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sesamestreep · 11 months

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the first tuesday in may

A/N: I originally wrote this as a prompt fill and then decided I hated it and wrote something else instead, but I held onto the draft because I liked the concept. After revisiting it and editing it into something not completely mortifying to read, I decided to post it after all. Double prompt fill! What a time to be alive! (posted to AO3 here)

Sloan thinks she is uniquely terrible at being a famous person. Not that she gets into trouble as a public figure all that often (trouble finds her with alarming frequency, but she does her best not to court it, at least), but rather that she doesn’t care about a lot of the things she thinks she’s supposed to as a celebrity. If she had her way, she could work at ACN, be on several new programs a day as an anchor, and still somehow not be recognizable at all. This doesn’t make sense to her friends and family. She understands that, on paper, it doesn’t make much sense at all. If she wanted to be some anonymous economist, she simply should not have agreed to ever be on television. She’d chosen this life instead. Some days, she still can't figure out why.

All of this is to say, she never really anticipated being invited to the Met Gala. Honestly, she hadn’t even heard of it until she started working with Mac and even then, she didn’t think about it much. She does like fashion, though, and she likes museums in a theoretical way where she wants them to exist and have funding but she also gets bored after 15 minutes in even the more interesting ones. The fervor and fanaticism around the Met Gala, though, had surprised her and then intimidated her, in that order, when she’d gotten her invitation. But a designer had agreed to dress her and she’d managed to walk the red carpet without falling on her face and she’s pretty sure she didn’t say anything to a reporter that she’ll regret, which means the night was an unmitigated success for her. The thing she’s really worried about is how her colleagues at ACN will react the day after. She’s ultimately more nervous about the first Tuesday in May than she was about the first Monday.

Despite her preparation for commentary and possibly mockery from her co-workers, the morning fortunately passes without incident. By the time she’s finished with the 12 o’clock show, though, most of the staff for the prime time shows have started to trickle in and, truthfully, it’s them she’s most anxious about. Neal is the first to say something, but because it’s Neal, it’s also the cheeriest possible comment she could ever hope for.

“Saw pics from the Met Gala last night,” he says, as she passes by his desk. He doesn’t even take his eyes off his computer in order to say it. “You looked amazing. How many best dressed lists did you make?”

“I haven’t checked,” Sloan replies, with a slight eye roll. “I’m guessing very few.”

“No way.”

“There was some debate over whether I dressed properly to the theme.”

“Yes, but that’s what people love about the Met Gala. The debate is the fun part!”

“If you say so.”

“Regardless, me and all the other brave soldiers on Sloan Sabbith stan Twitter have your back.”

“I know what most of those words mean individually and yet, together, they’re a mystery to me.”

“So, a ‘stan’ is actually—”

“Oh, no. I’d like it to remain a mystery, thanks.”

Neal clamps his mouth shut with an amused expression. “Suit yourself.”

“I appreciate the loyalty, though,” she calls over her shoulder, as she makes her way to Mac’s office.

“Always!”

Her knock on Mac’s door is immediately met with an invitation to come in, but she hesitates in the doorway when she sees Will there already.

“I can come back…”

“Not at all,” Mac says, waving her in. “Will and I were discussing what to do with your segment for tonight’s show as it is.”

“We have so many options for what to discuss,” Will says brightly, “since you missed last night’s show.”

Sloan sighs. “Okay, I knew this was coming…”

“Did you have fun at your fancy party? With all your celebrity friends? While the rest of us were working?”

“First of all, Charlie approved it, and I was there representing ACN, so I was working, thank you very much,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “And secondly, you’ve been to the Met Gala like five times! Don’t take it out on me that you got snubbed this year!”

“Why would they want me there, when they can have someone younger and more beautiful?”

“Yes, it’s that and not your feud with Anna Wintour that prevented you being invited,” Mac says, giving him an arch look.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Will says, spreading his hands out in a wide, innocent gesture.

Sloan, for her part, is delighted. “What did you do, Will?”

“Nothing!”

Mac snorts. “He called her a shrew at Anderson Cooper’s birthday party three years ago.”

“That’s not true,” Will shouts. “How did you even know about that?”

“He told everyone at CNN about it,” she replies, looking down at the papers strewn about her desk, like this subject is boring her completely.

“I did not call her a shrew,” Will says, this time to Sloan. “I would not say that about anyone, even if they deserved it, like Anna Wintour very clearly does.”

“He was very drunk at the time,” Mac says, also to Sloan, over-pronouncing the words like she’s speaking about a child. “He doesn’t remember.”

This, at the very least, does make Will look sheepish. “I wouldn’t say it, even drunk,” he insists, though he doesn’t sound quite so confident anymore. “But I think we can all agree that her reaction is not unlike how a total shrew would behave.”

“Just apologize to her, dude,” Sloan says, leaning on the available chair in front of Mac’s desk, rather than sitting in it like a normal person.

“Don’t call me ‘dude,’” Will says, pointing a warning finger in her direction. “And I’m not going to apologize for something that I never did in the first place.”

“Allegedly,” Mac says.

“Shut up,” Will shoots back.

“I’m just saying, if you smoothed things over with Anna, you and I could be Met Gala buddies next year.”

Will looks incredulous. “Oh, it’s ‘Anna’ now, is it?”

“Well, yeah. We really bonded on the dance floor when Bruno Mars was playing.”

Will makes a disgusted sound, while Mac hides her smile in her fist. “Leona must have been in heaven,” she says, tactfully trying to move the conversation in another direction. “She loves Bruno Mars.”

“She was. I think she invited him to her birthday party next weekend. Reese looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel.”

“Leona’s birthday was in March,” Will says, frowning.

“I know,” Sloan says, patiently. “Do the math on that one quicker, Will.”

Will’s face clears with comprehension. “Poor Reese,” he says, shaking his head. “Anyway, now that we’re done gossiping about our country’s elite and their posh exploits at an event designed to market luxury brands to those who will never be able to afford them, we should talk about tonight’s show, which will be dedicated to the working class, the average citizen, and the—”

“And the suit you’ll be wearing will be custom Armani,” Mac interjects, unimpressed. “Nice try, farm boy.”

Half an hour later, Sloan emerges from the meeting with her topic for her segment on Will’s show settled and makes a beeline for her office, praying that she’s already been accosted by everyone who cares about the Met Gala and she can make it through the rest of the day in peace. Unfortunately, she’s not so lucky.

Kendra offers her some polite praise on her dress in passing, which prompts Martin and Gary to do a quick Google search while she’s standing right there. It’s a new form of torture she was not remotely prepared for.

“Woah,” Gary says, artless as always. “You look glam, Sloan.”

“That’s kind of the point,” she replies, fighting the urge to fidget.

“Did you meet anyone cool?” Martin asks, and she disappoints him by saying she didn’t. He then swivels his monitor towards her so she can see a picture of her talking to Bradley Cooper, which she fully doesn’t remember happening. When she just shrugs, Martin looks crestfallen and she takes that as her cue to leave.

Later on, when she’s walking through the bullpen after a meeting with Zane, Jenna stops her to say how much she loved her dress and to ask if Bruno Mars was nice in person, which leads to a repeat of the same situation as before, except now it’s Maggie and Jim googling her in front of her.

“I didn’t really talk to him much,” she says, keeping an eye on the others. Jenna’s clearly disappointed by this answer, so she adds, “But that’s only because he made a point of talking to everybody.”

“That’s so cool,” Jenna gushes, mollified at last. “He seems so down to earth, you know?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sloan says, vaguely. She definitely should have paid more attention to who she talked to last night. She was too busy praying to every god she could think of that Bruno Mars would become Reese’s new stepdad to retain any details of her actual conversation with him.

“Wow,” Jim says. “That’s a lot.”

Maggie fixes him with a glare. “Don’t be an asshole,” she says, with real fire. “Sloan, you look beautiful.”

“Oh, thanks,” Sloan replies, shrugging. “It’s like a costume party, kind of, so it’s supposed to be over the top.”

Jim, for his part, looks embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to be rude! You know that I think you’re beautiful too, Sloan. I was just saying—”

“You think she’s beautiful?” Maggie asks, lightly. Too lightly. It’s the most obvious thing Sloan has ever heard, and she’s intimately familiar with being too obvious with people she likes.

“Yeah, I mean. Clearly,” Jim says, scratching his neck and (if Sloan’s not mistaken) wishing he’d never been born. “She’s—you’re very beautiful, Sloan, in a textbook kind of way.”

Sloan and Jenna wince simultaneously, and Maggie’s head swivels sharply to stare down Jim even more intensely. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, and Sloan gets the vague sense that she’s handed them another convenient reason to pretend to hate each other for the day.

“Nothing,” Jim practically shouts. “Sloan’s beautiful. But like, you know, she doesn’t need all this—” he waves a hand in the direction of Maggie’s monitor, presumably at the photo of Sloan on the red carpet—“to be beautiful. I think she looks nice in real life, when she’s more natural.”

“Oh, right,” Maggie replies with an eye roll. “You’re one of those guys who likes women when they wear no makeup, right?”

Jim looks over to Sloan and Jenna, who are watching this disaster unfold with stone faced solemnity. Sloan tries to convey with just her eyes that he needs to stand down or get his ass handed to him, but it definitely doesn’t come through. He decides to dig his own grave, instead.

“Yeah, I mean, that’s preferable, isn’t it?”

“How much makeup is Jenna wearing right now?” Maggie asks, smelling blood in the water.

“Uh, none. Right?”

Maggie swings her gaze over to Jenna. “Is that true?”

“No,” Jenna says, with another sympathetic wince.

“How many products did you use to get ready this morning?”

Jenna sighs. “Twelve.”

“No fucking way,” Jim says, staring at Jenna like he’ll suddenly unlock x-ray vision somehow.

“Women have to put so much effort into their appearance just to look like what men think of as ‘natural,’” Maggie says, truly on a roll now. “And then men like you criticize women who wear makeup that looks ‘over the top’ or ‘obvious’. It’s like we can’t win!”

“To be fair,” Sloan attempts to interject, “I don’t think Jim meant—”

Jim doesn’t take the assist, because he interrupts to yell, “I don’t see how it’s my fault that beauty standards—!”

“I wasn’t saying it was your fault,” Maggie replies, hotly, “just that you’re part of the problem.”

“Oh, yeah, because that’s so much better!”

Sloan gives Jenna a sympathetic shoulder pat, as she delicately makes her exit. Jim and Maggie will be at each other’s throats until they run out of oxygen, and she doesn’t need to wait around for that. Unfortunately, Jenna, as an intern, probably will. She returns once again to the peace and quiet of her office.

Getting ready for Market Wrap-Up at four o’clock, she gets into a conversation with the make-up artist—not the usual girl, who’s out with what she suspects is strep throat—about the gala, what it’s like to attend, if the exhibit is any good this year, which are questions Sloan is more happy to answer. No, she didn’t get to keep anything she wore. Yes, she was worried she was going to fall on those stairs. No, she didn’t bring a date.

This last answer seems to displease the woman. “If I was dating someone off the New York Giants, I’d make sure everyone knew,” she says, as she dabs mattifying concealer on Sloan’s nose. It’s to reduce shininess from sweating under the intense studio lights, Sloan knows, but she can’t help regretting the way it obscures her freckles too.

“I’m not…dating anyone on the New York Giants,” Sloan says, carefully.

“Oh, don’t worry! I’m not going to tell TMZ. You don’t have to pretend for my benefit.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m really not dating anyone from the Giants. Or any other NFL team, for that matter.”

“So, who are you dating, then?” the woman asks, with a knowing sparkle in her eye.

Sloan shrugs. “No one.”

“That’s too bad. You’re pretty. You should be dating someone.”

Sloan wants to object to that assessment, or the overly familiar way this woman she doesn’t know is talking about her love life, but she can’t muster the energy. She’s been on a string of bad dates lately, including one with, yes, a New York Giant, but none of them had come to anything. She’s officially too old to consider second dates with men who can’t be bothered to ask her a single question all night long. And there’s the recent experience with having her private photos leaked by an ex that she’s still reeling from. Overall, her wariness is probably not unwarranted. That doesn’t dispel the loneliness of it all, though.

“Do you think I look old?” Sloan asks, suddenly.

The makeup artist does a gratifying double take, looking back and forth between Sloan in real life and Sloan in the mirror. “Girl, where are you seeing that?” she asks.

“Not here,” Sloan says. “I saw the pictures of me from the event and I just thought I looked tired and old. I don’t know.”

“Absolutely not,” this woman she barely knows says with more confidence than Sloan can imagine having. “Don’t do that. You look amazing. There is nothing wrong with looking your age, but you sure as hell do not look old. Don’t do that!”

“You’re right. I just—”

The woman adjusts Sloan’s head so she’s looking straight into the mirror. “Honey, if you can’t even have confidence in yourself, the rest of us are definitely in trouble.”

That is enough to startle a laugh out of her, though she hides it by looking down at her lap. “Thank you,” Sloan says, feeling far too raw about it. “I…did I even ask for your name when we got started?”

“You didn’t, but it’s Mika.”

“Thank you, Mika. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mika says, like it really is nothing to her, as she touches up Sloan’s eyeliner with a deft hand.

It’s a couple hours after that, when Sloan is frantically trying to put the finishing touches on her segment for Will’s show, that she remembers she left some of her notes from their meeting behind in the green room. In her rush to go grab them, she nearly collides with Elliot as he’s leaving the room with Don in tow.

“God, did you get taller?” she gripes, as their almost run-in just brings her attention to the fact that she only comes up to his sternum.

“Nice to see you too, Sloan,” Elliot replies, elegantly side-stepping her. “Rough day?”

She glowers at him. “No. Why?”

“I thought maybe you might have indulged in too much champagne with Rihanna last night or something.”

“I didn’t meet Rihanna,” Sloan says, rolling her eyes. Though, given her Bradley Cooper slip-up earlier, she honestly isn’t even sure that’s true. “And I’m not hungover at work, thank you very much.”

“Just a joke,” Elliot says, holding his hands up in surrender. “My wife wanted me to tell you she thought your dress was beautiful. She’s obsessed with Vivienne Westwood.”

“Oh,” Sloan says, caught off guard by this praise. Elliot’s wife is so much cooler than him. “That’s so nice.”

“You didn’t get to meet her, did you?”

“Very briefly, but all my meetings and fittings were with her people, unfortunately. She was nice, though, when we did meet.”

Elliot smiles. “I’ll tell her. She’ll be so jealous. She really wanted to get married in one of her dresses, but it wasn’t really in the budget back then.”

“Next time we have an office party or something, tell her to come pester me with questions.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

“You’re the best, Sloan,” Elliot practically shouts, as he makes his way down the hall, leaving her and Don alone together.

If she’s being honest with herself (which she tries to do as infrequently as possible), it’s Don’s opinion of the whole Met Gala thing she’s most worried about. Unlike some other people here—she thinks of Mac and Will, specifically—Don doesn’t bother to pretend that he’s above paying attention to the less highbrow items that make the news, but given that he’s also a straight man who wears the same five flannel button-ups to work on a regular rotation, he might be above caring about news that pertains to fashion. He might think the whole thing is stupid, which is the way Sloan wishes she felt. She can’t go in for some of the more avant-garde and impractical sides of haute couture, but she likes a well-made, properly fitted, beautiful piece of clothing as much as any sane person does. Her favorite outfit might be jeans and a hoodie, but she can also appreciate the work that goes into those couture gowns even she, an actual celebrity like it or not, will never have occasion to wear. So, yes, she’s bracing herself for Don’s opinion, provided he has one. Which, obviously, he does, because he’s Don.

“Allow me to be easily the 150th person to tell you that you looked beautiful last night,” Don says, after they’ve been quietly standing there like idiots for a few minutes. Sloan is already in the process of scoffing, when he interrupts to ask, “Did you have fun?”

Sloan makes a helpless gesture with her hands. “I guess…?”

“You guess?”

“It’s…really overwhelming. And exciting! But loud. And there’s so many people and they’re all taking photos. And I had to be careful not to crush my dress when I sat down, so that was awkward. But it really was cool! Seeing the exhibit while the museum was closed was awesome.”

“I bet. Whenever my sister visits the city, she always drags me to some new exhibit at the Met. If I ever win the lottery, I figured I’d rent the place out for her for a big birthday or something.”

“That’s…” Not adorable. Not sweet. Not I’d love to meet this sister I’ve never heard of before next time she’s in town. Has she ever been shown around the Met by someone who saw the exhibit while Gisele Bundchen was six feet away, because I’d be happy to— “That would be such a good idea.”

Don smiles, and his eyes do that thing where they crinkle at the corners. “Well, cross your fingers I win the Powerball soon.”

Sloan very dorkily crosses her actual fingers, making him laugh. “Maybe then they’d let you go to the Met Gala,” she says, like a stupid idiot.

Luckily, Don just laughs again. “Oh, I don’t think they’d ever admit the likes of me.”

“No?” Sloan tries to picture it and fails. Don on a red carpet doesn’t make a lot of sense, if she’s being honest. He has that behind-the-scenes energy, that frustrated stage manager from high school theater aura that he just can’t shake. Still, she can’t help thinking that she would have had more fun if he were there with her, which is a line of thought she’s not allowed to pursue any further.

“I don’t think schlubby E.P.s of poorly rated cable news programs are ever going to drive viewers to Vogue’s website, even if they happened to be independently wealthy,” he says, plainly.

“You’re not schlubby,” Sloan objects before she can collect her wits. She feels a little bit of Mika’s ire from before when Sloan called herself tired-looking hearing Don put himself down. “Don’t say that.”

He waves her off. “Either way, I have a hard time imagining it will ever be an issue for me.”

“Too bad,” she replies, too incensed to be cautious. “I can’t help feeling like the event would have been way more fun with a buddy.”

He looks at her, in that Don way of his, like he’s running diagnostics or something. Like he’s reading her thoughts and intentions and trying to figure out what the fuck to do with them. Hell, she knows they’ve both been through a lot lately, especially where their love lives are concerned, but how many times can she make her interest clear before they confront the damn thing?

“But then you’d have to rent a tux, of course,” she says, when the silence stretches too long and she loses her nerve. “And who wants to do that?”

“Well, that won’t be an issue either,” he says, looking at her seriously.

“Right, of course! I was—”

“I mean, I already own one,” Don says, cutting her off.

“Oh. Well. That is…good to know for, um…well…”

“Future reference?” he suggests, eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“Yeah, for future reference. Exactly. Just in case I ever, um…”

“In case you ever need a date.”

“Right,” Sloan says, feeling insane. “Like at the last minute or something like that.”

“Yeah,” Don says with a smile. “Something like that.”

“Well, I’ll keep you in mind.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Sloan entertains several bad ideas at once, ranging from making up a wedding she needs a date for this summer so she can see him in this tux he supposedly owns to desperately admitting he doesn’t need to ask her to keep him in mind, that she thinks about him all the time, that she hasn’t figured out how to stop thinking about him yet, but she ultimately manages to keep her cool with great effort. For someone who was anxious to confront this thing between them a moment ago, she’s not doing very much confronting right now. In fact, she’s trying to figure out a way to get out of this conversation as fast as possible so she can retreat to the safety and seclusion of her own office again and regain some damn equilibrium. But they’re in too deep now to cut and run without making things even more awkward. She’s stuck.

“Don, thank God!” Mac exclaims as she rounds the corner, startling them both. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“I just finished a meeting with Elliott,” he says, taking his eyes off Sloan belatedly and managing to sound normal and casual as he does so. Maybe he’s not managing anything. Maybe he feels normal and casual. Maybe Sloan is the only one freaking out. “What’s up?”

“I had a question about—sorry, I’m not interrupting, am I?” Mac asks, seeming to only notice Sloan just then.

Don, of course, being an unholy plague on her peace of mind, looks over at Sloan, as if to pass the onus of answering Mac’s question on to her. Why couldn’t she develop feelings for someone nice? Why did it have to be Don, who’s tough and perceptive and smart, but stubborn and self-effacing and impossible at the same time? Couldn’t it have been someone easier and more laidback and more straightforward? Then again, even as she thinks it, she finds herself growing bored of this hypothetical person. She wants Don, even if it’s a bad idea, but she’s not ready to say it out loud just yet. Not again. The last time had nearly killed her.

“No,” she says, pasting on a smile for Mac’s benefit and hoping it’s enough to fool someone who knows her so well. “Nothing important.”

“Oh, good. You have a second to talk, then, Don?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, with an easy shrug. “Let’s go to my office.”

“See you in a few, Mac,” Sloan chimes in, as she ducks around them to sneak into the green room.

Don doesn’t let her off the hook that easily, though, because he turns at the last second and says her name, pulling her attention back to him. When she meets his eye, he says, simply, “I meant what I said before, Sloan. I’m here, if you want me.”

With Mac watching them like a hawk, Sloan can’t acknowledge that with much more than a nod. “I know,” she says, too softly for someone trying to be casual. It must be enough for Don, though, because he nods too and heads off with a bemused looking Mac. Sloan is sure, if nothing else, that Don can be trusted to distract Mac with work talk and that whatever just happened between them is safe with him. He would never give her away like that, not even to Mac. When she turns back to the room and catches sight of her flushed cheeks and bright eyes in the mirrors that line the walls, though, she’s not convinced their secret will be safe with her for very long.

#it's still A monday in may so I feel like this is pretty timely by my standards #almost capturing the zeitgeist which is a thing i'm usually even worse at #anyway #the newsroom #sloan sabbith #don keefer #don x sloan #just realized this is the first fic in this collection that actually involves the ensemble at all #also fwiw if you haven't watched 'the first monday in may' i highly recommend it #it's a documentary about putting together the 2015 met gala and it's excellent #also contains an anna wintour moment that I still routinely crack up over several years after watching it #anyway here's wonderwall #homelywenchsociety

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ms-demeanor · 8 months

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any thoughts on the new post that staff went scorched earth on which is now making the rounds abt tumblr live? it basically screenshots all the tos and claims if you've ever opened the app (or in some rbs, unsnoozed live) tumblr has gotten your data. on the one hand i feel like this is fearmongering, but on the other its true that MOST sites have your data as is so its pretty standard. you seem pretty knowledgeable abt data gathering so i was wondering abt your take

This is going to be pretty unkind but watching tumblr users interact with staff and live is a great primer on how conspiracy theories happen.

Nobody on this fucking website knows how to read a ToS, nobody on this website knows how anything fucking works (sorry, this is not a dig at you but how would tumblr "get" your data from you clicking or unclicking live; the only data that tumblr has on you is the data that you have put on tumblr what data do people think that clicking the "new" button is scooping up that is anything beyond interactions or posts or IP addresses which are the things that tumblr already has information about like you do not introduce new information into the tumblr ecosystem by clicking a button you haven't installed anything you haven't changed permissions on your browser if everyone is so goddamned scared about live stealing their data i strongly recommend they stop using anything but public internet through an anonymizer and making sure location data is shut off on all of their devices and anyone who is flipping their shit about the type of data that live is collecting but who is using chrome on any device needs to chill the fuck out about live and flip the fuck out about google)

this is like that post about twitter's content policy that circulated the other day or that post about deviantart's content policy that circulated ten fucking years ago nobody knows how to read legal documents and nobody knows how to read technical documentation and this comes together into unholy matrimony on the no reading comprehension at all moral panic website

live never violated the GDPR it was just rolled out in the US first but the entire userbase decided that because it hadn't been rolled out simultaneously in the EU and the US that it was SO UNSPEAKABLY PRIVACY VIOLATEY THAT THE EU HAD BANNED IT FOR ITS CRIMES with, like, nothing whatsoever backing that up because, again, even at its most intrusive Live collects about as much data as Twitter or Yelp, both of which are *capable* of meeting GDPR standards with that level of data collection (even if musk sometimes makes decisions that violate GDPR).

Live is significantly less intrusive than any facebook product, than Amazon, and than any Google product. If you use youtube logged in, don't worry about live, the horse is out of the barn and tumblr is the least of your worries *regardless* of live. If you regularly use Google as a search engine please god learn how to evaluate and compare risks across platforms because Live is like a coughing baby compared to about a dozen things that most highly online people interact with every single day.

If you don't want to use live don't use live. Clicking the button doesn't magically transfer your secret FBI file to tumblr and even agreeing to the ToS doesn't share anything that tumblr doesn't already have if you don't continue to interact - if you don't interact with live after agreeing to the ToS it's not collecting any data except your non-interaction.

For everyone who is losing it over Live just turn off your goddamned location on your fucking cellphone and turn off your location on your goddamned computers and that's it, you're good, you're fine, relax. If your response to "turn off your location" is "but I need it for _____" then don't worry about Live, whatever "_____" is was already collecting and selling your data.

Do you use an activity tracker? Congrats, you have much, much bigger privacy issues to worry about than tumblr live.

Okay but also I yelled about that post and the very many ways in which it was incorrect in January.

And I happened to take an archive of the page at that time because I'm a paranoid motherfucker.

And if you want my guess as to why staff went "scorched earth" on that post it's probably because if you scroll down to the bottom of the page on the archive, OP calls on everyone looking at the post to send a kind fuck you to the CEO then tagged his tumblr.

If you look at the other posts that went scorched earth in relation to tumblr staff they were also posts that very pointedly directed a lot of ire at a single staff member.

I don't think that any individual tumblr staff members are above criticism and I don't think that staff as a whole is above criticism but part of learning to read a ToS is understanding that someone can be shitty and vague and use TERF talking points and skirt the line and be technically okay under the ToS while someone can have a legitimate gripe about another user being horrible and manage to violate the ToS by accidentally spinning up a harassment campaign or suicide baiting someone.

Shitty people like nazis and terfs thrive on being edge cases. They are very good at finding a boundary and standing juuuuuuuuust on this side of it and going "la la la I'm not violating the ToS, you can't stop me!" and that blows and it leads to a lot of people encountering a lot of shitty stuff on a lot of websites but personally I'm pretty glad that there's a lot of gray area because when you cut out gray area that's when you see things like It's Going Down getting banned as extremist content alongside white supremacists. Please continue to report nazis and terfs, and when possible go deep into their pages to report because a pattern of behavior is more likely to get recognized as hate speech than a single post that gets reported a hundred times. Please block as many people who it's harmful for you to interact with as possible because it's clear that staff is not going to do the kind of work protecting users that users would like staff to do.

However I just can't get angry on behalf of a blogger who got nuked for saying "Hey everyone who hates this feature that we all hate please go tell the CEO to fuck himself at this URL specifically" - that is an extremely clear violation of the ToS because it is absolutely targeted harassment.

So now tumblr-the-userbase is going off on its merry conspiracy way skipping through fields and lacking reading comprehension and saying "users are getting banned for reporting the crimes of tumblr live and its gdpr violations" and ignoring the fact that the post was nuked because the last line was saying "hey everyone, let's all individually tell the CEO to fuck off in messages sent directly to him that are certainly not going to include any threats, exaggerations, gore, etc. etc. etc."

If I were to make a post that had 50k notes and the last line was "and while you're at it, please send tumblr-user-ms-demeanor a personalized message telling them why they're a terrible person so they know what we think of them" it would absolutely be reasonable to say that was harassing that user. And that post did it with the CEO. Who is not above criticism (and I have my criticisms! I don't think he really gets tumblr and that's a problem!), but jesus fucking christ don't tag the goddamned CEO or any other staff member in a call to action asking users to send them messages saying "fuck off" this is literally the stupidest thing I've ever seen a tumblr conspiracy theory coalesce around.

Anyway thank you for giving me a place to vent i've been getting more and more pissed about this for three days. Everyone feel free to kindly tell tumblr user ms demeanor to fuck off.

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loganlermanstanaccount · 9 months

Text

Rigor Mortis (part 4)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

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

Part 3, Part 5

summary: You get your laptop fixed... eventually.

warnings: smut!! (finally lmfao) masturbation, mutual masturbation, tiny bit of voyeurism, recreational drug use, dry humping, etc 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: caught up to where the og oneshot ends so i wanted to switch it up!!

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

Join my taglists here

wc: 6.8k (still in shock i wrote all this lmfao, i'm strictly a <4k words kinda gal)

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

lips black and blue and gold.

You're frustrated. Bouncing off the walls, head spinning; and it's for a couple of reasons.

First off: you haven't managed to find a laptop. Money you've worked damn hard for, and you can't really afford a new one. With moving around, you've burnt through quite a bit of your emergency fund. Enough to convince yourself you'll be just fine with a pen and paper in class, and the Google docs on your phone when desperate. It might actually force you to go to the library instead of half assing assignments the night before, you think.

And there's your lab book, which you were smart enough to back up on your computer, but guess what? That's fucked; probably taken apart and sold for scraps by Miguel's mysterious friend , who you've conveniently never even heard of and–

"Just ask for an extension." He says, feet up on the sofa. Oddly enough, you've been doing that more often; spending time together. He's not holed up in his room as much, and spends time studying on the dining table, or pretending not to watch the soaps you've got on TV.

"You're overthinking it. Explain the situation, chula, and it'll be fine." He doesn't even look up, just throws the statement in your direction like the lazy pass of a ball.

You scoff, because he's right, and go back to overthinking. You think you can copy out the ruined half of your labbook by hand, and if you beg your OChem teacher for an extra credit project then–

"If I let you use my laptop, will you stop doing that?"

"Doing what?" You frown as he walks over, and reaches to gently pull your hands apart. He turns your palms over, pointing at the raw edges of your fingernails.

" That. " Mindlessly, you'd been picking at your fingernails, without even noticing. Looking up at him, he rolls his eyes.

"...is that a yes?" You nod, hesitant, and catch the hint of a smile as he pads off to his room.

When he returns, open laptop in hand, he thrusts it into your arms - and sits himself back onto the sofa. This time, he splays out facing you, avocado socks resting on your knee. You fight the urge to push him off, a small price to pay in return for his moment of kindness. He's been doing that more often now, slightly more touchy and maybe even… comfortable around you. Eyes flickering up towards him, you catch his. His brows knead together, and you return your attention to the screen just as quickly.

You're going through the motions, more or less, logging into your college's portal and drafting up quick emails to send to your lecturers. But it's when you open up a new tab, that you see something at the top of the screen and pause. Mouse hovering over an incognito tab, hidden in a nest of referencing websites and scientific journals; it's there. Bold letters, in all caps: WOMAN POUNDED BY BIG BEEFY–

You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. Once again, you look up at Miguel, and he couldn't care less; tapping away at his phone, only stopping to look at the TV. Nevertheless, you shift to hide the laptop screen from him. But you're not going to look, or anything. You know better than to take a look at your roommates porn habits, the stuff he drools over whilst he fucks his fist; a big, dextrous palm wrapped around his shaft.

You've done it. Clicked on the tab and nothing's exploded, as of yet. You turn down the brightness, with some shame, as if to make the paused video less explicit. But the image stays, a woman folded under the weight of the man above – in the middle of bullying his fat cock into her pussy. It's amateur; hot and sweaty and sticky, with only the woman fully visible. You suppose your curiosity's been sated, but you can't help but think…

…the woman. She looks like you.

Tilting your head, you can't help but see the resemblance. Not the exact same of course - but her hair is similar, body type, skin tone, eyes. It's not close enough to be weird, you guess, but it's enough that that thought stays - burrows into you like an earthworm into an apple. Scrolling down, you see other videos, with the same woman, other women that look like you - the telltale red bar of watched videos. Evidence, but not really, and it makes you heat up. Your mouth goes dry, and you look over to him: only able to concentrate on the hand he's got spread out at his belly, the brown flesh peeking out - and how it looks just like the one on the base of the woman's stomach in the video.

"...everything ok?" He's looking at you, suddenly; and you attempt to click over to your original tab, discreetly.

He doesn't seem to notice, padding over to your side and leaning into your shoulder.

"Yeah, no, I just…" All you can manage is a nervous smile. "The screen froze, so…"

"Oh." He gives the track pad a swipe. "Seems fine to m–"

He freezes up slightly, and you watch as his eyes flick up the screen. The laptop is eased out of your hands, and he gives a few quick clicks. By the time it's back in your lap, the offending tab is gone. Imperceptible, his jaw shifts.

"...Should be okay now."

You hum, a little amused at the display. He's seemingly unfazed, his little slip up notwithstanding, and leans back to lie up against you. Obnoxious, he splays onto the sofa cushions, his weight practically smothering you as you fight to push him off. You think he likes it – it's the only possible explanation – and gets off from watching you squirm. He seems desperate for a reaction, a child pushing boundaries and pressing buttons to see what exactly makes you tick.

And that's the second thing: it works . He's more touchy, and just as insufferable – jumping at any excuse to be near you, it seems. Miguel has a tendency to hover, follow you around the apartment as you talk aimlessly, and you do the same. You sit by against the doorway to the kitchen whilst he makes dinner; he floats around the door to your room when you try to study. In fact, you've spoken to your roommate more in the past week than you have in the past month; about anything and everything. Sometimes, he actually tells you where he goes during the day; off to lectures of his own, another tutoring session or his basically-an-unpaid-job of an internship. In your words, it seems like with the shit they make him do at Alchemex, he may as well be a full employee: with way fewer perks and a distinct paycut. It's almost as if they're paying for my degree, he says with an eye roll, practically hanging off your door frame.

He does that a lot, now: arms drawn upwards to lean from the oak trim. Especially during lazy mornings in - he'll hang on the frame, and move to tug at your heel, waking you up despite fervent protest. Ultimately, it's a kindness and you don't know how to tell him how much you appreciate it; as he wakes you up on time to get to the library in good stead. You're still waiting on that laptop, debating whether or not to bite the bullet; but for now Miguel obliges, letting you borrow his now and then.

He's not nice, you think his tongue is much too sharp for that; but he is kind, giving you some grace you're not too sure you deserve. It's more than what you've been given in a relationship of 4 years, and you don't know how to feel about it.

Well, you do. Your talk on the living room floor not so long ago flipped a switch and all of a sudden you're paying attention to your roommate; really, really looking at him. He is very, very pretty; with a tendency for lingering touches disguised as something else. And you're out of practice: horny, frustrated, stressed. With the way he touches you; a hand on your back to greet you, a squeeze of your shoulder to tease, bare legs across yours on the sofa; it's a lethal combo.

And here you are, headphones on, prepping to take a dildo. Incredibly self-indulgent, but you need it . You don't quite have the emotional stability for a one night stand (you think if someone touches you just right, you'll fall in love), but this dry spell has taken its toll.

It wasn't just after the break up, either. Mismatched libidos had felt like a steady death knoll. Realistically, you knew Jaime was always too tired after a placement, but it didn't make you feel wanted. You just want to be desirable and fucked within an inch of your life – was that too much to ask?

As a result, your toy drawer had grown: vibrators and dildos, clit-suckers and g-spot strokers; crude once said aloud, but all in search of something. With the stress of school and Miguel, Schrodinger's slut ; it's a wonder you haven't cracked it open earlier.

You're on the floor, its purple base suctioned to the hardwood and towels to cushion your knees. Lower half completely exposed, it's an art , porn on your phone to complete the visage. The screen is smaller than that of the laptop you're used to, only providing some stimulation. And so, as you sink down on its silicone length, you can't help but think back to the sofa - and the videos squirrelled away on an incognito tab. Miguel, hunched over and fisting his cock to someone that looks like you; maybe even thinking of you – although the jury's still out, on that one.

But you keep it close to your chest, rub your clit to the thought of it: you're his type, and maybe he'd fuck into you like the man on your screen. Broad, gorgeous shoulders and you wonder how pretty he'd look with scratches littered down his back, or hickeys sucked into skin: lips plump and messy and swollen.

"Oh, fuck," You say it under your breath, knowing that whilst Miguel is out of the house, it still feels odd to put your lips around the pleasure that thinking of him gives.

You speed up, the slap of thighs ringing out into your bedroom. The dildo is around 6 inches, sizeable; but you can't help but wonder how it compares to Miguel's. He might even be bigger; thicker, most definitely; and you bet his cock is just as pretty as he is. Oh fuck, and he'd tease; press into your hole just to snatch it away at the last second, rubbing persistent circles at your clit. You hear his voice in your head, the low grunts and groans you've memorised from all those nights he's spent with other girls.

"Miguel," You're moaning shamelessly now. "...f-fuck, please–"

There must be something electric in the way he fucks: with the litany of girls in and out of his bedroom, what keeps them coming back? He must talk them through it, whispering filth with his plush lips against their ear, and you wonder what he'd say to you. God , you'd give anything to hear it him say, just once, how beautiful he thinks you are; for him to wrap his hand around your neck and pull you close. You want him to fuck you; hard and deep and desperate.

With that, your pace quickens and you gush around the toy. A spasm of limbs, and you're clamping down on the silicone – an orgasm that leaves you breathless and heaving. You convince yourself it's the taboo of it: fucking yourself to the thought of your roommate, after listening to his grunts and groans for the past couple weeks. He started it … thin walls, and all that.

You ignore the want that lays stubborn at the pit of your stomach, riding through stuttering spasms as your orgasm winds down. You're touch starved, that's all, and Miguel's the closest warm body to latch onto. Nothing more, nothing less. Groaning, you shift, picking up your hips to gear up for another round. Just once more, so you know for sure.

Thin walls. The sound leaks into your roommate's bedroom. But with your headphones on, you can't hear the sounds that echo back: Miguel O'Hara, back home early, with an ear pressed to the wall and desperately pumping his cock.

~~~

"I'm not completely convinced, to be honest." You're in Miguel's car, tongue sticking out as you fiddle around with the dials.

His gaze flicks over, and bats your paws off the dashboard. Flopping into your seat, you watch as he turns up the AC and switches the radio, as if reading your mind.

"You really think I'd go through all this trouble?" He scoffs. "Bundle your ass out of the house and drive all the way here to…. do what exactly?"

"Assert dominance in our shared ecosystem." You say it with finality, and he scrunches up his face in confusion.

"...what does that even mean?"

"Like in that nature doc you were watching the other day."

"Well, the point was that spiders aren't hierarchical in the traditional sense. They form colonies that are… quasi-social, if anything, and–" He pauses. "Wait. You were paying attention?"

You shrug. "I thought it was interesting."

"Seriously?"

"...no, not really."

You laugh as he pulls over to park, in a space next to what looks like an apartment complex. It looks way nicer than your place, with sandy brick and hedges that look well kept. Your laughter peters off. Miguel looks decidedly not amused.

He opens the car door and clambers out as you scramble for the seatbelt. To your surprise, he opens the door for you; stretching out a hand for stability as you get out. When you both walk over to the intercom, your palm burns with his touch, and flexes with the memory of it. It's becoming a problem, his hands. You push down the beginnings of a hazy daydream. He presses a panel, waiting for the buzz.

"Lyla? Could you let us up?"

He waves demurely to the camera, and the receiver clicks. A cheery voice rings back.

"...Us? Who's us, Miggy? Did you finally find a girl that puts up with your shit?" Her voice is singsong, teasing. With a smile, you watch as Miguel bristles, speaking into the slick panel.

"My roommate, Jesus, Ly–" He says the next bit a little rushed, turning away slightly as if you still can't hear her loud and clear. "I thought we went through this, you can't keep trying to embarassmeeverytimeI–"

She talks over him towards the end, rapid-fire banter that you can barely make out.

"You never come and visit, except when it's 2am and you need to break into–"

"Once! It was one time! Déjate, ya está bueno ya–"

[Let it go, that's enough now–]

"Let it go? No, no, absolutely not… what is it that you always say? It's the principle –"

"Can you just fucking open the–"

"What's the magic word?"

He sighs, mouthing an apology to you. "Lyla–"

"Magic. Word."

He mumbles. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please could you open the fucking door."

There's a pause, and rustling over the intercom. The door buzzes open.

In the elevator up, you keep quiet, trying your hardest not to burst out laughing. Miguel is visibly brooding; arms crossed and brow furrowed.

"Don't." He says, with a pout you almost think is cute. Almost.

"I'm trying really, really hard not to." You put your hands up, as if to surrender. "... Miggy."

"Fuck off." And then, a little softer.

"...I told you I have friends."

~~~

You leave it at that until you're in Lyla'a apartment, when she opens and ushers you in. She looks exactly the way she sounds: pretty, mousy features, with her hair in short, choppy layers. She's bundled up into a plush white robe; heart-shaped sunglasses sliding down the tip of her nose.

Miguel breezes past her, towards the murmuring voices you can just about make out in the front room.

"Lovely to see you too, Miguel." It's under her breath, but when she turns towards you there's a twinkle in her eye.

You introduce yourself, and she pulls you into a tight hug.

"I know," She says. It's ominous, but her voice is light and airy. When you separate, she flashes a wide smile. "Lyla. It's nice to put a face to a name."

"Uhh, sorry. What?" She ushers you further into her apartment as you speak, confused.

"Oh, Miggy talks about you all the time. Complaining , mostly, but in that way he gets when he's trying really, really hard to pretend he doesn't care. Like, he texted me yesterday and–"

"Thaaat's enough." You feel hands on your shoulders, and all of a sudden, Miguel is steering you away from her grip. You stumble into her living room, so bright and airy your eyes have to adjust to the light that floods in. Looking around, her apartment is gorgeous; a spacious open plan, floor-to-ceiling windows with a prime view, and lush furniture. Everything about it screams expensive – especially in comparison to your paltry place. Maybe the shock is visible on your face, but you're in awe. She can't be much older than Miguel, right? She looks about the same age, mid-twenties, not too far-removed from college… and it isn't quite adding up.

"How can she afford this? That's what you're thinking." There's a voice on the sofa that makes you blink. A young man with messy brown hair, a set jaw and 5 o'clock shadow calls out to you in between mouthfuls of pizza. "Lyla's… mmhgh… suuper fuckin' rich… mmfgh… that's how."

It's then that you notice there are other people here, sprawled out on the sofa set; boxes of takeout on the side tables next to them. Of course Lyla's rich: only 20-somethings with money to spare have matching sofas.

She's like Beetlejuice, or the Candyman, and pops up next to you when her name's said.

"I work in tech! With a cute little job on Wall Street, and a part-time one white hat hacking." She clarifies. " Ethical hacking."

She giggles like she's told a joke somewhere, and you nod – still not quite understanding.

"...and some side gigs that aren't as ethical." A blond haired man next to Mouthful-Of-Pizza pipes up. "When are you going to introduce us, Miguel?"

He's grumbling in the kitchen area, digging through the shelves for something. He returns with a bag of chips and dip in a container, flopping onto the zebra print throw pillows. Distracted, he waves a hand around the group noncommittally.

"Uhh, Peter, Ben, Lyla." He gestures to you, saying your name, and then to himself; tearing open the bag at the same time. "-and Miguel. All done"

"My turn for questions, now," Miguel says, pointing at Lyla, looking at the boys to his side. "Is she…?"

"...super high? Most definitely." Lyla giggles at Ben's words, for good measure.

"...right. Peter Parker, nice to meet you." He throws a thumb to the back of the sofa, where you notice a little mop of red curls peeking out. "And this is my little Mayday."

Peals of laughter erupt from behind him, and you notice grubby hands with a death grip to the cushion rest. Miguel leaps up, rushing to her side to help her up its back.

"Ayyy dios mio." He scoops her up carefully, "Buenas, Arañita."

Mayday is on his lap now, a little toddler of about 1 or 2, snaking herself around to hug Miguel's chest. She is certifiably the cutest thing you've ever seen: gap-toothed and giggly, with a smatter of freckles like someone's flicked a paintbrush across her nose. And with the way Miguel melts, you can die happy, knowing that you've seen the impossible: Miguel O'Hara, cooing and fussing over the little girl.

"Arañita?" You ask, to no one in particular.

"Itsy-bitsy spider." . ..is the sing-song, choral response from everyone but Miguel. They're mimicking his tone of voice, and he raises his head from May, looking around.

"I don't sound- "

"You do, dude." Peter sighs, tickling the little red head on the tummy; smiling as she collapses into bright laughter. "I don't have a nickname, and I've known you waaay longer than she has."

Miguel covers her tiny little ears, and says, "Eres un pendejo, Parker . "

[you're a dipshit, Parker]

The scraggly man sticks his tongue out in response, and May pulls at his hair for good measure. He yelps, and Miguel passes her over to her Dad. The scene is funny, for sure, but you feel it's warmth more than anything. God, you can tell they've loved and laughed with each other for years; the kind of friendship you'd kill to have.

"We just need whatever's left of her laptop, Lyla," He's blunt, batting away long forgotten chips and dip. "...and then we'll get going. Wish I could stay longer, Arañita, but I've got some work to finish off."

May makes grabby hands at him, and you melt. Who knows how Miguel can stay strong in the face of her big, round eyes.

He gets up to stand next to you, arms crossed. The height difference is stark: his tall, solid frame towering over everyone else. It seems like an intimidation tactic, but you know him just well enough to tell: he's trying not to be swayed by puppy eyes and promises of food.

"You just got here, Miggy." Lyla sighs. "We're going over prep for Jess', and we'll be two minutes, I swear."

"Oh?" His eyebrows light up. "I knew it! You were being evasive on the group chat, and Pete wasn't returning my calls…"

Huffing, he clasps his hand around yours, ready to storm out. "This is an ambush. A goddamn setup!"

"Wait, Miguel, I need my-"

"I'll pick it up later for you, okay?" It's said like an aside, so soft only you can hear it. With his hand around yours, it certainly feels more intimate than it should. And it seems like he realises a little too late, dropping your hand as your faces are mere inches away.

"Um, we should… we should go."

You look past him to the faces blinking at you guys, on the sofa. A pause, and then you're gulping down stubborn feelings to ask a question.

"Jess' ? Is there a party, or something?"

Lyla nods. "Yeah, and Miguel's meant to be picking up cake."

The man in question pinches his nose. "I can pick up the cake just fine. It's the whole… going to a party bit I'm not too keen on."

"Come onnn, you know Jess would love it."

"She'd love to blackmail me with some dumb shit I did drunk, that's for sure."

"It's her birthday, hardass ." Peter whispers that last bit, covering little May's ears like before. "She can have a little blackmail, as a treat."

"You're gonna say no to a surprise party ?" Ben echoes, shaking his head dramatically.

"A surprise birthday?" You light up. "Miguel, you have to go."

His stony demeanor cracks, for a moment. You latch onto it, hellbent on wearing him down. He's always got his laptop out doing work, or cracking open a little notebook to prep a lab. When he's not at home, he's at that internship, or tutoring, or planning a tutoring session. Work, work, work; and you'll be dammed if you let him rot away in a little cage of his own machinations.

"Come on, Miggy." You watch him bristle, prying at that little crack in the surface. This has to be done with finesse: present a challenge, and watch him scramble to prove you wrong. "You're telling me a couple of hours at a party's too much for you? That's it? "

"That's not–"

"S'what it sounds like to me." You shrug, a little smile on your face. The aim is to look as smug as possible; and it seems to be working.

His jaw shifts, annoyed. Lyla catches on, giving you a crazed smile.

"Even your roommate's gonna come." She says, an arm linked in yours.

"I am?" She gives you a little dig, and you're spluttering. "Y-Yeah, I am!"

You can see him fight with his own ego; but it's a one-sided affair.

"Fine. " He strains. "Two hours, max. And then I'm gone."

Lyla gives you a squeeze, and then wraps you both up in a hug he desperately tries to fight off. Ben slots around you guys, and Peter's last to join, with Mayday squealing on his shoulders.

Eventually, you get what's left of your laptop: a little thumb drive with as much as Lyla could save. You'd thanked her profusely, of course; trying to slither out of her vice grip of a hug, as best you could. She's absolutely batshit, the good kind; cryptic, and strange, but with a lot of heart. She makes you wonder, and they all do; just how did they become friends with Miguel? How do they fit?

The man himself seems a little different, as if reinvigorated by being around friends. In fact, you catch him smiling to himself on the drive home. It's sweet; to see a different side of him around people he's clearly comfortable with. If only for a little while, he sheds the heavy weight he seems to carry around.

Around the house, you notice he seems lighter – humming to himself whilst cooking dinner. That very day, you watch the little sway of hips as he stirs a pot; headphones in, singing under his breath. He can't sing for shit, of course, and he'd kill you if you ever uttered a word; but it's a sight you commit to memory, not knowing when next he'll be in such a good mood.

There's still the question of a new laptop in the air, but you feel more settled by the events of the day. You're a little less fucked school-wise, you've got a party to look forward to, and potentially a drunk Miguel to make fun of. He goes to bed early; and you can hear the quiet drone of a podcast from the other side of the wall. He drifts off to the sweet, dulcet tones of Top Ten Genetic Precursors for Early Onset Dementia; one of his favourites, you've determined.

All is well, for now. A tentative truce, and maybe, just maybe: you're finally friends with your roommate.

~~~

There's something about dramatic irony that seems to smack you across the face, every time.

You've come to somewhat of a understanding with your prickly roommate, and the stream of women in his bed seem to slow down, for a bit. He's hot, he's a whore; but he's sweet, with an eye for detail. He can read you with a scary amount of accuracy. Antsy and hungry from a long day? He leaves you scratching your head at his clairvoyance when you come home, chucking you a hot water bottle and a warm meal. You go to bed with a full belly, cramps abated.

He's still a prick, of course. Sarcastic comments, and a massive grump – but you've learnt to deal with that. Just a couple of days after a seemingly settled week; what you can't wrap your head around is the pounding music from next door, at fuck-off-o'clock . He shouldn't be awake, let alone interrupting your late night study session.

You're pissed, leaping from your desk to pound at his door. You're thudding towards his room, ready to deliver a well-deserved verbal lashing, and the door just… swings open. Empty; there's a window ajar and music pumping from speakers. Bachata and cheesy 90s R&B; which sounds suspiciously like his sex playlist.

Yes, he has a sex playlist. And it really has no business to sound as good as it does.

Nevertheless, you're resolute. If he's managed to sneak someone, at this hour, you decide he's going to get more than a stern talking to.

There's clattering in the kitchen, and you whip around; half-expecting the giggle of another girl. When you walk in, it's just Miguel, rummaging through cupboards: a half-naked thief in the night.

"Miguel?"

He pops his head up from a cabinet, with a half-eaten piece of bread in his mouth. Caught red-handed, you suppose; and he gives you a little smile.

"S'everyfin' – mmmfggh –" He scarfs the rest of it down. "Everything okay?"

You squint. "No. Not really."

He chuckles, a slight rasp at the edges of his voice. Dickhead – what exactly is so funny?

"You can't have your music so fucking loud, not when I'm studying. It's the middle of the night and–"

Dressed in nothing but a pair of gray sweats, he's busying himself with a sandwich on the counter; clattering around noisily like he doesn't have full control of his limbs. Which is…. weird, admittedly. You'd trust Miguel to slice a grape with a machete – his dexterity is usually unmatched. Not that you'd made a habit of staring at his hands, or anything.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He nods, attempting to keep a straight face, but the faux solemnity does nothing to hide that droop of eyelids and slump of his shoulders. You get closer, pushing him to face you properly.

"Oh, fuck," His eyes are a little red, hair messy and windswept. "Are you… high? "

Miguel O'Hara? High? You'd never thought you'd live to see the day, honestly. His eyes go wide, dropping his sandwich dramatically. And then he's got a big hand at your shoulder, pulling you closer with a finger pressed to his lips.

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering your name like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone."

With the way he says your name it makes you light-headed. It's slow and careful, as if he's testing the way it feels spilling from his lips. And maybe, with the way he smiles, it feels good; tastes sweet wrapped around his tongue.

"I won't." You breathe, and then you're both giggling.

There's something about the way he looks at you, peering under heavy lashes; basically eye-fucking you in the space of your tiny kitchen. You feel bare in a little t-shirt and sleep shorts; suddenly exposed.

"You should…" He starts, cocking his head ever so slightly. "Join me, chula. "

It's soft; sinful, even; said as he coaxes you between his body and the kitchen counter.

You don't trust your voice enough to answer, legs already shaky, so you nod. Slight, at first; and then with a little more gusto as the idea of him and you on his sheets – intimate, alone – creeps in. He stretches out a hand, and you take it; led to his bedroom like a scene you've seen before. All those girls before you; led to the dragon's lair like damsels in a fairytale. Except in this one, you suppose, you're not waiting for a knight in shining armour to save you.

He sits you down on the bed, passing you a freshly rolled blunt. Passing it to your lips , more specifically; hand on your chin as he brings the lighter up to its end. Even prettier up close, all you can do is watch the press of plump lips, and pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates. As he leans in, there's a hand on your bare thigh. You inhale, deeply, and he hums with content.

"Good girl," He purrs, prying it from your lips to take a slow drag.

"You're a bad influence." You murmur, watching as his eyes flutter shut.

"You need to relax," He leans back, arm drawn lazily upwards. "This is helping."

"That's not–" Oh. You feel it now, a steady haze rolling over limbs.

Miguel quirks up an eyebrow, amused.

You repeat, slowly, "You're a bad influence ."

"Does it feel good?" You pause, trying to ignore his low tone; and the steady blaze that it ignites within you. Dragging your eyes to meet his, you see it: want, lust, something heavy that swirls behind them.

You nod, itching for another pull. As if psychic, he gestures for you to come closer; and your lips almost slot against his. He exhales, and you inhale; in the closest thing you've come to a kiss in months. It makes you ache for just a little more contact, for those pretty hands to slot between your thighs and–

"Is this all I need to do for some quiet around here?" He asks, lilting. If only he'd stop talking; interrupting your fantasy with that stupid grin of his.

You're shaking your head, laughing at the sheer gall .

"You're fucking someone new every week, O'Hara. Loud. Who was it the other day? Cathy, Kayla –"

"Sita, actually." He has a strange expression on his face. "And we didn't fuck. Just going over lecture notes."

"Sorry . Must have gotten mixed up with the half-dozen other girls in and out of here. Our apartment's not a brothel , Miggy."

He rolls his eyes, handing you the remnants of the blunt.

"...s'not my fault there isn't anyone fucking you right."

You scoff. "How would you know?"

"Thin walls. " It's cryptic. What the fuck does that mean?

You take a careful drag, and hand the blunt back – trying your hardest not to strangle him. It must show on your face as you tussle with the thought, because Miguel is staring; unabashedly, unashamedly. When you notice, it throws you off.

"... what?" Ready to defend yourself, you huff.

He shrugs. His expression is soft, reminding you of that night, not long ago.

"You look like a painting."

You practically short circuit. You've been complimented before, of course. Hot, by men trying to get into your pants. Pretty, sometimes. Beautiful, the other times. Whether it's been sincere, you don't know – but you're smart enough to not overthink it. It's hard enough to live a life, as it is; and you'd rather not be bogged down by what others think, how you look whilst doing it. And yet, you feel your body betray you; a steady bloom of heat at your heart, like you've been stabbed. So deep, it spreads like blood on the front of a blouse. Like a painting, he says. And you like the way he says it; how it sounds spilling from his lips.

Its implication sits heavy. Like a painting : hand-crafted, silken, soft –

He blinks, the crack of a smile on his face. And it ends in a fit of giggling, if you can even call it that.

"Stop fucking with me." You grumble, and he thinks the way your face scrunches up with disdain is cute. There's probably an implication there he should unpack in therapy – how he likes it when you shout and put him in his place – but he's much too high to care.

"M'not-" He quiets down, flattens his face into something resembling sobriety and gravitas. He gets a little closer, so close you can feel the heat of his body and flutter of lashes. With wide, dilated pupils, he stills - and it really doesn't help that he looks so pretty.

"Can't stop thinking about you, hermosa." His voice is low, slurred with the weight of the blunt he's taken careful drags of. Every word makes you feel hazy, drawn in by his lips. " Fuck, all the time."

"Hear your laugh in my dreams, sometimes." He circles your bare thigh carefully, without breaking eye contact. With a thumb on your chin, he brings you closer, and closer still. Gently, you close your eyes, expecting the press of his lips against yours…

…instead, you get a puff of smoke for your troubles. Reeling, you push him away. He collapses on the bed in a laughing fit.

"... now I'm fucking with you." Rumbling laughter, and you've got the wherewithal to be embarrassed – hand still resting on his bare chest.

A little cruelly, you push down, giving him an elbow to the ribs for good measure and he splutters with surprise – laughing all the same.

"Asshole." You slur, and he grabs your arm to pull you onto the covers with him. You paw at him wildly, wrestling amongst the table of sheets. It's not a fair fight, not really; the wide expanse of his bare chest feels solid, and he's probably got more muscle in his pinky toe than you do in your whole body. Miguel is strong , but plays along regardless, pinning you to the bed with his hands around your wrists - but lets you turn him over just as quick. You're both laughing, the blunt long forgotten but its haze blurring the lines. You straddle his middle, hips flush against his and he keens; head back and cheeks flushed.

"Fuck," It's quiet, said as he writhes below you and you try to pin his hands above his head. Maybe it's the weed, but he lets you: eyes low, breath steady. And you stay like that, for a moment; bodies laid against one another.

You don't know who starts it: the slow roll of hips, the swell of his cock bucking up against your heat. Regardless, you welcome it, letting the heat build up with the pressure at your clit. Your hips sway and all Miguel can do is watch.

Lips parted, head back; and you set a steady rhythm that washes over you both.

Humping against one another, you get more desperate and drag your hands to his chest for purchase. Underneath you, Miguel practically purrs – one hand on your waist and the other clutching yours at his chest.

"So, so pretty…" He sighs into it, wide palm pawing at your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls. By now, he's rock hard; and you feel him throb through the thin material of his sweats.

"Fuck, I can't–" You moan, ragged, the roll of your hips gaining speed.

Miguel coos, bringing a hand to your chin to pull you closer to the crook of his neck.

"Too fast, hermosa. S-Slow it down for me." He grips your waist, forcing the pace to slow. Your hips stutter against his, delicious pressure making you cry out. And, God, you're close; pleasure building up at your gut.

"Ohhh, fuck. Just like that, just like–" It's soft, whispered between the press of bodies like a prayer: reverent, intimate, a slew of garbled English and Spanish into the shell of your ear that goes straight to your pussy.

"A-Ahi, ahi–"

[t-there, there–]

Plush lips brush against your cheek, and you try so hard to not float away - with only his words to keep you tethered.

"... no pares lo que sea que estes haciendo–ohh-fuck–"

[don't stop what you're doing, oh fuck–]

The coil at the base of your stomach snaps, and you arch into his touch as he does the same. Miguel spills into his sweats, heaving with the effort. He can feel the clench of your pussy above, and he chases it in the aftermath; craning his neck to finally get a kiss. Limbs heavy, you still manage to swerve so his kisses land at your jaw. He's grateful for the contact anyway it comes and sucks careful hickies into the skin: at your neck, your collarbone, and anywhere else he can reach.

You sink into it, curl up on his chest like a housecat; his hands wandering the gentle slope of your back under your shirt.

Limbs heavy, you pry yourself from his hands ever so slightly. He strains to follow you up, snapping back into the sheets like an elastic band. Still, he kneads at your flesh - bare thighs spilling from your shorts.

" Miguel," You whisper, hand travelling past his neck to cradle his jaw. "Need more…"

You punctuate that last word with a roll of your hips. Wanton, conflicted; he groans .

"It's late, chula. " He says it slowly, hesitant – like he can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth. He's still high, lost in the whispy remnants of that blunt. You've never known weed to make someone more responsible, and you flop to his side, a little childishly.

Miguel makes sure to keep a hand wrapped around your waist, dragging his other knuckles up your exposed tummy so that it rides up to the swell of your tits.

"And you've got that 9am."

You cover your face with the span of your hands, grumbling. From between the gaps in your fingers, you repeat,

" ...and I've got that 9am ."

He traces lazy circles in your flesh. Maybe it's the blunt, or the afterglow of an orgasm; but you make him laugh, a gentle ache replacing the creak and shudder of gears.

"Idiot." He says, kissing it into your skin. And he burns from the touch, fleeting; like the warm flame from paper lanterns, or the flicker of a lighter against cool night air.

Miguel taglist (1): @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns

@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical

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