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nereidprinc3ss · 1 year ago

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in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you.

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid.

God, he loves you.

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear.

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping.

“Hm?”

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch.

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest.

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience.

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand.

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers.

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion.

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath.

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them.

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine.

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual.

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes.

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours.

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back.

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation.

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak.

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape.

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing.

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back.

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening.

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh.

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response.

He loves it when you do that.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader

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solxamber · 4 months ago

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Guide Rank: Overwhelmed || Malleus Draconia

Being a high-ranked guide is tough—you’re basically a glorified babysitter for overpowered, emotionally constipated espers. But it gets harder when Malleus Draconia, the strongest esper in existence, asks you to guide him. And somehow, despite it all, you’re pretty sure Malleus is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Or: Guideverse au!

Series Masterlist

The world is a nightmare. It used to be bad enough with things like taxes, slow WiFi, and that one sock disappearing in the wash. But now? Now you have random cosmic hellmouths opening up and vomiting out monsters that think humans are snack-sized protein bars.

They call them Gates. They pop up out of nowhere like your intrusive thoughts at 3 AM, and if no one deals with them, entire cities get turned into discount horror movie scenes.

The only reason people aren't living in a monster apocalypse is because of Espers—overpowered individuals who fight these creatures with sheer force, wild abilities, and a complete disregard for their own safety.

But there’s a tiny problem. Espers have the durability of a wet paper bag. They burn through their energy, go berserk, or outright implode if left alone for too long.

And that’s where Guides come in. Guides stabilize Espers, keep them from disintegrating mid-fight, and prevent them from making headlines as "Local Hero Explodes on Live TV."

And you? Congratulations! You are an SS-Class Guide, one of the absolute best. This should mean power, prestige, and maybe even free drinks. Instead, it means you are a walking, talking, highly sought-after life support machine, and every Esper on the planet wants a piece of you.

And not in a fun way.

You’ve spent your entire career dodging unhinged, desperate, overpowered individuals who think "force-bonding" is a reasonable dating strategy.

Some try to flirt their way into your schedule (bad idea). Some try to bribe you with things like gold, private yachts, and one guy who straight-up offered you a castle. And then there are the truly feral ones, who don’t understand the word “no” and think "What if I just grabbed them?" is a valid problem-solving technique.

One time, an S-Class Esper sent you 72 marriage proposals in a single day. Another time, a different one broke into your apartment and left a PowerPoint presentation on why you should bond with them. With transitions.

If you had a nickel for every time you had to physically dodge an Esper trying to latch onto you like a clingy octopus, you wouldn’t need this job anymore. You could retire to a nice, peaceful life in the mountains, away from all of this nonsense.

But no. You’re still here. Still dodging Espers who treat you like a Black Friday deal at 90% off.

Something has to change.

It’s another day at work. Another day of wading through a swamp of increasingly deranged requests for guiding, because apparently, every high-ranking Esper on the planet thinks you’re the Holy Grail of Stability™.

You take a deep breath, open your inbox, and immediately regret your life choices.

Request #1:

"O Supreme and Benevolent Guide, I have compiled a PowerPoint titled ‘Why You Should Guide Me and Not Those Other Losers.’ Please see attached. I am very persuasive. Also, I have snacks. Just saying."

Attached: A 657-slide PowerPoint presentation with bullet points like “I Only Go Almost Berserk Like Every Other Tuesday” and “Look At This Dog I Found, Do You Like Him?”

Request #2:

"Greatest and Most Esteemed Guide, I humbly request your guidance. I will literally pay you in gold. Actual, real gold. Or cash. Or—listen, name your price. My mental stability is at stake here. I am ONE bad day away from levitating into the stratosphere and exploding like a firework. PLEASE. I am BEGGING you. Sincerely, your most devoted, desperate, and slightly deranged fan."

Attached: A poorly photoshopped picture of you both standing in front of a sunset. You’ve never met this person in your life.

Request #3:

"GOD-TIER GUIDE, PLEASE, I WILL DO ANYTHING. I WILL FETCH YOUR GROCERIES. I WILL WALK YOUR PET. YOU DON’T HAVE A PET? I WILL GET YOU A PET. I WILL BECOME YOUR PET. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, JUST GIVE ME 10 MINUTES OF YOUR TIME. MY LAST GUIDE QUIT ON ME AND MOVED TO AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION. I AM VERY STABLE. PLEASE."

Attached: A video of the sender crushing a monster’s skull with their bare hands while sobbing.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

This is your life now.

And then—you see it.

A request.

A normal request.

No groveling. No bribery. No half-deranged monologue about why their existence is crumbling without you.

Just a plain, simple request for a guiding session. No attachments. No drama.

You do not even look at the name or the rank.

You just slam the approve button so hard your screen nearly cracks.

And you schedule them for today.

Whatever poor, normal, well-adjusted Esper just sent that request? You’re about to meet your new favorite person.

You hear a knock on your office door and, without looking up from your third coffee of the afternoon, you say, "Come in." You assume it's just another esper with an unhinged request or a government official trying to bribe you into a permanent bond arrangement (as if free coffee is enough to make up for dealing with an unstable murder machine forever).

But when you finally glance up, you’re met with Malleus fucking Draconia.

SSS-class esper. Only because the measuring device physically cannot display values above SSS. If it could, it would probably just scream in binary before shutting itself down out of fear.

And Malleus, the walking cataclysm, smiles at you. A polite, almost sweet smile that absolutely does not match the soul-crushing amount of raw, unstable power radiating off of him.

He thanks you, so genuinely, for agreeing to guide him, and suddenly, you feel like maybe—just maybe—the guy who sent you a PowerPoint presentation about why he’d be the perfect esper for you would’ve been a safer choice. Because in what world were you qualified to guide Malleus Draconia?

But you’re a professional. A highly trained SS-class Guide. You’ve dealt with terrifying espers before. (You survived guiding Leona Kingscholar, and that man once threatened to bite someone’s hand off for waking him up.) So you take a deep breath, paste on a practiced, reassuring smile, and gesture toward the couch. “Please, take a seat.”

Malleus does, settling in like a well-mannered prince, and when you take his hands, his power hits you like a truck.

No, scratch that. A truck would be merciful. This is like getting yeeted into the sun.

Because for all his outward composure, for all his eerie, elegant calm, his body is ripping itself apart from the sheer force of his own abilities. His energy is so volatile, so uncontained, that even just touching him feels like holding onto a live wire dipped in liquid magic.

You open your mouth, fully prepared to yell WHAT THE HELL, but instead, what comes out is a weak, strangled, “So… how long has it been since your last guiding?”

Malleus blinks, tilting his head slightly, as if the question is odd. “Ah,” he hums. “A rather long time, I suppose.”

You squint at him. "Define 'long.'"

There’s a pause. And then, with the same pleasant smile, he says, “Over a decade.”

…

…A decade.

You stare at him. Your soul leaves your body. Your hands are on him right now, guiding him, and no other guide has touched him for ten whole years??? You’ve guided espers who've almost lost their minds after three months without stabilization, and this man—no, this monster, this eldritch entity in the shape of a handsome Esper—has been raw-dogging reality for a full decade???

And the worst part is, you get it.

You’ve heard the stories. No guide is willing to risk their life guiding him. He’s too powerful, too unstable, too dangerous. But also??? He’s the reason those cowardly soy-latte-drinking guides even get to enjoy their caramel cream monstrosities without getting eaten by a Gate Beast. The least they could do is try.

So you do.

You take all that power, all that impossible, barely-contained force, and you stabilize it. As much as you can, at least, because Malleus is like an ocean, vast and endless, and you are one person desperately trying to keep the tide from sweeping away an entire city. But you manage. And when the strain starts to weigh on you, when exhaustion creeps in, Malleus—ever the gentleman—gently removes his hands from yours before you overextend yourself.

He looks at you like you’ve done something extraordinary. And in that soft, almost reverent voice, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

And when he asks if you’d accept his request again, how could you possibly say no?

You’ve seen Gates before. Too many, in fact. You’ve spent years standing at the edges of battlefields, waiting for Espers to stumble out after pushing themselves to their limits, ready to catch them before they crumbled into a pile of unstable, overpowered problems.

Usually, you’re waiting outside, stationed alongside other Guides, ready to stabilize the Espers who come stumbling out looking like they just did twelve rounds in a blender.

And today? No different.

The Gate suppressors finish their job, and as the shimmering tear in reality finally vanishes, a wave of exhausted Espers begins to stagger out.

Your fellow Guides immediately spring into action, swarming their assigned Espers like the world’s most exhausted yet underpaid nurses. You hear the usual litany of groaning, the occasional complaint about “why does guiding feel like drinking a warm glass of sadness,” and at least one voice yelling, “DON’T THROW UP ON ME, BRO.”

All in all, a standard post-Gate event.

But then—then.

Malleus Draconia walks out.

And the reaction is palpable.

Every Guide freezes. The air itself seems to shift, a held breath, a quiet hesitation, a collective someone else handle it.

Which, yeah. Fair. SSS-class esper. Walking apocalypse. If the world were a video game, he’d be the final boss, the secret bonus boss, and the eldritch horror you accidentally summon if you input the wrong cheat code.

But unlike every other high-class Esper, who would immediately demand a Guide’s attention like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket, Malleus just… looks around. Sees the other Espers getting help. And without a word, he simply starts walking away.

And something in you breaks.

It’s not just that your fellow Guides are scared of him. It’s the fact that he expects it. That he doesn’t even try. He just accepts that no one will come for him, and he leaves.

It’s one thing for a terrifying Esper to demand your attention, to expect you to fix them as if you’re a mechanic and they’re a car with the check engine light permanently on. But this? This quiet resignation? This acceptance of the fact that no one will help him?

Oh, absolutely not.

You push past the usual crowd of unstable, desperate, feral Espers who are trying to grab at your hands (“PLEASE, I WILL PAY YOU IN GOLD—OR FAVORS—WHICHEVER YOU PREFER”), and you march after him.

“Malleus,” you say, grabbing his arm before he can vanish into the night like a dramatic antihero.

He turns, blinking down at you in quiet surprise. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” you say, like he just told you the sky is blue. “I’m a Guide. This is my job.”

His expression flickers, the barest crack in his usual calm. “You would guide me?”

“Yes,” you say. “Now sit down.”

He actually listens. Thank the stars. You’re not sure what you would’ve done if he refused. Probably wrestled him to the ground, which would have been a terrible life choice, but whatever.

You sit across from him, take his hands, and—oh.

Oh.

Oh wow.

It's as bad, if not slightly better than the first time.

If guiding most Espers is like sifting through a river, guiding Malleus Draconia is like being pulled into the center of a supermassive black hole. It’s overwhelming, his power a heavy, crushing thing that hums under his skin like an unrelenting storm, pressing at the edges of your mind.

“How long has it been since your last session?” you ask, voice a little strained as you work to stabilize him.

Malleus tilts his head, thoughtful. “My last session was with you.”

Your grip tightens around his hands. “It's been 5 months.”

He hums. “No other Guide has been willing to take me on.”

That—that makes you want to throw something. Because sure, Malleus is terrifying. Sure, he’s a walking natural disaster. But he’s also the reason those Guides get to breathe.

You exhale sharply. “Well. That’s stupid.”

Malleus blinks. “Stupid?”

“Yes. Stupid.” You focus, pouring everything you have into stabilizing him, because you might not be able to guide him fully, but you sure as hell can make things better.

Malleus says nothing. He just… watches you.

And when you’re finally done—when you pull back, exhausted but satisfied—he tilts his head, voice soft.

“Allow me to escort you to your car.”

There’s a weight to the way he says it. A quiet intent.

You glance at the still-lingering crowd of Espers who have been waiting for their chance to pounce, and—ah.

That’s why.

Because Malleus walking with you means no one is about to harass you for an impromptu guiding session.

You glance back at him.

Malleus Draconia. The most powerful Esper alive. Unstable. Dangerous. Literally a walking storm.

“��Okay,” you say.

He walks you to your car, a steady presence at your side, and for the first time in years, you are not approached, begged, or proposed to on the way.

It’s peaceful.

Nice, even.

And as you slide into the driver’s seat, Malleus thanks you again, voice warm, quiet.

And impulsively—because your brain has fully given up on thinking before speaking—you blurt out, “Repay me by taking me out for coffee.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

And then—Malleus smiles.

Not his usual polite, diplomatic smile. A real one.

And you realize, with sudden clarity, that you may have just changed the course of your entire life.

The next day, you step out of the Guidance Center, utterly exhausted.

You’ve spent all morning dealing with overworked Espers who don’t believe they need guiding until they start twitching like a broken lightbulb. One guy genuinely tried to convince you that he was “built different” and then proceeded to collapse mid-sentence.

So yeah. You’re tired. You just want to go home, take a nap, and not think about the absolute disaster that is your job.

And then you see him.

Malleus.

Waiting just outside the building, standing with the kind of stillness that makes him look more like a painting than a person.

But it’s not just him.

It’s the flowers.

A full bouquet, wrapped neatly, cradled in his hands like something precious.

And when he sees you, he smiles.

Your brain immediately blue-screens.

You walk up to him in a daze, already bracing yourself for the inevitable attention this is going to bring because, let’s be honest—Malleus Draconia standing outside your workplace holding flowers is about to start rumors.

(And by rumors, you mean your coworkers are never going to let you live this down.)

But when you reach him, he doesn’t do anything dramatic. Doesn’t say anything insane like “these flowers pale in comparison to your radiance” or “I will obliterate anyone who disrespects you.”

(You have, unfortunately, received both of those lines from unstable Espers before.)

Instead, he simply hands you the bouquet, his voice warm. “For you.”

And just like yesterday, you realize—this is different.

It’s not some desperate attempt to tie you to him, not an unstable Esper trying to own their Guide before anyone else can get to them.

He’s just… appreciative.

Grateful.

Your heart does something very annoying and fluttery at that realization.

You glance at the bouquet, then back up at him, and—oh.

He looks so pleased.

Like giving you flowers is the highlight of his week.

“…Are you free for that coffee now?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, expectant but unassuming.

And despite your exhaustion—despite knowing that this is probably the beginning of something huge and irreversible—you find yourself smiling.

“…Yeah,” you say, holding the flowers a little closer. “Yeah, I am.”

So far, this coffee date has been perfect.

You’re sitting across from Malleus, ranting about the absolute clowns you have to deal with daily.

“…And then this Esper looked me in the eyes and said, I will literally perish if you do not guide me this instant. Like. Sir.” You slap a hand on the table. “Sir. Please. This is a Starbucks.”

Malleus chuckles, eyes alight with amusement. “And what did you say to that?”

You sigh dramatically, tilting your head back. “I said, ‘Sounds fake, but okay.’”

He actually laughs at that—low and warm, and oh no, it’s really nice.

Before you can spiral about that, your drinks are ready. Malleus, being the gentleman he is, gets up to retrieve them.

And that’s when you feel it.

That unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Your instincts immediately go on high alert. Slowly, casually, you glance at the table next to you, expecting to see some shady esper trying to worm their way into your life.

What you actually see is so much better.

Sitting at the table next to you are three of the most suspicious individuals you have ever seen in your entire life.

The first one is a tiny man drowning in a trench coat three sizes too big, like a detective in a noir film gone wrong. He has an obviously fake mustache that is slightly peeling off his face, and he is watching you intensely.

Next to him, there is a guy wearing a tragically ugly pink wig.

He is asleep on the table.

Just. Fully unconscious. Like someone just unplugged him.

And finally—

A tall guy in fake glasses with an even faker nose, aggressively shoveling cake into his mouth while glaring at you like you just stole his firstborn child.

It’s silent.

You blink.

They blink.

And you immediately have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from bursting out laughing.

Malleus returns, setting your drink in front of you, and you immediately point at the disaster trio sitting next to you.

“…Do you know them?” you ask, barely holding it together.

Malleus follows your gaze.

Sees the absolute circus happening at the next table.

And sighs.

A long, suffering sigh. The sigh of a man who has seen some things and has just realized he is doomed to see them for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” he says, like the words physically pain him. “Unfortunately.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

You immediately wave them over.

Because honestly?

Why not.

They look hilarious.

And you were right—Lilia (who introduces himself with a flourish and an actual theatrical bow) is an absolute riot. Silver, despite the crime against fashion sitting on his head, is actually very nice. And Sebek—who is still burning holes into you with his eyes—is begrudgingly polite, only because you’ve been guiding Malleus.

It turns into a full-blown sitcom.

At one point, Lilia pulls out a picture of an egg and tries to convince you that it's a baby picture of Malleus. You're not sure if he was serious. Sebek is still glaring at you, but it’s now 30% hostility, 70% begrudging respect. Silver almost faceplants into his drink.

Malleus, across from you, looks like he’s actively questioning all of his life choices.

It’s beautiful.

Eventually, when it’s time to leave, Malleus insists on walking you to your car.

And that’s when you notice it.

He’s pouting.

Not a dramatic pout. But his lips are slightly pressed together, his brows furrowed, like a cat that just got denied a seat on the kitchen counter.

You immediately find it endearing.

“What’s up?” you ask, amused.

Malleus exhales, glancing away. “…I was hoping for this to be a time where we could get to know each other.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s adorable.

You grin.

And before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Malleus freezes.

His eyes go wide. His breath catches. He looks like you’ve just blue-screened his brain.

You step back, grinning. “I'll see you around.”

And before he can respond, you slip into your car.

But as you drive away, you catch a glimpse of him in your mirror—

Standing there, hand pressed to his cheek, smiling like you just gave him the greatest gift in the world.

You hate Gates.

You hate that they can just open whenever they want, completely ignoring normal human schedules like some kind of otherworldly chaos entities (which, to be fair, they are).

But mostly, you hate that they always seem to open in the middle of the night.

Like, is there some kind of Gate Union that collectively decided on this? Do they hold meetings where they specifically vote to screw over guides by opening at the most inconvenient times?

And in the dead of winter, no less.

Truly, suffering knows no bounds.

Still, you drag yourself out of bed, slap on as many layers as physically possible (to the point where you briefly resemble a sentient pile of laundry), and head to the Gate’s location. On the way, you stop by an all-night café, because if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well be miserable with hot chocolate.

You even get two cups.

Not because you always do this for espers (you don’t—they can suffer like the rest of you), but because he is different.

Malleus.

The most powerful esper on the field tonight. The one who singlehandedly keeps half the Gates from turning into full-scale disasters. The one who always acts like he’s completely fine no matter what comes out of them.

And, most importantly—

The one esper you have a ridiculous, stupid, undeniably massive soft spot for.

So, you wait.

And wait.

You’re perched on a bench, holding your hot chocolates, trying not to think about how this is starting to feel like some kind of romantic drama scene, when you finally see him step out of the swirling remnants of the Gate.

Even exhausted, he still looks ridiculously elegant. His coat is dusted with frost, his dark horns curved like the wings of a dragon at rest. His presence—so big, so vast—immediately settles over the field, even as other espers struggle to regain their balance.

His expression is neutral, as always. Composed. Untouchable.

Until—

He spots you.

He blinks, as if surprised to see you.

And his face softens.

He doesn’t react right away, like he’s making sure he’s seeing correctly. But then, when it clicks, his lips part just slightly—an unspoken question, a faintly surprised blink—before they curve into the warmest, most gentle smile.

And wow. Wow.

Maybe the cold is getting to you, because you suddenly feel a little too warm.

You lift a hand and wave.

Malleus immediately starts walking toward you, his movements slow but steady. His eyes stay locked on yours, like he’s drawn to you without realizing it.

“You’re here,” he says, voice carrying that soft rumble that’s way too nice to listen to at this ungodly hour.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, Gates don’t believe in work-life balance, apparently.” You hold up the second cup of hot chocolate. “Here. Thought you could use something warm.”

“For me?” he asks, sounding so genuinely touched that your heart does something stupid.

“No, for the other giant dragon esper who just walked out of that Gate,” you deadpan.

Malleus huffs out a soft laugh, the kind that makes you think he doesn’t do it nearly enough. He takes the cup from your hands, fingers brushing against yours, and you don’t miss the way he lingers there for just a second too long.

“You should let me guide you,” you say, reaching for his free hand.

Malleus makes a vague sound of protest. “That isn’t necessary.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And then, before he can argue further, you unleash your most powerful technique.

“Please?”

Malleus Draconia—the Apex Esper, the one who holds dominion over storms and shadows, the one who can level an entire battlefield with one command—

Folds like a house of cards.

“…Very well,” he murmurs, looking a little defeated, a little amused.

You beam and take his hand, immediately pressing your energy into his.

And wow, yeah, he definitely needed this.

His presence, which is usually so steady, flickers faintly at the edges. He must have been holding himself together through sheer force of will, because the second you start guiding him, his shoulders finally relax.

Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

You feel his weight lean into you ever so slightly, just enough that you know he’s letting you support him. His energy curls around yours, vast and dark but gentle, like the hush of a midnight storm.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The night is quiet, save for the distant sounds of other guides working, of espers coming down from battle-highs.

You steal a glance at Malleus. His eyes are half-lidded, his breath even, his fingers curled loosely around yours.

“…You do this often?” he asks suddenly.

“What, guide tired espers?” you shrug. “Yeah. Someone’s gotta be here to catch them before they crash.”

Malleus hums, a thoughtful sound.

“…No,” he says. “I meant… this.”

You blink. “This?”

“Wait for me.”

Oh.

Your grip tightens slightly, a flicker of warmth creeping up your neck.

“I—” You hesitate, then exhale through your nose. “No. Not really.”

Malleus watches you closely. You can feel his gaze on you even as you pointedly avoid meeting it.

“…Then why?” he asks, and his voice is so quiet, so genuine, that you feel yourself falter.

You take a deep breath.

And then, before you can overthink it, you grin.

“Well, you always push yourself too hard,” you say, squeezing his hand once for emphasis. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t keel over from exhaustion.”

Malleus huffs, clearly amused. “I assure you, I would not—”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

He laughs, quiet but real, and your heart skips a very concerning beat.

“…You are quite peculiar,” he muses, gazing at you like you’re some kind of strange, fascinating mystery.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot,” you say, waving a hand. “Now, if you really wanna thank me, take me out for coffee again later.”

Malleus pauses.

You watch, in real-time, as your words settle.

And then—

Slowly, slowly, he smiles.

“…I would like that,” he says, his voice quiet, but so very certain.

And suddenly, the cold doesn’t feel quite so biting anymore.

It was late. Too late. So late that if anyone dared to bother you right now, you would simply keel over and die on the spot out of sheer spite. You had finished your work, logged everything, and were seconds away from clocking out and going home to live as a blanket cryptid when someone grabbed your wrist.

That was already mistake number one.

You turned around, tired and mildly homicidal, to see one of your fellow high-ranking guides standing there. You recognized them—someone competent, someone respected, someone you had never spoken to outside of required work matters.

And yet, here they were, gripping your wrist like you were about to reveal the secrets of the universe to them.

"You got a second?" they asked, eyes shining with something too intense for this ungodly hour.

No. You did not have a second. You barely had the energy to stand upright, let alone entertain whatever nonsense this was about to be. But before you could tell them that, they were already pulling you off to the side, lowering their voice like they were about to ask you for classified information.

"How’d you do it?"

Your brain, already running on fumes, barely processed the question. "Do what?"

"Don't play dumb," they said, looking equal parts exasperated and impressed. "How'd you bewitch Malleus Draconia?"

Your mind, previously sluggish and exhausted, full stopped.

The sheer audacity of the question short-circuited your ability to respond. You just blinked at them, waiting for them to explain whatever the fuck they were talking about.

They misinterpreted your silence as playing coy because they leaned in conspiratorially and hissed, "Don't gatekeep. We want a bite too."

It was at that moment you considered committing actual murder.

"I'm sorry. A bite?" you echoed, voice dangerously calm.

"You got Malleus Draconia—Malleus Draconia—to let you guide him, regularly," they stressed, looking half in awe and half like they wanted to shake you for answers. "No one else has ever gotten close enough to work with him like that. If we knew he was harmless, we would’ve stepped in ages ago. But we weren’t going to take the risk."

You could physically feel something in your brain snap.

So that was it. That was why. It wasn’t that they hadn’t had the opportunity to guide him—it was that they had actively chosen not to. They had taken one look at Malleus, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to risk handling someone as powerful as him, and just left him alone.

And now, because you had proven he wasn’t some terrifying force of destruction, they suddenly wanted in? They suddenly thought they deserved him?

Like he was some exclusive club they wanted membership to?

Your hand twitched. You ripped yourself free from their grip, scowling. "Screw this."

Their eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting that reaction. "Wait—"

But you were already storming off, anger burning through your exhaustion. You didn’t even realize where you were going until you stepped outside—

And saw Malleus standing there.

Waiting.

For you.

His sharp eyes flickered with concern the second they landed on your face.

"Are you alright?"

Your rage didn't cool, but it twisted into something tighter, something that made your throat close up for an entirely different reason.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached out, grabbed his hand, and started dragging him down the street.

Malleus didn’t resist. He simply followed, letting you pull him along like this was perfectly normal behavior.

The café door chimed as you shoved it open with more force than necessary, still stewing over the conversation from earlier. Malleus, utterly unbothered, stepped around you to order both of your usual drinks without hesitation.

The fact that he had memorized your order without ever asking, without making a big deal of it, without using it as some kind of flex, made something in your chest ache.

You sat down at the table, staring blankly at the surface as you tried to untangle your emotions.

Why were you this angry?

Was it because they had ignored him? Because they treated him like some kind of trophy instead of a person? Because they had assumed the worst of him and only changed their minds when it was convenient?

Yes. Absolutely.

But then—why did you also feel like crying?

Your fingers curled into fists on the table.

And that’s when it hit you.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

You liked him.

Like like liked him.

Like the kind of like that made you want to scream into your hands and never recover. The kind of like that made you want to turn back time and stop this from happening before it was too late. The kind of like that meant your life was now ruined beyond repair.

Your whole body tensed, brain going into full meltdown mode.

And then—just to make everything infinitely worse—

A cup slid into view.

You looked up, and there he was.

Malleus.

Standing in front of you, holding out your drink.

His eyes were gentle, studying you carefully, like he could see every single thought racing through your head. "Are you alright?" he asked again, voice quiet, sincere.

And in that moment, you realized you had two options:

• Stay here, drink your drink like a normal person, and accept the horrifying truth of your newfound feelings.

• Launch yourself out of the nearest window and never be seen again.

Option two was looking real tempting right now.

Another night, another gate opening at the worst possible time.

You were so tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary, existentially exhausted. The universe seemed determined to ensure that you never got a full night’s sleep, and you were starting to take it personally.

Still, you were here, bundled up against the cold, sipping a hot drink as you waited for Malleus.

The gate was a high-level one tonight. You knew it had to have been difficult—he was strong, but no one walked out of those things completely unscathed. So you were already standing up, ready to meet him halfway, when—

That guide.

The one who had all but interrogated you last time.

They stepped in before you could move, approaching Malleus with their best professional smile, like they hadn’t spent years pretending he didn’t exist.

"Do you need guidance?" they asked smoothly, their voice dripping with the absolute audacity.

Malleus blinked at them, clearly surprised. Because why wouldn’t he be? No one else but you had ever offered before.

And your chest burned.

Of course he’d pick them.

They were higher-ranked than you. More experienced. More respected. Malleus, despite everything, was still an outsider to most of the guide network, and it would make perfect sense to accept help from someone with more prestige.

You braced yourself, swallowing the bitter feeling threatening to rise—

But then—

He looked past them.

His eyes landed on you.

And then he smiled.

"I must decline," he said simply, voice polite but final.

And then—much to their visible horror—he walked right past them and straight to you.

The sheer triumph that surged through you was immeasurable.

You barely stopped yourself from cackling, but as you took his hand, guiding him like always, the urge to turn back and stick your tongue out at that seething guide was so strong.

Malleus, oblivious to your inner gloating, watched you with a softness that made your heart ache.

And then, suddenly, it all just—

Hit you.

The sheer depth of your feelings, the way your chest tightened at the sight of him, the way everything in you just settled when he was near—

You broke.

You grabbed him, yanking him forward, and before he could even react—

You kissed him.

Malleus let out a surprised sound against your lips, but after only a second of hesitation—

He kissed you back.

It was warm, steady, and when you finally pulled away, he was glowing, his expression soft in a way that made your breath catch.

"I like you, Malleus," you confessed, your voice quieter than you expected.

And his smile—

It was like you had given him the world.

He cupped your face so gently, kissed your forehead like he was sealing the moment into reality.

"I have feelings for you too," he murmured.

You melted.

You leaned against his chest, warmth seeping into you despite the cold night air.

And as his arms wrapped around you, as you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you couldn’t help but be so glad you had accepted his guidance request all that time ago.

(And okay, maybe you were also smug as hell about it. Because when you glanced back at that other guide—

They looked ready to throw hands.)

You had been waiting.

Patiently. Lovingly. For months.

Malleus loved you. You loved him. You were in a relationship, you slept in the same bed, you guided him, he refused to let anyone else even offer—so what the hell was taking him so long?

Why wouldn’t he just ask?

It was infuriating. It was agonizing. It was the most painfully obvious conclusion to your relationship, and yet—

Malleus refused to bond with you.

And frankly? You were at your limit.

So tonight, as you lay wrapped around each other in bed, his arms comfortably encircling your waist, you finally decided to just ask him.

"Malleus," you said, looking up at him, voice soft but firm. "Why haven’t you asked me to bond yet?"

He stiffened. Just slightly. His fingers twitched where they rested on your back.

And then—

He gave you that look. The sad, gentle smile. The one that made your heart clench because it meant he was about to say something infuriatingly self-sacrificial.

"If you ever regret me," he murmured, "you won’t be able to guide anyone else." His thumb traced circles on your back, soothing even as his words infuriated you. "I don’t want that for you."

You froze.

You stared at him.

And in that moment, you were torn between laughing at his stupidity or crying because how could someone so powerful be so utterly dumb?

So you did neither.

Instead—

You kissed him.

You kissed him until he was breathless, until his arms tightened around you, until his body melted into yours and he let out the softest, neediest little sound against your lips.

When you pulled away, his pupils were blown wide, his expression dazed, and you felt the way his heartbeat had turned erratic beneath your palm.

"You," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, "are the only thing I've ever been sure of in my life."

Malleus let out a shaky breath.

And then you kissed him again.

You pressed him into the bed, slotting yourself against him, feeling his hands grasp at you like he was afraid you might disappear.

But you wouldn’t.

Because you were here. You chose him.

And that night, you finally bonded—just as you always should have.

Malleus had always been powerful. From the moment he was born, strength had been woven into his very being.

His draconic lineage alone made him stronger than most, but when his Esper abilities awakened, it had set him apart even further. Too far apart.

The strongest being in the world.

And because of that, people had feared him.

It had been that way for as long as he could remember. Even other Espers, who should have understood, kept their distance. Some whispered about him behind closed doors, about how a being as powerful as him didn't need guidance in the first place.

It had been Lilia who had guided him for most of his life, a steady presence who never flinched, never wavered, never treated him as if he were something to be afraid of. But when Lilia lost his guiding abilities, that stability was suddenly gone, leaving Malleus untethered.

For years, he had gone without. And then, one day, he heard about you.

You were a Guide who accepted nearly every request. You had guided Espers with overwhelming abilities, those who were labeled as difficult or too much to handle. You had never turned anyone away. And so, despite knowing the likelihood of rejection, Malleus sent a request.

He had expected nothing to come of it. But instead, he got you.

You had seemed nervous when you first met him, but it wasn’t the type of nervousness he was used to. There was no fear in your eyes, only cautious curiosity—an instinctive wariness, perhaps, but not rejection. And despite whatever initial hesitation you had, your hand had reached for his without trembling. You had guided him.

For the first time in over a decade, Malleus had felt light.

And then, the first time you guided him outside a Gate—

That had been a key moment in his life.

He had stepped out, battle-worn, expecting emptiness. And instead—you had waved at him.

You had smiled at him.

He had thought, at first, that perhaps you had simply been assigned to check on him. That maybe it was some unspoken duty, a requirement of your role. But then, as if that warmth weren’t enough, you had asked him to coffee.

He had expected a quiet outing, a moment to rest and speak with you in a more peaceful setting. Instead, Lilia, Sebek, and Silver had shown up, disguises both laughable and obvious, as if the flimsy mustaches and oversized trench coats could fool anyone. He had braced himself for your irritation, for exasperation or a resigned sigh.

But instead—you had laughed.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you had welcomed them to join you.

That had been the moment he first thought, perhaps, he liked you.

The first time you had brought him hot chocolate would forever be etched into Malleus’ memory.

It had been a bitterly cold night, the kind where the air cut through even the thickest of coats, where breath curled in the air like mist, and the sky was so crisp and clear that it felt endless.

The battle had left him drained, his energy worn thin in a way he had long since grown accustomed to. He hadn’t expected you to be there. There had been no reason for you to wait for him—you could have guided someone else, finished your duties quickly, and gone home to rest.

But instead, there you were.

Sitting on a bench, bundled in layers, your arms crossed to hold in whatever warmth you could, with two cups of hot chocolate in your hands. You had waved at him like it was the most normal thing in the world, like of course you were waiting for him. Like of course you had brought him something warm to drink.

He had been so startled by the sight that for a moment, he simply stood there, staring, trying to commit every detail to memory. The way the streetlights cast a soft glow against your skin, the way your breath curled in the cold, the way your fingers tapped against the side of the cup as you held it out to him.

He had taken it without a word, still dazed, still trying to process why you had done this. And then, as if you hadn’t just shaken the very foundation of his existence, you had grinned and asked him to take you out for coffee again.

Malleus had never known such warmth, even in the frigid winter.

Then there was the day he had waited for you.

He had been standing outside the guidance center, patiently waiting for you to finish your duties. It had been something of a habit by then—he always waited for you when he could, just as you waited for him. He enjoyed the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him, the way you always greeted him like you had been expecting to see him there.

But that day, when you finally stepped outside, there was no warm smile, no familiar greeting. Instead, you stormed out, eyes blazing, frustration radiating off you in waves. Malleus had barely opened his mouth to ask what was wrong before you grabbed his wrist and started dragging him down the street.

He followed without hesitation, allowing you to pull him along, his mind still catching up to what was happening. You had led him straight to your usual café, barely stopping to take a breath as you shoved the door open and beelined for your favorite spot. Malleus sat across from you, watching with quiet curiosity as you fumed, hands clenched around your menu, your foot tapping aggressively against the floor.

And then, as the tension in your shoulders refused to ease, as you let out a frustrated huff and glared at your drink like it had personally offended you, you had finally told him what had made you so upset.

They had questioned you. They had asked how you had bewitched him, of all people. Like he was some trophy, some untouchable relic that no one had dared lay claim to until you had somehow managed to crack the code. They had assumed that if he were harmless enough to guide, then they would have taken him for themselves. They had spoken about him like he was something to be owned.

Malleus had expected you to be upset. What he hadn’t expected was for you to be so furious on his behalf.

And he shouldn’t have liked it—shouldn’t have felt anything beyond quiet gratitude for your defense of him. But there was something ugly in his chest, something selfish and dark that thrived off the way your anger was so fiercely his.

For so long, people had feared him, had rejected him, had kept him at a distance out of self-preservation. And yet, here you were, not just standing by his side, but fighting for him, defending him, choosing him.

And he wanted that.

He wanted the way you almost stormed into battle for him. He wanted the way your voice shook with anger because you cared about how he was treated. He wanted the way you grabbed his wrist without hesitation, the way you dragged him to this café because he was the person you sought out in your frustration.

He wanted you.

And as you finally sighed, your anger fading just enough for you to take a sip of your drink, Malleus came to a quiet realization.

He had liked you before. But now?

Now, he was falling.

Malleus had never expected to be offered guidance by anyone else.

It had never once crossed his mind as a possibility—he had long since grown used to being avoided, used to the way others hesitated to even meet his eyes, let alone reach out to him. The moment he stepped out of the Gate, still feeling the lingering exhaustion of battle, he had been prepared to find you, as he always did.

And yet, instead of you, there was someone else.

A guide—one he recognized, one who had been among those who had always turned away from him before. And now, suddenly, they were standing before him, offering their assistance as if it were something he needed, as if he should be grateful.

Malleus didn’t even consider it.

How could he? How could anyone else fill the space that was meant for you? How could he even entertain the thought of accepting someone else’s hand when your hand was the only one he ever wanted to hold?

So he simply stepped past them, not bothering to spare them a second glance, not wasting a single breath on an answer. Because they were irrelevant.

Because you were there.

And the moment he spotted you, standing just a few steps away with that bright, warm expression that was meant only for him, he felt something in his chest ease. Like everything had shifted back into place, like the air had cleared, like he was where he was supposed to be.

And when you laughed, really laughed, like this was all some great joke only the two of you were in on, he thought it might be his favorite sound in the world.

And then you took his hand, and the moment your fingers intertwined with his, he knew with absolute certainty—there was no one else for him. There never could be.

And then you kissed him.

For all his years, for all his strength, for all his wisdom, Malleus Draconia had never once been prepared for this.

You had grabbed him, pulled him in, and pressed your lips to his, and Malleus had let out an embarrassingly surprised sound before his instincts took over, before his hands found their way to your waist, before he was kissing you back like he had been waiting for this moment for centuries.

And maybe he had been.

Because when you pulled back, just far enough to whisper, “I like you, Malleus,” he felt like the world had stopped spinning, like time itself had come to a halt just to give him this moment, just to let him have this.

And when he smiled, it was because it felt like you had just handed him the world.

So he kissed your forehead, let his lips linger against your skin, and whispered against you, “I have feelings for you too.”

And when you leaned against him, when you let yourself rest against his chest, Malleus felt something settle in his soul.

He was home.

Then you asked him to bond.

And Malleus hesitated.

Not because he didn’t love you—he did. He had never loved anything the way he loved you.

But because he was afraid.

Because bonding with him meant forever. It meant you would be tied to him, it meant you would never be able to guide anyone else, it meant that if one day you woke up and realized you regretted him—realized you wanted something else, something more, something that wasn’t him—then you would be trapped.

And he could not, would not, allow that to happen to you.

So he had told you no. Not because he didn’t want you, not because he didn’t ache for you in ways he could never put into words, but because he would die before he let you shackle yourself to him forever.

And then you had kissed him.

Hard.

You had pressed him into the bed, breathless and unyielding, your lips against his like you were trying to prove something.

And maybe you were.

Because when you finally pulled back, when your fingers threaded through his hair and your forehead rested against his, you whispered, “You’re the best decision I’ve ever made.”

And Malleus—Malleus, who had spent his entire life waiting to be chosen, waiting to be wanted—felt his walls crumble.

So he let himself believe you.

He let himself hope.

And when he kissed you again, when he let his hands roam over your skin and let himself take you, it wasn’t just an acceptance of your love.

It was a promise.

A promise that no matter what, no matter where life took you, no matter how much time passed—he would always be yours.

And as the bond settled between you, as he felt the pull of your soul entwining with his, Malleus let himself hope for more.

He hoped you would be with him forever.

You woke up feeling warm.

Not just from the blankets wrapped around you, or the way the room was still dim from the early morning light, but from the way Malleus was wrapped around you.

His arms held you firm but gentle, his breath soft against your forehead, his body curled protectively around yours. It was comfort in its purest form.

You smiled, still basking in the afterglow of your bond, and tilted your head up to kiss him.

Malleus stirred, letting out a sleepy hum as his lips curved into a small, contented smile against yours. His eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, and you both just… looked at each other.

The love in his gaze was overwhelming.

So, naturally, you asked the most important question of your life.

"Was the egg picture that Lilia showed me actually you?"

Malleus blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then, to your absolute delight, he looked flabbergasted.

"You—" He stopped, as if trying to process the sheer absurdity of your first words after bonding. "That is the first thing you wish to ask me?"

You nodded, completely serious. "I've been meaning to ask for a while."

And then—

Malleus laughed.

Laughed and laughed.

Deep and rich, his chest vibrating against yours as his entire body shook with amusement.

You pouted and waited for him to get it together, only for him to kiss your forehead, still grinning.

"Yes," he admitted, eyes twinkling. "That was me."

You gasped. Vindication.

Finally.

The mystery that had plagued you for months was solved.

With a triumphant little noise, you snuggled back into him, pressing your face against his chest as sleep threatened to claim you again.

Malleus chuckled, tucking you closer, and as he rested his chin atop your head, he couldn’t help but think—

Despite your eccentricities, he had never been happier than being yours.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus draconia x you #guideverse x reader #guideverse #࣪ ִֶָ☾. guideverse

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catboybiologist · 3 months ago

Note

I see you talk a lot about hrt and you seem pretty informed. I also see that you have had really good effects from hrt.

So what I wonder is how much you think it is luck and genetics vs you making the right choices. I can't help but be jealous sometimes. I've had rotten luck and ok genetics it seems.

What's your take on this? Do you think you've been lucky or do you think everyone can do it like you have if they just did it the same way?

So whenever I answer an ask like this, I end up getting spammed with a ton of hrt related questions, and it gets a bit exhausting. So here's my usual disclaimer: I'm not a doctor, nor any kind of medical professional. I'm not an expert on this. I have a little more knowledge about the theory behind hrt than the average person, but not the medical practice. I'm just giving my experiences here.

So I couldn't say for sure, but I think the answer is both? I can't say how much luck is a component, but that said, I think that there's a lot that helped me out just from the troubleshooting end.

This answer ended up being long, so here's a tl;dr:

Be liberal on your estrogen, conservative on your antiandrogen. Eat a lot, exercise a lot.

Huge ramble under the cut.

It's hard to say that I looked feminine pre HRT. I had (and still somewhat have) all of the "ultra masculine" skeletal features that make people think their transition is going to go poorly, but the soft tissue changes have reframed how they look and function. I used to think that I would never come close to looking feminine without super intense FFS, and that feeling is almost completely gone now. So I didn't feel particularly lucky going into any of this. Now I do, and I'm finally actually relaxing how good hrt has been to me.

I did several things that I think accelerated my hrt. Unfortunately, I can't have a control group here. I also operated over a short period of time, during a period where hrt has a variety of effects. I have no way to tell for sure if these things did anything, or if it's all just masked by standard hrt progress, which comes and goes in bursts.

Also note: I don't think anything has dramatically affected my "final" results. I think there's a lot of things that have accelerated my results. But with ongoing, years long processes like HRT, the biggest, key ingredient is PATIENCE. I keep seeing 2 years thrown around like it's the end of hrt progress. This is, quite frankly, ridiculous. 2 years is startup and troubleshooting time. Whatever development happens in the first two years is a bonus, not a normal timeline.

So never, ever feel like you've fucked up your transition for good. You can always tweak it. And, you can always wait.

That all said, here's the bulleted list of the things that I think contributed:

Intensely focusing on getting my blood estrogen high. Stop thinking about dosages, start thinking about levels. From anecdotes I've seen, most doctors will underdose your estradiol. You should be shooting for 200pg/mL minimum. Many doctors will use this as a maximum. That is outdated information. Your estrogen should be on the high side of cis women ranges. If you're lost, use cis women metrics as a guide, or the WPATH. Personally, I've been blessed with a fantastic provider that I've never had to push back to or argue with, but I've heard some nasty horror stories.

Note that achieving the level I said above is often difficult with pills. Pills do have a maximum safe dosage because of liver metabolism. This will vary from person to person. But if you're getting past 8mg oral per day, consider switching to injections, patches, or gels. These methods bypass digestion and (somewhat) dodge the liver, making it easier to safely get higher blood levels. Even if you try to take them sublingually, a lot still ends up consumed orally.

HRT methods that allow for large differences between estrogen highs and lows seem to be more effective than steady state HRT. This is completely shooting in the dark here, but from my vague anecdotes from comparing injections with peaks and troughs to more steady (but still lover bypassing) methods, it still seems like injections are somewhat more effective. That is not a scientific assessment at all. But that's the only explanation I could think of that matches a little bit of what's known about hormonal physiology

With everything above: if possible, drop your antiandrogen ASAP. A pattern I've seen over, and over, and over again, is trans women being overdosed on antiandrogens while simultaneously being underdosed on estradiol itself. Remember: sufficiently high levels of blood estrogen are antiandrogenic on their own. If you need a AA to keep your T or other androgens low, your E is likely too low anyways. There's multiple reasons why having too much androgen suppression without raising estradiol is bad, but for a whirlwind summary, there's two things I would break it down to. One, having too low of both T and E is really bad, and is basically one of the only ways you can do HRT "wrong" in a way that's medically harmful (the other being stressing your liver). It has effects both short term (mood, metabolism, and energy) and long term (bone density and general growth). Also keep in mind that cis women have androgens too- and you need to make sure you're not over suppressing androgens to below cis female levels. Two, antiandrogens are rarely just an antiandrogen. As opposed to hormones themselves, which are found in your body anyways and are "understood" signals for your genes (among other things), antiandrogens are operating based on how we develop their effects as pharmaceuticals. Does this mean they're intrinsically bad? No. Don't fall into a "natural is better" fallacy. However, it's worth noting that AAs can have effects beyond just androgen suppression because they're not an endogenous signalling molecule. One of these effects might be overall suppression of growth and development. That is wildly unconfirmed, I know transfemmescience disagrees and has a pretty thorough breakdown, but unfortunately there's too much variability in individual trans women's HRT regimens to have consistent studies on fine details like that imo. Again, this is my opinion as a patient, not as an expert.

Don't start progesterone too early. I'd say delay it more than the general advice. 6 months after good blood levels is probably good. Notably, it's probably not a good idea to start it 6 months after the first pill crosses your tongue. Wait for the levels. Probably not that big of a deal though.

This last one I'm incredibly reluctant to even talk about, but I've been coming to the conclusion more and more that it was a fairly major factor in my progress. I didn't do it intentionally but it 100% happened. And that is weight cycling. From January to August of 2024, I dropped almost 30 pounds from training for backpacking and actually doing rigorous backpacking for 3 months. I've gained back all of that weight since. Most of my notable soft tissue and appearance changes have happened as a function of putting that weight back on. This isn't just about chest or thigh growth. My face was thin at my lowest weight, and when I put weight back on, soft tissue in my face has grown back in with a far more feminine look. I do NOT like talking about this, though. Why? Because I think deliberately weight cycling is more dangerous and hurtful than it is helpful. Diet culture, counting calories, and constantly comparing your weight and progress to others is an easy way to an easier disorder. If you develop habits centered around those things, that will fuck up your life permanently. What would I recommend instead? High input, high output. Eat a LOT, exercise a LOT. Get into a steady state with that. It's much healthier long term. Remember, at best, weight cycling is an acceleration, not working towards better "permanent" results.

And uh, I think that's it? Again, keep in mind that the main ingredient is patience. All of this is about making things faster, not making things better in the long run. If any of this seems unattainable for you, then don't worry! All you gotta do is wait.

And again, not medical advice, not scientific rigor, just anecdotes and what worked for me.

I don't have a better way to end this other than good luck? And also that you're probably being too hard on yourself anyways.

#trans #mtf hrt

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goldenlikedayl1ght · 2 months ago

Text

bed chem | m. murdock

a/n: hey guys guess who's back with a matt one shot! i started this a loooong time ago so i decided to finally finish it!! not much to add other than hi guys i've missed you so much and am excited to be back in my writing weird and quirky readers era. so. enjoy!! maybe if anyone's interested in reading a part two, i can write one. warnings: 18+, Smut, lots of flirting and pining, reader being emotionally unavailable and way too insecure, matt being flirty and dom, lots of pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, one kid), no one's ever made the reader cum, reader is super effing poor, has two jobs, hates her job, age gap, lowkey just strangers hooking up. lots of teasing, lots of banter, reader says 'hooker' a lot, matt makes you an offer you can't refuse, probably some other stuff i'm forgetting but isn't that kind of our deal by now? wordcount: 4.6k summary: A handsome stranger makes an otherwise dull and annoying night worth your while. pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader now playing: bed chem - sabrina carpenter "come right on me, i mean camaraderie/said you're not in my time zone, but you wanna be/where art thou? why not uponeth me?/see it in my mind, let's fulfill the prophecy."

You meet Matthew at a party.

Your story starts like so many do.

Music is playing, people are chattering all around you. More than that, you feel out of place. You clutch your champagne glass immaturely, unsure how you’re supposed to hold it.

How did you get dragged here, anyways?

Wasn’t there some shitty early 2000’s apocalypse movie and an edible that you needed to attend to? Didn’t you long to order shitty bar food and use your vibrator for hours? Wasn’t there something, anything more important than your attendance to this party?

It’s too fancy for you, anyways.

Yeah, sure, your degree sits framed on your wall, but your soul tells you that you’re no academic, that if you wanted to go to a party, you deserve to be at a house party in your shitty neighborhood, the village that raised you, where your mother, the girl who gave you your first hit of a joint, and the teacher that taught you to read still lived, reliving the same high school gossip you’ve known for ten years. You’d be wearing ripped jeans and a too revealing top that your friend talked you into.

Instead, you’re trying to recall facts from your undergrad education that you haven’t thought about, trying to figure out how to impress these people.

Didn’t Ernaux write about the transition from being poor to being an academic? Didn’t she write about—

“You sure like this bar.”

The voice you hear makes you turn your head—You’re faced with a handsome man, red glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. There are whisps of grey in his scruff. He holds a glass of.. Something.. maybe resembling whiskey? You’re not sure.

“I’m sorry?”

And you are. Men don’t really talk to you, and in your brain, maybe this blind man—you assume he’s blind based off his glasses and his cane but you don’t dare say this assumption out loud, maybe this blind man is playing some sort of trick on you.

“You like this bar. You’ve been standing here for a half hour.”

You struggle to find anything clever to say.

So, maybe because it’s all you can think, or maybe because you think it’ll get the handsome stranger to leave you alone, you respond,

“I’m just trying to figure out if everyone at this party can tell I grew up poor or if it’s all in my head.”

And though you’re one hundred percent serious, handsome stranger laughs.

Something sparks. Deep in the confines of your soul where you’ve locked away any routes to passion or excitement, having thrown away the key when you got your mind numbing poorly paid office job.

“I’m Matt.” He holds his hand out for you to shake, and you give him your name. At least you shake his hand properly. “So, if you feel so out of place, why are you here?”

“My boss told me I had to.” You respond, your voice carrying a bored edge as you mention him. “Told me I needed to come to make the company look good, because everyone brings secretaries to this thing to show their appreciation. Like it’s a privilege to have these men talk down to me, to have them coo and aw at my lack of money or maybe my lack of intelligence and have them go,” You lean over to this man who told you his name two minutes ago, and put your hand on his thigh—“Don’t worry honey, I’ll happily sit here and explain basic government systems you learned in eighth grade while you worry about paying your rent because you had to buy a dress for this stupid party and you only make enough money to choose between the dress and your rent,” You explain, your thumb rubbing his thigh for a little extra emphasis on your point.

Matt blushes.

That spark grows.

“Sounds like a nightmare.” He hums.

You withdraw your hand to take a sip of your drink.

“Just exhausting.” You sigh, neglecting to mention that you’re further unable to pay your rent because you had to take off your second job to be here. The job you’ve had since high school. The job you swore to quit one day. “Anyways. I’ve probably annoyed you, Sorry.”

“No, no, I appreciate the honesty. I grew up poor too,” He answers, “And now I feel like part of the problem.” He shrugs.

You look to him. In his finely pressed suit, his expensive scent.

“Prove it.”

His face twists into something of amused confusion.

“Prove it?”

“Yeah. Tell me something only someone who grew up poor would understand.” You request, daring him. He knows this is serious to you, that if he’s lying to you, whatever he hopes to get out of this is not going to happen. So, he sips his drink and goes to the dark corner of his mind to when his dad was alive.

“Well, besides the fact that I grew up in an orphanage,” He starts, and you feel like an asshole, “When my dad was alive, I used to have to do my homework in the laundry mat, moving over our clothes, while he was at work. Then I’d wheel the load home in this laundry basket on wheels.” He told you. You smile, comforted—You can see through the graying hair and fine pressed suit. At his core, he is just like you.

At that shitty house party you don’t go to, he’s smoking a cigarette in a tee shirt and cargo shorts, and you’re just as attracted to him there.

“Alright, I trust you.” You promise. You take another sip of your champagne, looking around the room. The party is starting to dwindle down and bosses are taking their secretaries to dark corners. Your back hurts.

“Good.” He takes a sip of his drink and stands up, leaving the now empty glass on the bar counter. “How much?”

“How much what?”

Matt grins and holds a room key card to one of the many rooms in the hotel above this stupid fucking party.

“How much do you trust me, sweetheart?”

His room is on the 8th floor, and it’s.. bigger than any hotel room you’ve ever stayed in. It’s clean, the lights are warm, and you’re pretty sure you could sink right through the bed. You step into the room and find yourself taking off your heels, with no real idea if you were allowed to stay the night.

“Nice place,” You admire, and you predict his words before he says it,

“Thanks. Smells pretty fancy, I guess.” He shrugs. He listens to as you jump onto the bed, stretching out. Matt slips out of his shoes, and he lays next to you, groaning a bit as he lays down.

“Can I ask you something?” You wonder, just admiring his face. Your hand comes up to touch his cheek.

“Anything.” He hums, turning his head to kiss your palm.

“How old are you?” You wonder.

“Forty-two.” He responds, and he goes to say something else, but you lean in to kiss him. But just before he can gratify you, before you can learn the taste of his lips, his hand, quick as lightning, comes up and grabs your jaw, holding you in place, “Really, sweetheart? The fact that I’m forty-two turns you on?” he asks.

You can’t help but defend yourself—

“Well, just kissing you doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m turned on or anything—”

“So if I snuck my hand up this pretty dress of yours, you’d be what? Not soaking wet?”

You just look at him for a long time.

“Okay, what do I have to do to get you to kiss me, instead of just talking to you?”

“Why? I like the sound of your voice,” He smirks, and you roll your eyes. You feel defensive, like he’s making fun of you. Like he knows how badly you want him, and he’s withholding it from you on purpose, just to see you squirm. As your mind starts to spiral, you pull away from him, the lustful heat in your cheeks being replaced by hot, bubbling rage.

“You know what, I don’t need this shit—” You move to get off the bed, trying to find your heels when Matt grabs your wrist—with gentleness he’d use to care for a skittish animal—and pulls you back towards the bed, trying not to laugh when you stumble over your feet, now standing between his legs.

“Stop.” His voice is gentle, but firm. He hears the way you inhale, the way you try to mask your anger. It turns him on. “You really want to kiss me?”

You hesitate to respond—you want to kiss him so fucking badly. You can’t remember the last time you wanted anything other than wanting to pay your rent or wanting a new chair at work.

“Yeah.” You finally breathe. “I want to kiss you so badly.”

“Yeah?” He smiles. “Well, if I ask you a question, are you gonna try to leave again?”

You clench your teeth.

“You just asked me a question and I’m still standing here, aren’t I?” You see him smile.

“Okay, when was the last time you kissed someone?”

“..A while ago.”

“How long ago since someone’s made you cum?”

Your silence is deafening—it’s revealing. Matt starts to chuckle.

“Oh, fuck this—” You turn to leave but Matt pulls you in, and then his hand is on the back of your thigh, pulling you close.

“C’mon, sit on my lap,” He starts, and hesitantly, and admittedly clumsily, you sit on his lap, your legs resting on either side of him, while his hands hold your sides, as if they were made for him to hold. “So, no one’s ever made you cum before?”

“No one except my vibrator.” You say, and Matt just shakes his head.

“I’m a lawyer.” He starts, and you groan, your head tilts back,

“Jesus Fucking—”

Matt’s hand squeezes your side.

“Don’t use the lord’s name in vain, sweetheart—”

“Is this some sort of joke? Am I being—”

Matt comes forward to kiss you, his lips silencing your thoughts. He tastes like whiskey and vanilla, and it eggs you on. You deepen the kiss, any anger or frustration slowly melting. And when he pulls away, his teeth catch your bottom lip and he tugs just enough to drive you crazy.

“Are you going to listen now, sweetheart?” he asks, and all you can do is stare at his pretty pink lips.

“Sure.”

“Good.” He clears his throat. “I’m a lawyer,” he says, “So part of my job is to help deliver justice. And it is..” He laughs a little like his plans to fucking ruin you are funny, “a fucking injustice that no one has ever made you cum. That all you know is some battery-operated thing instead of my fingers or my cock,” He sighs, “So how ‘bout we deliver some well-deserved justice, sweetheart? How’s that sound?”

It sounds like you could die. What is happening? Weren’t you just complaining about how badly you wanted to get away from this whole scene? Why do you want him so bad?

“..Sounds like you have all the power in this situation.”

Matt grins like he knows it.

“Does sound like that, huh? Here, I’ll tell you a secret,” He leans in, his lips grazing your ear, “You have the power here. You say the word, and I’ll stop. I’ll stop, and you can stay here for the night, or you can leave, I’ll pay for your cab, or..” His hands begin to gently rub up and down your sides.

You smile. He’s trying to make you feel better, and it’s working.

“Or..?” You prompt.

“Or.. I could teach you how good it feels to cum from something with a pulse. And not something.. battery operated,” and the way he says it, you know he’s repulsed by the idea that your vibrator is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

And it makes you smile wider.

“My vibrator is very good to me, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh,” He chuckles, “Not nearly as good as I’ll be to you.” He promises.

It’s a big promise.

You just look at him for a long minute, trying to decide. As if there’s even a choice to make. You’d let him break your heart if he asked nicely.

“Can I take off your glasses?” You ask softly, and Matthew nods, and you find yourself taking them off and just holding them for a moment. You stare for a long time, to the point where you start to nibble on the ends of his glasses, and he smiles. He likes how authentic you are. How unable to hide yourself from him you are.

“So, what do you say?”

“Hm..” He suspects you’re fucking with him. “Well, I’d have to—”

“Yes or no?”

“I thought I had all the power here.”

“You do. But I’m running out of patience here, and,” He brings your hand down to his pants so you can feel his bulge, “I am way too hard to wait for much longer.” He confesses. He thinks he might die if he can’t feel you clench around him, so he quietly, desperately hopes you’ll say yes.

“Okay,” You smile, “Alright, let’s do it.”

“Not very enthusiastic—” You inhale, and he knows you’re close to leaving, so he tries to entice you, “C’mon, just.. humor me, sweetheart. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

“Making a whole lot of promises, Mr..?”

“Murdock.”

“Matthew Murdock,” You hum, “Okay, Mr. Murdock. I want you to fuck me, just like you’ve promised. Make me forget all about my vibrator.”

And before the words finish leaving your mouth, his mouth is against yours, swallowing any insecurity you had earlier. His fingers begin to slowly move up and down your sides, and you already know that whatever is about to happen will ruin your vibrator for you forever.

You could see yourself becoming addicted to this feeling, to him, to the feeling of being wanted.. You could feel yourself already slipping down that rabbit hole.

As you kiss him, he lets out this soft moan into the kiss, and in response, your hands come up to play with his hair. You start to roll your hips a bit, as if you want to tease him. Matt’s hands squeeze your sides, and he pulls away from the kiss just for a second.

“Safe word?” He wonders, and you scoff.

“No one’s ever made me cum, you think I have a—Woah!” You cut yourself off, because Matt suddenly flips you over so you’re beneath him against these too expensive sheets.

“So, if things go too far, you’re uh.. you’re gonna say Lava, okay?” He wonders out loud.

“Yeah, Okay,” You nod, “Lava, got it,” and then he’s kissing you again, and his hands are slipping off his jacket, and then he starts to loosen his tie as he kisses you, but then he gives up on that to put his hands on your thighs and then beginning to travel up. You shiver as his hands travel up your dress,

“Pretty fucking dress..” He mumbles, between kissing you silly, “Pretty girl, too..” He mumbles, “Gonna need to rip this dress off you—”

You fully pull away from the kiss to say,

“Rip this fucking dress and I’ll leave so fast,” And Matt knows you’re not joking, but he smiles and says,

“How about I buy you a new one?” He asks, “Or two or three—”

“Oh, my god, just leave the dress intact,” You request, and Matt’s smirk begins to grow.

“Then how about I just fuck you in the dress, huh?” he wonders, “How would you like that, sweetheart?” You nod, letting out a soft ‘mhm’, but Matt shakes his head, “No, no, I gotta hear you say it, baby. Tell me how badly you want me to fuck you in this dress. Maybe I will.”

You stare at him for a long moment, wondering where your dignity went.

“Matthew,” You start, “If you don’t fuck me in this dress, I think I’m gonna go crazy. I can’t.. I can’t remember the last time I wanted anything this badly,” You confess, and the words start tumbling out before you can stop them, “I can’t remember the last time anyone made me feel pretty like you have, and I can’t ever use my vibrator again because I already know how much better you’re going to be, and holy fuck¸ yes, it turns me on that you’re forty two and—”

Matt kisses you again, this time only for a short time, because he pulls away after a moment to tell you—

“I think we should work on your dirty talk, but, good. Was it so hard to just do what I asked?”

“..no.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” He says softly, and then his lips are against yours again, while his hands explore, and when his fingers brush over your panties, you moan against his lips, barely registering it as he slips your panties off and stuffs them in his back pocket, because his fingers are caressing your folds, slipping inside you as you moan and writhe beneath him.

“Holy fuck,” You whine, “Matt—”

“Sh, sh, sh..” His lips press a kiss to your forehead, “Don’t worry, I’m gonna make sure the first time someone else makes you cum is on my cock.” He tells you, and he chuckles when he feels your folds flutter around him at that. “I’m gonna fuck you in this dress now, okay?” He wonders, and you nod,

“Yes, please.”

“Aw, pretty girl does have manners under all that brattiness, huh?” He smirks, and before you can retaliate, he kisses you.

When he slowly eases your cock into you, you moan against his lips, and you try to really just feel it. You try to really remember how full you feel, the feeling of Matt’s breathless pants against your lips and skin, the feeling of being wanted by him.. and you know you can’t quit him.

His thrusts begin slowly, and that becomes a feeling you want to remember too. He thrusts into you while burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Wait, hold on, Matt,” but when his thrusts don’t stop, you say, “Okay, Lava,” You offer, and Matt’s thrusts stop, and he very hesitantly pulls his head out of the crook of your neck,

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I just..” Your hands come up to rest on either side of his head, and you just stare at him for a moment, “I just want to memorize your pretty face so I can live in this moment forever.”

Matthew blushes.

You know you’ve won.

You’re not sure what you’ve won, but you definitely feel like you’ve won whatever it is.

Matt presses his forehead against yours and while you stare into his pretty brown eyes, he whispers,

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.” Then, after a moment, he asks, “Can I keep going now?”

“Yes, please.” Matt smiles and kisses you again as he begins to thrust into you, and you realize how dirty this entire situation is—an older man, still mostly dressed, fucking you in your expensive (rent stealing) dress just after meeting him, and it makes you want him more. Your hands move to play with his hair as his thrusts increase, one hand gripping the bottom of your chin and the top of your neck, the other sneaking up your thigh to rub circles in your clit.

You’ve never felt closer to God.

This is so much better than your vibrator.

Matt can feel you clench around him, and it makes him chuckle, so, in the most condescending tone he can muster when you are being so good for him, he asks,

“Wanna cum, sweetheart?” He wonders, and when you just whine in response, he continues, “C’mon, use your manners, I know you know how to respond properly,” He reminds, and if you didn’t want him to cum inside you so badly, you’d tell him off.. maybe.

“Please,” You manage out, “Yes, I wanna cum,” and Matt begins to kiss your cheeks, your jaw, and your neck, and only after leaving quite the bite mark on your collarbone, does Matthew say,

“Alright, pretty girl, let me feel you cum on my cock,” He says, and you do, and the way you clench around him makes him moan against your skin, his speed increasing, “Fuck.. Fuck, kid, I gotta..” He sighs.

“Inside,” You beg quietly, “I’m on birth control and—”

“Are you.. sure?” He asks, but his voice is shaky from how badly he wants the answer to be yes.

“Yes, please, please—” And before the third please can leave your mouth, he lets out the prettiest moan against your lips, cumming deep within you, filling you in ways you never thought possible. His hips roll a few more times, just to help you through your high (and just a little bit because he can’t think of anything clever to say that isn’t ‘Will you be mine forever so I can keep fucking you like this?’) but after a few moments, he whispers,

“So.. what did you think?”

You feel amazing. You could die happy. You can barely think, so you respond,

“I think I’m gonna throw out my vibrator.” And it makes him laugh, and you think he’s even prettier when he laughs than when he cums, so you kiss him. And in between kisses, you say, “We made a fucking mess,”

And he finally pulls away with a sigh.

“Well..” A smile tugs at his lips, “Wanna.. check out the shower, sweetheart?” He wonders.

“Do I have much of a choice, Mr. Murdock?” You smile.

“Nope,” And before you can say much else, Matt is grabbing you and swinging him over his shoulder to carry you to the most expensive bathroom you’ve ever stepped foot in.

In the morning, you wake up to the smell of coffee, and the sound of the shower running again. You slowly blink away your sleep, rubbing your eyes. You have a bit of headache, the consequence of a long night of drinking.. and bad decisions.

You blink, and anxiety begins to well in your chest. Your heart beats out of your chest quickly, and you kind of feel like you can’t breathe. What did you do last night? Well you know what you did, you weren’t that drunk, but if Matt was at that party last night he must’ve been important or—

Your eyes drift over to the side table, and you see a delicious smelling coffee next to an envelope, an envelope that is sloppily marked with your initial, the sign of a blind man attempting to write. You find your bra and then find yourself unable to find your underwear—whatever, you’ll deal with it later, you decide, so you begin looking in drawers and find a pair of Matthew’s boxers. You pull them on, and then take a long sip of the coffee that’s been ordered for you.

Then, you pick up the envelope, and halfway through the sip you stop. It’s an envelope full of cash, it would cover your rent and then some..

So naturally, you put down your coffee and then begin to bang on the bathroom door, hitting it over and over again,

“Matthew! Hey, we need to talk!” You demand, and you hear some shuffling as the shower turns off, and the door opens, and you see Matthew with his hair, and scruff, damp, and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

And you have to admit, in the middle of your anger, he is so hot.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” He smiles, handsome devil. “Everything—”

“What the fuck is this?” You ask, smacking the envelope against his chest, “I’m not a fucking hooker,” and your voice matches how badly you want to smack him.

“I know,” he starts,

“Well, only hookers get left an envelope of cash after they fuck some stranger,” You snap, “And I’m not a fucking hooker.”

“Are you wearing my boxers?” You see him smile.

“Do you think I’m a fucking hooker?”

“Boy, you sure like saying fuck and hooker.”

“I’m being serious,” You remind, “I’m not a hooker. I don’t need your money.”

Matt, although he won’t tell you this, doesn’t need his super senses to know that last part is a lie.

“Can I talk without you accusing me of thinking you’re a hooker? Because I don’t think you’re a hooker, I know you’re a very distinguished young woman, and—”

“Alright, I’m not president, I’m a secretary, relax,” You scoff, and start to move around the hotel room, trying to find your shoes, dress, accessories.

Quietly, it turns him on that you’re so difficult.

“Can you just—” he sighs, finding his own boxers and pants, and then starting to put his button up back on, but it hangs on him without being buttoned up as he sits down. “Can you please sit, so we can talk about this?” He wonders.

You’re still holding the envelope.

“Fine.” You grumble, walking over to the bed and sitting next to him. He’s really hot, so you just admire him, and wait for him to talk.

“I know you’re not a hooker.” He starts, “But I am a lawyer, like I told you last night. And.. I make more than enough money for me,” and You want to tell him he doesn’t need to brag about it, “And.. I’m not really looking for a serious relationship right now, but.. I really like you.”

Your face flushes.

“You do?”

He smiles gently.

“I really do. So, here’s the deal, sweetheart—And you can’t get mad at me just for offering, okay?”

“Okay.” You concede.

“Let’s keep seeing each other.” He starts, “Nothing committal, we’ll just hangout, sleep together, I’ll get to hear your pretty noises.. and I’ll pay your rent, and.. and buy you things.” He shrugs.

You blink.

“You want to be my sugar daddy?”

Now it’s Matt’s turn to blush.

“That makes it sound so.. dirty,” he starts, “Which it is.. But you never.. have to do anything, I just.. want to hangout with you. Fucking you will just.. be a nice benefit. A really.. really nice benefit.” He breathes. “So, what do you say, sweetheart?”

You consider it for a long moment, thinking. You’d be able to quit your shitty second job, the one you’ve had since high school, the one you swore you were going to quit. And last night was amazing. You really do want to throw out your vibrator, but maybe you could convince him to show you some of his favorite toys.

He’d tell you that you are his favorite toy, and then you’d have to fuck him like it was the last thing you’d ever do.

“I’d like that.” You smile, “But on one condition.” You say, and he nods.

“Anything.” He smiles.

“You can’t fall in love with me.” You say, “And I can’t fall in love with you either. We can be friends, and we can fuck, but no being ‘in love’ with your sugar baby.” You request, and he nods.

“Deal.” He holds out his hand to you, “Shake on it?”

Your fingers wrap around his hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

“Deal.” You echo. “We won’t fall in love with each other.”

Yeah, let’s see how long that lasts.

#matt murdock x reader #daredevil #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock fic #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil fic #matt murdock #matt murdock fluff #smut #daredevil smut #matt murdock smut #marvel smut

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niyasruledbyvenus · 7 months ago

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Astro Observations

(and maybe even controversial opinions)

Where 4h/cancer is placed can tell you about your home’s size/condition, especially childhood home.

Saturn= small/may feel constricting, Jupiter= large

poorly aspected/malefics/debilitated= ran down home/broken things.

Prey yonis (deer, rat, goat) feel safer in a group & in familiar places. Being by themselves or new places alone can cause anxiety. When out sometimes they feel that they are always in fight or flight or something’s around the corner.

Predator yonis (lion, tiger, snake) may not feel the same way. They may feel sure in themselves and how they can protect themselves. Tiger & snake yonis in particular might feel better off alone. Since both are solitary animals.

Debilitated planets aren’t bad, it just makes the person work a little harder to reap the benefits in that area. Whereas, exaltation comes easy. Which can sometimes make one lazier in that particular area, because there’s no drive. (the same with easy aspects & hard aspects)

For example,

Exalted Pisces Venus (naturally effortless beautiful, “woke up like this” minimal makeup)

Debilitated Venus in Virgo (Cosmetic procedures, tailors, professional makeup, gym trainers, spa, personal stylist/hair stylist)

Venus in Virgo/Scorpio usually tend to be even more beautiful because they actively work to put effort & keep up maintenance.

Mars in Capricorn (wake up early no alarm, straight to the gym, knows exactly their task and when to do it, doesn’t have much trouble with procrastination).

Mars in Cancer/Taurus (might need schedules, alarms, set tasks, mentor/motivator).

Saturn in Libra (gets benefits from hard work right away, not much struggle young, no problem with discipline)

Saturn in Aries/Leo/cancer (rough start in life/a lot of set backs, takes longer to see benefits or gets it after Saturn return/30s, has to actively work on their discipline).

Debilitated Saturn after hard work in younger years, later in life, they usually achieve gains & become a household name.

People tend to say Jupiter is luck. But to me it’s excess. In this world we associate excess=luck. (ie you have a lot of cars, money, children, etc) When it’s not always the case.

For example,

Jupiter in the 7h (Being in a lot of relationships or marriages. But the downside is it doesn’t last because Saturn represents commitment.

Marilyn Monroe multiple divorces

Drake dated a lot of women but no serious relationship.

Jupiter creates a surplus in whatever it touches. But it is not longevity, unless Saturn aspects Jupiter.

A planet that is a benefic can act as a malefic if debilitated & poorly aspected.

If Jupiter is debilitated & poorly aspected it can turn into a giant malefic. Because Jupiter expands what it touches. Rather it’s negativity or positivity.

Some say Mars is where your drive and aggression is. But I see it more so where you get injuries, accidents, or aggression towards yourself or others.

For example,

I’m Aries Ascendant; My Mars/lagnesh is in Virgo/6h. My most serious injuries came from doing mundane tasks around the house. I faced workplace aggression from coworkers & sometimes customers too. Also, I tend to face health issues that affect my daily life. 6h/virgo rules daily activities, physical health, workplace, coworkers.

Mars just went retrograde December 6. I can already see it’s affect on my daily routines/6h. Nonstop nausea, bloating, stomach issues, & headaches everyday. Virgo rules stomach/nervous system. Aries my 1h/Asc rules the head

My whole schedule is out of wack. Today, I dropped my breakfast on the floor and burnt my lunch lol.

Mars, Mercury, Uranus, & Jupiter are all retrograde right now. If you are taking the necessary precautions and your planets are in good dignity, you should be fine. Though it’s still going to be quite frustrating for most people.

Transits mainly do the most damage if you have debilitated or poorly aspected planet that is going retrograde.

Malefics going retrograde to some degree affect almost everyone negatively, but not in the same way. What area varies from chart to chart; the sign/houses it sits in.

Outer planets affect us as a collective. Inner planets affect us personally.

Even though in traditional Vedic/jyotish Uranus, Neptune, Pluto isn’t considered. I still see the planet’s nakshatras/signs/houses in a chart influence a person’s life. Especially, if they aspect personal planets like Sun, Moon, Ascendant.

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mickyschumacher · 2 years ago

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[APHRODISIAC CHOCOLATES! PT.1]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: they say you should learn something new every day. in oscar's case, he learns he should really read the fine prints. or in which oscar's secret santa gift comes into use. 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ (minors dni), protected sex (for the 1st time ever here) childhood lovers (bc oscar IS this trope), face sitting/riding + consent, p in v, teasing, oral sex, mutual orgasms, (over)consumption of aphrodisiacs, mentions of spiders :(

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oscar piastri x gf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 3k+

𝐀/𝐍: as usual, proofread-ish. for the majority who thought aphrodisiacs and oscar sounded good... hope you like it! ♡︎

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Summer cleaning. You did it every January with Oscar when he came back home to Australia. The reasons you did it? Well, it gave you some peace and the pure free time you had with Oscar was limited. It didn't sound that fun but every year, you managed to make the most of it by reminiscing all the old memories you made, the past year or long ago. The bonus side: you kept things clean!

Last January you had both found an old scrapbook of Oscar and you that you had poorly made with the glue sticks that bare stuck no matter how much you slathered onto the paper, various croppings of coloured paper, loose glitter that hung on by a thread, and the cheapest driest markers you had found (you both thought you took them from primary school).

As horrifically it was made, it was sweet, sending you back down memory lane. The part that made the best was the secret confession in the back of it Oscar had written down with his god-awful six-year-old handwriting. Upon seeing 'really' spelt 'rallllly' and 'pretty' as 'pritty', it was safe to say, Oscar rushed to put the book back as quickly as you found it.

"Babe... what happen to cleaning?" Oscar queried, hand resting on the top of step ladder with raised brows as he looked down at you on the floor. He was moving around the books you stored at the top shelf of

You were sprawled on the floor, relishing the cool breeze the fan brought you. "It's 30 degrees, bro. What do you want me to do? I'm tired. The air outside is warm. It's gross," You complained, feeling your skin stick to the floorboards.

Oscar narrowed his eyes at your words, taking careful steps down the ladder now. "First of all, don't ever call me 'bro' again. Because that's fucking gross," He told you, taking your hand and pulling you up from the floor. "Secondly, you are sugar crashing. We probably should've had lunch an hour or so ago."

You pouted at the sound of sugar, slumping against Oscar's shoulder. "Why are we doing this?" You groaned.

Oscar chuckled, holding you tighter against him. "We're doing this so you don't call me in a few weeks and scream about spiders popping up everywhere."

You curled your lip in annoyance, pushing yourself off of him. "You suck," You retorted, walking over to your fridge. You took a moment to savour the cold air radiating from it as you opened the door before searching for something cold to eat. Your heart deflated at the mostly empty fridge. You hadn't been able to go shopping because everyone was either closed or had close early. You didn't even have any ice cream! The sheer audacity...

Your eyes flickered over your options before a red box caught your eye. You gasped, taking out the container and dangling it in front of Oscar. "We still need to finish these!"

Oscar turned his head towards you, recognising the red box quickly. It was part of the pack of sweets Daniel had given him for Secret Santa last year. To be honest, Oscar didn't have that much of sweet tooth. At least, he had nothing on you. He knew the moment he got it, it was going into his suitcase with prayers that it didn't melt in the Oceanic heat during transit.

While spending Christmas with your families, you, his sisters, and Oscar (mostly you) had taken the liberty to consume most of the candy. By the time you had eaten all the candy canes and small bits, the sight of the mere red box of chocolates made all of you feel sick. So you put it inside your fridge, saving it for some other desperate time. And said desperate time had soon come around in early January during your summer cleaning.

While Oscar would've preferred actual food to eat, he too was at his wits ends. When he nodded, he watched you excitedly come towards him as if you were preparing for your sugar rush.

You sat next to him, knee-to-knee. Opening the box without thinking too much, you both began eating the variety of chocolates. They were in various shades of brown and white, topped of with edible glitter or other candy. You were more than halfway through the box before you wondered what the different flavours were. You popped another into your mouth before closing the box to turn to it's back.

Raspberry... hazelnut... cinnamon.... maca root... epimedium?

Wait what?

"Oh fuck." You heard Oscar whisper.

You raised a brow, lowering the box, still finishing the piece in your mouth. "What's wrong?"

Oscar winced, sucking in a sharp breath before turning the front of the box to you, index finger pointing at the fine print underneath the brand's name.

APHRODISIAC CHOCOLATES.

Effects dependent on the amount eaten and the person. Eat at your own risk.

Your eyes widened, hand almost dropping the box. "Oscar... there's like three left."

Oscar's mouth opened to speak but nothing came out. He pondered the gift. No wonder Daniel was smiling so weirdly at him after he received his gift. That plus his incessant texting, asking whether he had finished all the candy. Shit...

A nervous laugh fell from Oscar's lips as his ears turned red. "I mean... it won't work, right? Surely... this is a scam... a gimmick?"

Your mouth was dry. "Let's check online, hmm?" You told him, taking out your phone. Oscar shuffled closer next you, eyeing the screen cautiously. Typing the product name into the search bar, you felt your cheeks become hot once the results came pouring in.

The best chocolates for sex in 2023!

Horny chocolates for horny lovers. See our favourites!

Viral aphrodisiac chocolates reviewed to be really good.

You pressed your lips, clicking on the last link. Your eyes skimmed the page. You could hear Oscar read the reviews, voice getting louder with every passing second. "Was unsure but no regrets... Bedroom was on fire.. more than... t-three rounds?! Be careful how many you consume... effects stronger with more consumption.... lasts up to three hours?!"

You laughed awkwardly. "S-Surely not. I'm mean not that it's terrible but we still have cleaning to do. I'm sure these are fake reviews... you know like to disguise drop shipping." It was a poor excuse slipping from the likes of your mouth but it was an excuse nonetheless.

Oscar nodded slowly. "Right... cleaning! Yes, that's... that's it! We should probably do that," He told you taking the box out of your hands and putting it to the side.

You and Oscar weren't necessarily awkward or shy about sex. You communicated perfectly well. But the concept of eating aphrodisiac chocolates that were given by his co-worker much less a fellow Australian definitely sent the both of you down the lane of uncertainty.

To be honest, you weren't feeling anything anyways... yet.

Together, the both of you had managed to get all the cleaning done. The thought of the chocolates were long gone after you had multiple Daddy Long Legs come out of the attic, half scaring you to death and sending Oscar into a fit of laughter (although he wouldn't admit he was terrified for a brief second).

Having enough and thrilled you were finished, you were both down to take a nap in your bedroom with all the doors closed and the aircon on blast.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Your nap was going great. It was so good you were sure the red lines of your sheets were embedded into your skin. You were dreaming... it was hot and sticky, it was in the shower for a second and the beach the next and Oscar's hands were all over you.

But all goods things must come to an end.

Especially if it means waking up in Oscar's arms, ass pressed against his hard cock and his hips rutting against you.

With sleepy eyes, you tilted your head to capture a glimpse of Oscar who looked wide awake with a sheen of sweat covering his face. His arms around you tightened when he met your eyes. You furrowed your brows. "Os.. did you not sleep?"

A strained sigh fell from his lips, releasing his hot breath onto your shoulder. "How could I? You were moaning my name and these fucking chocolates are killing me here. God, you sounded so good, baby," Oscar whispered, lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

Your eyes closed naturally at his touch. You were sure you were already wet from the dream but the tingling between your thighs was intensifying. "Oscar," You softly whined.

His hips jerked against you, making you both moan quietly. "I need you, sweetheart. Let me eat you out... please," He pleaded, feeling his cock impossibly tighten.

Clenching your thighs together, you nodded frantically. At your notion, you watched Oscar peel himself away from you. You couldn't hide the shock on your face when you discovered he had already removed his pants long ago. He had been grinding into your ass naked. His cock stood straight, skimming the surface of his lower stomach. It looked different. Angrier... harder... not necessarily bigger but it stood as if it was ready to ruin you.

Oscar eagerly spread your legs with both of his hands, cursing when he saw the patch of wet darkness on your shorts. Carefully, he took away your short, leaving in your panties which were fully damp and clinging to every possible fold of yours. "Shit," He muttered, fingers gingerly pulling the front of your underwear so it was tightly pressed against your pussy.

In his peripheral, he could see your legs squirm, getting antsy for his touch. If he was being honest, Oscar could barely think straight. All this aphrodisiac in his system had sent him overdrive. He couldn't tell what he wanted to do first. Whether he should rub his cock against you so the both of you came like two virgin teenagers going at it for the first time... if he should just fuck you to oblivion or whether he should eat you and find every crevice till you were shaking against him and begging for more..

"Ride my face," Oscar simply stated, peeling away your underwear to reveal your bare pussy. He clenched his jaw, restraining himself from taking you right then and there.

You gasped at the intrusion of cold air on your hot folds. Oscar had said something... what was it again? "R...Ride your face?" You shakily whispered. "A-Are you sure? I... don't you need to breathe?"

In any other moment, Oscar would've laughed lightly. But his need for you was far too strong. He nodded, moving to the side so he laid on his back. "Baby, I've never been so sure of something in my life. Trust me. I've got you," He assured, lust thick with his promise.

You sucked in a sharp breath, unable to mull over the proposition because your answer was already clear by the way your pussy was clenching around nothing and your arousal had increased ten-fold. You moved over Oscar's body, hovering over his face. His hot breath sent a shudder up your spine while his hands naturally placed themselves on your hips, slowly pulling you down, legs on either side of his face.

A groan slipped out of his lips. The scent of your arousal was intoxicating Oscar. He could've sworn that he was fucking pussy-drunk.

Your mouth fell open upon feeling his nose against your clit and his warm tongue flat against your folds. "Oh, fuck," You moaned, thighs tensing around Oscar's face.

Oscar lapped at your juices, slurping all he could while he explored every crevice of your folds. His head jutted against your legs, nose sloppily knocking against your throbbing clit.

Your hands flew to his brown locks, tugging at the sheer pleasure running through your body right now. Any tension or worries you had about suffocating Oscar had melted away, hips already leaning in to put as much of your weight on his face as one could humanely allow, rocking your hips to get even more friction.

His tongue dragged up your folds, finding your swollen bundle of nerves as he came up for air. Oscar just couldn't help it. The urge to get a taste of you shuddering against him was overwhelming. But as he sucked your clit gently, his brown eyes of his flickered up to your face and what a sight it was.

You had completely lost yourself.

Eyes clamped shut, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, sweat littering the surface of your skin, nipples hard against your shirt... fuck. If he knew you would feel and look this good, he would've made you ride his face ages ago.

Despite losing your senses, your body still was restraining from putting your full weight on him. Oscar could feel it as you tried to lift yourself in the attempt of self-control, making him chase for your pussy. But the rise of your hips came one too many times and Oscar had enough, fingers tightening around your thighs with an ironclad grip, holding you close to him.

You squirmed against his hold. All those chocolates... you had both eaten them because you were hungry. But Oscar had only become more starved and thirsty as he drank you as though he was dehydrated. You were so wet that his tongue was practically swimming between each fold.

Hips rutting against his face, your head fell back as his lips moved back to your clit, suctioning the bundle of nerves while stars began to invade your vision. You had barely said anything, so lost in the pleasure, forgetting to praise his art. It was like your brain was so dazed that it wouldn't sync up to your mouth, only allowing for your whimpers and moans to join the lewd slurping of Oscar's.

You couldn't care anymore. The stars were so close... you let your full weight rest on Oscar, making him grin against your heated cunt. Your grip on his hair tightened, the coil in your stomach snapping as his movements became sloppy, drool seeping from the corners of his mouth.

Your body is trembling against his face, convulsing around his tongue while the only thing you can manage to let out is a series of broken moans and obscenities under your breath.

Oscar feels you fall limp, muscles tired from tensing and exerting more energy than usual. He slowly lifted you off of him, shifting you next to him as both of your chests heaved with deep breaths. His head fell against the pillow. "I could do that till I die."

You swallowed the saliva that had built up in your mouth, nestling into the pillow. You let out a soft laugh but it slowly died down once the seriousness of Oscar's tone finally registered. Your eyes travelled down his cock, standing angrier than ever, leaking with pre-cum. From what you were seeing, Oscar must've been in pain.

You shifted closer to Oscar, sweaty skin sticking to his own. You peeled off your shirt, sighing at the cold air skimming your breasts. Without a second thought, Oscar's hands were on them, groping and fondling them. Back arching, you fell closer to his touch, pushing yourself into him.

He was distracting you.

"Oscar," You whimpered at the squeeze of your nipple in response. "Fuck me."

Oscar's hands paused, eyes flickering to you. His breathing had gotten quiet all of a sudden while his eyes darkened. "How?" He asked. "H-How do you want me to fuck you?" His voice cracked slightly with the heavy strain of lust–well, partly the aphrodisiacs-weighing it down.

You pulled yourself away from him, sprawling yourself comfortably on the bed. "However you want."

"Fuck," Oscar groaned, eyes closing at your words before pushing himself up to remove his shirt. He moved to hover his body over you. His hooded eyes flickered over you, full with admiration. You looked like a hot mess. His mess... that he made. You were going to kill him.

His brain must of been short circuiting, however. He blinked blankly at you. "Shit, I don't have a–"

You interrupted him by reaching under your pillow, dangling the foil-wrapped packet in his face. Oscar slowly took what he was looking for from your hands, eyeing you with furrowed brows. "You just keep condoms under your pillow now?"

The sudden comment made you break into laughter, making Oscar's struggling to keep his heart at bay. You nodded your head, quietening down. "Yes, specifically for this occasion."

"When a friend gives me sex chocolates?" Oscar raised a brow, voice full of ridicule.

"Yep! Precisely."

Oscar rolled his eyes, shaking his head. You were bad at joking but to him, you were the world's best comedian. He tore the wrapping, hissing at the sudden contact as he rolled the condom onto his shaft. He blew a deep breath from his lips, sweat-ridden hair doing little to move out of his face.

His eyes fell to your still swollen pussy... so enticing... "I don't think I'll last long," Oscar admitted with a grave mumble, a flush of red scattering across his neck.

You smiled softly. "It's okay. You already gave me the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life... you can fuck me till you can't cum anymore."

Oscar's cock twitched against his stomach. He sure liked the sound of that.

His hands darted out to roam your body, embracing the feel of every curve or bump he could get his hands on. He heard your sharp inhale as his fingers danced around your v-line. Me too, he thought to himself.

Oscar couldn't take it anymore. He was practically blue-balling himself at this point. He lowered himself over you, feeling your hot breath envelope him. His cock slowly pressed against your folds, making both of you pause at the warm feeling tingling up your spines. "Shit," he groaned, watching your engorged folds try to grip any bit of his cock. "You're seriously going to kill me."

"A girl's gotta try," You teased, breaking into a small whimper as Oscar dragged the tip of his throbbing cock to your hole, skimming your clit along the way.

Your mouth fell open upon feeling Oscar pushing his hips into you. His cock entered your warm folds, stretching the tight walls of your soaked cunt. Your head lolled back into the softness of the pillows while a high-pitched whimper slipped past your lips.

Oscar grunted as he fully unsheathed his cock, bottoming out as much as he could. The feel of your pussy clenching around him with a vice-like grip was sending over him already. He could feel every part of you, hips flushed with yours while the tip of his cock nudged your cervix.

He began with shallow thrusts, rocking his hips against yours. "Fuck, you feel so good, baby," Oscar swore, eyes fluttering shut momentarily.

You moaned in response, savouring every inch of his cock that came in and out of you. "You fill up so well," You praised, hand travelling to his own to give him an affirming squeeze.

Oscar missed your lips. It felt like he hadn't touched them in a long time even though he had probably spent over half the morning with them today. Sloppily, his lips travelled across your jaw and met your soft pillowy ones. He could hear your muffled moans in the kiss as he rutted into you. Shit...

"Oscar," You whispered with a high mewl upon feeling his fingers roll your nipple in between them. You were going to kill him? More like he was going to kill you.

But you weren't lying. His cock was indeed filling you so well, having you clench around him like there was no tomorrow. You felt so... full... those fucking chocolates...

Speaking of which... Oscar was over these 'aphrodisiac chocolates' or whatever the hell they were. They were making him insane. Every moment he ever spent with you, whether it was on a date or in bed, he always felt like he was being driven insane (in the nicest possible way, of course). But these chocolates... it felt like he was aware of everything. Every reaction... every part of him was on fire... everything was amplified... ten-fold, no, a hundred.

You were both on the crest of your climaxes. Oscar could tell by the way you were gripping him, the sudden reduction of your words, and the dazed look in your eyes. And you could tell by the stutter of his hips and the twitch of his cock.

Oscar bent his head down towards your legs, spitting directly onto your bundle of nerves. Fuck, now your hips were stuttering as well, the familiar feeling of the coil in your lower abdomen unravelling. "Oscar, fuck, I'm going to–"

Oscar doesn't even have the decency to let you finish your sentence, hand rubbing dizzying circles on your clit, hips increasing it's pace, sending you flying into your second orgasm.

"Oh, shit, shit, that's it, baby," Oscar encouraged, fighting to keep his eyes open as the waves of pleasure began drowning him. You were just squeezing his cock so much. Your mouth is wide open as Oscar's hips faltered against yours. He rushed to take his cock out, hand jerking off the engorged shaft to spill every single drop of his hot white cum onto your stomach.

For a moment, it felt like the effects of the chocolates had worn off as Oscar collapsed on top of you without a single thought going through his mind. His chest heavily rose up and down, your chin nuzzling into his collarbone while he soothingly patted your head.

You both laid like that for over ten minutes, saying nothing, just revelling in each other's presence, naked.

"I think we're going to have to thank Daniel," You joked, finally regaining your words.

"Later," Oscar sucked in a sharp breath. "Like three hours later."

You furrowed your brows, looking up at Oscar, only for him to be looking down. Following his gaze, your eyes honed in on the object capturing both of your attention.

"Oh..."

𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄!

#mickyschumacher #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 smut #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri smut #formua one smut

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deerdoegone · 2 months ago

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SHERIFF ANNOUNCES END TO SEARCH FOR MISSING COLLEGE STUDENT, STERNLY REMINDS RESIDENTS TO AVOID FOREST WITHOUT GUIDE.

welcome to WESTPORT, new hampshire. along the eastern united states coastline, the vast flora and fauna that surround it can often mock the town's own population of long-term residents and obnoxious college students. sometimes, it feels like westport transitions to poorly mimic a major city or small town, depending on the situation; tight-knit, but this isn't a "everybody knows everybody" circumstance. it easily attracts tourists for the woodsy comfort, beaches underneath the cliffs, and charming appearance. with the main export being lumber and fish, it's not surprising to see most employed residents making pretty pennies for their latest catches. if not that, most work in business and law. as the leaves turn warm hues and greyhound buses arrive with passengers buying out hotels in and around the town, a unique species finds its own way there.

it is october 2009, and halloween is right around the corner. intro to my 2000s / 10s vampire dream reality.

somewhere along the rocky and eroded coastline, there lies the human embodiment of a deer in front of headlights: AALIYAH DOE. born on valentine's day, she is anxiously sweet and self-consciously forgiving. a sophomore attending the local ST. ANDREW'S UNIVERSITY, her focus is on directorial production and creative writing. pursuing the arts has been her goal in life since she was six. she knew from a young age who she wanted to be, and that carefully constructed identity involved escaping the foggy air of her hometown and becoming a hollywood director or screenplay writer, maybe even both if she was lucky. she calls sofia coppola her hero, loves catherine hardwick and wes anderson, and has an eye for the dreaminess of psychological horror. she is the epitome of the OBSESSED ARTIST trope, but is also a BABY DOLL.

her common traits are selfless. genuine. warm-hearted. kind. open-minded. shy.

covered in muted shades and feminine attire, she blends in with the dull backdrop and isn’t visually loud or colorful. one of her biggest pleasures comes from lying in bed all day and thinking of her crush on NATHANIEL "NATHAN" HARE, a quiet boy who sits next to her in algebra. they aren't friends, by the way. she's just a smitten girl who thinks asking for clarification on the answer to number five is flirting. it is not. someone tell her that. like right now. at the start of the school year, the professor had everyone introduce themselves to the person next to them and from that conversation, she knows that he is from a small town in canada and attending SAU on a student visa while working at a local shop downtown. he once offered to drive her home after classes due to the weather but she just stared wide eyed and couldn't accept it, blurting out that her mom was already picking her up. she walked home in the rain that day. NATHAN is portrayed by devon bostick.

as an unnoticeable amount of BRUTAL ATTACKS deemed to be animal aggression travels along the coast and hits quiet little westport, aaliyah puts her former life of normalcy on the back burner in order to help nathan come to terms with his newfound vampiric turning and help him grapple with the grief of who he once was AKA i live in offbrand twin peaks/arcadia bay/mystic falls/devil's kettle/forks and the guy i had a crush on showed up to my house one night after a concert covered in blood because he survived a vampire attack at the cost of becoming one himself.

aaliyah is the youngest daughter of JENNIFER DOE, a former editorial designer turned housewife who relocated to westport shortly after marrying SEAN MATTHEWS, a businessman in the tourism trade with his job primarily attending to upper-class tourists from western states and european cities. her older sisters are ELIANA and MARIAH, respectively twenty-six and twenty-two. only she and mariah still live with their parents under the roof of a neat two-story family traditional in upper-middle class neighborhood MOSSFIELD HILLS. she doesn't have many friends by choice and prefers a smaller circle, consistently seen with SO-HEE OH, AVA FRENCH, and NISA NABHANI, girls she's been best friends with since childhood and formed a group amongst the four.

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leonalovesalot · 3 months ago

Text

You make me perfect II

Ex!ArtDonaldson x Reader

wc: 3.6k

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“Art?”

Art froze all over. He worried for a second that maybe even his heart had stopped beating. He brought his hand up to his chest to feel his pulse. Oh good, still pumping. But bad because maybe he had began having auditory hallucinations. It was about time, he thought.

“Art? Are you there?”, there it was again. The voice. He laughed internally. God, he was actually starting to hear your voice. His hallucination of your voice was so accurate, it was impressive. It was music to his ears. He felt his eyes starting to close hoping this imaginary you would say something else.

“Art? Please? I- I need your help,” you said, your voice laced in desperation. You were on the verge of tears again.

He furrowed his brows. You sounded distressed. This bothered him. He finally opened his mouth to speak and his voice came out sounding hoarse.

“Y/N, are you real?” Art sounded like he was high. But he really wanted the confirmation.

You paused from your trembling and confusion etched your face.

“What- I,” you didn’t understand what he was saying. You sighed and added, “yes Art, I’m real.”

He swallowed. He got the confirmation he so badly needed but he remained frozen. Why were you calling him? You needed help? Why did it sound like you’d been crying? Did someone hurt you? Did you want him back?

“Art? Are you still there?” Oh, your sweet voice pulled him right out of his busy mind.

“Yeah- yes,” he cleared his throat and was finally back in his living room. With you on the phone. He dreamt of this moment for months. He continued on, “are you okay?” He questioned.

“I- I’m sorry for calling you so late but I- I didn’t really have a choice”, your words cut off and he heard sniffles on the other end of the phone.

Art felt his already broken heart shattering further.

“It’s okay, baby. I was up anyway, tell me what’s wrong,” he said softly. He wanted to be there with you- wherever you were- running his hand through your hair and kissing your temple.

“I was driving home,” you choke on your tears which caused him physical pain, “and then my car jerked and I- I freaked out,” you took a deep breath, “and so I pulled over and got out and- and I had a flat tire.”

“Fuck, that must have been so scary,” he said, in a concerned tone. Art didn’t realize when but he had already grabbed his car keys and his wallet. He was ready to rescue you, you just had to say the word.

The sniffles have transitioned to you taking deep breaths.

“Do you think you could come get me? I- I don’t know who else to-”

“Where are you,” he said sternly as he walked out of his house and to his garage.

A slight pause occurred and Art furrowed his brows. He heard sounds of slight shuffling.

“Sorry, I had to go to the window and look outside,” you said a little out of breath.

Art smiled softly. He unlocks his jeep and gets in the drivers seat ready to go.

“I-I’m at this gas station o-on the route home from the library,” you explained poorly.

“Gonna need a little more than that,” he chuckles softly.

He heard you hum in thought and drummed on the steering wheel with his free hand in the meantime. He missed this. He missed you. Oh god, he missed you so much it hurt.

“Do you remember that café that,” you swallow, “we really wanted to try and then, when we finally went that day, there was a notice saying they shut down?” There was a playful tone to your voice, he thought. He imagined you standing in the gas station, twisting the telephone cord around your finger and smiling.

He smiles at the fond memory. You two drove over in excitement because you had driven past that cafe many times on the way to his place. You’d turn and say, “we should go there one day,” and he’d nod. The day you two finally showed up, there was a big red sign on the door saying they weren’t operating anymore. You were disappointed and he was disappointed that you were disappointed.

“I’ll be there in ten. Stay put.” Art turns the key in the ignition.

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

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You hang up the phone and notice how sweaty your palms were. Well, no turning back now.

You nod a thank you to the man behind the counter and walk out of the gas station. The rain had slowed down and it was mostly mist now. You took a deep breath and stared at the gas pumps, and your car across the road, and then the ground.

You were nervous. You hadn’t seen Art in what? Two months. Shit, that was a long time. You didn’t know how you’d react when he appeared in front of you. You were always weak around him. He was so soft, so kind- one look from him made you feel safe and warm.

Would you cry? Would you smile as if no time had passed? Would you hug him? What if you wanted to kiss him?

What if he’s angry? You were the one that broke things off for reasons he didn’t seem to understand at the time.

You waited with your anxiety playing all the worst case scenarios in your mind.

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You assumed ten minutes had passed because you heard a car driving towards you. You looked up and sure enough: Art’s black jeep.

You always loved that jeep. The back seats were quite spacious.

Suddenly, everything was in slow motion.

Art swerved into the lot and got out of the car without taking his keys out of the ignition. He didn’t care. He didn’t bother shutting the door either as all he thought of was you. And now you were finally there.

Your eyes teared up slightly and you walked towards him while he ran to you.

You both immediately wrapped your arms around each other. Yours were tight around his torso. His were around your shoulders nuzzling your head into his chest. His hand went to hold the back of your head like you were the most delicate thing.

You two stood there embracing each other in the misty night. You were still tearing up slightly and after a moment noticed he was sniffling.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t have anyone else to call,” you say, your voice coming out muffled.

“You don’t need to apologize. Next time, you can call me first,” he sniffles, “even if I’m in the middle of a match, I’ll come.”

You giggle softly. Your first expression of amusement in what felt like days.

Art smiled. Music to his ears.

You pull away first. He would’ve held you forever if you let him. When you pulled away he was visibly upset. But you look down so you don’t have to see him that way.

Art didn’t step away at all. Instead he brought his hand up to your cheek to wipe away the tears that escaped while you hugged him. His touch was gentle, like he didn’t want you to notice because he thought if you did, you’d push him away.

You didn’t swat his hand away. As wrong as it was, you needed this. You needed to feel good.

Arts brows furrow as he finally takes a look at the whole you. His eyes flicker up and down and notice you were soaked. He takes off his fleece that you had borrowed once before. He reaches down and tugs on your wet coat signalling you to take it off.

Your face flushed slightly and you shrug off your coat and shiver. The shivering comes to a halt when he places his warm fleece around you. It smelled like him. You felt dizzy by the amount of memories that flooded your mind just from that simple scent.

“Why don’t you go sit in the car and I’ll call triple A, okay?” He says softly with his hands on your shoulders, rubbing to warm you up.

You wanted to refuse. You didn’t like being helped because it made you feel like a burden. But tonight you’d had enough. You wanted him to help you. You wanted him to take care of it.

You nod and walk to his car. You shut the driver's seat door and walk around to the passenger seat and get in. His car was warm and clean. You were scared at how easily you fell back into all this. You thought there’d be a buffer in your unprecedented reunion, but it felt like no time had passed. Maybe this was a good thing.

You watched Art on the phone outside. He talked calmly and would look up to you every few seconds to check on you. He’d smile softly and you’d smile and mouth a thank you. He’d wave it off.

You took this time to take in his appearance. Maybe it was because it had been a while since you’d seen him but he’d gotten more muscular. If that was even possible. And that haircut. You always loved his blonde curls because they were fun to ruffle up and tease him in doing so. But this haircut made him look his age. It reminded you that he was older.

Art walks back and gets into the car and he notices your eyes follow him the whole way. He smirks to himself.

“They’ll be here in half an hour. I gave them your address and they said they’d tow it to that mechanic shop a block away from there. It’ll be fixed up by tomorrow afternoon,” he turns the heat up and wipers on.

You nod, listening to his words carefully.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He begins to pull out of the lot and you settle into your seat comfortably. You were enjoying yourself, even though a voice in your head was screaming at you that this was a bad idea.

You both drove in silence soaking in each other’s company. You rested your eyes and art snuck glances at you the whole drive. Your eyes open when you hear a door close. You blink away the blurry vision and see Art coming around to open your door.

He drove you to his house.

Panic creeps in because you thought he’d drive you home. But you were here. At his house. So late. Just you and him. You turned to face him when he opened the door.

“Home sweet-”

“Why’d you bring me here?” Your peaceful demeanour washed away leaving you confused and slightly frustrated.

Art frowns, “what do you mean?”

Your lips part in disbelief, “I thought you were taking me home, Art.”

His stomach dropped. He was ashamed to admit but he was hoping you wouldn’t notice. You had a hectic night and he thought you’d be easily swayed.

He sighs and nods his head towards his house, “come on, Y/N.”

You scoffed and your eyes widened slightly, “don’t ‘come on, Y/N’ me.”

He makes a bold move and reaches over you to unbuckle your seatbelt. You two were face to face the whole time and he swore he saw your eyes look down at his lips. He leans back out of the car and brings his hand to your forearm and pulls you out of the car. It was a risky move. But he wasn’t going to throw away a chance to be with you because he was too much of a pussy to initiate things.

You looked confused. Confused as to why your body was just willingly going with him. Your muscle memory took over and you even closed the car door behind yourself.

“A-art,” you said, trying to be stern but your voice faltered which caused you to cringe.

He heard you call his name. It was a weak protest. So he ignored it.

He pulled you along to the front door and fished out his keys from his pocket, not looking at you.

You tried to speak up again but no words came out.

You wanted this.

The door unlocks and you both walk inside. He lets go of your arm and locks the door behind him. You stay still in the doorway and let your eyes wander to take in his home. Not much had changed except for the fact that the pictures of the two of you were missing from the fireplace mantle. That stung, but you did the same at your place so you couldn’t be hypocritical.

You were pulled away from your thoughts when you looked down and saw Art crouched down in front of you untying your shoelaces. You heard your heartbeat in your ears. Why did he have to be so sweet? Why was he doing this to me?

He taps your ankle to lift your foot, which you do reflexively and he slides your shoe off. Then he unties the next. Neither of you uttered a word. It seemed like there was so much to say but you wanted him to speak first and he wanted you to.

You lift your foot, before he taps your ankle this time, and he smiles to himself at your compliance. You wanted the same, didn't you? He thought.

He stood up straight, his tall frame towering over you. In the dim lighting, you couldn't see his face. You hoped he couldn't see yours because you could feel how hot it was. Hot meaning red. You didn't want him to know he was affecting you like this.

He kicks off his shoes and walks further into his house, breaking the intense eye contact. A wave of confusion engulfs you and you shift to to follow him with your eyes.

Art walks in hoping you'd follow after him. He didn't hear any feet walking along the floor but he didn't let it get to him. He was patient, and he knew you would give in eventually.

He turns on the lamp in his living room, adjusts a photo frame on the wall, and walks into the kitchen. You could still see him due to his open floor plan. He walked over to his fridge and grabbed a beer bottle along with two glasses from the cabinets. He was moving so casually, you wondered if you were the only nervous one.

Nervous was an understatement, actually.

He walked back into the living room and placed everything down on the coffee table. He sat on the edge of the sectional sofa.

"Are you gonna come sit down or do I have to beg?" Art says as he pours the beer into the glasses. He wasn't kidding, he would be on his knees in an instant if you nodded. He wasn't afraid of seeming pathetic. You were far more precious than his pride.

You swallow, "Art, I want to go home," you failed at sounding stern again.

For a second, he feels bad. Maybe he was wrong, maybe you didn't want this. Maybe he read you wrong. He pushes the doubt away and looks up finally.

"Oh, I think we're past that Y/N." He says softly but with the corner of his mouth curling up, you assumed his head was buzzing with racy thoughts. It was too soon to tell how you felt about it.

You stayed still like your feet were stuck to the floor. You contemplated whether you should sit down and entertain whatever he was thinking. You wanted to. You couldn't deny it, you really wanted to.

You were tired of feeling like you barely existed. You hadn't felt alive in months and you were craving a change. You knew he'd give it to you. But you also knew this was wrong. You two broke up for a reason. You broke things off for a reason. You couldn't backtrack now.

But you were so tired. You were sick of these stupid rules and restrictions you placed on yourself when it came to Art. The fate of your relationship was only on you two. No one else. So why are you letting these thoughts get to you when you're the one that has full control of your actions? You can do whatever you want.

To Art's pleasure, you finally walked toward him. He was slightly disappointed when you sat on the armchair across from him when his lap was the perfect seat. But he didn't say anything. He knew you couldn't disregard your pride like he could.

He slides the glass towards you on the coffee table and leans back on the couch taking a swig. He studied you. Everything from your disheveled hair (which he thought was sexy) to the way your hands busied themselves with picking at the sides of your fingertips. You were nervous, Art deduced.

"What's on your mind?" He asks.

Your eyes finally meet his and tilts his head and he smirks softly. The drink was making him more confident by the minute.

"Lots of questions," you say honestly.

He snickers, "yeah? Well, it's your lucky day because I have answers."

You were slightly irritated at his smug attitude. Why wouldn't he be?You were on his turf now. He was in control here. That would've frightened you with anybody else but you'd still trust him with your life, so you didn't really mind. Let him have his fun.

"Why didn't you just drive me home?" You asked, your voice didn't waver once and you were proud. You were getting used to him again.

He waits a moment and then responds, "do you want the honest answer or a fib?"

Your brows furrow and you adjust in your chair. You sigh, "let's hear both."

His eyes widen in amusement and he puts his glass down on the table after taking another gulp. A few drops were rolling down his chin and you imagined how he'd react if you walked over and licked them off.

"Alright. You guess which is which," He drums his fingers on the table for a second, "The first is that I didn't want you to be on your own because you seemed really shaken up"

You scoff and roll your eyes.

God, he fucking missed you.

"The second is that I wanted to have you all to myself for the night," He averts his gaze from you when he says this. I guess he wasn't all that confident after all. He continues when you say nothing, "show you what you're missing."

You swallow.

"Prove to you that the breakup was the dumbest shit you pulled," Art said through clenched teeth.

He looks back up at you, "So?"

"W-what?" You mumble. He was angry and hurt. The break up affected you terribly but you never thought about how Art must have been dealing.

"Which is which?" He raises his brow.

You shake your head and look down at your lap, "I had to do it."

He lets out a short laugh and rolls his eyes, "yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night."

This made you angry and you snapped your head up to look at him, "Excuse me?"

"It's true!" He stands up and leans down to take the glass of beer he poured for you and drinks it. He runs his tongue over his lips, "we were perfect, Y/N. And you just had to end things because you hate yourself."

Your eyes fill with tears and you angrily blink them away. Fine, two can play that game. You stand up to show him that the mere fact that he was bigger than you, didn't intimidate you in the slightest.

"I hate myself? I hate myself? At least I'm not some leech that just sucks the life out of a person. You fused yourself to me because I gave you the reassurance you so badly need to function. I mean- fuck you can't even win a match unless I'm there. Without me, you're nothing," you had hot tears streaming down your face that you barely paid attention to. You stood there catching your breath.

His eyes were red and glassy. Your words sobered him right up. Harsh truths do that.

"I know," He says. His eyes didn't leave you once. He hated being vulnerable but you were an exception.

Your eyes widened slightly, you clearly weren't expecting that. You wanted him to fight back. You wanted him to hurt you so your beliefs about the breakup being necessary would be affirmed. But he caved. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you and he was already afraid that he'd gone too far with the 'you hate yourself' comment. You didn't deserve it.

"That's why," his voice cracks, "you need to come back to me."

You regretted your words right away. His desperation made you tear up again.

Art slowly walks towards you. You held your hand out in front of you so he wouldn't get too close. He winced softly but stopped a few inches away. He bent down and got on his knees showing no hesitation. Your eyes widened and you felt your core clench around nothing. He slides his hands up from your ankles to your thighs and stops at your hips. He holds you gently, not wanting to anger you.

He looks up through his eyebrows and says after clearing his throat, "I'll do anything. If you want me to change, I'll change. I can become someone else. I can be better," he gulps and waits for what you'll say next.

Your body was on fire.

"Beg."

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The next part will OBVIOUSLY be smut but I've never written smut before and a girl is nervous!!

I hope you enjoyed!

#challengers fic #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson

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ilium-ilia · 5 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Five: the help of someone else feels foreign

tw: wound cleaning

Your ears are ringing again.

It’s torturous. Never-ending. Forever plaguing you the moment things should be quiet. It drones on like the engine of a car—a bug buzzing near your head. It’s nothing but a painful reminder that you survived, and continue to do so despite the fact you’ve never once deserved it.

Dehydration torments your mouth by the time you finally come to. Everything slowly fades in like the transition of a movie; poetic and painfully slow. The sting in your palms, the way you have to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth only to let out a confused, gargled groan. Everything feels too bright as mood lighting illuminates an unfamiliar red and black room. Lead heavy arms struggle to push your torso off of the soft, leather cushions underneath you as your muscles scream at the build up of lactic acid.

You blink at the foreign room around you. You’re resting in a lush conversation pit with throw pillows, but there’s no one to converse with. There’s no company but a bare glass coffee table in front of you and a chandelier overhead that’s darkened to its lowest setting. Taking a shot in the dark, you guess you’re still at Terminus, but something seems uncannily off about it. There’s no faint hum of brooding music or overwhelming chatter. Sour alcohol doesn’t fill the air—there’s nothing.

Despite the mental fog that ravages your mind, you feel surprisingly fine physically. There’s no pounding headache or churning sensation of nausea like after a long night drinking; there’s only a slight thirst for water and a throbbing sensation in both of your hands. Once you’re able to get your eyes to focus, you realize they’ve been tenderly wrapped in white gauze. Tiny, faint patches of blood have bled through it, leaving behind rusty brown spots like freckles.

Then, everything hits you at once. The ache that weighs in your chest. The backlog of adrenaline that tickles the sides of your spine. You recall Andrei. How you were unfortunate enough to run into him after making a wrong turn. You think of his warning—how he’s always warning you—and how Simon found you. You cautiously rub at your raw eyes, taking care to avoid messing with the gauze too much. Attempting to keep the frustrated sorrow stewing in your stomach at bay seems like an impossible task.

How do you keep messing up?

“Morning’ sweetheart.”

Flinching at the voice behind you, you cover your mouth with a squeak as you twist your body on the sofa. Simon towers over you at an odd angle as he stands outside of the conversation pit with a poorly made club sandwich in one hand, and a glass of water in the other. The sunken couch nestled in the center of the floor seems like a den—tucked away far out of sight from any reprobate eyes.

He steps into the pit with ease where he settles a comfortable distance away. Thankfully, he sits on your right. He holds out the glass for you to take, but you don’t miss the way his eyes wander over your face.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine,” you quickly dismiss.

You reach your hand out to take the glass only to realize you can hardly grip it with the gauze. Its pristine, smooth surface just slips right along the cotton, so you grab it with both hands as if it were a warm cup of tea on a bitterly algid day. Once it’s free from his hands, Simon dives right in for a bit of his sandwich before leaning back against the couch.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, mouth half full.

“Fine,” you reply with the glass pressed against your lips. Its cold liquid washes over your dry tongue, reviving it like a desert turned into an oasis. Your eyes flicker around the room once more, this time noting the rich, marble floors. “Where… where are we?”

Before Simon can answer you, he dives in for another quick bite of his sandwich. He’s hardly sat down and it’s nearly half devoured already. You think back to the food you brought him from work—the delicious capellini pomodoro—and how it’s nothing but a pile of goo in the alleyway outside. A pang of guilt rattles your chest at realizing how long he’s been starving for.

“One of the rooms Price saves for private occasions,” Simon explains as he wipes his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “You were a little out of it after everythin’ went down. Hardly responsive. Was worried, so I brought you here to help you calm down. Pretty much passed out the moment you sat on the sofa. Completely shut down.”

Ignominy rises in your face, searing your cheeks and the tips of your ears until it boils over into your stomach. The mental image of Simon having to lead you around the club like a zombie puts you on edge. You hate being vulnerable around others. Most of all, you hate how your vulnerability oftentimes isn’t a choice you get to make.

“Tried to clean up your hands as best as I could,” Simon continues. You look down at your palms and flex your fingers, testing the range of motion. The sting is dull, but still there buried deep beneath your skin. “I’m not a doctor, but it should keep you together for now.”

“I… thank you,” you whisper before pausing. “How did you know where I was? Or that… or that anything was happening?”

“Boys up front messaged sayin’ you were on your way,” he explains nonchalantly. “Took you longer than it should’ve to find me. Got worried, so I went out lookin’ for ya. Though you’d gotten yourself lost, and then I heard people talkin’ in the alley. Well, you know the rest.”

When you look up from your hands, you find Simon staring at you. His dark eyes are endless voids in the dim light of the room—endless but so warm. The muscles lining his jaw flex and relax as he chews and swallows his meal.

“You know ‘im? That cunt in the alley?” he asks.

Wounded hands reach for your chest as if you’re able to console the rabid pounding of your heart with touch alone. You recall Andrei’s eyes—the bored expression of his tone. How flippantly he deals with life. The soft warning soaking his words. You are very much aware how bad his bite hurts. It’s a bite you don’t want Simon to feel because of you.

“No. I have no idea,” you lie.

Simon stares at you for a little longer, eyes scouring your face for any hint that you might be hiding something. He reads through your features like he’s done it a million times before—like he’s already got every bit of you memorised. Constantly searching; forever vigilant. You don’t feel like you can breathe until he hums and looks back at his food.

“Shady stuff happens ‘round here more often than I’d like,” Simon admits. “Probably just another ugly wanker sniffin’ for some fun. I see ‘em here sometimes. Alcohol, drugs, and crowds breeds trouble. Probably gets a good kick outta intimidating women.”

“Good thing they’ve got good security here,” you quip. It’s smarter than what you’d usually say—you blame it on the anxiety.

Dark eyes land on you once more with a smirk. “Cheers.”

He finishes the last bite of his sandwich before sinking back into the leather couch with a sigh. Despite how put together he comes across, there’s obvious bits of fatigue eating away at him. Heavy weights pull at his eyes, making them more hooded than normal. Usually, you try not to stare too long, but there’s something wrong with him that your hazy eyes and anxiety riddled brain wasn’t able to notice before.

Even with his scuffle with Andrei, his hands are in remarkably good shape. No split knuckles or irritated skin. If there’s any wounds from the knife that was drawn on him, you’re not able to see anything. But there’s something off about his face. Asymmetrical. A gentle swelling of his left eye hidden beneath an old, long healed scar. Amaranthine seeps into the paleness of his face—a deep bruise sits at the crest of his cheek.

“Simon, your eye,” you point out as you lean forward.

Fingers absentmindedly reach up for his face as he gently prods at the wound. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Already iced it. I’ve been hit harder than that before.”

Guilt rips through you like a bullet rips through a brain—you think you’ve finally realized the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just a simple run in with some bum on the street; this is Andrei. This is worse than Andrei—this is Marco.

Situations brainstorm in your mind as you attempt to mentally fabricate excuses. Some way to beg Marco to believe that this isn’t Simon’s fault, but yours. It’s too late. You can already smell his cologne and feel his hand on your jaw.

Back pressed against the wall—breath on your face—mint in the air—blood on linoleum—

“Hey, stay with me.”

A warm hand braves the clamminess of your fingers as your cup is removed from your grasp, forcing you to blink away your panic and focus on Simon. It’s an embarrassing habit of yours—this terror. Some days, when you’re not smart enough to keep yourself distracted, it grips you so terribly you can do nothing but freeze. Let the world weigh you down. Sleep away the feeling until you wake up with little to no memory of what happened during your struggle.

But Simon is grounding. You focus on the scent of him; that faint but lingering nicotine—that fresh cotton. There’s a texture to his skin, something there besides the bruise. A gentle five o’clock shadow. Faint, silvery scars that dance along the bridge of his nose. The flicker of his eyes as he tries to read your face.

“Sorry,” you sputter. “I just… uhm…”

“I get it,” Simon interrupts before you can make a further fool of yourself. “Long night. We should getcha home. It’s gettin’ late.”

Your lips press tightly together as you force a breath into your lungs, praying your heart will steady. He’s too close for comfort, you realize. Heat radiates off of him like apricity, warming you from the inside out. Yet the look in his eyes is the softest thing you’ve seen for quite some time.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Thanks.”

It isn’t until you make it outside that you realize just how late you’ve been out. The faint periwinkle glow of the sky bleeds over the city as the sun attempts to break through the horizon. Around this time, normal people are getting up to start their days; enjoying a fresh cup of tea, and maybe a shower. Simon doesn’t say anything about the time, and neither do you. You don’t think you can handle any more guilt than what’s already eating away at you.

As Simon leads you to the car park, you find your eyes flickering to every poorly illuminated corner and alleyway. A part of you still fears that Andrei might be lurking, ready to pounce, ready to get revenge. You certainly wouldn’t put it past him. He’s done worse, and will continue to do worse. Yet, there’s no such boogeyman waiting for you, not when someone like Simon is around to ward them off.

Your pace slows as you near Simon’s vehicle of choice, and you feel your stomach drop at the sight of his motorcycle. It’s beautifully kept and maintained. A sleek black body reflects the flat sunlight, and the seat looks comfortable enough for cruising. Though you’re not too keen on driving what you consider to be a one way ticket to the hospital, you’d rather face your chances on that with Simon than sitting through a miserable ride on public transit.

“Here,” Simon says, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to face him, you find his shoulders flexing as he slides his leather jacket off of his torso. He holds it out for you, already prepared for your arms to slip through the sleeves, and you bite your lip. “You’ll need this if you don’t wanna freeze to death.”

“Won’t you get cold?” you counter.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart.”

You do your best to muster a look of disapproval, but Simon is unmoved by your expression, and instead shakes his coat, prompting you. Sighing, you give in and turn around to allow him to smother you in his coat. You try to remember the last time someone helped you get dressed, but you can’t. Something vague pokes in the back of your mind, attempting to convince you that you can recall some faint memory, but it feels false.

How long have you been like this? Taking care of yourself for so long that the help of someone else feels foreign?

“Simon?” you ask. Your breath swirls in a white cloud in front of you before it quickly sputters and dies. The warmth of his jacket bleeds through your clothes and into your skin, staving off the bitter frost that attempts to ravage your senses. “Can I… request something?”

He hums in response as he gently turns you back around to face him. His fingers fumble with the zipper for a short moment before he secures you. He sneaks his gloves out of the pockets of the jacket before giving you his full attention.

“Can you promise me you won’t tell Aelin about this?” you ask.

Thick fingers curl and uncurl as Simon shoves his hands into his leather gloves. He’s already got big palms and long digits, but the slight added padding of the gloves accentuates them, and you feel your mouth go dry again.

“Don’t want her to stress?” he concludes.

You nod, and he nods back.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

There’s only a few more quick steps Simon walks you through before you’re ready to hit the road. Once your new jacket is fitted around your body, he makes you wear his helmet as an extra measure of protection. He’s got a rather large head, and it smells vaguely like sweat mixed with fresh shampoo, but he’s able to get it secured well enough. He fixes his long sleeved shirt around the edge of his gloves before swiping a black balaclava out of the jacket; something to protect his skin from the bitter wind you’re about to endure, no doubt. As he dons it, you try not to pay attention to the way it makes his eyes darken—as if they aren’t already intense enough.

Simon hops onto the bike and motions for you to follow after him. It takes a bit of wiggling for you to get comfortable—as he has impossibly wide hips to accommodate—but you settle behind him with your hands respectfully on your knees. The engine roars to life with a jolt, rough vibrations rattling your bones in the process, and you hope Simon doesn’t hear you squeak. Before he takes off, he reaches behind him and grabs your hand, pulling you closer to him and moving your arm around his waist.

“Hold on,” he barks over the rumbling.

So you do. You try to keep your hands covered with the sleeves of his jacket to keep them warm as he begins to pull out of the car park. The ride is smooth as he pulls onto the street, and he coasts along the pavement with ease. There’s not as much traffic as there usually is considering it’s an early Sunday morning, and you have a feeling Simon is driving under the speed limit for your sake. Despite the lower speed, the howling wind is loud enough to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You don’t realize until you’re about halfway home that you can feel Simon’s heartbeat.

It teases your fingertips; strong and steady, as if the cruise is comforting to him. Bright sunlight bleeds through your eyelids as you squeeze them shut and try to get lost in the feeling. It’s so distinct that you can almost convince yourself you can hear its reverberations travel throughout your body to meet your achy eardrums. You lean against him, chest pressed against his back, helmet resting against his shoulder, and allow yourself to wander. You think it’s the first time that your hands have stilled without driving you insane.

That comfort is ripped from you as Simon pulls up to your dingy apartment.

Silence falls as he kills the engine, and the two of you slide off of the bike where he assists in freeing you from the helmet before following you into the building. Neither of you say anything as you traverse up the stairs, fatigue too violent to fight off. This has been one of the hardest days you’ve had to endure in quite some time, and you can’t wait to fall asleep in the safety of your own bed and forget all about it in your slumber.

The moment you step foot into the flat, you’re tearing Simon’s jacket off, ready to be rid of the sweat stained clothes you’ve been wearing for the better part of the last twenty four hours. You hardly manage to get your arm free from the right sleeve before a stinging pain rips through your hand. You choke out a wince as you bring your palm up where you notice your gauze caught on the jacket. It would have torn free from your skin if it wasn’t for the dried blood welding it to your cuts. You make a foolish attempt to pull the rest of it free, but that only earns you another jolt of pain.

“Careful,” Simon warns. He grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him, preventing you from messing with it further. You stare up at him with heavy, dead eyes. “Let me help.”

Words bubble up in the back of your throat; sour ones that you have to force yourself to bite back as you allow Simon to help you for the umpteenth time since you’ve met him. He slips his balaclava off and doesn’t bother to fix his hair as he leads you towards the kitchen sink where his gloves quickly join his mask in his pockets. Your newly fixed sink turns on with a slight squeak as Simon wets his fingers and begins to rub at the space between your skin and the gauze.

Despite the refreshing sensation, it still stings as the water mixes with your fresh wounds, but it softens the scabs enough so that Simon’s able to pull the fabric free with little resistance. For the first time, you’re able to clearly see the damage done to your palms. Several deep, angry, swollen cuts line the meaty part of your hand, blending in with your palm lines. It’s hard not to grimace at the sight of it. You don’t think you want to know exactly what he had to pull out of your skin.

Simon’s thumb swipes over the cuts as gentle as a feather, and you find your eyes darting to his face. His cheeks are rosy with the November chill, but his eyes are glued onto your hand. It’s caring.

So caring that it makes you feel sick.

“I can come by in a few days to check up on it,” he says, eyes flickering to yours for only a moment. “You’d fallen into some gnarly stuff. Worried ‘bout infection.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Those words that you had to bite back earlier bubble up on their own volition, and they taste just as harsh as they sound. Even so, Simon doesn’t flinch. In fact, nothing about his stature changes at all. Maybe he’s used to the sting.

“Doin’ what?” he challenges.

“Why are you… Why are you doting after me?” you clarify. “My door, my sink, now my hands. I mean, you don’t even know me. Not really. Why are you wasting your time?”

“I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to waste,” he corrects as he begins to lower your hand. “Everythin’ I do is intentional.”

“But why?”

Simon doesn’t answer you, but his silence sings. The answer is written all over his face—hidden in the twitch of his lips and the glint of his eyes. Espial hits you square in the face, nearly knocking the breath out of you.

“Aelin put you up to this, didn’t she?” you ask, voice soft.

Simon drops your hand. “She’s worried ‘bout you.”

Just as soon as that discomfort hits, it fades into your stomach and disperses until there’s nothing left. Maybe it should hurt a bit more knowing that Simon has only been doing this on orders of your best friend. You know kindness never comes cheap, if it ever comes at all. Yet, relief overwhelms you in a violent wave. He has been nothing but compassionate toward you ever since the first time he met you—yet he’s not doing this because of you.

You don’t owe Simon Riley a damn thing.

“Yeah, she always is,” you humor with a dull titter. “Good. I’m… glad that you’re not doing this just for me.”

The sun is fully over the horizon by the time Simon leaves your apartment. There’s a deep, incessant ache that stems from his cheek bone, down the back of his neck, and all the way through his spine. He knows he should be used to it by now. His job has been full of nothing but perfectly timed violence, but it always takes a toll on his body in some way he doesn’t expect. He ignores the throe as he rides through the morning smog and bitter cold, and instead focuses on the events of the night.

There’s something terribly familiar about that man who accosted you in the alley. A malicious glint in his eyes that’s too dangerous for any run of the mill thug to wear. Simon wouldn’t have ever noticed if you hadn’t reacted the way you did. Paralyzed with fear, unable to do anything but freeze and throw up due to unbridled anxiety. When he asked you if you knew this man—this freak with his stony face and sharp knife—you said no.

He doesn’t believe you for a second.

Which is why he’s back at Terminus, hidden far back in the surveillance room, scouring through countless rolls of film as he witnesses the events of the night for himself. It’s grainy, poor quality, and stuck in black and white, but this stranger—now a freak with a broken nose—arrived at the club fifteen minutes before you did. Nothing about it seems fishy. It’s not some stakeout, nor is he waiting in the shadows to pounce on you like a predator. No, this is simple coincidence, and he vanishes out of the camera’s sight within seconds.

Then you arrive some time later, bashful and awkward as you talk to the bouncers at the main entrance. You set off on your own after a quick chat and make a wrong turn. Everything else after that, he remembers himself. Seeing it again doesn’t do anything to jog his memory, not even as the camera catches the man’s bloody face and freshly shattered nose.

He’s as much of an enigma now as he was before.

It’s just past eight in the morning by the time Simon decides he needs help. A deep burn irritates his eyes as he scrolls through the contacts on his phone where names begin to blur together in fatigue. Still, he finds the name he needs with little difficulty, and he’s impatiently awaiting an answer as he listens to the dull ring blare through the speaker.

“Hello?” a voice greets through heavy panting.

“Out of shape, Johnny?” Simon quips.

“Cardio day,” the man responds simply.

Simon hums as he leans back in the squeaky desk chair. Faux leather strains underneath the pressure of his weight, but he ignores it as his eyes focus back on the monitors in front of him.

“I’ve got an assignment for you,” he says.

“Pushing all the hard work onto me again?” Johnny teases.

“You’re more tech savvy than I am,” Simon deadpans. “Listen, when you come in tonight, I need you to find the name of someone for me. Get on cam five and look at the time stamp around one fifteen this morning. There’s a cunt leaving the alley next to the VIP section, and I need to know who he is.”

A quiet slurp followed by a loud gulp cuts through the static of the call before Johnny hums. “Right. Any physical description?”

“Bastard has a broken, bloody nose,” Simon answers.

“New dance partner?” Johnny chuckles.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be in this afternoon working on a project for Price. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Good man,” Simon concludes.

The line goes cold seconds later, and there’s nothing but the strong whirring of computer fans to fill the silence. Achy fingers rub at his jaw as Simon rests his eyes for a moment. If that chair wasn’t so uncomfortably small, he swears he could fall asleep right then and there, but the storm of thoughts swirling in his head keeps him going.

You’re in trouble.

As for what kind, he’s not sure yet. All he knows is that he hasn’t seen someone that afraid since Tommy watched him slaughter a man while trying to save his life back in the butcher shop. He doesn’t know why his brother was so surprised to see that he—a butcher—was able to slice flesh so easily, but he didn’t like seeing that fear in Tommy’s eyes, and he certainly didn’t like it in yours. That primal, agonizing fear. He didn’t like how your brain and body seemed to shut down because of it, or how he had to all but carry you to safety so you wouldn’t have to pass out on the grimy ground.

Simon has no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, or why it seems to haunt you so maliciously, but he does know that he’s killed before and he’ll do it again if it gets you to sleep any easier at night.

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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