#phyrestartr

And, of course, traffic only made things worse; it was bumper to bumper, as to be expected on a Tuesday morning with everyone trying to hustle to or from work. His only solace was knowing you would be among them, his handsome, tall, buff man of the law.

Miguel wondered what you were up to. Did you arrest someone during the night? Did you have to break up fights? Did you sit there, bored out of your mind, chugging coffee and waiting for something to happen for twelve long hours? Miguel looked forward to hearing about it. Your stories were far more interesting than listening to hacks and idiots talk about the field of genetics for an entire long weekend. 

Miguel sighed. I miss him.

Once that thought infested his mind, it took control; Miguel's impatience spiked and, the second he got off the highway, he floored it. He wanted to go home. He wanted to throw himself into your arms and demand to be carried back to the bedroom to lay down and chat before catching up on some rest. He knew you’d do it. You would do anything for him.

The geneticist smiled. The stress and frustration of the last few days melted away with the idea of getting back home to you—but the grating shriek of sirens jolted him out of his fantasies. Good. Great. He was being pulled over. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Miguel pulled off to the side and put his Tesla in park before knocking his forehead against the wheel a few times. Of course this would happen. Of course he’d get pulled over.

The scientist jumped as the officer knocked on his window, the muffled command of window down, sir, vibrating through the glass.

“Mornin’, sir,” the officer said once the window was down, his voice deep and stern like he meant business. A wave of unease passed through Miguel as those bunged bodycam videos rushed to the forefront of his mind.

Please don’t be a hardass cop, please don’t be racist fucking freak.

“Morning.” He cleared his throat and stared hard out the front window, not having the courage to glance at the man. “I, uh, can I get you my—”

“License and registration,” the officer finished. Miguel saw him nod out of the corner of his eye. “Yes’sir, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Miguel handed his information over. The officer stepped back to his vehicle for a moment. 

Miguel watched the officer through the rearview mirror. The man had a familiar build. He kind of had a familiar voice, too, but Miguel's foggy mind couldn’t quite piece it together, especially not with those reflective aviators obscuring the officer’s face. 

The policeman walked back and returned the documents before resting his elbows on the sill of the open window, much to Miguel's chagrin.

“You have any idea how fast you were going?” The officer asked.

“Too fast?” Miguel said weakly. The other man laughed, and Miguel almost melted. Weird. 

“Yeah. 20-over too fast.”

“Mierda.”

“Yep. And you were swerving, too. Little tired from your flight there, babe?”

“Excuse me?” Miguel spat as he whirled on the man. “What the fuck did you just—?”

The officer, with the same colour hair as you, the same shit-eating grin as you, and the same set of sunglasses Miguel had bought you for your birthday, took off those very same shades for the grand reveal. The geneticist could have died right there. He kind of wanted to. 

“What, you don’t like ‘babe’ anymore?” You asked before twirling the toothpick in your mouth like you were still some kinda country cowboy. “Real shame. You liked it in bed—”

“Viejo,” Miguel lamented. He rubbed his face and eyes, exhaustion and relief both weighing him down and lifting his spirits. Still, Miguel laughed; he couldn’t believe his luck. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, kinda. You okay, honey?” You asked with a cute tilt of your head. Miguel leaned back in his seat and looked at you like he was on his deathbed. 

“No,” he admitted. “I’m tired, I’m pissed, I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I just got fucking pulled over, I—I just wanna go home.” 

You nodded, your smile softening. “Alright. We’ll make this quick. I still gotta give you a ticket—just because you’re my man don't mean you get special treatment, and driving while you’re fucked up ain’t something I can look past, hun,” You said as you, indeed, issued him his ticket like the good, upstanding man you were (ugh). 

“But—”

“Don’t argue.” 

Miguel threw you a look that was nearly a pout, but more of a grimace. “Fine. Now what?” 

You snorted. “I’ll give you two options. One: you stay pulled over here and take a powernap while I go take my cruiser back, ‘n I’ll come back here to drive us home. Two: I put you in the back of my cop car, we get the Tesla towed, and–” 

“I’ll wait here.” Miguel tilted the seat back and laid down with a sigh. “Go.”

“Good choice. I’ll be back in thirty. Love you, honey.” 

“Te amo mucho. Now hurry up and do what you have to and come take me home.”

And with a honey-sweet chuckle, you were off. 

–

Miguel could watch you for hours. Just your mere existence enchanted him, from the dramatic contour of your muscles under that too-tight shirt, to the rumbling hum of your voice as you puttered around the house, cleaning up bips and bops and things and stuff left out from whatever you were doing when your partner was gone. When your fiancé was gone.

Fiancé. Miguel still smiled when he thought about it. 

“Fiancé,” he called from the couch. “Come sit down.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a second. I’m just tidying up. Didn’t realize I left so much shit out.” You sighed to yourself as you put baking ingredients away—things left out from baking for May Parker’s birthday. You were so annoyingly cute when it came to kids. You were far too generous, too thoughtful. Miguel wanted that for himself. 

And he huffed, feeling a bit ignored, a bit annoyed. “Come. Now.” 

“Just gimme a—” 

“Why're you so difficult?" 

That pulled a laugh out of you and summoned you to him. Miguel felt quite pleased, lounging back further into the couch as you straddled his hips. His hands gravitated to your thighs, smoothing up your quads and back to the curve of your bum, giving a firm squeeze as you leaned down and kissed his forehead. 

"You're lucky you're a looker, otherwise I'd put you in a box and set ya on the side of the road." You kissed between his furrowed brows again. "Like a bad dog." 

"Romantic," Miguel grumbled. He was distracted, though, trying to catch your lips with his so he could latch on with a mean bite and keep you there. You got off before he could get his teeth in you, though. 

You looked back at the corpse of your husband as he laid there, lifeless, dejected, deceased, and you rolled your eyes. 

"I thought you were tired," you quipped. 

"I slept enough," he grumbled. 

"Then why don't you go start a bath," you suggested, "and I'll stop cleaning up when it's done, yeah?" 

Miguel narrowed his eyes. "And you'll get in the bath. With me. Naked." 

"Promise."

—

You don't know what Miguel did, but you swore he filled the bath faster than it was capable of. But you kept to your word, stopping mid-dish washing to let your husband-to-be drag you to the bathroom where he commanded you to strip. 

Miguel dimmed the lights before bullying you into the big clawfoot tub nestled up against a large, voyeuristic window. It was something Miguel himself had wanted. Whether it was to show him off, show you off, or show your dirty deeds off, you didn't quite know, but you liked it regardless. It made for something to look at while you relaxed. 

You stared out that very window while your hands lazily massaged Miguel's stiff shoulders. His shoulders were massive things, wider than yours by far, and always so tense and stiff from the troubles of working at a volatile place like Alchemax. One of the best ways to get him to relax a bit was to coax the stress from him physically, pressing and rubbing away the tension coiled up in every fibre of his being. 

"I thought you flew business," you said. "Why's it feel like you were in economy?" 

"Might as well have been. Couldn't catch a—" Miguel cut off with a small moan as you dug into a particularly weak part of his back, "uh…yeah, couldn't sleep at all."

You hummed and kissed the back of his neck. “Damn shame. Seems like your body's taking a beating ‘cause of it.” 

Miguel grumbled and leaned back into your hands, getting you to dig into his muscles harder. “The morons I had to deal with all weekend didn't help.”

“Miguel, come on.”

“What? They're idiots! All of them! They really think that—ow, wha—why did—don't pinch me!”

You rolled your eyes and looped your arms around his waist. “You need to work on that tolerance of yours, honey.”

“Oh, what, I'm not tolerant enough now?” Miguel huffed and leaned back, resting his head against your shoulder. “Great, just another thing to—what do you mean I'm not tolerant, huh? I'm tolerant. I didn't say anything. I just let them blab on and on about useless gizmos and fake tech and—”

“Miguel.”

“So what if I can't tolerate idiots?!”

“Alright, alright!” You laughed and squeezed around his middle. “I know you can't stand no ten-cent man, but if we have kids—”

“That's different,” Miguel said quickly. He shifted and straightened up a bit before convincing himself to rest against you again. “That's—yeah, no.” He rested his hand on your arm. “It’ll be different.”

Warmth spread through your chest and bloomed in your cheeks, drawing your amused smile into something more soft and profound. 

“Yeah?” You murmured after pressing a light kiss to his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Miguel's voice dropped just as low and hushed as yours. “I'm saving all of my tolerance for that kid.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll say, that’s mighty noble of you, Mr.O'hara.”

“I know.” Miguel jolted a bit when you nipped his shoulder. “Ow. If you're not gonna tolerate our kid doing something like, oh, I don't know, speeding, then I have to.”

“Nah. I'd let them off with a warning.”

Miguel sent you a grumpy look.

“You're kidding.”

“First time offenders get warnings.”

“Oh, really. Is that so? Huh. Funny—I never get warnings from you.”

“You have a long, long list of traffic violations, babe. It'd make a streetracer jealous.”

Knowing my luck, the prick’s run off with his shocking wife or something. The thought plagued your mind too often. And it was true: Spiderman disappeared. He no longer served Nueva York and kept it safe, he no longer caught you with your hand in the cookie jar, he no longer gave chase throughout the city before pinning you down on some rooftop and taking his prize by force. And you liked it–no, you loved it. Fucking with the man who’d always get to fuck you back came to be a part of life you relished. 

But now you were alone. Left by yourself to deal with lumbering lizards and giggling goblins while wondering how the fuck you’d ended up as a hero when you were anything but. Even the police couldn’t believe the switch, which caused some problems, and led to less-sexy chases that ended with you getting away no problem. 

I wish I had problems. Just one problem, though: Spiderman. 

You tossed aside your shiny leathers and collapsed into your bed. He’d never been there, no, but you fantasized about it. You thought about his impossibly wide back and the ripple of taut muscle greeting you in the morning, or maybe his built chest and strong neck–or maybe his handsome face–well, you’d never seen his face, but you had your guesses. 

Your chest twinged the slightest bit, somewhere between where your greed and feelings intertwined.

Ugh. You missed him. 

–

“Who's that?” Peter remarked as he walked up on Miguel. The lab was dark and dreary, spilling with shades of orange and amber where the blues couldn't reach. And Miguel, the source of the cold, stood in front of the firelight, gazing upon your image in the newscycle. 

Miguel frowned. “No one.” But he didn't tuck your image nor the article away. 

“Huh, looks like Black Cat. A 2099 Black Cat? Never thought I'd see the day.” Peter hummed and bounced a sleepy Mayday in his arms. “He up to no good?” 

“He's up to good,” Miguel bit out. “That's the problem. He doesn't do good.” 

“He's sort of an anti-hero these days,” Lyla cut in, blinking into existence on Peter's shoulder like the devil she was. “All thanks to Spiderman's influence–” 

“Lyla,” Miguel warned (begged?). 

“--aaand their sweet, cute budding romance,” she finished with a dreamy sigh. “Doesn't it just melt your heart?” 

–

You pinned him against the wall and let your hands trace through the hard lines of his muscles on your way down to your ultimate prize. Spiderman shuddered and stayed still, much to your surprise, letting you feel him, letting you acknowledge the hardness bulging under your criminal touch. Because he dreamt of this too. Dreamt of you touching him, of you falling down to your knees, your eyes never leaving his masked face even when you pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to stretched fabric holding back his filled cock. 

“So strong,” you cooed, “but not strong enough to resist, hm?” You sighed and worked him through the fabric with one hand. “Shouldn’t you be stopping the big bad from manhandling you like this, Spidey?”

“Hardly consider you the big bad,” he scoffed back. Spiderman tilted his head back with a choked groan whent hose diamond-tipped clawed gloves dug into his thighs. “Mierda, you–”

“Oh?” You grinned, so cheshire, so in-theme with your persona. “You can stop me any time, no?” 

He could’ve. But he didn’t. 

–

“A daughter,” you murmured. The flickering images–memories, maybe?–were there, waiting quietly for you, preserved and kept precious in shades of amber. But the scene was so alive; you could feel the stretch of the sun against your gloved touch, you basked in the crisp Spring air of that soccer game, you drowned in the warmth of that father's smile–

Spidey's smile. That was beyond obvious. The mountainous shoulders, the tawny skin, those hands– they belonged to him. Your beast. Your nemesis and lover, the man you hadn’t seen for far too long–

“Because you've been off taking care of a kid?” Your fingers, gentle, feather-light, ghosted across that foreign memory. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Who’s your baby mama?

The lab lights stilted and jittered. You snapped from your trance and made for the window you’d come in through, not bothering to see what was happening with your system jammers–you knew Lyla, she knew you, and that made the whole breaking-into-Spiderman’s-base thing more tricky and risky. Your jammer wasn’t fool-proof. It was quite easy to override, actually, but the interference was the difficult thing to detect in the first place. You only thought you’d need a handful of minutes to see your spider, anyway.

But he wasn’t there. Maybe he was off with his little girl. 

Something cacophonous and nerve-wracking churned to the sound of warping electricity behind you as you dove from the window and slid down the side of the skyscraper, claws shrieking against metal and glass alike until you could launch off and latch onto a passing hover car. The periphery of your mind swore it saw flashes of orange and yellow, more violent and heavy than the screens you stared at in that dower room, and maybe you might have heard a familiar voice too. 

The broad, tiny silhouette standing in that abandoned window gave you much more to think about.  -- Feel free to comment on this post if you want to be tagged for the full version!

Colourful lights from the mighty panes scattered across the black brick courtyard, dousing any Artist who walked beneath them with an array of prismatic, flickering lights, as though the building was frivolously handing out blessings to its visitors. Verso, secretly, was beyond thrilled to feel the touch of colour saturate his skin as they drew near.

“Are you just going to stand there gaping?” Clea taunted, voice edged with a snarky, yet fond, tone. “We have business to attend to.”

Verso sighed dreamily as he tucked his hands in his slacks’ pockets. “I'm just drinking it in. It's been a few years since I've been here.”

“I'm aware,” Clea said. “But if Maman catches us slipping in late, it'll be a bad look for us, dear brother; you know we'll never hear the end of it.”

“You'll never hear the end of it,” Verso said with a smug smile. “I'm Maman's favourite.” He started walking before Clea could smack him.

She marched after him. “You are incredibly lucky we're in public, otherwise I would have ripped your moustache off your petulant face.”

“Ooh, I'm so incredibly frightened.” 

He did make a strange gasp-grunt of fear, however, when Clea grabbed his arm and dragged him to walk up the stone steps and into the Embassy. Maybe he was a little scared, as a younger brother ought to be.

“Hey—hey, you're wrinkling my suit!” Verso complained. “Do you really think they'll pitch a fit if we're a few minutes late, Clea? Come on, our family just went through something traumatic!”

“That was two years ago, Verso,” Clea scolded. She did eventually let go of him, but only after she'd dragged him inside of the quietly buzzing building. “They may grant you and Alicia a bit of grace, considering you were both injured, but I am not willing to let my reputation be stomped on just because you want to take your time and look for an opportunity to slip off to find your Musician friends.”

Verso pursed his lips as he rushed after his sister. “Is that what you think I've come for?” What a brilliant excuse!

“It is!” She snapped, turning out of the vast lobby and down a long hallway lined with different sorts of meeting and collaboration rooms. Nosy little Verso tried to linger and listen in to each one as they sped by, naturally. 

“But you decided to come,” Clea continued, “so you need to show your face lest you disgrace our family.”

“You sound so much like Papa right now.”

“Shut up.”

Two huge double doors swung open by the hands of doormen when they approached. Clea didn't regard them, clearly too focused on getting to her seat, but Verso shot them friendly smiles. They looked at each other with wide-eyed glances that screamed holy shit why is Verso Dessendre here, and Verso relished in it.

He expected much of the same when he sauntered into that room and sat with his mother and sister at that huge, round table—

—and then swiftly regretted everything. The meeting was boring. It was long. It was drab and void of fun and conflict. Hell, no one was even shocked to see Verso join them (apparently his mum had spoiled the surprise). 

Ah, well, Verso thought, resting his chin in his palm, at least I have a second to think.

And think he did, about the Writers, about the library, about you. 

Verso's first encounter with a real Writer was at the Embassy. Besides being a beautiful, formidable building in the heart of Paris, the Embassy existed as the sole place in France where Artists of any guild could meet, converse, and merely coexist with the absolute guarantee of peace. That didn't mean Artists refused to coexist outside of the Embassy, not at all; however, when tensions rose between Painters and Writers (or any other guilds, for that matter), the council leaders always moved any and all correspondence to in-person meetings at the Embassy. It was the safest thing to do, no matter the case.

And that's where Verso had met you.

He'd snuck off while his mother discussed important things and stuffs with the council of Painters, and, after meandering through the too-big building for far too long, the little nine year old stumbled upon a wondrously tall library that spanned up several stories in a cylindrical fashion.

“Woah,” Verso breathed as he walked in, taking in the marvellous scene, “it’s like a wizard's tower…”

“A wizard’s tower?” Another young voice scoffed.

Verso frowned as he looked over at you, another rather wealthy-looking lad standing in an aisle with a cart of books at his side. He couldn't tell whether you were taking all those books, or returning them to their rightful spots.

“It is!” Verso argued as he walked towards you. “Don't you think so? It even has the floating books and candles and—”

“A child like you would think this to be magical, I suppose.” You wrote something down in a ledger before moving on, wheeling your cart away. Naturally, Verso followed. 

“I'm not a child!” He argued, loud enough to earn him a few sharp shhh-s from others in the library. “I'm not!” He repeated in a whisper.

You paused again, and Verso bumped into you.

“You are a child,” you told him while you looked through the ledger. “You're hardly ten, I bet. Besides, I doubt you even know what goes on at the Embassy; you're probably just another boy who gets dragged along to bypass the need for a babysitter.”

Verso puffed up his cheeks in defiance. “No! I'm not!”

“Shh!” A dozen voices spat.

The young Painter shrunk in on himself. “Maman wants me to learn stuff, but they use words I don't get and no one ever explains anything to me. It's not fair—I want to know what's going on but I can't!”

You paused mid-cart search. Then, crisply and mechanically, you tucked away two books and wrote something down. “Our parents’ generation is as irresponsible as ever.”

Finally, You looked at him. You were taller than him and looked a few years older, as if the way you spoke and carried yourself didn't already give that away. Verso thought you looked a lot like the statues of Apollo he and his sister were told to paint and draw for practice. Your eyes especially sold him on that thought—he could very clearly imagine your bold colours painted onto the visage of the sun god himself.

“What is your name?” You asked him.

“Verso,” he offered. “Verso Dessendre.”

Your eyebrows rose, and a childish sort of joy bloomed in Verso; for a moment, your mature façade had vanished, leaving your true age of twelve out in the open for the Painter to connect to.

“A Painter,” you said. Your tone had also eased, letting go of its clipped pompousness. “Hm. Weird. What are you doing in the Writers’ Library?”

Verso shrugged. “I got bored.”

“You'll get in trouble if another Painter finds you here,” you said, more factual than scolding.

The younger boy shrugged again. “I always get in trouble. Besides, Maman never stays mad at me for too long. Clea says it's because I'm her favourite.”

Your pompous, grouchy look returned abruptly. “Hmph. She would be your sister. I suppose that's unavoidable.” You huffed and extended a hand out to him. “Well, still, it's nice to meet you.”

Verso smiled widely as he took your hand. He couldn't wait to tell his parents about his first, official handshake at the Embassy.

“It's good to meet you, too!” He said. “You didn't tell me your name.”

“Oh, right.” 

You gave him your name, first and last, and Verso mulled it over in his little noggin again and again, committing it to memory like colour mixing charts his mother made him learn. 

“Now,” you said as you let go of his hand, “it's important you understand the Embassy.” You continued pushing your cart along, and Verso followed like a lost chick. “Let me explain it to you in a way you'll understand.”

Verso smiled. He hadn't thought about your library meet-cute in a long, long time, but he did often think about the not-too-distant past encounters he'd raked up with you. It was a shame he hadn't seen you in so long; it was but another tragedy that came with the fire, it seemed.

 No better time than now to make up for what’s been lost. Subtly, Verso tried to steal a glance at the clock, praying for a recess from which he could excuse himself and slink away towards a place he ought to not return to.

“Well, there's much to think about,” Aline said, a sort of fondness to her tone, “I suggest we stop here for today, and reconvene with our thoughts at a later date.”

Agreements fizzled through the room, and Verso all but shot up out of his chair—or, he would have, if Aline hadn't held his arm.

“While I'm glad you've come, Verso,” she said, quiet and measured and perhaps a bit exasperated, “I'd request you learn to pay attention to proceedings, hm?”

Verso sighed. “Yeah, sorry, Maman. Really. I just have a lot on my mind coming back here.”

Aline nodded, a soft, sad look crossing her features. “I know.” She cupped the side of his face and brushed the scar on his cheek with her thumb. “But you're taking the first steps in returning. I'm proud.”

The young man smiled a bit wider as he leaned into the touch. “Thank you, Maman.” And sorry in advance. “I'm feeling more like myself already, just from being here.”

“Well, good.” Her hand dropped to his shoulder and squeezed. “Then run along. Go reacquaint yourself with your friends.”

Verso, like a dog being told to fetch, perked up. “You know what?” He kissed her cheek. “I think I might just do that.”

“Just be mindful, Verso,” Aline more or less scolded as he started his jog away. “And don't do anything foolish.”

He waved over his shoulder. “Foolish,” he whispered to himself. “Why would I ever do something foolish?”

Foolishly, he headed straight for the library. You loved that place—it was a genuine love, too, not the sort that some writers spoke prose about just because their namesake pressured them to do so. No, your love for books and quiet had nothing to do with your being a Writer.

“Why do you like books so much?” Verso asked as he followed you around. A year had passed, and you had still kept up your job working at the library. Honestly, Verso thought you'd been forced into it by your parents, but you actually had asked to do it yourself like a weird little keener.

You poked him between the eyes. “That's a stupid question.”

Verso batted your hand away. “What, how?!”

“Books are like paintings,” you told him. “They're just empty, blank pieces of paper until you make them into something—and that something ought to be good if you're going to let the world see it.”

Verso tilted his head. “But…we paint on canvas, not paper.”

Your face twisted with embarrassment before you chopped the top of Verso's head with a book.

Verso smirked to himself; after he pointed out your minute oopsie, you had become an astute expert in Painters and painting, whether it be Muse-blessed or common craft knowledge. It was kind of impressive. It was kind of cute, too.

He never could handle not knowing things, Verso mused. I wonder how he's held up this past year.

Eager to find his answer, Verso waltzed through the open doors of the massive library. He adjusted his jacket and ensured his cuffs were straightened out as he wandered through, looking for the tell-tale head of hair he'd been searching for since age nine. Hell, even at home, whenever someone came to the door to give condolences and speak with the family, Verso found himself looking for you. His foolish heart couldn't stop hoping you'd turn up for him.

But you hadn't come for him. You never once came to see him nor his family; he could understand your hesitancy, but, at the same time, he couldn't. In the end, Verso had been left with an ache he couldn't soothe, and a mind full of questions.

He must have a reason, Verso thought as he mindlessly walked, not really seeing where he was going as he relied on the memory of paths once followed. He's not that sort of man. He'd never do something like this to me on purpose, not if—

Verso grunted a stifled grunt when he bumped into someone.

“Merde, sorry, sorry, I—” He said, preparing to turn the charm on until he saw who it was.

You looked at him. Whatever relief and cheer Verso was supposed to feel was killed before it could breathe; you had scars. You had lots and lots of scars. They covered your mouth and right side of your face, disappearing under a plain eyepatch and the collar of your shirt.

Verso took a step back. 

The stench of smoke and burning flesh curled in his nostrils. Roaring flames deafened him. Hot ash and ember filled his mouth and lungs and—

You grabbed him by the arm and marched him away from the aisle. Somewhere, in the secluded shadows of the library underneath an overhang of the next floor, you found a vacant reading nook dressed with two armchairs and a table with a lamp. The library was full of those secretive little spots. Apparently Writers loved small, cramped spaces in which to read.

You forced him to sit. Verso held his head and took deep breaths. His knee bounced frantically, like it was doing its damndest to channel more chaotic energy in its poor host—but, luckily, you put a stop to it, grabbing his knee and forcing it to still.

Verso looked at the hand on his knee, then at you. You stared back at him with that usual terse, intense gaze for a handful of moments, too, before you retracted your hand slowly and sat down across from him.

The Painter watched you cross one leg over the other and lean back into your seat. You didn't say anything as you regarded him, and your stare didn't give much away; you were something of a villain, watching his rival with earnest interest and detached patience.

But the quiet wasn't all bad. It was necessary, almost, for Verso to recover from his chaotic emotions. Did you know he needed it, too?

“I, uh,” Verso started, “why do you—those scars—”

Your brows rose slightly—a silent urging for him to get to the point, he recalled.

Verso rested his elbows on his knees. His silvered stare bore into you as something coherent worked its way through his mind: “You never came to see me.” That was more important to ask about, Verso told himself. Inquiring about your scars seemed cruel and unjust and, well, the Painter was more worried about finding out why you had stayed away.

You took a slow, deep breath, and Verso heard the raspy catch of it in your throat. Alicia had said it hurt to breathe when she was wounded. She sounded much the same before her miraculous recovery.

But he didn’t dwell on that, not when you were taking too long to answer him. 

“What?” Verso scoffed. “Nothing? You have nothing to say? After—after everything, you just refuse to show up?” He shook his head as he waited for you to say something, anything. “You refuse to say even one fucking word to me?”

The corners of your mouth tilted downward the slightest bit, but that was far from good enough.

“We—” Verso cut himself off with a bitter chuckle as he looked aside. “I thought we—”

“Verso, what the fuck are you doing?”

The man looked up at Clea. Her face bore a disgust like no other when she looked from him, to you.

“You should know better,” she growled. Verso couldn't tell who she spoke to, but he didn't like either answer. Neither did you, judging by the venomous glare you pierced her with in return.

“I was just leaving,” Verso said as he stood.

“Yes, you were,” Clea said. “And I'm going to do you the courtesy of not telling Maman about this.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You got up, then. Verso stared at you, but you hardly paid the Dessendres any attention before straightening out your suit, and taking your leave.

“Tsch, the utter filth,” Clea muttered as she watched you like a hawk watching a mouse. “You know better, too, Verso—you are not to waste your time with those Writers.”

Verso rubbed his throat and fiddled with his tie. “I know, I…I know, I just—”

Her eyes snapped to Verso. “You won't get any answers from him. You won't feel better and you won't get his sympathies, little brother. The world is not as warm and welcoming as you once thought. Hopefully you see that now.”

“Yeah, I know, I know, but…his face—” Verso shook his head. “Those are—he looks…” He leaned in towards her, dropping his voice even more. “Alicia had those wounds, didn't she?”

“So what?” Clea scoffed. She grabbed his arm and marched him towards the exit. “You're looking for answers where there are none, Verso. You need to stop.”

The Painter sighed. “Yeah, right. Sorry. I'll stop.”

“You better mean that.”

--

Verso didn't mean it. 

How could he? The mystery was too much for him to tolerate. For even the one night he spent away from the Embassy, he couldn't stop thinking and wondering about you and your scars. 

Soon enough, he'd find out that he wasn't the only one to wonder.

Verso knocked on Alicia's door softly. It was late into the evening, but he knew she'd be awake and reading one of her trillions of books. Or perhaps she'd be writing, creating worlds with words rather than with paint. Verso had to hope she'd not abandon the hobby that gave her joy, even despite the incident.

“Come in,” she answered.

Verso opened the door and looked around. She wasn't on her bed or at her desk.

“In here.”

Her voice came from her reading room, the one piled with books and outfitted with two couches set before a cozy, crackling fireplace. He used to read to her a lot there. He was glad she still found respite in that place.

Sure Enough, he found her curled up on the couch, a blanket draped across her lap as she read in the quiet. A second later, Verso noticed the snoring lump of Noco flopped beside her.

“Hey,” Verso said as he leaned against the doorframe.

Alicia smiled and bookmarked her page. “Hi.”

“What book have you got there?”

“Alice In Wonderland,” she said. “Again.”

“Ah. A classic.”

“I guess so. It reminds me of the Canvas worlds, sort of.”

“That I can understand.”

Alicia nodded. Her gaze dropped down to Noco as she pet his little, chubby tummy. 

“You can sit,” she said. “If you want. You have that look on your face.”

Verso raised a brow as he sauntered into the room. “Me? Have a look? Hmm.” He sat down across from her on the other couch. “I don't know about that.”

“You definitely have a look,” she laughed. “It's that look of ‘we need to talk about something,’ you know?”

The Painter chuckled and nodded to himself. “Yeah, well. You've got me there.”

“Mh.” Her eyes met his. “So? Are you going to talk, or?”

“Straight to the point, huh? Alright.” Verso ran a hand through his hair and looked aside, staring at the crackling fire. It was dim and weak. Alicia hadn't stoked fires much bigger than it for a long, long while.

“Is it about the, um…” She murmured. “The accident?”

Verso nodded. “Yeah. Kind of.” He took a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it go. “I saw (Name) at the Embassy.”

“Wh—you did?”

Verso looked her way, smiling as he spotted that glimmer in her eye. “Yeah.”

“Is he—is he doing okay? I mean, he—he never came to visit when we…after everything. But I guess it must be hard, since he's a Writer…” Alicia frowned. “Maman probably wouldn't let him come.”

Verso nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

“So? How is he?”

“I don't know,” he said. “His attitude seems the same, but…yeah, I don't know. Something happened.”

Alicia shifted and looked down at itty bitty Noco. “Really…”

Verso nodded. “He has scars on his face. They go down his neck, I think.” He saw his sister's brows furrow. “He didn't say a word to me. I'm not so sure he can, though.”

“Do you…” Her eyes blazed brightly when they met Verso's again. “You don't think someone tried to burn him after what the Writers did to us, do you?”

“I don't know,” Verso said. “But his scars…they're a lot like yours were before they disappeared.”

“Did you ask him what happened?”

Verso shifted. “No, I…Clea pulled me away before I could, so.” He flashed her a weak smile. “Sorry. I will ask, I just…”

“No, I…yeah, I understand,” she murmured.

Verso took a deep breath and nodded, trying to ignore the furrow of his sister's brows and the frown set on her features.

“You seem pretty upset,” he said. “More than I anticipated.”

“Why wouldn't I be?” She scoffed. “You could have asked him what happened, but you probably said something stupid to him instead.”

“Woah, hey, rude.”

“Well, what did you say to him?”

“Uh, well…”

“Pft. I knew it.”

Verso laughed his way through a lamenting sigh. Gods, please take her attitude away when she's older. I beg you.

“So, why did you want to tell me about his scars?” Alicia asked, bringing her brother back to the present.

“Right! Ah, I was just—I wanted to ask if you remember anything,” Verso said. “Are you sure he didn't visit you during everything?”

Verso caught the split-second flash of blue as Alicia's eyes lashed at him before falling back to Noco. The muscles of her jaw tensed and flexed as she shifted and all but flailed under her brother's hopeful stare.

“Alicia,” he tried, hoping to coax the truth with gentle words. “Please. If you remember—”

“I don’t.”

Verso paused for her to elaborate. 

She did not.

“You don't,” he repeated. “You're sure?”

Alicia nodded. Her stare was trained on Noco's little paws as she pressed her thumbs against his pink pads.

“Okay,” Verso breathed. “Okay. Thank you for humoring me.”

His sister shrugged, and guilt weighed down on Verso with the fall of Alicia's shoulders; it wasn't easy talking about the fire already, and yet here he was, insisting something more must have happened in the aftermath.

You should know better, Verso. 

“I'm, um….I think I'm going to go to sleep,” Alicia murmured. “So, if you could go…”

“Of course.” Verso stood and fixed his garments. “Sorry for keeping you up, Alicia.”

She smiled an unconvincing smile. “It's okay. Goodnight, Verso.”

“Yeah.” He walked around the table and kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Alicia.”

The young lady shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest tighter as she leaned toward the fire you'd made–the one you made out of pure restlessness from staying inside for too long. You decided to pretend you were out in the great outdoors like the old days, and set up a ring of rocks and chairs on the roof to escape the fluorescent lights and white walls. Evidently, Gwen needed a break from it all, too.

“Gabi.” She fiddled with her toque and cleared her throat. “She, uh--y'know. She mentioned it.” 

“Huh.” Your gaze wandered away from Gwen, and back to the fire. “I didn't think she'd remember.” 

“How old was she? When it happened, I mean.” 

“Must've been 11. We split when she was 13, I'm pretty sure.” You sighed and leaned back in your shitty old soccer mom chair. “Guess we were bad at hiding it.”

“Pretty hard to hide that kinda thing from your kid,” Gwen mumbled, dwelling on something ancient and sore in the depths of her memories. “They're more perceptive than you think.” 

You nodded. The stars caught your attention and you stared up, gazing upon the winking lights and shooting comets flying by. Most of those celestial bodies were there when everything happened. Did they remember, too? Were they haunted, too?

“Yeah. My parents thought I didn't know nothin’ either. They didn't know how wrong that was,” you agreed. 

“So he did cheat on you?” Gwen asked. You nodded. She scoffed. “But--why? He always acts so lovey-dovey and gross around you. Why would he–?”

“Good people do bad things,” you said, and continued before she could cut in, “‘n bad people do good things, sometimes.” 

“So which camp is he in?” She asked.

“Pretty sure he's mostly good.” 

“Pretty sure?” 

You chuckled. “I've met ‘bad guys,’ believe me.” You took a breath and nudged some logs around in the fire with a stick. “Miguel ain't like them. He's full of himself, arrogant, stubborn ‘n all that, but he's helped people. He's helping people, even if he's got a crap attitude about it.” 

“Right,” Gwen breathed. Her voice carried something heavy with it. Something uncertain and unwavering, like the teeter of winter into spring, or thunder that wondered if it might rain. Her restless energy mirrored the fire as it roiled and spat brilliant sprays of embers into the cold, night sky; only, the fire would eventually die down, calm itself into blackened coals. Gwen’s torch would not fade as such. 

“You think he’s a bad guy?” You asked. 

“Never really thought he was a good guy.” She rubbed the back of her neck before sighing. “But. Yeah.  Never thought he was a bad guy, either. Kinda feels like a vigilante, or something. But less cool.”

You smiled when you peered over at her. “Maybe like an antihero?” 

“Way less cool than that, but yeah. Sure. An antihero,” she huffed. “But you’re a blue-blood. I don’t think those types are supposed to get along.” 

That made you laugh. “I think they get along pretty well. They do in the comics, even if they don’t see eye-to-eye on everything.” 

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You mean most things?”

You nodded. “Yeah, most things.” You tucked your hands into your pockets and gazed up again, this time losing your thoughts to the endless void of grey sweeping in and devouring all light in the sky. “You don't need to worry about me, Gwen. There’re more–”

“More important things to worry about?” She finished, not sounding too impressed. “Feels like you're using the end of the world as an excuse.” 

You frowned, and wiped the dew of melted snowflakes from your cheek. “Maybe you got yourself a point, there.” 

–

You were the new kid in year 12. Normally, no one gave a shit–it was New York, after all–but you had a tendency to catch everyone's attention when you never sought to try. 

You were a country boy. A fella with a strange tendency to be kind and hold doors open for ladies or help some sorry idiot pick up their dropped assignment. That gentle lilt in your voice, the only evidence that you weren't from the city, always had people staring your way. Boys would mock you, especially when their girls flushed soft colours and whispered while they glanced your way. It didn't help that you were handsome as all hell, too. 

And one day, like a fucking fairytale, Miguel finally ran into you and got hit with the triple threat that was your accent, face, and genuinity–what he didn't expect, however, was to meet you at the Kwan's ranch.

You were clad in boots and jeans and a stupid cliche cowboy hat hung around your neck, hiding the impressive display of shoulder blades flexing and rippling with strong muscle as you shoveled and cleaned out the old hay and debris from the stables. Something warm and melodious trilled under your breath as you worked, and it beckoned like a siren's song--so captivating Miguel couldn't help himself. 

“Hey,” he said. 

You looked over your broad shoulder and blinked a few times, like you were showing off the brilliant hue of your eyes on purpose. A kindly smile made you shine brighter, too, like the sun somehow lit you up from within. 

“Howdy,” you said. 

“Howdy?” Miguel snorted and tucked his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he wandered in. “That's a little too country, isn't it?” 

“Is it now?” The twang in your voice must’ve been fake. No normal person sounded like they were ripped straight from a Western. “Maybe you're just too city.” 

“Hm.” Miguel crossed his arms and leaned against a beam as he watched you continue to work. “Maybe.” 

“Come on, now,” you laughed, “I can smell the city on you. Could probably taste it, too, if I could.” 

Miguel's face burned. His heart pitter-pattered just a little bit faster, soon going a lot faster when he registered the wink you threw his way. Were you flirting? Was it working? Was Miguel swooning? 

Yes, yes and yes. 

–

“Y'know, you don't have to be such a busy body,” Miguel said, wandering into the lab-turned-greenhouse. He had to admit, it looked good. Peaceful. And it certainly helped with keeping everyone fed and happy. So did your presence at Alchemax; you and Gabriella felt like a fresh coat of paint on a beat-up old car. A nice change. Good additions. 

And Miguel felt complete now that you were with him, too. There were still issues, still things to work out and problems to talk about, but it felt nice to work towards something selfish and meaningful. Something that was wholly and unabashedly for him and him alone.

But you were such a restless man. All day, every day, Miguel found you working; clearing snow, repotting, sowing seeds, cleaning, teaching, handyman-ing were all on your resume of husband material and so clearly those skills ruled your mind every waking hour of every day. It didn't help that the other folks In the colony realized just how much of a do-gooder sweetheart you were. Miguel was one more flirty comment away from nuking the building. 

But the way you smiled in the face of adversity let him keep a reasonable cool. Whether it was your awkward attempt to be cordial with someone who so clearly thirsted for you and your attention, or in a sheepish and innocently guilty way whenever Miguel called you out for working too much, you had a way of melting his frigid heart into something cool and light like an autumnal spring.

“I’m just puttering,” you hummed, pausing what you were doing to lean in and give him a kiss, careful to keep your dirt-crusted hands away from him and his neatness. “Just movin’ some of these into bigger pots. Don’t want them to go dying on us.” 

“I think they’d live.” Miguel hummed as he looked over the array of little plants sprouting with flourishes of brilliant emerald. His hand slipped to the small of your back before his arms looped around your waist, and he pulled you flush against his chest. “I need you more than they do.”

You laughed, soft and smoky. “That right?”

“Yeah.” Miguel left a sweet kiss on your neck, right on the odd, heart-shaped-ish scar he used to leave hickeys over back in the day. “They’re not the only ones that need fertilizing.”

“Christ. Did Pete teach you that one?” You laughed, but didn’t crumble and fertilize Miguel. Damn. 

Your partner huffed. “Come on, just–can’t you take a break, viejo?” He kissed your neck another handful of times and buried his face into the strong curve of your shoulder with a most petulant sigh. “Feels like I only get to see you when we go to bed.” 

“Not much different from how it used to be,” you said. “I worked nights, you worked days. Hardly got to see each other.” 

“I hated it,” Miguel mumbled. And you actually paused, your busy hands halting with the rest of your body. “I wanted you home with me. I didn’t want you to work nights.” 

He felt you shift again, the sound of your hands under running water sparking hope in his chest. But he snuffed it out himself–he knew you too well. You weren’t the type to stop when something needed to be done. Miguel couldn’t fault you for it, though, not when he was the exact same way. 

“Miggs.” You turned in his arms and held the sides of his face. “I’m not going anywhere. No night shifts, no driving after gun-toutin’ idiots on the highway, no overtime. You can always find me if you need me.” 

“Would you've come for me and Dana–” he stopped, a bout of regret punching the words back down his throat. The sudden distance in your eyes and the stiffness of your touch haunted him. Why did he have to talk? Why was he still chasing you away like this? 

“Don't,” Miguel pleaded, his hands flying up to your arms, holding you still. 

An overcast of something chased away the far look. Miguel wished he could read you as easily as you read him. He didn't know what you were thinking. Did he ever?

“I still have some things I'm working on getting past, Miggs,” you managed. “I don't--I'm trying.” 

Miguel nodded. What could he say, really? Try harder? Love me more? Get over it already? Your marriage reached a difficult point before the apocalypse; now, it'd climbed to new heights, but problems erased themselves thanks to the simple fact that the world had ended. There were more deadly things to worry about in the present.

“Just let me know if I can help,” your partner offered. And you smiled, tired and weary, unknowingly soothing the frigid panic freezing Miguel's veins. 

“Promise I will.” You gently stroked the arch of his cheekbone with the back of your knuckles. “Just don't worry too much. I'm alright.” 

And he believed you. 

– 

“Who's your friend?” 

The question drove Miguel insane, like a chisel tapping away at marble. Because everyone asked when they saw you, a stupidly handsome, ridiculously tall, polite southern gentleman dressed to the nines in a custom suit Miguel picked out himself–garments he picked out for his fiancé. His betrothed. His to-be husband. 

Miguel's coworkers knew he was taken. He thought it'd be obvious by whom since, well, he rolled up to the event with you and had complimentary outfits with you and you were wearing a fucking ring on the finger.

Still, countless folks introduced themselves to you, sweeping you up into conversations and leaning in too close for comfort. Miguel’s ego swelled, sure; he had the most impeccable, handsome, perfect man in the world, but his jealousy chomped away at his temper. He didn't like people thinking they had a chance with you. It was funny at first, but you were too nice to snap at them, to put them in their places. And, quite frankly, Miguel had had more than enough of watching his damn coworkers throw themselves at you the second they heard that stupid, endearing drawl or saw your charming, lopsided smile. 

He floated to your side, anchoring an arm around your waist while his other hand held a crystalline glass of something golden and fancy. 

“Hey,” Miguel hummed as your eyes met, and he leaned in, planting a soft, sweet peck onto your lips. “Havin’ fun?” The energy around the bystanders shifted dramatically. Miguel felt more pleased than a lion catching its prey. 

“Better now that you’re here,” you hummed, eyes creasing with a gentle tilt of your lips. He loved that look on you. It was the same one you wore every morning when you cooed your sweet good morning-s. 

“I make everything better,” Miguel agreed. He finished his drink and handed it off to whatever poor sod stood beside him. “Guess they haven’t heard the good news.” 

Your head tilted as whispers spread around you both. “Thought you would’ve told ‘em by now, honey.” 

“Well,” Miguel said, sing-songy and so obviously annoyed and bitter with how annoying this event had been for him. He took your hand and brought it up, feigning examination while purposefully catching the light on the band of gold hugging your finger. “I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to not put two and two together.” 

With that, the vibe died. Soft scoffs and muttered words were left in the wake of party-goers as they abandoned the two of you. Some offered anxious goodbyes to you before shuffling off, but many who’d been burned and shit on by Miguel in the past were not pleasant enough to separate you from your man. Which Miguel preferred. 

Miguel smirked to himself, satisfied with his work. Though, when he met your eyes, you looked anything but impressed. Oops. He probably should’ve considered the aftermath.

“Look, they should know who they're messing with,” he testified.

You quirked a brow. “You mean who they're talkin’ to?” 

Miguel huffed, the smallest of pouts forming. “Don't give me that. They were all over you.” 

“Honey, no one's ever gonna replace you, alright? You've got nothin’ to worry about.” Still exasperated, you smiled, and fixed his tie for him, giving it a light tug and tucking it back against his breast neatly. “You think I'd ever fool around behind your back?” 

“What? No.” Why wouldn’t you? You were handsome, a gentleman, a man who could have anything and anyone you wanted with looks and charm alone. So maybe–maybe that's why Miguel did what he did. Maybe he was trying to show you just how wrong you were. 

“Exactly. Now, you stop worrying and try to enjoy the event, alright? Promise I'll stay by your side for peace of mind,” you said with a wink. Miguel melted. You were too good for him. 

“Por dios–yeah, alright, okay. Fine.” He huffed and pulled you in close to him again and gave you a sweet kiss to seal the deal. 

And of course, it was in that moment Dana passed him by with a smile full of secrets and damning evidence–a vault that he wanted to break open and force you to face.  

–

Miles fucked up. 

He yanked open that fucking car door–specifically when told not to–and set off the dinner bell for whatever undeads still wandered the streets of New York. 

The race through the city streets wasn't so easy, not after years of the military, militia and more trying to block off streets, take a stance against the unending hordes threatening human existence–tanks, trucks, barricades and more littered and cluttered the streets like the puddles after a storm. Every vault and jump was uncertain despite determined, never really knowing if the next car the group jumped onto would throw one of you to the ground with a broken leg or twisted ankle. Miguel almost wished Miles shattered his knee. 

Especially when you nearly didn't make it inside. 

Miguel pulled you through just as they got the shitty garage door down, and he pulled you up, eyes wide and jaw set as pain jolted your features. 

“Hey, hey, what's–you're fine. You're fine,” he whispered. His hand frantically touched where they could before settling on either side of your face as you both fought to catch your breath. “You're fine.” 

But you shook your head. “I, uh--need you to back away from me, baby.” 

“No.” 

“I gotta make sure, be careful–” 

“No.” 

You pulled his hands away from your face, and Miguel saw liquid ruby stain his skin, too. 

“Listen,” you rasped as you limped toward a rundown car with your cuffs unlatched from your belt. “We gotta–gotta clear the shop. Miggs, you take care of the doors.” 

But he didn’t. He stood still, shoulders rolling with the heavy breaths he sucked in while you and Gwen puttered around the small, homely garage to the tune of the undead hissing and snarling just beyond the metal door. Miguel took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the–

“I–uh, what should I do?” Miles asked. 

Miguel whirled around and stalked to him, explosive rage fuelling his steps across the room. He grabbed Miles’ shirt and slammed him into the wall, looming over him like a titan. 

“You are not going to do anything,” Miguel growled. Miles’ eyes widened as he shrunk. “This is your fucking fault in the first place.”

“Hey, he’s just a kid–” Gwen tried, but Miguel’s quick glance her way stalled her. “He didn’t mean to–”

“That’s the problem. He doesn’t know how to survive out here and he’s not willing to use his fucking brain to fill in the gaps.” 

“Dude, let go of me!” Miles snapped, panic lancing through the quiver in his voice. “You can’t–” Miguel slammed him into the wall again. The undead shrieked and howled a mere half a foot away beyond the stone walls barring them out. 

Miguel basked in the dread eating away at Miles’ confidence. “It was a mistake to bring you here. You were a mis–” 

You yanked Miguel off the kid and slammed him into the wall, hand clapping over your partner’s mouth while your red-hot stare bore into the back of his skull and pinned him still. Your other hand held firm over his throat. You didn’t hurt him, but the fingertips digging into the straining tendons of Miguel’s neck threatened the opposite. 

“Quiet,” is what you commanded.

The room fell silent. And it stayed that way. It was hard to tell if anyone still breathed or lived in the minutes you all stood, patient, suffocating, and you stayed in that unsure limbo while the bloodthirsty reverie gradually de-crescendoed in the placid muteness. Slowly, slowly, with each wandering corpse that left to chase errant noises or to wander aimlessly with no mission left in mind, the air in your sanctuary began to heal. 

Your grip became kinder, and you let go, staggering back on unsteady legs. Then, you collapsed.

–

Your injury turned out to be a gash, not a bite. It ran across your shoulder horizontally, accented by a few other gouges bloodying your exhausted face and Miguel's busy hands. 

He stitched you up carefully yet thoroughly, eagerly trying to finish the job while you squeezed your eyes closed and gnawed on the belt wedged between your teeth. To your credit, you handled the temp stitches well. You only really shifted and panicked when Miguel tried to flush the wound with what water he had on hand. 

“That should hold until we get back,” he murmured for your ears only. He cut the thread with his teeth after tying it off, and wrapped your arm with a strip of torn shirt. 

You nodded tiredly and let him take the belt from between your teeth. “Thank you.” You sat up a little straighter against the wall and took deep breaths, eyes squeezed closed and brow beaded with sweat. 

Heat flared in Miguel’s chest. If not for you, Miguel would have ripped Miles a new one. He might have even thrown him to the undead in your name. If you'd come out infected, doomed to die, he'd make sure Miles suffered the same. 

“Don't be so hard on him,” you rasped, voice blending with the soft crackle of the unconvincing campfire. 

Miguel's stare hardened into ice. “He could've–” 

“Miguel.” He looked at you, and melted as you leaned into his warmth. “Lectures can wait. We need to get home first.” 

You were right. And it enraged Miguel further. He wanted to take his anger out on something, or better yet someone, but you just–

“You remember when you proposed?” You whispered. 

The creases between Miguel's brows lifted and smoothed. “‘Course I remember.” He slid a careful arm around your waist and held you to his side. He kissed the top of your head and inhaled your scent. “You were coming home from a night shift.” 

He remembered it too clearly, actually. You, being exhausted and out of it, still suited up in your uniform when you came through the door with a yawn. 

Coffee, your other beloved, lured you to the kitchen where Miguel knew you'd find him. Though he hated not waking up beside you those mornings, he cherished the sleepy back hugs you'd greet him with while you both waited for the carafe to fill. 

“Mornin’,” you grumbled into his neck between small kisses. “Sleep good?” 

Miguel always leaned back into you and basked in the wander of your hands and the scent of cigarettes hiding in your words. It all meshed too well with the bitterness of coffee. “Woulda slept better with you here.” 

You hummed, crackly and apologetic. “Good thing that was my last night shift this block, hey? Get to wake up with you tomorrow.” Your fingertips dragged up the hem of shirt in your search to feel the dips and curves of his toned stomach. “And the next day, and the next day…”

Miguel turned in your arms to spy your drowsy smile. He cupped your face, running his thumbs along the bags under your eyes, before giving you a peck. “I think you need a nap, mi amor.” 

“No, no, ‘m fine. Promise. Just need a shower ‘n I'll be right as rain.” You took one of his hands in your own and turned to kiss his palm. “Wouldn’t be opposed to a mid-morning nap, though.” 

“Lucky for you, I'm getting back in bed after coffee's done.” Miguel kissed you again, purposely mooshing his nose against yours. “Go take a shower. I'll pour you a cup.” 

You hummed, accepting the offer, and very very reluctantly separated from your lover. “Just don't make mine too crazy sweet, alright?” 

Miguel huffed. “Tch. I don't even make it that sweet.” But you were already sauntering off to the ensuite, loud yawn punctuating your departure. “Pendejo.” 

The coffee maker beeped not too long after. Thoughts of what to do with the weekend swirled through Miguel's mind with the springy, disoriented bounce of ADHD while he made up both of your coffees, one just sorta sweet, and one just a little (a lot) sweeter. Honestly, Miguel was bad at making coffee to your taste. Too often he'd watch you stand at the coffee maker, measuring cream, sugar and coffee in your quest to achieve a perfect bitterness to sweetness ratio. 

But when Miguel made you coffee, you never complained. Simply requested it not be too sweet. And everytime Miguel handed you that cup, trepidation filling the childish part of his pride, you always declared it was perfect from the first sip. 

Perfect. Like you. Like his life. That's why he needed to–

“Honey,” you called, bringing your partner back to the present. He turned to you, eyebrows raising in interest at just how low the towel hung from your hips–until he saw the small box in your hand. That made his heart start pounding. 

Miguel crossed his arms and cleared his throat, trying to hide his sheer panic. “Where did you–”

“You forgot it in the bathroom. I think. Found it on the counter.” 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. He really forgot to put that stupid thing away. He really went all cliché romcom and rehearsed in front of the mirror and didn't put the fucking ring away. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was supposed to be a goddamn genius, and yet–

You opened the box because of course you would. Anyone with a shred of curiosity would. And you whistled in a way that only cowboys could. Back when you were both young, you whistled at Miguel like that when he walked by. Lyla said you weren't one to do that, that that was a first for you.

“Damn. This thing looks expensive.” You pulled the gold ring out and looked it over as Miguel came to you. The band was simple gold, yes, but inlaid was a diamond flanked by your birthstone and his, all shaped in a striking baguette cut. The piece was simple and masculine, something befitting you entirely. 

But you were too out of it to realize what the fuck it was you were holding. 

“Bet I could buy a farm with this.” 

Miguel had to laugh a bit at that. “Most people would say a house, you know.” 

“Farm's better. Comes with a house.” You snatched up his hand and examined his fingers, probably sizing up which one the ring–your ring--was supposed to fit on. “Either way, you’re gonna turn heads with a whole mortgage on your finger, I'll tell you what.” 

Miguel's chest warmed. Maybe because of your smooth way of talking, or maybe because you were too sweet and admiring of your partner. Miguel couldn't tell. But it was probably both. 

“On my finger?” He repeated as he plucked the ring from the box. His heart beat in his ears. His face burned. But it was now or never. “I think it'd look better on yours.” 

“What?” You asked, soft and confused, sorta like you'd realized what that ring meant halfway through. “Wait, wait–” 

“I was going to.” Miguel slid the fine gold band on your left ring finger. “But then you ruined the surprise.” 

There was something magical in that moment. Your hand in Miguel's, the sparkle of new promise shining on your finger, the glitter of crystals pooling in your eyes. And your eyes were so wide, like you didn't quite believe Miguel would want to marry someone like you, so he had to say it, if not for the cliché, movie finale:

“Will you marry m–” 

You kissed him before he could finish. Your arms flew around his neck as your weight hit him like a ton of bricks. But he caught you both and held you close, laughing against your lips as the ball of doubt unraveled as every whispered chant of ‘yes, yes, yes,’ touched his skin. 

Those days were good. They were simple. They were The start of everything Miguel could have dreamed of–and then he ruined it. 

“Still hard to believe you wanted me, sometimes,” you reminisced, looking down at the dull, chipped set of rings hugging your finger still.

“You're the only one,” he murmured into your hair. “Even when–even if I–no matter what. No matter what, it was always you. It'll always be you.” Then where's your ring, Miguel?

You hummed and sunk into your partner's warmth more, staying silent with your thoughts as you watched the dim flicker of the fire and the two others collapsed around it. “Try not to be so hard on Miles.” Ah. “He screwed up. But we need to keep morale up.” 

Miguel huffed. “So you only mentioned our–you just wanted me to stop thinking about today.” 

“I wanted you to relax, sweetheart.” God, that smile was so clear in your voice. 

“Tch. Pendejo. He deserves to be yelled at.” 

“By his father. At home. Where it's safe.” 

Most people he’d fucked around with in the past, be it in school or during his tenacious dating life, would stomp their feet and quit whatever club, sport, or job they’d joined just to get close to Miguel, just to get a shot with him. He couldn’t blame them. He saw himself as a pretty good-looking guy, a smart man, one that took care of himself and could turn on the charm without even trying; he got what he wanted more often than not, and that included the people who threw themselves at him. He always wondered why they thought they’d somehow cement themselves into his life after just one night. 

But then there was you. You, who still sat with Gabi when you had the time. You, who still helped her with her homework, who still listened to her long-winded rants about whatever movie she obsessed over that week, who still got the shy little thing to talk and smile and laugh. It made something weird and thick weigh down Miguel’s chest, like molasses found a way to suffocate him from the outside. Maybe you didn’t deserve to be fucked and forgotten like the rest. 

And he found you there, still, on a day where Gabi was busy with a playdate at the Parker’s household. Maybe this was the best chance he’d get to talk to you again. 

“Alone, huh?” Miguel asked before sitting across from you, a cup of coffee warming his hands. “Kinda sad.”

You sighed and looked out the window, filled to the brim with drama. “You’re tellin’ me. I got abandoned by a kid. This is worse than bein’ stood up, let me tell ya.” 

Yikes. Was what Miguel did the same as standing you up? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to think about it too much. 

"Right, right." Miguel cleared his throat and leaned in a little. "About the other night–" 

"What?" You asked, looking a little too dumb for your internship spot suddenly. 

"Halloween." Miguel looked at you meaningfully and your lips pursed slowly, just like the day he first saw you. Miguel gave a tight-lipped smile. 

You leaned back in your seat and crossed your arms. "I, uh, dunno if this is the right place to talk about that. Dunno if there is a right place to talk about that, if 'm bein' honest." 

"Let's talk in my office," Miguel said, not offering room for argument or questions as he stood and started walking. 

"Wh–now?" 

"Yes, now." 

–

Well, you were supposed to be talking, not blowing him under the desk. Thank god the department heads got their own private spaces. 

One of Miguel's big hands fisted in your hair, holding back your soft locks so he could get a good look at your face as it twisted in concentration. You took him too easily for how big he was, each languid dip of your head welcoming him down your tight, hot throat until–until–

"Mierda–" Miguel pushed your head down to his base, forcing your nose flush up against his well-trimmed hair and blushing skin. You groaned and gagged as he bucked into your mouth and unloaded thick, sticky strands of cum down your throat. You swallowed around him, doing your best to take it all down. 

A harsh bite from you had Miguel letting go and leaning back in his seat. He panted and rubbed his face, but his eyes snapped back to you as you took your time getting off of him. He expected you to pull off and make a mess while you snapped and scolded him, but you went slowly, not rushing. 

Your tongue worked him through the aftershocks, rubbing under his length and thoughtfully tracing the thick veins and sensitive muscle still pulsing from your pampering. Miguel's fingers carded through your hair again as he watched you work; your hand slipped up and gripped his base once enough was out of your mouth to hold. You ran your tongue around him once, twice, thrice, before sucking on that thick, darkened head for much longer than necessary. Maybe you just wanted to be thorough. Maybe you just couldn't get enough of him. 

"Gonna get me worked up again, 'f you keep doing shit like that," Miguel warned, something of an excited laugh fluttering through this soft panting. 

You took a second to swallow (Oh, God, you were torturing him) before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Do you want me to get you all worked up again, Doc?" 

That pesky hand around his shaft tightened before stroking him firmly and fully. Miguel sighed and melted into his chair. He could probably let you pamper him for hours, if his sex drive were to be trusted. Maybe he could–

"Kidding," you said with a mean wink. You kissed the tip of his cock before letting go and parking your ass on his desk. "So. About Halloween?" 

Miguel blinked away the whiplash and scrambled to tuck himself away. "I, uh–yeah. Halloween." He nodded to himself in thought, definitely remembering what he wanted to discuss. 

You stared at him, so expectant, before leaning in and resting your elbows on your knees. "N'awe, did I suck the brain cells right outta your pretty head, Doc?" You fake pouted, and Miguel scowled. 

And he blushed. Just a little. "I just–I was just–y'know what? Maybe you deserved it."

"Pft. I deserved what?" You asked, leaning back onto your palms then. “Bein’ hit then quit?” 

Miguel frowned. His brows drew together and his jaw set uncomfortably while he looked away. It seemed to make you a little uncomfortable by the way you moved to reach toward him before deciding against it. Your hand combed through your hair instead and you sighed, surrendering. 

“Look, I–if I seriously expected the royal treatment from a guy totin’ a wedding band on his pretty lil’ finger, I’d be a shockin’ moron, alright?" You sighed and rubbed your face with both hands. "I mean--it's just s'pposed to be sex, man. Sex ain't complicated like that." 

Miguel narrowed his eyes at you. "I’m–what are you–sex is complicated." His palms landed on your thighs as he leaned in. “You don’t actually think–”

"Sex is busting and moving on with life,” You interrupted sharply. You grew tense for a moment, but forced a relaxed laugh. “I'm kinda surprised you didn't get me fired, if I'm being real."  

The realization hit Miguel fast and hard, knocking the goddamn wind out of his stupid lungs--you were the type of guy left in the dust, the sort that shit heads like Miguel hit and quit, fucked and forgot. The sorry dregs of an exciting sex life filled with names he didn't care about and some he couldn't bother to remember. But Miguel knew your name. But did that even matter to you?

"But, uh…I should get goin', so. Yeah. Good talk." You made your move to shuffle off the desk, but Miguel's hands on your thighs didn't budge. "Oy, I gotta go, old man. You hard of hearing already? Should I call the nursing home or–" 

"Santa Muerte, do you ever stop talking?" Miguel sighed and shook his head. "I haven't said my piece yet, kid." 

You pursed your lips, probably holding back some cursed joke about giving him a blowie, and nodded. "Okay. Say your piece." 

"I will. And you're gonna shut up while I talk, got it?" 

"Got it." 

"Good." Miguel took a deep breath to calm the storm in his chest. "First of all, you've got the wrong idea about sex. It matters. Even if you're just sleeping around, it's because you're looking for that connection. It's a good thing. A beautiful thing. So, I don't want to hear you say all this shit about sex not mattering. Especially when you're talking about sex with me." He looked you up and down, and the fond feeling curled up his chest stretched and lazed like a cat sunbathing. "Got it?" 

You nodded, a vibrant dusting of red saturating your skin. That doe-eyed look was back on your face, just like the first time you'd hooked up with him in his office. He really did adore it. He maybe kinda adored you. 

"Good." He fidgeted with your slacks, pulling on the crisp material with busy fingers as he thought about sentence structure and syntax and connotation and–and– 

Just say it, Miguel. "I shouldn't have left you on Halloween." 

You laughed shyly. "I--what?" He watched you rub your cheek like you were trying to rid yourself of the scarlet blush staining your skin. Miguel had to admit, your reactions were doing wonders for his ego. 

"I said," He started, leaning in a little, lowering his voice. "I shouldn't have left you on Halloween." After a pause, a beat to get you to say something, he continued, "I'm sorry, alright? It's not happening again." 

Another laugh (more like a giggle) bubbled out of you, just as nervous and shy as the last. Your hands fussed with your hair and your tie, your lab coat and your cuffs, until your nerves calmed a bit, the slow circles rubbed into your thighs helping to ease you down from hysteria. It was embarrassing. You were embarrassed. But you were happy.

"Y-yeah, alright. Cool. Neat." You coughed. "Awesome. Uh, I just–you–I have to–" and you leaned down, almost tumbling off the desk, and kissed him. 

Miguel hummed deep in his chest–a heartfelt welcome to your needs and wants. His chair shifted slightly as you haphazardly slipped off the desk and into his lap, expertly never breaking the kiss, and getting comfortable; your arms looped around his shoulders, your hands fisted and carded through his hair, your thighs rested on either side of his slim waist. 

“You’re shockin’ hot when you’re bein’ nice t’ me,” you mumbled against his lips, maybe a bit into his mouth. “But in that, y’know, authoritative dad kinda way.” Your breath stuttered when a mischievous hand slipped into your slacks and cupped your toned ass with a firm squeeze. 

Miguel smirked. “Daddy issues, huh?” Your small scoff and the firm tug of his hair answered him. His smirk warped into a grin. “Want me to scold you more, huh? You get off on that?” 

“You keep talkin’ shit and I’m calling you papi in public, dickhead,” you mumbled as you fumbled with the zipper of his pants. You paused though, and looked up in thought. “But you could help me with my taxes. That’d be really sexy of you.” 

Miguel blinked stupidly for a moment before chuckling and shaking his head. “Why am I not surprised you’re shit at taxes?” God, you were cute. 

“Hey, hey, I’m not shit at them, I just hate them.” You shrugged before very casually slipping his hard-on out of his pants and giving it a few preparatory strokes. “Could use some tips.”

“Or an accountant,” Miguel offered. It was your turn to blink dumbly. “You think I handle my own money? I pay someone to do it.” 

“Huh. You’re seriously in a different tax bracket.” You squeaked when Miguel somehow managed to rip down your slacks down to your mid-thigh. “Hey–” 

“I’ll buy you a new pair.” He helped the pants off of you while you half-stood to get the damn things off, letting them hang off one leg in your haste to get the party started. “And I’ll get my accountant to take care of your taxes.” 

That had you beaming. “I think we’re entering sugar daddy territory, Doc.” You grinned between the sweet kisses you dotted along his jawline. Miguel felt the barest scraping of teeth against his skin, and his cock swelled more. What he wouldn’t give to let you bite and marr him as you wanted. 

But he couldn’t, not with Dana’s skeptical eyes and Gabi’s naive glances watching him from every angle. 

“It’s our little secret,” Miguel whispered with a kiss left against your cheek. 

Your lips found his again, letting your  impish smile sear his skin with sanguine intent, like a contract signed with the devil. 

That didn't change when the tours came through. Actually, between his wife pushing his buttons and the young, bright-eyed scientists eyeing him over, everything just pissed him off more, shortened the limit exponentially. 

And he saw you there, listening to someone with a better temper talk. You didn't look all too impressed. You were maybe a little bored, actually. Your eyes swept across the room in wide arcs, looking for something interesting to land on. That was a feeling Miguel could relate to all too well. 

But your eyes eventually landed on him, somehow. You pursed your lips slowly, like it'd make too much noise otherwise, while your cheeks lifted in amusement. You glanced back to the speaker and back to Miguel, eyebrows gesturing too perfectly: get a load of this guy, eh? 

Miguel's expressionless mask slipped for a moment, and he twitched a smirk. He shook his head and looked back to his work. 

He did, however, glance at you on your way out. You didn't look back at him. 

–

He and Dana agreed to separate. It'd be a momentary thing, a way to work out the kinks in their marriage without more random accusations and hurtful words being thrown at each other on the daily. Miguel didn't want that. He didn't want Gabi to be subject to it, most of all. 

The separation calmed things down quite a bit, down to the point where Miguel wondered why they were arguing so much in the first place; until Dana did a very Dana thing and decided, for some reason, she couldn't take care of Gabi by herself while they were separated. Probably a ploy to get them back together under the same roof. Probably a scheme to manipulate the situation. 

But Miguel could play hardball, too. 

He'd pick Gabi up every day after school, and take her to the lab, but sequestered off in the cafeteria where a security guard was always present. She'd get to snack, she'd do her homework, and Miguel could work knowing she was safe. Not ideal, and maybe a little lonely for her, but easy. 

Checking up on her was another good excuse to walk away from his work, too. And one of the times he passed by, in desperate need of a cup of coffee and boost from his little girl's warm smile, he saw someone sitting with her. 

He watched for a moment as he stirred his coffee. Then, he realized it was you, that random intern from the tour a few months back. You were sat across from her, munching on whatever your late lunch was, and nodding emphatically to whatever his little girl was going on about. Her arms gestured wide and her giggle resonated brightly in the room, drawing some annoyed glances and cooing comments, but you didn't miss a beat, matching her laughter and big gestures. It was nice. 

Miguel's shoulders relaxed a little for once. 

He saw you there more days than not. And the days you weren't there, he often spied Gabi looking around, no doubt wondering where you were. It hurt his heart a bit to see her pout, truth be told, and he started to realize he should probably get to know you if you were inadvertently babysitting his kid. 

So, the next time he found you there, he walked over. 

You were beside her this time, both hunched over her usual tablet full of homework. You were the one gesturing wildly this time, talking too much with your hands as you explained fractions and common denominations and the sort in a way that truly only kids could tolerate and understand. Miguel had to put an end to it if he wanted to talk with you. 

"So, for this one, the little bitch on the bottom is–" 

"Sorry, 'little bitch'?" Miguel interjected, smirking when you jumped and Gabi gasped in delight. "Don't think that's proper terminology. Just a hunch." 

"Daddy!" Gabi called, happily turning in her seat to hug her father. Miguel's mean smile softened into something kinder and gentler.

"Hey, mija. Doing your homework, huh?" He asked as he brushed back his girl's hair. "He's not giving you all the answers, is he?" 

You balked before interrupting yourself. "Woah, hey, no, no, no, I'm makin' her do the stuff 'n the things, don’t worry 'bout it." Woah. Okay. That was a heavy Nueva York accent. Not what Miguel expected. 

"Yeah! I'm doing all the work! Mr.(Name)'s just helping when I get stuck 'n stuff!" Gabi's brows knitted together in concern. "Don't get mad at him!" 

"Yeah, don't get mad at me, Doc–she’s a smart kid, she don’t even need me to do this stuff for her, y’know?” 

“Well, I already knew that.” Miguel smirked as you huffed. He sat down on the other side of Gabriella and peered across her tablet at you. “You’re an intern, right? You were at the–”

“The tour, yeah.” You nodded a bit and propped your elbow up on the table before resting your cheek against your palm to watch Gabi solve her equations. “Saw you, too. You looked pretty pissed.”

“Intern day isn’t my favourite day,” Miguel offered with an unbothered shrug. 

“Yeah, I figured. You looked like you wanted to light ‘em on fire." 

"I could've, but then I'd be out a free part-time babysitter."

You laughed lightly, and Miguel caught the charming dip of dimples light up your face. "Oh, so that's how it is, huh? Guess I ain't mad at that. Gabi's a good kid, reminds me of my niece." 

Miguel raised his brows a bit. A niece. "Huh. Guess that explains a lot." 

"Dunno what you mean by that, but I'm gonna hope it's a good thing." 

Miguel smiled a bit. "It's a good thing." 

You smiled, too, though a bit more smug and proud. "Yeah? Good." You glanced up at the clock on the wall and sighed, the cute tilt to your lips suddenly vanishing. 

Gabi caught on and sent a powerful pout your way. "Already?" 

"Yeah, sorry, chica. Gotta get back to work." You stood up and offered your hand to Miguel. "Didn't introduce myself. I'm (Name)." 

Hm. Miguel liked how that sounded. 

"Miguel. Miguel O'hara." But you probably already knew that, though you had the decency not to point it out. 

"Nice to meetcha, Doc." 

You shook his hand and ruffled up Gabi's hair before seeing yourself out, a sudden haste in your scrambling steps as you checked the time again. Hah. You must've been late for something. 

"He's nice," Gabi said. Miguel's eyes fell back to her. 

"You think so?" He's not bad-looking, either. "You're okay with him? You feel safe?" 

"Ah-huh, ah-huh. He's not mean." Her big brown eyes sparkled up at Miguel, then. "I like 'im! Are you gonna be friends with him?" 

Miguel glanced back your way, surprised to see you standing by the elevators and glancing back at him. You looked away when you got caught, but turned back again with a little wave, like you’d realized turning away looked awkward and suspicious and had to rectify it. 

A light smirk tugged at Miguel’s lips. “Yeah, maybe.”

–

It started with chatting at lunch. Then, it turned into light touches on the shoulder and your thieving hands plucking whatever sort of drink or snack Miguel held in tired hands. And then, well, it just got worse. 

Miguel growled into your ear as he held you pinned against the wall, his hips slamming up against yours, driving himself deep into your core. To your credit, you held your voice well, only letting the slightest peeps and squeaks out when the older man happened to hit your soft spot in his wild momentum. It’s not that it would’ve mattered, though; the Halloween party’s music blared too loudly in the cafeteria for anyone to hear you getting fucked braindead in Miguel’s office. 

“Mmmmnnn–Doc, wait, wait, ow, ow, ow–” Your thighs constricted around his waist in a panic as you hissed and dug your blunt nails into his massive shoulders. 

Miguel paused his cruel tempo and finally took a second to breathe. “I–what? You okay?” He asked, brushing some of your messy hair from your face. The corner of his mouth quirked with amusement as he was reminded of the dried fake blood trailing down your mouth, and the glue-on fangs you had set to your canines. You looked quite cute as a fucked-out vampire intern, he had to admit. 

You nodded weakly as you panted. “Y-Yeah, ‘m good, you’re good.” You tilted your head back and bonked it on the wall behind you, no doubt influenced by the alcohol in your veins. “This wall sucks. Hurts my back.” 

Ah. Miguel probably shouldn’t care. This was just a fling, some stress-relief from his frustrating marriage.

But he was too weak, apparently. “Tch. Picky,” Miguel scolded into your ear before pulling you off the wall. 

“Picky?” You repeated, clinging to him desperately. 

“Incredibly picky.” He walked a few steps, carrying you with his cock still buried deep inside of you, and rested you on his pristine desk instead. “Better?” 

You sighed and pulled your shirt down more while you both got situated. “Yuh-huh.” You looked at him with that infuriating, lazy smile and wriggled your hips against him. “Continue.” 

Miguel’s eye twitched. He couldn’t help but feel like he was accidentally subservient to you for that split second. He was supposed to be in control, not you. 

“Smug brat,” Miguel scoffed before hoisting your legs over his shoulders and pistoning into you cruelly. 

His core ached with want as you arched beautifully off his desk, and through the buzz of booze, he admired you; your own heavy cock wept against your stomach as your diaphragm stuttered with each needy dive into your messy heat. Your face flushed a captivating crimson while your eyes fluttered and shone with unspent tears clinging to your lash line. Then, your stupid costume teeth bit into your lower lip as your voice started to break free from its restraints and pushed by your bobbing Adam’s apple, letting new whimpers and clipped moans fill his office. 

“Doc,” you whined, screwing your eyes closed and fisting your hand around your length. “Doc–” 

Oh. Oh no. You were cute. Really cute in the way you started letting out bubbling praise and babbled wants, in the way your free hand clawed at his arm to just touch him and hold him while your high threatened to push you off the edge and into that endless spiral. Miguel hadn’t felt this wanted in a long, long time. He hadn’t been showered in praise, told how good he was, given someone’s full attention for even longer. 

He couldn’t remember the first time he came first, either. 

Because he did, with his teeth clenching, his thrusts breaking down into something erratic and out of tempo, he spilled inside of you. Electricity pulsed through every synapse of his nerves, bringing a wash of cool, prickling energy to his palms and curling fingers as he gripped on you harder, tighter, jamming himself inside of you with a reckless abandon. 

“D-Did you–?” You asked. Miguel caught your gaze, and another gush emptied out of him–your eyes, wide and doe-like in surprised amazement, were too captivating, too endearing. And when you realized that, yes, you’d made him cum first, you were quick to reach the same peak. 

Miguel was the one to moan this time. Your body clenched down around him in desperation to hold him still while your own white-hot bliss ripped through you. Pearly strands of white roped across your trembling hand and your stomach, one after the other, until there was nothing left to give. But with a sharp slap to your ass, Miguel found there was just a little more you could both give. 

“Good boy,” Miguel mumbled, voice thick and full where it trilled. He gave you another good spank. “Good boy.” 

Miguel slowed his hips gradually, slowly catching his breath in tandem with your wild panting as the afterglow stayed where the too-hot sear faded. His nerves relaxed with his body. His mind soon followed suit, too, which was a problem and a relief; a problem because he didn’t feel a shred of guilt, but relief in the realization of how simple this exchange was. Just sex. With someone he could tolerate.

“Shit,” you breathed. You glanced down at the mess you’d become, and grimaced. “C-Can a good boy get a, uh, a tissue or, like, five?” 

Miguel rolled his eyes. He popped open one of the drawers to his desk and pulled out a tissue box and set it beside you before, like the bastard he was, he pulled out of you without warning and watched your hole clench around nothing before glossy whiteness oozed out of you. He ignored your sharp complaints in favour of enjoying the show and meanly stuffing his cum back into you before, for a third time, giving you a slap on the rear like you were a good ol’ used truck. 

Miguel snatched the first tissue to clean himself up and tossed it away, tucking himself back into his pants and straightening his clothes out like nothing happened, before turning and walking away. 

“Hey, wh–seriously?!” You cried (or whined, or complained) at his back. 

Miguel smirked to himself before calling over his shoulder, “Make sure you clean my desk up, too. I’ll get you kicked out of the program if it’s not in perfect condition tomorrow morning.” 

But he almost crumbled under your sweet, cooing pleas for him to come back, to stay a little longer, but thankfully, a whirlwind of petty insults were thrown at his back when he reached the door. And he found the strength to keep going, to subject you to his little game. 

Miguel rolled his eyes as his best friend's girl kissed her man, and stole away Miguel's chance of learning just who the alt weirdo lounging on the couch was. Christ, people in love were so fucking annoying. 

"Why, what's his baggage? Drug dealer? Academic dishonesty?" Miguel took a deep drink from the red solo cup and grimaced. "Fuck, what the hell is in this?" 

Sebastian let his girlfriend kiss his neck as he finally gave Miguel an answer. "That's my little brother, dipshit. You remember (Name)? I've only mentioned him like a thousand billion times." 

"Huh." Miguel sipped his beer this time. 

(Name). 

Yeah. Through the haze of booze and the boom of the bass, Miguel did recognize that name. He didn't know you had such a pretty face, though. 

Seb smacked his friend's shoulder. "He's sooo off-limits, dude, so off-limits." 

Miguel scoffed, brandishing an arrogant smirk on his handsome face. "Says who?" 

"Says me, you fucking whore–you're not going to stick your horse dick in my baby brother, you got that?" And he sounded serious, but Miguel didn't really care much. "Hey, hey, if you fuck him, I'm gonna rip your cock off and shove it up your ass and then light you on fire, Miguel. I'm so fucking serious."

"Baby," Seb's girl cooed, "why don't we go wind down a little, huh? I think you need to lay down and cool off." 

"Yeah, go lay down, Sebby," Miguel chided.

"I–but I–okay, I'm gonna go do a 'lil nappy nap," he started, letting his girl drag him away from his arch nemesis, "but when I come back, you better've not cum in my brother, you hear me, O'hara?" 

"Bye bye, sweet dreams," Miguel called instead of answering. He downed the cursed solo drink as soon as Sebastian was spirited away and made his way over to you. 

Miguel more or less brute forced his spot on the couch next to you, pushing between you and some other guy that was getting too handsy with his prey. The other guy threw half-assed complaints and curses at Miguel, but one simple condescending glance had him backing off. Hah. So weak. 

"Woah, you really just–just made a spot for yourself, hey?" You said, earning his attention back. "Kinda hot. Really hot. You're hot." 

Miguel smirked as he looked you over. He liked the sound of your voice, and the lazy, relaxed gaze you met him with. Normally, he didn't go for the softcore scene type, but the black nails suited you, as did the ring showcasing your septum. 

"Couldn't ignore a damsel in distress," Miguel leaned in to say before he slipped his arm along the back of the couch. "I'm Miguel. Miguel O'hara." 

"Cool. You fuck guys?" You licked your lips and, oh god, was that the gleam of a tongue stud he saw?

Excitement bubbled in Miguel's gut. "Straight to the point, huh? I like that." He finished off his beer and set the can down to focus on you. "I fuck anyone with a pretty face."

"Oh. Wow. Damn." He watched your leisurely fingers touch all up and down his body. The firm pushes and soft pinches were left in the right places, like you'd done this before to other men. Miguel figured he was probably the best specimen you'd ever laid eyes on.

And then you kissed him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, it did feel natural, like you'd been dating for years and had done this a million times before, but still drowned in the excitement of one another. 

Miguel anchored one hand to your waist while the other freely travelled from your shoulder to your neck to the side of your face. He jolted when your fidgety hand slid down to his clothed cock and gave a hearty squeeze. Damn, you really were straight to the point. 

But the way you kissed was another story--you took your time, licking deep into his mouth and prodding behind every tooth to commit Miguel's mouth to memory. You made the sweetest noises, too, reacting to however Miguel decided to taste along the top of your mouth, how he bit your tongue lightly to stop it from leaving him. It'd been so long since Miguel had a partner like you. 

"Let's take this somewhere else," Miguel whispered into your skin while his hands started to wander to your hips, your waist, your legs. "Unless you're an exhibitionist freak." 

"Woooah, you'd fuck me right here if I wanted? And they say chivalry is dead." Miguel laughed something genuine, only cutting off when you kissed him. "But no, no, I like gettin' messy in privacy." 

"Then let's get messy."

Miguel picked you up and hoisted you over his shoulder. The choked half-laugh, half-squawk you let out earned you a sharp slap on the ass as he stole you away to eat you whole, like a jaguar dragging its kill up into a tree for a little privacy. 

He could navigate Lyla's house easily, expertly dodging the flailing limbs and spilling drinks of party-goers as he searched for somewhere quiet to take his prize. But every room he checked had its own lust-crazed college students busy fucking or about to get things started. 

You piped up from your spot on Miguel's shoulder, though, suggesting the perfect place to fuck: your truck. 

"Pretty big," Miguel commented as you both rushed to fold down the back seats to make more room for playtime. 

"Mmmn, I like big." You slammed the boot closed before shuffling back to him. "Bigger is better." 

Miguel grinned wolfishly before pinning you down. "Glad you understand." 

You helped him pull everything off of you from the waist down before you yanked him back in for another sloppy, drunken kiss. His hands, broad and calloused from years of lifting weights, felt up every inch of exposed skin, from your waist, to your thighs, to the powerful curve of your calves, and back up again. Admittedly, he didn't expect you to be in-shape. You weren't built like your brother, a buff, tall meathead; you were built more like a runner: slim, toned, agile.

"Wait, wait, wait," you gasped when Miguel's kisses started migrating lower and lower. The man looked up at you, brow quirked, impatience tugging down the corner of his mouth. "I wanna–" 

"Nope," Miguel cut in.

"Whaaat? I just–'M not allowed to feel you up–? I wanna see your muscles," you whined.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Don't care."

Miguel ignored your drunken complaints while he focused on getting you prepped and ready for his own satisfaction. Sure, he liked letting his prizes fawn over him, obsess over his muscles and leave feverish touches on his tawny skin, but time was of the essence; who knew when your brother would roll up and ruin things? 

He leaned back up and stuck his fingers into your mouth for a few, rude thrusts before yanking them out and easing your legs open so–oh. 

A twinkling, pink, heart-cut gem winked at him in greeting, and a jolt of excitement went straight to Miguel's straining cock. He swallowed as he watched it flicker and gleam with every little shift of your impatient hips. Part of him wanted to leave it in. But the worse side of him wanted to yank it out, and give it something to hold in. 

"What's this?" He asked, patronizingly as he gave the plug a bit of a tug. "Guess you are a freak, huh?" Miguel asked in a rich, smokey tone. 

But instead of getting embarrassed and shrinking away like he expected, you just wiggled your ass tauntingly. 

"'S a buttplug," you said matter-of-factly. "Wanted to get laid t'night." You reached your mischievous hand down between your legs and drummed two fingers against the crystalline base. "Stuffed lube in first. Makes hookin' up fast 'n easy," you explained as you gripped the heart and started to tease the plug free. Miguel's hand caught your wrist before you could get very far. 

"And people call me a degenerate," he laughed. Miguel pulled your hand away and took over, watching with rapt attention as the silvered metal plug started to emerge. "But you're just…somethin' else." 

You mewled softly and your thighs tensed the slightest bit when the plug slipped out before a generous amount of lube oozed from your emptied hole. Miguel eagerly scooped it up with his fingers and pushed it back inside. Knowing him and his size, he'd need every last drop. 

"People call you a degenerate?" You said through a snorted laugh. "Why? You're like–you're so–" you gasped in the same way a 90's horror final girl would when you caught sight of The Thing being pulled from Miguel's pants, "--b-big. Wow. Big. Can I take a pic?" 

"What? What do you–can you–no, Christ." He sighed as he stroked himself with your slick and didn't waste much time with foreplay or warming up before mounting you again. "Think you might be worse than me after all, you know that?" 

"Probably am." You squirmed a little under his body as he caged you in, his thick arms bracing on either side of your head, and his hard, heavy chest looming above you as he got his massive frame comfortable in the trunk of your truck. It was insane to think that, even with the seats down and nothing in the way, Miguel still almost didn't fit. Part of you kind of thought he might weigh more than the car, too. Hm. 

But finally, finally, Miguel dragged the hot tip of his cock against your soft, pliant entrance before jamming himself inside with a blissed-out sigh. 

"Fuck," he breathed before pulling out the slightest bit and pressing in deeper again, and again, and again, until he bottomed out. His nerves flared when your hand slipped down to your own weeping length and stroked yourself, selfishly chasing your high with no regard for Miguel. 

He scoffed, and bitterly refused to hold back. The pace started off brutal and fast, Miguel using you the same way you were using him. Annoyance fuelled his tempo. He didn't know why your lack of giving a shit aggravated him, but it did. And he didn't like it. 

But when he finally got a breathy, thin gasp out of you, he smirked. 

"Oh? Finally something out of you. Tch." He folded you in half and hiked your legs over his solid shoulders to drill into you harder. Another small sigh fuelled his ego. "You like that, huh? You like being bent up, outta sorts, fucked by a stranger at a party, huh? That get you off?" 

The ladies always crumpled under his heinous words and dirty talking; their expressions warped into something pathetic and embarrassed, they'd make the worst discount pornstar noises, or they'd cum right on the spot. It was a great thing, a beautiful thing, something that Miguel prided himself with quite a bit. 

So why were you shaking with bottled laughter? 

Miguel's eye twitched. "What's so funny?" 

"Y-you just–you talk like you watch too much porn–! I'm just s-saying, man, this is kinda wild." A confusing mix of laughs and gasps punched out of your lungs as your back started to arch. "I-It's making it hard to cum–" 

"Shut up, just shut up–you're making me regret this," Miguel bit out, trying to hasten his pace to finish up and leave you in the dust. "I didn't know you were so fucking annoying." 

You moaned sweetly as he nailed that sweet spot of yours perfectly, before never hitting it again. "Awe, boo hoo, gonna cry 'cause I think your dirty talk's cringe? Life is sooo hard–" you squeaked as he pulled back and out abruptly. Your legs clattered to the ground and you barked out another hyena laugh as Miguel moved to tuck himself away with the most unreal sour expression you'd ever seen. 

"Hey, hey, hey, don't give up," you cooed. "Come on, you know you wanna finish the job. I'm so submissive." 

"I fucking can't with that fucking annoying fucking mouth of yours," Miguel grumbled before spitting bars of Spanish at you. 

Feeling a rush of energy, you tackled him as well as you could in your truck, and managed to wrestle that hulk onto his back. He was glaring at you when you finally managed to straddle him, but in a sort of embarrassed-mad way, not a real pissed off look. Still, you had to test the waters. 

"Off," Miguel said. 

"Woah, woah, woah, I can do the whole dirty talk thing if you want," you bartered. 

"No. Off." 

"Come on," you whined before leaning down to his ear and dropping your voice down into a dripping dark chocolate, "you're such a good boy, Miguel, let me treat you right." 

And with a greedy little wriggle of your hips against his stiffy, Miguel was doomed. 

"Fucking–fine, you little–" but he couldn't finish that thought, not when he suddenly found himself plunged back into your tight heat. 

"Bah, come on," you prodded as you rocked your hips at a selfish, primal pace. "Say it if it gets you off." 

With a mind of their own, Miguel's hips jolted up to meet your downwards momentum, and a near animalistic cry hoarsely tore through your throat. And once again, Miguel couldn't help the jerk of his pelvis grinding up against you–you were proving to be too much. 

"Fuck," you gasped. You stroked yourself again, now faster and with the broken tempo of your chaotic coupling. "You like being dominated? That it? Told what to do 'n then get some praise for being so, so good?" The laugh you let out could only be labelled evil. "Mmmn, that's hot." 

But Miguel couldn't speak, not through his mind blanking bright white every time your bodies crashed together. Even when he tried to speak, only gasps and pathetic moans and pleas slipped out of him, suddenly begging you to fuck him harder, to make him finish, to let him cum inside of you and mark you as taken for the night. Reality felt so far away and numb, even when he knocked his head against the ground as he came.

You felt his nails bite your sides as liquid heat filled in the space where Miguel couldn't reach. Miguel's teeth clenched together with an audible clack as you laughed at him, riding him for all he was worth, using him past the point of over stimulation without a care in the world. 

"Shit," you moaned quietly, then chanted it over and over, breathing faster and harder as you pushed yourself towards the edge. But you were a little shit, so of course you scrambled to push up Miguel's shirt just before you finished, just in time to streak sticky white webs of cum onto those well-defined abs of his. 

Miguel finally caught a break. He held you in a vice grip, not trusting you to behave while you both calmed down and fought to steady your breathing. Your fingers trailed across his stomach and abdomen, tracing the dips and curves of hardwork and dedication, and also smearing trails of your spend on him. 

"I've decided. I hate you. So, so much," Miguel said. He let his eyes fall closed again as he accepted his fate. 

You laughed, more amused and playful than mean and mocking this time, and drummed your fingers against his sticky skin. "Yeah. Fair. Kudos to you for being a good sport, though." You paused for a moment. "Wanna get high?" 

"Yes." 

Shockingly, you were quite good with the aftercare; you took it upon yourself to clean the both of you up with a plethora of wet wipes, paying special attention to the mess you'd made on Miguel's stomach and leaving no trace behind on him. As for yourself, you stuffed the silver plug back into your ass and called it a day, only really needing to clean up any sin that'd escaped your insides. 

You both more or less got dressed, and then you hit the vape. Miguel wasn't a stranger to Mary J, but he didn't often vape. He was used to messy blunts rolled by idiots like your brother, but admittedly, he kind of liked this more. 

"It's not bad," Miguel remarked as he examined the silvery pen. "Lot less…y’know." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get what you mean." You stretched languidly across Miguel's lap, and plucked the pen from his fingers. You took a deep, lazy drag while your newfound friend exhaled a cloud of vapor. "Smoke works better for hot boxing, though. Blunts do, I mean." 

Miguel hummed, lost in the haze of his thoughts, warmed by the buzzing in the back of his skull and your weight across his lap. His fingertips dipped beneath your clothes, absent-mindedly seeking comfort in the heat of your body in his lap. His broad palm pressed flat against your stomach, and you rested your smaller hand over his. 

"You think the, uh, the chick who owns this place is gonna freak if I crash here?" You asked before crafting a few smoke rings. "'M toootally fucked up. Driving's a no-no." 

"Lyla won't care," Miguel said with a yawn. "She's a witch, but not a psycho bitch." 

"Hah. You know her?" 

"She's basically my sister. Unfortunately." Miguel huffed and shook his head.

"Oh, cool, cool. She's fire. Like her. Really chill, but in, like, a smart way," you rambled. 

"Pretty good way to put it." Miguel smiled. 

"Yeah? Yeah. I'm kinda smart sometimes, too. Not super smart, but, y'know, selectively smart." You nodded and stretched again with a yawn. "That's how I bag hot guys. Like you, I guess. But this was more fun. You're more fun 'n a better sport than most guys I mess with." 

Miguel stared at the foggy windows. Fun. That's what he was thinking, too. He never had the chance to smoke a joint or indulge in aftercare with most of his one night stands, but it's not like he'd gone out of his way to make that happen, either. He'd never really had a partner mock him either, though. You were kinda weird. But in a good, fun way. 

"Yeah. I had fun," Miguel admitted. When his eyes slid back to you, you were grinning, and a sweet dusting of strawberry powder lit up your soft cheeks. Miguel couldn't help his own smile. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

"Oh. Cool, cool." 

"Wanna go out with me?" The question caught Miguel by surprise, too. He didn't really commit to people. He didn't really become exclusive with people. But hey, people changed. 

You fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "Mmn, what's in it for me?" 

"Bragging rights." Miguel smirked. "You know how many people want me?" 

"Hmm." 

He huffed, now, your skepticism doing a number on his ego. "I–well what do–you'd get dick, big dick, get chauffeured around, I'd pay for dates–" 

"Would you go see a musical with me if I asked?" 

Ah. The ultimate test. 

"...Yes." 

"'Kay. We're gonna go see Grease tomorrow night–uh, tonight. Technically." 

A grin split Miguel's face and ached his cheeks. "Alright." 

You smiled back. "Alright." 

"Just don't tell your brother."