glindambavalley
Fandoms
- Cobra Kai (TV) (12)
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Summary
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Eli muttered, fully teasing because he had never once doubted Miguel’s abilities. In fact, when he had offered to do his makeup, Eli jumped at the opportunity. Partly because he was sure he would fuck it up by himself and mostly because he wanted Miguel to touch him.
Miguel huffed under his breath, a sound loud enough to break Eli out of his increasingly concerning thoughts. His breath was riddled with the kind of fake annoyance he pulled when he was concentrating and someone was needling at him. He didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted closer, bending, so he could lean over the chair. Eli barely stopped himself from shrinking back. Not because he didn’t want it — God, he wanted it — but because Miguel’s sudden nearness shorted whatever part of his brain handled normal social interactions.
“You’re lucky I like you,” Miguel muttered finally, the words a little too close to Eli’s ear as he angled the sponge toward his face.
Or: Eli and Miguel are getting ready for a Halloween party together, and Miguel offered to do Eli’s makeup. Unfortunately, sitting still while your best friend touches your face is a lot harder when you’re completely, hopelessly in love with him.
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Miguel raised his eyebrows, lips twitching around the edge of a smile. The dramatics were always funny as hell to him, the way Eli, who could stay stone-faced during an actual fight, would unravel into a shrieking mess over a child beating him at a video game.
"Literally just flank, it’s not that hard," Eli snapped, his free hand slicing through the air in sharp, emphatic gestures as though Demetri might miraculously understand better through pure force of motion. "Jesus fucking Christ. No, no — don’t—"
Listening to the rapid-fire clack of plastic under Eli’s fingers, that frenzied staccato tapping that meant he was either about to win spectacularly or die in the most humiliating way possible, his eyes drifted down, following the sound almost without thinking, until they landed on the controller balanced between Eli’s hands. The way his thumbs moved — fast, precise, almost impatient — made something flutter low in Miguel’s stomach.
Or: Miguel loves his days off — just existing with his boyfriend, no obligations. But it drives him crazy that Eli would rather spend that time gaming than paying attention to him. All Miguel really wants is for Eli to put down the controller and put those hands on him instead.
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Miguel wasn’t supposed to be thinking like this. Twenty was way too young to be losing his mind over someday — a house, a kid, a life. He was supposed to be thinking about midterms and karate and how to keep his busted old laptop running long enough to get through the quarter.
But here he was, hands slack on the edge of the stove, brain completely hijacked by the sight of Eli stretched out on the living room floor — laughing like he belonged there, like he'd always belonged there — and by the wild, dizzying want twisting up in Miguel's chest until it was hard to breathe.
Or: Miguel watches Eli playing with his little sister and maybe starts thinking about a family of their own.
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Summary
Eli leaned in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed, watching Miguel’s back flex with every push. It was like he was kneading stress out of his own spine, all tension and focus. The apartment smelled like butter and cinnamon, thick in the air, sweet and warm in a way that should’ve felt peaceful.
But apparently Eli’s brain wasn’t built for peace. Not when Miguel was moving like that— arms flexing, back muscles shifting under cotton like they were trying to ruin his day. It was actually a little evil. Domestic life shouldn’t look this good. It definitely shouldn’t make him feel this twitchy, this warm, this ready to crawl out of his own skin just watching.
And the most annoying part? Miguel still hadn’t looked at him once.
Or: Miguel tries to bake. Eli tries to help. It ends in sex. Obviously.
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Summary
Miguel and Eli have been dating for a while — not that they ever really said it out loud. They don’t need big declarations. They have notes. Scribbled on napkins, folded into locker bouquets, slipped under textbooks and snack bags. It’s how they talk when talking feels too much. Their whole relationship written in bits of paper and half-jokes that mean something more. It works. It’s them. Until suddenly, one note doesn’t feel like just a note anymore.
Or: Five notes that meant “I love you,” and one that finally said it.
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