l0s3r!!

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『••✎••』

Let me be clear on what i stand for, fuck the police, kill them niggas in ICE, fuck that orange fat snaggertooth bowling ball built ass bitch, FUCK AI, free the people of Congo, Sundan, AFRICA AS A CONTINENT, Palestine, and death to America nigga.

Welcome to Death Row.

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Main Blog: @/rig-bee ⚅ Divider Credit: @/dividers-are-us ⚅ Recourses to help out communities in need here— X

Spin The Bottle!

“I c-cant. I can’t lose  you too.”

Pairings: CollegeNerd!Miguel O’Hara x Popular!AFAB!Black!OC

Content Warnings: angst, substance use, mentions of dirty rooms, mentions of gross hygiene (It’s Jason nasty ass), description of injuries, alcohol abuse, Miguel is a lightweight, Drunk!Miguel (he’s kind of an asshole at first), arguing, Miguel gets pathetic, confessions, Bee plays nurse a little 

Summary:After the meeting with his father, Miguel makes it his mission to find comfort in the two things that could only make him happy in a time like this. Bee’s healing touch, and a cold case of beer to make all the pain go away.

A/N: i dont really know what to say so uhhhhhh thanks for listening to my mixtape 

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September 19th, 20XX. 2177 Everlene Ave, 3:45PM. Earth-05213.

The last time Bee had heard from their now-boyfriend Miguel was right before he hung up in their face earlier that morning, getting himself ready to face the sudden meeting his father had called him to. Once the familiar tone of the dial responded to their confused questions on why he seemed so fidgety over the phone, Bee tried their best to enjoy the small break they had given themselves from the stress of their usual routine. But throughout their so called ‘day-off’—which they quickly realized was a horrible idea after getting multiple emails of confusion from their fairly unhappy professors—they couldn’t get the idea of Miguel and his safety off of their mind. How was he doing? Was he okay? What had happened between the time they had talked until now?

A majority of their day had been spent overthinking every possible scenario, imagining the multitude of ways Miguel would need help, assistance, backup, right before Jason had so kindly humbled them with his annoying presence. Still cooped up in the spare guest bedroom, Bee had been scrolling across multiple social media platforms, and even the official Sigma Chi school page, to see of anyone had heard or seen anything. Something to show them that no, they weren’t crazy, and Miguel was indeed in danger. Or something. But Jason had the perfect remedy to their anxious overthinking, with the right amount of grams.

The two sat in Jason’s stuffy little bedroom, one of the smallest rooms in the house that had been built like an awkward hallway more than anything. When Bee first walked through the house with JJ before he signed the lease, they had confused it for a supply closet upon their initial inspection. Fast forward to now, it was occupied with an old twin XL bed and even older sheets, the opposing wall from the bed frame being decorated with a plethora of shelved pristine Italian records from the late thirties all the way to the sixties. A single light bulb hung above their head, keeping the space ‘nice, dark, and gloomy’, as Jason so liked to say.

And dirty. With one of the smallest rooms, it’s also somehow the messiest. Piles of dirty clothes stuffed under his bed, notebooks and papers with old assignment due weeks ago stacked high on his desk, the familiar stunk of man and loud weed wafted into Bee’s nose like a perfume. “Ugh,” They grunted in displeasure, throwing one thick thigh over the other as their rounded face scrunched up in disgust. “It’s so dirty in here.”

Jason had his back turned away from Bee, the front of his body facing his messy and cramped desk with a laser focus. “You always say that.” He said with a swift eyeroll, and yet even with the tips of his fingernails painstakingly tearing apart little buds of euphoria in order to get just the right weight, he still managed to feel that silent judgmental look Bee had inherited from their stupid brother burning into the back of his skull. The same one JJ had whenever Jason forgot to flush the toilet in their shared upstairs bathroom, or when he left his shoe mark tracks throughout the house. “…Am I that—“

“Yes.” Bee quickly said, giving him a sharp nod of their head. “I tell you this all the time, yes, the answer is yes. And this better be good shit, Jay.” They lowly threatened, leaning back in his bed like they owned it. “Otherwise, it’s me and you.”

The empty threat made him laugh, his bare, pale shoulders bouncing up and down with each crooked chuckle. “You ain’t gonna do shit.” Jason returned with a taunt, looking over back at the disappointed beau sitting on his bed with an elated smile. “Nerves got you that bad, huh?”

Nerves. Anxiety. Feeling ants crawling all over their skin, how were they supposed to feel? “He hasn’t texted me.” Bee began softly, only to be met with a dramatic, drawn-out and overly sarcastic groan. “Jay!”

The upset shriek of his name only made Jason laugh harder, fully turning his shoulders to face Bee with another nonchalant shrug. “What?” He said, crossing his lean arms over his bare chest. The basketball shorts he wore hung low on his hips, the top line of his Calvin Klein boxers just barely showing. “Whaddya want me to do?”

“Uhm, for one, put some clothes on.” Bee suggested as their body jerked upwards, flickering their eyes down to his choice of attire before looking back into his mischievous brown eyes. “And second, not laugh at me? I really like him, okay!” Another groan, another defense. “And I don’t laugh at you for liking people, like when you told me you like Korah!”

Korah Zao was a new student who transferred from her hometown in Japan to attend at NYAPU as a sophomore, and due to her shared love with Bee over traditional Japanese folklore artwork, the two became fast friends. Which then, integrated her into Bee’s circle. Subsequently, introducing her to JJ.

And, Jason.

The mention of his obvious crush’s name forced the apples of Jason’s cheeks to blush with a pink tint, his plucked brows quickly furrowing in irritation at the low blow. “Oh, great, now we’re talkin’ ‘bout Korah.”  He scoffed, rolling his eyes while he snapped back to his original task—finishing the roll of the blunt. “Fantastic.”

“Oh my god, you are so dramatic.” Bee judged, rolling their eyes with a dramatic groan of their own. “Nevermind Korah. Focus on what I’m saying, Jay.” They urged, leaning back down into the sheets with a sigh. “I don’t care if I sound crazy, something doesn’t feel right—“

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

The sharp sound of three distinctive knocks pounded at the front door in the middle of Bee’s sentence, the loud taps ringing throughout the home like a death toll. The sheer volume forced Bee to jump up from their relaxed position, and Jason to drop his now-finished blunt back onto the shitty wood of his desk. A moment passed between the two before they quickly exchanged a mirroring look of concern, like a shared understanding of what was to come. Knocks like that only meant two things—Police, or company that usually wanted nothing but trouble.

So, trouble either way.

“What did you do?” Bee whispered with a hiss, slamming their first into his creaky mattress like a disappointed parent. “Goddammit, Jay! This is the fourth time this semester!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jason whispered back, raising his hands up in defense. While yes, it was true that Jason and his shenanigans from the night, or the week, or the month before would always result in the police coming down to have a little chat with him, this time it had nothing to do with the eccentric Italian. Which was more terrifying. “It ain’t f’me,” He growled, bucking at Bee before angrily flicking them off with a single hand. “Fuck you!”

Bee only mimicked his action, leaning forward to use both of their hands. “Fuck you, go answer the fuckin’ door!”

“Fuck you, I ain’t doin’—“

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

Each knock nearly rattled the very walls of the home, loud and brash enough to cause JJ to storm off his bedroom in a hurry. “AY!” His booming voice overshadowed whatever petty argument Jason and Bee had been having, the loud ‘thump-thump-thump’ of his bare feet slapping across the hardwood floor echoing from his bedroom door to the top of the stairs. “I don’t know who, you niggas think you is by banging on my goddamn door,” Each annoyed word is accompanied by an irritated stomp. “But my mutha’fuckin’ name is on this lease! We have a fuckin’ Ring, nigga!” Bee could understand why JJ had been so pissed. One, neither one of them were fans of the campus police, and two, the knock had been so jarring and damn-near forceful. No official policeman should be knocking like that.

Bee suddenly froze. No official policeman should be knocking like that. “Miguel!” They suddenly shouted, sprinting off of Jason’s bed with a single goal in mind. Their bare feet raced towards the door in a hurry, eager to ensure he wasn’t hurt. “It’s Miguel!”

“Shit—Bee!” Jason called out, swiping his hand towards their body to try and snatch Bee’s arm only to miss by an inch. “Wait, stop! It might not even be him!”

But Bee was never wrong. That gut feeling they had was almost always right, and in that moment? Everything was pointing to Miguel being their surprise visitor. “Fuck you, I’m never wrong!” They called back, flicking him off one more time just as they jogged downstairs. But Jason wasn’t too far behind.

“We agreed on 95% of the time!” He called after them, joining in on their pursuit to see who would be banging on their door as if someone had died. “Hey!”

Despite Jason’s constant and best attempts to grab Bee’s attention, it never seemed to latch on. Their mind remained occupied on what mattered most, trying to see if it really was him. To which, upon seeing JJ standing by the front door, also shirtless for some reason, and a pair of long tan legs on the other side, they had nearly screamed. “Miguel!” Bee happily called, recognizing those beat up black sneakers attached to the strangers feet from anywhere. “You didn’t text me—“

In the middle of their descend, they froze. Standing at the door was indeed Miguel, but it wasn’t the same Miguel from the night before. No, the version that stood before them right now was a different man, one that had his head held low in defeat as he tried to shield the notable swell on the right side of his face. His right eye was a crimson red and purple, cuts and scratches decorating the sensitive skin like a statement. And his list of injuries didn’t stop there; his lip had been busted, drips of blood oozed from his nose, his knuckles were raw and bloodied.

When he left this house he was perfectly fine, now he was battered and wounded after interacting with his father. It didn’t take a genius to understand what had happened in the hours he had suddenly went MIA. “Miguel!” Bee shrieked in absolute horror, scaling the rest of the stairs in seconds, their hand pushing JJ aside once they reached the bottom in order to get a better look at their boyfriend. “Oh my god—“ Bee began, their face dropping with terror. “What?” They softly questioned, raising a hand to touch his face before hesitating on if they even could. “Wh-What happened to—“

Miguel couldn’t give a logical explanation. He simply stood there, eyes focused downwards while the blood from his nose continued to drip down onto the fabric of his shirt. How could he? What could he say after what happened? Nothing, nothing that would bring comfort to the tears filling Bee’s eyes.

But that didn’t stop Jason, who finally got to the frame of the door, to share Bee’s concerned sentiment. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” He shouted, loud enough to alert the other two members in the home—Cole and Kyle. Both of them had been tucked away in their bedrooms when Miguel first arrived, and since the loud reverb of JJ’s voice had echoed down the steps whilst he went to go and confront the problem, the two had thought everything was fine.

But that all changed once the commotion of the aftermath managed to reach their ears.

Cole had left his bedroom first, working his arms through a white tank while his feet hurriedly moved towards the sound of the commotion. Kyle was right behind him, baggy anime tee on (backwards), and a pair of old shorts. “Yo, what the fuck is going on?” He asked behind his friend, jogging in front to push past Jason and JJ. “Who’s at the—oh shit!”

“We get it!” Bee suddenly interjected, turning around to see the plethora of men behind them, all expressing their own separate emotions upon seeing Miguel’s battered face. Kyle was shocked more than anything, Cole couldn’t stop gasping at how bad it was—along with Jason—but JJ? Silent. Stone cold. Neutral almost. “It’s bad! We know!” They nearly shouted, the tears misting at the corners of their eyes still prevalent. “Stop it!”

Kyle shook his head, letting out a scoff of his own in disbelief. “It’s not bad,” He spat, as if the word didn’t do any justice to how Miguel actually looked. “It’s fuckin’—“

“What happen’?” JJ cut through Kyle’s light hearted comments, glaring down Miguel like he was trying to disarm some unknown threat. “Who did that to you?”

Who? Miguel didn’t have to say who, Bee already knew, JJ already knew, they all did. One night he’s running from his shit of a brother, by the next afternoon he’s walking around with a black eye, a bloody nose, and a busted lip. “…I don’t want to talk about it.” He cryptically replied, his focus zeroing in on the only person who really mattered to him at the moment. “I just…” Miguel began, watching Bee slowly move to face him with that same sad, puppy-dog look. “…I came to get Bee.”

Get them? And take them where? JJ’s mind tossed around the two questions in his brain like a puzzle piece, eyeing Miguel up and down. “And go where?” He asked with an accusatory tone, taking a single step towards the taller man. “What y’all finna get into?”

“JJ, please.” The pleading words broke on Miguel’s tongue as he forced them out, the tips of his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm. “Can we please just…leave? I won’t…we won’t do anything, okay?” He emphasized with a determined head shake, all he wanted to do was simply leave. “So please. Just let Bee go.”

September 19th, 20XX. The Village at Alchemax University, Apartment 2901. 5:15PM.

The crisp smell of soft sautéed onions and freshly cut bell peppers filled the air inside Bee’s little apartment, the beau humming to themselves a blues tune while they cooked dinner for themselves for the first time in weeks.

“Ugh!” And…Miguel. Who invited himself to their home after he came to pick them up from JJ’s house, and who was also occupying Bee’s living room with two cases of Modelo sitting at his feet. Following the couple leaving JJ’s, and after Miguel had explained his odd reasoning for his surprise visit on the way over, it was Bee’s idea to cook a meal for the two. They had offered aid, a meal to soothe his wounds, and a call to one of their friends studying medicine, someone who could bring over just what they needed to speed up the recovery process.

But somehow, Miguel took Bee’s plan to drive to the local Publix then back to their place as code for; ‘buy two cases of beer for yourself and get drunk’. And that's exactly what he had been doing since they had both gotten home, since Bee had begun cooking. At first they had hardly noticed it, too busy in ensuring their Cajun pasta would come out just right, but after they heard that sixth can being crushed in Miguel’s hand like he was some douche frat boy from the living room?

Yeah. No.

“Miguel?” Bee called, flicking the stove heat to low as they walked around the sturdy island bar of their kitchen counter. “What are you doing?”

The sounds had been better than the sight. Miguel had his head kicked back against Bee’s deep brown couch, pushing his skull into the wall like he was trying to make himself disappear. Fifth beer can in his right hand, his left laid out on the couch cushion as if he just lost the love of his life. Which, if it weren’t for the fact that his eyes might’ve actually dried out, Bee could’ve bet that there would’ve been tears streaming down his face. “Miguel…?” They softly called again, but he still didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. “Hey…what are you doing?”

Nothing. Silence. The only movement he made was to carefully sit back up, leaning his head forward just to take another sip of the Modelo. This brand had a slight twang to it, but it almost always felt like coming back to an old friend. A comfort. A crutch.

“Mig—“

“I’m fine.” Miguel finally spoke with a crack in his voice, keeping his eyes down at the floor. Unmoving. “I’ll be fine.”

Fine their ass. He hadn’t said a word after he told them that Tyler was the reason why he was like this, not even divulging in on what exactly happened. Was it selfish to want to know? Maybe, but when he was like this, what other choice did Bee have? They offered him a frustrated huff, pointing a single manicured finger towards the open can of beer in his hand. “You’re shotgunning beers on my couch,” They said in distaste, before gesturing to the crushed cans lying at his feet. “And crushing them in your hands. That’s not fine.”

Miguel’s jaw ticked. Did they not realize how stressful this was for him? What he had just endured on their behalf? “Don’t tell me I’m not fine.” He angrily spat, finally flickering his eyes towards Bee like they were going to take away the one thing that was making all his pain go numb. “You don’t even know wh-what’s going on.”

For a solid second, Bee stood completely still, frozen in place. Had the shy, awkward Miguel from this morning suddenly vanished? Did Tyler secretly kill the man they had met the night prior and released this asshole out instead? “Excuse me?” They questioned, tilting their chin towards Miguel carefully. Had he lost his mind? “Do you wanna try that again? Because you still haven’t even told me what’s going on.” Bee reminded, only to earn an irritated bundle of words from their boyfriend.

“I told you what h-happened.” Miguel hiccuped through his words, taking another harsh swig of the alcohol. Bee could only watch as he swallowed half of the can in a matter of seconds, finishing it off before he crushed up the aluminum in his palm. “Tyler did th-this shit.” He spat again with an attitude, drunkly tossing his trash onto the floor. “Mierda estúpida…”

“Oh, I know you fuckin’ lyin’.” Like a rubber band, Bee’s temper snapped, they could understand being sad or upset after such a traumatic moment, but it was another thing entirely to disrespect the one space they were giving to him out of the kindness of their heart. “If you wanna be upset,” They began, stomping over to his frame before snatching the beer can out of his hand. “Then do that, but pick your shit off of my floor!” A loud shout greeted Miguel’s ears followed by an exaggerated gag. “That’s so nasty!”

Nasty? Bee thought he was nasty? Miguel’s focus never wavered away from Bee’s gaze, now empty handed with nothing to sip on. Nothing to ease the constant flashback of Kron swinging on him back to back, with his father’s face in the background. Filled to the brim with glee. That sight was nasty, even when it was just a memory. “Give th-that back.”

“No.” His lover denied, walking away from him to throw away whatever was left of his can. “This isn’t—“

Before they realized it, Miguel was already on his feet. Quickly, quietly, like some kind of predator. He sped up like lightning behind them, rushing over to stop Bee directly in their tracks. His hand slapped onto the wall next to their frame, subsequently pushing them back into a trap. “No.” Miguel grunted out, puffing out a breath of hot air against their tied-up locs. “I’m not f-finished with it. Give it b-back.”

So, he really had lost his mind.

“What are you doing?!” Bee shouted in anger, quickly trashing the beer without another thought. If Miguel was so dependent on this poison enough to get out of his seat and corner them, then he had more than enough for the night. They turned around to see his drunken face up close; flushed like hell even despite his injuries, his good eye half drooped like he’d pass out any minute. Bee groaned. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

Miguel hiccuped. “N-No.”

Great. He was. “Yes you are.” Bee said with an irritated realization. If Miguel was this drunk, that meant they would have to take care of him. A task they always hated doing, no thanks to Veronica and Jazmyne. “For fuck’s sake, Miguel.”

That tone, the one that reeked of disappointment, made Miguel’s face slowly drop. Lost in the mist of the liquid euphoria, had he upset Bee? “Do you hate me?” He suddenly asked, his brown eyes wide and pleading behind the frame of his notably broken glasses. “T-tell me you don't, Bee. Pl-Please don’t hate me.”

Before Bee could even respond, the taller man suddenly dropped to his knees before them, a notable pouty frown trembling against his crooked cupids bow. “N-No me odies, por favor no me odies…” Miguel whined, leaning forward to press the crook of his nose into Bee’s neck. “You can’t…”

Oh, he was really drunk.

Bee didn’t know what to do. Handling their friends drunkenness was one thing—flinging Veronica away from a fight about to happen, or Jazmyne away from a less than friendly man—but Miguel was something entirely different. He was rude as he was necessitous, something that Bee had never experienced before. “I…” They began with a nervous swallow, using both of their hands to push his frame slightly backwards. “You’re…drunk.”

At the feeling of Bee, in his mind the only light of his life at the moment, pushing him away like he was a danger, Miguel actually sobbed. “Don’t.” His voice cracked, placing both of his hands against the dry wall as if it was his life line. “Don’t p-push me away. Please.” He begged, “Y-You’re all I have left.” His palms slid downwards as his body leaned forward again, hiccuping on his own words like he was choking. "Please d-don’t leave me.”

This was bad. Horrible, if anything. “Miguel…” His lover quietly began, only to have their sentence cut off by another pleading slur of words.

“Don’t.” Miguel continued, digging his fingernails into the wood. “I c-cant. I can’t lose  you too.”

Bee didn’t know what to do. They stood frozen in place while the wetness of his hot tears splashed against the skin of their neck, the steady beat of their heart thumping against their rib cage like a fluttering drum. Out of the two, they had always suspected that they would’ve been the first to burst into a puddle of tears, but for Miguel to beat them to it? “Miguel…” Bee quietly called his name again, “I don’t…I don’t wanna lose you either but—“

“Estoy enamorada de ti.” The sudden spur of Spanish flying out of Miguel’s mouth took Bee back by surprise, the beau jumping in place just as his hands switched from the wall to their waist—but instead of hesitant grabs like when they had first met, now it was nothing but desperate grabs. His forearms fully locked around Bee’s plump waist, earning a surprise yelp from their lips.

“Oh, Miguel!” They hissed, this time using their palms to push him backwards. Drunk or not, they had a limit, and he was quickly reaching that point. “Look, you’re just drunk, okay? Go lay down, and—“

“E-Estoy enamorado d-de ti.” Miguel cut them off again, this time his words being accompanied with a heartbreaking sob. “Estoy enamorado de ti desde tu segundo año.” He explained, another stream of hot tears trickling down the left side of his face as he sniffled. “E-Estoy enamorado de t-ti desde que te vi en la exposición de arte del año pasado.”

Año. Bee didn’t know much Spanish, but they knew enough to know that word meant ‘year’. Their eyes slowly began to squint at him, tying to decipher his words. What was he saying? They opened their mouth to interrupt him but decided against it, choosing instead to reach up towards his face where his glasses laid half-perched on his nose.

“No sé cómo e-explicarlo de otra manera.” Miguel continued, keeping his eyes solely focused on Bee’s face despite their fingers reaching for the broken edges of the frames. “T-Tengo demasiado miedo para d-decirte la verdad.” He whispered. “Por favor, sepan que os q-quiero.”

Quiero. Their heart nearly stopped all together, they didn’t need a translator for what he was trying to say. Bee’s finger’s froze just as they fully removed the mangled eyewear off of him, which only worsened the feeling both in their chest and their stomach. His good eye was fully wide, filled to the brim with tears like Bee’s existence alone was the only reason why he was still breathing.

“Creo que... t-te amo.”

Divider Credit: @/pixopix, @/cafekitsune

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Spin The Bottle!

“You’re a man. Aren’t you, Miguel?”

Pairings: CollegeNerd!Miguel O’Hara x Popular!AFAB!Black!OC

Content Warnings: HEAVY angst, mentions of losing a parent, mentions of child abuse, physical violence, blackmailing, misgendering (Tyler calls Bee she/her despite being they/them), slight homophobia, slight hint of Child!Peter Parker x Child!Miguel O’Hara (its like kid crushes)

Summary: Stuck in the cell of his father’s office, Miguel is forced to come face to face with the events that happened the previous night. Unbeknownst to him, the consequences are going to cost more than what he had originally planned to bargain.

A/N: this was kinda a vent post ngl :/ had to gts OUT so my fault, anyway blame ‘Placing The Blame’ by Self my lawyers know I’m innocent, uhhh we got kinda DARK in this bitch and once again….a young nigga just goin through a chapter rn ✋🏽😞🤚🏽anyway free Gojo till its backwards FN

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September 19th, 20XX. New York Preparatory University, Administrative Building. Dean’s Office, 11:07AM. Earth-05213.

The deans’ office wasn’t a room Miguel often found himself privy to throughout his years at NYAPU, or even the administrative building for that matter. The last time he remembered occupying these bleak offices and soulless hallways was during the beginning of the school year, during his annual student info renewal. The four polished, picture-perfect walls he deemed himself trapped in were more of a cage or a prison than anything, and who better to be his prison guard than the one man who seemed to be the cause of all of the misfortunes in his life.

Tyler Stone. By default, his biological father.

And Kron’s, who was sitting next to him with his mouth, and jaw, consequently shut. For once in his life, he managed to learn the art of shutting the fuck up. Or maybe, it was the surgical metal twisting inside his mouth that was keeping his probably-definitely broken jaw wired shut. He sat with his back straight, wearing a similar outfit to the one he wore last night—ironed polo, basic yet classy slacks shorts, a NYAPU sweater wrapped around his shoulders and neck in a way that screamed ‘I have money, you can’t touch me’.

Regardless however, the newfound silence coming from his older brother was nothing short of pure bliss to Miguel. For once, he didn’t have to hear his grating voice or his demanding comments, the only flip side though is that instead of having to deal with just the seed, he had to hear and deal with the root first. His father sat with no emotion settling on his face as usual, eyes set in a dead stare that bore into the contents of Miguel’s soul while his lips eerily twitched on one side of his slightly wrinkled face. What was the most off putting about Dean Stone, as Miguel had eavesdropped heard from his following classmates, was the allegation that he never blinked. He never showed much of any emotion, some theorized it was to keep his gelled blonde hair stuck in its slick back hair-do—perfect, polished, and professional. As is the correct impression of the Dean after all.

But Miguel knew better. He knew the reason as to why this universities Dean seemed a little more…robotic than the rest.

“Miguel.” Tyler greeted in an oddly happy tone, his wrinkled hands sitting neatly intertwined upon the cherry oak desk before him. When he said his sons’ name, Miguel couldn’t help but to notice the way his fingers clenched in his grip, like a beast restraining its urge to pounce on its prey. “It’s nice to see you, son.”

Nice. What an odd way to describe their interactions. Because to Miguel, anytime he was forced to come face to face with his father, the outcome always seemed to be the same.

Humiliation, physical altercation, or blackmail. Whichever Tyler felt like dealing today.

The devil never gave his victims a choice in which hell he preferred to see them in, he supposed.

“Father.” Miguel replied, copying the same dead, monotone octave as the same sitting opposite from him. The faster he could get through this entire interaction the better, but even as he sat there with his hands occasionally pulling at the cotton fibers woven into his brown shorts, there was a little voice in the back of his mind that kept whispering the same thing over and over again.

“It’s a pleasure to see you as well.” Miguel added after a moment, the automatic response already flowing through his lips without much of a thought. After years of…conditioning, every conversation was now robotic. Nearly instinctual.

But still,

Something wasn’t quite right. This all seemed too…calm.

Or at least it did, before Tyler let the smile he was trying his best to hold back finally broke past its seal, stretching wide into an uncanny grin that looked almost unnatural. Like there were pins and needles in the back of his skull, forcing his lips to spread in a way that showed both rows of his shiny white teeth. “I wish I could say the same, bud.” He said with a quick tilt of his head, those bright, almost uncanny blue eyes of his overanalyzing every micro-expression that etched over his younger sons’ face. “You know son, it’s quite upsetting that almost every time I see you,” Tyler began with a forced laugh, shaking his head in faux disbelief. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself in some kind of trouble.”

Shit. Miguel swallowed hard, digging his fingernails into his shorts from the shot of anxiety that suddenly invaded his body like a virus. There was no hiding the truth, Tyler knew what happened last night. Or at least, he had a version of what happened last night—no doubt fabricated by his darling older brother.

He could lie. He could leverage the harm Kron undoubtedly caused Bee, or the video he, along with many others, recorded of the two nearly kissing. He could bring up Kron chasing him into the subway with fifteen different guys, but it wouldn’t have mattered in the end anyway. Because before he even stepped in this room, his father had already decided what his fate would be.

That’s what the devil does. He makes you believe you have a choice, an option, a road to freedom, when in all reality…all he wants to do is see you squirm like the spineless worm he sees you as.

Miguel stayed silent, simply staring ahead at his father like a deer stuck in headlights. Even if he wanted to say something, what could he say? What could he do? Besides sit and stare, and watch Tyler’s silhouette lean in closer to the edge of his desk as his voice dropped dangerously low.

“Do you know why you’re sitting in my office, Miguel?” He asked quietly, the once creepily joyful expression painting his face slowly souring into one of disgust.

He knew why. Saying it out loud was more of an issue however, mostly because even though Miguel knew the smart thing was to just give in, to just accept whatever punishment Tyler would give to him, he couldn't help but to remember Bee’s reminder from the previous night.

‘If you’re scared of going home, then you won’t go home.’

Even if Tyler stripped him of all of his privileges, even if he kicked him out on the streets, he still had another home to go to. Bee.

“I haven’t gotten a clue.” Miguel finally replied after a moment, the side of his jaw ticking under his fathers scrutinizing gaze. Lying wasn’t something he did often, or he was even proud of, but somehow lying became second nature when it came to his father. Call it a survival instinct.

However, when you use the same trick over and over again, the person being tricked starts to notice the cracks in the routine. The twitches and visible body reactions that give away fragments of the truth. An eye twitch here, a sharp breath there—evidence enough, in Tyler’s eyes at least. He offered his son a slight sigh, pressing his lips into a fine smile. “Mmm.” He simply grunted in approval, just before he leaned back in his seat to look towards a drawer on his desk. “See, normally I’d believe you.” Tyler commented, pulling back the wooden drawer with a loud creak. “But as of lately, I couldn’t help but to notice that you like to lie, Miguel.”

Like a bullet had shot through the air, Miguel went still. His blood ran freezing cold as all the color in his face drained, forcing his heart to run miles a minute while his eyes stayed attached to his father. This wasn’t good, this wasn’t good at all. He hoped that maybe he could’ve steered this meeting in his favor, maybe lie and manipulate a little more—after all, his father taught him all his best tricks—but all of that hope went out the window the minute he watched Tyler pull out a phone from the mysterious compartment of his desk,

Kron’s phone.

Oh no.

A feeling of dread slowly flooded Miguel’s stomach, the kind of feeling you got sitting on the top of a hill on a rollercoaster. You can feel yourself slowly dropping, about to be led on a fast track of doom—at least that’s how Miguel saw this entire moment as. And that feeling worsened as Tyler unlocked the phone with a simple tap of his fingers, swiping the device open before clicking on the screen and sliding it towards Miguel. The phone lightly skidded on the wood before it finally landed right in front of his frame, displaying a truth he should’ve known would’ve been impossible to hide.

‘"Oh-ho-ho!"’ The sound of Kron’s laughter echoed through the recorded video playing on his phone, the camera catching the perfect image of Miguel, pressed back against a row of wooden shelves, and a mysterious black femme pressing their body against him in a compromising way with his face in their hands. He’s grabbing them, nearly groping with the tilted camera angle. Outside looking in, it’s exactly what it looks like.

"Oh no!" Kron taunted again, his camera catching the exact moment when Bee realized what was going on, their facial expression quickly shifting from blissed out to shock in a matter of seconds. "Look what we got here!"

Miguel felt sick. He already had to live through that humiliating moment last night, now he was forced to watch it all over again? For what? Was this Tyler’s master plan, just to make him grovel and feel bad for protecting Bee? For having a moment for once in his life?

For a split second, his gaze switched from the phone to his father, the rage that Tyler would be so nonchalantly brazen about this incident coming to the surface with not much restraint to reign it back. His brows had furrowed with frustration, lips already curling in an irritated snarl that was eager to curse, yell, shout, snap. But Tyler was having none of it. “Don’t look at me.” His father commanded lowly, flicking his eyes towards the phone before they connected with his sons’ once more. “Look at what you did.” He continued. “What you did to embarrass me.” 

Embarrass him? What about Bee, who was an innocent bystander in this entire situation? What about the complete humiliation they had been through, being used as collateral damage to his firstborns' disrespectful actions? Or did none of that matter, simply because Kron was a true blooded Stone, and a Stone's reputation was as smooth as, well, stone.

It was disgusting. All of it, having to relive that moment when Bee forced themselves away from Miguel's touch, being coerced into watching their eyes fill with embarrassed tears as wave after wave of flashes illuminated their face and body. It was like watching someone relive their trauma all over again, observing in real-time as a memory transferred to moment.

God, he could vomit. He might’ve, had it not been for the thundering rage he felt on Bee's behalf overtaking his senses like a virus, infecting every thought that flashed through his frontal cortex like a crystal clear instruction. Had it not been for Tyler’s influence, his money, his status, it wouldn’t take much to twist his neck like a twig. To hear his bones snap under the pressure of Miguel’s hands, to watch the life leave his fucking eyes—

“No,” Miguels own voice cut off the line of violent thoughts stringing about in his head, forcing his attention back onto the video, back to his own face. To the shape of his own eyes widening in that same, familiar heartbreak he always felt when it came towards his family. The feeling of getting your hopes up, thinking you’ve cleared the darkness just to get sucked back into it like a black hole. “You...Why would you...How could you—“

A scoff picked up through the audio, followed by the sound of Kron’s grating, mocking laughter. “Pfft, how could I what?” He had asked behind the camera. “Finally get you some pussy?”

God, Miguel always hated that word. Pussy. Like that's all Bee was to him, like he was stripping away their humanity and autonomy down to the one thing that every other Sigma Chi cared about. Sex, getting a lay, hitting that pussy—Men like Kron, like Tyler, were disgusting. They thought of love, of companionship, like a conquest to finish in order to get a smack on the back like they had done a good job by other men. Or something worth bragging about. Not a person to be proud of, not a relationship that made you feel whole. At least, that’s what Miguel had wanted, had secretly chased with Bee.

And now, that relationship, that feeling he’d been searching for his entire life, was on the line. “Dude, you’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!” Miguel’s fist clenched in his lap while he watched himself buck towards Kron and the camera, rearing his head like a bull getting ready to charge. In that moment, he was pissed. Pissed enough to forget where he was, pissed enough to tear off Kron’s head right there in the middle of the game room without any fear of consequence. The only reason he hadn’t, is because just as easy as it was for him to go off on his brother, it just made it easier for everyone else to follow suit.

“Such a loser!”

“Kron, beat his ass!”

“Why is he even in this fraternity?”

That, was a fantastic question. Because Miguel didn’t even want to be in the Sigma Chi house to begin with, he was perfectly fine with getting an apartment off campus where he could’ve had his own space. His own freedom, his own rules. But no, the ‘Stone Boys’ had to stick together, when in reality it was Kron simply dragging Miguel around to every party, every event, every fundraiser to make himself look better. ‘Look at my virgin brother, who gets anxiety when he talks to women’, ‘I’m more charismatic than my nerdy brother’, ‘I’m better than my brother because I have more money than him’. Raised with a fucking golden spoon in his mouth. “You always do this,” The Miguel on the video growled out in frustration. “You always—“

Then, like the sun clearing through a cloudy day, he heard it. “Did you know he would do this?” Bee quietly asked, the camera soon pointing over to their crouched position in the corner. Even in a moment as humiliating as this, something about hearing their voice put a little bit of an ease on Miguel. If he had to sit here and endure this mental torture, then at least he’d get to hear them just…talk. Even if their shoulders were hunched over like they were trying to shield a portion of their face from the cameras view.  “Tell me you didn’t, Miguel.” They had begged. “Please.”

Bee’s voice cracked on the end of their words, their voice ending off in a quiet whisper. And that, that was the breaking point. “I get it.” Miguel suddenly grunted out, swallowing a wad of saliva down his throat. His eyes flicked up to his father, expectant on a response. “I get the point.”

An eerily smile stretched across his father’s thin lips like he was some kind of demon. “Oh, son” The word spat out of his mouth like tar, a toxic element instead of fact. “I don’t really think you do.” His head suddenly jerked back down to the video, those sharp blue eyes of his never leaving Miguel’s face. “Keep watching, boy.”

Boy. Miguel wasn’t stupid, he knew what words like that and in that tone really meant. It meant he wasn’t one of them, his hair wasn’t as blonde, his eyes weren’t as blue, his skin wasn’t as white. “If you didn’t want a Mexican kid,” Miguel spat back, bucking his head towards his father just like he had in the recording at Kron. Only thins time, his fist had moved from his lap and onto the arms of his seat like he was getting ready to pounce. “Then you shouldn’t have slept with and married one.”

The room went silent. Miguel could feel Kron’s eyes burning into the side of his head, yet his attention was too occupied by the glare their shared father was giving him. His pupils had nearly turned to slits, brows downturned in an angry glare with his picture-perfect nose flared. “You wanna bring your mother into this?” He asked with a low voice, tone thin as ice. “When we both know she didn’t even like you?”

Miguel’s eye twitched. “Yes she did.”

“Is that what she told you?” Tyler laughed in his face, lightly kicking his head backwards before he leaned forward to snatch Kron’s phone away from Miguel's side of the desk. He swiftly turned the video off, letting out an arrogant scoff. “Was that before, or after she died?”

Snap.

Miguel rose to his feet in a matter of seconds, slamming his hands down onto the oak table with a loud slap. “She died because of you!” His angry voice echoed off of the walls, like a thundercloud roaring to life. “You're the reason my mom is—“

The middle of his sentence was swiftly cut off as Tyler abruptly stood, pushing his chair backwards and towards the large bookshelf behind him. "Who,” He began, slowly rounding the table like a snake. “Are you,” Another dangerous step. “Raising your voice at?” His body stopped right before his younger son, cranking his neck back to stare dead into Miguel's frightened eyes. The height difference between the two wasn’t as grand as most of the people he had to interact with, but none of those instances had Tyler Stone’s ice cold glare attached to them. “You think because you’re bigger than me,” He laughed, shaking his head again. That disappointed, mocking headshake. “That you can intimidate me? That you’ll have power over me?”  A round of individual chuckles rounded the room, around Miguel like a verbal chokehold. “You don’t have power. Worthless worms don’t get power.”

Miguel braced for impact. If he swung on his face, he could easily dodge and take a step back, but then he’d have to maneuver his body in a way that would block him from Kron’s defensive punch from behind—

But then, his father suddenly took a step back. The impending hit he was waiting for, he was calculating for, never came. Instead, Tyler calmly looked Miguel up and down, before turning on his expensive loafer heel and trotting his way over to a neighboring bookshelf. Miguel blinked with confusion, what the hell was he doing? “You know son,” Tyler began with a sigh, grabbing two books from the shelves and placing them down onto a nearly wooden accent table. “I usually would love to go tit-for-tat like how we did back when you and Kron were a bit younger,”

In the corner of Miguel’s eyes, he spotted a golden keyhole embedded into the deep oak wood, hidden behind two random books, no doubt old records of the school. Why would the Dean own something like that?

“But I’ve realized," Tyler continued, reaching in his left pocket to grab a matching pair of golden keys—same metal as the lock. “I’m getting too old to do this kind of punishment with you anymore.” He said before twisting his keys into the lock, unlocking a secret compartment installed in the wooden wall by his desk. One Miguel had never seen before, or even heard the mention of.

Until now.

“And, I can clearly see you’re not a little boy anymore.” His father continued to taunt, making his way over to the secret compartment, pulling up on the handle to reveal a charcoal safe, one with a combination on it. “No, you’re a man. Aren’t you, Miguel?”

Miguel’s stomach dropped down to his ankles. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What was in that there? What was he about to do?

A single left-right-left is all it took to open the safe, like Tyler’s muscles had memorized the exact way to turn the three dials. The door opened with a soft hiss, showcasing two items inside; a fully operative wire-tap device, a fancy (and probably governmental) brand, and a pair of gold brass knuckles, the obnoxious pair that had diamonds encrusted directly on the hard ridges of the weapon. “And men make their own decisions,” Tyler said with a slow turn to Miguel, throwing him a cryptic expression. “This,” With a dramatic swipe, his palm gestured towards the options—Miguel’s options. “Is your punishment. I’ll make things simple for you son, you can either cut your ties with this random woman—“

Miguel’s eyes slanted. There was an emphasizing of that word, one he wasn’t too found of. “Person.” He said with an eye squint, eager to defend Bee’s honor like he had been doing. “They are a—“ He corrected with a harsh grunt of his words, but Tyler was having none of it.

“Whatever she is deluded to be!” Tyler interjected, swiping his hands across the empty space like a line in the sand. “I don’t really give a shit here, Miguel. If you don’t want that little video of you and that thing spreading around this campus, you’ll know what’s good for you and leave her.”

This was going so far left, Miguel didn’t even know where right was anymore. Or what the right way to fight back was either. He could only stand there in shock, snapping his attention to the wiretap awaiting his decision. Tyler wanted him to not only break things off with Bee, but he wanted cold hard evidence that he actually went through with it. “You’ll have to, of course, cut off all contact with this—“

“And if I refuse?” Miguel immediately bargained, cutting his father off from trying to plant anymore thinly veiled instructions into his own choices. Because no, he wasn’t doing that, he’d rather die.

And Tyler was about to make him feel like he should’ve.

His father sighed heavily, shaking his head back and forth in disappointment. “Always have to choose the hard way, just like your mother,” Tyler spat out, scoffing underneath his breath before pointing to the knuckles. “If you so choose, deciding to stay with your gay lover will cost you—“

Gay? Miguel didn’t consider himself gay, but then again, he also never considered himself fully straight either. Nobody really was, at least that what he thought internally after reading several books on the different ways humanity expressed love or sexual intimacy throughout history.

For, research, of course. No other reason. “I’m not gay.” He defended, squinting his eyes at his father. “And even if I was—“

“If?” Tyler interrupted, allowing a pause to fill the air before he let out a full belly laugh. “You think, there’s an if?” He questioned, watching his son’s hands shake under the judgemental pressure. “What about little Peter Parker? Huh?”

Peter Beni Parker. Following the marital bond between his mom and Tyler Stone, there was a boy who lived right next door to the family luxury townhome in the neighboring unit. He and Miguel had first met when he was only twelve years old, the child’s dog, named Mayday (Short for Mayday Mayhem) accidentally running off of its leash during a walk and completely tackling the younger boy once she spotted him listening to music in the lobby's hallway. After consequently knocking Miguel back on his ass and Peter profusely apologizing like the young, well mannered boy he was, the two decided reconcile over a game of Mario Kart back at Peter’s house.

But somewhere along the way, around the time Miguel entered high school, Peter suddenly…vanished. No note, no goodbye letter, nothing. One day Miguel woke up to be fourteen, and his best friend, his found family, his safe space to be free, was gone. Forget the days of coming over to his house after school to escape the beatings he got at home, forget the sleepovers they had when they wanted to play the newest Mario Bros. Game together.

“Promise me we’ll always be together, Miggy! No matter what!”

“Okay, Petey!”

Gone. In an instant. “Peter was my best friend.” Miguel forced out, fighting back the familiar sting of tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t talked about Peter since he moved away, for two main reasons; one, a new family suddenly moved in with two daughters oddly similar to Miguel’s age, and because it hurt too much to even form the words to even try and explain how he was feeling. So for Tyler to sit here and throw that awful moment of mystery and abandonment back in his face like it was nothing was so—

“I’m sure he was.” Tyler dismissed the tears forming in Miguel’s eyes, the frame of his crooked glasses already fogging up from the implied truth. “But you have a destiny to fulfill, you stubborn brat.” He snapped, nearly spitting out his words. “You, as unfortunate to you as it is to me, are a biological heir to me. Meaning you have no room for your silly little Hollywood cliches.” Slowly, his hand came to fix the crypt edges of the suit he wore, adjusting himself in a smooth, cool manner. “I’ve straightened you out before.” He said with a low threatening tone. “I can easily do it again. You are a Stone, and you will start acting like it!”

“What did you do to Peter?” Miguel quickly questioned, that stomach-dropping feeling from before only worsening as time went by. Everything was starting to make sense; the sudden disappearance, nobody referring to them in conversations after the ‘sudden move’, the quick move-in of the Kwan-Angelo’s. “What did you do to Peter!” His voiced boomed again, slamming on the desk again. “Tell me!”

Tyler huffed with a judgmental eye-roll, ignoring the accusatory question in its entirety. “Just your best friend.” He commented, as if the statement were a cover rather than a title. “But I did what I had to, to protect you. To protect ourreputation.” He scoffed. “And I will again, if you decide to go rouge and stay with this…Bee.”

Miguel snarled. "It's your choice, Miguel. Just make sure you make the right one, for your lover's sake."

Divider Credit: @/pixopix, @/cafekitsune

Ready for the next chapter? Click me!

Feeling Sick?

“Y-You…You came…”/“You called.”

Pairings: CollegeNerd!Miguel O’Hara x Popular!AFAB!Black! OC

Content Warnings: vomiting, extreme sickness, extreme fatigue, Miguel sees Bee naked for the first time (sorta), Bee’s house is DIRTY, eating disorders and malnourishment, comfort, Miguel is kinda like a nurse here, lullabies, insecurities, depression/depressive episodes

Summary: The problem with Bee is that in their mind, they’re Superman; nothing can harm them, nothing can touch them. That is, until after weeks of neglecting their body, the consequences of slacking off and pretending like they’re not a human being finally catches up to them. Luckily enough, help is just one signal away

A/N: I KNOW yall are waiting for the next installment of ‘Spin The Bottle!’ but when I say I have been sick as a fucking dog I have been SICKUH as a goddamn dog. So this is my way of coping with how badly I wanna take a hammer to my fucking skull, okay byyyyyee~!

May 12th, 20XX. The Village at Alchemax University, Apartment 2901, 4:07AM. Earth-05213.

This, was an absolute nightmare.

Stuck in the comfort of their messy—and barely dressed—queen sized bed, Bee laid on their back with their face staring up at the ceiling as they struggled to take deep, clear breaths through their chest, a scorching feeling of heat spreading across their rounded face while a throbbing pain steadily knocked against the crown of their skull. It had only been two days since they invited their best friend, Loretta, over to hang out, who was sick as can be at the time. Yet despite their friends constant warnings, headstrong, stubborn Bee didn’t stop to think about the possible consequences that would affect them later down the line.

“Are you sure you want me to come over?” Loretta had cautiously asked during their previous phone call earlier that week, worried that her symptoms would quickly pass onto them. “I don’t want to get you sick—“

“Pffft, what? ’ll be fine!” Bee simply replied with a simple wave of their hand, brushing off their friends’ concern without any care in the world. “My immune system is like, impecable, remember? I’m made of steel!”

Bull, shit.

Now they could barely breathe, let alone even move. Of course they had been sick in the past, simple colds and maybe a the flue here or there, but never like this. Never to the point where breathing had to become manual, or where even attempting to move a single muscle felt like trying to drag around their deadweight plus some more.

Stuck with nowhere else to go, every ounce of energy they had went to focusing their attention on one thing and one thing only; getting help. From the one person they knew would come running. “H-Hey L-Lyla?” Bee croaked out through their dry, raspy throat, calling out to the beta AI Miguel had installed into their phone during finals last year as his ‘big project’. Something about wanting to ‘test out his programming skills’, mentioning how it had been a while since he got his ‘hands dirty’.

Nerd talk, of course. In the moment, it was cute, albeit a little awkward in an adorable way. But now? Bee couldn’t help but to thank the universe that he cared enough to do it.

“Yes, Bee?” The automated feminine voice called out, perky and cheerful as always. It was almost weird how happy she seemed, however Miguel did say he programmed Lyla after Bee. At the time, he had explained that he wanted an AI that was always happy to help no matter the situation, and with Bee’s constant elated demeanor, he got the perfect step-by-step on how to execute his flawless idea. “How can I help you today?”

“D-Distress…signal.” They replied through another gasp, one hand clutching at their chest in an effort to breathe. In through the nose, out of through the mouth. “Distress…signal…to Miguel.”

“Sending a distress signal to Miguel.” Lyla replied automatically, quickly forwarding the custom distress signal Miguel had installed. If Bee was ever in trouble, or if they ever needed his help, they did not have to hesitate when sending that signal because it would immediately alert him. No matter what time it was, or where he was, he’d find them.

Always.

Which…was a little creepy, since he also put a tracker into Bee’s device, giving him unlimited access to their location. Was it stalker-ish? Maybe. A breach in privacy? Perhaps. But in Bee’s eyes—and brain—it was romantic.

After all, they had his location too. 24/7, around the clock.

A full minute hadn’t even passed after the distress signal was sent before the familiar sound of Miguel’s custom ringtone began to echo throughout their bedroom, the theme song of the iconic late 60’s television show ‘Spider-Man’ loudly blaring as their phone vibrated on the dark oak nightstand standing next to their metal bed frame. “Spiderman, Spiderman. Does whatever a spider can. Spins a web—“

“Lyla…” Bee coughed, trying their hardest not to pass out before they could hear the calming sound of their boyfriend’s voice. “Answer…the call.”

“Answering phone call.”

Within seconds Miguel’s panicked voice came through the mic, the sound of his truck keys jingling in the background while he moved about. “Bee?!” He shouted, the octave of his tone slightly cracking from sheer worry. “Are you okay?!”

Instead of answering his question however, Bee could only cough again—although it sounded more like a hack, especially with the way their back arched from the mattress just to allow mucus to get out of their throat.

“Oh god—are you sick?” Miguel had asked, but once again, Bee’s only audible response was another raspy hack—one that sounded eerily close to a gag. “Bee?!”

Any more coughs, and they were sure they’d vomit. “H-Help….” Bee whispered through the pain, pressing the hand on their chest deeper into their skin to make sure they could still feel their heartbeat. Anybody else would’ve called it dramatic, but once they placed a hand over their chest,

It felt like they were barely alive.

“Pl-Please….” They whimpered, slowly turning their stiff neck towards the nightstand, hoping that their boyfriend could hear the distress in their voice. “Help…me…”

This was bad. Really bad.

Miguel cursed under his breath again, the loud noise of his thick, 20XX Silverado tires screeching against the pavement pouring into the phone. “Coño—I’m on my way, okay?” He comforted, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t swallow just how scared he was deep down inside. “Just stay, still, okay? Don’t move.”

Bee weakly smiled again. After six months together, they picked up on his little quirks when he spoke. How he cursed in Spanish when he was under stress or relieved, how the tremor of his voice got heavy whenever they were talking about something that hit a little close to home, how he always repeated ‘okay’ when he was scared. God, they loved this man. He was so…unapologetically himself. With them, at least.

“Did you hear me?” Miguel repeated, his truck revving even faster in an attempt to get to them as quickly as possible. “Bee?!”

“I-I’m…I’m here.” Bee replied through a harsh breath. “I…I just…I n-need you….” They repeated, gasping for air again. “I n-need you, Miggy….”

“Mierda—I’m coming, okay? Just—just breathe for me, I need you to breathe. I’ll be there as fast as I can, okay?”

May 12th, 20XX. The Village at Alchemax University, Apartment 2901, 4:25AM.

The trip to Bee’s complex was a fast one, mostly because traffic laws didn’t exist in Miguel’s brain when his partner needed him. He had raced through the nearly empty streets of New York, ignoring red lights and cursing at anyone that got in his way. He wasn’t always like this, he told himself as he yelled ‘¡Quítate de en medio, hijo de puta estúpido!’ to a Nissan Altima that was going too slow for his liking, but at the same time, dire times called for desperate measures.

And fuck, was he desperate to get to his Bee. After all, the instant his phone screen illuminated with their distress signal in the confines of his luxury apartment bedroom, he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his pajamas before he grabbed his truck keys and bolted out the door.

Miguel barely even parked in an empty spot in front of Bee’s building before he hopped out of the drivers seat with a quickness, his grey house slippers meeting with the concrete as he took off in a full sprint in order to get to their apartment like a man on a mission. He probably looked crazy as hell to anybody that might’ve caught him—shaggy hair, a loose red shirt hugging his top while his plaid blue pajama pants danced along with the wind—but that was fine. He’d look crazy any day.

Hell, he was crazy.

Once he finally reached Bee’s front door after scaling the apartment stairs in a matter of seconds, the first thing he did was trying t see if the door was unlocked. To which, unsurprisingly, it was.

How many times did he have to tell Bee to stop doing that?

With a low, irritated groan, he opened the door and stepped inside before calling out Bee’s name. “Bee?!” He bellowed out as he closed and locked the door from behind him, the bass of his voice echoing throughout their seemingly soulless living room. Everything was a mess; dishes stacked in the sink, blankets strewn about on the couch, and it was clear they hadn’t swept in god knows how long.

How had they allowed their house to get like this?

It didn’t matter however, because there were more important things occupying his mind; Bee’s safety and health. Miguel hurriedly made his way towards the open door to their room, unsure of what sight he’d see. “Bee! I’m here honey—“

He froze. The image before him nearly made him run in the opposite direction, the interior of their bedroom being an absolute disaster; covers tossed off of their bed, mysterious cups by their bedside, clothes scattered about on their desk—it had looked like they had barely moved for days. And speaking of clothes, there was one little detail Bee had forgotten to mention on their phone call,

They were barely wearing any.

Still laid on their back, the only clothing attached to Bee’s body was a lone pair of yellow panties, allowing the rest of their body to be on full display. Their wide hips, their generous stomach, their golden nipple piercings decorating their full breast—

“Dios, por favor ayúdame.” Miguel whispered to himself, a silent prayer to get his mind right before it got filled with images and scenarios that would be the opposite of help. Had he been warned that they were practically naked, maybe he would’ve been more prepared. “Okay—okay, okay, I can do this.” Carefully, he stepped over the first bunch of blankets that Bee had thrown onto the floor while he advanced towards their still body, making sure to keep his eyes down and onto the ground as to give them some sort of decency and respect. He prided himself on being a gentleman, after all.

Or at least, he tried to. After six months together, the closest thing the two had gotten towards sexual intimacy was Bee kissing on his lap with light grinding. They both made an extreme effort not to take it too fast, but this?

This could’ve killed him.

With all the courage he could muster, his eyes finally rose from the floor and to their bed frame, to the softness of their brown skin. He had never seen anyone naked up close before, let alone a romantic partner. Let alone someone like Bee. This was too much, his face was too hot, his pants were getting too tight, had they always been that curvy—

“M…Miggy…?” The softness of Bee’s voice snapped Miguel out of his downward spiral, his eyes quickly focusing on the frame of their pale face. Their eyes were red as if they had been crying, the color of the top of their flared button nose was a hot angry red that matched the top of their pulsing forehead, their locs had been draped over the lone cheetah print pillow underneath their skull as if they were trying to get as much heat off of their body as possible. “Mi…Miggy…?”

“I’m right here.” Miguel swiftly replied, taking a moment to kneel beside their bed as Bee’s head slowly turned to him. “I’m right here, baby.”

A slow, happy grin cracked across their sickly face, the corners of their eyes wrinkling with barely restrained happiness the moment their gaze connected. “Y-You…” Bee began with another raspy breath, watching Miguel’s hand come down to stroke their heated cheek in a soothing manner. “You came…”

Their lover smiled sweetly. “You called.” He reminded, admiring the way their eyes melted when they looked at him. “You know I’ll always come when you call.”

But before Bee could even respond to his heartfelt truth another round of harsh coughs racked from throughout their chest, prompting Miguel to take a lean back as he observed their weakened position. “Shit,” He mumbled, turning his body to try and find something to cover their nakedness. The first object that caught his eye was a lone tortilla blanket draped over their pink gaming chair, his thick hand swiftly swiping the cover off of the furniture before he turned back to his lover. “I’m gonna put this on you, okay?” Miguel reassured, holding out the tortilla just as Bee weakly shook their head.

“No….” They refused softly, turning their head to the other side with another raspy gasp. “Too…h-hot…s’ too hot…”

Possible fever, Miguel concluded in his mind while his hands dropped with the blanket as he swallowed, a vein in his neck slowly pulsing from the frustration gradually building throughout his body. They weren’t going to make this easy on him, were they? “Okay,” he whispered softly, before taking out his phone from his pajama pocket. “Lyla…analysis.”

Just as he had programmed, a bright orange light shot out from his phone flashlight, scanning Bee’s body from the top of their head down to the rest of their frame. Their neck, chest—

No, he shouldn’t look. Miguel was sure to turn his head away as that familiar feeling bubbled up in his gut once more, the same one that made his face feel as if it were on fire, and the bottom of his stomach feel as if it were infested with butterflies. All he had to do was focus on not getting hard all over again, and the longer the scan on Bee took, the longer it felt like Miguel was going to lose his mind all over again. If he hadn’t lost it already.

How was he going to talk to them after this? Knowing that he had practically seen them naked? Could he even do it without feeling like he would pass out?

”Scanning complete!” Lyla happily chirped, a full analysis report detailing Bee’s current symptoms materializing on his phone screen after what felt like years instead of a minute or two. He’d have to work on Lyla’s speed, it seemed. “After a careful observation, Bee’s current symptoms are; headache, congested lungs, sore throat, dry eyes, dehydration—“

”Dehydration…” Miguel quietly interrupted, yet Lyla continued on with her report anyway.

”Malnutrition, sinus congestion, and nausea!” She happily finished as if the report was made of rainbows and puppies—perhaps programming Lyla after Bee’s happy-go-lucky demeanor was a bad idea. At least it felt like it, in such a serious moment like this. “Current suggestions for rehabilitation are; the nearest trash can in about 30 seconds!”

Like he was alarmed of a sudden bomb, Miguel’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he fumbled with his phone, his mind racing miles a minute. “Th-Thirty seconds?! What’s in thirty seconds—“

As if on cue, a violent gag emerged from the back of Bee’s throat, their body turning to the side of their bed in preparation to dispel whatever contents they had in their stomach (if any) onto the sheets. “Huuuurrk!”

”Oh coño—“

May 12th, 20XX. The Village at Alchemax University, Apartment 2901, 5:05AM.

It took twenty minutes to convince Bee to stop vomiting into the trash can Miguel scurried to find, then another twenty as he soothingly rubbed their back while the beau whined and cried about how much pain they were in.

‘“Make it st-stop—“ Bee sobbed through their gags into the plastic trashcan, their long locs twisted into Miguel’s fist as he tried to ensure no chunks would fall into their beautiful hair. “Make it stop Miggy—“‘

Miguel couldn’t figure out what kind of pain was worse, getting jumped, or having to listen to his lovers broken cries and labored sobs as they begged him to take the pain away. He wanted to, god did he. If he had the power to magically make everything better, he’d do it if it meant never having to hear them like that again.

But he wasn’t blessed with superpowers that could magically heal, he wasn’t given the ability to turn disease into dust. But, he was given his intelligence and his knowledge of how to ease the common flu, or whatever the hell Bee had that had them so sickly. After their intimate encounter with their small desk trashcan—and after Miguel consequently threw away the bag inside—Bee laid back on their bed with a weak whimper, the wet tears they had shed still drying on the apples of their cheekbones. “It hurts…” They cried out, squeezing both eyes shut as another round of nauseating pain ran through their body. “Miggy…”

“Where’s your medicine?” Miguel suddenly asked besides them, his hand now moved from their hair towards their hand, somewhere that wouldn’t be directly on their still naked frame. “Where do you keep it? The bathroom?” He asked, going for closed-ended questions rather than open. The less Bee had to talk, the better—a sore throat meant less talking was necessary. A necessary measure to ensure a complete recovery.

Yet, like always, his lover had other plans. “I don’t…have any.” Bee croaked out, turning their eyes to the side as a harsh cough rolled out from the back of their dry throat. “I—hack—I ran…I ran out…”

Miguel’s face notably soured as they continued, furrowing his brows while his lips slowly downturned into a frown. “I thought…it…it would…go away on its own…”

“That’s not how the human body works, Bee.” He scolded, lightly squeezing their palm with his own. Not tight, not in a way that would hurt them, but enough to display this obvious disappointment he had. “We’ve talked about this. Have you eaten at all?”

The familiar sound of their boyfriend’s reprimanding voice was nearly like a trigger at this point for Bee, not out of fear, but out of the daunting realization that they failed him. Like they let him down, something that seemed to be happening more as of late. They had been neglecting not only their health, but their basic needs—food, water, sunlight, activity. At first, Bee explained it was simply a lapse in their depression recovery, a simple slip of their over-active and always busy mind. But one week quickly became two. Then three. Then a month.

Then three more.

Without their permission, Bee could feel their eyes beginning to mist all over again, the feeling of their eyelashes wetting themselves in preparation for the waterworks syncing with the slow flare of their nose. In the back of their mind, all they could think about was how Miguel deserved a partner who took care of themselves, like him. Someone who was disciplined, like him.

“Bee?”

Fearless, like him. Dedicated, regulated, strict like him.

There’s a rustle behind them just as the frame of Miguel’s hand catches their peripheral vision, followed by the warmth of his skin on their own before their head slowly guided itself back towards reality—to him. His tired yet affectionate eyes, his messy curly hair, simply him. “Dime.” His Spanish accent was like a cooling balm, soothing an ache that only he could sense from a mile away. “Habláme.”

A single wet tear made it’s way down Bee’s cheek at his heartfelt request, their bottom lip already trembling while they watched Miguel’s eyes widen through the fog of their watery tears. “I’m sorry.” A broken whisper filled the air just as the shadow of Miguels broad shoulders slowly overcame the remaining light on Bee’s body, the fat of his thumb already in motion to wipe away any sadness from their eyes. “I d-didn’t want you t-to know.” Bee admitted softly, never breaking his gaze with them. “I…I didn’t want to let you down.”

Let him down? Had he known they’d been struggling like this, had they let him help—

Miguel let out a heavy sigh, the heat of his breath brushing against Bee’s forehead while he shook his head in disagreement. “You didn’t disappoint me.” He softly reassured, watching as another tear slipped down their skin. “You scared me. You scared me today, and you’ve been scaring me.”

Bee’s eyes fluttered open at his confession, their gazes connecting as Miguel continued on. “You think I haven’t noticed you losing weight?” He asked quietly, the grip he held on their cheek tightening while a flashback of the past few months flickered through his mind like a haunting reminder. Bee had always been on the plumpier side—something he’d never complain about, if anything he loved it—but as of lately, they seemed…smaller. And not in the good way. Their face appeared more sunken in, their warm mahogany skin had been paler than usual, not to mention the slight muscle they did have in their arms and legs had been reduced to mush. The Bee he once knew and fell in love with was withering right before his eyes. “You think I haven’t picked up on the fact that everytime we go out for dinner, you pick at your plate?” Miguel pushed further, bringing his face closer to theirs. “Or that unless you’re with me, or with your friends, you barely leave this house?”

Each point made Bee’s eyes water even more, they hadn’t realized just how obvious their downfall had been. When you’re stuck in the same place, the same mindset, the world around you just moves. With, or without your permission. And perhaps, secretly, Bee had been hoping that nobody would notice, or that nobody would say anything.

But Miguel noticed everything. And he couldn’t not say anything.

At the sight of their growing tears, Miguel did what he always did best. “Shhh, shh, shh.” He softly cooed, wiping the wrinkles of his lover’s eyes dry as they babbled away weak apologies, mumbles of how they didn’t mean to disappoint him (again), or how they would do better at taking care of themselves. But every sobbed word went one ear and out the other, because this wasn’t about making him proud or even meeting whatever expectation Bee had created in their vast imagination. No, none of that mattered to him as his head leaned down, his cold lips pressing an affirming kiss to the crown of Bee’s scalp as he whispered a Spanish endearment into their hair. “No me importa que me hagas sentir orgulloso, me preocupo por ti, idiota.”

“Hey!” Bee squealed as they reached a single hand up to his cheek, their weak fingers slightly pinching the skin as a soft smile bloomed over Miguel’s lips. “I’m not an ‘idiota’!”

The already widening smile stretches farther at his lovers’ butchered pronunciation of the Spanish word, a broken snort escaping from the back of his throat from just how Americanized and country it sounded. “I thought you said you didn’t know Spanish?” Miguel lightly teased, earning himself another light pinch on his captured cheek. “¡Ay!”

“I said I know certain—“ In the middle of the much deserved rebuttal, another harsh cough mixed with a hack interrupted the playful moment, with Bee turning away in an effort not to spray their boyfriend in their infected breath as a slew of mucus rolled up from their clogged lungs. “Hack—!”

Miguel winced at the disgusting sound, jerking back his body slightly before he shook his head back and forth with a sigh. “You’re lucky we live in a city that never sleeps.” He commented with a roll of his eyes, before harping his focus on their closet from across the room. “Do you have any of my old shirts in your closet?”

Bee cleared their throat, trying to ensure they could speak properly without getting cut off again. “M-Maybe…why?”

“So I can dress you.” Their boyfriend replied nonchalantly, gesturing his hands at their body while his eyes made sure to focus on a different spot in the space. “I want to make you feel better. And I can’t do that if you’re…not…dressed.”

Oh. Right.

Suddenly aware of their nakedness, Bee had no choice but to slowly turn to the side in an attempt to shield their body from his gaze, although it was never on them to begin with because Miguel would rather die than to have the acknowledgement that he was ogling his naked partner—especially since they both made the promise to take their relationship slow. Well, for now, at least. “O-Oh.” They mumbled out, before their knees jerked inwards just as a sudden sneeze shot throughout them. “Choo!”

“Yeah…maybe you should take off school until you feel better.” Miguel commented before making his way towards their closet, stepping over piles of blankets and clothes as he did. “I’m gonna try and find something you can wear, then we’re making sure we get you some proper medicine.”

May 12th, 20XX. The Village at Alchemax University, Apartment 2901, 5:25AM

Finally, after what felt like forever, Miguel got Bee situated enough to where one, he could touch them without recoiling back in embarrassed shame and two, to where they might actually be able to get some rest while the couple waited for the DoorDash driver Miguel ordered to get there with Bee’s medication. Naturally, as a man studying genetics and biomedical procedures, Miguel made it his mission to get an entire laundry list of medicine that he deemed were necessary; ibuprofen, Mucinex, benadryl, cough syrup, cough drops, a humidifier—

“Miguel,” Bee quietly complained as they sat sideways in the larger mans lap, his thick arms wrapped around the plushness of their frame while his phone stayed gripped in his hands. The thickness of their thighs remained squished together and pressed into his side while his stretched out on the length of their mattress, tucked comfortably underneath the covers like he was the one going to sleep soon instead of Bee. “That was too much.”

If, the driver, Julius—no doubt some random student making money on the side—got here on time. One look at the driver estimate time and Miguel knew he would probably end up spending the night, and consequently the day, here with Bee.

Again. Julius was still thirty minutes away, and by the time he got here it would be nearly six in the morning. But it was fine, one part of his brain told him, it’s only five classes. He could make up five classes worth of work, he was already ahead in half of them anyway. “You didn’t have any medicine.” Miguel rebutted against Bee’s objection to the cost of the tab, turning his phone off with a single click before he placed it in the sheets where it was no longer visible. “Which, you and I need to talk about.”

Uh oh. Bee could tell that tone from anywhere. The one that screamed ‘You’re in trouble’. And usually, their body would be having the opposite effect right about now; their heartbeat would pick up, their skin would flush, a hasty ‘Oh, yeah?’ Would already be slipping out of their lips, but unfortunately it wasn’t. Simply for the fact that sexy flirtation wasn’t possible when you constantly felt like you were on a rollercoaster of death.

Their eyes slowly rolled from his hands towards his red shirt, taking their sweet time to admire how the fabric stretched across the mass of his pecs—

A thick hand interrupted their ogling with a swift tilt of their jaw, forcing Bee’s head to tilt back and look him directly in the eye. “Don’t avoid this conversation.” Miguel lowly warned, the corner of his eye twitching along with his words. “How long have you gone without any medication in your cabinets, hmm?”

If they weren’t sick, the things they’d do.

Bee’s cheeks flushed involuntarily, already trying to tilt their cheek away in an effort to escape his alluring gaze. Something that they adored—and simultaneously hated—was Miguel’s eye contact game. At first, they thought that he, for whatever reason, really liked to admire them but the longer they were with each other, the more Bee realized that was simply his nature. Miguel held eye contact with everyone for an uncomfortable period of time, he admired and analyzed life like one would a paper. Interested, intrigued, yet a little critical.

And they should’ve known escape would be a task too tall to order, because Miguel’s fingers made sure to keep a tight enough grip to where they couldn't turn nor look away from the stare he bore into their soul. “Don’t run.” He hummed, restraining a chuckle beneath his breath as he saw the darkening color on Bee’s cheeks. “Oh, it’s my voice again, huh?”

”Knock it off!” Bee squealed in his arms, using their shaking hands to push away his face while they tried to bury their own into the meat of his palm. “You know I hate it when you do that!”

Miguel rolled his eyes with a snort, nuzzling his nose against their skin. “So much rage, for someone who still hasn’t answered my question.” He commented sarcastically, watching Bee’s face slowly tilt back to his own. “I’ve never seen someone filled with so much hatred.”

“You’re not funny!” Bee argued, sticking out their tongue at him. “And I’m a herbalist! Modern medicine is designed to keep us—hack—“

”Aaaaand, thats enough talking.” Miguel declared, pulling Bee’s face back to his chest with after he ensured no spit got on his palm. “You need to save your voice before you lose it. Plus, it’s getting late.” He added, leaning his head back against Bee’s headboard. “You need your rest.”

Rest. As if they could get any rest. Bee rolled their eyes, yet despite their slight attitude they still allowed their body to melt in his embrace. “I c-cant sleep.” They revealed with a small grunt. “I…I haven’t been able to…not at all this week.”

Ah. That would explain the excessive bags under their eyes.

The sigh Miguel let out could’ve blown down houses in another lifetime, the air instead blowing up into Bee’s black mesh bed curtains as he contemplated ideas that could’ve aided his loving partner to slumber.

So he could swiftly follow, until the DoorDash came at least. Shit, he was tired too.

But Bee was hard to make fall asleep. They would jolt awake randomly during the last few ‘sleepovers’ the two had together, or stay up for hours at a time with very little rest in between and even tinier chances of genuine rest. Miguel had tried everything in the book to help Bee fall asleep in the past—massage, warm milk, playing with their hair, ASMR—but one stood out amongst the rest.

Hopefully his voice wasn’t too tired to perform.

”Honey?” Miguel softly called out, the sugary sweet pet name immediately rewarding him with an equally sweetened tone from the exhausted beauty in his arms.

“Yes, Miggy?” Bee answered lovingly, their cheek still pressed to his pec.

“Close your eyes.” The tone of one of their favorite songs started off scratchy, with Miguel’s voice slightly breaking at the high pitch but it didn’t matter. He was determined to see his plan through. ”Have no fear.”

Bee quickly went silent, the sound of their voice being replaced with soft, amazed gasps. Collectively on one occasion have they had the opportunity to hear him sing, and even then it was beautiful. But at night, when it was a melody curated just for them? He might as well said ‘I love you’.

”The monsters gone, he’s on the run,” Miguel continued, using his free arm to loop under Bee’s thighs and pull them closer. “And your Miggy’s here.”

Bee’s hands flew to Miguels chest just as the motion their soft body collided with his muscles, another embarrassed squeal already leaving their lips from the surprising jerk. ”Miguel!” They complained, sliding their hands up to his face to prevent him from leaning in again. “I’m still sick!”

“I don't care, don't ruin my lullaby.” A series of quick peck presses against the crown of their head again as his forehead nudged past their palm, continuing on with his lovesick singing. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful—“

”Miguel!”

”Go to sleep, Bee.” Miguel continued. “Or else I’ll keep singing.”

”But the medicine—“

”I’ll worry about the medicine. You worry about going to bed.”

And he sells to the preppy goody-two-shoes OC and she makes him want to quit selling and go back to high school to get his GED.