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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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All That is Dark Within Me

Pairing: Azriel x Rhys!Sister Reader

Summary: In the wake of Nesta's sacrifice something ancient and long dead awakens, and you with it.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, and death, grief and longing. lots of dream sequences to keep things extra confusing.

The visions come in flashes of age-worn and the glimmer of Illyrian steel; thinly bladed and lethal, and through the blanket of the dark, the glare of cerulean light pierces the veil of obsidian shadow.

Death came to you as a girl; ravenous and heinous as it feasts upon you. Until all that is left is an assortment of crow-picked bones, interred in some unforgiving blue-darkness, further than Hel. And from that blue-darkness you find breath:

The fetor of decay is thick on your tongue; putrid and so palpable that you can taste it. It lingers there. Festering fruit-flesh in the damp heat and hemlock flowers arch out to kiss the skin that crawls from you. There, in the dark; all maggots and rot in the grave dirt, rebirth calls to you. A hand reaching through the veil of the black.

And you reach back.

The soul; the uneasy ally of the body, nameless as a river, creeps in like the sunlight as it comes back to you with the swiftness of the dawn; golden and ephemeral. It coils itself around you like the ribbons of shadowed sunbeams that come with the first light.

You emerge from your earthly tomb. Arms open. Waiting to become the shadowed ribbons of the firstlight. You are born anew; reaching and aching. Savage and sentimental. Searching for some semblance of touch as you break the surface of the wintry earth. The winter sun dawns over the valley and the earth grieves the loss of you. Sunlight spills onto your body all at once. You are painted in the colors of some celestial body; ichor and carnelian as the heaven-yellow light kisses its way up your spine.

You feel a tremor in the velvet of the earth. You falter with it and a cataclysmic vein of power ripples through the stagnant air; resurrected with you, amongst the dying moonflowers and jasmine, some fallow power.

It wakes from its dormant slumber and rages.

It calls to you.

In fleeting images of age worn bone and a shroud of shadow.

Speaks to you in a language long dead. So old that only the earth itself might infer some meaning from those words whispered on a westward wind. Words so sacred, told in the green tongues of the wilds. It grows in you and festers there. Taking root in your body. A slow, manifesting ache that spreads through you like disease.

Like rot.

The hum of the emerald wilderness lulls you into a misty sense of consciousness as breath comes to you like a bitter memory. That first breath of life burns like cold death as it crawls its brutal way down your throat. The next few tear through you in sporadic succession until you’re choking on the glacial breeze.

The morning air tastes like firewood and fruit flesh as your heart plateaus to a strong, steady rhythm that coaxes movement from you. Unfurling from your fetal position in the dirt you see the world as it once had been; the press of the winter sun into your skin, the draw of the wind as it flutters through the canopy the emerald forest, the darkening horizon and the shadows from the mountain that veil the valley in a misty shroud as the firstlight reigns golden over all.

You crawl from your grave, through the dying jasmine flowers, your fingertips arching and desperate to touch them. To feel the soft velvet of the petals as they give way beneath your trembling fingers. Their descent into decay; a testament to your own rebirth.

It takes a few moments of half-formed joints and muscle coming together to forge you anew but when you stand to your full height you realize that the fleeting remnants of rot and ruin have gone from you.

And in its place; resurrection.

Your girlhood and the innocence of your youth died long ago and what comes back is born wrong. With the knowledge of the ancient darkness from which we are born; and to which we will one day return.

In the distance, through the brush of the fir trees and Illyrian wilderness, a small fire burns golden against the first slivers of morning light, and the dying embers cling desperately to life. Smoky tendrils arch over the tops of the trees guiding you home. You press into the shade of the forest, the thick canopy is dappled in jewel tones; amber, gold, ruby and pale emerald that grant you shelter from the elements as the world turns silent and still.

Feigning peace.

The trees loom ominous overhead, foreboding and resolute, the sounds of the forest having died moments ago. Anxiety weighs heavy on you then, staring out into the dark edges of the forest, you are utterly alone.

You retreat into the darker recess of your mind in the knowledge that, whatever lies beyond, you must face it on your own.

Instinctually, like some archaic muscle memory you bid your wings to come and shield you from the world and the cruel wind. But as old muscles struggle with new life you find that your rebirth is marred with an air of barabarism that bids bile to rise in your throat. You’re brought to your knees in the dirt and a bone-deep sorrow nestles itself deep in the caverns of your chest; finding a home coiled around atrophied muscle and a aching heart.

You’re bereft, and screaming to the deaf stars when you feel the absence of the weight of membranous wings upon your back. The muscles in your back and shoulder blades sear in white-hot agony and trembling fingers trace the brutal scars etched into the skin there. You recoil in disgust and your body feels foreign under your careful hands. Unlike your own-- brutalized and butchered at the hands of the men; consuming and devouring, as they hacked and ravaged the expanse of your body like they had a right to it.

The world blurs at its edges and you remain there until the brush of the forest is cutting and brutal against the soft skin of your calves and thighs. Until you draw blood that falls like rubies at your feet; a testament to your resurrection.

The first of your tears begin to fall with the rain and you feel like the earth, that had held you for so long, is crying with you. Saltwater that purifies you, and your tears fall like moonlight on the Sidra; sparkling and sacred in the dying light of a new day.

As night begins to gather on the darkening horizon you feel exposed out here in the green expanse of the wilds. The temperatures begin to fall as rapidly with the encroaching night and the dying embers of the fire in the distance becomes a blaze in the dark-- a reckoning or a beacon.

You wrap yourself in the scraps of fabric that had shrouded your body in death and you know that you must face the forest and whatever lies within it. For the bitter wind holds you in its icy embrace and so, you press further into the Illyrian wilderness. The journey to the edge of the forest is long and the sounds of men in the distance is your guide to civilization. The forest becomes a dark symphony; the wind as it caresses the leaves of ancient oak trees and the rustling of the forest floor underfoot, it’s a cacophony of sensation that threatens to envelop you, beneath the leaves and fir trees, to lose yourself in its vastness until darkness descends upon you once more.

By the time you reach the edge of the forest you are close enough that, from your vantage point on the embankment, you can see the orange flames from the campfires as they climb high above the younger trees, the cinders rain down violently on the warriors camped below. These mountains always did have an austere beauty that called to you. Even then. Even as a girl, green and foolhardy with dreams of a life spent following your brothers and Azriel across continents. As a courtier in some distant land where the women were warrior-strong and softly beautiful. Somewhere Ramiel’s long, ghostly shadows could not reach you.

You never did outrun the shadows of the mountain that flanks the valley, you think as a shroud of darkness from the looming monolith blankets the world in a false twilight.

Burrowing down further into the valley of the embankment you find shelter nestled between a felled tree and the jagged moss-covered stone. You find comfort in the heady musky of fir and pine, and soaked to the skin by the morning mildew and blossoming bluebells. There in the valley, the hours pass strangely, against the backdrop of the desolate night, with only the songs of the forest and the sound of the warriors below in the distance to guide you into dreamless sleep.

The hum of the camp behind you lulls you into a sense of misty wakefulness, and every now and then you feel a tremor in the ground, a recollection of the darkness you had left behind. In these fleeting moments you wait beneath some strom-streaked cloud. A heavy velvet darkness descends upon the sky, extinguishing everything in its wake as you acquiesce to dreaming:

Death comes back to me veiled in shadow and flashes of age worn bone as it stakes its claim to me again.

The shadow of the mountain looms like some ill-fated omen over the valley and a red star bleeds into the twilight, casting Ramiel in a bloody halo. The mountain seems to tremble in your wake and the whispers of the Old Gods call your name like a prayer.

A great onyx monolith glitters in the amethyst moonglow and a vein of power hums on the westward wind. You reach out a hand to touch it and the world falls away from you again.Then there is a temple; carved into the stone of the mountain, a great antechamber, shaded in the musk of hemlock and incense as you pass between the sandstone pillars. The pillars themselves are shrouded in climbing ivy and blooming moonflowers that conceal the frescos on the walls.

You can vaguely make out the apparition of a man, cloaked in death. He wears it as some ancient King might. Proud, beautiful and lethal. His great dark wings spread across the landscape and the fae of old in the crowds kneel to him in reverence.

The onyx stalactites become entangled in the light that bleeds from the surface and you come to a stop at the foot of the altar when that myriad of dancing light falls onto you.

You are golden light, refracted and broken divinity-- the memory of some undying Goddess in the pale light.

Unearthly and ephemeral.

The emerald dias is littered with the remnants of the offerings left to a dying God; wilted jasmine and orchids, silver coins, minted with the faces of an ancient king, amphora’s of faerie wine. You sink to your knees at the foot of the altar and you swear you feel the whispers of the dead once more.

You run a fine-boned hand over the collection of offering laid in revereven, made in earnest.

That is when you notice the gleam of thinly drawn steel amongst the dying jasmine. Veiled in the shadows of the mountain; a bloody scythe. The hilt and pommel feel like cool marble in your hand as you raise it to the light that bleeds from the surface. The blade itself is coated crimson and rust and the ferrous smell of blood hangs heavy in the air.

Only false idols are worshiped in flowers and wine alone, you think.

True divinity requires sacrifice.

Out of the devastating darkness steps a figure; shaded in wretched shadows and a devouring black mass as he approaches the dias. As he steps to the altar all the sconces are afire with bluelight; sapphire and cerulean as his robe falls to reveal him in all his divine glory.

The saints whisper my name and his figure, wreathed in shadow and light materializes before you.

Tangible flesh and winged death.

Plumes of incense smoke, like salted-seafoam rise in the mountain air and the flickering blue flame douses me in its seraphic light. Like Venus born from the Kytherian sea. Or perhaps Persephone born again from the dark smoke of Hades.

Plumes of incense smoke, like salted-seafoam rise in the mountain air and the flickering blue flame douses you in its seraphic light. A priestess robed in pomegranate red, with milky, alabaster eyes rises steps from the smoke. The priestess looks like the apparition of a dark celestial body as she intones a mass and the thread that runs between your body and his grows taut, aching and agonizing as it burns through you like the first light.

“The thread of fate is severed and another is forged;

from my power I bestow power upon you,

and from my life-- life.”

The priestess chants and he touches you softly.

Your chest is tight and your muscles cannot be compelled to move. Your body is not your own and all autonomy is stripped from you as that thread that runs from your body to his glows pulsating, liquid gold.

“Stop,” Your voice is hoarse and strained, it echoes around the antechamber until his growl smothers all sound “please stop.” His touch grows cold against your skin and his grip on your arm is a bruising force. Bone crushing and cruel as he brings you harshly to your knees before him.

“Is it done?” His voice is harsh and laden with dark malice as he turns his piercing and deadly gaze upon the Priestess.

She eyes him and nods adamantly, “It is done, Lord.”

She leaves a trail of smoke and ash in her wake as she turns to dust and bone before your eyes. Terror fills you and your heart flutters wildly in your chest as he turns his cold gaze upon you once more.

Death takes your jaw roughly in his grasp, tilting your chin to look him in the eyes. Deep and reckoning, a twilight abyss so black that time and space itself falls away when you’re caught in the depths of his dark gaze. He runs a callous thumb over the sulk of your lip and the wet-heat of your tears fall at his feet.

“Oh, my love,” He coos menacingly, his voice a vacant echo as it ricochets around the chasm of the temple “resurrected from the grave dirt.”

It is a claiming; a devouring as he brings his cold lips to yours.

“To be brutal and mine.”

His words, like a sacred vow, are branded into your skin. There, between the valley of your breasts over your violent heart, in inky lines that same scythe-- age worn bone and blood.

An offering to an Old God. A holy sacrifice, you think as he runs a pointed finger over the hollow of your throat. His skin feels icy cold as he wraps those same fingers around you, pressing against the pulse point with practiced ease. This is it, you think. Death comes to you as an old friend. A darkness so deep that there is nothing before it and nothing beyond it.

But- a thread of light; blinding and golden against the black.

Suddenly Death’s face falters and a smirk spreads across his beautiful pale face when he feels the violent flutter of your heart in the cavern of your heaving chest. Death raises his scythe; a gleam of shadow and age-worn bone as he prepares to give you up in offering-- like a lamb led to the slaughter.

You will not return to the dark.

You are no sacrificial lamb; you are the shadow of a Goddess long forgotten and you will not bend to lesser men.

Nor submit to the will of some ill-fated deity.

You writhe in his hold; poised and ready all the while under the surface some raw divine power, like the light of a bleeding sun, pours out of you. It burns golden and sun-blushed as it spreads through you.

Wilful and ignorant in the face of his wrath you reach for that golden thread.

In a cataclysmic union of the dark and light, death is thrown down against the emerald dias. Brought to his knees before you. The amphora’s and trinkets laid in offering are strewn across the room in the fray and the merlot stains the marble wine red.

“Do not presume to touch me again” Your voice frantic and fragile echoes around the empty chamber and the ghost of his touch on your body makes your skin crawl.

The laugh that you tear from him is like death itself, cold and malignant as he turns his darkness upon you now. His shadows snake their way along the expanse of your limbs as you stumble backwards down the aisle. They curl into you, seeking out the light that bleeds from your skin in bursts of starlight and moonglow.

‘Death-touched girl’, they whisper to you. ‘Lovely bride, you belong to me’.

The temple trembles with a new wave of devastating force.

The mountain quakes and the world falls down around you; The climbing ivy is torn from the ancient and decaying fresco’s and the sandstone pillars give way, sinking and succumbing to Death’s cold wrath, like the trees that bend to the wind. Onyx stalactites fall like tangible night and pierce the earth, creating a cavern so great and so deep that you think it might be the opening to Hel itself.

A helmouth.

Looking down into that cavern. A deep blue-darkness that swallows everything in its wake. The jaws of Death open, awning and screaming as the temple is brought to its knees before you. Beyond the desecrated temple the Illyrian wilderness waits for you. Ramiel casts its long shadows over the valley and from the canopy of the emerald forest you hear a man screaming into the dark.

With only the light of a blood moon to guide you, you retreat into the twilight.

Your legs start moving before your mind has time to process it. So you run. You run. Until your heart is thunderous in your chest and each breath that is torn from you hurts. Still, you run.

Death’s voice whispers on the wind as it howls at a waning moon.

“You know me well, girl.” He says to you, his figure in the treeline like some voyeuristic ghost, “As I know you.”

Your calves burn but you push on, through the thicket and into a clearing. The moon wanes terrible and red at its peak in the night sky and you scream to the deaf stars. Crying for a God who had known your name once.

Only the Gods do not answer.

“Azriel.” You cry his name until your voice is hoarse. But he too does not answer the call.

Death-kissed shadows brush through the trees, appearing again at the edge of the clearing. There he stands, the perfect embodiment of a cruel God. Mercurial and furious as his dark wings spread across the expanse of his back.

Death is a beautiful creature.

His voice again cuts through the dark as you sink to your knees in the clearing, “I was there, waiting in the dark when you spilled your first blood.”

He stalks towards you and you scramble to your feet in some desperate attempt to evade him. He is shadow personified and dark eyes turn hazel and amber in the silver light of the moon.

“I am here with you now,” Death curls a shadow in his hand and smiles at you.

“as you run from me still.” He takes a step forward, cradling your jaw in his strong hand again. His thumb trails the line of your cheek.

The sound of a restless lake rings like birdsong in the air and you see the orange flames as they streak across the sky; a firebird as she soars over the shadow of the moon.

“You know my name.” He adds, half-amused as he brings his lips to meet yours in a cold, chaste kiss.

“Say it.” He commands.

You do not answer.

“Say.It.” Death spits venom through gritted teeth and you laugh as light floods the twilight forest.

“Azriel.” His name falls from your lips like some holy vow as light becomes you.

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic

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bellaxgiornata · 3 months

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Seeking Forgiveness [Part Eight]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word Count: 6.4k

[Summary and Series Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+ contains angst, emotional hurt, delayed comfort, pregnant Reader, mentions/fear of miscarriage

a/n: It's been awhile since this fic finally had an update, but here y'all go! Make sure you heed the added warning for this chapter--mentions/fear of miscarriage will be found in this update. Feedback is always appreciated!

Holding the soft cotton baby pajamas up in front of yourself, a faint smile ghosted over your lips. Unconsciously your left hand dropped down, landing on the swell of your growing bump as your eyes traced the cute pattern of white bunnies prancing around the yellow fabric.

As you stood there staring at the pajamas in your hand, you could see a picture beginning to clearly form in your mind. A little baby with a dusting of dark hair like Matt’s was cradled in your arms, wearing this onesie. A clearly exhausted Matt shuffled his way into the bedroom, heading over towards you with a prepared bottle in his hand, his eyes half-lidded. His tee-shirt was wrinkled and stained with a bit of old spit up near the collar, but he clearly hadn't bothered to change. The only thing he seemed concerned about was his daughter in your arms.

When he reached the pair of you, he extended his arms out to take her from you, eager to feed her. You passed her gently off to him, watching as he held her so carefully in his arms, pulling her in towards his chest like she was the most fragile thing on Earth. And then he'd lean down towards where she was cradled in the crook of his arm, talking in hushed tones with a broad smile on his face as tiny fingers reached up, brushing along the stubble of his jaw while he spoke.

An expression full of warmth and love broke out across Matt's face, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he gazed down at the little baby in his arms hungrily drinking down the formula from the bottle with happy, soft little squeaks and grunts. That glimmer of love in his eyes only grew more as he glanced back up at you, a smile full of joy and pride stretched wide across his mouth despite the fact that it was three in the morning.

“I cannot believe you're having a girl!”

The sound of Marci’s excited voice had the mental image quickly fading from your mind. Tongue feeling suddenly thick in your mouth, you blinked back the tears threatening to spill forth as that smile on Matt's face vanished from your mind completely.

It had been a beautiful image while you'd imagined it, at least.

Clearing your throat, you set the pajamas back onto the display table. Your gaze lowered to your bump, your hand affectionately running across it.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Finding out I'm having a girl definitely made this feel even more real than it already had been.”

“Are you going to tell Matt?” Karen asked from behind the display table, her blonde brows high on her forehead. “That you found out you're having a girl?”

You nodded, your attention returning to the little yellow onesie you'd set back down. Running your fingers across the fabric, an ache hit you hard in the chest. You did your best to ignore it.

“I am, yeah,” you replied, glancing back up at her. “But I just found out this morning and I…don't exactly know how to tell him, you know? We've exchanged a few texts since he stopped by the other week and dropped off that pregnancy pillow and weighted blanket, but things are still a little odd between us. And I feel like this is news you share with the father in person, not in a text.”

“So you've been talking?” Marci asked curiously.

You watched as she pulled a tiny hanger from the rack she was looking at, lifting up a small green dress and showing it to Karen. The pair audibly cooed at the little outfit.

“A little,” you admitted to her. “It's hard for me to talk on the phone with him because hearing his voice is just…hard. It makes me wish things were like they were before.” The smile on your face faltered as you stepped away from the table, glancing at the vastly overpriced baby outfits on another nearby rack. “I admitted to him that phone calls are still a bit much for me, so he's been texting instead. Even though I know how irritating the speech to text feature on his phone is to him. So I get it. He is trying.”

“Certainly hasn't bailed yet,” Marci muttered, hanging the dress back on the rack. “Which I'm honestly proud of him for.”

You caught the pointed look Karen sent you and you sighed, aware of what that look meant.

“Yeah, I've noticed,” you confessed. “I see he's trying to be present. I see how emotional he gets at the thought of not actually actively raising this child. But here's the thing,” you continued, both women now focused on you. “I'm bringing a baby into this world, right? I'm not adopting a puppy. We're talking about a little human. Someone who's going to be shaped by their parents and how they're brought up and raised. Someone who is completely dependent on us to take care of them for years . And meanwhile, Matt does…well–” you waved a hand in front of yourself, “– that in the evenings. I think it's only realistic that I'm concerned about how serious he is when it comes to actually being there for the both of us after how he wasn't there for me the one time I needed him. I need to know I can actually count on him, especially when things get difficult. Or exhausting. Or if there's an emergency. The city can’t always come first, even if I admire him for what he does.”

“But he is trying to show you that,” Karen pointed out gently. “He messed up and he knows that. Believe me, he does. And while I completely understand your side, it's not like Matt isn't trying to earn your forgiveness and prove all of that to you, too. But it's sort of dependent on you giving him a chance to show you that.”

Running a hand across your forehead, you nodded. “I know,” you told her softly. “I know. Which is why I've been trying to give him that chance. It's probably better that I do before the baby comes when emotions will be even higher and things will be more complicated.”

Eyes dropping down to your feet, you nervously chewed your lip. You’d been leaning towards giving him that chance he’d so desperately and repeatedly been begging you for ever since he’d last stopped by, especially after seeing how much the thought of not being an active parent to his child really upset him. But that didn’t mean you weren’t still scared to give him that chance. To open up and let him back in knowing he could hurt more than just you this time.

“It’s just hard to willingly let him back in after what happened. After how he'd hurt me. Because I’m honestly afraid of getting hurt again,” you confessed. “And not just me, but I’m scared of his daughter getting hurt. Of him not being there for her like she’s going to need him to be.”

“You know, I’m surprising myself by saying this,” Marci chimed in, “but I agree with Karen. At first, after hearing the news that you were pregnant, I absolutely could not picture Matt wanting to be a present father with how much he does, well, you-know-what at night. But with how much he’s been over at our place talking to Foggy and I the past few weeks?” She shook her head, tsk’ing lightly. “Let’s just say I fear for the man, woman, or child that dares to say a single mean word to his daughter. I mean that man is fiercely protective over the both of you. I don’t think you have to worry about him not being there when either of you need him.”

Something warm slowly filled you at Marci’s words. Something like a tiny spark of hope. You hadn’t known he’d been going over to their place and saying these things, worrying about the pair of you so much. Granted, you hadn’t spoken to him much in months now so you didn't really know what he'd been up to lately.

“Really?” you asked her, the threat of tears returning for a different reason.

Both Karen and Marci nodded their heads firmly, your eyes jumping between the two. That spark of hope burned a little hotter in your chest.

“He’s still in love with you,” Karen told you before pointing a finger at your belly. “And I can assure you, he loves that baby just as much as he loves you already.”

Crouched on the corner of a six-story apartment building’s roof, Matt’s head dipped and turned as he tried to remain focused on a conversation occurring in a nearby warehouse. He was doing his best to block out all the other distractions around him–like the sounds of car horns and the traffic below, sirens screeching in the distance as an ambulance made its way to the hospital, or the various arguments coming from inside the building he was perched atop.

Something was happening tonight in his city. He could feel it.

But as he tried to follow the conversation occurring half a block over, another noise abruptly broke through his carefully crafted concentration. Matt's gloved hands gripped the edge of the roof at the sound of it, his head instantly darting over his shoulder as the noise quickly overtook the sound of everything else.

Truthfully, he’d been attempting not to eavesdrop on you lately, trying to respect your wishes when he was out at night. Honestly he had been, too, especially since you’d actually been talking to him again, letting him in a little more even if it was only through texts here and there over this past week. He hadn't wanted to risk ruining the progress he'd suddenly made with you by trying to push your boundaries any further.

But he absolutely couldn’t ignore the sound of distress coming from you in your apartment just a block behind him.

You were crying. But not just crying in the usual way someone would if they were sad–something mournful and soft. No, it was a heart wrenching sound. Despairing. Painful. A noise that felt like an ice cold hand had gripped his own heart in his chest and squeezed .

Something was wrong.

A pained noise came from Matt as he rose to his feet, instinctively turning in the direction of your apartment. One booted foot took a step in your direction before he immediately halted in place. Gritting his teeth, his mind raced with a myriad of thoughts.

There was definitely a shipment of drugs being moved around in Hell’s Kitchen tonight, he’d absolutely learned that much from the conversation he’d been eavesdropping on. He had been on the cusp of uncovering where it was currently being held. All he needed was a location and he could alert the authorities to handle the rest. The streets of his city would once again be marginally safer because of him if he did.

And you had already repeatedly asked him to stop appearing at your apartment as Daredevil and invading your privacy. If he showed up now, that would surely appear to you like he wasn’t respecting your clear boundaries. Which he knew wasn’t remotely true, but would you understand if he explained that he was just too in tune with you to not subconsciously pick up on a sound of distress like that coming from you ? That he couldn't exactly control his senses picking up on it?

Matt’s gloved hand ran across his mouth in frustration, his eyes snapping shut behind his mask. He was torn.

Did he force himself to ignore your cries in order to not possibly upset you further? To keep respecting your boundaries and to leave you alone like you’d repeatedly asked him to? Which would in turn allow him to attempt to focus on finding that drug shipment tonight instead, something he'd been determined to do. Or did he go to you?

Teeth still grinding back and forth, Matt fought to decide on the right course of action. But at the sound of a particularly heart-wrenching wail coming from your apartment combined with something like the noise of you falling down, his eyes snapped back open and he made up his mind. He didn't care if you threw things at him and yelled him off your fire escape when he showed up. There was absolutely no way in hell he was going to ignore whatever was happening in your apartment. Even if it meant he’d have to show up at your front door and beg you to forgive him on his goddamn knees for the next several months. He needed to make sure you and the baby were alright.

Taking off at a sprint, Matt darted across the roof he was on and headed straight in the direction of your distress. He barely registered much else in the city as he flung himself over rooftop after rooftop, the sound of his own panicked heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears. He was focused solely on you and the continued sobbing in your apartment, trying his best to keep his mind from racing to a number of terrible reasons as to why you might’ve been this upset.

By the time he’d made it onto your building’s rooftop, he quickly dropped down two floors until he landed with a solid thud on your fire escape. He heard your terrified intake of breath from inside your apartment, the sound of your head swiftly turning in the direction of where he was outside your window. He felt bad for startling you as he reached a hand out, knocking on the glass.

He expected you to start shouting. To tell him to go away. To tell him that he was an asshole who couldn’t respect your privacy. That you didn’t want to speak to him anymore because of it. Maybe to throw something at the window even.

What he did not expect was the way you softly sobbed out his name in a way that sounded almost like relief. Or the way your hands had clawed at the couch cushion beside you as you pulled yourself up to your feet, rushing over to the window as more fresh tears spilled down your cheeks.

When you opened the window, the sharp, heavy scent of fear met his nose. The acrid tang was strong in your apartment, almost overpowering the salty taste of your tears in the air. And the sound of your racing and erratic heartbeat was roaring loud in his ears, mingling with the still frantic beating of his own heart. He could barely focus on much else as his own fear levels began to rapidly rise.

And then you surprised him yet again.

Your hands reached out through your window, grabbing desperately onto his shoulders and practically pulling him inside of your apartment. Speechless and concerned, he allowed you to drag him through the opening, moving as fast as he could to get to you. Though the way you whispered his name again as he climbed inside your apartment had his heart constricting in his chest.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he whispered. “What happened?”

He'd barely had a chance to stand upright before your hands on his shoulders yanked him towards yourself. Your arms snaked around his neck, drawing him into a tight embrace as you buried your face right into the armor of his suit as more tears began falling down your cheeks. A strangled sob left your mouth, the heartbreaking sound partially muffled against his body.

Matt didn't hesitate. He wrapped his own arms around your waist and wrenched you in tight to the front of himself. His eyes closed as he buried his face into your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of you. Desperately he wished you were holding him like this under different circumstances because he'd missed you these past few months.

But something was wrong and he needed to focus on that right now.

“Sweetheart, you're scaring me,” he whispered, tears burning at his own eyes behind the mask. “What's got you so upset? Did something happen?”

You murmured something unintelligible against his chest, the words too muffled and disjointed for him to understand.

“What?” he asked.

You pulled away from him, sounding as if you'd turned your head to look up at him as he reluctantly unburied his face from your hair. A large sniffle came from you before you answered him, this time more clearly despite the tremor in your voice.

“There was blood.”

It took Matt a moment to register what you'd said and what you meant. But when he did, he felt something ice cold flood his veins.

“I woke up a bit ago and needed to go to the bathroom. Like usual,” you explained softly. “And then I noticed that I–I was bleeding.” You sniffled again, your voice quivering more noticeably as you continued. “And it scared me. Because I'm terrified that–that something is wrong. With the baby.”

Matt's stomach dropped as you buried your face back against him. His gloved hands gripped your back tighter as he tried to remain calm and process what you'd said.

“Was it a lot of blood?” he asked nervously.

You shook your head against him. “No. Not a lot. Just enough to notice it.”

“Okay, well that's good at least,” he said, running a soothing hand along your back as he tried to keep himself calm. “You're around twelve weeks now, right? It's not entirely abnormal for some bleeding to occur. I don't hear any cramping occurring and–” his head turned, his eyes narrowing as he focused hard to hear the baby's heartbeat over the panicked noises of your own body, “–the baby still seems to have a steady heartbeat in there. Which is–is good. From what I remember reading, that's a good sign that nothing is wrong. It's the first thing a doctor would check for to make sure the baby isn't in any danger. But if you continue bleeding we can certainly get you to a hospital, sweetheart.”

You drew your face partially out his chest, sniffling loudly yet again as Matt continued to stroke your back. It sounded like you had looked up at him, your tears gradually slowing. He focused back down on you, one hand leaving your back to gently brush some hair away from your damp cheeks.

“How do you know all that?” you whispered.

He shrugged a shoulder lightly, his hand still gingerly removing the damp strands of hair from your face that were stuck by tears. “I spend my free time reading up on pregnancy-related things,” he admitted softly. “So that I can maybe help if you need me. In situations like this.”

He heard the faint surprised intake of breath you'd taken at his answer, so quiet you probably hadn't even realized you'd made the sound. He felt your arms wrapping tighter around his neck, holding him close as you buried your face back against his chest. Despite how good it felt to have you back in his arms, Matt focused his senses back onto your body, doing his best to concentrate on the baby for a minute in the silence that filled your apartment.

“I'm not a doctor,” he murmured, still listening, “but nothing sounds different than what I've usually heard. I don't notice any more bleeding, and the lack of cramping is a good sign. Baby's heartbeat seems to be really strong.”

Matt cleared his throat, turning his attention back on you. Your body had calmed in his presence–something that made him feel good but he was afraid to overthink about the why . Though your body still sounded panicked and stressed, something that concerned him.

“Maybe it's best if you take a seat and try to relax,” he suggested gently. “The stress probably isn't good for you or the baby. Let's just focus on calming down now, okay?”

“Right,” you said, the air shifting around you as you nodded against him. “You're right. It was just a little blood so I'm–I’m probably overreacting.”

“You're not overreacting,” he told you, guiding you carefully back to the couch and settling the pair of you down into the cushions. “You were scared. It's understandable.”

Matt sat down on the couch beside you, surprised once more when you scooted closer to him. He reached a hand up, removing the cowl from his head with one hand while running his other through his unkempt hair.

“I'm sorry,” you whispered.

Matt's hand froze in his hair, his attention swiftly focusing on you. “Sorry for what, sweetheart?” he asked.

“For probably scaring the shit out of you tonight,” you replied. “I'm guessing that's why you showed up, right? You heard me freaking out?”

Matt smiled sheepishly back at you, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I wasn't trying to listen in to your apartment, but you sounded so upset that I couldn't help but overhear you when I was out. I was afraid you'd be upset with me showing up though, because I know you’ve wanted me to stay away, but I couldn't just ignore you like this. I had to make sure everything was alright.”

He heard you sniffling again, your hands wiping at your eyes. Carefully he slid his arm around your shoulders, moving slowly in case he was crossing a boundary and you wanted to tell him to stop. But instead you moved even closer to him, eliminating the space between both of your bodies as you wrapped your arms around his waist. You leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder. A small smile slipped onto Matt's face, his own head carefully lowering to rest atop yours.

“Thank you for coming to check up on me,” you whispered. “I feel better with you here.”

Matt's heart thudded hard in his chest, that cold feeling of dread finally melting straight out of him as he held you against his side. You actually wanted him here. You were comforted by his presence, not upset by it. After the months apart from you which had felt like torture, hearing that had felt far too good.

“I'll always be here when you need me,” he assured you quietly. He hesitated a moment before softly adding, “Though I certainly wish I could be here the times you don't necessarily need me, too.”

He felt your head turn along his shoulder as you settled even more comfortably into the side of him. Your body was relaxing further now that the pair of you had sat down. But Matt could hear just how tired you really were from the sounds of your body and he figured the scare you’d just had hadn’t helped.

“I know,” you replied softly. “Maybe we should have a talk about that. About things between us.”

Hope fluttered in his chest at your words, excitement flooding through him at what that talk might mean. He absolutely wanted to be back in your life far more than he currently was, but he knew right now wasn't the time for that discussion, not after what had just happened and considering how exhausted you sounded to his ears.

“Maybe I can take you for coffee this weekend and we can discuss things,” he said, hoping he didn't sound as over-eager as he felt. “Tonight let's just focus on making sure you and baby are both okay.”

Your head shifted along his shoulder and Matt could feel the way your eyes were on him now. Then he felt the sudden nervous energy that washed over you just before you'd opened and closed your mouth a couple of times. Clearly you wanted to say something but didn't seem to know how. He sat there quiet and patient beside you, wondering what you were struggling to get out.

“This is probably not fair of me to ask considering our…situation,” you eventually began, your nerves apparent to him in your tone, “but could you maybe please stay here with me tonight? In case something does happen?”

That hope in Matt's chest grew further at your question, his body feeling like it could float up through the ceiling right now if he wasn’t more focused on the feel of you at his side. He made you feel safe. Even after how awful he'd been to you and how that had led to the break up, you still wanted him here. To protect both of you. Maybe he hadn't messed things up entirely beyond repair like he’d been worried about for weeks. Maybe he could fix things.

Maybe you could actually want him in both of your lives again.

“I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't ask,” you began in a rush when he hadn’t answered. “If it's too much to ask, I completely understand. I just don’t really want to be alone and–”

“I'll stay,” he assured you, his hand reassuringly squeezing your shoulder. “I told you, I'll always be here when you need me. I want to stay and make sure you're both safe.”

He heard you release the quietest sigh of relief, your body once again relaxing into his side. In the silence that followed, he also swore he heard a smile draw itself across your lips with how close he was listening to you, the muscles ever so minutely shifting along your face.

“You know how I mentioned that blood test?” you asked, breaking the silence a minute later. “The one where I could find out baby's sex and whether we're having a boy or a girl?”

Of course he knew exactly which blood test you were talking about. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it all week. He figured with what you’d told him about how long it took to hear back from your OB that you already had the results by now. It had been a struggle for him not to text or call you all week to ask you what you’d found out instead of focusing on his work that week. He’d been so eager for the news.

“Yes,” he answered. “I remember you telling me about it.”

“Well, I got the results yesterday morning,” you said slowly. “Did you…want to know what they were?”

It took everything inside of Matt to not blurt the ‘yes’ he gave you too fast. Though he’d grabbed your shoulder tighter in his grip, struggling to contain his excitement in anticipation of the news.

“We’re having a girl,” you told him.

Matt’s eyes snapped shut, a large smile spreading wide across his face. A girl. You were both having a little girl. A little version of you running around. Maybe she’d grow to have the same laugh as you, the same laugh he missed hearing in his apartment ever since you’d left.

“I can’t wait to meet her, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m sure she’ll be just as perfect as you.”

You curled up further against Matt's side, something like an embarrassed scoff leaving you. But as you sat there cozied up to his side, another thought crossed Matt's mind. One he'd thought about often lately.

Nervously he chewed his lip as he focused on the sound of his daughter’s thankfully continuously steady heartbeat. Turning his head, he glanced down in your direction. He could feel the way you’d once again shifted against his shoulder, looking up to meet his eyes no doubt. There was something he’d been dying to do for weeks now, but he wasn’t sure if now was an appropriate time to ask, or if it would somehow make you uncomfortable. But he figured he’d try anyway.

“You can certainly say no,” Matt began cautiously, “and I would respect your answer completely. But…would it be alright if I could see if I could feel her moving yet? Is that too much to ask?”

You didn't answer him outright; instead he felt you reach your hands over towards him and pick up his right one. With ease you undid the straps of his glove, gently sliding it off of his hand before tossing it over onto your coffee table. Afterwards you slipped his hand up beneath your shirt, just over the slight bump his hands weren't used to feeling on you. His eyes closed again as he tried to concentrate his senses on your body in a way he'd never done before. A smile returned to his face as he felt you rest both of your hands over the top of his while he focused. He missed the simple feel of your touch.

It took Matt a few moments of concentrating before he noticed something ever so faintly shifting beneath your skin, something he’d never have been able to pick up on if it wasn’t for his senses. A soft, surprised chuckle fell out of him when he felt the faint shift again of what must’ve been a limb moving. There was no way for him to know whether it was an arm or a leg, but it was his daughter alive and well inside of you. The knowledge of that had tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

“What?” he heard you ask.

“She's moving,” he whispered in awe. “I can feel her. It's faint, probably because she's still so small, but I can–can feel her.”

Your hands tightened over the top of his, the sound of your heart fluttering catching Matt's attention as he continued to focus on the baby growing inside of you. He wasn’t sure if your reaction was from the tear that had suddenly slipped down his cheek or something else, but it didn’t matter. Because this moment was easily one of the happiest he’d ever experienced.

With a huff you readjusted your head along your pillow, eyes opening once again in the darkness of your bedroom. You'd been having trouble falling and staying asleep tonight, too stressed about the bit of blood you'd found that had upset you earlier. Thankfully there hadn't been anymore tonight, but despite Matt's repeated reassurance, you'd felt embarrassed about getting distressed so quickly.

You'd just been so terrified waking up, still partially drowsy, to find that bit of bright red on the toilet paper when you'd gone to the bathroom. The fear that you'd somehow lost the pregnancy at the sight of it had immediately panicked you, because in these past few months you'd grown so completely attached to your little Devil. The thought of losing her–especially now knowing they in fact were a her–was too much.

Knowing Matt was out there sleeping on your couch in the living room hadn't been helping you to fall asleep, either. Not because you didn't feel safe with him here, but because it just felt wrong that he was asleep on the couch. He'd never slept anywhere else but in bed with you in the past, and honestly you couldn't imagine your couch was all that comfortable. Especially to him of all people.

And truthfully, if you were being honest with yourself, it was because you wanted him in bed next to you. Not down the hall, but right here where you could feel that he was actually with you. Where you could feel his comforting presence. Because you really did miss him.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you tried to listen to the sounds in your apartment. For a moment you laid in bed, trying to hold your breath to see if you could tell whether Matt was asleep or not out in your living room. But as you sharply expelled the breath seconds later, the only noise you'd been able to pick up on was that of the city outside.

Another few minutes passed where you laid there contemplating whether you should just try to close your eyes and fall back asleep, or actually get out of bed and ask Matt to come join you. But you weren't sure you should even ask anymore from him tonight, considering he'd clearly been interrupted from Daredevil-ing because of you. And then he had offered to sleep on your couch afterwards when you'd asked him to stay. Asking him to then come join you in bed–while you both were still broken up–seemed like such a gray area.

But at the same time, you were carrying his child. And you'd been afraid that something serious had almost happened tonight, and clearly he'd been just as concerned. It was obvious with the panic written on his face even behind the mask when he'd initially shown up. And he'd stayed . He could have left when he realized things seemed to be okay, but he didn't. And while it was only one situation that the pair of you'd encountered, it had meant a lot to you that he hadn't just left you.

The pair of you were planning to get coffee together and talk this weekend too, so was it really all that bad to go out there and ask him to stay with you in your bed?

For a while you just continued to lay there, your mind racing back and forth trying to land on an answer. Ultimately it was the memory of Matt shedding a couple of tears from earlier tonight when he'd felt your little Devil move–something you hadn't yet even managed to experience because you were not far enough along–that had you tossing the sheets off of yourself and climbing out of bed.

Barefoot, you shuffled out of your bedroom before padding down the short hallway. When you reached the living room, you came to a stop just at the edge of the hallway, your eyes drawn to Matt. He was laying on your couch, his body curled in what looked like an uncomfortable position on the small piece of furniture. He had squashed a couch pillow up underneath his head, his eyes closed as he lay there. The plush blanket you always had on the back of your couch was draped over his lower half, but it was clearly too small to cover him fully as he lay there, his bare upper torso partially exposed.

He looked like he was asleep, probably worn out from a long day at work and a night out as Daredevil before you'd gone and interrupted it. You'd almost turned around and gone back to your room, not wanting to disturb him, but then his eyelids flew open. Almost immediately his head rose from the pillow, his gaze landing on you across the room as a look of worry crossed his face, his brows drawing together.

“Sweetheart?” he asked. “Is something wrong? Are you alright?”

Awkwardly you leant up against the wall beside you, your hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You shook your head, suddenly feeling a little nervous.

“No,” you whispered. “Nothing is wrong. I just can't really sleep. My mind is too loud.”

The worried crease between Matt's brows slowly disappeared as he pushed himself upright on the couch. The blanket that had been draped across him slid down, revealing more of his bare chest in the dark room. He'd clearly been trying to sleep in his boxers since the suit would have been too uncomfortable, and for some reason that only made you long for the comfort of his warm skin cuddled against yours in bed.

“Is there something I can do to help?” he asked.

Running a hand nervously through your hair, you tried to ignore your increasing nerves. You figured it was best to get to the point and just ask for what you wanted, leaving the decision up to Matt after that.

“Would it be too much if I asked you to stay with me?” you whispered. “Not on the couch, but actually with me? Just for tonight?”

“If that's what you want,” Matt replied. “I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I assumed you'd prefer me to stay out here, especially because I don't exactly have anything to sleep in.”

You shrugged a shoulder, glancing down at your bare feet. “That doesn't exactly bother me,” you told him, aware he could hear the truth in your answer. “I just don't want to be alone after earlier. And I'd feel a little better if you were with me.”

Matt removed the blanket from his lower half, his own bare feet landing on the floor. Rising wordlessly from the couch, you watched as he maneuvered around the coffee table like he'd done so many times in the past before he made his way to you in nothing but his boxers.

Hesitantly you reached a hand out, entwining your fingers with his when he neared. Turning in the hall, you guided him down the length of it and back to your bedroom. Matt easily followed your lead, his soft footsteps echoing yours as you led him into your room and towards the bed.

You released his hand when the pair of you reached the foot of the bed, making your way over to the side that was always yours. Matt continued on his way to the side that had always been his, his fingertips lightly dragging over the comforter as he moved.

Climbing back into your bed, you felt the mattress dip under the weight of Matt settling onto the other side. You smiled a little to yourself as you tried to get comfortable on your side, wrapping your legs around the pregnancy pillow Matt had gotten you the other week.

“Would you prefer me to stay on this side, or…?”

Matt's question hung in the bedroom, his meaning clear despite him not finishing it. Tongue darting out to wet your lips, your head turned just over your shoulder towards him as you answered.

“You don't have to tonight.”

Without waiting for further invitation, you felt Matt shift along the bed closer to you. His warm hand carefully landed on your hip, halting there for a moment as if testing your boundaries. Then very gradually his palm slid downwards until it was gently cradling your bump over your shirt. His warm body slowly sidled up to the back of yours and your eyelids lowered, your body relaxing at the safety and familiarity of him.

“Thank you for being here,” you whispered into the dark.

Matt's fingers traced a light pattern over your stomach, the gentle touch causing a warmth to linger in their wake.

“I'll always be here when you need me,” he whispered back. “From now on, I promise you that.”

The smile on your lips grew a little wider as your own hand sought out his. Your fingers entwined with his over the growing swell of your bump, like a protective barrier that the pair of you were making between the world outside and the little life growing within you. Then gradually you finally fell asleep.

Tag List: @mattmurdocksstarlight @just-going-through-the-motions @paracosmic-murdock @yeonalie @auroraslibrary @1988-fiend @will-delete-this-later-probably @two-unbeatable-beaters @danzer8705 @ragamuffin285 @callmebrooklynbabes @spookyboogyuniverse @peachy-aisha @stevenknightmarc @nerdytreeflower @fucktthisworld @remuslupinwifee @kmc1989 @thychuvaluswife @mywellspringoflife @thornbushrose @yarrystyleeza @shiorimakibawrites @marvelcinematiquniverse @vallovesthedilfs @scoliobean @this-is-music @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @ashlynhasmanyhyperfixations @swissy23 @babygorewhore @that-girl-named-alex @warsaur @lareinaisabelle @pazii @senjoritanana @mischiefmanaged71511-blog @xxdrixx @jess-rye @hannahbohen @theclassicvinyldragon @karolamurdock @theoraekenslover @mr-underhills-things @jennifer0305 @capswife @amazexng @blackhawkfanatic @ladywholikesreading @powellssaturn @sunflower-tia @indestructeible

[I have no idea why some of these tags aren't working 😭 If I misspelled something please let me know!]

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock angst #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #daredevil

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naffeclipse · 3 months

Text

Warm Fangs

Naga!Sun x Reader. Sickness.

As you sleep, the fever worsens. Chills hit you with a violent shudder. The heat from the sickness flees under the quaking cold. You moan softly, curling up tighter. A soft hiss shushes you but you can’t find anything warm, anything warm at all.

The smooth brush of scales loosens from around you. The outside cold slips away from your feverish skin but stays within.

“It hasn’t broken yet,” Moon murmurs distantly. Cold fingertips brush your hair, damp from sweat, away from your forehead. A whine leaves you. You hate how pathetic it sounds inside your head.

“Oh, no. I was afraid it might linger with our poor lily pad,” Sun lowers his voice but he’s not as quiet as his brother, holding a stage whisper more than an actual whisper. You might have smiled if you weren’t bothered by the mottled moonlight giving way to a blue-bright early morning sky.

It doesn’t feel warm. The sun is supposed to reheat the earth and take away the frost filling your chest with a shivering revolt.

A few quiet exchanges slip away in your near unconsciousness. Gingerly, you become weightless, lifted into the air like a feather before pressed into other arms. Heat, raw and covering, finally touches your body. You breathe out a low sigh, eyelids fluttering to peek up at the source of the heat. The form softly sways as you’re carried away.

“It’s going to be alright,” Sun hums. He looks down at you, his spiky frills flaring around his head in golden hues before the shadow of the cave eclipses the morning sun. “Don’t move, my water lily, you’re still sick.”

“Hmm, I’m fine,” you half moan. Your eyes fall close again. A tender soreness soaks into every muscle, especially at your neck and your shoulders. The deep, deep ache that refuses to go away.

You shudder with another chill. Sun clicks his tongue in concern, the forked end whipping with a snapping worry.

“You amaze me, truly. Even in the throes of illness, you’re still so stubborn.” He laughs softly, endearing but in a way that almost makes you push yourself out of his steady arms. He doesn’t get to think you’re cute. Not right now, when you feel how sticky your body is and how weak your limbs dangle as he carries you deeper into the cave you’ve made a shelter within.

“Sun,” you softly groan.

“Save your strength to fight the fever, not me.” A soft peck of his scaly mouth touches your temple. You nearly dissolve under his doting command. “You need to rest and do as I say so you can feel better. I don’t like to see you like this.”

You, in a reflective, rebellious instinct, almost try to kick out your feet and find solid ground, but Sun lowers you to the cold, cave floor. You’re seized by another icy torrent of coldness. Hugging your arms, you quietly groan. A soft swell of tears teem over your eyelids. That’s from the sickness, you tell yourself. You’re not crying because Sun and his sweet warmth let you go.

“I’ll be gone for only a moment, lily pad. Hold on for me, okay?” he singsongs.

You want to snatch the heat that had held back the torturous chills. Lifting your heavy eyes, you scour the dimness of the cave, catching sight of Sun’s long body softly slipping over the stone towards the shelves that were chipped into the wall of the cavern. The rich yellow hues of his scales are bright even in the shadows of rocks. The markings along his waist and around his throat are scarlet and vibrant with warning of his venom. You watch the outline of Sun’s defined shoulders move, taking and gathering, collecting a pale pink blossom you can’t currently name.

Pressed against the wall in a sleepy bundle of his scales, Moon watches you, eyes half lidded but attentive. You didn’t hear him enter. His hands open and close, as if to reach for you. He holds back. You frown at his distance but recall his cool scales through the midnight fever, and drowsily, in fitful half-sleep, wait for Sun.

He returns with a skim over the floor. His presence washes over you with hope.

“Don’t cry, my water lily. I’m here,” Sun coaxes with gentle mirth. A crooked finger swipes the leaking liquid from your eyes.

“Not crying,” you grumble, voice croaking like a frog. “Not a water lily.”

“Oh, I’m going to have to disagree and blame your lack of sense on the sickness,” he chirps as if you were simply the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

You pry your eyelids open for a glare. You certainly are not a beautiful and grandiose flower. Not right now in your freezing weakness.

Moon’s hissing laughter echoes. It fills you with another short burst of irate energy that lasts for only the moment of his humor. Sun tuts and shoots Moon a look before gently cradling you. The golden naga guides you upright with a tender hand supporting your back. He rests your head on his shoulder, his underside a shiny, pale cream color, and the gentle heat of his body burns away the chills holding you down.

He lifts up a small flower, pale pink and pom-pom like on the end of a slender, green stalk.

“Eat this. It’ll make you feel better,” he softly insists.

You eye the flower as if it were a venus flytrap, and you were a particularly weak fly.

“What is it?” you murmur.

“I’ve heard humans call it a sensitive plant, sometimes called touch-me-not. If you had told me you weren’t feeling well early, you could have had this sooner.” The chasiting does not evade your awareness. Sun lowers the plant closer, as if offering a rose instead of medicine. “It will help with your fever and chills.”

“Ugh,” you turn your head ahead. The thought of eating when you have no appetite rears an ugly head within you. “I don’t need it.”

“I disagree strongly, lilypad,” Sun crones in disapproval. “Once you eat it, you’ll start to feel better.”

The soft lift to his tone invades you. You want to squirm, keep turning away from the offered medical plant, but Sun’s warmth surrounds you entirely. Gently, his finger guides your cheek until you face him once more.

“Please, won’t you, for me?” His cornflower blue eyes hold you with his plea. From the corners of his wide mouth, the very tips of fangs glint, but you’re not afraid of his bite. He saved you with his venom, once.

You grimace and force your lips to part. Murmuring praises and coaxes alike in a soft, musical tone, Sun presses the flower head to your mouth until you bite it off, and chew laboriously. It tastes green and dry. He watches you, hawk-like, ensuring you masticate the soft, brittle like petals before swallowing against the vicious dryness of your throat. You gasp after gulping.

His smile grows like a sunbeam at sunrise.

“See? It wasn’t so bad.” He tenderly rubs his mouth against your forehead. “Thank you."

The heat of his affection battles the cold underneath your skin, and when you shiver, he holds you tighter. You fall deeper under his fondness.

"This will pass and you’ll be in tip-top shape again,” he says softly, brimming with heated hope.

Oh, Sun. You want to curse him. You want to tell him that he can’t talk like that, melting your insides and making you nothing but an ooey-gooey mess, but you can’t. You are swept away by his sweet tones.

No one but Sun unbalances you and catches you in the same motion. He’s disarming. He's the only thing that feels right.

You slump against him in another full-body shudder. Softly humming, Sun begins rearranging your limp form, draping your legs across his deliciously warm tail as the dark end wraps your lower legs. The tightness of his coils used to frighten you before you realized how summery and soft he is. He tucks you gently against his arm, lying down to become your personal pillow.

You are so useless. It’s a miracle you haven’t faded away by now—a miracle of two nagas, no less.

“It’s also called humble flower,” he continues with a soft note. “Perhaps you could take that aspect from it as well, my water lily.”

You moan, unable to offer a rebuttal that you are no flower, but his gentle embrace covers you entirely. His chest thrums lightly with a heartbeat you’ve listened to before. A soft hum fills his throat. He continues pressing his mouth against your cheek, the crook of your neck, and the top of your head as if smothering the clammy effect attempting to surface on your body.

“Soon, you’ll rise and we can stroll through the jungle and find more flowers, more flowers like you, and you’ll feel better. Doesn’t that sound nice?” he chatters endlessly.

You can only snuggle deeper against his chest, against his warm, smooth scales, better than any patch of sunlight, and trust in him.

#for when the chills hit and you have a nice warm naga to help you through it #i wrote this late last night again #your girl is going through it #if there are mistakes just close your eyes and don't see them ty #warm fangs #naga au #naga!sun #sun x reader #naff writing #i'll add this to ao3 later too #if i have more energy i might write a third part with a certain someone

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rainylana · 1 year

Text

“Ride me, baby.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: you have sex with eddie by the pond.

warnings: outdoor sex, language, short but sweet and smutty:)

There was something about it being risky that made you both horny motherfuckers. The thrill and excitement of it all that brought so much more pleasurable for the both of you. Eddie peaked his head out the trailer door, scanning the trailer park lot for any by-passers, with you giggling behind him like a little kid. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

Eddie grabbed your hand and led you outside, closing the door quietly to not wake his uncle on the couch. “You’re gonna wake everybody!” His curls bounced as he trotted down the steps of his home.

You both giggled as you ran around his trailer, trying to contain your contagious laughter, your bare feet getting slightly damp from the night dew that had frosted. “It’s cold!” You whined. “Are you sure you want to do this!”

“It was your idea!” Eddie exclaimed, leading you through the woods. “And you, should have worn shoes.”

You laughed like a madman, grabbing his arm with broth hands to keep up with him. You winced when you stepped on a sharp twig. “How much further?” You asked.

He pushed a branch out of his way and stepped to the side so he could pull you forward. “We’re here. Not too far when you take the shortcut.”

You sighed happily, stomping your feet on the soft grass rather than the mess of the forest floor. “It’s cute!” You beamed at the small pond, a children’s play set over to your left. “Wayne come fishin’ here?”

“Yeah, him and Hopper.” He brought you to the edge, your reflections glimmering in the water. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? Peaceful.”

You hummed, bending down to run your hand in the cold water. “Is there big fishies in there?”

He smirked at your term and shrugged. “I don’t know, baby, I’d assume so. Wayne’s not that good at it, if you ask me.”

“I wanna learn.” You out your foot in the water, gritting your teeth at the coldness.

“I’m sure he’d be happy to teach you.” He wrapped an arm around your waist. “Come er’.” He pulled you into his arms, cupping your cheek to give you a full, deep kiss that made your tummy flutter.

You moaned into him, pushing off his jacket as it fell to grassy floor of the Earth. “You gonna fuck me out here?” You pushed your body against him.

He reached around to grope your ass, grinding his body against yours. He put his arms around you and lowered you gently to the ground, towering over you. “Fuck, I love that sweet little dress.”

You wore a yellow sundress, too short for the imagination was what Eddie liked to say about it, but he had no problem with you wearing it for him and only him. “Ride me, baby.” He husked, flipping onto his back to lay against the ground, unbuckling his belt.

You pulled down your panties and threw them half hazardously to the side, pushing his hands away so you could free his hardening cock. “Someones happy to see me.” You grinned ear to ear, bending down to take him in your mouth.

“Ah,” He gasped, looking down to watch you swallow his cock. “F-fuck,”

“Not yet, baby,” You let him go, lifting your hits. “I’ve gotta get me some too, now.” You smiled as your pussy stretched around his cock, your hands lifting your dress to get it out of the way.

“Jesus,” He looked up at the stars as you placed your hands on his chest, moving your hips slowly back and forth.

You moaned happily, the cool air drifting in your hair and soft against your skin. The grass under your knees, the sounds of crickets and night owls, the water behind you. It all seamed out of a movie.

You rode him quicker, your hands holding you steady and in place. You bit your lip hard, seductively, letting out little whimpers that made him twitch inside of you. “Such a dirty girl,” He trembled, becoming undone for you. “Riding me out here where anyone could see.”

You leaned down to kiss him firmly, shutting him up as you moved your hips back and forth like ocean currents. Your tongues tangled together, swiping over teeth and gums as you bounced on him. You moaned into each other’s mouth like animals.

You squealed when he tossed you around and put you on your back, throwing your legs over his hips as he thrusted into you hard. You cried out from the sharpness of his cock pushing inside of you, making you clamp your mouth shut. He grabbed your hands and placed them above your head. “Uh, uh, I wanna hear those sweet sweet noises, baby girl.”

He thrusted into you animalisticly, making your eyes blur with tears as you looked up to the stars. “Shit,” Your voice was full and shaky, your tits practically spilling from your chest as they bounced up and down.

His pelvis rubbed against your clit and sent you over the edge, biting his shoulder as you cried out. You felt him shoot his load inside of you, the tremble of his legs making him collapse atop of you. You both panted, your breath coming out in puffs of clouds.

“Shit,” He gasped into your neck, trying to hold himself. “Sorry babe- did you cum? I couldn’t last,”

You giggled, slapping his shoulder. “I always cum, Eddie. Now, get the fuck off me.”

#lana’s shit post #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #stranger things season four #joseph quinn #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson smut

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messyhairedhazeleyeddude · 6 months

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Ache // Yandere! Ticci Toby x

Fem! Reader {SMUT}

[Hello, this will be the first fic that I post. What I'm going to give you guys beforehand is some trigger warnings before we get on to it. Other than that, I hope you enjoy it and give me some feedback whenever you're done if you feel in the mood.]

TW // Violence, r@pe, and a whole lotta mention of murder as always.

𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ 𓌏 ☒ - First P.O.V

Every day, it started like this. Planted in my bed, tangled in my grey sheets, waiting for that one sliver of motivation to get out of my blankets. My room was a mess. Pieces of clothing scattered across the floor, piling up around my dresser, and hanging off of places I tossed them.

I stared over the rest of what I could see while trying to get rid of the bitter taste of soda left on my tongue from last night. The posters I've collected of my favorite bands clung onto the wall for dear life, fading away from how long they had been there. An empty Sprite can stood on my nightstand, left there after my body decided to have its third caffeine crash this week.

It was getting so warm where I was lying that I was starting to overheat, making me shuffle around to stay cold. That wasn't too hard because of how freezing my room was.

When I looked at my window, I noticed it was cracked open. If I didn't shut it soon, it would get worse. But minutes were melting into each other and I didn't want to get up. Why did I love to procrastinate so much? It shouldn't be this hard to move on with my day.

Silence filled every corner of my apartment, leaving me to peacefully rot. Was it selfish of me to be like this? That's what it felt like they were trying to say when I talked to relatives. But that's the reason why I prefer to be shut-in. I never had to hear that about myself. The world outside would remain indifferent. And hopefully, by the time I had to move, I was swallowed into the Earth below.

A sudden vibration of my phone startled me. I mumbled a barrage of curses and reached for it slowly, furrowing my brows and groaning. I could only pray that it wasn't him trying to contact me.

The last time he visited, I no longer felt safe outside. I would check behind me constantly, feeling as if his light brown eyes were glued to my back, and at any moment, he could come back and chop off my limbs until I was a headless torso. Remembering that he existed caused that horrible anxiety to spread goosebumps across my skin. I was shaking as I tried to unlock my phone.

Hundreds of notifications popped up that I had been ignoring, some of them messages from my mom, and the rest were emails. I almost accidentally clicked on one before I found the most recent. "Return library books today," it read. Fuck, I forgot today was the due date for those. Despite not wanting to, I had to get up. I did promise that if I had a reason to, I would.

I peeled myself from the comfort of my bed. My sheets clung to me like glue, trying to pull me back as if it were a bad idea. Fighting against it, I shivered at the sudden change in temperature and pulled down the bottoms of my shorts so they weren't wedged in between my ass.

After not walking for what felt like forever, I took my first steps, a soreness on my left thigh making me place a hand on my dresser for support. I looked down at a bruise from that encounter, biting my lip to distract myself from thinking about it. I need to take my pills or I'll get suicidal. So many things to do. So overwhelmed.

Encouraging myself in my head, I found the strength to go for the door. I opened it and turned down my hallway, going for the bathroom with quick and light steps.

Many pictures of family and portraits were loosely decorated on the wall, a pit in my stomach opened when I stared at them. I lingered on my dad and had to tear myself away from the picture before I felt the need to cry.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I flicked on the harsh yellow light and stood before the mirror, running a hand through my disheveled hair. I reached for the medicine cabinet, the hinges squeaking as I rummaged through it. I grabbed my medication and popped the bottle open, tossing out a tiny pill into my palm. I swallowed the bitter capsule and cringed as it slowly went down.

Turning my attention to the sink, I turned on the cold water and brought my mouth to the tap to take a sip. Then I splashed it on my face after I was done, relieved that the pill was no longer there. On the counter, I focused on the facewash I hadn't used in god knows how long. I missed the feeling of my face being clean. At least, I can't forget about it now.

I poured the runny liquid into my hands and rubbed them together, slapping it on my face and rubbing it in circles to get deep in my pores. It foamed up a bit and burned. If I'm going to be honest, I don't know if I'm supposed to be using this, but it works.

As I was splashing the water on my face again to clean it off, I opened my eyes to a man staring at me in the mirror, causing me to freeze. I could see the glisten of his goggles from here, that blue hood covering his messy hair, but it didn't contain enough around the edges. It was him. The man who attacked me and my dad a couple of days ago.

A scream clawed its way up my throat, but before the sound could escape, I reached for something. Grab anything to protect myself, that's all I needed to do. But before I could, the room blurred as I twisted, my hand grasping a razor for a split second.

I was torn away from it. I felt a hard impact on my back as I was slammed against the wall, the air forcing out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. I struggled to breathe, my hands grabbing onto his wrists while they dug into my neck.

He had me pinned against it and struggling to get any sort of noise out. Slowly, I was dragged up upward and lifted off of the ground. I choked, my vision was fading as his glare burned into mine. He's going to kill me. Just like he did to Dad. He's going to get away with it. I pulled my head back against the wall before lunging it forward to collide it with the serial killer's, his hands faltering their hold and dropping me from the force of it.

I collapsed to the floor and sputtered out several coughs, hunched up in a ball and desperately trying to regain the oxygen he took from me. My neck felt numb, the indents of his fingers bruising and stung like a bitch.

He crouched down to me. I closed my eyes and thought he would finish it right there. But when I suddenly felt his lips press against mine, they shot back open. Breathing heavily through my nose, I stared at his shut eyelids. I glanced down at his lashes, feeling his breath as he sighed. He relaxed into me for a split second before pulling away, lowering his voice to a rough whisper to introduce himself, "It's nice to meet you finally, {F/N}. The name's Tobias."

Struggling to get myself sitting up, I made it by resting on the wall and using my hands to keep me there. My chest rapidly went up and down as I watched his every move. He backed away a bit, but not enough to give me leverage. I repeated, "Tobias?" And his eyebrow quirked up like he was questioning my reaction.

"I can also go by Toby. Whatever you prefer. But I gave you my full name because I really like you, [F/N]," he added. I knitted my brows and shook my head, unable to understand what he was saying. He liked me? He just kissed me? What the fuck?

I pushed myself away from him and got back up, running for it and successfully escaping the bathroom. The front door was right in front of me, I barely got to reach for it before I felt a hand grab a fistful of my hair. No, I almost had it!

Strands of my hair were ripped out as I was yanked backward and thrown onto the couch, falling onto it and yelping in pain. Tears fell from my eyes and I clutched my head, grabbing the part that hurt the most. A headache was coming on and I couldn't help but rock myself to soothe it. I sobbed, "Leave me alone! Please, just leave me alone..." I twisted myself to let out the rest in the cushions, hearing him approach behind me.

After crying for a bit and nothing was happening to me, I hesitantly lifted myself to take a peek. Toby was sitting next to me, almost as if he was waiting patiently for me to finish. When he saw that I was staring at him, he patted his lap and said, "Here. Rest your pretty head and we can get to talking about this, sweetheart."

I was too scared of him to tell him no. It was the first time I felt pure terror from somebody. Like I would never be able to fight back with him. And I was right. I couldn't. The sad truth was that if my dad had fallen to this man, I'm sure I would live the same fate if I didn't listen. Dragging myself, I cringed while laying my head onto his leg, feeling his hand rest on my head and causing me to flinch. "Sh, sh, I'm not going to hurt you anymore. I told you, I really adore you, [F/N]," he reassured me. A part of me wanted to bite his leg to pieces, but if I went along with this until he fell asleep or left, then I could escape and possibly go to the police.

Deciding to go with it, I pretended to enjoy the warmth and snuggled into him. I wouldn't call it pretending actually, he was pretty warm. Toby hummed and it stayed like this for some time. He kept petting me, brushing my hair out of the way, soothing me from the chase earlier.

Eventually, he got bored of it and nudged me to sit back up. I tilted my head and asked, "What?" His hand went to rest on my lower back, applying pressure around it, pushing me forward until I was easing into sitting on him. A smile crossed his face at the compliance. He seemed intrigued by it.

"I didn't think you would give up this quick. I thought I was going to have to give you a couple more marks for memories," he sounded pleased as both of his arms wrapped around my waist. They were much bigger than mine, with a couple of veins etched up around them like vines, and faded scars littering everywhere on his skin. He had been doing this for years by the looks of it. There was no way in hell I was going to escape, huh?

Placing another kiss on my cheek, soft and gentle, his eyelashes brushed against me before he pulled away to speak again, "Do you know what I've been picturing every night to the thought of you, [F/N]?" His hands dropped lower to skim over my ass, lightly gripping, and dragging me toward him. My breath hitched. I didn't say a word.

Toby answered for me, "I've been picturing taking these off..." His fingers gripped around the waistband of my shorts and teased me about taking them off by pushing them down lightly. Continuing that, he said, "Have you to myself for a couple of hours..."

There were so many reasons why I should say no to him and why I shouldn't allow him to touch me like this. For one, he killed my father. He broke into my house and he was physically violent to me. I felt disgusting that he had gotten to this level too. But, I didn't stop him. I didn't say no and I didn't deny it. I looked into this killer's eyes and I leaned onto his chest, giving into what he wanted

When we kissed for the second time, I noticed how chapped his lips were, and opened my mouth a little to swipe my tongue across his bottom one. Toby tensed up. And without warning, I felt his tongue use the opportunity to have an exchange with mine. I gasped through my nose, the escalation getting worse and worse. A blush began to spread across my face.

He lifted me off of his lap to flip me onto the couch, putting both of his palms by either side of my head. I was back to being pinned underneath him. I don't know what was happening to me. Something was wrong with me, I was sick for this. I was sick... because I enjoyed this.

His sweater and shirt fell to the floor as we fought each other with kisses. His teeth bit into my lower lip and pulled it back while I moved to unbuckle his belt. I was giving in to this. I was really fucking the guy that took away everybody I loved in my life.

Barely in any clothes, we both took a moment to stare at each other, oddly feeling like he was admiring me from how he looked up and down my body. Toby took his time, pressing small pecks across my chest up to my neck, snaking his arms around to my back. He unclipped my bra and slipped it off of me. I wanted to cover myself, but I no longer wanted to move. I didn't have any motivation. There was nothing left to fight for.

The gloves and bandages around his fingers felt weird against my skin especially when he played with my chest. He squeezed one, bit the other, and once he heard a moan slip out of me, he stopped to let me process. He complimented me, his voice a bit raspy like he was fighting the urge to do something to me already, "You look even better so close like this, with how foggy those windows would get. It would make me want to break them and threaten you then and there."

I bit the inside of my cheek and he got closer, hooking onto my panties and pulling them down as a smirk spread on his face. My lack of response didn't concern him. He kept going despite that, throwing the thin fabric somewhere in the room before he looked up at me. His hair was in his face and the eyebags around his eyes told me he was more than dangerous. How many times has he done this?

Toby muttered seriously, breaking me out of the moment, "Who do you belong to?" I blankly gazed at him, watching as he stood up and slowly inched his boxers down. I can't speak. I can't tell him that. More scars appeared, his v-line making my eyes linger, and I got distracted. His dick was let out before I could respond.

My eyes widened and I tried to squeeze my legs shut, but he kept them apart as soon as they moved, holding both of my knees up to my shoulders. I was breathing super fast, my heart raced, and I was feeling the ache in between both of my legs. It was nothing compared to when he positioned himself and pushed the tip inside.

Digging my nails into his arms, I cried out in pain and threw my head back, looking up at his satisfied face. Toby groaned, a laugh following behind it, "You don't have to answer. I'll do it for you." He rammed most of what he could, grabbing both of my thighs so tightly that it was guaranteed to be bruised. I screamed out. He was too rough and too much for me to take like this. It hurt. It fucking ached. I was being drilled into the cushions.

Trying to handle it was impossible. He made it impossible for me. His hips connected as he went deeper, loud slaps coming from it, bouncing off and echoing. I didn't want to think about the neighbors hearing me lose my dignity like this. I didn't want to think about the fact my dad could be witnessing this. But it was starting to feel good. Really fucking good. My eyes rolled to the back of my head and after that, I didn't care anymore.

I wrapped my legs and arms around him, pulling him closer and savoring his dick carving into the parts I didn't know were there. Moaning, swearing, and muttering filled the room. We were getting lost in the bliss and saying whatever was on the mind. Or I was. His name left me a couple of times and so did encouragement, "More.. More, please, Toby!"

Flipping around again when he got a little tired, I gyrated my hips and sat on his lap so I could bounce, sliding up and down until I could feel my walls beginning to squeeze. I was close and this position wasn't helping. I held my breath and Toby took notice, pressing his forehead against mine.

"Let it out for me, baby. Don't be shy," he cooed, sweat dripping down his forehead like he was holding back his own. I bit the inside of my cheek and a desperate moan came out, "Fuuuuuck, cummm with! Please!"

He didn't listen to me and lifted me off of the couch with him, holding me up in the air while guiding me down onto his shaft. I went limp and drool fell down the side of my chin as I buried myself into the crook of his neck, biting it a little to vent out the overwhelming pleasure. Toby didn't let up until a couple of more minutes of fucking me passed and I was fucked out enough that my legs were shaking.

When he was about to cum himself, he set me back down, rushing up to my face to give me a facial. My mouth was open from panting and I caught a bit on my tongue, swallowing it when we were back to locking eyes. The rest landed on my nose, cheeks, and lips. He let out a loud groan as he unwinded, pulling away to see the display once he was done.

I lay there. Used. I lay there for him to stare at. Until he walked away for cleaning supplies. To think about what I was doing. To come back down and face the new reality I was in. I was his now and he was mine. And there was nothing I could do about it.

#creepypasta smut #creepypasta #ticci toby x reader smut #ticci toby smut #ticci toby x reader lemon #ticci toby x y/n #ticci toby

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foxigemini · 1 year

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Bound For Life - Chapter 1

Pairing: OC!Orc x Human Female Reader

Summary: Your life is nothing exciting. Until one day when you encounter a creature in the forest and your life is changed forever.

Warnings: Nsfw! Smut, Orc Sex, Monster Sex, Unprotected Sex, Rough Sex, Size kink.

Author's notes: Okay, so this is my first time writing and posting anything original. I hope this is good enough to post and that a few out there will like it.

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Life had never consisted of anything exciting or interesting for you. As you grew up to be an independent young woman after the death of your parents, you found yourself living quite a boring life. Living alone in a small cottage in the forest outside the village, you worked at the local Inn. Every day was the same as the other. Meeting the same people, having the same dull conversation.

Little did you know, it was soon about to change.

You knew of the creatures in the world, of the elves and trolls, goblins ad orcs, but you'd never encountered one. Their lands were far away from the humans, so distant it felt like a fairytale red to spellbound children.

It was late at night after another shift. You walked through the dark and murky forest, following the stone path to your home. Suddenly, your skin tingled and your eyes flickered as your breath deepened, inhaling more air. Your footsteps slowed down as you listened with great intensity, couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched.

You looked behind you, expecting your eyes to connect with a rodent, a wolf, or a bird, but nothing was there. Nothing but a lingering knowing. Looking onward again, you quickened your steps this time, hoping to escape the constant feeling of being followed by watchful eyes.

Yolmar hid in the darkness of the forest, watching the fragile, little female figure walking the path through the woods. He had never seen a human before. His head tilted, nostrils flaring as he felt the smell of your fear. It was almost like hunting a deer.

Yolmar had never been this far away from home. As he came of age, Yolmar was sent to explore the world to find a suitable mate. He never expected that it was the sent of a human that would awaken his interest.

A sudden crack made him look to the side, his pulse quickening at seeing the wolf sneaking up on you. His eyes snapped back to you, then back to the wolf, his instincts taking over when the animal suddenly lunged towards you.

It all happened so fast. Despite your senses being on high alert, you barely had time to react when you heard the crack of a breaking tree branch behind you. Twirling around, you stared at the wolf galloping towards you. Your scream didn't have time to leave your lips before the wolf was knocked to the ground by an enormous, green-skinned humanlike creature. You stared at the scene before you, unable to move as the creature wrapped his muscular arm around the wolf's neck and broke it. The green beast dropped the lifeless wolf to the ground, its chest heaving with heavy breaths as he turned his attention to you, staring at you with yellow, intense eyes.

From the stories told to you as a child, you knew that it was an orc.

You thought you would die on the spot as the orc moved closer, its heavy footsteps booming in your ears in pace with the sound of your own racing heartbeat.

"You okay?" the orc spoke, his voice guttural as he struggled to speak your tongue. You blinked, once, twice, as you stared up at this monstrous beast before you. His yellow eyes examined you with what you could only describe as...concern? He was tall, probably close to 6,6, his bare-chested upper body flexing with muscles as he breathed heavily.

You nodded at his question, couldn't find your voice as your gaze dropped to his loincloth, your face heating up as you imagined what was hidden beneath. What on earth possessed you to think such inappropriate thoughts in the face of death? You looked up again, your eyes following the shape of the black mohawk on his head, down his pointy ears, and the two tusks protruding from his bottom lips.

"Good," the orc answered to your nod, his gaze slowly roaming down the shape of your body, and you found yourself blushing. Why did he make you feel so utterly naked and bare?

"Uhm...t-thank you. For...for saving me," you finally managed to say, your voice shaking as much as your heart pounding in your chest.

The orc nodded, a smirk ghosting across his lips as he looked back up to your face and met your gaze.

"W-what are y-you doing here? I-I mean, s-so far away from your homeland?" you asked, not knowing where you got the courage to speak. Good lord, this was so unreal. Were you actually having a conversation with an orc?

"I left my clan to search for a mate," the orc replied, taking a step closer to you as he gazed at you leeringly. "I am Yolmar. What's your name, little human?"

You stared up at him, unable to breathe at his closeness and the lustful glimmer in his eyes.

"Y-Y/n...," you croaked and wetted your lips, scared of what might happen next.

"Well, y/n..." Yolmar placed his forefinger under your chin, lifting it up and forcing you to hold his gaze. "I believe you owe me for saving you."

Holding your breath, you felt a heat rush through your core as you looked into his piercing, yellow eyes.

"I-I...w-what do you want?" you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"You. As my mate."

Your eyes widened as you kept staring up into his eyes. Your ears were buzzing, mind unfocused on everything except the word coming from his lips.

Mate.

"W-What?" you flickered your eyes, the nervous beating of your heart increasing. "W-What do you mean?"

"It's your scent. I could smell it from miles away, the way only a mate could sense it. You and I are mates, destined to be together. I must confess I was disappointed at first that you're not an orc. But now that I see you, how tempting your soft and tiny body is, I can't wait to claim you. To make you mine."

Yolmar smirked and leaned down to your ear, inhaling your scent. A growl of appreciation rumbled in his chest, and the sound along with his hot breath on your skin caused a trail of goosebumps down your body. You couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe how willing your body was to accept him when your mind was still trying to protest. Yolmar's finger left your chin and slid down the nape of your neck, sending another wave of goosebumps down your skin. A keen whimper slipped from your lips and you became shamefully aware of the arousal pooling between your thighs. Yolmar growled at the sound coming from your lips, his hand landing on your waist, covering your entire hip.

"P-Please don't, I can't...," you begged, hated the uncertainty in your voice and how your body betrayed you, aching and throbbing to feel him inside you.

"I can smell your arousal, human," he growled, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, coaxing an embarrassed moan from your lips. Yolmar snickered. "You want me as much as I want you."

His hand found its way underneath your dress and undergarments, two of his long, thick fingers slipping between your soft folds and into your wet, spongy core. You gasped and grabbed his big arms as his fingers stretched you out.

"So wet and tight," Yolmar mumbled and started moving his fingers inside you, grunting at the squishing sounds your pussy was making. His cock jerked at the feeling of your wetness, twitching, and hardening to life, eager to fill your tight, little cunt to the brim.

"Oh fuck," you gasped at the feeling of his fingers thrusting into you, didn't understand why you didn't stop this stranger, this monster, from doing this to you. Most of all, you didn't understand why you wanted him to do this, why your body seemed to crave his touch. Maybe it was true what he said? That the two of you were destined to be mates.

"Such foul words coming from such a sweet, little thing," Yolmar chuckled, the sound vibrating through your core. "Tell me, my little human...Do you crave my cock inside you?" At the last word, he pushed his fingers deeper inside you, pushing against your g-spot and you screamed out in pleasure.

"Y-Yes! Please, yes," you whimpered, tears welling up in your eyes as he repeatedly thrust his fingers into you at a rapid pace.

Yolmar grinned and took out his fingers from your pussy, his hands violently ripping the dress from your body, leaving you only in your undergarments. You gasped, wanted to cover your bare chest when the orc stared at your breasts but didn't have time to react before his calloused hand cupped your tits. "Pretty," was all he said and kneaded the soft flesh, felt the weight of them in his hands, and rubbed his rough thumbs across your nipples that hardened at his touch.

"P-Please," you begged, bit your lip at the feeling of your pussy aching and clenching desperately to be filled.

Yolmar lifted his gaze, his yellow eyes filled with hunger as he removed his loincloth. Your gaze dropped, widened when you saw his enormous, engorged member pulsating and leaking with precum as it stood proudly in a curve up against his stomach.

"Oh, fuck...," you whispered, wondering how it would ever fit inside you at the same time as your pussy twitched at the sight of him.

Yolmar chuckled at the frightened wonder on your face. "Don't worry, little one. It will fit. If we take it slowly. Now, get down on your hands and knees."

You obeyed on trembling legs, jerked and gasped when he ripped the undergarments from your body and grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling your ass up in the air. Then, you felt him at your entrance, slowly pushing the bulbous head between your fold and into the tight hole of your pussy. Your eyes widened, breath coming out in short gasps through your parted lips.

"So tight. So fucking tight and small," Yolmar mumbled and howled in pleasure when the head of his cock suddenly popped inside your warm, wet entrance. At that point, he couldn't control himself anymore. Grabbing your hips harder, he bucked his hips against your ass, pushing his cock into you halfway before pulling back. You cried out, back arching and head thrown back as his huge cock stretched out more than you thought was possible. Then, he thrust forward again and you screamed a silent moan, realizing he had only been halfway inside you and he was now fully seated in your womb.

"Feels so good...so good, my sweet, little human," he crooned, almost lovingly, as he started a slow and gentle pace of fucking you, claiming you as his mate. Your vision got blurrier with each of his thrusts, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body. Soon, your mind became dazed and numbed, and a smile spread across your lips when all you cared about was how absolutely divine his cock felt inside you. You could feel the pressure building in your core with each thrust, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Then, the orc suddenly pulled out and you whined at the loss of contact, of feeling so empty inside.

Yolmar pulled out and positioned himself above you, on his hands and feet as he pushed inside you again, his massive frame hovering above yours as he thrust into you. You moaned when Yolmar pushed back into you again, smiled as you looked up at him over your shoulder. You looked into his eyes and held his gaze as he quickened the pace once more, rapidly shoving his dick inside you over and over until your senses were overflowing.

Yolmar looked back into your eyes as he slammed into you hard and fast, rougher with each thrust. The slapping sounds filled the forest, blending with your high-pitched moans and the orc's snarling growls above you. The pressure in your belly intensified and finally erupted just as you felt the orc pump into you a final time, burying himself deep inside you as he came. His cock twitched inside you and the feeling of his seed pulsing into you brought you swiftly over the edge, your pussy clenching and milking every last drop out of him. Yolmar threw his head back, his loud, guttural growl echoing through the forest as he emptied his seed inside your belly. You collapsed onto the ground, panting for air and your body becoming limp as you felt his cum flow out of you, creating a white river on the dirty ground between your thighs.

"Mine," he muttered quietly and out of breath as he picked up your exhausted body.

Yours. You smiled tiredly when Yolmar cradled you in his arms, and he started walking down the path leading to your cottage.

#orc x reader #orc x human #orc smut #orc fanfiction #oc x reader #orcs #orc #monster x reader #monster x you #monster x y/n #monster x fem!reader #monster smut #monster fanfic #monster imagine #monster fucking

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𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼 -𝕴

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝒩𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝐹𝓎𝑜𝒹𝑜𝓇 𝓍 𝒜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒: Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, angst, fluff, eventual smut, multipart story. 𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: “Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion–” “His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. You were already struggling.” 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 6.5k or so (A/N: I know, strange to write an author AU when the characters are based on authors but here we are. I want to say Novelist AU Fyodor may have a few similar traits to IRL Dostoyevsky but he is not supposed to be a complete one-for-one in every sense of the word. They’re supposed to just be minor nods to the real Dostoyevsky.) ❤ Reblogs are appreciated ❤

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒? 𝒮𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝓅𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹? 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝐼 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝑒𝒹? 𝒪𝒽...𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝐼'𝒹 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃. 𝒯𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝒸𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈.... ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵ The lake always looks mystical early in the morning at this time of year. A faint mist rolls over the mirrored surface as dancers in orange and yellow descend from their places in the comforting embrace of timber and bark. Soldiers of fading green, browns and oranges line the lake, swaying in the soft, chilly breeze. Bird song and the gentle scurrying of the forest’s dwellers is the perfect symphony to this backdrop. Yes. This was why Fyodor always sat outside to write. He felt a peace unlike anything else when he sat at his small outdoor table, the earth claiming the furniture by wrapping tendrils of green around its leg. He doesn’t mind. He never had any intentions of moving it after all. A single page sat at his hands, one hand elegantly moving across it as he writes in Russian, his mother tongue. The sound of his pen scratching against the white sheet tickles his brain pleasantly, each stroke deliberate and careful. Fyodor would only write the drafts of his novels on paper. He would never touch a keyboard. Even when conversing with his agent he would only use his phone. With his long distant friend and fellow author, he opted for letters. Technology was something Fyodor wasn’t fond of. His deep, purple eyes rise from the page, tired eyes scanning the horizon before him. He notices a few russet sparrows flying over the lake. For a moment, he even thinks he can see a fox on the other side of the lake, disappearing into the treeline. Yes. This view was far more enjoyable than some television or computer screen. He breathes deeply, taking in the rich, earthy air around him. It wouldn’t be long until this view would be painted in white, the frigid air forcing him to stay indoors far more than he would have liked to be there. The novelist was a homebody, that much was true. But he spent most of his time outdoors when he wrote his stories. Or rather, attempted to. His current novel had been giving him a bit of grief as of late. “Romance novels are popular right now!” He could still hear his agent’s voice insisting. “With the works you’re already known for, I bet the world is dying to see your take on one! Plus, if we partner with this company and make it an international release, the revenue would tie you over so you can focus on a novel you actually want to write!” Fyodor scoffs. He wouldn’t have even considered writing such a novel, were it not for the fact that his funds were looking a bit depressed as of late, due to a few recent large expenses that needed to be paid. His eyes scanned over to his wristwatch; it was still a few hours yet until his guest would arrive. Another matter his agent had been too insistent on that Fyodor had begrudgingly accepted.

He didn’t understand why she had been so pushy about the matter of an assistant. He had managed so far on his own. He didn’t need any help. These were his stories to tell. Sighing, Fyodor rises from his chair. He moves towards his small, cozy dwelling, his raven hair ruffled by the Autumn breeze. Perhaps a nice pot of tea would get those creative juices flowing again. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ A soft breeze teases your hair and scarf as you walk up the winding stone path, heading deeper into the heart of the forest, an eerie fog cast across the sky. The trees sway their branches in the wind as if greeting you as sunlight filters through the thick branches, showers of yellow and orange descending on your path as you walk. You see an old, rough-looking tabby cat that gives a low mewl before disappearing over the fence like an elegant shadow. You notice a few small cottages scattered around the area. One is at the top of a flight of narrow cobblestone steps. Another is nestled near some thick bushes and trees, almost devouring the structure in its natural embrace.

The thin fence lining the pathway is overgrown with thick vines and small flowers here and there, with tall trees and other flora about, creating an almost fairytale-like appearance. Everything here is quiet and still, aside from the chirps of a few insects and the whistling of birds. You clutch your orange coat closer to your body, the fabric blending in with your environment as excitement runs through every inch of your veins. This was the opportunity you had been searching for! What were the chances that you’d run into a literary agent while heading to the unemployment centre to ask for help? It was as though God himself had lifted an olive branch for you.

The agent, Vivian, had looked at you with such joy when you explained that you were looking for experience helping authors get their works published. You wanted to help however you could, whether that be as an editor, a translator or even a beta reader! You just wanted a way to step into this field finally. You had grown up with a love for books and stories. You wanted to be part of the process to get these books created. “Well, I have just the guy for you,” Vivian had replied, a small smirk on her lips as she handed you her business card with a name written on the back. The name of the novelist she had been helping for the past decade. Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

You had never heard of the man before. Walking along the quiet stone path, heading towards a large archway overgrown with blossoming flowers, you wonder if he wrote under a pen name. You were so excited to meet him! Oh, but you needed to calm down and relax. Don’t make this weird! You walk through the archway, the gentle aroma of the blossoming flowers filling your senses as your eyes fall on the crystal-clear lake before you. The water was a calm, almost mystical blue, with nothing disturbing its perfect surface. It looked like it could have been the subject of an oil painting. You blink, the trance broken as you notice movement. An older gentleman sits at a small outdoor table, a small porcelain teacup in hand. You notice a few strands of grey in his otherwise dark hair, along with the dark crescent moons under his mystifying yet cold purple eyes. You wondered if they were from late nights of writing stories or brainstorming.

He looked more frail than you were expecting. Quite lithe. He reminded you of a scarecrow. He was almost swimming in the dark coat covering his shoulders, even his white scarf seemed to be looped multiple times more around his throat. You tense as his eyes flicker up, meeting yours. The teacup moves back towards the saucer, resting upon it with a soft clink. He lifts one of his hands, beckoning you closer. You come to stand before him, your heart pounding out of nervousness and excitement. This was it. The first day of the rest of your life! Things would only be looking up from here! Before you can speak, the gentleman interrupts you. His thick Russian accent sends a slight shiver down your spine, “You’re the assistant Vivian sent.” He looks you up and down slowly. You can feel the judging look in his eyes as he scans you carefully, “You have no experience in this field and yet you agreed to be my assistant. Fascinating…” You swallow, trying to calm yourself. You almost burst into excited rambles as you begin to speak in a rather rapid tone, your giddiness getting the better of you, “Y-yes sir! You see, it’s always been a dream of–” “Enough.” He says suddenly, shaking his head. Those dark eyes of his stare coldly into yours, your excited heartbeat being frozen still in your chest as he adds, “I do not wish to hear your life story. You are here to do a job. And I expect you to do it well.”

You try and speak up, “Shouldn’t we go inside–” “No. You will work out here,” he cuts you off as he reaches down to a leather bag by the side of his chair, hidden from view. He lifts it, passing it over to you as he speaks, “Within this is the first three chapters of my latest novel. I need you to proofread, edit and translate it into English by the end of the week.” You tense; the end of the week? You supposed you could handle that. What’s the most he could have done? Really? Maybe ten thousand words total? You take out the first group of papers. It looks like he’s stapled each chapter together. There’s no title page yet, so it starts straight on the prologue. One issue becomes apparent very quickly. One big, glaring issue. Fyodor’s handwriting. He had written in fluent Russian from what you could tell. But his handwriting was quite…well, it was cursive? It was hard for you to put into words. The best way you could describe it was like a doctor’s handwriting. “Excuse me, Mr. Dostoyevsky?” You look up from the first page. Fyodor is gazing across the lake, sipping on his tea once more. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you continue, your tone soft and polite, “I’m having some trouble reading your handwriting. I don’t suppose you have a typed version I could reference instead?” His dark eyes slowly turn over to you. You swear you feel the cold of a hundred Winters rush through your body at once, “If you can’t translate it, then I shall call Vivian right now and inform her that sending someone illiterate does not help me in the slightest.”

‘Illiterate??’ You quietly think, feeling both offended and furious. ‘At least my writing doesn’t look like a chicken walked all over my page!’ Biting your tongue, you nod. You would make this work, just to spite this guy. ‘Just think about the end goal. Someone out there is going to love this book. You just need to focus on your goal..’ It’s a daunting task, one you weren’t sure you could achieve. But you were going to put your damnest into this job more so than ever now. ✩

Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion and anger. Vivian didn’t mention that she was sending someone like you. Had he known that, he would have called his overseas friend to go and stay with him while working on this novel that he didn’t even want to write. His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. He notices the way your brows furrow in irritation. You were already struggling. It was only a matter of time before you gave up and admitted defeat, running away from his little piece of heaven with tears in your eyes and a white flag in your hands. He liked that thought. That thought brought him peace. “You’re going to have to work faster than that,” he suddenly says, sounding very proud of himself. You don’t look up, your hands and eyes continuing to move as he adds, “Vivian wants the book by the end of the year. If you can’t handle getting three chapters done by the end of the week, you’re useless to me and any other author.” He notices your jaw clenching. He sees the way you swallow down whatever response you keep to yourself, instead replying with a soft “Yes, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” If he breaks you down enough, will you submit faster? Will that get you away from him faster? He’s silent for a long while, his gaze slowly returning to the scenic view before him. It soothes him and assures him he will soon have his space and peace returned to him. He lifts his teacup, sipping the warm liquid slowly. He just had to bide his time and wait. You would crack eventually. He would make sure of it. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

Even though Fyodor treated you coldly and barely even spoke to you, you were intrigued by his writing. It felt like his words had a grip on you, filling you with the urge, that desperate need to know what happens next. The novel was about a young man. From what you had read, he was an extremely lonely man. No matter how Fyodor wrote him, or what scenes he was in, he was always alone, even when surrounded by people. But there was one thing you wouldn’t understand. “If this is supposed to be a romance novel,” you say slowly. “Then where is the other lead? What’s this guy going to romance, himself in the mirror?” “Oh come on now, cut him some slack,” the warm voice of your best friend chimes over the phone. “This is just the first three chapters, right? He’s probably just laying down the groundwork for now. I mean..” She pauses, hesitating before adding in a teasing tone, “The main female lead in that story you read didn’t get a proper romantic interest till like, what, book four?” “Hey, you say that like I wanted her to have one!” You joke, giggling as you walk up the winding stone path on your way to Fyodor’s. It was almost week’s end and despite having a handful of paragraphs left, you were almost done translating the first three chapters. Though it wasn’t an easy task. You had learnt that Fyodor had a habit of rambling in his stories. Sometimes, this made parts more fleshed out. More interesting and intriguing to you. But you didn’t need to know the full backstory of some random man sitting by a lake if he wasn’t going to be important to the story later on. “I want to give him some advice,” you say into the phone, your voice suddenly more serious. You notice the pair of village cats nearby as you pause in place. The younger orange tabby cat attempts to play with the old tabby, the older of the pair growling as he backs away, “But is it my place to give him advice? I mean…he is the author. It’s his story. I have no right to tell him how to write it.”

You hear a hum on the other end of the line as you start moving again, approaching the familiar archway. Then, “You could always try it. But this Fyodor guy doesn’t sound like the type who would take your advice onboard. You’re still so new to this field, your ears are still green!” You chew on your inner cheek, sighing. The chances that Fyodor would listen to you were slim to none. You understood that already. It didn’t take a genius to know where you stood in his regard. But you wanted to help Fyodor make improvements to his book. You look up at the archway, a gentle breeze pushing against your back as you sigh in defeat. “I’ll call you tonight and let you know how badly he chews me out.” You end the call, hiding your phone in your pocket, walking through the archway and into the lush clearing. You were already expecting to be greeted with the typical iciness from the author as you approach his table. “Ah, you’re finally here,” he greets you. His tone isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s not as frosty as you were expecting. There’s a faint hint of hibiscus in the air as the soft breeze draws the scent of his tea of the day to you. Yesterday was ginger. The day before was turmeric. He always had a fresh pot every morning when you arrived. But he never offered you a cup. Regardless, you come to sit at his table, your chair creaking faintly as you reach into your messenger bag, pulling out the last few pages of the first three chapters of his novel before speaking, “I’ve almost finished with these chapters,” you let him know, a flame of warmth in your voice. “I only have a few more paragraphs to go. Though I have to say–” You rummage around your bag, searching for your lucky pen as you continue, “--I quite enjoy your writing. It's captivating. Sometimes I feel like I’m hanging on the end of your every word–” “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Fyodor quickly interjects, deep eyes narrowing at you, the dark hoops under his eyes making him look more menacing. A shiver runs down your spine as he nods at the paper before you, “Get to work and stop wasting your time with idle chatter.”

‘Oh, so I can’t even compliment you?’ You quietly think, your hand wrapping around your lucky pen. You pull the gold and black ballpoint pen out, clicking it to life as you begin working, huffing and puffing in annoyance in your mind, ‘Fine then. Maybe I just won’t speak to you again. God, I hope all writers aren’t this entitled.’ You catch yourself, your fingers caressing the side of the ballpoint pen as the gold edge shines in the early sun. No…you knew all writers weren’t like Fyodor. He was a rotten apple surrounded by batches of bright, red fruit. He wasn’t going to stop you from reaching your dream. He would not stomp that flame out. A silence falls over you and Fyodor. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s not quite pleasant either. It just simply is. You glance up now and then to see Fyodor sipping on his tea, his eyes always drawn to the distance. You scan his expression for a few moments, your pen stopping its movements. He doesn’t notice you looking at him as he stares almost longingly into the distance, his dark eyes shrouded with depths of emotion you struggle to comprehend. But there is one emotion there that is most obvious to you. It’s a look of deep, suffocating loneliness. He stares, as if seeing something in the distance you cannot. He is silent and still. You barely even see his chest rising and falling with his breaths as a gentle breeze tousles his raven hair, as though an invisible hand would be combing through each lock with a careful, almost affectionate touch. Then, as if returning to reality, he blinks, his gaze slowly shifting to meet yours. You stare at one another, frozen in time for just a heartbeat. There is no coldness, no scolding. Just you and him and his sad, lonely eyes. For a moment, you almost decide to ask if he’s okay. Almost.

But as quickly as you see this side of Fyodor, it disappears under frozen blinds and walls of ice. His dark eyes glare at you, hiding the emotions you saw behind a careful shield as he scolds, “Why are you wasting time staring into space? Get back to work.” You shake your head, snapping out of your trance, eyes gliding back to the paper at your hands. You don’t speak a word and merely focus on those last few paragraphs. You knew what you saw. That cold facade cracked for just a moment to reveal something more to this man than you originally thought. There was more to Fyodor than the cold wall you kept smashing again. Your pen glides across the paper, finishing the last few translated lines. You smile to yourself, placing the ballpoint pen down on the garden table before looking up at Fyodor, pride glittering in your eyes. You’d completed the first obstacle he’d put in your way, “I’m done, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” His eyes graze over your smile, the proud glimmer in your eyes, then move down towards the sheet of paper at your fingertips. He turns his body, sitting at the table properly now as he nods at you, “Let me check.” Taking the rest of the pages out of your bag, you slide each completed chapter over to him, your hands carefully caressing the top sheet before passing it over. You were hoping this would prove your value to Fyodor and get him to start treating you…well, like someone trying to help him. Like a proper translator. Like someone actually trying to get his book published. He’s silent for a long while as he flips through the translated chapters. He murmurs to himself every now and then in Russian; sometimes he sounds almost fascinated. Other times, he sounds annoyed. Then, at last, when he’s midway through the second chapter, “This is precisely why I didn’t want to do an international release. My words simply do not translate well into English.” “We could work together to find a suitable substitute for your words in English,” you suggest. The moment his dark eyes pierce into yours, you gulp. “If you wanted to. It won’t be exactly the same but I’m sure we could find a nice middle ground.”

He’s silent for a while as if thinking over your words. Then his eyes travel back to the page, murmuring, “We can try. But I assure you, you won’t be able to translate it perfectly. The English language is incapable of properly translating what I’m attempting to convey–” ‘There he goes again, acting all high and–,’ your grumpy thoughts are interrupted as a thought strikes you like a bolt from the blue. You resist the urge to gasp. Wait…was this the first proper, positive reaction you’ve gotten from Fyodor? He accepted you reaching out a hand to him? Then maybe now was your chance! You gasp a little, suddenly standing up, much to both yours and Fyodor’s surprise. He looks up at you, taken off guard as you suddenly blurt out, “Um! In that case, I had some other advice I wanted to give to! It’s in regards to that man you focus the second chapter on!” “I don’t know if he has any significance to the plot or not, but is it really necessary to have the last twenty pages focused just on his backstory?" "Because it seems like you could use these pages to develop the male lead further or even bring in the female lead! Are you intending for him to have a larger role or–” “You dare to have the audacity to lecture me on how to write my novel?” Fyodor’s cold voice cuts you off, his eyes narrowing at you dangerously. You can almost feel your voice being stolen by his anger, as he continues you glare daggers at you so sharp, that you feel that little shred of confidence and pride you’d finally gained being ripped to shreds before you. “You translate three chapters and that’s it? You’re suddenly an expert in the writing world, are you?” He scoffs, laughing at you mockingly. He tosses the translated pages onto the table, his eyes continuing to stare into your own shocked eyes. His voice grows harsher as he suddenly begins to speak in his native tongue.

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа, я хочу напомнить вам, что ваше право на собственное мнение не обязывает меня слушать этот бред. Молчание - великий талант. Мой совет вам: если у вас будут мысли, держите их при себе; в наше время умные люди молчат, а не разговаривают. Я вас здесь не нанял для авторского выступления, так что будьте любезны, работайте и не стройте из себя Александром Сергеевичем Пушкиным.” *

He stands suddenly, leaving you stunned in place, unable to find your voice. You watch in stunned horror as he storms towards his cottage, tucked and hidden within the wilderness of the trees and shrubbery. He enters it, slamming the door behind him before you can utter another word. You feel both stunned and horrified. You had no idea what he had just said to you but why did it feel like you just lost your job? ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ “You should have cut him some slack.”

“Do you really think I need to hear that right now?”

“You know it wasn’t your place to criticize him like that–”

“I know…I don’t know what came over me…” You sigh heavily, sinking into the thick duvet on your bed as your heart aches within the tight confines of your chest. The sound of the city beyond your apartment blares outside. The distant siren of an ambulance. The loud yells of passerbys. A dog’s loud barks as the scent of cigarette smoke and fumes waft through your apartment window.

It wasn’t the classiest apartment, very far from it, but it was the only place you could afford right now with the allowance you were receiving from the government, along with what little savings you had left. You sigh, running a hand through your messy hair, “I genuinely didn’t mean to do it. I just got so excited. I felt like he was finally accepting me into his world…” You lower your voice, sounding more upset. “But now I’ve gone and ruined it all…not even a week in...”

You lift your other hand, holding up your gold and black ballpoint pen once more. You twirl it between your fingers, Fyodor’s harsh expression still vivid in the back of your mind. You felt like you really offended him. You hadn’t meant to. You just wanted to help. But you understood how your words had come across as hurtful. You didn’t know the story Fyodor was plotting out. You didn't know if this man was going to play a pivotal role and yet you–

You hear a loud crunch on the other end of the line, causing you to wince and yelp in surprise, your thoughts broken through instantly, “Ack! Trixie! Hold the phone away next time!” “Mrm! Sorry girl, but look-” Trixie goes silent for a few moments while she finishes chewing whatever she’s eating. Then, she speaks again, sounding quite calm as she gives you her advice, “--I think you owe him an apology. This guy is not only your senior career wise, but he’s the literal author of the book you’re translating.”

You frown as she goes on, your eyes glued to your ballpoint pen as the streetlight outside touches it, making the golden parts gleam, “What kind of things does he like? You know, besides sitting and staring at the lake all day.”

You think over Trixie’s words, eyes sparkling with the golden hue coming from your pen. Fyodor hadn’t spoken to you much these past few days since you began working as his translator. He greeted you, scolded you to start work and then sat in silence until the day’s end. Did he like anything besides staring at the lake and–

Suddenly, you sit up in your bed, and your loose, white nightgown drops over your frame, the old springs of the bed squeaking softly. That was what you could get him to apologize! You would need to get some research in tonight and wake up early to head to the store tomorrow. You were sure there was a speciality store for this type of thing on the other side of town.

Moments before you’re about to hang up, you get a second call. Your eyes widen as you read the name on the screen; Vivian. Your heart leaps into your throat. “Sorry Trix, I have to go,” you quickly say, rising from your bed to move over to your kitchen counter where your laptop was sitting, charging. “I’ll call you when I can.”

“Keep me updated on your situation with your author man!” Trixie manages to chime back before you end the call, picking up Vivian’s seconds later.

“Yes? Hello, Vivian?” You quickly answer, holding your phone with your cheek while typing into your laptop’s keyboard, searching through the specific results you had pulled up.“I’m surprised you’re still up. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; all those involved in the literary world seem to be night owls.” She chuckles, before clearing her throat.

You scroll through the results page as Fyodor’s agent keeps speaking to you, “I presume you know why I’m calling. I just got off the phone to Fyodor regarding the…incident.” The incident…

You cringe at it being referred to like that. Your heartbeat picks up as you stand up straight, a deeply apologetic tone in your voice, “I know, I know, I was in the wrong. It’s Mr. Dostoyevsky’s book and he’s free to write however he pleases. I just got a little head of myself and–!”

“Easy,” Vivian whispers soothingly. It almost feels like she’s there with you, patting your shoulder and assuring you it's okay. “Fyodor is still a tad…appalled at your behaviour, but I have managed to convince him to give you another chance due to how efficiently and well you translated his first chapters.” A gasp escapes your throat; before your hopes can get too high, she quickly adds in a tone that reminds you of a stern teacher, “But this is your last chance. He’s said if you step out of line again, you’re out.”

“No…no, I understand perfectly!” You run a hand through your messy hair, resisting the urge to jump and dance around in glee. Oh thank God, you didn’t lose this chance! Your gaze flickers back towards the laptop screen, the results still silently waiting for you. You knew you still had to apologize properly for what you had done.

“I promise, neither of you will regret this.” You begin writing down an address frantically on a sticky note, looking up the coordinates to the location on the other side of town. You click your tongue, planning everything out in your head. Yes, if you wake up earlier, you will have the time to swing by and get everything ready before visiting Fyodor tomorrow morning without being late.

Suddenly, Vivian’s voice breaks through the silence, cutting you out of your thoughts, “I shouldn’t be saying this but do me a favour, would you?” She pauses for a moment. You focus more on her as she adds, “Cut Fyodor some slack.”

“Wh-what?” Is all you manage to breathe out. Everyone keeps telling you to do that. Were you in an echo chamber? Or did everyone else just see something you couldn't? She continues, sighing heavily and you swear you hear a pen being placed down, judging from the gentle tap you hear on her side of the call.

“It isn’t my tale to tell, but I will inform you that Fyodor has been through a lot as of late.” You frown deeply as you hear this. “This is his returning novel after taking some time away from his career, so all I ask is that you show him the same patience you would want to be shown.”

Your mind stews those words over silently as you chew the inside of your cheek. The novelist you were working with was an enigma. He was more mysterious than the deepest pits of the ocean, and more closed off than a crime scene. You only had his name. His career. And the gift of being able to read his captivating story. Well, part of it.

Just who was Fyodor exactly? And what had he gone through to make him the way he is now?

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

The sky was overcast and angry as you began to make your trek towards Fyodor’s quaint cottage. You sprint along the stone path as the sky rumbles like a beast, growling as the clouds light up, warning you of the upcoming downpour that is about to begin. Clutching the bouquet you’d bought close, along with the small gift bag, you run through the archway.

The usual clear, mirror-like surface of the lake was black and menacing, nowhere near as picturesque as it had been for the entire week. No birds were singing. Branches waved violently in the strong winds that buffeted against them, sending spirals of leaves cascading around, like mini tornados of color.

You barely manage to hold onto your bouquet and gift, grimacing as you notice Fyodor isn’t sitting at the usual spot today. You look towards his cottage, the trees and shrubbery around it rustling violently against the strong gusts as well. They almost look like they’re clinging onto the cottage to keep themselves rooted. You catch a glimpse of that old tabby cat sprinting up to the door, his paws reaching up and scratching at the timber desperately and at once, it opens.

You see Fyodor, wrapped in a thicker cloak than normal along with what seems to be an old ushanka on his head, keeping his face warm. He opens the door to let the feline inside, cloak dragging on the floor behind him like a cape. Rubbing against the Russian’s legs, the tabby darts inside, away from the rough weather. But he doesn’t follow the feline; his dark eyes lift, meeting yours across the way.

He watches as the wind tousles your long hair as though playing with the elegant strands, your bright, vibrant coat of orange a stark contrast against the blackening sky but matching perfectly with the leaves falling from rustling trees around you. He sees the way your brown scarf aggressively sways in the violent breeze as the sky growls a final warning. He says nothing as he watches you. Is he waiting for you? His eyes scan you once, twice…it’s like he’s taking you in for the first time.

Like this, you look like a single glowing ember in the darkness of the world, seconds away from being snuffed out and devoured by the shadows.

Not wanting to be left out in this downpour, you sprint towards Fyodor, a loud crack echoing across the sky as it lights up, lighting striking somewhere in the distance as you pick up the pace. Without a word still, he steps aside, letting you run in just as it begins to storm. Cold droplets pour from the sky as it roars, another loud crack is heard in the distance. Rain begins to patter loudly on the roof of Fyodor's humble home, almost cleansing the land.

You hear the door close, along with a lock being turned, clicking into place. You turn to face Fyodor, noticing that the room is not illuminated by the bulbs hanging overhead but by candlelight. There are candleholders along the wall, lighting the hallway in a warm, welcoming light. Flickers of yellow dance across Fyodor’s face, his dark purple eyes practically invisible in the dark of the cottage.

Gripping the bouquet tighter, you hesitate to hand it over. Then, at last, you do, presenting the brilliant bouquet with a gentle hand. “Here,” you say softly, almost silently. “These are for you.”

You watch as his calculating eyes trace along each chosen flower; the blue hyacinths to the white orchids, to the few lilies of the Valley. He hesitates to accept them as his eyes turn back to you. He must be waiting to hear her apology out loud, “I’d like to say I’m sorry for overstepping.” The plastic around the bouquet crinkles as you grip it tighter.

“I am both your junior and not an author,” you begin, fighting back down every inch of your pride to make sure your apology comes across as genuine. “I had no right to tell you how to write your story. I’m only here to translate it into English so I’m sorry. It will not happen again.” You also present your other hand, holding the gift bag out to Fyodor. “I hope you can forgive me and we can start fresh.”

He eyes the gift bag, reaching for it first. He peers inside, hiding his surprise behind his cold eyes as he notices the variety of tea leaves you’ve purchased for him. These are all high-quality leaves from a teashop on the other side of town. Passionfruit drop. Cream black tea. Autumn spice. He looks up at you, raising a brow curiously.

You squirm under his gaze, anxiously waiting for a reply. Would he accept the apology? Would he not? It felt like time was frozen as you and Fyodor stared at one another, his deep, purple eyes peering into the very depths of your soul as if trying to see if you were truly sorry in the very pit of your heart.

Then he moves past you. You feel your heartbeat freeze in your chest and then–

“Come along. I will brew some tea while you begin work translating chapter four.”

Warmth spreads across your chest instantly, your heart fluttering in your chest, a smile breaking out on your face as you turn, following Fyodor through the candlelit hall towards what you presumed to be the kitchen, your apology bouquet in hand.

You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you were both glad Fyodor had seemingly accepted your apology…and excited to read the fourth chapter of his novel. Even if he rambled on for the next forty pages and didn’t progress the plot. Your ankle boots click against the old wooden flooring as you hurry after the author.

✩ You were an enigma to Fyodor. Despite the cold walls he had placed securely around himself and the distance he had tried to keep from you, you kept coming back. Did this job really mean that much to you or were you just that desperate for money?

Or perhaps you were here for other reasons.

The kettle’s loud whistle shakes Fyodor from his web of thoughts. He takes it off the stove, bringing it over to his preferred ceramic teapot, decorated with painted pink carnations, filling it with the boiling water before moving on to inserting the mesh tea infuser, full of some of the new leaves you brought him.

As the aromatic smell of spices fills the air, he turns his thoughtful eyes to where you sit at his dining table, reading over the fourth chapter of his novel. He sees your smile behind the pages. The way your eyes gleam as you read and reread paragraphs. It even looked like you were no longer struggling to read his handwriting.

He felt warmth stirring in his heart. Fyodor had seen from reviews and heard from Vivian that his works were well-beloved, but seeing you smile and the joy in your eyes was something else entirely. It stirred something deep within his soul.

You actually did enjoy his story. You weren’t just going along with the crowd or agreeing with a friend because it was a popular piece. You were genuinely enjoying his work. He feels his heart pound for just a second before he turns away, focusing on the tea.

With slender hands, he pours the rich, orange liquid into the prepared porcelain teacups, the fragrance growing even stronger in the room. Between the sound and smell of the pouring rain and terrifying thunder and the earthy, aromatic smell of the Autumn spice tea, Fyodor felt his shoulders relaxing as he brought the two teacups over to the dining table, just in time to hear you gasp quietly.

Ah, you must’ve gotten to the part where the female lead is fleetingly introduced. For a moment, Fyodor finds himself smiling.

Dividers: @/saradika * Translation: Dear Madam, I want to remind you that your right to your own opinion does not oblige me to listen to this nonsense. Silence is a great talent. My advice to you: if you have thoughts, keep them to yourself; Nowadays, smart people are silent, not talking. I didn’t hire you here for an author’s speech, so be kind, work and don’t pretend to be Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

#bungou stray dogs #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader

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raz-writes-the-thing · 7 months

Text

Last Meal

Crowley x GN!Reader (AFAB anatomy)

18 Plus ONLY / Requests are OPEN

Summary: Crowley really, really, likes to eat you out.

CW: smut, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, light praise, overstim, oral sex

Gomens tag list: @coffee-and-red-lipstick

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

Overstimulation is poking at your nerves like a tingling, hot iron. You’ve cum three times already, and Crowley is desperate to get you a fourth, or maybe even a fifth- if you didn’t just give out before that point.

The first time had been soft and loving, his tongue laving over your clit and fingers buried deep inside your sopping cunt until you fell apart over him. You’d been stressed out, what with all of the nonsense happening at work and with the fact that the world had almost descended into chaos. It was no wonder you were stressed. Good thing Crowley knew a thing or two about how to distract you.

He’d brought you into his office, sat you down on the desk and him in his chair, and pushed your legs open to take a load off of that stress for you, so to speak. Soft circles brushed into your thigh and little breaths of cold air on your clit to make you needy. He didn’t keep you waiting long before he was tracing blasphemous prayers into your clit.

You came like that once, and after that, he’d added another finger and held you down by the tummy to wring another orgasm out of you- you whined and jerked against his hold as he talked you through it. Telling you how good you were, and how much he loved to see you come apart for him. All for him.

You’d came hard and fast, gasping and arching your back off the desk. He’d given you one of those signature grins and pressed kisses down your tummy, down your hip and towards the inside of your thighs, forcing you to open them up for him.

The third time he’d made you cum took a little longer, the overstimulation taking longer to get over. You were gasping and writhing on the desk as he wrapped his lips over your clit and sucked it into his mouth, split tongue flicking hard and fast against your sensitive bundle of nerves. He didn’t let up until you cried out in pleasure and yanked hard at his hair, keeping him there in that spot as you rode his face and worked yourself through your bordering-on-painful orgasm.

And now he had his tongue buried inside you, long and flexible, licking at your walls and shooting pleasure up your spine.

“Fuck, Crowley- I- I don’t think I can,” you cry, trying your best to squirm away from his tongue.

He chuckles and pulls you closer by the hips, practically mashing his nose into your clit. You mewl, arching away. Of course, this only proved to bump his nose against you again.

His tongue starts moving inside you as if possessed, Crowley trying to stick the forked appendage inside you as far as possible. He eats you as if it’s his last meal on Earth, and he brings a thumb down over your hip to rub back and forth over your clit without mercy.

You cry out louder this time, unable to contain the noises that were escaping you as he forced you closer and closer to that edge. Fuck, you might actually be able to cum again. No, scratch that, you were definitely going to cum again.

“F-fuck, Crowley, I- nngh, oh-”

Hips wriggle on the desk, slick and spit trailing down your folds to stain the table. You pant and moan as he works you like a master pianist- knowing exactly which keys to tap to wring out the most divine music from you.

You manage to lean yourself up on your elbows to get a good look at Crowley, and that’s what pushes you over the edge. Those yellow-slitted eyes looking up at you so hungrily, so unabashedly. He looks ravenous, feasting at you like if he doesn’t make you cum right now he might simply pass away.

Waves of pleasure take you all at once, roiling inside like crashing waves in a storm. You’re vaguely aware of the fact that your head hits the desk again with a soft thud. You’re also vaguely aware of the way your entire body is convulsing with the pleasure of your fourth orgasm.

He works you through it, tongue raking every single modicum of pleasure from you. The stimulation grows to be too much, and you press your foot to his shoulder to force him off you.

He chuckles deeply, pussy drunk on the taste of your spend. He nuzzles against your thigh, trailing a finger down your slit and revelling in the whimper it draws from you.

He giggles- actually giggles- and gives your thigh a light slap.

“Mmn,” he says, licking his lips. “Always so good for me.”

“Always,” you pant back with a giggle.

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matchavellichor · 10 months

Note

i’m not sure if your requests are open (if they’re closed just ignore this lmao!!) but hear me out: the yule ball’s coming up and mc has been receiving several gifts from people trying to woo her. meanwhile, sebastian is jealous and pouty and building up the courage to ask her to the ball……… until one of the gifts she had been given is doused with amortentia and she suddenly starts acting all lovey dovey towards some other guy. and sebastian realizes this, and ominis has to pretty much hold him by the neck of his shirt to prevent him from throttling someone

A.N: ty for the request! i adore jealous protective sebastian Aaaa <3

A Worrisome Box of Chocolates

Sebastian Sallow x f!MC - Fluff - 2.6k Words

Tags: Banter, Pining, "Un"requited Love, Inappropriate Use of Amortentia, Jealous Sebastian, Protective Sebastian, Friends to Lovers

“Oh, give me a fucking break,” Sebastian scowled, gaze trained on Amit as he crossed the courtyard to approach her, a bouquet of prissy, yellow flowers in hand. “Is there a single person in this school who isn’t going to try to ask her?”

“You, apparently,” Ominis murmured, licking a finger to turn the page of his paperback.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Ominis feigned innocence.

“Gods, I’m going mad,” Sebastian looked ready to pull out chunks of hair. “Okay, you know what, tonight will be the night. Yes, tonight. I’ll wait up for her after dinner and— actually, she’ll probably be too tired, right? We have double potions today. Alright, tomorrow then. Perfect, yes, tomorrow morning. Damn it, no, that won’t work, there’s that—”

Ominis looked ready to pull out chunks of hair himself. He sighed. “How about now, Sebastian? She’s right there, for heaven's sake, just walk up to her.”

Sebastian scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ominis, that’s a terrible idea.”

Ominis hit his forehead against the cover of his book in a desperate measure to cling to sanity. He turned his head towards the entrance of the courtyard.

“Suit yourself. However, I see Leander making his way over to ask her now.”

Sebastian’s head whipped around at neck-breaking speeds. “What? Where?”

Ominis quickly capitalized on this narrow window for escape, slipping from the bench they were on.

“He’s not—” Sebastian turned back perplexed to an empty seat. “Oh, you git —you can’t even see!”

When Sebastian finally made his way back to the common room after an entire day of watching other students fawn over her in their shared classes, she was already there, curled up near the fireplace chatting with Ominis.

He attempted to exude nothing but platonic indifference as he plopped down on the couch beside his two friends with a sigh.

“Long day?” She looked concerned. Ominis looked aggravatingly amused.

“You have no idea,” He muttered, intentionally omitting the reasons for his sour disposition. He glanced at the package in her hand. “Where on earth did you get so much chocolate?”

She flushed. “One of the older Ravenclaw boys gave it to me.” She outstretched the box towards him. “Want some?”

Sebastian tried his very best to suppress his look of revulsion, he truly did. Unfortunately, he was only able to school his expression into a mild sense of loathing. “I’m alright.”

She shrugged and popped a square into her mouth. She hummed at the gratifying taste of sugar melting on her tongue, ignoring the strange aftertaste in her mouth. She ate another.

Sebastian watched perplexed when after a few bites in, she suddenly shot up from her seat, box of chocolates forgotten and scattered onto the emerald carpet.

“Uh, where are you going?”

“I have to go see him,” Her voice was soft, almost wistful.

Ominis looked equally as confused. “See who?”

She paused, contemplating. “Oh, I’m actually not sure of his name…” Her brows furrowed. “None the matter, what’s important is just how strongly I feel for him — oh, my heart just might burst.”

She attempted her departure once again but Sebastian quickly grabbed her by the back of her robes, sitting her back down on the couch. She looked deeply unpleased with this hindrance.

“It’s past curfew, are you mad?” He looked at her bewildered. “You’ll have to wait to see your lover tomorrow.” He didn’t even bother to conceal his jealous sneer as he said the word.

“Lover?” She mumbled, almost trance-like. “Oh my, do you think he loves me, too?” She gasped and tried to stand from her seat again. “Well I just have to see him now! Maybe he’ll ask for my hand in marriage.”

Sebastian sat her back down yet another time and glanced over his shoulder to Ominis as if to ask a little help here, but quickly found the blonde preoccupied with burying his nose in her discarded box of chocolates.

He held the box in front of Sebastian’s face, who was still struggling to detain a very eager witch who was much stronger than her size let on. “Smell this.”

“What? Why—”

“Just smell it— tell me what you smell.”

Sebastian obliged with a sigh and picked up nothing but the rich notes of chocolate at first, until it hit him.

Lavender, crushed dittany leaves, and the slightest hint of mallowsweet. He recognized it immediately, the scent derived from the very witch beside him, the same scent that’s been wafting from his Amortentia brews in Professor Sharp’s classes for months.

Sebastian turned back to her immediately, grabbing her face in his hands. He tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes to find her pupils blown abnormally large, almost glazed-over with artificial infatuation. His suspicions were confirmed.

He saw red.

“I’m going to strangle him.” He gritted, teeth clenched as he stepped away from her.

Ominis rose from his seat to place a placating hand on the brunette’s shoulder. “Hold on a second, Sebastian, we have to help her first—”

“No, I’m going to torture him first, and then I’m going to strangle him.” Sebastian amended, pacing the room in his rage, Ominis’ pleas falling on deaf ears.

Ominis quickly took his place in trying to restrain her attempts at escaping the common room. “Are you even listening to me?”

“How fast do you think Garreth could brew me a love potion for a blast-ended skrewt if I asked? I should give this prick a taste of his own medicine.” His fists tensed at his sides as he rambled, self-consumed. “Make him walk around with third-degree burns for the rest of the semester.”

“Sebastian, will you snap out of it?” Ominis hissed. “I promise to be an accomplice to his murder, but after we get her an antidote!”

She suddenly darted for the door and the blonde had to catch her with an arm around her waist, dragging her away.

“Ominis, let me go! He’s the love of my life, please!” She thrashed frantically.

“Hold on, stop struggl— ow!” Ominis gasped, incredulous, flailing his hand in pain. “She just bit me! Sebastian, stop planning his demise and help me, before she realizes she has a wand!”

Ominis immediately regretted his words as she proceeded to wrench her arm out of his grip, dipping her hand into her pocket. Finally catching Sebastian’s attention, both boys dove for her, yanking the wand out of her hand despite her frustrated shrieks.

Out of breath, Ominis attempted to calm her. “We’ll go take you to the love of your life now, how does that sound? He’s very excited to see you, but you have to calm down.”

She finally stilled, a lovesick smile pulling across her lips. “Is he really?” she sighed, dreamy. “Of course he is, we’re meant to be…Oh, what do you think our children will look like, Sebastian? Maybe they’ll have his eyes and my lips—”

Sebastian looked on the brink of bursting a blood vessel. “Please, let’s get her to Garreth before I find this vermin and do something violent.”

Sebastian and Garreth huddled over his personal potioneering kit in the Gryffindor common room, meanwhile Ominis tried to calm her restlessness on one of the couches.

“Is he almost here? What’s taking him so long?” She pouted, arms crossed around her middle.

“What’s taking you so long?” Sebastian hissed in a hushed whisper, eyes narrowed at Garreth. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of expert at this?”

“Antidotes take time! Whoever did this to her used something strong.” Garreth stirred the murky liquid in the cauldron before them, unpleasant fumes bubbling from the surface. “Who did do this to her anyways?”

“Some Ravenclaw prick. Go fucking figure,” Sebastian seethed. “Speaking of which, do you have any potions that inflict painful, long-lasting boils? Preferably one that leaves permanent damages?”

Ominis piped up from the couch like an owner scolding an unruly dog. “Sebastian, no.”

“Sebastian, yes.” Garreth grinned, looking just as intrigued and vengeful. “I actually have just the thing, I’ve been wanting to test it out for a while now.”

Ominis went to chastise the both of them, but a petulant whine beside him pulled his attention. “Ominiiiis. Where is he? I miss him so much, I can’t bear it. Will you take me to him?”

Ominis sighed, and told himself that the fact he survived this day without casting a bombarda to his own skull yet was a testament to his great mental fortitude.

He patted her shoulder. “He’s on his way, be patient, yes? He’s just getting some uh…flowers for you.”

Her face lit up with a gasp. “Is he? Oh, how can someone be so romantic? Isn’t he just so perfect?”

Sebastian looked ready to hurl on the tacky, red and gold carpet he was crouched on.

“Aha!” Garreth flicked off the flames underneath his cauldron with a wave of his wand, procuring a ladle to scoop the viscous substance into a vial. “All done. Here, give this to her and I’ll get started on the Boils Brew.”

“No Boils Brew!” Ominis shot up to object.

Sebastian kneeled by her on the couch, uncorking the glass and holding it to her mouth. “Here, drink this.”

She wrinkled her nose at the smell, twisting her lips shut.

He sighed. “It’s a present from your…beloved,” Sebastian choked on the word. “He really wanted me to give it to you.”

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth in consideration before she finally let him pour the bitter-tasting liquid in her mouth, swallowing with a grimace.

Sebastian waited with bated breath as her pupils slowly shrank back to normal size, pulling her out of her trance-like state. Confusion quickly crossed over her face.

“Why the hell are we in the Gryffindor common room?”

Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief, immediately tugging her into a bear-hug that compressed all the oxygen out of her lungs.

“Sebastian, you’re strangling me,” she choked, voice strained.

“Sorry,” he murmured sheepishly, pulling back. “You’re actually not the one I want to strangle.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me we’re here because you’re trying to murder Leander again. It was one time, I don’t think he even meant for that swarm of vampyr mosps to find your dorm specifically.”

Garreth winced from behind them. “He definitely did.”

“Thank you for reminding me of that,” Sebastian looked prepared to commit double homicide. “But no, I actually have to head to the Ravenclaw tower.” He glanced over his shoulder as he stood up. “You coming, Garreth?”

Garreth scoffed as he packed up his equipment. “Obviously.”

She watched, utterly bewildered, as the two made their departure together as if they were the best of friends, any past grievances forgotten in favor of some mutual vengeance. She was half-convinced she was experiencing visual hallucinations as a side-effect to whatever toxic sludge Garreth had brewed for her to drink.

Sebastian pushed open the portrait door of the common room. “You share a dorm with Leander, don’t you?”

Garreth nodded.

He gave the ginger a friendly clap on the shoulders. “Heads up, sleep in the common room tomorrow night.”

Ominis pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long-suffering sigh, the state of this new, unlikely truce making that self-inflicted bombarda seem exponentially more tempting.

Slipping back into the Slytherin common room in the wee hours of the night after his escapade to the Ravenclaw tower, Sebastian was thoroughly exhausted and fully prepared to sink into bed and never get up again.

His plans changed as soon as he caught sight of the witch curled up on the wingback chair in front of the fireplace, nearly dozing off. She shot up as soon as she heard his footsteps, rising to her feet.

“You should be in bed,” he scolded lightly. “You’ve been through enough tonight.”

“I was waiting for you,” she shifted nervously in place. “I wanted to thank you. Ominis, uh…filled me in about what happened. Said you were pretty upset.”

Pink tinged the freckled tops of his cheeks. “I was just a bit worried is all,” he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “He’s exaggerating.”

She laughed. “It’s just,” she chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know, I guess I didn’t expect you to care as much as you did. You’ve never really…” she shook her head, dismissing the thought. “Nevermind. Thank you, really.”

“It’s what any friend would do.” Sebastian tried to suppress a wince as he said the word, hating the taste of it in his mouth.

“Right, yeah,” she bobbed her head. “Friends.”

He didn’t miss the way she almost looked disappointed as she nodded. Something warm and hopeful bloomed in his chest. He crossed the small space between them, breaching the gap before he could talk himself out of what he wanted to do, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest.

“I care about you dearly, you understand that, don’t you?” he asked, his voice timid.

She nodded. “Of course, you and Ominis are both very—”

“No,” he interrupted. “Not like that. I mean, yes, Ominis cares for you, of course, but…” he sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that I care for you…differently. I have for quite a while now.”

Her brows knit together. “I’m not sure I follow, Sebastian.”

“I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

Her eyes widened, followed by her entire expression falling. “Well, geez — rude, but if that’s what—”

“No, wait — shit, that’s not— I do want to be your friend, of course,” he shook his head, amending, “Or well, no, I actually don’t, I—” he groaned. “I want to be more than friends.”

It finally all clicked for her, like the pieces of a puzzle falling perfectly in place. She smiled then, a delighted laugh escaping her lips. Sebastian grinned just as brightly, taking her hands in his, elation bursting in his chest at her finally understanding.

“You want to be best friends.”

His smile faded and his head dropped to her shoulder. “Merlin help me.”

She burst out laughing then, nearly doubling over.

“I’m messing with you, oh my gods, come here,” she took her face in his hands. “I understand.”

“Oh, thank Circe,” he breathed a sigh of relief.

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. “For quite a while, huh?”

He nodded, a bit embarrassed. “It’s terrible. I’ve been head over heels for you pretty much ever since you kicked my ass in Hecat’s class.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, in that case, I’m very upset with you.”

Sebasian blanched. “Oh gods, what have I done this time?”

“Made me wait around like a fool for weeks for you to ask me to the dance,” she batted his chest. “Just out of spite, I think I’ll go with Leander.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Well, then just out of spite, I think Leander might find himself bedridden in the nurse’s ward for the next few weeks.”

She bit back a smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

He shrugged. “I simply protect what’s mine.”

She scoffed. “Oh, is that what I am now?”

He nodded, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Well, I’ve been yours for the longest time now, I think it’s only fair.”

She laughed. “Have you now? I suppose it is fair then, huh?”

Something flickered behind his eyes. “Well, there’s only one way to make it truly fair.”

She raised a brow. “Oh? And how’s that?”

With one hand to the small of her back, he pulled her flush to him, and curled the other in the nape of her neck to bring her lips down to his.

He kissed her until he was sure there were no doubts about exactly who she belonged to, and who he belonged to just as devotedly.

#sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow x reader #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian x mc #garreth weasley #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #hogwarts legacy mc

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florencemtrash · 10 months

Text

Hummingbird: Chapter Three

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

Warnings: Terrible science jargon

It was almost silly how quickly the world returned to normal.

Alchemax was splashed on every local newspaper, website, social media account, and TV channel for a solid week before complaints shifted to the neverending construction on the streets of New York. The subway somehow got tighter, packed bodies grumbling about the thirty minutes added to their commute after ten subway cars had fallen through a spot and landed in the Hudson river.

But the events never faded away from your consciousness. The only way you could fall asleep was by leaving all the lights on. It racked up your electric bill like hell, but you couldn’t stand seeing the shadows creep along the wall as nighttime descended on the city - it reminded you too much of the Spot’s blank face and how he managed to stare into your soul without eyes.

Then there was the growing problem of your forgetfulness. You’d never been the best at keeping track of belongings - Mamá always blamed it on your creative brain - but now everything was being misplaced. The alarm clock would disappear from the nightstand and appear in the kitchen, your sock collection was dwindling every day and never making it into the dirty hamper, for Christ’s sake you still hadn’t found your favorite yellow sneakers and it was irritating you to hell and back.

I’m losing my goddamn mind. You often found yourself thinking.

You threw yourself into work, staying in the classroom late to grade and lesson plan until the night crew got used to vacuuming around your feet. You took on extra projects at the Academy, signing up to run after-school detention and volunteering for props and set design for this year’s spring musical “The Addams Family.”

Anything to stay out of your apartment. Anything to keep you from being alone.

Three empty coffee cups mocked your bleary eyes as you sat hunched over the sewing machine after hours. Cheap black lace trailed off the table, slowly shortening as you incorporated the material into Morticia’s dress.

“Fuck!” You hissed in pain and stuck your thumb in your mouth, sucking away the blood from your fourth needle prick of the night. At this rate you’d have more holes punched into you than swiss cheese.

It was time to give up for tonight.

Before you could forget you slipped the stolen Brooklyn Visions Academy uniform from your bag and hid it in the bottom-most cubby in the storage room. The sleeping bag and pillow from your apartment were also stuffed there, ready for Miles to use whenever he needed an extra break from being a superhero. You suspected Gwen had also been sneaking by to visit Miles now that she had more freedom to explore the multiverse - hence the spare uniform.

“How’s he doing?” You’d asked Miles earlier that day. Miguel’s unspoken name had lingered on the tip of your tongue, forcing the color to rise into your cheeks. Luckily Miles knew exactly who you were talking about.

A knowing grin grew on his face, “Not too bad. He seems more on edge than usual, but I hear he’s working on his temper.”

“He’s not body slamming any more teenagers?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good.” You paused, “If he gives you any more trouble, send him my way. I’ll give him a piece of my mind.”

Miles saluted you, “You got it.”

You meant it as a joke… but you also wanted a reason to see him again.

You were just about to switch the light off in your classroom when a flash of yellow caught your eye. Tucked behind a stack of newsprint, the vine charcoal rubbing away on your fingers as you carefully lifted the papers, was your prized pair of yellow converse.

It was too late to think about how they’d ended up so far from home, so you tossed them in your bag, threw out the coffee cups, and saved your muddled mind the trouble of figuring it out tonight.

The midnight subway car was filled with the usual Friday-night suspects - overworked nurses, loners just killing time, drunk party goers covered in more glitter than a kindergartener’s Valentine’s day card, and you.

You didn’t miss Richard, not really. What you really missed was coming home to someone and the feeling of another body weighing down the right side of the bed. More recently you’d been imagining what it would be like to come home to Miguel.

You kicked off your shoes at the bottom of the landing, shuffling up the steps and pulling off your clothes as you went, modesty be damned. By the time you face planted on your bed, hair still damp from the shower, it was nearing 2am and Miguel still hadn’t left your mind. He’d planted himself in your thoughts like a spider too high up on a wall for you to squash and too large for you to ignore.

Mercifully you didn’t have to endure the pains of a schoolgirl crush for very long. Sleep dragged you under and you welcomed it as your mind finally went quiet.

You awoke with a start, suffocating under the heavy blankets that you’d buried yourself in last night. You’d been dreaming again about the collider. You’d been dreaming about Miguel - this time in a feverish haze that left your mind in a puddle on the floor.

How was it possible that a stranger could occupy so much space in your mind? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he’d held you like you were everything and then left without saying goodbye.

But you weren’t complete strangers…

“Aren’t you his wife?”

Miles had asked the question so innocently and Miguel hadn’t said anything against it, so it must be true. Somewhere, in some other universe, you’d been married to one another.

Are you thinking about me too? You wondered, opening your eyes in hopes of chasing the memory of him away.

…Maybe you were still dreaming, because the last time you checked you hadn’t fallen asleep under a tree in Central Park. And even if you had, you highly doubted you could have lugged your mattress and bed frame with you all the way from Brooklyn.

Oh por el amor de Dios.

The glorious thing about New York City is that everyone knew how to mind their own business. So when people saw a high school art teacher in Star Wars pjs leap for joy upon finding a $5 bill on the ground, they didn’t question it.

You were so ecstatic about saving yourself the two-and-a-half hour walk back to Brooklyn that you didn’t remember a highly important piece of information until after you hopped off the subway - you didn’t have your keys or your phone.

Joder.

Your forehead knocked against the front door of your apartment building with an audible clunk.

“Por el amor de la mierda, ¿por qué mi vida es así?” You muttered under your breath.

“Y/n?” Your landlord, Mrs. Fleming, pushed her tortoise-shell glasses higher up on her face, the thick lenses magnifying her eyes to bug-like proportions. “Oh it is you, my dear.”

You groaned, color rushing into your cheeks as you turned around sheepishly. “Good morning, Mrs. Fleming.”

The elderly woman gave you a once-over look, crocheting needles clicking together as she rummaged around in her bag for her keys, “The old walk of shame, I see.”

“What?! Wait, no-this isn’t-I’m not-”

She patted you on the back before unlocking the door and holding it open for you, “I only use the turn of phrase because that’s what you young folks call it. Ain’t nothing shameful in it. It’s good of you to get out there. I never did like Richard much.”

You were at a loss for words.

Mrs. Fleming, sprightly as she was for her age, followed you up to your apartment with her extra set of keys jingling merrily in her hands.

“Now, you have a good rest of your weekend, dear.” She said once you’d been graciously let into your apartment, “And don’t forget your keys next time!”

“Thanks Mrs. Fleming.” You said. Her amused chuckle echoed through the air as she shuffled off to her own apartment.

You sprawled out on the ground where your bed should have been, trying to even out your breathing as the reality of the morning’s events crashed down around you like a house of cards.

This can’t be happening. ¿Qué diablos me pasa?

You rolled onto your stomach, repeatedly banging your face into a spare pillow to muffle the sound of your aggravated screams.

The pillow accepted your frustration with little complaint until something in you just snapped.

All at once the pillow disappeared from beneath you and then blinked into existence by the closet allowing your face to crash into the floor unprotected.

You grabbed at your burning nose, eyes swimming with tears of pain as you registered what had happened.

“No… oh no.”

>>>

The rain beat down irregularly, fluctuating back and forth from being barely a drizzle to a torrential downpour.

You gripped an empty to-go cup in your hand, the tea you’d hoped would calm your nerves long gone.

It took you three hours to make it here. First you kept teleporting your keys away every time you touched them, futilely chasing them around the apartment. Then you’d nearly gotten hit by a taxi and teleported yourself to the bathroom of a tea shop on the Upper West Side. Miraculously your powers had quieted after that, allowing you to get on the subway and here without incident.

A familiar figure made its way down the block, hood up to protect from the rain.

“Miles!” You leapt up from your seat, racing across the street to the annoyed honking of two taxis.

“Miss Y/l/n? How’re you doing?” Miles narrowed his eyes in worry, seeing the way your fingers nervously pulled at a loose string from your sweater, “What happened to your face?” The flesh around your nose was red and tender, slowly transforming into a purple bruise.

“I’m sorry for bothering you like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.” You looked around carefully before lifting the cup in the palm of your hand.

You furrowed your brow in concentration, willing that same power within you to snap into place again.

“What’s supposed to-”

“Just-just give me a minute.”

A minute passed, and nothing. Your heartbeat quickened as you grew more and more flustered.

“Miss Y/l/n are you sure you’re ok?” Skepticism and genuine concern laced his voice.

“I’m fine!”

Snap!

The cup blinked out of existence like an old-school television that had been turned off. Miles saw it reappear over the park across the street and land on a dog walker’s head. The man in question looked up at the sky bewildered, like he expected to find God there.

Miles’s wide eyes met yours.

“Oh shit.”

He pulled you into the empty alleyway behind his building, using his spider webs to straighten the trash cans that rolled around on the ground and clear out a space large enough for the two of you to comfortably stand side by side.

He hung close to the street, Gwen’s face shimmering to life above his wrist as he spoke with his back turned to you.

“Hey, Gwen. I’ve got a situation.” He whispered into the watch.

You caught snippets of their conversation, shrinking in your coat as you tried to suppress the anxiety growing in your chest. If there was anything you’d learned about your powers it was that they tended to flare up with your emotions.

“Do you think we can trust him with this? I don’t want anything to happen to her… Yeah, yeah. No, I understand. I’ll bring her in. See you later.”

Miles turned back to you, a strained smile on his face, “Sorry about that.”

“Miles, what’s going on?” “I got to bring you into Spidey HQ. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but Miguel might.”

He unzipped his raincoat and hoodie, exposing the black and red spider-suit beneath and tugging on his mask.

Your heart gave a flip at the mention of your husband’s name (could you even call him that?). Would he be happy to see you again? Would things be awkward between the two of you?

A familiar watch flashed on his wrist as he began pressing buttons on the orange holographic screen. You’d seen it happen before, a portal of wild glitching colors pulsing to life in front of you, but that didn’t make it any less impressive. Miles stepped into it, dragging you along with him like he was just passing through any regular doorway.

He swept his arm outward, smiling at the expression on your face.

“Welcome to Spidey HQ, Miss Y/l/n.”

Your jaw dropped as you passed through the portal - an actual portal - to Miguel’s dimension.

Hundreds, no thousands, of Spider-People roamed the open air halls, some on two legs, some on four, some on wheels, and some just preferred to swing through the air on webs, catching and releasing the nimble strings with practiced grace from the walkways that crossed overhead like… well like a spider’s web.

Miguel certainly hadn’t wasted the spider concept when it came to their headquarters.

“I didn’t know there was a universe composed entirely of Spider-Men…Spider-People?… Spider…” A cat hissed at your feet when you nearly stepped on its tail as you blindly followed Miles through the crowd, “Spider-Things?”

“Sorry Spider-Cat!” Miles said as the feline grumbled, tail high in the air as it calmly leapt onto the wall and continued on its way as though gravity were only an inconvenience.

“Actually, every world has only one Spider-Person, but the Alchemax explosion last year ended up opening holes into other universes. Miguel created this place as a hub for Spider-People while everyone tries to fix the anomalies.”

“Anomalies?”

“Yeah, beings that have accidentally gotten stuck in another world.”

“Oh… yeah that makes total sense..” Your words trailed off as a roaring laugh caught your attention, “Is that… is that a dinosaur?”

You pointed at the group crowded around a cafeteria table howling with laughter. Burgers bounced on trays as the T-Rex doubled over to slap the table for dramatic effect.

“AY YO, REXA!” Miles shouted over your head, throwing his arms up wildly.

Rexa exposed razor sharp teeth in a grin and waved one short arm towards you. You returned a meek wave in return.

“That’s Rexa. She’s super funny. Just uh…” he covered his mouth before whispering in your ear, “Maybe don’t mention anything about her arms. She gets a little sensitive.”

“Oh…yeah, of course. No problem.”

Miles continued to lead you through the building, periodically taking breaks for you to catch up as you kept your eyes trained on everything except the path he’d carved in front of you. At one point you simply disappeared from view, reappearing four stories up in a psychiatrist’s office.

A tweed-suited Spider-Man jumped in his seat, dropping the box of tissues he’d been preparing to throw to his client.

“Oh! I… I’m so sorry.” You said, flustered at the sight of a sandy haired Peter Parker variant sobbing his eyes out into a spider plushie. You inched along the wall towards the door, “I’m just-I’m just going to make my way out.”

You closed the door as quietly as possible, turning around and coming face to face with Miles again. You jumped and snapped, this time landing on Rexa’s table, foot squishing her burger into roadkill.

You groaned and tilted your head up, watching Miles sail out the office window and swing his way down.

This was going to take a while.

There was no shortage of Spiderpeople to steal your attention, but finally after a few (uninterrupted) turns down pristine white hallways and an elevator ride into the belly of Spidey HQ, it was just you and Miles again.

From his lair, Miguel traced your figure with his eyes. When you caught sight of the camera in the elevator, its red pupil narrowing in on you, you smiled sheepishly and waved. The small action made his stomach flip like a schoolboy who’d been given his first kiss.

He needed to pull himself together before he saw you face to face again.

“I’m just saying, I think this is a good thing, Miguel.” Peter B. said, swinging up to the platform and wrapping an arm around Miguel’s broad shoulders. Mayday crawled out and onto the control board, pressing buttons haphazardly and closing half the screens. She clapped her hands in wonder and Miguel grumbled half-heartedly.

Once she started walking, all bets were off. She’d be an absolute menace to Spider Society. Already she liked to treat Miguel like her personal playscape, crawling onto his shoulders and tugging at his brown curls.

Her antics almost made him smile… almost.

“If she’s here then that can only mean something’s wrong.” Miguel said, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen and ignoring Mayday as she slumped over his back, slowly sliding down his chest and into his waiting arms with a dramatic sigh.

You looked tired and nervous, fingers tugging at the strings of your raincoat. A purple bruise spread out from your nose, moving with the curve of your cheekbones. Had someone hurt you?

Miguel’s blood began to boil.

“Or,” Peter bumped his hips against Miguel’s, “it could mean she wants to see you again.”

“Stop that.” Miguel growled.

“Stop what?”

Stop giving me hope.

Miguel was about to bite back at Peter and wipe the mischievous grin on his face when the doors slid open. Miles’s voice rang through the empty space.

“These are all those anomalies I was telling you about. Doc Oc, Rhino, Sandman, Mysterio. I don’t even want to know who that is.”

“Why is it so dark in here?”

“Miguel likes to brood. I think he’s part vampire.”

Miguel tossed Mayday into her father’s arms, swiftly turning around and busying himself at the control panel to distract from the pounding of his heart. A dozen screens flashed to life above the control board and Miguel concentrated on none of them.

Peter grinned like a madman. This was going great.

“Miss Y/n!” He shouted out, throwing his hands in the air before hopping off the platform. Mayday squealed in delight and copied his actions. Miguel only cursed under his breath and rubbed his temples. Leave it to Peter to be the cause of 90% of his headaches.

“Looking good, teach!”

“Ummm… thanks?” You responded as Mayday grabbed at you with chubby fingers. You didn’t have much choice but to hold her as Peter thrust her into your arms. Fear jolted through you like a lightning strike and you quickly handed her off to Miles, the poor girl frowning and continuing to make grabbing motions at you. The last thing you wanted was to make Mayday disappear from your arms.

Peter tipped his head to the side but for once made no comment. He continued to chat you up, pulling small smiles from your lips and ignoring the way you kept glancing at Miguel as his platform slowly lowered to the ground.

He had his hands on his hips, bright red and blue Spider-suit cutting a striking silhouette against the dark background.

If he’d noticed you walking into the room, he didn’t show it and you tried your best not to deflate at that realization.

“Don’t worry. He just likes to make an entrance,” Miles whispered in your ear. And some entrance that was. He stepped off the platform, back tight and straight as he moved forward with measured, even footsteps.

Miles took one step forward, angling his body in front of you with a weariness in his eyes.

Miguel stopped, face betraying nothing as he looked you up and down once.

“I never thought I’d see you again.” The words would have sounded romantic coming from someone else’s lips, but from him they just sounded dry and clinical.

“Same here.” You said. The words came out breathlessly.

“What’s happened?”

His hand hovered in the air between you two before he swiftly dropped it to his side. He wanted to reach out and touch your face. He wanted to tilt your chin upwards so he could take a good look at the damage done to your nose and make sure you were ok. Perhaps if you’d been alone he would have allowed himself to do it, but as it was, they had company.

“We need your help, Miguel.” Miles cut through the tension, “Something’s up with Miss Y/l/n. She’s got powers now - teleportation similar to the Spot’s.”

His heart stuttered in his chest.

“Is that true?” he said, desperately looking to you for answers. The Spot’s powers had made him unstable in more ways than one and Miguel shivered to think about anything happening to you.

You nodded, “Things keep disappearing when I touch them. Sometimes I accidentally teleport to places when I’m frustrated. I didn’t realize what was going on until I woke up in Central Park last night.”

Miguel turned around, muttering under his breath as his mind raced a thousand steps ahead of him.

Of all the people this could have happened to, it had to be you. He thought he’d done the right thing by leaving you alone, forcing himself not to portal to your dimension every night. His multiversal travels had taught him a thing or two about the ways things operated. Some figures, like Peter Parker’s Spider-Man were well represented across worlds. Some figures, like himself, were harder to come by.

As for you? He only knew of three worlds where you existed - in one world, his actions had led to your death and the death of your daughter. In the second, Spot had murdered you in his quest to figure out Spider-Man’s identity.

And in this one…

Well he thought he’d been keeping you safe.

Teleportation was a dangerous ability - unpredictable and difficult to control. Left unchecked you could find yourself in front of a car speeding down the highway or at the top of Mount Everest or in a different dimension altogether, constantly glitching as your molecules broke apa-

“Wait,” Miguel stiffened, back tightening as he swiveled around on his heels, “Where’s your watch?”

“My watch?” you glanced at your naked wrist, “I mean I usually just check my phone for the t-”

“No, your day pass watch. The thing that stabilizes you in this universe.”

Miles’s eyes blew open. “Mierda. Sabía que había olvidado algo.”

“How long have you two been here?”

“Maybe two hours.” You guessed.

“And nothing’s happened?”

“Is something supposed to happen?”

Even Peter B. looked concerned. Panic rose in your chest and you threatened to snap. Miguel reached out and grasped your wrist, palm sliding down until you felt the weight and warmth of his hand wrapped in yours. He led you to the med bay, Peter and Miles following closely behind.

The paper atop the padded examination table crinkled as you took a seat, watching Miguel’s broad shoulders flex and stretch as he dug an extra watch out from the back of a cabinet.

“Lyla, run a scan of Y/n.”

The woman flickered to life in front of him. “What’s the magic word?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“Lyla.” He was in no mood for games today

“Ok, ok. Don’t be testy.” Lyla appeared in front of you, an orange scanner materializing in her hands that swept across your body with a cool touch. “Scan complete.”

“Here you go,” Miguel felt some relief pour back into his body as he fastened the watch around your wrist, hand lingering against your pulse like he wanted further confirmation that you were alive and well.

“Hey, why does she get one of the fancy ones?” Miles protested. The watch, identical to the ones worn by Miguel, Peter, and Miles flashed its face at you. It was far too elaborate and expensive to be just a day pass.

Miguel ignored him, walking over to one of the monitors and skimming through the output data.

“It took six months for Miguel to give me one of those bad boys,” The paper crinkled again as Peter hopped onto the table beside you, whispering, “Looks like someone’s got a favorite,” and earning a glare from Miguel.

Peter winked suggestively.

Miguel scowled.

Your cheeks turned a rosy red, your coat disappearing from around your shoulders and landing in a rumple at Miguel’s feet like the world’s worst suggestive gesture. Peter howled with laughter.

“No puedo creerlo.” Miguel whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Lyla, am I looking at this right?”

“You sure are. Y/n’s DNA is perfectly stable. Not a trace of multiversal quantum poisoning to be found. And! Her radiation signature matches that of more than a thousand different universes. Bet you’ve never seen that before.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Hmmmm, let me think.” Lyla spun around in a digital office chair, waiting for her moment to break the dramatic pause. Miguel groaned - he would need to improve her code and tone down the dramatism. “Looks like packets of quantum energy from across the multiverse were released during the Alchemax hypercompact fusion explosion and merged with the only unaltered sentient lifeform in the vicinity.”

“Dios mio.”

At the end of her explanation she bowed gracefully, arm and fur-lined coat sweeping off to the side.

“Did you get any of that?” Peter asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“Peter, I took forestry as my science gen ed in art school and barely passed so… no.”

“Uhhh, can you repeat it for the rest of the class?” Miles piped up.

Lyla leaned forward, one hand on her hip and the other tipped her heart-shaped sunglasses onto her head.

“Y/n absorbed energy from a ton of different universes so as far as the multiverse is concerned, she doesn’t register as an anomaly. No glitching. No dying outside of her universe without a watch. No predicted multiversal collapse.” Lyla smiled. “Predicted.”

You looked less than pleased. The last month had been filled to the brim with life-altering events from finding out Miles was a superhero, to getting kidnapped and nearly dying, to finding out your variant’s husband was an all-too-attractive, brooding Spider-Man. It was getting to be too much - you were a teacher for crying out loud! Maybe you’d have handled it better if you were a crime-fighting detective, or a fancy scientist, or a millionaire with access to the latest tech and weapons. Instead you were just… you.

“Can you fix it?”

Miguel flinched at the look on your face. You were looking to him for help and for answers, but he couldn’t provide them in any satisfactory way. He’d never encountered anyone with your abilities.

The confusion and fear that came with discovering your powers - that was a journey all Spider-People went through, and they usually went through it alone.

Miguel sighed, “There’s nothing to fix, Y/n.” He said the words with a softness no one had heard from him in years, perhaps ever, “This is who you are now.”

“So I’m just going to be stuck like this forever?”

“Having powers isn’t so bad.” Peter chimed in with a small smile. “From time to time, it can actually be pretty awesome.”

You allowed a small, empty smile to grow on your lips. It was a smile Miguel was well acquainted with - the kind of smile that said I’m not fine, but I want you to believe that I am.

“I have some tests we could run.” Miguel offered up, “I can’t reverse what’s happened but maybe I can come up with something to help you control your powers, at least while you’re learning how to use them.”

You nodded, the smile turning into something real, “I would like that. Thank you.”

Peter was practically vibrating with excitement when he caught the look that passed between the two of you and the hint of hope on Miguel’s usually stony face.

He clapped his hands down on Miles’s shoulders, “Well would you look at the time? I need to put Mayday down for her nap and grab some food. You’ll learn this soon enough, but being a superhero does burn the calories.”

He hopped off the table, waltzing all the way to the door before he noticed that Miles was missing from his side. “Miles! Come join me.”

“Actually, I was going to wait with-”

“Miles.” Peter coughed into his fist, bug eyes burning into Miles until he got the hint.

“Oh? Oh! Yeah, sorry Miss Y/l/n, I forgot I told Gwen I’d meet up with her.”

You waved him off, “I’ll be fine, Miles. Thanks for everything.”

“I’ll show her how to use the watch and send her home when we’re finished.” Miguel said, pulling on a lab coat that had been draped over his office chair. He rarely had time to work in the lab, more focused on his primary duty of maintaining the stability of the multiverse, but the familiar glide of the fabric over his skin did help to relax him. It reminded him of the old days when Spider-Man didn’t exist and the multiverse was just a fun theory tossed around at company lunches.

A thin silence stretched between you two after Miles and Peter left, and you contented yourself with watching Miguel as he busily typed away at his monitor, labeled vials, and prepared the syringes. Every movement was practiced and controlled like he’d done this a million times before.

Miguel was screaming on the inside. You were close enough for his heightened senses to pick up on the honey lemon shampoo you used tinged with the woodsy scent of linseed oil. He was powerless under your gaze like an insect trapped under a microscope.

“I just need to collect some blood samples.” Miguel said, gently holding out his hand. You offered your arm up without complaint, distracting yourself from the pinch of the needle by reading the faded name tag printed on his lab coat.

You whistled low to break the tension, “Dr. O’Hara. That’s impressive. What kind of doctor are you?”

“I was a geneticist. Not the medical kind though. I worked in research at Alchemax.”

“Is that how you got your spidey powers?”

He rolled his eyes, “They’re not spidey powers, they’re acrachno-humanoid genetic augmentations.”

“Qué estúpido. Just call them spidey powers. You scientists just like to give things complicated names to feel superior.” The corner of Miguel’s lips quirked up every so slightly. The thrill of seeing any emotion on Miguel’s face lightened the feeling in your chest.

“Was it hard becoming Spider-Man?” You asked.

Miguel shrugged, wiping away the small bead of blood on your arm. “I had it easier than most. I was already looking into the possibility of combining human and arachnid DNA and I had the resources to study my powers.” Miguel paused. It had been a long time - too long - since he’d had a conversation like this with anyone. He could cast his mind back to talks with you his wife, but those had always been domestic in nature.

“The hardest part was not having anyone to talk to.” He said, finishing his thought.

“Sounds lonely.” You remarked, accepting the q-tip from him and swabbing the inside of your cheek. He collected the sample in a vial of greenish liquid and gave it a thorough shake, “Do you have people now that you talk to?”

“No.” His answer was short and to the point.

You’d touched a sore spot and you decided to prod it. “Would you like someone to talk to?”

Again, the corner of his lips twitched, “Are you offering?”

You copied his shrug from earlier, “Maybe.”

He took a few more cheek swabs and then a strand of hair. His hand lingered by your cheek, frowning as he took in the bruise on your face.

Now that you two were alone he dared to gently tilt your head to the side.

“You never told me what happened.”

Your hands flew up to your face in embarrassment and Miguel saw the tips of your ears grow red. He liked it.

“I may or may not have teleported my pillow away right before smashing my face into the floor.”

The breath left his lungs in a quiet chuckle. That sounded like something you’d do.

“But no one’s bothering you?”

“What? Oh no. No, it’s nothing like that.”

He nodded, the tightness in his chest unraveling with that knowledge. He knew you weren’t his wife and he knew that you didn’t know him well enough yet, but that didn’t stop him from caring. The truth was he liked you from the moment you slapped his shoulder and cursed at him, and it wasn’t just because you looked like someone from his past.

“This will take some time to work through.” He tilted his head towards where the tabletop machines whirred and spun, “But if I’m right, I may be able to adjust your watch to stabilize you in a specific place, not just a specific universe. It’s not a permanent fix but you won’t be waking up in Central Park again anytime soon.”

“That would be preferable.”

You moved to take off the watch and hand it over to Miguel but he stopped you.

“Keep this one. In case anything happens you can contact me or the other Spider-People,” He said, walking her through the steps of using the watch, “Headquarters is always open so if anything happens, come here.”

You nodded. With an encouraging look from Miguel you punched “Earth-1610” into the locator and then your home address.

Just like last time the portal bloomed open beside you, scattering a few loose papers on the ground. Through the portal you caught a glimpse of your living room, citylights flashing outside your window.

“Come back next week. Until we have a better understanding of your powers it would be good for us to monitor you and check that you’re stable.”

And it would be good for you to see her again.

Miguel squashed the thought as soon as it popped into his brain in Peter’s voice. He really needed to stop spending so much time with him.

You stepped through the portal and were embraced by the familiar smell of your apartment. It made you feel better about what was to come. You turned to smile at Miguel, his tired eyes lighting up ever so slightly.

“I’ll see you next week then.”

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_________ Author's note: Here's the next chapter! Let me know what you guys think of the writing and where the story is going. I'm hoping to dive more deeply into Y/n x Miguel's relationship in the coming chapters so get ready for angst and fluff!

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#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x wife reader #atsv x y/n #atsv x reader #atsv miguel #into the spider verse #across the spiderverse #spider man 2099 #miles morales #gwen stacy #hobie brown #pavit #peter parker #peter b parker #miguel x reader #miguel x y/n

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chronically-ghosted · 19 days

Text

vivarium

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: ezra x f!reader word count: 8K summary: you request a vacation for your birthday. With the rain and a few drinks, you get a lot more than you asked for. warnings: alcohol drinking, minor age gap (less than 10 years), oral (f!receiving), fingering, smut, possessive!Ezra, dom!Ezra, one booty smack, dirty talk for real, smut, pining, a bit of angst, referenced/implied orphanhood, made a religious sex pun and i'm so proud of myself a/n: so @morallyinept requested this and it turns out when I write for a boy for the first time, it can’t be less than 7K – whoops. i've gotten ezra requests from some moots before, so i hope this lives up to your expectations! **massive thanks to @toomanytookas for editing and providing the initial validation so i don't post in a mouth-frothy haze. I've never had a beta like you before and I genuinely feel like I've turned over a new chapter in my fic writing. thank you!

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💜come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

Your feet in the clear blue water, the humidity like a wet tongue on your skin, you scratch a nail under the tab of a mustard yellow can, crack it open, and drink. The bite of alcohol dulled by the carbonation, you take several pulls, drawing out the mid-afternoon buzz from two other cans and whetting your mouth in the heat of the jungle day. You lean back on your elbows into the sponge-soft grass, and let out a massive sigh.

A few feet ahead of you, on a repurposed inflatable reentry tube, your long-time privateer partner chuckles, the sound deep in the back of his throat as he floats by. Thick fingers and exposed heels dragging along in the crystal water, he greets the yellow sun like an old friend – arms wide, chest out, a lazy smile on his face. A damp rag – supposedly clean – sits over what you know to be dark-earth eyes, every other inch of him relishing in the inevitable sun tan.

“I see your aaahhh, pet, and I raise you a mhmm.” The rubber squeaks as he adjusts, tips his scarred chin up to the cloudless sky and rests his head back. “Kevva said there’d be days like this, but I think the old hag mighta left out a thing or two.”

You grin, the wet heat of Banu 8’s lowlands drawing sweat droplets onto your hairline at the back of your neck, settling thick behind your ears where it co-mingles with the drunk haze loping around in your brain. You watch Ezra with his bare arms, hairy legs, and prominent nose turned towards the divinity he’s so fond of invoking and the thought crosses your mind – again:

Shit, he’s so fucking hot.

Oh, bad thought.

You drop your gaze, pressing the cold aluminum lip of the can to your mouth, drinking quicker than you probably should, anything to distract you from your partner as he obliviously floats by.

For our sake, you silently beg the hungry little creature that whines and snaps at the image of a shirtless Ezra, please fuck off.

While Ezra whistles a vaguely familiar tune, terribly off-key, you scoop up the cool lagoon water and dribble it over your hot knees, then your thighs, dampening the rims of your make-shift shorts just enough to cool them without leaving them vulnerable to a permanent state of moisture due to the high humidity. You flick the last drops of the water onto your chest, your white cotton bra choked to your skin. A final effect, you press the cool can to the thrumming pulse on your neck, closing your eyes with a relieved grunt, taking the time to enjoy the sensation of the cold metal against the rapid beat in your throat.

From the water, you hear an unsettled grunt and you open your eyes to find that same shirtless Ezra staring at you, the rag now curled in one hand against the rubber float. He swallows, looks at something past your ear, and again tries to adjust in the sticky rubber float without flipping himself over, his hands falling into his lap.

“Neptune, dear, would you do us the favor of tossing over one of those cans? I’m parched. I think my lovely skin is drying out.”

Neptune. His favorite nickname for you. You never got any real explanation from him as to why you got that name, other than after you’d officially joined his crew, you told him you came from a blue planet in a far off system. But that was often the way of things: Ezra did something and you didn’t question why. From that simple truth, you learned about how to repair and rebuild the entire electrical system from a drop pod. You learned, in excruciating detail, the parts and mechanics of a thrower, so much so that you could almost identify the model number at a glance. You learned about which corporate dig sites to avoid, which made for easy marks, and which would draw the eye and ire of entities hardly worth the trouble.

Being out on your own since you aged up out of the orphanage had not gone the way you hoped and life had not been so kind as to teach you any other way to survive. Ezra had found you in the back of a red spice market, cornered and slurping down the last few of your credits from a muck bowl that you had vastly overpaid for.

For whatever reason, he offered you a job on the spot, despite you having nothing to offer him. and no experience in anything except cleaning prophylaxiams and staying out of the way.

And yet, he has been far kinder than life, or anyone else, had ever been to you.

As a result, loyalty was only a fraction of what you felt for him. What had begun as overwhelming adoration had grown hot to the touch, slippery between your fingers at night, and perhaps – what you feared most of all – obvious.

Yet when Ezra looked at you with a smile on his face, it was only comradery he wished to share with you, certainly not his bed. He shared it with practically every other bi-pedal humanoid you came across, but not you. And this you had to accept. And you did.

But being a little drunk made it that much harder to remember where to keep your hands to avoid being burned.

“Sure, Ez.” You tuck your legs out from the cool water and dig around in the canvas bag at the base of the white nut tree. Most of the ice had melted into the bright green grass around the lagoon, but a few of the cans were still cold. You’d probably tease Ezra later for skimping on the insulation bucket the provisions store the port offered, but he had been so eager to get to the camp ground after spending an “exceedingly exorbitant amount of time stacked up against human drivel on public transportation”. One lopsided grin, and you’d give him the world.

“Ez–,”

He lifts the rag, glancing at you over his shoulder, hands cupped as the can flies through the air. The cold metal presses against the overheated skin on his chest and he hisses. Eyeing the can ruefully, he cracks it open and drinks deep. You busy yourself with sliding to the edge of the pool again to keep from watching his throat move.

Ezra finally pulls back, smacking his lips, with a pleased groan. He wets the rag again and dramatically flops it over his eyes. Hidden from his view, you watch the roll of water down his temples, his neck, his chest.

“Name anything better than this, Neptune, I beg you. Free from obligation or assignment on commission. Where my only moral imperative is to drink as many of these as I can and remind you how beautiful you are. Which . . .” he tilts the bottom of the can towards you, head still tilted back on the raft and dripping rag covering his vision, “fantastic, by the way.”

Having stifled your blush while under his watchful gaze about three or four other times today, without him looking, you flush so hard and fast you go lightheaded. Beautiful, he said. You drink more carbonated alcohol to choke back your rising heart, your eyes skim over the curve of his nose, a drop of sweat as it peaks on his forehead. You can’t linger over him too long; he has a six-sense about you – unable to know what you’re thinking but that you’re overthinking all the same.

“Was this worth the trip on public transportation, Ez?” Your ankles stir the water again.

“I could do this all day,” he sighs contently, bringing a warm smile to your face. “And definitely all night.”

Maybe you’ll both be so sun-drunk later tonight, you’ll fall asleep together on the pallet on the floor. Of course, by nightfall, someone will have to come to their senses and you’ll be tucked back into your separate sleeping bags, but maybe, as a present you couldn’t possibly ask for, you can just nap together.

With the bottom plush of your lip stuck between your teeth, you rim the metallic edge of your can with your nail, ankles spinning slow circles in the water.

“Thank you, Ezra,” you say quietly, “for the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

It began as a sort of joke one night on the volcanic hotspring moon of Wulkan after a twelve hour shift hunting through the black ash in search of fire pearls. The job was rather rushed, and Ezra had his reservations going into it, but fire pearls were a near certainty and you both needed a boost after a jump exchange had gone a little cockeyed. Sweat dripping from his temples, the provided water packs in the harvest suits doing just enough to keep him from passing out from heat exhaustion, he extended the skein of hydro-electric towards you across the narrow lane between your cots and asked you if you could be anywhere right now, any system, where would you be.

“Somewhere so cold I freeze my tits clean off,” you said with a sigh and wiped your own sweat-drenched forehead. You could smell yourself after two days of sweating profusely, but your stench in comparison to the rest of the crew, including Ezra, barely registered any more. You took a sip as Ezra laughed.

“A grievous crime against humanity and all its luscious gifts, but I get your meaning. Anywhere else?”

“Water.” This was said with more conviction, so much so it turned Ezra’s head towards you. “The few memories I have of my home planet and my parents, we were always near or in water. An ocean, maybe. I’m not sure. But I remember being really, really happy and I think being near water . . . it would make me happy again.”

You handed the skein back to Ezra, something unreadable in his gaze. He took it back from you, his fingers dark from the ash that clings to everything. On the other side of the tent, the rest of your crew and other teams mill about, yelling, with cutlery clattering as the camp gets ready to slow for the night, a graveyard shift picking up in just a few hours.

Ezra’s eyes are as dark as the ash you’ve been shifting through the past two days.

“Then you shall have it, Neptune.” He said, quietly. “I’d give you the fucking galaxy if I could.”

Those words often came to you in the crevice between sleep and wakefulness, when your mind was idle and the reins that tightly bound your affection for him loosened without a conscious grip. When you thought you weren’t being watched.

The flat of his foot hooking behind your ankle breaks you from your reverie. Cast into shadow by the wide, rubbery palm leaves above your head, he looks at you curiously.

“That look of deep consternation is giving me a headache. Spill.”

With a faint smile, you gently bump his knee with your own. “Nothing, Ez. I’m just glad we get to take a break from it all. I can’t remember the last time I . . . the last time we’ve just had nothing to do.”

He cocks his head as his gaze crawls up your ankle, your shin, to your knee. You think it might linger on your thigh before it bounces to your face. You tighten your grip on the hot, expansive feeling behind your ribs and stare back at him.

“Then that’s a black mark against me, as the leader of this clan.” His mouth curls, eyebrow arching as he talks, knowing that statement has been a point of playful contention between you two for years. “A good overseer knows when to crack the bullwhip and when to let it rest.”

“Well, a better overseer knows when to demand that her team rests, because sometimes they have no idea what’s good for them.”

His foot rotates behind your ankle, his toes brushing against your calf, bringing your attention to your own body part in the water. Your legs are hairy, nearly as much as Ezra’s, and you haven’t shaved your pits in possibly a decade. Ezra once brought home a professional nightwalker, one from the Upper City, to the derelict flat you’d been sharing for two weeks as you offloaded your haul to the under markets. You never forgot how smooth her skin had been, shaved clean and smelling of moon lilies. That scent permeated the small space for weeks afterward. Even now, just the sight of moon lilies makes you nauseous.

His aversion to you runs much deeper than physical aesthetics, even if you can’t help but wonder sometimes if becoming as smooth and hairless as the nightwalker might change his mind.

“Observational to a fault as always, Neptune.” The ball of his foot rests briefly between your legs before he pushes off from the spongy lip of the lagoon’s edge. He floats back into the sun, his head shaking slightly, a smile drained of amusement on his lips. He inhales as the sun crests over his forehead and he glances up at the blue sky. “I have no idea what’s good for me.”

Something about his tone, the way he turns away from you, scratches a very raw place inside of you – a place that fears and obsesses over abandonment. You wouldn’t survive it if he abandoned you, if he left you to fend for yourself one day. Logically, you know he would never do that – he has sworn up and down to your face that that notion is fundamentally ludicrous to him – but the anguish of him silently rejecting you from his bed again and again and again makes that fragile place inside you bleed red.

You stand up, swipe another can from the bag, and move towards the waterfall.

“I’m taking a hike.”

You feel his eyes on the backs of your thighs as you march towards the gentle incline.

“Be safe, Neptune,” he calls softly.

For a fleeting second, you wish he had made you stay.

The first fat raindrop splashes against your cheek and wakes you from a humid, irritated nap. You’re scowling by the time you open your eyes to several more wet droplets as they splatter against your neck, your forehead and you sit up, even more frustrated than when you fell asleep. The last sticky tendrils of dreams snap and pop as you pull yourself onto your feet, back hunched and arm held high against the steamy sprinkle. A crack of lightning, then a growl of thunder, and the sky splits open, drenching you in seconds. With a snarl of your own, you snatch up the empty can from the grass next to you and make for your camp down the hill. As you crest the top, you see a figure standing outside the tent, back tense and hand raised as if searching through the twilight gray downpour.

Normally, the thought of warming up beside Ezra in your yellow tent fills you with something inexplicable, the grime and load of the day melting from your shoulders, but your buzz from earlier has thickened, made worse by the heat, the emotions in your heart all gummed up and smashed together. The sight of him cranks up your irritation high in your ears. With a huff, you concentrate on a smooth slide down the hill without breaking your ankles and not the fire rising in your gut.

But the rain and the distance apart has only stoked his own outrage.

“Where the hell were you?” He snaps as you yank back the velcroed tent flap. He is dripping from head to toe in jungle rain as he follows closely behind you into your small space. You ring the water from your hair into a corner and scowl up at him.

“I fell asleep. The rain woke me up. I came back as soon as I could.”

His eyes narrow, water rolling off his bare shoulders as if he still stood out in the downpour. The droplets pat pat pat against the tarp floor as he snatches up a fiber towel and dries himself off, scowling all the while.

“I searched for you, calling your name up and down this fuckin’ jungle and I didn’t hear a peep. What if something had gone wrong? What if you’d been hurt?”

“Then I would have fucking dealt with it, Ezra.” You stomp to your feet, neck hot from his patronizing gaze. Hands on his hips, you feel like you’re being scolded. “I can take care of myself.”

One dark eyebrow arches mockingly, the scar on his cheek twisting in his scowl.

“And you expect me to lay about, twiddling my thumbs, while I wait for you to return or until you deem it appropriate for me to fret over your corpse?”

That patch of blonde hair is a shade darker, drenched and pressed flat against his forehead. His bare chest is littered with scars and divots where chunks of flesh had been torn away. His skin is a reflection of the hard life he lives. You doubt you’d look any different if you’d seen yourself in a mirror.

“We are partners, Ez,” you grind out between locked teeth. “Equals, alright? I am not your little sister for you to fuss over and you are not my keeper.”

At that, the indignant swell of his chest deflates and the anger in his eyes flickers before fading out.

“You are beyond capture,” he mutters, eyebrows down but gaze distant. “I’d never dream of keeping you, Neptune.”

Again, it’s his phrasing that hurts most of all. You glance away, the backs of your eyes growing hot and tight, drying out despite the sticky moisture warming the inside of the tent. But then his hand around your elbow startles away the tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

“You are the most important thing to me in the entirety of this world and the next,” he says softly, earth eyes searching your face. “I came on too strong, I know that, but the idea that you’d ever be gone from my side for any amount of permanence . . . well, it’s been a lifetime since I’ve felt fear like that.”

His frown goes belly-up, a hopeless smile on his face. “I wasn’t aware I even still could.” His calloused thumb brushes your skin, skin that nearly catches fire from the rough drag of scar tissue, before he lets his hand drop. Your own curls into a fist at your side, a tremor rattling the bones of your wrist in an effort to keep from reaching up and touching that moon-shaped scar you dream about at night.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ez. You taught me enough to survive in a world like this. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

That smile goes wan, sickly. “That’s the problem, dear heart, I trust you with my life.”

He swallows, as if suddenly bashful to make direct eye contact with you. He clears his throat before rummaging around in his canvas bag for dry clothes. He yanks a black, sleeveless shirt on over his head before setting up the materials for a flameless pocket fire.

“Since my dreams of showing you something called a barbeque have been quite literally rained out, we’ll finish off the rest of the dredge pack tonight. But come first light, I’ll fix you breakfast so succulent, the smell alone’ll make your mouth water. How does that sound, Neptune?”

He barely slows to breathe as he seamlessly switches topics from breakfast to another meal made at camp without looking up or stalling in his prep for dinner, hands almost disconnected from the humming of his mouth – one so methodical, the other like a channel rat on fire.

“– and the thing was no one was really sure enough what a squatter egg looked like when it goes bad. But being out in a cramped hold-out for two weeks where it was so dark, your own ass and someone else’s had no demarcation, well, there wasn’t a single peep of dissimilitude . . .”

Words strung together so quick and so melodic, it was always incredibly easy to fall into a sort of easy trance around Ezra. Sounds and syllables just sounded right coming out of his mouth and after a while, that trance became a state of repose, Ezra’s own sense of calm filtered to whoever was also in the room. But not to you, not right now.

After spending immeasurable time with less than half a space between you in cramped tents and in claustrophobic dig sites, you could read the tension on the lines of his body as well as the lines on the palm of your hand.

“Neptune? You with me?”

Ezra glances up at you, always aware of you and your movements like the twinge on a spider’s web, a signature smile that has always seemed to shine a bit brighter for you plastered over his face. The anger was the only thing holding you up and with it gone, you can feel your bruised heart twinge as it folds over itself.

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m gonna switch out of these wet clothes before we eat, okay?”

He hums, nodding, eyes fixating on the steadily boiling water in front of him as you turn away to the other side of the tent, by your pallet and traveler’s pack. As further evidence that he feels nothing but companionship for you, you feel his eyes remain nowhere near you as you strip off your shorts and bra for a sun-warm suit. Then again, you’d like to think it’s kind of scandalous to be changing in front of him, but you’d both seen each other naked more times than you could count – there is no modesty in foxholes. The space between your hips and your thighs feel sticky from sweat and the slick rain, the curve of your spine warm and flushed. The zipper is loud in the silence.

You’re braiding your damp hair away from your face when he sighs and the noise makes you look back at him.

“Answer me honestly, if you’ve ever cared for me a tick. Do you regret it?”

His eyes are sorrowful, worried, brow fixed down. Ezra is not, and never has been, a man prone to melancholy. His wrists rest loosely over his knees, gaze deep in the bubbling bone broth. The rain outside taps insistently at the tarp.

“Regret what?”

“Coming with me and taking on this life. It’s not an easy one,” he says quietly. “I should have offered you another choice, that day in the market. But one look at you and I . . . I was willing to trust you with my life, Neptune – far, far too soon. Even at my best, you make me irrational.”

You watch him, his broad shoulders moving, as he scoops up the hot, dark liquid into two bowls, and joins you by the entrance to the tent. You pin back the flap as he settles, the scent of humid rain immediately flooding your mouth, the pattering sound now twice as loud. Wordlessly, he hands you a spoon before digging into his own bowl.

The heat of the soup burns away all the silly, impossible things sitting on your tongue. You sit in silence, his presence never rushing you to answer before you are ready. As you eat, you stare out at the dark lagoon, where you had both been only hours ago, the clear water murky beneath the downpour.

“No, Ezra, I don’t regret it.” He stills, as if surprised you’re answering him now, mid-meal. He lowers the bowl to his lap, eyes trained on you. “You saved my life, more times than I can count.”

Your words loosen the rigid lock of his shoulders. He grins. “As you’ve said, you would have been just fine without me.”

Your vision goes blurry. You pin him with such a stare, you watch the blood rush from his face.

“But it would have been only half a life.”

“Don’t kid about that, Neptune, it’s not –,”

“I’m serious.” You put your bowl down and rub your eyes with your sleeves. Of all the ways he hasd seen you bare and naked, he’s never seen you this vulnerable. “I don’t wanna do any of this without you. I want you, Ezra.”

“You have me, dear heart, you have me.”

“Not like that and you know it.” You watch as understanding rolls across his face. His lips part, eyes wider. He swallows and you stare at the ceiling, cheeks suddenly wet and hot. He said he’d never leave you, but what if this is the thing that finally does it? Could he work with you, knowing just how deeply you love him, and not feel an ounce of disgust? “You told me once sex is just a way to pass the time, but never, not once, have you ever even tried to pass the time with me.”

He swallows, deeper this time, jaw locked, his eyes fluttering with the force of it. He brings his knees to his chest.

“Because it wouldn’t just be passing time with you.”

In that moment, you’re grateful for the rain, for the sound of something to fill the silence.

You stare at him, cross-legged in front of the open corner of this yellow tent, abandoned bowls growing colder, but he sits with his leg up, knee to his chest, as if to ward you off. Ward off whatever is growing in your gaze, under the flat bone over your heart in your chest. But whatever is stifling the air in your lungs, is warming his eyes past the point of comfort, barrelling towards expletives and the crass, the lewd and depraved. You cannot go back to having him look at you any other way.

That look loosens every line in his face when you crawl into his lap, your knees around his hips. The backs of your thighs go damp, even through the suit, pressing down onto his still-damp shorts, and you think his breathing has quickened.

His massive palm hovers near your cheek, unwilling or unable to pull you forward or push you back, his oak eyes searching your face for signs of discomfort as if he had somehow dragged you across the tarp floor.

“Neptune,” he mumbles as he focuses on the curve of your bottom lip, “this is unwise. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You can feel the hard curve of his shoulders as you follow the lines of his arms and settle them on his collarbone. Nothing has happened that can’t be undone – not yet. Your perfect, vicious Ezra hasn’t pressed you flat on your back like you thought he would at the hint of sex. You could return with your dignity tomorrow morning, this moment never spoken of again, and he’d let you have that. The shake of his elbow with his palm against the tarp is the only indication that something might be unsettling to him.

But it is your birthday after all. Maybe he’d let you have this one thing. He doesn’t know you’ll die without it.

“If you don’t want this . . . if you don’t want m-me, then say something. Push me away and I’ll never bring it up again.” You cup the sides of his neck as your hips shift forward, closer to him. The air in your lungs tightens, breath coming in shallow pants. Only then does he drop your gaze and fixate on your encroaching heat. “At least then I’ll know.”

There. Out loud. It’s been said, heard above the deluge of rain against the tent and the jungle outside.

His palm finally settles on your cheek. It brings a sense of wholeness to you like you’ve never known. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a breathy exhale pours out of your mouth. His thumb catches the plush curve of your bottom lip and he draws it towards your chin, his own mouth open, enraptured.

“Sweet thing, how have you not always known?”

His mouth is humid against yours, as if he swallowed the jungle while looking for you, his thumb releasing your lip to capture with his own. The tip of his pointer finger massages the hinge of your jaw, just below your ear, and he manipulates your head until your mouth parts like he wants.

His tongue skims your upper lip, a tentative exploration into the unknown rewarded with a low groan that is warmed by the heat coiling low in your hips. You taste his tongue, a hot glide inside your mouth, and you feel his arms slip around your lower back, his inhale of breath sharp across your face as he brings you closer. He bites your lips roughly, the spark of pain and pleasure crackling across your face as if you’d brushed a live wire.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, prying you from the back of his neck, just for a moment, his eyes heat-soaked. You suck your teeth, mouth open and seeking, and the hand around your jaw drops to your collarbone, the breadth of his palm nearly suffocating your throat.

The briefest pressure – the slightest touch – at the pulse at the bottom of your neck and your hips rock forward into him as he flattens his other palm to your ass, clutching you to him and pinning you to the pallet.

His teeth scrape against the curve of your ear, pinching the cartilage between his incisors, while his hands frantically search up and down your waist. His weight smothers you, his stomach breathing into yours, the flat plane of his chest rubbing your nipples raw against your suit, an unfocused lurch to his hips every time you tug on his hair. With every breath, every time you try to savor his touch, the taste of his mouth is like a wave, dragging you forward, wrapping a dizzy chain around your throat and squeezing.

Ezra’s greatest weapon has always been his mouth, that silver string spinning faster the longer he captivates you, spell-bound. Now he uses to decimate you in entirely new ways.

The suck of his lips against the moist flesh below your ear distantly distracts from the afterburn of his unkempt beard against your jaw, your cheek. His lips alternate patterns of reward with a plush kiss and punishment with a stern nip when you try and stifle a moan. The edge of his shirt is damp from resting against his shorts when you slip your fingers underneath to palm the small of his back. He stills when you run your fingers around to the front of his trunks.

His hand curls around a clump of hair at the base of your skull, his eyes darker than volcanic ash. The steady heat of his groin against your thigh is a sensation you’ll chase for the rest of your life.

“You know what happens when you touch a man there, Neptune?” He’s breathing hard, you both are, and the way he snags your hair in his fist has your head twisted at an odd angle, but you’d be damned to a Kevva-forgotten corner of the cosmos before you drop his gaze. You nod and that moon-shaped scar on his cheek twitches. “I know I didn’t teach you that.”

“L-learned it – somewhere else – Ezra.” Your mouth isn’t working properly, your lips swollen from his kisses, the slight pain in your scalp making it difficult to focus, while your cunt tightens hungrily. “Had to.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you wouldn’t give it to me.”

He leans back, his forearm tense and corded where he has you by the hair, a seemingly disinterested scowl on his face. But by the throbbing length pressed up against you, so far from where you need him the most, he is anything but.

“So you’re saying this is my fault?” Without breaking eye contact, his chest raised inches above yours, his fingers snag on the blue zipper by your collar and your breathing nearly stops. He hums to himself, eyes following the path of the zipper as the material separates, click by click by click. When it reaches your belly button, he stops.

“Ezra –,” it’s a whine and you can’t even chastise yourself for it. And neither, it seems, can he.

Head tilted as if curious about the label of a box beneath colorful wrapping, he dips his wide hand beneath the edge of your suit. The heat that radiates from his palm against the curve of your stomach has you writhing underneath him, your knees drawing up to his hips, trying to catch any relief.

But he takes his self-satisfied time. Callouses of a hard-won life snag and drag over the soft paper-thin skin that covers your ribs as he maps you in one hand. When he cups your right breast in his palm, the noise you make is a sob of gratitude.

“You let another man besides me do this to you?”

The snarling pit of your own thoughts slows as some awareness realizes he’s speaking to you.

You swallow, clutching his bicep, begging for forgiveness before even opening your mouth to answer.

“It didn’t mean anything, Ez, it wasn’t you – it meant nothing to me–,”

“But you let someone else touch what’s mine, hm?” That lazy, slightly irritated look on his face, he rotates his hand, squeezing the cup of your tit again, before sharply pinching your nipple.

“Ezra–,” you choke out and his thigh shifts between your legs, just close enough to feel the heat but nowhere near close enough to grind against. His thumb rotates the raised flesh slow enough to capture and catalog every sigh it draws from you, his eyes catching between his hand and your relaxed face.

He wears the same expression he does when sitting in the backs of blackmarket tea shops and smoky alebins. When the prospect of striking gold becomes all he can think about.

“Strip.” He suddenly commands. He lifts off you just enough for you to wrench your arm through the armhole, all the while keeping a rough palm on one breast, and then the other. You watch him massage your flesh and your ribs tremble with an unsteady breath. Only when a slightly cool breeze meanders over your bare shoulders and chest do you realize that the tent flap is still open, your head inches from the edge. A perfect and unimpeded view to anyone who wants to watch him hungrily grope your tits. Embarrassment peaks sharply, despite his hand pressing you into the tarp, you wrench your neck back and look over your shoulder through the window of the open tent as if you need to confirm that you are giving the jungle a floor show.

“Ez– shit, the flap–,”

He finds that the skin beneath your breast had grown sticky and slick from sweat, the humidity still oppressive even with a breeze. He bends his head and licks that same sweaty path and your attention snaps back to him, nails curling against his scalp, his warm breath a high-intensity balm to your roughly-played-with nipples.

“Not a soul in sight, Neptune,” he murmurs lazily into your ribcage, his nose running up and down the valley between your tits. “And if there were, let them learn a thing or two.”

His teeth nip the swell of your stomach as he crawls down your half-naked body. Without his heat and hands, the tenderness from his attention on your breasts ratchets up to an ache, a minor preoccupation before he hooks his fingers around the rest of the jumpsuit and tugs.

You are naked beneath him, swollen chest rising and falling, your knuckles scraping against the pallet as you search for something to grip with all your might. You smell of lagoon water and hot jungle air, of muggy photosynthesis and algae. The smoky scent of the black ash of that distant planet never really left Ezra and the dampness of the rain seems to stir it up. He towers over you, dark and breathing heavy. Smoke and brimstone.

He gropes your ankles, then your calves, hands gliding over the thick hair there – now grown soft in length – as he slowly spreads your legs, with a light you’d never seen before in his eyes.

“Neptune, I revolve around you.”

A wave of anxiety lurches up your throat when he brings his mouth to your cunt, the cloying, imagined scent of moon lilies threatening to tear you out of the moment – he won’t want you wild like this – but it’s forcefully yanked back down with a single stripe of his tongue. His previously casual, authoritative persona cracks when he buries his face into your unkempt curls and lets out a deep, overly pleased moan.

Your back bends and he’s gathering up your limbs in his arms to pin them down, nearly resting his forehead on your pubic bone. A few more licks, some deeper than others into where you drip for him, and your thighs start to shake. His fingers around your thighs squeeze roughly against your flesh and pull you further apart.

Between the flush of slick seeping from you at an embarrassing rate and the wiry hair kept natural out of a certainty no one would see it, he must be drowning or choking, his tongue flicking and sliding, nose prodding your clit just enough to spread the sparks of arousal up through your spine. Feeling as though you’re losing your grip on reality, you sink your hands into his hair, thumb rubbing back that blonde patch, and tug. The moan he shoots into your cunt as he rocks forward into your touch has you whining helplessly. The tarp squeaks where he rubs his hips into it.

His arms curled around your thighs, your hips shake with restraint against every lap of his tongue until he flicks your clit and your hips grind up against his obliging mouth, a sunspot of pleasure flaring brightly. But all too soon, Ezra lifts up onto his elbows, his hands smoothing across your stomach and he pops his mouth up from your wet folds. With an irate gasp, the swell of bliss fading, your gaze snaps down to plead with him, but he shakes his head.

Wordlessly, he takes one hand from your thigh and wipes his mouth clean with a swipe of his fingers. Then, with his eyes wide, the skin around his mouth loose, he crooks two fingers at the top of your mound before sliding them down where his mouth was seconds ago and presses them inside of you. That simmering in your low belly roars back to life and you toss your head against the unforgiving pallet, eyes slamming shut. He growls at the obscene sucking noise your cunt makes as he plucks at you, in and out.

“Oleaginous,” he hums, so quietly, it might have been for him. He tongues your clit lightly, pushing his fingers as deep as they can go, watching you thrash. “Mine. Understand?” You remember that tone of voice from when he had you dissecting throwers on a workbench in front of him. You nod, eyes fluttering open, balancing on the precarious edge of release.

You want to obey his every word.

His thumb twists up, opening your clit to him and within a whispered breath of “good girl” he sucks your bundle of nerves and launches you into orbit.

Your entire body goes stiff from the force of it, only to crash back down into his waiting hands, your voice wavering on a high-pitched, girlish wail that shrieks above the sound of rain. Waves of bliss lap at every nerve ending and your vision goes fuzzy for a minute, the only sound you can register is the pounding of your blood in your ears.

And then you register the steady, wet plunge of his fingers still dragging in and out of your pussy.

“Was that mine?”

Your clit tingles from overstimulation, but you’d rather die than have him stop – you want to answer, if only you could pick up the pieces of your voice. You can only nod, whining. He presses a wet kiss to your inner thigh, the skin there smeared with your release.

“You did a bad thing, letting someone else touch what’s mine.” He scolds, rubs that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head, holds his finger to it until it burns. You cry, his punishment evident. “Now you have to apologize, Neptune.”

You nod again, mouth wrenched open as he drags you back and forth across pleasure and pain.

“Y-y-yes, Ezra,” the words are bone dry, cracked between your teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Pure wickedness strikes those earth eyes and scorches them a singed black.

“Unfortunately, atonement is a fickle thing,” Ezra tuts, dragging his lips across your thigh in a mockery of a kiss, “and I’m not quite ready to offer absolution. Despite your offerings,” he wipes his mouth with a stroke of his palm, “this godhead remains rigid.”

You whimper. He grins with a mouthful of teeth.

Ezra pulls back onto his knees and shuts your thighs, his hand palming your ass as he indicates that you should turn. Your entire lower half still feels like jelly – no one has ever made you come that hard with just their mouth before – but you obey. You stagger onto your hands and knees in front of him.

His wide palm appears beneath your chin.

“Spit.”

You do.

That spit-wet hand cups your still wet cunt, middle finger rubbing briefly against your clit, before it disappears. You feel him move closer, hear his slick hand pump himself a few times with a grunt. Hot lips drag up your spine, interspersed with the nip of teeth, and when he lays across your back, his hands overtaking yours and threading your fingers together, his bare chest presses up against the skin of your back and you shudder.

He noses your temple, his throbbing cock coated between your folds. He bites at your jaw and follows your line of sight through the open tent flap.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it? All that moisture, dripping and running over smooth rock and fern. All that heat coagulating in spaces it shouldn’t fit. All that . . . open field, for anyone to just wander into. Take a look around and smell the air. Could they smell you like I can, Neptune? The way you leak for this cock?”

As he hums filth in your ear, his hand settles again at the base of your throat, thick fingers squeezing just enough to threaten, before sliding down to your swinging breasts, rough palms catching your swollen nipples, then arching down your stomach and between your legs.

He plays slowly with your clit; barely enough stimulation and he knows it.

“Ask for forgiveness.” He croons in your ear. The breeze returns for a moment, and between the heat of him mounting you like a feral animal and the hesitant touch of outside air against your sweaty chest, you shudder with a groan.

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I’m so–,” his middle finger increases its pressure slightly and the words shatter in your mouth, “sor-ry.”

“And for what?”

He continues to rub between your folds and the minute hitch in his breath is more intoxicating than anything he’s done so far. This is affecting him just as much as it does you. He kisses your jaw then tugs on the skin with his teeth.

“For letting a-anyone but you t-touch me.”

Ezra presses his damp forehead into your shoulder, panting, your correct answers soaking the neurons in his brain. Your reward is the faster stroke of his finger.

“And why was that a reprehensible thing to do?” His hips rut into yours, the scrape and rub of his cock between your slick lips and thighs almost enough to set you off.

“Because it’s yours – I’m yours – f-fuck, Ezra, I’m yours, I only wanna be yours,” you sob.

He’s suddenly gone from above you and the loud crack of his hand against your ass cheek deafens you for a minute, the sting skittering up your back and down your thigh.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your elbows shudder, the weight of his tone, his hand nearly forcing you onto your chest with your ass still in the air. You wanna be so good for him.

He’s breathing hard and his skin is warm and damp where you feel his thigh press against the back of yours. There’s a measure of restraint he’s showing and it makes your heart pound in anticipation. You swing your hips back at him, as if you could catch yourself on his cock.

“I wanna show you I’m yours,” you cry, nails curling into the pallet. “Please, Ezra, please!”

His broad hand settling on your spine draws a hiccup out of you, a sob.

“Breathe . . . Good girls get what they need.”

On an exhale, his blunt tip spreads you apart and he shuffles closer as he thickens inside you. His loud, unabashed moan overwhelms yours, when you think you might just be devoured by him. His hand, the one at your hip, squeezes you, silent reassurance. You can feel the knuckles on his other hand against your slick lips as he feeds himself into you.

“Neptune, talk to me. How,” your cunt tightens around his girth at the sound of his voice coaching you along and he grunts, as if suddenly dizzy, “h-how do you feel?”

“Amazing, Ez. Please keep going don’t stop I can take it–,”

He obliges; something’s reconnected the wires in his brain enough to tell him to move. He huffs before sinking deeper and your eyes roll back in your head. He bottoms out and waits again, letting you both catch your breath.

“Spent a hundred moons thinking about this.” The puff of breath against your shoulder is the only warning you have before he presses his mouth to your skin. His hand free of your clutch, his thumb softly rubs the muscle of your neck. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, wherever he finds bare flesh. “Would wake up in the night, with you a few feet from me, looking like divinity made sin, made real, but I wasn’t worthy to touch you. You got me all tongue-tied, Neptune, all mucked up in the head. A silly boy,” he purrs.

You glance over your shoulder, unsure which Ezra is going to meet your eyes, but wanting all of them. The man you feel most safe with in this world and the next greets you and you reach back and squeeze his hand. He chuckles softly, and with it, comes a gentle roll of his hips. You gasp, airily, your gaze slipping from his face to his chest, to the steady breathing in his stomach, and then to the growth of hair that fades as it reaches up his low belly. How many times did you sit across the room from him with your fists in tight balls, watching as he regaled exploits of riches and wonder, all the while thinking about how thick his cock is outlined in his suit – you’re so blinded by breathy dreams of what the musky scent of his cock must taste like that you miss that he’s pulled out farther, halfway now, and you are completely knocked senseless when he thrusts back in, a beat faster.

“Later, Neptune. I’ll let you suck my cock later, but right now I’ve gotta ride this pussy to oblivion.”

Your thighs quake at his promise, cunt squeezing him, and he huffs, picking up speed.

“I felt that. You really like sucking cock that much?”

All you can answer him with is a whine. Your knees are starting to ache from the barest cushion the tarp provides, the palms of your hands sore, but you can’t find it in you to remotely care. With every stroke, he fills you up to a breaking point before riding you back out. Moaning gratefully, you finally drop onto your elbows, your cheek scraping against the pallet with every forceful thrust behind you. He tilts your hips up higher, on one knee to fuck down into you; he’s searching with his cock for that spot that made your brain numb.

Like a flood, you feel bliss roll down your spine, his hands on your lower back pulling you up another peak, and you gasp, at the edge of a very, very long drop, the sounds in the tent as sticky and wet as the rain outside.

But Ezra’s sounds are loudest of them all. Grunting. Hissing. Moaning like he’s fucking the best pussy of his life. You open one eye, glancing over your shoulder and the sight drops open your mouth. Hips pumping forward, skin dewy with sweat, he breathes like a freshly broken-in stallion, relieved that something finally bested him. Chest full and tight with muscle, flushed pink with roaring blood. Stomach torqued with tension. His rhythm is caught between his hands pulling you onto him and his cock thrusting into you. A frantic beat that bounces wet and hot, mouth agape and eyes rolling shut, his head drops back between his shoulders. You push back slightly and he stutters, the hand on your hip tightening.

“Not gonna last, Neptune–” he grits, his jaw locked tight. The image of him actively staving off an orgasm for you to finish first has been imprinted on your brain for the rest of your life.

“J-just a little harder, Ez.”

He obeys, submitting as you had for him, sweat curling around his neck and down his chest.

As release barrels down on you, those mahogany eyes catch and hold yours in a second that lasts through infinity. They promise you things that you didn’t know you asked for, those eyes, made vows only your soul could hear. You see, in that instant before you are swallowed whole, that he’d die at your feet, if you asked him to. He’d give up every worldly treasure he won through grit and his teeth if you needed it or wanted it. If it made you happy.

His Neptune – in the crushing grip of your gravity. Willingly caught in the trail of your comet as you fill up his night sky.

“Yeah, that’s it, right there – Ez-ra!”

His face blown out in near ecclesial bliss is the last thing you see before your vision goes white. Your heart pounds in your ears so loudly, it's the only thing that exists for an instant. And then you shatter with a perfectly soft cry, bliss breaking across you like a heavy wave, and you succumb to exhaustion.

Behind you, he groans, fucking you faster through it, snarling something entirely incomprehensible.

You think you might say his name, you don’t know what your mouth is doing, but whatever you say, it breaks him and you are dragged through another low shock, the flood of cum deep into your achy cunt enough to contract your walls again, his harsh groan stuffing your ears just as full.

The rain is barely louder than your desperate attempts to breathe.

The tarp crackles as you slump forward onto your stomach, Ezra dropping to his side with half his body over yours. Panting raggedly, his hand curls up to the base of your neck, a reassurance of his presence and commitment when words have failed him.

You lay like that for a long time.

And then, when feeling starts to return to your limbs, you turn your head, your nose rubbing against his. When you breathe hotly across his face, he grins a satisfied grin that splits into a chuckle. You laugh with him too, curling up into his chest, his forearm is sticky across your spine, and he kisses your forehead.

Staring up at the tarp, together you listen to the rain.

In the long drawn out, buzzy silence, his nails scratch the base of your skull. And then, like he remembered something vital, he picks his head up and looks at you.

“Do you want this to change things for us?”

“Yes.” You cup the muscles of his thick neck. “Yes, Ezra. I want this to change everything between us. Please.”

He smiles, unguarded and open.

“Wild horses never stood a chance . . . especially against these tits.” He nips at the swell of your breast and you laugh. “I had no plans of letting you go in any case . . . but we are bound from this day forward. You know that, don’t you?”

You nod. A stroke of heat passes over his eyes and Ezra leans forward to kiss you, his hand on your cheek pulling you in close, as close as you can be, two sticky bodies, cum-dried and tingling.

“And if we’re going to spend every year of our lives together, I have a question for you.” he pushes away a stray strand of hair stuck to your face, nose tip to nose tip, “did you have a good birthday, Neptune? Are you satisfied?”

With a giggle that has his eyebrow arching playfully, you kiss his cheek.

“I already told you. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

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002yb · 9 months

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"How did you find me?"

Because it's been a lifetime for both of them. Because Jon was there one day and gone the next - taken someplace where Damian could never follow. Jon was missing and Damian couldn't find him, help him, save him.

Because Jon was a bright-eyed boy stolen away before he was beaten to be something less and forged into something more. He's different in all the ways that matter and all the ways that don't.

For all the relief Jon feels to be home, he's resentful that he was brought back to a place he doesn't fit anymore.

It's painful. It's distressing. And Jon wants to be that warm, kindhearted, foolhardy boy he was before - adaptable and adventurous, untouchable and invincible because youth is that way, but Jon thinks that boy burned and all that's been left behind is brittle obsidian - sharper than steel and easily broken.

"From your heartbeat."

Because seven years is too many, but even a lifetime couldn't be enough for Jon to forget it.

His pulse. His breaths. The way his feet strike the earth. His smooth-spoken articulate, the click of his tongue. The way he mourns and the stillness that follows it.

"You know my heartbeat?"

Intimately. Ardently. Jon listened for it across time and space and circumstance - only Jon could never tell if it was something he genuinely heard or if he clung so hard to his memories of it that he was able to delude himself into thinking it was there.

"Yeah." Jon breathes, eyes closing so that he can listen for it again - so it can be all he hears.

"What is it like?"

"Steady. Strong." Jon tells Damian around a fond, melancholic smile. Vulnerability might blindside Damian always and forever, but it's been a lifetime for both of them and Jon is - everything has changed and he hasn't found the good in it yet; he's home, but he doesn't fit anymore. "I missed it."

There's a beat and it's not so much that Damian's heart stutters so much as it settles. Because Damian knows. He feels it, too.

I missed you.

"I don’t know yours." Damian admits after a few beats more. "I only know what it is to be without it."

"What’s it like?" Jon asks.

City lights pollute the sky, but far below where they stand on a high-rise, the yellow-gold glow from windows and the flash of traffic stops and taillights feels as beautiful as any star. The noise is easy to let fall away. All Jon hears is the wind and the slow breaths Damian takes that keeps his heart thumping strong in his chest.

"Lonely."

Terribly.

Dreadfully.

"And now?"

Damian turns and finally they make eye contact again. There's a pensiveness to Damian's expression as they take one another in. Making note of all the things that changed because Jon is different now. He feels different in all the ways that matter and all the ways that don't. Jon is home, but he doesn't fit.

The way Damian has to look up, up to meet Jon's gaze is wrong. For all Jon wanted to grow and torment Damian for being the smaller of them, Jon finds no joy in it now.

It feels like something was stolen from him and he mourns it. Anger burns hot through his veins, like ice in his lungs. It's as twisted as Jon feels - tormented until it's something unrecognizable; rage and wrath and anguish. Grief.

Jon wants to go back to that time he was young and brash and untouched by the unfairness in the world. A lifetime has passed and he doesn't know how he fits. He is not steel; he is volcanic glass and every breath he takes feels like it pierces his lungs and Jon is meant to be strong, but all at once the world is unbearably heavy and-

Damian drops his head to Jon's chest and - oh. Everything settles.

"A beat too quick, but strong. Resilient." Damian tells him and Jon blinks hard against the burn in his eyes. There's a lump in his throat that he can't swallow past and if Damian feels the hitch in Jon's chest - he says nothing of it. All Damian does is rest his head over Jon's heart, counting the beats until Jon lets go of his tentativeness and uncertainty and brings his arms around his friend and holds him close, closer until Jon can take Damian's steadily beating heart into his own chest - so that no more lifetimes will pass where he can't feel it. Damian's own arms reach around Jon, his too broad shoulders and the too large span of his back. Damian heaves a sigh and clicks his tongue and Jon doesn't need to see it to know that Damian's scowl has stayed the same. "Never let me be without it, now that I know."

A watery smile pulls at his lips as Jon breaks forward over himself - trying to be small where he is not. He nods, unwittingly lifting Damian off the ground despite Damian's grunts of protest if only to be closer to him after a lifetime apart and marvel the ways Damian has changed - the ways he hasn't.

Jon doesn’t feel himself after everything. Safety and security is something stolen from him - he doesn’t know how to go back to the life he lost. It’s overwhelming, so he closes his eyes and feels Damian's heart beat against his and lets it be his anchor.

@pechaghtlecha

#super sons #damijon #jondami #pechaghtlecha #was thinking about all the damijondami feels you inspire with your masterpieces of art and ahhhhhhhhh i wanted to write something for you #hopefully this is okay ;U;#thank you so much for sharing such loveliness with everyone~#･:*:･(*////∀////*)･:*:･#words

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dilftaroooo · 10 months

Text

݁ ִ ࣪⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ "𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡 "

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ after some convincing i finally decided to write this nasty lil imagine or whatever this shit is, enjoy, mwah~ (p.s. for the native spanish speaking girlies, pls lmk if i fucked up on anything)

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ wrd count: 2.2k+

ﾟ𐦍༘⋆ tags/tw: mdni 18+ race/ethnicity neutral + age gap (reader can be from 18 to early 20s! so college aged) + dilf!miguel (mid to late 30s) + don’t trust him he’s using u!!! + afab reader + sweet nothings + spanish petnames + cursing + unprotected sex + miguel is a perv + exhibitionism(?) + expensive cars + money + and big booty bitches (you).

Just thinking of you stumbling upon dilf!miguel as you go by door to door offering to wash peoples’ cars for a few bucks. You weren’t expecting a behemoth to be behind the tall, mahogany, double doors to answer your languid knocks – a handsome one at that. One that stood six-nine feet tall paired with honey drizzled orbs surrounded by hooded lids. Soft tufts of hair shimmered burgundy with silver specks which were gifted to him from prolonged time. His tan skin brightened under the powerful sun but it still wasn’t enough to obscure the fine forehead wrinkles and smile lines that adorned his features.

“Can I help you?” The deep baritone of his voice rumbled so deeply you wouldn’t be surprised if you were to look down and see the bucket of soapy water you brought ripple at its force. It should be you that’s supposed to be helping him. You’re the one going from neighborhood to neighborhood asking uninterested people to wash their cars for some cash that wouldn’t even last you a few days. But a side hustle is a side hustle, you thought. Nothing wrong with a stash for a rainy day.

You take note of how seductively the black wife beater he wore embraced his torso and how his pecs puffed out at you like some majestic penguin in the cool lands of Antarctica, staring down at you, a piece of flopping fish dreading to be eaten as he cocks his head to the side waiting for a response. His shoulders are broad and his muscles are taut and veiny – you ponder on what his reaction would be if you were to trace his veins from his neck down to his finger tips and tell him how badly you want them inside you. Gulping down the saliva that was building up on top of your tongue, you spoke your first words like a toddler.

“Would you, um-” Why couldn’t you finish your sentence on the first try? Did you forget how to speak English? Perhaps that’s only the case around him and a few other gorgeous people you’ve met in the span of your years living on earth. “Do you need to have your car washed – sir? I can wash it for fifteen.” You sounded so weak and frail to Miguel, just like how most college-aged girls sounded when they managed to have some sort of interaction with him – their hands clasped firmly around their elbow as they sway from side-to-side, asking him frivolous questions before poking their chest to get him to catch a glimpse of their cleavage that peeked out from their low cut tops. They all played the same game – a game he always loved to play.

He takes this moment to observe what you had on; a peach colored camisole that matched the flower placed delicately in your hair along with the daisy dukes that revealed your plump thighs. Not too skimpy. At least you were somewhat modest. A cute, weak, little thing you are.

He grins and you can see his crows feet crinkle at the gesture, his canines looking sharper than most. “Of course. Been a while since I’ve gotten her cleaned up.” He reassures you to wait for him as he gets his car from the garage and when you lay eyes on the ‘Ferrari SF90 Spider’ he displayed to you, your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. It was a car model that you couldn’t even afford to dream of, glowing a dark navy blue with a rear wing that was coated in a vibrant red. Its engine roaring loudly and aggressively, telling you who the alpha is in the midst of asphalt concrete and dotted yellow lines. Miguel twitched at the gasp you couldn’t contain.

“A-are you sure you want me to wash this?” You ask while ogling at the car parked in front of you. This wasn’t a car some teenager bought with the aid of their low minimum wage job at a department store, this was a sports car – a Ferrari! This was something that should be washed professionally. “I’m no expert car washer or whatever those guys are called. As much as I would love to help you I don’t think I’m fit for something so…luxurious.” He lets out an airy chuckle that kisses your eardrums.

“No worries, cariño.” He would say and it makes your heart tremble and thighs clench. You’re not proficient in Spanish. Only remembering the fundamentals you learned when you were still in grade school and several language apps you’ve downloaded on a whim but you heard that word before in several love songs you’ve come across. ‘Darling’ is what it means. An affectionate pet name.

Miguel drinks up your reaction like drinking water in the Sahari desert. It was the last drop left in a flask that was so kindly offered by you, smiling at him with dry lips as he sticks his tongue out, aching for the pure droplet. You were so considerate – not wanting to risk destroying his five hundred-thousand plus car that he deliberately squandered his money on. But it was ok with Miguel. He always has money to spare.

He finally convinced you to do the job and get his vehicle all cleaned up and tidy. You instantly got to work but not before murmuring a sugary ‘thank you’’ and taking your sponge to the roof of his car. You and Miguel would conjure up some small talk such as your hobbies or careers. You’ve learned that he was a father of a little girl named Gabriella. His ‘sweet sunshine’ is what he would call her. You found that attractive – a father who is willing to take care of their offspring with genuine affection. His wife must be lucky…well, if he had one she would be, you think.

Miguel didn’t go deep into explanation at his lack of a spouse. A typical “It just wasn’t meant to be.” fell from his lips as he looked off to the direction of his house. Sensitive topic, maybe. Which is why he decided to shine the light on you. “You’re in college, right? Anyone there sweep you off your feet?”

All of a sudden, you feel coy. Embarrassed and bashful at your answer being a firm “no, there has not, Mr. O’Hara.” There’s a slight quiver in your voice but Miguel can tell that you’re trying to remain neutral and not break into tiny pieces under his watchful gaze. And just like every man thinks when they see an attractive young woman who claims they don’t have a partner, he asks why – why hasn’t anyone stepped up to you and asked for your number in hopes for a date? Why hasn’t anyone paid for your meals at semi-expensive restaurants? Why hasn’t anyone told you they loved you more than anyone they could ever imagine before clasping their hands under your chin, gazing at soft, plump lips before pressing them onto theirs? Why hasn’t anyone dared to run mischievous fingers up the hem of your dress before tasting the sensual keen you let out due to the fingertip teasing your throbbing clit?

Then Miguel remembers there’s a difference between boys and men.

You would notice how sinful Miguel’s gaze is on you. Like a stray cat preparing to pounce on a small alley mouse, the feline waiting as patience is his best friend. The mouse is aware of the cat’s presence and stiffens like a rock. “I just haven’t found the right, uh, time. Though, I would like to…” You try your best to conceal your face, you felt as though he was staring too hard. Miguel adjusts his stance to be directly next to you and you smell his scent – like masculinity, vetiver, and sweat. Your knees buckle.

Then the cat sluggishly leaned in on its prey, familiarizing itself of the little mouse’s smell. “No time for it, huh, amor? Guess pretty girls are too busy for romance, what a shame,” His tsks were faux but they still made you feel bad however you didn’t have the time to empathize with his breath streaming down the curve of your neck and his hand caressing your waist. His hips were practically against your lower back as a result of his staggering height and you can feel his bulge poke you excitedly. “Who will I have to love me at night? It gets so cold sometimes.”

Finally that cat strikes, working its fangs in the fragile neck of the weak mouse. With hands firmly planted on the hood of his sports car, your shorts were practically ripped away from you as Miguel takes its place with his big hand, digits rubbing over the cotton fabric of your panties at the direct spot your swollen clit lays, aching and pulsing for his attention. Your back was securely glued to his chest as he loses his patience and rudely shoves your panties to the side, pushing back your clitorial hood with a skilled finger to hear you squeak like said mouse under the grip of the fervent cat.

“Mr. O’Hara. We can’t. Not out here.” The words exhale from your lips so elegantly as you try to prevent Miguel’s free hand from lifting up your loose camisole top above your breasts, to no avail. They glistened under UV rays and sweat, your areolas were puffy and craved Miguel’s assertive touch. You both were out in the open driveway of his home with dozens of other beautiful houses encasing the area yet there was no one in sight but people still had windows they could look out from. Everyone looks out their window from time to time, right? Maybe not unless they hear the muffled moans and wet squelches coming from outside to which they wouldn’t be able to contain their curiosity and feel compelled to take a quick peek between their blinds only to be met with their hot neighbor ramming the living daylights out of some young woman they’ve never seen before.

Both rocking in harmony as you relish in the filthy pleasure you are both given. The suds from the soapy water covers the expanse of your tummy and forearms as you feel Miguel abuse your guts with the hard tip of his reddened cock. Filling you like a hand in a latex glove, you feel so full, so stuffed, so cramped with all of his veins and precum as he grips a hand around your neck like your favorite, pink, choker – reminding you of oh how dumb you sound taking his dick like the ‘buena puta’ you were made to be. His trimmed, pubic hairs tickled your ass each time he plunged his way back in you after teasing you lightly whenever he pulled out to the head.

“Ay Dios, amor. You’re clenching around me so tightly. You aren’t gonna let me go? Want me to cum in your filthy, young, pussy out here in the middle of my driveway? Have you any decency? Mierda.” He would groan in the shell of your ear. His canines brush against the skin softly and you bite your lip for the fourth time that afternoon as he continued to have his way with you.

“I do,” You pathetically start. “I do have some, ugh, decency, sir. I do.”

“But you’re not showing that to me, love. That isn’t what I see here now, is it? Is this the same girl talking to me while she lets me stuff her full with my cock, hm?” The tap-tap-tapping of his thighs colliding with yours crescendos into a louder pitch, one much more noticeable than a few minutes ago and you wish you could cover yourself with an invisible cloak. He kisses his wet kisses and speaks his sweet nothings as he hovers over your small, mouse-like, appearance with his hulking form. It would have scared you if not for the pecks he left on your body and the conjuring of soft coos he knows you would like to hear.

It was too hot, metaphorically and literally. The sun was blazing and the combination of both of your body heat was not ideal for this kind of weather but Miguel just looks so good fondling your tits and pumping his warm seed into the wet cavern of your insides while he slurs out cursed spanish phrases from his tongue that you couldn’t even bother to pick up, too busy savoring the spurts of cum leaking in your used cunt.

Fortunately, in the middle of your fucked-out daze, Miguel was nice enough to pull the panties and shorts back in their reserved spots (you felt his cum pile up in your underwear as soon as he lifted them up and you shivered at the feeling). You feel something wiggle its way between your hip and the hem of your shorts just for you to look down and catch sight of the wads of cash he stuffed there like you were some cheap whore (perhaps you were).

You glance back up, getting ready to tell him it was only fifteen dollars but he beats you to it by giving you a quick peck on your cheek. It was softer compared to when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Take it. For being so good to me, corazón.” His crow’s feet appear again and you silently wish to give each line a kiss but it was already too late once he turned around and stepped foot into his house, locking his door shut with a loud ‘click’.

©This work belongs to @dilftaroooo. If you see any work similar to mine, please notify me for plagiarism will not be tolerated.

#miguel x reader #miguel smut #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #astv miguel #tw: age gap

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