#man i hope the readmore is in an appropriate spot
Text
An intimacy, a surprise
Chapter one: Rather a good pair
McCoy spun the lady, Heather, around comfortably. They were dancing well under a speed that would challenge him. She knew the steps, and when she stumbled she stayed with him enough that he could keep them moving until she found her feet. He rather suspected she was stumbling more than natural, given how much she laughed when he picked her up slightly.
It all reminded him of Joanna.
The song came to an end, Heather laughed breathlessly as he placed her back down on her feet. She was likely thirty years older than him, but her joy for life was stronger than anyone he regularly knew. She was as thin as they come, he hoped she lived for another century. He thanked her, kissed her hand, and left for the bar.
With a thin glass of bubbly in hand he surveyed the room. Couples moved across the floor at varying degrees of skill. Still, colourful and pretty.
As he scanned his focus caught on Spock. Spock, at the same damn conference as him. He could see why, novel biology was up both their alleys really. But it still annoyed him.
But Spock looked nice now, expressionless (per usual) but fixated on the spinning pairs revolving across the room. His eyes flitted from one to another, interest held entirely.
McCoy picked up a second glass and launched off from the comfort of the bar.
“Want to dance?” he asked as he stood next to Spock.
He didn't flinch, probably heard him approach with those finely tuned, pointy ears.
“I am attempting to learn the basics,” Spock said softly. He didn't take his eyes off the floor.
McCoy placed his spare glass down by the crumbed prawn canapes. Prawn. On Mars. Heavens above who would eat seafood so far from natural water?
McCoy followed Spock's gaze and found a rather showy pair. The man's silly long tux flew behind him as they spun.
“Well, you won't manage that watching them,” McCoy muttered.
“Oh?”
“Them? He's trained in tango, but she's trying for classic.” He took as sip and decided Spock's silence was curious, not bored. “He keeps raising his arms in the hold and it's throwing her off. They're good at dips, but she keeps losing her balance on the straight stretches because they're dancing different dances.”
Spock sniffed in sharply. “Are they all dancing differently?”
McCoy hummed, swallowing his mouthful. “Everyone's making it up. Those two -” he pointed across the room at who he meant “- might've done a class, but likely not. These two near us are good at a slow waltz, but as soon as it speeds up they get messy.”
Spock turned and faced him. McCoy followed suit, giving him his attention. Face to face like this they stood slightly closer than usual.
“What are the basic steps?” Spock asked.
McCoy put his half glass of bubbly down and held his arms out, one hand hovering over Spock's waist while the other waited for his hand. “Let’s box step. I'll lead.”
Spock moved slowly, then hesitantly placed his hand in McCoy's waiting one. Their fingers dragged against each other, with Spock's hand just resting on his, not holding.
McCoy took Spock's other hand and lifted it to his shoulder. “Put your hand here,” he said. Spock’s hand sat lightly on his shoulder, touching the edge of his collar. “And -” he sighed and pulled Spock by their joined hands, “a bit closer, please, Mr. Spock - let me take a hold you.”
Spock stepped in as directed, and McCoy placed his hand on Spock's waist. Spock tensed on contact, so much muscle in him.
“That's right,” McCoy breathed. He moved his hand to Spock's lower back, holding him solidly, and took his hand properly. “Do you feel stable?”
Spock frowned at him. “Of course.”
McCoy rolled his eyes. Never mind all that politeness, then. “Right,” he snapped. “Box step, follow me.”
You can keep reading under the readmore or click this link to ao3
McCoy telegraphed his movements obviously until Spock got the swing of it, muttering vague encouragement and advice as he did.
Once they were moving smoothly he spoke. “Okay, look at me now.”
Spock looked up, glancing down every moment they took a step to ensure he followed.
“The steps aren't changing, Spock. Here-” he pulled Spock close, tugging him in by the waist. Their bodies pressed together firmly and, to McCoy pleasure and relief, Spock didn't withdraw.
He stepped the path of their dance slowly, exaggerating again. Spock followed with a breath of delay, keeping their thighs close. “You can feel what my legs are doing, yes?” McCoy whispered. “I'm pressed against you, so you don't need to see me move, you can feel it.”
They continued, Spock clinging to him like a coat of paint. Steadily they picked up speed, grace. A few times McCoy felt Spock move with a strength that was not helpful in someone meant to be following. McCoy would let it slide for now, but if they got up to spinning he was going to have to pull rank.
“What do you think?”
“There is more than just this.”
“Yes, but this is what we always return to,” McCoy said easily. “So you want it to be second nature. Is the amount of touch okay?”
Spock smirked. “Vulcan dance is far more intimate.”
“I recall you describing it before,” McCoy muttered. “Wouldn't've been my first guess. Knowing you, I've been left assuming all Vulcans are stuck up prudes.”
“Doctor, I must be allowed my eccentricities,” Spock said lowly, “but I am still Vulcan.”
“Don't I know it.”
Spock hadn't missed a beat as they spoke, he was quite the natural. Not that McCoy would tell him. “Want to try for a dip?” he suggested instead.
Spock raised his eyebrow. “You are in the lead.”
“Doesn't mean I'm in charge.”
They continued stepping together in perfect pattern.
“Yes, then,” Spock said.
McCoy talked him through it first. Spock's attention on him was absolute. “On the back step, the first we took, I'll turn you to the side. My hand will stay on your waist, but I'm letting go here.” As he spoke he released Spock's hand and placed his on Spock's trap.
“Your free hand goes to my shoulder, or wherever suits you. And then you dip. To the side. Do it shallow first so you know what coming out of it's like.”
Spock nodded. They reset their hands and continued to dance. McCoy muttered a warning, then turned them to the side. He pushed Spock back slightly, then kept his hands steady to show it was safe. Spock swayed back, his eyes unreadable on McCoy, then slowly returned to standing.
McCoy tried to keep the momentum of their dance, but there was something astounding in Spock's slow movement that broke the pattern. Still, they had to step. “And back into- there you are,” McCoy muttered. He cleared his throat. “Alright?”
“Indeed,” Spock said easily. “A simple process.”
McCoy kept the usual pattern for a few turns, letting Spock feel it as home.
It wasn't home, though, was it. This was McCoy's home, and Spock was doing well at it. McCoy grinned.
Perhaps it was time for him to step outside his comfort zone. Meet Spock halfway. Besides, all that talk of Vulcan dancing - he still couldn't imagine how Spock would embody it.
“You can be as Vulcan as you like about it, my dear,” McCoy said. “I can handle your culture.”
Spock simply raised his eyebrows.
“Going again,” McCoy warned, then stepped into position and swung Spock back.
Spock went far. His outer leg raised, dragging up along the outside of McCoy's thigh. McCoy had to bend into his lunge to keep balance as Spock leant back.
Spock stopped at the low of the dip, letting McCoy hold him. He trailed his hand down from McCoy's shoulder, dragging slowly down his arm.
McCoy realised he hadn't breathed and pulled Spock back to him. Spock righted himself at speed, almost destabalising McCoy as their chests slammed together.
One of Spock's legs pressed between his, forcing his thighs slightly apart. His other hand remained high and now slowly lowered to the ground. And Spock had, somehow, returned to him with a hand in McCoy's hair which echoed the slow downward drag of his leg, toying gently at his neck.
McCoy stepped forward with the leg between Spock's thighs, pressing into his crotch.
Spock's eyes flashed wish fiery curiosity. He straightened the mirrored leg out in line with McCoy's leg and took the step. McCoy kept him close, like orbits that couldn't split further apart now that they'd come near.
With a moment's hesitation, they took the next step, moving smoothly again. McCoy dragged his hand up Spock's back, feeling his muscles engage as they stepped familiarly. As he did, Spock's hand left his neck and traveled gently down his arm.
Spock gasped in a breath. McCoy turned his face in towards the sound and felt McCoy's skin on his lips. The air was hot here.
McCoy’s hand reached Spock's upper back, so he pulled around to his chest and pushed him into another dip.
Spock resisted for a moment, then went with the movement. His hand gripped McCoy's wrist as he lowered over McCoy's leg. They kept eye contact as Spock bent, and McCoy found himself leaning forward to stay close.
Spock came out of it slowly, and McCoy did some slightly clever footwork without really considering if Spock would keep up. He stepped over Spock, half spinning him to standing. Spock didn't keep up, but he let himself be pulled and placed standing.
They were close, as they tended to be in this dance, McCoy with a hand on Spock's back and another in his hair. Spock began to take McCoy's hand, crawling up from his wrist and pulling it from Spock's hair. McCoy clutched Spock's hand and pressed his other hand’s fingers into Spock's back muscle. He stepped forward, and Spock followed naturally backwards. They returned to the dance.
“You didn't warn me that time,” Spock breathed. His lips brushed McCoy's cheek when he spoke.
McCoy felt Spock's leg press against his thigh on one of the steps, leaving him slightly breathless. He was half hard, Spock was bound to know. He'd likely take it as a cultural compliment, knowing him. Contrary bastard.
“But you knew it was coming,” McCoy said. “We make rather a good pair.”
“We always have done, Doctor.”
McCoy laughed and felt it vibrate back to him through Spock's chest. How wonderful.
“I think we're terrible,” McCoy said.
Spock shook his head and straightened his posture, moving his mouth further from McCoy's. “You are disagreeing out of habit,” he said, his voice back to its usual unaffected way. It wasn't until he spoke now that McCoy realised how low and purring Spock's voice had become.
But he swallowed his interest and shrugged instead. “And you're just naturally condescending,” he said as blandly as he could. It didn’t sound particularly bland, he could hear the shiver in his throat coming through in his voice. Ah well, a man’s gotta try.
Spock smirked. He resisted McCoy's next step forward, bringing them to still. McCoy frowned sharply, then realised the music had been replaced with applause.
He let go of Spock's hand and stepped back. Someone was speaking into a squeaky microphone; the dancing had stopped. McCoy was breathless.
“Well done,” McCoy said quickly. He turned to the table and picked up his glass, downing the half of bubbly that remained. “We can revisit tomorrow night, maybe add spins?”
“Very good, Sir.”
McCoy faced Spock and took him all in. He was flushed, ears green. Gaze steady, but eyes bright. As McCoy looked he stood straighter.
“Night cap?” McCoy offered, his voice hushed as the speech onstage became a serious of slides presented with little commentary.
Spock glanced out at the room, then nodded.
McCoy picked up his remaining full glass of bubbly and led Spock out. “We'll have to sneak it back, I didn't bring a drink with me.”
Spock took the glass from McCoy smoothly and shrugged his long sleeve to cover it.
At McCoy's look he said, “No one questions a Vulcan.”
Well, sure. They nodded at the door attendant and made it to the lobby unchallenged.
“Cute, Spock.”
Spock made a noise of displeasure.
McCoy jabbed the elevator button and leaned against a column, watching the thoroughly innocent Vulcan.
Spock bit his lower lip, but kept his gaze steady on McCoy.
McCoy tilted his head to the side. He was going to kiss this man if something didn't change soon. That was a fucking shock. He breathed out and leaned his head against the column.
Spock broke the eye contact, swallowing hard and glancing up to the elevators current level, then over to a plant.
The lift bell sounded. McCoy laughed emptily, shook his head in disbelief, and slid into the elevator. Nothing had changed. Spock followed.
As the door closed McCoy went to him. His hand found Spock jaw first, his thumb at the corner of his mouth.
Spock went still, facing him, and McCoy continued the movement. He was a hairsbreadth from Spock when the fucker spoke.
“Doctor, they have cameras in the lifts here,” Spock gasped.
McCoy pulled back. What? He frowned. “They do?” he asked. He stepped back, glancing up for a sign of a camera. “What kind of surveillance state bullshit needs cameras in the lifts?” he muttered.
Spock's shoulders dropped. McCoy’s attention returned to him. “Wait, why don't you want to be seen with me on camera?”
Spock let out a sharp sigh. “I don't want to be seen doing anything on camera.”
McCoys head moved smoothly as he considered that, ending in a slow negative shake. “There are cameras on the Enterprise,” he disagreed.
Spock hesitated. His hand, the one not still subtly hiding McCoy's glass of bubbly, gripped the handrail. “I have never attempted to dance with you on board.”
McCoy nodded. He kept nodding as he thought.
Not on the Enterprise. That suited him quite well, really. Keep work at work.
He hadn't begun to dissect Spock's behaviour tonight, but this made sense in a way some deep seated romance didn't. He was surprised there was anything on Spock's part, but he wasn't shocked.
He wasn't going to even start on himself, though.
“Have I offended you, Doctor?
McCoy grinned sourly. “Whether private or public, Spock, dear, if you're thinking about kissing me you call me Leonard.”
Spock was quiet. The bell chimed and the doors slid open.
McCoy kept watching Spock. He needed something to go off, something to react to or he'd just get angry. But Spock simply left the elevator.
McCoy followed. “No, why the hell won't you kiss me on camera, hm?” he asked.
Spock turned his face towards McCoy once to indicate where his attention was. Their rooms, absurdly and coincidentally across from each other, were at the end of the long corridor.
“You object to my preference for privacy?” Spock asked, continuing to walk away quickly.
“Who's watching that'll care? On the ship, sure, but no one gives a fig about us here!”
Spock didn't respond. McCoy considered shouting at him, but decided he would probably not live that down.
They reached their shared end of the corridor. Spock opened his own door deftly and face McCoy.
“Are you coming in?” he asked.
“With an invitation like that, I'd prefer a lobotomy!” McCoy snapped. He turned and wrestled his own door open before Spock responded, slamming it behind him.
His body tingled with electric heat and anger. He groaned and raised his hands to his face. “Fuck.”
He was still fucking hard.
A couple of words occurred to him, and with them was an excuse to return. He threw his door open and strode across the hallway. Spock had left his door slightly ajar, McCoy was going to absolutely fuck him into the ground for that.
He let himself in and closed the door.
Spock stood at the window, lone wine glass on the table next to him. He turned silently and faced McCoy, his face again blank.
“I don't mind a one night stand,” McCoy snapped, “keeping it as quiet as you like, what I mind is the suggestion that you should be embarrassed to be found.”
“I do not feel embarrassment.”
McCoy waved his arms, immediately furious. “Liar!” He pointed at Spock. “More importantly, you feel desire.”
Spock shrugged. “That is physical.”
McCoy crossed the floor to him, aware that his tone was nearly a rant. “So’s embarrassment. And fear, and fucking joy when you get down to it.”
He drew up next to Spock, standing right by him. Spock turned slowly and met his gaze squarely.
“You let your emotions rule you more than the average human does,” Spock said. Bitchily. Like a little bitch.
McCoy swallowed, there was some emotion caught up in his throat. “Someone's got to make up for you,” he said. His voice was softer than he intended.
“I am not embarrassed,” Spock complained. “Why should I share such a moment with any other?”
McCoy frowned and swallowed again. He sighed heartily and glared at the corner of the room for a beat. Such a moment. Fuck.
“That was a bit romantic, Spock,” McCoy pointed out.
“No it wasn't.”
McCoy laughed, surprising himself with it. “You're disagreeing out of habit,” he snapped.
Spock raised his eyebrow. “And are you not condescending?”
McCoy grinned, irritation and lust both rising in him. “You piss me off,” he said forcefully.
“Like I say, a slave to your emotions.”
“Private enough for you in here?”
Spock’s eyes glanced at the door, then the window. “Yes.”
And so McCoy risked the universe, and kissed him.
Click here to read the rest on ao3, there's another 18 chapters <3
#spones#spones fic#man i hope the readmore is in an appropriate spot#so hard to gauge how long thisll be on mobile#i don't want ot give people an awful wall of text#but i also want to get to the point where they dance or you won't have the hook#grumble grumble#anyway theres 17 of 19 chpaters posted!#and the last two are posting in the next few days
19 notes
·
View notes
Text
That Dress
Fandom: The Amazing Spider-Man (Andrew Garfield TASM)
Pairing: TASM! Peter Parker x Fem identifying & AFAB! Reader
Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long
Rating: E - 18+ Only
Warnings: Smut; possessive and rougher Peter, oral sex (f! receiving), love bites, an abundant use of pet names and dirty talk, bit of pain kink going on?, you wear Peter’s hand like a necklace like always, semi-public sex (its in a bathroom, no one can see but...they’re just down the hall), Dom Peter (when is Peter not a dom in my fics?), breeding kink at the end cause I have a problem, overstimulation (Peter’s out here wringing as many orgasms from you as he can tbh), massive amount of praise, there’s praise kink all over the shop in anything I write, little bit of angst at the start
Summary: You just wanted to go to a party, wear that dress that Peter loved so much, and show off your boyfriend. Spider-Man gets in the way, but Peter makes it up to you, after showing everyone that you're his.
Notes: I never expected this fic to get this long (11k words), but you’re welcome. Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think.
By clicking the readmore you are confirming that you are 18 years old or older and of the appropriate age to read this fic. If you are not at least 18 years old do not click the readmore and find fic appropriate to your age range, thank you.
Parties…they’re not usually your thing or Peter’s. Neither of you were big partiers and big crowds of strangers weren’t always your favourite to be in and amongst, especially when alcohol got involved. Usually something insane would happen that you weren’t mentally equipped to deal with, that or too much vomit. But a colleague from work, Jessica, had invited you to her party, some big event she’d booked a whole bar out for, a bar with a notoriously good view of New York’s skyline, and you felt like dressing up for once and trying to be social. You rarely had an excuse to get out your pretty dresses. You just wanted to get dressed up and go to a party with your boyfriend, to see that look cross face when he saw you for the first time. Where his pupils would widen and that little smirk would tug at the corner of his mouth, a sort of half-grin that always showed his teeth and made him look absolutely feral, like he wanted to eat you up. You’d even convinced Peter that the police could handle a few robbers and petty criminals for one night and if they struggled, he’d be there the next day to mop up the mess…or so you thought.
“Peter, we need to get rea-” You’re stumbling out of the bathroom in your robe to tell Peter to start getting ready when you spot him, already in his Spidey suit by the window, mask in his hands. He gives you a sad look and you know before you even ask that he’s got to go…that there’s something important he has to do. It doesn’t stop your heart breaking just a little bit. You really thought you could have one good night…one really good night. Fucking New York City strikes again. You want to be angry, but you know he wouldn’t do this if he didn’t need to. Peter had been very good throughout your relationship at only missing plans if he knew the police couldn’t handle it, if some sort of disaster or crime needed Spider-Man and his particular set of skills. He’d been trying so hard to maintain some sort of balance between the two sides of his life and his relationship with you.
“Peter…” He hates it, hates the way your face drops at the sight of him, how your voice dips down in disappointment, the way your hands clench in the fabric of your robe. He crosses the room quickly, hands cupping your cheeks and his thumbs rubbing against the skin there. Your eyes are already filling up with tears and he feels like the biggest asshole on the planet. His beautiful girlfriend just wants to spend actual time with him and he’s going to leave her alone to go deal with a bunch of weirdos in costumes. It hurts because he knows you just want to go to a party and wear a pretty dress and make him wear a tie for once in his life. That you just want him there and don’t want to go on your own, but he’s about to give you no other option. He feels like he’s standing you up…what sort of boyfriend does that? Fuck.
“I have to go, you know I have to go, baby…” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, to the apple of each cheek, the divot in your chin. You can tell by the shine in his big doe eyes that he hates this, hates disappointing you and it makes it even harder to be angry with him when you know he’s already beating himself up about it. As if a party is more important than saving people. You know he doesn’t have much of a choice and it’s that goodness in him, that desire, that need to help others that you love so much about Peter. To stop him from doing this would be to stop him being the man you love.
“You said you’d be there with me…”
“And I will be, okay? I promise, I'll be quick and then I'll go straight there, just think of it like you’re surprising me with whatever cute dress you decide to wear. If I'm here it’ll ruin the surprise, pretty lady.” His half-grin is forced and he knows it's a lame excuse. That it won’t feel like you're surprising him, instead it’ll feel like you're waiting on him, hoping he’ll arrive, unsure whether he will or not. He knows people will ask where is, give you those looks, the pitying ones and he wishes, for just one moment, that New York could sleep, just rest for a couple of hours so he could take his girlfriend out to a party. Like you deserved.
“Pete…” You know he can’t actually promise to be quick, to be there. He has no way of knowing how long it’ll take him to deal with whatever situation requires his attention. Maybe it’ll be quick, maybe he’ll be there, but who knows?
“I know, but, this time…it’s serious. It’s not just…” It’s not just some robber, or some random thug. It’s serious. Peter moves within your orbit, pressing his forehead against yours, his nose nuzzling against your own.
“Are there kids involved?”
“Yeah.” He watches your face fall, watches how you resign yourself, steel yourself to the facts. There are kids involved and it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t make it to the party because his other job, it’s life or death, it’s important, it’s the priority. You cup his cheek and look him dead in those big brown eyes of his, accepting the situation, no matter how badly it hurts. No matter how much you want to be selfish.
“Okay. They need to be your priority.” Peter hates that you’re so good at this. At accepting that something, someone else has to take priority over you. He hates that he can’t make you that priority all the time, like you deserve. Hates that you don’t scream at him, don’t shout and call him an asshole, that you accept it…because it makes him love you more, makes it harder to do the right thing by you and let you go, instead he holds onto you tighter. Even when he can’t give you everything you deserve. You’re so deeply under his skin, so deeply part of him that he couldn’t ever let you go, even if it was in your best interests.
“Baby…” He wants to say you’re his priority, and you are but…but still Spider-Man has to come first, those people have to come first. You know this and any attempt to soften the blow will only make things worse, he knows that. You don’t want false promises. You’ve only ever wanted him to be open with you, honest, something so incredibly hard when he desperately wants to protect you even from himself.
“Pete..it’s okay, really. Go be my favourite hero…Just, please try to turn up, or Jessica will think I’ve been lying about my handsome boyfriend.” You try to play it off as a joke, but it falls flat, not funny and…too close to home. The last thing you want is to be alone at a party where you only know a couple of people, and none of them you know very well.
“I promise. I’ll be there, my suit and tie are in my backpack and all, baby. I’ll be there.” He kisses you long and hard, it’s a promise that you still matter and you melt into it like butter on toast. You watch through lidded eyes as he pulls away and hides his face behind the mask.
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Be careful?”
“Always.” You watch him go, follow him to the window and watch until he swings out of sight. Then you make your way to your shared bedroom and begin to get ready for the night, even if it’s going to be lonelier than you previously thought.
You try to remember his words, to think of it as a surprise for him. That makes it easier as you pull on that dress, the one he loves so much; the red velvet one that hugs tight to your hips and leaves your shoulders bare. It makes it easier to swipe your lipstick across your lips and style your hair. It makes it easier to grab your bag and coat and leave the apartment on your own.
But easier still isn’t easy.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“C’mon guys! I have a date to get to! Could you stop trying to kidnap little children for five minutes?” It’s frustrating and it’s ridiculous that of all the nights for a group of villains in stupid costumes to decide to kidnap children from an orphanage to use in some weird experiment to make themselves younger, they chose tonight. Peter really wasn’t feeling it tonight. Not when he had a van full of screaming and crying kids, a girlfriend to get to, and a bunch of weirdos in costumes trying to stab him. He hated knives and he hated the idea of you at a party alone.
“Awww, has the ity bity spider got a date? How sweet.” Mocks the big one in the stupid scarecrow outfit, straw poking out of his hat. He’s gesturing with his hands, twisting them over his eyes, as if Peter’s going to cry and it just serves to piss him off further. He shouldn’t be here right now, he should be dancing with you at the party or making you laugh at his stupid jokes about your coworkers.
“Wow, you’re gonna mock me? You look like a cheap attempt at a scarecrow! Where did you get your mask from? The dollar store?” Peter is quick to webb the guy's hands in quick succession to a nearby wall, dodging out of the way of a guy dressed as the Tin-Man who comes at him with a knife.
“Hey, no knives!” He knocks the knife from the man’s hands, “I can’t be bleeding tonight, she’ll kill me!” This guy is smaller than the last, he takes one hit to the head and collapses like a sack of potatoes while Peter shakes his hand in pain.
“Shit, ow! Was that really metal? Idiot!” The Cowardly Lion makes his way forward, Dorothy on his heels and Peter can’t help but think this is the weirdest crime he’s ever had to stop. He misses Dr Connors. At least he was an actual lizard man and not dressed up as one.
“But, seriously, guys, what’s with the Wizard of Oz costumes? You’re not really pissed off actors are you? No? Okay, so just a bunch of weirdos then, huh.” Peter’s eyes flick to the clock tower nearby, shit, you’ve been at the party nearly an hour by now and he’s still dealing with these assholes. Other than the police being slow to turn up, he’s starting to think they could have handled it without him. That makes him feel worse.
“Says the man in a spider costume!” Dorothy is an old lady with a terrible brown plaited wig on and bright glittery shoes that she can barely walk in. She’s also wielding a walking stick as a weapon. He feels a little bad, beating on an old lady, but…she was trying to murder some kids so…fair’s, fair, right? He’s pretty sure respecting your elders is made irrelevant when said elder has murderous intent.
“Whoa, calm down, Dorothy! I’m not the one trying to steal little kids to put in some ‘magic potion’ to make myself young again! What happened to Toto? You steal his youth too?”
“Don’t. Talk. About. Toto!” With each pause Dorothy swings her walking stick at him and he’s quick to dodge out of the way each time, ducking underneath the ‘paw’ or rather fist of the Cowardly Lion, just missing getting a black eye. He can’t get hit in the face either today. He can’t turn up looking like some bum who gets into fights all the time, even if he does get into fights all the time.
“Oh, whoa, lady, didn’t realise Toto was such a sore spot for ya!” The next swing of the walking stick catches him behind the legs and Peter falls prone on his back with a groan, there goes his middle back again. You keep telling him to watch out for it, but he’s pretty sure the universe hates him.
Looking at the clock face again, Peter wonders if he’ll ever make it to the party. All he knows for certain is this’ll be a hell of a story to tell you.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
An hour in and you’re already pretty eager to leave, but part of you won’t, can’t. There’s this little seed of hope that Peter will make it tonight and another part of you doesn’t want to leave only for him to arrive and find you gone. He’s bad at checking his phone like that, and to see him turn up to a party of strangers all alone? Only to find his girlfriend gone? No, no, you can’t do that. So you stay, nursing the same drink you’ve had from the start of your night and standing by the door to the balcony, out of the way enough you hoped to go unnoticed. Like many things tonight your hopes and plans were not going the way you wanted them too. You’re starting to wonder if the universe has a vendetta against you today.
“So, where’s the ‘boyfriend’?” Jessica siddles up to you, wine glass in hand, holding it just so to show off that massive rock on her finger from her fiance. She’d been parading him and the ring around all night, despite having been engaged for well over a year. You were pretty sure at this point she was just rubbing it in your face, to remind you that you were here alone.
She’d never seemed to believe you when you mentioned Peter, you weren't sure why, but she seemed to be under the impression that you’d made him up. Despite showing her photos of the two of you together on multiple occasions as well as the calls he often made to you while you were at work.
Jessica was…confusing. She could be lovely but also incredibly bitchy and you never really knew how she was going to behave…it made things…interesting to say the least. She definitely wasn’t your favourite person in the world, especially not tonight.
“Oh, Peter’s just running a little late, he had an emergency to deal with. He’ll be here.” You couldn’t actually guarantee that though, your eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. It was an hour into your arrival and over an hour since Peter left to tackle the next big problem in New York. You were starting to think he might never arrive and it seemed like Jessica felt the same way. You weren't just eager to see him because you wanted him here for the party, either, you were worried about him. You had no way of knowing whether or not Peter was okay. He wasn’t the best texter in the world, especially not when it came to his Spider-Man business. You loved him, but God, you hated how often you were kept in the dark.
“Sure…well, if you ever get lonely, David’s single.” She points to a guy in the corner who’s been staring at you all night. You give her an unimpressed look.
“Peter, my boyfriend, is just running a little late, Jessica. Why don’t you go find your boytoy? I thought I saw him with Leighanne by the coats.” She has the audacity to gasp as if she didn’t just suggest you cheat on your boyfriend with a guy who can’t seem to even have the maturity to look at your face and not your tits.
You take a long drink and sigh, “Please be okay, Peter…” You whisper it underneath your breath, fingers tapping anxiously against your glass.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“Finally, y’know, I'm getting too old for this. I have a girlfriend, okay? and she’s waiting for me to go to a party. You need to keep your crazy antics during work hours and week days, y’get me? Sheesh…” The group of weird goons dressed ready to perform the Wizard of Oz are all webbed up to the same lamppost, so tightly jammed together that they groan from behind the webs across their mouths. Peter is thoroughly fed up, running so incredibly late for the party and knowing that you are probably having a crappy time waiting for him. That’s if you’re still even there.
On top of that is the deep desperation to see what you look like, what dress you chose and how well it fits your body. To run his burning gaze across your skin and take you in. There’s never a moment that Peter doesn’t truly want you, you’re the most breathtaking person in his life, but god, he loves it when you have an excuse to get dressed up and wear something fancy. You always pick something that shows off your hips, always, a little tease to him. You know how much he loves your hips, the shape of them, the curve, the dips, the divots.
Peter’s drawn out of his thoughts of you to the sounds of sirens and the sight of police cars, they stop and he recognises Detective Morris as he steps out of his squad car. By this point Peter’s familiar with quite a few of the local police officers and they’ve long since stopped calling him a criminal, he’s now just some guy in a mask who helps them out and makes their job a million times easier than it was before.
“Hey, thanks, Spider-Man!”
“No problem, guys! Just make sure those kids get back safe?” Peter waves them towards the van, where a bunch of kids are sitting at the opening, waiting to be taken back to the Orphanage they came from. Kids are always a hard one, he still remembers Jack on the bridge, the fear that he might not be able to save him. It always makes him work that little bit harder, that little bit more determined to make sure they’re okay.
“That’s our job.” Peter’s phone goes off in his backpack and he’s quick to fish it out, your text lighting up his screen. “You got somewhere you need to be?” Detective Morris asks him, pointing to Peter’s phone.
“Yeah, yeah I do. My girl’s waiting on me. I hope she’s not too pissed with me…” Your text just reads ‘Where are you?’, no kisses at the end, no smiley faces or hearts. It’s hard to tell with such a simple message whether you’re going to be upset with him for taking almost two hours to get this done.
“She hot?” Peter can’t help but let out the loud and sudden laugh at the question, yeah. Yeah, you’re definitely hot. It’s the thought of you at the party, all pretty and dressed up and probably fending off all the men and women around that has him shoving his phone back in his backpack without even replying to your text.
“Detective Morris, she’s the most beautiful woman you will ever lay your eyes on. Not quite sure why she picked me, but hey! I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth!” He’s already walking towards the nearest building, backpack swung over his shoulders, knowing full well that the police can handle the weirdos now they’re subdued.
“Have fun! Hope you’re not in the dog house, Spidey!”
“Thanks, Morris!” It’s with that, that Peter swings away from the crime scene. Dropping down into an alleyway near the bar where the party is held he’s quick to change into the suit he’d packed in his backpack. Spidey Suit thrown in the bag haphazardly.
The suit is a little rumpled and the creases aren’t going to come out anytime soon, but he’s not got any new bruises or any new cuts this time and his hair is…somewhat manageable he thinks as uses the reflection in a dark shop window as a mirror. He even ties his tie properly, neat and proper, the way it’s supposed to be, a stark contrast to his usually more relaxed appearance. He’s quick to rub away a patch of dirt from his cheek and after a second glance, he’s pretty sure he looks presentable for once. He, at least, won’t completely embarrass you in front of your work colleagues, not that you’d ever call him embarrassing anyway.
Peter stops in a shop on the corner, picking out the last bouquet of roses they have. They’re a little wilted, but a beautiful red almost the same colour as his Spidey Suit. It’s better than showing up empty handed and late.
Now he just needs to walk to the bar, find you and sweep you off your feet. He’s not figured out if it’ll be figuratively or literally yet, maybe both. Both seems like a good idea to him.
There’s a new found pep in his step this time, knowing he’s about to see you and he’s not breaking his promise to turn up. He’ll be there, like he said he would and with flowers in hand. God, he can’t wait to see you.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Two hours in and you’re still not quite sure why you’re waiting for Peter. The lack of response to your text message convinces you that he’s still in the middle of whatever mess he left you for. Yet, still you wait. You’ll probably wait until the party ends because he promised he’d make it, he promised he’d be here and Jess is still giving you that look of pity and mocking that makes you want to see her proven wrong so desperately. You can’t wait to see her face drop when she sees Peter, your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who’s hotter than her fiance, nicer than her fiance, smarter than her fiance, all around better than her fiance. Her fiance who’s spent half the night chasing other womens’ skirts and pretending he hasn’t been. It’s petty, but it’s hard not to be when she’s spent the evening stirring the pot and convincing David that you’re unhappy in your relationship and looking for a bit of fun. Something that is most definitely not the case and any man with half a brain cell might have noticed. Not David though. He had one eighth of a brain cell at best.
David had made his way over five minutes previous and couldn’t quite seem to take a hint. It was starting to grate on your nerves, even more so as he took another step towards you, invading your already limited personal space like he belonged there.
“Have I told you you look beautiful tonight?” He thinks he’s charming, you can see that. The smile he puts on is overconfident and cocky, but not in the way that Peter’s can be. When Peter teases you, when he’s a little arrogant, it makes your cunt throb and your mind spin. Peter would have had you whining for him by now. David wasn’t Peter, he wasn’t even comparable. Maybe had you never met Peter Parker he might have been of interest to you, but Peter had ruined every single man for you. It was simple. Peter was your end game, your ride or die. You had no intention of being with another person for the rest of your life and David needed to get the hint.
“Yes. Multiple times. Have I told you about my boyfriend, Peter?” You stress the word through gritted teeth, pulling back from his hand reaching for your bare shoulder, his fingertips just grazing your skin.
“Where is he?” The disbelief is starting to really wear you down. Do people think you’re sad enough to lie about your boyfriend? As if that was something people regularly did!
“There was an emergency.” Your tone is clipped, gritted teeth and a solid glare at him that should have put him off continuing to pursue you. It didn’t. You were starting to think he was either completely idiotic, oblivious or so arrogant that he couldn’t comprehend the idea that a woman wouldn’t be interested in him and his gelled back hair. Who even uses that much gel in their hair anymore? It made him look like a boy band reject from 2002.
Peter had spotted you before anyone or anything else, it was his goal after all, to find you amongst the crowd. The first thing he noticed about you wasn’t how you were dressed or how gorgeous you looked at that moment, but the look of disdain on your face and the man leering towards you like some sort of creep, his eyes staring down the top of your dress.
The man’s words travelled easily to Peter’s ears, enhanced hearing a handy talent, his voice grated on Peter, his clear interest in you an annoyance even more so with how uncomfortable you clearly were. He wasn’t exactly happy to find another man trying to make a move on his girlfriend. Peter set his jaw, and set his sights on you. His strides were confident as he dodged around each guest at the party.
David huffs out a laugh, “Not a very good boyfriend if he leaves a beautiful woman to attend a party alone, I’d never do that to you, sweetcheeks.” The leer has you stepping back and into a warm chest behind you.
“You’d never have a chance.” A familiar and most welcome voice causing your shoulders to relax. It’s sarcastic and unfriendly, the latter rather unusual for your boyfriend. You turn to see him behind you, glare centred on David.
“Pete!” You’re so excited to see him that you throw your arms around his neck and pull him down to you by the back of the neck. His lips press against yours roughly, more so than normal and you melt into his kiss. Opening your mouth to the coaxing of his tongue without protest, one of his hands falling on your arse in a way you would normally be self-conscious of and tell him off for. But, given there’s an unwanted man attempting to get in your panties, you’re not going to dissuade the possessive hand across your arse or the way he seems to want to suffocate you with his kiss. Peter’s teeth bite your lip and you moan into his mouth before he pulls back with that little half grin of this, the one that’s near enough a smirk, where his brown eyes look at you half-shut and tempting.
“Hey there, my pretty lady…” He nuzzles his nose against yours, eyes flicking briefly towards the other man with a hint of a smirk, before pulling back from you just enough to offer you the red roses, “These are for you, sweetheart, sorry I’m late, I got held up.”
“Oh, baby! You didn’t have to!” You take the flowers from him and press a kiss to his lips, it was supposed to be a chaste one, but Peter presses back against you roughly, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth before letting you go.
“Of course I did, I’ve gotta make sure my baby feels loved, don’t I? Now, let me have a look at my baby, mmm?” You feel warm under his attention, he’s not behaving as sweetly as you expect. This is the sort of Peter you usually get in the bedroom, the sort of Peter who convinces you to try and see how many times he can make you cum in one night, the sort of Peter who wraps his hand around your throat and squeezes till the blood rushes in your ears and you can’t form words.
Still despite the warmth in your face and the heat in your cunt you step back from him, David barely a thought as Peter’s eyes look you up and down slowly from head to toe. His eyes trail from your face and the lipstick you only ever wear because you know it drives him crazy to see it smudged, to see it mark his skin, down to your bare shoulders. He follows the line of your body, the dress…the dress, that dress, it’s his favourite one. The red one, that pops out at him whenever you wear it. The red one that shows off your shoulders and sticks tight to the curves and dips of your body. The red one that shows off your hips, the hips that you know he loves so goddamn much. Fuck, he loves your hips, how they curve, how he can dig his fingers into the meat of them, the way bruises look against your skin there, how they sway when you walk.
His eyes are anything but soft and gentle when he scans you. This is not the Peter who tells you he loves you sweetly and washes your hair and you’re not mad about it. You’re not mad about the heat behind his eyes, the way he watches you with hooded eyes and licks his lips like he might just devour you.
It takes everything within him to acknowledge the man who had tried so desperately to flirt with you. He doesn’t want to, but still his eyes flick towards him, the fire stays but shifts from lustful to possessive, assessing the other man as if he’d ever be competition.
Peter wraps his arm around your hips and pulls you tight against his side, pressing the whole length of his body against your own as he turns to David. His smile is tight and forced, his usually friendly demeanour definitely not reserved for the man trying to flirt with his girl. You relax into Peter, just happy for him to be with you, for there to be a deterrent. You watch him more than David, taking in the way the suit fits Peter, tight across his shoulders, a few wrinkles he clearly hadn’t been able to get out by smoothing them with his hands. His jaw is tight and it only exaggerates the cut of it, he’s so beautiful and you don’t even want to stay at the party anymore. You just want him to drag you home already.
“Who’s this?”
“Oh, one of Jessica’s friends, Daryl was it?” You know his name’s David really, but it’s a petty little attempt to remind him that you’re not interested in him and that he should find another pretty girl to try his moves on.
“David.” He corrects tersely, Peter shouldn’t find it enjoyable, the way the other man seems to deflate. He knows his uncle Ben would have told him off for it, for the way he was behaving, but for once he didn’t care. You were his, he was yours. David was an unnecessary and unwanted tag along. He also had way too much gel in his hair.
There’s an uncomfortable tense silence as Peter and David stare each other down before Peter turns with you still wrapped up in his arms. He doesn’t even say goodbye to David, just turns, openly dismissive of him as he ushers you towards a quiet corridor leading to the bathrooms. He urges you to shove the roses into his backpack as you walk, once a sweet gesture, now an inconvenience to his plans.
His grip is tight on your hip as you walk, and it only grows more forceful as he presses you against a nearby wall, hands landing on either side of your head, caging you in. Nothing about it is aggressive or nasty, just lacking in his usual softness and control. You know you’re not getting the overly sweet and tender Peter tonight, it’s exciting to see this side of him.
“Did you like him flirting with you, baby? Did it make you feel special?” His voice is rough and low in your ear, warm breath tickling over the shell of your ear. His thigh makes its way between your own, pressing firm against your cunt and you can’t help but roll your hips against the intrusion. Dragging yourself across his leg in an effort to find some sort of friction, some sort of relief from the beginning desire that burns in your stomach like white phosphorus..
“No, no, Pete. Only you, only want you, baby…” Your breath stutters at the feeling of your clit dragging across his thigh, wetness pooling in your panties as Peter trails kisses down your neck, teeth nipping and biting at the skin as he goes. He’s rough enough that you know there will be bruises across your neck, clearly placed hickeys that show you’re taken. You think that’s the point, something about David’s attention has set Peter off and you’re not complaining.
“Mmm, I’m the only one that can make you feel like this, baby girl?” Peter kisses along your cheek, lips hovering over your own as his hand reaches for your neck. He squeezes just so, thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw, tilting your head for him and you can’t help the whine that falls from your throat as you press your hips against his thigh. The fact you’re in an open corridor is a distant worry, barely a thought as your eyes flutter closed.
“Answer me, sweet girl.” His voice is firm, you force your eyes open to look at him, the way his brown eyes stare into yours as his lips brush against your own, nose nuzzling against yours. Even like this he has this gentleness, a tenderness that reminds you that you are in safe hands. Peter has you and nothing bad will happen, not even with your co-workers just down the corridor.
“Only you…only you make me feel like this, not him, no one else.” It’s a babbling mess that causes Peter to smirk because you’re so pretty like this, rutting against his thigh, skin warm and neck littered with small bruises that you won’t be able to hide tonight. He’s barely started and you’re desperate for him, and fuck, if he doesn’t love seeing you like this for him. Like he’s the only man in the world that can make you lose your sharp wits and ability to speak.
“There’s my good girl, my sweet girl…” Peter’s hands slide to your thighs gripping them tight and pulling them from the floor, wrapping them around his hips for you as he presses you into the wall. Your arms wrap around his neck instinctively, this scene having played out time and time again as Peter often takes advantage of his superhuman strength.
He moves you while you lazily press kisses across his jaw, what little skin on his neck is exposed is sucked and nipped as you occupy yourself with him. He thanks whatever deity looked kindly upon him, for this bar to have those individual unisex toilets, lockable and with such heavy doors that the sound is muffled and almost non-existant from outside.
Peter lets one arm drop from underneath your arse as he closes and locks the heavy door behind him, you’re placed roughly on top of a cold marble sink countertop, your thighs resting just on the edge of it. It’s so cold against your heated skin that it causes you to shiver. Peter, despite the mood he’s in, rubs your legs instinctively to warm you up.
“Pete…baby…”
“What do you want, sweet girl? Y’gotta tell me so I can help you out, you gotta use your words for me, sweetheart.” His smirk is teasing and teethy, eyes dark, practically black as his pupils take over most of his iris. Peter knows you can barely form a coherent sentence right now, and can very rarely ever form a coherent sentence when you’re fooling around together. Peter enjoys teasing you, enjoys seeing you struggling to form words, your lips moving as if sound will come out a few times before you finally manage it. He loves that he can do this to you, completely pull you apart without really even touching you.
“Need you, baby…” It’s pleading and sweet, your eyes half lidded as you try to tug him closer to you and he resists your pulling, his own hands grazing lightly at the skin of your thighs sending shivers over your spine. You shift your hips forward, but Peter just pulls his hands back a couple of inches, nearing your knees instead of following your silent urging.
“Where do you need me, sweetie, mmm?” His voice is so sweet compared to his actions, the voice he uses when he’ll do whatever you want, but he’s not doing what you want right now. It’s frustrating and delicious and you can’t help the shifting of your hips as if you’ll find relief from the empty air.
“Pete…” You whine bashful and embarrassed, knowing he wants vulgar and crass words to fall from your lips in an unfamiliar display of crudeness from you. A bluntness that you’re not used to around sex, you’re never the direct one, Peter is.
“C’mon, baby girl, where do you need me?” His voice is firmer, less soft and sweet, less pandering this time. It’s an order, a directive. If you want anything tonight you’re going to have to play by his rules. His rules are deliciously unfair, you think as your belly burns and your clit throbs unattended.
“I…” You toss your head to the side, face and ears so hot you feel feverish with delightful embarrassment, Peter is the only person you could ever feel so safe with like this, “I…want you to…want your lips on me, baby.” You know your words are too vague the moment his grin widens and he drops his lips to your shoulder, pressing an open mouthed kiss there, teeth grazing across your heated skin.
“Here?”
“Nooo…Pete!” You whine and throw your head back in frustration, hands reaching for his head as if to guide him, but he’s already moved onto the hollow at the base of your throat, pressing a kiss there as you squirm.
“Here then?”
“Pete!” Your hands shove his shoulders down, trying to urge him between your thighs like you want but he just smirks up at you all teeth and sin and control.
“Y’gotta tell me, baby, I'm Spider-Man, not a mind reader.” His lips continue to trail over your exposed skin; your collar bone, your throat, your arms and shoulders. Each time he kisses and licks and bites and you know you are going to walk out of this bathroom littered with love bites that your coworkers will see, that Jessica will see, that David will see.
The idea of everyone knowing you’re Peter’s, and he’s yours, that he looks after you so well, takes care of you properly, that’s what spurs you to say the words you’ve been so reluctant to.
“On my…on my cunt. I want your lips on my cunt.” You close your eyes and tilt your head back. Peter can’t resist the length of your neck and one last kiss to it before he gives you a sweet reward for your obedience.
“There, that wasn’t so difficult was it, sweet girl?” It was, you think. It was so difficult and yet his attention makes you want to squirm, making it worth the difficulty.
Fuck, you’re so pretty like this he think as he rucks up your skirt around your hips and slides your panties down your trembling legs and into his pocket. Your lips parting as you gasp and whine for him to just touch you while you tremble and shake for him. Your perfectly done hair is already a mess from being pressed against a wall, and your skin is littered with love bites from his mouth. A monet painting across your skin of various shades of purple and red. He can’t wait for David to see you like this, on his arm, can’t wait for everyone to know you’re his.
He takes a step back for a moment just to admire you and the distance has your head snapping up to look at him with a frowny little pout on your face. He’s scanning you again, head to toe, a slow trail of his gaze burning across your skin as Peter licks his lips and grins at your frustration.
You contain your desire to tell him you hate him, knowing he’s in the mood to stop and draw this out. That saying it will only result in him torturing you for longer and you’re much too riled up already for that. There’s a distant thought that you can’t believe Peter’s about to eat you out in a bar bathroom with your co-workers a few meters away. Another part knows he’s the only person who could ever convince you to do this.
“Pete, baby, touch me, please”
“Well, since you asked so nicely, honey.”
He drops to his knees so roughly that you wince at the sound of the impact as his knees meet the tiled floor of the bathroom. His hands slide up your ankles, a delicate little touch that has your skin twitching as he reaches the backs of your knees and drags you forward on the countertop until your arse is on the edge. His hands slide up to your hips to hold you securely in place, flexing fingers digging into the flesh there tightly enough to leave bruises, a reminder that he has you and a reminder of what sort of night you’re in for.
He presses close between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders as he holds you close and for all his teasing there is no preamble here. You whine as Peter licks from your slit to your clit in one fell swoop. Your hands slide into the dark brown strands of his hair and tug harshly, getting a groan from him at the pain. Shit, he loves pleasing you, could probably do this all night if you wanted. He pulls back just enough to look at you.
“You taste so good, baby, my sweet baby, is this all for me?” Peter’s hands tighten on your hips as you squirm, wetness pooling between your thighs and coating the inside of them with slick. You’re so wet that he has half a mind to ask if you’ve been thinking about him all night, if you were thinking of him when David tried his moves on you.
“All for you…all for you, baby.” Your legs twitch over his shoulders, a pathetic little attempt at urging him forward again, never able to win a battle of physical strength with Peter, no matter how hard you try. He’s steady as a rock, only moving when he wants and how he wants.
“Who does this cunt belong to, sweetheart, mmm?” His voice is so goddamn low and gravelly at this point that it goes straight between your legs.
You’re pretty sure your brain short circuits, Peter’s words combined with his mouth dipping back between your legs and his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking has you throwing your head back so hard that Peter’s quick to reach a hand up and place it between the back of your skull and the bathroom mirror. He saves you from cracking your head as casually as he licks at your cunt and shit, Peter still having that much awareness and control causes more slick to gather underneath his tongue. He’s so goddamn competent and you love it.
“I asked you a question, baby.” His lips turn to the inside of your thigh, licking up your tangy wetness that has dripped there, biting into the meat of your thigh and laving it with his tongue while he waits for an answer. He’s being cruel and he knows it, normally he’d give you everything you want without question or much teasing, but tonight is different. It doesn’t matter that he’s rock hard in his dress pants, all that matters is reminding you that you belong to him and showing you no one else could love you this good. As if that was ever in doubt.
“Yours, baby, it’s your cunt, yours.”
He rewards you by diving back into you, tasting you on his tongue as he presses into you and surrounds himself with you, nose nudging at your clit as he licks into you and allows your hips to buck against his face. He can tell you’re close from the way you thrash, how your legs tense over his shoulders, but he knows you well enough to know you need more than just his lips on you.
Peter wraps his lips back around your clit and sucks at the same time as he presses a thick, long finger into you. You moan and twist, but it’s not enough, you feel so decidedly empty. Peter watches you from between your thighs, eyes looking up at you, at the puff of your cheeks as you hunt for a breath of air. Your hands tug at his hair with each suck and lick of his mouth.
Peter’s quick to press a second finger into you, curling the two of them just so against that spongy little spot inside you that has you crying out his name and gasping for air. His hand is still the only thing saving you from giving yourself a concussion. He’s downright relentless as he thrusts his fingers into you, curling against that spot each time, lips sucking and licking around your clit like a lollipop.
It’s a third finger stretching you open, eased by the sheer amount of wetness that you drip with, and the subtlest graze of his teeth against your clit that has you cumming. Your legs wrapping so tight around Peter’s head he worries he might suffocate, at the same time as thinking that would be the best way for him to go out. Dying between your thighs seems like a pretty good way to go.
You whine his name so loud that he’s not even sure the heavy door can muffle it. Your body tensing and relaxing with the waves of your orgasm as Peter works you through it, lips pulling away from you, but fingers still pressing into you, more gently this time. “There you go, baby, look at you…so pretty for me. Prettiest woman I’ve ever seen…look at you…”
He lets you push his hand away when it’s too much and pulls himself to his full height, slipping his fingers into his mouth and sucking you from his skin. You lean into him, pressing your cheek into his shoulder as Peter rubs circles into the back of your neck. Still soft, still tender as he waits for you to catch your breath and come back down from it all.
“You okay, baby?”
“Mmm, more than okay, Pete…fuck, you trying to ruin me?” You lean back and finally look at him. Your lipstick is smudged, eyeliner running, hair an absolute mess. You look wrecked in the best sort of way and he knows it’ll be obvious what you’ve just done when you walk out into the bar on the way back to your apartment, but that’s what he wants. Wants them to look at you and him and know.
“You just look so good like that, baby.” Peter’s hand wraps around your throat and your eyes roll back, already finding yourself getting worked back up again. He’s still so pristine looking, tie still in place, the only things rumpled are his hair and the lipstick marks across his lips and jaw. Compared to you he looks barely touched.
Peter’s lips press against your jaw, kissing up to your ear, “think it’s time we went home now, don’t you, baby girl?”
You nod rapidly, unable to find the words as Peter helps you slip off the counter and pull your dress down. He never returns your panties and you know he’s not in the mood to give them back. Asking would be pointless. You look wrecked but don’t even care as Peter slips his arm around your waist and walks you back out to the party.
You have to walk through the other guests to reach the exit, before Peter can swing you home and fuck you into the mattress. You smirk at Jessica as you pass by, her annoying face the picture of shock at the love bites and mussed hair you sport, at the specimen of a man wrapped around you in a black tie.
Peter does much the same to David, a challenging lift of his brow, a reminder he never had a chance with a woman like you. It’s petty on both your ends, possessive and silly, especially considering you should be embarrassed about being eaten out in a bar bathroom, but it fills you with a sort of confidence that sways your hips more.
He doesn’t really waste time; Once you’re out of the building and into an alleyway Peter’s tugging his mask in place and lifting you into his arms, eager to get you back to your shared apartment and out of your dress. He loves that dress on you, but right now, it’d look better on the floor.
There’s no faffing about as you land on the fire escape and Peter urges you inside, backpack and mask thrown on couch as he presses into you, lips smothering your own in a heated kiss. You move backwards with him, trusting him to guide you through the apartment and not lead you into a wall. His kisses twist from your lips to your jaw as you make it into the bedroom, nipping down your neck and over your sternum.
There’s very little talking as Peter turns you around and unzips your dress, pulling the red fabric from your body and letting it pool to the floor at your feet. Your strapless bra is next, unclipped and thrown to the side until all you are wearing are your shoes. You stand as patiently as you can, squirming on the spot as you wait for Peter’s next move.
“Fuck, baby, you’re so hot and all mine, right?” His fingertips skim over your shoulders, down your bare arms to twist with your own as he presses his front to your back. His excitement, hard and solid against you, as he presses kisses over your spine.
“All yours, Pete.” You sigh it out, head dropping back against his chest behind you as he nips across your skin.
“Promise?”
“Promise, only ever yours, I don’t want anyone else.” You’re pretty sure Peter Parker has ruined you for other people at this point. You’re pretty sure you’d only spend your life comparing them to him, if you can’t have Peter you might as well not have anyone.
“Mmm, me neither, baby…you’re my baby, I don’t need anyone else” It thrills you to hear it from him, that it’s just you. That other women, other men, other people don’t interest him. Peter’s all yours and it’s all you want and all you need.
He twists you in front of him, lips pressing down your chest and capturing a nipple between his teeth. The harsh tug causes a shaky breath to leave your throat as his fingers reach for your other breast.
You’re urged backwards towards the bed, stepping out of your dress and heels as he licks, bites and sucks at your chest, leaving an innumerable number of love bites over your body, to the point you’re sure someone might start worrying about you. You love it though, the purpling evidence across your body of his devotion to you, evidence of his hunger for your skin.
You gasp as he pushes you back to land on the bed with a bounce, before Peter covers you with his own body. He is warm and broad over you, all encompassing as he lifts one of your legs up to his hip. Still fully clothed you whine against him as he rocks into you, far too many layers separating the two of you.
“Pete, too many clothes!”
He tuts at you, “Oh no, you’re going to cum on my fingers before I get out of this suit, baby, think you can do that for me?” He wants to push you tonight, see how many orgasms he can wring from you before you’re tapped out and exhausted, till your cock drunk and unable to speak. Needs to make it up to you for that two hour wait, needs to make up for the fact he dragged you from the party after barely being there twenty minutes and the embarrassment you’re likely to feel later when you realise everyone at work saw you post-orgasm.
You shake your head no, but your lips form the word ‘yes’ over and over. Peter urges your hips up as he slides a pillow underneath them to prop them up. His fingers trail down your stomach, before his hand cups your cunt and two fingers press into you without hesitation. You’re still so wet and warm from before that he has no problem sliding them inside you as you grind against his palm. Heat wells in your belly and twists itself in delicious knots. Your skin feels hot again, like you’ve caught the worst sort of fever and there’s a corny joke somewhere in the back of your mind that just about avoids your lips.
“Baby…”
“I’ve got you, you know I've got you, sweet girl. Always got you.” He croons to you, lips hovering over your own, watching the way your eyes flutter shut as he presses into you and seeks out that spot again, thumb coming to circle your clit. Your hands grip his shoulders tight, without the layers of clothing your nails would be digging into his skin and he wishes he could feel it, the lash of pain across his back as you dig crescent moons into him, mark him as your own.
You twist in his arms when he finds it, that spongy spot that makes you keen and throw your head back into the mattress. Peter sits up on his knees to find his balance, fingers still pushing in and out of your cunt, thumb still pressing circles across your clit, just up and to the left where you’re most sensitive. His free hand wraps around your neck, finding its home there like so many times before. It’s careful, but firm as he presses onto the sides of your throat and feels you moan under his palm, the light pressure causing blood to rush to your ears, intensifying the feeling building in your belly and the slick against Peter’s fingers.
“There we go, baby. Look at you…so pretty, my pretty pretty baby.” He’s always like this, even when he’s teasing and rougher, Peter always croons praise at you like a song, a mantra. His words are sweet even as he pulls you apart from the inside out, a reminder that there is love and trust between you, that he loves you.
“Pete…” You’re not sure what you want to say, eyes opening halfway to watch him as he grins down at you, dimples pushing against his cheeks. He looks so hot like this, hand around your neck, still dressed to the nines, your lipstick smudged across his mouth like some sort of abstract painting.
“C’mon, baby girl, I know you can do it, cum for me, c’mon…I got’chu.” Peter increases the pace of his fingers, rougher, harder, faster, as he tightens his hand around your throat and watches as your eyes roll back into your head, body shaking as you cum for him. Your toes always curl when you cum, and your legs kick out, one knocking into his side roughly.
You shove his hands away from you for a moment, too sensitive for him to continue right away and watch as Peter brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks you from his fingers like his favourite dessert.
“Mmm, you always taste so good, baby, don’t you agree?” His mouth presses to yours soon after the question is posed, your mouth prised open by his tongue as you taste yourself on his lips. You moan into his mouth and chase his lips when he pulls back.
It doesn’t matter that you’ve cum twice tonight, you’re not satisfied, eyes trailing over his fully clothed form to stop on the bulge in his pants. Fuck, you want him inside you so bad, he’s drawn it out tonight, a tease.
“You want something, sweetheart?”
You nod your head vigorously, leaning up onto your elbows as he steps back from the bed, smirking at you. “You. Want you, Pete…”
“Want me where?” You watch as he grabs his tie in one hand, loosening it from his neck. You’re not sure when removing a tie became so attractive, but Peter makes it so. Even more so as buttons begin to be opened and his freckled skin begins to be revealed with each of them.
“In me. Want you in me, Pete.” Whatever embarrassment and bashfulness you had earlier has wilted and died along the way, two orgasms in and all you really want right now is his cock in your cunt as he leans over you with a hand around your throat.
“Mmm, think you got one more in you, baby?”
“Yes, yes…”
“Good girl, just be patient for me, mmm?” You nod your head and watch, squirming in place but patient as you watch Peter shrug his jacket from his shoulders and toss it unceremoniously across the room.
He’s slow as he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and finishes opening the buttons of his shirt. The white cotton slides from his shoulders like silk as it flutters to the ground. Your eyes follow the breadth of his shoulders, the lines of his torso, catching on familiar scars and freckles that you’ve kissed time and time again.
“You’re so handsome, baby.” You watch the warmth reach his face, red shadows across his cheeks and ears, always unused to a compliment, but that’s why you always took the time to make them. “You’re so hot, Peter…fuck…” Your voice breathy and in awe of this man, this man who loves you and fucks you and needs you, wants you.
“You that needy for me, sweet baby?” He’s tugging at his belt buckle, sliding the leather through the loops even with his dark eyes focused on you and he knows what you’re doing. You’re pushing back just a little bit. He’s teased you this entire time and now you’re trying to push back with your own, to get him to move quicker, it’s cute that you think you have any control here.
“Mmm, always needy for you, Pete.” You wriggle a little in place, the movement of your hips catching his eye and stopping his hands in their tracks as they reach for the fly of his pants. He takes a moment, letting you stew in the realisation that he's only slowed down and not sped up.
Your comments stop then, breath held as you return to patient silence, stilling your body even as your toes curl in anticipation. He begins again once you’re settled, trouser button popped and fly pulled down. Shoes kicked off before Peter steps out of his dress pants and boxers, bare before you.
He lets you get a good look in, your eyes trailing over his tall form, the slimness of his waist, his cock weeping against his stomach, hard and wanting. He’s been hard since the bathroom at the bar, Peter’s patience and self-restraint always astounding to you. You don’t have it in you, you’re always needy and impatient when it comes to him and your desires.
“You sure you’re up for one more, baby?” He asks as he makes his way to settle over you, arms on either side of your head, muscles bulging deliciously. He’s giving you an out, not that he’d ever continue anything without your permission. You know that about Peter intimately, he could be a second away from cumming and still he would pull out of you if you no longer wanted to keep going. It was that ability to trust in him that made it all so easy.
“Mmm, yeah, Pete, need you,”
“You got me, you got me, sweet girl.” Peter urges your legs up and around his hips, cock dragging through the slickness of your cunt, once again glad you're on the pill and the lack of barrier between the two of you. You’re so warm and wet that it takes him a moment to compose himself, the head of his cock teasing your clit as your fingers dig into his back. Your body burns in the best sort of way, the slide of him against you sending tingles up your spine, so sensitive at this point that even just the touch of him to your clit has you contorting.
Then he slides home, an easy slow thrust that has your hips lifting and nails carving crescent moons into his skin. Peter hisses at the tight clutch you have around his cock and the slight pain in his back, delicious and brilliant. He knows this is the last one, his restraint at the end of its tether.
“Fuckkk…you’re so wet, baby…” His forehead drops to your shoulder, hips beginning to rock into your own, the slow drag of his cock against your walls drawing a long moan from your throat. “This all for me?”
“Mmmhmmm, all for you…” You’re not sure your brain works anymore, if you’re being honest. You feel like you’re swimming in sensation, your brain a little hazy, senses only focused on Peter. The drag of him through your walls, the touch of his lips to your neck, the smell of his shampoo in your nose.
“You okay?” He chuckles at the way you look up at him a little dumb smile on your face, eyes half-lidded and hazy. He’d be worried if I hadn’t seen that look on your face before. This is definitely the last orgasm he’ll wring out of you tonight, anymore and it’d be pushing you past your breaking point. He can tell already.
“Mmm?”
“Just a little cockdumb, huh, baby? You like me filling you up?” You know he’s laughing at you, but you can’t really complain as he thrusts harder and surer with each rocking of his hips, can’t really complain when his hand is at your throat again, thumb pressing underneath your jaw and tilting your head to look at him. His eyes are so goddamn soft and warm, and fuck, he’s so handsome above you.
“Mmm, so good, Pete…not…”
“Not what, baby? Mmm, use your words for me.” You rock back into him, legs hiking further up his hips, dragging him deeper into you. The head of his cock hitting that spot in you as his hand slides down your body to your clit.
“Not gonna last, so close, baby.” You jerk in his arms, feeling overwhelmed, so sensitive and so, so warm as you clench around him at his fingertips circling your clit.
“You gonna cum for me? Where do you want me, sweet girl? Mmm? Where do you want me?” He’s close too, can feel the tightness in his stomach, but needs to know where you want him. Sometimes you don’t want the sticky feeling between your legs and sometimes you want him deep inside you. He has thoughts on it tonight too. Wants to cum in you and claim you, the only one to ever get to do it again. Not stupid men like David, they’ll never get the privilege, because it is a privilege to have you like this, to have your trust and submission to him.
Your gasping for air, body burning so bright that you can barely keep your eyes open and on his own. “Cum in me, please, please Pete, fill me up…baby…”
Thank fuck, Peter thinks, thank fuck you’re on the same page. His hand tightens around your throat, the other pressing roughly into your clit and rocking as deep as he can, barely pulling out of you, not wanting to miss this, miss cumming in you like you want, like he wants. “Mmm, want me to fill you up? Want me to fuck a baby into you? Our baby, huh?” Fuck, it’s a way off, he knows that. Knows you can’t get pregnant, knows that you need to get married first, get a bigger place, but shit if the idea doesn’t appeal to him. Taking you, filling you up with him, making a baby with you, your stomach round, tits growing. Fuck…He should be ashamed, but you’ve never let him feel bad about any impulse of his.
“Yes, fuck, yes, Pete..” It doesn’t matter that you’re on the pill, that you’re not going to get pregnant, it’s the thought that counts, the idea of him claiming you, being yours totally and wholly. Having a piece of him with you. Of a family with him, a baby with his eyes and that impossible ability to get in trouble.
“Gonna fill you up, baby, mark you up, make you mine, mmm? Wanna be mine?”
“Yours, only yours, Pete…” You kiss over his neck, sucking a mark, deep and purple into his skin. A little sad knowing it’ll disappear within a few hours, healing before you can truly enjoy the sight of it on his skin.
“Then cum for me, sweet girl” He lowers his mouth to your ear, whispers it low and sweet so close that it feels like you’re the only two people in the world, his hand around your throat tightens and you’re falling, tumbling, diving over your third end of the night. Cumming around him, you grip him so tight that it doesn’t take long for him to follow, stilling as he cums in you, filling you up like you both wanted.
The two of you gasp for breath, heaving chests as Peter lowers himself down onto you for a moment. The weight of him is a comfort as he softens inside you. Your hands trail over his back in soothing circles, the two of you just taking a moment to come down from it all.
“Need to get you cleaned up, baby…” Peter speaks first, pulling out of you, the discomfort of his spend slipping from your body made obvious by your grimace. He gets off of you and tucks his arms underneath you, lifting your body from the bed and making his way to the bathroom.
You’re both quiet as you stand under the warmth of the shower, taking turns to wash the other, soothing hands over bruise marks and broken skin. Hands washing the spend from your thighs and pressing soothing kisses to the marks on your hips, even as he smirks up at you, proud of himself, too proud.
You’re warm and lax when you finally curl up in bed with Peter, the covers cool against your skin, and Peter’s heartbeat solid beneath your ear.
“Sorry I was late…you did look beautiful tonight though.” You cuddle deeper into him. Not the least bit concerned about his lateness. You knew he’d be late, but he’d made it and in the end the look on Jessica’s face was worth the two hours waiting…so were the three orgasms.
“Think you more than made up for it, Pete…” You laugh at him, pressing a kiss to his chest and closing your eyes.
“Yeah?”“Mmm, I think I might not be able to walk tomorrow…”
“Good thing it’s a Sunday.” Good thing it’s Sunday indeed.
You find the roses he brought you two days later in Peter’s backpack, wilted and crumpled, neglected in favour of his lips on your cunt and hand around your throat like an obscene necklace.
#peter parker#peter parker x reader#tasm!peter parker x reader#tasm!peter parker#tasm!peter parker reader insert#peter parker reader insert#the amazing spider-man#the amazing spider-man reader insert#the amazing spider man#andrew garfield! Peter parker#andrew garfield! spider-man#female identifying reader
652 notes
·
View notes
Text
31 Days of Horror Day 14 Meet
(putting this on readmore because it’s long)
Keeping up with Sasori in front of him, Kabuto couldn’t help but feel the heavy air of dread the hideout. There are no other Akatsuki members here other than Orochimaru who left him alone with Sasori and they’re on their way to meet with the Leader who was to inspect Kabuto firsthand since it is implied that he refuses to accept weak spies or shinobi to be working for them. The rules were that all new members including subordinates are to meet with the leader first. Remembering Orochimaru’s instructions, he hopes that he meets the Leader’s expectations because otherwise Kabuto would be quite disappointed in himself for failing such a simple task.
“You are to answer any questions he asks of you and don’t waste his or my time. Get smart with him and you’re on your own. There is a reason why I had my tools prepared just in case...”
Kabuto tries to not make any kind of expression but he does subtly frown at that. “Let’s hope that there won’t be a need for that, Lord Sasori.” The man could only huff as they continue down the hall.
There seems to be a warm light in the middle of the dark dim room and Kabuto’s eyes adjust to the brightness. Within the fire’s light, there’s a silhouette of a man standing there, waiting for their arrival.
“He’s here. Kabuto, hurry up and get this over with so that I can put you to work.” Sasori commanded and Kabuto nods as he steps towards the imposing figure. His footsteps echoes within the room and he stops at an appropriate distance from them. He gazes upon the intimidating man and taking in every detail he spots from them.
Orange hair, black cloak, seems to favor body mutilation judging by the piercings, looks to be the age of in their mid or late 20s, but what really catches his attention is their unique ripple patterned eyes that Orochimaru had warned him about. Eyes that can not only can see his chakra but also can use all 5 elements and yin and yang jutsu.
The legendary Rinnegan.
“Kabuto Yakushi. I was told that you were suggested by Orochimaru to work for Sasori. Am I correct?" They inquire in their deep voice. Kabuto kneels before them, “Yes. It would be an honor to work and be a part of your cause.” The older man’s emotionless stare burns through Kabuto’s being and the medic does not dare to let his curiosity lure him into meeting glances with them. The teen have quite an impressive chakra signature, no sense of deception of any sort. Even knowing that they specialize in medical jutsu would be very useful since seeking outside medical help is too risky, especially when the Akatsuki is at it’s infancy state. But how loyal and trustworthy Kabuto is would be up to debate as someone like Orochimaru is not to be easily trusted without constant surveillance. Would this one also require supervision as well?
“No identity or any knowledge of where you come from. No physical signs of your nationality. You are the kind of shinobi that is desired by many. But also someone to be wary of. It’s quite a convenience that someone like you would show up in our radar.”
“I was discovered by Orochimaru and he convinced me that working for you would help me find my true purpose in this world.” Kabuto replied in a polite tone.
Pein was not swayed by their sympathetic reasons, as he keeps his eyes on them, “This is a serious matter. Everything we do is a serious matter. There is no room for mistakes or doubts about our goals. Should you join... your life is ours and you will serve us and only us. No one else.”
“I know, I would not come here if I had anyone else or a country to be loyal to. You can trust me.” Kabuto responds calmly.
Pein fixes his eyes on the boy, “I’d like to think so, but conviction must be proven with action. Starting now, you will work for Sasori and follow any orders that are given to you by him, no matter how morally ambiguous they are. You will be kept under watch by one of our own spies until you have been proven to be true to your words and if there’s any sign of doubt or deception on your part, you will be eliminated.”
He steps down from his stand and his shadow eclipses Kabuto’s own. The other examines his chakra and his posture for any sign of reluctance or fear.
“Now I’ll ask again. Do you stand with the Akatsuki? This is your final chance to leave with your life.”
“I do... I made my choice. I won’t let you down.” Kabuto answered with a promised tone.
After minutes of silence, Pein turns his back towards Kabuto as he begins to walk the other way. “You are dismissed, from now on. You are the subordinate and spy of the Akatsuki. Do as we ask and you will find your place in this world. Do not fail us.”
Kabuto rises from the floor and he quietly leaves to follow Sasori who was waiting for him at the entrance. “Took a little too long for my taste. He must be very suspicious of you. But now that you’ve been approved by him. I have an assignment for you, and I expect you to follow it through and through.”
His glasses gleam from the reflection of the candle light and he nods with an emotionless expression, “Of course Lord Sasori, I’ll see to it that it will be completed very soon.”
“Heh, well... that was easy...” Kabuto internally smirked as he turns around to leave the hideout.
#31 days of horror#spy verse#can't imagine how scary it must've been for Kabuto to meet Pein#and the implication of death for any reasons#I love how I worded Pein voice here#:D
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
amnesia snippets bc im a disorganized fuck
“ @safetytank the base plot is that ya boys are out doing something or other with some soldiers and get jumped by bandits, damen gets clonked on the head and THE REST IS HISTORY (fuck me i’d love to make this proper and finished but the wedding fic is taking up all my attention) also feel free to stick any of this under a readmore bc even these little bits are kinda long”
-
DAMEN GETS AMNESIA AND FORGETS LAURENT AND ITS SO SAD AND IM SO SAD EVERYONE READ THIS AND CRY WITH ME
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Auguste of Vere knelt over him, one hand tilting his jaw upwards as that accented voice said again, “Damen.”
In the split-second it took him to drive his fist into the prince’s shoulder, he had the sense of mind to stomp down the pang of guilt at how his opponent’s expression had been one of worried concern.
Strangely—if fortunately—the Veretian hadn’t expected the move at all, and hit the ground hard enough that the force threw him onto his back. In the space of a heartbeat, Damen rolled over and scrambled to his feet, yanking his sword from its scabbard in expectation that the other prince would have done the same.
He hadn’t. His counterpart had only managed to wedge an elbow between himself and the grassy dirt, and now Damen could see what looked like a piece of yellow silk knotted tightly around the arch of his foot.
He frowned, his sword’s grip never wavering. Auguste hadn’t been injured before they had begun fighting, he was sure of it. And neither of their armies carried yellow, only blues and reds. Now that he thought on it, he didn’t recognize their surroundings at all. Marlas was a wide-open field, not a valley between gently-sloping hills and dense forest.
And Auguste…was not Auguste, he realized with a dawning moment of comprehension. The man lying at his feet was a fair double, possessing the same pale complexion and blond hair as the Veretian royal family, but he was thinner, softer, and wore his fear more plainly than any real crown prince would have allowed.
“Damen,” the impersonator repeated. Then, in Akielon, “It’s me.”
He breathed out, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. Just like Vere to claim they would hold to the rules of an honorable battle, and then send a body-double in their prince’s place. He sheathed his sword, staring down at the false prince with unmasked disdain.
“Clearly,” he spat, “it is not. Tell me where you have taken me.”
The confusion on the double’s face gave him pause, enough that the man seemed able to gather himself, wheels clearly turning behind those lake-blue eyes.
“We’re camped at the foothills of Serecote,” the false prince spoke in accented Akielon. “You are in no danger.”
His glance around them at the bodies strewn across the grass was a snippy retort all on its own.
“They were brigands,” the Veretian continued, admirably calm for someone sprawled on the ground with what looked like a broken ankle and a ruse that had come apart inside of a minute. “Loyal to no country and no ruler. All of them have been dispatched.”
As likely a story as any. “Why have you brought me here?” he demanded, very deliberately placing a hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword. “Are you hoping for an Akielon surrender if my father can’t produce a combatant? Because I can assure you that won’t be the case.”
The imposter’s flinch was the only hint that his words had any effect whatsoever. No matter, he thought, taking a last glance at the corpses strewn around them for any clue that one might be playing dead with a knife gripped under their bloodied breastplate. The hills surrounding them would provide enough of a vantage point to gauge his distance from any mountain ranges, and from there chart his course back to the border.
The only problem would be evading his captors but, as he met the double’s eyes again, he didn’t believe that would be too much of an obstacle.
“Damen.” He paid the double no attention, choosing the nearest hill that wouldn’t leave his back exposed, in case the imposter had falsified his broken ankle as well. “Damen!” Then what had to be a filthy curse in Veretian. “Damen, wait!”
“Don’t call me that,” he responded in annoyance, turning his head enough to catch sight of the imposter still propped up on his elbows—his injury legitimate, then.
“Damianos of Akielos,” the double snapped, the title dripping with venom. “Your father has been dead for three years.”
The lie was of such poor quality its brazen tone caught him entirely off-guard.
“Is that what they told you to say?” he blurted after a moment or two. “Your masters are more terrible at this than I thought. Where’s your national pride in dishonesty and deceit?”
He shouldn’t have stayed to insult the exposed fraud, no matter how amusing it was to see the man take such offense that he was rendered practically speechless.
~~~~~~~~OH SHIT EVERYONE ELSE SHOWS BACK UP~~~~~~~
“United?” he blurted, the words punching through the shock rooting him to the spot. “How—when—”
“I believe it would be appropriate,” Auguste’s double interjected, silencing Nikandros’ beginnings of an answer, “for proper introductions at this time. None of this will make sense to him otherwise, so it would be prudent to begin with what is most important.”
From the gathered men’s silence, it seemed they agreed. Damen bristled silently at their acquiescence to a Veretian, and a professional liar at that.
“Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “I would hope you know me already,” he addressed the gathered Akielons, whose nods without hesitance were a comfort. “In fact,” he turned back to the man wearing a prince’s armor, “the only one here I don’t know is you.”
Were he not seated as close to the imposter as he was, he might not have caught the minute strain of a tendon in the man’s neck, only a flicker of movement before those icy eyes settled on his own.
“Very well,” the man replied, his tone deliberately kept even. “Your people know me as King Laurent of Vere.”
King? His mouth fell open. He didn’t bother trying to close it again.
“You, however,” the man, the king of Vere, continued, “know me as your Prince-Consort.” He spoke the Akielon words with more of a pronounced accent than he did his conversational vocabulary. “We have been married for two and a half years.”
“We have not,” was all that came out of his mouth, on such a whispery breath that it robbed the words of the argumentative tone he’d intended. “We haven’t—Nikandros, this is—”
His friend’s lowered eyes were answer enough on their own.
“Married?” Damen blurted helplessly. To him?
“Whether you remember it or not, it was somewhat of an extravagant affair,” continued King Laurent, as if he were discussing the weather. “Three days of ceremonies, seven more of feasting, some ridiculous display you insisted on that involved horses—”
“The first ride is a revered tradition,” Damen mumbled, cheeks flushing with warmth. The thought of parading around atop a ceremonially-decorated steed with this mouthy Veretian royal in his lap was embarrassing enough without the addition that everyone presently gathered had likely witnessed it as well.
“So you told me, repeatedly.” The king’s tone remained cool and unperturbed as one pale finger idly circled the rim of his goblet. “Perhaps it’s better you’ve forgotten the mountains of paperwork that came after. Ratifying the merge of two kingdoms did not make for a particularly thrilling honeymoon.”
They were married.
~~~~~~~~MOM THE BOYS ARE FIGHTING ;A;~~~~~
“Oh,” he groaned aloud. Right. Married. Of course there was only one bed. “Did we—”
“We shared it,” Laurent answered, his eyes never straying from his sheaf of paper. “And many other things besides.”
He was glad Laurent hadn’t looked up. He wouldn’t have approved of Damen’s appalled expression.
“You needn’t subject yourself to my presence tonight.” Of course Laurent had caught his shudder despite Damen’s best attempt to hide it. “My own quarters are distanced enough that my existence shouldn’t offend your gentle sensibilities.”
“Are you always like this?” he responded irritably, his words harshened by exhaustion and still-lingering disbelief. “I can’t think what I must have seen in being insulted every time I so much as breathe with you around.”
“It’s no concern of mine that you shy away from responsibility like a whipped dog,” retorted Laurent, finally deigning to lift his gaze from the report fix Damen with an icy, calculating stare.
“I’ve been told not half a day ago that not only is every member of my family dead, some after trying to kill me, but that I’m supposed to lead two kingdoms’ worth of people that want any excuse to throw us back into war!” he exclaimed in exasperation. “It’s a lot to take in, thank you!”
He’d hoped pleading for sympathy might soften those blue eyes, but they merely narrowed in subtle displeasure.
“Ten years might have passed for you, but they haven’t for me,” he continued, too tired to keep the helplessness from seeping into his voice. “I’m not the Damianos all of you are convinced I must be. I have no idea what to make of any of this, to be truthful. I’m still not sure I believe any of this is really happening. And you’re not helping with this needless vulgarity.”
Laurent simply stood and made to leave. “You are correct,” he spoke over his shoulder in parting. “You are not Damianos. He would never defend his inexperience by bleating like a sullen child.”
The canvas flap of the tent entrance had already swung back into place before he’d finished spitting an obscenity at Laurent’s retreating back.
~~~~~~everyone’s upset, let’s calm down a little and try again~~~~
“His Majesty humbly requests your presence, Exalted.”
The messenger was well-trained enough not to react to Damen’s disbelieving snort at the use of the word “humbly.”
The tableau in his head hadn’t been exact, but he’d carried a clear expectation of how the King of Vere might present himself upon Damen’s entering his tent. From what little time they’d spent together he’d become quite accustomed to the haughty reticence and lancing words, familiar with his supposed-husband’s meticulous dedication to exacting social performances. As such, Damen had expected to find him lounging disinterestedly on some ornate piece of Veretian furniture, or perhaps seated at his missive-covered desk with a quill and impossibly straight-backed posture.
He certainly hadn’t expected to catch the ruler of two nations in the midst of pouring tea.
“Damen,” Laurent acknowledged, “thank you for coming.”
Everything about the scene was jarring. The fussy, demanding King Laurent bent over a low-set table with an overly elaborate piece of porcelain in hand, serving tea as if the camp wasn’t full of attendants to do it for him. The pair of cups he must have acquired specifically for this purpose, as their Akielon simplicity couldn’t have looked more out of place surrounded by Veretian opulence. The fact that Damen had been greeted cordially, almost warmly, rather than enduring some manner of snide comment upon his entrance.
He hadn’t been this wary since his father had agreed to hear the Veretian herald’s terms at Marlas.
The dark turn of his thoughts must have shown on his face. Laurent set the teapot down, one pale hand indicating the seat arranged opposite his own.
“I fear we’ve made poor first impressions of one another,” he said, making no visible acknowledgment of Damen’s cautious approach and guarded sitting posture. “Yesterday was a volatile time for the both of us, yourself in particular. I believe it would be to our mutual benefit if we could, perhaps, start anew?”
If it seemed too straightforward for what Damen had come to understand was a treacherously corkscrew Veretian nature, it was probably exactly that.
“As much as I’m sure you’d love to uncover some hidden motive of mine,” Laurent interrupted as if reading his thoughts, “you will be disappointed to find that I am perfectly capable of honesty, should the situation call for it.” Some unidentifiable emotion passed over those blue eyes. “I have you to thank for that, in fact. Tea?”
Whatever his dedication to remaining steadfast against Laurent’s machinations, he could perhaps hope that one claiming to be his husband would not try to poison him with so many Akielon soldiers gathered outside. His first sip had his brows raising in surprise.
“This is—”
“Ironwart,” Laurent finished for him. “You introduced me after we returned to Ios.” Something gentle flitted across his face, quickly hidden by the action of lifting his own cup to his lips. “You pouted at me for an entire afternoon when I told you Veretian tea is taken with milk.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said, “you’d just end up—”
“—Diluting the flavor,” Laurent said together with Damen, their voices mingling in unison. “You were quite clear in your belief that I’d rendered the health benefits entirely ineffectual.”
“Not that it stopped you, I’m assuming.”
“Now you’re catching on.” The approval in Laurent’s tone sounded strange, at least compared to the predictability of his snappish insults, but it was not unpleasant to have directed at Damen for once.
His eyes caught on a glitter at Laurent’s wrist. Strange, he hadn’t thought the king’s austere preferences included jewelry. Laurent, of course, noticed immediately, and lifted his other hand to tug back his sleeve.
The golden cuff encircling one slender wrist was Akielon in design, simple in shape and minimalist in decoration. Were the implication of such an item not paramount to its aesthetics, he might have said the color suited the Veretian king.
“You gave me this,” Laurent said, turning his hand so that the metal glimmered in the lamplight. “Its twin sits on your own arm.”
~~~~~~~~~~REBUILD UR RELATIONSHIP AW YEAH~~~~~~~~~
“Tell me about Damianos.”
Laurent, perceptive as ever, had immediately turned those blue eyes upon him with an unreadable expression. “What do you wish to know?” The guarded tone was clear, though his closing and setting aside his book was a sign that it was safe to proceed.
“What you—what he was like,” Damen corrected. “There are ten years between us, and I have…difficulty understanding the place he occupied in the world.”
Though Laurent remained seated with a wary stiffness, the admission seemed successful as an extended olive branch. “He was an effective ruler,” he began, clearly playing his words close to his chest. “Much beloved by his people, and passionate about the merge of two kingdoms so long at war with one another. Though he was one of the best captains I had ever served with, he did not possess a violent heart, and was pleased to see conflicts ended with a minimum of bloodshed.”
It was entirely possible Laurent was withholding anything but praise for the Other Damen out of a hope that compliments would earn him the veneer of trustworthiness. Still, Damen couldn’t bring himself to think that his counterpart could have been a greedy miser or a murderous tyrant. The Akielon honor guard would never have treated him with respect if he had, let alone the unanimous support Other Damen seemed to have garnered from the kyroi.
“Who was he when he wasn’t king?” Damen asked, hoping to keep from demanding too much too quickly, else his best source of information might shut down and wave him off entirely.
Laurent broke their held gazes, turning instead to his hands clasped in his lap. “He disliked confinement,” he said after a moment’s pause. “If there was nothing to hold him from it, he would be out riding or hunting, or participating in some manner of sport.”
That, at least, sounded familiar. He didn’t even realize he’d let a smile creep onto his face until a glance at it seemed to strengthen his plea in Laurent’s mind.
“He gave endless amounts of advice, whether it was called for or not. He made no mystery of his opinions, and stood by them with a conviction I’ve yet to see matched by any other man.”
“He sounds incredibly stubborn,” Damen offered.
“I’ve met rocks with less commitment to holding their ground.”
He chuckled aloud at that, imagining the Other Damen and Laurent debating into the night because neither believed in surrendering his point. The sound of his voice seemed to startle Laurent, earning him another of those looks that carried within it a strange jumble of approval, mixed heavily with sorrow.
“What brought the two of you together?” he asked, tentatively and hoping his intrusion might be buoyed forward on good humor. “It seems a strange coupling, given how different you both are.”
“A shared goal,” Laurent answered simply. “He wanted his country back, I wanted mine. His brother stood in his way, my uncle stood in mine. Any course other than working together would have been ill-advised, suicidal at worst.”
“Did you get along with him then?”
“Of course not,” Laurent practically snorted, though such a crude verb could hardly be applied to the delicacy of his every action. “He found me insufferable and I found him defiant and uncultured. Had he not proven his usefulness to me I’d have had him executed on the flimsiest of premises.”
He’d heard the gist of the story, but to have it confirmed so flippantly put an uncomfortable weight in his stomach that he couldn’t quite get rid of.
Of course, Laurent would have noticed even if it hadn’t shown on his face. The observation seemed to sober the other man somewhat from the light tone he’d used moments before. “I treated him poorly,” he admitted in what could almost be described as a small voice. “He didn’t deserve the punishments I inflicted upon him in my misplaced anger. He proved his unwavering loyalty time and again, and I couldn’t have asked for a more honorable companion.”
“You cared for him very much,” Damen observed, dropping the pretense of phrasing it as a question.
Laurent sighed, his gaze rooted firmly to the floor. “I did.”
In that moment, he could begin to conceptualize the sheer weight of loss that had to be hanging from the Veretian king’s shoulders. The Damianos he spoke of was everything Laurent himself was not. Together they’d tackled situations neither of them could have survived on their own, and had deposed two usurpers to rule two kingdoms’ worth of people through their combined efforts and complementary strengths. To lose that person, with whom he had built so much and weathered so many storms…
“I’m sorry,” he said weakly, though the words seemed to inadequate to fill the silence that had opened between them like some great, gaping chasm.
~~~~~i’m sorry~~~~~~
#THIS WAS FUCKING AMAZING AND IS BREAKING ME APART AND I NEED MORE OH MY GODDDDD#submission#captive prince#amnesia fic
80 notes
·
View notes
Text
idk how to do readmores on mobile but warning for bbc sher.lock wank
*
*
*
thinking about it.. s3ep3 is really where things went kind of irrevocably off the rails? like there were definitely some not-good things in the rest of season 3 but his last vow takes the fucking cake for sure
like. setting mary up to have a dark secret from her past? cool! interesting! can’t wait to see what’s going on with that! making her actually some kind of mercenary/bad guy?? extra nice!!! coldblooded killer, motivations a complete mystery, putting everyone in danger, worrying moriarty (and later magnussen) parallels, multiple huge hints that she’s sebastian moran!!!! all this is great and i LOVE where this is going, give her the coolest villainous character arc and eventual downfall thru her own villainy!!!!!!!!!!
and we see her shoot sherlock. and the whole scene is fucking beautiful, like The Cinnamon Tography 😩👌💯 and the emotional impact is out of this world, he fucking talks himself thru his own imminent death, we get a glimpse into his inner psyche as his whole world is falling apart and his body is failing. we see him flatline on the operating table and the doctors give him up for dead, and the ONLY thing that saves him, what literally Brings Him Back To Life is the thought that “john watson is definitely in danger. you’re letting him down, sherlock….” the man restarts his own heart thru sheer force of will!! it’s a literal fucking fairytale!!!
(“what’s so important? whatcha got here that’s worth living for?” “truuuue looooooooove……”)
but then like…. not ten minutes after that absolutely pivotal and heart wrenching scene of death by mary and resurrection by john, we as an audience are told that…. mary……… did a good thing??? that her shooting him is justifiable because it actually saved him somehow????? even though we have literally JUST been shown in No uncertain terms that that’s not the case????????????
we’re told it was “surgery,” that she’s such a good shot that her bullet hit in the exact place it needed to to keep him alive, EXCEPT IT DIDNT. THAT LITERALLY DID NOT HAPPEN. HE CANONICALLY, FACTUALLY DIED. made a pretty fuckin big deal of it too!!!!!!!!! the writers just straight up immediately contradict themselves to try and set her up as redeemable
like if you want a character with a secret, violent past to be redeemable and for the audience to root for them, you don’t? make her?? shoot the title character in the chest???? and stop his heart???????? and then remind us mid-death scene that it was, in fact, Her who did this by showing her shooting him again in his mind (in her WEDDING DRESS no less, which is,,,, w o w … there’s some Things to unpack here to say the least)
and then, as if to pile on the insults to our intelligence as an audience, after we’re meant to swallow that we’re immediately fed this bullshit idea that sherlock and mary are somehow morally equivalent??? that they’re both just “dangerous people” and it’s ultimately johns fault that he ended up marrying a secret assassin because somethings wrong with him and he’s just attracted to these “dangerous people” who hurt him and lie to him and make his life hell
even though all sherlocks Big Lies have been for johns own safety, and mary’s Big Lies have been pretty obviously at the expense of his safety??? like they could not be more opposite in their intentions, sherlock sacrifices himself and his reputation and his relationship with john to keep john safe, while mary betrays johns trust and puts him in danger in order to keep him, to own him. “he can’t ever know i lied to him. it would break him, and i would lose him, and i will not let that happen.” that’s not love, that’s selfishness. she doesn’t want to support and protect him, she wants to possess him even if it means lying to him literally 24/7 about everything
and she!! threatens to shoot sherlock again!!!! “i will not let that happen” as she’s holding a gun!! she points it at (what she thinks is) sherlock!!!!! she is literally, actually, obviously willing to murder johns best friend, whose previous “death” emotionally destroyed him for 2 years, in order to Keep him. to Have him.
like… it fucking stings!! to have this deliciously nasty villain set up, make her deception and betrayal incredibly personal to both sherlock and john, have us anticipating an awesome bad-guy character arc culminating in an eventual dramatic and thematically appropriate downfall, what a great character!!!! but of course, Of Fucking Course, that just gets ripped away in favor of some bullshit contrived Redemption Arc
moffat and gatiss don’t seem to think of women as like. actual people who can have those kinds of character journeys? they just have to shove her into the role of the housewife and loving mother, but they don’t even do that well?? she literally never comes across as loving or affectionate or considerate, she is always portrayed as aloof and grating and seems to have no respect for john as a person. she’s like s1-s2 sherlock but without the moments of warmth and genuine caring that got us invested in john and sherlocks relationship, just the casual dismissal and lack of consideration. she like laughs at him and makes fun of him and pokes at his sore spots, they fucking. sit/sleep far apart and hardly ever touch onscreen, they kiss exactly one time and its perfunctory. everything we see about them together is Not Great and does nothing to get us invested in them as a couple
like it just… is incredible to me? that we’re expected to just swallow all this obvious bullshit and Care about mary as the loving wife and mother who eventually sacrifices herself for sherlock. in a frankly baffling scene that had me genuinely convinced for several minutes that the whole episode was fake, that one of the characters was gonna wake up and we’d be treated to what really happened (i was honestly hoping for this by the end of the six thatchers, as cheesy and unsatisfying as Another dream episode would have been)
season 3 was shaky and unstable, his last vow was the initial complete derailment, and all of season 4 was the whole train careening off a cliff and hitting the bottom with a huge cheesy cgi explosion, killing all the passengers on board. me. i’m the passenger and i’m dead inside. thanks for listening to my ted talk
#this doesn't even get into the constant gay jokes! which is!!!! like i could write a fucking dissertation on how insulting and cruel that is#this is purely like. barely below surface level This Doesn't Make Sense shit#bbc sherlock /#ccc
7 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
