#o mutuals

[obsolescent]

I lovee all are of the dust a lot (I reread it for this and it hit me just as much!!) so I would LOVE to hear what u thought while writing it🥰 especially this part bc AAA

Oh lord Em…. The way I just dropped to my knees reading what I wrote again… Sit down and get comfortable 🛋️

The soul of Ethel Cain reached into the depths of my being and wrenched All Are of The Dust out of me while I was listening to this song of her’s (specifically the second half of the song)

The lines “Please, don't love how I need you / And know that one day, you and I could be okay,” are ones that resonate throughout this.

I was like let me try my hand at writing angst, let me dip my toes in. At first, like you with 505, I had become uninspired with it before I had even wrote anything down. But I sat and dug through my mind, and motivation struck with the Preacher’s Daughter album.

Southern gothic imagery galore, it’s what I had been envisioning for this piece. I was like, this is what I needed! So I thought of this world, where you and Leon had grown up together, the trailer park not too far from the orphanage, inseparable in and outside of school, twin flames who found one another so early in life and refuse to be separated.

This was also meant to be for someone who is trans in some way, hence the part where he suggests moving to a bigger city, that you would find more people like yourself. I did leave it ambiguous though, but that’s the theme that’s interlaced with the story. He knows how hard it was for you growing up, and having been there the whole time and being your favorite listener, he knows you best. He wants you to flourish and knows you’ve been hindered by your childhood.

As a child, he knew there wasn’t much he could do to keep you safe from adults, their words like the worst paper cut to skin. Especially from a so called “loved one” who was supposed to have been someone who rallied behind you, not join the opposing party. Leon intends to make good on his word and keep his promise, if you’ll let him.

He wants to save you from that god forsaken town, leave it all behind and start anew. He never wants you away from his side for long, but he also knows just how scared you are, how terrifying change can be to someone, having to go through it when he lost his parents at such a young age. You, on the other hand, also know that if you agree to leave, finding yourself in a new place, the independence you had gained would vanish. No familiar buildings or signs nor faces, regardless of how rude they could be. You having to depend on someone once more, no matter how much they mean to you, has you digging your nails into your palms enough to draw blood, a scream bubbling up inside.

Leon would never push you into something that you’re not completely behind, so he’ll let you make your decision on your own. He knows you need time to mull it over, let you have your time with your thoughts. Though, he feels unsettled by the feeling that’s stirring in his gut, for the one answer he dreads to hear.

I do have it to where there’s two ways this can end. I won’t go much into detail here for the fact that I have much planned for it, but this really did inspire me to pick this story back up.

Thank you, Em, for wanting to hear my rambling and wanting an analysis on my work, we both share in the brain rot that is Leon Kennedy 🧡🤝🤍

[a-pickle-jar]

[obsolescent]

🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

JSGSHSSGS ROSE

A small peck 😌 mwah

I love when you find an author who just has a good flavor to their writing. It could be the way they handle characters, the way they use certain tropes or themes, even the specific lilt of their words. Its familiar and comforting and carries across different stories, like coming back to a place of comfort and recognizing the furniture.

[pandebunuelo]

but if he knows that you know that you know that he knows that he knows that you know that you

[karisomk]

I really like how mutuals and strangers are just like:

Yes. Keep going. I will not be out boop'd.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 11)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 10, Part 12

summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)

a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

cracks in clay, poured over

Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room. 

She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans. 

There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe. 

Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.

It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand. 

Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.

The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say. 

He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue. 

He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…

Cold.

You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.

“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.

He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours. 

“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”

When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.

“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.

“Nothin’” 

His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.

“You're a fat fucking liar.” 

Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it. 

There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…? 

Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.

Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.

He frowns. 

“I think I'm happy.” 

…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.

“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.

“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead. 

“Different?”

You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth. 

In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.

“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–

“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.

His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances. 

He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.

You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.

“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.” 

Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.

Maybe we could've been more.

~~~

He’s an idiot, you think.

“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples. 

“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”

For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up. 

“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.

“You look like shit–”

You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”

“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”

“I do not.”

“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”

You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.

Wait. How did he know you had—

“Took you long enough.” 

He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.

Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely. 

There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.

[Sent: 15:32]

Are you guys still on for tonight?

[Received: 15:32]

👍👍

[Sent: 15:3]

Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?

[Sent: 15:32]

👍👍

“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”

You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.

His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.

“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”

When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile. 

“You hungry?” He asks.

“Starving.” You say with a grin.

~~~

You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.

Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?

You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.

“It’s– Pete, it’s–”

More jumbled words from the phone.

“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”

He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood  after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet? 

A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun. 

You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in!”

Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.

“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”

You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.

“Did you want something?”

When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.

“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”

“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.

“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”

“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile

“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.” 

Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...” 

“But?”

“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”

“I can keep you company.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”

“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”

He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw - 

“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.

“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.

With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over. 

“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”

~~~

The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…

The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.

The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.

“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”

Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights. 

“It's okay, Em.” 

Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname. 

“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”

Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.

“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.

“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.

“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.

“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour. 

Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think. 

She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.

“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”

“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.

She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.

“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.

“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl. 

You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”

“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?

“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”

And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere. 

There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.

She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again. 

Clatter.

“One more time, sweetheart,”

Clang. 

“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”

Thunk. You've got an idea.

“She’s not going to eat, Mig.” 

He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater. 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

~~~

It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.

“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.

“What do you mean, you know a place?”

You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.

“The park on 10th?”

“Nope.”

“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”

“Nope.”

“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.

“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”

Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.

“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”

“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”

~~~ 

The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.

But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub. 

He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint. 

There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big. 

Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.

“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed. 

May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.

You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.

The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.

May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.

He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.

“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck. 

“How do you have access to this place?”

“I know a guy.”

“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?

“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”

Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.

You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket. 

We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own. 

“Mig?” 

Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes. 

“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.

“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.

“Just fine, sweetheart.”

“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”

You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.

“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”

Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.

Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines. 

“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”

Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.

“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.

“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.

“I was only a janitor, Mig.”

“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”

You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look. 

“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires. 

“Her name's May.” He grunts.

“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”

“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”

Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.

A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?” 

She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.

“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”

“Sure, but what about–”

“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”

Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.

But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore. 

“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”

He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.

The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.

“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.

“I… I know.”

“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”

He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”

“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”

“Something like that.” He grunts.

“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.

“I was 17 - so, no.”

“Ouch.”

Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.

“Do you still work with them?”

“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”

“I meant Alchemax.”

They snort. “We went our separate ways.” 

Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…

Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.

Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.

“What exactly do you do?”

“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”

Liv gives him a blank expression.

“So you're young.”

“I guess.”

“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”

His jaw shifts.

“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.” 

They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.

“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”

Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on. 

“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights. 

“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”

“I–We are saving the world.”

He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.

He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.

Hypothesis.

“If this a personal gripe–” 

“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”

“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis. 

Observation.

A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.

“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”

And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.

Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.

Analysis.

He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones: 

Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara. 

Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara. 

We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.  

But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?

A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.

And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?

You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.

“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.

“Come look, come look!”

He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.

“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”

“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”

He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.

Pity.

_

_

_

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[obsolescent]

AHHHHHHHH ROSE!!!??!!!

THANK YOU SOSOSO MUCH 😫

I LOVED THIS!!!!

Ethan is so UGH he’s my favorite 😭🫶🏻

⦑ 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝? ⦒✶.*

pairing(s): ethan winters x afab gn reader synopsis: ethan can't sleep again. as his doting partner, you reach under the sheets, giving him temporary solace to his nightmares at the village. content: smut 18+ only mdni, soft dom ethan, hand & finger kink, sensual, oral (m! receiving), deepthroat, finger fucking, body worship, pet names, hurt/comfort, events in re8, mentions of trauma, nightmares, scars, stitches & prosthetics. a/n: belated birthday gift to @obsolescent, one of my favourite people on this app! sorry this took so long! ! even if its not your bday anymore, hope you still had a good night lovely! enjoy! also inspired by this art of ethan. « 2.2 k words┇masterlist┇ao3┇reblogs appreciated! »

It all started from a little small talk, quiet reassurances of ‘how was your day’ shared intimately under the privacy of the moonlight and each other’s eyes until both of you drift into slumber. The bed, in which you rest together when night falls. Two bedside tables, lived in, and for a moment, a sense of normality has returned.

Ethan was restless in his sleep—a side effect from full-day’s work of software debugs and upgrades that he maintains on the daily. Or perhaps, something more. Something that happened in the village that he spends every minute trying to forget. And despite the passing of seasons, the memory lingers like persistent heat.

His hand fidgets under the covers, shifting fingers up and down in desperation to find yours, as if you might disappear, kidnapped by the shadows of his nightmares and he’s back there again, finding missing flasks, patching you together piece by piece like a detached puzzle. But what he’s actually looking for are parts of himself, that seem to still sit underneath the crumble and debris of the buried village.

“R-Ro…” Ethan’s voice hitches out—frantic, weak.

Through muffled strings of your sleepy breath, you rummage under the sheets to find his hand.

“My dear… It’s me. I’m here.” You turn around to lean into the column between his neck and shoulders, made perfect for you. The moment your hands meet, Ethan clasps them tightly, before relieving, loosening in your reassurance. “You’re okay now. Rose is okay.”

Ethan’s eyes open lightly and just like you promised, Rose is in the cot by your side, gentle baby's breath floating through the air. He brings you closer to his chest, just to nestle into your warmth as he peppers kisses on the crown of your head.

“Did you sleep?” You coo, hands running up his naked torso just to feel them against you.

“A little. I’ll go back to sleep soon. Just need a second.” His chest heaves in front of you, and from what you know about Ethan, his quickened heartbeat will only take a while for him to calm down.

You look up to see him, and find that his eyes are wide awake, simply staring at the ceiling, as if counting sheep to hypnotise him back to sleep. Through lidded eyes, Ethan sees you; and smiles at how you look. His hands move unthinkingly, bringing them to your face before he even realises he’s caressing it, sending a gentle shiver of warmth through your spine.

“Ah.” Ethan puts his hand in the air to stop him, chuckling bashfully. “Sorry for keeping you up. Get some sleep. You have work tomorrow.”

“I’m awake now.” You grumble, catching his hand in the air back to your face, like a toy stolen from a child. You press his hand on your cheek, keeping him there, which Ethan has no problems with.

His hands are different now, you thought as you run your fingers down his hand, feeling every stitch, bump, and rough texture that ran along the back of his palms before hitting you with the cold knuckle of his metal prosthetic fingers along where his ring and pinky finger should have been.

What used to be the compliment getter for Ethan, through the bruise and burns had lost its natural shine, not even his superhuman healing speed is immune to the scars. But to you, the rugginess simply enhances his beauty. Stitches tracing like a map to a treasure, red patches of scar like cherry kisses gracing along the soft plush of his palms. You love it all.

Those are proof of Ethan's survival—That was all you wanted. To hear and feel his presence in the mundane. Side by side with the man you love. But to him, he lost something that day. A part of his soul ripped apart, still underneath the crumble and debris of that buried village.

“Do you need help sleeping?” Your half-lidded eyes can’t obscure your devilish glint in your eyes, hand rustling underneath the sheet, obscure him from the view of what you’re about to do to him. His eyes meet yours, staring right back in disbelief, but simultaneously unable to resist what you have to offer for him in this quiet night.

“Now?” He seems to be genuinely considering the idea. “What if Rose wakes up?”

“She won't if you keep quiet.” You bring his hand to your lips to pepper kisses on his hands, slowing as you’re licking the length of each finger. The pain goes away, replaced by lust, but only ever so slightly.

“Can you do that for me?” You pause, waiting for his answer, and he nods surely. “Good boy.”

Wasting no time to help to get comfortable, you dive your head under the covers just to resurface as a lump under the sheet. Ethan clears his throat in anticipation as you tuck your fingers into boxers, removing just enough for his cock to spring up and meet you in the face.

You run your tongue at the tip of his crest, swirling in small circles to tease his precum out of him, in which he squirms, pushing in his legs slightly before relaxing. It was difficult to see where you are in the darkness of the sheets, but you make do, finding where his crest meets his shaft and following it down the rest of his dick to find the prominent vein on the underside of his cock.

When his cock is wet enough to your liking, you meet his tip with the soft seam of your lips, taking his length inch and inch at a time as you tongue around his hardening cock. A low grunt escapes his lips, and you can hear his thoughts fading him as you play with him some more.

He places his hand on your head, blood surging down his body, not quite wanting to hurt you, or accidentally snag on your hair to make it painful.

That’s who your husband is, even when he’s enjoying, he would never want to hurt you. Or at least tries not to.

“O-Oh... m’ god, so fuckin’ goo- Nnh.” That is your cue to move in deeper, hopefully to catch him between words and leave him hitching his breath as you finish him under your nose. Your tongue clashes against his dick that only fills your mouth, eventually leaving no room for your tongue to explore him. The bobs of your head become more messy and difficult, and his whimpers only make you even more excited.

“L-Let m’ see you, babe.” Ethan stifles the words out, lifting the covers up, and you’re embraced by the light of the bedside lamp. A glimpse of Ethan’s silhouette and his round beady eyes staring right into your position that exposes you and the hunger you have for him.

With you now able to see, you catch how his eyes snap shut, brows twist in, feeling every single pulse climbing through his body. His hand that rests on your head grows tighter, one that is neither rough or gentle, just a reassurance and consolance of what you are going through. You feel yourself pooling from how lewd it all sounds.

“Fuck, how did I get married to someone like you?” Ethan whines, bumping his head into the headboard behind with a light thump, but he doesn’t care. You are right in front of him, and he’s taking in the sight of you in with every glimpse of attention he can offer.

The tip of the dick is at the back of your throat. Only now you feel the gag reflex—but you shut your eyes tightly, holding in a little longer until the feeling surely goes away. This is when you feel his hips jerk up against you, thighs widening to welcome you as he whimpers bitten pieces of your name until his spine shakes from the fervour of affection you have been pouring into him.

“G-Get off… I’m fuckin’ gon-gonna…” Ethan’s raspy groan erupts through the room, melodious to you, as his hand struggles to push you off, made weak for any movement from how your skilled lips have treated him.

Ethan falls back to the sheets, with one final grunt, unloads himself directly onto your tongue. And you accept, letting your sore jawline hang wide to receive the fruits of your labour. His hand untenses from your head, abandon to the side of him in order to recollect his thoughts.

You reach over the bedside table to retrieve the tissue box in order to spit out his cum for disposal. You roll back to your side of the bed, checking at Rose's slumber, and when you did you bring the sheets upwards, preparing for your sleep.

“Good night, Ethan.” Are your final words creeping a yawn before turning the lamp off.

Ethan pauses to catch his breath for a moment, then wraps his hands around you, coaxing warm kisses into your neck: “How’d you expect I sleep without tasting you first?”

“I’m on morning shift tomorrow. Need my eight hours.”

“You sure?” There it was. That sweet voice lined with a hint of mischievous tone. The one you can’t resist.

“I’m very sure.” You don’t hesitate, because you know it will give yourself an opening.

He runs his hand up your belly, slightly exposed from your lifted shirt, pressing strokes that almost feels like a massage. Ethan seems to know where to touch you every time to untense you. “By the time I’m done, you’ll sleep like a baby.”

You can be convinced. You can be convinced very much. Especially with how he reaches down to tease you, and knows how your body betrays mind, with how you have wet a patch in your underwear.

“Not very honest, aren’t you?” Ethan lets out an amused grin, as if returning the favour of what you’ve done to him at his barely awake state. “You’ll still get your eight hours. I’ll make you come in five minutes. Guarantee it.”

You roll your eyes and wave at him to go ahead, but secretly, your clit is pulsing at his forwardness, increasingly eager to let him please you. In which Ethan helps himself, running a teasing finger up the length of your cunt just to stop at your clit, swirling lazy circles which only earn a groan from you that Ethan has been desperate to hear all night.

“Etha-an… Hnng… B-Babe…” The feeling run into your veins, growing in need, knotting itself low in your stomach. He delivers as he promises with only his nimble fingers, through slick and slurp, explores the depths of you, finding the spot you desire with skilful ease. You let out a soft moan, closing your eyes to feel him filling you with his fingers alone, and encourages him to continue.

He spreads you, adding his second finger now, the cold metal of his ring finger, lacing them on the length of your cunt with practiced ease. The contrast between cold and warm only excites you more. Ethan dotes on your sweet voice, slipping the two curled fingers in and out through a perfect angle that pushes a muffled groan between clenched teeth.

“God, baby.” He takes that as a sign to continue faster and harder, jamming his fingers until the sound of your slick permeates the air, every muscle clenching at him. “You like it when my finger fucks you, huh?”

You let the sensation continue, allow yourself to completely give away control to the man you love. Let him take care of you, like you always do to him. Ethan is merely returning the favour. A slight pain enters through his sensitive finger that still aches from a past wound, in which he winces, and you catch on almost immediately.

“Y-Your hand…”

“Shh… Just be quiet and feel good.” He smiles, not intending to stop anytime soon. Ethan quickens his pace, before you start squeezing into his fingers, demanding urgency, speed through how your thighs close in, as if that would allow more friction on your naked skin.

You open your eyes now, and all you see is sincerity in his eyes, fixed upon you this whole time to make sure you are indeed enjoying what he’s doing to you. And somehow, that is the one action that tips you over the edge, rippling high moans through the back of your throat as you chase your own high directly between his fingers.

“Wow.” Ethan whistles, a bemused grin hanging by his lips as he feels your juices release, spilling on his fingers. “You came so much.”

Ethan brings his fingers up his lips, admiring his handiwork, dripped in your sweet juices, before putting them into his mouth. He runs his tongue around the sides of his slender fingers, savouring every part of his reward.

“Heh. Told you I just need five minutes.”

“That was ten minutes, Mr. Winters.”

“Maybe I can beat my record?” Ethan winks, quite terribly, frankly, and despite how his silly charms would normally convince you, this time, you are functioning with five hours of sleep.

“Don’t even try, Ethan.” He shrugs, slightly defeated, as he joins you into the cosy embrace of your shared bed.

...

“In the morning?”

“Are you serious right now, Ethan?”

thanks for reading! come check out my other works. —yours truly, rose. god i'm so feral for him, every night i'm plagued by the thoughts of ethan cradling me to sleep and whispering into my ear (yes this is a marriage proposal). tags: @valsthea @httpsuguru @emilzke @daydreamrot @navstuffs @j3llyd0nut @ovaryacted @obsolescent © roseglazedlens — please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai.

[trans-androgyne]

Hey man, I don’t think you should reblog from spacelazarwolf. He’s a genocide supporter and having people like him in the community gives people amazing ammunition to use against people who believe in transandrophobia.

People have made many accusations against avi to me and upon looking into them not a single one has been true. He's been being called a zionist since way before he said anything about i/p on the basis of him being jewish alone. He has a long post in his F.A.Q. about how he isn't a zionist and doesn't support the israeli government, put up only because people wouldn't leave him alone about it, and he still gets these accusations anyway. He literally doesn't even believe in states as a concept. If someone has genuine evidence that anyone in transandrophobia conversations actually supports the genocide or denies that it is one, feel free to share. But right now, there are tons of antisemitic accusations being thrown at jewish bloggers around here and I'm not going to just believe everything I'm told.

[obsolescent]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love!

Tagged by @burningcoffeetimetravel, thank you for the tag!! This seems like so much fun, but I also feel bad for having to choose lol

All Are of The Dust - Leon S. Kennedy x Reader, this one was the first one I wrote that was going to have two different endings!!

The Darkness and the Light - Jill Valentine x Reader, who doesn’t love a good vampire fic?

bad idea right? - Leon S. Kennedy x Reader (18+), god I had so much fun writing this one

Southern Charm - Ethan Winters x Reader, one that’s very personal to me and I’m so excited to finish it!!!

The Necessity of Saints - Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader (part 2 is 18+), I love how I wrote Simon in this ♡

No pressure tags: @roseglazedlens, @emilzke, @neondogs, @scar-crossedlvrs, @valsthea

[pawbeanies]

people dont even have comically explosive nose bleeds when they see someone sexy anymore. we used to be a society

[obsolescent]

DANA!!!!!!!!!!

RAHHH I LOVED THIS SO MUCH!!!!! So so so good 😩

My rough edges, your soft waves

Leon S. Kennedy x Gn!Reader

2.3k words. Also on ao3.

Kneeling between your legs, biting the flesh of your thighs, touching, his eyes mesmerised by the way your fat moves and undulates with every touch of his. He resembles an artist toying with his paint palette, about to dive into a sweet act of creation, of love. His fingertips crawl on your thighs, and he stares, fascinated like the first time, how your skin sinks and then returns to its normal shape. A sea that doesn’t stay quiet, moves with every breath.

Leon has finally found his other half: someone soft enough to handle his rough edges. Or the fic in which Leon is too crazy about his curvy partner and gets horny.

What can I say, us curvy/chubby people need more self indulgent fics. @delphi-shield made sure this was decent. @lightning-hawke and @obsolescent, tagging you in case you wanna check it out (tho no pressure, I mean it!) Content: No use of y/n, fluff, established relationship, had older Leon in mind. So an unspecified age gap. Reader is shorter than Leon. He is not that good with his words but he is good with his tongue (pun intended). Pet names, compliments. Warnings: +18 cos smut (though not that explicit). Oral sex, penetration. Minors and ageless blogs do not interact. Leon is a bit insecure but he is so in love it hurts.

Leon kisses your forehead once more, your sleepy body on top of his. He sighs, breathing slowly, his heart calm. The movie keeps playing on the TV, the screen slightly illuminating the living-room, yet you don’t care about the plot anymore. You press your cheek against his neck, closing your eyes.

“You’re comfy.”

“I thought that was an understatement already.” You don’t need to look up at him to know that he is smirking. He is not usually this overly confident, but he’s gotten a bit cocky since you’ve started dating. Something about the presence of someone else, a warm body, a sugary-sweet voice telling him that he is worthy, that he matters, that he is pretty and strong and brave and that he is enough.

You could say something back, try to add a witty remark, but you let out a huff, closing your eyes.

“It is midnight, baby,” you remind him. “It’s late enough for me to be sleepy, after all.”

Leon softens at that. Lies down more comfortably on the couch, making sure not to disturb you. His precious little angel, precious little soul. He kisses your cheek then.

Leon wants to say something, conjure up a nice compliment in his head, let it spill from his mouth, since the sight of you on top of him makes him a little dizzy still. Clothed or naked, both times holding an air of dominance against him.

You notice his heart pick up, caressing the skin of his chest by gently grazing his t-shirt.

“Someone is… having thoughts?” You look up, finally. The tender eyes, the smirk now on your face.

“I’m not,” he says. "Are you?” He contemplates, voice raspy, though he knows the fight is lost. Gosh, he still feels silly whenever you read him so easily. It may be a good thing, though, since he still struggles to verbalise things. Prefers to let thoughts linger, to crack a joke or simply let his body talk for him.

“You’re blushing, Leon.” He shakes his head, moves one of his hands to rest on your butt, patting it as if admitting defeat. And it’s true. The glimmer from the screen, the credits already rolling allow you to see his cheeks get pinker. “Cute,” you add, moving to sit on his lap, cupping his cheek quickly, pulling it too before he can even react.

“Very funny,” he says, rubbing his cheek, his other hand bringing you closer to his chest. “You know,” he begins then, blue gaze all tender. Melting inside. “You are like… a teddy bear,” he sighs in an attempt to compliment you. Something about feeling comforted by you, by sleeping peacefully beside you.

You frown, confusion drawing on your face. “Because I am smaller than you and you like sleeping with me?” Comes your cheeky reply.

Leon laughs. Pure joy emanating from his chest, glistening sound caressing your heart as he pulls you closer into him, forcing you to lie on his chest once more.

“So, are my clever remarks contagious, love?” he says, his hand grazing your back, giggling still.

“Nah, I think it’s the other way around.” You touch his arm, trace patterns on his skin as you yawn. “I am influencing you. Probably making you all witty and shit.”

“Just witty?” He inquires, his tone slightly suggestive, taking your face in his hand and kissing your jaw. His stubble makes you tickle.

“Ugh. Nasty old man,” you giggle and he holds you closer, his arm around your body, his hand grabbing at your fleshy hip.

“I’m not. I just like you,” he explains, diving his head between the crook of your neck and your head.

But it’s more than liking. And you both know it. Leon is just not very good at organising the immensity of what he feels for you, the depth which feels so calm and home-like.

He closes his eyes. For a while, you stay in silence. His eager hands grab your hips harder, toy with the flesh as he presses another lazy kiss to your jaw. You bury a sigh into his skin, smiling. God, he could melt like this. Warm, comfortable soul, shining as bright as a sun when you’re close to him, when he kneads his fingertips under your t-shirt to feel you. The reminder that you’re real. Not going anywhere.

His hands grip you harder, and he groans then.

“Leon,” you mewl. It’s not a warning or a complaint. More of a question. Perhaps even a suggestion. He chuckles, opens his eyes to meet your sleepy gaze and your smirk. “You don’t need to grab me like that… No one is stealing me…”

“I am, actually,” He huffs. “Stealing your heart,” Leon adds, burrowing his face against your chest, trying to kiss and get through your skin, enter your chest, tuck himself between your heart and your lungs. Close, too close.

You giggle and hold him, arms around his head, fingertips drawing on his nape. Hope to maybe calm his overactive self this time, knowing that he will probably wake up in the morning and complain about not getting enough sleep, eyebags on his face, yet when he looks at you his mouth keeps a perpetual dumb smile. But this time he keeps on kissing, riding your t-shirt up until you gasp. His mouth on your skin, biting, licking gently as his hands caress your hips, keep you on his arms.

“Leon…” you whine, getting flustered, kneading on his hair as if he was a kitten. His touch inviting, igniting a fire within you.

“Sorry… You’re just too hot,” he replies, mouth busy as he captures one of your nipples between his lips. His voice is raspy, lower than usual. Brain hazy, and all his senses in overdrive. “So fucking gorgeous and soft and mine…” Leon caresses your stomach, not an inch is left untouched as he keeps on kissing you through rugged breaths.

Truly, he is obsessed with you. Obsessed with your body. Since the moment he met you he was fascinated. He’d look at himself in the mirror, his body slimmer, muscle over muscle, scars and the passage of time on his skin, and he would imagine you beside him. He could drool at the image of your belly, feel himself blush when thinking about your pretty cheeks. But he would also stroke himself dry and until his tip hurt just thinking of your hips, your fat thighs and the flesh of your arms. God, he was so attracted to you. So round, soft, pliant, so unlike him. Not tainted by violence. Warmer, younger.

More alive. A starry hope for him.

The first time you two slept together Leon spent an ungodly amount of time in foreplay… Kissing, gripping, moaning between your legs. Sweet praise and saliva spilling from his mouth.

And when he finally entered you, made himself at home inside you, he would not stop whimpering. Needy hips thrusting quickly, groaning, his hands locked to your hips. He didn’t tell you, but the sight of your soft thighs and tummy dancing to his thrusts tipped him over the edge, the idea of him being so capable of shaping you to his desires, his dick able to sculpt your flesh into the nicest shapes. Tenderness, home among the hard edges he was used to handling. Leon came too early, and apologised profusely afterwards, making sure to get you to sit on his face before the night ended, getting you off too enthusiastically, his hands never leaving your hips and stomach as your thighs framed his pretty face. He felt in heaven.

And you’d never felt so desired.

That feeling has remained, not just in bed, but it’s found you in every moment beside him. Acts of service are common with him: he’s learning your favourite recipes, he always makes the bed with a smile on his face, glad to wake up beside you once more. But it’s not just that. It’s also the way Leon lazily kisses you every morning, how he pats your butt while making your breakfast. The way he licks his lips and gets flustered at the sight of the outfit you’ve picked out for a night out with friends. The way he sighs, content, against your belly when he comes home and shyly begs to nap on top of you, how he kisses your shoulder whenever your t-shirt barely drapes over it, preaches compliments against your skin, reminds you how much he loves you.

Leon feels crazy about you. He bites your nipple harder as he pushes you down on the couch, positions himself on top of you, keeps on caressing you, groaning once more, his hands gripping your hips hard again. He needs you. Needs to cocoon himself in your sweet flesh to remind himself that the world is kind and full of love and gave him the biggest gift he could ever ask for: you.

“Mine, mine…” He seems to sing as a lullaby, or a prayer, drunk in you as he hears your moans. His mouth moves lower, bites the flesh of your tummy, cages you with his strong arms as he breathes next to your navel.

By now you feel aroused. Breathing quickly, lips quivering as you look down at him. He seems to take a moment to rest, catching his breath and you grab his face, make him look at you.

“Damn,” you giggle, caressing his cheek, and he melts completely with your touch, closes his eyes. You swear he could purr. It is funny, you think. How you make him go crazy by the mere act of your existence. Seems like the heavens decided to somehow grace you with Leon. Both your boyfriend and your guardian, so devoted to you he could kiss the floor you walk on.

It seems that the small break makes him get out of the needy trance he was in, as he smirks, nodding. “Shit, sorry.” His voice is strained but his gaze feels sweeter. “You good?” He checks, seemingly worried.

“You’re kidding me? I’m great. I just didn’t expect you to be this… horny about me.”

He smiles and kisses your hand, before letting out a sigh.

“It’s ‘cause you’re… perfect,” he explains after a moment. Leon is looking into your eyes, his corny expression blissfully drawn by the light of the commercials on TV. One of his hands lightly grips your hip and he looks down at your body again. “I like you. Like your body,” he slurs out, blushing, his thumb toying with your waistband. He licks his lips rapidly, not looking at your eyes anymore. Shy, you know he’s gotten a little shy now. Has said too much, been too straightforward. But that’s okay. You love him. Whatever he gives you, you give it back to him tenfold. “Can I…?” He begins, his thumb going lower. You nod, of course.

He is gentler this time. Slides onto the carpet next to the couch, kneels there as he tenderly gets rid of your jeans, his hands playing around your hips, descending on your thighs, grabbing calves and ankles, kissing you, moaning.

You wonder sometimes what’s on his mind in those moments. He looks focused, so concentrated. Hasn’t even touched you where you want him yet, but you let him have this. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine this as a sort of therapy for Leon. Kneeling between your legs, biting the flesh of your thighs, touching, his eyes mesmerised by the way your fat moves and undulates with every touch of his. He resembles an artist toying with his paint palette, about to dive into a sweet act of creation, of love. His fingertips crawl on your thighs, and he stares, fascinated like the first time, how your skin sinks and then returns to its normal shape. A sea that doesn’t stay quiet, moves with every breath.

Leon licks his lips again, wondering how he could put it into words. How he could explain that when he looks at you he sees the kind of life he wanted for himself. How with every sight of your hips or your arms, he remembers once more that there is something more to the tragedy that always seems to veil him. How he thinks not only that you look perfect, but that your body is a perfect representation of your inner workings, of the light you hold inside; tenderness, warmth, a blanket that surrounds him, something he can squish when his mind gets too dark, the knowledge and the relief that, even if he may be rough, too used to violence and death, he won’t hurt you: your flesh can take it, your body can take him. His fingertips can’t mark you forever, your skin won’t suffer. You’re pliable, strong in your softness, made for him.

He looks up at you, at your hazy and needy expression and he smiles before finally getting rid of that last item of clothing.

He loves you. Loves you too much.

Leon wishes he could put it into words indeed. He is not sure he would be very good at explaining it, but he has time. He will learn. Sure, he still gets flustered and words fail him, but he trusts that you will stay as he gets better at this. At loving you as deeply as possible, at not overthinking how he shows his affection.

With that confidence in mind, he takes one of your hands in his, rubs your knuckles as an anchor, and finally dives his mouth between your legs, makes sure to kiss and lick and bite as you want him, as you need him, use his other hand to follow your curves and please you.

After all, if his own words fail him, may his mouth and his body be good enough to tell you how he feels. And as he robs a moan out of your throat, he reassures himself that there is indeed a future ahead of him still. The promise of a life of comfort and a sweet company to take care of, to praise and to love as ardently as his chest will allow it.

The promise of a future with you.

I can't believe this was supposed to be just fluff. Jsjjsjsjs. Dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/vase-of-lilies

[eyeofthebrainstorm]

YOU GUYS THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL

ROBBIE OMG that love declaration was insane. How did he do that?!

I want to thank Liam for making just an excellent little gay man. I'm so grateful that he decided to make a tiny precious homo.

BUT MATT CRYING. THAT GOT ME.

[blondeaxolotl]

Good morning guys, how is your day today, how are we feeling

[kyoshi-lesbians]

Ty Lee | all-american bitch

I know my place and this is it

[video description: an amv centered on Ty Lee set to “all-american bitch” by Olivia Rodrigo. The video focuses on Ty Lee's dynamic with Azula throughout the years, and juxtaposes Ty Lee's bubbly flirty persona with her extremely efficient chi-blocking fighting style and shrewd observations. end description.]

cw for flashing. extended video description under the cut

First verse contrasts scenes of Ty Lee, Azula, and Mai as children with scenes of Azula threatening Ty Lee in Return to Omashu, and from then on being a weapon for Azula in her mission. Scenes mainly pull from the trio’s early book 2 action as they chase Aang. 

First chorus: on “Forgive and I forget”: Ty Lee mid-air doing a flip cuts to young Ty Lee landing a flip. young Azula pushes young Ty Lee to the ground and laughs. Ty Lee chi-blocks a kyoshi warrior on "And I act like it. She flirts with Sokka on “Got what you can’t resist” and chi-blocks Katara on “perfect all-american”

Second verse features mainly scenes from the end of book 2 when Ty Lee, Azula, and Mai are in Ba Sing Se disguised as Kyoshi warriors. Many of the scenes show Ty Lee being undignified, contrasting with the lyrics (but fitting the ironic tone of the song). These scenes include Ty Lee jumping into the sludge during The Drill, her covered in mud, and flying through the air with Mai after Appa flaps his tail at them. 

Second chorus: “Forgive and forget”: Ty Lee after her circus performance agreeing to join Azula. Other clips juxtapose Ty Lee during The Beach with Ty Lee fighting during The Boiling Rock. 

“I know my place”: Rapid cuts of Ty Lee and Mai beside Azula, cut to Ty Lee anxiously looking side to side during The Boiling Rock confrontation. On the second “I know my place”: Rapid cuts of Ty Lee hugging Mai, and Mai and Azula preparing to fight. 

“And this is it”: Ty Lee chi-blocks Azula. 

Bridge: Scenes from the fallout of Ty Lee betraying Azula - Mai and Ty Lee being arrested −  cut together with Ty Lee’s emotional outburst during The Beach campfire scenes. During the screaming and fast-paced music, there are rapid cuts of Ty Lee fighting and moments beside Azula, in between cuts shots of Ty Lee crying. 

Outro: Ty Lee bowing to Azula during Return to Omashu. Then Ty Lee crying during The Beach party, and Azula apologizing to her. 

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 10)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 9, Part 11

summary: In the morning, Miguel reminisces.

warnings: smut! grinding, humping, alcohol, PIV, switch-y behaviour (what's new), aftercare, mentions of depression. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: soft melty mig >>>

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 4.5k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

between your bodies;

You wake up with a headache and a lump in your throat.

Bleary eyes; and you rub away sleep, rosy and warm around the edges. Everything smells like him, is your very first thought. It's the kind of thing that has you reeling, tossing and turning in unfamiliar sheets before looking up at a mottled ceiling. Light creeps in from curtains cracked open, rays spreading like wildfire on everything it touches. Miguel's bed is by the window, and you can't help but curl up what little light spills in with your hands; palm upwards, slowly balled into fists. It's warm, and your hand feels a little different.

Oh.

Like a bolt of lightning, memories of the night before run up your spine; dancing up and down between the sheets. Miguel's hand in yours, his skin pressed up against you, a room spinning in the kind of way that seems romantic. Seems romantic; you note. It could've been the alcohol, but you had felt something between you two, yesterday. Something… different . Your cheeks grow warm at the thought of last night; drunken revelations and so much light, it burns.

I like the way your eyes scrunch up when you smile. I like the way you look in the morning, squinting at labels and cereal packets. You've got the prettiest lips I've ever seen, Miguel.

You burrow under the covers as you recall it; the memory of Miguel between your thighs, his head in the crook of your shoulder. The way he had half-laughed, heady and heavy and thick with want, low groans pooling by the shell of your ear. You're not too sure if you meant it; really, really meant it; and you're scared of what that means. Casual sex was the agreement, and you didn't think you had the capacity for much else.

Sighing, you stretch your leg out from under the covers, dipping a tentative toe on the rug. Bare, except for a T-shirt whose hem kisses your thighs. Mig's t-shirt, of course, and you tug it down as you slip out of his bed. The aftermath, things tossed off shelves and awards that had clattered to the ground, lies in last night's wake. Guiltily, you root around to pick up his things.

They're more personal than the things around the house. You notice a plaque or two from undergrad, his diploma  - biomechanics and chemical engineering with honours - and even a certificate from a middle school science fair. The image makes you smile: little Mig with braces and a distinct frown, handed a plastic trophy in front of a spotty crowd. 'First Place' it says, and knowing him his entry was less baking soda volcano and more miniature Hadron Collider . If he's anything like he is now; he was probably a mouthy little pain-in-the-ass, too.

You take a watch off of the floor, half hidden under his bed. A knee brushes past a clear box; that jostles and rattles around like nails in a metal can. From vague outlines, you can see a box of junk , in every sense of the word: scrap metal, wires, plastic tubing. A whole scrapyard under his bed, and you reach for it, curious.  Something knicks at your hand in the process. Glass, from a broken pane of a frame slipped under the bed. Softly, you hiss, sucking at the cut that draws blood.

More careful, now, you push the frame towards you, sweeping up the glass as best you can. In the lowlight, you can't make out much. Carefully, you hold it by a corner - an intricate thing, all twisted metal and brushed bronze. From out under the bed, you see it, or rather, him: Miguel, a little younger, surrounded by a couple of unfamiliar faces. A taller man, a much older woman - and they both smile in the way he does, crows feet and with the kind of warmth that reaches their eyes. In his arms (Miguel's, but not your Miguel) is a little girl. She is small; wide-eyed, gap-toothed; looking up at him, as if the camera wasn't there. The adoration in her face makes you smile. His sister, maybe? His brother, Gabi, and his dear mama ? 

Gently, you place it on the side table. You sweep up the glass into your hand, ignoring the sting that spreads to your palms. It's not a deep cut, but you head to the kitchen anyway, in search of warm soapy water and something to mop it up. 

Slipping past the doorway, it is deathly quiet. Morning spills in through a window, illuminating a lone figure - broad shoulders, tan and bare save for pyjama pants, hunched over the dining table. 

Miguel doesn't seem to notice as you get closer, finally able to hear slight noise and chatter from a tinny phone. Cup of coffee in hand, you watch as he scrolls, replaying the same video over and over. From over his shoulder, you can just about make it out: music that had deafened you at the time, loops with a pathetic whine. A video from last night, it seems, and you recognise the icon of Lyla's story. Bright lights, your dress sparkling and a pretty little laugh drowned out by Lyla's - he seems to replay the same couple of seconds over, and over, and–

“Mig?” He jumps, leaping almost 3 feet into the air, it seems. His phone shuts off with a clatter, slammed onto the table. Turning, he seems guilty, before flattening his face into something more socially acceptable.

“H-Hi. Morning.” He clears his throat, giving you an awkward nod.

“Morning,” Softening, you slink down to take a seat. He knows, of course: he knows that you know, that you saw exactly what he's been doing. But you're both going to ignore it, let it settle in the gaps between you - a gap that quickly shrinks, he notes. 

The chair drags across the floor, almost catching at a rug on the wooden slats. When you seat yourself by him; closer, closer, oh-so close; you can't help but brush your legs to his, addicted to the way it makes him shiver. Payback, you think, grabbing at his mug and stealing a sip before he can say anything. For all the times he's fucked with your head.

Miguel knows better than to protest, crossing his arms resolutely. He sighs - not maliciously, but with a tinge of defeat. You're too pretty, and too close for him to think properly; to even muster up the energy to argue. And so he doesn't, opting to chew at the inside of his cheek. 

“ Hey .” You say, hand coming up to cheekbone, stroking at it with your thumb. Miguel tries not to lean into it, to melt into the touch. “ Careful. Where'd you go?”

It makes him laugh, bitterly, ruefully - whatever you want to call it. Where'd you go? And you say it like you've got an inkling of all the shit that goes on in his head. He goes to the same place he always seems to be, these days. Somewhere that reminds him of you , of your nights together, of your nights apart–

“Did you sleep well?” You're asking, and it takes him a second to process it.

“Sure.” Shrugging, he lies, and you pretend to believe him. “Long night, I suppose.”

When he picks that moment to look at you, to bore into your soul, you take your hand away; feeling naked , feeling bare . 

“What about you? Did you sleep well?” 

And you hum, non-committal, in response.

“Can’t remember much.” It’s a bold-faced lie, and he knows it.

He chews at his lips, eyes dragged down to your figure. He’s shameless, lashes fluttering before he sighs - with the kind of tiredness that rattles at his chest - scratching at a 5 o’clock shadow.

He’s pinching at the bridge of his nose like he’s battling a headache - and losing miserably. Miguel; your Miguel, this time; looks so pathetic, with the countenance of a wet mop. It’s not a grimace, nor a frown, like always. It looks like melancholy - thinly veiled, bone-deep - and it makes your heart splinter.

You just… you just want to comfort him. To hold him in your arms and stroke his hair, to press kisses into the crinkles at the side of his mouth, his forehead: to be warm and soft and somewhere safe , for him.

It’s a compulsion you can’t fight, clambering over him to sit on his lap. His gaze flickers, pointedly trying to ignore you, but his hand rests comfortably on plush thigh. It sends a shiver down your spine; how tender his touch is, even when like this. 

“I…” You start, tracing a hand to his scratchy jaw and gently tilting him towards you. “I remember enough.”

 He can’t help it, hand travelling a little further up and eyes flitting to your lips. 

“... Yeah ?” And it comes with an unceremonious squeeze at your ass, wetting his lips with pink tongue.

That gap between you shrinks even more as you press your chest to his, with a hand at his shoulder. God, his skin is hot to the touch; lean muscle that tenses under your palm. He gets closer.

“What are you doing today?” He’s trying so hard, forcing himself to look you in the eye - betrayed only by a pounding heart and a lingering look to your lips. 

Coupled with the way he looks at you; kneading at your thighs, leaning into your gentle palm; it makes your throat close up. 

“...U-Umm, I think–”

“It’s Friday, right?” He hums, head cocked as if deep in thought. “You’ve got… stats and lab prep, today.”

You frown. “Yeah, actually. How did you–”

“You’re always complaining about Fridays.”

“I didn’t yesterday.”

“I’ve barely seen you all week, sweetheart.” 

“ And who’s fault is that? ” Muttering, you roll your eyes, trying not to show him the way it makes you melt.

“I listen.” He says, soft. 

“...sometimes.” You finish, but it’s half-hearted. You know, he knows; he listens . He always has. 

“I think…” You clear your throat. “T-Think m’gonna take the day off. I’m pretty–”

Tired. Exhausted. Ready to kiss your roommate if it meant he would look at you like that for a little longer.

“ – hungover .” He whispers, thumb stroking your hip as you snort; ready to bat him away. 

Wriggling, his grip tightens, slotting you closer as if in a trance. You’re laughing, a sharp retort at the tip of your tongue, but his wry smile seems tinged with something else. It’s a something that makes your heart skip a beat – but it’s his next words that have you reeling.

“I’ve got the day off, too.”

You’re taken aback. “Don’t you…? I-I mean I thought you’re taking extra hours at Alchemax…”

“Nope.” Resolute, he shakes his head. “We’ve got appraisals or something, today. Upper management only. I thought I told you.”

Brows kneaded, you give him a look he’s well accustomed to. And Miguel; because he’s Miguel, of course; counters it almost immediately.

“Don't give me that … You didn’t even know I wore glasses until yesterday.”

“That’s not fair , Mig.”

“You don’t want to spend the day with me? Dios mio, hermosa.”

“Mig–”

Dramatic, he tips his head back, clutching at his chest. “Am I that bad? You can’t spend a couple hours with me–”

“Mig –”

“Just a couple, sweetheart, and then I’m out of your hair, and you can complain about me to–”

“ Mig! ” You exclaim, giggling whilst you nudge his head forward to meet your gaze.

“You called?” He flutters his eyelashes playfully, with a hint of a smile. 

It looks good on him, you think; glad that he feels comfortable enough to finally let go.

There’s a gentle lull and he places hot palms at your thighs to hike you up even closer. You adjust yourself on his lap, watching the way he groans with his head in your hands. It makes you bold: the way he moves to clutch at your hand and dart under the lip of your shirt to press you closer. 

A roll of your hips makes him purr , eyes fluttering as he rocks up in thin pants. Quickly hardening, he’s wearing a dopey smile - one you return as you press your forehead to his. He angles his hips just right, causing little moans to spill out from pretty lips. The hand at his jaw travels to the nape of his neck, tugging in that way you know that he likes. You know him, and that makes your chest warm: the way he purrs and rumbles as you touch him in a way only you can.

Roughly, he swallows, head tilted up to catch at your cheek. 

“Do you remember what you said last night?” It’s whispered into skin, soft and barely-there. “What you asked me to do?”

Kiss me. Why won’t you kiss me?

Like something sharp and intense through your veins, the memory makes you shiver, leaning into Miguel so his clothed cock catches at your clit. Like this , you don’t want to look at him - you can’t. 

Ask me tomorrow.

And so you shake your head, nuzzling into his side with a weak whimper.

There’s a pause so imperceptible you might have imagined it. If Miguel is disappointed - or relieved, or frustrated - you can’t quite tell. Unceremoniously, he latches on, taking large handfuls of your ass and sucking ugly hickies into pretty skin.

“You asked me–” He says it between wet kisses, sloppy and hungry and quickly deepening. “You asked me to fuck you .”

You gulp, hips rolling as you close your eyes. 

“ Just the tip, you said.” He lifts you up slightly, rolling back plaid pants. He nips at your neck, all tongue and teeth and claws. “Do you remember now?”

He’s not even inside, teasing your bare folds with the wide head of his cock. Your head tilts to give him more access to that juncture of your jaw. A dry chuckle leaves your lips at his tone and countenance; asking if you remember as he does his best to make you forget even the simplest of things. And that’s the thing about Miguel O’Hara, saccharine-sweet, gorgeous -in-the-low-light O’Hara: he makes you feel so good, everything else falls away.

“ Fuck.” He heaves. “”J-Just the–”

Impatient, you shift your hips, slipping him inside with one delicious movement. You can taste it: pleasure , white-hot and building up just below your gut. Miguel separates with a wet pop, hands trailing up to rid you of your shirt – his shirt, you realise with a moan. Exposed, he eyes your pretty stomach and then the peak of your breast. He keeps you flush to his hips, right at the sharp cut of his v-line, tufts of hair leading to where you both meet. With the way his eyes flutter, you can tell: he wants to kiss you, slathering up your chest to collarbone, and then from collarbone to jaw. He gets close, pressing shaky kisses to the corner of your lips – threatening to break the promise you made to each other long ago. And God , with the way he pistons up into your cunt, you… you just might let him.

Then his hips shift, pubic bone at your clit in a way that brings pleasure to the burn. You’re stretched out, filled to the brim and then leaning back to press your forearms onto the grain of the dining table. Like this, his hands stay squeezing the flesh at the tops of your thighs; only able to watch as you take over. You use a bit of leverage to tilt your hips this way and that - eyes low, not leaving his.

“Feels good , Mig.” You’re whining, eyes locked onto his because you want to watch him fall apart - to watch as all his troubles melt away. “So good. Uhh –Always does. I remember… shit … remember this. ” 

And you take his hand, wrapping your lips around his index and middle finger - thick and large - with the memories of how they felt inside you only making you wetter. Gushing praise as best you can, you slobber and slather over his fingers, studying every twitch and gorgeous groan that he gives. He pulls his hand away from you; gentle, but cursing nevertheless; alternating from slapping your ass to tugging at the stiff peak of your nipple. It’s your turn to stutter, hips jumping as you cum - an orgasm so hard he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from spilling into you. There’s blood in his mouth, he notes as he studies the way you look: beautiful, always beautiful; framed in the gentle pink and purple from a rising sun.

Miguel slips out of you, painfully hard. Still heaving from your orgasm, you lean forward to press his cock between your bodies: bare and gorgeously framed in morning sun. Writhing, you kiss his neck, trailing up to the shell of his ear, whispering sweet nothings.

“Want you to cum, Mig.” And you do… oh God , you do. “You close?”

All he does is groan, nodding fervently into the crook of your neck. Diligently, you wrap him up in your arms, crooning and sweet, carefully rocking into him so his cock slides up and down your soft skin. For once, he doesn’t complain, holding you just as tight. 

“M’gonna… o–ohh ffuck …”

“Cum, Mig. For me.”

You’re firm but gentle, pressing your tits up against him and making sure his cock gets that well needed friction. As such, you can feel it almost immediately; hot cum slathered over your tits and body - leaving so much glistening on your skin. 

With a rough gulp, he heaves, eyes screwed tightly shut. You can’t help it, brushing away stray hairs from his face, leaving soft kisses in your wake. And maybe, just maybe, you hear him sob - muffled whimpering and whining with every slight shift of your body against his. And oh . It makes your heart melt when you realise, still carding your fingers through the nape of his neck.

He’s overstimulated. It’s too much.

Limp, he stays wrapped around you for a while, muttering nonsense into your skin.

“ Sorry. ” Shakily, he says – like he even has anything to be sorry about. “M’really— fuck. I just need a moment.”

You hum. It makes your heart heavy that he thinks he needs to be ready now , that he thinks he doesn’t deserve more than a moment to process his pleasure. You want Miguel to feel good, you always have. But with the realisation that you want him to be happy ; to feel safe, to feel loved; well…

…it scares you more than anything.

~~~

Aftercare .

Miguel admits, he’s not too familiar with the term.

It’s not something he’s proud of. With many a one night stand under his belt - even, occasionally seeing a girl more than once - he’s never been too good at it. He’s tried, definitely. Tried so very hard to stick around a little longer, to stay curled up in bed and guide his partner through their comedown. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite come naturally to him - oft susceptible to a glass of water by the bedside and a gentle nudge to an Uber. That physicality: the cuddling , and kissing, the sappy, wholesome, relationship-adjacent thing? He’s never had that desire after sex, much too stuck in his own head for that.

So why does this feel… so good?

You’re taking care of him. He’s not stupid; knowing that your bedside manner is much better than his. You’re merely doing the right thing and helping him past such an intense orgasm: and that seems to come in the form of his head on your chest, limbs tangled up together on your beat up old couch. This doesn’t count , he’s convinced himself: all those rules and boundaries you’ve both come so close to breaking - a little cuddling doesn't even scratch that surface. And if it feels so good to have your hand playing with his hair, to ground himself with the steady thump-thump of your heart, then who is he to complain?

He’s just a man, he decides. A mere mortal, unable to resist that taste of heaven he’s been given - unable to say no . Absentmindedly, you’re humming some stupid song you’ve had stuck in your head for at least a week, now, eyes trained towards a cheesy soap on the TV. There’s a mug of coffee on the table - it tastes like shit, but Miguel is more than happy to gulp it down if  it makes you feel better - hot and steaming as you tug the blanket so it covers him a little better. 

Unknowingly, you’re lulling him to sleep - the very same sleep he’s been chasing for the past couple of hours. Tossing and turning at night, but barely 10 minutes in your arms and his body only seems to listen to you , for some reason. Traitorous bastard, he thinks, fighting to keep his eyes open. 

You’ve cleaned the both of you up - even though he had insisted otherwise. Let me take care of you , he had slurred, and you just laughed ; that pretty, infuriating laugh, with that pretty, infuriating smile – the very same one he’s wanted to kiss off of you since the beginning. Weakly, he protested, following you into the kitchen only to make a nuisance of himself. 

It’s like you're drunk, Mig.  

In some ways, maybe he is. You had steered him away, and onto couch cushions. Which must have been quite the feat, he notes, able to control all 6”5 of his sleep-deprived, hefty limbs. But he supposes, yet again, his body doesn’t quite listen to him anymore. Only you.

Was it that good? Did I fuck the fine motor skills out of you?

He remembers groaning. He remembers trying not to be drawn in by that lilting giggle, covering his ears with a rough blanket. Most of all, though, he remembers the feeling of your body on his, slipping on top of him to dig him out of that heap.

Miguel? Baby, it’s a joke! I’m kidding, I promise.

He had poked his head out. Baby. He likes that, likes the way his name sounds out of your mouth. It anchors him to this mortal plane like a sharp hook, cutting through the brain fog and burying itself into his chest. You had clasped your hands around his face, steadfast despite his wriggling.

…Oh God, even worse. I think I fucked the common sense out of you instead.

He remembers wanting to kiss you. Your lips curled up into that stupid smile, clearly so pleased at a shitty joke. It makes him warm, thinking about it now. Or maybe, it’s just the blanket you’ve tried to suffocate him in. 

“When did you sleep?” You ask, and he has to blink up at you to collect his thoughts.

“Late.” He says it simply. 

That answer doesn’t satisfy you, and you’re poking and prodding at his face, gently pulling at slowly deepening eyebags.

“ No fucking wonder .” You mutter. “You’re turning into me. No more late nights, Mig.”

When he frowns, you stick your tongue out, gleefully watching as his grimace deepens. 

“Or what?” 

“Or we stop having sex.”

That makes him rocket u pwards, indignant. “ You can’t just– ”

“I can do what I want.” Slowly, your face morphs into what must be worry. At least, he thinks it does, not too familiar with someone worrying about him like this. “No more late nights, please”

You say it so softly his heart might break. He clears his throat of its cobwebs.

“That's not really up to me, sweetheart.” Thesis deadlines. Tutoring. Taking on more hours at Alchemax in preparation for a big event. Slowly, his plate mounts, and it takes everything in him to keep going.

“I know,” You settle his head onto your lap, now. Absent-mindedly, you wrap one of his curls around your finger, hand in his hair in a way that feels more intimate than the past hour, days, weeks spent together. “I just wish you'd take care of yourself better.”

It's not said to chastise him, and you don't sound disappointed ; not tinged with the same flavour of guilt that his mama has over the phone, or that Gabi has when he hits him with that deep sigh. It's pure, selfless, plain-and-simple worry. He doesn't deserve it, he thinks.

He looks up at you. Beautifully oblivious, your gaze is still pinned to the TV. It’s domestic, comfortable in the afterglow of sex. That’s what it must be: contentment and bliss settling over him like a warm blanket. The aftermath of being in your arms, of your body on his; purely physical , that follows the kind of euphoria that he imagines can only be found in a needle. Honestly, he’s still expecting a sharp decline, a rough comedown that tastes like regret, or despair, or deep, deep empty. It doesn’t come.

Always the pessimist, but Miguel can’t help it, really; he’s been chasing something just out of reach for too long. 

“You’re gone again.” You say it so quietly he almost misses it. You give him a weary smile, hand clutching at the fabric that pools around him. He watches as you rearrange it by his shoulders, pinching the folds with a kneaded brow. Finally satisfied, you look him in the eye. “Like Ophelia. ”

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or any of the half dozen ways he’s learnt to repress difficult emotions. Slipping under the water - the makeshift waves made of a ratty blanket - passive to his own suffering. You don’t say it, and he hasn’t even told you the half of it; but somehow, you see it . You see him.

He remembers the first time he met you. Thundering and clattering through his space; bulldozing every carefully placed wall he’s spent years putting up. And then he remembers the first time he actually met you; behind the sharp tongue and quick retorts, finding you watery and forlorn on the floor of your shared apartment. Beautiful, of course – always, always beautiful. But that time, the kind of beauty only found in a painting: tragedy captured in oils, careful brushstrokes muddied by time, by loss, by hurt. You’ve been hurting for a while, he thinks, well before any mention of shitty ex-boyfriends and missed lectures.

Miguel recalls late nights spent trying to still his heart, fixated on a sudden, betraying question that rattles around in his head. Are you like him? Do you understand ? Born with something missing, a tick-tick-tick of the count, radioactive and broken and–

Your hand drapes lazily across his chest, tapping and pointing at something on the screen. He hums, non-committal, the words out of your mouth barely registering. It feels familiar. It feels warm. It feels like nights spent on the couch trying not to laugh at your frustratingly witty remarks. He remembers holding his breath when your leg brushed against his; stealing careful glances to his side; trying not to stare at the way the gloom of the TV looks ethereal against you, snug to the slope of your features, cut this way and that.  

But more than anything, he remembers wanting to kiss you. God. Maybe he always has. 

_

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