Miguel reflects on a painful memory, the time he lost you to an anomaly...
Angst... pure angst here...
Drabble 297 words
“Yellow? I don’t think so, babe.” Miguel wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you back against him.
“Miguel, you never let me have my way.” Turning your head to look at him you gave him a wide smile. Swatting his arm with the bright yellow paint swatch you turned back to look at the other options on display. Reaching out a hand you ran your fingers over the swatches and furrowed your brow. “Which one do you like?”
“I like this one.” He smiled, dipping his head to kiss your neck.
“I meant colors Mr. Smarty Pants.”
“Oh.” Resting his chin on the crown of your head, Miguel squinted at the wall of colors. “I don’t care.” Letting out a sigh of exasperation, you hung your head in mock shame.
“I’m disappointed in you, O'Hara, really I am.” He could feel rather than see the chuckle bubbling up from your chest. Squeezing your waist gently he turned his face to whisper in your ear.
“Any color but yellow, schmoopsie poo.”
“Yeah, that nicknames not sticking either.” Rolling your eyes, you slipped from under his arms and snatched a simple beige sample from the wall. Turning you pointed the yellow sample at him before stuffing it into your purse. “I’ll get my yellow walls out of you yet, O'Hara, just wait and see.”
Time Jump...
Miguel sat in front of his monitors, clutching a faded paint sample in his hand.
“Miguel,” Peter tried gently, only to be stopped by Jess’s hand on his arm. Silently she shook her head and motioned for him to give Miguel his space. Rubbing the worn edge of the sample for the thousandth time, he leaned his head against his knee. Absentmindedly he rubbed at his eye with the ragged square.
fuck nasty!Ghost who shows you how much he misses you.
You were out running errands, leaving Simon, home from his latest deployment, to his own devices. All was going well—so you thought—until you heard the telltale ping of your phone and saw that he had texted you.
Simon probably needed you to pick something up for him on the way home. Mm. Doable. You opened the text under that innocent assumption.
And you know what they say about making assumptions.
Because right there in front of your very eyes was a picture of underwear. Your underwear. Your favorite pair of underwear. Your favorite pair of underwear you'd been searching for while you were getting dressed this morning.
They were covered in cum. Simon's cum.
You receive another text not even a second later: Miss you, sweetheart.
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