late night talking
summary: a chance meeting with harry before his wembley dates leads you into a bizarre friendship
wordcount: 1.7k
a/n: i HATE writing meetings. this part is so slow but the next part is linked underneath, which is much nicer ;)
my masterlist can be found here!
“Just a caramel macchiato please”, you said, rubbing at your eyes as you spoke. You always had a hard time sleeping in hotels and tonight was no different. You’d travelled to London to attend some concerts with your best friend, and although she’d invited you to stay with her, you didn’t want to infiltrate her newlywed bubble. So now you were standing in a quiet Starbucks, in your pyjamas, at almost midnight.
You chose one of the comfy tables at the back, hoping not to be noticed by any of the other crazies out at this hour. But not long after you sat down, someone decided to sit in the seat immediately behind yours. You sighed and kept your eyes on your phone, knowing only too well what kind of person chooses a seat next to a woman in a deserted space.
“Sorry, do you have a napkin?” A man’s spoke came from behind you, interrupting your quiet solace. You grabbed one off your table and turned around to pass it over, not looking too closely at the man who asked. His gold rings caught your attention, an obnoxious H S that sent your wide eyes darting up to meet his. The brown curls peeking out from under his hood, the dimpled grin sitting on his chiselled face. It really was Harry. Your heart rate quickened, inches away from the face of the man you were here to see. His laugh broke your spell, and you realised you’d never even let go of the napkin. “Sorry, sorr-“, you spluttered, suddenly unable to think, let alone speak. Harry watched your brain reboot, his smile never faltering, before asking what you were drinking.
He looked over at you from the counter, taking you in. Your messy brown hair, your black vest top paired with pale pink pyjama pants. Your zip-up hoodie had slipped off your shoulders, allowing him to see some patchwork tattoos poking out.
When he returned, Harry sat down across from you and placed the drinks down gently. Holding out a hand for you to shake, he told you his name, which of course you already knew. “Y/N,” you replied, meeting his green eyes. “Well, Y/N, what are you doing in a Starbucks at this time?” Harry asked, taking a sip of his coffee. You mirrored him, bringing your cup to your lips before explaining how you couldn’t sleep in hotels and were in town for a show. He smirked, eyes glimmering knowingly. “I’m here for a show too. And I like being out at this time. It always feels more anonymous.”
~~~
The girl behind the counter called out to you, letting you know the cafe was closing. You hadn’t even noticed the tables being wiped down or the whirring of the coffee machines on their cleaning cycle. Harry slipped a 20 onto the counter as you stumbled out together, mumbling a quick apology. The air was cold after a warm day, and only then you realised how late it must be. “My hotels this way,” you pointed, not wanting to take any more of Harry’s time. His strong hand reached out and grabbed yours, tugging you behind him as he stepped in the opposite direction. “Come on,” he grinned. “I know somewhere we can get more coffee.”
You walked through an eerily deserted London, laughing alongside Harry but wondering now what on God’s green earth you were doing. If Harry was anyone else, you’d be running a mile. You glanced down at your feet, unsure why they weren’t taking you home. Your heart-print pyjama pants were just another reminder of where you should be going. But as you doubted yourself, Harry ground to a halt, sending you flying into the back of him. “What are you doing?” You asked, staring up at the skyscraper hotel in front of you. This was definitely nicer than your choice of digs. Harry only smirked in response, walking towards the doors. You followed him blindly, trailing through the entrance and into the lift behind him. He pulled down his hood and ran a hand through his hair, watching himself in the mirror before his eyes flicked to you. Finally, he spoke, “hotels will give you coffee at any hour on any day, I’ve noticed.”
“Are you staying here?,” you questioned, stepping out of the lift straight into what must have been the penthouse suite. Your eyes were wide in awe, you’d never seen a hotel room like this before. A small kitchen sat on one wall, with a living area big enough to seat an entire family. A king size bed peeked out from behind a glass room divider, everything accented with black and gold glossy metals. You ran your fingers across the back of one of the blue sofas, twirling round to take in your surroundings before your eyes rested on Harry’s. He nodded, amused by your wonder. “You’re welcome,” you scoffed, setting your jacket down on the table. Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, opening his mouth to question you. Swatting at his chest, you replied, “I paid good money for your shows. You’d be in a travelodge if it wasn’t for me.”
“You and thousands of others!” He interjected, swatting right back at your hand. You giggled, holding your hands up in surrender. “Okay, big man.”
Harry slipped off his hoodie, leaving him in only a sweatshirt and running shorts. You studied him properly for the first time, your eyes running from his tousled hair, to the way his sweatshirt was the perfect amount of baggy, to his toned, tanned thighs. If you weren’t careful you might have dribbled. He’d been the celebrity you’d pined over for years, and now you were standing in his hotel room. “You like what you see?,” he said, snapping you out of your daydream as he padded over to the coffee machine. “You got me here under false pretences, you know that?,” you grinned, plopping down on one of the armchairs. Harry’s head whipped around, mouth wide open in a half smirk. “I promised you coffee,” he gestured to the coffee machine, “here’s coffee.”
“You didn’t tell me the coffee was in your hotel room,” you smirked, before mouthing ‘weirdo’. Harry wagged a pointed finger at you, “ah ah ah. Only nice manners get you caffeine in my cafe.”
Your conversation continued well into the early hours. Tattoos, music, work, life, pets - you had everything and more to talk about. And you seemed to feel bizarrely comfortable around each other. It was almost 4am before you checked the time, and you stood up almost immediately to grab your jacket and leave. “My God, Harry, I should really-“ you tilted your head towards the door, your voice groggy now from talking and laughing for so long. “Stay here tonight,” Harry’s words came out quiet and almost shy. “It’s too late to go back to where you’re staying, I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you out alone at this hour.” He stood up as he spoke, yawning and stretching his arms. “Come on, I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”
As he led you towards the bathroom, you realised just how exhausted you were. And his enormous bed did look comfier than anywhere you’d slept in your life. “Harry, I’m really sorry, but do you have a t-shirt or something I can borrow?,” you asked, leaning on the doorframe. He looked you up and down, laughing. “You’re wearing pyjamas already pet.”
“I know! I know. But I went outside in these. Plus my legs get hot when I sleep.” This was true. You loved fluffy pyjama pants as loungewear but you only ever slept in a top and pants, and you couldn’t exactly wear your skimpy vest on its own tonight. Harry shook his head as he chuckled, his unkempt curls bobbing as he did. He yanked a shirt out of his wardrobe and chucked it at you. “Yeah yeah. You just want to tell the world you wore Harry Styles’ shirt.”
“Oh yes,” you rebutted. “Because ‘I slept in Harry Styles’ hotel’ wouldn’t make a good enough story.”
As you came out the bathroom, you resumed your post leaning against the doorframe, watching Harry throw a blanket on the sofa before trying and failing, several times, to stuff his long body on the loveseat. Stifling a laugh, you called out, “Harry, seriously. Not a chance you’re fitting on that sofa. Come to bed.”
As much as he tried to ignore it, you telling Harry to come to bed was far more inviting than he wanted it to be. He felt nuts. After all, you were a fan - a big enough fan that you’d go to all 4 of his Wembley dates. If word ever got out, he’d have hoards of fans outside every hotel waiting to be the next lucky girl. He just couldn’t explain why he was so drawn to you.
“Thank god for that,” Harry sighed, throwing his head back. “I have places to be tomorrow, I need a good sleep.” He whipped the covers bad and climbed in next to you, rubbing his hands over his face. You were thrashing around, trying to find a comfy position. Settling on your side, you tried to scoot as close to the edge as possible to make this slightly less awkward. Neither of you were used to sharing a bed without the promise of ending up tangled around one another.
“Hey,” he spoke quietly now. “What are you wearing tomorrow love?” Pulling you head up to look at him, you giggled sweetly. That pet name could be dangerous for you. “Why do you want to know?,” you questioned. Suddenly, you felt shy about your outfit choice. You were saving your best outfit for the final date, and now you wished you had something flashier to tell him - although, he’d seen you in your cutesiest pyjamas so the damage may have already been done.
“Want to see if I can spot you in the crowd,” he replied, shrugging his bare shoulders under the duvet. You tapped on your nose as you replied, “baby, you don’t need to worry about spotting me. Anyway, what are you wearing?”
Harry copied you and tapped on his nose, before switching off the bedside lamp and calling out a soft ‘goodnight’. You were pinching yourself up and down your arms to make sure you weren’t already dreaming. You couldn’t believe an insomnia stroll turned into Harry Styles’ bed. The Harry Styles’ bed. If only you knew what the rest of the week would hold.
part two
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könig headcanons
warnings: afab!reader, mentions of unprotected sex, oral sex, thigh riding and fucking, and an (accidentally) broken condom lol
A/N: this is so self indulgent LMFAO. can you believe i've had this sitting in my drafts for over three weeks? i hope y'all enjoy bc there's not enough content for this man fr! gif not mine :)
will use your fingers as a human fidget toy
he likes to rub his chin when he’s thinking real hard about something
loves grapes (green ones only, and they have to be cold)
the left corner of his nose constantly gets dry for whatever reason so he’s always needing to put extra lotion there
hums under his breath without realizing it and it's the cutest thing ever. especially if he’s alone with you, or if he’s just relaxed and in his element
he really loves to cook but he's too lazy to do the cleanup after he's done
has better than 20/20 eyesight; idk, i just feel deep in my soul that he does
if he's lying on his stomach and you start rubbing his back or scratching it, he'll literally melt it is the most relaxing thing in the world to him
his morning voice is super deep and raspy. i feel so strongly about this it just has to be true
is a snob about bread. he just likes a nice warm loaf of well baked bread okay?
when you first started dating, it would sometimes scare him when he would wake up in the middle of the night and see you lying there peacefully next to him; he had never shared a bed with someone else before so it took him a while to get used to it
but once he does he literally will treat you like a human body pillow. which sounds cute in theory but it's not 😭 like if you need to go pee in the middle of the night, good luck getting yourself untangled from him without waking him up (spoiler alert: it's not really possible to do bc he's the lightest sleeper on planet earth). you can either hold it or deal with a groggy and slightly grumpy könig the next day lolol
is the clingiest bf ever. if you let him, könig will sit on the floor next to you while you’re in the bath and hold your hand if you dangle it off the side of the tub while you watch a show together
speaking of baths this man hates taking them. he's never found a tub big enough to fit him so he just doesn't bother. he hates when his skin gets super wrinkly from being in water for too long anyways
loves to put a bunch of creamers and sweeteners in his coffee. the first time you took him to starbucks he was like a kid in a candy shop when you told him all the different flavored syrups that they had
doesn't like swimming; i mean he knows how to do it (bc of his job) but it's not his favorite thing to do. he feels like the water is always working against him lol
yeah he has social anxiety but when he's with you? especially once he gets comfy with you? yeah that's a different man entirely
like he loves to tease you constantly, is very cocky, and is super funny in a witty dry humor type of way
is absolutely the type of boyfriend to keep a joke going once he sees you're laughing really hard at it just so he can continue to hear your laugh :,)
know how to make jams from scratch for some reason; his favorites are peach and strawberry jam
one time he finished making a fresh batch of jams; you tied cute little ribbons around the jars and jokingly said you were "proud of the jams we made"
könig shaking his head because you didn't do shit except for stir a few times and sneak some tastes when you *thought* he wasn't looking (he's always looking)
buuuut he loves you so he plays along and tells you that you did amazing
makes fun of you if you like to watch cheesy or dumb shows but then 10 minutes later he's on the couch next to you, fully invested and asking you who the characters are and what's going on in the plot
is bad at sharing his food. even with you. he's more than happy to get you seconds but just don't touch his food, alright?
love language is 📢PHYSICAL TOUCH📢
followed by acts of service and quality time obviously. but yeah... the man is handsy. better get used to it
nsfw
first time you guys did it, it was awkward but in a really cute way. he was very, very nervous but also overly confident at the same time somehow? it was a potent mix
he'd watched porn before and gotten himself off but he didn't really know what to expect irl. he just knew that he wanted to make you feel good
when you tried to put one of the condoms you had on him, it broke. this man is huge so EVERY part of him is huge. like it just split clean in half 😭 and he turned bright red and started apologizing profusely
it was super intense up until that happened and you just started bursting into giggles which just made him grab your neck and kiss you to shut you up
that laughter turned into moaning real quick mhm
you eventually just told him to pull out and you would take a morning-after pill just in case; the prospect of fucking you without a condom made him more excited than he wanted to admit
has a ridiculous amount of stamina, we're talking three rounds at the absolute LEAST
LOVES thigh fucking and cannot get enough of it. especially since he can go for a lot of rounds, and if you tire more easily, he loves it as an alternative. something about cumming all over your thighs sends him into overdrive
speaking of thighs, thigh riding? oh yeah. that'll do it for him. that'll do it! his eyes would go so wide with awe at the fact that he could make you feel that good without doing anything. especially if you wrap your hands around his neck and you're so close to his face that your noses are touching; you're panting and trying your hardest not to moan loudly so no one else will hear? he's gonna fucking fall apart
whenever he's on top of you, he's infinitely careful to not put all of his weight own you, despite you telling him multiple times that you wouldn't mind and that you could handle it
dirty talk would get him flustered but at the same time, he'd have the stupidest grin on his face if you did it
if you wear lingerie he'll like- he'll literally die and go to heaven. especially the fancy ones with the garters and the stockings, even though he has absolutely zero clue how they work. like i'm imagining him sitting on the edge of the bed, you standing in front of him and staring right into his eyes as you guide his hands to the garters to take the stockings off (JUST GAVE MYSELF BUTTERFLIES LEMME RUN A LAP REAL QUICK)
okay i'm back where were we
i feel like what he does after you're done sort of depends on you. like if you get a huge burst of energy after sex and you wanna stay up and talk he will totally do it. but also if you're the type of person that immediately falls asleep after he'll go right to sleep with you
if he’s on top and you dig your fingers into his biceps he will bust right then and there. trust me.
THIS MAN EATS PUSSY FOR PLEASURE PERIOD. i will not accept any other truth. he’ll literally grind down into the sheets while he’s eating you out and has probably accidentally came a few times from doing so. he especially loves when your thighs squeeze around his head, and all the pretty little noises you make when he does it. as soon as he can tell you’re close he starts to give you the most intense eye contact while he’s doing it and it’ll probably send you over the edge
he loves being on top because he can cage you in and he has access to your neck to give it non-stop kisses and hickeys
but on the other hand he also loves it when you're on top; his hands will never leave your hips and he'll be gripping onto them like his life depends on it
when he cums, he cums hard and a lot. it's basically like a fountain... sometimes, when he does it while he's still inside of you, there'll be so much that it actually leaks out of you and onto the bed
was kind of self conscious about it and felt bad for making a mess until you told him it was nothing to be embarrassed about and it had actually turned you way on
for someone that doesn't prefer to talk all that much outside, this man is--whew. he is vocal like he is fucking paid to do it. especially when he's about to cum or if you're on top of him. this is a man that is not afraid to moan fr fr.
he's always asking you if you're okay and if what he's doing feels good to you. "is this alright?" is a sentence you've heard countless times and yet it still gives you goosebumps always
unspoken rule that if you're wearing his clothes you're gonna get fucked right then and there 😭 just accept it. könig seeing his SO in his clothes is always gonna do it for him!
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Every You Every Me | Issue #7
COLLABORATED WITH @thirstworldproblemss
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader
Summary: You finally get some answers out of Miguel about who you are to him.
Word count: 5,700 words.
Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist
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"So let's take it from the top," you tell him, as you sit down and put down the Trenta-sized caramel flavored hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup in front of the man named Miguel O'Hara.
The two of you are sitting across from each other at a small booth at the nearest Starbucks you were able to find, seeing as you're homeless now, and there's nowhere else you could think of to go.
He's dressed in a large fitted hoodie that drapes down to his thighs. Where he's managed to find something that is oversized in length on him, you don't know because he's not exactly short.
"I'm from a dimension known as Earth-928," Miguel says.
Before he can continue, you raise one hand, and you can see his right eyebrow twitch unhappily at the interruption.
"Yes?"
"Just to clarify, so we don't have another ‘coffee cake’ misunderstanding. When you say Earth-928, do you mean a different version of the Earth we’re on now? Or is this a habitable planet in another galaxy that happens to be partially named Earth?"
"It's a parallel universe characterized by distinct physical parameters and initial conditions, accounting for the diverse manifestations of our observable universe. So still Earth," he says, sweeping his gaze across the café, nose wrinkling the way one does when there's something off-putting in their vicinity. "Just a little bit less primitive."
Of course he would say that, wouldn't be able to resist the jab would he.
You peer up at him across the table. He is very technical and thorough with his explanations. But as grateful as you are for him finally being willing to answer your questions, you hadn't expected those answers to be quite so information dense. You need to pick your questions more carefully or you are going to have to go down the street to buy yourself a notebook in order to keep up.
"How did you end up on this Earth?" you ask.
"Where I'm from, I'm a scientist, a researcher. One of the things I studied was the theory of physical cosmology and the existence of the multiverse. My work was concentrated on the theoretical ability to navigate between distinct universes within a hypothetical multiverse–”
Ah shit, you should've been more narrow in your question. Should have asked him to simplify it a bit more for you. Because now you're sitting here blinking up at him, pretending you understand half of what he's saying.
It makes sense that he’s STEM. He speaks like the type. Smart as hell with none of the social skills to gauge whether the other person is following the conversation.
Listening to him reminds you of that time in college, when you'd walked into the wrong lecture hall, wound up in advanced chemistry instead of your math class, felt too awkward to leave and just sat there drawing doodles with an attentive expression until the class was over.
And he’s still at it, “– employing advanced mechanisms that manipulate or transcend conventional spacetime frameworks, enabling exploration–"
"Okay, wait, hold on a sec," you interrupt, once it becomes obvious he’s not going to stop any time soon on his own. "Can you... simplify, please?"
He stops mid-sentence, taking a deep breath as he looks up at the ceiling and considers your request, with a serious expression as if he's thinking really hard on it. "I’m a scientist. I study the multiverse. I built a parallel universe traversal device, it allows me to visit different dimensions." Your brain feels insulted that it clearly took more mental effort for him to dumb it down for you than to just give the supergenius version.
“So… a machine that allows you to jump between alternative universes?”
“Yes.”
There’s a pause between you as you run through the questions in your mental list you want to tick off now that he’s turned cooperative and talkative. But with everything that’s happened in the last handful of hours, a lot of the questions you previously had seemed outdated. The one question, the most important one, you’ve wanted to ask from the start though remains.
"Who am I to you?"
Miguel takes the large sized drink in his even larger hands and somehow this big paper cup still manages to look tiny in his grip. "You and I were... involved," he says.
You frown. ‘Involved’ is such a vague term. It belongs in the trash with other useless terms to describe relationships: “situationship”, “complicated”, you hate them all.
"So I was your girlfriend?"
"Yeah, something like that," he concede, fidgeting with the thin gold chain looped around his neck, his eyes not quite meeting yours, like he's embarrassed to use the term.
‘Something like that,’ you chew on his answer unhappily, sympathizing with your other dimensional self and how the other you seemed to have snagged a commitment phobe.
Other-you, who isn’t here in this dimension with Miguel. You wonder why that is.
"What happened to me?" you ask.
His eyes are glued to the table, not looking up at you as he answers you in a voice so quiet you can barely hear it. "She died."
"Oh."
The revelation shouldn’t take you by surprise.
Every time Miguel’s brought up your other self, it’s been tinted with earth-shattering sadness. It's not hard to put one and one together and come to the conclusion that whatever happened to you in this other dimension didn't end happily.
Still it's an odd feeling to know that out there, somewhere, a version of you has died. A version of you that was clearly very important to the man in front of you.
"I'm sorry," you tell him.
It feels silly to say. It's bizarre to give your condolences over your own parallel death, but Miguel looks so heartbroken. He’s slumped in his seat, large shoulders rounded until his frame looks so much smaller than you're used to, and you don't know what else to do.
"So what is happening to me now," you start, not sure how to word what the phenomena that you're going through is, "these continuous near-death experiences, is that how she died?"
"Yeah."
"And do you know why that... kept happening to her? Why is it happening to me?"
"I don't, and I don't know how to stop it. Believe me I tried."
He cradles the paper cup in his hands, the grip a little bit tighter now until he's creasing the paper and the caramel liquid oozes and leaks from the top.
"What I do know is that the universe isn’t going to stop trying to kill you, no matter what you do. And with every near death incident you manage to survive, these incidents will escalate in nature, until..." he stops, eyes flickering away from the cup to meet yours, but it's like he loses courage and doesn't want to say the last part.
"Until, what?" you prompt.
"Until your dimension collapses."
The blood freezes in your veins. "Wait, collapses!? What do you mean?"
"I can't guarantee it will happen again. But that's what happened last time. When the other you kept cheating death, the universe eventually started to collapse in on itself."
You slump back in your chair, trying to process what you've just been told. What does that mean? That even if you managed to defy all odds to survive, doing so would doom the rest of this universe as you know it?
"When will that happen?" you ask, and you're surprised you manage to get the words out because there is a hard lump in your throat that makes it hurt to even swallow.
"Judging from the trajectory and escalation of events, you have about three months give or take."
The two of you sit in heavy silence, for the moment you're not sure what else to ask him. Because it feels like you are trapped in a building looking for an exit sign, but all that’s tacked onto the brick wall is your death certificate, waiting to be signed and formalized.
There’s no way out. Nowhere to go.
"Give me your hand," he says, breaking the silence.
You give it to him without hesitation, watching, puzzled, as he takes off his watch and secures it around your wrists.
"Why are you giving me your watch?"
"It's not a watch," he says, then he presses something on the face of it, and an image of a young woman flickers into existence in the space above your wrist, vaguely see-through. A hologram!
"This is Lyla," he introduces.
Wait, wait? Lyla? As in your mom Lyla? You watch the tiny woman floating above your wrist. Short bob-cut, and flashy heart-shaped sunglasses, with a twinkle in her eye.
The hologram looks nothing like your mom. You part your mouth, about to ask about the name but you're interrupted by the energetic buzz of a female voice greeting you.
"Boss-girl! Long time no see. Want me to catch you up on the latest multiversal gossip? I compiled an edit of highlights set to Despacito."
"Lyla," Miguel warns, tersely. "Not now."
"Ruuuuude! You're the one who woke me up you know."
"Lyla, go back to sleep."
The female avatar grumbles, but then her image flickers away and the watch turns back into, as far as you can tell, just an ordinary watch.
"Why did you name the watch Lyla?"
"It's not a– " He cuts himself off, sighing with exasperation. "Lyla is an advanced A.I. she's going to be with you at all times. She's an added layer of security, built to protect you."
He didn't answer your question. Completely sidestepped it as if the two of you are having two different conversations.
Built to protect you, he'd said. Does that mean he still intends to do that?
"So you're not going to leave?" you ask him.
He leans back in his seat, eyes drifting towards the table. "No."
You look up at him, stumped. Not sure you're understanding what he's saying. Because not even a few hours ago, when the two of you were in your apartment, this man was adamant there was nothing to be done to save you. That he was going to leave and you were never going to see him again.
Right now though, his actions seem to be contradictory to that. You can't make heads or tails of him. Hot and cold doesn’t even begin to cover it.
"Why not?" you ask, "I mean, not that I’m not grateful, but you seemed pretty set on the whole ‘I can’t save you’ thing. What changed your mind?"
“You did.” His eyes narrow as he looks down at you, crossing his arms ever his chest, "You told me you wanted to live. Have you changed your mind already?"
“Wha– NO! I just want to know why you changed yours.”
“I–” He hesitates, another wave of sadness passing over his face. “I’m a superhero. I save people… or try to. It’s what I do. I’m not gonna just leave you to die after you tell me you want to live.”
It’s a good answer, even if you don’t buy that it’s the whole truth.
You look down at your wrist, and the shiny chrome of the not-watch he's just gifted you winks back up at you. "Do you think I have a chance of surviving all this?"
"It's pretty hopeless," he says, and there’s no break in his expression as he continues. "Your chances of making it out alive are pretty much mathematically impossible."
It's odd though. Even though he's outlining the futility of your situation, basically telling you to raise the white flag and surrender, there's something contradictory in the tone of his voice.
"What do you want to do?" he asks you.
It’s a challenge, you realize. An encouragement. He has faith in you. It's all of these things rolled into one. As if he's telling you to prove the universe wrong.
"I want to live," you answer. "If the universe collapses in three months, then please stay with me. Give me time to solve this and find a way to stay alive."
His mouth curls into a hint of a smile. The very first you've seen from him since you've met. It's bright and boyish, erasing the harsh lines of his stern expression until it gives way for something much softer underneath that makes your heart leap in your chest with triumph.
You grin, a strange elation of happiness buzzing in you as you stretch out your hand to him, in an invitation for a handshake to seal the deal.
"Deal?"
Miguel leans over the table, clasping your hand in his much larger one as he squeezes it back gently.
"Deal." That small smile from before is still there. "So what's next?" he asks.
The thing you never realized, being an ordinary person bereft of super genes or other superhuman powers is just how convenient commuting can be if you have them.
No longer do you have to brave the Lynchian nightmare that is the NYC subway system. Half-naked manic street preachers giving sermons as you’re held hostage, with nowhere else to go in the carriage. Being chased down by a drunk trumpeting Mariachi band. Instead, all you need to do to get from point A to point B (A: being the Chrysler building and B: the building formerly known as your home) is to hold on tight to Miguel as he swings you both above the city gridlock.
You imagine that this is what paragliding must feel like, except it's so much better because here you don't have to do the safety training beforehand or pay $3,000 for the privilege.
The city skyline is a dark evening blue, dotted with the sparkling lights of office buildings, cab roof lights and street lamps, as the wind ruffles through the fabric of your clothes.
It's such a different sight when you're flying above instead of walking on the streets below, that you don't even clock that you're in your neighborhood, until you see a building with a collapsed wall that's been blocked off, looking like a crash site. Only then do you realize... you're home.
Miguel carefully sets you down on your feet on a small patch of concrete that is clear of the rubble and destruction.
"Why did you want to come back here again?" he asks.
It’s a good question. Now that you're here, standing in the middle of charred debris and cracked bricks, you're not sure either. You had some vague plans of seeing what you could salvage, hoping for some clothes, maybe your electric toothbrush, or really just any of your stuff. Something that’s yours, no matter how small, to hold on to after the events of today have ripped away life as you know it.
But there’s nothing left. The furniture, all your books and knick knacks, and even your dirty laundry piles have been demolished. Your home as you know it is gone.
There's only piles and piles of rubble and traces of white fire extinguisher foam on the ground. The fire has been out for hours, but the pungent smell of smoke and sulfur still pervades the air.
"You okay?" Miguel asks.
He's still standing at the outer edges of the apartment, close to where your window would have been if a helicopter hadn't crashed through it.
"Yeah... I guess the silver lining is that I didn't have anything expensive. Though it'd been nice if I could've saved my mom's Le Creuset set or at least the nanny-cam so I could return it and get a refund," you joke glibly.
You nudge aside some concrete rubble with the cap of your shoes. There's nothing under there, no treasured memorabilia that's still miraculously intact. Just more burnt concrete and rubble.
"Why did you have a nanny cam?"
You turn around at his question, to see him hovering close to you, one eyebrow raised with an unhappy set to his jaw.
From the displeased expression on his face, he's probably misunderstanding something here. Probably thinks you're operating a very unlucrative Onlyfans business, when what you've really been doing is spy on him and his nightly visits. You don't know which is worse to confess to, so you don't confess to anything.
"No reason," you say, ignoring the way his already raised eyebrow twitches with irritation at your lack of an answer.
"Come on, let's go," he says, and he waves towards you in a come hither motion like he's commanding a dog.
"Go?" you ask him. "It's past midnight. My place, as you can see, is wrecked. Go where exactly?"
Miguel shoots you a strange look. "A hotel," he says, like it's the most obvious thing, and– okay, he's not completely wrong in that assumption.
Problem is, you didn't have time to pick up your wallet or phone before your impromptu interdimensional visit. They’ve been incinerated along with all the rest of your worldly possessions, which means you don't have any way to pay for a hotel.
Plus Manhattan hotel prices average $400 a night. Even if you still had access to your debit cards, your budget’s pretty tight right now after all the capital you invested in your unhinged quest to trap the superhero before you.
"In the city? I don't have that kind of money and it will take months for any insurance payouts to come in."
You should know. As an insurance claims adjuster, you know you’ll be lucky if your claim is processed before the end of the year. And, ugh, just the thought of the paperwork you’ll have to fill out is enough to give you an anxiety migraine.
"I’ll cover the room," Miguel says casually before holding out a hand to you, "Come on, let’s go."
When Miguel said he’d cover it, you expected a reasonably-priced room at one of the Days Inn across the river or the like. Hopefully a place with no rats or bed bugs, and maybe clean bedding over a somewhat comfortable mattress for you to pass out on if you were lucky.
You didn't expect this.
Standing in front of the Midtown Four Seasons, you find yourself on sleek marble so polished you can see your own reflection. You haven't even stepped a foot inside yet and there are two old fashioned doormen, wearing immaculately fitted suits, with an even more impressive posture opening the majestic double-set doors for you as you approach.
It's swanky as hell, and you can’t help gawking like a tourist, eyes glued to the decadent carved ceilings that must be at least 30 feet tall, soaring above you. Honey-colored limestone that looks like it’s been looted from Ancient Rome.
You feel more than a little bit out of place. This is way outside of your budget. You could probably work your job for a lifetime, and not have enough disposable income to stay the night at a place like this.
"Uhm, Miguel... this place is way too–" you start, turning towards him.
But as you were busy lamenting the state of the housing market, he's already walked away from you (for such a bulky guy, he moves swiftly and silently) and as you whip your head around to find him, he's already standing in front of the receptionist.
Damned antelope legged man, would it kill him to wait up for you once in a while? You run up after him and have to tip-toe in order to see over his shoulder because the giant mammoth is blocking the check-in counter.
And wow, even the receptionist here is of a different caliber than the ones you'd find at Holiday Inn. A fashionable bob-cut with razor sharp edges, looking like a model cut out from a Vogue cover.
"Do you have a reservation, Sir?"
You half-expect him to say no, and that the two of you would have to tuck your tail between your legs and walk out of here to the backdrop of a sad trombone playing.
To your astonishment he says your name. The receptionist tip-taps away at her keyboard and then she nods and smiles gracefully at you both.
"Yes of course. After reviewing your reservation details, I am pleased to inform you that all necessary arrangements have already been made, including advance payment and verification of your identification. Your room is ready for you, we trust you will enjoy your stay."
She flashes you a pearly white smile so shiny it's almost blinding and hands you a hotel key card.
When you turn around, to your confusion Miguel is no longer next to you. How does he keep disappearing like this?
"Cielito," Miguel’s voice calls. The nickname doesn’t register at first. It doesn't even occur to you that he’s referring to you, until he barks it out a second time.
Your head darts up to see him standing by the elevator, tapping his feet impatiently as he waits for you to make it over to him.
"How did you do that?" you whisper loudly to him as you step into the elevator. "Where did you get my ID? How did you make a reservation? How did you--"
He takes your hand, mid-sentence, turning your wrist upwards and taps the watch.
"The computer systems in this universe are child's play for Lyla to manipulate. Reservations, money, ID, she can take care of all of that easily," he explains.
"She can do that?" you ask, and Miguel merely nods at you as the elevator closes behind the two of you.
You tip your head down to inspect your gifted watch. In awe of this technical marvel that would make Siri look like it’s from the stone-ages. You wonder if she can boost your credit scores. She could probably hack any wi-fi password so you'd never have to worry about data throttling again. She could get you table reservations for Libertine! The possibilities are endless!
You turn to Miguel. "Can Lyla get me Beyoncé tickets?" you ask.
He just shakes his head at you with what almost qualifies as an amused smile.
The room upstairs is massive.
It’s easily three times the size of your little studio apartment, and the ceilings are twice as tall, with a hanging glass chandelier that’s sparkling bright enough to blind you. It looks like one of those places featured in Architectural Digest.
Everything is in an art deco style, with expensive looking furniture and even more expensive art hanging on the one spare wall that isn’t covered in floor to ceiling windows. There are large shelves and a sleek looking kitchen, complete with an opulent looking velvet lounge chair of emerald green that looks like something a Roman emperor would be fed grapes on.
In this colossal space of a room, there is only one bed. One colossal, plush-mattress-topped, goose down duvet and probably 1,000,000,000 thread count sheet covered bed.
You tense up, not sure what the arrangements Miguel had in mind. Did he want the two of you to sleep in the same bed?
Miguel did pay for the room, so you’re not going to start voicing objections. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time in the short time span that you two have known each other to do that. This bed is also a lot wider than your tiny double bed, so it wouldn’t be the cramped disaster it was last night. You’d just have to make sure to use the bathroom before bed this time so he doesn’t jab your full bladder in the morning again.
Without saying anything, Miguel strides across the length of the room with impatient and determined steps. His hand reaches for the balcony doors and slides them open.
"Wait wait, where are you going?" you ask him as you run up to the middle of the room.
“I’m sleeping outside,” he says over his shoulder, and your mind boggles with that.
“Why? Isn’t it better for you to stay here?”
"This is the 62nd floor. That’s about as safe as you’re going to get. I’ll keep a lookout to make sure no more helicopters come crashing in.”
You’re not sure if he means the last part as a joke or not, but as you watch his broad back retreating as he walks away from you, a sickening sort of the deja vu twists through your chest.
I can’t save you, he’d said back in your apartment, Nothing can.
The feeling clawing at your chest feels alarmingly like panic. It screams that he’s leaving you. That he’s never coming back. That you’ll never see him again.
You’re being irrational, and you know it. You remind yourself that he wouldn’t have done this much for you only to bail in the middle of the night, but that doesn’t stop the fear that’s festering, sharp and urgent, under your skin, or the way your heart races, your whole body flashing hot and cold at the same time.
You want him to stay.
“Miguel,” you call out, and he immediately stops and turns to look back at you, one eyebrow raised in a skeptical question.
Please stay.
You open your mouth, but the words won’t come out. You can’t ask this man—this big, sarcastic, rude hulk of a man—to have a sleepover with you because you’re scared to be alone in the dark. He would laugh you out of the hotel room.
“Uhm… thank you,” you say instead, but it’s no less sincere, “For everything.”
His eyes soften, the sharp narrowness of them easing up. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, and despite the cold chill of the evening, you think you can see a faint flush blooming in his cheeks, before he quickly ducks his face from you. “I’ll be right outside if something happens.”
He turns back around and walks out, closing the patio doors with a gentle click behind him, leaving you by yourself.
It’s quiet.
You survey the empty room you’re in. Without Miguel’s large frame taking up space, it seems even bigger than it did before.
It’s a beautiful room. Something that you’re pretty sure you’ve seen in a movie set. You don’t know why you’re not as excited as you were before. This is you living your Pretty Woman moment. You should be filling up the big jacuzzi tub you saw with bubbles. Heck, maybe ask Lyla to order you a bottle of champagne from room service.
Instead, your eyes linger on the glass patio doors leading to the balcony terrace. You walk over to the bed, perching yourself down on the edge of the mattress, then flop down.
Might as well try to sleep, you think to yourself as you climb under the covers and switch off the light. The best thing you can do right now is catch yourself some rest so you’ll be alert while trying to figure out your next steps tomorrow.
3 months… That’s what Miguel told you.
That’s all the time you have left.
That means you don’t have time to waste, but you also have no idea where to start. The local library doesn’t exactly carry any resources on how to stop the universe from trying to kill you.
The Universe.
An infinite cosmos, grander than any human being can possibly comprehend. This vast space containing all the galaxies with its billions of stars and planets, where an individual being does not even register as a speck, and it wants you dead. How can you possibly fight against those odds?
You lie wide-eyed and awake staring into the dark of the room, and the feeling of dread gnaws into you.
You don’t want to be alone right now. Turning in the bed, your eyes find their way back to the blank slate of the pitched night outside the balcony doors.
You really wished he had stayed with you.
Sitting upright in the bed, you consider your options. You can lie back down. Suffer insomnia and the existential horror of knowing the universe is trying to murder you. Or you can man up, swallow down whatever tiny morsel of your pride you have left and ask Miguel to come back inside and stay with you.
Flinging the duvet from your body, you get up to walk over to the balcony. You hesitate for a moment before tapping the window pane the way you might knock on a door, giving a polite head's up before you slide the balcony patio open. But when you poke your head out, turning your head left and right, Miguel's nowhere to be found.
Okay, that’s weird. He said he’d be right outside if you needed him. You walk up to the ledge of the balcony terrace, leaning over the rail and peer down to see him dangling upside down, from the ledge of your balcony. The sight nearly makes you scream.
"Miguel!”
At you calling his name, he pulls himself up, one clawed hand gripping at the concrete wall as he climbs his way up and over to you. He makes it look easy, as if gravity does not exist for him, and it’s only a moment until he’s perched on the ledge of the balcony, facing you.
“What’s wrong?” he demands, eyes concerned, and you’re suddenly aware of how very close he is. His face mere inches from yours, your noses nearly touching.
“What’s wrong? You’re hanging upside down from the 62nd floor! What are you, a bat?!"
“Why did you come out here?” he clarifies, and his words give you pause. You try to gather your thoughts after the bizarre sight you just walked into and remember what you came out here for.
He’s still looking at you with his full and intense concentration that makes your skin prickle with warmth.
God, it’s embarrassing to ask. You feel like you’re five years old, asking your parents to turn the nightlight on, even though you know you’re a big girl now and aren’t supposed to be afraid of monsters hiding under your bed any more.
You look down on your hands, where you’re wringing them together, then back up at him, and make yourself spit it out, "Could you… maybe… stay with me tonight?"
His eyes widen at your question, but he doesn’t actually answer you and gives you no physical indication one way or the other.
"I feel safer when you're with me,” you admit.
“I am with you out here,” he counters, because of course he can’t make this easy for you.
“I can’t see you out here.”
The line of his shoulder eases, and he ducks his head down with a resigned sigh. "Fine. Get back inside, Cielito. You're going to catch a cold like this."
You shuffle back inside to your bed, watching out of the corner of your eye as he follows you inside and settles himself on the lounge sofa. He’s so tall that his feet are sticking out over the armrests, like a long-legged stork.
Hiding a smile, you climb back into bed, wrapping the bedding all around yourself.
“Good night,” you call out, and he makes a grumpy noise of acknowledgment.
Your head drops back onto the soft pillow, and you close your eyes, ready to sleep. It’s such a nice bed. The sheets are cool and soft against your skin and smell of fresh eucalyptus. The mattress is the most comfortable you ever remember resting on, firm but somehow soft at the same time. You feel like you’re sleeping on a cloud.
Moments go by, and you revel in the sumptuous bed, waiting for the best sleep of your life to claim you.
Except it doesn’t.
Somehow… you still can’t fall asleep. Is it… too soft maybe? You turn in the bed, twisting your torso to get into a position you can comfortably sink into, but something doesn’t feel right. There’s no lumpiness like at home, but that should be a good thing.
Except… despite the decadent softness of the bed. Despite the fact that the sheets probably have a thread count with more zeros than your checking and savings accounts combined. Despite all of the luxury that surrounds you, you still find yourself tossing and turning and wide fucking awake.
The bed is too big. You don’t know what to do with all this space. Your body is not accustomed to this sort of decadence. What if you suffocate sinking into this soft fluffy pillow in your sleep? What if you toss and turn until you fall off this massive bed and break your neck? Maybe that’s how out of all of the universe’s attempts to kill you, you end up dying?
Fuck!
You can’t sleep.
You turn to your side and stare into the velvet lounge chaise on the opposite side of your room, where Miguel is.
Quietly, you pad up to his still form until you’re standing in front of him and hunch over, trying to decide how rude it would be to wake him up again when there's nothing he can do about your stupid insomnia anyway.
In the dim light, you spot something glinting at you. Looking closer, you notice that the thin chain looped around his neck has escaped his shirt to pool on the fabric of the sofa cushion under him. You gently drag the loose end of the necklace toward you, and find a smooth golden band threaded onto it.
Picking it up cautiously, you flip it in your hand and find that there's something engraved on the inside. It's hard to see in the darkness, but when you lean closer and squint your eyes, you can just make out what it says.
'MO'—undeniably the initials of one Miguel O'Hara.
Twisting the ring slightly, you find a tiny plus sign followed by your own initials, and your heart drops into the pit of your stomach.
Oh.
The memory of sitting across Miguel at Starbucks returns to you, when you had asked him who you were to him. You think of the avoidant gaze and how he couldn't look you in the eye.
‘Something like that,’ huh?
Guess the other you wasn't just his girlfriend after all, you think, chest drawn so tight it’s painful.
Holding the wedding band in the palm of your hand, you slide down to sit down on the floor with your back pressed against the chaise lounge.
Your heart aches for the man in front of you and everything he's lost. You really, really hope you're not going to end up as just another regret on his list.
~ Next Issue
Dedication & Credits: As always to my best friend @thirstworldproblemss I am half asleep and running on fumes. I'm wording things poorly but I just want you to know that I am very happy I have you. Thank you for being my friend and for the time we get to spend together. I have the most fun when I'm with you.
Also to @guruan who is my muse, my source of inspiration. This chapter is dedicated to her because have you seen this beautiful piece of artwork she did for EYEM?!
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