#twwc

[strangerhawke]

meanwhile back at the ranch, the final part of Man’s Best Friend is done. i hope you enjoy it. next part of the series going to be something reaaaaal special.

you can read it here!

[xx-a-fai13d-3xp3rim3nt-xx]

Wubble gijinka I drew ^^

[emmafallsinlove]

sometimes im rereading twwc and i’m thinking how logan couldn’t make it to ivy’s first birthday because he had meetings and how jess spent the entire night making a birthday cake for ivy, that wasn’t even his kid, but also completely his kid? SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP i need twwc sequel @pheebebuffy

[childishred]

The Weird World chronicles

Chapter 1 "The foundations of a house"

Only a couple of years ago, on some planet far far away, stood a big house. It was a female house which had a soul, she was strong and stable and stood the test of time. Bigger in height than in width, a mixed breed of dark red brick and birch wood, and she survived every storm there was, keeping her tenants safe.

There were many a rooms, many unoccupied. The house was owned by a very stereotypical fictional grandmother, Grandma Applehead. She was a short ample lady with short white curly hair who often wore green aprons and shower caps (that made her look like a harmless alien). She loved to bake fruit pies and clean and upgrade her rustic, colorful and traditional home.

The living room and kitchen were shared by all the tenants. They were BIG and BEAUTIFUL; colorful tiles, levels, wooden stairs, pretty counters, clay roosters, needlepoints, heavy polished chairs, detailed carpets, fruit baskets...And it always smelled like cleanliness and cinnamon.

However, only 3 people lived in the house. Even though it was an isolated house on an isolated planet, that wasn't really a problem because of the unique culture of that world. I think simply no one really heard of it, no one knew it was an option.

I would tell you more, but you have to tune in.

...

THE SECOND TENANT

She woke up and it was a monotonous morning. Rays of light stabbed the colorful glass of her window without even asking first. Kyrie rose in a simple white night gown and widely opened the window. The same old branch was still there. It was as if The Tree had grown it to keep her in check. Or perhaps Grandma Applehead asked it to, so her tenant could smell the luring scent of apple blossoms when time came.

As every day starts off, there really is nothing to do. Nothing to make it worth a diary entry. You have to really try, and often fail to find something weird.

She ran downstairs but no one was there in the joint living room/kitchen. No one was in the laundry room. The gryphon room was empty. The stuff room was really hollow when it came to people, but it was really not hollow when it came to stuff.

So she went outside and referred to The Tree and the guardian dragon.

"At least you're here." Kyrie said to her.

"I'm always here." The dragon's voice was deep and stable.

"Why? Don't you ever want to go fly?"

"I'm a noble animal, and this is my duty. I want to be here and protect the house."

"Well, do you know anything I could do today? Someplace I could go explore?"

"There is a mystery that was under your nose the whole time, but Grandma told me not to tell you unless you asked."

The dragoness moved and the ground beneath her opened up and presented a spiral staircase going under.

"It really was under my nose. Thanks, dragon!"

The girl was armed with nothing but a golden brown pretzel and messy hair and descended down the tiles. They were light pink and orange. Around the staircase there was nothing, just void. She wondered if she fell off to the side, would she ever meet a bottom.

Then there was a room behind a locked door. She couldn't see the walls around the door. It was like a hallway with no light on either side. And Kryie felt the hard bristles of a rug under her bare feet. She also felt a little scared.

"I watch enough TV to know where this goes!"

With a grin she flipped over the rug as if someone was watching her and she had to show off. The key was right there and she unlocked the room.

It wasn't what she expected; it was warm and rustic, like an extension of the house. She could hear rhythmic thumping. There were glass display cabinets with honey colored whiskey bottles. The room smelled like beeswax. Everywhere she looked she saw hung up pictures and documents. They were of financial nature, describing the price of construction material used to build the residence.

Big crumbles of wall were on the wooden floor. She looked up and the ceiling was fractured. The roots of The Tree had made their way there and climbed down. They led to the center of the room.

And right there, between the big fancy chairs was a casket made by the finest carpenter's hand. It was colored red and green with rose ornaments. And by the casket, a book in a glass case. With a push of a soft button the transparent box opened and she gently unfolded the book. It was fat and stuffed with little papers. But primarily, it was a photo and letter album. There were very old pictures in sepia and gray tones depicting a young Grandma Applehead with tight skin and her late husband.

There were pictures of them pouring cement, planting The Tree, holding peace signs next to a giant crab on some beach, and one was them embracing a baby. The baby was way too predictable and uncool sucking its thumb, she thought.

Little spiders ran across her feet.

[twwcs]

Joel Miller as Mario

[sweetimpurity]

“I think I’ll keep you” Ch. 3 flashback

for @twwcs my sweet 💖 this brought me back from not having drawn all summer long so thank you 🙏 Reblogs and comments appreciated!

any other scenes I should draw?? ✍️

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

How would the OI characters react if the reader accidentally called them "husband" and was embarrassed after she realized her mistake?

This is so cute, oh my gosh! <3 Thank you so much for sending it!

OI Characters Called 'Husband' By Accident Headcanons

Steven: Absolutely giddy with joy! Yes, he is your husband. 100% heart eyes from him, he’ll grab your hand and squeeze it and smile. If you’re around other people he will call you ‘his wife’ straight away playfully and give you a sweet kiss on your cheek. 

Marc: Bless this man, he freezes. Error screen across his eyes and frantically inwardly asking Steven and Jake if they got married before he realises he’s being silly.

Jake: Without missing a beat, will ask, “Where is my ring?” And then will tease you about it playfully for ages until you're laughing.

Nathan: This idiot doesn’t even notice. You think, at first, it’s because he’s not paying attention. But when he sees you’re embarrassed he’s like, “why? What wrong? Why’s that bothering you? I basically am?”

Anselm: It doesn’t matter where you are because Anselm’s going down on you there and then.

Cecil: If he’s high it takes him a good fifteen minutes to register what you said. 

Club!Blue: He’s (unsurprisingly) a little shit about it. “Oh, you like me that much do you? You want to marry me?” Will smugly tell everyone. “They want to marry me.” 

Orderly!Blue: He’s going to tease you until you cry, I’m so sorry. (He’s then going to fuck your brains out).

Jack: Do NOT say this unless you want to end up tied up in his trailer.

Santiago: Will joke with you about it, “Oh, calling me that because I nag you too much, huh?” Is secretly very pleased, but doesn’t want you to feel embarrassed. 

Shimmer!Kane: Doesn’t quite get the implication, but he doesn’t like seeing you upset/embarrassed. Will give you a hug.

King John: Similar to Club!Blue, he’s going to be telling everyone and preening about it.

Rydal: Surprisingly gets all shy and blushes. 

Laurent: He’s already got the ring in his back pocket.

Poe: Giggles about it in a very ‘oh my gosh, hee hee hee, do you like me?’ way, even if you have been together for years.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

• Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • ko-fi •

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh

@romanarose @strangerhands @saturn-rings-writes @steven-grants-world  @eyelessfaces

 @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @lunar-ghoulie @silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin

@reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom @alwaysmicado @mangoslushcrush @marc-spectorr 

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@missdictatorme @musicalnacho @ingoldthewizard @brunlocc

[edencherries]

blorbo poll!!🩷

thank you for the tag @fairyysoup !!!

Rules: make a poll with five of your all-time favourite characters and then tag five people to do the same. See which character is everyone's favourite.

no pressure tags:

@liliesgrow @kiwi-the-first @agentidiot @twwcs @munsons-maiden

and of course anybody that wants to make their own poll🩷

[whatthefishh]

I request Steven Grant the love of my life helping a reader that got lost in a library. (It’s happened to me more than once…I needed a hug after I got out.)

Kitkat this is so cuuute hehe these are my spooky thoughts (SFW) on this idea:

You were once again lost in your reading, nose buried in a random title that caught your eye as you perused the shelves of your favourite library again

this library wasn't the most popular in your area, but it was still your favourite, despite the rumours about it being haunted

Steven had texted multiple times when you were late for your dinner plans, nothing special just some good food with your favourite guy

conveniently, the restaurant you had chosen was right across the street from the library, and this was not unintentional on your part. You knew he would be coming from work, and possibly late, so instead of waiting around at an empty table, you were going to wait for him in the comfort of the books around you

Though you were lost in the story you were reading, you still were somewhat aware of your surroundings... enough to notice when the temperature dropped enough for your skin to develop goosebumps... enough to notice the flickering of the lights in the corner which you were sat at... enough to notice the eerie quietness that blanketed the library, even though moments before you could hear the soft chatter and beeping of the librarian behind her desk. Come to think of it... she was nowhere to be seen. Everyone had left. The library seemed utterly empty except for you, whereas moments before... you could've sworn there were several people shuffling about.

A random breeze runs through you, and you feel cold all over. Quickly shutting your book and leaving it behind, you weren't in the mood to fight whatever meddlesome kids (or potentially real ghosts) were messing around at this late hour. Maybe the rumours were true!

Making a run for it, you felt disoriented, trying to find the exit in your haste to leave but the lights were playing tricks on you and maybe you made a wrong turn at some point because suddenly you didn't know which way was right. Until you hear his voice.

Steven called out to you, his voice distant but very clearly Steven. You tried to follow the direction from which it was coming from to find your way out of the dark, the leaning towers of books more intimidating than usual.

Blindly running and calling out to him, he kept yelling your name, making it easier for you to find him in the dark. Your frantic voice making him worried, Steven's own voice started mirroring the urgency in yours.

You collided into his chest before you knew it, his arms coming around you comfortingly. Steven cooed at you, holding you close and whispering that it'll be okay, rushing you out of the library doors into the night.

Steven kept his arm around you until you reached the restaurant, trying to comfort you as you told him what happened. He only laughed when you said that you weren't going to go in there without him again.

He also didn't complain about your neediness for the rest of the night, adamant on burrowing your way into his side. He only hugged you back, secretly content with your clinginess.

Taglist

@kittyofalltrades @am-3-thyst @sir-knight-slytherdor @m0nster-fvcker @daemonnix96 @alexxavicry @this-bitch-writes @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @floppapop @loonymagizoologist @cherryvalentine1 @ahookedheroespureheart @lonelyisamyw-0love @twwcs @raven-rk @bitchyglitterfox @ichigodjarin @einno-arko @xbellaxcarolinax @soonknight @romanarose @dameronscopilot @milkymoon2483 @unspokenmoon @campingwiththecharmings @vaderstherapist @oscarisaacsspit @fettuccin-e @mercuryrosesixx @nik2blog @melodygatesauthor @darktealrat @noahspector @dameron-grant-spector @your-voice-is-mellifluous @minigirl87 @annautumnsoul

[strangerhawke]

how it feels getting through the majority of fics i had planned for The Way We Connect

how it feels realising i need to figure out new plots and places to go with this and also resolve plot points i added in and then already forgot about

[xx-a-fai13d-3xp3rim3nt-xx]

Made gijinka (<—??) for bubble

[emmafallsinlove]

it’s should consider a crime that rory best looks were when she had dated logan (her bangs in s6 / s7) and not jess.

[bloodofthepen]

WIP Title Game

@silurisanguine tagged me in this game!

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it. Tag as many people as wips.

Fics:

Lachesis V

Ch 71

How the Turns Have Tabled (shared doc)

Offerings

Book III

Various Uses for a Sofa

Ever Seen the Rain

A Handful (or three)

Victorian AU

Original Works (you only get abbreviations or working titles; sorry)

Cherry

TOW

TWWC

BljN

Pinpricks

Path

DH

I'm tagging @hyllatavorianaldan @brynnmclean @heymacareyna @dwarveslikeshinythings and anyone who would like to participate!

[faretheeoscar]

Thanks for the tag @howellatme

They called me out cause that's how I roll in life...

NPT: @steven-grants-world @for-a-longlongtime @twwcs and anyone who wants to jump in.

which ao3 tag are you?

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

thinking about cuddling up with soft marc☹️☹️☹️thats my baby fr.. just him being so enamoured and comfortable with you and being sososo sweet<33

Sobbing over this! 😭

Little Spoon

Marc Spector x gn!Reader • Rating: PG pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? • ask-travaganza masterlist •

Summary: Marc comes to bed late.

Warnings: Fluff, Marc being a bit anxious, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 411

Marc gets into bed slowly, trying his very best to be as calm and quiet as he can. Part of him wants to just go and lay down on the sofa, to sleep there so that he doesn’t chance disturbing you. But he knows how much you’d hate it. Especially after you’d explicitly told him not to do it again after last time. 

He eases in, lifting the duvet cover as gently as he can before he sneaks into bed. He lays on his side, on the very edge of the mattress, trying to take up as little space as possible. 

For a moment, he holds his breath, freezes in place. But your breathing stays gentle and even and slowly he relaxes slightly, as much as he’ll allow himself. 

He just needed to-

Marc jumps when you move and snake your arms around him, pulling his back to your chest. 

“What you doing on the edge of the bed?” You mutter, your voice thick with sleep. 

“It’s okay baby,” he squeezes your arm gently, “Go back to sleep.”

“No,” you mumble and kiss his neck, softly coaxing him more into the middle. 

There’s a slight resistance at first, you know he’s trying not to be a hindrance. 

“Don’t make me turn the light on and force you over,” you do your best to sound as grumpy as possible despite the smile on your lips. 

Marc moves immediately, shifting closer to you and you grin. 

You snuggle into him, holding him comfortingly. His heart beats a little fast under your hands. 

“I’m sorry I woke you.” He whispers. 

“Don’t be.” You yawn. “Means I get to hug you.” 

A little smile pulls at his hips.”I should be hugging you.”

“No Spector, you’re the little spoon. Deal with it.” 

He giggles gently. You know he prefers being in this position, not that he’d outrightly admit it. He likes to feel your weight on his back and arms on his chest, it makes him feel… safe. Wanted. And he doesn’t have to worry about squeezing you tightly if he has bad dreams.

Finally, he relaxes somewhat. Shuffles back against you even more. He puts one hand on his hip, his fingers flexing ever so slightly and you know what he wants before he even has to ask. 

You shift your leg onto his side and he squeezes your calf in a silent thanks before he breathes deeply and finally drifts off to sleep.

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh

@romanarose @strangerhands @saturn-rings-writes ho

@steven-grants-world  @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @lunar-ghoulie

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@queerponc @twwcs @Spnwhore2430 @mari-thesimp @ominoose

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@homuraak3mi @swiftiegirliepop @oscarssimp @milkypompon @eternallyvenus 

@mandytrekkie @theratscorner @krakenkitty@casa-boiardi @i-have-all-these-freakin-uwus

@amasdaydream  @purple-amaranthe @brunlocc @bookoffracturedescapes @marcsb1tch 

@pigeonmama @sergeant102105 @weekendgothgirl @Silver-night-m

@klillah @howellatme @mystic-writings @f0url3af

@silvernight-m

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis Taglist (1):

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu@mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

Rigor Mortis (part 2)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

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

Part 1, Part 3

summary: Your new roommate has... interesting habits.

warnings: sexually suggestive, nothing explicit.

a/n: i think i've realised miggy in this fic is a combo of his movie and comic counterpart. Miguel O'Hara: part-time whore lmfaooo

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: 4.2k

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

lady death, at the cradle of a babe.

You've decided: if Miguel's the Sun, then you're a black hole. Cold and dark where he was warm, to seemingly everyone else but you. Even then, the metaphor didn't carry, and O'Hara wasn't quite the shining centre of the universe you had first thought him to be.  

In the dim gloom of a little lamp on your bedside table, you’re left squinting at a crisp white document. Blank; save for a thousand tabs open, and the blue links of a half-hearted bibliography. You’ve got the bare bones of an assignment; left too late, as usual. The rest lies at the tip of your tongue; nips at the ends of your fingers like the heat of cigarette butts, and as fleeting as wispy smoke in an ashtray. To get yourself through it, you’ve resorted to romanticising it all, pretending you're a wistful poet dipping the feathered end of a quill into ink. Writing something… revolutionary; as opposed to the mish-mash of articles and studies you’ve crammed within the last hour and a half. There’s a pounding at your skull: the dull beginnings of a migraine, most likely. You squeeze at your temples, eyes shut – and the thrum matches the thud at your thin walls. Rhythmic, obscene, and it creates a cruel staccato; shaking the flimsy plasterboard that separates your room from your roommate’s. 

He’s fucking someone. Loud, like it can’t be heard by half the complex. It's the third girl he’s had over in as many weeks. Not that you were keeping count. For a supposed tutor, you hadn’t seen much studying - despite the bright eyed young women that seemed to be at your doorstep most days. Perhaps you're being dramatic, but you couldn’t quite wrap your head around the kind of pupils Miguel had had the privilege to “teach”.

You remember the first time the true weight of Jia’s words became clear: whilst banging on the front door after a draining day of lectures. 

You’d forgotten your keys after rushing out the morning of, and arrived to a locked door in the afternoon. You had been starving, insides churning with the thought of takeout you’d saved the night before; a greasy bag nestled in the corner of your shelf in the fridge. So maybe you'd been antsy, irritable at a stretch; fist on the door like a divorce lawyer, hungry in more ways than one. 

Wasn’t Miguel already home? He had to be, you can hear the low tones of his voice leaking from the gaps at the sides of the door. And.. rustling, the shift of fabric tousled and pillows hitting the floor. It’s then that you hear another voice, higher pitched; gentle and soft where his is baritone. If you’re not mistaken; and something at the pit of your stomach hopes you are, for some reason; he’s laughing, speaking in hushed tones, whilst she giggles at something he said. You bang at the door even harder, hoping the sharp rap-rap-rap interrupts him. It feels like you’ve had half of your college’s senior cohort in the city in and out of your apartment - or, at the very least, the pretty ones. For some reason, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; and your knuckles sting against the lacquered wood. You’ve half a mind to shout into the keyhole, to tell him to hurry the fuck up, or else–

Miguel opens, brow tight, and wiping something from his lips with the back of his hand. It’s suspicious; he looks carefully flushed, lips plump and cheeks slightly ruddy. You notice the way his head flops onto the lip of the open door; slightly out of breath like he’s done a dozen push ups. And with the way his biceps flex and tense under his open button up; paired with some slacks in a pitiful attempt to look less slutty; he might have. The image makes you purse your lips to stop inappropriate laughter: Miguel on the floor, brows kneaded in concentration as the woman in your apartment looks on, entranced. It feels more plausible than the reality; making out on your couch, whilst her hands travel to undo the button at his waistband.

What doesn’t help, is the look he gives you; like you’ve interrupted something important.

“Oh.” He says, clearly deflated. “It’s… you.”

You flash him a sarcastic smile and push past into the front room. You’ve seen her before: the girl on your couch. Sarah, a pretty thing in Miguel’s advanced Math class, you’d learned from the last few weeks. It’s not the first time she’d been over, but she doesn’t usually stay; rather, she’d drop something off at the door and twirl her hair whilst she waited. You’d answer, because of course he was never home at the right times, and she’d crane her head in for a glimpse of him. The first time; you were struck by the effortlessness of her beauty. And on your sofa, she seemed hardly fazed; the gentle curve of her stomach and thighs spilling onto the tattered cushions, donned in a patterned sundress. Her lips are pert, curved into a knowing smile as she giggles at the scene you and Miguel make at the door. 

“Hey, Sarah.” You give her a small wave as you make your way into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. However, you don’t have the energy to dignify Miguel with a response – so you stay silent. He bristles.

“You don’t have a key, or something?” You’re digging through the shelves as he calls out to you, hands on his hips like you’re in the wrong. You can’t help but hiss under your breath. He’s got an attitude, when only one of you had been left outside the door; starved and exhausted. And the other: getting off on your sofa. Poor Miguel, left with a limp dick and full balls.

 "Forgot." Your answer is curt, and you don't even bother to look up. You can hear him scoff, incredulous - as if the mere idea was so offensive. It makes anger bubble up at your gut, head still buried behind the fridge door. 

"That's convenient." You can't hear the words that come out after, but you're sure it's not exactly glowing praise. You lob a hypothetical grenade over the lip of the fridge door: a middle finger, crisp and clear. 

Takeout in hand, and a bag over your shoulder that feels like a concrete block; you drag yourself to your room, without giving Miguel so much as a second glance. When the door slams, you're hit with the full weight of Jia's words; a moment that seems so long ago. Miguel's probably picky about who he tutors for the same reason people swipe left and right on dating apps: he's an unrepentant whore. 

The thought had seemed somewhat premature, at the time. You had had little to no evidence: a string of pretty women in your apartment did not a slut make, after all. It wasn't quite enough, just a knee-jerk reaction after a bad day. The most charitable interpretations tell you that by all means, your roommate is an upstanding guy. A model student; who left his undergrad with honours and a disgustingly high GPA, head of half a dozen clubs and societies, and currently getting his masters sponsored by a prestigious biotech company in the city. He’s a chronic overachiever, more or less.  All things you've learnt from the people he’s tutored, small talk in between sessions (and they’ve all been nice enough). It seems a little more than convenient that the prettiest ones end up in your apartment - in his bed. And yet, you can’t get a straight answer from the man himself. Favours for a couple of friends, he says every time you complain. 

With the noises you hear from the room over, you wonder how he treats the friends he really likes. 

You think he’s doing it on purpose. That’s the only explanation you’re left with as you massage your temples in desperation. A steady pounding, that makes the shared wall shudder. Interspersed with graphic moans, the higher pitched panting of his partner; Yes Miguel and Just like that; seems to blend with his groans. Sleep pulls at your eyes, and you want to scream into the pillows. It’s muffled, but you can make out his voice beyond the wall; low, hushed tones that makes desire pool at the base of your stomach. And you’d rather die than admit it; but you zone out for a moment, a little lost in the haze of a daydream. God, his stamina. It feels like they’ve been going for hours, obscene grunts and groans spilling into your room. The wide span of his shoulders, the way light is cut at his jawline - and you wonder what he’d look like on top, or the sounds he’d make underneath.

Shaking your head, you try to convince yourself: it's the lack of sleep that makes you think of the way his hands would feel on your waist.

~~~

The honeymoon stage, if there ever was one, was well and truly over. 

In the morning, you’re woken up by the thud of the front door. Laptop cracked open on the covers, you shift to wipe the drool crusted on the side of your mouth. The good news: you remember getting down a couple thousand words before fitful sleep. Not to a great standard, of course, but as your deadline approaches, you’re grateful for whatever you can scrape together. Stretching, your back creaks with the memory of last night: hunched over your laptop, barely able to concentrate. Still in pyjamas from last night, you pad into the front room, looking for water to satisfy your dry mouth. 

The bad news: you’re met with Miguel on the sofa, splayed out on the cushions lazily. There’s a mug of something on a side table, which he’s clearly neglected; eyes closed, and an arm drawn upwards to expose the tan skin of his chest. He’s wearing nothing but loose plaid pants, hair a mess and frustratingly peaceful. For once, he’s not wearing the perpetual frown you’ve been subjected to for the past few weeks, and he looks five years younger as a result. You tilt your head to the side – like a mere 90 degrees would make him look any different – and you can’t believe this was the man who was terrorising you the night before. He looks… cute. Innocent, almost.

The sight makes you scoff. You snatch a glass from the cupboard with a clink-clink, and he stirs. You watch him stretch as you fill it; a mop of brown peeking over the back of the couch. He peers over, groggy and seemingly confused. 

"....When did you get back?" His voice is gravelly, heavy with last night's sleep – or lack thereof. You ignore the feelings it stirs up; pleasant and comfortable and domestic. 

"Good morning to you too, " You say it under your breath but he hears; catches it and holds it at his chest like a songbird. One hand over his heart, he smiles, wide; a lazy, sarcastic grin, but it still makes your face heat up. It's too damn early for this, you think. "I wasn't… for fuck's sake… I came back last night."

"Oh." He frowns, sweeping into the kitchen, and opening up the cupboard. 

"I couldn't sleep." Miguel's not stupid, and you wait for him to take the hint. "There was… too much noise last night."

"So that's why you're up early." He clicks his tongue. "You don't have a lecture to be late for?"

"You don't have another girl to fuck and ignore?" Without missing a beat, you snap at him – too tired and annoyed to entertain it. 

"Ouch." It's blaise, thrown over his shoulder without a second thought. He doesn't even look at you, head buried and eyes scanning the shelves – looking for his morning coffee, no doubt. He finds it, opening the packet and elbowing you in the process, and you give him a glare. Did he have to do that right next to you? 

You catch the ghost of a smile on his face. 

"...Miguel?" You say; quietly, because you can't quite find your next words. 

"Hmm?" He hums, fiddling around with the machine; a ritual you've only caught glimpses of. 

How do you tell your roommate you can hear him have obnoxious sex through thin walls? Well, probably by opening your mouth and saying it, but anything resembling your true feelings dies in your throat. 

He doesn't prompt you to finish the question, choosing to let the silence wash over you both. The clattering of a spoon against ceramic is the only noise in the little kitchen. It's not something you hear too often - never waking up at the same time as Miguel through a combination of coincidence and sheer willpower. Naturally, your routines are asynchronous - a half step, half-hearted jig to crashing music. That is to say: if you and your roommate were partners in a… ballroom, perhaps: you’d be stepped-on-toes and two-left-feet on the dancefloor. Disastrous, to say the least.

And yet, half-asleep, you watch as he pads around the kitchen; poking into cupboards and bringing out the ingredients to a hearty breakfast. Eggs and chorizo and tortillas; your stomach rumbles at the thought of a proper cooked meal. Ever the stereotypical college student, your usual food has mostly been instant noodles and leftovers. Maybe you’re just tired, but he makes the drawers and fridge shelves seem bottomless. It’s clear Miguel eats and he eats well – because of course he does.

“Could you…” You jump a bit when he places a gentle hand at your waist, moving you to the side as he reaches for a chopping board on the counter. “Sorry. Do you mind?”

It’s brief, but the fleeting touch fucks with your head as he cooks. Flashes of the night before run up your spine, electric. You watch his deft fingers fly on the chopping board; slender, a wide palm covering the span of a large pepper. How would they feel on your waist – properly – at the crook of your back, or at your thighs? Sighing, you chew the inside of your cheek and lean your head back against the wall. You feel the whispers of another headache. It's much too early for this.

He puts a pan on the stove. Shirtless, despite the heat of the spitting oil, and he pops a piece of a bell pepper in his mouth with a little smile that makes you roll your eyes. It's smug, somehow, like he knows something you don't – like he knows exactly what he did yesterday (or rather, who) and he’s enjoying your reaction.

Except: you’re exhausted, and he’s giggling like you’ve caught a kid with cookie crumbs on their face, empty jar in hand. 

It’s a quiet he sits with, comfortable; moving around the space with the kind of familiarity that comes with time. It makes you wonder just how long he's been here, which other roommates he’s terrorised over the years. Maybe, Miguel’s got a reputation, and there’s a Yelp review sitting somewhere you’ve neglected to read.

“Did you see her leave?” He still doesn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes are trained at the eggs on the pan, onions and veg making a lopsided smile in the runny yolk. Even his food seems smug.

“Her?” You frown, not quite following. 

“...Katie?” He says it like it’s obvious, as if her name alone should set off half a dozen bells in your head. It’s Katie, this time - not Jia, or Sita, or the slew of other girls he’s been fucking in the past few weeks alone.

Your eye twitches. Involuntarily, of course, but it feels like your body is physically rejecting his bullshit.

“I didn’t know she stayed the night.” A lie, obviously. You heard her well enough through the walls, not even a couple of hours ago.

“S’okay,” He shakes his head, nonchalant. You trace the curve of his shoulders and gentle slope of his plump lips. “I would’ve called her an Uber, or something.”

“You’re a gentleman, Miguel.”

And he laughs, a deep rumble that rings off the tiles. Admittedly, you like the way it sounds, and the way his eyes crinkle up into crows feet. He’s pretty, you think. In an annoying kind of way.

Oh, fuck him. You get closer, and stick a fingertip into the rich red of the pan. Wrapping your lips around it, with the heat of Miguel at your back, and yes, it's fine. Okay, fucking incredible – you know, nothing you haven’t tasted before.

Making eye contact, you watch him blink in surprise. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of himself; not dripping with the arrogance of a few minutes ago. Not wanting to give anything away, you keep your face steady.

"Needs salt, I think."

The spell is broken and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "I've seen the crap you shovel into that big mouth of yours… ¿mi mamá no me enseñó a cocinar para que vengas a decirme que sabe mal…?"

[My mom didn't teach me how to cook so you can come here and tell me it tastes bad…?]

It's your turn to smile at the sweet taste of revenge. Not enough to fuel the next couple hours of essay writing, but a small victory nonetheless. You flash him pink tongue, and watch as his gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second. 

"More salt?" He scoffs. "You wouldn't know good food if it bit you on the ass."

It's childish, but he chucks a tea towel at your head; and you narrowly miss it. 

"Asshole." You spit out, frustrated. Your stomach grumbles, loud, and you watch his face crack, amused. 

His lips curve into a shit-eating grin. "Idiot." 

Face tight, you storm out of the kitchen. 

You're holed up in your room for the rest of the day; only leaving for snack and toilet breaks. Luckily, Miguel doesn't disturb you, except for a full plate left outside your doorstep in the morning. It tastes delicious; warm and homely, but you'd rather pull your teeth out than see that stupid fucking grin on his face. Instead, you give him a grudging thanks, shrugging as if to say: it was somewhat edible. 

And when you hit send on your essay, with a whole 11 minutes to spare, you sigh in relief. You got through it, eventually; even though your roommate is trying to kill you, your new apartment is falling apart and you're failing half your classes already. But you're through the day, and approaching the end of the week with minimal emotional damage. Key word: minimal. 

In the warmth under the covers of your bed, it makes you think. It can't get any worse, right? It won't – it can't. 

Something shifts. Like a rip in the space time continuum or a malevolent god, the universe snatches up that thought; ripe and ready to spit you back out onto the fire. 

~~~

You wake up and something feels off, already. For one, light streams in through the blinds, a slight chill from the open window. It’s peaceful, and the first thing you hear is the song of morning birds just beyond the glass, instead of cars and clattering garbage trucks. 

But it’s a Friday, and you’ve got that 9:00am; the one you were insane enough to sign up for at the beginning of the semester. What you should be hearing is the call-for-war of your alarm; the one that slaps you square across the face and wakes you the fuck up. On time, of course, but still the kind of sound that strikes fear into the hearts of grown men. Groggy, you wipe the sleep from your eyes. And then you frown. The lilting chirp of songbirds (well-fed pigeons that shit all over your windowsill, large enough to be classed as biological weapons), instead of your alarm…?

Your hands go cold, and dread creeps in. Reaching for your phone, you click it on and it shuts off just as quickly. You’re met with the red icon of a dead battery. Fuck.

Leaping out of bed, you rush into the hallway. From there, you see Miguel; out of his workout clothes and flitting in and out the kitchen. Except usually, at this time he’s just coming back from his run and banging at the door to hurry you out of the shower. He spots you and furrows his brow in confusion.

“Aren’t you meant to be…?”

You don't let him finish, and call out. “–What’s the time?” 

He looks at his watch. “Uhhh… quarter past 8?”

“Fuck!”  It erupts out of you, and you bite down the rest; opting to dart back into your room.

Miguel gets closer, pops his head towards your door; in the careful kind of way someone might approach a sleeping bear.

“Are you–”

When you open it in a robe and toiletries bag in hand, he’s there; tentative, and slow, and in your way. A beat passes and your eyes widen, incredulous. Like a fucking lump of coal, he’s slow on the uptake.

“...Move.” 

You push past him into the bathroom and he throws his hand up to surrender. You’re the oddest person he’s had the pleasure (?) of sharing an apartment with, he thinks. Mostly harmless, but hard to read.

The shower sputters to life, changing from hot to ice cold in a second. You grit down a scream, powering through it until the suds wash off. Sheer resolve makes you towel off and change in record time. 

You’re grabbing your bag and chucking whatever you can find in the fridge onto bread. Whilst making a crude sandwich, you’re distracted – going through the calculations in your head. You’ve got a train to catch in about 20 minutes, and if you keep a brisk pace you can make the walk in 15. When you switch subway lines to get across town, it’ll be tight, but you can make it up by cutting across the barriers and keeping those elbows sharp on the stairs. God forbid you miss the transfer, because you’ll have to wait another 15 minutes for the next one and–

Miguel watches by the doorway, a little amused. So caught up in your own world, you don’t notice. He takes a sip of a mug of hot coffee, and you look up. Your face, cute and all scrunched up as you concentrate; but he can’t help but enjoy the flash of displeasure on your face.

“Don’t want to hear it.” You’re spreading butter aggressively, if there was ever such a thing.

He shrugs. “...I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear it, Miguel. You’re thinking out loud, and…” Wrapping up your meal in tinfoil, you stuff it into your bag. “...I don’t have the time to tell you to fuck off.”

With a little gasp, he clutches at hypothetical pearls. He gives you a sarcastic grin before you’re off – slamming the front door in your wake.

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