#oscar isaac fanfic
Text
Painted
Laurent LeClaire X f!Reader
Not Beta Read
Summary:
You're a woman alone at the bar and you witness an argument between a husband and wife. The wife leaves, and you're left alone with her sexually frustrated husband.
Tags/Warnings (for entire series):
NSFW, dubious consent (reader doesn't say yes to Laurent but it's clear that she's into it), smut, a tiny sprinkle of angst, pussy eating, blowjob, playing with cum, p in v creampie, sex with a stranger, unprotected sex, semi-public sex.
Word Count: 2.7k
You saw the whole argument unfold. The man shouting at his wife in the busy Paris bar. She, clearly filled with disdain for her spouse, climbed on the table and spread her legs for him. He undid his belt, pulled his thick cock out and tried to bring it to life. You wondered if he was struggling because he’d had far too much to drink, or if the couple hated each other so deeply that she didn’t pique his desires any longer.
Either way, after she left, you were the last person in the bar, and he looked right at you.
He sauntered over, wiping a bit of drool off his chin as he got closer to you. Your breath hitched in your throat and you felt your cheeks burning. He chuckled, breath stinking of alcohol as he brushed the back of his index finger over your neck.
“Your skin is soft,” he commented, biting his lip. “I’d love to paint you.”
You didn’t protest as he lifted your rear onto the table behind you. His fingertips brushed over your inner thigh, trailing along until they reached your underpants. His breath trembled as his face drew closer to yours.
“You wouldn’t tell me no, would you?” He tucked a finger into your underwear and started pulling them down your legs carefully, as if he were still waiting for you to push him away. He discarded them, putting both hands on your knees and parting your thighs wide. “You’ll always keep these legs open for me, won’t you chérie?”
“Mm,” was all you could mutter as you felt the fat tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.
It had been so long since you’d been in the company of a man, and your eagerness was made apparent by the slick arousal dripping out of you. It clearly wasn’t the drunkenness that made him flaccid, the man had no issue spearing through your tight hole like it was his. He breathed out a moaning sigh, rolling his hips at an even, lazy pace.
He leaned in, mouth closing over yours as he shoved himself deeper, hand reaching under your leg to push it back, spreading your thighs wider for him. You gasped, mouth open over his while the bar was filled with your sounds. He nipped at your bottom lip, his other hand sliding up to grab your breast which was still trapped behind the bodice of your dress.
“Your body is so beautiful, sweetheart. Such a shame I don’t have time to really admire it,” he chuckled, slipping his tongue past your lips and entangling it with yours.
He pushed you back, mouths parting before you could protest, so your spine was flat along the table. With a swift tug, he gripped where your dress concealed your breasts and pulled it downward. Both of your tits spilled out, bouncing in time with his thrusts. His flushed cheeks became more prominent with his drunken grin. A low groan emerged from his lips as he leaned down to catch one of your nipples in his mouth.
“Oh, sir, oh god!”
He sucked and bit at your nipple like he was desperate for it. His body moved faster, both hands reaching down now to hold onto your hips for leverage. You couldn’t feign modesty anymore, your pleasured screams filling the empty bar and likely spilling into the back streets of Paris.
“Oui, mon chérie, keep squeezing yourself around me like that and I shall paint your insides white,” he whispered against your breast.
You grabbed the edge of the table, spine arching backward and legs spreading wider as he drove deeper into you than before. You felt him reaching the deepest parts of your center, the tip of his cock brushing in a smooth motion against that spot inside of you that made your body tremble. You were weak, a distinct tingling pooling in the pit of your core and spreading all over every inch of your skin.
“Oh god, oh-my-oh-oh!”
In an instant you came. Your entire body gave in to the sensations around you: his mouth over your breast, his tongue flicking masterfully at your nipple, his hand holding onto your outer thigh and squeezing it tightly. You felt everything as though every nerve ending in your body had caught fire.
“Your face is perfection at the height of your pleasure,” he whined, the tone of his voice heightened as his orgasm drew nearer. “The next time we meet, I s-shall, oh-for-god’s-sake, I shall have you touch yourself so I can paint the exact moment when you…”
His hips slammed into yours one final time. A series of choked gasps filled the bar as he made good on his promise to paint your walls white with his hot spend. You liked that feeling of being filled up, even if it was just a stranger at a bar. Perhaps you enjoyed it all the more because it was just a stranger at a bar.
He remained for a moment longer with his body leaned over yours, lips peppering sweet kisses along your sternum as he worked them back up to your neck, your jaw, and then your mouth. His drunken kisses were still sloppy, but you never wanted them to stop.
“What a sweet little muse you are,” he whispered. “I’ve not felt this warmth in my heart for a woman in some time, chérie. I will come back for you every night until my legs no longer work, and you will let me paint you every time, won’t you?”
You nodded, feeling his cock fall out of your hole as it softened. The sound of cum trickling from your cunt tapped like a leaky faucet on the stone floor. With another feather soft kiss, the man stood back from you, looking down at your body with a hooded, lusty gaze. He hardly managed to button his pants, let alone replace his belt, eventually giving up on it all together.
Without another word exchanged between either of you, he stumbled out, leaving you there on the table to wonder if he would ever come back to ‘paint you’ again.
~~~~
To your relief, he did come back, and this time when he saw you he was sober. He had an artist's satchel with him, and he led you to a back room of the dingy bar where no one wandered. The lighting was dim, and you could smell something foul, but you were happy to see the man again. You tried to kiss him, but he interrupted you with a finger to your lips.
“I want you to remove your clothes and sit in that chair for me,” he said sweetly.
Without a word you nodded, beginning to remove your clothes. You dropped your dress and undergarments in a heap on the floor. You walked over to the chair and sat as instructed.
“May I know your name, sir?” You asked.
He chuckled, “and ruin the allure that comes with such mystery? I think not, chérie.”
You had to admit that there was a bit of added appeal to the man when you didn’t know his name at all. He could be anyone, from anywhere, who had done anything, and you’d never be the wiser. There was something very exciting and tantalizing about that prospect.
He set up his kit, several brushes and pigments at the ready. You wondered if the barkeep let him paint in there regularly, as he seemed to have an easel and canvas ready to prop up and start his work. He walked over to you, kneeling down by your feet and running his fingers up your calf and to your knee. You felt your breathing grow shallow as those daring fingertips made their way between your closed legs, his other hand coming up to do the same.
“Open,” he cooed, assisting the spread of your thighs with his large hands prying between them. “Wow,” he mused, “what a wondrous beauty.”
He looked up at you, pretty brown eyes glistening in what little light the dim room afforded you both. He kept your gaze while he leaned forward, the tip of his distinguished nose brushing against your already swelling clit. Your lips parted for a wavering breath. Your hand instinctively moved to tangle in his dark locks. His hot breath melted over your folds.
A moan rolled through him as his lips made contact with your cunt. His tongue slid between your slit, and a sharp gasp punched out of your lungs. You gripped his hair tighter, your hips arching into his mouth as if what he was giving you wasn’t enough. He hummed, facial hair brushing against your thighs softly while his head moved to hit all the right spots.
“S-sir I…oh I can’t…oh-god!”
Save for your pleasured panting, the only other sound in the room was his messy slurping as your arousal coated his face. Every now and then the man would look up at you, eyes caked in a pussy-drunk hunger unlike any you’d ever seen. His grip tightened on your thighs, and his nose continued rubbing in delicious circles around your sensitive clit.
Two of his delightfully thick fingers worked between your pussy lips, sliding slowly forward until he was curling them inside of you, all the while he was working his tongue around your swollen nub. You thought you might fall over, using his hair and your grip on the chair beneath you to establish some sort of stability as your body shook.
He added another finger, somehow managing to fit all three inside you and pump them into your hole until you were nearly choking on the air that filled your lungs. It was all so much, the sensations overwhelming until they washed over your body in waves. You felt your cunt contract, juices gushing around his knuckles and coating his hand while your walls squeezed over him. You moaned, eyes rolling back and you struggled to keep yourself from falling over.
The man looked up at you again, rising on his feet just enough to catch your mouth in his. You could taste yourself on him and after enough hungry kisses, your flavor was gone. He pulled back from you, lips swollen and glossy in the light. He stepped back, unbuckling his pants quickly.
“I bet I can make you look even prettier for your portrait, don’t you think, sweetheart?” He asked, running his fingers over your arm and down to your hand, guiding you off the chair and onto your knees.
The floor was cold and the rough surface made your knees ache, but you didn’t have much time to think about your discomfort before his cock was in your face and distracting you from your thoughts. You knew what he wanted, of course. After all, there was a reason you were on your knees. You wrapped your fingers around it as best as you could, not quite able to meet your thumb on the other side. You lapped the tip, gulping down a sweet bead of precum that had collected there.
“I know you won’t disappoint me, chérie. I’ve had enough disappointment to last a man a lifetime. Take it all for me, and don’t hold bac-k-k.”
He moaned deeply the moment your mouth wrapped around his dick, lips sliding down until you reached the base, relaxing your throat to take the entire length. The thickness of him throbbed inside you, and you felt his hand reach to the back of your head to guide you back. He started churning his hips against your face, gagging you on every inch as his length stretched and filled your throat again and again.
You felt tears start to slip down your cheeks, the salty flavor landing along his cock for you to taste while you kept going. The smell of his musk made your mind go numb with desire every time your nose brushed along his soft tuft of pubic hair.
“You’re going to make the prettiest little model for me when I’m finished aren’t you? Oh this mouth, this mouth of yours is divine.”
You hummed in acknowledgement while he continued fucking your throat. You felt your clit burning with arousal, begging for your touch. Your fingers wandered, slipping between your thighs to quell the ache as it grew. With a gasp your lips slipped off his cock, the strings of your slick saliva connecting you to his red tip. He thrust back into your mouth, his pace even faster.
“Don’t do that again, I need to feel that sweet tongue along every inch of me, sweetheart,” he rasped, a distinct whine playing in harmony with his usual baritone.
You kept your mouth on him, moving your fingers in circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. You could feel him twitch inside of you, cock leaking more of that sweet and savory taste you craved. You felt his body shaking, his movements becoming sloppier as he got closer to spilling into you. There wasn’t anything you craved more in that moment than to have him fill your belly with every bit he could.
Again you found yourself a mess, eyes rolling back in your head and body quaking as your orgasm ripped through you. You kept your mouth around him, the feeling of his cock in your throat felt even better when you were in a mind-numbed state of ecstasy. He fucked faster, the bruising pace gagging you and causing more tears to fall down your cheeks in streams.
He was there. He was right there…
You were shocked, and mildly disappointed when he pulled out of you, shooting hot spurts of his precious cum all over your body. Your face wasn’t the only part of you painted by him, he covered your tits, your neck, and even your thighs.
“There,” he sighed, licking his lips as satisfaction washed over him. “Now go back to your chair, my precious little muse. And keep those pretty legs parted, I want to make sure I get all your best features.”
You slowly stood and strode back in your chair, spreading your legs like he’d told you to. He pulled his pants back up, walking back to his canvas where you saw him grab a small dish and a brush before walking back over to you. He knelt down, holding the dish under your cunt and using the brush to collect your arousal into the porcelain bowl.
“W-what are you–”
“Sh,” he smirked, looking up at you with a mischievous grin. “I’m trying out a new medium, chérie. Keep quiet and let me work.”
He collected your slick until he had a small amount in the dish. He took a bit of his own cum, still decorating your skin in various areas of your body, and he began mixing it with yours.
“Now don’t move, oui?”
You nodded, “oui.”
You watched as he painted, using both your juices to mix the pigment powders he’d brought with him. His eyes darted over the top of the canvas from time to time, narrowed in concentration as he worked. His spend dried on your body and face as the time went on, and you started to feel a bit chill, though you didn’t dare ask to put your clothes back on.
After quite some time he stopped, stepping back with a proud grin sporting his handsome face.
“Come see,” he whispered excitedly.
You walked over to see the painting the man had made of you. It truly was breathtaking, though it was clear the medium wasn’t binding well with the pigment. There were cracks from the dried slick, causing the paint to flake. A heartbreaking sight, but something about it made the creation all the more beautiful. The art piece was temporary, like a quick and wonderful thing that was never meant to last.
Like two strangers meeting a couple of times in a bar only to one day part ways, never to meet again.
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Something In You Lit Up Heaven In Me
READ PART ONE
Pairing: Apollo (who happens to look exactly like Orestes in Agora) x fem!reader
Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI!
Word Count: 3.5k
TW/CW: Oral (m and f receiving), gods don't have refractory periods because I said so, petnames, a bit of innonence!kink and some praise!kink for that matter, P in V, a smidge of overstimulation, creampie, humiliation (but it's not our reader).
A/N: OH MY GAAAAASH THANK YOU ALL FOR THE OUTPOURING OF SUPPORT ON THIS SILLY LIL FANTASY OF MINE! I know have a couple more ideas/installments for this little AU! And hope you all enjoy!!!
Quick vocab word that'll be helpful: Archiereus = high/head priest
The rest of the day following your covert meeting with Apollo passed in a blur. Your mother claimed that you no longer needed to bother with your daily chores, but you insisted on doing them anyway. It wasn’t fair to Caris and besides, the routine was anchoring. It was one small shred of normalcy that you’d been able to maintain since Apollo upended your world. Even so, your mind was elsewhere as you washed the linens and swept the house, drifting through the evening mechanically.
Falling asleep was impossible. Your gaze was glued to the moon as it rose steadily in the sky, Selene’s radiance never wavering as she drove her chariot across its inky canvas.
At first, you dismissed them as a mere cluster of fireflies…until they made an uncannily neat and tidy line leading away from your window. You giggled, quietly so as not to wake Caris, and tiptoed out of your modest home. The insects led you through your village, past the temple, into the forest once more.
Apollo waited for you in another small, tucked away clearing. Despite it being the dead of night, the god’s gleeful grin illuminated the little corner of the forest. As enchanting as the fireflies were, they were no longer necessary when the god of light was present. Your feet carried you on your own accord and launched you into Apollo’s arms.
Now that it was only you and your lover, hidden away from prying eyes and scheming minds, you completely surrendered your desire. Apollo made you feel liberated, wild, when you made love.
“Want you to take me in your mouth,” he exhaled as you rolled around on the lush, soft grass, tangled within each other. Even though it wasn’t your first time seeing his member, you were unable to stifle your gasp when he shed his chiton.
“Yes,” you replied at once. Then, “but I’ve never–”
“Shhh–I’ll teach you,” he assured you, sprawling back on the ground.
You crawled closer to him. He disarmed you with his trademark grin, and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes instantly put you at ease. Apollo may have been an Olympian, but he was still a man. He took pleasure in the same way you mere mortals did.
Your gaze met his expectantly, eager for his instruction.
“We’ll start simply. How about you give the tip a kiss?”
You did as he said. His reaction was immediate, a pleased groan escaped his lips.
“Just like that, sunshine,” he spurred you on, “now see if you can take more in your mouth.”
A memory surfaced in your mind – Caris, sharing what she did to please a man in this matter. You recalled her advice to wrap your lips around his teeth as you sank down, and to use your hand to stroke any part of him you couldn’t fit into your mouth. It turned out, you were initially too keen, sputtering and having to pull off of Apollo after your gag reflex was triggered.
He cupped your face with one strong, sure hand, his thumb caressing your cheekbone, “Oh darling, there’s no need to rush.”
Like before, there wasn’t a trace of disappointment or derision on the god’s face. He traced his finger down your jaw, slipping in between your lips. You sucked on the digit instinctively, looking up at him with what you hoped were doe eyes, and Apollo moaned. “Mmm, I knew you'd turn out to be a little minx.”
You pulled off of the god’s finger to try again. It occurred to you that it would be difficult, if not unpleasant, to stroke what you couldn’t fit in your mouth dry, so instead of trying to swallow down Apollo’s flushed cock immediately, you licked the circumference of his girth to wet him. The deity seemed to very much enjoy that, the action eliciting another deep groan.
“Oh Tiii-Titans, you’re like a little naughty kitten for me,” he cooed. “Don’t stop.”
Once he was properly slicked, you eased back down again. This time you opened your jaw wider, and though you only could take about half of him in, you wasted no time covering the remainder with your hand. It took a moment to teach them to work in tandem, yet you strove to sync the two movements. Your jaw began to ache slightly, the god’s mortal form was certainly not lacking, but you powered through. You wanted to be good for him, being good made you feel good, because you knew afterwards, Apollo would make you feel incredible.
Your lover never ceased his encouragement, his hand resting atop your head to guide you ever so slightly. A light tug on your hair made you pause, allowing him to ask, “Kitten, might I lead the way from here?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Apollo’s inquisitive, umber eyes narrowed at you, “Don’t refer to me so.” One look at your petrified face and he instantly amended, “There’s no need. I want you to use my name.”
Your face split into a wide, pleased grin. “Alright, my–Apollo.”
“My Apollo, I like that,” he grinned, then stood. “C’mere kitten.”
You rose onto your knees to level yourself with Apollo’s unflagging erection. He fed his cock back between your lips and instructed “You needn’t do a thing. Just pretend as if you’re yawning, it’ll help you take more.”
You wanted to nod in assent, but thought better of it given your full mouth. His fingers threaded into your hair, gently but firmly, holding you in place before he began to move his hips. Implementing his suggestion, you were shocked to discover how much more of his thick shaft penetrated your mouth. Apollo gave a few introductory thrusts, then began pistoning into you steadily.
Your first instinct was to shut your eyes, but you coaxed them back open to observe your lover’s face. His jaw was tipped up, his brows knit together, his lips parted. To see a god this vulnerable was a privilege even the highest priests and most devoted acolytes would never receive in their lifetimes, a privilege whose magnitude that was not lost on you.
On your knees for Apollo, you felt…safe. And not merely because that was the “natural” thing to do - to kneel for one’s god. Strangely, it wasn’t about that. The deity made you feel cared for, that you could set your burdens, however petty and innocuous they may be, down. He would shoulder them for a while, so that you could discover parts of yourself that you didn’t know existed.
Apollo pulled you closer to him, your nose now pressed against the taut skin of his belly as he used your mouth. It made breathing a bit harder, but the god’s rhythm began to falter soon after.
“Ohhhh sunshine I’m gonna—try to swallow it down if you can.”
You hummed your assent around Apollo’s cock, inadvertently sending him over the edge. He shoved his shaft nearly down your throat as his release dropped down it, all but singing your praise the entire time.
“Good girl kitten,” he painted the back of your esophagus with his seed, “taking it so well for me. You were so good for me.”
At last he extracted his spent member from your overstretched mouth. The entirety of your chin was covered in drool from your coupling, and you barely had a moment to wipe it away before Apollo’s lips were on yours. He plundered your mouth with his tongue as if he was to lick the combined taste of his cum and your spit from it. The thought sent a hot thrill down your spine.
“You did so well for me, darling.” He murmured once more after you’d broken apart. Apollo made quick work of your chiton, “Now what does my very good girl want?”
“I…” your lover had begun to trail his lips down the soft skin of your neck. It made it impossible to think, let alone speak. “I want you…inside.”
“Of course,” he agreed from where he was now dotting kisses across your collarbone.
Apollo continued his descent down your bare skin, kissing the tops of your breasts before pulling each nipple into his hot, sure mouth for a hearty suck. It felt so good that you changed your mind on how you wanted Apollo to ravish you, yet the sight of him sinking between your legs was too enticing to resist. He used the tip of his nose to part the seam of your sex before changing course and licking a long stripe between your folds.
“Mmmm, just as sweet as I recall,” he husked. Your reply came in a strangled mewl.
He chuckled darkly. "I know darling, but I must ready you.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth did Apollo slide his index finger through your wetness and into your heat. Relief flooded you – no longer were you clenching around nothing. Apollo resumed kissing your neck as he tucked a second digit in along with the first. You met his movements eagerly, vaguely aware of how swiftly you’d shed the trope of the blushing virgin. Before, the god’s ministrations had felt like too much, now they were not enough. You needed the god’s hardness inside of you now.
Despite being reduced to pitiful whines and whimpers, Apollo understood you.
“You want your god’s big cock, don’t you?”
You practically sobbed in agreement. But although the deity was a generous lover, he had a wicked streak. One that Apollo decided to unleash when he demanded right as he finally applied pressure to your bed, “Words, kitten.”
“Yuh-YES!” you cried. It felt heavenly, but it wasn’t enough to bring you to climax. You legitimately feared you may go mad from the anticipation.
“Good girl,” He parted your legs wider and locked them around his ample hips. He paused briefly to marvel, “what an offering you make for me.”
Apollo proceeded to slap the head of his arousal on your clit, then at last he entered you in one smooth of his hips. The feeling of becoming one wrung another cry from you, while a deep, satisfied rumble sounded from Apollo’s chest.
There wasn’t much talking after that. It was unnecessary. The god’s gaze locked onto your as he plowed you, first holding firmling onto your sides to steady you, then they crawled back up to breasts to pluck at your nipples. You were definitely going to go mad between the acute, concentrated ecstasy he was drawing from your pebbled peaks along with the astounding stretch and burn of his cock plowing into your channel. All the while, the swirling brown of Apollo’s eyes bore into yours, gauging your pleasure - how he could heighten it, how he could surprise you, how you would bit down on bottom lip whenever he changed angle slightly.
The last observation spurred an idea from the god. He bent over you further, catching your wrists in his hands and pinning you to the ground beneath you. The shift allowed him to hammer a special, previously unknown spot within you, and for your vision to go a burning, blinding white.
“AH! Ohhhh…Apo-Apollo,” you keened.
“That’s it, c’mon sunshine,” he urged you, now slamming his pelvis into yours, “Say my name. Scream it so that my kin can hear it on Olympius, and I’ll let you come.”
“Apollo!” You were not one to disobey your god, “Oh stars above, Apollo! Holy Her–APOLLO!! ”
Your orgasm exploded seemingly from the spot your lover’s cock was not battering outwards. You convulsed as the pleasure rushed from your core throughout your spasming frame to the very tips of fingers and toes. There was no way to ride it, let alone fight it, the ecstasy Apollo elicited from you demanded nothing less than complete surrender.
At last, the euphoria in your body began to subside. You desperately gasped down more oxygen, yet, Apollo’s hard, thick member was still thrusting into you relentlessly. Next thing you knew, the deity had collected you into his arms and lifted you to sit on his lap.
You winced at the deeper penetration and your growing sensitivity, but he whispered into your ear, “I know kitten, but I need a little more and Titans, you feel so damn amazing.”
You pressed a kiss into his temple, now damp with sweat, and like before, surrendered your body to your god. He moved your hips for you, essentially fucking yourself on his cock, meeting each and every downstroke with an untiring vigor only an Olympian could possess.
Suddenly, his hold around your torso tightened, and you felt his manhood pulse within you. A deep growl reverberated from his as his seed flooded your channel. Your head was spinning, so much so that you barely realized you two fell back on the grass again.
Apollo rolled so you were beneath him once more and eased himself out of you.
“Now, that is a sight,” he moaned as he watched his release drip out of your entrance.
“Is it?” you panted.
“Mmm indeed,” he promised, gingerly probing your puffy pussy to collect his spend. This time, he brought it to his own mouth, “Hellfire, we make quite the concoction.”
“I…” you eyes were fluttering closed, “I’m glad you’re pleased.”
The god pulled you close once more. “I am beyond delighted. You were magnificent, my little kitten.”
***
You didn’t remember returning home, but your mother’s voice barking your name to wake was unmistakable. It wasn’t until she jarred you into consciousness that you realized you were back in your own bed, and thankfully, clothed.
“You were due at the temple a quarter of an hour ago!”
Grogginess prevented you from sniping back at her that your tardiness wouldn’t anger the god, since Apollo was the very reason for it. Instead, you held your tongue, and lethargically, but as quickly as you could, you rinsed your face and dressed. Your mother shooed you off to the temple with a small cloth holding berries and cheese in tow.
You trudged up the hill to the temple, you’d never liked going there to begin with, but now that your presence was compulsory, it maddened you. The more time you spent with Apollo, the more you despised the structure meant to venerate him and the men who inhabited it claiming to act in his name. The god himself and his priests seemed to be two disparate parties.
Distressed shouts and —was that bleating?— jolted you from your thoughts. You ran the rest of the way to the temple’s entrance. Something was wrong.
Breathlessly, you arrived at the temple’s sanctum to find the priests and acolytes in a frantic scrum and…a goat.
You caught the eye of one of the younger priests. “Don’t we usually sacrifice ravens to Apollo?”
The priest, Karolos, you believed his name was, gulped. “Th-that…that is the Archiereus.”
Now it was your turn to gulp. Your eyes widened, then darted up to the large statue of Apollo that looked over the chaos.
“I need privacy,” you told Karolos lowly, “somewhere I can be alone.”
His brows furrowed, only for realization to dawn on his features a moment later. “Are you going to…?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Come with me.”
As he led you through the madness, you pressed further. “What exactly happened?”
“We all woke up from a terrible, seemingly shared, nightmare. The god appeared to us and we could see ourselves being roasted alive as the temple burned,” the priest began, “and the goat—I mean, the Archiereus, was in his chambers…eating his own bed linens when we rose this morn.”
“Gods,” you groaned.
“We’re very sorry.”
Your gaze shot to the ground at the mention of your violating confirmation as Apollo’s latest lover.
“Truly,” he averred, “I knew it was wrong but they didn’t listen—“
“Stop,” you had no interest in reliving that terrifying day. “But thank you. Truly.”
Karolos sent you a small grin and then opened the door to what seemed to be the head priest’s chambers, half-eaten bed linens and all. The room was imposing, large, and most importantly, tucked into a corner toward the back of the temple complex.
The bedchamber seemed even more intimidating when you were left alone within it. You hadn’t the faintest idea of how to summon Apollo, or if you even could. Therefore, you defaulted to the simplest of methods. You looked up, yet closed your eyes, and called out this name.
“Sunshine.”
His voice was close. Very close, since not a second later you were pulled back into the deity’s arms. You startled, a very undignified and unappealing yelp escaping you.
You pivoted in Apollo’s embrace to face him. “You enjoy frightening me, don’t you?”
“I enjoy arousing you in any and all forms,” he countered wryly.
“You must change him back.”
Apollo’s face fell infinitesimally before resuming its usual brightness. “Of course. As soon as you admit how comical it is.”
You huffed. “Apollo.”
He shrugged as if the power wasn’t solely and completely in his hands.
“What’s this about a shared nightmare?”
“I promised you not to harm them,” the god responded, frustration creeping into his tone, “but these provincial dolts needed to be taught a lesson. They cannot flout me, and by extension you, in such a brazen manner.”
Arguing was pointless, you knew this. Because Apollo was right. As much as you felt as the reluctant center of the issue here, it actually came down to the priests and their respect, and therefore fear, for their patron god.
“While the goat is very comical, I have to say, I think a slug would’ve been more fitting,” you offered with a small smile.
Apollo laughed, his expression beaming once again, and captured your lips.
When you breathlessly broke apart, you inquired, “Does this mean I no longer need to come here everyday?”
“Darling, you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.”
“I suppose so, but if you wanted me to, I would.”
“Always so willing to please,” Apollo groaned in satisfaction, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
Before you could counter that you didn’t he nudged his groin into your hip to give you one. You nearly jumped at the feel of his arousal pressing through two flimsy layers of your clothing.
The god continued, “However, I believe there are better uses for your time too.”
“Thank you, my–my Apollo.”
“Oh you truly want me to take you on that bumpkin Archiereus’s bed, don’t you?”
The god began backing you toward the bed in question, though you managed to slip out of his grasp just in time.
“Apollo!”
Another peal of laughter from the god. “My desire for you has no bounds.”
“As does mine,” you offered, “I swear it. However, I have to go back and live amongst these people, and I’d prefer to be able to look some of my neighbors in the eye.”
The god studied you, as if the fact you went back and lived among other people had only just occurred to him when you spoke it. However, maddeningly all he said was, “I see.”
You fidgeted under the intensity of his gaze. “I very much enjoyed our time together last night though. I cannot remember if I told you.”
He grinned. You would never tire of it. “Good, then I shall see you tonight?”
“Yes. Please.” your answer came without hesitation.
“I’ll send you a route again,” he vowed, stealing one last impassioned kiss from your lips.
“I shall count the moments,” you whispered.
“Go,” he urged you softly. “I’ve taken care of the Archiereus.”
A commotion sounded from what you thought was the temple’s sanctum. It startled you, and when you turned back to your lover, he’d disappeared.
Karolos was not waiting at the door when you emerged from the high priest’s chambers, much to your relief. So you hurried to where the shouts were emanating from.
The Archiereus had been changed back alright. He lay in the sanctum stark naked and humiliated, barking for a cloth to cover his modesty when you arrived on the scene. Yet he cowed immediately at the sight of you and in a truly baffling role reversal, kneeled at your feet.
“Please, we never meant to harm you, nor anger the mighty Apollo,” he all but blubbered. It was arresting, and honestly, you thought you might have preferred his haughty countenance more. “Your claim was a bold one, we simply sought to substantiate it, however if I could take it back, I would. I beseech you for forgiveness.”
You didn’t wish to forgive him, however you didn’t wish to condemn the groveling cleric either. The happy medium it seemed was to respond, “The god is appeased. I will no longer be present for your daily rituals.”
With that, you turned and left the oppressive structure, unsure whether to stifle or welcome the exhilarating sense of authority following through you. It was truly the first time in your life you’d ever felt powerful.
A/N: Ehhh...we like? Seriously, y'all give me the motivation pound out more of this! I already have an idea of another god I want to bring into the mix 😜
Taglist:
@whatthefishh , @thhriller , @simpforbritgents , @oof-its-roobi @pakhiya @fandxmslxt69 @twwcs, @damnzelsoul @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @dameronscopilot @sharin4readers @ireallymadeamoonknightblog
#oscar isaac#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac x reader#oscar isaac fanfic#oscar isaac fanfiction#oscar isaac x you#oscar isaac x y/n#apollo#oscar isaac greek god au#oscar isaac thirst hours
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Kinktober 7. - Exhibitionism
Rydal Keener x F!Reader.
Tags & warnings. Exhibitionism + brat tammer. (+18)
Word count. 1.4k
Summary. You want to keep acting like a bitch? He'll treat you like one.
Kinktober masterlist.
It had been 20 minutes since you couldn't stand yourself. The heat of Greece was killing you; everything felt sticky, your hair had frizzed up after the long time you spent fixing it, and you undoubtedly despised Rydal.
Why? You didn't really have a reason; he was just the last person you wanted to see. Which was a bit silly considering that you were traveling together.
You had a complicated relationship, yes, but he was a good friend and an excellent tour guide.
Oh, and he was amazing in bed.
Maybe he didn't deserve it, but when bad mood struck, it was a lost battle for you and everyone around you. The best thing was to simply wait for time to pass until things relaxed on their own.
You had been walking for an hour, and he kept talking, talking, talking, never stopping. You just nodded or made sounds that translated as a 'Yes, I'm listening' kind of thing.
"And... the last step." This was a tradition of his; you celebrated reaching the end of the path, together and out of breath.
There were almost always kisses involved, and the way you turned your face to avoid him was enough to make Rydal lose the ounce of patience he had left with you. Still, he smiled; he always had everything under control.
"We made it. Bochali viewpoint."
The village looked beautiful from up there, and you couldn't deny that both the silence and having completed the journey did ease your furrowed brow a bit.
"Sit on the edge," he murmured in your ear, and you could only look up, confused by the sudden order.
"What? I don't think it's allowe..."
"Sit on the edge." His voice suddenly grew firmer, and his hand on your lower back gave you a little push that made you walk clumsily. You looked around to make sure that no one else could see you and obeyed. With your gaze ahead, you sat on the rocky ledge that protected the edge of the lookout.
You felt the uncomfortable pressure of the stones against your skin, your thighs exposed thanks to your choice of wearing a sundress that ensured you wouldn't pass out from the heat halfway. Rydal stood up behind you.
"You've been acting like a fucking bitch all day," he whispered in your ear, your cheeks turning a rosy cute tone almost instantly as his hands settled on your hips. "Open your legs."
You weren't far enough away; you could make out the figures of people in the distance, which undoubtedly meant that people could see you.
"Rydal, no, they can see us," you stammered quickly, his right hand sliding down one of your legs until he could give a tug, opening them just as he had asked.
You swallowed hard.
"If you want to behave like one, then I'll treat you like one." One of his hands remained on your thigh, his fingers gripping it to make you understand that you couldn't cover yourself. "We'll let everyone see how much of a bitch you are." He licked his lips before starting to kiss your neck softly.
Maybe that's what you needed to forget your bad mood.
You closed your eyes, and instinctively, your head tilted to the side, giving him more room in the area as his kisses turned into bites and hickies. You both had been there for three days, and you couldn't find any more space on your skin to add more marks.
Your underwear became damp in less time than you would have liked. His fingers teased your pussy lips above the fabric.
"Take off your panties," he whispered against your skin as he slowly slid said piece of fabric down your thighs. You obediently lifted your hips so he could expuse you completely, letting your underwear fall.
You always thought that if you left a souvenir on one of your trips with a guy, it would be one of those locks with both of your names on a cute bridge, not your panties caught in some bushes a few meters away.
You felt the breeze hit the humidity between your legs and a shiver ran through you from head to toe. His left hand held you still in place by your waist, his opposite hand began the work.
He slid his index and middle finger between your lips to wet them with your arousal, you trembled when they found your entrance, firmly inserting themselves inside you.
“Fuck, Rydal.” You stammered as your back pressed against his chest for balance.
“This was what you needed, wasn't it?” He took out his fingers and pushed them back into you with such speed and force that you were able to hear how the liquid coming out of you made his thrusts louder. “If only I had known this was enough to wipe that scowl off your pretty face.”
You nodded quickly with your eyes closed, your head falling onto the boy's shoulder.
“Put your legs up.”
“Rydal.”
“Put them up.” He growled and you obeyed awkwardly. You raised both legs onto the fence, bending them slightly so that you were completely exposed to the panorama. Surely more than one person had already seen you. “I want to show them how to treat a brat like you.”
With his fingers completely inside you, and he continued to push deeper. You felt him rub against that sweet spot inside you that made you whimper out loud.
Your slick wet the stones beneath you, you moved your hips slowly seeking more contact between your body and his hand. You thought you were about to lose your mind when his thumb pressed against your swollen clit, hungry for some attention.
“Look at you, sweetheart.” The hand that was kept on your waist crawled up little by little, cupping one of your tits. He squeezed with his fingers in that rough way that only Rydal knew. “Such a good girl.”
It didn't take long for him to slide his hand under the neckline of your dress to have better access to your breast, pinching your nipple until it hurt, you whimpered with your eyes closed. You were getting closer to your limit.
“Apologize.” Of course, Rydal already recognized perfectly when your body was about to reach it, he felt your walls squeeze his fingers while he increased the pace of his movements. “Come on, tell me you're sorry.”
“S-Sorry, Rydal, s-sorry.” You muttered in a breathy voice as you swore you heard your screams echoing across the landscape. You were close to begging for more.
“Louder, princess, I couldn't understand you.” Princess was his favorite nickname for when you were misbehaving. He always told you that you behaved like one, not exactly as a compliment.
"Sorry, sorry! M-More, please, please. R-Rydal!”
“Are you going to behave like that again?” His thumb played with your clit, giving it quick touches that made your entire body vibrate in place, suffering from small spasms.
When you didn't respond his fingers came out of you, he used them to gently slap your sensitive pussy. It throbbed around nothing and you could swear your eyes were filling with tears from your desperation to cum once and for all.
"Answer to me". One more slap brought out a pained moan from you, your body shaking.
"N-No." You shook your head quickly, your back arching slightly in place as a way to push your hips closer to his hands. “I-I won't, I…” You took a deep breath. You were choking in your own moans. "I promise".
"Good girl". Placing a small kiss on your shoulder he finally gave you what you wanted, his fingers inserting inside you again, his thumb pressing your clit and tracing circles that brought you to the end faster than you expected.
Your whole body tensed as you enjoyed the devastating orgasm, he nibbled on your neck roughly with the intention of leaving more marks on it. His opposite hand kept pinching your nipple on the left side.
His movements became slow as you relaxed, and after a few minutes he finally removed his fingers from inside you and brought them to your mouth, pushing them between your lips in an act that you accepted immediately. With your eyes closed and breathing hard you began to suck them clean, tasting yourself.
"Better?" He placed one last kiss on your cheek, but not before you turned towards him, your lips brushing against his as you felt him smile.
You nodded your head slowly, something almost imperceptible.
"Do you want to eat something?"
You nodded again, and he gave a small laugh.
“No wonder you were in such a bad mood.”
Tag list. @ninebluehearts @shousha133 @unear7hly @onefinnedwonder-fm @automnepoet @lokisremainingsanity @uncle-eggy @just-a-nightdreamer @spktrgantenk @chinglewingledingledong @queerponcho @faretheeoscar @spideyman-peter @poppyflower-22 @steven-grants-world @urmomsgays-world
Remember to comment if you want to be on the kinktober tag list!! <3
This is my comeback lol not a fan of it but hopefully my brain will start braining
#rydal keener#the two faces of january#rydal x reader#rydal x y/n#rydal smut#rydal fanfic#rydal fanfiction#rydal keener x reader#rydal keener x y/n#rydal keener x you#rydal x you#rydal keener smut#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac x you#oscar isaac fanfic#oscar isaac fanfiction#oscar isaac x reader
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Hey dear! I come here just to say you’re one of the best steven grant’s writer that I read. I love read all of your creations.
And…
Can I make a request? With our adorable Steven Grant?
I scrolled my Twitter page and this video come for me (is a porn) and I just thought “Jesus… This is so Steven…” so, if you could write something inpired on this video, you’ll made my day! Thank you!
https://twitter.com/onion__01/status/1620325227669630979?s=46&t=o0oCMHCi2SZ92eYmhY9NeA
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SWEET, KIND WORDS!! Your wish is my command from such a hot, hot video.
When The Mood Strikes
Steven Grant x f!reader
Fresh out of the shower, you decide to give Steven the surprise ride of his life.
Mature 18+
You never know when the mood strikes. Sometimes it’s on a mundane Tuesday night after black bean burgers and white wine. You'd both settled for the evening, Steven taking to his books on the couch and you taking a warm shower to wash off a long day.
When you'd padded out of the shower in just your towel, you took a peek around the corner to see Steven hunched over, incredibly invested in his Egyptian theory book. His curls tousled down his forehead after his own long day, his glasses placed atop his strong nose. His mouth slightly open as he reviewed new discoveries.
There was something so incredibly sexy about when Steven was in the heat of learning.
You dropped your towel, slinking over to him as he still had his nose in the book. You slid next to him on the couch, facing him and purred out a "hi."
"Hi darling, you won't believe what I jus--" He stopped in his tracks when he saw you. Wet, naked and like a fucking dream for him to behold.
Wordlessly, you take the book from him as he adjusts his glasses and you see the lump in his throat bob. You put the book on your nightstand while Steven slides his trousers down.
When you come back to the couch, his cock is out. He's already semi-erect, aching for your relief as you move your legs around his body to straddle him.
You fasten yourself on his cock, rubbing against his shaft that thickens at every move.
"Do you mind if I do everything myself tonight?" You ask. He's looking up at you in awe as if you're a rare statue. He's immobile, shaking his head. His eyes haven't left your face.
You take him, now fully erect and guide him into your wet entrance. Steven whimpered as you fully took him in. You moved at a slow, steady pace above him, removing his glasses and pulling him in for a deep kiss.
Steven moans below you. "Fuck, fuck. This is amazing. You're amazing, I'm gonna--"
"Don't cum just yet, Steven. We're just getting started." You quicken your pace, moving his hands to your breasts. It's getting to be too much for him. The tight wetness of your pussy, your pace slamming his cock into you.
It doesn't take long for Steven to finish inside of you with a groan, leaking out of your folds as you writhe against him, riding out your own orgasm.
Steven kisses and caresses at your nipples, still out of breath from giving all of his cum to you.
"I could definitely do with more surprises like that." He grins at you.
#steven grant#steven grant smut#steven grant fanfiction#steven grant x fem!reader#steven grant x you#steven grant x reader#moon knight smut#moon knight#moon knight fanfiction#moon knight x reader#moon knight fanfic#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac fanfic#oscar isaac fanfiction#oscar isaac x reader#oscar isaac x you
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Oscar Isaac // Mature Thoughts 🚨
"Goodmornin' baby," oscar heard his husband whisper as he was pulled to his chest and spooned. "Morning," he grabbed his husband hand and kissed it lightly.
He felt his husband smile against his neck, giving small kisses. "Did you sleep?"
"Mm- kinda I wasn't tired, but I'm fine," turning his head to look at his husband and giving him a kiss in the lips. "Then let sleep. We both don't have anything to do today. Let's just stay here and cuddle," you said, looking at him in a sleepy state.
"Okay," he said, smiling and trying his hardest to sleep, but couldn't. He needed something, something only you could provide. He loved the way you held him, feeling close to you, but he wanted more.
He rubbed his clothe ass against your crotch trying to stimulate your cock. He felt your grip around him tighten as pushed further against you.
"Mmm~is this what you wanted," you whispered in his ear. "Want me to fuck you, you could have asked" you said to him sleepily.
"Please~ need you," he said desperately grinding harder and faster the feeling of your cock start to harden underneath your underwear giving him more motivation.
"Fuck~ baby," you grabbed his hips and turned yourself around your back against the bed as your husband was now straddling you, his hairy thighs spread open.
"Fine, but you gotta do the work."
Oscar quickly grabbed your wasitband and pulled down your underwear freeing your hard cock into the open. You could feel him kissing your body making his way towards your dick, he rolled back your foreskin and lightly kissing the tip of your cock before swollowing it whole.
"Shit, jus' like that," you said, grabbing the back of his head, guiding it up and down occasionally thrust into his throat. "C'mon babe gotta ride me soon."
Lifting his head up to look at you, you couldn't help but admire the way he looked. You brought his face to you and kissed him while spending his hairy ass and aligning your tip to his hole.
You pushed in slowly, feeling his warm walls wrap around you tightly. Oscars breathing becoming more deep "Please~ just fuck me already need to feel you."
"Shh~ just relax don't wanna hurt you," your cock inched close finally bottoming out when your balls rested against his ass.
And with that Oscar let go slowly bouncing up and down, this is what he wanted he wanted to feel you deep inside him the way your cock streated him so full the way your balls slapped against his ass it was perfect you were perfect.
"Say you're mine, please~"
"I'm yours, Oscar. fuck~ don't stop, baby, please," you grabbed his hips but were slapped away from your grasp. As he pinned them above your head.
"Gonna cum~ Oscar, please," you still felt tired not getting much sleep either, but the euphoria of the situation was overpowering, making you sleep and horny.
You stated, matching his bounces as you thrusted up into him, trying to catch your realse as his walls contorted against your cock you saw your husband cum all over his and your bodies.
And with a final thrust you came inside falling him with your cum pushing it as deep as possible. You slowly guided Oscar towards your chest and kissed his head as you closed your eyes.
Sooner than later you were both asleep holding each other with your cock resting inside his hole.
#male reader#top male reader#dom male reader#sub male reader#male reader smut#male reader insert#male reader fanfic#x male reader#x top male reader#x dom male reader#x sub male reader#x male reader smut#oscar isaac fanfic#oscar isaac x male reader#oscar isaac x top male reader#oscar isaac x dom male reader#oscar isaac x sub male reader
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Hi!! Congratulations on your 6000 followers ✨✨✨
☁️ Could I request prompt 2 'You’re nipples are so sensitive today' with Steven Grant please? Thank you 💫
“𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲…”
pairing: Steven Grant x gn!reader
warnings: soft Steven, domme reader. Nipple stimulation (duh), cumming untouched.
mk masterlist I| main masterlist |I follower celebration I| ask |I
“O-Ohhh, Jesus-“ Steven whines, his hips rising off the mattress in a feeble attempt to gain friction from the air above him. His cock is throbbing across his abdomen, angry and red and smearing precum across his tanned skin.
You’ve been doing this for hours; teasing him to the point that tears spring to his eyes. Steven’s lashes are wet, his lips kiss swollen. His pecks are littered with hickey bruises, blooming deep purples and bright fuchsias that circle his hardened nipples.
Humming softly, you capture the peak of his left nipple between your teeth. Steven’s back arches off the mattress with a wail as you release the sensitive flesh with a ‘pop’.
“Your nipples are so sensitive today,” you muse, running the pad of your thumb over his right, neglected nipple. Steven flinches at the overstimulation, his cock twitching against his stomach as his eyelids flutter.
“P-Please-“ he begs, voice cracking and pitchy as he struggles against the bindings you had tied around his wrists. You couldn’t trust him not to wrap his hands around his aching cock, and so had removed them from the equation entirely. “Please! I c-can’t-“
“No?” You ask him, arching your brow with a wicked smile before lathing your tongue over the hypersensitive skin of his areola again. Steven shakes his head violently, chest heaving against your mouth as he pants.
“Oh- Oh God- I’m gunna cum, Love- I’m gonna-“
Yes, it’s cruel. However, you don’t feel sorry when you pinch and roll his nipple between your teeth. Steven’s hips twitch, an anguished whine of your name practically echoing off the walls when he cums. It streaks across his stomach and chest, reams of pearl that paint his skin like ribbons.
You smirk when he finally collapses against the mattress, sucking in mouthfuls of air, and reach into the bedside table for the clamps you had been expertly hiding for weeks.
“… Again?”
#steven grant x you#steven grant#steven grant smut#steven grant x reader#steven grant imagine#steven grant fanfic#steven grant x y/n#steven grant x gender neutral reader#steven grant fanfiction#moon knight#moon knight fanfic#moon knight smut#moon knight imagine#moon knight x reader#oscar isaac#oscar isaac fanfic#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac x reader#જ⁀➴ mail: received#✩‧₊˚ 6k follower celebration ˚₊‧✩
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#spiderman across the spiderverse#spiderman#spiderman 2099#miguel o'hara#oscar isaac#oscar isaac hernandez estrada#Miguel o'hara fanart#miguel o'hara smut#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac fanfic#oscar isaac characters
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Summer Rose
Professor!Santiago Garcia x female OC
Co-written with @julesonrecord
Rating: E for Explicit 18+
Word Count: 6k
Warnings: OC is named (Daphne Antonelli) but has minimal physical description. Age gap 10+ years. Both parties are consenting adults. Alcohol consumption, mutual pining, professor/student, oral sex (f and m receiving), 69, sexy mythology references, vaginal sex, protected sex, fingernails/scratching, a bit of biting.
Summary: Daphne is having an absolutely terrible day and has missed office hours to turn in her final paper to Professor Garcia. When she turns up on his doorstep to turn in her assignment, the professor she's been crushing on for ages offers her a supportive ear -- and help relaxing.
Notes: A little collaboration between myself and my beloved Jules featuring a character we've working on (Daphne) and today's wet daydream of college professor!Santiago. Honestly this is just a bit of porn with the barest thread of a plot, and we're not sorry. Also, just a disclaimer that I have no clue how one finishes a masters degree, but it doesn't matter. We're here for the porn, not the threadbare plot.
Twilight is beautiful on campus. Santiago has always thought so, even before he had the letters after his last name that demarcate him as faculty. He enjoys the blush of the sun fading, the purple of the dusky sky fading to blue-black, indigo, then glitter with starlight.
He likes walking home after class this way; a quiet moment to ease his mind after lectures and before grading. This late in the semester, it will be one of the last walks before the summer term. As he passes through the quiet neighborhood and climbs his front doors, he glances up, spies Orion's Belt in the heavens. He thinks about introducing the story next time he holds his Mythology and Myth-Making class. Did he include it this year? He can't remember. He'd been... distracted.
His phone pings with a text as he sets his messenger bag on the dining room table and undoes his cuff buttons, rolling them up. Too damn hot for this, damn dress code rules... He peers down at the message, and notes it's from an unknown number. His students know to text him if they have an emergency, so he opens it straight away.
Hi, Professor Garcia. I know that it's after office hours, but the fact is...I missed office hours altogether. Would it be an inconvenience to call you and explain? Otherwise I'm not sure how to get my final paper to you. Thanks, Daphne Antonelli (Mythology and Myth-Making)
Santiago lifts an eyebrow. He recognizes the name. Oh yes, he recognizes it. In fact, he's called it to mind more often than is probably appropriate, along with the image of a very beautiful graduate student with a focused stare and drop-dead gorgeous eyes. She was an attentive student, responsive, ready to answer questions but never one to hog the spotlight, making insightful, empathetic, and razor-sharp questions. It was unlike her to miss anything, never mind not visit office hours. They'd spent many such visits over the semester. Short. Professional. Of course.
So why does his heart rate increase, his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he thoughtfully taps the phone screen, spelling out a careful, professional text?
Hi Daphne. As this is your final paper, I would really like to have it ASAP as I am required to submit grades on Monday. Why don't you swing by my home to drop it off?
Feel free to call, he types, then deletes before sending. He wanted to hear her voice. He did need that paper. No reason why he couldn't do both in person. No reason at all.
He had had his graduate students over for a spring dinner after midterms so they know how and where to find him. The bonfire that night had lasted for ages, as tipsy grad students who were feeling feisty with a full meal in their bellies debated the cultural implications of different myth origins and the similarities of some creation myths that they had just been discussing in class. Daphne had been amongst the students that night, animatedly defending her points with unmatched ferocity that was impossible to ignore.
The text that comes through a few moments later takes a while for her to decide on, judging from the continuously undulating bubbles indicating how long she was typing compared to the brevity of the eventual message.
Thank you for understanding. I'll be over shortly so the rest of your night isn't interrupted.
Satisfaction. He tosses the phone down and leans over the table with a slow sigh, taking a look around the room. The same old familiar wall-to-wall bookshelves line the tidy bungalow. The same pendant lamps up, tacky, that he'd meant to change when he bought this place... four years ago. His degrees might be hung in his office upstairs, his clothes are here, he shaves here, but who does he have here, really? Nobody. Warm sheets for a night and then no one. Nothing. There was no reason to bother, really—
And then Daphne. Daphne with her slowly blossoming smile that melted from shy to beaming when he said hello to her on campus. Daphne with her neat notes in the margins, Daphne with the legs that had so often been tucked primly next to his as they leaned over a book or paper together, never touching but so close, close enough so that he could smell her perfume: cinnamon, orchid, incense.
"Fuck," he mutters to the table. There's no way of hiding from himself, not really. He pushes off the wood and stalks to the kitchen for a beer. He cracks it open efficiently and takes a long swallow, Adam's apple bobbing. He wants her. That much is clear. How could he not? She was intelligent, fierce, gorgeous. He could fool himself all he wanted, her coming here was a bad idea. It's been a long semester, keeping her close but not too close.
But, he realizes with a jolt, she's about to graduate. This is her final, his course is over. He is... well, technically by Monday, no longer her professor.
"Fuck," he mutters again, this time to a magnet of a catfish, his only catch from a weekend out fishing with the guys.
It's twenty minutes later precisely when his doorbell rings. There was no sound of a car outside on the street or dramatic slam of a door, but when he opens the door there is a bicycle leaning against his front gate and a frazzled looking student on his front step.
"Hi, Professor." Daphne stands on his step with a mix of anxiety and embarrassment on her face and she digs into her bag right away to pull out a manila folder with his class name and number written on it alongside her name. "I'm so sorry about this. I know it's technically late and that you'll have to dock points for that. It's completely my fault."
"Hey, hey, easy." He lifts a palm and lowers it soothingly, taking the manila folder gently. "There's no need to be sorry, accidents happen." Then, as he knew he would, he asked, "Would you like to come in? It's the end of semester, though. Maybe you have a party you'd rather get to?" He smiles fondly, bumping his shoulder against the doorframe and folding his arms to show off his tanned forearms, shirt sleeves straining slightly.
Yeah, he's still got moves. And he wants to show them off. To Daphne. Who is no longer his student. Who's staring up at him with the anguish slowly sliding from her face. He wants to remove it, stroke her stress away with his thumb, ease it out of her slowly—
Fuck, he's screwed.
"I'm not really – I mean, I haven't –" She doesn't get invited to parties, is what she's trying to say. Not that she doesn't enjoy parties, because she does. She absolutely does. The night they spent here at his house just sitting around the fire talking and sharing a meal was one of her favorite graduate school memories. But she isn't great at socializing with the other students in her program, she's found. There is something a little odd about Daphne, and it has reverberated through her life to keep her just a little on the outside of normal.
Maybe that's why she nods, accepting the invitation with swallowed thanks, and steps inside her professor's house. Her professor who has more than a decade on her in terms of age but has never held his years of experience or knowledge over her head. If they were colleagues, she might have even considered him a friend. As it is, being his student, she's stuck in a sort of limbo with a useless crush and fond memories. "I've had kind of a crazy day," she admits sheepishly. "Even if I had been invited to any of the parties on campus, I don't think I would be going."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Daph," he says, with real sympathy. "Is everything all right? I just opened a beer, would you like anything?"
"A pipe burst at my place and my landlord is claiming I'm liable, then my computer crashed in the middle of doing one last edit on your term paper and the tech office gave me grief, it's just...it's been a long day." She barely even nodded in agreement that a drink would be a huge relief, but he is immediately retreating to his refrigerator to grab her a beer. "Oh, and my summer plans fell through today." Her shoulders sag, the stress of the day dragging her down and determined to keep her there. "I'm just lucky I got up to take a shower first thing this morning or else the day would've been even worse."
"Oh, Daph, that's a rotten one," he says, placing the opened beer on the coffee table and settling his hands on her shoulders. "What happened to your summer? Surely you're going off to some incredible internship, you're more than qualified." And she is. He'd have recommended her to any program she wanted, and had, in fact, written her a letter of recommendation earlier in the year. "You know I'm not going to dock points, right?" he asks more quietly. "None of today was your fault, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. That shouldn't burrow into her chest and bloom into warmth like it does, and Daphne's eyes drop to the floor immediately to carefully focus on the toes of her boots instead of looking him in the face. That's your professor. Don't be creepy. "I had that internship lined up in London with the publishing company but they pulled the rug out from under me." She shrugs, feeling more vulnerable in the moment than she wants to admit. "Apparently the CFO's kid decided all of a sudden that he wants to be an author, so they rescinded my offer. He's going to get it instead."
His chest pangs. He hates that there is nothing he can do to fix this for her -- because she's right. That's the cherry on top of an extremely long day, and all he can do then is what feels most natural, which is to lift her chin up with the crook of his finger, his voice soft, gentle. "Hey."
When she meets his gaze, he watches them flicker slightly, scanning his face as he drinks in hers. Her eyes are so pretty. Like fresh honey dripped from a spoon.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he says again, and means it. "You deserve that spot, but you'll find something better, okay? Hey, look at me." She had turned away slightly, embarrassed or perhaps made shy by his praise, but her eyes fix on him again, golden and fringed with thick lashes. "I promise, you will. There's lots of ways into this world, and you're too talented not to break in. Okay? You want to sit down, tell me about it?" His fingers clasp around her delicate elbow, ready to guide her to the couch.
"There's not a lot more to tell, to be honest." Two people with two beers steer almost mechanically toward the couch, and Daphne finds herself being seated on his plush leather sectional just before he sits down beside her. This spring has been chilly and he still has a throw blanket out, which he pulls close to them as if to have it at the ready. "No summer in London means I'm going to have to either go back home and figure out my next step there, or find a new place here and do the same. Because I'm sure as hell not staying in the place I'm in now. As if the landlord weren't bad enough, now the plumbing is going."
"Huh." He trails his arm over the back of the sofa, sipping his beer thoughtfully. "What kinda guy is this-" Asshole, he wants to say, but quells it, "Fellow? Any chance he'll back off? Perhaps once he... calms down, he can be reasoned with." He's approaching the boundary of reason himself. He can see it, taste it, the drip of something sweet down his throat. "Beautiful woman like you? You could convince a man of anything."
The pffft sound that comes out of her mouth goes with a wave of her hand, but she does accept a sip of the beer that he's brought her with a grateful sigh. "The apartment is a piece of shit anyway, if I'm honest. I hate it there. It's just that it's affordable." There's a moment's pause where Daphne's eyes widen in panic and she deflates again with a groan. "I already put in my notice at my job, oh my god."
"Hey, hey, Daphne." He puts his beer down and reaches for her, wrapping one arm around her waist, cupping her flushed cheek with the other hand. "C'mon, it's going to be okay, I promise, but for right now, I need you to relax, okay? Can you do that for me, bebita?" They're so close now, almost nose to nose. He's lost in her eyes again, but he can feel the burning heat of her little cheek in his palm.
She had been so sure she was going to start crying instantly with that realization, but two searing hot hands on her skin steady her. His touch is grounding, pulling her away from the edge of panic and drawing her into his aura so effortlessly that she didn't even realize how close he was until she felt his breath on her skin. "O—okay—" He can't know that the thing keeping her from having a complete panic attack on his couch right now is the fact that all the blood in her body has rushed to her aching clit, but damned if it isn't working. Daphne nods vaguely, trying to keep her head from swimming, but all she feels is his hands on her and the way his coffee brown eyes have turned to oceans in front of her. "Okay," she repeats softly.
"Okay?" Santiago nods, his breath coming a little fast. "I'll help you. I'll help you relax, sweetheart. You tell me to stop any time, okay?" He leans closer so slowly, their breaths mingling. He can almost count her eyelashes. Her nose is sweet and soft as it brushes his, but it's nothing compared to her plush lips. They seal against his and he feels the world fall out from under him. Something deep and ravenous unlocks and spills out all over his inside. He barely chokes down a groan.
There is no doubt that this is the most surreal moment of Daphne's life, and it isn't as though she hasn't been in some weird situations before. It's a miracle that she managed to get her beer bottle onto the nearby coffee table without spilling or knocking anything over, but she needs her hands for this. For a year and a half she's been working on a master's degree and avoiding too much contact with the one professor who makes her mind fog up and her daydreams wander, until finally she had landed in his classroom.
And now on his couch.
Kissing him.
If it were anything besides the most surreal moment of her life, she might have jumped backward or at the very least, pulled away. But Daphne has imagined kissing Santiago Garcia far too many times to do anything but sigh in response and open up for him like a summer rose.
"It's okay," he repeats soothingly between kisses: to himself, to her, to the waiting tension in the room. "I've got you, cariño. I've got you now, there you go, so sweet for me. So pretty. Beautiful, smart girl." He deepens the kiss, tasting her lips slowly, reverently, one hand sliding slowly down her soft sweater to rest on her waist and squeeze gently. He brushes his thumb over the soft material and then flicks it open, wanting closeness, to drag his palm up her thin blouse, wide and slow across her back.
The sound that bubbles out of her is a plaintive moan, unsure but wanting, and one of her hands grasps for steadiness on his arm even as the other instinctively sinks into his curls to keep him close. The battle is want versus wisdom, and it takes longer than she's proud of for Daphne to drag her lips from his and pant for a breath that still has no prayer of clearing her head.
"But." The fog in her mind has settled thick and heavy like the arousal in her core, and even as she's trying to straighten herself out she's still clinging to him with digging fingers and sharp nails. "You'll get fired," she manages to breathe out a few seconds later. Her only real protest being that she doesn't want him to get in trouble over a whim – which is surely all this is to him.
"Baby, no, no," he shakes his head, almost laughing with relief that that is her only concern. "No, you're graduating. I'm not your teacher any more. You handed in your paper. We can finally do what I – what I've been—" Shit. This is going to sound so bad. "What I've been thinking about since I met you," he admits.
Santi leans his forehead against hers, sighing. "I'm sorry. It's so inappropriate, but it's true. I've been waiting so long to kiss you, baby girl. Let me kiss you." He brushes his fingers over her knee, lifting her skirt just a little. "Let me make you feel so good, my little nymph. Do you even know how long you've been haunting me?" His mouth brushes her again, gently, over the corner of her mouth, the edge of her jaw, the flutter of her pulse, which smells delicious, deep and floral, her scent.
His cock aches against his zipper.
"Fuck." This time Daphne groans, sinking further into the couch, and feels herself giggle softly in disbelief more than she's actually aware of making the sound herself. "You've been haunted?" She challenges, eyes burning with courage now that she's heard his confession. Heard him beg. Did he really just beg for her? "Do you know how long I put off taking your class because I didn't know if I could even concentrate around you?"
Using the opportunity of her gently reclining body, Santiago leans in for the catch. "I never could," he murmurs into the hollow of her throat, his hands sweeping her skirt up, revealing her pretty legs, and god her thighs, so plush and luscious in his hands. He takes a moment to stroke there, brush the hem of her panties with his thumbs. "Never. You came in with Eros and made me Apollo." One thumb slips gently under the gusset of her panties. "Are you running, little nymph, hm?"
"Fuck—I—no, I—I don't even think my legs work now," she huffs, all at once tense as a bowstring with desire and measurably more relaxed as the reality of the man she's wanted forever finally touching her exactly where she wants him.
Well, not exactly. But it's not going to take long to get there at the rate they're going.
"What should I..." Daphne's head falls back on the sofa cushion as his thumb strokes her slit and she moans. "Santiago is a lot of syllables to moan."
"Santi. You can call me Santi from now on," he murmurs, removing his thumb from her panties only to twist the thin white cotton things, Jesus, so fucking wet, around his fingers and slide them down, down. He tosses them to the side and shucks off her high heeled boots while he's there, his eyes locked on where she glistens for him, needs him. "But you can call out any god you want to, bonita." He flicks his gaze to hers and smirks. "Show me how much you were paying attention, yeah?"
If she can even remember a single name from his class at this point she'll be shocked, and the cool air of his house on her overheated cunt is enough to have her squirming instinctively underneath him. Her brain has pretty much given up the ghost already, overstimulated in the very best way possible far before the rest of her body feels the same. Although she has a feeling that it will get there. "Santi..." Trying it out, there is a sweetness on her tongue and heaviness in her core that really is just a whine waiting to break free. Daphne's hands have found their way to his shirt front, fumbling to free the buttons even while she's nearly shaking with desire. "If you get to touch me, I want to touch you, too."
His lips find hers again, almost impatient to taste her again. "You can touch me, I want you to," he mutters against her lips, lifting her blouse hem from her skirt as she takes care of his buttons. Santiago doesn't pause, doesn't make it easy for her or for himself, drowning himself in the touch of her, the sweet little noises emanating from her throat, the ones taking a running leap on the way to begging for everything he's ready to give. He lifts her shirt over her head and begins tugging down her skirt an inch at a time, his fingers dragging slowly over her hips, her now bare legs.
Nothing is exactly torn away, not specifically, but the pile of clothing that collects beside his living room sofa accumulates quickly and haphazardly — shirts and sweaters and everything else discarded blindly as they drown in kissing each other and swallowing those moans that make their way to the surface over and over again. With that building freedom Daphne finds a buried courage — not that she is a timid lover by any means, but there is an eagerness below the surface here that she hasn’t felt in so long. When the only thing left between them is the flimsy pair of boxers that do nothing to disguise how achingly hard he is, Daph bites down on his bottom lip to pull a groan out of him and soothes it away by sucking on the same spot as her fingers slip under the waistband of his last remaining piece of clothing.
"Fuck," he hisses, hips jumping forward so that the weeping tip of his cock brushes against her hand and he groans. He sits up straighter, caught in a web, aching to touch her – at least take his boxers off, fuck – but loathe to move away from her curious little hand. He settles for sitting up on his knees, staring at the place she's touching him, watching her explore him as though in a trance.
Taking advantage of the momentary shift, Daphne sits up along with him and nudges Santi backward so that he is on his back now instead of her. His curls are mussed and his eyes are so black with lust that he looks positively debauched before she’s even had a chance to touch him very much. Once he’s on his back, though, Daphne hooks her thumbs in his boxers and peels them away, groaning at the sight of him. Harder than diamonds and leaking precum like an eager teenager, a sly smirk rides across her face knowing she did that to him. “I want to suck your cock,” she admits, gaze flickering between his length and his blackened eyes. “You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent imagining sucking your cock under that desk in your office.”
Santiago closes his eyes a moment. Is he fucking dreaming? Or is his most fucked fantasy coming true before his eyes?
"Probably almost as many as what I've spent imagining what that wet little pussy tastes like." His voice is a low rasp, but he pulls himself together enough to halt her hand on his throbbing dick. His fingers squeeze around hers, gliding over the rigid shaft slowly, with control. His breath fans over her forehead. "You want this, baby? Hm? Gonna have to give me something in return. Come here," he urges, a low purr, her very own siren. "Come here and give me a little taste, cariño."
“Even Kama had to worship a lover in order to find his release,” Daph breathes, having spent an entire semester doodling images of the Hindu love god’s sugarcane bow and bird companions in her notes while thinking of all the various ways her professor could be worshipped.
"Kama was burnt alive by Shiva, sweetheart, and I don't plan on doing any different to you. Come here, that's it." Santi helps Daphne turn in his lap, both of them facing the wall. He guides her hips over his face as he lies back on the couch. Thank fuck it was big enough, for this and more, and then her perfect pussy is hovering over his face, tantalizing him. At heart? Santiago likes torturing himself, loves the thrill of giving into pleasure. Perhaps that too, is why he waited so long to take this girl into his bed. Perhaps that's why he's slow and sure as he spreads her lips, flattens his tongue, and tastes her indulgently, from clit to hole.
Daphne's momentary flash of composure is gone again as soon as he tastes her. Her legs shake on either side of his head, thighs pressed to his ears so her moans are muffled but it isn't on purpose. It's just been so long since she had a man between her legs who knew what the fuck he was doing that just having her clit noticed is a vast improvement. Daphne's body sags momentarily before she is shifting all her weight to one hand and wrapping the other around the base of his cock to stroke his base with the pressure that he showed her – the pressure he likes – while she takes as much of him as she can into her mouth.
When he moans it's with a growl into her pussy she can feel vibrate all the way up through her lungs.
She's not fucking sitting, and he knows it's because she's still, however minutely now that her moans are ringing sweet and clear across his living room, in her head instead of fully in her perfect body the way he wants. Licking up her slick almost lazily, he drags his nails lightly up the outsides of her thighs before firmly catching her hips in hand and pressing her into his waiting mouth, his evening stubble scraping across her folds. Only then does he give her a real reason to moan, encouraging her to grind while his laps at her clit with his tongue, filling his hands with all the gorgeous skin he can reach.
"Sit," he grunts, "Fuck, baby, I wanna to go to the field of fucking reeds with this pussy on my face, come on, you can do it, give it to me."
Come on, carińo, I know you can come for me, such a good fucking girl, he thinks, his brain a hazy lightning storm at the sensation of her hot throat squeezing around him as she swallows. Fuck, he could let her do this all night, but he's hungry for her pleasure and he's so close, he can taste it. Santiago lifts her hips with a final loud suck and trails a finger around her slit, teasing, almost pressing, but only just, his thumb running circles around her clit. With a deep breath he lifts his mouth, slips his tongue and a single finger inside, fucking into her with slow, measured movements.
The overwhelming pleasure of having more than just the tip of his tongue inside her pussy has Daphne moaning so earnestly that she pulls off of him cock with a lurid pop. "Dammit—I—fuck, I'm going to cum—Santi, baby, oh my f—" The shaking of her legs and the coil in her core twist down on each other so her thighs tighten and he breathes into her like he's going to devour her whole as she falls apart at the seams.
Oh yes. He really likes hearing her moaning that, but not more than the way she gives in as her orgasm rocks through her, grinding her hips down, into his waiting, eager mouth, helping her ride him through it until the aftershocks ease. His voice is barely a scrape when he lifts her up, his aching cock swinging between his legs as he presses forward, eager for her mouth. "Did so good, baby, such a good girl for me. I need to fuck you. Need to fuck you, baby. How do you want it?"
"Any way." Daphne gasps, trying to wrap her head around any kind of how that's more artful than just sinking down on him right here and now. When she does wrap her head around it, though, she groans in a less ethereal tone. "Let me grab a condom." Like any sensible, sexually active college girl, she carries one in her regular purse. Emergency cock wrap, if you will. She just never thought she'd actually need it.
"Wait, I got it." He scoots up a moment, digging into the small table beside the couch. From the drawer Santi draws out the foil pouch and rips it open, quickly rolling it on before turning his attention back on Daphne, who's watching him with drowned eyes, eyes deep and longing and still so lovely.
"Lie back, sweetheart. You ready for me?" He slowly glides the head over her silky wet folds, smearing her slick across his tip.
Deciding she absolutely does not need to know how many other girls have been fucked on this couch -- possibly at the end of their own courses -- Daph pushed herself up on her elbows to kiss him fiercely. Tonight is not to be wasted. Tonight is to be a fantastic memory. "I'm ready." Her nails drag down the base of his scalp, having caught a near purr from him earlier when she did the same. "I want you to fuck me, Santi."
Almost before his name is out of her mouth, he's pushing inside her with a low rumble, his head falling back slightly into her hands. Her nails scrape sensation over his scalp and down his spine, and her cunt is licking flames over him, so warm and perfect he almost comes right fucking there, but halts, breathing damp against her lips, his teeth nipping her lip possessively.
They hold like that, frozen together in the heat of the moment as he regains his composure and she adjusts to the stretch and fill and thickness of his cock inside her. The only movement, in this long moment of coming together, is the languid slide and tangle of their tongues together as they drown in the intimacy of feverish kisses.
Gradually, Santi comes down enough to get restless, eager again. He nips and bites down over her jaw and descends on her throat, sucking a mark low on her collarbone as his hands pay some long overdue attention to her pretty, heaving tits. Mine.
When the mark on her neck is soothed with his tongue, he sits up slowly, his eyes a glittering black, his lips parted. He looks like he's about to devour her. He takes one of her calves in his hand, eyes never leaving hers, tipping her knee up towards her head and then out, spread wide for him. He grips her ankle in a warm hand. Then, with a grunt, he's pulling back and pitching forward hard enough for their skin to clap obscenely, fast enough to make them both soon begin to tremble.
The position that he's in has him almost entirely out of her reach, just close even to graze her nails over his chest as he thrusts into her at a pace frantic enough to make them both pant and heave. Her back arches off the couch with a keen and her hands grapple with the couch cushions for purchase to hold on tight as Santi fucks her so deeply and insistently that she can practically feel him all the way up in her throat.
"Gripping me so fuckin' tight, baby, Jesus," he says through his teeth, his jaw tight, streaks of pleasure raking down his chest with her sharp, clinging nails. Keeping his relentless pace, he bends forward, pushing her thigh up, testing her limit. When he's low enough he seizes her mouth with his, grinding deep.
"One more for me, pretty girl, one more," he whispers huskily, his other hand skimming down her body to rub at her clit.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, so good baby, oh my fucking god—" Something in Daphne's mind short circuits, and the rambling begins in earnest the higher and higher she climbs toward a second orgasm. Tripping over her own tongue and throwing her hands up over her head as he slams into her so hard that either they are moving up the length of the sofa or the entire sofa is moving, Daph is completely lost in her pleasure. That volcano of pleasure building in her core is damn near ready to explode and the only thing she wants more than to erupt is to take him with her.
The second her expression breaks and she cries out for him, he's gone. He thinks he's done even before she clamps down on his cock like a goddamned vice, ripping his orgasm from him in a half dozen hard but increasingly languid strokes.
His upper body grows heavy, and with a groan he grinds in deeply just once more – never mind why – and leans his forehead on her soft breast, pulling out of her with a sigh. His entire body is basking, floating. If she puts her hands in his hair again he might even fall asleep.
There's a moment of quiet as he ties off and disposes of the condom, and for a split-second Santi disappears around a corner but he comes back with a warm, damp kitchen cloth to clean them both up with before curling back around her on the couch. "Goddamn," she huffs, giggling softly to herself as his arms come around her.
"Tell me about it," he says sleepily, flipping the throw blanket over the two of them as they settle, kiss, explore lazily what before had been greedily consumed. "Still not sure I'm not dreaming," he says, only half-joking, tracing her lips with a smile. "Did I really get so lucky?"
"I'm not sure how you're the starstruck one out of the two of us," Daphne teases, even though it's through a thin veil of honesty.
"Bonita, I've been increasingly starstruck all semester," he chuckles. "You have so much to look forward to. Shit, you're definitely going farther places than I am. I'm just happy to be here," he presses a kiss to her left tit, "To enjoy-" to her right nipple- "The satisfaction of being right." He kisses her forehead and studies her, his lids heavy. "Do you need anything before you fall asleep, baby girl? You wanna sleep here or in bed? I can't let you bike home this late, querida, so don't even try. Besides, you can shower here, my plumbing is fine." He smirks here, as if anticipating the swat he's earned himself.
"It's not that late." Daphne wrinkles her nose at herself. The protest was just good manners. She doesn't actually want to leave. She wants to wrap up in him and breathe in this comfort for as long as humanly possible. When he levels her with a disapproving look, Daph just ends up grinning. "Let's go to bed," she suggests, catching his lips as he drags them along her jaw. "And when I wake you up in the morning with my lips wrapped around your cock again, you'll be glad your back isn't sore."
The laugh bursts out of his chest with delight, easy and real. "All right, baby, all right, and what makes you think I won't beat you to it?" Santi pulls her to her feet, wrapping the soft blanket securely around her shoulders before guiding her upstairs with a hand at the small of her back.
No matter which one of them beats the other two it, they both know they aren't done. Whether it's a weekend, a week, a month, or even more. This night is just the beginning.
______
Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer
My Masterlist!
#Oscar Isaac#Oscar Isaac character fanfiction#Oscar Isaac fanfic#Santiago Garcia#Santiago 'Pope' Garcia#Santiago Garcia x OC#Santiago Garcia x female!OC#Triple Frontier#college professor au#professor!Santiago Garcia#pwp#really there is barely any plot here#and we're not sorry
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Baking Lessons (Marc Spector x f!Reader) 18+
Summary: Marc Spector can’t bake, but for you he’ll try. You and Marc bake cookies together... among other things.
Angst, fluff, smut (the big three)
Pairing: Marc Spector x f!reader, hint of Jake Lockley and Steven Grant x f!reader
Warnings: Sad Marc, DID, Oral sex (f receiving), Not edited
A/N: I just think Marc needs some more love, and I’ve been baking to deal with stress. I’m still working on requests, so if you’re waiting for one, it is coming!
--
Marc Spector has no idea what he’s doing. There’s an egg about to roll off the counter, and he reaches out and catches it with the instincts of a superhero.
Because that’s what he is - a superhero not a baker. Except that for you he’ll be anyone, do anything. That includes telling Khonshu to fuck off for the night so he can bake chocolate chip cookies and try to have a nice date with you. You who have been talking about these stupid cookies all week but have had no time to make them.
He sighs and returns the egg to it’s container. This is useless. He wanted to do something nice for you, but all he’s accomplished is making three trips to the store.
“Just fuck. That always goes over well.”
“Jake, mate,” Steven sighs. “He’s trying to be romantic, considerate, show his love.”
Marc ignores their squabbling, turning back to the recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag. Flour, salt, butter. No milk. Why the hell does he have milk out then? He picks up the carton and fixes it with a harsh stare like it’s the milk’s fault for messing this all up.
That is how you find Marc when you come home. You walk into the kitchen and sit on the table, legs dangling in the air while you watch Marc stare down a carton of milk.
“What did it do?” You ask when you realize he hasn’t noticed you.
He turns, and his eyes glow with moonlight for the briefest instant before he realizes it’s just you. His harsh, irritated expression turns into something else as he looks you up and down.
“You’re early,” he mutters.
“It’s five-thirty,” you reply with a laugh; it’s the same time you always get home.
He glances at the clock, “Shit!”
You’re still trying to figure out what emotion he’s wearing as he returns the milk to the fridge and runs his hands through his curly hair. Frustration. Maybe a hint of sadness. Disappointment, but with who? Knowing Marc, probably himself.
“Marc,” any hint of humor is gone. “Are you alright?”
“I’m-” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. “I’m fine.”
Your gaze catches the bag of chocolate chips behind him, something you know for a fact was not in your apartment prior to today. You know because you had searched for them desperately for days and craving chocolate chip cookies more than anything in the world for the last week. Marc follows your gaze, and when you meet his eyes the words come spilling from his mouth.
“I wanted to make you these stupid cookies. You talk about them every night, and you’re always doing so much for us, for me, and- and I wanted to do something for you.”
Marc’s lips are falling into that little frown that means he’s about to cry. This isn’t about chocolate chip cookies or Marc’s lack of cooking skills, you know that. Marc isn’t the type of man to be driven to tears by a failed baking experiment. He is the type of man who feels like he can never be enough, never be good enough for the people he loves.
Marc is glancing at the reflective surface of the microwave; you know he is trying to get Steven, or maybe Jake, to front right now.
“Marc,” you reach for his hand and pull him close to you.
Before you can utter another word, he buries his face in your neck. His arms circle your waist, holding tightly. He is shaking, crying. Only a few times have you seen him this vulnerable, and each time Marc had made Steven front to avoid this exact situation.
You wrap an arm over his shoulder and run your free hand through his soft curls.
“You do so much,” you murmur. “It means a lot that you thought of me.”
He holds you tighter but doesn’t respond. His body is warm against you as he cries, and you can only stroke his hair, sometimes brushing your fingers across his cheek or jaw. The soft press of his lips to your neck makes you shiver. It tickles. He does it again, then again, then leans back. A few tears are running down his face, and you reach out to brush them off. You hold his face between your hands, but he’s not looking at you.
“You are enough, Marc Spector. I love you, and you are enough.”
“I really tried,” he eventually whispers and looks up at you through his lashes.
You move a stray curl from his eyes and kiss his forehead, kiss his nose, kiss his lips. His cheek, his jaw, the lines around his eyes. You pepper kisses everywhere, the best way you know to show this man love, until he grabs your face and kisses you with a bruising intensity. Marc works his lips against yours, molding your bodies together until you’re both panting and he pulls back. His hands rest on your hips, your hands on his chest.
“You’re wonderful,” he smiles, and though his eyes are still red-rimmed, you can tell he’s back from that dark place of self-hatred. “I love you.”
The curl is back, the dark hair always falling across his forehead no matter what he does. Cookie ingredients are still spread out on the counter behind him, and though you would love to take this handsome man to bed right now and spend the rest of the evening tangled up with him, the temptation of the cookies is too strong.
“I can teach you how to make them,” you nod to the ingredients. “We can do it together.”
Marc slides you off the table and kisses you on top of the head.
“Okay. Teach me.”
You set Marc up measuring dry ingredients into a bowl while you pour sugar and crack eggs. You laugh when he bumps his hip into the counter, swears, spills the bag of flour everywhere.
“You think that’s funny,” he growls, eyes shining with amusement; he loves how you laugh.
“I though you’d be more graceful, Moon Knight,” you tease, grinning.
Mischief flashes across his face, and he grasps a fistful of spilled flour. You jump back, but he smears flour across your face, spilling it down the front of your shirt.
“Marc!” You protest, but it is half-hearted.
Any further arguments are cut off by his kiss. His dirty hands leave prints all over your body as he presses you into the counter, peppering your face with soft kisses until he finds your lips. If not for the beep of the oven you would have kissed Marc Spector all night. He leans back at the sound, and you duck under his arm to get back to baking.
Marc slides up behind you, holding you around the waist with his chin on your shoulder so he can watch you work. He kisses your cheek each time you move, and when it’s time he adds ingredients to your bowl as you stir, his arms still trapping you against the counter.
“Chocolate chips,” you request.
Reluctantly, Marc moves away to find the package of chocolate and adds it to the dough. His dark hair is now smeared with flour, so is his face and his clothes. You’re probably no better off, but seeing the usually tough man covered in baking ingredients and wearing a goofy grin makes your heart flutter.
“Now what?” Marc asks.
There’s no cookie scoop in the apartment, so you hand him a small spoon. You show him how to scoop the dough and roll it into a ball. As you slide the cookies into the oven and set a timer, you notice Marc starting to take the bowl to the sink.
“Wait!” You call.
He turns back to you with that one eyebrow curved up.
“We’re supposed to eat that.”
“The raw cookie dough?” He questions.
You nod and pluck the bowl from his hands, scooping out a bit with your spoon, and popping it in your mouth with an innocent smile. He is fixated on your lips.
“Focus, Spector,” you tease; you’re fully aware of what thoughts you have evoked in your boyfriend as you offer him the spoon. “Cookie dough?”
“Not what I’m hungry for,” his voice has dropped to a low rumble as he smirks down at you.
If his earlier softness went right to your heart, this goes right to your pussy.
“There’s only seven minutes on the timer,” you warn.
“I can work with that,” he grabs the bowl from your hand and tosses it onto the counter. “Bed.”
Marc has you out of your pants and flat on your back in seconds. He pulls you closer to the edge of the bed so your legs dangle over the edge, and he kneels between them. His eyes are dark as he palms your thighs, his breath tickling your center as he looks to you for confirmation, consent.
You nod, and just like that Marc buries his face in your cunt. He’s licking and sucking, using his tongue with a skill that always shocks you. His broad nose brushes against your clit, and for a second you’re distracted by the question of how he breathes when he’s going down on you. It’s just for a second because a moment later his tongue is flicking at your clit, drawing delightful little circles that have you squirming.
Marc is absolutely smirking as you meet his eyes and a soft breathy sound escapes your throat unbidden. Warmth coils in your stomach as he devours you like he is a starving man. You’re so close. He leaves one hand at your thigh, keeping your legs apart, and uses the other to push two fingers into you with a slowness that is borderline torturous.
“Fuck,” you whimper and reach for his hair, getting a handful of those soft dark locks much to Marc’s delight.
He curls his fingers and presses deeply into you even as his mouth settles over that spot you love. You can feel that tension building and building, warmth pooling in your stomach.
There’s a roaring in your ears as you cum, throwing your head back, shutting your eyes, twitching around his fingers and moaning his name quietly, your whole body shaking as that warmth spreads out from your center. He fucks you right through it, only pulling back when the pulsing has stopped and you begin to squirm away from the over-stimulation.
The timer beeps just as he sits back. Timer? Shit. You’d forgotten about the cookies.
“I got ‘em,” Marc presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands while you simply lay back and catch your breath.
Water runs. The oven door opens. The stove beeps. A few seconds later, Marc flops heavily into bed. You peek your eyes open to look at him. He has a cookie broken in half, offering part to you. You turn on your side to look at Marc, taking the cookie but really focused on the former mercenary whose eyes are wide with delight as he bites into the desert, chocolate smearing his lips as he chews.
You would stop the Earth from spinning to see that look on Marc’s face again.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He finally notices your expression.
“You have chocolate,” you answer awkwardly to evade the question and gesture to his lips.
His smile is mischievous as he leans forward, kissing your cheek and leaving a chocolate stain on your skin.
“Marc!”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He repeats the question.
“You look happy,” you whisper.
He pushes you onto your back and tucks his head into your shoulder, smiling against you.
“I am happy.”
--
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Karma in the Form of Justice -slightlydark!Steven w/ a hint of Marc x thief!reader
Summary: An opportunist thief takes their chances stealing from the wrong tomb and has to face their karma in the form of Moon Knight. Basically, don't get on the wrong side about Egyptian matters when it comes to Steven and if he teaches you something, you better remember it.
w/c: 6.9k
Warnings: none really, mentions of violence and murder :) and my horrible knowledge of ancient egypt. You are the bad guy in this
a/n: first fic! I kinda wrote steven slightly differently to canon steven and made him a little darker ;) ENJOY
***
It started out innocent. Because, of course, you were only 7 years old at the time. When the class was emptying out through the doorway, little, dumb Timmy left his British Museum pencil sitting freely on his desk, begging for someone to claim it. That someone was you. The urge to take it was overwhelming and you succumbed to temptation, stashing the pencil deep into your pocket when no one was looking and when no one could figure out the mystery of the disappearing pencil, it was exhilarating knowing that you were the only one who held the secret as to where it went.
The feeling followed as you got older.
It started out with a pencil. Then a pencil case. From a pencil case to a school bag. Within that school bag was a purse containing a little over £1.50, but still, it was a treasured find. From purses to watches, necklaces, rings, valuables, anything that could be pawned and make you that slightly bit richer. When you were old enough to realise about the illegalities of your little habits, guilt and paranoia began to make themselves known to you. But they were equally matched with the feeling of euphoria and the adrenaline of getting away with it, so although you did try to tone it back, you never really stopped.
By your late teens, the routine grew tiresome and you endeavoured for something bigger, better, flashier and ten times more riskier. You had to look no further than your very first pilferage.
The British Museum.
~~~~
If you ever tried to justify your actions, what sets you apart from the usual petty thieves is patience and intention. Thieves lack the former but embody the latter. They grow greedy and would plan and scheme and waste hours (the stupid ones don’t plan at all), throwing themselves into a situation that would inevitably result in handcuffs. You, on the other hand, were an opportunist, patient enough to know to pounce only when the moment presented itself on a silver platter. Why chase the thrill when you could let it find you?
On one random day during the week while your parents were enjoying their two week vacation to Italy, you decided to skip school and take a trip to the Museum. You did very little research before entering (after all, less planning means less intention means less suspicion), so you were pleasantly surprised by the museum’s ongoing exhibition of artefacts from ancient Egypt.
Your legs carried you in no certain direction, weaving in and out of the display cabinets of stone statues, plaques of hieroglyphics and crumbling pieces of sand. Despite it all being rather interesting, the artefacts weren’t the only thing your eyes were scanning for. Within the first room alone, you spotted 6 cameras and one patrol officer meandering just as casually as you were. There was no need to panic though, you were here to peruse. Not to steal.
You couldn’t promise yourself any restraint should the opportunity arise…
“Ah! I see you’ve found the Ushabti of Pa-Di-Pep.” An enthusiastic voice from your left appeared behind you. You turned to see a man with black curly hair, donning an enthusiastic smile as his eyes bounced from the ‘ushabti’ and you. “26th dynasty,” he muttered a little quieter. “Very old. Well, I guess that’s obvious. Wouldn’t be an exhibition on ancient Egypt if it was modern.” As his laughter died, your eyes caught the glint of his name tag on his jacket. Steven. You gathered he worked here.
“Oh, cool.” Your tone was rather disinterested and couldn’t be more sarcastic if you tried. “You know your stuff.”
“Oh it’s right up my alley actually. I’ve spent loads of time reading up on this kind of stuff. I could tell you anything about everything in this room. If you’d like?” The way he rolled on the balls of his feet like a child told you that he so clearly wanted to. You decided to indulge in him, only because you could get something out of it.
“Sure. It would be a great help towards my school project.” A clever lie, one that is easily bought by the sad little man beside you, lighting up his eyes and rolling his enthusiasm back to high tide. “So what about this ushabti, then? Anything else you can tell me about that?”
The man rambled on for a little while longer than you wanted, waiting for that perfect opportunity to segue onto the question that was hot on your lips. What was it worth?
“...figurines could also be inscribed with passages from the Book of the Dead, the intention of which was to secure safety for the deceased in the afterlife.”
“So not quite the ideal decoration to have in your house then?”
“Oh no, no, not at all. These are funeral artefacts, usually left buried along with a tomb.”
“Bummer. I was really looking into sprucing up my living room with one of these,” you jested, bumping a gentle elbow against his.
He elbowed back, “would really take the ‘living’ out of ‘living room’.”
“Definitely not worth it.” You began to look around the room, gambling with the idea of whether or not an opportunity could be found here. The security might’ve been too much of a risk. But it didn’t mean you couldn’t window shop. “So tell me then, out of anything in here, what would be worth having in your living room?”
“Where to begin? Oh! Here…”
Honestly, you zoned out, not having the slightest interest in anything he was saying unless it had any relevance to you. The man droned on and on about the history and the magnificence of each piece he talked about but nothing about its worth. You were about to try and cut ties until you both came across an interesting piece that gained your attention.
“And this is the bronze figure of the Egyptian God Ptah-”
“Ptah? Who’s he?”
He looked at you, dumbfounded, as if you'd just asked what day it was. “Who’s he? He’s only the Egyptian God of creation?! He was believed to have dreamt creation in his heart and gave it life with his breath.”
Spare me the poetry, pal. What’s it worth? Give me a number.
“So top shelf mantle material.” You feigned interest, smiling widely at him.
“Definitely. A very expensive one at that. Would set you back at least 37 grand.”
Interesting.
You stayed for a little while until the number of witnesses dwindled into single digits. The museum was beginning to close up, staff were outnumbering visitors with the majority of them leaving through the gift shop which conveniently sold replicas of the bronze figure ‘Steven’ showed you earlier.
You always told yourself that you never planned, but another opportunity had opened up to you and you couldn’t help but call it fate.
It went flawlessly. When no one was looking you swiftly snatched the real bronze figure, giving you the seconds you needed to make it to the gift shop before the panicked patrol officer alerted staff. The hubbub of the precious missing artefact opened up the second opportunity to swipe a replica from the shelf.
“Oh, excuse me!” You had yelled, holding the replica up in the air, the real one encased in your rucksack. “I saw some kid walking out with this, I believe it belongs here.” Your sickly smile fooled the patrol staff, knowing none the wiser, and kindly took the replica with a relieved breath, placing it back onto its pedestal.
You walked out the museum 37 grand richer.
~~~~
Whenever you pulled something off like this, you tended to keep your head low for at least a week after, limiting the amount of times you left your home, and kept communication to an absolute minimum. Within a few weeks, you were back to your normal self. However, this time the euphoria was very short-lived. It had been a day after your theft when the paranoia settled in and you had never known it to be so all-consuming. With a pilferage worth 37 grand, it meant that the stakes were far too high to wager with. Finding rest was a rare luxury for at least a week. You tried to ease your way through the days feeling conflicted and, in all honesty, petrified of the foreseeable. With each day that passed, you found it harder and harder to keep your paranoia at bay and you didn’t dare leave your home and the mental torture plagued you with restlessness; having to check locks four, fives times before you left each room.
Your home started to feel like less of a safe space. You couldn’t explain the feeling you had every morning when you woke up, itching with an unease that someone had been watching you, spying on you, observing you with resentment in their eyes with what you had chosen to do with your life. It was then you started to notice things being out of place; the ridge in your carpet had changed shape, curtains had been drawn wider than how you usually left them, a kitchen chair was facing just a degree or two out of place. That same night, you remembered standing in the middle of your bedroom with a cold breeze drafting around you, but it wasn’t the reason for your shivers. To your left a creak of the floorboards, to your right a moan of the wind. Something wasn’t right. Something definitely wasn’t right.
It could’ve been your paranoia, it could’ve been your lack of sleep, but you were certain you spotted two glowing eyes peering through your window from across the street, staring directly into your soul.
“Fuck this,” you whispered to yourself. Without a moments’ hesitation you reached for the bronze figure you had stashed within the hollows of your wall. “Time to get rid of this.”
Being quite the weasel you are, you sold the bronze figure for almost double the money on the black market and made the very bold decision to get out of the country before you were consumed by guilt.
~~~~
3 years later
“You ready?” Amon asks you, propping up his scarf over his face to fight against the sandy winds. You nod to him before following him into the entrance of the tomb that lies just beneath an alcove, hidden in the shadows of the dunes.
Amon had already scouted the entrance of the tomb a few days prior, so he takes lead on the scavenge guiding the way with a bright white torch and the moment you step into the tomb, you become his shadow. The tunnel is narrow and carries a draft only a fraction of the winds outside and it’s something you’re thankful for, otherwise you would be dripping right through your clothes with sweat. Every step is with caution, every living breath is considered your last, both you and Amon are aware of the risks that these tunnels carry.
Amon, being a local, had his reasons for entering the tunnel; he knows of the treasures and rarities of what lies inside, a conversation that caught wind and found your eavesdropping ears in the midst of a busy town outside Cairo. Not to mention, he’s as greedy for his share of the fortune if you are skillful enough to succeed. Unfortunately, being a local, he also has his reasons not to enter. On a spiritual level, this tomb is considered to be cursed, ladened with traps of an Egyptian mind that could easily kill you with one wrong step. He is too afraid to do it alone.
On a more realistic level, the structure is unsupported, tunnels weaving their way beneath tonnes and tonnes of ancient bricks, sand and rubble that could collapse at any given moment. That’s the real risk you’re more frightened of.
“How much of this did you actually scout?” You ask.
“I go until no more.” His broken English rises above the low moaning whistle which Amon claims to be the voice of the dead, warning you to turn back while you still have a chance. You don’t heed his superstitions.
You both eventually reach the point that Amon had mentioned and honestly, you were expecting it to be a lot further into the tomb and not just a few minutes into the journey. Before you, a collapsed section of the tunnel with a small point of entrance between the ground and rubble. Eyeing it up, you realise it’s big enough that you could squeeze yourself through there if you held your breath but taking a second glance at Amon, there’s no way his 5'10 well-fed body could do the same.
He gestures to the blockage, “I go until no more.”
“Right.” You heave a sigh, considering your options; ignore the risks and do it alone, or turn around and walk away from it all.
Alas, that small hole is an opportunity. And where there is an opportunity, there is possibility.
You begin to strip yourself of your equipment until you are down to a few layers of clothing. You lower yourself onto your stomach heading face first through the opening. “When I get through, pass me my equipment, okay?” Amon nods in understanding, but not without mentioning how crazy he thinks you are.
It’s an awkward shuffle through to the other side. Hands, elbows, knuckles and knees are scraping against the ground in an attempt to push your way through, aided by the breath of relief when you make it to the other side. Beams of white light shine through the cracks in the rubble and when Amon hears you made it, he passes through your equipment.
You find his eyes through one of the cracks. “Will you wait?” You reluctantly ask, suddenly feeling vulnerable now that you have been separated.
“Yes. I have walkie-talkie. Atamanaa lak al tawfiq.” You don’t know what he said, but from his tone and the way he looks at you with hope you guess that it’s along the lines of ‘good luck’.
With a final nod, you head off into the unknown, your torch shining the way.
There’s a million thoughts running through your head as you delve deeper into the tomb, but yet not one that gives you any comfort. What if there isn’t anything to find? What if you get lost? What if Amon doesn’t wait for you? What if you get trapped?
What if you die?
They remind you that you are way out of your depth here, you aren’t an adventurer nor an explorer of any sort. You’re an opportunist thief who takes their chances where they shouldn’t. What the hell are you doing here?
You force yourself to swallow your growing discomfort, clinging on to the small possibility and Amon’s knowledge that you do find something worth your while. Besides, it’s that small possibility that motivated you to crawl through that opening and continue your journey. You have to keep going.
The tunnels eventually open up into a massive hollow cavern lined with broken paths and cliff edges, hanging over a substantial drop. You take a moment to collect yourself, eyes following the paths and finding that the only way is down. Down into the pit of darkness. There isn’t a sound to be heard, and if it wasn’t for your powerful torch, you wouldn’t be able to see a thing. The breeze has calmed to nothing, not a single wisp of your hair moving upon your head and the heat starts to become more of a nuisance. Your palms sweat as you cling onto protruding rocks along the wall and your torch threatens to slip from your grasp. It’s a challenging obstacle course, manoeuvring yourself from one path to another, planning and scheming as you go.
“You there Amon?” The bleep of the walkie-talkie bounces against the walls of the cavern, its echo travelling for miles. You estimate that you’re about 50 feet down from where you started.
“Yes. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, the tomb goes deep. I don’t know if the signal will carry if I get to the bottom…” you pause, hesitant over your next words. “This might take a while. If you don’t hear from me in 4 hours, then just leave.”
“Leave you? No, no, no, I wait in car. You come back in 4 hours. Yes?”
“Okay. I’ll contact you again when I get to the--shit!!” What stops you mid-sentence is the pair of glowing white eyes at the bottom of the cavern, floating, watching, observing. You’ve seen those eyes before. It was unnerving the first time but it’s even more terrifying the second time, a new wave of fear now rattling your bones. Your heart rate picks up, your pulse almost thrumming in your ears in sheer panic. No, no, no. It can’t be…
You shine your torch towards the eyes but in its deathly white glow, they disappear, reappearing only when you avert your torch.
“Hello? You okay? Hello?!” Amon’s almost yelling through the walkie-talkie.
“I’m okay, sorry, just…” You have no idea what to say, eyes glued to the glowing ones miles below you. “Just got a fright.”
“Be careful,” is that last thing Amon says to you before the line goes dark. When all is silent, you’re left to quietly battle against the glowing pair of eyes, unmoving and unblinking. You don’t dare take a single step, adamant on keeping your gaze locked firmly below you with two hands clenched around the torch in a white-knuckled grip. You quickly become stuck in a cycle of shining your torch onto them, repeatedly watching them disappear and reappear in the hopes that they’ll eventually vanish forever.
“Fuck…just leave me alone,” you quietly murmur to yourself. When the eyes refuse to react, you bravely decide to take a single side step, closer towards your next descent where you know you will have to detach your gaze, but you know you can’t stay here forever. The eyes don’t move, they don’t blink, they just keep watching you. So you take another step, and another, and another…
Within a matter of panic-inducing seconds, you eventually reach the edge of a ridge when your torch begins flickering, the light dimming with each flicker. “No, no, no you have to be kidding me!” Stressed, you bang the torch against your palm in a nervous attempt to keep the light, it’s your only salvation right now, you can’t lose it. You could’ve sworn the batteries were fully charged. You had them charging overnight knowing you were going into a dark tomb, why aren’t they working? Fuck, why won’t they work?!
Despite your distraction, you’re hyper aware of the eyes below you, eyes that you are not currently watching and having lost your composure, your paranoia floods you with thoughts that this was what they were waiting for; their moment to pounce. They could be scaling the walls towards your position. They could have moved and you wouldn’t know. They could be inches from you and you wouldn’t even notice until it was too late. You feel it. They’re crawling closer and closer and closer…
After a few heart stopping seconds, the torch finally flashes to life and with a desperate sob you shine the bright beam towards the eyes as if the light is your shield. Like before they disappear, but unlike before, they don’t reappear. They’re gone. You can’t see them anywhere. Not above, not below. Gone.
The stress overwhelms you and you drop to your knees, passing a strangled whimper and letting your heart rate slow to an easy beat. Fuck. You’re still a long way to go, how are you going to manage?
Against your better judgement, you continue at a slow and agonising pace, still very aware of your surroundings as if you’re expecting the eyes to appear again. Thankfully, about an hour and a half of descending down the multiple jumps and hazardous steps, you reach an opening. Finding another narrow tunnel that leads you away from the cavern seems like a saving-grace and you don’t give the glowing eyes another opportunity to appear before you follow the trail.
“Amon, can you hear me?” Your walkie-talkie hisses a low frequency back at you. “Amon, are you there?”
No response. You are truly on your own now.
You readjust your rucksack straps, retie your bootlaces, wipe the sweat from your brow, and with feigned determination, you set off through yet another dark, narrow tunnel with your untrustworthy torch in hand.
You quickly find that this one isn’t like the one you and Amon travelled through at the entrance, this one feels like a maze. Despite it having only one path and being completely linear, there is a tight 90 degree corner every 5 or 6 steps. Left, right, left, left, right, left, right, right, left. It’s unnerving because even though you know you can’t get lost and you know exactly where you came from, there’s no way of telling what lies ahead of you, no way of telling what lurks just around the corner, waiting for you in the darkness. What’s worse is that there’s no way of telling if anything is following you until it’s exactly five steps behind you which, by that point, there’s no outrunning it. You’ve never felt paranoia like it and the deeper you trail, the more anxious you become.
After fifteen minutes, you feel you’re going in circles. Logically, you know it isn’t possible but the disorientation you feel convinces you otherwise. You’ve taken so many left and right-hand turns that you’ve lost count and you just can’t map it out in your head. There has to be an end, this can’t go on for much longer.
After another five minutes, you stop to gather your sanity tucked neatly into one of the many corners of the tunnel, keeping track of where you came from and where you intend to go. You cleanse your mind with a refreshing drink of cold water, splashing some sparingly across your forehead and the back of your neck, revelling in the small relief it brings you. The droplets on the ground are the only evidence of your travels and you figure it would be a good indication should you succeed in making it back. Just a couple of more hours, you tell yourself. You can do it.
Composed, you rise to your feet ready to take another step but before you do, your torch flickers again, subjecting you to intermittent seconds of pure darkness. Your heart stops dead in your chest. The last time that happened the eyes were watching you and you can’t bear to think that time is repeating itself.
Your strategy from last time fails you and no matter how hard you hit the flashlight against your palm, this time it doesn’t come back to life. Flicking the switch off and on again does it no good either and your breathing becomes panicked. Crouched in the corner, you’re enveloped in darkness. It’s so dark that you begin to see swirls of your imagination floating in front of your eyes, so dark that you can’t even see your hand inches from your face, yet still your eyes flicker around frantically as if you could see.
Helpless, you turn to your other senses, feeling around the rocky sandy ground in search of your rucksack where you know you packed emergency flares. It’s a struggle to rummage for them and until you do, you keep on high alert, listening out for anything out of the ordinary.
That’s when you hear it; the crumbling of sand, the crunching of footsteps and the soft ruffle of fabric. Someone’s here. There’s no doubt about it. Everything in you is screaming to just abandon the flare and just run but fear keeps you rooted with your hand deep into your rucksack. Your heart feels like a weight in your chest, banging against your rib cage to escape the situation you’re in but your brain tells you to stay, hoping that whoever, whatever, is here is just as blinded by the darkness as you are. If you move, it’ll hear you.
Your hand eventually knocks against the flare, feeling the familiar cylinder encased in your hand. Alarmed, you pull it out and set it alight, its red flare bursting to life. It gives light to the corridors to your right and to your left…where a tall, daunting mummified figure in white stands, glaring its glowing white eyes on you. Its sudden presence kick starts your reflexes and adrenaline pumps through your veins, pushing you to your feet with a hysterical whimper escaping your throat, and before you even know it, you’re running almost blindly through the tunnel. There isn’t a second thought spared to the broken flashlight and the rucksack full of equipment you mistakenly left behind, running further and further away from whatever is stalking behind you. With the flare outstretched, red walls zoom by you as you try to cut every corner, scraping shoulders and elbows against the walls in a desperate attempt to increase the distance between you and that thing.
You can hear it behind you, marching at a quick pace, its footsteps drumming into your ears gradually getting closer and louder. Oh God. It’s right behind you. Keep running, keep running, fuck just don’t stop running!
Tears and sweat glide down your cheeks and you begin to worry that it’ll be the last thing you feel before this being captures you. However, you're granted one last chance of salvation when you turn a corner and see that the tunnel stretches out into a long, straight, narrow path, giving your legs a chance to break into a full uninterrupted sprint. Towards the end you see an archway leading you into the heart of the tomb where a sarcophagus lies in the centre of the room; the very one Amon described as being a goldmine of treasuries. If you can just make it there…
You pick up speed at the moment the tunnel surrounding you begins to rumble, tremors setting your feet off course and pushing you off balance. Little stones and flecks of dust fall from above you and land in your eyes but you know you can’t afford to stop, knowing that that being is still behind you. Little did you know that you had set off a trap, stepping on a plate that triggers the corridor to collapse, no doubt a preventative measure to stop people like you from pilfering the tomb within. But you had been running so quickly, you barely even noticed. Perhaps if you keep running just as fast, you might be able to escape from being crushed to death…
The rumbling becomes so loud that it drowns out the footsteps from behind you and you put all of your remaining strength into sprinting as fast as you can, pumping blood and adrenaline to your legs as they carry you closer and closer to the tomb. Every step is paired with an exhausted pant, your own voice crying out with exhaustion and fear. You have to make it. You can do it.
You dive into the tomb just milliseconds before a large solid rock closes off the entrance, separating you and the being.
All is silent in the tomb. The rumbling ceases and the footsteps are long forgotten. When a shred of sense returns to you, you take the dying light of the burning flare to the wooden torches dotted around the tomb, not only giving light to the room but giving light to the very, very fucked up realisation you’ve just had. Four solid walls surround you.
There’s no relief to be had, because although you had just escaped being crushed to death, you now face death in a far more morbid way. There isn’t another way out. You’re beginning to think that you’ve made yet another mistake; being crushed would’ve been a quick and painless death. Now, with no other means of escape, you’ll be subjected to a long, agonising, painful torment, forever waiting for the moment that starvation, thirst, suffocation and time consumes you.
You didn’t just enter any tomb, you entered your own tomb.
“Fuck!” You scream, falling to your knees, already bloody, bruised and scraped but the pain doesn’t translate when you’re deep in despair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The walls swallow your cries, accepting your defeat.
If it wasn’t for the situation you find yourself in, you would be revelling in the numerous pieces of ancient artefacts around you, gushing over the rusted gold that shines on the mantles on the walls, laughing with hysteria about how your discovery had just made you a thousand times richer. But no, all you can think about is how claustrophobic you feel, how your lungs burn in your chest and how you will never see the light of day again.
You spare a thought to your parents whom you had failed to keep in contact with. For the first few months you kept it to just once a week; a picture of your face with an unidentifiable background and a message telling them you were safe. They learned pretty quickly after your sudden disappearance that you weren’t going to answer any of their questions and soon accepted that your weekly message would have to suffice. It was all they needed to know; you were okay and you were safe. Despite the numerous ‘how’s, ‘where’s, ‘what’s, and ‘when’s, there was only ever one ‘why’.
‘Why did you do it?’
Your parents knew exactly why you fled on the day the British Museum had reported a missing bronze figure alongside a grainy picture of your profile captioned ‘number one suspect’, but the one little detail that left them mentally spiralling over their own parenting techniques, wondering where they went so wrong was…why?
Why did you do it?
Why indeed.
The pencil, the pencil case, the rucksack, the purse, the £1.50, watches, jewellery, everything you had ever snagged in your life, was it all worth it? Was this your karma?
You aren’t sure how much time has passed before you have no more tears left to cry. Completely numb from crying you come to a stand, quickly arriving at the anger stage in the five stages of grief over your own inevitable death. You begin kicking the sarcophagus, knocking things off the mantles and punching anything your fist can connect with with reckless abandon that you don’t even care for how much your temper tantrum is costing you. Everything hurts but you just. Don’t. Care.
Hours later, exhaustion begins to creep up on you just when the fire of the torches begins to flicker to nothing and before they completely die out, you take one last look around your tomb. You think it’s been more than four hours now which means Amon will be long gone. You are all alone.
Lying in the corner surrounded by the remains of your temper tantrum with all hope lost, you close your eyes.
~~~~
“Tut tut tut.” A male voice murmurs, arousing you from your slumber. The room is dark when your eyes flicker open, so it’s impossible to miss those glowing white eyes standing at the far end of the room. Fuck. Not again. They startle you so much they jolt your body to full attention, your chest feeling heavy as if you had been defibrillated back to life. “What a waste.” The footsteps lurk around the sarcophagus, scuffing against the shards of the ceramic artefacts you smashed earlier. How he can see, you have no idea. Yet, you still feel the need to push yourself further back against the wall.
You take a shaky breath, mustering the courage to speak. “Please…” The eyes sway casually as the being walks nearer, standing over you cowering in the corner. Before either of you say another word, something drops at your feet. It’s your rucksack.
“Open it,” he instructs smoothly, a hint of an American twang interlacing his words. “It’s much too dark in here, and I’d prefer to see the fear in your eyes when you get what you deserve.”
Keeping your eyes rooted to the being in front of you, deja vu runs coldly through your veins as your hand sneaks into your rucksack to find the flare. However unlike last time, you’d rather face him in the dark, not a single cell in your body wishes to greet the mummified adonis standing inches before you, threatening you.
“Go on,” he encourages, eyes flitting to your bag. He knows you don’t want to. It’s pitiful how much you don’t want to.
When the red glow illuminates there you see him, in fact it’s all you can see. The intimidating being you had only seen for a split second before in full display. His silhouette is so all-encompassing, the red glow doesn’t reach far past him. He’s wrapped neatly in white bandages with gold embellishments on his chest with a flowing cape cascading down his back, resembling warrior regalia. Shadows flicker behind the contours of his hood that hangs over his masked face, giving away no emotion. Everything about him is a mystery and you can’t help but feel vulnerable knowing he can see everything about you, reading the terror in your eyes as if it was written out for him.
You pull your legs to your chest as he crouches down, levelling with you.
“I usually don’t deal with petty thieves until they start messing with things that shouldn’t be messed with.”
“Who are you? How did you get in here?”
He chuckles menacingly, tilting his head. “Looking for an escape? Don’t bother. You won’t be leaving here. At least not until I’m done with you.”
“What…” Your voice scrapes against your dry throat. It’s been hours since you last had a drop of water. “What are you going to do to me?”
He doesn’t immediately respond, but instead looks into his own reflection in the gold plating of an artefact you smashed, muttering a tense “not now, Steven.” Steven? What?
He turns back to you. “The same thing I did to your partner on the surface.” Amon. Shit!
“Is…is he dead?”
“Almost. I left him with just enough of a heartbeat to keep him alive, enough to teach him a lesson I know he will learn. You - however - I have no hope for.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, “I was only exploring.”
“Hmm, I highly doubt that - shut up Steven!” Your brows furrow with confusion, who the hell is Steven? Looking around, you can’t seem to see anyone else here in the room with you and this being. He doesn't give you a second to question his weird antics, coming very quickly to a stand with a grunt and pulling what looks like a gold, crescent shaped weapon from his chest and into his hand. “You’ve been thieving from the moment you knew you could. You know yourself you’re never going to change, so I’m here to put an end to it, to make sure you never get away with something like this again - dammit Steven, fine! But don’t let her get away. She’s mine.”
“What the fuck-” Before another word leaves your lips, the being morphs, or rather, his regalia does. The bandages unravel, withering away to reveal a white tux, donned by the same glowing eyes peering down at you.
“Exploring, eh?”
You’re taken aback by the minor change in his voice, his inflection. All Americanisms smoothly disappear and in place a British accent shapes his words. One that seems far too familiar for your liking…
“What…”
“Gathering research for your school project?” He crouches down again, leaning closer and invading your space. “Or scouting the place out for a heist.” His tone isn't questioning anymore. They’re words of a statement, of a fact he knows is true. It’s really starting to shake your nerves. Something about all of this feels disconcerting.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“It’s a shame, really.” He stubbornly ignores your question, picking up a fractured piece of artefact. “This statue would’ve looked really nice on a living room mantle. Really would’ve spruced up the place.”
Your heart stops and your breath catches in the back of your throat. The conversation throws you back into your memories, images of the British Museum flashes through your mind. The Egyptian exhibition. The bronze figure. The bumbling staff member who showed you it all. The name on his badge was…
“Steven.”
“Ah, so you do remember. See, you’re smarter than you look. That’s what fooled me all those years ago when you manipulated me into thinking you were just an innocent student looking to learn. You bloody well used me, didn’t you? Cost me my job.”
“Look, Steven, I’m sorry, o-okay? I was young and stupid, I didn’t know-”
“Young, yes. Stupid? No. You knew exactly what you were doing when you walked out with that figure. You knew exactly what you were doing when you stashed it in your bedroom walls. I looked everywhere for that statue, waiting for you to reveal where you hid it. And you fucking sold it!” So you weren’t seeing things that night. You know that feeling of being watched wasn’t just a figment of your imagination, it was Steven. “You knew what you were doing when you walked into this tomb. But I bet you don’t know whose tomb you walked into, or what ancient artefacts you recklessly broke. Still ‘willing to learn’? I hope so, ‘cos I think it’s fucking hilarious.”
Steven comes to a stand and begins marching over to inspect the side of the sarcophagus. At that moment, the light of the flare illuminates the rest of the room and your eyes dart to the entrance where the stone that locked you in here no longer exists. How? Never mind. Survival first, question later. As ever, you take the opportunity and make a dash for the entrance, your legs a little lethargic from your lack of sustenance.
Sadly, you only get so far. A broad arm wraps around your neck and pulls you flush against Steven’s body. “Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast.” His crushing strength borders dangerously between cutting off your oxygen but keeping you conscious enough to hear the words as he mutters them down your ear. “See this sarcophagus here? Do you know who it belongs to?
“No!” You ball, kicking up a fight. You barely push him off-balance. “I don’t give a fuck, let me go!”
“See this is why I find the irony of this hilarious. Go on, have a guess. I’m intrigued to see if you’re capable of learning a lesson.”
Steven man-handles you, gripping your jaw to fore to look at the large sarcophagus in front of you littered with inscriptions of a language you can’t translate and decorated with hieroglyphics you don’t understand. You get the feeling it’s something that Steven had already told you about during his ramblings at the museum. But he talked so much about shit you didn’t care for and you didn’t retain any information unless it had to do with its price. Fuck, whose sarcophagus is this?
“I…I don’t know. Please, just let me go, I promise I won’t steal anymore.” You’re sobbing now, your tears rolling down your cheeks to be absorbed by Steven’s white suit. Frustrated, Steven tightens his hold on you.
“No, come on. Focus. I need to know that you didn’t just use me, I need to know I taught you something. Now what was it? I’ll give you a clue, it was one of the first things we talked about.”
Fuck. It was about some Ushabti thing, right?
“The Ushabti?”
“God, you butcher the pronunciation. But well done. The Ushabti of who?”
You really can’t remember, and you feel it will be the death of you if you don’t. So overrun with hopelessness, you completely give in to defeat and fall weak in Steven’s arm. “I just want to go home.”
“No, not the Ushabti of I-just-want-to-go-home. Who. Was. It?”
Come on, think! Who was it? Da…Fa…Pa-something. Pa…Pa…
“I’m going to be reeaalllyyy disappointed if you don’t get this.” Steven’s harsh voice vibrates down your ear, his mask pressing firmly against the side of your ear.
“Pa…”
“Yes?”
“Pa-Di…”
“Almost there, darlin’”
Finally, the knowledge springs to life and the syllables roll off your tongue. “Pa-Di-Pep?”
“See? You did know it, which means you’ll know what these inscriptions are on the side of this sarcophagus and on all the relics in this tomb, which means you know why I find this so funny.”
If you had the breath to sigh, you would. He’s right. You do know why. The scraps of information he fed you come whizzing back with a stab of irony. You understand it now.
“Passages from the Book of the Dead, the intention of which was to secure safety for the deceased in the afterlife.” You relay his words back in your voice, Steven chuckling maniacally behind you.
“And you just broke them all. Bad luck, eh? No safe passage to the afterlife for you. My buddy Marc will make sure of it. If you haven’t already realised, I’m the brains of this body. Marc is the brawn. Never misses a kill that one. Do you, Marc?”
Steven suddenly shuffles behind you, maintaining that iron steel grip he has around your throat. When the material of the mask traces the shell of your ear and his voice returns, his tone has changed. Deeper, lower, threatening.
American.
“Kind of you to say, Steven. Y’know, it’s a shame Steven isn’t kind enough to let you live. So, little thief, what’ll it be? Shall I kill you where you stand, or do you want to join Pa-Di-Pep in his sarcophagus?”
#steven grant x reader#marc spector x reader#moon knight x reader#oscar isaac x reader#moon knight#oscar isaac#oscar isaac fic#karma in the form of justice#steven grant#marc spector#oscar isaac characters#steven grant x you#marc spector x you#oscar isaac x you#moon knight x you#mcu#jake lockley#moonknight#fic#oscar isaac fanfic
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Heaven Sent You to Me
Pairing: Apollo (who happens to look exactly like Orestes in Agora) x fem!reader
Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI!
Word Count: 3.8k
TW/CW: umm we all know Greek Mythology is like screwed up right? So there’s mean patriarchal men in this, a bit of power play between Apollo and reader, innocence!kink, oral (f!receiving), PinV sex, loss of virginity, talk of pregnancy
A/N: YES I AM AWARE THAT I SHOULD BE WRITING THE MORE THE MERRIER OR ANSWERING THE OTHER 87 ASKS IN MY INBOX BUT MY MUSE IS FICKLE OKAY? She said “Oscar as Apollo or no words at all” so here we are 🤷♀️ I watched The Two Faces of January last week and kept thinking that Oscar looks like a Greek god and @lovely-cryptid ‘s greek mythology AU lives rent free in my head and I couldn’t help myself…
Also the title is a lyric from an Ariana Grande because I have fully reverted ten years writing a Greek Mythology AU for my fandom du jour with a song lyric title bc I'm ~artsy~
You should have known he was a god. The way his fingers seemed to fly over the strings of his lyre. That enchanting, mellifluous voice. The smile that shone brighter than the sun itself. You’d encountered him in the woods behind the temple consecrated to him for Zeus’s sake.
Though who could blame you for assuming he was a mortal man? What would a god, an Olympian, want with you – an unimportant peasant in a small, unimportant village? He’d appeared to you as a mortal, a beautiful, alluring one, but a mortal. In fact, he’d been rather short in stature. Apollo’s affairs and exploits were famous, nay infamous, and even now it seemed impossible to reconcile the man who had spoken to you with such sweetness, who had wrung ebullient laughter, as well as previously unimaginable pleasure, from you was the mighty god you and your family had worshiped since time immemorial.
The revelation that you had lain with the god of light, music, medicine, the averter of evil, had been one that raced your head endlessly over the past few days, but it never failed to send a shiver down your spine. You instantly conjured the broad, chiseled planes of his body, so starkly contrasted with the gentle way he’d made love to you. When you revealed that you were a virgin, he was tender with you. Fragments of memories flashed in your mind’s eye but the one that oddly lingered the longest, and the most vividly, was the sweep of his thick, dark lashes across his high cheekbone when his eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy as he met his release. He had been the portrait of pleasure and beauty. You were truly a naive fool for not realizing the divinity in front of you in that moment.
“We must pray that you conceive,” your mother had declared. “You have already secured our family great status, but a demigod? Dmitri, can you imagine?”
Despite her praise, your cheeks burned in shame when she turned to your father for his reaction. You detested how openly and calculated this very intimate, typically private event in your life was being discussed. No one was supposed to know. Yet your sister had found the blood stains on your chiton while laundering it, and she’d coaxed the details out of you.
“Did it hurt?” she whispered.
“No.”
Her brows furrowed, “But you bled. It always hurts. It hurt my first time.”
“I…I don’t know. It didn’t. There was a–,” you blushed bright red and lowered your voice even further, “–a stretch, but it was pleasurable. I didn’t notice the blood until you did.”
Your sister was not willing to let it go. A trait among the women in your family that you’d failed to inherit.
“Well, how large was he?”
“Caris,” you urged her to stop. Yet, you knew your plea was useless, so you quickly approximated your lover’s size with your hands.
“Oh that definitely should have hurt!” Caris squawked in disbelief.
“I’m not talking about this anymore!” you proclaimed.
And that really should have been the end of it. Yet when you, Caris, and your parents made your weekly tribute at Apollo’s temple the following day the priests and acolytes were all abuzz. The god had appeared yesterday.
Initially, you had been as exhilarated as the rest of them, yet your stomach dropped and face blanched as the priest who had seen Apollo described him. Inky curls, olive skin, dark eyes with a strong brow and prominent nose. The god possessed an undoubtedly commanding presence, but there was a playfulness, an exuberance to him.
You and Caris traded bewildered glances. The priest’s depiction of Apollo matched up rather perfectly with Phoebus, the young man you’d stumbled across when you’d decided to take a walk through the forest rather than immediately returning home after your visit to the temple.
“It’s him,” she asserted lowly as you all headed back home.
“Shhhh,” you tried to speed up and away from her, a stupid idea because Caris had longer legs than you. When she inevitably caught up with you two seconds later, you insisted, “Don’t be silly.”
“Apollo is the god of healing and diseases. Is it really so far-fetched to believe that he could minimize any pain for his lovers? Especially the virgins?”
“Caris! Enough!”
The vehemence of your demand had caught your mother’s attention. While in the moment you were able to extinguish any suspicions she had, eventually Caris’s big mouth betrayed you. You had expected her to rage. To punish you. You, an unmarried, unbetrothed woman, had engaged in an activity that was the most important gift in your dowry to your future husband. You readied yourself for the insults and reproaches your mother would hurl at you for becoming damaged goods as a marriage prospect.
Yet, she all but kissed your feet when she found out. She rejoiced, then immediately marched you back to the temple to meet with the clerics. That was when the humiliation began. You were examined to ensure that you had in fact been deflowered. As if that hadn’t been degrading enough, you then were stripped and prayed over for hours, leering men begging Apollo for a sign to confirm that you were indeed the one the god had chosen to ravish. The manner in which the priests brusquely groped and prodded at you couldn’t have been more different than the way the deity himself had treated you, the god they claimed to serve.
When a sign didn’t immediately appear, doubt had set in. A mortal woman winning the attention of their patron god was the most momentous thing to happen in your village in generations, so if you were lying? Eternal shame. For you and your family.
You were kept overnight in the temple in a nicely appointed room, but forbidden to see anyone. You cried yourself to sleep, yet much to your relief, at dawn, Apollo provided the confirmation the priests needed and you were allowed to go. Of course, by the time you returned home, everyone knew.
After having a bit of time to contemplate it, you realized that it wasn't so much the fact that every single person in your life began treating you differently that unmoored and overwhelmed you, it was how swiftly it had all happened. It hadn’t been your choice.
You were required at the temple daily now for rituals. Thankfully, the fact you’d lain with a god disqualified you from becoming an acolyte, you were still needed for “veneration” purposes. You soon deduced this meant that the priests simply wanted to keep you around to curry favor with Apollo.
You hated it. You were the only one present in the chamber currently who had ever meaningfully interacted with the deity, yet you were reduced to a glorified altar ornament for their rites.
The only way to weather these hours-long sessions was to recall what brought you here in the first place. You retreated into your memory of that fateful afternoon when you met Apollo.
It’d been a beautiful day, and you were more at ease in nature. The hustle and bustle of the village and the imposing columns of the temple felt suffocating to you.
You’d heard him first before you saw him. The most beautiful music wafted toward you. You couldn’t have turned away if you’d wanted to. It was as if the mixture of the melody he played and the tune he sang had entranced your feet to carry you to the source of the sound. You hadn’t heard the song before, but inexplicably, it had an odd air of familiarity within your ears.
The sight of him initially seemed to be a joke. He had to be a mirage of some sort. A song so gorgeous coming from a man who was even more dazzling? Had you tripped and hit your head on your stroll from the temple? Surely you were dreaming.
His song ceased when he sensed your presence.
“I’m sorry,” your apology tumbled from your lips at once. “Please don’t stop on my account, I didn’t mean to–I’ll leave. I apologize for intruding.”
Before you could tuck and run, he called to you.
“Don’t! There’s no need.”
You froze, and slowly pivoted back to face him. He’d gotten closer to you, which was terrible for your clarity of mind. In addition to his good looks, he radiated an irresistible air of power, and his proximity only compelled you to submit to it more.
“Thank you.”
Suddenly, the man before you turned boyish and shy before he queried, “Would you like to hear more?”
“Please.”
It was the first time you were treated to his smile. It reduced you to a blushing fool with a startling amount of efficiency.
He motioned to a nearby boulder for you to take a seat on. You obeyed instantly. He took his place on a nearby log and resumed plucking at his lyre.
His song was haunting, beguiling, and hopeful all at once. His voice lilted over the lyre’s strings. He sang in a language you didn’t understand, and couldn’t begin to identify, but you were captivated all the same.
You were slightly embarrassed, though not at all surprised, that there were tears staining your cheeks when he concluded.
He grinned dopily when he saw you dabbing at your eyes, “That bad, huh?’
“Stop,” You chuckled through your tears. “You have a gift.”
He shrugged off your compliment with a frustrating amount of nonchalance.
You needed to know more about this mysterious man. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m merely passing through.”
“Are you a minstrel then?”
He smirked as if you’d said something inadvertently humorous to him. “I suppose you could call me that.”
“Well, what should I call you then?”
“Phoebus.”
“Have you traveled much, Phoebus?” you inquired.
“I have.”
“Could you tell me about the places you’ve been? I’ve never left this utterly boring village.”
“I will, if you tell me what keeps you here. Is it your village’s association with the deity?”
You cocked your head in confusion. It was an odd question to you. You strove to answer diplomatically, “While I wouldn’t say that Apollo is driving me away, I wouldn't say he’s keeping me here either.”
Again, that secretive little smirk tugged at the corners of Phoebus’s quite luscious mouth. “I see. He’s vastly overrated isn’t he?”
“Oh I wouldn’t go so far to say that!” you attempt to course-correct. “We’re blessed with his patronage.”
A mischievous glint danced behind Phoebus’s dark, magnetic eyes. “Say no more. Now, where do you want to hear about first?”
He proceeded to regale you with tales of the most wondrous places. Of seas and mountains and monsters and the divine. You got lost within his stories. You wished you could live within them.
It had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to accompany him on a stroll when he suggested it. Typically warnings would blare in your head - you must not stray any further with this handsome stranger, he could sully you, or worse, harm you, but you felt entirely safe with Phoebus. At the time, it had been impossible to put your finger on why you’d felt so. Now, it was abundantly clear: you’d been in the presence of one of the most powerful creatures in all of existence. Still, he chatted and wandered with you in a remarkably similar manner to mortal men your age.
When you two came across a river and Phoebus proposed a swim, your cheeks had burned with sheepishness. He hadn’t mocked or derided you, he simply offered to turn away while you undressed and submerged yourself into the water to afford you some modesty. However, Phoebus hadn’t been quite as bashful as you had been when disrobing. In fact, the flourish with which he all but flung off his chiton led you to believe he wanted you to watch him, rather than avert your eyes like you immediately did once you realized what he was doing. You hadn’t been quick enough however, and had caught a delectable glimpse of his toned chest, thick thighs, and what you deduced was a well-endowed groin.
You only dared look back up when you heard the splash signaling his entrance into the river. He resurfaced with his black curls matted and slicked back against his skull, an impish grin on his lips. He reached for you and you floated to him without hesitation. The feel of his bare skin against yours was intoxicating.
“I want to kiss you,” he murmured, even though you two were the only people around for at least a mile.
“You may,” you granted him permission in a similarly hushed tone.
Your lips drifted together, and then it was as if you had become a feral animal let out of its cage. You couldn’t get enough. Your lips moved against his ravenously, your legs wrapping around his torso on instinct when he moved toward the river’s bank. While the press of his arousal against your hip was certainly a foreign sensation, you weren’t afraid. He deposited you on the warm silt for a moment before retrieving your tunic and laying it under you, a makeshift bed for what was about to come.
It was then that you confessed. You didn’t know what to expect once the words left your mouth - judgment, indifference, a perverse excitement - but Phoebus smiled softly, and nodded his head, as if he’d expected it.
“Then I shall show you how beautiful pleasure can be,” he vowed.
He took his time, dipping his head between your breasts to mouth at your pert nipples, then lower to between your legs. When the tip of his nose drew a featherlight line along the seam of your sex, you gasped. You may have been a virgin, but you weren't totally naive. Caris had been betrothed recently and regaled you constantly about her rendezvous with her soon-to-be husband, but she had never mentioned this. It was as if Phoebus was sending you flying through the clouds, straight to Olympus, with only his tongue. Your fingers had wound into his damp curls to hold on for dear life as you fell apart for him.
It wasn’t until your pleasure crested that he slid a thick, suspiciously uncalloused finger through your folds and pressed it inside. He cooed comforts to you when you tightened around him, your body’s first reaction to try and expel the intrusion. One digit became two, and after a while, he guided your hand to manhood, showing you how to grip him, coaxing and coaching you on how to bring him back to hardness.
Caris had always advised you to shut your eyes and not to look at a man’s member for too long, since it wasn’t the most pleasant of sights. She was wrong in this instance. Every bit of Phoebus was mesmerizing, and his erect cock was no different from the rest of him. His encouragements echoed in your ears as if he was speaking them to you in the present.
“Yes, that’s it sunshine,” he’d panted, “You can grip me tighter, oh, that is lovely. You are a fast learner, aren’t you? I’m going to make you feel so very good.”
Becoming one had been the most intense sensation you had ever endured. It was all too much, yet you wanted more. You keened when Phoebus had draped your legs over his broad shoulders to penetrate you deeper, your skin suddenly feeling too tight. It was too much, it was too much, you’d chanted to yourself. Phoebus’s girth was unrelenting, but at the same time you never wanted it to end.
Your lover was an attuned one, so when he observed that the position was perhaps too vigorous for his little virgin, he’d rolled you over so you were straddling his ample hips and speared on his desire.
“Here, grasp onto my shoulders,” he instructed you, “so you can control the depth and the pace, yes?”
Phoebus had long fucked the words out of you, so your reply came as a breathless, frantic nod. You wished to thank him, truly, you couldn’t have asked for a more considerate man to share this with for the first time. Instead, you did as he said and found a tempo and pattern of undulating your hips against his that suited you.
Phoebus couldn’t help himself, he began meeting your pelvis, thrusting up into you. You howled in pleasure, and his gaze instantly searched out yours to confirm those were good sounds instead of pained ones. He didn’t look away once he had found the answer he was hoping for in your eyes. Those deep brown irises had bore into yours, and the longer you looked into them, the more convinced you were they held galaxies.
You were so caught up in Phoebus’s gaze that you didn’t notice he’d snuck a hand in between your bodies until the pad of his finger connected with your sensitive bud.
“There you go sunshine, let go for me, you can let go.”
You felt as if you were going to explode out of your body as Phoebus continued to repeat those sweet-nothings as if they were a prayer.
“Let go for me darling, I know you can, let go–”
“You may go.”
The high priest's imperious tone snapped you out of your reverie. No longer were you in the forest with Phoe–Apollo, but rather the towering temple consecrated to him. Your relief that you could leave superseded your annoyance at being interrupted. You desperately needed to return to the privacy of your bedroom for a bit of self-relief.
Perhaps it was because you were in such a rush that you didn’t initially notice him as you flew out of the side entrance of the temple. It was his voice that stopped you.
“You’re not with child.”
“Holy Hera! You frightened me!” You put a hand to your chest to calm your beating heart.
“So you can stop fretting." Clearly, Apollo wasn’t particularly remorseful about the scare he'd given you. "Though to be honest, I’m surprised you’re relieved. Most women, beings far more divine than yourself, are usually thrilled to carry my offspring. They clamber for the chance and flaunt their bellies if they conceive.”
“I…I could not withstand the attention, I do not think. Nor the pomp and the responsibility.”
“The priests would help with the burden.”
“Yes but the child’s father wouldn’t,” you pointed out. “As great an honor to mother a demigod would be, I would prefer a…someone to experience it all with.”
Apollo nodded. “That I could not give you.”
“I know,” There was no resentment or disappointment in your voice. “I would never expect you to.”
“That must be why I yearn for you still,” Apollo mused, “why I cannot stay away.”
“I...my family is expecting me.”
Apollo was not accustomed to being refused. He fixed you with a look of amused incredulity after you spoke.
“I do not want them to know. Or anyone for that matter.” You realized how ungrateful you sounded. To spurn a god was to write your own death sentence. “Not that I don’t desire you, or that I wish to disregard your desires–”
“You want me all to yourself.” When you opened your mouth to amend his statement, he stopped you. “It’s alright. I want you all to myself too.”
“You have me,” you averred. “However, when the priests and my mother get involved…”
“I understand. I do not wish for fanfare either.” He pulled you close to him. Your breath hitched at the press of his hardness into your hip through both of your chitons.
Your mouths were millimeters apart. Instead of closing the distance, you asked, “Why did you tell me a false name when we first met?”
He smiled that bright, beatific grin that warmed you from the inside out. “I suppose for the same reason that you want to keep this a secret. If you believe your family is meddling, then mine is…”
Apollo didn’t need to finish his sentence for you to understand. You giggled, a sound he much enjoyed. At last, he captured your lips with his. Kissing Apollo melted you, you became a molten, liquid being when he pressed his lips to yours.
As transcendent as the kiss was, the god could feel that you were holding back. “What’s wrong, sunshine?”
You were not proud of the flip your stomach did at the pet name. Once you regained control of yourself, you replied, “Nothing, nothing at all. Forgive me.”
“Don’t apologize, simply tell me what is bothering you,” he countered, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.
When you hesitated, his fingers tilted your head up so your eyes met. “I won’t be angry.”
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to voice your complaint. It was funny, you’d spent your entire life beseeching Apollo for this or that in the temple, yet when he was standing right in front of you, eager to know what troubled you, you couldn’t find the words.
“Why me?” It was a deflection from Apollo’s question, but still a valid inquiry.
He chuckled. “You’re asking me to apply logic to attraction, something inherently instinctual,” Apollo pointed out. “Though if I had to try to put reasoning to it, I would say it was because you are kind, beautiful, you have a tight, juicy little cunt…” he cupped your mound to demonstrate his point. You gasped at the contact. “...and when I’m with you, I feel the most like a mortal that I've felt in decades.”
Mortal? Was that a bad thing? Were you unintentionally insulting the deity?
Apollo was quick to assuage you, “I enjoy it, sunshine. The immediacy, the urgency. It’s refreshing. You’re refreshing.”
“Thank you,” you murmured. You sought to return his kind words but what was there to say? It was obvious why a mortal such as yourself would fall for a god.
“Now, I won’t ask again. What vexes you?’
“I…after we…our first meeting,” you struggled to select the right words, “the priests wanted to corroborate that we’d lain together, and their methods were…they were not very gentle.”
Your lover’s eyes turned stormy. No sooner had you told him did a crack sound from what you guessed was inside the temple.
“No, please! Don’t hurt anyone!” you begged him just as swiftly.
Apollo’s face softened slightly. “Even after they violated you, you show them compassion. I swear to you I won’t, however, I must ensure that you, and by extension, myself are treated with respect.”
“Of course,” you acquiesced. Gods were not known for their mercy, so the fact he was willing to compromise with you at all was a victory.
Apollo pulled you into another kiss that stole your breath. “If I cannot have you now…then tonight. When the moon peaks in the sky.”
“How will I find you?”
A smirk played across his lips. “Don’t fret, sunshine. I shall ensure it.”
A/N: Sooooo…what do we think?! 🫣 A little more flowery than my usual but I just had too much fun with this and now I have ideas for a few installments 🤦♀️
READ PART TWO
Tagging a few folks who might be interested:
@bitch4marvel @luciannadraven33 @oof-its-roobi @twwcs, @ninebluehearts @damnzelsoul @missmarmaladeth @welcometostayingawake @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction , @romanarose @dameronscopilot
#Oscar Isaac#oscar isaac fanfiction#oscar isaac smut#Apollo#greek mythology#Greek mythology AU#oscar isaac thirst hours#oscar isaac x you#oscar issac x reader#oscar isaac fanfic#Oscar Isaac x female reader#reader insert#oscar isaac greek god au
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Tears On My Pillow.
Pairing: Oscar Isaac x Black F!Reader
Summary: So frustrated with your situation, you can’t help but cry … however, it just turns Oscar on even more.
Warning: MINORS DNI, NSFW, explicit smut, PWP, crying during sex, teasing, usage of ‘Daddy’.
WC: 0.6K
Kinktober Day 3: Crying.
As if the teasing that he had put you through during the dinner wasn’t enough, Oscar decided that he would continue with the game when you had made it to be bedroom. The light touches and licks until you were withering with anticipation simply wasn’t enough for him.
“Please, please, please, baby, I can’t!” You desperately whispered as he licked at your core until your orgasm neared its peak. His rugged beard scratched the flesh of your thighs leaving an uncomfortable burn that you could not escape as his body pressed you down into the bed.
His shoulders pushed your legs apart as his hands parted your slits as if to get his tongue any deeper into you. One of your hands ran through his salt and pepper locks and gripped at the roots and your other pulled at the sheets as your body twisted away from his ruthless tongue.
Your throat hurt from the screaming and tears began to line with tears from the overwhelming pleasure brewing in the pit of your stomach. He was giving you everything that he got but still not enough, just pulling you in so much to the edge but never pushing you off. You pleaded and begged but it seemed like Oscar was determined to ruin you.
Your breathing got heavier as your screams got louder, your climax just within reach but Oscar quickly pulled his mouth away from your engorged clit.
“Fuck you!” You cursed at him as you began to pound your soft fists at his body as the tears you had been keeping at bay began to fall from the agonising frustration. His hearty chuckle vibrated through your core. Giving you one more lick, he kissed all the way up your body until he captured your lips.
The lack of undress on his part was annoying as you wanted to feel his bare chest on yours but lost in the pleasure of his lips on yours, it was an annoyance you were willing to let go. His hand slipped in between your bodies and swiftly led himself into your cunt.
He gave you no time to breathe as he pistoned his hips, hammering at your spot and bursting your bubble. He grabbed the back of your neck and leaned his forehead against yours as he took in your every facial expression. You could barely breathe and you were trying to push him away as he fucked you through your orgasm.
“Fffuuu —.” You gasped. Oscar growled, throbbing inside of you at the sight of your tears. There was just something about seeing you cry as he fucked you that turned him and motivated him to get more out of you.
Your body convulsed in his arms as you drenched him with your juices. His balls and thighs were covered in your slick, the wet sound echoing in the room as he thrusted in and out of you. He got onto his knees and held onto your waist as his eyes never left your face.
Through the haze of your tears you saw his eyes downcast at you, his teeth biting on his bottom lip as he focused on you. Your breath was hitched in your throat as body began to quake once more. Since allowing you to cum, he wasn’t stopping until you were utterly spent.
“You win! Fuck! Daddy okay okay, I get it!” You cried, screaming as your back arched off the bed. Oscar dropped above you, taking your brownie coloured nipple into his mouth, grazing it with it with teeth more before pulling away to lick away your tears.
“Cry some more for me baby, maybe then I’ll stop.” He mumbled against your tear stained cheeks.
————————————————
@queenshikongo3 @royallyprincesslilly @melodicheauxxo @chaneajoyyy @olyvoyl @fineanddandy @felicity-x0 @bekindbecoolbeyou @realhotgurlshit @darqchilddaydreamz @honeybadgerr @my-rosegold-soul @lewisthot @dhlfastestlap
#mauvecherie writes#tears on my pillow fic#oscar isaac x you#oscar isaac x black reader#oscar issac x reader#oscar Isaac x black reader insert#oscar isaac fanfiction#oscar isaac fanfic#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac
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Kinktober 4. - Almost getting caught.
Abel Morales x F!Reader.
Tags & warnings. Almost getting caught + cheating. (+18)
Word count. 2k
Summary. But he was so stressed, what were you supposed to do?
Kinktober masterlist.
The title you'd give yourself in Abel's life was complicated.
His friend, maybe? You had grown up in the same neighborhood; during college, you crossed paths and greeted each other as if you'd been best friends for life.
His co-worker? Well, it was that same friendship that led him to do you a personal favor by giving you a job a few years later, without even asking how much experience you had in the field.
His lover? Perhaps that would be the most appropriate, as it was your shared history that had led you down this irreversible path.
It wasn't fair to any of the three of you, but you were so in love.
The business hadn't been doing well lately; robberies and the city's corruption were slowly consuming it, and for a while, you didn't know how to console him each time you saw him suppress his urge to go crazy in order to stay on what he called "the right path."
Abel's morals were questionable in bed, but in his work, no one doubted him.
"You know I can lend you money if you need it, right?" His living room was incredibly uncomfortable, but at least his wife bought good wine. You drank from your glass, staining it with lipstick once more.
"I told you I don't need it, amor." He sighed heavily as his hands massaged one of your feet. It tickled.
The truth was, over time, both of you had become more brazen about your affair. You could assure with your eyes closed that Anna knew very well what was going on. You could feel it when you greeted her, and she squeezed her fingers around your hand as if she wanted to break it.
"This is too much for you." You said softly, finishing your wine in one gulp as your other foot rubbed against his thigh.
He didn't say anything. You weren't exaggerating; he felt tired. The kind of exhaustion that wouldn't go away even if he slept for two months straight.
You forced him to release your ankle so you could stand up, and he groaned in response, making you laugh. You placed your empty glass on the coffee table in front of the couch and knelt delicately in front of him on that lovely carpet his wife had surely chosen.
He spread his legs wider and leaned enough to face you, him looking down, you looking up.
His features were beautiful from any angle. You couldn't resist your urge to smile at him as he placed one of his hands on your neck, his thumb slowly caressing your jawline.
"I'll help you with whatever you need," your voice was soft, sultry. You gently held his wrist, guiding his hand across your face until his thumb left your jaw and began tracing your lower lip. "Always."
You couldn't say anything more before his thumb slipped between your lips, and you welcomed it cheerfully. You let him explore your tongue before sucking on it a bit; had you known that's what he needed to feel better, you would have dropped to your knees as soon as you got to his home.
"You are going to be the death of me," he whispered, not taking his eyes off the vulgar and dirty way your mouth played with his thumb. "You know it, don't you, preciosa?"
You nodded slowly with the threat of a smile. It wasn't until he pulled his finger out of your mouth with a small pop and a strand of your saliva connected to your lips that he could see you smile.
Abel could swear that your eyes sparkled in a special way when you were with him, and he always wondered if that was one of the many reasons he couldn't stay away from you.
"I'll take care of it," you said, placing a hand on his chest to give him a very gentle push, just a way to ask him to lean back on the sofa; he did. "It's been tough days, hasn't it, baby?" You pouted slightly as your fingers loosened his tie.
A smile formed on his lips; you knew exactly how to play your cards when it came to him. He nodded.
"Always working so hard." Your hands slid slowly over his abdomen, the fabric of his shirt outlining the muscles beneath. Did you ever tell him that his morning runs were doing their job? You continued your path until you reached the waistband of his pants. "Without ever getting a reward." A tug, and the button of his expensive pants was on the floor.
Abel had his lower lip between his teeth as he watched you, a rebellious curl falling on his forehead that he brushed away with one hand.
"Tú eres mi recompensa."
You wished his words didn't stir your heart the way they did, you wished he gave you a reason to end this once and for all, but it was impossible not to love Abel Morales. In fact, "impossible" fell short.
He helped you by lifting his hips so you could lower his clothes to the middle of his thighs. His erection was released instantly, it wasn't a surprise that it was already hard enough for it to hit his abdomen as if begging for you attention.
“Such a sweet talker, huh?” You spit into your hand so you could take it in it. He groaned almost immediately. Your fingers couldn't go around him completely but he had told you a thousand times that he loved how delicate they were.
At this point, you were already aware of the things that drove him crazy, you confirmed it when you gave him a light squeeze and he grunted again, before setting a slow pace up and down.
"Stop playing around, hermosa." It sounded like an order but the way he licked his lips and the air got caught in his throat seemed anything but intimidating.
He hissed as your thumb traced the head of his member, smearing his precum on it.
“But you love it when I do this.” You pouted a little, putting more pressure on your fingers, holding them still at the top of his length.
He knew well what to do. His hips began to move slowly, pretending to fuck your hand.
You could see how it slid into the poor excuse of a hole that you were simulating with your fingers. It would be a lie to say that you couldn't look at it for hours, the way the tip turned red announcing that it was more sensitive now and the way it suffered little spasms of pleasure every now and then.
“Hermosa, por favor.” His huge brown eyes fixed on you, desperate. "Por favor."
He was so pretty when he pleaded. It made you feel a strange kind of power, like he was completely yours.
Very often you questioned if he also begged Anna that way.
You repeated the path of your thumb with your tongue, tracing small circles around the head, collecting in it the small pearls of pre-cum that a long time ago seemed to not stop coming out.
Abel's body was begging for a way to de-stress and you were doing the job perfectly.
You placed small wet kisses on the area before finally settling on your knees at a more comfortable angle, you closed your lips so you could use the tip of his cock to force them open.
He moaned, loudly.
"Mierda." He babbled with his eyes closed, his back comfortably leaning against the couch as you worked between his legs. “That's it, preciosa, just like that.”
You were halfway there when you took a deep breath through your nose. It was funny to remember how it choked you the first few times, how you had to hide your gagging or immediately wipe the tears from your eyes because it was too much for you.
His fingers tangled in your hair and he pushed you down, making you take him whole. Fortunately, you already had experience. You pretended to swallow, knowing full well that your throat muscles would contract around him.
"No, no, no." He growled. He didn't want to finish quickly and you were pushing him to the limit. He had his eyes closed as he held you down, practically cockwarming him by obeying his requests and not moving.
The tip of your nose was pressing against his lower abdomen, and you only held out a little longer before you gave him a couple of smacks on his thigh to get him to let you go.
The sight of your face always seemed to be almost enough to make him finish. The saliva pooling in your mouth ran down the side of your it, a trickle of it connected to his member before you broke it apart by licking your lips.
"Vas a matarme." He repeated almost sounding desperate as you licked, kissed and sucked one of his balls to your liking,
You also hit your tongue with it. Anything to prolong his pleasure.
You slid your tongue from the base to the tip before taking him back into your mouth in one motion. Your eyes were watering as his hands forced you to stay down for a longer period of time.
The main gate that led to the house opened. The sound of metal alerting you both.
You were about to get up but his fingers wouldn't let you and you understood what he wanted.
You didn't waste time and you started to bob your head up and down swallowing him whole each time. You didn't care about the way the tears ran down your cheeks from the strain of your throat.
He thrust his hips at the perfect rhythm, when you went down he went up and when he went down you went up, he was fucking your mouth without mercy even when the lights of the blonde's car illuminated the living room, waiting for the garage door to finish opening.
“We can’t make a, a-ah, carajo, mess.” He babbled quietly, barely enough for you to hear. “Swallow it all, preciosa.”
The muscles of your throat once again gave him that death grip that drove him crazy, making him cum. His warm spend was swallowed by you instantly since you had no choice, it was being shot straight down your throat.
You stayed still as his erection stopped twitching inside your mouth, constantly taking in air through your nose. You didn't have time for anything, you could swear it was the blink of an eye as he pushed himself out of your mouth and helped you to your feet.
He closed his pants only with the zipper and you adjusted your clothes still licking your lips.
“Hey, what are we celebrating?” Anna said when the door finally opened, her gaze on both of you with that fake smile that you already recognized perfectly.
You slowly turned to face her, wiping the edge of your mouth with your thumb. You smiled back.
Abel couldn't hide his after sex glow even if he ripped his face off with his fingers. That dopey smile, his cheeks flushed with messy hair.
“I thought you would be at your mother's house until tomorrow.”
"Well." The blonde dropped her keys on the nearest piece of furniture, her gaze never leaving you. "Clearly that's what you thought, Abel."
“We were just chatting.” He answered for you as you picked your heels off the floor, trying not to be part of the chatter going on next to you. “They hijacked another of our trucks.”
You had to swallow your smile when the excuse of work became an excellent distraction for your nights together. You bit your bottom lip before nodding your head.
“Well I…” You took a few steps along the carpet, surrounding them both as if you wanted to avoid them, with your shoes in your hand. “I… I'll see you Monday at work.” You tried to smile as your hand awkwardly opened the door. “Good night, Anna.”
You disappeared from both of their gazes in a matter of seconds. Both pairs of eyes on you.
For different reasons, of course.
Tag list. @ninebluehearts @shousha133 @unear7hly @onefinnedwonder-fm @automnepoet @lokisremainingsanity @uncle-eggy @just-a-nightdreamer @spktrgantenk @chinglewingledingledong @queerponcho @faretheeoscar
Remember to comment if you want to be on the kinktober tag list!! <3
#a most violent year#abel morales#abel morales x you#abel morales x reader#abel morales x y/n#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac fanfic#oscar isaac fanfiction
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Hello Bea, how are you? Congrats on your 1000 followers 🎉 I just saw this option and I knew I had to request it... How about Daylight + Steven Grant?? I know it's going to be really 🔥 😏 anyway thank u !
Hi my dear! I'm finally back with some fic updates!! It's been a crazy week getting settled into a new job!
Daylight (Steven Grant x f! reader)
Long distance is hard, but Steven decides to surprise you one night and make it all worthwhile.
Explicit Smut 18+
Content: Unprotected sex (p in v), long distance relationships
1K Celebration | Masterlist
And I can still see it all in my mind
All of you, all of me. Intertwined.
I once believed love would be black and white
But it's golden
Long distance sucked. It’s never easy to say goodbye to the warm bed, soft lips and welcoming arms of the one you love who’d made you feel at home somewhere so foreign to you.
London was terrifying at first. Overwhelming with things to do, bustling crowds of people who knew their purpose and the hard anchor of the purpose you were there -your job- and the deadline that came along with it.
Lost in your head and overstimulated, you found solace in the National Art Gallery. You didn’t know if you could handle such a big change even just for a short amount of time, and then you found solace at the National Museum. Any time you felt a moment of anxiety or your heart reate spike, instead of bombarding your mom with calls - which would’ve ended up with her begging you to come home - you went to get lost in the history and art pieces that told a story in your head.
One day, you heard someone actually telling the accurate stories to small children. Steven. When the small group of children on their field trip had left, you’d come up to him and asked if you could tell the story again. You could’ve sworn he’d given you a double take, the second time his eyes wider with astonishment that you were even talking to him.
“I just work at the gift shop.” He’d said.
“It doesn’t matter.” You smiled at him. And the smile he gave back to you made you feel so warm, so different than any other person had ever made you feel.
Things picked up suddenly between the two of you. When you weren’t working, you were at the museum or out with Steven exploring the city, spending nights between his sheets as he read you books on ancient Egyptian history.
He’d told you he loved you the night before you had to leave back home. You felt the swell of your heart and the pain of it shattering at the same time. You’d promised you’d come back to him.
And since then, the dance between New York City and London had begun. You’d caught flights at absurd hours on long weekends, surprising him at his flat for days spent mostly in bed and without clothes.
On a particular weekend you were planning, your boss had other plans. You had to stay late at the office for a deadline, and telling Steven was particularly devastating. He’d assured you it was alright and that he’d be okay, but you weren’t sure you would be okay. You missed him so much. His sweet voice, his soft lips, his dark curls and quirky attire.
You’d come home that night around 11, exhausted and expecting to take a long shower and sleep. When you’d gotten out of your elevator onto your floor, you saw a large lump near your apartment door. You weren’t sure if it was a package or if someone had left their trash.
Inconsiderate. You muttered to yourself.
When you’d walked up closer, you saw that it was a large jacket and there were legs sprawled out on the other side. You heard familiar light snores but you almost couldn’t believe it.
“...Steven?” You whispered. The body didn’t budge. You lifted the coat from on top of them and saw that it indeed was your boyfriend.
“Steven!!” You exclaimed, he woke up with a jump, jaw slacked open and confused until he looked up and saw you. He shot up, hitting his head on the keypad before you helped him up.
“Surprise, darling.” He slurred. “I figured now was ever a time for me to finally come to you and I–”
You kissed him, hard. Your hands at his cheeks as he rested his onto your hips. The long kiss turning into softer kisses, your tongue sliding into his mouth as he strokes your lower back.
His mouth starts to move eagerly over yours, taking deep pulls on your tongue as you kiss when you lick his bottom lip.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” He groans.
Without saying a word, you put in your key code and open the door for the both of you. You’d figured you’d give him a more extensive tour of your apartment in the morning.
—--------------------------------
“Ow–ow, Steven. Not too hard, I’m not that flexible.” Your legs are starting to hurt as your ankles have been repositioned on his shoulders. Steven kneels in front of you as sweat drips down his furrowed brow as he tries to figure out the next move.
“Should we stop?” He asks, concerned. “I know we’ve been at it quite a bit tonight.”
“No–God, no. Just, move my legs down a bit. I’m not Betty Spaghetti.”
“Who’s Betty Spaghetti?”
“It’s a toy here in the states from the–can we talk about this later?”
“Right, right.” Steven lowers your legs as they hook around his lower back. As he repositions again, his thickness fills you and you feel yourself tighten.
He sees and hears your response and starts moving, thrusting harder and deeper as his kisses on you are more desperate. You feel yourself start to tense, biting your lip to stop from crying out. His thrusts are becoming more shallow, his whimpers growing as you stroke his arms.
He spills into you, his warmth filing your walls as he continues to pump inside of you as you tremble with your own orgasm.
Steven rolls on his back and you join him, clinging to his chest and tracing small lines on his soft skin. He rubs your hair. You’d missed this sweet but silent bliss with him.
“The most bonkers part is I was so jet lagged when I got here, but then I saw you and it was just like it all went away.” Steven pants heavily.
“I think I’m spent for the night. But tomorrow I can cook you breakfast?” He asks.
“Do you even know where the pots and pants are? How the stove works? Where the kitchen is?” You joke with him.
“I’ll figure it out.” He kisses your head.
And with that, you drift off to sleep in the arms of the man that you love.
And I can still see it all in my head
Back and forth from New York sneaking in your bed
I once believed love would be burning red
But it's golden
Like daylight
#steven grant fanfiction#steven grant x reader#steven grant x fem!reader#steven grant x you#steven grant smut#steven grant#moon knight smut#moon knight x reader#moon knight fanfiction#moon knight fanfic#oscar isaac fanfic#moon knight#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac#oscar isaac x you#oscar isaac x reader#oscar isaac fanfiction
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☁️ - 11. “Pay attention to me or I’ll make you” with Duke Leto please!!
“𝐏𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.”
pairing: Duke Leto Atreides x f!Reader
warnings: Mean Leto (I fancied trying something new with him) intense and uneven power dynamic, mentions of canon-typical age gap enforced marriage, rough oral sex (m receiving), hair pulling, head-pushing, degradation.
leto masterlist I| main masterlist |I follower celebration I| ask |I
Your eyes settle on the glow-globe that floats in the corner of the room. The iridescent surface of the floating sphere capture your attention, dragging your mind away from your enforced lesson on Caladanian history like a child distracted by candy.
In honesty, anything was better than being subject to lessons like this.
Grooming you to be Paul Atreides’ wife when he came of age was a harder task than you were sure Duke Leto Atreides had imagined it would be. First, you were significantly older than the boy- your interests were not aligned. Secondly, Paul Atreides certainly was not your suitor of choice.
“Pay attention to me,” Leto’s voice booms through the makeshift classroom that had been set up in the small office. It makes you startle in your seat, his frustrated tone ricocheting off the stone walls of the palace.
The Duke crosses the floor of the classroom with a grace unbefitting of his anger. He’s poised, a frustration laced in his brow.
“Pay attention to me,” he repeats, the eyes settling on your lips almost obsidian when he unhooks his belt. You pause, heart leaping in your chest as you watch him palm himself through his fitted trousers. His stark expression stays, desire glinting in the pitch black orbs. “Or I will make you.”
He shoves his cock down your throat. Makes you choke on it. You swallow him down but there is so much of him, and Leto pulls you off him with his fingers in your hair. Your scalp aches, throat raw, but he forces you to keep your eyes on his face, punishing you by pushing your head down onto his length if your attention strays.
“Such a disobedient student,” he muses, his regal voice almost demeaning in its derisive tone as he swipes away the drool running down your chin, “Now, where was I? Vorian Atreides met Leronica when he visited Caladan…”
No. Paul was not your choice of suitor, at all.
#leto atreides#duke leto atreides smut#leto atreides smut#leto atreides x you#duke leto atreides x you#leto atreides x reader#duke leto atreides x reader#duke leto atreides#duke leto x you#duke leto x reader#dune fanfiction#dune film#dune smut#dune fanfic#oscar isaac#oscar isaac x reader#oscar isaac smut#oscar isaac fanfic#જ⁀➴ mail: received#✩‧₊˚ 6k follower celebration ˚₊‧✩
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Relax in Steven's apartment with him, the audio 🩷🤍🩷🤍🩷🤍
(I know I wrote worm instead of warm but It's too funny for me to change it)
#moon knight#moonknight#moon knight fluff#moon knight fanfic#moon knight fanfiction#moon knight steven#steven grant#oscar isaac characters#oscar isaac fanfiction#oscar isaac fanfic#moon knight x male reader#moon knight x fem!reader#moon knight x gn!reader#moon knight x gender neutral reader#steven grant x y/n#moon knight x y/n#moon knight x you#moon knight x reader#steven grant x gender neutral reader#steven grant x you#steven grant x reader#steven grant x gn!reader#steven grant x fem!reader#steven grant x male reader#steven grant fanfiction#steven grant fanfic#steven grant fluff#oscar isaac fluff#ambient mixer#relaxing sounds
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