fill your mind, causing your eyes to snap open.

“Miguel?” you called out, looking around to find yourself tangled in a series of comfy blankets, the rooftop empty except for you.

Your heart tugged at the feline’s disappearance.

Heaving a sigh, you drew back the sheets to find your Spiderwoman attire adorning your body. You couldn’t help but smile, aware that you had been nude before sleep claimed you, leaving the idea that Black Cat was the one who clothed you.

You stood, hastily tugging on your mask and beginning to roll up the blankets. “But why did you leave without saying goodbye?” you muttered glumly when you noticed a small, robotic white-and-black cat fall onto the floor from the bundle of sheets you held.

“One of Miguel’s kittens!?” you gasped, crouching down to pick up the small gadget that resembled the cunning feline.

You’d seen the robotic kitten many times before, knowing them best as tools for many of Miguel’s tasks, from spying to delivering messages. The little gadget was impressive tech, typical of the feline.

Pressing the red orb of the little cat’s eye and finally pulling its white tail, it began to speak aloud its recorded message:

“Good morning, Little Spider. Hope you slept well with the amount of drooling you did on my chest. I would have loved to stick around and bless your eyes with a sexy sight in the morning, but I had urgent business that needed taking care of. I assure you, arañita, we’ll meet again. Very soon.

Also, be sure to return the blankets—someone in a nearby laundromat just might be missing them.

Until then, keep your bed empty for me. I plan on filling it soon, Spiderwoman.”

The message concluded, and the robotic kitten fell silent, Miguel’s voice fading as quickly as it had spoken.

You wistfully smiled, running a finger along the miniature, cunning feline’s white mane, wishing it was the real Black Cat’s.

“I already miss the furry idiot,” you breathed, tucking the robot into the strap on your waist before deciding it was time to take your leave.

Picking up the bundle of blankets that Black Cat would say he “borrowed,” you shot a webline to a neighboring building, swinging through the morning air toward, hopefully, the location of a laundromat that had recently experienced a thievery.

However, as you traveled, your mind was filled with thoughts of the cat and how uncertain your future would be now that such an occurrence had happened.

But you found yourself, not regretting a thing.

People make mistakes, some repeating the same ones over and over again, and yes, you were a hero—a mutant with powers far beyond, but you would always be…

Human…

A human that wouldn’t mind making mistakes here and there, especially if that mistake was a walking cat mutant with red eyes, a white tail, and a signature black fur coat.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed The Cat and His Spider! As always, it was a pleasure writing Miguel as a sly, cat villain. Goodness, he was literally so scrumptious!! 😍😍

This marks the finale of the Vicetober 2024 event, which I created with my older sister, @powerful-niya. Apologies once again for it spilling over into the new year—personal life and education got in the way for both of us, making it difficult to write. But I’m happy we were still able to complete this event for our wonderful fans! Love you guys so much! 🖤🤍🖤🤍

Following Vicetober 2024, I'll be returning to my normal works. This includes asks, my kink series Entangled Desires, oneshots, and continuing stories like Tangled in His Webs, Lapdog, and many more—so be on the lookout! 😏

Also, I now have an AO3 account where I'll be posting new stories and transferring existing ones from Tumblr.

If you're interested, feel free to check it out here >> 🤓🤓

Once again, thank you so much to everyone who was excited about this event and enjoyed my posts. I truly appreciate it!

Make sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow if you enjoy events like this—perhaps I'll do another? We'll never know, lol. 🤷🏾‍♀️ If you'd like to submit a request for Entangled Desires or share an idea in general, just message or send an ask! Don’t be nervous—your idea could be amazing! I hope you have a wonderful day—stay safe! 🖤🤍

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Your husband moved first, his long legs quickly striding to the stairway. He climbed them in an instant, with you close behind.

“Princesa!? Gabriella!?” Miguel’s thunderous voice echoed down the hall of your family home.

“Gabi?!” you called out, your heart hammering, never feeling this level of panic before.

Miguel walked briskly down the narrow upstairs hallway, flanked by four doors—two leading to bathrooms, one to your shared bedroom, and the last to Gabriella’s room.

Frantically, you tore through each room, throwing open doors, your eyes scanning for any trace of your daughter. With each second that passed, the dread in your chest grew heavier. “Gabi?!” your voice cracked as it echoed off the walls. But the silence that followed was unbearable.

She wasn’t there.

Meeting in the hallway, your teary eyes locked with Miguel’s. His stern gaze didn’t falter, but the tension in his clenched jaw betrayed his growing desperation.

“One last door, cariño. She’s here,” he said, his voice resolute as his knuckle brushed your cheek in a soothing gesture. But the flicker of anger in his eyes spoke volumes—anger at the unknown, at his own helplessness.

Swallowing hard, your throat dry, you both turned toward Gabriella’s bathroom.

Miguel let out a frustrated grunt, and with the force of a charging bull, he bursted the door open. You pushed past him, your feet hitting the cold tiles when you entered the room.

The bathroom hit you like a slap. The air was heavy, unnaturally still, and it clung to your skin in a way that made every nerve scream with unease. The cold tiles beneath your feet were a stark contrast to the warmth of the hallway carpet, a biting reminder of how wrong everything felt.

⚠️⚠️(Trigger Warning Approaching!!)) ⚠️⚠️ 

Skip to this if you wish to avoid it >> 🤎💙

Your hand scrambled along the wall, fumbling for the light switch. When the harsh fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life with a sickly hum, the scene before you came into focus.

And you froze.

The color drained from your face, your breath caught in your chest, and your knees felt as if they might give way beneath you. The bathtub, the room, the sight—it all sucked the life out of you in one brutal instant.

‘This has to be a dream. Let this be a fucking dream.’

But it wasn’t.

Gabriella was there, hunched over the edge of the bathtub.

Your sweet little girl—the same one who had just been beaming with joy as she dashed upstairs to fetch her gift—now laid lifelessly. Her small body was draped over the edge, twisted in a way that made her look like a discarded, broken doll. The innocence of her form had been stolen, transformed into something grotesque.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The world had stopped spinning, leaving you trapped in this moment of unimaginable horror.

🤎💙 Safe to continue reading💙🤎

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head frantically. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.”

Your voice broke, a sob ripping through your chest while stepping back on trembling legs. “My daughter. My sweet little girl.” Tears blurred your vision, cascading down your cheeks as you sank to your knees.

“Oh, gosh, w-what happened to you? This can’t be real. No, no, no.” The words spilled from your lips in a torrent of grief and denial.

A guttural cry tore from your chest, raw and unrelenting, shaking your entire body. Your hands gripped the fabric of your blue dress so tightly that your knuckles turned white, the tears soaking the material until it clung to your trembling form.

Your heart raced, your breathing uneven, and your head throbbed with disbelief and terror. The questions, the pleas, the desperate prayers poured out of you in a relentless stream, each one more frantic than the last.

But the pain was too much.

Your vision blurred further, darkening at the edges as the world around you began to fade. Overwhelmed by the sheer weight of grief, your body gave out, collapsing into unconsciousness.

As darkness enveloped you, fragments of thoughts slipped through the cracks of your mind.

‘Please don’t be real.’

‘My sweet girl, Gabriella.’

‘I can’t lose you.’

‘I can’t lose you.’

And then, like a flickering light extinguished, your final thoughts faded into the void.

“Mi amor…”

“Shh, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.”

“You are okay.”

Your eyes slowly fluttered open, your body weak and trembling. A pounding headache reverberated through your skull—a pain so excruciating that even thinking was a grueling task.

“W-where am I?” you whispered, struggling to sit up from your crumpled position on the ground. Surrounded you a cold, dark hallway—one that sent a chill down your spine. The memories came rushing back, sharp and unbearable, as a strangled sob escaped your throat.

“G-Gabi. Oh gosh.” You wept into your hands, the ache in your chest only intensifying when the horrific moment played out in your mind once more.

Above, the lights flickered on, one by one, casting an eerie glow over the hallway. The endless stretch of white doors along the walls appeared stark and unnervingly perfect. Each was identical—smooth, sleek, and disturbingly pristine. No wood grain or signs of age, no layers of paint chipped over time. Just a clinical, sterile design that felt foreign. These weren’t the familiar, warm doors of your home.

Your gaze stretched down the corridor. The symmetry of the doors and the sterile glow of the flickering lights heightened the unsettling atmosphere. Your stomach churned, a sense of dread sinking deep into your bones.

Shakily, you rose to your feet, your legs trembling beneath you. You were still barefoot, dressed in the pastel blue dress you had worn earlier, although your jumbo curls were now a mess and in need of another douse in hairspray. 

Everything about you was the same, yet you felt completely different—wrecked by despair that gripped you tighter with every thought of your little girl and…

Miguel. 

Your eyes darted around frantically, trying to seek him to find no other being in sight. 

Where was he? He had been with you when…

“Y/N!?”

His voice boomed through the hallway, shattering the silence.

Your head whipped toward the sound—a desperate yell followed by loud bangs against one of the white doors.

“Amor! Esposa!” Miguel’s frantic voice echoed as he jiggled the doorknob. “Fuck, it’s locked! I’m in here, baby! Open the door!”

“Miguel!?” you cried out, rushing toward the source of his voice.

“Y/N! Oh, bebé, I’m so happy to hear you are okay,” he said, relief breaking through his panicked tone.

“M-me too. But Miguel, Gabi—”

“I know, amor,” he interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. “First, I need you to open the door. There’s…something in here with me.”

His words sent a chill through your entire body.

“It’s chasing me through these halls. I can’t see it, and—shit—it stabbed me.”

“It stabbed you!?” you exclaimed, horrified, pressing yourself against the door wishing to be there next to him more than anything.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Nothing fatal, though.” But his weakening tone betrayed his words.

“It’ll be okay, Miguel. I-I’ll open the door. I’ll get you out.”

Your hands shook as you gripped the doorknob, turning it desperately. However, It didn’t budge.

It was locked…

Your heart sank. “M-Miguel, it’s locked!” you whimpered, twisting and pulling at the knob repeatedly in a frenzy.

“Try again. Stay calm for me, baby. Just try again.”

“I am!” you shouted, tears streaming down your face, completely helpless as fear tightened its grip on you. “Try it from your side!” you begged.

You stepped back, letting him attempt the lock from his side. The sounds of his struggle filled the hallway, but the door refused to open.

“Mierda!” He cursed in frustration, hands slamming against the door with a loud bang, making you jump. 

“M-Miguel, what are we going to do? I-I can’t leave you, I can’t…” You sobbed, not wanting to be alone and leave your husband to die at the hands of that thing. 

Instead of an answer, your stomach turned into knots at his response. “It’s here! Fuck!” Miguel stated, harsh bangs and kicks to the door filling the quiet hallway at your husband’s futile attempts to escape. “Get out of here, esposa!” 

A new wave of terror crashed over you. “N-no! I’m not leaving you!” you cried, not wishing to leave and lose him too. You tugged at the door in desperation alongside his assaults upon the relentless door, crying all the while. 

“Y/N!” Miguel’s stern voice cut through your panic, startling youfor a fleeting moment. “I love you, but you have to leave. Understand me!?”

You choked on your sobs, every fiber of your being screaming to stay, but his command left no room for argument.

“Y-yes. I understand,” you whimpered in a trembling voice. “I love you too.”

However, silence fell on the other side of the door.

Your eyes widened  when a loud, sickening thud from behind the door filled your ears. In that moment, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

“Miguel!” you screamed, banging your fists against the wooden surface. Your cries were frantic, pleading for any response, begging for his death not to be real.

A harsh, coppery scent filled your nose, like a punch in the face. Sharp and metallic, it clawed at your every sense as a wet, sticky sensation spreading under your foot made your breath hitch.

Your eyes darted down in alarm. 

Blood.

It pooled from beneath the door, crimson rivulets spreading across the pristine floor, soaking into the soles of your bare feet.

You staggered back, trembling, disbelief gripping your entire being.

“N-no, not you too. Not you too.”

The words spilled from your lips in broken, anguished sobs, a mantra of denial as tears blurred your vision. The reality was too much to bear, too cruel to endure.

You turned and sprinted down the hallway, no longer caring where it led, no longer caring if you’d be lost. 

The sterile glow of the flickering lights stretched endlessly ahead of you, the hem of your blue dress billowing behind you as you ran. Your breath hitched, your sobs growing louder, hair whipping wildly around your tear-streaked face.

And then, your legs gave out.

You collapsed to your knees, chest heaving, despair consuming you.

You sobbed uncontrollably, your trembling hands clutching at the cold floor. The weight of the loss crushed you, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in its wake.

‘First Gabi, my little angel…and now Miguel.’

The thought shattered you. It was too much. Too much pain. Too much emptiness.

Your tears fell harder, your cries echoing down the lifeless corridor.

And then—

A sound.

The soft creak of a door swinging open.

Your head snapped up, your breath hitching and your heart plummeted into your stomach. One of the white doors stood ajar, its perfect surface now marred by a sinister shadow. 

A cold, unnatural wind blew from the pitch-black doorway, tousling your hair and sending a shiver down your spine.

You froze, your body rigid with fear and grief, staring into the darkness.

For a fleeting moment, you found yourself yearning, besseching for whatever had taken Miguel to take you too. To end this nightmare. To reunite you with your family.

But instead of a monster emerging from the void, you saw something else.

You and Miguel…

But not really…

You were sitting in a fancy restaurant with your husband, Miguel, donned in a glamorous dress and him, a pristine tux. This world was nothing you were familiar with, nothing like your checkerboard floors, poodle skirts, and pin-up curls. It was more futuristic to what you were used to, yet familiar all the same. 

The waitress completed taking your order and collected your menus. Innocently, your husband exchanged a glance with her, his eyes lingering a little too long for your liking, his smile too warm and it all riled you up. 

As soon as the waitress left, you couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

“I saw you.” You spat, glaring at him, the tension between the two of you growing thick. “I saw you look at her. You think I didn’t notice?” You asked with a scoff. "Anyone could see how your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull."

Miguel’s charming features shifted to a mix of confusion and frustration. He leaned in close, trying to keep your conversation down. “What are you talking about? I just glanced at her, it was nothing.” 

“No, no, don’t lie to me! You think I’m stupid? T-That I cannot see what is evidently in front of me!?” Your voice rose, attracting the attention of nearby diners. “Well, I assure you, husband, I’m not fucking blind.” You said harshly, spitting his title that was meant for endearment like it was venom in your mouth. 

Miguel steadily placed his glass down, his large hand reaching across the table to hold yours in hopes of quelling the raging storm. “Calm down, please, amor. Let’s not ruin our date.” He whispered hopefully, stroking your knuckles with his thumb. “You’re not seeing things clearly. Nothing happened.” 

The look on your face was of pure rage from something so harmless as a glance. You were lost in your own chaotic thoughts—a belief that he would leave you for someone younger, someone more beautiful. The waiter, the clerk, the neighbor down the street—anyone could take him from you. 

Anyone.

You yanked your hand from his, standing up with a loud squeak of your chair on the floor, gaining the attention of the entire restaurant. “Since you wish to ogle at waitresses, you can eat dinner by yourself. I'll be in the car.” You said, storming out and leaving an embarrassed and pitiful Miguel in your wake…

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, snapping you out of the long-lost memory. “W-who was that? What was that?” you stammered in utter confusion and horror at the person who looked like you but was anything but.

“That… could not have been me,” you thought, but you couldn’t shake the familiarity of the situation.

You could practically feel the red dress you wore upon your body, remember the paranoia and anger, smell the spices wafting through the restaurant, and see the look of pity your husband gave you amidst the storm of your deranged thoughts.

You rose on your shaky legs, the tears you shed now dried upon your cheeks. Your bare feet wandered down the flickering hallway and found yourself wanting answers to the many questions that plagued your mind. 

Suddenly, you heard another door to your left fly open, forcing you into that terrible world once more—one that was far from the perfect world you remembered. 

Or thought you remembered…

You were in the hallway, walking into the kitchen when you heard Miguel on the phone. His voice was lower than usual, speaking to someone in hushed tones. You couldn’t make out the words, but you could hear the familiarity in his voice. His voice was warmer. Softer. He didn’t speak to you like that. 

Not anymore. 

You stormed into the room, catching the last part of the conversation. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up later. Miss you too, sweetheart. Bye.” 

Your mind instantly spiraled: Who was he talking to? Who is “she”? 

Miguel looked back startled at your sudden appearance. “Hey, cariño, you scared me-” 

“Who is she?” Your voice shaking in desperation and anger. “Who the hell were you talking to?” 

He looked at you in perplexion, a flicker of hurt in his eyes at being accused of such a thing. “I was talking to Gabi. She’s at my mother’s for the weekend, remember?” He stated in betrayal. “Why are you constantly accusing me of cheating. I love you, amor. Only you.” 

Miguel tried to convince you, but you didn’t believe him. You couldn’t. 

You never could anymore. 

“No, no, you’re lying to me. You’re having an affair. I know it. You don’t care about me anymore.” You wholeheartedly believed, could even see the loving looks he'd give her—hear the dirty things he would say to her. 

“You are just using our daughter as a coverup!” You shouted at him, stepping up to jab a finger to his chest. “And I would not let you make me look like a fool, Miguel!” 

The memory faded away, throwing you back into the endless hallway, the door swinging closed. 

Your eyes watered up, tears beginning to fill your cheeks. “No, this can’t be true. What is this?” You whimpered, shaking your head. “This is a lie. Miguel and I were happy. He would dance with me, hold me, sing to me with his guitar. No, this isn’t real!” You shouted aloud, more to yourself in hopes of dismissing such riveting tales this nightmare was trying to plague you with. 

“I won’t believe these false tales! I won’t let you lie to me!” You cried out, walking, or more like, stumbling down the hallway. Your body felt weaker, unable to hold yourself up as you walked to the next door that would surely bring you back to that hellish world. 

Like you predicted, dread engulfed you when another white door flung open, pulling your consciousness into the world of false once more. 

You sat on the sofa in the living room, sipping at a mug of coffee. Watching your daughter, Gabriella drew at her mini table, her small hands carefully drawing stick figures with bright red crayons.  “What are you drawing, sweetie?” You asked, noticing her become tensed at your question. 

“I’m…I’m drawing us, Mamá.” You hummed, peering over her shoulder with a smile until you noticed one of the three stick figures with their head tilted, a red line crossed through their face. 

“What is this?” You demanded, pointing a finger at the crossed out figure. “I-Its-” Gabi’s eyes widened as you snatched the paper out of her hands before she could explain. “I-It’s just a…picture, Mamá.”

“A picture? And what is Mama doing here, huh? Being crossed out of your life?” 

“N-No, Mamá…” She began to weep. “You are just sad.” Gabi cried, trying to point out that the red streaks were instead tears, but to you, they were anything but. 

You turned to Miguel, who was watching from the kitchen. “This is what she learns from you, huh!?” You shouted in a voice full of accusation. “Filling her head with ideas of hating her mother?!” 

Miguel hastily raced into the living room, hiis burly arms reaching out to place Gabi behind him, shielding her crying form from you.  “It’s just a child’s drawing. She’s drawing what she is seeing.” Your husband stated. “Please, stop being like this. Please, amor.” 

But you can’t let it go. The image haunts you, filling your mind with fears of what Gabi might be learning from her father, and what she could be thinking of you. 

You storm out of the room, the paper crumpling in your hand, heart pounding with a sense of betrayal.

“No more.” Was the first thing that escaped your cracked lips and scratchy throat. You shook your head from your crumbled position on the floor, hair and blue dress a mess. “Please, don’t show me anymore.” You begged, knowing if you moved, you’d be brought to that horrid place again—feel the overwhelming anger, fear, delusion that raked your body, practically eating you alive—and your family too. 

A faint, yet familiar noise began to echo down the hall. It was quiet and undiscernable, but you were sure it sought to drive you insane. 

You didn’t want to make sense of what you were seeing, because if you made sense of it, it'd only mean they were true. “This isn’t real. I loved my Gabriella and she loved me.” You affirmed, remembering the memories you deemed true. “S-She’d draw me pictures all the time, work with me in the kitchen, a-and we'll play with her dolls together.” You cried, tears breaking free. “This isn’t real. I won’t believe it. I-I won’t.” 

If to prove you wrong, another door bursted open further down the aisle. You instantly felt the pull, but this time, you wouldn’t let it easily take you. 

You clawed at the floor, trying to fight against the force that was tugging you into the dark abyss. However, it only strengthened, seeking to haul you back to that horrid nightmare. The noise only grew louder, yet distant as if becoming angrier at your resistance. “No…please.” You begged, pleading for it not to take you as your fingers soon gave out, drawing you back again… 

One afternoon, the thoughts have become too overbearing. ‘Miguel wants to leave, so I’ll help him.’ Your deranged mind thinks, believing you to be in the right as you heaved another load of his clothes, books, and personal items out onto the porch. 

Only moments after Miguel comes back from work, Gabriella, at his side from school. He races inside in panic and sorrow. “B-Bebè, what is this?” he asks, his deep voice wavering for the first time. 

You glared at him, breathing hard. “If you’re planning on leaving, then go. I already set your things outside, so get out!”

Miguel stares at you, heartbroken, whilst the sobs of Gabi behind his leg fills the hallway of your bedroom. “I-I never planned to leave, mi amor-” 

“Then what is this!?” You exclaimed, throwing his personal journal at his chest, hearing it clatter to the floor. He didn’t even flinch. “You wrote in there that I was deranged, crazy, and needed help—help you cannot provide me. Isn't that right?” You asked with a wicked laugh, head falling back against your shoulders. 

“I don’t think a handsome man like you would want a deranged wife, now do you?” The taunting words being spat at Miguel as he just stood there with Gabriella behind him, taking the full force of the lashes. 

“I tried to stay strong for us—for Gabi—for you, mi amor.” He said once your verbal assault and endless pacing ceased. “But I can’t…not anymore. Not if you don’t seek help yourself, nor face the fact that you need it.” Miguel stated, his voice full of sorrow, but he should have been talking to the wall as nothing he said was reaching you. “If you want me gone so bad, I will-.” 

“Are you still here?” You asked, looking over your shoulder at him, the wildness of your hair in crazed disarray. Your husband met your gaze of pure rage with pity. “Not anymore.” He muttered sadly. “Come on, Gabriella.” Miguel said, ushering your daughter along who weeped all the way out the front door. 

But you knew deep in your core that they would be back. That your sweet husband and daughter would never truly leave you. They would never leave you, no matter how much Miguel said it. 

Like a punch to the gut, you sunk to the floor, sobbing. You didn’t want to believe it, but the more you saw, the more you remembered, and the weaker your body became, like the energy was being drained from your being. 

The familiar tune of the hall was loud, practically driving you mad. “Stop this. Please.” You begged anyone who would listen. Your hands gripped the wall, dragging yourself up onto your feet, your frail legs trembling under your weight. 

A gasp escaped you when suddenly, the lights shut off for a moment, leaving you in blackness before one flickered back on. Your heart skipped a beat at the table that the light shone down upon. “W-What is that?” You whispered so quietly you weren’t sure you said it.

Staggering slowly over, your feet dragging along the floor in an effort to walk on your weakened limbs. You leaned your weight on the table to find only a black, unnamed folder that sat atop it. 

You gulped, not wishing to see what was inside, but was drawn to it, despite yourself. 

Your fingers reached out for it, instantly feeling like you were holding a sack of bricks although the folder seemed almost empty. 

You took a deep breath, trying to bring yourself to open it and when you did, inside, you found two items: 

A singular letter and…

Divorce papers. 

A tear ran down your cheek at the papers. 

Never in your life did you ever believe you’d see them, but here they were, practically burning the skin in your palm just by reading the fine print. 

The first thing you saw are names: Miguel O'Hara and Y/N printed side by side in formal, sterile black text. Beneath them, the words "In the Matter of the Dissolution of Marriage of" are bold, undeniable. It feels distant, like this couldn’t possibly be real—but the sensation in your chest makes it all too clear. 

This is real.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. You swallow, and your eyes drift down, taking in the official stamp, the cold lettering, the case number marked by a court you don’t recognize. Every word is unmistakable, every letter sharp, a document that seems foreign yet irrevocably final.

You placed the papers onto the table, unable to look at them any longer. 

The neatly folded piece of letter draws your attention. You opened it slowly, heart sputtering and stomach churning at the pristine ink of your lover’s perfect lettering—a handwriting he swore was chicken scratch, but one you always adored. Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first words. 

"Dear my beloved,"

You hear his voice in your head as you read, soft yet unwavering, as if he’s right beside you, saying every word with sorrow but certainty.

“I hope that by the time you read this, you are in a better place. I wanted to say this face to face, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to. I would be brought to stay, and I know I can’t. Not anymore. 

I am leaving. For Gabriella’s sake. You know as well as I do that things have been falling apart for a long time. And I can’t—we can’t—keep pretending we’re fine.

I’ve tried, Y/N. Goodness, I’ve tried so hard. But the constant fighting, the tension… it’s not good for Gabi. She’s been through too much. It hurts me to hear her cry, hear her fears about you, our marriage. I need to give her the stability she deserves, and right now, I’m not sure I can provide that in this environment. And neither can you. 

I’m taking Gabi with me. I know this will hurt you, and I know you’ll never understand why; I only wish that one day you will. But please, for her, for both of us… get the help you need. You need it more than I can give you.

I will always love you, Y/N. You will always be a part of me. I want you to know that. But I can’t keep watching our family fall apart. Please forgive me.

With all my love,Miguel O’Hara” 

Your chest constricts as you finish reading, the words sinking in like a weight you can’t lift. The paper crinkles in your shaking hands while you stare at the letter, a deep ache in your body that won’t go away. 

The tears come, but they’re different this time. They’re quiet. They don’t scream for help or comfort. They just fall, knowing no one would come to wipe them. 

Beside the letter, divorce papers rest, untouched, cold. 

And for the first time, you are alone. 

You sobbed silently, no sound passing your parted lips as you fell to your knees. Your body shook, feeling cold and empty, the sensation more real than the happy life you believed was true—more real than the blue pastel dress you wore from an era you never lived—and more real than the belief that this was all a dream. 

You were so wrapped up in your grief and sorrow that you didn’t notice the lights shut off, the music now clear enough to identify that filled the hall again and the presence that now accompanied you. 

The bulbs turned back on again, flickering eerily, the air thicker than before. Your gaze was blurry with tears, head pounding like a drum and you found yourself incapable of moving. You remained kneeled, slumped on your heels to look down at the end of the hallway, the table, folder, and note that was in your hand now gone. 

You could feel that you weren’t alone, the familiar prickling on your neck beginning again. You weeped in fear, finally hearing the song that played on repeat, slower and slower, louder and louder. 

It was your song. 

‘You Belong To Me.’ 

The same song that you believed to have been the happiness of your relationship was also the catalyst of eternal ruin. 

“See the pyramids along the Nile…

Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle…

Just remember, darling, all the while…

You belong to me…” 

A loud thud to one of the doors made you yelp and break down into more tears. The song continued slowly, the female voice of Helen becoming horrendously eerie and croaky, almost inhumane. “P-Please stop! I-I understand now! Stop!” 

“See the marketplace in old Algiers…”

“Send me photographs and souvenirs…”

“Just remember, when a dream appears…”

“You belong to me…”

Another bang that sent you cowering, shielding your eyes at the figure you knew was steadily approaching. The music continued to play, burning every lyric into your head and making sure you remembered that night. 

“I’ll be so alone without you…”

“Maybe you’ll be lonesome, too

And blue…

Another voice—a deep, familiar voice sung along, causing the ache in your chest to intensify—the tears to run. “M-Miguel…” You whimpered his name, knowing the song well on his tongue. 

“Fly the ocean in a silver plane…”

“See the jungle when it’s wet with rain…”

“Oh, mi querida, till you’re home again…” 

“You…

Belong…

To…

Me…” 

Your husband’s deep voice vanished along with the song, leaving you wishing to hear it again upon his lips—to hear his words of adoration—to see him again. 

And for once, this nightmare granted your wish…

But with a price…

“Mi amor…” 

“Shh, it's okay. Everything will be okay.” 

“You are okay.” 

Your heart leapt at the whispers of comfort that your husband always gave you. Frantically, your eyes searched the desolate hallway, only finding the doors before finally settling in front of you in the dark end of the hall. 

His words were clear, coming from the blackness and calling out to you. “Mi amor, everything will be okay.” He consoled, footsteps slowly echoing closer. 

Your chest heaved, rising and falling rapidly at being able to see him again. “M-Miguel!” You cried out for him, wanting to feel his touch, be in his arms again and found yourself craving that more than life itself. 

However, your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach at the sight of him. 

All you saw was…

Blood. 

Shrieking, your hand clasped over your mouth, weeping. The white button-up and black slacks, the outfit he wore the last time you saw him still adorned his being, but it was completely ruined. 

His once white shirt was now red, his dark brown slicked hair wet with blood and even worse was the wounds along his body. They were large and horribly fatal, littering his chest. 

You sobbed into your palm, crying as he stepped towards your trembling form, unable to move due to being physically stuck in your spot. He shushed you in that soft tone he always used despite walking towards you like the undead. 

“Shush, Cariño,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he advanced, his movements slow and deliberate. “It’s okay; you’ll be okay.” His words, tender but hollow, slipped into your ears but it sounded so wrong, so unlike him in a way. 

“No, no, no!” you wailed, voice cracking under the weight of terror and despair. “What is happening!? W-Who did this to you!?” Each cry came out strangled, desperate, as if voicing your confusion might somehow make sense of this nightmare.

Miguel’s body grew unnaturally still, his gaze sharpening, a twisted smirk spreading across his lips as he tilted his head to one side. “Oh, bebè, isn’t it obvious?” His bloody eyebrow rising in a mock question, daring you to confront the truth he already knew.

And then, before you could respond, his face seemed to explode with anger.

“ISN’T IT!?” 

With a sudden roar, he lunged at you, your scream cut short as his hands found your throat, slamming you onto the cold floor. Your breath vanished instantly under his crushing grip. The impact jarred you, leaving your lungs heaving, begging for air.

You gasped, fingers clawing at his forearm, frantically trying to pry him off but his grip was unyielding, his hands like steel. The veins in his arms bulged underneath his button-up, his fingers digging into the skin of your throat and bruising the sensitive flesh. His face loomed over you, eyes blazing, dark and empty all at once.

“Look at me, Cariño. Look at what you’ve tried so hard to ignore!” He bellowed, each word cutting through you, sinking into your bones. “See it. Feel it, damnitt!” Your husband shouted, slamming you against the floor, feeling the air be knocked from you once more. 

“You couldn’t hold on, could you? Couldn’t keep us together, not for me, not even for Gabi.” His grip tightened, further choking you. Your vision started to blur, spots of darkness creeping in. Tears began to prickle at the edges of your eyes at the thought of death by the hands of no one other than your beloved husband. 

The blood dripping from his hair traced cold lines across your cheek that you could hardly feel against your numb skin. You could only stare up into the shell of your husband and see the inhumane rage, anger and spite that bled off him so tangibly you could practically taste it. 

Your spouse’s amber orbs were devoid of warmth or light, his glowing skin now a lifeless gray, cold to the touch. “This is what you brought into our lives. This is what your love has done.” His tone, grueling and heartless, seeking to twist the already burrowed knife deeper into your gut until you were gone. Miguel leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath a harsh reminder of everything slipping away.

“Accept it, mi amor. Embrace it, because this is all that’s left.”

Your sight blurred, eyes fluttering closed as those final, chilling words rung through your mind like chiming bells. Fingers loosened from his forearm, dropping to your side, body stilling to leave you encased in a world of blackness. 

‘Accept? How can I accept this?’ 

A thought was breathed like the fluttering of faint fireflies in the darkness. Your consciousness slipping away.

‘Who could possibly accept consequences such as this…?’ 

The inquiry repeated alongside your husband’s words until the abyss consumed you, dragging you under and into the oblivion you could no longer escape.

“Serum R9 has left Patient 1105. Patient 1105 is now conscious.”

An electronic voice announced as your eyes fluttered open. Instantly, the blaring lights from the ceiling seared your vision, forcing you to cower away. ‘Where am I?’ you wondered, unable to survey your surroundings with the glaring bulbs overhead.

The hum of machines engulfed your ears, seeming to be everywhere at once. Each beep and whir further disoriented you. Everything felt distant and detached, like something had chewed at your memories, leaving you clueless.

Then, through the haze, you heard the familiar sound of a record scratching, stuttering through a line from You Belong To Me, a song you knew all too well—“See the… see the… see the…”

Weakly, you glanced down, noticing a white gown adorning your figure, but not remembering how you obtained it nor how you ended up in this bed. Your head ached the more you tried to fill the gaping holes in your memory, but one thing rang true.

“Gabi? M-Miguel?” you called out in a scratchy, hoarse voice that you almost didn’t recognize as your own. Your lips felt horribly cracked, and your legs were stiff from inactivity. ‘I have to get out of here. S-Someone has taken me somehow,’ you assumed, fear rising in your chest.

You tried to sit up, but found yourself physically incapable. ‘What the hell?’ Panic bubbled up inside as you tried again and again, but when your arm started to flail, you felt a tug at your wrist. The metal cuffs cut deep into your skin and clanged against the bed rail.

In horror, your eyes snapped down to see your hands were cuffed to the cold metal of your bed. “What is going on?” you hardly whispered, your dull eyes finding other things attached to your body that you hadn’t noticed before.

An IV drip pricked into your inner elbow with withered tape, wires coming from electrode pads under your gown to attach to your chest whilst an oxygen tube was held up to your nostrils, filling your body with more air than you needed at the moment. 

An ache in your neck made you reach up to touch your nape. There, you felt a lump and upon touching it, a sharp pain shot through your skull that made you further disoriented and terrified.

Your chest began to heave, hyperventilating. ‘What is going on? I-I need to get out of here. I don’t understand what is happening.’ You could only think, weakly tugging at your cuffs, becoming a sobbing mess.

“Patient 1105’s heart rate elevated to 145 beats per minute. Respiration rate above normal limits. Increased agitation detected. Subject is vocalizing distress; emotional levels are unstable.”

Your body jumped at the inhuman form’s sudden voice, coming from somewhere in the room. Instantly, you became rigid with fear.

“Sending for Dr. Owens. Sending for Dr. Owens.”

“What’s happening? Why am I here? What happened to my family?” you could only ask the electronic voice in a strained whimper, seeking answers amidst your confusion and cluelessness. Your vision was shielded by globs of salty tears running down your cold cheeks as you wept.

Almost instantaneously, a door burst open somewhere in your room, startling you. You whimpered in fear, eyes squinting to see the newcomer.

In a white coat, a woman entered. Her dark brown curly hair was tied up in a professional ponytail with a stern look on her ebony face that made you tremble. “W-Who are you?” you tried to ask between crackles in your voice.

The woman barely acknowledged your words. Her attention, behind her glasses, was focused on a screen beside you, fingers flying over the keys as though your questions were mere background noise. Ignoring your weak, desperate gaze, she muttered something under her breath and continued to work.

“Please…” you croaked, throat tightening with desperation. “Where’s Miguel, m-my husband? Where’s my daughter, Gabi? H-How did I get here?”

You couldn’t explain it, but a sudden rage exploded from your being at her indifference. “Give me back my daughter and husband, dammit!” you shouted, your tight voice strained. Thrashing in your bed, you screamed and yelled, the cuffs crashing against the metal bed railing.

“I know you took them! You took them away from me, you bitch! Give them back to me! Give them back!” you bellowed before breaking down into tears, feeling your cheekbones press against the taut skin of your face. Your emotions felt all over the place.

Without looking up, the woman clicked a final command, heaving a sigh. “Patient 1105, I’m Dr. Jessica Owens, and as stated many times before, you agreed to this.”

Your eyebrows quivered, believing you’d heard her wrong. “W-What?” you rasped, your ghostly features scrunching up in confusion.

“Indeed. It was either receiving your normal sentence here or assisting us in a few tests,” the ebony doctor explained. You could only look at her in bewilderment. “And… w-where am I?”

“Obscura Psychiatric Facility,” she replied, her voice emotionless and straightforward. Your dull eyes studied her for a moment, trying to recall your past memories, but it felt impossible. “Why am I here? Why can’t I remember anything? What… tests did I agree to? And where is my family?” you asked, desperate for answers, or else you feared you would lose it.

Dr. Owens stepped up to your bedside, and your body instinctively recoiled from her. “You’ll be surprised how many times I’ve answered these exact questions from you before, Patient 1105,” she muttered, running a calculating eye over you from behind her frames. “But I’ll bite.” The doctor cleared her throat, clasping her hands behind her back.

“Patient 1105, or Y/N, you’ve been in our care for seven years. Upon arrival, you were miserable and depressed, seeking an end to your troubles that the judge took away from you.”

“T-The judge?!” you exclaimed in confusion, needing her to backtrack and explain. However, it seemed Dr. Owens only wished to tell you what she wanted, questions be damned.

“We presented you with the decision to continue your usual routine here at Obscura or to partake in testing of a new drug being administered. You chose the latter.” Dr. Owens said, walking over to a cabinet in the room and retrieving a pair of latex gloves to snap onto her hands. 

“You were cautioned about the addictive effects, memory loss, and life-long dependency on this drug, but there was one thing about this medicine that fascinated you more than anything, causing you to choose it regardless of the consequences.”

“W-What was that?” you asked, watching her return to you and ignore your question like before. The doctor began checking your facial features, under your throat, along your arms, legs, and back, feeling for any abnormalities. “Serum R9 is the drug that is being tested on you, Patient 1105. It is still being researched, but from your results, it’s a paradise, putting you in a dreamscape that you’ve always wanted.”

You listened to Dr. Owens, allowing her to finish her checkup and scribble on a notepad she pulled out from the breast pocket of her lab coat. It felt odd being told about your actions and words despite not remembering them.

Glancing up at her as she wrote, anger bubbled inside of you. “If I’m here, where is my family?” you asked. “Is there a reason I don’t remember agreeing to this? Did you force me to do this?! A-And what is this thing in my neck?! ” You demanded, the lump in your neck tingling once more.

“My husband, Miguel, would never have let me agree to such a thing. He knows I have a daughter—a family to get back to, for fuck’s sake!” you angrily shouted. “And you—lying assholes have made me sell my life to a fucking drug, and now I can’t get back to my family because of you—”

“Patient 1105, your family is dead.”

Your words halted, and you felt like your world had ended. Swallowing thickly, you wetted your cracked lips. Your eyes narrowed, hands curling into fists. “W-What the hell are you talking about?” you bit out, glaring daggers at her. “If you’re lying to me, I promise you when I get out, I-I’ll…” 

Dr. Owens chuckled at your stammered threat, utterly unamused. She shook her head, her curly ponytail moving with the motion. “I'll expect that from a killer like you.” 

Before you could think, you could yourself leaping up, reaching for the collar of Dr. Owens’ coat, and due to her closeness, you grabbed hold. A sudden burst of energy coursed through your being. Pulling her toward you, the chains of your cuffs jiggled with your movements. “Say that again,” you growled, staring directly into her cold eyes that gazed back at you.

“You killed them,” the doctor spat back with indifference. “You stabbed your husband to death and drowned your daughter when he decided to divorce you because of your insanity. I take it you didn’t like the fact they were leaving you.”

“S-stop lying to me!” you shouted, shaking her, not wanting it to be true. “I tell you nothing but the truth, Patient 1105. You’re here because of your actions, and you begged for Serum R9 to escape the despair you’ve brought into your life,” Dr. Owens stated with a glare, pulling away from your tight hold.

Delusions and unchecked rage were what you were known for, and even now, you sought to silence Dr. Owens’ words. You weren’t ready for the truth, despite having already lived it.

Acceptance was a lesson one could never learn without getting hurt in the process. Although you couldn’t remember it, you didn’t want to feel that pain, hurt, or loss ever again, so you ran from acceptance like hell.

You chuckled manically, your laughter growing louder and more deranged. “You lie. You lie! YOU LIE!” you shouted over and over again, pure rage bellowing from your voice. 

In your mind, you saw your husband and daughter at home, calling the police in search of their missing wife and mother. Dr. Owens and the people at this facility were keeping you from your family. It was the only reason—the only truth you saw and was willing to accept.

Suddenly, you snapped, shouting threats at Dr. Owens, trying to break free from your handcuffs, and thrashing about in your bed. Security and more nurses entered the room as Dr. Owens typed away on the screen by your bedside. “You lie, you bitch! You can’t keep me here! I’ll kill you, I promise you, you piece of shit!” you screamed at the top of your lungs. The electronic voice from before filled the room.

“Serum R9 is being administered once more. Sweet dreams, Patient 1105.”

The staff released you as the IV tube was filled with a blue liquid, flowing from a nearby machine into your arm and soon bloodstream. The lump in your neck buzzed to life upon activation and instantly, you became weak and drowsy. 

“W-What are you doing to me? I-I have to get out of here. M-My family is…w-waiting for me,” you said once more, trying to fight the drug.

“You are right,” Through your hazy vision, you could see Dr. Owens resetting the needle on the record player as the song You Belong To Me began to play. Your body became rigid, unable to help but focus on the tune.

“Your family is waiting for you,” the ebony woman added, her voice growing fainter as the music grew louder, until it was the only thing you could hear.

“So don’t keep them waiting any longer,” were the last words you heard before the song drowned out everything, and your eyes closed.

Your world of darkness was full of despair and turmoil. Like the speed of light, every memory you couldn’t recall before came rushing back.

Entering second grade.

Going to prom.

Meeting Miguel.

Getting Married. Having Gabriella. Kissing your husband. Drawing with your daughter. Family dinners. Night cuddles. The fights. The screaming. The crying. The blood. The guilt. The hate. The loss.

The Despair.

It came rushing back so intensely that it was grueling, before vanishing as quickly as it came.

You were left a hollow husk of a person. Your memories shed, leaving only two things behind: pure happiness and a need for your family.

~ I say, Oogum, oogum, boogum, boogum ~Boogum now, baby, you're castin' your spell on me. ~

The jolly tune of Brenton Wood resonated from the record player, your hips swaying to the song while you cooked. Sunlight poured in through the drawn gingham drapes, filling your home with a warm glow that energized everyone inside.

But, in particular, you.

Your eyes occasionally glanced over at the cookbook you had "borrowed" from your and your husband's shared closet—a cookbook from his late mother.

Currently, you had tasked yourself with making a childhood Mexican-Irish breakfast for your husband to celebrate his birthda-

“Wait,” you uttered, coming to a stop. Your eyebrows furrowed, feeling like you’d done this before.

You glanced down at the breakfast you were cooking, a sensation of unease gripping you. You tried to figure out the source of this déjà vu when your thoughts were instantly interrupted by a pair of burly arms enveloping your waist from behind.

Your heart fluttered as a blinding warmth of happiness, adoration, and peace engulfed you. “Good morning, mi amor,” your husband whispered into your ear, his deep voice of love enough to quell even your most chaotic days.

You leaned back into him, accepting his embrace. All previous worries and concerns vanished from thought, and the only thing you could think about was the feeling of how right everything was.

“You okay?” he asked, his hand caressing your stomach through your dress, his touch setting your body ablaze. Completely in love, you nodded, a huge smile on your rosy lips.

“Of course...

Everything is perfect.”

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the finale of Dear, My Beloved. Yes, it was very sad, tragic, and completely different from my other writings—aside from A Fate Worse Than Death—but that was intentional. The vice was Despair, so I went above and beyond. If you almost cried like me, then I did my job, lol. 🤧

To tie up loose ends and make everything clearer: Y/N ended her family due to insanity, abandonment, and mental health struggles after being divorced by Miguel. Serum R9 is the drug administered by Obscura Psychiatric Facility, which places Y/N in a 1950s simulation-like world where everything is "just right."

The scary occurrences were caused by the serum leaving her system and attempting to restore her lost memories. The entity that "kills" Miguel is, in fact, Y/N’s true self.

And yes, I was inspired by the psychological thriller Don’t Worry Darling. It has to be one of my favorite movies! 😍

If there are any loose ends or unanswered questions, feel free to DM me or ask in the comments. I know this was a rather complex, psychological, and angsty one-shot that might leave some readers with questions.

Also, let me know if any additional content warnings need to be added! I know the Gabriella section needed a warning, but please DM me if you think any more should be included.

Overall, I hope you enjoyed it! If you’re excited to see what else my older sister, @powerful-niya, and I have in store for Vicetober (I know, I know 🤧), be sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! Wishing you all a wonderful day—stay safe! 👋🏾💙🤎😈

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Your eyes occasionally glanced over at the cookbook you had "borrowed" from you and your husband's shared closet — a cookbook from his late mother.

Currently, you had tasked yourself with making a childhood Mexican-Irish breakfast for your husband to celebrate his birthday — a blend of chorizo and potatoes, black pudding, fried eggs, and homemade tortillas. However, you wanted to make it exactly how his parents made it for him all those years ago, but you were finding it difficult with how vague the measurements were.

“‘Enough oil to make things crispy, but don't be stingy, but don't swim in it either?’ Then how much oil do I use?” you whispered in slight bewilderment before continuing on, nevertheless, thankful for the English translations alongside the Spanish handwritten recipes inside the cookbook.

The smell of black coffee, just the way Miguel liked it, along with the sound of the knife slicing vegetables atop the cutting board, wafted through the air.

You hummed, singing along softly. “You got me doing funny things like a clown, just look at me~” Hips swaying, you danced over to the calendar on the kitchen wall, your heels clicking upon the checkerboard tiles in rhythm with the upbeat melody.

Your eyes ran along the autumn month, rosy red lips pulling into a grin at the sight. “October 13th, 1950. My beloved husband's birthday.” You beamed, poking the colorful orange pin into the appropriate date. Pressing a kiss to your two manicured fingers, you placed it upon the date, completely in love with your husband.

Spinning back towards the stove, the blue dress and white apron you wore flaring with your movement. Your hands moved about, dashing seasoning here, a slice of butter there, and a mix with the whisk here. The Oogum Boogum Song played steadily in the background all the while.

You heard, amidst the song and noises of the kitchen, the small pitter-pattering of feet on the mint and creamed checkered floors. It wasn't long before the owner of such adorable footsteps hugged your leg, tugging at your apron to get your attention.

“Good morning, mommy,” your daughter, Gabriella, whispered from your side.

Your daughter, Gabriella, now six, was your bundle of joy. You loved your little girl so much, willing to go through any lengths to ensure she knew how much you did.

You grinned, wiping your hands on your apron before crouching down to her level. “Good morning, my sweet girl,” you greeted, unable to help but giggle at her messy brown hair, showing she had instantly run downstairs as soon as her eyes opened from her slumber.

You ran a hand along her head, smoothing the wild strands with your palm. Adoring how your daughter beamed up at you in her pink floral nightgown that reached down to her ankles and how she tightly clutched her stuffed rabbit, Flopsy, in her arms — an old gift from Miguel and you upon learning of your pregnancy.

“You seem happy this morning. Did you sleep well?” you asked, caressing the top of her head. However, you watched her bright smile falter at your question, causing your eyebrows to furrow. 

You already knew the reason for her change in mood.

“Another bad dream, huh?” you sighed, stroking her cheek with a finger, almost as if she were fragile glass that could break any moment.

“Yes… another bad dream. It's always the same, Mommy. I just wish they would go away,” she said, her eyes starting to glisten with approaching tears.

Your heart clenched as you reached out to embrace your daughter, hugging her close to your chest. “I know, baby, I know. I'm so sorry you are going through this.” you soothed. “No one should experience this, especially not a young girl like you.” 

The first tremble and shaky sob that escaped your little girl's mouth was like a knife to the heart. “We don't have to talk about it if you do not want to.”

“B-but I want to, Mamá,” she quickly interjected, surprising you. “P-Papá told me t-talking about it could… make them go away.” Your daughter sniffled, remembering your husband’s words the last time she had a nightmare.

You gave her a squeeze, hating how such dreams were tormenting your little girl. “Okay…” you agreed, pulling away slightly to meet her eyes, bracing yourself to hear about the terrors she experienced in her sleep.

“Was it about… Mommy again?” you asked warily. The question was simple enough, but the way your heart skipped a beat made it feel much deeper.

The sad nod Gabriella gave you made you frown. “Really? Was it… bad Mommy again?”

“N-no.” She replied in a brittle voice, her tanned cheeks growing a rosy red. “Y-you weren’t scary t-this time, Mommy. You were… sleeping.”

“Sleeping?” you asked, not expecting her reply. She confirmed with a nod. “You were dressed in a… w-white dress, and you were l-laying on a white bed,” Gabriella explained, twirling the fabric of her pink gown around her finger. “There was a sound that wouldn't stop. A...b-beeping sound, I think." Your daughter said between trembling lips.

"People were t-talking, but I couldn't understand them, and...you laid in the center of them…

Sleeping.”

Your eyebrows rose, a horrid thought instantly coming to mind as you imagined what your daughter could have dreamt. You shook the thought away, unwilling to linger on it.

You smiled at Gabriella, cupping her cheeks. “I know dreams can be scary and confusing, but they’re just dreams,” you told her. “I’m okay, completely fine, my sweet. See?” You held your hands and arms out to her with a grin, showing her you were, indeed, okay.

You felt at peace when she returned a small smile of her own. “I know, Mamá…” she trailed off, taking your hands in her smaller ones. She fiddled with your fingers for a moment, lost in thought. 

“Mamá… you'd never harm me or Papá… right?” Gabi asked, her question striking your core.

“What!? No, of course not, honey,” you assured her, squeezing her hands. “I’ll never harm you or Papá.”

“I know…” Gabriella replied with a small smile.

“Good. I love you, Gabi,” you said, kissing the top of her head. She returned your affection with a peck on your cheek, making your heart soar.

You gave her head a gentle pat. “But on a happier note,” you began, springing back to your full height to tend to the sizzling beans and eggs, feeling the joy of the morning return once more. “Do you know what today is?”

“Papá’s birthday!!”

“Shhh, not so loud,” you said, hastily clasping a hand over her mouth, making you both giggle. You didn’t want your sleeping husband to know you had plans for him.

“Sorry… it’s Papá’s birthday,” she whispered this time, watching from her short height as you returned to cooking, adding the appropriate herbs and vegetables to the dishes.

“Good job, it is,” you grinned, turning to her once more. “And did you finish your present for him?”

Frantically, Gabriella nodded. “Uh-huh, I did, and it was really hard work, so I hope Papá will like it.”

“He will, I assure you,” you promised, chuckling as you took note of her disarrayed hair once more. “We’re staying home all day to celebrate Papá’s birthday, so why don’t you return upstairs to get dressed?” you told her. “I’ll call you down when breakfast is finished.”

With a nod and another quick kiss to your cheek, Gabriella skipped off, her footsteps disappearing up the stairs.

You returned to the task at hand, but Gabriella’s dream lingered in your mind.

‘Is there a reason she’s having these dreams? Is it something she’s eating? Watching?’ you pondered, your parental fears taking root. 

Setting the spatula aside, you moved toward the record player, wishing to change the song—when it hit you. 

Sharp.

Sudden. 

Like a spike driven into your skull.

The pain burst through your head, making you stagger. You gasped, bracing yourself against the counter. 

Your vision blurred and clouded with white spots as a low ringing filled your ears.

It felt like the room was tilting, the ground shifting beneath your feet. You whimpered in agony, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to steady yourself, but the pain lingered, pulsing relentlessly.

“G-gosh, what is happening?” you whined, gripping your temple in a futile attempt to quell the ache.

Without realizing it, the throbbing pain vanished as quickly as it had come—disappearing without a trace, leaving you shaken and breathless.

Slowly, you straightened, disoriented and confused, glancing around your kitchen.

Everything seemed normal again—the stove, the breakfast, the cheery sunlight—but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The air felt heavier, as though an unseen force was pressing down on you.

“I-I’m just tired,” you muttered, trying to shake off the strange sensation. You continued toward the record player in the corner of the kitchen, which sat atop a circular table. “Tired, indeed,” you affirmed, convincing yourself that the odd occurrence was nothing more than exhaustion from trying to perfect your husband’s birthday.

Still, you reminded yourself that the tiredness was worth it.

It was for your husband, the man you cared so deeply about, after all…

“Nothing like music to help ease my troubles,” you whispered, running a finger along the records until you stopped at a familiar one. “Yes… this one.” You smiled fondly, the events of just moments ago fading from your mind at the sight of the worn sleeve.

You carefully pulled the vinyl from its case—one of yours and Miguel’s favorites. Slipping it free of the sleeve, you replaced the previous record, The Oogum Boogum Song, with the new selection, placing it delicately on the turntable.

The needle dropped, and the warm, familiar voice of Helen Foster filled the kitchen.

The song, You Belong to Me, always made your heart flutter. It was the soundtrack to so many of your happiest moments.

It played at your wedding as you walked down the aisle, the same song you and Miguel slow-danced to the night you discovered you were pregnant with your little girl. 

It was also the song Miguel often sang while strumming his guitar, each deep note passing his lips a promise of his undying love.

The melody had wrapped around the two of you like a promise. Every time the soft, wistful notes filled the room, it felt like your love was stitched into the very air.

It was your song, the one you always came back to, every single time.

Hearing it now made everything feel right.

Perfect.

You breathed easier, allowing the song to calm you and completely erase what had happened before.

Everything was normal once more.

Everything was fine…

Returning to the pan of food, you found everything perfectly cooked. “Wonderful,” you murmured, feeling pleased. Turning off the stove and covering the finished dishes, you moved to begin setting the table.

You placed floral plates over perfectly selected napkins, then added a glass of cold juice for Gabriella, along with two mugs of coffee—one black for Miguel, and the other with sugar and cream for yourself. Lastly, you set the utensils in their proper places.

Each pastel-colored fork, spoon, and knife was meticulously arranged beside the empty dishes, perfectly aligned. Any deviation, no matter how slight, would surely unsettle you.

While setting the table, you hummed along with Helen Foster, holding a knife poised to place it on the pale yellow Formica dining table. 

But then, everything seemed to stop.

The music faded into the background as, almost in a trance, you stared at the kitchen tool in your hand, the hum slowing on your lips.

Twirling it between your manicured fingers, your eyes traced the jagged edge. Transfixed, your hands ached with a foreign yet strangely familiar desire—one buried deep in the recesses of your mind.

The record player suddenly grabbed your attention when the previous song's lyrics of adoration from Helen Foster shifted.

The tune slowed, the pitch of the female singer’s voice deepening to an haunting croak.

 “Nothing is what it seems…

Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

You froze in horror, the knife slipping from your grasp and clattering onto the floor. The sound snapping you from your trance, but a foggy haze lingered.

Your heart pounded like the rapid thump of a rabbit’s foot, your wide eyes fixated on the record player. Its eerie chant looped, searing into your mind.

 “Nothing is what it seems...

Oh dear, nothing is what it seems...”

Over and over the words were repeated, searing the horrid message into your brain. 

Chest heaving, you backed away to collide into the table, causing dishes and glasses to rattle. “W-what—” you could only stammer in terror.

Before you could spiral further in your petrified state, calloused hands reached out to you, cupping your face. With gentle caution, you were guided to meet a pair of familiar amber eyes.

“Cariño?”

“Is everything okay?”

The deep, concerned voice brought you back to reality. Its steady tone grew louder, grounding you amidst the chaos of your thoughts. 

“Qué te pasa? Talk to me, miel.”

You met the gaze of your beloved husband, Miguel who stood in front of you, his features tight with worry. Slowly, the fog in your mind lifted, and the room regained focus.

“Esposa?” Miguel prompted, his voice low and steady as his thumb and forefinger tilted your chin, urging you to look at him.

“M-Miguel, I—” you faltered, your gaze darting toward the record player. Helen Foster’s soothing voice now played once more, making you question if you were going crazy. 

But the chant—its ominous message—still echoed in your mind.

Miguel frowned, his concern deepening. “Mi amor, you’re shaking.” Your husband said, grabbing your attention. “Take a seat.” His tone left no room for argument, as he was already guiding you with a hand upon your lower back to one of the dining chairs. 

You complied, feeling the soft cushion shift underneath you. Miguel’s large hand enveloped yours, his thumb brushing soothing circles across your knuckles. 

For a moment, he studied you in silence, however, you hardly noticed as you could only focus on your lap, where your hands trembled slightly.

“What happened, miel?” he asked, breaking the silence. His voice was steady but laced with unease.

You gulped, simply recollecting the moment, causing your head to ache painfully. Your mouth opened and closed, unable to find anything to explain. “I-I don’t know,” you admitted, swallowing hard. “I... thought I heard something.”

“Heard something?” Miguel inquired, straightening to his full height. He began to pace the kitchen, his black slippers shuffling across the checkered tiles. 

“It may have been Gabi,” he suggested, his attempt at humor evident despite the worry in his tone. “You know how our princesa tends to get carried away with her dolls.” He chuckled, knowing your daughter sometimes became noisy when she was excited during playtime. However, you could hear his nervousness. 

Hastily, you shook your head, dismissing his assumption. “It wasn’t Gabi!” you exclaimed, louder than intended. Looking up to meet your spouse’s gaze, certain your fear was etched into every line of your face.

For the first time, you noticed Miguel’s attire—a burgundy robe that concealed his undershirt and casual trousers underneath. His outfit did little to conceal his musculature that pressed against the soft fabric of his sleepwear. 

Miguel stopped pacing and crouched in front of you, his robe parting slightly to reveal his broad chest. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He whispered soothingly, the timbre of his voice the only thing keeping you grounded. 

You buried your face into his neck, letting his comforting words and the gentle strokes of his hand on your back to calm you.

“It’s just stress, sí?” he murmured. “You just needed a moment to rest.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, his warmth grounding you.

And like always, you wanted to believe your husband with all your heart—to accept his reassurance. But the chant lingered, clawing at your thoughts like a dark shadow.

 “Nothing is as it seems...

Oh dear, nothing is as it seems...”

You managed to push through the festivities, finishing the breakfast your husband scarfed down with a grin and playing family party games that ended with your little girl winning (with some assistance). Now, it was time for your husband to blow out his candles.

“Here it is!” you shouted, bringing from the fridge the handmade cake that Gabriella and you had created the day before.

You set it on the pale yellow dining table: a vanilla cake adorned with white frosting, doused in sprinkles (Gabi's touch), and decorated with piped, wavy red and blue trimmings. A singular lit candle sat in the center of the cake, its flame flickering gently.

Gabi bounced up and down excitedly. Her orange blouse, knee-high skirt, and matching ribbon hair ties made her look even more adorable. “See, Papá?! I told you I helped!” she exclaimed, bringing a smile to Miguel's lips.

“I see, princesa,” he grinned. “No one quite has your... expertise in sprinkle quantity,” he chuckled, his chest rumbling at the sight of the overwhelming amount of colorful candies atop the white cake.

Your husband's previous sleepwear had been replaced with a simple white button-up, black slacks, and slippers. His dark brown hair was styled as usual—slicked back with precision, each strand flowing neatly to the back of his head.

When he settled his gaze on you, his eyes softened. “Esposa,” he practically whispered your name longingly, holding out an arm to wrap around your waist. Pulling you to his side, he pressed a gentle kiss to your head. “You did all of this for me?” he asked, stroking a thumb along your cheek.

You nodded, cupping his face. “Of course, baby,” you replied with a gentle smile. “You always take such good care of Gabi and me, so I wanted to do this for you—no matter how many times you tell me not to.” You giggled as your husband simply stared at you for a moment, his eyes glowing with adoration.

Leaning in close, he nuzzled your nose with his own, breathing you in. “Cómo demonios tuve tanta suerte?” he muttered, his lips seeking yours for a quick peck—only to be interrupted by none other than your daughter.

“When are we going to cut the cake!?” she cried out, her attention fixed on the sweet treat as she licked her lips eagerly.

Miguel snickered, giving your waist a squeeze. “Later. Much later,” he said, the fire in his gaze promising you a much needed night in his arms. The sight made your cheeks flush and your heart to skip a beat.

“Okay, okay, go turn the lights out, Gabi,” you instructed with a laugh, watching her hastily race off to flick the light switch, encasing the dining room in darkness except for the warm glow of the cake.

The three of you surrounded the table—you stood behind your daughter, your hands gently stroking her shoulders, while Miguel took his place in front of his birthday dessert, his eyes fixed on the glowing candle.

“I feel like I should make a grand speech,” your husband joked, glancing up at the two of you before settling his gaze on Gabi. 

“Thank you, my sweet girl, for filling my days with your light and granting me the honor of being your father,” he said, his deep voice full of love. “There isn’t a day that you don’t amaze me with your intelligence, imagination, talent, and humor.” He expressed. “You make me proud to call you my daughter, my Gabriella.”

Gabi’s eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and pride at her father’s words. She looked up at him, grinning widely, and then, in a small yet confident voice, she replied, “And I’m proud to call you my Papá. You’re like… the best dad ever!”

Miguel chuckled, his gaze tender as he looked at her. “Oh? The best ever, huh?” he teased gently, warmth lacing his tone.

“Sí!” she insisted, nodding eagerly. “You work so hard, but you always make time for me. And you teach me so much—like how to stand up for myself, help others, and to not let my emotions control me.”

Miguel’s expression softened as he reached out to gently ruffled her hair, his voice sweet. “You’re going to do amazing things, Gabi. I’m just lucky to be here to watch it all happen.”

Her smile widened, and she beamed up at him, her eyes filled with admiration. “I’m the lucky one, Papá. You’re my hero.”

Your husband, visibly touched by her words, shifted his gaze to you, his eyes brimming with the kind of love and gratitude that left you breathless. 

In that moment, as if he were seeing into your very soul, you felt a surge of overwhelming adoration that no words could capture.

“Y/N, my beloved,” Miguel began, his voice trembling, almost on the verge of tears. “You’ve stood by me through my worst, mi amor. You’ve endured my workaholic ways, my stubborn temper, and all my flaws… yet you stayed by my side.” He snickered softly, the sound filled with both gratitude and disbelief. “Because of you, I’ve become a better man.”

He cleared his throat, placing his palms on the wooden table as if trying to ground himself. “Thank you, mi amor, for your unwavering presence, for loving me unconditionally, and for bringing our little miracle into my life.” He glanced lovingly at Gabi, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I truly don’t think I would be here today without you.”

Your heart swelled as you listened, each word deepening the adoration you already held for him. 

He took a shaky breath, his eyes glistening in the warm candlelight, vulnerability etched across his face—a rare sight that made this moment feel even more precious.

“You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved,” he continued, his voice soft and sincere. “And I am endlessly grateful for every day, every laugh, every memory we’ve made together. You both are my everything.”

Gabi leaned back against you, her small hand finding yours as she whispered, “Te amo, Papá.” The simple words broke the last of his composure, and a tear slipped down his cheek. "Te amo, mi princesa." He replied wholeheartedly, giving his daughter's cheek a loving pinch that made her giggle.

Miguel reached out, taking your hand in his, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I promise to keep working, to keep growing, so I can be the husband and father you both deserve.” He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a deep kiss to your knuckles, sealing his promise.

Your husband released you and closed his eyes, whispering his wish before blowing out the candle. Darkness momentarily engulfed the dining room before you applauded, your own emotions welling up as Gabi hurried to turn the lights back on.

The cake was forgotten as Miguel took two long strides toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you into a deep embrace—one he surely needed. 

“Te amo, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice full of emotion as he gave you a tender squeeze.

You melted into the hard planes of his chest, your arms encircling his neck. “I love you too, Miguel,” you replied softly, feeling the warmth of his love radiating through the embrace. 

A small hand pressed gently against your back, making you smile. Both of you glanced down to find Gabi standing between you, her little arms wrapped around you both. “I love you too, Mamá and Papá,” Her laughter like a melody that filled the room with joy.

You welcomed her into the embrace, holding both of them tightly. 

In that moment, as you stood together, you marveled at the depth of love you felt—a love you had never believed yourself capable of, let alone for two people who meant the world to you...

The three of you were now settled in the living room. The familiar scent of the cake still lingered in the air as you and Miguel sat together on the couch, the cushions soft beneath you, the fabric slightly worn from use.

The soft glow of the lamp next to the couch highlighted the pastel green walls. Evening light from the window casted dim shadows across the vintage floral wallpaper, while the small box TV that flickered white and black images rested on a shelf in front of you. The clock on the wall ticked quietly, its hands slowly marking the time.

Gabriella sat cross-legged on the floor; her plate of cake balanced on her lap as she eagerly dug in. You rested your head on Miguel’s shoulder, letting out a small sigh as he fed you a bite of his own cake. His eyes met yours with a grin, and you returned it, savoring the sweetness.

“May I get another?” Gabriella’s voice interrupted your quiet moment, light and innocent as she looked up at the both of you, her lips already smeared with frosting. You blinked in surprise, your eyes flicking to her plate. It was already clean. Miguel nor you have even finished yours.

“Gabriella!?” you exclaimed, the shock clear in your voice.

Miguel’s laughter erupted beside you, warm and full of affection. “Sorry… it was really good,” Gabriella said with a pout, her lips dusted with frosting like a mischievous little angel.

“It’s fine, bebé,” Miguel chuckled, his finger brushing one jumbo curl behind your ear in a way that always made your heart skip. He stood, towering over both you and Gabriella in an instant.

“This will be her last slice,” he promised, amusement in his voice. “Come on, you little cake monster. Let’s get you another slice,” he teased, walking toward the kitchen, Gabriella rushing behind him, eager to get there first.

You watched them both, a smile tugging at your lips. The love between the three of you felt so natural, so full, like this moment could stretch on forever. It was simple, perfect even.

You leaned back into the couch, feeling the soft cushions beneath you, and took another bite of your cake. It was the perfect slice, just sweet enough, and the warmth from Miguel’s touch still lingered on your skin.

But then something shifted...

You couldn’t quite place it, but there was a slight prickle at the back of your neck, an unsettling feeling that crawled across your skin like a soft whisper you couldn’t hear.

You paused, feeling the hairs on your arms rise.

Something… felt off.

The strange sensation was eerily similar to what had overcome you in the kitchen. 

You were certain of it.

You couldn’t put it into words. It wasn’t a sound or a sight—just a feeling. 

A quiet shift in the air...

Instinctively, your hand reached up to the back of your neck, fingertips brushing over your nape in an attempt to shake off the unease. That’s when it happened.

Your fingers grazed a lump, one you’d never noticed before. At the contact, a sharp pain exploded in your head, and your eyes rolled back into your skull.

Images, voices, and a crushing wave of dread surged through your mind all at once.

“Y/N, we have to be better for Gabi. You have to be better,” Miguel’s voice rang out, sharp and filled with disappointment.

“I am trying, Miguel! I don’t know what you want from me!” you shrieked. 

The voice—your voice—sounded deranged and very unfamiliar despite being your own. 

“Public breakdowns? Outbursts? I don’t believe that’s you trying to be better!” Miguel’s tone cut deep, piercing and accusatory.

“Just get out! Get out!” you screamed, hurling a glass vase. It struck the wall and shattered into a cascade of glittering shards.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as you snapped back to reality. Your chest heaved, each breath shaky as your trembling body fought to regain control.

‘What was that?’ you thought, panic swirling in your mind. ‘What did I just see?’

You clutched your plate of half-eaten cake, fingers trembling as the memory replayed in your mind. 

‘Miguel and I were…arguing?’ The very thought made your chest tighten painfully. 

But the details... The setting, the clothes you and Miguel wore—it didn’t match. It wasn’t here. Not in this perfect, gleaming life you’d built together.

No, this memory felt wrong.

Your throat tightened, and you forced out a quivering breath, trying to steady your trembling hand. “I’m just... tired,” you muttered, your voice weak, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

‘Just tired. That’s all it is,’ you told yourself.

You shut your eyes, hoping the storm raging inside you would settle, that when you opened them again, everything would be normal.

When you finally opened them, your gaze fell to the plate of cake in your hands, and your heart instantly froze. 

In pure terror, you watched the once neat red and blue frosting of the cake start to become uneven—distorted, as though someone was standing beside you, dragging their finger along it to write something in the icing. 

You stared, petrified as the words formed one by one, the weight of dread building with every stroke until the final letter was etched… 

OPEN YOUR EYES.

You froze, shaking, unable to tear your eyes away. No... this couldn’t be real. It had to be some trick of the light, a cruel fabrication of your mind.

But the message didn’t vanish.

And you couldn’t ignore how it had appeared—slowly, deliberately—as though someone had been watching you while they wrote it.

“M-Miguel!” you screamed, panic rising in your throat, your voice sharp and pleading.

The room seemed to tilt. Your vision blurred, and everything shifted in an instant.

An overwhelming pressure built in your chest, as if the weight of the world had collapsed onto you. The last thing you saw before your eyes snapped shut was the half-eaten cake with the horrid message—and then, darkness.

Suddenly, the sounds of the living room sharpened, each one more vivid than the last. The soft ticking of the clock on the wall. The faint rustling of fabric. And Miguel’s warm voice, gently calling your name.

“Mi amor? Is something wrong?"

You blinked, disoriented, struggling to find your bearings. The living room was just as it had been—the soft, plush couch beneath you, the warm glow of the lamp, chatter from the television, familiar scent of cake lingering in the air and your family close by.

You blinked again, and realization struck.

Your breath hitched.

Miguel and Gabriella were still in their same positions. They hadn’t gone anywhere. You hadn’t seen them leave to get more cake. 

Glancing over at your daughter, still seated on the floor cross-legged as before, you saw her happily eating her first slice of cake—not her second.

Your gaze darted to your own plate, the one you distinctly remembered nibbling on, the one that had held that ominous message. But instead of the eerie writing, the cake sat uneaten, perfectly pristine.

A cold chill ran down your spine, your breathing beginning to quicken.

Things weren’t making sense. And it was starting to scare you.

Miguel’s hand cupped your face, warm and grounding, his concerned eyes searching yours. “Mi amor?” His voice was softer now, tinged with tenderness. “You dozed off. Are you okay?”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened.

What had just happened?

To you, it felt like you've done more then simply 'dozed off.' You recalled your love ones going to the kitchen, the shift in the air, heated occurrence between Miguel and you and then the...horrid message upon the cake.

You could speak the memory out loud, explain each detail like it was happening once more. So, why did it seem like it didn't happened - that it couldn't have happened.

Gabriella’s innocent gaze rested on you, her brows furrowed in worry. “Are you okay, mamá?” she asked, her small voice full of concern. The frosting smeared on her cheeks from her first slice of cake made her look even more endearing.

Her question snapped you out of your troubled thoughts, however, you couldn’t answer right away. Your throat felt dry, and your thoughts were swirling in a chaotic storm. The distorted memory that had overtaken you only moments ago lingered like a shadow, unshakable.

“I... I thought Gabriella asked for more cake,” you stammered, your voice unsteady. It made no sense. You could’ve sworn you’d seen them leave, yet part of you was convinced they hadn’t.

Miguel raised an eyebrow, a mix of concern and confusion crossing his face. “Are you okay, bebè?” he asked, chuckling nervously, as though trying to lighten the mood. “You told Gabi she can only have one slice, and was quite adamant before you went to sleep." Your husband explained. "So no, neither Gabriella and I have gone anywhere. We’ve been right here with you the whole time.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you more closely. "You were mumbling a lot as you slept, it made me worried. Did you have a bad dream?”

You blinked again, willing yourself to calm down. The confusion still clung to you like a heavy fog, but Miguel’s steady voice and familiar presence helped ease the edges of your panic.

The room felt normal again.

Everything looked... normal.

But you weren’t so sure.

Forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, you murmured, “Perhaps...”

Your gaze dropped to the plate of cake in your hands. It was untouched, as if you’d never taken a bite.

Out of fear and a sudden loss of appetite, you hastily set the plate on the nearby pastel-green end table, wanting it out of your sight.

Like before, everything went back into motion. Your daughter seeking to savor every crumb and frosting of cake on her plate as Miguel returned to watching television, the words from the box of wires falling deaf to you.

Wrapping your arms around your husband’s burly one, you rested your chin on his shoulder. Nuzzling his sleeve, you clung to him like a lifeline. Your heart was still hammering against your ribcage from the previous occurrence, still unable to decipher if what happened was true or not. 

‘What is happening? Am I going insane?’ You found yourself wondering, squeezing Miguel’s bicep tighter. Your perfectly sprayed jumbo curls brushed against your cheeks but you could hardly feel it, still completely rattled. The only solution that came to calming you was to confide in your husband, like you always did. 

Glancing up at your spouse from where you rested on his arm, he gazed ahead of him at the black and white images that were flashing across the miniature television. You hesitated before leaning in, your rosy lips brushing his ear. “I—I have to talk to you,” you whispered, your eyes silently begging for his undivided attention.

You needed to tell him what was happening—how you felt like you were losing your mind.

But then it hit you…

It was your sweet husband’s birthday.

You didn’t want to alarm him with this—not today, the only day he was able to get a break from his demanding job and be free of the workload.

You can wait…

An worried expression appeared upon his face as he sipped from his glass of water. “What’s wrong, esposa?” he asked, his smiling features shifting into intense concern. The sight pierced your heart.

Laughing nervously, you shook your head and pulled away, hiding the trembling of your manicured hands in your lap. You tried to ignore how desperately you wanted him to comfort you. “Actually…i-it’s not that important,” you said, though the quiver in your voice betrayed you. The more you tried to dismiss his worry, the more troubled he seemed.

Luckily, Gabriella came to your rescue.

Having finished her slice of cake (and every crumb) she jumped up, her mouth still smeared with frosting. “Can I show Papá my gift now?!” she exclaimed, the sugar clearly taking effect. Her orange ribbons bounced in her hair with her excitement.

Miguel glanced briefly at Gabriella but remained unsettled by your earlier unease. You leaned into him, masking your distress with a playful smile. "How about it, my love? Ready to see our gifts to you?" you asked, your heart clenching at the way his eyes softened, adoring your words yet oblivious to the truth they were meant to conceal.

“Sí, princesa. I’d be delighted to see your present,” Miguel replied with a grin, flicking off the television with the remote. The two of you watched Gabriella race upstairs, her footsteps echoing and fading, leaving you alone with your husband in the living room.

A moment of silence passed, the air thick with the lingering excitement of your daughter’s energy, before Miguel smirked at you. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me alone, hmm?” he teased, giving your cheek an affectionate pinch. “I know you only ask for me like that when you want something…” His eyes glinted with desire, unaware to the turmoil swirling within you.

You forced a soft laugh, schooling your features. “And… w-what if I did?” you replied, your voice faltering just slightly, your breath hitching when he leaned in closer.

Without warning, he pulled you into a kiss. The world around you seemed to melt away as his arms wrapped around you, his lips warm and urgent. Each kiss chipped away at your worries, his touch both soothing and electric. You pressed into him, feeling his heartbeat sync with yours.

He chuckled against your lips, each kiss leaving you hungrier for more. “So that was your plan? Hmm… Mi chica traviesa, traviesa.”

You gasped as his fingers brushed the nape of your neck, holding you steady. His touch was both tender and possessive, and the taste of him—sweeter than the cake you’d abandoned—flooded your senses, leaving your body humming with need.

Before you could process it, he gently pushed you back onto the couch, his lips never straying far from yours. A breathless laugh escaped you. “Miguel—”

Your halfhearted scolding was silenced by another kiss, and then another, each one more urgent than the last, until your bodies seemed to fit together seamlessly.

Your fingers combed through his dark curls, undoing the careful styling he’d done that morning. You tugged him impossibly closer, each kiss a promise—a vow that felt as eternal as the one he’d made to you on your wedding day.

And then, the spell shattered.

The sound of Gabriella’s blood-curdling scream pierced the air, cutting through the tranquility of the room like a knife.

Your heart dropped in an instant.

“MAMA!!”

You froze, eyes wide, breath catching in your throat. Hastily, you pushed Miguel away, panic rising in your chest. “Did you hear that?!” you asked, your voice tight with alarm.

For once, Miguel’s expression mirrored the terror that gripped you. Rising from the couch, he reached out to steady you as both of you looked toward the stairs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

The air between you was heavy now—this wasn’t just the innocent sound of a child’s call.

Something was wrong...

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the first part of Dear, My Beloved! What exactly is happening in the O'Hara house? Is the life inside those perfect green vintage walls as idyllic as it seems, or is there something far more sinister at play? 🤔

Also, I know I've mentioned this before, but once again, my apologies for the late posting of Despair and Greed for this event. Life became unexpectedly overwhelming toward the end of 2024 for my sister and I, and during my break, I found myself needing to take some time to recharge. The last thing I want is for writing to shift from a hobby to a chore, so I hope you all can understand! ❤️❤️

This one-shot was also in dedication to Miggy's B-day, so happy belated birthday to the handsome Spider-man himself. 💙❤️

Lastly, Part 2 of Dear, My Beloved comes with a LOT of trigger warnings—seriously, a lot. I'll include them in the warnings list when it’s posted but consider this an extra heads-up! ⚠️⚠️

If you’re excited for the next part of Dear, My Beloved, and to see what else my older sister, @powerful-niya and I have in store for Vicetober (I know, I know 🤧), be sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow! Wishing you all a wonderful day—stay safe! 👋🏾💙🤎😈

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