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sarahghetti · 2 months

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moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

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satoruwiki · 2 months

Note

Hey! I really loved your somno piece with Sukuna and story about Gojo’s lactation kink. If you take requests, can you do Sukuna having lactation kink 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 please please please, I’m going feral thinking of this 😩

♡ - ̗̀ LET ME HELP YOU...⇢ ৎ୭

minors, ageless and blank blogs dni.

content: nsfw; smut; porn w/o plot; afab!f!reader; noncurse!sukuna; implied relationship; lactation kink; breeding kink (if you use a magnifying glass); fingering; unprotected sex (on purpose lol);

w.c: 1.2k

n/a: sorry for making you wait for so long, i couldn't think of a good scenario to begin this with and tysm for the support! hope this makes worth the wait :(

"Ah! It hurts…" you hissed as you held your breast, wincing in pain at the fullness of it. You desperately needed to pump the milk out, but your child was asleep, so you had to find another way to empty it.

"What happened?" Sukuna's deep voice echoes behind you; you turn slightly and notice his eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

You sigh as you take a small artifact from among the cupboards. "Oh, nothing. I just produced more than what he eats," you mumble, adjusting the breast pump to your chest to relieve the pressure in your milk-filled boob.

Sukuna hums in acknowledgment, understanding the reason for your discomfort now, and wraps his beefy arms around your waist, depositing soft kisses under your jaw. "Next time, let me know when it happens," he said, sounding like an order.

"What for?" you sounded confused. In your mind, there was no reason to do so.

"Just do it," he reiterated.

—

You woke up with a familiar sharp pain in your chest, your t-shirt wet around the nipple area. You cursed under your breath; you had fed your baby not too long ago, and it was likely that he was not hungry now.

"Honey..." you nudged your boyfriend, prodding him to wake up. "... 'kuna, wake up."

You heard a soft -and slightly annoyed- groan from him. "What's wrong?" Sukuna grumbles groggily, with his eyes still shut, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"It happened again; it hurts," you whisper back.

"Okay, lie back in bed," he instructs you, which leaves you dumbfounded. Is he being serious?

"Then why did you tell me to tell you when my breasts were full again? Aren't you going to do something about it?" you hissed; the discomfort in your chest and his somewhat apathetic (or at least that's how you interpreted it) response had your irritation simmering within you.

Sukuna sighs heavily, sitting on the bed and gently pushing you back onto the mattress. "I am," he reaffirmed, hovering above you and lifting your shirt over your bust, small blobs of the white liquid running down your mounds. "You don't have to be angry," he kept his voice passive, but his eyes expressed the opposite, carrying a glint of lust in them.

"What're you-" A gasp cut short your words as his mouth latched onto your swollen breast to suck on the hardened peak, gulping the fluid oozing out of it.

"Sukuna, wait, no- Ah!" you mumbled, breathy moans spilling out of your parted lips as you ran your fingers through his pink locks of hair, pulling on them at each hard suck of his, earning a low groan from him.

Sukuna's tongue lapped over the pebbled flesh and swirled around your areola, revelling in your honey-sweet taste. His skilled tongue confused you; it drifted your mind into a foggy state and sent a heat pooling in your lower back, making it hard for you to think and know what you truly wanted.

Your back arched off the bed, and you shuddered at his teeth grazing over your delicate nipple, drawing a loud whimper out of you. "Easy there, I'm oversensitive now," you sputtered, your words coming out as a weak plea.

His eyes rested on your gaze, a sly smirk gracing his lips moist in his saliva. "I'm surprised you haven't stopped me yet," he remarked, "Feelin' good, eh?"

His teasing words went up to your cheeks, flushing them red. You weren’t sure if you wanted to stop him or not; the pain of your swollen tits was alleviated and replaced by the pleasure of his lewd ministrations on you. "Stop looking at me like that," you whined, blushing up to your ears.

"Don't tell me what to do, silly. I'm doing you a favour right here," Sukuna sighed with a chuckle, his lips latching onto the neglected nipple, a soft grunt escaping as he gave your sensitive skin a broad stroke. With a scowl on his face, Sukuna delighted with your breast milk, an elixir to his taste buds and a stimulating to his cock, which throbbed and left a wet patch on his boxers. "You taste so damn sweet. Might be my new favourite drink after your squirt, of course."

You squirmed underneath him, overwhelmed by his mouth and vulgar words. His hand traced a path from your breast to your centre, snakily slipping under your wet panties. His calloused fingers circled your bud and teased your folds, coating them in your essence. "So fucking soaked f'me, dirty girl," he murmured, bruising the skin of your breast.

His name spilled out of your plump lips as he glided two of his thick fingers into your dripping cunt, pumping and scissoring inside your gummy walls, the knot in your stomach snapping and coming undone on his fingers.

"Already? I haven't put my dick in yet," Sukuna teased you, drawing an embarrassed whine from you.

He pulled his fingers out of you, his tongue lapping and licking them clean of your release as your pussy clenched around nothing, begging to be stuffed with something thicker.

Without being able to wait any longer, Sukuna unfastened the cloth that confined his erect cock, with a thick vein protruding from the side and smaller ones running down its length, his urethra leaking precum gliding down to the base.

He aligned himself with your pussy, teasing you by sliding his gland up and down across your folds and kissing your swollen clit with it. Before he could sink inside your wet walls, you halted him, putting your hand on his abdomen. "'kuna, condom," you reminded him.

He ignored your comment and snorted, leaning down to trail kisses from your jawline to your collarbones. "For what? We already have one," he mused biting at the skin on your throat, "I wouldn't mind giving you another one."

His cock sank down slowly into you, the initial burning stretch of your pussy being worked open pulling lewd noises out of you, your legs encircling his waist til he bottomed out.

"Holy shit, you feel so fucking amazing," he huffed, his girth moulding your clenching walls to his size as he fucked you, his cockhead kissing your spongy spot at each deep thrust, driving you to ecstasy.

You moaned his name like it was a mantra to you, your nails scratching his back muscles, holding onto him for dear life and feeling your second orgasm closer than ever. Enamoured with your cunt, Sukuna babbled sweet nothings to your ear, telling you how good you took him in and marking you as his property. "I fucking this pretty pussy, sucking me in so greedily. She knows who she belongs to, doesn't she?" He panted, licking off the bead of sweat rolling down your neck covered in his markings.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," you sobbed out, your brain numb from the heaven-sent pleasure his cock made you feel.

"So pretty, already cock drunk," he hissed, his abs clenching and glistening in sweat, close to his climax.

Your orgasm hit you like a trainwreck and was unexpected. Your legs quivered and went limb, your pussy fluttering around his shaft. Sukuna cursed under his breath, the spasms of your walls making his dick pulse and release his seed inside you, his hips stuttering to a stop as he reached his high.

Sukuna pressed his forehead against yours, careful to not crush you with his weight as he steadied his breath. "What do you say?" he puffed exhaustedly.

"Thank you," you mewled weakly, still dizzy from your high.

"Good girl."

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munsoninthedark86 · 4 months

Text

We'd Catch The Rainbow(Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader)

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, creampie finish, swearing, mentions of smoking weed, use of the word "daddy" pairings: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader word count: o.7k a/n: well, here is a little something after being gone for so long. I hope I'm not as rusty as I think I am. Also requests are open!

He pumps into you, his mouth hot and wet as he leaves open-mouthed kisses on your neck and bare chest. It feels like it’s been so long since you two have had this privacy and intimacy. All it took was a little weed and that look in your eyes. That’s when Eddie had guided you to the nearest bedroom. Your clothes came flying off along with his own.

“Shit,” he moans against your sweat slicked skin. “Missed my baby girl so much.”

You both look down to where he’s pumping into you, his cock filling up that tight cunt. He’s almost too excited by all of this. He slows down his pace, his ringed fingers coming up to press against your face as he cups your cheeks. You let out a muffled moan when his tongue slides into your mouth. It’s been way too long since he’s fucked you.

“Missed you too, my Eddie bear.”

He laughs softly at your cute nickname for him. You’re always so sweet and so kind to him. That’s what attracted him to you at first. Your kind and sweet nature made him crazy for you. You showed him softness he hadn’t felt in years. And now with you under him, your legs wrapped around him, he’s falling for you all over again. Who would have thought a few months away while you were gone on summer vacation would make him so needy for you?

Your hands reach up to brush some of his hair out of his face, and he leans in to kiss you. His kisses always leave you so breathless. Your heart feels like it’s about to burst out of your chest. He laughs again when he nips at your bottom lip and it makes you squeal. He loves hearing those cute little noises coming from you.

“You’re driving me so fucking crazy, baby.” He growls in your ear. “Shouldn’t have let my little cutie go away on vacation.”

His big hands push your knees towards your chest, burying himself even deeper into your tight cunt. You’re both left panting and gasping as the new position brings you both different sensations. You feel even more full of his cock, if that’s even possible. Your mind starts going blank as Eddie begins snapping his hips harder and faster. It’s like he can’t get enough of you even if he tries. He wants to be so deep inside of you. It’s the only way he feels like he can be completely close to you.

“Wish I didn’t have to go,” you breathe out as he slams himself into you. “But ‘m back now, honey…”

He drives himself into you over and over, relishing in the way your pussy squelches from being so wet. He looks down to see how there’s a creamy, frothy ring of your juices coating the base of his cock. It’s almost pornographic to him to watch himself fuck you. It’s better than any video he’s ever seen. It’s better than any picture he’s seen in a magazine.

“You’re fucking squeezing my cock so good,” he whimpers. His balls are drawing up as he feels his orgasm nearing.

Eddie doesn’t want this to end just yet. He wants you to cum as well. He knows if he works this out just right, you’ll both fall off the edge together. You watch through hooded eyes as he brings his thumb to his lips and licks it. Then he presses it to your swollen nub, rubbing it at the same pace as he fucks himself into you. Your eyes roll back in your head as you feel the fire in your belly being stoked even more than before.

“That’s my good girl,” Eddie praises you. “Cum on my cock, babygirl. Come on, cum for daddy.”

That’s all it takes for you to fall off the edge. Your gummy walls begin contracting around him as you cling to him. Your voice is shaky as you moan and whine his name. Eddie throws his head back as the pleasure washes over him as well. His orgasm hits him hard, making him grow weak in the arms and legs. He has to hold himself up as best as he can as his cock throbs inside of you, painting your insides white.

Slowly, he comes to a stop and he rests his head on your chest. You begin playing with his hair and rubbing his back soothingly. You never want this moment to end. It’s a beautiful silence despite your ragged breaths as you try to catch your breath. Eddie chuckles softly as he finally lifts his head and kisses you so deeply and so sweetly.

“Damn baby,” he says between pants. “You know I’m not going to let you go for a long time, yeah?”

#munsoninthedark.writes #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #Eddie Munson smut #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut

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leclerced · 4 months

Note

Heyyy hope you have a good day, i come bearing new thots

Credit where credit’s due, the idea is an old and deleted roger Taylor fic and not from me.

HOWEVER. Im now obsessed with this scenario with either lando or oscar (ill let you choose <3)

Roommate!AU !!!

Imagine you’re friends and roommates with lando or oscar and he has to study for his upcoming biology exam at uni. The topic? Female reproductive organs🤭

He just genuinely struggles with understanding the anatomy of a vagina and that picture in his damn book is absolutely not recognisable.

And since him and reader are friends and she doesn’t think thoughts all the way through she offers him to look at hers. I mean hes seen her shirtless a million times its nbd.

And staring at her beautiful pussy really does help him - to an extend. Hes so into his studies he doesn’t really process that he asked her „can i touch it??“ and she just goes along with it bc it’s already lowkey awkward and theres no turning back now.

She tries to not make it more awkward by suppressing her moans when his finger brush over her clit all while hes just identifying parts with his thoughts oblivious to what he does to her.

And she cant keep in the moan when he pushes his fingern in and suddenly he realises what hes doing. But he sneakily keeps going until she cums and hes trying his best to keep up the ignorant act bc shes js too hot like that😩

Got damn it i need a full length version of this fic again 😭

-🫀

i want to write a full length version omfg this is incredible!!! pictured oscar immediately. kinda set in like the early 2000s in my head bc i wanted to mention dvd rentals One Time and that's not a thing anymore but that's the world i grew up in LMAO

sorry i like got too into this at first and forgot i made plans to game with my friend and rushed the ending im sorry. added read more bc it's just over 1k <3 i think i like this a lot other than the ending idk . lmk what u think i hope it meets the expectations set by the original

reader thinks oscar's an innocent idiot but he just probably shouldn't be in medical school because while he can find the clit, he certainly doesn't know the name of it.

Her roommate has been staring at the same page for half an hour, they're seated on opposite ends of the couch, leaning against the arms and facing each other. She has a Stephen King novel leaned on her propped up knees and Oscar has an open textbook balanced on one thigh and a notebook open to a blank page on the other. After another frustrated sigh leaves him, she drops her book on the coffee table and leans over to see what he's looking at. She almost laughs when she sees the miniature sketch of a vagina, "You know, the DVD rental place down the street has rated X movies."

Oscar snorts, "I'm trying to work, leave me alone. I'm supposed to learn all the anatomical names of a vagina, but the only drawing I have is in this stupid book."

She leans in further to the diagram and hums, "That's a horrible diagram, no wonder you're getting nothing done. How old is that that textbook?" He shrugs and stretches back over the arm of the couch, "Probably like thirty, the professor wrote it himself and he's ancient."

Her eyes get pulled to his hips as he reaches behind his head and groans, his shirt lifting the slightest to reveal soft skin before he drops his arms back down. She licks her lips as she directs her gaze up to his face, "I could show you mine, if you want." The swift inhale Oscar makes is audible, he keeps his gaze locked on the books in his lap as he says, "Really?" Instead of verbally agreeing, she just scoots back to where she was leaning moments before on the arm of the couch and shimmies her shorts down before she can think twice. She giggles at the look on Oscar's face as she kicks the shorts off her ankles and he takes in the sight of her panties, lacy and red. "Are you sure?"

She shrugs and teases, "Well it's not like they have 3D models. I'm sure, I wouldn't have offered otherwise. Are you sure?" He nods slowly and she tugs her panties down her thighs and smirks at the blush that creeps up his cheeks as she drops them on his lap. She doesn't know where the sudden confidence has come from, but she feels no shame as she opens her legs to him. She drops one foot to the floor and the other lifts to rest on the back of the couch. Oscar holds her eye for a moment before she watches his gaze drift down her body and he starts to lean in before pausing, "Can I get closer?" She nods at his question and answers, "As close as you want." Oscar lurches forwards, knocking the forgotten textbook to the floor as he fumbles to grab his pen and notebook to take notes.

She can't read his chicken scratch handwriting, so whatever he's scrawling about her pussy is undecipherable to her as she watches him analyze her. She's trying not to think about how this could be weird, how it is weird to offer to let your roommate use you as an anatomy dummy. It's not really the first time. He's done other things, like when he needed to practice IVs so she let him give her a banana bag the next time she was hungover. She liked teasing him about it, calling him Doctor Piastri when she let him listen to her heart with his stethoscope. Or when she comes down with a cold and she calls him into her room to diagnose and treat her, and he brings her cold medicine and soup from the deli down the street.

She's pulled out of her thoughts when he clears his throat and she meets his eyes before she hums quizzically. The pink tint that had spattered his cheeks turns into a bright red as he asks, "Can I touch you?"

She almost thinks she didn't hear him correctly, but there's no way he could have said anything else, so she tries to joke, "So you're a hands on learner, then?"

Oscar quickly counters, "Yeah, do you mind?"

It's her turn to lose her breath as she stupidly nods and blushes as she takes in the realization that he's about to touch her pussy. In the name of science, she agrees, "No, go ahead." Then, his hand is on her pussy and his focus is entirely on the space between her legs as he spreads her lips apart and she has to close her eyes and force her mind to other places as he tilts his had interestedly. She wishes she could stop her body from reacting to his touch, but she can't. Not when he pulls back the hood of her clit, she hears him writing something, then there's a soft pressure on her clit and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to not react. She tells herself not to make any sounds so it won't be weird, he's just trying to study, he's not doing anything to her really.

She can feel the wetness build under his fingers as he slips them down to her entrance and back up. She hears Oscar mutter something but she can't make it out over the blood rushing through her head as he presses his fingers back against her clit. "Is this... The labia?" The laugh she lets out is half a moan, "That's the- clit. Labia are the lips." He dips his fingers down and pinches one lightly, "This?"

She's somehow endeared by the curiosity, and sighs, "Yeah. That. Minora. The outer one is majora."

Oscar lets out a little huff, "How do you know the names? You're not even taking anatomy." His fingers find her clit again, this time lightly pinching it, and her thighs tense as he mumbles, "Clit." She hears his pen scratching across his paper and then dips his finger down to her entrance and presses inside. She wonders what he's thinking as he slowly thrusts his finger in and out of her, his other hand still writing on the paper. It's not until he slips a second finger inside of her and curls them as he suddenly presses his thumb to her clit that she breaks her silence, a whimper falling from her lips as the unexpected pleasure hits her. She somehow doesn't realize then that this isn't his first time like she thought when she saw the surprised look on her face. Then she flutters her eyes open and immediately realizes it because he's already looking up at her, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. She gasps, "You- you didn't really need help, did you?"

He shrugs innocently, "I still don't know the names, could you remind me?" She can't tell if he's being serious or not as he quickens his thumb on her clit and she's saved from responding as he pushes up her body and presses his lips to hers hungrily.

#ask #oscar piastri smut #oscar piastri #op81 #op81 smut #🫀anon

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livinginshambles · 6 months

Text

Preview: I thought you'd be different | James Potter

Pairing: James Potter x Fem!Slytherin!Reader

Summary: A Cinderella Story, but Hogwarts. (Enemies? to lovers)

Notes: Sorry I've been mia; i wrote this today, it's all I have so the full fic will probably take a while, not proofread, mistakes blah blah, enjoy!

PS. I am currently no longer making a taglist because I can't keep up with it, I'm really sorry!

Masterlist. Taglist

------------------------------------

You could still remember the moment vividly, as if it was engraved in your memory.

That moment when the sorting hat placed you in Slytherin instead of Gryffindor like your two older sisters had been sorted. You could still see the look of surprise, concern, horror and then eventually disgust, every time you closed your eyes.

“Now we finally know your true colors,” is what you sister Alyssa had hissed coldly at you. You had pleadingly looked at your other sister, but Marla had supported her twin sister, disregarding the confused and scared look in your eleven-year-old eyes.

“Don’t talk to us, don’t look at us and don’t mention us at all,” she sneered down at you and for a moment you wondered how she hadn’t been the one to be sorted into Slytherin instead. But you had cast your eyes down and agreed.

But years passed and you had become the very stereotype of a Slytherin student, completely leaning into the cold, distant, quiet but calculating persona that your sisters had created for you. Might as well, you figured after your parent’s dismay at the revelation of your house.

You were making your way down the corridor, long strides as you passed your sisters while looking them straight in the eye. They grimaced at the sight of you, but without their entire group of classmates, they didn’t dare make any comments.

A feeling of victory erupted inside of you, and you couldn’t help the small smirk that crept up your face.

“What poor soul suffered for you to look so satisfied?” You turned your head to look at the person who called out to you. James Potter and Sirius Black were both leaning against a statue in the open yard.

“Did you get rid of Regulus or something?” Sirius taunted. “Finally had enough of him following you around, did you L/N?”

“Go die in a ditch, Sirius,” you retorted with an eyeroll, but seemed unphased.

“Why so much hostility,” James unpleasantly remarked, and you halted in your step.

To be petty or not to be petty, you sighed and rolled your eyes.

“10 points from Gryffindor for loitering,” you decided.

The two marauders started to protest.

“If you have nothing to do, other than insulting students, I would love to recommend you to Professor McGonagall for detention. Heard she was still looking for the person who made all the pumpkins explode last week during Halloween, and you guys are terrible at getting rid of the evidence.” It effectively shut them up, and with a last glance up and down, you continued your way towards the room of requirement.

When you entered the sober room with a sigh, you noticed the small scrolled up piece of parchment in the middle of the room. You frowned. This was your space. The room didn’t open this space for anyone else, you made it specifically as a safe haven.

You cautiously approached the parchment and rolled it open to reveal nothing. It was completely blank. You shrugged. If the room left this here, it was meant for you, and so you took a seat and started drawing on it.

James sat in an empty room, his invisibility cloak hiding him from plain sight as he pulled the now folded paper from his back pocket. He inspected it closely, almost pressing the paper to his glasses in a curious manner.

He had gone to the Room of Requirements earlier that day and found a piece of paper floating in the air. Of course, levitating stuff wasn't that strange, but it had intrigued him nonetheless.

James unfolded the paper, and his eyebrows flew up. Lines were appearing on the paper by itself, and a beautiful portrait of a weeping willow with a girl who was crying on a bench under the tree, appeared.

James fumbled to find his quill and ink. Then he started to write something on it, in a handwriting that he only ever used for written exams.

(Credits to Professor McGonagall who had announced that she would not be grading anything she couldn’t read. And she had looked over her glasses at him while she said it.)

It’s beautiful.

You dropped the parchment at the words that formed right under your drawing. You traced it with your fingers. Then you decided to write back.

Full fic

#james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter x fem!reader #james potter fic #james potter imagine #james potter angst #james potter fluff #marauders era #marauders #james potter fanfic #marauders fanfiction #james potter fanfiction #marauder x reader

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blueparadis · 1 year

Text

❝ HAUNTED ❞ + XAVIER THORPE !

+. CWs —» f!reader, switch!reader, outcast!reader, fluff, she/her pronouns, mutual pining, sexual tension, family drama, flirting, manipulation, mentions of abuse, blood, wounds & therapy, flashbacks in italics, supernatural themes ; explicit smut, s & d dynamics, bottom-dom!xavier, cowgirl position; word count-3.5k

+. PRECIS —» Xavier Thorpe has finally found the girl of his dreams after being haunted by her.

+. NOTES —» this is for my beloved sister @zoraedits ’s brainrot contribution.she won't stop making edits on him. && I'm tagging @orchid3a cuz i luv u

you can browse more of my works here. || also available in AO(III). reblogs and comments are very much appreciated.

feel free to send in thirsts and suggestions for this show, Wednesday. This is my first time writing for shows like this; my main fandom spectrum is animanga but I do hope this was a good read for ya’all as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3.

The table calendar was full of red inks all over, dirt sedimented on the sketchbook, and the pencils laid in the case in absolute solitude. Xavier looked at the calendar kept on his desk near his bed in all despondency and a heavy sigh escaped from his lips. It has been days since he stepped into his studio, have not touched his art accessories for almost a month. One thing was for sure, he was plagued by visions in his dreams but this time it was nothing demising.

This time his sketchbooks were not filled by a monster, this time he was not afraid to draw rather he was drawn to it; part of him was stoked while sketching while a part of him was reluctant to draw the whole picture. He had spent countless sleepless nights before, not resorting to sleeping as he was threatened by nightmares. And now his sleep was peaceful as if entering into the realm of dreamland.

Xavier was sure that his mind was captured by a girl who came to visit him in his sleep, never showing her face, only showing herself in bits and pieces. He had spent his childhood receiving showers of praise for his talent for drawing but the origin was never happy. Of course, he enjoyed it and liked to show off his talent for art but secretly he wished his power would vanish into oblivion, for it was never pleasant.

People say that the art of someone reflects one’s persona, one’s raw feelings but Xavier always begged to differ since those memories, those incidents were never his. There always had been a wave of remorse that washed over him after he stepped out of his art studio since the praises he received never belonged to him.

Many were astoundingly taken aback by his knack for drawing and suggested he pursue art, to be a renowned artist but he knew he would lose all the glory once he stopped having those dreams. Moreover, he did not always have such dreams so the possibility of waking up one day and being unable to paint and as a result, staring at a blank canvas scared him to death. Heck! He even considered going to Doctor Kinbott so that his sanity would not be hanging by thread.

For the last couple of weeks, he has been dreaming of odd landscapes. Xavier had never seen them in his life yet he saw how the dusky crimson hue smothered the snowy mountain ranges, how the clouds gathered before the arrival of a rainstorm, how the birds sang songs and all the owes and pangs of nature. One thing he could conclude from those dreams was that whoever it belonged to was a chaser of freedom, that is, was a soarer of the sky.

Xavier had not told anyone about his dreams, nor put them on paper to ease his mind. What would he tell? What would he draw? Last night was particularly odd concerning the regular pattern of his dreams. He dreamt of falling from a high cliff into the water and a broken wing. When he woke up, he was all soaked, even his bed, and his olfactory senses did not miss the subtle scent of stagnant water. He was breathing rashly as if he was the one who drowned as if he was the one to fall.

He closed his eyes and tried to recapitulate his dream, searching for a mark, searching for a recognizable feature, searching for something, anything, anything at all. His desperation knew no bounds when left his dorm and rushed into his studio in the middle of the night since somewhere at the corner of his hopeless heart he knew he found one, a ray of hope.

A lot of crumbled papers surrounded Xavier as he tried accumulating the pieces from his puzzled mind. Around two o’clock he left his studio on his bicycle, the paper where he drew tucked in his pocket. He was sure he had witnessed the scenery before unlike the others. When he finally reached the top of the highland, he witnessed the view from his most recent dream.

The only thing that engulfed his presence was the sound of the waterfall echoing through the woods. He noticed a pond nearby and an adjacent high plateau near it. It was higher from where he was standing. After looking around for a few minutes he figured that there was no way to go there unless one swam through the stream or flew toward it.

On his way back, he felt happy, he felt sane. At least he had proof of the existence of a creature that haunted him, even in his wake. Xavier showered before going to bed just to clear his head before a good night's sleep. He kept a white feather as a bookmark in his sketch pad while a smile smothered his face. He was right. He was haunted by a fairy-like creature.

“Two cappuccinos”, Xavier mumbled as he went back to the counter at Weathervane. It was another event where all the students of Nevermore set foot into the world of normies to carry on the ties between two polar opposite worlds. But no matter how much one tried, the other always tried to retaliate. Their relationship was always on a tightrope, it could snap at any moment. And it certainly did.

“And you did not bother to tell me about this. . .”, Principal Weems trailed off as she left her seat, walked past her desk, and inclined against it, “until everyone in town became aware of it.”

“I thought I was going to be called insane or bullied. Last time I told something about my dreams, I found myself behind the bars.”, he responded, keeping his eye on the ground. Principal Weems exhaled grudgingly. She had no grounds to punish this boy since he was not entirely wrong. Hence, Xavier was dismissed with mere detention.

Xavier was forbidden from the school campus for a week. Everyone felt sorry for him, in his situation but secretly he could not be happier because he had all the time to draw, sketch, paint and think — and it was all about her, y/n.

That day at the café, Xavier was the sole witness of a crime. It happened so quickly, so fast that all she could do was succumb to her fate. A man was standing near the corner of the kitchen with his back facing Xavier. Xavier was not supposed to be here but he had to fetch some ingredients for making pastries and cupcakes.

As the man turned around, Xavier saw a bloodied butcher's knife in his hand. Near his feet lay a girl with a bloodied back the blood quickly spread all over her blouse. She stood motionless, like a statue. The eye contact was merely for two seconds and he immediately smashed the sugar jar on his head, distracting him, to tackle her out of the way.

The other townies turned up for help. Not all people in the world came to be cruel and heartless. All Xavier did was contact Principal Weems so that she could swiftly take care of this matter, which she had to otherwise the reputation of the Nevermore Academy would be in danger. The girl was taken to a nearby hospital.

Y/n L/n was her name. After the untimely death of her parents, she was raised by her uncle, by a normal family. Naturally, when she began to bloom, she was forced to be normal. One would think she tried to run, tried to hide or fight but Alas! none was the case for this matter. She felt indebted to her uncle and his family, for taking care of her, aiding her upbringing, fulfilling the role of parents, and hence helping her to be normal. But Xavier's presence on that day turned her life upside down. She was now a student at Nevermore Academy, funded by Principal Weems’ study forum.

After you recovered within a week, the first thing that dawned on you was to meet him, Xavier, the ‘ hero ’ of your life. You knocked on the door of his studio and waited for a while. There was no answer for a few minutes and when you finally made up your mind to leave, Xavier showed up. He was in his casuals with a teeth-flashing grin on his face.

“How’re you, y/n? The last time I saw you, you were in a hospital bed and now you’re here. in front of me.”, Xavier danced on his toes as he walked into his studio. You followed him and the moment you stepped into his studio you were taken all in awe. The room was filled with artboards, canvases, and sketch supplies, and everything reflected you. Indeed, y/n did not come here to be thankful for what he did since she was not. She was not happy with how her life seemed so devoid of any family. Her uncle was the last of her family and now he is gone. All because of him, Xavier.

“You look better than the last time I saw you.”, Xavier added as he felt the silence between the two of you deafening. You swallowed hard as he tried to ease the tense ambiance thinking how rude of him to remind you of the very wound he was responsible for. There was a desk with a closed sketch pad that caught your attention.

“Your drawings are very beautiful.”, you pitched in opening it and your heart dropped at the sight of your feather that was kept safely in between those rusty pages. A short gasp escaped your lips as the whirlwind of your life hit you.

Xavier was standing behind you, close to your shivering body. “They are all about you.”, a low whisper before he extended his hand to remove the veil from the canvas. The cloth dropped at your feet revealing every bit of dreary in you that you always wanted to hide. You hated how he could see through your pangs and pathos, you hated how he could and would have eradicated all of it, even if it meant being burnt by it. You swiftly tackled out of his towering frame, feeling naked even though you were more dressed than him.

“Stay away from me. You shouldn’t come near me.”, Surprise took Xavier in all proportions. His eyebrows became congested as you continued. “I’m grateful that you saved me but do not do that again, ever.” With that, you walked out of his studio but a firm grip on your wrist kept you from running away anymore.

“Listen, I’m being haunted by you, your pain, your emotions, and everything you feel for the past few months, and all you could say to me was to stay away from you… not even a proper thank you.”, His breath hit your lips as he drew in a sharp breath before his amber eyes landed on you, your shaky lips and pale eyes.

Embarrassment rushed into your cheeks and you pushed him lightly uttering, “Stay away” with a little glare to ward him off but when you vanished out of his sight he was not dejected, not at all. Sure, he was conflicted but the way you told him to stay away whereas your body spoke otherwise made him relish the chase that has haunted him for months now.

They say one can only save people only if one wants to be saved. You neither needed help nor saving but you could see why Xavier begged to differ, wanted to be the odd one out, and craved the crown from saving you from your only family. You always had been a rebel since your childhood, going against the flow of the stream. Somewhere in the corner of your heart, you knew you were different, you would be different.

It was the end of June when you first felt your body ache, back arch, muscles cramping excruciatingly as if someone was poking needles in your skin. Your arms clung to your body as your back bled for the first time. The wailing of such lethal agony submerged amidst the sound of rain as two enormous wings grew with lustrous hues of carmine and amber. Your breathing became regular again, your body stopped hurting as the wings flapped open involuntarily. Every mark, scar, and wound on your body since you were a child began to heal, all by themselves.

Everyone rejoiced when you went through the family ritual and stood in front of your clan as the last phoenix of your bloodline. It was a miracle that a phoenix had been born in the bloodline but just like with blessings it came with a massive price. You were a healer and a destroyer at the same time. Somewhere something has to die to keep you alive, again and again. Every time you were wounded or hurt, your mother had to lose some of her life until she became lifeless, forever. But the family oracle told your father that it is a part of the process, part of a phoenix's journey that every one of their loved ones had to sacrifice in one way or another.

Your father just had a miraculous idea to save you and himself from the bottomless pit of despondency and mutual hatred lurking in his heart because of you. He volunteered to sacrifice himself even if that was against his will. The oracle seemed to be unsure about the idea, saying that the cycle might shorten but not cease. But your father was right, the cycle did cease and you became aware of it when your uncle tried to chop off your wings, uprooting the evil once and for all, and no one in your family was harmed. Still, unfortunately, you were under the radar of an outcast, Xavier Thorpe. ‘What would happen if someone not from your bloodline were to sacrifice? What would happen to your mate if they were not an outcast? What would. . . thoughts would not cease to bombard your mind until a knock disrupted your trail of thoughts.

You lifted your eyes for a glance only to find Xavier inclining against the bookshelf with a saccharine smile on his face. Your stomach turned at the sight of him. ‘How can a person be so forgiving?’ but it seems that he is rather forgetful than forgiving. He picked up a random book from the shelf and sat in front of you.

“You’re hurt. . .”, you murmured to which he responded, “more than you think . . .” while turning the pages of the book and occasionally stealing glances from you. You rolled your eyes and leaned towards the table eyeing his hands that had a lot of scratches. It was probably from a silly fight with other boys, maybe the normies; for him, it was just a scratch yet for you it was an opportunity to apologize for the other day.

“Give me your hand.” As you extended yours, Xavier's reflexively recoiled under the desk. “I’ve no intention of harming you.”, you uttered touching the palm of his other hand that was still on the desk. “Besides, I’m just clearing my debts.”

“Um-hm.”

You inhaled sharply before you flapped those lustrous enormous wings to heal with him, his wounds. Your wings glowed for almost a minute and the hand that was hurt was healed which he was hiding under the desk. It is impressive how Xavier hurt the very hand that can create masterpieces. What a clutz! He interlaces his fingers with yours as he murmured, “A touch . . . is all you need.”

You begrudgingly pulled your hand away standing up and yelling whisperingly, “stop it. stop this. . . and don’t come near me.” With that, you grabbed your book and went towards the exit of the library. Xavier sat like a child who would mourn for the broken toy rather than demand anew.

“Wait.”, Xavier followed you. He kept yelling in the middle of the corridor, “Y/n. wait.”

“Your wings.”, you finally turned your head but not without letting out a sigh of annoyance. “You’re hurt. . .bleeding” and that is when fear crawled underneath the skin.

“I never bleed.”, you retorted.

“And, I never lie.”

If it were someone else, you would have shooed them away. But this was Xavier, who saved you from an inevitable, to whom you owed nothing but the truth. Even though you tried to heal yourself you could not, perhaps because you healed someone and that too for the first time.

Xavier might be persistent but he was not dull. It didn't take him long to connect the dots and hence you had to do the very thing you wanted to avert from the first place. His room was not tidy but not neat and clean either. With Rowan gone he has the room all to himself. You wanted to go to the infirmary, but there wasn't anyone available. Besides, with all the mess you are in you didn't want to risk it.

“I promise I'll behave.”, he said, swinging his hands up in the air in a form of surrender. That made you smile a little as you turned around so that he could tend to the wound. He unzipped your dress and carefully tucked it along your waistline without harming the feathers. Even though you had your camisole on, you still felt naked. His fingers brushed against your skin. It was ice cold. You had to hold your breath as he dressed the wound.

Xavier noticed how your shoulder blades had been marked. He grazed his fingers over the part from where your wings grew that made you instantly shriek and move away from him.

“Are you done?”, you asked, surprise and embarrassment coursing through your skin. Your upper body was barely clad, nothing but an unhooked bra.

“No.”, and within a blink, his lips were already on yours. You could taste the longing and desperation with each suck. Your hands curled around his nape as his hands got rid of the minimal clothing from your upper body. “First time?”, he asked as he moved away leaving you breathless yet craving for more.

“Why? You care?”, you blurted out stepping out of your dress. Xavier eyed you from up and down. You did not flinch but rather smiled as you noticed his astonished face. You had nothing on but just the underwear.

“I do.”, one of his eyebrows jumped as he knelt near you. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”, he murmured grabbing your calf muscles and kissing your femininity over the cloth. He took a glance before tucking the hem of the panty in between his fingers and undid it. Your hand reflexively went over his head as he kissed your entrance, lapping over your pussy lips that made you suck in a sharp breath. He sucked on your skin, followed by a feeble bite into your inner thighs.

“AH!”, you winced pausing his ministrations. “Don’t you taste divine?”, he whispered kissing your lips, wetting them with the blend of his saliva and your slick. He was too dressed. You cocked an eyebrow at him and he took the hint. You co-operated as he became almost naked, and was back up even though you wanted him to continue.

“You won’t hurt me. worry for yourself.”, you said as you felt his hands palming your cheeks a little too long than they should. His hands traveled back to your entrance and you moaned under his slight touch.

“What? Never played with yourself?”, he added that surely turning the cogs in your head. You pushed him onto the bed, sitting on him struggling to take his cock in and he was not even helping. All he did was watch you let out whimpers of frustration as you lazily glided on his cock. He rested himself on his elbows saying, “Look at me.” And as you did, his fingers dig into your plush ass cheeks slowly adjusting you at a proper angle and stretching you. You kissed him so break the eye contact that made you feel naked, even though you were. Both of you jolted as you could feel his cock inside you.

His hands clamped around your waist as you bobbed on him, with greater force and broader strokes but slow. With each sloppy hit you felt his cock twitch inside you; your hands desperately roamed all over your body, heat bubbling as you could feel your body tensing, picking up the pace he was setting you in, and the orgasm lurking underneath. You can tell; a few more strokes and you would cum so easily.

He can feel it too. Xavier winced as he felt you clenching around his cock. His legs folded to support your back while your hands flew to his shoulder blades, his knuckles turning white, his grip growing stronger around your waist and you came right away, back arching and your wings flapping open involuntarily, eyes rolling white relishing the high as your thighs squeezed in.

With your breathing rash and heavy, you felt all mushy in the head and so was he. Xavier could have sworn that he has not seen anything more beautiful than this, than you sitting on him with his cock buried inside you; your skin glistening in sweat with your gorgeous wings at the display.

As soon as Xavier’s breath relaxed a bit he pulled you into his embrace for a kiss. He could not help it, you were too beautiful to look at. Besides, he was not done, not yet.

—

by @blueparadis

3K notes · View notes

stairain · 1 year

Text

Make Hate to You.

Spencer’s convinced you like him a little more than you’re letting on, but you’re set on showing him just how wrong he is.

Warnings: Sub Spencer, enemies to lovers, arguing, teasing, degradation, degrading names, blowjob, first orgasm, handjob, slapping, cocky Spencer, mean reader, reader talks a lot at the end but it’s because Spencer can literally not talk.

WC: 5.7K

“Hey, Pretty boy.”

You said as you walked into his office and leaned against his desk with your arms crossed. You had a smug smile on your face as you looked at him.

Spencer’s lip twitches slightly in annoyance, but he suppresses it with a small smile. He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, and looks up at you.

"Good morning. Is there something you need?"

You could sense the irritation in his voice, and had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

“Need you to double check over these files for me.. Think you can do that?” Your tone is almost mocking as you drop a stack of folders on his desk in front of him.

He gives you a blank look for a moment, then gives you a subtle half-smile before he picks up the folders and begins leafing through them.

“Certainly. Anything to help, you know." It's subtle, but he just gave you a little bit of a dig there– just the way you hated.

"Anything else I can help you with?"

You cross your arms once more now that your hands are empty, and suck on your teeth as you look over his body.

“Yeah, maybe get yourself a new wardrobe.. Looks like you went to a library lost and found and called it a day.”

He chuckles a little bit and gives you a dry look. He takes the time to look over what you're wearing, and gives you a knowing smile while he looks you up and down.

"You aren't exactly in the position to call out anyone else's wardrobe choices," he says, but the amusement in his voice indicates this is all good fun for him. "Now, do you need something else, or do you just enjoy my company?"

Your eyes squint at him with a look full of resentment, and you don’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes this time.

“Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else right now than around you..” As you finish speaking, you turn around to walk back to your office.

He shakes his head a little, chuckling to himself, but doesn't stop you from leaving. You can feel his gaze on your back for an intense moment, before you hear him speak again, his voice dripping with amusement.

"Oh, I bet you would," He says, his voice lowering. He gives your back a little wave before he goes back to reading the files, not looking up again.

When you hear him muttering under your breath, you stop in your tracks and slowly turn to look at him.

“Excuse me?”

The man looks up from the files, and gives you a smug half-grin from over the tops of his spectacles. He takes a little time to look you over, then takes a little more extra time before he responds, as if he's deciding what to say.

"Oh,"

He replies, drawing out the beginning of the sentence for dramatic effect. He pauses for a beat, and then gives you a knowing look.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." He seems to find that answer quite humorous, because he chuckles a little bit, giving you a wink.

You slowly walk back over to him with an unamused look on your face. It was annoying how much he was enjoying this.

“Humor me, Reid.”

He gives you a mock-innocent look, but he smiles at your stern expression, and speaks in the same even, soft tone he always uses.

"Why, what happened to me getting on your nerves just a few moments ago?" The playful tease behind his words is more obvious this time, and his smile spreads a little. "Are you perhaps enjoying my company as well - even if you wouldn't admit it?"

You scoff and roll your eyes.

“Why would I enjoy your company? You’re nothing but a pain in my ass.”

He raises an eyebrow. He doesn't respond right away, though; he just studies you, thinking. He's good at reading people, and you know that, and you feel a little bit of that insecurity start to slip underneath the surface of your mask of confidence. You feel a little bit nervous now, because you think his eyes on you feel a little bit more serious than before, and you don't know where it's coming from or why.

"Really?"

“Yes, really. Do you need me to spell it out for you?” You cross your arms over your chest as you look down at him, your anger boiling over now. “I do not like you.”

His eyebrows arch a little at that, and you see the amusement in his eyes fade away. He seems to be looking at you in a new light, as his attention goes from soft-spoken and mild-mannered to slightly sharp with an intensity you don't often see. He looks at you for a beat before he speaks again, but this time his voice is different, a little lower.

"Tell me why."

You froze as you tried to wrack your brain for something.. Why did you hate him so much? You’ve never had to think about it before, and the way you’re silent in response says far too much. Your mind has gone completely blank.

Spencer leans forward, hands on his desk, his gaze still intensely focused on you. If he noticed your discomfort, he didn't show it. He just kept looking at you with that serious intensity, waiting for you to say something. It goes on for just a few seconds too long, then, because you've never felt anything like that from him before.

"Let me rephrase that," he says softly. "Tell me what I have done to make you hate me." His voice is soft, but there's an edge of steel underneath it.

You take a deep breath before answering, and you can feel the anger seeping back into your system.

“Y-You’re just so.. you. Always so cocky over everything, thinking you’ve got everyone and everything figured out.. You don’t know shit, Reid.”

Your tone is pure venom now, and he doesn't seem to mind that, because he keeps looking at you with that same calm intensity. When you finish speaking, he's still and quiet for a moment, and then he starts to smile slowly, looking at you intently. He leans back in his chair, and his expression is smug again.

"You know what's funny?" he says nonchalantly. "This might be the most honest you've ever been."

With a groan, you throw your hands in the air in frustration.

“See this, this is what I’m talking about.. You think you’re so insightful, god it’s like your ego is inflated 100 times more than it should be.”

He laughs lightly and leans forward in his chair, opening a folder as you speak. He gives you an amused little smile.

"And now we've circled back around to you enjoying my company."

That smug comment seems to be for the specific purpose of irritating you. The look in his eyes is mocking you, and he seems to be trying to hide the mirth in his voice. You know you won't be able to back down from a challenge, though. You just can’t.

“God.. How many times do I have to say it before you understand? I do not enjoy your company, and I do not like you. Got that?”

He gives you a slow, confident smile. It's almost infuriating to you, seeing that smug look on his face when you’re so worked up over this, and he seems to know it. He speaks softly in that same even tone, but now there's a little playfulness in it.

“You can tell yourself that," he replies, "but we both know it isn't true."

He pauses for a moment, closing the folder before leaning back in his chair, then looks at you directly.

"You're more fun when you're mad, anyway."

You dig your tongue into your cheek in fury and you shake your head to ground yourself for a moment. “Why are you doing this?”

Reid raises both eyebrows in surprise, and his smile grows a little bit - the look of smug cockiness on his face now very visible. He seems genuinely amused by that question.

"Doing what?" he asks bluntly. "Having a pleasant conversation with a charming co-worker like yourself?"

A roll of your eyes is all you give him in response to his comment. “You’re a so-called genius but can’t figure out what I’m talking about, really?”

Reid laughs softly and shakes his head at that, letting out a little chuckle.

"I was being facetious," he says, "but I take it you figured that out already. Your sarcasm detector must be very well tuned."

He's still smiling, but the amusement is fading again.

"What am I 'doing'? Really, lay it out clearly for me."

“The way you’re talking to me.. It’s like you’re talking to a child, like I’m some kind of idiot that you don’t take seriously.”

Why did you really care if he talked to you like this? You hated him, it’s not like you’re around him enough anyways for it to bother you as much as you’re letting it get to you now.

Spencer lets out a huff through his nose at that, and gives you an amused, cocky little smile. His tone is gentle, but there's also the hint of mockery behind it, and you know he's teasing you on purpose. He doesn't seem to be taking this seriously, but that only makes you feel more annoyed.

"And what about how you're talking to me?" he replies, his tone even more calm now, the smile a little bit more mocking and smug. "Does that not also describe how you're talking to me? Or is this just an instance where the rules don't apply to you?"

You take a heavy breath out of your nose and before you can stop yourself, you’re stepping towards him and striking your hand across his cheek, trying to shut him up and ruin that ego of his.

He takes the impact of your hand across his cheek and doesn't move a muscle. There's a red mark on his face where you've hit him, but he doesn't make a sound, and his face remains blank and emotionless. For a moment his eyes narrow in slight pain; then, he just smiles again, and the look of smugness returns, stronger than before.

"Is that all you have?" he asks, his voice still tempting you. "I expected a little more from you."

It’s just the two of you now in his office, and you quickly turn around to lock the door. When you turn back to him, you’re looming over his sat figure and grabbing him by the collar of his dress shirt.

“I am sick and fucking tired of the way you act so high and mighty, Spencer. You’re nothing but an ego inflated asshole.” Your free hand raises and slaps him once more, and you relish in the way his head jerks to the side.

Once again, he doesn't even protest when you slap him, and just looks at you with that same smug, condescending expression, letting you vent. It's enough to make you even more furious, and there's a part of you that's getting more and more frustrated by his calm, collected response.

In that way, it feels like he's winning. He smirks, as if reading your mind, and responds in that same calm and collected tone.

"Keep going," he says, not moving an inch even though you're gripping him tightly. "Get it out of your system."

You’re too clouded by anger to notice the slight tilt of desperation in his tone, and you listen to him, raising your hand and smacking his cheek as hard as you possibly can.

His head jerks to the side again with the force of your slap, but once again, he doesn't move or try to stop you. You might start to think he's enjoying this, if it wasn't for the slightly pained expression on his face whenever you hit him. You're tempted to just keep going, because it feels like you're at least getting your revenge out. There's no one else around, no one to stop you - you could do whatever you wanted.

Before he can let another obnoxious word out of that smug mouth of his, you let go of his shirt and push him back into the chair. The hand that was holding him strikes him in the opposite direction, and you can feel the sting in your hand with how hard you slapped him. You felt like your heart was beating out of your chest, and your lungs would give out with how hard you were breathing.

Reid's head flies to the side, and he lets out a tiny yelp of surprise as you push him back into his chair and slap him again. His glasses slightly fall down his nose, and he pushes them back up as he tries to get himself under control. You can see anger flickering underneath that mask of calm again, and that urge to keep going starts to bubble back up.

You roll your eyes as you cross your arms and look down at him with the same smug expression he’s been sporting for the past 30 minutes.

“What happened? No shitty comment to make about me? No condescending words? You were so talkative before.” Your voice is absolutely dripping with rage, and you can feel yourself getting angrier and angrier as you speak.

His eyes narrow just a little, but he still doesn't move or try to speak. Instead, he just regards you with that same condescending look as before, as if waiting for you to be done. You feel no remorse or sympathy for the way you've just treated him.

Do you feel proud? He certainly deserves it, and he knew that better than anyone.

Finally, Spencer speaks - he lets out a deep, tired sigh as he looks up at you. His voice is still quiet, and his expression is neutral. "You done throwing your tantrum?"

You let out an angry laugh at the audacity he has and look away from him before pointing at him in an accusatory way.

“You can just never get enough, huh? Always teasing me, pushing me over the edge, and still, you want more.. What is your problem?”

You had really thought those slaps would break him, make him shut up, but you were severely wrong.

He leans back in this chair, one eyebrow raised in an expression of disbelief. He looks at you for a solid moment, studying you with that same arrogant, superior look. When he finally speaks, you can feel the disdain in his voice.

"Me?"

He says, raising both eyebrows.

"What kind of person asks what someone else's problem is, right after they physically assault them multiple times?" The irony in his tone is thick; you know it, and he knows it, and he's daring you to respond to it.

“The same person who knows just how much they enjoyed it.” You dryly say, and stare down at him with a knowing look. It had taken you a while, but you realized he wasn’t just egging you on for no reason.. No. He was enjoying the way you hurt him.

That smug expression on his face falters just a little bit when you speak. His eyes go wide with surprise, and he tilts his head to the side, not expecting that at all. He clears his throat, trying to collect himself again. It takes him a moment, and he doesn't respond right away..

"And why do you think I enjoy it?" His voice is lower now, and quiet, barely louder than a whisper. It's a different kind of intensity than before. He really wants to know, and he'll stop at nothing to get that answer.

You raise your chin to gesture towards himself, and your eyes flicker down to the blatant show of arousal in his pants. The poor fabric of his slacks was being pushed beyond capacity, and you wouldn’t be surprised if any minute now the threads would start ripping over that bulge of his.

“Tight dress pants really aren’t your friend, Reid.”

Spencer’s eyes shoot wide, and his breath hitches. He looks down at himself for a moment, then he looks back at you, his eyes wide and his face suddenly, deeply red. He's a little bit flustered, and he seems to be at a loss for words for a moment..

Then he regains his composure, giving you a little wink and tilting his head a little bit as he speaks. The smugness is back in his voice, that self-assuredness like he had forgotten his embarrassment all together.

"You could just say you enjoy it too, you know?"

You scoff.

“Of course I do, why wouldn't I enjoy taking my anger out on you. You deserve it.”

He gives you a little grin in response and lets out a little laugh, clearly amused at that. "Well, at least you're honest." He leans forward in his chair again.

"Now, I have an idea. You keep saying I deserve it, right? So, why'd you stop? I deserve some more, don't you think?" He smirks again, and you can practically see the smugness building up under the surface. It wasn't just smugness, no, it was arousal. He was tempting you, and it was working.

It pissed you off to see him enjoying this so much, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but like it. After taking a few moments to think to yourself, you nod.

“Stand up.”

Spencer gets up from his chair, standing over you, and he looks down at you, still with that complacent expression. He crosses his arms over his chest, waiting patiently for you to do something next. Your heart starts to throb in your chest again. Something about the way he's waiting for you to act, and the anticipation in the air, brings that same excitement back in you.. But it's a little bit more intense this time. You're not sure why yet, though.

You can see him open his mouth to say something, but you’re quick to slap him to shut him up before he can even think of speaking again.

“Shut the fuck up.”

His ghost of words are cut short by your slap, and he grunts slightly from the force of your blow. His head flies to the side again, before he just regards you once more with that same cocky expression. The arrogance in his energy and the tension between you two is thick in the air now - more so than before. You can feel it building up between the two of you, like the tension is almost too much to handle.

"More," he begs simply. "Harder."

Your face twists in a wicked smirk at his words, and you shake your head in disbelief.

“Spencer Reid, renowned genius who thinks he knows everything.. Is nothing but a fucking slut.”

You accentuate your words with another blow to his cheek with your hand.

You strike him again, and you can see his smile grow as his head reels to the side again and his breath hitches. There's a hint of pink on his cheek where you've hit him, as his face heats up with the sudden excitement. He lets out a quiet laugh at your words, then shakes his head.

"Keep talking like that.." He moves closer to you, his smile growing, that amused gleam in his eyes. "You're just getting me worked up."

You can practically feel your heart stop at his words, and despite knowing exactly how he is, you were surprised with how forward his comment was.

“That’s why you enjoy our fights so much, isn’t it?” Your voice is low as you look up at him with narrowed eyes. “It gets you off that I’m so mean to you, doesn’t it?”

Spencer’s smile shifts a little bit, now an obvious, hungry grin spreading across his face. He moves in ever closer to you, not moving his hands from where they are. He looks back at you, his dark eyes piercing and insistent with that same smug look, an obvious tease and taunt, his ego starting to take over again.

He lets out another soft laugh, his breath heavy– and he speaks just as low as you did, "And what if it does?"

You can feel his breath between the two of you because of how close he was to you now, and you huff through your nose in amusement.

“Then I’d say you’re nothing but a whore.”

Your taunt only makes his grin grow wider, and his eyes light up with excitement. Then, with one swift movement, he moves his hands up from behind his back. He grabs you before you can even react, pulling you in even closer to him, so that your faces are so close you could kiss.

His eyes are lit up, his face flushed with excitement as he looks down at you - and the self-assured grin of confidence he has is practically all you can see.

"Say it again."

Your eyes flicker don’t to his lip, and you can’t conceal the way you nervously swallow at how close he is to you now.

“You, are nothing but a fucking whore, Spencer.”

Your voice is slightly shaky, but he doesn’t seem to notice. When you repeat your taunt, his grin grows even wider. His eyes flit back up to yours, and you can see that satisfaction in them– the sense of pride that he's gotten one up on you. He leans in just enough that your faces are practically touching - and then, he grabs you with both hands, and pulls you in close by your jaw. Before you can even register what's happening, he kisses you, his lips pressing against yours– and it's not gentle, and it's not soft, but hard and possessive.

Your eyes immediately flutter shut as his lips collide into yours in an aggressive, passion filled kiss. Anger and arousal was seeping into your veins as you kissed him back with just as much force as he was.

His arms tighten around you when you kiss him back, and his lips press against yours more aggressively as you respond, returning your kiss. He breathes hard and presses himself into you– the two of you are so close you feel like you could mold into each other. Despite everything, there's no denying how intimate this is, how intense.. Even the feelings of anger and hurt are overshadowed by the pure adrenaline and need of this moment.

As you push him back against a wall, your frantic hands blindly find the buckle of his belt, and you make quick work to take it off of him, and Spencer pulls himself even closer to you, leaning in hard as he kisses you passionately.

The belt falls down to the floor with a clatter, your hands getting tangled up in it a little before you take it off, and then you two are locked into each other, the only sounds to be heard are his heavy breathing and the steady beating of your hearts. It's intense; they're pounding in your chest so hard you feel like it's physically pushing you closer to him.

When your hands find the waist of his pants, you’re undoing the zipper as quickly as possible and pushing them down his thighs. You sigh into his mouth as you slot your tongue between his lips.

Spencer breaks the kiss, but doesn't pull back entirely– you still see that desperate, needful look in his eyes as he watches you do that.

"Need something?" He smirks, a teasing timbre in his voice, and he shifts his arms so that his hands are firmly on your hips - the same arrogant, teasing look he's been giving you the whole time. He knows what you're trying to do.

“You.”

Is all you say before you’re practically ripping his underwear down his body.

He seems to be caught off guard by your sudden forwardness. You manage to pull his underwear down easily enough, and he lets out a soft gasp when you do, a little bit of color flushing on his cheeks.

Then, for the first time all night, that smugness vanishes. He seems.. speechless, for just a second. The look in his eyes is still one of desperation, but you can see genuine surprise there too. He swallows hard, and then he speaks quietly.

"Okay."

You lower yourself to your knees in front of him with a smirk. The carpeted floor of his office scrapes against the fabric of your pants, but it only serves as a reminder just how painful this entire situation is.

“Got nothing else to say, Reid? That’s a first.”

He watches you, his breath hitches again as his eyes go wide.

"No.." he says, his voice a little breathless all the sudden. His face is flustered, his whole body tensing as your smirk grows. But before you can say anything else, he's speaking again.

"What are you waiting for?"

You lean in closer to him, and your breath ghosts over his already hard and dripping cock.

“For you to shut that smart mouth of yours..”

Spencer lets out a deep, shaky breath as you say that, and you can almost feel it when your breath touches him. He shivers a little bit at your touch, and his breath catches for a moment, before his eyes close and he leans his head back.

He's silent for a moment– and then, as if he couldn't help himself, he opens his eyes and lets that stupid grin take over his features again.

"Make me."

It's a taunt, a dare that he knows you won't be able to resist.

You don’t entertain his words, but instead you just lean your head forward and encompass his entire length in your mouth, hoping it would serve as enough of a warning.

He makes a strangled sound when you do that, and he then lets out a soft, breathless moan. You can feel the urgency in him suddenly build, as the smugness disappears and he tenses up. He's barely breathing, the whole universe narrowing to the two of you at this moment. His eyes are shut tight, as if he can't even look at you at all.

Your mouth is warm and wet–so so wet around him, and you wouldn’t be surprised to find out if he’s never experienced this feeling before. Your smile through your mouthful, and close your eyes as you slowly pull your lips up his shaft, moving over the tip and licking over the precum he’s been gushing ever since you pulled down those briefs of his.

You pull back and off of him, then look up at him with wide teasing eyes.

“You know..” Wrapping your hands around him, you start to slowly, teasingly, drag them up and down his rock hard member.

“You’re a lot more attractive when you’re not talking..” And you don’t give him another moment to think of responding before your hands leave him and your jaw goes slack as you take him into your mouth again.

Spencer slaps a hand over his mouth at the feeling, attempting to conceal the pathetic whimpers he was letting out right now. He was more concerned with not letting you know how much he was enjoying this, rather than being caught by anyone still in the building.

His eyes roll back in his head before he can think about it any longer. Shaky moans push themselves through trembling fingers, and he can almost feel his legs giving out under him.

One of your hands is holding him steady at the base of his cock, and each time you push your head forward to take him down your throat, you can feel your spit and his arousal sticking to your fingers.

He’s big, which was a shocker to say the least. He felt heavy against your tongue, and filled your mouth like no problem. Usually guys like him that were all talk, that felt the need to use their large ego to overcompensate, sported less than impressive dicks.

But Spencer, Spencer.. You’d let the way you could feel his cock in your neck each time you throated him do the talking. You could barely move your tongue to swirl around the veins that lined his length, and you could feel the back of your throat already bruising with how big he was.

The sloppiness of it all is disgusting, and god do neither of you care. You can’t find it in you to care that your lipstick was smearing all over your lips and flesh of his cock, and he can’t find it in him to care that every time you swallowed him whole, pools of spit dripped down onto his leather shoes.

“F-Fuck me..”

The man above you all but whined out. You couldn’t tell if it was an expression of the pure euphoria coursing through his body, or if it was simply a request. You took it as the latter, knowing your response would annoy him either way.

Pulling back from his shaft, you bring a hand up to wipe your mouth. A useless task, really, you know it’d only be a few more moments before you’d be covered in your own drool again.

“Don’t think you deserve that yet, thought you hated me, pretty boy? What happened?”

Your hand at his base starts to pull up his length, and back down, you repeated this same torturous pattern as your voice dripped with faux interest, you didn’t care what he had to say, you just enjoyed teasing him far too much.

Spencer removes the hand that was draped over his mouth and practically slams it down against the wall behind him, scratching at it as if it would bring him any strength right now.

“O-Oh.. B-But you th–think I deserve this? Thought you hated me..”

You clicked your tongue in response, he was right, and you were finally fine with admitting it. The makeshift hole you’ve made with your fingers comes up the tip of his cock, and you tighten your fist around it. There’s a grotesque squelching noise as you squeeze a mix of your spit and his precum under your grip.

“You do deserve this.. Not because I think you’re overdue for something like this.. Or because I have a little crush on you..”

Your grip only tightens with each taunting word that leaves your lips. His knees buckle underneath him at the sensation and you watch as his pupils are suddenly disappearing under those pleasure ridden eyelids of his.

“Because, I bet that brain of yours is full of nothing but mush right now, isn’t that right?”

Spencer reluctantly nods as he whimpers and you can feel the warm spurt of precum he shoots out at your words.

“You deserve this, because I want nothing more to prove to you that you are nothing but a desperate, worthless, stupid, slut.”

With each insult that shot into him, you paired it with an equally harsh stroke of his sensitive head. Wet noises filled the room and your ears as your fist moved over him faster than you’ve ever seen anything move.

“I-I’m.. Oh–Oh my–fuck..”

The feeling against the sensitive underside of his cock has him almost keeling over your body in pleasure, and he lets out the most desperate, pathetic whine you’ve ever heard.

“Isn’t that right, Reid?”

And to your surprise, his head is frantically nodding before you can even finish your sentence. He tries to babble something out, but his words are unintelligible as he’s battling with his moans and whimpers for a place to be heard.

His body is folded over at this point, but you’re determined to break him as much as you can for the time being, so you lean in closer to him when he tries to pull his hips away. You’re not even touching the rest of his length, you’re just solely focusing on abusing the soaked head as he cries and tries to beg for mercy.

“Please, please, please..”

Is all you can make out through his noises before you can feel his hips stutter and still as you feel your fist fill with his piping hot release. You let out a small moan of surprise of your own at the feeling of him quickly pumping his cum into your grip, and look up at him.

You’re met with wide eyes looking down at you, and shaking fingers covering his mouth the best he could. His glasses were fogged over slightly from how sweaty and hot his skin was. He was trembling above you, barely able to hold himself up at this point anymore. It was like he was just as surprised as you were to see his cum spurting out of his cock and spilling from your hands.

And surely, after months of pent up anger and hatred between the two of you, also brings pent up, everything. You feel like it’s an eternity before his hips finally stop stuttering and his cock stops pulsing and shooting out webs of cum like he’s getting paid for it.

Pulling back from his spent length, you can’t help but laugh at how much of the thick fluid there was. It was coating your palm and dripping off of his tip, almost weighing down his cock with how much there was.

“Jesus.. look at you, Reid. You always make this much of a mess?”

Your words seem to make him all the redder, and as realization hits you the longer he stays quiet, both your eyebrow and your lips quirk up.

“Don’t tell me..”

Spencer’s chest heaved up and down as he closed his eyes shut and pursed his lips. He shook his head and his mouth went dry as he spoke.

“Alright, then I won’t.”

Before you can stop yourself, you’re laughing in his face in disbelief. Your head bows down in amusement.

“You’re just on a roll today with how pathetic you can get, huh?”

He just stays silent and lets you tease him, hoping that you’d be done soon and you can go back to hating each other like you always do. With one last chuckle, you stand up off your knees and look at him in his blissed out eyes, motioning towards your soiled hands.

“Make yourself useful for once and help me clean up, would you?”

#spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader smut #sub spencer reid #sub!spencer #sub spencer x reader #sub!spencer reid #enemies to lovers

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demonpiratehuntress · 5 months

Text

that's not for you to decide

Roronoa Zoro x F!Reader

Summary - he thinks you deserve better, and decides to push you away. that just makes everything worse, but you ultimately forgive the big idiot.

Warnings - HEAVY angst in the beginning but turns to comfort, this can work for both versions of Zoro i think? REPOSTING BECAUSE I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED THE INCOMPLETE DRAFT

GIF by anime-aishiteru

GIF by suuho

You don't know how it came to this. You tried to replay everything you'd ever done, to figure out where it all went wrong. To figure out what you could have possibly gotten so wrong for this to happen. But you were drawing blanks, and it tugged on your heartstrings even more.

You sat there and watched the swordsman listen intently to the woman who spoke to him, a beautiful native of the island.

Your crew had stopped here to replenish your resources. It was supposed to have been just that, yet you ended up staying for far longer than you expected. The downside to having an overenthusiastic captain with a unquenchable thirst for adventure, you supposed. Luffy would never have just sailed away and left this small village to suffer at the hands of a not-so-mythical and super grumpy griffin.

But now here you were, pining after the one person you wanted most in the world - who only seemed to be pushing you away. It gnawed at your heart, and left you painfully overthinking everything you'd ever said to him, everything you'd ever done for him. A week earlier everything had been fine, and he was friendly with you. Then something changed, and he grew distant and cold. And now, it seemed, he was adding 'breaking your heart' to the list of things he was doing to you.

You looked down at your drink just in time to see a teardrop make contact with the alcoholic liquid, the collision sending ripples outwards in the small, circular shape of the glass. You had tried hard, really hard, to not cry right here, in front of everyone. But fate, it seemed, was working even harder to make sure you were heartbroken by the end of the night.

"(Name) are you okay?"

You barely heard Nami, your eyes drifting back towards Zoro and the woman who was chatting to him animatedly. He met your gaze, and for a moment something flickered in his eyes, before he turned his attention back to her and moved closer. He gave her his full attention, making sure to show that he was actually listening and not dozing off like he did whenever Nami was bothering him. Your heart sunk even lower in your chest, a dull aching beginning to grow. The tears fell faster, and you gripped your drink tighter as that familiar stinging in your throat came. You dropped your head again, before unintentionally letting out a loud sob.

All your crewmate's heads snapped in your direction.

"S-Sorry," you apologised, hastily putting your drink down before getting up. "I-I'm-" You stopped when you noticed only one of them hadn't even bothered to look in your direction.

"That idiot," you heard Nami and Sanji grumble in unison.

That was the last straw for you. Your heart crashed to the bottom of its cavern, shattering in the process. Tears filled your eyes faster than you could stop them, blurring your vision to the point you only saw a blob of green a few feet away. You swayed on your feet, stumbling a bit, the full weight of his rejection hitting you full force.

"(Name)!"

You jerked away from the hand that grabbed your arm, not knowing who it was. Only then did Zoro look at you, but that's because everyone else was looking at you as well. You turned and fled, your shaky legs doing their best to carry you as far away from the scene as possible.

You fled into the forest, an area known on this island for it's unimaginable horrors.

He only thought you deserved better. In his mind, he was doing you a favour by pushing you away. Because he wasn't good for you, and he didn't deserve you. You deserved a lot better than him. And this was what he thought was a reasonable justification for his behaviour.

His heart sunk at the sight of your tears. He was acting like he didn't see them, but he noticed each and every drop that fell and each one caused a painful pang to reverberate through his chest. He hated it when you were upset, and he despised when you cried. But now he was the cause of it. Part of him wanted to drop this act, run to you and beg for forgiveness.

But he stayed where he was.

He let you think he didn't care. That he was going to keep chatting up this mindless bimbo in front of him. Because that was better for you right? He was only doing this for your sake.

Someone's fist collided with his jaw, sending him stumbling back a bit.

"What the hell?!" He glared at the blonde cook, "You really wanna start a fight right here, waiter?"

Sanji was about to say something equally insulting, but was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream erupting from within the forest's tall, gloomy trees.

Your bloodcurdling scream.

Zoro's blood ran cold. Every bone in his body stiffened for a millisecond, before he tore off towards the forest, sprinting faster than he ever had in his life. His heart was racing a million miles an hour, thundering in his chest like it would break out of his chest and beat him to you.

When he finally found you, his heart almost stopped.

You were on your back on the ground, lying in a pool of your own blood. Your shirt was ripped at your waist, which seemed to be where your wound was. Upon closer inspection, his panic increased tenfold. The gashes were deep, three long claw marks decorating your waist.

"(Name)!" He surged forward, shaking you roughly. His fear was getting the best of him, and he was starting to think the worst. "(NAME)!"

There was no response from you.

You didn't move.

He placed his ear on your chest, searching frantically for the sound of your heart. He almost gave up, when he heard it. It was very faint, scary faint, and dull. It was barely there.

What had done this to you? Whatever it was, it was incurring Zoro's wrath. He felt an unstable fury build up inside him, anger like nothing he'd felt before ready to consume him. He looked around, desperate to find the cause of your injury and kill it. That would maybe make him feel a bit better - and distract him from the fact that you were half-dead on the floor.

"Z-Zoro?"

Your weak voice caught his attention immediately, and he felt relieved. He turned to you, immediately scooping you up and dragging you onto his lap. He tried not to look at your wound as he removed his shirt, ripped it open and tied it around your waist to at least staunch the bleeding a little.

"Don't talk," was his response, his voice a little higher than it usually was. He was avoiding your gaze, unable to meet your eyes.

This was his fault.

He quietly rose to his feet, bringing your weakened - and, alarmingly, paling - body with him. He held you close, one arm hooked under your knees and the other under your back. He positioned your head on his shoulder, and ran all the way back to the village with you in his arms.

The crew met him halfway, Usopp fainting when he saw how much blood there was. Sanji was glowering at Zoro, absolutely furious that he let such a thing happen. Nami was asking a thousand questions at once, questions the swordsman didn't have the answer to. Luffy had gone quiet, not used to seeing his crew in such a panic, and definitely not used to seeing you drenched in so much red.

"Get her back to the ship," the captain finally spoke, surprisingly the only sane one at the moment.

"Excuse me," they were interrupted by the same woman who was talking to Zoro earlier, "We have a healer. It would be quicker to bring her there, and it looks like she needs immediate treatment. Besides, now we can properly thank you for helping us."

Zoro looked away, guilt ripping through him. She was partially the reason you ran off, him being the other part. He didn't want to make an already bad situation worse, but Luffy immediately nodded and told her to lead them to the healer, so Zoro had no choice. The woman offered him a sympathetic smile and tried to touch him, but he shrugged her off angrily. He was mostly angry with himself, for even daring to pull such a stunt.

If you had taken her to your ship, she would have succumbed to her injuries.

Those words played on repeat inside Zoro's head, making the swordsman feel helpless for the first time in his life. This evening had been full of firsts for him.

You were okay now, alive and resting. You were still gravely injured, and they were told those three claw marks would leave permanent scars. Zoro had flinched - you would now have a permanent reminder of the night he'd hurt you in the worst possible way. You'd live, but you needed lots of rest, and would probably need to limit your movements for the next few weeks.

"Sanji!"

The swordsman perked up when he hesrd your voice, indicating that you were finally awake, but his heart fell again when he heard you calling for the cook and not him. He supposed he deserved that, but it still stung quite a bit.

Swallowing his pride, he turned to where you were eagerly hugging Sanji, happy to be up on your feet again. Zoro slowly made his way over, guilt filling him again when he saw the way your smile dropped when you looked at him. Another painful sting.

"I'm going to go find Nami, Usopp and Luffy," you decided, looking away from Zoro. You still loved him, but it hurt to look at him right now after what he did.

"I'll help you, you shouldn't even be moving around like this," Sanji gently took hold of you and led you away.

Zoro wanted to protest, wanted to stop you and pull you into HIS arms is HE can guide you around, but you looked so heartbroken because of him he felt too ashamed to act on that thought.

"No, it's okay. Zoro can help me."

"Are you sure?" Sanji asked uncertainly.

"Yes."

He was stunned to hear you say that. His head snapped in your direction, to see you making your way over to him. He thought he might have passed out and was now dreaming when you wrapped your arms around his middle, leaning into him.

In one swift but gentle movement, you were in his arms.

"I'm sorry," his deep voice rumbled in your ears, "I'm so, so sorry." And for the first time ever, his eyes glossed over with tears. "Please forgive me. I don't deserve it, but I'll do anything to earn your forgiveness. Please."

His begging caught you off-guard, but you were too saddened by the way his voice cracked while he was speaking.

"I love you. I promise I'll show it. Please, please give me a chance."

You bit your lip, looking down at your lap and fiddling with the hem of your shirt, "Why did you do it?"

His grip on you tightened, and he let out a shaky breath, "I thought you deserved better than me. I tried to make you hate me so it would hurt less when you found someone else. Because you deserve someone much better than me, and I don't deserve you at all."

"That's not for you to decide," you said quietly.

"I know, I know," he mumbled, ashamed. He couldn't even meet your gaze anymore.

You sighed, making him look at you, "You are the biggest idiot I have ever met, you know. But despite that, I am still madly in love with you. And I forgive you." You kissed his cheek. "Now let's go find the others."

A week later, you were still hobbling around the ship like an old lady with a back problem. Much to Zoro's chagrin, as he kept insisting you stay in bed and he'll do whatever you needed to do. The rest of the crew agreed, all of them taking turns to do your chores or help with your duties while you just rested and recovered.

And you know damn well this green-haired man is going to pick you up and take you straight back to bed if he sees you up and about.

"I'm fine!" You protested, when he brought you dinner that night.

He glared at you, "Your blood is still soaking those bandages. You are not fine. Now stay."

You pouted, "I'm not a dog."

He sighed and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead, "Let me take care of you, alright? I have a lot to make up for, and this is just the start."

"No, you don't have anything to make up for," you smiled innocently, tugging him down next to you. "You didn't attack me."

"But I-"

You shut him up with a kiss, "Listen, it's pretty fucking impossible for me to hold a grudge against you, or to even stay mad at you for five seconds. Seeing the look of shame, guilt and regret on your face on the island was enough for me to know that you didn't want any of that to happen. And what's the point of being upset or angry over something that you didn't intend? It's a waste of emotions."

He stared at you in awe, your words striking him deep, "I'm still sorry."

You sighed. You had already long forgiven him, but he had not yet forgiven himself. It was going to take him a while.

"Here."

You glanced up from your bed as Zoro walked into the room, holding something out to you. Your eyes lit up when you saw what it was, eagerly taking the book from his hands and shifting into a more comfortable position.

"I figured since you're stuck here for a while, might as well keep you from being bored," he sat down next to you, slowly. "Do you...like it?"

Over the last few days, you had gotten a multitude of gifts from the green-haired swordsman. From handcrafted to store-bought, he had been surprising you almost every day with something new. He was also - very surprisingly - getting along with Sanji, after hearing you ask him to be nice to the cook. It seemed he was pretty serious about proving his love and erasing all trace of that horrible incident from your mind.

"Does it hurt??"

You snapped out of your thoughts when you heard Zoro's concerned voice, realising you had started crying. With a shaky laugh, you shook your head no and wiped your eyes - you got as far as two drops before he wiped the rest away.

"No, I'm just...I'm so grateful for you. You've been amazing these last few days, even more so than usual. I just don't know how to thank you, and I'm overwhelmed by how loved I feel right now. I love you. So, so much."

His concern melted away into shyness, the small blush coating his cheeks giving away his embarrassment. He tried to cough awkwardly and play it off, but you knew better. He loved being complimented, he was just too stubborn to show it.

"Love you too. Come here." He got into the bed next to you, pulling you close so you lay on his chest, letting you dive into the book while you rested on him comfortably.

His acts of service did not stop.

Even after you were able to walk around with no pain, Zoro was still lifting things out of your hand, carrying them to where they needed to be for you. He was still offering to take your night watch, or any watch, and he was still doing your chores.

Even...dare I say it...washing dishes.

"Here."

Sanji handed him another dish to wipe, just as you walked in. You giggled at the sight, a tiny pink apron draped over your boyfriend's body as he wiped the dishes dry and set them on the rack.

"I see you two are hard at work."

Zoro lit up at the sound of your voice, almost dropping the plate he was wiping. He turned to give you a rare, happy smile, greeting you with a loving gleam in his eyes. You returned the smile and sat at the table, watching them work and thinking about how much you absolutely adored this man.

"I can work now, you know."

"Let me think...no," both he and Sanji said in unison.

You laughed.

#one piece live action #opla #zoro x reader #opla zoro #zoro x you #opla x reader #roronoa zoro #opla zoro x reader #one piece

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