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#oscar isaac fanfic
bit-dodgy-innit · 16 hours
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We're Not Here to F*ck Spiders
Summary: You were the oldest Spider-Girl the society had ever encountered, therefore, Miguel took a special interest in you. He wanted to know if your life would correspond with his and the other Spiders’ canon, or whether you had a completely different canon you were forging on your own. After an offhanded comment about reviewing your canon with Miguel outside of headquarters, your relationship with Spider-Man 2099 is forever changed.
Set in between ITSV and ATSV.
Pairing: Marc x OC Female!Reader
For context, Reader is an alternate, grown-up version of Mayday due to personal reasons (personal reasons being I’ve been obsessed with Mayday Parker since I was baby child)! No real use of Y/N, though Miguel does refer to the reader as "May" twice and Peter Parker nicknamed her Mayhem. Peter B.'s daughter is Mayday.
Word Count: 10.2k words (see why this took me forever?!)
Rating: Explicit - Minors DNI!!
CW/TW: An obscene amount of world-building, parents and kids fighting, mentions of a loss of a child, everyone being hot for Miguel, rough-ish sex (both partners are superheroes, come on), our boy is HUNG, dirty talk, a bit of cocky dom!Miguel, oral f!receiving, a lil bit of both m and f!receiving nipple play, PIV sex, riding, a quick spank, creampie, felching, and perhaps most intense of all, Miguel’s fear of commitment.
A/N: hahahahahaha this movie is nearly a year old and I FINALLY got around to writing a fic for it! Trust that I've been working on this on and off for a while now, but life has been nuts and writing more and more for work (yay!) but wanted to get this out while I had a slow week for everyone to enjoy!
Also, due to more personal reasons, my HC for Reader's parents are Peter and Mary Jane from Sam Raimi's masterpiece in 2002. But no presh if that doesn't jibe with ya!
I MADE A PLAYLIST FOR THIS FIC AND I'VE NEVER BEEN MORE PROUD OF ANYTHING
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“Careful, Mayday!” you fondly called after the child who was literally bouncing off the cavernous walls of HQ. Yeesh, were you this energetic when you were her age? Probably. It never ceased to be weird, hanging out with an alternate baby version of yourself, but you could manage if you pretended she was your little niece, or sister, or something like that. 
The alternate baby version of Mayday Parker in question didn’t heed your admonishment at all (which tracked), so you called again, “Oh noooo…I’m gonna have to come up there and get ya!”
Mayday squealed in delight at your “threat” and only zipped around quicker. However, you had a couple decades on her, so your reflexes were more attuned. It didn’t take long for you to capture her in your grasp and tickle her. However, little Mayday wasn’t going to give up that easily. She squirmed out of your hold and began scaling the nearby wall at a dizzying pace. 
“Okay, missy, let’s settle down,” you announced, shooting a web to meet the infant on the platform she’d crawled onto. You continued to speak as you swung, “you know how Miguel is, we can’t get too carried…away.”
You nearly threw yourself back off the platform when you were met with the sight of Miguel himself standing before you holding May. 
“Oh, hi,” you gestured to the squirming girl in his hands, “thanks. I was right behind her.” 
“What am I like?” He asked, an inquisitive arch in his brow. 
“You’re…you run a tight ship that’s all,” you wished a portal would swallow you whole. “And it’s great! We need it.”
“Are you supposed to be anywhere?” Miguel prodded further as he passed you May. 
“Me? No, it's my day off.”
“Then why are you here?” 
“Because you put Peter B. on a mission and it gives me anxiety when he takes her.” 
“You and me both,” he huffed. 
“That being said, anything I can help you with?”
“Yeah actually, I have new sequencing to go over with you.” 
Though the multiverse was ever-expanding, you were the oldest Spider-Girl the society had ever encountered, therefore, Miguel had taken a special interest in you. Since you were a second generation Spider, Miguel wanted to know if your life would correspond with his, your dad’s, and the other Spiders’ canon, or whether you had a completely different canon you were forging on your own. You initially found the whole concept fascinating, yet that interest waned pretty quickly when Miguel informed you that he was going to have Lyla analyze your entire life and have you expound on your experiences so he could compare you to the other Spiders. 
Not that there was anything you were particularly ashamed of, but some of this stuff was embarrassing. Unlike baby Mayday, whose powers had already emerged, yours didn’t make an appearance until puberty. Reviewing your awkward teen years wasn’t exactly your ideal way of spending time with an unfairly hot guy, let alone the head of Spider Society.  
“Oh okay, yeah,” you replied. “When Peter gets ba—“
“MAYDAY! WHERE’S MY PUMPKIN?” Peter’s voice echoed across the room. 
No sooner had Peter spoken did Mayday websling herself off of the platform and into her father’s arms. 
Shit, there went your excuse. A nervous chuckle escaped you, “Convenient.” 
“Sí. Follow me.”
You did as Miguel said and trailed behind him to his…office didn’t quite describe it. Work station? Lair? You lasted all of forty-five seconds before your gaze dropped to his sculpted backside, a new record for you. 
It really was unfair that the intense, ornery leader of the Spider Society had to be so damn fine. You were a superhero and a consummate professional, but at the end of the day, you were a mostly heterosexual human woman with eyes. Miguel was stupidly sexy. His shoulder-to-waist ratio, that chiseled face, and of course, perfectly round ass had been the topic of a few hushed, giggly conversations between you and the other Spiders that liked boys. 
It was only ever cheeky whispers however. All of you knew better than to catch any real feelings for Miguel. One, it was majorly inappropriate. And two, he’d built emotional walls higher than the tallest skyscrapers in Nueva York. 
Still, your mind couldn’t help but wander every now and then…you blamed it on your latest breakup. Spider-Girl duties had yet again claimed another potential partner. You suspected that was the reason it was more and more difficult not to fantasize about Miguel lately. Like sure, he was probably an animal in bed in the best way, but it was the prospect of not having to hide anything from him that appealed to you even more. 
“Lyla, bring up the latest sequencing,” Miguel ordered. 
If it weren’t for your spider-senses, you would’ve collided with his impossibly cut back, you were so deep into your thirsty thoughts. 
Suddenly, you were back on Earth-982A in your childhood bedroom. Or at least, that’s where you appeared to be. The virtual surroundings would’ve been comforting if it weren’t for the particular event that Miguel had wanted to revisit. 
Your father was forbidding you to use your powers. Again. You gazed at the rendering of your teenage self with compassion. Now, your father was fully supportive of you following in his footsteps, but the journey there had been rough. 
“You know, most parents would be happy if their kid wanted to do something to help the world!” 
Your dad scoffed. “That doesn’t matter - I’m not most parents and you’re not most kids!”
“Yeah and whose fault is that?!” Virtual you fired back. “I was born like this because of you! Dad, you’re always telling me that ‘with great power, comes great responsibility’ and now when I discover I inherited that great power, I can’t use it!?” 
“Pause,” Miguel’s voice spooked you back into the present. When you finally shook yourself from the memory that was playing before you, you found his eyes on yours. “Okay, there. Define ‘always’.”
“Quantitatively?” 
“Preferably.” 
“That’s impossible.” 
“Qualitatively, then.” 
“I mean, it's one of those things he said so much that I can’t remember the first time I heard it.” 
“When did your dad first hear it?” 
“His Uncle Ben told him during their last conversation together.” 
“Checks out. And how old was he?” 
“He was a senior in high school, so like seventeen, eighteen?” 
Miguel nodded. Even though x-ray vision nor telepathy weren’t in your powerset, you could practically see all the comparisons and calculations he was making in his head. 
“So using your powers to help people, that was your instinct when you inherited your abilities.”
“Yeah.” 
Miguel nodded again. 
“It’s different, isn’t it?” you asked him. He didn’t reply. “My dad told me he entered some god awful cage-match-wrestling-thing to get enough money to buy a car and impress my mom before he officially became Spider-Man.” 
Miguel was seemingly too busy with entering his latest data to respond. Instead, he barked at Lyla, “Resume sequence.” 
The holographic version of your dad lurched back to life to argue, “May, you are my great responsibility! So if I say no powers, no powers! I did this a lot longer than you! ” 
Tears streamed down your adolescent face. Thankfully, you’d lost some of the baby fat since.  “I hate you! I HATE YOU DAD!!” 
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. This wasn’t easy to live, let alone re-live. So, as a Spider, naturally you made a jaunty, off-handed comment. “Wow, you really know how to show a girl a good time.” 
“Qué?” 
“Nothing.” He fixed you with his signature scowl so you elaborated, “Seriously, nothing. Though, maybe if we did this in an environment where I had access to alcohol and carbs, this would be less um…less unsettling for me.”
Miguel stared at you blankly. “But the simulator is here.”
“Right, of course.” Ughhhh, why was he so damn pretty?! “Forget I said anything, Miguel.” 
He dropped it, but before the simulation could start again, your gizmo beeped. Benji’s basketball game started in twenty. 
“Actually, sorry, I have to go.” 
“But we just got started.” 
“I know, but I haven’t been able to catch one of my little brother’s games yet this season, and it’s almost the playoffs.”
“Won’t he under–”
You interrupted Miguel. “You realize spider-stuff is not a viable excuse with my family, right? Besides, it’s my day off. I’m only here out of the goodness of my own heart and my commitment to the Spider-Society.” 
He rolled his eyes at your remark, but couldn’t help a little half - nay, quarter - smile from forming across the lips you had fantasized about kissing one too many times. “Things are quiet for once. We should knock this out now.” 
“We should,” you conceded as you created a portal, “but trying to have some semblance of work-life balance is Spider-Girl canon.”
And with that, you hopped back into your world, before you could change your mind or say anything else stupid and/or unintentionally flirty to Miguel. 
You re-appeared in your apartment with just enough time to throw on clothes and swing over to the middle school. Your mom was waiting as you hurried into the gym right as Benji and the other players were taking the court. 
“Look who made it,” MJ observed wryly. 
“Ha ha,” you fired back humorlessly, but pulled your mom into a hug all the same. “Where’s Dad?”
The ref’s whistle signaled tip off and the beginning of the game, momentarily distracting you two. You were thrilled to see Benji starting – he really wanted to make JV when he started high school next year, and this was a step in the right direction. 
“Go Benji!!” MJ cheered before answering your question, “He hit traffic coming from the station. He’ll be here soon.” 
Your collective attention was pulled to the game unfolding in front of you, then MJ asked, “What have you been up to today?” 
“Me? I was at the society for a bit, helping with the baby.”
You didn’t need to see your mother to know that she tensed at the mention of the Spider-Society and Peter B.’s Mayday. It, understandably, weirded her out. 
“How can it not be strange to care for–”
“It would be if we were closer in age,” you pointed out. “But it’s just like babysitting with Mayday right now. And trust me, after all the versions of Dad I’ve met, hanging out with little me is nothing.” 
Despite being weirded out, your mom always tried to empathize, so she switched gears. “Anything interesting happen?” 
“Ugh, just more sequencing with Miguel - today was a tough one.”
“Why?”
“Fights with Dad from years ago that I know we’ve moved past, but still suck to watch.” 
Your mom took your hand in hers, a much-needed grounding gesture. “Well, you’re back in the present, in your corner of the universe now, sweetie.” 
You gave her hand an appreciative squeeze and took her words to heart, focusing on the basketball game in front of you. It didn’t take too long to put the earlier events from headquarters behind you – Benji scored a couple baskets and you took it upon yourself to meticulously document the game on your phone for memories and possible future blackmail. 
When your Dad did join you and MJ, you couldn’t help but hug him tightly. You buried your face into his coat, which smelled like a mix of smoke from the streets and his aftershave. 
It was Peter’s mix of spider and paternal instincts that prompted him to ask, “Everything okay?” 
“Yeah,” you assured him, giving him some space. “I just–I love you, Dad.” 
“Love you too, Mayhem.” Where Mayday was Peter B’s moniker for his daughter, Mayhem was your dad’s nickname for you.
The game ended in victory for Benji’s team, the Midtown Mavericks, and you three waited for the youngest member of the Parker family to emerge from the locker room. 
Benji’s face when he saw you made any lingering discomfort you had leaving Miguel one thousand percent worth it. “You made it!” 
“Wouldn’t miss it!” you pulled Benji into a hug - however reluctant he was to it since he was a ~teenager~ now. “Dude, you put up points tonight!” 
But Benji had gotten distracted, so instead of responding to you, he murmured “Woah, that guy is swole.” 
You turned around to see who he was talking about and your jaw nearly hit the floor. 
It was Miguel. 
Even more incredibly, he was in civilian clothes. It wasn’t until you witnessed him in dark wash jeans, a henley, and a well-worn bomber jacket that you realized that you’d actually never seen Miguel in anything other than his spider suit. 
He called your name and you acknowledged him with a wave, flabbergasted. Even more astonished that you knew this very attractive hunk of man was your brother, “Wait, you know him?!”
“We work together,” you said quietly. 
“At the paper?” Benji was confused. 
“No, at my other job.” 
“Oh,” it clicked for him. “That makes sense. Man, I hope I get that jacked when I get my powers.” 
“Shhhh, be cool Benji,” you urged him. 
“Um, I’m not the one you have to worry about,” he harrumphed. “Oh shit, you like him.”
Though there was more than a decade between you and Benji, your little brother was still your little brother.  “No! He’s the head of the Spider-Society and he’s–you’ll see.” 
You took a step forward to greet Miguel before anyone else from your family could get to him. “Hey! What’re you doing here?” 
“I wanted to finish our work today, and since it’s your day off, I decided to come to you.” 
“Miguel O’Hara making a compromise? How not canon. Wonder how big of a hole that’s gonna tear in the multiverse.” 
“Shut up,” he ordered you playfully. 
“Miguel, good to see you!” Your dad strode over and pulled the younger spider-man into a handshake. 
“You too, Dr. Parker.”
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at how oddly deferential Miguel was with your dad. He’d met Peter first, when he was establishing the Arachnohumanoid Polymultiverse. Miguel was stunned to discover that this Peter was not only retired, but had a full-grown daughter who’d taken up his crime-fighting mantle. Apparently your dad’s canon was particularly important and central to the greater Spiderverse, which meant Miguel would pester you with questions about him constantly. 
“Is everything okay?” Peter asked, “You don’t usually make house calls.” 
Before Miguel could explain, an elbow nearly sent you into careening into his broad chest. Mom. 
“Miguel, this is my mom, Mary Jane.” 
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Parker,” Miguel dutifully offered his hand to her. 
“The pleasure is mine,” your mom gushed, “I’ve heard so much about you.” 
Benji was right. He was not the person you had to be worried about. A rip in the multiverse to swallow you whole would be rather convenient right about now. 
Miguel’s brow creased. “You have?”
“She hasn’t,” you intervened. “Like two or three things in passing, max. Promise I haven’t broken my NDA or you know, the superhero code of secrecy or anything.” 
Mercifully, Miguel let it slide for the time being. He turned to your brother. “And you must be Benji.” 
“Yeah,” Benji confirmed, doing a terrible job of pitching his voice lower. “‘Sup, bro.” 
Jesus Christ. At this point, you were ready to rip the fabric of reality yourself to end this. 
“Congrats on the win. Hate to do this, but I need to steal your sister for a bit.” 
“No problem, I know she’s fine with it.” Perhaps Benji needed a reminder regarding which sibling had the super powers. “Also, what’s your workout–”
“Well, as fun as this all is, we should probably get back to work.”
Your family didn’t put up much of a fight – thank God – as pleasantries were exchanged and you and Miguel took off. You hoped Miguel didn’t catch when your mother mouthed “So handsome!!” to you as everyone said their goodbyes. Finally, it was just the two of you walking down East 36th Street. 
“Sorry about them,” you began. 
He looked at you, puzzled. “Why?” 
“My family. Embarrassing.” 
“They’re not embarrassing. They’re…they’re nice,” there was pain behind Miguel’s eyes. “It’s interesting. Your brother hasn’t experienced any spider-abilities, has he?” 
“No,” you confirmed. “Not yet.”
You two slowed to stop on the corner. Miguel looked at you expectantly. “So, where to?”
“What do you mean?” 
“You said you wanted to do this in an environment where you ‘had access to alcohol and carbs’.” 
“Oh! Right. Hmmm, where are we?” you looked up at the cross streets above you. “36th and 3rd? I know a place.” 
You took Miguel to a little hole-in-the-wall Italian spot nearby. Since it was so close to Benji’s school and your old middle and high school, you had spent many a week night at their tables, either working on homework or chowing down after basketball practice. 
Therefore, the staff knew you – it was a family owned spot, you’d basically grown up with the owner’s children, Maria and Chris. Though you graduated from Midtown Charter a looong time ago, they still took care of you. Maria had even let you use their first aid kit once, no questions asked, after a nasty Spider-Girl skirmish nearby. You didn’t suspect she knew anything, but even if she did, you could trust Maria to be discreet. 
At least, you thought you could trust Maria, but when she showed you and Miguel to your table, and Miguel made a pit stop at the restroom, she very indiscreetly asked, “Daaaamn, girl. He your boyfriend? Because you–”
“No!”
“You getting dicked down by him?” 
“No!” 
“Can I get dicked down by him? He single? Does he like the ladies?” 
“Maria, he’s a colleague. Actually, he’s my superior. So no…unfortunately, no.” 
Maria cackled with delight. “That’s a pen worth sticking in your company ink. I’ll bring you some garlic bread.”
“And a glass of red wine,” you added. “no, a bottle.”
“That’s my girl!” 
In theory, you had thought that reviewing sequencing outside of headquarters would’ve been less awkward, but in reality, it was more so. You couldn’t stop drinking in the sight of Miguel in normal clothes, the intimacy of having a meal together when usually your interactions were so sterile and professional, plus there was a little voice in your head screaming that THIS WAS BASICALLY A DATE on repeat.
“So should we pick up where we left off?” Miguel asked. The question brought you back down to Earth. Despite that little persistent voice in your head oohing and ahhing at him, it was clear that Miguel didn’t think this was a date. This dinner was a means to end, nothing more. 
“Let me get a little wine drunk first,” you bargained. 
“Yeah, but you have sped-up metabolism, so that’ll take at least–” 
“That was a joke. Miguel, when was the last time you went out to dinner?” 
He seemed to truly consider the question, then, “I don’t know.” 
You’d never heard Miguel say those three words in that order before. 
“I promise you I will go over my cringe teen years with you, but can we eat some garlic bread and not get drunk off this very nice bottle of wine first?” 
“You’re worse than Lyla,” his eyes narrowed. 
“I’m sorry, what?” 
“She’s always trying to get me to take breaks.”
“You should! There’s only so much self-flagellation a human can take, even if they’re a superhero.” 
Miguel’s response was a very inarticulate grumble. Maria dropped off the wine, bread, and took your order. You didn’t know what was more insane – the amount of food Miguel ordered or how unabashedly Maria was ogling him. 
“Let me guess, Lyla’s the one who suggested the field trip to my home dimension?”
Another grumble, this one in the affirmative. 
“Classic,” you remarked with a snort before taking a gulp from your glass. “I love that your AI is smarter than you.” 
“Of course she is, she can access all of the multiverse’s knowledge in a nano-second.’
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean then?” 
“Can we not talk about me for a second?” 
“Why?” 
“Because…because, I don't know, I was hoping doing this in a more casual environment would–it’d make it feel more like a conversation.” 
“We are having a conversation.” 
“Jeez, Miguel,” you took another sip of wine. “It’s not easy digging through my past like this. A lot of the time it feels more like an interrogation.” 
“Ah.” 
“Yeah. And don’t get me wrong, I want to help you, help the Spider-Society, but the one-sidedness of this is exhausting.”
“Exhausting.” He sounded dubious. 
“You know what? Forget it. I’ll take care of the bill and see you tomorrow, and we can go back to reviewing the sequencing like we normally do. I should know better than to complain to you.” 
Miguel looked at you if your words had stung him. “You can complain to me.” 
“No, I can’t,” you disputed. “You’re the most self-sacrificing Spider out of any of us–which is really saying something, by the way–and I feel lame talking about my feelings with you.”
“And that’s why our reviews feel like interrogations,” he was putting it together. 
“Yeah. Sorry to drag you out of HQ.”
Miguel scrutinized you with a long, unreadable look before announcing, “I’m not leaving before I have my bolognese.”
You didn’t know whether to smile or scream. Miguel may have lacked the traditional spidey precognitive sense, and the signature spider sense of humor, but he definitely had the stubbornness you all seemed to possess. 
You shot him a sidelong glare. “Why did you come here?” 
“I told you - I wanted to finish sequencing and Lyla suggested coming to you.” 
“But you didn’t have to take her suggestion.”
Miguel’s large frame shifted in the chair that suddenly appeared too small for him. “Like you said, she’s smarter than me, so I did. And yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve gone out to dinner.”
You didn’t know how to react to that. Right before the silence became intolerable, Miguel spoke again, “You still with that gu–’
“No.” The last thing you wanted to talk about with Miguel was your failed relationship with Gene, and you’d once discussed the correlation of getting your first period could’ve had with your powers emerging with him.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I mean, you get it.”
Miguel at last took a sip from his glass. “All too well.” 
“The price of being a hero, right?” you sent him a small, sympathetic smile across the table. “Or at least that’s what I tell myself.” 
“Your parents seemed to have figured it out,” he pointed out. 
“Well, that took like decades, and according to you, they’re canon, right? So it was meant to be. I guess that’s one of the comforts of having a canon-confirmed soulmate.” 
“Yeah, if you're Peter Parker.” 
Your heart sank at the implication. “So that means if a Spider isn’t Peter we’re meant to die alone?” 
“I don’t know,” Miguel’s eyes were averted. “Maybe only if you’re a Miguel O’Hara.” 
“Stop, you could get anyone in this restaurant to sleep with you,” you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, “Our waitress has to resist climbing on top of you whenever she passes the table.”
He swatted away the implication as if it were a pest. “That’s different.”
“You know, it might help with the stress.”
“What?”
“Letting someone climb on top of you.”
Miguel glared at you, “Don’t.”
“See? It’s not fun being on the other side of the questions,” you smirked. Your conversation was briefly suspended when Maria returned with your entrees. After thanking her, you refocused back on Miguel, “Can I ask you something else?”
“No.”
“DADA!” A child, who couldn’t have been more than three, screeched happily from a neighboring table. 
Miguel froze. For the first time in the several months that you’d known him, you saw his face soften. The warmth that filled his eyes at the sight of the toddler was undeniable. The fond expression hardened back into his stoic facade within an instant, yet Miguel couldn’t fully conceal the anguish that clearly still haunted him. He never could. 
“Sorry,” you said softly. 
He shook off your condolences. “What’d you want to ask me?” 
“Have you tried seeing anyone after…” it felt forbidden to say Gabriella’s name out loud. 
“What’s the point?” Miguel shrugged. “I don’t have the time, even if I wanted to.” 
“Right,” you hedged. 
Eventually, you and Miguel were able to find things to talk about outside of work and your respective traumas. You compared notes on the lamest villain you’d each encountered rounding up anomalies, discussed the idea of a nursery for spider-babies, or as Miguel insisted on calling them, “second-generation Spiders” – Peter couldn’t keep taking his kid on missions, plus Jessica Drew had just learned she was expecting – you even got Miguel to open up about his teenage days some. 
“Makes sense you were a rebel,” you chuckled, taking one last bite of the tiramisu Maria insisted was on the house.  
“Yeah? Why?” Miguel prodded.
“Because you-re so uptigh–upstanding now.” 
You were treated to another rare grin from Miguel, this time a half smile rather than a quarter. “Nice save.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you contended with put-on innocence. 
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t always like what I have to do, you know.” 
Your gaze locked directly with his for a breath-taking second, his eyes garnets in the low light of the dining room. “We should get going, I've taken you away from headquarters for long enough.” 
“You act like I’ve never left HQ before, and if anything, I took you away from your family,” Miguel parried, yet stood up nonetheless. You followed suit, only mildly disappointed he didn’t argue with you about leaving. As awkward as this dinner initially was, you’d actually ended up enjoying it. “I’ll take you home.”
Miguel’s words stopped you in your tracks, “You know I’m the protector of this city, right?” 
“Obviously, I—” he huffed as you waved goodbye to Maria and exited back onto the street. “Mierda May, I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”
Oh. Oh. Did Miguel think this was a date too? Date was too strong of a word – did Miguel think this was a not-entirely-work-related-hang too? 
You struggled to keep your face blasé. “Ah, okay. We taking the subway or are we swinging?” 
Miguel shot you a look as if the choice was obvious, which is how you found yourself traipsing across the city with Spider-Man 2099. You’d traveled by web plenty of times with Miguel before on missions, but there was something about it being the two of you, in your city, that made it feel just a little bit special. 
And to be honest, you’d never get enough of watching Miguel’s body hurtle through the air – despite his bulk and brawn, he was agile and lithe as he swung from building to building with you. You nearly plunged into traffic on Sixth Avenue after your thoughts had wandered to what those bulging muscles looked like unencumbered by that skin-tight suit of his. 
When you arrived at your apartment in Morningside Heights, you were suddenly self-conscious. You’d never brought a Spider to your residence, and Miguel was likely the hardest to impress of them all. 
He studied your modest one-bedroom with the same intensity as he did his screens at the Spider-Society. 
“It’s not much, I know,” you began, “and with Spider-Girl stuff, I don’t have the time to keep it as tidy as I'd like to.”
“It’s perfect,” he mumbled before catching himself. “I mean, it’s perfect for you.” 
“Yeah, I don’t need much, but it gets good light during the day and was the highest floor I could afford at my price point,” you removed your mask as you babbled on. 
“Makes sense,” Miguel nodded. 
You had no idea where to go from there – what on Earth was the man playing at? Should you offer him water, another drink, the best spot to portal back to HQ? He was lingering in your space, seemingly fascinated by the framed prints on your walls, the photos on the coffee table and credenza. 
“Um, do you need to use the restroom or something? Because it’s right through there,” you motioned to the appropriate door. 
“I’m good for now.”
THEN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE? You hollered in your head. Externally, you kept playing hostess, “Let me get you a glass of water then–”
Yet Miguel caught your wrist before you could retreat into your tiny, galley kitchen. You weren’t proud of how your heart leapt and your breath hitched at the contact. 
“Shouldn’t you be getting back?” 
He shrugged, “I should, but–”
“But what?” 
“I’ve been thinking about what you said…about letting someone climb on top of me.” 
You gulped, “Sorry, that was so inappropriate of me–”
“It was. Inappropriate, that is, but it doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good idea,” he tugged you closer to him. You could barely stand to meet his eyes, alight with desire, while your heart was pounding embarrassingly fast. 
“Um, judging by the–uh, do you want me to climb on top of you, Miguel?” you were always so much smoother in your daydreams about him. 
His lips hovered dangerously near yours. “Do you want to climb on top of me?” 
The closer you got to Miguel, the faster your brain turned to scrambled eggs. His large, sure hands had settled on your hips. 
“Uh huh,” was the best you could muster before he crashed your lips together. 
Miguel’s kiss was searing and all-consuming – it felt as if the longer your mouths moved against each other, the more your body melted into his. He was tall, so tall, and even for a superhero like yourself, it was difficult to keep yourself perched on the balls of your feet to reach his skilled, hungry mouth. 
He seemed to sense your struggle, and without breaking your liplock, he scooped you up into his arms. It was foreign but not unwelcome – you were so used to being the strongest, the person who held others, the hero. Therefore, being held so effortlessly in Miguel’s arms was nothing short of exhilarating. You weren’t the strongest person in the room anymore, you could surrender. You loved it.
Miguel pressed your back into the nearest wall, causing an emphatic moan to leave you when your hips became flush with his. You could already feel him – hot, hard, and big – between the flimsy fabric of your spider-suits. Instinctually, you canted your heat against his, delighting in the way he seemed to grow hotter, harder, not to mention unbelievably bigger, when you did. 
“Bedroom?” he gasped between harsh, ardent kisses. 
You managed to fling a hand in the correct direction, and next thing you knew, Miguel was depositing you onto your bed. You propped yourself up, leaning back on your palms to take in the man towering over you at the edge of your bed. In a flash of color and light, his suit disappeared from his strapping physique, and the sight of Miguel naked intoxicated you more than alcohol ever could. 
His shoulders seemed even broader without the unstable particles of his suit covering them. His pecs were massive, which made a delectable ratio when his chest tapered down to a chiseled abdomen and slim hips. Slim hips that framed the biggest cock you’d seen outside of porn – hell, maybe even including porn. He was long and thick – it made a dark thrill race down your spine when you contemplated how the hell that was going to fit inside of you. 
Miguel noticed you marveling at his package, misinterpreting the rapacious glint in your eye as unease, “I’ll prep you, I won’t hurt you.” 
“Oh, I’m not worried” you glanced back up at his face coquettishly. 
“No?” Miguel cocked an eyebrow and advanced toward you on the bed, a jaguar stalking its prey. He nudged you onto your back and pinned your wrists to your comforter, “maybe you should be.” 
You muscled out of Miguel’s grip and switched positions so you were straddling him. Only then did you lean closer and whisper into his ear, “I can take it.” 
Miguel growled, and within an instant, you were on your back once again as he pawed at your suit. Unlike his costume, your spider-suit was made of plain old fabric, so there was a bit of fumbling, cursing in Spanish, nervous giggling, and a mumbled comment about ‘making you a suit like mine’ from Miguel before you were nude as well. 
He splayed you out against your mattress as if you were a feast before him. Your first instinct was to try and cover yourself but Miguel’s dark gaze froze you. A pleased groan rumbled from his chest and then his large hands flew to your breasts. “Such full, perky tits.”
You moaned in response to his ministrations. How was this real? You and Miguel were touching each other – naked – and you hadn’t woken up yet. 
“It’s all for you,” you mewled, relishing his hot palms on your sensitive buds. 
Another growl ripped from his chest before he swooped down and sucked one of your nipples into his warm, wanting mouth. You keened, a pathetic, high-pitched sound, and you wove your fingers into his dark locks as he gorged himself on your tits. 
The pull of Miguel’s mouth on your peaks was made only better when he snaked a hand between your legs and ran a finger along the seam of your sex. You bucked at the touch, your reaction causing Miguel to lift his head from your bosom. 
“Mmmm, you like it when I play with your pussy, cariño?”
At this point words had all but left you so you nodded and whined in the affirmative. Miguel’s digit parted your folds, tracing up and down, then found your clit and rubbed slow, tortuous circles into the nub. 
“So wet for me, bebita,” he observed, maddeningly casually, while he played you like an instrument. “This is all for me, huh?”
Your head thrashed back and forth on your comforter with a sob, both from pleasure and bashfulness. Now there was no downplaying how horny Miguel made you. 
“Shhh,” he cooed at you, taking one of your hands and bringing it to his groin, “feel what you do to me.”
This time your moan was unabashed as your hand circled around his girth. “Fuck, you’re so big.” 
“I know,” he grunted. Normally, such braggadocio from a man would be an immediate turn off to you. But Miguel wasn’t being arrogant, not when he was referring to the thick, pulsing hardness you were currently caressing. “Gotta get you ready for me.”  
He guided your hand away from his member, even despite your protests, to wrench your thighs wider and bury his head between them. The realization alone that Miguel O’Hara was about to eat you out almost made you come, yet actually feeling his tongue on your needy cunt was infinitely better. He licked a stripe from your perineum to your clit, tearing another ragged moan from you when his tongue focused in on the bundle of nerves. 
Miguel chuckled against your folds at your enthusiastic praise and redoubled his efforts. Your fingers reflexively tangled in his inky locks once again as he continued his delectable assault on your pussy. The way Miguel tasted you matched with how he seemed to approach everything – he was vehement and determined to bring you pleasure like how he was when he worked. He managed to just stay on the right side of rough as he slurped at you..though perhaps that was a bit different than how he fought.
He speared his tongue into your hole, affording you the opportunity to grind your clit against his prominent nose. In your pleasure-filled haze, you briefly fretted that you were suffocating Miguel, but when you tried to scooch away and give him some air, the man grunted and pulled your hips closer to him.
You keened again when one of his thick fingers joined the fray as he prepped you. After all the sexual tension, all the self-denial, and all the excitement the night had held, it felt so good to clench around something. He was again methodical with his preparation, allowing you to adjust to one digit before adding another, and another. It couldn’t have made a starker contrast with how he was devouring your sex. Even in the bedroom, Miguel O’Hara was full of contradictions. It didn’t take long for your breaths to become more shallow, for your cries to reach a higher pitch as you climaxed around his hefty fingers. The combination of the penetration and the stimulation of your clit with his mouth was too good to resist. 
You were slightly relieved that Miguel remained nestled between your legs while you rode out your peak. The orgasm he’d given you was much too good to be able to control your facial expressions. 
He at last came up for air once you’d begun floating down from your peak. A primal pride surged through you at the sight of your juices smeared all over his lips and chin. You couldn’t help but smash your mouths together, eager to sample the combination you two made. It was all too easy to get lost in a kiss with Miguel, yet as you plundered his mouth with your tongue, your hand crept back down his groin. 
This time it was Miguel who moaned into your mouth as you returned him to full mast with feather-light, teasing touches. 
“I need to fuck you,” he gasped between kisses. 
“Finally,” you bantered back. 
A growl from Miguel and then he tackled you back flat on the bed. You couldn’t help the giggle – partly from nerves, partly from anticipation – that escaped you at his actions, despite the visage of a hulking, intimidating man hovering over you could be frightening in another context. 
“Do you have protection?” 
You hesitated. You kept a box of condoms in your bedside drawer, but given Miguel’s size, they’d be inadequate. 
“None that would fit you,” you confessed, stealing another glance at his large erection. It was truly a sight to behold. Miguel deflated slightly, fearing penetration was off the table, and usually it would be. You were firmly a two methods of contraception girl, but there was no way you were going to pass up this chance to have sex with Miguel. “Don’t worry Spidey, I’m on the pill.” 
“Gracias a Dios,” he muttered, then wasted no time situating himself between your hips. He drew yet another mewl from you when he slapped the tip of his cock a few times on your clit before lining himself up with your entrance. 
He found you looking at him expectantly. And though Miguel mostly saw desire in your eyes, he could see the glimpse of unease too. He assured you, “I’ll go slow.” 
You nodded, you trusted him after all, but nothing could prepare you for the stretch of when Miguel finally pushed into you. Just the tip was already splitting you apart more than Gene, or any former lover for that matter, ever had. 
“Breathe,” Miguel rasped. You couldn’t tell if he was advising you or himself though. It struck you then that you’d perhaps achieved the damn-near impossible – disarming the notoriously closed-off Miguel O’Hara. He looked beautiful, biting his plush lower lip as he slowly rocked more and more of his huge cock inside of you. 
Your back arched off the mattress of the sensation of being progressively speared on the monster that Miguel called a dick. It was too much and not enough all at once, and your fingers dug into your comforter below you. He tried to distract you from any potential pain, Miguel’s index finger returning to your barely-recovered clit. 
“That’s it, open up for me,” he husked. Your head swam at the mix of his enormous manhood stretching you to your limit and his tender, in-control tone. The realization hit you harder than a punch from an anomaly. In that moment, fear skittered down your throat and pooled into your stomach, resting right above where you two were joined. He’s going to ruin me for other men, isn’t he? 
You couldn’t think any further since not only was Miguel fully seated within you, he had asked you a question. Your eyes glassy and pupils blown, found his, and he repeated himself. “You okay? Can-can I move?”
“Yes,” you gasped. In case your breath affirmation left any room for doubt, you added, “please.”
Another grunt from your lover and Miguel at last began to thrust into you. Your arms flew from the bed to his impossibly wide shoulders, your nails digging into the caramel, taut skin there. You couldn’t tell exactly when it’d happened, lost in the deliciously lewd sounds you were making between the slap of your bodies, your labored breaths, and his determined staccato grunts while Miguel railed you, but your hips had begun to meet his. 
“M-more Miguel,” you urged him as you dragged your fingertips down the expanse of his back. Each of your hands grabbed a fistful of that glorious ass and squeezed to drive home your point. 
“You sure?” 
You moaned. It was as if he couldn’t give it to you hard or faster enough. You used your grip on the globes of his perfect rear to try and force him to increase to the pace and force you needed him to fuck you at. 
Miguel laughed. A dark and stirring sound that made you involuntarily tighten around his girthy length. “Alright bebita, but remember…you asked for this.” 
His words ignited something defiant within you. You pulled Miguel’s head from where it had fallen into the crook of your neck so you could look him in the eyes when you said, “I’m not some pillow princess from Nueva. I’m just as strong as you are, I can go just as hard you can, and I want you to fuck me.” 
Your lover’s eyes darkened at your demand. The growl that ripped from his throat was your only warning before Miguel unleashed the full force of his strength on you. You keened in pleasure as he all but drove you through your bedframe and the wall behind it. Miguel captured your wrists once more and restrained you against the mattress as he absolutely pounded into your pussy. 
His drilling drew another ecstatic cry from your mouth. Miguel glared down at you, his eyes nearly crazed, his face barely lit in the ambient light from the street. It truly was infuriating to you how beautiful this man was. You watched his brow furrowed in concentration – not on his stupid screens for once – and his dark hair shift in time with his thrusts.  Your features contorted in pleasure when Miguel switched from drilling into you to swiveling his hips to stuff you with his cock. His movements were deliberate and slow, he was trying to get as deep inside of you as he could. You almost went cross-eyed at the feel of his bulbous cockhead punching against your cervix. 
The criminal undulations of his hips extracted a little yip from you each time he pistoned into you. He grinned down at you wolfishly. Equal parts indignation and arousal bloomed within you. Also, was the first time you'd ever seen Miguel smile? Not a little half-smirk or a humorless quirk of his lips, but an unabashed smile?
“Want me to back off?” 
Oh, there was no way you were going to take that lying down. Even if Miguel’s pubic bone was perfectly grinding into your clit. 
You let out a growl of your own and summoned all the power in your core muscles to wrestle Miguel back and claim the high ground. Out of breath when you found yourself seated on Miguel’s dick, his large, muscled body prone beneath you, you braced yourself on his rippled abdomen.
“Is the itsy-bitsy Spider-Girl gonna ride my cock?” he taunted you. If Miguel didn’t wear that arrogant, playful smirk so well, you would’ve wiped it from his lips. 
You slid your hands up the length of his chest and leaned over, your face hovering over his. “That depends. Can 2099 handle it?” 
Miguel answered you with an impatient buck of his hips up into your sex. You giggled as you straightened up again, tweaking one of Miguel's nipples as you went. You relished the little shudder it sent through him. “Alright, but remember baby, you asked for this.”
He snorted out a laugh, which you quickly silenced once you began riding Miguel like the stud he was. “Hnnn–shock, bebita.”
“Ah,” you sighed as you bounced on his prick. Before sleeping with Miguel, you had assumed the term “feeling him in your guts” was hyperbole. Not with him. “Fuck, you’re even bigger like this.” 
A large hand traced its way up one of your thighs, now lightly covered with a sheen of sweat, past your sex, split apart by his shaft, to where Miguel’s manhood made the slightest bulge in your lower belly. His smile became wider and even cockier. “It’s good, no?”
You gave him a nonverbal, but enthusiastic, reply. He smacked your ass in satisfaction, “Yeah c’mon, cariño, ride me. Wanna watch your tits bounce.” 
You officially hated Miguel and his big, thick, perfectly sized cock. Where as with other partners you’d smack them right back with a zinger, all you could do was moan again. His naughty, domineering words did nothing but excite you. There was something about him and the way he fucked that made you incapable of doing little else than enthusiastically submitting to him. You leaned back, your fingers clutching onto Miguel’s thick thighs to stability as you changed angles and gave him a better view of your breasts jiggling in time with your motions. 
“Ay, sí bebita,” Miguel’s hands flew to your hips to intensify the frantic mashing of your bodies together, “Ven aquí.”
He gathered your torso in his hulking arms and pulled you closer so that he could coax a breast into his mouth again as you rode him. 
“You gonna come for me Miguel?” you panted.  
“No,” he sounded as winded as you were. “Not yet.”
You clenched around him and snickered. “Are you sure?” 
“¡Coño!” Miguel snarled at the feel of your already blistering, tight pussy suffocating his dick further. “¡No más – basta de esto!”
The vision of your bedroom swam when Miguel lifted you off his pulsing member and dropped you back on your stomach onto the mattress facing the foot of the bed.. You could hear him shifting behind you, and you blindly groped for the lower metal railing of your bedframe’s footboard, only vaguely aware what was to come. 
A grunt from Miguel, and the next thing you knew one of your pillows was stuffed under your lower belly and his massive hands were back on either side of your hips. Your lover didn’t give you any notice before shoving his fat erection back inside of your already tender pussy. 
You shouted at the feeling of his cock stuffing you to the brim once again. Miguel’s hands appeared above your head where you held on for dear life as he impaled you on his prick.
“Ahhh!” you clamored, desperately trying to pull enough air in your lungs to function as Miguel squatted behind you. “I’ve never been so full! Oh God, Miguel, it’s so much…so much…”
Miguel responded with a pleased growl, and merely rammed into you harder. You were peripherally aware of the clanging of the pieces of your metal bed frame clanging together in protest at the vigor of your and Miguel’s coupling, but there were too many sensations overwhelming you at once to focus on one in particular. Not even when the metal groaned and the angle Miguel fucked you at changed did you pay attention to what was actually happening. You merely pushed back onto his cock as much as you could, your fingertips scrabbling into the folds of your comforter. 
Your eyes screwed shut at the barrage of stimuli - the unrelenting stretch of Miguel’s hardness,  his harsh but steadying grip on your hips, the light scratch of fabric beneath you on your skin, the little puff of warmth on the back of your neck from Miguel’s labored exhalations. You were sure this was better than any high any drug could provide. You hadn’t tried many, not even Rapture, and but nothing could top being thoroughly fucked into your mattress by Miguel O’Hara.
Miguel’s dogged grunts morphed into shouts when he at last found his release, spurting rope after rope of hot, creamy cum into your welcoming cunt. You found yourself crying out along with him as he emptied his load, your walls bearing down around his length as you both rode out his high. Miguel flooded your pussy with his seed and before you could even try to adjust to the feeling, he withdrew his cock from you, tearing a quite pathetic-sounding whimper from your mouth. 
Miguel pulled your ass cheeks apart to examine your stretched, puffy pussy leaking his cum. His chest rumbled with primal delight. “Hermosa.”
You’d barely had a chance to catch your breath when Miguel dove back in for more, this time his eager, demanding tongue again invading your channel. You whimpered again, your pitch jumping an octave at Miguel’s needy tongue not only collecting his spunk from your pussy, but flicking the muscle against your clit. He was a man possessed, he ate you out as if he needed you to orgasm one more time for his survival. 
You gave him what he wanted (how could you not?), and once the crest of your pleasure had subsided, you lightly pushed him away from your gaping, abused cunt. 
The first thing you noticed when your wits returned to you was how much closer the ground had become. 
“Oh my God,” you put it together and turned to face your partner, "we broke the bed.”
Miguel arched a brow from where he leant back into the pillows. “Are you surprised?”
You frowned at him.  
“I’ll fix it,” he promised. 
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I’m going to…” you trailed off your gaze floating to the bathroom.
“Do your thing.”
“Can…can I get you anything?” 
Miguel glanced down at his crotch. “A towel?” 
You nodded. “Say no more.” 
You ducked into your en-suite, and once you were sure the door was firmly closed behind you, you proceeded to have a freak out to yourself in the mirror. You scarcely believe your own appearance – lips kiss swollen, hair a veritable bird's nest, your mascara smudged into rings around your eyes. Miguel had destroyed you in the best of ways. 
The thought sent a little aftershock of pleasure through you. You didn’t dally any longer — you relieved yourself, washed your hands, ran a brush through your hair and splashed water on your face. After dampening a washcloth for Miguel, you returned to the bedroom, where your bed frame was properly vertical again. 
You glimpsed the glow of Miguel’s distinctive red webs holding the broken metal rods together. The other Spider was reclining on your mattress, a sheet haphazardly tossed over his groin to preserve his modesty. Even so, the sight of him made you go weak in the knees. He really did remind you of some sort of a large cat given the odd grace in which he lounged with, the evidence of his power and strength so poorly hidden under the surface of his skin. 
“Get a new frame and expense it to Spider-HQ,” Miguel's baritone snapped you out of your reverie. 
“Oh, okay. Thanks,” You tossed him the towel. 
His eyes raked over your naked form. But instead of the desire you’d found there earlier, his gaze was full of concern. “You okay?”
“Yes. Very okay. A little sore but good sore, ya know?” 
“Good,” Miguel busied himself with cleaning up. 
“I mean, what’s the point of having superpowers if you can’t enjoy extra rough sex?” you joked. 
“Yeah, about that,” Miguel refused to meet your eyes. “As um…great as all this was…I think we–it should be a one-time thing.” 
“Um, duh.” He looked up at you hastily and you continued, “Miguel, neither of us are anywhere close to ready or in the right place for a relationship.” 
Your heart disagreed with your words, but you uttered them anyway. Not because it was how you truly felt, but you knew it was what he wanted to hear. Miguel associated any sense of closeness or vulnerability with weakness and danger. Trying to get him to see otherwise was a fool's errand, and it was easier on your heart to convince yourself into concurring with him. 
Oddly, Miguel didn’t seem to relax at your assurances. He looked dubious. “Are you sure?” 
“Oh my God, you are so cocky!” you accused him with a playful slap to the broad, tan chest. “Spare me the fake worry 2099, you may be amazing at sex, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to be professional with you at HQ.” 
“Amazing at sex?” Mirguel parroted you with a smirk. 
You slapped him again. “Of course that’s the only part you heard.”
“Sorry but those are very distracting,” he claimed, his gaze focused on your exposed breasts. 
You scoffed and grabbed a pillow to temporarily cover yourself. “Hang on there, Spider-Man. Yes, you are…not terrible at showing a lady a good time, no, you don’t have to worry about me being clingy at work, and yes, I’m sure so stop looking at me like that!” 
You tossed the pillow away and straddled him. “Now I don’t know about you, but it’s only midnight. If this is indeed a one-time thing, I say we make the most of the night and the fact that no one has bothered us with some multiversal emergency yet.” 
Miguel finally let it go, choosing to focus on your very nude body on top of his. His hips moved on their own accord, grinding his cock, already stiffening back up to full mast, against where you were still so nice and stretched for him. 
“Vamos, bebita,” he whispered into your ear. His fingers dug into your sides possessively in a way that almost let you believe he was doing it because you were his. “Wanna fuck you on the ceiling.” 
***
You shouldn't have been surprised that Miguel didn’t stay the night. You were honestly shocked when he collapsed beside you after the hours you’d spent vehemently fucking. Your bed was now held together by a mix of both his and your webs, one of your framed photos on the wall lay shattered on the floor to be dealt with later, and the ceiling now sported a dent that was going to be very difficult to explain to your landlord. 
The memory of Miguel leaving was hazy at best. After so many rounds of deeply satisfying, intensely athletic sex, you felt like you could sleep for a week. Yet the shift and dip of Miguel’s large frame exiting the bed was enough to wake you. You could sort of recall a small flash of light and chirpy voice which must have been Lyla…and you also had a vague memory of him replying in a hushed rumble as if not to wake you up. Or was he telling you he was heading out? Everything jumbled together under the fog of sleep. 
Either way, you had to tell yourself that the sensation of a large hand caressing your face and then tenderly stroking down the sleep-warm skin of your back was a dream. Not for Miguel’s sake, but yours. 
Thanks to super-spider stamina, you only really needed a couple extra shots of espresso to function somewhat normally the following day at headquarters. You were angry at your instinct to avoid Miguel. You both were adults that had an adult, mature conversation that last night’s activities were merely a form of stress release that didn’t mean anything. It was hard to believe however, when you could still feel the phantom shape of him inside of you. 
Besides, it’s not even like you could avoid him if you wanted to. You were scheduled to go over more sequencing today with Miguel, and you were dead set on not blinking first in the post-sex-awkwardness stand-off. 
“Hey, Miguel!” your voice reverberated in the vast space. 
Several agonizing moments later, his platform lowered enough for you two to start conversing. If he was at all bashful about seeing you, the man didn’t show it. 
“Good. You’re here.”
“Yep.” 
Miguel was all business. “I want to go back to the fight you had with your father. Lyla, take us to timestamp 46:90:45.”
Damn, and here you thought you were good at compartmentalizing. You did your best to hide any disappointment from reaching your face, playing along as if he hadn’t seen every crevice of your body the night before. 
***
Days turned into weeks, and you eventually, reluctantly accepted that Miguel had told you the truth that night. What you two had shared was really just a one-time lapse of his frighteningly strong self-restraint. 
You were enjoying a rare night in, parked on the couch, takeout boxes strewn about the coffee table, your favorite trashy reality show playing on your TV. You’d gotten injured taking down a Doc Ock variant a few days ago, and Miguel benched you to recuperate. You were all too happy to take a break, from him and Spider-Girling. Despite your complicated feelings for the man, he assigned a recently displaced Spider, Spider-Woman 1357, to pinch hit for you in your dimension while you healed up. It was the first time since you became a hero you had a day off with peace of mind. 
Just as you started another episode, a tingle raced down your spine. Your spider-sense. Something was about to happen. Out of all the possibilities of what could have followed, a portal opening in your living room and Miguel walking through was the last thing you would’ve guessed. You leapt up from the sofa. 
You instantly regretted your appearance - messy bun, no makeup, and ratty sweatpants. Miguel, as usual, looked immaculate in his skintight spider-suit. 
“Hey.” 
“Is this a booty call?”
“No.” 
“Don’t bullshit me–”
“It’s not, I swear! Coño, I came to check on you.” 
“I don’t believe you.” 
“Why not?”
“Because you could have messaged me on my gizmo. It’s your preferred method of communication after all, ever since the last time you were in my apartment.” 
“May–”
Lyla appeared over his shoulder. “He missed you, that’s all.”
Miguel growled at his AI. “I’m going to sentence you to robot death via spreadsheets.” 
Lyla wasn’t threatened in the slightest. “Thank me later.” She disappeared before Miguel could try and make another retort. 
“You missed me?”
“No,” his denial was instant. “I just…I–”
“This is a booty call!” you crumpled up a napkin and chucked it at his large form. “Go home, Miguel!” 
He didn’t budge. “It’s not a booty call. I…what are you watching?”
“The Realest Housewives of Manhattan. What, don’t judge me!”
Miguel couldn't keep his face straight. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 
Seeing his eyes crinkle with amusement was infectious. You threw another napkin ball at him and then composed yourself. He wasn’t getting off the hook this easily. “Why are you here? Be honest with me. It’s the very least I deserve.”
“I wanted to see the shocking expensive bed frame you expensed to HQ for myself.” 
“You said I could and you didn't set a spending limit.” A wicked little grin pulled at the corners of your mouth. The bed frame from Restoration Hardware had been your own private form of revenge. “And I’m supposed to believe you wanting to see my bed – my bed that you broke–”
“Hey! We broke the bed–”
“--is not your thinly veiled excuse for seeking another roll in the hay? Enough with goddamn mind games Miguel.” He tried to speak but you pushed on, “I’m tired and this is the last thing I need.”
Miguel sobered. He hung his head. His mouth seemed to fight the words as they left his lips.  “Alright, fine. I missed you.” 
You ignored your heartbeat’s sharp increase and schooled your features to maintain a neutral appearance. “I have some extra Pad Thai if you want.” 
“Sounds good.” 
“So this may not be a booty call, but does anyone other than Lyla know you’re here?”
“No.” 
You nodded. “Come. Sit. I just started the episode where Beverly throws her poodle a forty thousand dollar birthday party.” 
“Nothing you said just now made sense,” Miguel protested, but took a seat on your couch anyway. 
A/N: Hope y'all enjoyed!! Miguel has fully rotted my brain so I thought it only fair to share the horniness. Of course I have more imagined in this AU, fingers crossed I can find more time to write (comments and reblogs and likes help!)
Translations:
Mierda - Shit 
cariño - dear
bebita - baby
Gracias a Dios - Thank God
Ven aquí - Come here
¡Coño! - Damnit!
¡No más – basta de esto! -No more, enough of this!
Hermosa - beautiful
Vamos, bebita - Come on, baby
Taglist: @plethora-of-imagines, @itdobe-liza @absolutelybloodyhopeless @ninebluehearts, @oscarissac2099
29 notes · View notes
melodygatesauthor · 5 months
Text
Painted
Laurent LeClaire X f!Reader
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Not Beta Read
Summary:
You're a woman alone at the bar and you witness an argument between a husband and wife. The wife leaves, and you're left alone with her sexually frustrated husband.
Tags/Warnings (for entire series):
NSFW, dubious consent (reader doesn't say yes to Laurent but it's clear that she's into it), smut, a tiny sprinkle of angst, pussy eating, blowjob, playing with cum, p in v creampie, sex with a stranger, unprotected sex, semi-public sex.
Word Count: 2.7k
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You saw the whole argument unfold. The man shouting at his wife in the busy Paris bar. She, clearly filled with disdain for her spouse, climbed on the table and spread her legs for him. He undid his belt, pulled his thick cock out and tried to bring it to life. You wondered if he was struggling because he’d had far too much to drink, or if the couple hated each other so deeply that she didn’t pique his desires any longer.
Either way, after she left, you were the last person in the bar, and he looked right at you.
He sauntered over, wiping a bit of drool off his chin as he got closer to you. Your breath hitched in your throat and you felt your cheeks burning. He chuckled, breath stinking of alcohol as he brushed the back of his index finger over your neck.
“Your skin is soft,” he commented, biting his lip. “I’d love to paint you.”
You didn’t protest as he lifted your rear onto the table behind you. His fingertips brushed over your inner thigh, trailing along until they reached your underpants. His breath trembled as his face drew closer to yours.
“You wouldn’t tell me no, would you?” He tucked a finger into your underwear and started pulling them down your legs carefully, as if he were still waiting for you to push him away. He discarded them, putting both hands on your knees and parting your thighs wide. “You’ll always keep these legs open for me, won’t you chérie?”
“Mm,” was all you could mutter as you felt the fat tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.
It had been so long since you’d been in the company of a man, and your eagerness was made apparent by the slick arousal dripping out of you. It clearly wasn’t the drunkenness that made him flaccid, the man had no issue spearing through your tight hole like it was his. He breathed out a moaning sigh, rolling his hips at an even, lazy pace.
He leaned in, mouth closing over yours as he shoved himself deeper, hand reaching under your leg to push it back, spreading your thighs wider for him. You gasped, mouth open over his while the bar was filled with your sounds. He nipped at your bottom lip, his other hand sliding up to grab your breast which was still trapped behind the bodice of your dress.
“Your body is so beautiful, sweetheart. Such a shame I don’t have time to really admire it,” he chuckled, slipping his tongue past your lips and entangling it with yours.
He pushed you back, mouths parting before you could protest, so your spine was flat along the table. With a swift tug, he gripped where your dress concealed your breasts and pulled it downward. Both of your tits spilled out, bouncing in time with his thrusts. His flushed cheeks became more prominent with his drunken grin. A low groan emerged from his lips as he leaned down to catch one of your nipples in his mouth.
“Oh, sir, oh god!”
He sucked and bit at your nipple like he was desperate for it. His body moved faster, both hands reaching down now to hold onto your hips for leverage. You couldn’t feign modesty anymore, your pleasured screams filling the empty bar and likely spilling into the back streets of Paris.
“Oui, mon chérie, keep squeezing yourself around me like that and I shall paint your insides white,” he whispered against your breast.
You grabbed the edge of the table, spine arching backward and legs spreading wider as he drove deeper into you than before. You felt him reaching the deepest parts of your center, the tip of his cock brushing in a smooth motion against that spot inside of you that made your body tremble. You were weak, a distinct tingling pooling in the pit of your core and spreading all over every inch of your skin.
“Oh god, oh-my-oh-oh!”
In an instant you came. Your entire body gave in to the sensations around you: his mouth over your breast, his tongue flicking masterfully at your nipple, his hand holding onto your outer thigh and squeezing it tightly. You felt everything as though every nerve ending in your body had caught fire.
“Your face is perfection at the height of your pleasure,” he whined, the tone of his voice heightened as his orgasm drew nearer. “The next time we meet, I s-shall, oh-for-god’s-sake, I shall have you touch yourself so I can paint the exact moment when you…”
His hips slammed into yours one final time. A series of choked gasps filled the bar as he made good on his promise to paint your walls white with his hot spend. You liked that feeling of being filled up, even if it was just a stranger at a bar. Perhaps you enjoyed it all the more because it was just a stranger at a bar.
He remained for a moment longer with his body leaned over yours, lips peppering sweet kisses along your sternum as he worked them back up to your neck, your jaw, and then your mouth. His drunken kisses were still sloppy, but you never wanted them to stop.
“What a sweet little muse you are,” he whispered. “I’ve not felt this warmth in my heart for a woman in some time, chérie. I will come back for you every night until my legs no longer work, and you will let me paint you every time, won’t you?”
You nodded, feeling his cock fall out of your hole as it softened. The sound of cum trickling from your cunt tapped like a leaky faucet on the stone floor. With another feather soft kiss, the man stood back from you, looking down at your body with a hooded, lusty gaze. He hardly managed to button his pants, let alone replace his belt, eventually giving up on it all together. 
Without another word exchanged between either of you, he stumbled out, leaving you there on the table to wonder if he would ever come back to ‘paint you’ again.
~~~~
To your relief, he did come back, and this time when he saw you he was sober. He had an artist's satchel with him, and he led you to a back room of the dingy bar where no one wandered. The lighting was dim, and you could smell something foul, but you were happy to see the man again. You tried to kiss him, but he interrupted you with a finger to your lips.
“I want you to remove your clothes and sit in that chair for me,” he said sweetly.
Without a word you nodded, beginning to remove your clothes. You dropped your dress and undergarments in a heap on the floor. You walked over to the chair and sat as instructed.
“May I know your name, sir?” You asked.
He chuckled, “and ruin the allure that comes with such mystery? I think not, chérie.”
You had to admit that there was a bit of added appeal to the man when you didn’t know his name at all. He could be anyone, from anywhere, who had done anything, and you’d never be the wiser. There was something very exciting and tantalizing about that prospect.
He set up his kit, several brushes and pigments at the ready. You wondered if the barkeep let him paint in there regularly, as he seemed to have an easel and canvas ready to prop up and start his work. He walked over to you, kneeling down by your feet and running his fingers up your calf and to your knee. You felt your breathing grow shallow as those daring fingertips made their way between your closed legs, his other hand coming up to do the same.
“Open,” he cooed, assisting the spread of your thighs with his large hands prying between them. “Wow,” he mused, “what a wondrous beauty.”
He looked up at you, pretty brown eyes glistening in what little light the dim room afforded you both. He kept your gaze while he leaned forward, the tip of his distinguished nose brushing against your already swelling clit. Your lips parted for a wavering breath. Your hand instinctively moved to tangle in his dark locks. His hot breath melted over your folds.
A moan rolled through him as his lips made contact with your cunt. His tongue slid between your slit, and a sharp gasp punched out of your lungs. You gripped his hair tighter, your hips arching into his mouth as if what he was giving you wasn’t enough. He hummed, facial hair brushing against your thighs softly while his head moved to hit all the right spots.
“S-sir I…oh I can’t…oh-god!”
Save for your pleasured panting, the only other sound in the room was his messy slurping as your arousal coated his face. Every now and then the man would look up at you, eyes caked in a pussy-drunk hunger unlike any you’d ever seen. His grip tightened on your thighs, and his nose continued rubbing in delicious circles around your sensitive clit.
Two of his delightfully thick fingers worked between your pussy lips, sliding slowly forward until he was curling them inside of you, all the while he was working his tongue around your swollen nub. You thought you might fall over, using his hair and your grip on the chair beneath you to establish some sort of stability as your body shook.
He added another finger, somehow managing to fit all three inside you and pump them into your hole until you were nearly choking on the air that filled your lungs. It was all so much, the sensations overwhelming until they washed over your body in waves. You felt your cunt contract, juices gushing around his knuckles and coating his hand while your walls squeezed over him. You moaned, eyes rolling back and you struggled to keep yourself from falling over. 
The man looked up at you again, rising on his feet just enough to catch your mouth in his. You could taste yourself on him and after enough hungry kisses, your flavor was gone. He pulled back from you, lips swollen and glossy in the light. He stepped back, unbuckling his pants quickly.
“I bet I can make you look even prettier for your portrait, don’t you think, sweetheart?” He asked, running his fingers over your arm and down to your hand, guiding you off the chair and onto your knees.
The floor was cold and the rough surface made your knees ache, but you didn’t have much time to think about your discomfort before his cock was in your face and distracting you from your thoughts. You knew what he wanted, of course. After all, there was a reason you were on your knees. You wrapped your fingers around it as best as you could, not quite able to meet your thumb on the other side. You lapped the tip, gulping down a sweet bead of precum that had collected there.
“I know you won’t disappoint me, chérie. I’ve had enough disappointment to last a man a lifetime. Take it all for me, and don’t hold bac-k-k.”
He moaned deeply the moment your mouth wrapped around his dick, lips sliding down until you reached the base, relaxing your throat to take the entire length. The thickness of him throbbed inside you, and you felt his hand reach to the back of your head to guide you back. He started churning his hips against your face, gagging you on every inch as his length stretched and filled your throat again and again.
You felt tears start to slip down your cheeks, the salty flavor landing along his cock for you to taste while you kept going. The smell of his musk made your mind go numb with desire every time your nose brushed along his soft tuft of pubic hair.
“You’re going to make the prettiest little model for me when I’m finished aren’t you? Oh this mouth, this mouth of yours is divine.” 
You hummed in acknowledgement while he continued fucking your throat. You felt your clit burning with arousal, begging for your touch. Your fingers wandered, slipping between your thighs to quell the ache as it grew. With a gasp your lips slipped off his cock, the strings of your slick saliva connecting you to his red tip. He thrust back into your mouth, his pace even faster.
“Don’t do that again, I need to feel that sweet tongue along every inch of me, sweetheart,” he rasped, a distinct whine playing in harmony with his usual baritone.
You kept your mouth on him, moving your fingers in circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. You could feel him twitch inside of you, cock leaking more of that sweet and savory taste you craved. You felt his body shaking, his movements becoming sloppier as he got closer to spilling into you. There wasn’t anything you craved more in that moment than to have him fill your belly with every bit he could.
Again you found yourself a mess, eyes rolling back in your head and body quaking as your orgasm ripped through you. You kept your mouth around him, the feeling of his cock in your throat felt even better when you were in a mind-numbed state of ecstasy. He fucked faster, the bruising pace gagging you and causing more tears to fall down your cheeks in streams.
He was there. He was right there…
You were shocked, and mildly disappointed when he pulled out of you, shooting hot spurts of his precious cum all over your body. Your face wasn’t the only part of you painted by him, he covered your tits, your neck, and even your thighs.
“There,” he sighed, licking his lips as satisfaction washed over him. “Now go back to your chair, my precious little muse. And keep those pretty legs parted, I want to make sure I get all your best features.”
You slowly stood and strode back in your chair, spreading your legs like he’d told you to. He pulled his pants back up, walking back to his canvas where you saw him grab a small dish and a brush before walking back over to you. He knelt down, holding the dish under your cunt and using the brush to collect your arousal into the porcelain bowl. 
“W-what are you–”
“Sh,” he smirked, looking up at you with a mischievous grin. “I’m trying out a new medium, chérie. Keep quiet and let me work.”
He collected your slick until he had a small amount in the dish. He took a bit of his own cum, still decorating your skin in various areas of your body, and he began mixing it with yours.
“Now don’t move, oui?”
You nodded, “oui.”
You watched as he painted, using both your juices to mix the pigment powders he’d brought with him. His eyes darted over the top of the canvas from time to time, narrowed in concentration as he worked. His spend dried on your body and face as the time went on, and you started to feel a bit chill, though you didn’t dare ask to put your clothes back on.
After quite some time he stopped, stepping back with a proud grin sporting his handsome face.
“Come see,” he whispered excitedly.
You walked over to see the painting the man had made of you. It truly was breathtaking, though it was clear the medium wasn’t binding well with the pigment. There were cracks from the dried slick, causing the paint to flake. A heartbreaking sight, but something about it made the creation all the more beautiful. The art piece was temporary, like a quick and wonderful thing that was never meant to last.
Like two strangers meeting a couple of times in a bar only to one day part ways, never to meet again.
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spicyllewyn · 7 months
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Kinktober 7. - Exhibitionism
Rydal Keener x F!Reader.
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Tags & warnings. Exhibitionism + brat tammer. (+18)
Word count. 1.4k
Summary. You want to keep acting like a bitch? He'll treat you like one.
Kinktober masterlist.
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It had been 20 minutes since you couldn't stand yourself. The heat of Greece was killing you; everything felt sticky, your hair had frizzed up after the long time you spent fixing it, and you undoubtedly despised Rydal.
Why? You didn't really have a reason; he was just the last person you wanted to see. Which was a bit silly considering that you were traveling together.
You had a complicated relationship, yes, but he was a good friend and an excellent tour guide.
Oh, and he was amazing in bed.
Maybe he didn't deserve it, but when bad mood struck, it was a lost battle for you and everyone around you. The best thing was to simply wait for time to pass until things relaxed on their own.
You had been walking for an hour, and he kept talking, talking, talking, never stopping. You just nodded or made sounds that translated as a 'Yes, I'm listening' kind of thing.
"And... the last step." This was a tradition of his; you celebrated reaching the end of the path, together and out of breath.
There were almost always kisses involved, and the way you turned your face to avoid him was enough to make Rydal lose the ounce of patience he had left with you. Still, he smiled; he always had everything under control.
"We made it. Bochali viewpoint."
The village looked beautiful from up there, and you couldn't deny that both the silence and having completed the journey did ease your furrowed brow a bit.
"Sit on the edge," he murmured in your ear, and you could only look up, confused by the sudden order.
"What? I don't think it's allowe..."
"Sit on the edge." His voice suddenly grew firmer, and his hand on your lower back gave you a little push that made you walk clumsily. You looked around to make sure that no one else could see you and obeyed. With your gaze ahead, you sat on the rocky ledge that protected the edge of the lookout.
You felt the uncomfortable pressure of the stones against your skin, your thighs exposed thanks to your choice of wearing a sundress that ensured you wouldn't pass out from the heat halfway. Rydal stood up behind you.
"You've been acting like a fucking bitch all day," he whispered in your ear, your cheeks turning a rosy cute tone almost instantly as his hands settled on your hips. "Open your legs."
You weren't far enough away; you could make out the figures of people in the distance, which undoubtedly meant that people could see you.
"Rydal, no, they can see us," you stammered quickly, his right hand sliding down one of your legs until he could give a tug, opening them just as he had asked.
You swallowed hard.
"If you want to behave like one, then I'll treat you like one." One of his hands remained on your thigh, his fingers gripping it to make you understand that you couldn't cover yourself. "We'll let everyone see how much of a bitch you are." He licked his lips before starting to kiss your neck softly.
Maybe that's what you needed to forget your bad mood.
You closed your eyes, and instinctively, your head tilted to the side, giving him more room in the area as his kisses turned into bites and hickies. You both had been there for three days, and you couldn't find any more space on your skin to add more marks.
Your underwear became damp in less time than you would have liked. His fingers teased your pussy lips above the fabric.
"Take off your panties," he whispered against your skin as he slowly slid said piece of fabric down your thighs. You obediently lifted your hips so he could expuse you completely, letting your underwear fall.
You always thought that if you left a souvenir on one of your trips with a guy, it would be one of those locks with both of your names on a cute bridge, not your panties caught in some bushes a few meters away.
You felt the breeze hit the humidity between your legs and a shiver ran through you from head to toe. His left hand held you still in place by your waist, his opposite hand began the work.
He slid his index and middle finger between your lips to wet them with your arousal, you trembled when they found your entrance, firmly inserting themselves inside you.
“Fuck, Rydal.” You stammered as your back pressed against his chest for balance.
“This was what you needed, wasn't it?” He took out his fingers and pushed them back into you with such speed and force that you were able to hear how the liquid coming out of you made his thrusts louder. “If only I had known this was enough to wipe that scowl off your pretty face.”
You nodded quickly with your eyes closed, your head falling onto the boy's shoulder.
“Put your legs up.”
“Rydal.”
“Put them up.” He growled and you obeyed awkwardly. You raised both legs onto the fence, bending them slightly so that you were completely exposed to the panorama. Surely more than one person had already seen you. “I want to show them how to treat a brat like you.”
With his fingers completely inside you, and he continued to push deeper. You felt him rub against that sweet spot inside you that made you whimper out loud.
Your slick wet the stones beneath you, you moved your hips slowly seeking more contact between your body and his hand. You thought you were about to lose your mind when his thumb pressed against your swollen clit, hungry for some attention.
“Look at you, sweetheart.” The hand that was kept on your waist crawled up little by little, cupping one of your tits. He squeezed with his fingers in that rough way that only Rydal knew. “Such a good girl.”
It didn't take long for him to slide his hand under the neckline of your dress to have better access to your breast, pinching your nipple until it hurt, you whimpered with your eyes closed. You were getting closer to your limit.
“Apologize.” Of course, Rydal already recognized perfectly when your body was about to reach it, he felt your walls squeeze his fingers while he increased the pace of his movements. “Come on, tell me you're sorry.”
“S-Sorry, Rydal, s-sorry.” You muttered in a breathy voice as you swore you heard your screams echoing across the landscape. You were close to begging for more.
“Louder, princess, I couldn't understand you.” Princess was his favorite nickname for when you were misbehaving. He always told you that you behaved like one, not exactly as a compliment.
"Sorry, sorry! M-More, please, please. R-Rydal!”
“Are you going to behave like that again?” His thumb played with your clit, giving it quick touches that made your entire body vibrate in place, suffering from small spasms.
When you didn't respond his fingers came out of you, he used them to gently slap your sensitive pussy. It throbbed around nothing and you could swear your eyes were filling with tears from your desperation to cum once and for all.
"Answer to me". One more slap brought out a pained moan from you, your body shaking.
"N-No." You shook your head quickly, your back arching slightly in place as a way to push your hips closer to his hands. “I-I won't, I…” You took a deep breath. You were choking in your own moans. "I promise".
"Good girl". Placing a small kiss on your shoulder he finally gave you what you wanted, his fingers inserting inside you again, his thumb pressing your clit and tracing circles that brought you to the end faster than you expected.
Your whole body tensed as you enjoyed the devastating orgasm, he nibbled on your neck roughly with the intention of leaving more marks on it. His opposite hand kept pinching your nipple on the left side.
His movements became slow as you relaxed, and after a few minutes he finally removed his fingers from inside you and brought them to your mouth, pushing them between your lips in an act that you accepted immediately. With your eyes closed and breathing hard you began to suck them clean, tasting yourself.
"Better?" He placed one last kiss on your cheek, but not before you turned towards him, your lips brushing against his as you felt him smile.
You nodded your head slowly, something almost imperceptible.
"Do you want to eat something?"
You nodded again, and he gave a small laugh.
“No wonder you were in such a bad mood.”
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Tag list. @ninebluehearts @shousha133 @unear7hly @onefinnedwonder-fm @automnepoet @lokisremainingsanity @uncle-eggy @just-a-nightdreamer @spktrgantenk @chinglewingledingledong @queerponcho @faretheeoscar @spideyman-peter @poppyflower-22 @steven-grants-world @urmomsgays-world
Remember to comment if you want to be on the kinktober tag list!! <3
This is my comeback lol not a fan of it but hopefully my brain will start braining
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thot-of-khonshu · 1 year
Note
Hey dear! I come here just to say you’re one of the best steven grant’s writer that I read. I love read all of your creations.
And…
Can I make a request? With our adorable Steven Grant?
I scrolled my Twitter page and this video come for me (is a porn) and I just thought “Jesus… This is so Steven…” so, if you could write something inpired on this video, you’ll made my day! Thank you!
https://twitter.com/onion__01/status/1620325227669630979?s=46&t=o0oCMHCi2SZ92eYmhY9NeA
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SWEET, KIND WORDS!! Your wish is my command from such a hot, hot video.
When The Mood Strikes
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Steven Grant x f!reader
Fresh out of the shower, you decide to give Steven the surprise ride of his life.
Mature 18+
You never know when the mood strikes. Sometimes it’s on a mundane Tuesday night after black bean burgers and white wine. You'd both settled for the evening, Steven taking to his books on the couch and you taking a warm shower to wash off a long day.
When you'd padded out of the shower in just your towel, you took a peek around the corner to see Steven hunched over, incredibly invested in his Egyptian theory book. His curls tousled down his forehead after his own long day, his glasses placed atop his strong nose. His mouth slightly open as he reviewed new discoveries.
There was something so incredibly sexy about when Steven was in the heat of learning.
You dropped your towel, slinking over to him as he still had his nose in the book. You slid next to him on the couch, facing him and purred out a "hi."
"Hi darling, you won't believe what I jus--" He stopped in his tracks when he saw you. Wet, naked and like a fucking dream for him to behold.
Wordlessly, you take the book from him as he adjusts his glasses and you see the lump in his throat bob. You put the book on your nightstand while Steven slides his trousers down.
When you come back to the couch, his cock is out. He's already semi-erect, aching for your relief as you move your legs around his body to straddle him.
You fasten yourself on his cock, rubbing against his shaft that thickens at every move.
"Do you mind if I do everything myself tonight?" You ask. He's looking up at you in awe as if you're a rare statue. He's immobile, shaking his head. His eyes haven't left your face.
You take him, now fully erect and guide him into your wet entrance. Steven whimpered as you fully took him in. You moved at a slow, steady pace above him, removing his glasses and pulling him in for a deep kiss.
Steven moans below you. "Fuck, fuck. This is amazing. You're amazing, I'm gonna--"
"Don't cum just yet, Steven. We're just getting started." You quicken your pace, moving his hands to your breasts. It's getting to be too much for him. The tight wetness of your pussy, your pace slamming his cock into you.
It doesn't take long for Steven to finish inside of you with a groan, leaking out of your folds as you writhe against him, riding out your own orgasm.
Steven kisses and caresses at your nipples, still out of breath from giving all of his cum to you.
"I could definitely do with more surprises like that." He grins at you.
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topmalereaderblog · 7 months
Text
Oscar Isaac // Mature Thoughts 🚨
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"Goodmornin' baby," oscar heard his husband whisper as he was pulled to his chest and spooned. "Morning," he grabbed his husband hand and kissed it lightly.
He felt his husband smile against his neck, giving small kisses. "Did you sleep?"
"Mm- kinda I wasn't tired, but I'm fine," turning his head to look at his husband and giving him a kiss in the lips. "Then let sleep. We both don't have anything to do today. Let's just stay here and cuddle," you said, looking at him in a sleepy state.
"Okay," he said, smiling and trying his hardest to sleep, but couldn't. He needed something, something only you could provide. He loved the way you held him, feeling close to you, but he wanted more.
He rubbed his clothe ass against your crotch trying to stimulate your cock. He felt your grip around him tighten as pushed further against you.
"Mmm~is this what you wanted," you whispered in his ear. "Want me to fuck you, you could have asked" you said to him sleepily.
"Please~ need you," he said desperately grinding harder and faster the feeling of your cock start to harden underneath your underwear giving him more motivation.
"Fuck~ baby," you grabbed his hips and turned yourself around your back against the bed as your husband was now straddling you, his hairy thighs spread open.
"Fine, but you gotta do the work."
Oscar quickly grabbed your wasitband and pulled down your underwear freeing your hard cock into the open. You could feel him kissing your body making his way towards your dick, he rolled back your foreskin and lightly kissing the tip of your cock before swollowing it whole.
"Shit, jus' like that," you said, grabbing the back of his head, guiding it up and down occasionally thrust into his throat. "C'mon babe gotta ride me soon."
Lifting his head up to look at you, you couldn't help but admire the way he looked. You brought his face to you and kissed him while spending his hairy ass and aligning your tip to his hole.
You pushed in slowly, feeling his warm walls wrap around you tightly. Oscars breathing becoming more deep "Please~ just fuck me already need to feel you."
"Shh~ just relax don't wanna hurt you," your cock inched close finally bottoming out when your balls rested against his ass.
And with that Oscar let go slowly bouncing up and down, this is what he wanted he wanted to feel you deep inside him the way your cock streated him so full the way your balls slapped against his ass it was perfect you were perfect.
"Say you're mine, please~"
"I'm yours, Oscar. fuck~ don't stop, baby, please," you grabbed his hips but were slapped away from your grasp. As he pinned them above your head.
"Gonna cum~ Oscar, please," you still felt tired not getting much sleep either, but the euphoria of the situation was overpowering, making you sleep and horny.
You stated, matching his bounces as you thrusted up into him, trying to catch your realse as his walls contorted against your cock you saw your husband cum all over his and your bodies.
And with a final thrust you came inside falling him with your cum pushing it as deep as possible. You slowly guided Oscar towards your chest and kissed his head as you closed your eyes.
Sooner than later you were both asleep holding each other with your cock resting inside his hole.
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bits-and-babs · 1 year
Note
Hi!! Congratulations on your 6000 followers ✨✨✨
☁️ Could I request prompt 2 'You’re nipples are so sensitive today' with Steven Grant please? Thank you 💫
“𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲…”
pairing: Steven Grant x gn!reader
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warnings: soft Steven, domme reader. Nipple stimulation (duh), cumming untouched.
mk masterlist I| main masterlist |I follower celebration I| ask |I
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“O-Ohhh, Jesus-“ Steven whines, his hips rising off the mattress in a feeble attempt to gain friction from the air above him. His cock is throbbing across his abdomen, angry and red and smearing precum across his tanned skin.
You’ve been doing this for hours; teasing him to the point that tears spring to his eyes. Steven’s lashes are wet, his lips kiss swollen. His pecks are littered with hickey bruises, blooming deep purples and bright fuchsias that circle his hardened nipples.
Humming softly, you capture the peak of his left nipple between your teeth. Steven’s back arches off the mattress with a wail as you release the sensitive flesh with a ‘pop’.
“Your nipples are so sensitive today,” you muse, running the pad of your thumb over his right, neglected nipple. Steven flinches at the overstimulation, his cock twitching against his stomach as his eyelids flutter.
“P-Please-“ he begs, voice cracking and pitchy as he struggles against the bindings you had tied around his wrists. You couldn’t trust him not to wrap his hands around his aching cock, and so had removed them from the equation entirely. “Please! I c-can’t-“
“No?” You ask him, arching your brow with a wicked smile before lathing your tongue over the hypersensitive skin of his areola again. Steven shakes his head violently, chest heaving against your mouth as he pants.
“Oh- Oh God- I’m gunna cum, Love- I’m gonna-“
Yes, it’s cruel. However, you don’t feel sorry when you pinch and roll his nipple between your teeth. Steven’s hips twitch, an anguished whine of your name practically echoing off the walls when he cums. It streaks across his stomach and chest, reams of pearl that paint his skin like ribbons.
You smirk when he finally collapses against the mattress, sucking in mouthfuls of air, and reach into the bedside table for the clamps you had been expertly hiding for weeks.
“… Again?”
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clazaries · 21 days
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Karma in the Form of Justice -slightlydark!Steven w/ a hint of Marc x thief!reader
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Summary: An opportunist thief takes their chances stealing from the wrong tomb and has to face their karma in the form of Moon Knight. Basically, don't get on the wrong side about Egyptian matters when it comes to Steven and if he teaches you something, you better remember it. w/c: 6.9k Warnings: none really, mentions of violence and murder :) and my horrible knowledge of ancient egypt. You are the bad guy in this a/n: first fic! I kinda wrote steven slightly differently to canon steven and made him a little darker ;) ENJOY
***
It started out innocent. Because, of course, you were only 7 years old at the time. When the class was emptying out through the doorway, little, dumb Timmy left his British Museum pencil sitting freely on his desk, begging for someone to claim it. That someone was you. The urge to take it was overwhelming and you succumbed to temptation, stashing the pencil deep into your pocket when no one was looking and when no one could figure out the mystery of the disappearing pencil, it was exhilarating knowing that you were the only one who held the secret as to where it went. 
The feeling followed as you got older. 
It started out with a pencil. Then a pencil case. From a pencil case to a school bag. Within that school bag was a purse containing a little over £1.50, but still, it was a treasured find. From purses to watches, necklaces, rings, valuables, anything that could be pawned and make you that slightly bit richer. When you were old enough to realise about the illegalities of your little habits, guilt and paranoia began to make themselves known to you. But they were equally matched with the feeling of euphoria and the adrenaline of getting away with it, so although you did try to tone it back, you never really stopped. 
By your late teens, the routine grew tiresome and you endeavoured for something bigger, better, flashier and ten times more riskier. You had to look no further than your very first pilferage. 
The British Museum.
~~~~
If you ever tried to justify your actions, what sets you apart from the usual petty thieves is patience and intention. Thieves lack the former but embody the latter. They grow greedy and would plan and scheme and waste hours (the stupid ones don’t plan at all), throwing themselves into a situation that would inevitably result in handcuffs. You, on the other hand, were an opportunist, patient enough to know to pounce only when the moment presented itself on a silver platter. Why chase the thrill when you could let it find you? 
On one random day during the week while your parents were enjoying their two week vacation to Italy, you decided to skip school and take a trip to the Museum. You did very little research before entering (after all, less planning means less intention means less suspicion), so you were pleasantly surprised by the museum’s ongoing exhibition of artefacts from ancient Egypt. 
Your legs carried you in no certain direction, weaving in and out of the display cabinets of stone statues, plaques of hieroglyphics and crumbling pieces of sand. Despite it all being rather interesting, the artefacts weren’t the only thing your eyes were scanning for. Within the first room alone, you spotted 6 cameras and one patrol officer meandering just as casually as you were. There was no need to panic though, you were here to peruse. Not to steal. 
You couldn’t promise yourself any restraint should the opportunity arise…
“Ah! I see you’ve found the Ushabti of Pa-Di-Pep.” An enthusiastic voice from your left appeared behind you. You turned to see a man with black curly hair, donning an enthusiastic smile as his eyes bounced from the ‘ushabti’ and you. “26th dynasty,” he muttered a little quieter. “Very old. Well, I guess that’s obvious. Wouldn’t be an exhibition on ancient Egypt if it was modern.” As his laughter died, your eyes caught the glint of his name tag on his jacket. Steven. You gathered he worked here. 
“Oh, cool.” Your tone was rather disinterested and couldn’t be more sarcastic if you tried. “You know your stuff.”
“Oh it’s right up my alley actually. I’ve spent loads of time reading up on this kind of stuff. I could tell you anything about everything in this room. If you’d like?” The way he rolled on the balls of his feet like a child told you that he so clearly wanted to. You decided to indulge in him, only because you could get something out of it. 
“Sure. It would be a great help towards my school project.” A clever lie, one that is easily bought by the sad little man beside you, lighting up his eyes and rolling his enthusiasm back to high tide. “So what about this ushabti, then? Anything else you can tell me about that?” 
The man rambled on for a little while longer than you wanted, waiting for that perfect opportunity to segue onto the question that was hot on your lips. What was it worth?
“...figurines could also be inscribed with passages from the Book of the Dead, the intention of which was to secure safety for the deceased in the afterlife.”
“So not quite the ideal decoration to have in your house then?” 
“Oh no, no, not at all. These are funeral artefacts, usually left buried along with a tomb.” 
“Bummer. I was really looking into sprucing up my living room with one of these,” you jested, bumping a gentle elbow against his. 
He elbowed back, “would really take the ‘living’ out of ‘living room’.”
“Definitely not worth it.” You began to look around the room, gambling with the idea of whether or not an opportunity could be found here. The security might’ve been too much of a risk. But it didn’t mean you couldn’t window shop. “So tell me then, out of anything in here, what would be worth having in your living room?” 
“Where to begin? Oh! Here…” 
Honestly, you zoned out, not having the slightest interest in anything he was saying unless it had any relevance to you. The man droned on and on about the history and the magnificence of each piece he talked about but nothing about its worth. You were about to try and cut ties until you both came across an interesting piece that gained your attention. 
“And this is the bronze figure of the Egyptian God Ptah-”
“Ptah? Who’s he?”
He looked at you, dumbfounded, as if you'd just asked what day it was. “Who’s he? He’s only the Egyptian God of creation?! He was believed to have dreamt creation in his heart and gave it life with his breath.” 
Spare me the poetry, pal. What’s it worth? Give me a number. 
“So top shelf mantle material.” You feigned interest, smiling widely at him. 
“Definitely. A very expensive one at that. Would set you back at least 37 grand.” 
Interesting. 
You stayed for a little while until the number of witnesses dwindled into single digits. The museum was beginning to close up, staff were outnumbering visitors with the majority of them leaving through the gift shop which conveniently sold replicas of the bronze figure ‘Steven’ showed you earlier.
You always told yourself that you never planned, but another opportunity had opened up to you and you couldn’t help but call it fate. 
It went flawlessly. When no one was looking you swiftly snatched the real bronze figure, giving you the seconds you needed to make it to the gift shop before the panicked patrol officer alerted staff. The hubbub of the precious missing artefact opened up the second opportunity to swipe a replica from the shelf. 
“Oh, excuse me!” You had yelled, holding the replica up in the air, the real one encased in your rucksack. “I saw some kid walking out with this, I believe it belongs here.” Your sickly smile fooled the patrol staff, knowing none the wiser, and kindly took the replica with a relieved breath, placing it back onto its pedestal.
You walked out the museum 37 grand richer.
~~~~
Whenever you pulled something off like this, you tended to keep your head low for at least a week after, limiting the amount of times you left your home, and kept communication to an absolute minimum. Within a few weeks, you were back to your normal self. However, this time the euphoria was very short-lived. It had been a day after your theft when the paranoia settled in and you had never known it to be so all-consuming. With a pilferage worth 37 grand, it meant that the stakes were far too high to wager with. Finding rest was a rare luxury for at least a week. You tried to ease your way through the days feeling conflicted and, in all honesty, petrified of the foreseeable. With each day that passed, you found it harder and harder to keep your paranoia at bay and you didn’t dare leave your home and the mental torture plagued you with restlessness; having to check locks four, fives times before you left each room. 
Your home started to feel like less of a safe space. You couldn’t explain the feeling you had every morning when you woke up, itching with an unease that someone had been watching you, spying on you, observing you with resentment in their eyes with what you had chosen to do with your life. It was then you started to notice things being out of place; the ridge in your carpet had changed shape, curtains had been drawn wider than how you usually left them, a kitchen chair was facing just a degree or two out of place. That same night, you remembered standing in the middle of your bedroom with a cold breeze drafting around you, but it wasn’t the reason for your shivers. To your left a creak of the floorboards, to your right a moan of the wind. Something wasn’t right. Something definitely wasn’t right. 
It could’ve been your paranoia, it could’ve been your lack of sleep, but you were certain you spotted two glowing eyes peering through your window from across the street, staring directly into your soul. 
“Fuck this,” you whispered to yourself. Without a moments’ hesitation you reached for the bronze figure you had stashed within the hollows of your wall. “Time to get rid of this.” 
Being quite the weasel you are, you sold the bronze figure for almost double the money on the black market and made the very bold decision to get out of the country before you were consumed by guilt. 
~~~~
3 years later
“You ready?” Amon asks you, propping up his scarf over his face to fight against the sandy winds. You nod to him before following him into the entrance of the tomb that lies just beneath an alcove, hidden in the shadows of the dunes. 
Amon had already scouted the entrance of the tomb a few days prior, so he takes lead on the scavenge guiding the way with a bright white torch and the moment you step into the tomb, you become his shadow. The tunnel is narrow and carries a draft only a fraction of the winds outside and it’s something you’re thankful for, otherwise you would be dripping right through your clothes with sweat. Every step is with caution, every living breath is considered your last, both you and Amon are aware of the risks that these tunnels carry. 
Amon, being a local, had his reasons for entering the tunnel; he knows of the treasures and rarities of what lies inside, a conversation that caught wind and found your eavesdropping ears in the midst of a busy town outside Cairo. Not to mention, he’s as greedy for his share of the fortune if you are skillful enough to succeed. Unfortunately, being a local, he also has his reasons not to enter. On a spiritual level, this tomb is considered to be cursed, ladened with traps of an Egyptian mind that could easily kill you with one wrong step. He is too afraid to do it alone.
On a more realistic level, the structure is unsupported, tunnels weaving their way beneath tonnes and tonnes of ancient bricks, sand and rubble that could collapse at any given moment. That’s the real risk you’re more frightened of. 
“How much of this did you actually scout?” You ask.
“I go until no more.” His broken English rises above the low moaning whistle which Amon claims to be the voice of the dead, warning you to turn back while you still have a chance. You don’t heed his superstitions.
You both eventually reach the point that Amon had mentioned and honestly, you were expecting it to be a lot further into the tomb and not just a few minutes into the journey. Before you, a collapsed section of the tunnel with a small point of entrance between the ground and rubble. Eyeing it up, you realise it’s big enough that you could squeeze yourself through there if you held your breath but taking a second glance at Amon, there’s no way his 5'10 well-fed body could do the same. 
He gestures to the blockage, “I go until no more.” 
“Right.” You heave a sigh, considering your options; ignore the risks and do it alone, or turn around and walk away from it all. 
Alas, that small hole is an opportunity. And where there is an opportunity, there is possibility. 
You begin to strip yourself of your equipment until you are down to a few layers of clothing. You lower yourself onto your stomach heading face first through the opening. “When I get through, pass me my equipment, okay?” Amon nods in understanding, but not without mentioning how crazy he thinks you are. 
It’s an awkward shuffle through to the other side. Hands, elbows, knuckles and knees are scraping against the ground in an attempt to push your way through, aided by the breath of relief when you make it to the other side. Beams of white light shine through the cracks in the rubble and when Amon hears you made it, he passes through your equipment. 
You find his eyes through one of the cracks. “Will you wait?” You reluctantly ask, suddenly feeling vulnerable now that you have been separated. 
“Yes. I have walkie-talkie. Atamanaa lak al tawfiq.” You don’t know what he said, but from his tone and the way he looks at you with hope you guess that it’s along the lines of ‘good luck’. 
With a final nod, you head off into the unknown, your torch shining the way. 
There’s a million thoughts running through your head as you delve deeper into the tomb, but yet not one that gives you any comfort. What if there isn’t anything to find? What if you get lost? What if Amon doesn’t wait for you? What if you get trapped? 
What if you die?
They remind you that you are way out of your depth here, you aren’t an adventurer nor an explorer of any sort. You’re an opportunist thief who takes their chances where they shouldn’t. What the hell are you doing here?
You force yourself to swallow your growing discomfort, clinging on to the small possibility and Amon’s knowledge that you do find something worth your while. Besides, it’s that small possibility that motivated you to crawl through that opening and continue your journey. You have to keep going.
The tunnels eventually open up into a massive hollow cavern lined with broken paths and cliff edges, hanging over a substantial drop. You take a moment to collect yourself, eyes following the paths and finding that the only way is down. Down into the pit of darkness. There isn’t a sound to be heard, and if it wasn’t for your powerful torch, you wouldn’t be able to see a thing. The breeze has calmed to nothing, not a single wisp of your hair moving upon your head and the heat starts to become more of a nuisance. Your palms sweat as you cling onto protruding rocks along the wall and your torch threatens to slip from your grasp. It’s a challenging obstacle course, manoeuvring yourself from one path to another, planning and scheming as you go. 
“You there Amon?” The bleep of the walkie-talkie bounces against the walls of the cavern, its echo travelling for miles. You estimate that you’re about 50 feet down from where you started.
“Yes. Everything okay?” 
“Yeah, the tomb goes deep. I don’t know if the signal will carry if I get to the bottom…” you pause, hesitant over your next words. “This might take a while. If you don’t hear from me in 4 hours, then just leave.” 
“Leave you? No, no, no, I wait in car. You come back in 4 hours. Yes?” 
“Okay. I’ll contact you again when I get to the--shit!!” What stops you mid-sentence is the pair of glowing white eyes at the bottom of the cavern, floating, watching, observing. You’ve seen those eyes before. It was unnerving the first time but it’s even more terrifying the second time, a new wave of fear now rattling your bones. Your heart rate picks up, your pulse almost thrumming in your ears in sheer panic. No, no, no. It can’t be…
You shine your torch towards the eyes but in its deathly white glow, they disappear, reappearing only when you avert your torch.
“Hello? You okay? Hello?!” Amon’s almost yelling through the walkie-talkie. 
“I’m okay, sorry, just…” You have no idea what to say, eyes glued to the glowing ones miles below you. “Just got a fright.” 
“Be careful,” is that last thing Amon says to you before the line goes dark. When all is silent, you’re left to quietly battle against the glowing pair of eyes, unmoving and unblinking. You don’t dare take a single step, adamant on keeping your gaze locked firmly below you with two hands clenched around the torch in a white-knuckled grip. You quickly become stuck in a cycle of shining your torch onto them, repeatedly watching them disappear and reappear in the hopes that they’ll eventually vanish forever. 
“Fuck…just leave me alone,” you quietly murmur to yourself. When the eyes refuse to react, you bravely decide to take a single side step, closer towards your next descent where you know you will have to detach your gaze, but you know you can’t stay here forever. The eyes don’t move, they don’t blink, they just keep watching you. So you take another step, and another, and another…
Within a matter of panic-inducing seconds, you eventually reach the edge of a ridge when your torch begins flickering, the light dimming with each flicker. “No, no, no you have to be kidding me!” Stressed, you bang the torch against your palm in a nervous attempt to keep the light, it’s your only salvation right now, you can’t lose it. You could’ve sworn the batteries were fully charged. You had them charging overnight knowing you were going into a dark tomb, why aren’t they working? Fuck, why won’t they work?! 
Despite your distraction, you’re hyper aware of the eyes below you, eyes that you are not currently watching and having lost your composure, your paranoia floods you with thoughts that this was what they were waiting for; their moment to pounce. They could be scaling the walls towards your position. They could have moved and you wouldn’t know. They could be inches from you and you wouldn’t even notice until it was too late. You feel it. They’re crawling closer and closer and closer…
After a few heart stopping seconds, the torch finally flashes to life and with a desperate sob you shine the bright beam towards the eyes as if the light is your shield. Like before they disappear, but unlike before, they don’t reappear. They’re gone. You can’t see them anywhere. Not above, not below. Gone. 
The stress overwhelms you and you drop to your knees, passing a strangled whimper and letting your heart rate slow to an easy beat. Fuck. You’re still a long way to go, how are you going to manage? 
Against your better judgement, you continue at a slow and agonising pace, still very aware of your surroundings as if you’re expecting the eyes to appear again. Thankfully, about an hour and a half of descending down the multiple jumps and hazardous steps, you reach an opening. Finding another narrow tunnel that leads you away from the cavern seems like a saving-grace and you don’t give the glowing eyes another opportunity to appear before you follow the trail. 
“Amon, can you hear me?” Your walkie-talkie hisses a low frequency back at you. “Amon, are you there?” 
No response. You are truly on your own now. 
You readjust your rucksack straps, retie your bootlaces, wipe the sweat from your brow, and with feigned determination, you set off through yet another dark, narrow tunnel with your untrustworthy torch in hand. 
You quickly find that this one isn’t like the one you and Amon travelled through at the entrance, this one feels like a maze. Despite it having only one path and being completely linear, there is a tight 90 degree corner every 5 or 6 steps. Left, right, left, left, right, left, right, right, left. It’s unnerving because even though you know you can’t get lost and you know exactly where you came from, there’s no way of telling what lies ahead of you, no way of telling what lurks just around the corner, waiting for you in the darkness. What’s worse is that there’s no way of telling if anything is following you until it’s exactly five steps behind you which, by that point, there’s no outrunning it. You’ve never felt paranoia like it and the deeper you trail, the more anxious you become. 
After fifteen minutes, you feel you’re going in circles. Logically, you know it isn’t possible but the disorientation you feel convinces you otherwise. You’ve taken so many left and right-hand turns that you’ve lost count and you just can’t map it out in your head. There has to be an end, this can’t go on for much longer. 
After another five minutes, you stop to gather your sanity tucked neatly into one of the many corners of the tunnel, keeping track of where you came from and where you intend to go. You cleanse your mind with a refreshing drink of cold water, splashing some sparingly across your forehead and the back of your neck, revelling in the small relief it brings you. The droplets on the ground are the only evidence of your travels and you figure it would be a good indication should you succeed in making it back. Just a couple of more hours, you tell yourself. You can do it. 
Composed, you rise to your feet ready to take another step but before you do, your torch flickers again, subjecting you to intermittent seconds of pure darkness. Your heart stops dead in your chest. The last time that happened the eyes were watching you and you can’t bear to think that time is repeating itself. 
Your strategy from last time fails you and no matter how hard you hit the flashlight against your palm, this time it doesn’t come back to life. Flicking the switch off and on again does it no good either and your breathing becomes panicked. Crouched in the corner, you’re enveloped in darkness. It’s so dark that you begin to see swirls of your imagination floating in front of your eyes, so dark that you can’t even see your hand inches from your face, yet still your eyes flicker around frantically as if you could see. 
Helpless, you turn to your other senses, feeling around the rocky sandy ground in search of your rucksack where you know you packed emergency flares. It’s a struggle to rummage for them and until you do, you keep on high alert, listening out for anything out of the ordinary. 
That’s when you hear it; the crumbling of sand, the crunching of footsteps and the soft ruffle of fabric. Someone’s here. There’s no doubt about it. Everything in you is screaming to just abandon the flare and just run but fear keeps you rooted with your hand deep into your rucksack. Your heart feels like a weight in your chest, banging against your rib cage to escape the situation you’re in but your brain tells you to stay, hoping that whoever, whatever, is here is just as blinded by the darkness as you are. If you move, it’ll hear you. 
Your hand eventually knocks against the flare, feeling the familiar cylinder encased in your hand. Alarmed, you pull it out and set it alight, its red flare bursting to life. It gives light to the corridors to your right and to your left…where a tall, daunting mummified figure in white stands, glaring its glowing white eyes on you. Its sudden presence kick starts your reflexes and adrenaline pumps through your veins, pushing you to your feet with a hysterical whimper escaping your throat, and before you even know it, you’re running almost blindly through the tunnel. There isn’t a second thought spared to the broken flashlight and the rucksack full of equipment you mistakenly left behind, running further and further away from whatever is stalking behind you. With the flare outstretched, red walls zoom by you as you try to cut every corner, scraping shoulders and elbows against the walls in a desperate attempt to increase the distance between you and that thing. 
You can hear it behind you, marching at a quick pace, its footsteps drumming into your ears gradually getting closer and louder. Oh God. It’s right behind you. Keep running, keep running, fuck just don’t stop running!
Tears and sweat glide down your cheeks and you begin to worry that it’ll be the last thing you feel before this being captures you. However, you're granted one last chance of salvation when you turn a corner and see that the tunnel stretches out into a long, straight, narrow path, giving your legs a chance to break into a full uninterrupted sprint. Towards the end you see an archway leading you into the heart of the tomb where a sarcophagus lies in the centre of the room; the very one Amon described as being a goldmine of treasuries. If you can just make it there…
You pick up speed at the moment the tunnel surrounding you begins to rumble, tremors setting your feet off course and pushing you off balance. Little stones and flecks of dust fall from above you and land in your eyes but you know you can’t afford to stop, knowing that that being is still behind you. Little did you know that you had set off a trap, stepping on a plate that triggers the corridor to collapse, no doubt a preventative measure to stop people like you from pilfering the tomb within. But you had been running so quickly, you barely even noticed. Perhaps if you keep running just as fast, you might be able to escape from being crushed to death…
The rumbling becomes so loud that it drowns out the footsteps from behind you and you put all of your remaining strength into sprinting as fast as you can, pumping blood and adrenaline to your legs as they carry you closer and closer to the tomb. Every step is paired with an exhausted pant, your own voice crying out with exhaustion and fear. You have to make it. You can do it.
You dive into the tomb just milliseconds before a large solid rock closes off the entrance, separating you and the being. 
All is silent in the tomb. The rumbling ceases and the footsteps are long forgotten. When a shred of sense returns to you, you take the dying light of the burning flare to the wooden torches dotted around the tomb, not only giving light to the room but giving light to the very, very fucked up realisation you’ve just had. Four solid walls surround you. 
There’s no relief to be had, because although you had just escaped being crushed to death, you now face death in a far more morbid way. There isn’t another way out. You’re beginning to think that you’ve made yet another mistake; being crushed would’ve been a quick and painless death. Now, with no other means of escape, you’ll be subjected to a long, agonising, painful torment, forever waiting for the moment that starvation, thirst, suffocation and time consumes you.
You didn’t just enter any tomb, you entered your own tomb. 
“Fuck!” You scream, falling to your knees, already bloody, bruised and scraped but the pain doesn’t translate when you’re deep in despair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The walls swallow your cries, accepting your defeat. 
If it wasn’t for the situation you find yourself in, you would be revelling in the numerous pieces of ancient artefacts around you, gushing over the rusted gold that shines on the mantles on the walls, laughing with hysteria about how your discovery had just made you a thousand times richer. But no, all you can think about is how claustrophobic you feel, how your lungs burn in your chest and how you will never see the light of day again. 
You spare a thought to your parents whom you had failed to keep in contact with. For the first few months you kept it to just once a week; a picture of your face with an unidentifiable background and a message telling them you were safe. They learned pretty quickly after your sudden disappearance that you weren’t going to answer any of their questions and soon accepted that your weekly message would have to suffice. It was all they needed to know; you were okay and you were safe. Despite the numerous ‘how’s, ‘where’s, ‘what’s, and ‘when’s, there was only ever one ‘why’. 
‘Why did you do it?’ 
Your parents knew exactly why you fled on the day the British Museum had reported a missing bronze figure alongside a grainy picture of your profile captioned ‘number one suspect’, but the one little detail that left them mentally spiralling over their own parenting techniques, wondering where they went so wrong was…why? 
Why did you do it? 
Why indeed. 
The pencil, the pencil case, the rucksack, the purse, the £1.50, watches, jewellery, everything you had ever snagged in your life, was it all worth it? Was this your karma? 
You aren’t sure how much time has passed before you have no more tears left to cry. Completely numb from crying you come to a stand, quickly arriving at the anger stage in the five stages of grief over your own inevitable death. You begin kicking the sarcophagus, knocking things off the mantles and punching anything your fist can connect with with reckless abandon that you don’t even care for how much your temper tantrum is costing you. Everything hurts but you just. Don’t. Care. 
Hours later, exhaustion begins to creep up on you just when the fire of the torches begins to flicker to nothing and before they completely die out, you take one last look around your tomb. You think it’s been more than four hours now which means Amon will be long gone. You are all alone.
Lying in the corner surrounded by the remains of your temper tantrum with all hope lost, you close your eyes. 
~~~~
“Tut tut tut.” A male voice murmurs, arousing you from your slumber. The room is dark when your eyes flicker open, so it’s impossible to miss those glowing white eyes standing at the far end of the room. Fuck. Not again. They startle you so much they jolt your body to full attention, your chest feeling heavy as if you had been defibrillated back to life. “What a waste.” The footsteps lurk around the sarcophagus, scuffing against the shards of the ceramic artefacts you smashed earlier. How he can see, you have no idea. Yet, you still feel the need to push yourself further back against the wall.
You take a shaky breath, mustering the courage to speak. “Please…” The eyes sway casually as the being walks nearer, standing over you cowering in the corner. Before either of you say another word, something drops at your feet. It’s your rucksack. 
“Open it,” he instructs smoothly, a hint of an American twang interlacing his words. “It’s much too dark in here, and I’d prefer to see the fear in your eyes when you get what you deserve.”
Keeping your eyes rooted to the being in front of you, deja vu runs coldly through your veins as your hand sneaks into your rucksack to find the flare. However unlike last time, you’d rather face him in the dark, not a single cell in your body wishes to greet the mummified adonis standing inches before you, threatening you. 
“Go on,” he encourages, eyes flitting to your bag. He knows you don’t want to. It’s pitiful how much you don’t want to. 
When the red glow illuminates there you see him, in fact it’s all you can see. The intimidating being you had only seen for a split second before in full display. His silhouette is so all-encompassing, the red glow doesn’t reach far past him. He’s wrapped neatly in white bandages with gold embellishments on his chest with a flowing cape cascading down his back, resembling warrior regalia. Shadows flicker behind the contours of his hood that hangs over his masked face, giving away no emotion. Everything about him is a mystery and you can’t help but feel vulnerable knowing he can see everything about you, reading the terror in your eyes as if it was written out for him. 
You pull your legs to your chest as he crouches down, levelling with you. 
“I usually don’t deal with petty thieves until they start messing with things that shouldn’t be messed with.”
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” 
He chuckles menacingly, tilting his head. “Looking for an escape? Don’t bother. You won’t be leaving here. At least not until I’m done with you.” 
“What…” Your voice scrapes against your dry throat. It’s been hours since you last had a drop of water. “What are you going to do to me?” 
He doesn’t immediately respond, but instead looks into his own reflection in the gold plating of an artefact you smashed, muttering a tense “not now, Steven.” Steven? What? 
He turns back to you. “The same thing I did to your partner on the surface.” Amon. Shit! 
“Is…is he dead?” 
“Almost. I left him with just enough of a heartbeat to keep him alive, enough to teach him a lesson I know he will learn. You - however - I have no hope for.” 
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, “I was only exploring.” 
“Hmm, I highly doubt that - shut up Steven!” Your brows furrow with confusion, who the hell is Steven? Looking around, you can’t seem to see anyone else here in the room with you and this being. He doesn't give you a second to question his weird antics, coming very quickly to a stand with a grunt and pulling what looks like a gold, crescent shaped weapon from his chest and into his hand. “You’ve been thieving from the moment you knew you could. You know yourself you’re never going to change, so I’m here to put an end to it, to make sure you never get away with something like this again - dammit Steven, fine! But don’t let her get away. She’s mine.”
“What the fuck-” Before another word leaves your lips, the being morphs, or rather, his regalia does. The bandages unravel, withering away to reveal a white tux, donned by the same glowing eyes peering down at you. 
“Exploring, eh?”  
You’re taken aback by the minor change in his voice, his inflection. All Americanisms smoothly disappear and in place a British accent shapes his words. One that seems far too familiar for your liking…
“What…” 
“Gathering research for your school project?” He crouches down again, leaning closer and invading your space. “Or scouting the place out for a heist.” His tone isn't questioning anymore. They’re words of a statement, of a fact he knows is true. It’s really starting to shake your nerves. Something about all of this feels disconcerting. 
“Who the fuck are you?” 
“It’s a shame, really.” He stubbornly ignores your question, picking up a fractured piece of artefact. “This statue would’ve looked really nice on a living room mantle. Really would’ve spruced up the place.” 
Your heart stops and your breath catches in the back of your throat. The conversation throws you back into your memories, images of the British Museum flashes through your mind. The Egyptian exhibition. The bronze figure. The bumbling staff member who showed you it all. The name on his badge was…
“Steven.”
“Ah, so you do remember. See, you’re smarter than you look. That’s what fooled me all those years ago when you manipulated me into thinking you were just an innocent student looking to learn. You bloody well used me, didn’t you? Cost me my job.” 
“Look, Steven, I’m sorry, o-okay? I was young and stupid, I didn’t know-” 
“Young, yes. Stupid? No. You knew exactly what you were doing when you walked out with that figure. You knew exactly what you were doing when you stashed it in your bedroom walls. I looked everywhere for that statue, waiting for you to reveal where you hid it. And you fucking sold it!” So you weren’t seeing things that night. You know that feeling of being watched wasn’t just a figment of your imagination, it was Steven. “You knew what you were doing when you walked into this tomb. But I bet you don’t know whose tomb you walked into, or what ancient artefacts you recklessly broke. Still ‘willing to learn’? I hope so, ‘cos I think it’s fucking hilarious.” 
Steven comes to a stand and begins marching over to inspect the side of the sarcophagus. At that moment, the light of the flare illuminates the rest of the room and your eyes dart to the entrance where the stone that locked you in here no longer exists. How? Never mind. Survival first, question later. As ever, you take the opportunity and make a dash for the entrance, your legs a little lethargic from your lack of sustenance. 
Sadly, you only get so far. A broad arm wraps around your neck and pulls you flush against Steven’s body. “Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast.” His crushing strength borders dangerously between cutting off your oxygen but keeping you conscious enough to hear the words as he mutters them down your ear. “See this sarcophagus here? Do you know who it belongs to? 
“No!” You ball, kicking up a fight. You barely push him off-balance. “I don’t give a fuck, let me go!” 
“See this is why I find the irony of this hilarious. Go on, have a guess. I’m intrigued to see if you’re capable of learning a lesson.”
Steven man-handles you, gripping your jaw to fore to look at the large sarcophagus in front of you littered with inscriptions of a language you can’t translate and decorated with hieroglyphics you don’t understand. You get the feeling it’s something that Steven had already told you about during his ramblings at the museum. But he talked so much about shit you didn’t care for and you didn’t retain any information unless it had to do with its price. Fuck, whose sarcophagus is this? 
“I…I don’t know. Please, just let me go, I promise I won’t steal anymore.” You’re sobbing now, your tears rolling down your cheeks to be absorbed by Steven’s white suit. Frustrated, Steven tightens his hold on you.
“No, come on. Focus. I need to know that you didn’t just use me, I need to know I taught you something. Now what was it? I’ll give you a clue, it was one of the first things we talked about.”
Fuck. It was about some Ushabti thing, right? 
“The Ushabti?” 
“God, you butcher the pronunciation. But well done. The Ushabti of who?” 
You really can’t remember, and you feel it will be the death of you if you don’t. So overrun with hopelessness, you completely give in to defeat and fall weak in Steven’s arm. “I just want to go home.” 
“No, not the Ushabti of I-just-want-to-go-home. Who. Was. It?” 
Come on, think! Who was it? Da…Fa…Pa-something. Pa…Pa…
“I’m going to be reeaalllyyy disappointed if you don’t get this.” Steven’s harsh voice vibrates down your ear, his mask pressing firmly against the side of your ear. 
“Pa…”
“Yes?” 
“Pa-Di…” 
“Almost there, darlin’” 
Finally, the knowledge springs to life and the syllables roll off your tongue. “Pa-Di-Pep?” 
“See? You did know it, which means you’ll know what these inscriptions are on the side of this sarcophagus and on all the relics in this tomb, which means you know why I find this so funny.”
If you had the breath to sigh, you would. He’s right. You do know why. The scraps of information he fed you come whizzing back with a stab of irony. You understand it now. 
“Passages from the Book of the Dead, the intention of which was to secure safety for the deceased in the afterlife.” You relay his words back in your voice, Steven chuckling maniacally behind you.
“And you just broke them all. Bad luck, eh? No safe passage to the afterlife for you. My buddy Marc will make sure of it. If you haven’t already realised, I’m the brains of this body. Marc is the brawn. Never misses a kill that one. Do you, Marc?” 
Steven suddenly shuffles behind you, maintaining that iron steel grip he has around your throat. When the material of the mask traces the shell of your ear and his voice returns, his tone has changed. Deeper, lower, threatening. 
American. 
“Kind of you to say, Steven. Y’know, it’s a shame Steven isn’t kind enough to let you live. So, little thief, what’ll it be? Shall I kill you where you stand, or do you want to join Pa-Di-Pep in his sarcophagus?” 
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wardenparker · 3 months
Text
Summer Rose
Professor!Santiago Garcia x female OC Co-written with @julesonrecord
Rating: E for Explicit 18+ Word Count: 6k Warnings: OC is named (Daphne Antonelli) but has minimal physical description. Age gap 10+ years. Both parties are consenting adults. Alcohol consumption, mutual pining, professor/student, oral sex (f and m receiving), 69, sexy mythology references, vaginal sex, protected sex, fingernails/scratching, a bit of biting. Summary: Daphne is having an absolutely terrible day and has missed office hours to turn in her final paper to Professor Garcia. When she turns up on his doorstep to turn in her assignment, the professor she's been crushing on for ages offers her a supportive ear -- and help relaxing. Notes: A little collaboration between myself and my beloved Jules featuring a character we've working on (Daphne) and today's wet daydream of college professor!Santiago. Honestly this is just a bit of porn with the barest thread of a plot, and we're not sorry. Also, just a disclaimer that I have no clue how one finishes a masters degree, but it doesn't matter. We're here for the porn, not the threadbare plot.
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Twilight is beautiful on campus. Santiago has always thought so, even before he had the letters after his last name that demarcate him as faculty. He enjoys the blush of the sun fading, the purple of the dusky sky fading to blue-black, indigo, then glitter with starlight.
He likes walking home after class this way; a quiet moment to ease his mind after lectures and before grading. This late in the semester, it will be one of the last walks before the summer term. As he passes through the quiet neighborhood and climbs his front doors, he glances up, spies Orion's Belt in the heavens. He thinks about introducing the story next time he holds his Mythology and Myth-Making class. Did he include it this year? He can't remember. He'd been... distracted.
His phone pings with a text as he sets his messenger bag on the dining room table and undoes his cuff buttons, rolling them up. Too damn hot for this, damn dress code rules... He peers down at the message, and notes it's from an unknown number. His students know to text him if they have an emergency, so he opens it straight away.
Hi, Professor Garcia. I know that it's after office hours, but the fact is...I missed office hours altogether. Would it be an inconvenience to call you and explain? Otherwise I'm not sure how to get my final paper to you. Thanks, Daphne Antonelli (Mythology and Myth-Making)
Santiago lifts an eyebrow. He recognizes the name. Oh yes, he recognizes it. In fact, he's called it to mind more often than is probably appropriate, along with the image of a very beautiful graduate student with a focused stare and drop-dead gorgeous eyes. She was an attentive student, responsive, ready to answer questions but never one to hog the spotlight, making insightful, empathetic, and razor-sharp questions. It was unlike her to miss anything, never mind not visit office hours. They'd spent many such visits over the semester. Short. Professional. Of course.
So why does his heart rate increase, his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he thoughtfully taps the phone screen, spelling out a careful, professional text?
Hi Daphne. As this is your final paper, I would really like to have it ASAP as I am required to submit grades on Monday. Why don't you swing by my home to drop it off?
Feel free to call, he types, then deletes before sending. He wanted to hear her voice. He did need that paper. No reason why he couldn't do both in person. No reason at all.
He had had his graduate students over for a spring dinner after midterms so they know how and where to find him. The bonfire that night had lasted for ages, as tipsy grad students who were feeling feisty with a full meal in their bellies debated the cultural implications of different myth origins and the similarities of some creation myths that they had just been discussing in class. Daphne had been amongst the students that night, animatedly defending her points with unmatched ferocity that was impossible to ignore.
The text that comes through a few moments later takes a while for her to decide on, judging from the continuously undulating bubbles indicating how long she was typing compared to the brevity of the eventual message.
Thank you for understanding. I'll be over shortly so the rest of your night isn't interrupted.
Satisfaction. He tosses the phone down and leans over the table with a slow sigh, taking a look around the room. The same old familiar wall-to-wall bookshelves line the tidy bungalow. The same pendant lamps up, tacky, that he'd meant to change when he bought this place... four years ago. His degrees might be hung in his office upstairs, his clothes are here, he shaves here, but who does he have here, really? Nobody. Warm sheets for a night and then no one. Nothing. There was no reason to bother, really—
And then Daphne. Daphne with her slowly blossoming smile that melted from shy to beaming when he said hello to her on campus. Daphne with her neat notes in the margins, Daphne with the legs that had so often been tucked primly next to his as they leaned over a book or paper together, never touching but so close, close enough so that he could smell her perfume: cinnamon, orchid, incense.
"Fuck," he mutters to the table. There's no way of hiding from himself, not really. He pushes off the wood and stalks to the kitchen for a beer. He cracks it open efficiently and takes a long swallow, Adam's apple bobbing. He wants her. That much is clear. How could he not? She was intelligent, fierce, gorgeous. He could fool himself all he wanted, her coming here was a bad idea. It's been a long semester, keeping her close but not too close.
But, he realizes with a jolt, she's about to graduate. This is her final, his course is over. He is... well, technically by Monday, no longer her professor.
"Fuck," he mutters again, this time to a magnet of a catfish, his only catch from a weekend out fishing with the guys.
It's twenty minutes later precisely when his doorbell rings. There was no sound of a car outside on the street or dramatic slam of a door, but when he opens the door there is a bicycle leaning against his front gate and a frazzled looking student on his front step.
"Hi, Professor." Daphne stands on his step with a mix of anxiety and embarrassment on her face and she digs into her bag right away to pull out a manila folder with his class name and number written on it alongside her name. "I'm so sorry about this. I know it's technically late and that you'll have to dock points for that. It's completely my fault."
"Hey, hey, easy." He lifts a palm and lowers it soothingly, taking the manila folder gently. "There's no need to be sorry, accidents happen." Then, as he knew he would, he asked, "Would you like to come in? It's the end of semester, though. Maybe you have a party you'd rather get to?" He smiles fondly, bumping his shoulder against the doorframe and folding his arms to show off his tanned forearms, shirt sleeves straining slightly.
Yeah, he's still got moves. And he wants to show them off. To Daphne. Who is no longer his student. Who's staring up at him with the anguish slowly sliding from her face. He wants to remove it, stroke her stress away with his thumb, ease it out of her slowly—
Fuck, he's screwed.
"I'm not really – I mean, I haven't –" She doesn't get invited to parties, is what she's trying to say. Not that she doesn't enjoy parties, because she does. She absolutely does. The night they spent here at his house just sitting around the fire talking and sharing a meal was one of her favorite graduate school memories. But she isn't great at socializing with the other students in her program, she's found. There is something a little odd about Daphne, and it has reverberated through her life to keep her just a little on the outside of normal.
Maybe that's why she nods, accepting the invitation with swallowed thanks, and steps inside her professor's house. Her professor who has more than a decade on her in terms of age but has never held his years of experience or knowledge over her head. If they were colleagues, she might have even considered him a friend. As it is, being his student, she's stuck in a sort of limbo with a useless crush and fond memories. "I've had kind of a crazy day," she admits sheepishly. "Even if I had been invited to any of the parties on campus, I don't think I would be going."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Daph," he says, with real sympathy. "Is everything all right? I just opened a beer, would you like anything?"
"A pipe burst at my place and my landlord is claiming I'm liable, then my computer crashed in the middle of doing one last edit on your term paper and the tech office gave me grief, it's just...it's been a long day." She barely even nodded in agreement that a drink would be a huge relief, but he is immediately retreating to his refrigerator to grab her a beer. "Oh, and my summer plans fell through today." Her shoulders sag, the stress of the day dragging her down and determined to keep her there. "I'm just lucky I got up to take a shower first thing this morning or else the day would've been even worse."
"Oh, Daph, that's a rotten one," he says, placing the opened beer on the coffee table and settling his hands on her shoulders. "What happened to your summer? Surely you're going off to some incredible internship, you're more than qualified." And she is. He'd have recommended her to any program she wanted, and had, in fact, written her a letter of recommendation earlier in the year. "You know I'm not going to dock points, right?" he asks more quietly. "None of today was your fault, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. That shouldn't burrow into her chest and bloom into warmth like it does, and Daphne's eyes drop to the floor immediately to carefully focus on the toes of her boots instead of looking him in the face. That's your professor. Don't be creepy. "I had that internship lined up in London with the publishing company but they pulled the rug out from under me." She shrugs, feeling more vulnerable in the moment than she wants to admit. "Apparently the CFO's kid decided all of a sudden that he wants to be an author, so they rescinded my offer. He's going to get it instead."
His chest pangs. He hates that there is nothing he can do to fix this for her -- because she's right. That's the cherry on top of an extremely long day, and all he can do then is what feels most natural, which is to lift her chin up with the crook of his finger, his voice soft, gentle. "Hey."
When she meets his gaze, he watches them flicker slightly, scanning his face as he drinks in hers. Her eyes are so pretty. Like fresh honey dripped from a spoon.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he says again, and means it. "You deserve that spot, but you'll find something better, okay? Hey, look at me." She had turned away slightly, embarrassed or perhaps made shy by his praise, but her eyes fix on him again, golden and fringed with thick lashes. "I promise, you will. There's lots of ways into this world, and you're too talented not to break in. Okay? You want to sit down, tell me about it?" His fingers clasp around her delicate elbow, ready to guide her to the couch.
"There's not a lot more to tell, to be honest." Two people with two beers steer almost mechanically toward the couch, and Daphne finds herself being seated on his plush leather sectional just before he sits down beside her. This spring has been chilly and he still has a throw blanket out, which he pulls close to them as if to have it at the ready. "No summer in London means I'm going to have to either go back home and figure out my next step there, or find a new place here and do the same. Because I'm sure as hell not staying in the place I'm in now. As if the landlord weren't bad enough, now the plumbing is going."
"Huh." He trails his arm over the back of the sofa, sipping his beer thoughtfully. "What kinda guy is this-" Asshole, he wants to say, but quells it, "Fellow? Any chance he'll back off? Perhaps once he... calms down, he can be reasoned with." He's approaching the boundary of reason himself. He can see it, taste it, the drip of something sweet down his throat. "Beautiful woman like you? You could convince a man of anything."
The pffft sound that comes out of her mouth goes with a wave of her hand, but she does accept a sip of the beer that he's brought her with a grateful sigh. "The apartment is a piece of shit anyway, if I'm honest. I hate it there. It's just that it's affordable." There's a moment's pause where Daphne's eyes widen in panic and she deflates again with a groan. "I already put in my notice at my job, oh my god."
"Hey, hey, Daphne." He puts his beer down and reaches for her, wrapping one arm around her waist, cupping her flushed cheek with the other hand. "C'mon, it's going to be okay, I promise, but for right now, I need you to relax, okay? Can you do that for me, bebita?" They're so close now, almost nose to nose. He's lost in her eyes again, but he can feel the burning heat of her little cheek in his palm.
She had been so sure she was going to start crying instantly with that realization, but two searing hot hands on her skin steady her. His touch is grounding, pulling her away from the edge of panic and drawing her into his aura so effortlessly that she didn't even realize how close he was until she felt his breath on her skin. "O—okay—" He can't know that the thing keeping her from having a complete panic attack on his couch right now is the fact that all the blood in her body has rushed to her aching clit, but damned if it isn't working. Daphne nods vaguely, trying to keep her head from swimming, but all she feels is his hands on her and the way his coffee brown eyes have turned to oceans in front of her. "Okay," she repeats softly.
"Okay?" Santiago nods, his breath coming a little fast. "I'll help you. I'll help you relax, sweetheart. You tell me to stop any time, okay?" He leans closer so slowly, their breaths mingling. He can almost count her eyelashes. Her nose is sweet and soft as it brushes his, but it's nothing compared to her plush lips. They seal against his and he feels the world fall out from under him. Something deep and ravenous unlocks and spills out all over his inside. He barely chokes down a groan.
There is no doubt that this is the most surreal moment of Daphne's life, and it isn't as though she hasn't been in some weird situations before. It's a miracle that she managed to get her beer bottle onto the nearby coffee table without spilling or knocking anything over, but she needs her hands for this. For a year and a half she's been working on a master's degree and avoiding too much contact with the one professor who makes her mind fog up and her daydreams wander, until finally she had landed in his classroom.
And now on his couch.
Kissing him.
If it were anything besides the most surreal moment of her life, she might have jumped backward or at the very least, pulled away. But Daphne has imagined kissing Santiago Garcia far too many times to do anything but sigh in response and open up for him like a summer rose.
"It's okay," he repeats soothingly between kisses: to himself, to her, to the waiting tension in the room. "I've got you, cariño. I've got you now, there you go, so sweet for me. So pretty. Beautiful, smart girl." He deepens the kiss, tasting her lips slowly, reverently, one hand sliding slowly down her soft sweater to rest on her waist and squeeze gently. He brushes his thumb over the soft material and then flicks it open, wanting closeness, to drag his palm up her thin blouse, wide and slow across her back.
The sound that bubbles out of her is a plaintive moan, unsure but wanting, and one of her hands grasps for steadiness on his arm even as the other instinctively sinks into his curls to keep him close. The battle is want versus wisdom, and it takes longer than she's proud of for Daphne to drag her lips from his and pant for a breath that still has no prayer of clearing her head.
"But." The fog in her mind has settled thick and heavy like the arousal in her core, and even as she's trying to straighten herself out she's still clinging to him with digging fingers and sharp nails. "You'll get fired," she manages to breathe out a few seconds later. Her only real protest being that she doesn't want him to get in trouble over a whim – which is surely all this is to him.
"Baby, no, no," he shakes his head, almost laughing with relief that that is her only concern. "No, you're graduating. I'm not your teacher any more. You handed in your paper. We can finally do what I – what I've been—" Shit. This is going to sound so bad. "What I've been thinking about since I met you," he admits.
Santi leans his forehead against hers, sighing. "I'm sorry. It's so inappropriate, but it's true. I've been waiting so long to kiss you, baby girl. Let me kiss you." He brushes his fingers over her knee, lifting her skirt just a little. "Let me make you feel so good, my little nymph. Do you even know how long you've been haunting me?" His mouth brushes her again, gently, over the corner of her mouth, the edge of her jaw, the flutter of her pulse, which smells delicious, deep and floral, her scent.
His cock aches against his zipper.
"Fuck." This time Daphne groans, sinking further into the couch, and feels herself giggle softly in disbelief more than she's actually aware of making the sound herself. "You've been haunted?" She challenges, eyes burning with courage now that she's heard his confession. Heard him beg. Did he really just beg for her? "Do you know how long I put off taking your class because I didn't know if I could even concentrate around you?"
Using the opportunity of her gently reclining body, Santiago leans in for the catch. "I never could," he murmurs into the hollow of her throat, his hands sweeping her skirt up, revealing her pretty legs, and god her thighs, so plush and luscious in his hands. He takes a moment to stroke there, brush the hem of her panties with his thumbs. "Never. You came in with Eros and made me Apollo." One thumb slips gently under the gusset of her panties. "Are you running, little nymph, hm?"
"Fuck—I—no, I—I don't even think my legs work now," she huffs, all at once tense as a bowstring with desire and measurably more relaxed as the reality of the man she's wanted forever finally touching her exactly where she wants him.
Well, not exactly. But it's not going to take long to get there at the rate they're going.
"What should I..." Daphne's head falls back on the sofa cushion as his thumb strokes her slit and she moans. "Santiago is a lot of syllables to moan."
"Santi. You can call me Santi from now on," he murmurs, removing his thumb from her panties only to twist the thin white cotton things, Jesus, so fucking wet, around his fingers and slide them down, down. He tosses them to the side and shucks off her high heeled boots while he's there, his eyes locked on where she glistens for him, needs him. "But you can call out any god you want to, bonita." He flicks his gaze to hers and smirks. "Show me how much you were paying attention, yeah?"
If she can even remember a single name from his class at this point she'll be shocked, and the cool air of his house on her overheated cunt is enough to have her squirming instinctively underneath him. Her brain has pretty much given up the ghost already, overstimulated in the very best way possible far before the rest of her body feels the same. Although she has a feeling that it will get there. "Santi..." Trying it out, there is a sweetness on her tongue and heaviness in her core that really is just a whine waiting to break free. Daphne's hands have found their way to his shirt front, fumbling to free the buttons even while she's nearly shaking with desire. "If you get to touch me, I want to touch you, too."
His lips find hers again, almost impatient to taste her again. "You can touch me, I want you to," he mutters against her lips, lifting her blouse hem from her skirt as she takes care of his buttons. Santiago doesn't pause, doesn't make it easy for her or for himself, drowning himself in the touch of her, the sweet little noises emanating from her throat, the ones taking a running leap on the way to begging for everything he's ready to give. He lifts her shirt over her head and begins tugging down her skirt an inch at a time, his fingers dragging slowly over her hips, her now bare legs.
Nothing is exactly torn away, not specifically, but the pile of clothing that collects beside his living room sofa accumulates quickly and haphazardly — shirts and sweaters and everything else discarded blindly as they drown in kissing each other and swallowing those moans that make their way to the surface over and over again. With that building freedom Daphne finds a buried courage — not that she is a timid lover by any means, but there is an eagerness below the surface here that she hasn’t felt in so long. When the only thing left between them is the flimsy pair of boxers that do nothing to disguise how achingly hard he is, Daph bites down on his bottom lip to pull a groan out of him and soothes it away by sucking on the same spot as her fingers slip under the waistband of his last remaining piece of clothing.
"Fuck," he hisses, hips jumping forward so that the weeping tip of his cock brushes against her hand and he groans. He sits up straighter, caught in a web, aching to touch her – at least take his boxers off, fuck – but loathe to move away from her curious little hand. He settles for sitting up on his knees, staring at the place she's touching him, watching her explore him as though in a trance.
Taking advantage of the momentary shift, Daphne sits up along with him and nudges Santi backward so that he is on his back now instead of her. His curls are mussed and his eyes are so black with lust that he looks positively debauched before she’s even had a chance to touch him very much. Once he’s on his back, though, Daphne hooks her thumbs in his boxers and peels them away, groaning at the sight of him. Harder than diamonds and leaking precum like an eager teenager, a sly smirk rides across her face knowing she did that to him. “I want to suck your cock,” she admits, gaze flickering between his length and his blackened eyes. “You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent imagining sucking your cock under that desk in your office.”
Santiago closes his eyes a moment. Is he fucking dreaming? Or is his most fucked fantasy coming true before his eyes?
"Probably almost as many as what I've spent imagining what that wet little pussy tastes like." His voice is a low rasp, but he pulls himself together enough to halt her hand on his throbbing dick. His fingers squeeze around hers, gliding over the rigid shaft slowly, with control. His breath fans over her forehead. "You want this, baby? Hm? Gonna have to give me something in return. Come here," he urges, a low purr, her very own siren. "Come here and give me a little taste, cariño."
“Even Kama had to worship a lover in order to find his release,” Daph breathes, having spent an entire semester doodling images of the Hindu love god’s sugarcane bow and bird companions in her notes while thinking of all the various ways her professor could be worshipped.
"Kama was burnt alive by Shiva, sweetheart, and I don't plan on doing any different to you. Come here, that's it." Santi helps Daphne turn in his lap, both of them facing the wall. He guides her hips over his face as he lies back on the couch. Thank fuck it was big enough, for this and more, and then her perfect pussy is hovering over his face, tantalizing him. At heart? Santiago likes torturing himself, loves the thrill of giving into pleasure. Perhaps that too, is why he waited so long to take this girl into his bed. Perhaps that's why he's slow and sure as he spreads her lips, flattens his tongue, and tastes her indulgently, from clit to hole.
Daphne's momentary flash of composure is gone again as soon as he tastes her. Her legs shake on either side of his head, thighs pressed to his ears so her moans are muffled but it isn't on purpose. It's just been so long since she had a man between her legs who knew what the fuck he was doing that just having her clit noticed is a vast improvement. Daphne's body sags momentarily before she is shifting all her weight to one hand and wrapping the other around the base of his cock to stroke his base with the pressure that he showed her – the pressure he likes – while she takes as much of him as she can into her mouth.
When he moans it's with a growl into her pussy she can feel vibrate all the way up through her lungs.
She's not fucking sitting, and he knows it's because she's still, however minutely now that her moans are ringing sweet and clear across his living room, in her head instead of fully in her perfect body the way he wants. Licking up her slick almost lazily, he drags his nails lightly up the outsides of her thighs before firmly catching her hips in hand and pressing her into his waiting mouth, his evening stubble scraping across her folds. Only then does he give her a real reason to moan, encouraging her to grind while his laps at her clit with his tongue, filling his hands with all the gorgeous skin he can reach.
"Sit," he grunts, "Fuck, baby, I wanna to go to the field of fucking reeds with this pussy on my face, come on, you can do it, give it to me."
Come on, carińo, I know you can come for me, such a good fucking girl, he thinks, his brain a hazy lightning storm at the sensation of her hot throat squeezing around him as she swallows. Fuck, he could let her do this all night, but he's hungry for her pleasure and he's so close, he can taste it. Santiago lifts her hips with a final loud suck and trails a finger around her slit, teasing, almost pressing, but only just, his thumb running circles around her clit. With a deep breath he lifts his mouth, slips his tongue and a single finger inside, fucking into her with slow, measured movements.
The overwhelming pleasure of having more than just the tip of his tongue inside her pussy has Daphne moaning so earnestly that she pulls off of him cock with a lurid pop. "Dammit—I—fuck, I'm going to cum—Santi, baby, oh my f—" The shaking of her legs and the coil in her core twist down on each other so her thighs tighten and he breathes into her like he's going to devour her whole as she falls apart at the seams.
Oh yes. He really likes hearing her moaning that, but not more than the way she gives in as her orgasm rocks through her, grinding her hips down, into his waiting, eager mouth, helping her ride him through it until the aftershocks ease. His voice is barely a scrape when he lifts her up, his aching cock swinging between his legs as he presses forward, eager for her mouth. "Did so good, baby, such a good girl for me. I need to fuck you. Need to fuck you, baby. How do you want it?"
"Any way." Daphne gasps, trying to wrap her head around any kind of how that's more artful than just sinking down on him right here and now. When she does wrap her head around it, though, she groans in a less ethereal tone. "Let me grab a condom." Like any sensible, sexually active college girl, she carries one in her regular purse. Emergency cock wrap, if you will. She just never thought she'd actually need it.
"Wait, I got it." He scoots up a moment, digging into the small table beside the couch. From the drawer Santi draws out the foil pouch and rips it open, quickly rolling it on before turning his attention back on Daphne, who's watching him with drowned eyes, eyes deep and longing and still so lovely.
"Lie back, sweetheart. You ready for me?" He slowly glides the head over her silky wet folds, smearing her slick across his tip.
Deciding she absolutely does not need to know how many other girls have been fucked on this couch -- possibly at the end of their own courses -- Daph pushed herself up on her elbows to kiss him fiercely. Tonight is not to be wasted. Tonight is to be a fantastic memory. "I'm ready." Her nails drag down the base of his scalp, having caught a near purr from him earlier when she did the same. "I want you to fuck me, Santi."
Almost before his name is out of her mouth, he's pushing inside her with a low rumble, his head falling back slightly into her hands. Her nails scrape sensation over his scalp and down his spine, and her cunt is licking flames over him, so warm and perfect he almost comes right fucking there, but halts, breathing damp against her lips, his teeth nipping her lip possessively.
They hold like that, frozen together in the heat of the moment as he regains his composure and she adjusts to the stretch and fill and thickness of his cock inside her. The only movement, in this long moment of coming together, is the languid slide and tangle of their tongues together as they drown in the intimacy of feverish kisses.
Gradually, Santi comes down enough to get restless, eager again. He nips and bites down over her jaw and descends on her throat, sucking a mark low on her collarbone as his hands pay some long overdue attention to her pretty, heaving tits. Mine.
When the mark on her neck is soothed with his tongue, he sits up slowly, his eyes a glittering black, his lips parted. He looks like he's about to devour her. He takes one of her calves in his hand, eyes never leaving hers, tipping her knee up towards her head and then out, spread wide for him. He grips her ankle in a warm hand. Then, with a grunt, he's pulling back and pitching forward hard enough for their skin to clap obscenely, fast enough to make them both soon begin to tremble.
The position that he's in has him almost entirely out of her reach, just close even to graze her nails over his chest as he thrusts into her at a pace frantic enough to make them both pant and heave. Her back arches off the couch with a keen and her hands grapple with the couch cushions for purchase to hold on tight as Santi fucks her so deeply and insistently that she can practically feel him all the way up in her throat.
"Gripping me so fuckin' tight, baby, Jesus," he says through his teeth, his jaw tight, streaks of pleasure raking down his chest with her sharp, clinging nails. Keeping his relentless pace, he bends forward, pushing her thigh up, testing her limit. When he's low enough he seizes her mouth with his, grinding deep.
"One more for me, pretty girl, one more," he whispers huskily, his other hand skimming down her body to rub at her clit.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, so good baby, oh my fucking god—" Something in Daphne's mind short circuits, and the rambling begins in earnest the higher and higher she climbs toward a second orgasm. Tripping over her own tongue and throwing her hands up over her head as he slams into her so hard that either they are moving up the length of the sofa or the entire sofa is moving, Daph is completely lost in her pleasure. That volcano of pleasure building in her core is damn near ready to explode and the only thing she wants more than to erupt is to take him with her.
The second her expression breaks and she cries out for him, he's gone. He thinks he's done even before she clamps down on his cock like a goddamned vice, ripping his orgasm from him in a half dozen hard but increasingly languid strokes.
His upper body grows heavy, and with a groan he grinds in deeply just once more – never mind why – and leans his forehead on her soft breast, pulling out of her with a sigh. His entire body is basking, floating. If she puts her hands in his hair again he might even fall asleep.
There's a moment of quiet as he ties off and disposes of the condom, and for a split-second Santi disappears around a corner but he comes back with a warm, damp kitchen cloth to clean them both up with before curling back around her on the couch. "Goddamn," she huffs, giggling softly to herself as his arms come around her.
"Tell me about it," he says sleepily, flipping the throw blanket over the two of them as they settle, kiss, explore lazily what before had been greedily consumed. "Still not sure I'm not dreaming," he says, only half-joking, tracing her lips with a smile. "Did I really get so lucky?"
"I'm not sure how you're the starstruck one out of the two of us," Daphne teases, even though it's through a thin veil of honesty.
"Bonita, I've been increasingly starstruck all semester," he chuckles. "You have so much to look forward to. Shit, you're definitely going farther places than I am. I'm just happy to be here," he presses a kiss to her left tit, "To enjoy-" to her right nipple- "The satisfaction of being right." He kisses her forehead and studies her, his lids heavy. "Do you need anything before you fall asleep, baby girl? You wanna sleep here or in bed? I can't let you bike home this late, querida, so don't even try. Besides, you can shower here, my plumbing is fine." He smirks here, as if anticipating the swat he's earned himself.
"It's not that late." Daphne wrinkles her nose at herself. The protest was just good manners. She doesn't actually want to leave. She wants to wrap up in him and breathe in this comfort for as long as humanly possible. When he levels her with a disapproving look, Daph just ends up grinning. "Let's go to bed," she suggests, catching his lips as he drags them along her jaw. "And when I wake you up in the morning with my lips wrapped around your cock again, you'll be glad your back isn't sore."
The laugh bursts out of his chest with delight, easy and real. "All right, baby, all right, and what makes you think I won't beat you to it?" Santi pulls her to her feet, wrapping the soft blanket securely around her shoulders before guiding her upstairs with a hand at the small of her back.
No matter which one of them beats the other two it, they both know they aren't done. Whether it's a weekend, a week, a month, or even more. This night is just the beginning.
______
Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer
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bensolosbluesaber · 2 years
Text
Baking Lessons (Marc Spector x f!Reader) 18+
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Summary: Marc Spector can’t bake, but for you he’ll try. You and Marc bake cookies together... among other things.
Angst, fluff, smut (the big three)
Pairing: Marc Spector x f!reader, hint of Jake Lockley and Steven Grant x f!reader
Warnings: Sad Marc, DID, Oral sex (f receiving), Not edited
A/N: I just think Marc needs some more love, and I’ve been baking to deal with stress. I’m still working on requests, so if you’re waiting for one, it is coming!
--
Marc Spector has no idea what he’s doing. There’s an egg about to roll off the counter, and he reaches out and catches it with the instincts of a superhero.
Because that’s what he is - a superhero not a baker. Except that for you he’ll be anyone, do anything. That includes telling Khonshu to fuck off for the night so he can bake chocolate chip cookies and try to have a nice date with you. You who have been talking about these stupid cookies all week but have had no time to make them.
He sighs and returns the egg to it’s container. This is useless. He wanted to do something nice for you, but all he’s accomplished is making three trips to the store.
“Just fuck. That always goes over well.”
“Jake, mate,” Steven sighs. “He’s trying to be romantic, considerate, show his love.”
Marc ignores their squabbling, turning back to the recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag. Flour, salt, butter. No milk. Why the hell does he have milk out then? He picks up the carton and fixes it with a harsh stare like it’s the milk’s fault for messing this all up.
That is how you find Marc when you come home. You walk into the kitchen and sit on the table, legs dangling in the air while you watch Marc stare down a carton of milk.
“What did it do?” You ask when you realize he hasn’t noticed you.
He turns, and his eyes glow with moonlight for the briefest instant before he realizes it’s just you. His harsh, irritated expression turns into something else as he looks you up and down.
“You’re early,” he mutters.
“It’s five-thirty,” you reply with a laugh; it’s the same time you always get home.
He glances at the clock, “Shit!”
You’re still trying to figure out what emotion he’s wearing as he returns the milk to the fridge and runs his hands through his curly hair. Frustration. Maybe a hint of sadness. Disappointment, but with who? Knowing Marc, probably himself.
“Marc,” any hint of humor is gone. “Are you alright?”
“I’m-” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. “I’m fine.”
Your gaze catches the bag of chocolate chips behind him, something you know for a fact was not in your apartment prior to today. You know because you had searched for them desperately for days and craving chocolate chip cookies more than anything in the world for the last week. Marc follows your gaze, and when you meet his eyes the words come spilling from his mouth.
“I wanted to make you these stupid cookies. You talk about them every night, and you’re always doing so much for us, for me, and- and I wanted to do something for you.”
Marc’s lips are falling into that little frown that means he’s about to cry. This isn’t about chocolate chip cookies or Marc’s lack of cooking skills, you know that. Marc isn’t the type of man to be driven to tears by a failed baking experiment. He is the type of man who feels like he can never be enough, never be good enough for the people he loves. 
Marc is glancing at the reflective surface of the microwave; you know he is trying to get Steven, or maybe Jake, to front right now.
“Marc,” you reach for his hand and pull him close to you.
Before you can utter another word, he buries his face in your neck. His arms circle your waist, holding tightly. He is shaking, crying. Only a few times have you seen him this vulnerable, and each time Marc had made Steven front to avoid this exact situation.
You wrap an arm over his shoulder and run your free hand through his soft curls.
“You do so much,” you murmur. “It means a lot that you thought of me.”
He holds you tighter but doesn’t respond. His body is warm against you as he cries, and you can only stroke his hair, sometimes brushing your fingers across his cheek or jaw. The soft press of his lips to your neck makes you shiver. It tickles. He does it again, then again, then leans back. A few tears are running down his face, and you reach out to brush them off. You hold his face between your hands, but he’s not looking at you.
“You are enough, Marc Spector. I love you, and you are enough.”
“I really tried,” he eventually whispers and looks up at you through his lashes.
You move a stray curl from his eyes and kiss his forehead, kiss his nose, kiss his lips. His cheek, his jaw, the lines around his eyes. You pepper kisses everywhere, the best way you know to show this man love, until he grabs your face and kisses you with a bruising intensity. Marc works his lips against yours, molding your bodies together until you’re both panting and he pulls back. His hands rest on your hips, your hands on his chest.
“You’re wonderful,” he smiles, and though his eyes are still red-rimmed, you can tell he’s back from that dark place of self-hatred. “I love you.”
The curl is back, the dark hair always falling across his forehead no matter what he does. Cookie ingredients are still spread out on the counter behind him, and though you would love to take this handsome man to bed right now and spend the rest of the evening tangled up with him, the temptation of the cookies is too strong.
“I can teach you how to make them,” you nod to the ingredients. “We can do it together.”
Marc slides you off the table and kisses you on top of the head.
“Okay. Teach me.”
You set Marc up measuring dry ingredients into a bowl while you pour sugar and crack eggs. You laugh when he bumps his hip into the counter, swears, spills the bag of flour everywhere.
“You think that’s funny,” he growls, eyes shining with amusement; he loves how you laugh.
“I though you’d be more graceful, Moon Knight,” you tease, grinning.
Mischief flashes across his face, and he grasps a fistful of spilled flour. You jump back, but he smears flour across your face, spilling it down the front of your shirt.
“Marc!” You protest, but it is half-hearted.
Any further arguments are cut off by his kiss. His dirty hands leave prints all over your body as he presses you into the counter, peppering your face with soft kisses until he finds your lips. If not for the beep of the oven you would have kissed Marc Spector all night. He leans back at the sound, and you duck under his arm to get back to baking.
Marc slides up behind you, holding you around the waist with his chin on your shoulder so he can watch you work. He kisses your cheek each time you move, and when it’s time he adds ingredients to your bowl as you stir, his arms still trapping you against the counter.
“Chocolate chips,” you request.
Reluctantly, Marc moves away to find the package of chocolate and adds it to the dough. His dark hair is now smeared with flour, so is his face and his clothes. You’re probably no better off, but seeing the usually tough man covered in baking ingredients and wearing a goofy grin makes your heart flutter.
“Now what?” Marc asks.
There’s no cookie scoop in the apartment, so you hand him a small spoon. You show him how to scoop the dough and roll it into a ball. As you slide the cookies into the oven and set a timer, you notice Marc starting to take the bowl to the sink.
“Wait!” You call.
He turns back to you with that one eyebrow curved up.
“We’re supposed to eat that.”
“The raw cookie dough?” He questions.
You nod and pluck the bowl from his hands, scooping out a bit with your spoon, and popping it in your mouth with an innocent smile. He is fixated on your lips.
“Focus, Spector,” you tease; you’re fully aware of what thoughts you have evoked in your boyfriend as you offer him the spoon. “Cookie dough?”
“Not what I’m hungry for,” his voice has dropped to a low rumble as he smirks down at you.
If his earlier softness went right to your heart, this goes right to your pussy.
“There’s only seven minutes on the timer,” you warn.
“I can work with that,” he grabs the bowl from your hand and tosses it onto the counter. “Bed.”
Marc has you out of your pants and flat on your back in seconds. He pulls you closer to the edge of the bed so your legs dangle over the edge, and he kneels between them. His eyes are dark as he palms your thighs, his breath tickling your center as he looks to you for confirmation, consent.
You nod, and just like that Marc buries his face in your cunt. He’s licking and sucking, using his tongue with a skill that always shocks you. His broad nose brushes against your clit, and for a second you’re distracted by the question of how he breathes when he’s going down on you. It’s just for a second because a moment later his tongue is flicking at your clit, drawing delightful little circles that have you squirming.
Marc is absolutely smirking as you meet his eyes and a soft breathy sound escapes your throat unbidden. Warmth coils in your stomach as he devours you like he is a starving man. You’re so close. He leaves one hand at your thigh, keeping your legs apart, and uses the other to push two fingers into you with a slowness that is borderline torturous.
“Fuck,” you whimper and reach for his hair, getting a handful of those soft dark locks much to Marc’s delight.
He curls his fingers and presses deeply into you even as his mouth settles over that spot you love. You can feel that tension building and building, warmth pooling in your stomach. 
There’s a roaring in your ears as you cum, throwing your head back, shutting your eyes, twitching around his fingers and moaning his name quietly, your whole body shaking as that warmth spreads out from your center. He fucks you right through it, only pulling back when the pulsing has stopped and you begin to squirm away from the over-stimulation. 
The timer beeps just as he sits back. Timer? Shit. You’d forgotten about the cookies.
“I got ‘em,” Marc presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands while you simply lay back and catch your breath.
Water runs. The oven door opens. The stove beeps. A few seconds later, Marc flops heavily into bed. You peek your eyes open to look at him. He has a cookie broken in half, offering part to you. You turn on your side to look at Marc, taking the cookie but really focused on the former mercenary whose eyes are wide with delight as he bites into the desert, chocolate smearing his lips as he chews.
You would stop the Earth from spinning to see that look on Marc’s face again.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He finally notices your expression.
“You have chocolate,” you answer awkwardly to evade the question and gesture to his lips.
His smile is mischievous as he leans forward, kissing your cheek and leaving a chocolate stain on your skin.
“Marc!”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He repeats the question.
“You look happy,” you whisper.
He pushes you onto your back and tucks his head into your shoulder, smiling against you.
“I am happy.”
--
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bit-dodgy-innit · 11 months
Text
Something In You Lit Up Heaven In Me
READ PART ONE
Pairing: Apollo (who happens to look exactly like Orestes in Agora) x fem!reader
Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI!
Word Count: 3.5k
TW/CW: Oral (m and f receiving), gods don't have refractory periods because I said so, petnames, a bit of innonence!kink and some praise!kink for that matter, P in V, a smidge of overstimulation, creampie, humiliation (but it's not our reader).
A/N: OH MY GAAAAASH THANK YOU ALL FOR THE OUTPOURING OF SUPPORT ON THIS SILLY LIL FANTASY OF MINE! I know have a couple more ideas/installments for this little AU! And hope you all enjoy!!!
Quick vocab word that'll be helpful: Archiereus = high/head priest
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The rest of the day following your covert meeting with Apollo passed in a blur. Your mother claimed that you no longer needed to bother with your daily chores, but you insisted on doing them anyway. It wasn’t fair to Caris and besides, the routine was anchoring. It was one small shred of normalcy that you’d been able to maintain since Apollo upended your world. Even so, your mind was elsewhere as you washed the linens and swept the house, drifting through the evening mechanically. 
Falling asleep was impossible. Your gaze was glued to the moon as it rose steadily in the sky, Selene’s radiance never wavering as she drove her chariot across its inky canvas. 
At first, you dismissed them as a mere cluster of fireflies…until they made an uncannily neat and tidy line leading away from your window. You giggled, quietly so as not to wake Caris, and tiptoed out of your modest home. The insects led you through your village, past the temple, into the forest once more. 
Apollo waited for you in another small, tucked away clearing. Despite it being the dead of night, the god’s gleeful grin illuminated the little corner of the forest. As enchanting as the fireflies were, they were no longer necessary when the god of light was present. Your feet carried you on your own accord and launched you into Apollo’s arms. 
Now that it was only you and your lover, hidden away from prying eyes and scheming minds, you completely surrendered your desire. Apollo made you feel liberated, wild, when you made love. 
“Want you to take me in your mouth,” he exhaled as you rolled around on the lush, soft grass, tangled within each other. Even though it wasn’t your first time seeing his member, you were unable to stifle your gasp when he shed his chiton. 
“Yes,” you replied at once. Then, “but I’ve never–”
“Shhh–I’ll teach you,” he assured you, sprawling back on the ground. 
You crawled closer to him. He disarmed you with his trademark grin, and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes instantly put you at ease. Apollo may have been an Olympian, but he was still a man. He took pleasure in the same way you mere mortals did. 
Your gaze met his expectantly, eager for his instruction. 
“We’ll start simply. How about you give the tip a kiss?” 
You did as he said. His reaction was immediate, a pleased groan escaped his lips. 
“Just like that, sunshine,” he spurred you on, “now see if you can take more in your mouth.” 
A memory surfaced in your mind – Caris, sharing what she did to please a man in this matter. You recalled her advice to wrap your lips around his teeth as you sank down, and to use your hand to stroke any part of him you couldn’t fit into your mouth. It turned out, you were initially too keen, sputtering and having to pull off of Apollo after your gag reflex was triggered. 
He cupped your face with one strong, sure hand, his thumb caressing your cheekbone, “Oh darling, there’s no need to rush.”
Like before, there wasn’t a trace of disappointment or derision on the god’s face. He traced his finger down your jaw, slipping in between your lips. You sucked on the digit instinctively, looking up at him with what you hoped were doe eyes, and Apollo moaned. “Mmm, I knew you'd turn out to be a little minx.”
You pulled off of the god’s finger to try again. It occurred to you that it would be difficult, if not unpleasant, to stroke what you couldn’t fit in your mouth dry, so instead of trying to swallow down Apollo’s flushed cock immediately, you licked the circumference of his girth to wet him. The deity seemed to very much enjoy that, the action eliciting another deep groan. 
“Oh Tiii-Titans, you’re like a little naughty kitten for me,” he cooed. “Don’t stop.” 
Once he was properly slicked, you eased back down again. This time you opened your jaw wider, and though you only could take about half of him in, you wasted no time covering the remainder with your hand. It took a moment to teach them to work in tandem, yet you strove to sync the two movements. Your jaw began to ache slightly, the god’s mortal form was certainly not lacking, but you powered through. You wanted to be good for him, being good made you feel good, because you knew afterwards, Apollo would make you feel incredible.
Your lover never ceased his encouragement, his hand resting atop your head to guide you ever so slightly. A light tug on your hair made you pause, allowing him to ask, “Kitten, might I lead the way from here?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Apollo’s inquisitive, umber eyes narrowed at you, “Don’t refer to me so.” One look at your petrified face and he instantly amended, “There’s no need. I want you to use my name.” 
Your face split into a wide, pleased grin. “Alright, my–Apollo.”
“My Apollo, I like that,” he grinned, then stood. “C’mere kitten.” 
You rose onto your knees to level yourself with Apollo’s unflagging erection. He fed his cock back between your lips and instructed “You needn’t do a thing. Just pretend as if you’re yawning, it’ll help you take more.”
You wanted to nod in assent, but thought better of it given your full mouth. His fingers threaded into your hair, gently but firmly, holding you in place before he began to move his hips. Implementing his suggestion, you were shocked to discover how much more of his thick shaft penetrated your mouth. Apollo gave a few introductory thrusts, then began pistoning into you steadily. 
Your first instinct was to shut your eyes, but you coaxed them back open to observe your lover’s face. His jaw was tipped up, his brows knit together, his lips parted. To see a god this vulnerable was a privilege even the highest priests and most devoted acolytes would never receive in their lifetimes, a privilege whose magnitude that was not lost on you. 
On your knees for Apollo, you felt…safe. And not merely because that was the “natural” thing to do - to kneel for one’s god. Strangely, it wasn’t about that. The deity made you feel cared for, that you could set your burdens, however petty and innocuous they may be, down. He would shoulder them for a while, so that you could discover parts of yourself that you didn’t know existed.
Apollo pulled you closer to him, your nose now pressed against the taut skin of his belly as he used your mouth. It made breathing a bit harder, but the god’s rhythm began to falter soon after. 
“Ohhhh sunshine I’m gonna—try to swallow it down if you can.”
You hummed your assent around Apollo’s cock, inadvertently sending him over the edge. He shoved his shaft nearly down your throat as his release dropped down it, all but singing your praise the entire time. 
“Good girl kitten,” he painted the back of your esophagus with his seed, “taking it so well for me. You were so good for me.” 
At last he extracted his spent member from your overstretched mouth. The entirety of your chin was covered in drool from your coupling, and you barely had a moment to wipe it away before Apollo’s lips were on yours. He plundered your mouth with his tongue as if he was to lick the combined taste of his cum and your spit from it. The thought sent a hot thrill down your spine. 
“You did so well for me, darling.” He murmured once more after you’d broken apart. Apollo made quick work of your chiton, “Now what does my very good girl want?” 
“I…” your lover had begun to trail his lips down the soft skin of your neck. It made it impossible to think, let alone speak. “I want you…inside.”
“Of course,” he agreed from where he was now dotting kisses across your collarbone. 
Apollo continued his descent down your bare skin, kissing the tops of your breasts before pulling each nipple into his hot, sure mouth for a hearty suck. It felt so good that you changed your mind on how you wanted Apollo to ravish you, yet the sight of him sinking between your legs was too enticing to resist. He used the tip of his nose to part the seam of your sex before changing course and licking a long stripe between your folds. 
“Mmmm, just as sweet as I recall,” he husked. Your reply came in a strangled mewl. 
He chuckled darkly. "I know darling, but I must ready you.” 
No sooner had the words left his mouth did Apollo slide his index finger through your wetness and into your heat. Relief flooded you – no longer were you clenching around nothing. Apollo resumed kissing your neck as he tucked a second digit in along with the first. You met his movements eagerly, vaguely aware of how swiftly you’d shed the trope of the blushing virgin. Before, the god’s ministrations had felt like too much, now they were not enough. You needed the god’s hardness inside of you now. 
Despite being reduced to pitiful whines and whimpers, Apollo understood you. 
“You want your god’s big cock, don’t you?” 
You practically sobbed in agreement. But although the deity was a generous lover, he had a wicked streak. One that Apollo decided to unleash when he demanded right as he finally applied pressure to your bed, “Words, kitten.” 
“Yuh-YES!” you cried. It felt heavenly, but it wasn’t enough to bring you to climax. You legitimately feared you may go mad from the anticipation. 
“Good girl,” He parted your legs wider and locked them around his ample hips. He paused briefly to marvel, “what an offering you make for me.” 
Apollo proceeded to slap the head of his arousal on your clit, then at last he entered you in one smooth of his hips. The feeling of becoming one wrung another cry from you, while a deep, satisfied rumble sounded from Apollo’s chest. 
There wasn’t much talking after that. It was unnecessary. The god’s gaze locked onto your as he plowed you, first holding firmling onto your sides to steady you, then they crawled back up to breasts to pluck at your nipples. You were definitely going to go mad between the acute, concentrated ecstasy he was drawing from your pebbled peaks along with the astounding stretch and burn of his cock plowing into your channel. All the while, the swirling brown of Apollo’s eyes bore into yours, gauging your pleasure - how he could heighten it, how he could surprise you, how you would bit down on bottom lip whenever he changed angle slightly. 
The last observation spurred an idea from the god. He bent over you further, catching your wrists in his hands and pinning you to the ground beneath you. The shift allowed him to hammer a special, previously unknown spot within you, and for your vision to go a burning, blinding white. 
“AH! Ohhhh…Apo-Apollo,” you keened.
“That’s it, c’mon sunshine,” he urged you, now slamming his pelvis into yours, “Say my name. Scream it so that my kin can hear it on Olympius, and I’ll let you come.” 
“Apollo!” You were not one to disobey your god, “Oh stars above, Apollo! Holy Her–APOLLO!! ”  
Your orgasm exploded seemingly from the spot your lover’s cock was not battering outwards. You convulsed as the pleasure rushed from your core throughout your spasming frame to the very tips of fingers and toes. There was no way to ride it, let alone fight it, the ecstasy Apollo elicited from you demanded nothing less than complete surrender. 
At last, the euphoria in your body began to subside. You desperately gasped down more oxygen, yet, Apollo’s hard, thick member was still thrusting into you relentlessly. Next thing you knew, the deity had collected you into his arms and lifted you to sit on his lap. 
You winced at the deeper penetration and your growing sensitivity, but he whispered into your ear, “I know kitten, but I need a little more and Titans, you feel so damn amazing.” 
You pressed a kiss into his temple, now damp with sweat, and like before, surrendered your body to your god. He moved your hips for you, essentially fucking yourself on his cock, meeting each and every downstroke with an untiring vigor only an Olympian could possess. 
Suddenly, his hold around your torso tightened, and you felt his manhood pulse within you. A deep growl reverberated from his as his seed flooded your channel. Your head was spinning, so much so that you barely realized you two fell back on the grass again. 
Apollo rolled so you were beneath him once more and eased himself out of you. 
“Now, that is a sight,” he moaned as he watched his release drip out of your entrance. 
“Is it?” you panted. 
“Mmm indeed,” he promised, gingerly probing your puffy pussy to collect his spend. This time, he brought it to his own mouth, “Hellfire, we make quite the concoction.” 
“I…” you eyes were fluttering closed, “I’m glad you’re pleased.” 
The god pulled you close once more. “I am beyond delighted. You were magnificent, my little kitten.”
***
You didn’t remember returning home, but your mother’s voice barking your name to wake was unmistakable. It wasn’t until she jarred you into consciousness that you realized you were back in your own bed, and thankfully, clothed. 
“You were due at the temple a quarter of an hour ago!” 
Grogginess prevented you from sniping back at her that your tardiness wouldn’t anger the god, since Apollo was the very reason for it. Instead, you held your tongue, and lethargically, but as quickly as you could, you rinsed your face and dressed. Your mother shooed you off to the temple with a small cloth holding berries and cheese in tow. 
You trudged up the hill to the temple, you’d never liked going there to begin with, but now that your presence was compulsory, it maddened you. The more time you spent with Apollo, the more you despised the structure meant to venerate him and the men who inhabited it claiming to act in his name. The god himself and his priests seemed to be two disparate parties. 
Distressed shouts and —was that bleating?— jolted you from your thoughts. You ran the rest of the way to the temple’s entrance. Something was wrong. 
Breathlessly, you arrived at the temple’s sanctum to find the priests and acolytes in a frantic scrum and…a goat. 
You caught the eye of one of the younger priests. “Don’t we usually sacrifice ravens to Apollo?” 
The priest, Karolos, you believed his name was, gulped. “Th-that…that is the Archiereus.”
Now it was your turn to gulp. Your eyes widened, then darted up to the large statue of Apollo that looked over the chaos. 
“I need privacy,” you told Karolos lowly, “somewhere I can be alone.”
His brows furrowed, only for realization to dawn on his features a moment later. “Are you going to…?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Come with me.”
As he led you through the madness, you pressed further. “What exactly happened?”
“We all woke up from a terrible, seemingly shared, nightmare. The god appeared to us and we could see ourselves being roasted alive as the temple burned,” the priest began, “and the goat—I mean, the Archiereus, was in his chambers…eating his own bed linens when we rose this morn.”
“Gods,” you groaned. 
“We’re very sorry.” 
Your gaze shot to the ground at the mention of your violating confirmation as Apollo’s latest lover. 
“Truly,” he averred, “I knew it was wrong but they didn’t listen—“
“Stop,” you had no interest in reliving that terrifying day. “But thank you. Truly.”
Karolos sent you a small grin and then opened the door to what seemed to be the head priest’s chambers, half-eaten bed linens and all. The room was imposing, large, and most importantly, tucked into a corner toward the back of the temple complex. 
The bedchamber seemed even more intimidating when you were left alone within it. You hadn’t the faintest idea of how to summon Apollo, or if you even could. Therefore, you defaulted to the simplest of methods. You looked up, yet closed your eyes, and called out this name. 
“Sunshine.”
His voice was close. Very close, since not a second later you were pulled back into the deity’s arms. You startled, a very undignified and unappealing yelp escaping you. 
You pivoted in Apollo’s embrace to face him. “You enjoy frightening me, don’t you?”
“I enjoy arousing you in any and all forms,” he countered wryly. 
“You must change him back.”
Apollo’s face fell infinitesimally before resuming its usual brightness. “Of course. As soon as you admit how comical it is.”
You huffed. “Apollo.” 
He shrugged as if the power wasn’t solely and completely in his hands. 
“What’s this about a shared nightmare?” 
“I promised you not to harm them,” the god responded, frustration creeping into his tone, “but these provincial dolts needed to be taught a lesson. They cannot flout me, and by extension you, in such a brazen manner.” 
Arguing was pointless, you knew this. Because Apollo was right. As much as you felt as the reluctant center of the issue here, it actually came down to the priests and their respect, and therefore fear, for their patron god. 
“While the goat is very comical, I have to say, I think a slug would’ve been more fitting,” you offered with a small smile. 
Apollo laughed, his expression beaming once again, and captured your lips. 
When you breathlessly broke apart, you inquired, “Does this mean I no longer need to come here everyday?”
“Darling, you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.”
“I suppose so, but if you wanted me to, I would.” 
“Always so willing to please,” Apollo groaned in satisfaction, “you have no idea what you do to me.” 
Before you could counter that you didn’t he nudged his groin into your hip to give you one. You nearly jumped at the feel of his arousal pressing through two flimsy layers of your clothing. 
The god continued, “However, I believe there are better uses for your time too.” 
“Thank you, my–my Apollo.” 
“Oh you truly want me to take you on that bumpkin Archiereus’s bed, don’t you?” 
The god began backing you toward the bed in question, though you managed to slip out of his grasp just in time. 
“Apollo!” 
Another peal of laughter from the god. “My desire for you has no bounds.” 
“As does mine,” you offered, “I swear it. However, I have to go back and live amongst these people, and I’d prefer to be able to look some of my neighbors in the eye.” 
The god studied you, as if the fact you went back and lived among other people had only just occurred to him when you spoke it. However, maddeningly all he said was, “I see.” 
You fidgeted under the intensity of his gaze. “I very much enjoyed our time together last night though. I cannot remember if I told you.”
He grinned. You would never tire of it. “Good, then I shall see you tonight?” 
“Yes. Please.” your answer came without hesitation. 
“I’ll send you a route again,” he vowed, stealing one last impassioned kiss from your lips.  
“I shall count the moments,” you whispered. 
“Go,” he urged you softly. “I’ve taken care of the ​​Archiereus.” 
A commotion sounded from what you thought was the temple’s sanctum. It startled you, and when you turned back to your lover, he’d disappeared. 
Karolos was not waiting at the door when you emerged from the high priest’s chambers, much to your relief. So you hurried to where the shouts were emanating from. 
The Archiereus had been changed back alright. He lay in the sanctum stark naked and humiliated, barking for a cloth to cover his modesty when you arrived on the scene. Yet he cowed immediately at the sight of you and in a truly baffling role reversal, kneeled at your feet. 
“Please, we never meant to harm you, nor anger the mighty Apollo,” he all but blubbered. It was arresting, and honestly, you thought you might have preferred his haughty countenance more. “Your claim was a bold one, we simply sought to substantiate it, however if I could take it back, I would. I beseech you for forgiveness.” 
You didn’t wish to forgive him, however you didn’t wish to condemn the groveling cleric either. The happy medium it seemed was to respond, “The god is appeased. I will no longer be present for your daily rituals.”
With that, you turned and left the oppressive structure, unsure whether to stifle or welcome the exhilarating sense of authority following through you. It was truly the first time in your life you’d ever felt powerful. 
A/N: Ehhh...we like? Seriously, y'all give me the motivation pound out more of this! I already have an idea of another god I want to bring into the mix 😜
Taglist:
@whatthefishh , @thhriller ,  @simpforbritgents , @oof-its-roobi @pakhiya @fandxmslxt69  @twwcs, @damnzelsoul  @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @dameronscopilot @sharin4readers @ireallymadeamoonknightblog
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mauvecherie-writes · 2 years
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Tears On My Pillow.
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Pairing: Oscar Isaac x Black F!Reader
Summary: So frustrated with your situation, you can’t help but cry … however, it just turns Oscar on even more.
Warning: MINORS DNI, NSFW, explicit smut, PWP, crying during sex, teasing, usage of ‘Daddy’.
WC: 0.6K
Kinktober Day 3: Crying.
As if the teasing that he had put you through during the dinner wasn’t enough, Oscar decided that he would continue with the game when you had made it to be bedroom. The light touches and licks until you were withering with anticipation simply wasn’t enough for him.
“Please, please, please, baby, I can’t!” You desperately whispered as he licked at your core until your orgasm neared its peak. His rugged beard scratched the flesh of your thighs leaving an uncomfortable burn that you could not escape as his body pressed you down into the bed.
His shoulders pushed your legs apart as his hands parted your slits as if to get his tongue any deeper into you. One of your hands ran through his salt and pepper locks and gripped at the roots and your other pulled at the sheets as your body twisted away from his ruthless tongue.
Your throat hurt from the screaming and tears began to line with tears from the overwhelming pleasure brewing in the pit of your stomach. He was giving you everything that he got but still not enough, just pulling you in so much to the edge but never pushing you off. You pleaded and begged but it seemed like Oscar was determined to ruin you.
Your breathing got heavier as your screams got louder, your climax just within reach but Oscar quickly pulled his mouth away from your engorged clit.
“Fuck you!” You cursed at him as you began to pound your soft fists at his body as the tears you had been keeping at bay began to fall from the agonising frustration. His hearty chuckle vibrated through your core. Giving you one more lick, he kissed all the way up your body until he captured your lips.
The lack of undress on his part was annoying as you wanted to feel his bare chest on yours but lost in the pleasure of his lips on yours, it was an annoyance you were willing to let go. His hand slipped in between your bodies and swiftly led himself into your cunt.
He gave you no time to breathe as he pistoned his hips, hammering at your spot and bursting your bubble. He grabbed the back of your neck and leaned his forehead against yours as he took in your every facial expression. You could barely breathe and you were trying to push him away as he fucked you through your orgasm.
“Fffuuu —.” You gasped. Oscar growled, throbbing inside of you at the sight of your tears. There was just something about seeing you cry as he fucked you that turned him and motivated him to get more out of you.
Your body convulsed in his arms as you drenched him with your juices. His balls and thighs were covered in your slick, the wet sound echoing in the room as he thrusted in and out of you. He got onto his knees and held onto your waist as his eyes never left your face.
Through the haze of your tears you saw his eyes downcast at you, his teeth biting on his bottom lip as he focused on you. Your breath was hitched in your throat as body began to quake once more. Since allowing you to cum, he wasn’t stopping until you were utterly spent.
“You win! Fuck! Daddy okay okay, I get it!” You cried, screaming as your back arched off the bed. Oscar dropped above you, taking your brownie coloured nipple into his mouth, grazing it with it with teeth more before pulling away to lick away your tears.
“Cry some more for me baby, maybe then I’ll stop.” He mumbled against your tear stained cheeks.
————————————————
@queenshikongo3 @royallyprincesslilly @melodicheauxxo @chaneajoyyy @olyvoyl @fineanddandy @felicity-x0 @bekindbecoolbeyou @realhotgurlshit @darqchilddaydreamz @honeybadgerr @my-rosegold-soul @lewisthot @dhlfastestlap
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spicyllewyn · 7 months
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Kinktober 4. - Almost getting caught.
Abel Morales x F!Reader.
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Tags & warnings. Almost getting caught + cheating. (+18)
Word count. 2k
Summary. But he was so stressed, what were you supposed to do?
Kinktober masterlist.
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The title you'd give yourself in Abel's life was complicated.
His friend, maybe? You had grown up in the same neighborhood; during college, you crossed paths and greeted each other as if you'd been best friends for life.
His co-worker? Well, it was that same friendship that led him to do you a personal favor by giving you a job a few years later, without even asking how much experience you had in the field.
His lover? Perhaps that would be the most appropriate, as it was your shared history that had led you down this irreversible path.
It wasn't fair to any of the three of you, but you were so in love.
The business hadn't been doing well lately; robberies and the city's corruption were slowly consuming it, and for a while, you didn't know how to console him each time you saw him suppress his urge to go crazy in order to stay on what he called "the right path."
Abel's morals were questionable in bed, but in his work, no one doubted him.
"You know I can lend you money if you need it, right?" His living room was incredibly uncomfortable, but at least his wife bought good wine. You drank from your glass, staining it with lipstick once more.
"I told you I don't need it, amor." He sighed heavily as his hands massaged one of your feet. It tickled.
The truth was, over time, both of you had become more brazen about your affair. You could assure with your eyes closed that Anna knew very well what was going on. You could feel it when you greeted her, and she squeezed her fingers around your hand as if she wanted to break it.
"This is too much for you." You said softly, finishing your wine in one gulp as your other foot rubbed against his thigh.
He didn't say anything. You weren't exaggerating; he felt tired. The kind of exhaustion that wouldn't go away even if he slept for two months straight.
You forced him to release your ankle so you could stand up, and he groaned in response, making you laugh. You placed your empty glass on the coffee table in front of the couch and knelt delicately in front of him on that lovely carpet his wife had surely chosen.
He spread his legs wider and leaned enough to face you, him looking down, you looking up.
His features were beautiful from any angle. You couldn't resist your urge to smile at him as he placed one of his hands on your neck, his thumb slowly caressing your jawline.
"I'll help you with whatever you need," your voice was soft, sultry. You gently held his wrist, guiding his hand across your face until his thumb left your jaw and began tracing your lower lip. "Always."
You couldn't say anything more before his thumb slipped between your lips, and you welcomed it cheerfully. You let him explore your tongue before sucking on it a bit; had you known that's what he needed to feel better, you would have dropped to your knees as soon as you got to his home.
"You are going to be the death of me," he whispered, not taking his eyes off the vulgar and dirty way your mouth played with his thumb. "You know it, don't you, preciosa?"
You nodded slowly with the threat of a smile. It wasn't until he pulled his finger out of your mouth with a small pop and a strand of your saliva connected to your lips that he could see you smile.
Abel could swear that your eyes sparkled in a special way when you were with him, and he always wondered if that was one of the many reasons he couldn't stay away from you.
"I'll take care of it," you said, placing a hand on his chest to give him a very gentle push, just a way to ask him to lean back on the sofa; he did. "It's been tough days, hasn't it, baby?" You pouted slightly as your fingers loosened his tie.
A smile formed on his lips; you knew exactly how to play your cards when it came to him. He nodded.
"Always working so hard." Your hands slid slowly over his abdomen, the fabric of his shirt outlining the muscles beneath. Did you ever tell him that his morning runs were doing their job? You continued your path until you reached the waistband of his pants. "Without ever getting a reward." A tug, and the button of his expensive pants was on the floor.
Abel had his lower lip between his teeth as he watched you, a rebellious curl falling on his forehead that he brushed away with one hand.
"Tú eres mi recompensa."
You wished his words didn't stir your heart the way they did, you wished he gave you a reason to end this once and for all, but it was impossible not to love Abel Morales. In fact, "impossible" fell short.
He helped you by lifting his hips so you could lower his clothes to the middle of his thighs. His erection was released instantly, it wasn't a surprise that it was already hard enough for it to hit his abdomen as if begging for you attention.
“Such a sweet talker, huh?” You spit into your hand so you could take it in it. He groaned almost immediately. Your fingers couldn't go around him completely but he had told you a thousand times that he loved how delicate they were.
At this point, you were already aware of the things that drove him crazy, you confirmed it when you gave him a light squeeze and he grunted again, before setting a slow pace up and down.
"Stop playing around, hermosa." It sounded like an order but the way he licked his lips and the air got caught in his throat seemed anything but intimidating.
He hissed as your thumb traced the head of his member, smearing his precum on it.
“But you love it when I do this.” You pouted a little, putting more pressure on your fingers, holding them still at the top of his length.
He knew well what to do. His hips began to move slowly, pretending to fuck your hand.
You could see how it slid into the poor excuse of a hole that you were simulating with your fingers. It would be a lie to say that you couldn't look at it for hours, the way the tip turned red announcing that it was more sensitive now and the way it suffered little spasms of pleasure every now and then.
“Hermosa, por favor.” His huge brown eyes fixed on you, desperate. "Por favor."
He was so pretty when he pleaded. It made you feel a strange kind of power, like he was completely yours.
Very often you questioned if he also begged Anna that way.
You repeated the path of your thumb with your tongue, tracing small circles around the head, collecting in it the small pearls of pre-cum that a long time ago seemed to not stop coming out.
Abel's body was begging for a way to de-stress and you were doing the job perfectly.
You placed small wet kisses on the area before finally settling on your knees at a more comfortable angle, you closed your lips so you could use the tip of his cock to force them open.
He moaned, loudly.
"Mierda." He babbled with his eyes closed, his back comfortably leaning against the couch as you worked between his legs. “That's it, preciosa, just like that.”
You were halfway there when you took a deep breath through your nose. It was funny to remember how it choked you the first few times, how you had to hide your gagging or immediately wipe the tears from your eyes because it was too much for you.
His fingers tangled in your hair and he pushed you down, making you take him whole. Fortunately, you already had experience. You pretended to swallow, knowing full well that your throat muscles would contract around him.
"No, no, no." He growled. He didn't want to finish quickly and you were pushing him to the limit. He had his eyes closed as he held you down, practically cockwarming him by obeying his requests and not moving.
The tip of your nose was pressing against his lower abdomen, and you only held out a little longer before you gave him a couple of smacks on his thigh to get him to let you go.
The sight of your face always seemed to be almost enough to make him finish. The saliva pooling in your mouth ran down the side of your it, a trickle of it connected to his member before you broke it apart by licking your lips.
"Vas a matarme." He repeated almost sounding desperate as you licked, kissed and sucked one of his balls to your liking,
You also hit your tongue with it. Anything to prolong his pleasure.
You slid your tongue from the base to the tip before taking him back into your mouth in one motion. Your eyes were watering as his hands forced you to stay down for a longer period of time.
The main gate that led to the house opened. The sound of metal alerting you both.
You were about to get up but his fingers wouldn't let you and you understood what he wanted.
You didn't waste time and you started to bob your head up and down swallowing him whole each time. You didn't care about the way the tears ran down your cheeks from the strain of your throat.
He thrust his hips at the perfect rhythm, when you went down he went up and when he went down you went up, he was fucking your mouth without mercy even when the lights of the blonde's car illuminated the living room, waiting for the garage door to finish opening.
“We can’t make a, a-ah, carajo, mess.” He babbled quietly, barely enough for you to hear. “Swallow it all, preciosa.”
The muscles of your throat once again gave him that death grip that drove him crazy, making him cum. His warm spend was swallowed by you instantly since you had no choice, it was being shot straight down your throat.
You stayed still as his erection stopped twitching inside your mouth, constantly taking in air through your nose. You didn't have time for anything, you could swear it was the blink of an eye as he pushed himself out of your mouth and helped you to your feet.
He closed his pants only with the zipper and you adjusted your clothes still licking your lips.
“Hey, what are we celebrating?” Anna said when the door finally opened, her gaze on both of you with that fake smile that you already recognized perfectly.
You slowly turned to face her, wiping the edge of your mouth with your thumb. You smiled back.
Abel couldn't hide his after sex glow even if he ripped his face off with his fingers. That dopey smile, his cheeks flushed with messy hair.
“I thought you would be at your mother's house until tomorrow.”
"Well." The blonde dropped her keys on the nearest piece of furniture, her gaze never leaving you. "Clearly that's what you thought, Abel."
“We were just chatting.” He answered for you as you picked your heels off the floor, trying not to be part of the chatter going on next to you. “They hijacked another of our trucks.”
You had to swallow your smile when the excuse of work became an excellent distraction for your nights together. You bit your bottom lip before nodding your head.
“Well I…” You took a few steps along the carpet, surrounding them both as if you wanted to avoid them, with your shoes in your hand. “I… I'll see you Monday at work.” You tried to smile as your hand awkwardly opened the door. “Good night, Anna.”
You disappeared from both of their gazes in a matter of seconds. Both pairs of eyes on you.
For different reasons, of course.
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Tag list. @ninebluehearts @shousha133 @unear7hly @onefinnedwonder-fm @automnepoet @lokisremainingsanity @uncle-eggy @just-a-nightdreamer @spktrgantenk @chinglewingledingledong @queerponcho @faretheeoscar
Remember to comment if you want to be on the kinktober tag list!! <3
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thot-of-khonshu · 1 year
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Hello Bea, how are you? Congrats on your 1000 followers 🎉 I just saw this option and I knew I had to request it... How about Daylight + Steven Grant?? I know it's going to be really 🔥 😏 anyway thank u !
Hi my dear! I'm finally back with some fic updates!! It's been a crazy week getting settled into a new job!
Daylight (Steven Grant x f! reader)
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Long distance is hard, but Steven decides to surprise you one night and make it all worthwhile.
Explicit Smut 18+
Content: Unprotected sex (p in v), long distance relationships
1K Celebration | Masterlist
And I can still see it all in my mind
All of you, all of me. Intertwined. 
I once believed love would be black and white
But it's golden
Long distance sucked. It’s never easy to say goodbye to the warm bed, soft lips and welcoming arms of the one you love who’d made you feel at home somewhere so foreign to you. 
London was terrifying at first. Overwhelming with things to do, bustling crowds of people who knew their purpose and the hard anchor of the purpose you were there -your job- and the deadline that came along with it. 
Lost in your head and overstimulated, you found solace in the National Art Gallery. You didn’t know if you could handle such a big change even just for a short amount of time, and then you found solace at the National Museum. Any time you felt a moment of anxiety or your heart reate spike, instead of bombarding your mom with calls - which would’ve ended up with her begging you to come home - you went to get lost in the history and art pieces that told a story in your head. 
One day, you heard someone actually telling the accurate stories to small children. Steven. When the small group of children on their field trip had left, you’d come up to him and asked if you could tell the story again. You could’ve sworn he’d given you a double take, the second time his eyes wider with astonishment that you were even talking to him. 
“I just work at the gift shop.” He’d said. 
“It doesn’t matter.” You smiled at him. And the smile he gave back to you made you feel so warm, so different than any other person had ever made you feel. 
Things picked up suddenly between the two of you. When you weren’t working, you were at the museum or out with Steven exploring the city, spending nights between his sheets as he read you books on ancient Egyptian history. 
He’d told you he loved you the night before you had to leave back home. You felt the swell of your heart and the pain of it shattering at the same time. You’d promised you’d come back to him. 
And since then, the dance between New York City and London had begun. You’d caught flights at absurd hours on long weekends, surprising him at his flat for days spent mostly in bed and without clothes. 
On a particular weekend you were planning, your boss had other plans. You had to stay late at the office for a deadline, and telling Steven was particularly devastating. He’d assured you it was alright and that he’d be okay, but you weren’t sure you would be okay. You missed him so much. His sweet voice, his soft lips, his dark curls and quirky attire. 
You’d come home that night around 11, exhausted and expecting to take a long shower and sleep. When you’d gotten out of your elevator onto your floor, you saw a large lump near your apartment door. You weren’t sure if it was a package or if someone had left their trash. 
Inconsiderate. You muttered to yourself. 
When you’d walked up closer, you saw that it was a large jacket and there were legs sprawled out on the other side. You heard familiar light snores but you almost couldn’t believe it. 
“...Steven?” You whispered. The body didn’t budge. You lifted the coat from on top of them and saw that it indeed was your boyfriend. 
“Steven!!” You exclaimed, he woke up with a jump, jaw slacked open and confused until he looked up and saw you. He shot up, hitting his head on the keypad before you helped him up. 
“Surprise, darling.” He slurred. “I figured now was ever a time for me to finally come to you and I–” 
You kissed him, hard. Your hands at his cheeks as he rested his onto your hips. The long kiss turning into softer kisses, your tongue sliding into his mouth as he strokes your lower back. 
His mouth starts to move eagerly over yours, taking deep pulls on your tongue as you kiss when you lick his bottom lip. 
“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” He groans.
Without saying a word, you put in your key code and open the door for the both of you. You’d figured you’d give him a more extensive tour of your apartment in the morning. 
—--------------------------------
“Ow–ow, Steven. Not too hard, I’m not that flexible.” Your legs are starting to hurt as your ankles have been repositioned on his shoulders. Steven kneels in front of you as sweat drips down his furrowed brow as he tries to figure out the next move. 
“Should we stop?” He asks, concerned. “I know we’ve been at it quite a bit tonight.” 
“No–God, no. Just, move my legs down a bit. I’m not Betty Spaghetti.” 
“Who’s Betty Spaghetti?” 
“It’s a toy here in the states from the–can we talk about this later?” 
“Right, right.” Steven lowers your legs as they hook around his lower back. As he repositions again, his thickness fills you and you feel yourself tighten. 
He sees and hears your response and starts moving, thrusting harder and deeper as his kisses on you are more desperate. You feel yourself start to tense, biting your lip to stop from crying out. His thrusts are becoming more shallow, his whimpers growing as you stroke his arms. 
He spills into you, his warmth filing your walls as he continues to pump inside of you as you tremble with your own orgasm. 
Steven rolls on his back and you join him, clinging to his chest and tracing small lines on his soft skin. He rubs your hair. You’d missed this sweet but silent bliss with him. 
“The most bonkers part is I was so jet lagged when I got here, but then I saw you and it was just like it all went away.” Steven pants heavily. 
“I think I’m spent for the night. But tomorrow I can cook you breakfast?” He asks. 
“Do you even know where the pots and pants are? How the stove works? Where the kitchen is?” You joke with him. 
“I’ll figure it out.” He kisses your head. 
And with that, you drift off to sleep in the arms of the man that you love. 
And I can still see it all in my head
Back and forth from New York sneaking in your bed
I once believed love would be burning red
But it's golden
Like daylight
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bits-and-babs · 1 year
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☁️ - 11. “Pay attention to me or I’ll make you” with Duke Leto please!!
“𝐏𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.”
pairing: Duke Leto Atreides x f!Reader
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warnings: Mean Leto (I fancied trying something new with him) intense and uneven power dynamic, mentions of canon-typical age gap enforced marriage, rough oral sex (m receiving), hair pulling, head-pushing, degradation.
leto masterlist I| main masterlist |I follower celebration I| ask |I
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Your eyes settle on the glow-globe that floats in the corner of the room. The iridescent surface of the floating sphere capture your attention, dragging your mind away from your enforced lesson on Caladanian history like a child distracted by candy.
In honesty, anything was better than being subject to lessons like this.
Grooming you to be Paul Atreides’ wife when he came of age was a harder task than you were sure Duke Leto Atreides had imagined it would be. First, you were significantly older than the boy- your interests were not aligned. Secondly, Paul Atreides certainly was not your suitor of choice.
“Pay attention to me,” Leto’s voice booms through the makeshift classroom that had been set up in the small office. It makes you startle in your seat, his frustrated tone ricocheting off the stone walls of the palace.
The Duke crosses the floor of the classroom with a grace unbefitting of his anger. He’s poised, a frustration laced in his brow.
“Pay attention to me,” he repeats, the eyes settling on your lips almost obsidian when he unhooks his belt. You pause, heart leaping in your chest as you watch him palm himself through his fitted trousers. His stark expression stays, desire glinting in the pitch black orbs. “Or I will make you.”
He shoves his cock down your throat. Makes you choke on it. You swallow him down but there is so much of him, and Leto pulls you off him with his fingers in your hair. Your scalp aches, throat raw, but he forces you to keep your eyes on his face, punishing you by pushing your head down onto his length if your attention strays.
“Such a disobedient student,” he muses, his regal voice almost demeaning in its derisive tone as he swipes away the drool running down your chin, “Now, where was I? Vorian Atreides met Leronica when he visited Caladan…”
No. Paul was not your choice of suitor, at all.
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Relax in Steven's apartment with him, the audio 🩷🤍🩷🤍🩷🤍
(I know I wrote worm instead of warm but It's too funny for me to change it)
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