The two of you spend a while nuzzled up against each other. He gently rubs the seam between your neck and back, and you cling onto him.
In the silence, you can feel your chest growing tighter. This is what you’ve been missing. Miguel is a gentle lover, as sappy as that sounds. Not in the way he’s a butler, chauffeur and chef all in one, but the parts where he rubs your feet and knows which soap you like best.
You’ve spent so long obsessing over conflict, the good parts have slipped your mind.
“I’m sorry for being such a crazy psycho,” you mumble into the taught tissue of his thigh.
The feeling of his laughter gets to you before the sound does. “You’re not crazy or psycho,” he soothes.
The reason the two of you broke up seems ridiculous now. It had begun as a simple argument over whose turn it was to load the dishwasher but one thing led to another and suddenly you were screaming and he was storming off.
You give his thigh another chaste kiss. You enjoy the feeling of soft skin and muscle strong enough to crush your skull against your lips. It’s this ego boost of knowing what he could do but refuses to. You’re “too precious” for him to do half the things you want him to.
“Having fun down there?” You raise your head and shrink in on yourself when he smirks at you. “You’re drooling.”
Hastily, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Yes, you would like to gnaw on his legs until there’s nothing except bone left, but salivating is a new low for you.
“That’s what happens when you have your head lying at an angle,” you protest.
He wipes the remnants of dribble away with his thumb. “Of course it is, bebita.”
God, it’s humiliating the way you grin at him. This isn’t what you want, to be preening for your ex’s attention, yet you can’t stop.
“Can I apologise properly?” He asks, voice so mild you wouldn’t think he could make you cry on his cock.
You want to put up a fight. It would be so satisfying to send him packing with one of the orations you’ve had buried in the archives of your brain- but you can’t.
He looks so sweet from this angle. Those carnivorous, cerise irises gaze down at you compassionately, his fangs don’t even look like they could break skin. His hair is a mess but he somehow manages to pull it off and he doesn’t even seem bothered that you look more dismantled than ever.
He nudges you with a bounce of his leg. “Yeah, go on.” Like you even need him to apologise.
“I don’t want you to get angry with this. What I’ve done is on me and this compulsive need to be someone’s hero.” Is it bad that you feel flattered? You like that you’re the one he wants to protect. He could easily get his fix from saving the city but your safety is what matters to him.
“I won’t.” you offer a supportive smile but you can feel the anxiety radiating off of him.
His fingers play with the collar of your pyjamas, mirroring your own tic. “When we met, you were a mess,” he waits for you to interject but you stay quiet- as much as it stings. “You could forget to eat for a week and then binge all the food you had in a day. The only reason you’d leave the house was for work, and most nights you’d sleep in the lab.”
You swallow down the bile burning the back of your throat. It’s hard being reminded of what you used to be. In your head, that was a dot in the history of you, but it really wasn’t. That depressive, anxiety ridden chapter of your life made up the best part of two years.
Everyone around you felt the pain that encompassed your entire being yet none offered to help.
What hurt the most was how little your family cared. You would ignore calls and texts for weeks and when you finally did reply with a selfie from the grave, they’d react with a thumbs up. Your friends weren’t much help either. Nearly everyone had given up on you, including yourself.
But then, you got promoted. Life got that little bit better and Miguel became a significant part of your life. He was no longer the brooding giant in his office on the second floor. He was a friend, a real one, and he gave you the number of a first rate therapist.
Maybe trauma bonding isn't the healthiest foundation for a relationship but look at where it’s gotten you!
“Bebita?” Your eyes snap back up to him, a faint smile on your face. “You ok?”
You nod solemnly but his hardening gaze forces you to smile. “I’m fine, Migs.”
“What I’m trying to say is that I had no idea how you were doing. We went no contact after such a… passionate relationship. I didn’t want to push and you said that was what you needed.”
That’s fair. You had pretty much told him to disappear or else you’d file a restraining order against him.
“But I’ve seen you at your lowest. I know what can happen and I’ve seen how easily you slip into your old ways even when you have me to help.” You grimace but let him keep talking. “It’s scary knowing someone you love could be on the edge without you there to help.”
His hand starts to rub your back again. You can’t tell if it’s there to calm you or himself but it seems to be doing both. “I can’t help but worry about you.”
You find his free hand and squeeze it gently. It’s so easy for him to get so webbed up in other people’s issues that he doesn’t even see his own.
“I understand,” you murmur, “you were doing what you thought was best.”
He beams down at you, a boyish grin illuminating his face in the most attractive way possible. Strong hangs slide down to your waist and hoist you onto his lap.
He’s ridiculously warm, like he ran a marathon before vacationing in the sun, but it feels nice against your skin. It lures you in and you melt against him.
“Let me make it up to you.”
You nod, smiling, before kissing him.
The two of you know the pace you need this time. Everything is slow and careful as if this is the last time you can have one another.
There wasn’t time for him to appreciate it before, but you still taste like mint and cherry mouthwash. You have this ability to change in the most remarkable ways but remain the exact same person on the inside.
At the end of the day, you’ll always be the same girl he fell for.
He grabs at your ass and steadily guides you on top of his still-hard cock. You match his pace and slowly grind on top of him. No haste, just hunger.
Docile pants of his name fall from your lips and in turn he whispers out yours. You’ve both given up on making the kiss gentle- or a kiss at all. Moaning out each other's names while suckling on the other’s mouth is what you need.
The head of his cock knocks against your clit each time you rock your hips. Bursts of short lived euphoria shoot up your spine and cause your thighs to clench around his middle. With skillful precision, you angle your waist directly on top of his. You bounce up and down, ravenously grinding your clothed cunt against his tip. The promise of a climax hangs right in front of you, shining bright in your eyes.
“Feel good, querida?” he scoffs. You nearly moan at his words, his velvety quip sending your brain into overdrive. He’s so terribly mean but you know that his praise is buried within, just out of reach. He can be kind and if you work for it, he’s more than happy to shower you in it.
Generously, he raises his hips to meet yours. You don’t even get chance to press your weeping cunt against his cock properly before you're seizing up and seeing stars.
Syrupy warmth blankets your body in a turbulent inrush, rendering you a limp mess. You sink your nails into the flesh of his shoulders but it’s not enough to anchor you down. A series of vague warbles fall from your lips- somewhere hidden in them is Miguel’s name.
You whimper weakly before collapsing onto his chest.
His hands tenderly cup your face and guide you to look up at him. He seems happy, a rosy tint lingering on his cheeks. “Been a while?”
You roll your eyes before pulling your face away. You grumble, “you’re acting like I started to levitate.”
“You looked like it.” Despite his condescending tone, he holds you tight to his chest.
But you don’t want tender soppiness, you need the side of him that shreds you raw and burns hot.
You find his hand and guide it down to your cunt. Your sleep shorts conceal it for the most part, but the dampness of your arousal is more prevalent than ever.
“Feel.” It’s meant to sound like an order but your voice barely breaks a whisper.
Happily, though, he obliges. Skilled fingers slip beneath the thin cotton and lazily outline your heat. He spends a few moments running his fingers up and down your slit, gathering your wetness. His touch is feather light, like he doesn’t even care about what he’s doing.
You squeeze his wrist and stare at him with pleading eyes, willing him to break this aloof facade. And he crumbles, sighing at your sweet face.
He dips one finger inside your cunt and watches your pursed lips form a pretty pout. He wonders how long it’s been since you last touched yourself, if you’ve cum since you broke up, whether someone else has been the source of your arousal.
But as you whimper his name, he’s reminded that it’s only him. Only can be him
Another, thick digits delves into your dripping cunt with a sinful squelch. He curls them up gently, eliciting a shocked moan out of you.
“Tell me how much you’ve missed me,” he rasps. His lips ghost the shell of your ear, hot breath dancing along your neck.
You paw at his face until he’s looking down at you again. Wide eyes watch him attentively, drinking in the wild grin and blown out pupils.
“Think about you all the time,” you whine and he lets his fingers sink deeper inside you. “I try and fuck myself but I can’t cum without you. I try so fucking hard but it’s never enough.”
Your sob story is enough to tear his heart in half. Benevolent as ever, he quickens the pace of his fingers and watches as you cum all over his hand.
Your nails sink into his flesh but he doesn’t even flinch. He’s unsheathed his fingers, and like a man starved, laps up your juices. You watch, mesmerised, as he groans at the taste of you. Your slick hangs loosely from his fingers and he happily licks it up, hungrily palming your thigh.
Entranced, you watch, too busy to notice him flipping you onto your back and sliding between your legs.
You sink into your pillows, trapped beneath him as he tugs at your shorts. “I like those ones,” you warn with a steady glare.
“I can buy you new ones.”
“They’re expensive,” you whine through a pout.
He pulls them off you harshly and your cringe at the sound of tearing fabric. “I can afford it,” he reasons against your lips, silencing all other arguments. Although, you can’t help but look longingly at them on your carpet.
Steady fingers come up to guide your face back over to him. “Let me make you feel good, okay.” You nod obediently, the memory of your torn shorts long gone.
He lines himself up against your entrance before fully sheathing himself inside of you. It’s cruel, the lack of warning you’re given but the euphoria rippling through your body makes up for it.
The burn- you’ll never get used to though. It’s like a hundred blazing suns fused together with the warmth found only in your first love.
The feeling of his cock inside you is addictive. He pistons in and out of you at an unforgiving pace, revelling in your mewls and groans. Every snap of his hips spends your head spinning with the only way of anchoring your thoughts being to sink your nails into his golden skin.
You try to lift your head, to meet him halfway for a sweet, heady kiss, but you can’t keep your head up. You flop around like a helpless rag doll while he ravishes your body.
He looks at you like you’re his last meal. His eyes are glazed over with a maroon thirst you’ve only seen a few times before. He keeps trying to tell you how good you feel, how your body was made for him, how badly he’s needed you but every word tapers in a ferocious snarl that leaves your cunt throbbing.
Feebly, you slide your hands up his toned arms. His muscles are taught and glistening with beads of sweat, how badly you want to run your tongue along them.
He grins like a Cheshire Cat, preening under your awe-like gaze. All he wants is your approval, your acceptance, your love. And he knows he has to earn it.
His hips speed up, thighs slapping against yours as your arousal soaks your bed covers. “Need you to cum all over my cock,” he slurs, “make such a pretty mess on me.”
He runs a calloused hand under your shirt, hardened skin grazing delicate flesh. You gasp as he tweaks one of your nipples. He refuses to falter in his determined pace yet he manages to grope at the silky skin of your chest so gently.
A vulgar groan is pushed out of you as you wrap your legs around his waist. He sinks deeper inside of you, hitting that sweet spot he loves to abuse.
You whimper his name, glassy eyes staring so lovingly at him. You’re like an angel, fluffed pillows forming a halo around your pretty face and singing such sweet songs of pleasure for him. He wants to keep you like this forever, permanently happy, permanently his.
Ironically, you think you’re in heaven. No one’s ever fucked you this good- not even Miguel. You can’t tell if it’s been two minutes or an hour but every second drags you closer to a mind bending climax.
Your lips quiver, a feeble attempt to tell him you’re close, but only a pathetic warble falls out. He looks at you pitifully and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.
“Bebita bonita gonna cum soon?” He coos, hand sliding down your torso.
“So close,” you just about manage. You look away, ashamed of how easily you’ve unravelled on his cock.
A disapproving tsk forces you to glance back at him. “Keep those eyes on me,” he drawls, “wanna see your face when you cum for me.”
He presses his palm flat against your stomach as he continues to stretch out your cunt. You can feel how deep he reaches, how close to literally fucking your brains out he can go. It’s a gift wrapped in the tantalising promise of an orgasm.
Miguel can feel his own climax nearing but he refuses to cum before you do. He wants you moaning his name and writhing on his cock while he pumps you full of his cum.
Watching his cum drip out of your swollen cunt would allow him to die happy. Knowing he's finally conquered you mind, body and soul.
Would you let him get you pregnant? You’ve mentioned your own apprehension around parenting before but he knows you’d be such a gorgeous mother; full hips and a round stomach. Everyone will see who you belong to.
He could come home each day to you looking after your kids, shining with that motherly glow he knows you’d look ethereal in.
“Gonna let me cum in this pretty pussy?” He’s testing the waters, praying your fucked out state can give him the answer he wants.
You don’t answer, lips pursed tight as you try to compress your moans, but he sees the way your eyes widen.
He swipes his thumb across your clit. “Bebita?”
“Yes!” You call out, back arching.
He so badly wants it to be that symphony sweet consent to be filled with his cum but as you clamp your hands to his shoulders and choke out his name- he knows it’s just an orgasm.
A really fucking beautiful orgasm anyway. You convulse in a way which should be off putting but on you it’s mesmerising. Each time you call his name and writhe against your plush bedding, all he can see is the shine in your eyes.
Determined, Miguel speeds up the thrashing of his hips. While you try to ride your high, his cock is pushing another one onto you. Your sensitive, brutalised cunt weeps all over his length, clenching down tight under he's cumming just as hard as you.
He slams into you hard, fist buried next to your head and hair falling across your face. His hot breath dances across your nose as he whispers your name out. He can’t even look at your face, eyes rolling back and lips hanging ajar.
He collapses on top of you. You don’t mind the weight. It’s a comforting mass as your legs twitch and your lips drool. You can ground yourself beneath him, hot skin sticking to hot skin.
Eventually, he rolls over, brooding eyes locked on yours. You can smell the sex on each other, the sin of what you’ve just done. While you want to cower away in bashful shame, he wants to lick the flavour off of you.
Lamely, you try to match your breathing to his. His breath mingles with yours until you’re breathing in only his fatigued pants.
“You’re so beautiful.”
You roll your eyes, unwilling to accept his shabby attempt at flirtation.
“I mean it,” he reinforces.
You realise you like his compliments. They’d been hard to digest while you’d been dating, but they feel much more real now.
Maybe it’s the golden glow on his face or the face that his cock is growing limp in your aching cunt, but nothing is fake anymore.
You press your finger to his lips and shush him softly. His eyes grow heavy at your gentle touch, a dopey smile parting his mouth open.
“I never paid enough attention to these,” you mutter, finger sliding across his fangs.
How easily would they slice your skin open? Does their venom kill? Would he ever use them on you?
“Can you bite me?” You flash him a cheesy smile.
“How about some quiet time?” He grumbles, eyes closed and lashes brushing against his eyebags.
You pry his mouth open further and press your finger against the tip of his fang. Blood pebbles on your skin before diluting with the transparent fluid leaking from his fang.
You drag it along his tongue to which he sighs.
He’s watching you through the slits between his eyelids but can’t see. You really are beautiful. Always beaming with an admirable warmth even if you can’t see it yourself.
“I know how to keep you quiet.”
You squeal when he pulls you close again, teeth clamping down on your finger.
The two of you spend a while nuzzled up against each other. He gently rubs the seam between your neck and back, and you cling onto him.
In the silence, you can feel your chest growing tighter. This is what you’ve been missing. Miguel is a gentle lover, as sappy as that sounds. Not in the way he’s a butler, chauffeur and chef all in one, but the parts where he rubs your feet and knows which soap you like best.
You’ve spent so long obsessing over conflict, the good parts have slipped your mind.
“I’m sorry for being such a crazy psycho,” you mumble into the taught tissue of his thigh.
The feeling of his laughter gets to you before the sound does. “You’re not crazy or psycho,” he soothes.
The reason the two of you broke up seems ridiculous now. It had begun as a simple argument over whose turn it was to load the dishwasher but one thing led to another and suddenly you were screaming and he was storming off.
You give his thigh another chaste kiss. You enjoy the feeling of soft skin and muscle strong enough to crush your skull against your lips. It’s this ego boost of knowing what he could do but refuses to. You’re “too precious” for him to do half the things you want him to.
“Having fun down there?” You raise your head and shrink in on yourself when he smirks at you. “You’re drooling.”
Hastily, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Yes, you would like to gnaw on his legs until there’s nothing except bone left, but salivating is a new low for you.
“That’s what happens when you have your head lying at an angle,” you protest.
He wipes the remnants of dribble away with his thumb. “Of course it is, bebita.”
God, it’s humiliating the way you grin at him. This isn’t what you want, to be preening for your ex’s attention, yet you can’t stop.
“Can I apologise properly?” He asks, voice so mild you wouldn’t think he could make you cry on his cock.
You want to put up a fight. It would be so satisfying to send him packing with one of the orations you’ve had buried in the archives of your brain- but you can’t.
He looks so sweet from this angle. Those carnivorous, cerise irises gaze down at you compassionately, his fangs don’t even look like they could break skin. His hair is a mess but he somehow manages to pull it off and he doesn’t even seem bothered that you look more dismantled than ever.
He nudges you with a bounce of his leg. “Yeah, go on.” Like you even need him to apologise.
“I don’t want you to get angry with this. What I’ve done is on me and this compulsive need to be someone’s hero.” Is it bad that you feel flattered? You like that you’re the one he wants to protect. He could easily get his fix from saving the city but your safety is what matters to him.
“I won’t.” you offer a supportive smile but you can feel the anxiety radiating off of him.
His fingers play with the collar of your pyjamas, mirroring your own tic. “When we met, you were a mess,” he waits for you to interject but you stay quiet- as much as it stings. “You could forget to eat for a week and then binge all the food you had in a day. The only reason you’d leave the house was for work, and most nights you’d sleep in the lab.”
You swallow down the bile burning the back of your throat. It’s hard being reminded of what you used to be. In your head, that was a dot in the history of you, but it really wasn’t. That depressive, anxiety ridden chapter of your life made up the best part of two years.
Everyone around you felt the pain that encompassed your entire being yet none offered to help.
What hurt the most was how little your family cared. You would ignore calls and texts for weeks and when you finally did reply with a selfie from the grave, they’d react with a thumbs up. Your friends weren’t much help either. Nearly everyone had given up on you, including yourself.
But then, you got promoted. Life got that little bit better and Miguel became a significant part of your life. He was no longer the brooding giant in his office on the second floor. He was a friend, a real one, and he gave you the number of a first rate therapist.
Maybe trauma bonding isn't the healthiest foundation for a relationship but look at where it’s gotten you!
“Bebita?” Your eyes snap back up to him, a faint smile on your face. “You ok?”
You nod solemnly but his hardening gaze forces you to smile. “I’m fine, Migs.”
“What I’m trying to say is that I had no idea how you were doing. We went no contact after such a… passionate relationship. I didn’t want to push and you said that was what you needed.”
That’s fair. You had pretty much told him to disappear or else you’d file a restraining order against him.
“But I’ve seen you at your lowest. I know what can happen and I’ve seen how easily you slip into your old ways even when you have me to help.” You grimace but let him keep talking. “It’s scary knowing someone you love could be on the edge without you there to help.”
His hand starts to rub your back again. You can’t tell if it’s there to calm you or himself but it seems to be doing both. “I can’t help but worry about you.”
You find his free hand and squeeze it gently. It’s so easy for him to get so webbed up in other people’s issues that he doesn’t even see his own.
“I understand,” you murmur, “you were doing what you thought was best.”
He beams down at you, a boyish grin illuminating his face in the most attractive way possible. Strong hangs slide down to your waist and hoist you onto his lap.
He’s ridiculously warm, like he ran a marathon before vacationing in the sun, but it feels nice against your skin. It lures you in and you melt against him.
“Let me make it up to you.”
You nod, smiling, before kissing him.
The two of you know the pace you need this time. Everything is slow and careful as if this is the last time you can have one another.
There wasn’t time for him to appreciate it before, but you still taste like mint and cherry mouthwash. You have this ability to change in the most remarkable ways but remain the exact same person on the inside.
At the end of the day, you’ll always be the same girl he fell for.
He grabs at your ass and steadily guides you on top of his still-hard cock. You match his pace and slowly grind on top of him. No haste, just hunger.
Docile pants of his name fall from your lips and in turn he whispers out yours. You’ve both given up on making the kiss gentle- or a kiss at all. Moaning out each other's names while suckling on the other’s mouth is what you need.
The head of his cock knocks against your clit each time you rock your hips. Bursts of short lived euphoria shoot up your spine and cause your thighs to clench around his middle. With skillful precision, you angle your waist directly on top of his. You bounce up and down, ravenously grinding your clothed cunt against his tip. The promise of a climax hangs right in front of you, shining bright in your eyes.
“Feel good, querida?” he scoffs. You nearly moan at his words, his velvety quip sending your brain into overdrive. He’s so terribly mean but you know that his praise is buried within, just out of reach. He can be kind and if you work for it, he’s more than happy to shower you in it.
Generously, he raises his hips to meet yours. You don’t even get chance to press your weeping cunt against his cock properly before you're seizing up and seeing stars.
Syrupy warmth blankets your body in a turbulent inrush, rendering you a limp mess. You sink your nails into the flesh of his shoulders but it’s not enough to anchor you down. A series of vague warbles fall from your lips- somewhere hidden in them is Miguel’s name.
You whimper weakly before collapsing onto his chest.
His hands tenderly cup your face and guide you to look up at him. He seems happy, a rosy tint lingering on his cheeks. “Been a while?”
You roll your eyes before pulling your face away. You grumble, “you’re acting like I started to levitate.”
“You looked like it.” Despite his condescending tone, he holds you tight to his chest.
But you don’t want tender soppiness, you need the side of him that shreds you raw and burns hot.
You find his hand and guide it down to your cunt. Your sleep shorts conceal it for the most part, but the dampness of your arousal is more prevalent than ever.
“Feel.” It’s meant to sound like an order but your voice barely breaks a whisper.
Happily, though, he obliges. Skilled fingers slip beneath the thin cotton and lazily outline your heat. He spends a few moments running his fingers up and down your slit, gathering your wetness. His touch is feather light, like he doesn’t even care about what he’s doing.
You squeeze his wrist and stare at him with pleading eyes, willing him to break this aloof facade. And he crumbles, sighing at your sweet face.
He dips one finger inside your cunt and watches your pursed lips form a pretty pout. He wonders how long it’s been since you last touched yourself, if you’ve cum since you broke up, whether someone else has been the source of your arousal.
But as you whimper his name, he’s reminded that it’s only him. Only can be him
Another, thick digits delves into your dripping cunt with a sinful squelch. He curls them up gently, eliciting a shocked moan out of you.
“Tell me how much you’ve missed me,” he rasps. His lips ghost the shell of your ear, hot breath dancing along your neck.
You paw at his face until he’s looking down at you again. Wide eyes watch him attentively, drinking in the wild grin and blown out pupils.
“Think about you all the time,” you whine and he lets his fingers sink deeper inside you. “I try and fuck myself but I can’t cum without you. I try so fucking hard but it’s never enough.”
Your sob story is enough to tear his heart in half. Benevolent as ever, he quickens the pace of his fingers and watches as you cum all over his hand.
Your nails sink into his flesh but he doesn’t even flinch. He’s unsheathed his fingers, and like a man starved, laps up your juices. You watch, mesmerised, as he groans at the taste of you. Your slick hangs loosely from his fingers and he happily licks it up, hungrily palming your thigh.
Entranced, you watch, too busy to notice him flipping you onto your back and sliding between your legs.
You sink into your pillows, trapped beneath him as he tugs at your shorts. “I like those ones,” you warn with a steady glare.
“I can buy you new ones.”
“They’re expensive,” you whine through a pout.
He pulls them off you harshly and your cringe at the sound of tearing fabric. “I can afford it,” he reasons against your lips, silencing all other arguments. Although, you can’t help but look longingly at them on your carpet.
Steady fingers come up to guide your face back over to him. “Let me make you feel good, okay.” You nod obediently, the memory of your torn shorts long gone.
He lines himself up against your entrance before fully sheathing himself inside of you. It’s cruel, the lack of warning you’re given but the euphoria rippling through your body makes up for it.
The burn- you’ll never get used to though. It’s like a hundred blazing suns fused together with the warmth found only in your first love.
The feeling of his cock inside you is addictive. He pistons in and out of you at an unforgiving pace, revelling in your mewls and groans. Every snap of his hips spends your head spinning with the only way of anchoring your thoughts being to sink your nails into his golden skin.
You try to lift your head, to meet him halfway for a sweet, heady kiss, but you can’t keep your head up. You flop around like a helpless rag doll while he ravishes your body.
He looks at you like you’re his last meal. His eyes are glazed over with a maroon thirst you’ve only seen a few times before. He keeps trying to tell you how good you feel, how your body was made for him, how badly he’s needed you but every word tapers in a ferocious snarl that leaves your cunt throbbing.
Feebly, you slide your hands up his toned arms. His muscles are taught and glistening with beads of sweat, how badly you want to run your tongue along them.
He grins like a Cheshire Cat, preening under your awe-like gaze. All he wants is your approval, your acceptance, your love. And he knows he has to earn it.
His hips speed up, thighs slapping against yours as your arousal soaks your bed covers. “Need you to cum all over my cock,” he slurs, “make such a pretty mess on me.”
He runs a calloused hand under your shirt, hardened skin grazing delicate flesh. You gasp as he tweaks one of your nipples. He refuses to falter in his determined pace yet he manages to grope at the silky skin of your chest so gently.
A vulgar groan is pushed out of you as you wrap your legs around his waist. He sinks deeper inside of you, hitting that sweet spot he loves to abuse.
You whimper his name, glassy eyes staring so lovingly at him. You’re like an angel, fluffed pillows forming a halo around your pretty face and singing such sweet songs of pleasure for him. He wants to keep you like this forever, permanently happy, permanently his.
Ironically, you think you’re in heaven. No one’s ever fucked you this good- not even Miguel. You can’t tell if it’s been two minutes or an hour but every second drags you closer to a mind bending climax.
Your lips quiver, a feeble attempt to tell him you’re close, but only a pathetic warble falls out. He looks at you pitifully and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.
“Bebita bonita gonna cum soon?” He coos, hand sliding down your torso.
“So close,” you just about manage. You look away, ashamed of how easily you’ve unravelled on his cock.
A disapproving tsk forces you to glance back at him. “Keep those eyes on me,” he drawls, “wanna see your face when you cum for me.”
He presses his palm flat against your stomach as he continues to stretch out your cunt. You can feel how deep he reaches, how close to literally fucking your brains out he can go. It’s a gift wrapped in the tantalising promise of an orgasm.
Miguel can feel his own climax nearing but he refuses to cum before you do. He wants you moaning his name and writhing on his cock while he pumps you full of his cum.
Watching his cum drip out of your swollen cunt would allow him to die happy. Knowing he's finally conquered you mind, body and soul.
Would you let him get you pregnant? You’ve mentioned your own apprehension around parenting before but he knows you’d be such a gorgeous mother; full hips and a round stomach. Everyone will see who you belong to.
He could come home each day to you looking after your kids, shining with that motherly glow he knows you’d look ethereal in.
“Gonna let me cum in this pretty pussy?” He’s testing the waters, praying your fucked out state can give him the answer he wants.
You don’t answer, lips pursed tight as you try to compress your moans, but he sees the way your eyes widen.
He swipes his thumb across your clit. “Bebita?”
“Yes!” You call out, back arching.
He so badly wants it to be that symphony sweet consent to be filled with his cum but as you clamp your hands to his shoulders and choke out his name- he knows it’s just an orgasm.
A really fucking beautiful orgasm anyway. You convulse in a way which should be off putting but on you it’s mesmerising. Each time you call his name and writhe against your plush bedding, all he can see is the shine in your eyes.
Determined, Miguel speeds up the thrashing of his hips. While you try to ride your high, his cock is pushing another one onto you. Your sensitive, brutalised cunt weeps all over his length, clenching down tight under he's cumming just as hard as you.
He slams into you hard, fist buried next to your head and hair falling across your face. His hot breath dances across your nose as he whispers your name out. He can’t even look at your face, eyes rolling back and lips hanging ajar.
He collapses on top of you. You don’t mind the weight. It’s a comforting mass as your legs twitch and your lips drool. You can ground yourself beneath him, hot skin sticking to hot skin.
Eventually, he rolls over, brooding eyes locked on yours. You can smell the sex on each other, the sin of what you’ve just done. While you want to cower away in bashful shame, he wants to lick the flavour off of you.
Lamely, you try to match your breathing to his. His breath mingles with yours until you’re breathing in only his fatigued pants.
“You’re so beautiful.”
You roll your eyes, unwilling to accept his shabby attempt at flirtation.
“I mean it,” he reinforces.
You realise you like his compliments. They’d been hard to digest while you’d been dating, but they feel much more real now.
Maybe it’s the golden glow on his face or the face that his cock is growing limp in your aching cunt, but nothing is fake anymore.
You press your finger to his lips and shush him softly. His eyes grow heavy at your gentle touch, a dopey smile parting his mouth open.
“I never paid enough attention to these,” you mutter, finger sliding across his fangs.
How easily would they slice your skin open? Does their venom kill? Would he ever use them on you?
“Can you bite me?” You flash him a cheesy smile.
“How about some quiet time?” He grumbles, eyes closed and lashes brushing against his eyebags.
You pry his mouth open further and press your finger against the tip of his fang. Blood pebbles on your skin before diluting with the transparent fluid leaking from his fang.
You drag it along his tongue to which he sighs.
He’s watching you through the slits between his eyelids but can’t see. You really are beautiful. Always beaming with an admirable warmth even if you can’t see it yourself.
“I know how to keep you quiet.”
You squeal when he pulls you close again, teeth clamping down on your finger.
Steady breaths tickle the edge of your cheek and dance along your shoulder. His fading cologne is so distinctly him, so familiar, you feel more grounded than ever.
“This part will hurt,” you warn.
Admittedly, it is slightly awkward having Miguel perched on the edge of your bed while you hover inches away from his face.
He looks at your vanity- not once acknowledging you.
Not when you press alcohol wipes to his flesh.
Not when you trace the skin around his wound.
Not when you pluck shards of glass and chunks of dirt out.
You grip onto his bicep and angle it toward yourself. “Can you please cooperate?” You scold lightly. He nods his head and lifts his arm up for you.
“This doesn’t look like a little.” Your clock ticks softly on your bedside table.
“It doesn’t hurt that badly.” He grumbles, which earns him a humbling glare.
Miguel exhales and something that looks dangerously close to a smile flickers across his lips.
The small dish you had carried through from your kitchen clinks dully as you drop the final shard of glass onto it. Practised eyes roam over his pink flesh before you decide it’s clean.
A frail ribbon of blood begins to trickle down his arm and you instinctually press a cotton pad to his cut. It darkens in seconds.
You reach across him for a fresh one. “Ready to tell me the real reason why you were lurking outside my apartment?”
For a moment he doesn’t answer.
The cotton pad presses into his shoulder and remains clean for much longer than its predecessor. Your fingers remain steady even when his muscles twitch and blood clings to your skin.
His gaze remains intent on your wall in front of him. Like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, and not you tending to his injury.
“Miguel.”
Sighing, he rolls his neck. “You’ve already decided what the reason is.”
Unbelievable. “You’ve never given me one.”
You pull the cotton pad away. Small speckles of red are peppered across the white plain and his wound weeps feebly. He flinches as the cold air infiltrates his injury.
“Hold still.”
“I am still!”
You hold his arm in place with a firm hand. “You’re sulking.”
You dab at the wound again. He hisses at the pain but listens and remains still; it makes you feel warm. “Tell me if it hurts… please.”
Almost instantly, he raises his shoulders and puffs out his chest. “I’m fine,” he says while fixing his hair. Again.
You press harder.
“It stings.” He admits flatly.
The clock ticks idly in the corner. You try counting each vibration it sends out but you lose your place and have to keep starting over again. The only noise other than it is the sound of gauze being ripped open and Miguel trying to cover his whimpers with coughs.
“You can’t do that again,” you say, eventually breaking the silence. You wrap the bandage around his arm and tighten it with a firm tug.
Finally, his gaze drops from the wall and lands on you. It’s like he hasn’t seen you in years. His eyes are gentle and almost kind as they watch you secure the knot of his bandage.
It’s hard not to replicate his forlorn expression. The beginnings of a compliment being to form on the tip of your tongue but Miguel beats you to it.
“I’m sorry.”
You tuck the ends of the knot into the bandage and pull away. But one of Miguel’s hands stops you and closes around your wrist before you get the chance to retreat fully. Not tightly.
You scowl at him yet you can’t find it in yourself to pull away. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything.” You tell him, “not after your shitty apology before.”
His fingers travel along your arm until he’s cradling your shoulder. “You’re right, that wasn’t a proper apology,” he admits.
You nod at him, eyes narrowing.
Miguel takes that as his cue to try again and his grip softens around your shoulder. “It’s not fair that I crossed your boundaries.” He tilts his head, bright eyes trying to meet your gaze. “I shouldn’t have been…”
He pauses, rolling the words around in his mouth for a moment.
“Stalking? Surveying? Monitoring?” You offer impatiently.
“Yes- not stalking,” he corrects, “caring.”
It’s been so long since somebody cared for you. Your family is so far away and your friends only ever want to talk about themselves.
Life was so much easier when you had Miguel doing everything for you. He would cook, and clean, and listen and he’d never complain about any of it. He said something about enjoying looking after you once and those words have never left the back of your mind since.
You don’t even realise that he’s guided you to sit next to him. Your thigh lies less than an inch away from his and suddenly you’re a new lab tech admiring Mr. O’Hara from afar, again. But you swallow down those overwhelming feelings. Miguel is gentle and that’s something you’ll never be.
His free hand finds your waist and gently pulls you closer. “I’m sorry,” he relays. His forehead presses against yours and you have nowhere left to look but at him.
He has changed since the last time you saw him.
Additional scars are scattered across his jaw from shaving. You can taste the new brand of toothpaste on his breath. His hair is longer, too. Which he knows is how you like it.
You brush the strands that have strayed from the rest of the pack away from his forehead. “You need to go to the barbers,” you scold but there’s no ammunition in your voice.
“I prefer it when you cut my hair.”
Your tongue swipes across your teeth to hide your smile. You can still feel the shape of his scalp against your fingers while you angled his head downwards with a pair of craft scissors in hand. And as a reward he’d always fuck your brains out.
You let your gaze wander away from his face. “That’s because it was free,” you quip despite the pinking of your cheeks.
You can feel his chest rumble when he laughs at you. “We both know you got payment for cutting my hair.”
Even though you roll your eyes at him and try to scowl, it’s impossible to ignore the warmth bubbling in your core.
It’s addictive how bad for you Miguel is. Freely, you can indulge in your shameful desires without having to face the consequences of it. He knows you well enough to understand that you don’t really need him: it’s just nice knowing he’ll be that crutch when you call for him.
You let yourself melt against him, revelling in the richness of his smell. Taught muscles support your frame and his strong hands cradle your lower half.
“I don’t want to do this to you,” you sigh against his shoulder.
His head drops down to your neck, lips ghosting against your jugular. “Bebita, it’s fine,” he mutters.
Gentle lips press delicate kisses along the column of your throat over and over again. His breath mingles with the passion of his mouth and he grows sloppy; gradually he builds his way up to your jaw and then to your cheeks and then to your lips again. But he waits patiently, resting the side of his face against yours.
Hastily, you slide your hand up his back before cradling the base of his neck. “It’s fine,” you repeat, slowly.
It’s practised imperfection as you let your lips meet his. He attempts slow, needy pecks while your tongue swipes against him, hungry for access. And when you both switch pace, you laugh softly against each other.
All your willpower drains from your body as he eagerly pulls you onto his lap. Feebly, you try to follow his lips before letting your tongue find his again.
You all but paw at his chest, whining into his mouth, wordlessly begging for the affection he’s been neglecting you of. He’s always been wrapped around your little finger, so keen to please. So he grips you harder, his hold so tight you pray he leaves a mark.
The air grows heavy with the crude symphony of Miguel grunting against your lips and you sloppily scavenging his mouth. Deep down you know this won’t end well but having someone hold onto you like you might disappear makes it so easy to ignore your conscience.
He pulls away and you lamely try to chase after him but he tugs you back by your hair. Entranced by the shiny string of spit connecting your lips, you try to keep up with him again. “Look at me.” His voice is so cool it stings.
But you obey him, wide eyes trained on him like it’s the only thing you know how to.
Gingerly, he cradles your jaw. “I’ve missed this face,” he hums sweetly. You smile and don’t even try to swallow it down this time.
It does something to him- having you be so obedient moments after bossing him around. It’s a reminder that you’re still his despite it all. No matter how long you two are apart, your heart belongs to him, and his to you.
He pushes his thumb up to your mouth, prying your lips open. You follow his lead and let your tongue rest against your swollen, lower lip. “And to think, you wanted nothing to do with me earlier,” he chuckles.
You roll your eyes at him, tongue still out, and he laughs dryly. “Look at you, still trying to act like you hate me.”
You almost gag when he pushes his thumb into your mouth. He lets it run along your teeth before holding up your top lip- inspecting, attentively. “Miguel?” He doesn’t say anything, only stares.
The amber lights from the street dance across his features, softening the harsh contours. They let you see right through his aloof facade; he’s just as hungry as you are. You don't care about opposites attracting or whatever excuses you soothed yourself with earlier. There’s no denying how similar the two of you are.
You aren’t desperate enough to believe in things as juvenile soulmates, but if there ever were a pair of souls crafted with the sole purpose of being together- they would have chosen the two of you to be their vessels.
Your tongue languidly pushes out further, reminding him that you’re still there. The hand cupping your jaw angles your head back, exposing your throat- inside and out- to him. Your nose twitches and your heart rattles as his breath fans across your face.
His jaw tenses before he spits right on your tongue. “Swallow.” All too happily, you oblige.
You make a show of it, too. You let it slowly begin to drip off the edge of your tongue before curling it inside your mouth. A proud rumble vibrates through his chest but he keeps his tight grip on your jaw.
You swallow his spit before producing a pink tongue again for him, a stupidly proud smile adorning your lips. All shame or self respect has long gone. You feel like a puppy, desperately seeking the inevitable praise that dangles just out of your reach.
You know Miguel, having you do exactly what he’s says is… good, but he only wants the best. He needs you to jump before he’s even asked, and you should know how high.
So, you slide off of his lap, soft hands dragging along his deliciously thick thighs and calves, all the way down until you’re kneeling before him. From here, you can see the damage you’ve done. His suit conceals most of it, but you can still make out the evidence of his erection.
Your eyes lock with his and that familiar ache of desire is clawing at your insides again. “You’re so good to me,” he croons, voice so syrupy you know it’s a trap.
Silently, you wait. No matter how hard you clench your thighs, the ravenous fire, roaring white hot in your core refuses to relent.
He taps a button on his watch and you can only stare at the reveal of his leaky cock.
Every vein is the exact same, his tip is the same pinkish shade and the sight alone is still enough to make you salivate. You nuzzle your head against his thigh and gently kiss the base of his shaft. Miguel’s thighs tense up at the sudden contact; it’s been so long since someone has touched him this way.
His already leaky tip trickles more shiny precum. Your eyes are like magnets as they instantly snap up to watch him dribble down his length.
Sloppily, you lap at the base of his cock. The usual, habitual routine of shoving him into your mouth seems so pointless now. You can feel every quiver and whimper against your tongue and it tastes so good.
You drag your tongue along the underside of his cock until your lips are resting steadily on his tip. Miguel locks eyes with you and you swear your heart stops. You’ve barely done anything and his cheeks are beautifully flushed and his lips glossy.
He looks beautiful.
“I’ve missed you,” he pants out, “mi bebita hermosa, so good to me.”
His voice is rich as ever, running heavy down your spine and pooling in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers itch to slide beneath your shorts and give your pussy what you’ve been needing all night. It’d be so easy to fuck yourself silly and Miguel would more than happily sit there and watch but something about his cock seems so enchanting tonight.
Saliva runs down his cock while you swirl your tongue around his tip over and over again. The sounds he’s making have your cunt leaking down your thighs and you wonder if he can smell it. Maybe he can taste it, too. He always freaked you out with his sense of smell.
Your hand clamps onto the lower part of his shaft and gently, you start to pump his cock. You begin carefully, slow enough that you can match the pace with your mouth. It’s perfection, for you, slobbering over the twitching tip of his cock while you can grope and feel the base as much as you want.
He twitches and grunts and you know he wants to force your head all the way down. He knows you can take it. But this tedious process is drawing out the most delicious sounds from his pretty lips and the tangy precum flowing from his tip seems to be never ending.
“Please, bebita,” he babbles down at you. You had thought you’d be the one struggling to keep eye contact but he can barely stop his eyes from rolling back.
His fingers are white from how hard he’s gripping his thighs. Each time his hips threaten to buck up he forces his toned thighs to remain still. You want nothing more than to have your head crushed between those slabs of muscle.
You let your lips slide down the remainder of his cock, until your nose is buried in the tufts of hair that settle on the base. Your jaw aches with the pressure and tears start to tinge the corners of your eyes. It’s been so long since you last had Miguel like this you’ve forgotten how badly he can hurt.
But it burns so good. Your mind might be numb with pain but being able to feel him entirely makes your cunt twitch. Your tongue remembers each individual vein that wraps around his cock. Your throat knows just how much of a fight to put up. Having him in you so intimately is the closest either of you got to love without saying it aloud.
Watching you struggle to swallow his cock, Miguel kindly steadies you with a hand to the back of your scalp. He bobs your head up and down with ravenous eyes. Every gag you splutter, each whimper your release only adds fuel to the fire of his pleasure.
You choking on his cock while he barely fucks your throat is the gentle petting his ego didn’t know it needed.
“Do you know how beautiful you look drooling on my cock?” He stares down at you waiting for an answer. When you feebly try to shake your head with a mouthful of cock, he chuckled cruelly.
With a force you should have been expecting, he bucks his hips up. His cock slams against the back of your throat and you cry out but your pain is muffled by his girth.
Repeatedly, he fucks into your mouth while you drool and gag on him. You try to slack your jaw to accommodate him but he takes up too much space.
Your hands grip onto the edge of your bed as a helpless attempt to stabilise yourself. You’ve never seen him look so determined to get off before. His eyes glow a hypnotic scarlet and he’s snarling, actually snarling, at you. The grip on the back of your head only grows tighter and his hips never slow their pace.
You’ve completely given up on trying to match his speed- you just kneel there and let him use your throat like a fucktoy. He’s grunting and babbling and not a single word out of his mouth is short of cruel.
“Mi bebita is such a fucking slut.” His voice comes out a growl, too vicious to be considered words. You can only look up at him through tear spiked lashes and watery lashes as he spews out the vulgar thoughts he has swimming around his head.
“Been thinking about this pretty fucking mouth for weeks.” He holds your head all the way down, letting you catch your breath before he’s hastily slapping your cheeks against his thighs again. “All the different ways I could make you cry for this cock. Make you beg for it just like you used to. Remember that? When you used to whine and plead for anything, even for me to slap it across your face.”
You can practically feel the indents of his fingerprints when he smashes your face against his abdomen. His thighs jolt upwards again and hot cum splashes against the back of your throat. It fills your mouth and slowly seeps past your lips.
When he finally releases you, you gasp and choke for air. Cum drips down your chin while you clasp onto his thighs. You pant like a dog all while he lovingly pets your hair. It’s always irked you how easily he can switch from cruel to kind.
Meagrely, you tilt your head to the side so you can look up at him. Everything about him radiates warmth. He’s looking at you almost lovingly despite having just abused your throat for the sake of his cock.
You smile at him, dopey eyes and all. And he returns the favor, razor sharp fangs glinting in the amber lighting of your room. You press a sloppy kiss to his thigh and nuzzle against him. Deep down, the resentment for him still lingers but you’ve never felt more at home than you do in his embrace.
Steady breaths tickle the edge of your cheek and dance along your shoulder. His fading cologne is so distinctly him, so familiar, you feel more grounded than ever.
“This part will hurt,” you warn.
Admittedly, it is slightly awkward having Miguel perched on the edge of your bed while you hover inches away from his face.
He looks at your vanity- not once acknowledging you.
Not when you press alcohol wipes to his flesh.
Not when you trace the skin around his wound.
Not when you pluck shards of glass and chunks of dirt out.
You grip onto his bicep and angle it toward yourself. “Can you please cooperate?” You scold lightly. He nods his head and lifts his arm up for you.
“This doesn’t look like a little.” Your clock ticks softly on your bedside table.
“It doesn’t hurt that badly.” He grumbles, which earns him a humbling glare.
Miguel exhales and something that looks dangerously close to a smile flickers across his lips.
The small dish you had carried through from your kitchen clinks dully as you drop the final shard of glass onto it. Practised eyes roam over his pink flesh before you decide it’s clean.
A frail ribbon of blood begins to trickle down his arm and you instinctually press a cotton pad to his cut. It darkens in seconds.
You reach across him for a fresh one. “Ready to tell me the real reason why you were lurking outside my apartment?”
For a moment he doesn’t answer.
The cotton pad presses into his shoulder and remains clean for much longer than its predecessor. Your fingers remain steady even when his muscles twitch and blood clings to your skin.
His gaze remains intent on your wall in front of him. Like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, and not you tending to his injury.
“Miguel.”
Sighing, he rolls his neck. “You’ve already decided what the reason is.”
Unbelievable. “You’ve never given me one.”
You pull the cotton pad away. Small speckles of red are peppered across the white plain and his wound weeps feebly. He flinches as the cold air infiltrates his injury.
“Hold still.”
“I am still!”
You hold his arm in place with a firm hand. “You’re sulking.”
You dab at the wound again. He hisses at the pain but listens and remains still; it makes you feel warm. “Tell me if it hurts… please.”
Almost instantly, he raises his shoulders and puffs out his chest. “I’m fine,” he says while fixing his hair. Again.
You press harder.
“It stings.” He admits flatly.
The clock ticks idly in the corner. You try counting each vibration it sends out but you lose your place and have to keep starting over again. The only noise other than it is the sound of gauze being ripped open and Miguel trying to cover his whimpers with coughs.
“You can’t do that again,” you say, eventually breaking the silence. You wrap the bandage around his arm and tighten it with a firm tug.
Finally, his gaze drops from the wall and lands on you. It’s like he hasn’t seen you in years. His eyes are gentle and almost kind as they watch you secure the knot of his bandage.
It’s hard not to replicate his forlorn expression. The beginnings of a compliment being to form on the tip of your tongue but Miguel beats you to it.
“I’m sorry.”
You tuck the ends of the knot into the bandage and pull away. But one of Miguel’s hands stops you and closes around your wrist before you get the chance to retreat fully. Not tightly.
You scowl at him yet you can’t find it in yourself to pull away. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything.” You tell him, “not after your shitty apology before.”
His fingers travel along your arm until he’s cradling your shoulder. “You’re right, that wasn’t a proper apology,” he admits.
You nod at him, eyes narrowing.
Miguel takes that as his cue to try again and his grip softens around your shoulder. “It’s not fair that I crossed your boundaries.” He tilts his head, bright eyes trying to meet your gaze. “I shouldn’t have been…”
He pauses, rolling the words around in his mouth for a moment.
“Stalking? Surveying? Monitoring?” You offer impatiently.
“Yes- not stalking,” he corrects, “caring.”
It’s been so long since somebody cared for you. Your family is so far away and your friends only ever want to talk about themselves.
Life was so much easier when you had Miguel doing everything for you. He would cook, and clean, and listen and he’d never complain about any of it. He said something about enjoying looking after you once and those words have never left the back of your mind since.
You don’t even realise that he’s guided you to sit next to him. Your thigh lies less than an inch away from his and suddenly you’re a new lab tech admiring Mr. O’Hara from afar, again. But you swallow down those overwhelming feelings. Miguel is gentle and that’s something you’ll never be.
His free hand finds your waist and gently pulls you closer. “I’m sorry,” he relays. His forehead presses against yours and you have nowhere left to look but at him.
He has changed since the last time you saw him.
Additional scars are scattered across his jaw from shaving. You can taste the new brand of toothpaste on his breath. His hair is longer, too. Which he knows is how you like it.
You brush the strands that have strayed from the rest of the pack away from his forehead. “You need to go to the barbers,” you scold but there’s no ammunition in your voice.
“I prefer it when you cut my hair.”
Your tongue swipes across your teeth to hide your smile. You can still feel the shape of his scalp against your fingers while you angled his head downwards with a pair of craft scissors in hand. And as a reward he’d always fuck your brains out.
You let your gaze wander away from his face. “That’s because it was free,” you quip despite the pinking of your cheeks.
You can feel his chest rumble when he laughs at you. “We both know you got payment for cutting my hair.”
Even though you roll your eyes at him and try to scowl, it’s impossible to ignore the warmth bubbling in your core.
It’s addictive how bad for you Miguel is. Freely, you can indulge in your shameful desires without having to face the consequences of it. He knows you well enough to understand that you don’t really need him: it’s just nice knowing he’ll be that crutch when you call for him.
You let yourself melt against him, revelling in the richness of his smell. Taught muscles support your frame and his strong hands cradle your lower half.
“I don’t want to do this to you,” you sigh against his shoulder.
His head drops down to your neck, lips ghosting against your jugular. “Bebita, it’s fine,” he mutters.
Gentle lips press delicate kisses along the column of your throat over and over again. His breath mingles with the passion of his mouth and he grows sloppy; gradually he builds his way up to your jaw and then to your cheeks and then to your lips again. But he waits patiently, resting the side of his face against yours.
Hastily, you slide your hand up his back before cradling the base of his neck. “It’s fine,” you repeat, slowly.
It’s practised imperfection as you let your lips meet his. He attempts slow, needy pecks while your tongue swipes against him, hungry for access. And when you both switch pace, you laugh softly against each other.
All your willpower drains from your body as he eagerly pulls you onto his lap. Feebly, you try to follow his lips before letting your tongue find his again.
You all but paw at his chest, whining into his mouth, wordlessly begging for the affection he’s been neglecting you of. He’s always been wrapped around your little finger, so keen to please. So he grips you harder, his hold so tight you pray he leaves a mark.
The air grows heavy with the crude symphony of Miguel grunting against your lips and you sloppily scavenging his mouth. Deep down you know this won’t end well but having someone hold onto you like you might disappear makes it so easy to ignore your conscience.
He pulls away and you lamely try to chase after him but he tugs you back by your hair. Entranced by the shiny string of spit connecting your lips, you try to keep up with him again. “Look at me.” His voice is so cool it stings.
But you obey him, wide eyes trained on him like it’s the only thing you know how to.
Gingerly, he cradles your jaw. “I’ve missed this face,” he hums sweetly. You smile and don’t even try to swallow it down this time.
It does something to him- having you be so obedient moments after bossing him around. It’s a reminder that you’re still his despite it all. No matter how long you two are apart, your heart belongs to him, and his to you.
He pushes his thumb up to your mouth, prying your lips open. You follow his lead and let your tongue rest against your swollen, lower lip. “And to think, you wanted nothing to do with me earlier,” he chuckles.
You roll your eyes at him, tongue still out, and he laughs dryly. “Look at you, still trying to act like you hate me.”
You almost gag when he pushes his thumb into your mouth. He lets it run along your teeth before holding up your top lip- inspecting, attentively. “Miguel?” He doesn’t say anything, only stares.
The amber lights from the street dance across his features, softening the harsh contours. They let you see right through his aloof facade; he’s just as hungry as you are. You don't care about opposites attracting or whatever excuses you soothed yourself with earlier. There’s no denying how similar the two of you are.
You aren’t desperate enough to believe in things as juvenile soulmates, but if there ever were a pair of souls crafted with the sole purpose of being together- they would have chosen the two of you to be their vessels.
Your tongue languidly pushes out further, reminding him that you’re still there. The hand cupping your jaw angles your head back, exposing your throat- inside and out- to him. Your nose twitches and your heart rattles as his breath fans across your face.
His jaw tenses before he spits right on your tongue. “Swallow.” All too happily, you oblige.
You make a show of it, too. You let it slowly begin to drip off the edge of your tongue before curling it inside your mouth. A proud rumble vibrates through his chest but he keeps his tight grip on your jaw.
You swallow his spit before producing a pink tongue again for him, a stupidly proud smile adorning your lips. All shame or self respect has long gone. You feel like a puppy, desperately seeking the inevitable praise that dangles just out of your reach.
You know Miguel, having you do exactly what he’s says is… good, but he only wants the best. He needs you to jump before he’s even asked, and you should know how high.
So, you slide off of his lap, soft hands dragging along his deliciously thick thighs and calves, all the way down until you’re kneeling before him. From here, you can see the damage you’ve done. His suit conceals most of it, but you can still make out the evidence of his erection.
Your eyes lock with his and that familiar ache of desire is clawing at your insides again. “You’re so good to me,” he croons, voice so syrupy you know it’s a trap.
Silently, you wait. No matter how hard you clench your thighs, the ravenous fire, roaring white hot in your core refuses to relent.
He taps a button on his watch and you can only stare at the reveal of his leaky cock.
Every vein is the exact same, his tip is the same pinkish shade and the sight alone is still enough to make you salivate. You nuzzle your head against his thigh and gently kiss the base of his shaft. Miguel’s thighs tense up at the sudden contact; it’s been so long since someone has touched him this way.
His already leaky tip trickles more shiny precum. Your eyes are like magnets as they instantly snap up to watch him dribble down his length.
Sloppily, you lap at the base of his cock. The usual, habitual routine of shoving him into your mouth seems so pointless now. You can feel every quiver and whimper against your tongue and it tastes so good.
You drag your tongue along the underside of his cock until your lips are resting steadily on his tip. Miguel locks eyes with you and you swear your heart stops. You’ve barely done anything and his cheeks are beautifully flushed and his lips glossy.
He looks beautiful.
“I’ve missed you,” he pants out, “mi bebita hermosa, so good to me.”
His voice is rich as ever, running heavy down your spine and pooling in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers itch to slide beneath your shorts and give your pussy what you’ve been needing all night. It’d be so easy to fuck yourself silly and Miguel would more than happily sit there and watch but something about his cock seems so enchanting tonight.
Saliva runs down his cock while you swirl your tongue around his tip over and over again. The sounds he’s making have your cunt leaking down your thighs and you wonder if he can smell it. Maybe he can taste it, too. He always freaked you out with his sense of smell.
Your hand clamps onto the lower part of his shaft and gently, you start to pump his cock. You begin carefully, slow enough that you can match the pace with your mouth. It’s perfection, for you, slobbering over the twitching tip of his cock while you can grope and feel the base as much as you want.
He twitches and grunts and you know he wants to force your head all the way down. He knows you can take it. But this tedious process is drawing out the most delicious sounds from his pretty lips and the tangy precum flowing from his tip seems to be never ending.
“Please, bebita,” he babbles down at you. You had thought you’d be the one struggling to keep eye contact but he can barely stop his eyes from rolling back.
His fingers are white from how hard he’s gripping his thighs. Each time his hips threaten to buck up he forces his toned thighs to remain still. You want nothing more than to have your head crushed between those slabs of muscle.
You let your lips slide down the remainder of his cock, until your nose is buried in the tufts of hair that settle on the base. Your jaw aches with the pressure and tears start to tinge the corners of your eyes. It’s been so long since you last had Miguel like this you’ve forgotten how badly he can hurt.
But it burns so good. Your mind might be numb with pain but being able to feel him entirely makes your cunt twitch. Your tongue remembers each individual vein that wraps around his cock. Your throat knows just how much of a fight to put up. Having him in you so intimately is the closest either of you got to love without saying it aloud.
Watching you struggle to swallow his cock, Miguel kindly steadies you with a hand to the back of your scalp. He bobs your head up and down with ravenous eyes. Every gag you splutter, each whimper your release only adds fuel to the fire of his pleasure.
You choking on his cock while he barely fucks your throat is the gentle petting his ego didn’t know it needed.
“Do you know how beautiful you look drooling on my cock?” He stares down at you waiting for an answer. When you feebly try to shake your head with a mouthful of cock, he chuckled cruelly.
With a force you should have been expecting, he bucks his hips up. His cock slams against the back of your throat and you cry out but your pain is muffled by his girth.
Repeatedly, he fucks into your mouth while you drool and gag on him. You try to slack your jaw to accommodate him but he takes up too much space.
Your hands grip onto the edge of your bed as a helpless attempt to stabilise yourself. You’ve never seen him look so determined to get off before. His eyes glow a hypnotic scarlet and he’s snarling, actually snarling, at you. The grip on the back of your head only grows tighter and his hips never slow their pace.
You’ve completely given up on trying to match his speed- you just kneel there and let him use your throat like a fucktoy. He’s grunting and babbling and not a single word out of his mouth is short of cruel.
“Mi bebita is such a fucking slut.” His voice comes out a growl, too vicious to be considered words. You can only look up at him through tear spiked lashes and watery lashes as he spews out the vulgar thoughts he has swimming around his head.
“Been thinking about this pretty fucking mouth for weeks.” He holds your head all the way down, letting you catch your breath before he’s hastily slapping your cheeks against his thighs again. “All the different ways I could make you cry for this cock. Make you beg for it just like you used to. Remember that? When you used to whine and plead for anything, even for me to slap it across your face.”
You can practically feel the indents of his fingerprints when he smashes your face against his abdomen. His thighs jolt upwards again and hot cum splashes against the back of your throat. It fills your mouth and slowly seeps past your lips.
When he finally releases you, you gasp and choke for air. Cum drips down your chin while you clasp onto his thighs. You pant like a dog all while he lovingly pets your hair. It’s always irked you how easily he can switch from cruel to kind.
Meagrely, you tilt your head to the side so you can look up at him. Everything about him radiates warmth. He’s looking at you almost lovingly despite having just abused your throat for the sake of his cock.
You smile at him, dopey eyes and all. And he returns the favor, razor sharp fangs glinting in the amber lighting of your room. You press a sloppy kiss to his thigh and nuzzle against him. Deep down, the resentment for him still lingers but you’ve never felt more at home than you do in his embrace.
Despite your moderately successful life without him- you cannot get Miguel out of your head. So when you see him lurking outside your apartment it’s hard not to fall for his old antics.
———————————————————————
Frustration looks good on him, it always has. It colours his bronze skin with an impatient hue, ticks his full lips into a shaky frown.
But you, frustration makes you ugly- both inside and out. Your cheeks always find a way to glow an aggressively vibrant red. One drop of anger is all it takes before you start spewing insult after insult, aiming for where it truly hurts.
It was easy to do that with Miguel because everywhere hurts on him.
It’s been a long day.
The familiar chill of alcohol on your gums is an anchoring thought, preventing you from going over the edge. Maybe it’s a dependency but you’d rather not admit your brother is right. He claims ‘you cling to alcohol like a monkey clings to a tree branch’. You say that he needs to stop trying to sound profound with half- arsed similes and focus on his archaeology degree.
Something else he claims is that you’re a young woman in a male dominated field- of course you’re going to be struggling. You still aren’t quite sure how to interpret that but it’s better than being compared to a chimp.
That male dominated field is how you met him- him being your ex that you can’t seem to stop thinking about. Every crevice of your fleshy pink memory sponge is saturated in sickly sweet nostalgia that drives you insane.
It’s hard not to think of him all the time. His skin, golden as if kissed by the Gods, was always glossy smooth and littered with faint, fading scars. You’d let your fingers wander across them until one of you fell asleep; always with his arms around you.
And you’ve done it again. You’re a strong young woman who thrives on independence. You’re the first university graduate in your family. You’re the only one of your siblings to have moved out before the age of twenty- four. You’re capable and dedicated and you’re so much more than a relationship that had you in pieces for a fortnight. Achievement after achievement, yet every time you’re left alone with your thoughts the familiar silhouette of the smooth-voiced man who crushed your heart appears.
A jolt of pain shooting up your pinky finger brings you back to the present. Your hand is still in the ice bag and the gin and tonic you poured is turning warm. You bring the curved lip to your mouth and instantly wince at the waxy flavour that coats your tongue. The rest goes down the drain.
***
Nothing about this is healthy.
Each night, he glides through the smog of Nueva York, stealth highlighting each twist and turn of his experienced figure. He can feel the polar air on his back, mimicking the trail your fingers used to follow, except there’s no affection in the wind’s embrace.
He does find comfort in the outdoors, though. Sometimes, when the day’s been long and his eyes feel just a little heavier, he simply exits. It’s the silence; that’s what he gets out of it. Life can be so loud when you have a million and one things to worry about. But when he’s outside, God, it’s quiet. He can melt into silence without worrying about coming back.
Some days it’s the trees in central park, other days the roof of a waffle house, most days it's your apartment’s perron. It’s quiet there and it’s easy to get to- he’s been there often enough.
A small smile curls the corners of his plump lips as he watches you pour away your drink. He’d tried countless times to subtly steer you away from the tepid bubbles of dependency- a week into your break-up it had transformed into a gurgling addiction. And then, out of nowhere you stopped. To this day he cannot wrap his head around why but it fills him with this disgusting warmth that coats all his insides. Hope?
Despite your ability to overcome your alcohol dependence, you still look glum. The synthetic lighting above you creates a menacing halo that does little to mask the ever-growing frown on your face. Even through the glass of your kitchen window, Miguel can see the emptiness in your usually bright eyes.
It’s painful to see you like this.
He doesn’t care that he’s your ex-boyfriend, a part of your past, he still worries about you. How could he not? You’ve been a wreck since he first met you, a stubborn, short tempered, indecisive wreck.
There are things in your past that make his heart weep and fists clench. They aren’t unique tragedies that allow you to stand out proudly against the rest of humanity’s victims, but they are enough to make you fall for someone like Miguel.
They can make you so spiteful and cruel at times. Words would gush from your lips like a black fog that dirtied everything it touched. And then a second later you could be wailing in his arms, sobbing about how much you hated yourself and how desperately you wanted to scrub away the memories that stained your soul.
That’s not to say you aren’t the sweetest thing to have graced this earth. Everything you touch seems to shine with hope. You, in spite of your whirlwind of a past, manage to sprinkle a little bit of magic into people’s lives. It’s part of what makes you so beautifully perfect. This ability to switch between friend and foe in the blink of an eye was why, is why, Miguel loves you so.
And now he watches you through water stained glass, powerless as ever.
Nonetheless, it’s worth it. He may not be able to touch but he can certainly look, and does he love to look. Even now as you saunter around the kitchen clothed in the stress of the day and tired eyes, you’re beautiful as ever.
***
You wish you hadn’t poured away that drink. A few minutes in the fridge would have cooled it right down for you, perfectly chilled to slide down your throat and dampen the yelling in your brain.
Another part of you, however, is glad you poured it in the sink. You pledged to yourself that you wouldn’t turn to alcohol again. Parties and nights out are okay- you aren't an addict, you can still have fun. Just no more midnight pity parties sponsored by the off licence. So you’ve been keeping that promise to yourself and you refuse to let a hard day at work ruin that for you.
You spend the rest of the evening curled up on the sofa, idly switching between your phone and a book you’ve been saying you’ll read for… just a book you’ve been meaning to read. It’s not exactly productive but it’s something. After a while, you grow bored of your usual routine, brain boiled of all functions by your insidious nighttime regime.
The air in your apartment feels heavy, like an unwanted blanket, and the sound of the city is only enjoyable once you’re outside. When you’re locked away in your brownstone it doesn’t feel as Sex and the city as it once did.
So you decided to fix that. You swap your tattered sliders for your equally battered trainers and march over to your front door. You don’t know why this feels like such a thrilling expedition, you leave the house all the time. All the same, you still feel slightly lighter at the idea of going out at such a late hour. Maybe your life has become mundane. Not even mundane, monotonous, bland.
Sloppily, you reach for your only winter coat, only for your hand to meet the wall and you let out a groan. It’s in the wash because some people can’t watch where they walk and like to spill coffee all over strangers without so much as an apology. Your only other option stares menacingly at you, its silver zipper much too shiny and much too sharp for your liking.
The thick, black wool that lines the inside is like a warm hug that boosts your confidence right up. You slip out the door and lock it behind you, your key finding itself a second home in the inside, left breastpocket.
Cold air hits you like a train the moment you step outside. The skin of your neck burns slightly with the ferocious chill and you can feel the goosebumps lining your skin despite being hidden by the thick coat.
Just as you’re about to start your, albeit, benign trek around your block- you see it. A pair of luminous scarlet slits that can only belong to one person. Weeks ago, if this had happened you would have been terrified beyond words, fear sinking deep into your stomach, or worse, you would have felt excited. But now you simply feel mildly infuriated.
He stays still, hidden by the darkness of the night. He knows he’s been caught.
A shaky sigh slips past your lips. Perhaps you’re more frightened than you had originally thought. “Miguel,” you call out, voice just as stern as you need it to be.
There’s silence for a moment, the two of you blinking at each other, before he slips out of his hiding place. He looks just as good as he did four months ago, like he wasn’t even slightly shaken by your breakup. His hair is slicked back and at its usual length, there’s a slight shadow across his jaw but it looks nice enough for it to just be him venturing into new waters and not going through some kind of psychosis. Not that you went through one- but you’re petty and want him distraught.
His shoulders fill out the stairwell he’s crouched beneath, still concealed in a way that commands attention but makes him look ridiculously mysterious. “Stop pretending you’re some kind of night-time vigilante and come out.”
He cocks an eyebrow at your words but reveals himself anyway. You don’t like that he’s already ridiculing you, he’s the one who is hiding in the shadows and watching you.
“I wasn’t watching you, if that’s what you were thinking,” he reasons while holding his hands up and a stupid smile on his face.
Tightly, you cross your arms. If he wasn’t watching you, then what was he doing? You aren’t stupid but you can’t find it in yourself to question him. Maybe he was out patrolling or he’s just that over you, he forgot you live here. Still, you eye him skeptically, silently trying to figure out his next move.
“Why are you outside my apartment?”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, the glossy sheen taking up more of your attention than you’d like to admit.
The steady thumping of your heart replaces your unspoken arguments. When the two of you had parted ways you wanted him gone completely, the pain too much for you to bear. That meant all pictures of him being burned in a makeshift bonfire you and your best friend had made on your rooftop and for him to cease all surveillance of you. With him being spiderman, you had meant that in the sense of him patrolling in other areas and allowing you to be eaten alive by whatever monstrosities came your way- not for him to not stalk you. Normally that can go unsaid.
Why is he here? You feel violated, like you’re some kind of character shoved inside a TV for his entertainment. It’s ridiculous that he’s here. He has an endless list of responsibilities to focus on and yet he still finds time to watch you.
“Miguel, I asked you a question.”
Two, strong fingers pinch his nosebridge, the action making your stomach twist in what you hope is anger, and he shakes his head. “Ay, coño,” he groans, “you’re going to make this a bigger deal than it is!”
You grit your teeth, lips pursed so tightly you can taste them in the back of your throat. Again, why is he trying to act like you’re the one in the wrong here? It’s classic Miguel, put the blame on you when he gets caught out.
“You’re probably going on some monologue about how I’m using you for my own entertainment.” You’ve always hated how well he knows you.
Frustration looks good on him, it always has. It colours his bronze skin with an impatient hue, ticks his full lips into a shaky frown.
But you, frustration makes you ugly- both inside and out. Your cheeks always find a way to glow an aggressively vibrant red. One drop of anger is all it takes before you start spewing insult after insult, aiming for where it truly hurts.
It was easy to do that with Miguel because everywhere hurts on him.
He has a dark past, not all of it has been illuminated by his vulnerability yet, but it’s dark. You can always find a way to sink your claws into those blind spots, pull a cruel remark out of arrogant assumptions and shred him to pieces.
Despite all that he stayed. He accepted your apologies with gentle smiles and soothed your outbursts even though you were often at fault.
This time, you aren’t at fault. He’s been hiding outside your apartment for what you can only pray has been one night and not a plethora of others.
You try to keep your expression calm but the fire in your eyes crumples your effort like rice paper. “Why are you outside my apartment?”
Repeating yourself isn’t fun for anyone, especially when it’s to your ex-boyfriend. Miguel’s kind enough to respect that.
“You don’t look after yourself. If you won’t, someone has to,” he tells you.
Talk about a punch to the gut.
It took months of Miguel cooing you to sleep and years of therapy to convince yourself that you aren’t a total screw up. You have a cushy job and a decent apartment to show for it.
Yes, there might be the odd crack in the stocky varnish that smooths over your imperfections here and there but it’s been going well for a while.
So hearing someone who is meant to be part of your past say that they worry about you only makes those cracks seem like the iciest crevices. He shouldn’t even be thinking about you but you’re that messed up he still has to worry. You don’t want him to have some feeling of obligation around your life anymore but clearly you don’t have a choice.
You don’t care what he thinks. He might not be over you but you are certainly over him. The last time you thought about him was at least three hours ago.
“Whatever,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand, “I really couldn’t care less.” That’s a lie and even if he can tell, his opinion isn’t important anymore.
“You’re wearing my coat.” It’s abrupt, a little too crass for Miguel’s usual nonchalance.
You just blink up at him, confusion colouring your face. You can’t find the relevance of what he’s just said anywhere. Maybe it’s a little unusual for exes to wear each other’s clothing but you have a perfectly good reason.
Though, it’s only now that you realise how long you left his jacket untouched. Uncontrollably, your nose twitches at the unsettlingly familiar scent of his cologne and body wash that lingers on the obsidian wool. Your fingers brush over a sticky slash on the left lapel and you can’t stop yourself from grimacing
The last time he’d worn the jacket he’d taken you out for afternoon tea. Something you’d said had made him laugh and consequently jam had rolled off of the top of his scone and onto his coat. At the time it seemed endearing and lighthearted.
Miguel can see the uncertainty in your eyes. He can read you like a book and it pisses you off.
“You haven’t thrown it out,” he explains, voice stupidly patient. You may be a wreck but you aren’t a child. “Or washed it.”
He nods his head towards the shiny splodge of jam you hadn’t realised you’d been thumbing the entire time.
You scoff.
“I saw you pour your drink away.”
Another thing you hate about Miguel is his saviour complex. He told you that you might drink too much one time and now he’s acting like he’s your AA sponsor.
“You know I’ve been watching, it’s stupid to pretend I haven’t. It must have been hard but this could be a turning point for you. Sobriety is right aro-“
“Want a drink?” You cut him off.
Both of you laugh. You cover your face with your hands, partly out of embarrassment, partly to conceal that softening side of you. It ignites a warmth in you that had been long forgotten.
His laugh is rich and warm, so perfect yet so human. It makes you miss him.
Slowly, it dissipates and you find yourself missing it. Without his velvety chuckle accompanying yours, it feels awkward. You’re on show for him again. He's watching with rust red eyes that won’t leave your face.
Ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine, you plaster a smile across your lips. “It was nice seeing you,” you lie before walking past him.
It takes an embarrassing amount of restraint but you don’t look back at him. You keep walking until you reach the steps at the end of your walkway.
Cold still nips at your exposed flesh but the heat from Miguel’s gaze following you makes you burn.
***
Fresh linen pyjamas hang loosely from your frame while you brush your teeth. You can’t tell if it’s because of your nightmarish encounter or the smog polluting your city that you felt the need to get back in the shower and wash yourself clean. You scrubbed until it stung. Until you felt you shed something.
The thick, white, foamy gloop of toothpaste is starting to sneak past your slips and you spit it out. Sometimes you can get carried away and keep scrubbing at your teeth. The feeling of bristles scratching at your gums is liberating; it’s the small amount of pain you can control and it comes with the benefit of pearly whites.
Once you slide into bed, the comfort of your duvet and music allow you to simply be. You’ll never understand how anyone can enjoy being outside. It’s either cold or sweltering, eerily empty or filled with people.
Your walk was meant to make you feel excited about life again but after your fourth passed out junkie you had to go home.
Being inside is safe. You can blast music louder than your thoughts and lie semi nude on your bed.
A knock on your window disrupts your relaxation.
At first, you ignore it and pray it’s just the wind. But it can never just be the wind.
Out of the corner of your eye, the familiar glow of crimson catches your attention. The anger from before isn’t there. It’s meant to be but it doesn’t make much of an effort to get a seat at the table. Instead, the joy of familiarity settles in the pit of your stomach and any lingering discomfort is washed away.
You slide out of bed and pull down your sleep shorts. Silently, he emerges from the shadows again and you have to bite back a laugh.
His lips move but you can’t decipher what he’s trying to say. You shuffle over to the window, water stained glass fogging with your breath. “What?” You ask, gesturing to your ears.
He points to the latch on the bottom of your window and mimes for you to pull it up. That, you laugh at. “Hell no,” you scoff, “you can talk to me through the window.”
Again, he says something but you can only hear a slurry of vibrations through the window. The more he tries to talk, the less you can hear, the weaker your willpower grows. He’s only trying to talk to you and it’s slightly romantic having him stand outside your window.
Begrudgingly, you slide up your window. “Yes?” You ask bluntly.
He stands there not saying anything for a moment. He stares and stares with a shy smile on his face. You haven’t seen him look so soft in a long time, a painfully long time.
The hum of the city and unkind winds fill the gap between you. For now, it’s just two people looking at each other. Waiting.
Fingers latch at your sleep shorts and twist the fabric round and round until they’re bunched up and wrinkled.
He swallows.
“I came to say sorry.” He shifts his weight. “About being outside.”
“So apologise.”
His gaze falls down for a moment. The soft sigh that follows does more damage than good.
Fingers pressing against the window sill, he leans closer. You can’t escape now. You can smell him. He’s given you a snippet of what you forgot you needed and it’s impossible not to latch back on.
You slide the window down an inch.
He softens his voice. “You didn’t look… very well nourished. Most nights you sleep on the sofa. You only do that when it’s bad. I don’t want that for you, you don’t do well alone.”
“Just because I don’t go out and stalk my exes every evening doesn’t mean I’m a mess!” Just like that the anger you dissolved comes right back.
Your insides churn. He’s a stalker and thinks he’s above your boundaries. He shouldn’t be standing this close. And you shouldn’t be allowing it.
“You don’t get to decide what I need.”
“I am what you need.”
Whatever that means.
You slide the window down further. Scowling.
He raises his arm to fix his hair and winces. Your eyes latch onto the gash on his shoulder which makes a shiver dance along your spine.
After learning about his superhuman extracurriculars, it felt strange seeing him injured. Even the nicks along his jaw from shaving felt like an attack on your safety. If he can be hurt, what does that say about you?
You try to look him in the eye but he’s purposefully avoiding eye contact. There’s something he wants to say but refuses to. He can never tell you what’s going on. It’s always a game of guessing with Miguel and you’re always wrong.
You push the window back up. It’s probably the worst thing you could do in this situation but you have a soft spot for strays. “Why are you getting blood all over my fire escape?”
Instantly, his eyes are trained on yours. “It’s only a littl-“
“Let me look at it,” you sigh, cutting through massively.
the fic writer curse is real. ever since i started posting what i write i’ve been in and out of hospital as have my family, i’ve constantly been forgetting how to use basic technology and someone is dying like every other day. i probably won’t post anymore bc like what. glad so many ppl enjoyed my stuff tho it was amazing having a little community ❤️
Women are getting rid of their Trump supporting partners while they still legally can since they clearly don't give a shit about them or any other woman.
If you're thinking about getting a divorce, you should do it while you still can.
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